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charlilovesknights · 1 year ago

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unreliable narrorator Y/n doing a school project on the Thorn General or whatever they called him

The Amazing Biography of The Valley's Loyal General (With pictures!!) Written by Y/N!

[!!REQUESTS OPEN!! Characters: {Y/N}(Written first person), Grim(Briefly), Mozus Trein, Lilia Vanrouge, Malleus Draconia, Gargoyle, Ortho Shroud, Idia Shroud, Azul Ashengrotto, Jade Leech(Briefly) Word Count:1,342 Warnings/Spoilers: ooc-ness (since the narrator is *unreliable*), A joke about emo stereotypes (Not all emos follow the stereotypes and I don't mean any harm by it. Shoutout to all my emos reading this) Also somehow no spoilers Extra: Y/N stands for Your Name, E/C stands for eye color

It was a gloomy morning in Homeroom, my classmates sluggish, the desks on fire, Grim hungry, demons rising from portals, my air pods dead, oh it was absolutely dreadful! I was about to die!

However...Trein-Sensei's words sparked life in my dull {E/C} eyes. A massive homework assignment!! Now I hate homework, especially big projects, but this one was amazing! A biography on any historical figure from the Valley Of Thorns War back in the day. He wrote down the list of people available on the board, but I already knew who I wanted. The mysterious Right General of Briar Valley (Pretend it's sparkly I lost my glitter pen) Not the Queens, not the Left General, not the legendary Man of Iron (or was it steel?) The Right General! He was so intriguing. How was he so known yet such an enigma? I was going to find out. But I had competition. Lilia also wanted to do his project on the General. I couldn't let him snag this opportunity from me. I played it civil when I first heard of his plans. I humbly asked to take the General for my essay, but he refused! I am an amazing charmer, and I tried working my magic, but he just wouldn't budge! So I had no other choice....I challenged him to A DUEL!! (DUNDUNDUN!!) We met at the courtyard in the afternoon. I came ready to fight. I wouldn't let this weirdo beat me. (Before you come at me, he literally picks his nose, THAT'S WEIRD!!) I had my sword and my legendary gear which I got from my Great Grandfather. He said I was destined for something big, and this was it! Lilia had his own gear he must have gotten from his housewarden or something, but it couldn't top mine. Everyone came out to watch our duel. We both unsheathed our blades and charged at each other. The crowd cheered my name (I'm a famous warrior of course it's expected)! We dueled fought with all our might, but...he had defeated me! I laid on the ground, beaten and bruised. I looked up at my opponent, who roared laughing. It lasted for what felt like eternity. (It was only like a few seconds but for dramatic effect Sensei!!) "This means The General is mine." He eventually spoke. I glared up at him. How could I lose to an old man? (No offense I know you're old too) One who's...Emo? (No offense to emos!!) He must've had his teen angst and rock music powers stored up to trash me. Bested by someone who wears 5 pounds of eyeshadow everyday...blech. I didn't speak... I couldn't... I was embarrassed in front of the whole school.... He laughed again.... No! I couldn't let this twink beat me!! (Don't google what twink means). I kicked him in his balls and rained victorious! He begged for mercy, and I gave it to him. (I can make any man beg, especially the stupid kind)

So, the Right General Of Briar Valley was mine!! And I already knew where I could get my first bit of information...A source no stupid nose picker had... Malleus Draconia! (Or as I like to call him, Tsunotaoru [Hornton]) (Okay yes now I notice Lilia literally is his bestiepoo (or something.) But still!! For dramatic effect!!) According to my math he must've met the General at least once in his life. He's the heir to the thrown throne after all. The General is still alive both had the time to interact. 18 years to! (I think Tsunibuni [Horntonwornton](pronounce it with o) is that age) So it was perfect!! I set up an interview in the library. He was willing to answer my questions.

He answered all of them!! It was perfect!! I told you Tsunibuni [Horntonwornton] would be of use!! Though it did take some persuasion... "Where'd you hide the body?" I queried. "I'm not telling you that." He protested. "Are you sure? What if I.....Hurt your precious gargoyles" I said as I picked up a massive gargoyle and held my legendary sword to it's throat. It looked at Mallypoo with tears in it's eyes. "Y-you wouldn't..." He stuttered. "A-ANYTHING BUT THAT!!" (I told you I can make any man beg) "Oh I would." I smirked and brought the dagger closer. "Poor little gargoy won't make it out of this alive." "NO! FINE, I'LL TELL YOU ANYTHING YOU WANT TO KNOW!! BUT PLEASE, ANYTHING BUT HURTING MY PRECIOUS POOKIEWOOKIEBEAR!! MY SWEETHEART!! THE LOVE OF MY LIFE!!" Of course, he didn't have the answer to everything, so I did have to hit the books. I hit them with a stick. It wasn't effective. Don't know why. Maybe I did it wrong? Or did I have to use something other than a stick? Oh well... My last option... GOOGLE!! But I was running short on time and the Wi-Fi was down...so I had to contact a good ol pal of mine. The first real Android...

Ortho Shroud.

I called Ortho up and raced out the door. He answered right away but there was one problem... He was busy getting Idia out of bed. He was sad about some sort of gambling game. So I made my lil broski a deal. I'd wake his brother up and he'd let me use his search engine. So I ran to Ignyhyde!! Once I got there he was waiting outside for me. He quickly thanked me and took me to Idia's room. (It was so messy, and it smelled like unwashed shut in, it was disgusting) But I was determined to help him out!

I tried everything! Shaking him, screaming, promising him ice cream, nothing! He was a stubborn fire boy. So, I had one option left... Water. So, I really didn't think this through, but I guess his fire hair goes out so.... I MADE HIM BALD

That was not what I wanted to do! I swear! He was mortified! I know I'd be too if I lost all my hair... I didn't know what to do! I panicked!! But luckily, I figured out what to do with the help of Ortho. However...It involved Idia leaving his room... Which was hard to do. So, I did the same thing to Idia as I did Malleus. "Come with us or-... Hatsune Miku gets it!" "NO! ANYTNING BUT HATSUNE MIKU!" It was a piece of cake.

One hoodie later and we rushed to the one place where all our problems could be solved. Mostro Lounge. Azul's known to grant people wishes. Once we got inside Jade led us to a table, but we had to order drinks before Azul would see us. Of course we did, they have an awesome Mostro Lounge x Mystery Shack drink. Idia said they needed a ship name. I don't know what he meant, no boats were involved. After getting our drinks eventually we were allowed to see Azul. Ortho reassured his brother as we entered the octopus's office. Now I know what you're thinking... He's a sketchy man and it'll be hard to get his hair back for a fair price. So, how'd we get out of this without anemones on our head? Well, I don't know. I had to finish writing this paper before tomorrow and I didn't have time to sit and do business deals. Therefore, I left them. (Don't judge me!! This was a big assignment!) So how did I get the information I needed? Well... I read the books. That's a way better method then hitting them. Learned that the hard way...And hours later I had all the information I needed to write the essay! The end

"{Y/N}.... The assignment was a 5 paragraph essay on a historical figure. That's not what this is." Trein said as he slid the paper back over to me. "WHAT?! BUT THIS IS QUALITY CONTENT! IT'S ENTERTAINING!" I shouted back. "Half of this stuff didn't even happen." "Well, dramatic effects!!" "Redo this." "Hmph... Fine."

WOW, WILD RIDE!! YOU MADE IT TOO THE END THO!! I LOVE THIS Y/N CREATURE I MIGHT MAKE AN OC OUT OF THEM ONE DAY!! That's for the future tho rn I gotta add tags and post this. Comments appreciated My requests are open Thanks for reading Byebye!!

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no-shxme · 5 months ago

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Making here a direct translation to English, although most likely these were already translated that way to other servers:

"Talon no longer remembers much of his past, all he knows is the sadness and regret rooted deep in his soul. These emotions have turned into colors, dyeing him and making him who he is today. Others revere this power he holds, but to Talon, it is no different than the chains that bind him. Refusing to be a pawn in the game of fate, he fights desperately, determined to rewrite his unfinished story... Even if only darkness awaits his blade in the end, where all colors will eventually converge."

Also Talon has plenty of lines about wanting to find peace and defy fate. I found it similar to Star Guardian Ahri's motivations.

"Sett has always been a champion of justice. This nature has earned him the recognition of the Inks of Providence, and he has been chosen to take up the mantle of Gallant Hero. Empowered by the celestial hues, Sett now burns with even greater fervor and passion, determined to show the world his strength and purpose. Though the truth remains shrouded in mystery, Sett has sworn to defeat the dangerous Talon and weave a legend worthy of his name."

Mundo's obsession with his own identity is so profound that he would cover himself in burning red phosphorus if it would grant him his own hues. With no past to remember and abandoned by the Dyes, he is forced to follow in Talon's footsteps and hunt others to steal their colors. His desire, however, is not to escape his fate, but to find a place to call his own on the world's grand stage.

Kalista was a brave and loyal warrior who met a tragic end after a twist of fate. The Inks of Providence granted her a second chance, and she now serves the divine forces behind them in search of redemption for her mistakes. Her lance moves only by the will of fate, relentlessly hunting Talon and all those who dare defy her.

Unlike other chosen of the Inks, Teemo is a manifestation of fate itself. Cunning and shrewd, he hides his true nature behind deceptively dull and faded colors, dutifully playing the role of a buffoon all to ensure that the chosen follow their destined paths.

OK SO AFTER YOUR ASK i immediately updated lol wr and AGHHHHHH YOU'RE RIGHT THEY'RE THERE. (the bios and skins, albeit not purchasable yet) your translation is pretty much exactly what's on there so i won't rewrite that.

AND ive listened to talon's voicelines (in spanish) (and sett's, but like you said, sett's doesn't actually contribute as much, which is interesting bc they're both legendaries. i will have to talk about that later.)

BUTTTTT to answer your initial question. YEAH ITS FUCKING TRAGIC OH MY GOD. THIS IS CRAZY. It's SO tragic actually and i am honestly impressed considering how one note stargazer talon felt?? (and primal ambush) im gonna HURL.

i have to write up my long post like right the fuck now, since i have all the pieces, thanks to you. THANK YOU AGAIN FOR LETTING ME KNOW I WOULD HAVE BEEN SCROUNGING LIKE A RAT.

#splendor opus talon #shx answer #im BOUNCING OFF THE WALLS

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scorching-passion · 1 year ago

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@ghostofnibelheim Continued from here

It all happened so fast, a blinding flash, the single flutter of the eye. And yet so slowly, agonisingly so, as if time itself saw fit to gift him the pleasure of witnessing the sheer magnificence of carnage itself, the devastation wrought by the glittering steel nestled deep in the grip of the First Class SOLDIER’s palm.

Death incarnate. Atrocious and barbaric. A vision of awe-inspiring blistering beauty if he ever did see it. A spectacle of which froze the air in his lungs and brought his blood to the boil.

Even the mark carved into the ground, only inches from his very being, was simply another fantastical thing to see. The deep ice cold ache in his chest, swelling from deeper still to know in that moment that he had been a mere single breath from utter annihilation... There was something exhilarating about this moment; a moment which had woken something up inside the young infantryman, something hot and wild, fluttering in the belly.

Breath-taking… was possibly putting it mildly. Trapped in his dreamlike state, all he was able to do was stare. Roche had never known anything in his relatively short life as gorgeous as this; the splendour of a warrior with the power to take down the gods themselves. Such grace and finery, such little effort to triumph over mountainous creatures that seemed to rattle even the cohort who pulled him back.

There was no fear here, no cause to feel it, only the white-hot admiration for this SOLDIER First Class and the power he wielded in which Roche found he so desperately needed.

Shiva, have mercy, for his soul was surely on fire. Fate had brought these people to him today, for this moment, this memory of which Roche was certain he was not likely to ever forget.

Purpose stood before him now, cloaked so perfectly in his gown of polished silver and midnight black. A legend amongst men, the greatest of all SOLDIER.

Difficult to fathom, impossible in fact merely remembering the moment the hulking creature set before them simply… fell apart. A writhing grisly spectacle of death itself, and Roche would gaze upon the sight before him in a state of unadulterated, horrified wonderment. There was no sense of feeling right then, even the light shove to garner his attention was reciprocated with a slow turn of his head and a wide doe eyed expression. And senses did not truly begin to come screaming back to him until the moment the taller cohort to their rear began to bellow his orders.

The clarity of the world around him, the immense gravity of that one, singular, life changing moment, so intense it was nauseating, and yet it felt for the very first time since setting foot on the hard soils here in Wutai that the fog had finally lifted. For the first time in his life, he could finally see. Hear. Feel.

His birthright had finally been realised.

He wanted that power, the strength to cut down his enemies with a single swing- To lift the bodies of the fallen unto his shoulders and carry them home.

‘I’m not strong enough to lift him anyway…’ SOLDIER called for him, the sweetest siren song, one he was unable to resist. A need so unbelievably strong already invading and rooting into the very marrow of his bones.

A quick glance over the second cohort’s shoulder, the glint of that brassy pommel resting at his back before bright eyes would shift back to the dull sheen of his helm, and followed closely by a single - albeit confident - nod of his head.

“Loud and clear, sir.” was all he said. Sans the snark, without pomp and sarcasm. A basic submission and promise of future obedience in the wake of this latest display of glorious brutality.

And with a strong upward tug of his pack they trudged onward, Roche’s sights squared firmly then on the man in black and his legendary pulchritudinous blade in hand. He would keep his distance... for now.

#ghostofnibelheim #Relentless: MAIN THREAD #I had to start this on fresh posts because I'm no longer able to edit the original.

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synthetic-radiance · 1 year ago

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[It's a video from anon perspective]

Orion sits at a river bank, staring at the rushing current, evidently deep in thought. He lets out a deep sigh and flops back into the grass, there's a dull 'thunk' as his inhibitor helmet hits the ground.

After a few moments, there's the sound of footsteps, and a figure appears. They're wispy and thin, wearing an outfit similar to what one might have seen in the hisui era. They have long white hair and red and green eyes and a longish white beard. A metal ring in the shape of Arceus's wheel floats just behind them, following them. They sit down in the grass next to him, a worried look on their face. They scratch their chin, thinking of what to say, Orion breaks the silence first.

"Why did you make me like this?"

Arceus jumps a little, seeming a little surprised by the sudden question, but it relaxes. "Were you not satisfied with the answers from earlier?"

"...You revealed the information. and then wouldn't speak with me when I began asking questions."

Arceus hums, "Well... I figured you needed some time to get your head on straight after information like that. To think for yourself. And I wasn't sure anything I could say would help so.. I gave you some space."

Orion groans, covering his eyes with his hands, "I don't need space. I need orders. or an explanation or- something."

"I explained earlier-"

"Not well enough! You- Why didn't you just discard what was left of me! Why make me into this- this weapon this guardsman-"

"Because you cared."

Orion stutters, taken aback by the comment. "because I- What?"

"There are plenty of humans who call on me at any time. I cannot help them all. I am only one me. It's impossible. But there's very few who seek me out... and then find me. You found the flute.. and climbed the steps... and instead of attacking me like I thought you would... you asked me to save your sibling for you."

"...So you turned me into your immortal sidekick about it-"

"no no no. After I saved Pip for you... After rewriting their life so that they would live instead of dying in that hospital... What was left of you... after sacrificing for your sibling... I... I don't know why. I have saved one in exchange of the other before. But this time. I wanted you to have a second chance as well. So I pulled you from time and space and put you back together."

Orion stares at Arceus, disbelieving. "So you.. put me back together on a whim."

Arceus brightens up, "Yes! I did."

There's despair written across Orion's face. He groans again, rolling over and planting his face in the dirt.

"Did I say something wrong?"

"...You brought me back because you felt like it. That's a horrible reason to bring someone to life."

"Because I wanted you to have a second chance! It's not so bad- you're here! And you're alive! Instead of wandering as a husk of a human being in the distortion realm! Isn't that great?" Arceus beams at Orion. Orion is still not happy.

"You brought me back as a weapon... and not even to use me. To display me up on spear pillar. like some decorative blade."

"...And that makes you unhappy?"

"Yes." Orion sits up now, and glares at the legendary pokemon.

"...Apologies, I didn't realize."

Silence falls between the two. Arceus frowns, looking at the river. Orion sighs.

"...Well, we're here now. And, as I see it there are two- no.. Three. Options," Arceus finally speaks after what feels like ages, "Option 1, I release you of your duties at Spear Pillar, and you strike out wherever your whims may take you."

"mhm."

"Option 2, We return to Spear Pillar, and you continue your duty as my guardsman."

"Nothing changes."

"Correct. Nothing changes- though maybe we repair the temple. After Gratin Potatoes destroyed it I think it could do with a fresh coat of paint."

"...not too bad. What's the third."

"Option 3 I deconstruct you and send your husk off to the distortion realm." Arceus smiles at Orion like that's not a terrifying sentence.

"Absolutely not."

Arceus chuckles. "I thought you might not like that one. But it was an option if you were feeling it."

"So two options."

"Yes, two options."

"Stay with you or... see what the world has to offer."

"I mean I'm not saying you can't change your mind in the future but. The choice is yours."

Silence falls again. Orion stares at the river, contemplating again.

"...I want to go."

More silence, like it hadn't been the answer Arceus wanted, but it was willing to let the choice be made.

"Very well." Arceus smiles again, and claps its hands together. In a small flash of light a backpack appears. Orion's naginata clatters to the ground next to it. Arceus gestures to the items. "I've packed your things. You're free to go whenever."

Orion stares at the pack, at Arceus's smiling face, a little bewildered by the sudden change in demeanor from the legendary.

"...Just like that?"

"Of course just like that. It's better you get an early start on things. The world is full of glorious sights and people and pokemon. I'm sure things have evolved out there that I don't even know about so-" Arceus stands, and pulls the giant of a hybrid up with itself. It picks the pack and the weapon up quickly after, holding them out.

"Go go go- and I don't want you back here for at least a hundred- no A thousand years."

"A- a thousand I- What if something-"

"Psh. It'll be fine." Arceus shoves the weapon into Orion's hand and makes an attempt at hoisting the pack onto Orion's shoulders but struggles. Orion crouches a bit to better accommodate the action. "Team Galactic hasn't been around for years, and anyone else is negligible. I can handle myself. I've been around for... I dunno how long. But I'll call you if I need you. Now Go."

The pack is secured on Orion's back, and Arceus smiles up at its chosen. Orion looks down at the legendary, and lets out a deep breath. Arceus pats Orion on his arms.

"You're going to do great."

#pkmn irl #rotomblr #branded irl

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scifrey · 2 years ago

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The Untold Tale book one of The Accidental Turn Series

Fandom: Original Fic Pairings: M/F & M/M Genre: Romantasy (Romance & Fantasy), Quest Narrative, Epic Fantasy, Portal Fantasy Warnings: Off-page SA, light dub-con, and on-page consensual sexuality. Please curate your experience accordingly.

Forsyth Turn is not a hero. That's his older brother's job, and Kintyre is nothing if not legendary. However, when a raid on the kingdom's worst criminal results in the rescue of a baffling woman, oddly named and even more oddly mannered, Forsyth finds his quaint, sedentary life turned on its head.

Dragged reluctantly into a quest he never expected, and fighting villains that even his brother has never bested, Forsyth is forced to confront his own self-shame and the demons that come with always being second-best. And when he finally realizes where Pip came from and why she's here, he'll be forced to question not only his place in the world, but the very meaning of his own existence.

New Chapters Drop Tuesdays on Wattpad and AO3.

Read on Wattpad | Read on AO3 | Buy Paperback or eBook (coming 2024) | Read chapter one below

The Sigil that Never Fades The Quill that Never Dulls The Cup that Never Runs Dry The Parchment that Never Fills The Blade that Never Fails The Desk that Never Rots The Spirit that Never Lies With these tools our world was born, And with them can be broken. Or born again.

I am upstairs preparing for bed when I catch sight of the approaching cart and its cargo through the thick glass of my window, and I assume the body in the back is a corpse, brought to me for study and then burial. But no one handles a corpse with such care; the driver is directing the horse to travel slowly, avoiding each hole in the dirt road. They also do not stop to pick up a healer for a corpse. Yet Mother Mouth is in the back, hunched as best she is able over the blanket-wrapped body.

By the time I make it down the grand staircase to the foyer, three of my Men are lifting the bundle from the cart with careful concern. I gesture to the threshold, and they lower it onto my front step. As soon as they set the body down, I can see that my assumption was correct.

It is a young woman.

And she is still alive. But only barely. I contain my shudder of revulsion, clamping my teeth down hard on my tongue to keep from gagging. I think I am only successful because I’ve seen this sort of thing before.

Bootknife has flayed her very prettily.

Artistic tendrils of bloody ivy are torn into the vellum of the young woman’s flesh. I can only see a little of the pattern, however, from between the blanket’s folds. Bootknife has written spells and agony into the muscle he’s carved, into the wounds left by the strips he fileted from her. It’s as detailed as any woodcarving for a stamp—some deep; some wide and shallow; some the merest scrape, only a layer or two of skin absent. Disgustingly beautiful. But it is not art.

It is torture.

She is unconscious. A blessing. I can’t imagine how much the young woman must have been screaming before my Men forced poppy milk down her throat. Well, I suppose I can imagine it—I have seen quite enough of Bootknife’s handiwork to be able to envision her pain. What I mean is that I do not want to imagine it. I can’t bear the thought of the sounds that must have ripped her throat bloody.

She is as wrapped in rough blankets as she can be with such extensive injuries to her back. The blankets are filthy and crusted with blood and other bodily fluids, which means they were probably the only protection against the chill spring morning that her rescuers could find. I clench my hands into fists and jam them into the pockets of my house robe to keep from rushing forward and helping. A Chipping Master does not dirty his hands in labor. I hear the invective in my father’s hateful voice in my head, and I take great pleasure in telling it to go drown itself.

All the same, I stay back. I would only be in the way.

Mother Mouth assesses the young woman’s injuries, and when she is done, we ensure together that there are no Words of Tracing carved into the victim’s skin.

It would not do to give our enemies such advantageous leverage as to lead them here. To the unknowing, my home appears to be no more than the manor of silly, crumpled Forsyth Turn, younger brother to the great hero Kintyre and a man quite stodgily attached to his library. And those on the outside must remain unknowing. Even the slightest slip would bring the Viceroy down on my Chipping, and I will not have the people under my care endangered.

I do not bother to ask why my Men brought the woman to me and not to the king; if the king had the security and ability to protect himself and those in his charge from the Viceroy, he would never have secretly employed me as his Shadow Hand.

There is nowhere safer for the injured visitor than Turn Hall. Not even Kingskeep.

Assessment done, they take the woman inside. I catch the attention of my butler and order a wing of my home that I have not entered in years be opened specifically for my surprise guest.

It has been a long time since there’s been a need for lady’s chambers in Turn Hall. They have remained shut since my mother’s death. It has been even longer still since the need for a lady’s maid; my staff are nearly all men. This is not out of preference, but because there are no women in my household who require women servants, and it made sense to leave the town’s supply of employable young misses for houses where they were more needed.

I am going to have to find a woman. Blast.

We linger in the hallway outside the room long enough for servants to strip the dusty bed linens and replace them with fresh. I dismiss my Men to write up their debriefing reports, and then help Mother Mouth lay the young lady on the bed myself. The only way we figure she will be comfortable is belly-down, her face propped to the side with a feather pillow.

Once she is installed on the bed, I step back into a corner to remain out of the way. Mother Mouth takes a short breather—she is no longer young; her skin is papery thin and scored with laughter lines, but still glows with vitality—and all this rushing and lifting has winded her. She then ties her silver-streaked hair back and begins the careful work of spreading tinctures and ointments, mixing potions meant to neutralize spells and remove pain before she starts cutting away, with gentle knife work, the meat that has rotted from neglect.

My staff moves around them in an orchestrated dance, fetching lamps and candles and water in an ewer; bringing in, using, and then removing brooms and cleaning supplies; opening windows and laying a fire in the hearth. I do as I always do, what I am best at doing: I observe.

When Mother Mouth finally sits back, a smear of blood on her forehead where she pushed a stray tendril of hair out of her face, I offer her a handkerchief. It is russet, the color associated with House Turn, my family. She takes it graciously, though she wrinkles her nose at the fineness of the fabric.

“We’ve had this discussion before,” she says. “Good silk should be saved for dressing wounds, and rough cotton for wiping faces and noses.”

“I agree, Mother,” I allow, a smile sitting in the corner of my mouth and trying so very hard to stretch into the rest of it. “However, there are expectations at court, and when one’s work relies on creating a good impression, the silk must be used for snot.”

“And that’s why I’ve no use for court.”

Mother Mouth rises and goes to the bag of medicines she left on the bedside table. She pulls out phials and jars, each neatly labeled in her spiky hand. She is leaving behind tinctures and syrups to add to my young visitor’s wine when she wakes in pain, along with bandages and ointments enough to cover the whole of the vicious patterns on her back several times over.

“Right, then, my boy,” Mother Mouth says, standing and cleaning her bloody hands at the washstand. “Let the lass sleep it through, and I’ll return in the morning to assess her healing. I tell you, I wouldn’t want to be her right now. Keep her asleep if you’re able, lad. And send for me at once should she turn feverish or her wounds begin to fester and reek,” she finishes.

“No stitches?” Mother Mouth has sewn each of my Men up at one point or another, myself included. There are none among the Shadow’s Men who do not bear the gratefully earned signature of her needle. It seems odd now that she is not doing the same for our guest.

“No,” Mother Mouth agrees. “The slices that remain open are shallow. Where they are also narrow, there is no need. Where they are wide... ” She shrugs. “I could not make the skin meet over the exposed muscle without tearing it. The rest of the deep cuts have begun to scar already. Better to cover it over with the salve, and with Words, and leave it to nature.”

I nod, well used to this particular healer’s pointed and honest instructions—she is the best within an hour’s ride from my keep, and thus my preferred healer. My Men and I call her Mother Mouth because of her bluntness, her willingness to bully us verbally into obeying her commands, and we always do so with a smile, and to her face. She has another name, but has long since gamely resigned herself to this one.

“I will reapply both salve and spells personally when it is t-t-time,” I promise.

“Oh now,” Mother Mouth scolds playfully. “None of that, my boy. No need to be nervous. It’s just a woman and a bit of blood.”

“I’m not ne-nervous of her,” I say.

She pats my arm. “Of course not. You’re a good boy, Master Turn.”

I pretend to bristle at the juvenile endearment, but it secretly pleases me. Mother Mouth has known me my entire life. She pulled both my elder brother and I from our mother. She set my broken arm when Kintyre dared me to climb an orchard tree to the top. She put her hands into my brother’s guts after his first run-in with a goblin brigade and held them in place until the Words of Healing could take hold. She closed my mother’s eyes after a fever took the Lady Turn away. She called my father’s corpse a silly shit while she cleaned it the day he drank himself into a tumble down the foyer staircase and into his own grave. She has more than earned the right to call me her “good boy,” should she so choose. And I always do my best to live up to it.

Mother Mouth packs her small case and takes her leave. When my staff has finished ferrying ewers of both hot and cool water, wine, a modest bowl of broth, fresh candles, towels, my mother’s newly cleaned dressing robe, my mother’s slippers, and my portable writing desk into the room, I dismiss them to their suppers.

One last young lady lingers at the door, and she must be freshly arrived for she does not wear russet livery. I do not know her, and she seems eager to be of help, which is extremely encouraging. She is slim, her hands rough and callused, giving her the appearance of one who looks like she works hard, and her apron is very starched. She resembles Cook—same rigidly marshaled brown hair, same firm lines around her eyes, very competent and very discreet. She waits silently on the threshold, obviously waiting for me to speak first.

“Hello,” I say. “Yes?”

“Sir,” she says and bobs a curtsy. “My mother sent for me when she heard you had a lady guest, sir. Figured you’d want a girl in, sir.”

“Very good of her to take the initiative. Well come, and well stayed.” I take a moment to go to my portable desk and scribble upon a fresh piece of paper. When the ink is dry, I fold up the note. “Your name, miss?” I ask.

“Neris, sir.”

“Can you read, Neris?”

“Yes, sir. Of course, sir.”

“Excellent. Here.” I hold out my hand. In it are a letter and a small sack of gold coins. She takes both.

“I would like you to return to your usual household with this and give both to your mistress. The envelope contains an apology letter to your employer, and this should be enough coin to replace the wages she’s already paid you this week. I would have you here until you are no longer needed at Turn Hall. And I will pay double whatever your current employer offers. Is that acceptable?”

She smiles, and there must be her father, for Cook’s face does not have such fetching dimples. “Oh, yes sir!”

“And I invite you to move your things into the Hall come morning. Unless you have another billet you prefer?” I ask. She shakes her head. “Very well. Ask your mother for Turn-russet livery when you return, and we’ll get you set up in the maid’s quarters. Though, ah, you may be alone there.”

“I’m not afraid of the dark and the quiet, Master Turn,” she says, dropping a curtsy and vanishing in that lovely discreet way of lady’s maids the world over. It’s a vastly underprized skill.

My new guest and I are now alone.

My skin prickles at the thought of being trapped in a room with a person I know so very little about—I am not used to being the one on poor footing—and I go to the window to try to relieve the pressing sense of claustrophobia. It is silly; she is unconscious and, thanks to the poppy milk, will remain so for a good long while. I have nothing to fear from her.

Still. She is an unknown factor, and I do not like those in the least.

There is a reason I’m the king’s Shadow Hand. Who better for a spymaster than the man who becomes physically agitated when he feels ignorant?

The sky outside has turned an ashy blue. Rain is on the horizon, and the breeze is picking up accordingly. I open the sash just enough to allow in the fresh wet air, but not enough for raindrops when they finally start to fall. The puff of breeze against my chest, fluttering my shirt and Turn-russet robe, gives me a false sense of safety—I have an exit if I need one.

The breeze also flutters the heavy velvet drapes. Dust puffs out of the folds and onto the wooden floor just shy of the bed. My mother was of House Sheil, and so much of the décor in her chambers is a deep, dark purple—the throw rugs, the comfortable upholstered chairs by the hearth, the bedding, all of it is patterned with curling designs of lilac and lavender and deepest indigo. It has been years, perhaps a whole decade, since my father had Mother’s chambers shut up. I suddenly realize how much I have missed purple.

The cloud cover is blocking so much of the sun that the room has become gloomy, and the details of the woman hard to catch. I make a second circuit for candles, which I light with a twig from the small fire in the hearth. Then I set the kettle Cook left on the mantelpiece onto the hook attached to the flume and wait for it to boil. A hot drink on a gray day is always a comfort, and the air in my mother’s chambers is dry from being shut up for so long, so the steam will do us both some good.

Now to take care of this silly fear; I will observe the woman and decipher what I can of her, so that the anxiousness can finally dissipate long enough for me to get some paperwork done. I pull one of the chairs that stand before the fireplace over to the bedside, and settle into the lush padding. Then I look.

The first thing that registers is that she is in pain, despite the sleep brought on by the poppy milk. It is obvious by the creases in her forehead and the set of her jaw. Her hair is matted with sweat and other fluids that I do not wish to consider closely. Perhaps I dismissed Neris too hastily—my guest could certainly do with a wash, if only for her own comfort. But I am not certain that it would not have caused her more agony, so perhaps it is best to wait until the young woman is awake and aware and able to help the maid.

Beyond that, I have no concept of who she is or where she may be from. Any clues that might have come from her clothing were lost when Bootknife cut them off her. Her ears are pierced, but there are no jewels from which to read her origins or history, no rings, no signets, no torques. How galling!

Her features resemble those of no family I know, which is impressive, as I have a very good head for faces. Her mouth is a small moue of pain, neither generous of plumpness nor waspish or thin. She has lines around the corners that indicate that she laughs heartily and frequently. Her cheeks are higher than I am used to and smooth, sprinkled with freckles. Her skin is dusky in tone, quite similar to the color possessed by the outdoor laborers from the Flung Isles after a season’s work, but not so reddish. Hers is closer to the hue of well-cared for honeywood, made even more yellow in tone by the Sheil-purple of the blankets surrounding her. Her nose is short, adorable in a way that many women curse for being too childish looking. Her lashes are dark, and her eyes sweep upward at the outer edges.

I can tell by the curve of her exposed back, where it swells into her hips and the sides of her breasts, that she’s never starved, never seen a rough harvest or overlong winter.

In summary, she must be a well-off merchant’s daughter, and quite possibly yet another merchant’s wife. I would say a nobleman’s, but she cannot be the child of any nobleman I know from court, legitimate or not.

She could be from another, distant kingdom beyond the borders of Hain, but I have met much of the nobility from Urland and Gadot, as well as a few from Brystal, and she does not bear the trademark of any house that I know; her skin is either too light or too dark, her eyes too round or not round enough, her nose too snubbed or too high, her chin too round.

In short, the collection of her features does not come together to spell out her parentage.

Infuriating.

And fantastic. I am intrigued, instantly. How long has it been since I have been gifted with such a mystery? And that she was imprisoned by the Viceroy for so long without my knowing he had kidnapped anyone...�� was holding anyone at all. It was only an accident of circumstance that she was even rescued, that I even know she exists. The Viceroy had been raiding magical archives and libraries the world over, and when I had put together the picture of the sorts of tomes he was stealing, I ordered my Men to raid and retrieve. That they had also found her was sheer coincidence.

At least, I believe it is an accident. I cannot imagine any person would allow such agony to befall them for the sake of gaining my pity and entrance to my Hall. Spies usually do not bleed.

I cannot recall the last time something like this happened accidentally in my work, and my heart flutters against my ribs.

The entire situation is completely astounding. Magnetic. Incredible. And so impotently frustrating that I cannot know more, cannot have my curiosity slaked immediately. I wish she were awake to answer my many questions.

The only thing I can know for sure is that the Viceroy wanted something from her, and she refused to give it to him. I cannot guess what it might have been, for he has the power to take anything he wants—even her, had he so chosen. Mother Mouth did not say anything about signs of a violation, but perhaps she wanted to be delicate while my staff was in the room and means to discuss it with me in the morning. The woman in my mother’s bed is pretty enough; the Viceroy likes the pretty ones.

To resist the Viceroy for as long as this woman did, to keep her secrets for so many days that the pattern on her back had the time to grow so complex, must have taken real strength of spirit. As much as she must have been screaming, she’d never told him what it was he sought to learn.

I admire her greatly all of a sudden. There are very few who can keep secrets behind their teeth when Bootknife’s art is in their flesh.

That makes her beautiful to me.

It does not matter how her features are arranged; her will is strong. And, as it was Bootknife she was resisting, I can hope that her morals are also true. I allow myself to follow the soft curve of her pain-paled cheek with my eyes, the delicate protrusion of the tendons in her neck, the place where her breast presses into the blankets and is hidden under her body. I am struck with a sudden swelling of attraction, and I stomp it back viciously.

No. A woman as remarkable as this, unexpectedly arriving at Turn Hall? There is only one explanation—she is for Kintyre. Women like this are always for Kintyre.

The kettle over-boils. Water foams into the fire with an indignant hiss, bringing me back to gloomy reality, and I make myself a pot of tea. Then I settle back into my chair, my portable desk on my lap and an afternoon’s worth of tedious paperwork stacked on its surface.

The only sounds to break the silence are the sputtering of the candles arrayed around the room, the slow tap of the rain just beginning to fall against the roof of the manor, and the pained, almost inaudible whimpers my guest exhales with each labored breath.

I dip my quill into my ink pot and add the scratch of a nib on parchment to the quiet symphony of pain.

❧✍❧

“Oh,” the woman whispers, dry lips rasping against the silk pillow casing. “It’s you.”

I have fallen asleep in my chair, and the quiet murmur of her voice yanks me back to wakefulness so quickly that my portable desk clatters to the floor. Ink sprays across the wood and splashes over the Sheil-purple rug beside the bed. I wince. Oh, Mother’s rug! It will take my staff a terrible amount of scrubbing to clean it.

There is nothing I can do about it at the moment, so I right the pot, step around the spreading puddle and toppled papers, and go to her side.

“Greetings,” I say. “Water?”

I’m not certain how I’ll get the cup to her lips without spilling all over the pillow or forcing her to sit up, which will be a special new agony in and of itself.

She nods and presses upward on her hands, grimacing but holding herself there until I manage to tip the earthenware cup against her mouth. She sips slowly, grunting as her arms tremble. When the water is gone, she flops back down into the pillow and doesn’t hold back the yelp that such an action causes. It makes anger froth beneath the surface of my own skin, to realize that she has learned how to move with such injuries in order to drink. That Bootknife must have made her learn.

And that I have been unable to spare her that pain in Turn Hall. I’ve failed my first task as her guardian already.

She shivers all over, and my first instinct is to cover her snugly with the blanket. But that would irritate her wounds and allow fibers into the open ones, so instead I put the kettle back on the hook, stoke the fire back to life, and close the windows. Air that was fresh and crisp at sunset has become biting.

She watches it all with eyes that are a very normal, boring shade of muddy green, yet sparkle with keen observation. As I first noted, they are ever so slightly cat-like, turned up at the outside in a manner that I have never seen; though, it is even more pronounced with her eyes open. I have never been on the receiving end of such an intent gaze before.

She watches the same way that I watch.

I fidget until the kettle hisses, welcoming the excuse to duck out from under her odd gaze. As I pour the boiling water into the bowl my staff has left beside the ewer, mixing in the room temperature water until the heat is bearable, I cannot help but ponder on the strangeness of the young woman’s eyes.

Perhaps it is about her eyes... ? I recall that the Viceroy has a sickeningly obsessive fascination with Sir Bevel, who is plain but has eyes such a dark blue that they are an anomaly. The Viceroy often threatens to pluck them out and have them rosined for a cloak brooch. It would be very much like him to pick this woman simply because of the unique almond-shape of her eyes. But, then again, that makes no sense at all, for what would Bootknife have tortured her for if the Viceroy had only wanted to collect—possibly extract—a piece of her?

This cyclone of reasoning is near to making me dizzy. Instead of dwelling on answers I cannot deduce alone and cannot ask for now, I sit on the side of the bed with the bowl and a cloth.

“May I?”

“Sure,” she rasps. “This is so unreal.”

“Your injuries are, in fact, quite real, I’m a-afraid,” I say.

She stares at me for a moment, and then turns her head back into the pillow, purposefully obscuring her expression. For a brief moment, it seems as if her eyes are wet.

“I know,” she mutters into the muffling fabric. “It’s insane, but I know.”

I dip the cloth into the bowl and begin to bathe her back, careful not to oversaturate it. It would not do for excess water to slip down her sides and soak into the bedding beneath her. The ointment has dried into a yellowish crust and must be wiped away carefully before reapplying. The warm water soothes her goose-pimpled skin, and she alternates between soft moans of gratitude and small hisses of pain caused by wounds suddenly being exposed to the air or jarred.

“I’ve never seen you like this before,” she grunts as I lean close to concentrate on cleaning around a fanciful curlicue carved into the sweet dimples right above where her back swells into her buttocks. The latter are covered with a blanket to preserve her modesty, and I am careful not to jostle it.

“You’ve never met me before,” I counter without looking up, soaking in every syllable of her speech. Her words are queerly broad. “How can you say that you have never seen me like... whatever it is that you mean by ‘this.’”

“That’s also the longest sentence I’ve ever heard from you.”

What a deliciously strange accent! So flat and lacking the jumps and dips that fill the speech of Hain Kingdom’s people. I’ve never heard anything like it before, which both thrills and shocks me. Knowledge is my currency; so how can she hail from a place that I do not know? How can such a place exist, as every clue she gives up suggests?

I am careful to school my expression, to not appear too thrilled or eager.

“Of course,” I agree, “as you’ve only heard six. Eight, if you count the last one, and this one.”

She turns her face into the pillow and groans. “I can’t believe this is happening.”

“Again, ‘this,’” I say, because it’s easier to look at her back and work on her wounds than look her in the face. I am ashamed to be causing her pain. It feels like a stab in my own gut.

Useless old Forsyth, as usual. But Mother Mouth asked me to have her fetched in the morning, not in the middle of the night. So I will muddle through, try my best, and hope that she does not chide me too much for the attempt at playing healer myself.

“Master Forsyth Turn, the king’s Shadow Hand... boiling his own water and closing his own windows. Elgar Reed would be horrified.”

I feel nauseous immediately.

Oh no, no, how does she know? No one, save my Men and Mother Mouth, is meant to know. The whole village thinks I am no more than the younger son, left behind to be the Master of Turnshire and surroundings, Lordling of the whole of the small but fertile Lysse Chipping; a man soft and slightly useless. That she knows, and speaks of it so casually...

A Shadow Hand must be secret above all else. The king will have me turned out—might even have me killed—for failing to maintain this secrecy. How can I function as Hain’s spymaster if I am known?

“Oh,” she says softly when my ministrations stop. “Oh, sorry. Shit. Sorry. I know, I know, it’s not supposed to be talked about. I won’t say anything else. I just meant, you know, you’re the Master of Turn Hall. Shouldn’t a maid be the one with the cloth? Shouldn’t someone be here to open the windows and boil the kettle for you?”

“I am n-no lay-layabout. I am c-capable of do-do-doing it myself,” I say, and I curse all the harder in my head when she cranes her neck around, wincing as the whip-fast movement stretches her wounds. She blinks at me like a stunned owl.

“Did you just stutter?”

“Of c-course n-n-n-not,” I deny, but my words prove themselves liars. I bite my lower lip and scowl, fingers going so tight around the cloth that it creaks and water splashes down my arms, pooling uncomfortably into the bunches of fabric against the insides of my elbows. I hate that feeling.

“Oh my god, you stutter,” she says, and her expression is a mixture of horror and amusement. “Reed never said anything about you stuttering.”

“I do-do-do not stutter,” I snap.

“Hey, no, it’s cool,” she says, rising up as if to turn to face me, but the motion makes everything in her back pull. She yelps again and flops back down to relieve the pain. “Fuck!” she screams into her pillow. She slams her fist against the mattress, clearly infuriated beyond coherence.

“S-stop,” I say softly, placing a gentle hand on her right shoulder, the least cut up one.

She flinches away from my touch so dramatically that it looks more like a full body spasm.

“Don’t touch me!” she screams.

I flinch myself, springing off the bed to give her the space she so clearly needs.

She goes still, save for her ragged breathing. One of the thin, deep cuts below her left shoulder blade seeps blood. A low coughing sound, muffled by the pillows, fills the air. I realize that she is sobbing.

Oh, Forsyth, you stupid man. You are useless at women.

“P-please s-stop crying.” It sounds as stupid out loud as it did in my head, but I have no other way to convey my concern. Clearly my proximity is unwelcome.

I clench my fists and shove them into the pockets of my house robe, impotent in the face of her misery. Why is it that among spies and the dance of court politics I am assured and suave, but the moment I remove the mask of the Shadow Hand and become simple Forsyth Turn, I am such a useless, stuttering sack of skin? I hate it.

Eventually, the tears wind down and she turns her face to me. Her muddy green eyes have become bright, even though the skin around them is red and swollen.

“I’m sorry,” she says.

“Why are you ap-ap-apologizing?”

“I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable about the stutter. I was just surprised. You never stutter when you’ve got the mask on.”

I only stutter when I am upset or caught off guard. As a child, I stuttered all the time, worse when my older brother teased. But I learned, through sheer force of will, to suppress it. To think about each phrase as I want to say it, to hear it in my head, clear and whole, before letting my tongue taste the words. The Shadow Hand does not stutter because he is a personality I wear, a costume I conceived. I did not conceive him as a stutterer.

I lean down and pick up the bowl. The water has mixed with the ink on the rug, spreading the stain further. My paperwork is also a sodden mess. I will have to begin that report anew. Resentment flares at the thought of having to waste another evening in correspondence, but I cannot blame my guest. It was my own clumsiness that caused them to be on the floor. I should have picked them up right away. Stupid.

“I’m sorry about scaring you, too,” she said. “I just... don’t like to be touched. Anymore. Don’t surprise me.”

“I understand. No woman enjoys my touch. I will fetch Neris, your maid,” I say, and turn toward the door to do just that.

“Whoa, no, wait,” she says, and I pause. I take a hesitant step back toward her and her hand shoots out, fingers wrapping around mine. I look down at our twined grip with dumb surprise. I can see her frustration at her inability to move. Warmth blooms against my sternum at the thought that she appears to want to touch me, to physically prevent me from departing. “I didn’t say that. Why would you think that? I just meant that it freaks me out when people touch me and I don’t know it’s going to happen. I never said you have cooties. Stay. Please.” I do not know how to answer. She looks up at me and adds: “You’re the only one I know. I trust you. Please.”

This is enough. I do not know how she seems to know me well enough to trust me, but she does. And I cannot betray that trust. Even though I fear that it might be misplaced. I must do my best not to disappoint her.

“I will stay. I’ll put the kettle on again and finish your back,” I say. She lets go, fingers brushing against the insides of my knuckles, and I clench my tongue between my teeth. I memorize the ghosting sensation, trying not to let it get too far under my skin.

I can hear her shifting, trying to find a comfortable position. “God, do you have any painkillers?”

“I can mix you a draught with poppy milk, but it will make you sleep again.”

“That’s fine,” she says. “Sounds perfect, actually. Fuck, this hurts.”

“That word again.” I turn to face her, leaning back against the mantle as we both wait for the water in the kettle to reheat.

It is a good thing it is such a large kettle, or I would have had to send someone to refill it by now, and I believe that the young lady’s pain is something she would like as few people to witness as possible. She said she trusts only me. Knows only me, though how she can know me at all is a mystery. Clearly she knows enough to know my deepest secret, and now my deepest shame, but how?

“Fuck?” she says.

“Yes. What does it mean? ‘Fuck’?”

She giggles suddenly. “Oh my god, I can’t believe I just heard you swear.”

“It’s an expletive?”

She giggles harder, and I take it for an affirmative.

“And what about the rest of it?” I ask. “The things that you say you know and simply should not. Cannot.”

She sobers immediately. She turns her head away and goes silent, her shoulders becoming rigid. She looks like she is preparing for a blow.

“Ah,” I say. “This is what the Viceroy wanted. And what you would not share.” She stiffens further at his name, but otherwise does not move. I walk across the floor to her side, purposefully clicking the wooden heels of my embroidered house slippers against the boards so as to prevent startling her. “I am going to lay a hand on your shoulder.”

She nods once, and I do it, carefully, palm cupped on her whole right shoulder blade, fingers curved along her neck. She sighs into the touch, and her tension eases.

“He doesn’t know,” she mumbles. “I didn’t tell him.”

“That I am the Shadow Hand?”

She nods.

“Is that the only thing he wanted to know?”

“No.” Her voice is scratchy and low, so quiet and ashamed that I can barely make out her words. “But I didn’t say anything. Not a thing, after the first day. He never even knew my name.”

“That is something of which to be proud,” I say softly, and I mean it. “Bootknife is not an easy man to defy. I’ve never seen such an elaborate carving as yours. You must have made him very angry.”

“I did.”

“Good girl.”

She snorts. “Loosey.”

Another strange word. “What’s a ‘loosey’?”

“I am. It’s my name. Ell-you-see-why, Lucy Piper.”

“You gift me with your name when all of Bootknife’s attention could not wring it from you?” I ask. The weight of what she has just done nearly sends me to the floor with shock. My knees shake, and I have to put my other hand on the bed stand to remain upright.

“You’ll protect it.”

“I will,” I vow. “I will, Lucy Piper.” I take a moment to clear my throat and try to keep the tears that have sprung into my eyes from falling. What a great thing she has done. This conversation, her bravery, has left me flayed.

I must turn away, before too much emotion shows on my face. Preparing the promised pain potion is the perfect excuse. Mother Mouth left the concentrated elixir on the bedside table, and it is convenient to turn my back on Lucy Piper as I mix it with a little wine to make it more palatable. Then I help drip some onto her tongue. Lucy Piper drowses.

When the kettle has boiled again, I resume cleaning her back.

Her eyes slip closed just as I have finished. I rinse out the cloth and spread it across what is left of her skin to keep her warm until I can move on to the ointment, and then stand.

“Try to rest,” I say, when the feel of the cloth startles her back to wakefulness.

“Thanks. Hey,” she mutters sleepily, worn out by the pain, both the physical and emotional. “You’re not stuttering anymore.”

“No,” I agree. “I am not.”

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sweetrevxnge · 3 years ago

Text

Like Phantoms, Forever

Chapter Six | Post Tenebras, Lux

Pairing: Ben Solo x Reader

Summary: Your destiny had never been clear to you, only becoming so when it led you to leaving behind the life you knew to train with the galaxy's sole Jedi Master, Luke Skywalker. His Jedi Academy became your new home, bringing with it the promise of someday becoming a Jedi Knight. While navigating the ways of the Force, an inexplicable connection forms between you and a fellow student—the heir to the legendary Skywalker bloodline, Ben Solo. Together, the two of you must face your destinies and forge the path to your true selves.

What to expect: fluff, violence, sexual content, general angst, mentions/descriptions of injury and death

Additional info: this story is set in 28 ABY, six years prior to the events of TFA

*concurrently being published on AO3 and Wattpad as well!

Masterlist

Word count: 5.8k

───────── ⋆ ☆ ⋆ ─────────

Dry blades of grass scrape against your ankles as you walk the amber plains of Khoonda, searching for a shady spot to begin your new book. The ladies at the market were raving about it, praising it as a so-called “epic romance.” With a few extra credits in your pocket, you had decided to splurge and add it to your basket. Besides, you could use a bit of romantic escapism.

After a bit of wandering, you spot a billowing tree overlooking the rolling hills of Dantooine, wasting no time in claiming it. You shake out a thick blanket, laying it underneath the trunk and drop your belongings onto the quilted pattern.

As you lower yourself to the ground, you hear a low, disembodied growl approaching you. Every muscle in your body freezes in place. That growl could only belong to one creature on this planet: a Kath hound. The species was nearly extinct, making its presence in populated communities, such as Khoonda, incredibly rare. But you weren’t in a populated community anymore—you had ventured beyond the limits of the settlement and out into the wilderness.

Panic seizes your chest as you whip your head around, frantically looking for the source of the noise. Its beady eyes meet yours, less than a meter away from you. Fuck.

The hound slowly stalks toward you, inching closer with each delicate step. You stagger back on your heels, grasping for the tree trunk behind you. Your heart felt as if it were lodged in your throat, your pulse pounding throughout your body. The creature lets out a snarl, sending a jolt of fear through you. A soft whimper escapes your lips as your back makes contact with the tree, effectively locking you between it and the hound.

The hound bares its teeth, strings of thick drool dripping from its fangs. Given the options of fight, flight, or freeze, your body chooses the third, stuck between wanting to run or defend yourself.

It snaps its jaw shut and stalks forward, inspecting you agonizingly slow. The distance separating you from it was quickly dwindling, your heart racing in your throat. Your arms fly up to cover your face and chest, bracing for the impact of an attack.

In a moment of pure instinct, your fingers curl into fists, clenching tight until your knuckles blanched. All you could hope for was a quick death, not one that left you suffering for hours, slowly succumbing to your injuries.

As you prepare for the impact of sharp teeth tearing into your skin, your body goes numb—whether it was a mechanism of fear or self-preservation, you weren’t sure. An unfamiliar sensation encompasses you, completely controlling your senses for a fraction of a second. The only input you can register is the sound of dull humming, a thrum of energy that deafens you to your surroundings, your vision contorted by a dark blur.

A shriek, in what you could only imagine was agony, pulls you from your trance, restoring your senses in full. Hesitantly, you lower your arms, finding the beast writhing beneath you, gasping for air. It's…choking? There was nothing to your knowledge that could have caused it to choke suddenly.

It was only when your hands relaxed at your side, you realized what had happened. As your fingers uncurled, the Kath hound simultaneously ceased its squirming. Did I choke it? You stare down at your trembling hands in disbelief.

There were tales known throughout the galaxy, ones of the mystical power of the Force and the abilities a chosen few could possess. The most notable tale of them all being that of the former Galactic ruler, Darth Vader, who infamously used the Force to choke and squander his opposition. But that couldn’t be the case here. No. You had never been sensitive to the Force.

The flood of adrenaline finally catches up to you, surging through your veins with an overwhelming intensity. Your stomach twists and churns, threatening to expel its acidic contents all over your hand-woven blanket. Pushing past the urge, you snatch the blanket from the ground and begin running back in the direction you had come from.

The ground beneath you was a blur as your feeble legs carried you home. Your entire body is numb, almost weightless, as you run home, barely registering the sting of thorns and branches slicing at the flesh of your ankles.

Tasked with gathering yourself for just long enough to enter the code to your front door, you punch the numbers in, your fingers sliding over the wrong buttons at first. After a few attempts, the lock mechanism groans, welcoming you into your home. You fling the door open and stumble through the entrance, catching your breath.

The sudden clamor grabs your mother’s attention, her head snapping in your direction, a look of concern painted on her face.

“Love, you look like you’ve just seen a ghost,” she says, moving toward you and placing her bony hands on your shoulders. “What's wrong? Are you okay?”

You open your mouth to speak, but the words die on your tongue. A lump is forming in your throat, your eyes welling up with tears as you collect your thoughts. Unable to control yourself, you bury your face in your hands and let out a sob.

“Shh…shh…” she soothes, guiding you into a nearby seat. “Tell me what’s going on.”

Inhaling a shaky breath, you drop your hands, wiping your hot tears on the silk material of your pants. “I…I didn’t…” A sharp hiccup interrupts you. “I d-didn’t mean to.”

“You didn’t mean to do what, honey?” Her rough thumb rubs the back of your hand, swiping gently at your flushed skin. “It’s okay, you can tell me.”

Apprehension fills you as you consider the implications of telling the truth. There was no easy way to tell someone that you accidentally killed another creature, especially when that death came at the hands of an invisible force.

You teeter between lying and sincerity for a moment, before ultimately deciding on the latter.

“I killed a Kath hound.” It felt as if a thousand ton weight had been lifted from your shoulders as the words left your lips. “But I didn’t mean to. In fact, I didn’t even touch it. It just…started to choke when I panicked and froze up, a-and the next thing I remember is it lying there, dead. Mom, I swear I didn’t mean to!”

“No,” she mutters, “that can’t be true.” Her voice is hushed and her eyes wide in horror. She sits up and straightens her back, raking her hands through her hair and shaking her head in disbelief.

“It is true!” Tears stream down your face, a salty concoction of both your guilt and anger. “I killed it! I didn’t mean to, but somehow I did! And now I don’t know what the fuck is going on, but I’ve never felt this way before and I’m so sca–”

“Shhh, calm down. It’s okay…” Her voice is alarmingly tranquil, a complete inversion of her unfettered terror just moments ago. “There’s a possibility that you are sensitive to the Force. Your father has never spoken much about it, but there’s a possibility that his ancestors possessed this ability.”

What she was saying made logical sense, of course, but you struggled to believe that this could be reality. Your father barely spoke about his family with you—frankly, hardly spoke about anything to you. He is a busy man who always insists that his family is nothing of significance. It's clear to you now that your mother had been privy to this knowledge for quite some time—so why withhold it from you?

“We always assumed that such abilities wouldn’t manifest in you, considering that your father didn’t inherit it.” Her tone seemed genuine, but your question still remained.

“What does this mean for us? For me?”

Your chest seizes at the idea of harm coming to your family from this revelation. The stories of the ruthless Imperial Inquisitors were well known—Darth Vader’s faithful disciples, tasked with hunting any and all remaining Force-users in every corner of the galaxy. While it was true that the Empire had fallen decades ago, it was no secret that loyalists remained. Even cockroaches could withstand fire.

“We’ll figure something out. I might know someone who can help. There’s talk of a secret Jedi temple somewhere in the Outer Rim, maybe you can go there.”

Your thoughts turn to the presence not currently in the room. Your father would be returning from a business trip in the coming days, you wondered what he would make of all of this.

“Mom, I-I’m scared,” you say weakly. “I don’t want this.”

She frowns knowingly, pulling you into her arms in a comforting embrace. For decades, the discovery of one’s Force-sensitivity meant a lifetime of running and hiding to survive. But things were changing in the galaxy. So much so that a new Jedi Order was possibly being created. Perhaps this classified temple could be a haven for you.

“You drew your power from the dark.”

The Jedi Master’s words sent your eyes flying open, the illustration of that day’s memory quickly giving way to the present. You withdrew your hands from his grasp and instinctively staggered backwards.

“N-no, I didn’t,” you stammered, jumping ahead to defend yourself. “I didn’t even mean to kill it! I-I’ve never been so upset about something in my entire life!”

You were appalled at what he was insinuating. For as long as you could remember, you had made an effort to be peaceful your entire life—to the point that you would catch and release bugs that were in your house instead of squashing them. It was inconceivable that you could have drawn from the dark side.

“Easy there,” Master Skywalker said, suppressing a chuckle. “I know you didn’t mean to kill it. What I’m trying to say is that you innately drew from the darkness within you.” He folded his hands in front of him. “In that moment, you were scared—rightfully so. And it just so happens to be that fear is an emotion fueled by the dark side.”

“What does this mean then? How do I reject the dark side? I want to be a Jedi.” Your voice threatened to break on the last word, terrified of your Master’s answer.

To your surprise, he only placed a hand on your shoulder, beaming at you with his signature glimmer in his eyes. “If being a Jedi meant only using the light side of the Force, then there would’ve never been a Jedi Order to begin with. Every Force-user in the galaxy has both the light and the dark within them, a balance of the two. One cannot exist without the other, remember?”

You nodded in understanding, the grip on your heart slowly relaxing as he spoke.

“Some choose to focus on the light, while others choose the dark. I will teach you to focus on the light. You’ll be alright.”

“Thank you, Master Skywalker.”

You released the breath you had evidently been holding, relaxing the tension in your muscles. He grinned at you, amused by your momentary panic.

“Now, as for the next phase of your training,” he said, pulling your attention back to the conclusion of your training session. “I want us to start in a day’s time, and I need you to be ready. Get a good night’s sleep tonight, it’s going to be a long day.”

“Understood, Master. I’ll be ready.”

With that, he turned on his heels to go work with a cohort of other students.

Rays of sunlight peeked through the sparse cloud cover, drenching you in their sweet warmth. soaking into your skin. Before leaving the training area, your eyes scanned the broad field, hoping to find a certain tall, large-nosed student in the group. It was a disappointing discovery to find that he was not there, your heart sinking a bit in your chest. Yes, you were scheduled to see him in a matter of hours, but waiting that long felt like an impossible task.

The events of last night had been replaying in your mind incessantly, your neurons working diligently to commit to memory precisely where his fingers had touched. Wrapped in his arms, pressed against his lips, he had awoken something within you, something entirely foreign and dizzying. A desire so reckless and intoxicating, it made you question if it had really happened. It was torturous to keep to yourself, wanting nothing more than to climb to the highest point on the planet and shout for the whole galaxy to hear. The entire universe deserved to know about Ben Solo.

So as to not stand around looking like an idiot after your training session had finished, you weighed the options of how to spend your afternoon before Ben was supposed to come by your hut. Flipping through Jedi texts didn’t sound like the most exciting way to spend your time, nor did meditating—the mere concept of which seemed impossible at the moment. A hike didn’t sound too bad, and it could possibly serve as the distraction you were looking for.

Not that you didn’t want to keep reliving how it felt to be with him. To have his nose pressing into your cheek as he kissed you, his hair tickling your face as it fell out of place. Fuck, how did you wander from the shallow end and fall right into the deep? The independent woman in you still wanted to seem aloof, not wanting to relinquish your heart so easily. But it was hard to fight it when Ben was so sweet to you, sickeningly so. Like rich, melted chocolate on your tongue.

A hike it was.

Before you knew it, your legs were carrying you toward the treeline backdropping the Academy’s training grounds. Soon, the chatter from the students was dampened by the thick foliage surrounding you, engulfing you in shades of green. The memory of your fateful encounter with the Kath hound was still lingering in your mind, becoming more prominent when you realized you were putting yourself in an almost identical situation. You were a lot of things, but wise was evidently not one of them.

The seemingly endless expanse of branches and shrubs came to an abrupt stop before you, giving way to a patch of a grassy meadow. There were a handful of outlying saplings scattered throughout the clearing, coinciding with the streams of sunlight that pierced the canopy above.

Bending at your knees, you reached down and ran a hand across the blades of grass and fragile petals. The energy of the area lured you in, enticing you to spend a moment longer in its presence.

Challenging your mind to cooperate, you resigned yourself to meditating. If the fates were to have you stumble upon this dream of a spot, you were going to at least try to take advantage of it. Untying your outer robe from your waist, you sloughed it off your shoulders and folded it into an impromptu seat to act as a barrier between your tan pants and the damp ground.

Settling into the crossed-legged position your Master had taught you, you straightened your spine, focusing on the air rushing in and out of your nostrils. The soft grass surrounding you enveloped your fingers, welcoming you into its touch. As had become routine over the past few weeks, you allowed yourself to become engulfed by the Force, your senses sharpening to experience the might of its energy.

Each time you meditated, your connection with the Force felt different, an evolution from the previous session. It was as if your senses were a flower blossom; the petals stretching apart to invite the sunlight in. Similar to how Ben had once described absorbing the Force’s energy. Master Skywalker had his own way of describing this phenomenon, referring to it as “opening the door”, the door being you and the width of the door’s opening being the ease of which the Force flows through you. From what you could tell, your door was pulling back further each time you embraced the Force—a promising sign for a new recruit.

Images of the planet’s inhabitants flashed through your mind, vivid and clear, even if just for the briefest moment. The energy was overwhelming at first, as you suspected it always would be. But despite the influx, you remained grounded, channeling the Force through you.

As you surrendered your senses to the vitality of the Academy, there was a tonal shift in the fleeting images, something inky and cold drawing you in. Gooseflesh broke out along your spine, followed by a shudder wracking your body. It was as if an invisible chill was spreading from your center, moving outward from your ribcage to your extremities. The grass beneath you began to fade away as your focus slipped from your grasp.

You veered toward this dark aura, incapable of resisting its pull. The echoes of pain and suffering every life form on the planet had endured consumed your senses, blanketing your body something icy and foreign. Your mind fought hard to resist, clawing at the surface of your consciousness to pull you out. But it was futile.

The Force had its talons in you, the gravity of its tortuous grip drowning you, dragging you further into the abyss. The familiar thrum of energy became warped, a deafening wail, tightening around your skull until it reached a screeching crescendo, propelling you backwards.

All of the air stored in your lungs was ejected as you crashed into the ground, silently gasping and wheezing as you opened your eyes, blinking through the dizziness. As the world spun around you, you laid there, motionless, trying to make sense of what had just happened. Of course, you knew the truth of what had occurred. But you refused to embrace it. The dark side had called to you, and you had all but answered.

The remainder of the afternoon passed uneventfully from the confines of your hut, your mind hazy as you tried to push past the incident in the meadow. It wasn’t until a knock rattled your door that you remembered the plans you had been eagerly awaiting this morning.

It was as if you snapped out of a trance, your eyes darting from the twine-bound Jedi text in your hands to the metal door ahead of you. After hours of keeping yourself occupied by skimming its pages, your mind was a bit more clear—or distracted—than before.

You shut the book, tossing it unceremoniously onto your nightstand. It would be wise to treat the ancient texts with more respect, but you knew who was waiting on the other side of the door.

“Coming!” you called out as you stood from the edge of the bed, reaching for the brown cloak that laid beside you.

As you pulled the door open, Ben squeezed through the widening space, hurrying to get inside.

“I was wondering how long you were going to make me wait out here,” he said, stooping down to give you a gentle kiss.

His lips were sweet, but not in the way that they always were. They were sugary, as if they were made of candy. You ran your tongue across your bottom lip, bewildered by the taste.

“You missed it. Every so often, Master Skywalker gets his hands on some candied fruits. We had candied oranges from Naboo tonight!”

Ah, makes sense. Nearly on cue, your stomach tensed, releasing a low growl. A reminder that you, in your foolishness, had once again missed dinner.

“I saved some for you.” He glanced down at the tray balanced in his hand. As chipper as he was—and how adorable it was to see him get excited about fruit—you couldn’t bring yourself to match his energy.

“Thanks, Ben. I appreciate it.”

He smiled at you for a moment, his dimples lining his cheeks, before his face fell. “Is everything alright?”

“No, no, everything’s okay.” You forced a smile as you reached for the tray. “Just hungry.”

You weren’t a terrible liar, especially considering your talent for lying to Voe on a near daily basis. But it was nearly impossible to lie to Ben.

He pulled the tray back, just beyond your reach, the action equal parts playful and concerned. “No seriously, what’s going on?”

There was no use in lying to him any further, but you still hesitated to tell him the truth of what was troubling you.

“It’s just…been a rough day.”

By the look on his face, it was clear that this answer would not suffice. “Oh, really,” he said, raising an eyebrow at you. “What was so rough about it?” Despite his amused tone, you could tell his concern was genuine.

You shifted your weight and crossed your arms over your chest, releasing a deep exhale escaping as you did. Something in you was hesitant to open up, with no apparent reason why. After all, if Master Skywalker wasn’t concerned about your connection to the dark side, why would Ben be?

“I’m just anxious to start my next training. I went for a hike to try clearing my mind, but got kind of spooked and ran back.” A half-truth was better than a blatant lie.

Ben’s eyes narrowed, studying you intently as you told your story. “Spooked by what exactly?”

You swallowed thickly, your brain working quickly to build onto your lie. “I thought I heard something move behind me, something in the bushes. I’m just a little shaken up, okay?”

He nodded, evidently not wanting to press the subject any further. “I understand. I’m sorry that you had a rough day, princess.” As consolation, he offered you the tray of, among other things, the promised orange slices.

Princess. In any other context, you would detest being called such a thing. But coming from Ben, it was nothing short of divine, sending your head into a flurry.

“It’s okay. Besides, it’s about to get a lot better.” It was incredible, really, how being around him for just a few minutes had already improved your mood. “I’ll scarf this down really quick and then we’ll head out to train.” You moved to start eating your food, choosing to reclaim your spot on your bed. “How long are we going to be out there? It’s going to get dark soon.”

“Don’t worry, I’ve got it covered. Besides, if it’s dark, the likelihood of someone seeing us is smaller.”

“Yeah, but we’re just training. We could probably do that in the daylight, don’t you think?” you said, taking a bite of an orange slice, savoring its sweet, citrus flavor.

“I know. But we don’t want to give people reason to believe it’s more than that.”

“Yeah, you’re right.” This was going to be a recurring thing if you wanted to see each other, probably best you started getting used to it.

Ben peered around your quarters while you finished your meal, inspecting the trinkets scattered across your dresser. His eyes stopped on one item in particular, plucking it up to inspect closer. It was your lip balm. Twirling it in the dwindling light, he examined the silver tube. The balm looked so much smaller in his hand than it did in yours, it was almost comical.

“Lipstick?” he asked, pulling the cap off and twisting the pigment upward.

“Technically, it’s lip balm. My mom used to make them for the farmer’s market.” You wiped your mouth with a napkin and set the now empty tray aside. “It was her way of earning a few extra credits.”

Coming to stand before you, he crouched down, elbows resting on his knees, lip balm still in hand. “Oh, yeah? What does your family do for a living?”

As you opened your mouth to answer, he lifted the angled edge to your lower lip, dragging it back and forth until the pigment had coated your delicate skin. You were frozen, in a near total state of shock at what had just occurred. The wiring of your brain was crackling, trying to compute Ben’s actions.

“Hmm?” Ben hummed, breaking his gaze with you to twist the balm back into its sleeve. “You were saying?”

Closing your lips, you rubbed them together to distribute the color evenly, staring in disbelief at the man before you. “They, um, they’re farmers most of the year.” You squeezed your eyes shut, focusing all of your energy on forming a coherent sentence. “My dad would ship the products off-world, leaving my mom and I behind for weeks at a time.”

Ben returned the balm to where he found it, the skinny tube falling on its side and almost rolling off the dresser. Admiring his good work, his eyes darted between yours and your lips, before he leaned forward and stole a kiss from you.

“I know the feeling.” He offered you a small—almost sad—smile, the rosy tint faintly visible on his plush lips. He took your hands in his and stood up, pulling you with him. “Come on, let’s head out while everyone’s still eating.”

By the time the two of you left, dusk had fallen over the Academy, the sky a muted shade of violet, speckled with dim stars. You followed far behind Ben, his lead at least one hundred meters ahead of you, but still within your visual field.

Mindlessly pressing icons on your watch, you tried to look occupied, in the instance that someone should see you two and think that you weren’t together. Ben would glance back at you every so often to make sure you were still there. Or maybe he was just trying to catch a glimpse of you, you weren’t sure.

He stopped at the treeline ahead of you, waiting for you to catch up to him. It was becoming increasingly difficult to see solid shapes, his tall figure blurred at the edges until you reached him. He offered you his hand, to which you, of course, accepted, slipping your fingers between his. Though the chances of being seen were low, there was a rush in holding hands outside of the privacy of your quarters.

“This way, princess.”

He flicked on a glowrod in his opposite hand, starting toward what you assumed was the training spot he had picked. You walked beside him, your focus shifting between the feeling of his touch and the uneven path beneath you.

For a while, the two of you walked in a comfortable silence, taking in the forest around you, listening to the hum of insects and the chitter of birds. For a first date, it felt incredibly familiar to be next to Ben, hand in hand. You pictured the elderly couples in Khoonda, strolling through the markets, their bony hands interlocked as they had been for decades. You longed for something similar, the reality of this night weighing heavily on your heart. Ultimately, you were here to become a Jedi. A warrior, as well as a devout servant of the Light. It was foolish to believe that, even if you two could hide your feelings from the world, this could ever be sustainable.

Pushing aside such thoughts, you redirected your attention to the man towering beside you, breaking the silence surrounding you.

“Ben, do you ever get homesick?”

The question elicited a short inhale from him, almost as if you had caught him off-guard. “More often than I’d like to admit.” His eyes told an unspoken story, one that said he was lonelier than he appeared to be.

“Where’s home for you?”

“Chandrila. Though I’m not sure how at-home I would feel now that I’ve been away for thirteen years.” His thumb swiped the back of your hand, as if to soothe himself. “What about you? Are you starting to miss Dantooine?”

“I never said I was from–”

Ben’s deep laugh interrupted you. “As soon as we learned that a new student was coming to join us, you became the talk of the Academy. We squeezed everything that we could about you out of Master Skywalker.”

“And what exactly did he say about me?”

“Only that this incoming Force-user was the most beautiful girl in the galaxy. Oh, and that you were coming from Dantooine.”

You shoved him dramatically, your efforts hardly affecting his balance as he continued walking. “Smartass.”

He chuckled as he reached into a pocket of his robes, retrieving what appeared to be a small remote control. With the turn of a couple of dials and a few faint beeps, the clearing ahead of you became illuminated. Suspended in the air were several remote droids, soft light pouring from every angle of their spherical frames. They swayed gently in the breeze, the light following their motions. In the middle of the clearing lay two dummy lightsabers atop a folded blanket, the same blanket that was issued to every student at the Academy.

“What’s with the blanket?” you asked, gesturing toward it with a raised brow.

“It’s going to be a cold walk back tonight. I figured I’d bring one in case you wanted it.”

“And the training sabers? Did you steal these from Master Skywalker?”

“I can’t give away all of my secrets.”

Knowing that Ben had planned out and prepared for this training session made butterflies swarm in your stomach. It also made you feel a bit guilty, considering that you had barely remembered the plans at all.

“You really thought of everything, didn’t you?”

He smiled. “I had to make your first time special.”

Heat licked at your cheeks as his words rolled around your head. Though he didn’t mean them in that way, your mind wandered to what it would be like with him.

Snapping yourself out of your daydream, you leaned down and picked up one of the dummy sabers. It was lighter than you had expected it to be, the counterweight of the mock blade pulling on your grip as you examined the saber.

Ben watched as you familiarized yourself with the saber, finding himself eager to see this training through. It was surprising that he would be interested in something as mundane as teaching a Padawan how to use a lightsaber. Yet, here he was.

You held the saber parallel to your face. “Alright, Master Solo. Let’s get started.”

His dimples creased as he let out a laugh, coming to a stop a few inches in front of you. “If you say so, princess.” He smoothed his hands over your arms until they reached your own, a big hand wrapping around yours on the hilt. “Before you can wield a lightsaber, you need to understand it. A Jedi’s lightsaber is an extension of themselves—a tool to concentrate their energy into during combat.”

You looked up from the silver hilt in your hands to Ben’s eyes, nodding your understanding. Not that you had been able to focus much on what he said, too occupied with the feeling of his other hand discreetly snaking down your waist.

“Focus on how it feels in your hands. Try to imagine it as an extension of yourself.”

You heeded his instruction and closed your eyes, shifting your focus to the hilt. Within a moment, its weight changed in your grasp, becoming lighter and less foreign in your hold. The Force was ablaze around you, its presence all-encompassing and mighty. And at the center of this energy, the focal point of its strength, was Ben’s hand.

You blinked your eyes open, finding the same scene as when you had closed them. If he hadn’t been holding your hands, the saber would have fallen from your grip.

“Is that–”

"Yes, it's okay. I feel it too." He squeezed your hands and nodded, easing your building anxiety. "You're doing great." He released your hands, circling around to stand behind you. The Force shifted as he moved, as if it were the needle of a compass, guiding you toward him.

“Try spinning it a few times,” he said, his warm, sweet breath cascading over your ear. “Just a simple spin.”

Releasing a shaky exhale, you nodded, twirling the saber in your hand. It was as if you were slicing through the Force that surrounded you, displacing it around your blade.

“Good. Now try crossing it in front of you on your downstroke.”

You did as he said and switched the direction of the spin, struggling with the mechanics of the change. Your body fell out of tune with the saber in your hand. In an instant, a pair of hands grabbed your waist and locked it in place, causing you to drop the saber mid-spin.

“Keep your core tight. It’ll make the more complicated moves easier to manage.” Ben spun you around to face him, the air between the two of you thick and heavy. He glanced at the saber. “I want you to summon it.”

The saber had rolled to a stop a few meters away from you, well out of your reach. “I don’t know how to.” You moved to pick it up, but Ben’s hands on your waist prevented you from going anywhere.

His grip tightened. “Sure you do. Just focus.”

This fucker. Hesitantly, you stretched a hand out in-line with the saber, concentrating on the Force between you and the hilt. Your hand began to shake from the effort before dropping back to your side. “I told you. Just let me pick it up, Ben.”

“No, you were doing fine until you gave up. You just needed to concentrate more. Try again.” He kissed your forehead, sliding his hands down to your hips.

A smile threatened to form on your lips, his kiss an effective antidote to your frustration. You sighed through your nose and closed your eyes, once again reaching out for the saber. The energy between you and the object still felt disordered, but this time, you pictured a clear path for it to come to you.

A beat passed, an eerie stillness falling over you, before the saber collided with your hand, sending a jolt of energy up your arm.

You stared in awe at the silver hilt in your grasp, a look of utter disbelief on your face. “I can’t believe I did that!” You looked up at Ben to see his reaction, only to find him watching you intently, seeming equally as surprised as you were.

“I wasn’t expecting you to actually get it,” he said earnestly, giving your hips a squeeze of approval. “Most people need weeks, or months, of practice before they can do that. But it came so easily to you. As it did to me, too.”

You smiled, pride filling your chest at the compliment. “What’s next?”

Ben tipped your chin up, his eyes drinking you in for a moment before leaning down to kiss you, smirking against your lips. “Well, there’s no use in starting off slow.” Another kiss, followed by the sound of the other saber hitting his palm. “Let’s fight.”

A/N: (I promise that there won't be this many notes all the time, I just want to update about my upcoming absence!)

This chapter was a beast to edit for absolutely NO reason, but I love how it turned out. And now, as promised, I'll be taking a few weeks off to study for my exam (and go to Disney, but that doesn't count). Chapter 7 is honestly my magnum opus ((kidding ofc)), so I can't wait to get back and upload it for you guys! Hopefully, the next time you see me, I'll be a licensed nurse!!! Ily guys, take care! -C

#this is where the fun begins #ALSO THIS GIF??? utterly adorable.#ben solo #ben solo x reader #kylo ren #kylo ren x reader #kylo ren x y/n #kylo ren x you #ben solo x fem!reader #ben solo x you #star wars #star wars fanfiction #star wars self insert #kylo ren smut #ben solo smut #my writing

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clarissalance · 4 years ago

Text

Who has the upper hand?

Pairing: Kaeya x G/N!Reader, mention of Varka and Diluc.

Warning: Slight swearing, Kaeya is a lil shit, reader being stubborn and scheming, immense tension

Summary: You’re so terrible at swordsmanship that you can’t withstand 2 strikes from Kaeya or, are you?

Word count: 3k5

Disclaimer: What is written in here is based on my imagination, nothing from this fic should be taken seriously. Most of the fact I put in this fic does not follow the lore of the game so it should only be taken as a grain of salt. For example: section 8 in Knight of Favonius codebook.

A/N: I struggle so much when I wrote this piece. This was suppose to be angstier but I tone down a little bit (because Kaeya was very OOC in my draft, I think he’s still a bit OOC in this fic but I tried my best ;-;, pls don’t bite me.)

How did author write a 50k+ oneshot? I can’t write something more than 5k properly ;-; Anyhow, please enjoy this fic. I’m going to have a good rest for 2 weeks before release a comeback. Please shower Kaeya and our new MC with a lot of loves!!!!

As a strategist of the knight of Favonius, you don't usually have enough time to finish the towers of reports, the never-ending meetings and dealing with cheap tricks Fatui diplomats. Often, you have to skip your daily sword training session, which results in a rather miserable situation. The whole practice ground is staring holes at your defeated posture. You are sitting on the hard soil ground, and the Calvary captain is towering you, his sharp blade just a few inches away from your throat.

It is not a strange scene for any knights to lose a spar against the Calvary captain, he should be one with the best swordsmanship after Grand Master, and maybe Acting-Grand Master, too. However, as knight, they can usually withstand him at least more than 2 blows.

Whispers and talks start to circulate around as soon as you stepped your foot in the training ground. It’s very uncommon to see people from that department wandering around this area. The strategy department is famous inside the Knight of Favonius to be the weakling-cunning-mouthy-jerks, who always find excuses after excuses to skip the monthly knight evaluation.

So, who gives them the right to be exempt from the test? Of course, it’s from the ultimate high chief of strategy department. Rumours say before the strategy chief works for the Favonius knight, the man was once a legendary attorney. That person can flip words from black to white, turns the defendant from guilty to innocent. With a profound convincing skillset coming from the chief, persuading the Grand Master Varka is easy as a piece of cake. The whole department of 10 people is easily off-hook for 3 years, never participate in the monthly evaluation before the man suddenly dropped the bomb 2 days ago.

“ I’m tired from coming with excuses to cover for your lazy asses.” The man waved his hand, his eyes staring outside the window. His nails scratching the messy shaved chin.“ Varka seems to get used to navigating my thoughts-”

“Maybe time is wearing away your skill-” At the corner, someone accidentally blurted out, and the whole table gave him a sharp look. Did he have a death wish or something? If so, everyone here can happily dig him a hole, free charge for the coffin.

The chief cleared his voice again, blue eyes melancholy drifted to the table. “So, you guys have tried your best on this monthly evaluation. I hope to see you all again next month.”

The meeting was dismissed afterwards, and everything spiralled into chaos. The whole department hasn’t touched anything aside from the parchment papers and the quills in the last 3 years. How are they going to master the swordman-ship in 2 weeks?

But, the worst thing is,

Your well-respected, talented, and tactful chief has run away.

The next morning, you received the news that a foxy old man is on a business trip to Fontaine with the Grand Master. The expedition is 2 weeks long.

You should have known what he meant when the deceitful man ambiguously ended his sentence like that. Nothing goes well when the chief said: ‘Farewell, my comrades’.

For the last 2 days, you have been starting to familiarize yourself again with how to hold a sword and how to swing the sword.

As you trail along with the long-forgotten memories, trying to look through the familiar feeling when swinging the sword, you hear footsteps coming in your direction. It is familiar, with the way the person is walking, the beat, the sudden burst of noise in the air, you can only conclude it’s the Calvary Captain. The practice ground seems livelier as soon as the man steps inside, people rushing to his side to give their greetings. Maybe today is one of his practice days.

“ Never thought I would see you here.” The young man calls out, successfully jostle you up from your thoughts. You give him a complex look and turn away, focusing on the tattered dummies. Your wrist is screaming in protest, legs wobbling. You remember those golden days when you were young when you were flexible, and your bones didn't crack as much. Oh, where the golden days have gone?

“What do I own the honour of seeing you here, captain?” You fold your arm defensively, voice monotonously. Kaeya despites the most when you start talking in an emotionless tone. Oh, how you love riling him up in the middle of the practice ground!

“ I come here for my weekly practice, but-” He shrugs, eyes glinting with mischief. “ look like the rumour about the abolishment of special permission for the strategy department is true.”

So he has heard the rumours. You roll your eyes, face blanks. You know Kaeya has his own way to obtain his information, but you never thought it’d be this fast. Words don’t easily leak from the strategy department.

“What do you need? Make it short, so I can practice for the upcoming evaluation.” Tired of his long introduction, you ask him directly. If you are going to ignore him any longer, the man will continue poking you.

Starting an argument only wastes your time, and asserting dominance in the middle of the training ground won’t boost your ego. You’re a strategist, your weapons are detailed plans and sharp word, not sword and bow. Showing off your strength in front of those ruthless knights don't improve your relationship with them.

“ Straight the point eh?” You give him an impatiently look, tempting to ignore him again before he flashes you a smug grin. “How bout sparing with me?”

The whole training ground falls in silence, and you direct at the captain a confusing look. Is he serious? No one in the knight except the Grand Master can go against him, not to mention someone who hasn’t touched a sword for three years.

“I can help you with your training, and you can help with mine” Kaeya speaks with utmost confidence that you almost nod and agree. That man is really deceitful, he knows how well your skill has gone dull, yet he still wants to practice with you? What is this man plotting?

“ Do you realize how absurd your offer is? ” You give him a complicated gaze, voice unwavering. Everyone takes in a deep breath, tension crackling. It's not everyday scenery you often encounter. A heated argument between the mischievous cavalry captain and the tactful strategist. Nosy people gather around the pair, internally hoping for the war the breaks out.

“ You know well that I can’t properly block your first strike.” Light-hearted, you joke, but there is no hint of amusement in your voice. Sharpe eyes glaring at the blue figure, you notice the man remains unfazed.

" Shouldn't you choose a more competent opponent?"

The sound whispers and talking about the reasons why Kaeya picked such an easy opponent start to circulate, and you can’t help to curl your lips up. Within a few seconds, you have effortlessly turned the gossiping direction toward your desired path. Flashing Kaeya a victorious grin, you tap your foot impatiently, waiting for his reaction.

You should have worked at PR damage control or marketing instead! The diplomat would have been fine too! At least, you wouldn’t need to practice swordman-ship.

As you mulling on your terrible choice of career, a chill runs down your spine. Tilting up, Kaeya is beaming sweetly at you, the frost slowly creeping up and nipping your shoes. Look like you just pressed the wrong button.

The man narrows his eyes, and you gulp nervously, avoiding his calculating gaze. Kaeya chuckles, his voice laced with worry, wavering and hurtful.

“I just want to help you improve as fast as possible. The test is coming in two weeks isn't it?”

The whole table has turned, and people start to say how considerate and thoughtful the cavalry captain is. The crowd starts to criticize you and tell you to be more grateful and stop suspicious of his unconditional help. Oh, you wish he wasting it on you, many knights in this training ground would love getting advice and improvements from him.

Applause for our dear Calvary captain, smoothly seeking empathy from the crowd and turning the favour back to him. No wonder how fast he climbed up the rank.

Bantering and arguing with a person like him is meaningless, so you accept his offer and drag your sword toward his direction. Let finish this within 2 strikes.

Moving to the centre of the field, both of you face each other, his eyes scanning you sceptically. What is this man plotting again? Bowing, you finally give him a warning look before standing at your ready position. Kaeya holds his sword, analyzing your starting posture.

As soon as the whistle blows, you charge at the man, opening the spar with a direct hit. Kaeya quickly raises his word up to block the first blow, the sound of steel clashing loudly. He then forcefully diverts the sword to the left, a classic way to counter the strike.

Knowing your limited strength against him, you take a step back and swiftly angle the blade downward, aiming for a weak spot at his waist. This move would create a noticeable weakness on your right, and only the idiot doesn't use this as his advantage to disarm you.

You’re right, he uses the loophole you planned, successfully disarm you within 2 strikes. The sword slips from your hand clanging loudly behind as your foot slips and fall on the ground.

His sharp blade is just a few inches away from your neck. The calvary captain wears a solemn look, his cerulean eyes imbued with irritation. Seems like he figures out you purposefully planed to end the match in 2 strikes.

Quickly raising your hand in defeat, you shoot him a taunting grin. The referee declares Kaeya is the winner, and people start to clap and cheer loudly, but overall no one is surprised. As the match end, audiences start to disperse, return back to their tasks.

Kaeya put his sword away and offers you his hand. You stare idly at the gloved hand a moment before putting yours on. The man effortlessly pulls you up, your body flush against his. With Kaeya so close to you, your first reaction is to push the man away, but his firm grip says otherwise. He inches closer, dark blue locks brush your cheek, tall figure towering you intimidating.

“Why end it so early?” He leans down and whispers, your body tenses up visibly. “Surely, you could handle more than 2 strikes of mine.” The young man in blue hums, his voice sultry.

“ What are you saying? I haven’t touched the sword more than 3 years.” You remind him, hands pushing his chest away, trying to create some distance. The man doesn’t budge an inch.

“Your strikes doesn’t say so. The first strike was not bad.” Noticing your effort to push him away, Kaeya stands straight, heels dig into the ground. His lips curl up at the helplessness flashing in your eyes. He loves seeing you struggle, seeing how anxiety and desperation rising in your sparkling orbs. “I think you could at least have a decent fight with me.”

“ Quit spouting non-sense Kaeya, let me go. We are in public.” You let out an annoyed hiss, punching his toned chest. He still wears the uniform improperly like that, the exposed tan chest can be under many layers. Sometimes you don't even know the reason why doesn't he just button the shirt up properly. Finger grazing at the bared skin on his chest, you turn your head away, cheeks heat up.

The man loves seeing you squirming in his trap, and you’re not going to let him see that. Anything, but satisfying his masochist hobby.

“You don’t like skin-ship?” The man fakes a gasp, his orb sparkles with mirth. “But you were being touchy with your friend. Why can't we be a bit touchy? ” His tone suggestively, the tall man snickers at your blushing mess. Out of everything, why would he mention that? You give him stinky eyes, brows furrow deeply.

“I’m not touchy with you.” You deny dreadfully. Archon, how long have you wasted your time here with this slithering serpent?

Kaeya arms wrap tightly around you, your body moulds perfectly into his embrace. You hate how perfectly you fit into his hug like this, but you can’t deny how warm he is, despite the fact he wields cryo.

“ When will you let me go?” Your voice starts to grow weak, dragging slightly in discomfort. Kaeya curiously looks down, noticing your pouting. Sensing his gaze, you turn your head away but his fingers have quickly grabbed your cheek, forcing you to look at his deep blue eye.

“Give me a kiss, then I'd let you go.” His voice serious, but what he just said is not. You look at the cryo wielder horrendously, mouth gaping. His face is composed and relax, like what he just ask is like asking about the weather, asking about your health, not for a kiss. Is he being serious? What in the world did he just ask? A kiss? Excuse me, a what?

“You...you are not being serious.” You wriggle your way out, escaping from his fingers, but his embrace tightens, caging you inside. Damn it, Kaeya. He’s messing with you.

When you flash him a furious look, the man shrugs nonchalantly, his cerulean lock fluttering gently in the wind. Suddenly, you have an urge to wipe off that calm demeanour. He can’t be serious. Why does he have to go all the way to annoy the shit out of you?

The smug grin hanging on his face, the mischief in his blue eyes, the arching brows, everything about him screams a flirt, yet you feel so mesmerized. Blinking a few times, you have to constantly remind yourself this man is not trustworthy. From the attitude to the way he looks at you, to the way he acts around you. Nothing from his action is truthful. Like Diluc’s warning, you can only believe half of his word and action.

“ Of course I’m being serious.” His voice solemn, but you can see the amusement in his eyes. If he doesn’t like you, why would he spend so much effort bothering you this much? What reaction is he expecting from you?

“ I really like you, Y/N” Kaeya confesses cheerfully, and you can faintly hear a few gasps around. Not this again...

Archon, you’re going to die early at this rate. You just want to practice for the upcoming evaluation, not becoming a hot topic for all Mondstadt citizen to gossip about.

And this man too, how can he easily slip out those words when you just heard him flirting with another woman the other day? You already told him numerous times that you’re not interested in dating him, or anyone right now!

Hung your head down in exhaustion, you tap his shoulder, mumbling quietly. “ Fine, fine.” You finally open your mouth, too exhausted and bothered by his stubbornness. He only wants a kiss, and you won’t hurt giving him one. Just a kiss then you can get back to your practice.

“Just don’t confess your love to me in a crowd like this again.” Before closing the deal, you weakly add a bargain, nudging him.

The calvary captain looks surprised, his eye widens little, not expecting you to agree. Normally, it takes another argument or two before you comply with his request. Kaeya timidly raises his gloved hand to your face, gently caresses your cheek. This time, you lean into his touch, nuzzling your face into his palm, eyes glimmering softly. Despite a cryo wielder, his hand is surprisingly warm.

The man in blue curiously peeks at you, he feels like a feather tickling the itchy spot. Are you plotting an escape route? Since when did you become so obedient? He has never seen the soft fur under the spiky façade you set up to face with the world, but strangely, he likes this version of you more.

Noticing his relaxed stance, you carefully gently wrap your fingers around his wrist while keeping eye contact with him. Kaeya eye widens, startles at your sudden touching. Trying your best to not break the unspoken connection, you bring his hand away from your cheek. In those cerulean eyes, you see a hint of disappointment, but it quickly dissolves. Slowly, you draw closer toward the hand hanging in the air, lips fluttering on the smooth skin on his wrist.

The calvary captain instinctively moves back, trying to escape from your sudden contact. Ironic, he is the one who innates the hug and demands a kiss from you. Tightening your grip, you press your wet lips on the exposed part of his wrist dedicatedly while maintaining eye contact with him, eyes drown with submission.

Kaeya stares at you in awe, maybe not expecting the passionate look in your eyes. His azure eye fills with mischief, now replaces with confusion and hesitation. You notice how his ears have dusted with pink despite the winds blowing in the practice ground. The man avoids your eyes, flustering.

Whispers and gasps start to remind you of the crushing reality, so you let his hand down while grinning cheekily at the cryo wielder. Poking and breaking Kaeya meticulously façade is always something you want to try. The man is a living devil, so it’s extremely unusual to see him losing his composure.

Sneakily, you untangle his other arm wrapping around your waist, plotting an escape route.

However, Barbatos doesn’t let you slip away that easily. Quickly regaining his composure, Kaeya snakes his hand around your hip again, tightening his hold. Unlike the first time, the sneaky bastard lifts you up and has the audacity to throw your body on his shoulder, carry you like a sack.

“ Yah! What are you doing?” You exclaim, fluster at his sudden antic. Kicking and punching on his shoulder, you try as many as you can, but somehow, Kaeya manages to dodge all of them.

“ You said you will let me go when I give you a kiss!” The crowd uproars, stares and gossips poke pointedly at your back. You don’t want to hear those comments from those knights again. They're not going to let this live down, aren't they? Bury your face in the Kaeya's furry collar, you let out a frustrating sigh, punching his shoulder as hard as you can.

“ You give me a kiss on my wrist. That doesn’t count.” Kaeya nonchalantly strides away from the practice ground, unfazed by your attempt to escape. This man is a beast, how can he not budge an inch with all of your kickings on his shoulder?

“ You didn’t specify the place. A kiss is a kiss!” You emphasize, and you can feel his shoulder shaking. Is he laughing? “You didn’t keep your promise.” Fuels by the rising anger, you kick your leg aggressively, struggling to free yourself from the iron-clad grip. This time, his strong arm wraps around your calves like a chain.

As soon as you raise your head up, the familiar pathway hits your memories. Shit, he is heading toward the headquarter, likely to his office. You can’t let anyone in there see you in this state. Punching his back profusely, you shot back.

“Not fulfilling the contract is breaking the Knight of Favonius's code of cond-.” Before you can finish your sentence, the man smacks your calves loudly, successfully shutting your mouth. Speechless by his sudden punishment, you let out a disbelief breath.

“ There are no such a section states about fulfilling contract inside the code of conduct, so stop making the rule up.” Kaeya smugly grins, and you can already picture his blue eyes glinting with mischief, the signature shit-eating grin on his handsome face.

" There is, it's in section eight-" Before you can finish your sentence, Kaeya cuts in, waving his hand dismissively.

" Section eight is about interaction with your co-worker, there is none about keeping contracts." The calvary captain humming, trying to recalling the content of the book. Speechless by the detailed memories of his, you can only close your mouth, quietly waiting for him to drop you down. If you stay still on his shoulder, will he let you go?

" You know, not everyone reads and memories the knight of Favonius handbook, you are just unlucky that I know the book by heart." Seeing you deflate weakly on his shoulder, Kaeya lets out a chuckle, patting your head comforting.

Before heading inside the HQ, the man doesn't drop your down but leans in closely, his whisper tickling your ear. “But at least I had fun seeing you squirming in my grasp.”

And then it hits you, the bastard purposely falls for of your antic.

#kaeya alberich #genshin kaeya #kaeya x reader #no beta we kayak like tim #genshin impact #clarissalance #who has the upper hand ?#argument #fluff #tension #smart reader #strategist #genshin varka #diluc ragnvindr #genshin diluc

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tuberculosis-bot-9000 · 2 years ago

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Daesii Cyn

@accursedkaleeshi

Daesii was pretty from day one.

Born in the fall of 30 BBY, Daesii was Salaen’s second and final baby. It was a widely-known fact in the family that Daesii was the prettiest baby. Not the cutest, but the prettiest. Her scales glittered like cut topaz and citrine, scale patterns inherited from her mother with blood orange accents from her father. Her sly golden eyes would pick you apart from her crib like a predatory jungle cat.

Daesii grew up fast, a hellion bent on running wild. She'd be out the door at the break of dawn and back long after night fell, usually with a few more scrapes and bruises than she left with. The moms liked to joke she cost them more in the thread to repair her clothes than the food she ate. She'd always have a new scheme or plan, and she loved to recruit her siblings to help. She actually managed to build a not-half-bad shelter in the woods behind the Sheelal compound, and it became the clubhouse for the sibs.

Daesii was prone to fits of extremes, and though her manic energy was the most common, other emotions would bubble up from time to time. In one such incident, she had rescued a jungle aseel with a gimpy leg from a snake and brought it home. When it turned up dead a few days later, she was inconsolable for days. Her anger was similarly legendary. She often got into arguments with her siblings and parents, including a spiteful and ultimately pointless argument with her father the day before he returned to the Banking Clan for the last time.

That hurt. A lot.

Daesii broke after that. She became despondent and unresponsive. She would have to be guided everywhere and watched while eating to ensure she didn't choke. She was a droid, her previously-sharp eyes now dull and dim. A massive, spiky pit of darkness crouched in Daesii's mind, thorny talons dug deep into every crevice of her being. It took her the better part of a year to claw her way out of her depressive state.

Daesii had gone through hell and back, and come out different for it. Gone was the wild child who rescued aseels and got into hours-long screaming matches. In her place was a predator in people skin. Daesii had become bitter and cynical, her vibrant energy replaced with an icy cold disdain for everything and everyone. She was sharp-eyed and sharp-tongued, slicing anyone to ribbons over anything. More than once Alīka had to forcibly pick her up and carry her away from whichever poor sibling had earned her ire.

She was definitely an edgy little shit, to say the least. As emo as a Kaleesh can be. Things only got worse after Weyla, one of the few people she'd listened to, disappeared. Daesii's perfect stonewall technique shattered. All of her black, thorny emotions poured out of her in a deluge of tears. It felt like the universe itself was out to get her, to pull her apart and watch her wriggle like a sadistic child with a beetle. Daesii was a piñata and the galaxy was a thirteen-year-old birthday boy whose parents had just announced their divorce.

The family tried their best to support her while dealing with their own grief. Daesii tried to blunt her vicious personality, but some people were determined to grip her by the blades. Gradually, Daesii was lifted from the quagmires of her grief. Her golden disposition began to return, in fragments. There would be no way to completely get over the most difficult portion of her life, but she made a valiant effort. Daesii started to help around the house more, trying to fit into her role as older sister.

Eventually though, when she was about 21, she decided to leave home. There were too many negative emotions associated with her family's home to stay. So she packed her things, scrounged up some credits, and bought a ticket off-world. Before she left, she visited Salaen's place in the family shrine. It was a quick, quiet, and painful ceremony. Daesii was barely 6 when her mother was mauled by a piinyur, but she remembered enough. She couldn't leave without casting off that particular coat of death. And so, with a lighter heart and brighter eyes, Daesii headed off to make her way in the galaxy.

Daesii spent the next half-decade bouncing around various planets and outposts, working odd jobs here or there to afford a warm meal and a bed. Imperials didn't like her much, but what else was new? It was in 4 BBY when her fortunes changed. Daesii was living on Coruscant at the time, working in none other than the Invisible Hand Cantina. One of her favorite routines was telling customers with a completely straight face that General Grievous was her dad, which always got a laugh and a good tip.

Working at the Cantina made Daesii focus on her charming side. In the grand scheme of things, Kaleesh are similar enough to humans to appear recognizably beautiful and exotic enough to be attractive. And Daesii was very pretty by Kaleesh standards. Daesii's mere presence at the cantina increased the regular crowd. Eventually, the number of credits flowing into the cantina was enough for them to hire a full-time band to play music while Daesii sang.

Daesii hadn't sung in years, but she had always been good at it. For a few hours every night, the music would play and Daesii would sing. After a few months of this, holos began to circulate of her singing a Kaleesh love song. Immediately she was flooded with people offering her huge sums of credits to come sing for them, and Daesii went where the money was. Thus began her career as a performer.

Daesii became a sort of microcelebrity, the type of indie musician your friend never shuts up about. Her newly-made fortune afforded her a life of luxury she never could have dreamed of. A penthouse on Coruscant, status as a beloved performer, a personal protocol droid. She lived amongst the upper echelons of Coruscant society, acting as an unofficial liaison for Kalee. She made connections and friends with senators whose ears she could bend when she needed a favor.

Leveraging her high status and political allies, she could exert a small amount of power, even more if she used her growing funds. And the ISB hated her for it. An alien that dared move about the Empire as if she were human? A celebrity that fought for change against the status quo? An awful combination for the xenophobic Imperials. The ISB started a smear campaign against her, painting her as a primitive, savage Kaleesh. They used evidence gathered from Grievous's bloody rampages and General Sk'ar's divide-and-conquer tactics. Despite this, Daesii managed to keep an air of cool and calm about her, though her status had definitely taken a hit. Much to the Imperials' chagrin though, Daesii refused to be cowed. She began to fight even harder, calling on her friends to push for a better future.

So the ISB decided enough was enough. Daesii Cyn had a death warrant. In the year 2 ABY, with the Rebellion in full swing, the Empire attempted to assassinate Daesii. A bounty was placed on Daesii's head through the bounty hunting guild, and the more unscrupulous hunters crawled out of the woodwork to claim her head, including the notorious Trandoshan bounty hunter Bossk.

Bossk and the other bounty hunters ambushed Daesii in her penthouse, each intent on taking her bounty for themselves. Daesii, despite her Coruscanti affectations as of late, was still a Kaleesh pragmatist. And that means a bed axe. The bounty hunters pursued her through her apartment for hours, slowly tiring her. Still, she was a vicious fighter and a 6'8" Kaleesh fighter with all the ferocity of a caged piinyur. That bloody night ended in her laundry room, with her standing over an unfortunate human she cleaved shoulder to opposite hip. In a burst of tranquilizing gas, Bossk played his hand and collected the bounty.

Daesii was dragged before the ISB and given a sham trial, sentenced to 35 years in a prison work camp. Daesii laughed and said, "The Empire won't last 35 years,". And she was right. Not 3 years later, she was freed by the New Republic and returned to Coruscant. She gathered her fortune and went home to Kalee, where she lived the rest of her days in relative peace. The axe came too.

#star wars #general grievous #accursedkaleeshi’s giant awesome kaleesh family

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firesofdainix · 3 years ago

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October 8: Pirate | Knight | "Hey, that's my sword!"

Something boring and a little heartwarming to prepare you for tomorrow’s prompt.

@morrotober

AO3 Version

School for Good and Evil AU… except I can’t remember what happened in the books

“And… BEGIN!” The deep voice of their teacher bellows, putting his arms down to signify the beginning of their duel.

Morro lets out a deep breath, brandishing his sword in his hands. He feels eyes watching him as he prepares himself physically, his stance shifting into a defensive position, whilst his own eyes are trained over to his opponent. In a single second, he and his opponent face each other, flashing their swords. One was as green as the aura of a ghost, the other red as fire. And then, in a single second, the winds attempting to overrule fire, immediately clash. He tries to slash at the young man right in front of him, but to his frustration, the other sidesteps to dodge his strike. All he wants, in this delegate life of his, is to take things fast. He attends to remember all of the lessons he is taught by their Sparring teacher, his words echoing deep in his mind. Strike at the openings. Hit diagonally. Do not hesitate. He was not the light breeze, he was the tornado winds, unmatched in strength and destruction, as he whizzes past Kai and, to finally finish this all, he points the apex of his sword’s blade on Kai’s back.

The brown-haired man’s breath hitches, before letting out a frustrated huff, apparently still not quite accepting that, out of all the finer men in this school, Morro Wu continues to reign supreme. Morro gives Kai a self-satisfied, proud smirk, intent on angering the student even more. This was successful when Kai looks as if he is about to drop his sword to the ground, then, thinking twice, he huffs and turns back around so that he would not see Morro’s face.

Their teacher, of course, claps his hands as a way to get their attention. Motioning a hand towards Morro, he speaks, calm, deep, and grand. “Morro Wu wins this duel.”

The rest of the students, dull, colorless, and insignificant, clap modestly. Only Kai’s subordinates at the back were not cheering for him. No matter— he did not need to partake in their opinions of him, anyway. He can completely go any day without someone not being, at the very least, satisfied with him when he has come to impress the teachers and his own gracious father with the way he is currently topping all of his classes (except, frustratingly, Good Deeds).

Morro, with a confident strut in his step, walks back to the bleachers, entering his mindscape as their professor calls Cole Brookstone to duel with Vinny Folson. Oh, poor Vinny. Seeing that his job here is done, his mind returns to the static recesses of his mind.

There were the sounds of shoes wearing on the hard ground below. The echoes of two young boys sigh as they try to win against one another. Even when Morro is not watching, not listening with all of his heart’s content, he can already visualize the clear winner between the two of them.

In the muffled crevices on his mind, he hears a yelp and a sword reverberating throughout the entire classroom. He heard his professor clap his hands and, with a mighty tremble in his voice, announce Cole Brookstone as the winner.

Yes, all was right in the world.

Morro Wu, legendary, future savior of Camelot and all the things that rule this land, is number one.

The rest… well, it will be clear they’d either become his sidekicks or morgrifs. Hopefully the former. He did not want the others to suffer simply as animalistic companions.

Sometimes, the wind would like to rest for a day. Perhaps civilization as we know it would not appreciate the winds taking their time of day to slack off from their job, but, Morro is allowed, correct? Not only did he maintain all the top spots of each subject — even Good Deeds, to his confusion — he is setting an example to the other Evers on how a proper Prince should act. Disregarding his rather unpredictable, rambunctious actions towards the Nevers and the concept of romancing princesses. He was fine being alone, being solo, as the future Ruler of Camelot. Whispers of the princes stating he will marry Hee-young since she’s the only one who can withstand his less-than-charming personality aggravates him.

He didn’t want to think about it.

Morro prefers to be concerned with other things than romance.

He must have completely missed something, because the next time he feels himself connecting back into this world he is in, is someone yanking the sword from his grip. Feeling his anger and irritation boil over, he glares at the one who disturbed him from his thoughts. “Hey, that’s my sword!”

Kai looks down at him, but not in the way other princes do. Rather, he raises a brow at Morro’s outburst, subsequently giving him back his sword after. He sighs as he throws his head back, “It’s time to go, you can space out in our room.”

Morro blinks at his roommate’s words, and he stands, although as gracefully as he does. Kai was not a friend, nor was he a companion. He was not a prince like the others; he hails from the commoner village outside of the Kingdoms, making his way from the thick forest that blocks out the night and day with the help of the School Master. He recalls Kai has a sister who is, unfortunately, Evil, and Morro could not help feeling bad about them. Kai seems he misses his sister, no matter what school they are in, and Morro wishes he too, has the same care in the world as Kai does. As he walks back towards Charity Tower, the dark-haired boy can feel the eyes of the princesses and other princes staring at him and Kai. He proceeds to walk faster, much to Kai’s irritation if the sigh he has just released was an indicator of any of his emotions.

Once they finally reach their room, Morro locks the door shut. He lets out a deep breath, slumping onto his mattress. Seeing that Kai still has not said anything, his green-gold eyes flit toward the figure of Kai, who was currently being engrossed in one of their textbooks. Which is strange; he has never seen him read a book, inclined to particularly dislike reading.

So, observing the strange phenomenon, he speaks. “What are you doing?”

Kai shrugs, “I’m sorry that I can’t be as Good as you.” The bitterness of his tone was contradictory to the nonchalance.

Morro huffs, ah, so it was about their studies, huh? It is well-known to everyone in this school that Kai Smith lags behind them, only excelling both in Good Deeds and in Swordsmanship as if he was made to study the blade. There were rumors that he would not belong in the world as a prince, preferring if he simply turned into an animal in their final years on the campus. The same rumor seems to be going around in the same vein in Evil, concerning his sister, Nya. It is one of those times Morro is inclined to believe that, for the first time ever, Wu and Garmadon made a mistake.

He immediately gets out of bed and walks toward Kai’s study table. Seeing him approaching, Kai frowns and closes the book he is currently reading in suspicion. “What do you think you’re doing?”

The dark-haired man shrugs. “I got nothing to do and I can cash in a favor or two from you.”

Kai stares at him. “What kind?”

Morro taps the book he is currently reading with his fingers, “If I… assist you,” He replaces the word ‘help’ with one of its other syllables, knowing full well Kai dislikes being helped. “Will you assist me, too, with my work on Good Deeds?” And Morro, too, hates being helped on. A simple trick or two can help him understand why all the answers he’s chosen for Good Deeds were wrong.

The other man considers his offer for a moment, staring at his face as if Morro would not back his promises. He feels offended by that prospect.

“Deal.” Kai pats the seat next to him, and Morro sits down to start this harboring task.

#manji wips #morrotober #morrotober 2022 #ninjago #lego ninjago #morro ninjago #morro wu #kai smith #kai ninjago

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alicee1 · 4 years ago

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Loyalty rewards

God! Technoblade x Warrior! GN! reader

Warnings: blood, sacrifices, violence, mentions of death

Word count: 2.0K

Synopsis: In the Blood God’s temple every other week the strongest warriors battle one another to satiate the blood lust of their God. You have defended your position as winner for the past three months, gaining the interest of the Blood God himself.

Requested: no

A/n: The Roman Empire has always been my favorite part of history, and when this (kind of) Roman based idea formed in my head i just couldn’t ignore it. I don’t have any regrets.

Rules, Masterlist

You stood atop of the cold stone platform, crowds of people staring at you as the fight continued from the safety of their seats. The arena like temple surrounded you, safe for the sky where the sun shone brightly down on you.

Today was the day of the sacrifice for the Blood God, so he may be satisfied and heed the city of any attacks and wars. For if he would be deprived of the sight of blood too long he would come and take it himself.

The strongest warriors fought against one another in these temples. A simple, weak, sacrifice would not suffice for the Blood God.

It had led you here, armour brightly reflecting the sun and a sharp sword clenched in your hand as chants echoed through the stadium.

By now you had drowned their chants out, focusing your mind to the battle to avoid the fate of becoming a sacrifice once more.

For the past 3 months you had stood in this temple, every other week battling for the sake of your life.

Perched over the tunnel you had come out of at the start of the fight loomed the statue of the God, his beastly form with dangerous tusks and clawed hands holding a large blade, eyes made from the largest ruby stones harvested. It towered to the top of the stadium, large and impressive.

Across from that statue stood another, displaying the God in his more human like form, his mask obscured by a large skull but with the same blade in its more human like hands.

To the sides however stood smaller statues, both the exact same as they depicted a man with loose fitting robes and large black wings behind him to match. He was the God of death.

Despite having more than enough of his own temples, there was always at least a small place to commemorate him within the Blood God's temple, for he followed in the trail of destruction the other left behind. Dark and silent as the night he took the broken souls left behind by the ruthless God.

The sound of metal clashing against one another didn't make it over the loud chanting of the crowd, the words 'blood for the Blood God' echoing through the temple.

You managed to hit your opponent with the black metal sword you held in their side, not able to slice through the thick layer of armour but it did enough damage to distract them.

Slowly but steadily you had chipped away at them, you were faster, more agile, in your movements which had proved to be your saviour throughout nearly every fight.

When you managed to land the finishing hit, the side of your sword knocked hard against their helmet.

Under normal circumstances the helmet they wore would've prevented them from collapsing, only causing light headedness and dizziness.

Now however, where the circumstances where everything but normal, the blood loss, exhaustion and adrenaline that had slowly started to thin out, took their toll and with that last hit it was enough to knock them out.

This didn't mean you had come out unscathed either however, ragged breaths lefts your lungs as the warm liquid dripped down your arms and under your armour.

Technoblade watched from his palace, his realm, which was large, luxurious and worthy to house a God. The chanting of the voices within his head deafening as they demanded blood.

It was a common reoccurrence during offerings, as there was usually at least some sort of sacrificial ritual going on somewhere. Despite that, the more chants, the louder they grew within his mind.

With a city as large as yours, one that housed many strong fighters and had proven themselves as a form of entertainment, the chants in his head were deafening as he watched the sacrificial fight take place.

Normally the winner would die of their wounds after the battle, allowing for two new contenders the next week. Those who didn't often stood still heavily wounded in the temple for their next fight to defend their place. It had always been an easy battle to win.

However for the past months he had noticed that time and time again the same fighter stood on the battle field, wielding the same black sword despite the more common weapon, an axe.

He watched you curiously win the battle once more, tapping the throne decorated with swords, regular skulls and the legendary wither skulls with one hand as he watched.

You had pulled the helmet of your opponent, holding their limp body up by the hair on their head like you had done time and time again for the past weeks.

Presenting the broken warrior to the sky to allow the God to pass judgement, forcing the warrior to put their faith into the hands of their God one last time and see if he would answer.

The crowd roared. You had grown to be crowd favourite, your speed and agility entertaining as you put up a show during the fight, entertaining the public as much as you did the God.

Your blade was still drawn, although it wasn't uncommon for a sacrifice to die during the battle, the true purpose was to keep them alive and give the Blood God a chance to spare their life and add it to his army of hounds or allow them to die.

As a warrior, the Blood God was one of the most important to serve and to please, and during the sacrificial ritual you would put the life of the soul in the hands of the God one final time. It was a tradition passed down over centuries as the empire grew, your city being the capital.

Throughout history it had happened occasionally where the God would send down a pig like creature, clad in glowing black armour, wielding a golden axe, to come collect the defeated warrior's body and soul to take with them.

Legends told that they were part of the hound army the God had, past souls that had once been sacrificed as well and been collected as well.

Myths spoke of the God and his hound army, the souls of the warriors reincarnated in the pig like or wolf like beasts that came to collect the still alive souls of those worthy before they were handed over to the angel of death and send to the underworld.

Only those who had left a lasting impression were remembered by the God by their name, forming the strongest and most important part of his army.

The hounds joined the God to the battle field when he craved blood but was deprived of it by a city or empire, slaughtering everyone in sight to satiate the hunger.

You waited as seconds passed, the chants only growing louder as moments passed. As usual, no beast appeared to collect the broken warrior before he would serve his last purpose as sacrifice, stilling the God's hunger for blood until the next ceremony.

The sharp blade you held in your hand was still pressed against your opponents throat, waiting for seconds more before finishing the deed.

The body collapsed into itself at your feet as the hair slipped from your fingers, a dull thud sounding so much louder than it should have in the arena.

A small, but satisfied smile formed on the God's face at the sight, you stood covered in blood on the stone with the body at your feet. The smile on your face matched his, although it was a little more tired in comparison.

He may have been unsure during the last sacrificial ceremony, but he was sure now. Why wait for you to lose a fight and arrive broken to his realm, his palace, when he could take you right then and there.

It had been a while since he had come down to one of his temples directly, but as he stood up it didn't take long for him to appear within the tunnel that led to the battlefield.

The crowd silenced at the figure that walked from the tunnel, as there was only one being that could do that. He didn't look like one of the beastly monsters that had been described in stories of old.

A skull hid his face from view but the ruby glint of his eyes reflected the sun, the pink locks that peeked from under the mask, left only one deity who it could possibly be.

Sinking to your knees at the sight of him, the temple grew quieter than it had ever been. The crowd questioned if you had killed your opponent too soon and now you would pay the price with your own life to compensate.

Your gaze was pointed to the ground where you could see his figure inch closer as it reflected in the deep red liquid that had pooled around you.

The Blood God stood in front of you now, peering down at your definitely smaller figure. He was still a God and it showed in his proportions, tall, muscularly built, with a blood red cloak hanging from his shoulders.

His voice held a power to it as was expected from a God, although monotone, it held a subtle undertone of amusement as he spoke up.

"You have defended the first place for the longest period in a long time," he noted, eyes piercing as he looked at you, bowed down before him.

A small nod came from your head as you carefully looked up at the God as he towered over you.

"You have been one of the strongest and most loyal follower I have seen in a long time," he allowed you to look up at him fully now, an amused smile tugging at his lips, barely visible from underneath the pig skull,

"The freedom you have seen so far has been an illusion created by those above you. I can grant you true freedom if you return to my realm with me."

He stretched out his hand to you, thick and worn gloves covering his hand as you could see the burn marks from wielding a weapon for years on end. It took you barely a moment to think as you placed your hand in his, feeling the friction between your two gloves as he pulled you to your feet.

Your blade was still clenched in your dominant hand as you sheathed it, looking around the arena like temple once more as the crowd stood in awe, their eyes glued to the scene in front of them.

A sight they would behold in their lives only once, and tell generations to come.

As time would pass it became a story, faded into a myth as the sacrifices continued. A never forgotten ceremony to quiet the insatiable lust for blood that the God held.

In the temple however, soon a new statue stood, smaller but unmissable beside the massive statue of the God. One of a warrior with glowing eyes made from the purest jewels the empire held, a pitch black sword held in their hand as they stood confidently beside their God.

The reality didn't differ much from the stories that spoke of your new life in his realm, it was luxurious and free, befitting a divine creature like the Blood God and now you.

Sometimes, when villages or cities left the sacred ceremonies to please their Gods in the dust, you ventured out. Beside the powerful figure that controlled the army of hounds now stood a second figure, cloaked in glowing armour identical to the God's as you rained down the attacks on the unfortunate settlement.

From that one day in the temple forward, you stood right beside the Blood God himself.

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af1899 · 3 years ago

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FEH - Calendar for Dec/2021

The calendar of the month was finally revealed, here it is:

(Link to thread)

And as usual, I share these with my own dump of thoughts and plans, feel free to read these right below.

Highlights and thoughts

The first thing that comes to attention is this, although this still means the trailer is comming 52 hours before the banner, it gives us the guarantee we'll see it at [Dec. 14th, 12:00 a.m.] (GMT-3). By then, our next seasonal units will be revealed, and there's a certain one I've been hoping to save for if it's true they'll be there. I won't say who they are though, while it's a possibility, it's still a potential spoiler.

But if they're here and the backup looks good enough, I'll pull for them and ignore the rest of the banners to allow for recovery.

The other Special Heroes banner comes the night of New Year, but that's a global tradition, so this is guaranteed to be here and live at the same time, we'll get news at the usual 52 hours of anticipation with the trailer.

The first batch will give us winter seasonals as per usual, while the second will give us seasonals of Heroes celebrating the New Year.

Oh, and with the first batch of seasonals, the last [Tempest Trials+] event in the {Ice & Flame} series will come to an end (event starts the same day as the banner), you can expect Ascended Laegjarn on it, as well as possibly, who's the winner between the champions of the two dragon gods: Fjorm (from Nifl) and Laegjarn (from Múspell). Of course, I'm looking forward to see how this side story will conclude.

Also, look at this:

We're getting the New Heroes announced kinda soon-ish, while that'd normally come out as quite the surprise, the Special Heroes are still coming out in the update for late-Dec/2021 in the Pacific, while the New Heroes are designated for the 6.1.0.

My best guess would be a The Binding Blade banner with no centered location thematic this time, but I'm personally hoping to see Ellen and Murdock! Otherwise, we might actually hear about our second TMS#FE banner.

This time, the Legendary Hero will be announced unusually early, expecting the trailer to be out at [Dec. 23th, 12:00 a.m.] (GMT-3). This is good though, the earlier the better for us.

This is the only skill banner of the month I feel would have at least some value to me, the rest don't feel as threatening to my savings, but who knows.

So far, in the regular pool we have: Laegjarn, Helbindi, Loki, Erinys, Marianne, Valentian Palla and Yuri. But 3 out of the last 4 will likely comprise the whole banner, because they have the Lv.4 skills, and Yuri is the most likely to be there.

...If Erinys and Valentian Palla somehow make it here, it's difficult to say I won't drop at least a few [Orbs] for these lovely pegasus knights, but we'll see depending on who's on it and anything revealed before, I'm still deciding as the banners are revealed.

The weekly at 12/26 (with Young Tiki, Linde and Deirdre) is also a possibility.

In the not too farfetched possiblity all the above is a skip, I might pull a little in either of those (out of all the revivals shown here), for Winter Altina+Sanaki or New Year Azura (both for collecting for now), but it's hard to say on which one I'll end up going for, the former feels more likely though because a Harmonized Hero with two likeable purple-haired girls is perfection... but actually speaking, I'd love to collect the Harmonized Hero because of personal attachment, and get some juicy fodder for my Sara or Valentine's Silque if possible, from Winter Sephiran... I'll have to settle with one copy if I somehow get him though, because I'd need two for all his fodder, but he's not so necessary to get anymore.

The rest of the banners aren't of my interest, so I'll move onto events:

Now, these two days until the reset of the 13th will be rather dull, today in less than an hour, the AFK rewards "game mode" will start for us, and the next of the weeklies tomorrow... yes, only these two things.

The weekly banner will have: Nailah, Keaton and Velouria... I'mma just free pull colorless I hope, otherwise blue>green>red.

Díthorba/Deet'var will finally rerun, after the long wait of... ~10 months since her debut, and we can get the free extra copy from there, I'll fodder her because, out of the Four Angelical Wings of Silesse, I only have attachment for Erinys and Annand, and [Flier Formation 3] could somehow see use... if I pick that, but I might actually promote her for a different combo.

Also, is it me or is this the first time I see two instances of [Limited Hero Battles] announced in one calendar? Huh... neat I guess, guess there's a first time for everything... but while I'm not particularly excited about these (mainly because of the slightly lacking rewards), I always look forward to test my favorites from each entry in the series, and end up being a fun challenge.

The next batch of Forma will also be revealed with the next datamine in four days, as [Hall of Forms] comes in a little over a week from here, I'll actually try to save my Forma until the Jugdral batch comes around to see if there's any seasonal I want to get as Forma or Sara somehow gets a Forma version so that I can finally give her a crazy kit... hopefully.

Other than that, [Frontline Phalanx] will also run in two days, not too exciting but the rewards are nice, and the rest of the month is pretty average. Celebrational quests for New Year (like in past years) will also be out around the start of 2022, these might be interesting and more useful this time around, here's what we got last... at that time, we got some pretty good rewards, including extra free summons on the New Year seasonals around the time.

But otherwise, the rest of the month is shaping up to be mostly average, with quite a bit to look forward to.

The End

Thanks for checking out my post, I hope it's been an entertaining read but most importantly, that you found something of use.

Take care and good luck in your goals.

#feh #fe heroes #fire emblem heroes #feh calendar

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jiskblr · 4 years ago

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Commonplace Mastery: Second Shell

Roughly a sixth of the people of the Second Shell are crafters of various kinds. Masons, Joiners, Blacksmiths, Whitesmiths, Bowyers, Craters-and-Coopers, Cobblers-and-Cordwainers, Tailors, Furriers, Brewers, Bakers, Cartwrights, Shipwrights. About half of them pick up two related specialties - A cabinetmaker might also be a cartwright or a cooper, and a cobbler also a tailor or furrier. A third of crafters instead have farming (or less commonly, fishing or simple hunting) as their second skill instead of another craft. The remaining sixth of the sixth have two unrelated specialties, or know the basics of an adventuring or criminal profession. By our standards, even the journeyman are master craftsmen, able to make extraordinary work regularly. Barrels which are airtight moments after creation, stone roads where a wheel could ride a mile and feel no bump between any stone and the next. When the truly skilled can concentrate, or just work together with their peers, what can they make? Things that last for centuries, commonly.

Masons: the good roads were made hundreds or thousands of years ago and look like new. They suffer no wear and tear - it's virtually impossible to damage them except on purpose. When a powerful king or priest pays for it, they may build towers six hundred feet tall with brick and mortar, which withstand the winds and wars for decades - though usually not centuries, as they cannot hold back a dragon. (Wizards generally build their own towers, secured with magic, though the sensible among them still employ a fine mason to assist.) The finest walls and castles are less magnificent in scale, but often can stop dragonfire.

Joiners: Doors which can stop a charging bull, cabinets which repel pests, or in the very greatest cases, ones which have more space inside than out, folding boxes which can be stored at a quarter their size and still be water-tight when opened.

Blacksmiths: Shackles which can hold a ghost, swords which find their mark unbidden, horseshoes which never wear and never let the horse lame. Knives and arrowheads that never dull, plate armor that moves like leather. Blacksmithery is both the most fabled of crafts, through its swords, blades, and weapons, and the most unassuming, as the most common feature of masterful blacksmithery is something that simply will not break, even if it had an army trying.

Whitesmiths: Workers in tin, gold, silver, and other pliable metals, intricate marvels are a signature of the master whitesmith. One of the most famous creations was the bell-box of Helorion, which if opened a crack and whispered into would hold the sound inside until the next time it was opened, whispering the message in the speaker's own voice. Jewlery is a common medium for master whitesmiths, and fine engraved panels which have more apparent depth than they could fit, or which serve as powerful aids to memory about the state of the location pictured.

Bowyers: Virtually all bowyers also are fletchers, and masters are known for crafting bows with the flexible draw of a composite bow from a single piece, making arrows which fly straight and true despite strange special additions which allow them to trip, drag, or disorient those hit, and make the true greatbows which can fire nearly as far as a man can see.

Craters and Coopers: The ordinary masterwork for a cooper is to make airtight barrels and crates, but true masters can make them so tight that even time itself can only penetrate weakly; when the lid is sealed on, even raw meat will have barely aged even if opened a year later. Other tuns commissioned by brewers make the ale or spirits inside age much faster while leaving the angel's share no larger. And of course ordinary durability for things packaged for long and stormy voyages is popular.

Cobblers: Many master's boots cushion the feet so well that even if they walk a dozen miles soaked, there will not be a single blister or sore on the feet. Others making softer shoes find they slowly heal scabs and sores from the past, clean the feet and leave them healthy, even with flat feet or turned toes slowly healing to the proper shape. Some help their wearers dance, never misplacing a step, or to run through a dark wood without a trip or sprain.

Tailors: The most common features of a master's tailoring are pockets deeper and more secure than an ordinary crafter, and clothes so wondrously beautiful that they shape the view like an illusion. Certainly anything a king wears, when it is not for war, will shift its appearance in the light, seeming to move like a live thing.

Furriers: The finest works of master furriers have the same beauty of a master tailor, in many cases. More practical masterworks usually focus on the warmth and comfort of fur, managing to preserve the wearer in the cold while being no worse than a bare body in great heat, or even to assist in both heat and cold.

Brewers: Perhaps the second most legendary of masters, after the smith, fine ales, wines, and spirits can conjure to mind very specific memories, nostalgia, camaraderie, or other such mental motions. They may restore the drinker to health, wake the recently dead, induce the pain-free frenzy of a berserker, or do any of a great many things for the body. Darker tales say an evil master brewer may make a drink which is pleasant to all except one, who finds it deadly poison.

Bakers: While less notorious, master bakers have many of the same tales told of them as are of brewers. Bread which heals the wounds, strengthens the body, brings those who break it together in fellowship, sustains over a heinous journey, or recalls distant days as if they were now.

Cartwrights: One of the most visible products of master crafters in most people's life is a wandering cart; these roll back and forth along the roads connection a town to its villages, not losing speed when boarded, without a horse to pull them. The standard wandering cart is lightly enchanted by a spellcaster, providing a slight motive force that speeds it up each time it turns around, but the fundamental device is a master cartwright's work in most places. (Wizards occasionally duplicate the effect purely with magic, but they are rarer and their time precious.) Other carts may have impossibly gentle rides even on rough terrain - common for coaches - or keep heat in or out preternaturally well.

Shipwrights: Ships which cut through the water like an arrow in flight are the most common request of master shipwrights, as well as durable ships which withstand fire and monster attacks. Some are crafted for great merchants with the ability to keep all their contents stable despite high seas. Master ships like these are usually sailed for centuries, as the coordination required to make them arises only every few decades, even in the biggest shipbuilding ports.

#jisk worldbuilds #divine shells

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invictarre-archive · 3 years ago

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@xfaucheuse / Dani.

Love notes weren’t an unusual thing to get from Leon. He’d always been an affectionate lover, and considering how much easier written words came to him than the easily-flustered spoken ones... Was it really a surprise that he took full advantage of his chance to leave sweet post-it notes and letters all throughout the house? Even his Rotom had picked up on this habit and had taken it upon itself to start sending texts and garbled voice notes of its own, eager to let Dani know she was equally appreciated by Leon’s team. She’d gotten a lot of those.

But, as always with winter, his work with the League had pulled him away for a few days. The continued lack of a Chairman meant that he had to give in-person approval to things the Champion couldn’t, and that meant having to spend his days meeting with financial advisors and aspiring sponsors and all the other behind-the-scenes teams that made the Gym Challenge work. It was dull, but it was necessary.

That same trip had involved him rifling through some forgotten museum backrooms (he’d been trying to help Sonia, so that she and Hop could both get their research in order and take an early holiday), but he’d ended up coming away with far more than expected. A not-insignificant part of it was the Mega Evolution papers, already left in Augustine’s lab for him to find, but Leon had also found some things that Dani may like.

That was why, as he finally flew home early in the morning, Leon wasted no time in laying out two tapestries across their furniture. They were ancient, but apparently Galar’s exhibits had no interest in displaying these pieces, and had simply left them back there in the archives to be someone else’s problem. They’d been free to take, provided Leon was prepared to make the effort to get them back in one piece and have them cleaned.

It was things like this that made it obvious how so much regional history had been lost to time. Beautiful, ancient artifacts forgotten and left to rot in dingy cardboard boxes.

The larger of the two featured Xerneas and Yveltal, a lovely display of contrasts. Yveltal’s half of the artwork had it mid-flight against a moonlit sky, the light of its wings turning the delicate pinprick starlight a soft pink glow. Leon couldn’t tell what the cityscape below was supposed to be - it didn’t match anything he’d seen in modern-day Kalos, and he didn’t know nearly enough about historical architecture to make any assumptions there.

Xerneas, meanwhile, had a typical summer’s day scene. Lots of sprouting flowers and Medieval attempts at Combeekeeping, all set against a cloudless sky with the sun shining bright. The chosen contrasts weren’t anything new, but the skill and devotion that had been poured into this piece made the Legendaries look stunning nonetheless. The artist must have really loved these two.

How something like that had ended up in Galar, he’d never know, but it was only fair to return it back to the region it belonged.

The second tapestry, though smaller, was something that had made him think of Dani instantly. He’d known Galar had had knights, and of course it stood to reason that they would use Aegislash, strong and noble pokemon common within the royal courts of the time. But before now, he’d never actually seen such a pair depicted. The Aegislash was the main focus of the tapestry, its blade and shield taking up most of the available space, and this was another piece that had been made with love. The pokemon looked almost photorealistic, the metallic shine and flutter of its ribbon so perfectly captured Leon almost expected it to start moving, and he wondered if this had been a particularly beloved pokemon.

The knight stood in the background, faceless and covered by armour, but a part of the picture nonetheless. Perhaps this was an obvious choice for a gift, given how important Aegislash were in Dani’s family, but it was still worth giving. If anything, it meant she was more likely to understand the bond between Knight and sword being showcased here.

He had planned to go find Dani himself, let her know he’d arrived safely back home a little earlier than expected, but Rotom was apparently intent on beating him to it. The ghost zipped out of his phone and down the hall, possessing electronics on the way to announce:

【 Dan-neee! Leeeeeee-on! 】

At least Rotom had learned how to say his name.

#it's our time to shoot for the stars and we ain't gonna stop until the world is ours! | in character

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awkwardpenguinproductions · 5 years ago

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Anchor Point

Part 1 of the Dragon of the Yuyan

Read on AO3 | Series Masterpost

Someone asked me to post my Dragon of the Yuyan series on Tumblr as they were unable to access AO3. So here we are. I’m going to try and put a Read More cut after the first paragraph or so, let me know if this works or doesn’t work and I’ll adjust accordingly.

–––

Zuko has never been this hungry before. The scary thing is, he can’t really feel it anymore––his stomach has ceased sending shooting pains through his gut, has stopped gurgling and roaring in demand for sustanence. He can feel weakness nipping at his limbs like eel-hounds on the hunt, and his firebending grows weaker by the day.

He’d thought he'd been hungry when he’d missed three meals in a row after Azula had locked him in a closet when he was eleven. No one had realized that he was missing until dinnertime, and then Father had commanded him confined to his chambers without dinner in punishment for not taking the initiative to free himself--never mind that the door couldn't be opened at all except from the outside, and Zuko's fireblasts weren't yet strong enough to blow it open.

He hadn't slept that night, tossing and turning in his bed as his stomach growled fiercely, cursing Azula and promising himself that he'd never get caught like that again. The next morning, Uncle had met him at the training yards with a bowl of okayu, and Zuko had been so hungry that he hadn't even cared that he was eating food meant for babies and sick people.

He'd thought he'd been hungry then.

He knew now that that had been a simple inconvenience.

When he'd been dumped in the northwestern mountains of the Earth Kingdom, it had been early spring, his burn had been fresh and agonizing, and Zuko had known absolutely nothing about surviving in the wilderness. But desperation makes for quick learning, and by the height of summer, he was hunting and foraging enough to at least maintain his firebending, if nothing else.

Now, though…

It's miserably cold, and it feels like it's been raining for years. Zuko is soaked, and shivering, and hasn't had a successful hunt in two weeks. Anything he might forage is rotten with the wet. Sometimes the rain comes down as hard little pellets that sting his skin, and in the morning the forest shines with the coating of ice. Winter is a looming terror, but at this point, if something doesn't change, Zuko won't live long enough to see snow for the first time.

There is nothing for him here. He should move on while he can still move.

Walking is agony. If he tries to think in terms of distance, in terms of miles, he feels like curling up on the frozen ground and waiting for death, so instead he thinks in terms of getting from one tree to the next, in terms of putting one foot in front of the other. Exhaustion weighs on him, and his limbs shake.

Somehow, he makes it out of the forest, and face to face with the sea. He toys with the idea of simply walking into the water until it covers his head and letting La do with him what he will, until he spots a ship.

It's too far out to see him, and his inner fire is so smothered by the cold that it's barely embers in the yawning pit of his stomach, so he wouldn't be able to signal it. But he can follow it, and see where it makes port. Maybe he can beg or steal some rations to keep starvation at bay.

The ship (a Fire Nation Ironclad, which fills him with equal parts terror and hope) steams only a few miles north and docks at the foot of an enormous fort. Pohuai Stronghold, whispers the Crown Prince part of his mind. Supply and troop depot for forces stationed in the Earth Kingdom. If anywhere was going to have food, it would be this place. Now to get inside…

A road, a komodo-rhino-driven cart, and Zuko is hunkering down behind a crate in silence as it carries him past the three massive walls that he never would have managed to scale in the state he's currently in. Once the cart lurches to a stop, he manages to slip out and into the shadows without anyone seeing him, and creeps around until he finds a storeroom. It's full of uniforms and other clothes, and Zuko promises himself that once he finds some food, he'll return for some clothes that might actually keep him warm, instead of the ragged silk tunic and trousers he'd been dropped off in. He does snag a sack to carry whatever rations he manages to find.

The next storeroom contains weapons, and Zuko helps himself to a brand new utility knife and a blade-maintenance kit, since his dagger from Uncle has grown dull from months of being used to dress his kills. He eyes a pair of dao broadswords, but food is more important right now, and he moves on.

Finally, he finds the dry rations. It takes everything he has not to grab the nearest box and stuff his face, but he's already spent too long here and he needs to leave before he's caught. He fills his sack with three days worth, knowing that in his state, that amount will last him at least a week, and retraces his steps back to where he found the clothes.

But someone else finds him first.

The arrows thunk into the wall behind him through the sleeves of his tunic, pinning his arms without even scratching his skin. Zuko drops his sack in surprise and tries to pull free, but the risk of losing his only clothing with winter barreling down on him like a stampeding komodo-rhino is not one he wants to take. More arrows sink into the wall along his sides and legs, until Zuko can't move at all.

His heart races, and he can feel his scar pull as his eyes go wide, watching the five archers closing in on him. Zuko wonders if they'll return him to his father, to be dumped in the Capital Prison to rot or be killed outright for disgracing the Fire Lord and the Royal Family with his weakness, or if he'll be dumped back in the wilderness to starve or freeze to death. He has no doubt that the Fire Lord wants him dead, he's just so useless and pathetic that it's not even worth the effort of killing him himself or ordering his death. He looks at the five broad-headed arrows pointing at him, and a tiny part of himself thinks finally.

But they don't loose. The arrows slowly drift down to point at the floor, as the archers seem to actually look at him for the first time. One archer, a woman, actually loops her bow over her head and shoulder to free her hands. Her expression is hard as she makes signs and symbols that mean nothing to Zuko, but apparently have meaning for her comrades. One of the other archers, a young man, nearly drops his own bow in his haste to reply, his expression incredulous. The woman flings her hand at Zuko in a clear expression of "well look at him!", gritting her teeth at the young man who glares right back. The archer in the center of the formation, literally in the middle of the conversation, holds up both hands to stop it. This man is obviously the leader, as both the woman and the younger man subside immediately. The leader directs a hard look at the younger man, his hands moving furiously as he signs, then he turns to the rest of the archers and moves his hands some more. The woman looks satisfied, and the other two archers nod. Rope is produced, and Zuko is efficiently freed from the wall and trussed up like a Summer Solstice komodo-chicken before he can really register what is happening.

The archers take him to a room in the tall center tower of the Stronghold, empty except for a table. Zuko is forced to sit on one side of the table, flanked by a pair of archers, while the leader sits across from him, the woman standing at his right. The younger man is sent out of the room, and returns within a few minutes carrying paper and a writing set, which he sets in front of the leader before taking his place sullenly at his leader's side.

The leader writes something on a piece of paper and slides it across the table for Zuko to read. From his expression, Zuko thinks that the leader doesn't expect him to know how to read. Granted, Zuko hasn't seen a mirror in about six months, so he thinks it might be a reasonable assumption.

My name is Toshiaki, Troop Commander of the Yuyan Archers. Who are you, and how did you get into the Stronghold?

Zuko should've known. The Yuyan Archers are legendary throughout the Fire Nation for their skills, not only in archery but in all manner of stealth arts. He opens his mouth to reply, but the words stick in his throat as his scar burns and Commander Toshiaki is replaced with a vision of Father reaching out to him. He cringes back, only to jerk away when one of the Archers flanking him puts a hand on his shoulder. The dark iron walls, lit by red lamps, turn into the brig of the ship that had taken him out of the Fire Nation, and the hand on his shoulder turns into that of one of the sailors that had pushed him out of the tiny cell he'd spent the month-long journey in. The ropes binding his wrists turn into the metal handcuffs he wore when he was taken off the ship and dumped in the wilderness. His vision darkens as his breathing speeds up.

He comes to laid out on the floor of the room, the woman Archer and one of the other men, younger than either Commander Toshiaki or the grumpy one, peering at him worriedly. His head pounds, and his mouth is drier than the Si Wong Desert. The Archers seem to understand this, as the woman holds out a canteen. Zuko grabs it and hugs it to his chest, taking small sips and keeping his eyes fixed on the Archers in case they try to grab it from him. They back off, joining the two other Archers against the wall behind where Commander Toshiaki is still sitting across the table from him. Nothing else has changed, except that now there's a small bowl of okayu and another of applesauce placed beside the single sheet of paper that the Commander had written on, as well as a second writing set.

The bribe is obvious, but Zuko doesn't care. All of the water he's sipped in the last couple of minutes comes back to his mouth as he looks at the two bowls, and his hands shake as he reaches for the okayu. The first taste is pure enlightenment, and Zuko has to police himself brutally to avoid simply shoving his face in the bowl like an animal. He barely makes a dent in it before he has to stop, but he already feels steadier.

He picks up the brush and writes, My name is Zuko. I snuck in on a supply cart.

The hairless eyebrow Commander Toshiaki raises is eloquent in its skepticism, but the youngest Archer creeps up behind his commanding officer, reads over his shoulder, and when Commander Toshiaki turns to him with his mouth a flat line of annoyance, nods and signs rapidly. Commander Toshiaki blinks in surprise, then turns to Zuko with renewed interest. Zuko immediately shrinks back––experience has taught him that interest in him is not always a good thing.

Commander Toshiaki writes again. How old are you? Where's your family?

Thirteen, Zuko writes, then shakes his head and crosses it out, remembering that his birthday is in early autumn, and it's now the cusp of winter. Fourteen. And gone.

That he knows for certain. The entire reason he's even in this situation at all is because Father wanted to get rid of him, and his outburst in the war room and his weakness in the dueling arena gave him the perfect opportunity. Zuko doesn't know if he's been declared dead, or is simply being allowed to fade into obscurity, but either way he can't imagine anyone in the Royal Family looking for him. Uncle might, but then again, Zuko disobeyed him as well when he spoke out in the war room. Maybe Uncle's just as angry at him as Father is. The thought tears him even worse than the knowledge that Father hated him enough to leave him for dead like this. Azula is undoubtably exalting in the knowledge that she is now the Crown Princess.

Commander Toshiaki doesn't look surprised, merely resigned. The youngest Archer grins broadly, while the woman shoots him a sympathetic expression. The commander writes again.

You look like you could use a place to crash for a while, and it appears that we have some holes to plug in our security. How about an equal exchange? Food, a safe place to sleep, medical care, clothes appropriate for the weather, and education in our ways, for help finding and repairing security leaks, and eventually enlistment?

Zuko remembers Uncle trying to teach him pai sho, and informing him once with a tinge of repressed frustration that he "never thinks things through". But he's thinking now, and he can't really see any other options but to take the Commander's offer. It's either this, or prison for theft, or simply being booted out to freeze to death. And if he's perfectly honest with himself, he's always admired the Yuyan Archers, who are historically non-benders but still manage to be absolutely amazing to the point that any sane firebender would think twice about taking one on. If he can manage to learn even a little bit from them before they get tired of him and kick him out, he'll be so much better off.

He doesn't even bother picking up the brush again, but simply looks Commander Toshiaki in the eye and nods solemnly. The Commander nods back, and the youngest Archer grins broadly before gesturing to himself and making a sign. Zuko's pretty sure that he's trying to introduce himself, but as much as he admired the Yuyan Archers back when he was younger, he was never able to study their hand-language (only soldiers stationed here at Pohuai Stronghold get to learn it, and they're sworn to never teach it to anyone else). All he's able to do in return is shrug.

This doesn't seem to deter the youngest Archer, but the Commander holds up a hand to stop him. He then writes, It's getting late, and I want the base doctor to examine you before she goes off duty. We'll begin your instruction in our language tomorrow morning, after you've had a good night's sleep. Finish the okayu, and then we'll go.

Zuko needs no more urging, and slowly empties the bowl, barely stopping himself from licking it clean. It takes forever, and the grumpy Archer is scowling fiercely at him the entire time, but Zuko has endured over twelve years of Azula smirking at him, and is not at all phased.

After an awful examination by the Chief Medical Officer of the Stronghold, made so simply because it's been over six whole months since anyone touched him (and the last significant touch Zuko can remember is Father setting his face on fire), Zuko finds himself handed a stack of clothing and directed to a cot in the back corner of the dormitory where the Yuyan Archers are quartered. The young Archer, whom the CMO had called Kai, has his bunk right next to Zuko's, and accompanies him to the men's bathing room. They scrub down together in silence, and Zuko would feel incredibly awkward about it if he wasn't so damn tired. His stomach is full for the first time in weeks, and all he wants to do now is scrub himself down, have a good hot soak, and put on clothes that aren't filthy and ragged and so wet that they suck the heat right out of him. He and Kai share the ofuro, with the older boy keeping a respectful distance, until Zuko nearly falls asleep and Kai chivvies him out.

They get dressed, and Zuko can't stop stroking the simple hemp cloth, thick and warm but so soft. The silks he'd been dropped off in had obviously been grabbed from his wardrobe before he'd been removed from the palace, probably by a well-meaning servant, but they'd done very little to keep him warm, and had torn at the slightest touch of a tree branch. Hemp cloth is usually worn by commoners and soldiers, and for good reason––it's incredibly durable, if you take care of it right, warm in cold weather and breathable in hot. Zuko is never ever wearing silk again.

Kai practically has to drag Zuko back down the hall to the dorm, where he collapses on his cot with a sigh. Someone drapes a blanket over him, and he rolls in place like a catgator until he's wrapped up in it like an eggroll. He can feel Kai and the other Archers laughing at him, even if he can't hear it, but he gives exactly zero fucks, and is asleep between one breath and the next.

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#atla #atla fanfic #awkpenproductions presents #dragon of the yuyan #part 1 anchor point #full text post

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