#KB’s fic

[theleft0ver]

Hello lovely people, I’ve been working on a little cleagan project for a while and I wanted to share the first chapter, hope y’all enjoy!!! ^•^

It’s also on ao3:

•Longing for my sweetheart•

John was dying, he was shot and now he’s dying on his horse who’s independently prowls up a path on a mountain he’s not familiar with. He’s slumped over his mare’s neck mumbling to himself in and out of consciousness.

You see it was supposed to be an easy job, get the information from his trusty inside man (Rosie) at the stagecoach station, stake out the carriage with the rich folks in it, ambush the carriage take everything they got and ride into the sunset, see easy!

Maybe that’s why everything went haywire. He’d done this so many times without complications that he threw every caution in the wind. But sooner than later he realized his mistake in a form of a personal guard at the driver’s box.

He stopped the carriage without a hiccup that’s the easiest part anyways. He pulled his bandanna up his nose and his hat real low. He rode out from the trees to the dirt road, pistol in his right, double barrel shotgun in the left hand firing them once-twice raising hell.

Oh the screams, the frightened shrieks were music to his ears. They meant the passengers will give anything for their lives.

But his happiness was short lived as a bullet pierced through the air and flew past his ear. The armed guard started to fire at him like hell, earning the money the rich bastards were paying him and after today John was sure he got a fat bonus too!

He quickly got off his horse and dodged behind a boulder frowning in surprise, listening where the guard might be and the gunslinging began.

****

The driver was dead, John shot him dead in the left eye. He tried to intervene but he was just in the way and got in the field of bullets. John killed too many people to count. That’s just the way he lives. He never claimed to be a good man alright? But that doesn’t mean he enjoys killing, there was a time when he did, a long-long time ago. He left those days in the back of his mind, now he only kills when he has to, but most of his robberies claim lives, someone always ends up dead.

He’s an outlaw goddamnit, that’s what he’s good at. What he likes and what he has to do to survive are two different things.

He doesn’t have too much time to dwell on moral issues though he’s still being shot at. John thought, finally his luck is turning and he’ll win this duel as well when he started to hear shouting and hoof beating the ground in the distance.

Lawman.

Even in a location so remote someone somehow alerted the sheriff. John only had a moment to process the news before bullets started to fly around him. The situation is dire he knows that, he whistles for his horse who comes crashing out of the woods and he makes a break for it.

He’s running like the wind when he feels it. Cold metal piercing his skin needling a way through muscles and tendons in his right shoulder. The second one comes from ahead hitting him on the left side of his abdomen, but it doesn’t feel like it went all the way through, although it’s not like John can feel much with the adrenaline running through his veins.

He can’t spare too much attention to his wounds as he still has to get away if he wants to stay alive. He runs to his horse grabs the horn of his saddle, hoist himself up with the stirrup and gallops away as fast and as far as he can.

He’d never been shot, John was always clever with his moves, always had Fortuna on his side. It’s not like how he imagined, it’s not immediate red-hot pain flaming his body ablaze flooding into his mind making room saying ‘I’m here and you’ll be suffering’. It’s creeping up on him, slowly making his way into his consciousness like sand in an hourglass.

For a good ten minutes as he tries to lose the lawman glued to his heels he can only feel a dull ache. Another ten minutes pass on and he successfully shakes off the blood thirsty man and slows his horse down to a trot. And as his heartbeat stabilizes the pain starts to increase, so much so that he had to halt his horse to catch his breath.

He took a moment to get himself under wraps and inspected the wounds.

His shoulder was relatively in a good shape as much as a gunshot wound can be. But his abdomen was another tale. He unbuttoned his vest then lifted his shirt and ripped his long-johns apart, he gagged at the sight.

Already bruised in angry shades of purple and blue, blood flowing everywhere from such a tiny hole. John tried to apply pressure on it but the pain was too great, he got lightheaded and threw up that small amount of food he had in his stomach. He had to get help fast or he’s a goner.

He tried to remember if there was a town nearby but the blood loss was making him dazed and confused. Soon after that he passed out and woke up in the woods on his horse’s back then passed out again.

And that’s how he ended up in the middle of the mountain he was not familiar with in and out of consciousness.

****

John was slowly coming to himself as he feels his horse piking up speed. He tilts his head up to see a little homestead built with logs nested between tall trees and evergreens, a sight he would sure marvel if he were in a better shape. John tries to stay awake until his horse makes the distance to the porch of the home but his brain is too foggy.

He hears a gasp coming from afar and legs hitting the ground in a rapid pattern. John wants to sit up to see who his savior might be but he’s too weak and slips off his saddle onto the ground. He gets startled awake again by someone dropping to their knees next to him and brushing the hair out of his face. Cold fingers turn his head toward the sun and he opens his eyes.

The person in front of John is a woman, a woman whose face is so blurry. Blurry because John can’t keep his eyes open. But as he forces himself to focus he becomes aware that the person is in fact not a woman but a young man with such soft edges and features that he has to be unreal.

John is so delirious from the blood loss that he thinks he’s seeing one of God’s angels. Although he doesn’t understand why would he go to heaven after all the things he has done. He wants to, no scratch that ,he needs to touch this angel of death with the soft looking golden hair and smooth sun tanned skin. He knows if he could just only caress the pad of his finger down this angel’s face he could take away all of his sins and he can die in peace.

He reaches out to hold his personal angel’s cheek, but before he can touch him everything goes back to black.

[kenobster]

Higher Ground ||| "Our Strongest Link" ||| Scott Barringer

I was on lots of teams, and, just like you, I messed up and I got thrown off — but I still remember how good it feels to be part of something. I still remember that, Scott. It's a good feeling, even when you lose.

I made these GIFs for @sendpseuds. She's writing an Obikin football fic, so I thought it'd be fun to give her some GIFs of Hayden Christensen who plays a football player in another show. Hope you like them, friend!

Bonus:

[ventiventigrande]

yeah that's pretty high up there

[kb1301]

Here's some Max gifs I made from some cutscenes!

[kookaburra1701]

WIP Wednesday - Aristeia

I've been tagged a bunch in past weeks, but had nothing to share, but now I do! So it is me who will be tagging this WIP (nearly) Wednesday! @throughtrialbyfire @saltymaplesyrup @dirty-bosmer @tallmatcha @gilgamish

Fandom: The Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim Rating: T (blood and violence) Category: gen Genre(s): Adventure, Homer retelling Main characters: Borgakh the Steel Heart, the Orcs of Mor Khazgur

Summary: Borgakh is a dutiful daughter of Mor Khazgur, an orc stronghold in a remote corner of the Reach that has existed since the Merethic era. Expected to someday become the shield-wife of a distant chieftain, Borgakh tries to uphold the Code of Malacath as best she can. But when her father, the chief of their stronghold, goes missing while on a quest for vengeance, the suitors that show up to vie for his place cause no end of trouble and threaten the strength of Mor Khazgur. Borgakh soon finds herself traveling far from home across the Druadach Mountains to find her father.

The fic so far is here on AO3.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Sharamph stood, head thrown back, face to the sky, as if she was going to try to embrace the very stars that were now twinkling overhead. The wind was still, there were none of the usual sounds of the Reach: a distant sabre-cat scream, or call of an owl. The world was holding its breath.

“Great Malacath, hear your children!” Sharamph’s voice boomed out through the small valley, echoing off the rock walls that flanked Mor Khazgur.

She turned to face the altar, and reached into the satchel she carried at her waist.

“Great Malacath, we beseech you!”

Borgakh’s flesh prickled and a cold finger of dread traced down her spine as Sharamph lifted the object she had withdrawn: the briarheart.

“Great Malacath, God of Curses, our blood boils in rage!”

Sharamph placed the briarheart in the bowl of troll fat.

“Great Malacath, we call for relief, for counsel!”

She touched the torch to the bowl of troll fat. It spat and spluttered for a few seconds, then caught. When the flames licked above the rim of the bowl, Sharamph tossed in the lavender. The sweet perfume of the flowers was overwhelmed by the bitter, acrid smell of the burning troll fat and briarheart, and the smell made Borgakh’s eyes water; she blinked furiously, and tried not to sneeze.

The silence stretched longer, the only sounds the hissing of the flames on the altar. A few of the assembled men shifted nervously. Olur’s grip on her hand was crushing, but Borgakh matched it, pressing into his side.

She saw Ansug start to open his mouth, a mocking sneer twisting his features.

Every torch, every campfire, and even the flame on the altar snuffed out at once, plunging the valley into darkness.

[anonymouszephyrus]

Okay.. here me out. Klance fic, right? YEAH BUT MAKE THAT LIKE MAIN SCRIPT WRITER X LEAD ACTOR WITH WITH KEITH WRITING A CONFESSION IN THE SCRIPT BUT ITS ACTUALLY THE WORDS HE WANTS TO TELL LANCE BUT HE CANT SO HE JUST PUTS IT IN AND ITS LIKE THE PRETTIEST CONFESSION EVER??? AND ITS LANCE NEEDING TO SAY THOSE WORDS TO THE OTHER LEAD AND HE SLOWLY STARTS TO UNDERSTAND WHILE HE READS THE SCRIPT (he ain't dumb. He smart boi) BECAUSE THERES LIKE STUFF IN THE CONFESSION THAT ONLY HE AND KEITH KNOW LIKE THEIR WHOLE RIVAL-FRIENDS SITUATION BEING REFERENCE WITH LIKE: “Annoying as you were, I was drawn to you. Like a sailor to a siren, like a moth to the flame” HEHEHEH FIRE-WATER YOU KNOW??? No one steal this please, IM MAKING IT. I just need to know if y'all would.. you know, consider it as a possible oneshot or series idea? :D (Is this an excuse to give Keith my writer-poet-bookworm headcanon? YOU CANT TELL ME THE BITCH ISN'T INTO DRAMATIC SHIT LIKE THE SONG OF ACHILLES AND SHAKESPEARE- JUST 'CAUSE HE'S EMO DOESN'T MEAN HE CAN'T ENJOY LITERATURE! He had so much time in that cabin, you can't tell me he wasn't curious about books)

[scoops404]

Here’s my POV

[theinfinitedivides]

yk you've f*cked sh*t up when the regular gifmakers for this drama are so depressed they're not even making content for the beach kiss

[bitterkarmaa]

The next main story installation, featuring our favorite bloodthirsty gremlins!

[firesteel-eden]

Look, I was inspire okay?

The queen in the North would be the only love — romantic or not, Bran did not care — that Jon Snow never betrayed (…) I am hers and she’s mine. “Protect her, look over her, for me” — sneak peek of next chapter of KBFKBSII

I love weaving Jonsa into Firesteel, and I love bleeding that kind of love into the passion Aemond and Sansa share.

As always, song and the plot you recognise are of their own owners, only my plot is mine.

Sending all my love ~G.

[kenobster]

Bribe me sempai

[link to original post for context]

bahahahhaha, be BRIBED:

The attacks after point rain swept Obi-Wan’s face, armor, robes in fine grains of Geonosian sand—sand that could come right off with a few good wipes, always leaving the cloth dirtier than the man.  In a desert, water is a luxury. Obi-Wan ensured that every active soldier on Geonosis received enough water for hydration as well as a nightly spongebath, and he and Cody were no exceptions. But it was always their eyes on the requisition requests, their eyes on the remaining supplies, their eyes on the casualty reports whenever the medics ran out of clean gauze and resorted to soil-stained cloth. For he and Cody, hydration and sponge baths were luxuries, too. They made a contest out of it—in using the fewest drops from their canteens to dampen the least dusty sections of their sleeves. Afterward, they sat together and took turns nursing the mud out of each other’s sweat-damp hair.  When the war is over, Cody once said, I think I’ll find the sandiest rock out there. Buy a couple of sandwraps and a good healthy dewback. Set up camp somewhere out there. In love with the weather that much, are you? Beats getting drenched in rain. Because that was Kamino—a desert of saltwater dunes as blue as the sweltering sky that Obi-Wan stands under now.  Tatooine sand isn’t like the sand of Geonosis. Sponge baths leave only crusty caked-up rings around the ankles, wrists, and neck. Hosing things down clogs up equipment with thick layers of mud. Even the atmosphere—heavy and dry—peels flakes of skin from hardened, calloused knuckles.  The sandiest rock in the galaxy, here, beneath his feet, and Obi-Wan wishes there’d been an ending to the war, purely so that his Commander could have seen it.

Thank you for the vote and the fun time!! XD

Note: I'll be doing the corresponding Obikin drabbles and the drabbles for other ships after the poll concludes.

[backslashdelta]

I haven't properly read fic in sooooo long but today I sat down and read nearly 120k words and I'm not even done this story yet but fuck I've missed reading

[kb1301]

How about some painful Shaxx12?

Clutched Close

Shaxx sat in silence, his hands rested on his knees as he gazed over the covered slab beside him, one that hid something he feared to see. Beneath the one-horned helmet was a man grasping with the reality settling in front of him.

He didn’t like to think of it. Of what happened to that person that hid beneath the cover, that same kind of cover they’ve used for Cayde back then. He would wish for it to be unreal, just some wretched fantasy, but even an Ahamkara can’t help the pain he felt.

And so he stood up. One of anger.

And he stepped closer. One of despondence.

And he gazed down at the cover. One of grief.

He lifted it away, to only see the horror awaiting him.

It was Max… Or what was left of him. His face was nearly unrecognizable, his horn dismantled and shattered. The metal was stripped off of him, by some kind of cruelty. His optics were brutally taken off of him, leaving only one to be seen, and the other lost. Any remnant of the blue strip of paint was nowhere to be found. His jaw was but bits of itself now. He was completely mutilated, alongside Spinner’s broken and destroyed self.

To see this, it made Shaxx so distraught. What had happened to his dearest husband? His loving partner? The one person that always aided him away from his duties? He could hear himself sniffle already, but no breach of tears yet came… for he had another emotion to go through.

Anger.

And in his anger did he proceed to thrash around the room. Breaking things with his fists and using his Light to show his fury within. In each scream, in each shout, in each show of power enraged by his emotions, he vowed nothing but death to those that had done this to Max.

He always had control over his own self, but this? To see the one you loved most die and no longer having their beautiful features, all replaced by ruin… How could he not wreak havoc? Rampage over everything?

And in the wake of his destruction did he stop. He saw the impact of his fists, of his boots, of his helmet. The room was broken with the Light, of all three elements that it had. Solar for the helm that butted in excess. Void for the boots that left scars on the floor. Arc for the fists that shocked the lights abound.

But he could see as well that, in his anger, it had shaken the lifeless body of Max from its rest on the slab. He looked back there and rushed to bring him back to his comfort, even if he no longer could feel it. In trying to fix the cover back, in lifting it... Did he see something worse.

The bond clutched close to the core. To the heart. The bonds that Warlocks wore, each having their own symbolisms and meanings of their own. Though Shaxx already knew the one that Max wore. Always had so.

"Shaxx!"

His focus was shifted away from the screens in front of him to see his beloved come close to him. He turned to face the approaching Exo and gave him a quick kiss to the forehead with his own helm.

"Ah, here comes my dearest soldier... How I've missed you!" He gave him a strong hug, enveloping his arms around his waist and lifting him even to allow each other to see eye-to-eye.

"What have you been up to, my Guardian—" Shaxx noticed the flickering holographic symbol on his husband's left upper arm. "What's that I see there, Max?" He made himself sound curious, amused even.

"Oh! This my love, is a representation of my sentimentality. For you." He revealed the symbol of the Crucible to the Handler of the Crucible itself. "You do sometimes say that you are the Crucible itself, and this," He pointed to the hologram. "Represents you, for myself."

Shaxx smiled beneath his helmet, one of warmth and sincerity.

"Near or far, wherever my journeys and adventures take me... Knowing that I have you close means the most to me. Even through the troubling times and the peaceful moments I get, to know you here," He pointed once more to the bond before facing Shaxx with joy clarified through his optics. "Always reminds me of my loyalty, of my love, of my boundless affection for you."

In gradual progression, four things happened. First was Shaxx's realization of the past, of that memory of when he first saw Max wear the bond. He stumbled in his feet as the gravity of it affected him. Second was the helmet he lifted up, revealing the face beneath to no one but Max, and in that same face were an expression of sorrow and grief. Third was him kneeling close to the Exo's mangled face, and looking through the features left that he had practiced seeing over and over and over again.

And the last one was the kiss. He placed his lips on the forehead, just beside where the horn used to be. And he kept it in place, his eyes trying not to swell from the tears that were threatening to burst. The kiss was always done in secret, always in their own home, done in that comforting place they found together.

The Titan stayed there for a moment. Kissing and peppering the broken metal with his own affection, one that would last for longer than anything... Even past Max's death. He'd whisper what final secrets they had together, of everything good and of everything troubling that their relationship went through together.

After a few more minutes, he placed the cover once more over Max's body. He put the one-horned helmet on him once again, and trudged himself away from the room. He had duties to attend to...

And even with such responsibilities, he would always find himself distracted... Always distracted by the thought of the one thing he welcomed to distract him away from it.

[deiaiko]

The story of a little boy named Twenty-fifth Night.

Inspired by The Little Prince / Le Petit Prince

Written by @deiaiko Illustrated by @cheer-soli-art Betaed by @jusalilweird

There was a little boy who lived all his life in a dark and cold cave. He built a tower made of rocks, so tall in hopes of reaching the ceiling where light trickled down from between the cracks. It wasn't an easy task, for the sharp edges of the rocks easily made their marks on his unprotected skin. But for him, who had no one but himself and accepted pain as part of his life, it was nothing but a little itch.

A girl showed up from the other side, bathed in blinding light that the boy had never hoped to ever see in his life. Her hair was a lovely shade of gold and her face was littered with stars.

"I shall call you The Twenty-fifth Bam," The girl said, "for I have found you on this night."

"Night of the twenty-fifth," the little boy repeated. At that moment, he finally understood what it meant to be lonely, for he was no longer alone.

-----

The little boy came to enjoy her company, and for once, he felt content.

His day started when the girl came, and ended when the girl left, for he had nothing else to distinguish between day and night.

He learned what longing meant. He would be bursting with excitement the longer he waited, and he would feel sadder the longer he spent time with her.

-----

"I shall go and climb the tower myself," said the girl, countless nights later. "This place is not big enough for me. It doesn't have what I want."

It bewildered the little boy, for he was already content with only her presence. "What is it that you want?"

"At the top of the tower, just me and a massive sky with stars that twinkles as far as the eye can see." The girl said dreamily, and the little boy knew she had gone to a place where he couldn't reach.

"What's so good about it?"

"Because stars are supposed to be beautiful, no? That's reason enough."

"How can you say they're beautiful if you have never seen one?"

"Because I believe so."

The little boy didn't understand.

"Can't I come with you?" Because what would his cave become without the sun coming to chase away the darkness?

"No, Bam. The tower is too dangerous for you."

If it's dangerous for me, then wouldn't it be the same for you? The little boy wanted to say. But instead he asked, "Will you be happier then?" With a silent plea that she would say no.

"I will."

-----

The tower was a place the little boy could never have imagined. It was colorful yet blinding, vast yet crowded, and the fresh air smelled like doom.

The little boy had never felt so small. It was so overwhelming that he couldn't really register what he had done, until a firm hand took his and they ran.

The owner of that firm hand was just a boy like himself. Unlike the little boy however, he had hair the color of the vast sky, his steps were surer, and his eyes were sharper.

The blue haired boy extended his hand and smiled with all teeth, "Shake my hand, and we shall climb the tower together."

"Why me? I am weak. I will be of no use." The little boy shrunk away.

"It's no matter." The blue haired boy's eyes softened. "Your company is enough."

The little boy smiled and shakily took his hand.

-----

The little boy stood by the balcony, looking at the twinkling night sky above. Soon the last test would be held.

"Those lights up there, do you see them?" The little boy pointed at the light above to his blue haired companion.

"I do."

"I think they're lonely. So far above, out of reach and apart from each other." The little boy sighed wistfully. "Will you leave me too?"

"Why should I?" His companion tilted his head, finding the question very absurd.

"Because of the beautiful stars."

"Stars are nothing to me but a myth."

This time it was the little boy who tilted his head. "But aren't they beautiful?"

"I wouldn't know until I saw one."

That was something that the little boy could finally agree with.

"Then what does beautiful mean?" The little boy asked, curious.

"You." His companion said easily.  "I have seen a lot of pretty jewels, but none of them shine as pretty as your eyes. I have heard plenty of songs and played different instruments, but none of them brought as much joy as your laugh."

The little boy blushed at the compliment. "Then I shall laugh more often, so that the stars will envy me."

-----

The little boy ended up being the one to leave, not by his own volition.  He lost his companions, so what reason was there to laugh? What reason for him to be beautiful if there was no one to acknowledge it?

-----

After years of anguish and loneliness, the little boy finally got his companions back. But something was still lost. Something had changed. Yet the boy didn't know what that was. So as per usual, when his feelings were tangled and nothing seemed to make sense, he went to the balcony to seek the answers in the vast sky.

His blue haired companion noticed and decided to join him in silence. It was exactly like what they did all those years ago, yet it didn't feel the same.

"I love looking at the sky. Bright blue at day and deep blue at night, it's beautiful." The little boy said, when he noticed his companion's not so subtle glances. "It is beautiful because it always reminds me of you."

His companion blushed. "Is that so?"

The little boy smiled wistfully. "When I missed you, I would look at the sky."

"How often?"

"Every chance I got."

There was an unreadable expression on his companion's face. "All this time, I thought you were gone for good."

The little boy bowed his head, not knowing what to say.

"So even if you're standing next to me right now, it somehow feels as if you're still out of my reach." His companion confessed, and it broke the little boy's heart.

"Then, hold me! See that I'm right here, still within reach." The little boy looked at his companion, pleading and desperate. "And when you do, make me stay."

His companion cupped the little boy's cheeks that were streaked with tears. "I see. You're no longer the light that was hung up above."

"I am not." The little boy smiled. "I am The Twenty-fifth Night, and the lights are my friends."

[kookaburra1701]

WIP Whursday: Katabasis

Tagged by the lovely @dirty-bosmer and @tallmatcha this week! Unfortunately I didn't have much time to get anything together for Wednesday, so here's my belated WIP. I think most of my mutuals have their acts together more than me and so already posted, so I'm tagging @gilgamish

Fandom: The Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim Rating: T (blood and violence) Category: Gen Genre(s): Action/Adventure Main characters: Khemor gro-Skaven (Male Orc LDB), Calder, Gregor

Summary: A prequel for Nostos, detailing how Khemor went from a senior magus in the College of Whispers to becoming the Last Dragonborn, Thane of Windhelm and the Pale, confidant of Ulfric Stormcloak and traitor to the Empire. =================================

“If I may make my thoughts known, Jarl Ulfric,” Khemor’s resonant voice cut through the chatter around the map table.

“Please, Dragonborn. Speak.” Ulfric’s words were mild but his tone was stern. Calder wanted to fade into the stone of the palace walls.

“I would urge a...less sweeping approach. It was one of your Altmer residents who brought you word of the spy, after all. Others might be less inclined to pass on valuable intelligence in the future if the result is increased hardship for themselves and their families.”

Thorygg snorted. “So one has given us valuable information, once. But what incentive would any Elf have to work against their own kinsmen?”

Khemor straightened and fixed Thorygg with a piercing stare. “Surely that cannot be a serious question?”

“But it is. Why wouldn’t they wish to be ruled over by their own kind instead of by lowly men, let alone Nords?”

“Because the Thalmor do not consider most Altmer living peaceably in Skyrim to be their own kind. Have you not once asked yourself why so many Altmer and Bosmer have made Skyrim their home? Why they have been moving to holds not controlled by the Empire in droves since the Thalmor have been given free rein?”

The puzzled faces around the table told Calder that none of them had.

After a pause Khemor continued. “I lived in Skaven during the Dominion occupation. As a crippled Orsimer child, the soldiers often found tormenting me an amusing diversion. But that was all I was; all the humans, Khajiit, and Argonians were to them. Amusing diversions. The Bosmer and Dunmer were annoyances. The Altmer of the city were an insult. An insult that had to be answered.” Khemor’s voice lowered, but the council chamber was now dead silent, and his words were clear. “Being a center for scholarship and magecraft in Hammerfell, many refugees from the Night of Green Fire in Sentinel had settled in Skaven, thinking themselves safe. There were shops and businesses run by Altmer on every street and in every market before the Dominion came. Skaven fell in Sun’s Dawn. By Heartfire none were left.”

“The Dominion killed them all?”

“Not all. Many fled before the city fell, with what belongings they could carry. The ones that waited had to flee in the night with the clothes on their backs. Others...we never knew what happened to them. We hoped they had escaped. But many were taken by the Thalmor and publicly executed, and their children sent back to Alinor if they were full-blooded Altmer. Any who weren’t...in the killing fields the Dominion left behind we found the bones of children and infants.” Khemor turned back to Jarl Ulfric, who was staring down at the map covered with small red and blue markers, stroking his beard in thought. “You asked what the Altmer of the city have to lose if Windhelm falls, my Jarl. They stand to lose everything.”

[anonymocha]

How about this: Balloon Party fic with her taking care of Vertin first and then bkornblume

If you want I can make another KaalaaPocket fic of your choosing of the theme 👍

RYUUSEI STOP ENABLING ME THIS IS LIKE A LILYA FOLLOWUP ATTACK AFTER A NASTY CRITICAL SINGLE TARGET HIT /LH /POS