#IC Writing

[silversoulcreations]

DWC Nov 17 - Day 1 - Sexy/Hazy

Warnings: Sexual Themes/Acts - Alcohol/Substance Use - Eludes to Traumatic Past / SA. Forced Servitude.. probably others that I'm forgetting.

The pirate lay on his back, staring up at Beledar as it shifted dark. The night had been a strange sort of wicked to him, he'd meant to take a dip in for the sake of a drink, and possibly a touch of flirting.. but what he had seen... He couldn't stay. Not for the full show, not for the dancing afterwards. No, he'd nearly instantly shadow-stepped back to Dornogol, picking up a few things from his ship along the shore. A change of clothes, a large bottle from his personal stock... and a cigar box. These ones free of the poison that he knew those he had grown close to would scream at him for... these ones designed for one thing alone... make him forget who he was for a while... He'd traveled away from the town, along the rocky cliffs that overlooked the valley. Far out of the reach of Kobyss, of Nerubians... and even the Arathi or their other guests. Tucked up into an alcove, he stared at what amounted to the sky, removing the patch from his scarred eye, bright sapphire shining out next to it's jade twin. Popping open the cork on the bottle of whiskey, he poured himself a glass, swirling it, before setting it aside to pluck out a cigar with a dark purple wrap, smelling heavily of the opiates he used to oh so favor, along with a heavy currant undertone. Lighting the cigar, he took a deep drink from his glass... then raised the strongly scented object to his lips, Inhaling, sharply, before leaning back, glass in one hand, and cigar in the other, allowing his eyes to drift closed.

~*~ "Professor Duskember, so glad you could make it. Dining will be at eight in the Great Hall, followed by a Ball shortly after, which will last most of the night. This evening's entertainment will be provided by the Therandian Quartet, and my dear collection of hosts and hostesses." A figure comes into view in the haze of darkness, always the same bright smile, that so many warmed to, that sent a chill through to Jarethius's Core. A single gesture from the nobleman and he felt himself stepping forwards, offering a low, sweeping bow to the older gentleman as he was introduced. "Jarethius here will see to your every need during your stay, Professor. I assure you he is one of my -best-. Well trained and eager to please." Bowing at the waist, mismatched eyes met, and held the magister before him's gaze. The man looked to be an older elf, though not quite fully past his prime, he was beginning to show sign at the edges of his eyes. He had a kind face. From experience he knew that could be either good... or far more sinsiter than he dared think about. For now, he simply smiled, and with all the practice and precision he could muster, he slipped into the role required of him. "It is a pleasure to serve you this eve."

~*~

The memory was a dull ache amidst the haze, another drink, another deep draw on his cigar... The crack of a whip, the show he had run from.. and back to the memory...chasing the dragon to forget the present... ~*~ "Tell me about yourself, Jarethius..." The pair was walking through the large gardens of his master's estate, slow, calculated movements as the music played on within. The mage was looking at him with such a curious expression, he spoke in turn. "You have much potential beyond whatever this is, you know." "I am not certain what there is to tell, Sir. My name is Jarethius, though I have been referred to by many other things. I am trained in the use of swords, pistols, and on occasion bows. Daggers, too, come with ease. I am skilled in court etiquette and sentry work. I have been a body guard, a taste-tester, and of course, as with tonight, an escort." He paused in a particularly floral archway, the roses, black with crimson tips along their petals, towering around them. His voice lowered as he shook his head, a hint of reddened marks shining just above the collar of his shirt as his hair swayed, before he pulled it back over the marks. "I am in my place, Sir. I know this well. But I thank you, for the compliment." He had to make a good impression. It had been drilled into him that morning. This was the professor his master wanted to teach his children. Make a good impression. Don't swive it up. Make him pleased before the business dealings... or suffer the consequences of failure. ~*~

Jarethius shifted on his back, his gaze slowly opening once more to stare at the shadow-clad crystal in the cavern's ceiling. The opiates were doing their job... and he was sinking further into the memory, the cross-fading haze taking him after denying himself for weeks.

~*~ He trembled as fingertips brushed across the lattice-work of red marks, some entirely too fresh, upon his back, his eyes squeezing shut as the mage spoke quietly. "I could heal these for you... I've dabbled in the priestly arts, and alchemy both, in my day...Though with that potential for darker magics that's inside you.. it might hurt you..." "They don't bother me. Pain and pleasure... they are both.. attention." He lied, quickly, without thinking, as he turned to face the magister, slipping to his knees beside the bench upon which they sat, his hands sliding to rest lightly on silken robe clad thighs. "And... Please forgive me.. I do not wish to correct you Sir, but.. you are mistaken. I have no magical ability, trained or otherwise. My brother .. My brother received all of the ability of our line... and all of the privilege.. it.. It is why I serve. All that I am.. is a man.. The man you see before you.. who wishes to please you." His voice was soft, but strong, his gaze never looking away, not once. training keeping the mask heavily in place. This was his life now, and he was good at it.. if the professor would just stop digging and let him show him. Then, his master would be pleased.

~*~

Jareth groaned, arching slightly as the memories took a turn.. the pirate's breath catching as he envisioned hands upon skin, far less scarred then, save for his back.. the shadows around him moving, as he lay in the alcove, mimicking motions echoing in his drugged, hazy, half-dream.

~*~ "Down the side hall, back of the garden. He keeps me away from the others because of my prior status." The admission was quiet as he led the magister through the halls. Few along their journey bore similar marks, indeed, it seemed as if only Jareth held such 'gifts'... was he the only one the man struck? There was little time to express that question as Jareth led the man into his room. There was a large, round bed in the center, curtains hanging from the ceiling, barely hiding the chains that also hung there, the edges of the comforter hiding the ones that came out from under the bed. In the next room, left viewable from the bed, was the bath, a large number that one had to step down into, and a small porcelain toilet beside it, all viewable from anywhere in the room. To the casual observer, the idea of this room would be clear. If someone was in this room with the young man, they would see anything and everything he tried to do. It was an over glorified prison cell. "Do they chain you to the bed when you sleep?" "Not when I sleep, No."

~*~ The shadows removed what was left of his cigar and the drink from his hands, setting them to the side, before drawing the pirate's hands above his head, pinning them there as his memory played out the sensation of chains being wrapped around his wrists, the sensation of soft pillows beneath his form, legs splayed akimbo and pinned as.... Another low groan left him as his half lidded gaze stared into the open air above his form, hands bound, magic doing what those hands did not, raking and clawing, biting.. all without leaving marks, the *sensation* enough to send him into a wicked spiral as various figures appeared in that hazy vision... Recent faces seen.. The gentle touch mingled with wicked strikes, his breath catching again as he arched, a particular face clouding his drug-addled mind as the shadows brought that peak he sought... before collapsing back against the stone with a low growl. Laying, panting for breath, he hissed as Beledar began to shift to light and the darkness fled once more. Sitting up, he grumbled. He'd never get that with him... Lucien... The boy was too gentle.. too sweet.. an open heart and a helper's nature... and the kind of aggression that was so hard wired into Jarethius at this point was something so very few could give. He sighed. He was going to have to clean up and sober up before he could return to that inn room. Lucien didn't like the smell. But for now.... He peered to the side at the rest of that bottle. For now, another drink.

-----------------------------------

-- @daily-writing-challenge

[askthekirbysquad]

I would like to say hello to everyone!

Ah, another visitor!

Magolor's ears perked up at the sound of the other's voice. Looking up from his desk and the paperwork he was working on, he greeted the newcomer with a smile.

"Hello hello, and welcome to Merry Magoland! Home to the very best theme park games in the universe!"

"I assure you, all of the attractions here are completely safe, with only a 2.285% chance of death!"

The sound of an exploding bomb went off in the distance, coming from one of the attractions.

"Totally harmless!!"

The mage clapped his hands together, his grin (...did it feel this sinister a minute ago?) never faltering in the slightest.

"Go on, now! Check out anything and everything that catches your eye! And if you'd like to purchase some fun masks, talk to the Waddle Dee vendor running that cart on your left!"

Ah, this person had said they wanted to say 'hi' to everyone, right?

"Oh, and if you're looking for any of my friends, I'm sure they're still here having a blast playing my games, hehe!" Perhaps even literally!

[yunessa]

When I dream about the fragmented memories I have about my past they collide with each other to form strange things.I know the dreams aren’t real, but the me in the dream continues  on heedless.

There are no faces but mine in these dreams. No colour to them save for shades of black, white, and grey. No sound either, but I react in the dream as if it was It is a patchy landscape.

In the dream I was sitting atop rubble watching a sea of grass as the wind blew. The grass flowed like water beneath the wind’s gentle caress and I had, for a moment, peace.  The me in the dream heard noise and so I turned to greet a person I could not see. It wa as their very image had been torn out of my dream. Like a piece of paper torn out.

I remember putting a finger to my lips. I am certain I asked if they came to find me. They spoke but the me in the dream just chuckled and asked them not to tell ‘our favourite healer’. I realised then that the me in the dream had bandages wrapped around their abdomen. I could feel the trickle of blood as it creeped between stitches.  What injured me to that point I do not know. A fall? Emergency field surgery?

In the dream I complained I could not sleep  with the medicine the healer had given me- it gave me nightmares and sleeping was difficult. My companion responded and I gave my most charming smile despite the pain. 

I promised them a song and a song I gave, playing my lyre despite the pain. I remember seeing the grass flow like water. The companion that had come up to  turned and further down the hill another companion came up. Their face scratched out but the dream self that was me winced. The healer, I think.

The dream was peaceful enough.  But it wasn’t me. I dreamed another when that one faded away. It was a birthday party. So many excited faces, so many streamers hanging wherever they could be tacked on. There was a conjured animal covered in fur. It felt like it could have been real, and not just a strange dream. Though the memory of that drips through my fingers like water and I have lost most of it.

I write it down now, hoping to find some sort of connection between the scraps of memory. But are any of them real? My mentor was real, but I feel like I’ve still lost a lot of that as the curse had ‘fed’ throughout the decade since we parted.

There’s a scene in  a play called ‘Lost among the Waves’ where the amnesiac character screams to the sky  and demands to know who he was, what he was.

I think about it sometimes. But more often, I think that, to me, it doesn’t matter. I am not dead. Why do I even make room in my mind for such nonsense?  Even if I regained who I was, am I hoping I feel something more? Or less? These notes are nothing more than the notes of a cursed elf who has been far luckier than they deserve to be.

Strange thoughts come with strange dreams, I suppose.

-Yunessa

[dragons-ire]

The Two Brothers

(as told at and for Bel Canto Winery - @wine-xiv)

Before this place was the winery it is today - before it was an opera house, even - it was just a bare expanse of tidepools and sandbar. A little higher up, maybe a few trees and grasses to keep the entire island from washing out with the tide. 

Until one day, a pair of brothers rowed over from the mainland. The eldest was called Merlgeiss, and his younger brother: Keltanth.

They'd heard there was a fortune, you see, buried somewhere on the dunes. And so they'd brought supplies and shovels, and a dream they'd packed for themselves in the bottom of their rucksacks, of becoming wealthy men.

So when they hit ground, they made camp, and got up at first light with their shovels to dig. And dig they did, from sunrise to sunset. For sennights at a time, until their hands were cracked and blistered and their backs stiff and stooped.  And at night, they ate hardtack and the freshwater they caught with the rain, and in the morning they began again.

They never found the pirate's buried hoard that had brought them there. Not in gold and jewels, at least. But they dug in the earth, and they turned over the sand all through the winter until the loam underneath began to show. 

And in the spring, they readied their shovels again, only to stop as they saw something winding through the soil that wasn't seagrass or the roots of a tree. 

Just a wild La Noscean grape vine, struggling for the sun. The seeds washed in by the sea, or carried there by some bird.

They knew then that, with some work, they'd found something just as good as gold.

It was several more long seasons of toiling before anything came of it. One single vine that turned into two, and three, and at last rows of them, green and purple in the sunlight. The first harvest, pressed and crushed and storedin the first barrel that's said to have been fashioned from the planks of the rowboat that had first carried them to the shore.

And when they decanted that first bottle, they knew that this had to be the treasure they had come seeking.

In the years before the Calamity, the two brothers' vintages were widely known up and down the coast. Pirate lords and rich merchants alike paid well to have bottles in their larders. The famous culinarians in the city competed to invent dishes to pair with them. And the brothers' made enough fortune that they could bring in workers to till the fields, and builders to build casks as well as buildings to house everyone. Before long, they had more money than they could count by themselves.

But as their fortune and fame grew, it seemed to eat away at the simple camaraderie that had brought them here in the first place. That which had seen them through all those days and nights of hardship eroded just as a seacoast will if it has nothing planted in it to keep it fast.

The workers would say, later, how they'd heard the pair quarreling late at night. Their raised voices constantly bickering about something - about the money, the business and what to do with it. The most anyone could report was that they disagreed about the place's future. One of them wanted to sell it and settle to an easy life. The other thought they were only at the beginning of what they could gain.

Unfortunately, the argument never resolved itself. One morning, the workers who rose early found the body of the eldest brother, Merlgeiss, lying on the sand, half-carried out by the tide. His body bore the marks of a violent struggle. The crabs and the gulls had already started to move in.

Not a day later, the Yellowjackets picked up Kelthanth, the younger brother, wearing his elder brother's jacket, trying to book passage out of Wineport with nothing but gil in his luggage. Whatever happened, he refused to say, but his guilt was plain to anyone looking. He went to the hangman without breathing a word as to why.

It wasn't so long after that that the Calamity washed the entire place out to sea. The rich earth was re-settled in the years afterwards. An opera house, and then, by some grand coincidence, another vineyard broke ground.

But it's said still that Merlgeiss' spirit is restless still, and wanders up and down the coast and in through the grapevines. And sometimes, even into the house itself, as if ceaselessly searching for that treasure he'd had and lost. Or at the very least, a glass of wine for his parched soul.

So: if you happen to wander through the winery late at night and find something out of place - let’s say a wine glass that someone seems to have forgotten. The staff seem to have neglected to pick it up. 

You should leave it alone. 

The guest will be by for it in his own time.

[kailani-ffxiv]

Prompt #1: A step forward

Clear waves sloshed against the wooden hull. A cool breeze swirl in raven hair twisting up to into the canvas. Feet dangled in the open air rotating with the movement of the sea.

Fresh start. At least a new beginning, a direction. She had been lost in thought and indecision for many moons she wondered if she'd ever find a way out. Perhaps cautiously optimistic that she wouldn't need to watch her back as closely... He had her back, even if she hadn't asked she knew he would know if anything changed.

New contract, new face, new trust... regardless of where this led her it was rolling her forward. Back where she felt at peace, doing what she was good at. It's exactly where she was suppose to be, except... No it was good but... it's the present not forever. Ride the surf until she's called to the shore once more.

[cljordan-imperium]

[Muse Monday!] Hi, Mahala! Not to dig up potential drama and pain, but let’s say the ritual you were planning way back when you first came to your family’s estate worked. Would you have found the answers you were looking for, do you think? Or is what happened instead far more . . . enlightening? 8)

It seems I will get some of the answers I was looking for, albeit from a different route. Instead of gaining clarity from my mother, who I'm learning lied quite a bit while she was alive, I'm discovering that family is more than blood. I'm not sure she would have been honest had I summoned her. She'd had 25 years to tell me the truth, but hadn't. I'm not sure death would have helped her loosen her tongue.

It seems that Vollrath *lowers eyes and blushes before clearing throat* for all his dominant and stubborn ways, did save me from more than one thing that night. The world he brought me into isn't a safe one, but I feel completely safe with him. Elmar and Baldur are growing on me too. *chuckles softly with an affectionate smile* Although, next to Vol, the biggest thing I've gained is Balor. Maybe I wasn't the one meant to get healing and closure that night. *soft smile* Maybe I was the one meant to bridge the gap and mend the rift between brothers in a way they couldn't do themselves.

In the end, even with all that is to come because of meeting Vollrath, I prefer this way. I will have my truth. I will have family. And I know that the three who stand at my side will never betray me. That is more than I can say for any that ever resided in the Codona mansion. *warm smile*

@blind-the-winds

[gowithplana]

Hope. Hope motivates us all does it not? Optimus wonders sometimes, about the way hope can drive someone. He tips his helm back with his arms crossed over his balcony rail. He extends his wings to let them get a little sun over them.

Closes his optics. Hope. So many species had stories about hope. About what it was. Hope is a thing with Feathers -

Wings, flight, freedom. Hope is always associated with escape, with the ability to fling oneself from the precipice and trust it would catch you.

I’ve heard it in the chillest land -

And on the strangest Sea -

Yet - never - in Extremity,

It asked a crumb - of me.

Hope gave and gave and gave. But the last line of that poem had never quite felt true. Hope asked so much of you. It asked for Faith. In others, in yourself, in the world. It Asked for patience. Because hope was not over night, better days could not be bought in mere seconds. One had to wait for the better while hope kept you warm with could bes. It could kill. Because Hope also asked you for action. Hope for tomorrow meant you had to work for tomorrow. Doing nothing did nothing. Waiting and silence with hope, it could smother it, or turn it into something that was no longer hope. But was instead complacency and obedience in the worst way. - And then they came for me, because I had no more neighbors.

Optimus flares his stubbed wings. Hope hope hope... It was a prayer. Optimus braces his weight more heavily over his arms on the rail. Bowing his helm down, armor ruffling. It was the last prayer. Hope. . . Such a small word for such a big impact. It could ruin a mech or it could turn them into something out of legend. Optimus wonders... what will they say of him and hope one day? When he rejoins the well, what will they say of Magnate Optimus Prime? What will they say of the things he has done. Will they keep his speeches faithful? Will they embellish his image? Will they too turn him into an image of hope for a struggling society? Will he be a figure of the Temples or a Back Alley Saint? Will he be for the people...or for the Image of the Government? Optimus...Optimus hopes, that the good he has built will be lasting. That the world he is building for his people...will be lasting. Because he does not know the future. So Hope, Hope is what he has. And in the meantime, he will do his best today to secure that hope.

[solstice-souls]

"Your final wishes have been honored, you know.” Who was he even talking to, at this point? The ice? The silence? The gaping void in his heart? The stupid, glamoured walls meant to recreate the day he and his only friend met? Did it even matter? Did anything matter anymore? “Our eldest has taken the throne. It was never to my liking, you know. Far too catered to your tastes. Sure, to the common man it may seem like some regal spectacle, but I hated it. I never told you that, did I?”

Now he never would. Not because he wanted to honor his love’s ideas, no. Now he couldn’t. “What else did I never tell you, hm? What didn’t I say enough, I wonder…”

The pain in his chest was growing. But that didn’t really matter. Nothing mattered anymore. “Did I tell you that I loved you enough? Did I tell you that everything I did was to make you smile? You rarely smiled. I always appreciated how special your smiles were. The way your lips creased, the sound of your laugh..."

[ashamaxxing]

mom come pick me up they’re defending the divine right of kings on asoiaf twitter again

[bebx]

Tragic brothers.

Dexter: Dexter Morgan and Brian Moser. Genesis by Valzhyna Mort † Abel’s Body to Cain by Joseph Fasano

[ping-ski]

shrödinger's plex fic (they are real to me)

EBY eclipse and y/n ref here!! :3

[silversoulcreations]

DWC Nov 18 - Day 2 - Deceit/Eternal

Something dropped. A coin, or a cap, perhaps. It was subtle, the noise, and one that caught the attention of long ears as the elegant figure sat bent over his desk, quill in hand. His lover wasn't due to be back for some time, the most recent assignment proving more difficult than the assassin was often tasked with. They hadn't been dating overly long, a few months? A year? Well, perhaps that was longer than some... but the connection they'd formed had felt like wildfire from the get, and left the nobleman sitting just like this, many a night, penning poetry and prose, hopes for the future, and more, upon rich parchment, while his beloved was out taking out his next target. It left the house quiet, and, if Jaredian was to be honest with himself, exceptionally lonely. Which was why that sound, unknown, unexpected, caught his attention, and bid him rise from his desk, pluck up his cane, and go to seek out the sound. What he found, however, caused his heart to ache in confusion and concern.

Sitting on the ground at the base of the stairs, an open bottle, half drank in one hand, the be-patched redhead peered up with a singular fel-green eye and smiled, a weary, woeful smile. "Hey D... we... need to talk." Long ears perked, and he moved to kneel beside his fiancé, wincing slightly, one hand moving to rest on. "What happened? Are you injured?" He tried looking over the man, scantily clad as he ever was, in leather harness and trousers, boots... his gear... but couldn't find any injuries. Normally, however, he knew he didn't drink. Leastwise, not like this. "No.. No it ain't like that.. There's somethin I have to get off my chest." The rogue sat up a little straighter, his features locked on the gentle priest's own. "You think you know the real me... You don't." Jaredian blinked. Well, That was... odd. "Honey I know all about your work. I know the job was hard and you probably have to do some.. rather unfortunate things but I told you it doesn't bother m-" "That's not what I mean D." He sighed, cutting off Jaredian before he could continue. "I found him.. I found the bastard that did this to me... I never thought I would but I did and... and this changes everything." Running a hand through messy crimson tresses, he waited for a moment before continuing. "Jaredian, I've.. never been quite... truthful with you about something, and it's something that's been eating at me and If I had never found the guy then this wouldn't have ever come up but now... Now I have a way to fix it and I really hope this isn't going to be a big fuck up on my end to admit but here goes... "

Jaredian tossed in his sleep, curling up around the pillow that smelled so heavily of his lover's favorite soaps, alone, at the moment, as Beledar had shifted to shadow. Whispers clouding his mind, echoing lies from years past... a deep, terrifying ache setting into his very bones as he slumbered on, helplessly reliving his memories.

"W-What do you mean.. Rhys? Haven't I tried? I've tried everything! I -do- love you... staying with you after you... Don't you see how much I want to make this work? For both of us?" His hands slid down her arms from her shoulders, staring into that singular fel-green eye as he caught her hands in his own. "I've stayed, haven't I?" "You aren't the man I met, D. You're withdrawn, skittish. We barely touch, Ever since the ritual. It's like you don't want me anymore." Jaredian swallowed, hard, his ears pinning back slightly. He -had- tried. He loved her..... he kept telling himself that, over, and over again, but each day was harder than the next, knowing the depth of the lies that he had been told. She'd been cursed. She explained. She'd been afraid to tell him, knowing his preference, as they fell in love. She'd been resigned to her fate, as long as she could have him.. but then she'd found the warlock who's fucked her life over. She'd taken her revenge and in his desperate attempt to hold on to the love he felt for the man he had intended to marry, he agreed to help her. To do anything to make her happy, if it meant he would have a wife instead of a husband? So be it. He was hurt by the lies, a full year's worth of lies, one piled up on top of another, weaving a story so strong that he had believed, nay, hung on every word. They had completed the ritual to revert the curse, and for a while, he had made himself believe that it was just that he had been lied to, that he wasn't comfortable with her anymore, that - that love ached, more than warmed him. Attraction was near non-existent, something forced with medicine his friend acquired for him, even allowing him to 'perform' enough to bring a child into this world... it was false... and they both knew it. The words were out before he could stop them, as his hands fell to his sides. "I could say the same. Rhys.." He peered at her as he took a step back. "You aren't the man I met, either. The man I fell in love with. The man who promised a world he could never give... because he never existed."

In the waking world, the priest was shifting again, lashing out, only to curl back into a ball as familiar shadows curled around him, comforting him in their embrace, glowing eyes gazing at each other before looking back down to their master while, as per usual, S'jach and S'ren did their best to console him in his nightmares.

Rhys's face fell at that, anger quirking the corner of her lips, as she shouldered the pack that had been sitting at her feet. He flicked his ears, listening for the infant sleeping in the next room. The argument had started near silently over the fact that she was leaving again, mere weeks after giving birth. Another mission, and leaving him alone, with their newborn son. "I'll be back, or I won't. You know how to take care of him. You can get formula from the nursemaids over at the orphanage. It's for the best. we both know you can't stand the sight of me." "That isn't true!" He hissed out, though he questioned his own motivation. Was he trying to keep her here for himself, or was it the desperate desire for his son to have his mother? The question teased in the whispers that echoed in his mind, shadows lacing together around a heart that was growing colder by the day. At the soft whimpering that could be heard from the next room, he hissed out. "Fine... Travel safely, and come back home. Your son needs you." "Maybe he does, maybe he doesn't... But do you?"

It was the last time he'd seen her. News had made it's way back to the cove that she'd been killed on that mission, rival assassins. He wasn't certain, with their parting, if that was actually the case, and for the life of him he'd known he was supposed to grieve, to be forlorn that a woman he had been married to, sired a son with, should be mourned accordingly, should be missed. He should be devastated. Doubt, however, had twisted the knife all the deeper. Had she lied, to run off? Abandon what he himself had sacrificed so damned much to keep alive? It ached, it burned within him, these doubts, these pains, as he continued to raise their, No.. HIS son... but that hadn't been what hurt.. No..

It had been several years later, when his son began to learn to speak, to learn his letters... when the young redhead asked, eyes wide and doe-like up at his father. "Did minda hate me? Is that why she left?" And to this doe-eyed lad, his heir, his only joy in the past few years, who he had raised primarily on his own, with the help of his familiars, could only say one thing, despite the very real feeling of uncertainty, and a lie to the taste on his tongue. "No, My little sun. A mother's love is eternal. If she could have come back, she would, in a heartbeat. Bad men took her away, and there was nothing she could do. Somewhere, she watches over you, and loves you, still. I promise."

Beledar shifted to light once more, and the memories faded in the warmth of familiar shadow's embrace, finally allowing the priest to dream once more of his heart's desire, and the future he hoped to build...leaving the past to once more rot there, in the twisting coils of broken memory.

-- @daily-writing-challenge

[askthekirbysquad]

"Meta Kniiiiight!!!" Kirby whined, batting at the older puffball with his fists as he leaned against him. "Just let me wiiiiiiiin!"

Meta Knight raised an eyebrow, unbothered by the other's 'attacks'. "And allow you to split yet another one of my masks in half?" He chuckled. "I'm afraid not, Kirby."

The swordsman had already learned that lesson twice by now, after going a little easier on his student and paying the price for it. At this point, with his stash of spare masks dwindling in order to truly challenge Kirby's abilities, he had no intentions of going anything less than all-out.

"You will not get any stronger if you only ever fight against weak foes."

"But it's haaaaard!" Kirby pouted, sinking to the floor. Though he may have been Dream Land's hero and had saved both it and the wider universe on several occasions, Kirby was still a child, and clearly, not one who appreciated losing several times over. "This dumb samurai stuff is different from our usual training!! I can fight really good when it's a normal battle. But this is just waiting... And waiting... And more waiting..." He yawned. Even just talking about all the waiting he had to do was making him tired. "And then when I can actually fight without getting in trouble, I've gotta be really really fast, because I lose if you hit me even once! I don't like it."

"What if you someday face a foe capable of defeating you in one blow?" Given the exceedingly powerful threats Kirby had faced in recent times, such an opponent was not entirely out of the question. So, it was important that, as his mentor, Meta Knight prepared him for the situation before it could arise. "It may be more wise to dodge rather than strike first in such a scenario, that is true, but the point of this exercise is to train your reaction time. Being able to react quickly and intelligently to anything your opponent may throw at you in the heat of battle is a vital skill to learn."

Kirby merely grumbled in response, absentmindedly wondering if there was any copy ability he could use to melt further into the ground. Maybe Meta Knight's lecture made just a teensy tiny little bit of sense, but it didn't make him any less frustrated by the new training regimen.

Meta Knight sighed at the young puff's antics, and produced the Maxim Tomato he had kept safely tucked within his cape. They had been training for a while now, he supposed, and it was good to have small rests every now and then between sessions. ...Even if that was something he himself was notoriously bad at incorporating into his own training. Luckily for the swordsman, Kirby immediately perked up upon seeing his favourite food.

"You will get better with practice, I am sure." Meta Knight said. "You are already quite skilled at spooking Dedede with that party popper, I must say." Handing Kirby the tomato, he added, "Take a break for now, however, and let me know when you are prepared to resume our training."

"Mm-hm! Thank you, Meta Knight!" Kirby gleefully responded, his sour mood forgotten as he held the precious Maxim Tomato in his hands. Good food made everything better! The new type of training was still dumb, in his opinion, and it was gonna be hard to beat Meta Knight with all those extra rules in place, but thanks to his snack, he had a feeling that he could do it!!

...Meanwhile, in the distance and out of sight of the unsuspecting duo, Magolor snickered to himself as he prepared his legion of mini Scarcutter attacks. It was wonderful to see his friends enjoying the theme park he created, and while he did have some Park Manager work to attend to... Well, who's to say he couldn't have his own fun in Merry Magoland's attractions?

[gabrielcrossleyart]

Neve! Had a lot of fun with this one!

[dragons-ire]

Gold from Galvanth's Hoard - The Legend of the Dullahan

Howard Shore - The Doors of Durin

A long time ago, in a place long since forgotten, there was a king who ruled over a vast kingdom.

His demesne stretched for malms around, twisting beneath the earth, out of sight from the sun and the forest above. For in those days, mortals still lived in fear of the elements that held dominion of the worlds above, and hid their faces and lived beneath their sight.

Still, buried as it was, the kingdom did well. They grew foods that thrived with little light, and they flourished in the dark and prospered there.

In his hall beneath the earth, the king prospered as well above his subjects. His riches and treasure were numerous - a vast trove of coin and jewels and other things pulled from the depths of the ground.

To keep his wealth safe from the larcenous and the ambitious alive, he appointed his most faithful knights to keep watch over his treasure hoard and to keep it safe from those who might seek to plunder or corrupt it.

The king’s knights knelt to swear a powerful oath to their liege, and they took up their vigil. No one got in to look upon the king’s magnificent treasure, and none who had seen it in those times spoke of it to the outside.

But - as all things do - the world began to change. The king grew old and eventually died. His people, bereft of his leadership that had kept them united, began to scatter. Eventually, some of them began to venture towards the surface and the sunlight, to make peace with the elements and bright world above.

Others followed, and the ones that remained swindled until they no longer had the numbered to keep up the great domain they’d once flourished in.

Eventually, it fell to ruin.

As for the knights who were sword to protect their king’s riches, the, too, fell to the passage of time. But it’s said the power of their oath was such that their spirits did not pass to the next life in their final moments. Instead, they remained behind, bound by duty to the armor and weapons they had borne in life.

It was bound such they continued to keep silent vigil even as their kingdom crumbled around them. Their king passed into the next world, and they could do naught. The people left and their home abandoned - at least, until legends of the riches that had been left behind reached the ears of treasure hunters on the surface. They came in small bands here and there to plunder what they could by the handful.

It’s easy to imagine the first of them surprised when a costly suit of armor in the middle of the hoard first roused of its own accord to strike out with a weapon. But a surprise is not always a deterrent. The dead are slow, after all, and the living are quick.

Slow as they were, however, they were yet strong  - fueled by the unholy strength of the unliving, a single placed strike could easily cleave a foolhardy adventurer in twain. And their duty, in death as in in life, would not go unfulfilled. Pursuing thieves in the ruins turned to hunting anyone who ventured too close, or wandered too far into the remains of the old kingdom.

The dullahan, as they came to be called, came to herald the doom of any who crossed them.

Clever travelers in the Black Shroud know to avoid the old places where the haunted armor still wanders in search of thieves long dead and treasure long scattered. 

Or, if they must brave those places, might carry a bit of wealth out of superstition. A coin, a bit of jewelry or some other precious thing.

Perhaps if offered to a dullahan - if they should be unlucky enough to encounter one - it will be enough for it to be mistaken for a bit of royal treasure returned.

At least, long enough for them to pass safely by.