#like she owns platemail

[hellotherepaul]

Girl help

I asked my mom what to get her girlfriend for Christmas and she suggested lesbian fanart and some ships

Either drawing katradora or griddlehawk

[waitineedaname]

Lan Fan had known about Winry’s exuberant love of automail. She had not quite been prepared for that attention to be laser-focused on her with a delighted squeal. “Look at the plating!” Winry exclaimed, eyes practically sparkling as she admired Lan Fan’s arm. “The way they slide together so that the armor doesn’t limit your mobility! Oh, wow.” 

Lan Fan went slightly pink, unused to this kind of attention. “The engineer tried to keep my profession in mind when they designed it. It’s modeled after Xingese platemail.”

“Amazing.” Winry turned her adoring attention to the elbow joint. “Ed says you have a knife attachment too.”

Lan Fan nodded. “Be careful, I don’t want to cut you with it.” Winry withdrew her hands, and with a swift motion, Lan Fan flicked the blade out of the elbow joint. Winry practically shrieked with joy.

“I can’t believe it’s retractable! And so smoothly!” Winry carefully ran her hands around the base of the blade where it was deployed from. 

“I have to oil it regularly,” Lan Fan told her, extending her arm so Winry could examine the underside of it. 

“That makes sense. That’s a given with any automail, especially ones that experience the kind of strenuous use you’d be putting yours under. Ed never oils his enough,” she added with a sigh, though her exasperation didn’t last long. “Do you just have the one blade or can you swap it out?”

“Would that be possible? Multiple attachments?” Lan Fan asked, eyes wide. Winry clutched her arm, a determined sparkle in her eyes.

“Lan Fan. You have to let me make you new knives. Give me a week, and I’ll have all sorts of new blades for you.”

Well, Lan Fan wasn’t going to turn down an offer to make her more dangerous. “Okay,” she said, nodding. Winry clapped her hands happily, clearly resisting the urge to squeal again.

“How’s your port?” she asked, back to examining her arm. Lan Fan knew the scarring at her shoulder was unpleasant to look at, but Winry was a professional and saw scarred automail ports for a living. “Does it get sore?”

Lan Fan winced. “I did not give it enough time to heal when I first got it,” she admitted. “The nerves were definitely damaged. But physical therapy and alkahestry has helped.”

“Alkahestry, huh?” Winry tapped on her chin, contemplative for a moment. “I wonder if I can get Mei’s help with improving physical therapy… Hm…” Winry shook herself out of her thoughts with a smile. “Sorry. Got distracted there. How does it compare to your other arm? Are you used to it?”

“I’m not ambidextrous anymore,” Lan Fan said with some regret. “But the automail is much stronger than my right arm. And my dexterity is almost the same. I can throw kunai with my left arm just as well as my right.”

Winry’s eyes lit up again and she took Lan Fan's automail hand in both of her own. “You have to show me right now.”

Which is how they ended up in the Rockbells’ back yard, Lan Fan’s set of daggers in hand. “Pick a spot for me to hit,” she told Winry, pointing at the large tree she’d chosen for target practice.

Winry examined it for a moment, then pointed at a knot near where one of the branches split off. Fast as lightning, Lan Fan embedded a blade in the center of the knot, quickly followed by the rest of her kunai in a radial pattern. Winry applauded like she was watching a sporting match.

“Do you want to try?” Lan Fan offered once she’d plucked the daggers out of the bark.

“Me?” Winry pointed at herself, as if there was anyone else Lan Fan might be talking to. “I’ve never done this sort of thing before.”

“It’s never too late to try.”

She showed Winry how to hold the kunai, and how to position her body in relation to the tree. She ended up guiding Winry’s arm similarly to how Winry had been handling her automail only a few minutes prior. The first blade Winry threw ended up bouncing off the tree without embedding itself in the bark, but it at least hit the tree, which was a victory in itself. Lan Fan guided her through when to release the blade and how much force to put behind the throw, but just seconds before Winry threw it, they were interrupted.

“Hey Win, Ben wants- SHIT!” Ed yelped just barely ducking out of the kunai’s trajectory. He and Ling had taken the children raspberry picking at the neighbor’s that afternoon, and he had chosen that moment of all moments to walk around the side of the house. Ling appeared beside him, raspberry stains around his mouth and a toddler on his shoulders absolutely making his hair sticky. He looked at Ed on the ground with the other toddler in mild bemusement, then looked over at Winry and Lan Fan, realization lighting up his face.

“Ooh! Are you doing knife throwing?” He grinned, excited. “You should do that thing where you throw it at me and I catch it with my teeth!”

“Not with my kid on your shoulders, you won’t!” Ed complained, pulling himself upright to pluck Liane off Ling’s shoulders.

“I’m not doing that, my lord,” Lan Fan said flatly. Ling pouted.

“Why not? We used to do it all the time as kids!”

“I don’t want to return home and have to explain why the emperor has a new scar on his face.”

“I’ll be fine,” Ling insisted, but the moment was broken anyway, the children rushing over to their mother to distract her by showing her their baskets of freshly picked berries. Lan Fan collected the daggers Winry had thrown, taking one of them from a disgruntled Ed who had nearly become a dartboard himself.

“Your wife is cool,” she informed him as she took the knife back. Ed raised an eyebrow.

“I’m aware. Did she drool over your automail and offer to design more knives?” he asked. Her blush was apparently enough of an answer to make him laugh. “Figured. She’s been itching to do that since I first told her about your elbow sword thing. I dunno what your automail mechanic is like in Xing, but Winry isn’t gonna want to let you go once she gets her hands on your automail.”

“Well,” Lan Fan said diplomatically, “We will just have to visit more often, then.”

Ed grinned. “None of us will complain about that. C’mon, let’s eat some of those raspberries before Ling and the kids eat them all, then you can give us all a knife throwing demonstration.”

The children were even more thrilled by her knife throwing than their parents, though it was Winry’s cheers that Lan Fan heard the loudest. Yes, they’d definitely have to make it a point to come back to Resembool more often.

[bettsfic]

finally got caught up on house of the dragon!! spoilers for episode 4 ahead.

i’m just really fascinated by the way consent is portrayed in the episode, especially in light of all the non/dubious consent in game of thrones. first off, you have this character, daemon, who thinks he’s in game of thrones, and by that i mean written by idiot white dudes and therefore has unchecked narrative authority, but actually he’s in a whole different show going a whole different direction and he seems to realize that during the brothel scene.

i was so wrapped up in the “omg uncle/niece incest” discourse that i’m surprised no one mentioned how consent is working in a complicated way in that scene. like daemon takes rhaenyra out on the town in an attempt to freak her out and upset her but it blows up in his face. he takes her to the play knowing it’s about the thing she’s most self-conscious about but she just shrugs and goes “idc it doesn’t matter what they think.” and he takes her to the brothel expecting her to clutch her princess pearls but she’s just like “wow ok this is cool.” and then he pulls out all the stops and he’s like i’m gonna fuck my niece and does what i imagine is the evil villain laugh that’s always going on in his head because he thinks he’s sooooo cool and badass when really he’s just kind of a loser. 

thwarted again! rhaenyra just goes along with it like, yeah sure man why not sounds good to me. and he’s just, don’t you see i’m trying to hurt you. but he can’t! he can’t hurt her. and then he gets disgusted with the whole thing, and himself, and the fact he literally has no control over a single thing in his life, not even his attempt to have dubiously consensual sex with his own niece and sabotage her chances of becoming queen.

and then!! instead of getting upset rhaenyra just goes, well i’m horny time to go fuck someone. and on her way back into her room she remembers the time she hired the hot dornish guy to be her knight in actual shining armor and she goes, you’ll do. cue my actual literal favorite relationship dynamic: profoundly loyal knight/princess who annoys the shit out of him. 

but what i find most fascinating about that scene is how platemail functions as nonverbal but very clear consent. when they started making out i was like, wait are they really going to show this dude taking off all of his armor?? and they fucking did. the armor removal took longer than the sex scene. there’s no way to misinterpret consent in that scenario. there’s no getting carried away. the entire time they’re both working together on this arduous task. they both *have* to actively participate. and that’s something game of thrones never even tried to do.

anyway, marge holding out a potato.jpg, i just think complex portrayals of consent are neat. 

[elliewiltarwyn]

FFXIV Write 2023 | Free Day #2

I went to merriam webster's site and the word of the day was orotund:

1: marked by fullness, strength, and clarity of sound : sonorous; "an orotund voice" 2: pompous, bombastic; "an orotund speech"

and I thought about when Ellie might have been orotund.

-1297 words

----

“Once the high adjudicator acknowledges Mistress Tataru’s right to name a champion, that is when you must make your entrance! Ohhh, I cannot wait to see the look on Ser Grinnaux’s face when he sees his true opponent! ‘Twill be priceless!” Haurchefant’s cheer was infectious, as usual, and Ellie couldn’t help but give a small smirk in return. 

But she knew there was a reason she liked him; despite the assumptions one would make of someone possessed of such adamant joy and goodwill, Haurchefant’s face now dropped the smile and looked upon Ellie’s own with gravity and concern. For all his optimism, Haurchefant wasn’t blind, naive, or stupid (...unlike a certain other young son of Count Fortemps). “More seriously, Elilgeim; I had expected you to show in those grand, flowing, pearlescent robes with that wondrous cane of white magic you bore before. Have you traded that in for platemail and a greatsword?”

“Not permanently,” Ellie said grimly, “but somehow I feel as if two healing-oriented mages versus two of the most physically powerful Heavens’ Ward is, while not impossible to overcome, slightly unbalanced.”

“...‘Tis, no doubt. But… neither have I seen you carry such a blade.”

Ellie shook her head and pressed the hilt to her breastplate. The sword itself extended long, nearly all the way to the marble tiles at her feet. “No, you wouldn’t have. It’s… something I only recently picked up.”

“In your few weeks in Ishgard proper?” Haurchefant’s eyes scan the blade, his brow knitted in concern. “You know I have the utmost confidence in you, Elilgeim, but are you certain you will be able to bring such a fresh discipline to bear properly against someone like Ser Grinnaux?”

That’s certainly what Fray and this soul crystal are telling me. But that definitely was not something she could say aloud. Something held her back from telling anyone else about her strange encounter with the black-armored woman in the Brume, or the small blackened stone that weighed against her sternum now, pulsing with darkness. Not to mention…it sounded as if the whole reason Fray was down there was because she lost her own trial by combat. It seems meet to bring her sword back to win our own. “‘Tis strange, I admit. But I think… I’ll truly be able to defend Alphinaud better with this.”

Haurchefant hesitated for a moment, but then nodded. “Very well. As I said—the utmost faith.” He smiled and clapped her pauldron with a firm hand. “Take heart—and should you begin to lose it, look to me in the stands, and I shall cheer so loud, you will wonder how you could ever have contrived to doubt yourself.”

Ellie smiled back, her heart pounding nervously, but her chest in general swelling with gratitude. “Have no doubt I will.”

He squeezed her shoulder briefly and smiled his brilliant smile, then made himself scarce, ducking into a door to the gallery. Ellie cycled through a deep breath and held the hilt tightly to her chest, prayers of… some kind running through her mind. She wasn’t sure if they would amount to anything… but the voice of the woman in the black armor soothed her tension. Don’t think about it, don’t concern yourself with propriety or honor or whatever—after all, this is their miscarriage of justice. And this, I swear to you, is the most…efficient way to see that corrected. Strange; it almost seemed as if Fray spoke to her in her mind, instead of her remembering the words from the actual conversation they had. Unimportant now, though.

“We are gathered here today,” a voice rang out from the other side of the door, and she clenched her teeth and straightened up, “under the watchful gaze of the Fury, to ascertain the guilt of two souls in a trial by combat! Petitioners, step forward!” Here we go. “Ser Grinnaux—for the benefit of all here present, I would ask you to repeat the charges which you have leveled against this man and this woman.”

A guttural voice responded, smug and cocksure, and something furious boiled within Ellie’s stomach. “I, Ser Grinnaux de Dzemael, brother of the Heavens’ Ward, did bear witness to these two foreigners consorting with heretics!” Chocobo shite. I’ll cut through your lies, and put paid to your madness.

“Let the accused step forward! Alphinaud Leveilleur, Tataru Taru—you have heard the charges leveled against you. Will you take up arms to refute Ser Grinnaux’s claim, and thereby prove your innocence in the eyes of gods and men?” Some small part of her couldn’t believe trials by combat were a thing here; she held herself back from thinking of the practice as savage, because she was sure that’s how the Empire would classify it…but then, stopped clocks and all, right? Justice by way of who is mightiest leads to brute force being an enforcer against a lower class of those who cannot fend for themselves. To think this is a valid way to defend ourselves, because the alternatives are simply impossible under the political atmosphere… ‘tis, like everything about this situation, bad comedy.

“I, Alphinaud Leveilleur, am innocent of this charge,” she heard Alphinaud declare, with only the slightest of wavers in his voice—and only because she had been specifically looking for it. A swell of pride rippled through her now. The boy had grown so much even in the time since that moment in Camp Dragonhead. “And I claim my right to trial by combat!”

And then, she gritted her teeth as the next voice spoke up, because how dare they, how very dare they throw their slanderous accusations at one such as her, the very best of them; “I, Tataru Taru, am innocent of this charge… But I am no warrior, and cannot fight, so I claim the right to name a champion!”

Ellie exhaled. She gripped the hilt with both hands and bowed her forehead, touching the pommel with it. We shall show them the justice they deserve.

“To the old and the infirm, the young and the weak, this right we allow. Very well. Who will stand for this woman?”

…And that was her cue. Ellie straightened her spine, squared her shoulders, inhaled resolve into herself… and slammed open the doors. Her hand clenched tightly around her claymore’s hilt, the claymore itself resting over her shoulder to stretch tall and clear behind her head, she strode forth into the tribunal, extremely aware of all the shocked, furious (from one side of the room), and relieved (from the other side) faces with their eyes upon her and the sudden burst of murmuring and whispers all across the many noblemen and women in the gallery… not to mention the thrill of hope that alighted upon the faces of Alphinaud and Tataru at the defense’s stand. Suddenly, the new platemail she wore, a shocking change of pace from the usual flowing and aetherially-attuned robes of a white mage, seemed not such a bad idea after all, for the further she walked, the more confident she felt, the more presence she exhibited, and the platemail was certainly helping with that.

Perhaps it was that, or perhaps the warmth of the soul crystal against her breast. Maybe she was just far more interested in ensuring that the remnants of their scattered circle of friends were not torn apart by the most ridiculous of accusations. Whatever it was, the tone of her own voice shocked her, far fuller and stronger than she’s… probably ever spoken in her life.

“I, Elilgeim Wiltarwyn, Warrior of Light,” she proclaimed in the most orotund manner she had ever achieved; loud, sharp, and not remotely trying to hide the note of fury running as an undercurrent to her voice, “shall stand as champion for Tataru Taru, and fight on her behalf!”

[yousawnothinglycanthropic]

I want to share a concept with you. The concept of a lady knight so fat she should very well be immobile. For reference, when I think of platemail, I think of the stuff you unlock when becoming a paladin at lvl. 50 in F-F-X-I-V. I hope you all enjoy.

A party of three, consisting of a tank, a healer, and a DPS, tromps through a forest, heading towards a small city-state. The healer is of a standard mage type, though more clerical in skills and preferences, his knowledge of healing magics most profound, though he has been getting rather portly lately. The DPS is a lithe bard, whose playful personality and penchant for "jokingly" harassing people being the root of a lot of the party's issues. The tank? An absolutely sweet lady paladin, her heart as pure as the finest gold; she is known to try her best to be the best friend her fellow party members could ever ask for, even going so far as to let her compatriots belt out their woes to her whenever they make camp.

This paladin, though, is special. Not because of her height, hair color, eye color, or even the rarity, or lack thereof, of her species. Nay, it's because of her weight. She's so rotund, in fact, that most people would be hard pressed to find even a shred of mobility left if they were her size, but her fat smothered muscles somehow manage to keep her mobile; sure, she needs help standing because her legs are so enormously swathed in fat as to make it hard for her to not step on the doughy flesh of her calves, but that muscle can help support this blubbery wall of a woman. When outside of her armor, the specialty made platemail helping to keep her enormity off of the ground, she is notably endearing and nonthreatening, at least according to any townsfolk she meets; who'd want to fight a woman who looks like if she gained just one more ounce, she'd become an island of immovable fat, anyways? With that tidbit in mind, she's often tasked with negotiation, her rotund, cherubic face easily bearing seemingly no ill will towards people, which helps lower the guards of anyone she meets. Her body is as soft as over-proofed dough, the tender, sensitive flesh hiding strong, dense muscle under the many feet thick layers of cloud soft flesh; her body's softness sometimes a source of comfort for her fellow party members, especially when they're distressed. It has surprised many a person that she is such a skillful paladin, but her weight has only proven to be useful, for if she failed to slice or stab you with her treasured claymore, she could just as easily cause you to burst like a tube of paste under a set of rollers by just standing on you. Her smile, though, complete with closed eyes and rosy, rotund cheeks, is what often has been used to put people at ease, even if it doesn't work; how could such a fat, smiling face bear something harmful, like deceit? One issue, though, is that this draconian-sized woman has been frequently misremembered as a hugely muscular man by those who have heard and/or experienced her skills in battle.

As soon as the party of three stepped past the gates of the small city-state, word quickly spread about their presence within the city-state. It's hard to miss such a ludicrously obese woman paladin, especially one who looks just positively enthused to be as big as she is. She's sometimes even seen stopping her waddling gait to smile and wave at people! News travels so far as to reach the ears of the city-state's sultan and his family, especially his only child, the adult woman who is next in line to the throne, though by this point the pond-filling lady paladin has been wrongfully described as a massively muscled male knight. Intrigued by the very idea of an utterly massive person packed into platemail, the sultan's daughter quickly changed into her more roguish attire and slipped out of her father's manor, disguised as a male. Now out and on her own, the sultan's daughter went off in search of the elusive knight. Though, that search didn't last long. She was outside of the manor for no more than a few hours when she spotted the ludicrously portly lady-knight resting on the ground near a blacksmith's, clad in her casual wear, which was a tent-like tunic and some breeches that even the fattest in the city-state would be swimming in, her platemail getting resized nearby. Carefully, the sultan's daughter approached her and asked what had brought her to the small city-state.

The doughy paladin simply beamed and stated that she and her two party-mates were passing through while on the way to slay a dragon that was notorious for poaching and eating traveling caravans that crossed near their lair. Interested, the sultan's daughter, still in disguise, offered to take the sweet, pillowy woman out for drinks because she wanted to hear the tales about the paladin's adventures. Cautious because she believed she was interacting with a roguish male, the paladin agreed.

It wasn't until the evening was long gone and night had fully set in that the sultan's daughter was discovered to be missing from the manor, for the sultan was away on business in a nearby city-state. His daughter, though, was thoroughly drunk in a tavern that was near the blacksmith's, laughing about the last escapade that the plush paladin's cleric friend and party member had with some slimes, hence his... Recently portly physique. While the royal guards searched for the sultan's daughter outside, said woman let slip to the paladin in a whisper that she was actually a woman disguised as a man so she could adventure freely.

With both still drunk, the sultan's daughter managed to somehow coerce the mattress-sized paladin to join her in one of the tavern's rooms. Once upstairs, it took the hugely fat lass awhile to waddle up there, a fierce makeout session ensued in their drunken haze. Despite the paladin being much less drunk than the sultan's daughter, she didn't deny the sultan's daugter's advances, letting her drunkenly try to be sultry and dominant, but especially letting her hands roam over the rotund lady's dough soft belly and other fat bloated curves.

Once the sultan's daughter and the paladin sobered up considerably, the sultan's daughter reached over and grabbed the mammoth-sized woman's chin, slightly pudgy fingers grazing her hugely fat-swollen second chin. With a sultry purr, she told the fat knight how much she loved her, despite knowing her for such a short time. With a sheepish grin, the pillowy paladin offered to have the sultan's daughter be apart of the adventuring party. The sultan's daughter agreed, but only if she got to take care of the gorgeously fat woman she was now actively rubbing the belly of when off the battlefield; this also included being hand fed at mealtimes. And so, the agreement was settled.

The following morn, the cleric and one of the sultan's guards found them asleep on the tavern bed, the sultan's daughter on top of her mattress sized lover, curled up in the crook of her fatty neck, her lover's plump hands and tree trunk sized arms gently wrapped around her; the whole sight was complete with them both under the covers, peacefully in deep REM sleep. The portly cleric had to consult with the sultan's guards and convince them to let things go, as clearly both ladies amicably put themselves in that situation, as the paladin would never hurt any good-hearted people, and the fact the sultan's daughter was curled up against the paladin's neck, complete with a smile on both of their faces, indicated that this was the natural result of whatever happened last night.

Once the sultan's guards left, finally admitting that things looked to be alright and approve-able, the rotund cleric smacked the lithe bard upside the head. Said bard was trying to create a ballad about how their enormously fat paladin had fallen for the sultan's slightly pudgy daughter; it was a much more crass description of what last night's events were, but that was half artistic liberty, and half because he never saw what actually transpired.

[sweetcedar]

19: Turn a Blind Eye

ch: vedis feigrun || wc: 932 cws: its about decapitation like this is just inherently kindof a gross subject

The first time she had led the ash-rites, Yrr had advised her to look away. They stood together at the edge of the circle, apprentices bound to stare wide-eyed at workings far beyond either of them. “No one’s watching you yet,” she remembers her friend whispering, breath hot against her ear. “Just look away.”

Perhaps Yrr glanced away, for she couldn’t have known if she did, but Haelvi herself stared wide-eyed as the blade came down. It was the honorable thing to do, she thought. Once, this was someone honorable, too. If she were to die once and live to die again, she hoped her butchers would give her the same kindness. But the being going under the chopping block was no longer able to consider such nuances. They were useful only to dull the weight of the morning.

It helped that Haelvi no longer recognized the shape hidden beneath the stone-wrought features. It was like looking at a statue, and if that was true, then the skin was only lichen, flaking and chipping away at the edges. It did not surprise her to see a great platemailed boot placed atop its temple to hold the neck still. She opened her mouth to offer a binding spell, but even her own speech came too slowly. The axe-wielder was always quick. For all that she spun fantasies of statues and chisels in her own mind, the sound of the axe’s path through his spine was unmistakably mortal. This was one of her kindnesses, Haelvi had been told. No one needed to suffer.

By the time she looked up from staring at the separate dead and dying pieces, she realized that all the gazes in the little circle around the corpse had been turned upon her. Her elder leaned forward on her staff to capture her eye contact, and she jutted her chin towards the squirming ashkin on the ground. There was no spoken word to cue her that it was time. One was simply supposed to know.

She stared into her own staff. It would be hers in full, soon. It was carved from cedar and wrapped in soft leather, with old woodwork curling around the great gem that would serve as her guide. It sung a hymn unlike any of the skaldic music Haelvi had ever heard. It was unmusical at best and horrid at worst, humming a low, throbbing sound like voices wrapped and warped over each other. They overlapped in her head as she incanted, and her own words melted into the confusion of its great song, repeating over and over again as though the chorus would ever change.

Haelvi’s teacher stood in the present but a few fulms away, hands clasped around her own weapon. All that would be judged were the simplest of requirements: is it dead? Will it wake?

But there would be no need. First bloomed the true death, garbed in soft colors almost like a betrayal. Death-magic was quiet and sweet, disguising itself with the fuchsia and lavender colors of sunrises and midsummer lupines. Only once the eyes in the head stopped rolling could that foul curse give way to the relief of bright, wild flame. Haelvi had been close for many burnings before, but never had she stood at the center of it. The rot-smoke welled up as thick as putrid syrup in her nostrils, and she found it to be so close to a liquid that it rolled down into her throat instead of up and away.

She finished her words, but the very second the invocation was over, she clutched the staff with one hand and turned to hack and cough until black phlegm rolled off the tip of her tongue. She muffled it into the elbow of her own dress, lest she disturb the mourners.  “It is done,” called Sigrdrifa to the small gathering, shattering the growing silence with one thunderous clap of her staff’s hilt against the ground. “And we are two.”

There would be a moment now where Haelvi might catch her breath. The others had to wash the ash from the stone, and Sigrdrifa’s soft words instructed them on the requisite technique. She took an unsteady step back, watching them with wide, glade-green eyes. Her breaths came faster, one by one, until her upward spiral was cut short by the clatter of platemail and the comfort of a steel-weighted hand upon her shoulder.

“You did well,” murmured the Butcher herself. She began to speak the soft ‘h’ of her summer-name before the facts of the day forced her to pause and to exhale. There would be no ceremony, no feast. This new name was not given amidst a celebration. This was to be a funeral, and its date was both far too late and far too early.

As they looked on to friends and family both finishing the work, Haelvi remembered that only Svartur’s lips were visible beneath her helmet. She understood her reasoning, now: it must have been as much a preservation of her own dignity as it was a protection. Svartur’s eyeless visage did not look back. Like this, she could feel all she wished, but still be seen as turning a blind eye to the required death that followed her everywhere she went. Her gentle hand still rested against her shoulder, and the platemail made a perfect excuse for Haelvi to let some of her own weight rest.

As the others began to disperse, Svartur leaned down slightly to repeat her words ere the clamor of oncoming voices overpowered them. “You did well, Vedis.”

[mumblingviking-blog]

Feature: Bogleather Ghoul

The Bogleather ghoul

A skeleton wears it's own skin around flesh turned to sand. The rules of undeath allow piercing and decoration and this is simply the logical extension.

Armor does not guard the ancient bones nearly so well as gravesoil, which repairs the cracks, nor as cheaply as binding cloth around the cadaver.

In the north of the isle, there is a bog and there were innocent people who drowned in that bog. Two hundred years later, flesh bone and skin remained.

The withering of the body in the bogwater was solved by a necromancer named Jean. She would slit the victim's throat and suspend the head above the bog.

Insects and vermin would eat the flesh of man, ignoring the skin and dissolving around the bones. After half a year of inspecting the body came the sand.

Bogsoil is nice but nothing stops a mace like a bag of sand. Platemail is nice but expensive and unavailable, chainmail is useless for normal undead.

A soldier cutting through a door to find sand will always begin hacking at the wall. It's an immediate disadvantage and against the undead: death.

So these bogleather ghouls drag their armor around inside of their skin, shambling instead of running because they are the greater pursuit predator.

[sulky-valkyrie]

Welcome to DADWC!!!

Might I interest you in: "Hey, hey...look at me, okay? You gotta get up now, you think you might be able to walk? 'Cause they sent for back-up, and if they find us...we cannot let them find us, understand?"

for the pairing of your choice, BUT, I'ma be selfish and suggest your Tabris and her Anders. :)

alright, it's two months late and doesn't have the right pairing, but you said dealer's choice, so this is your fault 💙💙💙

for @dadrunkwriting

After Duncan headed off to meet up with the king for final preparations, Alistair gave her a friendly smile.

“Well, it’s not very glamorous, Kall-”

“Don’t call me that, shem,” she hissed.  “It's 'Tabris' or 'Warden,' you got it?  I don't use that name, and even if I did, I wouldn't give it to you.”

The human seemed oddly charmed by her vehemence.  He grimaced sympathetically.  "Sorry - is that an elf thing?”  He winced.  “No, that’s racist, I didn’t mean it like - shit.  Duncan's letter didn't mention you had - anyway, sorry.  I know a bit about names following you when you wish they wouldn't."

"Uh."  She hadn’t expected any kind of understanding.  She’d really just wanted to shut up him up, get this stupid tower lit, wait out this stupid battle, then figure out how soon she could sneak back to Denerim and kill Vaughan's cronies.  She looked away.  "Thanks."

"Hey, we're family now, right?"  Alistair’s arm wrapped around her shoulders.  "Wardens care for their own."

"You've only been one for six months," she snapped, fighting the urge to break his arm, or at least his hand.  It's not his fault, he didn't do it, he wasn't there.  Plus, the shem was huge.  She wasn't even sure if she could break his fingers unless he held them out and waited.  "How the void would you know?"

"Ooo, smart lady - no, that's sexy - uh, sexist."  He pulled his arm back sheepishly.  "But you're right.  I don't.  But even if I'm wrong, they should."  He frowned.  "Look, Tabris, I'm not - Duncan's probably a better person to talk to, or at least to listen to.  Honestly, I'm a bit of an idiot.  But I do still have two ears, and I can shut up and listen."  He waved a hand toward the valley; she could see Cailan’s golden armor shining in the sunset.  "Also, I'm a lot less important."

She'd had her fill of important people.  "I - good."  Why was he so damn nice?  No, he was kind.  That was worse.  Nice people were easier to hate.   And avoid.  They didn't actually care, or think they cared.  But this bloody shem in platemail really seemed to care about the murderous elf his boss had dragged in hissing and spitting like an angry wet cat.  Or maybe she'd been so exausted after all the walking across two thirds of Ferelden that she hadn't acted quite as ….ferally as she remembered.  Never trust important people.

"People like Duncan, or Teryn Loghain?" the ex-(failed?)Templar asked.

Maker, she was tired her mouth was moving without her permission.  Had it always been this bad or was she just so -

“Ris?  You okay?”  

She squinted up at him.  “What did you just call me?”

“I - sorry.  Tabris.  Nicknames, bad habit.  You should hear what I called all the animals where I grew up;  Lord High Fancy Britches Reginald the Fleetfooted or whatever and I started calling him Ned - but that was just to piss off the horsemaster really.  Oh shit, I don’t mean you’re like an animal, that’s - blast it.”  He blushed.  “I’m going to try again.  Tabris, are you okay?”

She shook her head.  “Just worn out,” she lied.

“Couple days of sleep and about thirty bowls of stew and you’ll be fine,” he said encouragingly.  “Maybe we can pick up a few snacks in the tower while we wait for our inglorious moment of following orders?” He glanced at the Tower of Ishal hopefully.  “Maybe they’ll have cheese.”

She hid a small smile.  He was funny and kind of sweet.  For a shem.  “Alright, let’s go.”  As they headed back toward the bridge, she could hear the sounds of the darkspawn horde advancing, and the shouts of defiance or fear from the troops below.  She was glad she wasn’t down there.  

“They’ve broken through!”  The cry came ahead of them.

Alistair slowed.  “That’s . . . not good.”  He glanced at Tabris.  “Guess this’ll be more glorious than we hoped.”

She snorted.  “Less glory, more gory.”

“Oooh, I like that!  Alliterative and rhyming!”  He unslung his shield.  “Anyway, I guess it’s time to do Grey Warden things.”

She pulled her blades out and followed.  The human bowled into the first group, knocking two off the cliff.  The remaining three immediately swung at him, which of course gave her the perfect opportunity to take one of them down herself.  As the last two died, one to Alistair’s longsword, and the other to Tabris kicking him over the cliff, flashed her a brief smile as before a scream from nearby startled them both.  Where were they all coming from?  How did so many of them get up here so quickly?  Could the darkspawn really plan that well?  Certainly some were intelligent, but . . . this seemed different.  

They rushed on, collecting a few of the soldiers as they went, plus one terrified mage healed their cuts and scrapes and kept repeating prayers to himself, even when Alistair tried to ask his name.  Fireballs and rocks rained from the sky, and one landed close enough to knock Tabris off her feet.  She sat there dazed for a few moments, unsure which way was up.

“Tabris, Tabris, hey, hey...look at me, okay? You gotta get up now, you think you might be able to walk?”  Alistair shook her gently as he waved the mage closer.  She nodded, then winced and touched her cheek.  It was tender, and her hand came away bloody.  The nameless mage, still muttering parts of the Chant to himself, healed the cut on her face, then backed away, eyes wild and terrified.  Her fellow Warden kept talking.  “It - Tabris, it looks like the darkspawn sent back up or reinforcements or something to the Tower, and we can’t - Ris, we have to get that beacon lit or the army will be overrun.  We need to keep going, they can’t find us until then, understand?”  He paused.  “We’re probably going to die, but we have to give Teryn Loghain the signal first.”

[yespleasemrcheese]

hi! i wrote some bill 2015 stuff! read it on ao3 or under the cut :)

https://href.li/?https://archiveofourown.org/works/34650346/chapters/86264053

your darkness will be rewritten

summary: He thought he’d be used to the pain by now - he thought he was, but it never really gets any easier. He’s gotten better at pushing through it, he supposes.

A little bit about Ian's life after the events of the play.

~//~

He thought he’d be used to the pain by now - he thought he was, but it never really gets any easier. He’s gotten better at pushing through it, he supposes.

His leg feels like it's on fire, a raw, burning sensation splintering from his thigh down his calf. His blood is dyeing the green of his trousers, and, strangely, he finds himself more annoyed at the rip (not unlike the one that he had only just finished sewing up on the other leg) than the actual wound.

He’s learned to not pull the blades out (a mistake he had made the first time in blind panic, and one he would certainly not make again), so he pulls the fabric up his calves and bunches it around the rapier, ignoring his own rapid fire breaths.

He almost wishes someone, anyone, in the crowd would come to his aide, but he learned long ago that that was never the case. He wonders if he’s invisible, sometimes, because surely someone would care, right? Someone would have noticed, wouldn’t they?

They certainly don’t seem to notice as he stumbles to his feet, too enraptured by the chaos taking the stage. He slips out quietly, staggering into the candlelit hall before finally collapsing onto a hard wooden bench. The pain in his leg is white hot, a stark contrast to the dark red that flows sluggishly from it.

He reaches inside the breast of his jacket, shaking fingers reaching into the pockets he had sewn in. There’s two folded squares of cloth; he wraps the first one around where the sword enters his leg, and the second he places between his teeth, biting down firmly.

He draws the sword out slowly by the hilt, and screams through his gritted teeth. The sound of music still seeps from the hall, far too joyful to be mixing with the pained sounds that slip past the cloth in his mouth as he stuffs the other piece into the hole.

The worst part is over, he tells himself, over and over and over as he sinks down into himself, tipping his head back to rest against the tapestry behind him. The world is dark at the edges, and he feels rather cold, but it's nothing he hasn't felt before. His chest is still aching from the Earl’s rescue of Mrs. Hathaway.

He doesn’t know how long he sits there, hands pressed over his leg and his eyes closed. Time feels sluggish, forcing him to crawl alongside it despite the ache of exhaustion that rests on his back like a boulder.

It’s a voice that draws him back to the present, and he startles as hands grab at his arms, pulling him to his feet. He tries to bite back his cry, but fails rather miserably. He tries to focus on what they’re saying, he recognizes their platemail and their crests - they’re Her Majesty’s guards, he needs to listen to them, but the words just buzz in his head.

Another voice cuts in, one he thinks he recognizes, and they sound... Angry?

The world spins, and he finally gives in under the boulder’s weight, going limp in the guards’ hold. He wishes the dark was a blissful respite, but he finds it’s just empty.

-//-

Anne’s heart is beating a mile a minute, almost bursting from her chest. Her husband (the damned, lovable fool) twirls her with that disarming, honest smile on his face. Their children laugh and sing nearby, and she feels so happy she could almost float.

She’s just popping out to catch her breath, away from the stifling heat that’s rising in the room, when she hears the shouts. She creeps slowly around the corner to find the Earl of Croydon’s servant - she can’t quite remember his name - being rounded up by two of Her Majesty’s men. He looks awful, skin pale and gaunt, and his eyes are half-lidded. He keeps lifting his face, as if trying to wake himself up, before dropping back down again.

A stake of pity drives through her heart, and her feet are taking her closer before she can even think about it. She cringes as she remembers the Earl’s treatment of him, using him as a human shield during his ‘rescue’. After the first dagger to the chest, she was almost certain he was dead. After the second, Anne had forced herself to come to terms with the fact that she had just watched a man be murdered, and for her sake no less.

But, he didn’t die, a miracle even with proper care. As they made their way back to the Earl’s residence, he limped along behind them, feet dragging against the cobblestones. He stumbled once or twice, but always caught himself. Given a moment of the Earl’s distraction, he leaned against a nearby stall and quickly made work tending to the words. His actions seemed almost practiced.

Still, she couldn’t shake the feeling that she was watching a ghost. Stepping quietly towards him, she told him just that.

He laughed, if you could call it that. A soft, nervous outburst of breath that quirked at the edges of his lips as he spoke. “Well, they weren’t very talented swordsmen, I suppose.”

Then, the Earl returned to them and they continued their trek, the quiet, uneven steps that followed them the only sign that the man had survived.

Now, she feels a strange motherly urge to get those guards away from him as fast as possible.

“Hey!” She calls, and her voice betrays none of the uncertainty that she feels. “What do you think you’re doing? That man needs help, not an interrogation.”

As if on cue, the Earl’s servant crumples, a dead weight in guards’ grips. Her stomach sinks, but her faith in him stays strong. He didn’t give in before, and she wouldn’t let him now.

“This man is a known servant to a traitor of Her Majesty The Queen, he must be handled as such, ma’am. If you’ll excuse us.” The first guard says, hoisting the man up and beginning to drag him down the hall, the leather of his shoes squeaking against the tile.

“No.” She says, and it echoes in her ears. The music has yet to die down from the next room, but her voice carries loud above it. “This man is not the Earl of Croydon. He is innocent, and he is hurt. You are going to unhand him, and you are going to get him help.”

There’s a beat, where she can only hear the blood rushing in her ears. At this rate, she’s going to get herself executed, too.

But then they nod, and gruffly set the man on the nearby bench (which, she notices with a slight wave of nausea, already has a smear of blood across it).

“Do with him as you see fit. We will collect him for his trial in the morn.” They disperse quickly, almost eager to be out of her line of sight, and she breathes a deep sigh of relief. She hesitates for a moment, completely out of her depth. Should she get Bill? No, he’s with the children, she can’t disturb them (and she certainly doesn’t want them to see the state the man is in). She doesn’t know anyone else, and she certainly can’t ask the Queen, but she can’t lift him on her own, either. She darts back into the grand hall, and immediately runs smack dab into one of the actors in Bill’s play.

“Oh, so sorry, sir-” She amends hastily, moving to brush him down with nervous hands before catching herself and running them over her own dress instead.

“Ma’am,” The player corrects almost instinctively, before blinking and looking away.

“Oh! Sorry, ma’am!” She doesn’t dwell on the correction, doesn’t have the time for it. Her eyes dart nervously around the room, searching desperately for someone, anyone, who could help her.

“You are Mrs. Shakespeare, yes?” The player asks. “Is everything alright?”

“Anne, please. And, well, do you know anything about wound care?” It's a frantic bid, but right now, she’ll take any help she can get.

“Pleasure to meet you, Anne. Gabriel Montoya, at your service. Where are you hurt?” Gabriel extends her hand, and Anne takes it quickly, pulling her along.

“No, it’s not me. It’s- Ian! Yes, Ian, that’s his name, the Earl of Croydon’s servant.” They round the corner, and for one terrible moment, she almost thinks Ian is already dead, that they’re too late. He looks like the bodies that line the streets of this awful town, and her stomach flips at the thought of it.

He’s breathing, though, however faintly. She finds some scrap of hope in that.

Gabriel moves to him quickly, her brow furrowed as she examines the wound, and what looks like a scrappy attempt to stop the blood.

“Well, he’s done a good enough job for the circumstances,” she says, and her accent seems almost thicker with a concern Anne didn’t expect. “We should get him back home, where he can rest and gather his strength.”

Anne stops.

“I don’t know that he has a home. He lived with the Earl. With him gone…” She trails off, mind racing.

It’s an absurd idea, really, one more attuned to Bill’s level than her own. She hardly knows the man, if at all.

Still, she asks Gabriel to help her take him back to Bill’s apartment.

Gabriel smiles softly, and nods.

[yffresbeard]

I’ve been in a writing mood the last few days, so have this. Two short pieces regarding Vestige Elisanne Flamel’s time in Coldharbour, and the appearance of her spouses there.

Landing in Coldharbour apart from everyone else was miserable, but Elis persisted in her search for Darien – though as she found more people, no one had seen him. The pit in her stomach grew, even as she returned allies new and old to the Hollow City. Saving King Dynar had been a draining task and, in the case of the latter, thankless. Elis desperately wanted to rest, but she knew there was no time, not if she wanted to find Darien.

So, when she arrived back at the Fighter’s Guild and heard his voice from outside, she ignored the Groundskeeper’s hail entirely and threw herself at the doors.

"Your nagging is becoming more annoying than my persistent rash.,” Elis watched Darien shout at the elf – one she recognized from her liaising with the Fighter’s Guild, Valorone. “We finally have a secure base—to go back outside without a plan is even too foolhardy for me!”

“You want us to hide behind these walls? To leave our comrades to die while you sip wine and lounge about? You have no honor, knight!" The altmer spat the word like a curse, and Darien reared – Elis worried he might charge but, truthfully, was too shocked at the sight of him, real and whole before her, to interject.

"Don't lecture me about honor, elf! You have no idea what I've seen or what I've gone through! My wife is still out there somewhere, so believe me when I say no one wants to get out there and save people more than I do--"

A dunmer woman leaned against a chest of drawers had been watching the argument impassively, eyeing Elis the moment she had entered. "A moment, gentlemen. Postpone your exchange of harsh words long enough to acknowledge our visitor."

Both men paused their arguing to glance at the door, and Darien’s knees weakened immediately at the sight of Elis, safe and whole, if exhausted. He rushed past Valorone, the argument immediately forgotten as he held Elis tightly to him. Embracing a lover in full platemail is no easy task, but they managed – Elis ignored how the armor dug into her flesh uncomfortably, twining her arms around her husband’s neck and pressing her fingers deeply into the nape of his neck, as if convincing herself he was really there.

Valorone, for his part, had the good sense to look ashamed of himself, and offered a mumbled excuse as he exited the guildhall. Darien led Elis up the stairs carefully, still concerned about any hidden injuries she might have – though a formidable mage, she did not have the benefit of full armor as he did. They sat on one of the bunks, and for a time neither spoke, too overcome by their reunion to attempt to speak.

Elis’ face had been streaming with silent tears since she’d heard his voice outside, but only now did Darien’s eyes begin to water. Wordlessly, he pushed up the sleeves of Elis’ guild robes, checking her arms for wounds or bruises. “Darien, I’m alright – really. I’m not hurt,” she quietly assured him. Regardless, he continued looking her over, almost going to remove her robes entirely. Elis placed her hands on either side of his face and forced his eyes to hers. “I am okay. I promise.”

The knight placed his own hands in his lap – if not for the grave look on his face, it might’ve been sheepish. “I was so scared… so scared you were gone, I—“

“I know. I looked for you everywhere – I found plenty of the others but…”

“I saw Skordo – he said you saved him, and Angof is here?! I thought we killed him and now he’s working with us?!”

“It’s a long story, Darien and I… I’m just happy you’re okay.” It was not what she wanted to say. Elis wasn’t sure what she wanted to say. There were no words, not for the depth of her love and devotion, for her relief at seeing him alive, not for her fear that she would have to tell Gabrielle their husband was… no, best not think about that.

“Me too,” Darien agreed. “With you, I mean, I’m happy that you’re alright. I’m happy that I’m alright too, of course, but—“ He could not stammer through more of his explanation – Elis interrupted him with a kiss, hoping it would say what she could not, and set to removing his platemail so he could rest.

At least they didn’t have to worry about Gabrielle.

-x-

Elis did not necessarily expect Vanus to be thrilled upon seeing her, but she had hoped for a little thanks for saving his life after his foolhardy attempt to shut down the Black Forge and the Great Shackle on his own. Vanus was a brilliant mage, but even he can overestimate his abilities.

“Elisanne. I suppose I owe you – but I had things well in hand, and I certainly did not need your assistance.”

“Vanus, you did not have things ‘well in hand’, you could’ve died! It wouldn’t hurt to be grateful, just once.”

Her superior simply huffed and began to open a portal back to the Hollow City. “Come on then, we’re both needed.”

The last thing Elis wanted to see when she stepped through the portal was her pregnant wife sitting at a table of maps and tomes with their husband. The necromancer pushed past Vanus and knelt immediately beside Gabrielle.

“Gabi, what are you doing here!? We all agreed you would help from the guildhall on Nirn – how did you even—“

“Stop,” Gabrielle said shortly. “Darien has already said all of this, and I know you’re both just worried about me and the baby, but I know my limits, and I know that I can be more helpful here, with both of you.” The blonde laid her hands on her stomach – barely showing signs of the life that grew there. “We needed to be with both of you. I couldn’t take worrying about whether you were both alive and safe anymore.”

Elis sighed and laid her head against Gabrielle’s side, placing her own hand upon her lovers’ on the table. She couldn’t lie to herself – it was a comfort to see both of her loves before her again, despite the circumstances.

“We’ll get through this the way we always have,” Darien said firmly, looking at their joined hands. “Together.”

[royalreef]

@preparetodie​ || Closed starter.

      It wasn’t supposed to happen here. Of course, that never stopped them any time before -- and suitors were suitors, they wound come in through any way possible at any time possible. Miri had woken up to enough suitors in her own bedchambers to have that lesson scorched into her soul by now. Just another reason why she had two proper bedchambers in her schooltime castle. Late-night visitations of that nature were never welcome, but there was little she could do when they were so determined to overcome every last defense she could construct.

      But not now. She had a guest - oh, and she knew guests never stopped them before. Royal balls and feasts and any and all events were full of guests, even those she might personally invite, and always the suitors found a way in. Always. No matter what she did.

      There was one universal constant amongst Merkingdom royalty, and it was the suitors. To have them run their quarry down, to find anyone that a genuine connection could be forged with and to leave them in several dozen pieces to be scraped off a beachfront, to dominate and control any and all unfortunate virgin rulers until they finally gave in and picked a suitor from their courts. Universally reviled, it seemed, yet too powerful to challenge in any meaningful way, baked so intensely into the policies of the Merkingdom. The only way to keep the Middle Royals satisfied and in their place, convinced that they could rise above their current positions in a constant scramble for power.

       And yet.... Anytime but now. Anytime but when Miranda had just rounded around the bend to the training grounds at her castle ( a broad, oval-shaped patch of ground covered in soft sand, with targets and mock cover and a range for any type of projectile that could be imagined, a path connecting it directly to the royal armories located inside of the building ), walking at Aaravi’s side. For the merprincess to instantly still, foot stopping midair and drawing back so that she stood there, stiffly, staring ahead. At the figure currently glancing over his own sword at the edge of the training grounds, admiring his own reflection in its edge.

      Compared to Miranda, the mer was huge. And that was indeed, a merfolk, and not one of the many modified sea creatures that tended the castle grounds and followed Miranda’s every whim and desire. Just a hair over a full seven foot and a terrifying fourteen feet long, all bulk and muscle and scales more platemail than natural covering, there were... Strangely, more comparisons in him to Miranda than there even were with her to Bellanda.

      Where her scales were a soft pink, his sat in deep, vivid red, a carnation so intense that the color of blood would pale in comparison to it. His fins were lighter, Miranda’s gentle cream skin a stark, clammy white on him, tinted with a pinkish pallor, the same color that detailed out markings that would surely alight in blue in the darkness. Hair cropped short, dark and deep, but tinted with some cool color, a blue or purple or the like.

       Silver eyes almost caught the image of the two in slow motion. Slit pupils, so cold in comparison to any look Miranda turned upon Aaravi with her own, matching pair, contrasted against a half-golden smile, where his bottom jaw had been replaced, given in turn to a finely made prosthetic, all etched lines and careful detailing below teeth made from a cold, black metal.

      “Duke Tybalt - ” the name breathed out on a gasp, Miranda’s heart already pounding in her earfins. She was responding to his love letters. She was doing what she was supposed to do. She had tried to keep him at arm’s length, tried to discourage him - and yet. Here he was. Standing there with his executioner’s sword in one hand, solid, hefty blade reminding her all too well of how easy skin would rend in comparison to scales, how she wouldn’t stand a chance, why had he shown up here, now, with Aaravi right beside Miranda and her thoughts so full of love and sweetness and a tenderness and -------

      An amused chuckle. Low. Rolling like thunder. Sword lowered, resting against the white sand. Not yet tucked back into its sheathe slung around his waist, above a flowy, regal attire that did nothing to disguise his threat nor his reputation.

      “Highest Princess Miranda Vanderbilt - I had heard you would be partaking in some sparring today. I did not think you were bringing along a guest. I think they can arrange for another day, I’m sure. Do I not deserve a private audience with the Crown Jewel of the Depth’s Pride, Her Unavoidable Glory?”

[jaegertango]

Writing the Rite (for Right)

Remember that time I used to write things? I sure don’t. I just found this laying on the ground outside, so I’m gonna post it.

He couldn't sleep.

Vykaenai had been awake for some time now, blearily staring out over the vast sea of clouds that surrounded the realm of Bastion. As was his wont, he was seated on the very edge of the world, his feet hanging perilously above the endless dirge that was the Maw so far below. Yet, he hardly seemed worried that one unbalanced push would send him to his demise – maybe because he was too tired to care. His fiery eyes were focused on some unfixed point on the horizon, and even if his face was calm, his mind was racing. The Rite of Purity had occurred several hours earlier, but it was still fresh in the dragon's mind. Not because Helteon had failed, not because the Forsworn had attacked, but because the images he had seen during the Vesper's ringing were far too realistic.

He closed his eyes – and once more, he did not see the reassuring calm of black, but the flames burning all around him.

The Grandmaster let loose a growling sigh, a furl of smoke puffing from his nostrils as he flexed his knuckles. Even though he understood the importance of sleep, he didn't want to close his eyes longer than he needed to.

“Do all of you dragons do that?”

Another tired, albeit commanding voice spoke out to Vykaenai, and he lazily turned to look up at Lady Firehawk approaching him. She was still wearing her armor, complete with her helm hiding her eyes, and the dragon mused if she had taken it off since they had arrived in the Shadowlands. It was ironic. When he had first met her, she was clad in farmer's garb, in a comfortable atmosphere, and she looked well-rested. She did not want to return to the life she had given up, and yet. Here the Blood Elf stood, looking far more comfortable in layers of platemail, in a death realm that knew not sun or moon, in a voice that sounded as exhausted as the Grandmaster felt. And despite that, it seemed to suit her.

“Do what, Lady Firehawk?” Vykaenai replied gruffly, staring her down.

“Find some dramatic perch to roost yourselves upon,” she continued, shaking her head at the very edge that the Grandmaster sat upon. “First the bow of the airship, now here. And I heard that when Deathwing attacked Stormwind, he made sure to land upon the towers of the gate.”

“'Tis a black dragon sentiment, surely,” Vykaenai grumbled with such a dry tone that even Lady Firehawk smirked at it. “What brings you up at this hour?”

At first, the Sin'dorei did not respond. She walked up towards the dragon, her boots crunching onto the golden grass that seemed to crackle with resplendent life unlike anything the woods in Azeroth had ever gotten to enjoy. When she stood behind Vykaenai, he returned his eyes forward, keeping relaxed as silence fluttered between the two, leaving only a melodic wind to hum between them. Despite that, it was not awkward, the quiet almost relaxing as the two stared into the clouds beyond.

“Helteon is healing quickly,” Lady Firehawk finally stated, crossing her arms over her chest. “He had few wounds worth noting, but he is resting at the least.”

“Mm. Very good. His Rite was not what I expected,” Vykaenai grunted brusquely, but the corner of his mouth pulled upward slightly. “A shame the Forsworn attacking failed his Rite.”

“I don't think so,” Lady Firehawk spoke, and the Grandmaster turned his head up curiously at her.

“Oh? These creatures happened up as his Rite started to go wrong, and you do not believe them culprits? I may owe their leader his wings back.”

“The Forsworn didn't help Helteon, no. But his Rite was failing before their arrival,” the Blood Elf replied, pursing her lips. “They saw opportunity, and leaped at the chance.”

“Attacking a single Aspirant's Rite at a moment's notice. Harumph,” Vykaenai snorted, looking somewhat annoyed at the explanation. “Their desperation reeks of hypocrisy.”

“Is it hypocrisy though?” Lady Firehawk replied, leering down at the back of the Grandmaster's neck. “To give up one's memories for this 'greater good.'”

“Not all of their memories, Lady Firehawk,” Vykaenai answered back smoothly. “Just the ones holding their true nature back.”

The Sin'dorei made an exasperated noise, much like a groan and a sigh combined. The dragon believed the conversation over, so he turned around so he could stand up and get some quiet – only for Lady Firehawk to instead grip him by the shoulder and force him back down.

“Memories are what define us, Vykaenai. What would we be without them?”

“Probably a lot happier without those bad memories plaguing us.”

“Don't give me that horseshit,” the Blood Elf hissed, and for a fleeting second, her armor seemed to radiate with fire and smoke not unlike the fury that occasionally roiled from the dragon. “All your blustering about being so old, knowing so much, but I know you'd never give those memories up.”

The dragon glared back at Lady Firehawk, his teeth gritting together as he did so. He didn't want to admit it, but she had a point. When he first joined the Kaldorei in their stand against the Legion so long ago, it was their memory of standing against their immortal enemy, and his own memory of standing against his father, that gave him strength. But that wasn't to say it was pleasant. The Night Elves, even in their eternal vigil, still had its singular Illidans big enough to damn the entire race. They still hated the black dragons, even as he, Hakurion, sought to uphold their legacy as stewards of the Earth. And his kin, the very beings that shared his blood and pride, wished for all life – including the other Dragonflights, to be buried under magma and soil. They were not happy memories – but they were the very sources he needed to remember why he continued to walk Azeroth.

His eyes closed again. Fire. Smoke. Screams. Murder. Mortals could not be trusted. They were greedy and violent. The dragonflights had never been wrong about mortals as a whole. Everything was burning. Everything was dying. Everything was under the purge of a tyrant. So much pain. So much heartache. It had happened seven-thousand years ago, and yet flashes of that nightmare still found themselves plaguing the dragon at random. This was the worst it had ever been in a very long time, and Vykaenai found that seven-thousand years had done little to heal the wound. The Vesper only made him realize just how much he still hurt inside. When he finally opened his eyes again, there was a resonating wrath blazing in his gaze.

“I would never,” Vykaenai started, an ominous snarl booming in the back of his throat. “I share your pain, Lady Firehawk. I know the power of memories, and I stand strong in them. But do not mistake my resolution to honor them as not wanting to be rid of their pain either.”

“If you can't handle their pain, then you're not doing them good,” Lady Firehawk growled icily, clearly not amused.

“Do not test me, Sin'dorei!” Vykaenai abruptly snarled, very suddenly standing up despite her grip and looming dangerously over the woman. “You, who have been here a fraction of my time, who know nothing of my pain, claim that I should not be allowed to be free of it!”

Lady Firehawk said nothing, but she did not back down a single inch even as the dragon towered over her, flames crackling at his shoulders.

“You...,” Vykaenai hissed, only to sigh, pinching at his brow and allowing the primal heat resonating around him to simmer away lightly. When he returned his gaze to the Blood Elf, he gave her a long gaze – not that of a young Kaldorei, but that of millennia-old man.

“I know not of your pain either. Nor do I deny its worth. Use your pain as a focus for now, while you can,” the dragon rumbled, keeping his eyes stoically on Lady Firehawk. “But you know as well as I do: a temperance to pain does not make greater torment any easier. It merely makes you numb to everything else.”

The Blood Elf kept quiet, her impassive features having not changed no matter what the dragon did. Her arms merely kept crossed, not even being enough of a threat for her to attempt reaching for her lance. Vykaenai continued to gaze at her, as if waiting for a reply, but she gave none. He finally sighed, shaking his head and turning back around to sit on the edge of the world once again.

“Keep an eye on him, Liniadel,” he murmured, continuing his sight towards the clouds ahead.

“I already am,” the woman answered, but as she waited for him to give a snarky reply back, he said nothing. The silence returned, and this time it was quite awkward. Several heavy seconds passed as the Grandmaster sat upon the edge, and Lady Firehawk leered at the back of his head. Finally, she gave up waiting for a response, turning on her heel to instead go elsewhere, where a dragon wouldn't be condescending towards her. As the footsteps faded, Vykaenai held a hand up to his eyes, rubbing the itchy orbs gently.

He couldn't sleep. But it was a nightmare regardless.

[therewithasmile]

you have a hold

Duke Fraldarius gets a visit from a certain green-haired individual: Lady Byleth, archbishop, his wife.

ao3

"You have a visitor."

The simple statement was enough to rouse Felix from his stupor, one that he hadn’t known he was even in. But that was becoming a frequent occurrence: when the meetings dragged on, even the surrounding Lords and their words became nothing but added background noise. So when the courier looked at him in earnest, Felix knew the meaning of his pointed look. He barely managed to get his hastened apologies and pardons out, but those present shared a look as soon as his back was turned. Truthfully, he knew they would – such a presence, unannounced, only meant one thing.

And she hadn’t bothered to send a raven – anything – before arriving at his (their, if she ever decided she wanted it so) doorstep. 

Three long strides was all it took for Felix to cross the threshold the entrance hall and into his own personal training room. There she stood -- Byleth, archbishop, his wife -- just a few feet from him, arms crossed across her chest, in regalia that never quite suited her. While it hugged her curves and fit well against her body, it didn't do the same things to him as when he saw her in her battle garb, platemail and all, with her body tense, sword in hand.  

Her eyebrow perked. "Do I need an excuse to drop in, my love?" 

He must look frazzled. Felix certainly felt frazzled. There was more he liked to do when he knew she was coming. Something like preparing a meal, drawing a hot bath, making sure the sparring ground prim and proper despite what would happen moments later. "No, but I like to have a heads up," he chose to say instead, and though the intent was teasing he was certain just a little frustration intoned his words. And though what he felt wasn’t quite bashfulness, he did busy himself by sliding a steel sword from its holder, tossing a second still sheathed towards the green-haired archbishop. 

As always, Byleth betrayed nothing as she caught the weapon one-handed, a small quirk on the corner of her lip the only exception. "Like you ever gave me a heads up before," she scoffed playfully. "I still remember you chasing after me, hair barely out of your face, asking me to spar..." 

If she was trying to embarrass him, Felix had long since come to terms with his previous antics. To think back and realize what truly motivated him then had initially been quite a shock; now, he didn't try to control the smirk that tugged at his façade. 

"I'm sure seventeen year-old me would be disappointed to know I only get to see you the way I wanted when I get the rare chance to take the archbishop to bed." 

To her credit, Byleth's facade remained outwardly as cool as ever as she sank down, sword drawn. "Spent a long time beside Margrave Gauntier, have we?"  

"Childhood friends," Felix said as he mirrored her stance. "He was bound to rub off me sooner or later." 

She laughed, a bell of a sound that he so rarely heard from his wife, and she twirled her sword so familiarly. If Felix were being honest, this was what suited her -- this was so much more natural. Her eyes sharpened like a hawk's and her lips relaxed to a calm neutral. He'd seen her when she worked and he couldn't help but to note the lack of shine in his love's eyes, the way her mouth was tense even when talking, smiling. Now, she was relaxed - now, she was Byleth.  

And she still was, doubly so as she expertly blocked his blow, teeth grazing her lips in concentration at his sudden advance. It was the same dance that they had always had danced, a tango of blades accompanied by a symphony of metallic clashes as steel met steel. And, like every step to their routine, she always seemed to have the upper hand. It was almost unfair, in a way, that the revered archbishop could still be this skilled with the sword after this long on the job.  

Sheen of sweat had formed on her brow, and the ragged breath that serrated through her lungs was like fire to his ears. Still, it wasn't too long before his sword went flying from his grip, and then his back hit the stone wall - like ice against his heated torso - and the tip of her blade caressed along the planes of his jaw before her lips planted firmly onto his cheek.  

"Beat you again, Fraldarius," was her feathered breath, heavy and worn, and it did things to his head that he suspected had nothing to do with the adrenaline coursing through his veins.  

"Okay, Fraldarius," he said breathlessly, and this time he did manage to get a reaction from her, even if it was just the faintest blush to tint her cheeks pink.  

"Archbishop Byleth to you," she responded, almost dutifully. Felix couldn’t help but roll his eyes skywards as her own sword clattered noisily to the floor.  “You almost had me there too,” she said, almost conversationally, and Felix only scoffed. 

“Isn’t it sacrilegious to lie, Lady Byleth?” 

Something between a choke and a laugh came from his beloved. She pushed verdant hair from her face, and it was really unfair how such a simple motion was enough to make his heart thud erratically. Sure, distance made the heart grow fonder – but at this rate, it made him feel like he was – many – years younger, when he was admittedly much brasher and irrevocably infatuated with his then-professor. So with her hair pushed back and eyes a liquid fire, skin positively glowing from just sparring alone, the way her regalia -- so not accustomed to any physical activity, let alone to the extent they did – clung to her body, right under the weight of her breasts… 

To say that he swallowed through a lump in his throat would have been an understatement. 

The look she then gave him was sly, too all knowing – a combination of her seeing through him, like she always had, and just familiarity made it all the more easier for her to read his mind like a book. 

She smirked, and said all too breathlessly, “can I at least shower first?”  

. 

“Since when?”

Of all the things Felix had learned about her overtime, this was probably the most surprising. Her body was pressed up against his, the rise and fall of stolen breaths soft in the curve of her back. She was cold - she always was, one of the first thing he'd learned about her - and so he tightened his grip, tucked in the point of his elbow softly into her chest as a sigh feathered from her lips, and he pressed his own into the crown of her head.  

She flipped over, a bit suddenly, her green eyes so clear - like water, one of many parts of her he found irresistibly interesting about her - and hedging those oceanic depths, a small facet of genuine intrigue.  

Felix felt the heat rise to his ears; with a twist, he craned his head into the upper part of his forearm, if anything to stop himself before his words came before his train of thought did. "Gradually, I guess," he said, carefully, and he knew Byleth so well now that he could feel the tidal surge of her stare to know she, as usual, saw right through him.  

Her touch was lithe, cool, and meticulous - just the tip of her finger pad as she traced the line from his cheek, down to his jawline. And yet it was unfair how just a simple gesture, affectionate in a way she could afford, left trails of fire and ice that spread like spiderwebs across his skin.  

"And the truth, this time?"  

Her voice was coy, but he too knew that he hadn’t been the most forthcoming with his half-answer. And when her finger lingered on the jut of his chin, before lifting to press against the swell of his lower lip, he relented.  

"I don't know, maybe the whole time?" His answer wrenched out of his attempt of control, and perhaps to any other ears could have easily ruined the tender moment between them. But the bite that would have perhaps deterred only elicited a small giggle instead, and the sound only made the already-present sparks of nervous elation catch to a slow burning fire. 

If there was more that she was curious about, Byleth didn’t voice it, and Felix was not about to ask the same embarrassing question – he had no idea how she could so shamelessly say such. But he’d known her methodology, known it when she had snatched the ring-case out of his hand as he fought so hard to get the stupid words out of his mouth and then she’d dropped to one knee. “Just have to not think about it so hard, Fraldarius,” she had teased after he begrudgingly (because it should’ve been her who had to say it, Saints be damned) said yes.

She was always unfair when she saw through him that easily.

As she did again, when her eyes caught his, and they were nothing but inviting as he pushed himself up, hovering over her body. “Sappy,” he said simply, and then he lowered himself and let his lips feather along the angle of her jaw.

“Determined,” she responded, his particular area of interest vibrating as she spoke. “You were too, back then.”

 He couldn’t help the soft laugh that overtook him before he reclaimed her lips; she sighed into the gesture, just lightly, before the tips of her teeth tugged at his lower lip.

Felix pulled away before she could deepen the kiss any further. “I still am,” he said, very seriously, and his beloved underneath him bestowed him with a signature smirk.

“Are you asking me to spar, Fraldarius?”

“Haven’t you bested me already once today?” he responded, coolly, into the soft spot in her neck as she shifted, a breath wafting against his ear. And then, just as suddenly, those lithe fingers curled around his chin and pulled him up – and Felix found himself staring into endless green depths, depths he adored endlessly even if the journey through the abyss was spiralling.

“Please,” she whispered, and it was barely a question.

Yet he couldn’t resist her – he never could.

It was hard to put it into words: the realization had been shocking, but also in a way, comforting. It offered an explanation to everything, every calculation that had missed and every desire that had been fronting as something else. But to narrow it down to a single moment was more or less impossible; made even more so when the subject to the question offered so many other ways to occupy his mind – and mouth – just inches away from him.

The words fluttered at his lips, half formed as they were, and it simply became easier to ignore the raging inferno that seemed to burn at his tongue and redirect it to her collarbone – her shoulders – the swell of her breasts, unbidden from that frivolous regalia that did nothing to really accentuate how perfect his wife was.

“Easy Felix,” she said somewhere above him, words like little kisses of light underneath the heavy blanket of his arousal. “I’m here for a week, this time.”

“And you still couldn’t have sent a raven,” he murmured against her navel. The small peal of laughter makes her ribs tense, stretching the skin just slightly underneath his touch.

Her response was so simple, so transparent. “I like surprising you.”

She always did, and she continued to, for what he silently hoped to be something close to forever.

[thepilgrimofwar]

The Wintergales - Edited Roll20 Log

[Backdated to after A Girl of Wind and Winter, before Warplanning 2]

[Event Start]

The party approached the Wintergale Manor, prompted by a message from Zarannis. She had spent the last few days speaking with her family, convincing her father to grant an audience with the representatives from Emberheart. It was time she spent fighting a battle of another sort. One that she cared about. But as Beathyn led the way, the good agent of the Emberhearts swallowed hard.

Beathyn looked to the others to his left and to his right. He'd have preferred to come with some muscle in case things went south- But between Mr. Bladeborn who had lived up to his rambunctious name, and the scary lady that he had to convince not to turn him into a bloody pulp when he had first sought her out on the onset of the war... He felt more concerned about the Wintergales if negotiations DID go south. "So, both of you up to speed? Stenden wants to make it clear that while neutrality suits our purposes now- He is still the Lord of the Emberglades and the Cloudrends are part of that whether Lord Wintergale likes it or not."

Vissehn nods, straightening his very Fine Formal Hawk Jacket. Someone had bathed him. Someone had -dressed- him, and despite his off-colored eyes and the stubbiness of his ears, he almost looked respectable. Until, he opened his mouth. "Oi we're onnit, make this feller understand the whats and whos of what's happenin' aint outside their walls, not really. It's all the Glades, an' can't be sitting out."

Renalays:"The Law is the Law," is her cool response as the Lady Bloodhallow adjusts the stark-white mask covering the lower half of her features. "WIntergale makes it less a matter of the Emberglades and more the matter of the State, and we would not see those under us further fractured."

Beathyn makes a wry smile. "Excellent. Loyalties must be paid. So I think I don't have to mention this- But with the sorts of people I mixed with in the Sunguard, I think I better mention this: Please don't challenge people to duels to the death to get your point across- Don't hurl insults at our hosts- and for the love of the Light do not attempt to seduce Lord Mediea." With that out of the way, he huffed, and headed towards the manor.

Renalays:"I am no parlour person.... whether your castaway is, is another question." Someone's been talking to this wicked witch.

Beathyn glances at Vissehn.

Vissehn lifted a brow, and in very Eliza Doolittle manner, sheds about % of his terrible way of speaking. "I have no idea what you mean, marm."

Renalays:"'Madame' is the acceptable variant in these parts of the Kingdom," is her ONLY acknowledgement.

The party is directed inside by the Wintergale Guards. Their count, higher than usual but given the circumstances were understandable precautions. Inside sat Lord Mediea, who stood as his 'guests' entered the dining room. Zarannis got up from her seat, nodded at the three of the representatives and stood off to the side of the room.

Zarannis:"No armed posse, no tricks, just agents come to speak." She looked at her father-by-blood but not by name.

Renalays lofts one of those blood-red brows at Zarannis' brusque sentiment, turning to Mediea and offering a more courtly, "Well met, Lord Wintergale."

Mediea is an elderly elf. Most certainly already approaching the end of his life. But though grey hair covered his scalp, he still carried the platemail of his station on his back with ease.

Vissehn doffed his cap, offering a low and perfectly executed Hawk-bow to the lord, but said nothing as yet.

Mediea gives a long measured nod at Renalays. The courtly mannerisms of one of his three 'guests' was appreciated. "Well met indeed." He looks at Beathyn who stood at the head of the group. "So, you come with requests and I make none."

Beathyn mentally cancels the long-winded flattery he was about to make when he took the measure of the man before him. Clearing his throat, he makes a half-bow. "Lord Wintergale. I am Beathyn Val'cinder, this is Vissehn Bladeborn, and Renalays Bloodhollow. We come on behalf of House Emberheart. We've come to speak of Peace- Lasting peace- Long after this Civil War is over. Because the sentiment back in the Heartlands is troubled that one of their vassals won't answer their call for aid during these times- of all times."

Mediea remains expressionless. No doubt a result of centuries of political plays, backstabbing, and plying in the Emberglades. "I don't care for the sentiments of the boy in the Heartlands. The Emberglades hasn't had a real leader for close to a twenty years now- I'd rather have my loyalties lie with the Crown directly rather than... Middlemen." Lord Wintergale ends with his dismissive remark.

Vissehn glances to Renalays. She's the voice of the State here; he won't trod on those toes.

Zarannis keeps her eyes on the Lord, giving him a knife-like gaze into his back. Whatever she had spoken to her family about, it was clear that while she had made Mediea agree to having an audience, neither of them saw eye-to-eye on the situation.

Renalays:"That is not your whim to make, unfortunately, Lord Wintergale. Meredred Emberheart and the bargains he struck is what structures the hierarchy and jurisdictions of your lands according to greater Law as it stands. To withdraw your assistance in the matter of the rebel Illithia is one thing, to place yourself 'independent' as far as that goes, is another. You know yourself that such freedom amongst the aristocracy has never been the way of the Sin'dorei, before or after the Reclamation. Perhaps you have independence as far as this rebellion lasts - but the Emberglades will have a State-backed casus belli to pursue upon your heirs, if Zarannis Wintergale's own claim is not revived and pursued."

"There are ways to pursue your goals of a Cloudrend Glades free of the Emberheart's control - but this is an -elementary- way of performing it."

Mediea does not give away his thoughts from his expressions, but speaks once she is done. "Perhaps you are right. But you fail to understand that I am the will of my people. If it was up to me, I'd spend the rest of my days kissing up to the Emberhearts and let my children reap the benefits. But alas my people are tired of dying for someone else's wars. If we're going to have to die, we'll die for ourselves- Rather than some Lord sitting in gilded halls- or worse, a Horde Queen who is off her rocker."

Zarannis eyes narrow, tension rising in her brow as he speaks. But she stays silent.

Vissehn:"If I may sir-- they're tired of dying, period. And let me tell you, and I mean this as no threat, the forces they would face should this nonagression be considered a threat in itself are not something to be trifled with. Whether they die for Sederis or Stenden or you? Doesn't mean a fuckin' lot. And die they will, in a short battle or the political fallout of refusing to support your liege."

Renalays 's long swooping brows -twitch- at the idea of even considering something so... insignificant as the common people in this equation. The rest of her expression is unreadable underneath that mask. There is no physical glance towards Vissehn, but the slithering pull of her invisible Shadow upon the Tel'dorei is almost like a 'push' forward-- and there he goes!

Mediea tsked. "The people of the Cloudrends aren't tired of dying. Just don't for the wrong people and the wrong causes. True there are consequences to our actions but I will not send my people to die in some stupid civil spat." He sighs, his first show of emotion of the day. "I will remain neutral in this- Perhaps I will negotiate with the Lord that comes out on top of this Civil War- Perhaps I will not."

Beathyn changes tact, lowering his voice. "To paraphrase one of the main members of our coalition we have gathered. 'When we are done with Arenias, we will come for you.' Now- Personally, I do not wish for things to come to that- Which is why we are here, speaking, and trying to avoid... Catastrophe for you," he nodded at the second floor of the manor above him. "And your family."

Vissehn visibly swallows something back and looks to Renalays.

Renalays 's almond eyes squint....

Vissehn sings softly. "Crows and Hawk went flying down, tryin’ to catch a bastard..." His brow lifts.

Mediea narrows his eyes. "Hm." He turns towards Renalays, who spoke more of the stately language he was accustomed to. "So. What are your demands then? Support my rightful Lord? Send my people to die for yet another cause they don't believe it?"

Renalays:"Do not send your swords nor your people," is her sickly-sweet response, those same feline eyes tightening to hint towards the cheshire cat's grin underneath her mask. "Do nothing at all aside from what is -easiest- for you, removes all of the opposition you currently face. Support Emberheart by word, deny Illthia travel through your border. Reassert your obedience to the State - who has no interest in your want to kneel to us but in the maintenance of proper -Order- and -hierarchy.-"

"...then perhaps we will talk, me and you, about the raise of status for your heirs. -Lawful- independence that does not see you burned by Emberheart nor Phoenix Guard."

Mediea contemplates this for a moment. "And if I decide to do so, and the people do not?" He looks to Vissehn, who seemed to speak for the common man.

Vissehn tossed his mane of shorter hair. "Aye, well as I see it, you're not risking them none by closing your borders. They don't got any reason to take up with the soldiers, an' scurryin' with you won't make Illithia the firm force they'll wanna be-- they won't risk spreading thin to break your defense, and your people will only have to guard a strip of borderlands." He shrugged again. "Seems to me like they'd be well pleased to keep their lives, livelihoods, and indistinct notions of their honor, which matters. Keeps lords heads on their shoulders, when the people feel like they've been good and honorable at once."

Vissehn:"However, if you send a message by not participating at all-- by standing against none, and all at once-- well, when there's any little problem, famine, flood, armies at the borders-- suddenly they'll remember a certain stand and position."

Beathyn clears his throat. "And if you could allow Emberheart's forces through your lands to start a second front on Westhearth's... Western border." The last bit didn't roll off his tongue as well as he liked. "Then the war will be done with twice as quick with even less doubts of supporting- in word of course- the losing side."

Mediea places a hand on his chin, mulling over the solution presented to him by the party. "I won't make any promises at the moment. But this talk as been... Fruitful." He looks to Zarannis. Then back at the agents of Emberheart. "We will support Stenden in word. That I say. More than that," he gives Beathyn a look. "I will send word with Zarannis."

[Event End]

[of-the-silver-lining]

Prompt #3: Muster

Iris stared in surprise before the assembly of adventurers who stood in two rows by the scholars’ tents at Saint Coinach’s Find. They stood at attention, like soldiers reporting for muster, ranging from the largest stony-faced Roegadyn to the smallest doe-eyed Lalafell. But unlike soldiers, their garb originated from all over Eorzea, and all walks of life. She saw gleaming platemail, rusty chainmail, a colorful archer’s tunic from Gridania, a weathered and modified Yellowjacket’s shirt reinforced with leather, thaumaturge robes and conjurer robes and hats and helms of all sorts. There must have been nearly two dozen of them, and she thought she saw some familiar faces among the group, perhaps adventurers she had seen in passing in Revenant’s Toll.

“Well, what say you of our fine expedition?” said Cid.

She turned to the three of them, Cid, Rammbroes, and G’raha Tia. “We’re to bring all of them?”

“Aye,” said Rammbroes. “We know nothing of what awaits us inside the labyrinth, so it is necessary to be prepared.”

Investigating a several thousand years abandoned and thoroughly sealed off ancient structure was hardly the mission Iris would have felt required a veritable army of adventurers. In truth, she had expected to be the only muscle of the operation, and only for, perhaps, lifting heavy things or carrying ropes over steep precipices. Surely no Allagans were still living inside, were they?

“The technology of the Allagan empire was very advanced,” Cid said, likely noticing her bemused look. “So advanced that some elaborate machines have been found still working today. The tower’s defenses likely consisted of much more than the eight sentinels, and some of its more dangerous guardians may still be operational.”

“And that’s to say nothing of the Allagans’ penchant for cloning and creating genetically-modified creatures for war, some of which were able to breed and others of which could live for centuries,” Rammbroes added. He sighed. “And so we have drained a regrettably large portion of our research budget, but it cannot be helped.”

“Not as much as we would have, if we had tried several moons ago,” G’raha Tia pointed out. “I tell you, it was surprisingly easy to recruit in Mor Dhona these days, and I believe we have you to thank for that. It seems many dream to fight alongside the woman who defeated the Ultima Weapon.”

Iris looked back at the gathering of adventurers. Some were now looking around or looking at each other, but others were looking at her eagerly, or with eyes filled with conviction.

“They’ve all seen their share of combat and made a name for themselves,” Rammbroes said. “What say you? Can you lead them?”

Iris pursed her lips. She’d never led so many people before; in fact, led was the wrong word for any mission she had done with other adventurers or the Scions. She had no idea how a group of this size would function in a fight, much less how to lead them.

“Well...” she mumbled. If she didn’t know how to lead such a large group of people, she would just have to do what she knew. “How many of you are healers?” she asked the group, and a number of conjurers raised their staves.

She thought to assign each healer to a team of three or four, but then, she thought it would be confusing to determine who would come to help if one team’s healer was injured or occupied. Also with so many groups, she would have trouble keeping track. 

In the end, she decided to divide them into three groups, each with two healers and at least one member in heavy armor who could focus on protecting the casters and archers. To avoid confusion and overlap of tasks, they would largely focus on their own groups, aiding others as necessary. Some of the adventurers were already acquainted with each other, with helped make group assignments go smoothly.

“Well done,” said Cid. “I think this will work out nicely.”

When Iris finished her rounds around the groups, listening to everyone’s plans for what they would do, she stood before all of them and asked one final time, “Are there any questions?”

The adventurers looked satisfied. A tall Roegadyn woman with an enormous axe spoke up. “Do you have any words of advice for us?”

“Yes, or words of inspiration?” piped the high voice of a young, brown-haired Miqo’te woman. 

She stood quietly for a moment, wondering what to say. She had no advice for an excursion with such unforeseeable challenges, and rousing speech seemed beyond her capabilities. But then, inspiration was the role of the battle bard, was it not? She pulled out her harp.

She plucked a repeating tune, the notes dancing up and down the scale, and she began to sing. She sang them a song of dark caverns and ancient ruins, deep places in the earth and under the sea where no human had set foot in centuries, the unexplored wilds, and adventurers who braved them, defending the realm from monsters and magicks unknown, and unearthing history to be remembered.

When she finished her song, the adventurers stood looking at her in surprise. They must have not been expecting a song. “Excellent!” cried someone, and a few people clapped, but mostly they began talking among themselves, looking bright-eyed and eager. Pleased that her work seemed to pay off, she turned back to Cid and the others.

“I knew you were the right woman for the job.” Cid had his arms crossed, a smile on his white-bearded face. G’raha Tia was smiling at her too, his eyes bright as any of the adventurers, as they all started off toward the glimmering spire of the Crystal Tower.

[visionofnoxus]

♛ - for your muse to beat mine until they can’t fight back (@defiant-blade) //if you're still accepting

// Warning: This turned out rather… Brutal. Not anything really bad. But definitely a rough ride. Regardless, I hope you like it and please do give feedback. Defiant-blade

General Swain has returned to Ionia. Such was the rumor. The man who had taken The Placidium and nearly crushed Ionia under his heel had returned. The rumors were spreading like wildfire about his return and the possible reasons. Flocks of ravens had taken fancy with southwestern archipelago. Noxian troops and warships had taken port in the port city of Faelor, the westernmost island of Ionia. One of the few regions still under noxian occupation.

The atmosphere of fear and dread spread over the Ionia, especially so to the province of Navori where Jericho Swain had many times proven his nickname, the Master Tactician, with catastrophic results to the local militia and civilian population alike. 11 years ago, this man had been defeated in combat by a group of resistance fighters, led by a teenage girl Xan Irelia, who’d led a charge against the general’s elites, cutting them apart and winning against the villain in single combat. Ionia had celebrated her victory and the death of Swain. Less than a year after Placidium, the war ended with the battle of Dalu Bay. Irelia personally once again slayed the commander in battle, admiral Duqal, the man responsible for commanding the Noxian navy. It could well be argued she’d put down both men responsible for the near destruction of Ionian lands and people.

The supposed survival of the general Swain and his resurfacing in Noxus as the new Grand General had been largely dismissed as propaganda and lies of the foreigners, but now seeing the warships once more gathering, the noxian legionnaires with three indents of Trifarix in their platemail being sighted, the stories of man’s return were becoming painfully realistic.

Eventually these rumors had landed in the ears of the Blade Dancer herself and after meditating on the matter, weighing her options and duties, Irelia had once more taken up her blades. Now looking over the fortified port city of Faelor, Irelia felt the dark and murky thoughts drifting in her mind. Once again she found herself weighing her options, wondering if what she was doing was for Ionia, or for herself. The Blade Dancer did not consider herself prideful or vain. What she’d done, she’d done for Ionia. And there had been great pain involved along the way. She felt little for the Noxians her blades had cut down, but the war had extracted a heavy toll on Ionians and to her ever lasting shame and sorrow, she’d been forced to cut down some of her countrymen whose fevor had been… Miss guided. 

Navigating her way through the city streets, she sneaked through the city. It was somewhat surprising, seeing such a blend of cultures. The buildings were sturdier and often lacked the attention to small artistic details that so ruled in Ionia, but they were definitely still ionian and not those blocks of stone and iron that the invaders built their fortresses like. The people walking on the streets wore combinations of foreign and ionian clothes, and the civilian population did not avoid the patrolling soldiers despite their intimidating and brutish look. It was all very confusing to Irelia, but she did not stop to consider this, keeping her focus on the task she’d set out to accomplish. A task that might very well be her final pledge of love to her beloved country. Steeling her resolve, she aimed her steps towards the governor’s palace, located in the heart of the city. It would had served her well to maybe observe the city more closely, for above the rooftops and sitting on the ropes from which the street lights hung, blood colored eyes took note of the roguish intruder sticking to the shadows. The fluttering of the ravens’ wings was lost to the soundscape of the night time city.

Governor’s palace was a fortress. High built walls of the foreigners design formed the perimeter for the palace grounds, a more traditional ionian palace sitting at the heart of the fortifications, but even this old palace had undergone changes, it’s lower levels reinforced with steel and stone, the pools of the gardens dug deeper to serve the dual purpose of aesthetics and as a moat. As Irelia scaled the walls silently, she took note of the guards. The palace guards of governor Kalan were accompanied by the heavily armored men dressed in iron and crimson cloth, the three marks on their chest marking their elite status. Slipping past the guards with little effort, the ionian allowed herself a small, joyless smile. She was on the right track. These were surely Swain’s guards.

A half an hour of sneaking and elaborate gymnastics later, she finally climbed up the castle wall, slipping in through a window that the defenders no doubt considered too small for an intruder. Maybe a brutish warrior, but not a silk dancer. Landing gracefully with a roll on the inside, the woman straightened herself up, finally drawing her blades. Not a drop of blood had been spilled so far, but it was from this point on that it would change. Looking at the gleaming, pure blades, the woman felt a shudder travel through her. This was a man she’d thought to defeated and left to die before. This time she wowed to make sure. Sneaking into the castle, she went searching for her foe. 

It was surprisingly easy. Predictable, looking back at it. All the woman had needed to do was observe where the foreign warriors were most well armed and alert. Then it was just a simple matter of dispatching them. Irelia felt a pang of guilt as she withdrew her blades from the last two warriors, the men having collapsed against doorframe of the entryway they’d been set to guard. She cast her saphire colored eyes down to meet the lifeless gaze of the dead trifarian, his earthy brown irises staring back at him without the flicker of life behind them. “I am sorry” She apologized faintly, reaching for the door. For the first time, the Blade Dancer felt sorry for the invaders and it puzzled her. These were the enemy who’d brought destruction and misery to everywhere they went. They’d no doubt committed numerous atrocities just to earn the “right” to stand guard outside Grand General’s room. And yet still… To have their lives ended in such an emotionless and cold manner, the men never seeing their death arrive… She shook her head, the tiniest click of her headdress breaking silence. This was why she’d been a warrior, not an assassin. But it was an assassin her country needed right now. Steeling herself, she pushed open the doors, stepping into the living quarters of her foe. This one at the very least, would see his doom arrive. Just like he’d seen it those years ago. With that thought pristine in her mind, she pushed open the doors.

The room was a large lounge. There were pillows and small tables, pieces of art lined the walls and where there was no picture, the very wallpapers were gorgeous enough for one to lose themselves in the patterns. On the center of room stood a dark figure, the few sources of light from candles illuminating his silvery hair, the man’s shadows reflecting near demonic images on the walls. Irelia felt her mouth dry up, swallowing unconsciously as she stared at the man who looked calmly at his would be killer, the bronze colored eyes assessing her coolly. “Xan Irelia” Came the smooth voice, almost peaceful, yet Irelia’s mind brought up an image of a sharpened blade, beautiful and calm, yet readied to strike. “When you left me for dead, you were but a girl. Now, as we meet again, you are a full grown woman” The foreign general spoke to her, those unnerving eyes never letting go of her own. She tried to say something, but her body felt like it was frozen. Something was off, her intuition screaming out loud at the danger in front of her. Something was different. So very different from the last they’d met. 

Once again the man spoke: “Curious. Last we met you came at me with zeal worth the whole Ionia. You poured all of the pain, suffering and rage into those blades and tore apart my troops, cut me down with frightening ease”. As the man stepped closer, she finally regained control of her body, lifting her arms into the initial stance of her dance. “I’ve come to finish you. That horror will never happen again” She asserted, drawing breath and starting to sink into her dance. “You lack the resolve to challenge me. And while you’ve cherished your victory, I have reforged myself from the defeat”.  

Lifting his left arm up, the very one Irelia had cut, the noxian called forth unnatural sorcery. Streaks of crimson lightning struck out like a tidal wave, Irelia’s eyes widening in shock, the woman instinctively bringing her hands up to protect herself, her blades guarding against the attack. It was for naught however, the sorcery skirting the blades easily, striking her body and eliciting a scream. “I’ve had time to prepare for this” her foe explained in calm manner, as if holding a dinner conversation. Swinging her arm wildly up, Irelia ignored the words, three of her blades launching forward but the man dodged them with a small but precise step, his eyes glowing with crimson. “You are uncertain. You doubt yourself” He accused her, shooting another bolt at her which the Blade Dancer dodged, dashing to the side, recalling her blades and summoning them back, preparing for another offensive.

“I know what I must do!” she shouted back at him, hurling her blades forward in a deadly storm of blades similar to one she’d once broken through his ranks with. But it was mere imitation of that force. A crimson colored claw the size of a man rose to meet her attack and struck against them, the blades scattering as the spell struck forward, catching the ionian woman square in the chest. She flew against the wall, vases and paintings destroyed with her body and the crimson claw bashing them. Biting back a scream, she felt the cutting edges and the vile sorcery pin her against the wall, the noxian walking closer. His hand was still extended, the transparent red hand mirroring the enormous claw currently pinning her. “You are but a shadow of yourself miss Xan” the man spoke out, his voice sounding almost disappointed. She lacked the power to answer, feeling the searing pain like hot iron against her skin as the claw pressed her against wall, shocks of pain rocking her body for what little room she had. 

The claw dissipated, Irelia’s legs giving out, the woman starting to fall forward. But her enemy was not intending to give such mercy. Stepping forward with intent, the noxian landed a punch in her gut, the strength of the blow lifting the Blade Dancer on the tips of her toes, air escaping her lungs. “Satisfaction… I admit” the man growled, pulling his hand back, letting the battered form of his enemy fall on the ground. As she hit the wooden floor, the man leveled his hand at her again, another spark of crimson shooting out, this time eliciting an actual scream from the weakened woman. Another spell followed, and then another. Finally, the noxian knelt down, grasping her head, lifting the woman’s head up, the searing pain gripping her scalp at his hold. The blood colored eyes stared into hers and Irelia felt the man.. No. The demon reaching into her very soul, glimpsing at something she could not understand. “Yes… You have not become weak. You are just filled with doubt and hesitation. Lacking a cause”. He let go of her head, the woman falling on the floor without even tiniest attempt at softening her own fall. “And you were correct to doubt yourself. My death would had brought forward exactly that. While my life may yet spare your people” The man stood up, looking down at her bloodied form. “Consider us even, girl”.