#so i can take runing parries every once in a while

[krenia]

"you're so nice to me! I'll follow you until the very end!"

[dilfbane]

Your Weeping(Your Need For His Touch)

Summary: When things go south on a mission, you have to confront more than just the sketchy town, cartoon villains, and one-bed hotel room you’re forced to share with Loki. You have to come to terms with not only the consequences of being captured, but also the God of Mischief’s feelings for you - Because for all that he might be an asshole, sometimes, he really does have a heart. Written for the Picture Is Worth A 1,000 Words 6k Follower Writing Challenge by @startrekkingaroundasgard 

Pairing: Loki/(Female)Reader

Warnings: Descriptions of injuries and medical treatment, as well as discussions of the inevitable mindset around sacrificing oneself for the mission that I feel like being part of the Avengers would entail. Also swearing, because at its core, this story started out as a bit of a crack! fic. 

Word Count: 7.8k. 

A/N: So apparently when I have mental breakdowns they result in me writing crack-fic that takes a 180 veer into angst and fluff for absolutely no reason. For the sake of the crack-fic, in this timeline Loki was forced to help the Avengers take down bad guys directly after the end of the first Avengers movie, so… Is that a confusing plot hole I didn’t know how to account for except by making this AU? Maybe. Did I do it anyway?…. Yeah. This really was meant to be a crack-fic about Loki and the reader confessing their feelings set in the bizarre world of meme culture, I didn’t realize there were going to be feels in it until it was three in the morning and all of a sudden this happened. That being said, your girl went there, so enjoy! 

“Oh, shit,” You say, as you take in the grimy hotel room. The walls all smeared in what looks like dried blood, the putrid smell of rotten eggs, a crack-screened television with a fine dusting of some suspiciously white powder. And, of course, “There’s one bed.” 

“Hmm?” Asks Loki, turning towards you, briefly, from unpacking. He had dumped his suitcase(Magically plucked out of a chaotic liminal space) unceremoniously on the bed’s scratching, pilling coverlet without so much as a second glance at the rest of the room. And why do you need a suitcase, anyways?? You wonder. It isn’t like we’re planning to be here that long. In fact, you hoped with every fiber of your being that you’d be here for as little time as possible, because this town might actually be the sketchiest place you’ve ever seen in your life; no small feat, for a bona-fide member of S.H.I.E.L.D. 

You’ve kicked alien ass on a mutated purple Mongolian death-worm three thousand feet over New York City. You’ve run reconnaissance to rescue debatably-magical items sequestered away in an ancient cave labyrinth plastered in paintings and untranslatable runes, gunfire and what could only be described as the baying of hellhounds in the near distance. You’ve fist-fought a gigantic hive-mind robot in a field of artificially sentient feral steel suits - You’ve even survived Tony’s parties. 

Yet none of those scenarios hold a candle to this fucking town. 

And Loki, the asshat, seems utterly, competently - no, maniacally - unfazed. 

“There’s one bed,” You repeat, into the air. 

“Ah,” Says Loki, straightening. 

“You don’t see that problem with that?!” 

“Should I?” He asks you, walking across the room in long, graceful strides to stand in front of you. He wears the same expression he always wears, amused and indifferent, but this time with the addition of a single, elegantly-arched eyebrow. You drop your head, refusing to meet his somewhat-curious gaze. It physically hurts, how attractive Loki is. Not for the first time, you curse whatever god decided that you and him would once again be mission partners - in this case, you belatedly realize, and choke back a thick laugh, said god is, unsurprisingly, Thor. 

If you survive this, you make a note to beat his head in with Mjolnir. As it is, you are here in this room with Loki, with perhaps twenty IPP agents and a reckless poisoner dogging your every move, and there’s a high chance that you won’t live long enough to navigate whatever the hell sleeping with your crush-who-has-murdered-men. Ok, so ‘murdered men’ isn’t entirely accurate. More like ‘caused the murder of men inadvertently through his schemes’. It doesn’t seem to make much of a difference, right now. 

And what about Loki? He is still staring you down, like you’re some wind up toy moments away from going off. Funny, that, you think. If ever there were a time to not have a mental breakdown, it would be here, with him. You’ve crossed a lot of moral lines in your life, but you will be damned if you let Loki Laufeysson see you cry. Loki is graceful. Composed. Sarcastic. Lithe. Rolls his eyes at almost every statement that comes out of somebody’s mouth. But he is, also, beautiful. Shockingly comforting, in his own nihilistic way. You don’t know what it says about you that you find comfort in statements like, Try not to die, you know that I hate funerals. Part of you - most of you - doesn’t want to. But it gives you strength, somehow, to shrug off the day and ground your flailing mind in evading Loki’s calculated manipulation. I won’t show you my weakness, you think to yourself. It’s not enough, but it’s a start. 

“No,” You tell him - too quickly, he’ll pick up on that - “You’re right, you shouldn’t. It’s fine. We have - a lot to deal with, is all.” 

Loki nods, seemingly accepting your answer, but his eyes are still narrowed, watching you like he’s calling your bluff. You talk right past that look - have to, to keep yourself sane, to not think about the one bed that looms large over this entire conversation. It doesn’t even look like a comfortable bed. 

“We have two days,” You say, to stop yourself thinking of it. And, also, to talk your way through your disarmingly disjointed thoughts. Loki nods. It would really help if you said something, you think. Swallow the thought, hot and thick, down your throat. What’s the point of a mission partner if you can’t even soundboard off them? “The Pink Cobra could strike anyone, anytime. The IPP is planning something in New York - “ 

“Isn’t everyone, these days, planning something in New York?” 

He sounds regretful, and for half a second you want to offer him the reassurance that his very presence offers you. But you are sure he doesn’t know what he does to you - with his words, with the sidelong glances that you’ve felt linger on your form far too long in the heat of a fight. If you didn’t know any better, you would say Loki worries about you. 

“We have to shut him down,” You say. Focus on the Pink Cobra, because honestly, that’s easier. “Find out where he manufactures. Not get poisoned,” You add, at the end. 

“Yes,” Loki says, tone dripping with sarcasm, “We should certainly try not to get ourselves killed. Failing that, I suppose, we can at least request that no one in H.Y.D.R.A gets autopsy access.” 

“Loki?” You ask. Rhetorically. “You’re not helping.” 

He smirks at you, then. He knows. 

“What do you propose that we do then?” He asks, taking a step towards you, getting so close that you can feel his hot breath. “About the Pink Cobra?” 

“Find him.” You say, fumbling, blush rising high on your cheeks. 

Tonight? 

One bed? 

You are screwed. 

                                                             ***

When you were a kid - think really little, Capri Sun pouches and still believing that true love wasn’t complicated - your father told you that every story needed a good supervillain. You aren’t sure if the Pink Cobra counts as a good supervillain, but he’s the least confusing one that you have to deal with - and, as far as villains go, a fine enough challenge to face. He’s like a madman out of some high fantasy novel, with dark eyes and a sable-sewn cloak and a penchant for poisoning. He is adept in all the arts of the woman’s murder; he has a keen grasp on the side-effects of arsenic and camphor and tansy and cyanide and strychnine. He’s been found to have dropped crystal phials filled with belladonna and ricin while fleeing a scene. If all else fails, he’s more than practiced with daggers. 

In other words, he’s the kind of villain that none of you, with your flying suits and telekinesis and super-strength, are anywhere near prepared to waylay. 

The plan, as far as team Avengers is concerned, is easy: 

You and Loki. This town, where the webs of his manufacturing production and the few glimpses of information that Thor has totally legally excavated out of his captured minions has led to. Two days until some undefined grand attack bears down on the city you live in. Two days to find the Pink Cobra and kill him. The more time passes with no headway, the more you think that this is an impossible task, but you know what Tony would say. We have our best minds on it. 

The thing is, you aren’t sure that that’s true. The minds that have been set to this task are you and the God of Lies. It’s hardly the best they could have come up with, considering your track records. Actually, you take that back - Loki was a good choice for this mission, because, not three hours after arriving in this hellhole of a city, he seems to have somehow developed the ability to read minds. More specifically, yours. And that could prove stunningly useful. 

The scene, as it stands: Loki, sprawled across the lumpy bed, three pairs of crisp white shirts, a plaid scarf, and a full set of Asgardian battle armor neatly hung in the mothball-infested closet, flicking through channels on the grain, cracked television with an apathetic expression and one arm thrown haphazardly over bent leg. Propped up in such a way that he could jump or spin or parry at a moment’s notice, yet perfectly, devastatingly languid, leafing through Nick Fury’s dossier on the Pink Cobra. He looks at you like a god, you think, and then remember. He is one. 

You, on the floor, because on top of all the other things this hotel doesn’t have, like two beds, there isn’t anything even resembling a desk, shifting through a glowing, holographed file archive from headquarters that barely runs on your severely outdated laptop. It’s a point of pride to you, keeping the laptop - not because it’s good, but because it’s survived five years of being an Avenger, which is something not even all the Avengers can claim to have done. You’re also fairly certain that Tony’s attempts to update the firmware had infested it with some sort of renegade virus. Elevated above your screen, the files are split into two groups, the sum total of everything that you know about both of the groups that are avidly trying to kill you. 

There’s the wealth of information containing the Pink Cobra’s poisoning sprees, but those aren’t the files that interest you, and you know that Loki’s not much interested in them either. That honor falls to the fanatics at the IPP, the Imminently Predictable Psyops organization, which you know even less about than you do about the Pink Cobra, chief among which the fact that they need a new name. Imminently Predictable Psyops?, Tony had said, when you’d finally apprehended one of their proxies. What do they think this is? Some type of ARG? 

What you’ve gleaned, from months worth of studying the network, is that they operate as a sort of cringe-oriented death cult intent on ‘reshaping the universe through meme agents’. They’d been on S.H.I.E.L.D’s radar for a long time - upwards of a year - before anyone at team base learned they existed - which, you can almost hear Loki saying, was a failure in the extreme. Currently, it was your job to obsessively worry over whether they were going to send ‘meme agents’ to bust through the door of your seedy hotel room and off you both. You hated - truly loathed - how casually Loki was taking it all. 

He’s acting like nothing was wrong with this situation, when, in fact, you’re ninety-nine-point-nine percent sure that this night will end up with one or both of you dead. It is, to say the least, disconcerting. 

Kill switch, the holograph files read. Cross-referential Neil Cicierega acoustic weaponry. Your mind sees the words, but doesn’t comprehend them, and you run a hand up to rub at your bleary eyes with annoyance. You risk a glance upwards; on the bed, Loki scans page after page after page with disinterested nonchalance, punctuating the flipping over of each document with a noncommittal hum; as if to say, I understand you. As it to say, This could be worse. You try to slip into that mindset. Certainly, things could be worse. 

Actually, though? Not really. 

Because, for all the world, the holo-file in front of you just said ‘Pepe The Frog Chaos Banking Laser Initiative’. 

“What the fuck does that even mean?!” 

“Sorry?” 

You whip your head around. Loki, raising an eyebrow. Damn that - perfect - eyebrow. 

“Sorry,” You echo back at him, rubbing your eyes again, perversely glad for the break, even if it is this awkward. “I … said that out loud, didn’t I?” 

“Marginally,” He tells you. “Yes.” 

“Sorry,” You - well, it’s not a whine, not exactly. You’re tired, and there’s no way you’re going to sleep tonight, so you feel like your tone’s justified. “I didn’t mean to do that. I think I’m just - this is. Completely nonsensical.” 

“Show me?” He asks, and you snort. He could totally just look up, but - 

“Do you have a P.h.d in memes?” You ask him, and, before he can answer, “Because unless you have a P.h.d in memes, I don’t think you’ll be able to help.” 

“You’d be surprised,” Loki says. Vaults over the bed with the speed and grace of a panther, filling the air with a cringing wheeze as the rusty springs bend underneath him, and landing in front of the holo-file, pushing you aside slightly to get a better view. When his fingers brush against your side, cool and firm, you flinch. 

“Tired,” You offer, when he shoots you a momentarily concerned look. “Just. Need to sleep, later, I think.” 

But Loki is already scanning the file, and when he looks up, not five seconds later, you want to hit somebody. Preferably, you think, him. 

“I would assume,” Loki says, “That they’re using time travel in order to obtain and store monetary value by way of a Pepe-the-frog inspired laser array.” 

“Oh,” You say. You blink once. Blink twice. Still have no idea what that means. “Right.” 

“Do you not know your memes, love?” He asks you, smirking. And oh, if you don’t feel things. 

“I don’t go on the internet, much,” You tell him. “Too busy, you know, trying not to get killed.”

 Loki shrugs. Sidles away from the file. The groan and squeak of those springs tells you he’s back on the bed, giving you some well-needed space, but you can’t bring yourself to look. 

“You can sleep,” He says, “If you want.” 

“Ha!” You yelp/choke/embarrassingly bleat out into the room’s stale silence. Underneath the rotten eggs, you catch a whiff of bong-water. “No.” 

“There’s a bed,” Loki says, cocking his head pointedly and patting the lumpy covers. 

“Yeah, that’s - kind of the problem.” 

“Why?” He asks you. 

“You - really?” 

“I was only asking,” Says Loki, re-focusing his attention on whichever Pink Cobra document’s next in the folder. “If you aren’t comfortable telling me - I merely thought, seeing as you were tired, you might take this opportunity to rest.” 

“Yeah,” You  tell him, “Of course, that’s - nice of you.” 

It comes out stilted. Patently off. If he notices, he doesn’t say. 

“Are you going to - um. Do you need help, with the rest? The ones I have seem kind of hopeless. I mean,” You say, when he doesn’t look up, “I don’t think that we have to worry about getting demolished by trans-dimensional Agarthian wormholes.” 

“Of course not,”” Loki says, scoffing and incredulous, gaze, you are sure, on his page. “If they wanted to kill us, they’d send someone with a gun.” 

In reality, it’s several someones. 

                                                             ***

“You jinxed it,” Is the first thing you tell him, when the men leave you. They’ve thrown you into a one-room warehouse, rickety shelves stacked with cartoonish tubs of green goop and mildewing boxes filled with grenades and machine guns and what appears, at second-glance, to be twelve-fingered latex gloves. You’re tied wrist to wrist, ankle to ankle, and your throat feels uncharacteristically parched. Fear, you tell yourself. Apprehension. “Can’t you just - use your seidr to magic us out of this?” 

If you could see him - which you can’t, because you’ve been tied back to back - you’d swear that Loki was glaring. 

“Do you - do you have a plan?” You ask, after a moment. 

“I’m working on it,” He says. 

“That’s all?” You say. “We were dragged out of our drug-dealer’s hotel room by a bunch of robed men with guns and the only thing you have to say is ‘I’m working on it?’” 

“I’d get it done faster,” Says Loki, “If you wouldn’t interrupt me.” 

“Ok,” You tell him, “No interrupting you. Got it. That’s - Alright.” 

Unfortunately, not interrupting him is easier said than done, because without the sound of your voice, you are left to your thoughts. 

The men had broken in nearly immediately after Loki’s glib, sardonic retort to your worries, shooting the glass out of the room’s already half-smashed-in window and kicking the door in simultaneously. A bit much, isn’t it?, Loki’d asked, and you had wanted to smack yourself on the forehead. Really not the time, you had hissed, but Loki hadn’t seemed to hear you. Do you do this with everyone they send you to assassinate?, he had asked, instead. The men had been dressed in long, billowing cloaks of bright red, embroidered with orange snakes framing a picture of Beaker from the muppets with early 2000’s emo hair. Chaotic meme agents, you had thought to yourself. So that’s what they’re supposed to look like. 

You hadn’t picked up, until now, on the snakes. 

“They’re working together,” You say, when you can’t stand the playback of Loki being disarmed after spinning and tossing his silver daggers at the men, of the men kneeing him in the balls and twisting your arms behind your back, holding a gun to your head to stop you from trying to fight. Waking up in the back of a van that smelled like microwaved fish. Being tossed like garbage onto the floor of the warehouse, painted in bruises and cuts from the small pieces of glass that had dug their way into your skin. “The IPP and the Pink Cobra.” 

“Obviously,” Loki says. Sharply. 

“Did Tony not -“ 

“Stark,” Loki practically growls, and, ok, you’re not losing it but that did make you jump in your skin, “Is an idiot. He wouldn’t know how to connect the dots if they were presented to him in a Buzzfeed Unsolved episode.” 

“That’s - You had that on Asgard?” You ask him, momentarily distracted. You wish that you could see Loki’s face, and are very glad that you can’t. 

“That isn’t the point,” Loki says. 

“I know,” You tell him. You’re scared that your voice is trembling. Scared that he can tell, even though he’s not facing you, how badly your fingers are shaking. Scared that he knows your worst, biggest secret - 

That, despite being an Avenger, you are anxious. That, despite him being Loki, despite him being here, and wonderfully, infuriatingly himself, he cannot help you, this time. 

You are going to die, covered in cuts and abrasions, on the floor of a meme network’s headquarters, at three a.m in the morning. They are going to come in with umbrellas that shoot poison darts or the ex-presidents Point Break masks and mow you down, and Loki has no fucking plan. You feel the ropes tighten where they’re knotted, itchy and fierce, and you have to fight to keep yourself from whining in terror and nerves. Whining isn’t what Loki needs right now. Whining’s not going to save you. 

What is going to save you, you try and remind yourself, is Loki. If you can shut up. If you can let him decipher what needs to be done. If he can figure out some way to do it before the blowtorch-wielding robed vigilantes or some disincarnate meme god comes back and draws their electronically-sharpened fingernails across your throat hard enough to split skin and sinew, send waves of blood down the front of your shirt like a river of sweet, thick red honey and toss your corpse in a ditch by a highway and - 

“Y/N?” It is foggy, barely-heard. Posh. “Y/N!” Louder, this time. There are fingers on your wrist, bent backwards to grip you. Squeezing, insistent and there. “Breathe.” 

Fuck, you think. You’d started to hyperventilate. To shake, with a full-body tremor that forecasts a great, unstoppable wave of sobbing panic. And Loki had noticed. “I need you to trust me,” He says. “Trust me to get us out of this. Can you do that for me, darling?” 

He has never called you darling before, but God how you’ve wanted him to. You feel like you’re being stabbed in the heart - because there is no way he means it, no way that this is anything other than a desperate and cruel attempt to get you to calm down. Something that belies how obvious you are. How needy you are. How pathetic. And yet - 

And yet, he doesn’t say it meanly. He speaks like he cares about you, and in the face of your impending death, you want to think Loki cares. You’d let him say anything, do anything to you, right now. More than that, though, more than any of that - as you think back to meeting him, to your blossoming late-night friendship and twitchy banter and the quiet moments you’ve shared with him in-between battles - 

“I trust you, Loki,” You tell him, and feel your breath quiet in you. Feel yourself growing still and calm with the certainty that Loki will do as he’s said. 

That you will survive this. 

That -

“Good,” Loki says. Not relieved, but determined. Leaving you no room to argue. 

“So what do we do?” You ask him. 

“Nothing,” Says Loki, and you can hear his wide grin. 

“Nothing?” You ask him, gawking.

 “Nothing,” Says Loki. He gives your hand a tight squeeze. 

And then the Pink Cobra walks in. 

                                                             ***

This will end badly, you think. It’s about the only thing that you can think, preoccupied as you are with - 

It might be easier not to - 

Fuck. 

The thing is - and you really do try not to move, not to groan, not to scream - the thing is, you thought that when Loki said he had a plan, that said plan wouldn’t involve you being collateral damage for a LARP-er who’d most likely broken out of an asylum. I wish that we could be back in that shitty one-bed hotel room, you think to yourself, and - alright, not the best timing, but it rips a laugh out of you, spiraling and unhinged, before you feel the Pink Cobra, resplendent in coral cloak and villainous swagger, slug you one in the jaw. It hurts worse than you’d thought it would - you’ve never really gotten injured on missions, you’re usually good at talking yourself out of things, which is why the Avengers keep you around. You can speak any language, as long as you’ve heard it once, and your customary daily awkwardness can shift into persuasion like flicking a light-switch on. 

Usually, though, you had an opportunity to speak, and weren’t rendered speechless by - 

Loki, if you’re being honest. How much you want to kiss him. How much of an asshole he is. Trust me, he’d asked you. Can you do that for me? The Pink Cobra’s grip is sharp and bruising on your side; he’s slipped his fingers up your shirt and is pressing the point on your side that threatens to make your knees buckle, making bile rise up in your throat, driving you wild with the aching need to flee. He has one hand clasped over your mouth, now that you’ve quieted, and you can feel something - pain, and a pill - pressed snugly into his palm. He will force it down you, you know, if Loki so much as sighs wrong. 

You’ll never trust him again. 

You wish that you knew what the time was. If you end up dying at 4:20, you’re going to throw fists with somebody in hell. 

You wish, also, for aspirin. Avengers training has left you woefully unprepared for the reality of getting punched in the face. You can already feel your jaw starting to swell, taste an egregious amount of blood. You’re pretty sure that the force of the blow knocked a tooth out. 

What strikes fear into you, though - a fear somehow deeper than the absolutely bone-chilling, blood-curdling knowledge of what the Pink Cobra might do to you - is the look you’d seen on Loki’s face in the seconds after he’d grabbed you, before it fell into practiced, amused apathy. He’d gone white, and his eyes had blown wide. His fingers had spasmed with anger. 

He’d looked as scared as you feel. 

And you have no idea why. 

It isn’t like you’re anyone special. Not any more than the rest of the team. Less so than most of them. You aren’t a god, like Loki and Thor are. You don’t have stealth-assassin training, like Bucky, or super-strength like Steve. You can’t seamlessly pilot mechanical suits over the New York skyline like Tony, or use a crossbow like Clint, or beat thirty people in single-hand combat like Nat, or change into a nitro-fueled rage machine like Bruce. 

You can’t do anything, much. 

Except, apparently, die.

You squeeze your eyes shut, not letting yourself look at him. You won’t let Loki’s disinterested face be the last thing that you see. It makes the Pink Cobra’s words all the worse, when he speaks. His voice is dark and sick and timbered, and you feel maggots crawling over your skin as he slots you closer to his body, tightening his already painful grip on you so that you can’t move even an inch away from his tensed, coiled muscles. 

“So,” He says, “You are superheroes? How long did it take me, to apprehend you? Ah - three and a half hours? Tell your boss-man, do better next time.” 

“I’ll pass it along,” Loki says. His voice sounds different. You can’t place why. Still won’t look. 

“You won’t,” The Pink Cobra says. You can feel his shoulders rise, then fall. Feel him smirk. You love Loki’s smirk - secretly delight in drawing it from him, sometimes - but the Pink Cobra’s only fills you with yet more terror. You’ve pursed your lips tightly shut against the intrusion of his hand, but when Loki speaks he forces your bruised, bleeding jaw open and shoves the pill into your mouth. The pain of your injury tears through you like white lightning and you thrash, trying to escape. A keening sound claws its way out of you, fevered and anguished, and you feel your hands, still bound up in ropes, trying in vain to push off and away. The man behind you sighs, and then aims a swift kick at the back of your knees, which sends you down before you can so much as yelp. Your knees hit the floor, and he’s holding you by your hair now, twisting it so hard that you’re almost sure he’ll scalp you. He’s pulled something - too big to be be a knife, some kind of shortsword?! - Out from beneath his cloak, and is pressing it up against the column of your throat. You feel the weight of the capsule between your teeth heavily now, and realize what it means in the split-second before the Pink Cobra bends and whispers, Your choice; stale and rancid into the shell of your ear. 

Next, he addresses Loki. 

“You’ll be wanting to know what our plan is,” He says. Our, you think. We were right. “Hmm? I know how you people are. Always wanting to know. Tell me this, Mischief Man. What will I get, if I tell you? What price are you willing to pay?” 

You know what this is. You know it like the ache in your heart when Loki brushes you off. Like the safety you feel in his arms. You open your eyes. Take in Loki’s face - he’s trying to hide, but you know, you know how he feels. You know what he’s going to choose. 

And you know that you can’t let him choose it. 

“You’ll let her go,” Loki asks, “If we let you leave here?” 

“The thing could be managed.” 

No, you think. No, Loki, don’t! Whatever the Pink Cobra’s going to do, whatever the IPP’s planning, knowing’s worth more than your life. 

“One thing I want to know,” Loki says. He’s twirling a knife of his own, a slim silver number he keeps on him at all times, and you feel the blade on your own throat start to dig in - not enough to draw blood, but enough for you to feel it. The threat of it. The promise of it, and the coldness of the gleaming metal. “You and the IPP? How does it fit?” 

“You want information from me?” The Pink Cobra asks. Lets his blade bite you, just barely, and the strength it takes for you not to scream is more strength then you’d known you possess. 

“Yes,” Says Loki. “It’s not like I’m asking for much.”

He meets your gaze. You meet his. You hope that he cannot read it. His eyes are so worried, so desperate, you nearly break down. 

“I suppose,” The Pink Cobra says, “That you’ve earned it. Getting here - getting this far - it must have been no easy task. Fine. There is no Imminently Predictable Psyops organization. They were a - what do you call it? Red herring? A scent of blood for the shark.” 

“You fabricated them,” Loki says. “Why would you fabricate them?” 

He is losing his composure, you can tell. You will never be ready for this. He will never be ready for this. You hope that he will forgive you, and you know that he never will, and you swallow the pill in your mouth. 

“Because it was fun,” The Pink Cobra says. 

And then your body knows pain. 

                                                             ***

“He didn’t think I would do it,” You say. Your mouth feels thick, clotted with blood and shock, and your body is one raw, gaping wound, but the giddy feeling of victory has begun to course through your veins. Pure, unfiltered adrenaline. You had waited for the moment of death to come, and it hadn’t. The pill is fake, your mind had screamed. But there’d been one thing left, that might work. You had breathed as slowly as you possibly could, forced every muscle of your scared, writhing body into single-minded limpness, rolled your eyes backwards into your head,  drew one last breath in, and fallen. Twitched, for a few seconds, like a rag-doll. Then made yourself still. 

Loki had slit the Pink Cobra ear to ear, beaten him within an inch of his life as he bled out, screaming like a man deranged. He’d left him a wet, bloody mess on the floor, and the blood had run down the not-quite-steady plane of it, pooling around you and mixing with the blood from your jaw, from the evening’s earlier glass cuts, from the deep, burning stab wound the Cobra had got on your arm. 

You breathe, and your body knows pain. 

You look at Loki, and your body knows pain. 

He is shaking. Visibly shaking. His hands are clenched into fists at his side, and he looks as pale as bleached bones. His eyes are shot red - he had sobbed, when you fell, and a howl had torn through his body. You don’t know what to do, what it means, what the hell even to say to him. His cheeks are tear-stained, his breaths ragged. 

You blink, and your body feels pain. 

“We won,” You croak out. “Loki, we won.” It hurts worse than anything you’ve ever felt in your life. “I think he broke one of my ribs.” 

You don’t mean to say that last part, but you do, and you are the one crying now, because it feels like he probably has, and you can barely even stay awake through this pain. It feels like the Hulk is pulling you limb from limb. Like all of those nightmares you’ve had where Loki decided to leave you - to go back to Asgard, and never speak to you again. 

Stupid, you think. He won’t, again. Not after this. 

Loki still hasn’t spoken. He’s looking at you, and his eyes are wild. Desperately, jaggedly roaming your body. His fists twitch with every new part of your body they land on. 

“That bad, huh - Oh, fuck.” 

And just like that, the tension leaves Loki’s body. The dam that had held him firmly in place is broken, and he’s running towards you with none of his usual grace. Dropping down by your side. He hoists you, and you hiss, and the tears won’t stop coming, so you bury your face in his shirt, nose pressed at the crisply ironed collar. Don’t care that it’s bleeding, because Loki’s here now. Holding you. Keeping you real. He’s got one hand stroking your hair and his touch feels right, nothing like the Pink Cobra’s, and he’s whispering: You brave, precious, idiot, how dare you, how dare you throw your life away like that?! 

“It worked,” You exhale - it’s the most you can manage. You would laugh, if it wouldn’t shred you to pieces. Loki cradles you fiercely, hands grasping at the sweat-and-blood soaked fabric of your shirt, running over you as if he doesn’t believe you’re alive. “It - hurts,” You get out. Barely. “Loki, it - I can’t -“ 

“Don’t,” He tells you. His voice has gone brittle, choked with thorns. “Don’t talk. Don’t - Don’t ever do that again. Do you hear me? You will never do that again.” 

If I need to, I will, you think. And you wonder if that’s why you’re here. Wonder if that’s why you’re strong. You wonder, and hurt, and believe. Feel the strength of him, clutching you like you’re the only thing in the world, taking in greedy lungfuls of your weeping, your need for his touch. 

You can’t talk, anymore. It hurts too badly. But you surge, upwards, up into where he’s holding the back of your head, pressing your forehead into the dark, warm space under his jaw that smells like smoke and peppermint. Loki is taller than you are - you fit right into the curve of his neck, and his long curls curtain you in a bubble of warmth and content. 

“Promise,” You say, but it comes out unintelligible, and Loki’s hands are running, so gently, over your skin. 

“What was your plan?” You ask him, forcing it out of your body. 

“Hush,” Loki says, “Later.” 

There might not be any later, you think. Not like this. 

                                                             ***

In the hotel room, an ocean of scattered pages and ceiling mold and blessed privacy, you balance, cross-legged, on the bed. The wind blows wet and cold from an earlier rain through the busted out window. You have managed this out of sheer stubborn-ness, because it is the most that Loki allowed you to do. You’d passed out, twice, on the journey back - he had magicked you there, though it had taken a considerable amount of effort that you weren’t sure you really deserved - and had immediately propped you up on the pillows and stooped to ruffle through his suitcase, emerging not long after with binding tape, cat-gut thread, and a needle so sharp you could feel it slicing your flesh. You had opened your mouth to protest, but Loki had silenced you with a glare that could fell Director Fury. So you had gone quiet, and caved, letting him kneel over you on the distinctly lumpy mattress and begin inspecting your wounds. It had taken a few tries and a Please to convince him to let you sit on your own, and it hurt much more than the manner in which he’d arranged you. You were starting to, slightly, regret it. 

“You don’t have to do this,” You say, pulling it from bleeding lips. He shushes you with a harsh, stern tut. “You’re not my mother,” You tell him. 

“You could have died,” Loki says. There’s a snarling undercurrent to it that you can’t even start dissecting. “What were you thinking?” He asks. It is easier, though still painful, for you to answer him - he had used nearly half of his Thor-limited magic reserve to perform a basic stasis spell on your injuries, but the spell wouldn’t last forever. You’ll need stitches, he’d said, choking it out like he was the hurt one when he’d seen the number the Cobra’s blade had done to your arm. 

“I’ve had worse,” You say, grinning weakly. 

“Are you lying to me?” He asks you, with the tone of someone who’s distinctly not in the mood for joking. 

“I thought,” You say. Steel yourself. “I thought you weren’t going to do what needed to be done. So I - Did it myself.” 

“What needed to be done.” Loki says, enunciating every word. 

“We couldn’t let him walk away,” You say, meeting his eyes. Emerald, clouded with fury. You don’t let yourself flinch from that anger. You don’t let yourself run from your choice. “You know what he would have done.” 

“I don’t,” Loki says. “I know nothing. I know - I know that you think that your life means so little I wouldn’t care if you were gone. That I could - Live, without you.” 

That’s… different. 

“And I know,” Loki continues, “That I told you to trust me, and I meant it.” 

“I do,” You say. There is no hesitation. “I trust you - Loki. Of course I trust you. It’s not - it wasn’t -“ 

“Stop talking,” He snaps. Gentles, when you jerk your head away, blink back a fresh wave of tears. “You need rest,” He says. “And - This is. This is going to hurt.” 

You nod. 

“Best get it over with, then.” 

“You should keep your eyes closed,” He says. 

“No! I want - I need to look.” You bring your eyes up to your arm, which he’s settled onto bed’s chewed, scratchy quilt without you realizing, but Loki tilts your head up with a barely-there graze of his fingers, achingly gentle to avoid aggravating your swollen jaw. He holds your gaze for a long time. Doesn’t look mad, anymore. 

“Are you sure?” He asks you. Like all of this could be over with, if you wanted. 

“How bad it could it be?” You ask back. 

The injury is horrendous. You’d thought - honest-to-God, you’d thought the pain was terrible, but you weren’t ready for what your arm has become. The line of the wound runs in a craggy jigsaw from just under your shoulder to the tip of your elbow. Small wonder you can’t move it, can barely think through it at all. 

“Y/N?” Loki asks, “Are you -“ 

“Fine,” You say. Blink, and your body knows pain. Try not to let how scared you are show, when you look back up at Loki. The Pink Cobra’s dead. You shouldn’t be scared, anymore. “It’s really bad, isn’t it?” 

Loki sighs. Long and low and sad. 

“Will I have to - “ 

“Bite,” Loki says, and shoves something - the sleeve of his shirt, crusted in blood which you realize, sickeningly, is yours - into your mouth. “It’ll help.” 

It doesn’t, but he holds your hand through it, hushing you through the pain with furrowed eyebrows, thread and needle flying deftly through skin, air, skin again. His fingers move precisely, deliberate,  quick, and when, on one stitch, you audibly whimper, he pauses to lean down and press a soft, utterly unexpected kiss to your hairline. You are unable to fully express how much it means to you, so you do the next best thing and kiss him yourself, pressing him back once he’s finished the last of his stitches and breathing all the the words you can’t say into him. You press every fear and gratitude and lingering nerve into the warmth of his lips, wending your fingers through his dark hair despite the pangs of agony still thrumming through every inch of your body. Your face hurts, but the kiss is all you’ve ever needed and more, and Loki is so, so gentle with you, pulling away with creased eyebrows and a look of genuine concern. 

“I wanted to,” You tell him, mustering all of your strength. “It didn’t hurt.” 

“Stop,” He tells you, voice cracking, “Stop lying.” 

“I’m not,” You say. “I wanted to, Loki, I did.” 

“And you wanted to -“ 

“No.” You are vehement about it, for a broken-ribbed, broken-jawed, freshly-stitched person coming off the high of his teeth and his tongue. “Not that, I swear, never that.”

 “Why did you do it, then?” Loki asks. He has steepled his fingers under his chin, and his narrowed eyes pierce through you to the soul. You couldn’t lie to this man, you think, if your life depended on it. 

You know that you have to tell him, this time. Really tell him. You don’t. 

“”Why didn’t you use your magic?”

“You know why,” He says, and you do. You’d remembered it as the white pill turned to white powder in your gums, as the Pink Cobra’s knife had carved its way into your flesh. Thor had put a set limit on it, as condition of Loki’s release - Proof, he had said, We can trust you. Loki had thought to save it for later, that you wouldn’t need him right then. He had thought you’d talk them out, to safety. 

You’d failed him. 

“You didn’t,” He tells you, voice raw. He goes to grip your chin, to force you to listen to him, but with a glance and ill-concealed wince at your purpled jaw he thinks better of it. “You think that you failed me? You let yourself be - be beaten and stabbed - just so people you’ve never met in your life wouldn’t die, and you call that a failure?” He runs a hand through his hair. Bites back a snarl. Drops your arm. “I need you to listen to me,” Loki says, “Very, very carefully. You’re going to tell me why now, love. And then we’re going to fix it.” 

You raise an eyebrow. Worse than he does, you’re aware. 

“Sleep,” He amends, with a pointed look at the bed underneath you, “And then we’re going to fix it.” 

“There’s only one bed,” You tell him, “And I feel like I just got run over by a truck.” 

Loki huffs, a puff of warm air that you feel, from how close he still is. A grin twitches at the edge of his lips. It sets off sparks inside you. 

“I thought -“ You say. Shake your head, and restart. “You would have let the Pink Cobra attack. You would have let him just walk away, and I couldn’t just - let that happen.” 

“Enlightening.” 

“No,” You tell him, “I mean it. I couldn’t - I’m not - I’m not worth more than anyone else. We’re the Avengers. It’s our job to save people, Loki.” 

He’s regarding you carefully, eyes still narrowed, all vestiges of softness gone from his face. When he opens his mouth, it’s to close it. Form thoughts. Discard them. Exhale. 

“My mother once told me,” He finally says, “That I would never know what it meant to be human until I found the person who made me want to bleed the world dry. Take all of its’ suffering, all of its’ cruelty, and leech it out of the very fabric of time, just to keep that person from anguish, from harm.” 

“I don’t -“ 

He holds a hand up. You still. 

“She never said they would infuriate me,” Loki says. “She never said they would make me laugh, or smile, or question my sanity on a regular basis. She never said that they’d try and get themselves killed, and that I’d have to watch, and that I would feel like my heart was being ripped from my body and torn to a bloody pulp; that I would make the sky rain blood and fire at the sight of it alone. But she was right about one thing - Many things, but also this. She told me that it wouldn’t matter. That I would - love you - anyway.” 

“You don’t,” You say, not daring to hope. It’s an automatic retort. 

“Foolish girl,” Loki chides, and you blink back fresh, stinging tears. How long have you wanted to hear Loki say that to you? How many sneaky looks have you stolen in the heat of your missions, just to see his smart mind and tricky magic at work? How many nights have you sat up together, sequestered from your insomnia in a bubble of hard-earned banter and peppermint tea, fighting the tight, coiling urge to push aside your steaming mugs and pull him into your needing? 

He could not - he can’t - feel the same. 

“Loki,” You say, stumbling over the words, “You can’t - This is - This is me we’re talking about.” 

“Is there anyone else here,” Loki asks you, “That I could be talking about?” He seems nonchalant, now, as if this - this cruel fucking joke, when you already feel you’re on fire - is merely a fact of his life. “We’re going to leave this excuse of a town, and get you - proper care. Fix it. Because I will not, on my honor, watch you suffer in pain. But first, you’re going to sleep.” 

“There’s only one bed,” You tell him, and feel your resolve as it shatters. You cling to the statement like it’s the last remnant of the girl you were and the woman that you’ll never be, “And the shower doesn’t work. And I’m covered in blood.” 

But when you look at Loki, his eyes twinkle, mischievous. 

“Will you stay with me?,” You ask him, biting your lip. 

“You astound me,” He tells you, and rolls his eyes, and it feels - it feels normal. Good. A tender heat unfurls in your heart like orchid petals in the sun, numbing the persistent ache in your ribcage. “To even think that I would do anything else.” 

Later, you will ask him why. Why do you love me?, you will ask, and Loki will hum, low in his throat, curled around you just like this first night; your back pressed into his chest, your legs tangled up hopelessly, his fingers tracing nonsense patterns onto your spine in the dawn-light’s syrupy gold. Because, he will tell you, trailing a line of soft kisses up the scar on your arm - an ugly thing, but it functions, mostly, and only ever seems to hurt on the days when he isn’t there - I was given no choice. 

But if you’d had one?”, You will ask, and spin around, propping yourself on your elbow. 

You tempt me, He’ll tell you, baring his sharp teeth. Shouldn’t you know better than that? 

You will lie there, next to each other, not needing a single word. Because you will know. Because he will have told you, a thousand times, a thousand ways, exactly how he feels about you. 

Tonight, though, isn’t that night. It takes a moment to get settled in his hold, and the rain spits and drums against what glass remains in your window, slicking the carpet with dark, greasy splotches. It figures, you think, that even the rain in this city has the smell and the texture of oil. You feel like a bag of bones, stretched too thin. But safe, in his arms, in a way that you’ve never felt, before now. Loki is with you, you realize. Wrapped around you like a traveler’s cloak, the comforting weight of a slim, balanced blade at your side in a fight. He is cool, around your afraid. Warm, where his clever fingers whine and needle their way through your skin to your heart. 

“I hate you,” You tell him, “You know that?” 

Loki laughs, a deep, rumbling purr. 

“Go to sleep.”

[beautifulterriblequeen]

FIVE. FIVEFIVEIFBEIDBE

“Hasn’t this addiction done enough damage already?” Ethari’s voice emanated from beneath a mound of covers. Unlike his touch last night, his voice ran cold, like a distant icy stream.

Runaan froze in the dark, back to Ethari and the bed, hands clutching the small vial of nightsoul he didn’t think his husband even knew about. The assassin always took a sip early in the morning on his way out to train, when Ethari was still abed. Rayla had been living with them for a month now, and he’d never commented before. 

“Runaan. I asked you a question.”

His hands tightened around the little glass container. “I heard you.”

“And?”

Runaan scrambled in the shadows, fearing what Ethari’s beams of light would reveal--to both of them. “And I don’t know what you’re talking about.” 

I really don’t. He could mean many things. I’m just not assuming I know which one--

“Your vaunted quest for honor is driving me crazy, love. You’re never here anymore.”

...Oh. Not the nightsoul, then.

But Ethari wasn’t finished. Blankets rustled softly as he sat up. He drew a swirly on top of a sleeping potted mushroom on his nightstand, and it woke with a cool bluish glow. It cast Runaan’s shadow large on the wall in front of the assassin, and Runaan stilled amid his own darkness, not wishing to be seen. “The day we wed,” Ethari continued, “you said you were giving your heart to me. But we both know it already belonged to Xadia. I’m just your side piece. But it’s getting old watching you sneak out of my bed every morning to go spend all day with him instead.”

Runaan blinked at the unexpected metaphor. “Xadia has my heart,” he allowed slowly. “But I don’t kiss it on the mouth.” He pivoted, hiding the nightsoul vial behind his back.

Ethari’s eyes dragged down Runaan’s person, coolly appreciative of his bare chest and hip-hugging pants. The sight roused the craftsman from his blankets, but as he stepped closer, his expression was taut. “You’re letting it fuck you over, though.”

Runaan’s eyes widened at Ethari’s language.

Ethari shrugged one big shoulder. “Couldn’t be helped. It was punny. But my point still stands, Runaan. You’re more Xadia’s bitch than my husband right now, and I kind of hate it a little bit.”

Runaan stared, stricken, at Ethari’s tired anger. “I... I’m sorry...”

Ethari studied his face for a long moment, and a realization passed over him like the trailing edge of a dark cloud, lifting his brows and softening the lines of his mouth as the moonlight returned once again. “I’m sorry too. I didn’t mean to sound like I’m angry with you. I’m not. Not really.”

“With Xadia, then?” Runaan asked softly. With my entire purpose for existing?

“Maybe a smidge.” Ethari eased closer, sliding warm hands down Runaan’s arms, drawing him into a hug. “I could never be angry with y- What’s this?” he asked, as his fingers found the vial Runaan had been hiding behind his back.

Runaan panicked and clutched it tightly, giving away its importance. Don’t see this. Don’t see me like this.

But Ethari’s fingers had always been quick. He had the vial liberated in half a second. Runaan didn’t know whether to parry or flee, so he tried to do both. A soft gasp of dismay fled his lips as one hand caught Ethari’s wrist, and his back foot retreated toward the bedroom door.

Ethari tightened his grip on the little container. His dark brows tightened into his analytical expression as he studied it, completely ignoring Runaan’s grip.

Runaan’s shoulders slumped. Still panicking and giving myself away around this elf, I see. Couldn’t ever hide anything for long.

Ethari turned the little vial around until he spotted the etched rune that held the nightsoul’s unnatural efficacy in place. His mouth fell open, and then he froze. Ethari was always in motion, even in his sleep. He was an elf of life and light and love. He couldn’t not move. But in that moment, Runaan saw all the light in his husband’s soul leave him, and he went still.

No. That’s my job. Come back.

He squeezed Ethari’s wrist hard. “I can explain.”

“You can’t even come close,” Ethari murmured through numb lips. “You know what nightsoul did to my uncle.”

Runaan did. He’d been the one to find him, lost within his own mind, wandering the Forest during a new Moon, shrieking like a soul being actively damned, unable to hold to his physical form any longer as the Moon’s power waned away. He’d watched Ethari’s uncle splinter into smoky shadow, still howling, until he blessedly vanished with one final anguished cry, released from his torment at last. And then he’d been foolish enough to tell Ethari the truth of what he’d seen.

“I know what I’m doing,” Runaan said. “It won’t end like that.”

“You’re saying he didn’t know what he was doing?” Ethari challenged.

Runaan’s gaze sharpened. “He didn’t. He used too much, too soon, and he-”

“He was eighty-four, Runaan. That’s not ‘soon.’“

“He wasn’t an assassin, either,” Runaan shot back. “Do you really think I have fifty more years in me, at the rate I’m going? I have to run full tilt across Xadia whenever Avizandum says so, and if I so much as sneeze wrong, the wrong people will die, and I might be one of them. I. Must. Be. Perfect. For as long as I have. I must be perfect. Do you see?” His chest heaved with too many emotions to name, and his eyes clung to Ethari’s, demanding understanding.

But Ethari was horrified. He thumbed the etched rune on the vial’s glassy surface. 

One part deathberry extract, one part moonberry, and one part forbidden new moon magic, nightsoul was an accursed potion that had no business existing at all. The fact that it had to be coaxed into remaining in the world should have been a warning flag to all. But the desperate always found ways around the rules. Ethari had never expected his law-and-order husband to be one of them.

“Runaan... every time you drink this, you use up one day of your future.”

Runaan’s nod was crisp. “Yes. Exactly.”

“You’re shortening your lifespan.”

“I’m ensuring that I have a lifespan. This is just what it costs.”

Ethari’s bottom lip trembled. His eyes lingered on the vial in his hand, then they lifted to Runaan’s, revealing a watery shimmer. “Your life is not a currency to be spent, my heart.”

Runaan blinked in surprise. How could he not know, after all this time?

I am an assassin. 

I am a tool. 

I am Xadia’s will. 

I am justice. 

I am balance. 

I am the sword. 

I am the Way. 

I am Moonshadow.

I am an assassin. 

With steady brows and a tight jaw, Runaan murmured, “Ethari. My life has always been currency to be spent. I’m just choosing to spend a little of it for myself, before others choose the price for me. Because someone will, someday.”

Two tears slipped down Ethari’s cheeks, losing themselves along his blue markings. “But why? Why do you want to leave me sooner?” he begged.

Runaan’s control snapped, and he clutched at Ethari’s arms. “I don’t! I don’t,” he blurted. “Moon and shadow, Ethari. I take this so I’m good enough to come home my family at the end of every day. So I can survive long enough to train Rayla to survive everything the world will throw at her. So I can do the job, and spare anyone else from having to do it in my place. I take this so I can live to see as many days with you as I can wrest from my fate. I take this so that when I fall...” But he faltered, not wanting to speak of such things so blatantly.

Ethari let out a hurt growl. “No, there’s no stopping now. Say it. When you fall...” he prompted.

Runaan’s gaze dropped to Ethari’s pendant. “When I fall,” he dutifully continued, “I will have the bright memories of as many good days with you as I can carry. When I fall, whether to blade or shadow,” he added, tracing a finger lightly along his husband’s cheek, “I will have known thousands of days of your voluminous and refulgent love. And then, because of you, I will be worthy of dying a good death. Because of you, I will be ready to meet it.”

Ethari clapped a hand over a sudden sob. His head shook from side to side, hating Runaan’s soft words, hating Xadia, hating fate. Runaan gently pulled him into a hug and held him softly, feeling his shoulders shake. Ethari dug his fingers into Runaan’s ponytail and squeezed it, and his hot tears ran down Runaan’s chest as he buried his face against his husband’s neck.

“It’s not so bad, my heart,” Runaan said soothingly. “Every day, you have two of me at once. Twice my love.”

Ethari snorted wetly against his neck. “That explains your stamina last night.”

Runaan stiffened in surprise at Ethari’s unexpected direction, and he barked a sudden laugh. “That, too, my heart.”

Ethari stood straight again and wiped his eyes. “I’m never going to grow old with you, am I?” he asked in a trembling voice.

Runaan took a deep breath and felt the air of a future day fill his lungs. “Such was never our fate. My destiny was set long before I loved you.”

Ethari studied the vial of nightsoul with thoughtful brows and pursed lips. “I can’t bring myself to give this to you. But I will hold you while you take it.” 

He opened his palm and let the vial rest there. Its dark liquid swirled ominously, promising twice the life for twice the cost and then some.

Runaan stepped into the circle of his free arm and let himself be held. Then he plucked the vial from Ethari’s hand, bit the stopper free with the side of his mouth, and spilled a measure of the dark concoction onto his tongue.

Ethari’s sudden kiss, hard and eager and moonlit with complexity, was everything he had ever wanted.

[raviotherabbit]

royal pain in the ass- chapter 6

Chapter 6: Era of the Great Sea Captain Tetra saves some castaways.

[first] - [previous] - [next] read it on ao3!

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There was just something about Outset Island.

Tetra hated pretty much everything about it. The people there were soft, even the fishermen who spent their days hunting down the monsters of the sea. Everyone was preoccupied with their simple lives. Rearing their children, washing their clothes and hanging them to dry, playing with wooden swords…

They all went on like this, day after day, as though a great and powerful kingdom did not lay in ruins, miles below the sea.

But still, some little part of Tetra couldn’t help but want it. She wanted that simple life, to live without a care in the world. The burden on her shoulders was heavy, but the time she’d spent on Link’s little island, where nobody needed anything from her, had lifted it.

So when she found Link on Outset, of all places, well… that just sweetened the deal, didn’t it?

Rats… Wind was his name, now, wasn’t it? At least for now it was.

The best part of Outset, though, had to be the woods. The Forest of Fairies was quiet these days, which perhaps made it all the more ideal in Tetra’s opinion. She never got a second alone on her ship, not truly, but she could here.

Gently, she placed a hand on one of the trees, tracing the grooves in its bark. She was familiar with this one. When the Helmaroc King dropped her, it was this tree that she fell into, the branches snagging on her clothes. And then she met Wind.

Goddesses, where would she be without Wind? If this one, special, stupid kid hadn’t found her that day. Part of her wanted to think she could have taken Ganondorf on her own, and that was the part of her she let control the narrative.

Still, the Forest of Fairies was beautiful. Tetra could only hope their new home would have places half as pretty. With its cool breeze rustling fallen leaves, the ever-present smell of fresh dew, and gentle harp strumming…

Wait. Who the hell was playing the harp up here?!

Her good mood thoroughly ruined, Tetra followed the sound of the harp. Eventually, she came upon one of the heroes, sitting at the forest’s cliff.

What was his name? Cloud? No, that’s close, but not right… What’s a Hero of the Clouds, anyway? That sounded stupid. Hero of the Sun? Hero of the… Wind? No wait-

Sky! It’s Sky!

Yikes, though. Sky didn’t look so good. He kept plucking at the strings of his harp, but each time he only made it a few notes in before wincing. There were dark circles under his eyes, which kept darting up towards his clear, blue namesake with desperation.

Tetra almost left right then and there.

But there was a voice in the back of her head, one that sounded a bit like Wind, a bit like an old king. A princess would try to help her people.

Ugh. Fine. This would be a good practice run, anyway.

“Hey, buddy,” Tetra awkwardly tried to put on her cheerful princess voice. “What’s- what’s up?”

Sky looked back at her, almost no emotion on his face. “Oh, Zelda.”

“It’s Tetra,” she responded instinctively, mentally cringing at her own bluntness. She’s trying to be nice now!

“Right, Tetra,” Sky nodded, as if reminding himself. “I have a question for you.”

“Alright, I can answer questions.” Tetra took a seat next to Sky, letting her legs dangle off the cliff’s edge. “What do you want to know?”

“Your Hyrule,” he gestured towards the Great Sea, expanding as far as the eye could see. “How did it come to be this way?”

Right, this guy’s the first one. “Well, Ganondorf was sealed in the Evil Realm,” she started.

“Then what happened?”

“He broke free. The people of Hyrule, they prayed to the Goddesses to save them from his wrath, and-” Tetra swallowed. “And they flooded the land.”

For a moment, Sky was silent. His grip on his harp was tight, and for a moment, Tetra was concerned he’d break it. It was such a nice piece of treasure, after all, and it’d be a shame if it were harmed.

Finally, he spoke again. “How many died?”

“What?” Tetra almost shouted, certain she’d misheard him.

“When the flood came, how many died?” Sky reiterated, his gaze focused on the waves lapping at Outset’s shore.

“I- I don’t…” she sputtered helplessly. “I don’t know.”

“This is the legacy I’ve left the world,” Sky said. “What did their blind faith bring them?”

  △ ▲△

Standing on the stern of her ship, Captain Tetra takes in a deep breath and sighs. There’s nothing like the open ocean, is there? Cutting through the waves, the smell of salt in the night air…

With Wind gone on his little hero quest, searching for new land has taken a backseat. He would kill her if she even thought about founding her kingdom without him there by her side. Well, at least try to. They both know who would really win that fight.

But it’s not so bad. New Hyrule can wait, Tetra has a chance to focus on some of her own passions.

“Captain!” It’s Gonzo, Tetra’s right-hand man. He stops a few feet behind her. “We’ve spotted the Ghost Ship at Greatfish Isle!”

Like hunting down and destroying every last Ghost Ship on the high fucking seas.

“Excellent.” Tetra smirks. “Alter course for Greatfish. We’re going to destroy some undead tonight.”

“Uh, that’s just it, Captain,” Gonzo says. “There’s people on the island, yeah? And they’re fighting the monsters!”

“What?!” Tetra snaps back towards her subordinate. “Who would be stupid enough to fight a Ghost Ship?!”

△ ▲△

Of course, the second they noticed the ship, that’s when the undead started jumping onto their islet.

“Get it off get it off get it off get it off!” Flora desperately shouts as, using the Magnesis Rune, she slams the shield from Artemis down onto the Stalfos that has an iron-tight grip on her ankle.

“Flora, use the shield!” Dusk shouts over her shoulder, focused more on parrying off the sword of a Stalfos. In the same swift movement, she drives her rapier cleanly into its skull. As much as Artemis hates to admit it, Dusk is good. “Don’t make it a mallet!”

“She knows what she’s doing!” Artemis contends, just as her sword meets the lantern of a poe. “She doesn’t need you telling her what to do!”

“Now isn’t the time for arguing with each other!” Sun’s exasperation drips off her words. She’s just barely able to duck, dodging a swing from a Stalfos. On the ground, she kicks a leg out, knocking the walking skeleton off its feet.

Artemis’s eye twitches, and she snaps back around in anger. “I’m just saying-!”

But that moment of distraction was just a smidge too much. The Poe rises behind her, raising its glowing hand, preparing for the one, fatal strike. But before Flora can even gasp, or Sun can yell for her to watch out-

BANG!

The Poe’s lantern shatters, and with an agonizing shriek, it disappears.

There’s another ship in the water, bearing a red and white sail with two crossed swords. And there, gripping onto a rope as she leans off the bowsprit, is Tetra, the barrel of her gun smoking.

“Tetra!” Artemis could breathe a sigh of relief. “Thank the Goddess you’re here!”

Tetra blinks, taken aback for a moment. “Queenie?! I thought the Time War was over!”

“Fight now, talk later!” Sun shouts over the Stalfos she has in a headlock.

Tetra nods, tilting her head back towards her ship. “Boys! Lend them a hand!”

At her word, a crew of men lapel down from the ship and into the shallow waters. With their cutlasses drawn, they begin slicing away at the Poes and Stalfos attacking the stranded ladies.

Tetra sharply whistles, catching Artemis’s attention. “Queenie, take your best, leave the other two behind! We’re boarding that ship!”

Artemis bites her cheek. Her best, huh?

Well, there was no doubt about which of them had the most training.

“Dusk!” she cups her mouth as she yells.

And Dusk almost instantaneously freezes, her rapier dropping slightly as she looks at Artemis, her eyes wide.

“Come with me to the ship!” Artemis points towards the Ghost Ship. “We need you!”

For a moment, a very brief one, Dusk doesn’t react. Then, she smirks, a smugness only a queen could have.

“It’s about time,” she says.

  △ ▲△

The second they step into the Ghost Ship’s hull, Dusk’s nose wrinkles. “I can practically feel the dust in the air.”

The whole interior of the ship seems to be filled with smog, solidifying the undead ambience. Its wooden walls groan as it’s rocked by the sea, giving off the same eerie blue lighting it had on the outside. Below them, on the ship’s bottom, were monsters. Poes and ReDeads.

“We need to get back there,” Tetra gestures towards the back of the ship with her cutlass. “Once we take the treasure, the ship will disappear.”

“Right, because you’re pirates,” Dusk crosses her arms. “Remind me how you two know each other, again?”

Artemis and Tetra exchange a glance. “The War Across the Ages,” the former explains. “We recruited many individuals adrift from their own eras.”

“But pirates? Really?” Dusk gestures to Tetra with a hand.

“I’ll have you know, I’m the greatest pirate who ever sailed this sea,” Tetra jabs her thumb towards herself.

Artemis rolls her eyes. “Come on you two, behave. You’re cousins, after all.”

“Wh-what?!” Dusk sputters. “I thought you said her name was Tetra!”

Tetra snorts. “Yeah, but to some people, it’s Princess Zelda.” She holds out her hand, winking at Dusk. “Welcome to the family, cousin!”

Hesitantly, Dusk shakes her hand. Tetra responds with a shocking amount of vigor.

“Now that that’s settled,” Artemis claps her hands together. “How about we defeat some undead?”

As if answering her question, Tetra shoots right at the ReDead’s skull. While her bullet is enough to defeat the single ReDead, the sound also draws the attention of the other monsters on the ship. Slowly, they begin shambling towards the ledge the ladies stand on.

“Oh great,” Dusk mutters to herself. “There goes our element of surprise.”

“Dusk, we should stick together,” Artemis suggests, careful in her phrasing as she draws her rapier. “We can watch each other’s backs.”

With a nod, Dusk retrieves her own sword. “Let’s go,” is the only thing she says before she jumps off the ledge.

  △ ▲△

These new guys, Sun decides, are good. They’re decent with their swords, though she knows they’d be better if they’d attended the Knight’s Academy. At least they’re good enough to make up for both Artemis and Dusk’s absences.

One of the taller pirates slices clean through the neck of a Stalfos, its head landing just at Sun’s feet. Rearing her foot up, she crushes it under her boot. Of course, she’d never admit it, but that crunch! is such a sweet sound. Like music to her ears.

Sun’s ears twitch slightly as they pick up the faint sound of clanging metal. She’s just in time to duck again, missing a swing from an angry Poe.

“Hey, pirates!” she shouts, hoping to catch the attention of at least one of them. “Think one of you can take this for me?”

The tall one with the bandana nods, quickly moving himself between Sun and the Poe. She sighs. She just isn’t equipped to deal with that, today. Maybe if she’d remembered to bring a sword…

Sure, hand-to-hand combat isn’t usually her first choice, but Sun has grown to appreciate it over the past few minutes. Hylia, not just appreciate it. She loves it, more than she ever thought she would. Who would have guessed that punching things would be so fun?

“Well, well, look who’s decided to grace us with her presence.”

Oh, that sounds considerably less fun!

Turning behind her, Sun sees what must be the monster Artemis and Flora told her about. Because as her eyes lay on him, it’s almost as if his form is wobbling, before solidifying into a figure she knows well.

It’s a shadow of Sky. A representation of her Link, but if he was dunked in black paint and given terrifying red eyes.

“I’ve heard of you,” Sun’s eyes narrow at Dark Link.

“Ah, and I know you, your grace,” Dark Link laughs, and though it’s cruel and contemptuous, some part of her head thinks, ‘That’s familiar.’

“But tell me,” he continues. “What’s Hylia herself doing so far from home?”

Sun freezes, her blood running cold. “How did you…? Who are you?”

“What, you don’t recognize your own hero?” Dark Link frowns mockingly. “You know, I thought he’d take the longest to crack, but just a few whispers about the sea, and-” he abruptly snaps. “He was as good as gone. Now that fairy brat, on the other hand…”

“Stop it,” Sun snaps at him. “Just tell me where they are.”

“Oh? And why would you care?” The shadow tilts his head, and for a moment, his confusion almost seems genuine. “You goddesses have never cared for the fates of your heroes.”

And then, there’s a spark inside of Sun, and it sets her whole mind on fire. “I am not Hylia,” she asserts, grabbing onto his arm. “I. Am. ZELDA!”

It’s a moment of pure focus, the first time she’s ever said anything like that aloud, let alone screamed it. Unfortunately, it’s also a moment of distraction, just as Dark Link wanted. He draws his shadowy Master Sword, raises it above his head, and-

“SUN!”

Suddenly, Flora pushes Sun out of the way. The sword’s hilt strikes her head with a loud, sickening CRACK! She ends up collapsing right on top of her ancestor.

“Flora!” Sun gasps, tilting the scholar’s chin up to get a better look at her. After such a nasty blow, it makes sense that she’s out cold. But there’s blood, a lot of it, practically running down her face from above her left eye.

“You hurt her!” Sun exclaims, drawing Flora as close as she can bring her. “You son of a-!”

But, just then, they’re interrupted by two more shouts. In all the hassle, Sun hadn’t even noticed the Ghost Ship’s disappearance. Dusk, Artemis, and Tetra stand on the shore, staring right at the mess in front of them.

In an almost simultaneous burst of light, Artemis and Dusk summon their Bows of Light. Tetra draws her pistol, all three taking aim at Dark Link.

“Not another move, asshat,” Tetra warns him. “Attacking a princess is rude, you know.”

“She’s a queen,” Artemis informs her.

“Attacking a queen is rude, you know,” Tetra amends.

“Well,” Dark Link raises his hands above his head. “It seems we’re at an impasse.” He catches Sun’s eye one last time. “Farewell for now, your grace.”

Before any shots can be fired, Dark Link’s shadowy mass collapses in on itself. Like a splash of water, he sinks into the ground and disappears.

As the adrenaline fades from her body, Sun suddenly looks down at the bleeding body in her arms. She tightens her grip around her descendant, instinctively covering Flora’s wound with her hands.

“Oh no,” she mutters to herself as her fingers turn red. “Guys! We need help!”

  △ ▲△

It’s just a head wound, Tetra told them. And a head wound means it looks worse than it is, and it’ll bleed more than usual. Flora’s fine, she insists, she’ll wake up soon. All they have to do is keep an eye on her bandages and wait.

“I mean, you’ve seen my Link,” Tetra explains, leaning against her ship’s railing. “He gets a concussion every other week. He’s bounced back from worse than what Flora has.”

There really was no reason to stay on Greatfish any longer, now that they had Tetra and her crew. She’d been so generous as to waive the transport fee, something about a family discount that Artemis didn’t really hear. They’re heading to Windfall Island, so that they can restock their supplies before the next portal appears.

Flora was set up in one of the bedrooms below deck, tucked safely into one of the beds. Artemis has taken it upon herself to remain by her side, at least until she wakes up. She’s just so pale, and she hasn’t moved an inch…

As the first rays of light touch the sea, there’s a light knock on the door.

“Come in,” Artemis calls out, rising from her chair at Flora’s bedside.

The door creaks open, and Dusk pops her head in. “How’s she doing?” she asks, tilting her head towards Flora.

“No change,” Artemis crosses her arms and sighs. “I know Tetra said this is normal, but still…”

Dusk steps into the cabin, closing the door behind her with a sigh. “Sun’s a bit of a wreck. I told her I’d check in on Flora if she ate something.”

“She doesn’t blame herself, does she?” Artemis questions, wringing her hands together.

“The hit was intended for her, from what I can gather,” Dusk reveals. She gently places a hand at the top of Flora’s head. “You’re quite brave.”

Artemis smiles weakly, sitting back in her chair. “How are you holding up, Dusk?”

“I’ll admit, pirate ships aren’t as bad as I thought,” Dusk chuckles lightly. “It’s quite cozy here.”

“Dusk, I’m-” Artemis starts, but she swallows and starts again. “I’m sorry. You haven’t really spent that much time travelling before, and it was irresponsible of me to assume you’d feel comfortable with it immediately.”

“Artemis,” Dusk sighs. She kneels next to her, taking her hands into her own. “I should be the one apologizing. You were trying your best, but… I’m sorry, I was rude about your night watch, and I really ruined the whole thing, didn’t I?”

“Oh come on,” Artemis scoffs, but for once, there’s no malice behind her words. Her hands return Dusk’s grip with a tight squeeze. “You clearly weren’t okay with it, and I took that personally instead of making sure you were alright.”

“I just…” Dusk purses her lips together. “I’m scared of being alone in the dark.”

“Then you won’t have to cover any watches,” Artemis asserts. “But, you know, I spent a lot of time in a warped version of your era. I even met the most peculiar woman, a princess of the Twilight Realm…”

Dusk gasps. “You met Midna.”

“I did,” she nods. “So if you ever need someone to talk to, please consider me.”

Wordlessly, Dusk leans forward and pulls Artemis into what might be the warmest hug she’s felt in years. And instinctually, Artemis hugs her back.

For a long time, they stay like that.

“You know, I never figured it out,” Dusk suddenly speaks. “Flora’s down the family tree, and Sun’s up it. When exactly does the War Across the Ages take place?”

“From your perspective? You have about two-hundred years to go,” Artemis reveals. “You’re my grandmother a few times over, by the way.”

“What?!” Dusk suddenly draws back. “Why didn’t you lead with that?!”

  △ ▲△

Waking up is quite the process. When Flora opens her eyes for the first time, her vision is blurry. Like the world’s been spun around. Just barely, she’s able to lift her head, though her neck protests such movements.

There, sitting at the edge of her bed, though. That has to be Mipha. Who else would wait for her like that, within arm’s reach should she need an extra bit of healing?

Out of the corner of her eye, she can see Daruk and Urbosa just a few feet away. They’re talking to each other, maybe about her. Their tones are quiet and subdued, though. And Revali! Revali is waiting, just by the door. That's just like him to hover, even if he pretends not to.

‘Did I pass out in the spring again?’ she wonders.

“Flora?”

But then, she blinks, and it’s almost as though the scene shifts. It’s Sun sitting on her bed, a look of hope clear on her face. Artemis and Dusk freeze, gaping at Flora’s awakening. Tetra is the one who’s by the door, though she’s clearly keeping her distance.

Right. Of course.

“Flora!” Sun springs to her feet. “You’re okay!”

And then, before Flora’s sluggish mind can catch up with her, Sun wraps her up into a tight hug. Flora’s head throbs at the sudden, jerky movement.

“Ow…” Flora groans.

Sun gasps in shock, dropping Flora back onto her pillow. “Sorry!”

“Hylia’s fucking tits-” Tetra curses, missing Sun covering her chest with an arm at those words. She pushes herself between Sun and Flora. “Do none of you know how to handle head injuries? Stop moving her around!”

“I’m sorry, it’s just-” Sun awkwardly fidgets with her fingers. “She got hurt because of me! I need to make sure she’s okay!”

“And I want to make sure my travels with you four start off on the right foot,” Tetra insists. “Without anyone dying.”

“I’m fine,” Flora croaks out.

Dusk gestures a hand to the young queen. “See? She’s fine.”

“You’ve decided you’re coming with, then?” Artemis suddenly appears at Flora’s side, lightly patting her head. “You didn’t need much convincing.”

Tetra shrugs. “I figure I owe Link this much. He’d do the same for me.”

“Woo,” Flora weakly cheers, lamely raising a fist in celebration.

Artemis gently pushes her hand down. “We’ve still got a few days left on the Great Sea, Flora, don’t get your hopes up. We’re not going anywhere until that head wound of yours closes.”

“Aw…” Flora pouts, crossing her arms.

“Get some rest, kid,” Dusk instructs her. “You look like you need it.”

“You,” Flora points to Tetra, though there’s already a drowsiness to her words. “You’re going to tell me more about your time.”

Tetra nods mockingly, taking Flora’s hand into her own. “When you wake up, your majesty.”

[dragon-fics]

HA: Ch. 7 Reunions

Chapter summary: Heather brings Ethari to join Zubeia’s forces. As they near the border tow events occur; a joyous one and a not-so-great one.

Prologue, Pt. 1, Pt. 2, Pt. 3 , Pt. 4, Pt. 5, Pt. 6 , Pt. 7, Pt. 8, Pt. 9, Pt. 10, Pt. 11, Pt. 12, Pt. 13, Pt. 14, Pt. 15

  The trio rode towards Zubeia’s army, keeping to the main road from the Silvergrove for the time being.

“So, what’s it like being a Dragonguard? I hear you’re one of the best, according to Tiadrin and Lain,” Ethari said, stroking his shadowpaw’s mane. Their walk had been quiet since they had left the Silvergrove.

Heather hated this question.

“Careful, don’t say too much. You don’t need to insult them,” Aaravos warned.

She shrugged. “It’s fine, we make a good team most of the time and we’re all pretty close. Plus, I get to live near Dad.”

Ethari inclined his head. “You must have missed him when you lived here.”

“Yeah,” Heather breathed. She tapped her sash again, feeling for the egg. It had been almost a week since they had left the Storm Spire and Lux Aurea, and she couldn’t wait to see her beloved phoenix again.

“So, Ethari,” Khonsu started, “have you ever made a mage’s staff? Maybe one for a battlemage?”

He shook his head. “No, sorry, lad. I’ve only ever made weapons for warriors.”

Khonsu nodded his head with a sigh. “It’s fine.”

“But he has one?” Aaravos noted.

Heather reached out to the caterpillar with her mind. While they had waited for Ethari to get a new mount, Aaravos had mentioned her leaked thoughts. “Strong minds leak alike,” was her witty response, though it was obvious it troubled her.

He’s needed a new one for a while, if he wants to continue his education, she informed him.

“Hmm, I suppose.”

There is one in Spireville that he’s had his eye on for months, but it’s expensive. I’m hoping to buy it for his birthday.

“I knew you liked Moonshadow elves,” Aaravos teased.

Heather separated her mind from his and looked at where their path joined another broader road. “Not far now,” she said to them, nudging Réalta into a trot.

She stopped him in the middle of the road and looked around. No one was around. She listened carefully, straining her ears to hear anything that sounded like an army and an Archdragon. She looked off into the distance, toward thumping wingbeats. Smiling to herself, she thought of being close to Queen Zubeia again and not in the dark Moonshadow forest.

“Can you hear them?” Khonsu asked, pulling up beside her.

“Yeah. We’re not far behind.” She grinned at Khonsu and raised her brow twice. She wanted to make this exciting.

“Ugh! Fine!” he sighed dramatically and Elara galloped off.

*-*-*-*

It was midday, the day after Ethari had joined Queen Zubeia’s forces. They had stopped a few hours away from the border and every elf, dragon-shifter and human sat around a large clearing.

But in their own little corner was Heather and Khonsu, huddling over Phil’s egg. Réalta watched over Heather’s shoulder; they may have been loosely bound for years, but they had only been together for a year. So, this was his first time seeing a phoenix hatch, Elara wasn’t all that interested, focusing on cleaning her talons.

“Are sure it’s now?” Khonsu asked.

“Yes, of course I’m sure!” Heather hissed. “I’m a Sunfire elf, I know when the sun is at its highest.”

Khonsu held up his hands in defence. “Alright, sorry.”

The caterpillar leaned closer to Heather’s ear. Over the past week it had gotten smaller again, now it could comfortably sit on her ear. “Any moment now,” Aaravos assured.

“You had to spoil it, didn’t you?” Heather said.

Then the egg shook in Heather’s palm. She looked down at it; it trembled again.

“Come on, Phil,” she encouraged, cradling the egg in her hands.

The egg bulged at the sides, and an almost perfectly horizontal crack appeared across the egg. Heather gasped with excitement as the crack got bigger, revealing a golden shimmer beneath. The egg bulged once more before both halves separated completely. Heather could see Phil taking his first breaths in months. She smiled as he took a breather.

He pushed the rest of the shell off him, revealing his shimmering, burnt orange and cream hatchling feathers. Heather gently removed the shell away from him, feeling his warmth against her hand.

“Hey, buddy,” she smiled. Phil opened his big orange eyes and chirped at her, stretching himself out. He looked up at her, cooing.

“He’s so cute!” Khonsu exclaimed. He stroked Phil’s orange forehead.

Phil closed his eyes and cooed. He flexed his tiny talons and rolled himself over, pushing himself up with his wings standing on his feet.

Heather lowered head and rubbed her nose against Phil’s golden beak. “It’s good to see you, Phil,” she whispered.

He chirped. His gaze drifted from Heather to Réalta. He nickered at the phoenix hatchling. Phil jumped in Heather’s hand, flapping his little wings, flustered.

Heather giggled and scratched Phil under the chin. “Are you hungry? I have fire flakes and frankincense for you?”

Phil chirped again, as if to say, “FOOD!”.

“Frankincense?” Aaravos questioned. “Expensive. You feed him well.”

She hummed and looked to Khonsu. “Hold out your hand,” she instructed.

Khonsu did as he was told, and in return he placed Phil in his palm. He smiled from ear to ear, pushing down Phil’s head feather and watching it rise again.

Heather rummaged around in Réalta’s saddlebag before pulling out a small wooden box. She placed it on the ground and opened it. Inside the box was a small bound bag of fire flake, a bag of frankincense, two small wooden bowls and a small gold ring with a ruby embedded in the gold.

Heather took out the bag of frankincense, it was bulkier than the bag of fire flakes and weighed more. She opened the bag and took a long draught of the resin; it reminded her of the few dragon funerals she’d been to. She took out one bowl and placed a handful of frankincense resin in it. She put the bag back in the box and pulled out the other bowl. Reaching for Réalta’s saddle, she pulled out her canteen and poured some water into the second bowl.

Phil eyed the food and hopped from Khonsu’s hand, to his knee, to the ground and waddled over to the bowls. He tilted his head at the food and pecked at the clumps of frankincense. He swallowed a piece of resin, stood up and froze for a second before digging into his food. Heather watched around them so Phil wouldn’t constantly be checking for danger.

As he ate, his head feather glowed and flickered, like a burning flame.

“Impressive,” Aaravos mused. “Frankincense gives him power.”

“Frankincense is the best provider of energy for phoenixes,” Heather informed him, adding a bit of context for Khonsu. She took the ring from the box and slid it onto Phil’s leg. It shrunk to fit onto his ankle as he ate.

“And that’s for?”

“It tells others that he’s domesticated and the ruby holds an enchantment for a set of armour, like Réalta’s earring does.”

“Did you enchant them?” Aaravos asked.

“Yes, I did.”

“Impressive, for one who isn’t a mage.”

Heather frowned, and the caterpillar crawled off Heather’s ear and down her arm, landing by Phil’s bowls.

“Aaravos,” Heather warned, “what are you doing?”

Phil cocked his head at the caterpillar and cawed, spreading his wings. He lunged for the caterpillar, but Heather swiftly picked him up. He squawked at her.

“No. the caterpillar is not for eating. Aaravos is a friend, not a snack,” she scowled.

Phil looked at her, open-beaked, as if to say, “But mother, he looks SO tasty!”.

Heather shook her head and picked up Aaravos and placed him on her ear. She sat Phil beside his bowls. “Eat quickly, we’ll be leaving soon.”

*-*-*-*

Within a few hours that stood by the border, the warm glow and fiery heat reaching the soldiers even when they were hundreds of feet away.

But Queen Zubeia was hesitant about crossing it.

Two tall walls of igneous rock divided the river, formed from the lava and Dark Magic. The scent irritated the Archdargon and her dragon-shifters.

Queen Zubeia snorted. “Cross as quickly as you can,” she ordered, spreading her wings and taking to the sky, Prince Azymondias in her talon. SkyWing elves and dragon-shifters took off after her, while the rest marched through the gap in the lava.

Réalta snorted uneasily. I think he is near.

Heather looked down at him. “What?” she hissed.

“He is right,” Aaravos interrupted, “Viren is close, I can see it.”

Heather slid off of Réalta and gave the Dragonguards the hand gesture for ‘Dark Mage’. They quietly got off their mounts, retrieved their weapons, and ordered their mounts to go. Heather swung her sword-whip and glanced back at Phil on Réalta’s saddle.

“Follow the others. I’ll make this quick,” she ordered Réalta. “And stay together.”

Réalta cantered off, following the other mounts across the border.

The Dragonguards eyed the rocky terrain, waiting to the Dark Mage to make his presence known. They edged their way forward, their eyes never leaving the rocks.

Heather glanced aside. How close are they? she broadcasted to Aaravos.

“Not far. Any minute now,” he predicted.

She clenched her jaw, ready for him to strike.

But a corrupted fireball hit the ground in front of the guards, sending dust, smoke and ash up into their faces.

The guards became a spluttering mess as the cloud hung around them.

Heather got low, her eyes and lungs stung.

“Use the aspiro spell, they’re going to sneak passed,” Aaravos informed her.

Heather fought her coughing and drew the rune from memory and drew in a deep breath as she could. She blew out, a whirlwind dispersed the dust.

She saw the Dark Mages immediately. Get the bag of coins, nothing more. Don’t kill either of them, she repeated to herself.

She sprinted towards Viren, ignoring his apprentice. He swung his staff at her, and she used her sword to parry it.

she took a quick scan of his body, there was a bag of coins in his pouch, she could feel a few minds inside.

Viren pushed her back and his apprentice drew another corrupted sun spell rune. Heather ducked beneath Viren’s staff and reached for the pouch, grabbing the coins and tucking them into her sash pocket. She stood behind Viren and wrapped her arm around his chest and dug her heel into his knee, forcing him to the ground. With her free hand, she tore his staff from him and tossed it aside. She placed her foot on his nape, forcing him to stay still as she aimed the point of her sword at his head.

“I wouldn’t do that,” called his apprentice.

Heather looked at her. She had no intention to kill him, only to get her to stop attacking the others.

She held the corrupted primal stone of the staff towards the elves; they were unharmed, but a ring of purple flames surrounded them. “Kill him and I’ll give them an agonizing death,” she warned.

“You must convince her you were going to kill him,” Aaravos lectured.

Heather tightened her jaw and glanced from the Dark Mage to the Dragonguards. “If I do, you’ll let them go?”

The apprentice nodded. Heather could tell this man was dear to her.

Heather raised her sword and slid it into the scabbard on her back. “Somnum,” she said, taking her foot off of Viren. The fire around the Dragonguards went out and the apprentice Dark Mage slowly fell to the ground, caught by Haco’s dark hand by the last second.

“Let’s leave them here and get that staff back to the Sunfire mage. Maybe she can fix it,” Heather said with a stretch.

[diamondcamefromhell]

Pit Stop

fem!reader x jaskier [friend thing, not romance]

A/N: HIIIIII so i drank a bit today and this creation came to be, tried to edit all the mistakes, but there may still be some. i just wrote it from my heart, not really focusing on it being great to read, allowing it flow through me so it may be an aboslute mess and i might delete it when i wake up, but enjoy it while its here [even if it may stay forver]

Warnings: none!

Summary: [written in third person again] Y/N is a orphan who grew up in Kaer Morhen, and her basically-big-brother Geralt comes to visit with Jaskier and the two of them have a heart to heart

Word count: 2.592

as always, any feedback is appreciated, but on this one, pls keep in mind that i didnt write it entirely sober and its late and im sad lmao, but criticism is good and needed for every writer, so feel free to leave it even on this [or anonymously on my ask page] 

all the love <3

She lifted her sword just in time to block Geralt, parrying back with her other hand, hitting him with her other blade. The witcher grunted, pushing her with his swords, making her stumble back, a smile still on her face. She turned the weapons in her hands, both in a attack position now, as Geralt also smiled, gripping his sword tighter.

Y/N was able to duel-wield as well as you could possibly do it, it never occurred to her that she could fight with only one sword. In her mind, it truly seemed like a waste of opportunities, and she didn’t plan on contributing to it. While still young, she could stand her ground against Geralt, which was impressive on itself.

And Jaskier knew it. In his head, his friend witcher was the strongest-baddest-unbeatable Geralt, but now, in Kaer Morhen, his buddy was struggling holding back against this girls attacks.

“Well done.” Witcher spoke, lowering his sword. He hated to admit it, but he was running out of breath, and Y/N seemed to radiate endless energy. The girl laughed, straightening up.

“Thanks, Gee.” Geralt grunted at the nickname, smile still painting across his face.

The girl took a deep breath, looking up at the mountains that surrounded her home. She was an orphan, left in the woods. One of the witchers found her, and tried to get someone to take the baby in, but times were tough and Y/N was just an extra mouth to feed. She was taken here, to Kaer Morhen, at first it was planned to be short-term.

But she grew up with the boys, eventually picking her name herself. She never underwent the procedure to fully become a witcher, but she was a better fighter than some. She earned her nickname, the great Shewolf, who was as vicious and as strong as one. Someone who would die for her family.

Jaskier has heard about her from Geralt and some other witchers they’ve met on the road, but the bard knew the girl rarely left her home. Being abandoned by her parents, she took all the boys under her wing, providing some love and care to them during their strict training regimen.

Now, as wind played with her hair, Jaskier had to stop himself from breaking into a song. She was beautiful, in this mountain view, she truly looked like a she-wolf – majestic, wild and free. The girl felt the stare, glancing at the bard, offering him a smile.

“Jaskier and I,” Geralt spoke, getting her attention back on himself, “got you a gift.”

“Did you?” Her eyebrows rose as she glanced between the men.

“Something very special.” Witcher said. He never would admit it, but Y/N has grown to be like a little sister to him – he wanted to give her the world.

But all he could offer now, was two new swords. Light weight enough to make her duel-wielding possible and even faster than it was now. It was long, and sharp. The special thing about it was that one side of the blade was silver, the other steel. It was also enchanted with runes, so it would catch enemies on fire, at random.

They were beautiful, black handles and with a tree design on the blade itself. But for Y/N, that didn’t matter. It was the gesture itself; she knew how expensive weapons are. And not even that, finding a good blacksmith was nearly impossible these days. The trouble they must’ve gone through almost brought a tear to her eye.

She dropped her old swords, taking the new ones. They felt perfect in her hands.

“I am at a loss for words.” Geralt smirked.

“A thank you will do.” She fixed her gaze on the witcher, trying to swallow down the tears.

“Thank you. Truly.” She turned her eyes to the bard, who rose to his feet, coming closer to Y/N. “Jaskier, thank you too.”

“I didn’t do that much.” He muttered.

“You have never been to Kaer Morhen, have you?” Jaskier shook his head, and an idea came to the womans head. “Let me show you around. As a thank you. If not for a sword, then for keeping my big old Gee company.”

“Don’t you want to test your new swords?” Geralt asked before Jaskier could agree to the offer. Y/N shoulders dropped as she gazed into the horizon.

“We’ll have time for it tomorrow.” She finally decided, glancing at the witcher. “You seem tired. Are you getting old, Geralt?”

“Tired of you, little one.” He smirked, putting his sword in his scabbard. “But okay. I need to catch up with Master-“

“With Vesemir about Cirilla, yeah.” Y/N interrupted, remembering that they weren’t here to visit her – not exactly. Of course, it added to the trip, but their main goal was to talk to Vesemir about Cirilla and how she’s okay. Nothing in particular that Y/N found interesting, but she knew how important it was to Geralt. “Go and surprise that old bastard. He will be happy to hear the news.”

Bard watched his friend grin and turn around, going into the massive castle. The pair stood there in silence at first, and Jaskier began to worry that his lady friend would feel uncomfortable with just the two of them; but she was gazing at the sky. The mountains loomed over them, guarding this place, keeping it safe. It provided an impressive view, too.

“It’s beautiful.” Bard broke the silence, as the girl smiled.

“There is something so peaceful about this view.” A sad shadow loomed over her face. “But once all of the witcher disappear… this place will be abandoned. Hidden in these hills, deep in the woods.”

“But the Witchers won’t disappear.” Jaskier argued, although he knew that the population of withcers was dropping, as no new boys have been trained in years. He didn’t know why, and he was too afraid to ask. Bard was smarted than that, and knew not to open old wounds.

“Everything disappears, Jaskier.” Y/N glanced at her old swords on the ground, as they reflected the light. “But I am glad you find this place beautiful.”

“Precisely.” He muttered, as his head was working overtime trying to come up with something to comfort the girls troubled heart.

“Maybe you’ll write poems about it. That way, we will live on forever.” Girl spoke, turning around, waving the bard to follow her.

Which he did, with no hesitation. The sun was shining on them, but the weather wasn’t really that warm. Jaskier wrapped his arms around himself, watching Y/N in front, with her armour, that seemed to be too light to protect from the hold breeze that was picking up. But the girl didn’t mind, stepping to the training grounds.

They were now surrounded by dummies, most of which haven’t been touched in months. Her heart felt heavy, but she hoped one day soon new boys would come and train here. She would pray, but she didn’t believe in any gods.

“Training grounds, not used in… awhile.” She cleared her throat, sheathing her swords behind her back. She crossed her arms over, looking back at the bard, who was examining the dummies.

“These look new.” He pointed out and Y/N laughed.

“They got destroyed all the time. We would make new ones pretty much everyday, so they are new, yet to be destroyed.” She explained something in her heart lifting. It was as if there was new boy to train; even if the man in front of her was too old for this.

Though older, his eyes reminder her of that of a kid. So much joy shined in them, she almost allowed herself be fooled that he had lived an easy life. Traveling with a witcher was nothing easy at all, especially Geralt. While Y/N got to know his more affectionate side, sometimes he would hurt even her. he never meant to, but his comments would be daggers at heart.

And this man, was a bard, she also remembered, her eyes grazing the lute hanging by his side. Not a fighter, not trained. He could probably barely hold a weapon or protect himself, and with the contracts and helping citizens, she was sure this man has seen more than he lets on.

Maybe more than her.

But there were no shadows in his blue eyes, as he brushed his hair back, smiling at the girl, who was in deep thought, staring right at him. Her eyes pierced Jaskier, as he wondered what was going on in her head.

“A coin for your thoughts?” Jaskier decided to try and pry, figure out what world she was lost in.

“You have travelled with Gee for awhile now, but you don’t seem to be troubled by it.” Bard shrugs, his shoulders relaxing; he didn’t even realize that he has gotten nervous.

“He protects me.” Her gaze drifts ahead, as she sits down by the dummy. A shadow of sadness looms over her again, and Jaskier sits down too, their legs now touching.

“I wish someone would protect me.” Jaskier furrows his brows, staring at his hands.

“But you can protect yourself.” He speaks, as Y/N sighs. That was not what she meant, but the bard carried on. “You literally can hold you ground against Geralt. The Geralt.”

“That’s not the point, Jaskier.” She rests her head on the dummy behind her, staring at the mountains. Sometimes she feels like they are about to fall on her, swallowing her whole. “I still want to be protected. Someone to take care of me, too.”

“What about Vesemir?” She knows he is genuinely trying to help, but the mountains still double up in size as she feels small. She would feel like this when she was a child, isolated and alone. A sigh escapes her lips again, resting between them like a ravine.

“I meant more of a friend.” She finally clarified, after the silence began to grow uncomfortable. Jaskier stared at the ground between them, as if that ravine was actually there.

“I can be your friend.” She nodded. She already felt like they were friends.

“You and Geralt both are my friends. But…” Jaskier watched as her face changed, becoming more and more puzzled. He wanted to help her find the right words, express what she means exactly. Maybe that would lessen the pain in her eyes.

“I get it, I think.” He decided to try and put some clarity into her clear thought volcano. “We, and I bet some other friends, we come and go. But most of the time, you’re alone. And I bet you feel trapped, surrounded by these mountains and woods. No escape, as even the horizon isn’t clear.”

“Exactly!” She shouted, involuntary. “Everyone tells me I’m a shewolf, I can protect myself and thrive alone, and that’s correct. But I still want to have a pack.”

“Why don’t you join us then?” Jaskier offers and the girl closes her eyes. She wants to go, but what if someone comes here, some small boy, scared and alone. Ripped from their mothers crying hands. She has to be there for them, if it were to happen.

“I’m needed her.” Jaskier sighs, a sour taste growing in his mouth. He didn’t like the thoughts that filled his head, the words that were urging to escape.

“Ghosts don’t need to be cared for, Y/N.” His tone was soft, as if he was talking to a child. He even dared to reach out and place his hand on hers, which she didn’t shake off. “If anything, they need to be let go off. Laid to rest.”

“But if someone new comes-“ Jaskier squeezed her hand, making the girl stop mid-sentence. Their eyes met.

“If someone comes, Vesemir will find us. You can’t find a pack if you stay in this cage.” His words made sense, and she knew it.

But she didn’t want to listen. Her eyes gazed away from the boy, back to the mountains, who began casting shadows on the pair. Wolves howled in the woods and the breeze picked up again. She didn’t feel cold, but Jaskier shivered a little.

“I should show you inside.” She tried to avert the conversation, but the bard wasn’t having it. She rose to her feet, but he remained on the ground.

“The view from the top of the mountains must be amazing.” He said, gazing there. He did wonder if you could even reach it; these trained professionals probably could, but he, a simple bard, would probably slip and fall to his death. He shivered at the thought of that.

“You see endless fields and forests. But it is nice.” Y/N agreed, crossing her arms.

“So you see the opportunities the world has to offer.” He eventually decided, standing up. “Then this isn’t a trap – is a pit stop, before you go to see all that the sun touches.”

“Sure, poet.” She grinned, but his words settled in her heart. “Let’s get inside.”

So the tour continued, as they drifted from painful topics to more easy ones. Jasier showcased some songs, which she thoroughly enjoyed, and Y/N shared some fun stories from a better time.

But evening came, and something went wrong. Geralt ushered them to leave. The sun had set, and the only light was a few torches surrounding the group. Withcer didn’t seem worried, just in a hurry. Jaskier had his lute over his shoulder, saddened to be leaving so soon.

Y/N was painfully looking at her friends, wondering when she will see them again.

“We will visit soon. Ciri just needs me, I know it.” Geralt grunted, petting Roach. He was eager to get on the road.

“It’s okay. I’m glad I got to see you again, Gee.” Y/N forced a smile, but it didn’t fool the boys. They exchanged worried looks.

After hugs exchanged, she watched them leave – Geralt on Roach, Jaskier on a horse he borrowed from Vesemir. Y/N looked up once more, mountains blocking her view, but the bards words crept in, waking something inside her.

She whistled her horse, urging it to a gallop to catch up with her friend. Surprise painted their faces when they saw her, and both men stopped in their tracks.

“You said you’d visit soon.” She explained, slowing her horse to a canter, going ahead of them. “I can leave Kaer Morhen for a little bit. And these gifted swords need testing too.”

“You’re coming with us?” Jaskier couldn’t hide the joy in his voice, but he didn’t care. In the dark he and Geralt could barely tell that the girl rolled her eyes.

“Let’s go, boys!” She rushed to a gallop again.

They caught up to her in a heartbeat. They raced through the mountains, until they reached one of the peaks.

The fields in front of them offered endless possibilities. In this moonlight, shewolf took a deep breathe, and she knew, that for the first time in ages, she was breathing freedom. One last glance at her home, the castle glistening in the light grey light of the night was inviting.

But she knew she would always find a home here.

She could always come and rest, until she was ready to venture again. Now, she needed to go and find her pack.

y/N didn’t know, that Jaskier and Geralt both thought they just added a new member to their pack. They accepted her, racing in the night, to the rest of their pack, towards Ciri and Yen. Rushing into the unknown, leaving the pit stop behind.

[jahaanofmenaphos]

Art by the awesome @tommieglenn!

Of Gods and Men Summary:

When the gods returned to Gielinor, their minds were only on one thing: the Stone of Jas, a powerful elder artefact in the hands of Sliske, a devious Mahjarrat who stole it for his own ends and entertainment. He claims to want to incite another god wars, but are his ulterior motives more sinister than that? And can the World Guardian, Jahaan, escape from under Sliske’s shadow?

Read the full work here:

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TUMBLR CHAPTER INDEX

QUEST 11: SLISKE’S ENDGAME

QUEST SUMMARY:

The eclipse is nigh. The end of Sliske’s games draws near. All the gods gather for one final race for the Stone, taking them through a shadowy labyrinth of the devious Mahjarrat’s design. Not only does Jahaan have to survive the trials Sliske sets out for them, but he has to compete against every major deity in Gielinor. Then, and only then, will he have a shot at ending Sliske’s madness once and for all…

CHAPTER 7 - BATTLE OF SOULS

At first, the duel consisted of Sliske and Jahaan circling one another, testing out the grip on their swords and feeling out their opponent. The occasional swing would be made, but never in earnest. Instead, it was experimental, almost playful, examining one another’s technique and trying to plot any viable weaknesses to exploit.

Their previous anger and hatred seemed to have faded, or at least dulled considerably. For Jahaan, such extremes were far too tiring on his already exhausted mind. To him, their situation was simpler than ever: Sliske was going to die. There was no rush to end the battle, or indeed any incentive to drag it out any longer than it needed to be. Jahaan was content with his decision, and now put his focus towards remaining calm and composed, steady and focused, waiting for the chance to strike.

For Sliske, on the other hand, he was far too concerned to allow volatile emotions to cloud his judgement. This was a precarious situation for him, already weakened and with only one chance left at salvation. He had to play his cards better than ever before. It didn’t help that Jahaan was an experienced swordsman, and Sliske hadn’t fought with a blade since the Kharidian-Zarosian War back in the Second Age. Still, you never forget how to fight - Mahjarrat especially. He was confident enough in his own ability, but mistakes could always be made.

He just hoped Jahaan made one first.

“Why did Jas choose you?” Jahaan casually asked, focused on the point of his blade as he parried another one of Sliske’s lunges. Since the Mahjarrat was going to die, he might as well get all of the answers while he could.

“I do not know for certain,” Sliske kept his tone light, not betraying the creeping anxiety he was feeling. “She was interested in the gods, and I was the newest among their ranks. Perhaps that drew her to me.”

“So you did ascend?” Jahaan had always expected, subtly assumed, but Sliske had never confirmed it before.

“I don’t believe I had any choice in the matter, after killing Guthix and claiming two Elder artefacts as my own,” Sliske’s stance changed, playing more on the defensive as he explained,  “I never particularly cared for the bows and tassels that came from ranking among the divine, but achieving godhood was always part of the plan, and I succeeded. But I was never to stop there. You see, gods suffer the same fate as the Mahjarrat - they live a hundred human lifetimes, but they die eventually, and then they’re gone. Gods relinquish their right to a soul, to an afterlife. The Saradominists and Zamorakians get to enjoy the afterlife their god and their faith has created for them, but do you think their gods ever join them in that paradise? It’s a pretty raw deal if you ask me. But what if I could achieve something no being in existence has even dared to contemplate? What if I could achieve godhood AND obtain a soul? If I did that… I could create my OWN afterlife. A world where beings were free from the shackles of dogma, where the gods of this universe held no sway.”

Jahaan almost felt like laughing at how ludicrous Sliske was sounding. “Yeah, free… except from everyone being under YOUR control. Besides, you creating your own afterlife? Icthlarin would never allow it.”

There was an instant where Jahaan took his eye off the target as he absorbed what Sliske was saying, and the Mahjarrat used that to capitalise. The sword sliced through the air, and while it didn’t quite hit the mark that Sliske intended, it did succeed in drawing a deep gash across Jahaan’s left upper arm.

“Icthlarin is but a small fish in the pond of godhood,” Sliske countered, calmly flicking the blood off his blade into a neat splatter pattern on the ground. “He has far less power and reach than you assume.”

Jahaan skipped backwards a few paces, trying to ignore the crimson streaming from the wound and the searing pain that came with it. He repositioned himself, checked the grip on his sword. “But if you’re a god, why doesn’t Guthix’ blessing protect me from you?”

“That would be a question for him, rather than me, don’t you think?”

Jahaan was not impressed with the non answer. Huffing, Sliske continued, “Perhaps it has something to do with the fact that, when Guthix’ blessing was bestowed upon you, I was not a god? Perhaps it was because I was the one that killed him, and that made me the exception to the rule? Or perhaps it simply slipped his mind? Even one of the most powerful gods in existence isn’t infallible, as we all well know.”

Jahaan licked the edges of his teeth. “Perhaps.”

It was the wound on his arm that made Jahaan realise that conversing with Sliske was only going to leave him exposed. The Mahjarrat’s words caused him to falter, and he was paying the price in crimson spilling out from the gash in his arm. Thankfully, Sliske didn’t pursue that conversation any further, and he didn’t try to ignite another one.

Jahaan brought his sword up to block a crushing strike from Sliske. He had stalled the attack, but watched as a wretched, stained grin started to split the Mahjarrat’s lips. Jahaan’s blade shivered under the brutality of Sliske’s compelling strength, the sword threatening to slip from his trembling hands. The World Guardian stumbled back, allowing Sliske’s blade to continue in its intended path. Jahaan leaned out of the way as much he could, but there wasn’t much he could do in the realms of evasion. Thankfully, the wound he attained wasn’t deep at all, but a long, thin slice across his chest. Torn fabric soaked up some of the blood, sticking his shirt to his skin with crimson glue.

Not letting this deter him, Jahaan collected himself as quickly as possible to once again go on the offence. He managed to get a rather clean slash across Sliske’s left thigh, though there wasn’t enough flesh left to draw blood. Sliske was almost completely skeletal now. Mahjarrat looked far more terrifying in their reverted form, a haunting visage not soon forgotten. But by now, Jahaan had gotten used to it. For him, it meant a weakened Sliske, and a weakened Sliske was an opportunity.

The stagger in Sliske’s step left an opening, one that allowed Jahaan’s blade to slice across Sliske’s left shoulder. The next strike missed, but only by a hair’s width, and it pushed the Mahjarrat deeper into the realms of the defensive. Now, the World Guardian’s strikes were coming thick and fast, not even allowing Sliske the time to ready his blade enough to block or parry. He was relentless, pushing Sliske backwards and knocking his blade down every time the Mahjarrat went to raise it. The cut to his left shoulder made wielding the blade with any strength or effective technique unmercifully difficult.

The look in Sliske’s eyes… it was hollow, a shell of the joviality that would usually dance in them. He was uncharactistically silent, too, lacking jibes and quips. No, Sliske looked more focused than he ever had been…

...and he looked scared.

Finally, Sliske managed to gain enough distance between himself and Jahaan to raise his blade in a proper deflection, but his grip was all wrong, and Jahaan could see it instantly. No doubt Sliske did too, but by then it was far too late.

The sword flew from Sliske’s hand and he stumbled backwards, retreating away from Jahaan’s blade before falling to the ground. Then, a flash of light; Jahaan realised that Sliske had blocked a killing blow with the shaft of the Staff of Armadyl.

Of course he wasn’t going to play fair, Jahaan scolded internally, having forgotten that the Staff was still at Sliske’s disposal. Though the momentary wideness of his eyes betrayed his surprise, it didn’t deter him for long, and he pressed down with all his weight onto Sliske. The Staff could not be cut through, however - whatever material the shaft was made from, it easily withstood the onslaught of elder rune blades.

Despite having only one working arm, the Mahjarrat was unfairly strong, gaining enough leverage to push Jahaan far enough to the side to roll out of the way and back to his feet. Shifting his grip on the Staff, Sliske swung it like a club, trying to regain some lost ground.

But it was in vain. Jahaan clipped Sliske’s already wounded arm with the edge of his blade, and Sliske cried out, just about refraining from clutching the gash in a desperate attempt to keep in control. Seeing an opening, Jahaan followed up with a lunge to Sliske’s stomach, but his opponent dodged out of the way just in time to avoid being skewered.

Then, Sliske pounced.

As Jahaan’s arm was outstretched, Sliske used the side of the Staff to knock Jahaan’s wrist to the side, causing his sword to fall past the balance line.

The opening was there.

Sliske slipped low, underneath the shadow of Jahaan’s blade. He swiftly readjusted his grip on the Staff, narrowed his eyes, lunged forwards and-

...by the time Jahaan knew what was happening, it was too late.

The bottom end of the Staff was embedded in his stomach.

Looming over him, Sliske’s expression grew dangerously wicked then, and he laughed, a grating scrape. “Oh Janny, you didn’t think it’d be that easy, did you?”

Jahaan couldn’t think to forumate words; his bloodshot eyes were transfixed on the haunting silhouette of Sliske. Even if he wanted to speak, he couldn’t through the blood gurgling in the back of his throat, escaping in fragments with every pained cough. His racing mind tried to comprehend regular thought and action, to fight beyond the agony, but it was futile - the only things Jahaan seemed to be able to focus on were those layered eyes of Sliske, and the Staff ripping through his insides.

Then, the Mahjarrat positioned the top end of the Staff towards the centre of his own stomach. “It’s as I told you before… you’re already mine…”

Suddenly, Sliske drove the Staff inside himself, his face contorting horrifically as he pulled it in deeper and held it firm.

Jahaan froze. At that moment, he could barely register the pain. Pain was ethereal, unreal. No, he was too transfixed on the reality of Sliske to focus on anything else.

For a moment that seemed boundless, the two were linked.

World Guardian and Praefectus Praetorio.

Jahaan Siad-Samak… and Sliske.

Then, the Staff began to shake of its own accord, and Sliske screamed. All the control and innate smugness he held only moments ago disappeared in a heartbeat, and the Mahjarrat’s eyes turned panicked. A bolt of energy cracked inside of Sliske as the Staff continued to tremble.

Something was wrong.

Then, the shaking stopped, and Jahaan watched as the life drained from Sliske’s once glowing eyes. Finally, the Mahjarrat slumped over on the Staff.

Jahaan just stood there, numb to the pain by now. His heart felt hollow, yet somehow… in some strange way, he began to feel more real than he ever had before. Like he was a drawing come to life, his edges sharp and solid, while Sliske’s blurred and faded.

Despite this, an eternity passed, and Jahaan felt more alone than he ever had in his entire life.

Suddenly, movement.

Sliske’s shoulders started shaking, growing in life and animation, and the Staff started trembling again in Jahaan’s grip. Sliske’s head shot up, his face a haunted portrait of blood and madness.

There was something different in his eyes. A confidence once absent, a hint of a sneer now returned, like he knew. He knew something, he’d figured out the missing link to a puzzle Jahaan didn’t even know existed, and he began to laugh. His maniacal laughter shook Jahaan to the core, turning his blood cold.

Shadows began to wrap around Sliske, dark mist and clouds engulfing the Mahjarrat until all that could be seen was his cackling silhouette. With his last ounce of being, he uttered one simple phrase, a whisper and a hiss, that sent a chill down Jahaan’s spine.

Then, he was gone.

When the dust settled, all that was left in Sliske’s place was a stone statue with the Staff buried inside. It didn’t take long before the rock began to crack and crumble, exploding outwards. Jahaan shielded his face to protect himself. When he managed to open his eyes again, the statue was no more, and neither was Sliske.

With his last menial ounce of strength, Jahaan yanked the Staff from out of his stomach.

Then, he collapsed to the floor and willingly let the darkness take him.

“I loved you for more than your soul…”

Then, the ground began to shake, slightly at first, but with an ever-increasing fury. All that could be heard in the chaos was a hollow voice…

“Come to me…”

The world went black, blacker than the deepest chasm, darker than the darkest abyss. The silence inside was so thick, it was tangible, like the empty void was sentient and feeling, watching and waiting, listening and speaking.

When Jahaan awoke, he felt cold stone beneath his bloodied and bruised face. Prising his eyes open was a formidable task, not made easier by the relentless throbbing in his skull. He felt like his head was going to break apart from the inside out. Once he managed to keep his eyes open for longer than a fleeting second, he then found difficulty in adjusting to the white light floating around him, as if the world was replaced by nothing but a blank canvas.

The ringing in his ears took a little longer to subside, but when it did, he managed to pick out the echoing voice of Zaros, alongside another, unrecognisable voice.

“I am Zaros, firstborn of Mah,” Zaros announced, “I come to claim my birthright. I possess the core of Mah. In her absence in your pantheon, I ask to take my place.”

“No,” came the simple reply.

Jahaan realised it was the same hollow voice as the one that brought him to this mysterious plane. It was also the same voice that Jahaan heard in Sliske’s chamber, the one that brought the Stone of Jas to the Mahjarrat in the first place. It whispered and echoed, bellowed and sang all harmoniously, concurrently, as it formed the world around them. 

“I urge you, see reason,” Zaros implored, “With Mah dead your numbers are diminished, you need me to take her place!”

“No”

“Why do you deny me?” as Zaros’ desperation grew, so too did the fire in his tone. “Look at what I have achieved, and imagine what I could achieve among your ranks. I have Mah's core. I am forged from her energy. How could you deny my claim?”

“A flame”

“Can never be a star”

“However bright”

“It burns”

“You are of Mah”

“But you are not Mah”

The voice spoke only in broken fragments, as if the Common Tongue was foreign to it, or it simply did not consider eloquence a worthwhile endeavour.

Zaros could no longer contain his fury. “NO! I will have my birthright!”

“No”

“Then tell me why. What more must I do?” Zaros pleaded, his eyes heavy, features weary, as he struggled against the gravity of the being he was talking to.

“There is nothing”

“We are creation”

“We create life”

“A power beyond you”

Zaros countered, “But what of life I have created? The nihil? Nex?”

“Shadows”

“Whispers”

“False life”

“To be as us”

“Creation from nothing”

“Only we have this power”

“I have learned enough to know that there are no absolutes,” Zaros declared. “If I can create life, you will accept me as one of you.”

The voice was impassive yet commanding as it maintained, “Impossible”

“We shall see about that,” Zaros grumbled. “I will not be denied.”

“Leave”

At this, Zaros teleported away, whether of his own volition or by the power of the voice, Jahaan was not sure. All he knew now was that he was alone, in a foreign dimension, planet or plane - of that he was unsure - and nothing separated him from the mighty presence surrounding him.

“Stand”

Despite the vehement protests from his own body, Jahaan willed himself to comply with the order, scraping himself off the stone ground with every last ounce of fleeting strength he could muster. His frail and fragile bones fought back, as did gravity, pulling him back down to the floor. Eventually he willed himself to stand on rickety legs, swaying and staggering in place. When he looked down at himself, he saw the blood-soaked shirt he was wearing. Carefully, he peeled the sticky material away from his skin, retching as he saw the extent of the wound. Yet, the wound seemed still. By all accounts, he knew he should be bleeding out right about now, but he wasn’t. He wasn’t bleeding at all. Make no mistake, the wound was far from healed... yet it seemed frozen in time.

Unable to comprehend the nature of his injury, Jahaan instead forced his eyes to focus on the world around him, particularly at the amazing, terrifying creature beholding him.

Bathed in a neon blue glow was a gigantic, ten armed being shaped like the sun, and twice as imposing. It looked as if it was carved out of stone, with two yellow eyes on each arm and another on the centre of what could arguably be labelled its ‘chest’.

Clearing his throat, Jahaan tried his best to ignore the taste of iron in his mouth as he asked, “Where am I?”

“Here”

Jahaan rubbed the back of his head, feeling a large bump. “I was hoping for a more specific answer.”

“You”

“Are”

“Here”

Jahaan sighed. “Alright, let’s try a new question. Who are you?”

“Jas”

Jahaan’s eyes grew wide, his chest suddenly incredibly heavy as a large lump formed in his throat. He suspected, but to have it confirmed? Rushing through his mind came a tidal wave of thoughts, questions and emotions, as here he stood, in the presence of an elder god, of the oldest elder god of them all, of the being that shaped the universe and created all life.

All he could say was, “Oh…”

“Explain,” Jas demanded, her tone neutral.

Jahaan queried, “Explain what?”

“My agent”

“Explain its end”

“Your agent?” Jahaan furrowed his brow. “You mean Sliske?"

“Yes”

“Explain”

Clearing his throat, Jahaan replied, “Sliske was trying to reignite a war between the gods. He… hurt a lot of people. I had to kill him."

Jas questioned, “War?”

This caused Jahaan to do a double take. The idea of explaining the concept of war to an elder god, the most powerful being in creation, was surreal to say the least. “Err… it's a conflict where large numbers of people kill each other for a single cause.”

“Why?”

“That's probably too philosophical a question for… whatever this is.”

“Is it common?”

“Yes.”

“You destroy yourselves”

“More than we might like to think…” Jahaan answered, gravely. Then, his mind snapping back to the matter at hand, Jahaan inquired, “Why did you need Sliske to be your agent on Gielinor?”

“Gods”

“Excuse me?”

“Yes”

“No, I mean, can you tell me what you mean when you say ‘gods’?”

“The ones you call”

“Gods”

“Intrigue me”

“They claim power”

“They crave control”

“They have neither”

“Fascinating creations”

“You are a question”

“Mortal life is unexpected”

“It is dangerous”

“It shall end”

“A new cycle”

“Shall begin”

The gravitas of Jas’ words struck Jahaan like a thunderbolt. “Wait!” he cried out. “You can't just destroy us all! There are good elements to mortal life! Like, erm, love and peace and hope?”

“Meaningless”

“Why should life”

“Continue”

Jahaan was at a loss for words. “Because… because…”

“No words”

“Prove by action”

“I ask the sisters”

Then, a choir erupted around Jahaan. All it sang was, “We hear”

Jas continued, “Consensus”

“Bik”

“Wen”

“Ful”

“Agree”

“Prove that life”

“Has worth"

“Or be”

“No more”

“Leave”

“Wait!” Jahaan cut in, desperately. “You're Jas, you're THE elder god! I have so many questions!”

Jas responded, “One”

“One what? One question? I get one question?”

“Yes”

Jahaan frowned. “Why do I only get one question?”

“Because”

“Leave”

Jahaan's eyes grew wide. “No, wait, that wasn't my question!”

But it was futile - the world around him was engulfed in white light, and he could feel his body flying away from Jas, away from this state of painless non-being… and crashing back towards reality.

DISCLAIMER:

As Of Gods and Men is a reimagining, retelling and reworking of the Sixth Age, a LOT of dialogue/characters/plotlines/etc. are pulled right from the game itself, and this belongs to Jagex.

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[chille-tid-universe]

Heart of the Hidden Forge

As the murals along the wall slid upwards, three creatures stepped into the lair. Two appeared to be mechanical canines with enlarged jaws. The third was a humanoid, armed and armored,  whose abrupt motions betrayed it as another automaton. The walls began to slide back down. As they stepped toward Nissa, the gnome jumped back to the rest of the group. The animated suit of armor covered half the distance to the cave’s entrance and readied its sword, visored face sweeping back and forth as it searched for enemies. The slower direwolf-shaped machines lumbered behind it, vestigial tongues lolling comically between jagged steel teeth.

Brienne slipped Mjolnir from her belt and ran further into the room, tossing the hammer mid stride for it to collide with one of the canines before zooming back to her outstretched hand. In her next step, she tossed it again, a heavy metal clangor sounding as the canine was struck again. Brienne stopped before the armored automaton, Mjolnir ready in her hand once more, shielding the way to her allies. Two dents in the canine’s exterior sparked slightly with errant electricity.

“Guess we can call you Sparky!” Melpomene cried out, layering her voice with spellwork. The hound continued to pad forward, seemingly unfazed by the spell. The aasimar tsked. “Deaf as a dog.” At this point, the hounds had drawn even with the armored automaton. With the three in a neat line, Wun Way gestured, muttering an incantation, and the air around them filled with rapidly flashing patterns. The two hounds’ heads jerked back and forth, caught off guard by the influx of sensory data, but the dented one managed to refocus on the foreign intruders. The other hound, however, simply sat back on its haunches and, head tilted to the side, stared off at the afterimage of the blinking lights. The armored automaton had not so much as glanced at the glowing display, and stood perfectly still, sword still poised to strike.

The unstunned hound jumped back into a run, its razor claws scrabbling for purchase against the slick stone, and it darted past Brienne, marbled eyes fixed on Nissa. Brienne swung her warhammer out as it passed, clipping the side of its head. Unrelenting, the hound snapped at the fighter as it continued, skidding to a halt before the cluster of adventurers. Its large jaws parted, and a moment later a cone of frosty breath burst out from the construct’s mouth. The moment had been enough, though - no one was caught in the worst of the stream. The adventurers, shaking off sudden chills, settled around the hound and laid into it, with Pock summoning a glowing, spectral warhammer to swing into the beast’s side. Wun Way had lost concentration on her hypnotic pattern spell, and the other hound was shaking its head, looking around the crowded chamber.

The automaton had broken its guarded stance, striking out at Brienne. She knocked aside the first two blows, but the third found its mark beneath her shield. The automaton then straightened and raised a gauntleted hand toward a hound. A sound of whirring gears filled the air around it, and frosty breath began to spill from its mouth once more. “Watch out!” Brienne cried out, turning to address the mechanical canine. The automaton stepped quickly, interposing itself between Brienne and her friends. Grimacing in annoyance, the fighter turned her warhammer on the bronze chestplate.

The adventurers began spreading out from the chilled machine, wary of its breath attack. Wun Way turned her attention on the suit of armor, pulling forth magical energy to fuel a powerful spell. She unleashed a barrage of pure light, almost a half dozen missiles flying through the air and honing in on the clockwork foe. As they struck, however, the energy seemed to fade against the bronze metal, and the automaton failed to even acknowledge the attack. “Oh for two,” the bard mumbled.

The newly unenchanted hound turned its attention on Brienne and ran up to the automaton’s side. As it stepped in range, Brienne could hear the clockwork machinations within it ticking faster, could practically hear the pistons and enhanced machinery pumping harder. The automaton was having some sort of effect on the hound. Emboldened, the metal canine bit ferociously at the heroine, metal jaws clanging as they hit her magical armor.

Pock had extricated himself, and his floating warhammer, from the other hound, and was circling around the animated armor’s other side. He attempted to strike at it, but his blows were deflected with miniscule parries, the automaton’s blade never moving more than it needed to in order to intercept an attack. Taking advantage of Pock’s diversion, Brienne hammered away at the side of the automaton, and in a flurry of ticking gears the construct whirled around and struck back.

Melpomene threw herself at the other hound, blades dripping with psychic venom as she dragged them along its armored shell. Though it might not be able to hear her, it certainly had enough sentience to suffer from the aasimar’s blow. “Ah, a message you can understand!” she called out.

Wun Way’s eyes grew wide as the hounds and automaton paused for a moment, and in her mind’s eye she saw the perfect placement for a shattering spell. She made a few gestures and pulled up her magic, triggering a concussive blast across the room. The mechanical hounds appeared particularly shaken, with one of them literally falling to pieces as the blast reverberated in its carefully built body. The other still stood, but its jaw seemed partially unhinged, and a springy coil was all that was left of its tail. Like before, however, the automaton was unaffected, its bronze form seemingly impervious to magical tampering.

The remaining hound opened its askew jaws, and a torrent of lightning poured forth, falling in cascades over Brienne and Pock. The two were able to keep their footing, however, and a well placed shot from Nissa brought the canine down, a feathered bolt impaling its metal plated cranium.

With just the armored automaton remaining, Brienne pushed it forward with her shield, knocking it off guard as she struck with a flurry of blows. As the last hit, the helmeted head flew off its shoulders, revealing a bundle of sparking cables. The rest of the body stood for a moment before Pock gingerly tapped it with his own hammer, sending it toppling to the ground.

Finally getting a chance to look around, the group realized that one of the hidden door murals had not closed properly. Brienne was able to pull it back open, revealing a large room beyond it. Murals decorated the walls, depicting scenes of Moradin and the creation of the world according to dwarvish tradition. Around each mural were the sturdy letters of dwarven script.

Most of the room was taken up by bellows and a forge, along with an anvil and hammer beside them. The room appeared untouched for countless years; a thick layer of dust covered every available surface. Pock squinted at the anvil, then turned to the forge, a frown growing on his face. Meanwhile, Brienne walked the length of the wall, glancing at the script around each mural.

“What’s it say?” Melpomene asked, strumming on a lyre quietly as she settled into a comfortable position.

“Captions, mostly,” Brienne said, without turning, “descriptions of the murals. Some have prayers, giving thanks to Moradin, asking for his blessing, you know the like.” She paused at one of the murals. “There’s a proper noun that keeps coming up.” She turned to Pock. “A clan name, perhaps?”

Pock looked up from the bellows, which he had been testing, causing a puff of dust to explode out into the air. “Yes, most likely,” he coughed. “Signature, maybe?”

Brienne ran her finger along a series of runes. “If it’s a signature, then why is it misspelled here?” she mused, almost to herself.

There was a loud clang, making everyone jump, as Pock brought the hammer down on the anvil. The others stared as he moved the hammer, examining the fresh mark. “It’s never been used,” he said, then repeated himself louder. “It’s never been used. I don’t think anything here has been used to smith, or forge, or temper anything.” He indicated the tools and structures around him. Though dust covered all, the hammer was sturdy. Its edges were sharp, while a well-used forge hammer grew rounded around the corners. Likewise, the anvil was, underneath the veneer of dust, immaculate, save the one marring from Pock’s strike. “Anvils should be pitted and dented,” Pock muttered, tenderness in his voice, “Not sitting gathering dust, never knowing the heat of slag.” He gestured at the forge. “And there’s not a single sign of soot or charcoal.” He looked up at the others, finally noticing their stares. “It’s never been used,” he finished quietly.

Brienne turned back to the misspelled segment of wall, and noticed a faint scuff mark by the bottom corner of the mural. To either side of the carving, the wall was flush, and she could see no sign of doorway or other entrance, but the clue caused her to pour over the mural once more. After a few minutes, she cried out in triumph. There was a small sigil of an anvil halfway up the mural with the barest hint of an outline around it. It could have been just a few extra deep chisel marks, but Brienne felt around the anvil and finally pressed on the carving with her finger.

There was a clicking sound as the button depressed followed by a deep shudder in the floor, and then the mural spun on its center, pushing Brienne to the other side of the wall. “Hey!” Brienne heard from the other side of the wall, and a few seconds later the wall spun back. Brienne was back in the forge room, but Melpomene and Nissa were on the other side.

“Stand back!” Brienne shouted through the rock as she motioned for the others to join her at the mural. A few seconds later, they were all gathered on the other side of the hidden door.

Beyond, a natural cavern descended. As the floor sloped more, a steep wooden staircase began, covered in cobwebs and dust. Their descent was filled with creaks and cracks as the long disused stairs protested the sudden weight. Their journey brought them deeper into the heart of the mountains, and the air grew warmer further down. Minutes passed, until suddenly the stairs ended, and the cavern appeared to level out. Though a few torches were held among the party, a dull red glow could be seen from up ahead.

The remainder of the tunnel ended in a large portal, around which was carved runes praising Moradin for his skill, and thanking him for whatever this place was. The red glow came from within the wide passageway. Beyond was a perfectly round chamber, sixty feet across, carved seamlessly from the surrounding rock. A lattice of canals and qanats textured the smooth floor, with regular walking bridges crossing over the larger indentations. These met to form troughs and channels that fed into a central structure.

About the room, small wells were dotted, covered with odd bronze plates, presumably to keep in the moisture in this sweltering room. Sluice gates were placed regularly along the walls, and the air around them seemed to shimmer with heat.

At the center was an enormous structure, unlike anything anyone gathered had ever seen. There was a large anvil at its base, and Pock could tell from the entrance that this anvil bore the marks of fervent craftsmanship on its surface. Behind it stood a monstrous furnace, sitting atop the largest of the channels and smoldering with unquenchable heat, though there was no visible flame. The omnipresent red glow radiated from the grated opening of the furnace.

The most remarkable aspect of it all hung overhead, though. From a central spire hung dozens of mechanical arms, equipped with all manner of smithing tools and dextrous appendages. Laid bare from any sort of casing or cover, the intricate inner workings were visible and gleamed in the furnace’s eerie glow. The group was amazed to see the arms, so still in totality, humming with the whizzing of gears and ticking of other, more complicated parts. Gyroscopes spun ceaselessly at hinged corners, rotating propellers sat snugly against wires and cables, machines that they could only begin to guess at clicked and whirred and thrummed. 

For all this miniscule motion, though, the monstrous and foreign forge lay dormant.

Holding back at the wide entry, the group began discussing how to proceed. Without meaning to, they pitched their voices low, muting their arguments and moving as little as possible. Somehow, the aura of magnitude exuding from the machinery was almost tangible, and it weighed on them.

A few moments into the discussion, they looked around and realized Nissa was nowhere to be seen. As one, they turned to the glowing furnace room.

~~

Nissa, wearing her ring of invisibility, ducked under a low-hanging bifurcated arm, careful not to let her cloak catch on the delicate appendages that jutted out from it. She made her way across a series of short bridges and came before the central contraption. She let her eyes pass over the mind numbing array of wires woven into the central spire, over the solid metal shell of the furnace, over the large block of the anvil. There did not appear to be anything stealable, much to the gnome’s dismay. One portion caught her attention, though. There was a small table attached to the main anvil, slanted and with a sunken panel. 

A stack of thick papers in an attached leather pouch told her this was some sort of schematics table, which on normal forges would allow a smith to visualize the completed piece as they worked. Strange pulsing gems in the corners of this schematics table indicated this one probably worked differently.

On a whim, the gnome reached into her satchel and removed one of the gems she had secreted away. She placed it in the middle of the schematics table, then, when nothing happened, she added a crowbar from her bag. Still, the forge remained silent.

Thinking there might be some verbal command to start the whole thing, Nissa deactivated her ring of invisibility. As soon as her form blinked into view, she felt a tendril of foreign thought tentatively pressing on her mind. The gentle prod manifested as a voice in her head, rumbling and deep, clearly asking a question, though Nissa did not understand the words. Unless she missed her guess, it was speaking to her - rather, thinking to her - in dwarvish.

Nissa fumbled mentally to try and recall something - anything - she had learned in dwarvish from her companions, but nothing came to mind. She opened her mouth to ask the sentience to wait for her to go grab her friends, but apparently her delay was as good as a wrong answer. There was a metallic scraping noise from around the room as the sluice gates, long unused, began to open. Slowly, the lava they had held back began to pour into the channels along the floor. The dull red glow in the room grew brighter as the molten streams spread out.

While the lava was beginning to fill into the room, the many mechanical arms hanging over Nissa began to animate. With much clicking and whirring, many-segmented arms swung into action, pincers and hammers and all sorts of tools flying through the air, affixed to the now mobile appendages. They struck out at Nissa, clearly unimpressed with her lack of mastery of the dwarvish tongue, and the gnome was forced to retreat, hands over her head, back to the entryway.

As Nissa passed her, Brienne stepped into the active room and called out in dwarvish, “Is this the fire that forged my armor?” She held a hand to her breastplate, keeping her other hand on Mjolnir’s handle.

At her question, the room shuddered, and the lava seemed to glow brighter. The tendril of thought swept over the party, and everyone who could understand dwarvish heard in their minds, “Lord Dornlan, deceiver, you will die here.” The party leapt aside as the lava in the troughs around them became agitated, spilling parts of itself up onto the ground.

Wun Way pressed a hand to the coatl egg, tucked safely in its sling, and reached out with her mind, asking if it had any ideas. She felt the feathery presence of the unhatched coatl, and it replied, “This is a place of great anger. A temper this hot will never cool.”

While Brienne was shouting at the room, and Nissa was ducking beneath Ravain and Melpomene, and Wun Way was clutching her magic stone again, Pock peered around Brienne to take in the room. In the brighter lighting, he was able to make out a series of panels, each depicting one of eight murals around the room. Below each was signed in large runes the clan name from the previous room, spelled properly each time. The murals captured the discovery of the Hidden Forge, as well as several singular works of smithing, from helms and greataxes to intricate machinery and a brilliant crown.

The final panel had a carving of Brienne’s armor. There was no mistaking it - Pock could pick out those intricate silvered etchings in a room full of enchanted armor. The carving on the wall matched the piece Brienne was wearing exactly. Whoever had carved this last panel either knew the armor by heart - or had the piece with them as the panel was carved.

He turned to Brienne, pointing at the last panel, but the fighter was preoccupied dodging the globs of lava that were being thrown from the channels at her. When she proved too agile for the random sprays, the channels around her began to fill with more and more lava as a deep bubbling filled the air. Heat began to roll off the channels, and everyone began to sweat a marked amount more. Except for Pock, who had grown up around forges, and was only now starting to find the temperature a bit much.

The voice from before echoed in their minds once more, a deep tone filled with burning anger: “Lord Dornlan, your malice will never be welcome here.” The searing heat rose from the filling channels, and the group split up into different quadrants of the room, where the lava was lower and temperatures cooler (but certainly not cool). Nissa fired a bolt at the central mechanism of the forge, but the bolt clanged against a panel of wires and into a lava trough. There was a slight sparking, and a pair of bronze plates began to close off the entryway. Nissa’s eyes darted from the passage behind her to her friends, jumping over streams of lava. The gnome shrugged and sighed, then jumped back into the room as the thick doors clanged shut.

Melpomene crouched atop one of the foot bridges, ducking under one of the swinging arms that were rotating around the room. She had cast a spell of tongues on herself as soon as she felt the foreign thought, and was now crying out in dwarvish, trying to convince the forge that they were not associated with this Lord Dornlan. Wun Way echoed her sentiments, interceding on Brienne’s behalf. “This is Brienne of Tarth, God-Grappler, wielder of Mjolnir, savior of-” She was cut off as a pair of pliers whizzed by her ear. Checking around herself before continuing, she said, “Savior of Orlane! We do not know this Dornlan, but you are mistaken!”

As the chaos continued, Pock fended off a blow from a forge hammer with his shield as he muttered a prayer to Moradin. The lava ebbed from the area around the door and flowed to fill the channels around Brienne again. She batted a grabbing hand aside with her hammer and remembered the spell Elminster had cast for them:

Deep within a mountain spine

Where fire and stone become entwined

Dwelled a skilled but vengeful smith

Who made armor to mete justice with.

And for that act, who must atone?

The Hidden Forge, left all alone.

Find Xanderos and search his lair.

Your journey will begin there.

She cried out, “I am truly not Dornlan! But I know you atone for the injustice your works have caused. How can we help?”

“Lies!” the voice echoed, though it was not as indignant as it had been. There was a tinge of doubt around the corners of its tone, as if it could almost be heard as a question.

Sensing its will wavering, Melpomene cast a zone of truth around Brienne, motioning for her to repeat herself. This time, there was an audible ring of truth to her words, and she added, “How can we help you pay for the sins of your creations?” Lava bubbled up from the channels near Melpomene, but she stood firm, concentrating on maintaining the glowing white circle around Brienne.

Gradually, the spinning arms began to slow, and the lava started to seep back into the crevices in the floor. It was still very hot in the room, but perhaps it was growing cooler. After a long minute, the voice returned, this time tinged with regret, an old mind driven to wistfulness: “I suffer from lack of use.”

Pock hopped over a few steaming rivers of lava to the central contraption, heedless of the shimmering heat in the air. “As a forge cleric, it pains me to see such a good forge go to waste.” He placed a hand on the forge hammer, resting on the great anvil. “I would be honored if you would allow me to work upon you.”

There was a momentary pause, then the menacing red glow seemed to shift imperceptibly into the cheery red of a long-burning fire. Flames licked up in the belly of the furnace. The voice rumbled in their minds, and Nissa recognized the initial query she had failed: “What would you create?”

Pock thought for a brief second, head tilting to the side. Then, he said, “How about a badass sword?”

“A fine choice,” came the answer, and then the arms shifted back into sudden and purposeful motion. No longer twirling around the room, the arms began the intricate dance of maintaining the massive furnace, feeding it and operating the bellows, pulling chunks of ore from hidden areas around the room and heating them in the great fire. As the movements began, the door of the entryway slid back open, and the rest of the group happily left the sweltering room for the still-warm-but-not-overwhelmingly-so passageway beyond.

It was the most efficient and pleasing time Pock had ever spent with a forge, and he had spent countless hours before a wide variety of setups. The forge seemed to be in flow with him, from start to finish, which might have been partially explained by the constant caress of its consciousness on Pock’s. In any event, the forge was completely in sync with his actions and needs throughout the process, adding heat before the gnome could even think to ask, pre-forming the molten clump of slag as it left the furnace, offering tools Pock did not recognize but whose purpose and usage was instantly clear to him. Pock always enjoyed his time before a forge, but this was easily the most enjoyment he had pulled from his craft in a long time.

All too soon (though possibly not for those waiting in the heat of the middle of the mountain), the metal arms slowed to a halt, and Pock felt a tinge of pride from the forge’s consciousness. He held aloft a flawless longsword, shaped from sudden inspiration and sharp as a razor. It’s odd form was beautiful and efficient, and it cut through the air with a slight whistle as Pock gave it a swing.

“I have misjudged you…” the voice said to Pock; no one else was in the room to hear. Suddenly, the gnome’s vision went dark, and he felt the presence of the forge’s sentience grow stronger as memories flooded his awareness.

~~

A dwarf was laboring at the Hidden Forge, day in and day out. Though he smiled at the ring of his hammer on the great anvil, there was bitterness in his eyes, and it was clear this was the only thing that brought him joy. He finished the sword he had been working on, quenching it and laying it atop a growing pile of weaponry. The dwarf looked to the exit of the Forge and sighed, clearly dreading his return to the company of others, and one in particular. Outside of this forge, the dwarf was sad and angry, a blight on the otherwise well-knit community.

The dwarf returned to the forge, a cold, hard glint in his eye. Over a span of time, hours, days, weeks, it was impossible to tell, he crafted a wonderful suit of armor, etched with intricate silvered patterns. Into this armor the dwarf poured his malice, hatred, and vengeance. The dark thoughts of the dwarf seeped into the mind of the forge, which grew increasingly saddened as the scene continued.

Finally, the piece was done; the dwarf could finally add his own panel to the murals that surrounded the forge. It took all night and the next day to carve his magnum opus into the wall, beside those works of his predecessors. With the exact image of the armor immortalized in the walls of the forge, the dwarf scribbled upon the back of a schematic and wrapped his masterpiece in an oilskin. Without so much as a final glance, the heavy hearted dwarf left the forge for the last time…

~~

As Pock felt his own senses returning to him, he heard a gentle whirring. Above him, a spindly arm draped down, a sealed scroll case clipped to it. The arm stopped before the gnome, clearly offering the scroll. Pock removed the case and broke the seal, pulling out a rolled schematic for a sluice gate. On the back side was a note, scribbled in dwarvish runes.

“I have smithed my last piece. I will no longer tolerate the injustices of Lorn Dornlan. I will present my piece to him as a gift on Shieldmeet. As ‘thanks’ for all he does for me. Then I will leave the Forge forever and run as far as I can, for his vengeance will be swift and implacable.”

The note was unsigned.

Pock nodded humbly toward the central contraption, then repeated the nod in various directions around the room. He wasn’t quite sure where the forge’s mind lived. “Thank you for sharing this knowledge with me. May you slumber in peace.”

As he turned to bring the letter to Brienne and the others, the Forge’s voice echoed in his mind one last time, “Do not let me be forgotten again…”

[rumowrites]

Defectum, Ch.6

Runaan awoke with a throbbing headache. Puling one arm up to clutch his face, he rolled to his side and was suddenly faced with a rapidly approaching hardwood floor. His somewhat groggy reflexes barley managed to spare him a broken nose when he collided painfully with the ground of his training room. With a groan, he rolled onto his back, staring up to the wide beam he’d apparently been occupying. The events from last night came slowly floating back and he concluded that somehow he must have climbed up there the last night and fallen asleep. Runaan counted himself lucky that he didn’t fall down while still asleep and tried to sit up. He succeeded at the second try. The bright light shining into his eyes told him it was still before midday so the assassin hadn’t slept that long after all. A sudden wave of nausea kicked him into a sprint for the kitchen sink where he lost possession of his dinner and what he remembered to be very decent Whisky.

Runaan took a cup and filled it with water before sliding to the floor, his back against the counter. As he slowly sipped the water, the elf contemplated how he could probably get hold of this mess that was currently his consciousness. The child-king just wouldn’t leave him alone, always lurking in the back of his mind to haunt him whenever he was alone.

The new weapon and training had proven to be good diversions, effectively holding his sole attention until he was exhausted enough to sleep. Aversion was the key after all. In his head, he began to structure the rest of the week. During the time he had courses to give at the academy, the Assassin usually got up extra early to get some training of his own in before meeting the recruits at eight am sharp. He also trained in the evening after his group left since the two hours in the morning and light exercise during the day still left him restless and twitchy on most days.

The five days until his new recruits arrived slowly played out in his mind. Training early and in the afternoon. Between that, he could either get a head start on some of the paperwork or continue with the new weapon. And maybe, he thought, there would be time to visit Tinker. Something about the prospect of seeing the smith again caused his face to heat up.

What if he found the idea stupid? Runaan really wasn’t an artist after all. He quickly banned the thought into the same void his consciousness got locked up in before they could drag him down. No, he would go see Tinker, maybe even today, and ask him whether he found the weapon doable. And doable was really everything he needed right now.

It took him half an hour and a glass of water before he trusted his body enough to leave his place on the kitchen floor. Runaan then did some light exercises as if that would prevent him from throwing up again but still managed to get his blood running. By the time he was finished, the elf was still coated in a thin layer of cold sweat due to the nausea that wouldn’t quite vanish.

Afterwards, he first took a cold shower and then a hot bath, slowly feeling the life flood back into his system. It took him quite a while and a lot of scented oil before his entwined hair was back in a presentable form. He ran a brush through the still wet strands until it was silky and smooth, falling over his bare shoulders like a pearly white waterfall.

He placed all his sketches and notes in a sturdy cardboard binder and grabbed his black leather shoulder bag. Not everybody had to see him carry sketches around. The less anyone knew about him, the better. An Assassins greatest asset was anonymity and secrecy. Here, he couldn’t possibly blend in due to his high status, but he could still keep a mystical aura, make himself unpredictable. The image he’d created for everyone to see was impeccable with a few minor faults in order to make it look believable. Complete perfection was always treated with mistrust. Even the dragons themselves had flaws. No living being could possibly be entirely perfect.

Every once in a while, he lost on purpose during sparring matches or placed his arrow a fraction off centre. Never often enough to seem like he wasn’t their best but often enough to look like he had bad days, too.

That way, his fellow elves simply regarded him with a mix of awe and fear but none of them wouldn’t trust him. Too many enemies of Xadia had fallen to his blades for that.

The walk to the village was quick and undisturbed. Most people were already working or running errands, so the streets were mostly empty. He caught himself walking slower once he reached the alley where Tinkers shop was half-hidden behind a bakery. He was the only customer which didn’t really surprised him since it was still early afternoon and the streets wouldn’t be busy until the evening. Some shop owners even closed middays due to the lack of customers.

The smith was nowhere to be seen but Runaan could hear faint clanging noises that most likely resulted from a hammer meeting steel. He carefully stepped further into the shop before spotting a doorway on the far right where the noise grew louder. “Hello?” he shouted but didn’t really think anyone would answer. The noise would probably drone everything else out. The Assassin waited for a few moments before carefully following the sound through the doorway and down a rather narrow hallway whose walls were lined with a wide assertion of swords and spears. The air grew drier and hotter the further he came until the hallway opened into a fairly large room. The other elf had his back turned to him and was currently shaping a piece of glinting steel into what seemed to be an axe head. “Hello?” he tried again and immediately cursed himself as the smith stopped mid-motion and whipped his head around. “Oh, I’m sorry…” Runaan stammered “I didn’t mean to startle you.” Upon seeing who the intruder was, Tinkers gaze softened into a smile “Don’t worry. I usually don’t hear the bell at the door back here. Let me just get this done and I will be right there.” He gestured for the hallway, turning back to the orange metal on the anvil in front of him. “Could I wait here and watch?” the question was out before his brain managed to stop himself. “It’s quite interesting.” He quickly added to appear unsuspicious. Tinker just shrugged while he continued to hammer onto the slowly reforming metal. “Yeah sure. I don’t mind.” The twenty minutes the smith needed to finish the raw shape were over way too quickly in his opinion. It was almost mesmerizing to watch the steady up and down of the hammer and the confident controlled movements that slowly turned a blob of hot steel into a beautiful weapon.

Once he was done, Tinker placed the Axe on one of the heavy oak tables and took off the thick leather apron that protected him from both heat and flying sparks. Runaan immediately noticed the dark rune tattoos that were entwined with his marks, filling the gap between the two rings on his shoulder. It was rather uncommon for moonshadow elves to be tattooed but it somehow suited the smith. The thin sleeveless linen shirt Tinker was wearing had a few singed spots where the sparks found their way and generally looked like the other ever only used it to work in the forge. It looked rather good on him, Runaan decided after discretely staring while the other placed the last of his tools in their respective places. The strange warm feeling returned an he had to force the blush that crept on his face away as the smith willed a few strands of hair back, showing off his impressive biceps in the process.

“So, what can I do for you?” he asked, wiping hands and face clean of the ash and grime. It took Runaan embarrassingly long to answer, so engrossed was he in those delicate fingers threading through the piece of cloth.

“It’s about the weapon-design actually. You said you would maybe take a look and tell me whether it’s doable.” Immediately Tinker nodded enthusiastically “Yes of course! It’s been too long since I had the opportunity to experiment with something new! Just…” he started before looking down at himself “…just let me change into something less dirty. I’ll be right back.” While he vanished up a set of stairs at the far end of the workshop, the Assassin took out his notes and brought them in a relatively logical order. He passed the time until the other returned by looking at some of the displayed weapons in the shop. One spear in particular caught his interest. It was a little taller than him and had a slightly curved blade on each side. Upon further examination, he discovered that it could be broken down in the middle with a switch hidden in the hilt, thus creating two swords. Suddenly someone took it out of his hands and Runaan had to summon all his willpower to not shriek away.

“Here” Tinker explained, pressing two other buttons in the hilt that retracted the middle part until it was only two hands wide and unfolded it again to an even greater length. “It’s truly magnificent.” He praised, looking at the spear in awe. Tinker smiled at him happily in return. “Thank you. Although it’s mostly for show I guess. I’m not sure if it would be really practical in battle.”

“Are you kidding me? I have a ton of strategies in my head that would profit from a parry weapon that can be broken down to get two short-range weapons!” The smith then laughed at his enthusiasm. “Well not everyone likes their weapons as complicated as this one. The main reason why it’s still here I guess. But you wanted to show me something, right?” He pointed at the stack of paper in his hands. “Yeah, yeah sure. The drawings aren’t very good though.” Tinker just made a dismissive gesture, reaching for the parchment. “They can’t be worse than the very early drafts I do.”

After handing them over, Runaan anxiously waited for a reaction as the other scanned every sheet with seemingly increasing interest. “My idea was to incorporate a set of blades with a bow for both long and short range.” He supplied after a while. The smith nodded absently, studying one of his more recent sketches. “I think it’s doable. But it won’t be cheap, materials and all.” He finally said, an excited grin spreading across his face. “Payment won’t be an issue.” Runaan stated while placing two bags filled with coins on the table. The grin now threatened to split the others face. “That’s great! Have you got any idea of the variety of materials we could use? Xadian steel, moonstones for functionality, maybe even night copper to balance the blades…” the smith continued to list different materials and their use while simultaneously scribbling the things he said on a piece of parchment. Runaan was fascinated by the other’s enthusiasm and patiently waited until Tinker had filled two pages with ideas from the top of his head. “I would have to watch you fight.” He suddenly said, fixing him with a surprisingly piercing gaze. “What?” the Assassin had still been daydreaming and now looked slightly confused. “It would help me decide on the most suitable design for the, ah let’s call it Bowblade, if I could see how you fight.” He explained, gesturing to one of his sketches. “You know, so I have an idea how you would be using it. Things like the length of the blade and handle design are usually more influenced by functionality than decoration.” Runaan nodded slowly in understandment “Sure, you could come to the courses I teach or my own training time. I could also show you some moves here but I guess it’s better for you with an actual opponent right?”

“Yes, preferably when you fight someone equally skilled. So that you really have to fight, you know?” Tinker looked at him expectantly and made a move to hand back the papers before stopping mid-motion. “Actually, would you mind if I keep them until I’m done? You had some interesting notes in between that would certainly help me.” With a smile, Runaan nodded again, glad that the other found his notes useful. “Of course, that’s what I made them for.” He went through his training schedule in his head to determine when there would be suitable sparring sessions for Tinker. “When would you like me to show you how I fight?” he decided it was easier if he just asked when the other was free. “I can open and close the shop as I please, so I could just come to your usual training times if that doesn’t bother you. I am very discreet.” Meanwhile the smith had pulled a thick unused sketchbook from one of the drawers behind his desk and neatly labelled it “Runaan” before placing it in a bag together with a few different pencils. “Could I have a piece of paper?” Runaan asked and began to pen down his usual work week starting with the new recruits. He filled in every training session and remarked below each one whether it was meant to be at his home or the academy and alone or with partners. Tinker looked at the finished week plan for a moment before raising an eyebrow. “That’s a lot of training. You are aware that the time between your last and first training is, like, really short?”

He simply shrugged “I need the movement.” Again, the eyebrow. “Alright, according to your plan you would be training with someone in your party in roughly an hour. Would you mind if I accompany you?” the Assassin was slightly surprised to see Tinker so invested in his new order but agreed nonetheless. “If you don’t have anything to finish today. There will probably be some of the more experienced soldiers present so you will at least get a good show.”

A smirk appeared on the others face. “Oh, I have no doubts about that. Your reputation exceeds you.” He then grabbed his bag and a vest before gesturing for the door. “Let’s go!” Runaan obediently followed and together they passed the now busy streets leading out of town and towards the academy. Once there, he took the smith to his rooms in the right wing of the old stone fort. He motioned for the table in his study before vanishing in the bordering sleeping chamber to change. “Make yourself comfortable. I will be right back.”

He changed into his usual training attire that consisted of wide black pants and a sleeveless thin linen shirt. He contemplated dressing in something more official and nicer but quickly dismissed the thought. He was here to train after all. When Runaan re-entered the study, he could see Tinker sitting on the floor amidst all of his training weapons, furiously taking notes and sketching rough drafts of his blades that still looked better than Runaan’s best drawing. He quietly watched the scene before raising his voice. “You can look at the real ones, too if you like. I have most of them at home.” The smith jumped a little and nodded “Yes that would be helpful. So I can incorporate something familiar in the handles, eases the transfer.” He then stood an placed the weapons in their respective stands along the wall. The Assassin noticed him testing the weight and balance of each and every one while returning them. Something in the way he analysed every little detail fascinated him.

For today’s training, he chose two different sets of twin swords that differed in length and shape since those should be part of the new weapon. Of course, he also took his bow with a few padded arrows. He would most likely not get to use it today but took it anyways in case the others turned up later than expected.

When they stepped out into the yard, three familiar figures were already occupying their usual spot, seemingly discussing their shift plans and the best times to meet up for additional training. Tinker excused himself with the intent of searching a nice spot to sit where he wouldn’t bother anyone and Runaan continued to greet his soldiers.

“Who’s the handsome guy over there hotshot?” was Kira’s greeting to him while she discretely nodded towards the portion of wall the smith had claimed as perch. He couldn’t suppress the eye roll in response. “He is a smith and will craft a new weapon for me. You will probably see him around some more. He says he wants to see my fighting style before getting started.” She only gave him a knowing smile before stepping away to take her fighting stance. As per usual, the four started with some easier moves in changing pairs before it was three against him.

On his spot on the wall Tinker had the large sketchbook placed in his lap and was currently on his fifth motion sketch. He immediately loved drawing Runaan. His movements were so graceful and precise it was mesmerising to watch. He tried to convey as much of it in his drawings as he could. Every once in a while, he would find the other watching him with those piercing turquoise eyes of his. It always sent a shiver down his spine and he caught himself drawing a close-up of the Assassins face for a change. He also took notes on how he used the different shaped swords to figure out the best shape for the Bowblade. It would have to be slightly curved to imitate the shape of a bow but not too much so he was still able to properly use them. He also made notes of how runaan held the blades and for which manoeuvres he changed his grip on the handles.

When the fighters took a break to get something to drink, he already started to sketch out some rough design drafts and contemplated over the best mechanism to attach the blades in the middle. It wouldn’t be easy, but Tinker loved a challenge. Especially when the challenge included a handsome elf, he had now an excuse to come and watch as much as he pleased.

When the three soldiers left for their quarters and Runaan came walking over, he had over eight pages worth of sketches and notes. He felt a blush creeping on his cheeks and ears as the Assassin glimpsed on one of the pages and immediately complimented his drawing skills. They parted after a quick chat where Tinker announced he would come around some more times before starting on the final draft. Once home, he reopened the sketchbook and admired Runaan’s swift moving body until he fell asleep.

[5godsofphantomlord]

Greetings once more!

Salutations! It is I, Odin. You know, after having introduced two of my teammates, I think it’s probably about time that I introduced myself!

So hello! I’m 3rd God Odin, also known as James! I’m about 4′10 and I- I did it again... I forgot I have pictures... Here’s a picture of me!

So yeah, this is me! (and before you ask, yes, the facial hair is to stop people from mistaking me for a 12 year old...I’m not salty, you are!). I like to think that I’m a caring person, I’m definitely the one who brings the snacks (can’t save the world on an empty stomach!), and I always make sure to keep my friends at 100%! I also happen to be the group’s assigned strategist, which is great because it lets me test myself mentally, not something I get to do much these days... But yeah, that’s me, now onto my abilities!

First things first, Aura: Unlike the others, my aura isn’t very strong (I’ve never been that good at taking hits) so I tend to keep it inactive unless I really need it (hence the fact that you can’t see the Dust over my eyes). However, this does mean that I have plenty of aura to use my semblance, Dust Reconfiguration. Like the rest of the squad, I have a Dust ‘tattoo’ that I can activate with my aura to use it’s specific element. Originally, this was Water Dust, but my Semblance lets me change any dust I come into contact with into that of another type (the only caveat being that I need a deep understanding of the workings of both the Dust i’m reconfiguring, and the Dust that it will become. So far I’ve been able to wield: Water, Wind, Ice, Fire, Lightning, and Gravity; although I haven’t mastered any of them. I’m still working on Earth, and Hard-Light.

Next up, magic part 1: Well, as I’ve mentioned before, the first type of magic that we learned was a result of being genetically ‘re-wired’, in my case, I became a member of the Fairy Race. This didn’t exactly help me in the Defence department, but being telekinetic, able to fly, able to see into the minds of others, and able to wield my awesome sacred treasure...I’d say it was a good trade. Oh, and that’s not even mentioning my magic power! Fairy King Harlequin called it ‘Miracle’ because of it’s similarities to his own magic power ‘Disaster’. Basically, (as long as I’m holding an object in my hand) I’m able to either heal someone through Status: Demotion, or make their wounds worse through Status: Promotion. I can’t directly kill someone through Status: Promotion (not that I’m complaining), just something to note.

Now, Magic part 2: In the Guild timeline, I was determined to find a combat-oriented support magic that could hold it’s own against fully combat-oriented magics while still being viable for helping allies. It took a while to find (and alot of money to get implanted), but eventually I located a Lacrima that would give me a magic that fit all of those qualifications. Water Dragonslayer Magic is similar to Sky Dragonslayer Magic, in that it is still powerful offensively, but allows the user access to a multitude of support techniques, such as Water Dragon’s Arms (a spell that increases the physical strength of the target while it is active). My magic also gives me super-enhanced senses that are great for finding people who ran off, or for detecting an ambush...Not so great on trains though...

Other Magic: Well, I’ve learned a couple of Restoration Spells from Nurn, like Greater Ward, Heal Other, and Grand Healing. I also picked up Ash Shell and Ash Rune to keep enemies trapped for a few seconds, as well as Dragonhide to reduce damage when in melee combat. Finally, I picked up Bound Bow so I can support my allies from afar, even if I’m low on Magic Power (even though I tend to carry potions on me anyway, but just in case!).

Weapons: Sacred Treasure - Spirit Spear Lullaby: Instead of writing an essay on the whole thing and its (rather complex) history, I’ma just gonna run you through each of it’s forms. 1st Configuration, Spirit Spear Lullaby: This is the spear form that gives the Spirit Spear it’s name. Lullaby’s spear form has a massive blade for the spearhead (far larger than you’d expect) that is curved to give it plenty of cutting power. When used by it’s attuned wielder, Lullaby will sap a tiny bit of the target’s life force with every hit. Only a tiny amount, but it adds up over time. This energy is stored within the spear to be used in it’s other forms. 2nd Configuration, Avalanche: In this form, Lullaby becomes a massive group of 5000 arrow-head shaped blades that are infused with Ice magic. I’m able to move these blades individually, together, or anything in-between. 4th Configuration, Golem: A large Ice Golem that is linked to my mind and follows my command, Golem is big too, like, house big. He also has his own spell, Flash-Freeze, which freezes whatever he comes into contact with on activation. 5th Configuration, Dualist: Dualist is a rapier with a full swept-hilt. When in it’s Dualist form, Lullaby is able to expel an amount of the life force and cut straight through a target so long as the target is struck along a mirror-line (as in either side of the blade is symmetrical when not accounting for body movement. This technique, known as Divisive Strike, takes up a massive amount of magic power, so I can’t really use it in extended fights against multiple opponents. To be honest, I don’t really like using it anyway, seeing as most people can’t survive being cut in half... 8th Configuration, Deep-Sleep: Deep-Sleep appears to be a normal, yellow sleeping-bag. In reality, it’s a powerful passive-healing space that can fit up to 6 people inside comfortably (7 if you really squish people in). 10th Configuration, Death’s Blossom: Death’s blossom is a 4-5 storey tall white rose that emerges from the ground when summoned. This rose then absorbs the life force of anything in a 5ft radius of it’s roots, and expels that (as well as all the life force already contained in the Spirit Spear, and about three-quarters of my magic power) in a single beam from the centre of the flower. Just transforming Lullaby to this stage is no mean feat, actually using it is almost guaranteed to be the last thing you do in a battle. Parrying Dagger: I also have a small knife (even thought it’s called a parrying dagger, it’s technically a knife) that has a mechanism in the blade that splits the blade into three sections (in a kinda ‘W’ shape) which is great for catching an opponent’s weapon in to aid in a counter-attack or to disarm them completely.

So yeah, that’s all from me for now! Thanks for sticking with me here, just two more to go! Next time, I’ll be going over the Reaper of the Five Gods, Maui!

Goodbye for now! :3

[yharnamopossum]

@catsbreads​​ listen... no matter how hard i tried i couldn't actually like. list rank the bloodborne bosses... i love them all so much...... so instead let me offer u personal ratings in chronological order:

cleric beast: A STELLAR START!! sets the stage for the game!! yharnam's poster child!!! a beautiful baby beastie!!! challenging in all ng cycles while avoiding becoming a grueling nuisance, like woah!!! 10/10, iconic, beautiful, fluffy, screeeeeeee

gascoigne: fave song in the soundtrack, so handsome, heartbreaking story, handsome, phase 3 can be beaten by. walking. which is, eh. but!! handsome, and has a nice voice, and,, handsome,,,,,, 9/10 cus fuck those tombstones

blood-starved beast: BAPY!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! one of my fav fights!!!! a sweetheart, so beautiful!!! can be punched or torched to death, so great for when u want a simple but fun challenge!!! so speedy!! slender and toothy and flopsy and perfect!!!! 11/10, best baby, best fight

paarl: SECOND BAPY sweet electric puppy how i love you so...... a hell of a hassle when underlevelled but otherwise fun as hell. speedy!! 8/10, points deducted cus i get a genuine pain in my heart every time the zappies go away & she does the sad whine :c why does the game make me torture this poor pup :,C

vicar amelia: STOP FUCKING HEALING 9/10, she’s beauty she’s grace she wanna smack yr face

witch of hemwick: like. is this even a fight. 1/10 bc of that one time i somehow managed to kill the second witch before the first one and skipped phase 2 entirely and some rando said gg in the stream chat and made me feel good abt myself

amygdala: SUCH a good alien baby. lov the weird face. p sure we've all wanted to rip our arms off when upset. also, hello?? cutest lil feeties in the world???? oh man..... 7/10 cus looked cooler in the alpha + can be tricked into a visceral loop by running through her legs........ dumbass

shadows of yharnam: no. 0/10 fuck you

rom: MAMA HOW I LOVE YOU SO!!! why are you such a hassle in chalice dungeons!!! why are you in chalice dungeons to begin with!!!!! i feel so bad for mama rom, she's just so cute and kind and minding her own damn business all covered in dandelions....... 8/10 fight itself is annoying + she deserves better v.v

the one reborn: sky baby. the cutest collection of goofy goopy body parts you ever done seen. makes weird noises and flails wildly, as any good sky baby should. 5/10 cus horrendously easy

micolash: shut the FUCK up you chef boyardee spaghetti arm awoo-ass cage-head bastard i am TRYING to pick up the goddamn moon rune and needing to mash through your FUCKING dialogue in order to pick shit UP is the ONLY REAL THREAT IN YOUR FIGHT CUS I KEEP GETTING KILLED BY THE FUCKERS IN THE STAIRWELL REEEEEEEEE 6/10 tie your damn shoes

martyr logarius: speedy grandpa. phase 2 is absolute bullshit. alfred sweetie why do you idolise this guy again?? why the fuck can I fall off the roof but HE can't???? 5/10, crusty but satisfying as hell to beat

celestial emissary: another non-boss. what are you even doing here. you're the emissary huh??? a diplomat???? no wonder nobody in the church could figure out all the weird kin bullshit. 0/10, jimmy neutron-lookin ass

ebrietas: S P A G E D D Y....... so so sweet and pretty, i wanna give her a big soft smooch and a nice warm hug.......... 7/10 cus the fight is literally just button mashing

mergo's wet nurse: god you look SO fucking cool with all the feathers and swords and the facelessness and shit but just. that's the fight?? really??? that's it??? that’s the whole thing???? 6/10 cus design is incredible + music box playing in the bg is neat & eerie as hell

gehrman: can be easily parried to death, everything can be avoided with a backstep or two, spends most of the game crying and yelling "SCRAM!!", like... go home grandpa you're drunk. 4/10 cus good god i have SUCH a grudge left over from fighting him with neil...

moon presence: pretty sure the only time i ever died to her was in neil's file lmao?? once she does that 1hp move like. you've won?? she just. sits there??? u can rally all ur health back from her before she starts moving again??? and by then she's staggered for a visceral??? like???? 8/10 cus gorgeous and spooky and intimidating as hell but way too easy for a fancy secret ending boss :/

ludwig: listen. listen. look. listen. it's fucking ludwig. best design (handsome!), best music (well... second-best but still!), fight requires skill and timing and learning preps and patterns and is everything i love the most!! the game does that thing where mechanically he's a beast in form 1 but a hunter in form 2 and i fucking cry every time!! that monologue!!! beautiful voice, handsome face!! sword!!!! horse!!!!!!!! TEETH!!!!!!!!!!! AAAAAAAAAA 10000/10 but were u really expecting anything different from me lmao

laurence: the most grueling 2nd & 3rd phases of all time, good fucking grief. i can't get past him in +3. he's the reason i can't progress to higher ng cycles. he is ALWAYS the biggest issue in EVERY run. dumbass bitch in canon. ruined yharnam. whiny bastard. fuck this guy. 10/10 cus i'm thirsty + his music makes me cry & you forgot him in your list >:(

living failures: can be cheesed with a cleaver and some beast blood. v cool lanky six-fingered hands but otherwise?? honestly?? i mean gross incoming but??? they look like a botched circumcision. don't lie. they absolutely fucking do. i fucking said it. they do. 3/10 cus sometimes they break so badly that one'll follow you thru maria's fog gate lmao

lady maria: i mean. we're all gay. so, points. but also, idk i find her fight obnoxious?? timing is jank and that hunter bone nonsense is... ugh. 6/10 cus she is SUCH a fucking hassle & was way more interesting as a chara in the cut content :/

orphan of kos: i LOVE this baby bitch okay. like!! top fave fights, hello!!! timing and precision and prediction and learning prep patterns and safe boxes and spacing and aaaaAAA everything i love in from fights!!! has that weird poison knife glitch where u can make him stand there as ur friend!!! he is bapy!!! let him s c r e a m!!!!!!! 9/10 cus phase 2 can genuinely be beaten by just. walking. also he's gr0ss

oof alright that’s it there’s my takes for u uwu~

[bloodborne-guide]

Novice’s Walkthrough of Bloodborne: Yahar’gul the Unseen Village

Yahar’gul the Unseen Village is where you have to traverse to next to advance the story. After Rom’s death, the world has been drastically changed. The moon is now red and you can now permanently see the Lesser Amygdalas around the world. Arianna and Adella will no longer give you blood. Any NPC you haven’t sent to Oedon Chapel is now no longer accessible. You can now finish Eileen’s questline. The old lady will give you sedatives if you ask her for them. Gilbert has turned into a beast and will drop a tier 2 Clawmark Rune. Snatchers will no longer spawn in the world.

Clawmark Runes increase the damage of your visceral attacks

I will only go over the path I usually take when I play through this area and as such I will have missed stuff.

Eileen is found at the entrance of the Grand Cathedral, severely wounded. She will tell you to turn back. Going inside the Grand Cathedral is a single hostile hunter NPC donning the Cainhurst Helmet, gloves, and leggings, along with the Crowfeather Garb. He wields the Chikage and Repeating pistol

This fight is likely one of the hardest non-boss fight encounters in the game.

While his Chikage is intimidating, his pistol is the main threat

It deals massive damage and if he manages to land a parry, then you are likely to be killed by it outright.

He also utilizes the Old Hunter Bone and Numbing Mists to give himself an edge in combat.

He will heal once or twice when his health gets below about 50%

He will always shoot after doing a roll.

He has a massive health pool

He drops the Tier 3 Blood Rapture Rune when he is killed.

Blood Rapture Runes grant you health when you perform Visceral attacks

After you kill him, Eileen will give you the Hunter of Hunters Covenant Rune and the Crow Hunter Badge

Hunter of Hunters rune grants increased stamina recovery

The Crow Hunter Badge unlocks the Blades of Mercy and Crowfeather Set in the shop

After this point, Eileen disappears from your world without a trace

In Yahar’Gul the Unseen Village, you encounter

Almost every variant of Huntsman Enemy

Chime Maidens: The Chime Maidens here will respawn every enemy you killed until they die. Killing Chime Maidens will stagger their summons and will leave them weaker.

Brick Trolls

Cramped Caskets: These enemies spawn in the later half of the Unseen Village. They can’t be parried but are vulnerable to Fire Damage. They are fairly dangerous even on their own.

Some of the Cramped Caskets can fire projectiles at you.

Every variant of Graveyard Hags

Hunting Dogs

Scourge Beasts: They are basically the same as previous Scourge Beasts except they look incredibly different.

Wheelchair Huntsman

3 Hostile NPC Hunters.

Two of them are wearing the Yahar’gul set and one of them is wearing the Iron Yahar’gul helm

The one wearing the Iron Yahar’gul helm wields the Beast Claw

The one located near the exit of their encounter wields a Rifle Spear and Cannon

The one located on the stairs wields the Threaded Cane and Flamesprayer, as well as the Tiny Tonitrus

The Tiny Tonitrus is a Hunter Tool which you can find in the Unseen Village. It requires 25 ARC and 6 QS bullets required to use. It shoots an arc of lightning in a straight line.

From where you spawn in after you have killed Rom, go through the door with the Lesser Amygdala hanging over the door. This Amygdala will take you to the Lecture Building if you have the Tonsil Stone the first time you get grabbed.

On the path to the Yahar’gul Lamp, two Huntsman will be summoned for you to fight. After that, you have to go down a set of stairs with a Frenzied Coldblood in a corner nearby. There will be a Huntsman waiting to ambush you here.

From the Lantern, there will be a small troupe of Huntsmen who are proceeding down to where you have to go soon. To the right of that group is a single Bloodstone Chunk and stairway that leads to the Iron Yahar’gul helm. There is a Wheelchair Huntsman nearby and a single Yharnam Huntsman.

Back to where you're supposed to go is a large set of stairs filled with various Huntsman. There is also a Lesser Amygdala who will try to grab you on your way down. I recommend trying to run past these enemies as this part is particularly dangerous. It is perfectly fine, however, to lure a few of these enemies out before heading down. Do take care as the Chime Maiden will revive them shortly. The Chime Maiden is inside the building the stairs lead into, as well as a couple of Rifle Huntsman. There is a cage near the Chime Maiden with a Waning Bolt Gem inside.

The next building will have a locked door and you will have to enter through a hole in the wall. The Chime Maiden in here will spawn in a Brick Troll in front of you and a normal Yharnam Huntsman behind you to catch you off guard. There is a corpse in here with a Tier 2 Heir Rune. The Chime Maiden will also spawn in a Wheelchair Huntsman and a Torch Huntsman when you get to her area inside. There is a corpse inside a cage with a Frenzied Coldblood on it. You can open the locked door from earlier from this side.

When you exit this building, you will hear the distinct sounds of Graveyard Hags. There are quite a few of them in this next small section. A group of them is off to the right of the door. In the area with the trees in the center of it, there is a corpse with a single Bloodstone Chunk on it. There is a gap in the fence which you can drop down to. There is a Frenzied Coldblood here and an entrance to another building. Inside, there is a Chime Maiden which you should quickly dispose of as there is a Brick Troll on this floor. Down below, there is a cage with a corpse inside it which you can drop down into. This corpse holds the Upper Cathedral Key, which is used to access an optional area. There is also a chest guarded by a Brick Troll and a Wheelchair Huntsman. This chest holds the Tiny Tonitrus.

To advance, you have to descend down some stairs with a Lesser Amygdala hanging over. This one will fire beams similar in nature to those that the Amygdala boss shot at you. Inside this building is another Lantern which is marked as the Yahar’gul Chapel Lantern. Right outside a different door, there is a Scurrying Beast which drops 2 Chunks.

In the next area, there is a Rifle Huntsman on a ledge which you can drop down on. There are also 2 Hunting Dogs below him. Their Chime Maiden is nearby, so don’t worry about them reviving so soon as you can quickly dispatch of the Maiden. She is hiding in the corner opposite of the stairs. There is a group comprised of a Rifle Huntsman, a Pitchfork Huntsman, and a Brick Troll nearby. After you deal with them, there is a lone Huntsman guarding 8 Blood vials. Going inside the nearby building will introduce you to the Yahar’gul gank squad.

They are all particularly tough, and you may need to take them out one at a time, which is easier said than done as they are all aggroed at the same time. You will likely need to find a way to separate them using the environment.

In total, they drop a Madman’s Knowledge, tier 1 Clawmark, and 20 QS bullets.

After you have dealt with them, exit the building through the door the Rifle Spear Hunter was near. There you’ll meet your first Cramped Casket. There is also a burning corpse nearby which you can lure the Cramped Casket onto to deal a lot of damage to it.

Side Note. if an item is on a Snatcher’s Corpse, it’s Bloodstone Chunks.

There will be a Rifle Huntsman nearby which will take some shots at you nearby. His Chime Maiden is in fairly short walking distance to him so be sure to take her out quickly. There will be an elevator very nearby which you can access. There is an area which you can get off the elevator early. This area which there are 2 Hunting Dogs, a scurrying beast which drops 2 Chunks, and a Scourge Beast guarding 1 Chunk. Most importantly there is a bath which you can inspect for a shortcut to a later part of the area.

From the other side of the bath, going straight will lead you to your objective, but going left will lead you to a better Radial Blood Gem for your weapon.

There is a Scourge Beast at the entrance of the building which the Blood gem is in. Inside said building is a Rifle Huntsman and another Scourge Beast guarding the Blood Gem, which grants +18% physical attack.

From the Bath, going straight will lead you to a Chime Maiden who will quickly spawn a Yharnam Huntsman for her protection. There is a ladder which you have to go down. You will see a large area which is empty. Going near there will increase the sounds of the whispers that have been playing. Entering the area will play a cutscene and start the boss fight.

The One Reborn is a massive amalgamation of flesh and bones. It has been summoned by a multitude of Chime Maidens.

The One Reborn is weak to fire and bolt but is strong against Arcane.

It is assisted by Chime Maidens who will heal it and shoot fireballs at you. You can kill them off by walking up some stairs located on the opposite side of the entrance.

This boss is one of the easier late game bosses.

This boss does not have a second phase or at least does not have a noticeable transition into the second phase.

It mainly attacks with flailing its limbs around and with arcane attacks.

You can break its limbs to stun it for a while for some free damage.

The corpse on top seems to take extra damage.

It also takes extra damage from plunging attacks.

It has an incredibly dangerous vomit attack which can deal a lot of damage.

Avoid this attack by walking up some stairs.

Killing this boss gives you 3 Yellow Backbones and unlocks Bloodstone Chunks at the Insight Shop

Yellow Backbones are a Chalice Dungeon Material.

This has been Yahar’gul the Unseen Village.

[gamebrocorey-blog]

Dead Cells First Impressions: OHHHH YAAAAAH!

   I listen to a lot of video game podcasts during my job and workout, and many if not all have been giving upmost PRAISE to a new indie game called Dead Cells. I heard about Dead Cells ages ago when it initially released on Steam in early access. I knew it was going to be great but wanted to wait for the full experience, plus I saw it was coming to the Switch. I actually pre-purchased this game a few weeks before it’s launch and didn’t get around to playing it until a few days ago. All I can say is IF I WASN’T WRITING THIS BLOG RIGHT NOW I’D BE PLAYING DEAD CELLS!!! OH MY GOD IS THIS GAME GREAT!!! Dead Cells in simple terms is a rogue-lite metroidvania 2D action game... I guess those aren’t that simple of words. It’s basically a 2D action game that changes every time you play it. You’re always finding new weapons, enemies and secrets, as well as getting cells to unlock some permanent upgrades. Oh yah, didn’t I mention every time you die, you restart from the beginning? Thus is the nature of rogue-lites, but that’s why I love them! Dead Cells mixes challenge of a Souls game with exploration of a metroidvania, and I’m absolutely in love! 

   As challenging of a game Dead Cells is, they still help new players out right from the get-go. The first run you have in Dead Cells is almost like a tutorial, showing you the basics of how to play and how the items work. Once you play some more runs though, it’s all on you. Figure it out genius!!! I’ve played for about 3 hours and I’m still learning and perfecting the runs. I remember starting very slow, than going very fast and dying constantly, now I move pretty fast through the levels while barely getting touched. The combat is a good mix of easy and hard. Attacks all depend on the type of weapon you’re currently using. The game starts you out with a pretty quick short sword, but you can find even faster daggers or strong slow heavy weapons. Most attacks performed by enemies are very drawn out so that you have a window to dodge or parry. Whenever you start are run, you are given the choice of taking a bow or a shield. The bow acts as a projectile weapon, while the shield can be used to block and parry, as well as absorb some minor damage.This choice at the beginning really showcases the fundamentals of Dead Cells, play the game how you like! The more and more you play, the more items you unlock and the more combos you find! Discovery and exploration is a BIG role in good metroidvanias, and Dead Cells even does this right!

   Dead Cells has two different types of exploration progression that works great and is fantastic. One is time sealed doors. As your progress into the hard levels of the game, you will find doors that look like hourglasses that are either blue or red. If they’re red, they will be locked and a message will appear saying how much time you were short of unlocking the door and you will have to try again next time. But if they’re blue, you sure did go fast and can pass through the door to obtain your prize of power-ups and gold! I also believe some of these timed doors can lead to new areas as well as unlock more lore in the game, but I can’t confirm this yet. The other type of progression is through platforming options closed off by runes. Runes are unlocked by beating specific mini-bosses, and are permanent unlocks that allow the player to access new areas through various means. The first rune you unlock allows you to to create a ladder out of a pile of cells, unlocking access to new areas! As you play the Dead Cells, you will find many different road blocks in platforming that you will realize will need a specific rune. This and the fact that each run is different adds vast replay-ability to the game overall! I was a huge fan of The Binding of Isaac and can tell Dead Cells is going to consume MANY of my hours! I hope to report back in a week or two for a full review of Dead Cells! Now if you excuse me, TIME FOR MORE DEAD CELLS! 

[josai]

we’ll take the best parts of ourselves and make them gold

Read on AO3 | Chapter 1 of 6 | a collaboration with @frenchibi

Tooru has a dream.

It’s been with him for as long as he can remember, really - the beginnings of it aren’t clear in his mind, hazy like so many childhood memories become with time, but he knows the thought it was born from, because it’s a thought that governs most of his choices.

He remembers running through fields of gold, remembers laughter and stories, shared and discarded in equal parts in days that seemed endless, in limitless hope and wide-eyed wonder, in excitement and opportunities.

He remembers wooden swords and shields, carved carefully by a man he loved like his own father - gifts that fueled dreams.

But most of all, he remembers warmth - and a face, clear as day, to go with the feeling of a hand holding his. A face, a grin, toothy and wide, freckles like stars.

“When I grow up, I’m going to be a knight!”

He remembers listening, with bated breath, to this boy’s stories of grand adventure, and to his promises. We’ll go there, together!

It’s a dream, yes, but it’s also a decision, when they beg their parents for permission to leave.

It’s a long ride away, and the choice of a lifetime. It means never look back, it means know who you are and remember where you came from.

It means goodbye, maybe forever, to the rolling hills they called home.

“I just wish you’d let me keep you a little while longer,” is what his mother says. There’s sadness in her eyes, but hope in her voice. Tooru will learn, later, that she always knew she would have to let go. That her son would always strive for greater things, bigger things, larger than her life could provide.

When his journey begins, Tooru isn’t afraid. He’s got a hand clasping his and a dream in his heart, and enough determination to carry him there.

He knows it won’t be easy - but he’s never alone.

-

The days are long and grueling.

Tooru strains muscles that he never even knew that he had, learning how to fight; how to handle a sword, shield, and a spear. They’re fitted in armour, taught how to walk as knights, talk as knights, how to hold a line-

It’s hard work, but if this is what it takes for them to accomplish their dreams, Tooru is more than willing to make the sacrifice.

-

“Faster!” The commander calls yet again.

Tooru grits his teeth, pushing himself up off the ground, tightening his hold on his sword.

It still feels weird in his hand.

Awkward, heavy.

Not right.

That’ll go away, he’s sure - it must - but he has to focus on keeping it straight, on tightening his wrist. Swinging from all sorts of angles, not just from his shoulder, where his swing is strongest.

He’s not as quick as the others, not as strong as Hajime-

But he can’t think of that, not now. He might not be gifted, but Tooru is, if nothing else, a damn hard worker.

He focuses on the boy standing in front of him, his training partner. He’s a shorter, stocky kid. Doesn’t have much reach, but makes up for that with power- but he’s slow, and his movements are all incredibly textbook.

Tooru inhales.

He can do this.

The other boy moves as soon as their commander calls to start, lunging for Tooru and swinging his sword. Tooru hears it as it slices through the air next to him, sending a chill up his spine; they’re training, but the weapons are real. The fighting is real, the blood spilled is real-

Tooru parries at his next swing, feeling the pressure as he blocks, stepping back and out of it, creating more space between them.

Tooru’s taller, faster, he can use this to his advantage-

Another swing and Tooru just manages to dodge, turning his body and lunging forward, knocking his opponent down this time with a strong blow. This time he’s the one who hits the dirt, sputtering a bit while Tooru moves back to guard, glancing to see Hajime nodding at him approvingly from the grounds next to him.

-

“A good knight needs to know not only how to fight with a sword, but understand the craftsmanship that goes into the making of each and every blade..” The blacksmith picks up the blade, red-hot from the fire and plunges it headlong into a vat of oil, steam hissing as it rises.

The entire group of recruits watches, curious (and a little tired- they don’t get days off training very often, instead being gathered up to trek around the castle grounds, through town, or wherever their commander deems fit - but when it happens is always after a brutal week of training sessions, such as this one). Tooru’s feet still ache from the week they spent travelling through the forest, learning to hunt and survive on their own, so he leans against Hajime as they watch the demonstration.

Hajime is giving the blacksmith his rapt attention, bless his heart. Tooru chuckles under his breath when he looks over to see Hajime looking closely at the series of runes being carved on the hilt of a greataxe.

“Hey,” Tooru whispers, nudging Hajime with his elbow. When Hajime looks over, Tooru nods at the axe that the blacksmith is currently detailing. “That one, there? It says whisper.”

“Huh?” Hajime blinks, confused. “Whisper? Why would you want your axe to say that?”

Tooru shrugs, chuckling under his breath. “Maybe you wanna be quiet like a whisper? Stealthy?”

He gets a laugh from Hajime, which he covers up quickly by turning it into a cough when the blacksmith looks up. Once his attention is elsewhere, Hajime says, “If you’re gonna be stealthy I don’t think an axe is the right choice. How do you know that anyway?”

“The library,” Tooru responds, “There’s a whole book on the rune alphabet… and there are other books with passages that use just the runes so it made sense for me to start by reading that book…”

Hajime looks over with a frown. “When did you have time to do all of that reading?”

Tooru looks away guiltily. “Well you know, sometimes we’re dismissed early, and everyone heads to sleep right away, so the library is so empty-”

“Tooru…”

“None of the teachers seem to care, anyway, as long as I bring my own candle - found that one out the hard way - and put away anything I take out… and if I read in the library then I won’t accidentally wake anyone up-”

“Idiot,” Hajime scoffs, knocking him with his elbow. “Don’t stay up too late, okay? We should rest during our break today, sound good?” The blacksmith dismisses them with a wave of his hands. “You can tell me more about these runes while we have some lunch.”

Tooru brightens, nodding his head excitedly. “I’d love to!”

-

Swords continue to feel weird in Tooru’s hands. He gets used to them, sure - he has to, he’s going to be a knight for god’s sake - but it doesn’t feel quite… right. Natural.

The first time he puts his hands on a bow, however? It’s completely different.

The delicately crafted wooden longbow is heavy, but balanced. He moves it from hand to hand, testing the weight, getting used to the feel.

It’s good.

“The longbow takes great strength to draw, and precision to aim and shoot your arrows smoothly. When shot correctly, it can pierce right through a knight’s armor - it takes time and great dedication to learn this skill, but it’s extremely advantageous in battle,” the commander explains, walking along the line of recruits, many of whom are struggling to hold their bows correctly. He fixes their posture, adjusts their hold-

Walks up behind Tooru, noting his position, and nodding his head approvingly.

“Notch your arrow,” he calls, and Tooru picks up one of the arrows from his quiver. He notches it as instructed, adjusting his bow, closing his eyes and inhaling.

He’s surprised to find that he’s not even nervous.

“Draw back your bow.” His commander’s voice feels far away as he focuses in on the target nailed to a tree at the other side of the field.

Tooru pulls back the string of his bow, feeling it tremble in his arms. It resists as he pulls, but he doesn’t let that stop them - right until it’s drawn all the way back.

He can feel his thumb twitching, he can feel his muscles burning from the effort of holding it up, but it’s good, it fits-

He hardly hears the commander’s order to fire as he releases his bow, listening to the arrow shoot through the air, sailing across the field. Where many of his fellow recruits wind up with arrows stuck in the grass at different points on the field, Tooru looks up to find his arrow embedded deep in the trunk of a tree, just a short distance below his target.

He grins, more than ready to spend the rest of the afternoon practicing how to shoot.

-

Sleep becomes difficult. It’s strange, really, because he feels more exhausted than he’s ever been in his life, yet once he’s able to collapse back in the barracks his mind races as if on overdrive. He’s thinking of all the things his commanding officers have told him - all the maneuvers, all the tactics, the plans… not to mention the worrying.

Tooru flips over on his bed, trying to cuddle up to his pillow and push away all these thoughts. He needs to sleep, he knows it- there’s no way his body can handle a full day of training tomorrow if he doesn’t get a proper night’s sleep. He kicks one leg out from under his blanket to get a little fresh air and cool off his body, sighing in frustration as this really doesn’t seem to be working-

“Hey.” A grumble from Tooru’s right has him flipping over, propping his weight up on an elbow to peer at the bed next to him… Hajime’s bed.

“Hajime?” Tooru whispers, not wanting to wake up any of the others - not that he could, they sleep like rocks - “Why are you awake? You should be sleeping-”

“I could say the same for you,” Hajime interrupts him gruffly. Ah. Right. “I can practically hear your thoughts from here. Stop worrying.”

Tooru huffs, dropping back against his bed and burying his face into the pillow. “‘m not overthinking-”

“Can’t hear you when you’re mumblin’ into the pillow,” Hajime says, leaning across the space between their beds to nudge Tooru on the shoulder. “Speak properly.”

Tooru turns his head to look properly at Hajime, his eyes adjusting enough in the dark to see his figure. He looks comfortable, sprawled out on his bed. He probably wants to sleep.

Tooru sighs.

“Sorry,” he says instead, knowing that lying about this will get him nowhere. Hajime is too damn perceptive. “Can’t seem to turn my brain off.”

There’s a grunt from one of the beds on the other side of the barracks, and both boys pause to see if whoever it is is going to wake up. It’s followed shortly by a snore, though - so they’re safe.

“I know,” Hajime replies, letting out a soft breath. He does know, and that’s the hard part. There’s not much he can do to stop the tidal wave of thoughts in Tooru’s brain and they both know it. But- “Wanna talk about it? It’s not that late yet.”

Tooru peers over at Hajime, trying to read his expression in the dark. “It’s okay, you need your rest-”

“And so do you. Ten minutes, alright? Fresh air. Then we can come back and sleep even better than before.” Hajime’s not waiting for a response, already sliding out of bed, stepping into his boots and reaching for his coat hanging beside his bed.

Tooru breathes in, and follows.

He really does sleep better after, too.

-

The throne room is even larger once you’re standing in the center of it, instead of off to the side. It also feels, to Tooru, like it’s growing in size with every pair of eyes that is resting on them now.

They came here only twice before - it’s a ceremonial hall, after all. The entrance ceremony is conducted here, as well as a lesson in etiquette - and this, right now. The highest privilege for a student at the Academy: ten years of training, to be chosen and appointed.

Tooru wants nothing more than to glance over to his right, to share this feeling, but he keeps his head down.

We’ve made it.

“What do you fight for?”

The prince’s voice rings clear into the silence, authoritative even through the clear youthful tone.

“Honour and Duty,” they recite, “to our land and to the Crown.”

Tooru can practically feel Hajime vibrating with excitement, and knows he is faring no better, barely concealing his elation. This is it. This is what they’ve been waiting for, what they’ve been working for, all this time.

Together.

“And what is it you vow to do?”

They raise their heads, as is the custom, to face the man they are pledging their allegiance to.

“To serve and protect, our duty and privilege.”

The prince nods, rising from his throne and motioning for them to do the same.

“Iwaizumi Hajime,” he says, “and Oikawa Tooru - you are hereby appointed to the Royal Guard.”

-

The first weeks are everything Tooru has been dreaming of - and at the same time, they’re nothing like he’d ever imagined.

Of course the fantasies they’d had as children, of fame and glory, of epic battles and endless fortune, were wiped out as soon as they started training - but still, the job does entail some of the glamour and splendour Tooru had imagined. They are direct escorts to the prince, so they go where he goes, study chambers, courtrooms, garden parties and all - but it also means following the prince’s every whim, and, most of all, a large amount of standing and waiting in silence.

Tooru knows he should be thankful for the peace and prosperity that their country is living in, shouldn’t wish for the heat of battle, the swish of blades outside of the training grounds - thankfully this is a place they frequent, as the prince seems very keen on learning everything there is to know about swordsmanship - but some small part of him, the remnants of the starry-eyed boy that no hardships could eradicate, still does.

Hajime can sense it, Tooru is sure - he’s always been able to feel his unease, sometimes even before Tooru notices it himself. He makes sure to reassure him as best he can - always catches his eye when Tooru seeks him out, always reaches out first when they have a moment to themselves, always makes a point of asking about how Tooru feels.

In that respect, it’s like nothing has changed - Hajime carries him, reliable as ever, and Tooru thanks him in grateful smiles, in shared glances and jokes, leaning into familiarity.

There is a reason, Tooru thinks, why nothing has managed to separate them. There are days when he wishes he had a name for it, wishes he could voice it and get rid of that last bit of uncertainty - but he decides against it, every time.

Hajime is here - there’s nothing more he could ask for.

-

“Where are you going?”

Tooru stops in his tracks, realizing that Hajime is no longer beside him. It’s not like they never part ways, but… usually when the night guards take their shift, the two of them head to dinner together and then back to their quarters - there’s rarely a need for them to go anywhere else. This is the life they’ve worked for, after all.

Hajime is quiet for a moment, long enough to cement Tooru’s unease.

“...are you okay?”

He takes two steps back, back to where Hajime is standing in the middle of the hall, eyes on the floor.

“Iwa-chan?”

“...I can’t go back yet,” Hajime says.

By all accounts, it makes no sense.

“What do you mean?”

Tooru doesn’t like the trepidation rising inside his chest. Hajime isn’t looking at him. Something’s very wrong.

“I’m… the Prince has asked for me.”

Tooru blinks.

“Oh. Well, we should head back then-”

“No.”

Hajime looks uncomfortable, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. “No, Oikawa, it’s… he’s asked for me.”

Tooru frowns, not understanding - they’re a pair, after all, trained together, raised together, appointed together, why would the Prince-

And then it sinks in, and it’s like someone poured a bucket of cold water over his face.

“...oh.”

It’s like all of his words are gone, then, sucked away with the last bit of oxygen.

Tooru knows the Prince often requests maids to keep him company, to amuse him, to entertain - and he’s heard talk of him taking stable boys too, on occasion. Sometimes there will be concubines, exotic dancers or company that can be bought for a price higher than the wages he and Hajime earn in a month.

But he’s never asked for a knight - at least not to Tooru’s knowledge.

Hajime still isn’t looking at him.

“...go ahead without me,” he says, but he makes no move to turn around.

It’s like Tooru’s thoughts are stuck in quicksand, everything feels sluggish and surreal. He doesn’t dare think of what this means, can’t seem to think anything other than oh, oh, please tell me you’re lying.

Because if the Prince is asking for Hajime, then-

It means that everything Tooru feels has to cease to exist.

Honour and Duty.

It’s like the oath - nothing before the Crown. No matter what happens.

It was an easy oath to take, for Tooru, because there was only one thing he treasured more than the cause - and he’d been right beside him then.

He’s always been right beside him, just out of reach, but close enough for comfort. There, warm and comforting.

Knights are told to try and think of home, during the harshest days of training. They say it helps to remember what you’re here for, what you’re fighting for - the realm you want to protect, that keeps your loved ones safe.

When Tooru thinks of home, he sees Hajime’s face.

What do you fight for?

Tooru knows the words, but there’s only one in his head, only one possible answer as he watches his partner turn and walk back the way they’d come, hands clenched tightly at his sides.

What do you fight for?

Hajime stops, but he doesn’t turn around. He knows he must be listening for footsteps, waiting for Tooru to do the duty assigned to him - serve and protect.

Obey.

Tooru wishes he was more like Hajime - always the one to speak up, to defend, to give voice to injustice.

Honour and Duty, to my land and to the Crown.

All he can do is stand and watch as the world crumbles around him, taking his certainty with it.

What do you fight for?

Hajime.

-

Chapter 2  →

[echoinglight]

A Moment of Weakness

I can’t believe my first Sidon and Link writing is this awful angst. I promise I started off with another one that was very sweet and simple but I haven’t finished it because this monster took over ajhfgjf it rolled around my head for weeks and one night recently while talking with Squishy I just poured it all out at once. title is a reference to some of Sidon’s dialogue. 

media: Breath of the Wild pairing: sidlink words: 2,124 warnings: mildly graphic depictions of violence/pain, mentions of family death

He’d really done it this time.

Clearing the camps of monsters scattered everywhere had become routine, something Link could do as he passed by. This particular one looked fairly packed; running right in would be way more than he could handle. So he was in the midst of a daring plan that involved climbing a tree and aiming for the barrel of explosives nearby - and somewhere amidst the climb and readying his bow is when it went wrong.

A watchman that Link had missed spotted him, immediately screeching a warning. The same barrel that Link planned to ignite was picked up and tossed at him, the plume of flaming smoke billowing just under his toes as he held onto the tip of the tree for dear life. For a second he marveled at his good luck, ready to let out an adrenaline-filed whoop - when a splintering crack abruptly replaced his glee with fear. The base of the tree crumbled and broke, sending the timber swooping toward the ground with a thundering crash.

Link just barely managed to brace his feet on the clear side, kicking off and rolling away from the heavy log as it settled. He leapt to his feet and whipped around, reaching for his sword, but a heavy club slammed into him and he was sent flying toward the ground a second time - in considerably more pain.

The monsters squealed and hollered as they circled around the injured Hylian, jabbing blunt spears and jagged blades that he just barely managed to parry as he dazedly got to his feet and readied his weapon.

It was no use. Every attack that he evaded was instantly replaced by another, an infinite loop of pricks and scratches and blows that steadily wore down his energy and started to dig through his tunic.

He could have thought something profound about how “this is the way the hero of Hyrule dies - bludgeoned by little more than scavengers” if he had the time to make such coherent connections. Instead, he pressed through the pain, trying to see an opening, getting desperate to find his way out of this nightmare. A cliffside, a hill, a traveler - surely something had to open an escape to him.

All at once it came to him, but it would take a risk that he didn’t know if he could afford. Then he saw the circle closing in and he knew that it was only a matter of uncertain death versus certain death. He tapped the screen on his hip, a glowing orb appearing then growing to the full bomb size in his palm. The monsters only got a second to yelp anxiously before the blast hit them all.

Link was thrown far off, same as his assailants, the magical force of the rune bomb stinging his skin until the unforgiving hardness of the ground replaced that pain completely. He wanted to just lie there in his half-blind with agony state and never move again, but the shuffle of the monsters rapidly recovering and searching for their prey brought him to his senses. He just barely managed to raise the Sheikah Slate, opening the map and tapping a familiar zone quickly, hoping he’d chosen the right one. Safety, he thought with such force he could have sworn the slate vibrated in response.

The last he saw was the monsters scrambling toward him until the blue light engulfed him entirely, deconstructing him into nothingness and whisking him away.

◈

Night had fallen over Hyrule; morning was just hesitating to break. Zora’s Domain glittered and glowed, chasing away the darkness with graceful beauty. Many of the Zora were still asleep, while the ever-loyal guards rotated their shifts. Bazz moved to the the lower level of the courtyard, his spear held strongly at his side as he scanned his eyes over the area. All seemed to be well, so he turned and stared curiously at that strange monument housed at the very heart of the Domain, one that he’d seen for so many, many years, but only a few months ago had taken on an orange glow that changed to blue once that brave Hylian had visited it.

He stared at that blue light intently for a long while, as though studying it for the thousandth time would give him further answers. All at once, another form of blue light formed before his very eyes, beautiful tendrils that waved toward the ground before dissipating as quickly as it had appeared. Bazz stood stunned for a short moment, but shook himself out of it and peered over the stairs to see what such a display could mean.

The crumpled, scuffed, and bloody form of the Hylian registered at the same time he recognized the face. “Link!”

Bazz dropped his spear and ran down the stairs, dropping to his knees at Link’s side and cautiously reaching to check for signs of life. He feared moving the boy until he knew the extent of the injuries… should he still be alive. A rush of relief washed over the Zora as he found a faint heartbeat, and he immediately rushed back up the stairs and toward the inn where the nearest Zora was just heading inside. “Kodah! Kodah!”

Kodah startled at the wild-eyed look of the usually so composed guard as he spoke quickly. “It’s Link- he’s hurt.” She gasped, but he continued before she could ask the questions on her lips. “I’ll be with him- at the shrine. Please, fetch Prince Sidon immediately!”

“Of- of course!” She hurried off, running toward the stairs while Bazz returned to Link’s side. His expression drew into a grimace of empathy pains as he gingerly inspected the injuries. Having no fabric of his own, he tore a shred from Link’s battered tunic to wrap around a heavily bleeding gash on his arm. “Link, can you hear me? You’re at Zora’s Domain now. You’re going to be okay.” It was unclear if Link was conscious enough to hear him, but he hoped with all his might that he could.

A nearby thud got Bazz’s attention, and he looked up to see the Prince had bypassed the rounded stairs and simply leapt down the level in his haste. “Bazz, what’s- Link!” Sidon’s eyes went wide.

A crippling pain dulled Sidon’s usually so cheerful eyes, and Bazz immediately felt his own heart clench even tighter. “He’s alive, but very badly hurt…” he moved aside to let Sidon kneel over the boy, touching him so gently, as though he might break. “I don’t know how he got here it was just… a sudden light brought him. I’m not sure he can be moved, he’s been beaten and stabbed a great deal and I fear broken bones.”

Sidon listened carefully, but poured equal attention into looking over the wounds and softly caressing the cheek of his treasured one. With each cut and bruise he saw he felt as though his own heart was being given the same wound. Link stirred at last, just barely fluttering his eyes and giving a pained exhale. “It doesn’t matter, because he cannot stay here. I can carry him to the healer.”

With the most cautious of movements, Sidon managed to slide his hands underneath Link’s limp body and lifted him with little jostling. He ascended the stairs, keeping a close eye on his charge as he began the somber walk across the domain.

◈

Sidon found no solace after he left Link to the hands of the Zora healer. He paced, he prayed, he wrung his hands. He found the ache of his passed sister split open again as he prayed to her spirit to please- save him, if you can hear me. Hero of the people be damned, Sidon didn’t want to lose another piece of his heart to mourning. Help me save him, as I could not save you.

The image of the bright, sparkling boy he’d spent so many afternoons with, watching the stories he wove with his hands, feeling the ease in his spirit as they floated down the river together, seeing the determination in his eyes when he used the break to practice his way with the sword- to know him as Sidon did, and to see him in a state so torn down- it was agony.

The healer finally opened the door, and Sidon rushed over, tears pooling in his eyes.

“Let your heart find peace, my Prince. He lives.”

◈

Everything was so… dark. And blue. Link could tell this much from behind his eyelids. The Shrine of Resurrection… I’ve been born again. He thought simply, seeing the small stone room in his mind’s eye. No… I wouldn’t know anything about that, if that’s what happened. I wouldn’t remember.

“Link? Are you awake?”

His wandering attention came back to what was, not what could be. He slowly managed to blink his eyes partway open, noticing he was propped up on a bed of some sort, a blanket draped over him.

“Sidon…?”

The Zora’s face went from apprehension to a smile that scrunched his whole face, tears falling freely as he ducked his head over Link’s body. Link realized Sidon’s hand was over his and he tried to turn his hand to weakly clasp it.

Link gently stroked the top of Sidon’s head, watching him with a drowsy fondness, but also concern. “Why are you so sad?” He whispered.

Sidon took a deep breath, laughing lightly. “No, I… I’m not sad. Not anymore.” He composed himself enough to lift his head, allowing Link to hold his cheek. “I’m so happy you’re alive- I don’t know how you found your way to me in the state you were in… but thank the goddesses you did.”

Link smiled a little bit, tilting his head, his thumb rubbing Sidon’s smooth Zora skin. After a moment the lingering pain set in, and his face fell. “I was… outnumbered. Yeah… I got overwhelmed. The only way out was… the slate-“ he looked around with sudden concern until Sidon clasped his hands.

“All of your things are just beside you. However… your armor was damaged, and even so had to be removed quickly to treat you. The healer found another set of clothes amongst your supplies, I hope you don’t mind.” He plucked at the worn blanket with his fingers. “And this was the only extra blanket we had on hand. It seems we should begin to make preparations for the return of Hylian travelers.”

Link smiled again at that, resting back again. “It looks like I’ll be here for a little while, so I guess you gotta start now,” he joked, putting a smile on Sidon’s face in return.

“This is one of the few times I’ve heard your voice,” Sidon noted after a moment, peering curiously at Link.

“Me too,” Link replied, opening one eye to peer right back at Sidon, who became sheepish. He drew back, mulling over something until finally he gently pulled Link forward to embrace him. Link automatically snuggled into Sidon’s chest, the comforting and familiar softness of the slick skin relaxing him.

The hug became a little tighter, and Link rubbed soothing circles wherever his hand could reach. “I’m okay, Sidon. I’ve got two against zero on death now. I’m not going anywhere.”

“But you are always so reckless… I just couldn’t bear it if…” he sighed, a puff of air far over Link’s head. “You are wild and wandering, and I fear the day your bravery makes you foolish. You may have lost your memories, but you are whole as you are now, Link. You are loved.”

Link buried himself deeper into Sidon’s chest in response.

“…I would like to tear apart the beasts who did this to you… to me. And should the blood moon rise, I’ll do it over again.” Sidon’s voice was soft, but it now trembled lightly with his pain.

Link nudged Sidon with the palm of his hand. “Now who’s reckless?” He murmured. “No hunting monsters. That’s my job. You stay as far away from… from all this as you can. Because when all this is gone- you still gotta be here for me to come back to. That’s- that’s your job.” He struggled over the words, ending up muttering down toward his lap as he hugged Sidon’s chest. “You are the brightest thing I’ve seen in Hyrule yet. Please- stay… stay that way. You are loved, too.”

Sidon looked down at Link in surprise, and gently held him at the shoulders as Link stared down at his hands. “Then so I shall.”

Link let Sidon scoop him up, and he stayed nestled safe in his arms for a long time, knowing he was alive and home.

[rqg--us]

Review of RuneQuest Gamemaster Screen Pack - RPGnet RPG Game Index

Review Summary: It says: Gamemaster Screen Pack. It means: Gamemaster Resources Pack, screen and the kitchen sink included. Blurb from the publisher: 'Gamemaster resources: all the important resources, maps, and charts available in one place! The RuneQuest Gamemaster Screen Pack is the essential gamemaster resource and reference for running games of RuneQuest: Roleplaying in Glorantha. This pack contains a landscape 4-panel screen mounted on thick hardcover stock, folding out to 44 inches wide and almost 9 inches tall. The player-facing side displays a gorgeous landscape featuring the world of Glorantha, while the side for the gamemaster's reference contains summaries of key rules systems, copies of important tables and charts, and other references useful in play. Inside are the following additional materials: - A 124-page book containing source material for the Colymar Clan and the hamlet of Apple lane, three ready-to-play adventures, and many adventure seeds. - A 20-page reference book containing many important charts and tables. - A Gloranthan calendar featuring the seasons and the gods' holy days. - Maps of Dragon Pass, South Peloria, Colymar tribal lands, Clearwine Fort, and Apple Lane. - Pre-generated adventurers ready to play. - Adventurer sheets and background sheets. - A squad sheet and non-player character sheet. - Rune Fixes, containing Frequently Asked Questions and rules clarifications.' What you get: Your EUR 26,61 or USD 29,99 or GBP 23,42 will buy you the RuneQuest Gamemaster Screen Pack in both print and pdf versions. This is one of the first three publications for the recently restarted RuneQuest Glorantha gameline. The publisher's blurb did a great job of describing the pack's contents; no need for me to repeat them again. The product can also be purchased in electronic format only for EUR 13,30 or USD 14,99 or GBP 11,71. The electronic edition is comprised of fifteen (!) different pdfs: again, the publisher's blurb is telling of what they are about, even though some of the entries exist more than once in order to provide maps of higher definition. Contents: The screen is landscape-oriented with each panel having a height of over 21 cm with a length of 28 cms (112 cms long when fully deployed). The players' side shows the sun setting upon an imposing vista with a ship approaching a long procession of men and women next to a richly adorned wall. As expected, the GM's side is full of tables. Starting from the left-most panel, I see the Characteristic Multipliers table, explanation of Skill times, the Resistance table, the Ability Results table, and Augmenting with Passions, Runes and Skills. The next panel includes the Strike Rank Modifierds, the SIZ and DEX Strike Rank Modifiers, the Damage Bonus, Melee Resolution, the Summary of Combat Results, as well as the Attack & Parry Results. The second right-most panel starts from the Summary of Special Damage Results, and continues with Fumbles, Dodge Results, Hit Locations, Shield Hit Locations, and a Damage Summary. Finally, the right-most panel includes all the Runes, a summary on Magic Use, costs for Common Rune Magic, the effects of Despair, Dishonour, Spirit Combat Damage, Ritual Preparation bonuses, Meditation Modifiers, Sacred Place Bonuses, Sacred Day Bonuses, and Reputation Modifiers. The Map of Dragonpass is a full-colour, 84 x 59 cm affair printed in glossy paper. It shows the eponymous region in 1625 ST, the standard time for Gloranthan advenures. Another 43 x 56 cm full-colour double-sided map depicts the Colymar Tribe and the Colymar Clans on its two sides. The drawing style is totally different to the one of the Map of Dragonpass. A 43 x 28 cm full-colour double-sided map depicts Clearwine and a region extending from Tash in the northwest to Prax in the East. Another 43 x 28 full-colour double sided map depicts Apple Lane along with a region extending from Rist in the northwest to The Far Place in the southeast. There is one 4-page, full-colour character sheet, as well as a much simpler and less colourful version of the sheet, again 4 pages long. Interestingly, the two versions do not show the same entries at the exact same spot. A two-sided page works as a Squad Sheet on one side as well as a two-entry non-player character sheet on the other. There are seven pre-generated characters. Three of them are members of the Ernaldori clan of the Colymar tribe (two of them are half-sisters), while the remaining four come from places like the High Llama tribe and Old Tarsh. The Gloranthan calendar is 16 pages long and is presented in a landscape form with the pages turning upwards just like a real-world calendar would have. Taking the complete nature of Glorantha's calendar into account (i.e. it always starts and always ends on the same day, unlike the nonsensical Gregorian calendar that we still follow), the calendar is valid for any year in the Gloranthan timeline. Like real-world calendars it depicts an image of the world in its upper part and the actual calendar on its lower part. The scenery might relate to anything from a religious service or a panorama as seen from high up. Gamemaster References is a 20-page booklet that gathers in one place many of the main rulebook's tables. Its ten chapters relate, amongst others, to skills, runes, combat, magic, and rune spells. As an example, the Weapons & Armor entry repeats the 12 different tables that list all the different weapons in the world. Finally, Gamemaster Adventures is a 128-page, full-colour soft-cover which details the Colymar clans and numerous places of interest relating to them. It also includes three adventures: Defending Apple Lane (12 pages), Cattle Raid (16 pages), and The Dragon of the Thunder Hills (14 pages). The three adventures can be played in succession, even though they are not strictly speaking linked. The first adventure addresses itself to starting characters already, thus the adventures can serve as the starting point of a fully blown campaign. The strong points: If you play Call of Cthulhu and you are already using the Call of Cthulhu Keeper Screen Pack, you know what kind of screen supplements Chaosium is capable of producing. Now take that concept to eleven. Congratulations: you have reached the pinnacle of what a gamemaster pack should include, screen included. Make no mistake: this is not a 'screen' pack, and I have no idea why the fine gentlemen of Chaosium misrepresent this product as grossly. This is the kind of item that a GM of any system and any setting would love to see in his game. Screen; more tables in one place; maps in one place; different versions of the character sheets; a luscious calendar of the world that transcends anything that has been done up to now; three adventures contained with the framework of what can expand into a lengthy campaign setting. And all that, for what other publishers only sell their screen for. This pack is a steal, and you'd better buy it as soon as you buy RuneQuest: Roleplaying in Glorantha. The screen continues with the best practices that the Call of Cthulhu screen was built upon. As I wrote on that review, there are only so many useful tables in a handbook to meaningfully copy from. The present screen goes beyond that. It takes rules or processes and presents them in table format as opposed to blocks of text, so that they can be used during a session in a moment's notice. In contrast to most screens which limit themselves to a binary chose of highlighting colours (usually a light pastel colour combined with white), the present one opts for different colours on different tables. The result? The numerous tables can be immediately distinguished without the need to search for them! I don't know why nobody thought of this before, yet honestly, this is the way to go. In a parallel universe the RuneQuest Gamemaster Adventures softcover would have merited a review of its own, seeing how it is in itself a fully independent product. In this universe, it gets a standing ovation while being a part of a bigger product, and providing a ready-made campaign for the new adherent to Glorantha. No, this is not about the three otherwise solid adventures which play upon Glorantha's strengths. This is about the presentation, the fine mixture of rules and fluff which make Glorantha what it is. I hold the system-agnostic The Glorantha Sourcebook in the highest esteem, I can see however why its full isolation from the ruleset might put off some. Gamemaster Adventures takes all the necessary fluff, and presents it alongside all the crunch you need to run a campaign with the Colymar tribes. An additional point of interest here is that Glorantha, in contrast to every other single setting out there, doesn't create things out of thin air. The Colymar did not come into existence yesterday because the game's designers woke up in a particular way and thought of exploring that concept or the other. Its fundamentals exist already for quite some time, and the tribe's feats are many and distinguished. Yet, what the new GM experiences here is the bite-sized chunk that he needs in order to get things rolling. What can I comment on first? The elaborate descriptions on the persons of prominence (Easter egg: one of them is called Hastur the Lawspeaker) or the places the Colymar tribe occupies? The extensive rumours (there's 100 rumours included here!) and the nine adventure seeds which can fuel not one, but a dozen campaigns? Or the solid writing that can feed any fantasy campaign, irrespective of whether it relates to the bronze age or not? The 20-page booklet is something that every single game line should provide for the new (or the weary) gamemaster. If anything, it increases the screen's value by spades. Everybody, me included, complain about how this table or the other didn't make it to the screen, and how it is impossible to run a game without it. Chill. With this booklet next to your screen during the session, or even during the character creation process, you can find anything you need in a moment's notice. Even more so, players can search for what they are looking for on their own, without interrupting the game. This is fantastic. The fact that Chaosium did this first two years ago almost and nobody has copied the practice yet shows not only how pioneering these guys are. The character sheets are gorgeous. Depending on whether you wish yours to stand out on the table you might go for the more colourful as opposed to the plain one. I must admit however that the plain one is much, much easier to use during a session. If you are using the coloured one, copy it and don't just burn through it. Seriously: it is that pretty. The maps are very cool, as are the pre-generated characters. All of them are obviously tied to the campaign and the three adventures on offer. The fact that they do not share a unified drawing style comes out, once again, as an advantage. As one expects from Gloranthan characters, their fluff and crunch comes out as one. Even if you don't use them here as PCs, you are bound to use them elsewhere as NPCs or even antagonists. The art is once again from another planet, even though many of these pieces have appeared in other current Glorantha-related books. If the players' side of the screen does not inspire you I don't know what will. If most, if not all, of the calendar's images don't inspire you, I don't know what will. What I love about the approach to Gloranthan aesthetics is that it does not confine itself to a single style or genre. One piece can be a comic-like inspiration with breathtaking colours. The other might be a homage to ancient Greek art. The other still might remind you of the Renaissance masters, repurposed for the occasion. This is glorious stuff. The pdfs are good. Interestingly, the shortish reference booklet has more depth when it comes to its bookmarks than the sextuple-sized Gamemaster Adventures which comes out as shallow and unfriendly to navigate for the newer GMs. As stated earlier, some of the maps exist in low def and high def iterations. Rejoice if you intend to print them at a larger scale. The RuneQuest Gamemaster Screen Pack is only the third release for the line after the RuneQuest: Roleplaying in Glorantha and just before the RuneQuest Glorantha Bestiary. If you have doubts about how aggressively the line will be supported, don't. The weak points: Why oh why don't the screen tables reference the relevant pages of the main rulebook? Call of Cthulhu got that right, and I thought that by now this would have been a given. Oh no, back to page flipping. What an unexpected and totally pointless regression! There is some weirdness with the information provided in Gamemaster Adventures. In a rather peculiar example, the succint information presented for dragonewts is actually cleaner than the same information when provided in the RuneQuest Glorantha Bestiary. This clearly isn't bad when it comes to the present product, I am however submitting this under the weak points since I shouldn't have needed to read Gamemaster Adventures in order to better understand information first found in the Bestiary. If anything, this creates a shadow of ambiguity, a fissure in the trust that the setting and rules inspire. I wish it didn't. The coloured character sheet is pretty, it is however too colourful. Use a thick marker on it, or rather, on its copies, if you want the numbers to become immediately evident. In a rather peculiar choice, pages three and four of one sheet appear as their counterpart on the other. While this isn't exactly a major blunder, I do hope however that at least the pdf editions get immediately rectified. I don't need to point out how this causes confusion during a session if players are using a differently formatted sheet? Conclusion: The RuneQuest Gamemaster Screen Pack achieves the impossible: it includes more material than the Call of Cthulhu Keeper Screen Pack (7th edition), which had already outshone every previous screen pack in the market. The fact that both products are published by Chaosium is telling. The content to price ratio is incredible, the range it covers is broader than one would expect, while its quality is at least state of the art, if not outright pioneering. If you are playing RQG without this, you are shooting yourself in the foot. If you are not playing RQG, buy this anyway; if you don't find anything that is immediately useable for your fantasy campaign, I will eat my proverbial hat. Damn it, I hate it when Chaosium makes me look like a fanboy. For more info on RuneQuest RuneQuest Gamemaster Screen Pack and Chaosium visit its website at https://www.chaosium.com. Shameless plug: for more gaming news and content (including, for example, pictures of the RuneQuest RuneQuest Gamemaster Screen Pack that I am unfortunately not able to upload on RPG.net for the time being), and to better keep track of my reviews, subscribe to my Antonios S facebook and twitter page.