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“This entirely implies that not only am I unfaithful, but that I can tolerate someone else’s presence long enough to engage in a sordid affair.” A lone brow flared at Shiloh to suggest a measure of wry amusement even if it daren’t read across the sculpt of his mien.  

Rumor has it your lover isn't so loyal to you anymore.

“Sounds like you’ve never met my betrothed before. You won’t find a crack there, but good try.”

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"Someone should inform the girl that if she runs around fighting in a fucking dress, it is not going to be as easy to keep her alive. And I hope she can overcome her dishonorable discharge with her campaign. Though, that will be easy if she remains unopposed."

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Ranveer Singh as Alauddin Khilji in Padmavati

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collateral damage

The baby cooed beside her. 2 months old and who knows what hung in the balance. Her stomach twists and turns and she didn’t know what to tell him. She didn’t know what to tell either of her children, but she was getting nothing and she was being shoved in a corner. Waiting had never been one of her strengths, and she’d far run out of it.

Lady Vice Legate,

I will make this as brief and swift as I have been made to feel in my attempts to find concealment and answers in what I thought not only a colleague, but a friend.

The letter, she knew, started cold. She wanted no emotion in this. She felt no emotion in this anymore. There was no point. Emotional connections only seemed to earn her issues and she was swiftly reminded why she hadn’t sought them out for so long. Her hand trembled.

Consider this a letter of resignation from my position of minister, effective immediately. Francesca Pavoni will do fine in closing up my matters and ensuring that nothing is left unhandled after my final day. I regret things have come to this.

I wish you and the Ministry well.

Shiloh Geneva Devereux

Folding the letter neatly, she rests her hand over it and stares at the blank sheet, hearing nothing but the rush of blood in her ears. Pale green eyes turn to Victor, whom had seen far more tears than anyone else in these last few weeks, and would likely see more. Her breath shakes and she scrunches the letter within her grasp.

“Fuck.”

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At the Rising of the Moon

The forge filled with the remnants of battle, anguished cries echoing within mountainous chambers.  “The Scion is dead!” shrieked the woeful chant that found the Lord Commander’s throbbing ears as he lay secluded from the others.  He knew it looked like the all-consuming brand that had covered his body were it not for the notably sanguine coloration of the crystals forming beneath his helm.

“The Scion is dead,” wailed another feminine voice, one which finally tethered to his cognition.  The half-melted helm whose chromatic residue had left imprints upon the crimson stalagmites glimmering as they swelled over the chasm where a simple scar once resided.  He could feel the blood draw from his veins and tire his heart as it began to form into the granite, pulsating shell.  His life force was leaving the internal machinations of his form, draining and waning his consciousness.  It eclipsed his right pectoral entirely now, crawling like the ground-eating molten eruption of a volcano toward the last of his living beats. 

His eyes peeled toward the domal ceiling, the rubble that rained down, having come loose from the Elder Dragon tearing through Melandru’s snow-capped dagger.  It was a respite he longed for, in truth, knowing well the curse laid upon him by the betrayers would swallow him soon.  A deep, bari-bass timbre serenaded a once jolly war-tune as he resigned, palms laid upward, titan's frame dressed in crimson crucifixion as he slumped against the rampart in absolute seclusion.

One more word for signal token, whistle out the marching tune With your pike upon your shoulder at the rising of the moon At the rising of the moon, at the rising of the moon With your pike upon your shoulder at the rising of the moon

The image of his betrothed, a child upon her hip and the other trailing to tug at her skirt forced a small smile to his lips.  The corruption lived in him all this time, stole from his ability to hold her as close as he wanted, to let his daughter, or son touch his features.  The impending doom had left him now as the mind directed toward the chambers of a young, gallant Vice Legate whose tawny beauty matched only by her ferocity as she reigned the justice he’d long fought so hard to purge.  

He was the last of the corrupt, the only good within him have twisted spears with the recruit, whispered brotherhood to the captain and promised fealty to those upon the ship as war waged before.  The wyvern, the harpies washing over the deck as the viperine fleet fought on, sailed through the ear leaving explosions like rhythmic drums remembered within his ears.

Out from many a mud walled cabin eyes were watching through the night Many a manly heart was beating for the blessed morning's light Murmurs ran along the valley to the banshee's lonely croon And a thousand pikes were flashing by the rising of the moon.

He went quiet now, the walls erected to seal away the branded, blasting with crimson veins of lightning to reveal his affliction after all these years.  After all these years when he must dart off as the corruption swallowed.  It was his only secret, that which haunted and plagued the ones he loved, the doctor whose lips were sealed with each tear of the crystals of his spine.  He continued the sluggish, waxing ballad as his lips could no longer propel the words, simply mouth the gurgled hum as the crystalline stalagmite pierced inward, the rupturing cardio walls spasming as it consumed him.  However, beyond what closed lids could see, approached a shrouded figure who continued the echo with a newly enriched cadence, that of operatic practice and unfailing pitch.

By the rising of the moon, by the rising of the moon And a thousand pikes were flashing by the rising of the moon All along that singing river, that black mass of men was seen High above their shining weapons flew their own beloved green.

“I knew you would be here, my brother in war,” murmured the quiet Aguillard with a small cruiser vessel having hovered in his wake.  The languid, serpentine silhouette slipped behind the bloodstone mass fearlessly, his know vacuumed penchant for magic absorbing the wistful attempts to breach his own resolve.

Death to every foe and traitor, whistle out the marching tune And hoorah me boys for freedom 'tis the rising of the moon 'Tis the rising of the moon, 'tis the rising of the moon And hoorah me boys for freedom 'tis the rising of the moon.

And within moments, the ship slipped through one of the unblocked corridors leading outside, rising to the massive vessel that had barely dodged the departure of the dragon.  Within mere moments, the chattering crew carried the Vabbian into the depths of the medbay where the young countess stood. Regaled in a succinct, violet and obsidian admiral’s coat, the Countess awaited in solitude for her cousin to arrive.

As the sunkissed, molten behemoth was laid upon a padded, surgical slab, she watched with every calmed, azure hues angled by the unblemished heritage coursing through her veins.  “How did you find him?” Asked the dulcet croon to the mischievous lord. Fernand responded, reaching down to snap one of the grown stalagmites from his chest to expose the entombed organ beneath, an obscured view to the Mesmer as she leaned over.

“Alone.  His eyes closed as it overtook him.  He never saw me,” he assured.

The conclusion left the woman’s lips as she eased a hand downward.  The fuchsia embellishment of an elaborate time piece sealed upon the ruinous left pectoral.  “And he never shall,” she chanted, the lost language rooted within Kurzick secrecy hushed as the single, dominant hand of the warped timepiece began to forcibly tick backwards.  The bloodstone’s influence retreated, sending jolts through the Commander’s frame, the shock of a secondary magical force to conflict with the first tearing through him, shredding the calm of death with seizing ruptures.   Another tick, another seize to pair with a leonine roar marring his vocals, even without the sight of his crystallized eye.   She glanced to the physician shrouded behind her.

“He must be sedated until these can be removed from his chest and spine,” the lead physician announced as Tylen began to slip away, concealing a subtle stagger in her gate as best she could.  The other, looming figure unveiled himself to be the broad, corded frame of Doctor Dietrich Aguillard. His sturdy billed pillared against Tylen as they retreated.

Disquieted by what was transpiring, Fernand made his way to the forward deck of the ship, realizing only after he’d emerged into the daylight – and could not gracefully change his mind – that his cousin was there. Keleb Aguillard, the Count.

Months ago, he’d have veered to another mundane task as to not agitate the brewing tension only he caused.  But since the building of the dreadnought and its offering to Keleb, much of the toiling grief he had projected upon the Count withered.  No longer did the man threaten his worth, but expand upon it, simply allow the architect to exist in predetermined talents, commitment. Here in Fernand’s natural habitat, his years-long rivalry with the Count arrived at a cool impasse.

He joined Keleb and stood beside him. In silence, they watched the sun chase the moon out of the great arc of the storming sky.

“She has wound it back enough for his heart to beat again,” Fernand said, “but he will be comatose.”

Keleb clasped his hands behind his back, breathed a sigh. “Like last time.  His life will be in pieces, now.”

“Like mine,” Fernand said. His expression was thoughtful, humbled. “I used to wonder why she never did this for Stella. But I understand now what I was not ready to hear all those months ago.”

Keleb nodded, but wisely did not break the silence that followed.

“I apologize,” Fernand went on, with difficulty, “for my anger. Tylen has a responsibility to use her magic in a way that doesn’t cause –“

He faltered, swallowed and wet his lips. “Well. You know what can happen. I realize now that I was a mistake.”

“You were not,” interjected the Count before the self-imposed woe could descend entirely upon Fernand. It was a validation Fernand had longed for from the Countess.  And though it was not delivered by her, one of the few who had known every fabric of her nebulous behaviors so starkly confirming allowed the tension ribboned between shoulder blades to unknit a mere trice.

“She has learned from you. That is true.”  A pregnant pause permeated their existential proximity. “You are a great engineer, Cousin, but also a soldier,” he continued. “And Aguillard soldiers do not kneel to the enemy, even if that enemy is death. You must fight every battle until the wars are finished.”

As if in answer, the hull of Anne’s Revenge groaned beneath their feet. But a courier stepped out into the daylight.

“My Lord, Count Aguillard, you wish me to send the Lord Commander’s letter?” echoed the young steward.

Amidst the exchange, the Countess, the Priestess, the Physician all emerged from the bowels of the dreadnought.   The true-blooded Aguillards began to pour outward and face the incoming dawn as a singular force.

“Send word to Stella what occurred tonight.  Tell her of the ships, tell her of the dead rising again as branded, tell her of the Scion and the Elder Dragon’s retreat.  Tell her not of the Lord Commander. That news we must control, until we know what he remembers.” The courier nodded once more, vanishing inside as Rinaldo unveiled from prior vestige within the missile chambers below the deck, standing in mismatched rows and absolute silence.

  @stellasparkles @dietrichaguillard @theaguillardfamily @krytanministry

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No one should've allowed that barrel of vintage dwarven rum near Lux. Yet, there they were, the Chancellor of Olivia's Refuge having one too many cocktails with Lord-Commander Nezam. “Lord-Commando, What’s your dirtiest fantasy?" Of course she'd ask that.

"I think this one is for you, Lord Commando," he offered to his companion, the parchment folded as he brandished a grin.

Visar claimed the note and pried it open. "You. Six feet under. Covered in mud," penned the Vabbian response.

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Welcome, Little One

The night had been longer than any of them had been expecting. One minute, dinner was cooking on the stove courtesy of her mother, Shiloh was bidding her goodnight to Nathaniel before Visar came home from work, and the next there was a chaotic turn of shouting and excitement. Luck would have it, her mother kept saying over and over again as she helped her daughter up the stairs and kept telling Nathaniel to start the bath– as though he weren’t the woman’s doctor. She’d been through this twice! 

There was no arguing with the Madrigal matron and mother of two wild Lion’s Arch children. Her Luxon heritage wouldn’t hear it, but she would insist on making sure her son-in-law wouldn’t miss a single moment of this. If any of the Ministry Guards weren’t to listen to her to Find the Lord Commander himself, then a stranger on the street would find him for her! Luckily, they knew better than to think Visar wouldn’t want the same. One continued to stand vigilant, while the other ran off to find the man to tell him his wife went into early labor.

Hours would pass. The night was long and hard. Shiloh continued to stand and pace if she were not trying to find solace in the tub from her muscles screaming through each contraction that continued to come harder and faster with each passing moment. Nathaniel and Visar remained close and alert for any changes, waiting throughout the night for the right time.

Finally, as dawn broke and the sun begun creeping through the windows of the town home in the Western Commons, the Minister gave her final shouts to bring the life of their child into the world, and all four waited with baited breath– and the baited breath of the guards standing outside of their home– for the infant’s cries. And the cry came so loud and strong.

“My Lord Commander, you have a son,” Nathaniel smiled and handed the newborn to the Vabbian giant.

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Turning into a Mom

Shiloh: "Eat your pizza."

Everyone else: "It has veggies."

Shiloh: "It is a pizza, and you will eat it. I also colored the fries a fun color."

Everyone else: "THOSE ARE CARROTS."

Shiloh: "Eat them. Here are your drinks."

Everyone else: "Why the fuck doesn't it have any FlAVoR???"

Shiloh: "It's water. Drink it."

Visar: Cackling in the back ground.

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The silence of the rooftop always comes with a smile when it comes to the pair. Quiet time, they liked to call it. Regardless who was up here, there was a general consensus within the small family that if you were on the roof, then you wanted something quiet, or you felt something important. Shiloh, from the moment she saw it, to the moment she set everything up, only saw a safe space for Mehin to be Mehin. She wanted her to explore herself and discover who she was and where her life was meant to lead. She wanted her to have a sense of who she truly is and know that her papa and step mother support her in everything. 

Tonight was not a night for quiet. Tonight was a girl’s night, as requested by the blonde to the Vabbian giant. He left the two of them alone, far from oblivious to the plans for the evening. Hot chocolate and biscotti were made for dipping. The blankets and the pillows were laid out. A short, wide box sits on the coffee table beneath the canopy. 

The girls had spent the better part of an hour looking at the stars together and talking about school. They discussed various topics that a growing girl may be curious about. Crushes between class mates, spiking emotions, how to handle being ditched by a best friend for a boy. The night certainly needed to end on a lighter note. Something happier to bring a better smile to the girl’s face. Coiling her arms around the smaller girl’s shoulders, the blonde turns her playfully and steers her in the direction of the couch and the table.

“Why don’t you open your present?”

Slipping from the pregnant woman’s arms, the child rushes to the couch to fall upon it and waits for the encouraging nod from the blonde to open the top. With the lifting of the lid is a simple lay of tissue paper in an easy, dark red. Nothing else above it. Little fingers remove the tissue and an anticipating smile blooms across one of the most beautiful faces Shiloh had ever seen in her life.

Within the box was nothing fancy or ornate. A simple piece of paper that the woman had frames for the daughter of her fiance. Embossed letter call forth that the document comes from the Krytan Ministry, thus signed and stamped appropriately.

A declaration of adoption for Mehin Katarj Nezam to Shiloh Geneva Devereux.

“I love you, Mehin, and I will always see you as my child. I know you’ve always known that, but now it’s, like, legally official, if you want it. It would make me the happiest woman in the world to have the honor of being your mother– not just a step mom.”

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Handmade Swords

Swords by StageSwords.com by JDActionHero