#mer angular

[amphiptere-art]

Come on dad. I saw the fishes over here. I don't want to miss the school.

I don't want to eat a fish. I want a baby mer.

Dad says we can't eat mer. Not unless they do a bad thing.

But I want to eat one!

Later! Look! Look! Look! Fish! Fish! Hehehe! Eat the fish! Chase!

Chase!? hunt!?

Yes! Yes! Hunt!

Wait no, come back! not so fast! I want some!

Kids! Stop it! It's a whole school. It's not going to just vanish. Take your time. It's got a scatter if you're too fast.

Mer Red Moon, False star, Annular, Blue Moon

I have grown a mini love for mer Blue Moon's pups. I think it's cuz they're not really connected to anything. You're just some pups with doing different shenanigans. They're fun.

Again a lot of my mer RBB is based on @artoutoftheblue mer stuff.

[falmerbrook]

Ear Headcanons

So this was meant to be just my headcanon for the differences between the different mer races' ears (size, shape, if they can move on their own, etc.), but there's a tinge of just general visual differences between them in there too (because this ended up being really good face practice for me). I'll mostly talk about ears though. Obviously this is more meant to be general trends than hard and fast rules.

I'll start with the playable races.

Altmer

Tall and skinny ears that can move out and back a bit (moderate range of motion). They mostly are close to the head but can also stick out a bit.

Dunmer

They have a wide variety of how their ears can be shaped; small, tall, wide, big, straight up, curvy, etc. The typically stick out more than Altmer's and have a larger range of motion.

Bosmer

The largest variety of any of the races. Their ears can look like just about anything any other race has (except maybe Maormer) from any mer ears, to more human ears, to more animal-like ones. They have a large range of motion regardless of how they look.

Orsimer

Small, almost human-sized ears, but they stick out more from the head than humans and can be wider. The pointed end tends to stick out. They can rarely move.

Breton

Breton basically just have human ears with a little point at the top. I thought it would be fun to draw a sort of comparison to your average Nede and average Breton to highlight the subtle more merish look that I think Bretons should have too.

Ok now for non-playable races

Snow elves/Falmer

Ok so I have terminal Falmer brainrot so I have a lot of completely made up headcanons for these guys sorry lol.

Snow elves have the least variety. They are usually shorter and closer to the head than the other mer races (which evolved as an adaptation to counter frostbite in my headcanon) and can't move. Conversely, I like to headcanon that falmer are on their way to evolving rudimentary echolocation, and therefore have huge ears that stick out far from their head, and are very mobile (this is also why their faces are covered in wrinkles). They can look more traditionally merish, or some of them have real funky shapes.

Chimer

Basically a mix between how the Altmer/Aldmer and current Dunmer look (both in their general appearance and ears). Think of it like the transition between the Aldmer look and Dunmer.

Dwemer

Dwemer have relatively short ears (compared to other mer) and don't stick out much, but they can be wide along the side of the head. Their shape is usually pretty angular and have limited mobility.

Aldmer

Your standard pointy fantasy elf ears. So I technically headcanon the Aldmer as many different (although similar) groups that are referred to as one group due to the nature of retelling history and some propaganda sprinkled in there, but in general, since the other mer of Tamriel descended from them, I see them as sort of generic. Nothing particularly notable in their ears. Minimal to moderate ability to move them.

Ayleid

Curvy. They have Aldmer sized ears with twisting and curving in different directions. Limited movement, and not too much range in size (just shape). I have 0 reasons for thinking this, I just thought it would be fun and unique and maybe fit their aesthetics.

Maormer

I like that canon Maormer ears look fin-like but I want to turn it up to 11. Large variety of shape and size, but usually large and fin-shaped as a general trend. Huge range of movement.

Ohmes/Ohmes-raht

They aren't elves, but they are described as human/mer-like, so I figured I'd include the Ohmes. They usually have pointy, mer-esque ears, but less distinct than most mer. Despite being relatively small, they have a wide range of movement for their size (and move in similar ways to the way cats ears move for the rest of the Khajiit). They can be extra fuzzy or have little tufts at the end for Ohmes-raht.

[shibaraki]

BE STILL MY INDELIBLE LOVE ┊ CHOSO

tags: GN reader, shark mer choso, mating behaviour, accidental acceptance of courting, fluff, interspecies relationships, blood + mild gore (fish death), biting (plenty of it), fluff, forbidden love vibes

wc: 1K+

↱ for the mermay collab hosted by the teahouse server — written using @petrichorium’s prompts: “This is… food? For me? I can’t eat this” and “A cloud of blood billowing from a thrashing creature” ↲

Curiosity is just shrouded gluttony. The need to see more, know more, devour as much of the world as you can. Your village elders impressed fear on the young to keep them from treading far afield. They punished those that set foot beyond the borders. Do not leave the boundaries. Do not enter the woods.

You always had been an insatiable child. Restless and unhappily kept in your four walls. The hunger never settled. It drew you to stories of eldritch creatures cast away by God, tales woven with drunken mariner whispers, pages in books quickly torn at the spines and burned. A travelling scholar once told you that the Earth was covered in salt. The sea. The monsters you sought resided there, finding home in the briny depths.

There is a vein outside the village where the salmon run upstream to complete their life cycle. Every river led to the ocean, that much you knew. The first time you crept out of the village had been on impulse. You walked for miles, closely following the sounds of free flowing water until you stumbled upon the inlet. You recall how your feet sank into the mud, grit of silt and icy embrace, and how the oppressive current worked against you as you trudged downstream.

That is where you found Choso.

Where the treeline flanked the narrowing river on either side and rose to create a tapestry of foliage that obscured the sun, in a palatial veil of gold, you saw him; large and angular, a shadow moving on the riverbed. Half fish half man. A long dark tail and a pale belly that blended into skin. Torqued fins, caudal and pelvic, another beginning at the base of his spine, standing proud and tall. Black hair plumed around a gentle face, markings cut across the bridge of his nose. Serrated teeth hidden behind soft lips that tore into your ankle and unearthed a merry scarlet waterfall when you came too close.

Monsters are defined by their aberrance. Monsters are unnatural, wicked and ugly. On your second visit you quickly learned that Choso was none of those things, watching in awe as he drug himself onto the banks and cradled your injured heel. A long tongue too rough and dextrous to be human lapped over the scabbed wound in apology, his saliva numbing the residual pain.

Monstrous? No. To you, he is about as threatening as a limpet. You returned to his neck of the river every day since—rather, every day possible. He is the one to receive your first and last words. With each sun cycle and mark left on your skin your neighbour’s expressions grow more sour. Monstrous are the grating whispers, louder still, the eyes pinned to your every move; endured, only if it meant seeing Choso once more.

A cloud of blood billowed from a thrashing shadow in the dark crevasse. You wait in the mud, cushioned by dry grass pressed flat under your thighs. The surface ripples violently and eventually settles into foam, fizzing out in broad rings. The stillness breaks where a head rises from the water. Red rivulets paint Choso’s chin, running down the column of his throat and staining his gills as he drags himself ashore.

You hold a trepid breath. One swing of his large, muscled arm and there’s a severed fish carcass hauled into the dirt. It comes apart like wet paper, viscera spilling out in a streaming tide. “Eat,” he states firmly.

Choso doesn’t speak often. When he does it is usually just to demand something of you. Give when he needs to tend the thin wounds his teeth leave. Come when you’re too far from him. Watch when he wants you to pay attention as he dives deeper to perform strange, intricate dances for you.

Eat is a recent addition to his verbal repertoire. For some reason he is intent on feeding you. “This is… food? For me?” you smile ruefully, apprehensive as you poke at the dead eyed fish head at your feet. “I can’t eat this, Choso.”

He huffs. The currents break around a too-big tail as he crawls to your lap. You fall back on the soft earth, knees parting to accommodate his breadth. The fins on either side of his pelvis press into your navel. You reach out to cup his face in your palms without much forethought, drying blood now chipping under your fingers.

Something warm and pleasant coils in your chest when his whole body shudders. His gills flutter around a long exhale. You laugh quietly, relenting when he nuzzles his head against your midsection, blood smearing your clothes. Sometimes it felt as though he was trying to dig into your bones.

Head whipping to the side, he takes the flesh of your forearm between his jaws with just enough pressure to pierce skin. The flat of his rough tongue rolls over the wound, blood congealing. Satisfied, he noses at the sensitive skin of your wrist before returning your hand to his jaw. You barely flinch. Choso has done this so many times now you’ve lost count. He steadfastly refuses to tell you why but there’s never any malice in it.

A thought crosses your mind. Your arm falls limp to the side where his own lies. You feel him seize when your fingers enclose around his forearm. Choso stares unblinking while you bring his wrist to your mouth. Pliant, allowing you to shape him as you please.

His skin is thick and tough and so unlike your own. A rumbling purr begins to resonate in his chest as you sink your dull human teeth into him, biting down harder than you’ve ever tried, eyes clenched shut with the effort. Your jaw locks, a soft pop rattling around your skull when the scales break.

You reel away as his blood fills your mouth, sticking to your gums. The taste of copper pervades your senses. Hare brained, your elders called you. Foolish glutton. But in that moment, when Choso braces himself over your body, pinned back to the verge, he dubs you something new.

Crowding close to nip at your cheek, he murmurs, “Mine”.

[oceansssblue]

I love Mermay! May I request a mer!reader x Sailor/Pirate!Fives? The reader is a siren and is technically supposed to be luring Fives and his friends to their deaths, but ends up not doing so after getting into a convo with him. When someone (Palpatine, Fox, random guy, whoever you want) does try to kill Fives, the reader is able to save him. Happy ending please!

Hi there! Yay! As I have said before, I will be writing all my requests, but MERMAY! requests have priority over others even though they have been requested on a later note!

Dear anon, ty for the request! We're def going for a "cruel" badass siren that will be to her surprise captivated with our charming pirate Fives. Palpatine is obviously the bad guy.

I don't know much about sailing and i'm trying to do a past era alternative universe thing, so ignore any incongruences and that.

I hope you like it!

Xx,

Sky.

"A CHANGE OF CURRENT"

FIVES/MER!FREADER 📩💔💖

WARNINGS: MENTIONS OF DEATH, BLOOD, WOUNDS, CRUELTY, SIRENS KILLING/EATING HUMANS, BITES, SCARS. REFERENCES TO ECHO'S TRAUMATIC EXPERIENCE. DON'T GET SCARED. THIS IS MOSTLY FANTASY&MISTERY&FLUFF.

•••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

"Being friends with the Captain doesn't allow you to lounge around, Fives" a voice almost identical to his teases him at his back.

The man in question turns around and grins. Echo has a half-fond, half-exasperated tiny little smile on his face. He's dressed in a similar way to him; thin linnen shirt with a deep opened v-neck and rolled up-pants, just in different tones of blue.

"Actually, it allows me to do exactly that" Fives retorts cheekily. Before Echo has a chance to put him into place, always the responsible of the two twins, he adds. "And I'll let you know lounging is a very important task on the "79's".

Echo arches an eyebrow. He crosses his arms in front of his chest; his hook just grazing the still pale skin of his left peck. Too much time spent trapped away from the sun.

"Is that so?" His brother humours him. The sun is hovering right upon them, bringing darker shades on Echo's already angular face. He's slowly filling out a bit, though, and for that Fives is glad. "How does that work, exactly?"

Fives tilts his head to the side. Echo always thought one of his twin's radiant smiles could iluminate any ship at the darkest of nights. That's the way he could eventually find the way back home, back to the 79's; Fives.

"Keeping a good mood is crutial to a ship's crew" his twin continues, going on one of his tangents. "It makes everyone work better, faster. Reduces fatigue and dangerous thoughts like plotting a mutiny".

Sometimes Echo wonders if Fives has all of this little stupid dialogues planned in his head just because, waiting for their chance to come up. The silliness of his twin's mind never ceases to surprise him; even after so many years of living together travelling through the seven seas.

"Like any of us would ever plot something of the sorts against Rex" Echo rolls his eyes, amused.

Fives shrugs, big smile still in his tanned face. They used to look so similar, Fives and him, before the accident. Now there are just... resemblances. Similarities. Probably the thing he hates the most about what happened –besides loosing his limbs–; how they had visually differentiated him so much of his twin, of his other half. For all Fives could be tiring and obnoxious, Echo knows he couldn't live without him. Even though getting used to his new body has been incredibly hard, he's glad for this second chance with him.

"I dunno' " Fives voice quickly brings him back to present time. He mimicks something dropping onto his head with his hands. "I think I'd look great with Captain Rex's hat".

Fives imitates the Captain's fierce expression and seriousness, still holding onto his imaginary pirate hat; and Echo can't keep the chuckles inside.

"You're a jokester, Fives".

His twin grins again.

"Don't make me repeat why that's important, now".

Echo smiles. Softly, this time.

Around them, at this time of the early afternoon, right after lunch, the crew of the 79' is surprisingly quiet and calm. The sea is peaceful today as well; nothing like the day before or the previous night. They're delving into dangerous waters, now. Places that don't quite appear on the map.

"What were you doing here anyways, all alone?" Echo asks.

Fives hums distractedly and glances in front of him again, at the sea; one leg staying inside the ship and the other dangling over board. The two of them have always been a little reckless like that; specially Fives.

"Thought I heard something" he whispers, then turns back to his twin again. His eyes suddenly look innocently young again, and his twin is suddenly reminded of past memories, of the two of them enlisting in the 79' when they were barely kids. "Do you think sirens really exist, brother?"

Echo sighs. They have all heard stories; but no one on board has ever personally seen one. He doesn't really know what to believe; could they be truly real, or are they just stories invented by lonely men that live by the sea?

"I don't know, Fives" he answers, going for honesty.

Fives hums, scanning the waters again; looking for something it's not quite there.

"If they do, do you think they're truly evil, like the stories tell?"

Echo stays quiet for some minutes. Then, he glances down at his hook; at the wood that replaces his legs. The skin that stays in contact with them feels sore and pained; he really should get some rest. He sighs, tired.

"I don't think so. If they do exist, and they do have something against us, I guess they'd just want to kill us directly, eliminate what they consider a danger and threat for their waters" he pauses and breathes in deeply. "I don't think they'd slowly torture us like humans do. We're the cruelest beings on land or not".

Fives golden eyes silently travel back to Echo's. He reads between the lines. He understands his point.

"You're probably right" he quietly answers, the moment unexpectedly delicate now. He shakes his head and smiles. Softer, gentle, now. "Come on. Let's go shut some eye".

Fives stands up with renewed energy, abandoning heavy feelings behind; and pats Echo's back affectionately. His twin nods knowingly, and follows him through the ship. Even though it doesn't mean he doesn't feel just as deeply –Maker knows he does–, Fives has never been one to hold up emotional conversations for too much time. They weigh heavy in his heart.

Echo takes his space on the thin cot –if you could call a bunch of old shredded clothes and blankets pushed together that– beside him and closes his eyes. Both of them, that night, dream of sirens and mermaids and all those stories the sailors spread around. They aren't aware how close they are to see some of those stories become alive.

•••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

You've been following them for two days now. Your job is to patrol the very limits of your world with the human's sea; and you were instantly alerted of their presence when they arrived, that enourmous ship of them difficult to miss.

It's not the biggest one you've seen. You had a fight with another one once, years ago; it's wood almost a dark black and it's sails a vibrant red. You still remember its name; Death Star. An aproppiate name for such an evil captain, such an evil ship. That fight was the main reason you had been assigned to keep all humans out of this waters; they just take and take, leaving nothing but destruction behind. You're not about to lose anyone else; not to the unforgiving, beautiful, yet terrifying sea, and definitively not to one of them.

This humans don't really seem to be looking for anything in particular. You had waited patiently, trying to find out their needs and wants; but reached no logical conclusion. They just seem to be... Wandering. Exploring. Ah, perhaps they're the curious ones. Many humans seem to be, just in the way young sirens are in their first years; wanting to swim through every single corner of the sea. See the world with their own eyes, and not through what elders tell them. You had been like that as well, in the past.

Mm. No matter. You're not putting the lifes of your people at risk just because these ones are looking fairly innocent. You know how quickly the tide can change directions, how surprising and dangerous the currents can be; and you're not going to let yourself be dragged by it. You'll do what you have to do; observe, wait patiently, and at night, lure them in. Your tongue wraps delicately around your sharp canines, excitement running through your veins.

You swim deeper into the sea below the ship. You almost feel impatient to play with them.

••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

You curse under your breath, quickly hiding underwater when he almost catches sight of you while scanning the sea. You've seen this particular human before; often staring at the water or the horizon, a contemplative look on his face. He's a dreamer, this one; sometimes looking younger than you suppose he really is, others quickly snapping back to reality and jumping to his work with surprising skill. He's handsome as humans go; bronze skin looking smooth under the unforgiving sun and trained muscles peaking under his semi-transparent shirt. He has a strong jaw and nose, expressive eyebrows and golden eyes; a trait that somehow seems common with his fellow soldiers, maybe sharing the same origin, perhaps even some of them being family.

Watching him carefully under the distortion of the dark blue water, you're developed hearing catch a second voice entering the scene; and the human turns around in his precarious position on the border of the ship. This one is named "79's". It must be a reference to something you can't quite place; or perhaps a year of relevance to them.

Human tongue is quite easy to learn, contrary to your native Mando'a; so you have no trouble following the conversation even underwater. Both men hold affection clear in their voice; indicating a closer kind of relationship than two normal sailors on the same ship would have. The second voice sounds more mature to you; perhaps simply because this first human –Fives, you learn, what a curious name for a person– doesn't seem to take life very seriously. But then his voice drops, quietly asking something that makes your heart beat faster inside your chest; if your people are real.

It's a common thing to ponder between sailors. Humans like the tingling excitement of being a bit afraid; of imagining situations that may never end up happening in their heads. But no, this one doesn't sound at all afraid; just curious, cautious. When he asks his brother –you confirm– if he thinks stories about sirens are real, of what they do to humans, anger spreads like a fire inside of you. Oh, yes, because they don't do anything of the sorts to other creatures on this earth. The second voice –Echo's– answers in a quiet, delicate way; and you have to swim closer to surface just to take a look at him. You suddenly put things together; something horribly traumatic must have happened to his human, for him to look like that. You can't imagine living without your tail. It saddens you, inevitably; he's still handsome even like this, he would have been even prettier without his injuries. He would look like... Fives.

You blink, a bit confused at the direction of your own thoughts. Fives own voice tinges with understanding and fondness. He pats his brother affectionately, and then forgets about the sea; both of them quietly retiring for now, their steps echoing against the wood as they wook away.

You're left with a weird feeling inside of you. This two seemed... Kind. It isn't a word you usually associate with humans; but here you are.

You shake your head, mumbling to yourself. You won't let them fool you. Humans still carry all that darkness inside of them; that evil. You want none of that in your home, your sea.

Tomorrow, you say to yourself.

•••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

Fives smiles fondly at the sight of little 'Soka staring at the full moon in front of them. It's as big as they've ever seen it; very close to the sea, iluminating a silvery path towards the 79's in the otherwise dark night.

Ashoka is pure energy. The girl is hiperactive even at hours like this, were most of the crew has already gone to sleep; too excited to lay still in bed in the cabin she shares with Rex. The Captain of the 79's had adopted her many years ago, accepted her in his ship with a blink of an eye after finding out Ashoka had been abandoned in land by Captain Windu no less –an ex-friend and current enemy of Rex–; the small girl quickly falling under his wing like his own daughter. Fives can't understand how anyone could leave behind a kid like that; Ashoka is the only girl aboard, but she is like their own personal ray of sunlight. Hope. She's a special kid; has a perfect eye on when to pursue their enemies and when to abandon or change routes, an innate pirate even as young as she is. Fives can only try to imagine what things she would be able to do with more age and experience.

For now, though, 'Soka's just a kid. And kids do silly things; like playfully sticking out her tongue and precariously balancing her steps in the baupress of the 79's. Fives rolles his eyes good-naturatedly. He isn't too hard on the kid; he had been fearless and oblivious to danger once too. Hell, he still is, sometimes. It's just his way of being; free. He doesn't want to die by Rex hands if something happened to her, though, so he motions down with a flick of his hand.

"Get your feet down here, m' lady" he jokes, then extends his hand to hers in a courteous offer.

'Soka laughs, a sound that echoes softly in the silence of the night.

"Mm. I don't know if I shall accept such proposition, good sir" she answers, standing up in the thin baupress as if it is nothing.

Her dark black hair, looking almost blue, flies freely with the wind even with her white bandana wrapped around it. Her skin is as tanned as his, freckles tracing the outlines of the white scars that mark her otherwise perfect face. Like Fives and Echo, she has basically grown up on a moving ship.

"I'd like to keep my head, my lady, if you'd be so kind to help me" Fives insists, eyes turning to a gentle warning.

Ashoka rolls her big blue eyes.

"Okay..." she grumbles, then, abandoning the theatricality.

She turns her direction with flowless agility and starts her careful way back to him.

The ship rocks dangerously in the water –the sea not completely peaceful today–, and Ashoka stops in surprise and fear, holding her balance as best as she can. Fives also holds his breath. The 79's stops moving and they both sigh in relief, staring at each other well aware of the risks.

The girl chuckles nervously.

"Welp, that was a close one." She guiltily admits, restarting her way towards him. "I keep forgetting this waters are dangerous and not exactly what we're used to, huh?"

Fives doesn't tear his eyes from her.

"Yeah" he agrees. "Maybe you should leave your acrobatics for when we're back on the GAR sea..."

Big, angry waves splashes against the botton of the ship again; a sudden move that disestabilises Ashoka for a second time. It all happens too fast; the girl's right feet steps just on the edge of the baupress, losing balance, and her weight leans too much over one side with a terrified gasp. By the time Fives has rushed forward in a desperate attempt to catch her hand, Ashoka has already been devoured by the dark see with a dooming splash.

•••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

You smirk darkly when the sound of a body hitting the surface of the water is transmitted under the waves. You almost want to laugh at the way the small human desperately moves his legs to try to stay afloat; the sea isn't looking good for creatures without fins tonight, and it is obvious that this female doesn't even know how to properly swim even in calm circumstances. Maybe it's just because she's small, you're not sure.

You strike at her –harshly tugging her leg down and sinking her under the surface– right when another body drops into the sea. You snarl, irritated by the interuption, and turn around, scanning the water around you. Just five or six meters away, there he is; the human named Fives, the dreamer, the one who almost discovered you ahead of time.

This one does now how to swim. Even though his eyes are clearly pannicked, searching for her fellow human companion among the darkness of the black waves, his legs calmly move just enough to keep him afloat; conserving very much needed energy. His clothes are stuck to his body; both humans look so utterly small in the openness of the water...

The small female human screams, terrified, still not grasping her new reality; and the man shouts her name in a hoarse voice, squinting and desperately trying to find her. The girl goes to shout again; and your clawed hand quickly reaches up to close around her throat –not to really cut her breathing of, but as a warning–. You're not known for your patience, and you really can't stand creatures screeching.

Fives golden eyes, still having a shine to them with the moonlight, finally turns to your direction; and his whole face morphs into wonder, fear and shock, quickly taking in your claws and sharp teeth, the gills on the side of your neck and the dangerous swoosh of the powerful tail behind you. The small girl trembles in your strong arms; you glance down at her, bored but curious at the same time. She really is the smallest human you have crossed pass with. Are those marks that shine white on her face scars?

"Please" Fives voice barely picks up with the sounds of the waves and the wind. "You don't want to hurt her".

His words and his firm stare stuns you for a second. Then, you laugh out loud, the sound being carried away by the howling wind.

You haven't used the human tongue for so long... Since that fight. You'd be kind to humour this human for now. Perhaps getting to know them for a bit before eliminating them would help you understand them better and kill them easier in the future. For as small as humans are, they do make interesting big weapons.

"Don't I?" You smirk, tongue wrapping teasingly around your rigth canine. You caress the girl's hair with the hand that is not carefully holding her against her throat. You push your nose up to her neck and smell; then tilt your face back to the male. "Mm. Perhaps not hurt her. Just quickly kill her, no pain".

Fives trembles in the cold of the sea. The girl too. You grin.

"Why?" Is his pained answer. He's trying to remain calm, you can see that, even if his insides live in complete turmoil. "To eat her?"

You make a face.

"No. Human is not my favorite kind of dish" you inmediately answer, then shrug desinterested. "You kill us, I kill you first. It's the sea's law, sailor".

Fives frowns.

"We kill you? I didn't even know you truly existed until now" he points out.

Ah, humans are such natural spokesperson. Always finding an argument no matter their cause.

"You're people" you correct, drawing a claw down the girls face, not enough to draw blood from it, just a distracted caress.

Fives face... Pouts.

"That's pretty unfair, if I may say so. You can't blame a whole species in the name of a few".

You let your gaze find his eyes again. He's so determined it's entertaining to watch.

"You claim you're different?" You ask, observing him.

He nods.

You can see the fatigue starting to creep onto him. You're holding the freezing girl with your own strength, but he's on his own. You wonder how much longer would he be able to stay afloat. Maybe you should just wait and watch him sink.

"See those scars on Ashoka's face?" His words pull your attention back at her white marks. She tries to stay still while you study her. "They were made by bad people. Cruel humans. My brother Echo suffered by others as well. And yet here we are. I love Ashoka as if she were my own sister. I love my twin. I'd do everything to protect them. I don't want to cause pain to them".

You huf.

"That's easy. No one wants to hurt people that are dear to them. What about other's that aren't? Would you care?"

Fives is stubborn. You'll give him that.

"I wouldn't purposedly hurt others for the sake of doing so. Or if there's any other way. Look, there... Must be some bad sirens too. People who just enjoy killing and hunting indefense creatures just because they feel joy watching them suffer; not a matter of protecting their home or territory. And there must be good ones" he breathes raggedly. "It's the same with humans. There is evil and kindness in every living being. If you'd only gave us a chance, you'd be able to see it".

You hum. He makes a point. The excitement melts down. Your curiosity doesn't. Are all humans this interesting?

"What is your Captain looking for in this waters, Fives?"

His mouth opens in surprise.

"You..."

"Know you?" You chuckle, moving your tail slowly. "Mm. I've been studying you for days, I know some things. The answer, sailor?"

Fives forces himself to push through his shock and confussion to answer you.

"We've been paid handsomely to explore this part of the Unkown Seas. We have a cartographer aboard, he's been working nonstop since we crossed the GAR frontier."

You hum, recalling those maps the humans use to sail the seas without getting too lost of their way.

"So there's nothing you want from us?" You insist.

To your shock, Fives smiles; a small, almost cheeky tug of lips.

"Well, I do have a lot of questions about sirens now that I've seen you, but no, not really. Like I said, we didn't even know you truly existed. We just want to make our trip and return to land safely".

You observe him in silence. You feel the girls energy draining too; blinking heavily.

"Mm" you hum, pushing her against his arms in a second. Fives stares at you, wide eyed, not expecting you to move that fast. "You can call for your human friends to help, sailor. I've decided I will just keep an eye on your ship for now".

Then, before Fives has the chance to answer, you tear your hands away from the girl and dissapear under the sea.

•••••••••••••���••••••••••••••••••

Fives receives the reprimand of his life at Rex's personal delivery. He's task with leaving the ship shiny up and down; Ashoka also punished along him. If there's something the Captain of the 79's doesn't show, it's mercy. Oh, he's polite and gentle enough, if the situation calls for it; but he doesn't let things slip by. He's always aware, always scanning his crew with his amber eyes; and even though both 'Soka and Fives had tried to make the incident sound less of a danger, just an unimportant accident, there's really no way going around the fact that they had had a very close, dangerous encounter with a Siren.

Rex doesn't believe them at first. But then he sees the light marks on Ashoka's neck; there's nothing deep or worrying, but they're definitely shaped like some kind of claws, and he know's his fair number of fish and sharks to know they can't have done anything of the sort. Fives is guilty, yes, but he seems honest when he retells the experience. Ashoka too, a pleading look of forgiveness in her big blue eyes. Rex has no other option than to accept the story as truth.

Everyone on board of the 79's has the chance to see said siren with their own eyes a pair of days later. It's at night, so no one really sees her for quite some time; til Ashoka suddenly gasps and points out towards the see with wonder –and a sliver of fear– in her eyes. Rex quickly squints and stares in surprise. Well, that's a siren all right. The Captain and his men only have time to observe her for a minute before she smirks and plunges down into the water, her tail a silent goodbye.

Fives grins and elbows Echo.

"See? What a stalker. I think she likes me" he jokes, and Echo rolls his eyes pushing him with an exasperated smile.

••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

"Morning, dear siren" Fives greets you, carefully using the ropes to lower himself with his feet against the outside of the ship's structure, still on his shining the 79's duty. "How has sleep being under there?"

You splash him with your tail in irritation. There's no peace with the sailor around; and he has developed the annoying habit of periodically coming to talk to you.

Fives gasps with the cold water drenching his clothes; but his face quickly morphs from surprise to cheerful amusement.

"Why, thank you. I did notice I had started to smell too" he then smirks and studies your body up and down in a way that makes you as mad as nervous. "Darling, if you just wanted to see me wet, though... There's better ways we can enjoy together."

Even though there's a blush fighting it's way through your face, you keep your expresion neutral and narrow your eyes at him.

"You're the most annoying human I've ever met".

Five grins; as if your words were a personal compliment for him.

"You're magnificent company as well, dear siren" he retorts, unbothered.

You tilt your head, glancing up at him. It's both funny and irritating the way this human talks to you. He should fear you; you could jump up right now and kill him in a blink, and yet he's always like this around you. Curious, awed, and cautious while being impossibly and purposedly irritating as well. You wonder if it's his weird human way of making friends.

••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

Fives reintroduces a wary Ashoka to you. It's only sensitive for her to be cautious; after all, you did have your claws around her neck not so long ago. After Fives' reassurance and a few patient words on your part, though, she quickly leaves the past behind; and watches Fives' careless and friendly interaction with you with bright eyes.

You grow fond of her as the days pass. It surprises you the way the girl seems atuned to other creatures of the sea; smaller ones like rain-fishes and seahorses always curiously coming up to meet her. You've heard of people like her before; humans with a special conection to the sea, with an instinctual understanding of it. Your people believe humans too came from the sea; and some just happen to conserve traits of their real origins more than others. If so, Ashoka is definitively one of them; and perhaps any of these sailors that seem for some reason persistent on spending more time at sea than in true land.

One late afternoon you ask Fives of this; of his will of travelling through the seas. You ask him wether he misses land, other human civilizations and things; but Fives shruggs with a smile. He tells you he likes it here, aboard on the 79's with his brothers, his family; and opens up about his own past as well. You listen to him mesmerised; feeling again like a kid whose being told interesting stories of lands far away.

After Fives finishes his and Echo's story –their misfortune making a strong feeling of protectiveness soar inside of you–, he glances at you with a tilt of his head, suddenly quiet and pensive.

"Plus" he continues, voice barely a whisper. "There's a certain peace you can't find anywhere else but the sea".

Even though his words are carefully soft and his demeanour almost shy –very uncharasteristal of him–, his bright eyes are full of heavy emotions; almost wanting to tell you a story different than what his words tell you. Almost whispering to you there's something more to his words than what they say.

You sink under the surface of the sea so only your eyes are peaking above the waves; needing the comfort of the water to hold his stare, this sudden shift on the atmosphere.

Fives hums, and you take a last look at him before dissapearing under the sea, running away from the human who's starting to make you feel things you haven't –and shouldn't– felt before.

••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

Rutine makes you complacent. You get so relaxed at the knowledge that the 79's is no risk to you or your species you forget to stay vigilant; forget that they're not the only possible danger at the sea.

It happens at night; when your senses are dulled by sleep, your body curled in a tight space between the rocks at the bottom of the sea. Your return to consciousnes is a slow and lazy process. You open your mouth wide before momentarily clenching your teeth; the rest of your body muscles tensing and relaxing as well with your tiny stretch. Your eyes open and you focus on your surroundings; it doesn't feel like you've slept more than a pair of hours, and you usually don't have a problem to shut the eye throughout the whole night. Something must have awaken you subsconciously. You've long learned to trust your instintcs, so you decide to explore the sea around your little safe spot for the night before trying to get some more sleep. Maybe there's a predator around here.

It's when you swim away from the rocks you've hid in when you inmediately notice what's wrong; your too far away from the surface for the water to feel agitated here, but when you glance up, you see the usually dark ocean lit up in orange and red. The inmediate thought of the humans –of Ashoka and Fives– being in danger crosses your mind; and you're swimming up, up, up, before you're able to realise it yourself.

Your head peaks through the surface of the water and you can't help but gasp, eyes widenned in fear. The 79's wrecked. Besides it... So is the Death Star. Both ships have been fighting for who knows how long and you were peacefully asleep. It fills you with a dangerous wave of guilt; and unstopable anger. This is the ship that cost you the live of some of your best friends. This is the reason your people is no longer friendly towards humans; the pain of the past reflected on scars and lost ones. Some part of you is afraid –terrified– of facing said captain and crew again; the other part of you feels ravenous. This is your chance of revenge.

You sink under the water and sing. It's a song every siren child is taught by their elders; a call for help no one ever ignores. Sirens will stop at nothing for their people, their pods. Your voice carries easily through the water; and you hear a distant echo answering you. You know it's only a matter of time your people arrive. You'll help however you can in the mean time.

Your trained eyes and senses zoom in the fight aboard of the 79's. The men of the Death Star are dressed in black, like a bad omen; the colourful splashes belonging to Captain Rex' men. Both ships aren't the only battlefield; some are even fighting in the water, perhaps after pushing each other over board, some swinging their blades on top of smaller life-boats and lost planks of woods. The repair for what's left of both ships would be slow and costly.

You sink under the waves and move fast; jumping and dragging the 79's enemies with you underwater, drowning them or sinking your claws in their vulnerable throats, their screams futile under the water.

You can't see Fives or Ashoka yet; but just as the first of your fellow sirens arrive, you see Palpatine and Rex. They're fighting on the Death Star; blades swinging at each other while they expertly balance on the edge of the ship. You stop right below them and stare intently upwards; trying to catch the Captain's attention.

You do. Rex' eyes flicker downwards; making contact with yours. He quickly goes back to fighting against Captain Palpatine –how such an old man can move that fast you'll never know– and you wait patiently, licking your lips. You know Rex has catched on your idea and you only need to give him some time to bring him to you.

It's not a difficult move. With the knowledge that you'll be there to push him again back to safety and simultaneously kill his enemy, Rex throws his own body weight against Palpatine with all his strength and they both fall into the sea.

You almost see it happening in slow motion, such is your desire to claw your way through him. You're closing your hand around his throat in a blink, as soon as his body crashes against the waves; eyes shining and jaw opening to show your teeth while you push your face close to his. You want him to have a good look at you before you kill him.

"This is for Qui, Plo and Aayla" you tell him, eyes burning in hatred and vengance, his pathetic tugs at your hands only fueling your resolve. "And for those you'll never be able to hurt again".

You don't let him speak his last words. He doesn't deserve it; and he's not going to rat his way out of this. You snarl and sink your sharp teeth in his neck, closing your jaw before vicously pulling back and tearing his throat open mercilessly.

The carcass of his body floats away in the sea.

You turn to Captain Rex, scarlet blood dripping down your chin. He's not scared; but almost proud and relieved as he nods at you. You nod back and quickly help him get to the 79's again, reuniting with your people and organizising the counter-attack.

••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

Once Palpatine is out of the way, the rest of his forces crumbles easily. In a matter of an hour, the few survivors of the Death Star scramble away in the remaning of their ship. You chuckle darkly. You know it's all for the enjoyment of your people; they'll do a slow hunt over the next couple of days, kill them one by one. Take their own personal revenge.

There's a conmotion up on the 79's. Rex is there, and so is Echo and Ashoka, the last two leaning down on the floor next to... Fives.

"What's wrong?" You quickly voice up from your place on the sea. "Is he okay?"

Captain Rex glances down at you worriedly.

"Blade sunk into his liver. He's loosing a lot of blood very quickly" he turns to look back to Echo and Ashoka. His expression saddens. "I... Don't think he has much time left".

Your heart starts beating out of your chest.

Fives, even gravely injured, lets out a wet laugh and jokes about it.

"I always thought you were a tad dramatic, sir".

Echo snaps at him, still squeezing his hand. You understand the sentiment. Now is not the time.

"Shut the fuck up, Fives".

You know he's scared. Everyone is scared. Echo, Ashoka, Fives, Rex... Even yourself. You've never felt this scared.

"B-bring him down" you whisper, then clear your voice and repeat yourself. "Maybe I can do something to help him".

"What can you do to help him?" Echo laughs, the kind of maniac sounding laugh that comes from a place of pure panic and terror from losing a loved one. "You're what, going to sing a song and magically cure him?"

It would be surprising to know that yes, that's...

"Something like that, yeah" you whisper, lost in your own feelings and thoughts.

You feel some of the other sirens splashing and moving their tails underwater hesitantly, wary. Nervously.

"Sister..." the voice of your friend Kid calls you from somewhere at your back.

You glance back at him. You know what he's going to tell you. You take a deep breath.

"I want to do it" you answer him, and everyone else.

They stay in silence, acepting your decission. It's a sacred thing for your species; for all sirens. The air feels heavy with understanding and expectations.

"Bring him down" you ask again, in the quietness of the night, and Rex gently squeezes Echo's shoulder before putting his faith on you and carefully laying Fives down in the last life-boat.

His brothers slowly lower it down til it softly contacts with the surface of the water and the small boat floats peacefully with the small waves. Two sirens quickly move to take a carefull hold of it so it doesn't drift away.

Fives turns his head to the side to look at you; hovering besides the boat with your claws lightly grassping the wood at the sides of it, head peaking over the water just enough to be able to look at him.

"Hey there, gorgeous" he smiles, and such brightness sends another painful dart to your heart. "Here to give me a goodbye kiss?"

Your own smile is wet with tears. It makes you let out a wet chuckle too. You haven't cried in... So many years.

"You should have thought of this strategy before" you decide to indulge him in his joke.

You know he's scared even if he doesn't want it to show. It males your decision easier; to know he's such a good person he doesn't want to make this more difficult for the people that woud be forced to watch him go.

Even though you feel almost eager for it, the need crawling up your throat, you're still afraid yourself. You've only got one chance for this. What if... It doesn't work?

You feel Kid's hand gently dropping on your shoulder, giving you the strength you need for this. You nod to yourself. The rest of the sirens form a circle around you; as tradition tells. They'll make sure nothing interrupts this sacred moment between you and Fives. Your hands tremble as you carefully place them on top of Fives' stomach wound. He makes a whimpered sound of pain and trembles, scared confused eyes quickly searching yours.

You look at him, soft.

"Trust me" you whisper. "And don't stop looking at me".

Fives doesn't understand what's happening, what's going to happen, but relaxes and nods. He can feel the exhaustion creeping in on him, the tempting feeling to close his eyes and surrender to the darkness. He focuses on you with the last of his strength.

You stop holding yourself back and let your voice sing your Song. You have never practiced it before; it's something that simply can't be, as it's not written before the moment arrives without announcement. It's instinctual, as simple and easy as breathing, and yet sounds so magical to all of those who hear it.

The first notes echoes in the silence of the night. It starts very quiet, almost a hum between your pressed lips, that slowly and unhurriesly turns into a whisper full of longing and melancholy. Fives is a human and you're a siren. It's not going to be easy. You have a feeling he won't care.

The Song fills with some softer, happier notes; lively and changing, more rythmical than the soft melody from before. A tiny smile makes it over to your face.

Fives is still looking at you. He wouldn't have been able to tear his eyes from you even if he tried. You're raw magic; raw beauty. And the sounds leaving your lips... He had never listened to anything so breathtaking in his life. He's hooked up in you.

Your gaze turns soft. You see his wound closing and healing by its self with just the corner of your eyes; and a warming relief spreads through your body, along with something sweet and gentle, painfully raw, longing and understanding. It's love.

The Song reflects those feelings; growing quieter as you keep staring into Fives' soul. You feel the notes slowing, your mind and heart finally wrapping around your feelings, accepting them, making them part of your own; and a last hum leaves your lips before the night is silent again, only interrupted by Fives' heavy breathing. Even if the Song is finished, he keeps looking at you like there's nothing else.

"That was beautiful" he whispers, dizziness still numbing his body and mind even if he's completely healed, now. He'll take some time to adjust. "Thank you".

You smile softly.

This is not your ending, Fives. But you need to...

The sailor squeezes his eyes shut. A painful headache stars at the side of his temple. He can barely concentrate in his surroundings now.

"Rest, Fives" you tell him, and he finally falls into unconsciousness almost instantly.

You glance up, noticing the wowed stares of the crew of the 79'.

"What was that?" Ashoka whispers in wonder.

You make Captain Rex a sign to let him now they can pull the small boat back up. You smile at the girl.

"My Song" you answer, misteriously. You glance at Echo, anxiously curved forward as if in a try to reach Fives quicker. You try to soothe his worries before dipping under the waves. "He'll be okay, just needs some hours of rest. I'll come back tomorrow".

With that, you nod to your pod and you slowly swim away. Your soul tries to tug you back towards him, but you comfort yourself thinking you'll be back to talk with him after some very much needed rest.

Patience.

You feel like a baby Siren again.

••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

"Care to explain to me what kind of voodo magic you did to me to turn me from a corpse to my handsome self again?" is what Fives first chirps at you upon seing you arrive the next morning, him waiting patiently for you in the small boat again, this time a bit further away from the 79's.

You smirk and place your folded arms over the border of the boat, resting your right cheek on top of them.

"I already told Ashoka" you answer playfully. "It's my Song".

Fives snorts and carefully pushes himself closer to you. You track the movement, distracted.

"Yeah, your song" he repeats, squinting and tilting his head in questioning. "Echo told me the other Sirens acted as if we were getting married or something".

You laugh freely, Fives smiling unconsciously.

"Well, singing your song to another holds pretty much the same meaning for my people. Your circumstances pushed me to do it way earlier than I would have prefered but... It's okay. You're okay".

Fives eyes turn soft.

"I know you love being all sexy and misterious. But tell me what has really happened, please?" His voice is also gentle and full of warmth.

He should know.

"All Sirens have a special personal Song. It's something instinctual that can't be repeated or prepared; born of raw feelings, desires and needs. It's different to other songs we sing. We don't use our normal vocal cords for this; it comes from somewhere within, deep in your soul. Sirens believe our kind are made of magic and music combined into one, and protected by a physical body shape; that of a predator so it can defend the pureness it holds. This Song... Can only be sung once, to just one other being, and it will create a special bond no-one but the two of them would be able to break. From that day on, this two beings will always be linked to each other, perhaps even able to feel or hear the other; and the Siren won't be able to sing in this kind of way to anyone else, ever again".

You grow quiet; waiting, patient. Expectant. Fives barely blinks.

You're not afraid to him not corresponding your feelings now. If it were that way, your Song wouldn't have worked the night before. A Song can't be an impossed thing; it must be accepted by the other's soul. Fives has subsconciously done that already; if his present mind needs more time to process it, nevertheless, you're willing to give him that.

Fives finally takes a deep breath in, noding in quiet understanding, before showing you his own signature smirk and closing the distances between your faces so that your nose is barely grazing his.

"Well. I think I'm definitively finally winning a kiss" he tempts you, eyes shining with mirth.

Your small laugh is pure unadulterated happiness. With your soul almost vibrating inside your chest, you cup his strong jaw and close the insignificant distance between you.

You kiss him –passionately, then gently– and Fives smiles against your lips.

THE END.

••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

I'm sorry this took me ages to write! I got a bit blocked on how I was going to put Fives in danger and I also started with my finals.

I'm aware there are some errors in this but I prioriticed publishing it as soon as possible over having a second read to correct them. Sorry!

I hope you've liked it, dear. Second Mermay fic done, go check Tech's first one on my profile! (It's on: sw masterlist> 2 part of requests > Blue dreams).

Got requests closed cause finals and already a few of them in the line. I'll prob reopen in a month. If you want to you can still send them, just notice I'm not gonna be able to write it anytime soon.

Lots of things to come, stay tunned!

Xx,

Sky.

Back to masterlist here:

[slyvester101]

The reds and blues as mer! (with a few exceptions)

Tex

Osprey: Dark brown, almost black, wings. Completely waterproof and meant to cut through the water, so she’s a fast swimmer. Likes doing this thing where she dives into the water and comes up flicking water up behind her. 

A really good hunter since her eyes let her track motion under the water. It’s how she met Church since she mistook him for a really big fish but instead pulled out a really cranky eel. 

She keeps him around for entertainment (and maybe because he’s cute. Sue her). Likes to surprise fish Church out of the water and take him on flights around the coast. Has taken him into the actual mainland city once or twice (It was not a date!... this time). 

Church

Eel: long thin tail that shimmers blue like the ocean. Fast motherfucker. Can’t hunt for shit though, always over/underestimating his shots. Sharp teeth often curled up in a growl. Technically considered a deep dweller and will bite you in the face if you call him a 'mer'.

He spends most of his time hanging out in small caves/crevices, but can be lured out through a wide range of means (including but not limited to blackmail, bribes, “Tex will be there”, making him think it’s his idea, or doubting his hunting skills).

“Hates” when Tex picks him out of the water for a fly around the coast. Is surprisingly good at bartering on the mainland for the most random shit, it’s scary impressive. 

Tucker

Anglerfish: is covered in rough scales ranging from sandy yellow to rock gray. Also has barnacles growing on parts of his tail and the base of his back fins (it helps camouflage him better). Instead of the single glowing bait a typical anglerfish has, Tucker is the bait, with glowing marks that can mimic a wide range of animals. Easier to see in the dark, but still visible during the day. Also considered a deep dweller, but doesn't care if you call him a 'mer'.

His tail is meant for speed and strength, very lean and angular so he can cut through the water (had to give up some speed when he added barnacles to his body). Back fins are jagged and can stretch like a cat with its hairs on end. Uses a lot of energy to swim so he can often be found lounging in the sun to recharge.

His eyes are bright aqua and reflective, shining back any light that comes into them. It freaks some people out (many people think it's cool too). Also has claws that blend into the pitch black of his arms, where the scales are much tougher. Sharp teeth.

Junior

Anglerfish: similar looking to Tucker, but y’know, still a baby with softer scales and dull claws. Practically attached to Tucker for the first few years after he was born, but will now willingly attach to any of the reds and blues (Church and Grif are usually on baby duty since they are the least likely to do something dangerous/leave the safety of the cave. Junior really likes going swimming with Caboose since he can piggyback ride and Caboose goes really fast. Simmons has no idea what to do with a child. Donut dotes on him like a wine aunt. Sarge’s first response to meeting Junior was to toss him up into the air to see if he could fly. He is no longer allowed to hold Junior.)

Caboose

Whale Shark: Big. Like, stupid big. Don’t ask to meet his family because it is all females and they are all much bigger than Caboose. Blue tail and fins with fun spots and patterns in white. 

Has to eat either very small cut food or a shit ton of plankton. Likes helping in hunts even though he’s not very good at it and doesn’t eat fish. Usually. 

Would hang out on the surface more, but he's a bit too big to fit comfortably, so he either has to pop up a bit further from shore or be very, very careful not to run into anything.

Grif

Nurse shark: long, thick gold-orange tail and fins. Surprisingly quick for his size, but prefers the old ‘sit and wait for someone to come by’ method of hunting. Can be found chilling in a cave in the depths with Simmons, often trying to convince Simmons to come take a nap with him or to go get him food since he doesn’t like hunting. 

Has the many rows of sharp teeth sharps typically have, but they are smaller and not quite as scary as Tucker’s rows of teeth. Also not the most ferocious of fish, which is disappointing to Sarge who thought having a shark on his team would give him an advantage. Unfortunately for him, Grif is a rather docile shark that eats small animals, not the big, violent stereotype land and sky dwellers like to associate with him.

If not chilling in the depths with Simmons, he’s watching Sarge trying to teach the reds how to fly from a warm spot under the water (Sarge couldn’t get him to pop out of the water if his life depended on it). 

Simmons

Betta fish: bright red scales and flowy, cloth-like fins that are surprisingly durable. Able to handle low oxygen levels and versatile environments, so he’s able to hang out in the depths with Grif. 

Still territorial as most betta fish are, but less of a you come into my territory and I’ll rip you apart way and more of a if you ever separate me from my pod I will make it everyone’s problem way.

Prefers the depths to the surface, often stowed away with Grif for extended periods of time. Which is a shame given how much Simmons would love to research land and sky dwellers. Alas, he will have to make do with the books he collects in a little cove far away from any mer who may wish to bother him.

Donut

Betta Fish: similar to Simmons but pink and with bigger fins. Actually enjoys the surface but likes hanging with his friends in the depths too. 

Not territorial unless his friends are put in danger. Friends with basically anyone he comes across and personally knows a lot of Wash’s flock. Likes to chill on rocks by the coast so he can talk to others mer/avians. 

Sarge

Red-billed Seagull: white—i mean red wings with black lining the edges (totally not dyed or something, what? What gave you that idea?). Feathers are a little janked up and several are always missing (he’s trying to get these good for nothing fish to fly by giving them his feathers, goddamnit). Not the best flier around.

Has bird-like feet: a classic three toed birdie with red protective bone wrapping up to his thighs. His legs are slightly thinner than the rest of his body, but otherwise just look like weird looking legs.

Can squawk like nobody's business. Please do not ask him to squawk if you want to keep your ears.

Lopez

Crab: he is a spanish speaking crab. Just, a whole ass crab.

He talks a lot of shit for someone without opposable thumbs

[honey-minded-hivemind]

Hey!

Imagine an angular fish reader who has terrible eye sight, like, the only reason they’re up there is because their parent left and they just started swimming up.

Oh, poor Reader! Angler fish mer/siren Reader would be almost blind, if not fully blind, the higher up they go. If the platonic yans are also deep sea mer, they're snagging Reader back into the dark with them, and helping them lure prey towards them. If the platonic yans are open ocean or coral reef mer, they think Reader looks unique, and are wondering who let their blind child swim the open waters all while trying to lure said child over to them... Either type, they're adopting Reader and adjusting to fit them into their lives, be it by lighting up the dark with a few biolumenescent lights or by getting used to darker/night-time waters...

(Just keep swimming, just keep swimming, just keep swimming swimming swimming, what do we do, we swim, swim, swim...)

(Sorry, I couldn't help the reference-)

[shyminmin]

༄𝐁𝐓𝐒 𝐗 𝐟.𝐑𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫 | Fantasy, Mermaid AU | ༄𝐖𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐂𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭 : 873 ༄𝐖𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 : Minor gore

Nothing mattered more than ensuring the safety and survival of the little bundle of life cradled in his arms.

Tucked safe and secure in a last minute makeshift sling, the newborn slept soundly unbeknownst to the imminent danger that was steadily pursuing them.

The salty water rippled around them as his powerful tail clad in scales snapped through it at a frantic pace. Humans would equate him to an underwater missile as he was moving at such a speed making any onlooker view him as nothing more than a watery blur.

Two more such blurs a few meters behind had their sight set on the pair. Their goal, capture and kill.

The constant reminder of their ill intentions spurred him on even more. If he could just get her to the surface, preferably near one of those angular, boxy dwellings that he knew humans resided in then she would have a chance at being taken care of and not be left to succumb to the elements.

His sudden shift in speed jostled the sling making the infant startle awake and begin to whimper. Caressing her head the merman tried to soothe her as best he could under the current circumstances.

"Shhh-shh, you're ok, you're ok"

He really wished he could've watched her grow up, surrounded by her parents and loved ones, embrace the life that she was born into that was of the sea. However that wasn't an option anymore, not when said parents were brutally slaughtered when their tribe was suddenly invaded.

Sensing the two mer gaining on him he kicked his fin faster, if that was even possible. The sandy floor was slowly rising up indicating that he was approaching shallow waters and potentially land. Hope rises in his chest.

I don't care if I die, as long as my efforts ensure that you live.

His body now scraping the ocean floor, ensuring though that his upper torso doesn't touch and risk injuring the baby, he breaks the water's surface breathing in a lungful of air, gills on his neck now redundant.

He wastes no time in surveying the area, where he thankfully spots one of the human structures he's seen from time to time. It was the peak of night so any chance of being spotted by roaming humans was significantly reduced, however he still wanted them to be alerted of a vulnerable newborn spontaneously washed up ashore.

With little time to think and the nearby splashes of the pursuers resounding in his ears he used his strong arms to drag himself onto the shore. The structure wasn't too far away so he made his way towards it. Human silhouettes could be seen within, encouraging him on further. Two bodies breached the water behind and he panicked.

Merfolk like him couldn't undergo any form of metamorphosis and grow legs contrary to popular human belief. However the arrangements he made earlier ensured that once the newborn touched the dry sand then she would evidently become human.

His hands grazed over the first dry grains of powdery, white sand and he detached the sling. Delicately laying her down on the ground she stared up at him with wide rounded eyes. However, the baby mer began to scream out in pain as he witnessed her tiny scaled tail, which looked so much like his own, split in two.

He gasped and hovered his hands over her unsure on how to handle what's happening. Tears escaping his eyes at seeing her in pain. It really crushed his heart.

"It's alright, i-it'll be over soon" he let out in a shaky, trembling voice, trying to provide some words of comfort. "Y-your gonna be fine".

All of his attention was solely on her making sure she survived this transformation, that he momentarily forgot they were being hunted. A stabbing pain to his tail changed his focus as he looked back to see one of the mer had an ironclad grip on his fluke. Their sharp retractable nails embedded deep within, drawing out dark purple liquid. Blood of the merfolk.

"Escaping is futile" he smirked.

The second attacker chuckles gripping on as well. "However we do love a good chase".

With one harsh tug they propelled him backwards away from the newborn. This was it, he'd probably never see her again.

More pain radiated up his tail as they tore him further away, all while he struggled to fight back. They tackled him into the water, pushing him under and sinking into the ocean depths. Clawing at every inch of his body, ripping and biting off bits of skin and scales, streams of purple coloured the water around them. He got a few good hits in too however they always had the upper hand.

As more of his body got battered, his mind drifted to the last image he got before he was dragged under. Two figures had emerged from their home and were rushing down the beach towards their direction.

He smiled, his plan had worked. They would find her and she would be safe, away from all the conflict underneath these ominous waves. He grunted out a few pained words before he blacked out from the unbearable pain.

"Be safe."

"I-I love you."

"My sister."

| 𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐌𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 | 𝐍𝐞𝐱𝐭 | ༄⋆

[sunthyme]

BABE, WAKE UP! PART FOUR'S OUT! Anyways, thank y'all so much for the support!! Every time I read y'all's tags and comments, I tear up istg y'all are so sweet. Have some photos of my kitten as a treat.

Onto...

🏵️Scarabia🏵️

So I believe they have the least amount of members out of all my headcanoned dorms so if y'all can think of some more villains for me to twst, I'd be more than happy to toss them in here lmao.

🦦Kalim Al-Asim🦦

omg they have an otter emoji cute!!

(he/him) Transmasc - Panromantic Asexual

My baby boy is so precious omggg

- I really didn't change a lot from the og design tbh, I love him. I did give him rounder and bigger eye for that cute puppy-eyed look.

- Stuck some freckles on him and gave him a tooth gap for max cutie patootie status. Oh, and some scars from previous assassination attempts.

- I'm really partial to Kalim and Ruggie or Kalim and Silver personally (or both, Kaiplim does have two hands for a reason) but I see them as a little friend group regardless and he LOVES spoiling them.

- Ruggie at first befriended him for the money aspect but eventually grew to like being around Kalim anyways. Silver just likes to listen to Kalim talk. Was also his first friend outside of Diasomnia.

- Kalim has ADHD and dyslexia, making it super hard for him to concentrate in class so Ruggie helps him study for tests (Kalim always bring food along with so it's mutually beneficial lmao). Because of this, people end up thinking he's dumb but he's super intelligent, he just can't concentrate easily. Crewel lets him have different fidgets in class as long as he doesn't accidentally disrupt his potion-making with them.

- Kalim's also highly empathetic and view himself as a support to all (maybe I am a Kalim kin too, fuck). He loves to listen to other and help out. God, he's such a cutie omg. Also has really good memory in specific about remembering who tells him what.

God I love Kalim so much, the cutie patootie. Still on Book 4 so I don't know ALL of the shit that happens yet but y'know it's gonna make me cry.

Next is

🐍Jamil Viper🐍

(he/it) Agender - Gay Demi-romantic Asexual

If I didn't think I changed a lot about Kalim, I changed practically nothing about Jamil lol.

- Biggest change was giving him a much redder skin tone. Not only is it closer to Jafar's, I felt it would look really nice with his general colour palette.

- Made his face a bit more angular and 'snake-like', plus some fangs but you can't see them lmao. Dimples because every time this man actually smiles, a new angel is born istg.

- I love him and Azul as a dynamic because it's two really emotionally constipated people dancing around each with a fun amount of delulu on Azul's part, let's be honest. Lowkey could be toxic or healing, who knows?

- He purposefully cooks too much some times as an excuse to give some away. I see him slides over an extra thing of food to Azul at some point as a sort of 'repayment' for like give him the homework or something. (Azul loves his cooking but wouldn't say that to his face for a hundred dollars lol).

- He and Trey cook together and Trey is like the only other person Jamil trusts in the kitchen with him. Trey teaches Jamil his family's baking recipes and in turn, Jamil share his cultural recipes. Trey 🤝 Jamil solidarity.

- Hella competitive streak which means Azul and Floyd find it incredibly easy to push his buttons.

- I know this is a lot of AshenViper but I love them lol. Azul tries to flirt with Jamil subtly like in the mer fashion of penguin-pebbling but Jamil is obviously unaware of the custom so he doesn't get it. (He does keep all the little shiny things, though over his dead body would he tell Azul that.)

Enough about my two favourite dumbasses... now for my ocs!

🌅Dareen Irfan🌅

Third Year - (she/her) Nonbinary - Sapphic Asexual

God, this is just the dorm for asexuals, huh?

- Dareen is twisted from the Cave of Wonders! I could not for the life of me tell what kind of cat it was so she's kinds ambiguous, especially since there's already another tiger.

- She is a very knowledgeable person and knows pretty much everyone. If you need information about someone you wanna ask out, she's your girl. She love playing matchmaker but respects when someone is not reciprocating and helps the rejected party move on.

- She and Oki are friends and like to do tarot readings together. (She may or may not have a massive crush on her but refuses to say anything lol). Both are very interested in cultural practices and hang out a ton to talk about them. (God I love sapphics)

- She's actually also on the basketball team and she and Jamil get along pretty well. She's very fast on the courts and Oki attends all of her games.

Next is one of my favourite designs...

🌼Chunying Liu🌼

Third Year - (they/it/she) Genderfluid - Aromantic Bisexual

- Twisted from Shan Yu, from Mulan! I kept the greyer undertones in her skin which really makes her standout among the warmer ones lol.

- Kept the gold eyes, I love how piercing they look, and darker makeup. Turned the furs into little earring tassel things, idk just for fun.

- Definitely outdoorsy type, she loves to hike around a ton, bring some other classmen out with her. She comes from a hella cold climate so she's wearing shorts until it hits the negatives. Loves horseback riding too and her family has their own stables.

- Natural leader, I can see it being the captain of a sports team, maybe like cross-country or something. She and Leona are probably pretty similar in demeanour as captains, make of that what you will.

- Her and Rook do archery practise together and she actually gets along great with Epel, they bond over winter sports and whatnot.

Time for probably one of my favourites out of my ocs!

🐯Chanda Singh🐯

Second Year - (she/her) - Bisexual

God I love her sm.

- Twisted from Shere Khan from the Jungle Book, which I looked up and it takes place in India so she's Indian.

- I didn't want to give her solid orange hair so I settled for some streaks and I love how they look. Gave her a bindi, some thicker brows based on a Pinterest reference that I though was GORGEOUS, and some beautiful hazel eyes.

- She's also likes to be outside but more in the lazy cat way. She love to sunbathe and tends to be spotted around the greenhouse too. Chanda and Leona having cat solidarity lmaoooo. Though her behavior is solely because she's a cat and not depression lol.

- I dunno why but I think she's a totally history nerd, specifically fashion history. Ask her anything about the origins of corsets or sarees and she's go on a long rant about it. She loving drawing, namely fashion sketches and she and Vil work together whenever she makes some prototypes.

Finally!

🦜Nasira Haqq🦜

First Year (she/they) Unlabelled Gender - Bicurious?

- Twisted from Iago! She's so cute lol. I gave her dyed hair (and pronouns) and she's a freshman.

- Kinda takes after Jamil and enjoys cooking, one of the primary people that makes food for the parties. She and Kalim get along really well since they're both really social extraverts.

- She's loves flowers and tends to decorate the dorm with them, changing them out when there's an event coming up.

That's most of everything for Scarabia, I hope you enjoyed! Tyty once again and I love seeing y'all's tags omg!🩷🩷🩷

[moonliched]

hi moon!!!!!

i am head over HEELS for ur mer fic, as much as i love the boys im somehow more in love w ur yn (they’re so PRETTYYYYYYYY)

their design is absolutely top tier, and i was wondering if you had any headcanons or designs for their guardian?? we’ve seen what somebody who’s half human and half cool fish person looks like, and i’m so curious what aspects of their non-human parent yn didn’t inherit hahaha

thank you so much for such an incredible piece, and i hope you’re doing well!!!!!!!!

hi hi! eheh i also have a soft spot for my mer Y/N (meryn is my private name for them ashdjfjdj) happy to hear you're enjoying too☺️💗 they're so fun to draw, though my fnaf obsession overshadows that lol

i've actually reached the stage in my fic drafts where i need at least a semi-clear description of their guardian! though no one will get to read it for a while😅 i may draw them sometime. here's what i've got:

their guardian is humanoid, but we'd be able to clock them instantly as non-human. they have hair like us, but it's more akin to straggly spines and the part of the hair close to the body is 'alive' - as in it would hurt to cut, like when you trim your nails too short. the overall mass isn't large, but the individual strands are thick and slightly squidgy and can be styled. their brows and lashes are very sparse. they have hand and feet webbing, which Y/N has inherited. their skin has a significant grey hue and is a different texture to that of a human, something close to scaled. their eyes are yellow and they don't have nails. instead, the scaled skin hardens towards the tips of the fingers and toes. like Y/N, they go through a quarterly cycle of growing and shedding a second set of new teeth while keeping their adult teeth permanently. they don't have molars, most of their teeth are pointed or serrated. i picture them as having a wide mouth, white hair and an eye shape that resembles Y/N's, though their body is more angular.

there are other things that aren't rly appearance-based - they have a huge lung capacity, and babies can swim pretty much from birth (not Y/N though🥲.) but yeah, that's what i got so far! not everything here will make it in the story, but it's useful as a base to draw from when i need to describe something.

thank you sm for the lovely message and i hope you enjoy future stuff in my fic💕 and have a nice weekend!

[inquisimer]

Hello Mer! From the 'Hit 'Em Where it Hurts' prompt list for Isseya and Garahel, "I don't want to go." Happy writing!!

thank you for the prompt! It's not often that my own writing makes me cry, but this piece did it 😭😭 Some introspection for Isseya at Garahel's memorial, before she leaves on her Calling.

for @dadrunkwriting | Isseya & Garahel | wc: 760

-

Isseya’s steps were a muffled echo off the arching walls of the Heroes’ mausoleum. Enough time had passed since the Battle of Ayesleigh that she was alone with the memorial they’d built for her brother. She lifted her eyes to the ornate urn that held his ashes and bit back a sob.

And Isseya, be kind to yourself.

His final words, his final wish. Not for himself, as he dove toward certain, necessary death, but for her. Perhaps he’d known that choosing to die was the easier fate.

Isseya leaned her Blighted body against the marble, forehead pressing into the angular representation of Crookytail that stood guard at Garahel’s feet. He, at least, had been spared the cruel rage and death that she’d inflicted on the others. For it was her fault—her magic, her hubris—no matter what Amadis believed.

“I don’t want to go,” she whispered. It wasn’t quite a lie—though as the sickly sweet voice of the Blight sang in the back of her mind, it wasn’t quite the truth either. It would be a relief to lay it all down. But this was not how she’d wanted to go. And she did not want to go without him, even though he was already lost to her.

It should have been her blow to take. The corruption in her was much farther along, hurried by her blood magic and whatever other strange, arcane forces decided which Wardens were worthy of sparing and which were destined to crumble away to nothing. While she wrapped her mottled scalp and sunken face in scarves to hide the horror, Garahel’s good looks persisted, no matter how haggard their duty made him.

They’d been right there together. Revas no less capable than Crookytail. It should have been her.

I have to go in alone. I have to. It was too tight for them to go in together. But that was not a reason he had to go in alone.

Isseya thought she’d come to peace with Garahel’s choice. But now the tears came forth, spilling from milky eyes and dripping pathetically down her waxy cheeks. He deserved every honor they’d heaped upon him; even before Andoral lay dead, he had been the hero of this Blight.

But in that moment, he’d stolen a quick peace from her. Not only did she have to keep on with every wretched, ragged breath, but she had to live, for the first time, in a world where he did not.

She had failed those she loved most. More than failed—she had condemned them. And she was alone with that regret.

Perhaps she did want to go, after all. She was ready for it to be over.

Isseya turned her tear-streaked face to her brother’s stone eyes. The only one who’d seen her, all along, as she walked a path darker than she should have dared and it twisted her into something barely recognizable. And he’d never flinched, not once.

“Will it be enough?” she whispered. The eggs were secured behind layers of stone and magic and guarded by a maternal High Dragon. Her journal was likewise hidden in Weisshaupt; in plain sight, but only for those who cared to truly look. Lyrium dust still glittered beneath her fingernails.

Her final atonement. And she would never know if it worked. That was the price she paid, for a chance to save her beloved griffons.

Perhaps something in Garahel had known that she was the only one who could make this choice. The true final sacrifice of the Fourth Blight. While the people of Ages to come honored her brother, none would know of the parts she played, the mistakes she’d made, or what she gave to try and set things right.

As it should be. She never wanted the glory that Garahel chased. If even one of those eggs survived long enough for someone clever and worthy enough to work through Isseya’s clues, it would be worth it.

She stared up at Garahel through glassy eyes. The masons hadn’t quite captured that self-assured smirk he always wore and they’d given him smooth skin where he had moles and evened out the lopsided angle of his ears. But Isseya could see every version of him, from their Joining through shades of Blight to the final moment before Crookytail dove, as clearly as she always had.

Both of them had given everything they had to the Wardens. As the Wardens demanded.

“I hope it was enough,” she whispered. It had to be. She had nothing else left.

[amphiptere-art]

Yes this is mer blue moons pups.

Two of them are based on the fact that in normal RBB, he is made of a lunar and a blood moon. The last one is just someone I made up.

You have red moon. (Who is the Blood Moon representative in RBB) He based on a gulper eel. Which gives him an uncharacteristic ear to ear grin. He also is the craziest about eating other mer. Mostly unable to control himself around others especially if they are bleeding. Lives mostly in the deep sea. Not enjoying the light.

You have what is essentially Sun copy (RBB lunar) but we are going to call him false star. False star is the only one of the three that did not gain the gene that makes other Mers seem delectable. He still has to eat an egregious amount of food but mers are only on his menu in desperation. He also is the kindest. Trying to keep his siblings out of trouble. Based on a moray eel.

Then you have angular. Referencing to an eclipse where it does not go total. She acts mostly like Blue Moon. Sharing a lot of his traits. Able to mentally grow out of mer eating but at this age she's still pretty ignorant to the standard social acceptance of that sort of thing. Is based on the same species Blue Moon is but more focused on the seahorse and leafy sea dragon traits.

The more dca designs are of course based on @artoutoftheblue mer designs. But here are my beast ones down below.

[lullabyes22-blog]

Mal de Mer - Ch: 3 - Treasure (Part I)

Summary:

A high-seas honeymoon. Two adversaries, bound by matrimony. A future full of peril and possibility. And a word that neither enjoys adding to their lexicon: Compromise.

War was simpler business…

Part of the 'Forward But Never Forget/XOXO' AU. Can be read as a standalone series.

Thank you for the graphics @lipsticksandmolotovs<3

Mal de Mer on AO3

Mal de Mer on FFnet

CHAPTER

I - II - III - IV - V - VI - VII - VIII

꧁꧂

How can you just leave me standing? Alone in a world that's so cold Maybe I'm just too demanding Maybe I'm just like my father, too bold?

~ "When Doves Cry" - Prince

The SS Woe Betide's promenade deck is a study in sun-drenched elegance.

The broad stretch of honey-gold planks is polished to a high shine. Floor-to-ceiling windows run the length of the walkway, their glass etched with sunburst motifs. Behind the glass, the water is dappled into a spray of gold and diamonds. The waves, rolling in drowsy combers of lapis lazuli and sapphire, call to mind a treasurebox tipped sideways: all its secrets spilling across the seabed.

A pirate's dream come true.

Silco’s outfit fits right in. He's clad in a loose red shirt with the sleeves rolled to the forearms. A worsted black waistcoat, long and narrow, drapes his angular shoulders and sways with his stride. His trousers, matching the jacket, are tailored in the style of sailor's breeches: unpleated, and tapering at the calves.  A pair of scuffed boots, pointed at the toes, complete the ensemble.

The effect is flattering, but ruthlessly functional. He looks ready to cross the gangplank to a pirate's cutter.

His smile, when he glances sidelong at Mel, is piratical too: full of teeth, and no good intent. 

"My dear," he drawls, "I asked you to lose the chiffon."

"This," Mel says, "is tulle."

"The difference?"

"A world of it."

"And yet the effect's the same."

His scrutiny is a physical paring down. Mel, not a woman given to blushes, feels a smarting heat. 

There is, she tells herself, nothing wrong with her day-gown. It's the plainest in her wardrobe. A square-necked cream frock, the hem ending at mid-calf. The bodice is a high-waisted, empire-line affair. The only adornments are the delicate golden embroidery edging the diaphanous sleeves. It's a demure look: a far cry from the haute-couture she usually favors—the ones Silco dubs Vehicles of Voyeurism. Even her calfskin boots, ankle-length and plain, are the closest she's got to seafaring. She'd chosen them, and the matching leather belt, for their durability.

Whatever her husband's plans, she'd rather not lose a pair of Tanzanite-studded Manolovas to the briny depths.

Silco, head tilted, appraises her footwear. "Are those Topside's idea of boots?"

"They're called oxfords." 

"They're a disgrace."

"You're not a shoemaker!" Exasperated, Mel smooths out her skirts. "I've never seen a pair like yours before. And my father was an admiral."

"You mean, mercenary."

"My point is: I have spent a lifetime on ships. I know seamen's boots. Those—" she gestures at Silco's, "—are anything but."

"They're Fissure-boots. We call them 'kickers'." He rotates his ankle to show her the sole. "The undersides are covered in rivets. For grip. They're useful for slippery surfaces. But if you snag them on a rail, or trip over a hatch cover, you can slip them off in three shakes of a rat's tail. All the better to run."

"Run from what?"

A ghost of a smile. "What do you think?"

"Enforcers."

"Enforcers aren't the only disasters belowground. Temblors. Fires. Cave-ins. We have all sorts." Musingly, he regards his boots. "Running's a way of life for us."

Mel thinks of her first descent into the Fissures. The smoke-clogged streets that denied visibility. The gaping pits of rubble that threatened each step. The clammy grip of moisture that slicked each surface. Everywhere she'd looked, she’d seen the endless scars of Topside's neglect. Afterward, the waft of destruction had clung to her skin. Like the phantom sensation of Silco's hand on hers, and the insinuating thread of his voice in her ear:

"Watch your step. Rough roads in Zaun."

She'd wondered how the Fissurefolk withstood their lot. Their suffering seemed unendurable: the weight of it, the sheer, crushing tragedy. No matter where her thoughts turned, it was always there: the knowledge that her city, the jewel of Progress, had been rotting away below her feet.

The people, trapped beneath, dying by degrees.

In those days, she'd been unnerved by that strange and alien world. Unnerved, too, by Silco. The duality of him was at once alluring and repulsive. His elegance was a facade, as thin as the film of iridescent oil floating on Zaun's waters.  Beneath, there was nothing but a ravenous dark. 

 And yet, she'd found herself returning. To the dark, and to him. And each time, the city's alienness seemed to peel away. The Fissurefolk, in all their idiosyncrasies, morphed from feral enigmas to fellow human beings. Even Silco, for all his unsettling contradictions, went from a terrible specter to a thrilling challenge.

A man, with his own stories. His own heartbreaks.

Bit by bit, his world had become hers. He'd made it so: with colorful tales about the murals peeking between the subterranean ruins at Factorywood. With sips of fizzy green lager brewed in the sunless cellars beneath the catacombs in Entresol. With strolls, arm-in-arm, along the pyrite studded rock formations that rimmed the shantytowns in the Sumps. He'd taught her the dances popular among the Fissurefolk—the Sumpside Waltz, the Drainpipe Fandango, the Lazy River Lope—and the meanings behind their twists and turns. He'd invited her to the most surreal festivals—the Equinox Feast, the Night of the Veiled Lady—and imparted the significance behind their customs.  He'd fed her delicacies from the food carts dotting the street corners—spiced mushroom stew, glazed eel, pickled beets—and shared the recipes behind their unique flavors.

And all the while, his voice had woven a spell. The longer she’d listened, the less Zaun seemed a hellhole, but a hidden gem. Each facet, a winking, ever-shifting kaleidoscope of human life—one as rich as any jewelbox in Piltover's Ecliptic Vaults.

Treasure, Mel thinks, isn't always gold.

"Perhaps," she dares, "I'll buy myself a pair of 'kickers'."

His brow quirks. "You'd be in for a rude surprise."

"Oh?"

"Our best boots are cobbled at the Commercia Fantastica. All the way down in the Black Lanes. You'd never find your way out."

"You'll show me."

"Will I?" His mismatched eyes take on a shrewd gleam. "And how will you compensate me?"

"By being your wife."

"Is that the new currency, now?"

"The press certainly say so."

Her mind is already sketching out a blueprint. She'll speak to one of her contacts in the publishing industry: a gazetteer of Fissure origins.  They'll contrive a series: maybe a pictorial. All the splendor of the Commercia Fantastica, faithfully rendered in glossy print. Piltover's glitterati will have their first glimpse into the heart of Zaun's manufacturing district. It will be a reminder that their cornucopia—be it custom-made or uniform—does not issue from an orifice hidden in clouds of smut. It materializes from an epicenter of artisanship: a beating, booming, pulsating hub.

One that's only a hop, skip, and jump away.

If previous efforts are a litmus for success, then one photograph of Mel in the latest 'kickers' will spark a stampede for the bootsellers' doors. In the surge, the adjacent markets will benefit: textiles, silversmiths and jewelers. And once the novelty wears off, the lull will be a soft landing for honest Fissure tradesmen eager to partner with Piltover's guilds. The latter, inured to the mercurial whims of high fashion, will now demand durability rather than design.  And the former, accustomed to the rigors belowground, will find the Piltover's middle-class an easier breed to please.

All that's necessary is a few photographs, and a dash of goodwill.

A small price, Mel thinks, for shared prosperity.

"You are," Silco says, with a degree of wryness, "scheming."

"Takes one to know one."

"I never scheme. I merely plan ahead."

"Same difference."

"Scheming requires an adversary. Planning, a vision."

"And what's yours?"

A corner of his mouth curls. "Good try."

Mel sighs. He is always maddeningly closemouthed about his agenda. It will take more than pretty prattle to pry the details loose. The only clues she can glean are from his choice of attire—and his critique of her boots.

Whatever his plan, it involves getting their feet wet.

Mel is wary. But she knows better than to fill the silence with futile queries. He proffers his arm; she takes it. Together, they stroll down the promenade deck. After a week confined to the cabin, the sea air is a heady tonic. The loose weave of her dress is a kiss against her skin.  She is still lit up like a klieg-light: her body hot and hyperaware after the morning's exertions. 

She seldom, as rule, makes love in the daytime. To her way of thinking, the act, in sunlight, loses some of its artistry. Everything reduced to the crudest mechanics. Every flaw in full relief. Even Jayce had been his loveliest in the twilight. All shadow, all suggestion.

With Silco, daylight is fast becoming her favorite hour.  Like the sun-warmed vista, she is all sensation.

Speculatively, Mel steals him a glance.  If it weren't the height of lunacy, she'd consider dragging him straight back to bed. To hell with the guests. To hell with his plans. They can return to their suite, and bolt the door. Spend the rest of the day, and the night, and the next morning, in a state of well-earned debauchery.

But the set of Silco's features warns her that's a losing battle. 

It's not tension, exactly. More a dark anticipation. Like the way he'd looked, at Zaun's Riverside Harbor, when they'd first met. He'd known then that Zaun would drag itself out of the depths. And Mel, meeting his eyes, had known too.

He'd been certain then. Now, the certainty is a riptide. And Mel, who's never been swept off her feet, can't help but be tugged along.

She's grateful for her boots. She suspects she'll need the grip.

They cross the promenade. Silco’s stroll is measured: a mark of ownership rather than a man marking time. Barely a week's span, and the ship is already seems to belong to him.  The crew, at his barest footfall, leap to attention. Even the Captain, an irascible old seadog, treats him with a distance verging on deference. Mel remembers the same phenomenon on her father's ship: the Cry Havoc. His crew were seasoned hands: calloused minds with checkered pasts. They'd spent a lifetime at sea, and encountered their fair share of the unfathomable. They were also superstitious, and possessed a healthy fear of the uncanny.

Silco, a figment of the fathoms, is uncanny through and through.

In a different life, Mel fancies, he'd be the silhouette idling on sharp rocks, his smoky voice pitched to wooing: Come, come, and never be lonely again.

Her husband, in this one, catches the eye of a passing steward. A nod is all it takes: the man turns on his heel and disappears belowdeck.

"Where is he going?" Mel asks.

"To fetch something."

"Fetch what?"

"What I've asked him to."

Another nod at a nearby sailor. The man hastens to the foredeck. There, Mel can hear a skiff—one of Piltover's quicksilvers—revving its engines. Readying to go where, Mel cannot begin to guess. They're miles off the coast. The nearest harbor—the Wuju port—is three hours away.

Unless Silco means to sail his guests directly to shore, his destination is a mystery.

Then again, she thinks, isn’t it always?

His palm cups her elbow. "Mel."

She stirs from her reverie. "What?"

"I have a request."

"A request?"

"Yes."

His hand, settling on her hip, guides her to a halt. He's not smiling. But there's a heat in his stare. It's not an easy heat to name. It's not desire, or even hunger. It's something deeper: a pull it takes everything to resist.

 "You must," he says, "make me a promise."

"You expect me to make promises, when you won't tell me a thing?"

"Only this: you're in for a surprise or two."

"Silco—"

"I've a plan. Not a pretty one. And it'll mean a bit of rough sailing. But what's true of storms is true of marriage." His mouth twitches. "There's no winners. Only survivors."

"You aren't doing a good job at selling this."

"I'm not trying to sell it. I'm only telling you that, when we're out there—in the ballroom, on the high sea—don't run."

"Why would I do that?"

"Because it's instinct. Trenchers run for survival. It's in our blood. Medardas run from loss. It's in yours." His eyes search hers. "I don't fault your blood. I only ask you to remember.  When the winds start picking up, and the waters get choppy, your instinct will be to take cover. But the storm's not what you think. And if you're going to stay on course, you can't retreat. You have to see this through." His thumb strokes her hipbone. "Promise."

"Even if you run us aground?"

"Do you think you've married a fool?"

"Do you think you're married to one?"

Their stares lock. The silence is charged. It is not challenge, but a quiet recognition of each others' roles. She is not a woman to expose herself to the raw elements. He is not a man to sit back and let the tides dictate his course.  Their relationship has been a negotiation, from the first to the last. Each taking a turn at the helm, and then trading it away.

Now, he's asking her to—what?

Trade, or give it up?

"If," Mel says, "there's a danger—"

"There isn't."

"But you believe I'll run."

"Not you. But the woman in there—" he tips his chin toward the ballroom, "—isn't the one who waxes poetic about painting me nude in the sunlight. She's a Medarda first, second, and last. And a Medarda always has an escape route."

"The woman in there—" Mel follows his chin, and sees, through the frosted glass, a knot of swaying silhouettes, "—is a Medarda by birth. She's married to you by choice. And I can't keep my promise, if I don't know what that choice means."

"Then I'll ask again." His eyes hold hers. "Trust me."

"Trust you? Or the man who's warned me not to run?"

"That's the point."

"Is it?"

"Trust that, whatever happens, the man you've married is the same man in that ballroom." His palm spans the small of her back. "I've no alter egos, Mel. Just moments where I show teeth, and moments where I hide them. And right now, I've a great deal to hide. But the endgame is the same as your schemes for my city: a step toward something greater."

"For Zaun, and Piltover?"

"I wouldn't put it that way."

"How would you put it?"

His mouth, mere inches from hers, crooks. "Compromise."

Mel's pulse skitters.

It's a hard bargain to swallow. A harder choice to make. And she, who's made a fine art of tipping the scales, knows that both are equally vital, if this union is to have a prayer of survival. And yet the urge to break away, to force a confrontation, is surging.

She's used to his obliqueness. She's not, and will never, be used to his unpredictability.

When he says Don't run, he means Hold your ground. When he says Surprise, he means Beware.

And when he says Compromise, he means, in his own words: Survive.

Then he says, "Trust me."

Which, she's learning, is his shorthand for, Trust yourself.

Mel's mouth pinches. Trust. Doubt. These are two sides of the same coin. His past, and hers, laid bare without veils. Moments like this, she's reminded of the enormous gamble she's taken by marrying him. She knows, from her own experience, how quickly trust can curdle into the opposite. And she knows, too, that doubt can devour the sturdiest edifice.

It had, after all, devoured her parents' marriage.

Ambessa Medarda, no sentimentalist, had not married for love. Her choice was pragmatic, and it was prudent. From a broad swathe of suitors, ranging from bluebloods to brutes, she'd selected Mel's father, a swarthy, scarred captain from the Targonian Isles. Known, simply, as Aziz, he'd possessed a devious head for deals, and a deft tongue for wooing. His clan were descended from a line of seafaring mercenaries. Over the centuries, they'd carved a bloody path on a shifting sea of wars, alliances, and compromises.

Aziz had met Ambessa during a trading venture. It had been, by all accounts, an explosive collision.

Ambessa had admired the way he squared his debts with a bladesman's exacting precision, and wielded his real blade with a cutthroat's clarity. He, in turn, was taken by her ruthless pragmatism, and her cold-eyed resolve.

There'd been no need, in the end, to seek approval from either clan. The match was mutually advantageous: her riches, and his ships, would forge a dynasty.

Theirs was not, by any metric, a love-match. Yet Mel remembers the heat, the intensity, and the sheer physicality of her parents' union. With Aziz, Ambessa became, despite her hardness, a creature of feeling. And Aziz, for all his wily ways, became a man of sentiment.

They'd quarreled often, publicly. They'd butted heads over business, and brawled over trifles. But they'd also made up in the same fashion: two titans, clashing in a storm.

Mel, since girlhood, knew never to knock on her parents' bedchamber door when she heard raised voices.

She'd witnessed the aftermath, once. After a particularly savage row, Ambessa had stormed from their marital suite, and headed for the stables. Aziz, stalking soundlessly after, had caught up with her halfway there. In the middle of the courtyard, they'd fought anew. Aziz, seizing her waist, had swung her in. Ambessa, kicking out, had knocked his legs from under him. Together, they'd fallen into the thatch of wildflowers behind the copse of cypress trees.

Their cries were not, Mel had realized with a dawning horror, cries of pain.

They'd been so preoccupied, they hadn't noticed her creeping closer. They'd not seen her stare, through the screen of foliage, as their fierce struggles devolved into a fiercer embrace. And as they did, a surreal alchemy took place: Ambessa, all wildfire and iron, began to melt. Aziz, all seaspray and stone, began to yield.

Mel, unable to tear her eyes away, saw the exact moment they transformed. A moment before, they'd been two warring elements. A moment later, they were one. And the power of it, the raw, unmitigated passion: it was a force beyond the comprehension of an eight-year-old girl.

That day, Mel sometimes thinks, is when she'd learnt that the strongest forces can be unmade by desire.

Love, fear, fury: they were not, as she'd childishly believed, discrete entities. They were all part of a single current, ebbing and flowing, and changing course with the tides.

Later, much later, her parents had subsided into a languid sprawl. Ambessa's head, pillowed on her husband's shoulder. Aziz's fingers, stirring through his wife's curls. Their bodies, twined, were a study in drowsy contentment.

"Never leave me," Aziz had whispered.

"Why should I," Ambessa had purred, "when I've already cut out your heart?"

"That you have. Now, it's yours."

Ambessa's lips, curving, had found his throat. "Then remember, Schatze, I'll do worse to any woman who dares to claim it."

Schatze.

That was her private designation for him. Treasure.

Her one and only.

And she'd meant it, Mel thinks now. Meant it in the way a warrior, who's seen a thousand battles, will fight her last. She'd fought him, and he'd fought her, and they'd taken shelter in each other. Over and over. For twenty years, their marriage was the stuff of legend: a dynastic alliance, and a private whirlwind. They'd begotten two children, lost two more before birth, and spawned a military empire.

Until their union, with the same suddenness as their collision, came undone.

Aziz had, during one of Ambessa's war-campaigns, chosen a mistress. This, in itself, was not unheard of. The men of the Targonian line were notoriously philandering, and the woman of the Medarda clan were notoriously pragmatic. Ambessa, who'd not only kept her own paramours, but had changed them with the frequency of a Piltovan noblewoman changing her gloves, had never begrudged her husband his dalliances. She'd even handpicked a few herself, including the mistress Aziz so doted upon.

The choice had proven fatal.

She was a pretty thing, Mel remembers. Pale as a lily, and shrewd as a serpent. She'd beguiled Aziz with her beauty, and bound him with her wits. In the span of months, her hold on him grew implacable. By the time Ambessa, returning from a year-long absence, realized what had happened, the damage was done.

She'd discovered Aziz gone, along with three-fifths of their battleships.

Ambessa was not a woman prone to tears. Now, her fury was a black inferno. She'd raged, and she'd razed, and she'd sworn to see the mistress decapitated, with her golden head on a pike. Her pursuit of the wayward pair had been relentless, and the carnage, legendary. She'd burnt villages to the ground. She'd sunk fleets to the bottom of the sea.

And when, finally, she'd had the chance to close her fist around her husband's neck... it was too late.

Aziz had succumbed to a tropical fever. He'd been bedridden and delirious when his ship was waylaid by Ambessa's fleet. The mistress, by then, had already fled with whatever riches she could carry. 

When Ambessa had stormed into her husband's cabin, Aziz, on the verge of death, had mustered a crooked smile.

"My lioness," he'd rasped, "have you come to finish the job?"

Ambessa's fury, like a house of cards, had collapsed at the sight of him. She'd flung her scimitar aside, and fallen to her knees at her husband's bedside. His ramblings—of repentance, of devotion, of the children he'd left behind—had been shushed by her kisses. The entire night, she'd sat vigil, cajoling and bargaining and finally, begging.

To no avail.

Aziz had perished at dawn. He'd died, as he'd lived, with a smile on his lips.

For Ambessa, the fearsome general who'd won a hundred battles, this was the first true defeat. But she'd not wept, or wailed, or rent her hair. She'd only kissed Aziz's forehead, and smoothed his lids shut. Then, with a composure born of pure iron, she'd ordered his body laid out onto a wooden funeral bier, and floated out to sea, before it was set ablaze in the Targonian custom with five dozen flaming arrows.

When the sun had set, and the smoke had dissipated, she'd hefted her scimitar and turned her eyes to the horizon.

There are a thousand and one ways a Medarda avenges a slight.

Aziz's mistress would learn them all.

And soon.

Ambessa's troops had cornered the woman, in a tiny port town along the southern coast. By then, she'd spent every last coin she'd stolen from her dead lover, and had nothing left to offer in her defense. Not that coin would've made a difference. When Ambessa, flanked by her honor-guard, arrived at the tavern where her quarry was hiding, there'd been no mercy, and no negotiation. The woman, bound and gagged, was dragged to the center of town, and flung at the feet of her former benefactress.

"For my Schatze," Ambessa had vowed, "I'll make this slow."

And she did.

In front of the entire town, she'd cut out the woman's tongue, and plucked out her eyes. She'd hacked her fingers and her toes. She'd flayed her skin, and slit open her chest. And as the woman's life bled out, Ambessa had at last carved out her heart.

It was, in its ghastly way, a fitting recompense.

In the years afterward, Ambessa had grown harder. More ruthless. The light that once shone in her eyes—that strange, fierce light, whenever she'd looked at her husband—had flickered, and faded away. She'd gone on to wage numberless wars. She'd had lovers by the score.  She'd built a legacy, and an empire.

But her husband, she never replaced.

Schatze.

She'd still call him that, whenever she reminisced. The endearment was its own admission; the sentiment, its own confession.

Ambessa Medarda did not marry for love. But she'd loved, and lost, nonetheless.

Schatze.

Mel, in the heart of herself, knows the word. It is worth its weight in gold—and the poorest possible investment. Men, as a rule, are faithless. Even the ones who seem, in the sunlight, like perfect princelings. And sharks, as a law, never stop swimming. Even if the water's blue for miles.

To trust one is to invite hurt. And to trust the other is to invite teeth.

Mel knows the price of a life-bitten heart.

And yet, in the depths of passion, she trusts Silco with hers.

Because, in the afterglow, languid and spent, she sometimes calls him Schatze, too.

Now, Mel meets Silco's stare. His eyes, even at their softest, hold an edge. But she senses no hidden blade. Only his palm, cradling the base of her spine. Only his body, a hairsbreadth from hers. And his words, in the space between: Trust me.

A choice, not a compromise.

Mel, slowly, nods.

"You'd better deliver,” she says. “I'm not sure my boots can handle anything worse than the waves."

"If you'd heeded my advice—"

"Don't."

Her tone brooks no argument. In turn, his humor melts.

He steps back, and bows. It's not a courtly gesture. It's like a wolf acknowledging a packmate. Mel, who's seen a hundred bows, is surprised by the sincerity of this one. It's a subtle, almost invisible dip. But she sees, in its execution, trust.

He, who is never truly vulnerable, is exposing the nape of his neck.

"Shall we?" He straightens with a small smile. "The parasites await."

"The parasites are our guests." Mel slips her hand into the crook of his elbow. "I hope you're ready to play the host."

His smile grows "Are you forgetting who I am?"

He stalks toward the ballroom door. His shadow, elongated by the sunlight, is a knife.

And Mel, her heart suddenly in her throat, knows this: She cannot run.

Even if, by a sudden inexplicable compulsion, she wants to.

The ballroom is an idyll of Art Deco delights.

A high vaulted ceiling, inlaid with mosaics of sea-nymphs, arches overhead. A chandelier, dangling like a glittering pendulum, sends a nimbus of refracted light across each polished surface.  The floor is a checkered parquet, alternating in shades of teak and rosewood. In the far-corner, a circular bar-island of carved cherrywood serves an array of spirits. A sunken dancefloor, honeycombed in a tessellation of rose marble, is ringed by a quartet of brass-trimmed alcoves. Inside, frosted glass windows, edged with intricate filigree patterns, frame different views of the blue horizon. 

Waitstaff bustle with trays of champagne flutes and silver-domed trays of hors d'oeuvres. The guests, in their daytime finery, are milling about. All seem mystified by the ship's anchorage. No doubt whispers have already begun stirring: mutiny, sabotage, ransom.

At Silco and Mel's entrance, heads swivel. The conversation eddies into silence.  

Mel thinks: It's like the moment before a battle.

She gives herself a quick mental inventory. Dress: immaculate. Persona: impeccable. Expression: impassive.

A soldier, Ambessa liked to say, is only as good as their armor.

Silco's hand, finding hers, imparts a squeeze: Ready?

Mel squeezes back. Always.

Then, falling away, they diverge to different ends of the room.

It is their formula: tried and true. He hates to be tethered. She hates to be steered. So they meet, and part, and find each other again. Two ships crossing the same sea, with a hundred currents swirling beneath.

And between them: the fulcrum of their cities' fates.

Silco drifts soundlessly to the bar. The crowd parts as he crosses. Mel, watching, marvels at the smoothness of his gait. His body, like a blade, cuts its way implacably through the tide.  Peeling it back, layer by layer, until all the pretense fall away. She notes who shrinks back, who stands their ground, who dares to come closer.  In their body-language, she reads volumes: curiosity, contempt, caution.

The Eye of Zaun has that effect. Even among the constellations of power, he exudes his own. It's nothing to do with size or swagger. It is simply that his presence, in any room, becomes a gravity well.  The most ambitious—eager for a taste of danger—drift closer. The most prudent—wary of his reputation—keep their distance.

Silco, in turn, exudes a usual glacial calm: his eyes taking in everything and giving away nothing. 

In that, Mel thinks, he is nothing like Jayce.

Jayce, a born idealist, radiated human warmth. It was a private foible and a public asset: his shining smile and his sheer, stubborn, indomitable belief in Progress.  In the beginning, Mel had been charmed his capacity for optimism. As his business partner, she'd seen the way his earnest goodwill thawed the frostiest investors. As his lover, she'd been seduced by his sheer, unabashed passion.

In a world of tepid greys, Jayce was abrash, exuberant burst of brightness. And his ardor was a gift that kept giving. He'd brought color back into Mel's life. He'd given her a glimpse of the world as it could be, not as it was: a place of endless possibility.

If they only had the will to grasp it.

She'd taken a gamble on him. And at every step, he'd rewarded her. He'd made her smile. He'd made her think. He'd made her want to be more than she was: more daring, more defiant, more dauntless. And she'd made him stronger, in turn. She'd guided him through the slippery labyrinth of politics, tempered his bullheaded choices with cool pragmatism, and steered him, on occasion, from complete disaster.

With her, he'd believed anything was possible. With him, she'd felt the same.  A perfect balance of ambition, beauty, and intellect.

The Golden Couple, the press had dubbed them.

But Jayce, for all his merits, was not a man to cut his own path. He'd never known the grinding ache of a hunger weaned by birthright. Never felt the keenness of the knife, twisting, with a mother's silence. Never known a world where privilege was not a promise kept, but a golden garotte around the throat.

For the Medardas, the ethos of power was not glory. It was survival. That was what the bloodline was bred for, and what it demanded: the need to claw its way to the apogee, and stay there.

But every apogee, a voice whispers, needs a nadir.

There is no peak without the abyss. And every climb is a fall, waiting to happen.

Jayce, born into a life of ease, never understood. And the brightness of his dream, pure and perfect, became Mel's blind spot. She'd seen the world, and their place in it: a vast, glorious expanse of the unimaginable. He'd stand by her, and she'd stand up for him, and together, they'd forge a new era.

Until, in the worst way, they had.

Their city ruptured. Their dream, in shreds. Their bond, an ash-pit.

Mel accepts the glass of pineapple juice a passing steward offers. Sipping, she thinks once more of Jayce: his easygoing smile, his boundless idealism.  Then she lets the golden memories fall away in favor of what is right in front of her: the man she'd found at the bottom of that ash-pit.

And he, finding her, had shown her a different dream. A darker one: bleeding and yet never dying. Two cities, joined, against all odds.

Rising, by any means necessary.

Their eyes meet across the room. Silco, in conversation with a sparse clutch of older men, is watching her with a quiet intensity. Under his scrutiny, she feels like a gemstone held up to the light. Like she did this morning: caught, and pinned, and in a state of sublime surrender.

A curl at the corner of his mouth says: I see you.

Mel lifts her glass in a mock-toast.

Enjoy the show.

Smiling, she steps into the fray.

If Silco is the gravity well, Mel is the sun. The moment she materializes, the atmosphere transforms: a gloriole of life. The silence swirls into animated chatter. The guests, like celestial bodies, align into orbit. A chorus of well-wishes rises: Mel, darling, how are you feeling? — Councilor Medarda, how splendid to see you on your feet!—My dearest Melusine! At last, you've emerged!

Mel, her smile calibrated to dazzle, accepts their tributes with grace. In diplomacy, timing is everything. And she, every word fine-tuned for maximum impact, knows how to walk the line between approachability and allure.  One moment she's regaling the group with a quip that dissolves them into gales of laughter. The next, she's demurring a bold overture with an artful pivot and a cool flutter of lashes.

It's an old song, and she's a seasoned player. Human emotions are a string quartet. She's learned, since girlhood, that her talent lies in knowing the right string to pluck. A smile to coax a dowager's taut cadences into a cello's mellow depth. A murmur to set off a young man's somber oboe into a high-spirited spill of arpeggios. A touch to elicit, from an aging general's lascivious violin, a full, rich chord of rapture.

And Mel: the maestra. Coaxing melody from dissonance, and bringing the whole ensemble into harmony.

Now, she plucks the closest string in reach:  the Demacian dignitary's wife. The woman's a social stalwart: moneyed, magpie-eyed, and a moralist of the first degree. Paired with a penchant for petty gossip, she is the chief purveyor of the aristocracy's scandal-mill. 

But her pedigree is a goldmine, and her support is a vital step toward Zaun's ascent into the global spotlight.

Mel, accordingly, makes her the target of a subtle campaign.

"Lady Dennings," she says, with a radiant smile. "How lovely to see you."

"Mel!" Lady Dennings, her peacock fan a blur of emerald and azure, flutters over. "By the Protector! What a fright you gave us! A week belowdeck—and nary a glimpse above!"

"I do apologize for the alarm."

"Alarm? My dear, we believed you were at death's door! And your husband, that dreadful man! He made a jape of it! Every evening, our queries about your health were met with a different tale." The fan flutters faster. "First, you were abed with ague. Then: bitten by a viper. And then—the final outrage—you were abducted by pirates!"

"Oh," Mel says, and can't quite stop the smile from curling,

"Oh? Mel, is that all you can say?"

"What else would you have me say?"

"Acknowledgment! The man's a rapscallion—and a devil!"

Mel's eyes go guilelessly round. "Devil?"

"Of the highest order!" The fan snaps shut, and the falsetto drops. "The word is, he forcibly confined you to your berth for six nights! All to conduct an infernal Fissure ritual. The bride, stripped and bound as a sacrifice to the dark gods. Then—" a shudder, "—a barbaric consummation. Is it true, my dear? Tell me it's not. Tell me you've not been brutalized in some pagan sacrament!"

Mel hides a smile behind the rim of her glass. Her mind conjures a vision of Silco, in a dark cloak, looming over her bound and naked body. The glow of his bad eye: a fire opal offset by a dozen low-burning candles.

The scenario is not, she admits, without its unholy thrill.

But the Dennings are a devoutly religious clan. Like the rest of Demacia, their stance on magic is unequivocally condemnatory. If they had their way, all practitioners of the arcane would be hung, drawn, and quartered. Even the mention of the subject is enough to provoke an apoplexy.

No doubt, during Mel's weeklong absence, Lady Dennings' imagination—and tongue—have been running rampant. Her mind, already primed to find fault with the union, will seize upon the most sordid scrap. In the process, she inadvertently reveals how little she understands of Zaun.

Or, indeed, what transpires in the privacy of the marital bedchamber.

The Dennings own marriage of a year, if Elora's reports are true, has gone unconsummated. Whether it's due to her husband's crippling bashfulness, or her own pie-eyed prudishness, is an open question. This voyage, at the behest of the Dennings patriarch, is a final bid for the pair to prove their mettle. A successful coupling—an heir—would seal a lucrative merger between their clans. Whereas a failure on both counts would see them disinherited.

Lord and Lady Dennings, on borrowed time, feel each bell-toll keenly. A pity they cannot share the same cabin together without squabbling incessantly.

Silco, possessing no surfeit of sympathy for prudish quirks and provincial qualms, has summed up the couple's predicament thus:

"Two virgins, and not a lick of sense between them."

It's a brutally sound assessment. But not, Mel thinks, without a measure of pity.

It must be excruciating to suffer the weight of a parent's expectations in such a private sphere. Not to mention the public mortification, should the failure come to light.  

Fortunately, Mel's mind has sketched out a satisfactory solution.

Somberly, she says, "It's true."

"Dear heavens! You mean—?!"

"Bound to the bedframe, with a length of silk." Mel circles a finger along the rim of her glass. "But not for reasons you imagine."

Lady Dennings, eyes wide, is already imagining a great deal. "Gracious, Mel! What was he thinking?"

"Chiefly, of my safety."

"Safety—yes!" Lady Dennings clasps one of Mel's hands in both her own. "Zaunite men are a barbaric lot! Look at their women: all pinched cheeks and blackened eyes. They're beasts, by any other name. The notion that a darling such as yourself—" another shudder, "—locked in a cabin, and subjected to deflowering...!"

Mel's eyebrows wing skyward. In her ear, she can practically hear Silco's drawl:

What, precisely, am I deflowering? Your left nostril? The right's seen its share of traffic.

Taking another sip of juice, she stifles her snort.  The Demacian peerage hold such archaic notions about chastity.  Silco, if he ever caught wind, would take fiendish delight in dismantling them.

Fortunately, Silco is elsewhere. And Mel, more fortuitously, has the perfect string to pluck.

"My dear Lady Dennings," she chides gently. "You must put aside those scurrilous pamphlets." 

"Scurrilous?"

"The ones from the gutter-press. Written, I wager, after a tankard of rotgut. I hear the stories, myself: the Fissurefolk, sacrificing virgins to demigods. Drinking the blood of newborn babes. Really, it's too much. One would think, given the scope of their enterprise, that their hours would be better employed." A sip of juice, sweet on the tongue. "They should write, instead, of Zaun's many wonders."

"Wonders?"

"Their herbal tinctures, for one." Her tone, perfectly balanced between soothing and secretive, reels the woman in. "You see, I'd been struck with a terrible fever. Sweats, delirium, and the most excruciating chills. If I hadn't been bed-bound, I might have taken a tumble down the stairs. Or flung myself into the sea."

"By the Light! And he—what, locked you up?"

"As a precaution. Nothing more.  Mine was a rather stubborn malady. After five days' vigil, Silco took it upon himself to brew a concoction. A tea, of sorts. Boiled from powdered red clover. Quite astringent, but most effective." Mel sighs. "I haven't felt so well-rested in years."

It did not occur in exactly that fashion. Mel was too woozy to summon the particulars. All she recalls is Silco's shadow looming in. A cup's rim, steaming, pressed to her lips. A bracing tang, and the slow, steady, searing drip down her throat.

She'd succumbed to sleep right after. But she'd awoken much refreshed, and lucid.

When she'd queried him, Silco had shrugged: It's a tonic for the blood. Fire it up, and sweat the fever out.

With the smallest of smirks:  Good for firing up the loins, too.

Lady Dennings is listening raptly. "He tended to you, personally?"

"Like a physician. Only sweeter." A wistful sigh. "It's a rare man who'll kneel at his lady's bedside." She doesn't, in fact, recall much kneeling. But every good story needs a spin. Diplomacy's bedrock is built on well-told fiction. "Truly, the tales of Zaunite men as brutes are wildly untrue.  In their own way, they're quite..." A delicate pause, "... devoted."

"Oh, indeed?"

"I dare not divulge too much. Modesty compels me. But..." Mel's register drops. "... I will say this: Zaunites may lack the polish of a Piltovan gentleman. But they more than make up for it with the... ardor... of their pursuit."

Lady Dennings' mouth forms a perfect 'O.' "Gracious!"

"Gracious? No. Gratifying? Certainly." Mel's lips curve. "And gratifyingly often."

Lady Dennings turns a telling shade of carnation. "Dear me. That's—how intriguing!"

"Isn't it?" Another sip, and a deeper smile. "The Fissures, I find, have much to teach us. I've only just begun my lessons. But I've made such fascinating discoveries. Did you know, for instance, that powdered red clover, steeped in tea, has an aphrodisiacal effect?"

"An aphro—really?"

"Really. It's quite potent. In fact, it can be used as an antidote for..." Then, as if remembering herself. "But forgive me. This is no place to discuss such a delicate subject. I must beg your discretion."

Lady Dennings, fan fluttering, has gone from carnation to crimson. There is, as Mel suspected, a great deal of pent-up frustration simmering below that prissy surface.

Mel makes her move: a single strum, and a long, sustained note of intimacy.

"If you're amenable," she murmurs, "I'll share more details with you. Perhaps over a quiet tea? Just us girls."

"I—yes! Of course! Red clover, you say?"

"A singular plant. It grows at the edges of the Fissure cliffs.  Many a scholar has written of the benefits." A conspiratorial dip of lashes. "You and your lord husband may find the taste a revelation."

"My, erm, husband," Lady Dennings stammers, "is quite—" fan dangling limply, "—fastidious."

"Then, my dear, it is high time he was reacquainted with his reckless youth."

"Oh, Mel, do you truly think...?"

"I shall do better." Mel imparts a light squeeze to the woman's arm. "I will send a gift with you: a small satchel, for your bedchamber. Try a spoonful, with two glasses of cold water. One for yourself. And the other, to share." A significant silence, then a final pluck. "The results, I promise, will be expeditious."

Lady Dennings' eyes take on a hopeful gleam. "How expeditious?"   

"Let's just say: by the summer's end, you'll be celebrating more than your wedding anniversary."

It works like a charm. Lady Dennings, clutching Mel's hands, exclaims, "My dear girl, you're a dove! I shall owe you a thousand favors!"

"None required." Mel's smile is sunshine through clouds. "Consider it a gift, from a dear friend."

"You darling thing! We shall have a girl's talk tonight. And afterward—" a flushing glance toward her husband, stoop-shouldered and sour-faced in the corner, "—why, we'll see what comes."

With luck, him, and you too, Mel thinks.

"Tonight, then," she says. "I'll have a basket sent up to your cabin. But remember—ssh. It is a private affair." Her fingertip, pressed playfully to her lips, earns a titillated twinkle. "Now, if you'll pardon me. I must catch up with the others."

"Oh, of course! I shan't hold you up." Lady Dennings' fan resumes its flutter. Her thoughts, plainly, are palpitating elsewhere. "And do send up the basket! I cannot wait!"

Mel, her work done, glides off.

One down, she thinks, sipping her drink. A half-dozen to go.

Red clover's effects are not, in fact, a fiction. Mel, during her research into Zaun's history, has read volumes on the subject. And experienced, firsthand, its efficacy.

She'd shared a spoonful with Jayce, back when they were together. Purely for research reasons, of course. She'd only given him a mouthful, and he'd been wild to have her—so much, she'd ended up with her dress in shreds, one slipper dangling from the ceiling fan, and the other flung straight through the window.

Afterward, Jayce had apologized shamefacedly. Mel, secretly charmed, had assured him the fault was hers.

They'd never touched the stuff again. But Mel has not forgotten.

By tonight, she suspects, neither will Lady and Lord Dennings. With luck, a little Dennings-to-be will soon be in the picture, courtesy of Mel's powdered charity. Mel, in turn, will have gained a pocketful of Dennings coin, and the political currency to bargain with Demacian traders for red clover as a mass-market commodity.

Soon, word will spread. The Fissures are in possession of miracles, in potentia.

Zaun's economy could use a healthy boost. And Piltover, by proxy, will feel the benefit.

Marriage: by any other name.

Satisfied, Mel's focus shifts to the next string.   

The string, as luck would have it, sails her way. Cevila, wife of the Piltovan exchequer: a statuesque ice-eyed blond who'd made Mel's life an unending misery back in her salad days as an emigree. A native Piltovan with close ties to House Ferros, she prides herself on her pedigree, her purse-strings, and her impeccable taste—or, in Mel's private reckoning, her impeccable lack thereof.

Since Mel's ascent into the corridors of power, Cevila's kept up an endless siege under a guise of cordiality. Barbs couched in a show of sisterhood; favors Mel cannot deny without close allies feeling snubbed; invitations she cannot refuse without offending the very people she seeks to woo.

It's a tedious dance. But Cevila's rank confers her with gravitas among the glitterati. Her opinion, when solicited, is considered gospel. 

Mel, the Madonna of Piltover, cannot afford to play the sinner.

"Cevila," she greets airily. "How are you faring?"

"Oh, my dove! Better, now that I see you're in fine fettle. But how peaked you look! It must be that frock. Quite lovely, but rather..." A critical once-over, "... plain."

Mel's smile, soft as a cat's paw, hides claws. "The style is from East Shurima.  A gift from the Sadja clan."

"Is it? That explains it. They're a droll set. All silks and scarabs. They'd wrap themselves in the city's flag, if they thought it'd give them airs." A barely-there squeeze of Mel's elbow. "No offense, my darling. I know you're a patroness of theirs."

Mel, noting the dig, pivots. "Whereas you, in your plumage, are a bird of paradise."

In fact, she resembles a harpy. The Ferros features, chipped from granite, accord the face a certain regal grandeur. But Cevila, with her penchant for feathered ostentation, has a way of transforming even the most sober attire into avian excess.

Today, she's swathed in a plum silk sheath studded with gold-chased amethysts. A matching choker, its collar encrusted with citrines, enfolds her neck. Her hair, lacquered within an inch of its life, is a helmet of pale yellow, and adorned with a nest's worth of diamond-and-pearl pinfeathers.

Mel, taking in the effect, feels an odd pang. The last time she'd worn such an extravagance of gems, it had been on the heels of her split with Jayce. Her mind had been in disarray. Her sartorial choices, likewise. Each dress, shimmering, had been a salve: a reminder that no matter how her heart ached, the rest of her could still shine.

Now, taking in Cevila's glitter, her mind pieces together a new puzzle.

"Your husband must be so proud," Mel says, "to have you on his arm."

"He is, yes." Cevila's grip, on her elbow, tightens a fraction. It's a tell, and Mel tucks it away. "Of course, his pride is not all that's on his arm."

I would doubt that, Mel thinks.

She already has the measure of Cevila's husband: a man twice her age, and whose sole claim to fame, apart from a family name two centuries old, is mediocrity incarnate. He'd married the ferocious Cevila purely for the prestige of the Ferros title She'd been, to pardon the pun, a feather in his cap.

Privately, it's no secret that his tastes run younger and far less discerning. Of late, he's been spotted frequenting the entertainment district of Zaun's Boundary Markets. More specifically, an establishment hosting two Shuriman-born dancers—brothers by blood, and by the rumor mill, bedmates.

Cevila is far from blind to her husband's proclivities. Mel, who's witnessed their tête-à-têtes at society gatherings, has noticed the strain behind their smiles. Two strangers, trapped in the same gilded cage. According to Elora's reports, she's making preparations to serve him with divorce papers. Once the split is finalized, she'll set her sights on a new target: younger, better-connected, and more importantly, better-funded.

The roster is long, and the contenders many.  Even Jayce, the poor dear, is rumored to be on her radar. 

Cevila's eye, however, is not on matrimonial bliss. Her goal is to secure enough funds to purchase a mining seam in the Fissures' southwest quadrant. Its yield is substantial: pure platinum and gold. To claim it, she's leveraged everything from her family's connections to a cadre of solicitors—to no avail.

Silco, rebuffing every overture, has made plain that the land is not for sale.

The refusal, in Cevila's view, is a personal slight. And Mel, as her chief adversary, has become a natural target.

"It is truly good to see you well," Cevila says, with a talonlike grip on Mel's elbow. "I was concerned, of course. But it was your husband who most needed a watchful eye. Why, a lesser man would've taken succor at the nearest port-of-call."

Mel, inwardly translating Harpy to Buzzard, smiles. "A lesser man, yes. Mine stayed firmly anchored."

"And decidedly taciturn! He wouldn't even deign to give an update." The twin flintlocks of her eyes turn Silco's way. "You'd think he was in mourning. His beloved, or his bachelorhood—it's difficult to say which."

Mel has yet to see Silco grieve anything beyond an errant hangnail. Cevila's remarks, as ever, serve no purpose beyond baiting her.

Taking the proffered string, Mel plays it for all its worth. "My husband is a man of few words." At least, when his tongue's occupied elsewhere. "As it is, he's accustomed to livelier pastimes. Compared to Zaun's vibrancy, a week at sea is a veritable lull." A sip, and a sigh. "Confined company does make a dull time of it."

The subtext is subtle, but unmistakable. Cevila, in her plumage, bristles.

"Confined—or refined? His manners are decent enough. But pedigree's the real test." Her chin cuts a scornful arc. "The Fissures, after all, are a pestilence pit." Then, catching herself. "I mean no disrespect, my dove. Marriage factors more than sentiment for our stripe, as we both know. One plays the hand one’s dealt. But we're women of the world, are we not? We both understand the value of preserving a legacy." Her eyes pass, speculatively, over Mel's belly. "And the consequences, should our choice fail to meet it."

The stab is plain: Silco, Fissure-born, is exemplary of his breed. Filth, mud, scum. Any child, a byproduct of that union, will bear the taint. A taint that will spread to Piltover's streets. To the halls of the High Council. To the very heart of the City of Progress.

Mel's fingers flex on the stem of her glass.  A thousand old slights, she'll bear with aplomb. But this, the freshest insult, makes her see red.

For a moment, she understands Ambessa's warpath. The primal urge, to defend at any cost. Mel has spent a lifetime keeping a lid on her own fire. But her mother's blood runs true. The anger is a hissing spark, ready to ignite. If she were a Medarda of the old guard, she would carve her name straight through Cevila's heart.

Up ahead, Silco is still slouched by the bar. Lighting a cigarette, he taps out the spent match. Behind the leisurely ribbons of smoke, his scarred profile is all insouciant angles. But Mel feels his focus like a hot brand. He has been listening, too. Not with his ears, but his eyes.  

And Cevila could find herself on the wrong side of a scope.

That decides Mel.

A Medarda's wrath is legendary. But a Zaunite's is fatal. Between their cities, there have been enough bloodbaths.

Diplomacy, and not daggers, must prevail.

So she smiles, and tugs on a subtler string.

"Legacy, yes." A slow sip of juice. "My husband and I have discussed it. In particular, provisions for the future."

"Provisions?" Cevila's keen eyes dart between Mel and the bar. "Whatever do you mean?"

"Only that the winds of change are never gentle. And when they blow, fortunes can shift." She swirls her drink. "I always caution my fellow Councilors against complacency. Or ill-advised investments in foreign ventures. A single declaration of war, and the trade-lines go dry. A few misplaced funds, and the whole enterprise goes belly-up. We must keep our assets, well, closer to home."

"Home?" Cevila repeats, astute as ever. "Or Zaun?"

"Zaun is our sister city. As it stands, her prospects are excellent. But Silco believes, and I concur, in strengthening our individual portfolios. Piltover, for instance, has ample potential for growth in the manufacturing sector. With Hextech, we have the means to revolutionize the market." Musingly, "In turn, Zaun has her mines, and the wisdom, age old, to refine their yield."

At the mention of the mines, a covetous gleam kindles in Cevila's eye. "The mines. Yes."

"Recently, the Fissure seams, thanks to diligent labor, have hit the motherlode. Soon, the output will be tripled. Even quadrupled." The morsel dangles: a succulent cut of red meat. Then: "Naturally, Silco is determined to keep the wealth concentrated in the hands of those who labored for it."

Cevila is brought up short. "In a matter of wages?"

"Oh, nothing so crass.  The miners' guild is a collective. Their assets are held in trust, for the benefit of the whole. Older seams, owned by barons, are likewise protected. But Silco believes in safeguarding his city's long-term interest. To that end, the Zaun’s recently enacted a decree for the lifelong preservation of the mines."

Suddenly, Cevila's feathers are a-quiver.  "I—I'm not quite sure I follow."

"Then allow me to clarify. For the last century, the Fissures have been a free-for-all. Foreign hands, ours and otherwise, have scooped up whatever they could. They've left the remainder in chaos. A dozen factions, battling each other for scraps. It's been a waste of resources. And, frankly, a waste of life." Her fingertips clink across the stem of her glass: a percussive counterpoint to the silence. "The Cabinet's new policy aims to restore a sense of order. No longer will foreign backers have unfettered access to the veins. Only Fissureborns—guilds or barons—will hold title to their respective stakes. All the proceeds will remain local, and invested in the betterment of the people. The clause will be embedded into the deeds. In perpetuity."

"Perpetuity?"

"Forever and a day." Mel goes solemn. "As my mother likes to say: Blood will always out. Only the children of born Zaunites will inherit the mines.  And those children, should the time come, shall have the final say in who holds ownership." 

"But Mel! Surely the Council cannot condone—"

"Dear Cevila. The Council's writ does not extend to Zaun. The Fissures, by Treaty, are a sovereign state." A grateful sigh. "I suppose it's a rare stroke of luck. By wedding a man of Fissure birth, I will enjoy greater access than most. And our children, by default, shall have the deepest roots."  She meets Cevila's eyes over the rim of her glass. "A legacy, as you say."

Cevila seems to have forgotten how to breathe. A small mercy: her talon has retracted from Mel's elbow.

"This is—well." With effort, she finds her composure. "This is unexpected news."

"Isn't it?" Mel, smiling, sets down her drink. She's dangled the lure, then snatched it away. Cevila, chewing on her loss, is now primed for any scrap. "Naturally, in wake of this decree, the demand for Fissure stones has begun skyrocketing. Do you happen to own any, Cevila? Perhaps a pendant or a bauble?"

Cevila rallies a smile. It's a ghastly effort. "I, ah, have a ring or two."

"Lovely. Their worth is about to treble. Do you remember my necklace? The blue diamond-drop?" 

"Vividly." 

"It was a gift. Designed by the artisans in the Boundary Markets. Their craftsmanship is second to none." A calculated pause. "If you're amenable, I'll speak to the artisan's guild. We can summon one of their agents to my apartments. Then, perhaps, commission a set?"

The gleam in Cevila's eyes brightens. "You—you'd do that? My dove, I couldn't possibly accept—"

"Nonsense. You are, after all, one of my closest friends. And the artisan's guild are a lovely group. They are headed by a close ally of Silco's. A Zaunite, and a first-rate entrepreneur. His family are descended from the ancient Oshra Va'Zaun line. Did you know, they once held dominion over the isthmus?"

"I do, yes." Cevila's beak wrinkles. "Until our Wardens cut off their privy purses—" re: confiscated their estates and sold the spoils at auction to foreign investors, "—and the rest were sent packing. Most sold off piles of heirlooms to stay afloat. And what's left are probably riddled with the plague."

"What's left are the mines," Mel corrects. "And Silco's friend, as fortune would have it, inherited much of the old Oshra Va'Zaun stock. He is, as they call them belowground, a gold baron."

Now Cevila's eyes are aglow. "A gold baron, you say?"

"A charming gentleman. Sadly, still unattached. But his means are considerable. And his tastes, exquisite. He is a patron of the arts. A discerning collector. I daresay he'd be an ideal candidate for a lady of your caliber."

For business—or matrimony—Mel doesn't deign to specify. She doesn't need to.

The hook is lodged deep. Cevila, her smile pure gluttony, is already planning her next coup. A Zaunite husband on her string, and gold at her fingertips. 

All it would cost her: pride, prejudice, and a single night's sleep.

"You know," she says, "I do pride myself on an eye for quality."

Mel purrs. "I have every faith that you will come away, well satisfied."

"I believe next month I have an open window. If your schedule can accommodate—"

"I'm sure we can work something out."

"Good. Good. I'll be in touch."  Cevila flicks a glance at Silco. The distaste is tinged with a new layer of intrigue. "And, of course, your husband will be present to broker the introduction?"

Mel lies, smooth as silk, "He'd be delighted."

In fact, she suspects, Silco would rather have his liver cut out. Between Zaun's bigheaded bourgeois and Piltover's self-aggrandizing aristocracy, his tolerance will be sorely tried. But, whatever else, her husband is a pragmatist. A potential trade with House Ferros is too lucrative to dismiss. Better still if it ends with a merger—literal—between Cevila and one of his barons. A symbol of unity—or, at the very least, shared gain.

Marriage: by any name.

Cevila, her high spirits restored, swans off. Pleased, Mel accepts another flute of pineapple juice from a passing steward. She is beginning to feel back in her stride. The crowd, once an unwieldy beast, is now a pliant and responsive chorus.

Serenely, she moves on to the next string. The Piltovan ambassador—an old fusspot fittingly named Hector.

As a high-ranking member of government, the voyage must suffer his presence. But Mel has heard Silco, in the privacy of their suite, wish him more than once to the bottom of the sea. One word on Zaun, and he's off: a diatribe on the perils of a lowborn populace without oversight, the undercity as the mouth of Hell, and Fissurefolk as the demons therein.

Mel, having the measure of his string, has learnt to play it deftly. Usually, she douses his rants with a few drops of sweetened condescension. Other times, she plays the ingenue, and laments his lot in life: a stalwart of the old order, trapped between the twin forces of progress and decay. If neither of those tactics serve, a flash of cleavage is enough to set him off-kilter.

Admittedly, the method is not the noblest. But she will not apologize for keeping a peaceable accord.  

"Lord Hector," she greets serenely. "How wonderful to see you."

"Mel!" The ambassador, ruddy-faced and portly, hauls himself to his feet. A plateful of trifle is hastily abandoned. "My Melusine, what a vision you are!"

"You flatterer." A kiss, pecked airily on his cheek. "I trust you're faring well?"

"Oh, the usual. Tallying the votes. Calculating the ledgers. Nothing a bit of good food can't fix." He casts a mournful eye at the trifle. "A pity the chef won't let me near the kitchens. If I could only get my hands on the caramel sauce for the mousse—"

"Now, now, Lord Hector." Mel's index finger ticks playfully. "We'd end up with a shortage."

"I'd not hoard the stuff, my girl! I'd only sample." The woebegone look is as patently false as his bawdy wink. "Sample liberally."

"Really, Lord Hector. You are shameless." Coyly, Mel tucks a dangling curl behind her ear. "If I didn't know any better, I'd think you were angling for a different dessert."

"Only if you're game, my dear. Though rumor has it—” Another wink, “you've already had a nibble."  

"Why, Lord Hector. Whatever are you insinuating?"

"You and that husband of yours. I'm told you were cooped up, the pair of you. Six nights, and a locked door." He chortles. "If there was no nibbling, I'll eat my hat. Is it true you'd come down with ague, or was the whole business a bedtime story?"

Mel puts on an abashed smile. "Oh, I was bedbound. But it was quite a dull affair. Fever, delirium, the works."

"Frightful! But your man looked after you, did he?" The wink becomes a leer. "Or was it he that left you bedridden? They say Zaunites are half-rabid, the lot of them. And yours, my dear, has a pack of knives for teeth. If I were you, I'd have been frightened out of my wits."

It's a vulgar turn, but Mel knows when to play her hand. "You're incorrigible, Lord Hector. My husband is the picture of civility." Her voice drops meaningfully. "And watching us as we speak."

A hasty glance over Lord Hector's shoulder confirms the fact. Silco, slouched with the remnants of his cigarette, is observing their exchange. His features project boredom. But his focus is keenly honed. Mel has the distinct sense that if Hector so much as breathed a lecherous sigh her way, he'd find himself staring down the barrel of a pistol.

Hector, wisely, does not test the theory.

"Well, well," he says, and clears his throat. But his manner, with Mel, becomes a good deal more circumspect. "He's a watchful sort, isn't he? But that's no surprise. The Fissures are a foul pit. It takes a hard head, or a harder fist, to survive. Why, I had a letter from my cousin last month. She was telling me how her youngest, a delicate little thing, crossed the Bridge and fell ill!"

"Of Grey Lung?"

"Heavens, no! Just the sniffles. But, mark my words, the next epidemic will be upon us soon! I still recall, in the summer of sixty-three, when the harbor was beset with the Ash Plague. Hundreds of souls, lost in a matter of days. If not for the Council's swift action, and the timely quarantine, we might've all perished!"

Mel hides her frown.

She's done her research. The Ash Plague had, in fact, claimed thousands rather than hundreds. A majority of its victims were from the Undercity. And the Council, for all its posturing, had done little to address the root cause: the filth-encrusted streets, the sewage-bloated canals, the slums packed like sardines in a tin.

The quarantine, too, was little better than a farce. Fissurefolk, sickly and suffering, were barricaded belowground. Anyone who dared defy the order faced immediate arrest. The result was a public health catastrophe.  Topside, the epidemic's spread was halted swift;y. Belowground, it raged like wildfire, and took the young, the weak, the elderly.

Mel remembers Silco, once, describing the aftermath:  Bodies piled up like driftwood. Flies swarming so thick, they formed clouds.

The smell of death in every breath.

The story is a stark contrast to the Council's sanitized narrative: the triumph of science over superstition, under Piltover's noble hand.

But in Zaun, the truth will not be silenced. The scars, never erased.

 Mel, her juice gone tasteless, thinks: If I'd not met Silco, I'd still be in the dark.

"Dear Hector," she says, mildly. "The Ash Plague was decades ago. Why revive old fears?"

"Revive? Fie! The fears, my girl, like the Fissures' insalubrious air, are ever present! My own wife, last time she braved those wretched streets, came a hair's breadth from death!"

"Death?"

"She nearly fell down a manhole! And you know what happened next?" Hector shudders. "Her high-heel got caught, and she tumbled into the muck. She had to toss the whole lot! Why, it was a nightmare. It took three stout-hearted men and a crowbar to pry her free." 

Mel's eyes meet Silco's across the room. Silco’s lips barely twitch.

He’d been present during that absurdist tableau. In fact, he'd paid the very men who'd pulled Hector's wife free. The woman, a shrill-voiced dumpling with a penchant for frills, had been too busy shrieking to thank her saviors. Afterward, though, she'd found herself recounting the narrow save with a breathless lilt. Perhaps, Mel suspects, it was all that close handling by the stout-hearted men.

Since the Crowbar Incident, as it has come to be known, Lady Hector has developed a powerful fascination with the Fissures.  Indeed, Mel suspects the only reason she's prodded her husband to invite himself to this cruise is to gather juicy tidbits about Zaun.

Her ardent curiosity, paired with Hector's fecklessness, are twin chords of opportunity. Ones that, plucked just so, will make for a profitable duet.

So Mel takes a slow sip, and lets a sympathetic smile play.

"How dreadful. But, I daresay, you and your wife will fare better now."

"Oh?"

"Zaun has developed a reputable network of guides and concierges. They know all the best districts."

"All the best?"

"I've visited them personally." She names several: a jeweler's, a chocolatier's, a clothier's. "All within a short walk along the Promenade. Your little grandson, Remi, will adore the chocolatier's wares. Truffles in the shapes of beetles. Marzipan worms. And a lovely caramelized-pear confection." Her eyes pass from the plateful of trifle to Hector's portly belly. "You, too, would enjoy a liberal sampling."

Stirred, Hector leans in. "Well, I'll be. And these shops are safe?"

"Perfectly. Travelers from Piltover and abroad flock to them. The shopkeepers, I promise, are courtesy itself."

"And, I take it, the security is sound?"

"Every shop is guarded by a retinue of trained blackguards. The streets, paved and clean, are kept free of footpads. House Medarda often hosts private soirées at the Promenade. I've never once been accosted by a ruffian—much less a rat." A pat, fond and wholly fabricated, to Hector's shoulder. "You needn't fear, dear Hector. Zaun, these days, is the very model of civilized conduct."

Hector warms visibly. "Ah, well, if it's good enough for you, what's this old curmudgeon to worry about? I'll speak to my wife. She's awfully keen to, ah, venture farther afield. She's always been a curious sort." A wink. "A bit like you, eh?" His hand, clumsily, covers hers. "Tell me. If I were to visit, could you arrange a private tour?"

Mel, who'd predicted the turn, delicately extracts her hand. "Shame on you, Lord Hector. I'm a married woman." The implication being: were she unattached, her answer would've been very different. "But if it's a personal guide you seek, I have just the one." Mel names a service: the same one Silco's crew employs. "They'll arrange tours at your convenience."

"Splendid, splendid! You, ah, must tell me more about the clothiers. A few new shirts are just the thing." Another glance at Silco, now sizing him up with a more speculative eye. "Your Trencher dresses sharp, I'll give him that. Perhaps he'll spare me a tip or two. He is a Fissureborn, after all. He must know all the best garment districts."

"Oh, he does."

In fact, the identity of Silco's tailor is a closely guarded secret. The man, a wizened Shuriman refugee, has his workshop hidden away in the depths of the Commercia Fantastica. He sews, by hand, each article of clothing to the customer's measure. Silco has two-dozen suits from him, in varying shades and cuts. Black with merlot accents, charcoal grey with blue-green brocade, two-toned midnight blue with silver embroidery.

The styles are all distinctly Zaunite. Tailored to Silco's lean frame, they evoke a serpent's sinuous grace. They are also remarkably versatile. Mel has watched them transform him, chameleonlike, from a sleek statesman to a shadowy specter, and back again.

But more than statements of sartorial flair, they serve a brute utility. The fabrics are Fissure textile: light, flexible, and impervious to damp. In a pinch, they serve as body armor: a sleeve with a cleverly-crafted sheath for a concealed blade; a snug little pouch, discreetly cut into the waistcoat, for a smoke-pellet; a garotte, lined along the edge of a cravat, to slit a stranger's throat.

Mel recalls, at a Topside gala before their engagement, the sight of Silco, turned out in formalwear: a simple black suit with a white silk pocket square. The cut was, for all its sleek simplicity, more durable than appearance suggested. She'd learned firsthand when Silco, strolling arm-in-arm with her through the night-gardens, had been waylaid by an Enforcer who'd demanded to see his identification.

Whether out of a superabundance of caution, or a bigot's crude compulsion, Mel still isn't sure.

She'd moved to intercede. But Silco had checked her with the barest skim of fingertips at her wrist. Addressing the Enforcer with politeness, but not a jot of respect, he'd asked if he looked like a trespasser. The Enforcer shot back that he looked like a cutthroat.

Silco, never one to pass up a chance for roleplaying, had obliged by nearly slitting the man's throat. 

The officer, a greenhorn, had plainly not been expecting a real knife to materialize at his jugular. In his shock, he’d dropped his truncheon and hightailed it. Mel, amused and appalled in equal measure, had turned to Silco, a chastisement on her lips.

Only to find herself scooped up into his arms, then carried up a trellis and out of sight.

They'd spent the rest of the evening, astride the rooftop's shingles, discussing trade. The only time Silco's hands had strayed from her waist was to light a cigarette. Or to cup her cheek. Or to tilt her face up to his.  Meanwhile, seven stories below, a contingent of officers had frantically been sounding the alarm to outcries of highwaymen and abduction. 

When the hounds had arrived on the scene, Silco had scoffed so hard, he'd nearly fallen down the eaves. Mel, not wishing him to break his neck, had clung tightly. Somewhere between the third kiss and the fourth, she'd decided to tug him closer. He'd ended up treating her to what Zaunites called 'The Penthouse Plus'—making love right on the gritty shingles, her dress hiked up around her waist and his coat spread out beneath them.

The giddy thrill had opened her lungs. Only his mouth on hers, drinking her cries, had kept her silent.  

Afterward, smooth as a conjurer's trick, Silco had slipped them both downstairs and back into the garden. The search, by then, was over. The Enforcers, their bluster gone, had been reduced to scouring the hedges. Silco, his eyes dark with devious glee, had strolled casually past them, and into the ballroom, to fetch himself and Mel a plateful of dessert.

It had proved the scandal of the summer. Councilor Medarda, swept off at knifepoint in the middle of a gala. Then, miraculously, reappearing hours later: no worse for wear, and a good deal more cheerful, arm-in-arm with her assailant.

Whose suit, it should be noted, was perfectly intact. No rips, wrinkles, or even a rumpled lapel.

Afterward, Mel had summoned the rookie officer, and his Captain, into her office. A blistering dressing-down on misconduct was meted out. The officer had insulted her guest, and by extension, the goodwill between Zaun and Piltover. When she'd reintroduced Silco as her fiancé, the rookie's mortification was palpable.

Silco had taken the opportunity to renew his acquaintance: not with knife against the jugular, but with a smile twice as sharp, and a firm handshake that promised, without words, a fate worse than death if the man dared call him a crook again.

But afterward, alone in her chambers, Mel had found herself thinking: This is what his life has been.

Fighting to keep the ground under his feet.

And even now, at the zenith of his power, there was no place for him Topside. No welcome in these hallowed halls.  This, he'd told her, was why Zaun existed. To ensure no other Fissure child had to suffer what he had. And for him, the fight was not over. The world, not won.

Not until the last sliver of his city, and its people, were secure.

Smoothing the memory away, Mel summons a smile. "I'll do you one better, Lord Hector. Why don't we arrange an outing? You, your wife, Silco and myself. We'll tour the most exquisite spots at the Promenade. You will see that the Fissures are no hellmouth. And my husband will have the honor of escorting us, to ensure the journey is a comfortable one."

Hector's kneejerk distaste yields to temptation. Beneath his condemnation of Zaun lurks an avid desire: to sample the city's exotic otherness. Mel has seen it before, in the eyes of her fellow Councillors: a yearning for the novel, inverted into show-offish censure.

As though by damning Zaun's vices, they can exalt their own.

"We-ell," Hector relents, "if he can spare the time, I believe we could squeeze in a quick outing. It'd be, ah, good to get a lay of the land." His hand, again, gropes clumsily for hers. "A bit of a reconnaissance mission, eh? Always good to keep an ear to the ground." A third, utterly shameless, wink. "And one's eyes on the goods."

Mel, inwardly rolling her own, keeps her smile fixed. "Yours, Lord Hector, are a pair no lady could deny." Then: "You ought to return yours to the trifle. I do believe it's melting."

Lord Hector's wink falls askew. "Oh, drat! I'd best fetch another plate!"

Excusing himself, he bustles off. Mel, taking stock of her success, finishes off her drink.

A few discordant strings, but the symphony is well underway.  Soon, Piltover's entire social circuit will change its tune. That is, in sum, the spirit of this voyage.  Gathering allies. Making connections. Creating new opportunities, and exploiting old ones. Hecter's not the only guest with a taste for the unusual. Nor Cevila and the Dennings the only ones whose purse-strings, tugged the right way, will yield a hefty haul.

In time, Mel will cultivate them all.

And they, in turn, will cultivate Zaun's and Piltover's interests. 

Marriage: by any other name.

Then she hears, to the thunder of boots, a bark: "Medarda!"

Mel stifles a sigh.

It is the Noxian envoy—a damnable brute by the name of Garlen. The man is a wolf of the worst kind: festooned in blood-red, and slavering for a kill. A high-ranking brigadier of Noxus's military, he's spent his career subjugating swathes of the Ionian continent. Now, as part of a political alliance between Noxus and Piltover, he's been dispatched as a 'liaison'.

His actual duties, as far as Mel can discern, are to make a nuisance of himself. Negotiating with him is like wrestling a hound: an exercise in futility. Her gift for subtlety is met with brash disparagement. Her cleverness, dismissed as flirtatious banter.  And if she has the misfortune of sharing his company alone, he's liable to start groping. More than once, she's resorted to employing armed sentries, to dissuade his wandering hands.

In truth, the only thing keeping him from her throat is Ambessa.

The brigadier, knowing the threat of the General's retribution, is careful not to overstep. But his ambition is as deep-rooted as his lechery. He's keen to establish a foothold in Piltover. Mel, as a Councilor, makes an appealing target. Not only does she have access to the High Council's ear, but also to the coffers of the Medarda clan.

Once, to Mel's eternal dismay, he’d gotten drunk at a press junket, and dared to propose marriage to her before the cameras. A fortnight before her wedding, no less. Her fiancé—after a tiresome tirade on his low birth, his physique, his unsuitability—he'd threatened to disembowel on the spot.

Silco, who relished the pretext to make an ass out of anyone, had proposed a simpler solution: a duel to first blood.

It had been, in Sevika's blunt retelling, Like a fucking slaughterhouse.

Garlen was an able swordsman. But he’d underestimated Zaun's spirit of ruthless ingenuity. He'd walked in believing the fight was in his favor. Silco, in ten minutes, had turned the belief on its head. Then, he'd reduced the duel to a carnival sideshow.  First, he'd blinded his opponent with a faceful of sludge from the streets. Then, with a well-placed boot, he'd sent the Noxian envoy skidding into a gutter. Finally, as a coup de grace, he'd whipped out a switchblade and stabbed him. The blow, to the meat of Garlen's thigh, had nearly severed an artery.

Garlen, howling bloody murder, had been hauled away by his guards. He'd spent the rest of the week in Zaun's infirmary. The next morning, he'd boarded the ferry back to Piltover: tail tucked between his legs.

And his pride, as the Undercity saying goes, In a shit-stained shoe.

Since the incident, Garlen's been cautious about antagonizing Silco in public. But his contempt for the city is undiminished. His attitude toward Mel, accordingly, is one of open scorn. To him, she is the weakest link in the Medarda chain.

A pretty little chit, who, when the going gets tough, will cave to the strongest bidder.

The irony is not lost on Mel. Were she truly a spineless chit, she'd have sold herself a long time ago. And, likely, to a man like Garlen.  A dynastic marriage was a common means of doubling her clan's prosperity. But the prospect of a lifetime wrangling the brutish lout—enduring his crude lusts and his insufferable temper—was abhorrent. She'd never have consented to it, unless by force.

Silco, whatever else, has always respected her separateness. And his ambition to walk with her—not behind her or in front—is equal to her own. Their combined will is a potent force. One that will, in time, forge a brighter future.

For Mel, that is worth every sacrifice.

In her ear, Jayce's voice intrudes: a forlorn query in lieu of farewell.

"Even love?"

"Medarda," Garlen barks, louder. "I've got a bone to pick with you."

Mel's smile becomes an airtight lock. "Bones, Sir Galen? Aren't we feeding you enough?"

"What's the reason we've anchored off-course?" He sweeps a thick arm at the motionless horizon. "I was told we'd reach the Ionian coast before noon. The sun's almost overhead. If I don't make landfall by sundown, my troops will be wondering if I've gone missing." 

 "Surely you can wait another hour?"

"An hour? The blazes are we wasting an hour for? If we're going to float in the middle of nowhere, at least make it worth my time!" Leering, he slaps his thigh. "How about a floor-show? You look fit for one, all tarted up in that handkerchief. Why don't you sing me a song or two?"

Mel's features remain smooth. "You have, I'm afraid, mistaken me for a canary. But if you're keen for music, our orchestra would happily oblige."

"Feh. A bunch of prissy string-pullers? What use are they? Give me a proper band: men with brass pipes, and war-drums, and a real beat! Then I'll show you a performance." Garlen's eyes take their time crawling down Mel's body. "You'll see how a proper Noxian can make the ground shake."

Her countrymen, Mel thinks, are such a tiresome lot. Especially the military set. "On a ship, Sir Garlen, we call that seasickness."

"And this damn delay? What'd you call that?"

"A detour."

"Detour?" Garlen's bristly brows merge like thunderheads. "On whose blasted order?"

"Mine."

Silco materializes as if risen up from the depths.

The sunlight, white and warm, dapples the air. Yet the plunge in temperature is palpable.  It is, Mel thinks, not unlike two polarities—the dark and the light—aligning at once. A disorienting sensation, the first time it’d occurred: Silco stepping into her path, and the world tilting off its axis.

The guests, huddling closer, murmur warily. Cevila's face, heavily rouged, is a shade paler.  Lady Dennings' fan is a blur. Hector's gulp is audible. The rest of the party are paralyzed in place. All except Garlen, who has the temerity to laugh.

It's more bark than bite. He's already felt Silco's blade once. He won't tempt his teeth.

"Well, well," he sneers. "The blushing bridegroom."

"Sir Garlen," Silco returns, with a small nod. "Good of you to join us."

"I wasn't given a choice! We're supposed to be on land, not floating like a piece of flotsam."

"You're welcome to swim."

"Swim? To the Ionian strait? You're out of your mind!" Garlen strides closer, crowding Silco's space. The man is a foot taller, and twice as broad. Still, Mel notes that he stays out of striking distance. For a braggart, he's no fool. "I know you Trenchers know no qualms about playing hooky. But the rest of us have a schedule to keep. So get this ship back on course. Now."

Silco’s stare is inscrutable. "In time."

"Time? I'm a busy man. I don't have time to sit around on this damn tub!" Garlen squints suspiciously. "Unless you've hijacked this ship? ‘Cause if it's a ransom you're angling for—"

Silco’s smile is a gleam of serrated teeth. "Sir Garlen. I'm in the business of politics, not piracy."

"Hah! As if the distinction makes a difference."

Now the gleam is sharper. "I suppose it doesn't." He turns to the rest of the party. His low cadence rolls over the room like fog. "Allow me to explain. The delay is due to a last-minute excursion. We'll resume our course by early nightfall. But first, a short trip to the southern reef. A treasure hunt."

Garlen's confusion is writ large. "Treasure?"

"Enough, I'm sure, to satisfy everyone's appetite." His stare passes, one by one, over the assembled guests. "Ionia. Demacia. Shurima. Noxus." And, finally, alighting on Mel. "Piltover."

There is a susurrus of whispers. Mel, bemused, keeps the mask in place. He'd never mentioned her city was tied to this game.  Is he testing her? Challenging her?

Or—impossibility of impossibilities—bidding her to play along?

Silco goes on, "I wonder, Sir Garlen. Have you sailed this route before?"

Garlen, bristling: "I know the waters well. I've fought battles on every stretch of these seas."

"Won, too, I expect. You are a celebrated soldier. But an explorer?" A tip of the chin. "There's a difference."

"And what would that be?"

"As Councilor Medarda says, a world of it. Of course, she is referring to chiffon versus tulle. But the principle stands." A half-lidded smile. "One's for concealment. The other for transparency."

Garlen cuts in, "If you're trying to make a point, make it quick."

"My point is only this: if you've sailed the southern waters, you'll notice a peculiarity. The Ionian Strait, on Piltover's maps, is thirteen degrees north of this point. Zaun's maps, however, place it further west. A curious discrepancy. Have you considered the reason?"

"Why the blazes would I care about Zaun's maps? Noxian charts are the only ones worth a damn."

The barest nod. "Fair point. That's the charm of maps. They're carved out by conquerors. Every chart tells a story, depending on the hand that draws it. And every chart, in its way, reveals a truth—or at least a version of it. Noxus, as the reigning authority of these waters, will always be partial to its own perspective. Piltover, as a close ally, tends to lean." A beat. "Zaun’s maps tell a different story."

"Ha!" Garlen's fist thuds the closest table. "A story about slime and scum, no doubt."

"A story about survival," Silco rejoins. "About claiming a space where none existed. At least, not on paper."

A crook of his finger, and the steward from earlier rushes up. His arms are laden with rolled-up sheafs paper. Charts, Mel realizes. The largest, unfurled on the table, is marked in different colors: a web of seaways, straits and currents. Mel, scanning it, notes a discrepancy in the dimensions: the Ionian Strait appears much narrower on Piltover's cartography, whereas Zaun's chart, drawn with exacting care, depicts it as twice its width. A series of X's, in a serpentine pattern, lead from the southern reefs up to the coastline of Zaun. The same path is absent from Piltover's chart.

Silco's fingertip traces a trail marked in indigo. "This is the shortest route from Piltover's coast. We'll reach Wuju by today if we cut across here." His nail, tapping the indigo line, cuts right. "This, however, is the shortest path according to Zaun's navigation."

"Bullshit!" Garlen says. "There is no path there! That's a damned dead-end!"

Silco regards him steadily. "Is it?"

"You're wasting our time! There's nothing there except shoals!"

Garlen's disdain is tangible: a seething red cloud. Silco, immune to sulfurous fumes, only shrugs. "Shoals, yes. Or seamounts from thousands of years ago. Many, with extensive deposits of minerals. Silver, copper, lead. Even diamonds."

Garlen barks a laugh. "And you Trenchers found this how? By sniffing up the coal dust?"

Silco, unperturbed, spreads the chart with both hands. The chandelier's rays sheen his pomaded hair like a raven's wing. Beneath, his eyes are two blots of ink. "Zaun's seafaring charts, Sir Garlen, date to antiquity. In fact, most cartographers claim they're as old as the Shuriman empire—which makes them, by definition, prehistoric.  Once our city was a corollary of Shurima. Known as Oshra Va'Zaun, the City of the Sun Gates. Its routes stretched from eastern to western waters. Zaun, as its inheritor, maintains the same routes: one that, on Piltover's maps, don't even exist."

A chill tiptoes down Mel's spine.  He'd never told her any of this. Had never even alluded to such knowledge. And the way he phrases it, with such calm certainty, suggests this is no revelation.

He's known about these seamounts for a long time.

"You are," she hears Cevila interject, "speaking in hypotheticals."

"Hardly. Our seafaring charts date from centuries ago. But Zaun's current naval fleet is a vital force. Since our independence, we've updated all the ancient routes—noting, of course, changes in currents and wind patterns. Our Exploration & Survey Corps have established a nautical corridor, with dry docks along every port from Zaun to South Shurima. We've also discovered new channels and navigable passages. Some take advantage of rip current systems.  Others, thanks to hidden glyphs carved in the seabed, allow vessels outfitted with the right gems to sail directly to a corresponding outpost, between one blink and the next."

The crowd lapse into shock. Silco's voice—low-pitched, hypnotic—paints a vivid picture: a labyrinth of channels, each with a corresponding rune: a pathway between impossible places.

"You're saying," Hector dares, "they are like Piltover's Hex-Gates?"

"They function on similar principles. But their purpose is different. Piltover's Gates link distant ports for trade and communication. Ours link distant outposts for transport and protection."

"P-Protection?" Lady Dennings sputters. "From what?"

"War," Silco says bluntly.

"What?!"

"Civil upheavals. Foreign invasions. Call it what you will. Oshra Va’Zaun was a rich city. They did well to anticipate the worst. But for Zaun, the primary use of these routes is trade." His finger climbs homeward, to the northernmost rune. "This point, for example, leads straight to a small islet on Zaun's outskirts. It was once known as Smuggler's Cove. Now, it's called the Iron Pearl. A Free Trade Zone, where foreign goods will not be charged customs duties for transiting or storing."

There is a stir. Mel, scanning the crowd, feels a trickle of misgiving. Piltover, for decades, has had a hammerlock on premium exports. Trade taxed by the ounce. Goods vetted by bureaucratic oversight. Permits, stamped in triplicate, and revoked at the Council's whims. All to protect her city-state's reputation and interests.

Now, Silco proposes a rival haven. A Free Trade Zone, where foreign goods may come and go—unshackled by Piltover's red tape.

A new axis of commerce. And, Mel realizes, a double-edged sword.

If Piltover consents to the Iron Pearl's operation, it will grant greater her city access to foreign markets, and reduce import costs. But the arrangement also poses a threat: a competing port, under Zaun's governance, which will draw ships and revenue away from the City of Progress. Their status as the preeminent exporter will be—

Not erased, but halved.

Marriage: by any other name.

The guests are buzzing. Some with excitement; others with disbelief.

Hector echoes, "A Free Trade Zone..."

"It's been operating since Zaun's independence," Silco says. "Now we're in the process of expanding its capacity. The endeavor has taken years. A neutral zone, with an established route to any destination within a thousand leagues, with minimal delay. Better still, goods from anywhere in Runeterra can be stored and transited, for a modest tithe." He pauses. "All that's required is that our waters be respected. Along with the sovereign rights of our vessels."

Silence falls, heavy with implication.

Garlen, apoplectic, erupts, "Respect, hell! This is Noxian territory you're crossing!"

"Not on your maps. Nor on Piltover's." Silco regards him evenly. "Only on ours."

"Those waters, Trencher, are Noxian by right of conquest!"

"Not according to our Treaty with Piltover. These waters were ceded to us in exchange for recognition of our Independence." Silco eyes Mel sidelong. "The agreement, I believe, remains binding."

Garlen's fists curl like meat hooks. "You dare challenge our navy?"

"Breaching these waters without our permission is not a challenge. It's an act of trespass. As Zaun's ally, Piltover would be duty-bound to aid us in its defense." Silco's fingertip, tracing the Noxian routes, gently taps the demarcations. "Candidly, we'd rather not resort to childish games. Zaun welcomes Noxus' goodwill. Should your vessels wish to use our routes, you'll be issued proper credentials. You'll be charged reasonable fees for port-of-call. Your cargo will not be subject to scrutiny. In all ways, you'd be our honored guests. Provided—" His good eye slits, "—you extend us the same courtesy in return."

It is politely phrased, and delivered in the mildest tones. But the threat, its edge honed fine, cuts like a switchblade.

Garlen's face goes as red as his garb. "This is preposterous!"

"Is it? Zaun's treaty with Piltover was written with the consent of both parties. In the presence of diplomatic envoys. Noxus was among them. If your nation had a grievance, I'm sure they'd have taken issue. But the accord, I believe, is still in force."

"This is a damnable plot!" Garlen pivots to Mel. "Medarda, this is insanity! I demand you put a stop to this!"

Mel is stricken. But she is careful to let nothing show. Her mind races to mitigate the thunderheads swelling on the horizon. Noxian fury. International incident. Piltover caught in the middle. And Zaun, at the crux.

Trust me, Silco had said.

And now, it comes to this: her city caught between a rock and a hard place.

Fury sparks in Mel's chest. Half adrenalized burn-off, at finally having a concrete threat to face. Half slow-building horror, at confronting Silco’s cleverness in action. The man who, in one fell swoop, has backed her into a corner—while painting the entire thing in shades of diplomatic nicety.

Now, he is watching her.  Waiting—for what?

Then it hits her.

Waiting for me to run.

Run—the way she’d run the first night of their voyage. Run—by staying when she should've sided with him. Run—by choosing to smooth the waters, rather than spread ripples in her wake.

Run, run, run—and this is the consequence.

Mel, reeling, takes a breath. In a sense, Silco has done exactly what he'd warned: revealed a truth that cannot be refuted. Piltover's maps are, indeed, inaccurate: the product of outdated colonialism. The waters, ceded to Zaun by Treaty, are indeed theirs—as much as the treasures that lie beneath.

And, Mel realizes, Silco's maneuver has a third layer: a sly subcurrent.

He is establishing that Zaun, by virtue of charting prowess, as an entity equal to Piltover. But also adjacent to it. Not a rival, but an ally. A peer that cannot be overlooked—because its interests are too closely tied to her city's.

It is the flipside of matrimony: a give-and-take. One of substance rather than sentiment.

Except Mel cannot forgive the blindside.

Inside, rage fizzles. Her fingers curl. She nearly seizes the nearest champagne bottle, and lobs it at Silco’s head. He deserves no less. He deserves worse. The bastard. He’d planned this since the night they’d fought. To corner her in full view of her guests. To make her prove her mettle. To demand that she take a leap.

Or else, show to the world that her vows are hollow.

Seething, Mel thinks, I will make him pay.

Then, inhaling, she steps forward.

"Sir Garlen," she says. "My husband is correct. These waters belong to Zaun."

Garlen is nearly purple; a ripe plum ready to burst. "You're siding with this rat?!"

"I am stating a fact. Zaun cannot, without jeopardizing its sovereignty, rescind the right to self-governance. And Piltover cannot, without forfeiting its good standing, repudiate that agreement. To do so would violate the laws ironclad between us." Her stare locks with the warlord's. "In sum, it is not a matter of sides. Only jurisdiction. The question is, how do you, as Noxus' envoy, plan to navigate these waters?"

Garlen's jaw works. Before he can fire off the next volley, Mel lays a cautioning hand on his arm.

"Before you reply, I suggest considering the future gains. Your nation is, at present, embroiled in a number of wars.  Zaun, as a future ally, is offering to facilitate the transport of supplies—to and from Noxus's frontlines. Piltover, meanwhile, is willing to reopen discussions of a trade alliance." Beneath her lashes, Mel casts a winsome glance. "The question is, do you, as Noxus's representative, intend to pursue these opportunities?"

Garlen, a petrified bull, seems caught between charging or cowing. But, for all his bluster, the man's no fool.

"You," he growls, "are a conniving hell-bitch."

Undaunted, Mel offers a smile. "A Medarda, after all."

The warlord's teeth gnash. But his rage, though still hot, is no longer a blaze. More an ember, sullenly seething.

"So." A snort. "We're at an impasse."

Silco, at last, stirs.

"Hardly."

Rolling up the charts, he returns them to the steward. A single nod, and the man, in tandem with the staff, begin distributing life vests among the crowd. Bewildered, the guests receive the gear. Each is the same color: Zaun's trademark cadmium green.

Mel, accepting hers, is astonished by the weight. The fabric appears lined with something like lead. Runes, their meaning unknown, are stitched into the seams of the fabric.

"Impasse," Silco says, already shrugging into his own vest, "is a poor word for it." He turns to the crowd, a wary sea of faces. "I believe we are, at last, on the same page."

Hector, handling his vest with jittery fingertips, dares, "Are we—going for a swim?"

Silco smiles.

Mel feels, again, that vertiginous sensation. The world, tilting. As if currents, beneath the surface, are stirring.

And the only thing left to cling to, is the man who's dragging her down.

"Swim? No." Silco's smile spreads. "We're off on a treasure hunt."

[scr-ppup]

[ID/A dark red line with gold lining and a repeating star and half moon pattern./end ID]

Mersekic

[PT/Mersekic/end PT]

A genderseeker term related to being a merfolk and a seeker, a seeker who is a merfolk, or something alike for gender reasons. Relation to sea themes, being a merfolk and seeking in general.

[ID/a rectangular flag of 7 even horizontal stripes, over the flag is a white angular half moon symbol on its backside. The colors go from top to center as light blue to pearl gradient, and center to bottom as pearl to medium blue gradient./end ID]

[ID/A dark red line with gold lining and a repeating star and half moon pattern./end ID]

Etymology; mer + seken + ic

Seken from old English meaning to seek.

Taglist; @radiomogai

Extra tag; @revenant-coining

[slusheeduck]

Count Only The Happy Hours

PART I: [I][II][III][IV][V][VI][VII] PART 2: [I][II]

III.

“I-I have that metal sheet you needed, C-Councilor Sil.”

“Hm? Oh, thank you, set it down there.”

Vivec, busy sharpening his sword in the courtyard of their base, paused in his work to look up. Sil, as usual, was elbow deep in one of his metal beasties–this one was less spider-like and instead long and twitchy, not unlike a nix-hound. Meanwhile, the young mer who had brought the sheet did not set it down, instead dithering. He must have been a Dagoth boy, hardly older than Seht himself; the dark hair and angular face certainly gave him a Vorynesque air. He shifted from one foot to the other.

            “Um…do you…do you need anything else, muthsera?”

            “No. Thank you.”

            Vivec closed one eye as he watched the scene, bringing the thumb and forefinger of each hand together before drawing them apart, mimicking an archer about to let his arrow loose. The Dagoth boy didn’t notice.

            “I-I…you know, I-I’m actually, I’m really interested in what you’re doing,” he tried again, almost painfully eager. “I would love to hear you speak about it some time. O-or if I could help you with your work…?”

            Hold…hold…

            “I don’t need help. Thank you, sera,” Sil said in clear dismissal. He hadn’t looked up at the boy once through the whole conversation.

            The boy’s eyes widened, mouth moving silently as he tried to figure out how to salvage the conversation. Finally, looking utterly crestfallen, he sighed and set the metal sheet down, then bowed to Seht and trudged away.

            Vivec let out a ffwth through his teethbefore clicking his tongue, mimicking an arrow shot as he released his invisible bowstring. The sound was enough to startle Sil into noticing him. “That’s number eight.”

            Sil frowned. “Number what?”

            “Eight. That’s the number of shattered hearts you’ve left in your wake in the past three months, at least that I’ve seen.”

            Sil let out a quiet, irritated noise as he rubbed his eyes. “Vehk, what are you saying?”

Vivec rested his elbow on his knee, chin in his hand. “Well, hla’daesohn, you’re at that age. On the market, as they say. And at least eight people have been bold enough to bid.”

Seht’s eyes rolled enough to send his slight frame swaying. “If you’re going to talk nonsense, I’m just going to leave.”

Vivec laughed. “People are interested in you, Seht. You’ve grown into a fine young mer, with a House and a high-ranking position to boot, and the throngs are noticing. Why, if I was your mother…”

“That’s a scary thought.”

“...I’d be beating off would-be wooers with a broom until your eighteenth birthday. Which, if I recall, is coming up in just a few months.” Vivec tilted his head. “And, as your dear older brother, it’s my fraternal duty to ask if any mer has managed to interest you.”

Sil gave a long-suffering sigh, and he returned to his work. “I really don’t think being in the middle of a war is conducive to relationships, Vivec.”

“Oh, that’s not true. In fact, I’d say that love found in times of strife makes for even stronger bonds.”

“From experience?”

“Perhaps. I don’t tell you everything I do.”

Sil gave him one of the flattest looks Vivec had ever received–impressive, considering how often he received them. “You know, most people don’t pride themselves on being hypocrites.”

“I’m not a hypocrite, I’m complex and wonderfully mortal. To be contradictory is…” Vivec’s monologue was, frustratingly, cut off by a pair of strong hands clamping down on his shoulders. He looked up, eyebrows raising as he caught star-bright eyes. “Alandro?”

“Excellent news, Vehk.” Alandro gave his shoulders an uncharacteristically friendly squeeze; Vivec had the feeling that he was not about to get excellent news. “You finally get the chance to do what you do best. You’re on entertainment today.”

Vivec frowned. “I don’t understand.”

Alandro patted his shoulders before sitting down beside him with a sigh. “Well, I only know half of the whole story–these damn House mer all seem to only half-communicate. No offense, Sil.”

“None taken,” Seht said, not even looking up.

“But, from what I can understand, it’s some House…”

“Vivec! Sil!”

Both Vehk and Seht looked up as they heard Nerevar call their names. He gestured for them to come over. Alandro let out a sigh of relief.

“Oh, thank Azura. They can explain this House guarshit,” he said, then pushed himself up to his feet. “Come on, then.” He glanced down at Sil as he carefully pulled a tarp over his work. “Is that a nix-hound?”

“An approximation of one.”

Alandro half-smiled. “Maybe there is some Dwemer in you. You check to see if ol’ Kagrenac’s missing a kid?” he teased, giving Sil’s shoulder a friendly push as they made their way into the war room.

Voryn was already inside, sitting back with his arms crossed. He didn’t look smug, exactly, but there was a definite air of winning an argument surrounding him as Nerevar dropped into the seat beside him. Neht rubbed his face, waiting for Alandro, Sil, and Vivec to take a seat.

“So,” Nerevar started, lifting his head. “There’s a slight update to our plans. You recall we were supposed to speak with the Grandmaster of House Dres?”

“Yes, Grandmaster Elvasea,” Vivec said, sitting up. “Has something happened to her?”

“Something happened to us,” Voryn said, head tilting toward the door. “We suddenly gained an army of Indoril soldiers.”

“Wouldn’t that be a good thing?”

“That’s what I said,” Alandro muttered beside him.

Voryn looked around the room, then sighed. “If it hasn’t been clear in the struggle of getting Nerevar to become Hortator, the Great Houses aren’t exactly fond of each other. Some of it is due to old rivalries–House Dagoth and Indoril, for example, have never been very keen on each other. But sometimes, it’s a little more personal.” He leaned forward, long fingers steepling together. “Indoril’s last grandmaster wasn’t exactly popular among the other houses. He was combative, difficult to work with…” He paused for a moment, then shook his head. “He was a bloodthirsty, miserable old bastard, to put it bluntly. And he made more enemies than friends–including Grandmaster Elvasea.” He waved a hand. “So when word got out that House Indroril’s grandmaster was here, she tried to cancel our discussion.”

Vivec leaned forward. “But Almalexia isn’t her father.”

“That’s what I said,” Nerevar said. Voryn shook his head.

“That doesn’t matter. Grandmaster Almalexia hasn’t proven herself as being different than her father, so in the other Houses’ eyes, it might as well still be him in the seat.” He sat back. “My suggestion is that we leave the grandmaster and her forces here.”

“No, your suggestion is that we sneak out without telling her,” Nerevar shot back. “And I can’t condone that. Almalexia is our ally; we can’t just leave her in the dark, Voryn.”

“She won’t take our leaving her out of discussions well,” Voryn said coolly. “Considering she sprung an army on us and insisted on staying, she’s thus far proven that she is impetuous and stubborn. Which…” He held up his hand as both Neht and Vehk leaned forward to argue. “...is likely because of her age.” He looked to Vivec. “You, Vivec, should know best out of everyone here how important it is to leave out information. I don’t recall you writing about how we had to retreat at Hafnambir, or mentioning how many soldiers we lost at Citha Molkhun?”

Vivec pressed his lips together. “That’s different.”

“Is it? You don’t mention those details because it would decrease morale among the Chimer.” Voryn sighed. “As much as I may not like House Indoril, I don’t want to make an enemy of their Grandmaster. If we don’t tell her about the meeting–the one that we had planned before her entry, may I remind you all–then she has no reason to think she’s being left out.”

Alandro’s head fell back with a groan, and he pushed himself up to his feet. “You godsdamned House mer. Talking to people shouldn’t be a puzzle.”

“Well, I’m very sorry that we can’t all solve our problems by slashing at them like you do in the Ashlands,” Voryn snipped back.

Vivec looked between the two, then glanced at Nerevar as he rubbed his face. This, he realized as his stomach sank, was the exact same thing they had done with him three years ago, in the lead-up to their attack on Hofstaag. Even worse, though, were the words that came from his own lips: “I…agree with Voryn.”

            All three older mer looked to Vivec, and he caught sight of Sil’s eyebrows silently raising. Nerevar frowned, but he leaned forward.

            “Why do you think it’s a good idea?” he asked. The words weren’t challenging, and his pale blue eyes were genuinely curious as they fixed on Vehk.

            “Editing is…essential in what we’re doing,” Vivec said after a moment. “Morale is high, but it wasn’t exactly easy convincing the Houses to make your Hortator, Neht. I may not know House politics, but I know people: Almalexia is young and still adapting to her new role. I’ve seen it in her. If we tell her ‘We’re meeting with Grandmaster Elvasea, but you need to stay here,’ it’s not unreasonable that she’d see it as a slight to her station and ability that we’re leaving her out of House talks.” He shrugged. “It could come across as treating her as a child.”

Voryn gestured to him. “Yes, exactly. It would do us no favors to tell her; whether she comes with us and Elvasea refuses to meet or whether she stays here, there’s a wounded ego waiting to happen. And that brings me to my next suggestion: Vivec and Sil should stay here.” As Vivec sat up, Voryn raised a hand again, adding, “And before your pride gets wounded, Vivec, I am only suggesting this because I genuinely think you’re able to smooth things over with the grandmaster if need be.” He crossed his arms. “You thought you were very slick with that story about her breaking up the mercenaries, didn’t you?”

Vivec grimaced, sitting back in his seat. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said weakly.

“Please. But, much as I hate admitting it, it was a good move on your part. It got her moving and ultimately got us more soldiers. And it’s a detriment to us; I was banking on you talking circles around whatever doubts Grandmaster Elvasea had with your exaggerations.”

Vivec had a feeling his ego was being played to, in a backhanded sort of way. But a compliment–two compliments–from Voryn was a rare occurrence for anyone besides Nerevar. And, admittedly, staying around the vibrant, fascinating young queen did sound much more enjoyable than having to spin words for an old grandmaster from a dour, stark house like Dres. So, after a moment’s deliberation, he nodded.

“All right. I’ll stay.” He tilted his head toward Sil. “Why have Seht stay, though?”

“Well, for one, it’s less suspicious if the two junior counselors are left behind,” Voryn said, then looked over to Sil. “And I don’t imagine you’d particularly enjoy having tea with a Grandmaster who no doubt would be trying to set you up with her eligible granddaughter.”

Sil, to his credit, did try to hide his grimace. “I think my time would be better spent working on the animunculi for the next battle,” he said diplomatically.

Voryn nodded. “So it’s decided. You two stay here, and the three of us will go to see Grandmaster Elvasea. And Vivec, you will keep her from figuring out what we’ve done.”

It didn’t set well with Vivec, having to lie to Almalexia, but…well, that was a war, wasn’t it? He dipped his head.

“I’ll ensure Grandmaster Almalexia is occupied. I’m sure she’s tremendously busy anyway.”

--

The sun was already up by the time Nerevar, Alandro, and Voryn left Ald’ruhn to meet with Grandmaster Elvasea. They weren’t going to be far; her retinue had arrived from the mainland the day before, in Seyda Neen, and they were due to meet halfway, in Balmora. But all the same, leaving early both ensured that they wouldn’t be late, and they’d be less likely to be caught by any Indorils.

Truthfully, Vivec hadn’t slept much at all the night before. He’d meticulously planned the day, crafting a day full of touring Ald’ruhn, talking to locals, endearing her to the mer out here in a way as close to Nerevar’s introduction to Vvardenfell had been. Not only would it endear the Grandmaster to the locals, but it’d also ensure Almalexia didn’t notice the absence of the three senior council members.

So, as he went to her tent once the sun had crested over the ashen hills, he was fully confident in how the day was going to go.

That plan had not included having a sword tossed at him.

He jolted in surprise, just barely catching it–thank the Three it was sheathed, or he might never have written anything again. He looked up to see the source of the toss.

If not for the fiery hair bound back or the sharp, golden eyes, he might not have realized it was the Grandmaster in front of him. Her armor had been left inside the tent, it seemed, and she was clad in the more usual style of mainlander Chimer–a tight, cropped jerkin, leaving her arms and midriff exposed, and a pair of breeches just loose enough to allow for movement without running the risk of being caught by a blade. Inky black tattoos covered her exposed skin, traveling down her arms and perfectly mirroring itself across the taut golden skin of her stomach. He wondered, for a moment, if they were significant, but his attention was drawn back up at the choking noise that came from Hlareni, who stepped out from the tent at precisely the moment Vivec caught the sword.

“Almalexia,” she hissed, walking over to the other woman. “You cannot throw swords at our hosts!”

“Oh, I’m quite alright,” Vivec assured, giving her a smile before he looked down at the sword. “It, ah, is certainly a way to make sure you’re awake. But I was just coming by to see if the Grandmaster would like a tour of Ald’ruhn.” His brow furrowed, and he glanced back up to Almalexia. “Though I am curious why you threw a sword at me.”

“Well, I did think you were the Hortator,” Almalexia said with a shrug. “You wear your hair the same. I wanted to spar with him; I’ve heard so much about his prowess, and I wanted to see how it matched with my own.”

Hlareni rubbed her forehead. “Alma, throwing swords at the Hortator is worse.” She blanched. “Not…obviously, Councilor Vivec, we don’t want to throw swords at you, either, I just…”

Vivec chuckled, unsheathing the sword. “Well, I’m afraid the Hortator is caught up for the moment. But I’d be glad to spar with the Grandmaster–I’m no Nerevar, certainly, but I’ve held my own on several occasions.” He gave a shrug, along with a lazy flourish of his sword. “I did, after all, train with Fa-Nuit-Hen.”

Hlareni gaped at him. “Fa…Fa-Nuit-Hen? Boethiah’s son?”

“The very one. I was very, very young, of course, so the details of his teaching get a bit fuzzy.”

Almalexia’s eyebrows rose, but her eyes narrowed at him, an amused smile on her lips. “He’s joking, f’lah.”

Vivec’s hand went over his heart, jaw dropped in indignation. “You’re calling me a liar, muthsera? I would never do such a thing, especially not to our esteemed guests.” He gestured toward the training area with his sword. “But, of course, you’re more than welcome to test me.”

“Then I will,” Almalexia said, lifting her chin with a smile as she walked over. “If the Hortator’s too busy, I suppose a student of Fa-Nuit-Hen will suffice.”

“You keep saying that like you don’t believe me.”

“That’s because I don’t, serjo.” She looked over at Hlareni over her shoulder. “You ought to go chat with Councilor Sil. He seems like the type to get busy.”

Vivec looked to Hlareni as he rested his sword against his shoulder, eyebrows raising. “You have something to discuss with Sil?”

Hlareni went stiff, and he could see the way she was trying to keep herself from going red; it wasn’t working. “Oh, ah, well, I…I just think his creations are fascinating, a-and I want to learn more about them. And he’s so very…tall.”

            And here’s number nine, Vivec thought, but he smiled at her. “Extraordinarily tall, yes,” he said with a chuckle. “He’ll be glad to talk metal beasties with you, though don’t expect him to notice when you get bored.”

            “I won’t get bored,” Hlareni insisted just a touch too emphatically. She stiffened, then quickly bowed to Almalexia. “I’ll…I’ll be back shortly, Grandmaster.” When Almalexia nodded, she turned on her heel and practically jogged away.

            Vivec smiled, turning to catch up with the Grandmaster. “No one’s had luck with him yet, you know.”

            Almalexia rolled her eyes, though the action was obviously fond. “Reni is…eager for love. Always has been. She’ll drool over Councilor Sil for a week and then get her head back on straight when he shoots her down.”

            “You’ve known her for a long time, then?”

            “Oh, yes, we grew up together. Her mother was my father’s favorite advisor.” She smiled. “She probably seems very flouncy and coddled to you, but she’s a great asset on the battlefield. And…she’s much better at being polite than I am.”

            Vivec smiled. “I can sympathize with her. I’m the one who reminds Seht to be polite.” He chuckled as they reached the training ground. “They’ll probably get along marvelously in that case.”

“Mm.” Almalexia rolled her neck, then looked straight at Vivec. “Now, most people don’t give it their all when they spar with me. I’m insisting that you do, Councilor; if I can’t block your attacks, then I have no business being here.”

Vivec dipped his head. “Of course, Grandmaster. And, of course, I’ll be a terrible pupil of both Fa-Nuit-Hen and Nerevar if I can’t block yours.”

Almalexia grinned. “Excellent. To three hits, then.”

She gave him a bow, and he returned it, then they both lifted their weapons. There was a glint in her golden eyes, dangerous and bright, and it was all the warning Vivec got before she lunged. He barely jumped back in time, the metal of her blade singing through the air.

Well. He could see how Alandro was starting to warm up to her.

But he was very, very quick, his movements light and airy compared to her grounded force. She dove for him with heavy bladework; he flitted in her blind spots to look for an opening. She countered with ease; he wondered if she had been born with a blade in her hand, with how naturally her sword moved with her. He kept just out of reach—he was a good swordsmer, yes, but he was a late learner; his cuts were clumsy compared to hers.

It was well and truly a dance, each style complimenting the other’s just enough to keep blows from landing.

“One.”

He landed the first hit with a clever feint; the force of her blow toward it slowed her down, and he was able to tap the flat of his sword against her arm. He backed away to reset, smiling…until he saw the look on her face. The glint in her eyes blazed into golden fire as she looked over at him, and she set her jaw as she stood up straight.

Ah. This was not a mer who liked to lose.

He raised his sword, signaling his readiness, and she came at him with all the fury of He-Who-Destroys and She-Who-Erases. He fell to defense, just barely blocking her blows as she came at him with boundless stamina. It wasn’t a surprise when he floundered, rewarded with the hard slap of cold metal against his arm.

“One,” she said.

The next round he faired better. He knew what to expect with this renewed passion, and, accustomed as he was to opponents much bigger and stronger than he was, he could work around brute force.

“Two,” he said.

But she was catching on. If his movements were flighty and quick, then she was a sabrecat, prowling for him. She worked on wearing him down, goading him one direction and the next, following his movements with her fiery gaze.

“Two,” she said.

By now, they were both panting, skin dusty from the combination of sweat and ash. They circled each other, each waiting for the other to move first. A few coppery curls had escaped from Almalexia’s braid, brushing her cheeks. Vivec gave her a grin.

“Has anyone told you how very beautiful you are?” he asked. “Like a star blazing through the sky as it falls.”

Almalexia gaped, caught off-guard. He lurched forward, tapping his sword against her thigh.

“Three.” Vivec sheathed his sword, still grinning. “You see, Neht was right: I wield my words just as well as my sword.”

Almalexia stared at him, and he met her gaze. There was a moment where he could see fury at the trick boiling beneath her skin. But, like a fever, it seemed to break, and she let out a laugh.

“I would call that cheating,” she says. “But really, I should know better. Hollow compliments are all you hear in my position.”

“Who said it was hollow? I speak nothing but the truth, muthsera.”

“Mm. Like your egg? And Fa-Nuit-Hen?”

“Exactly. Regardless of what you think, it’s all very true to me.”

Almalexia’s gaze flicked up to him, a soft sort of curiosity in her eyes. For a moment, they were silent, an unspoken question hanging heavily between them. There were several options for what it was; Vivec was quite content to wait for it to surface.

But she broke the spell before it could, sheathing her sword. “Have you considered using a spear, Councilor?”

“Like the netchimen use?”

“In a sense. You like to stay as far away as possible from your target; I think a spear would suit you quite well.” She tucked a curl behind her ear. “I could show you, later. I’m trained in just about every weapon possible.”

Vivec’s lips turned up, and he set his hand over his heart. “I would be honored. In fact, I…” He went quiet, head suddenly turning. “Do you hear that?”

Almalexia frowned, striding over to him. “It sounds like…fighting. Is there training today?”

“No, it…” Vivec’s eyes went wide. “Seht!”

He sprinted back into town, immediately greeted with the smell of smoke and blood on the stones.

The streets were full of Nords, a surprise attack no doubt planned for when the councilors were due to be away. The Chimer, at least, were holding their own; from his quick glance as he ran, it seemed that there were more Nord bodies on the cobblestones. But their base…that’s where they were headed. And where he’d left Sil.

A few Nords tried to cut him down, but he was quicker. Each was slashed as he made his way through the streets, either dead or incapacitated; he didn’t care to check.

Smoke was already pouring out of the hall when he reached it, and he stood for just a moment too long as the worst possibility entered his mind. He reacted far too late as he saw movement in the corner of his eye, and a Nord—large and furious, eyes wild with bloodlust—lunged at him. Just as he braced for the deep cut of her blade, the Nord’s head, still snarling, fell forward, with her body following quickly behind. Vivec looked up to see Almalexia panting, blade dripping red.

“Go inside and get the survivors,” she barked at him, full of authority. She turned to the nearby Chimer, shouting commands and directing them against the onslaught.

Vivec wasted no time; he dove into the smoke-filled hall, eyes watering against it. As he ran, he stumbled on something, just barely affording a look as he caught his balance. The Dagoth boy, the one that had been mooning over Seht just that morning, lay motionless and pale on the ground, black eyes fixed blindly overhead and blood leaking into his dark hair.

Vivec breathed out a prayer to Azura, but he turned and kept moving. To the living Chimer he found, he yelled out directions to the exit, urging them to leave, NOW and find Grandmaster Almalexia.

Finally, he made it to the courtyard. There, in the center, was Sil; given the charred bodies around him, he must have been able to hold his own with his magic. But magicka was finite, and even from here, Vehk could see he had drained his reserves. He had a hollow look in his face, and for a brief moment as they locked eyes, he saw the very same boy he’d found in the rubble three years ago.

Vivec cried out as one of the bodies moved. A Nord heaved himself up, axe in hand, and lunged toward Sil. Vivec sprinted forward, blade up, but he wouldn’t be fast enough. Sil looked up at the Nord.

It was just two motions. One quick pull of the knife out of the sheath at Sil’s belt, and a sharp, sideways push into the Nord’s belly.

Sil left the knife in the Nord as he fell, and he nearly tripped over his own feet in his haste to get to Vivec. “There wasn’t any warning,” he said, words tumbling over themselves. “They just…they flooded the city. I didn’t have time to send my spiders out, I did what I could with my magic, but…”

Vivec took his face, looking him over. “Are you hurt?”

“O-only superficially. We have to get the others out.”

“They’re out. Almalexia’s in the city. Did Hlareni make it to you?”

“Y-yes, but I didn’t…once the attack started, I-I—Vivec, turn around!”

Vivec whirled around, eyes wide as a large Nord burst through the doorway. She wielded a mace as tall as she was, and she let out a bellow of fury as she locked eyes on Vivec and Sil.

“Stay behind me, Sil,” Vivec said.

“But…”

“Stay behind me, hla’daesohn.”

Adrenaline was singing through Vivec’s veins, but even so, he could feel the edges of exhaustion. His sparring with Almalexia had used up more stamina than he’d initially thought, and it was very likely that this would not end well. He took a breath, adjusting his grip on his blade, then gritted his teeth.

The Nord gave an unpleasant laugh and muttered to herself, no doubt something about “milk-drinking knife ears.” It was possible he could taunt her into a fury if she was talkative. It could buy Sil enough time to get out. He just had to find the right way to…

The Nord lunged. Vivec pushed Sil back, then sprinted forward. Silently, he prayed that the mace would crush his skull too quickly for him to greet his death. A coward’s prayer, maybe, but infinitely more preferable to feeling his brains spatter the courtyard.

But, rather than his death, he was greeted with a spray of blood as an arrow tore through the Nord’s neck.

He skidded to a halt, staring as several more arrows whizzed through the air. The Nord went down silently, and both he and Sil stared at her body for a moment. It wasn’t until they heard a breathless voice calling, “Councilors!” that they turned around.

Hlareni sprinted up to them. Her hair had fallen from its ribbon, and her finery was smudged with soot and blood. She still had an arrow nocked, and her blue eyes were sharp as she scanned the area.

“Are you all right?” she asked. “I-I’m sorry, Councilor Sil, I…I had to get to higher ground and…”

“Apologize later,” Vivec said quickly. “We need to get out.”

She nodded. “I’ll take the front. I’m not as good at short-range, but I can manage!” She nodded for them to follow her, and the three made their way out to the streets.

By the time they were outside, the Nords were already retreating, with a few more being felled by arrows and spells on their way out. Vivec’s head swiveled, looking for Almalexia. He found her in the middle of the street, holding an arm out to stop their forces from following after them. She stood tall, face stony and eyes blazing as she watched the retreat. Once the Nords were out of the city walls, she turned to the crowd behind her.

“These Outlanders have no place here!” she called to the mer behind her. “They attack our city, our homeland, as nothing more than an invasive blight on Resdayn! But we have driven them back like the vermin they are!”

A cheer rose from the crowd, and Vivec found his own spirit lifting. Well! She might be well on her way to becoming as popular as…

“Nerevar.” Sil gripped Vivec’s arm. “The Nords must have known that he would be gone. They wouldn’t have struck like that otherwise. Which means…”

Vivec’s spirits quickly dropped back down to his feet. “There may be another ambush.” He whirled around. “Grandmaster!” he called up to Almalexia. “Organize the remaining mer!”

Almalexia turned back to look at him, brow furrowing, but she gave a short nod. “Hlareni! Guide the soldiers to finding survivors! I’ll take care of the fighters.”

Vivec ushered Sil to the gates, another rush of fear giving his legs strength as they ran. They had to be quick—if they dallied too long, they could be too late.

He prayed, to the Three Good Daedra and any other Divine that would listen, that they weren’t already.

[Next Chapter]

[orfeoarte]

OC character design asks! Pick 5 or 6 of these for your new OC in your fic and tell me as much as you want under those categories :D

This is a delight of an ask, thank you!

glance: At first glance, what stands out most about your OC's appearance? What's their distinguishing feature?

Saathel is not the type of mer others fail to register. She stands out, unless she is expressly attempting to blend in. Maybe it's her being a Bosmer, short for most Skyrim residents, maybe it's her refusal to wear any plant-derived fibers, maybe it's her sharp features and row of teeth filed to be pointy, longer than expected from mer... who knows?

face: Describe your OC's face. What's their smile like? Are their orbs cerulean? What would someone notice first when looking at them?

Angular, sharp, and deep. Her gaze has a peculiar garnet color, pupils that seem to resemble a frog's, shaped like a cross, following a quirk shared by some Valenwood Bosmer. There's always face paint adorning it, oftentimes organic patterns, sometimes darkening her eyesockets. Her teeth grow constantly, another quirk of her people, and have been filed into a sharp point, a process which must be repeated every few months to keep them in check. Luckily, most of it can be worn down naturally by gnawing on bones in a pinch. The trademark of her family is a strip of bare skin on her eyebrows, right at the peak. It is said that the Broken-brows are such excellent marksmer that they developed that strip to better accomodate a bowstring when drawn.

canvas: Does your OC have any scars, piercings, tattoos, or other markings? Do they display or cover them up at all?

Fullbody paint often marks her, but there's nothing on the way of tattoos. One of her ears has a notch, which seems to have been the result of a fight. On her back and side are a few claw scars.

arms: Does your OC have any weapons? What weapons do they carry, and how do they wear them when they're not fighting?

A bow made of bone and antler, treated with a solution of chemicals well known by Bosmer to supply flexibility to collagen tissue after blood flow is cut off. It is strapped to a thick leather quiver with a compartment for arrows. She uses hatchets and knives too, and those are held by her belt.

change: Has your OC ever drastically changed their appearance? Significant haircuts, big tattoos, complete wardrobe swap, etc? Why? How do they feel about the change?

Saathel has changed many times. She embraces the Wolf, even if others don't.

[newwayastrology]

If you are not familiar with Wendy Williams (born as Wendy Hunter): her career started decades as a host on R&B radio. She was very successful and things migrated into a successful TV talk show that lasted over a decade. She is now pretty ill in a way similar to what Britney Spears was like at the height of her mental issues and even more so like how Bruce Willis is now with dementia and mental "stuff."

Natally, Neptune squares Mercury in her chart and Mercury is the focal point of significant midpoint pictures: Mer=Nep/Asc and Mer=Jup/Nep. What all of this says is that her mind is ingrained with all of that stuff you know about Neptune. On a positive note this suggests a mind that is strongly imaginative, creative, and idealistic. These factors were certainly an ingredient in her radio and TV careers. However, the down side of this can incline to too much getting drunk or high, too much idealism, looking at things the way she wants to see them instead of the way they are, being dishonest....you know the Neptune drill. With Mercury and Neptune ruling 3 of the 4 Angular Houses, we'd expect the aforementioned factors to be important elements of identity confusion, relationship concerns and "stuff" to talk about regarding parents, especially the father. That Mercury is in the 6th House suggests lessons to learn about herself through health and/or things related to her work.

The health clouds in Wendy's life started around a year before her Saturn Return was official and shifted dramatically into high gear once the Return became official to the point now where she is pretty ill. The Angles in her chart have been under attack by Saturn and Uranus plus the Solar Arc of Mars. Transiting Neptune at the Sun/Moon midpoint puts confusion at the center of everything.

She has SA Venus coming to her ASC in 2025 so depending on what happens between now and then, perhaps there will be something nice relationally that takes place or just something nice, period because what's happened is a real nightmare.