#I was dreading shading the armor on this but I ended up having a blast | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

luminashdawnwing · 4 years ago

Text

The Wages of Sin: Part I

Never had Luminash set foot in a place where the air was so utterly dead. Not still, for there was movement of a sort, drifting particles swirling about. He shuddered to think what, precisely, they were. Some intelligence, after all, indicated that the very dry, dusty ground beneath his boots was the shattered, trampled remnants of tormented souls, reduced to nothing more than powdery stygia. It was not his first time diving into this abyss, and it never failed to fill him with dread.

Nothing in this place possessed even a passing semblance of life. The Mawsworn appeared to be little more than walking armaments, hollow shells filled with agonized spirits, mere husks of their former selves. They did not speak - at least that Luminash heard in his hunts here; there was no way to communicate with them. Whatever they had once been, they now were empty vessels for the Jailer’s will.

The Tremaculum teemed with them, and the stygian shades, their faces - multiple screaming faces, shifting, growing, shrinking on each one - trapped in torment, the preparation for becoming fuel for the Mawsworn. That was, as far as the magister could tell, the purpose for this fortress. A cozy, fortified corner of the Maw to tear and warp the innocents now rushing into it in droves until nothing remained.

The very idea of this place was sickening. Not just the Tremaculum, but the entire plane. Had it always been this way, an endless, timeless hell with no escape? Or had the Jailer turned it into a weapon for his ends? Perhaps if he could find more information on the First Ones beyond their waystones, their little baubles…

Shaking his head, he dispelled his wandering thoughts. At this moment, they mattered very little. What was of greater importance were the souls trapped below. Luminash observed the fortified Tremaculum from a vantage point on a floating piece of debris, twisted remains of whatever this place had once been. Following the stray paths of anima, his keystone had allowed him this, and he was thankful, for below were too many Mawsworn for his taste. It reminded him of more pleasant times, more pleasant places. Nagrand, for instance. He permitted himself a short, dry laugh.

His efforts in the Maw had seen new souls brought into Sinfall, new souls to drive the machine of redemption. Here, though, he had traced one of particular importance. Amid the flows of anima bleeding from all the wounded, maimed spirits trapped, Luminash had caught something familiar. A fleeting trace of a memory, a man lying face down in the mud of Nazmir, shovel - his only weapon, his failed hopes - lying beside him. Reliquary chief digger Ardien. Luminash’s charge, and Luminash’s failure. He could not tell if it had been calling to him, or purely a trick of his mind. Either way, the traces had led here.

The Mawsworn patrolled almost aimlessly, unpredictably, and yet there were few gaps to exploit in their defenses, so great were their numbers. The traces of anima were too slight here to follow - he had tried - and too tangled up in the multitude of others. How he wished he could save them all, but this had driven him nearly to collapse entirely in Nazjatar. He would not allow it to happen again, for his sake as much as for Jaskian, as for Theras. He would need to fight sooner or later here, he knew well, and closed his eyes, gripping the keystone.

In the span of a breath, he was now just outside the outer wall of the Tremaculum, sheltered from view in its shadow, hugging the cold metal - was it metal? - tightly. A step closer, and yet infinitely more dangerous than his distant perch had been. His quarry - his charge, his failure - had passed by here, through this gate, a presence the magister still could feel, still could follow. Using the keystone here, though, would be too risky. Too likely to hurl him into the midst of Mawsworn. He would have to rely on the more traditional methods available to him.

Stepping out of the shadows, the darkness seemed to cling to the magister for a moment, he becoming an extension of them. Another step, and there was only a shimmering haze in the air where he ought to have been, the light bent around him to cloak him from view. Within, he felt the rush of the arcane, a sense of calm as he rode that surging river, and the lingering presence of the exhaustion he would feel if he drank too deeply. This could not last long.

With quick strides, he slipped past the Mawsworn sentinels at the gate, his magic muffling the sound of his steps, too, on the hard-packed stygian soil. The keystone throbbed in his hand his grip was so tight, but the trail remained clear, winding through the courtyard - of a sort, anyway - and veering towards cages lining a shaded passage beneath a rocky outcropping, the tormentors of the souls within standing watch.

Still wrapped in invisibility, the magister continued, his steps purposeful. To his right, a sight he tried to put out of his mind to better focus on the task at hand, the Jailer’s husks were inflicting something upon captive shades, tendrils of domination magic snaking around them, the horrific amalgamations shrieks echoing off the walls. To his left, those rows of cages, most of the souls within recognizable as Azerothian - victims of the Fourth War - winding out of sight in the shadow of the rocky outcropping that sheltered much of the Tremaculum. It was through them that he had to follow the trail. In all likelihood, Ardien was trapped within.

Luminash could feel his grip on the space around himself slipping. His cloak would soon give way, exposing him to the sight of the Jailer’s legions. A lone Mawsworn stood guard over the way forward, the deep shadows behind it a perfect refuge, and it posed little threat while unaware. Drinking from that river of the arcane, Luminash focused on a location nearby - but not too close - perhaps his former vantage point, the lone rock teetering over the abyss. There was a tearing in space as he raised his hands, clasping them and pulling them apart again, and a sound like ripping fabric. In a split second, a portal opened beneath the guard’s feet, and snapped shut again as soon as it had fallen through, a clattering arising from the other end before silence again fell.

Launching himself forward with a blink, Luminash slammed into the stone, slumping against it and letting out a breath he did not know he had been holding. The shroud of light folded around him dissipated. This was going well enough, he thought, even if he had spent this much energy early on. This secret corner would provide a bit of respite. Another thought, and a small chuckle - how the Kirin Tor would grouse and moan if they knew how a portal had been abused!

What would he do when he found Ardien? The Venthyr had acquired a soulkeeper, a Broker device, for the magister to use, to bring the broken spirits of the Maw back to aid in restoring Revendreth. He thought, wryly, that he might just know which Broker was responsible for this deal. He had no illusions that they were still keeping tabs on him. The device itself, a white crystal not too much larger than his hand, could only hold a few souls at once. What if others were trapped too? He could not leave them behind. But he must, if need be. You cannot save them all, he repeated to himself, a refrain in his mind, melancholy yet ringing with surety.

Heavy thoughts weighing him down, yet light with purpose, Luminash began to slowly, carefully, make his way along the walls, always keeping close, and winding by cage after cage, ebon-clad tormentor after tormentor. He repeated to himself, blinking from refuge to refuge, you can’t save them all. Not today. The trail, the traces of Ardien’s anima, continued through the passage and out the other side, winding down steps. He was not in one of the cages after all, it seemed. Though this should have been a relief, Luminash’s stomach turned. There was no relief in the Maw. Wherever he was being held, it could only be worse.

Another drink of the river, another shroud cast over the magister’s body as he slipped down the steps. The path continued into a doorway carved in the stone face, its frame that same dark, bleak metal as the rest of this infernal architecture. The anima was stronger now, its source closer, and something told Luminash, in pain. He had another flash before his eyes of his chief digger scrabbling in the muck, a wave of panic in the face of the inevitable. It was enough to shake his concentration, and shatter his illusion. He slumped forward outside the door, looking up to see one of the armor-clad Mawsworn before him.

The sentry lashed out before Luminash fully understood what was happening. His reflexes, though, saved him from the downswing of its axe, a barrier of pure arcane raised by his own raised hands. The axe struck, a sharp crack, like a rock striking glass, and Luminash grunted with exertion as he channeled that force into his own blast, the barrier folding and striking back against the attacker, sending even a figure as large and imposing as it stumbling back.

Standing on more even ground now, Luminash’s hands and eyes surged with the arcane. One hand rose up, tightening the space around the Mawsworn’s axe, then jerked to the side, the black steel torn away and clattering against the passage’s wall. In what may have been surprise, the armored figure turned, and while reaching for its weapon, was struck again with another arcane blast, the surge overwhelming it and knocking it to the floor too with a crash. The metal encasing the soul fragments swirling within began to buckle and screech as Luminash clenched his other hand into a fist.

The magister strode forward, stepping over the crumpled heap of metal, even as it still tried to reach for its weapon, to no avail, “Do stay out of my way.” His target was still further along, and it seemed that stealth was no longer an option by the sounds of more Mawsworn clattering about ahead, alerted by the shrieking of their fallen sentry’s armor. The air had changed; what once was still had become heavy, oppressive. Something had taken notice.

The hall that wound into the depths of the Tremaculum grew darker as Luminash traveled further from the surface. He wondered, perhaps, if the Mawsworn even needed light to see given their nature. The idle thoughts were shattered by the arrival - he had expected them - of backup for the fallen sentry.

As the first clanking shell of armor rose into view on the steps, Luminash unleashed a burst of power into its chest, sending it flying back and bowling into those following. The crashing of metal on metal echoed off the bleak walls, but the magister paid it little heed. As the Mawsworn scrabbled back to their feet, weapons at the ready, he blinked by their tangled mass and continued on. A wave of his hand to gather the thread, a clench of his fist to knot it, and the sentry’s reinforcements were trapped in a time lock. Not for long, though, Luminash reminded himself. Every second counted now.

The air of oppression continued to grow worse as Luminash delved deeper, quickly discounting any side path or open door beyond which he could not feel the pull of Ardien’s anima. It felt as if eyes were boring into the back of the magister’s neck, peering from somewhere in the darkness - or even through the stone and steel above and around him. The threads that bound the time lock were beginning to slip, he could feel them, the flow of arcane growing thinner and thinner as his distance from his hapless victims grew. As the passage opened into a massive underground chamber, the threads at last snapped. Ardien must be here, or else he would need to make a hasty retreat. His heart had begun to pound as the eyes bored deeper.

Luminash’s eyes grew wide and his heart sank as he observed what lay before him. He had not seen anything like this since the Sunreaver campaign in Icecrown, though this made the Cult of the Damned and the Scourge look like amateurs. The walls were lined with nooks, souls bound in bleak chains, the ashen magic of Domination swirling around them, woven by floating figures in dark robes, the armor worn over those robes looking eerily like the frosty spires of Icecrown itself. The victims of the dark magic were each, from their disparate corners, letting out screams of torment, resulting in a grim chorus assaulting the senses. Grasping at the keystone again and focusing, Luminash could see, at last, clear as day, the trace of Ardien’s anima leading directly to one of the nooks, to one of the bound and shrieking souls.

Amidst the screams, a renewed clinking of Mawsworn armor in the passage leading back to the surface, and the arrival of a dull throbbing in his head from the weight of whatever was watching him, Luminash blinked again, throwing himself forward in a panicked rush towards Ardien’s captor. He pulled his hand back, drawing energy in, then released in a swirling burst that whirled through the air and struck the tormentor, washing over it and breaking the hold the chains held over its unlucky prisoner.

Twisting around - and it was twisting, as if the fabric of the tormentor’s robes had nothing underneath, like a scarf caught in heavy wind - the Mawsworn let out a hiss, a cold rush of air, and released a wave of its own Domination magic. Lashing out, Luminash bent the space between himself and the Mawsworn, sending the ashen cloud harmlessly to the side.

Continuing to close distance, Luminash flung a needle of magic into the tormentor’s chestplate, driving it deep. As power began to radiate from it, causing the Mawsworn to begin clawing at its own chest, the magister called upon a barrage of arcane missiles, striking his foe from all sides. With each blow, the power embedded within built, the crackling energy growing until it could not be contained. The breastplate was the first to split open, spilling out blinding white arcane power. Another hiss of air and the Mawsworn’s helm split with a loud crack. The thrashing did not last long, as a final burst from within tore the fabric of its robes apart, and the debris fell to the ground, motionless.

Stepping forward, breathing heavily, Luminash at last reached his goal. Kneeling, he reached out a hand towards the tortured soul. Since the chains of Domination had failed, it had ceased its pained utterances, and only remained motionless, hanging in the air. It bore no resemblance any longer to a mortal, only retaining a tattered, shredded form.

“Ardien?” Luminash ventured, voice low. He tried to project an air of hope, of comfort, but he could not help his voice cracking. His charge, and his failure.

The soul remained silent for what seemed an eternity. The echoing shrieks remained, their tortures continuing. At last, it spoke, “It is...over? Magister Dawnwing?”

“It is. They can do no more harm.”

“Good. The Alliance’s...dishonorable attack…” The spirit struggled, as if having trouble finding either the words or the voice with which to speak, “Has been...repelled?”

Luminash’s heart sank, and he struggled to keep his voice even and calm, his face steady, “It...has.” Did this shattered remnant of his crew even know he had been slain?

“Will we be able to… We will be continuing our work, Magister?” What was left of Ardien shuddered, its edges beginning to fray and grow fuzzy.

Clenching his jaw, Luminash nodded, “We will begin again at dawn. The Reliquary is...very much looking forward to what we will turn up.” He reached for the soulkeeper, slowly.

“It should be a...good day. We had a promising lead before...the fog came. I can only hope they did not...trample…” Another shudder, “Magister… It is still so...cold.”

Luminash forced a smile and shook his head, “The sun has yet to rise. But it will, do not fear.” He held the soulkeeper out towards the rapidly degenerating spirit, “And I went out as soon as the Alliance was driven off. The site is secure. They might…” He cleared his throat, “The Reliquary may even consider a commendation for your efforts, Ardien.”

A note of happiness soared in the spirit’s raspy, hissing voice, even as its form began to collapse entirely, “Oh? That is… That is wonderful… Wonderful news, Magister…”

As it uttered its final word, trailing off in an echoing magister, the soul - or what remained after the Mawsworn’s torture - was drawn into the soulkeeper, and Luminash was left once more alone with the screams of torment pounding upon his ears.

His ears perked at the sound of metallic steps behind him. So the guards had tracked him down - he knew they would. The weight of the Jailer’s eye had only grown while he had spent these final moments with the last remnant of his Nazmir crew, so much that he found it hard to stand, soulkeeper in one hand, keystone in the other.

He turned, haltingly, to face the Mawsworn now approaching. Holding the keystone before him, he managed a dry laugh and shook his head. Already in his mind’s eye was the soul anchor, that column carved in the patterns of the First Ones. He closed his eyes, and let go.

“Not today. Don’t worry, I am certain you’ll have another chance.” So he spoke, and then he was gone.

#story #wow #shadowlands #wages of sin

11 notes · View notes

wizardofrozz · 4 years ago

Text

The Perfect Pair

Warnings: swearing, violence, angst, blood

Pairing: Loki x OFC

A/N: I hope anyone reading this story is enjoying it so far! I also wanted to mention how grateful I am for the number of followers I have. You’re all wonderful and I appreciate every one of you! ❤ I didn’t even realize that I’m almost to 150 and it may not sound like a lot but it means the world to me 😘. I would love to hear from you guys more or about any ideas but more importantly I want to say thank you and you’re all amazing!

_____________________________________________________________

Chapter 14: Goddess of Death

I stood behind Loki at the door of the ship, closing my eyes as the wind whipped against my face. The ship steadily crept closer to the bridge, still concealed by the thick cloud of fog rolling in; I could faintly see Asgardians fighting off the rotting soldiers. I chanced a look at Loki, a smile pulling at my lips; his battle helmet twinkled softly when any light hit it. “Your savior is here!” Loki yelled, his arms outstretched, grinning like an idiot. I shook my head, fighting off a laugh as the ship broke through the fog, jolting to a stop next to the bridge. The ramp extended to the pulsing bridge filled with Asgardians; Loki and I walked off the ship towards the frightened group. “Did you miss me?” Loki smirks, pushing into the crowd. “Everybody on the ship, now.” Asgardians start pouring onto the ship without another word, rebels attempting to direct them as they made their way up the ramp. Loki and I caught sight of Heimdall near the front of the group and quickly made our way to him. “Welcome home, you two. I saw you coming,” Heimdall smirks briefly. “Of course you did,” Loki sighs. “Let’s go,” I said, taking a step towards the hordes of Berserkers. A smile crept onto my face as a long sword materialized in my hand, reminding me of my days fighting for Asgard all those years ago. We push forward together, slashing through Hela’s army with ease. To my surprise, I notice how easily Loki and I moved around each other, having never fought side by side like this. I ducked as Loki slashed through a Berserker over my head; sliding around Loki, I sliced the knees of another minion out as I stood straight again, pressing my back against Loki’s. Our movements like a dance, dipping and spinning together in sync until we cleared the immediate area. I stood with my back to Loki, I felt the horns of his helmet brushing against my shoulder. I glancing behind me, finding him kneeling, breathing deeply. “How did we just do that?” Loki laughed, climbing to his feet. “We definitely could’ve killed each other on accident,” I laughed, taking my place at his side to continue forward. “Oh yeah, one wrong move, and I’d have impaled you,” Loki agreed, laughing. My gaze shifted towards the sky, noticing the darkening clouds steadily moving over the castle. “Loki,” I muttered, my hand shaking as I pointed at the sky. “Oh boy,” Loki mumbled. As the seconds passed, I could feel the electricity already crackling in the air intensifying; I noticed the faint funneling of electricity moving towards the outline of figures standing on a castle balcony overlooking the rainbow bridge. Come on, Thor. I stood next to Loki, tense, as I watched the billowing clouds grow darker, twisting and swirling angrily above the balcony. It was so quick and so intense, my brain couldn’t process anything other than the world-shattering lightning bolt exploding from the sky; a limp body was thrown from the castle, disappearing into the water below with a painful crack. I dared to look at Loki, my heart soaring when I saw the proud smile lighting up his face. The blinding light descending on the Bifrost bridge pulled my attention from Loki; my eyes widen when my gaze fell on the God of Thunder, wrapped in pulsing electricity, exuding power as he gracefully landed on the other end of the bridge. “Let’s go,” I managed, urging Loki forward as another hoard of Berserkers ran at us. Loki and I fell into an easy rhythm again, bobbing and weaving around each other, tearing through Hela’s minions with ease. I glanced towards the ship again, catching a glimpse of Heimdall ushering people forward; a glint of silver crossed my vision from behind the group, but the roaring below the bridge yanked my attention away. The mixed roars from Hulk and Hela’s beast, Fenris, assaulted my ears; the urge to cover them was almost too intense, but the sight of more Berserkers forced me to push on. Mercilessly slashing through Hela’s forces, we managed to help thin out the army, eventually meeting Thor halfway. I sliced through the neck of the last minion, watching its head roll away, panting; panic slammed into me when I realized Loki wasn’t standing behind me. “You’re late,” I faintly heard Thor say. I turned around, breathing a sigh of relief when my eyes landed on the dark cloak rippling softly next to Thor. “You’re missing an eye,” Loki’s faint voice soothed the worry prickling my skin. I jogged towards the brothers, panting heavily when I reached them, raising a brow at Thor’s scorched eye socket; the longer I looked, the harder it was to contain the grimace and shutter. Before I could stare at Thor’s missing eye any longer, a sharp whistle from somewhere behind me pulled my attention away. Relief washed over me when Bea walked into my line of sight, approaching slowly. A wave of nostalgia washed over me when I recognized the storm cloud shade of gray she was wearing; her Valkyrie armor reminded me just how amazing my friend is. I watched her trudge closer, limping slightly, pressing a hand to a cut on her arm. Now that the immediate attack had slowed, I started to feel the fatigue creeping in; the intensifying sting of cuts all over, the ache of muscles I didn’t know I had, and bruises forming, weighed heavily on me. My heart ached when I looked at Loki, noticing the same looking crossing his face as his body started to sting, burn, and protest. Thor was the only one that seemed to be faring better than the rest of us, and I had to refrain from cussing him out. “This isn’t over,” Bea huffed, faintly nodding towards the end of the bridge. Hela was strutting down the bridge towards us and, more importantly, towards the ship full of innocent Asgardians. I knew I should be scared or worried as she got closer, a devilish smile on her lips, but I could only manage the intense rush of irritation towards the Goddess of Death. “Fuck me, can’t she just give up,” I groaned, letting my head drop. “I think we should disband the Revengers,” Thor grunted, his eyes never leaving his sister. “Hit her with a lightning blast,” Loki offered feebly. “I just hit her with the biggest lightning blast in the history of lightning. It did nothing,” Thor panted, sounding desperate and angry. “We need to hold her off until everybody’s on board,” Bea reminded, glancing at the ship. “Heimdall’s trying to get them moving faster, but the ramps only so big,” I elaborated, dread seeping into my bones as I watched Hela continue her advance. I glanced at Thor, catching the pain look on his face as he watched the hoard of Asgardians filing onto the ship. “It won't end there. The longer Hela's on Asgard, the more powerful she grows. She'll hunt us down. We need to stop her here and now,” Thor ground out. “What’s our move?” Bea straightened her stance, wincing momentarily but rolled her shoulders, pushing through the pain. “Come on, Your Highness. What are you thinking?” I shuffled in place, shaking out the soreness, spinning my sword, preparing to fight again. “I’m not doing ‘get help,’” Loki deadpanned. Loki twisted his neck side to side, groaning at the faint popping before a full-body shiver ran through him. Thor didn’t seem to be listening, his attention flicking between Hela and the palace behind her; a few agonizing seconds passed before he finally spoke again. “Asgard’s not a place; it’s a people,” Thor mumbled, a knowing smile pulling at his lips. “This was never about stopping Ragnarok...it was about causing Ragnarok.” Thor spun on his heels, catching the rest of us off guard; Loki tensed when Thor’s gaze fell on him. “Go to the vault. Surtur’s crown. It’s the only way,” Thor ordered. “Bold move, brother. Even for me,” Loki noted, seeming almost impressed. Loki moved to walk away but stopped short, his hand gripping my upper arm tightly. “Be careful.” Loki hauled me forward, crashing his lips against mine in a bruising kiss that lasted only a few seconds. “You too,” I croaked, trying to smile at him. Loki shallowed thickly, squeezed my arm once more before taking off towards Grandmaster’s abandoned ship. “Shall we ladies?” Thor asserted. Bea and I turned at the same time, locking eyes, before nodding once, a small smile on her lips. “After you,” we chorused. Bea and I stood back, waiting to provide backup, as Thor surged forward, attacking Hela violently. Hela materialized a dangerous black sword, taking a swing at Thor with no luck. Thor pulled electricity out of thin air, landing blow after mighty blow, looking powerful and God-like. For a moment, I could swear I saw even more power building through their bodies; each attack was faster, stronger, more deadly as Asgard continued to feed them power. Bea and I jumped into action when Hela rammed a blade through Thor’s shoulder, quickly slipping around him towards the giant ship behind us. Hela blocked my swing, sending me sliding across the bridge as Bea descended on her; the hum of an engine approached, the droning noise passing under the bridge. This is madness. Loki’s thoughts suddenly bounced around my head, forcing an obscene laugh to burst from my lips. "Sorry," I mumbled when Bea shot a glare over her shoulder before blocking another hit from Hela, straining against the Goddess’s strength. I scrambled to my feet, noticing Thor joined the fight again, attacking Hela with inhuman force, yelling in frustration. My eyes widened, instincts kicking in just in time to knock the blade soaring towards the ship out of the air. I checked on the boarding progress only for my anxiety to spike when I realized Hela had been pushing us closer and closer to the ship. Heimdall and Korg, carrying another creature, scrambled up the ramp, leaving the once crowded bridge empty. Another blade flew towards me; I hissed when the edge sliced through the meat of my leg, knocking me off balance; Bea bounced off the bridge a few feet from me after being thrown. “GO! GO NOW!” Thor screamed desperately, dodging the spears cutting through the air. Bea and I wearily fought to get to our feet again, groaning in pain; Thor’s pained scream broke through the cloud of exhaustion hanging around my head. The ground beneath my feet rumbled as Hela lifted her arms, a splintering shard of something that reminded me of black tourmaline shot out of the water, piercing the platform of the ship. “No,” I croaked, stumbling towards Hela. She caught my sword mid-swing, smiling wickedly as a blade appeared in her hand. I pulled on the sword to no avail when the tip of a blue blade pierce through Hela’s chest, making her release my blade. “Not today, bitch,” Bea growled, using her foot to push Hela off her blade. My head snaps towards the ship at the eruption of gunfire; Skurge plowed through Berserkers like it was nothing, bringing a smile to my face. Hela advanced on him, leaving Bea, Thor, and I behind, panting heavily, watching the giant ship straining against the spike holding it in place. Skurge only made it a few steps before a black blade punctured his chest; I swallowed the surprised gasp threatening to burst out. Bea charged Hela again only to be backhanded away, skidding across the bridge; Hela stalked closer to Bea, who crawled towards her Dragonfang. With the Eternal Flame, you are reborn. “With the Eternal Flame, you are reborn,” I spoke allowed as I heard Loki’s thoughts push into my mind. Thor peered up at me, nodding before slowly getting to his feet, stopping on one knee to pull the spear from his shoulder. “Hela! Enough!” Thor shouted. Hela reluctantly turned, dropping Bea as she watched Thor set his sword on the Bifrost bridge. “You want Asgard? It’s yours,” Thor stated honestly. “Whatever game you're playing, it won't work. You can't defeat me,” Hela spat back, a smile forming on her face. Thor stood with his hands on his hips, his chest dramatically rising and falling as he tried to catch his breath. “No…” Thor huffed, gesturing with his thumb towards the castle. “...but he can.” Surtur exploded through the castle, melting the metal with barely a touch, a wave of heat rushing across Asgard. “No, NO!” Hela screamed, rushing past me towards the castle. “Vi!” Bea shouted, getting to her feet. As she ran at me, I caught on, dropping to one knee and cupping my hands, pushing Bea higher into the air as she jumped. Bea slammed her Dragonfang through Hela’s chest, using her momentum to bury the blade into the bridge. I stumbled towards her, throwing Bea forward as Thor channels electricity through the blade, sending fissures through the bridge. Hela tumbled through the air, landing in the water below, assaulted by the falling debris on the way down. “Come on,” I groaned, teleporting myself to Bea’s side. Looping her arm over my shoulder, I helped her to her feet, squeezing her shoulder with a smile. “The people are safe. That’s all that matters,” Bea forced out, panting as she steadied on her feet. “We’re fulfilling the prophecy,” Thor mumbled, watching Surtur destroy the market. “I hate this prophecy,” I grunted, earning a laugh from Bea. “So do I, but we have no choice. Surtur destroys Asgard, and he destroys Hela so our people can live.” Thor takes a deep breath, a pained look settling on his face as the three of us watched our home be destroyed. “We need to help him finish-“ Thor broke off his eyes, following something in the sky. “No!” Hulk lands on Surtur’s face with such force he surprised Surtur, sending him stumbling back a step. “Hulk no! Stop it, you moron!” “Apparently, someone forgot to tell Hulk the plan,” I chuckled. Bea snorted, covering her mouth to hide the laughter when Thor shot us both a death glare. Hulk was thrown, bouncing a few times when he hit the bridge; ignoring his smoldering skin, Hulk tried to get to his feet again. “Hulk, just for once in your life, don't smash!” Thor bellowed. “But…big monster,” Hulk whined. “Hulk! Let’s go,” Bea called. Hulk looked back and forth between Surtur and us, deeply debating on what he should do. “Come on, big guy!” I yelled, smiling. “Friends,” Hulk hummed, pulling the three of us into a tight hug. Before I knew it, we were flying through the air towards the ship; I bit my tongue to avoid screaming in Bea’s face. We landed on the platform with a soft thud, my anxiety melting away; Hulk squeezed us one more time before releasing us. Thor stumbled into me, almost knocking me back off the ship, but somehow, he grabbed the back of my neck to pull me away from the door. “Thanks, killing your sister-in-law probably isn’t a good idea,” I jested, smiling up at Thor, who snorted around a laugh. “Loki would be pretty pissed,” he laughed, squeezing my neck before releasing me. As the adrenaline started to fade, panic set in instead; I frantically looked around, hoping to see the familiar black curls somewhere in the crowd. Loki, where are you? I reached for him, my heart pounding as the seconds flew by. My stomach was doing somersaults as I waited to hear Loki answer.

_____________________________________________________________

Series Masterlist | Chapter 15

Taglist:

@criminalyetminimal @marvelfansworld

6 notes · View notes

lunarsaga · 4 years ago

Text

EPISODE 2: Angel Among Demons

HOLY SHIT THIS BITCH IS LONG, HAVE FUN Y'ALL~ a very quick note, I wanted to work in more of Luna being bilingual, so when you see [text in brackets like this] that means that she's speaking in english. (This will only happen in her perspective—no one save Kagome will know what she's saying.)

ENJOY!!!

================================

“Luna, please tell me again why you have to go off on your own.” Kagome set her hands on her hips.

Luna sighed as she slung her shotgun holster over her shoulder and held up her sheathed short sword. “Technically I don’t have to. But if you all are stopping to rest, go ahead and rest. I’m just needing some practice with my sword—it’s been a while since I’ve even held a katana.”

“Shouldn’t you save your energy as well?” Miroku asked her. “We have quite a journey ahead of us, it seems.”

Luna shook her head. “I’m too restless to sit around right now. Besides, if we’re headed toward a fight, you’re gonna want me at the top of my game.”

“Just stay close, okay?” Kagome pleaded. “I can sense a demonic aura somewhere in the area.”

Luna tucked her sword into a belt loop on her jeans, offering her sister a little finger gun. “That is what the shotgun’s for, little sis. Don’t worry, I’ll be fine.”

As it turns out, she wasn’t… wrong. But that didn’t mean her little solo workout wouldn’t be entirely uneventful.

She walked a little ways away from where the group was, taking a second to appreciate the surrounding nature. Even back where her dad’s place was—in upstate New York—the forests weren’t quite like this. Not only was the scenery beautiful, but the air was about ten times clearer than she was used to. Truly beautiful.

She found a nice little spot among the trees: a little clearing, mostly clear of rocks or anything she could trip or fall on, and no grass or mud to slip on while she was moving around, just dry dirt. There was a little sapling, just big enough to be a practice dummy while she worked on her form. She dropped her gun out of the way, and shucked off the flannel shirt she was wearing. With that tied around her waist, she was left in just a pair of yoga pants and a tank top.

“Alright girl,” She said, repeating words that had been said to her so many times over the years: “Let’s get to work.”

She wasn’t afraid to admit that she’d gotten rusty. In her era, she only really ever needed her modern weapons; the only reason she even had a Katana was because the rare occasion called for it. Well, this was certainly a situation that called for it.

“Sorry, tree,” she chuckled to herself, “but you’re young, you’ll heal. Life, uh...” She drew her sword, twirling it in a figure eight around her body. “...finds a way.”

It was easy for her to get lost in her training. This often happened when she did repetitive drills or workouts: the movements came rather naturally, so she could zone out and lose herself in it. It might’ve been an hour, could’ve been more than two; she wasn’t sure.

“Fighting with a katana isn’t like what you see in the movies.” That was the first thing her father had taught her when he’d given her this sword—almost ten years prior. “It’s all about moving your feet.”

She sliced an arc through the air, envisioning her sapling opponent swinging a sword as well.

“Strike fast, and dodge faster.”

As the imaginary blade “swung” her way, she ducked the blow, feet sliding across the dirt. She paused for a second, hand extended in front of her and sword raised above her head, parallel to the ground. She smirked, steadying her breathing. She remembered being thirteen and how it felt to actually wield this sword for the first time...

“You and your sister are special,” her father had told her, “you can learn to see with your other senses.”

As a young teen, she’d laughed at that. “Like using the Force? Like a Jedi?”

“Just like that.”

The Jedi thing seemed like a joke at the time. But as she grew older, she learned it was more serious than she could have ever guessed.

“Everything gives off an energy called an Aura. The more powerful something is, the easier it is to sense.”

Before she could swing again, she froze. Speaking of auras, she was picking up on a rather strong one—and it was headed in her direction. She heard no sound—other than the wind rustling through the trees and the occasional call of an animal in the distance—but this strong sense of foreboding was unmistakable. Her ears were burning, and the hair on the back of her neck stood on end as a chill ran down her spine.

A demon, no doubt. And a powerful one at that.

“It’s not enough to sense its presence. Focus. Close your eyes. Where is it coming from?”

Right… over… There!

Without even looking, she whirled and flung her sword directly at the source of the demonic aura. The blade struck something—she heard the thunk—but she didn’t wait to look. She immediately dove for her shotgun, tossed the holster, and caught herself in a roll. She was solidly crouched on her knees and the balls of her feet, with the gun cocked before she looked up at the demon she’d chucked her blade at.

“Thought you could sneak up on me, huh?” She snorted. Then, she actually took in the sight of him.

First of all, her blade hadn’t even come close to hitting him. It was currently embedded in a tree trunk—just barely, it looked like it could fall at any second— about six or seven feet from where the actual demon was standing.

The first thing she noticed about him was the sheer amount of white on his person. Pristine white linen kimono, hakama of the same fabric cinched around his ankles, an enormous (and fluffy-looking) pelt of fur over his shoulder, and silvery-white hair cascading down his back. On top of all that, he wore armor that Luna supposed was meant to be intimidating— but to her, it just looked ridiculous.

And his face. He was positively gorgeous, which was incredibly confusing given that the feeling of dread she was getting from his aura hadn’t gone away. His eyes were a striking shade of gold—but cold as a polar ice cap. He had markings on his face—two magenta on each cheek, and an indigo crescent moon on his forehead.

“You’re in my way,” he said. Even his voice was cold, albeit resonant. “Move.”

For a second, Luna forgot she had a voice. Silent as her lips were, her mind was racing, trying to do the math: What the actual fuck— why is he so pretty? He’s a demon! Demons ain’t usually this damn pretty! Who the fuck gave him permission to look like that— it’s a Tuesday for fuck’s sake!

Almost a solid thirty seconds had gone by, and Luna realized she still hadn’t said anything. Oh, fuck, okay, stop just fuckin’ staring at him and say something, you idiot— so, of course, the most intelligent thing that she could say at that moment was: “...huh?”

Those frigid, golden eyes sparked just the tiniest bit of annoyance. “I said move.”

Her grip on her gun loosened just the tiniest bit, and she straightened up just a little. After a small glance around the enormous forest surrounding them, she made an amused face at him. “What? Dude, there’s a whole forest, just go around me.”

She uncocked her shotgun, stretching her legs to stand up.

“You have quite the audacious nerve for a human.” And he sounded none too happy about that. “Get out of my way.”

Luna sighed, “And you seem to like repeating yourself. I’m doin’ something here, so unless you feel like getting your demonic energy purified today, I’d suggest you take abouuut...” she pursed her lips, pretending to judge the distance with her pointer finger. “Five? Six steps to the right? It won’t be that hard on you, I promise. No one will think less of you.”

Now she was just being facetious, which was more than likely going to cause problems for her in the future—knowing how demons tended to be—but she had absolute faith in her weapon and her own skill. With an aura as strong as his, it wasn’t likely that her sacred salt rounds would do more than wound him, but sometimes that was at least enough to scare off some spirits.

When he didn’t respond, she figured he was just going to swallow his pride and take her advice. She was about to set her shotgun down and go back to practicing, but the Bad Feeling roiling in her gut got worse. It wasn’t just the buzz of a demonic aura anymore, the energy started crackling with even more malice, and she swore there was a sickly smell in the air for a split second before she felt it pop.

Her instincts screamed at her to move, so she spun to the side, almost as if her body moved on its own. What looked like a whip made of pure green light zipped close enough to her that she felt the heat on her cheek. When it didn’t stop, neither did she; she jumped back and nearly fell over backwards trying to bend out of the way of the second snap of the whip. This time, she didn’t hesitate to cock her gun and fire.

The air was still for a second as the shot rang in her ears, tension crackling and fizzling out like the tails of fireworks. When Luna regained her balance, she aimed and pumped again to ready the second shell. No distraction this time, she was aiming straight for his face.

She expected him to be at least a little startled—hell, she could see she’d blasted the end of his sleeve off, and there was a surface burn on his hand from the Sacred Salt packed into her ammunition. His claws were still bared, still glowing green from where he’d lashed at her. What was frustrating, was that he didn’t seem like he was more than mildly perturbed.

“...how did you do that?”

She growled at him: “Sacred Salt, you wanna see it up close? Try me again, fucker.”

“Vulgar.” His voice was flat, but he did finally move… but not to walk around her. He stepped forward like he was trying to inspect her. “You are a priestess, I assume.”

“Nah, I ain’t that pretty and nice,” Luna said, keeping her stance and line of fire. “Call me a Demon Slayer, or a witch if you like. Names don’t matter, the end result will be the same.”

He’d moved to point-blank range, but that horrible feeling in her gut had only grown stronger—her instincts were telling her to run the fuck away, but logic told her the point was moot. She only had one shell left, and the first hadn’t amounted to more than a scrape on him. Even at this range, she’d never do much more than scratch him.

“Whatever name you take matters not to me,” He continued, “regardless. You are still human. And as such you are no match for my power. I will give you one more chance to get out of my way, or you will die.”

There was another tense moment of silence. Luna could feel her heart beating from her ears, to her toes, to the tip of her trigger finger. Resolute as she was—and as much as she so desperately wanted to wipe that calm, detached look off this proud asshole’s face—she knew she wasn’t making it out of here alive if she didn’t stand down. And it’d be kind of a lame-ass thing to say when she got to the afterlife: “How did I die? Oh, I refused to back down from a standoff with a super-powerful demon because I didn’t wanna give him the satisfaction of telling me what to do.”

“Fine.” She huffed, uncocking her gun and stepping out of the way. She sneered at him as she rested the gun on her shoulder. “But not because you told me to. I’m gonna be late for dinner if I don’t head back.”

The air was still thick with tension as she went to grab her sword. She didn’t look back at him, but she was hyper aware of his presence. Thankfully, this time, there was no climactic snapping of the tense energy; as she pulled her sword from the tree trunk, she felt his aura receding. When it was far enough away, she heaved a sigh of relief and let her shoulders relax.

“One of these days, girl, your pride is gonna get your ass killed!”

Luna rolled her eyes as she went back to collect her holster and her katana’s sheath. “I know, Alice,” she muttered to herself.

~ ~ ~

This was why Rin didn’t like humans.

She had only been minding her own business! She needed to eat, so she’d been foraging through the forest like she always did. She didn’t realize that she’d wandered so far away from Master Jaken and Ah-Un until she looked up, arms full of foraging spoils, and realized she had no idea where she was.

She tried to retrace her steps, calling out for Master Jaken and Lord Sesshomaru every once in a while, but it didn’t help. She remembered passing by a human village before, but she made a mistake in trying to use that as a way of finding her way back to where they had stopped. Because when she passed the village, she was confronted by some men that lived there.

“You’re the one we saw earlier, with those demons!” One of them said, “Child, you should not be living among them!”

Oh no. Rin began to back away from them, but they only drew closer. One of them cut off the path she was walking on.

The one closest to her was looming over her. “You should come with us. Demons are dangerous, you could be killed or eaten!”

“No, I won’t!” Rin said. She might’ve been trembling, but she was firm. “I won’t go with you, and I’m fine on my own!”

“Don’t be silly, you’re far too young!”

“Where are your parents?”

“If you tell us, perhaps we can help you return to them.”

“I don’t need your help.” Rin kept backing away, hoping to put enough distance between herself and the men. She clutched the little bundle of food closer to her and prepared to run. “Leave me alone!” Valiant as her attempt to escape was, it was still in vain. The one closest to her grabbed her arm, and she accidentally dropped her food. She tried to struggle away from him, but his grip was too tight.

“Let me go!” She yelled, tears pricking her eyes.

“You should be living with your own kind, girl!” the villager said, “You belong with humans!”

“OI.”

That was a new voice. Rin stopped pulling, and the villagers all turned their focus to the newcomer: it was a woman—human, as she appeared to be. Her black hair was tied up in a ponytail, and she was dressed strangely; black garb, and skin-tight like a ninja’s. She had something that looked like a very short, strangely-patterned kimono tied around her waist. In her hand was a short katana, and she carried what Rin thought looked like one of those matchlock guns on her back.

A samurai? Rin guessed. If she was, she was dressed really strangely. No armor, either? Maybe she really was a ninja.

The woman’s hazel-brown eyes narrowed at the village men. “Is there a problem here, gentlemen?” She held her hand out, gesturing to Rin. “Let the girl go, or we’re gonna have issues.”

What an odd accent. Rin looked up at the man, hoping he’d listen and let her go. No such luck yet.

“This doesn’t concern you, woman,” the man said. Rin could swear she saw a twinge of anger in the woman’s face when he called her that.

“This child was residing with demons!” One of the others joined in.

The woman arched an eyebrow. “So what? You her father?”

“No—”

“Uncle?”

“....no.”

“Caretaker?”

“No.”

“Then it ain’t much of your business either, now is it?” The woman crossed her arms, leveling a stare that could mow down a forest. In an instant, her expression changed as she shifted her eyes to Rin and gestured with her sword. “C’mere, honey.”

The man holding her wrist looked like he wanted to object, but Rin took the opportunity to rip her arm free and run away from him. She did not like humans, not in the very least. Humans were horrible, and these men were no different. But this woman—her eyes were soft, and she squatted down to Rin’s height when she stood next to her, her posture non-threatening.

“Did they hurt you?” She asked gently.

Rin stared at her a second, folded in on herself. “...No…”

“You know these guys? Are they from your village?”

Rin shook her head. “I don’t have a village…”

The woman nodded, processing that before asking: “You have someone taking care of you, sweetie?”

Cautious, Rin paused a second. It seemed this woman wanted to help her—but… she was still a human. Rin didn’t trust humans. There might’ve been something about her that was different. This close, Rin could see her eyes better: they weren’t just hazel brown, they just looked like that from far away. Most of the color was a cool brown, but right around her pupils, she had flecks of gold that took the shape of crescent moons.

Was she really a human with eyes like that? Lord Sesshomaru had golden eyes… and the crescent moon on his forehead! Perhaps she wasn’t a human after all—or she wasn’t a full human, at least. That settled it; she was definitely more trustworthy than most humans.

Rin smiled a little as she answered her: “Yes… I have Master Jaken and Lord Sesshomaru.”

Her savior nodded and smiled, then she stood to face the village men again, blocking them from Rin. “Alright, you all can head home. This girl is obviously spoken for.”

“By demons!”

“Are you mad?!” the one that grabbed her demanded. “She is in danger!”

“Probably,” the woman said. “But look at her. She’s unhurt, she’s obviously able to feed herself, and the only ones I see endangering her is you three. So scram.”

“How dare you talk back!”

Rin flinched as the leader reached out and smacked the woman across the face. She started shaking again, but this time it was from anger. “You can’t hit a girl like that!”

“Don’t worry, kiddo.” The woman’s voice was low. She cracked her neck, rolled her shoulders, and untied her odd kimono from around her waist. She turned around, set her weapons down, and held out the kimono. “Hold this for me?”

Confused, Rin nodded and took the garment, surprised at the soft, warm fabric. She watched as the woman turned back to the villagers once again.

“Alright, boys,” she said, cracking her knuckles as well. “Just remember… you hit first.”

The leader had no chance to figure out what she meant before she swung back and punched him square in the nose (Rin tried not to laugh). The other two shouted and lunged at her, but she kicked one in the side of his knee and smacked the other in the face with her elbow. When the first one went down, the second came back and tried to grab her, but she flipped him over her shoulder as easily as if she were lifting a sack of beans. The leader had fallen to his knees, cradling his bleeding nose. The woman stood before him, crossing her arms.

“Hope you’ve learned to leave young girls alone,” She said flatly, “If you haven’t, I’ll be back.” Without waiting for a response, she turned back to Rin, her face softening again. “Sorry you had to see that, honey.”

Rin shook her head, blinking wide eyes up at her as she held out the kimono. “...Are you a ninja?”

She laughed. “What? No, no, not a ninja. Just good at fighting. Thanks for holding my shirt for me.”

Shirt? Was that what that was called? This person was incredibly odd, but still; Rin was very grateful for her. She went to go gather her food up again, as the woman tied her “shirt” back around her waist and picked her weapons back up.

“Now,” she said, holding her hand out for Rin to take, “let’s get you back to your people.”

Rin happily took the outstretched hand. “Okay!”

“What’s your name, kiddo?”

“I’m Rin!”

“Nice to meet ya, Rin. My name’s Luna.”

~ ~ ~

“Rin! Where on earth have you been?!”

Well, that was the shrillest voice Luna had ever heard. And it came from—what the fuck was that?!

“Master Jaken!”

...well. Sure, when she’d heard this little kid was “residing among demons” from those limp-dick douchebags from the neighboring village, she didn’t expect to be returning her to someone who looked like your average human. But when Rin mentioned she recognized where they were, she definitely didn’t expect to be greeted with the sight of a little demon that looked like Kermit The Frog’s ugly step-cousin.

And yet, Rin spoke to him like he was an uncle. “Sorry, Master Jaken! I went to find something to eat, and I almost got taken by humans from that village!”

“WHAT?!” The little demon shrieked.

“No, it’s okay! Miss Luna helped me!” Rin turned back to look at her with a wide grin on her face, and Luna gave a little three-fingered wave.

“Yo.”

“I thought she was human at first,” Rin went on, “but now I think she might be a demon!”

Luna laughed at that. “What?”

“You foolish girl!” “Master Jaken” chastised her, “That’s no demon!”

Rin looked confused. “Huh? But… she has gold in her eyes, just like Lord Sesshomaru!”

Gods above, this kid was adorable. Luna shook her head, smiling fondly. “I promise, I’m not a demon.” When Rin looked disappointed, she added: “But I promise, I’m not like those guys that tried to take you. I’m one of the good ones.”

She was snapped out of her good mood by a familiar feeling. A demonic aura, another strong one. With her focus on the adorable kid—and the little demon and the horse (dragon?)-looking demon so close—she hadn’t noticed it until she felt it directly behind her. Her grip on her sword tightened, and she hazarded a look over her shoulder. And who should be standing there, but the pompous asshole she’d run into earlier.

Startled, she practically launched herself into the air, shouting: “[JESUS FUCK!]” in English. She didn’t dare draw either of her weapons, just stood out of the way so she wouldn’t be killed.

“Lord Sesshomaru!” Rin greeted him happily.

What the fuck. “[Y… you’re—]” she stopped herself, trying to get her brain to go back to the right language. “[God damnit], you’re her Lord Sesshomaru?!”

“Lord Sesshomaru”, of course, didn’t answer. He just glared at her, likely planning how he was going to murder her. “Rin. Who is this woman.” It wasn’t a question, and those disdainful golden eyes never left Luna.

“This is Miss Luna!” Rin answered. “I was just telling Master Jaken: she saved me from these terrible villagers that were trying to take me away!”

Luna held up her hands defensively, never breaking eye contact with the demon. “Didn’t know she was with you. I just wanted to help her.”

Sesshomaru was silent for a moment, but his glare disappeared and his expression returned to indifference. Luna gave him a nod, a silent (yet contemptfully begrudging) sign of submission. Without another word on the subject, the demon passed her by.

“We’re leaving.” He said to the other two.

Luna made a face at him behind his back, then shook her head. Fuck, this guy pissed her off to no end, and she’d only known him for a little over an hour. The little girl, however, caused her to smile again, and Luna waved goodbye as she turned to leave.

“[What an asshole.]” She muttered, once again in English.

~ ~ ~

Luna had to admit, watching Inuyasha choke on his instant noodles was pretty hilarious. “You did WHAT?!”

“Yeah, this demon lord guy,” Luna said, waving her chopsticks around as she spoke. “Colossal dickhead. I had no idea that this little girl was his—well, not his, but— [dammit, what’s the word for it again…?]”

Kagome pressed her hands together, looking like she was about to burst a blood vessel. “Luna. Do you remember when I told you about Inuyasha’s older brother?”

“Kinda?” Luna said, slurping up more noodles. “Somethin’ about the swords, right? Inuyasha sliced off his arm?”

“Yes. You remember what his name was?”

“Uh…” Luna trailed off.

“Sesshomaru.” Kagome deadpanned.

“What’s this got to do with that assh—” It clicked, and Luna swore her eyes nearly came popping out of her head. “Wait— THAT was the older brother?!”

“Yes! I told you about him, Luna!”

“[Son of a BITCH, Kags!]” Dammit, she had to get better about that. “You know I’m shit with names!”

There was also, of course, the fact Kagome hadn't mentioned that he was fucking gorgeous, but there was no way in hell Luna was gonna say that out loud now.

Sango looked a little worried. “It doesn’t bode well that you just ran into him randomly.”

“Well, it’s not entirely impossible,” Miroku said, “he is searching for Naraku, just like we are. Unfortunately, that means our paths are likely to cross at some point.”

“What’s amazing is that you came out of it alive!” Shippo said to Luna. “He’s crazy powerful, and none too friendly at that.”

“I refuse to believe you just dodged his poison whip like that,” Inuyasha snorted. “He’s way too fast. You woulda been dead meat right then and there.”

“Maybe I’m just faster than you~” Luna teased him.

“You are not, ya damned liar!”

“Or maybe it’s cos I’m stronger—I am taller than you.”

“COME AND SAY THAT TO MY FACE!”

“Guys, not over the food!”

#the lunar saga #inuyasha #inuyasha fanart #inuyasha oc #inuyasha au #fanfic #sesshomaru #rin #kagome higurashi #sango #miroku #shippo

3 notes · View notes

capricornus-rex · 5 years ago

Text

Two Sides of the Coin (9)

Chapter 9: A Sense of Familiarity | Jidné Sheedra x Cal Kestis

Summary: Hell-bent on exacting revenge and retrieving the Holocron, the dreaded Darth Vader is now on the hunt for the young Jedi Knight, Cal Kestis. Under the assumption that he still possessed the artifact, while fueled by the intrigue of the boy’s strength and skill with the Force, the dark lord hires the bounty hunter, Jidné Sheedra, to track him down and have him delivered alive. However, the task becomes a trial for young Jidné, as she faces a conflict that tests her beliefs of a scarred past she had hidden for so long.

A/N: I am way overdue, so so so sorry about this!! ;;A;; I had to recover from yesterday’s COVID-19 testing because I have EXTREME needle phobia, I passed out minutes after being needled. On the bright side, I came out negative of the virus, yaaay!! ^^ Hope you all are staying safe and healthy 💞 Friendly reminder to wash your hands ;3

Also tagging @silver-is-in-too-many-fandoms

Also in AO3

Tags: Fem OC, Jidné Sheedra, Force-Sensitive! Fem OC, Bounty Hunter! Fem OC, Jedi! Fem OC

Chapters: 1 – 2 – 3 – 4 – 5 – 6 – 7 | Previous: Part 8 | Next: Part 10 | Masterlist

9 of ?

Dawn broke and the badlands met the sun’s rays.

The desert animals poke out of their rustic homes to bask in the first few minutes of sunrise—from the tiniest lizard living inside an animal skull to the apex predators emerging out of their dens.

Cal decided to venture out into the badlands as well, it occurred to him that he had only seen the forest and the town—whose name he learned to be Diitana, thanks to BD-1’s diligent scanning from yesterday; he gave the badlands a try.

“I’m sure it’s not that bad,”

“Beeee!”

The Jedi was careful to avoid the eyes of the hulking beast with a pair of great horns on its head and another on the end of its muzzle, a thin mane wrapped around its leather neck, the skin was color ranges from stone gray to a shade of burgundy that matches with the color of the sand or the unique breed of grass in the region.

These giants eagerly protected their turf and grazed at the same time, letting the females and the young play around within their circle. BD-1 leaned forward and forward, until his legs were at the edge of Cal’s armor straps.

“I know you want a scan, BD, but I don’t think it’s a good idea to get close. Those horns look sharp,”

Cal and BD-1 continued their trek, the Jedi had his eyes on the island across the great lake. He squinted his eyes, used his hand as a visor over his brows, and surveyed the distance if it was safe or not. Choosing to walk would take longer as he would go around the road until he reaches the island, swimming wouldn’t be so bad. The water crashed and pulled at his feet, he cautiously dipped his boots into the water to get a feel of the depth; he went further from the shore, then the shallows, and eventually paddled his way through the water.

It wasn’t a long swim, neither was it a short one. He simply kept his eyes on the objective.

The Jedi climbed out of the water and found himself in the island situated in the center of the lake—whose channels branched out and turned into more rivers—the animals that resided there were mere medium-sized vermin, perhaps contesting with the size of the Bog Rats back home in Bogano or the Scazz in Zeffo, but these local animal were completely docile.

“Alright then, I guess you could scan these since it’s safer here… I hope,”

“Wooo-wooop!”

The tiny white droid hopped out of Cal’s shoulders while the boy wrung the water off of his shirt and shook his legs dry. Meanwhile, little BD-1 skittered left and right, ahead and back, flashing his blue scanner lights at anything that won’t jump and attack him for the sake of standing too close. He even managed to scan a skull of the same beast back in the mainland.

“Oh, so that big thing’s called the Uroda,”

“Beee-woop!”

“Yeah, I agree. Best we take a look around, you go on ahead and scan around—just be careful,”

With Cal’s permission, BD-1 scanned whatever and wherever he pleases; meanwhile, the boy explored the islet which was significantly big for one, nevertheless it fascinated him. Something lured Cal and so he brushed his way through a patch of tall reeds, leading to the other side; when he pushed down the grass that was blocking his view, it was too little too late for him to realize that it’s become his undoing.

A Haxion Brood hunter was idling on the other side of the island. He heard the rustling of the reeds and anticipated the Jedi—for all that hunter knew, it could have been an animal, yet he was full of conviction that it was Cal. Before the boy brushed away the grass that draped him for protection, the hunter flicked the safety of his rifle and rested it on his shoulder…

Until Cal found him—or the other way around.

“There ye is, Umah!” the hunter snarled and squeezed the trigger, Cal dodged the shot by an eyelash.

The hunter was accompanied by another human with cybernetic limbs, apparently named Umah, only this time the second one donned a jetpack—making him extremely inconvenient for the boy.

“Aww, too easy to kill, innit, Pavo?!” the second bounty hunter, a rough-voiced female, barked.

With the push of a button, Umah went flying off the ground with her jetpack—literally having the high ground and the advantage, her flight lessened Cal’s odds of winning this skirmish, which somewhat boosted her confidence that she and Pavo would get the bounty for the Jedi.

“We’re not done yet!” Pavo snarled and tossed a flashbomb, he cloaked his eyes with his gauntlet while Umah flew a bit farther from the blast radius.

The din of the skirmish didn’t reach far in the expanse of the badlands, but the faintest sound was enough to alert the right person.

“Beee?” ID-3 inquired after noticing that Jidné paused from gathering desert plants.

“Something doesn’t feel right, ID-3,”

Jidné and ID-3 stared at one another, but she was listening carefully for the sound. The distant echoing of a barrage of blasters made her ears prick up. She lousily stuffed the bushel of plants she’s collected so far and, out of instinct—or perhaps, of impulse—she followed the din of the battle. Jidné hurried to the direction of where the sound was coming from, with every step she took, the louder the sound.

I’m close! I’m in the right track! The fleet-footed bounty hunter thought to herself, leaving plumes of dust at her footsteps’ wake.

It got louder, every minute. Battle grunts could be heard, explosions of bombs popped in her ears, and the humming of a lightsaber sung hollowly in the empty trenches. She’s now close by the island, she kept her momentum was perfectly constant—instead of swimming, she made stepping stones out of the logs and the rocks sticking out of the water until she’s set foot on the island. She arrived unnoticed.

As Jidné ran, she spotted Umah floating about in her jetpack. There was an inclining boulder at the edge of the island, she brandished her lightsaber as she ran over the rock to gain height in order to reach Umah. While the enemy was unaware, Jidné severed the wing of the jetpack, causing it to immediately malfunction and plummet Umah hard to the dust.

Cal was too focused on Pavo that he didn’t noticed that Umah had been incapacitated until her face skidded across the shore.

“UMAH!!!” a startled Pavo exclaimed.

“Mind if I even out the odds?” Jidné blurted, landing flat on the balls of her feet after her jump attack succeeded.

“Jidné! Am I glad to see you!” Cal quipped back.

Umah brought herself up to her feet, even underneath the overhanging rim of her helmet and the mask that covered half of her face—it doesn’t need much thinking to figure out that her fury against Jidné is through the roof, along with her fatally wounded pride of having her face shoved into the sand.

This display of assertion didn’t intimidate the younger bounty hunter, frankly, it excited her more. With Umah’s eyes glued to her, Cal could keep himself busy with the Pavo fellow.

“I’M GOING TO GUT YOU OPEN AND STICK A FLASHBANG IN YOUR INSIDES!!!” Umah roared.

“Oooh!” Jidné mockingly shuddered at the threat, and then gripped tight around her lightsaber hilt. “That’s imaginative of you—even for a crook!”

With the bounty hunter seething with blinding, reckless rage, Jidné has the upper hand. Umah ditched the jetpack and produced a vibroblade from the holster clipped to her belt; upon seeing the weapon, the Jedi girl positioned herself into a defensive stance—anticipating for Umah to come charging towards her to avenge her damaged ego.

While Jidné’s engaged in melee with Umah, switching between kicks and slashes of the lightsaber; Cal is attempting to get a jab at Pavo, who kept himself safe behind his compact shield that folds into his gauntlet. It was tricky for Cal, but he managed to make his own luck by using his Force abilities. The redheaded Jedi anticipated the moment Pavo was open and vulnerable without his shield, and then inflicted Force slow on the enemy—when that tactic was successful, he didn’t spare a second in dawdling and dashed towards the hunter with an overhead strike.

“Come here, you little shit! I’ll have that pretty face delivered to Sorc!!”

“You can see me through that damn roof on your head, you wench?!”

The taunt did it. Umah raises her vibroblade, both hands on the hilt, and makes a running attack on Jidné; the young girl managed to evade the incoming attack, Umah quickly recovered and twirled around to afford another hit—but Jidné denied it in the blink of an eye. The vibroblade’s glow flickered out for a second against the blinding purple gleam of Jidné’s saber.

Jidné pulled away and immediately followed through with a diagonal slash to finish off Umah. The crook’s body thudded lifelessly on the sand, Jidné’s head jerked to the sound of Cal’s cry of pain—Pavo had knocked him down hard using the shield. Thinking fast, she lobbed her saber at his foot—the only body part unprotected from the shield—and gashed his shin, then mustering all her Force energy, Jidné sent out a powerful push against Pavo and sent him into the water.

Both Jedi caught their breaths, Jidné walked up to Cal and was the one to offer him a helping hand this time.

“You okay?”

“Yeah,” he takes her hand and she pulled him up his feet. “Thanks.”

“Don’t mention it. I owe you one after all, from those Bashiji cats the other day,”

“Right,” he nodded, recalling his rescue for her in the jungle.

He absentmindedly fixated his eyes on the girl’s hand and then to her alternately—he recalls the faint ripple of the Force that he sensed the day he landed into Ombari, and that ripple grew until it became stronger the moment he discovered Jidné. There was something unusually warm about her—aside from the fact that she was also once a Padawan and a survivor—Cal simply found it easy to talk to her and that she was easy to be around, despite being someone who carried a similar burden.

At first he thought it was a fluke or a trick, but today otherwise proved it to him. He and Jidné had an uncanny knack of finding each other in the right time—even if they never expected it.

“Um, Cal…”

“Yeah?”

“You can let go of my hand now, pretty sure you can stand without a support,” Jidné weakly chuckled, eyeing on their conjoined hands and then shifting her look back to Cal.

Cal slightly tilted his chin up, his fingers slowly unfurled and his palm slipped away from Jidné’s grasp. He looked away to shield his reddening face from Jidné’s eyes. The boy did all sorts of fiddling across his person just to shake off the awkwardness.

“What brings you here in the badlands?” he initiated, trying to divert her attention from his blushing.

“I was collecting some desert plants and herbs. A vendor in Diitana told me she’d give coin to whoever can bring them to her. And you?”

“Just wanted to take a better look at Ombari,”

Cal walked up to the edge of the island, scooped up a handful of water to splash it on his face; he combed his fiery scarlet locks with his damp fingers as he turned to face Jidné—from her view, the sun perfectly tinged its rays on the sheen of the top of his head, it was like watching fire dance softly. Goosebumps pelted her skin, she could feel them underneath the sleeves of her beige jacket, and the hairs at the back of her neck stood up—her hand impulsively reached for her nape and rubbed it to calm her nerves.

Jidné pensively surveyed the island, “Not bad for an itinerary.”

The two Jedi laughed at the lighthearted joke, they were so caught up with their giggling that they didn’t realize Pavo was still alive. The crook swam upwards, as quietly as possible and caught a glimpse of Cal’s leg; as Pavo neared the surface, his right cybernetic arm clawed its way out of the water and hooked around Cal’s ankle—it all happened within a flash that neither Jedi was able to react against it in time.

“CAL!!” Jidné shrieked, she jumped into the water seconds after Cal was pulled in.

Pavo had his arm wrapped around Cal’s neck, the boy kicked wildly as bubbles foamed out of his nose and mouth while trying to loosen the crook’s arm around his neck. In the blur of the lake’s water, Jidné paddled as fast as she can, apparently Pavo was armed with little turbines on the ankles of his boots to speed up his swimming and she only had her breather on her.

She swam as quickly as she could, her shoulder joints were beginning to ache but she didn’t care, her legs were gradually cramping from the forced paddling until she got closer to them; she pulled in Pavo, who still had Cal in a chokehold, and Cal suddenly headbutted Pavo in the middle of the pull—allowing himself to break free at least a few inches away from the bounty hunter—and then Jidné ignited her saber through Pavo’s chest. The hum of the saber was muffled by the bubbling of the water and she gave a slight push of the body away from her and Cal.

The dead bounty hunter’s arms opened and limped in the water, Cal paddled towards Jidné and gawked at the glowing purple beam—his jade eyes were wide in bewilderment, and then air bubbled plumed out of his mouth, forgetting that he needed to breathe. They both swam to the surface, but Pavo had pulled in Cal so deep that he’s lost most of his breath trying to break free—his hands desperately searched for the breather in his pocket until he found it and attached it to his mouth. His lungs were relieved to finally suck in some air and he was able to keep up with Jidné. Both Jedi sprang out of the water and clutched onto the sand, too tired and heaving to pull themselves up, they dragged their bodies to the shore as they greedily panted for air whilst their droids skittered off of their shoulders to shake off the water that seeped into their bodies.

“How…” Cal gasped. “Your lightsaber… How did you…”

“It’s… ahh…” Jidné heaved, her chest rising and falling. “A modification I made… a long time ago. My master had it too.”

A series of breathing was their only exchange after that.

“Can’t yours work underwater?” she added.

“Nah… doesn’t…”

“I can help you with that,”

Cal turned his head to the side, examining Jidné’s face riddled with water droplets trickling and drawing from her cheekbones and forehead. Tiny rainbows reflected on the beads of water on her skin thanks to the sunlight; he had a glimpse of the silhouette of her profile—the slight parting of her lips, the defined bridge of her nose and the curving scar across her cheekbone.

“You will?”

“Yeah, it’ll come in handy the next time something like that happens to you,” and then Jidné chuckled before uttering her follow-up. “And I won’t be around to save your ass if that happens.”

“Well, I’d rather have you around,”

Jidné shifted her head to her left side, she finds Cal facing up in the sky with his eyes closed as he continues to catch his breath—but his breathing has calmed, the slow rhythm of the rise and fall of his chest disturbed the fabric of his drenched jacket—she spots a little smirk curling at the corner of his mouth that faces her.

Her heart pounded wildly again, so much so that she had to clutch her chest to calm it down—she felt like it would rip through her shirt if it beats any faster. Emotions flooded and then conflicted her with the objective in mind. She bit her lip as she zoned out, staring back at the blue sky hoping to find enlightenment to this confusion—to her dismay, there were only white plumes of clouds hanging above their heads, no answers, no clarity to these feelings that have muddled her ever since she found her sweet, redheaded target.

“Think you could help me modify it today?” asked Cal.

“No problem, but you’re gonna need another crystal,”

“You mean, another kyber crystal?”

Jidné looks at the Cal straight in the eye to prove that she’s not joking and then nodded.

“Well, I guess we’ll have to make a cutting trip to Ilum then,”

Cal groaned, Jidné sensed the disdain in his voice. Going there must feel like a chore—a very cold chore.

“Would you like to come with?” he added.

Taken aback by the invitation, her eyes shifted around, quickly thinking of an alternative. She wouldn’t want to leave the Scarab one planet away—she simply couldn’t leave her baby in the middle of nowhere! Even if she activated the cloaking device on the ship, there’s no guarantee that scavengers or animals would bump into it sooner while she’s gone.

“O-Oh, I don’t know, Cal…”

“Oh, I wouldn’t wanna push it on you. We could still meet after I come back from Ilum, then you can help me modify it!”

“Are you always this… optimistic?”

He lightly chuckled, “Well, you’re the second person to say so.”

Eventually, the two arrived at a stalemate whether or not Jidné comes along with him to Ilum. She told him that she couldn’t leave her ship behind—that was hiding amongst the trenches in the badlands—he understood her side, and so there was a compromise.

Jidné ended up being left behind in Ombari.

“Just promise me one thing,”

“What’s that?”

He took both of her hands into his, and gave it a quick shake before speaking.

“Swear you’d wait for me?”

Her heart jumped. She blinked which prompted Cal to reiterate, constantly assuring her that Ombari was close by Ilum’s system.

“I promise it won’t take much time, so long as you promise me you’d wait for me and you’ll help me,”

His eager, emerald eyes shone brightly right in front of Jidné’s dark, earthen eyes. She can feel his fingers caging her knuckles tighter by the second, she never thought she’d find herself lost in his eyes and that kind, innocent smile. She could feel her heart sinking down and joining her butterfly-filled stomach.

She sighed and pursed her lips, “Okay. I’ll see you soon, then.”

His hands gently clutched her arms and exclaimed happily in reaction to her reply. As a matter of fact, it startled her, but she’s still too prideful to admit that it felt nice. Once again, she felt genuinely wanted or needed—not because they want her to get rid of a target, but for honest reasons such as Cal’s. It almost made her tear up, she couldn’t remember the last time she felt this way.

Jidné almost didn’t want Cal to let go—he didn’t want to admit it, rather he was too bashful to say so—but he did, she sensed the hesitation in his withdrawal and compensated with an awkward bidding of goodbye.

Cal searched for a way out of the island, and then he turned to Jidné as if asking for a hint. She pointed at the same path she took when she got to the island.

“Just a hop, skip, and a jump there, ginger.”

“Thanks, Jidné.”

“You’re welcome… Cal.”

The young bounty hunter watched the boy cross the logs and stepping stones across the river until he landed on the other side and then disappeared out of the badlands.

Oh… Oh joy… the voice in her head groaned.

“Trill, beee!” ID-3 sang in high-pitched notes.

“Ha-ha, real cute, ID-3,”

ID-3 argued with his owner, further insinuating that Jidné is starting to get “attached” to Cal. The droid went as far as using the “Attachments are forbidden to the Jedi” card.

“Whoa, whoa, since when did you pick that up, lil’ guy!?”

“Beee-beep, chirp!”

“Have you been scanning my journals?”

The guilty droid lowed a soft chirp, Jidné chuckled and patted his head, reassuring him that she’s not angry with him, but could’ve just asked her to lay out all her manifests for him to expand his databank. Meanwhile, the conflict within her continues to swirl like a storm—her feelings battled with her sense of duty. As she watched Cal’s figure shrink the farther he goes, all she could think about is the warmth that she gets from him during their interactions and it always drew a little smile out of her.

18 notes · View notes

g1prowl · 5 years ago

Text

start of the “prowl lives” au

also over on ao3 Realization comes gradually to Jazz as he and Prowl meditate. Hope burns between them amidst approaching doom. We've weathered so much, Jazz thinks, a tad desperate. This won't be the end– they're so close! And yet–

"We're gonna need more spark to shield the city from that blast," Jazz says, clamping down on the sinking feeling in the pit of his tanks. Something's wrong. Missing, maybe? A sick dread spins his spark in its case. Incredibly, terribly wrong. No, no, no. What's missing?

The AllSpark floats above them. It shines bright enough to blind, cold and hot. Jazz's plating tingles and fluffs out.

Prowl's EM field withdraws from where it was entangled with Jazz's. Jazz whips his gaze to his teammate, his friend, and Prowl is– is trembling. Gasping to draw air into his vents.

"Can't–" Prowl chokes, then starts again with an awful heave, "Can't… pull in… any more fragments." He hunches, obscuring his facial plating in shadow even as the AllSpark leaves him awash in blue light. "Only–" he chokes again, looking directly into the AllSpark's brilliance. "Only one way," he says with ringing finality.

Jazz watches Prowl in confusion. His armor stops simply being awash in blue light, instead gaining an ethereal glow from within. His face is screwed up against the light yet set with determination. It leaves Jazz breathless in its beauty. And then Prowl's frame shudders and lifts until Prowl is on optic-level with the jagged edges of the Frankensteinian AllSpark.

Jazz's awe freezes in his energon lines, gone and replaced with dawning horror.

The AllSpark glows brighter. Clouds are blown away to leave the sky empty of all except the relic and its tithe.

"Prowl, no!" Jazz screams, on his pedes in the next instant. He reaches a servo out, but Prowl's frame is just out of reach. "We'll find another way!"

Acceptance graces Prowl's fine features as he swivels his helm toward Jazz. His visor dims as if to say No. We won't.

And Jazz… can't accept that.

He leaps before his processor fully catches up with what he's done. Prowl gasps as white servo pulls his pede out of its proper Siddhasana.

The white glow emanating from within Prowl's frame extends to envelop Jazz in its distantly nauseating warmth. Jazz goes weightless with only Prowl's frame to anchor him.

Jazz half-climbs Prowl's frame, floaty and feather-light, maneuvering so that he's in front of his fellow ninja bot. The AllSpark's light limns Jazz in a halo where it shines at his back.

Prowl's face falls as Jazz grips him by the upper arms.

"Jazz," he says, vocalizer shaking, "What are you doing?" He's still radiant in the shade of Jazz's eclipse.

"Finding a way," Jazz whispers, face only inches from Prowl's. Servos run along black plating and golden arrows, tracing seams. They stop at Prowl's own servos.

Heat climbs to uncomfortable levels from the relic. Hot. Bright. Impossible to ignore. Jazz twitches, though he's careful to not let it show in a twist of his mouth.

Prowl's servos unclench as Jazz weaves their digits together. An intimate gesture Jazz longs to savor, but he can't, not now. Yet hopefully later.

If this works. Dear Primus, just let it work.

Jazz ex-vents as he catches Prowl's optics. With Prowl's focus purely on him rather than what's behind him, Jazz parts his chest plates. The spark within spins faster as it's exposed.

Prowl's digits tighten their hold on Jazz's. His optics are wide enough to be seen over the edges of his visor. "You can't possibly mean– intend for us to–"

Another burst of heat nearly melts the plating off Jazz's back. They both wince in the intensity of it.

"Yeah, Prowler," Jazz says, his vents straining. "Prowl. I do. You've got a team. Pit, those mechs are part of why you've even gotten this far! And you– you've got me." Jazz squeezes Prowl's servos. "Trust me here, Prowl. Trust me to help. You gonna get all the way here only to stop accepting help when you need it most? Please," Jazz begs. They gasp with another influx of heat. Jazz's vocalizer goes staticky at the edges. "We'll get through this together like we have in the past. Like we will in the future."

Prowl bites his lip. Then all in a rush, he leans his forehelm against Jazz's, letting their legs brush together as he offlines his optics.

"Together," he whispers. Black and gold plating transforms away. Jazz is bathed anew in blue light, this one an ardent comfort.

Plating starts to melt. That nauseous feeling rises.

Prowl arches forward to meet Jazz's spark with his. Their sparks, their very beings collide in a rainbow lambency they hardly notice.

Both are immediately captivated instead by the effects. It's a wholly new merging of minds, an enveloping intimacy so rarely shared. Jazz feels Prowl's wonder as if it were his own. He's sure that Prowl can feel Jazz's own curious excitement. There's the sense of something solidifying, locking them together. A spark bond. It creates a feedback loop of shared emotion and experience that Jazz would be happy to get lost in, so long as Prowl was exploring it with him.

And just like that, it's over. They both go briefly blind, sparks stuttering where they're merged as one. Their frames drop to the pavement on the roof and they stumble against each other, falling over on shaky struts. Chest plates automatically snap closed to break the connection of their sapped spark bond.

Newly re-formed, the AllSpark falls to the pavement next to them with a crash. Jazz would flinch if he weren't so drained.

Next to him, servo still entwined as Prowl lays on his back, Jazz hears a giggle. One, then another, louder this time. Prowl breaks into full-on peals of laughter, not a little hysterical. It must be infectious because Jazz joins in, then groans as it jostles his aching frame. He settles for taking deep in-vents, reveling in the ability to do so.

Primus. They're alive. They're both alive. And the AllSpark! Repaired, powered-up, and still in Autobot servos.

Prowl wheezes as he calms down. He clutches at his side with his free servo, the swipes it down his face.

"I can't believe you did that," he marvels.

Jazz snorts. "I can't believe you did that!"

Metal scrapes concrete as Prowl shifts like he's going to stand, but he gives up on that a moment later. Silence reigns between them. Jazz lets it drag on. It doesn't feel like his to break.

"Thank you," Prowl says finally, quiet and sincere.

Jazz rolls his helm to look at his… his teammate? Friend? Partner, maybe?

Prowl resets his vocalizer. He's not looking back. "For being with me, I mean. I… needed your reminder."

"Always, Prowler, anything," Jazz replies, meaning it more than he should. Or just enough? Truth be told, he has no idea where he stands in the aftermath of their spark bond. Jazz can let it lie for now. It'd be in poor taste to push Prowl in the state he's in.

"Even so," Prowl says, retracting his servo from Jazz's to lay his digits on his chest. Over his spark. "Thank you."

Jazz's palm feels cold without Prowl's to warm it.

"Shall we?" Jazz asks for want of something to say– something that isn't horribly damning as to the emotions making his sapped spark clench. It was a decision made of defiance of fate and blind hope. Not… well, not that.

"Hm?" Prowl asks.

"Oh, I mean, uh, shall we get back to the others?"

Prowl vents for a moment. He nods. Frames aching, they haul themselves up. Prowl hobbles over to pick up the AllSpark. He holds it almost like a lifeline. Or a ticking time bomb.

"Right," Prowl says. Relief and pain etch his glyphs in equal measure. "Let's go see what our team is up to."

#transformers #maccadam #prowljazz #my writing!#prowl lives au #WOOP #anyways time to not write anything for 2 yrs #jk jk lmao #unless..#😳#WOW this is self indulgent #i have. so many feelings abt this its Wild #but anyway #q

20 notes · View notes

alienspawnwrites · 4 years ago

Text

Laying Hands: Chapter 1

Read on AO3

A False Peace Broken

The sky was a perfect, unmarred plane of blue, not even a hint of cloud. Beneath it, a pristine expanse of green grass extended to the horizon. Every blade seemed new and fresh, without a spot of brown or bare patch to be seen. A simple, one lane dirt road bisected the field. Even the soil of the pathway was rich with color, a mixture of brown, red and orange. A few feet off stood a solitary tree. Other than a slight leftward lean, it too was nearly flawless; it's rough bark unmarked, unbroken branches ending in full foliage, each leaf a dark, vibrant green. It was the middle of a bright, sunny summer's day, and the only shadow in sight was the shade of the lone tree.

Althea stared at the picture, searching for any detail that might have escaped her countless examinations. There was nothing. It was just as mundane and utterly boring as it had always been: an unnaturally perfect photo of a nameless, nondescript place. Still, it was the only thing to look at in the painfully plain room, the only thing of note in her white-washed quarters, so she continued to study it.

The colors seemed too bright, she thought, oversaturated, though she couldn't be entirely sure. It had been years since she'd had even a glimpse of the outdoors. Maybe life outside the structure really was as vivid and colorful as her stale poster. She tried to remember the places and sights of her life before confinement, but the memories were vague and nonspecific. She had taken everything for granted back then, never bothering to stop and appreciate her surroundings or commit much of anything to memory. She couldn't even identify the type of tree pictured before her. She knew a few by name: oak, maple, birch, walnut, but she didn't remember which was which.

Althea's life didn't have trees anymore. It didn't have green grass or blue skies or sunny days. There weren't even any windows to tease her with glimpses of the outside world. Everything here was either white or stainless steel: undecorated and sterile. The only break in the monotonous palette was the blood, and even that had stopped being interesting long ago.

Sitting on the edge of her bed, Althea almost blended in with her surroundings. Her grey sweatpants and tee were both a size too large for her lean frame. She was slightly taller than average, close to six feet tall, and even the oversized pants ended a few inches above her ankle. Below, her feet were clad in simple, worn slippers - the same uninteresting grey as the rest of her outfit. Her complexion was an unhealthy pallid shade of white, translucent along the thin skin of her wrists and inner arms, evidence of her long separation from sunlight. Even her dark brown hair was dull and lifeless. Other than the garish picture on the wall, the only spots of color in the room were Althea's eyes. Their hazel irises bordered on green, flecked with gold and surrounded by a ring of deep, mahogany. She looked ghastly, something not dead but not quite alive either.

She was twenty five years old. She had been here for over ten years, though Althea had lost track of time long, long ago.

The heavy padding of hurried footfalls outside the door to her room roused her from her revelry. She braced herself gripping the edge of the mattress, expecting the door to fly open, but they passed without pause. The sounds of running faded as they continued out of earshot and the room fell back into silence. Still, she looked at the door curiously, dread creeping steadily up her spine. She'd never seen anyone in the building run before. The place and the people who operated here ran like clockwork, everything done with calm, military-like precision.

Something was wrong.

No sooner had the thought occurred to her, than the building shook with the reverberation of a distant explosion. Althea's grip tightened and she held her breath, listening for any sign of what was happening. For a split second there was only silence as debris and dust particles dislodged by the shock wave fell all around her. He poster fell forgotten to the floor. Then the hallway was filled with the commotion of dozens of men running down the hall in the direction of the blast. They shouted at one another, their words indecipherable through the door and walls of her room. Soon the shouts turned to screams, some of fear, some of pain, the heavy sounds of boots making in the opposite direction. Whatever had caused the disturbance seemed to be coming this way.

"Secure the asset!", came a strong voice above the commotion. Suddenly the door to her room was thrown open by a haggard looking guard. His dark grey uniform, standard issue for most of the personnel, was dusty and torn near the shoulder, revealing a steadily bleeding gash. His opposite hand held a large handgun, finger resting on the trigger. He panted a few ragged breaths before addressing her.

"Come with me, NOW," he demanded sharply.

Despite her fear, or perhaps because of it, she got up to follow him without hesitation. For years she had done as these men commanded and now, amongst the confusion and chaos, did not seem like the right time to start being defiant. She hadn't taken more than two steps towards him when, with a flash of blue light, he disappeared swiftly from view, sent sprawling down the hall by some unseen force.

He was quickly replaced by another armed and uniformed man. He didn't pause to order her to follow, instead he gripped her forearm roughly, dragged her out of the room, and started quickly down the hall. They were joined by three more men in quick succession. Together, the four of them surrounded her as they escorted her with speed away from the sounds of combat.

She struggled to keep up, tripping over her ill-fitting slippers and she was pulled along. As they turned a corner, Althea heard someone gaining on them, but the man's vice-like grip kept her stumbling forward, preventing her from turning around.

She heard the sound of something flying through the air, a flash of red and blue, and then all four men were on the ground, the leader's hold on her arm dragging her down with them. She struggled free and braced herself for whatever assault was sure to come.

When nothing happened, she cautiously turned to face the assailant. Since the explosion, countless images of soldiers or terrorists or even simple thugs had raced through her mind. None of her imagined invaders came close to the assembled group that stood before her.

A metal man, gleaming gold and fire engine red, hovered a few feet off the ground, small blue flames from his hands and feet keeping him aloft. Beside him, a masked man held a large round shield, presumably the object Althea had witnessed take down her escort. His outfit was glaringly patriotic: red, white, blue, starred and striped all over. The other two members of the odd quartet were dressed rather normally compared to the first pair, both dressed in simple, dark outfits. The woman brandished a pair of pistols; the man an unassuming bow with an arrow nocked and ready to fire.

"Keep an eye on her. We'll finish clearing the floor," the shield bearer addressed the archer. "Don't let anyone by." Without waiting for an answer, he ran past Althea and around the corner, the remaining two following close behind.

Althea's assigned guard positioned himself near the corner, allowing him a clear view down both hallways. He spared her a passing glance, but said nothing. He maintained his silent vigil, arrow at the ready, until his three companions returned.

"Looks like everyone's cleared out. They left a pretty obvious trail. Fury's gang should be able to round up most of them." The armored man's voice had a metallic ring as he spoke.

"Seems like she's the asset from S.H.I.E.L.D.'s intel," the woman gestured to Althea, gun still in hand. Althea started a bit as the weapon waved towards her. "We found a pile burnt documents, and it looks like someone's wiped all the hard drives. Whatever they were doing here, whatever they were doing with her, they didn't want us to find out."

All four turned to look at Althea, still cowering on the floor, surrounded by unconscious uniformed men. Three pairs of eyes scrutinized her. The metal clad mask was unreadable.

"Who are you?" Thea breathed, finding her voice. Had these four costumed strangers really cleared the entire facility? More importantly, were they here to hurt her? She had gotten so used to being surround by armed guards that she'd forgotten they carried weapons for a reason.

The faceplate of the metal suit retracted, revealing a middle aged man with a neatly cropped goatee. He looked at her suspiciously, clearly surprised at her question. "We're the Avengers, kid." He said it like it was the most obvious thing in the world. Thea didn't react. "Earth's mightiest heroes?", the man offered, as if trying to jog a memory he was confident she had only temporarily forgotten. Althea's only response was a quizzical look. He scoffed, turning to the masked soldier beside him. "I think I'm actually a little offended."

The other man let out a quick, amused huff before addressing the thoroughly perplexed woman on the ground. His eyes were soft, and he gave her an easy, kind smile. "We're the good guys," he clarified, and held out his hand to help her up.

#loki #loki fic #loki x ofc #loki x original female character #loki x oc #fanfic #fan fiction #fanfiction #loki fanfic #first chapter #laying hands #slow burn #slow build #romance #angst

2 notes · View notes

princess-of-france · 5 years ago

Photo

MARGOT The trumpet sounds. The battle is upon us. My lady—good Montjoie, as I should say— The time is struck. We must away to safety, Or stay for certain doom. I prithee, come! Think of the King, whose comfort must derive From thy reportage.

CATHERINE Thou shalt deliver all my news to him And to the Queen. Myself will keep the field. Rebuke me not. Today my world is here, Impossible to leave as lose my fear.

MARGOT ‘Tis not thy fight.

CATHERINE Ay, but it is, Margot.

(Henry V, Part 2; Act IV, scene iii)

CONSTABLE What trumpet’s that?

CATHERINE The English rally forth.

CONSTABLE Again! They mock us with their repetition: Another blast, another thousand dead. Is ‘t not enough to win, but they must force The bloody rag of victory all down Our throats that we die choking on the word, “Surrender”?

GRANDPRÉ Beshrew the tongue that utters it!

CATHERINE Yet must be spoken.—Send a messenger With all approving haste unto the English, Nay even to the bosom of their leader; Congratulate his rightful victory, (However wrongfully he came upon ‘t) And bid him gloriously his thousand bows, His armor, and his flesh-devouring swords Lay down. Tell him we do surrender us Unto the mercy of the English, if Such mercy doth or ever could exist. Go to, sirrah. Dost not perceive our fate?

GRANDPRÉ God pardon me to live and cry “too late”! That which the soul consents not to endorse Is not the scourge of fate, but heavenly trial.

CONSTABLE A noble thought.

CATHERINE And wouldst condemn a thousand yet unslain To sacrilegious rites in bloody mire? Find out a messenger.

CONSTABLE Ay, do it, man.

GRANDPRÉ Her woman’s folly doth excuse her fear, Yet burns a Frenchman’s spirit in me still.— Sound the alarm.

Alarum.

CATHERINE What hast thou done? Our countrymen cannot Sustain the fight. Their deaths are on thy conscience.

GRANDPRÉ What color is the sky? Is it not blue? Lies not today upon the English king?

CONSTABLE No doubt—and yet methinks the sky is grey.

CATHERINE But wherefore couldst thou not dispatch the truth?

GRANDPRÉ “Dispatch”? Now there’s an iron word well-wrought. I will dispatch, and live in ignorance Of all the shame my brethren endured Upon the feast of Crispian. (stabs himself) Be it known Lord Granpré died of fatal bravery, As men of battle should, and like the saints Of time forgotten, marched into his grave. Transcribe it thus,—

GRANDPRÉ dies.

CONSTABLE In heaven’s almanac, O brave Grandpré. Thy due shall be the cup Of glory’s milk, whiles angels kiss thy wound, For sure as stone, thou diest a soldier’s death. In faith, methinks we two shall shortly be Confederates in muddy salvation.

CATHERINE My captain’s face is pale. What ails you, sir? Alas, why sink you down? Good Constable! Thy sides are wet. What is this? What is this?

CONSTABLE The color of the English, good Montjoie. A liquid shroud of conquering crimson Binds up my ruined corse.

CATHERINE Speak not. What breath Thou hast, thou must needs save for healing.

CONSTABLE No. That time is past; ‘twas never time at all.

CATHERINE Canst not leave rain to God? Or to the sky, This leaking roof of Azincourt, which swamps Our gorish land with sluicing blood, and wracks Our frigid bones as they were dice, but thou Must add cruel drops of grief unto mine eyes? Take pity on thy herald, Constable. Let him not drown in these unasked-for floods. Stand, stand, I say! Bid me return to Henry, Bid me capitulate unto his crown, Bid me proclaim the glories of the English Till that my jaw o’er-rusts and jails my tongue, Bid me forever doff these herald’s weeds And call myself but Catherine of Valois, Submissive daughter to a severed king, Yet do not go with Peter when he calls! Thrust out the angels, tell God He must wait His holy turn, prove me a foolish woman, Defy my fears, and live.

CONSTABLE Hear me, Montjoie. ‘Tis nothing much to die. Men do it oft. A thousand fates there are worser than hell: To die before the truth is utterèd, To live a lie and die upon the truth. Say thou to Orléans—my only friend, My good, my joy—tell him I stay for him.

CATHERINE Yet tell him so thyself.

CONSTABLE The trickling sands of time torment my blood. Too slow, too slow it comes. Montjoie, dear sir, Upon thy uniform I charge thee: spare Thy noble captain this betrudging death. It boots him not to crawl the path to heaven.

CATHERINE More bootless still, to charge thy courier A ripe assassin’s task. If thou canst suffer, Then thou canst survive. I will not drag That which belongs on earth to paradise Before the battle’s done. ‘Tis sacrilege ‘Gainst God and King and army, all at once! Think’st thou I hold my soul in such contempt?

CONSTABLE Contempted be the soul repudiates A righteous order from his captaincy.

CATHERINE Then do not, Constable, disgrace your office By issuing such dread commands as I Cannot obey. What did my brother chide? “Address thy princess correspondingly.” O, give me leave to be a princess now! My hands are cold, my heart is frail, My mind is bent to some villainous shape Such as I cannot think nor move nor breathe.

CONSTABLE Then hold thy breath as tightly as my sword, And so exhale them both.

CATHERINE Yet have some pity. Beg not this task of me. Too porcelain dainty Are my hands, my heart more precious still. (stabs him) O God forgive me!

CONSTABLE Dwell upon it not. Most gracious herald, well-deserving queen, Thou art the truest soldier e’er served France.

CATHERINE The truest soldier lives, though only just, And I, the traitorous dog that bites his master, Only to stand guard above his corse.

CONSTABLE Talk not of dogs. The world is at an end; Let it be full of music, courage, light. Methinks a poet told me of a place Where laughter’s born and meadows blossom gold. I prithee, sing me there, that I may lie And breathe in sweet immaculate—

CATHERINE D’Albret?

CONSTABLE Sing, sing.

CATHERINE, sings What soft enamoring of sleep Hath you in some soft way? What charm’d death holdeth you with deep Strange lure by night and day? A little space below the grass, Out of the sun and shade; But worlds away from me, alas, Down there where you are laid? (he dies) Now heaven scour my crime, and Charles, farewell. Thou leavest me a heavy tale to tell.

(Henry V, Part 2; Act IV, scene vi)

@harry-leroy @suits-of-woe @skeleton-richard @lizbennett2013 @henriadical

#week 5 #st. crispin's day #gentle herald project #catherine of valois

18 notes · View notes

crystalnet · 6 years ago

Text

3 Writing Samples

Here are 3 writing samples that might be useful to have at the top of the pile.

1. Pacific Digital (Fiction, sample intro to long-form narrative)

Ryuki balanced on top of a fifty-foot skyscraper, poised as though ready to dive, he steadied himself, stiffened his stance and let himself fall backwards slowly into the urban abyss below him, free-fall style, arms crossed over his shoulders, suddenly picking up massive amounts of momentum as he hurdled to the ground, and then fluidly rolling in mid-air into a somersault, amassing exponential amounts of centrifugal force as he smashed a double drop-kick of a landing, he plowed himself against the helipad of a massive cement structure, collapsing it against itself, and then emerged from the haze of debris in an instant, leaping again, shooting through the air like a meteorite.

“The shock-absorption is fantastic. Lots of feedback but it isn’t obtrusive.” Ryuki said curtly as he butterfly jumped on the rebound of a kick-off from yet another cement sky-scraper, transitioning into a triple-axel, volleying his own mass up towards the gleaming artificial sun that hung high in a bright fully-rendered VR sky-box.

“That’s great Ryuki. Let’s run one more drill for today to test out your mobility,” a disembodied voice chimed in in the VR-helmet in-ear monitor as two drones suddenly appeared, circling Ryuki and moving in.

“Sounds good Professor Agassa, I’m ready for anything” Ryuki replied. A dazzling array of stats, internal analyses, and diagnostics flickered on the heads-up display projected on the screen of Ryuki’s VR module, as he brought his dynamic manouevering to a pause, perching menacingly on another structure in his bright orange test-model AR auto-suit, that resembled the giant robots of Saturday morning cartoon lore, readying his energy pole after detaching it from his rear-module.

Just minutes later, Ryuki blasted across the Palo Alto free-way in his blue Bugatti, a rental, the gleaming pacific ocean to his left, nearly seething with the reddish reflection of a blazing orange sun that hung low in the summer sky. He was headed back to the posh estate he was renting while he was here working with Agassa for the summer. He remembered the email from a few months that started all of this, coming out of the blue in the month of May. “Me and my collegues, among which are your esteemed sister, are working on something that I think you may be interested in. There is also a certain Miss Ayumi Ito who will be joinging us… ”

Agassa was putting them up in the luxurious Half-Moon Manse, named for it’s location near a prime beach in Palo Alto, it was a rare Californian plantation, practically on the shore; sporting a strange mixture of Roccocco and Spanish architechture, the house was said to have been built for a Spanish catholic-missionary turned gold-mining prospector to the stars. His family only lasted though until a string of grizzly murders near the end of 19th century and the palatial estate had since been rented out by wealthy investors and jet-setters year after year before being handed off to yet another recipient in the form of a certain Professor Agassa, who had a fetish for eccentric real-estate. The strangely vibrant Spanish roofing, the decadant banisters and parapets, the Art Decco flourishes that had been added by a wealthy oil tycoon nearly a century ago, and the gothic looking East Tower had a certain forboding and yet luxurious presence on the wind-blown strip of the white-sand beaches of Palo Alto.

Agassa wasn’t just being so generous as to rent the place just for Ryuki and Ayumi though, he also needed the estate to host a gala event for the Perseus Society, which he himself was an active board-member of. Agassa was greatly in need of their lucrative patronage but beyond just that Agassa actually felt very strongly about the society’s mission. In the years following the great environmental fall-out and the rise of AR technology, many mega-corporations had begun to amass power, all seeking to take control of a unstable global situation in various ways, some for capitalist ends and some for seemingly virtuous ones. Agassa seemed to believe strongly that Perseus actually had altruistic goals that were worth fighting for.

In the mean time until the big party, Ryuki and Ayumi were free to enjoy the impressively sized Manse to themselves after long 12 hour days working with Agassa in the lab on his new VR developments. When Ryuki arrived home though, tossing the keys and his Ray Ban shades on the marble counter-top, he wasn’t surprised at all to see Ayumi through the awning windows that let out to the tennis courts, hard at work practicing her base-line volleys against an automated ball-lobber in a teal velour Fila track jacket, white Lacoste tennis shorts, and a fluorescent green Commes des Garçons-brand visor over her brow that just happened to match the color of Ayumi’s test-model AR auto-suit from earlier that day at the lab.

The two of them, Ryuki’s esteemed older sister Aida, and Professor Agassa (as well as a formidable squad of lab-assistants) had been cooped up in Agassa’s private lab for about a month now working on various things that Agassa felt were going to be important moving forward.

The full-immersion function of his new VR-Tank allowed them to enter artificially-rendered VR settings at immersion rates exceeding 120% so that they could actually feel the very things they interacted with while in the tank’s VR module, and moved around by exerting and flexing their actual muscles. This demanded hours of strenuous training, both in the tank and out of it, working on various martial arts styles to master the use of their own bodies. They were running simulations that Agassa modeled after the giant-robot cartoons that Ayumi and Ryuki had grown up watching in order to help the pilots visualize their VR selves as armored shells which they themselves were piloting from a safe distance, even if it seemed to Ayumi and Ryuki at first that they really were in fact hurdling through the air or fending off drone-bombers in reality. Much of the work was separating the reality of their VR surroundings from their actual reality, mentally– easier said than done.

Ryuki, being just as fiercely motivated and unsatisfied in the same was Ayumi was, headed to the large sun-dappled drawing room on the basement landing to practice his Judo, instead of enjoying the myriad leisure options that the Manse offered, including an on-site tennis courts, regulation-sized pool, a lacrosse field and a pristine and thriving green-house, perfect for yoga and transcendental meditation sessions. The ornate Victorian book shelves that towered to the ceiling, and the marble flooring and Classical paintings, facilitated a meditative atmosphere, though several grim and gleaming suits of knight’s armor stood erect near the corners of the room and Ryuki couldn’t deny the slightly foreboding feeling he got when he caught sight of one in his peripheral as he transitioned out of a Harai Goshi wheel kick, feeling as though he was being watched by some predatory phantom.

Later that night Ryuki and Ayumi were relaxing pool-side looking out over the sloping dunes of white sand reflecting moonlight that illuminated the dark beach of Half-Moon bay. Ayumi sat on a pool-chair dangling a foot in the water, in her dark grey Z Cavaricci pants and a smart-looking vintage Vivienne Westwood jacket, while Ryuki, sat alongside her in a tweed sweater looking out at the now completely submerged sun, only showing slightly on the horizon below a newly revealed moon, glimmering behind dark clouds that were swelled with Pacific surf. [the later years of the 2010’s, US fashion saw a great return to the trends of the 1980’s, but unlike other trends which centered on the re-appropriating of misremembered nostalgia, this fad was actually mostly sincere. Somehow, in North America at least, people had come back around to the styles of the very decade which had seen the rise of so many brave new technological advancements, which in turn inspired fashions that would be just as eye-catching as the possibilities of the day were exciting and dreadful. Indeed, the pages of Vogue were filled with images and styles that evoked everything from Dallas and Dynasty to Espirit brand sweaters and Keith Harring graphic tees.]

“So…” Ayumi started to speak just to trail off again. “Have you gotten anywhere trying to figure out what exactly Agassa is preparing for?” She seemed distracted as she stared off in the distance toward the sickly moonlit glow as she held a flute of vintage sherry to her lips.

“Whatever it is, it definitely has a lot to do with Crystal Corp and the imminent funding grants he’ll be receiving from Perseus Society”. Ryuki offered. They had both been wondering what exactly Agassa wasn’t telling them. He had been reasonably fourthright, but it still wasn’t entirely apparent to the two of them why they had been gathered the way they were a month prior– he was hiding something.

The next day, the gala for the Perseus Society was to go off without a hitch, after a month of planning on Agassa’s part. The ballroom of the Manse was soon filled wall-to-wall with elegant and upwardly mobile entrepreneurs, scientists, philanthropists, and self-appointed philosophers of wealth and champions of the market. Veritable Robin Hoods who used their positions of power on Wall Street or Corporate boards of Silicon Valley tech companies to bring back their wealth to people of staggering intellectual ability like Agassa who sought to wrest the fate of the planet away from those who would watch it burn uncaring.

Ryuki and Ayumi were not sure they had ever seen that much Dior in their lives, as they sauntered around somewhat sheepishly in perfectly tailored outfits, making nice, small talk with the various benefactors, CEOs and wealthy eccentrics who would be directly funding their research with Agassa. After a keynote address on networks of airborne Geodesic-dome shaped super-structures as the new “city of tomorrow,” Agassa delivered his speech which included topics such as the rising need for global accountability by super corporations, some thinly-veiled attacks on Crystal Corp’s recent policies and controversies, and a loosely sketched plan for his research and Perseus’s unified research efforts moving forward, to a standing ovation that Ryuki could tell was a massive relief to the stressed but happy-to-be-there Agassa.

Late that night, after the party, after making small talk with strangers for hours, and after a heart-to-heart between Ayumi and Ryuki by the pool again (they had been having these more frequently lately), Ryuki had collapsed into a deep slumber in the master on the third-floor when he was suddenly awoken by some unseen force in the middle of the night.

“Ryuki”~

“Who’s that?” Ryuki shot out, rubbing his eyes groggily.

“It’s me Ryuki, your friend”. Ryuki was shocked to see a glowing blue teddy-bear, standing upright and kind of peeking around the door to his room from the hallway.

“Adomu-chan? What are you doing here”. Ryuki was partly relieved to see he was just dreaming as he looked out on at the ethereal blue teddy-bear thing that was now climbing onto the foot of his bed.

“I need you to come with me Ryuki. Let’s play a game”. Suddenly the living teddy-bear from Ryuki’s childhood turned on a dime and ran out the room into the cavernous hallways of the third-floor.

“Hey wait up!” Ryuki said, scrambling out of his sheets in satin red pajamas, then running through the East hall towards the tower, past gothic ornamentation, medieval suits of armor, and a collection of paintings that included everything from Gaugin and Pizzaro, to Francis Bacon and Damien Hirst originals, as he scurried after the glowing teddy-bear that was sprinting through the house.

The bear ran up the tower stairs into the hallway that connected to Ayumi’s room, dashing into Ayumi’s door which hung ajar when Ryuki lost sight of him.

“What’s going on in here?!” Ryuki said, burting through the door into the luxurious master bedroom. The living toy was suddenly no where to be found, but on the bed, perched over Ayumi’s resting body, was a dark figure who appeared to be readying a strike from an armed right-hand, poised to slash the throat of his victim. Just as Ryuki burst in the room, the assailant turned and saw him, and in an instant, jolted off of the bed, slinking rapidly towards the large windows which opened onto a veranda, and dashed through the already-open door out into the crisp moonlit night. Ayumi suddenly woke up at a start, and beginning to realize what happened, ran towards the window. Ryuki and Ayumi both walked out onto the veranda and stared down at the crashing waves far below them where the foundation of the house met the near shore. It was high-tide so it almost appeared as though the beach had completely flooded, and the shore was engulfing the foundation of the Manse itself and they looked out through the dark windblown night, searching for an assailant who wasn’t there.

All that remained of the most strange incident was a single pastel blue rose that lay on the deep maroon carpet in front of the veranda door, laying in shards of moonlight that spilled into the room, appearing as though it had been frozen in some treating solution so that it was stiff and glassy, as though it had been crystallized.~

2. My Favorite Anime Films (Editorial)

It might be worth mentioning that there is a precise moment when a millennial realizes that anime is more than just Pokemon. Weather it be through Pokemon’s rivalry with Digimon or the appearance of other also-rans like Monster Rancher and later Yu-Gi-Oh, or the monolithic DBZ airing on Toonami, or y'know, Toonami in general, it is guaranteed to be a profound experience when anime first becomes an option and life-style for a youngster. The pastures of eclecticism to your child-like near-autistic mind expand outward in all directions, electrified seizure-enducing color palettes and all, containing within their emerald acres untold secrets and state-of-the-art studio-driven capital-A Art presented for your liking, to devour a la carte as it were. For a select many, here in the west, that first exposure may be a Miyazaki film. Behold, Baby Otaku’s first anime movie.

Hayao’s after all is one of the most pervasive oeuvres within the genre here in the West if not globally, and here in the US thanks to Fox and then later good ‘ol Disney, we too, and I do mean a great many of us, pray at the church of Totoro-chan and Cat Bus-kun and live and die for this man’s work, and that isn’t by accident. I don’t profess to necessarily have good taste in anime films necessarily, mostly due to my somewhat limited exposure, but I have seen enough to know how severely good anime can make even good Hollywood seem like a sad, palsied and pathetic joke. Or like also just western animation also sucks comparatively which may be a more reasonable comparison. So without further ado, let’s get into my top 5 Anime films. Granted I haven’t seen enough… most of the essential mainstream films all entry-levels see and many films connected to long-running shows or shonen but not that much beyond the works of a handful of auteur-level directors are the extent. I am eager for more recommendations and experience, but I must admit these 5 films leave me petty damn satisfied on their own.

1. Totoro-

I led right into this one for a reason. It for me is probably the precise moment I realized that Pokemon and Digimon weren’t the only things that had that specific, distinct style that seemed so haughtily removed from and superior to the gaudy animations of failed, broken western animators. And what better showcase for the style than a movie that focuses on and worships the Rustic. This film is a love-letter to all things bucolic, idyllic, sun-dappled and sylvan. The country, as it were, with all of its woodenness and unexplored reaches, is just asking to be documented by a genre such as this. If anime is the instinctual expression of child-like wonderment and verve, than the boundless outdoors are the ultimate locus with which to explore that unbridled joy which good anime is want to capture. If I sound artificially elevated it is only because it is a lofty task indeed to explain this films special place in so many people’s hearts without using words like “magic”. It is inescapable, because there is something harshly familiar about things as strange as a bus that is a cat, and a family of wood-dwelling genies. An infestation of soot spirits that don’t seem that badly put-out by having to abandon their old haunt because of a families’ emotionally buoyant spirit being just too unrelentingly positive for their dark constitutions to bare. Something about a satchel of magic seeds that grow into a towering forest during a single surreal night, only to re-appear as saplings the next day (was it all a dream?).

These things inspire one and are otherworldly, and yet they feel instantly familiar to the young viewer. Satsuke and May become the viewer, and the film becomes a time-capsule. It is escapist while also rooting itself in the common experience of actually growing up (a sick mother, a lost little sister, a spooky old house). This film captures something so fiercely singular and yet feels at the same time like the most universal, archetypal of children’s films of all time. To simply list a few of the indescribably pleasant aspects of this film: Wind blowing through tree branches and tall grass, fields. The sheen and polish of certain acorns. Sunlight flaring and playing on a gurgling brooke. An old plastic watering can with a hole in the side (a viewing device). Gleaming, fresh vegetable life. The soundtrack, which buzzes and brims with delight, and threatens to take center-stage more than any other Hishaishi OST in the way it is unstoppabley effervescent throughout its run-time, is prodigious. Hisaishi-sempai is wildly brilliant here, and the plinking xylophones and playful 80’s synthesizing fit so wonderfully within the universe of this film. And then there are the numerous central arrangements which are some of the most anthemic and touching of all his compositions to this day. There is an enormous amount that could be said about this film. Nothing would be too much. I could talk about the way it seems to yearn for an agrarian lifestyle that was rapidly disappearing from Japan and the rest of the modernized world by the 1980s, and how there might easily be pre-war longing in its portrayal. A mother sick with something undisclosed and surrealistic dream-trees that are lovely even as they seem to evoke blooming mushroom clouds may point to a very subtle undercurrent that one does not think to look for until they are older. Life becomes more complicated than tadpoles and imaginary creatures after all. And in this way we can tack the resonance of this film to something as intellectually rich as it is emotional, if one were to want to. But unlike its contemporary Grave of the Fire Flies, this movie doesn’t dwell on the harder things. It just honors them respectfully, not turning away from them even as it relishes in showing the simple joys that are also abound, especially in a rustic wonderland like the Japanese countryside. All I can really say, at the end of a day, about the staggering achievement for the whole planet that is My Neighbor Totoro is thank you Mr. Hayao, from the bottom of my heart~

2. Pom Poko-

Whew okay that was hard to sustain. Good movie but like damn. I’m glad this is my second one because it gives me close to as many feels as Totoro without even all that much childhood nostalgia involved, directly that is, and yet also features raccoon balls out the wazoo, so it makes my job easier in a way. I didn’t see this until I was older, and there’s probably a reason. It’s a bit shame that many of the testicles of the sometimes-anthropomorphic Raccoons in this film are visible so often as a reference to an odd detail of long-standing traditional Japanese folklore because otherwise it’d be a fabulous children’s film in the west. As it stand, I’m not sure what kind of disclaimer one would have to devise if they happened to be an otaku parent, finding themselves wanting to show this masterpiece to a tyke just as one might the rest of the Ghibli movies. But alas every rose has its thorns, and if you err on the side being a certain type of furry or like being open to that then hey maybe you’ll like this a lot, but beyond all the raccoon nuts in this one, its still an amazing film. Like it presents you with the nuts as a way of taunting you that it can still transcend the nuttiness of that quirk, and goes on for all of its run-time not failing to wow and delight at every turn.

Seriously, this movie is just a gem and its a bit hard to describe because it is part mockumentary on a new suburban development outside of Japan (actual), part allegory for suburban sprawl, environmental politics, and modernization, and part racoon nation-founding epic a la Mrs. Frisbee and the Rats of Nihm meets ancient Greek city-founding narratives, all with a light but acutely satirical surrealist approach. And yet so much humanity in these racoons! Or tanuki, I should say– raccoon dogs that is. These are the beast that Mario disguised himself as at times for the power of flight, and yet they themselves are shape-shifters. Tricksters. Threatened by a rival group of Racoons and then much more seriously the new developments of Tama-Town, these Racoons turn to phantasmagorical displays of hallucinatory manifestation of their collective angst, in the form of tengu, ghosts and kaiju alike roaming the streets of a sleepy little new neighborhood on the outskirts of Tokyo. The effect of seeing the tanuki rendered in a realistic and naturalistic way, roaming their woods silently one minute and then the next minute watching a scene in which they are rendered in a more cartoonish, anthropomorphize way is quite a unique gesture, and along with the narration that happens a lot early on, cuing-in the viewer to the film’s own strange and satirical nature, make this film unique even beyond balls. And then despite all this technical, thematic and conceptual wizardry it somehow still manages to make you feel something– and for odd little raccoon people at that. It’s all a very interesting and moving experience, bolstered most by a beautiful color palette, and animations that are intensely well-rendered. Raccoons and humans alike all have a great amount of expressiveness in their movement, and the sheer quality of the animation, along with a playful but moving script is what makes every second of this film work so well, expanding nut-sack parachutes and all. 3. Paprika-

If the scenes where the raccoons are haunting Tama-town are some of the most fun and imaginative moments in that film, then this movie– one which is about dreams much more than Pom Poko is about ghosts– outpaces even the brilliance of those scenes by a long-shot by featuring some of the most inhumanly colorful and creative visuals I’ve ever scene. Satoshi Kon’s style, and overall art direction is absolutely stunning, with everything from characters’ expressions to their movements to the warm intensity of the colors to the dream sequences themselves all displaying superb craft. While Pom Poko is fun and light while still making me feel something, this movie is largely all about the visuals, the concepts and the soundtrack. Hirasawa’s OST is punchy, energetic, and slightly batty in just the right way. Its one of the most unique I’ve ever heard, featuring lush electronic arrangements alongside strange, almost traditional-sounding vocal performances that help accent the poppy, bright and kind of bonkers feeling of this movie. And yet the script itself is somewhat reserved and restrained right up until the dream-detective enters into the boundless dream-worlds of various characters. The movie remains grounded on a basic level, while at its wildest it seems as unhinged as the strangest of dreams. This movie works very well as a gestalt– from the moments the OP-sequence plays I am strapped in and ready for the audio-visual splendour that then unfolds. All of Satoshi Kon’s work is inspiring and singularly excellent, but this one just might be my favorite.

3. Another Green World (fiction, short-story)

“And how was Professor McLuhan’s lecture today, Ovidius?” Beatrice asked, as she walked with the young child down the township’s sparkling side-walk, across the intersection from the Academy and on along the lane to Delfino Café in the breezy mid-afternoon weather. Beatrice was practically the archetypical image of a care-giver, for she exuded a nurturing aura, always smiling calmly as she addressed her young charge; today she wore a wide-brimmed sun-hat that flapped just slightly as a cool breeze wavered through the cobbled courtyard outside of Ovidius’ day-school. The leaves would be changing soon, but for now everything outside was the bright greens of palm tree fronds and cool blue vistas of the horizon.

“The lecture was fascinating! Media theory is more complex than I ever would have guessed,” Ovidius beams. He is wearing a hat with a little helicopter propeller on it; he has dark hair and sea-foam green skin (his choice).

“I’m so glad you liked it! I think you’ll like Dr. Einstein’s lesson just as well. You know, him and Agassa get along just famously with Dr. McLuhan.” Beatrice said warmly.

“Oh I just can’t wait; our lesson with Dr. Einstein last week was simply superb!” the precocious artificial youth replied, “I’m sure we’ll have another great time!”

And they did. Ovidius had long been friends with Albert Einstein, but today hisgenerous mentor was bringing along his new friend Ada Lovelace for a picnic on the beach, and of course she was absolutely delighted by the inquisitive young scholar, for Ovidius was living proof against her initial conception of the Analytical Machine, or at least, they had all hoped he would be one day, and she was pleased to oblige them, tossing a beach ball around with Albert and the child as Beatrice relaxed on a beach-towel nearby, resting her eyes behind a pair of Foster-Grants as the mid-day sun became slightly obscured by big puffy cumuli, which reminded Ovidius of the gelato they had been enjoying moments before. They would play for now, but Ovidius knew that somehow the surprisingly-athletic-for-his-age scientist would tie this game with the beach-ball in with his lesson on Relativity somehow. For now Ovidius was enjoying the refreshing surf of the shore on his bare feet, still reflecting on Dr. McLuhan’s excellent lecture on Global Villages and thoroughly enjoying the company of the lively and brilliant scientists, as Madame Lovelace prepared a kite that they were to fly on the gentle sea breeze– it was shaping up to be another fantastic day inside of a sparkling Artificial World.

When Ovidius and Beatrice finally return to their bungalow for the day, after parting ways with the brilliant mathematicians (who surely had their own private plans for the rest of the evening), Pablo and Salvador will come over for Arts-and-Crafts while Beatrice cooks fish mousselines. The rambunctious painters always have an infectious energy when they come over, and usually in the middle of collaging with Ovidius or discussing German Expressionism in easily-graspable terms over Scrabble, they would be known to break into a game of surrealist cops-and-robbers with the child, who could still appreciate that sort of thing (though the young prodigy would surely be growing out of it soon). Next week, they were sure to tell Ovidius that their friend Frida would be joining them to teach Ovid the art of self-portraiture.

Soon the surrealists are on their way though and Ovidius will have his late-night Language lesson with Beatrice before she tucks you in for the night (Latin this week, Greek next week, JavaScript the next, etc.). Beatrice reminds Ovidius that Mr. Tesla will be visiting tomorrow after a guest-lecture from a certain Mr. Foucault at the Academy, and then she tucks him in for the night. Ovidius dozes off to strains of Mahler still playing on the gramophone in the den, and somewhere far, far away, beyond the digital look-glass, Dr. Agassa and his research assistants were examining a bevvy of diagnostic read-outs and progress reports, and an overall system-review, as Ovidius turned off his mind, so to speak, for the night, under the loving watch of Dr. Agassa’s crack-team, who had mapped-out, guided and molded every moment of Ovidius’ life heretofore, ever since they created it a couple months ago. Of course, they conformed some of their choices with expectations and preferences that Ovidius himself had so quickly developed in the short time he had existed, but at the end of the day, his life and experience was ultimately their vision, or more specifically, Dr. Agassa’s.

Beatrice had explained to Ovidius already that he was indeed the creation of a group of scientists, and that, yes, he was “artificial” in a sense, compared to the other intelligence that populated this world, but that he shouldn’t see this as any real difference between him and other people, and she herself, just like him, was in fact artificial. The young lad was kept very busy day-to-day with the artificial approximation of our planet’s recent visionaries’, of any given medium or field, and the ever-present aid of his care-taker Beatrice. He had friends, but he learned quickly that, they too were artificial, like him. Unlike him though, they would never grow and develop like he did. And unlike him, they would never receive their own Body.

That night, an artificial sun would set on a similarly immaculate, and artificial, township, between a large slopping green hill and a yellow-sanded sea shore that was modeled on those of the Grecian isles which they discovered were featured prominently in Ovidius’ dreams after he first began absorbing images of the World. And tomorrow, after toast and jam, Beatrice would ferry the young scholar to class at the Academy, where he and his friends enjoyed the lectures of some of the world’s leading scholars and scientists, hand-picked by Agassa and his staff to impart the highest quality education possible on the lad. Many of their choices were intentionally as obvious as possible for they figured that by allowing the child to interact with the intellect of the most well-known thinkers of the 20th century, he would be better grounded in the reality that existed just outside of his virtual snow-globe. To wit, Freud and Jung were in charge of the Psychology department, Joseph Campbell led an elective class on Fiction and Mythology, Euler was put in charge of the Mathematics department with the help of none other than Einstein and Newton themselves, who were guest-lecturers (outside of Albert’s private sessions with the child on Wednesdays) while Turing led Computing Sciences and Sacks handled the Neurology dept.

Ovidius couldn’t have quite known then, but could have probably figured, that the research that culminated in his existence and development would in turn lead to major technological advancements in various fields, including everything from the Geo-forming of extraterrestrial bodies by AI-controlled vessels, the creating of safer self-driving cars and even the creation of fully prosthetic bodies. He did understand though the sheer gravity of his existence, and after his lessons everyday, at some point before bed, he’d look out into the yard behind his house, made to resemble an average suburban yard, with its own charm and it’s sacred promise of limitation and impermeable boundaries, and his mind would wander out above the green, wooden shed and the iron lattices agains the fence, and the Oak tree whos branches hung low over the 20-acre plot, towards the invisible reaches of his world, and he’d look out beyond his own world, towards the World which he spent everyday studying and learning from, which had created him, and which had promised to allow him physical access to, one day, when the prosthetic was finished.

4 Years Later

Ovidius grips the steering wheel, and eases down on the pedal, rounding the impressively sized canyon as he shot along interstate-40, preferring for the moment to drive himself, despite the self-driving feature that came standard, he sped along in the black Arizona night, hurdling towards his destination as though he were being spirited there against his will. He keeps replaying the voice-mail from Ayumi over and over. Dead? How could he be? The coroner’s report deemed the death accidental suicide but Ovidius knew not to believe that for a second. When they found Dr. Agassa collapsed in his room the day after the gala, Ovidius was able to surmise a lot of things, but the fact that he had been partly prepared for this for so long didn’t help to soften the blow much. One red-eye flight later, a teary open-wake, and a reunion with the only human friend he’s ever had and the 4 year old artificially-intelligent humanoid is now hurdling towards something that even he himself didn’t entirely understand. He's heading to a seedy motel-8 in the middle of no where somewhere outside of Havasu Canyon and mentally prepare himself for what he is about to do. When the bright, blaring morning light streams through the motel blinds, he will understand that his journey beckons.

Go back

He kept hearing those words over and over. And as he looked out on the vacuous mesa of canyon and dessert, he knew that he mustn’t hesitate. He has to go to the place where Earth’s magnetic-field had been disrupted, and joined, on a sub-atomic level with the very infrastructure of the digital world– like a seam in the universe, where the exterior met the interior; behold the earth’s existential navel. For Ovidius has come here to return to the very Net which had given birth to him.~

#writing samples #writing #fiction #editorial #portfolio #game writing

1 note · View note

ellenembee · 7 years ago

Text

The Revelation of All Things - 57. In which hope is lost and found

Read the full fic on AO3.

Read on Tumblr (desktop)

After the Inquisitor left to find Clarel, Cullen organized a contingent to follow behind her and keep the path open in case she needed to retreat. He briefly, selfishly, thought of leading the troops himself but immediately buried the thought alongside all his other unnecessary, overprotective impulses.

His soldiers needed him here. They needed his direction and his presence. So, he tightened the strip of cloth around the gash in his leg and settled for sending Captain Rylen instead.

"Do whatever it takes to ensure her success," Cullen ordered. "Understand?"

Rylen's ice-blue eyes reflected grim determination as he gripped Cullen's forearm in a firm handshake. "Of course. You can count on me."

Cullen gritted his teeth. "You can't let the soldiers lose hope or squander any advantage... even if..." The words stuck to his mouth like glue, but he pushed them out anyway. "...even if the Inquisitor falls."

Rylen squeezed Cullen's arm. "It won't come to that... but if it does, I know what to do."

Cullen nodded and let the captain go. He'd done all he could for Evana. He would have to trust that she and her companions would do their part to remain safe.

They'd cleared the gates some time ago, and he'd placed a unit there, including Iron Bull, to hold the area. Wave after wave swept inside and headed off on their pre-determined routes based on the plans Leliana had obtained of the fortress. Dorian, Vivienne and Sera had each chosen a wave and followed along. Cullen had then sent Blackwall to the battlements with another contingent of soldiers to hold the area.

Now, as he led a large group further into the immense fortress, he marveled at the glut of demons and mages swarming the soldiers. The stones were slick with blood from both sides, but still their enemies poured from every crevice like vermin.

He had a moment's reprieve when they came across several groups of Warden warriors actually fighting against the demons. A handful of restrained mages lined the wall behind the warriors.

"Commander Cullen of the Inquisition," he barked out before any of his soldiers could engage with the Wardens. "I take it you have surrendered?"

"In a manner of speaking, ser. The Inquisitor told us to fall back, but we were attacked by our own mages when we allowed Inquisition soldiers to pass by unchallenged. We may have also given your people a few tips on ambushes waiting for them ahead. We've been fighting demons and mages ever since."

Despite a deep desire to cut them down for their stupidity, Cullen let them be. "Just keep the demons from getting past this point. You may attempt to restrain and save your mages if you wish. We have templars among us who can silence them for now... but I'm not sure how you'll break Corypheus' hold on them."

"Yes, ser. Thank you, ser," the man said before glancing worriedly at the line of shrieking, dead-eyed mages struggling against their bonds. "And neither are we."

Cullen pushed deeper into the fortress and eventually met up with another unit sweeping the area. As they moved together toward the main hall and courtyard at the center of the fortress, the screaming, shouting and clashing of armor and weapons grew more intense.

Suddenly, screams of a different kind cut through the din, and a dark, winged shadow loomed overhead before letting out an ear-splitting roar. Corypheus' archdemon swooped past them, and Cullen's lip curled up in a snarl of pure hatred. His shoulders tensed in readiness even as harrowing memories flashed through his mind.

Haven burning. Soldiers screaming in pain and terror. Evana's final look in the Chantry. Evana nearly dead in his arms.

A putrid wind from the archdemon's wings whipped past them, causing them to choke. The dragon did not engage, however, and landed on a tower close to the main hall - the place he assumed Evana would be right now. Cullen sent up a brief plea to the Maker to protect her before shaking off the sense of dread creeping up his spine and turning to his troops.

"The archdemon is not our concern. We need to clear this fortress. The Inquisitor and her companions will deal with the Wardens and the dragon." Fear ate at his confidence, but he forced steel into his tone. "She has fought several dragons before and come out unscathed. She will triumph."

The soldiers seemed to perk up at this new information, their expressions reflecting their newly found resolve. Cullen took a last look at the massive beast still perched on the tower and then led them forward.

The soldiers fought with renewed vigor, but their enemy pushed back. Hard. Each step forward brought more demons, more magic, more chaos, more shrieking, more death and moans of pain. They waded through veritable pools of blood at choke points, the bodies piled high, and though Cullen kept his eyes forward, the sights and sounds churned in the depths of his mind, stirring up feelings he'd buried long ago.

Not now, Maker, please, not now...

He tried to shake off the burgeoning panic, but everywhere he turned, he could see it. Hear it. The narrow stairs, the imposing walls, the demonic laughter, the dead eyes, the mages in thrall, the desperate voices begging for mercy, for a swift death...

Something whispered past the barrier. Cullen shuddered but did not give up his chant. He'd never been so glad of those hours spent memorizing the words of the Maker.

He cut through another demon and then pressed a fist to his forehead, fighting desperately against the sensation of drowning, suffocating, in the unwanted thoughts. He wasn't there. He was at Adamant.

A shade came at him, and he lashed out at it as his vision tunneled...

The hiss of scraping claws over stone reached his ears. He recited the words louder, trying to drown out the evidence of his tormentor's attention. This demon had fixated on him in particular, and nothing he said or did seemed to dissuade it. So, he wove the chant into shield around his mind and his heart, praying the mages would kill him before the demon drove him to complete madness.

The air would not come. His chest constricted. The walls closed in on him, trapping him as he slashed wildly at the shade. Somehow, he managed to kill it. He backed away from the fighting, desperate to regain control. But instead the darkness claimed him...

A voice, her voice, whispered in his ear and then slithered inside, into his head, until he could barely distinguish his own thoughts from that insidious voice. His late-night fantasies of touching her, tasting her - thoughts indulged only under cover of darkness - became distorted replicas of themselves. Familiar and yet wrong, as if looking at a reflected picture of one's self, the images shifted subtly.

Over and over again until his fantasies turned to nightmares. Until he could no longer knew what was real.

He fought it. Minute by minute, hour by hour, day by day. When he no longer had the strength to stand, he pushed aside the severed limbs and mutilated bodies of his friends while his stomach lurched and emptied time and again. Kneeling in the congealing, rotting gore, he shut out the shrieks of horror and agony echoing from the chambers above with the sound of his own hoarse voice. Repeating the chant. Over and over and over.

Hungry. Thirsty. Afraid to sleep. Afraid to die. More afraid they'd let him live...

A blast of ice brought Cullen back to the present with a start. The suffocating darkness lifted and the Circle tower fell away to reveal a wide rampart stretching out before him. Vaguely, he recognized the tattered black rags and hovering body as a despair demon, but before he could fully shake off the heavy weight of his memories, the demon shot another blast of ice at him, this time freezing him in place. Helpless against the cold, he fixated on the shadowed and hideous maw screeching at him through a haze of ice and the long claw-like fingers grabbing for him.

A strange calm settled over him when the edge of the demon's claw sliced through his neck. Although a shallow cut, he could feel the heat of his own blood melting the thin sheen of frost coating his skin. The demon would rip his throat out, and there was nothing he could do to stop it. He felt a deep sorrow at the thought of leaving Evana behind, her lovely face filling his vision as he braced for the end.

Suddenly, the despair demon let out a high-pitched shriek and blasted away from him on a cloud of ice. In the demon's place stood a wide-eyed soldier, his sword dripping with fresh blood. In the next moment, the demon's spell shattered, and Cullen fell forward on his hands and knees, his sword clattering from stiff fingers. A hand landed on Cullen's shoulder, and he jerked away before looking up to see the young soldier staring down at him, terror and determination radiating from the man in equal parts.

"Commander?"

"I'm alright," he croaked weakly as he wiped frozen fingers across the blood on his neck. "You worry about that demon."

"Yes, ser!"

The young soldier charged at the demon, leaving Cullen to pull himself up as quickly as his icy limbs would allow. He curled his gradually warming fingers around the hilt of his sword - around that strip of leather Evana had designed specially for him - and stumbled toward the fight. While the young soldier distracted the demon, Cullen approached from behind, his blood pumping faster and warmth flooding his limbs with every step.

He wasn't there. He was at Adamant fortress. He was the Commander of the Inquisition. And he would not fall to a demon. Not then, and certainly not now.

He sprinted the remaining distance and brought his sword down on the demon's neck, slicing its head clean off. As it melted into goo before them, Cullen leaned over, pressed his hands to thighs covered in cold, damp leather and took another moment to recover. Catching the young man's eye, he nodded in thanks. The soldier gave a nervous laugh and nodded back.

They quickly rejoined the others to help fight off a couple of rage demons and a few Warden archers. Then, the contingent moved forward again, sweeping back and forth through the inner areas, going in and out of rooms and rooting out more demons.

Flashbacks tried to claim him several more times as they fought through the glut of enemies in never-ending supply around every corner, but now he worked even harder to stay grounded. Another slip like that would get him killed, and he had too much to live for to give up so easily.

Thoughts of Evana led him back to scanning the skies. Cullen knew as long as the archdemon had circled the fortress, it meant the Inquisitor had evaded the dragon, but the beast seemed to have disappeared during the past few minutes.

Then he heard it. A mighty roar of a dragon... followed by the most gut-wrenching sound of stone collapsing Cullen had ever heard. The stones under their feet trembled with the force of it, and Cullen's heart plummeted to his stomach.

But demons barred their path, and he could not alter their plan of attack now. He had to stay the course, no matter how it tore him apart, no matter how the fear and panic clawed at the cage he'd place around them.

To his respective relief and mild annoyance, Dorian and Sera joined them along the way, and in another half an hour, they'd reached the main hall and courtyard where the remaining Warden warriors fought alongside Rylen's contingent. Demons spawned continually from a giant rift at the center of the hall, and the soldiers would cut them all down only to repeat the process with the next surge. Cullen grimaced at memories of their first few days fighting the rifts after the Conclave... before Evana had appeared to save them all.

Cullen circled the perimeter, keeping to the wall as he scanned the area for her, hoping and praying. Cole flashed in and out in stealth mode as he attacked a rage demon. Sera had already joined the fray. But Evana wasn't there.

Maker, keep her safe... please... He couldn't lose her. Not after everything they'd been through. Cullen's carefully contained panic rattled its cage of frayed mental strength and began bleeding out through the weak spots.

"Commander!"

Rylen's sudden approach pulled Cullen from his spiraling thoughts. He shoved the clawing terror back and focused on his second in command.

"Where is the Inquisitor?" Cullen barked.

Good friend that he was, Rylen ignored the obvious tremor in Cullen's voice, shook his head and pointed up the stairs to the side. "The Inquisitor followed Clarel and Erimond that way... but we heard a terrible crash and haven't seen hide nor hair of her nor any of her companions since. I fear..."

Rylen froze mid-sentence as if suddenly remembering something. His eyes grew wide, and before Cullen could ask what the matter was, Rylen twisted violently and lashed out, his sword slicing through the empty space behind him.

Only his sword didn't pass through the emptiness. A harsh cry rent the air, and a dagger clattered to the stone as Rylen's sword cut deeply into the shoulder of a Venatori assassin. Cullen immediately sprang into action, dodging around Rylen to run the man through. When the assassin dropped to the ground, Rylen stood staring at the body for a long moment, his chest heaving and eyes wide.

"How?" Cullen asked incredulously, still a little breathless from the sudden shock. "How did you know he would be there? Did you hear him?"

"She warned me," he panted out in a tone just as dazed as Cullen's. "She told me..."

Rylen shook his whole body as if trying to wake himself from a dream. He turned to Cullen, his eyes still wide but a familiar wry grin on his lips.

"You wouldn't believe me if I told you. I barely believe me." Rylen gazed down at the body for a moment more, shook his head and then continued on with his report. "Well, now we've cleared up that mess... The Wardens seem to have had enough of inciting mass chaos. Apparently, Clarel pulled her head out of her arse and charged them to assist us, so we've got this rift under control."

As he spoke, Rylen's eyes occasionally slid to the body at their feet before jerking up to meet Cullen's gaze once more. Cullen knew they didn't have time for it now, but he made a note to speak to Rylen about the incident later. Clearly there was more to the story than Rylen let on.

"The whole keep shuddered with the force of whatever happened up there," Rylen finished with a grimace. "Should I...?"

Cullen shook his head. "No. I will go. You stay here and manage that rift."

Rylen nodded, and without preamble, he strode to the rift as it pulsed with another round of demons. Cullen signaled to a few nearby soldiers and approached the stairs. If his unit had made it to the main hall, it meant the battle was nearly won. His troops knew what to do now. And no one would question the Commander being the one to concern himself with the whereabouts of the Warden-Commander and Magister Erimond. He would take this one moment to be selfish, if it could be called that. The creeping dread nearly stopped him cold, but he took a deep breath and led the small group up the stairs.

Sera stayed behind to help with the rift, but Dorian and Cole fell in step beside Cullen. Cole remained terrifyingly silent, and Cullen couldn't... wouldn't ask. Cullen and Dorian shared a look of concern as they rounded the top of the stairs to see the magister Erimond, incapacitated but alive, on the edge of a crumbled stone bridge. A couple of brave men walked gingerly to the man and pulled him closer to the walls, away from the edge.

His veneer of calm wearing thin, Cullen was in no mood to be gentle. He picked up Erimond by his foppish collar and slapped him hard across the face to wake him.

Erimond startled, and Cullen immediately shouted, "Where is the Inquisitor?! What have you done with her?"

"Wha...? Where? Oh..." The magister let out a breathy chuckle as his eyes finally focused on Cullen. "If you're looking for your precious Inquisitor, she went that way-" Erimond shakily raised his arm to point out into the expanse of nothing and then turned his finger down. "-along with all of her companions. I do believe that was the Champion with her, was it not? Your false heroes seem to fall just as quickly as you can raise them up."

Cullen felt like all the air had been sucked out of his lungs. He unceremoniously dropped the magister, uncaring of the man's cry of pain, and crawled out to the edge of the stone as silent lips formed the same word over and over.

No, no, no...

Dorian's warning cut through the savage panic scrambling to escape Cullen's waning control, but he was already too far out. Luckily, the stone held firm beneath him. He leaned his head over the edge... and stared into the utter blackness of a yawning chasm.

Frustration pricked at his already strained nerves even as relief crept in along the edges of his panic. He couldn't have handled seeing her body broken open on the rocks below. Bile rose up in his throat just thinking about it.

Scrambling away from the precarious edge, he threw his back against the nearest wall and sat utterly still for a moment as the numbness of shock and denial slowly faded. A pain like nothing he'd ever felt took its place, building in his chest like a heavy weight crushing him from above. His breaths came harder and faster with each draw of air into his lungs. The pain seared his entire body, agonizing and breathtaking in its depth. As bad as Haven had been - the fear, the guilt, the not knowing - this... Maker, this was ten thousand times worse.

He hadn't realized how much his love for her had grown. It hadn't occurred to him how much more it would hurt to know she loved him in return - to know the joy of having and holding someone as lovely and perfect for him as she - only to have her ripped away from him in a split second. All his rationalizations, all his justifications for pushing her away, for waiting, now seemed foolish. So incredibly foolish.

At least he'd finally told her. At least she'd died knowing he loved her. As he would have to live knowing she'd loved him... all the while remembering the time he'd wasted on his own fears and hesitations instead of simply loving her with all he had when he'd had the chance.

He groaned pitifully and dropped his head into his hands. He vaguely recognized that he should be more in control, that his soldiers were standing nearby and watching, waiting for his next orders, waiting for him to rally them to the cause. But he couldn't face anyone. Not yet.

The initial wave of excruciating pain faded, and a stone settled inside his chest, cold and hard. No tears came. He felt hollow... empty.

She was... she was...

Gone. His light was gone.

"Maker... Evana..."

The words fell from his lips, but he didn't recognize the anguished voice that spoke them. Dorian, however, had crawled carefully along the stone wall and arrived at Cullen's side in time to hear them. The mage's voice, for once lacking in sarcasm and edged with desperation, cut into Cullen's mourning.

"What is it? What did you see?"

"Nothing," he whispered brokenly. Then in a firmer, louder tone, "It's too dark. I-"

An evil laugh cut him off. "Oh, don't worry. She's definitely dead. The archdemon saw to that."

Cullen felt another of rush of pain, but along with it came an anger so potent it took his breath away. Scowling, he jumped up and strode toward the magister, intent on physical harm.

Cole stepped in his path. Cullen skidded to a halt, his brain having trouble processing so many swings in emotion in such a short period. He stared at the spirit boy blankly until Cole began to speak.

"Gone from this world but not gone. Sparks sear dragon flesh. Down, down over the edge with splitting, cracking stone. Too late. Then... green cracks and sputters, a tear in the veil but not an old one. New, bright, wide, built to save." Cole turned to look deeply into Cullen's eyes and shivered. "Gone from this world but not gone. She opened a rift, and they fell... fell into the Fade!"

Too ravaged and raw to be gentle, Cullen grabbed the boy by the collar, his breathing harsh and unrestrained. He rarely understood Cole's ramblings, but that last sentence was too clear to mean anything else. Tempering his wildly flaring hope, he gave Cole a little shake.

"You're sure? She's in the Fade? Right now?"

Cole nodded, eyes wide. "The anchor disappeared, brightness extinguished, but it didn't feel like dying. No. Not dying. More like... like going home."

Dorian let out a sigh of relief, accepting all this far faster than Cullen's brain could process it. He fed off Dorian's confidence, however, looking to Cole for answers as Dorian pressed the boy for information.

"Can you feel them now? Can you see if they are truly alive? If any of them are in pain?"

Cole shook his head sadly. "No. I can't feel them in the Fade. It's too far and I..." Cole shuddered. "I don't want to go back there."

Cullen finally let go of the boy and exhaled, his heart beating wildly at the ups and downs he'd just experienced. "No one is asking you to, Cole. You're safe here... well... as safe as you can be in a keep full of demons."

Cole nodded, and his eyes, though still wide with the weight of whatever he'd seen, now held a note of calmness they'd lacked earlier. The pain in Cullen's own chest ebbed into a shaky kind of elation. He felt slightly drunk on it. Sure, she's physically walking through the Fade with her companions. Why not? She's already been there once and survived. No problem.

The boy hovered before finally asking in a small voice. "I helped?"

Cullen gripped the boy's shoulder and looked directly into his icy blue eyes. "Yes. You most certainly did. Thank you, Cole. Now, back to the rift with you. The soldiers need your help."

With a shy grin, Cole disappeared, leaving Cullen feeling far more charitable toward the boy than ever before. She could be alive. Maker... please let her be alive, and bring her back to me.

With a suddenness that took his soldiers by surprise, Cullen strode forward and pointed at Erimond. "Take him down to the main gate and find a few templars to hold him. We can't have him using his magic to escape. The Inquisitor will judge him once she returns."

Erimond looked unsure for the first time. Cullen's confidence seemed to have shaken his own.

"You can't be serious!" he whined. "That boy has no idea what he's talking about! Even if it's true they fell into the Fade, they won't make it out. She'll die there. They're probably already dead! Do you hear me?!"

Cullen paid no attention to the magister and strode quickly back to the center hall with Dorian hard on his heels. The mage remained silent at first, but halfway back to the courtyard, he finally spoke.

"Cullen, I hate to agree with Venatori scum, but..." Dorian reached out and grabbed Cullen's arm, pulling him to a halt on a narrow stretch of the ramparts. "We don't know that they survived their fall into the Fade."

Cullen looked away from Dorian's serious gaze, for once glad of the darkness surrounding them. The moons shone down brightly, but even with the silvery light, details were muddy. Perhaps Dorian couldn't see the doubt and fear in his expression.

"I know," he admitted reluctantly, "but... at least it's something. It's more than I... than we had before."

Dorian hummed in understanding. "You clearly have something in mind. A plan of action, perhaps, from our action-oriented Commander? What's going through that pretty golden head of yours?"

Cullen started down the path again and rolled his eyes as he looked over at the mage. His friend. Their friend, who had worked so hard to make sure they found their way to each other.

"Think about it, Dorian. Rather than expend energy opening a new rift - if she can even do that on command... it might have been a reflexive action - I'd bet my life they're working their way toward-"

"-the closest open rift! Of course. Good thinking!"

Cullen raised an eyebrow and grinned at the mage. "I know."

Dorian narrowed his eyes. "What have I told you about getting smug, Commander?"

Cullen didn't care. He was actually enjoying the banter and riding high on the knowledge that Evana could still be out there, albeit in the Fade, and alive.

The scene in the courtyard, however, brought reality crashing back down. They fought hard for the next hour, but every time it seemed as though they were making headway, another wave of demons spawned from the rift. The longer it took, the more his confidence eroded into doubt and worry. What if they'd died in the fall anyway? What if she couldn't make it out? What if the demons in the Fade had killed them all? What if...?

After another half hour of continual fighting, it became apparent that he was going to need to set up shifts. More groups arrived from doing their sweeps of the fortress, and he began organizing units that would take turns resting and fighting.

As even more contingents arrived, including Iron Bull, Vivienne and Blackwall, he sent them back out to begin the task of looking for injured survivors. He charged them with triaging the injured and getting them to the camp just over the hill from the fortress where the healers waited to begin their work.

Iron Bull clapped Cullen on the back. "Don't worry, Commander. The boss has a way of getting out of sticky situations. She'll be out of that rift in no time."

Cullen didn't know how to answer, so he just sent Bull a tight smile and a brusque nod. Bull nodded back and turned to leave, calling out to Blackwall as he went.

"You should stay here and fight for the honor of the Grey Wardens or something. I'm going to find some attractive injured people to carry back to the healers. Heh, heh, heh."

Cullen couldn't help laughing at Bull's absurdity, but he felt it prudent to add, "Bull, don't you dare pass over an injured person simply because you don't think they're good looking enough."

Bull waggled an eyebrow at him. "Don't worry, Commander. My standards are low. For instance, you'd pass snuff for sure."

Cullen just shook his head. They were all tired, but he did appreciate the companions trying to keep up morale. Sera flipped around the back edges of the courtyard shooting arrows into demons and then merrily walked around during lulls to yank them back out of the piles of dead demon goop. Dorian kept up an occasional, sing-song-y "any time now" as they fought through wave after wave of demons.

But the men and women were frightened, and it was beginning to show. Their Herald had disappeared yet again, and this time the Champion and Warden Stroud had disappeared with her. Cullen did his best to not let his growing despair show through. She had made it into the Fade, but there was no guarantee she'd make it out.

Time crawled by a snail's pace. Cullen stared at the watery image of the Fade beyond the giant rift every chance he could and strained to see any hint of the Inquisitor or her party coming through. His previous confidence now in shreds, he prayed to the Maker as he cut through yet another round of wraiths and demons. Finally, during a reprieve, he briefly closed his eyes and willed his words to reach her as he uttered a haggard whisper into the glowing green light of the rift.

"Evana, where are you? Come back to me. I need you."

Suddenly, as if in answer to his plea, Cassandra, Varric and Solas tumbled out of the rift all at once. Cullen felt his heart soar... then come crashing down again. Just like at Haven, she'd sent her companions to safety before herself.

Seconds passed, but no one else came through. Maker, the emotional ups and downs were going to send him to an early grave. Where is Evana? Cullen rushed forward to catch hold of the exhausted Seeker and help her stand from where she'd fallen. His voice cracked as he repeated his thought aloud.

"Where is Evana?"

Cassandra looked up at him in a daze and then shook her head. "I do not know. She, Hawke and Stroud were directly behind us the last time I saw them. I would not have come through if I had thought..."

Varric and Solas looked back through the rift as if waiting. In the meantime, another round of demons spawned from the rift. The appearance of the Inquisitor's companions had sent a shock of energy through the exhausted troops, and they fought all the harder.

Cullen set his jaw and readied his sword to attack a nearby demon, trying to wrestle his emotions into some semblance of order. He believed Cassandra. Evana had been alive and well only moments ago. She was coming. Hawke and Stroud were still with her. She had to be coming.

He could not contemplate otherwise. Not again.

5 notes · View notes

lost-gokiburi · 7 years ago

Text

Watcher of the Long Night

|Revenants Among the Stars|

They fought on a dying world. It's cities had already suffered a near apocalyptic clash brought forth from the stars. Great vessels built with gothic fetishes and golden Aquilla fell from the sky just as the bloated void-ships that were marked with the corruption of unreality. Here, on this world, reality suffered and the madness from beyond gushed through like a cut artery. Reality clashed with unreality at an even pace as flares of miniature suns washed into existence and faded just as they came, raining debris down onto this collapsing planet. Slowly, the world was falling to chaos, but this world's mighty death throes would cast aside all that stood upon it. Neither the forces of the Imperium of Man or the baleful legions of chaos would be able to hold it.

Continents tore apart as gushes of magma rushed from the very heart of this world. Why they had fought over this dying world was left for the laughing gods and dark shrouded Inquisitors to know, what mattered is that the Imperium had secured it's small victory here at the cost of thirty million lives. A worthy sacrifice in the eyes of some and one born of a far too costly nature. Regardless, the surface was tearing itself apart while men, women and children were drowned in the fires of unrelenting war. Yet there were still those who fought upon the violent surface of this planet armed with some faint hope that they could save some rather than leave so many to be put to the sword.

It was in hive city Raen-thul that such an effort was being made for towering figures of onyx black stood against the madness. Armed with weapons too great to be held by mortal men, they stemmed the tide with pious but ruthless hatred. It was through their strength of arms that the world had lasted this long and it was also their efforts that sacrificed the entirety of the planet.

Victory at any cost.

Yet for all the Inquisition's insistence, it was not a victory for the towering Primaris Astartes belonging to the Watchers of the Night. They still stood against the tide of unreality as though it was something they had accepted from the day they were born and such a truth held firmly for what they were. Transhumans ascended from above the countless souls that made the Imperium, but they were directed by more than just mere hatred. They sought to see an Imperium saved and hungered for an absolute victory rather than these small accomplishments among the many glaring moments of lost ground. Already tired of fighting an endless chain of losing battles, securing what they could, it was here that the chapter had decided to make it's stand.

“Chapter Master, we cannot hold this position any longer without bringing the Provocation of Shadows into grave danger.” A voice among the many that filled the command bridge of a blackened shape that hung in high orbit. Small tremors pulsing through the deck threatened to send the speaker onto the floor while the figure of towering armor before him remained still. As if rooted like a statue.

Glowering red lenses embedded in a helm of onyx with a blood red stripe through the middle focused on the shipmaster. “I am aware of such, though as unwilling as our gracious hosts of the Inquisition demand our leave... stay we must.”

“My Lord.” The voice urged, his features coming into the poor lit deck in full. He was a man of venerable age and yet his expertise was beyond that of many officers of the line. A navy man, but one of particular tastes. “We cannot maintain high orbit without plummeting to the surface! This world is dying, the gravity well is not stable.”

“So you suggest we consign my brothers, my sons to death?” The towering Primaris snapped back at him only to turn towards one of the few like him that stood on the deck as though to share some secret glance before returning to the deck officer. “Absolutely out of the question.”

There was little else for the Shipmaster to say other than to return to the screaming vox audio that pulsed to life periodically. So much was happening at once and he knew that the Inquisition would not look kindly at their actions, yet his own loyalties lied with the Watchers and not some foul shade that came from the dark. What anger, what rage he felt was not directed towards the Chapter Master nor the towering transhumans on the deck but rather the situation. It was the Inquisition that had forced their hand to turn the campaign this direction. What had meant to be a defense had turned into a surgical strike that ultimately spelled the end for eighteen billion lives. He could not claim to know what burning ire the Chapter Master felt, nor would he wish to know it.

Even so, the shipmaster had allowed this reprieve to look upon the tactica display that illuminated the table. Detailed information streamed at speeds which could only be understood by experienced officers and those of the Primaris aboard. He knew what was at stake as well, as the entire chapter had been mobilized... or at least what was left of it.

The Ship-master knew little of ground tactics but he did understand the order of battle in which the Watchers used. He had seen it before when he was caught ground-side on a particular engagement. They were cold, brutal fighters that let loose no sound other than the terrible cracks of their bolt-rifles and the crushing of bone against fist and blade. He, like some of the other deck officers had seen these Astartes fight on Saris, the gauntlet which had earned them the right to command this battle-barge. Yet, there was something off about the bridge and he cursed silently that he did not notice it before. Of the Primaris Astartes that stood beside the Chapter Master, they numbered only ten when there should be eleven.

“I will not abandon him, Shipmaster.” The Chapter Master spoke with a harsh, bitter and cold voice. One that did not fit his words in the slightest but for he and his kind, emotions were a distant and muted thing. Something to be controlled. To be watched. “We cannot abandon Khalyx Balus so readily, not when he has saved this many.”

“Dread-Master.” A deep voice, spoken through a vox grille, almost impossible to truly understand. The tone was heavy and held a note of finality. “It would be another matter if you had sent him down to the surface, this was a mission he chose to take upon himself. He would not have you risk the chapter for his sake.”

“Tyr, you know as well as I do that he might as well be the chapter itself.” Said another, a discussion starting that caused the bridge to become deathly silent. All here knew of whom they spoke of. The last of the founding eleven that stood among their number, a hero of the chapter which had turned down honors brought to him by the Lord Primarch. He was of great importance to them. “Even so, we cannot make this decision lightly. This is an honor we owe him, we should not turn our back on a brother who so fervently saved each of us. We are not the Inquisition.”

Another spoke, one who stood next to Tyr. “You are correct Thalas, we are not the Inquisition. However, we are tools to be used by the Imperium. Our goals cannot be achieved through mere selfish action. We are each expendable.”

“That is the lesson he taught us.” Said another. Each of them announcing their presence as a ghost would whisper into your ear. Each of them seemed almost unreal to behold, like they themselves were as the daemons that they fought against. Their ceramite plate bore the marks of weapons both of reality and unreality. Each of them had faced daemons of a deeper and darker form, each of them had confronted the underlying evil which lay beneath their flesh. Beyond their bones and within their immortal soul. “He has taught us much in the waning days and we should not do him disservice by ignoring what he is to us... and the lessons to be gleaned from our failings upon Saris.”

“You did not fail that world.” The Ship-master spoke, taken up by the moment. Though he was in the presence of transhumans, he was of the few who could speak about that terrible world. He had seen what happened on that tortured and ruined planet, he had lived through the hell and such was his home. “I do not see failure, but a victory pulled from the enemy before us.”

“You speak out of turn mortal.” Another spoke, a harsh condemnation that would have cowed lesser men. However, the Ship-master was not a lesser man and despite his age, there was a willpower that remained within his aged bones. “However you might see it, too many had died that day. Too many loyal souls sacrificed to these petulant children of a forgotten age.”

“Saris is as much our home as it is yours, Shipmaster.” The Chapter Master spoke, his voice lacking it's harsher texture from before. In the end of it all, they were each children of that terrible place and all of them had lived through it. Though they were not Transhumans but rather children. They had watched the sky burn and ships fall into the lightning blasted mountains. They had watched a populated home grow silent and fall into abandon. “I do not wish to leave, but leave we must. There are other battles we must fight and we cannot sacrifice the future of our chapter here.”

“Yes, Lord.” Came the defeated reply. “I shall recall our ships in a final run.”

“See to it. We must prepare a funeral pyre for when we arrive. The Chaplain will be aggrieved and he will seek retribution.” The Chapter Master spoke with a solemn tone as he looked one last time at the ruined world which was collapsing with each minute. In silence, he prayed to a silent and uncaring god, knowing that providence was not to be found. He would inform the Primarch of this small and minuscule victory.

#Warhammer 40k #fiction #my writing #primaris marines

3 notes · View notes

miss-agent-e-15-jedi · 8 years ago

Text

Chapter Five

As the snowspeeder was marshaled off the ground and toward the hangar exit, I watched with heavy heart as other pilots raced toward their ships. The light that shone through the exit was blinding as it reflected off the glistening snow; for a moment, I had to squint to see even though I had a protective visor over my helmet. Gradually I adjusted my vision to the brightness, and I was soon out of Echo Base, probably for the last time ever. Nearing the trench-filled battlefield, where hundreds of rebel soldiers stood by their dish-like ray guns and towers, I glanced out the windscreens on either side of the cockpit and saw that the establishment of my squadron was nearly complete.

The scopes indicated the presence of imperial machines. A zoomed-in view revealed the machines to be a massive steel body mounted on four stilt legs with a small head-like protrusion in front.

Imperial All-Terrain Armored Transport Walkers.

I’d only heard stories about such awesome war machines existing, but now I was seeing them with my own eyes. Several red laser blasts streaked past me, making my heart skip a couple beats. The accelerator was pressed, and as I led the squadron further beyond the snowy field of soldiers beneath us, more energy bolts shot this way and that, and the AT-AT walkers gradually increased in size as we neared the horizon.

My palms sweated beneath my thick gloves as I squeezed the controls. I turned on the commlink and announced, “Echo Station Five-Seven, we’re on our way.”

I banked downwards at an angle, the rest of the fleet following behind me, and in a few seconds, we were racing towards the walkers full throttle. There were five of them altogether, and they were enormous by this point, much bigger than I could’ve possibly imagined. Flak bombarded me on all sides, but I had to ignore it and keep my focus on destroying those armored transports. The main controls had to be in the head, I reasoned, so I decided we should make that our primary target.

Turning on the commlink again, I said, “Alright, boys, keep tight now.”

My gunner suddenly spoke in the back seat. The eagerness that had been in his tone back at the base had been replaced by nerve-wracking uneasiness. “Luke, I have no approach vector,” he informed me. “I’m not set.”

I had nothing against Dack personally, but as Rogue Leader, I simply couldn’t stoop down to his level of anxiety.

“Steady, Dack,” I said, hoping to ease him a tiny bit. “Attack pattern delta. Go now!”

The instructions were carried out, and I lead a couple fighters away from one of the advancing walkers with a bank to the right, sending us into an attack formation. Bringing the craft around, I directed myself straight to one of the menacingly advancing war machines. I was certain that the perfect opportunity to fire at them would be here very soon.

“All right, I’m coming in,” I said, more to myself than to anyone else.

I darted toward one of them, sending my speeder into a dive that sent my stomach rising into my trachea. As I fired my blasters at the imperial nightmares, I veered the speeder through the legs of one of them, temporarily shaded from the sun beneath its underbelly. Yanking the joystick upward, I soared over another walker, firing more shots as I did so.

Glancing out the window, I sought Hobbie, another pilot that I’d befriended. My heart stopped for a second when I didn’t see the familiar markings of his ship.

“Hobbie, you still with me?” I called out.

As soon as I’d asked, Hobbie’s speeder raced by me, flying post haste toward the horizon. Sighing with relief, I turned around once more, my attention directed toward the AT-ATs. I fired a few times, striking the enormous metal hull, only to realize that the armor remained intact. Some of the bolts were directed toward the head, but also to no avail. I watched with helpless horror as the AT-AT shot down one of the speeders, sending it crashing into the snow in a ball of fire below.

Breathing hard, I quickly conjured up another plan for bringing those monsters down. Above all the flak and explosions around me, I announced, “That armor’s too strong for blasters!”

Banking away from the walker’s line of fire, I braced myself for another attack run as I instructed, “Rogue Group, use your harpoons and tow cables. Go for the legs. It might be our only chance of stopping them!”

I then turned my attention to my gunner. “Alright, stand by, Dack,” I said as calmly as I could manage.

His tone hadn’t changed a bit. “Luke, we’ve got a malfunction in fire control. I’ll have to cut in the auxiliary.”

That definitely didn’t sound good, but we would have to try anyways. The alliance was counting on us, and we couldn’t let a malfunction stop us from enabling all the personnel to escape. I hoped the auxiliary would be enough to make my plan go through.

We were nearing an AT-AT, and I was temporarily blinded by a bright explosion of energy bolts as the legs came closer in range.

“Just hang on!” I yelled above all the noise. “Hang on, Dack. Get ready to fire that tow cable.”

The target was so close now. Just one quick bank to the left and Dack would fire the cable. I gritted my teeth as the words Almost There slowly crescendoed in my head.

Almost…There!

An explosion and scream from the back seat shot me out of my concentration. There was an absence in the Force where Dack had just been a second ago. I turned the joystick hard to the left, sending my craft zooming through my target’s legs. Veering away from the walker. I craned my neck behind me.

“Dack?” I called. No answer. “DACK!”

My heart sank at the sight of blood streaming down my gunner’s face and his body slouched over the melted controls. The Force hadn’t lied—it never lies—so that absence that I’d felt hadn’t tricked me. Anger and grief began to swell inside me like a balloon. I turned my head back toward the windscreen, clenching my jaw and forcing a deep, laborious breath into my body. Briefly, I reflected on what Ben had told me about emotions—especially the ones I was experiencing at the moment—and how they lead to the dark side of the Force if they were not controlled. There was no time to dwell on my sorrows; we were in a war, and the lives of other rebels—and possibly other planetary systems—would be relying on me to keep the empire at bay for as long as possible.

Looking out the window to my left, the signal on another speeder rose up.

“Rogue Three,” I called.

“Copy, Rogue Leader,” came the reply. I immediately recognized it as Wedge’s voice. I couldn’t help but cringe as I told him, “Wedge, I’ve lost my gunner. You’ll have to make this shot. I’ll cover for you.”

Moving in front of him, I prepared for another attack run toward the AT-ATs and continued, “Set your harpoon. Follow me on the next pass.”

Wedge answered, “Coming around, Rogue Leader.”

I hoped I’d be able to keep enough fire away from Wedge long enough to take down the monstrosity. As the four-legged war machine came closer in range, I watched as another T-47 raced by, getting a little cooked by the onslaught. I recognized the markings, and warned, “Steady, Rogue Two.”

I rounded the walker, banking hard to the right to make sure Wedge would have as much space as possible. I glanced at one of its hind legs, and a barely visible black line grew from the ankle as Wedge’s speeder flew around, gradually tying up the monstrosity. After his third rotation, the cable was released and Wedge raced toward the horizon.

I held my breath, dreading the possibility of the AT-AT breaking through the cable. One of the front legs moved forward, and it seemed like the cable would snap at any given moment. Suddenly, the head of the walker was lost beneath a cloud of snow, its front knees caved in, and its hindquarters pointed at the sky. A few seconds later, an explosion filled the area where the walker had been as the rest of the squadron fired their blasters at its neck. Pieces of debris and clouds of smoke filled the air. Triumph swelled in my chest. I could hardly believe my strategy had worked. There was definitely hope for taking down the rest of the AT-ATs.

“WHOOHA! THAT GOT HIM!” I heard Wedge exclaim over the commlink.

Keeping the celebration brief, I answered, “I see it Wedge. Good work!”

Hurrying toward the remaining AT-ATs, I glimpsed my friend Zev’s speeder to my left.

“Rogue Two, are you alright?” I asked.

Zev replied, “Yeah. I’m with you, Rogue Leader.”

“We’ll set harpoon. I’ll cover for you,” I told him kindly. I would do what I had done for Wedge, I thought, and once more I prayed that I would be enough of a distraction for the empire.

“Coming around,” said Zev.

“Watch that crossfire, boys,” I warned as I maneuvered in front of them.

“Set for position three,” Zev said, and we flew ourselves into the formation. We were nearing the walkers once more.

“Stay tight and low,” I instructed as the AT-AT’s fire increased.

Suddenly the target was in range. “This is it!” I yelled.

An earsplitting explosion drowned out my shout, and I felt blank space in the Force where Zev had been less than a second ago. My insides churned at the loss of another friend. Painfully swallowing my grief, I moved to the side, hoping to get out of the line of fire coming from the trekking monstrosities. Too late; I felt the whole ship tremor as flak burst all around me. My vision became obscured by black, suffocating smoke and electrical sparks zapped the interior of the cockpit. I frantically ran my hands over the controls as the speeder went into a nosedive.

I switched on the commlink. “Hobbie!” I cried out, coughing. “I’ve been hit!”

No answer. I braced myself for the impact, waiting for the inevitable explosion that would mean the end of me. I squeezed my eyes shut as the front of the ship buried itself into the snow. The only thing that prevented me from being flung through the cockpit window was the endurance of my thin seatbelt. Hurriedly unfastening it, I shoved the hatch open and scrambled out. The ground shook beneath me as another AT-AT lumbered closer and closer to me with each thundering step. Glancing at it for a split second, I suddenly had an idea. Reaching back into my battered speeder, I found a landmine and cable gun.

Another ground-shaking step warned me that I was running out of time. Desperately I tried to yank my gunner out of the back seat. I hoped I’d be able to at least bring his body back to his family so that he could have a proper funeral as soon as the battle was over. Unfortunately, he was too far in the back of the ship and strapped in too tightly. I looked up, and the sky had become gray and metal. My face contacted the snow as I leapt out of the way just in time.

I didn’t need to look to know what the scene was before me. I kept my face buried as the image filled my head: the imperial walker’s foot on my wrecked speeder with Dack still trapped inside.

Dack.

I forced my neck to crane up, clutching at the landmine and cable gun in my hand. Seeing the AT-AT that had crushed my speeder replaced my grief with anger, anger at the empire, at the loss of friends, loss of my family…

Suddenly I began to run towards the walker, the fire of rage gnawing at my heart. Feeling the supplies in my hands, I hoped my simple idea would take down another one of those monsters.

For Dack! I told myself furiously. For Zev! For Biggs! For Ben! For my aunt and uncle! FOR THE WHOLE GALAXY!

Stay tuned for Chapter Six!

#star wars #episodev #The Empire Strikes Back #Luke Skywalker #first person narrative #Hoth #snowspeeder #at-at walker #chapter five

3 notes · View notes

nh935 · 5 years ago

Text

The Adventures of Solaire, Part VII: An Affair of Apples

The Incredible Yet Accurate Adventures of the Dread Pirate Captain Solaire Ravenheart, Otherwise known as The Adventures of Solaire

Part VII An Affair of Apples

If you ever had a moment where you did something wrong and felt stupid, or insisted on a fact only to be proven absolutely, positively incorrect, you only need to look to the small isle of Broi Shaine to feel better about yourself. Over the course of their existence within the lands of the Zygian Federation, the island has done such embarrassing things as insist that a rooster and a chicken are completely different species of animals, set fire to their crop fields in the belief that their own scarecrows were the scouts of an incoming army, and have fought no less than five separate civil wars over the pronunciation of their own name. Normally at this point, I would pause to give the target of my mockery a compliment and follow it up with a witty metaphor, thereby making my teasing appear to have been made in good-spirited jest and saving myself from insulting a potential reader, but as the literate population of Broi Shaine must be smaller than the number of breadcrumbs left behind by a hungry dog, I feel safe not doing so.

However, the island did manage to produce the strange gem that was the scientist-philosopher Daske Tamm, and while he was the cause of several moments of embarrassment (he was very insistent on the whole “rooster-chicken” thing), he was also the source of one of my favorite fables ever.

One day, the story goes, Daske was walking down the streets of his village when his neighbor, Dul Winslow, came out and asked for his help. A large rock was situated in the middle of the field he was planning to plow. Daske came around and looked at the boulder, told his neighbor that he’d be back, and, after twenty minutes, reappeared carrying large armfuls of small white crystals, foul smelling yellow rocks, and charcoal. He then proceeded to careful grind, measure, and combine the ingredients together before pouring the mixture all around one side of the rock.

Then he lit it with a torch.

A loud BOOM sounded and the area exploded in a shower of dirt, blasting away a good portion of the field as the rock lifted into the air and smashed into Dul’s dividing fence. In fact, the force of the blast was so great Daske himself was thrown through the door of Dul’s house. But when the air had cleared, sure enough, the rock had rolled off of the field.

“What in the blazes was that about?” Dul asked in a fury. “If I had asked Smitty, he’d have just helped me roll the thing away!”

“Ah, but you didn’t ask Smitty,” Daske said, face black with soot and sitting in the broken pile of Dul’s former furniture, “you asked me.”

Perhaps if Weiss had heard the story of Daske’s solution, he would have thought twice before asking for Solaire’s help with such matters as the affair of apples. I, for one, am glad he did not. If he did, I would be forced to write about far less entertaining things.

***

“Gentlemen and ladies,” Wiess’ voice boomed from the series of interconnected tubes that amplified his words and allowed him to speak to the entire ship at once, “I do once again apologize for ze delay. Resht assured zat ve vill set sail once all ze damages from ze boiler explosion hafe been repaired. In ze meantime, please enjoy our games wis ze complimentary chips we hafe handed out as reparation for ze delay.”

Solaire looked up from the crew’s quarters that was currently serving as his new home: a small hallway lined on each side with cots from floor to ceiling. He shook his head from his bottom bunk and went back to cleaning his guns. “Boiler explosion. A whole day of fighting constructs and a glorious escape, and he explains it away as a boiler explosion.”

“Weiss is right to be cautious,” Tomo interjected, laying in the bunk across from Solaire, armor removed. “Dinas is an evil kingdom. Its citizens are without honor. Anyone hearing of his efforts would assuredly try to steal his prize if only because it is valuable to him.”

“Yeah?” Solaire asked. “Well if you’re so anti-Dinas, where the hell are you from?”

“The Kellian Empire,” Tomo answered matter-of-factly.

Skyler popped his head out from the bunk above. “The same one we’re at war with?”

Tomo nodded.

Skyler’s eyebrows furrowed. “How the blazes did you end up here then?”

Tomo’s face went just the slightest shade of red. “Like many of Weiss’ crew, I found myself owing him more money than I could hope to repay. He offered to forgive the debt in exchange for years of service.”

“A Kellian samurai, owing money to Weiss.” Skyler turned his head to yell up. “Hey Willaby, you hearing this?”

A loud snore issued from the bunk above.

“Lazy bastard,” Solaire muttered. “He’s slept for almost twelve hours at this point.”

Tomo looked over to Solaire. “Do not judge him for that. A magic user must expend both their spirit and soul, their life force and personality, to cast magics like that. For Willaby to perform the feats he did inside of the Clockwork Temple must have drained him immensely, especially as an untrained practitioner.”

Skyler’s head turned around again, visibly worried. “Life force? He’ll get that back, right?”

“Yes, the same way you or I would. Eating, relaxing…” another loud snore, followed by the sound of shifting and contented sighing, interrupted Tomo’s explanation. “...and sleeping, of course.”

Solaire finished polishing the barrel of his gun and held it up to the light. “Well, magic or no, if he doesn’t stop snoring soon, I’m liable to start contemplating…”

“MURDER!”

“Yes, exactly.” He took out another gun to begin cleaning, then stopped and snapped his head up. “Wait, what?”

One of the white-garbed crew members ran down the hallways, boots clanking on the metal floor and yelling all the way. “Murder! Crew member! Jenkins, dead! A murder! A murderer!”

“You see?” Tomo said. “An evil kingdom.”

“About time something finally happened on this ship,” Solaire grumbled, getting to his feet and heading in the direction the crewman ran from. “Skyler, wake the sorcerer up! Something entertaining happened!”

Skyler hoisted himself up a bunk, grabbed Willaby’s arm, and shook him. “Hey! Wake up!”

Willaby mumbled something and rolled over.

“Someone’s been killed!”

He turned back towards the sound of Skyler’s voice, eyes open and hopeful. “Was it Solaire?”

“No.”

He flopped back into his pillow. “Figures.”

“C’mon, we’re probably going to have to clear our names or something.”

“Alright, alright.” Willaby hoisted himself out of bed and onto the thin ladder, climbing down and joining Solaire and the small crowd forming at the end of the hall.

There, on the ground, face down in a pool of his own vomit, was a glassy-eyed crewman, face twisted in an expression of shock and disgust. Standing over him was the massive form of Austin, growling at the approaching people. “Stay back! No one gets close to the body until Weiss gets to look at it.”

“Lemme just go through his pockets!” someone shouted. “He still owes me fifty gold from cards!”

Austin pointed a massive finger at the voice. “Touch him and that’ll be the last thing you do with that hand.”

“Excuse me. Out of ze vay. Mofe!” The short red clothed form of Weiss pushed his way through the crowd, accompanied by Winthrop on one side and one of the large clockwork guards that normally stayed on top deck on the other. “Ashtin! Vhat in ze blue blazes happened here?”

“Not sure sir,” the large man replied. “Tellany ran down this hall screaming like the ghost of Damned Jeb. I came back to see what he was screaming about and found… this.”

“The crewmen report that he was yelling about murder, sir” Winthrop added.

“He’s right to.” Weiss lifted the man’s face out of the vomit pool with the end of his cane. “Poison. A nashty one at zat.” He let the face flop back over and turned to the crowd. “Right! Who do I need to punish for zis?”

All eyes in the room turned to Solaire.

“You’ve got to be kidding me” Solaire said.

“You threatened to kill everyone in the canteen!” an unseen voice shouted out.

“Yes, with bullets! If I wanted him dead, I would have just shot him.” He turned to Weiss. “Poison is just too much work.”

“And vhat assurance do I hafe zat you did not do zis?” Weiss demanded.

Solaire threw his arms apart. “Do I look like the kind of guy who would use poison?”

“You would if you did not want to be caught,” Tomo said, appearing next to Solaire.

Solaire gave an annoyed shake of his head. “You think I care about that, Weiss?”

“You have good reason to care, given that Weiss has direct control on whether you live or die,” Tomo continued.

Solaire spun over to Tomo, teeth gritted. “Really?”

Tomo shrugged. “I am beholden to Wiess, not to you.”

Weiss cleared his throat. “Regardless, in all ze years I hafe run zis schip, I hafe not had an incident like zis until you came aboard. So,” he said, stepping closer until he was only inches away from Solaire’s face, “unlike eferyone else here, I consider you guilty until profen innocent. Which means zat if we can’t find proof of anyone else doink it…”

“I get it, I get it,” Solaire grumbled.

“Vonderful.” Weiss began walking back towards the entrance he came in from. “Danta! Clean zis mess up. Ashtin! Get the crew back in order; jusht because somebody’s dead doesn’t mean I expect work to shtop! Vinthrop, interrogate the crew. I’ll be on ze top deck, superfisink repairs.”

At the mention of Winthrop, Solaire’s head shot up. He broke into a sprint. “Weiss! Weiss!”

Weiss sighed. “Vhat is it, Solaire?”

“Seeing as how you oh so graciously made me care about this, I figured I’d offer to help Winthrop with the questioning.”

Weiss raised an eyebrow. “And vhy vould he need help?”

“Because,” Solaire lowered his voice to a conspiratorial whisper, “look at him. He’s got all the menace of a paper kite. No one’s going to feel threatened enough by him to feel like they have to tell the truth. But with me…” Solaire cocked the hammer of the Ivory River.

Weiss looked unimpressed. “He’s handled such matters before.”

“Yes, but this is no drunken shore leave incident or illegal gambling game. This is a murder. You said it yourself, nothing like this has happened before, and it’s going to take something more than the threat of docked pay by Mr. Dried-Out-Jellyfish over there to get people to sing.”

Weiss’ face scrunched up in thought for a moment. “Alright. Fine. Jusht remember that you’re clock is tickink, Solaire.”

Solaire gave a tight-lipped smile and ran over to talk to Winthrop.

Skyler, meanwhile, continued staring at the body.

“Crazy, isn’t it?” Willaby said. “I wonder if we’ll ever find out who…”

“I think I know,” Skyler interrupted.

Willaby stared at him in shock.

Skyler lowered his voice to a whisper. “One week ago, right before Solaire got here, I saw Floyd talking to Elmer. He was asking Elmer for access to ‘the good stuff’. Said he had a problem he couldn’t solve otherwise.”

“And what does that have to do with murdering Jenkins?” Willaby asked.

“Floyd asked Jenkin’s sister to marry him two years ago. She turned him down, and a month ago, I saw Jenkins and Floyd getting into it pretty bad. Jenkins said something about ‘leaving her alone’ and ‘letting her live her life’, so…”

“...you think Floyd was obsessed with Jenkin’s sister and stalking her, and he killed Jenkins in order to keep him out of the way.” Willaby finished.

Skyler nodded. “If that’s the case, there’s no way Winthrop is going to uncover this on his own. I don’t expect it, but I could certainly use your help with this.”

“Well, these men certainly aren’t the nicest of people,” Willaby admitted, “but as a baker, I personally believe that no one deserves to live in fear of their own food. Count me in.”

Skyler clasped a hand onto Willaby’s back. “Great. First thing’s first, though. We need to talk to Elmer.”

***

“So Mr. Elmer,” Winthrop began, seated across the table from another crew member, “would you mind telling me what you were doing this morning?”

Solaire took a second to glance around the room they were situated in as he stood in the corner. It was a small place, barely large enough to house the three of them and the table, and large pipes intruded into the room at odd angles. He managed to catch his reflection in the mirror and, with the tiniest bit of shock, he realized that this was the same room where he had met Weiss after his little gambling experiment.

The disheveled and ruddy man grunted. “I was sleeping.”

Winthrop raised an eyebrow. “Sleeping?”

“Yeah, sleeping. It was ten in the morning on my day off.”

“So what were you doing last night?”

“Sleeping.”

Winthrop sighed. “What was the last thing you were doing before you fell asleep?”

Elmer thought for a moment. “I was helping Adeski trash the rubble on the top deck.”

“For how long?”

“Um… ‘til third shift bell, I think.”

Winthrop began to write something down into the journal, and Solaire leaned over. This was the actual reason he had volunteered: to learn how Weiss’ right hand man recorded and stored information. From the way he continuously referenced it, it seemed like the little human vulture had everything stored in that little notebook of his, and if that was the case, it might have the next lead to a certain sold-off slave girl. So, with an intense interest, the likes of which he hadn’t felt since first boarding the Emperor a while ago, Solaire read the letters written down:

“Des (H IV)- sleep, sleep, clearing -b.3 (?)-; in. 195r- see 10-52.”

Solaire’s mind gave an internal scream of frustration. Winthrop was writing all this down in an extreme form of shorthand. He supposed it made sense; Weiss didn’t seem to read Winthrop’s notes, so all Winthrop needed to do was write them down in a way that made sense to him. But that complicated Soliare’s life by several degrees.

Winthrop put his pen down and looked up. “Thank you Mr. Elmer. You are free to leave.”

Solaire saw the man’s shoulders suddenly lower, as if relieved of an invisible weight.

“Hold up.”

Both men turned to look at him as Solaire eyed the crew mate. “There’s something you’re not telling us. What is it?”

Elmer’s eyes shifted away from Solaire then back. “I… I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Solaire rolled his eyes and pulled out the massive Ivory River and aimed it at the man.

Elmer’s eyes went wide, then returned to normal as his mouth twisted into a smirk. “You wouldn’t. Not with Winthrop here.”

“Want to test that theory?” Solaire asked as he cocked the hammer back.

Elmer held still for a moment, then he broke down. “Fine! Alright! I took a second lime! I know I wasn’t supposed to and we’re running out now that we’re stuck anchored here, but the cook handed me another one by accident and I didn’t want to say anything and it was just so juicy…”

Solaire and Winthrop looked at each other with a sense of being underwhelmed before Winthrop turned back to the sobbing man. “Three gold. Then you’re free to go.”

Elmer’s head hung low as he handed the coins over and exited the room.

Solaire uncocked the gun before returning it to his shoulder holster. “Thanks for not being an idiot and telling me I’m not allowed to shoot him.”

“I’m not a stupid man, Solaire,” Winthrop said dryly, “and I felt that it was safe to assume that you are not, either.”

Solaire nodded, and as he did, he caught the writing in the notebook again. Well, he thought, there has to be a system to it. Given enough time…

“How many more men do we have to interview?” Solaire asked.

Winthrop flipped to a different page. “3,429.”

Solaire groaned. Time, it seemed, would be the least of his worries.

***

Five short minutes later, Skyler and Willay were following Elmer through the halls, stopping every so often to duck behind corners as the man paused and turned around. They had continued this dance for nearly three levels and now that the man was nearing the bottom cargo hold, they rushed over to hide behind two large crates and watch what was about to transpire.

Elmer, once more scanning the area to make sure that no one was watching, knocked loudly on a humongous crate, easily four times larger than its nearby counterparts. Once he did, a door shaped panel slid away and light poured from out of it. A different crewman, one neither recognized, stuck his head out, nodded, and motioned Elmer inside before sliding the panel shut once more.

“What is that?” Willaby whispered.

“It must be a place they have to sell contraband,” Skyler said, “but why nobody’s ever told me about it…”

The floorboards creaked and the loud noise of someone clearing their throat sounded out behind the two men. Turning around, they saw the massive form of Austin.

“Oh, um, er… hi, Austin,” Willaby managed to squeak out weakly.

“You boys out here enjoying a little snack?” the shark-tooth man accused.

Skyler turned back around to the crates. Large letters reading “APPLES” were stenciled into the sides.

“What, has someone been stealing food?” Skyler questioned.

Austin crossed his arms and didn’t say anything,

Skyler gave the man a grin. “Well, don’t worry. It’s not us.”

“Oh?” Austin replied. “Then what were you doing here?”

“Well, we were just…” Willaby began.

“Leaving. We were just leaving.” Skyler interrupted, taking the stout man’s arm and dragging him along as Austin watched them go.

“Hey! Let go of me!” Willaby protested, wrestling out of his grip. “Why did you do that?”

Skyler lowered his voice to a whisper. “We need to be careful. If Austin’s been sitting here, then he saw Elmer go in there. He knows what that is. Which means…”

“He’s in on it, too.” Willaby’s face went pale. “So what do we do?”

“We get in there, we convince them to tell us who’s been buying poison and we confront that person,” Skyler explained. “But we have to be careful. We don’t know who’s just been buying extra food and who’s a killer in there. From now on, the only people we can trust to help us are you, me, and Solaire.”

Willaby scoffed. “Please. I’m sure he’s drunk or gambling right now, the little never-stressed bastard.”

***

Solaire had never been more stressed out at any point in his life than at this moment, right now.

Even on his best days, he had never been one for just sitting around and waiting. It was partly why his career as aristocracy was so fraught with anarchy and brawls: Solaire got bored easily. So sitting here, listening to crew member after crew member recall their actions as Winthrop’s questions droned on and on, was quite easily the worst thing he’d ever have to endure. In fact, part of him was wondering if he didn’t just die in the Clockwork Temple without realizing it and this was actually hell.

A small voice reminded him that the whole point of this was to observe how Winthrop recorded information, so he dragged his mind out of the fog it was in and willed himself to tune back into the conversation at hand.

“...and at that point, I was getting pretty tired, so I said ‘goodnight’ and left.”

“And what time was that, Mr. Geskin?” Winthrop asked.

The tan. dark-haired man behind the table squinted his eyes upwards in concentration. “Well, there was no clock around, so I don’t know for sure. But if I had to guess, I’d say one, maybe two in the morning.”

“Alright.” Winthrop scribbled some notes down, then turned to Solaire. “Well, if Mr. Ravenheart has nothing to ask…”

Solaire looked up. “Hm? No, he’s good.”

“Right then. You’re free to leave, Mr. Geskin. As are you, Mr. Ravenheart. He was our last one.”

“Wonderful.” Solaire stood up and stretched. As he did, Winthrop left the room and Geskin walked up to him.

Solaire stared at the man. “What?”

He gave an awkward shrug. “Well, I just wanted to let you know that I think it’s pretty shitty how Weiss and some of the others are treating you.”

“Well, I don’t keep a list of that stuff. If I did, I’d be forced to spend most of my money on paper and ink.”

Geskin laughed, and the sound was punctuated by the rumble of Solaire’s stomach. “Oh man, have you not eaten yet?”

“Been interrogating all day,” Solaire admitted.

“Well here,” Geskin said, fishing a red and yellow apple out of his pocket. “I was saving it for myself, but I think you might need it more than I do.”

Solaire looked at the apple, then at the man. “Well, thanks.” He nodded at the man.

Geskin smiled and stepped into the hallway. “No problem. See you around Solaire.”

Solaire turned and began walking in the opposite direction, towards the top deck. After that torture session, he needed some sweet, salt-filled air.

And a chance to think. Winthrop’s notebook had been less than enlightening. The man seemed to switch over to a different form of shorthand each time he wrote something down, and everytime Solaire began to feel like he was beginning to get a grip on the code, Winthrop would write something down that threw everything he thought he understood out the window. Was he some kind of eccentric genius? Or maybe illiterate, and was just pretending to know what those letters meant?

Or perhaps he did it on purpose. After all, Tomo did say that if people knew what Weiss was after, they’d try to steal it for themselves. Presumably he came to that conclusion from personal experience while working for Weiss. If that was the case, then Winthrop’s method would ensure that all the information inside would stay safe if his notebook was ever liberated from his person.

Which was annoying, because that’s exactly what Solaire had planned to do.

There was one piece of information he’d gleaned, though: Winthrop had another record system somewhere. Everytime the conversation would turn to refer to something else, Winthrop would jot the note “see x”. If it was about the crew schedule, it was “see 8-22.” If it was about repairs, it was “see 15-5.” And if it was about Solaire smashing a gigantic metal gear ball into the ship and extensively damaging the top deck in the process, it was “see 10-52.”

The numbers had to be a reference to a larger codex of information, one with more detailed notes. If only he could find it, look through it, then maybe he could find the name of the person Weiss sold River to…

A cold breeze returned Solaire to his surroundings. He had made it to the top of the deck. It seemed mostly repaired, and the few crew men working about were cleaning up scraps of working supplies and starting to repaint and sand, attempting to make the new pieces look as natural as possible. Solaire watched them move to and fro, took out his apple, opened his mouth to take a bite…

...and stopped.

He pulled the fruit away and looked at it. It was fresh and pristine, giving off a dull but appetizing glow in the moonlight.

That… didn’t seem right. They’d been parked off shore for several days and their food supplies had started to run low. Solaire knew this because the white slop they’d been eating had started to taste stale, (how someone makes soup taste stale, I honestly have no idea, but if there’s one thing I’ve learned about the Emperor, it’s that culinary miracles never cease there). More importantly, the sailor’s daily limes were being rationed. That truly signaled desperation, because removing citrus from a crew member’s daily meal meant that the captain was flirting with scurvy. And scurvy was a terrifying prospect for any man at sea, on par with shipwrecks and sea monsters.

Someone giving away a fresh piece of food like this, especially such a rare luxury for a sailor as an apple, seemed too good to be true. The kind of too good that makes a man ingest poison without thinking about it.

Solaire tossed and caught the apple a few times, testing its weight. Any secrets the fruit might have held refused to be divined with this method.

Of course, he could just be paranoid. Perhaps Geskin was a really nice guy and actually did feel bad about Solaire’s plight. And on a casino ship with hundreds of passengers, there were a million and one perfectly innocent ways for an apple this pristine to end up in a crewman’s hands.

Well, there was an easy way to find out…

“Hey!” Solaire called out to two nearby men standing guard near one of the exposed smokestacks, “you guys hungry?”

The two turned to each other, then back to Solaire. “Why?”

“Somebody gave me this. Wondered if you wanted it.” He tossed the apple over to one of the guards, who caught it and inspected it.

“Seriously?” he asked in disbelief. “What, don’t you want it?”

Solaire shook his head. “Think I got a bad portion of slop. Stomach’s been upset all day.”

“But still…”

Solaire held up a hand. “Please. I’m sure you guys have been working all day.”

The second one, who had been silent up to this point, looked over at his companion. “Well, we have been working all day…”

“Haven’t had time for lunch, much less dinner.” The first one took out a knife and started cutting pieces off. “Well thanks mate! That’s really nice of you.”

“Yeah, real nice.” The second one chimed in. “Guess we misjudged you, Solaire. You’re not such a bad guy after all.”

Solaire smiled and headed back towards the staircase. “Well, enjoy. I’m sure you earned it.”

“Such a nice bloke,” was the last thing he heard as he made his way back to the crew quarters.

***

“Explain to me what we’re doing again,” Willaby asked.

Skyler leaned against the wall of the second deck. It was here that most of the gambling games had been moved after the top deck had been closed, and the massive room was packed with guests, wait staff, slot machines, and card games. The noise here was positively thunderous and the two men were forced to yell at each other.

“Well,” Skyler began, “I talked to Gaston, and Gaston talked to Chillathy, and Chillathy talked to Smessen, and Smessen said that if we want a private meeting in that mysterious crate, we should talk to Kallows. Now Kallows is a regular in the weekly secret poker games the crew have, and they bet with Weiss’ chips, so...” Skyler nodded, as if all had been explained.

Willaby blinked. “Er…”

Skyler rolled his eyes. “We’re stealing chips.”

“Oh! Right.” Willaby took a moment to look around the room. “So… who’s going to steal them?”

Skyler cracked his knuckles. “Well, I can do it. Unless you’ve got some kind of spell you want to try…”

“I have gotten better at magic.” Willaby took out his rod, twirled it a bit, and began to hum. As he did, a green glow began to form in front of him, slowly taking the shape of a hand.

Willaby gasped. “Is that…?” He moved his fingers into a fist, then a ‘v’, then a thumbs up. As he did, the hand mimicked his movements. “It is! A mage hand! I read about these in the ‘Adventures of Archmage Duko’ books! Never thought I could…”

The hand suddenly stopped and gave Willaby the middle finger.

He frowned. “I didn’t tell it to do that.”

The hand zipped off towards an elegantly dressed woman, grabbed her hat off, and began to scrunch it hard enough to shred pieces off.

“Hey!” the woman exclaimed. The room grew quieter as she and a good number of the people around her looked at the hand, then to Willaby, rod still outstretched. “What the hell are you doing?”

“Um…” Willaby flustered. His eyes moved back over to the hand and, as if he had just noticed the object in the room for the first time, he let out a gasp of surprise and pointed at it. “There it is! Grab it!”

One of the men lurched up with a slightly tipsy sway and attempted to tackle it. Instead, he fell face-first into the poker table at as the hand flew away.

“What on earth…” a different lady muttered in astonishment.

“It’s a magical experiment gone amuck!” Willaby yelled as he began to chase after it. “It’s out of control! Help me contain it before it causes more damage!”

With such a crisis on their hands, the aristocracy rose to the occasion and showcased the unique traits that their upbringing had instilled into them. Several of the men rose with the sense of purpose one can only obtain through that unique combination of pride, testosterone, and alcohol and began to run after it as well, flinging themselves at the hand. Each attempt only caused more chaos as they missed and crashed into craps tables, roulette wheels, and slot machines, the hand darting just out of reach every single time. The women, unsure of what else to do, engaged in acts of general hysteria, some screaming, some running, and some over-achievers even managing to faint.

The whole room was in complete panic.

“Nice job Willaby,” Skyler chuckled as he began to collect the chips scattered on the floor. “Guess you’ve got some tricks hidden up your sleeve after all.”

***

If you were worried about the possibility that such a ruckus would disturb Solaire’s sleep, dear reader, then I assure you that your fears are unfounded. Solaire slept like a babe through the night, and continued to do so until Austin awoke him by jabbing a gigantic finger into his chest.

Solaire groaned and opened his eyes to see the shark-tooth man grinning down at him. “Morning sunshine” Austin rumbled.

He doesn’t have a slave plate, a dim part of Solaire’s mind noticed.

This train of thought was soon interrupted by Austin grabbing Solaire’s head and shoulders in one massive hand and effortlessly dragging him out of bed, up the stairs, and onto the top deck as the noble struggled uselessly to escape the grapple. Austin only let go once they had traveled into a crowd of crew members, where he flung him at the feet of Weiss.

“Hello Solaire,” the man said sweetly. “Vould you mind explainink vhat zis is?”

Solaire looked up to see the dead forms of the two men he had been talking to last night, apple pieces scattered around the bodies and foam coming from their mouths.

“Looks like two dead guys,” Solaire said.

“Mmm, yes. And ze crew hafe told me zat you gafe zem ze apple zat poisoned zem. Is zis true?”

“I did, but only because somebody else gave me that apple and I was worried it was poisoned.” He glanced over to the bodies once more. “Guess I called that one right.”

“How fery confenient for you,” Wiess noted.

Solaire stood to his feet. “Look, I know what this looks like, but I can assure you it’s not me. I know who it is now. It’s Geskin.” He turned to Winthrop. “You remember when Geskin handed me that apple, right?”

Winthrop shook his head.

“Damn it, you weren’t in the room with me, were you?”

Winthrop nodded.

Solaire turned back to Weiss. “Egg on my face. But I knbbGAH!” The sudden sound of buzzing electricity and the smell of ozone filled the air as Solaire felt over and began to writhe in pain for half a minute.

Weiss leaned over to whisper into his ear. “You hafe twenty-four hours to clear your name. If not, zen ze next schock is lethal. Undershtood?”

Solaire spat. “Understood.”

Weiss rose and turned to face the crowd. “Vhat are you lookink at? Back to vork before I shtart handink out whippinks, you lazy bashtards!”

The crowd murmured and broke off into groups. Solaire gritted his teeth as he watched them leave.

“Alright Geskin, where the hell are you?”

***

Willaby and Skyler, meanwhile, were far into the underbelly of the ship, traveling past pipes and through narrow passageways, twisting and turning until the men arrived in a small, dimly lit alcove formed in a gap in the machinery where a group of five men were huddled around a small table, tossing cards, chips, and insults alike into the center as they played cards.

“Evening gentlemen,” Skyler said. “Mind if I join you?”

One of the men at the table, and old and gnarled sailor, narrowed his eyes at Skyler. “And why the hell would you think we would want you, you two time, back-stabbing excuse of a sailor?”

“Probably to get some more charming company than you, you salt-crusted, scurvy-ridden mistake of nature,” Skyler replied in an even tone.

Willaby held his breath as the two men stared at each other through the tense silence.

Suddenly, all five men at the table began to laugh hysterically, receiver of the insults included. Skyler laughed as well, and Willaby managed some nervous chuckles.

“Skyler, you bastard, get over here!” the old man said as the dealer began to shuffle and re-deal cards, adding in an extra hand.

Skyler shouted some miscellaneous greetings around the table, picking up the cards and throwing in chips. “What is this, seven card draw?”

“It’s Bride’s Gamble,” another responded. “Think your game enough for those stakes?”

Skyler laughed. “Willis, I could bleed you dry with go fish!” Another chorus of laughs resounded as the men settled in for a couple hands, Willaby dejectedly leaning on a pipe.

After four or so hands of chips being shuffled around, Skyler turned to the man at his left. “So Kallows, I heard you’ve got a side hustle.”

The man looked a Skyler, taken aback for a second.

“He’s no snitch,” the old sailor said. “This is the man that got caught trying to help that thief escape. What was his name? Solitaire?”

“Solaire,” Skyler corrected. “And I would have done it if the bastard hadn’t gone and left me with a whole brigade of constructs.”

The old sailor shook his head. “You’re too damn trusting, Skyler. And you’ve got more ambition than brain cells.”

“And you smell like fish,” Skyler shot back. He returned to Kallows. “Anyway, these rumors true?”

Kallow shrugged and threw a few more chips in. “Depends. What rumors did you hear?”

“That you’ve got access to a special product. One that helps people with certain problems. Clears away certain obstacles and lets you live your life with a bit less… frustration.”

The men around the table looked at each other. “Really?” Willis asked. “I always thought you were a little too goody-two-shoes for that kind of stuff, Skyler.”

Skyler shrugged. “There’s only so much a man can take, right?” The table around him rumbled with a chorus of agreements and nods.

Kallows grinned. “Sounds like you’ve been hearing the right rumors.”

“So what would it take to take a look at this product?” Skyler asked.

Kallows shrugged. “Depends. Whose it for?”

“Me, and him,” Skuler said, pointing at Willaby. “Looking into taking care of the same problem at once.”

“The same problem?” Kallows asked, doubt in his voice.

Skyler nodded.

“Really?” Kallows leaned over to look at Willaby. “He’s got a problem?”

“Look at him, of course he’s got a problem.”

“Suppose you’re right.” He leaned back in. “I don’t know Skyler, this ain’t how we normally do things…”

Skyler hoisted up a small bag, letting the heavy chips inside jingle.

Willis looked at the bag in shock. “Are those all…”

“Top deck chips,” Skyler confirmed. “Worth twenty gold a piece. This is a rather urgent problem, so I’m willing to be a bit more… generous.”

Kallows swallowed a bit. “Alright, fine. I should be able to talk our… supplier into accepting those terms. For a mark-up in price, of course.”

“Of course.” Skyler put the bag on the ground. “So where does this go down?”

“There’s a giant crate in the bottom cargo deck. Massive, you can’t miss it. Knock on it exactly twice. A panel will slide out, allowing you to go inside.”

Skyler looked at Willaby. “So that’s where these transactions go down?”

Kallows laughed. “Can’t exactly do this on the top deck, now can we?”

“I suppose not,” Skyler said. He gave Willaby one last knowing glance before returning to the cards in his hand.

***

“C’mon you stupid sailor,” Solaire muttered. “Where in the blue blazes are you?”

Solaire was storming around the top deck, oblivious to the workmen who gave him a wide berth and accusing stares as he marched past. The ship was massive, yes, but even so, there were only so many places to hide. And Solaire had searched them all. Twice. From the top to the bottom, every nook and cranny had been thoroughly scoured to find the dark-haired man that was burned into Solaire’s memory. But Geskin had been in none of them.

Solaire collapsed onto the ground in defeat, back to a massive smokestack. He threw his head back to look at the pillar reaching into the sky, with a metal ladder set into the side and a large crow’s nest...

Soliare blinked, then scrambled to his feet.

Sure enough, a platform was set into the side of the smokestack. A common feature in any ship, really, designed to be manned by one person on the lookout for approaching pirates, large waves, or any number of undesirables out on the open ocean. How had he not thought of it before?

He gritted his teeth and began to climb.

***

KNOCK KNOCK.

“I’m not so sure this is a good idea,” Willaby began to ramble, fidgeting outside of the massive crate they had been spying on yesterday. “I mean, we’re going into a den of thieves and murderers to accuse a man of…”

A “SHUNK” sounded and a hidden panel on the crate slid out from in front of Willaby and Skyler. A rough looking sailor stood in the entrance way, and he squinted at the two men. “Skyler and Willaby?”

“That’s be us,” Skyler affirmed.

“Kallows told me about your… arrangement,” the man said. “In.”

Willaby sighed as they stepped inside the large box-turned-makeshift-hut. The space they were standing in was empty, save for the wood walls and floor, and it was further divided by a large wall with a door set into it.

The man held out his hand. “What you want is there. But I need payment first. The bag.”

Skyler looked at him in confusion. “But… we’re going to be paying in there, right?”

“Not how this works. You pay me, you get what you need in there, you leave.”

Skyler hesitated.

The man sighed. “Look, you want to do this or not?”

Skyler handed over the bag. The man nodded and opened the door into the space beyond, entirely dark. “Enjoy yourselves.”

Slowly, the two men stepped inside. Once both had entered, the door slammed behind them.

“Skyler? Skyler!” Willaby shouted.

“I’m here, I’m here.” Skyler put his hand out, then stopped. “Is that… a fur couch?”

Willaby stumbled over to the source of the voice. “I… believe it is.”

“Little damp,” Skyler noted.

Willaby sniffed. “This is quite the smell. Lemon, orange, cinnamon? Perfume. And fish.”

“Must be some of the food cargo smell leaking in,” Skyler said. He took a step forward, then stopped. “Another couch. What is this place?”

“Hello boys,” a sweet, high-pitched, and distinctively feminine voice said.

“Er… ma’am?” Willaby asked.

It giggled. “If that’s what you want to call me.”

“What… who….” Willaby stammered.

“Oh come on,” the voice pouted. “Don’t tell me you’re going to back out now. You paid for an evening of enjoyment.”

“I really think we should…” Willaby babbled.

“Come on Willaby,” Sklyer said, “I mean, we did pay for this already.”

“Skyler, Skyler… don’t you think… I mean… the implications…”

“C’mon Willaby,” the femenine voice whined. “Live a little.”

“Yeah, c’mon,” Skyler agreed. “And get your hand off of me. It’s clammy and gross.”

“My hand isn’t on you,” Willaby said.

The room went dead silent.

Willaby muttered some words and a small ball of light appeared, illuminating the area. It was filled with all manner of plush things: couches, beds, fur carpets and more, resembling a den of soft pleasures more than the inside of a crate. Here and there, though, were puddles of water, soaked into the furniture. The largest trail seemed to lead from the back corner, where a large glass container of water sat, over to the couch, towards Skyler…

...and to a mermaid.

It’s now where I should caution my readers to not get their hopes up. The species of homo aquatilium, or Tritons, as they refer to themselves as, are a shy and reclusive group, and their sightings by sailors have been rare. But they have been seen. More importantly, those sightings have been spread through tale and, as the story of Damned Jeb proves, a tiny bit of knowledge will coalesce into a gigantic beast far too fast for the truth to slay it. So for those of you hoping for a description of a beautiful maiden, bereft of clothing to show where her soft skin faded into shimmering scales, you will be disappointed.

The creature standing next to Skyler was bereft of clothing. But that was far more of a curse than a blessing. Her skin was a deep shade of sea green, with fissures of sharp tissue sticking out into rough patches, similar to what you would see on a shark. Her long hair was a dark green bordering on black, tangled together into a wet clump that hung on her like a blanket. Her teeth were stained emerald and the face itself was marred with features better suited for aquatic life: round, fish-like eyes, think whiskers around the face, and deep, gasping girls set into the neck. She reached a soaked hand up, as if to stroke Skyler, and the strong, bony fingers spread apart, showcasing a thin membrane of skin between the digits, slightly translucent and shot through with veins.

Willaby retched.

The mermaid frowned. “What’s wrong?”

Skyler opened and closed his mouth a few times before speaking. “I’m sorry, but I think we’re going to have to leave.” He bolted for the door, slamming into it with enough force to break it off of its hinges, and stumbled into the smaller room, slammed the panel up, and stopped in the cargo hold.

The man standing guard looked at Skyler leave, then watched Willaby make his way out. “What the hell is going on?”

Willaby drew himself up. “You, sir, are disgusting.”

“What the hell is all this?” Austin barked, coming into view.

“And you’re disgusting!” Willaby yelled, pointing his rod at Austin.

Austin took a step back. “What?”

Kallows then appeared in the doorframe, out of breath. “I came as fast as I could. What’s the commotion?”

You… that… you’re gross!”

Skyler reappeared, shoving his way past. “Hang on. Breath, Willaby, breathe. We don’t want you to cast something by accident, right?”

“Right, right.” Willaby began to inhale, then exhale, then stop.

The sound of soft sobbing came from the darkened room.

“Now she’s making me feel bad,” Willaby said. “That’s not fair. You’re the bad guys here.”

Skyler clasped Willaby’s shoulders. “I think… I think we should all have a nap.” He fell over and collapsed on the ground, unconscious. As if on cue, Austin, Kallows, and the other man fell over and began snoring.

Willaby looked at the sleeping crowd stunned before lifting his rod and watching a deep purple gas seep from the end of it.

“Oh,” he said before collapsing as well.

***

Solaire took a moment to just sit there and gasp. He was only a few rungs away from the crow’s nest platform, the place where he could haul himself up and rest. Sweet, sweet rest. The smokestack had to have been 35, 40, maybe 100 feet tall, and the muscles in his arms and legs were screaming in protest from the exertion. If only he could get there...

A tan hand appeared and, as if it had been wished into existence by Solaire’s thoughts, it grabbed Solaire and pulled him the last few feet up, dragging the man onto the landing.

Solaire gasped, looking at the smiling form of Geskin staring down at him. “Thanks.”

“No problem,” Geskin replied. Then he produced a strong garrotte wire and lunged.

Adrenaline kicked in and Solaire rolled over just fast enough to avoid having the wire wrapped around his throat. He continued the roll into a movement that brought him to his feet just in time for Geskin to lunge again. Solaire outstretched his hands and grabbed onto the other man’s arms, forcing the two to engage into an awkward wrestling match, each trying to find a way to immobilize the other’s hands while keeping their own free.

“You just couldn’t eat the apple and die, could you?” Geskin muttered. “You had to complicate things.”

“Sorry, but I don’t die for anything, much less poison,” Solaire responded.

Geskin laughed. “You know, I’m not usually violent man, Solaire…”

“Could have fooled me.”

“...but you forced me to deal with things more directly. I don’t like that.”

“Yes, you’d much rather kill a man like a coward.”

Geskin glared at Solaire. “Jenkins was a cheat. He cost me almost 150 gold at cards. Nobody cheats me and lives.”

Solaire feinted to the left and broke right as Geskin moved left to stop him. He twirled around and attempted to reach inside his sleeve, but was stopped as the other man moved his arm around his head, brining the wire inches away from his throat. Instead, Soliare jolted his hands up to the wire to stop it, pushed out, and dropped, bringing him away from the deadly embrace. Geskin threw himself at the noble, and Solaire was once again forced to grab his hands and continue the awkward dance.

“Why me then?” Solaire asked. “I don’t even know you.”

“You threatened my friend.”

“At the mess hall?”

Geskin nodded.

Solaire managed to shrug as he held the man’s hands out. “Fair enough, I suppose. But you realize that if you kill me, Weiss is going to come looking for you.”

Geskin grinned. “That’s why I’m not going to kill you. I’ll just choke you unconscious, Weiss will fry the killer, and the poisonings will stop.”

Now it was Solaire’s turn to glare. “You’re smart.”

“Thanks.”

“I hate it.” Solaire tried to force the man backwards, but his attempts might as well have never happened.

“And you’re weak,” Geskin retorted. “No amount of guns in your coat holsters will save you now.”

Solaire smiled. “Guess that means you didn’t see the spring loaded boot knife then.” He swung his foot in a wild kick. Geskin gave a panicked gasp, stumbling back from the limb as if it was on fire. Then he stopped.

Solaire’s outstretched boot contained no knife blade.

“Not that smart,” Solaire noted, before activating the spring on the flintlock hidden in his sleeve and firing directly into Geskin’s face.

***

“Ugh, my head,” Skyler moaned, dragging himself onto the top deck. “I need fresh air.”

Willaby stumbled behind, zombie-like, before collapsing on the ground next to a smokestack. “That… was something.”

“Something awful,” Skyler agreed. “I have no idea what the hell you put in that sleep spell, but it feels like every hangover in the world is currently tap-dancing on my skull.”

“I have to concur,” Willaby said, rubbing his temples.

“So we’ve learned nothing,” Skyler complained, sitting down next to Willaby.

“Not necessarily. We’ve learned that the sailors on this ship are disgusting deviants with abominable tastes.”

“Something tells me you haven’t hung out with a lot of sailors,” Skyler said. “In any case, we’re back to square one with this whole poisoner thing.”

Willaby sighed. “We did fail, didn’t we? This murderer, he could be anywhere, doing anything, and nobody knows…”

A loud WHUMP interrupted Willaby’s thoughts as the dead body of Geskin hit the ground right in front of the two men, blood leaking from the bullet wound in his head. His arm fell to the ground and out of the sleeve rolled a small apple and a vial of green liquid.

Skyler and Willaby looked at each other, then looked up.

There, leaning off the side of the crow’s nest, was Solaire, panting. “I found him,” he wheezed. “No need to… thank me, or anything… Holy Sea Foam Mother…” he slipped back onto the platform, collapsing on the crow’s nest floor.

Willaby looked at Skyler. “What time is it?”

Skyler glaned up to the sky. “Looks like it’s about six in the evening.”

“I’m going to bed.”

“Me too,” Skyler said, standing up and leaving the dead body of Geskin on the floor around the gathering crowd of onlookers.

#adventures_of_solaire #pirate #short_story #series #fanstasy #steampunk

0 notes

shannaraisles · 7 years ago

Text

Set In Darkness

Chapter: 11 Author name: ShannaraIsles Rating: M (for language) Warnings: Bereavement, canon-typical injury and violence Summary: She’s a Modern Girl in Thedas, but it isn’t what she wanted. There’s a scary dose of reality as soon as she arrives. It isn’t her story. People get hurt here; people die here, and there’s no option to reload if you make a bad decision. So what’s stopping her from plunging head first into the Void at the drop of a hat?

Chaos

Three days.

On paper, or in a dramatic line of dialogue, it didn't seem like much. But the reality was raw, all-consuming chaos. Three days and nights of screaming pain, of burns and poison and blood ... of horrific death.

The explosion at the Conclave had been so much worse than Rory could have imagined. Even she, who had been expecting it, was shocked to a standstill by the deafening thunder-crack as green fire burst toward the skies, detonating the Temple like a nuclear blast. For just a moment, all was still. Then the shockwave hit Haven; a roaring crash of sound and pressure that shook the place to its very foundations. Great chunks of masonry fell on the village and the camp, thrown two miles clear of the ruined Temple to crush and pin even those who were not caught in that dreadful conflagration. The Breach stood proud of all that destruction - a swirling, merciless vortex in the sky, harbinger of doom upon all the world.

But Rory had no time to stand and gawp as others did. She had been preparing for this moment for more than a month and, despite her horror, she was quick to respond. While soldiers rushed through the ruined valley to what remained of the Temple, hoping for survivors, she took charge on the ground in Haven. Nearly everyone was injured in some way, from bleeding ears whose drums had ruptured to crush injuries that no healer could cure without magic. She made too many life or death decision in the chaotic hours that followed, and each one cut like a knife. Each bundled corpse that joined the others was a failure, as though she should have been able to save them, no matter how little she could have done even with all the resources of modern medicine at her disposal. The walking wounded became her new assistants, taught hastily how to clean and dress a wound, how to ease a burn with snow, how to stop excessive bleeding. The pilgrims' camp offered up their own healers, and by the time dawn rose into the new verdigreen world, they had a functioning field hospital outside Haven's gates.

Then the soldiers returned, and with them a new influx of the wounded and dying, survivors who had been in the valley when the Temple exploded. In the midst of this loud, pain-filled mess, Adan had pulled her aside, asking what he should do for an unconscious patient. Bloody to the elbows and perversely offended by how clean and alert he was, she had rattled off instructions on monitoring pulse and breathing, on cooling and warming a fever, too busy to sit down and talk him through it gently. She was overwhelmed; he was on his own. It was only hours later that she realized who he must have been talking about, when she overheard others around her sharing ugly words about an unknown survivor found in the Temple itself, now locked up in the Chantry. She'd missed her chance to see Solas at work, but there would be other chances. The inner fangirl's curiosity would have to wait to be satisfied a while longer.

As the sun set on the second day, she'd managed to snatch a few hours of sleep - the first in more than twenty-four hours - only to be roused by screams of pure terror from the west of the village. Demons were gathering at the bridge, held back only by the determination of the guards. She caught a fleeting glimpse of Cullen and Cassandra as they ran to respond, ordering what few mages and templars there were to defend the village. And for the first time, she heard Cullen address his soldiers as Inquisition. The story had well and truly begun.

Knowing that there were more hideous injuries in store, Rory had grabbed four of the emergency med-kits she'd been holding in reserve, and the three most alert-looking of her conscripted assistants, and joined the rush toward the bridge. Nothing could have prepared her for what she saw there.

In the game, shades and terrors were more of a nuisance than a real threat. In reality, they almost stopped her heart with knicker-wetting dread. A mass of twisted, mutated flesh and bone, the shades were a poor parody of a real form, claws dripping with acidic ichor that burned through weapons, armor, flesh, and bone. They focused on the weakest prey they could find, bringing to bear an almost overwhelming sense of defeat even before they were in range to attack. And the terrors ... they were aptly named. Spindly creatures born of nightmares, woven from rotting skin and bone; just the sight of them was enough to send panic through the ranks who moved to defend the village. But Cullen's people were well-trained, disciplined. They marched into the fray without coddling their fears, and together, they drove the demons back.

By the sickly light of the Breach, Rory had set to work. Most of these wounds were superficial - painful, yes, but not life-threatening. The acid could be neutralized with snow, they'd discovered; the terrors' claws burned so hot that they cauterized any injury they inflicted. She was still giving lessons as she worked, calling answers to questions from her assistants that kept her from eavesdropping on the hasty orders Cullen was giving. She was even distracted from Solas' arrival by the sudden realization that one of her assistants was none other than Lady Evelyn Trevelyan, who had made it out of the valley with nothing more than a bruised wrist. That was a surprise, one that made her smile. Evelyn would go home again, but apparently not quite yet. The girl was a fast learner, and not afraid to plunge in and at least try to help. She'd make a good healer if she survived this.

Before midnight, Cullen and his men returned to the valley and, ignoring his order to stay put, Rory and Evelyn went with them. It was only two miles to the Temple, but by all that was holy, every inch was hard fought. Wraiths and shades prowled the path; each advance was met with resistance. Whenever they found a rift, a team was left to monitor it, to kill whatever emerged. By dawn, they'd reached the last bridge, still intact, guarded by heavy gates at either end. Here, Cullen ordered a rest stop, sending a runner back down to Haven for reinforcements and supplies. By the time a young soldier shook Rory awake again, the forward camp had been established, and Fabian had sent fresh satchels filled with medical supplies along with everything else.

Satisfied that Evelyn could handle the injuries that would be received here at the forward camp, Rory had joined the the soldiers preparing to press on to the Temple ... and had caused a minor argument in the process.

"I am ordering you to stay here," Cullen had tried to insist when he spied her at the back.

"And I'm disregarding that order," she'd countered stubbornly. "Evelyn's staying, she can handle things here. You're going to need a healer up there."

"You're asleep on your feet -"

"So're you," she'd argued, annoyed by this waste of time. It hadn't occurred to her until later that he'd been worried about her safety more than anything. "So is everyone else. But this needs to be done, and we'll do it. Do your job, commander, and let me do mine."

He'd scowled at her, but relented, turning to order Rylen and Eoin to protect the healer at all costs before returning to the head of the war party. Weary - no, actually, closer to exhausted - Rory marched out with them onto the slope of the mountain. It was hard-going, even without the constant demonic ambushes. The path was rough and steep, littered with burning debris and, worse, burning corpses. Each time the Breach expanded, it hailed Fade fire down from the sky, forcing fresh demons through the Veil to slow their advance. Above them, the brooding, jagged ruin of the Temple of Sacred Ashes loomed, a terrible shadow against the flickering illumination of the Breach.

And here they were, a rough camp made up in the lee of a blessedly intact wall, just beyond which was the last rift before the approach to the heart of the Temple. After the initial fight to clear out the demons that had already spawned, they'd been able to dig in. The rift had a pattern to it; it spawned three waves of wraiths, shades, and terrors every two to three hours. Time enough for Rory to see to any injuries incurred in each spawning attack, and to discover something utterly demoralizing - that the greater shades excreted a toxin from claws and teeth that she had no way of countering.

No matter what she did, the wound always festered within minutes, creeping red lines tracking from the puncture site toward the heart. She couldn't stop its progress with any potions, nor even with a tourniquet, and when it reached the heart, the victim died, poisoned beyond hope of antidote. She'd attempted an amputation - with a lot of help - on the first victim, desperate to stop the progress of the toxin, but it spread too quickly to contain. The line of covered bodies grew each time a greater shade spawned. The death the toxin brought wasn't a peaceful one, either. Men screamed in agony from the moment they were injured as their muscles atrophied in the wake of the poison withering them from within. They screamed without fail from that first moment of contact, until the moment their heart stopped beating.

It was too much. Rory could feel herself growing more and more desperate, less and less capable of rational thought, as the long night dragged on. She hadn't slept more than ten hours in the last sixty, always needed by someone else who was in pain. She was shaking, aching, hovering always on the verge of tears. The screaming haunted her every thought, clouding her mind until she couldn't concentrate properly on her very necessary work. She was bone-tired, and she couldn't complain. They were all exhausted, and not one of them had slept any more than she.

"Will you just help him?" an angry voice snapped by her ear - Calman, one of the older recruits, glowering at her as she tried to soothe a young boy whose screams were slowly growing weaker.

It would have been better for the lad if he'd been bitten closer to the chest - the toxin was taking what felt like forever to reach his heart. If she'd had any poppy juice, she would happily have overdosed him, just to avoid his agonizing suffering continuing any longer.

"I've done everything I can," she told Calman, knowing that the sound of the boy's dying cries were not helping anyone keep their temper controlled.

"You've done nothing!" Calman shouted at her, one hand grasping her arm tight enough to bruise. "You've got all those potions, give them to him! Slit his throat! Shut him up!"

Rory felt her temper snap. She was at her wit's end; she did not need this. Turning furious eyes onto the aggressive man beside her, she heard herself snarl. "Get the fuck away from me, or I swear I will break your fucking nose."

He shook her hard, red in the face as he loomed close. "He's in pain, you sadistic bitch - help him!"

"I can't!" she snapped back at him, pulling on her arm in his grip.

"Then what the fuck good are you?" he roared, each word falling into sudden silence.

The screams had stopped. The boy was dead. And the last thing he'd heard was the admission of his healer that there was nothing she could do for him. The camp was silent; angry, tired eyes turned toward the pair of them as Calman glared at a woman who had gone above and beyond to try and get them all through this.

"Calman!" Rylen sounded furious, each word clipped as he barked an order from where he was nursing a broken arm. "Report to the rift!"

"But, captain, she -"

"Now! Go!"

Burning with upset, Rory ignored the scowl the man sent her as he marched away, turning her attention back to the still form beside her. One shaking hand reached out to gently close the boy's unseeing eyes.

"I'm sorry," she whispered, guilt and pain and overwhelming weariness forcing tears from her eyes as she fought not to lose control of herself. "I'm so, so sorry ..."

But there was still work to be done. She stretched automatically to lay the boy out, and he was just a boy. A boy who had died in excruciating agony because she hadn't had the strength to end his life for him. A callused hand covered her own - Elgor, a man whose life she had saved just yesterday, though it felt like a lifetime ago. He looked at her with sympathetic eyes.

"Take the moment you need, healer," he told her softly, his accent placing him as one of Rylen's former Starkhaven templars. "I'll see to the lad."

Weary and heartsick, she nodded, knowing he was right. She was no good to anyone like this. "Thank you."

She pushed herself up onto her feet, so tired that she staggered on leaden legs. Other hands reached out to steady her, to guide her down to sit on a broken statue. Someone handed her a water-skin, urging her to drink. She did, only then realizing how parched she was. As the water-skin was taken back, another hand pushed half a meat roll into her fingers, another voice counseling her to eat while she had a moment. She felt a body sit beside her, sharing a blanket for warmth. They were all tired, demoralized, numb ... but she was one of them, and they would look after her.

"Sod me, cupcake, you look like shit."

Varric. They're finally here. Rory raised her head, actually smiling at her dwarven friend as long-needed hope blossomed inside her. If Varric was here, then so was the Herald. The end of this particular nightmare was in sight.

"And you're a vision, as always," she answered the concerned comment with weary good humor. "What brings you up here?"

"Just my usual inability to say no to a scary lady with a sword," Varric told her. He glanced over his shoulder, grimacing awkwardly. "You remember that little talk you had with me about bad words for other races? Might want to take a look at the guy who's going to save all our asses."

She wasn't the only one who leaned around his stocky figure to get a look at the trio coming up the path. She was the only one who snorted with laughter, however, glancing back to Varric to meet his ironic smile with a knowing glance.

"Bloody hell, it's that oxman who dropped out of nowhere!"

"He killed the Divine, why's he still breathing?"

"What's that on his hand?"

Oh, you poor bastards, Rory thought as the soldiers around her whispered to one another. Time to let that casual racism go. Because the one who would soon be known as the Herald of Andraste was eight feet of broad-shouldered Qunari, brindle-horned and dusky gray-skinned, carrying a sword bigger than Varric was tall. She couldn't help smiling as Kaaras' eyes fell on her, warmed by the recognition in the smile he offered her in return. Then the Anchor on his hand flared, and he let out an animalistic snarl of pain.

"Easy," she heard herself say, one hand out to still her companions as they tensed in response to that sound. "He's not here to kill anyone."

"And no one is to kill him," Cassandra added as she came level with them. "Where is the commander?"

"Engaging the rift, Lady Cassandra," Rylen answered, as the ranking officer present. "The spawn cycle's just beginning again."

"Very well. Begin preparations to fall back, captain," the Seeker ordered. "This will either work, or kill us all. Adaar." As the Qunari warrior met her gaze, she gestured for him to keep moving, falling into step at his side.

"Looks like that's my cue," Varric commented, tipping a wink to Rory as he stepped past. "C'mon, Chuckles, you'll miss all the fun."

"I doubt this is anyone's idea of fun," a new voice answered as the fourth member of their party strode past.

In her exhausted state, all Rory really noticed about Solas was the back of his head. It's so shiny! Does he polish it with oil or something? ... seriously, brain? Fen'Harel walks by and your first observation is that he somewhat resembles a cue ball from behind? But despite knowing what Solas was, and what he had done, Rory actually felt relieved to see him. His presence at least meant that the mark on Kaaras' hand wouldn't kill him. After the last few days, she could live without any more death, thank you very much.

"All right, ladies, you heard the Seeker," Rylen was saying, hoisting himself up onto his feet with a wince as he knocked his sling. "Stretchers for those that can't walk, supplies packed away. We'll be back for our dead when the living are seen to. C'mon - h'up, h'up!"

With much good-natured grumbling, the camp stirred to life, most of them with half an ear on the sound of the fighting going on beyond the wall. Swallowing her last mouthful, Rory moved to repack her satchels, aware that at least one man soon to join them would need her before they could set off. Ah yes, that first good look at Cullen's arse in-game, when he helps the limpy man, her inner fangirl supplied with typical distraction.

"Whoa ... captain, come and see this!"

She glanced up absently from her work, amused to see so many of the tired soldiers crowding into the open stone doorway as the vibrato whine of a rift being closed buzzed over them. She didn't need to watch it herself, but she was glad so many of them were witness to that spectacle. Should put that murderer accusation to bed once they start discussing it. How dumb do you have to be to watch that and still think he's the bad guy?

"All right, back to your jobs," Rylen ordered after a while. "Rory, there's a leg here needs seeing to."

"Broken, or bleeding?" she asked, opening up her satchel again.

"Clawed," she heard a familiar voice say, glancing up to find Cullen helping - of all people - Calman down to rest beside her. "By a terror," the commander added, rubbing a weary hand over his face. "There were no greater shades in this spawn."

"That's a blessing, at least," she commented, stifling a yawn of her own in the face of his fatigue. She didn't even glance at Calman's anxious face. "Elgor, could you help me for a moment, please?"

"Continue your duties," Cullen countermanded before the man could even reply, meeting Rory's surprised glance with an almost teasing expression about his eyes. "What do you need, Healer Rory?"

She just about managed not to laugh, too tired to trust her reactions to be appropriate. "Could you remove his boot and expose the wound for me please, Commander Cullen?" she asked, rummaging in her bag. "Calman, I'm very sorry, but this is going to sting like a bitch for a few minutes."

The man looked at her in utter terror, reaching out to grip her sleeve with a shaking hand. "Am I going to die like the lad?"

She raised her head, meeting his terror with calm reassurance as his commanding officer stripped the boot from his foot. "Not today, Calman," she promised, handing him a diluted potion that would numb at least some of the pain.

No one was going to die like that boy ever again, she decided. She would make sure she always had concentrated poppy juice with her, learn to cut a throat so the victim died quickly. She couldn't condemn anyone to die like that again. But the sooner Minaeve got set up, the better. For all their sakes.

#set in darkness #multi-chapter fic #cullen rutherford/original female character #cullen rutherford/rory allen #cullen rutherford #rory allen #evelyn trevelyan #rylen #random soldiers #demons #rifts #the conclave exploded #varric tethras #cassandra pentaghast #kaaras adaar

0 notes

multipleuniversesinwriting-blog · 7 years ago

Photo

Title: The End of Days 3

Warnings: swearing, fighting, mentions of panic attacks

Word Count: 2764

Summary: Crimson is transferred to Asgard and struggles to keep herself together- only to find out that Loki has prearranged plans for her.

The style of the dress

A/N: Beta’d by @outside-the-government once more!! I hope you guys enjoy the third installment, because I had an absolute blast leading up to the fourth one, in which we realize, Crimson is a kid.

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Crimson had trouble sleeping that night- though she did manage to find a normal t-shirt and jeans to sleep in- and the next morning when she woke it was to Loki throwing open her door. She jumped up- grabbing the book on the nightstand- and stared at Loki in the doorway before throwing it. He managed to easily move to the side- though the glare he casted at her was truly hateful. She glared back just as evenly.

“Get dressed into something you haven’t slept in- we’re leaving.” He said before turning and slamming her door close. She swallowed thickly and moved towards the closet- entering it and searching through the clothes.

She ended up choosing a dress made up of shades of red and was surprised to find some metal plating- though not thick or durable against heavy blows- certainly provided some protection- and if not protection then simply looks.

She pulled on the red dress then pulled on the braces, the one spaulder on her right shoulder, and the breast plate. A scarf rested around her neck towards the top. She managed to get a look at herself in the mirror before grabbing a pair of boots, slipping them on as the bedroom door opened- and looked up to find Anya standing there- this time a sword on her back as well as a shield.

“Come, we are leaving for Asgard.” She said smoothly and Crimson stopped short- staring at her. Loki had said they were leaving but-

“You mean he’s actually worried about me being on Earth?” She asked- and Anya looked at her- the answer in her eyes.

Well holy shit- Crimson couldn’t help but feel elated- knowing that Loki was scared of her staying on Earth- but at the same time her elation was dragged down with fear. She was leaving Earth. On Asgard, she would have no leverage- she would truly be alone.

She may taunt Loki- but he knew exactly what he was doing. On Asgard, she’d search for someone to befriend- to take away the loneliness she felt- she’d allow herself to be weak and that’s when Loki would strike, when she was at her weakest. On Earth- she had the comforting knowledge that Tony and them would find her eventually, and they would save her- but how were they going to get to Asgard? On Asgard, she would feel her more alone than ever.

“Come on- we are leaving, now.”Anya said and Crimson forced herself to follow Anya out the room and to the door- Loki running an eye down her outfit before they were in the elevator- Loki decked out in all his armor- helmet and all- Anya decked out with her armor- and Crimson… weaponless.

Crimson swallowed thickly as the elevator doors open- and after not seeing anyone initially she threw her shoulder into a surprised Loki- using her hands to push Anya to the side before she ran. She launched out of the elevator and made it to the front doors- pushing herself through one of them and stumbling into the outside world.

“You won’t make it!” Anya cried out, her sword pulled as she raced to follow Crimson. Crimson turned away from them and ducked- an alien hand flying through the spot where her head had just been. She swung her leg out and dropped, sweeping its feet out from underneath her before she stole its weapon- blasting it’s head off.

She spun and the weapon rested against Loki’s chest- her eyes wild with anger and hatred as she held the weapon an arms length away.

“How do I know this is the real you?” She asked, and he smirked.

“You don’t.” The voice came from behind her and she spun- aiming for his ribs. His own staff blocked it and he lashed the bottom of his staff towards her own ribs and she recoiled, pulling back.

The two of them then engaged in a fight that didn’t last longer for a minute but felt like it lasted twenty. Crimson ducked back in and swung, aiming to hit him in the chest, and he raised his staff- holding her at bay, if only for a moment. She slammed the bottom part of the alien’s gun and staff into his chest and then kicked him, causing him to stumble back a few steps. If she had her actual strength she would’ve sent him flying back.

She continued to swing at Loki- moving with the staff gun in her hand as if she had been born with it. After all- it was like any other staff. Loki watched as she fought before knocking her on her ass- staff pressed into her neck to prevent her from lifting her head as he stared down at her.

The look Loki was giving Crimson made her skin crawl- and at the same time there was something almost fond about his look. Crimson peeled her lips back and growled at him and then it was gone- replaced with cold anger.

“Chain her Anya, and keep a close eye on her.” He said before removing himself off her. Anya was right there, what looked to be slime across her cheek- and cuffed her, the two chains turning to one chain that Anya would hold- as if Crimson was a slave- or cattle. The look on Anya’s face was apologetic as she helped Crimson to her feet and Crimson rolled her shoulders to get rid of Anya’s hand.

Loki began leading the way and Anya followed, a tight grip on the chains. Crimson moved forward before the chains could jerk her forward and she looked around. They were close to the park- probably where Loki would go and then call on the gate. Crimson realized that they were walking down the street in which Loki had first caught her- and her eyes found the tower.

‘Don’t let him take me- please.’ Her thoughts whispered- even though she knew they wouldn’t hear them. Her heart felt like it was being clenched tightly and twisted in her chest, and she gritted her teeth as she swallowed thickly. They turned down a street and then the tower was gone- and Crimson was already beginning to feel more alone than ever.

Her foot snagged on grass and her eyes immediately went to the water. If only she didn’t have the stupid ring! If only she could escape and get to Peter, if only if only. They stopped moving and Crimson could feel the tears welling up in her eyes and she gritted her teeth- straightening out her posture as her glare turned to the small piece of the tower she could see.

“If i have it my way-” Loki jerked her closer by the chains, his breath brushing against her cheek and hair as he leaned close to her ear. “You will never see this dreaded place ever again.” He growled and Crimson looked at him from the side- gray eyes blazing with an emotion he couldn’t define.

“If, if you have it your way.” She said softly, her tongue running over a spot that was sore on her bottom lip. “When I have it my way, I’ll be back here, and you’re ass will be long gone- like it should’ve been a long time ago.” She whispered, and he jerked her chains as he growled, throwing her onto her knees. She let out a pant and then the rainbow was upon them- transporting them to Asgard.

Her legs were weak but Loki forced her to stand, and she felt bile in the back of her throat but she swallowed it down- stumbling as Anya jerked her chains forward. Crimson followed after her, her eyes moving towards Heimdall- who was watching her walk by. Their eyes locked and Crimson’s features softened. She could tell Heimdall was a good man.

Her gaze was jerked forward as Anya tugged again, and they walked out of the dome and onto the bridge. Crimson looked down and her eyes widened- the colors racing underneath her feet in opposite directions- or maybe one direction she couldn’t tell which. She let her eyes move forward and travel upwards- and her breath caught in her throat- her steps faltering a heartbeat as she began to take everything in. The city was golden, grand and absolutely took her breath away.

They walked down the length of the bridge and then they were leading her through the city- parading her as a prisoner. Loki was in the lead- and Crimson watched him for a few moments. He did indeed carry a kingly aura about him- but not one that people would grow to love. This was a king to be feared- a king the people could only tolerate for so long.

Anya was following behind him, her strides long and graceful- her armor gleaming as she strutted down the streets. Then there was Crimson, who managed to make herself seem as tall and proud as she could, focusing on Anya’s back as she walked to avoid staring at the people gathering- or the city itself. She could hear the talk about her- the stares lingering on her person long after she had turned the corner.

The walk up to the palace was even more grand than the city itself and she swallowed, breathing in through her nose and out through her mouth as her fear and anxiety suddenly began overwhelming her. She would not have a panic attack here- not if she could help it. She focused on her breathing rather than the helplessness and the buildings around her.

They entered the palace and Loki turned right, Anya turning left. Crimson followed Anya- looking over her shoulder to watch Loki walk away- probably towards the throne room. Crimson looked forward once he disappeared from view and walked behind Anya- as quiet as a mouse.

“Here, this will be your chambers.” She said, stopping in front of a set of doors. Crimson watched as she pushed the door open before entering- Anya beginning to remove the chains. “If you need anything there is a bell right there-” Anya pointed her chin in the direction of a desk. “Just press the button and someone will get you what you want.” She said, bowing slightly before leaving. The door closed behind her and immediately Crimson tried it- finding that the door would not budge.

She sighed and turned, taking the room in. On her left rested a dark wood desk, and when Crimson walked up to it she found that on it rested parchment- actual parchment- and an ink well with a quill. Her eyes widened slightly and for a moment she allowed herself to feel the small inkling of joy- only because it meant putting her feelings of panic at bay for a moment.

She had always loved writing- and before this whole superhero business she had quite the knack for it. She always lost herself in her writing- whether it be fiction or nonfiction- and it had brought her the most joy in the darkest parts of her life. This, she realized, Loki must’ve found out- why else would there be writing tools and paper? It was another part of his ‘kill with kindness’ plan and it filled Crimson with anger and nausea.

She turned away- hands clutching the loose material of her dress tightly as she swallowed thickly. She forced the joy into anger- to forget the joy she had felt at seeing the parchment and ink. Loki was just messing with her- trying to get her lost in her joy of writing once more before he struck a blow. She took a deep breath in through her nose and stared at the bookshelf across the room from the desk, filled to the brim with books. She walked forward and made sure to keep a closed heart- afraid of what ‘act of kindness’ he was going to bestow upon her next. When she recognized that a majority of the works were fiction- some her favorites- she closed her eyes, resting a hand against some of the books as she leaned on it. Tears rolled down her face as she stood there- shoulders shaking minutely as she cried softly, having finally reached her breaking point.

She stood there for lord knows how long- fingers turning white from the pressure she was putting on the books. She heard her door opening and immediately lifted the scarf, wiping off her face and taking a deep breath before turning, knowing she couldn’t hide her tears from her unexpected visitor.

Loki stood there in the doorway, looking around her room as if he’s never seen it himself before. Finally his eyes landed on her form- and he drank in the sight of her. Eyes red and puffy, her face still strong and proud as she glared at him. Her shoulders were back and her chin stuck out just slightly- her aura radiating strength.

“You can fool little with that face.” He said and Crimson only blinked, watching as he moved in and walked around the queen sized bed, heading towards the balcony. Crimson watched him, and after a moment slowly followed. She stepped out onto the balcony and could feel the air, smell it too, but almost immediately realized that this did not offer means of escape. She walked forward and raised a hand, Loki watching her as she put just the slightest push of her hand forward. A small shock ran through her hand and she jerked her own hand back, grateful it wasn’t more violent.

“You can’t jump either.” He said and Crimson’s gaze slid over to him, waiting a moment before turning to face him.

“Listen here, Loki.” She started and he raised his eyebrows. “You’ve taken me from my home, from my world. You’ve place me in an unknown environment without my powers and you’ve give me a bedroom in which I can supposedly call my own. You’ve taken away my obvious leverage from me, but this- me.” She gestured to herself, holding his steady gaze. “You can’t take away from me- no matter how isolated, how lonely you make me feel- I won’t ever throw my life away. I’m reckless- not stupid.” She said and he raised a single eyebrow.

“Oh really, you like to play with danger then, do you Lady Faye?” He asked, taking a step towards her. She took in a deep breath and continued to hold eye contact- not moving from her spot. She was short compared to him- his 6’2 height allowing him to tower over her- but she didn’t show an ounce of fear in her eyes. Maybe she was mental.

“I like to play with fire Loki, there’s no fun if there’s a chance I don’t get burned.” She responded evenly- and Loki had to admit he was impressed by the human’s bravery. Many would be trembling and cowering- but not her. Oh no- she certainly made him stay sharp- made him think. He took another step forward and now they were standing toe to toe. She looked up at him- grey eyes seeming to be a tad greener as the sunlight reflected off her armor and then his- bouncing it back in her eyes. She held steady, and Loki let the tension grow thick in the air as they stood there.

Crimson kept her breathing as even as she could- kept her fear and panic at bay once more as she stood there, glaring Loki down. Neither one of them moved for a good amount of time and she forced herself to blink lazily at him. One thing was for sure, no matter who, what, or where she was, she was still one stubborn ass kid. Her bedroom door opened and she took a step back, hands clutching tight to her dress as Loki finally looked away to see who had interrupted their staredown.

“My Lord, the council is waiting.” She said and Loki smirked- glancing over to Crimson.

“Help her be presentable- use as many hands as needed, I’ll go talk to them in the meanwhile.” He purred, and Crimson felt her heart plummet. She was going to be shown off like a trophy- like a prized horse he had won. Her glare scorched his back as he walked back into her room then out of it once more- disappearing from her view. Her gaze transferred over to Anya and Anya raised an eyebrow- the slightest ghost of a smirk on her face.

“Come warrior- I think you’ll enjoy this very much.”

0 notes

lost-gokiburi · 7 years ago

Text

The Watchers of the Night | Finished

|Revenants Among the Stars|

Victory at any cost.

“Yes, Lord.” Came the defeated reply. “I shall recall our ships in a final run.”

With one last look, he affirmed that he was sending a brother. No, a Father to a death he did not deserve. Though young and hardened by the trials which they had all faced and though their losses were tragic, he knew that the Watchers of the Night would continue their vigil, their endless watch. Yet as he stepped away, the Chapter Master would feel a moment of dread. An emotion born of regret that would set deep within his heart for the centuries of his horrible, long life to come. What fate the laughing and tumultuous gods beyond had for him would go unknown for centuries. However, in this Dark Imperium, these death born Watchers of the Night would know victory wrought by terrible hands of cracked ceramite and blackened armor.

They had made a mistake, of this the Chapter Master knew, but Khalyx Balus had forced their hand. Perhaps this was another lesson imparted by him, a lesson to let others go when they must be parted with. A lesson born of loss, dread and endless regret.

As the great Battle-Barge abandoned its charge at the behest of the Chapter Master, war still raged on the surface of the planet as madness continued to bleed through. What few numbers of the defenders remained had already consigned themselves to death through either cold logic or through self inflicted madness. Insanity had spread through the world, even during the earliest days of battle as the daemon tides of unreality broke through the veil. Their voices had reached a crescendo that few could truly resist and yet those born of mortal blood dared to do so.

In the collapsing hive city located in the northern hemisphere, it's defenders still held on with fervent rage imparted onto them by the ecclesiarchal ministers. Their words shouted over the daemonic roars and chittering laughter of warped cultists like a beating drum that reached into the depth of humanity's soul. A sight that even the Blood God Khorne would have delved into, birthing joy in this defiant display of both valor and martial might against the blood tides he had sent forth. It was clear, to any, that these mortal souls would not go quietly into this dread night.

Even as the world rushed from the depths to meet them, these mortals would meet their fate with iron in their blood and hatred in their hands. It was a worthy display that would have brought any of the Imperium a profound sense of pride. Here, the enemy would be humbled even as this world tore itself apart.

The Imperial Guard had made their stand in the inner ring of Hive Arcaeus which sat at the apex of the capital spire. Where beautiful fetishes of the Aquila, towering statues of the Emperor and his angelic son Sanguinius once stood now was but a blackened landscape of ruined buildings and blood soaked stone. The Imperial defenders had made themselves at home in this hellish landscape while lasgun lines fired off constantly, filling the ashen night with snaps of lasgun and the barking of heavy stubber. Flashes illuminated the ash covered streets while these valiant souls crushed wave after wave of ravenous cultists.

The dead or rather, those claimed by the blood tides were skinned and their bodies strewn up across buildings as blood was used as paint to honor their fell gods. Even in the face of such desecration, these men and women of the Imperium answered their depraved enemy with hatred that went beyond their fervent worship. Beside them were cold, unfeeling machines of war. Several super-heavy tanks of the Baneblade class and several Leman Russ battle tanks made up for the gaps in their lines. With the last of the civilians away that could get away, they focused less and less on the safety of others as they did on making these heretics pay in blood.

It was a beautiful thing to watch for the towering Astartes that lorded over the Imperial Commanders present before him. His blackened armor was all but obscured in the poorly lit upper atmosphere as the ash continued to fall. It wasn't long now before another attack had been announced by the shouting of madness and the echoing roar of their fell gods. His crimson lenses had watched wave after wave fall before imperial guns and each time he witnessed their obliteration he found himself feeling pride. An emotion that he had often warned his own brothers and disciples alike of as such feelings could cloud one's judgement.

Even so, the towering mass that was Khalyx Balus took pride for what these men and women had accomplished. It wasn't long now, of that he knew. He could feel it in the ground and smell it in the air. The true enemy was coming and this would be the last wave to wash over them. Even so, it wasn't long until the planet made its final cry into the night. Even from here, he could see the shattered metal and rock spewing into the sky on wings of fire. It was a sight that he took pleasure in witnessing even though it meant little more than the end for them all. The Astartes had spoken little upon his arrival other than his own concern for what few noncombatants there were to save and they had saved a great many before it had finally reached to this point.

Having sent his own men away, an act that had been so difficult to do, he had remained with them. It was time for his chapter to learn the true meaning of loss and sacrifice. Though young, he had trained many of them to withstand these feelings and he knew that through the ages they would be dealt lessons such as this. They were Watchers of the Night, but their origins went beyond that for each of them was forged on a world carved with hate brought forth from unreality. Theirs was a chapter that had faced down the terrors of the night, stripping away the shadows and burned them all away.

Khalyx had taken pleasure in that fact alone. It was why he stood among them here and now. He wished to make his final moments worthy to recall for the coming centuries.

To the Guardsmen, he was the guiding hand of the Emperor himself sent to watch over their final moments. To the enemy, he was called a daemon of light, a beast to be speared upon a black and hellish sword. A beast to be skinned and worn as a trophy. He had broken their master upon his knee in the last battle, casting him aside as swiftly as a man might blink. Their battle had been a brief and brutal one but it was one that ended in his favor. He had left their master in the streets to be picked apart by the lesser flesh eaters that they brought forth.

His armor was cracked, much like his brothers who had come before him, but his was one of terrible appearance. Paint chipped away from the endless war he waged on this world and deep cracks in the surface of his battle plate that suggested glancing blows from bladed weapons. His armor was damaged, quite heavily, but it protected him as well as a new suit of armor. He wore his scars with pride but did not allow them to hamper his ability to bring forth slaughter. His glowering red lenses glowed with dormant fury as he looked on. He could see the approaching blood mist that brought forth the shades which stalked across the field of battle. It was here that reality and unreality would clash for one final battle.

There was a shattering tremor and the world was torn apart. He heard the words, bellowed over the breaking of this world. All the while the Guard dared to fight further, having prepared for this as best they could, they had maglocked their boots onto the metal ground just as he had as well. There was a deafening groan of strained metal as a trio of explosions rocked the entirety of the hive. Soon the level they stood on was loosed from it's fetters and begun it's descent towards their final moments, but this danger did not stop the daemons from rushing forward. They clamored over one another, crushing the weaker cultists in a sea of blood and gore while they shouted their hungered words. Their charge was met with fire and what glorious fire it was.

Khalyx watched as these beasts were torn apart by lasgun, battle cannon and plasma. He had almost laughed before raising his heavy plasma incinerator to take aim at the beasts which rushed forward. Though death was upon him, he knew that these lowly neverborn would pay a steep price for each of them. With the depression of his trigger, a stream of plasma bolts were loosed from his weapon, painting his armor with terrifying azure.

The platform fell and blood began to run wild as the daemons met the Imperial lines, supported by what few cultists survived the initial stampede. Soon, gravity was nothing but an afterthought as the atmosphere shuddered and was stripped away. Beasts floated away, wreathed with unreality as the gravitation fluctuations begun to tear everything apart. Scores of loyal and heretics alike were pulverized by the undeniable forces of the galaxy as they waged bloody war.

Khalyx had moved forward from where he had once been, holding his Heavy Incinerator in one hand, letting loose focused bursts while he brought down a great, flanged power maul into the chest of a purple skinned daemon. The Watcher pushed forward as he called forward the attention of many foes and each would be cut down with cold efficiency. Where the daemons fought with ferocity and fervor, Khalyx met them with calmness and cold efficiency, a gift provided to him through centuries of service before he had even become a Watcher of the Night. His own efforts had brought forth the destruction of many of these beasts.

Men and women died around him, just as daemons and heretics had. This battle was nothing short of apocalyptic as his own body had been beaten by the ravenous forces of gravity which demanded the destruction of everything in sight. From a distance, he could see the magma fountains jetting into the void, washing over towers and what had once been beautiful balconies.

“I am the Darkness which stands in the Light...” He spoke, his deep voice drowned out by the echoing laughter of these beasts. Swatting another aside, he spoke once more as he loosed another burst of plasma before he maglocked his weapon onto his right thigh and reached for the assault incinerator. “From the darkness, I drag these terrors into the light.”

“Shrouded in hate, cast from Iron I was...” He speaks once more, driving the head of his great weapon into the chest of a cultist. Blood splatters across his armor like a can of paint splashing against his onyx armor. Another flash of azure and more are claimed by the fires of plasma. “From Iron. I banished the Terror in my soul.”

“Saved by an angel on blooded wings...” Another verse. Another kill as he threw this melee weapon into another beast as he drew a gladius. He depresses the trigger of the assault incinerator once more before casting it aside into the chest of another cultist. “Robbed of Hatred, I sought the Long Night.”

He could see the ground rushing up to meet him like the rushing sea of his distant and forgotten home. “So I stand, a Watcher of the Night.”

Yet, his death did not come, instead... silence.

“I told you I would find you Khalyx.” A voice slithers into his mind like a black sludge. It was born of corruption and things not of this world. Time stopped and soon before him the world became nothing but a sea of color and the beast rushed to meet him. “Your death was told to you, like the others of your dark and brooding chapter.”

It was a beast born of the Immaterium and looking upon it's grotesque parody of biology brought a gentle pain that tugged at his own sanity. He had thought to free himself from this fate, but now, at the end he was caught by the beast that sought him out. It was formless, born of a nightmare never before dreamed and yet he knew what creature that spoke to him was. The towering Astartes wanted to scream and lash out at his assailant... yet he could not.

The world was stripped away from him like a mother would rob her child of a toy. Instead, he was left floating amid the mass of death and destruction that raged around him. He had wondered when the beast would show itself, but he did not believe it had orchestrated this travesty of an event. How could it? This beast lusted only for souls, not some motivation for petty revenge. At least, that was what he had thought before his fate came rushing towards him like the realization of everything he had missed from before.

Slowly, the pieces snapped together, earning a gentle laugh that violated his very soul. It was sickening and born from the depths of his still beating hearts, a smoldering hatred was born. It did not take hold but rather took form beneath the cold surface of his own ego and through that, the insanity was washed from him and the veil pulled away. It was stripped and the true nature of this beast was made known to him.

They were enemies, he and this daemon. Both born beneath an auspicious nature that would give way to a battle one thousand years in the making. It was through the memories that spilled from the void that greeted him as his burning lenses focused on the maw before him. He knew that his death was upon him but like the guardsmen who had stood beside him in these last moments, he would not go quietly into this dread night. It was here that their final moments would be witnessed by the tumultuous beasts that toyed with mortal life upon their mere whims. They vied for a soul, a sacrifice that would be most worthy for the bloods upon Khalyx's ancient hands were dipped in the blood of cultists, legionnaires and daemons alike. He had been the sacrificial altar which they threw themselves upon to blot out the light in which he brought to the darkness.

Though terrible, these final moments would be nothing more than a clash of wills. The two of the vied for power as Khalyx's unblemished soul beat back against the ravenous beast before him. He would not be denied this final clash. It felt as though a thousand years passed during this battle they now held before Khalyx found his voice once more. Within lingered the hatred that burned and sustained him through the endless centuries of his long, accursed life.

Yet for all his hatred, the daemon was strong. It's voice, though rife with undeniable fear, brought forth power only known to his kind. It's maw tore itself open as energy flowed from within it's vile body. Like a sea of vomit brought to a dam, it poured from it's gaping maw, spilling over jagged teeth and coating the void with it's essence. The Daemon fought harder, it's very existence being drawn from it as though plucked by it's uncaring masters. It's body shriveled and burst into the insanity that it was spawned from. Soon, the Primaris Astartes was dwarfed by this great daemon, it's presence surrounding him as it's whispers attempted to pierce through Khalyx's mind. It wanted to destroy him first, to make him witness the stripping of his soul and the destruction of his own ego.

Even so, the Astartes clung onto life. Gripping his soul with all his might, he denied this beast the death he was promised once more. “You will not deny me!” It shrieks. “This moment is mine! Your soul is mine!”

“Your gods have left you, beast! If that was their will I would be but an afterthought!” Khalyx roared as he gripped his blade tighter than ever. Though he was no psyker, the potency of his rage born of a thousand years of miserable life had given him power here. His mind was a fortress, it's gates barred and guarded by a legion of memories. He roars his final detestation towards this malignant tumor before leaping with all his might, plunging his blade into the creature's body.“I am unbroken!”

With this single blow, he was consumed by the Immaterium itself. The uncaring tides were stirred into a fit of madness born of their brief and tempestuous battle. The daemon let loose it's howling throes of death just as the world he had engineered the destruction of. His very essence blasted apart while the storm consumed them both. It was then that Khalyx Balus was greeted with the rushing darkness that was to come.

Yet... he was not dead.

#Long post is somewhat long #Fiction #Primaris Astartes #Warhammer 40k

1 note · View note