#like it would make him choosing to expose the Inquisitor and himself in the process more impactful in the end too.

[helenofblackthorns]

intermission grief but it's Charles arriving in Alicante & like brushing off the Inquisitor to speak to his Aunt and Uncle, to tell them that Christopher, little Kit, is dead. where he finally chooses family over politics, because even though he could take charge of the situation and be the one who informs the Clave what happened in London, he doesn't. he leaves it to Martin Wentworth or someone like him, because the more important thing is family, that they heard it from him, not apart of some political brief.

[chiclet-go-boom]

point of impact 3

Later he tells himself it’s because he was exhausted. Stuff like this just doesn’t happen to him, he’s better than that. Outside of some really spectacular stunts, Varric Tethras simply doesn’t lose his footing for any reason short of something collapsing out underneath him - and even then it’s a dice roll he often wins.

And hadn’t he dodged every attack that Blight be damned giant had thrown? Every single one, including the first that none of them had even seen coming because he’s just that good. He’d rolled, unhooked, loaded Bianca, shot a complete salvo and all of it from zero to a dead run while the clearing they’d stepped into was rapidly being made wider with each swipe from a club the size of a tree because it was a tree. How the hell they’d managed to stumble over something that big without hearing it first defied comprehension.

And not once had he tripped on anything. Not roots, not rocks, nothing. Even with the ground quakes as the thing had tried to squash either the Seeker or the Herald the easy way, peering myopically at the quick moving targets under its feet, he hadn’t missed a beat. He’d been particularly proud of the tight cluster of bolts he’d managed to plant in the monster’s knee that had brought it to down to, if not eye level, at least less mountain-versus-completely-startled-ants.

So losing his balance backwards as a rock had shifted under his foot while climbing the bank of the shallow river ford, working their painful way back to last evening’s campsite was completely uncalled for. He’d windmilled but hadn’t been able to save himself.

And worse yet, the Inquisitor had burst out laughing.

He’d sat up spluttering and cursing, three quarters of the way to being actually angry only to be greeted by the sight of the Herald of Andraste nearly doubled over and clutching a spindling tree that was in no way equipped to deal with it. And the water was cold, damn it, up over his waist as he’d sprawled there on his ass glaring at her and the Herald was still laughing as if it was the funniest thing she’d seen since Maker knows when. Higher up the bank the Seeker was staring down at both of them with a faintly disapproving look, her shield arm pressed her to belly to keep it stable while they walked, her dark braid trailing miserably over her shoulder just like a snake trying to find a spot of warmth to curl up in and suddenly he was laughing too because the whole damned day was just that flavor of absurd.

The sound of Dorian sloshing up behind him muttering “If you people are quite done,” hadn’t helped either.

-----------------------

He tells himself it’s because he has to clean Bianca thoroughly that he’s taking his time stripping her apart. And it’s true, he’s not lying. Between the water and the mud and the hours that have passed since she took her bath, he needs to make sure everything is in good working order so he’s in no hurry to finish, peeling her down methodically, automatically.

Across the campfire, he’s watching the Inquisitor help the Seeker with her hair. It’s damn near domestic.

Wide legged on the sagging tree trunk that probably fell sometime during the last Age, the Inquisitor has the other warrior wedged below her, Cassandra’s back against the support as she gets the debris calmly picked out of her hair. Down to her padded tunic and leggings with her shield arm poulticed and bandaged to help with the bruises and strain, the Seeker might almost look relaxed if it wasn’t for the scowl still compressed between her eyebrows.

“Careful, Seeker,” he throws out. “Don’t want it to freeze that way.”

“If I want your opinion, Varric,” is the reply after a moment, “I will give it to you.”

The Inquisitor snorts before he can, pale fingers moving delicately through the black tufts. Catch, release. Catch, release. Varric puts another set of interlocked gears to the side and squints into the chambered groove left behind. He reaches without looking for the rag he has set aside.

He knows the Seeker is discomfited that she can’t do it herself, can’t lift her arm that far until the potion and the salve do their work and yet it’s still somewhat endearing to watch. The Herald is as blond as the Seeker is dark and the contrast is interesting in the twilight that will very quickly be true darkness. Everyone is tired and he can see it on their faces, drowsy with heat and the last remnants of ebbing fear. Dorian has already retired to a tent after having eaten his portion of stew, saying something about last watch, but they’d all seen his hands trembling. Nobody had been stupid enough to mention it. The mage had pulled a crap ton of fire out of seemingly nowhere in those first desperate seconds.

Cassandra sighs and tilts her head to the side, a small sound as the Herald starts to unwind her braid finally, dragging her fingers through it to remove the snags. A piece of wood chooses that moment to snap sharply.

“Maker, but that feels good,” she says. “Thank you for this.”

“It’s no problem. I spent a couple of weeks once with enough sand in my hair to build a small castle with.” The warrior’s voice is amused. “I would have tossed Dorian to the blood mages if somebody had promised me a comb and a bath.” The Inquisitor’s voice is low enough but Varric still looks over at the tents. There’s no answering rebuttal however so Dorian is probably already asleep.

“I know how you feel,” says Cassandra. “I keep my hair short for that reason but it is still a nuisance.”

“I gotta ask, Seeker,” he says without considering it first, his fingers busy along with, apparently, his mouth. “Why do you keep any of it long at all?” He waves at hand at nothing in particular, the rag suspended in it. “This has got to happen a bunch to you.”

The sound the Seeker makes isn’t exactly a growl but it’s hard to classify what it is, really, other than condescending. “It is functional.”

The Herald’s fingers have the braid half apart, fingers splitting the long length of it from tip to scalp. The dark trail reaches nearly to Cassandra’s breast with the kinked waves picking up the firelight in patches. Varric looks down at his crossbow and tries to remember where he was with it. Cassandra’s hair looks surprisingly tactile, it’s almost as if he can feel it running over his fingers instead. He wipes down the stock of the wood to push the sensation away.

“I have to say, I don’t see how,” he replies. Surprisingly it’s the Herald that answers.

“Padding.” She picks out a few more twigs, a small leaf, eyeing them critically before flicking them into the fire. “Helmets never fit right unless they’re specifically hammered to you - and even then they don’t fit right. Doesn’t matter what they’re lined with, or what you stuff ‘em with either, there’s always something that presses in the wrong spot. Wearing braids gives some extra cushion, distributes the weight around.”

“Huh,” he says. “Never thought of that.”

“Most don’t,” says Cassandra, “which is unfortunate since a bad fitting helmet is a trial. Braids should be more in fashion than they are.”

“Well,” Varric says, “we can always slip a note to the Orlesians for next season, there’s still time. Start a trend. Maybe rake in some royalties and pay off Big Nasty into an early retirement.”

A frown for his levity flashes across Cassandra’s face but the Herald simply laughs. “Ponytails are good too if they’re long enough to wind up top, if a bit more slippy. Or you know, you can just skip the helmet thing altogether and hope you’re fast.” She winks at Varric even as her rough fingers start to rebraid Cassandra’s hair, pulling gently.

Varric quells a flash of odd disappointment. With her hair down, the Seeker had looked different somehow, just that little bit less severe and he was kind of liking it. It doesn’t help that her temple is now resting on the Herald’s knee with her eyes half closed, exposing the long line of her neck.

“Also,” says Cassandra unexpectedly, “it is personal.”

Varric blinks. “Oh?”

The Seeker shifts, as if already regretting her words but her voice is measured across the fire. “When I was a little girl, my hair was entirely braids. It is - was - very Nevarran. I do not know if it is still in vogue. They were down to my waist and very heavy and I did not enjoy them. When I joined the Seekers I cut them all off as soon as I could. It was very freeing.”

And damn him, he can almost see it. Little Lady Cassandra rises in his mind’s eye, black glossy braids down her back, ribbons in them maybe. Red maybe, or sapphire - no, definitely cobalt blue, and probably satin. Did somebody ever pull her by them? He imagines a hand tugging on her hair, burying itself in the dark mass of it and he swallows dryly for no reason he can name.

But the Seeker thankfully isn’t privvy to what’s in his head, her own nose wrinkling softly at what is obviously a distant memory. “Yet I found that as I grew older, I thought of myself sometimes as I was then, when I was not always a Seeker or so deeply involved in Chantry politics or carrying out the will of Most Holy. So I grew out enough hair for a braid, to remind me of times when the worst I had to fear was being scolded for a muddy dress. It is...a comfort to remember that the world can still have those moments.”

“So functionally personal.” He clears his throat, staring down without really seeing anything, fingers lifting out another piece without his mind having to be involved in the process. “I gotta say Seeker, that’s very you.”

“It is, I suppose,” she agrees without discernible inflection. The fire pops again, settling and the Herald continues, bent over her fingers as the plait continues weaving itself.

It is the work of moments and the braid is finished and coiled on the Seeker’s head, back in its accustomed place and the Seeker is just the Seeker again, a woman with a scarred face and a weary expression.

“And on that note, I’m to bed,” says the Herald, groaning as she stands. She offers a forearm to Cassandra who accepts awkwardly on her good side, suffering herself to be hauled to her feet. “Cassandra?”

“I, also, if that is okay. Varric, you are good with first watch?”

He waves a broad hand. “Sleep well, ladies. I’ll keep the bears and giants and various bugs entertained awhile longer.”

He watches as they disappear into the tent they share, the flap falling behind them. He looks down at Bianca, cradled in his arms, half undressed as she is, her pieces gleaming.

“Just you and me now, sweetheart.” He bends to his work and tries really hard not to think about anything at all except where caked mud might still be wedged.

[theharellan]

♛♟ and ♝!

Dragon Age Positivity Meme | Not Accepting

♛ your favourite da:o minor character

This probably doesn’t come as a surprise for people who follow my multimuse, but I’m very fond of Gorim Saelac, probably better known as the guy who shouts about Fine Dwarven Crafts. But anyone who has done the Aeducan origin (which was my first playthrough) might better know him as your Second and the origin’s potential love interest if you’re playing f!Aeducan.

You honestly don’t have very long with him, but I think Daniel Erickson did a great job with him in a small amount of time. That origin in general is by far my favourite, and I feel slots in very neatly with the overall plot of DA:O, what with you having been a commander with experience fighting Darkspawn it’s easy to see why Duncan wants you to join up and why taking over from Alistair might even be more logical. But I digress. I really love Gorim because while his loyalty is more or less what defines his limited screen time, there is a fair amount of nuance and he conveys a lot of the issues with the dwarven caste system, especially if you’re in a romance with him. Here you have someone from a well-respected family whom many people believe ought to be noble himself, but it’s his caste that holds him back, not his merit.

When you reunite with him again in Denerim, it’s clear that his fall and his forced retirement from the warrior lifestyle has had a clear effect on his self-worth, as has his exile. At the end of the game he’s eager to return to Orzammar and try to begin again, having never adjusted to a lifestyle completely alien to what he was “supposed to do” and beneath an alien sun. I wish I could recruit him along the lines of Bodhan and Sandal and just have him on the journey because I think he would’ve fit in well with the Origins companions. Gorim has past experience that would inform his opinion on assassins like Zevran, fellow dwarven warriors like Oghren, and Sten, who also was picked for his role rather than it being something he picked himself, and who struggles with self-worth when he fails to live up to the standards his society sets for warriors. He’d also offer an interesting perspective on mage issues, it being something he had no exposure to, as well as Chantry teachings.

Anyway that’s why I started writing him. He defined my first DA:O experience and was one of the reasons I immediately was drawn into the game right away, even if his role was small.

♟ your favourite da2 minor character

DA2′s strongest asset is probably it’s sidequests tbh as evidenced by the fact that I put a few names here and tried to settle on one. I was specifically torn between Ketojan, Orana, and Feynriel. I think I have to go with Ketojan, but of the three Feynriel has the most complete arc and Orana is just someone I want good things with.

Ketojan puts a face and name to lore introduced in DA:O. Sten talking about how the Qun treats mages it one thing, it’s another seeing it, you know? A recurring issue qunari characters face is an inability to live up to expectations, be it Sten losing his sword and therefore his soul, Iron Bull being unable to put the Qun before his loved ones or being uneasy with the prospect of invasion, Tallis opting for non-violent methods over violence and trying to protect innocents, but then you have Ketojan, who wanted nothing more than to live by the Qun. Which demanded his death. In a way it demonstrates how the Qun punishes even those who want nothing but to abide by it, through apparently no fault of their own, as it doesn’t seem Ketojan escaped.

But also it shows how the Chantry is no better? Petrice is just as guilty of treating Ketojan like a thing, a chess piece to move around for her own gain. He’s dehumanised by most everyone around him and his feelings aren’t taken into account by anyone except potentially Hawke, who I think can ask if he actually wants this, it’s all just assumed for him.

I do wish there was a way for Ketojan to have chosen a different path and ended up with Hawke or Tal-Vashoth. But I am glad we have Bull in DA:I to demonstrate what leaving the Qun looks like and the unlearning process one might have to go through.

♝ your favourite da:i minor character

Again, it’s hard to say. I love Dagna and Harding, Krem is an obvious choice, Abelas is another, also Calpernia, and I actually really like Mother Giselle, although I get why people also don’t like her. Idk what it is about DA:I that gets me attached to like, that one namely Chantry Sister in Haven who sleeps with Iron Bull, over Teagan. But there you have it.

I think I’ll go with Valta, but I say that knowing I could talk about her or any one of the above. I just know the angle I’m going to ramble about for a second about why I like her and why I think she fits well with the themes DA:I goes for. All Dragon Age games like their misfit companions, but I think DA:I more than the others goes the extra mile in making many companions have complimentary or contrasting themes. Like the some companions, Valta is someone who is not accepted by others of her people both by choice and the nature of her actions. Inquisition is also a game where oftentimes uncomfortable truths are dredged to the surface, such as the nature of the Seekers, the bloody history of Elvhenan, Ameridan’s entire existence, or the Chantry’s role in the supposed unprovoked assault on Red Crossing. Truths the Inquisitor can literally bury if they so choose.

Valta is a continuation of that, being someone who refused to alter history to suit the king, and who seeks out history so lost that Orzammar wouldn’t know to bury it if they wanted to. Idk if you could tell from my love of Merrill and Solas, but I really like characters whose motivations are informed by understanding history, even the bad bits, and in the case of Solas and Valta, exposing the corruption inherent in the keeping of history. Honestly I’d probably write Valta if I wasn’t hoping other people would, as I am with every dwarf because I want to write with every dwarf.

She’s also just a nice person who went out of her way to protect a “dead man’s” family and despite her connection with the Titan changing her somewhat, you still get that sense. Renn’s body wasn’t forgotten, nor are the dwarves sundered from the Titans.

Also I like her because she introduced a lot of dwarf lore and I’m a big fan of that.

[kurtty-drabbles]

Amalgverse au (part 2?)

N/A: This is a cute idea. I want to make clear is Kitty not dumb, she is not accustomed to this environment but she is not dumb. I really don´t want to make Kitty into a born sexy yesterday. She does not know anything on the TV and media´s business but she is not dumb.

@djinmer4 @dannybagpipesarecalling

The Gotham News is famous for many things, one of them is the sheer amount of technology for each of their program or their needs. The Studio is a clear example of this equipped with the best resources to make each show in the TV channel(Gotham News has the news and the talk show for now as their primarily shows but there talk in expanded) and the show You´re wrong is a fine example of many things.

Many interns would have a similar reaction. Working in the New Gotham´s studio is a place where they can be closer of their dreams of being a professional.

Kitty Pryde is looking at the extended lines and cameras with childlike awe as she noticed the lines, the lights and people working in each little detail. Kurt Ryder is watching her, such glee in the eyes is not uncommon, many would feel this way when getting the chance to work here.

Of course, Kurt is not that arrogant to think the attention is for him or that he is the best in the entire world, however, even the newest interns never show not even a fraction of the same emotion as Kitty is giving so freely.

Ryder thought about Jessica Jones, a woman sent by their rival company to spy on them, she was...not a good actress to say the least and they manage to change the tidel in their rival´s schemes by giving Jessica false information.

But...something on Kitty does not seem to belong to a spy. Especially as she didn´t even question about the plans of the show or any other program linked to Gotham News.

"Miss Pryde" Ryder calls her out and her eyes are shinning in fascination with the different lights being throw, or she is the best actress or...there´s something really fishy going on.

"I want to discuss the schedule with you" Ryder offers still analysing her moves.  She is acting more and more like someone that never put a foot in a TV studio and this makes the situation even more mysterious.

Her doe eyes look at him and as much she is really cute Ryder won´t let his guard down until he gets the full story.

"Schedule?" Kitty asked tittling her head to the side slightly and showing a clear signal of confusion.

"For the show, do you know anything about ''you´re wrong''?" Kurt asked expecting any answer at this point. Kitty, surprising the man once again, only shakes her head.

"Is your show, you can do whatever you want, right?" the question is made with uncertainty as now she is bitting her bottom lip and maybe she can pick up some social cue and a few clues that this is not the typical answer. Ryder plays along.

"I wish, no, the idea is to reveal all the secrets my interviewee are hiding and expose the truth to the public" Ryder explained feeling proud of said explanation and by extension, himself.

Kitty claps her hands together as if now she understands the situation, and her eyes show a fierce determination and Ryder wishes it wasn´t that cute as it can be extremely hard to focus.

"You´re an inquisitor" Kitty explained now calmly and Ryder knows people compare him with many things, such as : evil Dr Phil, if Voldemort has a talk show , if Snape has a talk show, if Sauron has a talk show and his favourite don´t ever come to this show thinking you can deceive Ryder or you´ll make company to the devil.

(The last one seems way too dark for his like but sometimes, such reputation helps in his case, sometimes)

Now, Inquisitor is a new one. What´s caught his attention(aside from the comparison) is how that´s was the first thing that pops in her mind. No one mentions the inquisition, except the ones who joke with the famous line of Mounty Pynton.

Yet, she makes this comparison as if something natural...for her. For where she comes from. Ryder put this in his mind and proceeds as nothing happens.

"An Inquisitor? how so?" Kurt Ryder asks calmly not giving any negative emotion nor how craving for information the man is.

"Oh, Inquisitors do this, they have to extract the truth from people, and my old job was to protect people from any interference" now Kitty´s eyes widen and she is bitting the nail of her thumb, realizing that this is not a proper response for the cover and then smiles (the corner of her lip shiver slightly and Kurt is paying attention to everything) "fool you, I mean, inquisitors aren´t normal for us, mere citizen of this lovely city, you´re wrong, so...what I should do?"

She is making this too easy. But Ryder has no clue on what´s her endgame is.

"Well, J.J.Perry hire you too quickly, Bertha was the responsible for the light" Ryder points at the camera and notice her awe again, like a child that never saw such thing in her entire life "but the editing can wait, I suppose as your first day, you can chat with the interns and get the ropes of the situation"

Kitty nods and then asks looking determined.

"Can we put tons of different lights with this machine?" Kitty asked and Ryder knows this is really fishy.

"I hope not, as tons of light in the camera means no one will watch us, which will be a bad thing for the show" Ryder explained and Kitty nods saying there´s a moderate number of lights to use(not wrong) and she´ll do her best.

One last test, to see what´s her intention(a spy?)

"Today, I ´ll interview James Patrick, the man is allegedly accused of stealing tons of money from the health care to rich his pockets" and the said man has several friends who got rich in the process at the expenses of others.

Kitty frown at Kurt and now her hands are completely relaxed.

"What a nasty fellow. Those who steal must deal with the consequences" Kitty explained in a more serious tone and Kurt nods.

"The man even says something absurd every week, last time, the man said he saw the headless knight walking freely by the city at the night" now Kitty´s eyes are wide again, her lips are in a thin line, as her hands are in the famous opening and closening.

"Yeah, what absurd thing, where he said he saw the headless knight?" Kitty speaks trying(and failing) to be natural.

"On the residence of Chestnur" Ryder explained and Kitty nods and thanks him as she is about to leave, Kurt having a good idea of his own strength and how people perceive certain scenes, gently touch the sleeve of Kitty´s shirt gaining her attention.

"Where we are going? The show is there, I may need your help after you " now the man whisper on her ear "you did the famous Canadian-Australian ''you´re right'' and I´m always up for new points of view" Ryder smiles at her and notice she does not use perfume.

(but her smell is too unique. No woman in the city wears such scent. She is not from here, that´s a given at this point)

_________________________

The situation of the headless knight was dealt in Chestnur with easy as the knight himself appears to be really lost as Kitty feels sometimes in this new place. A nice talk and the man was back to his dimension, someone summons him by accident and the man was rumoured ever since.

(And she also dealt with the summoner of the knight and that person won´t do careless summon in the future)

Now, she has one last thing to do for the night. She must deal with the troll in the Grace Park´s garden. Which has a few problems and one of them is that Kitty has no idea where the place is.

"Ah, I shouldn´t have accepted this promotion" Kitty used to her own distorted voice thanks to the magical fedora and spells as right now Kitty is looking at a map that is not helping her case "Ok, I´m here and I need to go there...."

"No, actually, you are there and you need to be here" Nightcreeper shows up doing a pose that Kitty has no idea of what´s all about, however, due to the man wearing little to nothing, Kitty has no time or desire to guess what the pose is.

"Nightcreeper" her voice is tentative as she is afraid she got the name wrong and the lunatic only giggled maniacally as a reply "What are you doing here? Is the JLX is trying to meddle with magical affairs?" there´s a dark tone in her voice and Kitty knows she can take down at least half of the members and can cause serious damage to the rest and if the worst comes by, the council has no problem in resorting to extermination.

(Come to think of, is a bit ironic they choose Kitty to a job that basically ensures the peace among magical communities and humans as they see no problem in extermination. Then again, sometimes, sacrifices must be made but...she hopes the JLX gets the memo and don´t start meddling)

A green fuzzy hand is waving in front of her face snapping Kitty back to reality.

"Lost in thoughts, Kinder" Nightcreeper speaks don´t mind the dark tone or the subtle implication. Nightcreeper is too insane to follow a magical guardian and Kitty wonders why? "I was just doing my patrol" Kitty, having her identity hide, seems bemused by the explanation and somehow she has the feeling Nightcreeper seems to get and is amused.

"Are you trying to go to Grace Park´s garden?" Nightcreeper asks and Kitty didn´t reply, how did he know? "you are going on the wrong way" the lunatic giggles and point to the other side "the garden is there"

Oh, Kitty is chewing the nail of her thumb again and Nightcteeper seems amused by this gesture.

"You´re so cute" Nightcreeper speaks cooing at her and Kitty would say how she is not cute, maybe using a non-lethal but scary spell when then the lunatic speaks again "it makes me want to watch the show you´re right"

This makes the woman stops on her tracks and the lunatic laughs, the makes a proposition.

"Let me take you to the garden, I´m not breaking any rule here as I´m merely taking you to the Garden, whatever happens there it happens" Nightcreeper suggested and Kitty thought for a moment.

"Are you not afraid of magic? Why help me?"

"You´re lost and I´m the gallant hero who will escort the brave magical guardian to her destination" Nightcreeper replied and Kitty ends up accepting the deal.

_________________________

The garden is really pretty but sadly, Kitty is not here to enjoy the garden. Nightcreeper is jumping and bouncing like an energetic child.

"Shush, be quiet, he knows we are here" Kitty explained and Nightcreeper just smiles widely now.

Kitty walks near a bridge and chants a few words and suddenly, a huge troll shows up destroying part of the bridge and looks in a foul mood.

"I´m Butch" the troll replied. "I´m a troll"

"Hi, I would ever guess, my turn? Ok, I´m Constantine and you´re in a serious problem" Kitty explained and Kurt can even see her smiling at the big troll, smiling in victory as she is about to do something.

(So relaxed and in control, way different than in the TV studios)

The troll seems afraid for a moment, the name Constantine obviously has some weight, but, Butch immediately calms down and tries to attack Kitty. Which, of course, it was a terrible idea.

Nightcreeper teleports Kitty out before his huge fist could have caused any damage.

"Magical guardian, ok, does not mean I want you to be a pancake" Nightcreeper explained already imagine the expression on her face.

"Nightcreeper, trust on me, I´m the Constantine for a very good reason" Kitty speaks and phasing from his embrace the woman goes back to where Butch is.

Kitty uses one finger in her hands creating a golden line. Butch tries to step away, run, anything, but it´s was useless.

"Wait, I´m the son of the great Jim, the king of trolls, you can´t touch me, I have diplomatic immunity" his tone is desperate as the man is walking causing more damage to the garden.

"Yeah, but according to the laws of the troll´s state, no troll will harm a human or be on a human´s territory, you violate two of those rules and who do you think to ask to put an end on this?" Kitty speaks as now Butch realizes he is in the circle of the golden line as Kitty controlling the circle starts to erase Butch, the troll.

The troll is no more.

No words are needed as Kitty starts using magic to restore the garden, however, Nightcreeper waves at Kitty.

"There´s someone here" Nightcreeper points to a woman who is far too scared who is under the bridge tied up, it was not all the bridge that was destroyed, only the support, so the woman is fine.

A survivor never crossed into her mind during this whole exchange.

Kitty goes to the woman who is crying in fear.

"Is ok, is over, This is Nightcreeper he is a hero from the JLX and I´m a magical guardian, the Constantine" Kitty speaks and the woman didn´t move. "Are you in pain? I can help you, we can help"

Now the woman rose her eyes to her saviours and only speak in a low tone.

"That monster wanted to eat me, how can I live my life now?"

Kitty has no idea. Survivors are hardly on her mind(usually there are no survivors)

Nightcreeper then speaks gathering their attention.

"Live well and longer which is something that troll won´t do ever again." Nightcreeper gives this as an answer and the woman accept, for the lack of better term, this as an answer.

Healing the woman and send her where she will be safer was a night that Kitty did plan. To be fair, lately, nothing is what she expected.

Nightcreeper can see how she is sad(can imagine her doe eyes looking down, her lips shiver slightly as her hands are out of his view)  and is never the one to let sadness win any battle.

"Hey, magischer Wächter" Nightcreeper speaks poking her shoulder to get her attention like the real lunatic he is "are you hungry?"

"Food, now?" Kitty asked feeling confused and a bit angry, how can she think of food after what she saw.

"Yes, because you won´t accomplish nothing by looking sorry for yourself or for that woman, I know that sometimes even I can´t save everyone" Nightcreeper now stops poking her shoulder. "All you can do is try your best to save the others, you can´t change what this woman went through, however, because of you she is alive and that´s something to celebrate with churros"

Kitty can´t help by chuckle a little. This man is crazy.

"I don´t know where we can eat churros" Kitty replied.

"The horror, I know we can eat, and I can show you the city next time as you won´t look so lost"

"I feel like you want to be my partner in this crusade"

"Nah, I feel like we work together already"

"You´re crazy"

"You´re right"

Kitty accepts his offer to eat churros, the other is still being debated. The man is crazy enough to deal with her job, but, Constantine always works alone. Then again, maybe a change of pace can be good(uhm, as long the JLX does not meddle in the missions...why not?)

[the-house-of-the-nine]

In Depths Below: Reunions Part 2

.....continued.....

[ L.K ]   “You...”. He said as he tried to finish her sentence. “You hesitated..you what?”.

Lazarius shifted his stance and slowly turned to peer back at her. “Keep going.” he said with a firm voice. “Admittedly I’m not just sitting here trying to fuel your ego and boost your self esteem. But it’s true.”. He nodded and sipped his wine.

“Youre my tenth apprentice. Only Sennaris and another have ever completed and lived through the rigors and trials.”  As he looked about he would point toward her with the glass. “But why. You’ve never fully embraced the lifestyle of murder and mayhem...though you are prominently better than most at it. But you could learn from anyone, yet you choose me. .I suppose I am just thankful...grateful...it means a lot that you are but I think I need you more than you know..”

[ Z.A ]   “I…” Zalra repeated, her accented tone echoing with that signature, resounding darkness. “I’m not quite sure what I was going to say.” she lied. “It was…er…all kind of…uhm…stumble.” Gods, she was terrible at this. Well, only in front of Lazarius; it was hard to lie in front of someone she cared about. Now that thought brought more blush rushing to her cheeks.

“Your tenth apprentice?” she breathed, trying to change the subject; which was most likely futile with the Inquisitor’s demeanor and need to know. “I’m…surprised…that so many had perished in your teachings…”

“You’ve never fully embraced the lifestyle of murder and mayhem...though you are prominently better than most at it.”

She winced. Visibly. Her illuminated faze fell from Lazarius back to her drink; studying the still red liquid with an unreadable expression. “I…at one time…I might have…somewhat…” she whispered. Biting her lip, she sighed.

“I’ve never told you much about…that…” In fact, it was never disclosed. The murder and mayhem she temporarily threw herself into years past. There was a pause as she mulled over Lazarius’ next string of concerns. Of incredulous thoughts and shock that it was possible someone like her could be so loyal by his side.

“I assume you have had…a lot of betrayal then…haven’t you?” Was that a sore assumption? Yikes. “Sometimes I just…find myself having…strong feelings towards you…I just…I don’t know what I’m doing…”

[ L.K ]   “Betrayal is a difficult word to place in a situation such as this, meaning between master and apprentice...between student and teacher...between lord and subordinates...”. He nodded and moved his hand outward as it tease the window pane.

“There have been many who I’ve lost to their own desires thus ‘betraying’ me...though I can’t fault them... the act of getting ahead often burns and scorns those you leave in your wake. Others were a direct violation of trust, so yes...there has been a lot of betrayal.” He turned as her words grew more personal though, looking at her with a confused glance.

“Feelings for someone...such as myself is a risky, and dangerous game to be playing. You are better off simply longing for the individual moments. Long for the times we shared, and aim yourself toward claiming more. Long for the evenings spent intertwined in steamy embraces, thrills and pleasure and the reason behind them. Long for the talks and lectures and training. And above all... long to keep them in your future. But do not pine for me. Simply keep those thoughts in mind and inevitably we will be together.”. He smiled and moved himself toward her.

“I would be lying if I told you there was no attraction sexual or intellectual. You’re beautiful. You’re interesting and bring out a lighter side that I very seldom allow out. You are special to me Zalra, that there is no doubt. ”. His hand traced her jawline when he reached only inches from her, standing there with his head cocked to the side glancing down with those swirling black pools.

[ Z.A ]   As Lazarius turned to face her, his expression of confusion made her freeze in her spot. Why did she say that? Why couldn’t she just keep her mouth shut? This was a conversation they had discussed before during their agreements towards boundaries during their intimate moments.

Embarrassment crept up on her like slow, dripping molasses as she turned to finish off her wine; the crack growing further when she placed the glass roughly against the countertop.

“I’m sorry…” she found herself whispering, and unable to return the Inquisitor’s gaze. “I…shouldn’t have said anything. I never intend to make anything…awkward between us…” It was relieving at the very least to hear his continued words; to listen to compliments dance upon his cold lips and the admission to more than sexual desire towards her.

That was at least one concern checked off for her. She would lean her cheek into his hand as he so gently ran his fingers across her jawline. However, in the same breath, he discouraged her from pursuing these thoughts. Perhaps, it was for the best.

“Lazarius…” she murmured, finally meeting those deep eyes of his, “I wouldn’t be here if…I didn’t think you were…important to me, either. But, there is so much about me that I want to tell you about…and I wonder if it would change those opinions you have of me.”

[ L.K ]   “Let me be clear...” He said slowly opening his arms to her. She could, in all but a slowly glance, take in his open robe exposing every last inch of that Adonis form he kept. Despite the tattoos, lashings, scars and runes. The pale ashen flesh mixed with the cold black ink of darkness. His under shorts the only thing clinging to his last bit of shame, tightly and clad in only the sheer cloth.

“Claim me. Adore me. Desire and long for me. But do not...and I repeat , do not not confuse admiration...and the act of longing, for love. Love is foolish. It leads to jealousy. It leads to modest acts of stupidity and foolish things that you otherwise would never do. When we are together...I am yours. Is that clear enough?”. He said still standing there for her pleasure.

“Mind, body, soul...when we are alone, when this time has been claimed by you...I am yours to keep and do with what you please.”

With that being said so very clear so as to avoid her confusion and fear of whether she could or could not act on feelings, he would nod to her. “Anything you say, past or present, will not change this. We made a pact. Honor it and there are no reasons for me to think less of you. Please feel free to speak honestly to me about anything.”

[ Z.A ]   Lazarius’ words once more, caused her to wince as her shame continued to churn painfully in her gut. With as much energy as she could muster at that moment, Zalra hid these expressions from the man; merely looking up at him with a listening gaze.

“Crystal clear.” She responded softly. Her bright, violet eyes trailed from Lazarius’ gaunt face to his lithe body, glancing at every mark upon his pale, translucent skin with usual fascination. She would lean forward to brush the tips of her fingers across one of his most prominent scars upon his form. A small sigh left her lips.

“Do you know this because you have loved once?” she asked, quietly. Carefully. A feeling that she was sure she had never felt before.

[ L.K ]   He nodded his head slowly.

“Zalra I was once married to a woman who betrayed every fiber of my being. Mentally manipulated me, drugged and took advantage of me...tried to topple my order.”. He shook his head. “I loved my Mistress more than myself, she raised me, she nurtured me and cared for me. And she was taken away.”. He would reach up and place his hand over her hand as she touched his chest and the most prominent of scars that ran from his clavicle to his navel.

“Romantic love is tricky, it causes an attachment that is very unbreakable. Just be happy knowing that the here and now is ours. Love that, love the time...love our moments.”

[ Z.A ] Oh he was previously married. Now that was news. And despite the truth ringing in his tone, Zalra was still skeptical. It was not that she did not believe him, no, it was merely shocking to think of a man so disgusted about the concept of love to be betrothed to another. But, then again, everything started to make sense. If at least a little bit. More guilt twisted within the Ren’dorei’s chest. “I’m…sorry…” she whispered. As his hand rested atop hers, her gaze lifted from his marred skin. She stared intensely into those swirling, endless black pools before letting out a complacent sigh.

Of course, here she sat telling him feelings might be developing, but the sense of love was lost on her. Ironic. Maybe it would be forever lost on her. And that thought always brought a numbing, neutral feeling to her core. “Before I speak…” she murmured, “I have another question. What would you do…to survive? Would you do anything?”

[ L.K ]    His swirling eyes peered up at her and smirked.  

“Anything?”. He couldn’t help but laugh at her question. “Zalra...dear do you understand the question you’re asking and who you’re asking?”.

He continued to chuckle into his next sentence. “My survival is equal to none. I make sure that I survive no matter what the cost and whom I crush in the process. That speaks true for any of those I care for and those within our order. I will do what is necessary to ensure our survival, at any cost. If you would like the gory details of what atrocities I have committed I could list them. But I have told you that in order to silence the whispers... I have transported them to an alternate dimension in the mind of a Lazarius that suffers the fate of eleven others that previously failed to meet my needs. I have killed over a dozen versions of myself across time and space. In order to survive, my dear...”.

His hand continued to hold her own as he hit the nail on the head, and yet felt no remorse or change in his usual scowl when stating the truth of his actions.

[ Z.A ]  “Anything…” she whispered in response, unable to take her eyes away from his.

Lazarius began to disclose but one of his presumably many actions to ensure survival for himself, and reminded her once more of the power in his grasp. It was intimidating. Intoxicating. She was envious of what he was capable of but wary of all he suffered to get there. And despite hearing this previously, it still jarred Zalra to think about the pile of dead Lazarius’ across time and space. She winced softly, knowing it was now her turn as indirectly promised once her question was answered. -

“I…” she began, her usual nervous demeanor apparent. “I was a…p-prisoner before the Scourge came to…destroy our home—er---Quel’thalas.”

It pained her to refer to the elven country as her home, and her expression gave this away clearly to the Inquisitor. “P-Prisoner to t-trolls.” She took a deep, steady breath. “When I escaped…with nothing b-but rags…I fled s-south through Lordaeron…through what is now…the Plaguelands.” She shuttered.

“Undead at e-every turn…I h-had nothing to defend myself. Nothing to eat. I was starving I…refused to die.” Another pause. “So, I happened across a dwarf…in the s-same situation as me. However, he had supplies I needed. I killed him for it…”

Now it was time for the pièce de résistance. “In…m-my desperation…I thought my luck had changed but…he too…did not have enough rations. And…I had no choice. I was going to die…I…had to…consu—eat---I--” Regret immediately blinded her senses as her hand slipped from Lazarius’s chest.

[ L.K ]   “You consumed the flesh of a being. Meat is meat Zalra. Survival is that in itself a complex and calculated chain of events that allows the best and brightest of the species to thrive while the others...wither away and thin the heard.”. He smiled as the same hand gave her a gentle pat.

“I knew I had picked right.”. He laughed at the thought that choice was even an option. “It is time you begin to embrace these actions previously thought to be forbidden. Granted I would say cannibalism of any species should be looked down upon..I would not encourage such things but... you need to begin the thought process of just accepting the darkness and allow your true self to shine...no limiting your actions because of fear.”

[ Z.A ]   Zalra immediately tore her gaze from the man to glance at her shaking fingers. She was not expecting words of acceptance, nor was she prepared to want them. It was jarring. Confusing. Subconsciously she almost wanted Lazarius to take back his comments; to suddenly begin to mutter his disgust. It would have made more sense that way. But, this was the reality of reaction, and she found herself unable to grasp what was said to her entirely. “You…picked…right?”

Finally, her voice escaped her dark lips. Accept the darkness and allow her true self to shine? What a concept. One Zalra knew was going to be a struggle despite finally telling someone of one of her most haunting experiences. The other…with the trolls…she did not go into detail with. Even with Lazarius. She bit the inside of her cheek before stepping closer to the man, closing the remaining distance between them. With that, she wrapped her arms around the Inquisitor, hugging him tightly while her face buried into his chest.

[ L.K ]   “I didn’t just choose you at random to come here Zalra.”. He said as she turned and wrapped her arms around him. As she hugged tightly he too returned the admiration with his own wrapped arms resting on the back of her spine.

“I observed for awhile. The void spoke to me. I had Kross follow you, Brox keep tabs on you. The randomness of our meeting was intended to be your choice but...I had a feeling from what I learned that it would be too enticing to not wander in. And when you did, I could reveal to you. I chose right.”

[ Z.A ]   “No?” Zalra questioned, as he reminded her that this trip was not a random, spur of the moment decision. Nor, was their meeting. “Are you saying that…you had Kross and Brox investigate me even before we met?”

This...she was unaware of. If her inquiry proved to be true, her stomach churned thinking about the whispers of the void leading such an influential figure that was Lazarius, to a fledgling Ren’dorei such as herself. It only further confirmed the man’s comments about her potential. Her growing power that continued to impress him; even now.

[ L.K ]   The next sentence was something a bit more personal. “Do not let yourself be held back by thinking you’re anything less, you are a powerful creature. My little voided monster...you have come so far and I know that together we will accomplish everything we have set our minds to. Thank you Zalra.”. He kissed the top of her head and turned to rest his cheek on it.

[ Z.A ]    When the pet names started to bubble past Lazarius’ lips, her mind drifted briefly away from her curious mindset. Instead, her heart skipped a beat, as her freckled cheeks flushed deeper. Following the mood that floated upon his compliments, Zalra leaned back slightly to regard his face once more. Her slender fingers brushed against his jawline before her palms rested on both of his thin cheeks.

[ L.K ]   Of course he would welcome her touch. And he allowed her to take the lead as she saw fit for this little exploration of hers. It was not often that Lazarius relinquished power to anyone, but given this experiment of their bodies melding in a sort of ways, he allowed her to. In fact he did find it even more attractive when she acted on her own. “You are quite fetching when motivated to take control, I like this.”

[ Z.A ]   Zalra allowed for a brief giggle to bubble at the base of her throat, before she too, ended the kiss prematurely. "You do, do you?"

Grateful for the segway into another, more positive conversation and demeanor, Zalra smiled warmly at the man. Her hands still resting delicately against his cheeks. "Perhaps I'll try more often, then."

Of course, she was nervous beyond all hell. She placed a quick kiss upon his chin before gliding her soft, cool lips across to his jawline. Then his cheek. And, if he allowed, she finished these playful travels by placing another against Lazarius' neck. "But," she began, her warm breath purposefully brushing against his neck, "My initiatives are always filled with unbearable teasing.~"

[ L.K ]   “Well if you are going to get anything past torturing yourself with teasing you better very well step up your game.”. His neck was turned to allow her access to it, his black eyes focused on the snow beginning to fall outside. Lazarius grinned, how he loved the attention. But more importantly he enjoyed her scent.

Small little breathes would be pulled inward as she got close, close enough for him to pick up on the subtle tones she wore on her flesh. Her hair, her clothing, and most importantly her voided aura.

“Aggressive women usually win me over.”. He started as he chortled softly onto her hair with his face being hidden. “My ex wife was most horrible when it came to aggression. I don’t think I’ve met a woman who could hold my dominance and return it so well.”.

[ Z.A ]   Her painted lips brushed up the curve of his neck, allowing for only her warm breath to caress his skin. Step her teasing game up? This was a challenge she could get behind; especially if it brought her thoughts away from her morally questionable past mentioned just moments ago. Once her breath caught his attention, she would merely place the most delicate of kisses upon his shoulder, before taking a step back.

Her fingers trailed slowly down his arms as she did so. “Not surprising.” She whispered, her half-lidded gaze flicking back to focus on Lazarius. “Tell me more about her.” She requested. “And other things that win you over.” As soon as that question left the Ren’dorei’s lips, she walked over to the wine bottle, pouring herself another glass.

[ L.K ]   “I would not wish to speak of her. She was a vile and wretched woman who was the most horrid when it came to anything but sex. She was manipulating, corrupt and self centered And her desires and needs were only sated when she was having her attention cast on everyone around her. She was a whore for dramatic pity and used that to her advantage. A miserable, disgusting shrew of a woman. And it was my one regret marrying and trusting her.”. He frowned instantly at the thought of her. “Forgive me...she was never someone I loved... she... confused me greatly into believing I did.” - He would follow in suit and snatch the bottle from her. It was placed to his lips and he began to drink directly from it.

[ Z.A ]   Zalra winced softly at Lazarius’ quick retort and shut down of her invasive inquiry. This would be unsurprising to virtually anyone as secrets and painful topics should not be prodded into this depth; especially after hearing more than enough from the Inquisitor himself. Even then it should have been clear how much he was unwilling to repeat himself; or go deeper.

But, for the Ren’dorei, she was more frustrated than anything. Why did she continue to pry about someone who should have no meaning to her?

“Right…” she breathed.

Without even placing the wine bottle onto the counter, she reached for her own glass with her free and chugged her entire cup. Though, before she was able to pour herself another glass, Lazarius quickly caught the bottle. He placed it to his lips instantly to take a considerable swig which caused Zalra to let out a slurred, bubble of charming laughter. A strange noise to break the awkward silence, but, hopefully a good one. “Well, fuck then.”

She exhaled, feeling the alcohol start to make its presence known. “Fuck the bad feelings and let’s put this cabin to good use, hm? What do you want to do? Something relaxing? Or, are we going to compete on who can down an entire bottle faster?”

[ L.K ]   “Zalra, this is your night. I brought you here for your pleasure.”. He placed his glass down and slowly made his way toward her. There was a relationship here. He was the teacher and she was the student , he was the lord of the manor and she a protector. He ran the order....and she served. But he slowly bent at the waist and knelt before her.

“It is not often we get the chance for leisure. And even more rare are our moments together. What can I do for you?”. He peered up at her with those black swirling eyes. “I miss our time together...I miss you at home...I miss you beside me and training you in the art of the void... since you’ve been away...I...”.

He halted. A breathe hitched in his throat. “How shall I serve you tonight Zalra?”

[ Z.A ]   When Lazarius knelt before her, she ran her fingers softly through his hair; gently scratching her nails against his scalp. She leaned forward to place a lingering kiss atop his forehead. “I miss you more than I would like to admit; bashful, you know.” Her fingers ran through his hair once more as she straightened her posture.

“First order of business then,” she stated with a teasing voice returning to her, “What’s that cute present all about on the counter?

[ L.K ]   “Wouldn't be very exciting if I went through all of this trouble to bring you hear, procure a gift and wrap it so beautifully...and then have me spoil it by telling you what it is...”. He slowly stood and moved toward then indicated item in question, a deft hand would slide toward and grasp it in order to slide it her way.

“Truth be told Kross wrapped it...I’m absolutely horrible at such things.”. Lazarius caught himself laughing slightly at the notion and used the goblet and wine to cover his embarrassment as he took a sip.

“Open it , it is for you after all.” - Lazarius leaned back and placed his rear on the counter top just for support in his lower lumbar region. He eyed her carefully and was certain she would like the gift, but possibly not , he was always rather keen on reading her but then again Zalra was a curious creature. Best intentions forward he would hope she could understand the deeper meaning of his affections. Gift giving and was not his greatest strength.

[ Z.A ]   Zalra giggled once more as that warm grin was flashed Lazarius’ way. “How come that doesn’t surprise me?” she teased, “The mighty Inquisitor’s only weakness…ribbon and wrapping parchment.~”

Lazarius had eventually set the nearly empty bottle of wine down, she would absentmindedly pull it towards her. She would take a purposeful swig from the bottle before turning her attention with mild surprise as the gift was slid across the counter. Oh, so the present was for her!

She had assumed previously, but until now did not have the courage to ask about it. A humbled expression changed her demeanor as she hesitantly plucked the present from the counter, to begin unwrapping it upon her lap. “I’m sure whatever it is, it’s lovely.” She murmured under her breath; too focused on trying to neatly pull the wrapping paper off.

[ L.K ]   She was consistent with her unwrapping of the gift, after the ribbon was removed there would be a small bit of resistance keeping the box sealed; mainly just the pressure of the air gap pressed between both pieces of top and bottom walls. If she had been able to pull them apart; let’s face it who lets a present get the better of them, she would find another obstacle, the tissue paper.

Once taken out the true prize would be revealed. Two items....

The first of which was a human skull. The bone was cleaned of flesh and a saw mark had been repaired around the circumference of the crown where the brain had been removed. It was beautifully restored, and aged with a dark tan and brown stain. But the true beauty of the design work was the knifed etching in the bone. Across the front and top Lazarius had painstaking carved a scene of a standing man with arms stretched out to both sides, wearing a robe and facing forward. In front of him was a crouching female with a hound at her side holding a spear and appearing to guard. This was in fact a depiction of the two of them.

The second item beside that was a gauntlet of sorts. A chain mail and plates glove with a heavy silver mythril element and gold filigree etched into it. The wrist was protected by a small dinner plate sized buckler shield which appeared to be made from some sort of armor that was foreign in make. What it actually was, was the compressed and smelted ,then reforged armor of the same man whose skull was in the box.

“These might...require some explaining. If I may indulge....you recall our time in Uldum? The... situation did not go as swimmingly as we had thought...but you stepped up. You speared the commanding officer who ... well may have ended my life and the life of my sister..” Lazarius lightly tapped the top of the skull with the blades edge of his clawed index finger.

“I wanted you to remember the first man you killed in my honor...in my defense. You have shown me countless times how loyal you truly are. You continue to amaze and astonish me. The buckler and gauntlet are his as well. I reforged them with the help of our crass dark iron Brox.”.  

At this point Lazarius had stolen the wine bottle back and proceeded to take a swig watching her. He would be silent to wait for her reaction.

[ Z.A ]   Zalra slowed her pace once she noticed the true simplicity of the gift box, and let out a mildly embarrassed snicker. It was still clear this was a woman who would never get used to receiving altruistic surprises. Not entirely a bad thing; it only meant that cute, innocent demeanor would never vanish in at least one aspect of the ever-changing Ren’dorei. What she didn’t expect to be waiting for her under the ebon parchment, however, was a skull. Was it…real?

Zalra’s mind started to spiral into its usual plethora of curious questions while her head visibly canted to the side. Her expression was unreadable as she slowly brushed her finger against the temple of the polished bone to physically study what she could before Lazarius began speaking; running her hand over the carving while he explained the choice in décor.

“You…” she breathed, “You went out of your way to celebrate my actions?” When those illuminated, violet eyes finally flickered up to the Inquisitor, her emotions were clear as day on her freckled face. It was of astonishment and appreciation. Even her smile wavered as absolute adoration for this man welled in her throat.

Turning back to the second half of her gift, she removed the gauntlet from the cranium and placed the skull gently on the island counter beside her. Another gasp of astonishment left her as the young Ren’dorei handled the armor like it were glass. “I love it. I love every bit of it.” She whispered, attempting to slide the gauntlet around her wrist. “Thank you so much, Lazarius. I…don’t know how to express my appreciation this is…the most thoughtful…” At a loss of words, now.

[ L.K ]   “It was quite an ordeal to procure it, keeping it hidden was easy enough but yes... celebrating your accomplishments are important.”. He would calmly watch her go about doing as she had, moving the skull aside, taking out the armor and the all.

The dark eyed man would lower his gaze and bow his head toward her. “I am pleased you appreciate it. It is important to remember everything about our history together.”

He thumbed the box as she continued to shy away and grow silent. “You should celebrate them as well .”

[ Z.A ]   Zalra’s smile continued to soften with gratitude for the man’s efforts and complimentary words. At least there was someone out there that praised her efforts genuinely, however, she was always shocked to hear Lazarius encourage her to develop her own self-confidence. Easier said than done, unfortunately. But, it was a step, right?

“It’s easy to tell that it was a strenuous gift,” she began, still admiring the ornate gauntlet and fashionable buckler, “Your care for me is clear.” Without a word of warning, Zalra reached towards the sash of Lazarius’ satin robe and attempted to tug him closer.

@zalraazurestar

.......continued Part 3........

[ladydracarysao3]

In Love, Serenity  

Chapter Sixteen: Thunder & Revelations

Chapter Summary Izzalea questions her silent, insolent scout, before finally making it to the stronghold that contains her enemies and stolen soldiers.

Note For the Abner fans out there, this one is a biggie. Enjoy!

[Read Chapter 16 on AO3]  or [Start from the Beginning]

-Izzalea-

She hates this place.

Izzalea truly hates this Maker forsaken bog. Ever since she arrived, it’s been days of rotting corpse after rotting, fucking corpse. They seem to attack at every turn. Merely touching the waters surrounding her crew, wakes the undead that are lying in wait within. They’ve tried to avoid the water as best as they can, but at times it has been impossible not to walk through it, in order to get across channels, or washed out and flooded areas.

And the smell… Maker… the smell. Izzalea fears that the disgusting scent of death and decay will never leave her skin. She is obviously cursed to forever permeate her surroundings with a gut wrenching, reeking stink, and causing all in her path to wretch as she passes. She groans to herself at the thought, her stomach tightens and flips. She knows it is irrational, but the horrendous smell of rotting death is driving her insane. She is desperate to leave this marsh behind. Leave this muck and filth forever. Her desperation in turn has made Izzalea more determined than ever to find the abducted soldiers and get them home.

Izzalea rolls her neck in an attempt to release the tension building within it. She stretches and pinches at her shoulders, secretly wishing they could be massaged by a big, strong, pair of hands. Like Cullen’s hands. A smile spreads on her lips as Izzalea leaves the wretchedness of the bog, however momentarily, to envision the beautiful and handsome face of her commander. She blissfully imagines how firm and calming his touch would be on her aching shoulders. Like magical medicine, his presence would ease all of her tension. All of her worry. All of her stress.

Izzalea is snapped back to reality due to a particularly loud clap of thunder. The sound makes her jump, a quick, sudden cold sweat shimmers on her skin. She is never this jumpy, her frayed mental state is obviously taking its toll on her. She inhales deeply to calm her nerves, missing those brief thoughts of tranquility.

There has been one continuous storm roaring over the Fallow Mire ever since they arrived. Everything is waterlogged, everything is awful. But she must bring her attention back to the mission. She needs to focus. Izzalea must successfully complete this task, and she needs the assassin’s secrets to do so.

They learned that Abner was somehow kin to the clan that has their men. However, she has been tight lipped and unapproachable since her secret was discovered. What little of it was discovered, anyway. Izzalea can’t even tell what the woman is thinking. Is she scared? Is she angry? Is she forming a plan? Is she thinking anything? How is Izzalea to know what-in-the-void is going on when Abner, her Avvar expert, refuses speak? She is growing increasingly annoyed, impatient with the scout’s insolent behavior. Izzalea is the Inquisitor, after all, why is she not more forthcoming?

Izzalea watches as Abner moves about camp. Silently, the assassin helps pack everything for the day’s journey. She watches her act as if nothing’s happened. Acting as if a bomb of ‘What the fuck’ didn’t just go off in front of everyone. They all have questions. Izzalea sees it in everyone’s eyes. Hawke currently sits on a boulder on the edge of camp, paying far more attention following Abner with a discerning stare, than he is to mending his robes that lie in his lap. Everyone has been watching her, wondering what her story really is. What does she know? How is she related to these people?

Izzalea’s perplexed curiosity on the subject of Abner’s origins has been eating away at her. Observing Abner incessantly, she notes her movements, scans her features, looks for clues, but alas, she has come up empty. Abner looks nothing like the Avvar. For one, they are enormous, if the shaman they met is any indication. Abner is so petite by comparison. Izzalea cannot see how the women of these people could possibly be so small and still produce men of that size. It is baffling. Impossible.

Another loud, jarring, crack of thunder makes Izzalea tense her shoulders again. She’s got to get out of this pit, soon.  Abner was sent here for a reason, she needs her to talk. Izzalea feels herself glare at the woman, her thoughts turning fiery. She will not have the reason for her being stuck in the misery wasted, just because Abner has specially guarded secrets.

The group is almost finished packing away camp, for hopefully the last time before they find the stronghold holding their enemy and their soldiers. Determined to know what she knows, Izzalea decides she has been kind to her scout for long enough. It is time for her to share everything she knows about the ‘Hand of Korth.’

Taking a deep breath Izzalea stands straighter and squares her shoulders. Marching over to Abner, she affixes her best Inquisitor face. Izzalea exudes seriousness and above all, authority. There is no time for sugar coating. “Alright, Abner. Tell me everything about Hand of Korth,” she says sternly as she stares into the young woman’s dark, impertinent eyes.

Abner is unmoved. Her eyes, mouth, and voice are all flat, unimpressed. “He’s an ass,” she says simply.

In no mood for the ‘run around’ from this woman, irritation seeps from Izzalea’s voice as she speaks through clenched teeth. “Would you mind expanding upon that, scout?” She sighs and crosses her arms. Acting as if she is annoyed that Izzalea is pulling rank on her. Why does she think she’s here?

Abner looks to be searching for the right words, or the information she will choose to share. “Okay…” she begins, her voice only moderately lifted, “He is one of the sons of Movran the Under. I doubt Movran has anything to do with this. He isn’t a bad guy, but his son is.”

She pauses a moment as she thinks of what to say. Scrunching her face, her eyes move rapidly in the distance, searching her mind. She sighs as if she is surrendering an inner struggle and looks at Izzalea with a saddened gaze. Izzalea’s chest drops Abner appears to have suffered a miserable loss. She softens her posture and waits for Abner to speak.

“Alright,” she begins with a sigh, slumping her shoulders forward slightly, defeated. “So… Ofred.”

“You mean, Hand of Korth?”

Narrowing her eyes, glaring with an intense frown, she clenches her fists. “No,” she corrects, “I will never call him that. His name is Ofred.” Abner loosens her fingers. Huffing a sigh of tension loose, she shakes a thought from her head. “So, here’s what you need to know. He is waiting for you, yeah? He won’t be waiting alone. He won’t fight with honor, either. That’s not his way. He will probably have archers posted all over the hold ready to make you a pin cushion.”

Izzalea nods and thoughtfully rubs her chin, gliding her gloved fingers over her mouth. Speaking through the leather with a concerned expression, she asks, “But why does he want me? Could he be working with Corypheus?”

“No,” she says plainly. The petite and willful scout takes a deep breath and stares up at Izzalea seriously. “Alright look… You believe that the Maker is the one true God, yeah? And Andraste is his bride? She fought for him and he rules everything?” Izzalea nods with a shrug as Abner continues, “Well, the Avvar don’t believe any of that. They believe that there are Gods in everything. The sky has a God, the forests have a God, the mountains have a God. That last one is who he named himself for, Korth - The Mountain-Father. Avvar regard the mountains highest in all things, so this twat is trying to say he is all high and mighty, too.

Where you come in, Inquisitor, is you have the title ‘Herald of Andraste’. That is very similar to his, but of the wrong beliefs. The wrong God. He scoffs at you and thinks he can prove to you, his Gods, his people, and your people, that you’re full of it… by killing you. He will then be reaffirmed as the Hand of Korth, and you will be nothing.” As she finishes she drops her gaze from Izalea and looks at the ground, kicking at it uncomfortably.

Izzalea chews on her lower lip. Squinting at nothing, she falls deep in thought, processing this new information. A crazy person wants to use her death as a message, and it has nothing to do with the real problems Thedas is in enthralled with currently. She should be focusing on Corypheus and his ever growing army. She should be focused on saving Thedas from a monster who wants to be a God, and burn her world to the ground. Instead, she is here. In a bog. Because some idiot wants to puff out his chest to his people. Izzalea quickly becomes consumed with irritation. He has disrupted the Inquisition for nothing more than his ego.

Placing her hands on her hips, Izzalea stares at Abner vehemently, “Alright, how do we stop him?”

Her eyes sparkle in the faintest way, and a smirk flashes across her face. “Let me handle him,” she says with a soft purr. “Have the mages control the archers, send Cole to dispatch as many of them as he can. I want to go in ahead of you. Keep Bull at your side and keep your shield up… and no matter what happens,” she glares a bloodthirsty glare, but not directed toward the Inquisitor. Instead, she stares off into the distance. “I want to be the one that gives that bastard his killing blow,” she says with all seriousness of a scorned woman.

Izzalea peers at the assassin, taken aback by her ferocious body language. Her jaw is set, she seems as if to be picturing the man, imagining herself killing him. Her breathing is heavy but slow. Her fists are clenched again, the leather on her open fingered gloves creak, the knuckles of exposed flesh glow white.

“Abner… How do you know this man? Are you Avvar?” Izzalea asks her hesitantly. She reaches out to the woman, to touch her shoulder in an attempt to retrieve her from her murderous thoughts. Abner snaps her eyes to Izzalea’s hand and backs away, returning her attention to packing camp.

Silently, she grabs her knapsack and readies her horse. Refusing to look at the Izzalea any longer. With cold, steely confidence, she says, “You have the information you need, Inquisitor. If it’s all the same to you, I’d like to keep that bit to myself.”

“Alright, Abner. Thank you for the information,” Izzalea responds, deciding to allow the woman some privacy, for now.  She leaves Abner’s side to ready her own horse.

--

“There are too many of them!” Solas calls out from the fray. He shoots a bolt of ice from is staff. It flies through the dark, wet air, sharply piercing into the skull of an undead horror. “We must make a run for the gates!”

Izzalea and her team explored and fought through the day, long into the night. It seems they have finally found the hold harboring the Avvar. However, the road to the gates is teaming with a never-ending mob of rotting, walking corpses. For every ten they kill, another fifteen seemingly spawn in their place. It is exhausting. At this rate, they will never make it to the captured soldiers. Izzalea cannot be so close to succeeding and fail now.

As loudly as her tired body can muster, which is just enough that they hear her over the roaring thunder and fighting, Izzalea cries out, “Everyone, run to the gates!”

Hawke flings a wall of fire behind them as they all race forward. They slam and shove past undead, only killing those they absolutely have to in order to advance. To Izzalea’s astonishment, as they make their mad dash, the gates of the keep’s battlements rise.

The Avvar have been watching them. They are ready.

They are waiting.

As soon as they arrive, stumbling, through the gates they begin to shut. The group kills a handful of undead that managed to follow them through, and then turn to face new enemies.

But no one is there.

Cautiously, Izzalea steps through the entry archway under the battlements, into the courtyard of the old, and until recently, long abandoned keep. She scans her eyes everywhere, looking for bodies or movement during flashes of lightning. The only constant light comes from the soft glow of the moon, softly illuminating the run-down keep through wild, whipping storm clouds.  Izzalea detects no one, nothing seems to move. She feels an eerie chill spark down her spine as she wonders where the Avvar are hiding.

“Where are they? The cowards!” Bull hollers and grunts in frustration, slamming his axe into a rotten wood crate. He howls a booming, growling sound into the thunder, “Cowards!”

“They wait. Inside. Come to us,” Cole mumbles ominously next to her. Izzalea silently calls upon the strength of the Maker, calls Andraste to her side.

She can do this.

Izzalea glares in the direction of the doors that lead inside of the keep, feeling a proud smirk bloom on her face. With all of the pent-up rage within her for having to be in the blasted keep in the first place, she cannot help but be pleased that she’s finally arrived. Bloodthirsty rage bubbles within her, excited to sink its teeth into her enemy. “Let’s not keep them waiting,” she grins wickedly. Gesturing toward the door, Izzalea looks confidently into the eyes of everyone in her party. With determination, she says, “Shall we?”

She leads the group to the door assertively, but cautiously. Her shield raised, her eyes scan every inch of their surroundings as she sees them. Solas refreshes a barrier over everyone as much as he is able, without greatly depleting his energy. They enter the keep and creep through its halls. It is damp, dark, and smells of rot and mold. The only light comes from the glow of the moon and the thundering lightning. As flashes flicker through windows, crumbled walls, and portions of missing roof slats, the white light gives them a glimpse of what surrounds them.

Izzalea’s guard on high alert, she waits for something to strike from hidden in the shadows. They turn down a large hallway where she can begin to see the glow of torches or braziers in the distance. This must be the way. The Hand of Korth must be waiting for her down this hallway.

Waiting in that room.

Abner creeps up beside her and murmurs softly, “Remember to keep your guard up, the mages will control the archers, Cole will silently take down who he can. Stand firmly and confidently. I will sneak my way behind him, through the shadows.” Izzalea nods in agreeance. She wonders how Abner can be sure as to how their enemy will trap them. She hopes Abner is right.

Almost to the end of the hall, they stand in front of what looks to be a throne room of some kind. That’s when Izzalea hears a man bellow from within, “Is that you, Herald of Andraste? Come to prove your worth?” He sounds menacing and large, voice deep and booming. But Izzalea is not afraid. Hand of Korth will not intimidate her.

“I am here,” she growls as she takes slow, calculated steps to the room’s entrance. Abner silently slips into the shadows and sneaks into the room. Feeling the soft static of a refreshed barrier Solas placed over around her, she steps past the threshold. They enter a large mezzanine, with steps reaching balconies of either side of the room. Balconies holding groups of archers, whose arrows are drawn… and pointed at her.

Straight ahead of her are a few grand stairs leading up to a dais. Large, broken and tattered windows line the wall behind it. They flash and rattle with every roll of thunder and lightning. Standing on the stage is a behemoth of a man. His body covered in red and white paint, animal furs, and torn leathers. His face partially covered by a red hood, small cut-outs for his eyes, a larger opening draped, exposing his nose down to his chin. Large, threatening, ram’s horns loom from either side of his head. He holds an equally menacing mace, the metal head of which is reminiscent of a two-headed beast.

Izzalea glares at the man confidently, priming her stance for attack. He may think he is intimidating, but she has faced dragons. He is nothing.

The man roars in foreboding laughter, “Good of you to come, Herald of Andraste. I’ve been expecting you.”

Izzalea wants to keep him talking, giving Abner enough time to sneak up behind him. She will try her best to allow Abner the honor of killing the man… if she can. She is ready for the alternative, if the need calls. “Where are my men, Hand of Korth. Have you injured them?” she asks, hatred dripping from her hardened, set jaw.

He chuckles and swings his mace indifferently, “They are safe… for now. But I am afraid upon your defeat, all will die.”

Izzalea snarls at the titan, “Perhaps we should fight with honor. One on one.” She gestures to the archers lining the balconies, “Call off your dogs and fight me like a man.” However, this monster deserves no honor.

Suddenly, an archer yells from the balcony, “Behind you!”

Korth swings his massive mace around violently, but misses Abner as she leaps backwards. He stands there, stunned momentarily upon seeing the woman, but then begins laughing. He holds his chest in great amusement, body shaking as each sound roars through him. He calls back to Izzalea over his shoulder, “Perhaps I should be thanking you, Herald of Andraste. It seems you have brought home my insolent and treacherous little wife.”

Stunned in silence, Izzalea is unsure of what to think. Did he just call her his wife?

Movement in her peripheral catches Izzalea’s attention, pulling a glance to the balcony on her left. With everyone’s eyes now on Korth and Abner, Cole is able to begin backstabbing, snapping necks, and  slicing throats of archers lining the left side of the room. With deadly accuracy, he silences each one, lightly eases their limp bodies to the floor without a sound. Izzalea snaps a look to the balcony on her right. Hawke and Solas have silenced the remaining archers, freezing them in place. Frozen still, waiting for Cole to send them to eternity as well.

No more warnings will be given to the distracted miscreant on the stage.

“I am not home to you, you foul bastard,” Abner growls between her teeth, a maelstrom of hatred swirls in her smoldering eyes. Body crouched in bloodlust, her blades drawn, ready to pounce on the man when given the opportunity. “I am here to kill you.”

The malevolent goliath of a man continues his looming laughter, “Oh, Abner, you always had such a mouth on you, my little half-ling princess. You never did respect the favor I bestowed on your tainted blood. You should have been pleased to have married a chieftain’s son.” Methodical, threatening, and malicious, he slowly paces towards her. Iron Bull and Izzalea gradually advance on him, approaching the dais, taking precautions to not make a sound in doing so.

“Because my love for you runs so deep, dear wife, I think I will keep you alive today. I will make you mine once again. And I promise you, my little half-breed bitch… the marriage will not be as amiable the second time, as it was the first.” He is growling at her, hunched forward, holding his mace as if he considers breaking her body first.

Abner screams in a bloodcurdling, murderous rage as she lunges at the man. Her action is far less calculated than Izzalea has come to expect from the assassin. She can only imagine that the fury within her has clouded all judgement. Izzalea panics for Abner’s safety and runs down the mezzanine toward the two, no longer concerned with the silence of her advance.

Izzalea is too late. Before she reaches the steps, Abner has leapt at him. He quickly responds with a colossal swing of his mace, connecting the head of his metal beast to her ribs. Upon contact her body is flung into the air, she soars backwards and lands limp on a pile of rubble with a broken thud. Izzalea is unsure if Abner is alive or dead. Her rage boils, surging through her. All she sees is red. Iron Bull booms with mountainous vigor, charging alongside Izzalea with the fury of a fiend.

Roaring with all of her might, Izzalea storms toward the monster. She slams her shield into the tough, large muscles of his back, the sharp, metal edges rip at his exposed flesh. These Avvar may be large, but they need more armor than paint, bones, and skins to protect their bodies from her.

The battle ensues with the speed of the lightning striking outside. An onslaught of screaming, bashing, striking, and parrying fills the cold, damp air. The Avvar spins while arcing his mace. Izzalea braces for the impact against her shield, calling upon all of her strength and training in becoming an impenetrable force. As his blow crashes into the strong metal between them, it sends shockwaves down her arm and into her shoulder. The pain is substantial, excruciating, but Izzalea is unmoved. A prideful, determined snarl spreads on Izzalea’s face.

Korth parries an attack from Bull’s axe at his flank, a distraction lasting just long enough for Izzalea to strike. She bares her teeth, screaming a guttural, primal sound as she lunges her sword forward. Piercing through his ribs, slicing through his flesh, the giant warrior’s blood sprays onto the front of her shield.

He howls in pain as he and Bull slam their weapons into each other again. The pain of his wound slows his skills, and he staggers back a few steps. Bull connects a blunt blow to the Avvar hard into the thick furs armoring his legs. Izzalea slices another deep swipe through his flesh, this time the cut spreads along his stomach. Their enemy stumbles rapidly backward, dazed and unable to breathe.

Bull and Izzalea creep in menacing pursuit, closing in on the bloodied, coughing, stunned form in front of them. Movement to her left captures Izzalea’s attention, as Abner is staggers toward the man as well. Izzalea motions to Iron Bull to halt his advance, allowing Abner her wish.

The Hand of Korth sputters and coughs thick blood. He sees Abner limping toward him, her long daggers in each hand. Blood drips from his lips as they curl into a sneering smile. He drops to his knees in front of her, spitting and gurgling. As he lands, Abner crosses her blades in front of her, slicing each one against his throat simultaneously.

Izzalea steals a glance behind them, to ensure the rest of her team is okay. She finds that there are no more archers, living, anyway. Solas, Cole, and Hawke stand in the middle of the mezzanine, watching Abner in astounded silence. Izzalea shivers with a sense of relief seeing that they are unharmed, and that the fight is over. They have won. Resuming her attention back to Abner, Izzalea witnesses the Avvar man slumped on the floor, dead, his blood quickly coating the stone below his body. Red and white pigments of his war paint mix with the deep, dark red of his blood, swirling together in a pool of death.

No one speaks in the hall, the only sounds echoing against the cold, wet stone are that of the ever-roaring storm. Abner stands completely and perfectly still, silently staring at the corpse lying at her feet. Izzalea worries about how badly Abner had been hurt. She had been limping and the blow she took was substantial. Nervous for her wellbeing, she softly calls out to her, “Abner…”

Slowly, Abner turns to face her. She is covered in the blood of her… husband. Her entire face, neck, and chest are glistening, soaked in gore.  Her face is flat and emotionless. Her eyes are black and empty. She treads slow, jagged footfalls up the stage, walking past Izzalea to descend the steps, down to the mezzanine. Izzalea reaches out to her, but is ignored. She grows more and more concerned with not only Abner’s physical wellbeing, but her mental wellbeing, as well.

She staggers and trips on the stairs, toppling limply down to the base. Solas and Hawke surge toward her. “Lay her flat on her back,” Solas orders Hawke as he grabs healing potions from his pack.

Izzalea slowly approaches the scene. Overcome with worry about the woman she barely knows, her chest feels tight and heavy. Will she be okay? Even if she lives through this, did the Inquisition push her too far? Will her mind heal? Izzalea watches sullenly, while trying to also allow space for the mages to work.

Solas tips her head and aids her in drinking a potion. Hawke lightly touches her ribs, through her light armor, where the mace impacted her body. She screams a heart breaking, reverberating cry and recoils at his touch.

“Will she be alright, Solas?” Izzalea asks in a hushed tone. Her shoulders slump, she slowly eases into a crouched, sitting position on the steps. Her eyes never leave the young woman sprawled out on the stone floor. Abner’s breaths are heavy and labored. Her face cringes with each inhale.

“Yes. But she will need to take care for a few days.” He looks at Izzalea earnestly, but she stares blankly at the scout. “Inquisitor… do not forget why we came.”

Izzalea slowly lifts her gaze to Solas, eyes blinking. What is he talking about? Abner needs help. He scowls when she doesn’t speak or move, “The soldiers, Inquisitor. You must find the soldiers. I will heal Abner’s injuries, but you must go.”

Right. The soldiers. Solas is right. Izzalea shakes the daze from her mind and looks for Cole. He is beside her, because… of course he is… “Cole,” she says softly, voice croaking, “Do you know where they are?”

“Yes, they are close. Follow.” Cole says and rises to his feet. Izzalea mimics his movements, trailing behind the spirit as they exit the throne room. Bull rests a hand on Izzalea’s shoulder, striding beside her. She looks up at him as he gives her a sad, but encouraging, smile.

They follow Cole through the hallways as he senses the presence of their trapped people. Izzalea’s mind is buzzing with worry and exhaustion, a whirling dervish of emotion. What happened in there? What happened in Abner’s life? Are the soldiers okay? Will Izzalea be able to safely get everyone back to Skyhold? She is so very tired. Her senses fried from this entire experience.

She rolls her neck and stretches her shoulders again, an attempt to relax at least a small amount before the discovery of her men. They need to see her as a strong force, not a nervous and fatigued fool. Finally, they reach a locked door. Cole kneels in front of the lock while producing a small set of picks from his belt. He works the lock deftly until Izzalea hears a click.

The most beautiful and wonderful sounding click Izzalea has ever heard. She exhales a sigh of relief as she hears the voices of her people murmur through the door. Izzalea stands firmly, smiling while Cole opens the door and she sees their lost soldiers inside.

“Inquisitor!” one man exclaims upon seeing her face. Izzalea steps into the room, scanning over everyone to check on their wellbeing. At first look, they seem little rough, but very much alive. And that is lovely sight to see. She inhales deeply, releasing the days of worry she had accumulated within her muscles. Izzalea beams warmly at the Inquisition forces in the room.

“See, I told you she would come,” a woman announces proudly to the others.

If only for a fleeting moment, Izzalea shares in her pride.