#otherwise I shall hang out here in the fandom shadows

[late-to-the-fandom]

Get to know the fanfic writer!

Thank you to the wonderful @fluffleforce-mysdrym for the tag (learn about her here).

Tagging: @velvethopewrites @27fanficlilies @omnissian-scribe @frozen-fountain @mysticstarlightduck @darknightfrombeyond @malicious-compliance-esq

When did you post your first-ever fanfic?

2019 – it took a very long time (20 something years) to work up the confidence to complete something and post it

First Character(s) you wrote?

I started very on-brand, writing for a C list character in the HPHM mobile game AND after his extremely brief and small surge of popularity. So needless to say it was a nonexistent fandom.

Main Character(s) you're currently writing?

Oh, Prince Renathal and I are still hanging out daily.

Character(s) you haven't written about before but plan to soon?

Not sure I have one of those. I have no plans after I finish my current series except maybe to finish the AU I hiatused.

Fandom(s) you're currently writing?

World of Warcraft (but only B list characters from the least popular expansion to date because that’s just who I am)

Platonic Pairing(s) you're currently writing?

I suppose Renathal/Theotar, Renathal/Draven both show up in Wend in the Shadows. I wanted to stress Renathal’s desire for, but ultimate inability to cultivate, truly intimate friendships because of his political position (and also his dad being a dick).

Romantic Pairing(s) you're currently writing?

Mainly Renathal/the Maw Walker (Elisewin), although the more I float little bits of the Accuser/Curator’s story the more I wonder about writing something short just for them. I ship them super hard on the sidelines.

Your top AO3 tags?

Probably Smut, Explicit Smut, and Sorry, no smut

Current platform you use for posting?

Ao3 and Tumblr

Snippet of the WIP you are currently working on?

Well, I recently had a bug to finish the next chapter of Shadow UNIverse which had been hiatused since spring. I’m halfway done with the second to last chapter, which is exciting. Hoping I can finish it soon and not burn out again. I've included a little snippet under the cut.

"Shall I confess something?"

"Yes, please."

"I have wanted to do this for some time."

"Really?” The Maw Walker craned her neck gingerly to the right, attempting to catch Renathal's eye with her good one. “Help me wash my hair while keeping my casts out of water? That's a very specific fantasy."

Renathal’s reply was to reach around and daub soapy shampoo lather bubbles to the end of the Maw Walker’s nose, upsetting the careful decorum she had maintained throughout the undignified bathing ritual as well as her precarious balance on the edge of his claw foot tub. But she was laughing as she slipped and he was laughing as he caught her, and it was several mirth-filled minutes and inelegant contortions before both were back in position.

"The fantasy,” he explained around the dregs of amusement as he resumed scrubbing the top of the Maw Walker's head, “was to have you in my bath. I admit, this was not precisely what I pictured."

"Oh, I see." She cocked her head to the side again and Renathal could see the hint of a smile play around her puffy, bruised lips. "How did you picture it?"

“Hmm…”

He made a thoughtful sort of noise and scrubbed in silence for several seconds, as if only now considering the details of a fantasy he'd had ready and waiting for weeks.

"Well, there would certainly have been wine,” he said at last - the Maw Walker hummed her approval. "And candles perhaps. Bath salts. Bubbles."

She wiped a bit of lingering lather from the side of her nose.

"We do have those."

Renathal chuckled but otherwise ignored this interjection as he finished, “And we would both of us have actually been in the bath. And with all our limbs safely intact."

“Ah, I see,” the Maw Walker repeated, though this time the smile in it was shaky. Renathal could feel the tension settle stiffly in her shoulders as he worked shampoo through the ends of her hair “That does sound lovely. I am… sorry to disappoint.”

[srprincess]

Hey look, it’s me! Still on my bullshit!

Chapter 18 of the Spookydoo Au

Fictober (Hahaha remember October? We used to leave our houses back then) Prompt 20 - “you could talk about it, you know”

Shitty breathlessly made his way back to the group and handed the, now handily dog attached, leash over to Lardo. “Haven’t fuckin’ run like that in years,” he managed to huff out as he leaned against the building, hunched over.

She smirked, “Maybe next time you'll go running with me when I ask.”

“Not likely,” Shitty told her with a wheezing laugh. He tilted his head toward the dog. “Next time he bolts I’ll let you can chase after him though.”

“You’re too kind.”

“I assume this is Sammy?” Will squatted down to dog level and held out his hand for inspection before giving the wild haired dog some pats, and getting an enthusiastic face lick in return. Laughing he told the dog, “nice to meet you, little fella.” He wasn’t sure, but he thought he might have heard Nursey mutter about it being a nicer welcome than the one he had gotten.

“That's what we're calling him right now,” Lardo told Will, while she gave the dog a couple of scritches behind the neck. “Had to call him something, and he didn’t have any tags, so-”

“-Figured, Samwell crew trip- Sammy,” Shitty explained, breath thankfully returned.

“I like it,” Nursey said, sneaking his hands in for a couple of pets of his own and asking the happy dog, “Is Sammy a good boy? Oh yes, he is.”

“You and your nicknames.” Will shook his head fondly. “So you just got him? Unconventional souvenir, I’d say.”

“Well, he’s not actually, technically, ours,” Shitty admitted.

Will looked from the dog, with his shiny new collar and leash, back to Shitty and Lardo. He pulled himself back upright, suddenly suspicious. “You didn't steal him, did you? Please tell me you didn’t just make me an accomplice to dognapping.”

“No! Not stolen, found,” Lardo rushed to assure him.

“Rescued even,” Shitty insisted.

“When did you two have time to rescue a dog? We just saw you last night.”

“You know how we were at the cemetery, right? Well, we weren’t getting anything there, even looking in the right spot, so we wandered around a little more and there he was. Hanging around to edges of the trees, a little spooked but I think he was hungry enough not to run. We stayed longer to lure him out-“

“-earn his trust!”

“Yeah, Shitty, earn his trust,” Lardo agreed. “And then this morning we took him into-“

“-Petcetera.” Will finished, as things clicked into place. “I did hear something about you two being over there earlier.”

Of course. That explained the phone call that morning. He had been fishing, Will frowned at the pun even though it was hidden silent in his own head, to see if he could take off and leave the dog handling situation to someone else. At least he had called before taking off for his own fun, but still. He couldn't have just been upfront about it? Said why exactly he was calling? Maybe ask if he'd mind handling this for him? Ugh.  

It was probably for the best he didn't hang around that guy much anymore because the next time he saw him he was going to have to murder him.

Okay, maybe not murder. Murder was messy. Also incredibly illegal.

Sink his boat? Hmmm. No. Less messy, slightly, but still illegal.

Let it drop to his mother about how he heard her son was sneaking around with that girl from the island again? Oh. Yes. That would do. Almost guarantee a talking to at their next family dinner. Sweet revenge for duty shirking.

Will knew that his own mother would have said eavesdropping wasn't something to be proud of, but damned if it didn't come in handy on occasion.

Oblivious to the vengeful thoughts racing through Will’s mind, Lardo went on, “Yeah, Petcetera, you know it? The waitress when we stopped for breakfast said it was the best place to try and find his owner.”

“The only place really.” Will told her. “That's our vet, animal control, adoption, and pet supply store all in one. Used to be run by Old Owen, but he passed it on to the younger a few years back.”

“Makes it easy I guess, keeping everything together. Anyway, no chip but he was going to check around. See if anyone is missing him or find him a family. Owen’s supposed to get back to us in a couple hours so we can drop him off either way.”

Will blew out a breath as he pulled himself back to standing. “About that...I can almost guarantee he’d already run through all his guesses about who this little guy belonged to before you even left the shop. He is animal central after all.”

“Maybe he was just waiting to find a place for him then?”

“Or he already found one.”

“Then why-” She looked at him with confusion, and checked her phone screen. “He hasn't called yet. You think we should go back over there?”

“No point, he was headed out fishing.” Will sighed, “probably can’t even see him from shore by now.”

“But if he found a place-” he could see when it clicked in her head, even before Lardo said, “Oh. You’re saying us. He found us.”

“Yep.”

“So he just fucked off?!” Shitty asked. “Who does that?”

“Owen.” Will deadpanned.

 “Look, in general, he means well. He cares about the animals. Tries his best, usually. If he didn’t, then the business wouldn't have been passed to him. It's just, sometimes,” Will shrugged, “I don't like to be mean or speak ill, but-”

“Really,” Nursey scoffed, “you don’t like to ’speak ill’? Huh, could have fooled me.”

“Ha-ha funny.” At least Will hoped he was joking. Regardless he had to admit facts. “Fine, Owen’s kind of a flake. He’s been an expert at accomplishing the most while doing the least ever since we were in school. He is good people though. He wouldn't have left the dog if he wasn't sure that he would be taken care of. Assuming that's the reason for the call to me.”

“So, just like that, we have a dog now?”

Shitty looked at her, seeming excited at the possibility of them keeping the dog. Lardo didn't seem entirely against it, as evidenced by the frequent pats and scratches, but did have a look of someone on the edge of overwhelmed at the idea. Not quite sold. Yet.

“You could talk about it, you know?” Will told them. “You’ve still got, what, another day or two here? Take some time to think about it, talk it over. Either way, it’s up to you. And don’t worry, even if you want to leave Sammy here when you go, I’ll make sure he finds a home and is taken care of.”

 Shitty and Lardo looked at each other.

“It’s not like we planned on getting a dog anytime soon-”

“But we didn't plan not to either-”

“You did spend all that time earning drawing him in last night-”

“And you always say it gets lonely at the house when I'm working so long.”

As if he knew they were talking about him, Sammy sat back and wagged his tail. Like he was trying to look his absolute cutest, turning his head back and forth and panting, as they discussed his fate.

“We do have a decent size yard-”

“Big empty yard, that we're doing fuck all with.”

“Truth. Could be nice-”

“Coming home to this cute little happy face?“ Shitty stooped down to the dog’s level and looked up at her hopefully.

“Yours or the dogs?”

Shitty smiled wide up at her, “Both, of course!”

 “I meant what I said, don't let this pressure you. Either way, I’m going to have some words with Owen. If you need longer to think about it, I can-” Will started to offer again.

He wasn’t particularly looking for a pet, content to throw the odd stick across the beach for any loose dogs that escaped for a run. All the fun, none of the responsibility. He just wanted to make sure they didn't take on something they'd regret, most people had more time to work up to and decide on this kind of commitment. Then he saw Lardo and Shitty look down at Sammy one more time before smiling at each other, and he knew the decision was made.

“You want to come home with us little dude?”

Sammy hopped eagerly between them, and just like that it was settled.

“Congrats,” Will told them, “looks like you two just got a new dog.”

“For better or worse,” Lardo laughed out.

 She made sure Shitty had hold of the leash and then turned to Nursey. “Need to borrow you real quick.”

“Oh. Just let me-”

“Now.” She dragged a wide eyed Nursey away by the arm. She started before they were quite out of earshot, “You two? That looked very, well, I hope I didn't interrupt anything.”

Nursey ducked his head down before answering, which had the unfortunate side effect of muffling his voice, and then they were too far for eavesdropping.  

Will sighed, hoping he wasn't in for an interrogation of his own, but Shitty seemed happy to go on about the dog. How the pup had been shivering and scared when they found it, but a bag of his favorite jerky - a worthy sacrifice - was enough to bring him in.

“Think the tent might be lost cause though, some things you just can't clean out. Bitty’s gonna freak. Thing’s green couch bad, bro.”

Will nodded, like he had any idea what Shitty meant by that.

 A few minutes had passed and then Nursey walked back with Lardo, Will tried to catch his eye. He wished for the psychic ability to find out what she had asked him. And know what the reply had been. But he wasn't a mind reader and all Nursey did was smile. Well, at least he still looked happy, not any worse for the wear, so that was likely good. Almost reassuring, he told himself.

 “You tell him?” Shitty asked Lardo. She looked back, lost, and he added, “About Chow?”

“Nah,” Nursey answered for her. “Holster called earlier though. Said Chowder, ummm, got called into work early. Jack and Bits running them to the airport?”

“Yeah, Chowder and Farmer said to give their goodbyes and they'd see everyone at the-” Shitty faltered, “uh, conference? In October. You're still planning on going, right?”

“Course I’m going. Cait’ll be there too?”

“Should be, said she'd try her best at least.”

“Nice,” Nursey said. “So, no car?”

“Not for a couple hours, after lunch at earliest.” Lardo told him.

Will pushed back his questions about what sort of conference would have all their varying jobs called together, and instead offered up his truck to run them wherever.

“Your place again?” she asked. “Ransom said he had somethings to show you. Could get him and Holster over too.”

“Yeah? Sure, why not.” Will told her as she was already dialing.

“Tell them to grab Sammy’s food from the room,” Shitty said, leaning over her. “And us food. Sandwiches!”

“From that place by the pier!” Nurse loudly added. “With the peppers and-”

“Could you let me-” Lardo huffed, as she shoved them aside to get some quiet to finish the call.

Will looked at Nursey in disbelief. “Hungry already? You, literally, just rejected muffins.” He gestured at their, now cleared, table.

“Wasn’t muffin hungry. But sandwiches though.”

“Whatever.” Will rolled his eyes. “Think they could grab a club for me too then?”

“Hmmm maybe. I don't know if they should. You literally just rejected a muffin.”

“Oh, fuck you.” Will shoved him lightly. “Shut up and get in the truck.”  

To Lardo, Shitty, and by extension Sammy, he said “You guys-”

“In the back, got it.” Shitty offered Lardo a hand, but she had hung up and was pulling herself up and over the gate already. Sammy quickly followed over with an excited bark and a leap, and they were off.

[quietrainfan]

Hey! Anyone want some heavy platonic Loceit angsty headcanons I've extracted from the new episode? Well, too bad because it's happening regardless. :)

Yes, also some Unsympathetic Patton. You know what blog you're on. (This interpretation/headcanon shall not die. Not here.)

(Also, this is going to combine my observations and thoughts as well, so sorry in advance if this post turns out as a bit of a mess.)

Alright, so! Orange Side confirmation. How we feelin', Sanders Sides fandom, how we feelin'?

Honestly, the Orange Side theory wasn't something I was really all that into. It was a 'meh, could be cool' headcanon for me personally. But I have to say the way the reveal was handled made me jump in my seat with pure joy. No joke, I audibly gasped when Logan's eyes flashed orange.

It was all downhill from there, I was excited. Anyone who knows me will tell you I'm a sucker for character's eyes glowing when they've reached their limit or are displaying a power they've never shown before, combine that with an unexpected reveal and I'm sold.

Plus, glowing eyes have been a common theme with Unsympathetic content and Dark Side headcanons so you could imagine how the first peak into the Orange Side's existence (or, rather confirmation. we all saw the 'hello' hint, Orange, you cheeky little munchkin.) was his color in Logan's eyes made me feel. It was so cool!!! Ah!

Then Thomas had to tease us again at the end card with our boy Orange's eyes popping up in the darkness, waiting for his chance to be too loud to ignore. Like, the audacity. Who do you think you are, Thomas?! (That was a joke. Sorry, I'm just really pumped.)

Also, Remus got quite a few laughs out of me. Ah, I missed him.

Okay, headcanon time! We're going to do Logan first, then Janus, then combine the two. Sound good? Alright, here we go (Trigger Warning for discussions of alcoholism, please if anything I write here sounds insensitive or inaccurate, let me know and I will edit. Also, no need to read if you don't want to. Stay safe.) :

Logan

Logan knew where to grab for that alcohol bottle.

I mean, I guess that makes sense since he lives there and is naturally the most observant Side. But...that bottle's placement was a little too convenient.

Sure it was played up as a joke and it was funny.

But something about the way Logan threw his coffee into the sink and quickly replaced it with the wine stuck out to me.

I've joked about Logan and/or Janus having to "drink to cope" due to sharing the single brain cell Thomas has amongst all the chaos. But seeing that in an actual episode, even as a gag, is kind of...different.

Let me explain.

This may be a common thing for Logan that he struggles with.

He wakes up early to be the first one to help Thomas start the day, naturally. Logan goes to make his cup of coffee and there's always the lingering urge to take a sip of wine before anyone can see because he just...can't face everyone without needing just a little bit of it to cloud out all the gross, petty, negative feelings he experiences every day around them.

He's logic. He can't be drinking and risk any more harm to Thomas's function.

So, it's a constant battle with coffee vs wine, coffee vs wine, coffee vs wine-

Most of the time Logan is able to resist and go with the coffee.

It doesn't make him feel good in the slightest. If anything it makes him feel even worse knowing he'll be more alert that day.

Logan hates that was even a thought at all. He needs to be alert. Otherwise everything will fall apart. He is the rock in the system and without him everything will crumble.

Such a selfish mindset. He needed to focus.

Other days Logan just doesn't have it in him to discard the wine regardless of how much he wants to.

He knows what the day holds for him. It was all so repetitive at this point. Logan knew when he wasn't able to get through it despite it all.

That didn't stop him from shaming himself for caving. He should be able to handle this. He's made so much progress with resisting it up to this point but today he through it away again because he just had to, right?

Sometimes Logan finds himself "cheating" by hiding a couple drops of wine into his coffee on days when he chose the coffee but later felt particularly bad about...a lot of things, into his second cup.

Logan more often times chooses neither. The temptation for clouding out the others was just too strong and was a waste of time.

Logan is beyond tired of the others.

Every single action they have agitates him now. No matter how minor it is.

Roman's loud voice and constant references makes Logan's toes unconsciously curl beneath his shoes. Even a silent warm smile and wave from the prince fills Logan with an unpleasant tingle in his knuckles.

Virgil's neverending foreboding and unnecessary nasty remarks that he doesn't even bother to filter provokes Logan's new habit of biting his tongue. Any kindness he ever gives him makes his stomach twist.

Patton's nicknames, poking for for a laugh, his "sweet" way of shoving away any objection he may have, how casually he behaves as if he isn't part of any problems- how quickly he's prepared to "bounce back". Logan feels like every word, action from him something steps on a guitar cord in the back of his mind that makes the ugliest, loud, screeching sound. He feels this strange warm fuzzy ache he can't define. All he hears is that cord playing faster and faster the longer he stays in their presence. Logan no longer trusts himself alone with Patton.

Logan thinks if he just separates from the others long enough, the ugly strumming noise will go away.

But he's so wrong.

Logan can hear it even when he's all alone. When it's finally silent, he still can't get rid of it.

It's loudest when Logan is alone in his room. Logan has lost count of how many nights he's spent clenching his head, quietly sobbing, and praying for it to just go away already.

Logan often feels like he's losing it.

On nights where the sounds are particularly louder than usual, he swears he can see orange shadows creeping around him, lights of the color flashing on and off, he sometimes even sees it seeping in and out of the cracks of his door like a thick fog. At times he'll even wake to it glowing absurdly bright through his window.

It's just the sunrise. Logan tells himself. He has to believe that. Everything else looked normal, after all.

What's worse is Logan doesn't know how long he's been hearing this sound or seeing the strange lights.

Patton knows about Logan's late night and early morning struggles.

But surprise, surprise, he pretends as if he's nonthewiser.

If either Virgil or Roman asks about Logan, Patton will answer: "Oh, that silly billy's probably got his head in one of his astronomy books again! I wouldn't bother him right now."

Knowing full well he's having an emotional breakdown in his room that gets worse every day.

Knowing about the little sneaks of alcohol in his hot morning beverage. Might even speak about yummy drink combinations when they hang out in the living room, while Logan is present, specifically and even only on the days Patton knows he's cheating with his bad habit, while he's still drinking it.

The further Logan is to the edge, the better. Patton is still bitter about the events of Redux ending in his favor, after all. He needs leverage from somewhere.

When Thomas left to see Nico, Logan heard the cord again. His chest tightened and though he could feel the tears welling up, he kept them down.

Thomas hasn't been very happy lately. He had to let him have this.

No matter how loud those cords get.

Janus

I noticed that Janus was either unseen by the others or unacknowledged by them.

Janus was near all of them but far enough that he was separated.

He could've just popped up at the end without them noticing but...that's less angsty therefore less fun so-

Janus has been the instigator for bringing Sides that have been hidden away to be brought to light for a long time. If the assumption that Janus let Remus out is true.

He's always been hinting at upcoming events that are sure to come if Thomas continues to ignore certain aspects of himself.

He knows. He knows our Orange boy is getting worse and soon will be too loud to ignore. Janus wants to protect Thomas but that's becoming harder every day. Thomas is making it harder.

Janus will reveal the Orange Side eventually. And very soon. Hell, that's looking like less and less of a choice considering Logan's...outburst.

I think Janus has this painful awareness that he can be seriously hated for doing his job. After all, he's always the one who's forced them to acknowledge uncomfortable truths about Thomas.

He's the one giving them all of those hard pills to swallow and especially after Remus, it is definitely overwhelming and exhausting to be met with.

They question their roles more and more because of how used they are to the fixed mindset Thomas has had for such a long time.

That can't feel good.

Janus knows that his job may cause more hatred to fester the more that's revealed.

Janus is being kept at arms length and he knows that won't stop any time soon.

But he's a clever snake. That won't keep him from keeping an eye on Patton.

(Find it real suspicious that Patton was all mushy with Janus in that end card but still is at a big distance from him.)

Loceit

Janus will sometimes find Logan in the common room with his head in his arms, sprawled out against the coffee table. His glasses being discarded from half his face, unmistakable tears lazily dripping out of his lifeless eyes.

Janus would wordlessly go to the sink and grab a glass, filling it with water.

Janus goes over to Logan, giving him a gentle rub on the back. He urges him to sit up. It takes Logan a few minutes but eventually does.

Janus hands Logan the water, supporting the back of his neck as struggles to get it down, reminding him to take his time.

Janus takes his glasses and gently sets them on the table. He hands Logan some tissues.

Logan lifelessly takes them and tries to clean his face. But he always ends up crying into them.

Janus moves Logan unkempt bangs from his face before moving his head to his shoulder. Janus manifests a warm blanket over Logan and uses a bit of his abilities to soothe the shorter man's pain, tenderly putting pressure on his neck.

Janus and Logan have a talk. Logan always asks why he bothers to stop and comfort him.

"You've helped me through a lot, Logan. Not returning the favor is out of the question."

That was always his answer.

Janus and Logan do this often.

Janus opens up about sometimes needing a bit of a drink himself from time to time. Though mostly that consists of tea more often than not, he sometimes has a glass of wine or two to relax on days when it's particularly hard.

He feels ashamed of it. Janus has to be the strongest out of everyone, especially the Dark Sides. Allowing things to faze him was the worst case scenario. At least, to that degree.

But Janus understands that isn't his fault and urges Logan not to blame himself, either. While he hated that weakness he occasionally submitted to, he wasn't going to let the rare slip up to define the worth of his role.

Logan thinks that Janus really is the strongest out of all of them just for saying things like that and he's being too hard on himself.

On nights when things become too much Janus will sit with Logan and share a drink. They try to have as many conversations without wine as possible but sometimes Janus says "screw it" and sits with Logan with one or two drinks.

Just having Janus there helps Logan choose his coffee in the mornings and feel as if he's being heard even a little bit.

Now if only those cords could actually quiet down, that'd be even better.

[amwritingmeta]

15x19: A First Ending

This was a good episode! Oh, I know, I know - we didn’t get Cas back. But oh, boy, that should mean that Misha shot for five of eight days for 15x20 and that makes me want to rub my hands together with the hope of what that might mean. All the good things!

Oh, don’t hang your hopes on mine btw. I had very high hopes that we’d get Cas back, or very strongly established as coming back (as per 13x04) with a final scene of him waking up in the Empty or something like it, and that didn’t happen, but omg I’m so glad they didn’t.

When Jack started praying and reaching out to Cas my heart almost stopped. 

If Dean doesn’t instigate Cas’ return, then oh it would take away too much!

But then Jack’s moment didn’t lead to anything, and now, the more I think about it, there more it feels like a plant. A reminder of how he prayed to Cas the last time, and woke him. We shall see, eh?

And then we got Dean telling Chuck to bring Cas back, which was a pivotal plant as well. I’d been worried if they hadn’t mentioned Cas more than once, with Dean telling Jack and Sam that Cas sacrificed himself to save him, yeah? 

If there had been no more Cas for the entire episode then, narratively speaking, I would have started wondering what role Cas might actually play in 15x20.

But Cas was mentioned more than once. We even got to hear his voice and have that fake return to stir our... I almost wrote loins, but that’s not appropriate so let’s change it to stir our... martinis. 

Ah yes. We could all use a drink, I’m sure.

The dog as well! Dean was so happy and he carried the dog and petted the dog and put it in Cas’ spot in the backseat and was all, yes, emotional substitute! And then... poof. Because it’s not going to be that easy to replace Cas. *fingers crossed*

Here’s mostly why I’m hopeful for something quite different as the actual finale of the show, the proper wrapping up of these character journeys:

This first ending is for those who have followed the show explicitly to watch these two brothers. (yes there’s a word for them but let’s not)

It ends exactly how these viewers -- and quite possibly the writers who wrote it -- always saw the show ending. It gives an emotionally satisfying wrapping up of all the thematic threads of the show and gives the brothers their hard-won freedom, and keeps the brothers riding in Baby, together, indefinitely. 

And these viewers and fans will always be able to stop watching the show there and keep that as their perfect ending.

Except it’s not the ending-ending. Is it?

This episode neatly and gorgeously wrapped up the Michael/Lucifer/Chuck storyline. It wiped the slate completely clean. Especially with Michael killing Lucifer and Chuck killing Michael. These characters just completely annihilating  each other because they’ve all served their purpose.

And Chuck being drained of his powers and ending up ignored, never to be worshipped again, or even remembered, is such a fitting ending for him! And with Dean refusing to kill him, leaving him to his fate, I’d call that Dean integrating his Shadow.

No more fearing it. It’s powerless. Thanks to Jack (Dean’s inner child) who now holds all the power in the universe.

I’d say Dean Winchester has reached a point of internal balance.

And for all of these good things: Chuck powerless, Jack the New God, surely helping to fix what Cas broke by restoring Heaven (I’m assuming Heaven will be repopulated or that God’s grace will level it out) and Jack stepping into shoes that Cas once tried to fill and failed to, to the detriment to so many of his kin, is simply stunning.

I cried, properly, at Jack’s speech. It was beautiful.

But for all these good things and wrappings up of stuff, didn’t the ending feel kind of superficial? Like stuff was missing in those final five minutes or so? Like... I don’t know... Sam mentioning Eileen maybe? Because surely she was brought back along with everyone else, and one episode ago he was losing his mind over the loss of her.

And they didn’t even mention Cas. Jack mentioned Castiel as a good influence, but Cas was just bunched in with “everyone we’ve lost along the way”.

Meh.

Hey, it’s fine if all you care about is Dean and Sam and you think that they’re at their happiest when they get to drive along a road in Baby, listening to tunes and play-fighting and reminiscing about all those people that have come and gone, while they know they’ll always remain the same.

I mean, if we hadn’t gotten that montage at the end of this episode (a fucking MONTAGE ppl) I would’ve started thinking that maybe Misha was coming back to shoot flashbacks for 15x20, as we got to see the brothers remembering Cas (like with Mary), taking a walk down memory lane and driving around to well-known locales for a final hurrah.

But we got that fucking montage, ppl.

Leaving me to feel that they probably won’t also spend forty minutes rememberembering those same people. You know?

Also, dull. And Dabb is anything but dull. And Dabb loves pulling on stuff he’s hinted at in the first ep of the season. 

And I remember reacting to Sam being the one to escort the kid and her mother into the, what was it? The high school, right? For safety.

While Dean and Cas had that tense exchange by Baby, where Dean couldn’t not ask if Cas was okay and Cas saying, hopefully, that he was, but Dean remaining stone faced and distant. “Awkward” is what Belphegor called it.

Oh. Please let there be awkwardness in 15x20. I beg on bent knees. Beg, I say!

Anyway.

What is 15x20 going to be about if it isn’t about finally answering the question of what will make the brothers happy?

A balanced universe, of course! But freedom without love... sounds kind of lonely to me. 

So, have they answered the question of What do I want? yet? Is this what they want for themselves? More of the same? This season has hinted that it isn’t. It’s hinted very strongly that it isn’t.

So, I’m holding my breath that Dean’s final confrontation is to do with happiness and daring to want it for himself. Daring to admit to wanting it for himself. Daring to go after it... 

Cas does not belong in the Empty.

And hope that it’s telling how Jack didn’t even think to get Cas out of there and bring him home. God got Lucifer out of the Empty so Jack definitely has the power. 

And Dean didn’t ask him to get Cas out of there, not because he doesn’t still want Cas out, but because it would ruin the first ending for the people who want Cas to stay dead. Yeah? 

It’s kind of beautifully done, to my mind, as a nod and a thank you to the people who have supported one reading of the show. It’ll be difficult for them to go apeshit when Dabb and the writers can simply tell them they don’t have to watch further than 15x19 and be content that they’ve got an ending that lets them cling to the brothers as the begin all, end all.

And yes, I remain believing we will get Dean and Cas together-together before the end of the show. I have no clue how much of a together-together we’ll get, but for the show not to give us a clear understanding of how Dean loves Cas back is unthinkable at this point, and will stay unthinkable until the show tells me otherwise, because nothing but those two together makes even a lick of sense to me.

Dean’s feelings were in the subtext this episode because that’s where they always have been and hopefully fingers crossed because this ending wasn’t for us, it was for other sides of fandom, giving them room for denial, if they simply don’t want to see that what Dean wants is Cas back.

Our ending isn’t happening until next week.

Dean: It’s a helluva time to bail. There’s a lot of people counting on you. People with questions—they’re gonna need answers. Jack: The answers will be in each of them. Maybe not today, but someday.

For me this may be setting up for 15x20.

Dean could be said to be accepting the reality of Cas being gone this episode. He starts off not telling the whole truth about what happened with Cas (of course), he’s drinking himself stupid, he tries to demand of Chuck to bring Cas back, he finds that emotional crutch in the doggo and he moves into acceptance because what else can he do?

Especially if he’s still reeling and is struggling with his fear of happiness, with not feeling deserving, with it being easier to simply let it all go.

But.

Letting go of the need is healthy, allowing it to make way for the real want that is about choosing Cas, not because he feels lost without him, but because Cas completes him...

That would be something. 

(oh shush let’s get with the romance) (Jerry always brings it)

The brothers love each other, but throughout this narrative there’s been hints that they both long for more. So much more. It would be so weird if it didn’t all wrap up with more being wanted and chosen and offered and had.

So if the answers are to be “in each of them -- someday”, then maybe Dean just needs to reach a moment where he’s ready to admit to himself that he can’t stand the fact that Cas died not knowing that Dean loves him back.

I wonder if Sam will push for this admittance... I’d like to witness that conversation, that’s for sure.

And Eileen. I hope she’s back sooner rather than later next episode!!

What’s next episode going to be about if it’s not about the breaking of old patterns to make way for new ones...? Are we going to follow the boys around as they do laundry and cook and make a few tentative plans for their unknown future? They won’t be hunting much in 15x20, at least if Dabb is anything to go by. I guess there might be something brief as a final The Boys With Their Weapons Doing Their Thing, but... it won’t be a case episode. And it would’ve been strange if it was, you know?

So then. Hope. One more week breathing eating sleeping on hopes and wishes and we shall simply have to wait and see what we get.

I have every faith it will blow us away, but I’m also sitting pretty. Reining in those horses lest they run away with me. And whatever comes our way, I’m so grateful for this show!

[silence-burns]

Please Hate Me //part 47

Fandom: Marvel

Summary: Based on: “Imagine having a love/hate relationship with Loki.” by @thefandomimagine​ Who would have thought that babysitting a god could be so much fun?

Genre: slow-burn, enemies to lovers, banter

There are few things better suited to following a great summoning ritual than stalking a kindergartener and, quite literally, taking the candy out of his chubby little hand.

"Hey, that's mine!" the brat, Timmy, screamed, but had to watch Loki unwrap the popsicle and munch on it.

"Oh, Timmy," you sighed. "I thought a tough kid like you would handle this better."

"Who the hell even are you weirdos?" Timmy considered ending his question with a kick to the shins of one of you, but decided otherwise under the unnerving gaze of the strange man in a green suit. There was something off about him, that much was certain, but little Timmy couldn't wrap his mind around how otherworldly he actually felt.

He looked around, but none of his friends were around yet, and neither were any adults. 

You smiled your beautiful, wicked smile. "Don't fret, Timmy. We've heard all about your deeds, and boy, did we actually love them."

Timmy frowned. His chubby cheeks puffed up just in case it was time to scream. You didn't look like parents of whatever kid he might've recently offended. The pocket money he was getting ;ately from his schoolmates was nothing to worry about. A few bucks here and there weren't a reason for such a direct approach. Okay, those glitter pens he took from that girl last week might cause some bigger stirrup, but she certainly had a different set of parents last time he saw her.

"The hell are you talking about?" the boy settled on a safe approach.

Loki chuckled and leaned down to look him in the eyes. The features of his face started to blur. Timmy frowned, but blinking didn't clear it up. The harder he looked, the more they melted, and molded, and reformed-

"We know what you've been doing, child," the creature's horns grew and curled, just as more and more sets of eyes popped open. "We have our eyes on you."

The shadows deepened, and the world turned colder and eerily quiet. It was the absolute stillness of something deeply unnatural moving right past you.

But Timmy, despite what his teachers might say, was a smart kid. Being a bully and a petty little thief for years without facing actual repercussions of his actions could not be achieved if one didn't know when was the time to run. Timmy knew that time had come and didn't wait for things to unravel any further. His short legs took him surprisingly far in just a few seconds. Loki and you could only watch him go.

"Do you think it'll be enough?" you asked, taking the lollipop from Loki. It was the strawberry flavor. "I certainly wouldn't want to fail our first commission."

"I guess we'll see," Loki shrugged off the spell. "But I'm pretty sure we gave him something to think about. I can send one of the shadows after him to make sure he doesn't pick on our 'client' at school tomorrow. It'll be awhile before they disperse after summoning, so we can make use of them."

"Will they still lead us to the stolen pin though?"

"Without any problem."

And that closed the case. It was a little satisfying, Loki had to admit. 

He was still unsure about the pin, though. There was something off about the type of magic he sensed in the box. Faint as it was, the tang of death and rot was still unmistakable and didn't fit in the mental image of SHIELD's safehouse it was supposed to be stored in. It made the chase after the truth more thrilling.

Loki fixed his suit. It was not the type of fashion he usually preferred, but the way you looked at him in it made it worth it. There was nothing as confidence-boosting as being aware that you’re the eye candy for anyone lucky enough to pass.

"Shall we?" Loki offered you his elbow as the shadows gathered and formed a rough doorway. Beyond it, only darkness swelled. 

Stepping through it was a fight against condensed mist, but at least it had none of the flesh-shredding quality of Bifrost. 

The shadows Loki had called followed the invisible trail of magic the pin left behind after it was stolen. There was little chance of them being wrong or simply misled, Loki had assured you earlier. As beings stuck in a state of half-existence, there was not in the physical realm so often that it could affect their judgement and cover the tracks. Still, even Loki had a moment of doubt when he took in the place the two of you had been led to.

"I think we should've used that chicken," you said, looking around what was unmistakably a forest. A thick, dark, and very old forest. Definitely the type of forest unwelcome to unannounced travelers. 

It did not mean you were scared. You were just aware of a certain, thick atmosphere hanging low in the cold, winter air. Somehow, it was darker than it should've been at that hour. The trees loomed over you, their branches twisted and hanging low enough to strangle. 

Loki kept on patting your arm while your terror grew, and despite ignoring him for a while, you finally decided to turn.

A thick wall of a hedge, painted in a rotting green and sprinkled with half-melted snow, stood tall and guarded whatever was behind it. The branches were woven too tightly together to take even a peek between them.

"Is that a house? In the middle of a forest?" You asked, but no answer came. There was no road leading to the house. The trees encircled the hedge, but didn't interrupt its space, as if that particular spot had been chopped out of the forest. As if the usual rules of logic and nature didn't apply there.

"Strange," Loki muttered to himself as he walked closer. The hedge ran far in both directions, and from the point you approached it, no gateway could be seen. High above your heads, thin swirls of smoke rose into the air. 

"We should walk around and see how to get in." You gestured to the left.

Loki looked up. The hedge loomed a few heads above him. Even if Loki jumped, he wouldn't see above it. He jumped anyway.

And was swallowed by the hedge.

You knew there was something wrong with that forest, and the strange house especially, even before the branches shot out and wrapped around Loki. He only managed a yelp of surprise before he was pulled in towards the impenetrable depth of the bushes. As much as it was reassuring to know that your senses and intuition were as sharp as ever, the time to brag would come later. Using the ace up your sleeve, or rather sword in your pocket, you made quick work of all the choppable branches. 

Loki dropped to the ground. 

"You could've cut off my hand!" He looked in horror at the cleanly cut piece of his sleeve. It had been a close call indeed.

"Couldn't you regrow it?"

Loki stopped shaking off the twigs for a moment. "I'd prefer not to find out, honestly."

The hedge, despite your trimming, was as impenetrable as before. The only thing that changed was the distance you kept away from it. After not a long discussion, you decided to look for a way in.

The little gate looked suspiciously ordinary. The metal rusted in a few spots, mercilessly beaten by years of rain and humidity. The path beyond it winded between neat rows of herbs and vegetables and occasionally flowers you couldn't name. The scent of fresh soil hung in the air as you walked through them. The house itself was neither big or new, but was most definitely haunted. There was no doubt about it. It was obvious in the way the windows watched you approach. In the way the smoke curled lazily through a draft you couldn't feel. In the doorknob in a shape of a hissing bat.

"Do we… knock?" you whispered. For reasons you couldn't explain, you had a feeling the house was listening to every word.

"That's usually how it goes," Loki's reply was equally quiet. He made no move to knock, though.

A hollow hooting was the only warning before a dark shape swooped by your heads and landed over the door. The owl was big, even once it settled and closed the wings. The feathers, in various shades of grey and muddy brown, hid it almost perfectly against the wooden planks of the house.

It was a nice owl, one might think without looking closely. Because under further scrutiny, one would notice the deep gash only partially hidden by the puffed up feathers, and the bones peeking out underneath them. 

You stared at the dead owl and it stared back.

It hooted.

"I know, I said I'm coming!" the voice from inside the house shouted. The footsteps neared. Loki and you braced against whatever you'd have to face.

The door creaked open. 

Many thoughts had passed through your mind, but one thing you didn't expect to see was a spotty-faced, alarmingly skinny young man in jeans and a cloud of smoke surrounding him. You got a facefull of an aroma that reminded you of college dorms. You wondered if Loki thought he’d met the wrong end of a skunk. 

"Listen," he said, gesticulating wildly. "I know that y'all always want shit, but my grandma is still on her vacation, and I'm currently busy. She'll surely contact you once she's done, but nothing has changed since last time, and I still don't know when she'll be back."

The owl descended majestically and sat on his still raised hand. The man blinked in mild confusion. 

"I fed you already, don't give me that look, Barbara."

Loki looked at you. You looked at Loki. The owl turned her head backward and noticed both.

"I might be wrong, but I'm pretty sure this is the first time we're meeting," Loki forced himself to say after your not-so-subtle nudge to his ribs. "Could we bother you for just a moment?"

"I'm busy, I've got a shift tomorrow and—"

Loki barged in anyway, not interested much in whatever the man had to say. 

The little house turned out to be more of a cottage. Even though some work had been done to restore it and make use of modern inventions, the very core of the cottage stayed the same as it possibly had been for decades, if not longer. 

The herbs hanging from the ceiling to dry filled the air with a pleasant, if a little heavy smell that clung to skin and clothes alike. The huge chimney was full of wooden planks and blasting enough heat from the other end of the large working space to make you regret wearing winter clothing. Whatever was boiling in the huge iron pot hanging over the blazing fire was unlikely to be edible judging by the consistency and color. Or at least you hoped it was not supposed to be edible.

The owl flew in and perched on a chair. 

"Listen, I'd really appreciate it if you could leave me alone," the man groaned, following you. 

He took another drag and exhaled a cloud of smoke, eyes red-rimmed. The owl hissed and moved over the chimney, where she sat with as close to an angry expression as a half-dead owl was capable of. 

To your left, a rather familiar and highly surprising uniform laid along with medical equipment. 

"We'll leave as soon as we get the answers we need," you promised. "And our first question is - who the hell are you, exactly?"

The man blinked. "Are you joking? I thought you were clients."

"What would you sell if we were?"

"I mean," he gestured around. "It's my grandma who deals with potions, but I suppose I could give you a medical check up if you need one? And don't worry if you're dying, that's even better, I've got that covered too. Just make sure to come to me before the decay starts, and I'll put you back on your feet in no time."

"Wait, I'm confused," Loki frowned. "Are you a doctor or a necromancer?"

"My dude, I have no idea where you've been the past few decades, but if you think med staff is capable of making a living from just one job, you honestly should get a reality check. Look around - I literally still live with my grandma and don't even get me started on how much debt I still have to pay off with those stupid side jobs."

"You mean, resurrecting pets?" You looked at the owl. Barbara was not blinking.

"Listen, I'm at the point of my life where I don't ask questions. I just need the money. I want to move out. Have you any idea what it is like to live with your 260 year old grandma who has a better social life than you?"

The silence was a little awkward. 

"Precisely."

Loki wanted to take a deep, steadying breath, but whatever the young man had been smoking didn't sit well with Loki's lungs.

"I must ask though, are you raising the dead because you're such a terrible doctor, or is—"

"Paperwork."

Loki blinked. "Excuse me?"

"Have you any idea how much paperwork follows every death? I'd rather bite off my hand than do any more extra unpaid time than I absolutely have to." The man sat at the table and produced a stash of pot from somewhere. With slow, precise movements he started to roll another blunt. You bent your knees to see under the table, but couldn't find any hidden drawers.

Loki nodded at the man’s comment, although he was nowhere near possessing that kind of knowledge. Deaths that he usually participated in involved little to no paperwork.

"Was this involved in one of your recent side-jobs?" Loki put the little wooden box on the table.

The man shook it before opening. Only after sniffing it did the look on his face change to recognition. "Yeah, I think it was. I was paid to get a pin from it. I don't know what happened to it afterward, though. The client just paid and disappeared."

"How did you get it?"

"Mice."

"What?" Loki asked. You looked around, just in case. 

"No one cares about mice, especially in huge warehouses. That makes them perfect for the job, especially if they're controlled properly."

The dead owl hooted in agreement. Loki had an idea how the mice had been initially caught.

"That complicates our case," he whispered to you.

"Who paid you?" you asked, hoping that the answer wouldn't be...

"I don't know," the young man shrugged. "Some guy in a trenchcoat and lots of shiny money. My favorite kind of a client."

The man suddenly had a few golden coins out and in his hand. You hadn’t even seen his hands go under the table that time. The coins were heavy and most definitely not fake, although you didn't recognize any of the symbols they bore.

Loki did. 

"Do you think that agent of yours will cover any extraterrestrial expenses?" he asked, watching the reflexes shine on the golden surface.

"Where are we going?"

"To the biggest black-market-turned-casino-turned-complete-mess of a planet in the universe."

"How lovely," you said.

Barbara agreed, hooting happily as she hopped off the chimney and landed on Loki's shoulder. 

"Take her." The young necromancer yawned sleepily. "She hates me anyway. Just remember not to give her any pickles. She's got terrible gas."

[stilloutofmyvulcanmind]

Light From The Shadow Part 3

Fandom: The Lord of the Rings

Pairing:  Aragorn /Reader

Characters: Reader, Aragorn, Gandalf, Elrond

Word Count: 1785

Warning: Talk of death and torture

Author’s Note: Heyyyyy anyone remember this? It’s been a hot two years minute, right? But I was re-reading the first two parts, and it inspired me, so here it is, part 3 at long last! I hope there are people out there who are still interested, and if you want to see the rest, let me know!

Cath up here: Part 1 Part 2

The sound of footsteps was familiar to you by now. It was easy to tell who was approaching your cell, and even what their intentions were. Usually, it was soldiers bringing meals and seething insults. Occasionally it was Mithrandir, trying to prise words of your past from you. The Elf Lord Elrond had visited once, but he had done nothing other than stare at you with intensity for several hours. It was none of them who approached now. No, the footsteps belonged to Isildur’s Heir, Aragorn. He had appeared often enough over the last few weeks, sitting outside your cell and regaling you of tales of this ‘Y/N’ he still seemed to believe you were. The things he said meant nothing, the lands, and people he described calling forth no memories or thoughts of emotion. They were strangers to your mind, and despite your constant reaffirmations of that, Aragorn refused to give in or even stop.

He came into view in front of you, wearing a simple green tunic and brown slacks, looking nothing like the King he now was, except for the sword that hung from his belt. That was something he did not usually have. He stopped, looking down to where you sat on your thin bed. “What is your name?”

It was the same question he always asked, still clinging to the hope you would suddenly start believing you were someone you weren’t. “My name is Asgareth, as it always has been, and always will be.”

Aragorn sighed, standing in silence as he watched you for a few moments longer. “It is clear now that my words are of no use here. Whatever is preventing you from remembering the person you truly are is stronger than any tale of times gone by,” he said, taking the key he held in his hand and using it to unlock the cell door. 

Your eyes travelled back to his blade as he stepped inside, wondering if he was finally going to kill you and end this tedium. But then he knelt down in front of you and swiftly released the shackle that sat around your ankle. The action took by such surprise that you found no chance to attack before he stood back in front of you, grasping the chain that bound your wrists together.

“What are you doing?” You asked, watching him closely. “If this is to be some drawn-out execution, do not bother. Kill me now and end this hell.”

“No. I have not yet given up on you, Y/N. Words alone cannot bring you back, so perhaps something physical will. Come.” Tugging on the chain, Aragorn pulled you forward, leaving you with no choice other than to follow him. 

Your steps echoed quietly off the stone as he led you past the other cells and upon out of the dungeon. You did not fail to miss the looks you received from the guards that lined the halls, or the way their fingers twitched on the hilt of their blades. Each and every one would rather slay you on sight than see you walk along the halls they’d fought to protect. You kept your head up high, meeting the gaze of every man who dated meet yours. They all looked away first. 

It was out onto an open training space Aragorn brought you. High over the city with only one door. You smiled. Despite his honeyed words, it was clear Aragorn did not trust you. There were no other soldiers in the area, but Mithrandir and Elrond stood to one side, watching you both. 

They neither approached or spoke as Aragorn led you to a table in the center of the room. On it lay three weapons. A dagger, a blade, and a bow. Finely crafted, they were both unknown to you yet somehow familiar, as though you’d once seen them long ago. 

“These once belonged to you,” Aragorn said. “We recovered them from Angmar after your disappearance, and I made sure to always keep them well in your memory.”

Aragorn was watching you, clearly waiting to see if you had some sort of reaction. “These cannot be mine. I have only ever fought with a blade.”

“You are one of the best bowmen I have ever seen. Your skill matched that of the elves.”

You looked back at the bow, long and sleek with a perfect curve. The wood was dark and obviously well cared for. Something deep inside you itched to touch it. “You are mistaken. I have never touched a bow.”

“Then try it now.” Aragorn moved swiftly and you found the shackles around your wrists falling free. 

“Aragorn!” Elrond was immediately moving forwards but halted when Aragorn raised a hand. 

“She will not harm me, my lord. I know it.”

Neither Elrond nor Mithrandir seemed convinced, and you could see they were prepared to move swiftly should you make the slightest wrong move. It was tempting. You eyed the hilt of the blade. Perhaps you could end Aragorn’s life before they retaliated. You would die, yes, but it would be worth it. 

You reached for it. 

Instead, your hand closed around the bow. 

It was a light but sturdy weight in your hand as you ran the fingers of the other over the wood. You knew you had never picked up a bow before, but why did it feel so right? Like greeting an old friend? 

“Try,” Aragorn said again, offering you an arrow as he pointed towards a target at the end of the room. 

He was handing you his death on a platter. Even with no experience, you could use the bow to kill him at such a close range. It would be easy. Possibly the easiest death you’d ever earned. 

You found yourself sliding the arrow into place on instinct, the bow singing as you released it towards the target. The arrow struck the middle. 

Next to you, Aragorn smiled. “I knew there was a part of you trapped inside somewhere. I should have thought of this sooner.”

The bow clattered as you dropped it to the ground, taking a step back from it. “I do not know what magic this is, but I will not fall for it! I am Asgareth! And I serve the true Lord Sauron! As I always have and always will! Your cheap tricks will not convince me otherwise!" 

"Y/N-" 

"No!” You dived for the sword, but Aragorn was quicker. He grabbed you, his hold on you secure as he brought you to your knees. 

“Remember!" 

"Never!” You fought him, but he won out and you found yourself shackled once more. “Kill me!" 

"I will not." 

Aragorn took the chain back into his hands and led you silently back to your cell. He stood inside it with you still, simply watching. He looked sad you noticed. Why did some deep part of you twist at that revelation? 

"I had not planned on revealing this to you yet. I feared it might be too much to learn in your current state, but I see now that I have no other choice. If this does not bring you back to me, then nothing shall.” Aragorn reached under his shirt and pulled a silver chain over his head. Hanging in the middle was a ring with an emerald stone set in the centre. Aragorn removed it and held it up for you to see better. “Do you know it?" 

"No.”

He sighed. “It belonged to my Mother. A gift from my Father when they became betrothed. I in turn presented it to you when you agreed to marry me.”

Marry? No. You could never have been betrothed to this…this ranger. It was impossible. “You are saying-" 

"We loved one another.”

You shook your head. “Now I know that you trick me for there is no path I would ever walk that could possibly lead to me loving the likes of you.”

Aragorn had the strength of will not to flinch, but you saw the pain in his eyes at your words. “You know not what you say.” He stepped closer, taking your hand in his and refusing to let go when you jerked back. “Wear it. Remember,” he whispered, slipping the ring onto your finger. It was a perfect fit. “Remember.”

Then he was gone and the cell door locked once more. 

“I cannot,” you said. 

“You must. You must, my love.”

He left you then, and you slid to the floor, back pressed against the cold wall. You stared down at the green gem gleaming up at you, the weight of it on your finger feeling both foreign and disturbingly familiar. What he said was impossible. It had to be. Marriage? Love? They were things not designed for you. Your only purpose was to serve. Your only goal to win battles. What Aragorn suggested was so much more. More than what you were. More than you deserved.

Your head hurt. A splitting pain seared across your forehead. The candlelight was too bright. The echo of footsteps and the incessant drip of water too loud. Scrunching your eyes closed, you placed your hands over your ears to drown it all out. 

The pain got worse. 

It was too much. 

Images flashed behind your eyes. 

Fighting a man so much larger than yourself with a wooden sword. You knocked his from his hand and he cheered, picking you up and swinging you through the air. You were laughing. 

The same man, but now a woman joined him. They smiled as they handed you a small bow. 

Meeting a young man with kind eyes and a handsome face. He smiled at you when your arrow split through his own. 

Travelling with him. You crossed mountains and great plains and forests together. Fought back to back. Tended to each other’s wounds. 

Sitting on a high hill under the stars. The way he looked at you made your heart flutter. He asked you a question. You laughed and said yes. He presented you with the most beautiful ring you’d ever seen, the emerald glittering in the moonlight. 

A long journey to a dark land. Fear filling the air. An attack. Screams. 

A cell. 

Dark. Alone. Pain. 

A figure. 

Your Lord. 

No. 

Not your lord. Monster. Evil. Enemy.

You screamed as the pain in your head worsened, fingers tangling in your hair and pulling. You screamed and screamed unable to stop. More memories. More pain. 

“Y/N!" 

Someone took you in their arms, strong and secure. Safe. You prised your eyes open, looking up at his face through blurred vision. It had been so many years. Too long. Your betrothed. Your love. 

"Aragorn.”

[damienthepious]

time 2 be emotionally fraught baybeeeeee happy LKT!

Going Through Changes, Ripping Out Pages (chapter 10)

[ch 1] [ch 2] [ch 3] [ch 4] [ch 5] [ch 6] [ch 7] [ch 8] [ch 9] [ao3] [???]

Fandom: The Penumbra Podcast

Relationship: Lord Arum/Sir Damien/Rilla

Characters: Lord Arum, Sir Damien, Rilla, The Keep

Additional Tags: Second Citadel, Lizard Kissin’ Tuesday, Established Relationship, (uhhhhh sorta), Amnesia, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, (WE WILL GET THERE…… EVENTUALLY)

Summary: Lord Arum wakes to discover that some things have changed while he slept. Namely, there is a human in his bed.

Chapter Summary: Damien tests his theory.

Chapter Notes: inconsistent chapter length be damned!!! i do what i want! [kicks desk] anyway happy LKT, i love youu

~

They make poor progress with their research, that morning. Arum is-

He is clearly acting grumpier than he feels, a defensive layer of prickliness that Rilla really isn't surprised by, but she suspects that the lizard slept far less than he implied, too. He looks shadowed and tense in a way that reminds her distinctly and unpleasantly of how he looked the first time she stayed here in the Keep, and she doesn't think that's just because that's basically the mindset that he's in. She knows how his tail coils when he's far too tired, by now.

A lot of the problem with their research is that monsters seem to keep their methods of creating curses pretty damn close to the chest, and Arum himself isn't really in the business. His creations have always been a lot more physical. "Practical," in his words, though Rilla quietly disagrees that a decent chunk of his nonsense projects are practical.

Arum knows a few ways to get rid of hexes and jinxes- ritual words, ceremonies of cleansing, magic potions, the sorts of things that usually frustrate Rilla out of her mind with their inconsistency. Rilla's frustration doesn't much matter, though, because Arum is convinced that none of the above would be effective against a curse like this anyway. A magical-herb-infused bath might knock out some minor blight, but this? It's too deep.

... They do test a few smaller ideas anyway, if only to see if they might weaken whatever it is that's locking Arum's memories away (none of them say, out loud, the possibility that the memories are gone, not just inaccessible), but after each minor test Arum only sags further and shakes his head.

By midday they're all... disheartened, to use a Damien word. Arum more than her and Damien, if Rilla's read is correct. Again- it really doesn't help that he's so obviously exhausted. Damien meets Rilla's eyes over the small lunch the Keep brings for them (it's been picking out meals that it knows are each of their favorites, Rilla is sure that it's deliberate- she thinks she oughta take an aside with the Keep later today, thank it a bit more directly, check in to make sure it's doing alright, considering-), and Rilla knows he's thinking of their conversation this morning. Rilla still isn't enthusiastic about the idea, it seems dangerous, for a number of reasons, but-

Arum pulled Damien back to them with a duel, didn't he?

And, frankly, it's not like Rilla has any better ideas. None that don't involve a near-impossible infiltration and- well. Murder, theoretically.

She catches Damien's eye again as they clean up their bowls, and she gives him a nod, and as much of a smile as she can manage.

Damien nods in return, his expression nervous but steady, and then he takes a deep breath.

"I may have an idea," Damien says, and Rilla's heart thuds at the way Arum's face flashes with hope before he buries it in a frown. "Would you mind," he continues, "if we were to retreat to the greenhouse, to discuss it?"

Arum's frown deepens, clearly unhappy not to just out with it right now, but he turns and gestures with a hand for the Keep to open the way.

~

"A duel," Arum drawls, and the little knight does a poor job of hiding the way Arum's tone makes him wince. Or, perhaps he did not intend to hide it at all. "So you wish to do precisely what the Senate wanted us to, then?"

"By no means," the knight says, jerking his head sharply. "It may be a foolish idea-"

"The reasoning is sound," Amaryllis interrupts, firm, and the knight glances towards her with a grateful smile.

"Well- I hope so. I thought, perhaps- we duel often, you see, to keep our skills sharp, to settle inconsequential matters, to-" he cuts himself off, his cheeks darkening, and then he shakes his head. "So- so I thought, perhaps, that if we cannot strike upon a magical means of weakening this affliction, then maybe there could be a more physical method. If your body remembers- remembers warmth enough to trouble your sleep when you are lacking, then... perhaps your body may remember the strain of our physical activities together as well."

Arum frowns, both grateful and furious with the poet for avoiding the mention of what precise heat his body remembers. It is embarrassing in the extreme, of course, but it is almost more embarrassing that Damien seems to know to avoid specificity in the matter. "So you believe that we may... knock some sense into me, as it were."

Amaryllis chokes a laugh, which is oddly gratifying. Damien, for his part, looks mournful again, wide-eyed and worried.

"I have no desire to hurt you," he insists.

"And yet you wish to fight."

"To duel," Damien says. "To spar, if that phrasing is more... acceptable."

"We do this often?" Arum says, doing nothing to hide his skepticism, and then he eyes Damien, unarmed as he is. Arum, on the other hand, is armed. Excepting his time in their room the night before, his knives have been carefully strapped to his person since the Keep allowed Damien to leave, the first morning they woke together. He... believes that they are earnest, now, yes, but he is not so foolish as to leave himself without defense.

"Like, kind of annoyingly often," Amaryllis says, leaning against a thick tree trunk and crossing her arms over her chest, and the poet's lips press together in something of a pout. "I don't really get it, but yeah."

"It-" Damien furrows his brow, and then he sighs. "If you think the idea ridiculous, or if- if you do not trust that I will not hurt you- if you do not agree, Arum, then obviously we will not try it. We can find another thread to pull, for the afternoon. I only thought-"

"I am unconcerned that you will harm me, little poet," Arum says, halfway to a snarl, and Damien stills, his lips pressing together in an expression that Arum cannot quite read. "And I do think the idea is ridiculous. However..." he growls, looking away for a moment. However. The story they and the Keep have told him piecemeal over the last day-and-half still spins uncertainly in Arum's mind, the idea that he and this slight, soft-eyed little human have clashed steel before and matched evenly-

Arum still cannot quite accept it. He believes them, trusts the pain in their eyes if nothing else, but the idea that he would have lost to so gentle a creature- it simply does not make sense. A duel, a contest of skill, now- Arum cannot say if he is at all convinced it may do anything to loosen the grip of this curse, but nevertheless Arum is tempted. If only, he thinks, for the chance to prove himself.

"However?" Sir Damien echoes, softly, and Arum snaps back to himself.

"If the both of you think it may have a chance..." he shrugs, feigning nonchalance. "It is worth exploring, I suppose."

"Again," Amaryllis says, lifting a pointed hand, "it makes sense, but I don't think we should-"

"Get our hopes up," Arum finishes. "Obviously."

Amaryllis' lip curls up, not quite a smile, and then she shoots a look towards Damien. "Be careful, remember," she says sternly, and the poet presses a hand over his heart.

"I swear," he says. "Always."

The look on Amaryllis' face at that leads Arum to suspect that the poet is not, in fact, always careful. Arum frowns.

"How shall we begin, then? I imagine you suggested that we come to the greenhouse because it will give us ample space, correct?"

"Yes." Damien gives a small sort of smile. "The game is to try to pin each other. Despite Rilla's- frequent suggestions, we have... not yet transitioned to sparring with practice weaponry. Bladed combat is your preferred, and I am rather flexible, so typically we duel with knives." He pauses. "Yours, if you would be willing to allow me the use of one. Otherwise- well, I could ask the Keep to allow me to step into Rilla's hut for a moment to retrieve-"

"We may as well do this properly," Arum says, shrugging, and then he draws one of his knives and, on a strange sort of whim, whips it out to sink into the bark of the tree beside Damien's head. The knight does not flinch, surprisingly, though he does blink as the Keep warbles a chastising note. "Oh be quiet," Arum mutters. "The bark is thick, it will be fine."

Damien turns, carefully pulling the blade back out, his fingers curling around the hilt with a reverent sort of delicacy.

Arum unstraps one set of hilts, hanging them from another tree nearby, then draws his remaining blade, holding it unthreateningly at his side as he spares a look towards Amaryllis.

"Your priorities fascinate me, just so you are aware," he mutters. "Though you did not deign to ask, I will assure you as well that I will exercise caution. I will not cause the poet any undue harm."

Amaryllis presses her lips together, nearly smiling. "Appreciate that," she says after a moment, her tone very strange, and then she shoots Damien a look.

The poet shakes his head. "Keep, if you would?"

Arum blinks, but the Keep sings a note of acknowledgment and shutters the skylights slightly, dimming the greenhouse to a more muted palette.

"So no one may claim that the sun were in his eyes," Damien explains with a wry smile, and Arum wonders briefly which of them that particular amendment were made in deference to. "Is there anything else you need? A moment to collect yourself, or-"

"I am fully prepared to best you," Arum snaps, unsettled by the gentle concern in the poet's voice. "Are you ready?"

The poet inhales very slowly, exhales tranquility, my Saint in a breath, and then his lips tilt into a crooked smile.

"I am," he says.

"You are remarkably amenable to the situation," Arum says slowly, stalking closer, "considering that I did, in fact, nearly kill you yesterday morning. I feel I should give you another guarantee, for the sake of your comfort. I will not hurt you beyond what is necessary to beat you. You need not fear for your life."

"You sound so utterly certain," Damien says, a grin flashing across his face despite the pain in his eyes. "So confident that you will be the one of us who needs show mercy."

"I've never lost, little poet," Arum growls, stiff, and Damien glances for half a moment towards Rilla, and then he laughs.

"Ah, I am terribly sorry to disabuse you of that notion," he says, and Arum's scales prickle at the indulgent tone in his voice, "but that is no longer quite true, I should say."

Arum pauses, stewing in that assertion for a moment before he retorts. "He may have," he rumbles, attempting to smooth over his discomfort with cool, patient anger. "I have not."

"Hm," Damien says. "Yes, not to your memory, I suppose. I am sorry as well that we shall be so unevenly matched in this endeavor, friend monster."

"I will not tie two hands behind my back if you think that will make us more even, littl-"

"Oh," Damien laughs, "no, rather the opposite, in fact. It might be rather more fair if we gave you all the rest of your knives to match my one, I think, but I imagine that may injure your pride rather more than you would allow."

Arum pulls his head back, his lip curling over his teeth in a shocked sort of fury. "What?"

"I've a rather distinct advantage, I'm afraid."

Arum's eyes scrape down Damien's body, his lithe frame, his loose, unprepared stance, the knife held so casually in one delicate hand, and then raise up again to his smug smile. Arrogant thing, he thinks, hissing disdainfully. In need of a lesson. Arum should end this foolish little duel before it begins.

Arum darts forward, faster than a human should be able to see, but-

But Damien moves, a breath before Arum does, backstepping around Arum's lunge without even raising his knife.

"Ah," he says calmly as Arum exhales in shock. "So, we have begun, then? Very well, Lord Arum."

In the heartbeat it takes for Arum to regain his senses, the knight shifts his stance and raises his arm, scraping the length of his blade along Arum's own in a fluid motion, and as Arum flinches back Damien takes a calmer step away and assumes a stance-

A stance that tickles familiar in the back of Arum's mind.

A distraction, whether intentional or not, and Arum raises his blade again just in time to block Damien's first quick, testing strike. Arum growls instinctively, and the knight's mouth curves into a small, strange smile as he swings his knife again, an elegant practiced arc, and Arum blocks, catching the blades together.

"I've had quite a bit of practice," Damien says evenly, over the light scraping of metal on metal, "dueling with you, friend lizard." He angles his body, moving his wrist in such a way that he uses their clashing blades to draw Arum's face closer to his own, a molten heat in his eyes that Arum cannot seem to look away from. "Perhaps I should go easy on you, let you warm up a little."

Damien disengages, spinning as he steps away again, his footwork light as the wind, and it is not until he is no longer so close, until he is no longer invading Arum's space with his heat and his musical voice, it is not until he is out of reach that Arum realizes what the poet actually said. He snarls, sputtering as he brandishes his knife between them.

"Go easy on me? Arrogant- absurd, I do not need such practice to simply skewer such a foolish creature-"

"Go on and prove it, then," Damien says, his voice warm and unbothered.

Arum snarls again, crouching lower and watching the human step carefully, edging in an arc around Arum, and then Arum spins, whipping with his tail-

Sir Damien jumps over the tail with ample time, and he does not pause in the descent, swinging his arm down, the blade flashing, and Arum barely deflects the blow, and he needs to roll away to avoid Damien's next two quick strikes.

"Ah, yes," Damien grins wide as he continues to flash his wrist out, relentless as Arum blocks and parries and skips back, trying to get out of range. "It took some time to learn to anticipate that one, I will admit. You've certainly put me on my back more than once with that trick- though you've since needed to find means a bit more clever-"

"Must you-" Arum hisses, ducking, spinning, this little knight is quick, not as fast as Arum in technicality but with each movement Arum makes, Damien aims a blow towards whatever new opening Arum makes. "Must you chatter so, even-" another gasp, and then Arum leaps aside, putting enough space between Sir Damien and himself that he can catch his breath, can manage a sneer. "Not even in this do you cease prattling?"

"If I have breath enough to speak," Damien says, twirling Arum's knife absently between his fingers, "why should I not? I'm quite enjoying my time."

The knight's cheeks are flushed, just barely dark, but his aforementioned breath is even and easy and Arum hisses to hide his own gasping. "Are you?" Arum growls, and something in his stomach twists at Damien's warm smile.

"I always do," he says with a shrug, and then he darts forward, his next set of strikes less swift, but more forceful, more precise. "The exhilaration, the adrenaline of combat, but with the assurance of safety, the knowledge that it will end in laughter, rather than blood- oh, yes, I always take a rather great deal of pleasure in our time together, Lord Arum."

Arum tries to focus on his movements, on holding his ground enough that Damien cannot begin to crowd him backwards again. His words are- distracting, however.

"Is this- your tactic, then? Chattering away, sapping focus-"

"If you cannot focus on your blade and my words at the same time, Lord Arum-"

Arum swings his knife out viciously at that, and Damien grins hard as he spins out of the way. "Ah, there you are-"

His words are distracting- Arum steps back, steps back again, knows that he is losing ground. Damien lashes out, a strike Arum realizes he will not be able to counter, and the lizard throws himself backwards instead, unaware enough of his surroundings that he does not notice the tree behind him until his shoulder collides with it painfully.

"Ah-"

"Oh," Damien pauses, his eyes widening in concern, "oh- are you alright? I didn't mean-"

"Don't patronize me," Arum snaps, ignoring the bruising sting and darting forward. He swings his arm, their blades ringing against each other once, twice, and then on the third blow Damien pushes back enough that they are pressed close, their metal meeting between them with the edges of their blades scraping in a discordant song.

Damien twists his blade oddly against Arum's own, catching the hilts together and wrenching Arum's wrist at an odd enough angle that the lizard needs to lean his body forward to avoid dropping the hilt in pain.

Damien is too close, suddenly, pressing forward at the same time that Arum does, and then he maneuvers his leg just as Arum tries to step away, hooking his ankle behind Arum's and simply allowing Arum's own attempted movement to unsteady him, making his tail swing in a wild arc as he raises his arms to attempt to rebalance, but then-

Damien places his free hand, palm open, directly over Arum's heart, and pushes.

Arum's back hits the dirt before he fully knows what happened, breath escaping in a rush and his knife flying aside with a dull bouncing thud against the ground, and then Damien drops over him, knees on either side of his waist, pinning his lower arms against him as the knight presses his free arm over Arum's sternum like the trunk of a tree, holding him down.

Arum can hardly breathe, not from the pressure but from the surprise, from the rush, from the heat of Sir Damien crowding so exquisitely close, and the knight's eyes are bright and focused and intense. Then, Sir Damien raises his other hand.

The one with which he holds Lord Arum's knife.

Damien swings the blade down, and Arum remembers with self-loathing viciousness the burnt letter from the Senate, remembers the hateful whispery certainty of the hand which wrote the human infection will destroy you-

Arum closes his eyes.

He feels the rush of air on the scales of his face, hears a dull thunk, but-

No pain. No bloom of heat, no pulse of awareness of the blade plunging into his shoulder, his chest, his neck, and his eyes flutter back open in confusion to see how in the name of the Universe the human managed to miss-

The knife is planted in the dirt beside Arum's head; he can see the reflection of his own wide eye in the sheen of the blade. Damien is much closer now- necessary, of course, considering his grip on the hilt, but- but Arum can feel the way his chest moves with his panting breaths, can taste the adrenaline and sweat on the air, can hear Damien's heart, pounding steady, a sturdier beat than the frantic race of his own. The poet stares down at him, his eyes hot and hypnotic, and whatever biting comment Arum intended to make about Damien's aim dies on his tongue before he manages to open his mouth.

"Well, well," the poet says, and his voice is a low, sonorous, strange drawl as he leans heavy over Arum, one hand planted palm-flat to the dirt next to his face, the other (the hand that planted the knife on the other side) trailing up his shoulder, towards his neck. "It looks like the smallest trap is the one you finally fell for."

"I-" Arum blinks. "What?"

"And now," Damien continues, his sharp eyes flicking between Arum's own, "here you are, pinned beneath my claws..."

Damien's hand trails up his neck, his expression far more focused, now, than it had been during the fight, and then he grips Arum's throat, firm and possessive but not hard, not impeding his breath, and Arum- Arum's heart rushes prey-quick even as he understands what Damien is doing.

The words- the nonsense words, not nonsense at all- they must be what Arum himself had said, during one of their duels. Coming from this fierce, surprisingly skillful little creature, they make Arum feel flushed with heat that seems to pulse out from every single inch of his body where Damien touches him.

"A-ah," Arum manages, but not much besides. He cannot even convince himself to struggle against Damien's weight, Damien's hands.

Damien's expression shifts when he realizes that Arum has caught on. He leans closer, his grip on Arum's throat pressing gently to tilt his head to the side, letting him lean closer to murmur in Arum's ear.

"I love to make you panic," he breathes, and Arum flexes all his claws at once. "The sound of your pounding heart makes my stomach growl."

Arum-

Laughs. He cannot quite help himself, despite the fact that his heart is, in fact, pounding, and Damien blinks in surprise.

"Did I- did I really- I said that to you?" he manages, still feeling too hot, too crowded. Sir Damien is... very close.

The poet manages something like a smile, then, though he does not look happy. Arum imagines that he had been hoping... well, hoping that his words would trigger what the physicality of their duel did not. "You did," he says quietly, and his grip on Arum's neck softens, his thumb brushing along Arum's jaw in a way that makes his scales tingle with electricity. "Before you decided not to kill me."

Arum... is not quite certain, about that. Arum knows himself- likes to think he knows himself, at the very least, knows the layers of his lies, and if Damien's words are truly an echo of Arum's in the past, then Arum does not think he could have more obviously begged the knight to acknowledge him, to banter back, if he had outright said so. Could not have said that he preferred Damien alive more blatantly if he had presented his own neck for the blade instead. Perhaps he had not admitted it even to himself, yet, but-

"Ridiculous," he mutters, low and less biting than he would prefer.

Damien leans back, just slightly, his tawny eyes flicking between Arum's own, and his expression softens from his strained smile, going earnest and mournful and strange. He hesitates, biting his lip, and then he lifts his hand from Arum's jaw, drifting his fingers up the scales of Arum's cheek. His touch still feels- hot, sparking, as if the contact were prompting a small fissure of magic at the point they meet, and Arum holds his breath so that he does not gasp, instead.

Damien swallows, his heart beating a little faster, and then his lips part.

"Do you want... to try this?" Damien murmurs, his voice thick with sorrow and desire. "To try... us?"

Arum's breath catches in his throat, and he cannot seem to tear his eyes from Damien's-

He realizes, after a heartbeat, that he does not want to.

"I..." Arum swallows, tries to feel anything besides desperate and wanting. He tries, but- but their eyes, their voices and their tears and their hands- the sound of their hearts- the way the keep reaching for him- "I- I do. I do, Damien, I-"

Arum leans up. He feels- cracked through, his defenses tattered beyond salvage, if they want him- if they truly want him- Arum wants to try, to see if he is capable of earning the loyalty and affection these creatures continue to offer, again and again despite how viciously Arum pushes their hands aside. He wants to. He leans up, because he wants Damien to lean down.

Damien's eyes widen, his breath hitching, his muscles tensing, and Arum realizes with a sensation akin to his stomach falling through the floor that Damien's words were not the true question he assumed they were, not now, not in this moment, they were only-

Another echo. Another attempt to trigger a memory that Arum simply does not have. He was not asking- he does not want-

He does not want me, Arum thinks. He wants back only what he once had.

Arum drops his head, his horns pressing indents into the dirt beneath him, and he closes his eyes. Foolishness- foolishness he cannot even deny, now, and for what? For Damien to flinch away from him, to furrow his brow and pull back-

"Off," Arum manages through his teeth. "You've won."

"Arum, I'm-"

"Get off," he snarls, and when he feels Damien flinch above him he adds, quietly, "please."

The knight pulls away. Arum feels cold, and he hears Damien's feet scuffing in the dirt as he moves to stand again, and Arum forces himself to open his eyes again. He curls up, rolling to sit so he can rub at his shoulder for a moment, pretending to test the bruise to give himself a moment to breathe. His eyes flick up despite himself, just as Amaryllis reaches to grip Damien's wrist, squeezing with her lip twitching in a small, comforting smile, and some of the churning despair on Damien's face eases, and then they both look towards him, and Arum drops his eyes back to the dirt with his insides burning, and he hates-

He wants-

He digs his claws into the dirt and then shoves himself to stand. He brushes off his cape, and reaches down to retrieve his blades to slip back into their sheaths.

"Well," Arum says. "I suppose we should be grateful that none of us got our hopes up."

~

[End Notes: I really don't know very much about How Fighting Works, forgive me <3 ]

[roman-writing]

you search the mountain (2/4)

Fandom: World of Warcraft

Pairing: Jaina Proudmore / Sylvanas Windrunner

Rating: M

Wordcount: 20,005

Summary: The borders of Kul Tiras are closed to all outsiders. Sylvanas, Banshee Queen, hopes to use the impending civil war in Boralus to her advantage, and thereby lure Kul Tiras to the side of the Horde. A Drust AU

Content Advisory: horror, blood, gore, typical Drustvar spooky deer shit

read it below the cut, or you can read it here on AO3

Notes: I swear this was supposed to be a horror story and not a comedy

--

The sun was beginning to set in earnest. It slanted through the vasty boughs of Gol Inath. Everything was cast in a fading lavender hue, which slowly slipped to something darker. The runes carved into the archway seemed to come alive in the gathering shadows. Overhead, a few ravens wheeled in circles, while others still perched in watchful silence. The eyes of nocturnal animals lurked through the underbrush along the outskirts of the clearing, and though she and the High Thornspeaker were the only two people present, Sylvanas could not help but feel that they were not alone. 

“You’re Jaina Proudmoore?” Sylvanas could not keep the disbelief from her tone. 

Rather than be muffled by the skull, the sound of Jaina's voice seemed to reverberate from within a cave of hollow bone. “I don’t recall telling you my family name. That and the fact you thought I was Ulfar means I’m obviously the one you’re looking for. Why?”

Sylvanas let her gaze rove across Jaina. She had been expecting a slip of a girl. Maybe twenty years old. But while Sylvanas could not see Jaina’s face, her hair was mostly white, streaked with gold, and pulled into a braid over one shoulder. “You’re older than I thought you’d be.” 

“An intruder and a flatterer. Will wonders never cease?” There was a surprising flair of dry humour in Jaina’s words. “Now, I am even more puzzled. Did I kill you?”

At that, Sylvanas let loose a snort of laughter. “No.”

“Well, that’s good. Otherwise this would be awkward. Or -- well -- more awkward, anyway,” said Jaina. When she shifted her weight, Sylvanas glanced down. It was then she realised that Jaina’s bare feet, like her hands, seemed to be carved from the same wood as her staff. “Were you hoping I could reverse your…” she waved a clawed and wood-gnarled hand towards Sylvanas. “...unique condition?” 

It was so reminiscent of Katherine -- the movements, the phrasing, the timbre of her voice, the overall mannerisms -- that Sylvanas no longer harboured any doubts that this was, in fact, Jaina Proudmoore. Or at least someone very closely related to the Lord Admiral. Good enough. 

Shaking her head, Sylvanas said again, “No.”  

“That's a relief. Because it would be nearly impossible.”

Sylvanas stared at her. “Nearly?” she repeated, incredulous.  

“There are some rare exceptions to the rule. I can’t recommend it, to be honest.” Jaina made a dismissive little gesture, as if she couldn’t be troubled with complex explanations of death magic. “If I didn’t kill you, and you don’t want me to fix your Undeath, then why are you looking for me?”

It was tempting to drag the conversation back towards those ‘rare exceptions’ spoken of, but Sylvanas resisted the curiosity gnawing at the base of her neck. She realised she was biting the inside of her cheek with a thoughtful narrowing of her eyes, and put a stop to it. Lifting her chin, she nodded towards Jaina. “Everyone thinks you died.”

“Who’s saying they’re wrong?”

Sylvanas scowled. Not for the first time, she wanted Jaina to remove that damnable skull so she could see her face. “You look very alive to me.”

The curved end of the staff tilted towards Sylvanas in an all encompassing gesture. “I could say the same of you. Appearances can be deceiving, as we both know.” The skull lifted slightly, drawing closer as though Jaina were sniffing the air. “When did you die? Four years ago? Five?”

Shooting her an ugly look, Sylvanas said, “Over a decade ago.”

“Well, that can’t be right. The grave smells more recent on you.” 

“I think I would remember my own death,” Sylvanas said dryly. Then she added with a sneer, “Not that it’s any of your business.” 

Shrugging, Jaina lowered her grip upon the staff so that her stance appeared more relaxed. “I have as much a right to ask you a few personal questions, as you do to barge into my home with drawn weapons.”

Sylvanas pointed to the tree and their surroundings. “Your forest is a nightmare. I was simply prepared for the worst. And besides,” she shrugged at the bow over her shoulder. “I did not shoot you.”

“Your restraint is admirable.”

Sylvanas nodded. “Mmm. Yes. I thought so, too.”

“And after I’ve been so rude to a guest, as well,” Jaina drawled. “However shall I repay you?”

“A formal introduction might be a good start.” 

“It seems you don’t need one. You already know my name. I’m the only one here still in the dark.”

Lifting her open hand, Sylvanas placed it over her own heart. It was an elvish military salute, and something she had never been able to rid herself of no matter how many years had passed. “Sylvanas Windrunner.” 

Jaina did not return the gesture in any regard. "So, Sylvanas Windrunner. You’ve found me. Now, what do you want?”

“Your mother sent me.” 

The lie came easily to Sylvanas’ lips. Jaina’s head jerked as though she had been struck. Her grip upon the staff tightened once more, and Sylvanas swore she saw a glint of eyes through the skull’s sockets, like the glimmer of cold and distant starlight.

“An intruder. A flatterer. And now a liar, too.” The darkness of Gol Inath’s hollow seemed to gather at Jaina’s back, like a protective shroud or a display of something else. Impatience, perhaps. Or a growing ire. “I am seriously beginning to reconsider my decision to not kill you. For good, this time.” 

In response, Sylvanas lifted an unimpressed eyebrow. “Then I count myself fortunate to have such a merciful hostess.” 

Slowly, Jaina moved forward, close enough that their shoulders brushed. The shadows clung to her as she moved. She was tall without the antlers, but with them she seemed that much more imposing. Her face remained hidden behind the mask, but the skull followed Sylvanas with an unblinking stare. And then Jaina had stepped past her. She looked out at the waterfalls plunging over the roots of Gol Inath. "Even if you weren't lying -- which you clearly are -- why would my mother send an undead elf runt to find me?"

Sylvanas bristled, but refused to rise to the bait. Still, she moved forward to stand at Jaina’s side. "The Lord Admiral’s political rivals circle over her. Civil war is coming to Kul Tiras."

"That doesn't sound like my problem."

"I should think civil war affects all Kul Tiran citizens. That includes the Drust."

Jaina continued to face the water, refusing to acknowledge that Sylvanas had moved at all, as though utterly unconcerned with her guest's presence. "A key prerequisite of being a Kul Tiran citizen is having the ability to own land. The Drust haven't been allowed to own land for nearly three hundred years."

"You would let Drustvar fall into the hands of a rival House on a technicality?"

"I have no intention of letting Drustvar fall into anyone's hands but my own."

This was not how the conversation was supposed to go. Jaina was supposed to be young, naive, optimistic, easy to manipulate. She was not supposed to be...whatever this woman was. Calm. Confident. Bored. 

That last one in particular stung. Sylvanas was used to people finding her many things, but boring was not one of them. 

Sylvanas crossed her arms and glowered out at the waterfalls sending up the thick preternatural mist that slunk through the Crimson Forest. "Last I checked, the region was ruled by Lucille Waycrest. Not you."

"What was that about technicalities again?" Now, Jaina just sounded amused. "Lucille and I have an understanding. She may live in Waycrest Manor with her Tides-given titles, but we all know who really controls Drustvar."

"You think Lord Stormsong and Lady Ashvane care about your little arrangement? All they see is a target." Sylvanas pointed to the skull, drawing a circle in the air with her finger as though painting a bull’s eye. Jaina did not move in the slightest despite this intrusion. "Your position is weak. Lucille will be toppled, and your 'understanding' will be in shreds within a few years."

"Let them come."

This air of calm self-assurance was starting to grow tiresome. Mostly because Sylvanas half-believed what Jaina said to be true. Almost. That was by far the most irritating thing. 

She launched her next words like a barb. "Your mother is dying."

Whatever reaction she had been expecting, it wasn’t for Jaina to nod solemnly. "Yes. I imagine she is,” she mused, looking out over the water. “Everybody dies. I didn't think I would need to lecture a corpse about that."

Sylvanas had to stop herself from grinding her teeth. She could feel the muscles in her jaw bunch together regardless. "She needs you. Kul Tiras needs you."

Jaina snorted and shook her head in a rustle of bone and leaves. "My mother sent me away when I was twelve years old. My father refused to speak my name after I’d left until the day he died. And Kul Tiras would never accept me given my background. I am too much like the thing they fear, now. They do not want me."

"I never said Kul Tiras wanted you. I said they needed you. They need an Heir to House Proudmoore."

"Then they should have thought of that before they let my father send my brother to the gallows in Unity Square. Tandred was the last Heir to House Proudmoore. Not me."

"Do you really want the Navy to be commanded by the likes of Lady Ashvane? Or Lord Stormsong?" Sylvanas snapped.

"Hang the Navy."

It was the first time a hint of a growl entered Jaina’s words. The sound was low and rumbling and far too animalistic to have been made by the human voice. Sylvanas’ ears pricked up slightly. She straightened her shoulders, her eyes coal-bright and curious. Finally. An opening. Something she could use. 

“Ah, yes. I’d heard about your brother.” Sylvanas tapped at her chin. “Something about helping the Horde, wasn’t it? Such a shame that your father did not look kindly upon acts of philanthropy to those in need.”

At last, Jaina turned her head to look at her, and it felt like a victory just to have her attention. “Are you in need of my ‘philanthropy’?” she sounded incredulous. 

It was Sylvanas’ turn to pretend to be aloof. “No. But as the Warchief of the Horde, I am always seeking alliances that will make us stronger.”

Jaina twitched in surprise, and the skull tilted to one side as though she were studying Sylvanas with far more interest. "You're no orc."

"I see Kul Tiras really has been living under a rock for the last decade,” said Sylvanas with a huff of wry laughter. “The Horde is far more than a gaggle of mindless orcs these days."

Now, Jaina had turned fully towards her. More progress. "And yet you died over a decade ago, you said? Which implies you are a product of the Scourge.” 

The empty space within the crook of her sickle staff burned with a bluish light, and the air suddenly reeked with the smell of arcane magics. Sylvanas tensed. Her hand made an abortive jerk towards her bow, but then the brief crackle of energy died away.

Jaina hummed a thoughtful note. “I don't sense anything demonic about you."

Still tense -- wary and ready to act upon a moment’s notice -- Sylvanas lowered her arm. "I make a point of not sharing my head with anyone. Especially where demons or liches are concerned."

"Finally, something we can agree on." Gesturing between the two of them, Jaina asked, "And what exactly would you get out of this proposed alliance?"

Sylvanas flashed a grin. "A friend."

At that, Jaina grunted. Silence descended as she chewed over the idea. "You're charming…"

Sylvanas' grin widened slightly.

"...but not that charming." Jaina straightened to her full height, which was fiendishly tall. Far too tall for Sylvanas’ tastes. Humans had no right being able to loom like that. "What do you really get out of this? And don't give me that bullshit about friendship."

The grin slipped from Sylvanas’ face, replaced instead by an expression that was more exasperated than anything else. "You really are your mother's daughter, aren’t you?” When Jaina’s only reply was to quietly glare at her, Sylvanas relented. "I want Kul Tiras to open its borders to the Horde."

“And is that all?” Jaina pressed.

“Would I lie to you?”

“You already have. Several times, I might add.” Jaina tapped her thumb against her staff. The motion rattled a cluster of crows’ skulls at her waist. “How do I know you're not working with Ashvane and Stormsong already?"

Baring her teeth, Sylvanas said, "Because if I were, I wouldn't have approached your sacred tree alone. I would have come with an army to burn it to the ground."

“You really do have a way of endearing people, don’t you?” Jaina said, not the least bit impressed. “No wonder my mother threw you out on your ass. That is what happened when you approached her with this proposition, I assume?”

Sylvanas glowered, but said nothing. It was answer enough.

“Of course, it is.” Jaina’s laugh was a low chuckle of amusement. “Why would I help you?”

“The goodness of your heart,” said Sylvanas, unable to keep the sarcasm from her tone. 

Jaina scoffed. “You’re not a shipwrecked orc in need of hull repairs. You’re a war profiteer.”  

“I had hoped you would be swayed by some manner of loyalty to your dying mother,” said Sylvanas, but the low blow did very little it seemed.  

“Don’t pretend to care about my mother, Warchief Windrunner.”

“Pretend?” Sylvanas repeated, feigning offense. “I’ll have you know, she invited me to the Keep for a cup of tea. If she were in better health, we could have reached an understanding.”

“If she were in better health, she would have shot you,” Jaina said dully.  

“Whatever helps the negotiation process,” Sylvanas drawled with a wave of her hand. Then she leaned a little closer, trying to peer past the impenetrable shadows of the skull’s eye sockets, searching for any hint of Jaina’s face. “Haven’t you thought about what you could do as the Lord Admiral?”

Most people would have leaned away or taken a step back upon being in such close proximity with a walking corpse. Jaina on the other hand remained perfectly still. “I am happy where I am now.”

“Are you?” Sylvanas stepped forward. They were close enough to touch, but Sylvanas stopped just before that point. The skull tilted slightly, as though Jaina were having to lower her chin to continue looking at her. “If you became the Lord Admiral, you could change the laws of Kul Tiras. No more raids. No more witch burnings. No more unfair press into the Navy’s service. You could give back lands to the Drust that were confiscated when your very own ancestors arrived here in the first place. Think of it as -” she shrugged, “- reparations. Making amends. Setting things right once and for all.” 

There. A pause. A hesitation. The smallest gap in Jaina’s proverbial armour. If Sylvanas did not have such acute hearing, she would have missed the slight hitched breath beneath that mask. 

“Hmm,” said Jaina. This close, Sylvanas could hear Jaina’s exhalation brush against the plate of bone in front of her face. It was barely audible over the rush of water and the slough of a breeze through the surrounding foliage. “I still don’t trust you.”

Placing her open hand back over her chest, Sylvanas tried for an air of sincerity without appearing mocking. “Then allow me to prove my good intentions, Lady Proudmoore.”

Jaina made a noise as though she had just bitten into something sour or rotten. “Don’t call me that. I’m not that old.”

“High Thornspeaker is a bit of a mouthful.”

“They have the same number of syllables,” Jaina pointed out, but she sighed nonetheless. “Jaina, then. If you must.” 

“Very well, Jaina,” Sylvanas let the name linger on her tongue. “Give me a small temporary outpost in Drustvar, and I promise to be nothing but the most humble and respectful of guests. At any time, you may call upon me as needed, or send me away. Whichever you prefer.”

For a long while, Jaina said nothing. As their conversation had progressed, the air around them had grown dark. The moon was a sliver of liquid gold upon the horizon, peeking over the wild canopy. The ground here was littered with small bioluminescent flowers, which gathered closest around the great tree, glowing softly in time with the runes over the arch and those carved into the mask’s antlers, as though they were all connected by a single woven thread. When Jaina took a step back and turned away, the ground lit up at her feet. The small bioluminescent petals clustered within her footsteps so that she seemed to leave a trail of pale fire that faded in her wake. 

She did not go very far, only striding a few paces off to sit upon one of the stones half-buried in the ground at the base of the tree. The moment she touched the stone, the marks etched into its surface lit up like a lantern. Jaina paid them no heed. She sat. She rested her staff on the ground beside her. She crossed her legs and idly bounced her foot up and down as though deep in thought. 

One of the ravens swooped down from its branch to land on Jaina’s shoulder, and she waved it away. “Not now, Adalyn,” she admonished under her breath.

The raven cawed a loud complaint, but it flapped away again. Except this time it landed on a lower branch nearer Jaina, and fixed a beady black eye upon Sylvanas. 

Finally, Jaina turned her attention back on Sylvanas. “No hunting,” she said, holding up her hand to tick items off on her wooden fingers. “No fishing. No mining. No forestry. You will have a minimal presence. All civilian. No military. And you will stock no arms or ammunition either on shore or within twenty leagues of it.” 

“Agreed,” Sylvanas said without any hesitation.

“I will speak with Lucille. You’ll have your outpost within the fortnight. Though,” Jaina added, “you might consider keeping your head down. If my mother gets wind that you’ve established a presence here behind her back, there will be hell to pay.”

“I will be meek as a field mouse,” Sylvanas swore. 

Though Sylvanas could not see it, she had no doubt Jaina just rolled her eyes. “Somehow I don’t believe you.” Her foot continued to bob as she spoke. "Arthur will escort you back to Arom's Stand. It will be quicker with him showing you the way."

Sylvanas looked around the empty clearing. "Who?"

As if in answer, one of the smaller ravens wheeled down from the branches of Gol Inath. It landed on the ground a few paces away from Sylvanas. And then it shuffled its feathers, and began to grow. There followed a series of unpleasant snaps and groans, as though a tree were being felled, and then a deer was standing in the raven's place. Except it was like no deer Sylvanas had ever seen before. It appeared to be made partly of plant, and partly of bone and flesh. Its legs were clawed twisted trunks, and the collar of fur around its neck was a ruff of leaves. Sylvanas could see glimpses of pale ribs through its sunken skin, and glowing glyphs were tattooed into its flank. 

"Hi!" the deer said. "It's me. I'm Arthur. Nice to meet you."

The voice was most definitely coming from the deer, though its mouth did not move in any way. Its eyes were filmed over with the pale blue of death, but the deer flicked its tufted tail in a very lively manner. 

Slowly, Sylvanas looked up at the trees, at the numerous ravens eyeing her from their perches. Even at the gazes of nocturnal creatures that blinked owlishly at her through the underbrush. She tried counting them all, but soon lost track. Suddenly, Jaina's earlier threats about putting Sylvanas in the ground for good did not seem so empty. 

"I wasn't aware we had an audience." Sylvanas nodded to the trees. "You might have told me."

"To be honest, you came right in the middle of a lesson. One which I'm keen to get back to. You have very bad timing." Jaina shooed her away. "I will check in on you in a few months. And if you don't keep up your end of the bargain: I'll know."

"What if I want to speak with you sooner?"

"You still have my token. It will guide you safely through the forest just as it did before."

With a sour grunt, Sylvanas' hand drifted to the pouch where she kept the scrimshaw fang. She thought on wicker men and bad dreams. Perhaps instead, next time she would just go to the forest's edge and talk to the ravens until they fetched Jaina for her. 

Plastering on a false smile, Sylvanas bowed low at the waist. "The hospitality of the Drust is as infamous as they say. Thank you, High Thornspeaker. This meeting has been enlightening."

"Next time, let me know you’re coming, and I'll be sure to put on a pot of tea," Jaina said dryly. 

The raven from before, the one called Adalyn, had hopped down to a branch closer to Jaina, glaring over the High Thornspeaker's shoulder like a dour little body guard. Sylvanas was sure she had seen the same expression on Nathanos' face. 

Syvlanas turned towards Arthur. The deer was pawing at the ground with one clawed and cloven hoof. 

"Hop on up," Arthur's voice said. 

Sylvanas' brows furrowed. His back looked very spiny and not at all comfortable. "I don't suppose I can get a saddle?"

"I mean -?" Arthur started to say, glancing over at Jaina.

"Don't demean yourself Arthur," Jaina said. 

Arthur stamped his back hoof, and said to Sylvanas. "Sorry. No can do."

Muttering under her breath, Sylvanas hoisted herself easily onto his back. She shifted atop him, but couldn't find a good seat no matter what she did. 

"Ready?" he asked.

Before she could answer he started off on a bouncing trot away from Gol Inath. Behind them, Sylvanas could have sworn she heard laughter chasing after her, but perhaps that was simply the cry of the ravens. 

As Arthur picked up the pace, he said, "You might want to hold on."

"To what?" Sylvanas growled. 

He tossed his head, and she grabbed onto a tine of his antlers. Soon, his steps turned into leaps and bounds. He was sure-footed and swift, easily traversing the forest. Even so, Sylvanas was forced to hunker down low on his back to save herself from getting whipped by the passing branches. 

She missed her skeletal horses. They may not have been as fast, but at least they had saddles and didn't talk. And Arthur talked. Arthur talked a lot. 

"This is so exciting," he said as they raced along. "We haven't had outsiders at Gol Inath in -- well -- forever! And now all this talk about the Admiralty and invasion? Do you think we're going to have a big fight?"

A branch sailed right for Sylvanas' face. She ducked. "That depends," she said through grit teeth. 

"I've never been in a battle before.” He sounded excited at the idea, proving just how young he really was. “Killing constructs and undead at Gol Koval doesn't count."

His accent lacked the burr that other Drustvar inhabitants had. Sylvanas tightened her grip upon his antlers. "You don't sound like you're from Drustvar. How long have you been training as a druid?"

"Oh, I'm from a fishing village in southern Tiragarde Sound," he replied. "I joined the Drust a few years ago. My parents found me in the garden one winter. We didn't have enough food, so I'd made the squash patch grow right through the snow. For people like me, options are limited. You can go to the Monastery or join the Navy. Except Tidesages don't really do nature magic like that, you know? And life at sea isn't really for me. So, here I am."

Sylvanas mused over that for a moment. The silence did not last long however. Soon, Arthur was yammering away again. Some incessant drivel about how much he liked being with the Drust. How the change in his life had been dramatic but ultimately fruitful. 

Sylvanas made non-committal noises as he talked. Then, she interrupted, "How long has Jaina been High Thornspeaker?" 

"Four years, I think? Three? By the time I came around, she was already Ulfar's star pupil."

"And he chose her as his successor?"

"Oh, no. Not really. It just sort of happened during the fight with Gorak Tul. They went to Thros and -" Abruptly, Arthur cut himself off. His bounding gait slowed to a canter. "I'm not really supposed to talk about that."

"You can tell me,” she crooned sweetly. “We're allies now, aren't we?"

"I don’t know,” Arthur said, his tone uncertain. “Jaina would be mad at me."

"Does she get mad at you often?"

"Oh, no. She's very patient with me. Way more patient than my parents, or that recruiting Lieutenant from Boralus. I hated that guy.” Arthur slowed to a stop. “Hey, can you do me a favour?”

Sylvanas narrowed her eyes. "What kind of favour?"

When Arthur tossed his head, she was forced to let go of his antlers. "There's this -" He twisted his head around, his ears flicking back. "- really itchy spot on my neck."

Glowering, she hissed, "I am not your scratching post."

"Oh, come on. Please?" 

"I don't know why Jaina bothers with talk of demeaning yourself. Look at you."

He had twisted around, head lowered, so that he could scratch at his neck with one of his back hooves, like a dog trying to scratch behind its ear. Sylvanas had to cling to his back to keep from falling off and onto the ground. Briefly, she wondered how mad Jaina would be if she killed him, and then decided that it wasn't worth the trouble. 

"I will walk the rest of the way," she grumbled, but before she could slide from his back, he sighed.

"Okay. Got it." He straightened, and then shook his head with a huff of irritation. "Thanks for nothing. Geesh." 

Sylvanas' gaze burned scarlet as she glared at him. However, Arthur was either immune to the sense of immediate danger, or he really was that oblivious, for he continued on his way, chatting happily. This time, Sylvanas did not offer any noises to indicate that she was listening. She seethed in silence. 

The forest around them looked exactly the same as it had when she had first entered it. Thankfully, they did not pass the burnt ash tree and the wicker man, though Sylvanas watched for it, as though fully expecting to be dropped back into the nightmare loop that had been her life for the last three days. Arthur probably would have answered any other questions she posed, but she did not want to encourage him. Not that he needed it. 

Finally, after the longest few hours of her undeath, they reached the edge of the Crimson Forest. Dawn was a sliver cresting over the hills, painting the sky a pale pink. The moon still hung like a pendant at the throat of the world over the sea to the south west. Sylvanas lifted her head to peer up the cliffs directly ahead of them to the east. From here, she could just see a glimmer of lantern light from Arom's Stand high on the saddle of the mountain pass. 

Arthur slowed his pace, but continued trotting onto the road, clearly intending to carry her all the way back up to Arom's Stand as per his instructions. But Sylvanas leapt nimbly from his back. Her boots squelched in the mud of the road. 

Prancing around her, Arthur said, "Something wrong? If you needed to stretch your legs, you could've just said something."

Sylvanas bit back the urge to say something scathing. Instead, she began to stride along the road. "I will make my way from here. Thank you, Mr...?"

"Tradewind," he replied.

"Thank you, Mr. Tradewind."

"Don’t worry about it. You can call me Arthur.” He stopped in front of her, blocking her path. “And are you sure? I don't mind, and that hill is steep."

Teeth clenched, Sylvanas walked around him. She waved him away. "I am fine."

“Suit yourself.” 

She did not hear him bound away. There was a rustle behind her, the strident cawing of a raven, and he was gone in a flap of wings. 

It did not take long to climb the slope to Arom's Stand. The snows had melted slightly in her absence, though the further up the mountains she went, the deeper it became. The sun rose in time with her own movements up the hill. Soon she was bathed in the golden glow of daylight. The sun was a mixed blessing. The season was warming, but with it came the sludge of snowmelt mingling with the mud of the road. 

A falcon wheeled overhead. She paid it no heed, until it started circling her position. Then, she frowned up at it. When it circled lower until it was just a few meters above her head, Sylvanas sighed.

"You didn't have to send anyone else after me," she said to the sky. "I've left your damned forest."

"Are you talking to a bird?"

Sylvanas blinked. She turned to find Nathanos striding towards her from off the road. Of course. There were few people who could sneak up on her. Nathanos and her dark rangers were among them. 

As he approached, Nathanos put away his bow. "I am glad to see you unharmed. I shall have to tell Anya her coup is a no go."

"Very funny," Sylvanas growled. 

No sooner had he spoken Anya's name, than she and Velonara appeared on the nearby crest of the hill. They were followed by Notley from the Order of Embers. A furrow creased Sylvanas' brows when she saw that they flanked Notley as though he were a prisoner.

"Trouble?" she asked Nathanos. 

Nathanos seemed unrepentant. "We were worried for your safety, my Queen. Notley is a falconer, and we merely -" he trailed off for a moment, then shrugged, "- requested his immediate services."

Tilting her head back, Sylvanas looked incredulously between him and the falcon. The falcon itself was swooping back towards its master, who lifted his arm clad in a thick leather glove up to the elbow. Anya and Velonara were lengthening their strides now, leaving Notley behind so they could reach their Dark Lady's side. 

"I was only gone three days, Nathanos," Sylvanas admonished, as Anya and Velonara drew close enough to hear. "You panicked like a bunch of old hens."

"Three?" Velonara repeated.

"You were gone nine days," said Anya. 

Staring at them, Sylvanas shifted her gaze to Nathanos. He nodded. "When you did not arrive at the tavern in Arom's Stand on the seventh day, we tried to go into the forest after you."

"And how did that go for you?" Sylvanas asked.

"Not well," said Anya with a tone as dark as her expression. 

Trudging towards their little group, falcon on his arm, Notley said, "I told them not to. But they refused to listen. Said they were going to gut me like a fish if I got in their way."

Neither of the rangers nor Nathanos gave any indication that this was true. Then again, they did not deny it either. 

Sylvanas tsked in faux admonishment. “That’s no way to treat our newest allies.”

Of the four, the one who looked most surprised at this declaration was Notley. “You -?” he lowered his voice to a conspiratorial whisper, as though the forest below would eavesdrop. “You found the High Thornspeaker?” 

A silent meaningful glance was shared between Sylvanas and Nathanos. She smiled, baring a hint of fangs. “I did.’

--

True to her word, Jaina had arranged an outpost for the Horde within two weeks. During that time, Sylvanas and her rangers stayed in Corlain rather than suffer the indignity of the tavern at Arom's Stand for a moment longer. 

Not that Corlain was much better. It was the kind of town where the sad grey market every weekend was considered the height of culture by the locals. Sylvanas had seen less grim affairs in the sewers of the Undercity. The people of Drustvar were as accommodating as those in Boralus, which was to say: reticent to outsiders. Still, they did not chase the undead away with torches and pitchforks, which was an improvement on some of the places Sylvanas had visited in her lifetime. 

After thirteen days however, Sylvanas was stirred from her chair at the local inn by a rapping on the rain-lashed glass. When she went to open up the window, a filmy-eyed raven hopped inside the windowsill. 

"Finally," Arthur said, fluffing up all of his feathers so that he resembled a black hand duster. He shook his tail out. "Do you know it's pouring out there? I should have transformed into a duck instead, but Jaina keeps telling me it's not 'dignified.'"

"When will she learn that you're a lost cause?" Sylvanas drawled.

"Right?"

Rolling her eyes, Sylvanas said, "Well?"

"Huh? Oh! Yeah." Arthur made a sound as though he were clearing his throat, and he perched a little straighter. "Lady Waycrest has agreed to give you the Eastern Cliffs. It's an abandoned settlement near the lighthouse of Falconhurst."

Sylvanas sighed. "Wonderful. More impassable cliffs."

While this entire conversation was going on, Anya and Velonara had stopped their game of whist at the table. They had somehow managed to procure a deck of cards only a few hours after their arrival in Corlain, and picked up the game with a cunning and alacrity that had many of the locals cry foul. Which, in the locals' defense, Sylvanas reckoned was probably true. Velonara's hand was frozen mid-play, a card held between her fingers. They were both staring at the sudden conversation between their despot and a bird. 

For his part, Arthur's head cocked, and he hopped a little closer towards their table. "Hey! This lady's cheating! She's got some spare cards up her sleeve!"

Anya's deathly pale cheeks went faintly blotchy. She glared daggers at the raven. "Permission to shoot the bird, Mistress?"

"Permission denied," said Sylvanas. 

Throwing down her own hand, Velonara snatched Anya's wrist and wrenched the cards that had been stashed up Anya's bracers. 

Sylvanas ignored the ensuing squabble in rapid-tongued Elvish behind her, like the hissing of angry snakes. She turned to Arthur. "Is there anything else?"

"Do you have a towel? Can you give me a quick rub down?"

"That was a rhetorical question, Arthur."

"Yeah, well, mine wasn't. I had to fly for hours to get here, and I'm soaked."

Rather than dignify this with a response, Sylvanas shooed him back towards the windowsill and shut the window. He squawked at her indignantly from the other side of the glass, before he was ultimately driven off by the rain. 

It took another two weeks to bring in hand-picked members of the Horde to fill the outpost. Sylvanas had already sent word back to Orgrimmar of her plans, and a list of suitable candidates had been drawn up at her request. The small ship -- something harmless enough to slip past the Kul Tiran Navy patrols by pretending to be a neutral fishing vessel -- landed at Falconhurst on an auspiciously sunny day. The sun was a wan yellowish circle behind a thin layer of clouds. It felt like the first time Sylvanas had seen sunlight in years, even though it had been only been a few weeks of incessant rain. 

A handful of Forsaken and Tauren stepped off the ship and onto shore. The local fishermen on the docks did not give them more than a passing glance. As per Sylvanas' orders, the Tauren -- all of whom were druids -- arrived in various animal forms. Neither they nor the undead were considered an odd sight in Drustvar. Indeed, the most difficult part about keeping a low profile was trying to encourage her more zealous Forsaken followers that they needn't erect banners with her symbol upon them. This slight to her glory seemed to cause a few of them physical pain, and more than once she had to order Nathanos to go around at night to tear down a few tabards from the walls of their encampment. 

Less than a week had passed before Velonara was clearing her throat to get Sylvanas' attention. 

"What is it?" Sylvanas did not look up from where she was fletching a series of arrows. She had been forced to purchase the feathers from a hawker Falconhurst, who had been curious as to why she did not simply hunt for pheasant herself. He quickly nodded in understanding when she explained she would not hunt anywhere near the Crimson Forest, however. There was even a small discount offered for her supposed piety. 

"There are two women watching us from the tops of the cliffs," Velonara explained. 

Sylvanas tied off a section of gut around the fletching. "And you haven't scared them away yet? You're losing your touch."

"One of them claims to be the Lady Lucille Waycrest. She is demanding an audience."

Now, that did get Sylvanas' attention. She glanced up from her work. "Demanding? Is she, now?" Finishing off the arrow, she set it down and then rose to her feet. "We shouldn't keep one of our hosts waiting, then."

It was a quick walk up the switchback road leading over the saddle of the cliffs. Waves thundered against the shore below. Their outpost was placed on a small outcropping that was sheltered by a man-made shoal with a lighthouse erected at its very end. At night it almost appeared as though the lighthouse were floating above the tides. Now, the wind-battered lighthouse was peering out at the dusk-washed sea like a lantern. 

Most of the locals from Falconhurst avoided the Eastern Cliffs apart from a few fishermen, who favoured the docks. And yet, two dark shapes were standing near the cliff's edge. They were peering down at the outpost below. Over the whipping of the wind, Syvlanas could barely hear their murmured conversation. 

Sylvanas announced her presence by allowing her foot to kick loose a stone on the path. Both of the figures turned. One was carrying a lantern. She lifted it into the air, peering through the impending gloom of twilight at those who approached. 

"Lady Waycrest, I presume." Sylvanas stopped a few paces away, and tucked her arms behind her back in a comfortably militant pose. "I understand you wished to speak with me."

"Yes," said the woman holding the lantern. Her hair was dark, and her clothing fine. She studied Sylvanas with pursed lips. "I wish you'd approached me before approaching the Drust."

Sylvanas arched an eyebrow. "Oh? I was under the impression I was welcome here."

Lucille's mouth thinned even more. "You are. For now. But it is bloody inconvenient, you know, having you lot strolling about under Jaina's wing, while I'm kept in the dark."

With a nonchalant shrug, Sylvanas said, "Your arrangement with the High Thornspeaker is your own. How you go about your business is none of my concern. So, unless you're telling us to leave, we have very little to discuss."

"That's not what I'm here for." Drawing herself up -- she was short for a Kul Tiran, which meant she was only slightly taller than Sylvanas and Velonara -- Lucille gestured to the woman beside her. "I've been told you already know Mace?"

Sylvanas' eyes cut through the darkening air. Mace was fidgeting with the daggers sheathed at her waist. Her palms moved restlessly over the pommels until the metal was burnished smooth and bright. Her red hair was unmistakable. When Lucille gestured towards her, Mace inclined her head, her movements jerky, as though she had to remind herself to be deferential. 

"I do," Sylvanas said slowly. 

"Good. I'm assigning her as an escort to your outpost," said Lucille. She turned to Mace. "No starting fights. And report back to me every fortnight."

Meanwhile, Sylvanas's shoulders went rigid. "I beg your pardon?" she growled. "You will do no such thing."

Lucille frowned in her direction. "It's only fair," she said. "Jaina is having you watched."

"She isn't," Sylvanas insisted flatly.  

"Then what is that?" Lucille pointed over Sylvanas' shoulder.

Sylvanas turned to follow where Lucille was indicating, and spied a large raven shuffling along the branch of a nearby tree. The bird seemed to notice their attention upon it, for it went very still all of a sudden.

Eyes narrowing to crimson slits, Sylvanas raised her voice. "Is that you, Arthur?"

"What?" said Arthur. "No! No, I'm just a normal raven."

"Normal ravens don't talk, Arthur."

"Oh. Right. I mean -! Caw! Caw!"

Sylvanas had to unclench her teeth before she could speak to Lucille again. Her clawed gauntlets creaked, and she relaxed her hands. "A trade then. You leave Mace here, and take Velonara back to Waycrest Manor with you."

"What?" hissed Velonara at Sylvanas' elbow, too low for the humans to hear. Sylvanas slanted a dangerous glance in her direction, and Velonara fell silent. 

"Fine," agreed Lucille after a moment of thought. "Fair's fair. Just know that if she puts a knife between my ribs, Jaina will drown everyone at your little outpost."

"I'm well aware," Sylvanas drawled.

For some reason, that made Lucille relax. She even smiled. "Well, good. That's settled, then. Welcome to Drustvar, Warchief." Then, she nodded towards the ranger standing attentively at Sylvanas' side. "Velonara, was it? I have two horses stabled at the inn in Falconhurst. We can ride back towards the manor in the morning."

Velonara said nothing. Indeed, she gave no indication that she had even heard Lucille speak to her. She was too busy glaring awls into the back of Sylvanas' head. 

The tip of Sylvanas' ears twitched slightly in annoyance. "Are you going to answer Lady Waycrest?"

Velonara's expression remained implacable, but her voice was stiff when she inclined her head towards Lucille. "I will meet you there at daybreak."

Satisfied, Lucille strode off towards Falconhurst. Her step was unerring, if loud. The soles of her boots seemed to find every twig along the road. The moment she was out of earshot, Velonara rounded on Sylvanas. 

"I don't like this," she said in a low tone. "We are in hostile territory. You need a proper guard detail, and you were already under-protected when you decided to leave your Deathguards in Orgrimmar."

Sylvanas smiled as a pretense to bare a bit of fang. "I am more than capable of protecting myself. Besides," she gave a wry wave towards Mace, "I have a new bodyguard now."

As the conversation had continued, Mace had squatted down on the ground. She had procured a small block of wood from somewhere, and was now busy whittling away at it with one of her daggers. It took her a long moment to realise that both Sylvanas and Velonara were now watching her in silence. Her knife slowed against the woodgrain. She blinked up at them blankly. "Huh?"

"Yes, she seems very alert," Velonara muttered darkly. "I'm so relieved." 

"Don't forget me," said Arthur from his branch. "I'm still here."

Pinching the bridge of her nose, Sylvanas sighed. 

--

The next morning, Velonara left with Lucille back to Waycrest manor with strict instructions on sending back reports on the latest political and military movements every week. Nathanos and Anya took the news of the trade about as well as Velonara did, which meant that Sylvanas was forced to endure extra Forsaken guards around her quarters at the Eastern Cliffs at every hour of the day. 

Arthur also took the discovery of his presence to mean that he no longer needed to hide. He made a habit of roosting atop the first story eaves of the building that Sylvanas used as both personal quarters and a command centre. He would chatter away at her undead guardsmen, pestering them with questions and stories. 

Even worse, her guards cracked and eventually began to talk back to him. 

Sylvanas was pouring over a series of reports on the latest treaty update from Zandalar one evening, burning the midnight oil, when she first heard it. 

"So, wait -- you eat bodies? Why?" Arthur's chirpy voice was unmistakable over the sound of the waves against the nearby cliffs. 

There followed a rustle of chainmail rasping over a bony shouldered shrug. "It heals us. Makes us whole again."

"Woah. Really? Can you show me?"

A dry chuckle. "That's not the reaction we usually get, kid. But sure."

Tossing down the report onto the stack of paper on her desk, Sylvanas pushed back her chair, its legs scraping loudly against the wooden floorboards. She stormed over to the front door, and yanked it open. Immediately, her two guardsmen jerked to attention, their normally stooping backs ramrod straight.

Sylvanas glared at them and hissed. "You will refrain from developing a rapport with the bird. Understood?"

“Yes, Dark Lady,” one of them said.

“Of course, my Queen. Forgive us,” said the other. 

Sylvanas then aimed her glower upwards, where Arthur was poking his black-feathered head over the side of the thatched eaves. "Isn't it time for you to deliver your report to Jaina?"

Arthur's milky white eyes blinked at her. "Probably. How many days has it been?"

"Do you want me to write your reports, too?" she growled. 

"Would you? That would be really helpful."

"You are a terrible spy." She waved an irritable hand at him. "Go home. Before I let Anya shoot you."

"Someone's grouchy today,” he remarked, but took flight before Sylvanas could make good on her threats.

She glared after him, following his flight path until he was no more than a black speck disappearing over the hills. When she turned her attention back onto the guards, they gripped their polearms even more tightly. 

“Where is the other one?” she asked.

One of the guards lifted his hand and pointed with a flensed finger. Slamming the door shut behind her, Sylvanas stalked in that direction. It did not take her long to find Mace. As far as spies went, she and Arthur could not have been worse at their jobs if they tried. Mace spent her days throwing stones into the sea, or talking to the local fishermen, or hurling knives at a target dummy made out of a flour sack filled with straw. She never spoke with the undead more than necessary. Any time Anya or Nathanos reported her talking with members of the Horde was when she would question the Tauren about the Cenarion Circle and the Moonglade. 

Sylvanas found her sitting on a stump beneath the deep eaves of the command centre. Her back was turned to Sylvanas, and she gave no indication that she noticed her presence. Mace was hunched over something in her lap, and various trimmings heaped at her feet.

Standing behind her, Sylvanas watched as Mace’s hands bound three sticks together with twine into a roughly human frame. Next, she gathered dried leaves and twigs around the frame, tying them into place by circling the ball of twine in key sections. She worked methodically. Her restless disposition was well-suited to this kind of constant activity. 

When she was nearly finished, Sylvanas nodded towards the little wicker man. “What do they do?”

Without looking up, Mace shrugged. She was completely unsurprised by the sound of Sylvanas’ voice directly behind her. “Dunno. She likes them, though.”

“Who?”

“The High Thornspeaker.” 

The wicker man was beginning to take shape. Mace bulked it out with more leaves and twigs. It lacked any kind of head. Briefly, vividly, Sylvanas could remember the wicker man in the forest with its watchful skull. A skull which seemed, in retrospect, a near exact copy to the one Jaina wore. 

"What do you do with them when you've finished?" 

Mace grunted around a twig in her mouth, taking it and lashing it into place along one of the wicker man's legs. "Leave them at the edge of the forest, usually. They disappear in a few days. She takes 'em, see? Or, if you have to make camp, you stake one of these at your feet while you sleep. Protects you from ghosts and constructs and, y'know -" Mace waved a withered leaf at Sylvanas. "- banshees and the like."

"And you want to put one in my outpost as a housewarming gift," Sylvanas sneered. "Lovely. Thank you."

Unperturbed, Mace put the finishing touches on the wicker man. She bound the last bit of twine into place, and then weighed the wicker man between her hands for a final inspection. "Begging your pardon, ma'am, but I am sleeping here surrounded by you lot. I'll take what I can get."

Reaching down, Sylvanas snatched the wicker man from Mace's grasp. "This thing -" her voice was low and dangerous, "- will not save you from me. And I will not have it anywhere near my personal quarters."

Mace tongued the inside of her cheek. Then, she nodded towards the wicker effigy. "Don't like it much, do you?"

Sylvanas’ hand tightened around the wicker man until she heard the creaking of twigs and leaves. She straightened, forcing her fingers to unclench. Without the bear claws and a skull, this effigy was far less ferocious than its counterpart in the Crimson Forest. Still, it made her skin crawl to touch it. 

She looked between the wicker man and Mace. Her eyes narrowed to crimson slits. “Do you have any Drust in your family line?”

“My uncle Tavery,” Mace replied. She was shuffling around the supplies at her feet. Eventually she picked up a piece of wood, and began carving it with a knife. 

Sylvanas turned the wicker man over to study its construction. Mace had woven the twigs and leaves in such a way that they all interlinked over the effigy’s chest, as though framing its lack of a heart. A space to be filled by grim offerings. Sylvanas stroked her thumb over the area. “Tell me about Gol Inath.”

Shoulders tense, Mace hunched over her knife. She shot Sylvanas a wary glance over her shoulder. “You shouldn’t -- You shouldn’t say its name aloud so easily.”

“What is it?” Sylvanas repeated, impatiently enunciating every syllable. 

“The sacred tree. The entrance to Thros.”

“And what is Thros?”

Mace scowled at her. “Why are you asking me all these damn questions? If it’s information about the Drust you want, you should ask them. Not me.”

Gesturing with the wicker man, Sylvanas said, “Indulge me.”

For a moment Mace said nothing. She fiddled with the handle of the dagger, then turned back to whittling the small block of wood in her hands. It was beginning to take on the shape of a shaggy bear. “The Blighted Lands. A nightmarish place where nothing grows.” She gave the dagger a particularly vicious flick, tearing off a chunk of wood. “Hell, Warchief. Thros is Hell.” 

--

If there was one thing Sylvanas was very good at, it was being patient. She had waited to lure Arthas into a trap, pretending to be under the yoke of his will even when the Lich King’s powers had begun to wane. She had bided her time in joining the Horde, ensuring the alliances of both the Forsaken and sin’dorei. The living wanted everything urgently and immediately. On some days she could still feel that itch scratching just beneath her sternum, but today was not such a day.

She sat behind her desk at the Eastern Cliffs. Its surface was littered with papers and documents, bits of parchment with her notes scrawled across them in spidery lines. And though the watery sunlight of Kul Tiras washed through the windows of the building, the hearth was lit, more for light than for warmth. She had very little need of warmth these days. 

A map of Kul Tiras was spread out before her, its curling edges weighed down with various items -- an inkwell, a dog-eared book, a jar of sand for drying wet ink. Standing at the opposite side of the table, Nathanos leaned over and pointed to the map. “According to Velonara, Lady Waycrest has levied troops at Fletcher’s Hollow to fend off the Ashvane forces seeking to take the mines and foundry in that area. She has also sent troops to garrison Fallhaven, as it is the largest settlement in Drustvar that is accessible by sea. Drustvar has very few ships of their own, and certainly none that can rival the Great Fleet.”

Sylvanas’ elbow was propped on the chair of her arm. She curled her fingers into a fist and leaned her cheek upon it. “How many souls has she levied?”

He straightened and answered. “Fifteen thousand.”

Studying the map, Sylvanas hummed. “Not bad for a nation that traditionally doesn’t field an army.”

Nathanos gave a condescending little sniff. “It is nothing compared to what the Horde could muster at a moment’s notice.”

“Perhaps,” Sylvanas murmured. “But who needs an army when the only way to your land is by sea?” Reaching out, her hand drifted over the map towards Tiragarde Sound. She tapped her finger against Boralus. “And what about our beloved Lord Admiral? What has she been doing these last few weeks?”

“I have received news that she was visited by an Alliance envoy.”

Sylvanas glanced sharply up at him. “Anyone we know?”

“Genn Greymane.”

At the very sound of the name, Sylvanas’ lip curled. “And?”

“And Katherine sent him away as well.” Nathanos’ beard twitched in a smug smile. “She wanted nothing to do with the Alliance either.”

Sylvanas laughed, the sound sharp and short. She settled back in her chair, a smile still playing across her lips. “So, she sent the dog running with his tail between his legs. I knew I liked her.” 

Nathanos’ own smile faded. “Why haven’t we told her about finding her daughter alive? If it’s the Admiralty you want, we should be trying to curry their favour and uniting them.”

With a sniff, Sylvanas said, “You have no sense for the dramatic, Nathanos. You would be a very poor theatre performer.”

He offered a small bow in reply. “You flatter me.”

She let loose a gentle huff of laughter, turning her attention back to the map. “No, we wait. We let the Ashvanes tie their own noose. What will the people say? When the daughter of their beloved war hero, Daelin Proudmoore, returns from the grave to liberate the nation from a usurper House?” Sylvanas curled one loose corner of the map between thumb and forefinger. The parchment began to tear slightly, the rip aiming up between Drustvar and Tiragarde Sound. She studied it a moment, and then pulled her hand back. “Why, I think it might just be a cause for a celebration.”

“You mean: a coup,” Nathanos said.

“What’s a good party without a little bloodshed?” she said wryly. “Besides, I hear Kul Tirans are the brawling type. Think of it as a cultural experience. We are -” Sylvanas fluttered the fingers of one hand as though searching for the words. “-forging stronger ties with our future allies.”

“I am leaping for joy on the inside,” Nathanos replied in his flattest possible tone. “And if the Alliance should approach her daughter? What then?”

“They won’t.”

“You underestimate their cunning.”

“No, I predict their weakness.” Leaning back, she propped her feet atop a clear corner of the desk, crossing her legs at the heel. “The old wolf or SI:7 might approach Jaina, but their Little Lion wouldn’t allow them to go through with any plan they concocted between them. He could never stomach something so underhanded.”

“And this High Thornspeaker? What if she sought them out herself? Presuming she ever deigns to set foot outside of her forest.” He snorted, shaking his head. “I have my doubts.”

The way Nathanos said that gave Sylvanas pause. She shifted slightly in her seat to face him more fully. “About what, pray tell?”

For a moment, he hesitated. He seemed to mull over his words carefully before beginning. “Forgive me, my Queen, but no one else has seen her, or even heard her voice. I have sent scouts into the Forest -- every week for the last two months -- and always they return empty handed. Confused or scared witless. Some claim to have been hunted like a wild animal through the woods. Some rave about men made of bone and moss chasing them. Some say there is a tree strung with carcasses at the heart of the forest, and that its guardian is a bloodied stag crowned with stars.” He held his gloved hands palms up, showing that they were empty. “None of them have ever seen a woman as you described her.”

“Do you think I was as addled by the forest as your scouts?” she asked in a voice that was dangerously calm.

He inclined his head. It was not a nod, but a sign of subservience. “No. Of course not. That we have been given this outpost is proof enough that you encountered someone -- or something -- which swayed the Lady Waycrest.”

“But you don’t think it was her.”

Sweeping a hand over his heart, Nathanos said, “You do not have me by your side to be trusting of others, my Queen. And I think it is very convenient that we found her alive. Too convenient, in fact.” He kept his head bowed as he spoke, but his gaze held her own with unflinching conviction. “How do we know this isn’t some spectre or illusion? How do we know we aren’t being played for fools?”

The rear legs of the chair creaked slightly beneath Sylvanas as she shifted her weight. Her eyes strayed to the hearth, over which the wicker man had been hung. Its limbs were scorched. She had tried to burn it after speaking with Mace, flinging it into the fire as more fuel, but it had resisted her efforts. So far there had been no forced nightmares in its presence, but Sylvanas remained wary of it all the same.

She thought back on that meeting in the forest. Gol Inath. A congregation of ravens. Shadows and mist and a faceless woman whose tongue was as sharp as her mind. The memory should have seemed dream-like, but it wasn’t. Even dwelling upon the memory now, it were almost as though she were transported back to the entrance of that tree; the smell of it pervaded her senses like a familiar but long-forgotten scene. As though she had rummaged through her mother’s vanity as a child and happened upon a used vial of perfume. 

“Your suspicions are not misplaced,” Sylvanas assured him. “But she is real. I am sure of it.”

At the gentling of her tone, he lifted his head. “Then if she is real, how do we know she will be up to the challenge? Druids are dreamers. They make poor leaders. Always with their heads in the clouds or the trees.” He tapped the side of his own head for emphasis. 

“This one is different. She’s -” Sylvanas made a face. “- terribly practical, actually.”

He scrunched up his nose in a look of minor disgust. “I was not aware that was possible for a druid.”

She hummed wordlessly in agreement.

“Still,” Nathanos said. “I doubt the Navy will follow someone who never emerges from their life of seclusion and mysticism. Regardless of their name. If I don’t believe she is real, then the average Kul Tiran won’t either.”

Now, that was a problem. As far as Sylvanas could tell, Jaina seemed content to act behind the scenes, all while letting Lady Waycrest take the centre stage. 

“Then we must lure her out,” Sylvanas said. 

“With what bait?”

Again, her eyes strayed to the wicker man. Lowering her feet back to the ground, Sylvanas stood. She rounded the desk and crossed over to the fireplace. Her face was illuminated by orange flames as she reached out to pick up the wicker man. “Leave that to me.”

--

Sylvanas left the Eastern Cliffs without an escort, much to the annoyance of Nathanos and Anya. The sky was dark and boiled with clouds, and not even a hint of starlight could shine through. The promise of rain was heavy upon the air; Sylvanas could almost taste it. For all that it was a still night, a calm night, and -- most importantly -- a rainless night. 

When she arrived at the edge of the Crimson Forest, a raven soared overhead and landed in the lower branches of a nearby tree. 

"Do you want a ride?" Arthur asked.

Sylvanas' step did not falter. She pressed on, walking into the woods with the fang dangling from her outstretched hand as though it were a lantern clearing her path of shadows. "No," she said.

Arthur flew to another tree ahead of her. He shuffled his wings and watched her course. "Can I sit on your shoulder at least?"

"No," she said again, more emphatically this time. 

He cawed, which she took to mean he was annoyed by this imposition. She did her best to ignore him, but it was difficult to do so, when he continued flapping from branch to branch, hopping along after her and not bothering to keep himself hidden. 

"Did you follow me the last time as well?" Sylvanas asked.

"No," Arthur replied, his voice fading somewhat as he sailed over her. "Tavery wouldn't let me. Thought I'd give myself away immediately."

Well, they were right about that, at least. Sylvanas refused to engage in any further conversation with Arthur, despite his best efforts. He was far too curious for his own good, pestering her with questions about her station, her state of undeath, how she died, how the Forsaken lived -- for lack of a better term -- how they had overthrown the Lich King's iron will. 

Sylvanas kept her eyes fixed upon the fang. She followed its path unerringly.

Eventually, Arthur said, "You're going the wrong way."

Sucking in a deep breath to calm herself, Sylvanas stopped. She closed her eyes for a moment, then opened them again. "I was under the impression that this thing -" she shook the fang where it dangled from her hand. "- would always lead me to Gol Inath."

"Oh, it will. But you're looking for Jaina, right? She's not at Gol Inath right now."

"And you couldn't have told me this sooner?" Sylvanas growled. 

Arthur shook his tail feathers in an offended manner. "Hey, I offered to give you a ride. It's not my fault you didn't want my help earlier."

Stuffing the fang into her belt pouch, she glared up at him. "Show me."

Immediately, Arthur swooped down from his branch and landed on her shoulder. His claws scrambled for purchase against her pauldron, and he flared his wings to steady himself as he sought to get a good grip. Before he managed to do so, his feathers smacked Sylvanas on the side of the face a few times. She leaned her head to one side, fuming silently to herself.

"There! Phew! Okay." Arthur folded his wings against his back. "Jaina's with Athair and Athainne. Go west."

Sylvanas turned and started walking.

"No, your other west."

Gritting her teeth, Sylvanas continued on the other way. Arthur continued to chirp directions in her ear, happy and at home on her shoulder despite the incredibly ugly looks she would cast his way from time to time. 

At last, they came upon a clearing in the woods. It was nowhere near as vast or impressive as Gol Inath, but it had its own quiet majesty. The trees here thinned. Will o' the wisps danced around their trunks, their bluish light casting no shadows in an eerie array. More life than Sylvanas had seen anywhere else in the Crimson Forest abounded here. Rabbits and lambs gambolled. Jet-black foxes with white-tipped tails scampered from Sylvanas' path at the sight of her. A pack of wolves lifted their lazy heads to watch her pass by, but went back to sleeping beneath the outcropping of a den dug into the gentle hillside. Stationary owls turned their golden eyes upon her, and red-breasted nightingales dipped and darted a few paces above the ground. Predators and prey alike gathered here, and none seemed very concerned with one another. 

And at the centre of the clearing, Jaina was conversing with a stag and doe. Her voice was too soft to overhear, even with Sylvanas' keen ears straining to catch the slightest syllable. The stag was pale as moonlight. Its antlers gleamed. It stood larger than any deer Sylvanas had encountered before; she could lift her hands above her head and still not hope to touch its withers. The doe beside it had a coat of purest black, which seemed to drink up any surrounding light until it appeared to be a void in the shape of a deer. 

Both creatures turned to regard Sylvanas steadily when she drew too near. She stopped. Jaina glanced over as well, her skull mask omnipresent even now. Without preamble, Arthur took flight, winging through the air and landing on Jaina's shoulder. He leaned in close, whispering something in her ear, while she nodded and murmured a reply. Then, she took him from her shoulder and perched him atop the stag's antlers. The stag's tufted tail twitched, but it gave no other indication that it noticed Arthur's presence. 

Jaina walked over, leaving Arthur and the two Wild Gods behind her. Her every other step was punctuated by the end of her staff touching the earth, and sending up a spiral of greenery in her wake. 

Sylvanas nodded in greeting and asked, "Do you always wear that?"

Drawing to a halt a pace away, Jaina tilted her head. The skull mask was as impassive as ever. "Think of it as a symbol of office."

"Do you plan to ride out against the Ashvanes wearing a horrible deer skull?"

"I had, actually. Yes."

"And I thought I was bad at politics," Sylvanas drawled. 

Jaina's voice was impatient when she spoke. "What do you want, Warchief?"

"To talk."

For a long moment Jaina regarded her in silence. Then, she said, "Well? Talk."

There was the temptation to be just as short with Jaina as Jaina was with her, but Sylvanas held her tongue. "You're not like most druids I've encountered in the past."

"No, I imagine not."

When Jaina was not any more forthcoming, Sylvanas sighed and reached behind her. Jaina tensed, but Sylvanas only pulled the singed wicker man from where she had tethered it to her belt. Sylvanas waggled it back and forth, the way one might motion with a doll to scare children.

Jaina's shoulders relaxed, but she made a sound of wordless irritation. "Why have you brought me this?" 

"I heard you like them." Sylvanas held out the wicker man. "Personally, I don't see the appeal. But to each their own." 

In the short time they had known one another, this was the first time Sylvanas had seen Jaina hesitate. Slowly she reached out to take the wicker man, and Sylvanas noticed that her hands were no longer made out of wood. Instead, they were sheathed in pale, calloused, living skin. A glance downward proved that the same was of her bare feet. Their soles were scuffed with dirt, but otherwise unremarkable. 

Jaina's fingers traced over the scorch marks across the wicker man, as though she were inspecting a bruise upon a child's knee. "He looks a little worse for wear." 

"He lost a scuffle with the fireplace." 

Jaina snorted. She shook her head. "Do you even know what these are?" 

"No," Sylvanas answered truthfully. "A ward, I imagine." 

A thoughtful hum escaped Jaina at that. She touched the place where the wicker man's heart was supposed to be, the blank patch where all the twigs and leaves intersected. "Sometimes, yes. They can be guardian effigies. Sleep inducers. Dream totems. Soul cages, though very rarely. Sometimes they are just the centerpiece of a festival rite. But regardless of their use, they are always an instrument of worship.” Jaina tucked the wicker man away, and it vanished beneath her heavy cloak. “Thank you. I shall treasure him.”

Sylvanas could feel her ears pin back at the idea that this was some offer of worship. “I did not make it,” she said quickly.

Jaina shrugged. “That doesn’t matter. You were a participant nonetheless.”

“I was the one who tried to burn it,” Sylvanas pointed out.

“Oh?” Jaina laughed softly at the admission, and Sylvanas had to stop her hands from curling into fists. “Funny you should think that removes you from the equation.”

Holding out her hand, Sylvanas took a step forward. “I wanted it away from me, but if it’s going to reveal anything to you, then I want it back.”

“Too late. It’s already gone.” Jaina flourished her cloak to prove just that. “Do you think it would show me what I haven’t already seen?”

Sylvanas froze. 

Now it was Jaina’s turn to move forward. She drew close, peering down at Sylvanas, who glowered steadfastly in return. The points of the skull’s antlers appeared dark and crusted with old blood, as though they had gored an animal to death. “Your dreams are very violent, Warchief," Jaina murmured. "How many times have you died? Twice?”

Baring her teeth, Sylvanas growled, her voice slipping to a dark two-toned rumble, “Stay out of my head.”

Something in the air shifted, and suddenly Jaina did not appear so looming. She shrugged, but did not step away. “Very well. I won’t pry any further.” Taking the staff in both hands, Jaina leaned her weight upon it, her pose relaxed. “So, what did you want to talk about?”

Sylvanas scowled. She could feel the shadows slithering beneath her skin, the venom of anger an acrid taste at the back of her mouth. Swallowing it down was a practised action, something she had done a thousand times. And always it was difficult to not let it take root. Her face became as blank and mask-like as Jaina’s before she spoke. “I could not help but notice that the Ashvanes have already made moves to the southeast. Based on my scout reports, you are going to need additional support.”

“Your concern is touching, but I am more than capable of defending Drustvar without the help of the Horde,” said Jaina.

“You and Lady Waycrest have levied quite the impressive little force. I’ll grant you that. But armies need more than promises and dreams.” Sylvanas rubbed her thumb and forefinger together, the tips of her gauntlet rasping against one another, metal against leather. 

With a snap of her fingers, Jaina caused a grasping vine to sprout from the ground at their feet. It twined around Sylvanas’ ankle, but did not hold her fast. “I can grow enough food to ensure the army is fed through even the most bitter winter.”

“I’m not talking about food. I’m talking about money.” Sylvanas kicked her foot free and ground the vine beneath her heel. “You think soldiers and sailors follow Lady Ashvane -- or your mother, for that matter -- because they want to be fed pork and biscuits three times a day for the remainder of their sad lives? Do you think they like freezing aboard a third rate on the northern run to Kalimdor?”

The skull cocked to one side, and Jaina sounded amused. “Are you hoping to bribe me?”

“Normally, yes. Though I know you aren’t the type to be swayed by the promise of coin.” Clasping her hands behind her back, Sylvanas lifted her chin. “No. In fact, I was hoping to buy something from you.”

Jaina tapped one finger against the staff, thinking quietly to herself before saying, “And what do you want to buy?”

“Another outpost. Think of this as paying rent.” Sylvanas dragged her toe along the dirt to smooth the vine out of the way, as though marking a line between them. “You give me land, you let me develop a minor presence elsewhere in Drustvar, and in return I help your war effort.” 

“Hmm.” Straightening, Jaina nodded. “Very well. But your presence is to remain strictly civilian. If I get wind that there are soldiers or munitions in your outposts -”

“You won’t,” Syvlanas interrupted before she could finish.

Jaina made a disbelieving noise. “That remains to be seen.” She lifted her hand, and Arthur flew over to land upon her forearm. “Take our guest to Swiftwind Post, that abandoned fane northwest of Fletcher’s Hollow.” 

Sylvanas thought back to the map on her desk at the Eastern Cliffs. “That’s very close to the foundry being invaded by the Ashvanes. Are you expecting me to send my people in blind?”

For some reason Jaina thought that was funny. “Perish the thought,” she said. Then she added, “It’s good defensible high ground. Difficult to assault. Your people will be safe. I’ll make sure of it.”

In a flap of wings, Arthur moved from Jaina’s arm to Sylvanas’ shoulder. This time at least he managed to get a good grip without making a complete nuisance of himself.

Jaina made an inquisitive noise before saying, “Arthur, why aren’t you giving her a lift?”

“She doesn’t like it,” Arthur explained. 

Jaina turned her attention to Sylvanas, waiting for an explanation. Sylvanas had to keep her expression carefully neutral, though the force of her scarlet gaze could strip paint from the hull of a ship. “Can you at least do me the courtesy of sending someone else to spy on me? Anyone else.”

“No. I trust him,” Jaina said simply. “And believe it or not, he is an excellent judge of character.”

Hearing those words, Arthur puffed up his feathers proudly.

“Fine,” Sylvanas snapped. “I’ll do this my own way.”

She held out her hand parallel to the ground, the fingers of her clawed gauntlets splaying wide. The last time she had summoned a skeletal mount in Drustvar had been at the very fringes of shoreline nearest Tiragarde Sound. The death magic had come easily, eagerly. Now, when Sylvanas’ magic reached into the ground, silence was her only reward.

Scowling, she tried again to no avail. 

Arthur shuffled a little closer to her ear and said in a too-loud whisper, “Is something supposed to be happening? I feel like something is supposed to be happening.”

“Shut. Up,” Sylvanas hissed at him through grit teeth. Shadows gathered at her outstretched palm, but the earth refused to budge. Eventually, after another futile effort, she dropped her hand with a wordless irate snarl.

“A good try, really,” said Jaina, who had watched the whole thing in silence. “But here in the heart of Drustvar, you’ll find that the dead answer only to me.”

Stymied and fuming, Sylvanas bit back a sharp retort. Instead, she turned heel and stalked away without another word, while Arthur gave her unwanted directions back towards the Eastern Cliffs. And as she strode off, she wondered if Nathanos hadn’t been right all along, if this place was even worth the trouble. The thought was met swiftly with the idea of the Alliance getting their hands on the Great Fleet of Kul Tiras, and Sylvanas lengthened her stride with purpose. 

Even if she was bound to lose eventually, she would be twice-damned before she let the Alliance win.

--

At least Swiftwind Post didn’t have the incessant sea spray rusting everything it touched. Instead, it had -- true to its namesake -- near constant gales. The native heath of Drustvar painted the surrounding countryside in stark browns and purples as far as the eye could see. Winds swept the plains, rippling across the tussock and bare weathered stones of the steep hills that dotted the area. Atop each hill, a series of large and ancient stones had been arrayed into circles. Whatever carvings they had once borne had long since been stripped away by the harshness of time and the elements. The ruins stood starkly against the pale grey backdrop of the sky, like a series of broken teeth, or the fingers of giants clawing their way from an untimely grave. 

The Horde flight masters could often be seen struggling to coax giant eagles into their wooden shelters. Sylvanas had been insistent that they use the native birds rather than give themselves away by importing foreign wyverns all the way from Kalimdor. More than once, several Tauren had to rush about after a goblin flight master dangling from the halter of an enormous eagle, which in turn was struggling to navigate the squalls that rolled over the top of the rocky crag. 

Anya complained about the wind nearly every day. Her claims were not unfounded. She would grumble about how her bow and arrow were near useless in this area, which of course resulted in the topic of Sylvanas needing more guards to protect her from potential threats on her life. The proximity of Fletcher’s Hollow and its skirmishes between House Waycrest and Ashvane made both Anya and Nathanos insufferable. They insisted on shadowing their Dark Lady’s every footstep, until she could hardly walk without stepping on one of them.

After weeks of enduring this, Sylvanas was just about ready to kill them. Again. 

“Please tell me Lady Waycrest has finally driven away those Ashvane raiders,” Sylvanas groaned, rubbing at her temples. “These people can’t be that incompetent, can they?”

She was seated at her desk in one of the hastily built, low-slung structures atop Swiftwind Point. A Tauren druid had stooped to enter the front door. With a bow, he handed her a parcel of letters and reports all bundled together with twine and oiled parchment. She murmured her thanks, and he departed without another word. Sighing, she began to unpick the string. 

At a nearby table, Anya had roped Nathanos into playing whist. He was scowling down at his hand of cards, deliberating over his next move. While his shoulders were hunched protectively over his hand, Anya was splayed out in her seat. She sat slumped, with one foot atop the chair beneath her, the other stretched out as far as it would go. One of her arms was flung over the back of her chair, and she dangled her fan of cards in her hand without a care in the world. 

“If there’s anything I’ve learned since being here,” Anya said, her arm lazily swaying back and forth. “It’s that Kul Tirans always find a way to surprise you.”

Sylvanas agreed with an annoyed grunt. Shuffling through the reports, she read labels and arranged them on the table before her in order of importance. She sought out a name in particular, and when she couldn’t find it her brow darkened. “Why don’t I have an update from the Zandalari treaty yet?”

Without looking up from his hand, Nathanos answered, “From what I understand they are squabbling over concessions.”

The corner of Sylvanas’ mouth turned down sharply. “Tell Lor’themar to stop wasting time, finish the drafting, and arrange for copies to be signed. I want those ships at our disposal before the end of the season.”

“I will see it done,” he said.

His dutiful response did nothing to improve her mood. Sylvanas aimed a glare in his direction and hissed, “Now, Nathanos.”

She could see how the dark note in her voice sent a shiver running down both his and Anya’s spines, and how readily they both responded. They sat bolt upright, their eyes burning bright and alert. Anya’s ears went rigid, and she dropped her hand. The cards scattered along the ground, revealing that there were far too many for a normal hand in whist. 

Rising to his feet, Nathanos flung down his own cards atop the table. “Anything to get me away from this game,” he muttered. As he stomped towards the door, he made sure to tread atop Anya’s cards. 

After he had gone, Anya began picking up all the cards and grumbled, “You couldn’t have waited until after I’d won?”

Sylvanas ignored her. Ever since her second trip to the Crimson Forest, her mood had remained vastly unimproved. 

Her hand strayed to the next report. She checked for proof that the folded letter had not been tampered with, and -- satisfied -- opened it. Her eyes scanned quickly across Velonara’s encoded Thalassian missive. As she read, she pulled over a detailed map of Kul Tiras already weighed down on one section of her desk.

Various notes had been scribbled here and there, predominantly around the various regions of Drustvar. She moved a few more red tokens -- indicating Ashvane forces -- to Fletcher’s Hollow, and a few more black tokens -- indicating Waycrest tokens -- to Barrowknoll. She kept one of the black tokens pinched between thumb and forefinger, using it to tap against the inlet of Fallhaven. 

Sylvanas had already thought of how she would invade Drustvar. If she were in Ashvane’s over-polished shoes, she would sail her ships right up to the real prize of Drustvar’s west coast, strangle Fallhaven for a good year or two of besieging, and then mop up the rest of the west after winter passed. The mountains bisecting the region cleanly in two clearly marked Arom’s Stand importance, as it sat astride the only route over the mountains that an invading army could take. There were no good landing zones for troop barges on the eastern coast. Too many cliffs. And the inlet near Falconhurst was lousy with shoals. No ship larger than a sloop would risk navigating those waters.

Not to mention, the inlet near Falconhurst directly abutted the Crimson Forest. And gods help any army who dared launch an attack on that nightmarish place. 

“Fifteen thousand isn’t enough to fend off a two-pronged attack,” Sylvanas murmured to herself. She dropped the black token onto Fallhaven, and then moved a few more red tokens into Fletcher’s Hollow.

Shuffling the cards between her hands, Anya stood and made her way over to Sylvanas’ desk. She peered down at the map. “They should withdraw all their forces here -” she pointed to Fallhaven. “- and wait out the siege through the winter. The Kul Tirans are mad, but no one is mad enough to try to camp in eastern Drustvar through this weather.”

“I agree,” Sylvanas said without looking up. “But somehow I doubt they’re going to do that.”

“Maybe they have a morale problem?” Anya offered. She expertly shuffled the cards again, showing off by using far more flourishes than necessary. “Maybe if they give up Fletcher’s Hollow, their levied forces will lose heart. Give up. Go home.”

Pursing her lips together, Sylvanas sat back in her seat. She frowned at Barrowknoll. “Or maybe they know something about this place that we don’t. What did you see when you scouted the area?”

Anya shrugged. The deck of cards vanished between her hands, spirited off to gods only knew where. “A village. A town square. Farmers. Sailors. Soldiers. A cemetery. A Church to the Tides. Nothing out of the ordinary.”

“Hmm.” Pulling the last parcel towards herself, Sylvanas ordered “Have another look, and report back in two days.”

With a bow, Anya left. Drawing the silver hunting knife from her boot, Sylvanas slipped the tip of it beneath the oiled brown paper to carefully slice the packaging. She opened it, and pulled out a book. Its leather jacket was green and aged. The corners were frayed. The pages were yellowed. Its spine had been broken dozens of times throughout the course of its life. She turned it over, searching for a title, but the gilded lettering had long since been rubbed away. The only distinguishing mark still upon the book was a crude and unrecognisable rune pressed into the centre of the front cover. 

Tossing aside the packaging, Sylvanas opened the book. A note from Velonara slipped out, explaining that this was the only thing she had been able to find on the topic of ancient Drust history. Even the title page had been ripped free, and the author’s name in the forward effaced. A quick scan of the forward proved that the author had been one of the original Gilnean settlers, a gentleman by trade and a natural historian by hobby. 

When Sylvanas turned to the first chapter, she paused. The author had included very detailed sketches of what he had encountered during his explorations. One such sketch took up nearly the entire first page. It was of a wicker man, identical to the one Sylvanas had encountered in the Crimson Forest, down to the skull, the bear claws, and the heart staked against its chest. The chapter header read: ‘On the Subject of Iconography and Effigies’

Hastily, Sylvanas flipped further along. She skipped through most of the work until she found what she had been looking for. A chapter entitled: ‘A Catalogue of Kings: Gorak Tul and the Myth of the Witch-King of Thros.’

Sylvanas slowed her reading, carefully scanning each line for information about Gorak Tul, the Horned One, the King Undying, an ancient Drust sovereign prophesied to be defeated by a hero who thwarted death three times. If the author was to be believed, Gorak Tul was naught but a legend. A mythological archetype. A horror story used to scare naughty children. 

But if that were true, then why did Jaina not like Arthur talking about him?

Sylvanas turned the page, then swore softly in Thalassian. 

The rest of the chapter had been ripped out. 

--

This time when Sylvanas went back to the Crimson Forest, Jaina was on the outskirts of Gol Inath. The great tree loomed like the ruins of a stark and bleak cathedral. Though Sylvanas had made sure to arrive during the day, the shadows of this place seemed to cling to life beneath the boughs of the tree. 

Arthur was perched on Sylvanas’ shoulder as she arrived, guiding her faithfully onwards. This time, Sylvanas spied one or two humanoid figures around the base of Gol Inath, but none of them were Jaina. They stopped to stare at her as she passed, their expressions guarded. She ignored them, following Arthur’s cheerful directions even while she refused to respond to his usual chatter. 

She found Jaina in a flat clearing between two twisted roots of Gol Inath. Jaina was kneeling on the ground with her back turned, still wearing her skull mask despite not expecting company. Her staff was nowhere in sight. On the forest floor beside her, the enormous ink-black doe was sprawled on its side. For a moment, Sylvanas thought it was dead, but then its head lifted with a weary whine, its star-bright eyes squinting before it flopped back down.

“Shh.” Jaina placed her palm upon the Wild God’s flank, rubbing in a soothing manner. “It’ll be alright, Athainne. We’ll get you through this soon enough.”

“Hunters?” Sylvanas asked, drawing closer. Arthur pushed himself off her shoulder and flew off to a low branch, where he watched. “I didn’t think they’d be able to harm her.”

Glancing over her shoulder, Jaina said, “Nothing so grim.” 

Sylvanas stopped when she was standing just beside her. From this distance, the round bulge of the doe’s stomach was clear. Frowning, Sylvanas asked, “She’s pregnant?”

Jaina hummed. “Breech birth. This is going to get messy.”

With a grimace at her own poor timing, Sylvanas said, “I should come back later.”

But Jaina only shrugged. “Do as you like. You can stay. So long as you can stomach a bit of bodily fluids. Otherwise, I recommend you go stand over there for a bit.” She pointed back towards the massive trunk of Gol Inath.

“I’m not the squeamish sort.”

“Oh, good. Then you won’t mind helping.”

Sylvanas’ ears shot up in surprise. “You can’t be serious.”

Jaina was already shuffling towards the doe’s rear legs. “And why not? I could use an extra pair of hands.”

“I am not putting my hands up there.”

“I meant with the pulling later.” Meanwhile Jaina was unwinding her own handwraps, and folding up the sleeves of her robes nearly to her shoulders.  

Nodding towards the mask, Sylvanas asked, “How can you even see through that?”

“Magic,” Jaina said simply, tossing her handwraps further away so they wouldn’t get soiled. 

Sylvanas narrowed her eyes. “That’s a lie.”

Laughing softly, Jaina said, “Only half of one.” And without a mote of hesitation, she stuck her hand into the doe until her elbow all but disappeared. The doe made a noise of complaint, which Jaina hushed. As she began rummaging around, she craned her neck to look at Sylvanas. “Now, to what do I owe the dubious pleasure of your company this time?”

While not the most bizarre situation Sylvanas had ever found herself in, it ranked pretty highly among them. Which meant her first instinct was to default to putting her hands behind her back in an officious pose. “As I’m sure you already know, Lady Ashvane’s forces have begun their siege of Fallhaven.”

“If it’s the safety of Swiftwind Post you’re worried about, you could always pack up and leave.” Jaina had to turn her head back around, her hand feeling around blindly inside the doe. 

Sylvanas arched an eyebrow at her. “Is that why you gave it to me? In the hopes it would act as a deterrent when the surrounding area was eventually overrun?”

“No.” Jaina grabbed something and pulled. Her arm emerged slippery and spotted with flecks of darker fluid. When only one little hoof came with her closed fist, she reached back in for the other. “Your presence there makes my forces seem larger than they are. It’s useful. Keeps the enemy second-guessing their reports. Plus it makes them wonder why I would put an outpost up on a brae in the middle of nowhere.”

Sylvanas’ posture relaxed somewhat. That wasn’t so far-fetched. If she hadn’t been so sure that her people could defend the position, she might have been angry. But Jaina had been right. Swiftwind Post was a craggy rock of highground on its own in the middle of heath fields that stretched all the way to the Sounds. It would take half an army to flush out even a small cohort entrenched there. 

“You should be drawing everything to Fallhaven to protect it,” Sylvanas said. “You can afford to lose Fletcher’s Hollow, but you can’t afford to lose Fallhaven. Why you’re even bothering to wait for a retreat north across Barrowknoll is beyond me.”

“Maybe I’m a tactical genius,” Jaina said dryly.

“Says the woman with her arm shoved halfway up a deer.” Sylvanas drawled. “Unless there’s something special about that place you’re not telling me about?”

Shifting her weight forward, Jaina braced her free hand against the ground and rearranged her other arm deeper inside the doe. “You mean you haven’t sent your scouts through the area multiple times?”

Sylvanas grit her teeth. “I have.”

“And?”

“And,” she admitted, “they found nothing.”

“Then there must be nothing special about it.”

Sylvanas had been around many people in her life who frequently entertained the notion that they were the cleverest person in the room. Most of them thrived off the idea, surrounding themselves with simpering sycophants who would tell them everything they desired to hear. Jaina should have fallen in the same category, but somehow she did not. She gave the impression not that she simply thought she was the smartest person in the room, but that she simply was that clever. When others did it, Sylvanas scoffed. When Jaina did it, that truth was unimpeachable. 

It was -- in short -- incredibly aggravating. 

“So, you’re here to convince me my plan is terrible and I desperately need your help. Is that it?” Jaina asked. She had finally managed to get the other hoof out, and was now straightening the fawn in the womb. 

“Only half of the plan.”

“Oh, good,” Jaina grunted, starting to pull on the fawn’s legs until the backs of its haunches were just visible. “Because I was beginning to think the stories I’ve learned about you since our first meeting were blown completely out of proportion.”

It shouldn’t have stroked Sylvanas’ ego as much as it did that she was storied enough to warrant whispers of her name even in a backwater like Kul Tiras. But it definitely did. 

Jaina jerked her head, the skull nodding towards the ground nearby. “Grab that rope for me, won’t you?”

When Sylvanas glanced down, there was indeed a soft hempen rope coiled among the leaves. She leaned down, picked it up, and handed it over as requested. Cocking her head to one side, she watched as Jaina tied the rope around the fawn’s legs, just above its hooves. It was a sailor’s knot, sturdy yet not so tight that it would damage the newborn. 

Keeping tension steady on the rope with one hand, Jaina stood. She used her free hand to dangle the end of the rope at Sylvanas. “Come on, then. Start being useful.”

Grudgingly and hardly believing what she was doing, Sylvanas moved to stand behind Jaina. She grabbed the last length of the rope and planted her feet firmly on the ground. When Jaina lowered her stance, Sylvanas followed suit so that they mirrored one another. 

“Don’t yank,” Jaina warned without looking around. “We want a nice steady pressure. And try to pull as low and horizontal as you can.”

There were worse ways to endear oneself to a potential ally than helping a Wild God give birth near a mythical entrance to the underworld. Though, truth be told, Sylvanas was struggling to think of one at the moment. 

The doe was larger than most horses, her night-dark flank heaving with every breath. Jaina’s hands were slick with blood and mucous; she had to pause to wrap the rope around her hands. Together, they pulled. It took a great deal more force than Sylvanas had initially thought would be necessary, but slowly the fawn began to emerge. At one point Jaina had to stop to ensure its tail was arranged properly before they were pulling again. And then, the fawn slipped to the ground in a rush.

It was completely still, its coat dark with fluids. Immediately Jaina dropped the rope and went down on her knees. Her movements were quick and practiced. She positioned the fawn just so, sticking her fingers into its mouth and nose until it coughed up more fluid and -- finally -- began to breathe. 

“There we go,” Jaina murmured, her voice soft. She began briskly rubbing the fawn down with a handful of dry leaves from the ground. When Athainne started shuffling as if to stand, Jaina pointed at her. “Oh, no you don’t. You stay right there.”

The Wild God huffed wearily at her, but did as it was told. 

Meanwhile, Sylvanas watched this entire interaction with a sense of bewilderment. “Since when do Wild Gods listen to the whims of mortals?”

“Since now,” said Jaina. She was letting the fawn attempt to stagger upright on its reedy legs, and she patted it on its flank in a congratulatory manner when it managed to succeed. 

Sylvanas coiled the rope neatly around her arm, tying it off and dropping it to the ground. “Why not just solve the problem magically? Why go through all this?”

“I would have, if necessary. But I didn’t need to. They’ll both be fine.” After she had wiped her own hands and arms down as much as she could, Jaina rose to her feet. “As for your military concerns: thank you, but no thank you.” Unrolling the sleeves of her robes, she began gathering up her handwraps and the length of rope. She said dismissively, “You can go, now.”

Sylvanas did not budge. “Sooner or later, they’re going to find out about you. The Drust aren’t a target now, but the moment anyone gets wind that you’re alive...” She trailed off, leaving the repercussions unspoken.

“Maybe. But they don’t know yet.” Suddenly, Jaina froze. She turned towards Sylvanas. “Do they?” she asked, and for a brief moment the dark eye sockets of the skull blazed with a fierce blue light. "Did you tell them? About me?"

"No."

The skull remained fixed and staring at her, deadly silent.

Sylvanas met her glower for glower. "If they know about you, they did not learn it from me."

Jaina remained quietly glaring. Then, she continued gathering up her things. Behind her, the fawn had ambled shakily over to its mother, and was now getting licked clean. 

Sylvanas thought of Katherine, of how her own sources in Boralus had gone quiet over the last few weeks. “Shouldn’t you be worried about what’s happened to your mother? If they are bold enough to attack Drustvar at all, then the power of the Admiralty is waning far more than just a few months ago.”

“My mother can take care of herself,” Jaina said, but her voice was too controlled, too even. 

“And what will happen to your House when she finally dies?” Sylvanas pressed, her arms crossed. “Will you do nothing? Will you let your family name fall into obscurity?”

Her calm finally broken, Jaina whirled about. “Why do you care? This isn’t your fight! You’re only here because you want something you can’t have!” She slashed through the air with her open hand, and the very earth seemed to hold its breath, the shadows of Gol Inath gathering at her feet. “Well, I won’t be the one to give it to you! I will not be the pawn in your game with the Alliance!”

The moment the darkness began to coalesce at the base of the roots, Athainne’s ears had pinned back. Suddenly, Sylvanas found herself pinned by the gazes of both an angry Archdruid and a threatened Wild God with a newborn foal. She gazed coolly back at them, refusing to give an inch. 

“Fine.” Without preamble, Sylvanas turned and began to stride away. “We shall do it your way. I will withdraw my people from Swiftwind Post and the Eastern Cliffs, as you so clearly desire.”

Jaina’s head jerked. The shadows faded. “What -?” 

Giving a little wave of her hand, Sylvanas continued on without turning around. “No, you’ve utterly convinced me, High Thornspeaker. This is not my fight.”

Behind her, Sylvanas could hear Jaina spluttering, “Now, hang on just a -! Sylvanas. Sylvanas!” 

But Sylvanas did not pause. She continued walking, and when Arthur tried to flutter down onto her shoulder, her hands flew to her bow. His wings flared and he veered off, landing instead in a nearby tree. Bow nocked and ready with a black-tipped arrow, Sylvanas left the Crimson Forest, and this time nobody followed.

--

Back at Swiftwind Post, Sylvanas gave the order that they were to make it appear like the Horde was packing up their camps. More importantly, she gave the order that Arthur was no longer allowed near their encampments, and that her rangers had free reign to shoot any ravens they saw venturing too close. None of them did. The ravens all seemed far too clever for that, and stayed far away from the Horde outposts, which seemed to irk Anya to no end. She would watch the skies, finger stroking over her bowstring in cold anticipation.

On the other hand, Mace was permitted to stay, which only seemed to confuse both her and the rangers. To puzzle them even further, Sylvanas took to letting Mace into the command building atop Swiftwind Post. The one who seemed most confused by this turn of events was Mace herself, who would sit on a low stool near the front exit. Wood shavings would pile up at her feet as she would nervously carve her little figures, her dark eyes darting around the room whenever Sylvanas occupied it. Whenever Sylvanas spoke to her, Mace would start, as though afraid Sylvanas had changed her mind and decided that the game was up. 

It took longer than anticipated for the eventual result. But ultimately, Lucille Waycrest came knocking at Sylvanas’ door. 

"Did you know," she said, as an undead guardsman shut the door behind her, locking out the howling gale, "that it is very difficult to get up here?"

"I am aware," Sylvanas drawled. "But now that you're here, you can fill me in on your latest plans, and save Velonara the cost of paper and ink."

The windows faintly rattled in their frames as the wind whistled over the heather and hills. Running her fingers through her dark hair until it had regained some semblance of order, Lucille admitted, "Actually I was hoping you could tell me."

Sylvanas blinked. Her pen paused over the page. "Why would I know?"

Lucille spread her hands. "You think Jaina tells me anything? I'm as much in the dark as anyone. And you're the only non-Drust person I know who ventures so freely into the Crimson Forest, and comes out in one piece."

Careful not to blot ink upon the page, Sylvanas balanced the pen in its inkwell. She leaned back in her seat and studied Lucille over her steepled fingers. Lady Waycrest was young, but she had dark circles under her eyes. Her clothing, while fine, was rumpled. It could have just been courtesy of the wind, but somehow Sylvanas doubted that. The last month or two since their first encounter had put a strain upon her; she looked haggard. 

“You want my help,” Sylvanas said. “But I see no reason why I should give it to you.”

Lucille rocked back on her heels in shock. “Then -? Then why have you been keeping Mace around? Why have you been leaking information to me and not Jaina?”

“Why do you think?” Sylvanas asked.

“Is this some sort of trick question?”

Arching an eyebrow at her, Sylvanas remarked, “You’re not very bright, are you?”

“You -!” Lucille spluttered for words. Pointing out the window towards the encampment, she said incredulously, “You’re unbelievable! You’ve just spent the last few months getting footholds in my land! And now, you -!”

“It’s not really your land though, is it? Legally speaking, perhaps, but we both know how much weight that holds. About as much as this.” Sylvanas took one of the tiny black wooden tokens used to mark the map with troops, and tossed it at Lucille’s feet. “That’s what helping you gets me. So, why would I do it? What do you have to offer me that I would want? Think.”

Lucille’s mouth wrenched open, then shut very quickly again. She swallowed thickly. The brief flash of anger that washed across her features faded, and her expression crumpled. When she spoke her voice was tremulous, “I don’t know.” She had to clear a burr in her throat. “I don’t - I don’t know what I should do.”

Katherine had been right. Lucille Waycrest was a poor ally, indeed. Though not through any fault of her own. This was a girl whose parents had fallen prey to the Heartsbane Coven, witches who worshipped Gorak Tul and sought to retake Drustvar in his name. Her House had been dragged to the brink of destruction. She had barely managed to avoid the fall of her entire family, and even that was hardly from her efforts alone. And now that she was Lady Waycrest, Head of a Great House of Kul Tiras, she was without a mentor, surrounded by even more enemies, adrift in a sea of dangerous politics that she could not hope to navigate alone.

Once, Sylvanas might have taken pity on her -- she might have freely offered advice or guidance -- but not now. Now, Sylvanas did not even offer her a chair.

It was not the principle of the thing. It was the spectacle of it.

And besides, this might even be an educational experience. 

Sitting forward, Sylvanas picked up her pen and returned to drafting her document. “I told you before.” She scratched another line across the page. “Your business is your business. How you go about it is no concern of mine.”

Lucille rubbed at her brow and sighed, “Jaina won’t want to ask for help. She thinks she can win anything by herself. She’s too proud.”

Without looking up, Sylvanas tsked, a light tapping of her tongue against the backs of her teeth. “How very true to her namesake.” She signed the end of the document with a flourish. The last stroke of her name was artfully blotted with ink. “I see you are not as burdened by hubris.”

A muscle twitched at Lucille’s cheek. Still, she said, “No. I am not. I know when I am outmatched and outgunned.”

“That’s a good start, at least.” Sylvanas rubbed at a spot of ink that stained her fingertips. “You want my advice?” 

Lucille bit her bottom chapped lip, then nodded. “I’m listening.”

“The people of Drustvar are superstitious. They follow you not only for your name, but because you are a link to the High Thornspeaker, who defeated the coven of witches that had been terrorising the countryside for years under your family’s rule. Jaina is simultaneously your greatest weakness, and your greatest strength. Which is why I want you here today.” Sylvanas calmly folded her hands in her lap. “Convince Jaina to my terms, and I will consider giving you the support you need.”

A shadow of confusion crossed Lucille’s face. “What are your terms?”

“She already knows. And if she wants to talk, she knows where to find me.” Pointing towards the door, Sylvanas said, “Go. And take your little spy with you.”

For a moment Lucille did nothing. She made an abortive motion, as though she were going to take a step forward, only to turn heel and stride out, leaving Sylvanas alone in the command building. Sylvanas waited a minute or two, then stood and walked over to the door. 

When she pulled it open, she said to one of the guards, “Tell Anya and Nathanos that under no circumstances are they to follow Lady Waycrest. And have Velonara remain in Corlain until further notice.” 

The Forsaken guard bowed, and immediately trotted off to do her bidding. Sylvanas shut the door, returning to her desk. There was far more work to be done. 

--

Eventually, Sylvanas was roped into playing cards. Nathanos flat refused to play, and in turn Anya would not accept no as an answer. Or at least, she did, but she sulked about it, all while denying that she was definitely not sulking about it. 

Outside, rain pummeled the windows, and the sky was dark with early evening cloud. Lightning flashed intermittently, followed by the low long roll of thunder. Meanwhile, Sylvanas was losing her fourth game of whist in a row, even after she had ordered Anya to rid herself of any extra cards with which she might cheat. They sat in silence. Sylvanas had cleared one side of her usual work desk in front of the hearth to give them space to play. 

Sylvanas' red eyes burned over her hand, her gaze hotter than the flames that licked the stone hearth black and sooty. "You have always been a filthy little cheat. Where are you hiding them this time?"

Anya played a trump card, winning the round, and said calmly, "I don't know what you're talking about, my Queen."

"Do you like having a tongue? Or would you rather I unburden you from it?"

Anya stuck out said tongue in reply, then said, "And you always were a sore loser."

Sylvanas opened her mouth to retort, but her ears twitched towards the door. Shouts and the sounds of a commotion outside. Both their heads whipped around. They rose to their feet, cards forgotten. Anya had an arrow nocked and drawn in an instant. The moment the door burst open, she fired two shots in rapid succession, her arm a blur of motion. 

The arrows froze midair before they could reach their destination. They hung in the air as a massive shape shadowed the doorstep. The extra guards flanking the doorway were struggling against something. Their feet were just visible, flailing wildly as they were lifted from the ground and pinned against the outer walls, their weapons clattering to the earth. 

Jaina had to duck her head to step inside. Her shoulders stooped, then straightened to their full height once more. Water dripped onto the floor at her bare feet, pooling behind her with every step. With a bored wave of her hand, the arrows fell to the floor. 

The skull mask looked at Sylvanas, and then -- pointedly -- at Anya, who had a third arrow drawn and ready to loose. 

"Anya," said Sylvanas, not taking her eyes off Jaina, "Leave us."

Anya began to hiss a complaint, but Sylvanas made a sharp gesture, cutting her off. Grudgingly, Anya lowered her weapon. She left, stepping around Jaina, who refused to give way. When she was outside, she shut the door hard enough to let her displeasure be known. 

"You better not have killed any of my people," Sylvanas said once they were alone. "Otherwise, I will reconsider our little arrangement."

"They'll be fine." 

Jaina moved closer to the fire. The shadow she cast swallowed the opposite wall and half the floor. The shape of it did not seem to quite match her actual figure, flickering darkly against the panelled wood. It was the first time Sylvanas had ever seen her indoors. Somehow, Jaina made the room feel too small just by standing in it. From this angle, Sylvanas could just make out the hint of her jaw behind the mask. 

After a moment of tense silence, Jaina spoke, her tone curt. “I don’t appreciate being toyed with or manipulated.”

“Finally, something we can agree on,” said Sylvanas, repeating back to Jaina the very words she had spoken on their first meeting. “And I don’t appreciate you barging in here, unannounced, after having strangled my guards on your way in.”

“I figured I ought to repay you for the way you first visited me.” Jaina leaned her staff against the wall so that it rested on the edge of the mantlepiece. The action was nonchalant, as though she were hanging up her coat from the rain, not propping up an object that crackled with dark magics. “Going after Lucille was low. Even for you.”

“I thought I was rather gentle with her, actually.” 

The skull swung in Sylvanas’ direction, its stare incredulous.

Sylvanas shrugged. “Gentler than Ashvane would have been, anyway. Or even your mother, for that matter.”

A grunt of concession. Jaina turned back to the fire. It cast off sparks that sputtered at her feet, never quite reaching the ragged and muddy hems of her robes. “I’m surprised. When I’d heard she was coming here, I thought I’d lost a friend for good.”

With a snort, Sylvanas said, “Do you treat all your friends like pawns?”

“I am protecting her.” Jaina’s voice rasped. 

“I’m not interested in the lies the living tell themselves to sleep better at night.” Sylvanas leaned her hip upon the side of the table, and crossed her legs at the ankle. “And you didn’t come here to tell me off for being hard on your so-called ‘friend.’”

Sylvanas could hear the sharp intake of breath behind that mask. Jaina drew herself up, but her shoulders remained stiff. The firelight limned the edges of the skull in a sickly ochre glow. Eventually, she said, “Give me reserve troops and more coin, and I will consider your proposition.”

“I want more than empty promises.”

“Then what do you want?”

In answer, Sylvanas reached behind herself. She pulled a piece of parchment from a stack of documents on the desk. It was long, trailing nearly to her waist, and filled with neat lines so finely written upon the page, that it appeared more ink than anything else. At the bottom, Sylvanas’ waxen seal was already pressed and dried beneath her signature. 

She held the page out to Jaina, who stepped forward and took it cautiously. Jaina took her time reading over every line of fine print. When she got to the end, she glanced at Sylvanas over the document. “How long have you had this prepared for? Days? Weeks?”

Sylvanas fluttered her fingers in a vague gesture. “A while.”

Jaina’s hand clenched into a fist around the page, crumpling it. She took a deep breath and smoothed it out once more. Then, to Sylvanas’ surprise, she laughed. Sylvanas’ long ears tilted up, and her posture straightened. Jaina was laughing to herself softly, ruefully, shaking her head. The motion rustled the leaves and tokens of her cloak like the wind through the boughs of trees. 

“Predictable,” Jaina chuckled.

Immediately, Sylvanas’ ears slanted back. Her brow darkened. “Is that so?”

Jaina waved the paper at her dismissively. “Not you. I was talking about myself.” Her thumb traced over the blank space where her own signature was supposed to go, right beside Sylvanas’ name. “If I sign this, I will have your support?” 

“You will.”

Turning back to the document, Jaina scoured it from top to bottom again. And then once more. She drew up next to Sylvanas to reach the table, where she set the document down on a bit of clear space. She grabbed up a pen, dipped it into a spare inkwell, and began to cross out certain sections. 

Not moving from where she leaned against the desk, Sylvanas peered over Jaina’s shoulder. “Did your Drust education come with a healthy dose of law, as well?” she asked dryly. “Or is that due to another time in your upbringing?”

With a wordless grunt, Jaina slashed the pen across three of the clauses near the end. “If I am going to become the Lord Admiral and open the borders, then I will do so on my terms. Not yours. Not anyone’s.”

The corner of Sylvanas’ mouth turned down in annoyance. Still, she only hummed darkly in agreement. “And removing my exclusive rights to military bases?”

The skull tilted in her direction as Jaina glanced balefully over at her. “You may keep your civilian outposts, but there is no way I will allow a foreign military presence on Kul Tiran soil after this internal disagreement between the Houses has been settled.”

Jaina re-read the agreement for a final time, pen poised over the place where her name was to be signed. When the pen was just about to touch the parchment however, Sylvanas cleared her throat. Jaina straightened and turned to her in questioning silence.

“It needs to be witnessed,” Sylvanas explained.

“Bring your witness, then,” said Jaina impatiently. 

It took only a moment to get Nathanos inside. He had been lurking just outside the front door, alongside what seemed to be every member of the Horde in the camp. Most had their weapons drawn, ready for anything. Steel glinted wetly through the rain-darkened air. Sylvanas gave the assembled little crowd a cool look, then jerked her head for Nathanos to follow her.

She shut the door behind them. Nathanos hair was slicked back to his head, and his coat was soaked, but he paid no attention to the rain. The golden glow of his eyes glowered in silent disapproval first at Jaina -- for daring to endanger the Dark Lady -- and then at Sylvanas -- for daring to put herself in danger in the first place. 

Sylvanas strode past him, making her way back towards the desk. "You can be angry with me later, Nathanos. Right now, we need a witness."

"Very well," he murmured, and though his tone was light and cultured his expression was foreboding. 

Jaina waited for him to join them. Then she took up the pen once more.

Sylvanas cleared her throat again.

"Oh, for fuck's sake." Jaina jerked upright, the pen clenched between her fingers in a white-knuckled grip. "What now?"

Sylvanas pointed at her. "Your mask. We need to be able to faithfully verify your identity."

For a moment Jaina did nothing. Then, muttering foul curses under her breath, she threw the pen down onto the desk. It sent a splatter of ink across some of Sylvanas' other documents, but left their agreement unscathed. She reached up, fingers curling around the base of the skull at her neck, and lifted the mask away. 

She was both younger and older than Sylvanas had expected. Her mouth was pinched in displeasure, her jaw bullishly set. A deep scar ran down the right side of her face, bisecting one of her eyes, so that it peered out, white and blind. Her other eye was the same icy blue as her mother’s. Indeed, they looked remarkably similar, but for Jaina’s tall, broad-shouldered build. Streaks of her original hair colour gleamed golden in the firelight, as though whatever weapon had slashed across her face had drained everything out of that side. 

She tucked the skull under one arm and glared challengingly at both of them. “I am Jaina Proudmoore, youngest child of Daelin Proudmoore and Katherine Proudmoore née Grey. Being of sound mind and body, I am willfully signing this agreement to a temporary alliance with the Warchief of the Horde, Sylvanas Windrunner, Dark Lady of the Forsaken, under the discretion of -” she waved towards Nathanos, “- whoever the fuck you are. Now, can we get on with it? Or are you going to continue to be a pain in the neck?”

Giving a mock bow, Sylvanas said, “By all means.”

Without another word, Jaina turned back to the document. She snatched up the pen, dipped it into the inkwell, and signed. Handing the pen to Nathanos, he signed between both their names. Then with a last baleful look in Sylvanas’ direction, Jaina crammed the skull back over her head, wrenching at its jaw to secure the mask more firmly in place. 

She was halfway to the exit, when Sylvanas called after her. “Be sure to give my compliments to Lady Waycrest for actually managing to change your mind.”

Jaina paused with her hand on the door. “She didn’t.”

A furrow marred Sylvanas’ brow. “Then who did?”

“Arthur.”

The door swung inwards, admitting a sheet of rain onto the floorboards, and Jaina strode out without a second glance. She did not bother shutting the door behind her. Picking up the document, Sylvanas watched Jaina’s retreat. The members of the Horde congregating outside parted before her like waves before a ship’s prow. And a familiar raven swooped down and landed on her shoulder. 

Then one of the Forsaken guardsmen reached in, and shut the door, shutting out the image and the rain. 

Tapping her finger against the edge of the parchment, Sylvanas asked, “Is that enough proof for you?”

At her side, Nathanos grunted sourly. “I am adequately convinced. Though your stage performance was rather lackluster, in my opinion.”

“I wouldn’t exactly describe you as a patron of the arts, either.”

“Somehow I feel the theatrics aren’t over yet.”

Rather than answer, Sylvanas merely lifted one shoulder in a lofty shrug.

“Why are you baiting her? Why waste time?” Nathanos asked. “If we had given our support immediately, then Drustvar would have been in our debt. Our military presence would be too difficult to dislodge without taking more formal avenues. The outcome would have been the same.”

“Because now I have what I truly wanted in Kul Tiras.” Sylvanas lifted the document in her hands. Jaina’s signature was still wet; the ink gleamed in the firelight. She smiled. “An open invitation.”

[mother-snake]

Ok I don’t see this idea a lot but it’s my favorite:

Janus’s scales work like a curse, slowly growing (either taking away power, him becoming a mom steroid creature after they’ve grown fully or something else) and he’s either trying to stop it or has accepted it. -✨

(I play around with it a lot but I never really decided what to do with it :P)

hahaha- this is by no means short. but its hurt to fluff to hurt again and back to fluff. words: 2485 tags: @idkanameatall @imma-potatoo @girl-with-many-fandoms

It had started when he was seven. They were small clusters on his stomach and back. he had been scared and confused. He had told no one about them if possible. He wasn’t sure how they had gotten there in the first place. Sure, he had been feeling his effects dulling ever so slightly. But that had been it.

He was still none the less scared. And as he got older, more and more scales grew. And the more frightened he had become. Terrified of everything he did. it seemed no matter what he did nothing worked. Remove one, which was painful enough, two more seemed to come back.

And there was only so long he could hide it. and at age fifteen… the others found out. they had demanded they tell him what was wrong. What was happening he was scared. He didn’t want them to know. He didn’t want to be asked questions.

He found himself tucked away in his room. Lonely but that’s what he had been used to. The other sides had become wary of him since his scales had been seen. He was barely talked to. Barely listened to. he felt more useless that the resealable tab on an Oreo packet.

But it was the scratching at the door that had brought him out of his small tearful feeling. Curiosity replacing it instead as he wiped away the tears. And moving over to the door.

He opened it with a wide gawk as he saw what was looking up at him with a lopsided face, tung hanging out and a wagging tail. a sleek black dog with fur, soft brown patches matching where Janus’s knew his scales reached.

The dog’s orange and blue eyes stared back at Janus. and for the first time in a long time. He smiled. he opened the door and let the dog waddle happily inside. He had a friend. Now only to give him a name.

--

It was two years later that he had felt the strange feeling stirring from inside. The scales that had once covered up to his jaw were now so close to his cat eye. But he wasn’t as scared as before. the dog that now was his best friend had been called apple. For no other reason that at that moment of naming the dog he had been wanting apples to snack on.

Speaking of the dog. The once small puppy had grown quite conciderably. Reaching his knees. And still growing. yet much to Janus’s own surprise, the dog had stuck by his side. Even after creativity split months ago. It was still a sore wound for the both of them to talk about.

Anyways, the shift hadn’t been painful. But it did cause Janus to collapse to the floor in dizziness. Apple had been quick to hurry over to his friend’s side, making noises of concern at the limp body of Janus who lay sprawled on the floor.

It took a couple minuets for Janus to recover and make his way out the bedroom door… into a blackened hallway… with no white… he feared for the worst as he saw brand new doors he hadn’t seen before. he thought he knew fear. But this was far worse… --

It hadn’t surprised him when Virgil left. No. but it had hurt. his scales were now completely covered his left side of his face. the ones on his torso had begun to spread once again. Covering almost one fourth of it. but that fear now became a slight irritation.

Apple had sprawled over his lap. Barely covering Janus. she had grown concerned over his new attitude of cold and distant around everyone else. But if only apple was in the room then he seemed to go back to normal. Happy even. she knew this wasn’t normal for her pup to feel. He needed a friend. she raised her head, an idea sparking as she leaped of Janus and bounced down the hall. A yellow collar with a black bow had been tied neatly around her neck. It was never tight and always slightly looser than necessary a small bell jingled as she skipped to her destination.

The pink door soon came into view. The person on the other side had become close to her pup. But she knew that there was a fifty-fifty chance of her human excepting the help.

She scraped the bottom of the door and waited for it to open. She felt slightly guilty as she saw the tired face open the door. He must have been sleeping. “hay girl, what you need?” he asked tiredly as he patted her head. Sitting she came up to his elbow. he was the same height as Janus.

She grabbed his sleeve gently with her teeth and pulled him gently back “you want me to follow?” he asked, becoming more slightly aware. she barked happily in response.

The walk took only a couple minutes and she found herself clambering back on top of her human who let out a gasp as she laid back down on top of his chest.

“hi Theodore,” Janus gasped as he pet his friend’s fluffy ears. “you good there?” he asked sitting down on the floor by his head. “peachy,” he responded. “that’s a lie, apple wouldn’t have got me otherwise,” Theodore said rolling his eyes. “just. Why did Virgil leave?” Janus asked. “I don’t know… he left us all…. It hurts me too Jan,” Theodore said with a sad smile.

At least Janus knew he wasn’t alone. Apple was pleased about that. --

He knew apple knew something was wrong. his scales now covered half his torso and were creeping along his shoulder. He wasn’t frightened but he was tired, for that reason and another.

That reason being that he had once again been ignored. Shoved to the side like normal. He had gotten tired of it all… he wanted to be fine… just once was he aloud to be happy?! he felt himself curled up into a ball. A concerned whine from apple made sure he knew that he wasn’t alone as she shifted herself to lay her head on top of his side.

He hadn’t felt so alone before. Roman and Remus wouldn’t talk to him, none of the other dark sides would either. Logan and Virgil glared at him all the time and he was barely on good terms with Patton and Thomas.

He clutched his patch tightly. Shaking as he tried to force the thoughts out of his head. His dog snuggled her muzzle into his face, making him chuckled from the soft touch. “I'm okay big girl. I'm okay,” she hadn’t grown anymore. Reaching her height limit. his scales however continued to grow.

He patted the side of her face, reassuring her that he was fine. Of course, he was. he had his best friend by his side. --

Janus stared blankly down the hall. No other doors remained except his own. Apple sat by his side whining at him. he hadn’t spoken in a long time. He had barely played fetch with a smile. he barely did anything anymore.

She was angry. She was mad. The rage inside of her was boiling over the edge.

She let out a growl. Janus snapped his head down to his friend. In all the years he had known her… she had never growled.

She turned and stalked her way down the hall, Janus hot on her heels. Curious as to where they were going. but he felt himself freeze as he stopped at a white door. Apple sitting in front of it, letting out a guttural growl.

“no girl. Its not worth your time,” he said weakly, scratching her head. she knew that wasn’t the case. A small idea popped into her head. She would need Janus to sleep for it to work however.

He walked back to the sofa. Sitting down and looking around at the mess ridden room. He couldn’t have cared less about the mess. Even if he knew it wasn’t right. He just didn’t have the energy to deal with it. --

I was one week later that apple set her plan into monition. she had felt the twins being summoned by Thomas. That small connection from the king had remained, most of it had been retained with her pup however. So that she could always be by his side.

And as they were summoned. She followed that gut feeling as well. Hiding in the shadows of the dark night lit Livingroom. This was her first time, and she had never seen Thomas before. But she knew that wasn’t her reason for being here.

She watched as they talked. Something had been off apparently. Yes. She knew exactly why. and soon another side appeared. She hadn’t seen Patton in a long time, then Logan and then Virgil.

Why were they all missing the reason! she couldn’t take it any longer. She creeped her way down the stairs silently. Pausing just behind Virgil. she let out a deep breath rustling his hair with a growl.

Virgil screamed as he jumped out of his place, fright grasped around him tightly as he saw the bulking black dog with miss matched eyes and fur.

Her teeth were sharp and gnarling. A malicious noise dripping from the back of her throat.

“um- what the frack?!” Thomas said, his anxiety and fear racing in his heart.

“what are you doing here?” Remus asked looking at the dog. she sat by the stairs. Looking at them with rage filled eyes. “what if the answer wasn’t us…?” Patton asked, “has anyone seen Janus recently?”

“would it really be worth it? all he had done is hurt everyone here!” roman stated. she snaped her eyes over to the prince. She may have been half her creator. That didn’t stop the murderous feeling crawling along. “um roman? Maybe don’t insult Janus in front of apple?” Virgil whimpered.

“apple?” Thomas asked. she felt her ear twitch in his direction. But kept a firm gaze on roman for a few seconds.

“apple. Is something wrong with Janus?” Thomas asked. she glared at roman quickly before turning to face Thomas, letting out a small bark. “well then, lets try it shall we?” he chuckled as he rubbed his arm.

Janus felt the tug. But waited for a couple seconds. Janus didn’t take the pull. She motioned for him to try again. Nothing. She felt her ears go flat. she tried herself to summon Janus. much to her own surprise. He appeared. Just where he normally would. “there you are girl. I thought you got lost,” Janus sighed in relief. he reached up to her and pet her fur. She let her tail waggle happily at the contact. she gently picked the hat from his head; a noise of complaint came from her pup but she didn’t give it back and flung it towards Thomas who caught it fairly flimsily.

Janus turned to face where the hat had gone and realised what had happened. “you clever girl,” she picked up from under Janus’s breath, “what do you want Thomas,” Janus sighed, the sound of defeat clearly present in his voice, “because if you are here to insult me. then I’ll just leave,” he said.

“Janus, we were wondering if something was wrong,” Patton said. Janus blinked once, then twice before he let out a small laugh, “now you ask?” “see I told you-“ “oh shut up roman,” Janus said, startling the prince, “I get that you don’t like me. I get that none of you like me. the only reason I'm here is because my only friend is smarter than all of you combined,” he yelled.

Apple winced at the tone. Ouch on her ears. “sorry girl,” Janus said, a weak smile on his face reassured her that he was sorry.

“Janus… what happened?” Thomas asked. “for five months… five months I’ve been alone with only apple by my side. For over two decades I’ve been suffering with only her by my side. For… for as long as I can remember IVE ALWAYS been the outcast…” he felt tears prickle his eyes, “just once… I wanted to be seen for something other than a monster,” he sobbed.

Everyone was silent as they watched Janus break in front of them. apple was quick to curl around Janus and reassure him. “kiddo…” Patton muttered, his own tears pricking his eyes. “don’t. don’t say anything. you missed your chance,” Janus said. Tear streaked eyes staring at the moral side.

“five months?” Thomas muttered to himself. it didn’t feel like that long. But as he thought about it… he was right. Every time he had thought about summoning Janus. one side or another seemed to block that thought out… oh he was going to have a word with everyone.

He walked slowly over to Janus. stopping in front of the black mass circling Janus protectively. he watched as the dog tilted its head before going slightly to the side and sitting down.

Thomas smiled smally at the dog before turning back to Janus and wrapping his arms around the surprisingly tall side. --

It was the next day when Janus heard the knock at the door. shortly after the incident he and apple had sunk down. He gave a stern talking to his pupper about leaving like that, but was quick to throw himself into a cuddle. There he fell asleep with his head resting on her back.

It was now early afternoon. The knocking on the door was quick and had only happened once. But still he stood up and made his way over cautiously. A lot had been said last night. and the last thing he wanted was to be yelled at by another side.

He opened the door. No more knocking had been heard since the simple three taps from before.

He looked around but saw nothing. He cast his eyes to the ground and froze. His hat and plate off cookies with a small letter sat on the floor. he picked both up, glancing around the hall. No one was there. but he knew who had delivered them.

As far as he knew, Patton was the only one able to cook. he wasn’t sure how to feel about it.

He turned back and placed the cookies back on the table. stopping and looking up at the mirror. His face had… quite the transformation. The scales retreating back to his jawline. The scar on his cheek and eye remained. A reminder of a much darker time.

But as he looked down to the plate and the do looking happily at the biscuits. Waiting to devour them as soon as Janus turned his back… he felt as if things were going to be okay for now.

And that was fine with him.

[snowbellewells]

“Saved From What Might Have Been”

(A bit of birthday whump for @hollyethecurious​)

By: @snowbellewells​   

I’m honestly not sure if this is much good, or really worth giving as a gift, but I’ve tried something new here, and I’m hoping you may like it, Hollye.  You’ve provided the fandom (and our pirate!) a lot of painfully delicious whump over the last few years. Particularly with “What Lies Beneath the Mask” - my personal favorite!  You also wrote one of my favorite examples of KnightRook fic in your recent MC “We Make Our Own Fate”.  I’m attempting to incorporate those things in this little drabble for you. I don’t really know where this came from otherwise; I had something else in mind, but then this is what I ended up with instead. Contains Season 7’s Wish!Hook/Old Hook and Rogers, KnightRook, and of course some whumpage, if those are things people aren’t interested in. Most of those are new things for me to try writing as well.

Enough of my rambling - here goes:

“Saved From What Might Have Been”

Rough hands grasp him harshly, grappling at him from all angles and lifting him bodily from his seat at the gaming tables. He brays out in displeasure, swatting at those forcing him to the tavern door, at first thinking it is a ill-timed and less-than-humorous jest. However, as raucous voices laugh and jeer in approval, hooting and hollering and stamping feet accompanying shouts of “Good riddance!” and “Bout time ye boys were takin’ out the trash!”, Jones begins to struggle in earnest. He jerks within the hold of many, bucking and swinging wildly, though his punches go wide, made effectual with too much drink and the number of opponents holding him back. His attempts to dig in his heels only lead to him tripping over the raised board at the tavern entrance when the group pauses to open the door. Their combined grip lessens slightly, but before Hook can gather himself to whirl and fight, he is tossed forward unceremoniously, hurled into the street face first.

Once he would have been on his feet in an instant, charging forward to take all comers, but the air is knocked from his aging lungs, and he feels the ache and disorientation throughout his aching joints as he pushes himself to scruffed hands and knees, glaring at those who mock him from the doorway, barring re-entry to the one place able to temporarily silence his demons.

A shaking, unsteady hand wipes away mud from the rain drenched streets and the coarse and unkempt gray hair hanging in his eyes as well. His voice is a hoarse growl when he warns, “You lot should know better than to cross a pirate!” He attempts to stand imposingly to his full height, hand tucked in his belt and hook in plain view, to inspire the sort of respect and fear he had once done and ignore the shooting pain in his knees and hip.

The mob of half a dozen or more look unimpressed, but still Jones moves forward, meaning to shoulder his way through them and back to his table indoors. However, upon nearing the group, he is shoved back harshly, sending his still unbalanced form staggering back again.  Rage blinds him along with the dizziness of a half-drunken haze. Brandishing the hook, he makes to charge into the fray once more, when he is stopped cold by their leader’s words. 

“Think carefully, ye doddering old fool,” the man’s deep tone orders. “Ye’ve cheated yer last at my tables, and used up the last of me goodwill. Payin’ customers’ve complained long enough. You’re no captain. Where’s yer ship? No sailor nor pirate; no more, at any rate.  Yer a has been, a worthless old drunk. And this be yer warnin’  - stay out of my tavern or face the consequences!”

The words sink in just as deep, and perhaps even more painfully than the hard landing had moments before. The grizzled man seems to shrink, his shoulders slumping as he faces the small mob barring his way. Though his bravado does not leave him, he sees that it will not serve him victory and there is no swaying the men standing against him. There’s nothing for him here - no longer can he seek refuge, drown his sorrows and try to forget. He wants to wipe that hateful sneer from the taven keeper’s face; to carve his mark in the skin of all their thick hides with the sharp point of his hook and prove their insults wrong. And yet… defeated he knows those words have long since turned into ugly truth.

“I’m not sure he’s gotten the message yet, Ed,” one of the burly louts adds gruffly, stepping from the collective shadow of the pack and circling around behind the old sailor, hands balled into fists.

“Ye may be right, Connors,” another chortles cruelly. “Seems he might be half witted as well as one handed!”

Outmanned he might be, but Jones still isn’t one to take such abuse in silence, and is about to tell them so when a sharp kick to his legs from behind buckles both his knees and sends him to the ground once more. Before he can begin to get up or even roll away from the unseen onslaught, another heavy booted foot hurries forward to step down on the arm that had hit the ground hardest, causing a garbled yelp to escape his chapped lips. The thug’s full weight on the joint makes an audible crunch of bone and sinew and it is all the aging Jones can do to bite back the sting of tears at the pain.  

Floodgates now open, the group falls on him completely. A broom handle cracks along his spine, ale is poured over his head, rocks pelt him over and over, and kicks rain across his abdomen until he feels one connect with his ribs. His breath is stolen by the blazing white hot agony, and for a second his consciousness wavers. All thought of fighting back ceases, and instead Hook merely curls in upon himself, trying desperately to shield his head and vital organs until their attack is over.

After what seems an eternity, the beating slows, the miscreants back away as they spit on him and issue final warnings not to enter the establishment again. One even mutters that he might as well curl up there in the gutter where he belongs and wait to meet his Maker.  In that moment, Jones wonders if he may be about to do so as his breath comes in harsh, ragged pants around the fragments of at least one broken rib scraping torment against his lung.

The sky opens in a frigid downpour again as the other men leave him in a crumpled heap. They go back inside, flush with victory and high spirited in his defeat. The greying man shivers from the cold and shock, the agony of his wounds and the decimation of his pride almost pulling him under. 

However, he cannot give in yet, there is something he must still do.  He cannot die here in this alleyway, even if he does deserve just such an inauspicious end. No, there is someone who would miss him, who needs the few pilfered coins and the crust of bread he had managed to hide before they discovered his game. ‘Alice,’ he wheezes, the name barely more than a whisper in the rainy deluge and the crash of thunder.

Half limping and half dragging his sorry carcass from the outskirts of the village, through the storm to the foot of her tower, the old buccaneer collapses at the base of the high, impenetrable edifice holding his darling girl prisoner.  Tugging on the rope attached to the basket where he has placed his hard-won treasures, he hopes that his Alice will hear the bell at the other end, letting her know he has something for her, over the tumult. Squinting against the pelting drops, the wavering of his vision and encroaching unconsciousness, he waits for even a glimpse of her at the window far above. He can no longer climb to her; his old bones and poisoned heart having separated them physically years ago. 

Minutes flow by, lengthening and playing tricks. Has she turned away from him too?  “Alice!” he cries, his voice as broken as his body dying out on the howling wind. “Alice, my Lass! Are you there?”  No answer comes, and her honeyed curls and beguiling smile never appear over the ledge. Even she has gone… he failed her too… just as he had feared…

~~~~***~~~~

Two delicate hands shake Rogers into wakefulness, his Alice’s concerned voice ending his nightmare anxiously.  “Papa, wake up!” she pleads. “I’m here! You’re dreaming! Wake up!”

Blinking against the strangely wavering bluish light from the television still playing in the living room before him, he turns to see his grown daughter, restored to him just before they came here to Storybrooke in the United Realms, seated on the edge of the couch at his hip. Alice leans over him, where he had fallen asleep watching the nightly news, her hand still clutching his shoulder where she shook him awake. Her eyes are wide as she studies his face, sure that something real has disturbed her stoic and strong father. 

He still feels a bit blearily fuzzy-headed, the dream having muddled him with the anguish and shame slow to fade from his brain.  “Alice? Did I wake you? ‘M sorry, Love. You can go back to sleep.”  He runs a hand haphazardly back through his dark hair, just beginning to show a few strands of silver, in an attempt to clear the cobwebs and offer her a tentative smile. Shaking his head, Rogers hopes the thin excuse will appease his grown child enough to drop her queries into what troubled him.

“You were calling my name, Papa,” Alice offers hesitantly. “Do you want to talk about it?”

He sighs, reaching out to cover her hand on his shoulder and twining her fingers with his to squeeze tightly in affection. “No, Lass, no need. It’s nothing to worry about. We’re both here safe and sound. All’s as it should be.”

Not one to be easily dissuaded, she leans forward, pressing her forehead to her father’s playfully but holding his gaze with her curious eyes. “Are you sure?” she presses.

“Aye,” he nods with certainty, a bit more of the usual twinkle returning to his eyes as he stands to meet the day and pulls Alice up beside him. “No use worrying your pretty little head about me. Let’s have some breakfast, shall we?”

A matching sparkle of mischief lights her eyes as well. “Is there marmalade for the toast?” she returns cheerily.

“Of course there is, what do you take me for?”

“Then, let’s do it!” she exclaims, looping her arm through her papa’s as they troop into the kitchen. He follows easily, a full-throated laugh bubbling from his chest, only too happy to let the last shadows of the dream fade with the light of day.

Tagging a few others who (may?) enjoy -  not sure this will be all of my usual readers’ cup of tea?

@kmomof4​ @jennjenn615​ @sherlockianwhovian​ @killian-whump​ @artistic-writer​ @resident-of-storybrooke​ @teamhook​ @revanmeetra87​

[starryburglar-archive]

2019 was a weird year

In many ways, it was a weird and hectic year. IRL I was just all over the place with my studies and stressing A LOT over them, I was taking two classes again that I had failed last year and I feared during the entire year that I would somehow not pass again and it made me feel like the worst. On top of that, I still owed a final from last year and I only had one last chance to do it and do it well, otherwise, I’d have to re-do that class again. I took fewer classes than usual but somehow felt more overwhelmed, stressed and tired.

On the other hand, this was the year where I got to hang out and spend my Winter holidays with my best friend, the person who helped me grow during my late teen years and gain a new perspective of life, something that I still value and treasure to this day. I got to hang out with them and talk in person, not just via our phones or through social media, and it felt wonderful, magical and special.

This was also the year where I remade my blog to have it be more clean, precise and, most importantly, only follow people who I know will get interactions, new and old. I loved my previous blog but it was bugging me a lot just how messy it was plus the tags plain sucked and my old icons are poo-poo garbage. I’m still in the process of having better and cleaner icons ( and it will take me A LONG TIME ) but to think I have a blog that I feel happy with, a space where I feel safe and where I finally decided to prioritize my needs first and stop being afraid to say no when I felt uncomfortable or not interested felt... Well, good.

There are many people who I wanna thank for making 2019 a tolerable and not-shitty year but some people deserve special mention.

Lazy, aka @kindcstguardian : my best friend and the person who shaped me the most and helped me overcome many mental obstacles and shadows. I wouldn’t be who I am if it weren’t for you, I’m so happy to have been able to spend my college break with you in person and I’m super mega excited to go to your place this time around and suffer the heat with someone who also hates it like me. Honourable mention here to Martu / @muselobby for being the one person in control of our shared brain cell and for being the actual responsible adult, teach me your ways senpai (?)

Monie, aka @heartruths / @oceanamed / @techedevil : one of my biggest meme friends out there. We’re both somehow equally active or not even here but for different reasons and yet we continue to talk and joke and meme every day via discord. I still feel so grateful to have met you and for you, being one of the first people to have welcomed me into the Disney fandom when I had my Cindy only blog, to have given me that chance when I was a newbie. We’re one brain cell and nobody knows who has it.

Nana and Lucien, aka @studyinscarletx and @fakeredshoes : for being my meme friends since forever and because our Spanglish will live on forever. We’re always talking about random shit and somehow I am the one with the brain cell in our little trio ( maybe bcs u two always joke about murder idk (??) ). Love u two, wish I could physically hug you and I love your cats.

Josie, aka @galaxyveind / @makescoffee : one of the most patient and kind people out there. Someone who I was able to connect quickly once I broke out of my shy shell and now plotting with u and suggesting ideas is an everyday thing for us. We have so many things we wanna try and we lack the time to do so ; v ; but one day we shall do them all.

And, of course, everyone else is someone I think of dearly and feel grateful to have as a friend, no matter how much or how little we have talked or interacted: @floofiisms @mythosbornc @paramithi @pyroteched @filostimi @prsonatm / @icireign @aiontm @vandbaerer / @aerokinesiiss / @skathmarked @geniusborn @aelsell @pasttorn @pinafcl @melcdiam @merveiilles @madnessinthishouse @asortofsensation @musetory @13xwishes @fatesforged​ @lotuschest @ghaisgeach @goofymuses @sparkadream @saranghacs​ @strcngered​ @gottamuseemall​ @decalcoxrity​ @firefavoring​ and many MANY more ( so sorry if i forgot to include u here, goldfish memory and end of the year ;; )

[sapphires-and-gold-fics]

Fictober 2019 Day 3: “Now? Now you listen to me?”

Fandom: Game of Thrones / A Song of Ice and Fire

Characters: Jaime Lannister / Brienne of Tarth

Read on AO3

xxxxxxxxxxx

They were getting close to the Brotherhood’s territory. They could encounter one of Stoneheart’s men at any moment. Brienne halted her horse and jumped down, leading the mare off the road and into the brush where she secured the reins around a thick branch. Jaime leapt down as well and began to follow her lead.

“No Ser Jaime don’t,” Brienne sniffed, “we’re bringing your horse - he’ll make for a quicker escape.”

Jaime looked at her curiously. “What’s going on? I thought Sansa Stark would be further yet.” He peered at her and could see that tears had begun to form in her startling eyes.

“Ser Jaime, I need you to trust me.”

“What is it, wench?” he pried, stepping closer to her, “Why did you come to me with this bandage on your face and rope burns on your neck? What has happened?”

She shook her head. “You won’t believe me. I just need you to follow my lead. We may both still survive this. How has your fighting progressed? Your left arm?”

He flexed it. “If you’d wanted to spar my lady we needn’t have left Pennytree.” He could see that she was not keen to his jests. “What danger lies ahead? Have you laid a trap for me, wench?”

“It was the only way, Ser Jaime. She’s going to kill Podrick.” The tears were flowing now, and he resisted the urge to wipe them from her cheeks.

“Who is?”

“I told you,” she whispered, “You won’t believe me. You have to see her. And right now I need you to let me bind your arms.”

He looked at her askance.

“I’ll make sure you can loose yourself, but we need to be convincing to the Brotherhood. Believe me when I say this is the only way.” Her tears were drying as her resolve firmed.

“Wench…”

“You risked your life for me time and again, do you really think I would ever ask you to do so unless absolutely necessary? We don’t have a choice Jaime. We have to go to her. Give me your sword.”

Jaime studied her. She could have shown up back at Pennytree and told him that the Titan of Braavos was made of cheese, and he would have followed her. Her path was his, it had just taken him a while to realize it. And now she was asking him to go into an unknown situation with not just one good hand, but in fact none as she was bringing him in as a prisoner. He wanted to balk at the idea. But he couldn’t bear to watch her cry again. “Fine.” He unbuckled the belt holding Widow’s Wail and handed it to her and watched as she settled it on her right hip, the two halves of Ned Stark’s sword flanking her like the unassuming warrior she was. “Bind me, but not too hard.”

“No,” she sniffed, “I’ll make it so you can free yourself, whatever happens. Trust me, please.”

Jaime widened his shoulders to keep the rope loose as she drew his arms together, her hands soft against his stumped arm. “You said the Brotherhood - has Beric Dondarrion finally ended his unnatural life? If a woman was to defeat him, I can only imagine it would be you, but that doesn’t fit.”

“No,” she said from behind him, “he has been replaced by another.”“And how do you know your mystery woman won’t behead me the moment she sees me? How shall I defend myself then?"

“She won’t. She wants us to suffer. There will be time. Trust me.”

“Oh I do wish you’d mentioned the suffering before I agreed to be tied up and delivered for slaughter.” He felt her pause and take a deep breath before finishing her work behind him. She pressed the end of the length of rope into his hand and he squeezed hers as she did.

“There,” she said. “You only need to pull, and your arm will be free.”

“Good thing I can free myself, wench. Otherwise I couldn’t stop you taking liberties with me, could I?”

Brienne blushed hard.

“There it is. I was hoping I might get to see it one last time.”

“Ser Jaime —”

“Oh, lead on, wench - there’s suffering to be had!”

Two of Stoneheart’s men crossed them in the road not ten minutes later, and brought them before her. Harwin stood to her right, and Thoros haunted the corner of the cave.

“Lady Catelyn, I see the rumors of your death have been… somewhat exaggerated.”

Harwin raised his chin. “Lady Stoneheart has not given you leave to speak, Kingslayer.”

The milky white woman raised a taloned hand to her neck and pressed down, a heavy hiss emitting from her mouth. “You have no honorrrr Kingsssslayer.”

“That’s not true!” came a shout from behind them.

Brienne heard one of the men hit Pod to silence him, and she stepped forward. “It’s true, my lady. A Kingslayer has shit for honor.”

“Now? Now you listen to me.” Jaime was looking between Stoneheart and Brienne in disbelief. “This is--” he faltered when he saw her eyes begin to water again. “Wench…”

“It’s true,” said Brienne, turning to Stoneheart, “a Kingslayer has no honor. But Ser Jaime, the knight before you, is not that man.”

“Ser Jaime is the Kingslayer!” cried Harwin.

“No,” Brienne cried back, “it’s Ser Jaime. It’s just Jaime. He is honorable. He followed me thinking we were going to save your daughter, my lady.”

The woman let out another hiss, “Oathhhbreaaaakerrrr.”

Brienne stood up straighter. “My lady, you said that you would spare the others if I… I brought him here. That must be enough to let Pod and Hyle go. You get Jaime and you get me.”

“No!” Jaime urged, “certainly your freedom has been secured too. You’ve kept your promise where it regards me.” He turned to the former Lady Catelyn, “You have me. Let the rest go.”

Jaime couldn’t make out Stoneheart’s next words, but Harwin was quickly barking orders for the two Brotherhood guards behind them to escort Pod and Hyle back to the road. They were letting them go. But he and Brienne were still here.

“Wench…”

“Lady Catelyn,” started Brienne.

“Oathhhhhbreaaaakerrrr.”

“No, my lady,” Brienne all but begged, “Ser Jaime and I have broken no oathes. He would not have come here unless it were to try to fulfill the oath you now accuse us of abandoning. I… my lady, I beg mercy for him.”

“Toooo laaaate.”

Jaime stepped closer, “Well then, my lady - how am I to die? I see you already tried to hang the wench, but that didn’t seem to take. Perhaps your trees aren’t strong enough, but I’m a little lighter perhaps it’ll work for me.”

“The swoooorrrd.”

“A beheading? Aye that’s unfortunate. With my swordhand gone, I’m afraid all I had left was my looks. Very well, whose duty will it be to rid house Lannister of its lord, hmm?”

Stoneheart hissed, and Thoros spoke, moving from the shadows to the cave entrance. “Your whore will take your head,” he said, gesturing to Brienne. “If she does, she will live.”

Brienne looked at the ground, and Jaime looked at her. She must have known. He willed her to look at him and when she did, he gave her a resolute nod, his cocky smile never leaving his face. “Very well. Lady Brienne, I seem to be on your dance card again.”

She looked at him sadly, her hand twitching around the pommel of the sword he had given her.

Jaime turned back to the ruin of Catelyn Stark. “Lady Stoneheart...is it? Much as I’d love to make a pretty farewell, I think I’d like to whisper my last words to my queen of love and beauty, as it were. Might I be granted that?

“Say your words and get on with it, Kingslayer.” Harwin spat at Jaime’s feet. “Then your whore will take your head.”

Jaime turned to Brienne and stepped close to her, close enough that he could have caught the tears running from her eyes with his cheeks. “Wench” he leaned forward and she tilted her head down automatically so that their temples rested together, their lips at each other’s ear. Jaime felt the last resistance give way as his lips brushed the shell of her ear, “I’ve told you before. I trust you. Now shield my back, Brienne.”

In a flash, Jaime’s hand was free of the rope and he had pulled his sword from Brienne’s belt and spun away from her. They backed against one another - he taking on Harwin who rushed him impulsively and lost his ear for it before losing the rest; Brienne took on Thoros, a skilled fighter in his prime, but now so reliant on magicks that he could not compete with Brienne’s strength, and she cut him down at the knee before driving her sword into his shoulder. He was dead before his face crashed into the dirt. Lady Stoneheart was roaring, though it sounded more like steam escaping a hot stone fissure. They heard running footfalls approaching - the guards.

“Jaime —”

“Brienne, go! I’ll handle her.”

Without checking to make sure she’d heard him, Jaime pushed forward and moved toward Stoneheart.

“My son named this sword for you, you know. But I hope to give it a new name soon.”

“Kingsssssslayer. Oathhhhhbreaaaakerrrr. Craaaavennnnn. Your whooooore should have killlllllled you. She haaaaaas no honoooooor.”

Jaime hefted his sword as best he could.

“Her name is Brienne. And she is the truest knight in the seven kingdoms. She has enough honor for both of us.”

“Arrrrre you so craaaaaven that you would draaaag her down with youuuuu?”

“I’m not dragging her anywhere,” Jaime said, “She’s lifting me up. She’s my redemption. I suppose I should thank you for her. I do hope your soul rests easy when she and I have found your daughters. I hope you find peace.”

“Craaaaaavennnnnn!”

She would have said more, except that Jaime’s sword finished what the Freys had started.

“Jaime.”

He spun to face Brienne. She was closer than he’d thought she’d be.

“It’s done, wench. The others?” He could see the blood spattered across her arms.

She sheathed her sword, then removed his sword belt from her waist and handed it to him.

“There may be more in the woods, I’m not sure. I have to find Pod. And I’ll have to go back for my horse.”

“We’ll find him. And then we’ll go east.”

“Jaime,” she shook her head, “you needn’t come. I can keep searching. I’m sorry for putting you in danger, I’m sorry I lied to you. Lady Catelyn was wrong, I--”

“She was wrong about a lot. But I meant what I said. I mean to fulfill our oath.”

“But your men... and your—“

“There’s nothing for me there. From now on, I am with you, if you’ll have me. We can find her, I know we can.”

She nodded slightly, her blush growing, then ducked her head and left the tent. And he followed.

[cruelangelstheses]

something lonesome

fandom: dragon age rating: G characters: fenris/m!hawke, original child character, anders words: 3k additional tags: canon compliant, kid fic, some implied past violence description: when fenris finds an orphaned elven child in the kirkwall alienage, all he knows is that he has to help her somehow. a/n: hello everyone!! i wrote this fic for the @fenriszine and now that the orders have been shipped out i can finally post it!! :D i’m thinking about writing more fics in this ‘verse as well :0 title is from “from eden” by hozier

read it on ao3

—

The alienage is so busy, Fenris almost doesn’t hear the cries—almost.

It’s not rare to hear an infant wailing, but this is different. It’s plaintive, almost mournful, the howl of someone crushed under the weight of a terrible loss. Intrigued, Fenris stops in his tracks and listens closely, furrowing his brow. Some elves bump into him or brush past him, shaking their heads or muttering something under their breath. After a few seconds of standing in the middle of the street like a fool, he hears it again: tiny, high-pitched sobs.

Fenris had planned on just dropping off the food for Merrill and then leaving the alienage before he could get roped into anything. Too late for that now, it seems.

Turning his head to the side, he quickly pinpoints the probable source of the sound: an alleyway partially hidden by barrels and the shadows of buildings. When he takes a few steps forward, his suspicions are confirmed—the cries get louder the closer he gets.

At first glance, there doesn’t seem to be anything in the alley. Fenris peers behind one of the barrels, and there he spots the perpetrator, huddled in the dirt and the darkness: an elven child, probably no older than four, curled up in the fetal position.

The child must have heard his footsteps, or otherwise sensed his presence, because she lifts her head up abruptly, revealing a reddened and tear-streaked face. Her skin is only a shade or two lighter than his, and her pointed ears protrude from underneath a mess of long, tangled black hair. Upon seeing Fenris towering over her, the girl gasps, her bright green eyes widening in fear.

Fenris isn’t quite sure what to do, so he holds his hands up in a universal gesture of surrender. “Hold on,” he says, his voice steady. “I’m not here to hurt you.”

The girl sniffles and wipes at her eyes, her lip trembling. She doesn’t seem all that convinced.

Fenris kneels down in front of her. “What happened?” he asks softly, trying his best to adopt a less threatening demeanor, a difficult task when he looks quite...well, threatening.

Unexpectedly, the girl stands up and points toward the alienage, her expression suddenly solemn. Without a word, she steps out into the street, gesturing for him to follow her. Fenris raises a confused eyebrow and rises to his feet.

The girl scurries halfway across the alienage, darting in between groups of elves and ducking underneath their hands. Fenris, being much larger than her, almost crashes into a few of them in his effort to keep track of her. Finally he finds her standing in front of a little home similar to Merrill’s, only Merrill’s front door has never been knocked off its hinges (as far as he knows). It lies broken against the wall, a signifier to all who enter that the rest of the place will probably be in a similar state.

“Is this your house?” Fenris asks the girl. She nods.

When he steps into the main room, he catches the distinct scent of corpses and burnt flesh. He doesn’t even need to see the bodies to get an idea of what may have happened—one glance at the broken furniture, bloodstains, charred wood, and half-frozen weapons is enough.

The first body he finds is that of a templar, badly burned, lying near the entrance to the back room. Fenris already knows what he’ll find on the other side, but he forces himself to take a look.

The smell of death is worse in this room, where pools of blood surround two dead elves on the floor. Though neither wear mage robes, the woman holds a staff in her hand; the man seems to have fought with daggers.

“They came for Mama.”

Fenris jumps at the sound of the voice and spins around to see the young girl standing in front of him, speaking to him for the first time. “They wanted to...to take her away,” she continues. “She didn’t want to. And Papa didn’t want her to. And things got scary. So I ran.”

“I...I see,” Fenris says slowly. Templars sometimes take children of mages away, to be raised by the Chantry—perhaps they never found her after she fled the house. “And you have no other family that could take you in?”

The girl shakes her head.

It doesn’t take long for Fenris to come to a decision. He can’t just leave her here. With an awkward half-smile, an attempt at comfort, he says, “Well, I suppose you will just have to come with me for the moment.”

The girl narrows her eyes in confusion. “Huh?”

“I can help you find somewhere to stay,” he explains. “Will that be alright?”

Some part of his mind wonders if it’s silly to negotiate with a child. He hasn’t had much experience with them; he wouldn’t know. But the way the girl looks at him—with trust and possibly even respect—makes him think that it isn’t, or it shouldn’t be.

“Yes,” the girl says finally. “Thank you, messere.”

For a moment, Fenris wonders if he heard her correctly. Messere—the title one uses when speaking to someone of greater social status in the Free Marches. It’s a title he never expected anyone to be able to use for him, not even a four-year-old. Clearly her parents taught her to be polite. Caught off guard, he says, clearing his throat awkwardly, “I—yes, well—you’re welcome. But, ah, feel free to call me Fenris instead.”

“Okay,” the girl says. “Um...I’m Lyra.”

“Lyra,” Fenris repeats. He likes the way it feels on his tongue. “Well, then, Lyra. Let’s find a place for you, shall we?”

—

“Finding a place” for Lyra turns out to be a much more difficult task than Fenris expected. The Kirkwall Chantry isn’t willing to take in the elven daughter of a mage, so he couldn’t give her to them even if he wanted to. The elves in the alienage are already struggling under the weight of poverty, so none of them can afford another mouth to feed, and none of the other humans want an elven child.

Lyra, for her part, doesn’t seem to want human parents, either. Already naturally shy and skittish, she shrinks in fear whenever Fenris tries to introduce her to a human acquaintance, even Hawke, who has always been popular with children. Hawke offers to take her in—says the estate feels too big and empty without his mother in it—but when Fenris mentions this to Lyra, she simply shakes her head furiously. It doesn’t matter that two dwarves and an elven servant also live there; all that matters is that there is a human.

That just leaves Varric and Merrill, and Varric respectfully declines. “The Hanged Man is no place for a child,” he says, and Fenris is inclined to agree. Merrill offers, but she can barely take care of herself at the moment, so focused on her mirror that she forgets to eat—that’s the whole reason Fenris was even in the alienage that day. It very rapidly becomes clear that Lyra will probably have to stay at his place for a little while, a prospect that alarms him far more than it should for reasons he can’t quite describe.

It’s not that he’s embarrassed about the mansion; it’s as good as anywhere else, and he likes the idea of destroying things that Danarius considers “his,” of letting a symbol of depravity crumble around him. Still, he feels the need to warn Lyra about its deterioration so that she isn’t surprised by the stark contrast between it and the surrounding mansions.

Lyra, however, is in awe of the place, her eyes wide with wonder as she takes in the double staircases, the statues, the high ceiling. As he leads her up the stairs, she asks timidly, “How come you don’t live in the alienage?”

“It’s a long story,” Fenris replies. “Let’s just say I got lucky.”

The irony of that phrase isn’t lost on him. Having been a slave isn’t exactly something to be envious of.

—

Days turn into weeks with Lyra living in Fenris’s mansion. He doesn’t mind, necessarily, and he has enough coin to feed them both, but Aveline is getting antsy. It’s been hard enough for her to hide an elven adult squatting in a deteriorating Hightown manor; adding a child to the mix has only made the neighbors more suspicious. No one has contacted her about actually taking Lyra, though, even temporarily, so there’s nowhere else for the poor kid to go.

Besides, Fenris realizes that he actually rather likes her. She’s quick and clever, but he soon discovers that she can also be playful once she gets comfortable. Sometimes she asks him to tell her a story, only for her to argue with him the whole way through. Occasionally, he’ll find her trying to lift one of his weapons or playing with kitchen knives. She’ll sneak up on him to startle him or climb onto his back while he’s sitting and demand a piggyback ride—but she also listens when he speaks seriously and comes to him when she gets upset.

Fenris can’t watch her all the time, obviously, since Hawke is always bringing him on some sketchy mission or another, but that’s where Bodahn comes in. Lyra takes to him and Sandal immediately, and she seems to see Orana as almost an older sister figure. When he and Hawke return, though, she shrinks behind one of them at the sight of a human, a pitiful transformation from vibrant and animated to the terrified girl she was when Fenris found her.

Eventually she does warm up to Hawke, who still insists on visiting the mansion for reading lessons, but it takes some time. At first, she just sits on the other side of the room, watching them carefully without a word. It isn’t until Hawke’s third visit that she actually speaks to him, asking questions and making comments. Hawke, of course, takes it all in stride, and slowly but surely, Lyra starts to look at him not with fear but with awe.

After close to three years, the sessions aren’t so much “lessons” as “Fenris reading books to Hawke and occasionally stumbling over a word or two.” Fenris constantly reminds him that he doesn’t have to do this anymore, but still Hawke visits once a week, a grin on his face and a book in hand. “He’s just using it as an excuse to visit you,” Isabela said about it once, smirking, but Fenris didn’t quite believe it. He still doesn’t.

It’s during one of these sessions that Fenris notices something different about Lyra. She seems more subdued than usual—at this point, she’s gotten comfortable enough to make comments about the story they’re reading from underneath the desk, where she likes to sit and listen (while playing with Fenris’s toes). Today, though, she doesn’t say much of anything, not even at a major plot twist that nearly makes Fenris toss the novel across the room. He tries to engage her by asking what she thinks, but the most he gets out of her is a noncommittal grunt or a one-word answer.

At first, he figures she’s probably just grumpy. After Hawke leaves, though, Fenris hears her coughing.

“Lyra?” he says, peering underneath the desk. He finds her lying on the ground, cheeks flushed, breathing labored, forehead beading with sweat. At the sound of his voice, she gazes up at him with heavy-lidded eyes.

Fenris tries not to immediately launch into a panic. “Lyra, how long have you been feeling like this?”

“Since...yesterday,” she says weakly. “Got worse...today.”

Fenris groans and runs a hand through his hair, mentally kicking himself. He noticed that she seemed drowsier than usual this morning, but other than that, she showed no outward signs of sickness. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Didn’t want...to worry you,” Lyra says, closing her eyes and coughing again.

Fenris’s mind races, and the solution comes to him almost instantly. Breathing deeply and trying to sound calm, he says, “Listen. I’m going to take you to a human in Darktown. He is good at what he does. Nothing bad will happen to you.”

Lyra doesn’t protest. When he picks her up, her head lies limp on his shoulder.

—

The sun is almost below the horizon by the time Fenris reaches the clinic and shoves the door open.

Anders is the only one there, in the process of cleaning a bloody cot when he looks up and registers Fenris’s presence. “What—?” he starts, narrowing his eyes in confusion, before his gaze drops to the now-unconscious child in Fenris’s arms. “Oh, no.”

“Do something,” Fenris says, almost pleading.

Anders doesn’t hesitate. Gesturing to a clean cot nearby, he says, “Lay her down over there.”

Fenris spends most of his time in the clinic pacing back and forth, agitated, his focus always on Anders and Lyra. He should have noticed sooner. He should have paid closer attention to her. He should have made sure she knew to come to him. He should have—

“Fenris.” Anders’s voice breaks through his panicked thoughts. Fenris glances over at him, at the way his hands glow with bright blue light as they hover over Lyra. Without looking up from her, Anders says, “She’ll be alright.”

Automatically, Fenris breathes a sigh of relief and sits down on the next cot over, watching them. “It’s a pretty common illness,” Anders continues. “Children just aren’t as resistant to it because their bodies haven’t built up immunity yet. She’ll have to stay here overnight so I can keep an eye on her, but after that she should be fine.”

Fenris nods slowly. He’ll admit, Lyra already looks a bit better. “I...thank you,” he says, somewhat awkwardly.

“It’s nothing.”

For a moment, neither of them say anything. Then Anders finally looks up at him with the faintest smile and says, not unkindly, “You’ve gotten quite attached to her, haven’t you?”

That catches Fenris off-guard. He opens his mouth to deny it, but he can’t come up with any plausible excuse. It’s only been about a month and a half, but in that time he’s come to enjoy Lyra’s presence in his life. He hates to think of anything bad happening to her, and he’ll be sad to see her go with another family.

“I...suppose,” he mutters, but now that someone has actually said it, it can’t be ignored. He has gotten attached. It’s almost pathetic.

—

About two weeks later, Fenris learns that Varania is in Kirkwall.

When he returns from the Hanged Man that fateful day, Lyra bombards him with questions. “How did it go? What did she look like? Was she nice? What did you talk about? Am I gonna get to meet her?”

Fenris only answers the last one. “No,” he says brusquely as he opens the door to the mansion. “You will not get to meet her.”

Lyra frowns. “Why not?”

Fenris sighs. “Because sometimes there is a difference between being linked by blood and being family.”

He says it offhandedly, a statement filled with bitterness and loneliness, but as the words leave his mouth, he glances down at the child he’s been caring for and realizes that perhaps it’s true in more ways than one.

—

The next day, things start to fall into place.

Danarius is dead. He is free to do whatever he wishes. More importantly, though, Hawke is still there. Hawke wants to be there. As they talk, Fenris wonders if perhaps Isabela was on to something. He’s never felt such longing in his life, never allowed himself to—but Hawke has proven to be an exception more times than Fenris can count.

When they finally, finally kiss, Fenris feels his chest brim with something akin to hope. He can still have a future. He can still have a family.

As if on cue, Lyra waltzes into the room about four seconds later. “Ewww!” she groans, sticking her tongue out and immediately walking away. “I knew it! I knew you were like Mama and Papa! I knew it!”

Hawke and Fenris separate almost instantly. Fenris can feel his cheeks heating up. Hawke mutters, “How much tension must we have had, for even a four-year-old to figure it out?”

“Don’t underestimate her,” Fenris replies. “She is quite clever.”

Hawke nods and scratches his beard in thought. “You know, speaking of the future,” he says slowly, “what are you planning to do about her?”

Fenris pauses before finally speaking the ludicrous idea that’s been bouncing around in his head. “I’ve...been considering...keeping her. Raising her.”

He waits for Hawke to call him crazy, but it never happens. Instead, Hawke grins and says, “Two can play at that game.”

Fenris just smiles and kisses him again.

—

It happens a week later, at the estate.

One minute, Lyra is running around the house with Sandal. The next, she’s sobbing on the floor, despite not being visibly injured. Fenris and Hawke both rush over to her and kneel down to see her better. Sniffling, she says, “I can tell you anything, right?”

“Of course,” Fenris replies immediately.

“Okay,” Lyra says, wiping at her eyes. “I was...just playing with Sandal, but then…”

She holds her palms out. Almost immediately, a tiny flame starts to form at her fingertips. Fenris thinks back to Lyra’s mother, dead on the floor with a staff in hand.

Lyra buries her head into Fenris’s shoulder. “Don’t let them take me,” she pleads.

Hawke and Fenris exchange glances, but if he’s being completely honest with himself, there was never any doubt. Hawke is a strong mage, a skilled mage, raised by an apostate. If anyone can teach Lyra to control her powers, it’s him.

“We won’t,” Fenris says softly, pulling her into an embrace. “They will not take you from us. Nothing bad will happen to you.”

[dragonnan]

Mega Multi-Fandom Rec List Part 2

DISCLAIMER!!!

I will miss certain people; probably a lot of people. It’s inevitable.  3 reasons.  I haven’t read every fic in every fandom.  2, I haven’t managed to bookmark every fic out there.  3, I am not involved with every fandom.  The fandoms in my list are the ones I personally and currently am involved in which have enough fics to rec that they are worth the time linking below.

So bear with me.

4-ish - I tend to cling pretty tight to both hurt/comfort (whump) as well as canon.  I’m not hugely into romance save for maybe 1 or two couples and, again, I lean hard on whatever is either canon or VERY strongly implied OTP.  I don’t rec porn (nothing against it I just avoid it when it comes to anything that might have an underage audience).

Finally, anything I rec that may contain triggering subject matter I will tag as well as I can so heed the warnings where appropriate!

Note: I have also included some of my work below.  For a complete collection of my stories you can find them at the following links:   dragonnan’s Psych fics dragonnan’s A03 fics

Sherlock (BBC)

Gen 

Redemption by sgam76 The Knight Shift by dragonnan for tunes84  5 Times Sherlock wanted his big brother to carry him + 1 time he wouldn't admit it by SailorChibi Scenes From Recovery by maryagrawatson for Boton Cold Comfort by maryagrawatson An Act Of Rebellion by afteriwake for GlowingMechanicalHeart, Dreamin  The Precipice by takethesky87 Road to Freedom by Ariane_DeVere English as a Foreign Language by standbygo  Proportionate Response by babydrache Landscape With The Fall Of Icarus by CaitlinFairchild (Warning: Rape/non-con)  Recorded by Morgan_Stuart (Warnings: Torture, Implied Character Deaths)  I've Got You Now by ready_to_kick_some_ass No Flowers by GraceHolmes  An Interesting Puzzle by awanderingbard When Your Belly's in the Trench by Morgan_Stuart  Idle Gossip by Arnie  Extraction by Basser Flinch by Salr323  Trust Thy Doctor by becausemycroft (Unfinished)  Of Monsters by Basser Dangerous Mould by Benfan  Never That Easy by Kerkerian No Incentive So Great by thisprettywren You Were Never Supposed To Leave by Ballykissangel (Character Death - Not Sherlock or John)  No More Miracles by whitchry9 (Major Character Death)  Appearances Can Be Deceiving by SailorChibi (Warning: Rape/non-con)  The Most Awful Thing by whitchry9 Wrong by impulsereader Triage by Morgan_Stuart Lessons Learned by Morgan_Stuart Croatia-Water-Blue by hollyesque (Warning: Rape/non-con)  Hopeless Wanderer by Cyane (orphan_account) The Triple Bluff by SarahKnight  Something Broken by GhyllWyne Fractured by radculas Constantly by thesignsofserbia  In Arduis Fidelis by Salr323 Rule of Law by thesignsofserbia  Sound of Silence by SailorChibi Never Have I Ever by awanderingbard  Lost for Words by awanderingbard Fallout by Salr323 Following On by Loopy456 Oubliette by CherryBlossomTide Unforgettable by tenderly_wicked A Cure for the Final Problem by Saasan (Major Character Death)  He's Had This Nightmare Before by mirroredLife  he Holiday by Scriblit (Warning: Rape/non-con)  Paying Back by Dayja  Harmless Things by J_Baillier  It takes John Watson to save your life. by Sparkypip  Comatose by Sparkypip Everything Will Be Okay by great_big_worm (Warning: Rape/non-con)  Seek Out The Unworthy by squire  The Shallow End by hollyesque War Crimes by mossologist (Warning: Rape/non-con)  Illation by hollyesque Crushing Fears by Amaya_Ramiel Pressure by Tammany Unthinkable by Lindentreeisle (Captainblue) (Warning: Rape/non-con)  A Smelly Affair by dioscureantwins for Yitzock  Do Your Research by dioscureantwins for CherryBlossomTide (Child Abuse)  Proxy by CherryBlossomTide (Child Abuse)  Pipe Song by Mistress_Siana (Warning: Rape/non-con | Violence)  It's Not The Violin by copperbadge The Tiger and the Shark by dragonnan (Warning: Rape/non-con) 

Sherlolly

Down and Shaking When I Think I Lose by satin_doll for OhAine, GettingOverGreta A New Project by rachel614 (orphan_account)  Sherlollipops - Til Death by MizJoely Everything and More by rachel614 (orphan_account) I've Learned to Lose You by Ukthxbye for Writingwife83 These Scars We Kiss by rachel614 (orphan_account) (Warning: Includes discussions of self-harm)  A Vicious Motivator by darnedchild The Shadow of What Will Be by versarilaetus The Last Meal by theSapphireSky The Healing of Sherlock Holmes by honeycakes  Insomnia by katiebuttercup Chasing Paradise by Chibiness87 It's My Party by Mouse9 The Adventure of the Left Shoe by Jolie_Black TMI (Too Much Information) by GarudaDreamsOfRain  Handsome In Her Eyes by afteriwake Little Bird by Caffeine_faerie The Price of Sentiment by Mouse9 The Admirer by howterrifying  Dial M for Molly by dragonnan 

More Sherlolly recs can be found HERE

Series

Scheherezade ‘verse, A Felicitous Natal Celebration, and With a Little Help From My Friends Series’ by sgam76:   Sherlock is home, he and John are returning to cases, and all’s right with the world–right? But a series of minor mishaps and injuries makes two things very clear to his friends and family: first, Sherlock’s time away wasn’t the grand adventure everyone has assumed it was; and second, that time has left Sherlock with a legacy that’s bleeding into his life today. Sherlock is Not Okay, and it’s not going away. 

NOTE: These stories are not written in the order with which they occur.  They are all part of the same universe and dovetail amongst one another.  You can read them in whatever order you which - though I strongly advise beginning with Scheherezade as nothing else will quite make sense without that history.

A Felicitous Natal Celebration - Past fic

A Felicitous Natal Celebration Excursions and Alarums First Things First All Along the Watchtower TLS and the Sloane Ranger Happy Not Happy Christmas

Scheherezade ‘verse Scheherezade   A Pox on All Your Houses  Interlude in December - Note: Part 3 is a chapter taken from the org fic and posted as a one-shot.   [PodFic] Scheherezade by DefinitelyNotPie, sgam76   A Long Walk Down a Dusty Road  These Old Shades  Larceny, Lawlessness and Opium - Note: These events take place sometime during the ORG story

With a Little Help From My Friends - future fic With a Little Help From My Friends  Aftermath 

Reset Universe Series by maryagrawatson: After dealing with the Moriarty threat, Sherlock was still sent on his mission... Eleven Months Reset (Warning: Rape/non-con referenced as well as Attempted Rape)  Cracked

Sherlock Holmes (RDJ Movies)

Alive by Sharmain The Case Of The Drowning Evidence by StarkRogers Ability, Neutralized by PeaceHeather Buried Alive by drjohnhwatson Identifying the Ripper by WayWardWonderer (More of a Classic Doyle Style)  Eloquence in Motion by donutsweeper Damage by ancalime8301 A Most Belligerent Patient by kayliemalinza Associations by ancalime8301 A Matter of Precaution by moogsthewriter

Psych

Never could get the hang of Tuesdays by Liviapenn Snail Mail Sucks - Next Time, Send Me a Text by SydneyWoo I See Your Hubris...and I'll Raise You Fifty by SydneyWoo And Then The World Blew Up by SydneyWoo (Minor Character Death) Shall We Play a Game? by JR88fan Testing, Testing, One, Two, Ouch! by PapayaK This is not the Karma You're Looking For by eideann The Ticket by Kirei Latent by InsaneTrollLogic (Major Character Death) Exposed by Syncop8ed Rhythm

A Very Risky Proposition by aakira Chest Pains by AmeliaReddy The Last Man At The End Of The World by watanuki_sama A Whisper to the Living by Xparrot (Major Character Death)  Where There is Wailing and Gnashing of Teeth by dragonnan (Warnings for Blood/Gore and Horror)  You Say My Brain's Bleeding Like It's a Bad Thing by Kansas42 Stuck in an Office with You by PeterPanic Hostage Taking 101 by Syncop8ed Rhythm  The Shassiter Friendship Club by NoirCat  Suffer the Night by dragonnan  Giving Shelter to Midnight Ramblers by JR88fan Happy Halloween by NoirCat  Fathers and Sons Felonious and Otherwise by Okapi  Grace by Silence  Statement Time by NoirCat   I Don't Know How to Say Goodbye by Psychrulz (Major Character Death)  Or Is It Trust? by windscryer (Crossover w/ SPN)  Father Figures by Kirei  You Give Me Fever by dragonnan  Shawn and the Friendly Neighborhood Stalker by Nixa Jane I Would Do Anything for Love; Even That by dragonnan for mortma1984  Lingering Chill by s_c (Major Character Death)  Metal So Strong Doesn't Last Very Long by Sky Pad  An Almost World by Oldach Dreaming (Major Character Death)  Obsession by dragonnan Through Moonbeams Softly by brightblue All Nighter by dragonnan  The Seed of Doubt by Collegekid06  The Five Stages of Henry Spencer by Collegekid06   101. Dead Man's Float by MusicalLuna  Fun in the Woods with Buzz McNabb by centipede  Don't Eat the Crab by Raych Better Off Decapitated by dragonnan 

More Psych recs can be found HERE

Series

Fractures Series by VampKira: (Warnings for Child Abuse, Rape/Incest, Violent Disturbing Imagery, and Horror)  The fun filled saga of the Spencer men’s warped family dynamic and dragging their friends, co-workers, and acquaintances along for the ride.  Fractures (Part 1)  Corpses, Curses, and Cops, Oh My (Part 2)  Scars (Part 3) (Incomplete)  

What’s The Chance? Series by lapsus_calami:  The bad guy from their recent case forces Shawn and Gus to play a game of Russian Roulette. It’s about as fun as it sounds. Which is to say not fun at all.  There’s A Sixteen Percent Chance That At Least One Of Us Is Going To Die (Part 1)  There's A Thirty Two Percent Chance That At Least One Of Us Will Need Therapy (Part 2) 

A *Really* Dangerous Mind Series by Psychrulz:  Everyone knows Shawn has a tendency to get distracted. When he misses a clue and a murderer almost gets away, Chief Vick has had enough. She orders Shawn to get help and fix the problem- or else. Naturally, nothing with Shawn is ever that simple. When the fix turns out to be worse than the problem, the lives of his entire team are put in danger.  A Bitter Pill (Part 1)  Pitch Black (Part 2) 

Moonlighting Series by Redwolffclaw:  Psych/Moonlight Crossover Series - Shawn meets vampire Private Eye Mick St. John in this series where Shawn has to learn to live unlife as a newly turned vampire. Who knew being a vampire, psychic, consultant, detective, boyfriend, and best friend would be so hard?  No Such Thing As Psychics (Part 1)  12:04 Wake Up Call (Part 1.5)  Out of the Past, and Into the Fire (Part 2)  Love Lasts Forever, but Sanity Has a Shelf Life (Part 3)  Click- To Catch A Vampire (Part 4)  Hard To Believe It Will Be Okay Series by silverluna:  Carlton Lassiter is having a horribly bad day, and it’s only going to get worse.  Hard To Believe It Will Be Okay (Part 1)  Where Do We Go From Here? (Part 2)  The Spencers of Santa Barbara Series by JR88fan :  When Uncle Jack comes to town, one thing is certain: life won’t be boring.  This particular visit is no exception.  Throw in some video games, a treasure hunt, a case of benitoite gemstones worth millions, and a pair of sinister brothers who will stop at nothing to acquire those gemstones, and the Spencer men quickly find themselves in over their heads.  The Spencers of Santa Barbara: The Curse of Benitoite (Part 1)  Jack and Jill Went Up the Hill (Part 2) 

A Road Through Abbadon Series by Am_I_Zombie: (Warnings for Major Character Deaths, Violent Disturbing Imagery, and Horror)  Shawn Spencer works out his place in a rapidly changing environment. It is apocalypse season after all.  A Road Through Abbadon (Part 1)  A Funny Thing Happened On the Way Into Hell (Part 2)  A Rest Stop at the Edge of Madness (Part 3) (incomplete) 

Choose It Or Lose It Series by Texasartchick:  Lassiter’s dream comes true when he accidentally obtains indisputable evidence that Shawn is a fake.  Fortunately for Shawn and Gus, Lassie doesn’t know what he has yet, sparking a desperate race against time.   Can our dynamic duo sneak the evidence away from Lassiter before he discovers that he literally holds control over the future of Psych - and possibly Shawn’s freedom - in his hands?  Choose It Or Lose It (Part 1)  It Can Happen (Part 2)  Stir Crazy (Part 3)  This Stalker Thing Kind Of Sucks (Part 4)  The Ties That Bind (Part 5)  Helmets Not Included (Part 6)  The Spencer Syndrome (Part 7)  A Very BAMF! Lassie Fic (Part 8)  Night of the Rodentia (Part 9) (Unfinished) 

Doctor Who

Creature Fear by goodbye2pisces (Tenth Doctor)  Xeno by Laurawrzz (Tenth Doctor) Then My Mind Went Dark by the_magpie (Tenth Doctor) (Warning: Rape/non-con)  How to Live by misscam (Tenth Doctor)  A Coward Dies A Thousand Times by sashet (Tenth Doctor)  let the echo shake it all apart by sequence_fairy (Tenth Doctor) (Warning: Rape/non-con)  Time With Mother by Laurawrzz (Tenth Doctor)  A Step in the Right Direction by flutterflap (Tenth Doctor)  Voiceless by Veldeia (Tenth Doctor)  Beneath the Midnight Sky by HiddenTreasures for badwolfrun (Tenth Doctor)  Novi et Veteris by IuvenesCor (Twelfth Doctor)  Spinach Shock by Goldy, mrv3000 (Tenth Doctor)  Were He Not Romeo Called by Butterfly (Tenth Doctor)  The Devil You Know by rosa_acicularis (Duplicate Tenth Doctor)  Canvassing the Limits of Domesticity by Queen of the Castle (queen_of_the_castle_77) (Duplicate Tenth Doctor)  The Difference by themuslimbarbie (Duplicate Tenth Doctor)  The Old Have Bad Dreams by kashinoha (Eleventh Doctor)  Transfixion by tardisjournal (Eleventh Doctor)  Family Emergency by sahiya (Eleventh Doctor)  Vacation, Interrupted by shyday (Tenth Doctor)  What Is Essential by eve11 (Eleventh Doctor)  Let Her Under Your Skin, Into Your Heart by starlingnight (Eleventh Doctor)  Balance of Power by eve11 (Eleventh Doctor) 

Part 1: MCU - Iron Man, Spider-Man, Doctor Strange, Avengers

[makeste]

BnHA Chapter 109: Rescue Exercise

Previously on BnHA: Bakugou and Deku’s groups met up after passing phase one of the exam. Bakugou eyed Deku and was all, “I see you made that *~*~*BORROWED POWER*~*~* your own,” which caused me to lose my shit, but then he walked off without saying anything further. Aoyama and Iida were big damn heroes, but Aoyama really took the cake, firing up his laser and using it as a beacon to draw in the remaining class 1-A strays so that they could all regroup and pass. Which they did, with not a second to spare. Back in the anteroom, the 100 remaining examinees were directed to watch as the examiners demolished the testing field with a series of explosions, and then announced that phase two of the exam would be a rescue operation.

Today on BnHA: The exam guys explain that the second part of the test will involve rescuing old folks and little kids from a mock disaster site. The “victims” are professional actors who basically do this for a living. While the group waits for phase two to begin, Sero gossips to the others about Deku and the Weird Naked Girl from Shiketsu Academy. Meanwhile a polite Yeti from Shiketsu comes to apologize to Bakugou on behalf of his dick classmate (the meat lump guy from a couple chapters ago). Shouto goes up to Yoarashi and is all “is it just me or do you hate my guts” and Yoarashi is all “yeah I do, cuz your eyes remind me of Endeavor’s.” Phase two begins and the kids set off a-rescuin’. Deku gets chewed out for not being smiley enough, but recovers. Ochako decides she’s going to stop acting like she’s in a shoujo manga for the time being, which, finally!! The exam continues, with a plot twist or two very clearly on the horizon.

(As always, all comments not marked with an ETA are my unspoiled reactions from my first readthrough of this chapter. I’ve read up through chapter 148 now, so any ETAs will reflect that.)

~new volume time~!

oh. yeahhh

now that’s the shit I do like. my boys being two sides of the same coin

and in the background it looks like Yoarashi and Todoroki are indeed being rivals, and Todo looks to be embracing his fire side at long last!

and is that Gang Orca just randomly there in the background also or what

anyway

“IT’S ABOUT YOUR QUIRK FUCKWIPE”

(ETA: after this volume, FA got a new translator, and I feel like this was the original translator’s last hurrah lol. to be fair, the guy apparently had a ton of impact on early BnHA fandom. he was even the one who came up with “quirk” as a translation for kosei which obviously stuck. but all the same, I’ve definitely noticed a steep drop in the number of profanities uttered in FA’s translations since he left.)

oh my god shit’s gonna hit the fan. fucking finally. they wouldn’t have brought it up out of the blue in the previous chapter unless things were about to come to a head! I smell another Kacchan essay coming on before these next nine chapters are done

wow look at this title page though

Todoroki looks very ~moody~ here and I can’t help but feel more daddy angst is on the horizon. there’s got to be some reason why the otherwise stand-up guy Yoarashi keeps looking at him like he smells something bad

yay the character page has the characters in action again instead of just profile pictures of them! for a little while I was afraid Horikoshi was running out of steam to keep doing these. I really like them every time he does one and this is no exception

Bakugou looks like he’s gotten more jacked. been hittin the gym

is Tokoyami using Dark Shadow to fly...? can he do that?

Rat Principal’s just sitting there in All Might’s lap. interesting to see him here; I assume this means more plot stuff is on the horizon. WHO IS THE TRAITOR

poor Kirishima, shown here a split second away from falling flat on his face

Jirou is perfect as always, I wonder if she’s ever not been perfect

go away Mineta

anyways. on to the chapter

so the first thing I wondered upon reading this opening panel (“we’ll be having you conduct rescues as ‘bystanders’ at this disaster site”) is, what the fuck do they mean by “bystanders.” but thankfully the kids are asking the exact same thing

oh, you did it as a lesson once. REMEMBER? no I don’t fucking remember because I wasn’t there. I can’t believe you did a bystander rescue lesson without me. fuck you guys!

they’re saying that they won’t be acting as ordinary citizens, but as people who’ve already secured a provisional license. so basically, heroes who happened to be onsite during the disaster

and there are the old men and kids we saw earlier

I wonder if they’re going to purposely make things as difficult for the rescuers as possible

wow, apparently they all do this professionally. they’ve got fake blood and everything

the exam guy is saying they work for the “Help Us Company” or HUC for short. haha I love this

so okay, the examinees have to rescue them and do it as professionally as possible. but are there any other crazy requirements for this exam like there have been with all of the other ones

wow, apparently not. “this time you and your rescue efforts will be graded via points.” how curiously normal. almost suspiciously so

Iida and Deku are staring at the field

if that’s the case, I wonder is it just a rescue operation then, or did they hire any actors to possibly play villains as well...? like, exactly how realistic are they going for here

anyway, the resemblance seems to make this more personal for them. Deku’s looking serious and determined. “let’s give it our best shot”

hoh boy Sero is coming over to Kami and Mineta and says he has something to tell them, and immediately you know it’s gonna be about that naked chick from Shiketsu

I’m so torn on this because. basically they think Deku was fooling around with her and they’re like “WHAT, IN THE MIDDLE OF THE EXAM??” and caught somewhere in between outraged and impressed. but like, they’re horny teenage boys and of course they’re gonna be interested

really, if it was just Sero and Kaminari (a.k.a. the two that actually respect their fellow students and haven’t groped and/or attempted to peep on and/or raid their underwear and/or all of the other disgusting things Mineta has done or tried to do), I wouldn’t mind it, because really they’re just gossiping and fantasizing. but as usual Mineta ruins everything

ffff okay screw it, this is pretty funny. I mostly just like that they all think Deku’s got game now. and this girl is not helping at all

now they’re all disappearing in a cloud of angry fight smoke (as one does), and Ochako is staring

c’mon Ochako you know he wouldn’t do you like that. you know him better than that

over by the refreshments table, some guys from Shiketsu are coming over to say hi to Bakugou

they’re asking did Seiji go after him and he’s like “yeah and I knocked his punk ass out”

this sasquatch-looking guy is apologizing for Seiji’s behavior. hmmm

hmmmmm. is this sincere? I don’t fucking trust anyone from any of these other schools until the exam is finally over

everyone else is skeptical too lol

Todoroki is remembering Yoarashi’s >:( face from earlier and is like, then wtf was up with that

Shouto they all have hats. be fucking specific

obviously he’s talking to Yoarashi though

so he’s asking if he did something

Yoarashi’s turning to him like

“no. absolutely nothing at all”

haha. no, actually he’s addressing him as “son of Endeavor.” so yeah I’m starting to get an inkling here that he doesn’t like Todoroki’s dad

okay, whoa

okay, HOLD UP. you come into my house and you come up to my son who’s already been through enough dad-related trauma for a lifetime and who already has ten thousand hang-ups about being too similar to his dad, and who is actually THE SWEETEST BOY WHO EVER LIVED, TRUFAX, and you go up to him and you say you don’t like him because HIS EYES ARE THE SAME AS ENDEAVOR’S? Yoarashi, I’ll have you know that I liked you. but if it’s going to be like that, I WILL MAKE YOU MY ADVERSARY IN A HEARTBEAT and don’t think for a second that I won’t!!

AND HE’S REALLY GOING OFF NOW WITHOUT EVEN FUCKING EXPLAINING WHY HE DOESN’T LIKE ENDEAVOR AND WHY HE’S CONDEMNED SHOUTO TO NOT BEING LIKED JUST BECAUSE OF HIS JERK DAD

ARE YOU TRYING TO UNDO ALL THAT SHIT DEKU WORKED SO HARD FOR DURING THE SPORTS FESTIVAL ARC?? DEKU’S ARMS DIED FOR THIS

and I’m not sure if Deku actually saw all of this happening, but now he’s asking if Todoroki is okay

or at least he starts to, but then this girl whose name I unfortunately forgot (hold on I’ll look it up again... Camie) is bidding him farewell and he’s getting distracted by that. and then immediately Kami and Mineta are tearing into him again

meanwhile Ochako is staring at Camie with a weirdly contemplative look

jealousy!?!??! like, is it not obvious?? there’s a whole shipping thing that Horikoshi is trying to do with you and Deku here, but I’m really skeptical of his ability to pull it off even remotely gracefully. but it sure doesn’t look like it’s going anywhere so I guess WE SHALL SEE

whoa now all of a sudden a voice is blaring over the speakers and interrupting all of their teenage shenanigans

finally. Todoroki angst aside, that was beginning to get tiresome

and here they go!

I wonder if they’re also going to be tested on their ability to work with the kids from the other schools here. because in a real life rescue effort, they’d have to put aside their differences. and that scene just before this sure did a good fucking job of establishing that various people here all have various beefs. I hope they don’t get sidetracked by that

so they’re all setting off, and they’re wondering how they’re going to be graded. well, my speculation is that the ones who bring the others together and work cooperatively will get the highest score. in other words, I think this test is going to weed out the ones with too much ego, among other things

so, Bakugou... lol. good luck kiddo

(ETA: sob)

like two seconds in and they already stumbled upon a crying little kid

oh shit these instructors are not fucking around

DEKU YOU FUCKED UP SOMEHOW

he’s screaming at him why didn’t he check if he was okay first, look at all the blood on him, etc.

he says heroes with provisional licenses need to be able to judge the victims’ situations at a glance. well thank you for the helpful hint dude

someone from another school is saying that they’re going to mark the area as dangerous, and someone else is saying no, make it a wider area because we don’t know if the damage might spread

someone else is making roads and helipads

and some of Ms. Joke’s kids are setting up a temporary refuge and triage station

Aizawa’s rubbing his head and says he knew his kids would fall behind when it came to this sort of thing. well how much training have they had for this?

okay this is actually really interesting. this is something we haven’t gotten into at all yet

and that kid that was yelling at Deku says that most of all, a hero’s first words upon arriving at the scene shouldn’t be, “OH NO THAT’S TERRIBLE,” but rather...

wow Deku you really did fuck up, huh. wasn’t this the entire reason you wanted to be a hero in the first place?

but thanks again HUC kid for your free advice

so now Deku is snapping himself out of it and getting his game face on

I kinda wish his game face wasn’t so cuddly, but I’ll take it

now the HUC kid is immediately getting back in character and telling Deku to go save his grandpa

so Deku’s directing the others to go help gramps while he takes the kid to the first aid station

Ochako is just STANDING THERE WATCHING HIM

I don’t know but get a move on, girl, I need you to get your license too so you can become even more of a badass

she’s thinking that she needs to push aside all of her DO YOU LOVE HIM??? feelings

and that whenever she sees Deku acting like that and never giving up, she thinks it’s just so cool

well, good, because this is the provisional license exam arc, not the Can These Two Crazy Kids Really Make It After All arc. we’re barely a hundred chapters in; there’s still plenty of time for that shit later down the line

and thankfully the last page seems to be introducing some sort of twist, because things were getting a little too straightforward for a finale lol

is that Todoroki? I can’t tell what’s going on. I GUESS I’ll just have to keep reading, oh well

 BONUS:

  Chewbacca here is first mate on a ship that might suit us

whaaaaaaaat he’s the class rep?? okay then, I guess that was a sincere offer of friendship. this guy seems like a solid bro

apparently he can freely manipulate his hair and make it longer and such. “though it’s tough how often it tangles up on him.” that sounds troublesome

I like him. Nagamasa... I’ll try to remember that

[rhythmbastard]

STATE OF THE BASTARD 2019!!!

Better late than never! I'm 31! Wooo... For me, 2018 was a year where I tried out a lot of stuff and it worked. As shitty as things were otherwise, and at times, I felt like I was just spinning my wheels, I have a better idea of what to do going forward. The con front was quiet, but the few shows I did put on (Mini Iwai, Anime Iwai and Holiday Matsuri), went over very well, particularly because I've got my shenaniganing down pat. I've also put out quite a few songs out on Patreon, and managed to get to a few conventions I wasn't required to play at. Like, I can just hang out and shit. So I have a better feeling going into 2019. Here's to 10 More Years! Yeah, I've been at this for 10 Years. MOST RECENT SONG: "Death's Blossom" Youtube-

Soundcloud-

I JUST rendered the video and cover out today so I can have this for you guys. You're Welcome! FAVORITE SONG I MADE: "Thrash Panda" A song that's still Patron exclusive, but I feel REALLY good playing this song live. The ONLY reason I haven't dropped it yet is because I do want to make a cool piece of art to go along with it. OTHER COOL SHIT I DID: 2017's 3000 Brigade Show is finally out!

This was a good one. I still have the Wii Fit Trainer stuff, in my closet. 2018's show was even better since I had more to do! Amanda if you're reading this I still have all of your acoutrements in my closet I've also joined a DnD Campaign long time internet friend Luke Herr is running, which leads me into... PODCAST STUFF: RPG Pals Club- By the time you read this, it'll be out for the public! My character is Oi! A Drow Monk who chose the punk life over the underdark. So now he's a punk monk. NOW HE'S A PUNK MON- I'd Rather Not- The last episode was... not fit for human consumption, but we're nearing on 100 episodes, so the shaningans will Pentuple! TREND I LIKED THE LEAST: Coddling Bigotry Being A Cottage Industry Oh, wait? That was last year? And it still persists this year since all social media companies worry about is "engagement", content be damned, since 4chan Nazis have nothing better to do all day than harass transgender people and other minorities? TREND I LIKED THE LEAST PART 2: Articles About "Going Too Far" You know the trend: "SANTA SHOULD BE GENDER NEUTRAL!" "THEYBIES?" "EXACTLY ONE WOMAN WITH FEMINIST IN THEIR TWITTER BIO SAID A THING SO IT'S NEWS" You've seen these articles a million times shared by friends on Facebook, usually accompanied by a "WTF?", and in the comments go something like "I'm not racist/sexist/hating on x group here, BUT..." These stories serve a purpose to make you think that a certain marginalized group is going "too far" in the pursuit of equal rights. And when you have the fear of going "too far", its two fold: 1. You're afraid of anything being tried in the first place 2. It leaves the door open for someone more agreeable to the status quo to come in with an ineffective solution. So the only response is to drag them to the main point kicking and screaming, "Well don't you think X should have the same rights as the rest of us?" TREND I LIKED THE MOST: Furries Being The Comrades We All Need In This Shittastic World This year's Internet Hero was not a man, but a fox. A black, gay fox (everything Republicans hate) who was really, really good at fighting games. Second place goes to a guy who shat on Elon Musk: I've mentioned that the furry fandom/subculture is more creator focused than anime fandom, which means that is is decentralized, and all media considered "furry" is not produced by a singular entity. There may be pieces of media popular amongst furries, like Disney movies, Star Fox, etc., but the fandom itself owns the means of production, meaning it's socialist as hell, which is a good thing.    Since there's no singular entity that produces the art, there's no reason for them to ignore bad actors in the name of profit. Video game and comics companies and the like can look at bullshit like Gamergate and Comicsgate and go, "Hey, their money's just as good as anyone else's! But since the talent pool is widely distributed, and everything is done on a person to person basis, you can tell the Nazis to fuck off:

And yes, there are Nazifurs/Altfurries. When the entire pull of a fandom is "You don't have to be the default you", it can be a good, like a safer space for LGBTQ+ people to express themselves and feel more out (i.e. their fursona is a different gender than the person was assigned, sexuality is different, etc.). Or it can be a bad, meaning "Hey, I was kicked out of my usual group because I was a dipshit who kept making holocaust/attack helicopter/racist jokes, SURELY these people will accept me!" As mentioned earlier, you can kick out the latter group. It's fine. When you've been an internet punching bag for so long, you can either be a shittier person, or keep on keeping on and learn to be better on your own. Same for the juggalos. LET'S COMBINE THE TWO, SHALL WE? FAVORITE SONG OF 2018: "Make Me Feel" by Janelle Monae

So, the runner up for this was "She's Kerosene" by The Interrupters, but while that a lot of energy and I crank up it my car all the time, "Make Me Feel" wins out because it has sexiest buildup to any song ever, and of course, Janelle Monae at her most fun. TOP 40 SONG I HATED THE LEAST: "Thank U, Next" by Ariana Grande

My thought process: "Ugh, OK, like, I haven't listened to a lot of Top 40 Radio, so I guess 'Feel It Still' is in the running, but let's see what Todd In The Shadows thinks..." "Thank U Next? That Ariana Grande song? It's a meme, but I'll give it a listen." "DAMN THIS IS SO GOOD! Her voice is so soothing! And the song expresses a sentiment so unique! Haha! I wonder what movies I'd parody for my thank u next equivalent?" THE "WHY DID NOBODY TELL ME ABOUT THIS SOONER?" AWARD: The Shadowrun Games by Harebrained Schemes Shadowrun is a TTRPG setting that's basically when two designers didn't want to decide on making a cyperpunk game, or a fantasy game so they're like "FUCK IT, WE'LL DO BOTH!" and have a game where you can play as orcs who can cast magic and elves who can hack into shit. Since 2013, Harebrained schemes have been making games based off the brand and have done so with X-Com style combat mixed with Neverwinter Nights style exploration, and while not very long, they've been fun to play and get into. Dragonfall is the best out of the three with a better story, and more connections to your usual shadowrunning squad. GAME OF THE YEAR: See Above ANNUAL REMINDER I SHARE A BIRTHDAY WITH MC BAT COMMANDER: via Blogger http://bit.ly/2Ht1MZJ