#turned into a hunter for the wild court without a say in the matter

[drwcn]

NEW!

《 Without Envy 》 storyboard 11 - concubine/sleeper agent!wwx & prince!lwj

Other snippets and storyboards can be found on [Master List]

Lan Wangji knew his Uncle and the imperial court and the elders of the royal family were never going to be okay with him making Wei Wuxian one of his concubines. The servant status is one thing, but that's not the crux of the issue. The issue is that there's already a rumour circulating about how WWX is a wily fox whose sole purpose in life is to seduce and befuddle the prince. Xue Yang: quite a reputation you've cultivated for yourself. WWX: *kuzo's meme*.........ah yes, everything is all coming together now.

Lan Wangji is a smart boy though. He knows how to get what he wants. As Wei Ying inched towards full recovery from his whipping, the autumn hunt is upon them.

The autumn hunt in the royal hunts ground was a competition. Anyone invited could compete if they chose to, and of Lan Wangji's household, Jin Ziyan, Luo Qingyang and himself were in attendance. Mianmian, being his concubine and a woman, had two escorts/chaperones accompanying her for propriety, but flashed him dazzling smiles of gratitude upon her horse.

"I'm very grateful, dianxia, for your allowing this indulgence." "Of course," replied Lan Wangji from his saddle. "My Luo-furen should have what she wants." "Dianxia, ce-wangfu." Qin Su approached them and curtsied in proper form. "I wish you all best of luck in the hunt." Then to Mianmian, she said quietly, "Be careful, Qingyang." Jin Ziyan paid the two women no mind, but Lan Wangji saw the hand Qin Su had clandestinely wrapped around one of Mianmian's booted ankles. Oh...well, this is certainly a positive development.

The rest of the noble women not participating in the hunt rested in their tented pavilions, with Meng Yao as their hostess. They drank tea and ate sweets and enjoyed their free time to themselves. Meng Yao noted Wei Wuxian's absence from Jiang Yanli's side, as did several other noble women, but Jiang Yanli only smiled and said, "A-Xian has been living at my father's manor for several years and is an excellent marksman. Dianxia thought it a waste if he were kept from participating."

The truth of the matter is like this: when Wei Wuxian cheated and lied his way into Jiang-fu, he'd told Jiang Fengmian and his family that he'd lived most of his life by the charity of a hunter's family, and so had trained to hunt game in the wild. After the hunter's family died of some infectious illness that plagued the region, Wei Wuxian had supposed made his way into the city and found employment as a shop boy. He couldn't reveal that he'd been trained in martial arts, but there is no need to hide his skill as an archer. At first, it was so he could use archery as a common interest to get close to Jiang Fengmian's son Jiang Cheng, but Wei Wuxian soon realized that it could also be used as a way for Lan Wangji to cultivate further interest.

"Lan Zhan..." Wei Wuxian stroked the snout of Lan Wangji's beloved ferghana horse and grinned. "You really want me to ride him?" "Mn." "You...won't be mad then, if I win?" Wei Wuxian's grin turned slightly wicked. "If I beat you?" Lan Wangji's brow twitched with interest, "Not at all. That's rather what I'm counting on." "Yeah? And why is that?" "Because while I can claim victory with the sword -" "- Very modest, you." Wei Wuxian teased, grinning, which earned him a subtle little glare. "- amongst my cousins, my marksmanship is not unrivalled. You may have a greater chance of winning with him. Huangxiong promised that whoever wins today's hunt will be granted one wish." A wish? Wei Wuxian mulled over this information. His own mission turned and circled in his mind. If I could but gain access to... ... Of course, Wei Wuxian glanced at the prince and the saw the light in his eyes. Lan Wangji is probably thinking of something entirely different.

And so it was inevitable that went the count of the hunt came in, Wei Wuxian's name was at the top. Lan Qiren's little mustache just about flew off his face the way he scrunched it up in displeasure.

Gentries, nobles, dukes and princes watched with envy and shock as a servant came forth to accept the Emperor's reward.

"Jiang-xiong," Nie Huaisang leaned close to Jiang Cheng while they watched from the sidelines as Wei Wuxian bowed before the Emperor. "Why do you look so smug?" Jiang Cheng played with the end of an arrow with an air of mock innocence, "I don't know what you're talking about?" Nie Huaisang pulled at the leather of his riding attire in discomfort - this was so not his style - and tsked, "I know you, Jiang-xiong, you're not subtle. What did you do?" "I was the one who told Lan Wangi that Wei Wuxian is an excellent archer when I went to visit Hanguang-fu." Nie Huaisang understood instantly, "Oh....oh I see..." "What? Don't judge me! You know what they did to him. String up like some unruly animal and whipped. I never agreed with my mother's plan to send him along with my sister anyway. Wei Wuxian may be lowborn but..." Jiang Cheng scowled. "He's too good for them. For Lan Wangji. He's clearly not going to do right by Wei Wuxian. I won't stand to see a perfectly good man wasted as some prissy prince's concubine instead of being where he could put his real skills to use." "Shhhhh, ancestors, Jiang-xiong, keep your voice down! Words like that are a great dishonor against bixia, you'll lose your head!" Jiang Cheng shrugged.

Xue Yang *at a later times*: so lemme get this straight, you won the Hunt, and then Lan Xichen asked you what you want as reward - WWX - as a good little servant I said "I want for nothing that wangye and Jiang-zhuzi hasn't already provided me" - XY *rolls his eyes* Right. And then Jiang Wanyin came out of nowhere and said - "陛下，魏婴乃微臣之家生子，是前管家魏长泽 的独子， 因幼年时父母过世一直遗留市井。上天庇佑，几年前父亲将他巡回。魏婴为人端正淳厚，虽未上过学堂，但头脑机智。陛下也看到了，他弓发出众， 是。。。如能加强训练，以后必会为我姑苏所用 - " Bixia, Wei Ying is this subject's home-born servant, the only son of our previous head of staff Wei Changze. Due to the unfortunate passing of his parents in his youth, he has been getting by doing odd jobs in the capital. Heavens be willing, Father was able to find him after these many years and brought him home. Wei Ying is kind and righteous; though never have been taught by scholars, he is sharp of mind. As bixia has seen, he is a great marksmanship, is ... If he could be granted proper training, he would be a great asset for Gusu in the future. - And what a waste it would be if you were left to twindle away within the confines of a harem. I bet Lan Wangji just loved that. The balls on Jiang Wangyin - I do love his style. WWX You're the only one. Jiang-shushu just about had a heart attack when Jiang Cheng dissed Lan Wangji in public. Madam Yu nearly popped a vein too. XY: Yeah well, he's got a point. You may be Jiang Yanli's companion, but you're not Lan Wangji's concubine, you're just a servant with a skill. Honestly why shouldn't they put you to better use than waiting to maybe spread your legs for a prince who might just as easily toss you aside after the newness fades. WWX *slaps him up the head* Rascal! I'm your shixiong. Don't be so rude. Anyways, Lan Zhan, he - he was willing to let me go. I think he loves me you know - XY: He what now - WWX: He said - Lan Wangji came to kneel beside Wei Wuxian and Jiang Wanyin and bowed to his royal brother, "Huangxiong, Wei Ying is the peijia of my Jiang-furen, a servant of my manor. I... I long knew he is an excellent marksman and should have submitted his candidacy for the ranks but -" Lan Wangji looked at him then, eyes huge with something unreadable. "Jiang-xiao-jiangjun is right. Wei Ying is good, his mind is bright. He would be more suited to militia than...than within the walls of the inner court." "Wangye, have you....have you grown tired of Wei Ying -" "Wei Ying, no -" XY: Oh barf. So please tell me you chose to go to bingbu (ministry of war). WWX: Going to bingbu was never the assignment. If yifu wanted me in the ministry of war, I would've infiltrated them from the start. I refused. And it had the intended effect. "No?" Lan Xichen leaned forward curiously. "Joining the ranks will elevate your rank to that of a subject of the imperial government, and if you are truly as skilled and talented as my brother and Jiang-xiao-jiangjun say, you may rise yet to stand in my court as an officer of the imperial military. You will have your own commission, your own manor, marry, have children - all things which will be forbidden to you if you remain as you are now. As you are male, you cannot provide for Hanguang-fu any offspring, and your low-born status has precluded you from the position of consort or even vice-consort. Have you considered your options carefully? " "I understand bixia, and my decision is made. Nothing would please me more than to stay by wangye's side. I regret nothing." XY: >_> And A this has absolutely nothing to do with the fact you're increasingly horny for Lan Wangji? WWX: Of course not. Because of Lan Qiren, I couldn't advance in Hanguang-fu. But now that Lan Xichen had given me his royal decree, I am Lan Wangji's sanctioned mianshou. XY: *insert eye emoji* So...y'all fucked? WWX *wistful, thinking about the night he spent at the autumn palace after the hunt* : We did, you pervert. Ya happy now? *WWX sighed* But I know who we are and what I must do. Yifu needs me by Lan Wangji's side, for what reasons I do not yet know. No matter how he and I are now... one day it will

all end. XY: *stares into the camera like he's on the office*

Note: yifu = Wen Ruohan, WWX's adoptive father.

[chaozsilhouette]

Moonlit Musings

The night is such a perfect time to face one’s darkest truths. Shrouded in the moon’s light what can one do but admit to their flaws. It can be a time of rejuvenation and rebirth, only if you let it.

§~~~~§~~~~§~~~~§

It was a quiet night.

The full moon hung high in the heavens accompanied by millions of stars. Not a cloud to be seen, an ideal night for passions to run wild. Normally people would be taking out their telescopes or arranging romantic picnics.

Sadly, nights like these only filled Sun Wukong with dread. It was a night like this when he was finally able to return after the Journey. That was the night he learned he had lost a precious treasure.

When he returned, he expected to be greeted by his subjects until Macaque showed himself. He expected to be strangled as the pale furred monkie admonished him for his recklessness. He expected to watch as fury transformed into tearful joy as they embraced one another for the first time in over five hundred years.

But that wasn’t what happened.

The moment he set foot back onto Flower Fruit Mountain, he sensed something was very wrong. Like his previous return trips, his subjects greeted him with loud celebrations. The new mothers showed off their infants. The young ones wasted no time climbing all over him, taking in the scent of their king.

The immortal elders, however, looked concerned.

That was when he realized Macaque’s scent on the mountain was far too faint. Even the magical signature of his clones no longer felt fresh.

Macaque was nowhere to be found. The monkeys reported Macaque had returned a few years after he stopped by the mountain earlier in the Journey but not as his usual self. He didn’t respond to any of their questions. He didn’t even take time to check in on the infants. He didn’t say a word.

He just entered the mansion, but no one saw him leave.

Entering the mansion, Wukong dashed to their room desperate for answers. Opening the doors, he saw the room was horribly empty, sure all of his belonging were exactly as he remembered them, but all of Macaque’s stuff was gone. Macaque’s closet was empty and all his books had vanished. Despite his desperate hopes, there wasn’t any signs of a struggle or hidden messages to be found.

Macaque left of his own free will, but why?

He couldn’t bring himself to sleep in the bed they shared so many nights together. Every time he dared, he awoke expect to be greeted with the comforting warmth of familiar presence, instead he opened his eyes to a cold emptiness.

The lack of answers broke his heart, but he didn’t have time to start tearing the landscape apart trying to find him. Now that he was back for good, he had so many responsibilities to catch up on. He was determined to be a good king for his subjects and that meant ughthinking things through. Plus, he wanted to spend as much time with his master and brothers as possible.

Then there was the concerning fact all his previous allies had severed their alliance with him.

Apparently after all the fuss with the Demon Bull King, word had spread that Wukong broke their alliance by disrespecting protocol and attacking the royal family. Plus, his new position as a defender of humanity annoyed more than a few respectable demons. Combined with the sheer number of powerful demons he killed on the Journey cemented the idea that having an alliance with him would only end poorly.

He was banned from court meetings and the other kings in the surrounding areas wanted nothing to do with him. The chaotic nature of his past had finally caught up to him and in the worst possible way.

He was still recognized as the Monkey King of the Sun Court but was effectively blacklisted. No one wanted to mess with him, but they also didn’t want to interact with him. Not good for his mental health to say the least.

Simians are naturally social creatures. Wukong was used to constantly being around other people and learning new things. His time imprisoned was not kind. His first year of freedom had him constantly climbing over his brothers and master just to reassure himself that this was real.

And now that he couldn’t reconnect with old faces unless it was through a battle to the death…It forced him to delve into old memories. Memories that while sweet only made the emptiness more pronounced.

§~~~~§~~~~§~~~~§

Sun Wukong smiled as he watched Macaque’s reaction.

The six-eared monkie was furiously pinching the bridge between his eyebrows after he shattered a boulder with a careless headbutt as though it would make his life mercifully easier. “You’ll have to explain it to me again. What did you mean by ‘no longer under Yama’s jurisdiction’?”

“Exactly what I said. I was napping. Having some time to myself, when out of nowhere some idiots tried to take my soul to the afterlife.” Wukong explained as though having entities of death rip out your soul to drag it to the underworld was no big deal.

“Bet you weren’t happy.” Macaque couldn’t help but smirk at the flippant tone. He just made it so difficult to stay mad.

“Not in the slightest. I barged my way to the top brass, bunch of cowards called the Ten Kings (totally undeserved titles by the way) and demanded what the fuck was going on.” He was still ticked off even if the payoff was sweet. Seriously! Did immortality mean nothing to these cowards? They couldn’t even play it off as him dying in battle. He was in the peak of his youth! “Can you believe they tried to play it off as a misunderstanding? Should have smacked the loudmouth when I was there.”

“So, through a series of ridiculous events, you erased your name from the records of the dead.” Macaque could easily piece together the rest from there. No matter how ridiculous the odds. He learned never to bet against his friend when a problem could be handled with brute strength or intimidation. If it didn’t look like such an answer was possible, clearly, they hadn’t experienced the force of a determined Wukong. Something about facing a ticked off monkie of practically infinite strength and invulnerability left harden conquerors pissing themselves.

It was hilarious.

“Not just mine. In my infinite wisdom, I erased the names of several of the monkey inhabitants of esteemed Flower Fruit Mountain, including yours.” Wukong playfully booped Macaque’s nose.

Turning away to hide a light blush, Macaque scoffed to cover his embarrassing response. “Typical. I can’t leave you alone for five minutes without you doing something insane.”

“I know. I’m just that awesome.”

“So what? Are we now double immortal?” That was the question wasn’t it. Due to their master’s instructions, they were immortal and ageless, so what exactly would this give them? He didn’t feel any different. He couldn’t sense any new powers or changes in his instincts.

His counterpart, however, had other things on his mind. “Who cares. All I know is that those idiots have no control over our souls anymore.” And with that the King took his rightful place across Macaque’s lap as the other returned to his scrolls.

Wukong instead took the time to examine his friend, who finally gained enough confidence to fully drop his glamour and embrace his true appearance.

He still couldn’t believe Macaque actually had six ears. The weird part was how natural they looked, almost as if seeing him with only two was bizarre. The coolest part was how each pair softly glowed a different color. Blue. Purple. Red. Sometimes Wukong would just stare at them, imagining that he could see glittering stars emanating from that glow.

Suddenly those magnificent ears twitched. Macaque didn’t bother looking up from the bamboo scroll. “A trespasser...multiple, boar and vulture demon. Another hunting party”.

“Again. Ugh. Don’t these idiots ever give up!” Don’t get him wrong, Wukong loved a good fight. What better way to prove how superior you are to others than to steal what’s most precious to them? But even he was starting to grow bored with the sheer number of hunters that thought kidnapping his subjects was a quick cash grab.

After the fifth army he returned in pieces to the surrounding upstart lords, you’d think they’d take a hint.

Thankfully he wasn’t the only powerhouse on the mountain. “I haven’t tasted blood in a while. Why don’t I defend the kingdom while your highness enjoys a show?” Macaque set aside his reading material, eyes glittering with bloodlust.

Wukong returned the smirk with one of his own. “I’m always up for a good thrashing. One request: make it glorious.”

“Don’t I always.” Macaque joked as he retrieved his spear from his own shadow.

Wukong summoned his cloud and claimed a good vantage point. Once again, he marveled at his friend’s hearing. Judging by the distance it would have been at least three hours before he would have detected their presence.

Kicking back, he transformed some hair into a fruit platter and waited for the screams.

§~~~~§~~~~§~~~~§

To this day, Wukong knew Macaque was alive. Thanks to his efforts combined with the intense training, the monkie was double immortal. Besides, that monkkie was way too stubborn to die. He would survive purely on spite if he had to.

Macaque left, but why?

While he may have effectively isolated himself, that didn’t mean he didn’t hear about the other courts. A few centuries ago, he heard rumors about the formation of a new court by someone under the title of the Macaque King. Supposedly they were a powerful monkie who knew way more than he had the right to. For a brief moment, Wukong dared to hope it was his old friend, but it didn’t last. The few recounts he caught described him with black fur. Besides, he knew how much Macaque hated the title of King. Even when Wukong offered him the position as co-ruler of his kingdom, the pale monkie adamantly refused.

Still, he was curious.

For a few weeks he could have sworn he detected a familiar scent hiding underneath Mk’s. And he wasn’t the only one who noticed. A few of the immortal monkeys questioned him on the mango infused scent and what his plans were. It was almost too much to take in.

To think he returned to teach his student instead of showing his face. It hurt just to think about it. He chose to ignore the beckoning scent until it became impossible to ignore MK’s leap in progress. Then it just vanished like it hadn’t been testing his patience. Like it hadn’t brought him to the brink of shaking the kid upside down until he confessed where his old friend was hiding. The kid probably grew wise, or someone told him to change his bathing habits, and by the next training session it was all but gone.

Dragging his hand down his face, Wukong tried to reevaluate his thoughts.

Getting mad at the kid wasn’t going to solve anything. He knew he hadn’t been the most attentive master. Hell, the whole hammer exercise at its core was a desperate attempt to remove a painful reminder of better times. His master would be disappointed in how he was running away from his problems, but would encourage him to take the steps to be better. Zhu Bajie would be a sarcastic little shit, trying to get him riled up so the monkie would prove him wrong. Sha Wujing would sit him down and wouldn’t let him leave until they talked everything through.

He had to make things right with the kid. He deserved a better master. And this New Years he was gonna get one.

He spoke, praying the winds would carry his voice to his Warrior.

“Macaque. I know it’s been a while, but…I-I want to talk. I know you’re out there, somewhere I can’t reach. I miss sparring with you. I miss lazy days napping in the shade by your side. I miss defending the mountain as we held contests to see who could take out the most trespassers before their common sense kicked in. I miss you. Please come home.”

§~~~~§~~~~§~~~~§

The moon was high in the sky. Stars danced in the heavens as the faintest hints of vibrations pulsed through the concrete from the late-night dance clubs. MK lay awake, his mind struggling to make sense of it all.

Ever since Macaque disappeared in order to remain undetected, he kept thinking about his relationship with the Monkey King. Sure, he was being trained and he was definitely making progress. The monkie was still on his case for supposedly cheating on him with another mentor. Nothing MK said or did could make the monkie think otherwise. Thankfully, he was no longer shooting him suspicious glares, but the underlying tension remained.

The sad truth is they just weren’t that close.

He would have expected to learn more about the Monkey King on a personal and emotional level, but he just couldn’t get past that wall. Their training sessions felt more like just the Monkey King arranged just to get it over with. There was no passion at all.

Okay, perhaps that last bit was an exaggeration.

When you peered past the arrogance and pride, you found one socially awkward monkie. It was similar to Red Son the more he thought about it, both seemed to find it difficult to talk to or relate to others in a friendly setting. Sure, Monkey King projected a friendly demeanor and called him “bud”, but if he didn’t know any better he could have sworn the monkie was afraid to take that final step.

The last few sessions had taken a bit of a turn in a positive direction as Sandy would say. Maybe Monkey King decided it was time to make a change? Maybe this was all a trick so MK would lower his guard and reveal Macaque’s identity? Maybe he was just tired and should have conked out an hour ago?

Maybe.

Reality was so different from the legends. When Tang first introduced him to the Monkey stories, he was hooked. He loved listening to the tales of the infamous trickster that flipped off every major religious figure with unbridled confidence. Meeting the Great Sage in the flesh was like a dream come true until he was exposed to the King’s less pleasant tendencies.

Mk couldn’t help but wonder just how much confidence the Monkey King had in his training skills. Did he ever train someone before? Could MK talk to someone about this without appearing even more ungrateful than he already looked? Why didn’t he stop Red Son from unsealing his father when he was there? Why didn’t he simply seal the entire family when they were reunited? Why did the five times immortal sage decide that now he needed to train a disciple? Was Monkey King not telling him something important?

He had so many questions and not even the foggiest idea of where to start looking. Or perhaps he did?

The truth was he missed Macaque. The dark-furred monkie may have only taught him for a month, but the progress he made and the level of care he was exposed to made him feel as though he had finally unlocked the ability to fly.

He missed the regular grooming. He missed learning about the demon community. He missed learning new ways to mess with Red Son through appropriate court manners.

Watching the fire user freeze up at the term “honorable prince of the Iron Bull Court” just made him laugh, when his hair combusted it really matched his face. Now that he thought about it, were those horns starting to peek out of his forehead? And maybe the slightest hint of a tufted tail swiping the bottom of his coat? Seeing the demon frantically compose himself was a treat he didn’t know he needed. He still had the video saved as one of his favorites, didn’t hurt that Mei caught it at the perfect angle.

Oh yeah, he missed that.

With any luck, New Years would be the start of something better.

§~~~~§~~~~§~~~~§

On an island that remained surrounded by unquenchable storms, a single black-furred monkie sat cross-legged in a secluded part attached to the palace. All around him fruit trees and bushes bore a hefty bounty releasing an intoxicating scent of life.

Ears twitched.

Macaque opened his eyes, aroused from his meditation. It was odd. He had the faintest sensation that someone had been talking about him. Now that wasn’t exactly unusual, he made plenty of allies and enemies across the centuries. What was odd was that the voice sounded like someone he once cherished.

But that couldn’t be right.

The deceptive silence of his personal orchard gave him no answers. Not that he really expected it to.

For some reason he refused to identify, Macaque turned to the single peach tree in the grove. A tribute from his past and a reminder of his mistakes. But it was also a valuable resource once he learned the truth about the peach’s properties. He used its powers to protect many happy relationships, if only it could have helped him so long ago.

No matter.

He still had many projects to work on, including one successor just rife with insecurities. He honestly felt bad ducking out as he did. If things were different, he would have offered him a new life. His Stars were always happy to welcome a new member into their budding community.

As a bonus, his presence would have interrupted their constant attempts to set him up with new dates. He adored their efforts but being paired with partners who only wanted power or he would view only as friends was not something he enjoyed. Although watching them mentally destroy those they didn’t find suitable for him was quite entertaining.

Either way, New Years was coming up fast and he still needed to approve a few changes. His Stars were determined to make sure this event topped last years in every way possible, but they had to make sure they didn’t set the orchard on fire again. Or worse, they could launch the fireworks into the storm barrier. He wasn’t sure why or how, but the tornadoes and clouds turned different colors as explosions rang throughout the night.

It was beautiful but lost its charm after the third day.

[morihaus]

Dragons

Emperor Belharza stands in the plaza of the Imperial City, his old bones aching with the chilled air of the dreary day. It has not been a long day- indeed, it is the shortest day of the year, hence the festivities that surround him- he is only weary with thought.

He stands with his family, his children, his grandchildren, and his great-grandchildren, who in turn speak with cousins and relatives of their own, from within and without the Imperial court. The youngest circle around the group, chatting away and enjoying themselves among the other children at the festival, the adults catch up with one another, sharing word from throughout the distant realms of Cyrod and of the disparate lives they've grown to lead. The old emperor smiles, listening and speaking to them in turn, and in his own time looks to his surroundings.

The Imperial Isle is bustling as ever on this occasion. The customary Festival of the Dragon has been a tradition since he was a boy-calf, apparently drawn from some old Atmoran traditions, a ceremony of appeasement for the world-eating dragon of the Nordic faith. It, as many things in Cyrodiilic society, was a compromise reached by his mother, the one time of the year that all would come to acknowledge and honor Akatosh for his patronage of the Nedes in the years of revolt. It is equally a relic of traditional Ayleid worship of Auri-El, which White-Gold had not seen for centuries at the time of her ascension to the throne. Many Nedes wished to honor Akatosh as the Aedra worshiping Ayleids had honored Auri-El as their sovereign patron, but such a thing would invoke outrage from those who leaned closer to Nordic spirituality, the honoring of Kyne and Shezarr. So this festival began in the Atmoran style, an acknowledgement of the passage of time as controlled by Akatosh, an acknowledgement of his power, an offering of appeasement, and little more. A scant thanks from an emperor with much more to say about the dragon behind closed doors.

And yet, over Belharza's long life, he had seen the somber ceremony become more and more lively, quiet reflections on the passage of time and the great cosmic acts of the divine gave way to banquets and songs to the dragon's glory, gallant tales of knight Pelinal and his liege, the so-called Saint Alessia, and the emperor began to hear old stories he'd heard from his mother as a boy; some small things changed, minor details, names and places, but what perplexed him most was the way they were told: painted in triumph, in glory, without darkness or shame.

A tug at his sleeve rouses him from his recollection, and he turns his horned head to see a lengthy procession of robed figures, swept in silken robes, white with red diamond patterns. The Brothers of Marukh, a relatively recent sect of Akatoshic worshipers, but quite the popular one. They and their forerunners have had much to do with the evolution of this festival. Belharza looks at the crowd of them, lined like a legion, stretching all the way down the street and out of site. There are more of them than last year, he remarks to himself. More than the year before, too, and the year before that as well. At the head of their procession is a woman adorned with golden jewelry, holding a lead wrapped around an old white bull. Her head is hairless, and around her scalp and face lays the dyed markings of a serpent, spiraling around her fair skin, looping over an eye and cheek, snaking down her neck and disappearing toward her breast, now hidden by her ceremonial silks. Ketra is a high priestess of the Brothers, taught by the Prophet Marukh himself. She wears a serious face, peaceful and purposeful, as she leads the bull up to a ceremonial platform, lying before a great carving of an endless serpent.

Emperor Belharza regards the animal, an old sire of many young calves, an animal chosen for this honor with great respect. Its face is noble, graying, and weary, like his own, but he, like many minotaur, sees himself as far different from everyday cattle, despite some visual similarity. And though part of him, descended from Morihaus, who is descended from Kyne, feels almost that the old thing should be given more of a fighting chance. Should a proud beast as he be offered up so placidly, without any say in the matter? Does the buck dive onto the hunter's spear? But Belharza simply shakes his head. He's grown more distanced from these Kynarethi worldviews as he's matured- he's never lost his appreciation for the wilds, for freedom and expression, but nearly a century in the Imperial Court has forced him to take on a more materialistic mindset, to belong to the world of men, of cities, of towers.

As is customary, the sacrificial bull is led onto the altar, spits of wood over a fire pit, and sorcerers of the Brothers cast calming spells on it, leaving it to stand still and somberly atop its final resting place, as though aware of the solemnity of its duty. The high priestess then moved to take a torch from her torchbearer, raising it aloft and saying her piece. She sings praise to the One Akatosh- an increasingly popular epithet- to his glorious patronage of mankind, to his divine-crafted knight, and to his anointed emperor. Many make a show of cheering and smiling in his direction, for he bears her anointed blood in his veins, and the blood of Akatosh in the jewel hung around his neck. Looking at Ketra, he cannot help but notice that she does not look to him, nor do any in the inner circle around the pit. She only turns to the bull and grips the ceremonial dagger. The weathered old sire doesn't flinch as she moves forward, reaching an arm around his neck to force him to kneel to the ground, and finally, sinks the dagger into his throat.

The old bull does not cry out, it is calm even in its death. Its blood pools out from the wound as she pulls away, dripping down into the pit below. It is joined quickly by fire from her torch, and the scent of searing flesh fills the streets, along with some jubilation.

Even so, as the smoke rises up, Belharza's eye tracks it to see the clouds, which had skirted around the edge of the horizon thus far, gather overhead. He looks down to the wall carving of the dragon, jaws open and hungry. The amulet around his neck feels heavy- it always has, but in this moment, he wonders at it.

---

An hour or so on, Belharza kneels in the gardens of the dragonfire, head bowed under cloudy skies. The brazier burns silently, its flame lit by divine magic, not mundane fire. It has remained burning without rest, through day, night, winds, and rain, ever since he lit them when his reign began, nearly a century ago. All the while, he's paid the fires little mind- not ungrateful for their protection, but content to leave them be- he's put more of his attention into the greenery surrounding them; wild grasses and flowers, fruit-bearing trees and bushes, he's cultivated much of these in a plethora of wild gardens over his lengthy reign, for they've always brought him comfort and closeness with his mother. As the empire has grown more complicated and in need of greater administration, he's been afforded less opportunities to wander freely as she used to, and as he used to along with her. It is a melancholy feeling, but he has made peace with it.

He is not worried about getting caught in the rain, even as the clouds grow darker and heavier. Any time with the sky over his horns, fresh air in his lungs, he'll savor it, even if he gets drenched or stormed on in the process. His ear perks to the sound of footsteps down the cobbled path. Many footsteps, an entire procession. He casts his gaze over his shoulder, only to see robed priests, the Brothers of Marukh, fronted by their head priestess. She clutches the ceremonial dagger at her hip, freshly cleaned. Belharza cannot help from noticing the lack of any guards- he sees only men, Nede-men, nowhere does he find family nor even his minotaur kin, who have been the most loyal soldiers of his legions, and most devoted of his honor guard.

Blowing air out against his nose-hoop, he grunts as he wills himself up to his feet, turning to look down at the procession. "Brother Ketra," He says, voice deep and subtle, like distant thunder. "To what do I owe this visit?" The priestess is cold and serious, her brow set like stone above her dark eyes. "Admiring the dragonfires, Emperor?" She asks, dismissing his own question. "It is a good day to wonder at the power of Akatosh."

Belharza stares silently for a moment. He counts 20 of them, rings and amulets of enchanted glows signified them as members of her inner circle, the closest to the mouth of the prophet, his most attentive students. He recognizes some from the council, his lip turns with distaste to recall the legislature they pushed, the discriminatory reputation many sects have made for themselves.

"I suppose." He lets out a sigh, hunched down yet still towering feet taller than the Nedic woman. "This has been the one-hundredth-and-twelfth festival I have seen. It's been ninety while these fires have burned." He raises a hand to brush the stone of his amulet, the red ruby is dull in the darkness, the light of its pyre burning behind his back. "I suppose I am thinking of Akatosh, in that I am thinking about time, and its passage." Ketra takes a step forward, slyly, as though he might not notice. "Which of the One's mysteries unravels in your mind, sire?" He gives her a long look. He turns around, staring into the silent god-fire. "...I've lived a very long life. Longer than most men or minotaur. Some have made jokes of it, perhaps I'll next outlive an elf? Who can say if I'll ever die, divine blood in my veins?" He pauses, unsure of Ketra's reaction. "I've considered it more seriously. I am very old, and very tired... I do not feel as though my end draws near, I only feel weary, weary with the responsibilities of my station, the needs of my people. One man was not meant to bear it for so long, I think."

Ketra and her procession are silent, only watching with rapt attention at the voice of the emperor. "I believe I will relinquish my throne," Belharza says, suddenly. "Bequeath it to a chosen heir." "You think you can bestow such a thing upon another?" She doesn't sound accusatory, she doesn't seem to doubt him. She seems curious. "I do not see why not. We do not know all the mysteries of this artifact... it is worth attempting, I think. I've spoken with my granddaughter, Varlesh- she is wise and gentle, yet firm, like my mother." Belharza turns back to face Ketra, who stands right before him now. The knife is still in her hand.

They look at one another for a moment. Thunder rumbles overhead.

Belharza snorts out a sigh. He looks down at her; a beleaguered old bull, a priestess with a sacrificial dagger, a fire burning beside them. "You think," Ketra starts, her tone and timbre certain, reliable, like a ticking clock. "You can bestow such a thing? To anyone you choose?"

"Yes." He says.

Then, Ketra surges forth, plunges her dagger into Belharza's chest. He might have kept his footing if two more knives hadn't entered at his flanks, the force of the assailants sending him careening back against the steps to the brazier. Lightning flashes. Ketra is poised atop him, knee against his sternum, dagger raised overhead. The burning fires reflect in her eyes. She screams, shouts as she drives the knife into his throat. Blood spurts, breath leaves his body, he finds no strength, not even to tremble. Rain begins to fall, mixing with his blood. It is coincidence that the fires ebb with the rain, for in truth, they ebb with his death.

Ketra reaches her hands down, collecting the ichor from his wound, lifting it above her head and letting it fall down her face. She chants hymns to the blessed Saint Alessia, to the Prophet Most Simian, and to Akatosh, and to Shezarr, and to the One. Finally, she rips the amulet from his neck, yanking roughly as she works it around his horns. Around her own neck it is oversized, the chain is too long, letting the red diamond hang nearly to her navel. She steps over the old emperors corpse, his blood covering her face, and she kneels to the brazier as the last embers flicker out. She takes the stone in hand and lights the spark in her name, in Alessia's blood, in Akatosh's blood, she honors the covenant.

Under the torrent of falling rain, the brazier lights.

[sloppy-butcher]

I will sacrifice my first born for a part 2 of dare you with joey

well anon, hand it over. give me the baby

edit// this thing is long like godDAMN i need to relax. hope yall enjoy it :)

Part 1: Dare You - Joey x Reader crackfic

Double-Dare You

The Legion (Joey) x Survivor!Reader

The pallet dropped against the concrete wall with a loud whack followed by a disgruntled shout. Joey reeled backward, his head aching from the collision with the wooden object. At the moment of successful contact, you spun around to the killer and passed him the biggest shit-eating grin you could conjure. Joey catches your elation and decides to ignore the pain to instead focus on you. 

“Y’know, I’m still waiting for an answer,” Joey said, his tone casual as if this were a conversation taking place between equals in a normal situation. You rolled your eyes amazed by how stubborn and oblivious the man appeared to be - he would not drop the topic for anything, not even as he chased you with a hunter’s knife poised. “When are you going to take me on that date you promised?” This earned a chuckle from you, fully swinging round to face the masked man with your arms crossed over your chest.

“You’re joking, right?” He tilted his head feigning ignorance. Your smile stretches to an impossible brightness, how exactly this killer always made you feel so giddy and playful was beyond your simple understanding. Perhaps it was because you had never experienced a killer who was so talkative and lively, this being such a unique situation that against your better judgment you decided to humor it and actively encouraged his behavior. It was fun. “And where,” You shake your hands in the air, “would I take you on this hypothetical date?” Joey hummed, standing straight with his knife tapping under his chin in a contemplative manner.

“That should be for you to decide really. Though we could always go check out some cool places. These realms,” he gestures to the weepy forest around you both, “are ten times cooler when they are empty.” You raise a curious eyebrow, demanding an explanation without uttering a word. He sighs and lifts his foot to kick the pallet. “I mean, that cowboy saloon place is pretty awesome on its own. All old-western and shit. But it would be even cooler if it was just us two.” At the sound of the wood splintering, your instinctive reaction was to flee to another pallet leaving the man's comment to fall of deaf ears. Joey followed but stayed far enough behind to not have his skull caved in with another hit. You bring the new pallet down between you two and once again spin around to the killer.

“Tell me again why exactly I have to take you on a date? I don’t remember doing anything wrong.” You spit at him, venom dripping from every syllable of your inherently rhetorical question. Joey smirked under his mask - oh you were a feisty one alright. Cocky and proud even when kneeling at the feet of a predator. Rather than kicking the pallet, Joey let it sit between you two, making it an honorary truce-table. You would not run if he did not chase. And he only wanted to talk. 

“Because you harassed me. Remember?” You shake your head in a mischievous ‘no’ earning another grin from the enthralled boy. God, you were good. Doing absolutely nothing at all but dragging him in all the same. “You smacked my ass,” Joey deadpans, “And you never made up for it.” 

You smile at the reminder of your triumph from a few trials previous. Though you were scared pant-less at the time, looking back now only filled you with the taste of sweet victory. You would not let anyone convince you to do anything like that again, not even Meg with all her stupid, little games even if it did somehow end up with the outcome of befriending a killer. 

“I don’t see why I have to pay anything for that little smack,” You toss your head and throw him a coy eye. You practically see the man shake from restrained laughter and knew that you had him wrapped around your little finger. You could easily manipulate him just as he could easily kill you. You shudder at the glimmer of the knife in his hand but decide to focus on the conversation rather than his purpose being there. “It was a harmless little thing.” You pull your hand up to your mouth to nonchalantly hide your growing grin.

“It was twice.” Joey retorts matter-of-factly. He watches as you release your tense posture, throwing a hand on your hip and rolling your eyes. 

“Oh please, that is nothing really. Besides,” Your gaze falls down to his knife again and you feverishly swallow your mounting fear. “You have done far worse things to me.” At your words and pointed implication, Joey’s confidence plummets to the ocean floor. Of course, you would never trust him willingly, not after all he has done. And though he knew full well that he could just take you if he truly wanted to, Joey denied his animalistic urge in favor of keeping the peace. He wanted to keep your fire - preserve that genuine playfulness that he oh so enjoyed lest he shatters it by forcibly caging you. 

“I know you have no reason to trust me,” Joey’s voice has lost all semblance of the peppy court-fool it was just moments before, catching you off-guard in its sudden change. He lowers his hand that holds his weapon, moving it behind his back so that it was out of your view.  His head drops, the ebony eyes peeking out from underneath his mask glistening with unmistakable remorse. “But, when I say that I don’t want to hurt you. Please know that I mean it.” You wanted to scoff, to call his bluff and his terrible acting skills but something about his tone made you hold back your comments. There was a pure genuineness in his voice that flickered a light of hesitation in your head. Maybe it was your nativity or that stupid part of your brain that always wanted to see the good in people, but you believed him. You believed that he did not want to hurt you. At least not now. 

“What about my friends?” You ask through your dawning affinity, guarding your words with the last ounces of your resistance to him. He was pulling you into him, dragging you down into those deep-as-night eyes. 

“I will let them all go. But only today. Next time I…” Joey turns his head away from you, embarrassed and partly ashamed that he could not even offer you a solid answer. “There are things you don't know. I can only spare you sometimes before It gets angry.” He sighs and his shoulders deflate, making him look pitiful and small. You frown and feel yourself unconsciously step towards him, reaching out to try to comfort the killer. “Please believe me.” 

“I do. I do believe you.” You spoke without thinking, stepping closer to the pallet, and to him. He instantly raises his head at your words and approach, surprised by your forwardness but nonetheless delighted. “For some reason, I do believe you. But I can’t…” You pause, shaking your head free from the intrusive thoughts daring to bubble over, “I can’t be alone with you. Not yet.” Joey understood that completely and a little too eagerly, nodded his head in agreement. 

It wasn’t much but it was a start. And he was beyond happy to be given this opportunity.

“For now, I suppose.” You cringe inwardly as the idea formed in your head and moved into words. “I suppose you can smack my butt if it will even the odds.” Joey nearly fell over at your suggestion. He bit back a laugh and had to spin around so that he could compose himself. You watch as he doubles-over, clutching his stomach while emitting sounds of stifled giggling. After a few minutes, he straightens and faces you again, his expression and tone stone-like. 

“Yes. I think that would suffice.” He narrows his eyes cunningly, “For now.” With your mouth agape in shock, you scoff and throw your arms up.

“Dude! I was joking! I didn’t think you’d actually agree to it?!” You feel your face begin to heat up. The man tilts his head ever-so-slightly and you could physically see his enjoyment growing at the expense of your humility. From the way he was standing so assured in his next decisions, you had the dawning realization that there was no way to talk him out of it now. Sucking back your pride you bite your lip and glare daggers at the man.

“Fine. Just,” You twist your body around, presenting your ass to him. How embarrassing. How humiliating! Every inch of you burned from excruciating pain, birthed from the pure absurdity of the situation as it finally rested upon your shoulders. “Just make it quick!” You practically shout over your shoulder, your face now a burning furnace you were sure was bright enough to light up the night. Joey was overwhelmed by your willingness to oblige and for a second, contemplated if this was even real. Just minutes before he was chasing you, begging you to so much as to stop and talk to him, give him just one single chance to try to reach out. And now, in the most brilliant and wonderful course of events, you had offered yourself to him! His fingers itched, his heart pumped louder than gunshots. 

“Close your eyes.” Joey reactively says without planning or action. He only realizes his command when he notices your confused expression. “Please, trust me.” Your face flickers, shifting between utter bewilderment and denial. Then something clicks and you agree, closing your eyes and squeezing them shut. Joey goes to break the pallet, its job as instigator between debating parties no longer necessary. You flinch at the sound and fight the inherent urge to run from it and the monster behind the noise. Suddenly you feel him closer, the brushing of fabric against your bare arm lets you know that he was standing right beside you.

Ordinarily, killers breathed obnoxiously, panting loud and hard like hungry wild boars with their teeth bared and frothing saliva dripping from their bleeding lips. But as the man neared you, coming closer than you had previously ever allowed him to, he was quiet and gentle as a bee. Buzzing around slow and tentative, asking for you, a sweet flower, to open up and let him rest. He held back that part of him that had scarred you so many times before, confining the violent boar in favor of being human - if only for a moment.

Joey’s heart threatened to pump straight out of his chest, the hammering so boisterous in his ears that all he heard was thumping and all he saw was you. Your lip twitches, your eyes furrowed shut tense as his shadow covers your face. He slowly lifts up the bottom of his fabric mask, careful about his movements so as not to alert you. You were so much like a rabbit, frightened and easily spooked - he could not risk losing you now that he was so close. So close - close enough to…

In the blind obliviousness, you grow impatient, wondering why he had not already taken his chance you return his ass smack tenfold. But as you went to open your mouth to curse his slowness, a pair of lips land ever-so precariously on yours. Light as the cool breeze of a winter’s morning, so soft that you doubted they were even there. It was only when you pushed up into them did you realize their fullness. The man was kissing you - if you could call this weak excuse of a peck a kiss. He was scared to force himself on you, scared to chase you away if he let loose his full eagerness to consume you, and in doing so barely even allowed himself to touch you. You appreciated his controlled reluctance and as your boldness grew, so did your pressure into the embrace. You deepen the kiss and you feel the man shudder.

After a few seconds, the man pulls away gasping, his hot breath cascading across your flushed cheek. You stand there a moment longer with your eyes closed, unsure of what to do after this peculiar sequence of events. You feel the man move his lips once more to your tender face and place one last kiss on the corner of your mouth. 

“The name’s Joey by the way.” He whispers into your skin, his voice a creamy, dark mess. The power you had over him, even in something as simple as a shy kiss, was immeasurable. Joey knew he couldn’t be around you for much longer lest he does something regrettable so begrudgingly he lowered his mask and stepped back. He looked you over one last time before sprinting off into the foggy abscess in that unnatural speed of his. You watch the whiteness consume his form and scream after him, 

“That was not part of the deal!” But Joey was long gone before the first word had even left your mouth. Suddenly you couldn’t wait for that date.

[astriiformes]

Whumptober 2021 - Day 8 - Coughing Up a Lung

Fandom: The Owl House

Word Count: 2698

Playing a little fast and loose with prompt interpretations here, but still well within the right ball court. This one is actually a continuation of my Day 5 prompt fill, which some of you may remember as the, uh “fucked up” one, but it’s a lot less intense -- I would mostly just warn for discussion of past intense medical procedures.

Also I’m going to start mentioning which characters actually show up in each of these individual fills: Today’s features Raine & Hunter!

[Ao3 Link]

Raine had thought, once, that they knew what it meant to be tired. They knew now that Past Raine had been deeply mistaken, and that Present Raine was more tired than they had ever been -- and that poor Future Raine might have it even worse, at the rate things were going.

The Day of Unity had… not been what anyone had expected, to say the least. Not a bang, but an ominous whisper. As of right now, nobody even knew where Belos was, presumably off gathering strength for the next wave of whatever he was planning. Something had been set in motion, that was for sure, but the rebels trying to stop it still weren’t even sure what.

That was Part Number One of Raine’s exhaustion. They, Lilith, Amity and Luz’s other little friend – Augustus, they were pretty sure? – had been poring over every sufficiently old book in the Owl House’s chaotic, illegal library, trying to figure out what it meant that the sun had turned red during the eclipse and never changed back. Something was going on with the stars, too – Raine had exhaustedly blinked up at them enough to know that. They didn't look...right. It was clear enough the Isles were sick in some way, and that worse things were probably coming, but thus far, the “nerd squad”, as Luz was affectionately calling them, had come up empty trying to figure out what.

It was a cold comfort knowing Belos might not be happy with how things were going, either. Raine remembered from the clandestine coven meetings they’d very briefly been a part of that the Day of Unity had been supposed to happen a lot faster than this. Figuring out what they’d done to throw off his plans – especially in conjunction with the clue that wild magic might be able to help them reverse it – was their best shot right now. And yet they had nothing.

Well, that wasn’t entirely fair. Raine was pretty sure they knew one of Belos’ problems. Maybe even the main one. He’d stressed on multiple occasions that the combined might of all the coven leaders was going to be needed to pull off his plan. But two of the coven heads hadn’t been there for the big day – they’d been holed up in the Owl House instead.

That, together, was Part Two and Part Three of Raine's exhaustion. Physically, they were on the verge of collapse, even without the late nights they'd been pulling -- every time they thought they were finally over their recent ordeal, weak and wrung-out from the month they’d spent in Belos’ dungeons, they would backslide again, suddenly wanting nothing more than to lie down and numb themself to the world with one of the potions they were trying not to rely on anymore, especially seeing as they couldn't afford anything clouding their thinking. Their limbs were aching less, and the tightness in their chest was getting a lot better, but it was going to take a while before it all went away. They'd fainted in the kitchen just yesterday.

And then. Well. There was the third thing.

As if in response to their thoughts, they heard a weak cough coming from across the coffee table -- where they’d been poring over yet another semi-ancient text, desperately searching for some clue that might help unravel all this. Concerned, they drained the last dregs from their mug of coffee (which they were drinking a lot of these day, no matter what Lilith said about it being a bad idea given what they'd just been through; she was a hypocrite and probably about half coffee by weight now herself) -- and rose to check on the source.

There were at least a decent number of people to take it in shifts, but after the whole ordeal five days ago, it was unanimously agreed upon that someone needed to be watching Hunter at all times. Seeing as they were one of the ones who could do the most if things turned south again, Raine had been taking a lot of the late-night ones, so none of the kids would have to shake someone awake in a panic if he started getting bad again.

Hunter hadn’t had any other episodes as terrifying as the one when he’d first teleported back to the Owl House, where Belos’ weird curse goop had threatened to kill him, but it was clear enough that something was still wrong. He wasn’t recovering from his injuries as well as he should have been even this early, and every once and a while, he’d still cough the stuff up – just a lot less of it, and a lot less violently. So they were keeping a careful eye on him. Lilith had filled a whole notebook with copies of her experimental healing glyph pattern, which seemed to have a helpful, if diminishing, return when he got particularly bad, and had taught everyone else in the Owl House – even Hunter himself, technically, although Raine wasn’t sure if the out-of-it teen had actually processed any of what she’d been trying to show him – how to draw it, just in case.

“Everything okay?” they asked him, walking over to rest a hand on his forehead. The mild fever he’d had for a few days now seemed like it might have gotten a little worse, but it was nothing to panic about – yet.

The teen nodded, eyes squeezed shut in pain. Sure enough, he’d coughed up some more of the curse goop, but not too much of it. Raine gently wiped his face with one of the clean cloths they’d taken to keeping by the table. 

It was funny to think that, together, the two of them might be the main thing standing between the Isles and Belos’ plans actually working -- considering Raine was about ready to fall asleep on their feet, and Hunter was a complete invalid. But only funny to a point, especially when they thought about how messed-up it was that a 16 year-old had been put in charge of a whole Coven in the first place. They knew just how much work went into running one, and that was the Bard Coven, which had a reputation for being one of the most laid-back ones -- not the Emperor’s Coven, which definitely did not .

“You know,” they mused aloud, deciding to share their thoughts with Hunter, and brushing some sweat-slicked hair from his face. “You and I are probably the biggest thing in Belos’ way right now. Neither of us is even at full strength, so I think that’s pretty impressive of us.”

"'M trying my best," Hunter mumbled. Raine laughed. 

"Me too," they said

Raine was about to go fetch him a glass of water (which seemed to be about the only thing anybody could offer him whenever he started coughing up goop, since even if it wasn’t about to kill him, they couldn’t imagine it tasted great) when they finally registered what they'd been hearing as they talked to him – soft and almost imperceptible, but potentially scary in its implications.

Hunter’s breath was rattling irregularly, in a way they might almost have dismissed as just a sign of him being so sick if they didn't know exactly how messed-up his insides still were, which made them about a hundred times more paranoid. Instead, the increasingly labored sounds were giving them a bad hunch. They knelt down next to him to get a better look.

“Hunter, could you open your mouth up for me?” they said. Distressingly, there was a clear spike of anxiety in his face as he obliged. Raine supposed they couldn’t blame him though – every time during the past few days people had asked him something like that, it was usually because something was wrong. Often, very very wrong.

They clicked their tongue in their mouth as they had a look, swabbing the side of his throat with the corner of the cloth. Sure enough, it came back black and gunky.

“Hm,” Raine said, looking at it with concern. “Can I take a listen to your chest?”

“Why? What’s wrong?” Hunter said. He still sounded incredibly weak, but he had gotten enough strength back in his voice in the last day or so for it to carry some emotion. Right now, the emotion in question was “rising panic.”

“I just want to check on your breathing,” they said, using the exact same level tone of voice they’d always employed with students stressed out about exam scores. “Nothing serious yet.”

“Yet?”

Oops. Bad word choice.

“I don’t think it’s anything we can’t handle,” they assured him, but the fear in his one visible eye, the one that wasn't all bandaged up, didn’t go away much. “But I think it could get bad if we don’t figure out what’s going on. The curse goop is accumulating in your throat now, and maybe your trachea, too. We need to figure out why you’re not coughing it up anymore.”

“Thought it was… a good thing… I wasn’ coughing so much,” he said slowly.

“It’s better for your chest wounds,” Raine admitted. “But maybe not for your breathing.” 

They placed their ear to Hunter’s chest, listening for any tell-tale rattling or other sound that would give them a better picture of what was going on.

“That’s dumb,” he said. “Should be able t’ be… both.”

“I agree,” Raine said. “Bodies are just very complicated.”

They frowned. Actually… come to think of it….

Hunter’s anatomy was… confusing. The cauterization had stopped his bleeding in the moment, but it was a dramatic band-aid on a much worse set of internal wounds, and he’d been hurt badly enough that it was inevitable someone would need to muck around in there physically -- at least a little bit --  to fix it. Raine was no Healing Coven witch – obviously – but neither was anybody else at the Owl House right now and they, at least, knew their way around an injured body better than most people (it was the sort of thing you started looking into when you went vigilante). And also weren't a literal teenager. So handling the majority of non-magical care Hunter needed had fallen on their shoulders, which they were mostly okay with. Anything to help the poor kid. When they'd first tackled the scary task of doing some slightly more-precise surgery on the him, though, they’d started to second-guess their capability to help him pretty badly.

Nothing seemed to be in exactly the place they’d expected, and not just because of his injuries. Anatomy wasn't something they had the best knowledge of themself, but even simple, basic things were off. Most notably, they'd been checking over his heart -- close enough to the mangled lung, which was going to need a lot of magic to fix properly, that it seemed smart to examine -- when they noticed his bile sac was missing completely. 

At first they'd thought it was a casualty of his injuries. After all, Hunter was lucky his heart itself hadn’t been ripped clean through – it was just hairs shy of the worst of his injuries, close enough that Raine had to wonder if Belos had actually been aiming for it. A not-technically essential organ in the vicinity getting completely destroyed was horrifyingly plausible. They’d filed it away and moved on, already mentally bracing themself for the heartbreaking conversation they’d need to have with Hunter later, when he was a lot less fragile. How did you tell the extraordinarily gifted teen prodigy of the Emperor’s Coven, of all people, that he was never going to be able to do magic again? 

Later though, when Raine had been discussing their findings with Eda in hushed tones, she’d made a comment that Hunter had probably never had one to begin with, given what Luz had told her. That had surprised them – all that flashy magic, on his staff alone? They’d seen him in action several times, even before the two of them were on the same side, and never would have guessed the kid was fooling everybody with quick moves and even quicker thinking. 

It had felt like a very private piece of trivia to learn at the time, but now, they wondered…

“Hunter?” they asked. The teen was still looking at them with anxiety. “Did you get sick a lot growing up?”

“What’s that got to do w’ anything?”

“Did you?”

“...Yeah. Sucked.”

“Well,” Raine said, standing up. “It might have sucked then, but I think it’s good news now. At least, good in that I think I know what's going on. You know how most witches’ bile sacs help us fight off infections and illnesses by sending a little extra magic into our systems when we’re sick?”

Giving them a blank look, Hunter shook his head. Titan . Raine had to assume that Belos had known the specifics of Hunter’s condition -- and that he’d also been well aware there were consequences for a witch with an impaired bile sac other than just their ability to do magic. Had he really never told him?

Of course he hadn't. He was the worst.

“Okay,” they said, gently. Out of all the ways they could have expected tonight to go, ‘rudimentary health class’ was not one of them, “Well, they do. It’s mostly important when witches are really little, or really old, or otherwise a lot more vulnerable. You probably got sick so much as a kid because you didn’t have one helping you, and while I imagine it’s gotten better as you’ve grown up into a healthy teenager, right now, your body is fighting off a lot. I think your immune system is struggling to keep up without one.”

“...Oh.” Hunter frowned.

“The good news is,” Raine said. “It shouldn’t be too hard to help it along. There are all kinds of potions and things meant to mimic the same effect – mostly brewed up by parents whose kids still aren’t managing, even with bile sacs of their own. I’ll ask Eda if she knows any good ones in the morning, and hopefully we can help your body understand it's supposed to be fighting something. Your cough will get worse again, but you should get back to breathing easier, too.”

Come to think of it, his fever would probably also get worse -- along with who knows what else -- if his body had been impaired fighting all this off. Especially since it seemed like the curse-associated symptoms were moving in a more more illness-like direction. They would have to be careful.

“For now, I think we should sit you upright,” they said. “We probably don’t need to wake her up until it's morning, but I do want to make sure you’re breathing alright, especially since your lung isn’t healed up yet.”

None of him was healed up yet, but after scaring him earlier, Raine was trying to put a positive spin on things.

Once Hunter was propped back against the arm of the couch, several pillows tucked under his back and neck for good measure, Raine got him some tea – and themself another mug of coffee, mentally sticking their tongue out at Lilith as they did so – and settled in on the other side of the couch with their book. There was room, with him sitting up, and they figured he might like the company.

“What’re you reading?” he said. It was pretty clear he was going to drift off in a matter of moments, but he still looked interested, and Raine was ready to indulge the poor kid in just about anything they could offer.

“Oh, this? Nothing riveting. ‘Wild Magic and the Moon: It’s Not Just a Phase!’ It’s a couple hundred years old, I think, and the language is pretty dry and dated. But I’m hoping it might tell us something about the eclipse that just happened.”

“Like that one,” Hunter said sleepily.

“You’ve read it?” Raine said, surprised. “I figured Belos would’ve kept you away from this stuff.”

“Tried. I like books…” he trailed off, then, more sadly, added. “...wish I could help.”

“You’re helping already, remember?” Raine said, reaching over to ruffle his hair. “And I solemnly swear to you that if Luz actually makes us those ‘nerd squad’ buttons she’s been talking about, I’ll make sure you get an honorary one, okay?”

“She pro’lly would anyway.”

Raine laughed. “You’re not wrong! I’ll make sure yours is extra big, though."

They tucked his blanket over his shoulder, noting it seemed like he had, in fact, fallen asleep.

Well, they thought. Scared teen, no magic, book rebel… just how many other secrets have you been hiding under that mask, little Golden Guard?

They hoped this would pass, and they would have lots and lots of time together to find out.

[lotornomiko]

The Broken Hearted Comfort Chapter Two (Not safe for work at times)

Finished tweaking two. (More than a tweak actually.) Some...dark content warning for Hook's fantasizing at the end....it was naughty and not necessarily nice in nature! ^^;'

Hook Belle Pairing, Once Upon A Time

He would not last even two days, before he was back at the tavern. Not even a full forty eight hours had gone by, and yet Hook was there, actively looking for the woman. She however, was not found at what had been deemed her customary seat at the tavern's bar, that little stool long left vacant before the pirate had ever stalked in. That alone was odd and telling, the pattern the young woman had maintained now broken, and no one could say for sure why. No one save the pirate, and he wasn’t offering up his sin for the gossips’ tongues to wag with.

Desperate to find her, and made agitated when the hours passed, and her seat still remained empty, it was all that Hook could do, to not turn a suspicious eye at the other men in this tavern. More than once had he scanned each table, even the ones in the darker corners of this grand room, hoping to catch sign of the woman playing court with another. Not that such an idea fit the image that he had of her, for though she had been led to ruin at his hands, the young lass was still an innocent at heart. Pure and relatively untouched, Hook doubted she would sit with another, regardless of the fact so many of the men here would have likely killed for the chance to have such a lush beauty join them. It wasn’t as uncharitable thought as he might have meant it to be, not when Hook couldn’t blame them, not when he felt that same killing urge for the just the chance of her.

It was enough to have made him almost laugh then, if only there was even the slightest thing amusing about the situation. But there wasn't, Hook dreadfully sober, driven to needs he didn't quite understand or like. But the fact still remained, he needed to see that woman again. Hook wished it was for an unselfish reason, almost wished he was driven by the need to make amends for what he had done to her that other night. He wasn't, Hook driven solely by the desire to find and fuck that woman again, to have her bring him to that quiet place where nothing else mattered except the few minutes of pleasure he had gotten from pounding into her body.

It still took him aback, that need, and the discovery he had inadvertently chanced upon, the woman having had some strange, almost magical kind of effect on him. She had let him feel a pleasure like no other, not just that of a sexual satisfaction, but that of a kind of mind’s quiet, the memory of her, and the guilt, leaving the pirate focused on something other than the potent thoughts that had lingered for so many years like some ghostly terror intent on his every waking minute and then some, wallowing in an eternal torment. Instead, since that night in the alleyway, he had been distracted, from it, from Milah, even from his revenge, Hook finding himself consumed with what he had first thought was an uncharacteristic guilt. Focused unwavering on the woman, on the quiet those thoughts of her had given him in turn, Hook had finally felt able to breathe. To be something other than a tortured soul intent on revenge and suicide, that quiet earned, had been nothing short of an unasked for blessing. One he was ready to do just about anything for, feeling less reckless, less wild, but also made desperate, needing that peace, that quiet in his head.

To a man as tortured as Hook, that quiet, that peace, was a blessing that was secondary to any bodily pleasure he could have gotten from her. He still found himself craving both, that of the woman’s body, and the exaggerated effect she had seemingly had on him. He was desperate for it, for her, that magic an effect that was fading the longer he went without, his memories starting to seep back in, manifesting in dreams and visions that stalked and haunted him as the most extreme of nightmares. His life spiking to new levels of intensity when it came to such suffering, such grief and such sorrow, only thoughts of seeing that woman again could hold it all at bay, Hook needing the break she offered from it all.

Wanting to exist for more than a handful of seconds without those memories, without recalling how quickly Milah’s eyes had gone dim, her brutal slaying at the hands of the coward, the monster, had been the only thing truly fueling him, truly motivating the pirate to press on. Damaged by the memories, of his inability to prevent the murder from happening, from not even being able to whisper to her one last “I love you” before she had gone to the great beyond, he had always thought himself cursed with so much of the impossible, and that including the inability to let go and move on. He had tried, for more lifetimes than should have been his, and yet nothing and no one had ever come close to making him want to move on. Perhaps nothing ever would, that moment and a few hundred others, forever seared into his mind, both the good and the bad times blurring together into one painful throbbing wound that lay naked and exposed even now.

Unwell, he had latched onto the only port in the storm. To a woman who was suffering in so similar a manner to Hook. He was halfway to the point of an unhealthy obsession, Hook half hoping it had been a fluke for what had happened. Half hoping but terrified to find out either way, Hook not knowing what he'd do if it didn't work, if the quiet didn't come and maintain. Worse yet was what he would do if it did keep on happening, concerned over the lengths he would go to, to make sure that it continued.

Not sure what outcome to pray for, Hook would stay seated at the corner table. It was in direct line of the tavern's two entrances, Hook watching stone faced in the hopes that each new arrival would be HER. It never was, yet another hour passing. His table became littered with drinks, all untouched. The tavern waitress could only shake her head in bemusement, not understanding the point to Hook wasting his gold on something that he refused to actually drink.

It was a small price to pay, if Hook could remain in the tavern, the drinks just an excuse to keep the table reserved for his use alone. He had a feeling he'd be there for hours more, and yet still the woman did not show, Hook wondering why. Growing angry with frustration, and wondering just how badly had he hurt her that she now chose to avoid the one and only place that they had in common.

The next hour would see Smee's arrival, the short, older man making a beeline for Hook's table. He wouldn't wait for permission, taking hold of one of the drink mugs and plopping his fat ass down on a stool.

"Her name is Belle." Smee announced before taking a big swallow of the drink. Immediately, Hook's attention was all for the red cap wearing man, anticipation and that need stirring within him. "She hasn't been back to this place since."

Hook frowned. Was he that distasteful to her, that she'd alter her nights, change her routine so completely? Even after she had liked his kisses, if not the outcome that they had led to? He nearly groaned out loud, Hook coming closer to realizing just how thoroughly he had butchered things with her. Treating her little better than a whore, using her with no regard to the fact that before she had met him, she had been a complete innocent.

"I'd ask what went on between you two...." Smee began, in between drinks. "But I hazard I can guess."

"The details are not any of your concern." growled Hook in warning. "You need only to locate her."

"Ah that..." Smee kept him waiting, savoring Hook's impatience more than the drink in his hands.

"Yes that." Hook grit out, having to remind himself that Smee was useful and for that reason alone he should not throttle him. After all, Smee had a talent for finding that which was lost. Be it information, items, or even people.

"I must say, Belle is proving almost harder to locate than any information on your OTHER quarry."

Hook felt an irrational rage at hearing her name on Smee's lip. The older man seemed to read the anger in Hook's eyes, nervously setting down his drink.

"I found a room." Smee finally revealed. "She's been staying at a nearby inn."

Something closer to relief starting to flood through him, and then the rest of what Smee had said, registered.

"Been staying? As in she's no longer there?"

"It's the strangest thing really..." Smee stated. "Seems she's up and disappeared."

"Disappeared? Nonsense." Hook scoffed even as his stomach clenched in unease.

"People are unexpectedly uncooperative, on revealing just what has happened." Smee continued. "I've heard several stories, all remaining unconfirmed on just where she could have gone. Anything from her leaving to track down some beast terrorizing a town, to her having gotten a job cleaning for some rich noble."

Both seemed equally absurd, Hook unable to imagine her as a hunter of monsters, or even as just a servant.

"What do you believe to be the truth?"

"Couldn't really say." Smee offered apologetically. "The only thing is, she left in such a hurry, she didn't take the time to gather her things."

A spark of interest filled Hook. "They're still at the inn?"

"Every last one." Smee confirmed. Hook abruptly stood, tossing enough coins on the table to cover the rest of the drinks. "Captain?"

"Keep your eyes and ears sharp Mr. Smee." Hook told him.

"That goes without saying. But..." A worried Smee frowned. "What do you intend to do?"

"I'm going to do a bit of snooping of my own." retorted Hook, something that could almost be an unpleasant smile crossing his lips.

Smee seemed to shiver to see it. "All right...but..." Hook gestured impatiently for Smee to continue. "Has....our focus changed?" He hastened to explain. "I mean....for over a year now, you've been obsessed with tracking HIM down. Now all of a sudden, you have me break from searching out info about HIM, to look for some girl? I just wonder why."

"I think I might have lost my mind..." A wry look then. "Or whatever of it was left. But no, Mr. Smee. My focus remains the same. I will find the crocodile, and I will have my revenge. One way or the other."

"But the girl?"

"Have you ever been in love Mr. Smee?" The older man shook his head no. "Then you wouldn't possibly understand what moves me now."

"I suppose you're right. But really...love seems to be nothing but trouble."

"That we can both agree on, Mr. Smee." Hook said without any real amusement. He'd pause only long enough to get the name of the inn from Smee, then hurried to it. Located a few blocks from the tavern, it was one of the more reputable inns. A finer class of building then even Hook was used to staying in. Not that he couldn't afford such a place, but Hook had never been one for sleeping in such establishments. Not when brothels offered a cheaper and more satisfying solution to the one need he'd have for an inn.

He couldn't even imagine bringing a whore to a place this nice. Hell, he couldn't even imagine them renting out the rooms by the hour, not in a place so clean and well cared for. A family establishment, both in the people who ran it and the customers who used it.

And yet the desk clerk wasn't above being bribed, not only telling Hook what little he knew of the woman, but letting him into her room. A few more gold coins got Hook the privacy that he required, the pirate feeling like some kind of stalker as he moved about the bedroom, touching her things. She had enough dresses for every day of the week and then some, the woman clearly well off financially. He wondered about that, wondered about a woman that rich traveling on her own.

She should have been surrounded by attendants, by servants and body guards. She should have been treated like a princess, not frequenting some tavern to fall prey to the first pirate that came along. Even if that pirate had been him, Hook knowing what an effect he was prone to having on ladies.

Frowning, he walked around her room, trying to learn more about her. Finding a surprising number of books, the woman well educated enough to be able to read. In the bathroom, he found her pretty blue dress, the laces still damaged, the skirts stained with some spots of her blood and his come. He should have cringed with guilt, instead a sensory memory came to him, Hook remembering how it had felt inside her, with his mind blessedly focused on nothing but pleasing himself.

His fingers turned crushing on the dress' bodice, and then he abruptly jerked back as if stung. Stumbling back into the bedroom, knowing he would find no real clues, and yet lingering anyway. Ending up by the bed, pulling the sheets back, and smelling them. Smelling her, her sweet scent still lingering faintly there. It was different from the other night. Then the rain had clung to her skin, fresh and overpowering much of her sweetness.

Inhaling deeply, the scent of strawberries and cream coming to mind, Hook groaned and laid down flat on the bed. Stretching his arms out, imagining what it would be like to have her resting against him. To have her in this bed with him, Hook actually showing her the care and tenderness a woman like her was entitled too.

Groaning, Hook rolled onto his stomach. He got a face full of pillow, smelling the scent of her hair there. Another sensory memory, Hook remember when he had bit the woman's shoulder. She had cried out, Hook breathing in the scent of her hair as he moved his tongue over the bite mark in apology. But he hadn't really been sorry, Hook having worked on instincts alone. Now that he was here, and could think about it, it was arousing to think the woman was walking around marked so by him.

It'd be even better if she was here now, where Hook could look upon the bite mark with pride and possession in his eyes. Where he could cover her with similar, biting down on that tender flesh to make her cry out like that again. Her cries of the other night seemed to echo in his mind, Hook shifting, finding his arousal reaching that uncomfortable state.

There was no one around to see, to hear, Hook lifting up enough to get the front of his pants undone. He kept his face down on the pillow, nostrils flaring to get more of her scent. He really was going crazy to even think about stroking himself off in the stranger's rented room at the inn. And yet here he was, his remaining hand grabbing almost roughly at his stiffening length.

A few strokes back and forth along his length, and his cock stiffened further. His fingers tightened their grip, his hand making a squeezing fist. He didn't start moving his hips right away, just using his hand, a teasing he almost never engaged in. But he was too busy calling to mind the memory of that rain soaked night, remembering the kisses that had been shared, and the sweet, enveloping heat that had coiled tight around his cock. Remembering the near mindless pleasure, and the way the woman had been crying out, the memory of her sounds goading him on, and then Hook was pumping, hips moving like a mad thing. Frenzied and frantic, Hook trying to make his fist as tight as the woman's virginal body had been. Failing, almost cursing over the fact he couldn't replicate the sensations of her all too pleasing body, Hook was growling into the pillow one minute, then breathing deeply the next.

Wilder yet, thrusting as violently as he could into his moving fist, Hook couldn't come fast enough. Literally, the climax drifting just out of reach, taunting him. He bit down on a pillow to hold in his infuriated scream, Hook half crazed and knowing if the woman were to walk in on him at right this moment, he'd have pounced on her like some wild animal.

No worse than a wild animal, Hook having a clear purpose in mind. Throwing her down onto the bed, not even taking the time to rip her out of her clothes. Just throwing one of those lacy skirts over her head, finding the slit in her panties, and digging his tongue in. Working that muscle until she was as desperate with need as he was, her body soaked in the liquid proof.

And then later, when he had calmed down, when he wasn't so blinded by lust, he'd spend the time needed to learn everything about her body. To learn just how to lick her to make her squeal, to find just the spot to touch with his fingers that would send her arching up off the bed. So many things to try out, Hook knowing that every woman was different, and having enough variation in his skills to believe he could satisfy every single one, even one he had hurt, like he had hurt Belle.

“Belle!”

It was the first time he had actually used her name, and now it was like a mantra, whispered over and over to the pillow. He was sweating, panting, moisture beading on the tip of his cock. It was actually painful, the skin red and throbbing. He began pounding his hook on the mattress, tearing up the sheets. Shouting her name, hips giving a mighty seize forward and instant before he jettisoned come all over the sheets.

His body gave a few more spastic thrusts forward, but there was nothing left to shoot, Hook empty for the moment. Empty in more ways than one, the lustful haze receding to the realization that he hadn't been thinking about Milah, about her murder, or about Rumplestiltskin. Not in the minutes that had just happened, or the time before it, when Hook had gone through the woman's things. Hell, even at the tavern, the instant Smee had announced her name, Hook had been too focused on finding her, to think about anything else. Let alone let his grief and anger consume him.

But here now they came, brought to life by the mere realization of the lack of them. Catching him in their grip, making him rage, Hook choking back an infuriated sound. Wondering what was wrong with him, what spell had the woman managed to cast over him to make him forget such pain when she wasn't even in the room with him. Feeling shame faced that just thoughts of her could make him so crazed, and feeling worse guilt as Hook realized he really would do just about anything to have her. To force her to stay by his side, and in his bed.

It wasn't love. It was desperation through and through. It was crazy, it was wild, and yet she, Belle, made everything seem all right for just a while. For a man like Hook, who hadn't had real peace of mind in over many a year's time, she was everything that he needed. A need Hook was finding, that would justify any means....

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To Be Continued....

8/24/2021 Updated! This one, the opening got more than just a tweaking. I actually did a fair bit of rewriting that I hope proves for the better!

----Michelle

[korporxie]

Prompt 2: Sway

For Elowyn, it felt like the whole world had blossomed vividly into color all over again. 

After being on board the Forte, the idea of going home was more unappealing than it ever had been. She had been so close to the stars in the airship - close enough, on some nights, that it felt like she could reach out and touch them. They glistened silver, flickered blue, shimmered gold, without a sliver of polluted light to diminish their glow. Gabe needed to sleep at night to be up early to help with the ship, but Elowyn would stay up, either curled up on his chest and watching the sky through the porthole, or going above deck to simply watch it all in awe with a blanket around her shoulders.

And the Sea of Clouds had been... indescribable. It looked like her train of thought did, with all of its strange flora and fauna and crystals littered across the isles. For the first time in a long time, her soul had felt truly at peace. 

All good things, though, must come to an end.

The return to Dravania was inevitable. She had to go see her parents and check up on them. Jareck needed to go back and trade his goods with the locals. And so it was with a heavy heart that Elowyn kissed Gabe goodbye - just for a little while, with the promise to call him each night, to be back soon. 

He didn’t say aloud that he would miss her, but the way his arms lingered around her, and the way he ran his fingers through her ringlets, the way his lips pressed against hers... Well. It told her everything that she would need to know. 

“Call me if y’need me, ma petite,” Gabe murmured, and Elowyn smiled before Jareck called her away. Her eyes lingered on Gabe’s of meadow and of sea before, finally, relenting, and following after her uncle. 

Thankfully, the trip back to Dravania was quick, with Gabe not around to chide her for aether travel - even if her head was spinning once her and Jareck’s feet hit the path leading up to the old house secluded in the forest. A wild chocobo eyed them as Elowyn got her bearings before letting out a ‘kweh!’ and meandering on its way, yellow feathers ruffled up. 

Elowyn eyed up the old mansion as they walked the wooded path to it, trees heavy with foliage hanging overhead. The scent of sweet flowers drifted through the air, with the slight bite of cold around them promising that autumn was just around the corner. It was a peaceful place, Elowyn thought. She could hear the babbling brook, could see the gardens she had tended to so carefully as they crested the hill, watching as servants dipped in and out from the back entryway leading into the kitchens. 

Chickens and geese and ducks trotted around as they were fed by the hand of a young, pretty Elezen girl, who beamed when she saw Elowyn. The young Miqo’te had to wonder why her parents hired more staff once she went adventuring, really. They never had a particular need for extra hands before, save for a couple of maids and a cook and a groundskeeper. Why begin with all this fanfare now? 

Gabe would find it all absurd. 

“I’ll take your bag up to your room, Elo-child, if you like,” Jareck said, shaking Elowyn out of her thoughts. “Go take a warm bath. You are still pale.” 

“Ah... Yes. Yes, right. Thank you, uncle,” she replied, smiling up at him, and he smiled back, gently ruffling up her hair. 

“Elowyn!” a voice called from the heavy oak doors - adorned with stained glass and handsome, dragon head iron knockers. Elowyn glanced upwards as her fluffy ears twitched, and she found herself smiling again when she noted that it was her mother waiting in the door, wearing a gown of deepest blue. Her reading spectacles were low upon her nose until she removed them, letting them dangle from around her neck on a thin silver chain.

Gwyneth did not smile back, however. Jareck frowned at the way the woman’s jaw ticked as her daughter ran towards her, still dressed in a pinafore that was covered in soil, her braids wild and untamed, looking...

Looking more a farm girl than the daughter of a wealthy Sharlayan scholar. 

“Mother, it’s good to see you!” Elowyn said brightly, Jareck still watching silently from behind her as he approached. The younger woman’s arms were outstretched to Gwyneth, as if she had forgotten that the woman didn’t hug.

That she never embraced.

No, Elo-child, Jareck thought to himself. You are thinking of Gabriel’s mother.

“Mm,” Gwyneth noised, eyeing up her child with her lips pressed into a thin, disapproving line. “Come in. And wash your hands. I must needs speak with you. It’s a matter of some urgency.”

Elowyn’s arms lowered to her side, her smile wavering for just a moment before she bobbed her head in confirmation. Jareck glared at Gwyneth as her daughter took off running to wash herself up, and Gwyneth only cast him a withering sort of glare before turning.

“If you two are going to return to my home looking so unkempt, then it is only right that you begin to use the servants’ entrance to come inside,” she said coldly, barely even glancing over her shoulder, before whisking off down the long hallway - and letting the doors get shut on Jareck, her husband’s most beloved and oldest friend. 

---

Swirling, wooden staircases and glass ceilings, marble hallways, greenhouses blossoming with life that wouldn’t otherwise be sustained in Dravania, stables with the finest black chocobo money could buy, and a library that rivaled some in major cities, a ballroom waiting to be filled, tapestries of the best silks and endless places to hide and to study...

The Nollett home was like something out of a fairytale book, including the spiral tower that housed the only child, with every creature comfort she could ask for to keep her content and complacent. 

Every creature, however, will grow restless in captivity, sooner or later. Gwyneth chided herself for not realizing as much sooner. Her daughter was obedient, but even an obedient pet can grow rebellious if it falls out of step with its training - if it’s taught something else, encouraged to no longer listen to its master. 

Gwyneth watched out the window as a slow drizzle began, sipping from her cup of tea. Her husband was away on business, to Ishgard, though he hadn’t bothered to meet Elowyn while she had been there. Gwyneth felt a tic in her jaw as she recalled what the hunter who had arrived to her home in muddy shoes had told her, a quiver of arrows hanging over his shoulder.

Elowyn, and an Elezen man with a limp, and a Temple Knight that had sent her running off into the night after her handicapped friend. 

“Mother!” 

Gwyneth didn’t look up when she heard the breathless call of her child. Still slow, she simply took another sip of her cup before slowly placing it upon the table with its saucer. Elowyn watched her with wide eyes and reddened cheeks from her haste, changed into a clean dress, her hair loose save for two thick locks smoothed back into a braid behind her head.

“How long have you been getting courted, Elowyn, without telling your parents?” Gwyneth asked softly, without much pause, and Elowyn blinked those silver eyes at her in surprise. 

The girl never could lie. 

“I’m sorry, I don’t--”

“Do not play dumb, Elowyn. It suits you too well.”

Gwyneth rose from her chair, midnight blue skirts rustling behind her as she rounded the couch her daughter was standing behind. Elowyn watched her with parted lips, like a deer caught in the lantern lights of a wagon. 

“How did you find out?” Elowyn asked, her voice tiny, and Gwyneth resisted the urge to lift a hand and smack her across the cheek for admitting so readily to it - and for being so disgustingly meek over it, too. Instead, the older Miqo’te took a breath, staring her daughter down.

“A young hunter came to speak to you about it while you were away, but alas. I was forced to have such a conversation without my own flesh and blood alerting me to the fact that she had found herself a beau,” Gwyneth said, smiling, as she rested her hands lightly on the back of the couch. “A young Elezen gentleman, I was told? Of Ishgard? May I ask to which family he belongs, Elowyn?” 

Elowyn swallowed a sudden lump in her throat, reaching a hand up to touch the locket that was hanging around her neck. Her mother’s eyes drifted to it, an eyebrow raising, before she looked back to her daughter’s face. 

“Of... Coerthas... ma’am,” she said, softly, not quite making eye contact. “Not of Ishgard. And of... the Beaumont family.”

“The Beaumont family...” Gwyneth clicked her tongue and hummed. “The cousins of the Durendaires? Distant as they may be, but I know the father has quite the reputation as a rather zealous minister of Halone.” 

“...No, ma’am. I am... unaware if there is any relation to any of the High Houses, minor or otherwise. They were driven to Ishgard after the Calamity,” Elowyn continued, glancing down at her feet briefly. 

A hunter? The only hunter who has seen me with Gabe was Alec. Why was he coming looking for me? What does he want? And why would he tell my mother any of this at all--?

“I see,” Gwyneth mused softly. “But pray tell, child - what is it they did before the Calamity? What is it that they do now? I should like to invite your beau over, but one must know what to expect and how to cater. If they are not of the High Houses of Ishgard, perhaps someone else of high rank...?”

Mother, why are you doing this?

Elowyn swallowed again, and she mustered up all the spine in her steel that she could in order to meet the woman’s cold and piercing eyes. Of course she hadn’t been met at the door because Gwyneth was happy to see her. Of course. There was another reason. Alec had let the cat out of the bag - and, Elowyn assumed, had made it clear that Gabriel Beaumont was not a man of wealth, of power, or of influence... But why?

“They were farmers,” Elowyn replied, her tone steady - much steadier than she thought it would be. “And now, the mother works as a seamstress, and the eldest girls as servants to High Houses. My... beau... picks up odd jobs. He was contracted under me to assist me in dungeon diving.”

A sky pirate. The most beautiful, wonderful sky pirate. He doesn’t have much money, but he loves me and respects me. His family is poor, but they love me, too. They treat me like one of them. They mean the world to me, is what she wanted to say, but... It didn’t seem like quite the time for it.

“And the father?”

The deck is creaking overhead. The room is filled with laughter and music and the scent of spilled booze. Arnaut Beaumont spun her around the room as their laughter joined everyone else’s, with his scarred face and light feet and mind that was not always his own. 

No. Not Arnaut Beaumont. The Capitaine. 

“Dead,” Elowyn said, meeting her mother’s eyes directly and hoping that her face wouldn’t betray that she was lying, just this once.

Gwyneth let a silence settle in the air between them, heavy and pregnant. Elowyn tried to keep her head lifted, her jaw set, but... She wasn’t a fighter. She did not know how to cut someone with her words, much less her own mother - her own mother, who had words as her weapon of choice. Elowyn didn’t push back. She was soft. She didn’t angry.

But if she was going to get angry because of anyone... Well. It was, and always had been, because of Gabriel Beaumont. 

“I suppose every girl must have her flights of fancy. I was not immune to the charms of men of lesser classes than me,” Gwyneth murmured, finally. “But this will not go on for much longer, Elowyn. You will end things with this young man soon. You serve only to set yourself up for heart break. Men like him want someone they can relate to, and you don’t quite live up to that, do you, our dear little princess?” 

She said it so sweetly that one could easily believe she was simply being a doting mother, and gods, how Elowyn wanted it to be true.

“I anticipate you’ll be going back to Ishgard to see him and his brood again soon,” Gwyneth continued, while Elowyn felt that unfamilair heat rising on the back of her neck, in the pit of her stomach. Her mother stepped around her, adjusting the chronometer on her wrist and looking at the time as she spoke.

“End it with him before you return home. If you’re ready for romantic ventures, then your father and I will find you someone more suitable than a young man who takes... odd jobs.”

“No.”

The word fell from Elowyn’s lips fast and hard, and even she was surprised at her tone. Gwyneth stopped in her journey towards the door leading out of the sitting room that Elowyn had been called to, raising a brow, before slowly turning back around to face her daughter. Her expression had changed into something amused, albeit annoyed, into... cold and angry. 

“I beg your pardon?”

“I said no, Mother,” Elowyn said, swallowing, willing her voice not to shake. “No, I will not be ending anything with him. I love him, and he loves me, and--”

“If you believe that a man who has come from nothing could truly love a young woman like yourself, with no ulterior motives, then you are even more of a fool than I thought you to be.” Gwyneth’s voice was like a knife, slicing harshly through the air as she stared at her daughter. “You think he has no interest at all in your fortune, child? He loves you? Don’t be absurd. He has no father, and it sounds as though he has quite the family to feed. Of course he’ll tell you that he loves you. Do not be so naive.” 

“Mother, it isn’t like that,” Elowyn insisted, stepping closer, surprised at how strong her own voice was, how her hands weren’t shaking. “It isn’t like that at all. You have to understand-- I will not be swayed from him--”

“Then when your stomach is swollen and heavy with a bastard, and he has made off with your finery and your pretty things to sell... Don’t dare come to this house, crying. Stay in the gutter he leaves you in,” Gwyneth says softly, leaning in towards Elowyn. “You will not have any help awaiting you here.” 

Leaning back, Gwyneth sniffed before turning and fully exiting the room. Elowyn watched her retreating back before buckling over the couch, not realizing just how much she had been holding her breath until she was able to properly exhale - not realizing just how angry she was until she was in that ornate room alone with it consuming her. 

[riseoftherose]

i already bothered my gc with this, so imma post it here. here’s character blurbs for my long time wip that i FINALLY have time to work on again! bnha fantasy au! (long post, so it’s under the cut) feedback is V welcome, but not necessary! 

primaries - (main characters, always coming back to them, their history's are only revealed when relevant, as they already know their own past- why recount it? they can't even dream about their past, they don't want to think about it)

izuku - been running since he was 10, never staying in one place long out of fear that the monsters who killed yagi will come for him.

shinsou - living with erasermic since he was six, they all live in a secluded cottage in the woods, away from gen pop, due to their darkblood heritage and aizawa's job. wants to lean into his magic nature, but is scared of himself.

shouto - under lock and key in endeavor palace, only let out under guard to demonstrate his strength for the king. isn't allowed to be involved in politics or matters of state by enji's order, despite technically being the crown prince. purposefully kept ignorant, and lives in fear and duress of his father.

secondaries - (relevant once introduced by a primary, good 3rd party looking glass, secondary plot)

- hawks - endeavorian captain of guard, taken in and raised as an infant, knows no life outside of the endeavorian military. lately has been having misgivings about his situation, and has been accompanying lords to shady meetings for their protection. he doesn't speak during them, but he listens- and knows that there's some darkness going down in the endeavorian court.

- bakugou - lives in the wilds, in a small village. is trying to be lowkey, as he and kirishima recently got into some hot water with some nobility and criminal underworld alike. is making his living temporarily as fighter for an illegal ring, while he's figuring out what to do now.

- momo - princess of aether, in some major political trouble. parents dead, and her only other living relative, amajiki, abandoning his name and running off, leaving her to fight the political take over of the aether throne. as she's not of age and doesn't have magic, she can't take it, but she also can't do anything to stop the next in line to take it- uwabami, who happens to be related to the crown hrough some shady marriage alliances. uwabami is attempting to lock herself into the throne, and lock momo out of it. momo meanwhile, is attempting to create her own branch of magic, and escape uwabami's poisonous reach.

- fuyumi - princess of endeavor. one of the only people in the country that knows what really happened the night of the blue moon, seven years ago. she barely has a presence in court, and that is on purpose. she knows her father is destroying the country and the regency, and she knows that the only way she can help is to keep shouto safe, and make her own plans. after natsuo was shipped off, and touya pronounced dead, she keeps herself quiet and out of the way. she can't be her father's heir, as she's a woman. and she knows shouto would do anything to leave the throne behind, so she's... exploring her options. that is, at least, until her father announces her engagement to the king of Sedna, gang orca.

- ochako - a fae student of magic in the city of aether, in the loosest term. while she's incredibly gifted with magic, she doesn't agree with the teachings there, and is secretly working on her own studies and experiments with magic on her own time. combined with her heavy work schedule, she's constantly exhausted and Not in the mood to deal with traditionalist douchebags in the grand magis society.

- dabi - lives in the Badlands, with his master and league. he constantly crosses the border, as one of the few servants of the Master who is capable of doing so, to oversee His plans and dealings, especially with the Endeavorian government and other nobility. He has his misgivings, but he's mostly loyal to the man that healed him, that helped him. For now.

tertiary - (not as relevant, side characters, occasionally have a pov)

- denki - amnesiac storm spirit? or demigod? (he doesn't know, tbh) that showed up in the desert wastes, and was rescued by jirou. they're now an outlaw team. if you have a job for them, they'll do it. don't much care what it is.

- mina - saytr alchemist that lives in the Cove, where legal jurisdiction is loose, and therefor, optional.

- jirou - harpy bounty hunter/thief that goes where ever the wind takes her. along with her best friend, the suspected minor demigod.

- kirishima - oread boy without a family. grown as an orphan, he ended up in the border of the wilds, when he met a fifteen year old bakugou, who changed his life forever. bakugou punched him, gave him a name, and  gave him some food. Kirishima never looked back.

- monoma - changeling boy who lives on the outskirts of aetherian magic society. all he wants is to be respected, and learn "real" magic, but he's not allowed. he doesn't know his family. meets a violet haired, darkblooded boy one day while lurking around the grand magis, and develops a crush.

- miruko - captain of the sednian guard, though she's usually informal about it to her king/friend. they're a secretive nation, and that's purposeful. so when gang orca, the king, agrees to a marriage alliance with endeavor, she doesn't understand, though she goes along with whatever her king says. and if the new princess turns out to be *incredibly gorgeous and exactly rumi's type*, well, that's a problem for another time.

- iida - lesser prince of idaten. still figuring out what he wants out of life. very proud of his country and his family. meets a fae girl in the markets, and he thinks he understands what love is.

- etc

[flowerflamestars]

Oak and Ash

PART ONE    PART TWO   If there was one thing Lucien Vanserra learned young, it was to control himself.  But control in the world of Autumn had always been more than half deception- and Lucien was lying more and more each day. That he really was a Spring Lord in all but birth. That Feyre was fine and Tamlin was just. That the rot that had began under Amarantha was being cleansed, not grown right into the soul of a stagnant season.  Burning inside him every day, it became harder.  Without fail, he woke with magic kindling in his veins, sweating out his pores in raging heat. It made no sense to him. Elain was human. He could practically hear the mortal beat of her heart if he focused hard, soft as spring rain falling over Tamlins estate.  But still, Lucien dreamt.  Of Elain dancing, spinning through the figures of Autumn Court dances. The Hunters Moon high in sky, his beautiful savage home a safe place- Elain Archeron wild with joy and framed by bonfires, all dimples and clever eyes. Maddeningly impossible, with faery bright skin. Her curls unbound and soft to the touch- his touch.  There was no world in which those forests might call Lucien home, no story where he would ever be crowned again in rowan and bone, no life where it wasn’t a land ruled by a murderous tyrant.  Lucien spent long night hours staring at the sky, slowing his heart, the fire in his blood, the longing trying to burn him up inside. In some ways, he decided, it was even worse than the death wish he’d carried in the time of Amarantha. Something inside him was waking up, the embers stoked for the first time in centuries.  Something a human girl who wanted only to be his friend had brought to life.  It was as though he’d been half awake for decades. Now his eyes were open, and Lucien couldn’t stop looking. If he’d been asleep, his power had been half dead. It would have been easy to write off on the long imprisonment of Prythian, but deep down he knew that wasn’t true.  No fox worth a forest den lied to himself too.  Lucien thought perhaps he hadn’t felt even a spark of it’s full strength since the day Jesminda had burned. Hadn’t wanted it- not really, not to live or to feel- and that truest, most intrinsic part had listened.  Until he’d stumbled into a rose garden. Winnowed straight over the Wall armed to the teeth.  And every day he rose, the ostentatious costume of a spring noble never more false. It reminded him so much a of her laugh; this girl who he’d known less than a heartbeat, seeing the truth that easily. If his tiredness showed, Tam didn’t comment. Maybe he didn’t notice, too busy celebrating a victory even Lucien was tired of lauding. Too busy seeking ways to kill Rhysand, for all that his fell bargaining had likely saved them all.  It took bitter, constant focus not to melt the gold all around him.  Lucien understood saving face, but he knew sacrifice much more. Hated that he understood the pallor that dulled even Feyre’s glowing immortal skin.  He hated it- hated as he went through every motion, thoughts buried deep. His duties filled his day, but they meant nothing. Emptiness, Lucien learned, only brought the flames higher. He was helpless, had been for a long time, he was realizing. Facing that he hated this fetid court. That Lucien had no home to return to, couldn’t fathom a place in this damned whole land he could safely call his own, with his mother’s fire so bright gold spiked and burned in his gaze.  With Elain Archeron’s smoke and dew flower scent living in his lungs like a haunting.  So Lucien did what he was best at, and didn’t return. No matter that the Wall buzzed like a beacon in the back of his mind every day he spent in too bright, too frozen forests, he didn’t turn toward human lands. Refusing the siren song of his name on the wind, no matter how it hurt. Instead, Lucien winnowed to the furthest of the rebuilding villages and built until he was made to leave.  To return to stand at Tamlin’s side- more and more, to stand and not speak.   He knew how to run, how to fight, turning those gifts inward was nothing at all.  Nothing at all, until the High Lord of Night rescued Feyre from her own wedding, and Lucien was relieved. — Elain would never be so rude as to hide from her own guests.  She was naturally- as she’d explained to the simpering lord who’d escorted her outside- simply overwhelmed by the heat of the ball room, and could he be so kind as to escort her and oh, perhaps fetch some lemonade she’d forgotten inside?  Alone, Elain sank down on the balcony, this years frothy skirts poofing against the cold stone.  They had standing in the community again- riches and place, prospects and respect. Nesta, unable to hide how much she hated the false cheer, had retreated hours ago. But Elain had smiled- danced on and on, familiar burn beneath her ribs writhing.  She wanted- she wanted out of this gods damned corset, wanted to throw every idiot vying for her hand, for her wealth, out of the house. To know her baby sister was safe, to know her older sister would be okay.  The music, audible from the ballroom, shifted into a faster reel, and Elain pressed her face into her hands.  Unbidden- and she would blame the frustration later- the thought of dark ink on golden skin came to her. Careful lines to make a tangle of plants, true and perfect. At this point, Elain could have traced the shapes in her sleep.  She wanted Lucien to come back.  Which was madness. But she’d thought- hoped, assumed- that they were something like friends. The specter of that fascination twisted hotly in her chest, but here, alone, she let it come. Lucien was her beautiful, impossible faery friend.  Who’d never again answered her summons.  Elain knew it was what she should have expected. Could even, perhaps, be so simple as a difference of species. What were a few long months to a man- creature - who’d live forever? A solid piece of her young life, but to Lucien? An eye blink, an afternoon.  But just as truly she couldn’t shake the image of him striding in from the storm, wild and burning. He’d come for her, to make sure Elain was alright. Savage and protective, but he’d taken her offer to stay and drunk hot chocolate out of dainty china cups like it was a wonder.  The soft slide of one of the glass doors opening had Elain jumping to her feet, excuses on her lips before she saw the shine of her older sisters skirts.  Silently, Nesta walked down the balcony to Elain and sank down onto the cold stone herself. In the moonlight, her pale grey dress and tired face were much the same luminous color. Elain thought, not for the first time, that her older sister might have been better off if she were the one dragged to faery. Stillness- the lack of real answers- to be backed into a corner was what always ruined Nesta in the end.  “I thought you went to bed,” Elain murmured, sinking down until their shoulders touched.  Nesta sighed and Elain felt the moment her straight spine curved. “Lord Macon arrived,” Nesta said, colder than the night air. Elain knew well enough none of that sharpness was for her. “We have to indulge him, at least until father returns.”  They both knew their father was never coming home. But even alone here, neither would say those vulnerable words with their house full of gentry.  The Acherons were rich again- safe again. But how safe could two heiresses be in the wild human country that bordered the Wall? The second they’d had the funds to secure ships their father had disappeared back to the sea. Only the noble blood in their veins and the fair lines of their cheeks remained of the long dead Lady Asteria Acheron.  The sisters were on their own, as they always had been.  So Elain became a darling- she hosted balls and gave to noble women’s charities. Established committees and revelries, provided them every cover gentility could allow.  Tonight’s smiles had made her face ache. “That fucking prick,” Elain sighed, lips twitching as Nesta choked on a laugh.  Her sister’s cost had been far higher these long months. She played the part of a very long, very slow traditional courtship to a lord two decades her senior- and hadn’t stabbed him yet.  Elain had contemplated poison.  Because she knew- better than anyone else could, that Nesta Archeron truly believed in love. That deep in unbending heart of her cold, impossibly strong sister lived a woman who was all fire. And she’d burn herself out for the people she loved- would keep on giving pieces of herself away if it kept Elain safe.  She leaned harder against her sister’s side, pleased and horrified at the press of metal from beneath Nesta’s skirts.  The faery daggers were shared between them, and Nesta was wearing them strapped to her thighs.  The morning Elain confessed to Nesta about Lucien- about tea and poison, danger and beauty- her razor edged sister had wept. Not for Elain, but with the knowledge that somehow, Feyre was alive out there in ageless lands.  And then refused to speak to Elain for days in horrified fury, but that was something else entirely. Neither of them could imagine Feyre’s life now- or a sure way to keep themselves safe if fae continued to come over the Wall- but they couldn’t throw away the connection either. Lucien. Inside, the orchestra shifted to a spring reel, frantically fast. Nesta sighed a second time and let her eyes fall shut, tilting her head back to rest on the stone wall.  Echoing the motion, both sisters sat face to face with where the Wall lay. In the day it was a solid line of disturbance- like looking at the sun a second too long, or trying to read a completely foreign language.  Tonight, in the full light of a red tinged moon, it was invisible.  This was the part they never, ever admitted aloud to each other. Not even on the late nights they gathered in Nesta’s rooms, long after the house was asleep, to speak of faeries. To guess at Feyre’s whereabouts, for Nesta to share the illicit and entirely illegal research she was doing- to wonder and worry, to plan.  What neither sister would admit- but knew, both, buried between them- was something close to envy. They were safe. Worried for Feyre and scared for her, but safe in human lands.  Feyre was free. — Lucien seen it on Feyre’s face, in the weight she somehow kept shedding, in the frozen fear he could taste on the sweet Spring breeze. There was no world in which Tam, with his hunters senses, hadn’t smelled it too. Could feel it, see it.  But then Feyre was gone, and the world was red. Red wedding roses shredded on the lawn, poisoned Spring twisting garden vines into thorns and bleeding flowers. Tamlin, roaring out that rage that had a voice in Luciens head whispered to snarl back. He’d survived centuries with his head down, but suddenly all at once the required submission turned his bones molten.  Lucien wanted to defend himself against the pain he knew was coming. He wanted to defend Feyre, not a possession to be stolen from Tamlin.  He fought it, locking joints and face to the ground. Not placating Tamlin, but trying to tame the flames that had licked their way up into his eyes, magic settled in seething gold. Lucien had his eyes squeezed shut, counting the beats of his heart. It was a second- it was a moment- but it was enough for him to miss the first death.  He didn’t miss of sound of the body hitting the ground.  He didn’t throw himself forward fast enough to stop the second, to pull his friend- not his High Lord, his friend- back from mindlessly tearing through Feyre’s guard detail. But it wasn’t his friend who looked back, who roared anew as Lucien’s shoulder slammed into him, who fought his unrelenting grip.  They went down hard, Tamlin’s beast aspect a muddle of gold and blood as claws dug into Lucien’s forearms.  Dug and cut, the wetness of blood the only physical anchor Lucien had as his entire left arm went numb, Tamlins claws too deep. He had to get him away, had to push Tamlin away from the soldiers that would die too fast in this conflict.  Faerie dominance was a fickle and instinctual thing. Deadlier than the weapons they forged, stronger than the magic that defined their endless centuries of life. Lucien had learned it young and learned it well, the too bright, too magical youngest son of Prythian’s bloodiest court. Knew the feel of it like breathing, could pick out noble heirs and sense mate bonds a mile off, knew other faeries magical gifts with an instinct so strong it might have been some magic itself.  He knew it all, but somewhere, he’d made a mistake.  Tamlin was stronger than Lucien like this, half transformed and more than half mad with rage. But he’d always been faster than his friend. Like breathing- like he’d always stupidly done- Lucien let himself be hurt to twist in Tamlin’s grip and pull him further from the ruined wedding.  Bleeding- his arm was bleeding too damn much- Lucien kneeded Tamlin in the side, the crunch of breaking bone as much a surprise as a balm to the instincts screaming at him to fight for real.  But Tamlin still didn’t flinch, come to the surface. Instead he snarled, the roar of a creature neither human or fae, teeth dangerously close.  Distantly, Lucien had the horrible thought that the High Lord of Spring had never been this crazed when Amarantha was still alive. This unhinged.  True fear, cold even through the fire, slide down his spine.  It was the last thing Lucien thought, before claws slid up under his ribs. Like a handle of bone, crushing horrible pain as his skin parted- but he didn’t feel it. Lucien didn’t feel anything at all. He wasn’t in his body.  He was- red blood, green blood, her blood- broken ribs screaming as he was ground down into a polished marble floor. He was bleeding- how can there be so much blood from burning? Willow sap blood, autumn’s cost, his brother’s blood staining his skin. He was in the air- Eris had him against the wall by his throat. He could take him in an even fight- he could- but not like this, not with her- He was flying- transformed into an owl, into a wolf, at Tamlin’s behest- red blood, green grass, the world was blurring past his eyes- Elain’s laugh-  He was burning.  Lucien came to the beat after impact- head ringing, body ringing, the riven trunk of the tree Tamlin had thrown him into- thrown him through- catching fire at the touch of his skin. Teeth bared, vision blurred, but it wasn’t a Spring Lord who sat up and looked for Tamlin.  But the High Lord had transformed and vanished, the sound him running through the forest unnaturally loud in Lucien’s ears.  Leaving him, gasping and bleeding, responsible for the bodies of two soldiers he’d trained since their youth.  No. Tamlin was responsible.  Lucien could still feel his friend’s empty eyes. The gaze of the High Lord of Spring, where madness and becoming lived. Where something might have been broken for a long, long time. Lucien had fought with Tamlin before, interceded in years past, but Tam had never looked at him like a true opponent. Like Lucien was an equal, a challenger, and he was going to rip off his fucking head.  Had torn through Cian and Oisin like they were nothing at all.  Lucien knew , without a doubt, Tamlin had felt that magic fighting to be free in his oldest advisor and dearest friend. Had met it head on and decided in that bloody instant, that he was fighting a real enemy.  He couldn’t stay here, dazed and lost in the growing dark. Couldn’t help these males he’d trained, finish the village rebuilding, stay to talk Tamlin out of declaring war on the Night Court.  Because even when Tamlin found his reason his again, Lucien wouldn’t be safe.  The second he’d fought back he’d sealed his fate- not an adviser, a challenger. There was nothing of his friend left right now- and perhaps there hadn’t been for a long, long time. Lucien couldn’t help these faeries, but there was someone left he could.  Someone Lucien was sure Tamlin knew about, and wouldn’t hesitate for a second to use somehow to get Feyre back.  Sky bright, blood trailing after him, Lucien followed the roaring into the woods.  He could feel it now- the Hunters moon as it rose in his veins. The ease of it, to bleed wicked spring blood into old spring soil, like hunting any wild beast. Lucien was the son of forests far older than these. Once he’d earned his crown of bone, under the power of the dying year, the hate of a high lord watching over him. Flooded with fear and adrenaline, the old magic of violence danced beneath his skin.  Lucien shook off the crushing pain. He was a survivor, and after all these miserable years, he burned still. Even among Spring green trees, he could have slaughtered Tamlin.  The absolute fact of that knowledge took whatever breathe had remained in his screaming lungs, made him stand straight in the blood loss haze.  Through the ringing in his ears,  Tamlins rampage could be heard, the only thing dividing the sound of a fae lord from the animals he killed roaring volume. Killing, because even after all these centuries, Tam couldn’t channel the rage. Lucien had always known it, like knowing that he was cornered in Spring, that Tamlin resented the power in his blood instead of bending it to his will.  But it was that power that had saved Lucien, once upon a time ago. Power that had made him stay- and made him think he was weak. He owed Tamlin his life for that day, when Lucien really had been weak, been determined to die after the worst loss of his life. But now?  Now Lucien, blood covered and listening to the leader he’d followed howl like a beast, had to face that the old debt between them was more than repaid. He’d crossed the gods damned wall for Tamlin, ready to give his life. So miserable and grateful, so cut off from himself, to sacrifice every endless year of an immortal life just so that the broken faerie that saved him might break a curse.  For what? Lucien’s vision blurred around the edges, darkness as tempting as a caress. Pain pounded in the same tempo of his heartbeat. But he made himself walk, pulled forth the the strength to run. Not after Tamlin, but toward the Wall. He’d wanted to die, been ready to die for his friend again and again, and what had he gotten in return?  The opportunity to be a good servant? Not an ally. To have Feyre waste away before them, unable to help, unable to make the faerie he’d thought to be his closest friend listen to him even for a minute. Betrayal that twisted in his gut, churning with the concussed nausea that would take hours to heal. He was glad Rhysand had Feyre with him, glad his oldest of enemies could keep her safe from the lord who loved her.  He had to slow, staggering to boundary oaks that marked Spring Court land. If he passed out in these woods, he wasn’t sure he’d ever wake up. Were Tamlin to find him, it was easy to assume he’d kill before he thought. If Lucien didn’t get away, if he stopped holding back, he was going to kill his friend. Fire in his veins and confusion in his heart, fracture lines on every surface. Lucien knew he would do it- if Tamlin beyond reach of logic came at him, Lucien would kill him rather than take the pain ever again.  Dizziness pulling at him hard, Lucien didn’t notice when his footsteps began to leave smoldering prints in their wake. In his ringing ears, he could just feel the pressure of the Spring boundary, taut against him. Teeth gritted, he bore it, bearing down until it couldn’t hold him, until even the poison of the Wall before him faded.  He was too incoherent to think about it, but later, much later, he’d return to find immortal oaks ash, their enchantments cleaved to nothing.  So bleeding and burning, lost and found, Lucien Vanserra staggered into human lands, and found he wanted to live. @breath-of-sindragosa @flxwer-petals @ladyvanserra @missanniewhimsy @tntwme @illyrianinterrasen

[granada-brett-crumbs]

It’s been a while since my last extensive fic rec list, and there’ve been so many new, great, lovely and amazing fics since then that it was about time to make another list, so, here it is, enjoy!

Also a HUGE thanks to all fic writes, I love you all :’)

1K - 9K WORDS

A Combination of Events by ColebaltBlue, G, 3k: There was no one moment when John Watson realized he loved Sherlock Holmes, but rather just a combination of events in the summer of '95.

Acts of Caring by takingoffmyshoes, G, 1k: “Outside, the frigid rain continued undeterred, but in our home we were far beyond its reach.” Domestic and lovely.

An Evening of Deductions by Brynn_Jones, G, 1k: Holmes and Watson spend a pleasant evening with some violin music and deductions. 

As if the World Should Roll Itself Out Like a Cloak by earlybloomingparentheses, G, 4k: Watson feels deeply for Holmes, but what it is he feels is less than clear.

A Taste of Honey by methylviolet10b, T, 3k, sickfic: A failure to observe leads to a successful deduction. Holmes POV.

A Very Ordinary Man by Garonne, T, 6k, casefic, established relationship: The disappearance of a lonely, middle-aged clerk prompts a fit of wordiness on Watson's part. Not that Holmes objects...

Broken, Mended, Mine by janeofarc, G, 2k, angst with a happy ending: Old wounds are reopened in the aftermath of Holmes' nearly disastrous experiment with the devil's foot root.

Christmas Observations by methylviolet10b, G, 4k: Mycroft's Christmas Eve observations on Holmes and Watson relationship, over the years 1881 - 1894.

Courting Sherlock Holmes by A_Candle_For_Sherlock, G, 5k, sickfick, first kiss: It was, in all probability, the fault of the flowers. The title says it all :>

Dr Watson's Unpublished Stories by Stavia_Scott_Grayson, series, G, 5k, 2 works: Stories written by Dr Watson only for the eye of his friend, Mr Sherlock Holmes, while they were apart.

Idée fixe by nowstfucallicles, G, 1k: He does not know what to begin with it. It is too grave a thing to be treated as a mere distraction, too tenacious to be dissolved in tobacco smoke. What does one begin with an idée fixe? With a mind bent towards one single thing. —An extraordinary take of the first kiss trope, brilliant!

Ignorance of Instinct by NimWallace, G, 1k, first kiss: In which Sherlock Holmes chooses to ignore his instincts thrice, and once he does not.

I’ll Change That Name With You by hoc_voluerunt, G, 2k: Holmes may have no regard for his own health, but friendship still cuts both ways, and emotions may run deep in an intellectual man.

In darkness, I call your name (and you, mine) by a_different_equation, T, 2k, first kiss: There are several aspects to Watson’s personality. When the good doctor and the loyal friend are not enough to keep Holmes from craving his seven-percent-solution, Captain John Watson reappears and orders an outing to London's Hyde Park.

Inertia by ColebaltBlue, M, 6k, retirement era: Sherlock Holmes has moved to Sussex without a word. Months later John Watson is asked to a visit and after stumbling into something he never expected to see, they finally say something to each other that took them two-decades to be able to say.

Ingredients of Love by a_different_equation, M, 2k, established relationship: To cheer up his Watson, Sherlock Holmes surprises him with making a cake in the kitchen of 221B. Something sweet, something extra. A tale about so much more than Victorian baking.

Instruments of an Art by keep_calm_and_ks, G, ficlet: “It is Nature’s practice to induce the attraction of two unlike bodies, and I am nothing if not a strict follower of the laws of Nature.” Holmes’s reflections on his love for a certain Dr John Watson. Sweet.

In the Shadow of Mount Sikaram by orchid314, G, 2k: There was a great heart that beat at the centre of things. A look on Dr. Watson’s time in Afghanistan, beautiful and melancholic.

Love is Blind by Artemis (Citrine), G, 1k: Holmes & Watson from Mrs Hudson's pov and a glimpse of her past history. Lovely!

Lovers in a Dangerous Time by Goddess_of_the_Night, G, 1k, established relationship, angst an fluff: An unpublished account of the time Holmes and Watson investigated the murder of a gay couple, and it reminded them just how dangerous their own love is.

Mentor by gardnerhill, G, 2k, established relationship, canon story The Adventure of the Crooked Man: It takes a wounded subcontinental soldier to help a wounded subcontinental soldier.

My Dear Doctor by apliddell, G, 4k, established relationship, canon story The Dying Detective: After the painful events of the Reichenbach Fall, Holmes could never again deceive Watson into thinking he would lose him.

My Greatest Joy and Privilege by apliddell, G, 2k, post-Reichenbach, first kiss: Watson solves Holmes, and then Holmes solves Watson. Absolutely lovely.

Not Again by Etaleah, T, 2k, hurt/comfort: During the Adventure of the Dying Detective, Holmes deceives Watson about being at death's door yet again. This time, Watson snaps.

No Simple Fate by ingridmatthews, G, 1k: Watson is hurt and Holmes is taking care of him - possibly definitely with bonus cuddling. Post The Adventure of the Three Garridebs.

Obliging Sherlock Holmes by baronwaste, T, 2k, first kiss: “It would oblige me greatly if you would kindly kiss me.” Sweet!

Pride & Providence by janeofarc, G, 5k, angst and fluff: Holmes and Watson return to Baker Street after the arrest of Colonel Moran and deal with the aftermath of Holmes' dramatic return from the dead. Lovely!

Strangers by rachelindeed, G, 1k, character study: Mycroft Holmes seems to hold the world at arm's length, but appearances can be deceptive.

The Creeping Men by okapi, E, 3k, Holmes/Watson of course, but also Lestrade/Gregson, crack: Six paths cross in Regent's Park at midnight. *waggles eyebrows*

The Better Part of Valour by rachelindeed, T, 7k, The Greek Interpreter fixit:  Mr Melas considers himself a coward, but more than one man's courage comes with complicated cracks.

The Disappearance of Dr. John Watson's Trouser by tremendousdetectivetheorist, M, 4k, established relationship: When Watson notices he is missing a pair of trousers and questions Holmes about their disappearance, Holmes guides him in a long search for them —putting Watson’s observation skills to the test and making him do the legwork—while never leaving 221B.

The Doctor's Doctor by Ophelia_j, M, 7k: A friend from Watson's army days arrives in London, at the moment when Holmes and Watson's relationship is about to fall apart.

The Incident with the Bicycle by Garonne, G, 2k, established relationship: We know Holmes can ride a bicycle, but when exactly did he learn?

The Matter of Cake by Nibblesofflesh, M, 3k, established relationship: Holmes decides to try his hand at baking a cake, and Watson quite likes the look of Holmes in an apron. Sassiness, silliness, and sexiness ensue.

The Quiet After A Case by Small_Hobbit, G, ficlet: Holmes has solved a case, and so he and Watson head back to Baker Street. A look at their relationship from Watson's POV.

The Science of Touch by cndrow, T, 2k, angst and fluff, post Reichenbach:  Watson is somewhat surprised to find his dearest friend still suffering as much as he from their years-long separation. But is that all that troubles Holmes, or is there something deeper?

The Unusual Comma in the Middle of a Completely Ordinary Phrase by Goddess_of_the_Night, G, 2k, first kiss: Holmes gets called away suddenly to solve a case and writes letters to Watson keeping him informed. Two of the letters contain an unfamiliar comma in the middle of a very familiar phrase. Watson frets over what it’s supposed to mean, if anything at all.

Travelling Issues by Random_Nexus, T, 2k, lots of fluff: Watson and Holmes do a lot of travelling in a short amount of time and Holmes seems to have a problem with something, but Watson has to figure out what it is, because it looks like it might mean the end of their relationship.

Your Sweet Hue by orchid314, G, 1k: Glimpses of Sherlock Holmes and John Watson over four seasons and four decades.

10K - 30K WORDS

An Ideal Husband by PlaidAdder, 22k, T, case fic: Irene Adler is back in London and has returned to the stage, starring in Oscar Wilde's play An Ideal Husband. Violet Hunter ("Copper Beeches") is in London, working as a governess for an aristocratic and dysfunctional family. Holmes, Watson, and Violet are all in the audience on opening night; and they are soon all embroiled in an intrigue involving Irene Adler, Godfrey Norton, Violet's employers, and a diamond brooch in the shape of a snake. Watson and Violet Hunter take turns narrating a story chock full of double-crossing, cross-dressing, and Oscar Wilde.

Dearly Beloved by mistyzeo, M, 20k: set in an alternate timeline where gay marriage is legal in Victorian England, Holmes and Watson get married while drunk and, of course, later a lot of misunderstandings ensue before they finally get to talk.

His Name Is John Watson by ampersand_ch, E, 19k: A summer's idyll in Sussex. Holmes and Watson seek some peace and quiet. But that's not as simple as they imagine.

Holmes' Mistake by pandapony, E, 13k, hurt/comfort: Sherlock Holmes rarely makes mistakes. But the one time he did, Watson paid the price. Now, as Watson heals from the assault, their dynamic has changed. Is Holmes' new behavior stemming from guilt, or something deeper?

If we make it home by blaetter, E, 24k, post Reichenbach: Two years after Holmes's death in the Reichenbach Falls, his elder brother comes to a grieving Watson with what seems to be a case. Watson finds a surprise waiting for him in Berlin.

Injury by The_Cool_Aunt, G, 9k, domestic fluff: “WANTED— Temporary MAID OF ALL WORK, for two gentlemen and housekeeper. Live out. No laundry. Good personal reference. Apply 221B, Baker Street, after twelve.” Doctor Watson delves into the details of domestic life at 221B.

Postcards by okapi, E, 10k, established relationship, fluffy smut: After a series of domestic calamities, Watson & Mrs. Hudson flee on holiday. Holmes writes postcards to Watson. 

The Answer to a Question by A_Candle_For_Sherlock, T, 22k: These are the stories behind the story we know: what really happened to Watson's marriage, and what made him follow Holmes to Reichenbach; what secrets were hidden in the mountains, and what a dead man wrote to the man he left behind. 

The Disappearance of John Watson by CCNSurvivor, T, 22k, angst with a  happy ending: Returning to London after the hiatus, Holmes is eager to share with Watson what truly transpired in Switzerland. But Watson has fled the city, driven out by the grief for his friend and companion, as well as the recent loss of his wife. Now it is up to Holmes to chase after him, following what little clues a series of letters provide.

The Old Pawnbroker by mightymads, M, 18k, established  relationship, hurt/comfort: When a concise telegram arrived to Baker Street, Watson took Holmes along to dispel Holmes’s ennui and distract him from cocaine. Such was the beginning of the case which made the doctor remember things he’d rather forget.

To Join These Men in Holy Matrimony by A_Candle_For_Sherlock, 10k, established relationship: “Sherlock Holmes is a contradiction, an enigma, a force; at once the most generous spirit and the most self-contained man I have ever known. I've known more of him, I think, than anyone on earth. Yet for years I'd learned nothing about his boyhood, nor his fears, nor his future hopes, nor his father’s name. I never felt it as a lack until I knew he loved me.”

40K+ WORDS

Arte Regendus by Violsva, series, 9 works, 60k: A series of stories about relationships and mysteries and secrets and people being in love and people talking to each other and people not talking to each other and people hurting each other without intending to and people working as hard as they can to not hurt each other. It has sex and drugs and angst and romance and adventure and interior monologues and case solving and pretentious classical references. It covers 1881 to 1894 in ACD canon.

Missing Pages by PlaidAdder, series, 22 works, T, 78k: a group of interlinked short stories which tell the story of how Holmes and Watson really came to be separated at the Reichenbach Falls, and how they found each other again. Each story is in the form of a document, which tells us something about that story that was changed or suppressed in Watson's published account of it.

Sherlock Holmes and the Adventure of the Invisible Prism by CCNSurvivor, T, 56k, case fic, post Reichenbach: “In the year 1895, however, it so happened that Holmes and I became involved in not one but two cases of blackmail; the latter of which has never been spoken of since, for it was fraught with a danger which threatened the illusion of normalcy we had so desperately carved out of the ruins of our relationship since his return from the Reichenbach Falls a year prior. And yet it was of that case I often found myself thinking, as it carried some personal significance to both Holmes and myself and drastically changed our lives.”

[selfignitingimagines]

Theo- So Much More

Request-  Could you do 6 with theo, that would be really cute!!

6.  “I might have gotten mad at the brat in front of me in line and told him Santa wasn’t real. Now I’m being detained by mall security and I need you to rescue me.”

A/N- First holiday imagine! Hope you guys enjoy it!

You were halfway buried in a pile of skirts when you heard a muffled announcement over the mall loudspeaker. Tucked under all the clothes you had been holding for Lydia, you didn’t quite make out what it said, but she did.

“Y/n did you hear that?” the redhead asked.

You shifted the mass of clothing in front of your face so she could actually see it. “Sorry, I was kind of busy drowning in all of your clothes.”

She rolled her green eyes and scooped them out of your arms, dropping them down on the dressing room floor. “They said your name over the loudspeaker. They want you to come to the security office.”

You blinked. “What? Why?”

She shrugged. “I don’t know, but it might have something to do with the chimera we let loose in the mall.”

Now it was your turn to roll your eyes. “Theo’s a person, Lydia, not a rabid animal. Besides, we left him with Malia and Stiles!”

She didn’t look convinced. “Let’s just hope he didn’t rip anyone’s throat out.”

You huffed and reached for the dressing room door. “I’ll text you when I figure out what’s going on.”

She shrugged, and lifted up a skirt to examine it.  “That’s fine. I’ll probably be a while anyway.”

You slipped out of the dressing room and left H&M, searching for a map of the mall. The security office was all the way across the building, so you headed that way, worrying about Theo the entire time.

It hadn’t been long since he had helped Scott defeat the hunters targeting every supernatural creature in Beacon Hills. He might not have been perfect, and he had definitely made mistakes, but he was changing. You had seen it when he had taken away Gabe’s pain, even though the guy tried to kill all of you. It was that small bit of mercy that you never suspected Theo was capable of that made you see him differently.

For him, you had always been different. Scott might have agreed to give him another chance, but he was going to have to change, and he would need someone to help him. That someone was you. When Scott asked,  you were hesitant, but he ultimately begged you, saying you were the only one able to put your judgement aside and help.

“Do you think you can do me this favor?” he had pleaded.

“You already owe me a lot of favors, McCall.”

“I know, I know. And if you need me, I’ll be there. But just this once, I need you, and there’s no one else that can do it.”

“Besides,” Stiles had interjected. “Theo thinks you’re hot.”

So there you were, walking past crowds of holiday shoppers on your way to Theo, wondering if you had failed him. When you got to the office, you gave the tired-looking security guard your name, and he led you back to a small office. Inside it was a bench, and Theo was sitting there with his arms crossed over his chest, looking bored.

When he met your eyes, you looked so disappointed in him that he began to feel terrible. Did you really care about him this much?

Then he remembered what he was there for, and he smirked. “Can I leave now?”

“Yeah,” the guard grunted. “Just watch yourself.”

You blinked, looking from him to the guard. “Wait, what? Theo what did you do?”

Theo looped his arm through yours, causing you to blush, and pulled you out of the office. “It wasn’t a big deal.”

“Theo!” you snapped, pulling him to the side of the walkway, away from the crowds of people and closer to the food court. “I thought we were working on being human.”

“I was being human,” he informed you. “I didn’t do anything wrong.”

“I vouched for you,” you grumbled. “Scott wanted me to help you, and now you go and get thrown in mall jail…”

Theo rolled his eyes. “It’s not that serious, Y/n.”

“What did you do?” you asked through gritted teeth.

He huffed. “I was waiting in line for Santa with Stiles and Malia. He wanted to get her picture. And the kid in front of us was being a total brat, and it was getting on my nerves, okay? So I told him Santa wasn’t real.”

You blinked at him. “What? Is that it?”

“Yes!” he cried. “It wasn’t a problem until his mom called security on me.”

“What did Stiles and Malia do?”

“Pretended like they didn’t know me,” he grumbled, crossing his arms over his chest. He looked a little hurt, but in their defense, he did try to kill them at one point in time.

You sighed. “You scared the shit out of me.”

“Why?” he demanded. “Because you don’t want your little project to fail?”

You recoiled, suddenly angry. “Is that what you think you are to me?”

He paused, suddenly confused. “Am...am I not?”

You shook your head in disbelief. “No,” you said softly. “You’re so much more.”

You began to turn away, but he grabbed your hand and tugged you back. You raised an eyebrow. “What are you-”

Before you could finish, he wrapped an arm around your waist and pulled your closer. When his lips met yours, you felt all rational thought fly out of your head. It didn’t matter that the others didn’t trust him. It didn’t matter that Scott had basically pawned him off on you because him and the others couldn’t handle him. You had grown to know him better than anyone else ever could, and he had told you things he had never told anyone else. Maybe he had made some mistakes, but he was changing. Little did you know he was doing it for you.

When he finally pulled away, he stayed close, running his thumb along your cheek. “I didn’t think you would ever feel the same way.”

“Theo, I-”

“Oh my god, what are you doing?” Stiles demanded.

You whirled around to find Stiles and Malia staring at you in shock. They both had sodas and pretzels in their hands.

“Y/n,” Stiles said, through a mouthful of food, while slowly raising his hands as if Theo was a wild animal. “Do you need help?”

“Oh, shut up!” you snapped.

Malia elbowed him the side. “Stiles, don’t piss her off. We need her to drive us home.”

You crossed your arms over your chest. “Are you guys ready to go?”

Malia nodded. “I got my picture with Santa!”

“That’s great, Malia.” You smiled, and reached into your pocket to text Lydia. Where are you?

Look to your left.

Sure enough, Lydia was sitting down at a table in the food court with her five shopping bags resting on the surrounding seats. She grinned at you from where she sat, eagerly typing on her phone.

You looked down again and found yourself blushing furiously at her text.

I saw that little moment, by the way. I support you 100%.

Theo smiled and squeezed your hand, and the four of you headed over to Lydia. “Find what you wanted?”

She smiled brightly. “Yep. Even without your help. It looks like you found something you wanted too.”

You flushed and shot her a sharp look as she gathered up her bags. She winked at you. “At least he didn’t rip someone’s throat out.”

You opened your mouth to snap at her, but Theo just placed a hand on your back and shook his head. You smiled to yourself as you headed out of the mall. Maybe he was teaching you something too.

[defleurtradingco]

The Merry Month of Mirth- Melodramatic

(Previous: Hair , Next: Motto)

“Maybe you’re kinda going deaf month by month but didn’t I TELL YOU like a million times that we DON’T want to be involved?” Ray was being melodramatic as per usual, as he and Aaron sat at their respective places at the long table in the conference room.

Solaina hardly noticed he’d said anything, her nose was deep into her laptop screen. “Hm? I’m sorry-” She hadn’t been paying attention.

Ray threw his hands in the air. “Why do I even bother.” “Perhaps if you had filled out that report like I had asked you to.” “THAT’S BEYOND THE POINT!!” Before Ray could get any more worked up, Aaron put a hand on his shoulder and gave it a squeeze, shaking his head.

He knew Ray had been putting it off. RAY knew Ray had been putting it off.

“Besides, I need everyone here so that I may see all the evidence I have collected so far in front of me. Anecdotes included.”

Aaron gave a low hum that sounded more like a rumble coming from his chest. “Could we not have video conference’d this?”

“The situation is growing somewhat dire, I am sorry.” Solaina answered, half paying attention again. Her phone beside her computer buzzed and she glanced at it, only to be interrupted by the sound of the door opening.

“Right this way gentlemen,” It was Lowrey. Fortunato came in first, followed by a timid-as-always-looking-Liam, followed by Adrian, and then the vampire himself.

They all took a seat (save for Lowrey, of course) near the door rather than moving up to the front.

“There you are. I am glad to see all of you.” “’Course Solaina, wouldn’t miss it for the world.” Lowrey gave her a wink as he popped a cigarette into his mouth.

“I would have.” Fortunato muttered.

“Me too! This is ridiculous.” Of course Adrian would start complaining immediately. Everyone expected that.

Liam sat quietly, wringing his hands nervously. “Just what IS going on exactly? I haven’t heard anything about the situation at all,” It must have been important enough to call HIM in. What did they need HIM for? “Well, I-” Just as Solaina stood up to start, a patch of floor near the corner of the room turned black and gooey, like ink. One figure rose up from the puddle and eventually lightened in color.

“HOW DARE YOU BEGIN THIS MEETING WITHOUT THE PRESENCE OF THE MASTE-” Then a second figure rose from behind. The angel himself.

“Fabio, please, calm yourself.” The consort made a show of grumbling and displaying his disapproval but quieted down.

“Ah, there you are, I had been wondering when you were going to arrive. My apologies.” Solaina nodded towards them. Towards Hedous specifically.

The angel shook his head. “Not to worry.” His gaze fell onto Fortunato, who only slumped into his chair in response, as if to hide. “I see you have gathered ALL of us here. How lovely.” He didn’t meant that.

“Great, WHO invited the FREAKS-” Ray started again.

Solaina cut him off before he could continue however. “I am glad to see you all today. Now then...this is what has been going on for those who are not aware of the situation in its fullest.” She told them everything she knew, from beginning to end, with other people filling in the blank areas with their own accounts.

“And that leaves us in the present. This council of thirteen Jesters and their supposed king are following their own agenda, whatever that agenda may be. I have searched all available avenues I could possibly think of in order to uncover more information, but I am quickly running out of options.”

“And yet no one wants to leave this alone, as I keep on saying we should.” Fortunato rolled his eyes. Even Lowrey made some sort of motion that conveyed he felt the same way about it all.

“You know very well that I cannot do that.” Solaina frowned.

“Eh, let us hope.” Lowrey shrugged.

“Anyway...this Mirthful King is likely an alias, I have concluded. Names are important in the fae realms, after all. And that is most likely why they choose to remain as anonymous as they are.”

“So what then? Ok, we don’t know who they are, don’t know WHAT they want, don’t know who they’re bein’ run by. I’d say they’ve done a fucking good job to outrun YOU.” Ray huffed angrily.

Aaron pinched the bridge of his nose. “….What he means to say is-” “That IS WHAT I MEAN TO SAY!-” “-is that if they have hidden this much about themselves, how are we to find anyone who may possibly know more??”

Before anyone could reply, Solaina’s laptop made a ringing sound. She looked down and saw an incoming call coming from the library. “How convenient.” She clicked it. “Yes Tahrek?” “Solaina? Oh good there you are. I’ve done some more digging and I have some information that I believe you would be very interested in.” “How very, very convenient.” Adrian mimicked in a mocking sort of way. Albeit quietly.

“Let us hear it.”

“Right,” The minotaur cleared his throat. “Now, after compiling everyone’s accounts- can you please turn me around…. Thank you. Now after compiling everyone’s accounts as well as what little documented material we have on them, I’ve made some faint connections between several factors that may in the end turn out to only be theories, but-”

“Tahrek, simpler, please.” Tahrek’s nostrils flared visibly, but he kept his composure. “Of course. I’ve drawn connections between several glaring similarities that both the Jesters and fae share.

Now then...This ‘Mirthful King’ of theirs, could very well be a fairy king. Solaina has brought this concern to me and I am inclined to agree. The usage of the term king is no mere coincidence. I will spare you some of the history in the efforts to save time but it is German in origin.

But, seeing that Europe shares many things between countries, it would be foolish to only hone in on one location. Ireland and Scotland are culprits as well, with legends of the aos sí, who live underground in the mounds,” He picked up a book and squinted before reading aloud. “’Across the western sea they walk, alongside man in an invisible world.’ That could mean a number of things but as far as I’m know, WE lie across the ‘western sea’. And we are painfully aware of the In-Between as well. Not to mention, these aos sí are quite fond of wearing masks and costumes (due to reportedly being ‘ugly’) as well as partying and going overboard, which fits the entire theme. But, then again, many faeries are like that to begin with.

This is my first theory: this soon to be identified fairy king and his group of faeries, are directly responsible for releasing wild magic into public areas. Now, this is extremely unusual as it is. Faeries are very independent creatures, especially ones as powerful as a ‘king’. They are territorial and typically do not take on lessers, preferring to live in solitude.

If all this is so, then we have a very dangerous situation on our hands I’m afraid.” Solaina kept her arms crossed, thinking about it all again like she had been. “And your other theory?” “Yes,” Again Tahrek cleared his throat. “Now taking into account your descriptions of how human they appeared to be, the Jesters that is, my second theory is that they are indeed not faeries. But changelings instead.”

“People we ain’t exactly on th’ best of terms with, might I add.” Lowrey squinted as he gave a smile. “Like, at all. Never have been, never will be the way I see it.”

“Considering there are thirteen of them, I can already tell you this is no- and bear with me with all the ‘word-play’ in place here- ‘court’ of Jesters (as those tend to be quite large and do not fit with their description.) They are also not considered an order, despite being named The Royal ORDER of Jesters, as those typically tend to help other changelings and we’ve no knowledge or record of this whatsoever. I would also not consider them to be a cadre either, due to what I previously stated.” “Again, probably the whole damn point,” Ray interrupted. Tahrek ignored him and kept going. “There are two other kinds. Stalkers, and hunters, who fit the description FAR better. Both can and do serve faeries directly, and their names imply just what it is they do. Their primary targets being other changelings.”

“Why would they want to take out their own like that?” Liam asked, trying to sit still. He couldn’t get his leg to stop bouncing nervously.

“Changelings are not exactly seen as being equal to a faerie, you know that right?” Tahrek answered incredulously. “Maybe pets, maybe playthings, or nuisances at most, but never equal. Inferior is a word for it. They view the rest of us in similar ways no doubt.”

Fortunato leaned forward, rubbing his temples. “So say then these Jesters are in fact, ‘stalkers’ and ‘hunters’, who are going after changelings instead, what does that matter to any of us? Why would they be searching for them but putting a hand into regular society? I do not understand.”

“Well, changelings live among humans, much as Weres and the undead can, and do. Some more so than others of course. I am unable to examine the particulars of the magics placed on the cigarette box Solaina provided to me, unfortunately, so I could not tell you if these magics were created to track or weed out their potential targets. Which, if this line of thinking is all correct, would be HIGHLY likely.”

“This has to do with us,” Solaina narrowed in on Fortunato. “We are here to protect them from those who wish them harm. Were, undead, fae, it does not matter.” She would have said she couldn’t believe what she was hearing, but she could. Believe it that is. “Then what do you propose we do, exactly?” Fortunato was starting to fight her again.

Hedous remained in place, unmoving, quietly absorbing everything he’d heard. Not that he didn’t all know about it before. But Solaina asked him to come and listen, and so he had. “For centuries I kept these creatures at bay. They were...out of control. Man could not thrive with their presence heavily weighing them down.” He glared at Fortunato with empty red eyes. “They are a threat, I agree. One we must locate quickly if we are to contain the situation as a whole.”

Solaina sighed, though it was in agreement. “Yes, however, that is where I am stuck. They met with me once, and they will likely not reveal themselves again. I do not know where to go from here.” “You,” Hedous turned his head to look at Aaron, who, in turn, pointed to himself nervously. The angel gave a single nod to confirm, “You are a werewolf correct?”

“...Yes, I am,” Aaron answered cautiously.

“What a terrible curse… A most cruel joke played on mankind by the fae. A werewolf especially. Your kind were once the guardians of the spaces between, did you know that?”

No one replied.

“Ah… a story for another time then...Anyway… You should be able to track them, I believe.”

Aaron shook his head in disbelief. “N-no I...I do not think I can. I have never tried before and I would not even know what to look for-”

Solaina had a hand on her chin, deep in thought again.

“It’s easy, ya just take a big whiff of whatever it is’s belongings yer lookin’ for and follow yer nose.” Lowrey explained lazily, making light of the situation as always. “C’mon I’m sure ya do it fer all three meals of the day without even realizin’ it. Yer just sniffin’ for a different kind of meat, heh...”

“Perhaps...It may be worth a try.” Solaina eyed Aaron slowly.

The werewolf shook his head, “Solaina I really do not-”

“He ain’t doing ANYTHING this emo FREAK TELLS HIM TO DO-” Ray hissed.

“DO NOT SPEAK ABOUT THE MASTER THAT WAY SWINE-” “OR HIS DND LACKEY-”

“This is the most idiotic idea I’ve ever heard from you. This won’t work. We are just going to get into MORE trouble than we are already in-” Fortunato started to kick off.

“They almost KILLED ME!” Adrian joined in.

Liam sunk in his chair and almost disappeared under the table entirely as voices began to raise and arguments broke out, throwing the room into relative chaos.

Then, out of the noise rose only one voice, though it was through a computer speaker. “QUUIIIIIIEEEEEEEEETTTTTTTTTTTT!”

And indeed, silence fell over the room. Even through a laptop speaker, Tahrek’s voice still rattled them with how loud it was. Maybe they even felt it from the depths of the library itself.

“While I would love to pick your brains about the fae further,” That much was directed towards Hedous, “Searching for them in this manner may be the only viable way we have of searching for them AT ALL, right now. At least until we can find another lead.” “Thank you Tahrek.” Solaina cringed as her ears continued to ring. “I am decided on this route. This is what we are doing. Mr. Ahmed you will attempt to see if you can follow their scent. I would ask that you go along with him.” She motioned to Fabio.

“Ugh...” Fabio crossed his arms. Hedous looked down at him, giving him a bit of reassurance, before he piped up again enthusiastically this time. “I mean yes, of course. The Master wills it then it shall be done!” Better.

“As for the rest of you, you will stay back here with me, and we will be on guard until they return. Understand?” No one protested. Ray was about to, but once again, Aaron held him back with a look of defeat on his face. None of them would be able to change her mind now.

Several quiet yes’s came fluttering here and there. And that was good enough.

“Then let us get started.”

[theislesunfamily]

Three & Four (For You, the Stars Will Roar)

The following story is the follow-up to “Three & Four (Some Phoenixes Just Take Their Sweet Time)”, which can be read by clicking HERE. 

This story also contains collaboration in the form of a vision reading from the fantastically talented @stormandozone​. Thank you as always, Mel.

Ithanar Islesun is dead.

He must be.

But then...

The sound of a heartbeat… rings in his ears.

Ba-dum.

Steady.

Ba-dum. Ba-dum. Ba-dum.

Ready.

Ba-dum. Ba-dum. Ba-dum. Ba-dum.

The world hasn’t halted.

This isn’t death.

It’s something close to it.

In his periphery, he can see… it.

The valley.

Untouched by apocalyptic ashes.

It begins… the same.

In a small valley. But different from the one in reality. A path of torched trees and frayed leaves, wrought with apocalypse. It is all too familiar. A place used by an ancient demon within who tried to tear a man asunder in body. Any attempts made at the mind were a failure, but the body... it had been weak. Like it was now. Eyes scan the premises. They search. They sought. No sign of it. Only a moon of red hangs overhead.

She is beneath it; crimson light casts over her frame and paints her in harshness, but she is apart from it as well. The shadows gather at her feet; the writhing dark around, behind. Strewn are the shards of a life that once was, and they gather like so much detritus and flotsam around, but she is not of this darkness.

When the Oracle speaks, it is the flat voice-- the voice that does not belong to the almost-daughter, but to the magic she called her own. “You visit dark places, Breaker.” There is a color of mocking to it, for all its ashen flatness.

He approaches. He cannot speak yet. This is not his court to rule over; this ruin may be his doing (or undoing) but she-- the Oracle-- is the voice that matters in the red-riddled dark.

She is herself, and not; two eyes glow in the shadows. Awe cloaks her like shroud, wrapping her, hooding that freckled face.

In her hands appears the deck; it is bright against the darkness, a star shining in myriad colors, kaleidoscopic. It cuts against the darkness. The power aches within; it does not belong in the Nightmare. But his need has brought it; his need has brought her.

The Oracle smiled, just slightly, beneath the heavy hood that shrouds her. “Ask your question of fate, Breaker.”

The command falls, and he cannot but speak.

“Will the world ever figure out its true problems? The Old Gods? The Nightmare? Or we will fall prey to our cycle?” He feels the need leave him. He has asked. Whatever comes next… is what the cards say.

At once. The deck separates; shatters into a thousand glowing pieces. They slice through the night and swirl around him like flurries of embers, stark and brilliant. Their lightrails weave around them, in colors unimaginable until he is in the center of a vast, woven universe, that extends beyond what sight can capture. In the threads, he sees...

“Worthy.” The judgement cast. Her voice is around him, reverberating in bones, and if he reached out he could touch her face, but the light within those eyes is not living. “Tell me when to cut the thread.”

He hesitates, just for a moment. He can see now, unlike ever before, and it is… maddening, addictive, the cusp of something grander than he has ever perceived. He reaches out, and he feels--

Ithanar’s palms begin to bleed from slashes, and he feels the weight of this magic.

“Stop.”

Everything cracks. It falls apart-- the weaving becomes nothing but a million flecks of independant light, and they fall apart around them, a fall of stars that surround the Oracle and the man. He is with her and then--

He is not.

Ithanar Islesun isn’t dead.

No, he finds his vision to be clear as he opens his fel-green eyes. 

It is nothing blurred, nothing fraught with frustration.

He can feel his limbs suddenly, a sudden herk-and-jerk mismash of movements that comes crashing back to life, and the tightening of fingers around the choker of one’s-

It’s Shan’ran.

Memories flood back into his lifestream.

And his fingers tighten in response, fury a fire in his gut that continues to rise until it reaches the half-collapsed ceiling of the building he had sought refuge in. Out of the corner of his eye, he watches Shanara take a few steps back, eyes wide with a fear that can only be seen as wise.

They have poked the bear.

They have climbed into the spider’s web.

They are the cause for yet another stubborn rise from ashes.

Arcane energy clicks to life across the plates of the old elf’s armor followed by the sudden release of the male Shattersun, as he is tossed across the room and goes crashing through the opposite wall. A sickening thud follows and there are cracks left by the impact of her body against the stone foundation.

As she falls?

Ithanar rises slowly, debris flowing off his form and crashing to the ground. The clicking and whirring sounds of magics springing to life echo, and there’s a sudden flash of light, a veritable rainbow of reds and greens, blues and oranges, of all colors in runic shapes and forms. 

They spring to form on the plates of his armor, but…

There are others.

These are etched on the old elf’s skin, crawling up the pale and scarred flesh. They climb like ravenous spiders, pushing their way to rest on his neck, under his jaw, and then on either side of his lips before coming to a stop just above his hawkish nose.

A faint whirring sounds in his ears, and then the harsh grinding whine of his blade buries it all.

Just like he wants to do to them.

Just like he will do to them.

There is no alternative.

He sighs, head tilting just a little, a fanged snarl coming to rest on his features. When he speaks, the harsh nature of his tone seems almost amplified by the energies coming from him, through him, around his form.

“I’ll tell your masters myself then.”

Shan’ran rises, one hand curling around the handle of his warhammer.

He’s furious.

Shanara reaches for her twin blades.

She’s frightened.

Ithanar just stares, almost motionless.

His blade turns in his hand until the point is directed to his pupils.

“I’ll tell them that…”

Fury rolls off him in waves, ferociously beating against shores. Never before has he ever been so… upset, frustrated. Not even in the most wicked of moments, when he was terrible to his family, to his friends, to lovers new and old was he like…

Like this.

That feeling of being alone.

No, he has felt it before. Back in those times, it was something he could not crawl out from.

Now he is no longer crushed under the debris of his own depression, his hubris.

“... I’m not fucking dead yet personally.”

Ithanar has his focus yet again.

And he strikes.

Blades clash and clang.

The wars outside of the walls and valleys come to wait.

He stands in an empty hall-- tall columns extend skyward, and the marble floor is shined to mirror finish. He sees himself, when he looks down. His armor is red and gold. His shield is tall. He is a Spellbreaker still. When he looks up-- he sees this man. The man he was once. Younger, strong, not yet ground against the stone of progress.

His other-- his self-- speaks low. “You’re holding back, old man.” There is cockiness to the smile. He remembers it; the woman who had trained him to think had smacked it off his face when she pressed his cheek into the mat. This young man has not yet had that life.

A sound, and Ithanar turns. Behind him, the Warden of the Isle. Old, armor leather and mail and gouged with the fights he has won-- lost. Scars cross this Ithanar’s features. Scars haunt his eyes. He snorts. “Not yet old enough to know better,” the man he may become says.

And yet-- Ithanar looks down at himself, and he is--

Skin, and bones. Leaves of autumns past for eyes that burn. Amber, and red. A smile of scorched plains, of battlefields laid barren for crows. Man-shaped, but like the shadow of a man– the hungry remained, after the soul had gone.

You cannot change what you do not accept.

You must take the bitter with the sweet.

Take the N I G H T M A R E with the dream.

Do not resist the changes to come.

Do not allow yourself to become obsolete.

Not again.

The hunted becomes the hunter.

A turnaround, a change of roles only suited to master and student.

One knows the other better than even they think.

They believe.

Ithanar pursues his quarry out of the half-collapsed building and into the streets.

His former students can only run, but they don’t get far.

Shan’ran comes first.

The screams, an unending roar.

There it is.

But this roar is merely of this world, not something otherworldly and unnatural.

It’s just… an elf.

A young one trying to fend and flee for the last few moments of his life.

Shan’ran is the younger of the twins by a few minutes.

Even with that, there’s a way to prey upon such unfortunate youth. He relies too much upon his weapon, barely resorting to his magics especially when pressured.

A simple application upon the shatterpoint is all Ithanar needs.

He punches through the younger elf’s defense with blinding strikes and easily evades the wild swings and furious roars., it is a horrific but fascinating display.

When he finally catches Shan’ran off guard, Ithanar sidesteps a ferocious two-handed strike that slams into the dirt, pirouettes with practiced ease, and then brings his blade up to sever the young elf’s hands from his body.

Then he follows through with a decapitating stroke through the neck.

There is no reluctance.

A head rolls.

Blood.

These streets and avenues will be stained with them for time.

None of that matters.

For now Ithanar is the predator without thought.

Only Shanara remains, her screams echoing over the blood-crazed whine.

He is not moved.

She will die.

In time.

He remembers failing them.

He reaches out, the runes that once were so familiar to him alive and strange on this immortal, corrupted arm and then--

He is alone.

No hall. No selves. A man, in the darkness of the wooded Isle. The woods press in. He lifts a lantern against the dark. All is silent and still, save the rush of distant waters and the drip of past rains from the canopy.

Within the lantern, he sees her. She is made of flame, but it is the Oracle. She reaches to him, and he hears her.

“The winnowing of truth from desire does not come from without; seek inwards. Seek the reality of what is and is not, within the confines of the self. Solitude bears the fruit of wisdom; time apart, the solution to the chaos that rages.” In a blink, the light goes out. And--

The sun above rises, and falls. Rises, and falls. Faster and faster until like flashes, he sees the isle beneath his feet changing. He sees the seasons as moments; years pass in flashes. He watches the Isle as it continues; forever, eternal. The sky will grow red; he will see the Nightmare come to grasp his home, and then flame-- and then, the green returns, slowly and inexorably as time sweeps onward.

The cycle repeats a thousand times. He understands.

He reaches out, and stills a single moment. The moment the Nightmare dies. Someone is killing it-- locking it away. He feels the flames as they consume the woodland. The magic is so familiar, to keep and contain.

He turns it back-- all the way back, and he is young. His siblings are young, and they are all there, ringed around Idaena. She is cold in her way; the world is dark. He feels the mantle that extends back into their bloodline.

It revolves. It will continue.

(It cannot continue. The cycle must be broken, but he cannot see the way of it now. There is more to come, and when it does--)

Shanara is different.

She always has been.

Her spellbreaking was… breathtaking.

Even when fatigued, she could cast aside great gouts of flame with a wave of her hand.

And then have a blade at your throat in an instant.

She’s done everything Ithanar could have ever asked. She’s walked a thousand miles in a mage’s shoes.

But she hasn’t walked where he has, into the dark and ancient places of the world

The old elf’s plan of attack is more complicated.

No magic comes to play.

The runes that have spread over his skin and armor flicker out, becoming dark and inert, which is a stark contrast to what he does.Every motion is carefully thought out.

If he even tries as much as a simple rune of flame or frost, he knows Shanara will snuff it out.

The chance for such isn’t even given.

She swings her twin blades here, but his blade is there.

Each swing is countered, each thrust evaded, and every step imitated.

Seconds become minutes. Minutes become hours. Hours perhaps turn into days.

Who knows?

The world has come to a crashing halt.

Blades untangle from one another, and bodies take a few paces from one another.

There is only breathing.

Heavy.

Labored.

“I’ll kill you.”

There is no entity from the Void now.

There doesn’t need to be.

There is only Shanara and her sobbing.

Her weeping over the loss of a brother.

Ithanar stares.

Unfeeling.

Furious.

“You look tired.”

Before Shanara can even retort, before even a scream leaves her lips?

The old elf runs her through. 

Again.

And again.

And again. 

Suddenly, he is in the ruined, Nightmare isle once more. 

The Oracle is before him… and she crumples, strings cut by unkind hands. The Nightmare at once rushes in, sliding over freckled limbs and over her, the cards lighting to flames.

Ithanar surges to her side, and the tainted magic recoils as he slides to his knees, draws the girl up into his arms.

He can speak.

“Elleynah--” His voice is rough and low in his own ears. He reaches for her, bleeding palm sliding over her cheek as he stares at her, those tight-shut lids, her parted lips that seem to not even stir for breath and--

Her eyes open. One green, and one gold. Her hands shoot forward and clasp his between them tightly, so tight it hurts. The voice that emerges is the girl’s, and it is weak with weariness-- the control it takes, to speak through her own mouth almost too much.

“Ithanar--” She gasps in pain. “Ithanar, don’t-- don’t let the ending for you be the ending for it all. Don’t let it be over yet. You have to see it through-- Ithanar, I promise it’s so much worse. Don’t let it end for you and give the burden to others, it’s yours and you have to see it to its own end--ahh--” She bites back a cry of pain, and she goes limp in his arms.

And then.

The Oracle is standing before him. She is beneath a moon of red. Crimson light casts over her frame and paints her in harshness, but she is apart from it. Shadows gather; the world nothing but so much debris at her feet.

She looks at him, and there is no more smile on those lips; they are etched in a barely-decipherable frown. 

“An ending is an ending.”

She explodes in that faceted, multi-colored light. The Nightmare shatters around its edges. And he…

Awakens.

Now it is Ithanar’s turn to look upon what he has wrought.

Shan’ran.

A headless mess.

Shanara.

Her arm torn away.

Her body punctured a dozen times over, bleeding out before his feet.

His task… is accomplished.

But no master is appeased.

He watches their corpses carefully.

Cautiously.

Then it all leaves him.

The unfeeling fury.

The feeling of being a person again hits him like a brick.

His eyes widen.

And he collapses under the weight of it all.

As Ithanar goes, the last thought that comes and goes is that of his students being like stars.

They roar out of existence, consumed by the void.

Just like he might.

No.

He can’t.

The Oracle is standing before him. She is beneath a moon of red. Crimson light casts over her frame and paints her in harshness, but she is apart from it. Shadows gather; the world nothing but so much debris at her feet.

She looks at him, and there is no more smile on those lips; they are etched in a barely-decipherable frown. “An ending is an ending.”

She explodes in that faceted, multi-colored light. The Nightmare shatters around its edges.

And he…

Awakens.

Hours pass.

Old bastards always soldier on.

As he leaves the valley, Ithanar casts a look over his shoulder.

One last time.

It’s hard to see as apocalyptic ashes rain down.

Never again. 

[alchemisland]

The Moors Mutt - I

Part II coming on Tuesday!

I. Old Stone

The beast I knew only in folkloric snippets. Hedge whispers perverting history to arcana through time immemorial. Perhaps too I had known it in nightmares, shapeless until named, becoming then familiar as a bedchamber.

It was grim autumn when that fateful letter arrived, setting in motion a chain of events both strange and unlikely. In retrospect, that a series of vignettes so bizarre could start with the simple act of a posted letter seemed comical.

The letter landed with a thud, dubbing me sole executor of the late Lady Renton Sizemore's last will, a grim charge requiring a trip to her wicked home, listed in the Briarscombe country house register as the third most bloodstained holding in England.

Dislike isn't the word. Lady Sizemore and I got on famously when last we spoke, thirty years ago. I wasn't the doting schoolboy turned dribbling manchild spending Saturday nights at bingo. Neither was she the elderly relation procuring coins from behind ears to the delight of the youngers.

We were not eachother's keeper. Why I was suddenly favoured for this sensitive task that required more mental finesse than anyone in the family gave me credit for out loud, puzzled me greatly. Somebody must have annoyed her at one of her events. Sandwich gala on the Pringle Estate destroyed by careless nephew's untucked shirt. In true family style, whatever infuriated her she took to the grave.

Once the money was apportioned, I was to ensure no stone went unturned, apt phrasing given its namesake. Cairn Cottage stood oppressively atop the mound some two hundred winters, a plundered megalith shielding against the bracing gales.

Up there the flowers bloomed blighted, grass grew sideways and only the sturdiest roots survived. Without the megalith's girth, perhaps those winds might have toppled the twisted demesne, but she held firm now as old.

Mystics, druids and spiritualists alike extolled the house's phantasmic virtues. Fringe groups scrambled to reserve exclusive use of the land for Candlemas ceremonies. Lady Sizemore didn't care, provided she was soundly remunerated.

Rumours abounded of hauntings, anomalies occurring on the land by midnight's trickery.

Upon receipt of instruction, I spurred my carriage toward Cairn Cottage, the house in whose shadow no local walked without rosaries.

Although my visit was primarily administrative, there was another matter pertinent to my interests. One muttering which above all others inspired fear. A cautionary tale warning children from the grounds by night. And sometimes, on cold and lonely nights, a brave man wandering alone might see fit to take the longer road home.

Worse than druids, they said a beast lived on the Moor. A hulking creature, whose snarling teeth bared in fullness of dark glowed like spears of starlight, whose stark brightness was dulled only by the gleaming viscera of previous engagements clinging in ragged flaps.

However the rumour started, it long sprouted legs of its own, more exciting with each recounting.

No smoke without fire. I intended to find the single primal ember, the lone truthful element, stripped of frill and frock, fancy and folly, bereft of myth, or loyalty to tradition. Was there something in the fields by night? Was it dangerous?

First came Sperrin, a grizzly hamlet outside the estate's confines. For a penny, a local lad promised to find a suitable nook for the trap. I visited the sole watering hole, a squalid cellar named Lar's. The tavern itself was not charmless, offering average vintage for below average prices, warmth, music, rustic flattery and inimitably, whispers of the beast.

The tavern's proprietor Lar was a man out of time. With his arms folded across his simian chest and those big lugs like trophy handles either side of his substantial forehead, he could have easily passed for a saxon chieftain. He stood astride the bar against a backdrop of coloured bottles. Immediately upon entering his eyes set upon me with great intensity. Unlike the merry keep of fireside tales, he offered no warmth in greeting. That you were found fit to sit his barstool was kindness enough.

Inebriates remained nursing drams, glowering at their respective lecterns. Occasionally I'd catch one staring at me, then turn away as I waved. After a while sitting and sipping, making a game of catching their nosy glances, I signalled Lar's attention. 'This is probably going to sound strange. Probably because it is. Hear me out though. Have you ever heard or seen anything strange out on the moor?'

Widened like an owl, Lar's right eye scanned me once, twice, three times before he moved a muscle. 'Have in fact. Not now though. Too many around. Later.' His lips barely moved. I tipped my nose.

Nearer closing, he poured a cup and sat, remaining on the business side of the bar.

'The beast, you say?' He leaned in close, one eyebrow raised, its shape the arching rod of a hooked line. 'I could tell you a thing or two about the beast alright.'

'Prithee speak, my curiosity is burning. I won't rest a wink until it's satiated. Tourist talk aside, do you believe, as men do God, a beast prowls these forests?' I inched forward, as if by closer proximity, the truths would be truer.

'Regular Theseus, eh? Monster hunters, we have had plenty. Lovers of darkness too. Students of forbidden arts. All are served here. Kings and paupers alike. Did you come all this way to hear me say that?' Lar spoke with great confidence. The manner of his prattling meant the tales he told were true, or this was practiced.

'No.' I replied, 'I have business in the cottage. My heart though, she belongs to this creature. I am not a quack, nor a holder of séances. I am not a man of low learning on the hunt for falsehoods. I am a lover of stories. Pray, continue your captivating narrative.'

He continued, 'Let it be said I was coaxed. You wanted this.'

In this ominous portent he let slip a mask of deft craft. There was artifice in his smile, a cheshire grin that touched either cheekbone. A whispered suggestion of hidden intent.

Everything made sense. Was I seeing clearly? More than ever. I saw his ruse; city boy down for the day, take him for a ride, tell him the usual stories. A pal of his will burst in at just the right time, scare me half to death, then they'll take me to the supposed hot-spot for the low price of everything I've got. Lar took me for a lettuce. Something in his warning tipped me. A little over-arch. If his performance was not theatre, then Shakespeare never wrote.

Doubtless once finished, Lar would proffer some overpriced talisman no fellwalker could risk refusing.

'Enough pussyfooting. Spill it. I'll need all the advice I can get.' Like a drill tip, I pressed my index finger into the bar.

'No matter what image I conjure in your mind's eye, the beast is yet more ferocious and terrible in the flesh. It's the great unreality of it.' He tapped his forehead. 'Your mind doubts what it's seeing, unable to comprehend its stimulus. Brave men are made mice in its shadow.'

'What evidence have you of such a creature?' I asked, draining my tankard. He did the same, then wiped the amber residue on the back of his hand. He looked me over once, as if to ask who I was to question. I returned a withering gaze, maneuvering my features to convey a similar message. For a moment the air felt charged with kinetic possibility. As when two pugilists circle to begin a contest, lead hands pawing. Neither of us wished to be responsible for qualms.

He broke the armistice. 'Evidence? If you didn't think it weren't here, you wouldn't have come. If you believed in your heart this week you'd be contending with a monster, you'd have stayed at home in your jams.'

'Nonsense, man! You forget I am summoned, not here of my own volition.'

'We, each of us, tell ourselves sweet little lies to justify how our limited time is spent. I have a right mind to think if the lady yet lived, you and I might still have met. On a yawning stretch such as this, arriving as you have: alone and curious. If there's one thing I can't respect, it's a self hating believer. Swanning around with all the cynicism of a non-believer, clad in the robes of an adherent, so that when the hobby is proved spurious you can point to your skepticism. You'd be first to the papers tomorrow if scientists verified the beast's existence, how you had journeyed and studied on your own dime to further the science.' Lar pursed his lips, knowing he'd cut me to the quick, vanished was his earlier reticence.

I hated how right he was. I was exactly this sort. Insulting people who believed the same things as me. First to refuse to enter a haunted house for fear a demon might take my soul.

I'd never concede his point though. I riposted, 'Few are more loathed than the opinionated barman. You speak much too readily. Do so again, I'll see your manners are checked for the next weary traveler willing to pay good coin.'

Lar's eyes lit, bulging with imagined riches. 'Let me fill your drink, sir. I meant no offence. We speak freely here. Manners soften. Soon one finds truths cannot be digested unperfumed. Here in the wilds, it's a duty to voice quarrel. Far from crown and court, unaired anger festers.' Lar gladly dispensed his pearls of rural wisdom as if they were sweets from a bulging striped bag.

'Really, man. Every idea can be made ridiculous if extrapolated to that degree. Manners take the edge off. I'm not offended by your candor. I intend to find the creature, if such exists. Have you no doubt about that.' I watched him pull another drink.

The returned tankard was too full to raise without spilling. I slurped loudly, head bowed. Like a pulled plug, half the liquid gone in a single gulp.

'What evidence is sufficient? Look around you.' Lar held aloft his hands, urging me toward his empty business, still cast in a sickly light from the last flickering sentinels.

He pointed toward the empty seats. A single patron remained hidden in the shadows. A local by his boots.

'We did a roaring trade before that bloody woman inherited the place. Once she came, the trade died. When I was a lad, that land was free to roam. No walls. She had them built to spite us. Worse rumours too and all, that she built those walls to house it.'

'It?' I asked

'It. The beast.' Lar's voice lowered to a whisper. 'A cage for a pet beyond control. That's your sort all over. Dabbling where you shouldn't.'

'Her sort.' I corrected, 'I'm not aristocratic. You're a presumptuous sort, you know.'

'Believe you're not the first to say. Her sort, whatever pleases. I don't subscribe to this theory. Me personally, I think it came from hell. One thing's for certain, it got worse when they shifted the cairn.'

'You say you have seen it?' Part of me thought I was the one stringing him along, but another more gullible me firmly believed, or wanted to believe, that he had seen something. Hoping not to seem needy, I drew myself close to him, the bar still between us, 'With your own eyes if you saw it, you must swear it now. Did you see it as I see you now, or as one sees the distant stars and erroneously assumes knowledge.'

'As I stand before you.' Lar gestured to his stained apron, which he then removed and hung on a hook overhead. He nodded to the barfly, who stumbled from his seat and shot the bolt across the lock, an angry black mechanism like a bas-relief, which clanked against the timber as he let it fall. 'That's Fergus.'

Fergus lurched over. One leg trailed behind him. I couldn't help imagining him as a gothic manservant, dragging corpses to the laboratory in pursuit of higher knowledge. He came to stand beside me. There were giants on the earth is those days. Though our eyes observed the same setpieces, his countenance betrayed little comprehension. He had the chiseled jaw of a marble bust in profile, but his mouth hung open permanently, moist lips pursed like a fish.

He placed an enormous hand on my shoulder. Such space was permitted between his splayed fingers that ten legions abreast might find passage unmolested. His knuckles protruded unnaturally, evidence of labour, something harder than masonry or smithcraft. Mayhaps soldiering overseas.

I stared at his hand. He never looked at me. I coughed, first mannerly, then more harshly, thinking to approach cautiously lest my assumption prove provident, that he had lost his sound during foreign campaigns, of whose spoils we all were beneficiaries.

'Don't mind him.' Lar said. He spoke softly in the presence of his friend, observing his movements closely, ready to interject with a steadying hand or a warning to the cruelly curious. I wondered were they brothers. They bore little resemblance, though stranger things I had heard. Lar took Fergus' wrist and pressed gently, disturbing the folds of his motheaten jacket. They shared a moment I could but observe, radiating warmth and glad tidings in a wordless wave.

'I mean not to speak boldly, and lash me with spite if I transgress overmuch, but I must know or I should forever wonder, are you kin?'

Fergus shared Lar's laugh with the same look of bemused ignorance.

'You hear that? Fancy man reckons we're brothers. Probly thinks we're all related down this end, and not in a godly way.' Lar laughed, a viking bellow.

Lar released his grip and the folds of Fergus' sleeve righted themselves. He spoke several octaves lower, miming offence at my observation. I started to explain I intended no hidden subtext, but Lar waved to indicate all was taken as delivered.

'We are not brothers. Close friends. Known Fergus here forever.' He gently tapped the giant's hand, slapped on the bar like some enormous muddy bird print. 'Used to be a keen cookie too, once upon a forever ago. Loved languages, Welsh mostly. Pugilism he loved more. One passion consumed the other. Anything burning so intensely inevitably cannibalises itself. Took one knock too many, stole his wits in an instant. A left hook across the bar sent him erstwhile. Twenty five minutes he was on the shores of night, learning the landscape of the dreamworlds, while we fanned his rigid form, wet his brow and whispered familiar names in his ear. When at last he woke a part of him was left forever in that place. I like to think, boyishly perhaps, it awaits him upon leaving this plain of lousy strife, like the belongings awaiting a homeward jailbird. The cloak of a lost lifetime. Not for him. He'll slide right into it, fit like a tailored piece, and all of eternity to speak. Not here though.'

Tears welled in his eyes. I took the reins, 'Think nothing of your emotions, man. We each have them. Doubtless I will shed a tear up in the old witch's place. Another life awaits, that much is sure. Grander than this. I'm sure he made, and makes, a fine man. Built like a gladiator. I am sorry to have dredged unpleasantness. I meant only to satisfy my own selfish curiosity. Forgive me. Please, continue.'

'I will at that.'

'It were one night, three years ago. Ferg was there. We'd been called out on account of strange noises near the workers' cottage. They wouldn't work until the evil was killed or driven away. We came down from the high road proper and saw it between the trees ahead. Like a horse it stood, with clumsy stilts supporting an ursine bulk that swayed as it shambled. It drank shadows to conceal its dread presence. Blackness it took for robe. In walking its front paws propelled its cumbersome form, while the rear set, less lengthy, dredged channels in the dirt. In motion it arched to reveal a belly spun of lighter felt, ashen in the scant moonlight. Bundled, it became an orb of shadow, nothingness.'

'Unbeknownst we watched it watching, green eyes like blazing protostars probing for movement. Well it knew to choose this site, one of only two wells being located nearby. In a flash then it was gone, satin-shoed away into the night.'

The tale Lar knew was a scorcher paused. He beamed, an actor awaiting applause. I gathered my jaw from the floor, brushed it and set it back properly.

Each word drew me closer, which Fergus mirrored, until we three sat as witches about the bubbling lip of their cauldron, a coven of pallid specters.

Lar paused to sip and nodded we join.

I wondered had my hobby, in a blink, become too dangerous to justify. It was well telling my employers of ghost hunts, but a wild beast - my insurance wouldn't have it! If it turns out some menagerie escapee, what then was it? Quest for wonder or recklesss folly? Weiss, Wellie and Wardun insurance, even in their most obscure policies, don't pay out for fools. That's why I chose them!

Lar went on, a fresh cigarette painting the air blue in his articulation, 'Each new, shifting moon we came to that spot and watched. We took it upon ourselves to rid the land of danger.'

'Fergus knows a bit about a bit, that's what's left to him, God bless. What he knows is knots. Army training dictates every officer have at least passing knowledge of ten or more useful fastenings.'

'Me? I know about animals. We make a fierce duo. We inquired in advance about a reward, to which the estate responded agreeably, so we set off with lengths of rope overshoulder and the angriest looking traps the furmen could spare, determined to snare it. We planted snares all about its presumed domain.'

'Nothing came. Not a rat. Not a wisp. Not never again. It's the mystery disturbs me most. I'd die happy knowing.'

In his voice a single note of longing rang, dispelling the subterfuge of his intentions and, in the length of a breath, his beings and inner machinations were laid bare. Far from the sinister goldlust and murderous intention I had silently attributed to him, he seemed eager in an earnest fashion, willing in the name of a job done.

I observed Lar, powerful and straight. 'Do I sense an unfinished quest?'

'Aye. Not too subtle, mind.' Lar flashed a toothy smile, the sort a condemned man spits at his executioner. 'You seem a serious man. I didn't know when you first came in parading your manners like fancy knickers. You can't be too sure about a man who gives too many pleases. You're not that sort and have proved such twice over.' Lar imagined that was a compliment from the look he gave me. Expectant almost, between child submitting scribbles for display and cat batting dead mouse onto pillow.

Well, of course I had something to say about that. Cats were hissing. A donnybrook of claws and torn fur not even a hearty stock of iodine could salve. 'And I might say also that I too had cast aspersions on your character, maintaining you were of sinister country stock. As you claim to have been rapturously convinced otherwise, as have I.'

'Once the lady's estate is divided and bequeathed I'll receive my own. I mean to inherit a substantial bursar. I will pay to you a fair sum. In exchange, you will guide me to the hotpots, generally ensuring nothing eats me. When we find it, you're in charge until it's bound.' If he came, it would be on my terms.

'Find it? Slow down. We've seen it once in a hundred times. I'll take you gladly all the same.'

Wordless, we shook hands and drained our horns.

'Tomorrow?' Lar asked. He drew my gaze to an unopened whiskey bottle, which I declined.

'Not so, good man. Tomorrow I will tend my affairs. In the evening, if all is ordered, I will return to discuss further a plan of action. Have you a room I might rent?'

'Not for everyone mind, so don't go saying. There's one in the back. I'll light the fire.'

'Please do.'

I left a generous tip. Before following the publican to the warm hollow, I shook Fergus' hand, assuming he too would be part of our fortean friendship.

While I slumbered, the nightmare broke free her paddock, thundering across the veil of my somnambulant phantasmagoria, its clanging hooves ringing shrill terror.

I saw spined creatures oozing pus, many-eyed. Edgeless orbs hissing like flying snakes from one black abyss to another.

Cats with human faces screamed. A hairless man with a tail curled upwards like a scorpions noxious pike disemboweled himself with a broken mirror.

Last came the bestial form, not unlike that which Lar had described, striding evilly. Two venom coated fangs, uncontained by its snarling mouth, curved inward toward its breast. Catlike claws glinted menacingly. Turning my third eye downwards as if to look upon my feet, I found I was formless, yet the beast circled knowingly around the space my corporeal form should occupy.

I knew instinctively this reverie was more tangible than the others. That if the beast should strike I would die or wake screaming with a crimson pool spreading below me. It sniffed the air, pawing closer.

I woke to my beastless chamber. Sodden, I sought a candle and in its gloam chronicled my nightmare. That night sleep ne'er returned, making groggy my morning plod toward Cairn Cottage.

[shardclan]

The lonesome monolith of Horizon's Landing loomed so far out on the western edges of the crystalspines that on a clear night one could convince themselves they saw the Beacon winking from across the bleak expanse of the Greater Ocean. It was also close enough to the border with the Southern Icefield that even the unimpressive heights of its peak were capped in thick snow. The Pact Site was a mere skip northwest across a floe-clogged strait to a neighboring crystalpine ridge. Despite the absence of the Seat and the inert Circle, massive celestine pillars reached into the sky like glittering finger bones.

With the coming rising of the shadow and ice elements, glaciers were high and local sea levels were low. Jutting remains of maren architecture had breached the water's surface. So had dozens of shoal complexes covered in salt and seaweed and tide-smoothed pebbles of glowing crystal that were as lovely as the lure of any anglerfish.

Luckily, there were no fools or fledglings to lure that far from the mainland.

Lavi stared at the rough hewn dens bored into the mountain. Even though House Betelgeuse was made from the same material, Horizon's Landing had none of the warmth. The House was a place where families lived and thrived. The Landing was a refuge where the dens were filled with strangers who knew nothing and cared nothing for Aphaster or its histories or ideals. They were hunters and assassins drawn in by either money or interest in the unusual prey the astrals would promise. Once that prey was gone, they would move on. As a result, the Landing didn't feel like any place that Lavi knew. It reminded him of his elders instead--Hart in his cloak and pelts, Safiri in her thick furs, Lutia in her leather bindings. Wild ones with fangs that they never forgot no matter how peaceful or civilized things got.

Astrit was more familiar with rogues and mercenaries and the subtle but constant threat of violence that followed them around. He had settled into the mountain's base without a care. Along with him, a few other choice representatives of Bramble Step brought drink and music and their maybe-fatal kind of fun. Though they were far from a homey presence, their unabashed bawdiness and insistence on a certain kind of atmosphere kept the sharp and dangerous auras of the inhabitants from blanketing the island with hostile silence.

"You're frowning, Lavi." Warmth that had already become too familiar pressed against his forearm. "Something bothering you?"

"I was thinking it was probably best that Rebis saw us off at the portal."

"Oh." He tip-toed away from Lavi's side just as quietly as he had come. "I suppose this place hasn't been kind for her."

"Nor for me," Lavi sighed. "But I meant more that I'm glad we didn't waste a good wine on the side of this mountain. There's nothing worth celebrating here. It's an outpost. A queen shouldn't be in such a place."

"I think I see a whale! Come look!"

Invigilavi's fins twisted. He turned from the mountain to find his companion out on the shoal, bent over at the water's edge. "You're not listening to me at all."

"I'm always listening to you," Ashlesha insisted with a pout. "But you said it yourself: the queen didn't come here and no wine was wasted on celebrating this rock. What is there to dwell on?"

"I suppose I'm... I just--" Lavi clenched his jaw as heat rushed from his chin to his horns. Making him feel like he was overthinking everything was Ashlesha's most infuriating talent. And the one Lavi could least reproach him for.

"I'm trying to cope with the fact that I have to live here," he admitted tightly.

Ashlesha lowered his eyes, and pulled his robe close around him. "You have me..."

"It's not about you," Lavi snapped. "Just because you're so attached to me doesn't mean I know you or that you bring me any comfort."

"I know."

The unexpected solemness of Ashlesha's voice caught Lavi off guard. He had been struggling to find a rhythm or some kind of predictability with Ashlesha since the day they met, but he had gotten too involved far too quickly and had such incomprehensible changes of mood that Lavi couldn't help feeling physically dizzy, like he was tumbling in the dark every time Ashlesha's careless personality gave way and he was suddenly faced with depths he didn't know how to process.

Cool hands touched his chest. The shock grounded him there on the shore and stopped his head spinning.

Ashlesha was on the very tips of his toes and was still too small to meet Lavi's half-shift face-to-face, but he seemed content enough to look up into his eyes. "I haven't known you long enough to be anyone to you, Lavi. I have no delusions otherwise. But so long as I am with you, you don't need to fear anything. Not astrals, or emperors, or the Shade. Not even the gods."

The spines along Lavi's neck stood. Gingerly, he pressed his palms against Ashlesha's shoulders until there was a much more reasonable distance between them. "I wish you wouldn't say things like that."

"I mean it."

"It wouldn't be so terrifying if you didn't."

"Well it's not like I can replace your family," he mumbled. He wandered distractedly back to the shoal, and slouched down onto his heels at the water's edge. "I could make this place worthy of you easy...but a king's mansion isn't worth anything when all you want is the house you grew up in."

A wash of deja vu passed gently over Inviglavi. He hadn't been able to appreciate just how Ashlesha looked sitting by himself in the moonlight when he first laid eyes on him.  A lot had been on his mind at the time--and a lot more since. But if everything was true in spite of Faded's warning and Ashlesha was human, he was hundreds of thousands of years estranged from everything he had ever known.

"That's... surprisingly reasonable of you to say."

"Don't be mean, I'm trying."

"I was praising you," Lavi pointed out gently.

"Really...?" Ashlesha quickly turned his attention back to the sea, but failed to hide his grin or contain his telltale hair-fidgeting. "O-oh! Uhm! The whale is still down there I think! You're missing it!"

"I'll pass. Even you being out there is making me nervous. Come on, let's go back inland."

Ashlesha giggled and made a show of fluttering his lashes. "Are you worried about me, Lavi~?"

"Ashlesha, you know how the water is in the Isles. Especially this close to the Icefield."

"Hey... I told you, you don't have to fear anything." The unfamiliar light that shone from deep inside Ashlesha's otherwise green eyes brightened, and he held out his hand. "Come here. See the places even your Archmage doesn't dare to look."

Lavi glanced at the water, and felt his heart drum out a warning.

He wasn't a mage of any import. His magic capacity was above average but not particularly impressive, and his physical ability to fight was negligible at best. Insight was his primary talent. His limits, his weaknesses, what was and wasn't within his power to do--his overactive drive for self-preservation had always kept those things at the forefront of his mind. But now there was Ashlesha courting his curiosity off its leash. All while smiling in that careless, endlessly confident way that left the impression that anything Sornieth could throw at him would prove as inconsequential as a speck of dust in the Windsinger's path.

Several halting steps later, Ashlesha's hand slid into Lavi's palm; tiny as a drop of water pooling in a leaf. With a wave, the crystals deep under the water came to life, filling the night-dark sea with light. A dozen schools of fish flickered and darted in confusion, and a paralyzing mass of shadow that refused to yield its true form to the light shifted sluggishly.

Strange tendrils moved around it, wriggling against the translucent crystal trapping it in place like worms seeking a path to the surface. They beat, disjointedly at first, and then with increasing unison, at their prison, until the force of the hundreds of tendrils bashing at the unyielding ice shook the should beneath their feet.

"That's not a whale," Lavi rasped over his suddenly dry tongue. He stepped back from the water as pebbles tumbled into the sea, lest he slip and follow them. "Let it go back to sleep."

"It was never asleep. Should it have been?" He saw the desperate, longing look Lavi was shooting at the shore, and squeezed Lavi's palm, comforting the rapid pulse they both felt there. "Does it frighten you?"

"I certainly would have slept better without knowing it was down there."

Lavi felt Ashlesha’s hand slip from his, and no sooner had he begun to trot back to shore than something made him stumble. His ears rang, and he squinted against an awful residual sensation he couldn't name. It was simultaneously a faint taste of rotten food in his mouth and the last uncomfortable needles of limbs that had fallen asleep.

At Lavi's feet, strange blood was washing up onto the shoal, viscous and shiny as tar.

Ashlesha was casually brushing down his robes, as white and untainted as pure moonlight atop the blackening waters. When he caught Lavi's expression, he raised his chin proudly and beamed.

"Now it’s no harm to anyone, and you can rest easy."

In Feldspar, Phantasos had Ozymandias, but Phantasos was also a barely fathomable entity with a deep well of power. In Aphaster, Queen Rebis was rapidly developing as a magic user who would inevitably attain the mantle Archmage. There were witches, warriors, godstouched; even a shaman in tune with the all-joining magics of the Pillar. 

Yet Ashlesha chose him. And Lavi had never felt so under-qualified.

[paladin-andric]

Blackheart Masterpost

It’s finally here! I’m putting down a comprehensive list of my work thus far. Bits of lore and short stories are up top, if you want to read the WIP itself the chapters are at the bottom!

About The World:

A map of Deaco and the kingdoms in it, with information of each race

The Kingdom of Geralthin: Humanity’s Home

The Animals, Economy and Food of Geralthin

Everything Else: The Races Without Borders

Deaco’s Magic: Power, Secrecy, Life and Death

The Magic of Deaco: More Spells

A Rainbow of Fury: Dragons’ Colors and Their Meaning

Nature of the Gods: God and His Children

Nature of the Gods: The Old Gods

Outcasts, Misfits, and Wanderers: Life as an Outsider

Ancient and Antiquated History: The Human Empire

On Bards and Music

Faces of History: Geralthin Monarchs

The New Continent: The Republic of Salisca

Legends of Deaco

The Creation Legend: Pseudodragons

The Creation Legend: Kobolds

Character Bios:

Alexander, Knight of Geralthin

Senci, the Kobold of Lannis

Leianna, Cleric of The Order

Tourthun, the Red Dragon

Andric, Paladin of Lannis

Lexius, Priest of The Order

Wurie, Captain of the Guard

Paul, Bounty Hunter

Razorwing, Wandering Hero

Charles the Half-Dragon

Moments In History (Short stories set in the world of Blackheart):

Gira Series: Featuring Gira, the Black Dragon with a tender heart and a kindly love for humanity!

Gira and the Blue Dragon

Desc: Now the guardian of Pasir, Gira is snoozing outside the city when a challenger threatens the people under her protection...

A Dragon’s Recompense

Desc: Against all odds, Gira stumbles across the dragon that threatened Pasir while out relaxing! He’s acting strange, so she probes...

Gira’s Secret

Desc: The black dragon has become an advisor for Godfrey, the first King of Geralthin. He catches her doing something strange...

The First King’s Passing

Desc: After dozens and dozens of years dutifully serving the king, Gira discovers her healing powers have their limits...and she must stand by and watch as her greatest friend says goodbye.

The Ball

Desc: Half a millennium after the events of Blackheart, a Great War has enveloped Deaco. At a royal ball, a descendant of House Angelus comes across some colorful characters and a purpose to push towards...

One offs and two-parters:

The Last Stand of the Ashishani

Desc: The sacred guardians of the Grove of the Prophet fight to the bitter end against rampaging wolfman hordes.

Kinship

Desc: A wolfwoman comes across a shellback slave captured by her tribe...and realizes they’re not the enemies she thought they were.)

A Past Life: Part 1 | Part 2

Desc: Two soldiers are captured and brainwashed by an evil dragon, and transformed into monstrous slaves. One night, one of them remembers bits of his past, and rushes to escape and find help before the dragon’s influence breaks his will...

Readjustment

Desc: Bartholomew and Cornelius have found themselves in an odd position. Though they successfully reached Cay City and purged themselves of the dragon’s mental hold, their bodies remain inhuman...even Cornelius, who’s kobold form should have been dispelled along with the mind control. With the bodies of beasts but the minds of humans, the pair begin the arduous process of readjusting to life as it once was after months of living in squalor, and looking for clues as to what sorcery can resist purging magic. At the same time, Bartholomew realizes his draconic form has its upsides...

An Unlikely Savior

Desc: A dragonslayer and a wizard are commissioned to slay a dragon...only to realize their mark isn’t all it appears to be.

Hearts of Gold: Part 1 | Part 2

Desc: A dragon makes the ultimate sacrifice, giving up his honor and sanity to demonic corruption while his friend rushes to rescue him before he’s lost forever...

Guardian Angels

Desc: Two sea dragons come across a drowning man, who is certain he is about to be eaten alive...though this turns out to be far from what they’re planning.

A Bard’s Tale: Part 1 | Part 2

Desc: A bard stops an evil black dragon from slaughtering a village by playing magic-infused music for him, the beast struggling with the concept of feeling emotions for the first time. Constantly battling the beast for control of his mind, she must keep the dragon under control long enough to help him understand the emotions confusing and conflicting him.

Rise of the High King

Desc: Seigot Ironheart, newly named chieftain of the Oakwall Tribe, finds himself surrounded by a coalition of several rival tribes, each one larger and more powerful than his on their own. Together, it seems they are about to destroy the Oakwall Tribe once and for all...but Seigot is an inspiring commander, skilled leader, and cunning tactician. The enemy moves into the forests, and Seigot lies in wait...

Beachside Memories

Desc: A group of unusual friends enjoy their day off by traveling to the beach, ready for a day full of relaxation and fun...and while they are given an experience they’ll never forget, it isn’t for the reasons one would hope for.

A God in Exile

Desc: Cuan, the trickster god of the koutu pantheon, is punished for turning his uncle Cabrus into a griffin. He is forced into the form of a lowly serpent, and exiled to the mortal realm for a century. Cabrus feels some remorse and offers Cuan a second chance...but one should never trust the god of trickery to behave.

The Way of the Dragon

Desc: Theo, a man hopelessly lost in a world full of mythical creatures, gains access to the emperor’s court and discovers a possible way to get home...but the road ahead is long and perilous.

The Plan

Desc: A dragon’s soul, stuck inside a kobold’s body, puts into motion his plan to find his old lair, bringing his new friend Iki along to discover what secrets his past has in store...

A Matter of Perspective

Desc: A dragon finds another one of his kind locked up in a tower, rolling around on his back and begging for food from humans like an animal. Filled with righteous fury, he breaks in to free the dragon the humans have obviously brainwashed...only things don’t progress as he expected.

An Even Game

Desc: A mercenary company with little to do play a game of pen and paper! Inspired by games like Crusader Kings and Medieval: Total War!

Darkest Hour

Desc: In an alternate timeline, a horrid villain’s scheme succeeds. The entire continent is covered in a fog that turns all within it into monsters utterly loyal to the cruel tyrant, who becomes master of the known world. In this dark future, in a world without a sky, only a small underground base full of humans remain. When they must leave, they do so in sealed suits with gasmasks, so that they will not become one of them. Is there any hope left?

A Heist Awry

Desc: A master thief takes on an extremely dangerous heist for the chance at enough gold to retire for the rest of his life...but things take an unexpected turn as his target is an unexpected source, and a rogue element threatens everything!

Emergency Hearing

Desc: Hundreds of years in the future, at the dawn of the industrial era, the power of dragons begins to wane. Artillery pieces, modern combat tactics and more widespread magic has allowed humanity to impose their will on the land with wild abandon. Seeing the writing on the wall, the elder dragons call a meeting with the rest of dragonkind to discuss the fate of their kind, and humanity...

An Enemy Within

Desc: In the “Darkest Hour” timeline, the story continues. It turns out one of those soldiers did in fact survive, at a cost. A friend of his comes to discuss things with him...

Sorcerer Series:

A Snake in the Grass

The Long Con

The Unwitting Volunteer

The United Front

Justice and Spite

Desc: An upstart sorcerer obsessed with the might of dragons unleashes cruel and cunning plots against everyone he meets in an ultimate bid to steal the form of a dragon for himself...no matter how many must suffer and die in the process.

Chronicles of Logan:

Something Better

Public Enemy

The Sting

A New Beginning

Desc: Originally a human magician, Logan seeks out the blood of a dragon, to turn himself into one of the powerful and illusive half-dragons. Thus, his lengthy and accomplished career of sorcery began...

Zaphontilku’s Tale:

Joy and Ashes

Breaking Point

Desc: Zaphontilku is but a child when the war between dragonkind and humanity begins. For his own safety, his father traps him deep underground for centuries, where no humans can hurt him. The dragon toils and suffers in darkness for hundreds of years, his sanity waning, until a mysterious soldier somehow slips past the barrier...

Jotober 2018

Desc: During October, I made a short story every day. A collection of 31 short stories themed around a single word, assigned every day.

Story Time (Mini-stories about the characters of Blackheart):

Senci and the Blacksmith

Andric: Against the Demons

Alexander on the Battlefield

Alexander and the Knight

Leianna and the Fugitive Hunt

Razorwing and the Party Crasher

Senci and the Pseudodragon

Leianna: Spiteful Justice

Andric and Senci: Breakable

Andric and Senci: A New Homestead

Charles: Gift

Charles: Day One

Wurie: The Swords of Justice

Senci & Andric: Southern Secrets

Alexander & Tourthun: Hunted

Leianna: Survivor

BEST BOYS (Shorts of Eignach and Razorwing)

A Chance Meeting

Razorwing and the Party Crasher

Respite

Flowing

The Marathon

Day of the Roses

Hope in These Dark Times

Together

The Tourthun Sadness Saga™

Bliss

The Promise

An Innocent Query

Heartache

Tranquility

Come Fly With Me

Tragedy Breeds Bias

Cold Skies, Warm Hearts

Bonus: Redemption (Indirectly includes Tourthun)

Desc: Tourthun, a young dragon who lives by a strict set of morals dictating peace and kindness towards others, is stricken by misfortune time and again...

Miscellaneous Stuff:

Picture of Alexander by the wonderful @paper-shield-and-wooden-sword

Moodboard of Tourthun courtesy of the great @theguildedtypewriter

Moodboard of Paul

Moodboard of Senci

Moodboard of Razorwing

Moodboard of Charles

Moodboard of Alexander

Moodboard of Andric

The Characters of Blackheart in Dark Souls 3

Picture of Andric by a very good friend of mine

Dark Souls Inspired Item Descriptions

High Quality Wurie Shitpost by @paper-shield-and-wooden-sword

Story about two London kids secretly raising a baby dragon, requested by @kainablue (Yeah never titled it sorry. Technically Deaco related since the dragon came from Deaco into our universe)

The National Flag of Geralthin

Blackheart - The Story So Far:

Chapter 1, Into the Abyss: Introduction

Chapter 2, The Citadel: Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4

Chapter 3, The Dragon: Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3

Chapter 4, The Return: Part 1 | Part 2

Chapter 5, A Test of Mettle: Part 1 | Part 2

Chapter 6, A Change of Plans: Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5

Chapter 7, Lowly Times: Part 1 | Part 2

Chapter 8, Winged Angel

Chapter 9, Birds of a Feather

Chapter 10, In Calamity, Hope

Chapter 11, A Bow, A Blade, and A Mind

Chapter 12, Come Together

Chapter 13, Enemy Within

Chapter 14, Back From the Brink

Chapter 15, A Light in the Dark

Chapter 16, The Insurmountable

Chapter 17, Melancholy

Chapter 18, Field of Dreams

Chapter 19, Reunion

Chapter 20, Discontent

Chapter 21, Second Wind

Chapter 22, Revelations

Chapter 23, Sins of the Father

Chapter 24, Shattered Memories

Chapter 25, Farewell

Chapter 26, Tourthun’s Legacy

Chapter 27, In Grief, Conviction

Chapter 28, Hope

Chapter 29, Awakening

Chapter 30, The Black Dragon

Chapter 31, A Final Respite

Chapter 32, Tarnished Legacy

Chapter 33, Heart of Darkness

Epilogue: Sunrise

That’s all he wrote! This post will be updated whenever something new is posted! I must stress how much I need feedback, if you haven’t read Blackheart over, please do, and let me know what you think! I really hope you all like this collection of information on the world thus far!

Want to be tagged whenever I post about Blackheart? Just ask and I’ll add you to the list!