#knightly dispatch

[knightlyrose]

Fitzloved are truly doing it like No one else like how are you going to have gay mindmeld sex so powerful the other dude's WIFE gives birth to YOUR daughter

[iwanttobepersephone]

Request from @peithopathos , done! I really wanted to have detailed text but I couldn't find a way to fit it all in AND have detailed drawings... even here I needed to make it super small... sorry lol

If you can't read it (which I don't blame you), here it is written out:

Crowley: Star Wars feels very familiar to me, with the Jedi being a Knightly Chivalric Order in a sci-fi setting. They have very similar jobs to us rangers, being dispatched to oversee whatever needs to get done, and going back home after their job is finished

Halt: Star Trek is much the same for me, exploring the universe and finding new strategies and tools to save the day, then move on. Your Jedi use direct intervention to fix problems, whereas Star Fleet use passive influence to allow conflicts to resolve themselves. I personally prefer this ideal due to my own negative experiences in childhood, being surrounded by people who relied on direct intervention to keep their kingdom in line.

[feline-ephemera]

Turnabout Is Fair Play

A Knight is sent after a quarry who doesn't take her seriously.

6k words

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Lucerne knelt to pull leather-fletched quarrels from the wolf’s matted hide. A crossbow may not have been one of the traditional chivalric weapons, but one was invaluable for jobs like this, and chivalry was not for beasts besides. 

At a rustle Lucerne dropped the quarrel and pivoted, braced her poleaxe just so to allow the wolf’s mother, this pack’s matriarch, to impale herself on its spike. Lucerne lifted the hounskull from her head, revealing in the feline flesh beneath the misnomer of the helm. That made eight, including the pups, which was the full count for this ensorcelled pack. She pulled the poleaxe from the wolf-matriarch’s chest. It was time to return to the Order.

—

In the city-state of Claim, a compound belonging to the Knightly Aver Order lay stretched out like a great beast lounging within the city’s walls. Deep within the sconce-lit depths of this compound Lucerne knelt and received instruction on her next assignment. It was a witch, sequestered in a forest surrounding one of the city’s outlying villages. Possibly connected to the recent ensorcelling of the wolf pack. 

Her mentor said to her, “The order is grateful for your work and devotion, Lucerne. You have been granted a freer hand than most for this next cleansing. You may capture or kill this one onsite, as you wish. She is a self-confessed witch, by all accounts, so bringing her in for an inquisition is unnecessary; if you do kill her yourself though, a pyre is still preferred. You have been allowed however much time is necessary to complete the act, though do not take this as allowance for slothful idling. You have free leave to requisition what equipment you desire from the armory. All else is as usual. Complete your mission, and return to us.” 

Lucerne almost made as if to rise, hopeful the litany would not come this time, before a hand on her black-furred brow stayed her and it began. 

“As always, remember your mask and cloak when out of battle-harness. The layfolk of the land will reject and scorn your bestial form if they learn of it, outside of this, your one refuge.” Lucerne had heard this a hundred times, incanted always with the tempo of something well rehearsed. But they would keep telling it to her, no matter how well she knew the fact better than the man across from her.

—

Lucerne arrived at the village of Latch and checked in with the Order’s outpost there to receive directions and supplies before heading off towards the woods. Upon consideration, she left her poleaxe in the case of the outpost’s quartermaster. Parting with it was uncomfortable but it would be cumbersome and noisy in a forest, and was unlikely to be of much more use than a sword against this quarry. She had replaced her full plate battle-harness with a jack of plate for similar reasons. Her helm remained with her, of course.

A short while after leaving the outpost Lucerne crossed the boundary between Latch’s fields and the surrounding forest. It was late, but she did not wish to rest even the night back in that outpost. Too many uncomfortable questions and stares. Better cold food and solitude in the forest. Lucerne was close enough yet to Latch that it was unlikely a witch who chose to live in isolation would see a cooking fire, but witches were not things to take chances with. Every precaution was necessary. 

Lucerne had been sent to dispatch many beasts and troubles of both mundane and mystical nature, but she had only been sent against a witch proper once before, and that as a disciple following a more experienced knight. It had been a harrowing experience, and they had come through it only  through the most meticulous and careful preparations.

—

Forests were home territory for Lucerne. Especially those surrounding Claim. Even if she had never been to this exact stretch before, she knew their character. Forest, most wilderness to be honest, but most especially hardwood forest, was much more comfortable to her than any city. There was refuge within the Order’s compound in Claim, of course, but general life in cities was horrific to her. Forests were much nicer, much safer, much simpler.

All of this meant Lucerne had absolutely no excuse to have gotten lost. It was ridiculous. She wasn’t some foppish stripling who inadvertently walked in circles whenever they were away from a road. Sure, the canopy of this place was dense; navigating by sun was difficult and by stars impossible, but that had hardly ever been an obstacle to her.

It was a day and a half before she re-emerged from the forest. In very nearly the same spot she had entered. Lucerne gnashed her teeth. This was infuriating. The place was a maze! She turned straight around and went back between the boles, this time determined not to lose focus on the task at hand.

The third time Lucerne emerged from the woods in more or less the same spot, she was certain. Witchery was afoot here. Her ears twitched against the inside of her helmet (that was one advantage of this bascinet, it came to an apex which allowed a cavity for her ears—though she had had to cut slits in her coif and the helmet liner to fit them into it). Witchery was to be expected when dealing with a witch, of course, though the average witch typically simply set traps to poison, maim, or otherwise kill hunters. They did not often invest the time in laying enchantments of confusion over stretches of forest to deter investigation. This sorceress was crafty. Traps were something Lucerne had already prepared for, and were still likely when she got deeper in. Now that she had assessed the outer defense of the misdirection spells, she could begin work on circumventing these as well. The first step was simple. It was back in the direction of Latch. Lucerne had taken advantage of her access to the armory and brought sufficient equipment from Claim in case of such a defense, along with equipment for several other scenarios. She had left what she thought likely to be extraneous in the care of the Order’s outpost. She sighed, pulled her hounskull visor down over her muzzle. Back to the stares.

—

Lucerne returned to the forest for the fourth time armed with about ten pounds of fine twine and more importantly, a mariner’s lodestone compass. Claim was a port city, so she hadn’t been terribly surprised to find it when prowling through the Order’s armory. She was glad for the foresight to have brought it with. With the compass, a map, and twine to mark her path it would be much shorter work to penetrate the web of misdirection laid over the forest.

Lucerne began her work with the twine while just barely in sight of the edge of the wood. There was no way she could carry enough to string a line all the way to where the witch was estimated to reside, but that was inadvisable anyway. Once she got close enough she expected some trickery of the prey would move any laid yarn to attempt to misdirect the cat, making it useless at best past that point.

She spent about [a day and a half? A day?] stringing yarn between branches in intermittent lines. She separated them to make the cordage last longer. For navigation it was necessary only to see the lay of the previous strand so as to lay the next properly in line with it. She tied the start of each strand with one knot and the end with another, so that if she were to lose her way and then come back across a yarn she would be able to tell in which direction lay the edge of the wood and which led deeper in. This task was simple to begin, among the parts of the forest well-tended and kept clear of underbrush by the woodcutters and charcoal-burners of Latch. Eventually the brush began to increase in density and laying straight strands became more difficult. Lucerne ran out of yarn shortly afterwards, so the issue was not long lasting.

 With the yarn depleted, it was time for the intricate lodestone compass to pick up the slack and earn its prodigious cost. Witchcraft could not confound the senses of such a device so easily as that of a person, or of a beast in Lucerne’s case.

The Knight made quick work of the miles, taking them in stride with newfound confidence buoyed by the compass. It was about another half-day of picking her way through the underbrush before she encountered the first trap. Deep maroon thorns of a bush running with a toxin not natural to the plant. She had reached the edge of the prey’s defences. 

It was near dusk and while Lucerne had excellent night vision, the cautious path was not to move into such territory in darkness. She stepped back and began searching for a covered spot to rest through the night.

After an uneventful night, Lucerne spanned her crossbow and laid a bolt of hawthorn wood and soft iron (materials chosen for their counter-magical properties) upon the string before setting out once more well rested and better able to see the lay of the traps before her. They were not terribly taxing to overcome, though they did demand vigilance. Unfortunately it was necessary for her helm’s visor to be down at this point. Anyone Lucerne encountered past the boundary of the traps would be either the witch herself, or in her thrall. Hostilities could commence at any moment, which just demanded more vigilance. Her ears were swiveling constantly, for whatever good they would do confined in the point of her bascinet.

After another several hours of picking her way around envenomed thorns, small pools of water with a faint scent of wickedness no human nose could detect, creepers strung above suspicious numbers of deer bones, and once or twice just straightforward steel foothold traps hidden in the leaf-litter, Lucerne was startled by a voice.

“Hey there cutie, you lost?” Lucerne pivoted to the side where the voice had come from and raised her crossbow to her shoulder in a single smooth motion. Almost before the sentence was finished the hawthorn bolt was flashing towards the speaker.

“Eep!” She ducked behind a tree before the bolt could strike anything more material than long dark hair, dropping the basket of mushrooms and leaves she had been carrying. “Rude!” came the cry from behind the trunk.

The knight dropped her crossbow and ran towards the tree, drawing her sword mid-stride. Distance favored this quarry, and must be closed as soon as possible. “Why not lay down and die, you wretched fucking—” Lucerne shouted out as she dashed across the undergrowth. Goading a witch to speech could interfere with their sorceries. This one did not take the bait, as she peeked out from behind the tree, crooked the fingers of her hand, and spoke a few syllables in a language Lucerne had never before heard.

“—witch!” Lucerne was no longer amid the forest. She looked around where she found herself inexplicably laid out on her back.

“That witch…” Some sorcery had taken place. Lucerne found herself back at the edge of the wood, again. In nearly the exact same place, again. This was absurd. Had Lucerne not been more aware and wary of wicked tricks from her prey she might’ve thought she had fallen asleep here, and dreamt of the encounter. She had no memory of the intervening time between that encounter and her arrival back at the fields of Latch, so some kind of soporific enchantment seemed likely anyhow. Lucerne had draughts from the Order’s alchemists which provided wakefulness. They would serve to counteract such spells.

Lucerne chided herself for foolishness in not having downed one prior to encountering the witch. The meeting had been by surprise and the potions had deleterious side effects, but it still would have been prudent. There was little reason the knight should be alive right now to make sure that mistake wasn’t repeated in the future. If the witch had cast her asleep it would have been simple for her to have pulled Lucerne’s visor up and slipped a dagger past her eye. It was a mystery, but one that Lucerne did not particularly care to solve. Solving it might involve a conversation with the witch, which was one of the least advisable things she could think of.

Lucerne felt well rested, so after restocking her supplies at the town outpost she set back out. The jute yarns remained strung, though if they hadn’t been removed wholesale then they had surely been tampered with to lead her astray and were hereafter an untrustworthy guide. Lucerne would have to rely on the compass, taking care not to damage the device (her original reason for using yarn as much as possible). 

More walking through the forest. Surprisingly, the yarn seemed to maintain the original path as Lucerne remembered laying it out. Regardless, she stuck to finding her way via the compass.

Lucerne made it back to the start of the trapped perimeter. The same low-down tangle of acrid poisoned briars. She downed the first of her draughts of wakefulness, spanned her crossbow and placed another bolt on the string. She could not be surprised again. It was miraculous she had survived the last encounter, and it was unlikely she would survive another if she did not catch the witch unaware and engaged her with swift brutality.

One point to Lucerne’s advantage—witches tended towards egregious overconfidence within their established spheres. This was the most likely reason Lucerne had been spared the knife; the witch felt no threat from her. Insulting, but opportune and exploitable. 

The knight approached the scene of that past confrontation carefully, scanning the ground… there! The witch, predictably overconfident and incautious had left tracks in the damp soil, beside a depression in the ground that Lucerne realized she must’ve made herself upon falling unconscious to the hex. Lucerne followed the tracks back towards their origin, moving even more carefully and with greater vigilance than before. Her tail would’ve been twitching in anticipation had it not been wrapped around her waist under her garments. 

She dogged the trail, which meandered between what must’ve been sites to gather various plants and mushrooms—no doubt ingredients for the quarry’s wickedness.

A ways up the trail, Lucerne’s ears perked up within her helm as she heard something out of tune with the normal song of this forest. An unnatural rustling, off to the side. The knight quickly raised her visor, took another draught, and pulled the visor back down. She stalked through the wood until she spied, through the brush, her prey. The witch had her basket once more, and was collecting something from the bole of a tree. From her position directly behind the witch’s bent over form she couldn’t see the head or heart of her prey. Aiming for anything but a kill-shot was untenable. Repositioning would be folly. So Lucerne waited several moments for the quarry to finish her task and then raise her upper body back up. 

Sights set upon the prey’s heart, Lucerne tickled the trigger of her crossbow. The bolt flew, but did not land. What? She had lost track of the projectile in its flight, but it had been a dead-on shot aimed perfectly to hit her prey’s heart. Sure, her hands were perhaps shaking slightly from the effects of the draughts she’d been taking, but Lucerne could’ve made that shot in her sleep. She was drawing her sword and rising to charge as these thoughts raced through her head.

They were interrupted by the witch calling out “You’re advised to look behind you before trying anything rash.” The witch did not turn from checking her basket.

Lucerne struggled to resist the urge to look. After a moment she concluded, perhaps against better judgement, that she should check just in case the witch wasn’t bluffing. She turned mid-stride just enough to see behind her through the perforated breaths in her hounskull. What she saw widened her eyes. Strands of something—no, the jute yarn, the same she herself had used to chart her initial course into this forest, it was strung taut between every tree she could see behind her in interminable tangles like the creation of some manic spider.

At the suppressed laugh from the witch, Lucerne realized she had unintentionally paused in her death-driven stride. She looked back forwards. The witch was facing her now, and around the witch, and to all sides, was that self-same tangle of pale beige cord stark against the dark trunks. The crossbow bolt was there, caught in the tangle. 

No time to question it. Lucerne resumed her charge, hardly needing to raise her sword for the first strands as she broke through them easily. They were still just yarns. She could still succeed.

“Is this all you have arrayed against me?” She cried out as her sword swung effortlessly through a tangle. Get the quarry talking so she wasn’t doing something effective. 

Another quiet, two-note chuckle from the prey. The tangles were getting thicker, far thicker than they had looked initially, as if more strands were moving into her way somehow.  Lucerne was still moving quickly, but relying more on her sword and less on simply breaking through the strands by force of body now. “Why, you’re so strong,” the prey said, still with the glint of laughter in her eye, “perhaps I should’ve arrayed more indeed.”

Lucerne was slowing down though. Each strand was nothing by itself but the multitude of them grew wearying. A leg got snagged, halted. She freed it via application of the sword. An arm caught this time, again swiftly freed but not before a leg was ensnared in its place. 

“Then again,” the witch continued, this time with a grin as toothsome as any Lucerne’s feline maw had ever given, “perhaps not.” Both legs caught now. The threads were definitely employing unnatural movement to ensnare her. A few more moments and her off-hand was caught, and then her sword arm. She kept a grip on the hilt, but the cuff of her gauntlets prevented her wrist movement such that she couldn’t angle it back to cut herself free any further.

Lucerne was caught. Arm’s outspread, one leg snagged off the ground mid-stride. She struggled, which bore no fruit. More and more treacherous yarns wrapped around her, securing her restraints not just around her limbs but also her shoulders and hips and reducing the ability for struggle further with each moment. The miles of twine added up until she might as well have been held by hawsers. The witch approached. 

“Certainly seems like that was enough!” Lucerne’s glare back in response to the witch’s taunt was one of those that felt like it should be burning its object down to ash.

Once she ceased her futile struggles, Lucerne responded: “Kill me.”

“Awfully forward of you,” said the witch, “we don’t even know each other's names yet. Mine’s Ciara by the way.” Lucerne doubted that.

“Kill me.”

“Not going to ask me to let you go first?”

Lucerne raised her head to look better at the witch. “I have failed in my task. Twice now. Kill me and be done with it and I will have received what I deserve.”

“First time might’ve been a freak occurrence but you coming back in here and now saying this confirms it, you work for the Order, right?”

“Kill me.” Lucerne thought it a little strange she even had to ask, nevermind repeatedly.

The witch sighed. “No, so stop asking. Did you know you have very interesting pronunciation?” No one had ever told Lucerne this before. She weighed asking the Witch to kill her again against the risk of giving her more examples of her pronunciation of such a request. Who knew what she could do with that knowledge.

Ciara continued: “Very interesting m’s in particular, along with a few other consonants if I'm hearing correctly. Don't get me wrong, your diction is very good, it's just a few hairs of oddity in there.”

Lucerne remained silent. The witch seemed to enjoy the sound of her own voice.

The witch shifted topics unexpectedly. “Tell me dear, isn’t that helmet rather outdated? I know the Order equips their catspaws with more modern kit, which that fancy crossbow you’ve tried introducing me to seems to fit the description of. Now, don’t get me wrong. I’m certainly not an expert, but that thing on your head looks like it was in vogue, what, two centuries ago?”

They were standing face-to-helm now, the witch within reach if only Lucerne were able to bring down her sword arm enough to deliver a blow. 

“No, the Order has its faults but at least it equips its servants reasonably well. Meaning there must be some other reason. Which I think I could guess, but, why bother when you’re right here?” The witch reached out and raised Lucerne’s visor. Her discipline was nearly insufficient to stop her from snarling at the violation of her privacy. She suppressed the ingrained feeling of stomach-churning anxiety at having her face exposed, out in the open. The witch would know now that she had been hunted by, and had defeated, a mere beast. Something subhuman. She was sure to gloat over Lucerne’s nature.

“Ooh,” The witch exclaimed. “You’re kinda cute.”

“What?” Lucerne mentally chided herself for breaking her silence, although it seemed the angle for which the witch had brought up her pronunciation was moot now.

“You heard me. And I’d like to note that had I voiced my earlier guess, it would’ve been on the mark. And that with me having been polite and not looking under your helm when you so rudely fell asleep last time we spoke.”

Lucerne continued trying to learn how to kill someone via staring at them hard enough.

“Now, dear, I hope you won’t mind me speculating a bit on what your life has been like up until now. You’re a pawn of the Aver Order, and I’d guess you’ve been so since you were very young. Probably an orphan ward of theirs, as so many of their hunters are. Normally I’d call them hunting dogs but in your case that doesn’t seem quite accurate, does it?”

Teeth flashed in the shadowed forest as Lucerne’s upper lip pulled back, semi-involuntarily.

The witch leaned on a nearby tree and brought out a small leather-bound book from some hidden pocket of her skirts. “If I know the Order, and I know more than I care to,  I’d confidently wager that their treatment of you has been less than kind. To make an understatement.”

“They treat me extremely well for a beast,” Lucerne muttered, no longer caring about maintaining silence. “Not that it is any concern of yours.”

“Is that how it is? Do you truly see yourself as nothing more than a common beast? Do you see common beasts as less than the creatures in charge of the Order, or of Claim?”

“Of course.”

“Hmm. Did you know that if you were to sail south-west from Claim for about a week, you would come to a city with a large population of people like you who live peacefully alongside what you’d regard as typical humans as equals? People like you, mind, not beasts. I’d imagine that you haven’t been sent near there on your travels for the Order.”

Lucerne had never been to nor heard of such a place, despite having traveled extensively for the Order. She had not been sent southwest much at all, so it might exist, even if she thought the idea of such a place where she might be regarded as human was ridiculous. “Even ants make cities,” she eventually said.

Ciara scoffed, flipped through her book a few pages. “I don’t even know how to argue with you. Rhetoric is not a skill of mine.” She huffed. “I’ll make you an offer though. I’ve been meaning to attend to some business of mine near there soon, and I don’t like travelling without a retainer. Join me and you can come see this city, and be free of the Order at the same time.

Lucerne just looked at her in incredulity. Be free of the Aver Order? Her one refuge in the world?. “Kill me,” she told the stupid witch. 

The stupid witch reached over and cuffed the side of her bascinet, too quickly for Lucerne to successfully bite the hand though not for lack of an attempt. “Bad girl. I told you to stop asking that.”

So much for treating me like a human, Lucerne thought. Perhaps she should’ve gone along with the witch’s idea if only to stab her in her sleep some night on the road, but she was untrained in such guile and it was beneath her besides. 

Ciara snapped the book closed. “Well here’s how this is going to work then. You will leave this forest and I warn you not to return in anger. Do you understand?”

“I understand your words. Now unbind me.”

“Not so fast. I want a memento first.” Was the witch going to take her hand for the offence, or something of that sort? Lucerne supposed she deserved as much for her failures, if she was not to be killed. The witch moved around the yarns suspending Lucerne from the trees and the knight felt a firm grip upon the back of her helm. She tried to turn to see if she could bite the hand touching her, but found herself unable to against that grip. She heard a buckle unclasp, and felt the helm loosen, and then be pulled off her head. Seemed the witch would take an ear as trophy then. That was good, less of a handicap than losing a hand.

Ciara moved back around to stand in front of Lucerne. “This will do,” the witch said, rapping her fingers on the helmet held under her arm.

Lucerne’s eyes widened. “No! You can’t. Take something else. Cut off my ears, or my tail, or what have you,” she said in a voice verging on panicked.

“Why is that dear? I rather like this helmet. And I think it will look nicer on my shelf than a jar of pickled ears.”

“I need that. You can’t take it from me.”

“You’re not in charge here.” Lucerne did snarl this time, despite the gross impropriety of it. She was desperate. “I cannot show my bared head back in Latch, back in Claim. I cannot.” She gritted her teeth, managed to mutter: “...please.”

“No.”

Lucerne snarled louder, hurled obscenities, railed against her bonds. The witch stood there watching the display and giggled. She reopened her book and flicked through it until landing on the page she was looking for. Eventually Lucerne tired, breathing heavy against the restraints and her jack. “Fine,” she huffed out, despite the anxiety that was back in her stomach that would no longer be suppressed. “Unbind me. I will leave.”

“I did not say you would be leaving under your own power.” The witch scratched down the page with a nail, and the yarns vibrated into a flurry of motion. 

Lucerne grunted as she was hoisted fully into the air by the strands and they snapped out to different trees, pulling her along through the air. They were carrying her back out the way they came. They sped up, until Lucerne was mildly concerned she would be struck by a tree at the blistering speed they moved at though the strands moved her from the path of any obstacles before this happened. She was much more concerned when her sword was struck by a tree and thrown from her grip. She tried to mark the area where it was lost, but was moving too fast to get a good register of the place.

This kept up for a while, being propelled by the yarns at such an unnatural speed such that she dared not risk struggling against their grip. Soon, much sooner than she had expected given the distance into the forest at which she had encountered the quarry, she reached the edge of the wood and was thrown out by the yarns to the ground. Her sword and crossbow, which she had dropped back after taking the shot, were thrown down onto the ground beside her. She gathered these then raised herself to her feet and turned back to the forest. The jute yarns had gone limp and fallen to the ground, no sign of their enchantment remaining. Lucerne did not buy this. She gathered them up and immediately set fire to the bundle. 

That done, she took a deep breath and exhaled before moving along the edge of the wood. Someone might investigate the fire so she couldn’t stick around. That knot of anxiety in her stomach was not subsiding.

She ended up waiting out the rest of the day on the outskirts of the field, ducking into the woods if any villagers happened to come nearby. Once night fell and she felt it was dark enough to move, she secreted herself back into the village, into the outpost. She held her composure well enough through a staredown with the acolyte on duty there to intimidate them into retreating, though only just. She felt likely to vomit. She stayed there only long enough to grab a cloak and some traveling rations from where she had stashed her supplies. She had the outline of a plan already to catch her quarry. No magics would prevent her this time. But she had to go back to Claim first. Damn that witch! Had to go back to Claim for a replacement helm, but travel without a helm was much more difficult. Alas. Lucerne would have to manage with the cloak.

Still in the dead of night, a knight departed the village of Latch. She could sleep on the road. As she walked, she thought on the witch’s offer. Not out of any consideration of going back to accept it, of course, but out of idle, unbidden pondering while plodding along. How did she feel about how the Aver Order treats her? She felt there was no room for her to feel but grateful to that Order which had raised her, trained her, provided her with shelter and occupation. That she had never been treated the same as the human number in equivalent station was only natural, whatever the witch claimed. That said, though, she had gone on many hunts for the Order. The dark, nasty, low-down assignments which human hunters refused for being beneath their honor. Lucerne did have her own honor, even if it were similarly low-down and bestial honor as all of her must be, as all of her is. Was it beneath her honor to leave the Order? Had she repaid her debt to them such that she could justify leaving? Mayhaps. But that was all assuming she had reason and ability to leave.

Lucerne had seen how the others of her kind were treated by the human citizenry of Claim, those times she had gone out among the city streets (helmed or firmly cloaked, of course). She did not envy the experience of those who shared her bestial nature but not her proclivity and ability to mask herself, as well as the relative refuge provided her by the Order.

There was something perhaps appealing in the thought of devoting herself to something personal rather than the large but ultimately intangible Aver Order. Something, someone, she could see and touch in its entire. But it did not seem worth the material sacrifice of leaving the Order; and while perhaps she could justify that leaving, to enter the employ of a witch was certainly beneath even her honor. Idle thoughts, not serious consideration.

The Order knew of secret ways to enter and depart from Claim. Lucerne availed herself of one such entrance so as to avoid inspection by the gate guards. Others might have been looking forward to a repose after several days on the road, but Lucerne’s anxiety was such that she intended to leave immediately upon acquiring what she came here for. The tunnel led directly to the Aver compound, thankfully. She was able to requisition a replacement helm and a surprise for her quarry, integral to her next plan of attack. The helm was not blued to match the rest of her armor. Alas.

—

Back in the forest around Latch. Care taken to enter with stealth, no encounter with the witch before Lucerne reached her destination could be permitted. She had darkened the bright, un-blued steel of her replacement helm with soot the night before so it would not flash in the dappled sunlight coming down through the trees. She had brought her poleaxe with this time, and she maneuvered it with care so as not to rustle the underbrush. The knight was searching for the witch’s abode, likely a cottage or hut of some sort. 

Eventually she found it, stalking human tracks in the soil back to a small, stone-walled cottage in a small clearing. It was midday, and looked unoccupied at the moment. She crept closer until able to peer into a window. Confirming the witch was out for the day, she began her preparations. It would be good to finally get the stink of sulphur out of her pack.

—

The trap set, Lucerne camouflaged herself as well as she could and hid beneath some brush with a view of the clearing and cottage and waited until the witch came home. After some hours, the quarry came into view, entering the clearing to Lucerne’s right. Infuriatingly, upon entering the clearing her prey looked right at Lucerne’s hiding spot and waved. Waved! Then she continued in to the cottage.

Lucerne held her breath and did not react. Did not show any hostilities. The quarry clearly did not see her as a threat. It was insulting, but at least it worked to her advantage. The prey had entered the trap.

It was time. Her crossbow was spanned. Materials had been prepared. Lucerne pulled out the slow match tied to her pack that she had kept carefully tended and lit while waiting. She held it to the pine-resin mixture affixed to her crossbow’s bolt, courtesy of the Order’s tame alchemists. The knight tickled the trigger, sending the burning bolt into the small pile of straw set against the cottage side wall.

Crossbow nut still spinning, Lucerne dove behind the thick bole of the tree she had been beside. She was breathing heavy in anticipation. This would have to be done swiftly, but she was ready. As the straw caught and the flames reached toward that other gift of the labs, the Knight began pulling her helmet off her head.

The petard went off. Lucerne flew to action, coming out from behind the bole in a sprint towards the newly three-walled cottage. As she entered through the smoking, dusty hole she saw the witch coughing with a shocked, pained look that Lucerne had only a moment to appreciate before the helmet she hurled hit the woman in the mouth, knocking her on her ass. 

Lucerne was on her in an instant, stepping on the witch’s hands and shoving fingers into her mouth as her other hand pulled her dagger and held it to the back of the prey’s neck.

“Try another fucking soporific hex, or charmed twine. I dare you.”

—

Lucerne had stripped her prey of all jewelry and other small accoutrements which might be charmed, feline claws making short work of necklace thongs and bracelet-cords. The small spellbook had been tossed in fire. A gag more secure than fingers was tied in place. To keep the prey’s hand immobile Lucerne had soaked strips of leather and used them to tie those hands to opposite ends of her poleaxe’s haft, placed horizontally behind Ciara’s shoulders such that it kept her arms outstretched in opposite directions. Those leather bindings tightened as they dried, making sure those fingers stayed painfully still. Normal rope was used to further secure the half to her arms, neck, and torso.

The prey was kneeling in her binds outside the ruins of her cottage. Lucerne sat looking down at her from a stool that had somehow survived the blast. She rapped staccato claws across the properly blued steel of her old helmet, resting on her knee after she’d dug it from the rubble.

“You opened my thoughts to the possibility of leaving the Order. Not that I am convinced to do so, but it is a possibility. So that leaves me with a question. What now?”

The witch had held an indignant cast to herself. As she looked up to Lucerne when she spoke, and beheld the look in those feline eyes, that indignance changed to stark fear.

[diabeticlady]

Skyrim Stuff Part 3!

At this point I'm hoping that my Skyrim save doesn't fall apart. I still have like a good forty or so entries left so... we'll be good for now! To be honest the most upsetting part of the possible save death would be all the time I have put into writing these. I've delved into Elder Scrolls lore to try and ensure that it all makes sense. With my specific fascination with Wayrest I even went and got Daggerfall started and running so I can mess with the Knightly Orders and Nobles there. Fantastic and free game you can play through Daggerfall Unity. Though I doubt anyone reading fucking Skyrim modded playthrough RP is unfamiliar. Thank you to all that do read this, even if you don't like it. Anyways, enough rambling, back to some more entries!

Last Seed, 18th, 4E 201

This place has turned itself into some form of giant death trap. I do not know what the Nords of old were trying to protect but I am left wondering how long these contraptions of death have been left swinging. I managed to easily dodge through the swinging axes, and was perceptive enough to notice the hanging jars of burning oil, ready to be released. Another note to self, do not burn these undead. The smell was nearly enough to make me throw up right then and there. Would have been a terrible way to go out, mid swordfight. Nonetheless, as I venture deeper inside the purpose of this Golden Claw became apparent. Another wall with symbols on it required my touch. The Golden Claw was no more than a key! To be used to enter this large cave area. I found an excavation site nearby, and gathered a few remnants from it. However that was hardly the oddest thing that happened. There was this wall, etched into it some form of runes. A language long since forgotten, perhaps? What matters most is that as I approached this wall, I found myself absorbing some type of magic. Just like the runes, I can only assume that this magic is ancient and esoteric. I only hope that whatever it is that I absorbed is not evil in some form. It was quite heavily guarded after all. Maybe this is what the undead here were trying to protect? I will have to speak to some local wizards, to help understand what I have uncovered. There was one last undead foe that rose from their tomb, though they were still easily dispatched. It also seemed to shout at me, propelling magic through its voice. It was unlike anything I had ever seen. I found another piece of possible treasure on its corpse (though it was technically already a corpse), some slab of rock with something etched into it. I lived through the catacombs, but now I just have more and more questions.

Last Seed, 19th, 4E 201

I went down from where that catacomb left me, and decided to head back to that quaint little town I had seen earlier. Riverwood is what it is called. Along the way I stumbled across another piece of odd architecture, though unlike the catacomb. I don't know what it is, but I found a note nearby, and I am yet to read it. Will do so after this entry. Anyways, after resting at the local inn (that makes two), I stopped by the local merchant to acquire supplies and food. Apparently the Golden Claw was some relic of his, which I kindly returned. Got paid 400 septims for that, my first quest complete, even if I completed it unknowingly. I am pretty well stocked on food now, and also managed to tackle another little trouble-spot. A nearby mine. I had seen bandits near it, and so I went in assuming that the mine was being attacked by them. Little did I know, the bandits had completely taken control of it. They were still weak compared to me, easily felled by my blade. The poor miners inside though, I found a journal that spoke about how they were enslaved by the bandits, forced to mine the iron in the cave under cruel cruel conditions. I hope that they receive a pleasant rest, from the Divine Mother. I am headed back to Whiterun, I need to meet with the court wizard there. Maybe they can help explain what magic I absorbed in that catacomb.

Last Seed, 19th, 4E 201

I have arrived back in Whiterun. After some shopping, I have decided to relax at the Bannered Mare. This will be the last journal entry for today, as I plan on getting myself drunk. Though, there are already plans for tomorrow. I read the note I found on the unknown structure. Apparently it was Dwemer? Either way, I have the remains of someone to find. Sounds like it'll be fun. I also spoke with the person who owns the inn, a lovely lady by the name of Hulda. They were not kidding about Nord size, as the woman towers over me! Anyways, the lass spoke of some odd going ons in the town of Helgen. I checked my map, it is not far from Riverwood. I have no clue what that is about, might be related to the tensions I have heard about going on in Skyrim, with the Stormcloaks and the Imperials. Either way, another place I need to check out.

[cyphyree]

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[tortoisebore]

love your rambles love <3 what about their favorite movies/shows?

oooooo this is a good one

for movies i think remus would enjoy historical type stuff, so period pieces and war movies and all that. he'd talk about 1917 for weeks after seeing it. he's a wes anderson girlie too & he loved the french dispatch so much he bought a poster online & hung it in the living room. pride & prejudice is just always on in the background & he had to buy another DVD bc he watched the other one so much that it just...,.didn't work anymore. anna karenina with kiera knightly is one of his favorites, and it was the first movie he & sirius watched together (it's now in sirius' top ten movies of all time). he'd also force sirius to watch les mis even though it's like four hours long & by the end they're both crying.

on that note, sirius is a musical-adaptation girlie. he saw the phantom of the opera with gerard butler at a formative age and the rest was history. he dragged james to see la la land in theaters eight times in two weeks. remus makes him watch les mis & he's really put out about it until 'valjean's soliloquy' and then he just cries for the next two hours. but he's also a secret sci-fi and suspense stan, so he'd be a little bit in love with christopher nolan and inception would be one of his favorite movies. he watched interstellar once with regulus and never will again because it sent him on a two day emotional spiral & remus was worried. he's going to be first in line for oppenheimer. he & remus bookclubbed dune before it came out & they saw it three times the first week after the premiere. he's 75% in love with jordan peele & will physically harm anyone that thought nope was his worst movie.

they both love a good comedy and rom com, though, and movie night is usually something like bridget jones or she's the man. they quote mean girls back and forth constantly and remus does a really good impression of jane lynch in 'another cinderella story.' they have a framed picture of jennifer coolidge in the living room and two copies of legally blonde on DVD. sirius also bought it on amazon prime, just in case.

i think they'd do a lot of tv shows together, so their tastes kind of intermingle. remus leans toward quotable comedies like parks & rec and new girl, maybe friends if he's in the right mood. sirius likes the dark and dry comedies, like fleabag and what we do in the shadows. remus would want to watch stuff like the queen's gambit and the great (he enjoys it but cuts in every twenty seconds with 'this isn't actually what happened, you know' and sirius is like 'yes baby i know it's just a show') and sirius would want to try things like pen15

but their mutual favorite show and the place where their tastes intersect perfectly is arrested development. it's stupid and hilarious and quotable & they talk about it constantly. none of their friends except for peter have seen it so when they're out as a group it's just remus and sirius and peter going back and forth about 'beads???' and 'there's always money in the banana stand' and 'family love michael.' it's really annoying to everyone else & they can't even really explain where the quotes come from because it's all one big long running joke in the show that doesn't even make sense anymore.

like, they're out for brunch on saturday and the place has a french toast plate called "mr. frenchy" and remus goes "🎶mr. F🎶" and then sirius almost spits mimosa all over the table & it's coming out of his nose and peter chokes on a piece of cantaloupe and falls out of his chair. and everyone else at the table is like 😧🫢😟😦 'what the hell' and remus is like 'it....would take too long to explain.' and peter is on the ground and sirius is crying when the waiter comes back to take their orders & james just goes 'we're gonna need another minute'

[weedoccultadvice]

"Rapunzel, Rapunzel, let down your golden hair!"

"I'm not sure why we would do that."

"What do you mean? You don't want a rescue?"

"No, I mean yes, it's just..."

"..."

"Well, what are you going to even do after you're up here?"

"I..."

"Then there'll just be two of us up here with no way down."

"Huh. Well then I can help you get down."

"How?"

"What do you mean how? Help you climb out the window, of course. That's what's been holding you back all this time, right?"

"I... no... No. It's a logic thing. She didn't let me have any knives or scissors up here. For my safety and whatnot."

"...Yes? I understand that, but--"

"So a few years ago, I thought about doing what you said, with the hair and the climbing, and I actually did it! I tied my hair to the bars and just rappelled on down like a real Rappellzell."

"Wow! How are you back up there again? Did the witch catch you?"

"Haha, if only. I got all the way to the bottom and realized I had no way of untying my hair."

"Oh goodness."

"I had to climb all the way back up before the witch caught me on the ground."

"You are very strong! I'm surprised you haven't dispatched her already!"

"Yes. That means I pleaded for a knight to come aid me for a very special reason."

"You did?"

"Just... stay there. I'm going to climb down again."

"Okay!"

"Then once I make it to the ground, you're gonna take that knightly sword of yours and give me a haircut."

[mickstart]

Thinking about the tall old man who got the sandwich I couldn't reach in the grocery store down for me as he was passing yesterday and wondering if he knows he's earned my knightly devotion in the sense I would kill for him. Just say the word sire and I shall dispatch your hated foe the lord of the bingo hall posthaste.

[warsofasoiaf]

Since you've done all of Rennala's children how about finishing Godfrey's with an analysis of Mohg, Lord of Blood (and Godwyn the Golden maybe?)? Also, any thoughts on what the first DLC might be? The Land of Reeds, the Badlands, waking Miquella up, whatever is imprisoned in the Lake of Rot, time travel (that seems to be a From Software staple and would give us an excuse to fight Godwyn the Golden as well as Radagon/Marika at the height of their power), Numen, space, something else entirely?

I'll focus this on Mohg, we can turn DLC into a separate question.

Mohg is perhaps the most disturbing of all of the Shardbearer bosses. Godrick could at least evoke pity for his desire to live up to the vaunted legacy of his ancestor Godwyn the Golden, and Rykard might have at least had a vision before he fell into gluttony and depravity. At first blush, Mohg doesn't have any of that - he's introduced to us as the proud ruler of a hell region covered in stinking blood, dispatching Tarnished invaders across worlds to hunt down others as Bloody Fingers, and abducting Miquella, stuck in the body of a child with all the disturbing implications that evokes. FromSoft loves a boss who has no greater lore than looking cool and providing a solid fight, but the Shardbearers have lore to them, some form of hero before being changed into a much worse version

Like his brother Morgott, Mohg was born a cursed Omen and forced into the sewers of Leyendell, bound by a magic shackle to keep him "in strictest confinement." This magical shackle bore so much power that, even much later, the shackle itself can still force him to the earth, suggesting a confinement that was quite restrictive and painful. The Royal Omens didn't have their horns sawn off, but that doesn't mean that their existence, confined to the Subterranean Shunning Grounds, wasn't torturous in its own right. Where Morgott became a steadfast and devout follower of the Golden Order, internalizing his own position as cursed and undesirable, Mohg found a different path. Deep under Leyendell, Mohg communed with an Outer God of blood named the Formless Mother, who cherishes those with "cursed blood" like the Omens. Mohg, once cursed for his form, was exalted by his new divine patron, and received the love and adoration that he desperately craved. This was not merely affection, the Formless Mother also granted him power, setting his blood alight with fire, and granting him a spear that he could use to commune with his further. The Formless Mother herself acts similarly, the Bloodboon spell tears into the Formless Mother's body and sets the blood alight. And as she craves wounds, her followers are not made immune to Hemorrhage the way Malenia is resistant to Scarlet Rot. This gives her strong vibes of the Blood God Khorne from Warhammer and 40K, as he cares not from whom the blood flows, only that it does.

Mohg set about building his new cult which exalted the Formless Mother with skill. He selected a mausoleum deep underground (likely a former palace of the Eternal City) to serve as his headquarters. The Formless Mother's power transformed the region into a bloody swamp, with geysers that erupt bubbling blood into the area. Excrement dots the region which gave rise to disgusting blood flies capable of draining the blood of anything. Mohg found converts willing to exalt the Formless Mother and share her powers from the dispossessed and those who resented the Golden Order. Albinaurics were transformed by the blood, sprouting horns and given the ability to manifest bloody spikes to enhance their rolling attacks or shoot as projectiles. Others were exalted into Sanguine Nobles, given the chance to emerge and strike from pools of blood with their Bloody Helices. Mohg even established a knightly order, the Purebloods, to serve as the champions for his new dynasty. He even has a few named elites, Elenora the Violet Bloody Finger hunted by Yura, and Bloody Finger Okina, who rejected the world as inane and insane and became devoted solely to mastery of the katana and killing his foes reminiscent of Shura from Sekiro. Others, like the War Surgeons, were forcibly kidnapped and forced to attempt to master the blood, of which only Varre succeeded (and could not replicate it). This cult was almost the exact opposite of the Recusants of Volcano Manor. Varre, their recruiter, vets potential applicants by posing as a loyal servant of the Golden Order, encouraging Tarnished to go to the Roundtable Hold and meet the Two Fingers for themselves - only those that return disillusioned are offered the chance to become Bloody Fingers. Varre flatters the player, naming them "lambkin" and bestowing gifts. Those that support this eventually get the tainted blood injected into them, allowing them their own bloody finger that can be used to repeatedly invade another. Love is a strong influence in the Mohgwyn Dynasty - Varre's mace is even fashioned to appear as a bouquet of flowers. The cult offers companionship, regard, and exaltation to those that follow, and thus, they find willing converts among the dispossessed and the disillusioned.

By every measure, Mohg was attempting to recreate a new order for the Lands Between patterned similarly on the designs of orders before: he has a strong religion orchestrated around a divine patron that provides a school of magic, elite warrior orders for their army, and a divine god with lordly consort. This divine god, however, was the Empyrean Miquella, stolen from his Haligtree and fed the blood in an attempt to transform him and win him over to the new Formless Mother. Miquella, who developed unalloyed gold that could end the manipulations of the Outer Gods, was a great prize if Mohg could convert him as he could stand against the Golden Order, and alternatively, a hostile Miquella held the power to thwart the Formless Mother. It appears that Mohg established a portal in the Consecrated Snowfield (which is how players who don't join the Mohgwyn Dynasty find the palace). Mohg kidnapped Miquella, cocoon and all, and appeared to have gotten away with it completely; Gideon Ofnir never found out where Miquella was kept despite knowing that he was taken from the Haligtree. Mohg took Miquella to his prospective throne room, there he converted himself into blood and entered the cocoon with him. He remained with Miquella every minute he could, as he apologizes when leaving, in the hopes of converting him to the cause. Miquella would be the new god of the Lands Between, replacing Marika, and Mohg would be his consort, becoming the new Blood Lord. Miquella, however, rebuffed him every step of the way.

When Mohg arrives to face the player character, he steps from a pool of blood released by Miquella's arm. As mentioned before, this blood is Mohg himself, attempting to commune with Miquella while in his cocoon. Mohg holds his spear aloft and demands the player behold the new dynasty and attacks, using a combination of his great spear with its long reach and his Blood Incantations given to him by the Formless Mother. Mohg in his initial phase starts out slow, carrying himself as a lord. His spear thrusts are relatively slow punctuated with quicker Blood Talon strikes and summoning Bloodflame from the Formless Mother as a form of area denial. The true terror of Mohg comes as he begins to count down from three. Each time he attacks with a powerful thrust, but after "Unus," Mohg begins a ritual chanting "Nihil" three times, with unavoidable hits and blood loss that also heals Mohg up to mostly full health - unless the player secures the Purifying Crystal Tear from Elenora which avoids the blood loss and reduces the danger significantly. Mohg, the stern father, has counted down from three and now the gloves are off. Mohg sprouts wings to give him added mobility and defense against a player's melee attacks. Every attack of Mohg's spreads bloodflame further restricting the area that a player can operate, which can get them boxed in. Mohg is much more aggressive and hard to counter in this fight, as desperation sinks in and his dynasty becomes threatened. In death, Mohg's final vision is that of his dynasty, fully-formed and complete.

Mohg is not just an evil demon lord, although he certainly present as such in the beginning. The Mohgwyn Dynasty and the Lands Between under the Formless Mother would not be a pleasant place, as shown by the transformative effects that it had on the vultures and dogs in the swamps. The Bloody Fingers do not exhibit admirable qualities, they are meant to kill other Tarnished and encourage invading unsolicited hostile PvP, much like the Darkwraith Covenant of Dark Souls. The cult of the Formless Mother came, however, from one brutalized man abandoned in a sewer by his parents and the Golden Order, and took that pain to visit it outward upon others. The Bloody Order is not a means by which to establish a new vision as much as it is a chance for revenge and advancement, a refrain found in everything from revolutions that turn into even more brutal dictatorships in an ever-revolving door to terror organizations that espouse a new way expressly founded on brutalization of all non-members from ISIS to Shining Path. So where Mohg starts off with sympathy, he throws it away by visiting the same brutality he experienced on others - confining Miquella just as he had been confined. If Rykard was the heroic ideal converted into gluttony and a lust for more power, Mohg is a heroic ideal converted into obsession, wanting to establish his new world at any costs.

Thanks for the question, Mist.

SomethingLikeALawyer, Hand of the King

[of-hopes-and-daemons]

Three men in a boat (to say nothing of the toaster) - meet Charlotte, Alpharius, Billy and C’toaster. And Adder!

Charlotte is Scion of a fallen Knight House, who was adopted by an Alpha Legionnaire with a midlife crisis (and a tortoise!), and both are later joined by an permanently angry techpriest and his very talkative toaster. Now onto details...

Let’s talk about Al first. Al is, not surprisingly, a short for Alpharius. No, he is not the Alpharius, but his whole group of Alpha Legionnaires just called everyone Alpharius. They were quite the bunch. Maybe still are.

Al was the part of their group for some centuries, and was, in all fairness, all-around mediocre at his job, by no means bad, but also sincerely nothing especially noteworthy. Was cycled around through different tasks and job and was honestly feeling like there is something missing in his life. He might not know what fear is, but he did discover midlife crisis.

In terms of hobbies and various neat details of personality, he likes drawing (by no means good at it), reading (comes in handy) and, after he got an opportunity to explore it, is surprisingly good with animals. Some years prior to meeting Charlotte, he got a space analogue of a tortoise on one of his missions and went through a lot to hide it from others. Al named it Praetorian, because it is very well fortified and (if you squint) yellow. Praetorian is known to decimate cabbages and sleep a lot.

The last task he was doing for his group was to go and retrieve some useful Knight tech from the world under attack by some actual, 100%, not good-for-your health heretics. I am not sure exactly about his means of transportation and all this, and frankly I don’t know enough about how it works with WH to really put it together.

***

This is where he met Charlotte.

She, as her world was under attack, was alongside her mother, as Valerie and Adder (Valerie's Knight) were making their last stand. Generally speaking, the situation was along the lines of a significant portion of Knight House being on a mission of some kind, and their communication sabotaged, so no help was coming.

Valerie was badly wounded, and her last command was more or less “as soon as we can’t fight anymore, blow everything up, they won’t get our Knight or us” and Charlotte, also in not exactly perfect shape, as this is where her arm got mangled, had every intention on following with this.

Not sure about the exact details of how this bit would go, but the end result is that Al and Charlotte met and both got out of there, along with around two-thirds of Adder. This might have involved being desperate and determined beyond being scared of anything, Charlotte trying to shoot him at first and Al doing some badass space marine stuff while dispatching enemies immediately concerned with bringing down Adder.

Following this they left together on their own, not really sure what to do with their lives at the moment. But Charlotte is looking for a way to bring Adder back up. Al is looking out to make sure Charlotte stay safe. Praetorian eating cabbages and all of them being generally odd, but oddly functional family as far as it goes in Warhammer.

Sure, Charlotte only really knew being a Scion and her actual dad wasn’t bad, but rather absent in her life and also her House just got destroyed and Al only really knew growing up as an aspirant and then questionably chaotic space marine, but now they also had the opportunity to figure out all the fun family things.

Some little facts about Charlotte too:

Charlotte’s “surname” is, and her Knightly House was called Illvia. Charlotte also has a ridiculously long noble name she refuses to use.

She, in the years directly following the decimation of her House and later too, used to sleep on the Throne Mechanicum of her, back, then, non-functioning Knight, because it made her feel like someone from her family was still around.

Her Knight previously belonged to her mother, Valerie, and was badly damaged during her last stand to protect their world and rendered non-functional for a long time. Charlotte and Al managed to bring her to Al’s ship, at least most of it, and so she became Charlotte’s knight.

Knight was called Adder originally because their house had snake-themed names for their Knights for the reason of me finding snakes cool. After the long and complicated rebuilding process involving a lot of questionable deals was fully operational, again, outfitted with all sorts of odd tech, and given a new, second name - Nidhogg.

This convoluted story is also because this looks nowhere close to a normal Imperial Knight, but I will run with the design. So yeah. Probably, idk, an unholy collaboration of c'toaster, Necrons, and maybe some hereteks or whatever. Auntie Shanakay may surely know a guy, but that guy will prove to be eccentric at the very best

***

Then they eventually met “Billy”.

So, once, maybe a few years later, they found their way to a world in some less-explored bit of the galaxy. It looked promising, perhaps some rare supplies, some old tech or art things, perhaps to trade with a hunched metal skeleton and his super pompous and extra assistant… They found something better. A new family member. Who is a perpetually angry tech-priest with a sentient toaster.

So “Billy” is a bit fuzzy on his actual biography. He knows for sure that he was a part of an expedition of some sort a long time ago. And that they came to this world in search of something. But now he is the only survivor in a decrepit bunker and ancient buildings; his cogitators slowly rust away, and how he is still alive is surely a miracle from Omnissiah. And a lot of spite.

In fact, he is only called “Billy” because his gun had “B.I.L.” engraved on it, and Charlotte assigned him a name based on it. Prior to this, he was pretty content not really having any particular way of addressing him.

What he does not remember is that the expedition he was the part of actually found something interesting in the ruins - a weak and degrading c'tan shard, but a shard nonetheless. That in the present time is known as a c'toaster and ended up in this diminutive form after being almost destroyed by the expedition, that whoever walked away from it with barely a handful of surviving tech-priests, ship brought down on the planet and no way home. And now there was a sole survivor plagued with the erratic visions of something slumbering in the depth of Mars so, so far away and slowly bonding with ancient and tired and spiteful in the same way c'toaster.

Not that they became buddies overnight, obviously. But they were stuck there for a long time, after all. Until some… certainly not exactly smart people decided to use the remnants of the ship on top of ruins as a temporary camp, and somehow salvation came in the form of Al and Charlotte. They could have used tech-priest skills and paid no mind to an odd toaster thing (this was a lie, Charlotte was enamored from day one), and “Billy” with the c'toaster could have used a boost to get away from accursed space rock.

To bring to light some more details about “Billy” - he was the one to make a proper augmented hand for Charlotte. He is not much in terms of hobbies, but likes doing preventive maintenance and generally watching Al and Charlotte do their fleshling things. Will never admit to actually enjoying their company out loud, though. Helpful and caring toward the tiny human nonetheless. Given his situation, pretty lax on so-called tech-heresy and dreams of seeing Mars again, both as some form of a long-lost home and due to an odd ache for something there, he has because of basically hugging a c'tan shard of the Void Dragon for years and years.

***

Now, how they met with Sanya and crew is very exciting. They escaped an Exterminatus together. And here I would need to elaborate. So, as I mentioned before, Sanya and Lacedrace got daemon-hunters on their tails eventually. And the day came when they caught up with Sanya, Lacedrace and, by this point, two ork kommados, an eldar lady and a carnifex.

Accidentally, or maybe planned in advance by the Lord of Change, it happened to be on the same planet that Al, “Billy”, Charlotte, and c'toaster were visiting. So they worked together to escape the planet bombardment and this is how they ended up traveling together. Since, well, they had one ship, but only one person able to safely pilot it away from everything that was happening and through a rather stormy Warp.

[knightlyrose]

I really am too goddamn jaded about the state of contemporary fantasy I feel like I haven't read anything published this decade that didn't make me roll my eyes but I know people are still writing and publishing decent stuff. They have to be. Statistically.

anyway recommend me good books. Stuff you've read that makes you go "damn I wish that booktok lot were talking about this instead"

Some stuff I already like to give you an idea of my taste:

LotR

Earthsea (and all Le Guins, especially Left Hand of Darkness and the Lathe of Heaven)

Realm of the Elderlings

Discworld

Robin McKinley

Imajica

A Song of Ice and Fire

Chaos Walking

Wayward Children

Diana Wynne Jones

The Princess Bride

Gail Carson Levine

Garth Nix

Obernewtyn

Witch Hat Atellier

Dungeon Meshi

As you can tell I'm really open to sci fi too, and kids books aren't a hard no. Romantasy will be a hard sell but if you read something that has More going on with it than just the romantasy (ie unique and well-done worldbuilding, broader and well crafted plot, a goddamn Theme), You May Attempt To Pursuade Me.

Not currently looking for manga recs but maybe in the future!

[liquid-luck-00]

Connections 9

Chapter 9

this is based on @thepeacetea daminette soulmate au

Masterlist *** First *** Previous *** Next

Warning ⚠️ Character death

~~~~~~~~~~

Mari always thought her soul bond was curious. She never heard or activated the bond on purpose. She doubted her soulmate did either, because of what Bruce had told her about the league of Assassins. But everything seemed just off. Apart from that one switch she never had contact again. The only thing she has to gleam of her soulmate are the abilities she learned through him. She settled into bed after biding her papa goodnight.

That might not be a bad thing. As soon as that thought crossed her mind was she pulled again, but this was different.

---

Time seemed frozen for Damian.

His mother came for him again. She brought an army and him, an older version a clone of himself. She brought his clone Heretic, who was pulling the sword from Damian's chest.

I lost, he thought as the sword fell from his hand.

Father, Batman, rushed towards him when two orbs of light circled above him, one red and one green.

The red light morphed into a girl with a high ponytail and a red mask covered her eyes, her eyes emanated a red light. She was dressed in a basic suit that resembled a cross of Nightwing and Red Robin's uniforms, just all red with black spots, gloves, and boots.

The green orb turned into a boy a short cloak covered his torso, the hood covered his head and face, two cat ears were part of the hood, his eyes were glowing green. A tail flicked around under the armor set around his waist.

The girl looked at him now in his father's arms.

"No!" she yelled everything fell silent to him as he watched about a dozen more orbs appeared each forming a figure in either red or green. All except the first two moved and quickly dispatched the clone, the army of assassins, and pushed mother back.

His vision faded to black.

He could no longer feel his father's arms under him.

---

Nightwing, Red Hood, and Red Robin were now around Batman and the fallen Robin. The past holders of the miraculous formed a ring around them, linking hands. They moved them all to the Bat-cave.

"Come back little one." Hippolyta, if she remembers what Tikki told her, cupped her face as she faded away.

"Tikki," she whispered out.

"What's wrong?" the little goddess rubbed her eyes.

"I... We... Cave... Now." She managed. She transformed and swung through Gotham unnoticed until she reached the cave under the manor.

The past holders and her cat were still there. She dropped her transformation and ran to her extended family.

"Pixie how?" Jason had taken off his helmet and hugged her.

"You were there weren't you." Tim stated, so she nodded confirming his theory.

“He is neither alive nor dead he is in a plane between the two." A cat, Hei Mao, dressed in a long sleeved black gi, armor plates on his right upper arm and a cat mask on top of his head, eyes like the other cat apparitions were glowing green a black domino mask covered his eyes.

"How is that possible?" Bruce coaxed himself to whisper, cowl down and holding back tears.

"He is your bonded. You are tethering and maintaining his soul whole." A ladybug in knightly armor, red glowing eyes like all the other ladybugs spoke, Joan of Arc.

"My bonded," Marinette breathed under her breath.

"The magic which flows through your veins flows through him. He is your..." the only male ladybug, a red feathered headdress and red cape, red warrior paint covered his eyes and stained his hands, Micazoyolin, added only to be interrupted by Dick.

"Soul mate." Dick gasped from next to her.

"It is possible to revive him." a woman in a loose black dress and a Jaguar patterned cape with green under the cape. A black Jaguar headdress with long green feathers sat on her head green warrior paint on her face and hands, Ocelome, drawled looking between Damian's lifeless body and the green soul of her cat. "By using the waters of the Lazarus."

A gasp was heard from the bats and birds in the cave, Mari flinched further into her big brother Jay. Mari began to sag from exhaustion and the visages of the past holders began to flicker.

"Perhaps this conversation is best held elsewhere," Hippolyta broke the silence. "I, Queen Hippolyta of the Amazons, invite all of you to Themiscyra. Until we meet in the flesh my child."

Two by two each pair of ladybugs and their cats disappeared, all but the solitary cat, her cat, remained. Everything was still and silent within the cave. No one knowing how to proceed, so they stayed as they were.

None of them could tell you how long they stayed like that, but a new voice started.

"Bruce care to explain why my mother told me to bring all of you to Themiscyra." Wonder Woman appeared on the Bat-computer. "By Zeus. The apparition of the cat. Do you know what this means?" Bruce’s back was to the computer, Damian’s body still in his arms protected by his cape from Wonder Woman’s sight.

"Yes we do. Come by around noon everything should be sorted by then." Bruce brought himself to say, Tim ending the call after a nod from Wonder Woman.

"Come on pixie let's get you home before the sun rises." Jason put on his helmet. She nodded, transformed , and let Jason pick her up as they left the cave.

Jay-Jay stopped a few blocks away, she moved and clung on his back like a baby koala. As Red Hood swung and ran across the roof tops. He tucked in his little sister and left.

---

One moment he was dying in his father's arms. No he did die in his father's arms. But what was odd was the tug after a moment in the darkness.

The next he was standing in the Bat-cave next to his father and his body. The first girl in red was gone, but the others were here still. About 10 minutes later a red figure of a girl swings into the cave. If he could move or speak he would have. Or maybe not. The figure was engulfed in pink light and there stood Marinette Stone. She ran into a hug from Todd.

"Pixie how?"

"You were there weren't you." Drake stated, Marinette must have understood the statement as she nodded her head. It was silent until one of the green and black figures spoke.

"He is neither alive nor dead he is in a plane between the two." Hei Mao, the other voice in his mind supplied.

How am I not dead?!

He could still not move or speak so he stood and listened.

"How is that possible?" he heard his Father.

"He is your bonded. You are tethering and maintaining his soul whole." Joan of Arc, the voice again supplied.

"My bonded," Marinette, the voice supplied but now he placed it, the voice is Marinette.

"The magic which flows through your veins flows through him. He is your..." the only man in red, Micazoyolin, Marinette corrected his thought.

"Soul mate." Grayson shrieked.

"It is possible to revive him." Ocelome, she supplied and he took the intonation, without our analyzing now. "By using the waters of the Lazarus."

He heard his family suck in a breath and seem to become stone still, Marinette flinched further into Todd who was hugging and seemingly guarding her.

"Perhaps this conversation is best held elsewhere," Hippolyta broke the silence. "I, Queen Hippolyta of the Amazons, invite all of you to Themiscyra. Until we meet in the flesh my child."

Two by two each pair of ladybugs and their cats disappeared, all abut him. He still could not move, he could not speak either, but his mind raced.

I am dead.

Actually I am apparently not alive or dead.

My best friend is my soulmate.

My soulmate does not hate me.

She knows. She knows me. She knows my aggravating family.

She is stuck with us, with me.

Marinette is my best friend who happens to be my soulmate.

His thoughts would have continued had it not been for the voice coming from the Bat-computer.

"Bruce care to explain why my mother told me to bring all of you to Themyscira." Wonder Woman, "By Zeus. The apparition of the cat. Do you know what this means?"

"Yes we do. Come by around noon everything should be sorted by then."Father spoke his back to the screen shielding his body from vein.

"Come on pixie let's get you home before the sun rises." Todd finally spoke taking Marinette home.

Father finally stood, for a moment he looked at him and then his body before moving to place his body in a portable cyro-chamber in the Bat-plane.

Then the darkness returned.

---

The next morning she woke up with a resolve that everything would turn out fine.

Okay sure I just found out my best friend is my soulmate. the was killed by his clone, but he is in a state of limbo. Okay this was a lot but this is not the end of the story.

So as she, her papa, and Penny were having breakfast a knock sounded at the door.

"I'll get it." Penny excused herself. "Tim what a surprise come in." Tim was promptly sat at the table a mug of coffee and pancakes were placed in front of him.

"What brings you here so early mate?" Papa chuckled after watching Tim chug the coffee.

"Well, we were planning on a family trip for the week but..." he started. "B locked himself in his office and Damian won't budge, so" he looked at Jagged. "We were hoping that we could steal little bean for the week since both of them can't say no to her." he rushed barely stopping to breathe.

"Whatcha say little rock star," Papa turned to her smiling, "want to spend the week with your brothers?"

"Yes." She jumped up and hugged her dad and ran to her room to pack. Tim-Tam joined her a minute later as he asked Diana about the climate of the island.

"Why can't we go too, Lucky Penny?" Mari heard her papa ask.

'Sigh' "You've got a full schedule, why don't we plan something for the following week, your clear then." they heard Penny compromise.

"Rock 'n hear that little star," Papa poked his head in as they finished packing. "Maybe we'll steal one of Bruce's birds next week for our trip." He semi whispered the end.

Tim seemed surprised at the comment but schooled his features quickly, he picked up the suitcase and Mari pulled her papa out of the penthouse suite, gave him a hug as she went with Tim.

Less than an hour later she was sitting in the Bat-cave having loaded the bags in the Bat-plane, with the three eldest Wayne children and Bruce, waiting for Wonder Woman.

"Hey Mari can I ask something?" Tim sat down next to her.

"What is it Tim Tam?"

"What did Jagged mean when he said one of Bruce's birds?" Everyone was now watching the two and listening to the response that was to follow.

"Oh, um papa might have figured out that Uncle Bruce is Batman." She was now fiddling with her fingers in her lap. When no one answered she continued. "Remember a couple of months ago when the Sirens crashed Papa's concert. Well when Uncle Bruce and Jay Jay moved me and Papa away and into his dressing room, B didn't make his voice gruff and gravelly as Batman's usual voice. So papa thought maybe his voice isn't usually as gruff and the new voice is actually his real voice, and once papa hears a voice, he never forgets it. I promise I never told him and I never told him he was right but he is pretty sure and I don’t think he’ll even believe you if you tell him he’s wrong." Mari scrambled to say, ending it with a small sad smile looking up through her lashes at everyone.

"Father like Daughter," Bruce was the first to speak. "Everyone is getting a permanent voice modifier installed in their suits." This resulted in every one laughing. Effectively breaking the tension previously in the room.

"Smart idea B." Jason answered making Mari smile wider.

That was when Wonder Woman decided to arrive. Ending the conversation as they boarded the Bat-plane leaving for Themyscira.

Next

~~~~~~~~~~

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[goneahead]

Winter Solstice, Camelot Station

~~John M. Ford

Camelot is served By a sixteen-track stub terminal done in High Gothick Style, The tracks covered by a single great barrel-vaulted glass roof framed upon iron, At once looking back to the Romans and ahead to the Brunels. Beneath its rotunda, just to the left of the ticket windows, Is a mosaic floor depicting the Round Table (Where all knights, regardless of their station of origin Or class of accommodation, are equal), And around it murals of knightly deeds in action (Slaying dragons, righting wrongs, rescuing maidens tied to the tracks). It is the only terminal, other than Gare d'Avalon in Paris, To be hung with original tapestries, And its lavatories rival those at the Great Gate of Kiev Central. During a peak season such as this, some eighty trains a day pass through, Five times the frequency at the old Londinium Terminus, Ten times the number the Druid towermen knew. (The Official Court Christmas Card this year displays A crisp black-and-white Charles Clegg photograph from the King's own collection. Showing a woad-blued hogger at the throttle of "Old XCVII," The Fast Mail overnight to Eboracum. Those were the days.) The first of a line of wagons have arrived, Spilling footmen and pages in Court livery, And old thick Kay, stepping down from his Range Rover, Tricked out in a bush coat from Swaine, Adeney, Brigg, Leaning on his shooting stick as he marshalls his company, Instructing the youngest how to behave in the station, To help mature women that they may encounter, Report pickpockets, gather up litter, And of course no true Knight of the Table Round (even in training) Would do a station porter out of Christmas tips. He checks his list of arrival times, then his watch (A moon-phase Breguet, gift from Merlin): The seneschal is a practical man, who knows trains do run late, And a stolid one, who sees no reason to be glad about it. He dispatches pages to posts at the tracks, Doling out pennies for platform tickets, Then walks past the station buffet with a dyspeptic snort, Goes into the bar, checks the time again, orders a pint. The patrons half turn--it's the fella from Camelot, innit? And Kay chuckles soft to himself, and the Court buys a round. He's barely halfway when a page tumbles in, Seems the knights are arriving, on time after all, So he tips the glass back (people stare as he guzzles), Then plonks it down hard with five quid for the barman, And strides for the doorway (half Falstaff, half Hotspur) To summon his liveried army of lads.

* * *

Bors arrives behind steam, riding the cab of a heavy Mikado. He shakes the driver's hand, swings down from the footplate, And is like a locomotive himself, his breath clouding white, Dark oil sheen on his black iron mail, Sword on his hip swinging like siderods at speed. He stamps back to the baggage car, slams mailed fist on steel door With a clang like jousters colliding. The handler opens up and goes to rouse another knight. Old Pellinore has been dozing with his back against a crate, A cubical, chain-bound thing with FRAGILE tags and air holes, BEAST says the label, QUESTING, 1 the bill of lading. The porters look doubtful but ease the thing down. It grumbles. It shifts. Someone shouts, and they drop it. It cracks like an egg. There is nothing within. Elayne embraces Bors on the platform, a pelican on a rock, Silently they watch as Pelly shifts the splinters, Supposing aloud that Gutman and Cairo have swindled him.

A high-drivered engine in Northern Lines green Draws in with a string of side-corridor coaches, All honey-toned wood with stained glass on their windows. Gareth steps down from a compartment, then Gaheris and Aggravaine, All warmly tucked up in Orkney sweaters; Gawaine comes after in Shetland tweed. Their Gladstones and steamers are neatly arranged, With never a worry--their Mum does the packing. A redcap brings forth a curious bundle, a rude shape in red paper-- The boys did that one themselves, you see, and how does one wrap a unicorn's head? They bustle down the platform, past a chap all in green. He hasn't the look of a trainman, but only Gawaine turns to look at his eyes, And sees written there Sir, I shall speak with you later.

Over on the first track, surrounded by reporters, All glossy dark iron and brass-bound mystery, The Direct-Orient Express, ferried in from Calais and Points East. Palomides appears. Smelling of patchouli and Russian leather, Dripping Soubranie ash on his astrakhan collar, Worry darkening his dark face, though his damascene armor shows no tarnish, He pushes past the press like a broad-hulled icebreaker. Flashbulbs pop. Heads turn. There's a woman in Chanel black, A glint of diamonds, liquid movements, liquid eyes. The newshawks converge, but suddenly there appears A sharp young man in a crisp blue suit From the Compagnie Internationale des Wagons-Lits, That elegant, comfortable, decorous, close-mouthed firm; He's good at his job, and they get not so much as a snapshot. Tomorrow's editions will ask who she was, and whom with...

Now here's a silver train, stainless steel, Vista-Domed, White-lighted grails on the engine (running no extra sections) The Logres Limited, extra fare, extra fine, (Stops on signal at Carbonek to receive passengers only). She glides to a Timkin-borne halt (even her grease is clean), Galahad already on the steps, flashing that winning smile, Breeze mussing his golden hair, but not his Armani tailoring, Just the sort of man you'd want finding your chalice. He signs an autograph, he strikes a pose. Someone says, loudly, "Gal! Who serves the Grail?" He looks--no one he knows--and there's a silence, A space in which he shifts like sun on water; Look quick and you may see a different knight, A knight who knows that meanings can be lies, That things are done not knowing why they're done, That bearings fail, and stainless steel corrodes. A whistle blows. Snow shifts on the glass shed roof. That knight is gone. This one remaining tosses his briefcase to one of Kay's pages, And, golden, silken, careless, exits left.

Behind the carsheds, on the business-car track, alongside the private varnish Of dukes and smallholders, Persian potentates and Cathay princes (James J. Hill is here, invited to bid on a tunnel through the Pennines), Waits a sleek car in royal blue, ex-B&O, its trucks and fittings chromed, A black-gloved hand gripping its silver platform rail; Mordred and his car are both upholstered in blue velvet and black leather. He prefers to fly, but the weather was against it. His DC-9, with its video system and Quotron and waterbed, sits grounded at Gatwick. The premature lines in his face are a map of a hostile country, The redness in his eyes a reminder that hollyberries are poison. He goes inside to put on a look acceptable for Christmas Court; As he slams the door it rattles like strafing jets.

Outside the Station proper, in the snow, On a through track that's used for milk and mail, A wheezing saddle-tanker stops for breath; A way-freight mixed, eight freight cars and caboose, Two great ugly men on the back platform, talking with a third on the ballast. One, the conductor, parcels out the last of the coffee; They drink. A joke about grails. They laugh. When it's gone, the trainman pretends to kick the big hobo off, But the farewell hug spoils the act. Now two men stand on the dirty snow, The conductor waves a lantern and the train grinds on. The ugly men start walking, the new arrival behind, Singing "Wenceslas" off-key till the other says stop. There are two horses waiting for them. Rather plain horses, Considering. The men mount up. By the roundhouse they pause, And look at the locos, the water, the sand, and the coal, The look for a long time at the turntable, Until the one who is King says "It all seemed so simple, once," And the best knight in the world says "It is. We make it hard." They ride on, toward Camelot by the service road.

The sun is winter-low. Kay's caravan is rolling. He may not run a railroad, but he runs a tight ship; By the time they unload in the Camelot courtyard, The wassail will be hot and the goose will be crackling, Banners snapping from their towers, fir logs on the fire, drawbridge down, And all that sackbut and psaltery stuff. Blanchefleur is taking the children caroling tonight, Percivale will lose to Merlin at chess, The young knights will dally and the damsels dally back, The old knights will play poker at a smaller Table Round. And at the great glass station, motion goes on, The extras, the milk trains, the varnish, the limiteds, The Pindar of Wakefield, the Lady of the Lake, The Broceliande Local, the Fast Flying Briton, The nerves of the kingdom, the lines of exchange, Running to a schedule as the world ought, Ticking like a hot-fired hand-stoked heart, The metal expression of the breaking of boundaries, The boilers that turn raw fire into power, The driving rods that put the power to use, The turning wheels that make all places equal, The knowledge that the train may stop but the line goes on; The train may stop But the line goes on.

[little-ligi]

Febuwhump - No. 5

No. 5 - “Take Me Instead” Fandom - BBC Merlin Wordcount - 1856 @febuwhump​

Lancelot smiled as Merlin began humming. He recognised the tune as one the minstrels had been playing at the banquet the other night, except Merlin was humming it slightly out of tune.

Letting his sword still for a moment, he leant back against a tree and joined in whistling, emphasising the correct notes whenever Merlin missed one. Merlin looked up at him with a grin, then chucked a twig at his head. Lancelot easily ducked it.

“I never claimed to be able to carry a tune,” Merlin said with a laugh.

“Carry on, Merlin. I was enjoying it.” Lancelot grinned.

Merlin rolled his eyes and went back to picking herbs, humming louder and even more out of tune. Lancelot laughed and gave his sword a twirl. He’d tried helping Merlin gather the herbs, but after Merlin complaining he’d picked the wrong thing for the fourth time, he decided to stop. Instead he’d been practicing footwork, one of the drills Leon had taught him.

Continue reading on Ao3, FF.net or below! 👇

It was certainly easier to move without his chainmail. He’d forgone the armour today seeing as he was just gathering herbs with Merlin rather than out on knightly duties. But he found it almost made him revert back to his old fighting style, a little wider with his swings, a little jumpier on his toes. It reminded him of his younger self.

He grinned as he perfectly executed one of Leon’s lunge parry riposte moves. If only his younger self could have known he’d become a Knight of the Round Table.

A noise in the undergrowth behind them had Lancelot instinctively spinning around, his sword coming up to chest height as his knees dropped into a ready stance. Merlin stopped humming and looked up like a startled deer.

Four bandits burst from the trees, rushing towards them with a battle cry.

Lancelot easily stepped in front of Merlin, his sword flashing as he cut down the first man. He blocked a blow from the second and pushed him backward, knocking the third man to the floor.

He heard Merlin mutter a spell and a heavy branch broke from the tree above them with a tremendous cracking sound. It fell to knock out the fourth man who was circling around the two fighting Lancelot. He collapsed with the branch across his back.

With several quick slashes Lancelot dispatched the two bandits in front of him as well.

A yell from behind him made his heart jump to his throat. He whipped around. Whilst they had fought the four men in front of them, several others had crept up behind them.

A large man was holding Merlin, one arm tight around his neck, the other hand pressing a cloth hard against his nose and mouth. Merlin was writhing and scrabbling at the hand smothering him, but his eyes looked glazed and Lancelot could only guess there was some kind of sedative on the cloth.

He stepped forwards, raising his sword towards the man holding his friend as Merlin’s movements grew weaker.

“Don’t take another step,” said a cold voice.

Another man came forwards, twirling a dagger in his hand. He gestured and two men with crossbows came up to the sides, their weapons trained on Lancelot. Another lifted a sword to meet Lancelot’s, the blade just inches away from knocking Lancelot’s down.

“Release him!” Lancelot shouted, worried by the way Merlin’s face was going red from the pressure on his throat.

“No. Put your sword down.”

Lancelot froze as he felt a blade at his back, through his light jacket. The man in front of him lunged forwards but with the sword at his back Lancelot couldn’t parry. The other man’s sword sliced into his hand. With a cry, Lancelot dropped his sword, bringing his hand to his chest.

“Get him down,” the man with the cold voice, who seemed to be the leader, demanded. Lancelot was shoved forwards, falling to his knees painfully then being kicked in the back. He instinctively tried to catch himself but with his injured hand. The pain shooting up his arm made him collapse forwards and a heavy boot was slammed down onto his back, holding him pressed to the ground.

He turned his head, ignoring the scrape of rough earth and dry leaves, to look at Merlin. The bandits had closed in around him now.

“Is that him?” the leader asked. He was peering at Merlin, who seemed to be wavering just on the edge of consciousness.

“Yeah, I think so. Trails after the prince like a puppy.”

“Good. Tie his hands, we’ll get him back to camp.”

“What do you want from him?” Lancelot shouted, trying to use his good hand to push himself up. But the man standing on his back wouldn’t allow him even an inch.

“Prince’s manservant, isn’t he?” one said, spitting in Merlin’s face.

“The things he could tell us with the right persuasion…”

The bandits laughed as the one with the dagger dragged it up Merlin’s side, slicing his shirt and drawing a thin line of blood.

Lancelot’s heart went cold. They wanted to torture Merlin for information on Arthur.

“No!”

Merlin was manhandled as two of the men yanked his arms behind him and tied his wrists then threw him to the floor. His eyes looked blank and unfocussed and he didn’t respond when Lancelot shouted his name. One man kicked him and he moaned but didn’t move.

“Don’t hurt him! Please!” Lancelot called to the men but that just made them laugh. Merlin was kicked again.

“Get him up,” the leader said offhandedly, gesturing to Merlin.

The big man hefted Merlin up over his shoulder as one of the crossbows was swung down to Lancelot’s head.

“No, wait!” he shouted. “Take me instead!”

“Why? Who’re you, some other random servant?”

Lancelot wished he had worn his chainmail, or even just his red cloak.

“I’m a knight. One of the Round Table.”

“The who?” The foot on his back ground down, making him gasp as pain flared through his chest. His injured hand was crushed underneath his stomach and he could feel the wetness of blood seeping through the front of his shirt.

“Prince Arthur’s chosen few,” the leader said, a curious note to his voice. He crouched to look closer at Lancelot and grabbed a handful of his hair to yank his head up. “Are you indeed?”

“Explains this sword, certainly,” the man who had knocked the weapon from his hand said. He was holding Lancelot’s sword, examining the fine workmanship of the blade and the engravings on the pommel. “This is a knight’s sword.”

“So…” The leader grinned. “We’ve got ourselves one of Camelot’s finest knights. I bet you know even more than him,” he said, looking over his shoulder at the man holding Merlin.

“Let him go,” Lancelot begged. “He’s just a servant, he knows nothing. The prince doesn’t even like him,” he lied, coughing.

The man standing on Lancelot was pushed off and instead the knight was hauled up to his knees. His injured hand was agony as blood rushed to it now that it wasn’t being squashed under him. Blood dripped to the floor in a steady dribble.

The leader got to his feet with a satisfied smirk, carelessly waving a hand at the big man.

“Lose him. The knight’s a better prize.”

Merlin was dropped, his limp body thudding to the floor like a ragdoll.

Hands pulled Lancelot’s arms back and ropes were wound around his wrists, scraping painfully against the cut on his hand. His fingers were slick with blood. But he didn’t care. He let them drag him up to his feet, his eyes fixed on Merlin.

He silently begged him to move, to show any sign that he was alright. But nothing happened.

The men holding Lancelot pulled him roughly around, so he couldn’t see Merlin anymore, pushing him so he staggered. He struggled to keep his balance without the help of his arms. One of the bandits laughed and shoved him into one of the others, who growled and shoved him back again, until he was being pushed around like a child circled by bullies.

If only he could get a weapon. His sword was shoved into the belt of the bandit who’d disarmed him, the man’s hand resting on the fine pommel where it clinked beside his own plain cheap sword.

As he was shoved again he stumbled towards the man with the swords. He twisted his uninjured left hand and turned his shoulder so that his hand almost grabbed the sword from the unsuspecting man’s belt.

“Oi!” A dagger was jammed into Lancelot’s side. His knees buckled but he was held up by the large man who had his arm. The short blade was pulled out and raised to jab back in again.

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you.”

The sudden voice behind them made the bandits jump and whip around. Lancelot’s heart soared as he turned as well.

Merlin’s eyes flashed gold and the man with the dagger behind Lancelot screamed as he was thrown through the air. Surprise registered on the faces of the bandits, and the crossbows swung around to point at Merlin instead.

He shoved his hands out in front of him, his eyes blazing as he shouted a spell.

The crossbowmen flew backwards into the trees.

A quick golden-eyed nod at Lancelot and he felt the ropes around his wrists snap. He spun, punching out at the man to his side with his left hand and snatching his sword back. He backed up, getting space to wield the blade around in an arc towards the leader.

Merlin shouted another spell and a whirlwind knocked them all off their feet, including Lancelot. He grunted as the wound in his side flared with pain. But he wasn’t complaining because, while he managed to stagger back to his feet, none of the bandits did.

Once he was sure all of the bandits were down, Lancelot turned to find Merlin. His friend was already hurrying towards him and Lancelot ran to his side, both catching the others’ arms to hold each other steady.

“Are you alright?” Lancelot asked, his eyes roaming over the warlock for any signs of injury. Other than a bruise forming across his neck and the thin line of blood down his side he looked fine.

“Yes, are you?” Merlin’s hands fluttered to the stab wound on Lancelot’s side, another spell on his lips as his eyes once more glowed. Lancelot felt the warmth of the healing magic spread over him, gently tugging at the wound until it was completely gone. Then Merlin pulled Lancelot’s blood covered hand to his chest, cupping both of his own hands around it, the same healing warmth circling the cut.

“I am now,” Lancelot said with a smile, his non-injured hand reaching to squeeze Merlin’s arm. “Thank you, my friend.”

“Don’t risk your life like that again!” Merlin scolded him. “You know I could have handled it.”

“Not unconscious you couldn’t.”

“I would’ve managed.”

“Of course you would,” Lancelot humoured him, pulling him into a tight hug.

[a-40k-dad-showcase]

AZORIAN FLUFF MASTERPOST

FORGE WORLD AZORIA — Aϱ-LXXXV

Affiliation : Adeptus Mechanicus Geological Radius : 2250 km Surface area : 15,910,000 km² Surface gravity : 7,85 m/s² (0,8g) Population : 9 billion (estimated)

World Classification : ϕ-ϱ-η Alternate Class : Knight World (House Sarrokkæn) Household Grade : Secundus 

Tithe Grade : Aptus Non Aggregate : 1,000: Aestimare : B800-C1 Production Grade : IV-Secundi

FOR ALL THOSE WHO APPRECIATE HOMEBREW LORE, HEREUNDER YOU WILL FIND THE ONGOING AZORIAN LORE CuRRENTLY BEING COMPILED INTO A SINGLE POST.

Summary :

Azoria is a Forge World of the Adeptus Mechanicus located in the Segmentum Tempestus, roughly in the middle of the triangle formed by Bakka, V'Run and Solstice. Rediscovered late M32, Azoria was originally a feudal / knight world rich in materials needed for ship-building. At first ruled by Terra, it has been transfered to Martian control at the end of M33 after the discovery by archeological expeditions of a host of strategically minor STCs. Profoundly altered by the transformation into a Forge World, Azoria's ecosystem has been all but destroyed despite the negotiation of unique conditions for the Adepus Mechanicus' take-over. Although officially run by the Adeptus Mechanicus, Azoria enjoys an unique joint-governance status, with the Fabricator-General overseeing the vast industrial zones, and a Planetary Government overseeing civil affairs. A production tax as a form of planetary-rent allowed the civil government to elevate Azoria as a thriving commercial hub for the sector and beyond.

Azoria's civil government rules over a competent and well-equiped law enforcement force spread within all its hive cities. The Adeptus Mechanicus protects its industrial zones with their legions of Skitarii. In remote plains away from the hives, the Knights of House Sarrokkæn, in vassalage to the Adeptus Mechanicus, keep sovereignty over their historical territories, called “The Wastes” by most hivers. These barren lands are populated by the Free Folk of Azoria, a parallel society living under the feudal rule of House Sarrokkæn.

Azoria is an important planet in the sector in terms of production, commerce and military might. Though the dispersed nature of its governance, and the long and difficult negotiations that lead to this arrangement resulted in the reluctance of both Terra and Mars (and by extension, Segmentum Command) to call upon Azoria for military contributions.

At the beginning of M42, Azoria issued a distress call to Bakka. Sabotage on a massive scale had taken place within the industrial areas and several Hive cities either declared themselves in open rebellion or went dark altogether. If the Skitarii and the Knights of House Sarrokkæn could clear up the industrial areas on their own, pacifying the hives or gaining access to the hives that shut off, proved another task entirely. Under the pressure of the Fabricator-General, who required the return of workers to the production facilities, the civil government had no choice but to make the call.

Transported by Naval Battlegroup Bakka's Fury, several regiments of the newly formed Spectris Cadiae and one detachment of Tempestus Scions were dispatched, alongside a regiment of the Death Korps of Krieg sent by mistake. By the time the Imperial Guard regiments had established their command posts on the desolated Azorian plains between the western border of Sarrokkæn Territory and the outskirts of Hive7, almost 5 months after the initial attacks, a formal enemy still hadn't been identified by the local defense forces.

Without clear guidance, and in the absence of an unified planetary organisation, not to mention, having to manage the expectations of the Death Korps men who were eager to lay waste to the unresponsive Hive Cities, the General Staff of the Spectres of Cadia were at a loss. Engagement-wise, troops on the ground suffered daily, morale-sapping losses during their attempts at pacifying the Hives.

Specialised in hostile environment operations and sent to Azoria under the false assumption that their presence was requested to secure the production facilities, the Spectres of Cadia were ill equipped for their urban pacification mission. They are currently still fighting an uphill battle, though Azoria definitely isn't the worst affectation in these regiments' history warfare.

The Azorian landscape in the Hives region.

The outskirts of an industrial area, weeks after the reclaiming operations lead by the Skitarii.

Early history and governance negotiations :

After being hastily incorporated into the IoM at its rediscovery, Azoria had managed to remain more or less untouched by change for a millenium, until the end of M33, when the Adeptus Mechanicus negotiated with Terra the rights to Azoria, projecting to turn it into a Forge World dedicated to the building of commerce fleets and the manufacturing of the various STCs discovered there.

At the time, Azoria, while still governed by the feudal reign of its Knightly Houses, had elevated its population and technological status to that of the smallest Hive Worlds.

The arrival of the Adeptus Mechanicus wasn’t well received and multiple conflicts ensued. The Knightly Houses of Azoria banded together, lead by House Sarrokkæn and managed, by threatening to destroys the STCs, to force Imperial authorities and the AdMech into fairer negotiations.

Out of which came the following decisions : Azoria wouldn’t become a Forge World as the Adeptus Mechanicus would have made it had they had free rein. Instead, the Adeptus Mechanicus’ implantation would not be allowed to extend over 30% of the total surface of buildable land. However, to circumvent this inconvenience, the AdMech built both deep and high on their alloted territories.

The Knights while accepting the Adeptus’ official leadership, would retain a comfortable amount of sovereignty over the Azorian people.

The civilian planetary government created especially for the newer urban areas - or hives - would also be allowed to evolve naturally, and not fall under the immediate rule of the Fabricator-General. A marginal part of the Forges’ production would also have to be ceded to the Planetary Government, as an exploitation’s tax, allowing Azoria to develop its commerce with nearby worlds.

Over the next centuries, House Sarrokkæn effectively absorbed all smaller houses and became the sole Knightly House left on the planet, ranking in to the higher tier of Grade Secundus with approximatively 300 war machines in its care.

At the dawn of M42, House Sarrokkæn still rules over a portion of the population willingly staying in “the wastes” or the non-urbanised areas found in the vicinity* of the Obsidian Keep, their ancestral homestead.

*(ca. 1.000.000 sq. km surrounded by a few hive cities and an Adeptus Mechanicus production megastructure. The closest hive to the Obsidian Keep is Hive 7)

While the House’s rule might not have changed, the level of comfort and quality of life of all from serfs to masters had tremendously improved, only to be set back by the pollution and the contamination of the planet.

The Wastes are under the jurisdiction of House Sarrokkæn and these lands are protected and policed by the House’s own army, the Milites Gregarii.

Law and order in the urban areas and hives is under the planetary governor’s jurisdication, protected by the Azorian PDF and policed by various local enforcement agencies.

Azorian economy relies on planetary and space mining, ship-building and the manufacturing of unique goods thanks to the retrieved STCs, the commerce of which with nearby worlds plays a tremendous part in Azoria’s economical growth and thus, in maintaining its privileges and independence.

HOUSE SARROKKÆN

Current Full House Crest with the motto “Parva Sub Ingenti”

“The small under the great” ; denoting the duty of protection of not only the people of the Free Territories, but also of their general interest, which has been paramount to House Sarrokkæn for over seven millenia.

Coat of Arms until the end of M33 — though not official anymore, this design is still widely in use.

Coat of Arms M34 onwards

INSERT 1 : “ARMIGER”

With a chilling mechanical wheeze, Ruinstride is clamped down onto the elevating platform. As soon as the giant becomes immobilised, cloaked figures begin scurrying about, as if they appeared out of thin air.

They engage in a ballet danced back and forth between Ruinstride and the various control panels placed on the platform. The Sacristans — responsible for the maintaining of House Sarrokkæn’s war machines — are but shadows moving in the murky, dying light of the Azorian twilight.

From within the piloting post of the Knight, very little of what happens beyond its metal shell can be heard. Not the strong, poisonous winds roaring through the desolate plains, not the noise made by the Milites Gregarii vehicles guarding the area, nor the clanking done by the ground crew at work. The pilot couldn’t hear anything other than the gentle, yet disquieting hum of the Armiger’s active systems, further intensifying the pilot’s feeling of being safely nested into a cocoon. A terrible cocoon of immeasurable might.

Sitting deep into the belly of the beast, Liwa stares at her control monitors. She is now linked to the platform’s security network and flicks through the various video feeds. There is no specific purpose in her actions, she merely passes time, waiting for the Sacristans to finish the preparations for the long ride down.

Suddenly, one of the monitors displays a communication channel opening, showing the spectrogram of the inbound signal. 

“Mistress?” inquires the Sacristan supervising the re-entry procedures. —”Ready when you are, operator.” Liwa replies, in haste. The sacristan produces a few vowels trying to begin his sentence. He stops for a second to better verbalize his thoughts with the appropriate deference. —”I’m terribly sorry if I mislead you, Mistress, but I only wished to inform you that departure will be delayed for a little while longer : Battlebound is in sight and will be travelling down with us.”

Liwa smiles for Battlebound is steered by her twin brother Leto. “Understood, operator. —Ruinstride, out.” she replies before tuning into her brother’s vox channel.

With an ever growing smile locked on her face, the young woman takes a moment to prepare her opening remark : “They told me that we had to wait for another passenger on the ride down, but I would have hoped it wouldn’t be a lowlife such as yourself.

Her satisfaction hits a high as she finds the vox’s clics a fitting punctuation for her comment. The answer comes back into the audio feed without delay :

“If I didn’t know you any better, I’d swear you were trying to hurt my feelings.”

Liwa chuckles as she taps into the distant surveillance feed, tracking Battlebound’s whereabouts.

—”Not in my wildest dreams, brother.” she says.

Leto’s Armiger arrives in visual range and soon walks onto the elevating platform, taking place in front of Ruinstride. The restraining mechanism bolts the war machine down and the Sacristans begin a new dance of preparing, checking and organising.

“Anyway, what have you been doing up here today?” she inquired.

—”I’ve been working on my short-range accuracy in the south-eastern ruins” he sighs. “I learned I wasn’t as good as I thought I was because the preceptor had me retake the drills over and over again. Truthfully, this was a bit of a painful day for me.” he concludes, a hint of frustration still stuck in his throat.

“But anyway, what about you?”

—”I simply went out for a long stroll. I needed a moment alone with Ruinstride, I feel like I need to focus on my synchronisation with the machine-spirit”

The voxcaster’s incoming transmission click interrupts their chit-chat :

“Mistress, Master, we are ready to depart. Today’s descent duration will approximate 30 minutes. Your respective maintenance crews have been notified and are ready for your arrival. I hope you’ll enjoy the ride. —Operator out.”

As the voxcaster clicks signal the end of the transmission, a faint rumble can be heard from within the metal carapaces that begin to vibrate.

The young pilots experience the shivering of the platform as it begins its journey downwards. Soon they disappear into darkness, swallowed by the seemingly endless vertical tunnels running deep beneath the surface of the Wastes.

Where those lead, very few surface-dweller actually know.

DRAMATIS PERSONAE I

PRINCEPS NEFO III SARROKKÆN

High-Monarchs of House Sarrokkæn are destined to pilot the infamous “Sovereign Fury” a Dominus-pattern Knight Suit of incredibly domineering nature. Sitting at the helm of Sovereign Fury is extremely demanding as the Machine Spirit has developped a hatred of weak-minded or less-than-stellar pilots.

However, with proper tutoring, it is possible for most pilots to learn how to stay in the good graces of their steed’s Machine Spirit, for a time. Although, when the first weaknesses of age make their appearance, the Machine Spirit will invariably begin to rebel and cause glitches and malfunctions. When this happens, it signifies that it requires a new pilot, one still in his or her prime.

Upon receiving confirmation of the Machine Spirit’s desires by the sacristans, the ruling Princeps will hold an abdication ceremony and his heir apparent (or pressumtive) will be crowned Princeps of House Sarrokkæn in his  or her stead.

Usually, it doesn’t end the former Princeps’ piloting career, as he or she will usually join the ranks of the precepts of House Sarrokkæn (or choose another role if they so desire).

If a High Monarch decides to ignore the signs however, Sovereign Fury’s malfunctions will become more frequent, and more serious. If the Monarch persists and refuses to abdicate and pass on the suit to their heir, the Machine Spirit will take hold of its pilot’s mind and seriously compromise their sanity, with impairments as varied as apathy, amnesia, catatonia, dementia, coma and even, death.

Therefore, the reign of a Monarch of House Sarrokkæn is expected to end somewhere between his mid 50ies and mid 60ies. To ensure that Princeps are mature enough for their duties, if the heir to the throne is less than 25 years of age on his or her coronation day, the household is placed under regency, elected by the previous Monarch and their High Court.

Nefo II Sarrokkæn, father of the current Princeps managed to hold the reins of Sovereign Fury into his early 70ies before the first signs of the Machine Spirit’s discontentment appeared. This is definitely a rarity within the household’s long recorded history of High Monarchs.

FORMER PRINCEPS : NEFO-THE-ELDER

INSERT 2 : “Reins of Fury”

Blood pounding under the temples, the Princeps’ limbs twitched as his steed murmured directly into his mind. Not in words, but rather in a slow, continuous and menacing hum, an unnerving cybernetic growl of which he somehow could make sense.

RELEASE. ME. NOW.

The lift carrying his lance to the eastern borders of Sarrokkæn territory still was a good ten minutes away from its destination.

MAKE. US. KILL. RELEASE. THE. FURY.

Nefo tried to concentrate on his breathing, to let go of the tension in his body. His head tilted forwards has he tried to relax his tense neck. As much as he tried, he couldn’t get rid of the stiffness between his shoulder blades. An unpleasant sense of unease began to grow within his guts. Those remaining minutes promised to feel excruciatingly long.

I. AM. FIRE

The Princeps spoke softly to himself within the silence of his Knight Valiant’s cockpit. “Inhale. Hold. Exhale.” He tried to distanciate his conscious mind from the overwhelming will of the Valiant’s Machine Spirit.

I. AM. FURY.

“Just two more minutes. Just two. Two short minutes” Nefo said, those words intended as a way to keep himself focused rather than meant as an answer to the machine-voices gushing into his brain.

I. AM. SOVEREIGN.

Energy discharges started flowing from the Throne Mechanicum’s electroencephalic connectors into the Princep’s brain. A chorus of unintelligible voices faded in, seemingly creeping out from the back of his mind.

YOU. WILL. BRING. ME. TO. OUR. ENEMIES.

His Knight was unrelenting but the newly appeared chorus had become gradually clearer. Amidst their whispers, Nefo heard ghostly yet familiar voices softly speaking in unisson.

“Tune Him out”

-I know, I know! Nefo replied in the apparent loneliness of his cockpit. WE. SHALL. INCINERATE.

He is angrier than usual. WE. SHALL. OBLITERATE.

Many individual voices talked over each other for a short moment but Nefo managed to make out a few sentences out of the ghostly chaos : “You call that angry?” “You haven’t seen angry, lad.” “I’d call that eager, at most?” Nefo could swear he also heard some manic laughter in the background. Probably the ghosts of the pilots turned mad by the machine spirit, or those responsible for the machine’s spirit ill temper, depending on which part of the family lore one is enclined to believe.

“Focus on me now.” said the voice of his grandfather, who had also been his preceptor when he was but a squire in waiting of his becoming ritual.

“Tune Him out.” the spectral voice repeated.

INCINERATE. OBLITERATE. INCINERATE. OBLITERATE. INCINERATE. OBLITERATE.

Nefo weakly grabbed the motion-control sticks and exhaled loudly.

“We’ve done this countless of times.”

added the memory imprint belonging to his father.

-I know.

INCINERATE. OBLITERATE. INCINERATE. OBLITERATE. INCINERATE. OBLITERATE. INCINERATE. OBLITERATE. INCINERATE. OBLITERATE.

Nefo closed his eyes and consciously slowed down his breathing. From within his own mentalscape, he pictured a door opening. The door was so small, it could hardly let an insect through. The door flung open and brought a light into the darkness of his mind. He pictured channeling everything the Throne was feeding him through that narrow passage. As he focused on this point within his mind, the overhelming input of Sovereign Fury’s Machin Spirit trying to dominate Nefo’s brain was being slowly filtered out.

INCINERATE. OBLITERATE. INCIRATE. OBLIRATE. INRTE. OBLTRTE.

He kept his eyes closed and his mind focused on the bright dot within until the knight’s voice became but a constant hum.

INSSSS. BLLLL. IUHMMMM. BHMMMMM. MMMMM.

It is done. He is within me. I feel his needs, his desires. I will heed them, feed them : we will incinerate, we will obliterate, but it is I who holds the reigns of our Sovereign Fury once more.

The Sarrokkæn Family Branches

Each branch is lead by a Baron (or Baroness) Prime who is also part of the Princep's Exalted Court. Traditionally, the role of a Baron(ess) Prime received in court stays within the same branch. Some changes may occur, but some roles are inherently linked to certain families, for instance, the role of Forgemaster has been within the Highgate branch since time immemorial, while the Princeps of House Sarrokkæn has been stemming from Deepgarden for at least 6 millenia.

Deepgarden (Baroness Prime Gesunna, Lady of Deepgarden — Mistress of Justice)

Dimwall (Baron Prime Rikken, Lord of Dimwall — Broadhailer)

Downspire (Baron Prime Nidar, Lord of Downspire — Master Tactician)

Highgate (Baron Prime Weralt, Lord of Highgate — Forgemaster)

Tornash (Baron Prime Agleizo, Lord of Tornash — Loremaster)

Outwark* (Baron Prime Hagus, Lord of Outwark — Gatekeeper)

*The Knights of Outwark are currently on deploiment off-world, fighting wars for the Imperium, bringing glory to themselves and to House Sarrokkæn.

Breakdown of Sarrokkæn Knight numbers by pattern.

There are roughly 300 full-fledged Knights within the household, making it a high-tier Secundus-grade house. In these numbers, the smaller Armiger chassis reserved for Squires and Vindices (veteran/retired milites employed as bodyguards) are not counted. They amount for roughly an additional hundred war machines.

Traces of House Sarrokkæn history can be found in its organisation. Azoria originally counted several Knightly Houses of which The Sarrokkæn were the most influential. This influence ultimately lead to their absorbing the other smaller houses.

This was done through an alliance which fought for a better treatment by the newly-arrived planetary ruler, the Adeptus Mechanicus. Arrangements and compromises were made between the houses, among which was the construction of a fortress-city and the abandonment of all previous titles in favour of a “branch-name” to honour the memory of incorporated Households.

The names of the original noble families never were passed down in records. If they were through oral tradition, these names never were uttered again. Similarily, which branch had stemmed from the first Sarrokkæns was never disclosed.

There are however hints, that can, if not point to the right branch, at least help winnow the branches to a few plausible candidates.

One of these hints lies in the repartition of Knights through the branches. Open-records state that after the Communion of the Houses, the Warmachines were more fairly distributed among the branches. But if the rearrangement was made to be fairer, it wasn’t done equitably in the strictest sense of the term.

Some postulate that the repartition might be indication of a particular House’s original strength and influence over Azoria’s pre-Adeptus Mechanicus past. If the theory seems to hold water, there is actually no way of knowing if the Sarrokkæn, first of their name, hadn’t forseen this eventuality and chosen to forsake their former strength in an effort to make the past harder to decipher for further-away generations.

Hereunder you will find a breakdown of the Knights of House Sarrokkæn by family-branch and chasis type (including additional Armiger counts for the sake of thoroughness). It is important to note that House Sarrokkæn also possess three Acastus suits (two Porphyrion and one Asterius) which are kept deep within The Obsidian Keep's vaults. These suits are not assigned to any particular branch of the Sarrokkæn House and do not have designated pilots. The Acastus suits are considered a collective heirloom and would only be fielded under the most dire of situations.

Deepgarden (branch of Princeps Nefo and Mistress of Justice Gesunna) Questoris-Pattern : 62 Dominus-Pattern : 8 Cerastus-Pattern : 5 Armiger-Pattern : 36 Total : 75 (+36)

Dimwall (Baron Prime Rikken, Lord of Dimwall — Broadhailer) Questoris-Pattern : 26 Dominus-Pattern : 4 Cerastus-Pattern : 2 Armiger-Pattern : 16 Total : 32(+16)

Downspire (Baron Prime Nidar, Lord of Downspire — Master Tactician) Questoris-Pattern : 44 Dominus-Pattern : 6 Cerastus-Pattern : 0 Armiger-Pattern : 26 Total : 50(+26)

Highgate (Baron Prime Weralt, Lord of Highgate — Forgemaster) Questoris-Pattern : 57 Dominus-Pattern : 8 Cerastus-Pattern : 6 Armiger-Pattern : 32 Total : 71 (+32)

Tornash (Baron Prime Agleizo, Lord of Tornash — Loremaster) Questoris-Pattern : 38 Dominus-Pattern : 4 Cerastus-Pattern : 0 Armiger-Pattern : 24 Total : 42 (+24)

Outwark* (Baron Prime Hagus, Lord of Outwark — Gatekeeper) Questoris-Pattern : 32 Dominus-Pattern : 3 Cerastus-Pattern : 0 Armiger-Pattern : 16 Total : 35 (+16)

This breakdown shows that the Highgate and Deepgarden branches both hold the largest pools of Knight armours while the Outwark and Dimwall branches currently hold the smallest amount of Knights.

It is however hard to come to definitive conclusions as historically, the Knights of Highgate have been affected to the protection of the Principality and the Free Territories, as the Highgate branch can be traced to the families most invested in the design and construction of the Obsidian Keep and its subterranean network of tunnels and caves know as The Burrows.

As for Deepgarden, it is the branch of the current Princeps and a fluctuation of the number of Knights into the service of the ruling branch is a known phenomenon.

Moreover, the recent records of each branch show a slower, natural fluctuation of their strength according to inter-branch betrothal, births, number of members actually being knighted, etc.

[iturbide]

Spite Project: Oooo that’s fascinating, using Kostas as a decoy is really clever. One of my favorite part of GD&BL team ups are character interactions! Any unexpected friendships? Culture clashes? Anything the Alliance kids unexpectedly unite on? Maybe similarities and differences between how the Kingdom and the Alliance see Knighthood? On one hand, the factional Alliance doesn’t have a king to bow to. On the other hand, Gwendel was more than willing to kill Dimitri on his lord’s orders... 1/2

I’m really glad you’re enjoying these concepts so much I just need fix-it AUs and golden routes because the canon endings leave much to be desired

Let it never be said that Miklan is a fool.  He’s a man who managed to wreak havoc in the Kingdom, steal a Relic after getting disowned, and hold Conand Tower well enough that the Knights of Seiros had to be dispatched to deal with him.  He’s very capable, and his downfall really came down to the fact that he stole the Lance of Ruin and used it enough that it overwhelmed him.

There are always fun chances for character interactions and sharing when we throw the kids from different classes together, though!  One of my favorites is and always has been Claude and Annette: I love their supports and how Claude opens up about bits of his Almyran heritage to her (even if he doesn’t put the name to it), and the fact that he makes up an extra verse to her song because he liked it so much has always been really sweet to me.  They fall back into friendship like they were never apart, and Annie is as excited to see him as she is to see Dimitri.  I also love Marianne and Dimitri’s interactions, and considering how both of them are on somewhat more solid (if still somewhat shaky) ground in this particular AU, they have a lot they can relate on and a lot to talk about -- plus hanging out together gives both of them some downtime when so many of their friends are so much more energetic. 

The game missed out on a lot of friendship opportunities, though, just like it did points of contention.  Mercedes and Lysithea might start off on rocky footing, but Mercedes knows the value of taking a break and might be able to teach Lysithea how to do so, especially when sweets are involved: she has a very sisterly presence, and given how both of them lost their families, I think there’s a lot of potential in their unexplored relationship.  Same for Ashe and Lysithea: both are avid readers, but of very different topics, and Lysithea learning to appreciate reading for pleasure instead of just for academic pursuits (while also helping Ashe with his studies when he gets stuck) is a nice thought.  I also think that Leonie and Ingrid have the potential to develop an intense sort of rivalry, since both of them are very rigid in their thinking but have some intensely conflicting views. 

The biggest clash in views on knighthood is absolutely between Ingrid and Claude, though.  The Alliance generally has a somewhat more lenient view on knighthood as a concept: it’s a job, and treated as such.  The Kingdom, meanwhile, has a highly romanticized view of knighthood, as evidenced by Ingrid and Ashe’s views on the subject; however, while Ashe has a solid grasp on reality (having resorted to theft in order to ensure his family’s survival, then lost his adopted father by order of the archbishop), he maintains his optimism and intends to comport himself as he believes a knight should, to become a paragon of knightly virtue that people can rely on...while Ingrid forces her belief of what a knight should be onto others who dare claim that they intend to become one.

The conflict actually begins brewing during the Academy Phase, hingeing entirely on Ingrid’s exacting specifications of What Makes a Knight and the Indispensable Nature of Honor: she sees Claude’s reliance on schemes as the proof that he’s a bad leader and a dishonorable person, and feels his behavior needs to be corrected if he’s ever going to amount to anything.  Claude doesn’t usually feel like fighting her and either feigns an excuse to get away from her or just does something to make her get off his back, much like he does when he goes out looking for Dimitri rather than staying back and coordinating their group efforts the way he had been initially. 

(It only gets worse once the War Phase starts and everyone shows up at the monastery, because Dimitri doesn’t stop to think that maybe saying he spent the last four years with Claude is not going to go over well with certain people -- after that she’s out for Claude’s blood; it eventually results in Dimitri having to not only order her to knock it off but give her a public dressing down followed by a private reality check.)

Honestly, there are so many unique and interesting relationships among these kids, I would end up writing more of a novel than I already have if I went into all of them.  Suffice to say there’s a lot there.

For Pre-Timeskip, though...Flayn’s presence has a somewhat hilarious story behind it. 

See, she wasn’t informed about the plan to leave Garreg Mach.  Edelgard left her out specifically: since Claude and Dimitri were only looking to make sure their own classes were fully accounted for, and Byleth trusted their numbers, Flayn got left behind.  They eventually find out that Edelgard intentionally didn’t call her to the all-House meeting, which just deepens their disapproval for a while, but it’s also too late to do anything about it, so they just have to move ahead toward Fhirdiad, since Claude recommends going there first: Dimitri’s now 18, so he can assume the throne and offer them all asylum with his newly vested power, so it makes sense to go with the surest thing; the terrain, too, will work in their favor, given Faerghus’ infamously hostile weather and terrain.

Unfortunately for everyone, though, this backfires a little: without the whole “Imperials attack and Byleth gets apparently crushed/knocked over a cliff” thing throwing them into a five year coma, their body starts going through some pretty drastic changes associated with their newly unlocked power post-merge.  Basically they start scaling out like a dragon, and dragons really don’t do well in cold regions because scales are sucky insulators.  Claude gets put in charge of Byleth through the last leg of the journey since he has experience with wyverns, and Claude is smart enough to know that while he can definitely perform triage in this situation, he is not equipped to handle this.

So as soon as they actually get to Fhirdiad, Claude’s first move is to write a ton of letters: to his parents, his grandfather, Judith, Holst, other heads of the major Alliance heads of house, family of the other Alliance kids...and one, secretly, to Garreg Mach, addressed to Flayn.  He tells the messenger specifically to wait at the monastery because the person it’s addressed to will probably be sending something back, and then he just sits back to wait.

Said messenger does, indeed, go to Garreg Mach and delivers the letter to Flayn personally, and she tears straight into it as soon as she realizes it’s from Claude, since she’s been worried sick about this whole situation (having been unaware of Rhea’s plans or what drove the professor and her classmates away).  Of course, he coded the letter so that even if Seteth took it, he wouldn’t be able to get the real message, but he left a hint for Flayn that directs her to Claude’s room -- specifically to the ciphers he had to leave behind when they fled.  She decodes the letter, which essentially says “the professor’s kind of turning into a dragon and I have no idea what to do, please send something to help,” and decides that the absolute best thing she can send to help is...herself!  So she goes to the messenger with her little travel cloak and some supplies and asks them to take her to the Kingdom, and...well, Claude did say that the recipient would send something back, so...they just kind of shrug and roll with it.

Claude did not actually expect her to send herself to deal with this.  He did not prepare for this, and Edelgard is less than thrilled when she sees Flayn in the castle, which naturally results in the two of them bickering while Dimitri wisely decides not to get involved and instead gives Flayn a tour of the castle while Claude smooths this whole thing out as best he can (and he even gets to be smug when Flayn manages to sort things out, because ha see it was a good call).

...Flayn did not actually inform Seteth that she was leaving, and in fact only left a note that she was going to help the professor without saying where she was going.  Yes, Seteth is absolutely beside himself, easily as out of his mind over Flayn’s disappearance as as Rhea is over losing Byleth.

As for Edelgard questioning her convictions...honestly, she hasn’t really taken the time to listen to her fellow Black Eagles during her time as House Leader.  Once she’s pressed into revealing what sent them away from the monastery and realizes that her fellow Eagles are not in her corner, she has no choice but to try to engage with them -- and Dorothea is the one who is most hurt by this.  Not the most traumatized (that’s Bernie, hands down), but the one who’s most betrayed.  And while she normally makes a show of playing nice with most people -- she is an actress, after all, and as the only real commoner in the entire Black Eagles house (since Petra is a princess in Brigid -- this situation, and the fact that Edelgard’s been keeping so much from them all this time, which has now resulted in them having to flee potentially for their lives with no advance warning whatsoever...she can’t take it.  It’s the last straw.  And much like it’s Lin’s snapping on her in their supports that makes Edelgard finally take notice, it’s Dorothea breaking that forces the princess to open her eyes and see the devastating harm she’s done to her fellow students.  She still has a lot of self-reflecting to do and a lot of apologies to make, but it’s a pivotal moment on what’s been a long and arduous journey, since she has to face consequences of her choice -- not just with her fellow House Leaders and professor, but with those she thought of as her unfailing allies.