#if i heard it right druid is all about ducks. right? right?

[the-scent-of-happiness]

The Scent of Happiness

Chapter 3 - Vagary

- Set during the episode Of Banquets, Bastards and Burials -

Jaskier sighed as he heard the lively folk music playing in the banquet hall. He started whispering to Geralt, trying to pretend he was fine. "Right, so stick close to me, look mean and pretend you're a mute. Can't have anyone finding out who you are." He paused for a moment, then added, "And please, keep those sneezes of yours quiet.."

Yes, thank you, very helpful, Geralt wanted to quip back, but instead he just grunted his agreement and followed behind the bard, trying not to sniffle.

“Geralt of Rivia! The mighty witcher!” Mousesack shouted in greeting as he caught sight of the white-haired witcher and several heads turned in their direction. So much for not being noticed. Mousesack strode up to the pair with a stein in hand, grinning. “I haven’t seen you since the plague.”

“Good times, Mousesack.”

Jaskier heard 'plague' and shuddered a bit. He remembered those times, all the dead and dying, those he tried to heal, those he couldn't.. He gripped the strap of his lute tighter, trying to soothe himself by rubbing the leather with the pad of his thumb.

Mousesack chuckled. “I’ve missed your sour complexion. I feared this would be a dull affair but now that the White Wolf is here, perhaps all is not lost.” The druid stepped closer and pulled a slight face at the witcher’s attire. “Tell me, why are you dressed as a sad silk trader?” Geralt glared over his shoulder at the bard. Mousesack pulled him away and they weaved among the crowd of royals.

“How much longer until this horse trading is done? I find royalty best taken in.. small doses.” The witcher glanced around uncomfortably. When his friend assured him they’d be here all night, he couldn’t help cringing internally. He wasn’t fond of events like this, all the noise and people and spectacle of it all tended to be overwhelming. Not to mention he wasn’t overly fond of the idea of attracting any more attention to himself and between Mousesack announcing him and the itch still in his nose… Ah, speak of the devil— "Hh-! Huh’WRSCHH!” Geralt ducked into his hand to muffle a powerful sneeze, then pinched his nose. "HEH’NKGT! HH’KTCH!”

"Something about you reminds me of a scoundrel I once saw fleeing my wife's chambers!"

Jaskier took a moment, stepping back with hesitance "Um, well..." He was about to make an excuse, but the man beat him to it.

"Drop your trousers."

"What?!" Jaskier practically squawked like a bird. Geralt’s amber eyes flicked instantly to Jaskier, rubbing a knuckle against his septum. Mousesack was rambling on about which man would marry Pavetta when the witcher made his way to the bard.

“Well I didn’t get a proper look at the little shit’s face, but he had the strangest cock I’d ever seen, I’ll never forget it!” The man had Jaskier damn near pinned to the wall, backing him into a corner.

Jaskier looked like a caged animal, and he stumbled over his words, "Well... uh, uh... Ah, Geralt." The sight of the witcher made him relax and he gave him a pleading look. The witcher approached the man and placed a firm hand on his shoulder.

"Forgive me, my lord. This… hh..happens all the time.” His nose twitched and his gaze went hazy for a moment, but he managed to suppress the tickle for a few moments more. “It’s true, he has the face of a cad and a coward. But, truth be known, he was kicked in the balls by an ox as a child.” Geralt looked at Jaskier, a little smug.

Jaskier looked incredibly offended at first, and his mouth ran faster than his mind. "Well, that's-" He then remembered why he had spoken up at all, "t-true..." The man apologized and gave him some coin, and once he was gone, he gave Geralt a sour look. "Oh, wow. Thank you. Thank you so much." He sounded miffed, and he had to carefully keep his shadow in check with his glamour magic, as it would be the first thing to change in appearance. “First of all, you hog all the fanfare,then you go and ruin my courtly reputation.” He tried not to be too angry, but he had NEVER been accused of something so painful and untrue in all his life- except for maybe the time his sisters had accused him of fathering a human boy.

“I saved your life,” he muttered, clenching and unclenching his fists as he tried to ignore the itch in the back of his nose.

“You're on your own from here on. Try not to get any daggers in your back before dawn.”

Jaskier only had a moment to sigh before Queen Calanthe arrived, bloodied and ready to drink. He went into his proper spot, and when he actually started, he was admonished- much to his chagrin, before he was told what the Queen desired, and instantly, he got to a proper tune. The night wore on and on, and when something interesting FINALLY caught Jaskier’s attention, it was an argument over a manticore. He thought he might actually get to see a brawl between the fancy-pants lords before the Queen’s voice interrupted.

“Enough!” She called out, and it brought quiet instantly. “We have a renowned guest here tonight.” As soon as she spoke, people turned their eyes to Geralt, and Jaskier looked as well. Fuck.

“Perhaps he can declare which esteemed lord is telling the truth.”

To be truthful, Geralt could’ve given less of a shit about two lords, nor the number of stings a manticore had. However, out of courtesy to the Queen and to cause a bit of a stir, he chose to answer. He lifted his head, speaking in a flat, matter-of-fact tone.

“Neither.”

“Are you calling me a liar, old man?” The first of the lords asked, serious, when the other spoke up after.

“Aah! The Butcher of Blaviken bleats utter nonsense.” The laughter filling the hall filled Jaskier with a cold sense of dread, and he looked to the Witcher’s golden eyes, his own blue ones speaking louder than words as he subtly shook his head, almost as if warning him. With a soft hiss, Geralt gathered himself internally and spoke once more.

“Perhaps the lords encountered some…rare subspecies of manticore.” He twisted his facial expression to one of vile sarcasm, before glancing to Jaskier to gain approval for his approach, to which the bard sighed heavily with relief before Calanthe began to laugh, “Perhaps our esteemed guest would like to entertain us with how he slayed the elves at the edge of the world?” The laughter that followed made Jaskier’s stomach twist. He knew what was coming next.

“There was no slaying. I had my arse kicked by a ragged band of elves. I was about to have my throat cut when Filavandrel let me go.” Geralt’s reply caused an uproar, someone yelling about the song and Jaskier giving a worried look as he agreed with them, obviously displeased with Geralt’s honesty in the situation.

Scrunching his nose, Geralt looked through the crowd of groaning and shouting men, “At least when Filavandrel's blade kissed my throat, I didn't shit myself. Which is all I can hope for you, good lords; at your final breath, a shitless death.” The bard tried not to groan at the Witcher’s words, and he tried to just let the party resume as Calanthe spoke- when she invited Geralt to sit with her, he was a bit shocked, but said nothing, simply resuming his place as a bard as he tried to keep things calm and double checked his shadow. So far, so good..

[angelofbloodlust]

just a bunch of stuff about el and sofia i wanna talk about because i love them smmmmm

also ship name: 'Sofil' or 'Efia'?

-in season 1, when everyone first met, el was really scared to sleep in the fort alone, and since sofia didn't have a good family life, she volunteered to stay in the basement with el so mike could sleep. el and her sat and talked for a little bit, and that's when el tried introducing herself. sofia asked her if she would like a new name, one that wasn't given to her by the 'bad men' and el got happy. sofia told her that they could all call her el, so that she wouldn't get confused with a completely different name, but it wouldn't be a number like before. after this, el tried saying sofia, having a rough time because of her broken speech. sofia told her just to call her sof, saying that el can be the only one allowed to call her that. from then on, el only ever referred to sofia as sof.

-when el runs away, sofia spends the whole day looking for her, almost getting hurt multiple times.

-when troy and james corner the group, sofia tries to fight against them, but gets smacked across the head with a rock and knocked to the ground. she tries to get back up, but james grabs her and drags her to the edge of the quarry. he holds her back by her arms and troy tells mike that he has to jump or else he's going to hurt dustin. james pulls sofia's hair harshly, and since she has a sensitive head, she hits him. he ends up dropping her before troy counts down to '1' and mike jumps right after. thankfully, el saves them both.

-later on at the school, sofia and el talk in another room as the others prepare 'the bath'. sofia tells el that there's a snowball dance they can go to together, and el tells her she wants to go with sof, which makes her extremely happy.

-since sofia suffered some head trauma from smacking her head against the wall, she woke up in the hospital the day after el went missing. nancy came in and told her about el, comforting sofia as she sobbed into nancy's shoulder.

-in season 2, during the flashback to when el escaped the upside down, she runs to mike's house, not finding sofia there. she then runs to the hospital, since she heard one of the agents say that there was a girl there. once there, el peaks into a hospital room window and sees a sleeping sofia with bandages around her head. el frowns and starts crying, watching as nancy brings in some water and places it on the nightstand. when nancy turns towards the window, el ducks and runs into the woods, trying not to be seen.

-sofia writes a letter to el every single day. she always puts them in a box under her bed, hoping that one day el will get the read them.

-el always visited sofia in the void. one day, she was in the void when sofia and her parents were arguing. el saw sofia's mom push her, telling her that she start speaking like a normal person and start acting right. el got upset, and the day she snuck out of the cabin, she went to sofia's house before going to the school. she saw sofia's mom and dad leaving the house to go to the grocery store, so, as they were leaving, el used her powers to pull a tree branch down on their car, breaking the top. after that, she smiled and ran back to the school.

-at the school, she found sofia searching for d'art in the hallway, and ducked down the corner right as sofia looked up. sofia thought she saw something, but when no one showed up, she continued her search.

-sofia ended up searching the gymnasium with mike and max, trying to get the two to stop arguing. mike explains all of their rolls in the party (sofia is a druid). after max started skating around them, sofia laughed. max almost hit sofia with her skateboard, managing to go around her at the last second. el saw this and pulled max's skateboard out from under her with her powers. mike helped max up while sofia searched around the room, hoping to see el. she didn't.

-days later, when they all see el again, sofia starts crying uncontrollably. el runs up to her and hugs her tightly, crying into her shoulder. she tells sofia that she saw her, everyday. sofia pulls el into another hug, giving her a soft peck on the forehead, before pulling away and not acknowledging what she had just done.

-sofia goes with el and hopper to close the gate, bringing her own weapon, a lighter and a rifle hopper found for her. the three of them get to the gate, and hopper and sofia shoot down the demodogs as el closes the gate.

-once the gate is closed, el collapses. sofia is able to catch her before she hits the ground too hard, and she places another kiss on top of el's head. hopper sees this, and smiles. (supportive dad). hopper brings them back up to the top, where sofia attempts to pick el up and carry her to the car. her knees buckle, and hopper is able to grab the both of them before they get hurt.

-for the snowball, sofia invites el to go as her plus one. el agrees, already wanting to go with sofia. the two head onto the dance floor, not knowing what to do. sofia shows el how to dance, and together they slow dance. they don't kiss...yet. el places her head on sofia's shoulder, making her blush and smile. the two sway with the music off in their own little corner, so no one else can see, but jonathan is able to snap a quick photo of them.

(damn, i'm really trying not to info dump on you, but i wanna tell you sm, i'm so so sorryyy)

-at the beginning of season 3, sofia is helping will plan his next campaign, before the two head over to the mall.

-the next day, sofia goes to hopper's and picks el up, letting el ride on the back of her bike. the two get to dustin's house and help everyone surprise him. they then head out to go talk to suzie, where sofia starts picking purple and yellow flowers for el (because they're el's favorite colors). she gives el the flowers, and el thanks her, putting a yellow one in sofia's hair. after a few hours of waiting for suzie to answer, everyone starts leaving. after will leaves, sofia and el talk to dustin. el looks at sofia's watch and realizes that she's late, and that hopper will be upset. el and sofia say bye to dustin and leave, telling him that they should all hang out soon. then, sofia takes el home.

-the next day, el shows up at max's because she wants 'girl advice'. el tells max about the person that she likes, and after a little bit, max catches on and asks el if it's sofia. el smiles and tells her that it is, and max tells her that they should go get el a 'makeover' and see sofia at the mall, since she works there.

-the two go to the mall, where mike, lucas, and will are to find some sort of 'welcome home' gift for dustin.

-after they buy el new clothes, the girls head over to scoops ahoy, where sofia greets them at the counter. when she sees el, she immediately blushes and compliments el's outfit. el blushes and compliments sofia's uniform, which makes her laugh. she tells el that she can pay for max and el's ice cream, and then the two leave. once they are gone, robin pops up behind sofia and explains to her that sofia has gotta be down bad for el. sofia tries to deny it, but robin tells her that she knows what's up.

-sofia gets off her shift and leaves the mall, where she finds max and mike arguing over el's safety. sofia tries to cut in, but mike tells her to stay out of it, and then (kinda like a jerk) he mocks her stutter, which makes el mad. el tells mike that he's stupid, and then she grabs sofia's hand and drags her to the bus, max following.

-the three girls get back to hopper's cabin, where they hang out. el gives sofia some clothes to change into, realizing that she had dragged sofia away from the mall without a change of clothes. they decide to spy on the boys, deciding that it would be interesting to see what they were up to.

(i honestly forget some of the stuff that happens in between this)

-after billy (not you, darlin) attacks el at the sauna, sofia grabs a lead pipe and hits billy with it, telling him to go to hell. right as she is about to hit him again, he grabs it and hits her knee with it, making her fall. he kicks her and right as he is about to hurt her again, el uses her powers against him. after she throws billy through the wall, el collapses into sofia's arms, sinking to the ground. sofia kisses el's head and wipes the blood out from under el's nose.

-after el gets scared by billy in the void, sofia hugs her and reassures her, stroking her hair.

-sofia helps el wrap her wound after she gets bit by the mind flayer, trying to explain to el what love is before getting interrupted by mike.

-sofia gets knocked out by billy at the mall, along with max and mike. sofia wakes up before the two of them, running into the mall to find fireworks getting thrown at the mind flayer. she runs to el, but get shoved to the ground by billy. el manages to distract billy and sofia crawls away as el talks to him. sofia suddenly gets yanked back by the mind flayer, which has grabbed hold of her ankle. billy comes to his senses, standing up as the mind flayer dangles sofia in front of it's face and screams at her. the mind flayer tries to shoot a claw at el, who is trying to pull sofia down, but billy sacrifices himself. el catches sofia and drags her away from the mind flayer.

-after the battle, when el finds out that hopper "died" she starts sobbing. sofia limps over to her and pulls her into her arms, lowering the two of them to the ground so el can cry properly. sofia kisses el on the head and strokes her hair, trying not to cry.

-3 months later, sofia helps el pack up the byers house. sofia tries not to cry the whole time, but el hears her sniffling and asks her what's wrong. sofia tells her that she's just sad el is moving, and el hugs her, telling her she's sad she's moving too. el says she'll write weekly, and call a lot. she then pulls out a beaded bracelet she made (with purple and yellow beads because they're her favorite ahhhh) and gives it to sofia. sofia smiles and puts it on, pulling a ring out of her pocket. she gives it to el, telling her that it's a promise ring. el asks her what that is, but before sofia can answer, joyce accidentally interrupts to give el hopper's letter. sofia smiles at el and walks out so el can have some privacy.

-when they leave, sofia gives will a tight hug, crying. then she gives el a tight hug, kissing her forehead and telling her she's going to miss her. el kisses sofia's cheek and says that she will miss her too. then, sofia watches as they drive away, still crying. she mouths "i love you" as she stares down at el's bracelet and sniffles, climbing on her bike and heading back to her house.

~~~

you didn't have to read this much, but i love you if you did.

i hope you enjoyed, i knew season 4 would be wayyyy too much to put into one ask

love you, billy <3333

IM. UNORDINARY (IDK IF U GO BY THAT BUT) I LOVE THEM SO MUCH ILL CRY. MILEVEN WHO?? They’re absolutely perfect, THIS WAS SUCH AN AMAZING READ IM SO OBSESSED ITS LIKE YOU WROTE A WHOLE STORY FOR ME AAAAA <33 THANK YOU FOR SPILLING OUT ALL YOUR INFO ON ME I ADORED EVERY SECOND OF IT.

EDIT: FORGOT ONE MORE THING. I LOVE SOFIL <3

[jeeperso]

D&D Quotes Without context

Miscellaneous Edition, for those quotable lines from between sessions

"All I wanna do, is fork a giant woman! A giant woman!" "Jonni, I'm pretty sure she is some type of undead, probably a vampire. Are you sure that is a good idea?" "If I don’t get turned into a blueberry it won’t be my worst date." "Okay, but if you have to defend yourself just don't burn the place down for once." "Oh, Nyx. Sweet summer child. I never make promises we both know I won’t even try to keep." "Jonni, if I wake up to my bed surrounded in flames again I'm short-sheeting your next bed every night for at least a month." "I know you're trying to score here, but Lady Dimitrescu's daughters are literally vampires AND bugs. I can overlook one, but as a Paladin, it is my sacred duty to burn this place to the ground and stir the ashes."

"We don't let Marshall make breakfast anymore." "Those waffles are well-fortified." "I'm going to be charitable and call it hardtack." "We can use these waffles as melee weapons." "Well if we need to deflect siege engines they'll be good to have." "This is still carbon based and digestible by human systems without any poisons." "I can't serve this. It'll cause ... death." "Marshal we've been over this. This Pizza has 10% less of a lethal amount of grease." "Plus they signed the waivers when they bought a ticket. It's fine." "And don't forget to push the Cakeon." "Cakeon being slices of cake wrapped in bacon." "The special sauce is a mixture of mayonnaise, ketchup, mustard, ranch, horseradish, cheddar cheese, sour cream, and anything unfortunate enough to fall into the mixing vat."

"You do have a copy of the legal code I requested in my letter? As landed gentry you should actually have legal avenues to... I'm sorry did you say Burning child?"

"First I'm going to nail a crossbow bolt through your heart. Then I'm going to mount your balls to walls on opposite sides of this chamber." "I need Three Barrels of Butter" "Are you serious? Those Claws could crush an elephant in full plate!" "You're Right!" *Turns to first person* "We might need more than three barrels of butter."

"So Ioun is the patron of poor college kids. that scans "

"its hardtack or a mug of molten cheese-fried... something in a woven mug of bacon. your choice."

"Welp, all this coke ain't gonna snort itself..."

"Right hand me that dress and the bail money. I'll get Jonni." OOC: Well I mean they allow men in the city. Its just no men live in the city. "I stand by my statement. I'm allowed to look pretty every now and then." OOC: And dragons are the most unprejudiced lovers of anyone after bards.

OOC: Well I mean come on, its Ravenloft: saying a place is of death and madness is like making the observation the day ends in y. "Going out. Getting laid." "Jonni, she’s a werewolf." "Going out, forking a werewolf." OOC: Well Lycanthropy isn't usually sexually transmitted. Its just that Mercedes is a biter. OOC: ...I don't have an appropriate response to that.

"You seriously think I’d turn on my friends for a pile of gold?!?" "sigh I’ll show you my tits. "Hot damn, let’s get these murders done!" "No, Jonni, stay good. Besides, there are plenty of other girls who will do that without asking you to murder us." "Hmmmm… this is the moral quandary of my life…" "I’ll give you five bucks." "Scales tipped!" "Phew, I thought I was going to have to cover her next trip to the topless bar." "No, no, I have the bail money right here."

Nyx: So what’s the inside of Jonni’s head like? Edmund (with thousand yard stare): Imagine every ladies only smut magazine you’ve ever heard of going on forever into infinity while everything is on fire. Food was good though.

"It’s cool. They stole it." "And you know this how?" "Magic." “90% of Ravenloft deaths are mysterious vanishings.” "Why does everything come out covered in glitter and … is that …" "Lube. I’ve got a few theories." "Please don’t share them."

OOC: This is a plan that ends with Strahd having fewer brides, his castle is in flames, and he’s lost his cape.

OOC: Our team consists of a horny pyromancer, a gnome who can fillete you in five seconds, an HP lovecraft protagonist with actual magic backing them up, a literal slab of iron with a face, and a guy with a "I went to the eternal city of Ryleth and all I got was PTSD and this lousy T shirt". Gorbash smashing his shield into their face: "Have! You! Considered! Therapy!" OOC: Good news is you guys will no longer be the most conspicuous guys at the masquerade now. Jonni: Challenge accepted! "Nyx, the bounty on stealing his fake mustache is still on."

"Vanilla is the king of flavors. What does it say about society where vanilla is considered just 'regular'?" "That they have a lot of vanilla." Lash: "Don’t you want wishes?" Jonni: "Do I need wishes to get to see you naked?" Lash: "No?" Jonni: "Fuck ‘em." Vesh: "Oh dammit its my arranged fiance." Pit Fiend: "Milady." Vesh: "An extra wish to whoever punches this douchecanoe in the nards." Jonni: "I wish…for Bigby’s clenched fist of nard punching."

Soth: "Oh, gods, why am I on fire and why is Immigrant Song playing?" Jonni: "Take a guess." Hazlik: "Okay, so its a partridge, stuffed inside a chicken, stuffed inside a duck, stuffed inside a turkey, and the whole thing is fried on a stick. Congratulations, that's the most horrible thing I have ever seen, and I once crossbred an elephant and an owl." "I give him the 'itis, and we run like we stole something." OOC: ...weirdly Curse of Strahd has stats for Strahd zombies but not Strahd Skeletons. Or Strahd's skeletal Steed. Strahd once went to a branding seminar hosted by Bane and it changed his life.

"Are we on a high enough floor that if I throw him through the window he'll be killed by the fall?" "Oh, but when I say stuff like that it’s all 'Jonni, murder is wrong.'" "When they say pick your battles they don't mean to pick all of them. That's too many battles Jonni. Put some back." OOC: He's technically already got a symbiote. OOC: They can get married. Gorbash: "I'm increasing the rent." Venom: "Can I keep the pool table?" Gorbash: "I'm not a monster." Giant Brain: "Jonni… I have summoned you here for… WHY AM I ALREADY ON FIRE! PUT ME OUT! PUT ME OUT!"

"Hello We're the party-crashers. This is Jonni, she's here to steal your women and burn your shit down. That's Nyx, she's going to repatriate certain items from the premise. Marshal over there, is here to studiously ignore our shenanigans. This is the New Guy. He seems pretty chill. I'm Gorbash... and I have been distracting you."

"Will you walk into my parlour?" said a spider to a fly. Jonni: "Hold up. Trying to sex a spider." Nyx: (throws her hands up) And then Jonni wakes up with a spider venom hangover webbed to a wall waiting to be eaten. Jonni: "Eh, I’ve had worse one night stands. I’m not a fucking blueberry." OOC 1: Hey, where does your weed elf grow [her] crops? OOC 2: She probably just grows them in the room she hasn’t paid rent on. OOC 3: Because I was also considering a circle of spores druid tortle. OOC 2: We could be partners! We could turn this into road to el dorado staring Cheech and Chong. OOC: Wait, I just realized five people are hanging out in a pirate bar, and none of us are rogues. We are gonna need someone to get thieves tools. OOC: We have a barbarian with a big stick.

"Are we Foxhound now? Blunderbuss Octopus." OOC1: You want to put the stoner in charge of food. OOC2: Eyup. OOC1: I see no way this can go wrong! OOC3: We need the four basic food groups. Beans, Bacon, Whisky, and Lard. “We pray to Almighty Darkseid! Give us a sign! Thumbs up, for the triumph of the human spirit! Thumbs down to begin the everlasting reign of darkness!” “Where did you find this guy?” “Me? I thought you hired him.” OOC: Yup, nature, arcana, history, investigation and religon at +6. MJ got baked and watched the Discovery Orb a lot. Tordek: "But we have a cleric, Jozan, over there." Strahd: *sigh* Snaps fingers, and suddenly one of Strahd's brides sucks Jozan out the window, cue screaming. "Oh look, you suddenly have an opening, how fortunate." Tordek: "We also have a druid...." Vadania: "SHUT UP, TORDEK!" Edmund: "I think the first order of business may be to discuss your Human Resources strategy..." Strahd: "I have a guy for that too."

"When someone as smart as him talks with himself, it's not crazy...They call it monologing." "I thought it was soliloquy?" "No, soliloquy is when you're talk at someone else when your talking to yourself." "Most people would run from a demon, you run towards it to study it." Professor: "THIS IS ABSOLUTELY FASCINATING! A FROGHEMOTH, AND RIGHT UP CLOSE, IT WILL BE AMAZING TO SEE THIS PERFECT KILLING MACHINE IN ACTION." OOC: Also note the Professor is Lawful Good, Archie is Chaotic Good, so collectively they balance out to Neutral good. OOC: That's good. "The incinerations will continue until morale improves!" “You never incinerate the women!” “Because I’m fucking them!” “I… was not expecting you to be so honest about that…”

"You got what you wanted....but you lost what you had...." "Yes, I'm familiar with how capitalism works."

OOC: Dragons are like, “That’s Krandor the shiney. He only fucks other dragons. Weirdo.”

Gorbash: "D'awww, so tiny... perfect size... FOR PUNTING!" *boots tiny mind-flayer into the horizon*

"Dracula hasn't been spotted in almost recently. Whats he gonna do, destroy all we know and love like he definitely can?" "... my god you people are too stupid to live." "What are you doing in my house?" Gorbash: "...well Edmund has been reading your books, I've been sorting through your armory, Nyx and Irost has been going through your other shinies, Marshal has been cleaving anything monstrous that gets too close, and Jonni has been lighting things on fire to stave off boredom." Gorbash: "Okay Marshal, Jonni. Rock, paper, scissors over who gets [to kill] the bishop."

Jonni: "Did you really think this would make up for what you did?" Nima: "I… killed everyone you grew up with." Jonni: "Yeah, and I’m still not forgiving you for what you did to Eddie." Nima: "I am missing some key context here…" Nima: "Also I committed identity theft on you by having my new undead army tell everyone you are running the show." Jonni: "Oh, no. You’ve fooled the boar tribe. Who still haven’t figured out shitting in a hole." Nima: "Yeah I noticed that. I ruined two pairs of shoes attacking their camps."

[be-ready-when-i-say-go]

A Little Bit Like Home

You moving to school has been tougher than Calum would like to admit but there are some moments that make it easier to bear, there are small moments where it’s not so bad. 

A continuation of these two blurbs (Blurb 1 and Blurb 2) Again it’s hella self indulgent. Inspired what really happened to me in my DnD campaign, see this post.  

**Contains spoilers for the Waterdeep Heist from Dungeons & Dragons if you are currently playing that module!!!**

Enjoy my masterlist!

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___________

“Can I make a perception check on the walls? See if there’s anything else funky in this room?” you ask, clicking over in your browser tab to the dice roller. The DM allows you to make that call and you click on the d20. 

“Your the only one rolling well on those things tonight,” one member of your party, playing an Orc sent out to learn magic and getting packed in with your ragtag group, notes after their failed attempt to pick the lock. You managed to pick that that too, but you chalk it up to you being a Drow Rogue and lock picking being one of your skills. 

“18,” you call out, looking back at your character sheet to make sure you’ve done the math correctly. 

“18?” The DM asks, just to be sure. You nod. “Okay, so you look around the room and there’s not really anything worth noting besides some dirt and blood. But no traps, no buttons in this room.”

“This room,” the entire party echoes laughing. The six of you have just survived barely a lightning trap. Which you still refuse to admit to setting up, but it was definitely you since as the marching order had you in front. 

“We’re going to have to go back to that mimic room,” the paladin of your group declares. Your party was warned that the room at the start of your adventure in this hell of a magic maze could be a trap and a mimic could be in the depths of it. But there was a chest still yet to be opened. However, you took the advice of your Orc and backed out of that room to avoid a fight just yet. 

Your previous encounters in other rooms leaving some of your party is better shape than others. This early in your adventure together the five of you didn’t really want to risk loosing anyone just yet. Lightening and your pirates love of ale seemed to be your only foe at the moment. 

“We should maybe just see what’s in here first,” Calum, playing as a Druid, counters. “Though it seems like if we find yet another key to a door that’s already been picked, it’s might be useless.” 

You know the tease is directed at you. “Hey, look here buddy, I will not hesitate to shoot a quiver into your ass. I see a lock I’m going to pick it,” you defend. 

“Besides,” your party’s pirate starts, “we’ve ducked a lot of rooms afraid of getting into another fight. If they pick a lock or two and we find the key later, at least we can add to the Bard’s collection.”

“Thank you,” you laugh. 

Soon your party’s able to direct their attention back on the adventure and magic maze you’ve found yourself in. You and Calum end up smashing mirrors in a room to avoid any sort of magic in them that would cause your party to fight your soul doubles. This leads to a five minute debate of how to leave said room that didn’t involve shoving the unicorn that your party was tasked with finding up someone’s ass due to a riddle unveiled, Everything you see is mine.

“Wait,” you say, laughing at the argument about who can fit the unicorn into their mouth. It was deemed to be more dignified. Your pirate waits outside the room, still naked thanks to the magic that rips all the clothes, weapons, and armor off of anyone that attempts to leave the room. “Everything you see is mine. If the mirrors are smashed, then nothing can be seen right?”

“No, shards can be face up, so technically things can be seen,” the party’s Bard counters. 

“No, no, you’re onto to something,” the pirate starts. 

“Oh my god, we’re so fucking dumb,” the orc hollers. “Someone cover their eyes. You means us. Anything we can see can’t leave the room.”

Thankfully, you’re still dressed having only attempted to leave the room and letting others continue with their naked escapades. “Holy shit,” you shriek as you direct to your DM how you cover your face with your hood and hold it tight around your eyes so you can’t see anything and step through the door. You’re able to cross completely clothed, swords, crossbow, and pack still in tact. 

“We’re so fucking STUPID,” you laugh. 

Calum’s giggle cuts through the speakers of your laptop. “How were we so prepared to just be fucking naked through the rest of this maze?” He directs to the DM that he redresses, having also attempted several times to brute force the magic door with no success. 

“We never speak of that,” the orc demands through their own laughter. “Never.”

The party comes to a stopping point about another hour later, saying goodbyes before leaving the Zoom meeting. Not even thirty seconds later after ending that call, an incoming FaceTime call comes from Calum. You answer it, wiping at the corner of your eyes. He’s grinning as the call finally connects. The weekend that Calum came up to visit, a friend in the cohort asked you if you’d be willing to going a beginner’s campaign. You had wanted to give the game a whirl but you knew it would be a time suck and asked if it was okay to bring someone else along too. 

After getting a yes from the DM you know you had to convince Calum to join in. It took less effort than you thought for him to join in and the two of you spent a couple hours the night before picking out your characters before you emailed the information back to the DM. Now every Saturday night you and Calum spend about three hours in a Zoom getting into all sorts of trouble. He settled easily on the Druid but spent forever trying to find an artist rendering of his character, Okolian, that felt right. Long black hair with streaks of white was a must along with a single braid as well, which he stole from your character’s look though your hair is all white. 

Slowly, it was decided that Okolian would have blue skin muscular, but not overly buff and refused to wear sleeves in order to wear leather arm bands around his biceps which could easily be mistaken for tattoos or markings of his people. Okolian prefers his staff but is also armed with a sickle and mace. The Calum touch of course was to add ferns rather than feathers. 

“I can’t believe you were going to let me be the one to have to figure out the unicorn,” Calum teases. 

“Hey, it was only six inches. Not that bad.”

He sputters his laughter. “Is that payback for calling you out for picking all the locks?”

“I would never do such a thing but maybe.” 

“Anything else on the agenda for tonight?”

“No not really. Whatever work there is out in the world, I’ll get to it tomorrow. What about you? The night’s still young.”  

Calum shrugs. “A friend was supposed to get back to me about drinks tonight,  but I haven’t heard anything yet. If he gets back within the hour or so, I’ll probably tag along but if not, it’s not a big deal. But you never did tell me about last night. How’d that go?”

You cover your face for a second, remember how many drinks were consumed the night previously. Calum laughs at the slightly panicked look that crosses your face. “There was two drinks too many past my usual limit and I felt it. Big time,” you answer. 

He’s glad to hear you getting out more. It’s in turned made him feel a bit better about getting back to his normal routine, getting dinner more with the guys or other friends. Missing you doesn’t hurt so bad anymore for Calum. He feels most often right before he’s going to bed, when he’d normally curl up into your side and open his arms wide for you to curl up into him. But it hurts less during the day. 

Getting used to the cohort and getting out a couple Friday’s in the month has helped you as well. You don’t feel so chained to your phone, don’t feel so beholden to being there for every text right away. It’s still hard when you start to cook dinner and almost reach out for a second plate still by habit. And in the morning when you’re fixing your cup of coffee your brain still wants to pull down a second cup. Sometimes you do. Sometimes you just give in because you need it. Need to let yourself sit with those feelings. 

“I’ll be sticking with cider after last night,” you tease. “Wine makes me myself too much. Never doing that again.”

Calum’s been privileged to see you wine drunk a couple of times and he can already imagine the type of trouble you nearly got yourself in. “Is your picture on the wall at the bar?”

“Not that bad, but close,” you giggle. 

“What am I going to do with you?” 

It’s just a joke but for a moment it makes you pause--what’s going to happen when you go back for break? Are things going to be different? Most of your clothes and things are still there though slowly more and more has been shipped to you. Is Duke going to remember you? Miss you too?

“Promise me the house isn’t too different?”

Calum furrows his brows, head titling just a little to the side. “What do you mean, baby?”

“Like without me, is it all going to be different when I come back?”

“It’s all pretty much the same here. Duke’s the king of the castle. Still have plenty of hoodies for you to steal and your side of the bed still misses you. I still miss you.”

“No, I--I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it like I don’t want you to find ways to cope but I don’t know. What if it never feels right? Like so much has been missed that I just won’t ever fit in again?”

Calum shakes his head. “Babe, no. You still belong. Your shoes still have space in the closet. Your mugs still sit in the cabinets. There is so much of you still here--it’s how I get through the days.”

Maybe that’s what’s rough for you. There’s not much of Calum at your place. There’s none of his dirty laundry that’s halfway hanging of laundry baskets and there’s no bass rumbling and there’s snoring next to you at night. It’s all you, which is nice. But you wish you had a little bit of Calum too. 

“There’s none of you here,” you say softly. 

“I can fix that.” It’s a steady confidence, a nod of his head at statement. “Don’t you worry.”

You two steer the conversation to something lighter before you call it a night. And it’s harder to get up the next morning, to peel yourself out of the sheets. But you do it, you push up with a grunt and get your day started. Coffee, a quick bowl of cereal and fruit. You call Calum right before lunch to check in and then get back to work. 

As the days pass, the conversation the ache gets buried in some stress. However, you get a text about a package to get from the lockers at the front of your complex so shuffle down the path thinking it’s the new mattress pad you ordered. It shipped late last week but you hadn’t expected it to arrive this soon. 

As the door swings open to the locker you spy Calum’s handwritten on the label of the package. What the hell had be gone and done? You pick up the box and kick the door close with your foot before taking it back up to your apartment. Setting the box down on the kitchen counter, you find the scissors and cut into it. Right on top is a small envelope with your name scribbled across it. 

You said you didn’t have anything of me. So I knew I had to correct that. I hope they help. And a little thing from the old man, well not from him. But you’ll understand when you get to that. 

Love you. 

Digging into the box, you notice a few guitar pics, a couple extra t-shirt and then a long thin box. You pick it up, noticing it looks like a necklace. But with Calum you never can be sure. As you crack it open, you laugh, finding a gold chain staring up at you, attach to it is a tiny locket that as a paw print on it. You crack it open though and find a tiny picture of Calum and you inside of it and your eyes well with tears. It’s from your last vacation before you left for school, just two of you reclined on the beach and Calum kissing your temple. 

You draft a text to Calum. Tell Duke it feels like home now. 

[silverlysilence]

TDoDE: Dagur’s Redemption

@fabllama02, you asked about Dagur’s redemption, I give you Dagur’s redemption.  I can’t do simple and this ended up way longer than just a few bullet points.

(RttE: A Time to Skrill)

“That's gotta be the right cage. It's the only one submerged in the water,” upon hearing Hiccup’s voice, Jackson forcibly tore his gaze away from the cages. Fingers twitched across his staff, needing to free the dragons trapped inside but there wasn’t the time.  The Dragon Hunters were sure to figure out the Jorgensons’ distraction for what it was any minute and they couldn’t allow the Skrill to fall into their hands.  After freeing the Skrill, the Druid promised himself they’d free the rest of the caged Creatures of Magic. Even if they were forced to retreat, he would come back for them. “Cover me.”

Slipping from Toothless’s back after Hiccup, Jackson followed the auburn-haired Viking’s lead.  Even before Hiccup yanked the hide off the cage, he knew the Strike-class dragon was housed within.  The Druid could feel the charge in the air and the hairs on the back of his neck stood at attention as the Skrill locked eyes with the Night Fury rider.  An angered screech wrenched from deep within the dragon’s chest as he expressed his dislike of the Viking.  

“I know you can't fire while you're in the water. But don't worry. We're here to help,” Hiccup strove to soothe the agitated dragon. Taking a step forward and into the water, the Dragon Rider held out his hand to show the dragon he meant no harm.  A hand which Jackson immediately yanked out of the way as the Skrill snapped at the offending appendage.

The action drew the Strike-class dragon’s attention towards him.  Jackson felt the auburn-haired teenager stiffen when he noticed where the Skrill’s gaze now resided but the Druid release the Viking’s wrist in favor of holding his hand out to the caged Creature of Fire.  Golden eyes softened as the dragon sniffed the offered hand, a spark jumping from his horn to that of Jackson’s ring finger and while he didn’t flitch, the tables had turned.  This time, it was Hiccup yanking his hand away as Toothless jumped between them, snarling at the suddenly hostile Skrill.

“Jackson!”

“It’s fine, I’m fine, he’s just scenting me,” the brunet reassured both Strike-class dragons and Dragon Rider alike.  His silvery voice weaving a sense of calm into the air as he gently pulled away from Hiccup.  Never once did amber eyes leave the golden gaze.  “Let's just calm down and keep quiet or they'll hear us.”

“Oh, it's too late for that,” Ryker’s voice had Jackson wrenching his eyes from the caged dragon as both he and Hiccup turned to find the Dragon Hunters had them surrounded, bows aimed at each one of the riders’ hearts.  Toothless screeched and lunged for the closest hunter.  Unfortunately, he didn’t get far as two men jumped from the tops of the nearby cages and entangled him in the net strung out between them.  A tactic that proved itself effective as it was used on the other riders’ dragons as well.

A group of men shoved Snotlout forward, prodding him with the tips of their swords as Spitelout grumbled unintelligible words at their captors.  What really had Jackson on edge though were the unnerving chuckles he heard well before Dagur peeled away from the shadows, an unsettling grin on his face.  

“Told you he'd come back for my Skrill. How could you, Hiccup? Oh! But look, you brought me my Druid!” the deranged Viking reached out to stroke the brunet’s cheek, but Jackson quickly backpedaled out of the way.

His back collided with the lattice bars of the cage and yet the hand still came for him.  Amber orbs dilated, pupils mere pinpricks too focused on Dagur to see Ryker holding his sword to Hiccup’s throat, preventing him from moving any closer. The ringing in his ears drowned out the shouts of his friends.  He did, however, feeling the charge in the air intensify and the next thing he knew was the deranged Viking reeling back as the Skrill lunged through the bars, drawing blood.  

“Bad dragon!  Bad dragon!”

“Good dragon,” Jackson didn’t know who whispered the words the winds carried to his ears but he readily agreed with the statement.

“Never mind the boy, Dagur. Just look at all the new dragons your friend has brought us,” Ryker forced the angered auburn-haired Viking to walk backwards towards the rest of the Dragon Riders.  Vivid green eyes a lit with a fury rarely seen in the young leader.  It was lost on the Dragon Hunter as he waved his second sword towards the dragons struggling their way to freedom from beneath the nets. “Cage 'em up. And muzzle the Night Fury.”

“What are you thinking?” Astrid asked when Hiccup was shoved into the circle with a calculating gaze solidifying in vivid green eyes.  The shieldmaiden kept her voice low enough their captors couldn’t hear them, but it just was loud enough for the rest of the riders to hear everything.

Hiccup hummed, eyes darting from the trapped form of Jackson towards the two hunters wrestling a muzzle on Toothless and back again. “That the enemy of my enemy—"

“Might kill us all?” the shieldmaiden cut him off.

“I don’t think so,” vivid green eyes focused on the Skrill as he nudged the trembling Druid through the bars.  “I think he might help us.”

Despite the distance, despite the whispered tones he used, despite the winds whisking the words away as soon as they left his mouth. Jackson heard him.  He must have. For amber eyes snapped in his direction, more focused than they had been a moment before and with the slightest of inclination of his head, Jackson reached behind him and trailed his fingers up the Skrill’s snout. He didn’t snap at the brunet as he had Hiccup and Dagur. There were a few sparks that jumped from him to the Druid and back again but other than that, nothing.

The Skrill did not attack Jackson.

Hiccup didn’t care about any other factors, the proof the Skrill would not harm Jackson was all it took for him to make a break for it. His sudden burst of action was all it took for the Dragon Riders to follow his lead.  Snotlout and Astrid easily disarmed the hunters nearest them as Fishlegs charged at the men daring to manhandle Meatlug.  The twins were more than happy to bloody their fists, leaving an opening for Spitelout to take on the men on their flank. Without a weapon, Hiccup ducked under the sword sloppily swung in his direction and kept on going.  He didn’t stop to incapacitate the swordsman—the man did that himself, overbalancing himself and falling forward onto his blade—and ran straight at the men barely managing to coral the raging Night Fury.

Tackling them to the ground, the auburn-haired Viking knew he couldn’t keep them there long, but he needed have too. “Toothless! The cage!”

Toothless didn’t need to be told twice and lunged for the cage as Jackson flipped up on top of it—using Dagur’s face as a springboard---and met the dragon on the other side.

“Sorry for this,” the brunet shouted as he rammed his shoulder against the thick latticed bars. It was more of the Night Fury throwing his whole body into the bars than anything he did that had the caged toppled over and out of the water.  

Toothless did not stick around once the penned Skrill was on land.  Instead, he leapt up on top of the cage and used it to launch himself at the two hunters who’d gotten the upper hand over his rider.  They didn’t stand a chance and Hiccup was too busy watching Jackson hastily work to break the lock to see what became of them.  It was a good thing too or else he wouldn’t have seen Ryker aiming an arrow towards the Druid’s unprotected back.

“No! Jackson!” the warning came not a moment too soon as the metal door fell to the ground with an audible clang while Jackson rolled out of the way.  As for the arrow, it didn’t stand a chance when faced with a blast of pure lightning.

With a screech, the Skrill stepped forward. Wings flared out, obscuring the crouched form of Jackson from view as little motes of sparks flickered across the dragon’s spines growing larger as they scuttled across dark grey scales.

“Uh, what's it doing?” Dagur questioned, picking himself up off the ground where he fallen in his hast to get out of the way of the overturned cage.

“You tell me. It's your dragon,” Ryker growled, pointing one of his swords at the Strike-class dragon.  His mistake

“Oh, no,” the deranged Viking’s whimper was obscured by the crackling lightning but it was the booming thunder from above that deafened the uttered spell.

“Ligetræsc.”

Lightning raced down from the sky, striking the Skrill and with a mighty flap of his wings, the Strike-class dragon launched itself at the hunters.  Sharp barbs dented armor as fangs bit into the metal of Ryker’s sword.  Dagur’s screams from the Skrill’s barbed tail coiling around his torso were quickly silenced when the Strike-class dragon tossed Ryker up into the air like a ragdoll with a shake of his head and released the lightning gathered a crossed his scales with a flare of his wings. The majority of it rained down upon the encampment, sending the rest of the hunters fleeing in terror but a portion of it traveled down his spin and zapped the deranged Viking before he was roughly tossed into a cage with a flick of the Skrill’s tail.

The grey dragon let out another screech before hurtling up into the air, catching a second bolt of lightning which he used to send out much smaller blasts at the fleeing hunters.  Divebombing all those who dare raise a weapon towards him, talons greedily sank into flesh whenever possible.

“Hiccup, the cages!” Jackson shout drew Hiccup’s frantic search away from the surrounding chaos up to the top of a cage where the Druid was busy pulling Fishlegs up on to with him.  

Vivid green eyes swiftly darted around. Noting how the bolts of lightning crashing down all around him were miraculously missing the occupied cages. He didn’t even get the chance to realize the Skrill was intentionally avoiding the cages before Toothless had him by the back of his shirt and was leaping up onto the nearest cage.  He would have fallen—his prosthetic slipping through the latticed bars—if not for Astrid grabbing hold of his arm and steadying him. Hiccup muttered an absentminded thanks as his eyes searched out the rest of his riders.  Not too far from him, both the twins were atop another cage, their skilled hands working to pick the locks while Snotlout just smashed the one he was standing upon with his mace.

That only left Spitelout unaccounted for and not for long.

“NO!” Jackson cry alerted Hiccup and vivid green eyes swiftly followed amber towards Spitelout still on the ground, surrounded by down hunters with one of their bows with a Dragon Root tipped arrow in his hands.

The Night Fury rider didn’t think and jumped from the cage, rushing towards the Jorgenson.  He wasn’t the only one to hear the Druid and the Skrill did not take kindly to yet another weapon aimed at him.  Hiccup used his upper body to drive his shoulder into Spitelout’s side, sending him cantering into the ground and causing the arrow to go wide.  A loud thump had Hiccup very slowly looking up from the sprawled-out form of the older Jorgenson to the Skrill standing just a few feet from him, lightning dancing across his scales.

A presence at his side had Hiccup glancing out of the corner of his eyes to see Jackson standing at his side, smiling sheepishly at the dragon.  “Please don’t harm Jorgenson, he’s an idiot, but he’s a part of the tribe and we can’t exactly go back without him.”  

The Skrill huffed and sent a small jolt of lightning at Spitelout but otherwise lowered his wings.

“Thank you,” Jackson truly smiled at the dragon who just grumbled.  Golden eyes than turned towards Hiccup and for a moment, the Viking had a feeling the Skrill was going to attack him—what with the lightning sparking in between his teeth, it was hard not to think that—still bitter about him freezing him in the ice.  However, the dragon bowed his head at him and for a moment, Hiccup stood there stunned before an elbow to his ribs had him bowing back.  With one last grumble, the Skrill took to the air and disappeared into the gathered storm clouds.  “Okay, let’s free the rest of the dragons and get out of here.”

“Way ahead of you, bro,” Tuffnut came up to his side, swinging an arm around Jackson’s shoulders while waving Macey about.  A glance up revealed the flock of newly freed dragons heading out in the opposite direction.  “Sayonara!”

“In that case, let’s get out of here before any of the hunters come back or wake up,” Hiccup said just as Dagur let out a groan.

“Yeah, let’s go,” Jackson hastily agreed, pulling himself up into Toothless’s saddle.

Maybe, if they had stayed any longer, they would have seen Dagur look around him in confusion. Hazy eyes flashing before darkening once again as he fell back into unconsciousness.

---

(RttE: Family on the Edge)

“Hey guys, how did the practice run go?” Jackson asked as the last of the dragons touched down on the stables’ landing strip.  No surprise that it was Meatlug taking up the rear with Hookfang not too far ahead of the Gronckle.

“Slow and inaccurate,” Heather informed as she swung down from Windshear’s saddle.

The brunet paused in what he was doing and glanced over at the twins with a raised eyebrow.  Tuffnut did his best to look guiltless and gave him a shrug which had amber eyes rolling, not believing the blond Viking for a second. The wicked grin Ruffnut shot his way had him scrunching up his nose but when she held up a hand with three fingers and a pleading look, he accepted.  After all, the Thorstons now owed him three favors.  

Turning back towards Heather, the Druid cocked his head to the side and stared at her with wide innocent eyes.  “How do you know Muffnut and Scruffnut’s nicknames for the twins?”

The dark-haired shieldmaiden faltered, sharp eyes giving him the once over before snapping towards the blond twins currently wearing their ‘I told you so grins’ on their face. “Hard not to when ‘Slow’ declared his nickname from his older twin siblings was inaccurate.”

Jackson hummed and then shot her a grin. “Accurate.”

Heather couldn’t prevent herself from laughing. “Yeah, alright, you got me.  So, you want some help with dinner?”

“You sure you want to help? Don’t you want to have a bit of shut-eye before dinner like those sleepless idiots over there?” the Druid jerked a thumb back over his shoulder where Hiccup and Astrid were busy still discussing tactics and alternative plans to raid Viggo’s shipyard and knock out his fleet.

“Unlike them, I actually went to bed when I said I would last night and didn’t stay up another four hours,” Heather huffed, blowing a strand of hair out of her eyes.

“Then I’ll gladly take you up on that offer, but first, do me a favor and cover your ears,” the shieldmaiden didn’t question him and did as he asked.  She was glad she did too when not even a second later a high pitch whistle had her wincing even with her ears covered.  The rest of the Dragon Riders weren’t so lucky and were cringing as Jackson let his fingers fall from his lips.  “Alright, the lot of you, if I see anyone before dinner is ready instead of in bed getting at least some type of rest, I’m taking that to mean you want to help me collect herbs tomorrow morning before the sunrises.  Do I have any volunteers?”

“Hm-uh, neither slow nor inaccurate,” Heather commented, watching as the group hightailed it off the decking and towards their various huts.  “So, what are we cooking for dinner?”

“Gotta use the rest of the boar meat before it goes bad,” Jackson scrunched up his nose and the Razorwhip rider couldn’t help but do the same.  It would be the fourth time they had boar that week and they were getting sick of it, but she—and Jackson—knew better than the rest never to waste food.  The other riders might think they know what hunger felt like but they never went weeks at a time without food. She, on the other hand, had during her time living alone in the wild and she knew Jackson knew what true starvation felt like too.

“True,” the dark-haired shieldmaiden hummed.  “Maybe we can pair it with some kind of sauce?”

“I think I saw some juniper berries on the other side of the island that I think would make a good spiced sauce,” the brunet said after a moment of thought

“No offense Jackson, but I really don’t feel like walking to the other side of the island just for juniper berries,” Heather gave a pointed look at the saddle she just finished taking off of the Razorwhip.

The Druid laughed as he threw Stormfly’s saddle over his shoulder so he could pick up Meatlug’s resting at his feet.  “Yeah, guess you’re right, it would be a bit far on foot and Windshear deserves a break after all those practice runs. I did collect some lingonberries to trade with the Wyldfae today but I can always get more tomorrow. I could even get the juniper berries as well.”

“That sounds like an excellent idea, I’ll even help you collect them,” the teenager agreed, taking Barf and Belch’s saddles from a few of the Wyldfae as a few more followed after Jackson with Hookfang’s saddle. With a pat to the side, Heather left Windshear in Fawn’s capable hands with the other dragons as they stored the saddles in the tack room.

“Great,” Jackson grinned, trading Hookfang’s saddle for a lingonberry and proceeded to place it on the only empty rack. “Snotlout and Fawn usually help collect herbs and other such things. It’ll be nice to have someone else there that knows what’s poisonous or not and to keep those two from killing us all.  I mean, don’t get me wrong, Fawn is an expert when it comes to fauna, but she can’t tell the difference between a blackberry shrub and poison ivy.  Though, Snotlout has gotten better at identifying a few common plants.”

“Snotlout helps you collect herbs?” Heather side-eyed the Druid as she gave Vidia a clipping of wool larger than she was in exchange for her to treat the leather of the saddles.  

“Who else would help me?   The Wyldfae do tend to help, but only for little things but not in the vast quantities needed to keep Dragon’s Edge stocked,” amber eyes gave a pointed look to the Wee Folk currently weighed down by the wool but quickly divided it up between a few nearby fae in exchange for their help.

“I never thought of it,” the shieldmaiden cringed, making a mental note to be mindful of the weight of the items she offered up in trade. “I would have guessed that was more Fishlegs’s thing what with his garden and all.”

“Nah,” Jackson shook his head as they left the stables, heading for the gangplanks and up towards the Clubhouse.  “Fishlegs knows enough about topiaries and flowers to keep his serenity garden thriving, but he’s not the type to go out trekking through the forest searching for illusive and rare flora.”

“And Snotlout is?”

The brunet could not hold back his snort.  “By the gods, no.  He couldn’t care less about the flora but the adventure that comes with it searching for the—as he refers to it as—‘leafy green stuff’?  Yeah, he’d be down for climbing the tallest of trees just to pick the fruits or screaming his lungs out as he chases wild boars away, preventing them from trampling on the only known patch of raspberries on the island because he knows they’re my favorite. Even if he says otherwise.”

Heather blinked as amber eyes rolled at the last statement.  “He did that?”

“Yeah, just last week.  Snotlout, might try to come off tough and hardcore, but deep down—and I do mean deep down, because he can be an utter asshole most of the time—he does have a caring side to him.”

“I never knew that,” Heather glanced over at Snotlout’s hut with a renewed interest in her eyes.

“Yeah, that’s because he doesn’t want to appear weak,” the Druid grumbled as they finally made it to the Clubhouse. “I blame his father for that.”

“Duly noted,” the shieldmaiden held her tongue upon hearing the edge in Jackson’s voice usually reserved for Dragon Hunters and the likes.  She wanted to ask more, but knew now was not the time to ask and even then, it would be better to ask Fishlegs in that regard.  Of all the Hooligans, the blond Viking was the easiest to get information out of, some of it he really shouldn’t have been sharing and she would have to teach him not to. After she got the information she wanted. “So, got any more stories about Snotlout that I should know about?”

“A whole longboat’s worth,” the brunet flashed her a wicked smile and if she didn’t know Jackson was a follower of Jökul Frosti, Heather would have thought he followed in the twins’ devotion for Loki the Silvertongue. It would have explained how the Druid was a master of telling stories without telling any outright lies or revealing anything he didn’t want to.

“By all means, please share.” Heather had no doubt the stories he weaved might be embarrassing anecdotes about the Monstrous Nightmare rider but none of them would reveal anything that could be used against Snotlout.  It was why she trusted Jackson with so many of her secrets. Because she knew he would never tell them to anyone, just like he would never tell Snotlout’s secrets to her.

By the time any of the other riders wandered in from their naps, Heather was nearly on the floor with laughter.  Jackson’s stories had long ago begun trailing away from just Snotlout to other stories he couldn’t very well tell to children but were more than appropriate for her ears casing the time flew to by as they worked in tandem preparing dinner.  At some point, Astrid had slipped in and pitched in by setting the table while the Druid finished one of his stories and prompted him to tell her the one about Gobber taking over for Gothi for the day.  He obliged and Snotlout was more than willing to add his recollection of Agnar’s mishap with Gobber’s stomach cure when he wandered in.  Fishlegs had the unfortunate timing of coming in as the Monstrous Nightmare rider finished his rather detailed description of the poor man losing control over his bowels and his face went green.  Thankfully, the twins arrived and pushed him into the Clubhouse before he could flee and Tuffnut immediately launched into a story of his own.

Jackson gladly let the Thorston take over as he and Heather began transferring the food to the table, listening with one ear to Tuffnut’s tale. “—but somebody better explain how yak stew got in my pants. It was so warm.”

Hearty laughter filled the room, joined halfway through by a nasally chortle that was a pitch too high to be genuine.  Amber eyes flickered over to find Hiccup had finally wandered in as he brought the last two plates to the table.  A single brown eyebrow quirked upwards, soon joined by the second when the auburn-haired Viking refused to meet his eyes.  Taking a seat next to Heather, he passed her the extra plate which she took and passed down to the table to the opened seat.

A seat which Hiccup didn’t take and remained standing just between Fishlegs and Ruffnut’s chairs. “Hey… uh—speaking of soggy pants—you ever wonder what happened to Dagur and his crazy pants?”

The bite of boar he was about to take was returned to his plate due to his sudden lack of appetite.  The silence that befell the group was deafening and Jackson feigned not noticing the multiple pairs of eyes glancing in his and the shieldmaiden’s direction. Next to him, Heather tensed as she defiantly glared back at anyone sending them pitying glances, which had Fishlegs’s shrinking into his seat.  

Snotlout didn’t even looked towards them and instead focused his ire on to his cousin. “Uh. No.”

“And for the record, I don't think his pants were that crazy,” Ruffnut endeavored to break the rising tension and it would have worked too if the Gronckle rider didn’t feel the need to continue the conversation opposed to moving on to another topic.

“What brings Dagur up, anyway-oof?” Fishlegs ended with a gasp as the blonde Viking’s boney elbow ended up in his side and the scowl she sent his way spoke of more to come if he opened his mouth again.

“Nothing,” the high-pitched denial had Jackson pausing in pushing his food around his plate and actually looking at Hiccup. The Night Fury rider still wasn’t looking at him. Neither was he wasn’t looking at anyone, refusing to make eye contact, and that had amber eyes narrowing. “But since we're on the subject of Dagur now… uh… Do you ever wonder why he helped Heather escape from Viggo?”

Astrid, composed as usual, supplied a throwaway answer to put an end to the conversation. “Probably as a distraction so he could get away himself.”

“Maybe,” Hiccup brushed off the answer but he didn’t let the topic drop. “I don't know. But what if it was actually the first step on a path toward a new life?”

“A new life? Dagur?” That was the final tipping point; Heather had enough, fist slamming onto the table.  She almost knocked over her tankard of water in the process but Jackson’s hand shot out, catching the mug before it could spill onto her lap.  “A dragon doesn’t change its markings, Hiccup.”

“Uh, technically—” the hefty blond began.

“Except for a Changewing, yes, I know,” the dark-haired shieldmaiden finished for Fishlegs, missing that it was Ruffnut’s elbow to his side that had him trailing off.

“And a—arg.” Apparently, he didn’t learn after the first two times.

“You get the point!” Heather snapped as Fishlegs let out a whimper of pain.

Hiccup made an effort to pacify the wound up shieldmaiden. “Right. You're probably right. But then again…uh, who would've thought that my father, Stoick the Vast, would ever learn to ride a dragon? You never know. Next time we see Dagur—”

The sound of a chair screeching against the floor silenced the room as Jackson abruptly stood. “Heather, I’ll take your island patrol tonight since you haven’t had the time to get any rest.”

Amber eyes refused to meet anyone’s eyes—especially vivid green eyes now desperately trying to catch his own—as he spun on his heels, grabbing his staff from where it was propped up against the wall as he left the Clubhouse.

Heather used the distraction to take a deep breath and held it for a second before letting it out slowly.  “I think I’ll join Jackson. I’m too worked up to go to sleep now.” The shieldmaiden stood to follow the Druid, emerald eyes focusing on vivid green. “And if I ever see that father-killer, I’ll split him in two.”

“Uh… Actually, I'll do that,” Hiccup glanced worryingly towards the door the Druid exited before returning his attention to her.  “I have a way more important mission for you.”

“You do?” the Razorwhip rider asked, taken aback.

“Of course I do. It's… uh,” the Head of the Dragon Riders stumbled, eyes once more trailing over to the door before snapping back to Heather, skirting over Snotlout in the process. “One final recon mission to check out our target. You and Snotlout.”

Upon hearing his name, the Monstrous Nightmare rider’s attention jumped back to his cousin. “What are you talking about? We went last time.”

“I know! That's why I'm sending you again. To be on the lookout for any last-minute changes,” Hiccup gestured his hand towards the general direction of Viggo’s shipyard.

“That sort of makes sense,” the shieldmaiden agreed hesitantly.  Though, she would much rather find Jackson and patrol the island with him.  At least then she would have someone to commiserate with.

“And you should leave tonight,” the Night Fury rider hastily tacked on.

“Tonight? But I promised Jackson I’d help him collect leafy green things tomorrow! Argh! It's gonna take a whole day to get there!” Snotlout made his displeasure known but he didn’t outright refuse.

“Jeez, Hiccup, are you trying to get rid of us?” Heather joked, wondering if this was Hiccup’s way of giving her space after being insensitive and bringing up the brother she’d rather forget.

“Yes. No, no! That's crazy. Why would I—” the Razorwhip rider put the fumbling leader out of his misery with a chuckle.  By the gods, Hiccup was terrible at coming up with an excuse to hide his real reason for sending her out to let off some steam.

“I'm kidding, Hiccup. Relax. Come on, Snotlout. The sooner we leave, the sooner we’ll get back to help Jackson collect herbs,” Heather grabbed the brawny Viking by the arm and hauled him out of his seat.

“Take your time… and by that, I mean, be safe,” Hiccup’s parting words had her smiling at his concern.

---

“Morning Hiccup.”

“A—astrid!” Hiccup jumped as if he had been caught doing something wrong as he quickly slammed the door to his hut closed. “What are you doing—here—so early?”

The blonde shieldmaiden gave him a funny look, but indicated to Sharpshot perched on her shoulder.  “Got a Terror Mail from Jackson.  Says patrol last night was uneventful, but don’t expect him back anytime soon. He’s going to explore the island more on foot.”

“That’s perfect,” the auburn-haired Viking sighed as the tension left his shoulders only for him to stiffen under the scrutiny of Astrid’s narrowed gaze.  “I mean, it’s perfect for him.  He likes exploring the island.”

“Hiccup,” the Deadly Nadder rider addressed him in the tone she usually reserved for the twins. “He knows this island better than any of us, I’m pretty sure there isn’t a place he hasn’t explored.  I think he just wants some time to himself after last night.”

“R—right,” the Night Fury rider awkwardly laughed, rubbing the back of his head.  “I knew that.”

Rolling her eyes, Astrid shook her head.  “I’m sure you did.  Look, I don’t know what was up with you last night, but whatever hairbrained notion you’ve got in your head now.  Just drop it, for all our sakes.”

The shieldmaiden didn’t give him time to respond, just turned on her heels and headed off back the way she came.

---

“That’s better,” Dagur rubbed the feeling back into his wrist now that he was freed from the rope and eyed the chicken the Dragon Riders had left to guard him.  He wasn’t sure if it had been some kind of slight against him or if the chicken really could alert the Hooligans to his escape.  Either way, it would be best not to take chances and the knife he’d used to cut his binding was perfectly balanced.  He could easily throw it through the bars and kill the chicken but that left a bad taste in his mouth.  He was trying to gain their trust and if he killed Tuffnut’s pet, that was not ideal to gaining their trust or forgiveness.

On the other hand, if he didn’t get out of here than he would personally burn Dragon’s Edge to the ground.

A squawk had jaded green eyes glancing up to see Chicken—wings flapping excitedly—as she slipped through the stable’s doors left ajar. He waited a few moments to see if the fowl returned and then a few more just on the safe side.  When Chicken didn’t return and he couldn’t even hear the bird’s clucking the Berserker turned to Shattermaster.

“What do you say, wanna help me breakout of here?”

“You do that and I’ll lay you out faster than you can blink.”

Dagur did not jump.  He was a trained warrior, the—wayward—Chief of the Berserker Tribe, and he instinctively threw the knife in his palm as he whirled around.  The blade embedded itself into the support beam but should have gone into flesh.  Blood drained from his face as slim fingers wrapped around the hilt of the knife and yanked it from the wood without breaking eye contact with him.

“Jackson,” Dagur gulped as amber eyes flickered dangerously.  “I—I—I did—didn’t mean to.”

“Clearly,” the brunet scoffed, tilting his head back and obscuring the mark his knife had created.

“I Swear—”

“Stop talking, Dagur.”

The Berserker’s jaw snapped shut, earning him a narrowed look from Jackson that had him gulping down the words trying to escape. They stood in silence for what felt like an eternity, amber eyes never leaving him and Dagur wished he could claim the same, but his eyes were drawn towards the crystal hanging ominously from his staff, pulsating with light.  Shattermaster glanced back and forth between them but seeing that the brunet made no move towards his rider and his rider made no moves towards the brunet, the Boulder-class dragon was more than happy to feast upon the granite left for him.

Finally, Dagur couldn’t take the silence any longer and opened his mouth.  

“Is it true?”

“What?” the Berserker faltered at the question.

“Is what you said to Hiccup true?” Jackson asked as the hand around his staff tightened to the point his knuckles lost all color. His knife still in the Druid’s other hand held to the side but the Viking knew Jackson was far faster than him. While he had strength on his side, the brunet was pure speed and if it came down to it, Dagur wasn’t sure if he could overpower the Druid without causing a commotion that would bring the rest of the Dragon Riders running.

Dagur opened his mouth once more only to close it on his own accord and repeat the process a few more times.  “How do you know what I said?  Hiccup said you left the Edge and he wasn’t lying.  I should know, he’s a terrible liar.”  

“You’re right. Hiccup is a terrible liar.  That’s how I knew something was up and knew to keep an eye out,” Jackson huffed, the corners of his lips twitching in amusement before smoothing back out. “He didn’t lie though. I did leave the Edge, but I didn’t leave the island.”

“You’ve been following him, since when?” the redhead asked in shock. He couldn’t believe his brother was careless enough to let Jackson follow him and didn’t even notice.

“Since he met up with you in your camp by the western coast. You should really learn how to make a campfire that’ll last you the night if you’re going to be sleeping outside without any supplies. I should have let you freeze to death last night and be done with it.”

“You followed me? You couldn’t have,” Dagur denied but the denial on his lips tasted false and the Druid’s words rang true.  He had misjudged how cold the island got and there hadn’t been enough wood for his fire to burn all night.  Yet, when he’d woken in the morning, his fire was blessedly putting out enough heat to keep the chill at bay.

Jaded eyes stared into unimpressed amber. A brown eyebrow quirked upwards, daring the Viking to challenge him.  

Dagur wisely kept his mouth shut.

“I ask again, did you or did you not mean what you said to Hiccup about not letting anything happen to Heather?”

The Berserker got the feeling he’d already used up all the goodwill and patience Jackson had for him and didn’t bother with some elaborate, long-winded explanation.  “She’s my little sister.”

Jackson froze.

Dagur didn’t even think he was breathing before the whispered words reached his ears. “And there’s nothing an older brother wouldn’t do for his little sister.”

He wasn’t sure if Jackson was talking to him or was speaking to himself but nodded in agreement anyways.

Letting out a deep breath, the Druid flipped the blade in his hand and held out the hilt towards Dagur.  When jaded green eyes looked from it to amber orbs but didn’t take it, Jackson huffed.

“Well, come on then. If we’re going to prove this really is a trap, then it would be best if you don’t go unarmed.” Hesitantly he took the knife back, slipping it back into his boot as he mulled over what the Druid said.

“We?  As in--?” Dagur trailed off.

“You and me,” Jackson answered, walking passed him and towards the locked door.

“I can work with that,” the Berserker nodded, already making plans and taking into account the Druid’s safety.  If something were to happen to him on Dagur’s watch, there was no question the Hairy Hooligan Tribe would declare war on him and it wouldn’t just be Hiccup and his little ragtag team coming after him this time.  No, it would be the entire tribe.  He couldn’t let anything happen to Jackson but there was a slight problem.  “Not sure how well Shattermaster will handle two riders.”

“Please, I’ve never rode with anyone other than Hiccup and Toothless and I’m not about to start now, especially since it would be you I’d be riding with,” Jackson tossed over his shoulder as he casually swung the stall door opened as if it hadn’t previously been locked.  It had.  Dagur knew it had.  He’d tried it before.  Then again. He’d been alone in the stall with only Shattermaster and the brunet had someone gotten inside without him noticing.

“And how are you going to get to Viggo’s shipyard without Toothless?”

“You leave that to me.”

---

The Berserker chief may not know what language Jackson was speaking in as he got his first look at Viggo’s shipyard from a few sea stacks away but Dagur knew a string of curses when he heard one.

“How did Astrid miss this?  How did Heather miss this?  It’s obviously a trap,” the Druid seethed in the only language Dagur understood as he switched the spyglass to another of the boats.

“Don’t ask me.  I never even saw it before and I knew it was a trap,” the redhead finished tossing the last of the granite to Shattermaster as the Gronckle greedily ate after flying through the night.

Amber orbs pulled away from the spyglass and glared up at him.  “You also worked alongside Viggo.”

Rubbing the back of his neck, Dagur chuckled nervously. “True, but I have changed.”

“We’ll see,” Jackson mumbled as he returned to the spyglass and scanned the horizon, muttering under his breath as the silent breeze tussled brown locks.  The Viking was rather impressed with his observation skills as he picked out the camouflage netting and correctly identified the ballistae and archers hidden behind them. How, Dagur wasn’t sure since knowing for he knew for a fact the Druid wouldn’t be able to see through those particular camouflage netting. He did know Jackson was correct even without seeing it himself, after all, he had insider knowledge of Viggo and his tactics. “Oh no. Oh no.”

“What?” Dagur demanded even as the brunet scrambled up onto his feet.

“They’re here.  Hiccup and the others are coming this way.  They must have realized you were missing and followed us.  We have to do something before they do,” Jackson hastily explained as he fumbled to put his cloak back on after discarding it to keep the fluttering fabric from giving away their position.  “You and Shattermaster take care of the hunters. I don’t care how you do it, but clear the ships of anyone living and I’ll take care of the rest.”

“And just how are you going to do that?” Dagur looked him up and down, about to demand the brunet stay there and he’d take care of everything but Jackson was already holding his staff high in the air. A sudden squall knocked him off his feet and he nearly went over the edge of the sea stack. Shattermaster prevented his untimely bath and caught him, flipping the Viking onto his back.  When the Berserker reoriented himself and looked down, the blue dot which was Jackson was gone.

Cursing like only a Viking could, Dagur urged the Gronckle on, glancing behind him to find that his little mishap hadn’t gone unnoticed by the Dragon Riders heading this way and cursed some more. “Well, we only live once, don’t we boy?  Now let’s go get us some hunters.”

Pulling his throwing knives from his belt, the Chief of Berserkers readied himself for battle.

“Ahoy, in the shipyard! I have a message for Viggo,” Dagur called out as soon as he was in earshot, making sure to be loud and obnoxious as possible to gain as many of the hunters’ attention.  It worked and the Gronckle and rider were in the crosshairs of too many bows.  “Tell him Dagur the Deranged says hello.”

With that he tossed his two knives at the longboat beneath him.  One of them sinking into the exposed throat of a hefty man and the other wedging itself into a barrel as a second man took cover. Shattermaster followed the trajectory of the second blade and spewed lava in the knife’s general vicinity. The barrels Dagur suspected housed explosives detonated just as a flash of blue from the corner of his eye disappeared over the longboat’s railing.

Now he just needed to make sure Jackson and him got out of this alive.  “Come on, Shattermaster! Let's show 'em what a real rider and his dragon can do!”

Flying straight through a barrage of arrows was exhilarating, especially when not a single one hit him with the sudden gusts of wind. The smoke from the various explosives Shattermaster’s lava set off was making it hard for him to see but his knives still found their target and many of the hunters soon threw themselves overboard rather than face a raging Gronckle.  He was on his last few knives when a pained yelp had his maniacal giggles dying in his throat. A sharp glanced down at his dragon revealed a bolt protruding out of Shattermaster’s left wing that had him seeing red.

“Dagur!” deranged green eyes snapped up to see Jackson standing a top of the mast of the nearest longboat, blue cloak fluttering in the gales of wind as he flung a handful of rocks into the air.  The Viking didn’t even have time to question the ludicrous of throwing useless pebbles when the Druid raised his staff.  “Get out of here!”  

The redhead disregarded the warning and headed straight for Jackson, intending to grab him and fly off.  But a familiar screech from above had him looking up at the gathered storm clouds to find lightning dancing within the grey skies, illuminating the silhouette of the being that inspired the Berserker Tribe’s crest.

“Ligetræsc.”

Lightning came crashing down.  Drawn towards each of the boat and the bolt in Shattermaster’s wing.  The last thing Dagur remembered before blacking out was the Druid shouting his name as the ocean water claimed him.

---

Dagur woke abruptly to something brushing his head and he instinctively lashed out.  The weight immediately retreated and a yelp let him know he’d nicked his prey at the very least.  Deranged green eyes glittered when he saw just who he’d cut.

“Druid—” the unbalanced smirk fell from his lips as he took in the blood flowing from the brunet’s hand cradled to his chest and a sinking feeling of all-consuming guilt came crashing down on him.  “J—Jackson!  I didn’t mean to— I reacted on instinct.”

Jackson recoiled when he reached out to grab the teenager’s hand to inspect the damage done which had Dagur rooted to the spot. A cold that had nothing to do with the damp hollow he now found himself in settled deep within his bones.  The distrust resurfacing in those enthralling amber orbs had him shivering and wrenched a whimper from his throat.  

“I—” Dagur knew he’d messed up badly and was only making it worse. He wasn’t sure why Jackson listened to a word he said after everything he’d put the younger teenager through, much less give him a chance to prove himself.  By Freyr, if it were him, Dagur would let him to freeze to death in the night and how had he repaid Jackson’s kindness?  By attacking him after raiding Viggo’s shipyard together.

Viggo’s shipyard.

Dagur’s head shot up, frantically searching for a clue to where they were.  He wasn’t back on Outpost Island, that was for sure, and the Dragon Riders mustn’t have located them.  If they had, there was no way he’d be left alone with Jackson which meant, the brunet was responsible for dragging him into the rickety wooden hollow.

“What happened?  Please tell me Heather’s okay and Shattermaster!  Where’s Shattermaster?  The Dragon Hunters didn’t get them, did they?”

Amber eyes stared at him unblinkingly, head cocking to the side after a moment as a pensive look crossed the Druid’s face.

Finally, after what felt like eternity, Jackson answered. “I’m not sure what happened to Shattermaster after he got hit by the lightning.  I only saw you come up to the surface and it was difficult enough to pull you to safety while going unnoticed.  I didn’t want to chance going back out there right now.”

“Out there?  Where are we?” Dagur took another look around, notice the incline of the wooden surface and following it down to the sea water lapping at the decking.  “Don’t tell me.”

“We’re inside the hull of one of Viggo’s half sunken ships? Hard not to, just be thankful it capsized after being blow in half and the waves ran us aground.  Means we’re no longer sinking and the only way for Viggo’s men to find us is if they bust through the hull or swim in through there,” the brunet gestured towards the water with his hand that had thankfully already stopped bleeding. “And I don’t think they know we’re here.  We can wait for Viggo to collect his hunters—well, the ones that survived your initial attack, everyone else jumped ship before the lightning strike destroyed the ships—before trying to get out of here and look for Shattermaster.”

“How long do you reckon that will be?” the shrug he received in answer had the Viking praying to Freyr and the rest of the gods that the Gronckle survived.  He didn’t think a measly bolt to the wing and a little lightning could take out Shattermaster.  Besides, he was still alive and he’d been riding the dragon was hit by the lightning, so that must mean Shattermaster was alive too.

Dagur wasn’t sure.  He’d spent his life hunting dragons, not caring for him.

Glancing up, jaded green eyes searched out Jackson to ask him the likelihood of Shattermaster’s survival but the question died on his lips when he found the brunet seated at the far end of the hull with his staff in his lap while he cared for his bloodied hand.  “How’s your hand?”

“Fine,” Jackson answered shortly, his attention fixed solely on the hand he was currently awkwardly wrapping with a strip of cloth he’d pulled from his back pouch.

Dagur chewed at his lips, wanting to offer his assistance but knowing such an offer would not be appreciated at this time, and gave an apology instead. “I am sorry for lashing out. I was groggy and out of it when I woke up.”

The brunet didn’t say anything.  For the longest of time, the only sound came from the water lapping against the wood and the creaking of the hull.  If Dagur really strained his ears, he could hear the faint muffled sounds of the Dragon Hunters’ shouts and clamoring about.

“I don’t think that was it.”

Startled, jaded green eyes flickered over in time to see amber eyes disappearing behind brown locks.

“I didn’t mean to attack you. I swear, Jackson—”

“Stop,” Dagur did so, but not because the Druid asked him to. It was his eyes that had the Berserker complying.  They were wide.  Not with fear, but something Dagur couldn’t place.  “That.  That’s the third time.”

“Third time?”

“You called me by my name.”

“It’s your name?” Dagur’s confusion was clear in his voice.

“Exactly and you’ve never called me by name before.  Ever,” Jackson pointed out, looking him over as if he was examining a prizewinning sheep. “I want to try something, but you have to remain completely still, got it?”

“Uh, okay?” the Berserker was confused where this was going but wasn’t about to ask.  He’d already hurt the Druid once and whatever he was about to do, Dagur was willing to allow it if it meant Jackson felt safer around him.  Slowly, the brunet shuffled over, stopping several feet away.

Biting at his lower lip, a look of uncertainty shimmered to life in Jackson’s eyes as he stared up at Dagur. “Can you sit down and press your hands on the ground, palms down?”

“Sure,” Dagur was uncertain but did as he was told, pressing his palms against the wooden decking on either side of him.  It was only when tense shoulders loosened that he realized it had little to do with whatever the brunet had planned but had everything to do with making Jackson feel safe.

“Good,” the Druid let out a series of short breaths before kneeling down in front of the redhead.  With a shaking hand, he reached out and gripped Dagur’s jaw with a firm but yielding grasp and proceeded to tilt his head to one side to study the scar on his face before tilting it back.  Jaded green eyes stared into amber orbs as Jackson lift his staff up with his other hand, crystal dangling between their eyes. “Lig—”

Dagur’s right hand lashed out and wrapped itself around the brunet’s neck, suffocating the spell before it could leave his lips.  “What do you think you’re doing, Druid?”

Jackson desperately clawed at the hand at his throat, but the iron grip didn’t budge. The Viking starred him down, deranged green eyes darkening as the crystal sparked and sputtered.  The Berserker chief’s other hand quickly came up and grabbed his wrist, twisting it with enough force he nearly snapped the brunet’s wrist if he didn’t let go of his staff and he did.  Jackson released his staff with a wheezed gasp, choking as he tried to pull air in his body.

“Druid—”

Jackson couldn’t breathe.  Spots appeared in his vision and his eyelids grew heavy, unwilling to stay open.

“—Stop--”

His hand slipped from on top of the deranged Viking’s and fell to his side.

“ME!”

Amber eyes shot open as he threw the cloth from his pouch into the redhead’s face.  Sunshine expelled from every fold in an intense burst of light.  Screams filled the hull and the hands around his wrist and neck fell away as the redhead clawed at the cloth.  With nothing supporting his dead weight anymore, Jackson fell to the side, gasping for breath. His adrenaline spiked a second later when his vision began to fade only for his oxygen deprived brain to realize the folded sunshine was on its last dredges. Weakly, he reached for his staff.

Trembling fingers brushed up against the gnarled wood and pulled it closer.  Staff now in hand, Jackson forced himself on to unsteady legs.  Only then did he take in the silence.  The already unnerving sensation he had at being trapped in a capsized, half sunken ship with only Dagur for company skyrocketed. He didn’t need a mirror to know his pupil were mere pinpricks as the hairs on the back of his neck stood on end.  

Slowly, ever so slowly, Jackson turned towards Dagur. The Viking was slumps down against the wall, the remnants of the folded sunshine weakly glowing in his lap.  The skin on his face an angry red color but his scar?  His scar was gone.  There wasn’t a trace of the webbed scar created by the flames of a dragon.

Stoker-class Flames.

A flicker of something out of the corner of his eye had Jackson whirling around.  Amber eyes strained to see through the darkness, his tired body on edge.  

Strike-class Lightning.

There, in the darkest most corner was a shadow-like creature barely distinguishable in the darkness.  It couldn’t be a Dream Pirate though.  Jackson knew it wasn’t a Dream Pirate.

Folded sunshine.

An unnamed feeling of fear gripped his body. He knew it was impossible for Dream Pirates to possess humans and yet that thing had clearly been possessing the Berserker chief. But for how long?  How much of Dagur’s actions were his own and how much weren’t?

All Three Light.

When the creature rotated—not tilted, but rotated—its head, Jackson got his answer as the white webbed burn like scar covering its otherwise faceless features was revealed.  Dagur hadn’t gotten that scar during the battle on Outcast Island, the creature had.

All Three Magic.

The unnamed feeling of fear suddenly had a name.

Fearling.

“Liget!”

---

“--Be Safe.  Your Brother Dagur,” Heather read the last line outload as drops soaked into the page.  She tried to tell herself it was from the rain that began fall from the cloud laden sky but she would only be lying to herself. 

Wiping the tears from her eyes, the shieldmaiden missed a streak of night as it tore through the clouds and out into dangerous water.

---

Hiccup pulled himself towards his hut, a heavy feeling weighing him down.  A year ago, he would have never believe Dagur could have sacrificed himself for them. But after the deranged Viking had saved Toothless and him from the Dragon Hunters, he wasn’t so sure.  It was like something inside Dagur had shifted and while the Head of the Dragon Training Academy was not about to trust him, he was willing to give the Berserker a second chance.

It was why he was willing to teach Dagur how to ride a dragon. Hiccup just wished he had more time to gauge the Berserker.  If he had more time to observe this new man Dagur was becoming, he might have been able to trust his word that it was a trap.  His death wasn’t necessary.  

Hiccup had made the wrong decision.

He should have trusted the riders and told them everything instead of hiding Dagur’s presence to keep from upsetting either Jackson or Heather.  They could have handled it and their particular set of skills and insight when it came to Dagur would have been useful.  As it was, both of them were upset; Heather had secluded herself away in her hut and Jackson was off somewhere on the island. 

He would have to go searching for the Druid later, but not now.  Now all he wanted to do was sleep and he would have, if not for Periwinkle’s happy thrills that greeted him which quickly turned into harrowing chimes as she sank to his shoulder.  Her little head glancing behind him and her chimes becoming louder when all she found was Toothless.  The Night Fury’s ear-plates perked up as he cooed to the little fae.

Periwinkle thrilled as she pointed up.  Toothless, more alert than a moment ago when the exhausted dragon was shuffling after his rider, quickly clamored up to the loft, making a ruckus on his way.  Hiccup didn’t have any time to scold the dragon before he was back with something in his mouth.  The Viking barely caught the scroll Toothless shoved into his stomach and fumbled with it, causing it to unroll.

Vivid green eyes blinked when he caught sight of the familiar scrawls and unfurled the letter, drinking in the message.  With each passing words, he felt colder, blood draining from his face, as his fingers began to tremble. 

“No. No, he did not, he couldn’t. Toothless!” the dragon was already at his side, and Hiccup was barely in the saddle before the Night Fury was bounding out the door.  His gears shifting only after he’d leapt into the air as they hurtled through the stormy sky.  

It would take hours before they reached Viggo’s shipyard, or at least what was left of it.  Hours that Hiccup spent clutching Jackson’s letter, his words burned into the auburn-haired Vikings mind, and even though they reached the shipyard in record time, he was too late.  Jackson wasn’t there.

---

Muhahaha!  This, this was my plan all along for Dagur in the original outline of Soul of a Druid but got pushed further and further back until I thought I was going to have to scrap the idea.  But now it is cannon for HoaDS.  Thank you Fab for forcing me to write this.

[yurtletheturtlehenderson]

S.T. REWRITE - S2:E8; Chapter Eight, The Mind Flayer - [Pt. 5]

A Will Byers x Reader Series

An unlikely hero steps forward when a deadly development puts the Hawkins Lab on lockdown, trapping Will and several others inside.

A/n: y/n and max bonding time !! ☺ we love and support healthy female friendships in this fic 😚

||3rd Person POV||

The rickety wooden door to the Byers shed is ripped open, and Hopper tugs at the pull chain bathing the shed in a dusty yellow light. To his left stands Mike and Y/n who accompany him, and he shakes his head with a decisive nod.

"Yeah, this'll work."

The young Henderson girl can't help but sigh at the irony of this room being the setting of the interrogation with the monster that took over Will. Given this was the very place he was taken. Y/n had not found out this particular detail until weeks after his full recovery. He had shared this with her on the same day she had shared her powers with him.

How drastically everything had changed since then.

And deep down she knew, things would only continue to change. It was a feeling of absolute certainty deep in her core. She knew it to be true just as sure she was that the sunset in the evening and rose in the morning; Nothing would ever be the same again.

⊹ ⊹ ⊹

The shed had been empty in a matter of minutes thanks to Hopper. After the details of the plan began to cement, Y/n lingered behind for the majority of this allotted time to help the man clear the room of all its contents, though she was soon called inside to help Mike and the others prepare.

Nancy and Steve now stood alone in the shed, having been tasked with the job of covering the shed's walls. For several minutes they worked in an amplified silence beside the constant ripping of duct tape and sharp thuds from the staple gun.

Nancy was the first to break this silence.

"Hey," Steve stepped down from the stool to reload his staple gun, and he turns to meet the girl's gentle smile. "What you did, um, helping the kids... that was... really cool."

"Yeah," he mutters, breaking away from her tempting gaze and returning to his work on the stool. "Those little shits are real trouble, you know?"

Nancy nods, fighting a smile as she returns to her roll of duck tape. "Believe me, I know."

⊹ ⊹ ⊹

Outside and just around the corner of the yard, Lucas and Dustin finished emptying the contents of the trash and kneeled down to the grass to examine its contents for any useful materials for the walls.

Not unlike Nancy, Dustin decides to take advantage of the brief calm before the storm to reconcile with the boy beside him.

"Hey," Dustin eases. "I'm... I'm sorry about Dart and all. I guess I just thought that he was my friend."

Lucas does not fail to notice Dustin's dry scoff at himself at his own realization.

"I was wrong. I broke the rule of law, so if you want your girlfriend to take over my spot in the party, I understand."

Lucas laughs, shaking his head in disbelief. "She's not my girlfriend."

"I saw you two holding hands in the bus, Lucas."

"She was just scared."

"Maybe," Dustin nods sadly. "but I could feel it."

"Feel what?"

Dustin looks at his friend sincerely, finally understanding what Steve had told him about.

"The electricity."

With that, Dustin balls up his findings of newspaper for the shed and rises to his feet, heading around the house. Lucas sits in careful contemplation at his words, unable to shake the swarm of thoughts they had brought.

He merely sighs, and returns to work, his head and heart buzzing.

⊹ ⊹ ⊹

Max and Mike sit in silence in the kitchen. Mike with his head in the cupboard as he fishes for supplies and Max beside him on the floor stitching together strips of cardboard with duct tape. She smiles fondly.

"I get it now," She says.

Without turning around, Mike throws back a grumbled response. "Get what?"

She quirks a brow, still a hint of an understanding smile. "You know, why Y/n's your druid? El too, I get why she was your mage."

The sudden and unexpected mention of El is what breaks Mike's attention away from his task, and he looks over his shoulder at Max pointedly.

"What?"

"Well, the whole 'Y/n saving our asses in the junkyard' show was kind of a tip-off," she begins jokingly, but it stops when she notices the warning in his eyes, and she softens. "Lucas. He told me about her. El, I mean."

"Yeah, well, he shouldn't have." Mike spits back.

Max listens unsurprised at his hostile attitude towards her, though it doesn't change her offense at his venom.

"And just because you know the truth, it doesn't mean you're in our party. You do know that, right?"

A rather light thump comes from down the hall, followed by a small string of hushed cursing. It grabs their attention only briefly before they dismiss it altogether, knowing they weren't the only ones rushing around in preparation.

"Y-yeah, I know," Max visibly deflates, returning her attention to the carboard in her hands, and scoffs sadly. "I mean, why would you want a stupid zoomer in your party anyway?"

Mike stifles a glance in her direction but returns to the cupboard in an attempt to move on.

"I'm just saying, El?" Max continues gently. "She sounds like she was really awesome."

"Yeah, she was," Mike concludes, closing the cupboard doors and collecting what he had gathered. "Until that thing took her. Just like it took Bob."

Mike rises to his feet, managing to cast one more cold glance at the girl as he heads for the back door, leaving her all alone.

Max frowns, feeling yet another prick of defeat and anger from the boy's stubborn ways. Bitterly, she rips another strip of tape from the roll, finishing off another tube of cardboard for the leg of the stool meant for Will.

It was tedious work, going to the extreme of disguising a chair but necessary according to Joyce and the others closest to Will. They couldn't risk a single identifiable object that could possibly clue in Will as to where they were. And that included a simple stool that had belonged to the Byers for years.

Max sighed when she heard the shuffling of footsteps behind her, and without looking she casts a sour look over her shoulder towards who she believed to be Mike.

"Forget something, maybe another insult? Well, you haven't told me how annoying I am in the last ten minutes, so naturally, you must be dying inside,"

"Well, I wouldn't say annoying. Persistent, maybe, but that's hardly an insult," chirped a familiar voice that certainly wasn't Mike.

Relieved, Max saw Y/n approach the kitchen table, her arms overflowing with cardboard and newspaper that threatened to spill. Quickly, she dispenses them on the existing pile on the table.

Max cracked a smile that lasted only seconds and returned to her gaze to her work. "Thought you were Mike," she mumbled.

Y/n's gentle and light-hearted demeanor melted into that of empathy for the girl. She sighs, wondering how she could possibly ease the tension in the room and settles on grabbing her own squares of cardboard. She joins Max on the kitchen floor. The two begin to work in silence for a good few moments when Y/n softly speaks up.

"I don't know if you know this, but, I used to be the outsider of the group,"

Max says nothing, but she looks up from her finishing touches on the stool to look at Y/n, her interest piqued. Y/n is still fixed on her own pieces, and she reaches for a patch of tape, her eyes meeting with Max casually and briefly.

"When Dustin and I moved here in the fourth grade, I had a hard time making friends. I had some, back in y/h/t, but moving was kind of hard on me, and over time I lost touch."

Max was now watching Y/n studiously, more or less a bit surprised at how similar it sounded to her own experiences.

"Dustin had more luck socializing here than I did, and... I got pretty lonely." She grabs another strip of cardboard and tape. "Eventually, he started bringing his new friends over. Like, all the time. It only reminded me of how lonely I was, and, even though I knew he wasn't trying to, it felt like Dustin was rubbing it in."

Max frowned softly, unable to imagine the kid would want to do something like that. And she had only known him a week. Nevertheless, she stayed silent, listening closely.

A weak and almost non-audible chuckle escaped the Henderson girl.

"I was always on the outside looking in," her voice quieted sadly, her brows knitted together in a frown. "They had their own inside jokes, games. Their own secret language, everything. Stuff even I didn't have with my old friends. And for a long time, I was just 'Dustin's sister'."

Unable to bite back her curiosity, Max finally spoke, now completely invested in her story. "So what changed?"

A ghost of a smile flickered across Y/n's face, clearly recalling a warm memory she hadn't thought of in a long time.

"Will," Y/n finally looked away from her work and met Max's gaze. "He fought for me. He helped me stand up to them, specifically my brother. The others were way easier to convince, it was Dustin that put up a fight."

Y/n sighs softly, dispelling the weight settling on her heart. She looks at her new friend determinedly, Mike's harsh words to Max she had inadvertently overheard ringing in her ears.

"I know it's easier said than done, believe me," she begins. "But try not to let Mike get to you."

Max halts at her words, gaze now focused on the tile floor, and she glances at Y/n through her peripheral vision.

"He's in a lot of pain since El left," Y/n mumbled, the ever-present weight of guilt on her shoulders from her secret immediately grows ten times heavier, and she can feel it sitting on her lungs. "She meant a lot to him, to all of us really. But Mike took it the hardest... My point is,"

She took a deep breath and looked back at Max until she returned her gaze.

"We all want you in the party. We all really like you. And even though Mike is still working through his feelings, doesn't mean he won't come around. Besides, he doesn't solely determine who's in and who's out, no more than Dustin, or any of us, really."

A mischievous grin curled at her lips as she recalled what the boys had told Max on Halloween. She spoke with a hint of a mocking tone, trying her best to imitate Dustin that day.

"After all, our party's a democracy, and the majority voted that you could stay,"

The girls shared the briefest of seconds with their gaze locked on one another as their smiles grew. The silence was broken almost immediately as the two burst into fits of laughter, and each girl felt a great deal lighter than their current situation had previously allowed them.

Gradually the laughter died down, but their smiles remained, allowing the warmth of each other's company to keep them distracted for as long as they could.

"Thanks, Y/n," Max said, earnestly, almost feeling silly for letting her guard down, but she couldn't help it. Instead, she embraced it. "I appreciate it."

"Anytime, Max. And hey," Max looked back up curiously, her brow arched. "For what it's worth, I do mean it. We all want you in. And after all that's gone down in the past hour alone, well..."

Max felt the warmth in her chest grow at what the girl said next, and between her moment with Lucas on the bus and now, she couldn't recall a single moment since she had moved to Hawkins she had felt at home. Had felt accepted.

"Mike's wrong. You're one of us, now,"

⊹ ⊹ ⊹

Jonathan rips another blanket off the clothesline and looks to his mother.

"You sure this is gonna work?"

"He knew who I was," Joyce croaked, heart heavy. "He's still in there."

There's a solid passion in her voice, and Jonathan can tell she's forcing her words over a swollen lump in her throat, but he can't blame her. He's had one himself all night. And it only grows when he hears what his mother has to say next. And by the sound of it, the last bit seems to be her assuring herself.

"It's going to work," she proclaims. "It has to."

He nods solemnly, deciding he has no other choice but to believe in their plan. With a sigh, he reaches up over his head, scissors in hand, and begins to gather every last scrap of string he can harvest.

⊹ ⊹ ⊹

With all the supplies now collected, everyone gathers in the Byers shed; disguising the floor and walls in sheets of tarp, cardboard, newspaper, and tinfoil, a budding sense of hope blooming in everyone's hearts. Not a single square inch is uncovered, even the sheds two posts are completely cloaked as are the chairs Max and Y/n had disguised. They sit in the center of the shed, one pushed up against each post, and a set of outdoor lights have been moved inside and hung to face where Will is to sit.

The small wooden shed had now been completely transformed and would have been practically unrecognizable to anyone who hadn't contributed. Exactly as everyone had hoped.

Jonathan was the one to retrieve Will, and as he carried his limp brother in his arms, a very similar thought to Y/n's had crossed his mind. How peaceful Will looked as he slept. It was the same little boy who used to crawl into bed with him when he'd have a nightmare. The same little boy who'd fall asleep against his shoulder as the two of them hid away from the screaming matches that took place when Lonnie was still around.

It was his little brother that he loved so much.

And the fact that that would all change as soon as he woke up, it would be another inescapable dagger to the heart. But it was something he was willing to face if it meant they were one step closer to getting Will back.

Will collapses limply into the chair he is placed in, and Jonathan has to keep one hand on his shoulder to steady him as they bound him to the chair. The clothesline he had cut down was now coiled tightly - but not too tight of course, though Jonathan can not help but worry if it was a wise choice of binding - around Will's ragdoll form and the post he sits against. The back pair of the chair's legs are woven much tighter against the post, ensuring Will is unable to scoot away should he break free.

For an extra measure, the wire stretched even farther than the boy's torso and wound around his wrists and ankles as well. Lucas hooks up the extension cord and connects it with the lamp, and it comes to life. The shed is now fully immersed in a sickening and even blinding, white light that is mounted across the room facing Will. The new source of light adds an even more chilling touch as it now enunciates the sickly color of Will's skin.

The boy is as white as a sheet, his dark brown bangs that dangle over his eyes create a stark contrast against his skin. It is not in the least bit assuring to the state of his condition, but they know it is a necessary measure. It's harsh intensity made it near impossible to see who or what was beyond it.

In this case, it was five figures packed in behind the lamp, each of them gazing at the boy with racing minds and beating hearts: Hopper, Joyce, Jonathan, Mike, and Y/n.

She protested at first. Not because of nerves though she couldn't deny she had them, but worried he would refuse to talk if she were present. It had taken quite a great deal of convincing on Mike's part, but he wouldn't back down.

"He needs to see you, Y/n."

"Mike, our goal is to get him to talk to us. He wouldn't even look at me last time I was here and that was before the Mind Flayer completely took over."

"He's still in there, Y/n. I know it. And I think you know it too."

She sighed and looked away breifly shaking her head.

"I don't know about this, Mike." His pleading look does little to shake her certainty. "I'm telling you, he won't open up if I'm here. The Mind Flayer despises me, I know it."

"But we're not trying to talk to the Mind Flayer, we're trying to talk to Will. And I'm telling you, that Will is nuts about you. He tells you everything. He trusts you. Will trusts you. That's what we need right now."

Her gaze wanders beyond Mike and towards her unconscious friend worriedly. She nibbles on the inside of her cheek as a side effect of her growing worry though she has to remind herself to stop. A sharp exhale breaks through her and she looks back at Mike, uncertainty laced in her voice.

"Don't say I didn't warn you."

Not a minute later Joyce and Hopper had returned from the house where they had finished preparations with the others. The rest of the party, Nancy, and Steve stayed behind, all of them spread out amongst the kitchen where Hopper left a walkie. The other one grasped tightly in his hand should something go wrong and Joyce had fetched the bottle of ammonia Mike had dug out in during his chat with Max.

Now here they stand with nothing left to do but wake Will. Hopper cuts through the newest silence first as he glances at everyone, his gaze landing on Joyce.

"Alright, you ready?"

Without taking her eyes off her son, Joyce nods firmly.

"Yeah,"

Hopper steps forward, shaking the contents of the ammonia bottle around as he holds it at his side. Even though he towers over the small boy, he can't help but grow anxious and fearful of Will knowing what he is about to awake. Regardless he steps foward, kneeling beside his small sleeping form and unscrews the cap.

Everyone watches intently from across the room, and Y/n timidly shrinks back further beyond the post in hopes of not giving herself away too soon.

His eyes barely leaving Will, Hopper tips the bottle and douses a small handkerchief and he brings it to Will's nose in great apprehension.

At first nothing happens, but that changes in a matter of seconds as his head whips up unnaturally fast. He lets out a chilling gasp and his eyes rip open to reveal his once kind hazel green irises were now a cold, and dark brown that were now filled with hostility.

⊹ ⊹ ⊹

Dustin stands rooted at the kitchen window, his uneasy stare fixed on the closed shed in the yard. His mind is filled with a variety of scenerios as to what his sister and the others could possibly be experiencing. It's almost too much to handle and in this fleeting moment Dustin finds himself experiencing what he realizes to be not even a sliver of what Y/n normally goes through.

He takes a deep breath, attempting to put his mind at ease and leaves the window. He sheds his hat, anxiously running his fingers through his curls as he begins to pace. Nancy watches him pass as she leans against a nearby wall, her attention returning once again to the walkie on the table, ready to answer it should the occasion arrise.

Steve stands in the living room alone, an iron grip on his bat as he gets a few practice swings in. Like Nancy, his growing anxiety has manifested itself into its own unique form, and much like Dustin he finds himself unable to sit still. The same could not be said for Max and Lucas, who now sat up against the hallway walls across from one another.

Max looks up at Lucas, her fingers still mindlessly fiddling with a fray on her jacket sleeve.

"If he finds out where we are..." she begins. "will he send those, dogs, after us?"

"He won't find out." Lucas insists.

Max nibbles at the inside of her cheek before speaking in a timid voice.

"Yeah, but, if he does?"

Lucas meets her eyes with a furrowed brow, and for a moment she senses all hope inside him had flickered out when he spoke. And his very words struck a bolt of fear into her heart, chilling her blood raising every hair at the inevitable danger she had found herself in.

"Judgement day,"

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · · What you can do to help the Black Lives Matter movement. Don't ever give up!! Links in the comments below as usual

All white and non-black followers/readers of mine, I implore you to take a designated amount of time out of each day devoted to educating yourselves on this matter and how to be a better ally. Here are some books that can help with that:

So You Want to Talk About Race by Ijeoma Oluo

"For white and non-Black people who feel they don't know how to start having these conversations, Oluo has generously provided a resource about how to be honest and thoughtful in examining not just racism in the world, but also white people's own role in it."

How To Be Antiracist by Ibram X Kendi

"Rather than figuring out how to fix things within our pre-existing systems, Kendi uses the power of memoir to reimagine a society that is not free from racism, but also actively working against racism at all times."

[Link]

And finally, below is a completely free Google doc full of free pdfs written by black activists:

[Link]

+++

Tag List: @dickkwad​ @aimee-lucass​ @iblesstherainsdown-in-africa​  @miscellaneoustoasts​ @happyandlonely-blog​ @missmulti​ @youpi-chan​ @peeperparkour​ @ba-responds​ @bibliophilesquared​ @blogforhoes​ @witch-of-all-things-soft​ @shawkneecaps​ @whothefuckstolemykeds​ @mirdall @fishswimbetterunderwater @daughter-of-the-stars11 @stranger-things4 @heavenlycat567 @nightbu-g @grapesauze​

DM me, or drop by my inbox if you want to be added!

[im-fairly-whitty]

The Witcher Wolf: In Plain Sight

Two years have passed since Geralt was cursed with the ability to turn into a wolf whenever his medallion is removed, a curse that's turned into a blessing now that he and Jaskier are partners in everything they do.

It's no exception when they discover a Nilfgaardian army bearing down on Cintra, headed straight toward a certain child surprise. With Jaskier's help and Geralt's enchanted medallion they must find a way to get into the palace, make sure Princess Cirilla is safe, and get out with her in tow if needed, regardless of Queen Calanthe's orders.

[Chapter 1: Into the Fire]  [Chapter 2: Old Friend] [Chapter 3: Bad Luck] 

Chapter 4: So Much For Being Smart

Jaskier wasn’t here. He wasn’t here he wasn’t here he wasn’t here.

“Wolf, are you alright?” Ciri asked, reaching under the table to slip Geralt a bit of meat from her plate.

Geralt gently took it from her hand, stiffly settled back at the foot of her chair to eat it instead of continuing to nervously shift from paw to paw as he scanned the lively ballroom for the missing bard.

He had to be better in control, he had to play his part instead of imagining every single scenario of where Jaskier could be right now, and in what condition.

“He’s probably as bored as I am, two Skellige beasts trapped at a table.” Eist said, looking over at him sympathetically. “Why don’t I take him outside for a bit of fresh air, would do us both some good.”

In the end it had been Eist—Ciri’s step grandfather—who had pushed hardest to have Geralt allowed at the banquet with Ciri. Real white wolves all came from Skellige, which had apparently endeared the prince regent to him. Let him come Calanthe, it’ll almost feel like home having a brute like him under the table.

“Neither of you are getting out of this so easily.” Calanthe said dryly, her courtly smile still fixed on her face as she sipped from a goblet that Geralt could smell held something much stronger than wine. “No matter how much either of you whine or roll on the floor.”

“Don’t pretend you wouldn’t rather be rolling in bed too.” Eist teased.

“Gross.” Ciri said, but Geralt could smell her amusement.

“I think he’s just excited to see so many people.” Mousesack said with a smile, glancing over to meet Geralt’s gaze with a look that held no such happiness.

Because Geralt had managed to spell out (literally) the plan to Mousesack during their afternoon together, that Jaskier was to meet them at the banquet, that he had the medallion that could turn Geralt human again.

And yet here they were, at the banquet with no Jaskier in sight. Most worryingly was the fact that the normal lutist was present, meaning that Jaskier hadn’t even gotten as far as finding him. He might be a bard but Geralt knew Jaskier was resourceful enough to have gotten the competition out of the way on his own.

Something had happened to his bard, perhaps as soon as Geralt had left him behind in the crowded marketplace. Geralt had been a fool to leave him behind, if anything had happened to him-

“I saw the Wraiths of Mörhogg over the channel this morning.” Eist said, voice now sober as he shifted his goblet back and forth on the tabletop.

“Yes, you mentioned.” Calanthe said, sounding very much like she did not want to have this conversation.

“Who?” Ciri asked, looking up from petting Geralt’s head.

“No good will come of it.” Eist said, still staring ahead, watching the boisterous dancers whirling across the ballroom floor as the guests clapped in time with the music. “They're an omen of war.”

“The North has been at war since Nilfgaard took Ebbing.” The Queen said. “If legend is true, the Wild Hunt's years behind the curve.”

“The Nilfgaardian force crossed the Amell Pass.” Eist said, looking at her.

Geralt’s ears pricked. This was what they’d come to Cintra for in the first place after all, to find out if the Queen was taking the Nilfgaardian threat seriously, if Ciri would be kept safe.

“Headed to Sodden, if they're smart.” Calanthe said, still with an utterly unworried smile on her face. “And if not, fifty of your Skelligen ships are on the way. We have more knights. We are prepared in case-”

“Prepared for what?” Ciri interrupted.

“Nothing for you to be concerned about.” The Queen said lightly.

Geralt got to his feet, ears pinned back. It was certainly something for her to be concerned about, something all of them should be concerned about.

“Your dismissive tone says it is.” Ciri sulked, undeterred.

“We're talking of war, girl.” Eist said, leaning past Calanthe to look at Ciri.

“With Nilfgaard?” Ciri asked, confused. “Why?”

“Eist!” Calanthe snapped.

“Should we fall to Nilfgaard, your granddaughter will rule.” Eist said sternly. “She needs to understand the way of things.”

“We will not fall, because we are not under attack!” Calanthe hissed. “She's a child.”

Geralt felt an edge of a growl percolating in the back of his throat as he got to his feet. Which is why she should be protected, already out of the city with him and Jaskier, not kept here in harm’s way under a pretentious ruler’s false confidence.

He saw Mouseack lean back in his chair far enough to shoot Geralt a warning look from behind Eist. Geralt grit his teeth, but managed to keep from snarling at the queen.

It did children no good to have had hard things hidden from them, not when they should be hidden from it instead.

“You won your first battle in Hochebuz when you were my age.” Ciri insisted, absently reaching down to pet him. “I've heard the ballad.”

“Pretty ballads hide bastard truths.” Eist said with a humorless chuckle.

“It's a catchy song.” Ciri insisted, the girl refusing to be defeated so easily.

“Three thousand of my men died.” Calanthe said, fixing her granddaughter with a hard expression. “If we must do this now, here is your first lesson. As in life, it is impossible always to be fully prepared for battle. Keep your sword close...and keep moving.”

Cheering and clapping filled the ballroom as the song came to an end, dancers dispersing to look for new partners while the musicians caught their breath.

Not that any of those musicians mattered.

“Your Majesty, thank you for allowing our company at this splendid affair.” Said a nobleman who had walked up to the table, bowing along with his son.

“Your Highness,” said the young man, looking to Ciri. “would you honor me with a dance?”

Geralt actually did growl this time, looking critically at the young man who wanted to dance with his child surprise. Especially when Ciri had told him earlier how much she hated being made to dance at parties.

“Uh... Martin, I don’t know, I have to stay with Wolf, he-” Ciri started.

“She'd love to.” Calanthe interjected with a smile, shooting a look at her granddaughter.

Ciri grumbled under her breath, quiet enough that likely only Geralt heard her. But she obeyed with a sigh and a forced smile. “Wolf, stay. I’ll be right back.”

Geralt huffed, but sat. He watched Martin lead her onto the dance floor, his pinned back ears relaxing just a bit when he saw Ciri’s smile become genuine as the dance started. Well at least she didn’t really hate it as much as she’d complained. Although if that boy tried anything he was going to be nursing a wolf bite for the next couple weeks.

“Reminds me of your daughter's betrothal feast.” Eist said quietly, a nostalgic smile on his face as he leaned over to his queen.

Geralt huffed, head tipping in the closest to eye rolling a wolf could manage as he padded under the table over to sit by Mousesack’s side. Pavetta’s betrothal feast had ended in an accidental display of unbridled elder magic so fierce it had nearly ripped the castle down. Followed directly but Geralt being a fool enough to saddle himself with the law of surprise. Nothing that warranted anything approaching fond nostalgia.

He looked back to Ciri, the young girl grinning now as she whirled back and forth between partners along to the music. Her eyes shone as she laughed, ducking under arms and stomping in time. Geralt tipped his head in gentle amusement as he watched her.

Well...maybe a little nostalgia...

Geralt’s gaze caught on movement at the far end of the hall, a man with a grey streak in his hair ducking into the ballroom through the massive double doors. A latecomer to a royal banquet? He must be one of the queen’s men for that not be considered an offense.

He watched as the man took a seat at one of the tables, smiling and laughing with the others while he helped himself to a side of ham. Geralt looked away, only for a second latecomer to catch his attention, this time a man in armor. The armored man however looked decidedly un jovial as he made a beeline directly to the man with the grey streak, bending over to whisper something in his ear that made the color drain from his face.

Geralt slowly got to his feet, even his Witcher sharpened wolf hearing unable to pick up their words from across the noise ballroom. A harried man in armor appearing at a party was never never a good sign, and Geralt could already feel a cold heaviness in his gut, even before the armored man nodded to his companion and then made his way directly to the queen’s table.

Geralt nosed at Mousesack’s hand in warning, staring at the approaching man when the druid looked down at him. All four of them at the table looked as the man ducked behind their table to whisper in the queen’s ear.

Geralt nearly missed the man’s words entirely even with his enhanced hearing. Because even as the queen’s face went deadly pale Geralt was growling for an entirely different reason. He had caught the faintest scent of Jaskier on the armored man’s clothing.

Mousesack snatched at Geralt’s collar, narrowly keeping him back as Geralt tried to get at the man.

“Heel, Wolf.” The druid hissed, tightening his grip.

“I stand corrected.” Calanthe said hollowly to Eist, her face deathly pale as the armored man quickly retreated. “They're here. They're already here.”

Geralt whined and growled as he watched the man go, yanking halfheartedly at his collar, unable to make sense of what to do now. He had barely enough common sense under his panic to realize that chasing down and tackling the man in the middle of the banquet hall would not be the best course of action. Upon thinking another moment it also occurred to Geralt that the scent had been so faint that the armored man likely hadn’t actually been around Jaskier at all, but rather around someone who had.

“So much for being smart.” Eist quietly said to his wife, the scent of dread flowing off him. He was watching Ciri dancing with the guests, the party still in full swing and oblivious to the deadly fate quickly closing in on them. “You should tell the girl.”

“Let her enjoy this night in peace.” Calanthe said hollowly. “It may be her last for a while.”

Geralt growled, lunging to his feet and yanking Mousesack out of his chair with him. He was done playing nice. The queen obviously had no plan for keeping Ciri safe, meaning Geralt had to get her out to safety now, hopefully before the armies actually broke down the front gates and swarmed into the castle.

And they would. Geralt had seen firsthand the ruins left behind by Nilfgaardians armies, and the fanatics rarely left behind anything more than ash and charred bones in their wake. A fate that was not going to befall him or Jaskier or Ciri, meaning he had to follow the faint scent trail before it faded.

“I’ll keep an eye on him!” Mousesack hastily called back to the queen as Geralt all but dragged him across the room, heedless of dancers and guests who laughed at the sight.

Geralt burst out the ballroom doors, leaving the noise of the party behind them as he dashed into the hall, the loudest sound now the skittering of his nails on the stone floor and Mousesack’s indignant sounds as he stumbled to keep up.

“Geralt, stop, what are you doing? What are you rushing off after?” Mousesack demanded, giving a mighty yank on the collar that stopped him in his tracks.

Geralt twisted and snapped warningly at the druid’s hand with a growl, startling the man into letting go. He wasn’t an animal to be jerked around, and he wasn’t afraid to remind Mousesack of that fact, not when he was about to lose his chance at finding Jaskier.

He turned away and sniffed the air, frantically pacing across the hall until he picked up the scent again. Jaskier, still faint but stronger now than it had been on the armored man. Geralt had seen him leave with the gray hair streak man, was that who he’d picked the scent up from? Was that the person who knew where his bard was?

He locked onto the scent, dashing down the hallway after it. He heard Mousesack calling after him but ignored it as he scrambled around a corner, down another long hallway and down a steep flight of marble steps. The scent was getting stronger, if he just-

He turned a corner and pulled up short at the sight of two armed guards standing in front of a heavy oak door. The two men stared back at him, blinking in surprise.

“Never seen him around.” One of the guards said to the other. “Think he belongs to one of the guests?”

“Must, what with that pretty collar he’s got.” The other guard responded.

Geralt sniffed the air, pawing uncertainly at the floor. The scent trail led past the guards and through that door.

He started forward, intent on shouldering his way past the guards, but the men shifted into his way.

“Not for you,” one of the guards said sternly, prodding Geralt’s side with the end of his spear. “run off now.”

Geralt snarled, barking at the guards, making them jump. He could feel the prickling sensation of the fur along his spine rising in anger, making him look bigger than he already was.

“You, you don’t reckon he’s some kind of Nilfgaardian mutt?” the first guard said, face paling a bit as he defensively lowered his spear. “There’s something wrong with him, he’s lookin’ at me.”

“Shut up you idiot, it’s just a dog.” the other guard snapped, now lowering the business end of the spear instead. He looked at Geralt. “Get away you dumb animal, unless you fancy being stuck through.”

Geralt growled, the feral noise bubbling up his chest as he thought quickly, he’d have to take them out before they thought to get to their swords, their ceremonial palace armor left a few weak places that he could-

The guard jabbed at him and Geralt ducked under the spike, coming up underneath to latch onto the wooden shaft of the spear and breaking clean through the wood with a snap of his jaws. He yanked the rest of the shaft from the man’s grip, throwing it to the side.

“Bloody hell!” The second guard yelped, his spear clattering to the floor as he drew his sword. “I told you he weren’t normal, he’s one of them mutant Novigrad fighting mutts!”

Geralt snarled, crouching low as he tried to find a weak spot, his chances against two drawn swords and a closed door were becoming ever slimmer as the guards recovered from their shock, but he couldn’t just-

“Stop! Stop it, all of you!”

Geralt growled in irritation as Mousesack turned the corner, feeling a wall of protecting magic sweep between him and the guards, blocking them from getting at each other.

“Watch out sir! He’s rabid!” One of the guards called out.

“He’s not rabid, he’s stupid.” Mousesack snapped. He glared at Geralt. “Are you going to come to your senses and come with me so we can settle this intelligently, or am I going to have to resort to something you’re going to regret to keep you from further embarrassing yourself?”

Geralt’s growl turned to a frustrated whine as his anger simmered into clawing unease. He looked at the spooked guards--armored men he really had no chance of getting past, not in this state--and back to Mousesack, who was looking at him with an expression that said he would have no problem throwing a magic muzzle on him and dragging him out of the castle for this behavior.

Geralt pawed at his face, huffing a strained sigh.

“Good.” Mousesack said tightly, dropping his wall of magic.

“Hadn’t we better kill it sir?” One of the guards asked, not lowering his sword. “There’s something unnatural about it sir, I don’t fancy being sieged in here with the likes of him what with the Nilfgaardians coming. Master Wilhelm’s saying no one’s to leave the castle.”

“Then I suggest you focus on your own duties.” Mousesack said, shooting Geralt a look before turning to leave. “Melitile knows we’re going to need all the help we can get.”

Geralt slunk after him, following in anxious silence until they were out of earshot of the guards.

“Is this something to do with Jaskier?” Mousesack asked, turning to face him. “I can’t think of what else would have you dashing off like a fool. Were you really going to try attacking two armed guards with nothing but your teeth?”

Geralt whined, shifting from paw to paw, wishing desperately that he could speak. We have to follow the scent, with your help we can get past the guards.

“I promised I would help you however I can, but you promised you wouldn’t do anything rash.” Mousesack said, “That door leads to parts of the castle not even I can go without express permission from her majesty or her spymaster. Especially not when the castle has just been placed under lockdown.”

Geralt barked in frustration, taking a step back toward the door, looking at the druid. But Jaskier’s scent led there, it was already fading, they were losing him.

“I’m sorry my friend, but without a plan I cannot help you and we can’t make a plan if you can’t tell me what’s wrong. I know this is frustrating but we’ll need to go back to my office to spell out what you’re thinking, and I must attend to the princess and the queen. I want to help you, but I also have my duties to the royal family first. I’m not going to commit treason by attacking their guards without knowing why just because it seems a wolf wants me to. You understand?”

Geralt was silent, staring off at nothing in tense resignation. Without Mousesack’s help he couldn’t follow the trail, and by the time he would be able to tell him the scent would have faded away. As a wolf he had no choice but to follow the druid’s direction, he depended too much on the man’s protection in a castle full of people who would happily skin him otherwise, even before knowing who he really was.

His tail tucked a bit between his legs, his head lowering a little. He missed Jaskier.

“Come, we’ll handle this as well as we can.” Mousesack said, starting down the hall again. “My guess is we have less than an hour at most before the guests realize they won’t be leaving this castle. Once that happens I’ll likely be asked to stay with Princess Cirilla as her protective escort while the queen decides what is to be done about this disaster. This is the only chance we’ll have to communicate in private for what I think is going to be a long time, we can’t waste a second more of it.”

Geralt swallowed, following dutifully after the druid.

As they made their way down the halls Geralt wished he wasn’t able to smell the descending stink of fear and worry that grew stronger with every guard and page and servant they passed.

It seemed news of the advancing army was spreading quickly through the castle, only serving to set Geralt more on edge as he tried not to imagine where Jaskier was, if he’d heard it yet as well.

[Read part 5: Secrets]

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*meme of Leonardo DiCaprio pointing at the TV screen* me when I'm on tumblr and see themes of lockdown/quarantine seeping into the fanfic I'm reading while we're all IRL on lockdown/quarantine

Good news! I finally figured out how many chapters are left in this fic! The answer is two, there are two chapters are left in this fic.

[godestof3worlds]

I Won’t Leave You Behind

It was supposed to be an easy mission. Apparently, the universe loves making things very complicated because through all my time defending the universe, there was never an ‘easy mission’. We were just getting some material when Lotor, who I thought we left at the quintessence field, came out of nowhere and started to attack us.  

It was only the princess and I on this mission, the others completing other tasks. The blue and black lions, other than yellow, were the biggest of the lions, meaning they could hold more items, which is exactly what we needed for the mission. Sadly, we parked them farther away from us since they wouldn’t be able to fit, and now we’re paying the price, by running through the canyons of planet  Suphater .  

“Keith! How much farther from the lions are we?” Allura asked as we continue to run, and dodge the lasers that Lotor were firing at us.  

I looked down at the  holo  map on my right arm, “4.6 miles left,” I shouted as I veer to the left to dodge an incoming laser.  

“You can run!” Lotor shouts, “But you won’t survive,” and then I hear his steps slow to a stop.  

I look behind just as Allura did and see him take out an explosive.  

“Allura look out!” I shout as Lotor throws it, the explosive aiming clearly for Allura. I throw myself at her, covering her as we roll away from the explosive itself, but when it hits the ground, the power of the explosive makes us fly into the canyon wall, I took the brunt of the impact, my back hitting the rock wall while Allura was pressed  against  my front.  

We slumped down, falling on our sides that resulted in our twin groans of pain. I took in a deep breath, hearing something what sounded like steps coming closer to us. I opened my eyes, squinting through the light that seemed to be beaming down on us, and raised my head that felt like it was filled with led. I looked around until my eyes landed on a silhouette.  

I squinted, trying to make my vision clearer, but all I saw was a purple blob that seemed to be coming closer. Purple blob. The only thing purple could have been...  

Lotor.  

I raise my head again, and this time, I see Lotor coming closer with a wicked smirk. I looked to my left and saw that Allura was trying to get up, but she was failing. The explosive must have taken a lot out us, because my body feels like it’s been filled with led. My head falls back to the ground.  

I close my eyes and take a deep breath, before I start to push up from the ground. Everything burns. Not like a fire is erupting throughout my body, but instead the burn that you feel when you work out too much and you’re about to collapse. The problem is that I can’t collapse, I can’t give up because our lives on the line. So, with all my might, I push up until I'm in a squat like position.  

I summon my paladin blade, and I grab my Marmora blade and extend it to all its glory. I take a quick glance over to Allura who’s only an arm’s length away from me and see that she is laying on the ground on her stomach, but she still seems aware, and she’s staring right at me.  

“ Ke’th ?” she croaks.  

“Yeah Allura?” I  quickly  look over to Lotor before I return my gaze back to the princess.  

“I  th’nk  there was  po’son  ‘n the gas,” she concludes, and I nod my head. It will make the most sense.  

“yeah, but I'm pretty sure it’s affects doesn’t last too long or it’s weak, I'm already up, kind of,” I murmur the last two words to myself before I push myself onto the balls of feet and stand. I bend my knees a little, lean a little to the canyon wall, and glare at Lotor who evilly smirks at me.  

“Well, the half breed paladin, the one who left his team, then comes back to become a hero,” Lotor then claps as he snickers. I just glare harder at him.  

“How did you come back?” I growl out my question, making sure I watch his every move.  

“ Oh  you know, I was there, then I was someplace else, and now I'm here to kill  you ,” Lotor then grabbed a sword from his side and turned it on, making it look like a laser sword, “If you would have stayed away, stayed with your mother and that  Altean , I could have been able to stay with Allura, stayed with Voltron and still be the emperor of the  Galran  Empire,” the white haired man just shook his head before he looked up at me with pure hatred glaring at me, “Now, I must kill you and take back what you stolen,” and he lunged.  

I pushed myself away from the canyon wall, away from Allura, and into a roll before I jumped up and got into a fighting stance. Lotor hit the spot where my head was before there was a low growl and the prince looked at me. His yellow eyes were glaring at me, his eyes glowing into a harsh orange color that seemed to have quintessence dancing from the corner of his eyes.  

“You heal fast from the poison,” Lotor smirks as he turns around and gets in position again, “It must be your Galran blood,”  

“What does the poison attack?” I ask as we start circling each other.  

“ Altean  blood mostly, but it does effect humans a little as well,” he shrugs.  

“Why isn’t it effecting you?” I quirk an eyebrow at the prince. We stopped moving, just staring at each other across the six feet difference between us.  

“Because I am already corrupted with the strongest substance in the universe, that poison is nothing compared to what I am filled with already,” and he lunges and starts to attack,  immediately  putting me on defense.  

My body is still feeling a little heavy, but it does seem that the poison is leaving my body. The prince raises his sword above his head and tries to force it down where my neck is, but I put my swords in an ‘X’ shape and grunt under the force of it. I hear a grunt from Lotor, and when I look at his face, his eyes are bright orange now and more quintessence seems to be sparking from his eyes. That's when I start to feel more pressure, almost too much for my weakening body to handle.  

“You are strong,” Lotor comments, “it will be fun killing you and seeing your strength leave your body slowly,” Lotor sneers as I feel more weight above me.  

I can feel my arms shaking. I know I won’t be able to handle much more of this, I know I can’t unless I do something. So, I grunt a little before I find the right positioning of my feet, feeling the heat from the sword only a  little way  away from my head, making me think of the cloning facility...  

And I spring up and throw back the stumbling prince away from me. I see my sight narrow onto the white haired  Galran  before I start to take the offensive. I run up to him and slash down with my paladin sword, using the momentum to allow me to spin and do a reverse jump round kick, hitting him in the head. I stand straight as I take a quick breath before I attack down as the prince still seemed a little shocked.  

This time I swing with my Marmora blade, not doing it so drastic that it spins me, but enough to attempt to slice Lotor. I only grazed his hand before he stepped back. With the way my Marmora sword was positioned, I threw a little bit up before catching it with the blade almost touching my forearm, and try to stab the prince in the neck, using my paladin sword to try and make Lotor duck.  

The prince did duck, but he used his sword to block the Marmora blade, and with his free hand, grabbed my wrist and twisted. I yelped at the pain, the attack surprising me that I drop the blade, making it turn back to the dagger form. I leaned a little back and  side kicked  him in the stomach, making him stumbling back and grasping for air.  

“Well...” the prince gasped, “you’re not so bad of a fighter, I must have misjudged you a little,” he smirked before he took a deep breath and stood up straight, wiping a drop of blood from the corner of his mouth, “I guess I'm going to have to power up,” and with that statement he glowed an orange color.  

I stepped back, feeling the heat from the raging prince from where I was standing. I hear a low growl before a booming laughter that echoed among the canyon walls erupted from the Halfbreed prince only a few feet away. I looked around, almost having to turn my body, to find the princess who was on her hands and knees with wide eyes. I look over to Lotor when I hear a snarl.  

The heat has died down now, the orange glow that the prince had emitted is now vanished, and ahead of me I see the prince. He seems more vicious, something in his eyes that just scream ‘rabid animal’ bore into mine. He's heaving, like he just ran a marathon, but he’s smiling, like he won something, and that makes a shiver run down my spine. I sense something from him too. Almost like when I sense the druids, but this one is uglier, more menacing as it seems that the  energy  comes from him in wave.  

“When you left me in the quintessence field, it felt like everything was burning, flames licking my skin and insides slowly, until I felt like I was in an inferno, then, there was nothing,” he sneered as he raised his sword to look at his hand, almost like he was in a trance, “I felt numb, like I was swimming in nothingness,” he shook his head as he looked up at me.  

“How did you get out?” I growl, “I want an actual answer this time,”  

He smirked, “Once I was numb, my thoughts wandered, and I got to connect to my machine, and then, I came out, feeling more powerful, like something inside was trying to get out,” he  shrugs  his shoulders as he crouched, “And now I'm here, ready to end you, and take the princess,” he launched with such speed that I almost couldn’t see him.  

But I saw, and I sidestepped as I brought my sword to stop the prince for trying to cut me. He just grinned as I snarled back. He attacked, and I dodged and blocked. It was going like this for a while it felt like, until he kicked at my head and I brought my guard toward my head...  

And left myself vulnerable for him to slash me. From my right shoulder, to a couple of inches above my left hip. It burned.  

I staggered back as I hit my back to the canyon wall, not knowing how close I was to it to begin with while I was gasping for breath. My blood was rushing, but I heard two distinctive noises. A raspy laugh that seemed to echo, and a war cry. I looked up in time to see the princess throw her rope at the prince and throw him a good several feet from us.  

She then ran up to me as I feel forward. I was able to catch myself on my hands and feet, but once she was near, I felt all my energy leave my body and I fell to the side. Luckily the princess was there and caught me, but it hurt like a bitch. I groaned in pain as I clenched both my eyes and teeth, not having the energy nor the breath to scream. The wound was burning. I was lied down on my back as my head was pillowed by the princess’ lap. I felt a hand run through my hair and her voice, but everything seemed so far away.  

I fought to stay awake. I did truly try, but everything was turning into darkness. I felt pressure on my chest, but I couldn’t fight it, couldn’t get it off of me despite the pain that sparked through my whole body.  

Then, all of a sudden, I felt energy run through me. I gasped, clenched my eyes shut as I took a shuddering deep breath, but it hurt and I started to cough.  

“I’m sorry, but I don’t have enough energy to heal your wound...” but I heard something in the background, my  galra  senses must have momentarily gotten better because I hear rocks being shifted from the area Lotor was at.  

I turn my head away from Allura, ignoring the pain I felt throughout my body as I strained my neck to look. There, I see him standing up, and he looks pissed. I look back at Allura as she stares at me with concern in her eyes.  

“Allura, you need to go, Lotor is coming back and he looks pissed,” I exclaim as I try to get up but I just feel fire burn across my torso.  

She looks over to where Lotor is and her eyes widen as I feel her tighten her hold around me. There’s a flash and I turn my head to look, and I see Lotor doing that powering up thing he did early.  

“Allura,” I wait until I get her attention before I continue, “You need to leave, he was more powerful when he did that the first time. He’s going to be more powerful now, and you need to leave and warn the team and Atlas,” I plead with her.  

“ I won’t leave you behind ,” she tightens her hold around me as if to prove her point.  

I just shake my head, mostly to say no without actually speaking, but also to try and clear my head. It was getting a little fuzzy.  

“Allura he wants you-”  

“And he wants to kill you,” she cuts me off, “I cannot leave you behind for him to only kill you.”  

“Well, well, well,” there was clap close to us, making both of us jump at the  closeness  of the noise, “isn’t this just lovely. Are you trying to play the hero again paladin,” Lotor  sneered.  

I look above toward the voice and see Lotor only a few feet away. I feel Allura shift me off her lap, making me groan in discomfort. I try to stop her from standing, but my body just felt heavy. The princess stood as she let out her Bayard and made it extend into a staff as she got in position.  

“Well princess, it seems that the poison has run  it’s  course, and I must now finish you before I take care of the black paladin,” I could just hear the disdain in his voice.  

Allura steps in front of me, blocking me from Lotor’s vision as she raised her staff. There was silence for a split second before they attacked. They were moving fast, almost graceful like. The princess would strike down with her staff, and Lotor would slide under the attack, and try to hit her with his sword, but then she would duck out of the way and they would continue trading hits back and forth.  

Then, Allura was able to hit Lotor’s hand that was holding onto the sword, resulting in Lotor letting let it go and dropping it. Allura took advantage of the prince’s surprise and brought an onslaught of attacks, but Lotor would dodge every attack she threw at him. Until, Lotor caught the staff with his left hand, and used his right hand to punch her in the face, making her lose her grip on the staff.  

Lotor took the staff from her, making the weapon turn back to  it’s   bayard  form, and threw it far from her. Allura still had a hand on her temple from where she got hit at when Lotor got into a fighting position. Allura shook her head a little, and got into position. Now Allura is an amazing fighter, but hand-to-hand is not her strongest way of fighting. Sure, she’s good, but from what I saw of Lotor fighting, he had the  upperhand , and I'm not surprised. He's been alive for at least 10,000 years and it showed in his skills.  

I had to get up. I had to go against every demand from body that wanted me to keep still, ignore the protest that my body gave when I sat up. By the time I was just sitting up, my back on against the canyon, I felt dizzy, out of breath, and everything burned. I growled through clenched teeth, not wanting to distract the princess from the fight if she heard me yell in pain. I took a few deep breaths before I started to stand. I leaned against the canyon wall the entire time I tried to get up. Everything just hurt, but I had to push up. When I was finally standing, I was shaking, and leaning heavily on the large rock wall.  

I looked up in time to see Allura get thrown the same way she thrown him when she learned of what he did. She didn’t bounce as much, only once before she skidded across the ground, but it still  looked  like it hurt.  

I heard Lotor’s laugh from here as it seemed to echo, “How do you like it princess,” and he charged toward her while she was still on the ground.  

“Allura!” I shout out, feeling my chest expand stretch the gash across my torso, but I didn��t care because he was coming.  

She looked up in time to see him kick her, first in the gut, and then the head, knocking her out. I growled, feeling the vibration throughout my body. I summoned my black Bayard, wherever it fell during our fight as it materialized in my hand. I need something that has range, knowing I won’t be able to get to where Lotor was at, let alone fight to protect her. I then saw Lotor grab something from his boot.  

I squinted, trying to find out what it was until the sun, that has been setting throughout the chase and fight, glinted off of the weapon, and my eyes widen in fear.  

It was a small dagger. Smaller than my own, being able to barely be concealed in his boot. I have to do something, anything. I growl as I try to summon a ranged weapon, anything. I know you can get different weapons, lance did it, and so did Allura. Now I really need a new weapon upgrade. I growl as I close my eyes and try to summon something other than a sword.  

Patience yields focus.  I haven't needed to say those words a long time, but I need them now. Then, I felt the Bayard transform, but I know it didn’t transform into a sword. It was heavier. I snap my eyes open and look down and found a black canon that seemed to engulf my entire arm. I look up in time to see Lotor have the dagger above his head, and I shout his name.  

“Lotor!” he looks over to me, and glares at me until he catches notice of my weapon.  

I don’t say anything else; I'm already breathing hard as it is, and raise the canon so it aims for the Garlan prince. I just smirk as I push a button, and a large ball of Atlean blue comes shooting out of the weapon, and hits him square in the chest, making him fly through the canyon walls, leaving a hole that fits his size like a cartoon. I breathe a sigh of relief as I slump down to the ground and let my canon disappear back to its normal form. I lean my head back and squeeze my eyes shut as I feel the adrenaline finally leave my body, and start to feel the toll my body has taken through this fight. I just clench my fist and groan in my pain.  

I open my eyes, and slowly look down at my wound and grimace at it. It looks horrible. It looks like a regular sword slashed through me, then someone else part way burned the outer edges of the skin, but it didn’t help stop the blood flow. Might be the reason why I'm starting to feel a little dizzy. I squeeze my eyes close as what feels like another wave of pain engrosses me, as I feel every wound, and bruise. My back is killing me, my whole torso is burning, and my arms feel heavy. Everything just burns.  

I lean back my head and try to get comfortable while we wait for help. Then my eyes snap back open as I left my head away from the wall and look over to the other body hear in this canyon.  

Allura.  

I try to stand. I push all my weight on my two feet and try to get up, but all that happens is that I just fall back, and aggravate my wounds, making me whine pitifully in pain. I take a deep breath, ignoring how just simply breathing hurts more than anything else. I look back over to Allura. She's still down.  

I don’t know how hard she was hit, and she might have a concussion, though if she didn’t have one earlier from that bomb then she most likely will have one now. I deeply exhale, before I shout her name, hoping that she at least twitches her head so I know she isn’t dead.  

“Allura!” there’s nothing to the yell that seems to echo and disturb some bird like things, “Allura!”  

This time there is a groan that I have to strain to hear, but it’s there and I sigh in relief knowing that she is still alive. It doesn’t take it long before I see her lift her head. And that’s all I need to know that she’s fine, maybe a little roughed, but other than that fine. I start seeing blackness at the edges of my vision start to spread, and I don’t fight it. I slip into darkness as all my pain disappears with it.  

[visceryl]

HPHM D&D Club

Before getting into the prompt, I wanted to thank everyone who allowed me to use their characters! @hogwartsmysterystory @angrynar @one-very-angry-hufflepunk @ruby-and-opal-withers @aleksia-aries-hogwartsmystery @elefseija and @kathrynalicemc

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In the midst of a dim-lit stairwell, four cloaked figures teetered on their feet, heads constantly winding back over their shoulders to keep watch of any others who might be lurking. After a moment, the door to the Slytherin common room creaked open, a lithe figure curving around its frame before easing it shut again.

“It’s about damn time,” Ethren scolded in a hushed whisper.

“Are you kidding? You can’t rush perfection, Whitecross, you had me get the supplies. Sneaking them took time.”

Konn’s smile beamed from beneath his own cloak, pulling it back to reveal a small sack full of parchment, quills, and ink. His gaze glanced over the other three joining them. Skylar looming off to the side with his arms crossed over his chest, Daisy looking ready to bounce right out of her skin with excitement, and Hal who had his face pressed against the glass window hanging above the staircase.

The broad Hufflepuff blinked into the inky darkness of the water and jolted back, nearly tumbling down the steps, when something appeared to blink back. Hal quickly righted himself, a hand shooting up through his hair as he cleared his throat. “Sweet, let’s do this thing.”

A sigh ushered from Konn’s lips as he shook his head, stifling the beginnings of a smirk.

“Are the others waiting for us?”

“Hopefully. I told them to meet us right next to the clock tower entrance,” Ethren replied. 

“Kath may back out.” Skylar leaned back, a white, glittering grin rising to his lips. “She’s not sure she can keep up with our late-night escapades.”

“I’m sure she’ll be there! Come on!” 

Daisy didn’t wait for the others before she took off up the stairs. Her footsteps were surprisingly silent, making not a sound as she disappeared from sight. The boys couldn’t help but laugh and closed their ranks to follow after without disturbing anyone else.

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The group of five took their time creeping through the desolate halls. Their wands lit up with Lumos, tucked discreetly at their sides to cast just enough of a glow for them to see where they were going. Ethren took the lead, wincing and smothering his light as one of the portraits stirred with a snore. 

Konn stopped just shy of smacking into the back of him. “Keep moving,” he hissed. A hand pushed to the back of the Gryffindor’s shoulder and impatiently directed him to continue. 

It was eerie navigating the castle at night. With the threat of bumping into Filch or some other professor hanging over, no one was keen to be caught out in the open. The only sounds to echo as they made their way past the sleeping portraits were their own footsteps ticking against the solid floor. Only a single strip of rug ran down the middle of the hall.

While most stuck to it, Hal found himself scuffling against wooded floors to shove up a shoulder at Skylar’s side. The other boy towered him. “Did you make your character already?”

“I tried, but it was confusing,” Skylar murmured back.

“Shhh!” Konn’s gaze burned into the both of them in warning. “You’re going to get us caught before we even catch up with the others.”

Up ahead, footsteps could be heard heavier than their own and everyone froze like deer in headlights. Did they scatter? Stand still and hope no one saw them? Make a run for the tower? Ethren and Konn shared a look as Daisy ducked behind everyone for cover. The two shared an agreeing nod as Konn stepped out from the group.

Controlled.

The outline of his shape started to broaden. Light blonde hair darkened several shades before settling to ebony at shoulder length. He dropped the hood of his cloak, the last of his features melding to that of Severus Snape as he flashed a wink back towards his group of friends. 

Just in time.

Not seconds later, the footsteps rounded the corner, three small shapes skidding to a stop and slamming into one another like dominoes. 

“P-Professor Snape!” Kath stammered out in a near wail. “Oh, we’re so sorry for sneaking out! Please don’t take points from us!”

Before Konn could reason with the stammering girl, Aleksia sent an elbow lightly into her ribcage and all at once the metamorphmagus roared with laughter.

A mixture of confusion and horror washed over the three girls as gazes darted from each other back to the figure that, while certainly looked like Snape, definitely wasn’t. Then Aisling’s eyes widened. “Konn?” She looked past him towards where the other four waited hunkered down silently.

Konn only laughed harder, doubling over and grasping at his sides. “You should have seen your faces!” he gasped. 

Then a fist crashed roughly against his shoulder.

“You’re awful!” Kath hissed bitterly, her cheeks stained red with embarrassment.

The groups found themselves quickly merging to one as Ethren stepped forward, trying to hide his own amusement. “Alright, alright. While punching on him is definitely warranted, we need to keep moving. Glad you three could make it.”

“We wouldn’t miss it for the world, Ethren,” Aleksia said. 

Hal, however, couldn’t wipe away his own look of horror as he approached Konn who’d already returned to his original self again. His shoulder clapped down on his best friend’s shoulder and he gave a pained grimace. “Please don’t ever laugh as Snape again. It’s unnatural.”

A wicked grin flashed back. “Duly noted.”

With Ethren back in the lead, the Dungeons and Dragon Club continued the trek together. They made it all the way up to the third floor where the Clocktower entrance was with minor hitches. If one considered narrowly scraping by Mrs. Norris as minor. Daisy had been prepared, scattering a line of cat food as a distraction while the rest slid past. From there it’d been a straight shot.

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By the time everything had been laid out and set up, everyone sat in a circle on the floor of the Clocktower. Ethren, Konn, Hal, Skylar, Daisy, Aisling, Aleksia, and Kath. The eight of them had planned this campaign for weeks, prepping their characters and asking Ethren passing questions in the halls and during meals. Finally, it was their chance to play.

Dice juggled and twirled through the Dungeon Master’s fingers as they were carefully plucked out of a bag of disorganized chaos. Nobody had matching dice, it seemed, as Ethren passed them out one set at a time at random. “Here’s your d-six, Konnor.”

“Hey, no wait! That’s the green and gold one. I’m missing that one,” Aisling insisted.

“It doesn’t really matter, you can swap-”

Konn snatched the bag of dice from Ethren’s hands and greedily looked over the contents within before wrinkling his nose. “Ew. You don’t organize them?”

“Traveling around with a giant case of dice is inconvenient, give them back.”

“What’s the point of so many dice if you never see them paired together?”

Hal chuckled at that, pushing his own dice around. “He’s got a point.”

“They’re my dice! I’ll do what I want with them,” Ethren pouted stubbornly, stealing the dice bag back and turning away from everyone to divvy out the rest so that everyone held a complete set to play with.

Looking up, Ethren’s features washed white as he caught Skylar jamming the triangular three-sided dice up one of his nostrils. Skylar locked their gazes, face devoid of emotion, and plucked up a similar one from Aleksia to plug the second nostril.

“What the fuck are you doing?”

“Playing.”

Skylar turned his head back to Aleksia, tilted his head back, and blew. Both dice shot out, pummeling the poor girl who couldn’t keep a straight face as she playfully shoved him away. “Ew! Skylar! Was that my dice?” she laughed out.

“Maybe.”

Ethren wrinkled his nose in minor disgust, making mental note to wash all returned dice before tossing them into the bag later. “Okay then. Everyone get out your character sheets. We’ll be starting in Undermountain. We’ve all met each other-”

“Undermountain is the dungeon, right?”

His gaze leveled on Kath a moment and he nodded. “Yes. And we’ve all met each other outside of the dungeon. The idea is we’re a group of mercenaries trying to collect a big pay. We’ve just entered inside. So let me make sure I’ve got this right.”

Ethren began to point at each person in the group. “Aisling is the sun elf druid worshipping Sylvanus, Skylar is the human necromancer, Daisy is the fey-touched cleric with the animal domain, Aleksia is the high-elf ranger, Hal is the human barbarian, Kath is the tiefling bard, and Konn is the half-elf rogue.”

“Bloody right I’m the half-elf rogue,” Konn purred. He closed his eyes in focus, dulled ears shifting into small, elven points. “Look, I’m in character and everything. And what of you, oh mighty DM?”

“Naturally, I’m the Duskblade.”

Hal threw an arm around Ethren, a wolfish grin taking up the lower half of his face. He shook him. “Hell yeah, our characters can defend the weak together.”

“I’ll defend myself, thank you,” Aisling says with a wink.

“Oh, I wouldn’t doubt it.”

The Hufflepuff was still grinning as he let go of his friend to poke at Aisling while the Dungeon Master prepared the start of their very first campaign together.

And so it began.

The group started their journey in the midst of Undermountain, fighting their way through an army of undead only ten minutes into the gameplay after Konn had led them into an unlocked, untrapped room with his character in the lead.

Hal expertly dominated the vast majority, rolling several sixteens and eighteens to send four of the zombies back to their graves. Meanwhile, Aleksia struggled to master the art of the bow, her unlucky rolls leaving her arrows a useless volley past each one. 

Further in, Ethren was able to test his players’ mettle up against a puzzle and heavily trapped hallway. His eyes were alight, perhaps as happy as he’d been in a while, as he watched the group bicker over how to continue. 

“Let’s send a rat forward first,” Skylar suggested.

“Absolutely not! What if it gets hurt?!” Daisy’s cheeks washed red as she leaned forward stubbornly. “Let’s just try and solve the riddle.”

“No. I’ve got a better idea.”

Everyone snapped their gazes up in horror, watching Hal scoop up his twenty-sided dice, and send it crashing across the map Ethren had crudely drawn. It landed face-up on a natural twenty. “I go storming through the middle of the hallway at full speed with my axe ready to smack away anything that flies at me!”

Silence. 

Ethren flicked his gaze over the dice before leaning back with a bitter pout and crumpling a piece of paper he had in hand. “Alright. You race through, triggering the trap, and before it can swing down and hit you, you slam your axe against it and it breaks. You’re now at the other end of the hall. Let me draw.”

Eventually, even Kath managed to settle into the gameplay. After crossing paths with a few seasoned adventurers also plundering the depths of the magical maze for treasure, she played them an enchanting tune with her lute. One by one they had fallen beneath her, continuing alongside the party as unofficial groupies. 

Laughter rose up from the Clocktower, coiling out in cool mist beneath the stars. Nobody kept an eye on the time. Instead, playing by wand light, everyone had their wands pointed towards the gameplay area, illuminating the intricate mapping system. 

It was eventually revealed the group had not been chosen at random, but subconsciously summoned by the sleeping dragon that yearned for its freedom and stolen eggs at the center of the maze. 

In natural Daisy fashion, she’d instructed everyone on how to handle it without lethal aggression, proclaiming they needed to collect and return all the eggs to their mother if they could find them.

Unfortunately, only one egg was ever recovered. It hatched halfway through Konn’s navigation as the rogue, and much to Ethren’s dismay, Daisy was able to convince the little wyrmling she was its mother. Thus sparking the long debate of whether or not the party should leave the red dragon hatchling behind for their own safety or risk taking it into the final dungeon where its true mother was.

The vote had been split but with several threatening stares from Aisling, Aleksia, and Daisy, Ethren finally declared they’d keep the baby wyrmling for now and would have to suffer the consequences later.

It took the group another hour of exploration before finally coming to large, golden doors. Intricately carved within them were great draconic heads that glared out menacingly. 

But there were no doorknobs. 

Hal tried pushing. Skylar attempted to hit it with a knock spell. Only Konn was able to approach the door and utter something in a deep draconic tongue. The sounds of gears unwinding and clasping were beautifully mimicked by the Dungeon Master as the band of players nudged their way in.

Sleeping in all its towering glory, the ancient red dragon rested at the center of the room. Bound in chains at the neck and legs. Billows of smoke poured from nostrils with every breath.

“Hold on, hold on,” Konn scowled. “How the hell do we fight that!?”

Ethren looked up from behind his screen and gave an unhelpful shrug. “I don’t know. How do you fight it?”

The Slytherin boy paled. “We can’t!”

“Well duh,” Daisy giggled. “We can wake it and talk to it. Konn and I both have characters that know draconic.”

“Is that what you do, then, Daisy?”

“Yes!”

Ethren couldn’t smother the sinister grin that coiled at his lips as he disappeared behind his Dungeon Master screen, quickly tossing a few dice in preparation before rising once more. “Alright! Tell me what you do.”

Daisy clicked her tongue in thought as Konn’s forehead collided with the ground in a low groan. “Oh hush, you’re just jealous you didn’t think of this first,” the girl chastises. “I approach the dragon carefully and tap it on the nose.” “Okay, and does anyone else want to add anything?” Ethren is trying to smother a laugh.

“...I ready an attack with my waraxe,” Hal sputters. 

“I’ll cast shield of faith on all of us.”

“Okay, Aisling, you’ve provided everyone with a plus-three to their ACs. And on that, Daisy, you approach the slumbering dragon, and immediately the little wyrmling leaps from your arms with a cry. The mother’s golden eyes immediately snap open, one easily larger than your head as it locks to you.”

Ethren began to describe the events of the dragon rising up in defense of its wyrmling. The way its roar shattered everyone’s eardrums. The glisten of teeth longer than their forearms. Each character rolled a will save against fear, each one becoming deathly shaken by the superior monster. 

“Hal, you’re up, make your readied attack.”

Hal looked ready to piss himself as he scooped up his dice again. “Are you sure I can’t just run, instead?” he teased out. 

“I suppose you could.”

The Hufflepuff watched Ethren a moment in consideration and then shook his head with a snort. “Nah, I’ll go down with the ship.” The single dice crashed against the hard flooring of the Clocktower, bouncing once, twice- then landing on a natural one.

“NO!” Konnor blurted, falling back from the group and onto his back in defeat.

Light faded from Ethren’s eyes as he stared down at his own prepared dice rolls and grimaced. “...Well. Hal, you raise your waraxe to the dragon out of sheer panic and on your downward swing, instead of hitting scales, you send it right into the back of my skull. Killing me instantly.”

“Are you kidding?!” 

Everyone burst into an uproar of laughter and protest. Skylar curved an arm around Hal’s shoulders, a wide grin plastered over his features. “Well done, Hal. I think we all just died.”

“Oh most definitely,” Ethren agreed, having started to laugh as well. “And its the dragon’s turn. She rears back, straining against her chains as a torrent of flames erupt from her parted maw, spiraling down on all of you. No need to roll reflexes, you’re all immediately cooked.”

“Just like that?” Konn sat up now, brows furrowed in annoyance.

“You weren’t supposed to actually face the dragon.”

“I fucking told them that!” Arms crossed over the Slytherin’s chest and Aisling quickly nudged up against his side. 

“Don’t be so sour, Konn, we’ll just have to try again next time.”

“Next time, indeed. We’re all going to need new characters, so go ahead and be thinking about them.” Ethren reached out, beginning to pick up pieces of parchment that outlined their journey through Undermountain. “I want to aim for next week.”

He paused, his cheeks flaring pink. “...Did you guys enjoy it?”

Daisy flung forward, wrapping the Dungeon Master in a hug, and slowly, the others crowded over to join. 

“Absolutely.”

[punkwithpaints]

The Rammstein Magic!AU no one asked for

Sorry this is kinda Richard heavy. I originally was just going to use him as an inspiration for a single character, but the deeper I went for his character, the more I started pulling in the rest of the gang until I decided it was easier to call it an AU. This is absolute word vomit and spit balling an idea, but I’d love to hear what you think and some feedback! Pardon the rambling and sorry if this makes zero sense.

 Richard: Alright, so, basically he can summon spirits/entities things like that. He knows about the forest’s darker secrets. Think of those spooky writings that are like “If you’re in the woods and hear 3 knocks, knock back but leave immediately.” Like, this fucker knows every old spirit, good, bad and unknown that go through the forest. He knows all the do’s and don’t’s and people come to him when they manage to get curses put on them or their families. He also knows about monsters that lurk around at night and other things.

With summoning, it’s a skill where at first it’s overwhelming since he starts to see and hear spirits and all that, so it’s a hard power to learn. Most summon animals or things that are living, not the dead. Most people’s minds can’t handle the added effect of seeing and hearing that stuff constantly.

He goes to churches or houses that people are like, “Uh, What is happening in this place?”. And he can strut in, look around and be like, “lmao that’s a demon, I see you fucker.” And he’s gotten so good at summoning that he can kinda reverse uno whatever it is, causing to it to be able to be seen by everyone else as well.

Problem is, when he first started learning, he got cocky and ended up fucking around with something way stronger than what he could handle at the time and basically got possessed. For years he is basically a dick. He’s dangerous, reclusive, hurts his friends and those around him, yadda yadda. Finally, he has enough will power to try and stop this thing, but the only way he knows how to get rid of it is to kill himself. Because without a living soul/body, the demon has nothing to feed off of or a place to stay. So he attempts by trying to slit his wrists, however, the demon is so impressed with his willpower and determination he offers a deal. It basically says, “Listen, I’ll make you a deal. You will have free will over your body and mind, but I get to stay.” Fine. Demon doesn’t let him die, heals his wounds, but there are scars obviously.

Richard now has a demon inside him. Fantastic. Richard and the demon can converse back and forth. So, Richard will be like, “Yeah, looks like you’re dealing with *insert demon thing here*.” And suddenly his voice will change and the demon is like, “I don’t know, it seems more like *other demon thing*”. Freaks people out pretty bad usually, if they aren’t expecting it. Richard also has a regular eye and a blind eye. Regular eye is just a regular eye, but his other blind eye is what gives him the ability to see the spirits. It’s like a right of passage for his type of people, where they have to blind one of their own eyes somehow.

ANYWAY

With the demon inside him, the demon has the ability to bring things back from the dead. Hence why Richard was able to come back after attempting to kill himself. Technically speaking, Richard is sorta permanently dead but living. I considered giving him no heart beat but I’ll get back to that in a sec. So, Demon and him slowly start working together where he lets the demon influence and strengthen his summoning powers and summon the actual dead as well as see them. Now he has necromancy.

When the demon made his deal, he tells Richard he can summon him if he needs him, but it’s gonna be hella taxing. Richard has to summon him exactly as he did the first time. AKA, slit his wrists to activate it. So, demon would take back into control causing Richards magic to get stronger by God knows how much. Obviously, he can’t do this very often or for too long, but if shit really hits the fan, this could help him make it out alive. I mean, the demon really doesn’t want to lose his flesh home.  I’m thinking this is where the heart beat thing comes into play. Where he’s sorta half dead, his heart would stop when he activates the demon to take over.

  Till: TILL. THIS GUY. So, I figured where Till likes the water/swimming/animals so much, he’d live at the edge of the forest by the ocean cliff sides. He’s specialize in familiars and mythological creatures. Like, he’s BFF’s with the local sirens and mermaids. He’s the opposite of Richard. Till has the magic that I forget the name of but it revolves around communicating with animals, knowing what the area is saying through them, that kinda stuff if that makes any sense. He likes growing special and rare herbs for potions and rituals. He’s pretty quiet and doesn’t like being around people, so he keeps his magic on the down low usually and spends his time talking to the sirens and mermaids, creatures/animals around him. Tends to his garden and such. He sells it at the weekend markets where he does fine since he’s one of the few that can offer certain herbs. I think he would have a shapeshifting ability or have a familiar he could change into. I’m thinking a bear or a griffin. Druid-ish????

Although Till loves the water, he’s actually specializes in pyromancy. He doesn’t use it too often, since he keeps his magic mainly hidden, but hey, he can start a camp fire or his stove with it, so that’s nice. He loves to gossip with the mermaids and sirens. They were a little confused when their tricks and songs didn’t work on him, well, they did a little, but not completely. But then they put 2 and 2 together and go, “Oh….Wait….I don’t think he likes girls as much as some of the other sailors we’ve met.” So now they just accept him as their bestie and like talking to him about their crushes and the newest dumb sailors they all lured in. They both share fish catches with each other, and Till does sketches of the market/forest so he can come and show them what it looks like since they’re curious.

He also owns a dragon. Not a big one. One that’s the size of a parrot. It likes to chill on his shoulder and likes crackers and grasshoppers. He raised it from an egg. Everyone is all like, “Dude yeah he’s scary omg, I heard he has a whole dragon!!” and they stop by, only to find this burly dude having a cup of tea with the mermaids and a tiny dragon nibbling a graham cracker on his shoulder.

However, his herbs/garden is what links him to Paul and Flake.

 Paul/Flake: So, these two bois live together (Definitely no homo going on here) and Flake is even more recluse than Till. They have a cloaking spell on their cabin. You have to absolutely know a certain tree with a ritual attached to it or a spell/password sorta deal to gain access/the ability to see it.

They’re in an open field/prairie area. Flake would be a healer and very good at protection based spells and rituals. He always buys a lot of his herbs from Till so him and Till are close because 1.) Both reclusive as fuck and 2.) P L A N T S.

Meanwhile, Paul has telekinesis and mind reading. He’s a cocky boi but he does care a ton. Even if everyone wants to smack him half the time. I keep thinking their first meeting was something along the lines of:

Flake brings him along when he goes to Till to stock up on herbs, and Paul meets Richard for the first time since Richard stopped by to visit. It’s probably pretty fresh after the whole “Tried to kill myself to yeet the demon out of me and now we’re roommates” deal. And They have barely shaken hands when Paul is looks smug and goes, “You regret you didn’t die but you were honestly too scared too as well.” And Richard is like “ALRIGHT I HAVE TO KILL HIM DON’T YOU DARE READ MY MIND LIKE THAT”. So, Paul and Richard hate each other for a while. Well, Richard hates Paul, Paul doesn’t mind Richard, he’s just waiting for him to come back to him cause that’s usually how first meetings go for him.

Later on, as they start to talk, Paul confides in Richard (after apologizing) that he understands what Richard felt and that he had attempted before as well. Being able to hear everyone’s thoughts and feel their emotions is horrible when you first start out, and is incredibly overwhelming. Over time, Richard and him end up connecting pretty well. Richard still hates the mind reading thing (so does Till), but despite the differences, they’re friends.

Paul can also temporarily slow/reverse time in a certain limit around him. Maybe like, 15-20 foot radius? For about 30 seconds? Let’s say Till decided to use his pyromancy towards him, Paul can decide to halt it and slow it, or it can begin to reverse itself. Richard sends out some hellhounds, Paul can cause them to slow way down once they get close so he can duck around them and hurry off somewhere else.  

Flake, despite the hatred of being around people, is actually a pretty great guy once he warms up to you. He’s someone you can have a good cry with but also, he can absolutely fuck up your whole day. I’d think since he can do cloaking spells, he’d understand spells about portals and rifts. To make something ‘invisible’ (AKA, their house), he’s more so just shifting the dimensions people can see, making it into one that they can’t. And sometimes, you got to yeet your idiot friends through portals to somewhere safe cause they don’t know when to shut the hell up. One of my inspirations for his powers was the music video to the song Falling to Pieces by David Guetta, specifically around the 2:55 mark. I’d imagine that, instead of getting obliterated like the people in the music video, it more that he’s shifting every part of that person into different portals/dimensions. I mean, technically, yeah, they die. BUT HEY, who can say they died via getting blasted through different portals and shifts down to a molecular level? Flake can’t do it a lot obviously. It’s hard enough opening one or two portals, so to pull a stunt like that could kill him if he isn’t careful enough. So many times everyone has had to be like FLAKE NO HEY CHILL WE ARE OKAY DON’T DO THAT.

I imagine Flake and Paul have been friends since they were teenagers, so they watched each other’s powers develop. Once Paul starts figuring his powers out, it starts becoming too much. Flake tries his best to be supportive and encourage him and keep him sane, but Paul can feel how much he’s scaring Flake and making him worry. Paul finally tries to end it (in a similar fashion to Richard, so they have matching scars which is another bonding point for them), but Flake finds him in time. However, Flake hasn’t quite got his healing abilities down yet, but the fear and adrenaline of losing his best friend is what flips the switch to finally allow him to completely channel it. Paul heals up and startles back into reality and is like “EXCUSE ME, I THOUGHT YOU COULDN’T DO THAT” and Flake is shaking him like, “YOU DUMBASS IF YOU EVER DIE IM GOING TO KILL YOU.”

 Ollie: My tall boi. I’m thinking he’s part wood elf. His magic is based off of using the environment such as tree roots or trees, manipulating and summoning eco life around him. Wanna get beat by a root system? Ollie is your guy. His powers are kinda like Till, but not as animal heavy. I know there’s a word for this magic too but my ass cannot remember it for the life of me. He’s probably one of the rarest of the bunch to spot, but unlike Till or Flake, he doesn’t put up much of a fight when it comes to seeing people or going out. People are intimidated by him cause, I mean, this fucker is 6’7 and came out of the woods like some magical sasquatch lumberjack.

But he’s very down to earth (Pun intended). Ollie crafts armor or blades in his spare time. Sometimes he’ll join Till at the market and sell his stuff or take commissions from anyone who needs new weapons/armor, or if they need anything repaired. He knows how to lace objects with magic so it can do a better job with protection or heighten the users own abilities. Ollie is able to know what’s happening in his neck of the woods. He lives in the deepest part of the forest, Richard isn’t too far from him actually. But Ollie’s area is more of a calm area of the woods, not the spooky ass weird area Richard stays in.  Ollie has way more ALIVE deer, first off. No wendigos. What a difference.

I don’t know how to phrase this without it sounding dumb as hell, but basically he talks to trees. He can tap his magic into the systems of the trees and plants and pick up on conversations miles away from him. The trees become his eyes and ears, if that makes sense. It’s never super sharp or in focus (Dream like maybe?), but he’ll know when you’ve entered his section of the woods. He can sometimes tell roughly how many, and catch snippets of your conversations. He’ll make sure to keep an eye on you.

Schneider: My boy. I’m thinking he’s a witch mage kinda guy who has visions and predictions. He fucking loves crystals, tarot cards, special odds and ends, things like that. Reading the stars kinda guy. Schneider actually gets called in by the king or whomst the fuck ever is running this world I’m coming up with, to predict the futures of queens incoming babies, wars, decision making, yadda yadda. He’s hella guidance and damn good at what he does. His visions are never in perfect clarity, but with the aid of his other doodads and such, he can give you a pretty good estimate. He’s like Turbo Tax, but with life choices.

I’m thinking his powers would probably be something along the lines of a copy cat? He can usually tell what your about to do a few seconds before you do it. Somethings are super easy for him to predict (like a punch), other things are harder (complicated magic). I think he might fit under the title Warlock with a Vestige pact? Where the souls/echos of his ancestors that have passed on stay with him. They’re the ones that help him see glimpses into the future make sure he’s protected. They’re also why he can replicate (roughly) most spells that are done towards him. For example: If Paul tried to levitate something and toss it at him, there’s a chance that someone before Schneider, in his linage, had some kind of knowledge of that form of magic. If Schneider reacts fast enough, he can reverse uno that shit back at Paul or toss it somewhere else. Sometimes, it’s more of a canceling effect. So, if Richard tried to resurrect something to attack him, he could undo the resurrection spell, making the dead thing fall back apart, since you can’t double bring something back to life.

Him and Richard went through a similar process to gain their abilities. Richard is a host and dealt with/is dealing with being possessed, and Schneider is temporily possessed/influenced by his ancestors when needed. For a bit, they’re tense around each other cause both felt they were better than the other. Schneider felt like Richard “cheated” to gain his necromancy powers, while Richard is pissed that Schneider had it “so easy” compared to what he went through.

Like Paul and Richard, Schneider and Richard finally have a sit down and Schneider admits his whole ritual/process of gaining his abilities.

To gain access to all the souls/echos, Schneider had to ‘live’ through each ones most painful times via his visions. So, easily 100+ memories that he has to go through in one go. No stopping, feeling/seeing/hearing everything that happened to these people, one at a time. Sometimes it’s their deaths, sometimes it’s a fight or injury, sometimes is verbal things. It totally wrecks with a persons mind and body. A lot of times, the people who go through this process don’t make it because they try and kill themselves afterwards or during. If they stop the line of visions, they cannot ever be started again. They usually develop a severe fever and cold chills, and the process can take several days. So if the fever or themselves don’t kill them, they might make it. So him and Richard bond over that.

I know it sounds stupid, but Schneider lives in a cave. Once you enter, it’s lined with different crystals, crystal balls, dices, maps, star charts, ornate rugs on the floor, silks all over the place, just really nice and cozy.

Overall, each one could work together and combine powers. Examples include: Richard and Till combining Richard Necromancy and Till’s Pyromancy to create a physical embodiment of hell and scare the absolute shit out of anyone.

Ollie (Controlling trees/roots) and Till (connections with animals and mythical beasts) deciding to just use a whole ass forest all that lives in it to really fuck up someone’s day.

Schneider and Paul staying 50 plus steps ahead of the game. Even more so, could Schneider have Paul slow time so he could have a better chance of knowing what’s about to happen/copy a spell?

Flake and Paul working together to slow time, then open portals for enemies to run head first into at last second.

There’s some other ways but there’s a few! I’m so sorry this is so long.

[roman-writing]

you search the mountain (3/5)

Fandom: World of Warcraft

Pairing: Jaina Proudmore / Sylvanas Windrunner

Rating: M

Wordcount: 26,133

Summary: The borders of Kul Tiras are closed to all outsiders. Sylvanas, Banshee Queen, hopes to use the impending civil war in Boralus to her advantage, and thereby lure Kul Tiras to the side of the Horde. A Drust AU

Content Advisory: horror, blood, gore, typical Drustvar spooky deer shit

read it below the cut, or you can read it here on AO3

Despite the recently signed treaty -- or perhaps because of it -- Sylvanas did not hear from Jaina for nearly a week. It felt like a game. Like a childish staring contest, waiting to find who would be the first to blink. Even Nathanos pointed out that they should begin formal liaisons with Lady Waycrest in order to understand exactly what supplies and reinforcements she needed to fight off the Ashvane forces intent on invading eastern Drustvar. Sylvanas ignored him utterly, with orders to withhold any further gold or aid for the time being. 

And then a rapping came at her door in Swiftwind Post.

Nathanos answered it. The moment he opened the door, the harsh winds made the fire splutter in the hearth, threatening to extinguish the flames. Sitting at her desk opposite the fire, Sylvanas listened even while she continued to read the latest reports from Zandalar. 

“What is it?” Nathanos asked, his voice a gravelly murmur. 

“It’s the bird, Ranger Lord,” came the voice of one of her Forsaken guardsmen. “I know we aren’t supposed to -- er -- ‘develop a rapport’ but he says he has a message for the Dark Lady.” 

On cue, there followed a flapping of wings as Arthur flew inside and landed directly atop Nathanos’ head. To his credit, Nathanos remained perfectly still, holding the door open while Arthur made himself comfortable. 

“Sorry! Sorry!” said Arthur, scrambling to right himself. “It’s just very windy out there. Couldn’t stand it for another second.”

His black feathers were sticking up in all directions, and he looked positively harried. For a raven. 

Sylvanas lifted her attention from the parchment she had been reading. “Do make yourself comfortable,” she said sarcastically.

“Oh, why thank you! Don’t mind if I do.”

“I mind,” Nathanos growled, though his only motion was to shut the door firmly. 

Arthur seemed unconcerned by this addendum, for he began to preen in an attempt to fix his feathers. 

“Arthur,” said Sylvanas sharply.

“Hmm?” Arthur lifted a wing and began running his beak along the longer flight feathers.

“You had a message for me?” she reminded him. 

“Right. Yes. I do.” Shuffling his tail, Arthur righted himself atop Nathanos’ head and said, “The High Thornspeaker has bid you come over for tea. Wait -- you don’t need to eat or drink anymore, do you? A meeting. She bids you come over for a meeting.”

“When?” Sylvanas enunciated the word very clearly, letting her irritation through despite herself. 

“When it suits,” Arthur answered. “And by that I mean: now.”

How impatient humans were. And how mercurial. Rolling her eyes, Sylvanas set down the sheet of parchment and scraped back her chair to stand. “Where are we meeting?” 

“Her house.”

Sylvanas’ steps slowed in her approach to the door. “At Gol Inath?” 

“What?” Arthur sounded taken aback. “No. Nobody actually lives at Gol Inath. That would be terrible. And uncomfortable. And -”

“All right, yes. I get the point.” 

Holding out her hand, Sylvanas transferred Arthur from Nathanos’ head to her own shoulder. An act which did very little to improve Nathanos’ mood; he glowered mutely at the raven as though he were a stain upon Sylvanas’ pauldron. But there was no point in denying Arthur’s place on her shoulder when he would end up there regardless of what she did. 

“Hold down the fort,” she said to Nathanos before she left. 

For all that Arthur had said ‘now’, it was a four day’s trek by horse to the Crimson Forest from Swiftwind Post. Sylvanas managed to get this down to three days by taking an eagle to Arom’s Stand, and then walking the rest of the way. And even then, Arthur had clung to her shoulder the whole trip. He did not seem to need to sleep, much to her dismay.

Sylvanas had expected Jaina to live in the heart of the Crimson Forest. Somewhere near the great tree of Gol Inath. Or perhaps in a hovel dug into the ground, like a wolf’s den. Maybe in a swamp like a bog witch. She did not expect Jaina to live in a nondescript cabin along the westernmost reaches of the Crimson Forest, where the woods met the cliffs, their branches raking against the overcast sky. The trees were set at a severe angle from the sea, whence the winds raced. Now, the treeline rolled with a slow-moving fog. It obscured the cliff’s edge, so that Sylvanas’ every step taken was wary. She could hear the roar of the nearby ocean. Sea salt scented the air, mingling with the smell of fresh damp earth and the darker smells of the forest. 

The cabin was nestled amidst the trees. It peered out over the nearby cliffside through the mist. It was -- for lack of a better word -- cosy. It had a thatched roof and vine-clutched walls. There was an iron-wrought lantern lit beside the front door. The windows glowed with internal firelight. 

It was not the sort of place a terrifying primal Druid lived. There wasn't a single cursed wicker effigy in sight. 

Jaina herself was walking around the perimeter of the cabin. There was no way she could have spotted Sylvanas and Arthur approaching through the soupy fog, but she looked around when they got within a certain range. At that point, Sylvanas could feel something settling over her skin. As though she had just walked through a spider's web. The wards allowed her to pass however, and she continued striding forward.

"You're early," Jaina remarked, when Sylvanas was near enough. 

"I was told I should arrive urgently," was Sylvanas' reply. 

"Really? I wasn't expecting you for another day."

Sylvanas shot Arthur a scathing look, and he ducked his feathery head in an almost sheepish manner.

"Well, would you look at the time!" Arthur said far too loudly. "I gotta go. Bye!"

And with that, he flew off from Sylvanas' shoulder, heading deeper into the trees. 

When Sylvanas turned from watching his retreat, Jaina was looking at her with an expression of calm amusement. Her skull mask was nowhere to be seen. Even her robes were more casual than during their past encounters. She had foregone the druidic trinkets and the cloak, leaving only a comfortable set of robes that she had hiked up around her knees to free up her stride. Her feet were muddy and bare. Fresh scratch marks adorned her skin in narrow red lines from where she had pushed through the thorny underbrush. Despite this, the robes were fastened high enough at her throat that her neck was covered. Perhaps to ward off the chill in the air. 

"Come on in, then." Jaina motioned for Sylvanas to follow her. 

Sylvanas did so without questioning why she was here. At the front door, Jaina washed her feet in a pail of water that had been left outside for just that purpose. She shot Sylvanas' boots a pointed look. Bending over, Sylvanas unbuckled her greaves and boots. She left them beside the door alongside her weapons before she was ushered inside. 

The interior of the cabin was warm and bare-timbered. Along the wall nearest the door, the skull mask had been hung on a peg as though it were a commonplace gentleman's hat. As though Jaina sometimes were too preoccupied, and would have forgotten to wear it out and about if not for its strategic location by the exit. Jaina moved through the house with a familiarity that spoke of years of dwelling here. She crossed over to the fireplace and swung a blackened kettle over the flames. 

"Tea?" she asked. 

"No, thank you," Sylvanas demurred. 

With a shrug, Jaina went about preparing a pot for herself, leaving Sylvanas to stroll about the main floor. The place was crammed with books and scrolls. Every nook and cranny heaped up with them. They were stacked in corners. They were jammed into shelves built along the walls. They crowded the little table before the fireplace, and even the stairs leading to a loft where Sylvanas could just spy a bed. To climb those stairs would have required someone to pick their way up each step along a narrow path precariously perched with old tomes and a leftover cup of tea teetering near the top rail.  

Picking a book at random from a nearby shelf, Sylvanas inspected its leather-bound cover without any real interest in its contents. “Where did you get all of these?”

“Libraries,” Jaina answered vaguely without turning around. 

Sylvanas lifted an eyebrow at the title of another book’s spine. It was a rare Thalassian text that she herself had only ever heard about in her studies at home. “Drustvar doesn’t strike me as a place that is teeming with libraries. Especially not libraries with books like these.”

“Some of them I inherited from Ulfar. Others I was gifted by Lucille.”

Shuffling idly through a few pages, Sylvanas snapped the book shut between her hands. “And the rest?”

Jaina made a non-committal sound. “The rest I borrowed, you might say. From Dalaran.”

Sylvanas paused. Then, she placed the book back in its place. “So, when you’re not terrorising the local population, you steal books from the Grand Library of the Kirin Tor.”

“Just another one of my charming hobbies,” Jaina drawled. She finished spooning the proper amount of tea leaves into the pot and stoppered the jar, setting it aside. “I used to think it was a game when I was younger. Teleporting into the Violet Citadel and raiding the Grand Library for a new book to read before they could figure out I was even there.”

“I fail to see how triggering the wards of the world’s most powerful wizarding city could be considered a game.”

“Oh, the wards were the best part. They’re fun little puzzles, and you have to solve for the exact right piece to get in without being noticed.”

"You're mad."

Jaina laughed, and the sound was surprisingly light. "Maybe."

"Were you ever caught?"

"Once." Jaina leaned back in her seat, waiting for the water to boil. "But I just pretended to be an Archmage's apprentice, and they let me go pretty promptly. I was young. And afterwards, I was a lot more cautious about my little dalliances outside of Drustvar."

Sylvanas turned back to perusing the shelves. In one corner of the room there was a pantry stuffed full of goods, both fresh and preserved, home gathered and even purchased from the markets of Corlain. Sylvanas could recall a few goods in particular from the weekend markets, but she had no memory of seeing anyone matching Jaina's description there. Perhaps the locals left offerings of food at the edge of the Crimson forest, as if to a vengeful god living nearby. Or perhaps, given Jaina's obvious predilection towards sneaking into places, she had simply disguised herself with a spell and walked through the markets without a care in the world. Both seemed equally likely.

"And Ulfar let you go?" Sylvanas asked.

"As if he had a choice. I was -- how would my brothers put it? -- a filthy little bilge rat brat."

Sylvanas huffed with laughter. "That sounds about right."

"About me? Or about my brothers?"

"Yes." She aimed a smirk over her shoulder at Jaina, who appeared unfazed. "I have siblings as well, you know."

"Let me guess..." Jaina held up her hands as though framing Sylvanas in a canvas picture. "Middle child?"

"Says the youngest. I bet you were spoiled rotten."

Jaina's smile slipped. "Being the baby in the family only got me so far. If anything it made things worse in the end."

With a hum of understanding, Sylvanas dragged her fingers along the spines of a row of books. Motes of dust wheeled in the air in their wake. She paused when she arrived at a wad of pages that had been stuck between two books. There were noises behind her of Jaina swinging the kettle away from the fire and filling the teapot. With her host distracted, Sylvanas dug out the pages, careful to shield her actions with her body.

"Find anything of interest over there?" Jaina asked.

"Why? Are you afraid that I'll steal them?" Sylvanas shot back, keeping her tone light even as she managed to pry the pages free. They were pretty firmly stuck between the books, and the threat of tearing the wafer-thin paper persisted until she had loosened them enough.

"I was about to say you could borrow one, actually."

"According to you, those two things are the same."

A snort of laughter, the creak of iron as Jaina hung the kettle back into place, then the gentle clink of porcelain against porcelain. Turning over the first page in her hand, Sylvanas went very still. One edge of the pages were ragged, as though they had been ripped out of a book. And on the first sheet there was a drawing labelled: 'Fig. 66 - The Hero in Thros.' The drawing was done in a familiar style, all in cross-hatched ink, sketched by a studious hand. It portrayed a man hanging by the neck from a tree. He was impaled through the chest by a broken sword, his toes dangling over a body of water. A massive raven crouched on his shoulder. It was plucking out his eye and eating it.

A sudden chill washed over her despite the warmth of the cabin. Her thumb traced over the side of the image as she studied it.

Behind her, Jaina sighed, and her chair creaked as though she had just leaned back. "Come sit down. Let's chat."

Sylvanas had the urge to steal the pages, to hastily stuff them into a leather pouch at her belt and cause a scene which allowed her to leave without Jaina being any wiser of her actions. It would be a retributive kind of justice. A theft for a theft. Surely, Jaina wouldn't notice the missing pages anytime soon. But instead, Sylvanas folded the pages back up and put them where she had found them. When she turned, it was to find that Jaina was blowing on her mug of tea, which steamed in her hands.

"Chat," Sylvanas repeated. "About what exactly?"

Jaina must have noticed the sudden chill in Sylvanas' voice, for her head swung towards her with a startled frown. "About us. The Horde and Kul Tiras. About our plans moving forward."

"Is that all?"

Slowly, Jaina lowered her mug so that it was cradled in her lap. "What else do you think this is?"

"You tell me. You're the one who invited me here, after playing hard to get." Hearing her own words, Sylvanas' eyes widened fractionally. "Ah. I see. So, that's what this is about."

Jaina's face screwed up in confusion. "What?"

Reaching for her gauntlets, Sylvanas began to unbuckle them. She slid them from her hands, pulling off the gloves beneath them as she went. She approached the long, low-slung couch before the fireplace, tossing the gloves and gauntlets onto the backs of the cushions. "If you had told me this was what you wanted to begin with, we could have avoided this whole song and dance. Honestly, what a bore."

Jaina watched Sylvanas' actions with increasing bewilderment. Yet her gaze followed every small section of exposed pale skin beneath layers of armour. When Sylvanas began to unbuckle her pauldrons and cloak, draping them over the back of the couch as well, Jaina said, "I have no idea what you're implying."

"I've never been that inclined to using this as a means of negotiation, but I suppose you aren't so bad." The gorget was cast aside, and Sylvanas ran a bare hand through her hair. It was bleached in undeath, a pale mockery of its former golden hue. "If you would like to help me with the cuirass, this would all be a lot easier."

"Help you with your -?" Finally, realisation dawned on Jaina's face. Her jaw dropped. And then she began to laugh. It sounded equal parts amused, incredulous, and nervous. "What? No! This isn't -! No. I don't know how you could have possibly gotten that impression."

Hands freezing on the stays of her cuirass, Sylvanas shot her a disbelieving look. "You're serious."

Jaina managed to school her expression, but for the tell-tale curve of her lips in a smile, and the slight pink tinge to her cheeks. "Very serious. This is not a seduction attempt. Though, I'm flattered you would consider it. I think?" She lifted her cup of tea to her mouth for a contemplative sip. "Yes, I've decided I'm flattered."

"Then why have you brought me here? Surely you must want something."

Rolling her eyes, Jaina cupped her mug between her hands. "If we're going to be working together, then I want to get to know you better." Sylvanas’ expression must have been skeptical, for Jaina straightened in her seat, looking indignant. “I mean it. I just want to talk.”

With a lilting hum, Sylvanas rounded the couch. She pushed aside her various articles of armour, and sat down. She did not bother putting it all back on just yet. Not when Jaina’s good eye lingered along the hints of Sylvanas’ figure beneath all that remaining leather and chainmail, before she realised exactly what she was doing and shook her head, as though annoyed with herself. 

Sylvanas casually crossed her legs at the knee and leaned back, slinging one arm over the top of the cushions. “Ask your questions, then,” she permitted in a magnanimous tone that made Jaina snort into her cup of tea. 

Despite the approval, Jaina did not say anything immediately. She thought for a moment. “What is your next step? After Kul Tiras, I mean.”

“Do you mean: do I intend to wage a pointless war with the Alliance, during which thousands of lives will be lost all for the sake of seeing Horde banners spread across a map?” Sylvanas sneered at the idea. “No. I won’t roll over for the Alliance, but I won’t fight them without good reason, either.” 

“So, you think there can be peace between your factions?”

Sylvanas toyed with a frayed edge of the pillow. “I think peace is only permitted when people have nothing to gain.”

“That’s very pessimistic of you.”

“Dying a few times does that.”

For some reason that reply made Jaina’s brows furrow. She tapped at the sides of her mug, then asked, “Do you -?”

“Ah, ah, ah.” Sylvanas raised a finger and waggled it as though at a spoiled child. “For every question you ask, I get to ask one in return. You want to be fair to your new ally, don’t you?”

With a huff of irritation, Jaina sipped at her tea and nodded for Sylvanas to continue. 

Carefully watching for Jaina’s reaction, Sylvanas asked, “If your brother had lived, if he had become the Lord Admiral and this civil war had never happened, what would you do?” 

Jaina answered without a hint of hesitation, “I would attempt to mend bridges between the Drust and the Kul Tirans, starting with my influence with House Waycrest.” 

“Your ambitions are rather…” Sylvanas sought the right word. “...lacklustre.” 

“And yours are rather megalomanic,” Jaina shot back. 

Sylvanas merely shrugged off the accusation.

“My turn.” Sitting forward in her seat to pour herself another cup of tea, Jaina said, “Do you like being Warchief of the Horde?”

“It is an honour, and a title I am proud to bear,” Sylvanas said the words like a mantra she told her constituents. The only thing Orcs loved more than strength was honour. Or at least the loose concept of it. 

“Yes, but do you like it?”

The immediate acerbic response died in Sylvanas’ mouth. She narrowed her eyes, her tongue running over the backs of her teeth in quiet contemplation. “I like power. I like the control it gives me. Do I like being Warchief?” Sylvanas tilted her head side to side as though weighing two options in her mind. “No more than I liked being Ranger-General, I suppose. But most of all I despise being helpless. Weak. At the beck and call of others. That is a fate I will not endure again.” 

Jaina hummed an understanding note. “I understand your past has been fraught -- for lack of a better word. The Emerald Dream can sometimes offer catharsis, if you have the right guide. I can take you back, if you wish.”

“Is that what you did with your horrible wicker man in the woods the first time I was trying to find Gol Inath?” Sylvanas’ lip curled. “I have no desire to Dream again. Nor will I ever.”

“Suit yourself,” Jaina muttered into her mug. 

Sylvanas gestured towards the scar on Jaina’s face. “How did you get that?” 

Reaching up with one hand, Jaina traced the scar that slashed down the right side of her brow and cheek. Her blind eye peered from between the cage of her fingers. “I was foolhardy and brash,” she answered with a tight smile. She lowered her hand. “It’s a wound of overconfidence. I rushed in and my opponent dipped when I thought he was going to dash, so to speak. And I paid the price for it.”

Jaina was dodging the question, but Sylvanas could not deny that she herself had done the same. Instead she remarked, “I’m amazed your eye survived intact.”

“It didn’t,” Jaina said darkly. “But it’s my turn, now.” She waited for Sylvanas to motion her to continue, and then asked, “Are there times you wish you were still alive?”

The contest of who would blink first was back. Sylvanas was strongly reminded of a childhood game she and her siblings used to play. Two truths and a lie. Each player had to guess which of the three statements was false. Vereesa always lost. She was too easy to read. 

Now, Sylvanas wondered if this were really an exercise about building trust -- as Jaina had implied -- or if it were only a means of sussing out the other player’s tell. A pity for Jaina. Sylvanas was an expert at this game. The trick was to cheat and always tell the truth. 

How that truth twisted itself to meet reality was another proposition entirely. 

“Yes. All the time.” The truth wrenched itself from Sylvanas’ lips in a hiss that made the fireplace flicker. “Do you ever wish you had been sent to the Tidesages or the Kirin Tor, instead of being smuggled off to the Drust?”

The firelight played across Jaina’s face, casting her blind eye in shadow so that it seemed to peer like a nocturnal animal’s through the gloom. “Yes,” she said softly. “All the time.”

A log in the fireplace cracked and popped. Jaina set down her tea on the table in order to lean forward and prod at the fire with an iron poker that had been leaning against her seat for just that purpose. She set the poker back down, but left her tea on the table. When she spoke she seemed to address the hearth, “How many times have you died?”

“Why does it matter?”

“Do you want to finish the game?” Jaina countered, turning her head back towards Sylvanas.

So, she thought it was a game, too. Convenient. Baring her teeth in a grim smile, Sylvanas said, “Three times.”

A strange expression flickered across Jaina’s face, but it left as quickly as it had come. Sylvanas tried to figure out what exactly it had meant, why that number was significant, but Jaina was watching her expectantly for another question. And so Sylvanas asked, “When you Dream, what do you see?”

Jaina’s mouth opened, then shut again. She busied herself with unfastening the tucked up hems of her robes so that they hung around her ankles once more. Finally, she said far too casually, “I see many things in the Emerald Dream.” 

“That’s not an answer.” 

Shooting Sylvanas a bitter look, Jaina steeled herself before saying, “I see a tree that grows from the sea. Its canopy reaches the stars. Its roots pierce the depths. I am hanging from its branches. I see my father’s flagship wrestling the waves. He stands on the quarterdeck and yells every vile curse he can think of at me. He calls me a plague upon his House. He calls me the ruin of Kul Tiras. And beneath the shadow of the tree, the Great Fleet burns, and I can hear-” 

She cut herself off, clearing her throat and looking away towards the hearth once more, as though it might offer her some solace. 

“Yes, that sounds very cathartic,” Sylvanas said dryly.  

Drawing herself up, Jaina grabbed her tea from the table and took a heady gulp. “My Dreaming is different. It’s -” she grimaced. “- compromised. I can guide people through, but when I enter by myself, things get complicated.” 

Sylvanas sighed. “Trust a Druid to never just give a straight answer. What cryptic nonsense.”

“Like yours are any better.” Jaina tried to regain her airs of nonchalance, but it was ruined by the way she kept fiddling with the now empty mug in her lap. “Do you really think we can win this war?”

A slow confident smile tugged at the corner of Sylvanas’ mouth. “Now that I’m here? Absolutely.”

Jaina shot her an exasperated look. “Are you always this cocky?”

“Is that another question?”

Waving her away, Jaina said, “No, no. It’s your turn again.”

Sylvanas thought of hanged men. She thought of pages torn out of books. She thought of Gorak Tul, of ancient Drust, of secrets stashed between dusty tomes in Jaina’s personal library. Leaning forward on the couch, Sylvanas rested her elbows upon her knees. “Why don’t you like Arthur talking about what happened in Thros?”

Immediately Jaina’s face hardened. Her once open and amiable airs vanished like a whirl of smoke in a gale. Gone were the teasings of camaraderie, the mutual probing for information -- parry, riposte -- and in its place an unyielding quality in her gaze. Even without the mask and the dressings of the High Thornspeaker, she was once again that terrifying figure who loomed in the maw of Gol Inath, crowned in bone and blood and starlight.  

“I think we’re done with our game for today,” Jaina said with a voice like cold iron. “You may show yourself out now, Sylvanas. No doubt we will be seeing each other again soon.”

--

A gale was spitting down rain at Swiftwind Post. Sylvanas stood at the window of the second floor command building. She watched the tussock grass and heath far below the hills billowing in the wind like a sea of copper and verdigris. The land of eastern Drustvar was dotted with new snow. Patches of white gathered in the saddles of hills and the corners of valleys. Even now the wind drove the bluffs with flecks of white mixed through with rain. The air held a biting chill that would only continue to deepen as the land settled into its winter months with the inevitability of the grave.

Sylvanas’ personal quarters were bare. There was a bed with dark cotton sheets, in which she never slept. A single unoccupied chair crouched in one corner, its legs spidery; they creaked under the slightest weight. She had brought no personal effects with her to Kul Tiras. Indeed, she kept no personal effects in Grommash Hold either. Any scraps dear to her were locked away in the Undercity, or otherwise buried and decaying in Windrunner Spire. This room on Swiftwind Post was a mere placeholder. A simulacrum of personal space. A place where she could -- upon occasion -- be alone with her thoughts. It might as well have been a broom cupboard. 

She was looking north, as if trying to see a glimpse of the landscape in that direction. But not even her gaze could pierce the veil of rain and snow that blurred the distance into a canvas of faded white. Barrowknoll was a three day’s march north of their current position. She would need to walk the ground there herself before long.

It wasn’t that she didn’t trust Anya’s reports. Only that she did not trust this place to be what it seemed. And there was something about Barrowknoll that Jaina was refusing to tell her. It made Sylvanas uneasy.

A soft knock sounded at the door. Sylvanas did not turn around. Her reflection in the glass painted a grim overlay to the landscape beyond. “Come in.”

The door opened, and Nathanos stepped inside. Snow melted on his shoulders. He bowed. “You have guests.”

“Who?”

“Lady Lucille Waycrest.”

Sylvanas remained still as a statue, her hands clasped behind her back. “I will receive her here. Have her come up.”

Executing another shallow bow, Nathanos murmured, “Yes, my Queen.”

When he departed, he left the door open a sliver. The sound of voices drifted up the stairs, followed by the hesitant creak of footsteps on the stairwell. Sylvanas did not need to turn around to know that Lucille was dawdling just outside the room; she could hear the intrusion of her breathing, of her furiously beating heart.

“Do you think I am going to devour you in my lair?” Syvlanas drawled, keeping a close eye on the window, even while using the reflection in the glass to see what lay behind her.

Lucille’s reflection cautiously pushed the door open a little wider, but she still did not cross the threshold. “You do seem the type, you know.”

Sylvanas smiled to herself, and with her back turned her amused expression was not visible from the door. “If only your friend in the woods treated me with such caution.”

“She doesn’t scare easily.”

“So, I gathered.” Turning around at last, Sylvanas fixed Lucille in place with her gaze. “What can I do for you today, Lady Waycrest?”

Lucille stepped inside, bracing herself as though for a blow. “Quite the opposite, actually. You once asked me if there was something I could do for you.”

Now, that piqued Sylvanas’ interest. She leaned her shoulder against the window frame. Her armour scraped against the wood there. “Yes. I remember.”

“I have someone who needs shelter, and has sought me out for it. But if I were to give it to them, I would put a target on both our heads.”

Sylvanas lifted an eyebrow. “I fail to see how sheltering someone for you gives me anything of use.”

Shaking her head, Lucille said boldly, "You are mistaken, Sylvanas. I am doing you a favour."

Upon hearing her name, Sylvanas’ face darkened. Her eyes blazed, but when she spoke her voice was deadly quiet. "You will call me 'Dark Lady' or 'Warchief.'"

Lucille took an abortive step back, only to steel herself. "But Jaina calls you Sylvanas."

"You are not Jaina."

Nervously, Lucille wet her lower lip. Still, she held her ground. “Maybe not. But I have something you want, even if you don’t know it yet.”

Arms crossed, Sylvanas tapped her fingers against her opposite arm. The motion made a metallic click every time her clawed gauntlets touched her armour. “And if I do this for you? What do you expect in return?”

“Ten thousand soldiers,” said Lucille without a hint of hesitation.

Sylvanas blinked. “I’m sorry.” She pretended to shift her hood as though it had obstructed her ears. “I thought I just heard you say you want me to nearly double your forces in exchange for giving a single person shelter.”

Back straight, jaw squared, Lucille nodded. “That’s right.”

“I’m struggling to tell whether your intention was to make me laugh, or to make me angry.”

“Just -” Lucille waved her over. “- come downstairs? Please? I’ve brought my guest with me.”

Nathanos had mentioned guests. Plural. And Sylvanas would be lying if she said she wasn’t intrigued by the boldness of Kul Tirans, if nothing else. 

Pushing away from the window, Sylvanas strode towards the door. When she brushed past Lucille, she growled, “If this is a waste of my time, then I’m going to be very irritated.”

“It won’t be,” Lucille insisted, but she sounded less sure of herself when Sylvanas was glaring at her over her shoulder than when Sylvanas was safely across an empty room. 

The stairs did not creak beneath Sylvanas’ feet when she descended to the first floor, though the creaking came when Lucille followed closely after her. Voices continued to murmur from downstairs, growing louder with every step Sylvanas took. When she reached the bottom step and turned, she froze, her ears canting up in shock. 

Katherine Proudmoore was seated in a chair by the fire. She was engaged in a pleasant conversation with a Highmountain Tauren druid standing beside her, who was serving her tea. Sylvanas had not even been aware that they stocked tea at Swiftwind Post, but apparently they did when the Lord Admiral visited. Katherine’s legs were crossed. A silver falcon-headed cane leaned against one side of her chair. 

When the Tauren noticed his Warchief’s presence, he jerked upright, nearly scraping his impressive rack of antlers against the ceiling. The teapot seemed sized for a gnome when clutched between his massive hands. 

For her part, Katherine merely turned to look in Sylvanas’ direction, calmly sipping at her cup of tea. “Oh, good. You’ve finally deigned to grace us with your presence.”

Sylvanas regained her composure quickly. She inclined her head towards Katherine. “Lord Admiral. I was not expecting to see you so soon.”

“Lucky you,” Katherine said dryly. “I would stand to greet you, but -” she tapped the head of her cane with her elbow. “- needs must.”

Eyes flicking towards the Tauren, Sylvanas jerked her head to the door. Without question, he set the teapot down and departed with a bow. 

Sylvanas approached, placing her hands behind her back. “An old war wound or a new one?”

Shrugging, Katherine sipped at her tea. “A bit of both.” 

Sylvanas stopped by the fireplace. There were no other seats, save her own behind the large desk on the other side of the room, and one across from it for the rare occasion when one of her rangers or generals were delivering a report. She cocked her head curiously down at Katherine, then looked over at Lucille. “Why did you bring her to me here and not to -?”

Before Sylvanas could finish her sentence, Lucille shook her head sharply from where she stood at the foot of the stairs. Sylvanas stopped speaking, her mouth shutting with a click of fangs. Katherine frowned between the two of them. 

“Bring me to whom?” Katherine asked, lowering her teacup and saucer so that they rested upon one knee. 

Lucille did not say anything, but she was still giving Sylvanas a significant look that spoke volumes. 

“Nobody,” Sylvanas lied smoothly, her face giving away nothing. “I only meant to inquire as to why Lady Waycrest cannot shelter you herself.”

Katherine appeared entirely unconvinced by these antics. Her storm-steel gaze moved to Lucille, trying to see if she would be the first to crack, but Lucille held her ground. Eventually, Katherine turned her attention back to Sylvanas, and she explained, “My enemies know that my last base of power is within Drustvar. What with my family being from the region originally. Lucille is a distant niece, of sorts. I knew she wouldn’t turn me away, should I be desperate.” 

“I see.” Sylvanas did not mention that Katherine had called Lucille ‘a paltry ally’ during their last discussion, though she was sorely tempted to do so. Instead, she said,  “And you don’t want to give your position away by running directly into the safety of Waycrest Manor.” 

“It’s best that my exact location remains unknown. For now, in any case.”

“Which begs the obvious question.” Sylvanas took a step closer, so that she stood between Katherine and the fire, so that she was silhouetted in flame. “Why?”

Lips pursed, Katherine picked up her cup of tea once more. She seemed to mull over her answer in the dregs, before draining them as if for courage. “The Great Fleet is in turmoil. Lord Stormsong has declared himself Lord Admiral on the basis that I have no Heir, and therefore must give up my claim to the title. He has children of his own. His line is secure.” 

From the sidelines, Lucille added, “He also controls the Tidesages, who are assigned to every major ship of the line.”

But Katherine waved that detail away impatiently. “Yes, but that is not what swayed over half the Navy to fly the colours of House Stormsong.” 

“And what is your plan?” Sylvanas pressed. “How do you intend to win back the Navy’s loyalty?”

At that, Katherine’s eyes flashed. Glowering at Sylvanas, she set aside her cup of tea and sat up in her seat. “The Great Fleet of Kul Tiras remains devoted to the Admiralty. That is not within question. This is a problem of succession, not of loyalty.” 

“Then who do you intend to name as your Heir?” Sylvanas gestured towards Lucille with a sneer. “Her?” 

Lucille looked affronted at the notion. Meanwhile, Katherine shook her head sharply. “Certainly not. Lucille hasn’t a drop of Proudmoore blood in her. Whoever it is must be related to Daelin’s line, or the balance will never be restored. As soon as the Ashvanes and Stormsongs have finished sweeping up Drustvar, they will turn on each other, and Kul Tiras may know civil war for generations.”

And yet for reasons unknown, Lucille had stopped Sylvanas from mentioning Jaina’s name at all. She could tell her anyway. Doubtlessly both Katherine and Jaina would be in her debt. 

But instead Sylvanas smiled. “Well, well. How times change,” she murmured. She approached Katherine’s chair and picked up the falcon-headed cane. “One moment you did not want my help, or even to keep my company. Now you need both.”

Katherine’s expression was pinched and sour. “Elves always did love the sound of their own voices. Spit it out. What do you want in return?”

For a moment Sylvanas merely toyed with the cane, tracing the falcon’s beak with her thumb. When she put pressure beneath the curved beak, the grip came away, revealing that it was in fact a sword cleverly disguised as a mere walking implement. Admiring it, Sylvanas sheathed the weapon once more. 

“Nothing.” Sylvanas handed the cane back over to Katherine. “Yet. You may stay at our encampment on the Eastern Cliffs near Falconhurst. You will be safer there. It’s further from the action.”

Snatching the cane sword from Sylvanas’ hands, Katherine snapped, “I didn’t spend the last six years of my life at sea commanding Azeroth’s greatest Navy only to hide from battle like some milksop.”

“I think the Golden Fleet of Zandalar might have opinions about that particular statement, but I’ll not quibble over semantics.” She stepped away from Katherine so that she was no longer looming over her. “You may remain at Swiftwind Post, but I am assigning you a protection detail.”

Propping her cane back against the side of the chair, Katherine sniffed. “Jailors, more like.”

“Your bodily safety is of utmost importance. And, I’ll admit -” Sylvanas said, “I cannot permit you to just waltz about my camp without some manner of escort. If you speak with me beforehand, I can arrange for my people to take you wherever you need. Within reason, of course.” 

An expression of hastily restrained disgust flickered across Katherine’s features. “You don’t mean for my guardsmen to be Undead, do you?”

Sylvanas levelled a dark look at her. “You come crawling to my doorstep,” she hissed. “and you have the gall to -?”

To her surprise, Katherine sighed. She brought a gloved hand to her face and rubbed at her brow. When Katherine looked back up, the steel had gone from her shoulders. In the place of the implacable Lord Admiral of Kul Tiras, there sat a tired old woman. Her voice was warmer, softer, more sincere. “Forgive me, Sylvanas. That was inappropriate, given the circumstances.” 

Scowling, Sylvanas bit back the acrid taste of indignation and something uglier that brewed in her gut. She did not realise the fire had dimmed in the presence of her anger until the shadows lengthened across the room. It was a challenge to keep her words low and even. “They will be Tauren, if you prefer.”

To that Katherine said nothing. She merely inclined her head in quiet acceptance. 

From the base of the stairs, Lucille cleared her throat. “So, she can say your name, too?” she accused, pointing at Katherine. 

Sylvanas rolled her eyes. “Last I checked, you’re not the Lord Admiral, either.” 

Sylvanas walked towards the front door and opened it. A quick command was all it took for the Highmountain Tauren from before to tower in the doorframe. He needed to turn sideways and duck down in order to step inside. Once through the door, he stooped, his massive shoulders remaining hunched. 

Sylvanas gestured to him. “This is Tatanka Thunderchaser. He will be your escort and primary point of contact. Tatanka,” she pointed to Katherine. “This is the Lord Admiral, and your new ward until I say otherwise.” 

Katherine was rising to her feet, one hand using the cane and the other pushing off from the arm of the chair. She took inventory of Tatanka’s appearance, his dark shaggy fur, his palmate antlers, the streaks of bold red paint around his face and arms. When he bowed to her, she returned the gesture with surprising grace for someone who walked with a heavy limp in every other step. 

“I don’t suppose you have any more of that excellent tea of yours?” Katherine asked as she crossed the room towards him. “Honestly, you could make a fortune smuggling the stuff into Boralus.”

His answering chuckle was a deep rumble in his chest. “I’m not much of a smuggler, Lord Admiral, but I’m sure we can manage another cup for an honoured guest.”

When he offered his arm, she took it. As the druid was showing Katherine out -- the two of them already engaged in friendly conversation once more -- Lucille went to follow but Sylvanas stopped her with a hand at her upper arm. 

“Not you.” Sylvanas murmured. “I would like a few more words with you before you slip away again, Lady Waycrest.”

Lucille winced, and Sylvanas loosened her grip. She hadn’t thought she had been holding her so tightly, but that seemed to do little to lessen Lucille’s discomfort. Sylvanas released her entirely, and Lucille shuffled away a few steps until there was some distance between them. 

Ah. So, that was the issue. 

“If we’re going to be allies, you’re going to have to pretend to tolerate my presence,” Sylvanas said dryly. The sting of social stigma had long since lost its bite. Sylvanas barely felt it these days. Not unless there was some sudden rude reminder of her past -- seeing her sisters; seeing her homeland. 

“It’s not that,” Lucille insisted, even as she balled her hands into fists and looked anywhere but at Sylvanas. “It’s just -” She made a weak gesture towards the cabin that served as Sylvanas’ headquarters. She appeared faintly ill. “I have bad memories. Of the Undead. Of witches. Of my family. It’s not you, or your people.”

Sylvanas had heard stories of the Drust incursion some years ago, the conflict that took the lives of the previous Lord and Lady Waycrest. How Lady Meredith Waycrest had attempted to summon Gorak Tul into the mortal world, leading a coven of witches, corrupting her husband into a ghoulish construct, defiling Waycrest Manor until it was a ghostly shadow of itself, teeming with undead. The people of Corlain still whispered that the place was haunted. What Sylvanas had seen of it atop the hill had loomed like a gothic portrait, all spires and gargoyles and clinging darkness lanced through with lightning, something she might read about in a penny dreadful sold on the streets of Dampwick Ward. 

“I shall maintain my distance, then.” Tilting her head, Sylvanas indicated that Lucille should take a seat upon the chair opposite her desk. She herself rounded the desk and sat in her own seat. Sylvanas waited until Lucille had made herself comfortable -- or at least given the semblance of comfort, given her obvious uneasiness around the Undead -- before speaking, “Now, tell me: why the secrecy about our beloved High Thornspeaker?”

Lucille did not answer immediately. She fiddled with a pleat in her dress. “I’ve known Jaina for a long time. Since we were children,” she finally said. “When she disappeared into the forest, I didn’t see her for years. And when she came back out she was -” Lucille shrugged. “- different. Harder. She’s had every opportunity to go back to Boralus after her father died, but she’s never done it. I may not know the reasons why she stays away from her family, but I know better than anyone that family can be...complicated.” 

Sylvanas grimaced. Her only reply was a hummed note of distaste and understanding in the back of her throat.

Clasping her hands together in her lap in an attempt to keep herself from fidgeting, Lucille straightened in her seat. “Use Katherine as leverage, if you must. Oh, don’t give me that look. I know what this is about. I’m not stupid. But please -” Lucille cast Sylvanas a pleading glance. “- speak with Jaina first before saying anything. That’s all I ask.”

“That rather defeats the purpose of leverage,” Sylvanas drawled. “But your point is well received. I am not as cruel as you might have been led to believe.”

Lucille’s expression could only be described as wary. Like a prey animal that was locked in a cage with a lion. “Aren’t you?”

Sylvanas smiled at her, baring a bit of fang. “Only to my enemies, Lady Waycrest. Are you my enemy?”

Hastily, Lucille shook her head.

“How fortunate, then.” Picking up a pen, Sylvanas dipped it into an inkwell. She pulled a fresh sheet of paper towards her, and began to make notes. “Now, I’m going to need some information from you about your latest deployments and military expenditures. How is your supply corps holding up?”

Lucille seemed startled by this sudden line of questioning. “They’re fine, as far as I’m aware. We have enough food to sustain us through to next spring even without Jaina's help. Why?”

“Because,” Sylvanas shot her an amused glance over the table, “I’m going to need to know, so I can give you those reinforcements you asked for.”

--

For the last two weeks, Jaina had been sending information regarding troop positions and plans via Lucille or Arthur. He would arrive in various animal forms outside Sylvanas' command centre at Swiftwind Post. Not once had he appeared human. Most notable was the time he shoved his way through the front door as a bear with twisted branches for legs and a bleached skull for a face. The Forsaken guardsmen had long since learned to recognise him on sight and let him in without any hassle, but Nathanos maintained that Arthur's manner was utterly inappropriate. Moreover, that Arthur ought to be taught a lesson on propriety in the presence of one's social betters. Nathanos would often say this while stroking the handle of an axe, glaring holes at Arthur, who in turn was completely unconcerned with the murderous intent nearby. 

Today thankfully he arrived in the form of a raven, which seemed to be his preferred form most times. "Knock, knock!" Arthur said as the Forsaken guard opened the door and allowed him to fly inside. 

When he landed on Sylvanas' desk, she did not even glance up at him. She continued reading her latest reports from Orgrimmar, news of border disputes and power plays between various internal factions. "Long flight?" she asked. 

"Not too bad, thank the Tides." 

"I hope you have good news for me."

He held out his leg, to which paper had been tightly bound in a coil. "Nothing but the best for you, Dark Lady."

She did look up at that. "My, my," she murmured, setting down her report and reaching forward to untie the scroll from his leg. "I see Nathanos has finally managed to teach you some manners."

Arthur held still until she had finished taking the scroll off, at which point he shuffled his feathers. "Anya told me I should call you that in private, and then call you by your first name when he was around."

Sylvanas snorted. "And you listened to her?"

"I like Anya. Even though she cheats at whist. And dice."

"Have you considered that Anya told you that so Nathanos would be even more tempted to shoot you?"

Arthur cocked his head in a very birdlike manner. "Maybe. She did seem kind of angry when I helped that old lady beat her at cards. But it seemed only fair."

A small chuckle escaped Sylvanas in spite of herself. She began to unroll the paper, but stopped with a furrow in her brow. "Wait. Old lady?"

"Yeah!" Arthur hopped around her desk, inspecting the map of Drustvar and its troop movements. "The one with the cane and the nice coat. Is she a defect from the Navy or something?"

Sylvanas did not know what information was more startling. That Katherine played Anya at cards and won -- no small feat in and of itself -- or that he did not know who the Lord Admiral of Kul Tiras was on sight. Perhaps it spoke more to Arthur's own seclusion within the region. The Drust were not particularly fond of the Navy, and with good reason. Years of the press and other indignities did not endear them to Kul Tiras' ruling body. Or perhaps the Lord Admiral really was so lofty a position that the average citizen could never dream of seeing her in person. She had not noticed Kul Tiran currency stamped with the faces of their rulers, as was the custom in many other places. The coins and banknotes here tended towards abstract images: anchors, ship’s wheels, cephalopods, oars, and the like. 

Regardless, it was a mercy. Arthur was the High Thornspeaker’s eyes and ears at Swiftwind Post. News of Katherine’s presence in the camp would not have reached Jaina yet.

“You might say that, yes,” Sylvanas said. She tapped the scroll against her wrist, watching Arthur. When he began to pick up tokens in his beak and move them around the map -- as if purely out of corvid pique -- she rapped her knuckles against the desk, startling him. “Stop that.” 

He stopped, but only to hop over to another part of her desk, where he began fiddling with the bronze cast base of a candlestick. She placed the tokens back into place, then unfurled the scroll. It was a dry tally and update of the mustered Waycrest cavalry units at Corlain that would be making their way over the pass at Arom's Stand before the snows got too deep. Sylvanas made an unimpressed noise as she read over the brief report. There were barely enough mounted units to justify two cavalry battalions. But they would have to do for now, until the Horde reinforcements could arrive in three months time. By that point, the Waycrest forces would be wintering in Fallhaven and repelling a full-blown siege.

If only Jaina hadn't been so stubborn. They might have been able to muster a force to Drustvar's shores sooner.

Setting aside the report, Sylvanas picked up a pen from its inkwell. She tapped a swell of ink from its nib and then updated her own ledgers. "Arthur," she said.

"Hmm?" Arthur was busying himself with prying apart the candle-holder's handle with his beak. Better that than her maps and charts, she supposed.

"I need you to send a message to Jaina for me."

At that, he turned a milky white eye upon her. He did not seem to need to ever blink. "Sure thing. Do you want me to take a scroll or something?"

"That won't be necessary. Tell her -" Sylvanas set the pen away once more. She considered the words of her message very carefully before saying, "Tell her that I must speak with her urgently. About her appalling cavalry numbers."

"Appalling cavalry numbers," he repeated slowly under his breath, as though reciting it to memory. "Right. Got it!"

She added quickly, "And tell her I will come to her again. Save her the trip."

"No problem. I'm on it."

Despite his words, Arthur did not move. Sylvanas picked up another report but paused as he continued to watch her expectantly. "What?"

He lifted a clawed foot in her direction, his talons grasping the air. "Can you open the door for me?"

She scowled at him. "Turn into a human and do it yourself."

"If I call you Dark Lady again, will you do it for me? Please? Oh, Queen of the Forsaken?"

Sighing irritably, Sylvanas stood and crossed the room to open the door just to get him to leave. 

Less than a week later, Sylvanas was once again making her way through the Crimson Forest with Arthur on her shoulder. The fog had retreated from the sea. When she arrived at the white cliffs, she could see well into the distance, where the ocean silvered beneath an overcast sky. Her wine-dark cloak whipped about her ankles. The wards permitted her presence once again without issue, but Jaina was nowhere in sight. 

Sylvanas gave Arthur a questioning look, but he lifted his wings in an avian shrug. A brief reconnoiter around the cabin proved that Jaina was not there. Sylvanas was about ready to ask Arthur to see if he could scout around, when she heard a rustling in the trees behind them. Her long ears twitched towards the noise, and she turned. 

Jaina was trudging slowly towards the cabin. For a moment Sylvanas thought she was wearing the skull mask, until she saw that the antlers belonged to a stag. She was carrying the dead animal from the shadow of the woods, its front hooves draped over her shoulders so that its back hooves dragged along the ground behind her. Blood soaked her robes. It dripped from the animal carcass and down her neck. She left red footprints in her wake. When Jaina looked up, her eyes seemed to gleam through the dim dusky air, but that might have just been a trick of the light. 

"You have a habit of catching me at bad times," Jaina said by way of greeting.

Sylvanas nodded towards the stag. "Did you go hunting?"

"I did."

Jaina continued towards the cabin, dragging the stag beneath a partially covered awning that Sylvanas had originally thought existed for gardening purposes. She heaved the carcass onto a workbench, then wiped at her face with her hand. All it accomplished was smearing the blood even more. It was then that Sylvanas noticed her hands and arms were wrought of dark and twisted wood again. 

Jaina pointed to the hilt of the hunting knife tucked into Sylvanas' boot. "Can I borrow that?"

"Only if you give it back." Even as Sylvanas said it, she reached down to pass it over. Arthur shifted on her shoulder so that he could maintain his balance. 

Jaina took the knife. She carefully ran her thumb across its edge. The moment she did so, the woodgrain began to crawl down her arms, retracting into her skin until her hands were mere flesh once more. "I thought your people preferred gold over silver."

"If you are referring to the sin'dorei, you would be correct. But my family liked to give me gifts of silver as a reminder of my namesake." 

Jaina took a moment to admire the blade. "It's a fine piece of craftsmanship," she said. Then with a fluid motion she stuck its point into the deer's stomach, cutting a slit from its neck all the way down its belly. "You wanted to talk to me about my -- how did you put it? -- appalling cavalry numbers?"

With a glance at the raven on her shoulder, Sylvanas said, "Arthur, give us some privacy."

Arthur waited for Jaina's nod before he took flight and winged off back over the trees. 

“Well, now I’m worried,” said Jaina dryly, even as she returned to gutting the stag. She worked quickly and efficiently, dumping the organs into a bucket on the ground -- all but for the heart, which she carefully severed from the carcass. When she pulled it free, she inspected it thoroughly before setting it aside in a wicker basket on a corner of the benchtop.

Leaning against the wall of the cabin, Sylvanas crossed her arms in a creak of leather and chainmail. “An unexpected guest has shown up at my door at Swiftwind Post.”

"Are we playing a guessing game this time?" Using the knife, Jaina began to make strategic cuts in the deer's hide. "Was it Lady Ashvane? She is the type to be lured by the promise of coin, of which you seem to have plenty to spare."

Sylvanas watched as Jaina set aside the knife on the counter in order to lift the carcass onto a hook from the awning's frame so that the stag's head dangled almost to the ground. She would have offered her help, but Jaina hauled the dead weight around with surprising ease. 

"No," Sylvanas murmured. "In fact, it was your mother."

Jaina went stock still. Beneath the bloody smears, her face paled. She turned slowly to stare. "What?" she rasped.

"Lord Stormsong has proclaimed himself Lord Admiral, and she has lost the support of the Navy due to her lack of an Heir," Syvlanas explained. 

Jaina's hands were trembling slightly. She swallowed. "Does she -? Did you tell her about -?"

Sylvanas shook her head. 

A sigh of relief escaped Jaina. She chewed at her lower lip, then snatched up the knife, gripping it tight, and turned back to the carcass. "Good," she said. Then repeated more firmly. "That's good. That's -" Jaina had begun to use the knife to peel the hide starting at the stag's hind legs, but stopped. "Why didn't you tell her?"

There was suspicion in her voice. She was gripping the hunting knife in a white-knuckled grasp, her hands slicked red and gory. 

Sylvanas cocked her head and replied calmly. "Should I have?" 

"I don't know. I am trying to think of what you have to gain by coming to me first. Or maybe you're lying again."

"You can come to Swiftwind Post and see for yourself. She's currently terrorising my Dark Ranger at cards. I'm sure Anya would see your intervention as a kindness," Sylvanas offered with a shrug. "Or you can just ask Arthur."

Immediately Jaina shook her head. With jerky motions, she set the knife back down and began tugging the hide free in a single unbroken sheet with nothing but her bare hands. "No. I'm not ready. I can't -" Jaina drew in a deep shaky breath, and pulled hard on the hide. "I can't talk to her yet."

"I understand." 

Blinking in shock, Jaina stopped and turned her wide-eyed gaze upon Sylvanas. 

"Family reunions can be difficult. Especially when they thought you were dead. Or worse." Sylvanas gestured to herself. "So, yes. I understand. And I will keep my silence. It is, after all, not my secret to tell."

Jaina's shoulders sagged in relief. Some of the colour was returning to her cheeks. "Thank you," she breathed. "I did not expect that of you. In fact, I - I owe you an apology."

Grimacing as though at a bad taste in her mouth, Sylvanas waved that notion aside. "I would prefer it if you didn't."

But Jaina continued as though Sylvanas hadn’t said anything. "I misjudged you. And for that I’m sorry. I thought you would use this as leverage against me somehow."

Her expression was far too sincere. It made Sylvanas uncomfortable. She much preferred it when Jaina was acting lofty and bored. So, of course she said, "I haven't ruled that out, mind you. I’m not above a little blackmail." 

"You won't. Not with this, you won’t.”

The confidence with which Jaina said that and returned to her task was perhaps the most aggravating part about this entire encounter. Mostly because she was right. Sylvanas hated it when she was right. How utterly infuriating. 

Jaina wiped the bloodied knife clean and handed it back. “You said silver was a reminder of your namesake?”

“A nickname. My sisters used to call me Lady Moon.” Sylvanas propped her foot atop the bucket of offal in order to sheathe her hunting knife once more in her boot. Its silver handle gleamed at her calf, always within easy reach. 

“And I presume they didn’t take it very well?” In explanation, Jaina made an all-encompassing gesture at Sylvanas. 

“They did not.” 

Most times, Alleria refused to talk to her. When she did, it always ended up in a screaming match, which benefited no one. And Vereesa spoke to her as though speaking over a grave. Everything in the past tense. Lots of tears involved. Sylvanas could hardly stand it. Not to mention, she wasn’t allowed anywhere near her nephews. Both for being Undead and for being Horde. 

But as Lucille had said: family was….complicated. 

Jaina had returned to skinning the deer. She seemed more relaxed now. She certainly didn’t give the impression that she wanted to be alone. Sylvanas had learned from her last visit that Jaina could, at will, have an aura of menace that rivalled her own. But she didn’t have that now. 

“When was the last time you saw Katherine?” Sylvanas asked. 

Giving a particularly vicious yank downwards on the deer hide, so that it peeled away from the membrane that attached it to muscle, Jaina grunted. “At the gallows in Unity Square. She made me watch them hang Tandred. And later that night, she had a loyal guardsman put a bag over my head and drag me to Drustvar.”

Sylvanas frowned. “Human ages are strange to elves, but twelve seems rather young even for humans.”

“It is.” Another vicious tug at the hide. She pulled it over the carcass’ shoulders. “My brothers were quite a bit older than me. Tandred was nineteen when he died.” 

“Hmm.” Sylvanas nodded. “There’s an age gap between myself and my siblings as well.”

“Oh?”

“That’s not an invitation for me to talk about them, though.”

Jaina snorted. “Hypocrite.” 

Gamely accepting the accusation with a shrug, Sylvanas said, “I will make sure Katherine stays at Swiftwind Post, so you don’t go running into her by accident. I propose our future meetings to discuss the coming battles be either at the Horde encampment on the Eastern Cliffs, or here. Whichever you prefer.” 

At last Jaina managed to tear the hide the last of the way free. It peeled back like the rind of a nectarine from the incisions around the stag’s neck and legs, so that she held it up in one sheet, perfectly intact. She folded it into a roll, and then placed it on the ground by the workbench to be dealt with later. Wiping at her brow with the back of one hand, Jaina nodded towards her. “Do you still have that token of mine?”

Jaina was holding out her other hand, still grimy with dried blood. Digging around in one of the leather pouches at her belt, Sylvanas passed the fang to her without question. Jaina took it and without another word, stepped around the deer carcass and started walking around the cottage. Puzzled, Sylvanas followed. A short stint found them both standing near the front entrance, where Jaina unexpectedly squatted down on the ground. Daubing a bit of coagulated blood from her clothes onto her fingers, she drew a series of runes on the ground. When she whispered in an ancient unintelligible tongue, the sound echoed faintly on the breeze, and the hair on the back of Sylvanas’ arms and neck stood on end. 

The fang hung from its string over the runes, suspended in air even when Jaina let go of it. As soon as she finished mumbling whatever spell she was casting, the fang dropped to the ground with surprising weight, heavy as a lodestone. 

Clearing her throat, Jaina picked up the fang and stood. She casually handed it back to Sylvanas as though nothing out of the ordinary had just happened. “There,” Jaina said. “If you ask this token nicely, it will now teleport you to this spot.” She indicated the runes on the ground with her foot. “And when you use it again, it will return you to the exact location you were before.” 

Rather than be pleased, Sylvanas glared at her. “You couldn’t have given this to me sooner? You know it takes at least three days to get here?”

“I didn’t trust you sooner.”

With a disdainful sniff, Sylvanas nevertheless stuck the fang back into her pouch. “I don’t suppose you have a map inside? We should go over a few things while I’m here.”

“I do. But I was rather hoping to take a bath before it grows dark. In case you haven’t noticed -” Jaina gestured to the blood and mud caked onto her clothes, her arms and legs, even on her braid. “- I’m filthy.”

“Tomorrow?” 

Jaina thought about it before saying, “I should be free in the evening, yes. So long as you don’t mind if I eat while we talk about military matters.” 

“Fine,” Sylvanas relented. "I meant what I said, by the way.”

Blinking in confusion, Jaina said, “About what?”

“Your cavalry numbers really are abysmal."

Jaina laughed.

--

When Jaina had said she needed to ‘ask the token nicely,’ Sylvanas hadn’t thought she had meant that literally. Standing in her private quarters at Swiftwind Post, Sylvanas held the fang by its string. 

"Take me to Jaina," she said. 

Nothing happened. 

With a scowl, she lifted it to eye level. "Take me to Jaina," she growled, then added, "Please."

There was a wrenching sensation in her gut, as though a harpoon had been lodged in her stomach and then yanked. A whirl of colour and darkness, and suddenly she was standing on the glyph of blood marked outside of Jaina's cabin. She stuffed the fang back into her pouch, then knocked on the door. 

Jaina opened it and waved her inside with a wooden cooking spoon, "Shoes off, please." 

It took Sylvanas a moment to rid herself of her greaves and boots, leaving them at the door along with her weapons. Jaina had already disappeared back inside. The skull mask greeted her on its hook by the exit. Closing the door behind her, Sylvanas stepped further into the living room.

The house was filled with the smells of cooking. Jaina was already spooning herself a serving of what appeared to be a hearty stew into a bowl. She did not offer any to Sylvanas. That suited Sylvanas just fine; she did not like eating unless absolutely necessary. Usually that necessity was due to the living wanting her to keep up appearances for their sake. She had not needed to eat to sustain herself for years. And ridding her stomach of whatever she consumed was always messy. 

This time, the table before the fireplace was stretched with a map of Drustvar. It was far more detailed than the one in Sylvanas' outposts. Extra notes had been scribbled here and there in Jaina's cramped handwriting. Most notably were the addition of extra sites that Sylvanas had never encountered during her time here. All with the 'Gol' preffix before their names. Drust sites, then. 

Jaina sat in the same chair she had frequented last time, gesturing for Sylvanas to take the nearby couch again. She tucked into her stew, balancing the bowl in her lap so she could study the map while she ate. "You'll be pleased to know that I've managed to levy an extra five hundred infantry."

Sylvanas' eyebrows rose. "Since yesterday, you mean?"

Spoon in her mouth, Jaina nodded smugly. 

"You work quickly," Sylvanas murmured. She sat on the couch, resting her elbows upon her knees and leaning over the map. She pointed at Fletcher's Hollow. "Ah, yes. I see them here. Do you have a spare pen I might use?"

"Mmm!" Jaina hummed a note of affirmation around a mouthful of food. She set the bowl down on the map, and went to bustle around a bookshelf. When she returned, she handed Sylvanas a quill and inkwell. 

"Thank you," Sylvanas murmured, taking the items. 

She pulled a small ledger from a pouch at her belt, a mirror of the larger one she kept at each Horde outpost. While she updated it, Jaina sat back down and returned to her meal. 

Sylvanas looked up from her notes. “I don’t suppose you’ve acquired any more cannons in the last twenty four hours as well?”

“We now have a total of fifty,” Jaina said. “And roughly two thousand artillerymen to man and supply them.” 

Flipping to another page in the little notebook, Sylvanas scratched a few figures onto the parchment. “Make it one hundred guns and four thousand artillerymen.”

“We can’t. We simply don’t have that number.”

Sylvanas shot her an exasperated look. “No, I am giving you those numbers.”

Eyes narrowing in suspicion, Jaina’s chewing slowed. She swallowed, then said, “You told me you weren’t storing munitions at your sites.”

Sylvanas blinked innocently at her. “I wasn’t.”

“Sylvanas.”

Lifting one shoulder in an elfin half shrug, Sylvanas said, “I was stowing them offshore. In Suramar, if you must know. And since it’s only four weeks to sail from Drustvar to Suramar, I ordered them to begin shipment three weeks ago. They will arrive here just in time for whatever action we may require.”

Jaina made an irritated noise.

“You can hardly be angry with me for being a bit inventive,” Sylvanas said.

“I can. And I will.”

In reply Sylvanas rolled her eyes. She lowered the notebook and pen into her lap, hand poised to continue writing. “I received news from Zandalar recently. We managed to sign a treaty. They are now going to be counted among the ranks of the Horde. Which means we’ll have ships to help break the siege of Fallhaven come spring.”

Slowly Jaina lowered her spoon back into her bowl. She regarded Sylvanas carefully. “Congratulations, I suppose.”

“Thank you.” 

“Another notch for your belt.”

Sylvanas sniffed. “How crude.” 

“But true.” Setting aside her bowl as though she had lost her appetite, Jaina said, “Don’t ship them off just yet. I’ll need to ensure we can properly support them. Food isn’t a problem of course, but other supplies might be.” 

“And how many battlemages do you have in total now?” Sylvanas asked.

“House Waycrest has none they can spare. Many either died during the incursion a few years ago, or are no longer able to fight. Too young. Too old. Too injured.” Crossing her legs and leaning back in her seat, Jaina said, “But I personally have about forty druids that we can field. Including myself.” 

Sylvanas could feel her eyebrows rise in spite of herself. Back when she was the Ranger-General of Silvermoon, battlemages were parcelled out to her very rarely. She’d had to rely far more heavily upon standardised artillery than upon mages in wartime. Even now as Warchief of the Horde, having forty mages attached to a single division was -- in short -- a luxury. 

Mages were both like and unlike fancy artillery pieces. On the one hand, you couldn’t just order in a new set from some goblin factory. But on the other hand, they could win you the battle through feats of raw firepower alone. Quite literally, in some cases. 

“And you expect that we won’t finish until next year?” Sylvanas said incredulously. “When you have forty battlemages?” 

“Druids,” Jaina corrected. 

Sylvanas waved away the technicality. “Do the Ashvanes even have battlemages of their own?”

“We have to assume they are still using Tidesages for now.” Sighing, Jaina rubbed at her forehead. “Have your backup artillery and soldiers ready to march for Barrowknoll soon. We’ll group just north of Swiftwind Post, and move from there.” 

“Have there been any Ashvane movements that I should be aware of?”

“None yet. But there will be. Call it a hunch.”

“One you can see from orbit.” Checking to see if her words were dry on the pages, Sylvanas set aside the quill and ink. She snapped her little notebook shut. “In any case, you look tired, and I should take my leave for the evening.” 

Still kneading at her brow, Jaina gave a little murmur of appreciation. Sylvanas rose to her feet and turned to leave. Jaina said nothing further on her way out, though Sylvanas paused at in the entryway. 

The skull mask watched her. And just below it on the ground was the singed little wicker effigy made by Mace. She had not noticed it when she had first entered the cabin. Now, a chill raced across her skin. She glanced over her shoulder, but Jaina was scowling down at the map and scrawling more notes on its surface. 

Jaina must have felt the weight of Sylvanas' gaze upon her, for suddenly she looked up. She smiled, but it did not seem to reach her eyes. "Good night. Will you come around again tomorrow."

"The day after," Sylvanas answered. "I have a few things of my own to attend to."

"I look forward to it."

Yanking open the door, Sylvanas stepped outside and left. 

--

Even when she had been alive, she had always been suspicious of events going according to plan. There was always something that threw a wrench into the mix, so to speak. Over the next week, Sylvanas kept a watchful eye out for any such wrench, and was stymied when she could not find it. 

The ships from Suramar arrived, slipping up the eastern coast of Drustvar and past the Ashvane forces without any hassle, even though Sylvanas had contingency plans put in place just in case. Her rangers were not needed to save the ships from a watery grave, and the arrival of guns and artillerymen were well received. Jaina and Lucille had both been equal parts thrilled and relieved to hear the news. 

Mostly relieved, if she were being honest. And she could hardly blame them. One could never have too much artillery. Back when she had been Ranger-General of Silvermoon, her troops had teased her for her increased emphasis on artillery, calling them 'Windrunner's Kings.' The artillery division had even given themselves patches with a crown insignia on their uniforms, a fact which Sylvanas had always dreaded would make its way back to Kael'thas one day. And indeed there had been political hell to pay for a few years when it had. 

The arrival of more artillery did little to brighten her mood, however. Sylvanas approached the Highmountain Druid assigned to Katherine one day, questioning him about the Drust. He proved himself next to useless. While he thought the Drust odd, he could find no fault with their magic even if it was rather more macabre than most other Druidic schools. When he started droning on about 'the balance between life and death' and 'the fascinating equilibrium of mortality,' Sylvanas lost all interest. 

If there was one thing she had never been good at, it was listening to long-winded explanations of magic. And Druids were the worst sort. Always on about vague mysticism this, and restoring the balance that. What drivel. 

Jaina herself was no help either. Now that Sylvanas could take frequent visits without wasting precious time, she did so. Based on how long it had taken her to convince Jaina to agree to this arrangement in the first place, Sylvanas had prepared herself for the worst. As it turned out, Jaina was surprisingly cooperative now. Mostly this seemed to extend to the fact that Sylvanas had not told Katherine about her daughter. 

And even Katherine was not as difficult to deal with as Sylvanas had originally thought. The world really was coming to an end. When Sylvanas started probing for more information about the information Katherine had received during the Drust incursion, the Lord Admiral merely leaned back in her chair before the fireplace with a mournful look.

“This is what you interrupted my game of cards for?” Katherine asked, though she sounded more weary than belligerent. “I would have beaten your little Ranger again, too, given a few more minutes.”

“I have no doubt of that. Tea?” Sylvanas offered a cup, pouring it from a pot and adding a splash of milk. It had been how she’d lured Katherine away in the first place. 

“Thank you.” Katherine held out her hand and took the cup and saucer. “Why the sudden interest in the Drust incursion?”

Sylvanas propped her ankle atop her opposite knee, sitting with one leg splayed. She did not partake in any tea herself. “Originally, I’d thought you only had two children, but I’ve recently learned you had three. A daughter. Jaina.” 

The cup stopped dead in its tracks before Katherine could take that first sip. She set it back upon its saucer, then balanced both atop the arm of her chair. “I did,” she said softly. 

“What happened?” Sylvanas asked. She kept her voice delicate and aloof.

With a sigh, Katherine picked up the cane that was leaning against her bad leg. For a moment Sylvanas thought she was going to push herself upright and hobble away, but Katherine only turned the cane between her fingers, as though admiring the falcon head wrought from pure polished silver. “It’s not that complicated, really. She developed magical talents very young. Her father and I fought about it. There’s no magic blood innate in his side of the family, you see. So, of course it was all my fault. And then he wanted to cloister her away with the Tidesages, to live out her days as some mute, robed Sister.”

Katherine snorted in derision and shook her head, falling silent. Sylvanas said nothing. She waited for her to continue. 

“I thought that by sending her away to the Drust, I was protecting her. And then -” Katherine gave a wave of her hand. “For naught. In the end, I might as well have let Daelin send her to the Monastery. Grief comes for you in strange ways,” she mused, fiddling with her cane. “The news came to me over a week after she had died. Somehow, the idea of her being alive was a hope in and of itself. And after I knew she was gone, I saw emptiness everywhere.” Then she gave an unexpected snort. “I was even sad to hear the Old Bear had passed away.”

“Old Bear?” Sylvanas repeated, puzzled.

“Ulfar. The last of the great High Thornspeakers.” Katherine smiled wistfully at the flames dancing in the hearth. “I remember my grandfather telling me tales when I was a child of Ulfar haunting the forests and mountains. A great bear lashed together by bone and vines that would protect the animals from greedy hunters by eating their livers.” 

She chortled, and Sylvanas shot her a puzzled look. Kul Tirans had a very queer sense of whimsy, indeed.

“From what I understand,” Sylvanas said. “The last time she was seen in Boralus was at her brother’s gallows.”

Katherine went white. She jerked in her seat so suddenly she nearly sent the teacup and saucer crashing onto the floor. “Who told you that?”

In reply, Sylvanas only shrugged. 

Setting down her cane to steady the cup, Katherine took a moment to collect herself. She fussed over the spot of tea she had spilled onto the saucer before answering, “Whoever your sources are, they’re very good.”

“They also wish to remain anonymous,” Sylvanas said. 

“Hmm.” Katherine pursed her lips. She took a sip of the tea. “It’s true. And she was wroth with me. As wrathful as only a child can be. But it served its purpose.”

“What purpose?”

“Well, she never did try to come back when her father was still Lord Admiral, did she?” Katherine gave her a thin smile and added, “Better angry with me and alive, than the alternative.”

--

Through the second story window, Sylvanas was overlooking the valley below Swiftwind Post when she received the news. In her hand, she toyed with the fang token, rolling the texture of it between her fingers. She hummed to herself idly, a half forgotten tune of home. The notes lingered in the dusty corners of the room that she called her own here in Drustvar. This place could not have been less like Quel’Thalas, yet the memory of home had washed over her today like a storm. 

“You’re in a good mood,” remarked Nathanos from the doorway behind her. 

The song trailed off in the back of her throat, but her next words still held onto it, as though reluctant to let it go. "There's no threat of the Legion. We have signed a treaty with Zandalar. We have the Alliance on the back foot. And we are on the cusp of instigating a revolt in foreign lands." Sylvanas said. Her reflection in the glass smiled, and she turned around to face him. "I haven't had this much fun in years."

"Perhaps I should caution you on having too much fun." Nathanos gave Jaina’s token a pointed look.

Sylvanas stiffened. Her hand gripped the fang so tightly she could feel its point dig into the leather of her glove. She aimed a glower at him and stashed the token away again. All levity vanished. "And perhaps you should hold your tongue."

He inclined his head in a quiet apology. But what he said was, “I do not share your ease, I’m afraid. This whole situation feels off. I keep expecting to find something behind every corner. Like a Draenei nesting doll. Hosts within hosts within hosts.”

Her mouth twisted to one side, but her ears cocked inquisitively. “Yes,” she said. “I can understand that sentiment.” 

Nathanos held up a small scroll, the kind that was usually wrapped around Arthur’s leg. “The High Thornspeaker has sent another message.” 

In reply, Sylvanas held out her hand. He crossed the room and gave it to her, then stood back in respectful silence while she unfurled it. Her crimson gaze skimmed across the message. She looked at him over the scroll, then handed it back to him. 

“Assemble the troops,” she said. “We march on Barrowknoll tomorrow morning.” 

With a bow, Nathanos turned heel and left to do as ordered. 

It took two days for a division of twelve thousand soldiers to march west for the hills due south of Barrowknoll. Sylvanas was used to personally commanding more impressive forces -- at the very least whole corps fifty thousand strong -- but she had fond memories of smaller detachments like this. Back when little had been expected of her, when her older sister was next in line to inherit the title of Ranger-General of Silvermoon, and Sylvanas was left to the excitement of border skirmishes and tactical missions with a trusted coterie of colonels and captains at her beck and call. 

Now, Sylvanas rode, bored, at the head of a force her younger self would have been eager to command. The horse beneath her clattered softly with every step, the rattle of its bones muted only somewhat by a saddle and royal drapery. She had been able to summon a skeletal horse to ride. This far east, Jaina’s iron-clad will over the dead was not as strong as it was in the heart of the Crimson Forest, allowing Sylvanas to snap her fingers and bones to rush from the ground with soothing familiarity. 

What wasn’t so soothing was the Lord Admiral’s presence at her side. Katherine rode as though she had been born in a saddle. Her wound did little to diminish her skill. Her bad leg was set in a brace, and her silver-headed cane strapped where a cavalry sword would have normally sat for easy access. She wasn’t the chatty sort -- thank the Sun -- but Sylvanas always had the impression that Katherine’s silences were secretly passing judgement. As though every order Sylvanas issued could have somehow been improved. Sylvanas ignored her as best she could, speaking instead to her rangers to pass the time.

On the end of the second day, they met Jaina and Lucille at the foothills southeast of the pass from Arom’s Stand. The two divisions combined created a motley army, all a-clash with colour and equipment. If Sylvanas had been younger -- and alive-- the lack of standardisation and coherence would have given her hives. As it was, she merely wrinkled her nose.

Sylvanas was already ordering camp to be made for the night, when Jaina and Lucille rode up to greet them. While Lucille sat astride a smoke-dark charger, Jaina’s mount was a more unconventional stag. It looked like the Wild God from the forest, but smaller and with a less lustrous white coat -- an offspring of Athair, perhaps. With her skull mask, and her dark mantle of leaves, and a massive raven perched on her shoulder, she looked every inch a High Thornspeaker. 

Straightening in her saddle, Sylvanas said, “You’re not looking so unkempt today, Arthur. Did you finally discover the joys of a bath?”

The raven on Jaina’s shoulder snapped its beak in reply. Sylvanas lifted an eyebrow in surprise. 

"That's enough of that now, Adalyn," Jaina chided. Then she turned to Sylvanas. "Don't mind her. She's just very protective."

"I can see that,” Sylvanas murmured. “I trust the mountains weren’t too difficult to cross?”

Lucille shrugged and answered, “They could have been worse. We won’t be getting back over them anytime soon, though.” 

At Sylvanas’ side, Katherine shortened her grip on the reins when her horse stamped an impatient hoof and began pawing at the soft ground. “You must be the new High Thornspeaker.” She nodded curtly to Jaina in a greeting. "Katherine Proudmoore. Lord Admiral."

"I know," Jaina answered. Her voice was even and cool.

Frowning in confusion at this chilly reception, Katherine remarked, "You're not a bear. Or any other type of animal."

"No. But I can be."

"And what is your name?" Katherine asked.

Jaina's answer was wintry. "You may call me: High Thornspeaker."

An uncomfortable silence descended over them. Eventually, Lucille cleared her throat awkwardly and jerked her head for Katherine to follow her. “If you’d like to come with me, Katherine.”

“I think I would.” Katherine shot Jaina one last puzzled look, then kneed her horse to trail after Lucille’s. The two of them rode off towards the Waycrest camp.

Sylvanas watched them go. “Follow them,” she said to Velonara and Tatanka. “Keep reporting back, as you have been.”

Both nodded, and went after the pair, leaving Jaina and Sylvanas alone. Apart from Adalyn, who continued to glower at Sylvanas with a peculiarly corvid intensity, and Nathanos, who matched Jaina’s raven bodyguard glare for glare. 

“Well then,” Sylvanas said after another moment of awkward silence. “I thought that was a good start.”

“Don’t,” Jaina warned, her tone dark and echoing beneath the mask. 

“I am being very sincere right now.”

“Sylvanas.”

Throwing caution to the wind, Sylvanas continued talking, “To be honest, I am disappointed. There wasn’t a single punch thrown.” 

And with a sound of disgust, Jaina wheeled her stag around, riding off towards her own Drust troops. 

After she had gone, Nathanos said, “Remember what I said about having too much fun?”

“In fact, I had already forgotten,” Sylvanas drawled. “But I am sure you’ll remind me.”

He bowed in the saddle. “Only doing my duty for my Queen.” 

“Yes, that is the problem.”

--

On the third day, they rode north, abandoning their hold on anything further south than Swiftwind Post. The only thing Sylvanas thought they had accomplished by holding out for so long to the south was depleting Asvhane’s resources. It seemed to do very little however. House Ashvane had very deep pockets, and a liberal manner with gold. Indeed, a few Waycrest troops had been lured over to wear the red by virtue of higher pay alone. Sylvanas had thought Jaina would be angry at this blatant act of disloyalty, but when Velonara reported back on figures lost, Jaina just sighed and updated her ledgers.

By mid morning of the fourth day, their combined forces had at last reached Barrowknoll. Rising up on her stirrups, Sylvanas looked out across the fields. The river Reilig wended its way through the town of Barrownknoll, forded by two bridges, both heavily guarded by Ashvane forces to the east. There would be no crossing there. Not without a bloody battle on their hands. Bloodier by far than what they could hope for here at the town proper. On the easternmost side of the town, a graveyard sprawled with tombstones of various sizes and states of weathering. It surrounded a church, which milled with artillerymen loading carts of munitions onto oxen-pulled wagons. Further east on their side of the river, a swamp spread in a great mass, extending nearly all the way to the first bridge. 

The only feature worth taking at this point was a rolling hill just south of the riverbend in which Barrowknoll was nestled. Pulling sharply back on the reins, Sylvanas nodded towards the hill. “We should establish our artillery there and shell the town.”

“I agree,” Jaina said promptly, while Katherine nodded in approval. 

“Are we confident the town has been evacuated of all civilians?” Lucille asked.

“Do you hear that, Velonara?” Sylvanas drawled. “Lady Waycrest doubts your reconnaissance.” 

“That’s not -! No, I just mean -!” Lucille spluttered, while Sylvanas and Velonara watched her flounder with amusement. 

Poor girl. She wouldn’t have survived five minutes in an elvish army. The teasing would have killed her stone dead. 

Jaina did not let this go on for long. “I’ve had a raven fly over the area closely. There are no civilians. They’ve all fled north to Fallhaven.”

Casting her a curious glance, Sylvanas asked, “Arthur?” 

But Jaina shook her head. “No. He wanted to fight. He’s in the infantry ranks.”

Sylvanas opened her mouth, realised she was going to protest, and then closed it again with a frown. 

Meanwhile, Katherine had spurred her horse forward. “Well, what are we waiting for? Let’s set up the artillery, and then rain fire down on these bastards.”

A number of guardsmen, including the Highmountain Druid Sylvanas had assigned, went trotting after Katherine’s horse as she rode towards the hill. Lucille followed, pulling her horse up beside Katherine, who had already begun barking out curt decisive orders with the kind of inherent authority that had Waycrest officers leaping to attention. 

Sylvanas watched all this, and said aside to Jaina in a low voice so that her words would not carry, “Your mother certainly has spirit.”

She couldn’t see any expression beneath the mask, but Jaina’s head turned towards her with a distinctly exasperated air. And rather than reply, Jaina urged the stag to chase after Lucille and Katherine. 

It took the better part of three hours to get all of the artillery into place. Oxen pulling massive carts strained at their yokes, leaving deep grooves in the wet earth behind them. Their handlers hauled at their nose rings, coaxing the oxen up the hill and into position where their goods could be unloaded. While the artillerymen carefully placed their cannons and took measurements to judge the range between them and the town, the rest of the army began to dig into the southeast of the hill in anticipation of battle. Only a stone’s throw away from their artillery, but sheltered enough by the slope that they would not be caught in the enemy crossfire. 

Sylvanas trained a spyglass on the enemy within the town, watching them do much the same. Soldiers in bold red coats scurried about in front of the church and all along the bend of the riverbank. They peered down the length of their own tools and and spyglasses. They adjusted their guns to point just so, reacting to every new order given by the unlikely Alliance between the Drust, House Waycrest, and the Horde. By the end, both battalions were sweating despite the cold damp atmosphere of Drustvar, and not a single shot had been fired yet. 

By the time they started exchanging barrages, the groundworks were nearing completion and Katherine was being poured her first cup of tea. The roar of the cannons was so loud it made the air tremble. Katherine spilled tea all down the front of her greatcoat.

“Oh, blast!” She swore. "They couldn't have warned us before they started?"

“I would have thought you’d be used to a bit of cannon fire by now,” Lucille pointed out.

Katherine scoffed. “It doesn’t work like that.” When Tatanka passed her a delicately embroidered handkerchief from one of his pouches, she murmured, “Thank you, my dear.”

When Sylvanas shot him an odd look, the Tauren shrugged his massive shoulders. “She made it for me.”

“That does not make this any better,” she growled.

“Oh, do calm down,” Katherine sighed. “Have a cup with me. You too, over there.” She waved over Jaina. “Or do you really never take off that bloody thing?”

Upon being addressed by her mother, Jaina’s already rigid posture seemed to go impossibly more tense. She mutely shook her head, turned, and strode away towards the Horde and Drust troops, which were working further east along the battlements. 

Lifting her now refilled up of tea to her lips, Katherine sipped contemplatively. She studied Jaina’s retreating back over the rim of her cup. “Your High Thornspeaker isn't very talkative," she remarked to Lucille.

“Ah, no,” said Lucille. “I mean -- sometimes she can be a bit -- well, she’s very -- uhm --”

At a loss for what to say and not give everything away, she cast Sylvanas an imploring glance. Shaking her head in exasperation, Sylvanas went back to her skeletal horse and lifted herself easily into the saddle. She tugged at the reins, wheeling the steed sharply around, and said to Lucille, “Give me your cavalry.” 

Lucille blinked up at her. “What for?”

“For their primary purpose: scouting.” 

“Just give them to her,” Katherine said. “She’s going to be boorish about it. I can tell. Always needs something to do, that one.” 

Sylvanas didn’t dignify that with a response. She waited for Lucille’s reply. 

“Very well,” Lucille relented. “Go. Scout.”

“Velonara, stay here. Nathanos, keep our High Thornspeaker company. Anya, with me.” Pointing to each of them in turn, Sylvanas did not wait for Anya to mount up before she was urging her skeletal horse forward. She could hear Anya swearing in Thalassian behind her as she tried to mount up and follow quickly enough. 

The cavalry Captain, a burly bearded man by the name of Hayles, was puzzled and initially suspicious of being ordered about by the likes of the Warchief of the Horde. But he did not question it much, despite his obvious displeasure. When Sylvanas fixed him with a crimson glare, he shoved his helm onto his head and mounted up with the rest of his battalion, grumbling all the while. 

Sylvanas led them towards the river Reilig, sweeping wide of the bend to avoid the back and forth barrage of artillery fire between the two sides. Even so, sprays of mud would explode near enough for the living horses to shy. The cavalrymen had quick hands on their reins, easily holding formation as they rode. 

There was a fork in the river on the western side of the town. Sylvanas pulled her skeletal steed to a halt at the first branch, then rode up and down the bank a few paces. She stood up in her stirrups to get a better look at the water until she found a suitable spot. 

"Here," she said, digging her heels into the horse's bare ribs out of habit alone. It only needed the lightest of touch at the reins to do her bidding.

The skeletal mount splashed out into the water, fording the river. Hayles, Anya, and the others followed. At the deepest point of these shallows, the water just barely reached the horses’ chests. Deep enough to dissuade an infantry advance, but not deep enough to completely discount it. Certainly easy enough to ford for cavalry. 

On the other side of the river, the Ashvane troops had long since noticed their presence. Now, red and white coated cavalry in far greater numbers than their own shadowed their movements. Hayles kept a grim eye upon them, drawing his sabre and resting it expertly against his shoulder as he rode a length behind Sylvanas. Meanwhile, she ignored the enemy cavalry utterly for now, paying more attention to the landscape. 

The next branch in the fork was shallower still than the first. She kept her distance. The Ashvane cavalry captain across the way was close enough that she could see the eagerness on his face beneath his crested helm. He appeared young. Hungry for a fight. Clearly he believed his numbers advantage would win him anything. He didn't realise exactly who it was that waited for him on the other side of the water. For a moment Sylvanas considered baiting him across the river for a bit of a skirmish just for the fun of it -- she had been cooped up for far too long on these rain-lousy islands, and the idea of luring a headstrong youth to his untimely demise was, admittedly, very appealing -- but eventually after a few hours of scouting and posturing, she turned the cavalry battalion back towards the southeast. She could almost hear the sigh of relief from Hayles behind her. 

The artillery barrage had not slowed during their time along the Reilig. They had arrived in the late morning, and already the sun was beginning its descent towards the horizon behind the thick bank of cloud that covered the sky. All along the fields between the hill and the town, the earth was churned up with great gouge marks from the cannonballs ripping into the ground. In the distance, the town's buildings had been mostly reduced to rubble. Only a few houses furthest away from the river had escaped unscathed. The church's belltower had collapsed. Holes riddled its wooden roof, and the air was filled with an acrid smoke so thick it was difficult to see the enemy artillerymen loading their guns. 

The cavalry had to weave their way between patches of relatively flat earth so that the horses would not break their legs. Much to Sylvanas' dismay, a drizzle had started up. The craters in the ground were starting to fill with water. Her own cloak was thoroughly damp as well. She would give her ears a periodic flick to rid them of rain, to very little effect. Anya would do the same. Hayles and the rest of the Waycrest cavalry on the other hand seemed unperturbed by the change in weather.

As they rode up behind the artillery, Sylvanas could see that the infantry had made temporary camp behind their groundworks. Soldiers were beginning to serve themselves dinner, settling in for a long evening. Every few minutes, a cannon would go off with a recoil that shoved the entire artillery piece back a few meters, and a group of twenty to thirty men would rush about like a swarm of bees to get it back into position for another round of firing. After each blast, a flinch would shiver through the ranks of infantry and cavalry nearby. Sylvanas could tell just by the reactions which were veterans and which were green bloods. 

Most, she was pleased to see, appeared to have seen battle before. Surprising, considering how quickly Lucille had levied troops. The Ashvane ranks would be filled with new blood. The Navy marines would be tied to Lord Stormsong now, and Lady Ashvane would have thrown gold around to attract anyone young and foolish enough to have a gun shoved into their hands and a red coat draped across their shoulders. 

When Sylvanas dismounted and dismissed Captain Hayles for the evening, he grudgingly saluted with his sabre before sheathing it once more at his saddle. Meanwhile, Anya was already chatting up a few of the lower ranked cavalrymen, who were easily won over by a pretty face and the idea that they would get a few games of whist with their supper. Sylvanas left them to their fate -- knowing full well that Anya would clean out their pockets and leave them high and dry before the night's end -- and went in search of the command tent. 

No less than four guardsmen flanked the command tent's entrance. On one side, the Highmountain druid assigned to Katherine and a Forsaken heavy infantryman. On the other, a Waycrest guard in full plate and a Drust in the form of a sabre cat. The Drust sat on the ground like a sphynx, its gnarled, branch-like paws crossed almost primly. It glowered balefully at Sylvanas as she approached. 

"Good evening, Adalyn," Sylvanas greeted dryly.

A rumbling growl rolled from Adalyn's fanged mouth in response. 

Sylvanas ducked beneath the tent flap and entered. Inside, Lucille, Katherine and Velonara had their heads bent over a table bearing a detailed map of the area. Lucille was drawing notes directly onto the map with careful penmanship, while Katherine pointed to various places with a murmur and a frown. On the other side of the tent, Nathanos and Jaina were engaged in an unlikely alliance, conversing softly together in their own corner. Jaina of course still wore her mask. Luckily whoever had erected the tent had taken this into account, and made the ceiling high enough that neither she nor the Tauren outside would be at risk of puncturing the canvas with a stray antler. 

The moment Sylvanas stepped inside, all heads turned in her direction. She took a moment to clean off her muddy boots before venturing further in, but she still left prints in the rugs that had been strategically placed along the ground. 

"Did you learn anything of interest?" Katherine asked immediately. 

"I did." 

Sylvanas crossed over to the table. She was joined by Jaina and Nathanos so that they all crowded around the map. They stood so close together that Jaina's elbow jostled her own. Sylvanas made a motion towards Lucille, who handed over the pen. When she tried to mark the map however, she had to dip the nib into fresh ink before trying again.

"On the banks of the loop nearest enemy territory, the Ashvanes have built up groundworks anticipating a frontal assault on the church." Sylvanas drew a crescent-shaped line while she spoke. "Meanwhile to the west there are two areas where the river can easily be forded, should we decide to attack in that direction instead."

Leaning heavily on her cane, Katherine jerked her head towards the cluster of Waycrest troops represented by black tokens. Currently they were sitting alongside the green and purple tokens denoting the Drust and Horde forces respectively. "Lucille and I will ford the river. We'll take the Waycrest infantry and cavalry, and make the Ashvanes think we're going to push hard for their flank. They'll need to divert quite a few men to head us off. That should thin their ranks enough for you to take the town in a frontal assault."

When Lucille's name was spoken, she glanced at Katherine. Not with surprise, which Sylvanas had expected, but with gratitude that there would be an experienced guiding hand helping her along. She leaned forward to arrange the tokens as Katherine had suggested. When she had done so, suddenly the Ashvane forces holding the town were equal to the Drust and Horde's. They would still be holding a defensible position, though. And the numbers advantage granted by the Waycrest movements was better than mother, but unideal.. 

"Be aggressive, but not too aggressive," Jaina said. "I would hate to see the Lord Admiral shot down in a land battle." 

Katherine let loose a bark of laughter. "No. You're right. A Lord Admiral should die at sea, as the Tides intended." 

Remaining silent, Sylvanas licked at the backs of her teeth in a contemplative manner. Nathanos was watching her carefully. "Is there something wrong, my Queen?"

Sylvanas narrowed her eyes at the map. "No," she murmured after a moment. "It's a good plan. We will go ahead with it."

Katherine gave a curt nod, pleased at her plan being so easily approved by the others. "Well, Lucille," she said, starting to limp towards the exit. "We ought to find our own tents before it gets too late. Nothing like a poor night's sleep to ruin a battle."

"I will show you to yours." Lucille very nearly hopped to attention to follow after her.

In another life, she would have made an excellent Captain, given the chance and the right commander. Eager to please, but ultimately lacking in her own vision. Sylvanas had known many Ranger-Captains like her. Had she not been born to a Great House, she doubtlessly would have lived an unremarkable life. Which, to her credit, probably would have been preferable to the excitement that had already been crammed into her life so far. 

Turning to Nathanos and Velonara, Sylvanas said, "Give the orders. Make sure the officers know the plan."

With a bow, they too left. 

Outside, the non-stop clamour of artillery had crept to a desultory halt. Both sides would have been running low on munitions, keeping enough for the battle proper, but otherwise finished trading blows for now. The lamps that had been lit in the tent were now necessary to see, as night had swept over Drustvar. The sounds of soldiers and oxen and horses wound their way through the canvas walls. There was no such thing as privacy in a military camp. Everyone practically atop everyone else. And at any moment, someone might burst into the tent with report of enemy movements. 

Sylvanas picked up one of the red Ashvane tokens from the centre of the town map, and frowned at it. 

"Nathanos was right," Jaina said. "Something is troubling you."

Though the tent was now empty but for the two of them, Jaina had not moved away; they still stood close enough together that their arms brushed. Shaking her head, Sylvanas set the token back down, angling it so that the line of Waycrest forces was curved in an encircling crescent across the Reilig. 

"No," she said. "It’s fine."

The skull mask watched her impassively. "You're lying again. You know, I thought you'd be better at this."

"Battle?"

"No. Lying."

Shooting her an ugly look, Sylvanas rounded the table and headed for the exit. "You're the only person who's ever told me that."

"Not even your siblings?" Jaina followed, ducking to get through the canvas flap after Sylvanas. 

"We are not talking about my family," Sylvanas said firmly. 

That comment earned her an odd look from the remaining guards outside of the tent. Straightening her shoulders, Sylvanas stalked off in the direction of the artillery still lined up along the hill. She heard Jaina murmur something to Adalyn, and then footsteps trailing after her. The stench of gunsmoke still burned in the air, but it was fading. The winds were not as harsh here as they were further south. At least her Rangers would be pleased by this change of pace. 

She stopped when she had a good view of the town. Firelight flickered like motes of dust through the darkness. With the moon hidden behind a bank of cloud, the river snaked across the landscape, darkly gleaming. 

"I didn't think you would be the type to run away from a situation you didn't like," said Jaina's voice behind her. Jaina herself stepped forward so that they stood side by side, facing Barrowknoll. 

"The irony of you saying that does not escape me," Sylvanas countered. 

"At least I'm honest with myself."

"Do you always look for a fight when you're nervous?"

"I'm not looking for a fight."

"Then you might consider not baiting me further." Sylvanas' voice slipped to a lower note, something more dangerous. A warning. 

Jaina had no reply to that. They fell silent. Sylvanas was content to let that silence stretch, when Jaina asked, "What would you do, if you were me?"

Glancing over at her, Sylvanas raised her eyebrows. “You’re actually asking my opinion?”

“You’re here, aren’t you?”

“When has that ever made a difference?” 

“I’m curious. Indulge me.” When Sylvanas still said nothing, Jaina sighed. “You didn’t like my mother’s plan. Why?”

“I liked it just fine,” said Sylvanas evasively. “It’s very conventional.”

“But you don’t like conventional and obviously would do something different.”

Turning her eyes back to Barrowknoll, Sylvanas scanned the area for weaknesses through the gloom. The Ashvanes had gotten the upper hand in every regard. They had cut off the retreat to Fallhaven. They had taken the defensible position. They had more munitions, more soldiers, more time. Even if they simply waited, the combined Wacyrest, Horde and Drust forces would need to give up and find shelter or risk losing their lives to ice and disease through winter.

Well, the Waycrest and Drust, perhaps. Not her Undead. And maybe not the Drust, now that she thought about it. 

Sylvanas nodded, pointing to the east. “That swamp. They’re treating it like it’s an impassable wall. I would order the cavalry to screen our left flank. Then, I would throw everything at the centre, draw the enemy in, and when the fighting to the south starts to thicken, I would send an unarmoured division across by foot to flank them by surprise.”

“The artillery wouldn’t be able to support them,” Jaina said. “There’s no way you're getting cannons into that bog.”

With a shrug, Sylvanas replied, “If their sacrifice would mean my victory, then so be it.”

“Such sacrifices aren’t always necessary. And from what I understand, there aren’t many of your people that remain.”

“And to which people would you be referring?”

“You know which.” 

Pursing her lips, Sylvanas gazed out over the night-darkened fields. Beside her Jaina shifted her staff between her hands almost nervously. Noticing this, Sylvanas remarked, “You haven’t seen much battle, have you?”

“Not as much as you, perhaps. But I’ve seen enough,” Jaina answered, her tone grim. “Enough to know that being a military leader is not my first choice of professions, by any stretch of the imagination. Unlike some of us.”

Sylvanas peered sidelong at her. “You think I wanted to be Warchief? Or even Ranger-General, for that matter?” 

“I don’t -”

“No,” Sylvanas interrupted coolly. “You don’t. So, I would suggest you keep your assumptions to yourself.”

The skull mask swung towards her in silent contemplation. Finally, Jaina said, “you’re awfully good at being a war leader.”

With a soft grunt, Sylvanas looked back towards Barrowknoll. “People get good at what they do. In time, you will grow to be a perfectly serviceable Lord Admiral.”

A self-deprecating laugh was Jaina’s answer. “Well, I don’t know what I was so worried about, then. That’s high praise from you.”

“I have very exacting standards,” Sylvanas agreed. 

“Careful,” Jaina warned, and even though Sylvanas could not see her face her words were playful and chiding. “That’s twice you’ve flattered me, now. A girl might get ideas.”

It was Sylvanas’ turn for a huff of self-deprecating laughter, almost a scoff. She gave Jaina a dismissive wave. “Go. Try to get some sleep. My people and I will keep watch.” 

She expected some resistance, but Jaina simply inclined her head and left. 

The night was short, and nothing at all interesting happened. No raids. No alarms. The Ashvane forces were risking nothing for the sake of initiative. They kept their position, confident in their safety in numbers. They sent no more scouts. They slept until the first grey watery light of dawn crept over the horizon. 

They were, in short, complacent. Sylvanas liked that in an enemy. It was a refreshing change of pace. 

The morning was misty and dim. The foothills to the west appeared almost idyllic, until they sloped into the fields torn up by artillery fire. All through the night, the bold red medical tents had worked, tending to those wounded in the exchanging barrage. When the camp was packed up, the medical tents were some of the few that remained behind to continue their work away from the fight. 

By the time all the troops had been organised into position, it was only a few hours until midday. The sky remained overcast, but mercifully free of rain. Not that it helped much. The ground was still horrible and soggy. It reminded Sylvanas too much of fighting in the rainy jungles of Zul'Aman. She had bad memories of leather boots completely rotting away after being saturated with mud for weeks. 

Sylvanas was sitting atop her skeletal horse beside Jaina on her stag, when Anya rode up beside her. Breaking away from her conversation with Jaina, Sylvanas gave Anya a once-over. "I don't recall issuing you a Waycrest cavalry coat."

"I won it," Anya said smugly. 

"Along with a great many other things, I'm sure."

"There's a helmet that comes with it, too."

"Is this your way of telling me that you want to ride with Velonara in the Waycrest division?"

"No," Anya replied. "I will be guarding you while Nathanos heads the troops."

"Do I get any say in the matter?"

Anya did not answer.

"Wonderful," Sylvanas sighed. She shifted in her saddle to turn towards Jaina. "Whenever you are ready."

Jaina's deer stamped one of its cloven hooves. Her head slowly turned as she swept her gaze over the troops arranged on the field before them. A mass of uniform colour to their left being the Waycrest troops in three block formations, along with a cavalry screen. And a mismatch of Undead and Druids in various forms comprising the solid blocks of infantry directly ahead. Lucille and Katherine could be seen with the Waycrest cavalry, surrounded by a cluster of other officers on foot and on horseback. 

Jaina nodded towards their own cluster of officers in attendance. Flags were waved. Trumpets were sounded. And the Waycrest forces began their march towards the river. 

In the town, large numbers of troops in red coats were broken up by the buildings. But in the fields behind them, even more Ashvane troops were arrayed in formation. Across the distance, more horns were raised, and the bulk of the Ashvane troops began to move in lockstep with the Waycrest's, both angling towards one another across the river. The only advantage of Katherine and Lucille's lesser numbers was that it allowed them to move more quickly.

Sylvanas leaned forward in her saddle to better watch as they forded the river before the Ashvane troops could cut off their advance. The moment the first Waycrest infantry had crossed the river, Sylvanas turned to one of the Forsaken officers nearby. "You there, get those guns firing again," she ordered. Then she said to another, "And you, sound the advance."

With a bony-handed salute, both of them trotted off to do as commanded. Soon, the artillerymen behind them were scurrying about the cannons. The first round of artillery fire of the morning sent a flock of startled birds into flight from the bog to their west. Sylvanas could feel the shudder of the earth even atop her horse. And then, they began to march. 

It was a slow steady plod through the mud. The officers brought up the rear just to the left of the advancing soldiers, leading a small cohort of reserve troops that would be able to accomplish very little on their own should it come to that. Enemy fire roared out in answer from the town. Cannons ripped through the advance, sending sprays of mud through the air flecked with blood and teeth as men fell screaming. But for every enemy shot, two were stalled by the presence of their own artillery blasting away at the town. More still were stopped completely by magical shields thrown up by clusters of Druids arranged along the infantry ranks for just that purpose. The shields flashed across the air in front of the advance, deflecting cannon balls into the mud, where they bounced away or cracked into pieces like shrapnel. 

One such cannon hurtled in the direction of the reserve troops, but Jaina raised her hand and it shattered in a fan of iron ore like a wave breaking against a pane of impenetrable glass. Sylvanas had never been so grateful to have mages fighting on her side. 

From the east, Sylvanas could hear the pop of shots fired. Her ears twitched towards the noise. She stood in her stirrups in an attempt to see what was happening, but the ground from Barrowknoll sloped gently upwards towards that direction. Lowering herself back into her saddle, she asked, "Do we have eyes on the Waycrest forces?" 

Jaina turned to Adalyn, who was trotting alongside the stag in the form of a sabre. "Go get vision and come back." 

Without question, Adalyn turned into a raven and swept off into the air. She returned a few minutes later and landed on Jaina's shoulder to whisper in her ear. 

"They have engaged in earnest," Jaina relayed to Sylvanas. "Nobody has given ground yet. The cavalry are attempting to outflank one another, but Hayles is holding his own." 

Sylvanas spoke directly to Adalyn. "Get flying again and keep us informed. I want to know exactly if and when someone starts to buckle." 

In response, the raven gave Sylvanas an extremely unpleasant look with one black and beady eye. But Jaina murmured something in a low tone. With a caw of complaint, Adalyn nevertheless took flight from Jaina's shoulders, wheeling back towards the east. 

The main advance on Barrowknoll slowed when they reached the river. Soldiers lifted their arms above their head to keep their muskets dry as they crossed. The Ashvane forces continued to fire from their position. Their artillery were beginning to run low on ammunition, but a line of muskets would aim and take fire over the groundworks, while others took shots from the second story of the ruined church, and even from the rooftops of nearby buildings. It may have just been a mound of dirt built as tall as a man and stretching in a crescent shape between the river and the town, but the earthworks was enough to give them cover for any returning fire launched in their direction. The Ashvane soldiers would duck back behind the earthworks when lightning was called from the sky, sending sprays of earth in all directions and leaving behind the stench of burnt ozone and flesh. 

Sylvanas and Jaina remained on the other side of the river with their reserve troops and cluster of officers. Even though Adalyn did as told and returned with regular updates on the enemy position, Sylvanas urged her skeletal horse to pace along the riverbanks to and fro. Anya shadowed her every movement, along with a few Forsaken and a Tauren in the form of a bear with streaks of green warpaint on his fur. Glowing crimson eyes trained along the fight, searching every angle for a hint of weakness. A gap, perhaps. A flagging flank. A faint faltering of morale. The stench of gunsmoke was acrid and thick. It clouded vision beyond a hundred yards even for her excellent eyesight. 

The Horde and Drust line were fighting to take the earthworks, both sides using the long mound of compacted dirt as cover, neither willing to commit to a charge, lest they be met with deadly resistance on the other side. 

"Find anything of interest?" Jaina asked when Sylvanas rode back to the reserve troops. 

Yanking on her reins and wheeling her horse around, Sylvanas shook her head. "Not yet. I still don't like our numbers. We need to find an advantage. Preferably more than one." 

In front of them, a surge of red-coated troops washed over the earthworks on their left with a battlecry for Kul Tiras. They scrambled atop the mound of dirt and shot down upon the Horde and Drust flank. Flashes of flame spouted from the muzzles of their muskets as the gunmen made space for infantry with pikes to push their advantage. The Ashvane pikemen shoved against their left flank like a wall of living spears, while the Forsaken chopped at the pikes with hooks and axes, or otherwise stabbed at exposed feet in an attempt to break the sudden counterpush. 

When the Horde and Drust flank began to cave slightly into a fish hook shape, Sylvanas tensed. She drew her bow from her back, hands steady and expression grim. Before she could fire a single shot however, a druid on the front lines of the left flank was stabbed in the shoulder with a spear. He flung back his head with a bellowing roar that shuddered the air. His body bristled and grew massive, and he swiped at the wall of spears mid-transformation into an enormous bear. Thunder careened from his paw, shattering a huge gap into the pikemen. He lunged through, his massive jaws closing around the throat of an Ashvane pikeman and shaking like a dog with a rat. Forsaken poured after him, using the space he created to push back the counterattack. Swords flashed, and the Ashvane pikemen trying to retreat back over the earthworks slipped in pools of their own blood. Forsaken soldiers fell upon them like wolves, hacking them to pieces before scrambling to pursue the rest over the artificial hillock. 

Slowly Sylvanas lowered her bow. "That was a welcome development, at least." 

Beside her, Jaina hummed in agreement. "The break between Lord Stormsong and Lady Ashvane is more serious than we thought." 

Sylvanas frowned at her. "What do you mean?" 

The skull turned and Jaina's voice was positively gleeful. "You didn't notice? That magic wasn't counteracted. They don't have Tidesages. Or if they do, they're certainly not here." 

Sylvanas' eyes widened in understanding. She wheeled her horse around to start giving commands, but Jaina beat her to it. 

"Concentrate what druids we have onto the front," Jaina snapped to an officer standing nearby. "Have them break up the enemy line. Tell them to expect only physical resistance." 

"What about those we've reserved as Healers?" the officer asked. 

"They can stay where they are," Jaina said. 

Immediately, the officer raised a hand to her temple in a salute, then rushed off to do as she was told. She took a group of the reserve troops to escort her across the river and relay the orders. Meanwhile, Jaina rounded on what remained of the reserve units. 

"The rest of you," she said, lifting her voice. They all straightened, their faces eager and steely beneath their helms. "Push hard into their right flank! I want that church taken as a foothold in the next hour! Go!" 

What remained of the officers began relaying orders to start the march. Soon, the reserve troops were crossing the river to support their forces on the left, where the fight was raging the thickest. The Ashvane forces were faltering, giving ground slowly but steadily. Word of the new orders must have reached the front lines, for lightning careened down from the sky with a deafening crack. It struck the church, where a group of Ashvane musketmen had been raining down shots onto the approaching Horde and Drust. Those that weren't struck dead, were left reeling, fumbling for cover as another blast of lightning rained down upon them. 

Sylvanas had slung her bow back over her shoulder, but her fingers itched for the weapon. Where she had seen no chaos to take advantage of before, she now saw it everywhere. Every hard-earned instinct and years of experience were telling her to leap into the fray, embolden the troops, take the victory for herself, as she knew she could. She was tightening her hand on the reins, preparing to do just that, when Jaina spoke beside her. 

"Sylvanas, I want you to come with me to the western banks." 

Her head jerked around, her long ears slanting back in a mixture of surprise and aversion. "What?" she asked. Rising up in her stirrups, she looked to the west, but saw nothing of interest. The Ashvane line was faltering directly to their left, but to their right, the enemy was still holding strong. "Why on earth would we go there?" 

"I mean to overrun them." 

"With what troops?" Sylvanas waved towards their left, where the reserve troops were starting to fight tooth and nail over the church, even as they repelled an attempted counterflank from a platoon of bold Ashvane musketmen hoping to catch them in enfilade fire. 

“Leave that to me.” 

Jaina started off towards the west without another word. Swearing, Sylvanas turned to Anya and said, "You stay here. Help Nathanos hold the line." 

Anya shook her head. She opened her mouth to protest, but Sylvanas cut her off. "That's not a question, Anya. You will do this." 

With a glower at her queen, Anya looked like she was going to fight against the order still, but eventually she turned back to the remaining small cluster of officers and began issuing commands. Satisfied, Sylvanas wheeled her skeletal horse around and followed Jaina. 

No troops followed them. Not even a handful of guards. Sylvanas kept a careful watch on the enemy through the gaps of buildings, but nobody was paying any attention to two people slipping away from the thick of the fight. They might as well have been deserters fleeing the battle. When they reached the swamp, Jaina dismounted and continued on foot, leaving her stag behind. Sylvanas jerked at her own reins and called after her, "What the hell are we doing out here?"

Jaina did not turn around. She continued picking her way through the bog. "You said you wanted another advantage? I’m getting us reinforcements."

"What reinforcements?"

"Just come along already."

Grinding her teeth, Sylvanas slipped from the saddle and trudged after her. The bog was a mess. There was very little hard ground upon which to stand. Tall tussock grass masqueraded as safety, only for Sylvanas' foot to plunge into hip deep water and mud. She had to claw her way out, cursing all the while. By the time Jaina stopped, the hems of her robes were drenched, and Sylvanas' armour would need a thorough cleaning all around. 

In Barrowknoll, the fighting continued. From here, Sylvanas could not see the Waycrest troops further east. She tried rising up on her toes, but only sank a few more inches into a bit of mud. 

"I am beginning to lose patience," Sylvanas hissed. 

Jaina ignored her. She was kneeling on the ground at the edge of a deep pool of water. She held out her hand towards Sylvanas. "Your knife. Give it to me."

"No." Sylvanas crossed her arms. "Explain first. Knife later."

"Really?" Jaina glanced at her in exasperation. When Sylvanas refused to budge, Jaina rolled her eyes. She gestured all around them. "You wanted to know what was so special about this place? Bogs are sacred burial sites for Drust. This one in particular was used for generations to inhume the Drust dead. Now, give me your knife."

With a frown, Sylvanas begrudgingly handed over the silver hunting knife. Jaina took it, and then pulled out a very familiar looking singed wicker man from a pocket of her cloak. She placed both before her, and then fumbled around in a pouch for another reagent. When she withdrew a stag's black and shrivelled heart, she placed it over the wicker man's chest. A quick flash of the blade over the back of her arm drew a bright line of blood along her skin, and then Jaina plunged the knife through the heart and the wicker man, staking them together. 

She began to mumble in an ancient tongue. The sound echoed from the depths of the skull mask, growing louder as though joined by a chorus, chanting the words back to her. The air around her writhed, and the wicker man caught alight. It began to burn beneath her hands, but the fire did not consume the wicker man the way it should, as though the mass of twigs were still resisting the touch of flame. 

And from the depths of the bog, a hand reached up. Sylvanas watched as more followed, and corpses began to drag themselves from the water and mud. Their bodies were preserved as though mummified, shrunken and wet, dyed dark from the peat. Bits of bone jutted from shoulders and arms, knees and spines. Jaina's droning chant reached its zenith, and an army of the dead rose to answer her call. 

Sylvanas stared. An undead nearest her waited blankly for a command, as did all the others. There was no sentience left within them. They were empty vessels. Ghouls animated by a greater will. 

Before her, Jaina rose to her feet. Through the dark sockets of the mask, her eyes blazed with pale fire. Leaving the wicker effigy burning upon the ground, she turned to Sylvanas. "Now, we can go." 

"How long will this spell last?"

"Until the fire burns out. We have only a few hours." Jaina stepped over the wicker man, looking towards Barrowknoll. "You will get your knife back, then."

Warily, Sylvanas followed as Jaina began to stride from the bog and towards the town. Thousands of ghouls shambled blindly after them. As they drew nearer fording the eastern side of the river, Ashvane troops began pointing furiously in their direction. An alarm was raised, a frantic horn blaring a single note over and over again as the red-coated soldiers attempted to rearrange themselves in time.

Clambering up onto the opposite shore, Jaina pointed at the line of red-coated soldiers and shouted a gutteral word in that ancient tongue. Behind her, the ghouls shrieked in response, an unearthly wail that Sylvanas had heard all too many times, before they rushed forward on all fours. Shots fired out from the lines of gunmen among the Ashvane ranks, but before they could get off even a second volley, the ghouls were upon them. No amount of shot could stop their charge. Musket balls embedded themselves in rotting flesh, accomplishing little. Rows of pikemen lowered their spears and tried to shove them back. Others still drew swords and began hacking at the undead masses. Impaled ghouls continued clawing their way down the spears, and severed arms twitched along the ground. 

Jaina herself waded into the thick of the fight. She towered over the shambling army of undead, bloodied, crowned in antlers, eyes blazing like twin points of flame. When she swept her hand, broad blades of frost sliced through the air, cutting through swathes of enemy soldiers. When she clenched her hand into a fist, a clump of Ashvane troops were encased in ice, frozen in rictus agony. 

A platoon aimed down their sights towards Jaina, and Sylvanas drew back an arrow. Whispers of death magic darkened its tip, and the arrow exploded with the echo of a banshee’s wail upon its destination. The musketmen dropped their weapons to clasp their hands over their ears, crying out in pain. She managed to shoot a few more arrows before the ghouls overwhelmed them, claiming that platoon for the dead.

Sylvanas tried to regain her bearings in the chaos. In a few lithe motions she had climbed atop the shattered roof of a house to get better ground, her bow half-drawn and ready to fire. In the centre of the town, the Horde and Drust soldiers were beginning to renew their attack, emboldened by the sudden presence of reinforcements from the east. The Ashvanes were suddenly the ones on the back foot, forced to hold their ground as an onslaught came now from two sides. 

A platoon of Ashvane musketmen noticed her position. They fired a volley of shots at her position. Sylvanas ducked. Chips of stone flew around her as the gun fire missed and hit the stone walls of the building. In the time it took for them to reload, she had made most of them pincushions; they fell to the ground grasping at black-fletched arrows that stuck from their throats and chests, gurgling on pools of their own blood. 

Below her, a group of Ashvane troops managed to hold their ground against the oncoming ghouls by funneling the undead into a spear wall and shooting over the pikemen. One of the soldiers saw Jaina advancing past their position, and in a fit of bravery near madness he threw down his musket, drew his sword and charged for her. She turned just as he slashed his blade in an upward strike, narrowly missing but managing to knock her mask loose. 

She stumbled back a step. The skull went careening onto the ground, one of the points of the antlers breaking off in the scuffle as ghouls continued to press past her. When she straightened once more, her eyes blazed. She loomed over the soldier. He swung his sword down like a cleaver, but Jaina grabbed his wrist, halting the blow. Sylvanas had an arrow drawn to shoot him, but stopped. With her other hand, Jaina was lifting the soldier by the scruff of his neck until his toes dangled above the ground. He dropped the sword. It clattered at her feet. Grasping at her forearm, he opened his mouth to scream but instead veins of black crawled across the skin of his face. As Jaina drained the life from him, vines burst from the ground, curling around the other soldiers and dragging them down into the earth. 

When Jaina tossed his lifeless corpse aside as though he were a ragdoll, Sylvanas leapt easily down from the building, landing beside her. "I didn't know Druids were in the habit of practising necromancy."

"You didn't ask." Jaina nodded towards the rooftop. "What's the situation?"

Casually, Sylvanas lifted her bow and fired an arrow at an Ashvane soldier as she answered. "I don't know how Katherine and Lucille are doing, but our forces in the town are gaining the upper hand." 

"Then we should press on and finish this quickly." 

"Agreed." 

Jaina smiled down at her. "Is this unconventional enough for you?"

An army of ghouls, summoned by the will of a powerful mage with an aura of icy menace was far too familiar, in fact. But Sylvanas merely said, "It will suffice. Shall we?"

Nodding, Jaina rounded on the next line of soldiers already being set upon by the undead. 

Within the next few hours, they had managed to push the Ashvane army back, capturing the town and sending red-coated soldiers fleeing north east for Fallhaven. Barrowknoll was a ruin of its former self. Some of the buildings burned, their thatched roofs caved inwards in a shower of sparks and ash. Drust infantry had begun rounding up prisoners. Whenever the Forsaken drew too close, the Ashvane soldiers would panic and draw their blades or raise their pistols or otherwise cower or try to run away, thinking that all of the Undead were ghouls like those Jaina had summoned from the bog. The ghouls themselves were slowly trudging back south. Some crawled their torsos across the ground. Others had been chopped to pieces, and the twitching life animating them was beginning to ease. 

Sylvanas' quiver had long since run out of arrows, and she had been forced to steal a sword from the body of a dead Ashvane soldier. Its blade was caked with dried blood. She herself was still covered in mud and gore. While she may not have sweat any longer, she was still looking forward to the day being over so she could have a bath. 

Jaina was issuing commands to a group of Drust soldiers and assorted druids, who nodded and rushed off to do her bidding. She still had not donned the skull mask since it had been knocked from her head during the fight. She looked haggard from holding onto the spell for so long, though she hid the raw weariness in her bones. Strands of hair had come loose from her braid and now stuck to the side of her neck and cheek. She swept them aside irritably as she approached Sylvanas, but that only sent a swipe of coagulated blood across her jaw from her bloodied hands. Her eyes still blazed with pale fire, though it was fading as the spell began to slowly wane. 

Sylvanas tossed aside the sword she had stolen. "Any news from the Waycrest line?"

"In retreat," Jaina answered wearily. "It was a stalemate. Thanks to our push here, the Ashvanes are all pulling back." 

Inclining her head, Sylvanas said, "Congratulations are in order, then."

"Are they?" Jaina asked. She looked around at the destruction of Barrowknoll. The wounded were being grouped up and triaged. Makeshift bandages were tied around limbs and faces. The worst of the lot were being carried away on stretchers back towards the healers tents, where more Druids would see to their injuries in due course. "I don't feel very victorious at the moment."

"Give it time." 

"My Queen," said a familiar voice behind her. 

Sylvanas turned to find Nathanos striding towards her. He wove his way through a group of prisoners, most of whom shied away from his presence. His twin axes were sheathed at his belt, and his own quiver of arrows was as empty as her own. 

He bowed and stopped before her. "Forgive me, but I didn’t recognise you beneath all the mud. Otherwise, I would have come sooner.”

“What is it?” Sylvanas sighed.

“Lady Waycrest and the Lord Admiral have crossed the river. They will be here momentarily."

"Very well." Sylvanas turned back towards Jaina then paused. 

Jaina had gone white as a sheet. She reached up to touch her own face as if only just now realising that she no longer wore the mask. Her fingers trembled. 

"Shit," Jaina hissed, frantically looking around her.

"This way," Sylvanas said, and began to walk towards the position they had been in where Jaina had lost it.

Jaina was hot on her heels. She kept her head ducked, as though afraid her mother would round every corner and come face to face with her. When they came upon the site however, the mask was nowhere to be seen. With a frown, Sylvanas swept her gaze over the area. She eventually found it behind some wooden rubble that had fallen loose from the barricades during the fight. 

Picking it up off the ground, Sylvanas brushed it free of as much mud as she could. However, Jaina was already reaching out for it. The flames of her eyes had dwindled nearly to normal by this point, and her expression was agitated. Their hands brushed as Sylvanas handed it to her. Jaina shot her one last grateful glance before pulling the mask over her head and covering her face once more. 

The sound of horse hooves and the jangle of tack announced the arrival of what remained of the Waycrest cavalry accompanying Katherine and Lucille. The two of them rode up looking unscathed. Behind them Captain Hayles sported a sabre cut on his upper arm. He handled his reins with his good hand. Jaina checked her mask for a second time as if to reassure herself that it was actually there before turning to face them. 

Katherine pulled back on the reins. “Glad to see you’re both still alive,” she said by way of greeting, then glanced apologetically at Sylvanas. “Mostly.” 

"How many dead?" Lucille asked.

Sylvanas looked to Nathanos for an answer, and he said, "About four hundred casualties."

"Which brings the total to seven hundred and fifty," Katherine said. "Not bad, all things considered. It could have been much worse." 

"Better than the Ashvanes," Jaina replied. She sounded far more calm than she had looked just moments ago. 

Katherine grinned down at her. "Oh, yes. They'll be feeling the sting of this for a while. We ought to consider our next move before they have too much time to regroup." 

With a nod, Sylvanas said, "We'll meet you back at camp this evening to discuss it. For now, let us tend to the wounded and prisoners. If we're lucky, we captured someone worth ransoming." 

"That would be nice," Lucille sighed wistfully.

"Until later, then." Inclining her head, Katherine wheeled her white Kul Tiran charger about and headed back across the river towards camp. Lucille and the rest of the Waycrest cavalry followed. 

The moment her mother was out of sight, Jaina's shoulders relaxed slightly. Sylvanas could have sworn she heard her breathe a sigh of relief behind that skull mask. 

"Nathanos," Sylvanas said. "Find Anya and get everything cleaned up."

"And where are you going?" he asked.

She had already turned and begun striding off towards the bog. Glancing over her shoulder, she said, "To retrieve something of mine. I'll not be long." 

He did not trail after her. She could hear him begin exchanging words with Jaina, but Sylvanas did not linger to hear what they were discussing. 

Most of the ghouls had made it back into the bog, clambering to their final resting place. A few were still struggling to crawl the last stretch of distance. Sylvanas might have felt more pity for them had they any sort of sentience left. As it was, she strode through their ranks unaffected. They paid her no heed. They hungered only for the flesh of the living. To them, she might as well have not existed. 

Seeing them at all brought back unpleasant memories of her days shackled to the Scourge. If the spell binding them had been indefinite, she might have had strong words with Jaina. As it was, Sylvanas pursed her lips and continued striding through the bog. And all the while, that unpleasant feeling remained, as if something was wrong that she just had not yet discovered, as though all these carefully laid plans were about to be unraveled by one loose thread. 

She found the wicker man still smouldering. The heart pinned to its chest was black and shrivelled and flaking away into hard clumps of ash. When she reached down and pulled her blade free, the wicker man seemed to give a little wail, though that may have been the wind rustling through the bog. She wiped the silver blade clean on a ragged corner of her cloak -- it would need a proper cleaning later -- and sheathed it in her boot. 

Turning to head back towards the camp to the east, Sylvanas paused with a frown. Not far off across the bog, a Forsaken soldier was waving at her with a cheerful dessicated hand. Their face was obscured by a helmet. They approached her with a bounce in their step, clattering like bones in a tin can. It took them a while to reach her across the mud. 

"Can I help you?" Sylvanas asked in Gutterspeak.

A familiar voice reverberated from inside the helm. "Woah. I have no idea what you just said, but it sounded awesome. Can you say it again?"

Face screwing up in bewilderment, she said, "Arthur?"

Arthur flipped up the visor of his helm, revealing his rotting face. "Hullo!"

Sylvanas stared at him. The skin of his lower jaw looked like it had been peeled away from the bone by claws. He appeared partially mummified, as though the moisture had begun to leech from his body when he had died, leaving him brittle and brownish, like the last leaf clinging bravely to a tree in autumn. 

Finally she said in a flat tone, "You're Undead."

He smiled a ghastly smile. "Yeah! Of course! I thought you knew that?"

"I did not." Sylvanas pursed her lips. "How long have you been like this?"

He shrugged. "Since Thros. So, you know, a few years. Seven, maybe? I can’t remember very well, to be honest."

"Ah." Realisation dawned on her then. "Gorak Tul raised you."

But Arthur shook his head. "Oh! No, no! Jaina did!"

Sylvanas tensed. Her eyes widened. "She -- what?"

"Arthur."

Their heads snapped round at the sound of Jaina's sharp voice. She stood alone near the edge of the river. Her skull mask was tucked beneath one arm, and her face was pale. She jerked her free hand in a gesture for Arthur to approach her. He trotted over to her without question, clanking and squelching through the mud all the way.

"Go help Tavery and the others tend the wounded," Jaina ordered. 

Arthur blinked in surprise at her brusque tone. His smile slipped. "Okay," he said uncertainly.

As he turned to leave however, Jaina stopped him. She cupped his withered face with one hand, and her expression softened. With a sad smile, she gently patted his desiccated cheek. "Off with you, now. Don't cause too much trouble."

And with a parting grin, Arthur transformed into a raven and took wing back towards the town. Jaina watched him leave, waiting until he was well and truly gone before turning to face Sylvanas.

"What," Sylvanas said in a voice that was far too calm. "is going on?"

Jaina did not answer. She walked over, cradling the skull mask as though it were a shield between them. 

Mindless ghouls were one thing. But this was something else entirely.

Lifting her hand, Sylvanas pointed towards the direction where Arthur had flown. "You raised him from the grave?"

Jaina's jaw was squared bullishly, but her eyes were guilty. She stopped only a pace away. "Yes,” she said.

"Why?" Sylvanas hissed.

“It’s not what you think,” Jaina insisted.

“Why?” Sylvanas repeated, taking a step forward and glowering up at her.

"Because," Jaina said, but stopped to draw a deep breath. "Because I’m the reason he died. And I would have hated myself for not trying."

With a wave around at the bog, at the mindless dead still settling themselves back into their watery graves, Sylvanas asked, “Did you even give him the choice?”

Jaina opened her mouth to reply, but stopped. She shut it with a click of teeth.

Sylvanas could feel her own lip curl in disgust. “Of course, you didn’t.”

“He -!” Jaina started to say, and paused to collect herself before continuing. “He didn’t deserve that end. He deserved a chance to -” 

Sylvanas did not give her the opportunity to finish. She bared her teeth, eyes blazing. “Don’t lie to yourself. You did it because you are selfish.”

“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” Jaina spat. 

At that, Sylvanas laughed and it was an ugly sound. 

Jaina’s expression was stricken. She held her mask so tightly her fingers trembled. “Stop it,” she said, her voice growing louder as Sylvanas continued to laugh. “Stop! You weren’t there! You don’t know what happened!”

Sylvanas stopped laughing, but her lips were still pulled into a savage smile. “I can guess well enough. It doesn’t take a leap of genius to see that your irreparable hero complex and that boy’s fate are linked.”

“That’s not -! It wasn’t -! I did it because it wasn’t fair!”

“What? Dying? Nothing is more fair than death,” Sylvanas sneered, and she parroted back the words Jaina had used against her during their first encounter. “Everybody dies. I didn’t think I would need to lecture a druid on that topic.”

Jaina flung her skull mask onto the ground. “It’s not fair that I got to come back, but he didn’t!”

Sylvanas’ head jerked back as though she had been physically struck. “What?” 

“I told you. Back when you first came to Gol Inath. You said everyone thought that I had been killed during the Drust incursion. Well,” Jaina gestured to herself. “I was. I died.”

“No, you didn’t.”

“Yes. I did.”

“No,” Sylvanas growled. “You didn’t.”

“Sylvanas -”

“If you had died, you wouldn’t be -” she pointed to Jaina, “- like this.”

Jaina gave a helpless little shrug. With only the two of them there, the bog was eerily quiet. Sounds of the military in the nearby town seemed muted across the stretch of water and mud. Or perhaps it was something else about this place that made it feel liminal, like visiting a tomb. 

“All Druidism is about balance. The cycle of things. The Drust understand that better than anyone. Ulfar brought me back. A life for a life. I thought I could do the same with Arthur, but I was -” she swallowed past an obstruction, and then choked out a bitter laugh, “- a rare exception to the rule.” 

Those words had been spoken before. Sylvanas could remember them clearly, when Jaina had jokingly said she couldn’t recommend a ‘cure’ for Undeath. Eyes narrowing, Sylvanas asked, “How?”

Jaina would not meet her gaze. She wrung her hands together and worried her lower lip between her teeth. “Gorak Tul dragged Arthur into Thros as bait. I knew it was a trap, but I was so confident I could -” Jaina had to stop to clear her throat. “I followed them. And when I got there, I fought Gorak Tul. I thought I could win. He blinded me, stabbed me, drowned me, and then hung me from a tree.”

With trembling fingers, Jaina tugged at the front of her robes. She slowly pulled the layers of fabric down just enough to reveal the scars. They were looped around her neck, and gouged into her chest just beneath her left collarbone. Ragged mortal wounds that had been healed over with livid pink scar tissue. Sylvanas could see the pulse leap at her throat, bold and bright and very much alive. 

Jaina pulled her robes back into place. “We call it the Threefold Death. Among the Drust, it’s reserved for heroes, gods, and kings. It was given to me as a mockery. A reminder of my pride. Punishment for being foolish enough to think I was the hero foretold to bring about Gorak Tul’s downfall.” Her hand lingered at her throat. She stroked her fingers over the scarring left by whatever rope had strung her up in the air. “I don’t know how long I hung there until Ulfar found me. I remember being cut down, but the rest is...hazy.” 

Sylvanas shook her head. “If you remember it, then you weren’t dead.”

“Thros is not like here. Life and death are intertwined there. But trust me. I was very dead.” She lowered her hand, clenching it into a fist at her side. “Prophecies tend to find a way to have some sort of self-fulfilling irony. And by killing me that way as a show of his contempt, Gorak Tul devised his own ruin. He made me that hero destined to defy death and be his downfall. And so, I was. I came back, and I was proclaimed High Thornspeaker for my deeds. Though I did not deserve it.” 

It was like the last piece in a puzzle clicking into place, completing a picture. Katherine receiving news of her daughter's death. Lucille murmuring unsettling words about how different Jaina seemed after she emerged from the Crimson Forest. The ripped out pages of an old book on thrice-killed heroes and horned god-kings.

“All I hear is a tale of arrogance,” Sylvanas snapped. “You tell yourself the Drust understand ‘balance’ as if that means anything. You’re no better than a Lich.”

Jaina drew herself up to her full height and her expression grew stony, guarded. “I may have fallen to my pride once before, but I will not make that mistake again. I accepted your help, didn't I?"

“So, that’s why you changed your mind about this war? Because you think I’m like Arthur?” Sylvanas bared her fangs. “I am not some helpless young pup in need of a saviour.”

“I know that. And that’s not what I meant.” 

“Isn’t it? Look around. You have clearly learned nothing.” Sylvanas flung a hand up in disgust and angled herself away so that she looked across the fields towards the camp miles eastward. “You should have left the dead well alone.”

“I had to do something.”

“No. You didn’t.”

Sylvanas was giving every indication that she would not be swayed by any argument. Her ears were slanted back. Her arms were crossed. Her glower could strip the paint from the hull of a ship. 

And yet, Jaina ignored all those signs. She stepped around so that she stood before Sylvanas, and she said, “Didn’t you tell me you wished you were still alive?”

Shooting her an ugly look, Sylvanas growled, “That’s different. I wasn’t given a choice. If I had been given it, I would never would have chosen to be raised in the first place.” 

“But what about now?”

Sylvanas’ brows drew down sharply. She faltered for a moment. “What do you mean?”

“I’m saying: What if I gave you the choice now?”

It was then that she realised exactly what Jaina was offering. Her eyes widened. She opened her mouth to reply, but no sound came out. As if sensing this hesitation like a hound scenting blood in the air, Jaina drew closer.

“You already told me you died three times. But you never did tell me exactly how you died.” Jaina began to circle around her, as though eyeing up a prime cut of meat at the market. “Were you wounded? Drowned? Poisoned, perhaps? Did you fall from a great height? Was your death inevitable, as if foretold? A cruel irony of fate?”

Sylvanas sucked in a sharp breath; it was a gut reaction, something she could not stop herself from doing. She remembered the long drop from Icecrown Citadel with savage clarity. Her lungs were still clogged with golden blossoms, the broad scar on her abdomen evidence of Frostmourne’s cold edge. And they never had retrieved the bullet lodged in her chest by Lord Godfrey; the iron pellet was rusting away somewhere between her vertebrae like a poisoned pellet. 

When she was standing behind her, Jaina leaned forward to murmur in Sylvanas’ ear. “If I’m right, you might also be a rare exception to the rule.”

Sylvanas jerked her head away. She whirled about, taking a step back to put distance between them. Her eyes seared crimson. “Now, who is the liar?” she spat.

“I’m not lying.” 

Ice plunged deep into Sylvanas’ chest. It felt like an all too familiar blade. Worse. It felt like hope. Her lips pulled back in a wordless snarl. Suddenly, Sylvanas wished she had arrows left in her quiver. The urge to nock her bow was strong enough that her hand nearly reached over her shoulder for it. 

Jaina eyed her warily. “You would attack me and ruin this alliance you’ve fought so hard for?”

“I am seriously considering it.”

Jaina’s face screwed up in confusion. “I don’t understand. I’m offering you the choice that was never given to you. You should be pleased.”

“I don’t want to hear any more of this lunacy right now.” Sylvanas turned and began to stalk off through the bog in the direction of Barrowknoll. 

“Sylvanas, wait -” 

She felt the warmth of a hand brush against her arm. Immediately Sylvanas wrenched her arm away. In a single fluid motion, she drew her knife and whirled around. She had the blade pressed up against Jaina’s throat before Jaina could even blink. 

“Don’t touch me,” Sylvanas hissed. “Not unless you want to die a fourth time.”

The edge of the blade whispered against the ragged edge of scar tissue. Sylvanas’ hand was white-knuckled around the hilt, her fist closed so tightly that veins of black magic bled into the silver handle, coiling at Jaina’s throat. Jaina gazed steadily down at her. There wasn’t the faintest flicker of fear in her eyes. “At least consider my offer. If you change your mind, you know where to find me.”

Slowly Sylvanas pulled the knife away; they stood close enough that she could feel the rise and fall of Jaina’s chest against her own. She stepped back. “I won’t.”

Without another word, she left. And this time, Jaina did not try to stop her or even follow. 

--

NOTES:

-for those of you who like maps, here’s one I prepared earlier:

-the fifth chapter I’ve added to the list is, predictably, going to be an epilogue from Jaina’s POV

-and for you Nine Years’ War aficionados, you’ll recognise the Battle of Barrowknoll as the Battle of the Boyne 2 this time with more zombies

[insomniac-dot-ink]

Toward the Sun

Summary: A music teacher in a wealthy household starts taking tea with the families eldest son after he returns from college. Unfortunately for Mathias plants start sprouting out of his skin at the sight of the young lord and there’s not enough places to hide, burn, and banish the sprouts to hide his feelings.

Short story loosely based off of @stutterhug art here 

                                  ≿————-　❈　————-≾

There was once a young man who taught music in the grand house at the border between the Druid Hinterlands and the humans domain. 

The family was the wealthiest in the county and the matriarch was certain her family was bound for ascendancy. She sent her son to the college with the largest trophy case and whispered in the night to her daughter about opera houses and theaters and stadiums come to hear her sing.

Mathias arrived and summoned all of his knowledge of their world to bow at the youngest daughter. She sniffed loudly and waved him closer, ‘you better be good.’ The little lady Rachel said back with the authority of a matador to a bull.

Mathias only grinned and took her hand, ‘I will teach you everything I know.’ She only hummed deeply and pointed to the music room.

‘Show me.’

Mathias taught archaic choir songs in dead languages and operatic melodies with notes with no end and sheet music with high tremors and low valleys day in and day out. And for once, he thought he was safe.

But one day the eldest son returned from college to help his ailing father with the estate and he stopped to watch Mathias in the music room. And it was over.

He smiled at him as they finished and asked with a clever tone: ‘tell me, what is your favorite piece, young tutor?’

Mathias blinked several times and tried not to look at the young lord directly in the face, ‘anything by Tchaikovsky, my lord.’

He chuckled and stepped into the room, ‘good answer.’ He nodded and gestured toward the door, ‘once you’re done with my sister, would you want to take tea with me? I’m afraid I don’t know the new staff as well as I would like.’

Mathias nodded and tore his gaze away from the eldest sons golden eyes and the dent in his brow that rivaled ocean trenches. Mathias ignored the faint-headed stir in his chest. ‘I’ll see you there.’

He was officially Jack the Second or the Younger Jack, but everyone called him Jackie-boy and swore on their hearts he would do right by the tenants and staff and anyone he married. He was his mother’s golden sun and his father’s road map to the family’s future.

Mathias tread carefully- or at least, he tried to.

They took tea and it started slowly like drops of paint into clear water until it was all reds and blues and yellows so bright it hurt the eye.

They joked about other composers in the county who made their money making ballads for the king with ear-piercing cannons in the background for his ‘glory.’ They joked about the old housekeeper who swore at anyone who wasn’t directly paying her.

And Mathias laughed and pushed his thick hair back and then he worried.

That night a small sprout tentatively budded from the place on his chest. Mathias woke in a cold sweat the next morning and took a pair of skewers to it’s small head and tossed it into the cold box near the door.

He took tea with the Younger Jack that day too and they talked about the politics of the Druid Wars and the value of a quiet afternoon by the fire and favorite smells and childhood foolishness and everything else in between. By the time they had finished it was almost dinner and Jack plucked something from his pocket as the sun hit the horizon. ‘I almost forgot. Here,’ he cupped his hands. ‘I had them pick it up from the marketplace when I saw it.’

Mathias sat there without a single word left to his name. It was a silver music box that played The Sleeping Beauty Waltz from the ballet and a spinning little red rose sat in the center on a pedestal.

Mathias could only wipe his palms down on his breeches and smile, ‘thank you.’

He barely escaped the room before the head of a sunflower sprouted from his wrist. He tore it out with his hands and threw it out into the duck pond for the animals to devour.

Later, he closed his eyes and dreamt of songs and ballet and music he had never heard of before that night.

Mathias spent his days in a sweet daydream and a wild panic. He chopped and he cut and tore and wore too many layers in the summer to suppress the roses and dandelions and cherry blossoms that sprouted from his shins and rib cage and fingertips.

He was buttoned up all the way to the throat one morning when Rachel turned to him and glowered, ‘Another family came by to present their daughter to Jack.’ She said factually and gave Mathias a calculating look through her violet eyes.

Mathias smiled mildly, ‘did they get on?’ He lifted a hand from the sheet music, ‘was she lovely?’

‘She was lovely,’ Rachel nodded, ‘but brother turned her away.’

‘Oh,’ Mathias gulped. ‘Another one? What a shame.’

‘Tch,’ Rachel shook her thick curls. ‘He’s not going to wait forever.’

‘I’m sure a nice young lady will catch his eye.’ Mathias said with a dull muddy taste in his mouth and a sobering thud in his head. He was sure the bloom behind his ear from that morning was wilting. Good.

‘I suppose,’ Raechel said with a devilish grin. ‘But that would take for his eyes to be looking at them in the first place,’ She lifted her small proud chin up, ‘he won’t wait forever, teacher.’

Mathias sighed, ‘let’s do your basic scales from the top, Rachel.’

‘What?’ She groaned, ‘I was just pointing out the obvious! He lik-’

‘From the top!’

They did doreimei for ten minutes and Jack glanced curiously between the two of them when he came in to invite Mathias for tea that day.

He likes you.

Mathias could barely look at Jack that afternoon. 

‘Mathias,’ Jack waved a hand in front of his nose once the biscuits and drinks had been devoured. ‘You seem distracted. Did Rachel say something? She looked terse this morning too.’

Mathias drew back, ‘it’s nothing.’ He said quickly and tried to stand up before the morning glory behind his ear burst into a weaving vine. ‘I’m sure it’s only a passing thing.’

Jack’s golden eyes alighted over him. ‘She’s getting quite good.’

Mathias grinned softly. ‘She might fill theaters yet.’

Jack nodded slowly. ‘Will you stay for that?’

‘As long as you’ll have me,’ Mathias blurted out before he could stop himself. ‘As long as I’m needed really.’

Jack smiled with his shiny straight teeth and self-confident air, ‘good.’ He reached out and pushed a strand of his hair back from Mathias’s face. ‘Because you must know,’ he breathed softly, ‘I do enjoy your music.’

Mathias’s heart squeezed like a juiced lemon and he took a step back from his touch. ‘Of course… my lord.’

And then he ran.

-------------------

That night Mathias smothered every thought in his head and every excited pulse in his chest from his traitorous heart. He tossed and turned and even opened a bag and put two socks and brown riding pants in it.

At midnight he was still staring at the ceiling and the words haunted him with the bloody vengeance of a restless ghost: Will you stay...

A sprout budded on his collarbone and spread outward like flood water over flat plains. It was the biggest yet- reaching toward the ceiling with mad fury. ‘No!’ He tried to yank it out by the stem but it was rooted deep and refused to budge, ‘don’t!’

He ran through the enormous house: up and down the grand stairs, through the long dining halls, and kitchen pantries, along the garden paths and through the foyers. He ran until he found himself collapsed in the central parlor sitting room in front of the fireplace. He fumbled for the wood pieces in the corner and the flint.

It took several attempts but eventually he watched the kindling spark and blew on it until it roared to spitting life. ‘Enough of this,’ he whispered to himself and grabbed the sprout at the stem. ‘It can never be. He is a nobleman... and you are a crooked druid.’

He gasped as he tore out the plant roots and all and threw the soft multicolored wildflowers into the hungry red embers. It burst to light and Mathias exhaled. ‘No more.’

He watched it burn and then buried everything else left inside him among the ash. Nothing could be left.

Mathias wondered back to his room in a daze and crumpled listlessly into bed.  He dreamed of golden light and whispering dark nights.

Mathias woke up the next morning to a high-pitched scream, ‘bloody hell!’ Erupted Housekeeper Jane and another shout came. ‘What is that?’

Mathias burst fully awake as hurried footsteps squeaked in the hallway outside and he threw his blankets off and bolted outside in his nightwear. He stopped a passing kitchen boy as the halls were alive with bodies and confused murmurs.

‘What is it?’ He asked groggily.

‘It’s the house!’ The boy called over his shoulder. ‘Go see for yourself.’

Mathias rubbed his eyes until he saw spots and then heard a distinct sound: music. It flowed and gasped and played in ethereal trumpets and chimes and twittering voices- strange and unnatural melodies that could only be from one thing.

He was running before he knew it; Mathias tore outside on clumsy feet and skidded to a stop on the great lawn. His mouth fell open as he got a better look at the house: branches snaked out the windows and roots bursting from the ground and a glorious trunk grew directly from the central chimney.

The tree had soft pink feathery leaves, maroon bark, and grew unlike any other human plant. It molded itself into a playful unmistakable shape: upward, out, and softly inward in a delicate arch. The tree grew straight from the central chimney and formed a heart at the very top.

A towering pink heart that could be seen from leagues around.

‘No,’ Mathias fell to his knees. ‘Oh Freyja, no.’

In the branches were dark blue birds with stars in their wings, magnificent crests that were half their size, and long trailing tail feathers. Enchanted nightingales that must have been attracted by the sweet pink Lover’s Tree.

It was worse than he thought.

They sang one song and one alone: The Sleeping Beauty Waltz over and over again. Their voices boomed and filled the air with a lovely and chiming twittering that misted and settled over the land.

Mathias buried his face in his hands and the servants and people of the house all gaped at the display.

‘Evil!’ Someone shouted shrilly. ‘Druid magic, evil as the day.’

Mathias drooped and put his hands up. He had to leave now.

He turned toward the nearest maid and tugged on her skirt, ‘Jane?’ He asked quietly, ‘tell Jack… I’m sorry.’

‘Tell him your bloody self.’

Mathias turned around just as Jack rounded the house. His eyes glowed sunshine bright in the light and his expression was discerning and open.

‘No,’ Mathias scrambled to his feet and turned to run. A hand caught him by the wrist just in time.

‘Don’t.’ Jack said softly and spun him around. ‘I know.’

‘I’m sorry.’ Mathias said emptily and looked down at his shoes with his throat thick with emotion. ‘I should have told your family… what I was.’

Jack shook his head, ‘they knew. My mother bragged about it at all her private lunches. A druid as a music teacher.’ He huffed a laugh.

‘Oh,’ Mathias wilted. ‘It wasn’t,’ he stammered and face flushed red and the music swelled louder from the enchanted nightingales. ‘It wasn’t supposed to grow like that.’

Jack craned his neck back and stared up at the red tree grown into a perfect heart out of their house. He snorted gently, ‘And here I thought I was the one that was going to have to say something.’

‘Excuse me?’

Jack drew closer and closer. ‘It’s a lovely tree.’

Mathias found it in himself to flush a darker red, ‘we have to cut it down. It can’t be… Can it?’

Jack shrugged, ‘I’m a young lord. What if I want it?’

Mathias’s eyes went wide, ‘there may be no end to your troubles then, sir.’

‘Please,’ he took his hand and drew it up to his face. ‘Call me Jack.’ He kissed the soft of his knuckles and Mathias fell into him.

‘Okay.’He swept him closer, Mathias wrapped his arms around his neck, ‘Jack.’

The birds hit a high note in a silver sweeping cry that sent a ripple across the land and watching clouds above. Mathias closed his eyes and the roots took a deep and warm grip over his heart and he tilted his head back. The kiss spread bright and soft across his mouth. 

And the tree reached the sun.

--------------------

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[luulapants]

Hale Royal Family AU - Part 5

Based on @shey-elizabeth​‘s post:

”Me reading the Prince Harry-Meghan Markel royal family drama:

Wait… I think I read this fic already. (Starts scrolling through my AO3 history)

#random #royalty au #someone write me a steter fic #reading the news before coffee”

Part 1

Part 2

Part 3

Part 4

September 2019

“Lady Danu’s is the largest adoption service for non-human children in the state. Which, as you can see, isn’t saying much,” Dot, the facility director, explained. She made a sweeping motion with her hand to indicate the relatively petite size of the facility. It was a large estate house, but certainly not large enough to hold more than a couple dozen children at a time. “Placements, of course, can be tricky for our kind, but we place exclusively with non-human or mixed families, and we have nearly unheard of retention rates for family placement.”

As they made their way through the front hall, Peter peeked into an empty room, which looked to be some sort of study room. There was a chalkboard on one wall, bookshelves on the opposite. The tables and chairs in the middle had bits of paint and marker stains.

Peter thought about all of the obscenely expensive furniture in their home and found himself horrified almost to the point of delight at the thought of little finger paint hand prints marring the wood.

Stiles squeezed his hand as he tugged him along to keep up. “What age ranges do you have?” he asked.

“We have a couple of teenagers at the moment, brother and sister, but that’s not typical,” Dot answered. She started up the wide wooden staircase. Teenage wolves would typically stay with their packs if any remained. Either they weren’t wolves or they had lost absolutely everyone. “They’ve taken over part of the basement so they can have their own space.”

Peter found himself wanting to ask about the teenagers, see if they needed some help. Maybe he could make arrangements for them. But that wasn’t what they were here for. This was the compromise: instead of surrogacy, they could adopt, so long as it was a werewolf baby.

“Eight through twelve are on that end of the hall,” Dot said, pointing toward a large set of French doors. “Four through eight next to them. Babies and toddlers have the largest space, over here.”

Lady Danu’s was partly funded by the druid’s council, Talia had explained as she gave him the pamphlet for the facility, but the majority of their funding came directly from the royal family. Their doors would be open to Peter and Stiles. There would be no wait list, no agony of false hope. One visit, and they could walk out with a bundle of joy that would satisfy both the family and the press.

Well, she hadn’t said it like that, but she may as well have.

----

She had brought up the subject over brunch, just the two of them. Peter had known something unpleasant would come up – the last time they’d had brunch, just the two of them, had been after Stiles’s infamous leather rant.

“I heard you and Stiles have decided not to pursue surrogacy,” Talia had said over the soft scrape of her knife against porcelain. She lifted a bit of egg to her lips, staring him down while she chewed.

Peter nodded, resigned to let this argument happen. He reached for his wolfsbane mimosa, knowing he would need at least a bit of a buzz to get through. “We discussed it and decided it wasn’t for us,” he explained. “It doesn’t seem right, going to all of that trouble and expense to bring a child into the world when there are children already here, needing homes.”

“Adoption, then?”

“That’s the idea.”

She sighed, and Peter felt a vein in his temple throb in irritation.

“I don’t see why it should matter to you or anyone else,” he snapped.

Talia set her fork down and fixed him with a tired expression. “Of course it matters, Peter. Our bloodline -”

Peter barked a laugh. “Our bloodline? Dear sister, I don’t know if you’ve gotten a good look at our family tree lately, but it’s practically overgrown. I’ve lost track of how many nieces and nephews I have these days.”

“You’ll adopt a werewolf, then?” she pressed.

Then it was Peter’s turn to set down his fork, letting it slam noisily against the table. “Perhaps you’ve forgotten, but my husband is a human. We may very well adopt a human.”

“Peter,” she practically growled.

He raised his voice, couldn’t help it. “How are you talking to me like I’m being unreasonable when you’ve practically ordered me, as my alpha, to acquire a baby by any means necessary?”

Talia, stubbornly, infuriatingly, kept her voice calm, though condescending. “I know you’ve made it your personal brand to challenge tradition at every turn. And might I remind you, I have been extremely accommodating to it thus far -”

Peter flashed his eyes at her. “Oh, yes,” he shouted, “you didn’t excommunicate me from the family for marrying a man! Have they put you up for sainthood yet, Your Majesty?”

She stood abruptly, her chair clattering to the ground as her eyes flared bright red.

As he felt himself involuntarily cower in response, Peter felt his rage boil down into a quiet resentment. Talia was his alpha and his monarch, but she was supposed to be his sister first. That she would pull this sort of tactic on him stung in a way he hadn’t been prepared for. “Really?” he asked, voice softer than he wanted it to be. “Over how Stiles and I start a family? That’s what you pull rank for?”

Talia softened, her eyes fading back to human. A servant hurried in and righted her chair for her. She sat. “I’m sorry,” she murmured. “It should just be about you and Stiles – I know that – but it’s not. This world we live in, our position is more tentative than it seems. Peter, our traditions are more than media grabs and money. Humans fear us, instinctively. We are predators. We are stronger than them. We’re a threat.” Her words came gently. Practiced, but honest. “By all logical strategy, they should hunt us, eradicate us, as they did for centuries.”

“Like they still do in many parts of the world,” Peter conceded.

“Exactly.” She offered a weak smile. “And do you know why they don’t, here in this country?” He did, but ducked his head, signaling for her to continue. “Because our structure of monarchy gives us an appearance of structure, of stability. It makes our kind seem integrated and like less of a threat. We let them see into every corner of our lives, poke and prod and evaluate. We show them that we have nothing to hide, and they transfer that sense of trust to every member of our species.”

Peter had received lectures of similar flavor from their parents, but they hadn’t been so brutally honest. He lifted his eyes to meet Talia’s. “And you think that the species of mine and Stiles’s child will make so much difference to that balance?”

“No,” Talia admitted. She reached for her coffee. “But a member of the royal family that challenges our traditions at every turn? That might.”

----

So he and Stiles found themselves in the babies and toddlers wing of Lady Danu’s Home for Children. A caretaker sat in a rocking chair in the corner, bottle feeding an infant. Another stood by the cribs, a baby in each arm, rocking and humming. It felt strange to Peter – no, downright bizarre – to come here and pick out a baby like one picked out a pair of shoes at a clothing store.

“I’ll leave you two to discuss for a little while,” Dot said. “I know it’s a lot to take in. I’ll be just down the hall – anyone here can come fetch me for you.”

Once she was out of the room, Stiles stepped in front of Peter with a slightly panicked expression. “I have no idea how to do this,” he whispered.

“Do I look like I know?”

“Are we just supposed to… pick one? It feels weird.”

One of the caretakers glanced up at them, clearly listening in, and Peter huffed a sigh, glancing around the room. “Let’s just… try to settle in for a few minutes?”

This wing of the home was rather large. They had come into the section for the youngest babies. Another set of doors lead through to a play room for the toddlers where a handful of drooling, chubby little were-tots sat around a kitchen play set, gnawing at plastic fake fruit and miming cooking with a sauce pan.

Peter wandered over to them, giving a wave. One little boy stared up at him with wide eyes, most of his own fist crammed into his mouth. It was refreshing, at least, to not be greeted with a bow.

He glanced around to see where Stiles had ended up and found him sitting on a play mat where an older girl with poorly brushed hair sat with a baby girl, maybe a year old, propped up on a pillow. The older one wore overalls and had a toy dinosaur in her hand. “Who?” she asked Stiles, a bit rudely.

“I’m Stiles. Is it okay if I sit with you?” Stiles had already sat down, but seemed to be second-guessing it under the girl’s intense scrutiny. When she didn’t answer, Stiles asked, “What’s your name?”

She turned back to the baby, ignoring Stiles. “So T-Rex can eat this guy,” she explained to the baby, holding up a smaller dinosaur toy, “but dog is too big.” Peter’s eyes settled on a big stuffed dog next to her and smiled.

“That’s Malia.”

Peter jumped a little, not having noticed the caretaker coming up behind him. He turned and smiled at her. “Isn’t she a little old to be in here?”

“She’s five,” the woman agreed, “but she’s been having some trouble fitting in with the kids in her age group. She’s great with the babies, though.”

“Rawr! I am hungry!” Malia said, rocking the T-Rex back and forth.

Stiles stretched and grabbed another toy off the floor and offered it up. “Can he eat this?”

Malia stared at him suspiciously for a moment, then broke into a bright smile. “Yeah!” She snatched the toy out of his hand and fed it to the tyrannosaurus with delighted violence.

Laughing softly, Peter watched as she slowly accepted Stiles into her game. “How long has she been here?”

“A couple of months.” The caretaker hesitated. “She’s not a wolf,” she told him. “She’s a were-coyote. There were some… safety concerns. With the mother. She was removed from her custody.”

The mother-child dynamic for coyotes was a troubled one, Peter knew. Their powers were passed down during pregnancy. He frowned. “Thank you for explaining,” he said. “What’s your name?”

“Tracy. And I know who you are, of course.”

Peter ducked his head and smiled. “Of course.”

He made his way over to Stiles, watching the way his face lit up as Malia’s game devolved into a toy massacre. The baby seemed just as fascinated with her, taking toys as Malia handed them to her, then sucking on them.

Talia would think this was just more of his defiance, more of his stubborn desire to fight tradition. But maybe this could be a compromise on a compromise. Not a baby, no, but young enough. Not a werewolf, no, but not human.

Peter crouched besides Stiles and nudged his shoulder. “What do you think?”

Stiles glanced over at him and raised an eyebrow in surprise. “Really?” He glanced at Malia, then back to Peter. “She’s not...” Not a baby, he meant. He didn’t even know about her being a were-coyote.

“I don’t care,” Peter assured him.

Stiles reached over and brushed his fingers against the nape of Peter’s neck, scenting him. He bit his lip, then turned back to the Malia. “This is my husband Peter,” he told her. “Can he play, too?”

Peter waved at her. “Hi, Malia.”

Malia sniffed at him very obviously, her little nose scrunching as she did so. “You have to bring a food for T-Rex,” she told him, her brow furrowing and eyes flashing blue. He knew already that she would be an absolute terror. Forget finger paint on the nice furniture – she would rip it to shreds.

“Fair enough,” he agreed.

----

In one of her less thoughtful attempts at reassuring Peter and Stiles about fatherhood, Laura had told them, “You know, a lot of what people talk about when they talk about being ‘ready’ for parenthood, it just doesn’t apply in our world.”

They had been playing bocce in Laura’s garden, Marco lining up his bowl.

Stiles huffed a laugh. “Why, because we don’t have a choice?”

“No, you absolutely have a choice,” Laura said, and Peter had wondered if she really believed it. “But a lot of the things new parents struggle with – the late nights, the feedings, the expense – we don’t have to worry about that. You would have a wet nurse and a couple of nannies. You already have staff for meals and laundry.”

Peter knew she didn’t mean it to sound as callous as she did. As much as she had inherited her mother’s leadership skills, her poise and ferocity, she had inherited that emotionally tone-deaf streak as well.

Stiles had watched Marco bowl his shot and shoved his hands in his pockets. “That doesn’t sound much like parenting to me,” he had admitted.

A few short months later found Stiles in their daughter’s room, calling for their morning nanny, yelling, “Oh my god, where is Hayden?” while Malia wailed like an air raid siren, shrill and with a truly spectacular lung span.

Peter rushed down the hall to find Stiles kneeling in front of their daughter, frantically trying to extricate a hair brush from the back of her head while she writhed and screamed.

“Malia, please hold still!” he pleaded. “Pulling is just going to  make it hurt more!”

“HURTS!” she shrieked.

“I know, I know, I just -”

“We gave Hayden the day off, remember?” Peter knelt down on the other side of Malia. He reached for her and, though she flinched back at first, managed to press his fingers to her cheek. One tiny, barely-there tendril of black crept up his fingertip. “Now, Malia, that barely hurts at all,” Peter chided. “What are you throwing a fuss about?”

She sobbed loudly and thrashed away from them both. Stiles finally gave up and let go, letting her run away with the hairbrush dangling from the back of her head. Malia threw herself onto her bed to sob into her arms like a distressed Jane Austin heroin.

Stiles held his hands out helplessly, looking to Peter for confirmation that, yes, this was the most absurd show of melodrama this house had ever seen. It was saying something, seeing as Stiles lived there.

They both got up and approached the bed. Peter sat on the edge, not reaching for her just yet, since she was still heaving angry sobs against her comforter. “Malia, sweetheart,” he cooed. “You’ve gotten yourself all worked up. Can you take some deep breaths for me?”

It took a moment, but she sucked in one long, shuddering breath. Peter smiled and reached over to rub a hand over her back. Instead of settling, though, she fucking growled at him.

“Malia,” Stiles started to chide, because they had talked about the growling.

But then her whole body started to tremble uncontrollably. In a blink, Peter found a coyote pup curled up on the bed where his daughter had been, her dress pooled around her. The hairbrush, liberated for lack of hair, fell off to the side.

Peter looked up at Stiles and smirked, shaking his head. She did have quite the flair for the dramatic. “That bad, hm?” he asked, teasing a little.

She growled again.

They were supposed to take her to Talia’s today. His sister had come over to meet Malia a few days after she moved in, but the poor girl had still been reeling from the change, too shy, and they let her retreat up to her room to play before more than a few minutes had passed.

Today, she would finally be meeting the rest of the family.

Peter slid down the zip on the back of the dress, and Malia immediately began to wriggle free of it. Her little dress shoes had dropped to the floor at the edge of the bed. He had to help tug her hind legs free of the tights, though. “Alright, come on, then,” he said, scooping her up off the bed. She growled again and he pressed a finger to the top of her nose. “None of that, now.”

Her eyes shone blue at him, but she settled. Peter passed her off to Stiles, who carefully folded her tail down to hold her against his chest with her front paws curled over his shoulder. “You know, you’re much more snuggly like this,” Stiles commented. “We’ll just have to work on human cuddles, okay?”

“What are the chances we convince her to shift back before we have to leave?” Peter asked doubtfully.

Stiles shook his head. “Hey, if anyone can appreciate a full shift, it’s Talia, right?”

----

“Princess Malia Bit The Queen!”

Peter pinched the bridge of his nose and closed his eyes. The tablet was balanced on his knees. Beneath the headline, a photo of Malia waving at the camera. Beside it, a stock photo of a coyote. A real coyote. An animal.

“Who leaked this?” he growled.

Stiles shifted closer to him on the bed, nudging their shoulders together. “Come on, Peter. She’s five – who’s actually going to care? It’s a little funny, isn’t it?”

“It’s not,” Peter gritted out. His mind flashed back to the talk Talia had given him before they went to the children’s home, about the games of public perception they were playing. He sighed and looked over at Stiles. “Malia’s species is nearly extinct outside of Mexico, and they’re still hunted like animals in parts of Mexico. Most humans in the US and Canada have never met a were-coyote.” He tapped the screen. “This is the impression they’ll form of them. That they’re wild, violent, dangerous. Uncivilized. They’ll take this one little girl, and they’ll extrapolate it to every were-coyote. Or they’ll say that clearly she was abused – that were-coyotes must be unfit parents.”

Horror overtook Stiles’s expression, his eyes moving back to the article as if seeing it for the first time. “Fuck. They can’t – she’s a little kid. They can’t put that on her.”

“They will.” Peter rubbed at the back of his neck. He felt wrung-out. It was only ten o’clock. He and Stiles had been getting to bed earlier, so they would have time to start their day before Malia woke up. “God, what were we thinking?” he muttered.

Stiles slipped his hand up the back of Peter’s neck, fingers sliding through the curls on the back of his head to scratch his scalp. “We had no way of knowing it would get leaked,” he reassured. “It happened in Talia’s house, for god’s sake.”

“Not that,” Peter sighed, leaning into the touch. “I mean, what were we thinking, bringing a child into this life at all?”

The scratches stopped. “Peter,” Stiles breathed. “You’re not saying...”

Oh, god. Peter pulled away so he could look Stiles in the eye, wanting to be very clear on this. “No,” he said firmly. “No, of course not. I wouldn’t even think about...” He couldn’t say it, couldn’t say, returning her, like Malia was an ill-fitting jacket and not their family.

“Okay, good,” Stiles said, still looking panicked by the idea.

“But I still wonder,” Peter explained, “what gave us the right, you know? To put her in all of this mess? She never asked for any of this. She never asked to grow up endlessly scrutinized by these vultures.”

Stiles’s expression softened. He reached out and cupped Peter’s cheek. “Neither did you.”

“It’s different,” Peter insisted.

“Why, because you’re Hale blood?” Stiles challenged, though his tone stayed gentle. “Because you’re over it? You’re clearly not.”

His husband’s ability to call him on his bullshit was one of the reasons Peter had fallen in love with him. It was also deeply, deeply annoying. “I just...” He closed his eyes, trying to get his anxieties into some form coherent enough to be voiced. He settled on: “I don’t want her to grow up resenting me for bringing her into this world.”

“Don’t you mean ‘resenting us’?” Stiles cocked his head to the side.

“I brought you into it, too.”

Stiles glared at him. “Peter Hale,” he scolded.

“I know, I know, you chose this,” Peter agreed.

“And, again, I’m the only one in this household that did,” Stiles reminded him. With a sigh, Stiles caught him around the shoulders and reeled him in until Peter was snuggled against his side, head on Stiles’s shoulder. He was quiet a moment before he asked, “Did you resent your parents?”

Peter didn’t talk much about them, and Stiles respected that, understood that Peter had never felt close with them, that they hadn’t been warm people. The press brought them up sometimes, usually around the anniversary of the accident. A helicopter crash in the Rockies. Conspiracy theories had flown about for months, most insisting that militant anti-were hunters had shot the helicopter down. When they finally found the black box, it revealed nothing but a simple engine malfunction.

Peter had been just shy of his thirteenth birthday. He remembered how numb he felt, walking down the street in the funeral procession with a stiff expression as the public wailed in mourning around him. He remembered thinking that these people, these strangers, had been allowed more emotional closeness with his parents than he had. They had owned his parents in a way Peter had never been allowed.

“I did,” Peter admitted quietly. “Sometimes I think I still do.”

Stiles pressed two fingers under his chin to tip his head up, and kissed his lips, soft. “We’ll protect her, okay?” he said. “Whatever it takes. We’ll make sure it isn’t so bad for her.”

Letting out a breath, Peter leaned up and kissed him again, then again until he was pressed flat on his back on the bed. Hovering over him, Peter took in the soft flush on Stiles’s cheeks, the sweet adoration in his eyes, the gentle curve of his mouth. “I love you,” he murmured. “More than I can ever say.”

[thedailyimagines]

Headcanons: Kol Mikaelson

Anon requested: “Headcanons for Kol Mikaelson reuniting with the reincarnation of his first boyfriend from his human life”

~~~~~~~~

If you had never moved to Mystic Falls, you would have never known you were a reincarnation of someone. Not to mention you would have remained in the dark about the existence of supernatural beings.

You were a thief living in L.A. before you moved. It was your cousin Elena who brought you there. Right after her adoptive parents died in their car accident, you traveled to Mystic Falls for support. As time passed, you learned about the supernatural occupants.

It wasn’t until the Mikaelsons arrived that you learned that you were also possibly supernatural. The first Mikaelson you met was Klaus.

Klaus seemed surprised to see you, and asked if you were a vampire. When you answered no, he was both relieved and concerned.

Then the others were undaggered. Each Mikaelson seemed to recognize you, Rebekah going so far as to call you “Wesley.” It took a while to convince them that you weren’t this mysterious Wesley.

Your cousin and the Salvatore brothers kept you away from the Mikaelson family after that first meeting. But then came a day when they needed someone to break into the Mikaelson home for a special necklace. And you were the only human they could trust to do it (not to mention you had experience in this kind of thing).

You broke into the house and were searching for the necklace when you heard the front door open. Not knowing where to go, you ducked into one of the bedrooms and quietly shut the door.

Whoever entered the house wasn’t making any noise like they were leaving soon, so you made your way over to the window to climb out. It was then you saw the picture sticking out of a book.

You pulled the old picture out of the book and nearly had a stroke. It was obviously from a long time ago, but in the picture was a man who looked exactly like you, and Kol Mikaelson. But that was impossible, wasn’t it? It was then Kol came up into his room.

“What are you doing here?”

“I was just heading out!”

“Of where, the window?”

“I mean, front doors are kinda overrated.”

“Why don’t you tell me why you’re here?”

“Why don’t you tell me why I’m in a picture with you despite having never met you?”

That was when Kol started explaining everything to you. He said that you were identical to his first boyfriend, a druid by the name of Wesley. But he was long dead, so it wasn’t clear how or why you were his twin.

You didn’t want to believe what Kol was saying, but there really wasn’t a logical explanation for this. So you did what you do best; make a quick getaway and worry later. You had a feeling you were going to see Kol Mikaelson around a lot more.

~~~~~~~~

I don’t own the above gif, all credit goes to the owner.

[rainforestgeek]

If you lose your strength to stand (I’m gonna reach for your hand) pt. 15 “We Made it This Far”

Part 14

AO3 link

--

“How the HELL is a ship that huge so maneuverable?” Hunk yelled. He sounded personally affronted by the freak of engineering before him. “She’s deflecting and dodging all of our attacks!”

“If she’s focusing in on us as Voltron maybe we need more targets. We should separate the Lions because we’re getting nowhere like this,” Allura said.

“Pidge, could we disable it from the inside like you did at Olkarion and find Shiro?” Keith asked.

“No way we’ll be able to sneak onto that ship! Haggar’s a lot less stupid than Sendak, no amount of espionage will fool her,” Pidge said.

“I agree,” Allura said. “If I know Altean alchemy, I can say Haggar’s magic will render any attempt at sneaking worthless. We need a more direct approach.”

Lance breathed in then out, thinking as quickly as he could. His mind felt sharp in the violet light of the Black cockpit. It’s like he’d struck a balance between Blue’s laid-back cool and Red’s hot passion and landed in a powerful place between the two. “All right. The Blades have engaged most of the fleet, so we shouldn’t deal with too much of their backup - Pidge, I want you invisible and taking out any fighters that peel away from the fight and towards us. Me and Hunk will blast our way into the main ship. Once there’s an opening, Allura and Keith, you fly in and find Haggar and anything that looks Shiro related. Allura you stand the best chance against the witch. Keith and his sword are on robot duty. Improvise if you have to. We all clear?”

Instead of the resounding yeah! he’d gotten last time he called out a plan, Lance heard three “got it”s and a sarcastic “aye, captain” from Pidge. They split apart, and immediately the Green Lion vanished from his sensors.

“Hunk, Allura, where are her labs most likely to be on that kind of ship?”

Allura answered, “I would think toward the center in the ship.”

“Great, ‘cause we gotta disable and open up the ship without destroying anything she might have about Shiro.”

“Then our best bet is the engine room at the lower stern,” Hunk yelled. “Wait guys, hold on!”

“We can’t hold on, Hunk, we’re in the middle of a battle!”

“My lion’s trying to tell me something, Lance, so just give me a moment .” He sounded like he was concentrating hard on something.

Lance huffed. “Keith, help me defend Hunk or he’s dead in the water.”

“You got it.”

They kept up deflecting attacks, covering each other and baiting and distracting the freak-of -mechanics warship. Sometimes Lance thought he saw it change shape. He definitely saw it light up. Allura and Blue had their hands full helping the still-invisible Green take out runaways fighters.

Yellow started to glow. “Gimme a clear shot, guys!” Hunk yelled. Lance and Keith didn’t need to be told twice before they spun out of the way. In a great blast of bright, sparkling energy, Yellow sprouted a huge, minimalistic, sideways cone thing that looks like a drill without the threads. Whatever it was, energy visibly built up inside it until a beam of pure gold badassery shot from the tip and blew a gigantic, clean hole in the warship’s butt.

“What WAS that?” Came Keith’s astonished voice.

“Yeah, how can a blast that powerful be so controlled?” Pidge demanded.

“You said it yourself: if it doesn’t make sense, then it must be magic.” Hunk said, sounding awed.

Lance said, “You know what, I don’t care what that was because it worked. Keith, Allura, you’re up!”

--

Keith deftly flew Red into the neat opening Hunk had blown open, Blue right behind them. He and Allura found safe-ish places to land and ejected into the room that was now uninhabitable, then found a door with a redundant airlock to get inside the main ship.

“How are we going to get this open without Pidge to hack it? Cut it open?” Keith summoned his sword.

“Let me try something first.” Allura closed her eyes and placed her hand flat against the door where the locking mechanism must’ve been. About a minute passed, making him antsy. Then the door glowed and clicked open.

“Huh. Neat,” he said. They got inside and their boots thudded to the floor with the sudden artificial gravity.

“Haggar’s magic permeates this entire ship,” Allura explained. “I can feel it around me. I used my quintessence to repel her control of the lock.”

“Can you lead us to where she’s keeping Shiro that way?”

“Possibly. Keith, watch out!” He ducked just in time to miss her glowing whip lash out. It took down three sentries at once, but a lot more were charging at them.

Keith grinned wryly at Allura. “Seems like a fair fight.”

“You take the left, I’ll take the right.”

Keith didn’t know what it said about him that he’d become comfortable in the middle of a melee with opponents that drastically outnumbered him. But he hadn’t been thrashing the gladiator all this time just for fun. He and Allura were in sync with each other as they fought; he cleared her path and followed her lead down the corridors while she focused on sensing the energy around her and taking out opponents from a distance.

They both had a near miss with a group of actual, living soldiers. They were forced back to back and by the time they’d taken everyone out, they were both panting and aching.

Allura finally found where the druid’s brand of manipulated quintessence felt strongest.

It was like Haggar and her druids were waiting for them. They all stood expectantly in the dark, cavernous laboratory. It could also be called a lair, though. There were all kinds of bizarre instruments and machines and tanks and enough of them gave off visible radiation to give him the creeps.

“Paladins,” Haggar’s voice creaked. “Princess. You are only as stubborn as you are foolish.”

“Shut up!” Keith shot towards Haggar with his sword only to get blinded by pain and crash to the ground. If the stinging ache in his chest meant anything, he’d probably cracked a rib.

“Keith!” He saw Allura activate her whip through slightly blurry eyes. He hauled himself back to his feet. “

“I’m disappointed in you. The child of Alfor should have become the greatest alchemist of an age. The power of Oriande is wasted on a closed-minded child like you.

“Dispose of them.” As one, every druid in the room thrust out their hands toward Keith and Allura. Crackling violet magic arced through the air, filled the room, and coalesced on Allura.

Keith wasn’t an expert on magic, but...shouldn’t that have killed her?

Instead, Allura just... absorbed the magic lightning the druids shot at her. For a tense, static moment, her entire body glowed pink with intermittent flashes of bright blue. Then she threw her arms out and felled every last druid at once in a single, blinding pulse. She breathed heavily and her face dripped with sweat.

Only the hooded witch still stood.

“Where is Shiro?” The fury in Allura’s voice was so palpable it burned. Her hair was coming loose and still kind of glowed.

“Long since gone, child.” Haggar smoothly straightened up and lowered her hood.

Keith hadn’t come face to face with the Altean witch often, but he distinctly remembered glowing yellow eyes and purple skin. The woman in front of them now still had crooked red lines down her hollow cheeks, but her complexion was brown; her hair was white; and her eyes had pupils and gold irises.

Allura looked gobsmacked. “ Honerva? ”

“What? The Altean scientist who destroyed the Galra homeworld?”

“The very same,” Allura confirmed. “When the quintessence field corrupted you all those centuries ago - Oriande undid that damage? Why are you doing this?”

With an expression like marble, Honerva solemnly announced, “I am returning to my people.”

“ My people! You are a traitor to Altea!” With blinding speed, Allura attacked her with her whip.

Honerva vanished into a wisp of smoke and immediately reappeared behind Keith. He could only tell by the hot gust against the back of his neck. Something pushed him out of the way and he recovered with a somersault. To his shock, Matt Holt was there with his staff and had apparently surprised the witch with a violent swing at her legs.

Son of a bitch stowed away in my Lion! Keith realized.

Allura took the distraction by sprinting toward the tables, hopefully to find clues about Shiro. “Help him!” she shouted at Keith.

She didn’t need to tell him twice. She didn’t need to tell him at all.

Matt slashed at Honerva like a madman. Gone was the smooth and skilled fighter Keith knew - the man in front of him put all his strength into each haphazard strike with no discernable strategy at all. Honerva blocked each of his attacks almost lazily. She was toying with him, forcing him to retreat even as he did his utmost to kill her, pushing Matt farther and farther away from Keith as they fought.

They were too far away from him. Keith’s sternum and side protested harshly against his running, and it slowed him down enough. He wasn’t going to get there in time.

Allura’s whip came out of nowhere, ensnared Honerva’s throat, and electrocuted her. The witch fell to her hands and knees. Keith sprinted towards them as Matt delivered a blow to her head.

It would have been fatal if she didn’t grab his wrist. In the course of two seconds, Matt fell to his knees, he cried out in pain, and Haggar vanished into smoke.

The chamber flooded with soldiers and sentries.

“Quiznak!”

Matt stood on shaky feet when Keith caught up to him. Together, they started fighting off the robots.

Allura joined the melee shortly. “Why aren’t you with the other rebels?” she demanded.

“I came to save my best friend,” Matt said through gritted teeth.

“Well I couldn’t find anything! I hope it was worth it!” Keith knew it was bad when Allura got pissed like this. Thankfully she was taking it out on the galra.

Matt looked like shit. He was still fighting, but his face had gone gray, his reflexes got more and more sluggish, and sweat poured down his face. Keith kept one eye on him and slashed through as many sentries as he could. He wished Lance were here to take some out from a distance.

Everything came to a head when Matt collapsed. He looked weak. All the color was drained from his skin. Allura deactivated her bayard, grabbed him under the arms and hauled.

Keith forced his eyes on his enemies and defended his friends as Allura dragged Matt to a slightly sheltered alcove to examine him. She felt his pulse, his temperature, his bones. Keith guarded them from incoming sentries. He heard choking then smelled the rancid scent of vomit.

“Your quintessence has been drained and I think you’re bleeding internally. Keith, I need to get him to the Blue Lion so I can heal him.”

“I can’t defeat Haggar without you, Allura!”

“Honerva’s gotten away, and only I have minutes to save his life, so give me a couple of minutes to get him to safety.”

He growled. “Go!”

She picked up Matt’s increasingly limp body into her arms and sprinted away.

Keith was forced to give up. He had no backup, he was probably (definitely) injured, and they’d failed both their objectives for boarding. He retreated back to Red.

The battle outside wasn’t looking good, either. The Blade of Marmora were holding off Honerva’s fleet well enough, but Voltron looked worse for wear. Pidge wasn’t cloaking anymore, Hunk kept getting swarmed by breakaway fighters, and Lance was trying to engage the warship that was now powering up. How the hell Honerva thought she could get through the space-time eddies in a ship that damaged was beyond him, but they couldn’t let her get away.

“Lance, she’s trying to get to the Alteans!”

“Let’s go!” Both Red and Black took off after her.

Something exploded on the warship. Escape vessels expelled from it like vomit. A second explosion, much bigger and probably more magical than the first, slammed into Keith and Lance’s lions, sending them careening into the quantum abyss. The last thing he heard before blacking out was Pidge screaming.

Part 16

[spackeets-written-madness]

Of Monsters and Men

The Kingdom of Fife was quiet, so Ser Proletius and his Knights of Crail spread throughout the kingdom to help the people more directly. Proletius had gone to the town of Enest, surrounded by thick forest to see if they had any problems. Turned out that they had a monster problem that needed solving.

On Ao3!

Warning ahead: I got slightly discriptive with describing corpses, and battle

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Ser Proletius and his Knights of Crail had been out in the Kingdom to patrol some of the towns and villages to secure then as well as the cities since everything had been a bit quiet. Since they were only patrolling towns, they didn’t need many knights to secure them and had chosen to go in pairs of two or three; except if you’re the Grandmaster who went to the forest town of Enest on his own with only his unicorn as his companion. He would’ve brought Farcry, but the eagle was simply too big to land in the tightly packed forest that surrounded Enest. 

He had been on the road to Enest for a few days now and could now see it in the distance, his unicorn had seen it too for e quickened eir’s pace so that they could get to the town before nightfall as the sky began to darken. As they cantered along the road, they passed a portion of the forest that was felled, a good half-acre, in fact, was simply, gone. It stunned both Proletius and the unicorn enough that e slowed eir’s canter to a trot, walk then full stop to take in the damage.

Normally seeing felled trees or plains isn’t too odd especially near farming towns, but this area is very heavily forested (and he didn’t know that there had been approved logging in this area) so this had been odd to Proletius. What was odder still were the corpses suspended and intertwined in tree roots that pushed their way through the earth, the bodies crushed and pierced. The eyes and faces of the corpses were picked away by ravens and other carrion feeders. In Proletius’s line of work, seeing corpses isn’t rare nor is adding to the corpse count, what was odd about this was the fact it looked like nature itself fought back against the carnage.

The Grandmaster made a ‘hmm’ noise in the back of his throat as he surveyed what happened. He then looked to his right towards Enest a few kilometres in the distance. “I suppose we’ll find out more in the town,” he said aloud.

The unicorn snorted in agreement, turned around and started back up towards the town in a faster canter, but not quite a gallop. With the unicorn’s pace, they got to the town quickly and entered it, heading straight for the inn and had stopped in front of it.

Proletius barely managed to dismount from his unicorn when he heard wheezing and puffing from behind him. He finished getting off the unicorn, turned around to be met with a rather rotund and overweight man with auburn hair, dressed plainly, with a blue cloak and doubled over to catch his breath. Waddling up to stand next to the man was a mastiff-sized wingless dragon: a drake-hound, and a green one at that. The Grandmaster waited for the man to catch his breath.

The man caught his breath and stood straight, he took the time to brush himself off and gather his nerves before he spoke to Ser Proletius. “Evening Ser Knight! I am Munroe, the local logger overseer, that came down to this town about a little over a week ago to clear out some of this wood,” he started to explain.

The Grandmaster had interrupted whatever Munroe was going to say next. “Enest supplies the kingdom with mushrooms and truffles, not wood,” he said.

Munroe blinked and floundered. “Well, Uhm, not yet the town won’t be. I came to change that and brought some men with me from my village to help out, locals haven’t been helping us, which isn’t a problem, the problem is that three days ago a monster that slaughtered half my men and rendered the rest too afraid to work!” the man finished, a bit flustered.

“A monster? See anything that would make you think that?” Proletius asked. Something had seemed off about this man.

“Oh, I wasn’t there, but I heard it from the surviving men - in the midst of fearful babbling mind you - that they were attacked by wolves and ravens, the men ran, and the ones that apparently didn’t get away in time were crushed by tree roots that had risen from the ground. I went down to the location awhile ago. So yes, it was a monster,” Munroe expanded as he patted the drake-hound at his side.

Proletius thought back to the sight he saw back before the village, the empty forest floor with the corpses of lumberjacks crushed in intertwining roots, their bodies covered in wolf bites and their eyes pecked out by ravens. It did look like a monster had attacked them, but why would it attack now? Proletius decided not to ask Munroe, he only arrived a few weeks ago, he wouldn’t know. “Thank you, Munroe, I’ll look into it,” the Knight said respectfully to the man.

“Please try to hurry, Ser, I don’t mean to rush a distinguished knight such as yourself, but I fear that the rest of the men may leave the town if the threat of this monster keeps up,” the overseer said.

Proletius gave a curt nod and Munroe waddled off with his drake-hound hot on his heels. The Grandmaster turned back around to face the inn that was his original objective and looked at the squat wooden building that sat upon a foundation of carved stone, the sign to this inn had a goblet with a crack in it and words that read ‘The Cracked Chalice’. He checked to make sure that his unicorn was alright and walked up the three steps to get inside. The barkeep will have more information he figured.

When the Grandmaster walked through the door, he was met with a remarkably clean establishment, the tables were well taken care of, the chairs and stools had some furs on the seats to add a bit of comfort and it was well lit with candles. There were a few patrons already seated at some of the tables and bar that turned to look at Proletius when he came through the door, all a bit in awe that the Grandmaster himself had come to their village. He walked up to the bar and sat down at one of the stools in front of it, his armour clanking and rubbing against itself as he sat down, his sword on his hip bumped slightly against the bar.

The barkeep saw Proletius walk in and had waited for him to get situated before he spoke to the Grandmaster. “Evening, Ser, what brings you to Enest?” he greeted.

“Making sure that everything is alright in the kingdom. Now I heard from a man called Munroe that you have a monster problem?” Proletius said.

The barkeep and several of the patrons grumbled about Munroe under their breath. The barkeep then spoke up. “We never used to have a problem with nature before Munroe and his men came to fell our woods,” the barkeep began, “but they didn’t listen to our druid when she told them to clear the woods she marked, because of animal homes and the like, and they didn’t listen, felled some trees not where she marked and got what was coming to them.”

“So even you don’t know anything about this monster?”

The barkeep shrugged his thick shoulders. “Nope. Though I saw it’s carnage, everyone did. Some kind of nature beast or spirit that they pissed off. Best to talk to Alina about it.”

“Alina?”

“The druid I mentioned earlier. She knows nature. Though it’s best you go visit her in the morning, she doesn’t like visitors this late,” the barkeep advised.

Proletius turned around to look out the window and sure enough, the sky was a lot darker than earlier. Well, he should probably sleep then. “I’ll grab a room for the night, then. As well as something to eat and drink,” the Grandmaster said.

“Sure thing, what would you like to drink?”

“Mead.” came the Grandmaster’s answer. He figured it’d be okay to have one drink.

The barkeep turned around to the counter behind him and grabbed a cup and a bottle of mead poured it into the cup, and set it down in front of the Grandmaster. “Something to eat? The cook has prepared a nice steak with some mushroom gravy for the day,” the barkeep offered for something to eat.

One of the things Proletius liked when he travelled the kingdom is trying the different foods of the villages and towns. “That sounds perfect, I’ll have that,” the Grandmaster said as he sipped at his drink.

The barkeep nodded and walked to the back to give Proletius’s order to the cook. The barkeep stuck his head out to check on the front before ducking back to attend to something else. This left Proletius alone, which he didn’t mind of course.

While he waited for his meal, he thought about the things he saw and started to pile the evidence about what this ‘monster’ might be. Admittedly he wasn’t sure, monster hunting wasn’t his expertise. Now, goblin and chaos wizard hunting, on the other hand, was in his expertise. He was brought out of his thoughts by his food being placed in front of him, that brought his focus to enjoying some food.

The barkeep stood back behind the bar and looked at Proletius as the Grandmaster ate. “So, what are you going to do when you talk with Alina?” he asked. He sounded concerned for the druid’s well-being.

“Callum, let the knight finish his food,” someone else at the bar scolded the barkeep.

Proletius simply chewed his mouthful and swallowed before he answered. “Talk to her. Listen to her, see if she spoke and negotiated with Munroe, try to help negotiations. This monster issue sounds like a relatively easy fix,” he said. At least, he hoped that it was an easy fix.

“Ah, I see. Sorry, she’s been a big help here ever since she moved here five years ago. Helping us fell the right trees and not change the landscape drastically in the process. She’s not like most other druids,” Callum - the barkeep - said. 

Proletius had been quietly eating his food while Callum talked. He swallowed his last mouthful. “What do you mean ‘not like other druids’?” he questioned.

“You’ll see.”

“Is it that hard to explain?” Proletius asked in a slightly joking tone.

Callum chuckled. “Well, no, it’s just easier to see what I mean when you actually meet her.”

“I see.” Proletius went back to his food in silence and Callum left him alone to finish the meal and sleep. The Grandmaster ate his food, paid for both the meal and the room and left to the said room after the keys were given to him.

                                                            ***

The Grandmaster slept well that night and awoke to the sun shining in his face, which, for a knight is not unusual but no less annoying. He got up and got ready for the day, washed his face a bit, got dressed and donned in his armour, that kind of thing. After he did that, he went to the bar to grab a quick bite to eat before he went to talk to Alina. Callum talked to him a bit while he had eaten.

After that, the Grandmaster asked Callum where Alina lived and went on a nice walk to the druid’s house to go talk to her. When he approached the house (which was five minutes off the outskirts of the village) it looked like many of the other houses in the village: squat, wooden and small. The differences to this house where the garden beds, the many ground-bird coops and feeding stations. Yep, this was a druid’s house. Proletius walked up to the door and gave it a good loud knock since he heard something fall inside the house.

“Just come inside!” came a feminine voice in answer to the knock.

Proletius nudged open the door and stepped inside to be met with a lot of red birds and a bit of chaos. There were birds on the rafters, the sills, everywhere and they looked very similar to ravens in size and shape though were a brilliant shade of red with the tail and wingtips gradient to blue, all the feathers had an iridescent sheen with the beaks and feet of the birds being yellow.

A young-looking woman wearing a plain beige shirt, brown pants and slippers came into view carrying a box with what looked to be yarn-nests in her slender yet lithe arms. Her build wasn't small or terribly thin, but it wasn't muscular either. Her long blonde hair was haphazardly brushed and pulled into a loose tail, her green eyes focused on the birds and not her guest. She set the box down and began to hand each bird pair a nest from the box, the pair flying off through the window and the next pair stepped up. They were queueing. 

Proletius could see that she was immediately busy and stood near the door to wait for her to finish her job. He looked around the room he stood in, there was a small round table to his left, a desk near the table with piles of loose paper scattered on it, herbs, a mortar and pestle, other plants, a few loose feathers and quills. Above the desk were a couple of shelves that held books and a few potted plants.

“Here, Big Miss Muffet wants to go outside,” the lady said as she passed briefly by Proletius and shoved something into his hands to no doubt put outside. She still didn’t seem to notice him as she disappeared behind a corner in the back to get something. (Probably more nests, since she ran out of the ones in the box she got out.)

Proletius looked down at his hands to see a decently sized tarantula in them that the druid gave him. The Grandmaster stared at it for a few moments before he leaned down and let the spider crawl outside the open door. When he stood back up, he saw the woman standing in the opening she went into, staring at him. “Alina, I presume?” he asked.

She nodded. “Yes… Sorry for pushing a spider into your hands, I thought you were someone else,” she apologised. She held a box with more nests in her arms.

Proletius waved a hand dismissively, “It’s alright, I’m alright with spiders. I’m Ser Proletius, Grandmaster of the Knights of Crail. I wanted to ask you a few questions about the apparent nature spirit or monster that attacked some of Munroe’s men,” he said, getting to the point.

Alina looked pissed at the mention of Munroe’s name. She set the box that was in her arms on the countertop with a bit more force than what was necessary. “I told him and his men not to cut down that area, I even showed and marked an area for them to fell because those trees were all old. But no, he chose the young trees that a critically endangered bird species were nesting in, or rather, managed to adapt to nesting in,” she said with annoyance.

Proletius looked at the red ravens that helped each other get the nests out of the box. “Are those the critically endangered birds?” he asked for clarification.

“Yeah, Pheonix Ravens, thought to have been pushed to extinction fifty years ago but I found two dwindling and barely surviving flocks. I’ve been trying to help them adapt to living in a different area, but it’s not easy. Nature often tends to be stubborn,” she said exasperated. “I’ve spent the last three days trying to help them after Munroe felled the trees that they managed to call home.”

The Grandmaster looked at the red birds in surprise.  Even he thought that the Phoenix Ravens went extinct. It made him consider telling the King about it. “Even I thought these birds went extinct, I’m glad they didn’t. I can help you talk to Munroe to work something out and I can even talk with the king to make them protected to help them,” Proletius said.

Alina’s tired face suddenly lit up. “You will?” at his nod, she couldn’t hold back a smile. “Thank you! If you let me tidy myself up a bit more, we can go talk to the man now?” she asked.

“Sooner is better. I can wait outside for you,” Proletius offered.

“Oh no, it’s alright, you can wait in here if you want. I should have some biscuits if the birds didn’t eat them all that is,” she said off-handed and reached for a jar on the counter next to the nest box. She opened the ceramic jar to check inside it. “Oh nope, they didn’t eat all of them,” she commented as she set the jar down on the table and put the lid back on before a Phoenix Raven tried to take a biscuit.

Ser Proletius shook his head at her offer for him to stay in her house. “Thank you for the offer, but I’ll wait outside for you. I do want a biscuit though,” he said. The Grandmaster picked up the jar to get a biscuit, upon doing that, he felt a weight descend on his right shoulder and twisted his head to see a phoenix raven looking at him. “I get the feeling that if I open this, this one with dive for it.”

Alina looked a bit done with the antics of the phoenix ravens. “Yes, she will.”

Proletius had an idea. He put the jar down, reached into his pocket and brought out a bit of jerky (a treat he normally gave to Farcry), broke a decent sized bit off the strip and gave that to the raven. The piece was a bit too large for the raven to swallow whole which gave the Grandmaster enough time to take a biscuit out of the jar and eat it. He managed to do all that while the raven was trying to break the jerky upon his shoulder in order to eat its snack.

When the raven realised that the Grandmaster tricked it into eating a healthier snack and not the sugar biscuit it wanted, it looked at him very offended. Alina had laughed at the Grandmaster tricking one of the phoenix ravens. After the raven had gotten off Proletius, the Grandmaster went to wait outside while Alina made herself more presentable.

Proletius didn’t have to wait long for the druid to make herself more presentable since she had come outside wearing the same things as before, but her hair was neatly brushed and braided, laying against her neck. She also had a staff that was made of simple wood, the top of the staff was gnarled and twisted like a dead tree. "Are you ready?" the Grandmaster asked just to be sure. 

She nodded. "Yes, I am, let's go find Munroe and talk to him. The nature spirit should stop killing his men if we manage to negotiate with him," she said. Alina did not mention what would happen if they didn’t.

Proletius nodded and both set off back to the village side by side to talk to Munroe. They walked in silence for the first half of the trip while they looked for Munroe after they got into the village. 

"So what brings the Grandmaster to this little town?" Alina asked. 

"The kingdom has been quiet. No problems from the neighbours, no chaos wizards, no goblin issues. So I told the knights to secure the kingdom by assisting the people with their problems, and I myself went out as well," Proletius answered. 

"I see. Oh, there he is!" Alina pointed towards Munroe, the man's figure had set him apart from the norm. 

Both the Grandmaster and the druid made their way to the overseer, who had turned to face them. When he saw that Alina was with Proletius his whole body seemed to huff in annoyance. 

"I see that you went to talk with the druid…" Munroe said when they got closer. 

"The monster that attacked your men was a nature spirit, defending the loss of habitat of critically endangered birds," Proletius started. "She tells me that she talked to you and even showed you a place to log. Why did you choose to cut down the trees in the unmarked area?" 

Munroe huffed. "Those trees were old, young trees are better." 

"For what? Older trees have a lot more wood in them to be used for everything!" Alina argued. 

"Furniture requires the delicacy and lightness of the young wood!" he countered. 

Alina's features hardened. "And why so picky? Wood is wood, older trees have already lived their lives. They are suited for home building or furniture!" 

Proletius could see that this would only escalate and so interrupted the pair before they continued. "Enough! We came to you, Munroe to reach an agreement. You want wood, Alina has already shown that she is willing to help as long as you listen to her," he said with a slightly commanding tone. 

Proletius's command caused both to shut up and listen to him. They both shared a glance with each other. 

"Well, now that you say it like that, I suppose that I can agree with the druid and will go remove the trees she marked herself," Munroe relented. "And the birds?" 

"They will be fine. I'm headed back to the capital and will tell the King about the surviving Phoenix Raven flocks. They will be protected," Proletius said to Munro's concern. 

Munroe faced Alina and held out a hand to shake on it. "I suppose that we have come to a deal?" he asked. He had a kind smile while he took the deal. The drake-hound that was always at his side, wandered off. 

Alina took his hand in her own and shook it. "Yes, we have a deal," she said, something felt off to her though. 

Proletius nodded, outwardly glad that they had gotten along, but he felt like something would go wrong. "Glad that this will be solved and no more monster or nature spirit problems for you, Munroe," he said. 

"Of course! I will deal with selling older wood, but I'll live. Now, Ser, you're probably going to head off soon, aren't you?" Munroe asked. 

The Grandmaster nodded. "If there's not much more for me to do now, I was going to head back now." 

"Of course! I won't keep you any longer, Ser," Munroe said, letting the knight know that he can head off. 

"There is nothing more I need from you, either, thank you," Alina said. 

"Well, farewell to you both and I hope all will be well," Proletius said, then called for his unicorn. The unicorn was quick to answer the whistle and stood next to the Grandmaster to allow him to get on. He climbed onto the unicorn's back, and both headed off to the exit of the village. 

                                                            ***

Proletius and the unicorn had been three hours away from the village when the Grandmaster’s gut feeling got worse, even his unicorn slowed eir’s walk and tilted e’s ears to listen to the forest. Ser Proletius scanned the bushes and drew out his blade just in case. 

Both had heard a tree suddenly snap and fall. It crashed and shattered where the pair had been. They were no longer there because the unicorn had leapt forward when they heard the suspicious crack. 

An arrow flew out from the bushes but was deflected by Proletius’s sword just as several people, armed with swords jumped out of the bushes and rushed the pair. Both the unicorn and the Grandmaster focused on the people that attacked them.

A green blur tackled Proletius of his unicorn and onto the ground. The knight lost grip on his sword when he fell but managed to use his armoured bracers to stop the drake-hound’s powerful jaws from going around his neck. It still hurt like hell when the jaws snapped down on the metal around his arm and he punched the animal’s nose to get it to let go. Hang on, he recognised this green and the drake, this was the same animal that was at Munroe’s side. The bastard had staged an ambush. He knew something had felt off.

He managed to throw the drake-hound off after he had stunned it and got up, retrieved his sword and went to help his unicorn battle the men that crowded around it. The Grandmaster struck the men down, even as a few more had come from the bushes.

A howl echoed from the forest in a radius and suddenly a pack of wolves, as well as a flock of ravens, exploded from the foilage to attack the men that assaulted the Grandmaster. That made the remaining men focus on the animals as well as flushing out the rest - including Munroe - from the bushes. There had been a lot of screaming from the men as they got attacked by the wolves and ravens.

Munroe fired his crossbow at a few of the ravens - which killed them - then took aim at Proletius and fired, but the bolt was deflected into one of his men. “No hard feelings Ser, but I can’t let you go report to the king on this,” he said with his familiar smile and good-natured attitude.

Proletius was not pleased. “I will still go to the king about this and will now include how you had attacked a Knight and the Grandmaster. Death will not be easy for you, Munroe,” the Grandmaster warned.

Munroe took aim again in answer and prepared to fire. Proletius closed the gap quickly, disarmed the crossbow from the man’s arms and prepared to engage the man as the overseer brought out a dagger. The drake-hound also bounded towards the pair and leapt at Proletius again, though the Grandmaster dodged it. 

Roots broke from the dirt and entangled the men, crushing and piercing them - or in Munroe’s case, simply restrained him - which caused the battle to die down as a woman wearing leather armour, a staff, familiar braid, hair colour and eyes walked out from some roots herself. Alina faced Munroe. “I knew you were up to something, Munroe,” she said bitterly.

Proletius looked at the roots, the birds and wolves while he checked on his unicorn. He thought back to the scenery he had seen yesterday. So that was her. She was a powerful druid that’s for certain.

Munroe had a mixture of fear and frustration written on his face. “Surprised that you didn’t call me a rat, monster!” he insulted.

“That’d be an insult to rats,” she countered back.

“You’re a powerful druid, Alina,” Proletius complimented, ignoring Munroe.

She turned to him and smiled. “Thank you. Thank you for also not listening to Munroe,” she said.

Proletius nodded. “It’s no problem, something didn’t feel right about it and I did what I had to,” he said.

“So what about him?” Alina pointed her staff at Munroe who glared daggers at both the druid and the knight.

“Well, I don’t have the necessary equipment needed to arrest him, so I’ll need to get back to the capital for that,” he mentioned, then looked around at the roots. “Think you can hold him in someplace temporary until I get back?”

“Of course I can.”

Proletius turned towards his unicorn and got back onto eir’s back. He looked at Alina. “Thank you. Also, next time something like this happens again, get us,” he advised.

Alina grinned. “Certainly, but come quicker next time so I don’t have too,” she countered. The druid then remembered something, “wait, Ser, did Bush’s teeth break your armour and skin?” she asked, the green drake-hound sat obediently at her side. The drake then snorted.

Proletius checked the bracer that faced the brunt of the bite, while it was malformed a bit and punctured in places, he didn’t feel any skin broken. “It didn’t get past my armour enough to break the skin, why?” he asked.

“Forest drake-hounds have deadly venom, they use it for defence,” she answered, relieved.

The Grandmaster made an ‘ah’ sound, glad that he dodged that arrow. “Thank you for the information. What will you do with the drake-hound?”

“I’m going to keep him,” she said proudly. “And rename him, he needs a better name than ‘Bush’. Probably Surthian.” She gave the drake a few good scratches while Munroe vocalised his annoyance at that. He was left ignored.

The Grandmaster shrugged. “Fair enough. Farewell, Alina, I’ll be back later to pick up Munroe.”

Alina nodded. “Yes, see you then, Ser Proletius.”

Both then parted ways, more permanently this time, Alina took Munroe back to the town and Proletius went back to Dundee to report to Angus McFife I about what had happened at Enest.