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fanfoolishness · 4 years

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To Tell the Truth (Bartrand & Varric, Bartrand POV)

It’s tough to be the eldest. Especially when your little brother’s name is Varric. 2000+ words.

***

Bartrand lied to Varric about... a lot of things.

Like Orzammar. He didn’t really remember it all that well. How could he? Their father had thrown everything away over lousy rigged Provings, and they’d lost it all when Bartrand was practically an infant.

All he remembered of the city itself was glow, warm golden light of the carefully tamed magma far below their feet, and vast, the nearly endless stone ceilings far above him.

In the Tethras home in the Diamond Quarter, he remembered glimpses of books bound in bronto leather, thick blocky dwarven script marking the pages with neat patterns. He remembered Father in his finery, Mother in angular gold jewelry. Back then he did not remember her drinking. He never knew the smell of mosswine.

Later, he knew wine and whisky all too well.

She started drinking up on the surface. She slurred when she talked, the harsh edges to her words softened by the alcohol, and sometimes she sat on her bed with huge tears in her eyes in yesterday’s clothes. She missed Father, and she missed Orzammar, and the sky dizzied her.

Bartrand felt the same. But Varric -- he barely remembered Father at all, and he’d only ever known the sun.

Bartrand knew his duty, and he tried to teach his brother what he should know. At first it was the things Father had shown him, about how to be clever, how to watch out for things that felt wrong. And it was the things Mother had told him, about counting, about money, about leverage.

But he ran out of those things to tell him soon enough, and Varric filled the space between with his own stories. It made Bartrand uneasy. If he wasn’t careful, Varric would start to make up the wrong things. He felt very deeply, very sternly, that an older brother should not let a younger brother become an idiot.

So Bartrand talked of Orzammar, and he strove to pull stories and legends out of half-remembered glow and vast , out of bronto leather and finery and the stories Mother used to tell him, and he thought that even if he’d made some of it up, he’d done pretty well as an older brother. He thought he’d taught him what mattered. He thought he’d done what his father would have done, should have done.

… Except that Varric was a little shit.

***

Varric only got worse the bigger he got. Once Bartrand had been excited about the idea of a younger brother, someone to share in the Tethras name with him. Instead he discovered younger brothers were an exercise in pure frustration.

Varric teased him when his beard finally came in, snide little comments about old Paragons and making fashion statements. Bartrand’s fingers twisted jerkily at the clumsily woven braids he’d made. At the look in his eyes Varric threw back his head and laughed, then ran as fast as he could when Bartrand raised his fist. Later Bartrand stared at himself in the mirror and undid the little braids, one by one.

Varric ignored him when Bartrand showed him old accounts and ancestors’ names written finely on delicate deepwood parchment, trying to make him understand where they’d come from, filling in the details as best he could remember. Maybe some of it was lies. Just a little, just enough to make his obnoxious brother pay attention. The lies didn’t work, though, and Varric would pull out pages of human-made vellum scribbled on with child-sized handwriting, grinning from ear to ear.

I made it more interesting, he’d laugh, building scaffolds of bigger lies and wild fantasy on top of Bartrand’s dusty foundations. More than once the lessons ended with Bartrand threatening a black eye, and Varric sullen and kicking his chair with his feet.

But then there was the time Varric broke the dish, one of the last from Orzammar that hadn’t broken or been sold off when they’d first come to the surface. At first Varric looked like he would burst into nervous laughter. Before Bartrand could work up the anger to start yelling, Varric crumbled. Fell on his knees, started sweeping up the shattered pieces, said he was sorry, all right, I didn’t mean it, honest.

Bartrand still yelled, but he was strangely gratified when Varric left a glued and scarred plate on the kitchen table for him to find a day later. It broke apart when he touched it, gold filigree forever cracked in half, a useless repair job.

It was the best thing Varric had ever done.

When Varric asked Bartrand if the glue had held, later that night, Bartrand lied to him. Sure it did, brother. You fixed it, in the end.

He wondered what Varric thought when the plate was never displayed again. He wondered, but never asked.

***

Bartrand was fifteen when he entered the meeting house of the Merchants’ Guild for the first time as the head of House Tethras. He’d trained hard the past three years under older members of the Guild, cut his eyeteeth on smaller, safer trades until he started to see the patterns, sense them in a way that was hard to describe and easier to feel. Parchment and coin felt at times like an extension of his hands, a medium he instinctively knew how to manipulate. He wasn’t much for imagination, but when he allowed it a place in his head, he imagined a painter or a sculptor felt much the same way.

He tried to include Varric, ancestors knew he did. It got harder and harder to try and teach him, but he kept it up, gruffly trying to explain the patterns and their intricacies. Especially since Ilsa had grown more and more isolated, keeping to herself in her bedroom, rarely interacting with them.

It was up to Bartrand now. And he could rise to the challenge. So he thought, anyway.

He tried to drag Varric along to meetings at the Guild. He pointed out who was a useful contact, who would stab you in the back, who was broke and pretending he wasn’t, who was drowning in coin and pretending he was broke. He hired bodyguards after the first time Varric insulted a particularly violent house, and temporarily kicked his brother out of the Guild after the third round of insults ended with a knife to Bartrand’s throat, a dead fourth son of a minor family, and an arrow in Varric’s leg. The night was a blur but Bartrand clearly remembered his coinpurse emptying out by half, his brother’s face white and sweating, and his hands sticky with Varric’s blood. Not something he ever wanted to relive.

After that Bartrand broke down and started paying for dueling training for his mouthy little brother. Bastard might as well fight his own fights, if he was going to start them. He showed little promise with daggers or swords, but the tutors said he had a fine eye with a bow.

***

Years on, Bartrand still worried about Varric. Oh, sure, in some ways he was making progress. He’d become downright skilled in archery, both in shortbows and crossbows. He was developing some side proficiencies in setting traps and lockpicking, neither of which was respectable, exactly, but at least they were useful. And he’d started making contacts here and there, working on developing a little spy network of people who didn’t run their mouths off nearly as much as Varric himself. He wasn’t entirely hopeless.

But he still didn’t seem to understand what it was to be a Tethras. Bartrand wondered if he’d gotten too influenced by surfacers and the sun, the way he went on so about novels and publishing and other crap the humans had invented.

He took Varric aside one day, pulling him into the kitchen. Ilsa slumbered in the sitting room, already drunk despite the early morning hour. Bartrand had long since accepted that queasy feeling in the pit of his stomach her stupors gave him, but something new was happening, something worse.

“You said you wanted to talk to me, brother?” Varric asked.

Bartrand nodded gruffly, tending the kitchen fire in preparation for breakfast. Bacon and the last of the eggs. He knew he could have hired a scullery maid, but he preferred the money staying in their coffers, and besides, he was a pretty good cook himself. The coals flared, flame dancing merrily above them.

“Mother’s getting worse,” said Bartrand baldly. “I brought a healer in to see her.”

“When was this?” Varric asked.

“You were out. Sources say you were meeting up with a smith? Could be a good alliance.”

“Right,” said Varric, looking away. “It can never hurt to know a good smith. And she’s the best this side of the surface.” He gave Bartrand an uneasy chuckle.

“Anyway, the healer said Mother….” He grimaced. “It’s only a matter of time now, Varric.”

Varric crossed his arms, letting out a deep breath. “But she’s still so young, Bartrand.”

“Maybe so, but she’s poisoned herself. You had to know she couldn’t drink like that for years without it catching up to her.” He stoked the fire, harder than he meant to. The poker sent sparks to the back of the fireplace.

“I guess that’s true.” He sighed. “Does... she know?”

“No. I didn’t see a reason to make it worse for her, understand? The healer thinks months. Maybe a year, if things go well.” He rummaged with the bacon. “But she shouldn’t be alone here anymore. Not all day, like before.” He hesitated. “I was thinking of hiring someone.”

“I can take care of her,” said Varric.

Bartrand closed his eyes, hoping this wasn’t one of Varric’s fancies. “Huh.”

“It makes sense. You’re busy. You have Guild crap, and this venture, and that venture… I can work on my writing while I’m here with her. It’ll save you having to pay for someone,” Varric said. “And Mom never liked surfacers in the house, anyway.” He smiled at Bartrand, but it lacked the usual attempt at charm.

Bartrand nodded, fighting back something unfamiliar. Was it pride? Maybe? He wasn’t sure. “That sounds fine, brother. I think it’s for the best.”

***

Bartrand watched the funeral procession pass, laborer dwarves taking their mother away to be interred in the finest stone he could afford. Steam puffed out from their breath in the cold winter air. Bartrand couldn’t help a sense of relief, knowing she would finally be reunited with their father in a beautiful crypt on the edges of the dwarven quarter.

He turned to see Varric coming out of the front door, his face blotchy, eyelids swollen. Bartrand glanced around worriedly, hoping none of their neighbors would see. Some of the other houses could make use of such a display.

It wasn’t that Bartrand didn’t grieve their mother; she was their last connection to the past, the one who had kept them going after Father died, as best as she could. But Varric still needed to learn the difference between a public face and a private one. Public grief could be showed in careful visits to the crypt, composed and calm and cool. This — the snot glistening at the edge of Varric’s nose, the red cheeks, the puffy eyes — was utterly private.

“I guess that’s what she wanted, isn’t it,” said Varric dully at Bartrand’s side. The wagon passed out of sight, the sound of the wheels faint on the riven stone. “She never got over leaving Orzammar.”

Bartrand swallowed, uncomfortable. He’d never get used to Varric saying out loud the shit that should have stayed quiet. “She was a fine woman. She did what she had to for this family, as best as she could.”

“She shouldn’t have had to,” said Varric. “You ever wonder if it was exile that did it? And not the alcohol?”

Bartrand bristled. “Come on. Let’s get inside,” he muttered. “Walls have ears.”

They sat in the sitting room where Ilsa had spent most of her days in the end, drinking enough to fight off the shakes and the terrors, being sick as a dog when her body started rejecting even that. Bartrand leaned back against the settee, thinking hard.

“Look,” said Bartrand. “Now that Mother’s gone, we’re gonna have different priorities. You’re freed up again. And I’ll be honest, Varric, I think you might finally be getting the hang of being a Tethras. You stepped up, when you had to.”

Varric snorted. “Was that a compliment?”

Bartrand glowered at him. “It was, but I can take it back if you’re going to be smart about it.”

“You know me, brother. I’ve never not been a smartass.”

“That’s true enough,” he grumbled. “But I think you’re figuring it out. A silver tongue can get you out of trouble just as much as it can get you into it, you know.”

“That’s what I hear,” said Varric. He lifted up the blanket from the settee, pulling out a flask of whisky, Mother’s favorite. “Huh. Guess we can get rid of this now, can’t we.” His face crumpled, but he recovered quickly, putting on a twisted smile before he could start crying again.

“Pour a glass,” said Bartrand.

“If you insist.”

“And I do. As eldest, it’s my right.”

“Is that a little sass I detect, brother?”

“It’s been a trying day,” Bartrand admitted. He watched as Varric rustled up some glasses and poured them two large measures of whisky. For a moment, both stared at the amber liquid. He could almost hear Ilsa’s voice again, parchment-thin and rustling by the end, begging for just a little more.

Varric picked up his glass, holding it so that the firelight caught the curves. “To Mom.”

“To Mother,” Bartrand echoed. Their glasses clinked. He took a sip, whisky burning his throat, and swallowed the bitterness down.

Varric took a drink, shuddering. “Burns, doesn’t it.”

“No gains without a little pain.” He stared into the fire.

“It’s rude to call me that, Bartrand.”

Bartrand turned to his brother, raising an eyebrow. “I’d say you’re a bastard for that remark, but technically, I’d be lying.”

“And you’d never lie to your own brother, would you?” Varric asked, nudging him in the shoulder.

Bartrand considered. The Tethras clan, starting to make their way in the world. The Tethras brothers, coming into their own.

“Lie to you?” he said. “No, never.”

#bartrand tethras #varric tethras #varric #dragon age 2 #dragon age #bartrand #tethras family

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fanficaficionado · 3 years

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okay, i know i said i would be starting with things i knew and loved. hell, i even had a fic from the fandom im currently ass-deep in all lined up!! but then i procrastinated, and i lost motivation, got distracted by my scheduled post-holiday shutdown, and something else finally kicked my ass into gear. so this blog's first true introduction to the world will not, in fact, be a post where i worship the very ground my favorite fic writers walk upon.

no, today we are talking about Ascent into Madness by cesium_sheep

((spoilers, obviously))

Now im going to preface this by saying that this criticism is subjective and based in my opinion. I did genuinely enjoy this story, and i did not at any point feel the urge to launch myself into the sun with nothing but the pure force of my rage, causing the sun to explode and consume planet earth in a scorching hell-blast and decimating all life on our tiny little space rock, which even some of my favorites are guilty of because in some stories characters just love to waffle about ((especially in my preferred reading material which puts romance at a very significant focus)). This story just isn't for me.

I'm going to explain why, and believe me when i say i am being as gentle as i physically can with this story because it is not objectively offensive to my very being, It's a good read and setting aside the problems i have with it i enjoyed it.

I keep repeating that i don't hate this story because i do not want to be accused of baseless hate, not because of reputation or anything but because being accused of something i know i didn't do sets off the same sensation that i get from rubbing my fingernails on egg cartons, the one of the back of my brain being assaulted by the mayonnaise-coated fingers of satan himself. Damn i should really get to the criticism before this just becomes an in depth description of my very soul's adverse reaction to the cream in queen anne chocolate cherries.

anyways.

The thing about this story is that, to me, it feels.. unfinished. Or at the very least like it wandered off its intended course. It leaves me with a feeling of mild dissatisfaction and the taste of confusion in my mouth. I think this problem is best summarized by the fact that, in the first chapter, it is set up that rose is in some sort of hospital, and that dave thinks she is in the grasp of some delusion, and the second chapter sets up the retroactive explanation for how it got to this point. See, what i expected was to be caught up to that point in the story, reach that point in time again, and then progress from there.

But that first chapter?? With the hospital, the delusions, the brick through the window with the radio attached?? Never brought up again, not even once. It is completely discarded and never even thought about. The story even stops trying to set up that scene after a certain point.

To put it in homestuck terms, because i'm a loser, a time player, and come on we're talking about a homestuck fic here you know i have to do this, it feels like we started a loop and then branched off the alpha timeline so completely we aren't even a part of the metaphorical timeline-tree anymore. It nags at my brain man, it's one of the main things that fuelled my motivation in writing this. It feels lost and wandering and it confuses me in a bone deep sorta way.

The second thing that gets to me is the complete lack of information presented about what, exactly, the fuck is going on. I have no idea how we got from point A to point B, not just because it completely disconnects from point A not even halfway through, but also because there's a lot of plot threads thrown in haphazardly and then never extended upon. There's a mention of jake and john's respective guardians knowing something about the story's big bad and all the mystical bullshit that follows along behind him, but that is never followed up on even a little. No one questions why they know, despite this information being so rare that literally only two families and a single group of aliens seem to have access to it. It just is a thing and then whoops, hand musta slipped because that bad boy is out the window and is facing the combined nonexistent mercy of gravity and this ten story drop.

The main plot has this same problem, in feeling like you get just enough info to keep it going forward. There's a sword in rose's umbrella basket or whatever the hell it's called, and it's implied a future dave put it there for his past self, but do we get confirmation that it was him?? Do we see that loop completed?? No, it is just used as a driving force for rose to try and push the fact that dave's got Timey powers. It feels like i'm being pulled by the hand through this story because it only gives just barely enough information to keep this crazy train rolling and then goes so far as to leave fucking time loops hanging there incomplete which okay i might be getting a little peeved about that but can you blame me?? Can you really blame me at all??

Maybe i am judging the plot too harshly, after all i was forewarned not to read for the plot in the summary because it's pretty slow and wandering. So let's get into something else then, yes?? Let's hop to the relationships.

The relationships, too, fall prey to this complete lack of any meaningful focus on any piece of information ever. I'd swear the writer was allergic if that didn't seem too harsh a description. It's a whole lot of telling without any showing, a cardinal sin in writing. We get a conversation with kanaya that doesn't suffer the disconnect from all things that the rest of the story seems haunted by. It's actually really a neat little conversation and i find it kind of wholesome how kanaya talks about rose and i personally think this interaction to be entirely too short. Then kanaya mentions karkat and apparently there's some of davekat's standard romantic tension happening off-screen because dave starts to get flustered and ponders what that means. And once again a plot thread is thrown to the winds because we never get another whiff of it.

Actually on the topic of davekat, dave just naturally gravitates to karkat and then they're stuck together like glue, so stuck in fact that dave dies for karkat because dave apparently forgets the golden rule of "If you have time to jump in front of someone then you have time to push them out of the way" and then ignores the added bit i spitefully wrote on the ancient stone tablet of Things That Make Sense in neon orange sharpie that says "Especially if you have time to have a discussion about your choices with an ambiguously-dead girl. Pull your thumb out of your ass, dave, nobody has to die here, magic option number three was not the one you picked."

Of course, this is a fanfiction, these are characters i already know. I know how these characters would interact, i know how their relationship develops in-canon and i know that given the chance these fuckers become goddamn inseparable. But that doesn't excuse the fact that it is all tell and no show, we dont see how it gets from "You're one of the only familiar faces in a group of strangers and i am not about to start interacting with new people unless i have to" to "Here let me die heroically for you and then be revived for no explainable reason besides Because The Wizard Of God Says So." I have no reason to be invested in this or even give a half-ounce shit despite it literally becoming something that the climax hinges on. And then rose and kanaya are just inexplicably,, together?? Right at the end?? And while i am happy that the lesbians get to be in love everything is off screen and nothing is ever explained, not even like one time, and god it's just so confusing. I am so confused.

But again, maybe i'm being unfair, once again the very tags of this fic are telling me that the relationships are not the focus and only really tagged so people can filter it out. I suppose i should judge the characters, then.

From what i remember there are sixteen characters, excluding ((who i believe to be, as it is once again not explained or explicitly stated to be)) caliborn at the end, with speaking roles. Five of those characters retain any narrative relevance for more than a nanosecond. A good chunk of the trolls arent even mentioned by name, with eridan and i think sollux being mentioned, and who i think to be sollux speaks when rose and dave are first brought to the trolls' apartment but again, the fog of uncertainty clouds all things and i don't have my handy dandy leafblower on me to airblast that shit out of my way. Of the five characters with any focus on them, two are relegated to the role of supporting character, with karkat joining that number more often than not. That leaves us with dave and rose, who are ultimately as a whole unaffected by their experiences. They do not learn anything, they do not grow or change. Sure rose freaks out about her perception of reality, but that falls flat because it's more tell and no show again. Dave freaks out, as he rightfully should in this situation, but there is no arc. There is no significant change in anything but moving toward the boss fight with the big baddie.

There aren't any particularly interesting interactions between these characters, either, i cannot recall one time in which i laughed, or felt much of anything really. They all fall into a state of Existing while also feeling like they aren't doing a whole lot. It's more noticeable in retrospect but these characters just Do Not feel alive, they seem incredibly flat at times and it's hard to notice while you're reading but looking back it stands out so painfully and it makes me very sad.

If i'm not supposed to read for the plot, and i'm not supposed to read for the relationships, and i can't read for the characters, then what is this story meant to be read for?? The only other thing i can think of is the mystery and sorry pal, but that's a plot, which we have already established doesn't really have a whole lot going for it because while your mystery sure is there it is currently stinking up that rug you shoved half the answers under because those mysteries aren't the ones you want to focus on.

Is it simply meant to pass the time?? Is there no deeper purpose besides keeping yourself entertained as the hours tick by?? Because if so, it at least accomplished that. Despite its faults, it kept my attention for the entire fifty one chapters, and it passed my time.

There are other nitpicks i have, but that's more based around the writing style on a more technical level. The chapters are too short for my personal taste, and there are far too many cliffhangers, these things i will not condemn as the writer gave a good reason for the latter and obviously no writer is obligated to churn out 2,500 words per chapter unless they damn well want to.

Ultimately, this story is neither good nor bad. It is straightforward in that it burns any other plot threads besides the main one on the sacrificial alter of The Writer Does What The Writer Wants, it's a bit too ambiguous and under-explained for my tastes, but there is nothing egregiously offensive in it. It is a story that exists. I wouldn't read it again, but i wouldn't not read it again, and i don't even come close to regretting the time i spent reading it ((outside of the fact that it is currently almost nine am and i haven't slept but that one is my own fault)).

I scrolled passed this story in its beginnings, assuming it would not be particularly mindblowing, and now that i've read it i know that i was entirely correct. Read it if you want, or don't, just don't go in expecting something life changing. I suggest picking out a spot on your schedule where you have nothing to do and will no doubt be bored out of your mind. I sincerely doubt you'll regret it.

#homestuck #homestuck fanfic #fanfiction #god what else do i even tag this as. fuckin..#fanfiction critique #????#i feel like a child #i am but a little boy lost in the deep dark woods and i have no idea where i am going #there is no map for this shit #also as i write this tag it is now 9:52 am #a whole hour after i finished writing this monstrosity #because editing this stuff to make it somewhat coherent is a task and a half #i ramble worse than any homestuck character and i have proof too. go ahead. challenge me. i dare you. i know im right #i don't know why or how i got to the bit about queen anne chocolate cherries but i think its funny so fuck it its staying in #again if the author of this fic somehow comes across this and doesn't want this shit on my blog or wants to be tagged like let me know plea #i am trying desperately to not step on any toes or hearts here but i was not Raised so if i fuck up please just tell me #i dont wanna be publicly hung via tumblr anon attacks and callout posts that are poorly made at best and wildly inaccurate at worst #anyways thanks for reading i guess i have no idea how to tie this shit off and it Shows lol #hope i did okay #fuck it im not rereading this anymore im sending it out into the world #off you go little timmy suck it up and face the judgement of strangers

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kaonsilenthappenings · 3 years

Text

Autobot log 006

(Designs for the moment)

Name: Roughedge (LEFT) Knight (Right)

Classification:

Roughedge- Grounder/bounty hunter ||Knight- Seeker

Roughedge - Autobot to rouge || Knight - Autobot

AGE:

Roughedge 14 million stellar cycles (mid 20s)

Knight 890 million stellar cycles (Humans can’t live that long...)

SPECIES: Cybertronian

Sparked:

Roughedge- Late golden ages/ 1.2 years pre-war

Knight- Early of Age Of Wrath (They’re an old bot)

Creators:

Roughedge - Cold construct

Knight- .......

WORK:

Roughedge is a very handy and well known Bounty hunter, he was once very respected until he was hired under Starscream. A huge embarrassment and downfall. While in huge debt he’s been a hunter still, as well as a ------- and ----

Knight is a fighter and entertainer, They do underground fights under a femme’s guide. They are also a substitute teacher at the kaon academy and combat instructor. Though they are now a guard for the council.

HEIGHT:

Rough- 16′5 || Knight- 25′4

FRACTION:

Roughedge - Autobot to rouge || Knight - Autobot

STATUS: Both online

Pronouns:

Roughedge- He/them ||Knight- They/them

Enjoyments:

Roughedge - He likes to play and toy with bots, though in a malicious way and a lot of mind games, but he does take a liking to starting fights and challenges given, intentionally or not. He also tends to do a lot of work with weapons, shining them up and selling them for more then they should be. Sometimes he trades them. Racing is also something he loves to do, though he tends to get caught.

Knight - They take a whole lot of pride in their fighting and skills, They also love to fly around the skies and see whats happening below. as well as sometimes painting with earth things, a odd ball but that makes them happy. Just watching the sky above can make them happy, especially off Cybertron.

Disapprovements:

Roughedge - Any physical touch from anyone, doesn’t even matter if he knows them. Most things don’t get under his plates, but one thing is sly and undertaking him about things. Not to mention lying him or even letting something slip out, never ends well for anyone.

Knight - betrayals always hurt them, as well as lies. They have a hate for lies. When they cannot fly or actually allowed to by the council. It really burns them up, sometimes they fight it and does it anyways. But they also hate the punishments for their own disobedient actions. They hate small bots, they tend to scare them a whole lot. Often they try to talk peace into fights, They hate fights. They always hates it.

Distinguished:

Roughedge -

He has very bright and cat like optics, his pupils contract and dilate often to show emotion. especially if he’s showing none. He loves to use his new frame from advantages, though hates it at the same time.

He has been in an extreme accident which caused him to require a new frame, making him more of a joke within his community and work.

He never speaks, it pains him to speak. So hardly and if ever he speaks its a grunt or word. Nothing more then that. A large scar covers his neck and many more his frame and paneling and paint.

They are child like, their memory gone. Leaving them very childish in mannerisms and wording. Making them horribly vulnerable to bots. Which got them in the fighting ring anyways. They stay with the council but ‘plays’ with the ring leader. Following her around and doing as she says.

they’re a warrior at spark. They knows what they need to do, They do many things in battling which makes or can make them fatal when in combat.

Mental Illnesses:

Roughedge - PTSD, BD, and paranoia

Knight: long/short term memory loss

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Relationships:

Roughedge

Spark Case: He tends to resent him but also keep him around. He has no real reason to trust him but tends to keep him in mind if he needs some extra help.

Knight: He somewhat trusts them, seen his work. But he tends to keep them around for protection and necessary. He can’t bring himself to hurt them at all or get angry at them. The bot is just so calm and sweet he even has to admit. He’ll usually watch over the seeker and give them some aid here and there.

Hollester: He doesn’t like her one bit. To loud and overbearing. And he knows she doesn’t like him either. Tends to want to rip her little helm off but can’t since she give him what he needs in medicine. Not to mention she sees to give him some help.

Bud: Maybe one of his favorite bots, mostly because he pays well. Ain’t to bad looking either, but doesn’t consider him a real friend. Mostly just another customer here and there. Though he does tend to enjoy their engagements from time to time.

Knight

roughedge: he likes him a lot! Very funny and quiet, he likes that about him a whole lot. He also sometimes helps him out a whole lot with his fights, giving him neat guns and swords. As well goodies from time to time.

Hollester: shes werid but he loves her stories she tells, like another bot he knows! sometimes he plays with her in her office and tells her stories he knows of as well as earth stories he somehow remembers. she’s a bit to loud at times but he still likes her.

Spark Case: He likes him too, but he isn’t sure why he acts so weird about a lot of things, though he just think that just how he is. The stories he tells him are really neat and he wants to be just like Spark Case! He wanted to be like Optimus but now he likes Spark Case, mostly because he used to be a gladiator.

=============================================================

SURFACE INFORMATION:

Roughedge was hired by Starscream to track down five Mini-cons. However, even as he tried, he couldn’t get them. Roughedge had failed for once. This had caused him to become a bit harsh on himself as he thought he had to be the best at his job. During a fight were Starscream and Optimus were in a fight He, his second boss; Shadelock, and Razorhorn had been just begun to regain consciousness. That was when he heard Shadelock exclaim that they should just forget the pay.

Roughedge however, didn’t. But he had to follow orders otherwise he’d make more of a fool of himself, so he fled with the rest but ended up separated. He was taken down by the Autobot Drift though got up and escaped into the wilderness. However, he was found before being taken back to Cybertron where he would be trialed and jailed.

Knight was on Cybertron during this time working under a femme named Extravagant, a lovely nice and sweet bot. She helped them learn to use their fighting skills for a better use then just defense. Though they didn’t like fighting, but she said it was for a nice game which was ‘super realistic’. which they trained themself to fight for, gaining them a lot of shandex which went towards their rewards in the future.

Which would move them to meet Roughedge, a odd rouge who worked in some weird stuff. Apparently being a boytoy for bots. Whatever that would mean.

they quickly made friends with the mech, even Extravagant liked him. So much so she let him get Knight neat toys to fight with, as well as trade around.

Though, when Knight learned about a failed mission, something about gathering minerals for new weapons, they were sent out by the council to find any survivors. ((Extravagant behind it all, waiting in silence.)) Knight made it to the area where they ended up finding their friend. All damaged and almost offline. This leaving them to drag him away to safety before talking him to Extravagant. Making the mech her newest experiment.

PERSONALITY:

Knight: Overly joyful, sweet, friendly, and somewhat a ditz, they means well, but has a hard time understanding boundary's, making them come off very creepy at times. they are a bit clumsy due to their size and mindset, but they are fairly graceful. they are very gentlebotish and pretty much will give respect to those who respect them.

Roughedge: Blunt, rude, cocky, and trickster. He could be seen as childish in a way, but he does have limits, he is also a bit nicer to mini-cons and younglings. While he isn’t the most friendly of bots, its just something he had picked up to not seem as vulnerable . He tends to act in ways to distance himself from bots, certain bots.

#;;Muse information #;;autobot log -006 #;;Roughedge #;;Knight

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beeblackburn · 4 years

Text

Pretender Reads A Little Hatred, Part I, Chapter Four

For those keeping score, I’m clipping through a chapter-a-day! Goes without saying spoilers ahead for the entirety of The First Law works beyond the keep reading. Read at your own risk.

Chapter Title: Keeping Score Point-of-View: Savine dan Glokta

Glokta once thought this of Valint and Balk:

So this is what true wealth looks like. This is how true power appears. The austere temple of the golden goddess. He watched the clerks working at their neat stacks of documents, at their neat desks arranged in neat rows. There the acolytes, inducted into the lowest mysteries of the church. His eyes flickered to those waiting. Merchants and moneylenders, shopkeepers and shysters, traders and tricksters in long queues, or waiting nervously on hard chairs around the hard walls. Fine clothes, perhaps, but anxious manners. The fearful congregation, ready to cower should the deity of commerce show her vengeful streak.

—Last Argument of Kings, Too Many Masters

I don’t think he ever anticipated said golden goddess to be walking in the flesh.

But she is no goddess, no. Not of the benevolent kind.

She is the Devil, kin to the devil-blood themselves.

Sparks showered into the night, the heat a constant pressure on Savine’s smiling face. Beyond the yawning doorway, straining bodies and straining machinery were rendered devilish by the glow of molten metal. Hammers clattered, chains rattled, steam hissed, labourers cursed. The music of money being made.

She is Kanedias, overseeing the workers, hot at the forges, seething with production and things that worked, just like him.

One-sixth of the Hill Street Foundry, after all, belonged to her.

Caring naught for humanity, this is another workshop set in Hell, full of Shanka, workers made to do the Master Maker’s bidding.

One of the six great sheds was her property. Two of the twelve looming chimneys. One in every six of the new machines spinning inside, of the coals in the great heaps shovelled in the yard, of the hundreds of twinkling panes of glass that faced the street. Not to mention one-sixth part of the ever-increasing profits. A flood of silver to put His Majesty’s mint to shame.

But, unlike Kanedias, this devil-blood cares more for money than weapons, the work leveraged to profit instead of done for the work itself. And, as the times go, smaller, meaner people walk beyond the shadows of greater people.

And whose shadow better than the first to commit to the power of coin?

“It was money that bought victory in King Guslav’s half-baked Gurkish war,” said Bayaz. “It was money that united the Open Council behind their bastard king. It was money that brought Duke Orso rushing to the defence of his daughter and tipped the balance in our favour. All my money.”

—Last Argument of Kings, Answers

This devil-blood walks in the shadows of the First of the Magi himself, only further committed to the High Art of making money.

And, on a voice standpoint, just read how much Savine’s POV is precise in the details of her workshop, how much numbers and calculations factors into it. How many longer, lingering sentences and more complex vocabulary there is, compared to Rikke or Leo’s chapters. This is a thinking woman, full of ambition and comfortable in the Other Side.

But, what is a Kanedias without his Jaremias? Or, better yet...

“Best not to loiter, my lady,” murmured Zuri, fires gleaming in her eyes as she glanced about the darkened street.

A Bayaz without his Yoru Sulfur?

She was right, as always. Most young ladies of Savine’s acquaintance would have come over faint at the suggestion of visiting this part of Adua without a company of soldiers in attendance. But those who wish to occupy the heights of society must be willing to dredge the depths from time to time, when they see opportunities glitter in the filth.

“On we go,” said Savine, boot heels squelching as she followed their link-boy’s bobbing light into the maze of buildings. Narrow houses with whole families wedged into every room leaned together, a spider’s web of flapping washing strung between, laden carts rumbling beneath and showering filth to the rooftops. Where whole blocks had not been cleared to make way for the new mills and manufactories, the crooked lanes reeked of coal smoke and woodsmoke, blocked drains and no drains at all. It was a borough heaving with humanity. Seething with industry. And, most importantly, boiling over with money to be made.

Quite the ambitious woman, Savine is, and with the prerequisite lack of scruples that a child of Glokta would have. Yet, Glokta never had this sort of ambition to him, even before the Gurkhul Empire got to him. After, he was just trying to keep his head above water and do his best to win. If I had to put my finger on where Savine gets her ambitions from, first trilogy-wise? I’d say it’s West more than Glokta. Savine shares quite a few characteristics with Glokta, but it’s that need to rise that I feel she shares with her uncle Collem West.

And look at this dense microcosm of the peasantry! Full of squalor, wretched stenches, spaces full of cramped families, it’s a tapestry stitched full of misery, and all Savine sees is that very humanity being put to use for making money.

Savine was by no means the only one who saw it. It was payday, and impromptu merchants swarmed about the warehouses and forges, hoping to lighten the labourers’ purses as they spilled out after work, selling small pleasures and meagre necessities. Selling themselves, if they could only find a buyer.

There were others hoping to lighten purses by more direct means. Grubby little cutpurses weaving through the crowds. Footpads lurking in the darkness of the alleys. Thugs slouching on the corners, keen to collect on behalf of the district’s many moneylenders.

I once read about how the only differences between the great and small thieves is a matter of legality and scale. And it really shows here, how we’ll take advantage of the poor conditions that the working class must endure, only to fill our own pockets. It hardly matters whether we steal with a small pleasure given or a sharp knife at the back, it’s taking advantage of those without much to line our own bottom lines.

Risks, perhaps, and dangers, but Savine had always loved the thrill of a gamble, especially when the game was rigged in her favour. She had long ago learned that at least half of everything is presentation. Seem a victim, soon become one. Seem in charge, people fall over themselves to obey.

So she walked with a swagger, dressed in the dizzy height of fashion, lowering her eyes for no one. She walked painfully erect, although Zuri’s earlier heaving on the laces of her corset gave her little choice. She walked as if it was her street—and indeed she did own five decaying houses further down, packed to their rotten rafters with Gurkish refugees paying twice the going rent.

Then it’s not really a gamble, is it, Savine. That’s stacking the deck, reaping the rewards of it, and patting yourself on the back for being a daring risk-taker, you fool. If that’s the root of your arrogance, then, boy, is this world going to topple you sooner than later because it doesn’t treat the arrogant much better than the merciful. And, boy, is Savine not lacking in arrogance. She reminds me of a pre-bridge Glokta, in terms of how much she buys into her own hype.

An intriguing nugget, though, is her predisposition with presentation. That need to perform and look a certain part. It’s definitely something Glokta, back then, never felt like he had to. I get more shades of West here and his need to perform to a certain standard, but I also think the question of gender has to be considered with how Savine feels she has to perform. It’s an interesting wrinkle in how Savine zigs where Glokta zagged in terms of their respective youths.

Also, Gurkish refugees? (arches a brow) What the hell happened to the Gurkish Empire? Or, are these just people who got tired of the cannibalistic slavery? I can’t really blame them, but is the Union really that much better, guys? Hmmm. Either way, way to take advantage of marginalized people in a racist society, Savine. You’re a class act, m’am, truly.

Zuri was a great reassurance on one side, Savine’s beautifully wrought short steel a great reassurance on the other. Many young ladies had been affecting swords since Finree dan Brock caused a sensation by wearing one to court. Savine found that nothing lent one confidence like a length of sharpened metal close to hand.

Whoa, whoa. Finree wears a sword nowadays? ... Actually, given how Hal’s dead, I can definitely see this as a way to establish authority and put herself on the same level of respect as a man in the Union. And, given how much there’s institutional sexism in that society, I can’t really blame her. Though, given the round of PTSD she got last handling a blade... I’m sure she doesn’t want to actually kill anyone with it now.

Honestly, though, good for Savine and those women of the Union. Better weigh your hopes of safety on a sword than the mercies of your men or enemies.

Savine gathered her skirts so she could squat beside him and look in his dirt-smeared face. She wondered if he sponged the muck on as artfully as her maids did her powder, to arouse just the right amount of sympathy. Clean children need no charity, after all.

Wow, Savine, has it ever occurred to you that the conditions you benefit off of aren’t as pristine as you make it out to be? Have you considered that maybe the world isn’t a projection of your own inclinations to performance?

Just no empathy here, none at all.

She was not at all above sentimental displays of generosity. The whole point of squeezing one’s partners in private was so they could do the squeezing in public. Savine, meanwhile, could smile ever so sweetly, and toss coins to an urchin or two, and appear virtuous without the slightest damage to her bottom line. When it comes to virtue, after all, appearances are everything.

The boy stared at the silver as though it was some legendary beast he had heard of but never hoped to see. “For me?”

She knew that in her button and buckle manufactory in Holsthorm, smaller and probably dirtier children were paid a fraction as much for a long day’s hard labour. The manager insisted little fingers were best suited to little tasks, and cost only little wages, too. But Holsthorm was far away, and things in the distance seem very small. Even the sufferings of children.

“For you.” She did not go as far as ruffling his hair, of course. Who knew what might be living in it?

I’m very reminded of capitalists donating to particular charities while turning a blind eye to the very real exploitation and labor abuse they perpetuate and are supported by. They can afford to look virtuous and get ass-pats for giving what’s effectively their pocket change, but god forbid they do things like get taxed heavier or give enough to put a good dent in most cases of institutional poverty. It’s all about appearances, and so long as you close your mind to the golden pillars, stained with blood, your entire enterprise is supported on, you can justify any means for profit.

And what frightens me about this is... this isn’t some relic from the past. Child labor is still a thing world-wide! And plenty of capitalists rely on them, plenty of our industries rely on them, just to squeeze out extra money to gild their bottom line. And we turn a blind eye on them and ignore the moral horrors of them out of convenience, because to look those children in the eye would make us monsters. And Savine prefers not to feel like a monster, but is more than willing to keep up the hellish circumstances that churn out her money.

“None more blessed, my scripture-teacher once declared, than those who light the way for others.”

“Was that the one who fathered a child on one of his other pupils?”

“That’s him.” Zuri’s black brows thoughtfully rose. “So much for spiritual instruction.”

Zuri’s certainly got a character, being a more cynical follower of religion, huh. I wonder if she’s been disillusioned by her faith, just like Temple was. And why she went to the atheist arms of the Union. I also wonder if this isn’t a commentary on how our religious leaders end up falling short of the actual beliefs and commit to the obscene and awful while papering it over with their high position.

Zuri whipped out a cloth and wiped down a vacant section of the counter, then, as Savine sat, she slipped out the pin and whisked away her hat without disturbing a hair. She kept it close to her chest, which was prudent. Savine’s hat was probably worth more than this entire building, including the clientele. At a brief assay, they only reduced its value.

And who’s partly responsible for that discrepancy of worth, huh, Savine?

She planted one elbow on the stretch of counter Zuri had wiped so she could lean closer and draw out both syllables. “Savine.”

“That’s a lovely name.”

“Oh, if you enjoy the tip, you’ll go mad for the whole thing.”

“That so?” he purred at her. “How does it go?”

“Savine… dan…” And she leaned even closer to deliver the punchline. “Glokta.”

If a name had been a knife and she had cut his throat with hers, the blood could not have drained more quickly from his face. He gave a strangled cough, took a step back and nearly fell over one of his own barrels.

Well, well, well! Glokta’s gotten quite the name for himself, it seems! Can’t exactly be surprised, given he’s the effective ruler of the Union and the Arch Lector of the Inquisition, but it’s a far cry from the simple Inquisitor he started off as, way back at the first trilogy’s start. He’s riding high at the top and Savine gets to use his name to put the screws on random dumbfucks.

Quite theatrical with her words, Savine is! She knows when to let her opponent in, so she can skewer him. Her fencing is such that she knows how to leverage her father’s name to a fine emotional stab to the throat once her opponent dips in and she lunges for the kill. Say one thing about Savine dan Glokta, say she knows how to fence, just like her father.

“If I spent all my time shut up with Mother, we would kill each other,” said Savine. “And I feel that business should be conducted, whenever possible, in person. Otherwise one’s partners can convince themselves that one’s eyes are not on the details. My eyes are always on the details, Majir.”

Oh, dang. Is that exaggeration or do Savine and Ardee not have a good relationship? Also, dang, is Ardee still alone in her home? That’s... actually really sad, given how lonely she was at the first trilogy’s start. She deserves better.

Also, Savine’s not wrong, but at the same time, I can’t read this as anything other than Savine not wanting her partners to fuck her over somewhere. Which, I can’t quite blame her for, but when she’s as rich as she’s implied to be...

My understanding runs thinner. Though, I suppose she wouldn’t have gotten the wealth she did by being a passive business partner that way.

“A promissory note from the banking house of Valint and Balk.”

“Really?” Valint and Balk had a dark reputation, even for a bank. Savine’s father had often warned her never to deal with them, because once you owe Valint and Balk, the debt is never done. But a promissory note was just money, and money can never be a bad thing. She tossed the pouch to Zuri, who peered inside and gave the smallest nod. “It’s coming to something when even the bandits are using the bank.”

Majir mildly raised one brow. “Honest women have the law to protect them. Bandits must take more care with their earnings.”

!!!!! WHOA, WHOA, WHOA. Is that a smart call, Majir? Glokta’s not wrong there!!! There’s half a trilogy detailing how awful that bank is!

Savine, what are you doing. For such a ruthless and to-the-point woman, that’s pretty naive to assume money is money when your father himself warned you against it! Banks have ruined better people than you, and it’s indebted your father! How can you say something like that and think it smart?

(Bangs head against desk)

“True.” Majir watched her turn away, big fists pressed into the counter. “Do pass my regards to your father.”

Savine laughed. “Let’s not demean ourselves by pretending my father gives a dry fuck for your regards.” And she blew a kiss at the terrified barman on her way out.

This, along with her pinching Majir’s cheek earlier, makes me think Savine just gets off on punching down and patronizing people lower than her. Makes for a killer ending line, but it doesn’t suggest any good things about Savine as a person at all.

Dietam dan Kort, famed architect, was a man who gave every appearance of being in control. His desk, scattered with maps, surveys and draughtsman’s drawings, was certainly a wonder of engineering. Savine had moved among the most powerful men in the realm and still doubted she had ever seen a larger. It filled his office so completely, there was only the narrowest of passages around the edges to reach his chair. He must have needed help to squeeze himself through every morning. She wondered if she should recommend her corset-maker.

“Lady Savine,” he intoned. “What an honour.”

“Isn’t it, though?” She made him lean dangerously far across the desk in order to kiss her hand. Savine studied his, meanwhile, big and broad with fingers scarred from hard work. A self-made man. His greying hair was painstakingly scraped across a pate quite obviously bald. A proud and a vain man. She noticed a slight fraying of the cuffs on his once-splendid coat. A man in straitened circumstances, intent on appearing otherwise.

In short, a man Savine will take pleasure in wringing. And I must take note of the passages here, how much Savine’s POV attends to the details of her surroundings, of the appearance and small notes that others would miss. In a lot of ways, she’s the opposite of Leo, someone who takes pains to note the presentation of another because she’s very driven to it herself and thinks to leverage that knowledge to squeeze those who can be.

Also, I kind of wonder if noble titles can be bought in this world, given this assumption of Dietam dan Kort as a self-made man. Either that or Kort’s just a son from a smaller family who managed to get a good opportunity through this new age. Either way, given the way Savine’s accumulated her wealth, despite her noble title of Glokta, I imagine he’s similar to her, if only not as successful.

Zuri placed Majir’s pouch on the desk as delicately as if it had been deposited by a summer breeze. It looked very small on that immense expanse of green leather. But that was the magic of banks. They could render the priceless tiny, the immense worthless.

I’m reminded of Daniel Abraham’s The Dagger and the Coin and how the big twist was this dawn of paper money about to circulate throughout the world. And how it’s a sort of magic in its own right... but it’s always a blessing and curse, just like magic in the Circle of the World.

“Of course!” He was unable to disguise a note of eager greed as he reached across the desk. “I believe we agreed a twentieth share—”

Savine placed one fingertip on the corner of the pouch. “You mentioned a twentieth. I remained silent.”

His hand froze. “Then…?”

“A fifth.”

There was a pause. While he decided how outraged he could afford to be, and Savine decided how little to appear to care.

Eager greed, huh? Me thinks, the raven call the crow black here. And there’s another note of projection in Savine’s POV, it’s a consistent note of Savine seeing intent where there might not be. She does it with the link-boy about how dirty he was, and now, she does it with Kort’s outrage. She just can’t seem to think that these reactions and people are genuine. Her head’s full of presentation and performance, and she just seems to internalize that there’s always a double-meaning to everything and everyone.

It’s honestly a really fascinating note about how unreliable Savine might be, how much her predilection with appearances bleeds into how much she reads into the world.

“When I confide, in strictest confidence, that you are short of investment, lacking the necessary permissions and troubled by restless workmen, it will be all over town before sunup.”

“Sure as printing it in a pamphlet,” said Zuri, sadly.

“Good luck finding an investor then, reasonable or otherwise.”

It had only taken a moment for Kort to go from bright red to deathly pale, and Savine burst out laughing. “Don’t be silly, I won’t do that!” She stopped laughing. “Because you are going to sign one-fifth of your enterprise over to me. Now. Then I can confide in Tilde that I just made the investment of a lifetime, and she won’t be able to resist investing herself. She’s not only loose-lipped, you see, but tight-fisted, too.”

Oh, very hard power here, Savine. Corporate blackmail and underhanded threats, I very well see. It must do your black heart a bundle of joy to punch down on fellow nobles. There’s barely any carrot here, mostly the stick.

“Greed is a quality the priests abhor.” Zuri sighed. “Especially the rich ones.”

“But so widespread these days,” lamented Savine. “If Lady Rucksted sees some gain in it, I daresay she can persuade her husband to make a breach in Casamir’s Wall so you can extend your canal into the Three Farms.” And Savine could sell the worthless slum buildings she had bought on the canal’s likely route back to herself at an immense profit. “The marshal’s notoriously stubborn for most of us but to his wife he’s a pussycat. You know how it is with old men and their young brides.”

In a lot of ways, this feels like a statement of the new generation, the new wave of greed that Sult disdained way back at the trilogy’s start is in full swing now. Now, Sult was a classist bigot who wanted the peasantry to knuckle down to nobility like old times, but at the same time, we see how much this attitude of greed has bled into the nobility themselves now, far beyond the realms of the merchants Sult once held in contempt. And Savine plays to get ahead of the others, already thinking reaches ahead of her competition here. Profit’s the name of the game, and she’s a natural hand at it...

“The first to do so.” Where it could service Savine’s three textile mills and the Hill Street Foundry, incidentally, and sharply raise their productivity. “I daresay—for a friend—I could even arrange a visit of His Majesty’s Inquisitors to a labour meeting. I imagine your troublesome workers will be far more pliable after a few stern examples are made.”

“Stern examples,” threw in Zuri, “are something the priests are always in favour of.”

... Though it doesn’t hurt to have father’s institutions as muscle to sweeten the pot, huh. Really, Savine, this is embarrassing if you think this is a fair game between you and Kort. You stacked the deck and have the dealer on your side and I imagine this wasn’t the first time you’ve leveraged the Inquisition in your business deals. (snorts)

Kort sagged, his chin settling into the roll of fat beneath it, his eyes fixed resentfully upon her. Clearly, he was not a man who liked to lose. But where would be the fun in beating men who did?

Savine really gets her kicks off punching down people lower than her. That’s like, an inherent part of her psychology, huh.

“A notary from the firm of Temple and Kahdia is already drawing up the papers. He will be in touch.” She turned towards the door.

Hey! Temple’s business! Sounds like he’s done well for himself since Red Country, I hope he’s doing well with Shy, Pit, and Ro! Though, dang, Temple, could your business not help out a woman like Savine?

“They warned me,” Kort grunted as he slid Valint and Balk’s note from the pouch. “That you care about nothing but money.”

“Why, what a pompous crowd they are. Beyond a point I passed long ago, I don’t even care about money.” Savine flicked the brim of her hat in farewell. “But how else is one to keep score?”

Oh, oh my. I know I’ve mentioned Kanedias, Bayaz, and West, but this part? This part? All Sand dan Glokta, down on a bone-deep level. This is the part of Glokta that just loved to lord his dominance over those who couldn’t punch back. The part that just loved to feel superior to everyone else, way back back at that bridge when he thrashed those fencers and wanted to wound West when his own blood was drawn. The part of him that can’t stand to lose, the need to win at all cost.

It’s all about the conquest with her and her father. There’s no higher-minded purpose behind it, it’s just the winning.

As a chapter, Keeping Score, is a microcosm of Savine’s character. There’s an arc in it, but not as strong as one as Where the Fight’s Hottest, nor is it quite as impactful as Blessings and Curses. But it has plenty of Abercrombie snark and some great starting fencing, though, with opponents that Savine can easily take down without much effort. But it sets up a great industrial age sweeping over Adua and how much that change’s going to affect the world going forward... and how Savine’s going to take that change by the tails.

As a character... Savine’s 100% more interesting than Leo in a lot of ways, but at the same time, wow, is she just a spectacularly scummy person in most ways Leo just isn’t (aside from him being a oblivious musclehead). A capitalist who leverages her father in power plays and corporate blackmail, just to gain even more wealth that she doesn’t need out of a need to win. There are definitely interesting aspects to how Savine differs from her father and her historical DNAs, but in a lot of ways? She feels very reminiscent of pre-bridge Glokta in a way that makes me realize that man would’ve been downright insufferable as a POV.

I can take Savine, because I definitely think she’s got a ton of potential and, you know, there’s no way Abercrombie would let her stay the same the entire book. Though, a curious thought is that Savine strikes me less a fantasy archetype than a modern archetype in a fantasy world. Hm. That’s an interesting thought, especially considering how much Temple was a modern character dropped in a fantasy western world.

PART I

Chapter One: Blessings and Curses Chapter Two: Where the Fight’s Hottest Chapter Three: Guilt Is a Luxury Chapter Four: Keeping Score Chapter Five: A Little Public Hanging Chapter Six: The Breakers Chapter Seven: The Answer to Your Tears Chapter Eight: Young Heroes Chapter Nine: The Moment

#a little hatred #a little hatred spoilers #the age of madness #the first law #joe abercrombie #savine dan glokta #a little hatred part I

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mrneighbourlove · 4 years

Text

Emergency Friend

"Will you stop kicking your mama's bladder? We had this conversation already." Zizi was in the kitchen making lunch for her two sons, Manaco and Ahusaka, and her husband. Kahli had to go to the Kikai Empire, and she was not necessarily happy about that fact this close to the end of her pregnancy. Yet, she understood that diplomacy issues could not be avoided. "Boys, your baby sister is kicking up a storm. Even you two weren't this bad."

"Daddy says baby sissy is gonna be pretty like Mama." Manaco grinned widely as his mother served him a piece of grilled fish with some salad and green beans.

"Think she'll come and out play soon?"

"I'mma big brodder!" Ahusaka declared to Manaco. "Not little brodder, big brodder."

"You're a big and little brother, sweetie." Zizi kissed the top of his head. "Both of you eat your lunch."

Skull Kid sulked about, sneaking into Zizi’s house. He found himself bored, and wanted to see if he could have fun with his friend. Too bad she was all fat again. Stupid babies. “Wow. You look like a balloon ready to burst.”

Zizi held the spatula up in the air at him. "How many times do I have to tell you? Use the door."

“How many times do I have to tell you I do what I want?” Skull Kid took up room in the entire window sill, his back straight and one foot kicked upwards.

"You can do what you want. Just respect the rules of my house." Zizi waved the spatula at him. "And use the front door. The last thing I want is you falling through my window."

Skull Kid looked to ground, then he looked to the living room floor. “Right... So where’s your Fireplace gone off to?”

"Kahli had business in the Kikai Empire and I didn't want to give birth there or risk it being on dragon back, so I stayed here." Zizi wiped off Monaco's messy face. "The baby is due in three weeks. Against all odds, it's a girl. I thought for sure it'd be another boy."

“As long as they stay kids.” Skull Kid plopped down into her house, walking about like he owned the place. “Speaking about that, I thought I’d stop by to give a gift. Told it’s the nice thing to do.” Rather quickly, he pulled out a rattler made of oak. “I took this from some fairies. Should sooth babies or something.”

"Skully, you know that they're going to be adults one day. But for now, yes, they are children." Zizi was surprised by the rattler. Usually, Skully had the habit of avoiding the babies for a little while, at least until the kids were walking and talking. Due to what happened with his baby brother getting all the attention, she could understand how he felt around infants. She smiled, and said, "That's very nice of you, Skully. I'm sure Keira will like this rattler, this will be her first toy."

“My gift so I don’t have to see them later. Babies creep me out.” Skull Kid didn’t even like toddlers. He wanted Zizi’s kids to hit that fun age of proper childhood. “You expecting any company? Like a friend or doctor to slice you open to get to your baby? Hehehe.”

"Skully, that's not funny." Zizi gave him a frown. "The baby will arrive naturally unless it's an emergency."

“Only emergency will be getting you through the door.” Skull Kid laughed, congratulating himself for that one.

"Go ahead, joke all you want, just know if I sit on you, you're not going anywhere." Zizi crossed her arms. "And if I fart, then you're going to be gagging."

"Mama stinky." Ahusaka giggled.

"No, your sister is stinky, she's giving me gas."

“Pu-pleeeeease, your mommy can barely waddle, let alone have to force to sit on anyone.” Skull Kid chuckled again. “When’s it coming out? Why aren’t you with the ice queen?”

"... Zarazu has duties of her own. I'll let her know when the baby is born." Zizi was getting a little annoyed with Skully's attitude. He was like this when she was pregnant with Manaco and Ahusaka. "Once my daughter is here, Zarazu volunteered to watch the boys for a few days while I recover."

“Ok numb nuts. You’re just, what, gonna sit here alone until you leak out a waterfall?”

"Keira isn't supposed to be due for another three weeks. That means three weeks from now, Skully, 21 days. I have plenty of time, she's just a big baby." Zizi told him. "Manaco was a big baby, I thought I was carrying twins."

“Oh my god humans are sooooo dumb.” Skull Kid rolled his head back from personal annoyance. Why did adults think they could handle every task by themselves? Zizi seemed to be no exception. “Here I thought you were one of the smarter ones.”

"Skully, women have been alone while pregnant. I'll be fine, I am fine." Zizi insisted. "Look, Asakonigei is supposed to come over for a visit tomorrow. Does that make you feel better?" She then said with a small chuckle. "Look at you. All worried for me."

“Well, what if you bleed out? What if something happens to the baby. Can you get someone to look after you? Like Rinku, Doctor Boo Boo, or even Leere?”

"Look, Ari'phompha is right outside in the dragon barn." Zizi gestured through the window. "If I need help, she'll go get someone or even take me there, all right? She's just taking an afternoon nap, she's old. And Doctor Boo Boo helped deliver both my sons, he'll make sure I'm all right. You're worrying too much, he said everything was fine with the baby and me." She pulled Skully closer, in a headlock. "Look, I'm not going anywhere. Pojiji lived to be in her hundreds. Maybe I'll beat her old age, yeah?"

“Dragons are stup-HEY!” He shouldn’t have walked so close to her, now he was pulled into a headlock by a tiny, fat bellied woman. “Didn’t Pojiji die in a fiery explosion? You aren’t making a confident reason for me to not worry.” Finally pulling out, he adjusted his skull mask and hat. “I should get going. Honestly, go get someone. You look like a cow that’s ready to get tipped over in the middle of the night and not get back up. Hey.... that sounds like fun.”

"What I'm saying is, I'm not going anywhere anytime soon, okay?" Zizi gave him a noogie, and then released Skully. "I don't care what cow you tip as long as it's not mine. But before you do that, you want some lunch?"

“Eeeeeeeeeeh?” Skull Kid rocked his hand back and forth. “I’m not super hungry, but I could stay for a bit?”

"All right, if you're going to stay, then do me a favor," Zizi managed lead her boys over onto the rug in the living area. There were carved toys there for her sons to play with while she knitted. Sitting on the couch, she patted the spot beside of me. "Hold my yarn."

“What’s that have to do with lunch?” Skull Kid picked up a ball of yarn.

"Lunch is in the pan on the oven if you want a salmon cake." Zizi told Skully, "You're more than welcome to the last one. I think there's some greens in the pot and some cornbread patties too." She then explained to her friend. "I always knit at lunch while the boys play. I'm working on a blanket for Keria's bed."

“Oh. Neat.” Skull Kid kicked the ball of yarn around like a hacky sack, growing bored.

"Now, now, hold it still, it has to be big enough for her bed." Zizi then asked. "How's the fairies? We don't get to talk as much as we used to."

“They’re doing good, pretty good. Still rather secretive. They didn’t like Ganondorf becoming king, they didn’t like Lorleidians pissing off a big scary monster who blew up a bunch of their friends, and they just, don’t like most people. Humans and monster kind are gross, mean, smelly, and generally stupid. There’s a few exceptions, but eh, they still won’t go public.”

"Well, I know they were always rather cordial when you took me to the forest to visit." Zizi shifted on the couch, feeling too much pressure in her hips. "They are so beautiful too, with such lovely songs. I'm surprised that Navi has put up with Link this long, though. She has told me numerous times that his past selves got into way too much trouble."

“That’s not how you pronounce ‘fun’ Zizi. Link is amazing. Saving the world, having exciting adventures, the best. Kind of sad in some ways Rinku got cheated out of killing Ganondorf this life time. You all could have let her decapitate Vul’kar as compensation at least.” He made a few make-believe sword swings to illustrate a point. “What’s she supposed to do now? Honestly has me worried.”

"I'm sure Rinku will have plenty of fun exploring the world. You know her, she's always had that wanderlust." Zizi shifted yet again, this time putting her feet on the coffee table. "I think she'd love to have a companion with her. Maybe next time she goes, you could go too. Do what you wanted to when she was a kid; go see the world together and pull the biggest prank that anyone has ever seen."

“I go with her from time to time. We have fun because Links don’t get put on this world for it.” Before Zizi could pick up on that Skull Kid switched the conversation in the same beat. “You gonna have hundred babies? Kind of gross.”

"Well, you can always change---OH!" Zizi jolted on the couch, nearly dropping her knitting. "Oh... that was a big kick."

“You see? What did I say? You want me to call someone?”

"It's just a kick, Skully, she kicks me all the---and I need to pee, help me up."

Skull Kid threw the ball of yarn next to her. “Honestly Zizi. You’re useless on your own right now.” He did help, however, pushing hard to get her on her feet. “Lose some weight, man oh man.”

"It's baby weight, I'm not fat." Zizi groaned slightly as Skull managed to get her standing upright. "And I'm not useless, that's a mean thing to say. I'll be right back, just watch the boys, will you?"

“Ok. Your sons weren’t going to pull you up now where they? Go stay with someone after you take your golden leak.” Skull Kid made sure Zizi got to the bathroom, then went to the tiny boys. “Now then. Who wants to learn how to make cheap pies to throw at people?”

"...?" Ahusaka looked at Skull Kid, puzzled.

"Mama says we can't touch the oven, might get a boo-boo." Manaco held up a wooden horse figurine. "Wanna play with me? You can have this horsey. I got another one."

Skull Kid rose an eyebrow behind his mask. “What’s not to get about whip cream? No oven involved. Also, trust me when I say horses are nothing but trouble. Tried to ride one once. Didn’t like listening to me.”

"Horsey fun." Ahusaka insisted, as he carefully lined up all the toy stallions, sorting them by color. "Very fun."

"Mama says not to get near oven." Manaco shook his head. "Could get a bad boo-boo."

"If you're trying to entice my kids into a prank, you might want to wait until they're a few years older, Skully." Zizi felt a little bit better after peeing nearly a gallon. Maybe drinking that orange juice first thing in the morning was not the brightest idea. "They're not the type to disobey... yet."

"Yeah. Cause I'm going to teach them what fun is." Skull Kid got annoyed, finally snatching the horse. "Nyah, nyah, look, its a Pegasus now." Skull Kid took two feathers from his collectables pouch, stabbing it into the horse’s sides. "Here's a flying horse."

"Oooh!" Ahusaka clapped his hands with a delighted giggle.

"Play nice, Skully," Zizi told her friend. "I know they're little right now, but they'll grow and you'll have much fun. Be patient, I promise it will be worth the wait."

"Waiting is a bore. I should know." Skull Kid handed the flying horse back and hopped to the window like a little gremlin. "Imma head out. Not in the mood for sandwiches. Are you going to move in with someone while your husband is away?"

"Leaving already?" Zizi frowned, looking sad. "I know I'm not as fun as I used to be, Skully, but I still do enjoy your company. If you don't want a sandwich or fish, I could always fix you something else." She then suggested. "You used to like it when we baked cookies together. Would you like to do that?" At his question of her staying with someone else, she shook her head. "If you're that worried," She then said with an impish grin of her own. "Stay with me."

Not as fun as she used the be. If that didn't hit the nail on the head. Skull Kid looked back and forth to Zizi and the outside world. He'd seen this scenario enough times before. 'Friends' grew old. They outgrew him. And even if they didn't, they died. Friends that weren't Link were temporary. The outside world always changed and could hold his curiosity. Old people simply didn't. Zizi was a good friend though. She cared in ways others hadn't. Even when he could sometimes act like a jerk without meaning to, she'd stay at his side.

Skull Kid tapped the window frame, looking back her from behind his mask. "Well... I can't take care of you if your water balloon pops, but I don't suppose cookies can hurt."

"What kind of cookies do you want to make? I think last time, we baked sugar cookies." Zizi waddled over to the kitchen and started pulling out the ingredients. Flour, eggs, sugar, and baking soda all went on the counter. "I got some chocolate chips we could add if you'd like. Or we could put in some mint."

"Mints gross. Do chocolate chip." Skull Kid scuttled back down to the kitchen, leaning up to peer over the counter.

"Chocolate chip it is, with..." She stood on her tiptoes, feeling around in the back. Zizi then pulled out a large container of rainbow colored sprinkles in the shapes of hearts and stars. "Extra sprinkles, right? Your favorite?"

"No, no, no. Just the chips!" Skull Kid tapped his hands on the counter in hurry to correct her. "Sprinkles are for little kids."

"Okay, so I'm going to put all these ingredients into the bowl, why don't you get out the pan for the cookies?" Zizi started mixing all the items required together in a large bowl. "And who says you're not a kid?" She teased playfully, "Who wanted extra marshmallows in his cocoa?"

"Because marshmallows actually taste good." Skull Kid grumbled, crossing his arms in a small fit. With a huff, he scuttled over to grab a pan.

"Well, I can't argue with you there." Zizi noted and soon had the mixture stirred into a delicious goop. "Want to lick the spoon?"

"Don't one of your children want that? I'm having the good cooked stuff."

"Just offering, the batter is sometimes the best in my opinion... especially with all the chocolate." Zizi licked her lips. "Do you want to do the portion sizes?"

"Yes." Skull Kid spoke in a tone as if it was an obvious choice from the beginning.

"Heh, have at it then." Zizi slid him the bowl and then make sure to heat up the oven. "So, what do you think of Keira for a baby girl's name? Kahli liked that one the best, though I still like Miku."

"Does it matter? It's your kid. They could be human child 3 for all I care. Keira sounds better though." Skull Kid swallowed down his portions rather quickly.

"Hey, you're supposed to take my side." Zizi teased him lightly with a nudge. "Now, Manaco's birthday party is coming up in four months. You're coming, right? He loved it when you brought fireworks last year."

"Sure, I can do something. You won't like it though. Manaco will love it."

"Oh? What won't I like?" Zizi arched an eyebrow at Skully.

“Secrets I don’t share with parents.” Skull Kid made a ‘bleh’ sound at her, giggling evilly after. “It’ll be fun though, I promise.”

"... as long as no one gets hurt." Zizi shook the spoon at him. "That's my only condition. And no setting things on fire."

“No one gets hurt, got ya. Psychologically either.” Freaking Zolori had to ruin the fun out of that last bit because she couldn’t take a joke. Skull Kid only promised to never do anything like that because Zizi was refusing to talk to him after.

"Good, that's my only..." Zizi stopped talking and looked down on the floor. "...? Did we spill water?"

“No? We didn’t even pour any.”

"That's what I was afraid of." Zizi took a slow breath and steeled herself against a contraction. She had done this twice, a third time would not make a difference. "Skully... I need you to go get---" A wave of pain hit and she groaned, gripping the side of the counter, biting her lip to keep from being too loud. She did not want to scare her sons. "... go get Doctor Boo-Boo."

“Oh.... OH!” Skull Kid panicked, wondering what do in this situation. “I told you! I told you your fat belly would get you into trouble!” Zizi needed help now and not later. With no idea what else to do, Skull Kid took out an old wooden ocarina from his pocket, playing an ancient song. For himself, he had a telepathic line to his best friend. “Rinku! Are you in Hyrule?”

“Skull Kid? What’s wrong?”

They both knew this was an emergency communication line. “Zizi’s exploding water at her house! I think her baby is ready to burrow out! I don’t know what to do! Can you bring Doctor Boo-Boo over here?”

“I’ll send word and head on over!”

Skull Kid looked back to Zizi, looking to her sons. “Hey kids! How’d you like to play hide and seek? Go hide in your rooms, and I’ll come and find you in ten minutes!”

Zizi was grateful that Manaco and Ahusaka lit up at the idea of playing hide and seek with a 'big kid'. After the boys had tottered off to their rooms, she inhaled sharply and tried to deal with the discomfort.

"I am going to throttle Kahli for leaving so close to my due date!" Zizi slammed her hand down on the counter. "He knew better! And damn that Zannah for making him feel like he had to go---ow, ow, ow, ow, ow!!!" Her eyes watered as another strong contraction washed over her body. "Skully... I need you to get a few things ready for Keira's arrival..." She took another deep breath, trying to focus. "Warm water, a few clean towels, and..." She groaned. "And a blanket."

“O-ok.” Skull Kid did so, trying his best to not dawdle. He was able to acquire a blanket and a start the hot water when Rinku elbowed checked through the door and made a tactical roll into the kitchen. “Skull Kid, Zizi! I’m here!”

"Where's... Doctor Boo-Boo?" Zizi asked Rinku in-between deep breaths. She had to keep her breathing right. Breathe through the pain, and keep a clear head and not contemplate homicide. "Is he coming? The baby's already pressing pretty... pretty good."

“On his way sweety. Take deep breathes.” Skull Kid waddled over, placing down the hot water. Rinku took one of the towels, using the hot water to dab Zizi on the head.

"Do me another favor, kick Kahli really hard for me, just one time in the ass when he gets back." Zizi was trying to keep a cool head, but it was really starting to hurt. "I... I don't think the doctor's going to make it in time. She's pressing now and I have to push."

“It’s what?!” Skull Kid’s hands rose to grasp his head in further panic.

Rinku’s face turned a little pale herself. “Well screw my life.”

Skull Kid grabbed the blanket, his hands shaking. “What do we do? What do we do?!”

"One of you is going to have to get between my legs and the other is going to have to steady me, which is it going to be?!" Zizi's voice was starting to sound a little shrill. "I'm going to have to do this standing up, I can't move. Hurry up! Tell me!"

Rinku shouted to Skull Kid, holding Zizi steady. She felt she was the only one who could hold her tight. “Skull Kid! Play catch!”

Skull Kid went to below Zizi’s legs, terrified, yet ready.

"Don't. Drop. Her." Zizi ordered her friend through gritted teeth. She held onto Rinku's hand while the other arm steadied the Zemlja. It was hard to stay quiet, but she did not want to worry her sons who were undoubtedly wondering what was taking Skull Kid so long to find them. She furrowed her brow and tried to keep from shouting. Doctor Boveir was right. After the first child, the rest came rather quickly unless there were complications. One push, then two, then three... and on the fifth push, Keira started to emerge.

Rinku looked down, her eyes widening to the size of dinner plates. How did her own mother manage this multiple times? “Skull Kid! Here she comes!”

Skull Kid nearly bit his tongue to not scream as a squishy bundle of flesh landed in his hands. “Gross, gross, gross, gross. Oh god it’s so- oh where’s that stupid doctor!?!!”

"Don't call Keira gross, you big jerk!!!" Zizi's emotions were running on a high and her knees buckled. Slowly, Rinku lowered Zizi to the floor. She had no strength left after such a sudden birth. Taking her daughter from Skull Kid, Zizi wrapped Keira in a blanket and held her closely, keeping her warm. "All babies look like this when they're born..."

It wasn't but a minute later than Doctor Boveir was nearly tripping over his own feet trying to get in the door. "I'm here! I'm here, Zizi are you---oh." He stood there in shock for a moment. "Oh, wow, that must be a new record, a baby coming that fast---"

"Doctor Boveir, if you would be so kind to hush and help me."

"Right, right!" He fumbled with his suitcase, opening it up and making sure to get out the materials needed.

“You suck!” Skull Kid kicked the Doctor in the butt to move him along. “That was the most stressful situation I’ve been in for god knows how long ago?!”

Rinku patted the doctors back, knowing that he did the best he could for coming in time. “Thanks for coming Doctor Boo Boo.”

"Hey! Don't kick the doctor, you brat!" Doctor Boveir shooed Skull Kid away and then proceeded to make sure Keira's airways were clear and she was healthy despite a sudden birth. "Your little one seems to be in top shape, Zizi. I don't know how you did it, but I'm glad you had some help here with you." He gently took a towel and started to clean Keira of the mucus. Noticing the cookie contents on the counter, he then gave a small laugh. "Well... I bet this one will be really sweet since she arrived while you were trying to bake cookies."

“My cookies. Not yours. You didn’t do anything you hack.” Skull Kid growled towards the Doctor as he took the pan away.

"Would you two mind staying with Zizi a while longer until I can get in touch with Zarazu? She'll probably want to move her sister, nephews, and new niece into the castle since Kahli isn't here." Doctor Boveir gently handed Keira back to Zizi. "She's beautiful. Well done."

"I'm glad she's all right." Zizi looked exhausted. "Thank you, Skully, Rinku..."

“I told you so! And your welcome...” Skull Kid kicked the ground slightly.

Rinku patted her best friends back. “You did well buddy. How about we cook those cookies.”

After Manaco and Ahusaka were put to bed by Zarazu, she wished Zizi and newborn Keria sweet dreams. The Zemlja hated to inconvenience her sister, but it was nice to know everything was taken care of for now. She relaxed on the huge bed, and then looked over at the window. "I know you're there, you suck at hiding around me." Zizi said in good humor. "Come out."

Skull Kid knew the castle like the back of his hand. Hoping down and skidding down a pillar, he had a cookie stuffed in his mouth. “You feeling better?”

"A little sore, but nothing that I can't survive." Zizi patted the spot in the bed beside of her. "Thank you for what you did today. That was really brave. I apologize for yelling at you, the pain and my emotions were getting the best of me."

“Yeah they were.” Skull Kid hopped over to her spot, eating his cookie some more. “Please don’t ask me to do that again. I’m glad I did it once for you, but it’s gross.”

"It's not gross, it's a very big ouch, thank you." Zizi poked his forehead. "But just think of it this way, now, you have another little friend to play with. Well... when she gets a little bigger."

“It’s a tiny potato for now. You gonna listen to me next time?”

"Good spirits, yes, I will listen to you... if there is a next time." Zizi crossed her arms. "Kahli is still going to get a lecture when he gets home."

“Gonna divorce him?”

"No, but I have a feeling he will listen next time I tell him he better not leave so close to my due date." Zizi sighed and then gathered the extra blanket at her side and tossed it over Skull Kid. "I think we will have to resume our baking when I return home, Skully. More chocolate chip? Or do you want snickerdoodle?"

“More cookies. I snicker at your doodle.”

"Heh, you never change." Zizi laughed softly and then settled back on the pillows. "Skully, I know this is an odd question to ask, but... do you still dream when you sleep?"

“Nope.”

"So, you just live with the memories of all the lives you've seen." Zizi laid there, in deep thought for a moment. "I know you remember Link from all his lives, correct?"

“Yeah. Little foggy sometimes with gaps in my memory.”

"Do you think you'll remember me?" Zizi asked him honestly. "My family?"

Skull Kid paused. To be truthful, he didn’t know for sure. “I hope so. I do.”

"One thing is for sure," Zizi told Skully with a soft smile. "You'll always be my friend."

“Thank you. You’re my friend too Zizi, He he he.”

"How about we have a sleep over of sorts?" Zizi asked him, wrapping an arm around his shoulders. "Just lay here and talk for a while until we fall asleep?"

“Ok. Sounds like fun.” Skull Kid snuggled happily close. He didn’t get a lot of sleep overs anymore. “What do you want to talk about?”

"How about we talk about updating the tree house a little? I think it needs a fresh coat of paint."

“Yeah, we could do that.”

"Maybe I can grow the tree a little larger and we can add another room. After all, I'm sure my kids would love it if you shared your 'awesome clubhouse' with them one day."

“Well, I suppose I can share one of them.”

"Only one? What if I end up having a dozen kids? You know how Kahli is." Zizi snorted. "He won't keep his hands off me."

“And you said you didn’t know if you’d have more kids. You really are an adult now Zizi. You used to be so free spirited. Now you’re chained to motherhood. Dumb.”

"Hey," Zizi nudged him lightly. "That doesn't mean I can't have fun anymore. Adults can still be fun, but you have to find one who knows how to do so. Tell me, who else would indulge your games? You know that I'm still the master of tag."

“Hide and seek? Appropriate pranks on your sisters. Poisoning Zannah?” He tilted his head innocently at that last suggestion.

"... if you meant laxative in her tea by 'poisoning', quite so." Zizi agreed. "I really don't like that woman. Or her stupid robot."

“Ugly robot too. Why don’t we blow him up?”

"If you figure out a way, please let me know. Though for now..." Zizi then suggested. "Let's think of a way to prank Kahli when he returns. I do believe he deserves it."

“Gonna make him never hurt your feelings again.” Skull Kid, turned to Zizi, noticing she was passing out into sleep. “... Heh. Goodnight friend.”

#crossover #ridersoftheapocalypse #short story #Skull Kid #Zizi #Link #Rinku #Childbirth

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dragons-bones · 5 years

Text

FFXIV Write Entry #15: Shovel Talk

Prompt: scrutiny (free write) | Master Post | On AO3

A pattern of knocks—one two three, pause, one two three—sounded on his office doors. Aymeric looked up from the mass of papers and parchment strewn about his desk, chin balanced in his hand, blinking in confusion. That was one of the coded knocks his officers used when they couldn’t appraise of him details otherwise, specifically to alert him to special guests; one that required his undivided attention.

He hurriedly shrugged his armored surcoat back on and sat upright, hurriedly straightening the paperwork into mostly neat piles. “Yes?” he called out, voice carefully pitched to sound calm and collected.

The left door creaked open, and Lucia leaned inside. “My apologies for the disturbance, Ser Aymeric,” she said in her most formal tone. “A visitor to the Congregation requests an audience with you. May I escort her in?

Not, ‘Are you able to meet with her?’ Someone very important, then, but for the life of him, Aymeric could not figure out who this visitor might be.

“Please do, Ser Lucia,” he said, rising to his feet as his First Commander swung open the door fully. She bowed their mystery guest through first, only stepping inside the office once the visitor came to a stop in the middle of the office, halfway to Aymeric’s desk.

Their visitor was a hyur woman of middle age, her skin a warm golden brown and her dark eyes sharp and observant. She had a strong nose, crows’ feet at the corner of her eyes, and chestnut hair streaked with grey pulled into a thick braid pulled over her left shoulder that hung to her waist; she wore no face paint, save for an Ala Mhigan clan mark in deep red across the bridge of her nose and in an abstract pattern on her right cheek. Her posture was perfectly straight as she politely held her hands clasped in front of her, oozing a surety of purpose and resolve that made her seem much taller than she was.

What drew his attention nearly as much as her cool gaze and regal bearing were her clothes. Her storm grey dress was cashmere, embroidered heavily in dark red thread that formed geometric shapes, with the bottom hem featuring a motif that reminded him of animals—specifically, wolves and bear. The dress was cut to the knee, showing off sensible, heavy leather boots, and was belted with a silver chain. Another silver chain ran from her left hip to her right shoulder, behind which hung a cape with four silk stripes in black, white, red, and storm grey. And the cape’s clasp to the chain was a silver wolf’s head with topaz eyes.

All of it Ala Mhigan.

Aymeric felt the hairs prickle on the back of his neck. This was—

“Ser Aymeric de Borel,” Lucia said with her parade grounds voice, “I present Lady Angharad Greywolfe of Ala Mhigo.”

Oh. Fuck.

“Lady Angharad,” said Aymeric (thank the Fury, none of his sudden terror leaked through), coming around his desk to bow, “it is an honor and a privilege to meet you at last.”

Synnove’s beloved aunt’s answering smile was small and knowing as she dipped into a return curtsy. “The pleasure is mine, Lord Commander,” she said.

“By your leave, sir?” said Lucia. Fury take her, his First Commander’s smile was absolutely wicked, despite her respectful, deferent tone. No doubt she was going to ‘pearl Rereha the moment she was in her own office.

Aymeric inclined his head to her, and the woman closed the office door behind her as she left.

Angharad’s smile changed: now it more a baring of teeth, and her eyes glittered. Wolves were dangerous, especially when protecting the den, but Synnove had once told him that the sigil of her aunt’s family—Redclawe—was a bear. And as any child of Coerthas knew, if there was anything more terrifying than a she-wolf guarding cubs, it was a she-bear guarding cubs.

He swallowed, but stood up straighter as he pulled out one of the chairs on the opposite side of his desk. Lady Angharad strode forward and took the proffered seat with a satisfactory hum, and, once she was settled, Aymeric retook his own seat. He folded his hands on the desktop, to resist the urge to fidget, and met Lady Angharad’s gaze.

He and Synnove had not made any formal announcements about the changed state of their relationship, but neither had they attempted to hide it. There had been little to no negativity in Ishgard, save for disappointed younger lords and ladies, and Count Edmont had been openly delighted. The three other Warriors of Light had also expressed their happiness for Synnove, in their own ways. But they had, one by one, taken him aside privately.

Alakhai had been bluntly straightforward: she’d walked right into his office and slammed one of her combat knives down, point first, into the ironwood of his desk. She’d leaned forward and stared at him, unblinking. He had returned her stare, and eventually she had nodded in satisfaction, retrieved her knife, and left.

Dancing Heron had been similarly silent. She had taken him aside to one of the side parlors at House Fortemps, sat in one of the few chairs that could properly accommodate a roegadyn’s great height, and dragged a whetstone down her sword. The aura of sheer menace had been palpable, particularly when taken in concert with Heron’s easy familiarity with her gear, the age of her sword and how well-cared for it was, and the callouses on her hands.

Rereha had been the worst. To an outside observer, it had liked seemed innocent enough, the bard gesturing expansively while she chattered. Except she had shared, with obvious relish, stories of vengeance on unfaithful lovers, poisoned chalices for caddish heartbreakers, arrows to the heart to reclaim lost honor. Her tone had been light and airy, and her expression gleefully malicious, solidifying in Aymeric’s mind that Rereha Reha was the single most underestimated woman in all of Eorzea.

(One night, not long after the Warriors of Light had ‘spoken’ with him, Synnove had tucked herself into his side and said, awed and respectful, “Lucia and Handeloup are viciously creative.”

Thank the Fury, he apparently hadn’t been the only one threatened within an inch of his life by rabidly overprotective friends.)

Now, though, Aymeric was rather wishing to hear another of Rereha’s gore-filled tales of revenge. What he knew of Angharad Greywolfe was based solely on Synnove’s recollections, and while he did not doubt her love for her aunt, nor her aunt’s love for her niece, the relationship no doubt colored Synnove’s perceptions of the woman. He was in uncharted territory now.

Angharad, at least, wasn’t one to prevaricate. She folded her hands in her lap and raised one chestnut eyebrow at him. “My niece has spoken much of you, Lord Commander” said the woman, “and I quite know how well and how deeply she feels about you. But I would know: what drew her to you?”

Aymeric did not have to think about it. “When first I heard of her,” he said, “it was as one of a group of outsiders seeking assistance from the High Houses in locating the Enterprise as part of the efforts to combat the Ixali summoning of Garuda. My dear friend Haurchefant spoke highly of them all, but especially of Synnove and her immediate friends: their lack of complaint at the inane or thankless tasks set before them; their invaluable assistance in proving the accusations of heresy against Lord Francel de Haillenarte false; and their thwarting of a false inquisitor sowing chaos among our forces. They were honorable women, and Haurchefant never chose his friends lightly.

“I was, admittedly, quite taken with his descriptions of Synnove in particular,” he said ruefully. “He spoke of a serious young woman with a spine of steel and a will of iron. Focused, driven, apparently no-nonsense at first blush. But that she was kind, gentle to those who needed a soft hand, firm with those who required her strength. That she doted on her carbuncles, treated them like her children, and how they adored her in turn. That she had a wry sense of humor, and spoke with obvious excitement and joy about her aetheric arts.”

Aymeric smiled as a memory came to the fore of his mind and said, softly, “I felt awe for her at the first, particularly in the wake of her growing legend as a slayer of primals and the vanquisher of the XIVth Legion. And when I first met her face to face, I did not expect her to be as beautiful on the outside as she so clearly was on the inside.” He shook his head. “That I came to know Synnove as a friend first and foremost, one who was all Haurchefant said she was and more, much more, is a gift for which I daily thank the Fury.

“What drew me to her? Her conviction. Her loyalty. Her delight at remaking the world around her with arcanima. Her enormous heart. Synnove is…magnificent.”

Lady Angharad stared at him thoughtfully for long moments, absorbing what he had told her. Finally, she said, “Once, she had a lover who asked her to put aside her work for the sake of their relationship. Synnove choose to end that relationship. And now she is also a Warrior of Light, who needs must put the good of Eorzea before all else. Are you prepared to handle that?”

Aymeric set his jaw. “First,” he said, “as I said to Synnove when she told me the story, anyone who demands she give up arcanima is a damned mad fool who hasn’t bothered to listen her or to learn who she is. I can only guess at how much the art means to her and has shaped her life.

“Second,” and now his voice turned wry, “I would be an enormous hypocrite to demand of Synnove all her time and attention. I am the Lord Commander of the Temple Knights and currently also the interim head of government for Ishgard. My duty to Ishgard has always come first, and must continue to do so, as I know it must be with Synnove’s duty to the Arcanists’ Guild and to Eorzea. All I can ask of her is that she come home safe, as she asks of me.”

Angharad hummed thoughtfully, and then, slowly, she smiled, wide and brilliant and genuine. She shared no blood with Synnove, so she did not resemble her, but Aymeric knew with certainty that Angharad was the person from whom Synnove learned to beam with such true, open joy.

“Two of the greatest workaholics in all of Eorzea in a relationship,” his lady’s aunt drawled. “My, but your friends are going to have their work cut out for them coordinating the both of you into taking a damned vacation at the same time.”

Aymeric burst out laughing, and Angharad joined him, holding onto the arms of her chair to steady herself as she guffawed. When the two settled down again, Angharad leaned back in her seat, eyeing him carefully. “To make it perfectly clear,” she said, “if you break my niece’s heart, your body will never be found.”

He blinked. “My lady,” he said slowly, “I would be disappointed otherwise. Although…”

She made a ‘go ahead’ gesture at him.

“Am I to except such other, ah, talks from members of your family?”

Angharad smiled again: that baring of teeth, fierce and vicious. This time, though, it wasn’t aimed at himself. “Ser Aymeric,” she said, “I am the Greywolfe matriarch. You leave them to me.”

Aymeric let his shoulders lump in obvious relief. Angharad laughed at him, and oh, yes, Synnove had absolutely learned that particular cackle at this woman’s knee.

#ffxivwrite2019 #dt's writing #final fantasy xiv #ffxiv #aymeric de borel #aymeric x wol #aymeric x synnove #oc: angharad greywolfe

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izanyas · 5 years

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and the calm is deep where the quiet waters flow (19)

Rating: M Words: 11,400 Warnings: off-screen rape and murder, denial of pregnancy, off-screen child birth. This one’s the heaviest chapter in the whole story, so take care.

[Read from prologue]

and the calm is deep where the quiet waters flow Chapter 19

The Golden Carp Tower of Lanling reigned over the peak it was perched upon in obvious show of power. It gave out the same impression of grandeur and timeless magnificence that Qishan's Nightless City did, something neither the Lotus Pier nor the Cloud Recesses had ever reached for. Perhaps Qinghe's Unclean Realm did as well; perhaps this foothold of the last great cultivation sect also towered overland, its masters greedy for renown, but Wei Wuxian doubted it.

The city laid under the Tower was flourishing, too. Colorful and noisy, threaded with quick mountain rivers flowing downstream in a hurry, trodden upon by merchants and craftsmen in a flurry of voices. But there was no mistaking the distance put between those people and the golden gate of the Jin clan's household. Wei Wuxian and Jiang Cheng were arrested at the foot of hundreds of stairsteps leading to the great halls. They were asked to dismount their horses by a pair of alpha women clad in golden robes.

"Damn Jin Guangshan," Jiang Cheng muttered as they started their ascension.

Over their heads, a few cultivators rode in on swords. None of them were asked to tire themselves by climbing the magnificent stairs. This was a statement, Wei Wuxian thought darkly. A sign of unwelcome laid in all the underhanded ways that the Jin sect leader prized.

It did not give him incentive to reply to Jiang Cheng's words, however.

Jiang Cheng perhaps felt that this was due to resentment, though it was not entirely. He remained silent as they walked up the stairs side by side, one hand grasping Sandu's scabbard in irritation, the other balled by his hip into a fist. Wei Wuxian did not touch Suibian which hung at his own waist.

The hole within him pulsed with every tiring step. He felt not sleepy with it, although for a few nights now, dread had kept him awake, whispering dark omens of the discussion conference to be held that very evening. Ever-present nausea crawled just shy of his throat instead.

He stopped when they reached a small promontory about two-thirds of the way up. From here the city was far enough below them that more of the land around could be glimpsed; and it was the sight of a familiar red flag at the foot of the mountain that halted his steps.

It seemed to be speared into the ground in the middle of a small encampment. Ant-sized people scurried there from one end of a wide enclosure to the other, surrounded by guards on horseback.

Prisoners of war.

"Wei Wuxian," came Jiang Cheng's hesitant voice.

Wei Wuxian looked up.

Jiang Cheng had gone a few steps above and beyond before realizing that Wei Wuxian had stopped. He called him now subduedly, as he had been wont to since Zhu Yuansu had left the Lotus Pier forever. He had barely spoken to Wei Wuxian since then, and looked full of awkwardness every time, even when he had shared with him Jin Guangshan's invitation, which requested Wei Wuxian's presence rather than his alone.

Wei Wuxian still had not made up his mind about whether this was a bad or terrible thing. He could hardly think that Jin Guangshan, who had ignored his existence whenever he visited the Pier, would want for his company now in order to be friendly.

"I'm coming," Wei Wuxian replied at last.

It was only a few words, and devoid of much meaning, but Jiang Cheng's brow smoothed over immediately.

At the entrance of the sunlit hall where the conference would take place, they were greeted by a servant boy who told them all the usual pleasantries—that they would be shown to their rooms soon, that his sect leader would welcome them in a few minutes, that refreshments would be served to them. His deference showed no sign of the rancor which Jin Guangshan must feel for them now. Before he could take them away, however, a man opened the doors to the dining hall from within.

More than the red mark drawn between both of his eyes, the air of arrogant boredom he exuded showed him to be part of the Jin clan.

Wei Wuxian would have only glimpsed at him for a second before looking away, but the man stopped short at the sight of him and Jiang Cheng, a scandalized expression tightening the inelegant lines of his face.

"You," he said in obvious fury.

Wei Wuxian realized a tad lately that it was him the man was addressing.

"Yes?" he replied, skipping over ceremony altogether.

Perhaps he would have bothered with it if the man's weakly alpha-scent had not reached him then and made him want to sneer. As it was, the thought of dealing with yet another crisis of status from a stranger annoyed him to no end, and he would rather hasten it so he could reach his guest room and be alone at last.

But the man seemed to know him; he called, "Wei Wuxian," in such deep and embarrassed anger, that Wei Wuxian had no doubt they had met before.

"Is there a problem?" Jiang Cheng asked loudly, having noticed that Wei Wuxian was straggling behind him again.

The face that the man pulled at the sight of someone of higher status than himself was almost comical. Yet it was not enough to cow him, for he barely nodded in Jiang Cheng's direction before spitting to Wei Wuxian, "How dare you come here."

"I was invited," Wei Wuxian replied evenly. "Do I know you?"

He was so tired of it all. At least in Yunmeng, even those who cringed away from him had learned not to make a fuss.

The man spluttered and reddened, and it seemed that his whole face swelled under the strength of whatever grudge he held. "Do you 'know' me?" he parroted, seething. "How dare you!"

His hand came to the handle of his golden sword as if he meant to unsheathe it and ask for a duel there and then; but another voice joined him from within the dining hall, calling, "Jin Zixun!"

Jin Zixuan emerged from behind the door, his own forehead wrinkled with annoyance as he looked between Wei Wuxian and his clansman.

Wei Wuxian was not looking at him, however.

It was coming back to him, now: that oddly-delicate sword in the man's grasp, that name which Wei Wuxian had already heard Jin Zixuan call in such a voice, years ago. The sight of a rude alpha seated by the dais in the Lotus Pier's welcoming hall, exchanging pleasantries with Madam Yu, bargaining for ownership of Wei Wuxian light-heartedly.

Bile spread over his tongue so bitterly that for a single second, he feared his own anger would make him retch again.

"I remember now," he said out loud.

The two men before him turned to him at once.

"Jin Zixun," Wei Wuxian muttered without an ounce of respect to his words or voice. "You're not any less unsightly now than when I saw you last."

Jin Zixun's thick face paled and then reddened in outrage.

"Wei Wuxian!" he cried, and this time he did unsheathe part of his sword.

"What are you doing?" Jiang Cheng answered angrily.

Wei Wuxian had no doubt that those words were half-directed to him, although Jiang Cheng was only looking at Jin Zixun.

Surprisingly, it was Jin Zixuan who broke the fight-to-be.

He grabbed onto his cousin's arm tightly, forcing the half of the sword back into its sheath with the strength of one shoulder alone. "Wei Wuxian is a guest here, Zixun," he said in a tight voice. "My father asked for his presence."

"Oh, your father did," Jin Zixuan replied mockingly. With his face as shamed and furious as it was, the effect was lost to all. Still he shook his arm out of Jin Zixuan's hold and said, sneering, "Yes, I'm sure Uncle was the one who asked for this omega to be here."

"Enough," Jin Zixuan cut in harshly.

His own face had flushed with blood.

Jin Zixun seemed to have some modicum of manner left to him. He huffed like a bothered horse and turned his back to them all, leaving the way he had come with not a word of salute to Jiang Cheng, who watched all of this in confusion.

"What did you do to that man?" Jiang Cheng asked Wei Wuxian.

Neither he nor Jiang Yanli had ever told Jiang Cheng of what Madam Yu had once tried to do while he and Jiang Fengmian were away on a hunt. He felt very little like disclosing it now; Jiang Cheng never liked to speak of such things about him, and anyway Wei Wuxian was too mortified still by the ordeal to wish to dig up the memory.

Jin Zixuan cleared his throat. He nodded shakily to them, his face still red, his sword hand moving oddly before him, as if he did not know what to do with it. "Sect leader Jiang," he greeted. "I apologize on behalf of my cousin. He is rather ruder than the rest."

His eyes met Wei Wuxian's when he said this, something like a smile lifting his lips at the corners, though it quickly vanished.

"Is your sister well?" he asked Jiang Cheng rather brusquely.

"Yes," Jiang Cheng replied, surprised. "She has remained in Yunmeng to oversee reparations while we are here."

"I hear the Lotus Pier is well on its way to regaining all of its former glory. I should like to visit in the future and reassure my father of our greatest ally's health."

"Yes, of course…"

Wei Wuxian lost interest in the conversation when it veered toward matters of war again. He looked over the spotless white-and-gold of the hallway they stood in—the unstained and gleaming floor below their feet, the aching neatness which hung even from the leaves of carefully-tended potted plants—and longed for home.

Wen Yueying had been so distraught upon learning that he would be gone for a few days. Wen Yiqian and Wen Linfeng were less effusive than she was with their emotions, but he had still understood their fear at being left alone, even with Jiang Yanli there to keep them company.

No matter how much he tried to reason with himself, Wei Wuxian could not parry away the fear that one of them would be gone when he returned.

"Let me take you to your rooms," Jin Zixuan was saying now, showing with one arm the length of corridor extending to their left in direction of guest quarters.

The servant boy who had waited to do just that since they arrived looked almost angry at his words.

"I'll take a walk," Wei Wuxian declared.

Jiang Cheng and Jin Zixuan both looked at him in surprise.

"You must be tired," Jin Zixuan said, his face pinched oddly. "You have all of the next three days to visit if you want, you should rest now."

"I'm not," Wei Wuxian retorted, though he was.

Exhausted and hollow and sleepless, and feeling all the while as though something simmered beneath his skin that he could not give a name to, pulling it inside-out, swelling like sickness through him.

He felt like vomiting again. "Your father never graced with with an invitation before today," he told Jin Zixuan, who must truly feel off, for his face once more twisted weirdly. "I would like to visit the city."

"Yes, but—"

Jin Zixuan looked helplessly from Jiang Cheng to Wei Wuxian and back, waiting perhaps for Jiang Cheng to deny Wei Wuxian, as so many people did whenever Wei Wuxian expressed something not dictated by the people of higher status who stood by him.

He was out of luck, however. Jiang Cheng had been avoidant of Wei Wuxian since the incident with Zhu Yuansu, and surely would not insist on being in his presence now if he could avoid it. Indeed, Jiang Cheng only nodded once and quickly before walking away.

Wei Wuxian turned his back to them both and walked once more down the endless stairs.

He stopped only when he reached the same little stone bluff he had paused by while they were ascending. Here the air came more clearly to his lungs, soothing his nausea and clearing his thoughts till he felt something like himself again. The prisoner camp at the foot of the mountain was still as visible as before, the red Qishanwen flag planted in its middle still just as stark against the sloped grey land.

Wei Wuxian looked away from it and wiped his mouth with the back of a hand. He near-jumped when light footsteps echoed behind him, followed by the glide of metal on leather and wood—a sword unsheathed—

But his next intake of air filled him with familiar sandalwood, and it was only Lan Wangji he found when he turned on his own feet, Chenqing held in one hand.

Lan Wangji's movements paused when their eyes met. He must have come flying and touched ground a few yards behind Wei Wuxian, for he was in the middle of sheathing Bichen. He held still until Wei Wuxian breathed out and took his hand off of his dizi.

Bichen's pommel knocked against the edge of its scabbard softly.

"Lan Zhan," Wei Wuxian greeted once the blade was out of sight. "I didn't see you, my apologies."

"No need to apologize," Lan Wangji replied in his usual even voice.

It had been less than a month and a half since Wei Wuxian had last seen him. He should not be surprised that Lan Wangji looked the same as ever: troublingly beautiful, unwasteful of so much as movement or air, ethereal again now that he was not covered in the sweat and dust of months of war.

He remembered once comparing him to the great beauties of ages past, to Lan An or Wen Mao, as they both stood above the stairs of the Nightless City. The comparison felt apt again with the white light of coming fall painted thusly over him.

Wei Wuxian felt himself smile as he had not in a long time. Lan Wangji's pale eyes caught onto light wetly; for a still and breathless second, he looked more statue than man, before he blinked and looked away.

"It is good to see you. Did you come with your brother?" Wei Wuxian asked.

"Yes," Lan Wangji said softly.

As if called by the mention of him alone, Lan Xichen appeared down the harsh slope of the stairs, walking up slowly in company of a familiar man in golden robes. The both of them stopped a few steps below the bluff where Wei Wuxian stood and bowed, one at the shoulders, the other at the neck.

Meng Yao, Wei Wuxian remembered, eyeing the man in gold.

The spy who had infiltrated Wen Ruohan's ranks and offered the man's head on a platter to Nie Mingjue.

Lan Xichen was the one to speak first as he rose. "I was wondering where Wangji had gone to," he said, looking at his brother fondly. "He must have seen you from below, young master Wei."

"Lan Zhan has a keener eye than me," Wei Wuxian replied, "I hadn't seen any of you at all."

His words were perhaps a bit rude, but none of the three men seemed to mind. Nor did they point out his lack of manners for not bowing back to them.

Wei Wuxian was unsure of what his own reaction would be if they did.

"My apologies for not greeting you and sect leader Jiang when you arrived, young master," said Meng Yao. "I'm afraid my help was needed elsewhere, and then I wished to wait for er-ge and Wangji to arrive."

He said nothing of the fact that Wei Wuxian and Jiang Cheng were asked to climb the mountain by foot. Perhaps he did not know, Wei Wuxian thought blithely. He had heard that Meng Yao was an illegitimate child of Jin Guangshan's; perhaps he was not privy to the man's moods and decisions like his half-brother Jin Zixuan must be.

"Jiang Cheng was greeted by your brother," Wei Wuxian replied at last. "So no harm done, Meng Yao."

His use of the man's bare name was a test of sorts, but Meng Yao showed no offense. He simply nodded to him and gave him another of those weak smiles he seemed so fond of.

Lan Xichen was the one who spoke next. "If I may, young master Wei," he said subduedly. Wei Wuxian tensed before he could even finish. "You look… rather tired. Are you in good health?"

His eyes swept between Wei Wuxian and Lan Wangji quickly.

"Have the servants not shown you to your quarters?" Meng Yao asked worriedly. "Then allow me—"

"They have," Wei Wuxian interrupted. Suddenly, all the ease he had felt in Lan Wangji's presence was gone. He turned away from them all and left the flat expanse of stone he had stood on a second ago, saying, "I wished to take a walk, that's all. Excuse me."

Although only soft and polite parting words reached him, Wei Wuxian felt three pairs of eyes upon his nape until the long and winding stairs took a sharp turn around the curve of the mountain.

He had no wish to know what Lan Xichen or Lan Wangji thought of his appearance. His shijie had done quite enough aimless worrying over the past few weeks.

The city was no less bustling now than it had been when he first arrived. People walked and shouted across the maze-like streets; merchants seemed to have come from far and wide for the discussion conference, knowing how many wealthy cultivators would be here to play the part of unwitting client. From the first hundred steps of the stairs and to the bottom of the town, calls came to him from smiling vendors, asking if he should like to taste this liquor or delicacy, to touch the soft fabric of this or that winter cloak and buy it for the winter. Wei Wuxian was not in enough of a daze that day not to feel awed at being treated with such civility.

A scent was all it took, then. If a hint of sweetness had clung to him, none of those people would be smiling or speaking to him. If the smell of honey had still followed in his footsteps, not a smile would be directed his way. It was almost enough to make him wish he still looked and felt to them all the part what he truly was. To see their kind eyes turn hostile, to give him incentive to curse each and every one of them.

If his scent had not gone away with the loss of his golden core, then perhaps the sickly feeling in his chest would not be there. Perhaps he would sleep at night rather than spend hours pushing memories away, and perhaps Zhu Yuansu would still live in the Lotus Pier.

So taken was Wei Wuxian with those thoughts that he did not notice the person who stumbled against him.

He had walked away from the broader streets and on to narrow alleyways. He would not have thought anything of the haggard woman who knocked into him as she walked, if the scent of persimmon had not reached him and made his entire body still.

"Sorry," she said; and she stumbled on thin air, weak and helpless as he had never seen her before, until he reached out and grabbed her by the shoulder.

It was the wrong thing to do.

She cried out and struggled against him in violence, shaking, wild with the need to escape him. Her head nearly knocked into a wall of the alley. Wei Wuxian let go of her with his heart pushed so far up his throat that not even nausea could be felt anymore, and he called her name in anguish—"Wen Qing."

Wen Qing froze, her very wide eyes finding his at last.

Wei Wuxian could find nothing at all to say. He stared at her in a haze, noticing the pallor of her skin, the dirt smeared over her face and clothes, the bruises purpling around her eyes where something or someone must have struck her.

"Wei Ying," she whispered in shock.

Wei Wuxian forced open his mouth. "Yes," he said, "yes, it's me."

"Wei Wuxian," she called again, and she was the one this time to grab onto him fiercely.

Her fingers were so thin, it felt as though skin had gone from her entirely, and those were bones digging into the meat of his forearm. Her face was carved out of any layer of fat and muscle. Her cheeks were sunken in, her lips cracked and bloodless.

"What are you doing here?" Wei Wuxian asked. He held onto her hand, finding it as cold as ice, as dry as scorched earth. "What happened to you? Where is Wen Ning?"

"Wei Wuxian," Wen Qing said again breathlessly.

And she burst into sobs.

As if all strength had fled her, she fell to the ground, taking him with her. Wei Wuxian could only think to cushion the back of her head with one hand and prevent it from hitting the corner of a house fence, and then again she did not seem to notice; then again all she did was cling to him and cry, so unlike the cold and fearless woman he had asked to do the impossible. Wei Wuxian sat wordlessly onto the dirt path, allowing her to hold onto him painfully, not knowing how to comfort her.

"Please," she begged, "please, you have to help me, you have to—"

She could hardly speak at all. Her own words died, cut out of existence by her halted breathing, by just how quickly air came and went out of her. He called her name again when her eyes rolled backward and she slumped against him. He laid her onto the ground, holding her hand tightly, wishing that anyone were here to tell him what to do.

"Wen Qing," he called over and over again. "Wen Qing, please, wake up."

It took such a long time for her to do so. In that time Wei Wuxian lifted her unconscious body and walked away from the entrance of the alley, far off to the back of it where fewer people risked seeing them. He found a patch of untouched grass there to lay her upon; he folded his outer robes underneath her head to make the touch of ground a little kinder. Even so, an eternity seemed to pass before she moved again. She breathed in harshly, coughing, unresisting when he pulled her to her side to free the way out of her lungs in case she started vomiting.

She did not, but her face was as pale as death. Her hand in his grew damp and cold with sweat. Her eyes flickered weakly to his as she regained her bearings, and he was not surprised when she did not answer his smile with one of her own.

"Wei Wuxian," she said in such a broken voice that the sound alone felt painful.

"I'm here," he replied.

She looked so frail. Seeing her like this, after only knowing her in the shadow of the Lotus Pier, confronting him head-on, tearing the spirituality out of him with her bare hands, heedless of his screaming…

Wei Wuxian felt like something had knocked the air out of his chest.

"A-Ning," she told him. Tears once more shone in her eyes as she held tightly to his hand and tried to rise up. "You have to help him."

"What happened to Wen Ning?" Wei Wuxian asked her, though dread was already digging in him a hole in the shape of her answer.

Since he had fallen to the Burial Mounds, he had believed her and her brother safe and far away from harm.

He had thought she would flee with him. He had believed that once her promise to him was fulfilled—once she had fooled Jiang Cheng into thinking she was the sage Baoshan Sanren and had rebuilt his core—she would go far away with Wen Ning and never set foot near the Wen clan again.

But he had seen the camp at the foot of the mountain; he had glimpsed, from high above, the shape of scurrying people followed around by Jin sect guards on horses.

He had smelled the unmasked scent on her body.

"What happened to him?" he asked again with his heart in his throat.

Wen Qing dug her nails into his hand and told him.

If asked about Wei Wuxian decades after the events that were took place, most of the cultivation world would recall the discussion conference of Lanling as the day the Yiling Patriarch, the thief omega of the Burial Mounds, Jiang Cheng's traitor of a sect-brother, lost his sanity.

Accounts would differ as to what exactly went down. For a few years after the fact, it would rather feel like the truth: that Wei Wuxian had come in drenched by the rain and with dirt over his clothes; that he had threatened Jin Guangshan and Jin Zixun; that he had left the calls of his sect leader unheeded, and that his eyes had glowed red with the awful energy he dispersed. That corpses had crawled over the widest hall of Golden Carp Tower and left behind trails of dirt, of rotten flesh, of powdered bones.

Some would even remember how Jin Zixun had reacted to his accusations. That he had called him scorned and unfit for marriage, had called into question his virtue and his acts of war, had mockingly told his sect leader that Wei Wuxian was proof of why omegakind should live away from the world. And that Wei Wuxian, upon hearing those words, had stepped onto the man's throat until he grew purple with lack of air, and said coldly: "Tell me where you took him."

"Wei Wuxian!" Jin Guangshan had called in fury and outrage. He had risen from the dais where his table was set in the terrified silence, his dumbstruck son by his side, and declared, "You are a guest of my house, and you dare lay a hand on a member of my family?"

"I dare," Wei Wuxian had answered.

Of all the esteemed guests lining the golden walls, none had known how to act. All had looked in fear upon the haunting silhouettes of dead bodies crawling in from the shadows.

Jiang Cheng of Yunmeng had risen as well; and perhaps for a while, for a few days or weeks, a fraction of those present would recall that he had begged his sect-brother to stand down.

None but one would remember, however, that Wei Wuxian had looked at him with apology in his eyes before he refused him.

"Sect leader Jin," Wei Wuxian said into the miasmic silence, as his puppets poisoned the air and as Jin Zixun choked and whimpered beneath his foot. "Why should I not dare to lay a hand on this man after what he did? Is loyalty only reserved for blood? Should I not avenge my own kind?

"Are all of you here above blame, then, for every person you presumed to call yours?"

Jin Zixun grabbed at his leg and ankle and begged for his life, promising to tell Wei Wuxian what he wanted to know.

There would the recollections fall apart and start veering into fantasy, as many would say that Wei Wuxian then called upon monsters and divine beasts, or that he had killed Jin Zixun in front of so many eyes, and Jin Guangshan, and Jin Zixuan, and then went on to rampage and pillage the Tower.

If asked about that day in Lanling, Wei Wuxian would say that he did not remember much.

He remembered Jiang Cheng telling him, "Stop it, let's talk about this," and refusing to abide.

He remembered declaring to whole assembly, "I would rather take them all from you, whether they be your children or your siblings or your spouses, before I allow a single one of you to touch them again."

And he remembered Wen Ning.

The place that Jin Zixun had given him the name to was a path snaked between the sides of two mountains. The rain that had started falling as Wen Qing told him everything beat down more harshly here than anywhere else, dribbling from the thickly-clouded sky and from the torrents and slopes of the two neighboring peaks. He and Wen Qing trod through mud up to the knee under the moonless night. They fell and cut open their hands on slick rocks. They searched for hours until their voices grew dim and painful, until the very name they were calling ceased to feel like a name at all.

And Wen Ning was laid upon a flat rock where the path dipped to the other flank of the mountain, a Qishanwen flag pierced through his belly, his clothes hastily put over his corpse in a parody of modesty.

"No!" Wen Qing screamed at the sight of him.

Her voice cracked and bled, and it sounded the same as if the sky had opened above them and struck the earth with lightning.

Wei Wuxian remained knee-deep into the mud. He watched her weep and sob and cradle Wen Ning's body in her arms, rocking back and forth under the pouring rain as if she could will him back into a child. As if she could will him back to life.

He would remember this forever.

"Wen Qing," he called in misery.

It hurt too much to look at Wen Ning and to read upon his face the loneliness and terror he must have felt as he was left to die. Wei Wuxian looked at her instead, knowing that this would be another thing to haunt his sleepless night, that the sight of her starved and ravaged with grief would never leave his heart again.

"Loquats," Wen Qing cried. Her fingers shook as she ran them through her brother's drenched hair, as she petted his face as if to comfort him. She looked at Wei Wuxian and said, "When he was small, he smelled of loquats."

Wei Wuxian remembered when he was the one begging her for the impossible. Promising to bring her brother back from the dead was only the right way to repay her.

The rain had rendered Chenqing slick and useless, but Wei Wuxian had no need for it. Not with Wen Qing so hollowed by loss that the spirit of her brother must be tied down to earth with her regret alone.

He let Wen Ning's woken corpse loose onto the encampment of Wen prisoners at the foot of the mountain. The starved and exhausted people there looked on in faint terror as Wen Ning killed each of the guards surrounding them, and most of them were old and weary. They did not protest at all when Wei Wuxian ordered them to mount the horses and follow him.

Jiang Cheng found them as they rode southward. He flew above and beyond them and touched ground before Wei Wuxian, surprising his horse into stopping and drawing back, frightening the men and women behind him who were so very scared that this was just another trap they were being led to.

"Wei Wuxian," Jiang Cheng pleaded.

He was soaking too, his uniform gone black with wet, his sword glistening with rivulets of water.

"What are you doing?" he asked in despair. "Where are you going?"

"Jiang Cheng," Wei Wuxian said, the way he used to say his name to comfort him when they were both children.

Jiang Cheng's face twisted with anger. "Why did you do this?" he bellowed. His unarmed hand pointed to the Wen sect prisoners, to Wen Qing on her horse who held her brother's corpse against her. "What is wrong with you!? Don't you realize what you've done, don't you know how many grudges you've sown tonight?"

"Jiang Cheng, get out of my way."

"I won't!"

He was breathless after saying it, shocked by his own words. For a second speechlessness struck him silent and pale; then his slippery hold on Sandu tightened, and he once more bared his teeth.

"I will not," he repeated harshly. "Not until you come down from that horse and go home with me."

"I'm not going home," Wei Wuxian replied.

The reality of it had not solidified for him until he said it so plainly. It did so then, pulling heavily at his heart, unable for all of his regrets to make him change his mind.

He laughed. He felt like crying. "Jiang Cheng, you can't understand," he told his shidi. "You'll never be able to understand. Please, just—let it go. Let me go."

"I can," Jiang Cheng said, looking as brave and foolish as he did on the day he had first asked Wei Wuxian for tips in archery, on the first day their sparrs had ended in his victory, on the first day they had seen each other after Wei Wuxian became mature. "I can understand if you just tell me."

But this was no trick to split an arrow in two; this was no training to pull each other up from afterward, and no heartfelt reunion in the shape of awkward sideways touches.

"Say goodbye to the kids for me, please," Wei Wuxian told him.

He kicked into his horse's side to hurry it forward, calling for the others to follow, ignoring the cry of his name that split the sky behind them as surely as wind and rain did.

The Wen sect remnants followed him through the hills of the Burial Mounds with fear haunting their every steps. They huddled close together, alpha and beta scents gone sour with fright, all of them old enough to have seen another generation grow and take power.

None of them knew what they were doing here; only that Wen Qing had taken the lead from them and told them that they were now safe. So the twenty-odd people walked among dead land, scared of the crows perched on tombstones along their way, wary of the scentless man in black who was guiding them forth.

Wei Wuxian took them to the cave he had inhabited after his fall. They creeped together for warmth once he built a fire, and the twenty of them found sleep at some point or another.

Wen Qing was the only one he showed to the deep end of the cave, where a bloodpool had grown out of all the spirits haunting the hills.

"How can we even breathe here?" she asked as he set Wen Ning's body down by another fire.

Wei Wuxian had no talisman paper on him that was not turned to wet paste by the rain, but the ground was smooth enough. He cut his thumb with Suibian's edge, bowing when the strength of the sword's spirit pulled at his coreless body, and drew an array twice as big as himself upon the floor. Thrice more did he have to reopen the cut in order to finish the design; by the time he was done, he was panting with effort.

"Wei Wuxian, we can't stay here," Wen Qing told him again.

"I'll keep the spirits at bay," he replied to her. His side ached. "Come, help me put him there."

Wen Qing was still weak and shaking with grief, but she obeyed. She held her brother's feet while he carried him by the shoulders and head, and together they placed him as exactly as they could within the blood circle.

He fell over when they were done. Wen Qing hurried to his side, ignoring his protests as she opened his collar and checked the center of his neck and chest with her fingers.

"The energy in your body is all over the place," she told him after a few seconds of silence. Her fingers left his skin and came to rest on his shoulder, trembling badly.

"You knew that," Wei Wuxian replied weakly. "You know why."

"I can barely even feel your pulse, Wei Wuxian, every vein in you is so thick with resentful energy. You've lost too much weight as well."

"You should tell me about losing weight, Wen Qing."

"I didn't have a choice in the matter," she snapped at him.

It silenced any answer he could have given her.

Wind blew in from the far-off entrance of the cave, making the firelight shiver and shadows creep over Wen Ning's still body. Wen Qing left Wei Wuxian's side to kneel by her brother's. She fixed the bloody clothing on him so that it aligned once more neatly with his shoulders and arms.

Wei Wuxian looked away when her breathing hitched painfully; when her hands seized Wen Ning's cold ones and she once more shook with sobs.

"I said I'd bring him back," he told her after she quieted.

The way the light shivered told him that she must have nodded. It wasn't a minute later that she rose again to her feet, her face free of tear tracks, looking almost like the woman who had once yelled at him for kneeling.

Wei Wuxian rose shakily. All the strength in his body had left after the horse ride and the trek up the hills, after using Suibian for the first time without a golden core for the sword to latch on to. He was not surprised to feel light-headed and see black spots before him, or to have to stumble to the edge of the poisoned pool in order to retch there.

He was surprised, however, to feel Wen Qing follow him and put a hand over his forehead. For a terrible second, he feared that he would cry and hold her as he did Jiang Yanli.

"You're feverish," she told him. Her touch left him before he could indulge in such childish, selfish needs; Wei Wuxian rose again and leaned against the wall, and hoped that none of his heartache showed on his face.

"I've been sick for a while," he replied haltedly. "Ever since you operated on me."

Even breathing exhausted him. He had to take in air slowly and carefully after speaking so that his head felt a little less dizzy.

"How sick?" Wen Qing asked with a frown.

"Not much. It's only my body getting used to the loss of the core."

She did not look as certain as he was, but Wei Wuxian had no desire to explain to her how little he cared about his own body, in the face of everything.

They sat next to each other in the light of the fire, watching the array around Wen Ning's body, as Wei Wuxian told her of how he hoped to bring the young man's spirit back. I can't give him a life back, he told her. It will not be the same.

He did not tell her of how little faith he had in his own success; Wen Qing must be able to read it off of him, and either way, all she seemed to care about was the possibility of her brother opening his eyes and looking at her with his own spirit back to him.

"What will you do now?" she asked him in the small hours of morning.

Rustling noises had started coming to them from the entrance of the cave, where the twenty prisoners of Lanling had started waking up. Daylight shimmered at the curve of the tunnel, reflected onto walls by the bloodpool at the far back.

"Wei Wuxian," she called. "What will you do? You've made many enemies last night. Jin Guangshan will not be happy with you, even if you let that wretched man live."

He had let Jin Zixun live because Wen Qing had asked him to; because if he had killed an heir to Jin Guangshan in full view of the man and his allies, they would have all been murdered before they could leave the city.

It did not change how deeply he wanted to have crushed Jin Zixun's throat under his foot until the man stopped squirming.

"I'll do as I told them I would," he said.

He stood up. He walked to the front of the tunnel, to the place where it opened into a wider cave and he had let the prisoners rest together. They looked at him in exhaustion and weakness, all of them pale with lack of food and shaking over the ground. Many bore bruises, like Wen Qing did. Some more had blood seeping through their clothing; Wen Qing gave an affronted noise at the sight.

Outside, Yiling's Burial Mounds shone out of a different light than the one he had known when he had been forced to live here. With Chenqing as an anchor to keep the vile haunts and creatures away, sunlight did pierce through the cover of clouds and fall upon the dry earth. The ragged and naked trees bordering every path cast long and twisted shadows, and the cold stream where Wei Wuxian had once quenched his thirst now sparkled with freshwater.

He could live here, he realized.

All of them could live here.

"I'll take them," Wei Wuxian said. "Their omega. I told them I would, and that's what I'll do."

Wen Qing grabbed his sleeve weakly. "It won't be that simple," she replied. "Most of them… They won't take your offer as kindness, Wei Wuxian. You don't know what it's like for those of us who have never set foot outside."

"I do know."

Zhu Yuansu's face was still burned into his eyes. His voice still rang through him ceaselessly.

"But those who want to come, those who want to escape," he said, "I'll take them. Even if I have to fend off a thousand angry spouses. If even one of them wants to be free, then that's enough for me."

If there was another Wen Yueying out there whose fate he could change, then his life would not have been worthless.

Meng Yao's quarters at the Golden Carp Tower were nowhere as elegant as the rest of the palace, but there was a sophistication to them that Lan Xichen greatly enjoyed. Whenever he visited, Meng Yao would have some new book of spells or ancient songs to show him or ask him about. He would be shown to the room at the back where Meng Yao collected paintings of great beauty and elegance. He would be made to taste teas imported from far and wide as they sat on either end of the centerpiece table and discussed clan affairs.

Always, A-Yao's comforting scent basked the space around him with such homeliness that Lan Xichen felt just as comfortable as he did in the hanshi. Candles and incense meshed well with this woodsiness, and often, he thought of the rainy days in Gusu; of the pale light of morning above damp grassy paths, and the petrichor smell he had loved since he was a child.

By his side, Wangji sat still and silent, his whole body thrumming with unease.

This was the lone reason Xichen did not feel so content, even when Meng Yao handed him his gift of the day; a stack of talismans as old as the Jin sect itself whose ink had blurred and weeped in places.

Meng Yao was always rather good at picking up on Xichen's quiet brother's moods. "Wangji," he called kindly, "would you like for me to close the window? The day has been quite cold."

Wangji shook his head and took his tea in hand, though he did not drink it.

Meng Yao closed the window anyway. Each time Lan Xichen saw him, he seemed to wear finer clothes than the previous, as his standing with Jin Guangshan seemed to rise. Xichen regretted that Meng Yao should never be recognized as the man's child, but at least his sworn brother seemed to live comfortably and happily.

"I asked the two of you to come here because sect leader Jin will not be long in asking you again for permission to install watchtowers at Gusu's border," he said once he was sat again. "I know your uncle was firm in his refusal the last time, but I was wondering if he may have changed his mind."

It was as Lan Xichen had expected.

Meng Yao must want for more than a simple opinion, if he had asked for Wangji to come rather than simply Xichen. Although the both of them had shared the duties of sect leader since their father's death, as their uncle thought Wangji to still be too young to inherit the position in full, Xichen held, in truth, very little power.

He traveled between the sects to deliver messages and gifts. He received in Wangji's place when his brother was busy. But any decisive power he held had to run first through his uncle, then through his brother; and then, Wangji was the one whose word the other sect leaders asked for in order to conclude dealings of any kind.

Seeing as Wangji seemed in no state to speak now, Xichen answered for him. He already knew the answer to this question. "Our uncle still disagrees with your father's plans," he said. "I fear the memory of Wen Xu's attack is still heavy on his mind. He is loathe to give so much control to any one sect and risk another Sunshot Campaign."

"This is what I said as well," Meng Yao replied, sorrowful.

He went on to explain to them why his father thought those watchtowers of his to be so essential—for the general peace and protection of people, and because they would allow for any sect to be warned of dangerous spiritual activity even in the most remote of places. But his tone was clipped and hurried, and Lan Xichen could tell that those were Jin Guangshan's words and not Meng Yao's.

Still, he entertained them. He discussed the pros and cons. He kept himself from agreeing to anything, smiling when ought to and nodding seriously when the discussion called for it. He kept an eye on Wangji all the while, worried for how wordless he had been since they both arrived at the foot of the tower.

Although, perhaps the reason for his silence was not so difficult to guess at. Lan Xichen had come and gone many times between Lanling and Gusu in the past three and a half months, and still he could not look upon the entrance hall of the Tower without remembering Wei Wuxian's terrible anger.

As luck or lack thereof would have it, they crossed paths with Jin Zixun while leaving Meng Yao's quarters.

"Ah, Zixun," Meng Yao said agreeably. "What brings you here?"

Jin Zixun froze at the sight of them. His face paled; his fingers clutched the front of his winter cloak until it closed tightly over his neck, almost chokingly so.

Considering the accusations leveled against him by Wei Wuxian, it was not a very good look.

Xichen bowed to him anyway in greeting. Wangji did not. When Xichen looked at his brother, he found him staring at Jin Zixun with such thinly-veiled disgust that all around should have been able to read it off of him.

Obviously, Jin Zixun was not yet this clever. "Meng Yao," he muttered, heedless of Wangji's burning hatred. "I need a word."

"Of course," Meng Yao replied. "Let me just see my guests out—"

"Now, you bastard."

If possible, the cold thickened around them all.

Meng Yao never showed so much as a hint of offense, however. He bowed his head with a smile, saying, "Very well. Er-ge, Wangji, I'm afraid I have to leave the both of you now."

"I look forward to seeing you again soon, A-Yao," Xichen replied, bowing in kind. "Take care."

Wangji did nod at Meng Yao, albeit very curtly. Jin Zixun spared him one furious glare before stomping loudly away, apparently expecting his cousin to follow in his steps unquestioningly.

Their walk out of the Tower was uneventful, after that. Wangji said nothing at all until they were far from the city and flying through icy winds; he shivered, however, which prompted Xichen into offering that they make a stop on their way back home and spend the night in Yiling.

Wangji seemed a little shocked at his words. Lan Xichen only understood why once they set foot onto the ground again and his eyes landed upon the cart of a vendor in the street, which bore many unsightly paintings of a man.

The Yiling Patriarch, each of the pictures read.

Of course. Yiling was where Wei Wuxian had elected to live after running away from his sect.

The portraits looked nothing like Wei Wuxian at all—they showed many variations of a same untoward design, when Lan Xichen had never known Wei Wuxian to be less than handsome, even after the war when he had looked so ill. The merchant who sold them was in the middle of telling tales of the Yiling Patriarch to a ground of children; he seemed to be under the impression that Wei Wuxian was of a different status as well.

"He builds himself a court of stolen omega; they say his palace runs with them, that he comes and steals them from under their spouses' noses so he can marry them all instead…"

"Ridiculous," said Wangji through clenched teeth.

He left, turning his back to the spectacle entirely. Lan Xichen followed behind him a little more measuredly, but then Wangji was speaking up again, saying, "I'll go back to the Cloud Recesses now."

"Very well," Lan Xichen replied. "I feel tired, I shall rest here for the night, but I'll see you and Uncle tomorrow, Wangji."

Wangji nodded and mounted Bichen anew. The white glare of the blade vanished near-instantly against the blinding clouds, and the sandalwoodscent of him lingered only long enough for Xichen to breathe in and out once.

It was not difficult to guess why his brother would have wanted to flee such a place.

For the past three and a half months, such rumors had crawled over all the cultivation sects like a disease: Wei Wuxian is fomenting evil plots of overtaking the sects. Wei Wuxian has holed himself within the legendary Burial Mounds of Yiling. Wei Wuxian is roaming the lands and breaking open omega houses, stealing their inhabitants unscrupulously, taking away from the riches of many clans and villages.

Lan Xichen had no idea what to make of it all. The only thing he knew for sure was just how upset Wangji had been after the discussion conference; how sick he had looked with anger and grief, when after Wei Wuxian had left and taken a camp of Wen sect prisoners with him, Jin Zixun had called upon all present to 'put an end to this ill-bred omega'.

He had felt no sympathy for Jin Zixun then, even with the purpling bruises at his throat. Though he knew not if Wei Wuxian had told the truth when he accused Jin Zixun of raping an omega, there was no mistaking Wei Wuxian's own hatred for a deception. Wei Wuxian whole-heartedly believed in what he was saying at the time.

The village they were in was small, spread only over two streets and a handful of faraway houses. Winter this year had been a cold and unforgiving affair, and even so near the end of it, all who walked outside were wound in all manners of cloaks and hats. They advanced through the frozen air hunched forward to ward it off.

No doubt this was the reason Lan Xichen took no notice of yet another hunched figure by a grey wall—at least until he walked by it and a familiar voice called, "Lan Zhan?"

He stilled. He turned to the man who had just called his brother's name. He thought faintly that it must be a play of words on the cold wind, or that his thoughts had been plagued by Wei Wuxian enough to make him mistake another voice for his.

But it was Wei Wuxian. Pale and sickly and with bruises under his eyes twice the size of those he sported the last time they met, but it was him, leaned onto a house wall, clutching a bag full of vegetables to his middle.

Wei Wuxian seemed only to recognize him after Xichen regained enough of a mind to speak. "Zewu-Jun," he said, straightening his back.

His eyes seemed unfocused. He blinked once, twice, till they finally met Xichen's in full.

"Young master Wei," Lan Xichen greeted belatedly.

An odd smile twisted Wei Wuxian's mouth. "Are you here to kill me, then?" he asked in such a light voice that at first, Xichen did not understand his words at all.

Before he could even think of answering him, Wei Wuxian changed the topic completely. "I thought I'd seen Lan Zhan pass by a little while ago," he said. "I suppose the two of you look very similar from afar."

"My brother was here only a few minutes ago, but he's gone ahead to Gusu," Lan Xichen replied. And then, "Young master Wei, what happened to you?" he asked, unable not to let worry slip in-between his words.

It was even clearer, now that Wei Wuxian was no longer hunched in on himself—he looked ill. Not simply sick and too-thin as he had in Lanling or at the end of the war, but ill, with fever-sweat running down his temples and tremors shaking through the bag he kept held against himself tightly. He hardly seem to even notice those tremors; he hardly seem to notice Xichen at all, what with the way his eyes opened and closed and looked around blearily.

"Are you here to kill me?" Wei Wuxian asked again.

His tone was so odd when he said it that Xichen could not help but shiver. "No," he replied in shock. "No, I—I was only passing by. I had no idea that you were here."

"Haven't you heard," Wei Wuxian said dryly. "All of Yiling is mine, now."

He sounded like he was in pain.

There was no injury that Xichen could see on him, not even so much as a scrape, nothing at all but how deathly pale he was. But Wei Wuxian's voice came with the same quality that those in agony exuded. His arms squeezed the bag he was holding so tightly that Lan Xichen knew, without needing to ask, that it was taking all of his strength not to cry out.

He stepped closer. "Young master Wei," he murmured insistently, "is anyone here with you?"

"Why should I tell you, Lan Xichen," Wei Wuxian let out.

It gave Xichen pause for a moment. Wei Wuxian had never addressed him so rudely before, not even once, not even when Xichen had known his uncle to be targeting him in class and done nothing to stop him. It was only too easy to notice, however, just how Wei Wuxian was cringing by the wall again—just how quick and whistling his breathing had become.

For some reason, he did not want Xichen to be helping him with whatever was wrong with him.

Xichen sighed. "I will leave as soon as I can ascertain that you are not about to die, young master Wei," he told him. "It's quite obvious that you're unwell."

Wei Wuxian said nothing.

"I only wish to know if you have someone with you to help. Is there a doctor in this town, someone who could—"

Before he could finish, Wei Wuxian's legs gave from under him.

"Young master Wei!" Lan Xichen called, crouching by him in the muddy snow.

It seemed he had simply slid with his back against the wet wall rather than fallen outright; but even so, a grunt of unmistakable pain escaped him and made Xichen's heart shake with worry. He put a hand just shy of touching Wei Wuxian's nose in order to feel him breathe. He called him again and again, going so far as to touch his shoulder and shake it slightly in spite of his own shame, as to call his name in full—"Wei Wuxian, Wei Ying, can you hear me?"

But there was no answer. Wei Wuxian sloped against the wall and looked like a corpse himself, and then Lan Xichen looked down and saw that blood had stained the snow that he was sat upon, and a taste like iron weeped over his tongue acridly.

"I'm sorry," Lan Xichen whispered, pushing the words out in spite of everything.

He was thinking both of Wei Wuxian's status and of his own upbringing.

You must never touch them.

He picked the unconscious Wei Wuxian up by his back and the crook of his knees. Even if worry and fear were not eating him alive, he would have found the man terribly light, and lighter still when the bag he had held against him all this time fell abandoned by his feet.

Wei Wuxian regained consciousness as Lan Xichen was carrying him around the village, out of view of the people who braved the winter wind to go about their daily activities. He shook with a terrible tremor, and then tensed so tightly that Xichen's hold on him nearly slipped.

"What," he slurred. "Who—"

He seemed to recall their meeting, then; or perhaps he simply saw Xichen's face above him, and the sight was enough to make him push against him in a rage.

Lan Xichen thought he must have said something, too lowly and furious for him to decipher, but then Wei Wuxian was on the ground again and retching painfully. When Xichen crouched by him, Wei Wuxian kicked him away.

"Get away from me," he said, crazed-looking, saliva dripping from his open lips above the spot of snow he had tainted with clear bile.

Lan Xichen could hardly care that his uniform would be stained with water and mud. He could not look away from the sight of this pale-faced and terrified Wei Wuxian, and it did not even occur to him that the place where he had been kicked was now throbbing with pain.

"Young master Wei," he tried to say.

Wei Wuxian recoiled as if hit, his bare hands slipping against melted snow. "Get away from me!" he roared.

"You're sick, I can't leave you here—"

"I would rather die," Wei Wuxian spat at him, "than let another alpha touch me."

I am not alpha, Lan Xichen thought hazily; but he saw the terror writ so starkly over Wei Wuxian's face, and he remembered the hatred which had suffused the wide hall of Golden Carp Tower months ago, when Wei Wuxian had come in wrought in shadows and called Jin Zixun a rapist.

Whoever Wei Wuxian was seeing now, whatever memory of his was cutting his body apart with fear, it was not Lan Xichen's doing.

Xichen realized that his own air was coming in thinly. That an ache had developed below his throat and constricted his lungs. He breathed in shakily, slowly, and said, "Let me help you. Please."

For a second, he thought Wei Wuxian may attack him. His grey eyes were swallowed in black, unseeing. His frostbitten hands were pulled into fists by his sides, red and dried by the cold snow. He stared at Lan Xichen like a wild animal about to jump at his own predator in a last try for escape.

Then, he breathed. His mouth opened laxly, his hands loosened, his back bowed unto itself. He slid sideways onto the snowy ground, curled in on himself like a child, and pain was the only thing anymore that could be read off of his face.

"Wen Qing," he said. His eyes closed against another ache of his body, no doubt, before he found the strength to continue: "She came with me. She said she'd wait for me at the inn."

"I'll take you there," Lan Xichen promised.

He had no idea how Wei Wuxian knew Wen Qing, the famous doctor of Qishan, but if she was here—if she was someone that Wei Wuxian felt safe enough to allow to examine him—then Xichen would not look a gift horse in the mouth. He approached the man slowly and carefully, making sure at all times to keep both hands far from the sword at his hip.

"Can you walk by yourself, young master Wei?" he asked once he was but a step or two away.

Wei Wuxian shook his head, eyes closed. His lips looked almost as pale as the snow he was laid upon.

This time, Lan Xichen did not apologize as he touched his arm. He slid it above his shoulders and rose slowly, pulling Wei Wuxian's weight up with him. Despite how thin he was, he felt heavy now against Xichen's side as they struggled through mud and snow in direction of the village's only inn. Wei Wuxian said nothing at all to him, though his body occasionally shook greatly.

There was an alpha woman waiting in the dining room of the establishment. She was wide-eyed and tall, the pepper-like scent of her almost warm after the freezing cold outside, and when she saw the both of them enter, she dropped the tea she had been drinking.

Her chair creaked against the wooden floor when she rose. "Wei Wuxian," she called, all but forgetting Xichen's own existence as she rushed to their side.

She took Wei Wuxian from him with no ceremony. In spite of his earlier words, Wei Wuxian showed no reluctance to be assisted by her up the stairs and to the bedroom he must have bought for the night, and even went so far as to grab her by the wrist after she laid him upon the bed.

"Wen Qing," he called weakly.

"What happened?" she asked. "Were you attacked?"

"He collapsed," Lan Xichen told her.

She turned to him in faint surprise, having forgotten that he was here at all.

Lan Xichen told himself not to stare at the pathetic slump of Wei Wuxian's body over the bedsheets. He looked at her instead, bowing quickly at the shoulders in greeting. "I met him by chance outside," he said. "He looked to be in pain. He's been vomiting as well, and I saw blood—"

He interrupted himself.

"Where?" Wen Qing asked him. "Where was he bleeding?"

"I'm—I'm not certain."

But he knew, did he not? He knew where that blood had come from.

Wen Qing must have seen something on his face, or perhaps she was simply that good of a physician, for she immediately started stripping Wei Wuxian down.

Lan Xichen turned away from them with blood rushing up his face hotly. It was not enough to mask the sound of struggle behind him, as Wei Wuxian held her back and said, "Don't look," with the voice of a man who knew exactly what was wrong with him.

"Why didn't you tell me," Wen Qing moaned. "Why on earth didn't you tell me—"

Lan Xichen left the room.

He did not leave the inn. He did not even leave the hallway beyond the door; his legs shook under his weight the second the panel closed behind him, and he had only the strength to drag himself to a wooden chair sitting by an unlit candle before he was the one to collapse.

A few minutes later, Wen Qing came out of the room as well. She hurried past him and down the stairs, coming back up a moment later with two buckets full of steaming water and a pile of clean sheets, and Lan Xichen did not make the mistake of looking at her face or asking her any questions.

What voice could he have asked them with anyway? His throat felt swollen and clogged, and it was all he could do to breathe at all.

His left hand was stained with blood.

Wen Qing did not ask for his help in any way as she worked, and Lan Xichen did not offer it to her. He felt that night had fallen, though there were no windows in the corridor—only the candle which a tenant had lit when he had come upstairs earlier. He felt that only a few hours had passed between the second he had seen Wei Wuxian and the second he heard what he had to.

The fog-like haze that he had been under broke at the sound of crying; and Lan Xichen suddenly breathed, the way one did after breaking out from underwater—greedily and sobbingly—and bent over his own knees till his hands could press against his own forehead and temple. Till he felt the ribbon there twist and loosen under the strength of his grip.

He closed his eyes so tightly that his jaw ached, and still he could not stop seeing Wei Wuxian's face oversnow; still he could not stop thinking of Wangji and feeling grief tear through him like nausea.

Wen Qing found him like this when she exited the bedroom. The awful sound from within had ceased some while ago whilst Lan Xichen's mind had gone. She sat on the floor beside his chair with a thump. Her legs and hands became visible to him through the gap between his own thigh and elbow, and he saw that they were stained with blood, too.

Lan Xichen wondered if ever he would look at his own palms again and feel that they were clean.

"He would never believe me," Wen Qing said, breaking apart the silence. "But for his sake, I am not above kneeling."

"Do not," Lan Xichen replied.

His own voice felt foreign to him.

"I will never speak of what I saw here today," he went on after a shuddering breath. "Not to anyone."

"He never wants to see you again."

Xichen let his hands fall away from his face. He knew that his skin would be red where he had pressed onto it, trying and failing to push the knowledge of the past few hours so deeply within him that they would be forgot.

"Then he won't see me," he said. "And if he does, if it can't be avoided, I will not speak to him."

Wen Qing nodded her head slowly. "Thank you," she whispered. "I will not forget this, Zewu-Jun."

The thought of being owed by her—by Wei Wuxian—for this made him feel sick again. He said nothing of the kind to her, not knowing how she would take it, but he knew he would never call upon that debt. Not even if his life depended on it.

He rose from the chair. His whole body felt tense and sore, as if he had trained with the sword for days rather than sat upon hardwood and waited for time to pass. Wen Qing did not stand to bid him goodbye, and he held her in no resentment for it, knowing how tired she must be.

Xichen tried to say, "I'll pay for your stay—"

"No," she interrupted, curt and heavy. "No, master Lan, I think you should just leave and forget about us."

She rested her head against the wall at her back. The flickering candlelight dug shadows out of her skin, out of the dip of her neck, where somehow blood had also found a way to stain her.

Finally, when he could not stand it anymore, Lan Xichen asked: "Who was it?"

Wen Qing laughed.

Lan Xichen suffered in silence the sight of her shaking above the floorboards of the inn, the jumping of her chest and shoulders which could have looked like sobs to anyone standing further away.

"Does it matters?" she asked him after she had caught her breath. "Does it matter who did it? It was all of them. Every single one of them. It's all of you every time one of you does it, and when it happens to one of us, it happens to all of us."

She said, "This is the only true difference between us all."

[PREVIOUS] [NEXT]

#mdzs #mo dao zu shi #wangxian #lan wangji #wei wuxian #fic: and the calm is deep where the quiet waters flow #featured

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once-upon-a-memoir · 5 years

Text

LFC :: Zatna Spiteveil

The Basics --- -

Full name: Zatna Spiteveil, previously Mirthheart. Nickname(s): Zatbab, stabby gal, sunflower, sunshine, shadowstep. Title(s): Shadowblade. Alias(es): Eclipse. Age: Around 2900 years old. Birthday: 10th of July. Race: Sin'dorei. Gender & pronouns: Female, she/her pronouns. Sexuality: Nobody fucking knows. Marital Status: Unofficially going out with @frostwyrmsfury‘s Andiais.

Physical Appearance --- -

Hair: The majority of her head is bald and scarred, the hair scalded and burned away during a childhood accident. Now Zatna shaves what of her hair still grows, instead opting to wear pale ginger wigs whenever she isn't dawning her leather hood or scarf-cloak. Eyes: Golden yet with a tint of darkness. Her eyes are tired and heavy yet alert and sharp, seeing the world through a veil of pain and morals. Height: 5'/152.4 cm. Weight: 112.44 lbs/51 kg. Build: Ectomorph. Zatna is thin yet obviously well-trained, her strength focused on agility and flexibility. Scars: Burn scars on her shoulder, neck, and head. Several scars on her… everywhere, really. She essentially looks like a grizzled war-veteran (because that’s what she is). Two small pieces of the outer edge of her ear have also been torn off. Tattoos: A few small, simple, and minimalistic ones that seem silly but are deeply symbolic. Distinguished Traits:

Her relaxed posture.

The slight freckling of her skin.

The bags under her eyes.

Silent footsteps.

A missing finger on her right hand.

Common Accessories:

A scarf in either red, black, or purple that you really cannot tell if it’s a scarf or a cloak. Spoilers: it’s both.

A one-handed sword, sheathe strapped to her back.

Two daggers at her hips and several other forms of sharp weaponry hidden across her body.

A cloth pouch and a leather purse attached to her belt.

Two golden hoops in her right ear.

Personal --- -

Profession: Occasional assassin, bounty hunter, tracker, and monster hunter for hire. Full-time Shadowblade and hunter of oppressors, warmongers, and whoever else breaks her moral standard for a living. Hobbies:

Singing.

Journal-writing.

Grumbling over existence, inequality, and people’s poor lack of morals and ethics.

Researching and observing.

Skill(s): Knife; hand-to-hand combat; shooting with a handgun or revolver; daggers, and one-handed axes and swords combat; singing; a bit of Void, Light, and Arcane magic; outdoors survival; surviving otherwise impossible to survive situations; strategising; acting; winging it; pulling pranks. Languages: Fluent Thalassian, conversational Common and Orcish, and a few words of Zandali and Darnassian. Residence: Zatna has a few hidden, barely used cottages scattered about Azeroth but no real, stable home. There’s one in Azsuna, one in Eversong Woods, one in Feralas, and one in Deadwind Pass. She also considers Keizi and Knoton’s abode a home, as well as Zatna’s parents’ estate outside Silvermoon. Still, she’s most likely to sleep and reside in the crowd of the Uncrowned or the wild. Birthplace: Silvermoon City. Religion: None. Patron Deity: None. Fears: Losing people; drowning; having a mission team mate be captured due out of her lack of skill.

Relationships --- -

Spouse: None. Children: None. Parents:

Vazolra Mirthheart (mother, alive).

Jathun Mirthheart (father, alive).

Siblings: None of blood, but the one person she considered a brother is double-deceased. His name was Itillan Riverseeker. Other Relatives: The only other relatives Zatna knows of is her mother’s side of the family, who abused and bullied every family member into becoming a follower of the Void, which led to them being exiled and becoming ren’dorei. Zatna refers to any of those relatives as “Crimsons”, short for Crimsonveil. Pets: None that are still in her care. When she lived with Keizi, Knoton, and Mo’hir in Durotar, she had several cats and raptors.

Traits --- -

Extroverted / Introverted / In between /: Zatna is an extroverted person, but, lately, with the change of pace in her life, she has become far less social in any way that isn’t business related.

Disorganised / Organised / In between /: She’s not a neat freak but doesn’t make a mess either.

Close Minded / Open Minded / In between /: So long you don’t try and oppress people or hurt them for no apparent reason in her vicinity, there’s next to nothing that she won’t accept and respect.

Calm / Anxious / In between /: Being anxious has never really been a thing she’s done.

Disagreeable / Agreeable / In between /: She fights for a cause and what’s right, not to get people to agree.

Cautious / Reckless / In between /: She tries, and fails, to be cautious.

Patient / Impatient / In between /: This, somehow, always surprises people.

Outspoken / Reserved / In between /: Zatna used to say literally everything on her mind. Now she’s more reserved with personal things, like emotions and her mental state, but anything else she’ll more than happily yell to the entire world about.

Leader / Follower / In between /: She can’t follow orders worth shit. Not even her own.

Empathetic / Apathetic / In between /: She knows and understands and can relate to feelings, but simply has a very, very difficult time actually feeling them. This counts for her own but also things that are supposed to rub off from other people.

Optimistic / Pessimistic / In between /: It frequently changes whether she’s optimistic or pessimistic, though she has a tendency to lean towards a sense of pessimistic optimism. Like, it will probably be fine, but only moderately, and there’ll be some casualties, and overall Zatna simply expects everything to be mediocre.

Traditional / Modern / In between /: No comment.

Hard-working / Lazy / In between /: She can and will work through entire days without eating and sleeping.

Cultured / Uncultured / In between /: Depends on what culture you mean. Sin’dorei culture? Eh, a little cultured. Meme culture? Very cultured. Manners? Not cultured at all.

Loyal / Disloyal / In between /: Her trust is very, very difficult to get, but once you do she will die for you. And, generally, she lives by a “no man is left behind” mindset on missions, unless it’s absolutely, one hundred percent necessary to leave them behind.

Faithful / Unfaithful / In between /: Only thing she has faith in is her ability to track down and kill people.

Assertive / Timid / In between /: Don’t get fooled by her height, you’ll wish her aura never came near you.

Additional Information --- -

Smoking: Occasionally. Alcohol: Frequently, if she didn’t work so much. Drugs: Possibly, if offered. Triggers: Drowning; being stuck beneath something in the middle of a fire. Face claim: Kim Jihae. Theme song: Life by Neffex. Alignment: Chaotic good / neutral. In-game classes she takes after the most: Subtlety rogue with a splurge of outlaw and simple Arcane mage.

Alt Verses --- -

Brightheart: Not much changes here aside from the fact she, briefly, has a successful love life with Halduron Brightwing. They have three kids and end up getting a divorce after they’ve all migrated from their home.

Modern: A woman in the mid-30s still working towards her college degree. Up until a few years ago, she’s been making her income through professional downhill mountain-biking.

Forsaken: Zatna dies in Northrend and is raised as Forsaken. She’s very nonchalant about it. Everybody else isn’t.

RP Hooks --- -

Academy: Vazolra, Zatna’s mom, is the headmistress of a magic academy in the heart of Silvermoon where Zatna, alongside many, many other people, have graduated.

Bounty hunter: Not exactly feeling like going off to an alternative universe for someone who’s already out of reach to harm anyone else on Azeroth, Zatna spent the entirety of Warlords of Draenor as a bounty hunter, alongside her best friends Knoton and Mo’hir. Zatna still occasionally go after bounties and accept bounty hunter jobs, if they line up with her style of targets.

The Uncrowned: Zatna is a Shadowblade going under the alias Eclipse. She frequently launches campaigns, plots tactics, and gathers information to take down vile people of all kinds. In this line of work, she needs the help of all kinds of people, and preferably a lot of them.

Taverns: Zatna is social butterfly and quite the drinker when she finally lets herself take a break from work.

Contact Information --- -

where i roleplay: discord and tumblr. zatna can be found at @once-upon-a-memoir while follows and likes come from @foxfictioncentral. what im looking for:

action & adventure rp

people willing to further a plot idea i have that features a drug-caused disease, a lot of murdering, frustration, and several attempts and fails at coming up with a cure

connections of all sorts (business, friends, enemies, familial, what have you)

slice of life

emotionally charged rp

long-term and short-term connections

pre-established relationships

angst

detective rp

what i wont do: explicit sex, self-harm, suicide, in-game rp (it’s an anxiety thing), and excessive gore.

i mainly write multi-paragraphs style as i have a tendency to vomit words, but i won’t say no to rping with different styles. my writing is very emotion heavy, and my favorite thing to write is emotionally challenging stuff. give me all the angst, tho i write p much anything

useful links: about || relationships || verses || starter call rules / guidelines / ooc info

other muse blogs: @hugs-not-anonymous @conflictedenergies

mun blogs: @foxfictioncentral @jcfoxington @arcticartings

#world of warcraft rp #looking for rp #looking for contact #neutral faction rp #crossfaction rp #horde rp #sin'dorei #blood elf #.a heart without its mirth.about #.lfc

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fiction-queen-blog · 5 years

Text

The Five Kingdoms

Genre: medieval fantasy, Game of Throne Universe, romance. (I am open for feed back because this is my first medieval fantasy and it is heavily based on Game of Thrones) Pairing: Naruto x Sasuke (SNS) ROMANTICALLY Summary: “Game of throne Universe. Sasuke Stormborn of the house Uchiha first of his name and prince of the five kingdoms comes to visit the warden of the North, Lord Ashina of house Uzumaki. Here he meets Knight Naruto the Jinchuriki (bastard) of Lady Kushina. He discovers there is more about the boy than his golden hair and sky blue eyes.

Chapter 1 Naruto Jinchuriki

Naruto was a young men, just sixteen years of age; he had short blond hair that sat untamed on his head. The wind was his comb and he never managed to make it look neat, not even the sweetest handmaid with the softest touch could undo what tangles of the wind. His great grandmother, Lady Mito, had them give it a try a lot of times. His hair was always all over the place, sticking out from the top and from the sides. It had become a characteristic trait of his. His wild golden locks caught most people’s eyes. It was rare, almost unseen up in the Northern lands; as were Naruto’s ocean blue eyes, that were rumoured to be as deep as the ocean itself. His skin has a natural tan, that was unheard of in the cold land. The sun was almost never shining bright enough. There were only two known seasons and that was winter and fall. There had never been a bright shining sun or a clear blue sky, not for centuries at least.

Naruto was riding on horseback through the woods in the afternoon, he returned back to the castle gates where two guards were standing.

“Had a nice ride, Junchuriki?” One of them asked as he signalled for Naruto to enter the courtyard.

Naruto was not particularly fond of people using his last name…A baster’s name. It was a cold reminder of what he was.

“I always do, old-man.” Naruto said back as he indicated his horse to walk again.

He knew the guard did not mean to offend him, he was the youngest knight the North had seen. He was well respected for his skills, but he preferred to be called by his first name. It reminded him less of the tragedy that was the beginning of his life.

Naruto stepped off the horse and handed him to the stable boy, Kiba. The Jinchuriki greeted him politely and thanking him for taking good care of the horse. He proceeded turn around, seeing his grandfather look down on him from his chamber’s window. Naruto lowered his eyes. Lord Ashina, the warden of the North and lord of the Uzumaki house, was not particularly fond of him as many of the town folk were.

His eldest daughter, Kushina Uzumaki, was Naruto’s mother. She was said to be a beautiful women, but a fears warrior. She was never the lady of the house as her youngers sister was. Lady Mito had handed her the family sword, made of ancient magical steal that was passed down in the family for centuries. It was not given to the next lord in line, it was given to the best warrior of the family which Naruto’s mother had proven herself to be on many occasions. Blessed by lady Mito, she set out on her journey around the North helping those in need. Only years later did her younger brother, Nagato, receive a raven from an inn telling him lady Kushina was in a terrible condition. Nagato had raced towards her location and was just in time to see his sister holding a baby covered in blood. With her last words she handed Nagato the baby and told him his name was “Naruto”.

Nagato had vowed to protect his sister’s son and took Naruto with him back to the castle. The news of Kushina’s passing had hit the family hard and as Nagato, Lady Mito, and Lady Mariko had not blamed Naruto, Ashina did. Looking at Naruto the lord of the north could only imagine how the men that killed his daughter looked like. He threated Naruto like the bastard he was and there was nothing Naruto could do to change the men’s mind. He had lived his entire life being hated and reminded of the fact he was the reason his mother was no longer alive.

“Where have you been, bastard !?”

Naruto was woken up from his thought when he heard Karin, daughter of Lady Mariko, shout from the balcony. She was wearing a beautiful laced violet dress, her hair was braided and tied neatly and she had never looked better than she had that moment. It made Naruto suspicious of what she was up to. Was there a change some lord were coming over to ask for her hand?

“Taking out your noble stallion for a ride. It seems it ain’t getting any action from you. How many times did you fall form your horse last lesson…Five…Six times?” Naruto smiled as he looked up at Karin’s annoyed face.

“Twelve, but I did not expect a jinchuriki to count that far!” She snapped back. Some laughter was heard around the courtyard, causing Naruto to blush slightly.

“Oh yeah!” Naruto pointed an accusing finger at Karin, but did not really know what exactly to say. He was getting flustered. “Don’t you need to get your hair combed a hundred times or something!”

Karin rolled her red eyes, shaking her head.

“Lord Grandfather wants to speak with you. It is urgent.”

Naruto was surprised, hearing the news. It was odd for Lord Ashina to summon him. Naruto rushed inside the castle, surprised at how clean everything was. The maidens were scrubbing every inch of the place, leaving not even a spot of dust behind. As Naruto walked past the kitchen he could smell the spices from down the hall. He quickly peaked inside, seeing every cook the castle had working hard. He wondered who was coming, it must be somebody important for Karin to have made a perfect dress like that and for the staff to be working so hard.

For a brief moment Naruto’s heart jumped. Could it be Lord Ashina wanted him to escort this high lord to the castle? Did he thrust him enough to do so? Perhaps it was a sign of acknowledgement. Finally.

With his heart pumping like a little boy in his chest, Naruto walked faster towards the court room. When he entered he saw four maids cleaning the floor as three lords from the nearby lands were talking around the rectangular table. They all looked up when Naruto entered.

“Lord Ashina…” Naruto bowed, “Karin said you wanted see me?”

There was a dreaded silence followed by the lord of the Uzumaki house saying: “It is lady Karin, I have no bastard disrespect my granddaughter. Next time I’ll have your head for it.”

Naruto looked slightly up, feeling a lump in his throat…The excitement he felt was gone. He was feeling dreadful now.

“My apologies…” He said in a whisper, he cleared his throat, gathering his courage. “You…You wanted to see me, my lord?”

“Yes” he said, “the prince of the five kingdoms will arrive today. We got latter from Lord Nara he has passed their land. It would be half a day before they reach our castle.”

“The prince of the Five Kingdoms…” Naruto’s eyes widened and he wanted to smack his head against a brick. That was right, around a month ago they had received a raven with the royal seal on it from the noble Uchiha clan. The king has said he sent his brother over. Nagato had told him this and yet he managed to forget.

He was so excited about the prince to arrive. He had heard so many stories about his conquests. He was said to be the greatest warrior known to the kingdoms. He had stopped the rebellion in the Sand Lands, he had lead his forced and put an end to it. He was the same guy who burned down a battle field, riding on a big black dragon’s back, he had stopped the Hyuuga rebellion by himself. He was Naruto’s role model. All the song Naruto knew about battle glory where made about him. All the stories old nan had told him when they were sitting by the fire drinking some ale.

“It Is our top priority to leave a good impression, that is why-“

Naruto’s eyes widened, was he going to meet the prince and escort him to the castle? The thought alone made his guts feel lighter. He was feeling so excited for a moment.

“-I want you to stay out of eye sight from him.”

Naruto stared at his grandfather. For a moment he thought he hadn’t understood his grandfather correctly.

“I don’t want a jinchuriki near him. It is highly offensive to have you even look at him.”

Naruto lowered his eyes.

“Of course…” He said, trying not to show how crushed he was by his grandfather’s words.

“If I see you near him, even in his eye sight, I will have you executed. Understood?”

“Yes, lord Ashina.” Naruto said, nodding softly.

“That will be all.”

With those words Naruto left the courtroom and sighed deeply once he closed the door behind him. What was he expecting? Some glory for his knightly duties around the country. How he had slayed a huge bear terrorizing a village or how he fought the mountain raiders and instead of killing them made them the warriors of the hilltops, that now escorted and protected those in needs through the harsh roads.

He walked out of the castle and ignored some of the usual calls he got around the courtyard.

“You look gloomy,” Kiba noted as he walked outside of the stalls, he sat down on a small wooden box that once contained hay. Naruto leaned against the barrel and told his friend about his conversation with his grandfather. Soon they were joined by the singer, Sai. Who had his little guitar in his hands and was playing around with some notes. He often came around the castle to entertain the guests with he songs. Some everybody knew, some the wrote himself. Naruto particular liked the ones about the prince of the Five Kingdoms, there seemed to be a lot about him.

“That sucks, but are you really surprised? Being a knight doesn’t give away your status and Jinchuriki…”

“Thanks Kiba, appreciate that…” Naruto sighed, “It is not that what bothers me…It is the way he said it. I thought I had really proven myself with the Mountain riders.”

“You didn’t kill them,” Kiba said, “wasn’t that your job.”

“I didn’t kill them because I saw the good in them. They just needed somebody to show them the right way.”

“Ah the Mountain Riders, I am actually working on a song about that achievement.” Sai said, looking amused at Naruto who looked amazed at this information.

“Really?! You’re writing a song about me!” Naruto said.

“Of course I couldn’t say Naruto Jinchuriki, so I named you the golden haired knight. It is still a work in progress” Sai said amused.

“That actually made me feel better,” Naruto said with a soft smile on his face. “I wished I got to see Prince Sasuke. I mean, now I am throwing dreams out there, I really want to spar against him. I think I can just learn so much from him. He is just this awesome warrior.”

“You better stop talking or else people might suspect you’re in love with the prince.” Sai joked. “I’ve heard my fair share of stories around the kingdom.”

“Really, like what?” Kiba asked, looking around him to make sure they were not overheard.

“I heard that where ever he goes, he brings his personal handmaid. One, old women, apparently the one who nursed after the passing of the queen. He won’t even allow any other handmaid in his chambers.”

“Why is that weird?”

Sai gave Naruto a weird smile which made Naruto remind him of when Sai made a small dick joke. Suddenly it popped up on him and his eyes widened.

“I don’t think you can say that about the prince!” Naruto said, causing all three to laugh.

“What if he is a girl, and that is why he won’t allow anybody else in his chambers. What if he pretends to be a boy?” Kiba whispered.

“No, during the Sand Rebellion the songs clearly state a prince burning down Suna .” Sai began to sing the part of the song, “The prince emerged from the dragon flames, untouched, unhurt, unburned.”

“Also the Uchiha’s are no strangers to female warriors. There was Princess Naori, Princess Izumi and Queen Mikoto.” Naruto said.

“But it is whispered among lords and ladies that the prince is still unwed.” Sai said, “never looked at even looks at the women. One time the warden of the Raining Island put a few whores in his chambers, the most beautiful of the beautiful the islands had to offer. He send them away…Almost beheaded the lord if he wasn’t so merciful. I guess it was offensive to him.”

“Many lords fucks around in whore houses,” Kiba said.

“But he the prince, he could get anybody he likes. I bet he doesn’t have to pay for it.” Naruto said.

“The songs say that his beauty rivals the full moon,” Sai said, playing a little on his guitar.

“Really? You wouldn’t expect somebody to look pretty after emerging from dragon flames.” Naruto noted.

“He just said he was unburned.” Kiba said, slapping Naruto’s knee.

“Oh right.” Naruto scratched the back of his head and apologised.

The small rays of sun that was shining down on them suddenly disappeared and Naruto, Kiba and Sai all looked up in the sky. Their yaws dropped open when they saw a massive dragon flying above them in the sky, bocking the rays of sun and casting a shadow down in the court yard.

Everybody in the courtyard dropped what they were doing and stared in awe at the rare creature flying above them. None of them have ever seen a dragon before. There wee only two left in the world and both belonged to the Uchihas. One of them was a hundred year old silver dragon, described as magical looking, a gift from the sky. The other was hatched sixteen years ago during a biggest storm the capital had seen in centuries. The night Queen Mikoto had given birth to prince Sasuke and died. The same moment the rumours said her soul was reincarnated into a dragon, causing the egg to hatch and become the prince’s guardian dragon. They called him the Son of the Dragon after that day. That dragon grew up to be twice the size of the silver one, told to have emerged from the depths of hell. It was big and terrifying and yet so majestic and amazing.

“Dragon….” Naruto whispered, not believing his eyes for a moment. When the dragon flew around the castle and was descending, Naruto was woken up from his trance by his grandfather’s warning.

“I have to get out of here!” Naruto suddenly said, getting up and running off to the horse stalls.

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breezytealy · 6 years

Note

Question: do you have headcanons about which kanji/symbols the next-gen uses on their gis/fighting clothes?

What have I done recently to deserve such wonderful questions, thank you so much for thinking of me! I do have some (read: many) thoughts - most definite, some I’m still mulling over trying to balance characterisation so they may change if they appear later in the infinite expanse of the “Super7AU/Groundbreaking Science”, haha! Please hit me up with yours too everyone :D!

(answer under the cut, if you’re on mobile you may have to click through to the blog, sorry but long answer X’D)

I feel like Chichi would make the actual gis up for people? I mean, Piccolo could magic them I know but there’s something amazing about the effort gone into hand making something. It’s feels nice. And they’re all p much family any way!

( Re actual symbols - they’re supposed to be for when you finish your training under a school, right? That was my understanding. If so —)

In no particular order

Uub - Goku’s ‘Go’ 悟 symbol. Whilst he does have a Goku-esque gi, (that green from GT needs a showing!) he will often default to the warrior’s garb from his home island, like at End of Z? The lustrous reddish-brown colour is from the tannins of the yellow mangroves that the island is famous for. :) He’s also got the P for Papayaman on his Papayaman outfit’s helmet - can’t forget that one!

Marron - I have her training and having been trained with ki, but not to act in front line, so her gi doesn’t often get blasted to pieces! It’s well looked after (any repairs needed are done neatly), and mimics her father’s style and colouring (but with wrist-length sleeves to reduce the possibility of obvious scratches from a fight). She has the good-old turtle symbol 亀 to recognise her Dad and his training, though he won’t restart the school until Age 821 (when he’s NINETY FIVE GO DAD).

Goten - He doesn’t seem to have one EoZ, but I can see him having Go 悟 for a while but asking to change it to Son. Whilst Chichi doesn’t have Son as a surname, Goten thought ‘Son’ 孫 included her more than just the Go of Goku and Gohan, and she blubbed. He’ll try and repair his when he can to be nice with surprisingly neat stitching… for the first five minutes! Often he’ll end up using any-old colour thread as it does the job, which makes Pan shake her head. He changes the symbol to King Kai’s (界王 stacked) for a while after he has a brief, uh, surprise, stint in the afterlife, mostly just to rub it in people’s faces he’s had godly training. He stopped after Trunks pointed out he was advertising the fact he was an idiot to get killed once.

Pan - if she was going to put all the badges on she’d look like a NASCAR driver. There’s training with her Dad, Grampa, Master Roshi, Piccolo and of course Gramps (he may not be a ki user, but he has valuable skills to pass on)! And that’s not forgetting learning from Grandma and her Mom, picking things up from Goten and Trunks, even Vegeta when she’d tag along to Bra’s torture sessions. She has a lot of gis, especially as she’s running the Pan Fighting Network so will spend all day in them sometimes. If she’s training with a former teacher she’ll wear their name out of respect, but when she has to grab something with a second’s notice? It’ll be the handmade one from Grandma Chichi, with ‘Son’ 孫 on the front over the heart, and the ‘Ma’ 魔 of Demon King Piccolo on the back that the bad guys can read and weep as she walks away from their broken ass.

Trunks - Has a gi (not from Chichi), but mostly for training/just to have one and interchanges with general gym stuff for training really. Will definitely go for Saiyan formal wear for the big fights, grey skin-tight with the white and gold chest armour. He has the shoulders removed not to restrict his sword movements, so very Resurrection F Vegeta in style, but has two little golden slots/nubs on the shoulders where, traditionally, a royal cape/train is supposed to go. By Age 801, after Geets and Goku leave for their final fight, Trunks is the defacto King, after all! He does have the cape! But he wore it like twice to scare the shit out of people who Knew of Saiyans and it’s just not come out the closet since. He wears the Vegeta royal crest on his armour (Though I’d like to try a combination of the crest and CC but I can’t nail a design and it’s driving me crazy)

Bra - Much the same as her bro! Though older uniform with slightly more length in the armour, less in the arms and legs of the blue skin-tight. No chunky boots for Bra, either very tight low-rise boots (not quite tai chi slippers, more sneakers I guess???) or straight up barefoot - she takes a very physical, brawler approach to fighting. She also wears the royal crest. And nail polish. Don’t forget the nail polish. She won’t damage it at all, trust her.

The crest has dual meanings - in the first case, (and I did have the associated weapons names for this but it’s midnight and I can’t find them so whoops) the outer is a pinning kind of weapon - corner your enemy first (around the neck). The inner trident is saying to then go in for the kill with a weapon that, with the barbs, will be impossible to extract and would have to be torn out, doing massive damage. :D The second meaning is a flower - with three main petals and two leaves near the flower itself - that grew on planet Salada. It only blooms on blood-soaked battlefields - triggered by the iron to exit dormancy as it ‘knows’ the decaying bodies the blood is from will nourish it and its seeds. The idea being the wearers are fresh from a battlefield they just survived. Both meanings are equally awesome to Trunks and Bra.

Mai - STILL rocking the coat, although occasionally a jumpsuit (tough like a motorcyclists, with utility belt and all that jazz) should that be more suitable for the challenge ahead. Symbols are Pilaf’s star (he wouldn’t let her get rid of it, not like she’d want to) and CC underneath :).

They all completely separately have “allblacks” - full head-to-toe jump suits made with a Vantablack-like material that absorbs all light. They wear them to go unidentified helping out in times of natural disasters (can’t wish people back from natural deaths and I guess death by nature is pretty natural) and the unnerving property of the suits earn them the nickname Shadows. It doesn’t help matters that they deliberately don’t speak to the public in uniform (Trunks and Bra would be instantly twigged being so famous), so kids in particular are obsessed and yet terrified off them x’D. Sadly no visible logo given the material, but there is an obnoxious CC for Capsule Corp on the arm that can be felt in the form of stitching should you know what you’re looking (feeling) out for!

#thank you so much for the question!#had fun putting it all in one place haha!#goten #trunks.marron #pan #bra #mai #uub #super7au #my content #breezytealytalks #Anonymous

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fableweaver · 4 years

Text

Arc of the Valiant Paladin

The forest receded on the horizon as they rode west, the road dusty and sun hot in the summer air. Horace missed the shade of the trees, and Pricilla was having no trouble voicing her own discomfort.

The leave taking from Alma had been uneventful as far as Horace knew, he had not been part of those farewells that had made Glen shed tears. Lord Kaden seemed reserved and unphased from leaving Alma and his cousin took to the road like it was a normal stroll through the woods. Horace wasn’t sure what to make of the two Aldan lords, they were too enigmatic for him to read. He could see why the Regarians found them arrogant, it was hard for him not to see a superior pride in their calm cool exteriors.

But he had seen these people in their homes, their lives as they lived in their forest, heard their poetry and seen their paintings, listened to their music and stories, and seen their children at play. They were a people of many emotions hidden under a surface of calm born of an inner peace Horace had come to envy. They had a nobility to them than made him realize why they had held the Kingdoms together all this time.

“We should take a rest,” Lord Basil said breaking into Horace’s thoughts and Pricilla’s complaints.

“Finally,” Pricilla said scathingly. “I’ve had enough of this beastly riding. I think I’m getting freckles.”

Horace looked at her and found himself musing over how she would look with freckles and hating how pleasing he found the image.

“Good,” Horace said before he could think, and Pricilla glared at him.

“Lord Basil where are we going to rest,” Pricilla said ignoring him. She had decided to ignore him now and seemed to be trying to gain the favor of Basil.

“There is a traveler’s waystation ahead if records hold true,” Basil answered. “Just around the bend ahead. And you may just call me Basil milady, I am so far out of line for the Odell title I hardly warrant being called Lord.”

Pricilla made a face of disappointment, pouting like a child.

“There is always Kaden Lady Pricilla,” Horace said lowly and Pricilla glared at him.

“He is married,” She hissed at him.

“So? As I understand he isn’t close with his wife,” Horace said. “He could always leave her for you.”

“I will not be the second woman or worse a mistress,” Pricilla said hotly. “I’m too good for that.”

Horace didn’t answer feeling ashamed; Pricilla may be a brat, but she had every right to her pride and chastity. That she felt such worth in herself made him feel he was lacking in that respect. As time went on he only felt more and more worthless.

They reached the roadside waystation, a small log cabin with a watering tough. Basil saw to the horses as the rest of them went into the cabin. It was a neat little store packed with all the goods a traveler might need, an Elmerian man sitting at the counter with a string game between his fingers.

“Greetings,” he said in the trade tongue.

“Greetings,” Horace after a pause when Kaden did not answer. “We need a few supplies, maybe a hot meal.”

“And a bath,” Pricilla said.

“I have a stew on the fire and plenty of supplies,” the Elmerian said. “But a bath is a tall order.”

“Some hot water then,” Horace said before Pricilla could say anything. He dropped a silver royal on the counter and the Elmerian scooped it up.

“Right away milord,” the man said with a bob of his head. “Help yourself to the stew.”

He left to draw water and they went to the fireside. Glen served out the stew of bacon, beans, and carrots, Horace just glad to have something hot. He remembered fellow knights gripping and moaning over their meals many times when they had been on the road. He had as well, but now he couldn’t help but wonder how many people in the world would be over joyed just to have this.

Pricilla of course turned her nose up at the meal.

“It’s this or trail rations,” Horace said. “At least it’s hot.”

Making a face Pricilla ate, seeming to warm to the stew after a few bites. Her hunger must have overcome her dislike. She was still bearing much of her weight, if anything she had gained weight from her time in Alda. How, Horace didn’t know since the Aldan ate lightly.

Basil came in and served himself some food before going to haggle with the store owner for some supplies. The store owner set a bucket of water to heat over the fire, and soon Pricilla had enough hot water to wash up a little. Glen used some as well, sighing contently.

“You’ve been traveling a long time now haven’t you Glen?” Horace said feeling sad. Glen smiled at him and patted his arm reassuringly. Horace nodded back to him, but he wondered about his brother and how he was fairing. He couldn’t speak, so he could never voice his problems. Horace was starting to feel how lonely that must be, he was starting to miss talking with Glen so it must be worse for him.

Horace washed after Kaden, leaving only a little for Basil who didn’t seem to mind. They were just getting ready to leave when two men stepped into the store. They were obviously drovers, typical Markian stock of thick brows and burly build. Both noticed Pricilla first, and then eyed Horace warily. Not liking their cut Horace’s hand dropped to his sword. The two eyed him until Basil stepped between them.

“Greetings,” Basil said smoothly. “Though I fear it will have to be farewell now, we were just leaving.”

He started towards the door when one of the drovers stepped in his path.

“You are Aldan,” the man said, and Horace almost wanted to reply with a quip about the man’s intelligence.

“I am,” Basil said lowly, something in his voice making Horace’s hair stand on end. Both the drovers looked afraid then, sharing a look like they were just told a storm was on its way.

“Why have you left the forest?” the first man asked afraid.

“I think you know the answer to that already,” Basil answered.

“Aye,” the man said lowly. He nodded and stepped aside so they could pass.

They walked by Horace surprised that they had escaped trouble.

“What was that about?” Horace asked as he helped Basil with the horses.

“The Mark has shared boarders with Alda for as long as the kingdoms existed,” Basil answered. “When we closed the boarders, I suspect the people of the Mark took it as a sign of our end. The fact that we have left means our end is near.”

“He didn’t seem happy about it,” Horace said, and Basil smiled wanly.

“Maybe that will be enough,” Basil said sadly and mounted his horse.

They continued on the road for another five days, passing only a few outposts or drover towns. Occasionally they passed a Rhodin caravan, but the wandering people passed them without even a greeting. The trip seemed to be going uneventful, until they reached a village. Horace wasn’t sure of the name of the village, they never got the chance to stop there. Riding in they found the village eerily quiet, only the crows could be heard. People watched them from windows or doors, but none ventured out. They reached the inn, Basil once again taking care of the horses. Entering the inn they found few travelers, places like these should have plenty of the Rhodin but it was empty except for a few tradesmen.

They paid for a few rooms and a meal, sitting by the fire as they waited for some stew and bread. Pricilla ordered a bath filled for her, Horace feeling pity for the poor girl that was hauling the hot water from the kitchen.

“Couldn’t you just wash in a basin?” Horace asked as the girl hauled the fifth bucket upstairs while Pricilla waited.

“I want to be clean,” Pricilla said as she examined the goat’s milk soap the innkeeper had given her. “And I won’t feel very clean with soap like this so hot water is the best there is. You girl, help me comb my hair while I soak.”

The girl bowed as Pricilla followed her upstairs. Horace rolled his eyes and returned to his meal.

“Go easy on her,” Basil said. “She doesn’t know any better.”

“No, she does,” Horace said. “She’s known wealth and luxury all her life and doesn’t seem to understand other people are suffering.”

“And is that so bad?” Basil asked. “To see only the wonderful things of the world?”

“It is if it makes you blind,” Horace muttered.

“I for one envy the luxury of that innocence,” Basil answered.

“She can’t have that luxury anymore though,” Horace answered vehemently. “She can’t go back to that life. And if she is to hold any sort of power then she should understand everything that is happening to those she rules.”

“You care a lot for her,” Basil said. “To be so concerned about how she sees the world.”

Horace felt his face flush and stood quickly.

“I’ll go deliver her meal,” Horace said grabbing some bread and a bowl of stew. He went up to their room, finding Pricilla squeezed into a small tub as she washed. She had gotten the girl to brush her hair, the girl smiling as she worked tenderly on the golden locks. Pricilla jumped when he entered and quickly covered herself.

“Get out!” Pricilla said hotly.

“I thought you might be hungry,” Horace said setting the stew and bread down on the table.

“I’ll eat later,” Pricilla said, her cheeks pink. “Now leave.”

Horace didn’t answer, feeling cross he leaned against the door and crossed his arms. Glaring at him Pricilla shifted in the bath so her back was to him and continued to wash. The girl continued to brush her hair, seeming rather fascinated with the process. Horace watched Pricilla, unable to help feeling a sense of admiration for her porcelain skin and golden hair.

“Do you think the innkeeper would let me have her?” Pricilla asked breaking into his thoughts.

“Have who?” Horace asked puzzled.

“Betty,” Pricilla said pointing to the girl who looked at her and then at Horace confused. “I need a lady’s maid, Alora wouldn’t send any with me, but a servant is just as good.”

“She isn’t a slave,” Horace said.

“I know that, I said servant,” Pricilla said. “I’ll pay her once I get married. The experience would be good enough anyways.”

“Pricilla, ask her yourself,” Horace said, feeling odd about talking about a person who was right in the room. Then again how many times did he do that with their household servants? Not many, but he could recall times suddenly when he spoke in front of servants as if they weren’t there.

“Well asking her doesn’t matter, it is her employer that I need permission from to hire her,” Pricilla said.

“I’ll go ask milady,” Betty said. “If I may?”

“Yes good,” Pricilla said pleased. “A good servant always anticipates her mistress’s needs. But only speak when spoken to, understood?”

“Yes milady,” Betty said. “Thank you, milady.”

“Go on now,” Pricilla said, and Betty scampered away excited. “Now you’re going to tell me we can’t afford another person on this journey or she’ll only slow us down.”

“No more than you are slowing us,” Horace said, and Pricilla glared at him.

“Why must you always belittle me!” Pricilla shouted at him angrily.

“Because you are petty and little,” Horace answered angrily. “I state what you are, and you are a petty little brat with no brain that can only think of herself.”

Pricilla stood suddenly, water dripping down from her naked body. She snatched up her towel and wrapped it around herself storming up to him.

“And you know what you are?” Pricilla said lowly. “A hypocrite, you’ve lived your life same as mine. You said you loved me without even saying one word to me. You only want to have your way with me and after you slake your lust you will forget me like any other whore.”

Her words bit deep because Horace knew they were true. He felt so much shame he hid it with anger.

“Then maybe I should take you so no other man can have you,” Horace said lowly moving closer. He saw fear flash through her eyes, real fear of him, and that look turned his shame to horror at himself. He turned away and left the room, slamming the door behind him. He left the inn and slumped down under a lemon tree outside, bearing his face in his hands. He felt more than heard Glen sit next to him. Glen of course said nothing, but more in a way that he was waiting for Horace to talk rather than his usually silence.

“I take it you heard us shouting?” Horace said, and Glen nodded. “But you didn’t hear what I whispered.” Glen tipped his head indicating confusion. So, Horace told him, and this time Glen’s silence took on a disapproving tone. “I’m a horrible person,” Horace said, and Glen shook his head and made the sign of redemption and forgiveness. “You think I should apologize? Maybe but I doubt she would forgive me nor do I feel like I deserve it.”

Glen made a sad face and patted Horace on the back, offering what comfort he could. Horace sighed loudly and buried his face in his hands, not wanting to go back into the inn. The evening grew dark and still he and Glen sat together outside the inn. Shadowy figures drew their attention, five men heading into the inn. Horace was up with his sword drawn, heading for the inn with Glen hot on his heels.

Inside he found the men had entered from the back and had already moved into the common room. Horace rushed into the common room to find the men just finishing killing the innkeeper, Basil and Kaden by the fire with weapons drawn. The men were of the Legion, wearing the dirty burlap and marked with sores.

“You have been marked by Kal Ba’el,” one of the men said drawing a rusty dagger. “You will come with us.”

“No,” Horace answered levelly but they were at a disadvantage. The men all bore daggers, ideal for fighting inside, while he and Basil were both armed with sword and bow better suited for places they had room to maneuver. The man grinned and pulled out Betty from behind the bar, putting a dagger to her throat.

“You will come or the girl dies,” the man said. Horace felt his heart lurch, he knew the man would kill the girl anyways. He was desperately trying to think of a solution, but none was coming to him. Then he felt the air grow hotter, the fire in the fireplace flaring. The flames formed into a serpent like creature with spindly legs, a Salamandra that Glen had summoned before. It leapt from the fireplace onto two of the men, the others turning in surprise as their brethren went up in flames.

Horace dove and pulled Betty free, punching the man in the face with the pommel of his sword. A scream tore his gaze over to the stairs to see Pricilla dressed and staring at the fire in horror. Horace felt something punch into his side, his mail turning the blade. He pushed Betty away so he could concentrate on his opponent, holding his sword across his body like a staff almost. The man kept stabbing at him with his rusty dagger, Horace turning the thrusts aside with mail or sword until at last he got an opening to bash his pommel against the man’s temple felling him.

Horace heard another scream and turned to see one of the men had Pricilla by the hair, dragging her to the exit. Betty leapt over trying to stop him, but the man lashed out with his dagger catching her across the throat. Blood spurted and Betty fell, but her distraction had bought Horace the time to reach them, his sword sinking into the man’s side. Pricilla stood shaking staring down at Betty who lay gaping on the floor.

She rushed over and tried to stop the bleeding, but it did little good the girl was dying. Horace looked up to see the common room was on fire, no sign of Basil or Kaden, Glen stood by the back-door beckoning. Horace grabbed Pricilla by the arm, but she wouldn’t move.

“Help her!” Pricilla cried.

“She’s dead Pricilla!” Horace shouted. “Come on or we will be too.”

“No!” Pricilla wailed. Grinding his teeth Horace sheathed his sword and scooped up the girl, Pricilla following him as he dashed for the exit. Coughing they emerged into the cool night air, running from the burning inn. No one was about, no one was trying to stop the blaze. Horace set Betty down and Pricilla bent over her. Her eyes were glassy, and her breath no longer came.

“She’s dead,” Horace said.

“No!” Pricilla cried out. “Do something!”

“Pricilla…”

“No, Sect Glen surely the gods can do something!” Pricilla said but Glen sadly shook his head. “She… she saved my life… there must be something….”

The jangle of horse tack drew Horace’s attention and he looked up to see Basil and Kaden leading their horses over.

“Come on Pricilla,” Horace said. “We have to go.”

“She was going to be my servant,” Pricilla said hollowly, and Horace nearly snapped at her callow behavior until she spoke again. “I was supposed to protect her.”

Horace felt like he had been kicked and saw Pricilla crumble before him, breaking into heart wrenching sobs. She started to gather Betty in her arms, but Glen stopped her pulling her back. She wailed trying to reach the girl, but Glen pulled her to her feet towards the horses. Horace helped him, trying to get her to mount but Pricilla fought him. Finally, he pulled her up onto his horse and mounted behind her, pulling her against his chest. She collapsed into a fit of weeping against him as they rode out of the village.

They stopped in the lee of a hill and made a rough camp once more, Pricilla out cold from her sorrow. Horace made her comfortable before joining the others at the fire.

“It wasn’t fair,” Horace said lowly and Glen nodded.

“Violence is never fair,” Basil said wearily.

“I think it will be only more dangerous from here on,” Kaden said rubbing his arms. “We are being hunted, I can feel it.”

“We can’t avoid towns,” Horace said. “Pricilla won’t stand it besides we need supplies.”

“No, but we can’t stay in towns,” Kaden said. “We will just pass through.”

“And what is to stop them from tracking us and attacking while we are on the road?” Horace asked and Kaden’s face paled. Glen waved his hands then and made the signs of wandering and people.

“The Rhodin?” Horace asked and Glen nodded.

“They would never let us travel with them,” Basil said. “Only the Rhodin are welcoming to the Rhodin.”

Glen took Horace’s hand and spelled something out Horace un sure what it was.

“K-R-E-E, Kree,” Horace said. “What is Kree?”

Glen made the sign of woman and then wandering people again.

“A Rhodin woman,” Horace said, and Glen nodded. “Could she help?” Glen shook his head. “Then how can she help?” Glen made the sign of name. “Name?” Horace said confused.

“I think he means that if we give her name at a Rhodin camp they will help us,” Basil said. “They are known to help those who know other Rhodin. Mainly because the Rhodin still lay with outsiders, if a woman gets with child from a Rhodin man she could go to any camp and give his name. So if we go to a Rhodin camp, they might let us travel with them if we give Kree’s name.”

“How on earth do the Rhodin know all each other’s names?” Horace asked doubtful.

“I have no idea,” Basil said. “We could ask but I doubt they would tell us.”

Horace just made a sour face and turned away to get some sleep. They took turns on watch, though Kaden said he would sense danger before it arrived Horace didn’t want to take the chance. Morning thankfully came without sign of pursuit so they rode off once more. Their decision to find a Rhodin caravan for aid started to prove difficult as the days turned without any sign of the Rhodin.

“We’re traveling the main road shouldn’t they be around?” Horace grumbled. Typical of the Rhodin to be nowhere when they were needed. Glen made the signs of travel and lesser paths. “They travel the back roads? Well how would we find them then?”

“We’ll lose time traveling those roads,” Basil said. “Besides the likelihood of getting lost. There is a reason only the Rhodin travel those roads, they’re probably the only ones who know them well enough. Besides the way the back roads meander and twist it would take longer to travel them.”

“Then why should we travel with the Rhodin?” Horace asked loudly.

“Because it will be safer,” Kaden said. Horace fell silent glancing back at Pricilla. She had been silent since the village, not a word of complaint passing her lips. She barely ate and sat in the saddle listlessly. Horace was deeply worried and wanted to get to the safety of Warren quickly. At the same time, he knew they needed some form of protection soon.

The next day they decided to go off the main highway, along a back country road. The road wound in and out of woods and dells, occasionally cresting a hill. They passed secluded farms, seeing mostly cattle out in the fields. For a few days there were no signs of the Rhodin until Glen pointed to an old scarf tied to a tree, signing that this was a marker of the Rhodin. He led the way off the road down an animal path, Horace gripping his sword and eyeing the bushes around them. Then they smelled smoke, not the smoke of camp fires since it carried the thick smell of burning flesh and hair.

They emerged from the trees into a clearing of burnt ruin, the ground and husks of wagons still smoking. Horace could make out the twisted remains of people in the wreckage, their bodies little more than charcoal now.

“It looks like not even the Rhodin are safe anymore,” Horace said grimly. Pricilla whimpered and hastily slid off her horse running to the bushes. Horace quickly followed her to hear her noisily retching in the bushes. He helped her stand, her face drawn and pale.

“Those poor people…” Pricilla said with horror. Horace felt a pang of guilt, he had wished Pricilla would be more understanding of the plight of others; now that she did he suddenly wished she hadn’t.

“Come, we need to get out of here,” Horace said gently.

“But who could do such a thing?” Pricilla asked. “I never liked the Rhodin but this…”

“The Legion of the Creed seems to be hunting them as they are hunting us,” Horace said. “We need to go.”

“The Legion…” Pricilla said fear lighting her eyes. “The men back at the village, they were like the one that broke into the Sect during the wedding then. They were the ones that killed my sister.”

Horace had forgotten about that; he hadn’t been in Cair Leone at the time so he had missed the wedding and the attack on the Sect. He realized then that Pricilla had every reason to fear the Legion.

“Yes, but I’m here to protect you,” Horace said, hoping he sounded reassuring. She looked up at him with eyes shinning with tears before moving closer to hold onto him like he would shelter her. Feeling like he was lying he let her, guiding her back to her horse.

“Now what?” Basil said wearily as they mounted and turned back from the fearsome sight. “Even if we manage to find a Rhodin caravan, which I doubt there are any in these parts anymore, we probably won’t be any safer with them.”

Horace turned to Glen, he had thought of the Rhodin so maybe he could think of something else. Maybe there was something he could do with magic. But it was Kaden who spoke up.

“Glen, I’ve been sensing the threads, but I can’t make out what is going on with them,” Kaden said. Glen sighed sadly shaking his head. “I know, since I lost my memory, I lost my skill with the threads, but I can still sense them. I’m having to learn things all over again. What do you sense?”

Glen made the signs of wayward, winds, and seeking.

“They seek us but cannot find us?” Horace said, and Glen nodded. “What about the winds?”

Glen made the sign of hidden.

“The winds hide us?” Horace asked. “How do winds hide us?”

“Of course!” Kaden said. “The winds of the aether, have you been calling them to hide us?”

Glen shook his head and made the sign of Iris.

“Iris has,” Horace said.

“You mean Arke the Color Weaver,” Kaden said. “If she could hide us why seek the Rhodin?”

Glen made the sign of holes and imperfection.

“The winds are not perfect,” Horace said. “I don’t think we can get to Warren with only the winds of whatever protecting us.”

“I think we can,” Kaden said. “Arke can only do so much from her side of things, she can only hide our tracks in the aether so the Legion has to find us by physical means. But we are here in Miread, we should be able to work something out on our end. What of the Wild Kin?”

Glen shook his head, signing that it would not be enough.

“Then stepping sideways?” Kaden said and again Glen shook his head. “No that would take too much to keep up. Do you have any ideas then?”

Glen seemed to think a moment before nodding, making the sign of protection.

“Protection?” Horace said, and Kaden frowned.

“You don’t mean a ward, do you?” Kaden said. “A ward must be grounded in one place.”

Glen shook his head, making the sign of the sky. Horace didn’t know what he meant and neither did Kaden, so Glen proceeded to show them. He dismounted and then walked around the group, his hands moving as if he were gathering something. He walked around them three times, then walked backwards, and then forwards once more. When he finished, he mounted again, Kaden looking at him like he was mad.

“Did you use aether in that warding?” Kaden said softly. Glen nodded somberly.

“Aether? Is that possible?” Basil said. “Would it even work to protect us in Miread?”

“No, it shouldn’t,” Kaden said. “But I see little choice in the matter. We need to ride on.”

“Our only chance then is to ride hard and hope we get to Warren without any more encounters,” Horace said grimly.

They set out once more, backtracking until they returned to the road, days wasted on the venture to the Rhodin. Pricilla remained dejected, Horace’s heart heavy to see her so broken. They rode for another week, pushing their horses hard and resting little. They passed several other villages, all with signs of the Legion but none with a significant force to hinder them. It was ten days later after Glen had drawn his ward that it was tested.

They arrived at another village, only another week’s ride from Warren, when five of the Legion waited for them on the road outside of town. They were armed with farm implements and wore no armor, but Horace doubted he could take on all five men alone. Basil had his bow strung, but Horace did not like the odds of five against two especially when there were three people they had to protect. The men said nothing, simply charged.

Basil took out two with two swift arrows, but the other three were within striking distance before he could fell them. Then all three stopped dead, falling as if felled by a fist. Horace rode over, looking down at the men to see them dead without a mark on them. He turned to Glen who was watching all with mild interest.

“How?” Horace said shocked.

“The ward,” Kaden said astonished. “I see what he did now. He set a ward around us in the aether, one that should someone cross it their spirit will flee their body. It only works on those already weak of spirit, like the Legion who have had their spirits eaten away by the Crippled One. The ward travels with us because it is in the aether not in Miread.”

Horace decided he didn’t need to understand, as long as they were safe. They rode on for another week and thankfully reached Warren at last without any more encounters. Horace got the sense they were followed, but it seemed the Legion now knew of the danger of attacking them.

The walls of Warren rose over the hills, thick and impenetrable. The gates were all closed as well except for the west gate, forcing them to ride around the city to the only open gate. Horace watched the walls as they rode past, noting the soldiers and knights lining the battlements. Reaching the gate they arrived to find it crowded with wagons and people. It was a long wait to be let into the city, but at last they reached the guards. The guards looked at Basil and Kaden with surprise, but they eyed Glen, Horace, and Pricilla with a more hostile air.

“Greetings,” one of the city guards said looking at them warily, eyeing Horace most of all.

“Greetings sir,” Basil said. “I am Basil Odell and this is my cousin Lord Kaden Odell, we bear a message for the King of the Mark from Queen Alora Tira-Dora.”

“Yes milord,” the guard said bowing to both of them. “Ride on to the palace.”

Basil bowed in return and started to ride through with Kaden when the guards stood in the path of Horace, Glen, and Pricilla.

“And your business here?” the guard said to Horace darkly.

“We are with Lord Odell,” Horace answered icily.

“A Regarian with the Aldan?” the guard scoffed. “Spies more like it. Be gone.”

Horace saw Pricilla sit up higher, a spark of anger returning to her eyes, but it was Basil who answered the guard.

“Sir these are our travel companions, Sir Horace De Modeste, Sect Glen De Modeste, and the Princess Pricilla Drasir. If you wish to turn them away then you turn away me and Lord Odell, as well as the message we bear.”

The guard glared at Horace and then turned to another guard. They exchanged soft words and the other guard hurried off.

“We will see if the King wishes to see all of you,” the guard said frostily. “Wait here.”

“Some welcome of the Lords of Alda being kept waiting on the door step,” Basil said angrily.

“Easy Basil,” Kaden said, and he dismounted. “If we must wait then we wait.”

They all dismounted and moved to the side of the gate, watching as the rest of the traffic passed them. Horace glared at the guards as they glared right back at him. At last a page from the castle came running up, passing a message to the guards in Markian. The guards nodded and walked over to them to address Basil.

“The King will receive all of you,” he said flatly. “We are to escort you.”

“Thank you, sir,” Basil said with a bow. Horace said nothing to the insult that they were to be brought before the King by guards as if they were criminals. They mounted again and the guards led them off into the city.

After a few blocks Horace was glad they had a guide. Even though he could see the palace towering over the city, the streets wound and twisted so much he was lost within moments. The streets went in and out of tunnels and over bridges, the dark stone of the buildings making it seem very much like they were underground.

They turned a corner and suddenly they had arrived at the palace, the great gates of the keep looming over them. This time they were not kept waiting outside, grooms hurrying forward in the courtyard to take their horses. A man was waiting for them at the entrance to the castle, an older man in servant’s livery of the House of Lonna.

“Greetings lords and lady,” the man said bowing to them. “I am Graham, the King’s steward. Come, you must be weary from your journey.”

“We are sir, but our message comes before our comfort,” Basil said. “We will see the king now.”

“Now?” Graham said shocked. “Manners of the Aldan truly have slipped. I cannot lead anyone before the king still bearing the dust of the road on them.”

“Lonna is expecting us now,” Kaden said stepping forward. “And he will see us now.”

“Then your weapons sirs,” Graham said. Reluctantly they parted with swords and bow, Glen and Pricilla were unarmed.

“This way milord,” Graham said leading them into the keep. The entry hall was grand and spacious, pillars holding up the tall ceiling. Tapestries lined the walls, the marble floor polished until it shown. Marching through the entry hall Graham led them to the further set of double doors which stood open to the Court of Fates.

People were still arriving to the court, lesser or greater nobles of the Mark gathering in the hall. Horace wondered for a moment what the commotion was since it seemed like everyone was gathering hastily, then he realized as heads turned towards them that they were the reason for the impromptu gathering of the Court of Fates.

Horace hung back, uncomfortable under all the stares directed at them, not all were friendly. Glen walked forward flanking Kaden with Basil, while Pricilla fell into step with Horace. He looked at her, expecting pride or anger at the glares directed at her, instead he saw her looking around wide eyed like she was seeing those around her for the first time.

“No one looks happy to see us,” Pricilla said lowly. “Is it because of the message of war Lord Kaden is bringing?”

“They haven’t heard his message yet,” Horace answered.

“Then why are they glaring at us?” Pricilla asked.

“They are not glaring at Kaden or Basil, Pricilla,” Horace said lowly, watching as that registered with her.

“But why are they glaring at me then?” Pricilla asked.

“Maybe because your father cut off their prince’s hand,” Horace answered.

“But that wasn’t my fault,” Pricilla whimpered. “This isn’t fair.”

Horace couldn’t answer her because he was feeling much the same. He personally had done nothing to the Markians, yet as a Regarian he was being held responsible for those who had. Why punish those who agreed that wrong had been done and not punish those who had committed the crimes in the first place? Because they couldn’t punish them Horace realized, Mark could not attack Regis, but it could take out its anger on a few individuals instead.

They reached the throne, King Lonna sitting on his throne looking weary. His hair had more white than black in it, his face drawn with lines of sorrow. Horace counted the Queen and Princes until he came to the last member of the royal household he had not expected to see.

“Jeanne!” Pricilla said shocked seeing the woman sitting at the end of the dais. Jeanne Lonna looked like the dead, her eyes sunken in dark circles and face thin. Her eyes flashed to hear Pricilla’s shout, standing she drew a rapier.

“Drasir scum,” Jeanne growled lowly advancing. Horace stood in her path, though he was unarmed he still wore his mail and could fight. Kaden however stepped in Jeanne’s path before Horace, though his eyes were on King Lonna.

“So, this is the welcome we receive to your court?” Kaden said. “Drawn steel.”

“You brought these Regarian dogs into our halls!” Jeanne shouted. “We have every right to slay them on the spot.”

“What is going on?” Basil said shocked. “Were you not married to King Drasir Lady Jeanne? Why have you returned to your father’s household?”

Jeanne’s glare could have melted steel, but Basil did not flinch from her.

“Daughter,” King Lonna said wearily. “The Aldan have been in isolation, they of course have not heard the news.”

Jeanne sneered and returned to her throne, though her sword still lay bare in her hand.

“Excuse my daughter,” Lonna said, his words slow as if speaking caused him pain. “The King has set her aside.”

“That is putting it gently,” one of the princes said angrily. “He raped her and made her sterile and then blamed her! He sent her back broken and we are expected to just sit here as if he has done nothing!”

“Easy Asher,” Lonna said but the prince remained irate.

“I will not just sit here like you father,” Asher said angrily. “You let your children be mutilated and have done nothing!”

This seemed too much for Lonna because he stood and turned on his son with rage in his eyes.

“I am not just your father!” Lonna shouted. “I am the King of the Mark and I have my people to consider. Would you have me to ask them to die for your honor? I will not let others blood be shed for the sake of my family’s pride!”

Silence greeted this outburst, Lonna slumping back into his throne.

Kaden stepped forward bowing to King Lonna.

“Majesty, there is a greater threat to the Kingdoms than the Regarian rule,” Kaden said.

“You mean the Orc Army and the Lirians,” Lonna said. “Tell me, why does it matter? Surely there is little difference between the two, both will rule us with tyranny anyways.”

“The difference is that the Orcs are intent on the genocide of the Aldans,” Kaden answered.

“And we would grieve the loss of your people,” Lonna said. “But I am not King of Alda, I am King of the Mark and it is my people I must consider.”

“You will not be around to grieve if Alda falls!” Kaden said hotly. “If Alda falls the Orcs will only sweep across the Kingdoms like wildfire.”

“And you know this how?” Lonna asked. “Whatever their grudge against the Aldans they do not seem to bear it to any other race for they have not killed all the Lirians whose kingdom they occupy.”

“The grudge they bear is against the Phay,” Kaden said. “The Aldans being a race of the Phay are their target yes, but do you think they will be content once all the Aldans are dead? They are the last of the Phay in Miread, once the Phay are gone they will turn to the races of men.”

“Then we will face them when they come,” Lonna said dismissively. Horace could see the princes and Jeanne were not pleased with this yet the looks on their faces suggested they had been through these arguments with their father before. That was when Horace realized if they were to get an army from the Mark it would not be coming from Lonna.

“You may if you wish majesty,” Horace said stepping forward. “To those who wish to face the enemy though may come to Alda.”

“Enemy?” Jeanne said with disgust. “The only enemy I see is you and the Regarians.”

“No!” Horace said facing her angrily. “The Orcs threaten one of the Nine and you talk about squabbling with Regis. What was done to you Jeanne was the work of one man, do not hold our people responsible for the acts of our king.”

“Or those of Alda,” Kaden said gravely. “Alda needs the Mark.”

Horace saw Jeanne chewing on these words angrily, Lonna seemed ready to turn them away unwilling to listen, and the Princes looked torn between the desire to fight and fear of disobeying their father. Then Pricilla stepped forward her head held high. Horace would have stopped her, but Glen held him back as Pricilla stood before King Lonna.

“My brother is a mean monster,” Pricilla said. “He always teased me when we were little, so I always hated him. But I know him well, and I know this is exactly what he would want. He is probably happy that all of you are here sitting around the fire in misery. He is happy the Mark and the House Lonna has fallen so far.”

Lonna’s eyes shown with new light of anger and pride, but Jeanne leapt to her feet first.

“And what are you doing here Pricilla?” Jeanne said hotly. “Sent by your brother to rub salt in our wounds?”

“No, my brother did not send me,” Pricilla said loftily. “I had to go into hiding when an assassin attacked.”

Jeanne was silent a moment with shock, Horace realizing what she was going to say then.

“So, you have not heard,” Jeanne said lowly. “Your mother was killed in that attack Pricilla, she is dead.”

Horace saw Pricilla’s face drain of blood and she turned to him with wide eyes. Horace opened his mouth to explain, but he could not speak past the sudden lump in his throat. Glen however stepped in waving his hands, going to Pricilla and putting an arm around her shoulders. Somehow this act helped Horace swallow and finally speak.

“We lied to you yes,” Horace said his voice rasping, Pricilla staring at him with eyes filling with tears. “Only to spare you, the assassin killed your mother.”

She broke down weeping then Glen supporting her in her grief. Horace wanted to do the same, but they had come here for a reason.

“Is this what you wanted Jeanne?” Horace said coldly facing the Princess of the Mark. “To break her like you were broken? Well you have, you are now the monster you so hate.”

“You know nothing!” Jeanne shrieked. “He raped me, mutilated me, blinded my lover and stole him from me, and he tortured a woman I had sworn to protect. I have been banished and cannot go to their aid. You want us to fight the Orcs when I need to go to Regis and save those I love!”

Horace had an idea then and turned to Pricilla still weeping in Glen’s arms. He reached out and touched her arm gently, Pricilla looking up at him with a tear streaked face. He was glad to see not hatred in her eyes, only sorrow. She had just lost her mother, and Horace thinking of his own felt a pang of sorrow in sympathy.

“Do you want to go home?” Horace asked lowly and fear filled her eyes. He saw the war inside her, the desire to return home as well as the fear of facing what was there. Then she nodded, and Horace turned to Jeanne.

“We will go back to the Court of Miracles,” Horace said to Jeanne. “We will save those who you want us to save.”

Jeanne glared at them fingering the hilt of her sword as she considered the offer.

“I take it in return you want aid for Alda?” Jeanne asked.

“That is not something you can promise is it?” Horace answered as he looked to the King. Jeanne turned to her father as well, but Lonna still slumped in his throne.

“I still will not risk the lives of my people,” Lonna said.

“You will not, but will they?” Kaden asked. “Why not put the choice to them?”

“I am their King!” Lonna shouted jumping to his feet. “I lead them, I protect them, and it is my decision if they are to go to battle. I will not let you steal my people from me.”

“No one is talking of doing that majesty,” Basil said gently. “We are here to see you after all. Surely there must be something that Alda can offer so that you would lend us aid.”

“We are not the Hyrians to be bought by Regarian gold,” Lonna growled.

“I never said anything of gold,” Basil said. “All alliances must come with an agreement of some sort that would benefit both parties, we need your aid but understand that we cannot ask you to risk the lives of your people with no benefit. What could Alda offer that would be to the Mark’s benefit?”

“Do you really have that kind of negotiating power?” Lonna asked skeptically.

“Alora sent us with every intent of honoring what we would promise,” Kaden said. “She gave me full reign in negotiations and will agree to whatever I say.”

Horace was shocked and telling by the murmurs of the court so was everyone else. The Kings of the Nine Kingdoms rarely lent out so much power to their diplomats. The fact that Alora had only showed how desperate Alda truly was. Horace saw this sinking in with Lonna, sorrow draining him more.

“It is really that bad is it?” he said lowly. “Very well, there is only one thing that I am willing to go to war for, and that is the High Throne. If the Mark is to join Alda in this venture we will do it only with the promise that Alda will join us at war with Regis to over throw Elrik Drasir.”

The court erupted in shouts and calls, Horace noting most was in eager agreement rather than argument. Lonna shouted and the hall quieted, all eyes going to Kaden.

“And who shall be the heir to the throne that we will back?” Kaden asked levelly.

“The witch twins that visited my court,” Lonna answered. “I sent them on to Alda, they are still there are they not?”

“No,” Kaden answered. “One has entered the war herself, the other travels to Hyria to see if King Wildlough could be persuaded to aid Alda. However, their claim to the throne has been determined lesser to another’s. King Terrian IV Alvar had a bastard son by Selene Lonelove, Alora has recognized his claim.”

The uproar this time was so loud it took Lonna several tries to quiet the court so he could speak.

“If what you say is true his claim may even be better than Elrik’s,” Lonna said. “We might stand a better chance if the Mark were to attack Regis, then we could ally to defeat Lir.”

“We must see to the Orc army first majesty,” Kaden answered to Lonna’s displeasure. “So, you will go to war with us?”

Lonna glared down at him, drumming his fingers on the arm of his throne. Horace saw Kaden grinding his teeth in frustration, but the Aldan Lord managed to keep his silence as he waited the King’s answer.

“Very well,” Lonna said carelessly. “We will discuss details later, when you are rested.”

“Thank you, majesty,” Kaden said bowing low. “Thank you.”

He led the way off to where a servant was waiting to take them to rest. Horace watched Pricilla carefully, her face was still bloodless and drawn.

“Will we really return to the Court of Miracles?” Pricilla said softly almost to herself.

“Me and Glen will take you back,” Horace said. “We took you it is only fitting we return you. I swear it.”

Pricilla looked at him, but he was unable to read her expression. She simply nodded and continued to follow Glen, Horace feeling as he were walking on knives.

#fantasy #series #please read #writing #fairies #dragons

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marlutterianae · 6 years

Text

The Treasure at Krano’s Pit.

- A retrieving mission -

There is a gathering of special humans around the edge of a deep pit. A wizard summoned them after witnessing what he would refer to as a “deadly miracle”. He needed the help of demon specialist in order to retrieve an incredible treasure that awaits in the depths of that pit. His forces are composed of a Reclaimer Soldier, stoic and tough, a refined yet arrogant Rokyu Warrior, a silent and intimidating Morai Hunter and an old colleague from the city, an armored wizard with a bad temper. Everyone demanded clear answers as for why there were brought here, interrupting their respective labours and jobs.

“The matter is, folks…” spoke the wizard “that something of great power lies somewhere into that pit. You all should be in the know that recently, dozens of underground vaults have been opening across the land, releasing hoards of furious old demons. Well, I was with with a research party, traveling with a caravan of slayers, sent to investigate a big magic anomaly around this area. And to our horror and amazement, something came from below, bursting out from the ground, in an explosion of great magical power. It was followed by four lesser demons, who also seemed to wield magic, but not to the level of this creature. We had to face it head on, as it destroyed our caravan, killing and brutally wounding many of our team. I was the only survivor of my research group, while the remaining warriors tried to hold back the fiend, this one, in a burst of raw power, combusted with it’s own magical flames, and retreated back into the hole as its flesh and blood boiled. The lesser demons followed it down the pit and now they wait, protecting what remains of their leader... I sent some of the remaining warriors to summon any nearby professional demon slayers and hunters to aid me in the search of this… Treasure.”

“What kind of treasure would you be referring to, wizard?” said the Rokyu interrupting his speech. The wizard continued with a more vicious tone. “The brain, dear warriors. More specifically, its brain and the heart that keeps it alive. I still sensed it’s power even after the moment it returned to the underground. Meaning that somewhere down there, the brain remains intact”.

“And what good could come from that?” asked the Reclaimer. To that, the armored wizard replied “The Magal Guild treasures anything they can gather from demons. And demons such as this one aren’t that common or easy to take down. This seems like… A golden opportunity”.

“A remarkable foe this one must be. Too bad that it must be just a pile of goo by now, right? Or to the contrary, how exactly do we know if it doesn’t burst out all well and recovered?” asked the Rokyu seemingly more interested, with a more serious tone.

“Believe me when I say, slayer, that the damage this creature suffered left it in a very deplorable state. By the moment it crawled back in, it didn’t had legs, wings or abdomen anymore!” said the wizard, sounding more exalted, before breathing slowly to calm his nerves. The silent Morai hunter, tall and slender, stood at the side of the wizard. “You mentioned other demons. How dangerous did they seemed?”.

“Not that big of a threat, really. Lesser imps that focused more on protecting their leader than harming directly our group. So dealing with them won’t be problem… For you!” he gestured at all of them, to which no one made another comment. He added “well, from the remains of our vehicle I retrieve some functioning equipment that will serve us well in the extraction of the brain and heart. A preservation container in excellent conditions to move the brain and heart safely… I just hope it’s not too big for it, heh heh”.

When all was said and cleared out, the team approached the edge of the pit, finding an inclined slope perfect for their descend. The way down wasn’t interrupted by any form of unexpected assault, though they were ready to engage in combat at all times. The wizard had his movements hindered by the complex equipment at his back His armored partner was near him, helping him when stumbling with the irregular ground. The slayers ignored each other for most of the walk. But once they reached the bottom of the pit, a wide dark tunnel was their next trail. The armored wizard realized how the rock and stone mixed with the metal of the tunnel.

“These are the opened gates of the vault” he said in a distorted metallic voice. “There must be ruins ahead of us. Prepare your weapons…”. With that, the slayers drew their blades. Moving forward into the ruins, guided by a path of magical destruction that made them feel quite uneasy. The deeper they went, the darker it get. The wizards progressed without much trouble, but the warriors had to turn on their lanterns. It was completely silent and an unnatural heath could be felt around them. The wizard finally saw a light at the end of the tunnel. He accelerated his pace, scaring his partner as he went too far into the dark. But at the end, they encountered fire. Scattered. In the walls, the ground, above them. It was magical fire, that glowed of all known colors.

“Is this the work of sorcery, weird one?” asked the Rokyu, looking into the flames.

“Indeed… But stay away from it! You can never be safe around flares like these ones. Let me just…” he took his hand close to the flames, almost caressing them. His control over these forces allowed him to analyze them. After that, he stepped away from the flares, caressing his hand. “It’s recent… From the fall of the demon. There are more ahead. We must follow them!” he commanded. And thus they followed the enthusiastic wizard across the darkness. The warriors were intrigued by what surrounded them, since their lanterns could only illuminate little.

Several minutes passed, and they reached the most illuminated part of the cave, where several flares burned around what seemed to be an eviscerated corpse. And the pack of four imps kneeled in a circle, watching over it, doing strange gestures. The group hid behind a large rock, each one analyzing the situation from their respective angles.

“We should have been sensed by now. We are way too close. Are they that distracted?” asked the Morai hunter, watching from on top of the rock. “It’s definitely rare to see this sort of behavior… It will definitely go to in report…” whispered the wizard. His armored companion was making some adjustments to his suit, fixing some loose parts. “They must have had a lot of respect for that demon. It almost seems like they are… Praying to it” he commented short after gazing at the scene. The Rokyu held a sneering laugh and said while sharpening his knives “Demons praying… What a joke. It should make for an amazing painting”.

“Please take this seriously, kid. The wizard did mentioned the imps using magic…” spoke the Reclaimer in his raspy voice, tightening the grip on his great sword.

“Let’s just hope they don’t blow up the cave in the process…” the wizard look up to the hunter on the rock and whispered as clear as he could “Do you think you can take one of them down? Without… Killing it?” to which the Morai hunter responded as he prepared a crossbow, not taking his eyes away from the fiends. “Considering their size, I’m sure I can use all of my remaining toxin in one shot to put it to sleep. But only one. I’ll leave the rest to you to slaughter”. The wizard nodded enthusiastically. “Fair enough!”.

The group discussed a small plan of action in how to deal with the imps as fast as possible. There weren’t any objections All they had to do now was wait for the first shot from the Morai hunter. They didn’t take the usual cautions since the demons appeared to be obsessed with the corpse of their leader, producing strange low frequency sounds. But their strange trance would be abruptly interrupted, after one of the imps got shot in the neck by a long steel bolt, then instantly it began convultionating as it fell to the ground. The other imps reacted, looking back, and saw the party of warriors rushing towards them.

One of the imps, in exasperation, conjured a sphere of magical energy between its claws, charging it. It began to screech as it were under intense pain, before releasing it with a flash. The glowing ball of energy flew slowly and erratically towards the warriors. The armored wizard in response rushed at the front of the group and by manipulating a magic field around him, deflected the projectile surprisingly well, sending it to explode far from them. Intrigued, yet still feeling the adrenaline kicking in, the armored wizard shot quicker and more focused bolt of energy at the imp. It barely managed to get away from it, but the glowing beam hitted its right arm, blowing it up. It screamed in pain yet again.

The rest of the slayers reached their objectives. The Reclaimer and the Rokyu engaded the other two separately. “You definitely looked smaller from back there, hehe” commented the Rokyu cheerfully. The imp he encountered roared at him, then clapped with all of its strength, conjuring colorful flames around its claws. “Oh, neat!” the Rokyu exclaimed, waiting for the imp to make its next move. The imp attacked over and over with fast swings, but the Rokyu dashed away from their reach. The imp seemed to be moving slower than what it was really capable of, and the Rokyu noticed it. After avoiding another punch, she used her momentum to slash its arm off. The imp lost its balance and fell. Not wanting to lose more time, the Rokyu turned and slashed again, decapitating the creature. “Worthless wretch! What a let down…” commented in frustration, stabbing the body in the heart to kill it for good.

In the meantime, the Reclaimer didn’t seem to have much issue with his adversary either. The demon kept jumping back from the soldier, trying to conjure its own magical attack. The Reclaimer wasn’t having any of it, and he shortened the distance every time he could. His longsword gave him a lot of reach, and he wounded the imp with several precise thrusts. The imp finally managed to conjure a spell above its head. Flashy and unstable. The soldier had enough, and using this opening he slashed one of the legs of the imp, cutting it off. The spell dissipated as the demon fell face down. It couldn’t react faster than the soldier’s blade, which penetrated its body, piercing the heart.

The eyes of the Rokyu and the Reclaimer met at that moment. A little perplexed by what had happened. They then heard a loud splashing explosion behind them. When they looked back, there was only the lower half of the imp, with the entire upper half missing, and the armored wizard covered in blood and guts, hands emanating a decreasing glow. “All clear…” he said in a tired tone. After making sure it was safe, the eccentric wizard approached quickly at the center of the circle with his equipment, giggling with a disturbing glee.

“Yes, yes, yes! Good job. Good job everyone!” he tried to avoid stepping on the scattered guts and severed limbs, looking at the imps for a moment. “What a strange group…”.

“I’ve fought fiends like them before. Even smaller. And they gave challenge than them… These didn’t even attacked physically” wondered the Reclaimer soldier, cleaning his blade. The Rokyu kicked around the head of one of them, carelessly. “They seemed more preoccupied with using magic than anything. This will make for an interesting story back at the guild…”

The wizard contemplated the eviscerated corpse of the greater imp, with its flesh fused with the stone. The rib cage and skull were the only thing left, with the core heart still beating and the brain intact. He began to work with his extraction tools and with incredible precision opened the petrified body, removed the heart and placed it in a container filled with a special formula. The same for the brain, which could barely fit in a it’s own container.

Satisfied beyond comprehension, the wizard was completely speechless, contemplating the marvel he was holding. His partner had to snap him out of it, tapping his back. He shook his head. “Well folks, here it is… So many arcane secrets contained in this single organ… Oh! And someone please bring the head of the sleeping one. After that, we must get to a city. As soon as possible”. He picked up all of his equipment and moved facing the tunnel whence they came. But without any warning, the demon that remained asleep for the entire battle jumped, intending to rip the wizard to pieces. But it’s charge was brought to a halt, by something pulling him from the neck. It was the Morai hunter, who climbed on top of him, holding a rope he tied around the neck of the imp. The creature struggled, choking and coughing, but the hunter did not lose his grip. By taking the right position, he broke the neck of the imp with a quick movement. The creature then fell, lifeless.

The Morai hunter looked at the impressed and shocked group. He said in a monotone voice “I always restraint my prey after I put them to sleep. You saw why. Chief, I hope you don’t mind it death now”.

“I-It’s alright, hunter. Poor choice of words from my part. I just… Needed the brain intact. Sorry. So… Excellent work, really. Thank you”.

The group had no more troubles after leaving the cave. The place was marked for future exploration of the rest of the cave by another team. For now, the demon slayers shall be properly rewarded by the wizard. As for him, he has a valuable treasure to take back to the capital.

- - - - - - - -

First and foremost, thank you if you went through it all.

Finally done! This one was pretty hard. Just when I thought it was finished, I got more ideas to flesh it out and I couldn’t just leave it unfinished. I had to remind myself that I was making a short story, not a novel. Common problem. But for now, I hope you find it fun and/or interesting. I’m trying to get better at narrative pieces, different from simply worldbuilding info. I wanted to give the characters more personality. I hope I succeeded in some way. In any case, more practice is required ^^

#short story #demons #fantasy #warriors #wizards #demon hunters #writing #worldbuilding #eldritch continent #viorg #dorok

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elrondsscribe · 7 years

Text

The Seventh Avenger: Chapter 4

All rights belong to the Tolkien Estate and to Marvel Studios.

The Quinjet (because apparently SHIELD can't possibly name their aircrafts simply) was quite compact for a jet, seating no more than perhaps two dozen passengers aside from the pilots. From the outside it had looked almost triangular in shape.

Glorfindel sat across from Captain Rogers, both now in uniform. Glorfindel's sword lay in its sheath across his lap, and the Captain's famed shield was resting on his knees (how Glorfindel would have loved to test its weight and see if Vibranium was really all it was made out to be!). In the cockpit was Agent Romanoff, and another agent in the co-pilot's chair.

Glorfindel was primly finishing his warrior braids, while Steve looked on with raised eyebrows.

"Those mean something?" he asked.

"They certainly do," said Glorfindel emphatically.

"Can I ask what it is?" Steve pressed.

Glorfindel put the last of the fastenings he'd requested on the end of the last plait before answering. "That shield lying against your knees," he said, pointing. "Is it not more than a means of defence, more even than a deadly weapon? Is it not a symbol, to strike terror into the hearts of the enemies of its bearer? Was it not bought with deeds of valor? Is it not Captain America's shield?"

Steve's eyes had gone very wide. He was staring from the shield to Glorfindel's face in disbelief. "It's like that?"

"It is that and more," said Glorfindel, looking the Captain straight in the face.

Steve sat back and shook his head. "Looks like I got a lot to learn," he said.

"It was a fair question," Glorfindel acknowledged. "And I know it's hard for you to approve of hair this long unless it's on a woman."

Steve grimaced. "Has it been that obvious?"

Glorfindel smiled.

And then Agent Romanoff turned her head and pulled off her headphones. "Guys," she said. "Game time. You might wanna take a look at this."

Glorfindel and Steve both left their seats and stepped up behind the pilots' chairs to look out of the windows. On the ground below, a large crowd of formally dressed people were running out of a concert hall as fast as they could. Behind them stalked a lone figure who could only be Loki. Glorfindel could see that the figure was in in gold-plated armor and a high gold-plated helmet with two large curved horns. A dark green cloak billowed from his shoulders, and in his hand was a queerly shaped golden polearm that most resembled a spear. A blue gem gleamed in a fixture near the point of the spear.

"That's an odd sort of spear," Glorfindel said aloud. "Does it double as some kind of magical staff?"

Romanoff twisted her head round to look up at him with honest surprise. "They really weren't kidding about Elf eyesight," she said.

Just then Loki thumped his staff on the ground, and suddenly four Lokis were blocking the civilians' way, hemming them into a tight square. Then, slowly, they all sank to their knees.

Glorfindel gave an involuntary gasp of alarm. People in the modern age did not kneel before anyone but obvious royalty. Whoever Loki was in reality, he did not seem to playing at any harmless mischief.

"C'mon!" said Steve, who could at least make out that a crowd of civilians was on their knees before Loki. "We gotta go!"

They both turned and rushed into the hold of the Quinjet, Glorfindel reaching aside to press the large button that opened the hangar door. Steve strapped on his blue helmet and picked up the shield, while Glorfindel strapped on his sword-belt and grabbed a parachute, and joined him in front of the open ramp.

"Have we got a play?" shouted Glorfindel over the wind.

"Capture, not kill, that's about it," Steve shouted back. "You wouldn't happen to have a pair of wings handy?"

"I'm an Elf, not a fairy!" huffed Glorfindel, and he marched down the raft and launched himself into the night.

"Geez Louise, do all Elves get offended this easily?" muttered Steve as he jumped after Glorfindel.

"Heard that!" came the distant cry.

They were nearly too late to stop an elderly man who had dared defy Loki from getting murdered in cold blood. Steve landed on his feet, shield at the ready, just as Loki (for of course it was he) lowered the point of his spear. The blue burst of energy meant for the old man bounced harmlessly off the Vibranium.

Showoff.

Glorfindel, who had released the parachute very late and landed just after Steve behind the green-cloaked Asgardian, leaped to his feet and tossed the pack aside. He sent forth a surge of power that dissolved all the false Loki images and sent the true Loki crashing to the ground in a blast of white light. The civilians began scrambling away as fast as they could as Glorfindel advanced on the demigod, sword at the ready, and looked to Steve for direction.

Steve smirked at him. "Neat trick," he said.

Loki climbed slowly to his feet, gazing at the towering, glorious figure of the Elf. "What are you?!" he asked in amazement. "You are no mortal!"

"No Mortal am I," said Glorfindel scornfully, the music of his voice still thrumming with power. "but one who has waited long to gaze upon one of your kind. And now that I behold you, I am disappointed. I had thought you greater than this."

Steve's smirk widened into a smile as he looked up at the sky. "Think we got company," he drawled.

The Quinjet had just sailed into view, and a large machine gun unfolded from the front corner and pointed itself at the Asgardian. "Loki," came the smooth-yet-icy voice of Agent Romanoff from the jet's loudspeaker. "Drop the weapon and stand down."

Loki glanced up, and in an instant raised the spear and pointed it toward the Quinjet. It just dodged the blue blast as the pilots steered it in a circle.

Steve and Glorfindel both plunged toward Loki, who turned to the Captain first. He sent the shield flying with a blow of his spear, but in the next instant Glorfindel was on him, sword in hand. Fifteen years of dancing had left his body supple as a willow, strong as an ox, and swifter than thought. He dealt Loki a blow knocked him sideways on one knee; Steve leapt into the air to deliver a powerful kick.

Loki was stronger than both Steve and Glorfindel, but the Elf was faster and the Man never gave up. Even so it might have gone badly for the two heroes, for Loki tried to distract them with false copies of himself, and Glorfindel had to form a bubble of energy around Loki to contain his magic. That dizzied him for a moment and Loki might have had him, but Steve tackled the Asgardian for all he was worth and tossed him onto the steps of the concert hall.

And then a noise like another distant aircraft caught Glorfindel's ear, and he looked up. The source of the noise was drawing steadily nearer, and as Glorfindel got a better idea of what exactly it was he shot Steve a look of quizzical amusement.

The Man shrugged. "Whaddya know, it's a party!" he said.

And then Glorfindel got to witness in reality what he had heretofore seen only on television or on the screen of his phone. The red-and-gold form of the one and only Iron Man came shooting down through the air toward them and sent a blast of energy at Loki, who was just leaping up again. Then Iron Man landed on one foot and the other knee on the pavement, his hand open to fire another blast and numerous little guns standing from his shoulder and arm.

"Make your move, Reindeer Games," came the famous voice from behind the dour gold mask.

Reindeer Games?

Loki glanced between his three adversaries, raised his hands, and with a shimmer of magic dissolved his armor and helmet.

"Good move," said Iron Man approvingly, and he lowered his hand and folded down the projectiles. Glorfindel released Loki from the confines of the energy sphere.

"Mr. Stark," said Steve deferentially.

"Cap'n, Alexander," said Iron Man just as deferentially.

Glorfindel gave a sharp nod as the Quinjet descended again.

"So you can do magic?"

Glorfindel did not attempt to hide his amusement. Tony Stark, once he'd helped them load their prisoner onto the Quinjet (per Fury's orders) and pulled off his grim-looking helmet, had been eagerly peppering the Elf with questions of the "are all Elves this insanely hot" kind. Glorfindel, for his part, found it interesting to see another side to the famous billionaire other than the partying playboy of YouTube infamy or the irreverent windbag of public television. At the moment he reminded Glorfindel of a child presented with a new toy.

(He had to admit a reluctant respect for the man. Any man could harden himself enough to be an effective warrior or spy, but owning up to the terrible sides of one's own power and turning it to unselfish ends? Glorfindel could think of a few Elven-kings who stood to learn from that, even now.)

"Depends on how you define 'magic'," he said. "If you mean can I talk to the dead, then no."

"Telekinesis, then? Bolts of lightning coming out of your fingertips?"

Steve made a huff of irritation, causing Stark to turn to him. "What's up, Gramps?"

"Maybe he doesn't wanna be quizzed," said Steve, who had also removed his helmet.

"I don't mind being quizzed on the trivial things," said Glorfindel, his tone mild but his look to the Captain laden with meaning.

Steve looked away, and his eye fell upon Loki, who sat bolted securely into a seat near the middle of the jet with the air of a visiting dignitary rather than a prisoner. His face darkened considerably.

"Don't you like it either?" asked Glorfindel, divining the source of his discomfort. Fury had ordered them to bring Loki to the Helicarrier as soon as possible. Loki had come aboard the Quinjet without a word, and had submitted to being fastened into a seat without the least fuss. It had made Glorfindel uneasy, and it would seem that nearly everyone else on the Quinjet felt the same way.

Steve snorted. "I'm pretty sure anybody could tell something's up."

"What, the Rock of Ages rolling over and playing dead like a puppy?" Stark jerked his head in the Asgardian's direction.

"I don't recall it ever being that easy," said Steve. "This guy packs a wallop."

Stark shrugged. "Still, you know, you are pretty spry, for an older fella, without the whole immortality thing going for you." He turned all his attention on Steve now. "What's your thing, Pilates?"

Steve turned a look of annoyance on the famous man.

"It's a form of exercise, it's like calisthenics," Glorfindel clarified.

"Yeah, forgot you might've missed a couple things, you know, doing time as a Capsicle," said Stark casually.

Glorfindel began to be glad he had refrained from both the age and ice jokes. Steve Rogers had an ego, much as he might deny it, and it remained to be seen if it was anywhere near as enormous as Tony Stark's. This will be very interesting.

"Fury didn't tell me he was calling you in," said Steve, looking Tony up and down.

"Yeah, there's a lot of things Fury doesn't tell you," said Tony.

Glorfindel arched an eyebrow. "The man heads a spy outfit. We're lucky we know one another's names."

A bolt of lightning streaked through the sky, and a roll of thunder followed at once, both so close they shook the Quinjet. Glorfindel frowned; he had not sensed an oncoming storm before, and something felt off about this one.

Loki began looking up and around rather anxiously, and Steve noticed. "What's the matter?" he asked. "Scared of a little lightning?"

"I'm not overly fond of what follows," said Loki dryly.

The pieces flew together in Glorfindel's head the instant before something that was neither lightning nor thunder struck the Quinjet with a resounding thud. Glorfindel felt a surge of electricity and foreign power course through his body; more lightning and thunder split the sky.

Tony clamped the helmet of the Iron Man Suit back on, hit the button to open the hangar door, and stepped forward.

"What are you doing?!" shouted Steve in protest. Glorfindel leapt up, drawing his sword and pointing it toward the open door.

A tall figure (taller than Loki, but considerably shorter than Glorfindel), this time in dark armor with a red cape streaming from its shoulders and a heavy-looking hammer in its hand, landed on the ramp in a crouch and straightened itself.

Mighty Tulkas, we're smoked!

#the seventh avenger #elrondsscribe #fanfic #fanfiction on tumblr #tumblr fanfic #avengers #lotr #lord of the rings #crossover #au #crossover fanfiction

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