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allthatisleftinthedark · 5 months

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"Debates are stupid because why would I want to sit down and argue with someone blatantly dumber than me." // Ori to Maisie!

Tumblr Text Prompts Part 2 - Sentence Starters | accepting! | @ofthescatteredstars

Whoever thought that the coin conversion rate stayed consistent between universes? It saved Maisie Doscedar from the uncomfortable sweat at her nape. Despite spending countless nights and days poring over tomes and scrolls to initiate transdimensional travel, little consideration was given to the practicalities of functioning in a new world. Neither she nor her accomplice had contemplated what would come after their success. But, as always, there was a silver lining, or perhaps just pure stupid luck and chance, that things would work out.

The tavern, a haven amidst the untamed wilderness, welcomed the welted feet and encumbered bodies of the weary travelers. Though the pub owner could not consolidate four beds for four travelers, two beds and a couch were available. After three hours of settling in, sleeping arrangements were still being finalized.

Seeking solace from the mounting tension, Maisie retreated to one of the rooms. It wasn't hers to claim but offered a temporary respite from the chaos. Here, she could review the map and strategize for the challenges ahead. Potential allies had emerged during their travels, but nothing was certain with the tension in the air. The dogmatic and relentless were not known for their willingness to compromise.

Tck-tck-tck. The gnome taps her quill's tip at the inkpot's rim, removing excess droplets. Her left arm rests on the tabletop, and her scarred palm supports her face. The quill hovered over the vellum before her, her lips pursing before she lowered the writing instrument, tapping her pinky against the table.

'No one is keen on the theatrics of heroism, so trying a campaign of doing the virtuous and noble deed of resisting the Empire is off the table. Going for a 'just cause' for recognition seems a better substitute that does not devolve to bloodshed and needless violence.'

All that matters now, in review, is putting the proper pieces together. As much as Maisie's companions are people, each possesses and presents a facet of their cause. Similarities bleed over, binding them together, but it was not glorious nor as innocent if one could recognize two of the Empire's former household heads or even sense the dragonborn's noble heritage. Of the four, she is the black sheep. Her stance can appear neutral as someone wholly separated from those they fight against. At least, in this world.

Barely scratching the paper with her quill's tip, the mock-ups would be brief. The hundred-year advantage of being from the future felt less like a landslide edge and more like an interesting footnote. She retracted her quill before even a drop could stain the page.

'This is a sinking ship I willingly boarded.' How her elders would have chastised her. 'I am not even its captain, but I feel I hold as much responsibility.' How she dangles herself voluntarily as prey for the wolves. 'I am in way over my head.'

The door behind her creaked, drawing her attention away from her overwrought thoughts. She looked over her shoulder, swallowing the heavy lump amassing at the base of her throat.

Entering the room was Orchidus Flores, "man of the people, hero to all," dressed in luxurious violets—the dyes expensive and rare—with black-as-night hair and ocean-deep eyes, a shade only witnessed in the seas off the east Nihiranian coast. His form is thinner than before, and his stomach curve is absent at the quickest glances. (A shame.) He shines brighter now than their first encounter when he encroached in all black with a somber, sneered lip. (However.....)

Sunshine bright yellow irises quickly acknowledge his azure deep irises. Yet, as their eyes connected, hers darted away, her stomach heavy. She promptly resumed evaluating her paper, discarding the unwritten one.

From the corners of her eyes, she spotted Orchidus nonchalantly removing his shoes, letting them drop to the floor. He sauntered over to the bed and fell forward with a careless lean, his chest planting into the mattress with a lofty "umpf."

From her first glimpse in Sidheanholm to the prolonged exposure after a near-year disappearance, what could she parse from his appearance? All the shifts were the least built subtle. From the near military cut hair, all-funeral dreary formal wear, he turned to ruffled, bed-kempt hair and bright-purple garbs meant for parties, not travel. There was no strategic advantage; it was all "look at me," and that was the least he, or anyone in the party, needed.

Mind not that the purple better complements those blue eyes than the black. He knows that. His ears caught Maisie when she murmured it under her breath at the dining room table. He may have reveled in hearing that; he may still be to this day, though he doesn't show it.

The gnome shifts in her seat, clearing her throat. "Orchidus," she begins, "regarding our current situation, I wanted to talk to you and get your feedback on what we'll need to do going forward."

Some back-and-forth begins, reviewing the participating parties and their less-than-ideal circumstances. The only way to see any optimal gain was to make peace and accommodate the unnecessary party to become their allies. It all begins with acquainting and then negotiating. In the likelihood of everything, it might come down to a dispute, adding to the tension lingering in the air.

Orchidus quirks a brow, his figure still sprawled over the bed. His expression bordering on indifference finally queries, "Debates are stupid because why would I want to sit down and argue with someone blatantly dumber than me?" The interjection is like nails on a chalkboard, each note dripping with condescension.

The gnome's jaw tightens, but her face remains unmoved. She asides the quill, the inkpot forgotten for the moment. Her hands rest on the top of the table, staring solemnly toward the already written thoughts and directions.

'I made this bed, and I must lay in it.'

That iron-enforced wall and patronizing mentality always left an acidic aftertaste in her throat. Those mindsets were of those believed to be above all else. Each interjection and belittlement was exhausting. It was just another day of work; it was her on the receiving end of rejection for having dared be the idiot who considered talking. It was she to whom no one would listen.

Her eyes quietly dart to him. A strange fascination and frustration melded into one as she drank into his features. Juvenile ego wafts off of him, his head slightly raised, perhaps perplexed by her lack of reaction.

The throughline is so clear. It was there when Maisie first saw him, when she first met Salphan in the forest, and it was ever so clear after reuniting.

What terribly, terribly young eyes.

No matter if Orchidus is now 168 years of age, the equivalent of an elf barely sprouting out of their young adult years, he still has that adolescent look. Immaturity nor naivety explain it well, but it is of seeking. She often saw those very eyes in her town's children when people asked about their dislikes, likes, days, and whatnot. They would answer, but their eyes always seemed to acquiesce to the teller to ensure that what they said was right.

No matter his significant physical change, those lips remind her that all these thoughts still belong to the same man: Salphan Elrose. His ego is intact even if there is no pointedly blatant shoving or smarter-than-thou attitude. It keeps him cushioned and safe navigating things far greater than him. By asserting himself to believe he can, he can fake through it.

Former patriarch, he speaks from the highest station of life. At the pinnacle of power in the oligarchy and the master of secrets, people talk, plead, or bargain with him; it was his ultimate call to listen or not. Yet, with a sudden decision for the rest of the world, he abandoned everything and fled to fight against the very Empire he helped prosper and grow.

She feels all the stranger when she thinks of his obtuse comment. What could she say? For starters, parroting what others more successful than him have said doesn't mean intelligence; mimicry may be flattery, hell, or even life-saving in his court, but it wasn't here. Or, she could say, Believing in the right without communication limits oneself; it shows all the more how conceited and wrong you are. Or, even devastatingly, despite all that talk of change, much growth is needed.

With what many things could she say, what is something the most productive and worth it to utter?

Maisie adjusts to sit correctly, shoulders straight, as her heavy gaze settles on him. Like a trained hound, all her attention was focused on Orchidus.

Barely an implication of age is on his brow; only the shadows are seeping into his slightly sunken eye sockets. Not an ounce of stress or worry ruins perfect black hair with white hair or bags beneath his eyes. Sixteen years on the road did him well, too; the sun brightened his complexion's warm, ocher hue to replenish the vitality drained from the nearly two hundred years caged in Drakeshadow.

Maybe the sun was still caught in those eyes, the way they glimmer and shine under the right angle, like diamonds. Though it was not as light of a shade as that jewel. Those eyes have depth, harkening to their nymph heritage, yet something gentle lies there. It was as if the morning light traced over the petals of a delphinium.

Familiarity twinges her eyes. She recalls standing in a parlor ostentatiously decorated and surrounded by furniture far too tall for her. Her ears ring with the sound of fire crackling in the fireplace. She was younger then, far too naive in the head. Patient in wait, she drinks in her surroundings, wandering around territory unusual and new. The bookshelves tower above herm, and an ornate chandelier ominously hangs from the ceiling. Flames lick the air at the maw of the hearth.

Above the fireplace are two bust portraits facing one another but not making eye contact. Unsmiling, severely serious, and staring somberly.

Only one thought slips into her mind: 'That painting truly did capture your likeness.'

She now sits in this unfamiliar tavern, in an unfamiliar echo of her world, with a strangely familiar yet not familiar person. Beginning to speak, she addresses him. "Orchidus," the start is deliberate and measured, "is that what you see in all of it? A competition?" If his ego suggests anything, his intelligence is nothing that can be topped; he assumes himself smarter, which translates to not wanting to waste any time with those not of the same caliber or level.

Was it always a case of domination and subjugation? As cheekily as she could point out how fitting it was, she tucks her tongue. On the other hand, it may be a matter of proving oneself after constant denial.

Roaming past the elf lying on the bed, the gnome catches the silhouettes of the others. One stands staunch with broad shoulders straight, much like a guard; the other, while not as tall, seems more nervous but more flexible. Politely, she states matter-of-factly, "Well, that is nothing for you to worry about because I can do it." Their eyes meet again, and the gnome nods toward the opened door.

"Go and hang out with Koto and Veria." Already, Maisie turns the cheek, her hand reaching for the once-retired paper. "I have work to do."

#⋆ * exchanges with the emissary ; maisie doscedar‚ ic * ⋆#⋆ * correspondences acknowledged and responded ; maisie doscedar‚ asks * ⋆#( soa verse tag )#ofthescatteredstars #[ ooc: this was gon b a joke answer but it dawned to me how fucking complicated this is. ]

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linuxgamenews · 11 months

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Discover the Mythical Worlds of Drakkon World Builder

Drakkon World Builder tabletop world-building game launches on Linux and Windows PC, but is Steam Deck playable. The innovative team at Electric Falcon is the driving force behind this creative endeavor. Available on Steam with 95% Positive reviews. Drakkon World Builder is a fantastic toolkit designed for those who like creating and engaging in tabletop world-building adventures. This isn't just a simple set of tools; it's a powerhouse for creativity and storytelling. Perfect for whether you're diving into adventures alone, teaming up with a friend, or a whole group of friends. You're a master of a vast, uncharted universe, or perhaps an explorer in a land brimming with mystery and danger. The Drakkon World Builder grants you the power to bring these universes to life on Linux and Steam Deck. It starts with a world generator, an incredibly flexible system that crafts a digital landscape. You can also zoom in and out, just like you might with online maps when you're checking out new places. Now picture this: towns, villages, towers, dungeons, and hidden places of intrigue, all showing up on your game map. It doesn't stop there. Since each of these spots comes alive with characters, potential challenges, and secrets waiting to find. This isn't a world of empty buildings and silent stones; it's a tapestry rich with stories, quests, and unexpected twists. What if you're flying solo, without someone to guide your quest? That's where the Drakkon World Builder oracle system comes in. It steps in like an invisible guide, helping you make decisions and move your story forward. Always ready with advice or a nudge in the right direction when you face tough choices or need a spark of inspiration.

Drakkon World Builder Trailer

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Rolling dice is a big part of the thrill in these adventures. The extensive dice roller in this toolkit mimics the real thing. It's not just about numbers; it's about the fate they decide as they clatter across the table. Except here, it's digital and instant. If you're keen on the thrill of exploration, the real-time dungeon generator is your key to endless labyrinths and lairs. With a few clicks, you'll have a mapped-out and ready to explore dungeon for Linux or Steam Deck. Each one is unique and filled with peril and plunder. And it's not just about places. The tabletop world-building toolkit also has generators that whip up characters you can meet and challenges you can undertake. The weather that might bless or curse your travels and the relationships between people you encounter. Even the treasures you might find. While you're embarking on these adventures, the Drakkon World Builder gives you space to note everything noteworthy. Due to be like a legendary tome, keeping a record of your heroic deeds, the places you've visited, and the people you've met. Want to leave your own mark on this world? You can! Add your own places of interest right on the map. And with a variety of graphic themes, your world's look and feel can switch from an ancient map to a spy's satellite view. Since this can be whatever sets the right mood for your story. When you're proud of what you've created, you can export it as a PNG file. This means you can print it out for your tabletop or send it to friends to marvel at your world-crafting skills.

Modding:

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#drakkon world builder #tabletop #world building #linux #gaming news #electric falcon #ubuntu #steam deck #windows #pc #godot #Youtube

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bloodycassian · 3 years

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LEATHERBOUND PART 2 - Reader x Cassian

The bell at the front didn't ring when he stepped inside. The oddity of it made him stop in his tracks. That, and the pile of books you crouched over. "What happened?" He gasped, taking in the small shop. There was broken glass inside, but the front window was already replaced. The shards cast a delicate shimmer over the entire inside. The mud caked onto the back wall where your desk sat reeked. "Are you okay?" Concern was painted plainly across his features. Rage roiled inside his gut at the thought of anyone who would do you harm. What if you had been inside when it happened? He couldnt bare to think of it. Couldn't tempt himself to imagine what he would do to whoever did it. He would have showed them why the Lord of Bloodshed was named as such. His rage ceased when he saw the strain your wings showed as you tried to push one of the stacks of books back up. He rushed to your side and helped you push it up, only a few smaller novels fell out. You waved him off, trying to ignore the way his concern made you downright giddy. "Some kids... It happens every now and again." You sighed, picking up the runaways from the floor. You were grateful your collection hadn't been damaged. Thankfully the spells had worked and warded against them actually entering the shop. Cassian stooped to help you pick up the few that had fallen, then you noticed his boots. "Shoes!" You squeaked. He swore under his breath and kicked them off at the front, returning to help you. His muscle was a great help in re organizing. You got the piles straight this time, and without hurting yourself. You also didn't need a ladder to get the stacks all to the same height. "Anything else?" He asked, placing the final pile atop the last row. "Ahh.." You glanced above the door where the bell no longer was. "If you could find me a new bell... I dont know what happened to the old one." The bell had been in the shop since it was your grandmothers. It did hold sentimental value, but nothing that would kill to be gone. It was on its final days anyway you told yourself. "Any preference what kind?" He asked, flipping through a novel about Wyverns. He smiled a bit and set it back where it had been. The glass on the floor reflected rainbows all over the small rooms, it painted your skin with them. He tried not to stare at the beauty there. "One that works." You smiled. "I'm going to owe you that gold piece back for helping me." "Dont worry about it. You can help me in return." You led him to your usual spot at the counter. He leaned against it casually, in a way that made him look at peace in your nook. Your heart squeezed at the thought of him being so at ease in your space. "We're looking for an old tome. Something that you would definitely recognize." He dragged a finger across the tabletop, along a long carved initial of some Illyrian child long ago. You hummed, thinking about the few tomes you'd encountered on your travels before settling in Illyria as a book merchant. "What year?" You asked, hoping to help in some way. Even if it was to steer him a different direction. You wanted to help him find whatever he needed. "Unknown... it may be made from stone." He said, his voice quieting. You stilled at the words. The oldest stone tomes were the ones that meant no good was coming. The book of breathings had been one of them. You could feel the color drain from your face. He nodded, as if he knew exactly what you were thinking. "It's important. If you know anything... please let me know." He gave you a grim smile and patted the desk. "And I expect that cake next time I come over too." He tapped the wood counter and gave you a quick goodbye. "If you need anything let me know!" He called halfway out the door. You wished you could. You wished you did have some way to 'let him know'. you sulked in the back room for the rest of the day. === "Where's my cake?" "It's been two weeks, I gave it to the shop next door." You scolded, putting the silvers from the last customer into your box. "It was going bad." You reasoned when he pouted at you. "Well was it good at least?" He pulled a blue and brown leather clad book from a shelf, observing it. "I dont know, I didn't try it." You admitted, stepping back from the wall to see your newest decoration. A nice wooden clock that you had repaired. He looked at you with an appalled expression. "Despite you not making good on our deal, I made good on mine. Your bell, as requested." He presented the small bronze bell with a hook to you. You grinned, taking it from him and testing it. He watched your eyes light up at the sound. It wasn't just a bell. It was a chime. It rang out different sounds from each angle it hit. "Cass-" He stopped you, ready for your protests. "You cant make me return it. I threw the box in the Sidra and they wont take it back without it." He was smug about it. And he didn't feel bad about making you take the gift either. His hope soared when you gave him a glare, but dinged the bell again. "Well... you need to install it." You nodded to the empty hook above the door. He smiled wildly and got to work. If he was honest with himself, any reason to be around you more was welcome. Even if it was as simple as replacing a bell. Hell if he could read a book to you that'd be a dream for him. He was addicted. He had to admit it to himself. But he didn't have the willpower to quit you. It was a strange feeling. He normally had resentment ever visiting Illyria, but lately it had been nothing but joy at the prospect seeing you. You went to the back room, weaving around stacks upon stacks of books. There had been more incoming lately, due to a temple in Summer court being destroyed. The books salvageable were sent all over Prythian, and somehow most ended up with you. The bell chimed, loud and musical. It would take a few weeks to get used to it. It filled you with a joy that sparked. "That sounds great!" You called, bringing over a book that you had set aside for him. It was one of the older ones in the collection, and one of the worst smelling. You wanted to show him in part just to see his reaction to the smell. It had been at the bottom of one of the stacks that had gotten knocked over when the window was broken. "The Ancient ones? Are you making an age joke at me?" He gave you a mock glare, but flicked open the book. You closed it sharply, giving him a look he didn't understand. "If I was it would be an insult to myself as well. It's the only book I could find that even mentioned what you're after." You flicked the small bookmark you had indicated the page with. Your eyes locked on to his, marveling for a second at the deep hazel there. "You should look at it, later." Your eyes darted behind him where someone approached your door. Your heart dropped. Behind the woman stood a group of Illyrians across the way, pointing at the shop and making large gestures. "I'll be seeing you." You dismissed Cassian, holding open the door for the familiar old woman with shriveled wings. She gave him a nod and kicked her small slippers off with ease. The males across the way turned back into their own conversation when Cassian appeared at the doorway. His eyebrows knit together at your rushing him, but he saw himself out. The bell dinged behind him when he left. The coldness of the wind did nothing to ease the worry he felt for your reaction. Did you not want to be seen with him? Was he supposed to be keeping your meetings a secret? He glanced back to the large storefront window, where you showed the female a section of novels on the far wall. You didn't glance back. The market bustled with life, several vendors calling out deals and different items they offered. A group of loud males spat at the snow slicked ground as he passed. He ignored the rumble of rage in his stomach, continuing on to the edge of a cliffpoint off the back of a shop. He took off with a yearning deep inside the pit of his stomach.

#leatherbound series #reader x cassian #cassian x reader #acotar fic

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secondary-lives · 2 years

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My Ensemble

While I have abandoned roleplay on certain platforms, I’ve also adopted playing in a few different tabletop roleplaying games that I have enjoyed over the last few months.

MY CURRENT ENSEMBLE:

Morwen Rommel:

A Wizard trapped in the land of Barovia, he’s an older man who was ‘embraced’ by Lord Strahd only to not die and become a Dhampir through unexpected prospects. He’s now traveling with his party of adventurers, known as the ‘Midnight Circus’ in an attempt to finally kill the Dark Lord.

He’s an old man, a drunk and an asshole, and very prone to Fireballing and necromancy.

HELENA STRATFORD:

A human Undead Warlock who recently joined Strixhaven University, she embraced darker magics after finding the tome of a lich. Now she’s off at university to master her skills and hopefully follow in the path of her uncle, Morwen.

She’s a bit nervous, but shows a propensity for the dark arts, making her a shoo-in at school.

CODY MORRISON

An Aasimar Paladin from Eberron, he was kidnapped by Illithids and brough to Toril, the world of the Forgotten Realms. There, he found himself on a path of vengeance to hunt down those who illed him and his employer.

I will likely resurrect other characters, but these are who I’ve played in DnD over the last bit of time.

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annalandin · 4 years

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Come one, come all, to the greatest show on this or any road! The most entrancing romances, the deepest tragedies, the most rousing heroics - all brought to stunning life before your eyes! Tonight only, the Calliope Players Company and their grand leading man take the stage!

Diraz Belcant, actor, performer and all-around showman, is the center of attention in any room he walks into - and he knows it. And now you can add him and his fellow Calliope Company members, to your tabletop rpg campaign, if you need a band of travelling performers. This is the 18th entry in my ongoing adoptable NPCs-project, the Tome of Friends. You can find it, and all other entries, on my Patreon!

#tome of friends #tabletop rpg #adoptables #dungeons and dragons #ryuutama

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writersstareoutwindows · 3 years

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The degree to which my own ttrpg games have come to occupy the place in my brain that fandom did in high school is at this point staggering, and I intend to make it everyone’s problem.

So *cracks knuckles* at long last, here’s a few of the thousands of words I’ve written for Carella Maginus, my dearest bard (affectionate, derogatory). She is the daughter of an ambitious elven noble and a human founder of Crux, a travelling interplanar city. Due to fantasy Punnett squares (and Carella being the revival of an old character, whom I didn’t want to change into a half elf), Carella skews much more human, while her older brother Cassius is much more elven.

Siblings is hard, when your dad sucks and only one of you remembers Mom. When one of you is heir, and one of you is—well, hardly even spare.

(The first few paragraphs were a prompt written by my partner.)

“Hey, Cassius?”

Carella’s brother unfocused his eyes and rubbed a stray hand against them, the other holding his page on the dusty tome before him. It was late in the library, and Carella was getting tired of kicking her feet under the table and listening to Cassius, in his boring blue academy robes, turning pages, endlessly studying.

“What?” He sounded tired. Too tired to be annoyed at the interruption, hopefully.

Carella voiced the question that had been nagging at the back of her head for some time. She was a little nervous to ask, but not enough to defeat a curiosity that felt strong enough to swallow her whole.

“What was Mom like?”

Cassius paused, surprised. He marked his place in the book by inserting a smaller booker.

‘You sure you want to ask about that, Ellie?’

‘Don’t call me that—Cass.’

Her retort made him laugh. Leaning back, he said, ‘All right. You know how Dad is an asshole who tells us how to spend every minute of every day?’

‘Cassius!’

‘Well, Mom was nothing like that. Try not to yell, Carella, we’re in a library.’

She squeezed her fists beneath the table and fumed. But then her brother did something she’d never seen him do before: he softened. The furrowed lines between his brows went away, and as he pushed his hair out of his face, she saw him smile for the first time in days.

‘Mom wouldn’t even give me a bedtime. She argued with Dad that I’d tire myself out eventually. I thought she didn’t know that I was staying up to read even when he did put me to bed, but I never seemed to run out of candles…’

His gaze had drifted. He was looking over Carella’s head as his fingers traced a pattern on the tabletop. She had leaned in to listen, desperate not to miss anything.

‘She used to tell me bedtime stories. Both of us, actually. You were too young to remember.’

‘What kind of stories?’

Carella whispered, because she was afraid of scaring him off. When they were younger, he had been easier to talk to. They would play together, even when he was twelve and she was just six; they hadn’t really had anyone else. These days he was always busy, with heavy shadows under his eyes, and he was more likely to snap at her than talk to her. She didn’t want to break whatever spell was making him talk like this.

Cassius grinned. ‘Adventure stories, when we were lucky. My favorite was about the dragon in Pyre. Well, it’s everyone’s favorite, that story is famous.’

Carella didn’t know it, but she didn’t want to look silly by asking. Dad had said that she asked too many questions; it was better to keep her mouth closed until she had figured things out by herself. Looking at his sister, Cassius tapped his fingers on the table, then pushed himself to his feet.

‘The bestiaries are around here somewhere. Hold on just a second.’

He returned in a moment holding a thick book bound with bright painted wood. Plopping it in front of Carella, he leaned over her shoulder to turn the pages until he came to the section on dragons. A hand-painted illustration of a red dragon, its neck gracefully arched, its raised wings transparent as glass, covered two full pages.

‘This is what she fought.’

Carella had gone wide-eyed. She pulled her feet up onto the chair so she could crouch over the book, the better to see every fine detail: the sharp ridge of each scale, the talons at each wing-tip, the yellow-orange glow of fire in its throat.

‘By herself?’ she whispered.

‘I’m sure the other Founders helped. But she was the one who survived the full brunt of its firebreath in her face, she was the one who got up on its back with all the fires of a volcano raging around them, and she was the one who planted her halberd in its spine and drove it like a ship, all the way down a river of lava to the bottom of Pyre.’

Carella had gone from staring at the dragon to staring up at her brother, whose face had lit up as if he were looking into that bright volcano.

‘At least, that’s how she used to tell it.’

And Carella thought she had heard that, even if for just a moment: her mom’s words, her mom’s voice in Cassius’. At least, she let herself believe.

‘That’s amazing,’ she whispered.

‘She was amazing.’

If Carella didn’t know her brother better than that, she would have said that a bit of his kid self was showing through in that smile. He sat back in his chair, but he’d pushed the magic books, or whatever they were, away by now.

‘She was nothing like Dad. I don’t know why she married him. She never so much as yelled at me, even when she was furious.’

‘Dad doesn’t yell.’

‘Not at you.’

Cassius shrugged, irritated. Carella was holding her hands in fists beneath the table again, this time nervously. Before she could think of something to say, Cassius went on.

‘Whatever. This isn’t about him. He just has a habit of getting into everything and screwing it up.’ He sounded like he was talking more to himself now. ‘It’s what he must have done to her.’

When he glanced up, he blinked as if only just remembering Carella was there. She was sitting very still, watching him with wide and careful eyes—the same way she watched their father, when she was trying to read what he wanted. Cassius swore quietly in Luthién.

He said, ‘She was a really good singer’ as if he were apologising.

And it worked. A soft feeling pricked Carella’s chest. In a warble, she said, ‘She was?’

Carella loved music. She sang and played piano, and was falling fast and hard for the violin. Cassius knew it all too well; more than once, he’d told her somewhat unkindly to be quiet while he was studying. But he’d also accompanied her on the piano a hundred times. Making music was like making her own little world, and she was good at it, too. She knew she was good at it.

‘She really was,’ Cassius said. Now would have been the moment to give his sister a reassuring touch, but he hesitated. ‘She could sing these long, epic story ballads without stumbling once. And she was the best for lullabies. Like I said, she didn’t put me to bed very often, but when she wanted to, she’d just have to start singing, and,’ he snapped his fingers, ‘out like a light, every time.’

‘Did she—?’ Carella paused. It was a stupid question, an obvious one, but still, she wasn’t sure of the answer. She pushed it out of her mouth: ‘Did she sing to me?’

Softly, Cassius said, ‘Of course.’ He only had half a memory, but he shared it anyway, making up what he couldn’t recall. ‘There was one night, you were sick, I remember because you would not shut up. But Mom held you the whole time, just, rocking you, you know. And she sang to you. I could hear her singing all night.’

Cassius hummed a little melody, something simple that Carella didn’t recognise.

‘Mom was...she was a good mom. She was brave. And funny—her stories could make me laugh for ages. And she was strong...I thought she was strong.’

Cassius closed his eyes. Something painful moved across his face, flickering in the low lamplight.

‘Cass…?’

He shrugged. ‘Guess I was wrong. Even she wasn’t strong enough to put up with Dad.’

Carella flinched.

‘What does that mean? Why do you keep saying stuff like that?’

‘Because it’s true? Because if she were still around, maybe we’d be a little less fucked up?’

‘Stop it!’

Cassius raised an eyebrow, unimpressed. It made her want to scream.

‘Well excuse me, Ellie. I assumed you’d finally worked out that our other parent is a bastard, in all but blood. Why else would you ask about Mom?’

Carella looked down, at her fists held tight and small in her lap. She was so sick of Cassius always acting like he knew more than she did. She’d asked about Mom because there was a portrait that hung in their manor, of a woman with soft wavy hair and a clever half-smile, deep laughter lines and Carella’s nose. A woman their father never talked about. She just hung about the fireplace, looking down over her daughter, saying nothing.

‘Maybe I just wanted to know, for once! Did you think of that in your big stupid wizard brain?’

Cassius rubbed his temple. ‘We’re in a library…’

‘I don’t care!’ Carella stood up, slamming her fists on the table. ‘You fight with Dad, and you make fun of him, but then you turn around and act just like him! You think you’re so special, you think you know everything and I’m just some dumb kid, but all you really are is an ass!’

‘Carella! People are going to hear you.’

‘You couldn’t even stay nice for five minutes! Maybe I just don’t think it’s fair that you get to know about her and I don’t. You get to know everything!’

Carella slammed her palms into the bestiary, sending it flying across the table at Cassius.

‘What makes you so special?’

Cassius looked almost silly, holding the book awkwardly, spread-eagled against his chest where it had hit him. But then he glanced over her shoulder, and his eyes went wide. ‘Carella,’ he hissed.

She followed his gaze to see a frowning librarian standing between the shelves behind her. Everything inside Carella shrank into a very small knot.

‘Shouting is not permitted in the library. And there is absolutely no rough handling of books.’ They spoke severely, addressing Cassius but glowering at Carella. ‘I trust, young lord Maginus, that you will be leaving shortly.’

‘We will indeed. Thank you for your concern,’ Carella could hear him rapidly stacking books, ‘we were just heading out.’

Carella was paralysed in that angry gaze until Cassius took her hand. She startled, then hurried after him with her head down. She’d caught a glimpse of his expression, pleasant and calm, but that was the face he always wore in public. He had to be furious that she’d gotten him kicked out.

It was late evening in Crux, and the city was in Prime. Everything was cool and blue, the lapping of the canal waters a gentle rhythm. The city was only rarely so calm.

‘I’m sorry,’ Cassius said as they walked beside the water. He was still holding her hand.

‘But it was my fault.’

‘Not that. The librarians are assholes.’ Cassius raised his free hand to hail a gondola. ‘Sorry I set you off.’ He sighed, then showed her an apologetic grin. ‘I probably deserved it.’

Looking down, Carella just shrugged. This version of Cassius was a rarity, and she didn’t want to get used to it.

She knew more than he thought she did. As he hopped into the gondola and turned to help her, she watched his hair fall back from his pointed ears. In her portrait above the fireplace, their mom had round human ears like Carella.

Carella was good at noticing things. She spent a lot of time watching quietly, waiting to find the unspoken answers to her questions. Cassius was special because he was like Dad. Carella wasn’t, because she was like Mom. And she knew that that was why Dad treated her differently.

She’d just wanted to know if there was something about Mom worth being. Maybe something Dad had overlooked—even though she knew that Dad noticed everything.

Cassius was whistling. It took her a moment to recognise the same lullaby he’d hummed at the library.

As the gabled, gilded roofs of home began gliding into view, he said, ‘I didn’t mean it, you know.’

Carella looked up from where she’d been skimming her hand in the water.

‘What I said about Mom. At the end.’ He wasn’t looking his sister quite in the eye. ‘She was stronger than anything. I wish you’d gotten to know her.’

The gondola had bobbed to a halt, absolving Carella of a response as they clambered out. She wanted to keep her thoughts to herself, without having to pick one out and polish it down and share it out loud. In her head she could hold two images at once, without having to guess which one was right: the silent portrait above the fireplace, cold, remote, and unspecial; or the warm and lively, but faceless woman who sang in a voice deeper and fuller and yet still so like Carella’s own.

#my partner calls me a one woman fandom and he's right #my writing #ocs #ttrpg #i struck through maginus because names are. difficult. for her currently.#also in this scene she is about twelve and cassius is eighteen #and 'in luthien' means 'in elvish' luthien is the name of the elvish home plane #rowenar if u see this i'm sorry i stole cassius and made him into a very different person

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indigowallbreaker · 4 years

Note

Dimashe for 19??

(thank you for sending this in, I felt like I needed to make up for my angsty Dimiashe prompt XD)

19. Shy kiss

Ashe blinked. “What?”

“Can I kiss you?” Dimitri asked, being sure not to stutter this time. Ashe’s eyes only widened and Dimitri suddenly wished he had never spoken at all. At least the question had bubbled forth while they were alone in the library. Tomas was shuffling around downstairs but their corner was deserted and sheltered by two tall bookcases.

Still, Dimitri felt a flush travel from his ears down his neck the longer Ashe gawked. He willed his boyfriend to say something.

Finally Ashe took mercy and squeaked out, “W-What made you ask so suddenly?”

“I’m sorry, perhaps it was too bold a question.”

“No! I mean, I’m just, surprised?” Ashe cleared his throat and busied himself with the books on the tabletop, shuffling them seemingly at random. “So, where did that come from?”

“Ah, something Hilda said the other day. I have admittedly been giving it too much thought.”

Ashe frowned, still not meeting Dimitri’s eyes. “What did she say?”

“She said we did not... frankly, she thinks we don’t act like enough of a couple.” Dimitri also found the tabletop fascinating, neatening papers to perfection. “She accused us of faking a relationship to drive off women who might want to be courted by a prince.”

Ashe audibly gulped. “I guess that makes sense.”

Dimitri reached over to take Ashe’s hand, stilling it from flipping aimlessly through an upside down tome. “But it’s not the truth. I tried to explain that. She suggested doing more romantic things may stop the rumors. That’s why I wanted to try a kiss. In private, at first. Like here.” He waved his free hand around their secluded corner.

“Yeah...” Ashe squeezed his hand. “Yeah. Okay! Let’s do it!” He turned to Dimitri, face bright and determined, like he had just figured out the correct answer to a hard test question. Dimitri had to smile back. “I’m ready when you are!”

Squeezing Ashe’s hand in return, Dimitri nodded. “Very well then.” He shut his eyes. When Ashe made a noise of confusion, Dimitri added, “As this was my idea, I will leave you to make the first move. When you are ready.”

At first, Ashe didn’t move. Dimitri heard him shift in his chair a few times and he laced their fingers together, but he didn’t feel Ashe get closer. True to his word, however, Dimitri waited with his eyes shut for Ashe to be ready.

Then, hot breath puffed against Dimitri’s chin. His heart leapt. He heard Ashe’s chair scuff against the floor as lips at last pressed to his own. Feeling brave, and perhaps giddy, Dimitri raised a hand to blindly hold the back of Ashe’s head as they relaxed into each other.

Dimitri only opened his eyes when Ashe had completely pulled away. In Ashe’s place, he found a pink faced archer whose gaze was darting around as if their display had attracted onlookers. Dimitri chuckled softly and bushed aside Ashe’s bangs to get his attention. “There.” Dimitri smiled. “Alright?”

Ashe’s “Yeah” was more of an exhale than an reply. He gulped again. “So, do we find Hilda and do that in front of her? Or something?”

Dimitri tugged him close again by their still joined hands. “I think we could practice a bit more before that, wouldn’t you agree?”

To his relief, Ashe smiled in return and immediately surged forward for another kiss.

(Give me all the kiss prompts, i want them all)

#dimitri alexandre blaiddyd #ashe ubert #ashe duran #blue lions #fire emblem three houses #fe3h #kiss prompts #feth #some soft pre skip boys for you #this was actually going to be in Ashe's POV but Dimitri somehow got the spot #dont ask me how writing works its dark magic and I shouldn't speak of it

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claroso · 4 years

Text

Like Real People Do

Zevran and Clara Amell have been dancing around the unnamed tension between them for months now. Finally out from underneath the thumbs of their respective jailers, they appreciate being able to take their time and enjoy the dance.

I’m referencing the Correspondence Interruptus quest in DA:O btw

Zevran lunged forwards, raking his daggers across the hurlock's side as he ducked under its swing. He felt leather armor and flesh give under his blades like butter. The monster screamed.

He danced back from the hurlock's next swipe, the rusty mace slamming into the ground. He hefted his dagger and threw it. The metal flashed as it spun through the air and lodged in its leg. Were it human, that would be a killing blow. But for a darkspawn? The thing simply growled, picked up its mace, and limped towards him.

The hair on his arms suddenly stood on end. That was the only warning he needed--he threw himself back a split second before a fireball crashed into his enemy. It screamed again, contorting in agony as it burned.

Then the carved end of a staff smashed into its head. The hurlock collapsed. Behind it, Clara Amell snarled and brought her staff down again. Its decaying skull split like a pumpkin, blood splattering across her pale face.

Zevran's heart skipped a beat.

The fire guttered out as the mage straightened, her eyes sweeping across the battlefield. A handful of steps away, Wynne and Sten stood at the ready, their weapons raised.

"We're clear!" Clara called after a moment.

They all relaxed.

Zevran grinned. Working with a mage was a rare treat with the Crows, but being able to work with a mage who could predict darkspawn attacks? Amazing. They didn't have to be on edge every second of the day. And travel went so much faster without checking for ambushes around every corner. He knew he was getting spoiled traveling with Wardens, but he was determined to enjoy it while he could.

Of course, it didn't help with bandits or anything of the non-tainted variety, but that became rarer and rarer as the stories of the last two Grey Wardens spread.

Clara barked out orders--to search the bodies, the cabin nearby--and they wordlessly complied. Hardly anything was left intact after a darkspawn attack, and this one was no exception. The house was barely standing and the animals had run off long before they arrived. And the remains of three farmers were strewn around the clearing.

Unfortunately familiar with the sight, he began searching the poor souls' home. Even with such carnage, he enjoyed working with the Wardens far more than the Crows. Clara at least listened to him. He didn't with her disagree often, but she didn't threaten bodily harm when he did.

Actually, now that he thought about it, threats of bodily harm were surprisingly rare with his new group. Except Morrigan, but the lovely witch usually kept it limited to Alistair.

And he kept a substantial cut of the loot, he thought as he rummaged through a chest at the back of the cabin. He slipped the few coins into his belt. The dirty leathers he tossed. That left a single leaf of parchment at the bottom of the chest. He broke the seal with his thumb and opened it, a smile spreading across his face.

"Zev!" Clara called. "We're leaving!"

He jumped up and rushed back to the group. Wynne dabbed at the bloodstains on her robe and Sten's face, as always, was stoically impatient. The Warden, wearing a mismatched set of armor over her Circle robes, sported her usual scowl. As he grabbed her hand and swept into an overdramatic bow, her expression shifted to confusion.

"My dear Warden." He purred, holding the letter up with a flourish. "I believe I've just won the bet."

She scoffed. "No chance in the Void. Let me see that."

"I apologize, but as I've said before," he dodged her outstretched hand and winked. "Poetry simply must be read aloud."

Sten grunted, somehow putting an entire lecture's worth of disgust into the sound, before turning on his heel and marching off.

"I rather agree with our taciturn friend. I'll see you back in town." Wynne said, starting down the trail back to Redcliffe.

"There's no way that's worse than the letter I found last week." Despite their companions' lack of enthusiasm, Clara had the slightest curve of a smile. Practically jumping up and down with excitement for her, really.

"Shall I?" Zevran said, raising an eyebrow.

She waved toward the path. "Walk while you talk, Brother Genitivi."

" 'My dearest Virginia Trueroyal,' " He said in a deep Fereldan accent.

"That's awful."

"Hush now. The audience doesn't speak. 'My dearest Virginia Trueroyal,' " He scoffed. "That can not be a real name."

She chuckled. "Get on with it."

" 'Regarding: Bodice ripped.' Oh, how scandalous!" He spun around, walking backward ahead of the Warden so he could wiggle his eyebrows at her. " 'Enclosed are seven silver and my most heartfelt apologies for said bodice.' "

Clara suddenly grabbed the front of his armor and pulled him roughly to the side, narrowly missing a tree.

He didn't stop. " 'I would blame the cold ocean spray, the loss of my favorite shirt, the bucking of the stallion,' " He winked, and she rolled her eyes. " 'or perhaps the strain of maintaining all such elements while sitting for a portrait, but I was certainly not myself. I hope you will forgive me and not take it upon yourself to find your own determined way in this world.' "

" 'Yours, Ser Rival Grouseman' " He finished with a flourish.

"That was terrible." Clara frowned.

"Exactly!" He exclaimed, delighted. "I will accept payment in silver or fine leather goods, mi estrella!"

"No, that's actually, really terrible. It's not even dirty!"

Zevran gasped. "How can you say that? The 'bucking of this stallion', the 'cold ocean spray' ripped this poor woman's bodice open!"

"It's too subtle." She argued. "I don't want flowery details and sighs in the moonlight. If you're going to talk dirty, at least give it to me straight."

"Well, if you insist."

In a very appropriate display of maturity, she stuck her tongue out at him.

"No matter." He said as they stepped into Redcliffe village. "Leliana can break our tie."

A few minutes later, they stepped into the tavern. Wynne sat at a table in the corner with a tome and a mug of ale in front of her. Sten was nowhere to be seen.

After dealing with the blood mage and possession of Connor at Redcliffe Castle, Clara had refused to stay when Teagan offered. Instead, they had found rooms in the village. Since they'd cleared the dead from the town and broke the siege, they'd been welcomed back with open arms. Any unoccupied room was free for their use. Sten had taken up in a hut on the edge of town. The mages settled in an empty house so they could practice without disturbing anyone. The rest stayed in the rooms above the tavern.

They'd only been there a week, but it was a much-needed break from their constant travel. They still hunted down pockets of darkspawn and bandits to ensure the town was safe, but they also slept in real beds and ate at the tavern every night. Leliana even volunteered at the local Chantry, dividing resources and praying with the town.

Speaking of their lively bard, Zevran spotted her rushing towards them with Barkspawn at her heels.

"You're back!" She exclaimed. "How did it go?"

"I think all the bandits ran off." Clara pulled down her hood and ruffled her sweaty blonde hair. Half of it stuck straight up, making the fierce warrior look more like the head of a broom. "Didn't see anything human all day."

"And the darkspawn?"

"Not gone, but it is a blight." She shrugged. "I think we'll leave the day after next. The guard should be able to handle what's left."

"More importantly," Zevran said, "I found the winning letter!"

Leliana grinned. "I'll get the drinks!"

After drinks were delivered and they'd settled at a table, Barkspawn curled over Clara's feet, Zevran read the letter again, with plenty of flourishes and suggestive looks. The redhead giggled through the entire thing.

When he finished, Clara shook her head. "Not a chance, Zev. Mine's better."

"I don't know." Leliana said. "There is a certain poetry in it."

"What? Why are you on his side?"

She shrugged. "None of the letters I found can compare. I'm not wasting time betting on a horse that can't win."

"Fine." Clara huffed. "Then you're the deciding vote. Pick one."

Delicately tapping her chin, the bard paused, obviously deep in thought.

"You can't be serious, Leli." Clara demanded, leaning over the table. "Mine's better! Just pick mine!"

He chuckled, admiring her fierce frown. So competitive!

Leliana smiled sweetly. "It's only that poetry is best when read aloud. Zevran really made the words come alive, don't you think?"

She fluttered her eyelashes as the Warden's mouth dropped open. Clara had staunchly avoided reading aloud any of the letters they found.

"Yes," he purred, "won't you indulge us, Warden?"

"I--you can't--fine!" She snatched her bag from under the table and rooted through it, muttering under her breath.

She slapped the parchment to the tabletop. " 'Miss Ambrose'." She started, a determined set to her shoulders.

" 'A long, slow grind, the motion careful, aided by generous application of oils. Size is no concern with my equipment, and I am always mindful when stuffing, not risking a--risking--" Clara stuttered, her voice climbing higher with each word. "--a burst before every order is fulfilled.' "

Leliana giggled and he pressed a fist against his mouth.

" 'My meat--" She winced, her pale skin red as a tomato. "--goes hand in hand with satisfaction.' "

He laughed. She fought down a smile and took a deep breath.

" 'Your interest astounds, but I would not question a customer's choice in nighttime reading." She said quickly, her voice strangled. "Three pound sausage again next week? No cheek, of course.' "

She collapsed against the table, arms over her head, shoulders twitching, as Leliana and Zevran howled with laughter. Barkspawn joined in with an actual howl.

"Maker's breath," Leliana sighed. She wiped her eyes. "That was marvelous, my friend. You win."

Clara looked up, hiccupping with laughter, and tried her best to glare. "You're all terrible people."

"What a performance!" Zevran cheered and clapped. "More than worth the five silver."

She rolled her eyes, but accepted their coin without further grumbling.

"And with that, I must be off." Leliana said, standing up. "I promised I would be up early to repair a barn. Zev?"

He sighed. "Yes, I suppose. As long as you buy the drinks again tomorrow."

"Helping the locals now?" Clara asked, refilling her cup.

"I might as well." He shrugged, leaning back in his chair and waving off Leliana. "Idle hands and all that, you know."

She frowned. "Are you tired of patrolling already?"

"Oh, there is no need to pout, my Warden." He said with a wink. "You know I only have eyes for you."

She hid a smile behind her cup of wine. Zevran grinned back, putting his feet up in Leliana's empty chair. They settled into a comfortable silence, simply observing each other.

He and the Warden had been dancing around each other for the past month. They each knew what it was and where it was going--into bed, most likely, though he had no qualms about a tent or wall if that's where the moment led them. But this, the dance, was equally enjoyable. Flirting, teasing, finding out how to make her smile or blush down past the neckline of her robes.

And learning how she flirted back. That's how he knew that arguing and knocking her shoulder against his was practically a wink and a loosened bodice for Clara.

Suddenly, her mouth dropped into a true pout, eyes shifting behind him. He turned to see Alistair move quickly across the room and out the front door with his head down.

He frowned. Something had happened between their stalwart Grey Wardens. For the past week, Alistair and Clara had barely even acknowledged each other. The playful teasing was replaced by awkward silences and short, to-the-point conversations. And occasionally, he caught her staring at him like she did now. Hurt danced across her expression with abandon.

Then she scowled. In one smooth motion, she picked up her cup and drained it.

Zevran blinked. Slowly, he pushed his whiskey over to her.

She drank that just as quickly, though with a lot more coughing after. Barkspawn whined and pushed his head into her lap.

Well. This was worse than he thought.

"Mi estrella." He said, leaning forward with a smirk.

She wiped her mouth with her sleeve. "What?"

"You've drunk far more than your usual fare." He nodded to the empty cups. "Sleep here tonight, in one of the empty rooms upstairs."

"That's...probably a good idea." Clara stood with a groan and tucked her staff under her arm.

"I shall escort you."

"What possible ulterior motive could you have, I wonder?" She mused as they started up the steps.

"Believe me, I am not a subtle man." He said. "When I have a motive, you will know."

They ducked into the room at the top of the stairs. As she shucked off her armor and robes, he wandered the edges of the small room, faking interest in its small baubles and plain furniture.

"If I may pry, my Warden..."

She glanced at him, suddenly tired and thinner than she had any right to be, clad only in a thin sleeveless shirt and trousers.

"You're asking permission? That's new." She noted dryly.

"Hm. I noticed some tension between you and your fellow Grey Warden recently."

Her shoulders tensed. She winced at the movement, hand going to her right shoulder.

He padded over to the bed and sat, gesturing her towards the middle. "Here, sit."

She shifted onto the bed.

He began to knead her broad shoulders. She tensed at first, either at the new intimacy or his cold fingers. Only when she relaxed under his hands did he speak again.

"Did you disagree on how Connor was dealt with?" A feint.

"No."

"On our next journey?" Zevran found knot after knot in her muscles, like a string of pearls underneath her skin. He started to doubt this plan--having this conversation and taking care of her horribly abused muscles demanded his full attention and right now he wasn't sure which was more important.

"No," she sighed, "we both think Orzammar is the best move."

"Then he finally confessed his affections?"

Clara's head snapped around to meet his gaze.

He smiled slightly. Braska, he hadn't meant to say it quite like that. But she was a blunt woman, she might prefer a blunt approach.

"Maker," She twisted away from his hands, "I hoped it wouldn't be obvious."

"It's not your fault. Alistair is rather blatant about his feelings, though." He chuckled. That was a bit of a white lie. They were both obvious about their falling out, but a tiny fib never hurt anyone. "The poor boy has been mooning over you for a few months now."

"I must have done something to lead him on..." She said with a deep frown. "I'm a terrible friend."

He shrugged. "Well, I can't comment on that last bit, not having much experience in the area. Flirting, though, I am quite skilled in. And its all about intention."

When she didn't respond, he placed a hand on her arm, drawing her attention up to him.

"Clara, you can't lead someone on unless you mean to."

She smiled weakly.

"A massage, for example." He continued. "This could be just a friendly massage, but I hope you know enough of my intentions to tell otherwise."

She blushed, but reached up and squeezed the hand on her arm nonetheless. He pushed past the excitement buzzing in his chest. Despite knowing about their mutual interest, the acknowledgement of it thrilled him.

"Good. It's not your fault, or Alistair's, for that matter. It was just... a miscommunication."

"You make it sound so simple." Clara sighed.

"Only because it is." He said. "Give it some time and you'll both be able to look back at it with laughter."

She scrunched her nose. "Maker, you sound like an old man."

"A beauty such as yours, my lady, inspires the wisdom of ages."

She groaned and fell back against the bed dramatically. "Not more poetry!"

"Your storm-grey eyes cut my chest to ribbons," Zevran said, leaning on one hand to smile down at her. She rolled her eyes. "such do I ache for you."

"Your laugh soothes my pain and heals me." His fingers dug into her sides and she squealed as he tickled her.

Loud and unrestrained, the laughter transformed her. Her face, so often grim and lined with worry, turned bright and open. A smile split her face nearly in half.

Zevran admired the sight, his mission tonight accomplished, when she suddenly grabbed his wrists tightly. She shoved him, rolling them over and pinning his wrists above his head.

"Ha!" She crowed, victorious and beautiful, only inches above him. His heart stuttered. "That's--"

He leaned up, closing the space between them, to meet her lips. He felt, more than heard, her gasp. A breathless moment passed before she returned the kiss with a sigh.

She pressed down more firmly into him. Her hands released his and snaked down to cradle his face. Warmth trailed behind her touch, tracing patterns across his cheeks, down his neck.

He tilted his head, slanting his mouth open in invitation as he wrapped his arms around her. She ran her tongue teasingly against his bottom lip. Then, she bit down, slowly, deliberately.

He groaned as she pulled away, opening his eyes to see Clara, flushed and grinning down at him

"Your lips enthrall me." He murmured.

She chucked, brushing a kiss over the corner of his mouth. "You're absolutely terrible."

"I believe that speaks more to your taste in men than my taste in poetry, mi estrella."

"Are you ever going to tell me what that means?"

"I've no plan to."

Clara kissed him again. Her hands were buried in his hair now, grasping and pulling for new angles, as she hummed deep in her throat. And he let himself drown in her warmth, just for a while.

Sometime later, after her hand was underneath his shirt and his was gripping her thigh, Zevran pulled back.

He arched an eyebrow. "This was not the intention in my suggestion, Warden."

"So?" She grinned, her eyes dark and wild.

"So, you were close to collapse only five minutes ago." He brushed his fingers against her lips, following the curve of her smile. "And, if I have my way, this will be quite acrobatic. You'll want to be awake for it."

Truthfully, he was enjoying the chase far too much to jump into bed right now. He'd never had the luxury of time before--the lovers he had taken in the past were either jobs or other Crows. Both were always rushed, fumbling selfishly for whatever pleasure they could take before moving onto the next. This, her, would be the first entirely of his own choice, free from his masters. If he wanted to savor it, he damn well would.

Also, he made a point not to fall into bed with someone distracted by another man. Even if it wasn't 'like that'.

He'd had precious few friends in his life and never any friend as close as Clara and Alistair were. He wouldn't be responsible for the end of their friendship. After they mended their ways, then he could move forward.

Zevran shifted out from under her and brushed a kiss against her cheek. She fell back on the bed and yawned widely.

"Rather proving my point, Warden."

"Fine. It's your loss, really." Clara said, smiling as she closed her eyes and curled around a pillow. "I'm an animal in bed."

"I've no doubt." He muttered, hardly able to contain his own smile as he left.

#dao #da:o #dragon age #dragon age: origins #origins #ZevWarden #Zevran x Warden #Zevran x Amell]#zevran arainai #Zevran x female Amell #Zevran x female Warden #female amell #female warden #Clara Amell #ZevWarden fic #dragon age fanfic #fuck i already posted this under the wrong blog #whatever :(

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xellandria · 3 years

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Zmija Yilan was a temporary character I played towards the end of our Tomb of Annihilation campaign after my boy Alexus got petrified by a beholder somewhere deep in the bowels of the tomb itself. We were able to “salvage” both him and Amara (who had also gotten petrified in the same fight) by shoving them into the Bag of Holding, but short of having the two of us sit on the bench while the remaining two party members waddled back to town, we had to roll some new characters.

I spent most of the week between the petrification and the new characters appearing being mad at myself for not remembering I had Inspiration I could have used to reroll either of my failed dex saves and not being able to do much beyond that, but with less than 72 hours left until she had to debut, I finally pulled an idea out of my butt, ran it by the DM because it involved Shenanigans™, got the OK and started designing her. Thus was born Zmija Yilan, whose appearance was based partly on an old photo that was semi-viral on Tumblr several years prior and partly on Xelloss from Slayers because when I’m in a pinch, that’s always who I fall back on, and have been doing so for like, 20+ years at this point lmao. Personality-wise, there was a post floating around Tumblr that week about proverbs in various languages that, when translated literally or without context, made very little sense so she got a lot of that (and associated misunderstandings based on language mix-ups) mixed in with—again—Xelloss from Slayers, because I am a hack. I would probably never play her again because she was so firmly entrenched in that campaign and also there’s some parts of how I designed/played her that I look back on and am like “ehhh I’m not sure I’m comfortable with the optics of this,” but I enjoyed playing her a lot more than I expected, and I look back on the end of our Tomb campaign very fondly because of it.

I haven’t been able to talk about her in public both for a lack of reason to do so and because I didn’t want to “spoil” my group in case they found my various social media posts, but as it’s nearly a year since she was introduced and nine months since the campaign ended, I’m gonna absolutely wall of text the shit outta this bitch, rofl (that said there’s baby’s first nekkid pin-up under here so assuming Tumblr lets me actually post it, fair warning for that under the cut)

Zmija Yilan - level 8-10 Human* Warlock (Great Old Ones/Pact of the Tome) (usually this is where my D&D character posts put stats but I don’t actually have access to her character sheet anymore, so let’s just pretend she had something ridiculous like maxed Charisma because I remember my spell DC being ridiculously high)

Zmija Yilan is a traveler from the far-off land of Zemlya, and a disciple of Matrymriy, one of the "family" of five gods in the pantheon of that region. Matrymriy came to Zmija in a dream one night and told her to travel across the seas because She had a task for her, and that she would learn more once she reached her destination. She's been traveling around Faerun for seven or so years—reaching one place, being given hints to go to a specific location, and upon reaching it, being told to travel on without seeming to do much more than just Be There. Upon reaching Chult sometime within the last few months, her patron's hints indicated that she should travel to a place called Shilku Bay; she hired a guide (named Salida) and a bodyguard (a Fort Belurian mook) with what little locally-acceptable currency she had; they got separated after being attacked by a band of undead, and after failing to reunite with them, she was wandering around lost, trusting that Matrymriy will guide her where She desires her to go.

Part of her wandering had her end up in the Tomb of the Nine Gods itself, where she encountered our adventuring party (down two player characters) desperately trying to find their way out of the tomb in the hopes of returning to Port Nyanzaru to depetrify their friends. Our barbarian’s player immediately distrusted her because I’d drawn her tabletop token with her back to the camera, which was an awkward feeling almost immediately returned in-game because both the barbarian and paladin aren’t hardcore RPers but they had to carry all the RP weight as they were introduced to this new character and explain that they were there to destroy a lich (both because it was the source of all the bad undead in the area, and because they’d been promised a reward—a motivation Zmija understood, as “a hungry bear will not dance.”) Beyond the usual RP awkwardness there was an additional layer of awkwardness between the characters IC as at the time, Thokk was barely wearing more than a breastplate and loincloth, while Zmija was covered neck-to-ankle despite the heat and humidity of the region. She claimed that in the culture of Zemlya, having strangers see your skin was a mark of great shame and that modesty was of paramount importance, so seeing so much of him was very off-putting and threw her off-balance for much of their initial interactions.

Getting off on the “wrong” foot with the party and pushing as hard as I could into Zmija’s quirks (the weird proverbs, sprinkling in her Zemlyan vocabulary and making a point of her being from Very Far Away with Very Different Customs) meant I went a little too hard on them at the beginning, which is partly what I’d do differently and partly why the whole thing ended up working, so it’s a weird retrospective balance. If my partymates had ever shoved (almost) any of the names or places Zmija mentioned into google, they probably would have twigged to the scheme pretty dang fast.

In reality, Zmija is not a human traveler from Zemlya, because surprise! she's actually Zsaksatyi, a Chultian Yuan-Ti Pureblood under the command of Fenthaza. She worked as a bit of a double agent/interrogator within the Fane prior to her current assignment (hence her spell list's focus on information gathering, silent communication, and manipulation); she's been fleshing out her alternate persona for years and would occasionally pretend to be a captive and be thrown in one of those cells the party was in to get relevant information from the other prisoners, or assist others that were interrogating prisoners by more direct means (via Detect Thoughts). In-universe, the language she pretends to speak is mostly made up, and something she's been working on for years at this point—it's not a fully-fleshed conlang and she only has a couple hundred words and phrases but it's enough to be consistent and believable when she sprinkles it into regular speech. Since there's no real risk of running into anyone else from Zemlya (because it doesn't actually exist), it mostly didn't matter, and since there's actual meaning behind the words she does have, in theory it would have held up to a spell like Comprehend Languages as well. Out of universe, the language she speaks is an amalgamation of my own conlang stuff (which, like the in-universe version, is very limited and not complete) and various words and phrases pulled mostly from real-world Slavic languages (russian, croatian, hungarian, etc) with a little bit of Turkish thrown in when my English-only ear felt that it fit or when I had already used a word and needed another word for the same thing. Zsaksatyi (pronounced dzahk sot-YEE) is the only name/word in the whole mess that doesn’t actually mean something somewhere, and was a combination of syllables from an online Yuan-Ti name generator that I kinda liked together. If she had ever been outed, I would probably have come up with something a little less cumbersome for me and my (almost certainly wholly monolingual) D&D group to say... but she didn’t, so Zsaksatyi it stays!

She very much looks up to Fenthaza and almost idolizes and worships her—if she ever had to choose between Fenthaza or Dendar, things might have gotten a little bit rough for her (possibly no matter which way she ultimately jumped, though I imagine Dendar's vengeance would be more immediate, if Dendar's a hands-on sort of patron). Thankfully (for her), there was very little risk of that given that the party had left Fenthaza on reasonably neutral terms (having already helped her oust Ras Nsi from his position of power in the Fane and the party having essentially marked that dungeon as “cleared”). Fenthaza had sent her to scout the Tomb of the Nine Gods and locate (or steal) an artifact known as the Black Opal Crown, which will allow the Night Mother to emerge into the world. The group actually came across the crown pretty soon after Zmija (and our other new character, a firbolg druid named Mei Ren who replaced our cleric, Amara) joined them, but the party couldn’t figure out how to get it out of the room it was in and Zsaksatyi was content that it would be safe from both our group and other adventurers there while she found her way back to the Fane (though she Sent the location to Fenthaza in case she wasn’t able to make it back). That was actually like, halfway through the session right after she’d been introduced so having her sneak off that fast would have been absolutely wild, so I kept playing her as Zmija and while there were myriad opportunities for her to be discovered—including a hallway where any non-magical non-living thing got evaporated, up to and including clothing—she never was. The fact that the only spells she ever used spell slots on were Hex, Counterspell, and Identify never really got commented upon, because prior to her joining the party we didn’t have a source for any sort of utility magic and we’d been feeling the lack for a while. She was a lot of fun to play just as Zmija once I got the hang of her, but the hidden agenda that only our DM & I knew about was an extra layer of fun, too. It would have been neat to see how the party reacted to a reveal, but unless Jim wants to take us back to Chult to actually deal with the Night Mother’s return (because without having to keep up appearances and alignments, I’m pretty sure I could have gotten that crown out of there even before the weird teleport-defying magic of the Tomb got turned off), her story is over for us—taking her outside of the setting she was designed for would be weird... plus we already have two warlocks (well, one and a half) in a party of four PCs; adding a third would be a little bit bizarre, I think.

Her more Yuan-ti features include scales down her spine and across her shoulderblades, on the backs of her hands, and on her hips and thighs—mostly in reds, oranges, and browns, but as she increases in power and connection with the Night Mother, more of them are darkening to Her blue-black; it started right at that spot between the shoulderblades where you always picture being stabbed in the back, and has expanded from there; I imagine by level 20 all of her scales would be that blue-black and may have encroached further on the more human-y leather bits, probably encroaching on her face at the last, which would make being a spy a lot more difficult (even moreso than wearing as much clothing as she already does) but I guess at level 20, do you really need to be sneaking around pretending to be human?

In direct sunlight or other very bright light, her pupils constrict to slits, which is the real reason for her heavy eye makeup—between the distraction of it and the (somewhat exaggerated) squinting that such light induces, it often goes unnoticed, as it did with her character portrait (although to be fair to my party, Alexus also has slit eyes because that’s one of the traits of elves and half elves in D&D, and also I’m not sure if they ever saw her portrait any larger than 150x150 or whatever Roll20 shows them at). Both her top and bottom canine teeth are sharper, longer, and narrower than is typical for humans, and she is careful not to grin too widely and will cover her mouth when she laughs or yawns, whether she is in disguise or not. That part I’ve never drawn though, so I can’t really point to that as something the party overlooked, heh. In hindsight, I wish I'd given her more/heavier snake features but even the official art for Yuan-Ti player characters are very light on them and getting around the differences between human and yuan-ti racials without tipping off the party was hard enough as it was—I took the 120 feet of magic-ignoring darkvision invocation to disguise the fact that she innately had darkvision, I never used my racial spells and abilities unless I was willing to “use” a spell slot on them and had another plausible way to have obtained them, the one time I got hit with a poison ability (which she was immune to) I spent a lot of time “figuring out the math” on how much HP I had to drop, etc. I also wish I’d given her darker skin, as she is supposed to be Chultian but she is significantly lighter than all the NPCs we came across. Then again, I’m as white as a sheet soaked in bleach so there’s something weird about me RPing folks of colour regardless (especially given her fake backstory, agh agh agh) so yeah. Really enjoyed her, don’t regret her, will not ever play her again rofl

In our very last session of Tomb of Annhiliation, the party—fresh off the victory over the big bad lich whose name I can never spell and his weird world-eating fetus—headed back to Port Nyanzaru via the Aarakocra village of Kir Sabal, which the previous variant of the party (of whom only Thokk remained alive and mobile enough to talk to them) had helped out significantly earlier in the campaign, unlocking a flying ritual that we were like “man we’re not coming back here if we’re gonna use it we gotta do it now” to get us the rest of the way to the port. En route, Zmija tried to leave the group and rolled a secret 15 Stealth roll... contested by 17 and 18 perception rolls from Mei Ren and Thokk, but as she wasn’t carrying much of the party’s stuff and it was the end of the campaign, they kinda just let her give some line about seeing them again in the future maybe, the Mother’s will is unknowable, etc etc. I think if Duf and Kattii didn’t know that I wanted Alexus back as badly as I did and that we were like twenty minutes (real time) away from actually getting him back, they might have considered that more suspicious than they did.

Pronunciations (and translations): (mostly C&Ped from her bio, which is the only part of her character sheet I can still access on Roll20)

Zmija Yilan: zMEE-ah yee-LAHN. Because I'm subtle as hell, that's Croatian/Russian/Ukranian (first name) and Turkish (last name) for "snake/serpent," according to the internet. What do you mean Remus Lupin is a werewolf?!

Matrymriy: mah-tRRuh mRREE (Rs are rolled). Matrymriy is Zmija's claimed patron—one of five major Zemlyashan dieties—but she'll state that she doesn't know the name that she goes by in the local dialect. That's only partly true, of course—мати мрій is Ukranian for "Mother of Dreams" (at least according to google translate), which is close enough to her patron's actual names and titles (Dendar, the Night Mother) that she can get away with it without actually raising suspicions about the true source of her powers. She'll also do that thing where if someone tries to say the name back to her she'll "correct" them by saying it exactly the same four or five times and then "give up" and accept whatever "butchered" version the speaker comes up with, except she'll do it even if they're actually saying it perfectly correctly. She may do this with her own name as well (sorry, Jim. And Duf. And Dustin. And Kattii. And Kattii's coworker, if he ever joins us and I'm still playing this character by then, lmao.) (2021 addition: and literally everyone who has a name that isn’t typically pronounced by us English-only plebians, I am so sorry I’m not better at your language)

Zsaksatyi: dzahk sot-YEE. Zmija's real name, when she isn't pretending to be a human. That doesn't mean anything as far as I know, it was just a combination of some of the syllables the random Yuan-Ti name generator was coming up with that I liked (which is also where "Itszella" was from), lol. I may end up changing it to be less cumbersome at some point, unless it comes up before then and ends up written in stone, but I'm on a bit of a time crunch for the moment.

Zemlya: zem-lyah. If pressed for more detail on where in Zemlya she's from (e.g. by someone pretending to know details about her country), her home town is Fal'shyva (fall-sheh-VAH), southeast of the capital of Hayali (HI-yah-LEE) and just north of the port city of Farazi (fah-ra-DZI), which is where she originally sailed from seven years ago. фальшива земля is Ukranian for "fake land," Hayali is Turkish for "imaginary," and Farazi is Turkish for "hypothetical," lol.

Proverbs & (approximate) Pronounciations: (if I recall correctly, asterisks indicate ones I had used, so I didn’t repeat myself too frequently)

Wziąć się w garść (zvun shih garsch): lit. take the self into the fist (polish), pull yourself together Галопом по Zemlya (gal-OH-pohm poe zem-lyah): lit. galloping across Zemlya (russian), to be hasty/haphazard. * У кого немає собаки, полює з котом (Ooh koe-hoe meh-MIGH-eh soe-BAH-kay, poe-LOO-yay koh-tome): lit. who does not have dog, hunts with cat (ukranian, original proverb is portugese), make do with what you have. Z choinki się urwałaś? (dzi hoink-E she urr-vahl-wash): lit. did you fall from a Candlenights(aka Christmas) tree? (polish), you are obviously not well-informed; are you dumb? * Mi o vuku (MEE oh voo-koo): lit. to talk of the wolf (croatian), speak of the devil. * Thalai muzhuguthal (tha-LIE MOOz-GOO-thal): lit. pour water over someone's head (tamil), cut off a relationship. * Хоть кол на голове теши (coat-coal nah gohl-ehvee teh-SHEE): lit. you can sharpen an axe on this head (russian), a very stubborn person.

Other Languages Are Hard Today, Let’s Just Proverb It In English:

Cat's Forehead (japanese): a tiny space, usually used humbly to refer to owned land. It fell between chairs (swedish): group work that everyone assumed someone else would do, and didn't get done as a result * It gives me a beautiful leg (french): fat lot of good that'll do me Drown the fish (french): avoid a subject by talking about anything and everything else, confuse the issue In a river with piranhas, the alligator swims backstroke (brazil): protect your weaknesses * Accusation always follows the cat (iraqi): it's easy to blame someone who can't defend themselves The honey only sticks to the mustache of he who licked it (arabic): he who smelt it, dealt it * A hungry bear does not dance (greek): the reward must be worth the cost (or at least exist) * The crayfish sides with the crab (korean): people who have a lot in common stay friends * If you can't live longer, live deeper (italian): get the most of your time * A spoon does not know the taste of soup (welsh): intelligence is not wisdom Examine what is said, not who speaks (arab): don't take things at face value * Turn your face to the sun and the shadows will fall behind you (new zealand): have a positive outlook He who does not travel, does not know the value of men (moorish): wide experience is gr8 Do good and throw it in the sea (arab): don't expect anything back from kindness * Shared joy is a double joy; shared sorrow is halved (swedish): friends make things better If you want to go fast, go alone. If you want to go far, go together (african): strength in numbers, speed on your own.

#xellart #dungeons and dragons #original characters #zmija yilan

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writing-the-end · 4 years

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Exodus- Part 4

Previous Chapter

An Edolas Hermit Story (AU belongs to @theguardiansofredland )

Impulse has escaped the city, avoided the leaders, but now he’s lost in a world he knows nothing about. And no matter how far he goes, it’s never far enough to stop the feeling of being watched

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LET”s try this again shall we?. Yada yada nods to other games, easter eggs and inspiration.

But still! CHECK OUT RED HIS WORK IS AMAZING AND HE”S THE FUCKING GENIUS THAT CAME UP WITH THIS. I just put words to paper. Sometimes I do it well.

Warning: This story contains general dark elements and language

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The hours stretch into days, the sun rising and setting without a clock to tell Impulse when the nights are looming and retreating. He seemed to have lost Xisuma and Cub a while back, but that doesn’t stop him from running. He can’t put enough distance between them and himself. He can’t put enough distance between the city and himself.

But he knows that with each step away from the bonds of Hermitland, it’s also a step away from the bonds of friendship. Leaving behind Tango and Zed, being forced to continue without them has been some of the worst thoughts that haunt his mind. Are they okay? Were they seen? Does Cub know who they are? Will they be able to escape some other way? Join him beyond the walls? Questions haunt Impulse in the day, and nightmares run wild at night. Nightmares of what horrible experiences they may have to endure, experiences like he went through. Being caught, interrogated, put through rehabilitation. Or worse.

The worst nightmares aren’t ones of himself being hurt, or his friends being caught. It’s of them forgetting him. Moving on with their lives, giving up on their shared dreams of freedom. Of the classes they’d taken together, the long evenings studying for engineering exams, cool nights on rooftops dreaming of a world beyond the walls. No memory, no recollection of Impulse. No one left to remember, to care about a poor boy with big dreams to help people.

As Impulse travels through the birch forest, he’s learned not to trust anything. The eyes of the trees, the whispers of the leaves all betray him. The squeaks and howls of animals are distant voices, carrying the message of his location to unwanted ears. Even the sticks on the ground, the grass are traps in disguise. Ensnaring the city boy and making his paranoia grow. Everything is out to get him. Just like in Hermitland. No, because of Hermitland. It’s all a part of the bigger conspiracy.

If Tango and Zed were here, they’d be able to quell his fears. Prove to his mind and all it’s wayward conclusions that it’s just coincidence. Tango’s skepticism and caution would point out the flaws of Impulse’s fears, the coincidences that break the story. And Zed would have filled in what was left with optimism, truth and guidance to ease away the sharp worries.

But it’s just Impulse. Alone in the wild, alone in the world. Is there anyone beyond the walls, or is he the only soul out here? Impulse isn’t sure if he could take living alone, like some hermit out here in a forest full of eyes. Full of things waiting to hurt him, waiting to rat him out to things that only want to do him harm. People that only want to do him harm.

Impulse trips, crashing into the ground. Clumps of grass and dirt stick to his sweaty face, and he spits a leaf out from between his teeth. He twists, looking to see what brought him to his knees. Sunlight filtering through the trees glistens off two metal buttons, blinding Impulse as he stands in the reflected illumination. Impulse creeps closer, looking at what he caught his foot on.

It’s a doll, a little rag doll not dissimilar from the toys he grew up with. Metal buttons for eyes, tattered fabric skin and clothes. A plant has grown from it’s chest, the stuffing within long ago stolen by birds and beasts. His foot was caught in the cavity that remains, nearly ripping the toy to shreds.

Impulse turns his gaze to his surroundings. Trees grow from sharp rises, cliff faces of moss and lichen. No, not hills and cliffs. Homes. Lampposts overgrown with vines, flowers blooming from where lights used to shine down. Rusted iron support beams have fallen apart, tied to the ground by roots and grass. Crumbled stones and structures lay in heaping mounds, cairns of a time long past. Impulse digs the heel of his boot through the grass, and finds concrete beneath the thin layer of dirt.

He also sees black marks on the stone walls, wooden posts charred and piles of ash tucked in the corners of homes. This must’ve been from a time before Hermitland, before the wall.

This village was burned in the war with the nether. After all the lies he’s been fed, Impulse was starting to doubt the existence of such an event. But nothing else could explain damage like this. This is more firepower than any overworld army could do. This is why Hermitland was built. What Xisuma, Cub, and Doc were trying to protect the city and it’s people from.

Utter ruin, total annihilation. But the line between defense and deception is so very thin, so easy to cross without ever realizing. Impulse feels the wind brush past his cheeks, his breath huffing as he stays still for just a minute. Between the broken windows and collapsed doors, he swears he can hear the voices of people long forgotten. The daily life of this village, long lost.

Impulse can’t help his curiosity. He needs to know more, about the people of this place and how it came to ruin. He feels it’s only fair. Most of the buildings are missing roofs, left to the devices of the elements. Plants have grown over what animals haven’t taken, reclaiming the village in nature’s name. Bringing life back to a town that was once dead. Impulse clambers into one building that still has most of it’s roof, though heavily charred. The forces of nature have been kept at bay more so in this room than the rest of the village.

It’s a library. Or, it was a library. Most of the books are gone, and the shelves have collapsed into blackened rubble. Impulse picks his way through, picking up whatever books remain. A recipe book, delicious and colorful meals making his stomach growl and ache. He hasn’t eaten in days. A manual on how to play some sort of tabletop game. Best played with three or more people.

One book does catch Impulse’s eye. It’s a thick tome, the leather binding and yellow pages charred by the fire that had swept through the library. Portals to Other Dimensions: 3rd Edition. Impulse raises an eyebrow, and carefully flips through the pages within. They nearly crumble at his touch, but he’s able to make sense of what he’s reading.

There may not be a way for him to get as far away from Hermitland in this dimension...but what about other dimensions? Or even other worlds? Anywhere is better than here. There’s nothing left for him here. The nether dimension is absolutely a no, but the book does mention something about another dimension. It’s vague, but something about a place full of lost things. Isn’t Impulse a lost thing?

He flips the page, but the paper disintegrates before he can read on how to get to this End dimension. The next page says something about stone and brick. Is that how he gets to the End? He can build a portal to a different dimension, just by scrounging up stone from the ruins of this city. He can escape to the End, far away from everything the Overworld and the nether has ever done to hurt him. Make a new life in this strange new dimension, no matter how harsh it is.

So Impulse begins to build. Tossing off his tattered buttonup, and tightening the bandage around his burns, he gathers stone and stone brick. He organizes the heavy material into an arrangement as close as he can mimic to what he hopes is the End portal. He doesn’t know what it looks like, but the book says that nether portals are six by nine meters of obsidian. If stone bricks have something to do with the end portal, then it’s reasonable for him to assume that it’ll be in a similar arrangement.

The sun sets on the ruined city and ruined boy, but Impulse doesn’t stop. His pace becomes feverish, to the point that he actually puts his broken clock to the side so he can work without worry of breaking it more. It sits next to the open book, catching the moonlight. Impulse refuses to stop. No amount of hunger, fatigue, or pain will stop him now. He’s run so far, but not far enough. There’s still a chance he could be found in the Overworld. He needs to go beyond.

Impulse scrambles up the lopsided portal frame, pushing his dirty, windswept hair out of his eyes as he places the keystone at the peak of the portal. One stone brick portal, which hopefully will take Impulse to the End. Impulse steps back, admiring his handiwork, and feeling his entire body screaming for him to stop. To rest, to eat, to heal.

But his fear, his paranoia tell him to keep going. He swears he can hear voices in the distant, whispering among the leaves of the trees. People are close, or at least he can swear they are. People who want to harm Impulse. He rushes to pull out his flint and steel, not even taking the time to test the striker before sparking the portal. The rift opening nearly throws him off his feet, red swirls and sparks drifting free of the portal frame.

He did it. He opened a portal. Hopefully, a portal to the End. Impulse grabs his clock, and steps up to the portal. In the distance of the birch forest, beyond the ever present eyes surrounding him, he can hear something howling. He doesn’t hesitate.

Impulse leaps through the portal. His mind and body feels distorted, like he’s going to throw up. Like everything and nothing is happening to him. He exists, yet he doesn’t. Every atom of his being colliding and condensing. Until he’s out the other side.

He stumbles forward, catching his weight on a sapling. But the young tree can’t handle the weight of the young man, and snaps. For the second time today, Impulse goes crashing to the dirt. But this time, he leaps back to his feet, ignoring the dirt and grass. His feet drag against the ground, body tired from running, low on energy. He’s running on empty, nearly burned out. Not enough to stop him from breaking his own portal.

Impulse rips the stone portal apart, rock after rock tossed in all directions around him. The frame collapses under its weight, severing the connection between the birch forest and wherever he is now. He doesn’t care- he’s gone, in a completely different place than Hermitland. Somewhere Xisuma can’t get him. Somewhere no one...not even his best friends...could ever find him. It’s all gone, all the bad. But so is all the good.

Days of running, without food and fighting through the painful cuts and bruises all over his body finally catches Impulse. He barely has enough forethought to step away from the rubble before his knees give out from under him.

He’s gone before his head hits the ground.

#edolas impulse #impulsesv #hermitcraft impulse #hermitcraft au #edolas au #edolas #dystopia au #dystopia hermits #second time's the charm?#i hope

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rpgsandbox · 5 years

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ADDITIONAL DETAILS:

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1 Advanced Players Guide

1 Quest Tome

180 Power, Spell and Item Cards

24 Hex Tiles

4 Conviction Tokens

Hearts, Fire and Grit Tokens

Enemy Tokens

Quest Master Screen

Character Sheets

3 Sets of Polyhedral Dice

6 Miniatures

Rules

Recommended for ages 8+, can have between two-and-five players, and each round of play will take around 90+ minutes.

#RPG #gaming news #Quests of Yore #Onward #Pixar

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smutnug · 5 years

Text

Day 10: Surprise kiss

Owen Trevelyan had always been fascinated by magic: as a boy he pored over illustrations of griffons and dragons, devouring folk tales of witches and enchantments and talking animals.

"You shouldn't let him read that nonsense," his mother said. "He'll turn into a mage."

Bann Trevelyan peered over his spectacles - the finest in dwarven craftsmanship - and blinked mildly. "I'm quite sure that's not how it works."

"How will he ever be a templar? He won't know which side he's on."

"I don't think it's supposed to be about sides, dear."

Lady Trevelyan sniffed. "I see where he gets it from."

Thankfully for his mother, Owen's sense of adventure extended to a love of swords and rough-and-tumble play. A dutiful but indifferent Andrastian, he was considered too old at ten for templar training, but utterly unsuited to clerical work.

"We'll send him out to squire. It will do him good to be around boys his own age."

Owen had been a late addition: a surprise, or an accident, depending on his mother's mood. She looked at her youngest son doubtfully. "I just don't want him to be bullied."

"Stop bullying him then, dear." The bann returned to his book.

Squiring agreed with Owen exceptionally well.

"The duke is happy with his progress," said Bann Trevelyan over his morning letters. "Very popular with the other boys, evidently."

Lady Trevelyan choked genteelly on her tea. "Not too popular, I hope."

Her husband peered over his spectacles. "You're a hard woman to please, dear."

Owen returned home to Ostwick in his eighteenth year. Described variously as strapping, honourable to a fault, affable, and a host of other complimentary things, he had distinguished himself in tourneys and skirmishes alike. He was, everyone agreed, a credit to his house.

Lady Trevelyan looked her son up and down. Tall and broad with a mop of straw-coloured hair and a radiant grin, he was already gaining a reputation as the handsomest youth in Ostwick.

She pursed her lips.

They held a ball to celebrate his homecoming. Owen danced every dance, no more than once or twice with the same partner. People seemed drawn to him.

"I wish you wouldn't lead those poor girls on, Owen."

He looked down at his mother with a mock-wounded expression. "What makes you think I'm leading them on, mother dear?"

"Oh, Owen."

He laughed and kissed her on the cheek, and she couldn't help but smile.

Owen Trevelyan loved magic. He walked the streets of Haven with a grin, his cheeks ruddied by the cold. Mages, real mages, everywhere he looked! Some were half-starved, some surly, many too nervous to look anyone in the eye, but to him they may as well have been exotic butterflies.

"Is it true a dragon used to live here?" he asked the tavern keeper.

"That's what they say, ser," she said with a shrug.

"How wonderful!" he said, and tipped her richly enough that she forgave him for being a bit strange, and wondered if he were single.

He was. Lady Trevelyan had farewelled him with a kiss, a thick woollen scarf, and a murmured, perhaps you'll meet a nice man over there.

For you, mother, I'll try, he'd answered, and swept her into a bone-crushing hug.

He hadn't spent the past five years idle. He'd served in his father's guard, with such distinction that any suggestions of nepotism were quickly abandoned. He'd helped strengthen trade agreements with Markham and Ansburg, and turned down half a dozen marriage contracts with such charm that nobody felt any offense (but more than one young lady was left a touch disappointed). He bested some of the best fighters in the Free Marches at tourney. And, of course, he read.

None of this entirely prepared him for what was to come.

Owen Trevelyan loved magic - that didn't mean he wanted a mysterious, sometimes bad-humoured magical mark embedded in his hand. He loved the idea of dragons, but there was nothing exciting about having one attack his home. The novelty of demons wore off at his first encounter.

He loved magic; and while it didn't cross into fetish, it wouldn't be true to say he'd never thought of having a mage lover. There was a certain exotic, star-crossed romance to it after all.

Dorian, though…Dorian was something else altogether.

Smooth, flashy, witty…beautiful. Every visible inch seemed perfectly sculpted. His voice was richer than mead, his skin almost seemed to glow with warmth. For all Owen's romanticism, he didn't believe in love at first sight. But his first sight of Dorian…well, it took a man a while to recover from something like that.

Every ounce of charm Owen could throw at him was returned with double the force. He slashed, he parried, but it seemed Dorian didn't even know he was part of a duel. The mage shielded himself in sarcasm and cast wit like fireballs, all without so much as a sheen of sweat forming on his perfect brow.

A lesser man might have given up. Not Owen Trevelyan. He believed in magic.

"New books?" Dorian exclaimed. "Just when I thought my brain was about to wither and die."

"Our budget has allowed for some arcane study," Owen said, nearly dropping an armful of priceless tomes.

"Stop right there," Dorian ordered, "and let me help you. Why?"

"The advisors thought it might help me to have more knowledge of magical…things. I was hoping you might help me choose some good starting material?"

His eyes lit up like a glutton at a feast. "If you promise to take better care of them. I absolutely forbid you to carry more than three at a time."

"As you wish," Owen said with a winning smile.

"Dorian." Owen slid into a seat at the Herald's Rest. "I've been meaning to ask you - just how closely related are we?"

The mage took a sip of his drink, wrinkling his nose in elegant disgust. "I'd hardly say closely. Barely at all, and even then only by marriage."

"Oh. Good."

"Good?" Dorian swivelled in his chair. "I suppose you're right. The shame of being linked to a Tevinter mage, and all that."

"Dorian." Owen drummed his fingers on the tabletop. "I've travelled, you know. I've fought in battles. I've made love. I know you think I'm some over-excited puppy, but I want you to take me seriously."

"Where did this come from? I do take you seriously, dear boy."

"Dorian," he said a third time. "I'd like you to take me seriously. Because I take you seriously." Rising from his chair, he gave Dorian a backslap that soaked his mustaches in sour wine. "Good talking to you."

When the Inquisitor had gone, Sera stuck her head over the railing.

"Oi!" she called. "You, Dorian, are a frigging idiot."

Owen found Dorian leaning against the wall of the Gull and Lantern, staring at his finely tailored boots.

"I suppose you think I should forgive him?"

He joined him, tilting his face towards the sun. "I think it's up to you. Say the word and we'll leave now, and I'll never talk of it again if you don't want me to."

"But…?"

"But if you want to talk, even to say goodbye, I'll wait here."

Dorian looked at him for a long moment, then clasped his arm. "I won't be long."

"As long as you want."

"Thank you," he said softly, and straightened his spine. Then he opened the tavern door, and closed it quietly behind him.

The kiss came as a surprise to nobody but Dorian.

"You have to fight for what's in your heart," he said, and Owen couldn't help but take those two steps and kiss him.

The setting was perfect: Dorian's little corner of the library, filtered afternoon light streaming through the windows. Softer than Owen had dreamed of, gentler (although harder kisses were to come, later; rough, savage, stolen-in-the-midst-of-wrestling kisses) and sweeter by far than his imagination could conjure. He captured Dorian's small sound of surprise with his mouth, then Dorian caught his bottom lip carefully between his teeth, and only one word crystallised in the back of his mind as they melted together, two halves finally whole.

Magic.

#14dalovers #dorian x trevelyan #surprise kiss #nug writes #Owen trevelyan

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