#OBSIDIAN SUN WILL RETURN!!!!! I DO DECLARE

[littledeadling]

no offence but my fic is about to end lives . Save lives. Whatever

[skzsauce01]

Hymn to Myself

Anniversary Request Special

Synopsis: The Goddess of Spring tells a mortal the story of her abduction by the King of the Underworld. Follows the Homeric Hymn to Demeter.

Warning: kidnapping

Word Count: 2.6k

Pairing: fem Persephone!reader x Hades!Hyunjin

Dear mortal, listen closely, for I have deemed you worthy to hear my tale. You have danced in my name, burned offerings to me. You shall be rewarded for your worship. Lend me your ear now, and perhaps I will lend a hand in the future.

You know me by many names — The Maiden, The Younger, the Goddess of Spring — but today I will be the Queen of the Dead. There is no need to be so frightened. Your time has not come yet, nor will I be the one to ferry you to the Underworld, as you well know. Trembling and bowing your head for mercy will serve you no purpose but do as you like.

You have heard the tale, I am sure. The Dark-Haired One seizes a maiden and makes her his bride, as her mother, holy Night-Mare of the golden double-axe, ceases the earth’s harvest in her despair. The story you may have heard prior is my mother’s version, without the details of me in the Underworld.

Like most stories, it begins with the Cloud Collector, my father. Seeing that the King of the Underworld had no queen and that no goddess or nymph desired him, he offered him a bride, the flowerfaced daughter of the Corn-Mother. The King of the Dead accepted.

As you may have guessed, I did not know about this arrangement. The nymphs I surrounded myself with then, daughters of the Titan God of Rivers, did not either, yet they braided my hair and wove flowers in. Roses, crocuses, and hyacinths entangled with violets and irises to make a crown of spring. I still remember the way they fussed over me, singing songs and pulling at my scalp. I hated it. I only wanted to pick my blossoms. Once they had finished, I walked through the meadow, leaving them behind, gathering as many of the flowers I could into my arms.

Then I spotted a narcissus, its center as radiant as the sun and its petals the color of fresh milk. Its honey-sweet fragrance filled the sky and enchanted me. I approached it with both hands, ready to hold the bud to my nose, when the earth beneath me broke open.

A golden chariot drawn by sable-black horses leapt out, and I was snatched by the gloomy Lord. I cried out for my father, he of the thunderbolt, but he was the one who promised me, and I did not know that then. The King of the Dead had me in his grasp. He refused to let go. But still I cried a piercing scream, begging the pantheon of gods seated at Olympus to help, pleading Lord Helios in his own golden chariot to come down and save me. No one heard a thing when the chariot descended back into the earth.

And when we finally entered the Underworld, my voice had gone hoarse, my body limp. The flowers I clutched to my chest were the only remnants of the sunlit earth I had, but their petals had scattered into the wind and their stems wilted in the dark. The Dark-Haired One kept his arm on me, making sure I would not be able to flee. The shades wandered in the fields below us, their moans a constant hum.

Soon we stopped in front of his palace, a cold and imposing labyrinth with a locked gate reaching to the sky. A three-headed dog stood guard, saliva dripping from its maw. The King stepped off first and offered his hand to me, but I remained frozen on the chariot. It was still warm from the sun, and I wanted to soak in every last piece I could. The hound growled and lowered its center head to sniff me when I latched onto the side, even as the Lord of the house tried to drag me off.

“Leave me be,” I cried, pushing at his chest. “My father will punish you for this. He is the king of the heavens, and you will be struck with his bolt.”

“At the behest of the Thunderer, you are now my wife. Come, my queen, into your new home.”

I had no tears left, and I mutely followed him, keeping my eyes on the back of his wine-dark cloak. He led me through the gates, the corridors of his palace, all the way to the throne room. Two chairs stood next to each other, both as black as the horses and the sky. His was obsidian, etched with bone-white carvings and lined with onyx gems. The other, the ebony one intertwined with asphodel and pomegranates, belonged to me now.

“Are you pleased?” he asked.

I said nothing, for the fight in me had died along with the flowers I left between the paws of the hound.

“Are you frightened?”

Again, no sound left me. He made me sit on my throne, and I did with my head hung low. He cradled my face, and I shut my eyes. If he desired a kiss, then he could take it. I was a wife now, to the king of the Underworld too, and I would let my husband put his mouth on mine.

“Tired,” he declared after some time. “I will bring you ambrosia and nectar, so that you may recover.”

He brought the divine foods to me, but I did not eat. He tried to make conversation, but I did not speak. The scent of the asphodels and pomegranates were suffocating, and the musk of death coated the air untainted by natural fragrance. The thick slabs of wood underneath me were unyielding, and so was I. The Dark-Haired One was dismayed.

“What is it that you require?”

“I require that I be returned to my mother and to the earth.”

He smiled. “I have all of the riches of the earth. See what I have made for you.”

Humans called him the Wealthy One on occasion, and I understood that it was not merely a euphemism when he presented my crown to me: a golden-leaved garland with apple-red rubies the size of hen’s eggs and emeralds as vivid as moss, not a hint of death clouding its elegance. It was magnificent and befitting for a queen of spring. He undid the nymphs’ braids that still remained in my hair and placed the crown on my head.

“Are you happy now?” he asked.

“I will never be happy until I see the sun again.”

He frowned and left me alone on my throne, hoping I would change my mind. The ambrosia and nectar laid on the moonlight-silver tray. They glistened and glowed, their dangerously sweet scent enveloping the room, doing their best to entice me. Instead, I sat as rigid as a tree for days, languishing in my misery. Color faded from my features, and I looked like the very image of the Queen of the Dead, with my soulless eyes and ashen skin.

Day and night, I remained there. The Lord of the House was patient, as his realm was eternal and as I was immortal. He brought gifts to try to sway me: diamond birds perching on bronze branches, amethyst crocus bouquets with delicate sprigs of roses the colors of ripe peaches. I left them on the ground. They reminded me too much of what I no longer had. The treasures around me grew, but he persisted with his prizes and his attempts at conversation.

“There are many souls arriving today,” he would say. “How lovely,” I would reply.

“What do you think of the sky here?” he would ask, and I would tell him, “It is like you.”

“Would you like to see Cereberus again? I think he liked you,” to which I would answer, “I am content here.”

It was his offer to visit the Asphodel Meadows that drew me out of my fog.

We took his chariot, golden and gleaming as before. This time, he held out a hand for me, and I accepted. The three-headed dog at the entrance of the palace whined when I did not pat his heads like his master. The flowers I left as a peace offering earlier were gone, not even a broken stem lingering. I could only imagine that they were played with and eaten.

“He does like you,” the King whispered. He placed one arm around my shoulders as he held the reins with the other. I shrunk as much as I could, burying my nose in my hair so not to smell the death radiating off of him.

“Yes, I suppose he does.”

We stopped in one of the many fields, the asphodel ghostly white and fluttering in the breeze. The shades kept their distance when I stepped off the chariot and into the flowers. My bare feet touched the Underworld dirt, my ankles brushed the stalks as I roamed the meadow like I did that fateful day, plucking the prettiest blooms from their roots. The Dark-Haired One followed closely behind, and I did my best to keep my eyes on the iron sky as I wandered through more of the fields. Lone petals circled in the wind, adorning the false flowers of my crown with themselves. I thought about the nymphs — their songs, their chatter, their life — and nearly wept. Then I thought about my poor mother, with the beautiful garlands in her hair, finding no trace of me among the meadow, and I dropped to the ground.

“There is no need to cry,” said the Dark-Haired One softly. “The shades will not hurt you.”

“I want to go home,” I replied in-between my gasps. I thought that picking flowers would somehow soothe me, but they only pained my heart. “Please, let me return home.”

He held me up, and I saw up close the famed black locks that framed his face. “Home,” he smiled.

My spirits soared, and I clamored onto his chariot, eager to see the wispy clouds and splendid sun again. But I had deceived myself. For the Queen of the Underworld, the palace was home.

The throne was too far for my limp body to retire to, so he set me down upon a funeral couch. There, I laid and stared out the window at the vast number of souls inhabiting the fields. He brought me ambrosia and nectar once more, a feeble attempt that even he knew was wasted.

He ordered entertainers to sing and dance for me, but I stared at them like one of the many skulls carved on his throne.

However, my prayers were soon answered months later. The mighty Messenger of the Gods, with his golden wand, came and relayed my father’s message: I was to be returned to my mother, for she was wrathful against the gods. The Lord smiled and did not disobey the Thunderer’s orders.

“Go to your mother,” he said to me, “for I am not an unseemly husband. But you are my queen, and all those who do not perform your rituals with reverence, all those who do not perfectly burn offerings for you, will be punished.”

I did not care about those things. Still, I rejoiced and leapt from the couch with liveliness, my crown falling to the ground in my eagerness. To feel the warmth of the sun on my skin, to see the vibrant earth, to be with my mother — those were what mattered to me.

“Before you leave, I ask that you try the Underworld’s fruit,” he said, holding out a pomegranate. “As a blessing to us from the Queen of the Dead.”

“You have been nothing but kind to me, so I will,” I told him. I ate four of the seeds, red as the rubies on my Underworld crown and sweet as honey, before I could tolerate my impatience no longer.

The King’s chariot was already drawn with his sable-black horses. The dog eyed me curiously as I got onto the chariot with the Immortal Guide rather than his master. The messenger took the reins, and we ascended to the upper world. The taste of the pomegranate still coated my tongue when the earth cracked open.

We burst forth like a new sprout. The nymphs came out from the sea and flocked around, fussing like they did before. This time, I did not mind. I let them pull at my clothing and let them weave fragrant flowers in my hair.

My mother, with a dark robe, soon arrived. She saw me, stretched her arms out, and I ran into them, breathing in her familiar scent. She stroked my hair, all while murmuring in my ear about how I was safe now, how happy she was. I was happy too. I recounted my tale to her in a frenzy, words crashing into one another like the churning tides. We stayed together, roaming the fields, soaking in the sun and earth I had missed. I danced in the streams, playing with my nymphs in celebration, for I was home.

It was later that I learned that I was bound to the Underworld, having eaten the pomegranate seeds. I left with a heavy heart and arrived to the expectant Lord, smiling with his brows.

“You tricked me,” I said. I would not weep; I could endure my time here.

“It was a request you accepted,” he said as he strode to me with my crown. He adorned me with it, and I let him brush the loose tendrils from my face. “Welcome home, my queen.”

In the beginning, it was a partial home.

I left the palace as often as I could to roam among the asphodels and the shades. The shades grew acquainted with my presence and bowed to me, moaning cries of worship in that strange tongue of theirs. I learned to feed the horses with sweet pomegranate seeds to entice them into being obedient, and the golden chariot of the King became one of my possessions. I stayed away from him, for I still felt betrayed.

Despite my frigidness, he adored me like no other. The entertainers seemed to be a constant at his court now that I present. He offered to dance with me, to which I rejected every time. He played knucklebones with me on the rare occasion I was receptive. I suspected he let me win on several occasions in an attempt to open me up like a blooming flower. And whenever I returned from a walk through the fields, he would have a lavish bouquet of false flowers waiting on my throne.

However, over time I grew to recognize my stature. After all, not many goddesses could say that they had power like mine. I began to wear my royal title like a mantle, draping it around my shoulders and letting it trail behind me in my wake. I was not always merciful, as you may well know yourself, mortal, but it is nigh impossible to say that I was not fair. The Lord took this fervor of mine as a sign that I had forgiven him. I still do not know if I have.

I sit beside him, as his equal, commanding the dead just like he does. I let him kiss my cheek and sometimes return the favor if I am feeling kind that day. I dance with him, resting my head over his heart and breathing in his musk.

But he is the one who made me his bride and thrust the Underworld upon me.

It is difficult to say that I resent him. It is much easier to say that I cannot, and will never be able to, love him in the same way he loves me.

Thus, for four months of the year, I live as the Queen of the Dead, never as his wife.

Now, dear mortal, you have heard it all. Tell it to the world.

~ ad.gray

Extra: Sorry for the unholy amount of name euphemisms and epithets. The TL;DR is that I didn’t want the associations of the Greek gods’ relationships, and by extension their names, in this story because they’re a mess by modern standards, so I opted for euphemisms and epithets instead. I decided to not use names at all because consistency, I guess? This kind of works though since “Persephone” is telling the story to a mortal and mortals avoided saying certain god’s names, Persephone and Hades among them, out of fear or respect (source). Saying a god’s name gets their attention, and getting the god’s of death attention was considered unlucky (source). This story’s version of Persephone is pretty understanding, I guess. Also, I tried to mimic the style of the Homeric Hymn to Demeter (this was the translation I used), and the amount of descriptors is insane. Thanks for coming to my TedTalk.

Hope you enjoyed this! <3

[usmsgutterson]

Page Eighty-Three- Kaz Brekker

Real (Page Eighty-Three series, part 3)

And thus, here we arrive at the end of the Page Eighty-Three series! I’ve been working on it almost a week now, and had the idea brewing in my brain for two weeks beforehand, so, considering the way that I’ve chosen to publish all the parts, it’s not gonna be a very emotional goodbye for you guys, but for me, oddly enough, it is?

Its the first fic I’ve done that’s been more than two parts, and I guess that adds to it? I don’t know! But, anyways, on with it!

Also, a gentle reminder, I only have Kaz being a little on the touchier side because this is a bit of an AU of sorts, and they’re around twenty four in this last part, which gave him time to work on his trauma more and get comfortable with touch!

Fic type- fluffy as fuck

Warnings- a very brief mention of the flashback in the first chapter (to be specific, nina says ‘stopped you from getting hatecrimed’) and a brief sexual innuendo

T H R E E Y E A R S L A T E R 

You knocked out after you’d killed your father, and went home completely unconscious on Inej’s boat, tucked onto a cot with Kaz at your side. Genya had decided to spend a little time around Ketterdam, get to know the ins and outs and provide intel for Nikolai when he asked for it, and Nina had decided that her home could be Ketterdam for four months of every year. 

Inej did her thing, catching and killing slavers all around the globe, but her visits to Ketterdam became more frequent after you’d gotten back. 

Jesper took your amplifier and made it a project for himself, removing the claw from the obsidian and instead using his fabrikator abilities to turn it into a bracelet that you wore on your right hand, made of gold, with the claw dulled out so that it didn’t poke you when you moved your wrist.

A year after you’d returned home, when yourself and Kaz had gone into his office one morning, book clutched in one of your hands, the other interlaced with Kaz’s fingers, you found a box sitting on his desk.

A note from Zoya was taped to the top of it. 

A top tier bitch deserves a top tier amplifier, it read. Bracelet. Wear it on your right wrist. It’ll go with the bear claw wrapped in gold.

You kept the note, reading it to yourself whenever you needed a laugh, giggling about it with Nina when she needed a laugh, too. 

All of those small moments ended up leading to a much bigger one, though. The day that Kaz proposed. 

It was a pretty simple proposal, but you loved it. 

--

“I had to get advice from Jes about this,” was how he started it, even before he’d gotten down onto one knee. “He proposed to Wylan in the fall, and I know that the Winter makes Ketterdam look absolutely stunning, and I know that you like the scenery, so, well, here we are.” 

You’d been walking around Ketterdam, the clicking of Kaz’s cane against the pavement a soothing sound for the both of you. 

You’d managed to make it near the outskirts of Ketterdam just by walking, as Kaz’s leg was being decent to him and he wanted to walk until you’d arrived at one of the more scenic spots. You indulged him for the sake of it, making sure you took breaks and that he got water when he was tired. 

It’d been snowing, and the sky had yet to darken beyond a light grey. You and Kaz both had snow in your hair, but to one another, it just added to handsomeness, so neither of you moved to brush the snow out of your hair or off your faces. 

“When we were seventeen,” he began, feeling for the box in his pocket. The one with a ring inside, cushioned by red, velvety fabric. “You read me a quote from the book I’d gotten you that day. You’ve memorized just about every poem in it since, and I happen to have done the same thing.” 

“The quote that you read to me was from The Sun and Her Flowers. It was on page eighty three,” he grinned at you, a fully fledged smile. Something he saved for you and you exclusively.

“I’m going to change the wording a bit, because it’s in the past tense, and we’re not past tense. The quote was ‘you were mine, and my life was full,’,” he said. “I’m changing it to ‘you are mine, and my life is full.’ Because thats how I feel.”

“Kaz?” You asked. “Do you have something planned?” He raised an eyebrow at you as he clutched the box.

“I suck at words, so, from Rupi Kaurs book Milk and Honey, I offer you this,” he carefully got down onto a knee, using his cane to keep him steady for a few quiet moments as you realized what was happening. 

“‘You are every hope and dream I’ve ever had, in human form.” He pulled out the ring, opening the box and holding it out to you. “That’s page forty nine, love.” 

“If you can’t think of an answer, please, just-- anything works,” if Jesper had told sixteen year old Kaz Brekker that he’d end up on his knees, begging you for a response to his proposal at just twenty two, he’d have called Jesper crazy.

“Yes,” you mumbled. “Yes, Kaz Brekker. If you’re asking me to marry you, it’s an immediate yes.” He used his cane to get himself up to standing again, slipping the ring onto your ring finger and accepting the hug that you pulled him into.

You were going to marry Kaz Brekker, the love of your life, and you couldn’t wait for it. 

--

The day seemed to come at you quickly, even though you’d not set the date until Winter of year that you turned twenty four. 

First, it was calling Nikolai and asking if you could cash in the reward for killing your father and doing him and the world a justice that they deserved, then it was finding suitable tuxedos and sending out invitations and planning a million different things at once. 

But, eventually, you, Jesper, Wylan, Genya, and Nina, were all on Inejs boat, headed toward the Little Palace.

Then, all of the sudden, you were in the last stretch of time before the wedding. Alina, Mal, Genya, Zoya, and Nina were talking as Genya tailored you, getting rid of some of the blemishes and fixing up little things about your face that you’d asked her to tailor until the end of the ceremony. 

“It’s weird,” Alina said, pressing a kiss to Mals cheek as she glanced at her own wedding ring. “I remember you as this fourteen year old boy who used to gawk at the attractive guys in the Second Army, the boy who resented his powers and swore at his father at any chance that he got, and now you’re and you’re completely different.”

“Different how?”

“Kaz Brekker,” Genya said, running her finger under one of your eyes gently, as to get rid of your eyebags. “He’s good for you.”

“And you don’t resent your powers anymore,” Zoya adds. “You don’t use them often, but you don’t resent them.” 

“You use them, don’t you, mate?” Mal quipped. “Or were my eyes tricking me when I went to wake you and Brekker up this morning, only to find you keeping light out of your room with a flick of your bloody wrist?” 

“I was tired,” you pouted. “Kaz and I both were!”

“Ah, newlyweds,” Nina joked.

“It’s not like that!” You shouted. “Zoya, help me out!”

“He’s able to kiss you now,” she said. “Like, with tongue and stuff. Theres no reason he wouldn’t be able to enjoy a fun little tumble with you here and there!”

“’Tongue, and stuff,’” Mal repeated. “Yes, Zoya, because, as a twenty six year old woman, that’s totally adult phrasing.”

“I wouldn’t have been able to describe it any better,” Nina quipped. Genya and Alina hummed their agreement as Genya moved to your hair, fluffing it and styling it so it that it looked nice as you adjusted the cuffs on your dress shirt. 

“Wheres my blazer?” You asked, grabbing your tie from Genyas lap, tying it as she evened out some of the color near your roots. 

“Closet,” Alina answered. “I’ll get it for you!” Mal checked his watch.

“We’ve got three minutes to get down there,” he said. “Lets make the most of Y/Ns remaining 180 seconds unmarried.” You laughed, rolling your eyes as Genya stood, helping you up after.

Nina shot Genya a glance, and she took the hint, ushering Alina, Mal and Zoya out of the room and passing Nina your blazer as she left. 

Nina helped you into your blazer, running her thumb along your cheek with a smile. 

“I never thought I’d see Kaz Brekker married,” she said. “But hey, I guess stopping you from getting hatecrimed had it’s benefits, didn’t it?” 

You laughed, shrugging.

“I think that we’ll rebuild some of the Slat,” you said. “Make the rooms bigger. Get plaques declaring whos room is whos.”

“A golden plaque with Nina Zenik emblazoned on it?”

“Bolted to your bedroom door, Neens.” 

“I love you, Morozova.” She said, trapping you into a tight hug.

“I love you back, Zenik.” You said. “Now, c’mon. I don’t think anyone would take too kindly to me being late for my own bloody wedding, would they?” 

--

The wedding was small, taking place close to the entrance of the Little Palace. There were no chairs to sit on, but the few guests you’d invited didn’t mind it whatsoever. 

The guest list was fairly small, considering your tight knit little family. Wylan was Kaz’s best man, Your best woman was Nina. The people standing in the small crowd were all familiar faces.

Wylans mother, Marya Hendriks, and Jespers father, Colm Fahey were the oldest there. Among them were Nikolai, Alina, Mal, Genya, Rotty and Specht, and the two members of the Dregs who’d originated the King of the Barrel nicknames. Their names were Terrowin and Kira, and when you caught their eyes, they were beaming at you both.

Jesper was officiating, and as you met his gaze, you remembered how he was practically bouncing off the walls the day that you’d asked him to officiate. 

“Okay, now that they’re both here, we can begin!” Jesper couldn’t hide his excitement.

“Mr. Brekker,” Jesper laughed through the words. He’d not called Kaz ‘Mr. Brekker’ unless he was doing so in a jokey context. You knew that, had it been anyone elses wedding, they’d probably have gotten angry at Jesper for giggling through the words, but for you and Kaz, it just added to an already perfect day. “Do you take Y/N as your lawfully wedded husband?”

“I do,” he said. 

“Mr. Morozova,” Jesper glanced at you, and you met his gaze, having to stifle laughter when you realized just how wide his grin was. How happy he seemed. He looked like he was about to start bouncing off the walls and screaming with joy. “Do you take Kaz as your lawfully wedded husband?”

“Hells yes,” you said, giggling slightly. For a moment, Kaz let his lips lift into a grin. You matched it with your own smile and took his hand into yours.

“You’ve prepared your own vows, so, Mr. Brekker, sir, you go first!” Kaz glanced at Jesper inquisitively, grin still on his face as he started talking and met your eye.

“I’ve loved you as long as I’ve known you,” he said. “And when my heart says something, I’ve learned to listen to it. I love you with my entire heart and so much more, and I hate that I’m not good with words, because that’s all I can say. Nothing else accurately cultivates the feelings I’ve felt for you since that night, when you were broken and bruised underneath that saintsforsaken lamplight. I promise to love you every minute of every day, Brekker.” You’d agreed to change your last name to his. You’d be Y/N Brekker by the end of the night.

“Mr. Brekker,” Jesper said. “Since you’ll be married in a few minutes and I have to get used to that last name on you, you may say your vows!” 

“When I was fifteen, I was caught and beat broken by a group of eight eighteen year olds,” you began. “But you saved my ass before I was killed, and it seems as though our relationship has been a series of saves ever since. Kaz Brekker, with the ring I’m about to put on your finger, I’m promising that I’ll do that forever. Please, though, try to avoid getting yourself kidnapped too often, okay?” His chest shook in silent laughter as he nodded.

“The rings, gentlepeople?” Jesper asked, Nina passed you the ring you’d slip into Kaz’s finger, and Wylan passed Kaz the one he’d put onto yours.

“Put them on,” Jesper said. You and Kaz both glanced at him once more, meeting each others eye thereafter, grinning and shaking your heads. It’d become very clear to you that the twenty four year old who you’d recruited to officiate your wedding was damn near close to letting out an excited squeal. 

Kaz put the ring onto your ring finger and you did the same for him, waiting for Jespers next words as you took a half a step closer to Kaz. 

“Kiss, you idiots!” Jesper said. Kaz laughed, pulling you close and pressing a kiss to your forehead.

He’d kiss you like nothing else later in the evening, when the only thing to bug you was a lamp that you’d left on, but you both agreed that a forehead kiss would be as far as you’d go in front of others. Kisses, to Kaz, were personal, and you respected and loved that about him. 

“Saints, bless this fuckin’ union!” Jesper shouted. You glanced at Alina, who shot you a thumbs up and a nod as the party part of the wedding kicked off. 

Terrowin and Kira were the first people that you and Kaz talked to.

“Did you secure it?” He asked.

“The property?” Terrowin was a Zemeni boy, with skin dark as night and eyes as warm as the sun. 

“Or the trip?” Asked Kira, a girl from Shu Han with hair black as the feathers on a crow and blue eyes as cold as the Fjerdan ice. 

“The property, first and foremost,” he said. “Did you get it? Did you give it the name I asked you to?”

“Yes, and yes,” said Terrowin. “Beside The Silver Six is a bookstore called Page Eighty-Three. It’s scheduled to open in the fall.” Your eyes widened as you made the connection.

“Page eighty-three?” You asked, smirk on your lips. Kaz shrugged.

“And the request?”

“The line from the poem will be put on the wall behind the clerks counter,” Kira said. “Just as you requested.”

“And the trip?”

“Your boat for Novyi Zem leaves in two days, Boss,” Kira said. “Two bells in the afternoon. It’s directly routed to Coftons docks.” Kaz nodded.

“Thank you,” he said. “We’ll see you when Page Eighty-Three opens.” 

“Damn right we will,” you said. Terrowin and Kira laughed as they walked away.

You glanced around the room, spotting Jesper and Wylan perched at a piano, playing the music that everyone was dancing to. Marya and Colm dancing close to them. Nina and Zoya dancing like idiots and laughing throughout. Mal and Inej making conversation and Genya and Alina heading your way.

“Congrats, you two,” Genya said. “Can I expect to see you both tanned and rested up when you get back from Novyi Zem?” 

“You’ll be in Ketterdam?” You asked. Genya nodded.

“For a couple of months, to make sure that your Jesper friend doesn’t colossally fuck things up while your friend Inej is doing her thing on the open ocean,” Alina said. “I’m there to visit for a bit, under the radar.” 

“Thank you, Alina,” he said. “Thank you both. For everything that you’ve done in these past years.” 

“No biggie, Brekker,” Alina said. “I don’t know you that well, but I see how happy you make Y/N, and he’s like a little brother. I care about his happiness.” 

“You two are absolutely bloody adorable,” Genya said. “Now, back to my question, will you be tan, or at the very least, well rested, upon your return?”

“Kaz is pale,” you said. “He’ll burn like a crisp. Me? I don’t really know. I guess it depends.” 

“We’ll be well rested,” Kaz said. “He’s a darkling. He can create shadow. I fully intend to use that to keep the sun out in the mornings.” 

“I won’t do whatever you ask of me!” You quipped.

“You had no issue with that last night,” he said, raising a teasing eyebrow. “Or this morning!”

“Mal was right!” Alina shouted, her and Genya bursting into giggles. “Damn it, I hate it when that happens!” You laughed.

You took another glance around you, spotting your friends.

No, wait. Scratch that.

Not your friends.

Your family. 

Your family was having a good time, eating, talking, dancing, laughing. They were enjoying themselves and congratulating you as you talked to Alina and Genya. 

Kaz had an arm around your waist, his cheek pressed against the side of your head as his other hand gently turned your wedding ring around on your finger. He was talking to people without arguing with them. He was holding you like you were the only thing that mattered to him.

Your life was perfect.

Kaz was yours, you were his, and your life was full. 

--------

tags: @whateverfandom00 @a-c-lee @incorrectquotesconaisseur @the7seannas​ @teatimeforusreaders​ @hunnybunimdun​

[flipomatic]

Bass

Summary: Once they have all the pieces, they sit down together to build it.

Each part reminds Marceline of their relationship, of the life they’re constructing together.

Word Count: 1300

Contains spoilers for obsidian.

Author Note: I have never written for this ship before and I know nothing about bass guitar except for a picture I found with the parts labeled. Here we go.

_________________________________________________________

It isn’t until Marceline is safely home, with the motorcycle stowed away, that she again remembers her lost axe bass. She’s hovering in the kitchen while Bonnie washes the dishes, drying them in turn and stacking them on the shelves. It’s a routine, calming and familiar.

A string of lyrics comes to her, about the tinkling noise each dish makes as she places it, and she wants to sing it. She wants to pluck the strings of her bass to make the beat and hopefully bring a smile to the face of her bubblegum pink girlfriend. Then she remembers.

Marceline remembers what happened to her axe bass. She has other instruments, of course, but to not have a bass in the house still feels strange. She both accepts the loss and mourns it.

Once the dishes are all dry, she brings the topic up with Bonnie.

Her girlfriend, her scientifically precise wonderful girlfriend, suggests that they build a replacement. It will take a while, but they can find the parts and build something new, build something together.

Marceline loves the idea so much, she kisses her.

They collect parts over the next few weeks. Some of the wood comes from an ancient tree in the forest. An old blacksmith helps with the metal pieces. They even take a trip to a guitar store, just for the strings. It all has to be just right.

Once they have all the pieces, they sit down together to build it.

Each part reminds Marceline of their relationship, of the life they’re constructing together.

The first part is the body. It’s the center of the bass, the core. It holds the whole instrument together.

It reminds Marceline of the house she and Bonnie share. For the longest time she had lived there alone, and for all that time it had just been a place to hover while she rested. She had many other places that she lived.

Now, oh how things change. This isn’t just a house, it’s her home. This is where Bonnie is, where they stay together. This house is their foundation, their base of operations.

Bonnie brings so much energy to the house. With her pictures on the walls, her chairs at the kitchen table and on the porch, and her lab materials upstairs, she breathes life into their home.

Her presence, no, their presence together, fills the building with meaning. It connects them together, holds them inside.

The body of the bass does the same.

Next they put on the bridge. It will anchor the strings, hold them in place.

The same way Bonnie anchors her, every night and every morning.

When Marceline climbs into bed every night and looks to her side, Bonnie’s there. Sometimes they hold hands under the blankets, an anchor even in sleep. Marceline sleeps well by her side.

In the morning, when Marceline opens her eyes against the dreary morning sun, Bonnie is there. Every morning, without a doubt. Sometimes, but not often, Marceline wakes up first. She watches her sleep when that happens, the way her pretty pink face relaxes in slumber.

Marceline kisses her gently on the forehead, lightly as not to disturb her, and lies back down.

Like the bridge, Bonnie anchors her.

Pickups are added next, placed onto the body of the bass. They hold the strings up in just the right spot.

Marceline tries to do the same for Bonnie. To raise her up, to help her be the best she can be.

She supports her with her science. Marceline helps track down materials and holds beakers, all to aid in her quest for knowledge. She even lets Bonnie experiment on her, with often mixed results.

Bonnie lifts her too. She listens to Marceline’s music and brings new styles to it. She sings along, filling Marceline with warmth.

They lift each other, like the pickups hold up the strings.

A strap post is added to the body, to sling a strap on and hold the bass close.

When Bonnie’s arms are around her, Marceline doesn’t want her to let go. She feels safe and warm in her embrace.

Nothing can hurt her there, no nightmares or memories can intrude.

When Marceline returns the hug, that’s even better. She still remembers when she thought she lost Bonnie, remembers flying desperately across the field to embrace her. Marceline will do whatever it takes to protect her.

She holds her close, like the guitar strap does for a bass.

The neck and fingerboard are added together. The two long strips of wood and metal are a perfect match, aligned and glued side by side.

Though their bed is queen sized, the two of them fit quite well on just one side. Their bodies fit perfectly together as they cuddle.

Marceline is the big spoon this time, with Bonnie’s back flush against her. She lays an arm over her waist to pull her closer, earning a content sigh from her partner. She hears a softly muttered declaration of love.

As Marceline softly kisses the side of her neck, Bonnie seems to melt into her.

They fit together like the neck and fingerboard.

The frets are added one by one in exactly the right spots. If the frets are wrong, then every note will be out of tune.

When either of them is upset, when they refuse to share, their relationship is the same way. Out of key and out of tune, they argue.

They work on it together. Marceline tries to share more, both through songs and words. She tells herself to stop bottling things up and knows that Bonnie will understand when she shares. She’ll accept her for who she is.

Bonnie works on it as well, in her own way. She makes clear schedules with limited lab time and says if something will change. When bad things happen, she talks about it. Marceline listens.

They are always working towards it, having their frets in the right positions.

At the top of the bass is the headstock. It holds the bass together, unifies it as whole.

All of the things they do, around the house and outside of it, bring them together.

Playing board games, going on adventures, helping save the glass kingdom, and so much more. Their bond only grows and strengthens.

Long, languid kissing sessions on the couch bring them even closer. Marceline cherishes every movement, every flush of pink cheeks.

They belong together. They complete each other.

The headstock completes the bass in the same way.

On the headstock, tuning keys are added. They’ll adjust the pitch of the strings, which will go on last.

For Marceline, she’s always fine tuning her words. She has so much she should say, but how to say it has always alluded her. Keeping her feelings inside used to be easier.

Now though, with Bonnie, she can find the words. She wants to find the words. She shares things about herself that she never thought she would.

She shares things she never wanted to admit even to herself.

This tuning is essential to her, and to the bass.

The last piece of the bass is the strings. Marceline does this part herself. She slowly adds each of the four and tightens them, tuning them to exactly the right pitch.

Every note played is a message.

It’s the words, “I love you,” played over and over again.

Every minute of every day for the rest of her life, Marceline will love Bonnie. She’ll tell her, through her songs and through her words, how much she does. How she’ll cherish her, hold her close, and love her.

When Bonnie says those words back, it’s music to her ears.

They carve their initials on the body, a reminder of what they achieved together.

Marceline plays her first song on the new bass.

It’s a love song.

[heroineimages]

Queen Viarra’s Mom

So for those of my readers who follow my novel’s progress, Queen Viarra’s mother, Princess Lutaxa, isn’t dead. My intent for her since pretty much when I started writing the story was for her to be absent for most of Viarra’s early career as queen. I’d planned to depict her as this legendary but absentee badass who won the heart of a Tollesian crown-prince and birthed the future empress of the Vestic Sea. Her back story was that her family are exiled Gannic royals and that seven years before the story begins, her father died and her brother and uncle led the rest of their family back north to retake their homelands. But I chose to leave Lutaxa’s fate ambiguous. Characters refer to her in past-tense, and I never specify whether she died or left with her family. Much later in the story, I wanted to have her pop back up and fight beside her daughter following her family’s failed attempt to reclaim their kingdom.

A few nights ago, I decided to reintroduce her much sooner.

While writing several flashbacks told from Elissa’s POV, I had the chance to experiment with Lutaxa’s character for the first time, and it bothered me that I’d given my badass protagonist a badass mom but don’t really get to explore their relationship. For the epilogue in Book I, I’m going to cut to Lutaxa’s defeated army, holed up in a fortified village, thousands of miles to the north. They’re beaten down without hope for more than an impressive last stand against a superior foe, when they get word of Viarra’s victories in the south. The news reminds Lutaxa that she has a home to return to and motivates her to withdraw the remnants of her army and flee back to warmer climates.

*************************************

“The thaw comes early this year,” Aunt Lutaxa observed as Reovalix stepped up beside her along the palisade.

“Aye,” Reovalix nodded, crossing his arms over his chainmail. Beyond the palisade and in the valley below, spots of dark brown were already appearing amid the coastal pines and white landscape. “Soon our enemies will start tae move again.”

“If they’re nae already,” his aunt agreed, her fur-lined hood thrown back. An enormous, brawny woman, she towered over everyone Reovalix had ever met and had a reputation for having a will like iron and an edge like obsidian. It pained him to see her looking so tired and defeated. “And soon they’ll find us here, if they dinnae kin already. Nae more word from the Cotis tribe?” she asked.

“Nae word,” he confirmed. “We’ve nae allies left—faithless cowards.”

“Nae,” Aunt Lutaxa disagreed, silver hair reflecting the midday sun as she shook her head. “Wise, nae faithless. They do wha’s smart tae protect they people. Our foes are too many, and allying wi’ us just gets people killed. We got overconfident from our early successes against the Cenali and their allies, and we failed tae deliver too many promises tae too many of our allies. We started with seven-thousand warriors and highest hopes, but now we’ve barely four-hundred warriors and this last hold-out,” she sighed, gesturing to their fortified mountain village. “We failed, and I wish I had a way tae apologize tae every ally we let down.”

“Ye never know, Aunt, we might yet win tha day when our foes come,” Reovalix offered, rapping his knuckles against her bronze breastplate.

His aunt snorted with a trace of a smirk. “Only if our foes take the biggest nosedive in competence I’ve ever witnessed,” she admitted, reaching over to stroke his fresh-shaved chin and tweak his long, coppery mustache. “But thank ye for saying sae, nephew. We may hae spent all winter fortifying, but in the end I think the best we can hope for is tae weaken they army enough tha’ other tribes might stand up tae them.” She shook her head sadly and stepped away from the palisade.

Over the winter, they’d set up in an abandoned mountain village, near a small slate quarry. The slate turned out to be focking useful, making effective, non-flammable roofs for their houses, as well as paving material for their streets and building material for reinforcing walls and palisades. As they ventured away from the walls, the sound of steel on steel echoed through the courtyard as his cousins, Talutix and Ressona pounded out new swords, spearheads, and chainmail from the last of the iron shipment they’d stolen last fall. At least they had that to their advantage.

“Though I cannae apologize to our allies, I’d like tae apologize to ye and ye sister and remaining cousins,” Aunt Lutaxa admitted, loosening her cloak from her shoulders. “This should nae hae been ye fight.”

“What d’ ye mean, Aunt?” Reovalix asked, glancing over at her. “It’s our family too. Ye fights are our fights.”

“But should nae hae been,” his aunt disagreed. “Ye were a babe when our family was exiled, and ye siblings and most o’ ye cousins hannae been born yet. When ye grandfather died and me uncle and ye father sought tae travel north and reclaim our homeland, our generation thought only o’ ourselves. We thought only o’ our own past disgraces and nae o’ the fact tha’ ye generation was nae a part o’ tha’ past. There was twenty-eight in ye generation and seven in mine when we sailed north from Valos seven summers ago. Now, I’m the only one left of me generation, and ye, ye sister, and nine cousins are all left o’ ye. Ye fought and died for a home ye never knew. And tha’s nae fair tae ye.

“And now ye’ve nowhere tae run tae,” she added, bowing her head in shame. “Nae allies left tae take us in. Ye are trapped in tha hole my generation dug for ye, wi’ no way out but death.”

“But, Aunt—”

“Nae ‘buts’!” she interrupted, reaching out to grasp his arm. “Ye should ha’ been free tae make ye own choices and live ye own life, and we took it from ye. I just want ye tae know how sorry I am. If there wae a way out, I’d happily guide all o’ ye out o’ here. I want ye tae ken tha’,” she added, his mail clicking against her breastplate as she embraced him.

“I ken, Aunt, thank ye,” Reovalix assured her, returning the hug. Tall as he was, he still had to stretch to rest his chin on her shoulder.

Three sharp notes from a hunting horn blared from further down the mountain. It was a signal from the forward sentries for a friendly rider. Stepping back from their hug, Reovalix followed Aunt Lutaxa to the gates.

“D’ ye ken who they’re signaling?” Aunt asked one of the gate guards.

“Aye. Cousin Venixa is riding fast back from her supply run, but I dinnae see any o’ the others,” a sentry explained, pointing down the hillside at the distant horse and rider trotting through the mud and melting snow.

“What could ha’ happened?” Aunt Lutaxa frowned.

“Venixa, love, wha’ happened,” their aunt greeted as Venixa rode through the gates and dismounted minutes later. “Where are the others?”

“They’re coming, Aunt, dinnae worry,” Venixa assured them, laughing with a smug twinkle in her smile. Beaten by the early spring wind, her face was redder than her hair. “There’s big news from the south—big, important news—and I rode ahead tae tell ye!”

“What kind o’ big news?” Reovalix asked, crossing his arms.

“Aye, did the Litulli change their minds and send warriors?” Aunt Lutaxa added.

“Nae, further south than tha’!” Venixa laughed, tossing her hood back. “News from the Vestic Sea, in fact,” she declared as other warriors and family members gathered. “While we were in Congenetia trading for supplies, there was a ship o’ Tollesian traders wi’ goods and news from the south. Apparently, the Hegemony o’ Andivel has been usurped! Last spring, an upstart queen overthrew the tetrarchs and dissolved the council tae make herself hegemon.”

“The tetrarchs, were they exiled or executed?” Aunt Lutaxa asked.

“Executed, I think,” Venixa answered.

“Shame,” their aunt frowned, shaking her head a bit. “The tetrarchy needed tae be replaced, but Tetrarch Wayer deserved better than tha’,” she admitted. “Who was this queen, though? And why is this such big, important news?”

“Queen Viarraluca is her name,” Venixa told them, her smirk getting bigger and smugger. Another cousin gasped, and eyes went wide on everyone who recognized the name. “Viarraluca of Kel Fimmaril.”

“Viarraluca of Kel Fimmaril…” Aunt Lutaxa repeated reverently, a tear forming at the corner of her left eye.

“Queen Viarraluca…”

[zabrak-show]

The Magnificent Twin Suns

A/N: Hello, omg this is my ObiMaul Magnificent Seven Crossover Fic. what have I done?!! Please do not hate me for this. I actually worked hard on it and honestly wanted to do more character work with all of the “seven” but ultimately, only ever wanted this to be a short one shot. 

This is an AU of AU’s which if you know the history of Magnificent Seven is fitting. (it’s a  remake of a remake of a remake) Which is also fitting of Star Wars being that it is essentially a remake of western films that were remakes of samurai films LOL anyway, expect much OOC weirdness and just whatever I felt like, OK! There is an OC, but she is mostly just filler as are the rest of the characters beyond Kenobi and Maul.

This was heavily inspired by one of my favorite artists on here @savagesleftarm​ Cowboy Art of ObiMaul  this art broke my brain and the aforementioned fic ensued. I hope you enjoy it and if not, go easy on me cowpokes. I am but a simple fic writer tryin to get by.

Also, because I obsessed over this for a week, here’s a playlist I made while I wrote this 😆 I made it to play on shuffle, but I’m not the boss of you, play it how you like if you like!

Warnings: Violence, Blood, Death (no major character death, but still), Curse Words, Alcohol consumption, Cigarette smoking, Angst, specifically ObiMaul Angst

Word Count: 5.7K 

gif from tombstone another western gem

The desert suns blazed unrelenting into the face of a crimson zabrak with intricate obsidian tattoos accenting his hardened and chiseled features including a crown of small horns. He brought his Colt Paterson revolver over his shoulder, still hot from the kill shot performed. Another bounty successfully tracked down and bagged. A half smoked cigarette hung from the zabrak’s lips, his face scowled from the smoke and the sun. Gunpowder, cigarette smoke, and death permeated the hot air. The zabrak took one last drag from his cigarette before throwing it down into the sand next to the dead body, the butt still slowly burning until finally it ran out of tobacco and paper to ignite, puffing out into a dusty pile of ash.

The zabrak holstered his gun and roughly wrapped the dead body in a canvas tarp and strapped it to the back of his pale grey horse, Scimitar. He mounted the horse and took off down the dusty path, hoping to get to Mos Eisley before sundown. The zabrak rode fast atop Scimitar, his black leather boots digging into the horse’s sides. His black jeans and black vest collected dust and sand that flew up from the horse’s galloping.

They rode for hours, until finally the zabrak pulled back on the reigns signaling Scimitar to slow down as they entered the Mos Eisley city limits. The city was still growing, with several buildings under construction around the edge of town. The main street area was bustling with different galactic species. Some native jawas and tusken raiders milled about amongst, rodians, weequays, twi’leks, and humans. Many turned to stare at the strange zabrak. His bright golden eyes staring straight ahead, not giving any mind to the civilians around him. He rode Scimitar up to a red brick building, dismounted and tied her to the hitching rail at the front of the building.

He slung the body over his left shoulder and entered the brick building with a calm authority to his every movement, a slight limp to his gait. He dropped the body at the feet of a weequay, leather brown skin matching his long leather overcoat. The weequay’s off-white shirt unbuttoned to show much of his chest; dark dirty jeans and mud covered boots, told their own story of hard work and life on Tatooine.

“Maul!” the Weequay exclaimed with jovial comraderiere, reaching out to grab the zabrak’s shoulder.

“Hondo.” Maul responded flatly.

“Eh, Money for blood’s a peculiar business wouldn’t you say?” Hondo pressed as he peeked inside the tarp and quickly obtained the credits for Maul’s bounty. Maul grunted in response as he stashed the credits inside his vest, and made his way for the door. 

Nighttime was approaching, the sky a painted medley of pinks, oranges and yellows as the suns dipped down past the horizon. Maul headed for the Mos Eisley saloon for a well needed drink and to look for his next job. He stepped into the saloon doors and headed straight for the bar.

The saloon was lively and most paid no mind to the ruby red zabrak as he sauntered into the establishment. A red Nikto sat at the piano playing a twangy melody, while animated voices and glasses clanging together filled up the saloon’s auditive atmosphere. The smell of old beer, must, and disappointment assaulted the zabrak’s nasal cavities.

“Whiskey. Neat.” Maul ordered the blue Twi’lek at the bar. She eyed Maul suspiciously and slowly made his drink and slid it down the bar to him. He took out a few credits and dropped them on the bar as he walked away to find a place to sit.

Maul limped to the back of the bar to sit in a small table by himself in the shadows. A light skinned bearded man with a brown cowboy hat, brown poncho, tan shirt and pants burst through the saloon doors, drawing the attention of most people in the saloon with his dramatic entrance. He walked up to a rodian at the bar and they had a quiet conversation, the rodian clearly uncomfortable by the man’s presence. In a flash, the rodian’s head slid off his body as a beam of blue light cut through his flesh. The man was wielding a lightsaber and the show stopping stunt had all but silenced the bar as the patrons all looked on in horror and shock.

“Jedi scum.” Maul growled quietly to himself.

The man having everyone’s attention, now spoke to the crowd.

“Greetings. I am Kenobi, a warrant officer in 3 systems and a licensed Jedi Peace Officer in 10. This rodian was a wanted criminal,” he held up a worn piece of paper with the rodian’s likeness on it. Maul squinted his bloodshot amber eyes at the man and slowly recognized who he said he was. It had been almost ten years and he almost didn’t recognize his old nemesis.

“Jedi. I have been waiting for you,” Maul spoke in a deep commanding voice as he stood and walked over to the man.

“I’m not sure I’ve made your acquaintance.” Kenobi said, barely acknowledging the zabrak.

“I am surprised you could have forgotten me so easily after I killed your boss and you left me for dead on Naboo.” Maul spat out at him. 

“It is you.” Kenobi replied in astonishment now looking directly at Maul.

“You may have forgotten me, but I will NEVER forget you.” Maul bared his teeth practically growling at Kenobi, before he stopped in his tracks, hand hovering over his holstered gun. Kenobi stared into Maul’s bloodshot amber eyes with his own ice blue eyes studying the movements of the zabrak.

“I have defeated you before and I can defeat you again!” Kenobi declared, his hand on his lightsaber hilt. Kenobi ignited the lightsaber as Maul drew his gun and took several shots, Kenobi blocking each one with fast as lightning reflexes. Several patrons yelled in terror at the commotion, but the dueling men paid no mind.

“I almost didn’t recognize you, but you’re still half the man in my eyes.” Kenobi leered at the zabrak. At once, Maul jumped towards Kenobi, firing his revolver until he was out of bullets. The Jedi grabbed the zabrak mid air and threw him to the ground, straddled his chest and held his lightsaber to his neck. Maul hissed and Kenobi put his full weight on the zabrak and turned his lightsaber off. To everyone’s shock and amazement, especially Maul’s, Kenobi began laughing hysterically. 

“Can I buy you a drink, old friend?” Kenobi stood up over Maul, extending his hand to help the zabrak up.

“You realize I still hate you with every fiber of my being.” Maul snarled at Kenobi as he rose back to his feet.

“Ah yes, ever dramatic as always.” Kenobi replied, putting his hand on Maul’s back and leading him to the bar. Maul growled quietly and drank with the Jedi despite his distaste for the devilishly handsome man. 

“Excuse me are you bounty hunters?” a strong feminine voice rang out from behind them. Both men turned to look at the short slender human woman speaking to them. Her brown hair was pulled back into a braided bun and she wore a plain light blue dress that hugged her torso in a worn-in way.

“No, we are not for hire. Move along.” Kenobi brushed off the woman.

“I have money. It’s everything I have.” the woman pleaded her brown eyes searching both men for some acknowledgement.

“It’s not enough.” Maul grumbled and turned back to his drink.

“I’m willing to give you everything I have. Don’t you want to at least hear what the job is?” the woman rang out attempting to appeal to the two rugged men.

“There’s a village. Not far from here. Peaceful folk. Moisture farmers, just trying to get by. The Hutts are trying to take our land out from under us. Killing innocent men, women, and children in cold blood in the streets.” she stated firmly, throwing a satchel into Kenobi’s hands. He opened it and peeked inside at the credits.

“Miss, you don’t need a bounty hunter. You need an army.” Kenobi responded as he threw the bag back into the woman’s arms.

“Missus. My husband was shot dead in the street by Jabba along with several other innocent civilians.” 

“So it is revenge you seek?” Maul inquired piqued with interest now.

“I seek righteousness as should we all, but I’ll take revenge.” she responded cool and stern.

“The Hutts you say?” Kenobi perked up a bit, “What’s your name Missus?”

“I’m Jade Abernathy.”

“How many folks are still at your village?” Kenobi inquired, leaning back onto the bar with his arms crossed.

“60 or so. These folks are farmers. Not fighters.” she clarified.

“And how long until Jabba returns to your village?” Maul questioned.

“He said he’d be back in 3 weeks 8 days ago.” Jade stared at them both as she spoke. Maul let out a chuckle and downed a shot of whiskey.

“Well we best get started then.” Kenobi declared. Maul almost spit out his drink at this declaration. Kenobi slapped his back,

“Relax, old friend. We will recruit some help along the way.”

“I am NOT your friend.” Maul shot back with a glare.

The next day the 3 of them rode towards a settlement to which Kenobi was privy, where an old friend would be camped out. They came up to an old sand hut and each dismounted their horses to have a look around. The smell inside the hut was putrefying and large flii buzzed around, fat from whatever death they’d been feeding on. Jade walked into a room where a decomposing body of a tusken raider slumped on the floor. She covered her face and ran out of the room gagging. A figure of a man appeared from the darkness of the hut.

“He was dead before I got here.” a deep booming voice reached out from the shadows.

“Mace is that you?” Kenobi questioned walking further into the room to try and see.

“Obi Wan?” The strange man stepped forward into the dim light. He was a tall, bald, dark skinned man wearing a tan shirt, brown vest and brown pants. The two men embraced without thought of the decomposing body next to them.

“How did you find me?” Mace questioned Kenobi.

“I acquired a tip at Mos Eisley.” the jubilant Kenobi responded. Maul stood back and rolled his eyes at the reunion.

“Jedi scum,” he mumbled under his breath.

“What’s the job?” Mace stepped back, taking a serious tone.

“Going against the Hutts to help out a farming community. Paying us everything they got.” Kenobi replied matter-of-factly.

“What are our odds?” 

“It’s suicide.” 

The team of three plus Jade made their way now to recruit their next team member. Another friend of Kenobi’s, who went by the name of Anakin. They entered into a small town, where a congregation of people surrounded a young togruta woman giving a show throwing knives at burlap sack dummies. She had orange skin with white markings on her face, blue and white Lekku instead of hair, and wore a maroon vest and pants. A drunk kel dor man stepped out into the area where the togruta woman was performing.

“Yes, you can hit a dummy. Where’s the real show? Hit something live.” he slurred and stumbled towards the togruta.

“Keep talking and I’ll show everyone how easy it is to take someone down.” she threatened.

“oooh I’m sure they’d all love to see it!” he declared raising his arms in a mocking gesture turning his back to her to try and gain favor from the crowd. The togruta reached for the knives stowed at her back and threw them with clean precision into the kel dor’s back immediately taking him down into a pathetic slump. The crowd gasped and cheered. 

A man dressed in all black, a scar running down his fair skinned face over one eye, walked around to the crowd with a hat extended taking payment for the show.

“Anakin?” Kenobi asked as the black clad man made his way around to them.

“KENOBI?!!” the man’s blue eyes lit up and reached out to hug Kenobi, nearly spilling his hat of money, “What are you doing here? How’d you find me?” 

“Well we are recruiting for a job. Who is your companion? I’m surprised to see you relinquish yourself to the sidelines like this.” Kenobi asked with a concerned look on his face.

“Oh that’s Snips, er Ahsoka. She saved my life. And I help her navigate the wild terrain of Tatooine. She goes anywhere I go.” Anakin explained.

“Well we’d be happy to have you both. We’ll need both of your skills for this job.” Kenobi smiled.

They camped out that night outside the small town where they found Anakin and Ahsoka. The night air was crisp and cool, insects buzzing while Mace built a small campfire. Maul laid out his makeshift version of a bed and propped himself up to attempt resting. Kenobi walked over to his spot and sat down next to Maul.

“I already question why I have agreed to work with the likes of you. Do not try to make it worse with meaningless banter.” Maul scoffed barely looking over at Kenobi.

“I mean no harm. I only wish to bury our past and attempt to start over.” Kenobi spoke softly and sincerely.

“Start over?” Maul ridiculed, “are you going to grow my legs back? Am I to bring Qui Gon back from the dead? We have a past Kenobi. We will never have a future. And I mean never.”

“Such a Sith.” Obi Wan laughed, “it doesn’t need to be like this. We both did what we needed to survive at the time. The war is over. Let it go.” he started to stand as he spoke and walked away from Maul, who growled at the Jedi. 

“You are such a pain in my ass.” Kenobi finished while shaking his head and walking to the other side of the campfire. Maul’s eyebrow ridges furrowed in anger as he stared at the dancing firelight in front of him. His body filled with rage and wanted nothing more than to kill the despicable Jedi, consequences be damned. He could not bring himself to do it, frozen to his small patch of desert. He hated the Jedi. He hated Kenobi more than anything. Yet, he respected the Jedi’s skills and combat techniques. The handsome and charming Jedi somehow infiltrated his way into Maul’s impermeable heart and that was what really drove him mad.

Jade sat to the side of both of them and watched the whole thing go down curiously. She gnawed on a dried piece of meat, before finally lying down on the hard rocky terrain to attempt getting some rest. The fire crackled and the soft hum of voices around the fire slowly died down as everyone decided to get some rest. Obi Wan took the first watch of the night, sitting atop a ledge and looking out into the darkness.

They packed up their belongings at first light to set out to find another old acquaintance of Obi Wan’s. Jade rode next to Maul and asked him about the Sith.

“Why don’t the Sith like Jedis? It seems like ya’ll are pretty similar.” she asked innocently enough, but it made Maul gnash his teeth together before responding.

“We are nothing alike. Jedi are fools and liars. They brainwash everyone into admiring them, and for what? For the power they claim they do not desire.” He scowled and spat the words out  in his deep theatrical voice. Anakin over hearing this, let out a big laugh and Maul whipped his head around to glare at the smiling young man. 

“I would be careful to make too much noise, Anakin.” Maul shot back at him and looked over to Jade, “This man took out an entire tribe of Tusken Raiders.”

“They were enslaving good folks, I did what I had to do to bring justice.” Anakin shouted back.

“There were innocent women and children that died at your hand. Was that for the good of everyone? Justice is merely the construct of the current power base.” Maul’s response was cut short by Obi Wan stopping the team with a fist up in the air.

“We are being followed.” Kenobi voiced quietly while everyone reached for their weapons. They were on a path surrounded by tall rock ridges on either side of them, everyone’s eyes darting around to watch for who was following them. A slender bald pale woman walked out beyond an outcropping guiding her horse on the rocky terrain. She carried a bow and arrow, wore tattered black and red form fitting clothes and had tattoos around her eyes and mouth.

“Quite a mix of strays I see.” She declared as she sauntered over, all eyes on her.

“Ventress,” Kenobi almost sighed out the words, “What are you doing out here?”

“I should ask the lot of you the same thing.” she suggested as she looked around at everyone.

“We are on a mission to drive the Hutts out of a peaceful farming community. Care to join?” Obi Wan asked the pale woman.

“Like you even had to ask.” she smirked.

“When did you become one of the good guys?” Kenobi questioned with a look of surprise on his face.

“Don’t flatter yourself, Kenobi. I’ll take any chance I can get at tormenting you.” she winked and mounted her horse now next to Kenobi. He rolled his eyes and they rode on down the dusty path.

They arrived at an old hut tucked away off the trail and Kenobi dismounted his horse to walk up to the two Jawas milling about outside the front door. They had a short conversation in Jawaese.

“You killed the old man who lived here?!” Kenobi asked them in astonishment. Suddenly, a green lightsaber flew through the air at the 2 jawas, cutting them down where they stood and then flying back into the hand of a short wrinkled green creature wearing torn furs and leathers.

“Left me for dead, those two Jawas did.” The old creature announced as he slowly walked towards Kenobi, dried blood covering the side of his face.

“Yoda, we are assembling a crew to take down the Hutts.” Kenobi cut to the chase and explained the mission to the small wizened creature.

Once Yoda was on board, they planned their initial attack into the town. Jabba was not currently there, but he had several of his cronies watching over the town so they’d need to carefully infiltrate at first. Then it would be a matter of days to train everyone there to fight back once Jabba did show up. The dangerous appeal of the mission was now starting to set into feelings of daunt and apprehension for everyone.

The team rode toward the town with everyone’s mind full of what their mission was as soon as they got there. It was late afternoon and the suns blazed onto the team of misfits. The air was arid and smelled of horses and nervous body odor. Kenobi and Maul rode side by side leading the group. Much to Maul’s bedevilment, as his body and face tensed up at the Jedi’s presence next to him.

“Kenobi.” Maul acknowledged him finally through grit teeth.

“Maul, don’t you think this is childish to still hold onto such a grudge?” Kenobi scrutinized the zabrak.

“I am unlike you foolish Jedi, sequestering your emotions. I was cast aside, I was forgotten, but I survived. Fueled by my singular hatred for you. ” Maul snarled at the Jedi.

“And yet here you are tagging along with us; some former and current Jedis and me, the bane of your existence.” Kenobi pointed out.

“I have my reasons.” he quietly retorted back and they rode on in silence for some time.

As they neared the town, the team split up and everyone besides Obi Wan took the back way into town led by Jade who knew the shortcuts and where Jabba’s infiltrators would not be monitoring. Obi Wan rode his horse directly into the town, it felt like a ghost town. Windows shuttered and barely anyone out and about. Finally, he reached the main drag and several armed beings; humans, twi’leks, and many gamorreans stood in a line on the street. The tall blue twi’lek spoke first,

“We don’t allow weapons in town. Check them in and we’ll return them after you leave.” he stretched his hand out, his long nails glinting in the sunlight.

“Of course. I wonder why it is such fine folks as you should be armed to the teeth when no one else is?” he asked as he reached for his lightsaber to hand over.

“We are this town’s protection against any outside force that wishes to bring harm to these townspeople.” the twi’lek responded looking agitated and spitting out a wad of tobacco as he finished. Obi Wan saw Ventress signal to him from on top of the building behind the men without letting them see his acknowledgement.

“That is not the story I am told. And not the story my friends believe.” Kenobi looked past the line of armed beings and they all slowly turned around to see they were surrounded. Kenobi ignited his lightsaber and cut down the twi’lek while Ventress shot several more from the rooftop with her bow and arrow. More Gamorrean guards rushed out into the street at hearing the commotion. Mace and Anakin shot several down narrowly missing getting shot themselves by a couple guards coming in from the sides. Ahsoka threw her knives at the guards in an instant hitting them in the throats and killing them on impact. Yoda and Maul stood on opposite sides of the street taking down the rest of the guards with calculated precision. As fast as it started, it was over, the warm air overcome with gunpowder, blood, and smoke.

Jade rode in on her horse, yelling for the townsfolk to come out of hiding.

“Everyone! Come out! They are here to help us!” her voice rang out as she rode her galloping horse through town. The townsfolk cautiously came out of hiding, looking around like scurriers expecting to see a rancor or other predator. Kenobi started to walk towards the congregation of people forming when he sensed a hidden Gamorrean under the wooden stairs to the bank building. He reached down and forcefully grabbed the Gamorrean by the arm to drag him out of hiding.

“You work for Jabba?” Kenobi shook the gamorrean in his hands and he squealed in response.

“You tell your boss if he wants this town, come see me. Tell him Kenobi sent you.” He instructed the Gamorrean who grunted in response and ran off with a squeal.

“These folks have assembled to help our town.” Jade’s voice rang out to the small crowd.

“The Hutts will be back in two weeks. How can we go up against them? We are simple farmers not warriors.” a distressed voice called out from the crowd.

“We are going to train you. Sleep well tonight. It may be the last good sleep you’ll see for awhile.” Kenobi answered the disembodied voice and a murmur of nervous voices rose in the air like steam.

The townspeople assembled at dawn to start training with the team of strange warriors. Kenobi had asked them to bring all their weapons and while many showed up wielding guns, axes, and knives, some only carried shovels.

“Oh good they brought shovels. I was worried about our chances otherwise.” Maul snarked at Kenobi, who tried to ignore the zabrak, but had to turn his head and hide his soft chuckle at the jeer.

The days were split up into different lessons. Tactical planning with Kenobi, short range shooting with Anakin and Mace, long range shooting with Maul, bomb building With Yoda, bow and arrow lessons with Ventress, and finally knife wielding with Ahsoka. 

The days were long and grueling. The townsfolk were not lying about not being fighters. Everyone’s patience was thin, but Kenobi couldn’t help but notice Maul’s steadfastness with the townsfolk. He was patient and kind, but not afraid to motivate them through controlled aggression.

“You have to hate what you’re shooting at!” Maul yelled out behind the line of townsfolk armed to shoot dummies.

“Maul you have quite the knack for this.” Kenobi later remarked to the zabrak.

“A knack for survival? Yes. I care nothing for these simple minded people. You must know that about me by now.” he scoffed.

“Yes, I think I am getting to know you quite well.” Kenobi raised an eyebrow and moseyed away. Maul’s already hot internal temperature went up and he felt flushed and frustrated from the small interaction.

The week went by in a flash. a day like any other, Mace rode back to town after his watch to alert everyone the Hutts were a few hours away. It was go-time. The children and others unable to fight were hidden in the basement of the general store. The shovels had proven useful after all and many of the fighters hid in trenches that had been dug to camouflage their location. There were mines and bombs set along the path to town to take down as many of the Hutt soldiers as possible before they were able to enter town. Ventress and anyone who excelled at bow and arrow or Maul’s long range shooting course were perched atop different buildings in town. 

The tension in the air could be cut with a knife. Kenobi swallowed his spit and it ran slowly down his esophagus seemingly snowballing into a hardened knot of anxiety until it settled into his empty stomach like a stone. He pulled the brim of his hat down to shade his face from the sun, and looked over at Maul. The zabrak’s golden eyes soothed him in an unexpected way, a calmness washing over him like drinking a warm shot of whiskey. A little intoxicating, but just the one did not dull him too much to think and respond clearly. 

Maul nodded at Kenobi as he rode Scimitar down to the trenches, a smile creeping along his face for no one to see. He thrived in the chaos and sensing Kenobi’s nervous energy brought him a small amount of joy. He checked in with the trenches and made sure they understood their directions and to wait for the signal. 

Jabba and his soldiers stood off in the horizon. Even from a great distance one could see the enormous slug-like nature of Jabba, laid out onto a big floating sled. He gave the signal and a line of soldiers on horseback ran towards the town.

“Steady, Steady.” Yoda’s voice rang out into the trenches. At last, Yoda gave the signal and shots were fired at the incoming soldiers. Once they reached the marked line of bombs Yoda pressed the lever and a giant boom deafened everyone. Horses and soldiers flew into the air in a cloud of dust and body parts. The survivors broke through the dust and ran forward into town. There was no time for anyone to think. Bullets whizzed past ears and into body parts. More bombs were set off taking down several clusters of soldiers at once. 

The surviving soldiers made it into town, firefights ensuing all around. Ventress and the others on top of the building taking down soldier after soldier from their vantage point. Mace, Anakin, and Ahsoka all on foot on the street below shooting down anyone in sight. Kenobi and Maul, still on horseback, rode through the town shooting down their assailants at every chance they got. Yoda and the others from the trenches ran back into town to keep fighting as well.

If there had been only one or two waves of soldiers from Jabba, things would have been looking pretty good. Unfortunately, someone as rich as Jabba had an endless resource for anything they desired in life, including soldiers and weapons. More and more soldiers descended onto the small town. Already, many townsfolk had sacrificed their life for the cause. The foul stench of death and direness infiltrated the air of the town, quickly taken over by the smell of fire.

The General Store was set ablaze and the children were all trapped under the building. Without thinking, Maul shot his way through to the store. Inside, smoke filled his lungs and burned his eyes. The trap door to the basement had a burning beam on top of it, trapping anyone underneath it. A swift, force-ful kick and the beam was slid across the floor. Maul crouched down to lift the door and help pull up the children out of the basement. Jade had now made her way to the store to help and her and Maul led the children and others to safety outside of the burning building. They shot down several soldiers on their way as they protected their helpless herd.

Once the children were safe with Jade, Maul mounted Scimitar and rode over to Kenobi.

“We have to take down Jabba. These soldiers only fight because he pays them, if he is gone they stop fighting.” Maul did not even let Kenobi respond as he reached down and grabbed a stack of TNT from the stockpile, and galloped off on his horse.

“Maul, wait!” Kenobi finally yelled after the zabrak, now disappearing into a cloud of dust.

“You chaotic ass!” Kenobi huffed and rode after Maul. As far as Kenobi could tell, Maul’s mission was suicide and he rode to catch up with an urgency never quite felt before. His jaw was clenched, hands formed tight fists around his horse’s reins, and heels dug into the sides of his horse signaling the beast to go FAST.

Maul already had practically made it to Jabba and narrowly avoided being shot too many times to count. The bullets whistled past his ears but he was running on too much adrenaline to be stopped. He dismounted Scimitar about 50 meters from where Jabba lay out on his sled surrounded by his fiercest guards. 

Maul held his hands up in the air in an act of surrender, and slowly walked towards the evil slug. Before he got halfway there, one of the overzealous guards shot Maul in the stomach. The impact of the shot stopped him in his tracks and he fell down to his knees in shock clutching his stomach. He pushed the pain aside to stick a cigarette in his mouth and fumbled with his matches. His hands wet with blood and sweat and shaking found it impossible to light the damned cigarette. Several guns were still pointed at him, but Jabba instructed them to hold off, and one of the guards was sent to light his cigarette for him as Jabba laughed at this foolish zabrak dying in front of their eyes.

Once Maul got his cigarette lit, a feverish smile curved his lips. He reached for the dynamite strapped to his back and fell face down ass up into the ground. The guards all laughed at his death and turned away from the pathetic slump of a corpse. Maul sensed when they weren’t looking, lit the end of the dynamite fuse, and threw it at Jabba’s sled before anyone had time to register what was happening.

As soon as the dynamite left his hand Maul was ripped off the ground and on top of a horse fiercely galloping away. The explosion set off narrowly behind them deafening them both. 

The fight was over. The remainder of the guards and soldiers left alive ran off now that Jabba had been destroyed in the explosion. Kenobi slowed his horse’s pace and eventually stopped to assess the situation of Maul’s injuries. He gently carried Maul off the horse and into a soft patch of dried grass. Blood was spilling out of the zabrak’s midsection at an alarming rate. Kenobi ripped his shirt off to apply pressure to the wound. Maul groaned fighting off the urge to pass out from the pain and exhaustion.

“You almost got yourself killed, you fool.” Kenobi exasperated holding down on the wound.

“You know first hand how hard it is to kill me.” Maul coughed out.

“Yes, very well, you are incredibly lucky to have survived that just now.” 

“Of course I survived.” Maul reached up to touch Kenobi’s face tenderly. Kenobi took his hand in his own and pressed it into his face, blood dripping down from his hand, his eyes filled with tears.

And so they saved the little town. Jade Abernathy gave them all the payment as promised and they stayed to help clean up the town and give burials to those lost in the battle. Kenobi never left Maul’s side as he recovered in the small doctor’s office in town. Eventually, the rest of the team headed out for their own separate next adventures. 

Maul slipped in and out of consciousness for several days. Kenobi figured it was the first time the zabrak had actually rested in his whole troubled life. Eventually, Maul’s strength was enough to fully wake up. He  immediately saw Kenobi in the corner of the room napping. Kenobi was sitting in a wooden chair, his legs propped up on a footstool and his hat covering his face.

“Kenobi!” Maul growled. The cowboy in the corner of the room slowly reached up for his hat and a relieved grin spread across his handsome face.

“Maul, I am so happy to see you have your strength back enough to be angry again!” Kenobi laughed. 

Maul got out of the small bed and limped over to Kenobi with a menacing look. Kenobi stood tall to meet Maul’s fiery amber eyes attempting to cut through his watery blue gaze. Maul, now close enough to touch Kenobi, slowly leaned in to kiss Kenobi on the lips. Initially, Kenobi slightly flinched so taken aback by the act of affection. He couldn’t help the swelling of his heart, wrapped his arms around Maul’s waist and passionately kissed him back. The moment so pure and beautiful, Kenobi finally softly pushed Maul back.

“Maul, I care deeply for you. But you have got to brush your teeth.”

-.-.-.-.--.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.

once again thankee sai for reading my humble writing! Please do leave a comment or heart, it warms my soul. 

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[buirbaby]

The Wardens: An Unlikely Ally

Notes:  Benjen Stark is a bit of a fun project for me. There's not much on him given his disappearances in the books, which means he'll be a fun canon to have join along the saga who really didn't have the chance to shine through. I know this might draw questions about Coldhands and so forth, but it's never actually confirmed that that IS Benjen.

Rating: M + Mature content, language, and violence

Masterlist | First | Next

The last thing he saw was a shadow swooping down from the sky and knocking the Other away from him. Afterward, everything was disjunct, muddled, and out of order. The woman, Tabitha was it?-she'd grabbed him and put him on some sort of mount. They had fled. How, he could not say, but he could remember the fierce burning of fiery eyes, hidden beneath the midnight cowl of the female as she'd glared at him earlier. There seemed to be quite a few things that Benjen had not seen before that night, to include wights, an Other, and a woman with eyes of fire. A blazing beacon amongst the frozen boughs of the haunted forest.

Then everything went dark and the pain ebbed away. He was floating in an abyss, nothing and everything at once. It took him a while to realize that he was dead and that there was no afterlife as the Seven preached, just an emptiness in which he conscious could float within and wonder if the woman had survived.

There would be no answers here, just eternal gripes and curiosities.

Until the darkness was juxtaposed by a flame, burning and twisting like serpentine tongues. Erring close, Benjen could see within the writhing fire, three dragons sailing overhead, toward Westeros. Death, war, famine, misery. But the dragons were not the worst of it, just a part of the machinations as the undead stole one, wielding it against their master and destroying the wall to unleash the unholy army upon the unsuspecting. No one knew that they were real. They were wetnurses' tales.

When he reached out to grab the vision, he gasped, the fire consuming his flesh and burning him. No, not burning as it should. He could feel each nerve, muscle, and fiber of his being twinging back into existence. Death had come for him, but a flaming hand had gripped and pulled him from perdition.

The ambivalence of the void faded and as he turned over where he laid, he heard voices in the distance.

"Were you told to bring him here?" he did not know this voice, but it chilled him to the bone, so youthful and yet scarred by the wisdom of centuries.

"I did what I felt was right," it was the fire-eyed woman, Tabitha. "It does not matter. He has died regardless of my help. Just as-"

"Just as intended?" the other filled in.

"I don't know! It was never confirmed, there were only theories," she hissed.

"Do you hear that?"

Only the crackling of the hearth in front of Benjen filled his ears with noise.

"No, Fang-"

But the companion had departed, leaving the woman huffing in frustration. Her footsteps drew nearer and she passed in front of the hearth, lean shoulders framed by the light as she had put away her cloak within the warmth of the room.

"What do you think, Balerion?" she spoke to another, a great shadow unfurling and tensing his heart. The creature that had knocked the Other back came into hazy focus, a thick lion's mane of feathers and fur encircling an enormous eagle's face, intelligent eyes glistening with the same bright flames as the woman who commanded him. After a moment of silence, she shook her head. "We probably won't be able to stay here much longer. Not with the Others marching. Who knows how far behind the Night King is."

"How do you know so much about them?" Benjen spoke hoarsely, his voice sounding as if he hadn't used it in days.

The both of them jumped, Tabitha whirling with her hand on her sword as she gazed down intently where he was laying. "How the fuck- " she started, interrupted only by the slapping of barefeet against stone. Turning a corner, the other voice's visage came into view, and Benjen was shocked into silence once again, staring at a boy of legend. Perhaps he shouldn't have been so startled, but clutched in his tawny arms was a miniature version of the griffin that had fluffed up indignantly. Only the feathers of the fledgling was grey dappled with black.

"Another Warden has been born," he declared, feline eyes turning toward Benjen.

"Fang, that doesn't even make sense. How could he have been..." but she didn't finish her question, dark brows snaring together. "You're still Benjen Stark, aren't you?"

He didn't understand the question, but decided to humor her. "Yes."

"I am not here to explain how things work," Fang scowled. "He has been reborn as a Warden. That means he's been given insight."

"I should get back to the Wall. If what I saw was true, I need to warn everyone," Benjen decided, sitting up and pulling back the cloak that had been strewn over him.

"Your watch ended, Warden. You died and were reborn," the creature, Fang, asserted.

"I still have a duty to Westeros, to my people-"

"Tell me, Stark, what is it you're going to tell everyone that will make them believe you?" Tabitha inquired, leaning against the forge, so that he was able to really observe the woman's face. She did not look or sound Westerosi. If anything, he thought she appeared more Dornish, despite lacking their accent. Her skin was a faded olive from missing the warmth of the sun this far north, her bright eyes framed by dark lashes, and her lips curved in a mocking manner. Dark brown hair had been shorn to fall thick and straight to her collar, parted in the middle and slightly wavy from being pressed beneath a hood. There was a roguish charm to her, nothing quite soft and dainty or willowy as most men preferred in a lady, but this woman was no flower. She had wielded a sword well enough and was tall and lean. Perhaps comely could be used to describe her, the symmetry of her face, but her eyes were also haunting.

"The Others are real and that-" he was going to express his knowledge of the dragons, that they would be coming to Westeros and that there would be war and strife, juxtaposed by the fact that the long night was looming on the horizon. Yet, as he tried to put this knowledge to word, he found himself choking on air, his voice failing him.

"That's what I thought," she remarked smugly, lifting the hand she'd injured during the fight, which was now bound. "Whatever you know, you won't be able to verbalize it. One of the Wardens' most redeeming features. For everything we know, our words shall not serve us, our actions must."

"I can warn them of the Others at the very least," he groused.

"Can you? If you return to Castle Black, they will not understand your rebirth or your need to leave on a moment's notice. We are slaves to the will of the one who saved us, the Lord of Light, R'hllor. Would it not be better for you to be thought to be dead than to have to abandon your post when the Lord of Light commands it?" Tabitha challenged.

"I don't serve this Lord of Light," Benjen rejected, shaking his head.

"Then you'd be dead. It was He who revived you. Are the words not ' Night gathers, and now my watch begins. It shall not end until my death '? Your watch has ended and a new one has begun," Tabitha stood up, pacing the length of the room to retrieve supplies from an alcove in the stone.

"Not as if I was given the choice to make an oath in this circumstance," Benjen grimaced, wondering what else would be expected of him as a 'Warden'.

"Don't sound so thrilled. I wasn't given a choice either. Burned to death and woke up here with Balerion," she jerked her thumb over toward the magnificent beast. "Trust me, it doesn't make much sense, but I've just learned to stop questioning it. Here, you must be starving-" she returned with a waterskin, jerky, and black bread. Sitting nearby, she placed her elbows on her knees and hunched forward.

"Burned to death?" Benjen considered, glancing over her once again. "This Lord of Light really knows how to pick his champions, hm?"

The woman snickered. "I didn't feel it. Was unconscious from the smoke beforehand," her eyes flickered over toward Fang. "But this little welp is yours, just as Balerion is my partner. A Warden is a guide, a keeper of knowledge, and wargs-" The griffin was set on the floor as she continued to explain their plight, waiting on the Lord of Light to task them with their duty before sending them on the holy mission to aid in altering the future. While she spoke, the young creature, no larger than a house cat, stumbled on weak feet and tumbled unceremoniously before him, head too heavy for the rest of its tiny body.

He could not deny that there seemed to be a connection between them, the excitement palpable and rolling of the griffin in waves. The features of the little one were unlike the large obsidian one across the room, lacking the immense mane. Rather, his fur was thicker, the plumage of his feathers not as defined or prominent. In a way, the griffin had more canine features, a thick tail, and broader ear tufts.

The Wardens themselves were a rather ambiguous group, something he'd never heard of and yet here he sat with one and their griffin. Had it not been for his own revival from death and the mythical beast pawing at his leg, he might've scoffed at the information being passed over to him. One oath down and a new job set before him, Benjen resigned himself to the fact that his life was eternally destined to be interlaced with servitude. Only now, the complexities of magic and the fantastic had their own roles to play. Everything he'd thought was little more than old wive's tales, turning out to hold substance. Even the legend of the Children of the Forest was worth its salt, Fang erring near the entrance of the warm hearth room as Tabitha explained that their days were numbered.

Finally, the short being departed, leaving just the Wardens and their partners in the room. By now, the griffin had found its way into his lap and had curled up, wrapping its tail around its talons. "They won't do us much good against dragons, but so far I don't regret having Balerion by my side. We wouldn't have made it out of the haunted forest without him."

Dragons. His interest piqued, wondering how much she knew about the topic. "Dragons are dead, aren't they?"

"For now, give it a few more months' time-" Tabitha snorted, brows snaring together as the comment fell from her lips. Confusion was blatant on her face, her spine stiffening as she sat up and stared at him, almost in an accusing manner. "Dragons are going to be reborn once Khal Drogo is burned on a pyre. In which Daenerys Targaryen shall acquire 3 dragons."

He knew that name. The daughter of King Aerys, who had somehow survived the sacking of Dragonstone. Her family wasn't as fortunate. "You know then... That they're going to come here and one will fall into the clutches of the Others-" His tongue was no longer tied, the future spilling from his lips unhindered.

"I... know a lot of things," Tabitha admitted darkly. "Wardens can share information with Wardens..." she muttered, rubbing her face thoughtfully before glancing back toward him. "Makes sense, I guess... I suppose we'll also be able to tell when there's an eavesdropper or intruder."

"So Daenerys Targaryen is going to come to Westeros with 3 dragons," Benjen pieced together, the images he'd seen not possessing a narrative to go along with it.

"Yes, with intentions of taking the Iron Throne for herself. She will realize she needs to help destroy the army of the undead, but there's still a lot of unknown... how dominoes might fall now that you've survived," Tabitha sighed.

"I wasn't supposed to survive?"

"You were supposed to disappear and be presumed dead," Tabitha told him. "As far as I know, you never returned... but then again, all I know is script, not images."

"Then... if we're to be successful, I need to understand everything."

"If I tell you everything, you must understand that we have to adhere to what we're assigned to alter, because a lot of it has to deal with your family," Tabitha warned.

"I've taken oaths before and sworn myself to other causes. I think I can handle what you have to tell me."

That is what Benjen thought before Tabitha sighed and started from the beginning, recounting things that she was not around to witness, speaking in poetry like a prophet that had written the lines of their lives on parchment. She was right, he was not prepared for the intricacies of the world that he would have been better off being daft to. His derision and distrust of the Lannisters deepened, his breath quickening as he learned that it was they that hurt Bran and wished his death. But that was only the most minor of the plights to face House Stark. From the death of his brother at the hand of the Lannisters, to the rise of his nephew as a king, the betrayal and hurt was too much to bear.

Yet, Benjen sat, as it was his duty as a Warden. The web was not only woven with the Starks, but many other faces and names, some of which he was familiar with and others he was not. For as snarky as the woman seemed, Tabitha had an impeccable memory and a talent to retell this all like a story.

When she stopped, he lifted his head to gaze intently at her, his chest aching, but wondering why she'd ended so abruptly. "What happens after? With Jon, with Arya-"

"I can only speculate, that is where my true knowledge of the events of the future ends. You tell me that Daenerys will come to Westeros and lose a dragon to the Night King. Jon will likely be revived by the Lord of Light... Arya will continue her trials to become a Faceless Man, but the others--if we change the future, none of this is certain," Tabitha pointed out tenderly, remarkably softer than she had been previously.

He shouldn't have expected for all of the answers, especially given how much she knew and the years between now and when she'd ended, but... he really wished he knew what became of them. Already, he knew that many of them would die, including Ned, Robb, and Catelyn. In his gut, he wanted to go to them, to free them of their fate, but as he'd had his duty to the Watch, he had to trust in the Lord of Light to give him the opportunity to save them.

"I'll... give you some time alone. I know it's a lot to process," Tabitha stood up, stretching her back like a feline that had lounged out in the sun for too long, before striding away, glancing toward her griffin companion before departing from the chamber.

Benjen sat in silence, wondering if he would have been better off dead than with the vast knowledge and pressure he now felt.

*

"You're leaving yourself wide open," Benjen chastised, smacking Tabitha hard on the side of her arm with the flat of his blade.

"Right, well, my sincerest apologies for not wielding a sword since I could walk," she combatted haughtily, frustrated by her inability to best him.

It wasn't that she was a bad swordsman. In fact, she was quick as a whip and relentless when she was on the offense. However, she seemed to forget that her advantage in speed was outweighed by a man's strength. She often put herself in positions in which she could be placed out of balance and then open for attack. The form was there, as was the finesse, but he had learned by now that Tabitha had a bit of a temper that he could play like a harp. Against most men, she'd win, but against true savants or those that had spent years honing their craft, they'd pick up on the same chinks in her skill as he did.

The Roost was not a bad place, nor his newest companions too disagreeable. It had taken him a little while to grow accustomed to Tabitha's frank attitude and lack of decorum, but he likened it to comrades speaking to one another, not a woman to a man. Putting aside the facets of gender, Benjen found that Tabitha was responsible, reliable, and someone he would have liked to work alongside in the Night's Watch had she been a man. Now, as two Wardens with the task of saving the future that they knew, he was glad that he was with someone as capable as Tabitha, who seemed to have an uncanny memory and been given a scholarly education.

"React less emotionally," Benjen challenged, unable to stop himself from grinning as he thought of the times he'd told Jon the same thing when he was just a young boy. Or perhaps even Arya, who would have loved to be given the chance to be a warrior as a woman. He did not know how Tabitha's talents would transition in Westeros, given the fact a woman wielding a sword was nearly always unacceptable. Trying to think of her in a dress was amusing, as he'd only ever known her in trousers and armor, seemingly somewhat of a permanent fixture for the woman in place of what he'd grown up knowing females should wear.

Her nostrils flared and she came at him again, twisting Fate around in a counterclockwise motion before he parried the blow. The weight was light, barely a kiss of steel against steel, warning him that he'd fallen for the feint. Still, the man was quick enough to see as she redirected herself. Twisting his wrist to counter the next, he was astonished when she dropped beneath his blade and swept her leg beneath him, hooking a boot behind his leg and jerking him right off his feet.

Benjen slammed down hard on his back, collapsing into the remnants of an old nest, muscles groaning in protest from the hard, stone floor than embraced him. Tabitha loomed over him, pointing the triangular tip of her longsword down at him.

"How long?" he muttered, sitting up and accepting the glove she'd offered him to pull him back to his feet.

"How long what?" she asked, feigning ignorance.

"How long were you pretending to cross?"

Tabitha scoffed, as if offended that she'd play that game, but sheathed her sword. "I figured it out a couple of days ago. You always pointed out my anger, so I decided to set a trap."

"It took you a couple of days to set the trap?" Benjen poked.

"Well, there'd be no fun in closing it right away. Especially when you were being wary of me calming down enough to give you a run for your coin," Tabitha shrugged. "Still don't think a trick like that will be enough to defeat an Other, but it's progress."

"Probably not," Benjen agreed.

Tabitha's head whipped toward the grin in the mountainside where the griffins could come and go as they pleased. She had a better sense of when Balerion was arriving, her warging abilities more finely tuned over the years than his own. While he might be a better swordsman, Tabitha had him in the category of magic. "Look who's brought back quite a catch," she whistled, placing her hands on her hips as Balerion flung an elk corpse in through the opening. "Let's carve it up before it decides that we're supper."

The powerful griffin landed soon after, followed closely by Torrhen, who was a little uncertain on his wings, but managed to keep up as he grew into a gawky state where his talons were becoming too large for him to know what to do with. Dropping his own prize of a fat rabbit, he glanced expectantly toward Benjen, waiting for praise.

“Better than last time,” he remarked, bending down to brush the thick ears of the griffin down affectionately. “You’d better eat it quickly.”

Torrhen glanced from his rabbit and then to the elk, poising the silent question as to if they needed to share his catch too.

“No, you’re growing. Eat that yourself. Balerion brought plenty enough back to share.” No sooner had he said that did the massive beast dig its talons into the back of the carcass. Twisting, it snapped the spine and helped divide the elk in half, leaving the left side of the body for them to dress. Dragging the rest away, Balerion threw an expectant look at Torrhen, the tiny counterpart hobbling after his much larger brother.

“Ruined the pelt,” Tabitha chastised Balerion, who let out a huff in disdain at her dismay. She drew her knife and began working, Benjen crouching beside her to assist. It was dirty work, but the griffins were keen on the organs and head, so there’d be no reason to dispose of the waste, instead leaving the mess clustered in the roosting area of the mountain as they divided the remaining elk and dragged it toward the Hearth.

Sitting by the warmth of the eternally burning forge, they worked in relative silence. There wasn’t always a need for conversation and Benjen was unbothered by the woman’s company. Salting and hanging large haunches in the back of the room, the work took a few hours, but would result in a couple weeks worth of food for the both of them. The griffins had been retrieving food as of late, Fang citing that it was too dangerous for them all to go out and hunt after hearing the harrowing tale of their encounter with the Other.

Tabitha sat up on one of the benches, rubbing the arm that he’d taken the flat of his blade to absentmindedly. Her eyes were fixated on the twisting wreath of flames within the forge. A forge that neither of them knew how to use, nor why it was in this mountain. It gave them warmth and protection from the darkness of the frozen north, but otherwise its existence was a mystery. Her brows pressed together and she stood, taking a few paces toward the fire.

Benjen tilted his head, gazing toward the hearth in an effort to notice what she was transfixed upon. Tongues leapt out at him, images burning a path across the fire, a dragon’s shadow lifting to reveal a beautiful city and a crowd of impressive, queerly dressed people as they gave gifts to a young girl. A rotund, greasy man opened a chest and presented three calcified eggs.

“It’s been decided,” Tabitha muttered.

Did she see what he saw?

“We are flying to Pentos.”

[silversiren1101]

🍀 I don’t know if you take requests rn but... if yes could you do headcanons for Villain!Aymeric paired with a hero reader? If that’s alright ! If not feel free to ignore this !!!

Sorry this took so long! My internal writing mechanisms have been busted for weeks now. The mojo just isn’t coming, but I gave it what I have! This is pretty different from what I normally write, so I hope you like it anyway! I personally had a lot of fun with it.

Villain!Aymeric

Personality:

All of his usual decorum and grace? How everything social is just so easy for him, coming to him as naturally as breathing? Nothing has changed, but where his passion had been fire, a raging hearth ever so welcoming in the cold of Ishgard, our V!Aymeric might as well be the cold winds of Coerthas himself. 

He is as smooth as silk, not a single snag in the shimmering, black fabric to catch in. He’s water dark as midnight, cascading over obsidian falls with the only light being what few constellations twinkle overhead, so cool as to steal the breath from your lungs. He’s the ice-slickened stones of Witchdrop that make it ever impossible to climb one’s way back out.

Every ‘gentlemanly’ act, anything that seems welcoming or hospitable, is merely an act to drop your guard. As soon as the crack in your defenses is wide enough, he slithers right on inside, ready to take everything within you and then some. Whatever was inside you? Doesn’t matter. All that matters is him and that you are his. 

Possessive. Jealous. Devouring. This is V!Aymeric. Your only purpose is to be his, and nothing more. If he had his way, you’d have everything you need to fulfill his desires, and even in suffering, his charm makes you only want it more. He’d be your lord, your commander, your everything. And after he’d worked every shred of independence from you, you'd be more than happy to serve.

This is from the perspective of specifically a fellow Ishgardian Elezen hero, for specific reasons :)

Meeting: 

Ah, but of course he doesn’t get his way, and it’s the first time he hasn’t. 

Declared a Heretic, you are dragged before Sir Aymeric and a contingent of Temple Knights, primed and ready for interrogation. There’s a smile on his face that would’ve been soft on any other’s, but on his is only contemptuous. Predatory.

Despite the brightness of his irises, his eyes themselves are dark. They hold a false pretense of warmth that only goes surface deep, and just beneath is nothing but swirling void, housing rows of gnashing teeth wanting to tear into you for reasons unknown.

“Approach.” He orders, and something about the way he says it sends a wave of goosebumps down your limbs. Your feet nearly begin to move of their own volition, but you stop them with a defiant growl, rooting yourself to the spot.

The expression on his face shifts in an instant. That predatory grin falls briefly to confusion, before returning once again in force. He strides over with such grace you can’t help but admire it, only forcing you to briefly swallow said feelings down as he grabs your chin between his fingers and tilts your face upwards to meet his like some prized stock. The fury with which you meet him only widens that hungry grin even more. 

“Well isn’t this interesting?” He muses. “Immune to my charms.” 

He licks his lips before pushing you to the floor, letting you fall to your knees as he towers before you. Before you can protest, he snaps his fingers aloft. The other Knights present in the room turn in unison before marching out of the room, and what glimpses you see of their faces wrenches your gut in horror. So... empty.

“Such a useful ability, is it not? My charm is irresistible, as you can see. All doing exactly as I say... all but you.” It dawns on you then, the reason his words had felt so cold.

Magic.

“What have you done to them?!” You spit at his feet, feeling disgusted than you’ve ever been. “Robbing someone of their free will? That’s monstrous!” 

The chuckle he answers you with would’ve made you punch him, had your hands not been tied behind your back. “Is it so wrong to use my birthright?” 

He reaches down and snatches you by the shoulder before you can interject and demand more information, pulling you... to your feet surprisingly. Your mouth opens, but even so, can find no words as he begins dusting the filth from the floor off your clothing. He finishes, you still speechless, and appraises you once more with that hungry, curious look in his eyes.

“Kneel.” He purrs.

You feel a weight tugging at your knees. It’s stronger than before, now that he’s consciously trying harder, and yet you resist all the same. The glare you give him would’ve sent many a man running already, but he merely rocks back onto a heel with that infuriating look pursing his lips.

“Most fascinating.” 

“You’re disgusting.” You snarl, fixing him with pure acid in your eyes.

“Rudeness is a poor look on you, dear.” But both his tone and expression only speak of his amusement. His eyes trail up and down your body, lingering overlong on certain places that now self-consciously burn with all the fire of the sun. “Yet you wear even it, well.”

Your face burns with a heat you wish would just roast you from within to out. His own beauty isn’t lost on you, so gorgeous that you might’ve thought him the divine mouthpiece of Halone herself had he not exuded such evil. He is the last person you want complimenting you. Though you suspect it all a ploy to get past your defenses, and don’t give him the true reaction he wants.

“Birthright. You said ‘birthright’, what do you mean?”

Aymeric merely hums, turning away from you to approach a cabinet on the far wall. Along with a bottle of some Red you don’t recognize, he pulls free two wineglasses finer than any glassware you’ve ever seen, let alone handled yourself. The time it takes to uncork and fill the glasses seems to stretch on for hours, for days, for years... as tense and awkward as you expect he wants it to be.

“It truly is a wonder, you know.” His voice drifts almost lazily over his shoulder, and he turns back to face you with his full glasses. The strides he takes back to you in the center of the chamber are languid, careful not to spill even a single drop of whatever vintage fills those glasses. 

The pause in his statement is killing you. What is the source of this foul magic? What could ever give him the ability to command these people like puppets... but not yourself?

The widening, catlike smirk on his face tells you he’s reveling in this tension, not even breaking as he takes a sip of the wine. It stains his lips deliciously, the most natural and lovely of a Lady’s lip rouges. 

“What? What is such a wonder, Ser Aymeric?” You hiss his title with disgust, telling him everything you think about his stature. 

He only chuckles, doing that up and down look again before trying once more: “Sing for me.” 

A song bubbles into your throat, something from a happy day that will now only be tinged with the horror of this encounter. A single note escapes before you stop it, noting that the compulsion this time had been almost impossible to resist. Almost. 

“Oh, but that sounded lovely. Do you truly wish to fight me so? We could be allies. All you have to do is trust me. Once you see.” 

“Go fuck yourself.” But still, his words confuse you. What does he mean by ‘once you see?’

Aymeric sighs then, setting down the main glass he’d been drinking from, still holding the untouched one. The one you feel he intended for you, despite your wrists still being bound behind your face.

But he moves before you can ask, downing a sizeable mouthful of the red liquid without swallowing. He closes the distance between you quickly, grabbing you by the back of the head and pulling your mouth flush against his before you can truly realize what’s happening. Before the horror of it all sets in.

His tongue pushes between your lips and into your mouth, working your jaw open to grant him access... and to the flood of red now demanding entrance.

The liquid crosses his tongue to yours, filling your mouth with the bitter taste of not grapes, but iron. It coats everything with its foul taste, and you attempt to gag only for him to press harder into his assault, this terrible kiss that makes you never want to be touched ever again. With no room to breathe, the liquid shoots down your throat with each wracking gasp, asphyxiating into your lungs and journeying to your stomach both.

Everything becomes a mix of the liquid and his kiss. Everything becomes violated. You try and pull away only for him to pull you against him harder. It lasts long enough your vision begins to swim, your lungs aching in desperate need for aid.

And then it’s over.

He releases you casually, letting you fall once more to your knees as your vision fights with the grey crawling about its edges. You gasp and sputter, coughing and gagging as you desperately take each breath and attempt to cleanse the foul liquid from your mouth.

“Wha-! What-*hack*-what was that?! What did you give me?!” You wheeze, limbs beginning to tremble as a sense of wrongness permeates your entire being.

Aymeric merely clucks his tongue, looking down at you as he dabs a white cloth at the mess of red about his mouth. “It’s better if you don’t fight it.”

“What are you talking abo-!” 

You never finish.

Your words cut off with a scream. Shooting, stabbing pain his your gut as if you’ve been stabbed. You look down in terror only to find your torso healthy and hale, only for it suddenly hit you again. And again. More and more, spreading outward from your center until all your limbs sting and burn in ways you’ve never felt before. Pain so awful you never could’ve described before now.

It feels as though your very being is tearing itself apart. Sinew fights with bone, blood fights with vein. Everything boils and burns and all you can do is writhe on the floor, in too much pain and shock to even scream anymore. Pitiful whimpers fall from your bruised lips as your vision flicks and swims, the Change already beginning to claim you.

The last thing you remember is him kneeling down beside you. He pulls off his tabard only to fold it and put it beneath your head, the smile on his face truly, actually ‘soft’ this time. 

“Dragonblood, Hero. It truly is wondrous.”

Relationship:

After the initial rampage, he explains it all to you. Everything about the history of this damn country. Everything about why you grew wings and scales and claws and went wild as the Chorus reached your ears.

He’d been the one to fight you down, turning into a dragon in his own right. Dark blue scales mixed with black and gold accents had tackled you straight out of the sky, sending you sprawling into the ice and snow with wings rent to shreds. 

You’d awoken to a ceiling you didn’t recognize, only to realize with horror you were in his bed as he chuckled softly from the desk at your side. Worse, you were naked... and wounded. Bandages crisscrossed all up and down your back, the wounds from your wings transferred to the skin there as the equivalent spot of your Elezen form. 

A dragon. He’d changed you into a dragon.

“Oh, but it was always there. Lurking within.” 

And so he had explained. And so you had vomited, again and again and again in some desperate attempt to get the blood out of you.

In vain, of course, he was so quick to say.

This is how your relationship goes, a begrudging student under the mentor who just had to make this happen with his selfish desire. His curiosity for the Hero immune to his own powers.

That disgust never truly fades, at least not for how this all came to be. Even as you spend time together, go to dinners and balls, stage a bloody coup together to bring the tale of Ishgard to light, it never truly fades.

Even as you lay in his bed, years later, coming down from the highs he so expertly gives you, you know you can never forgive him.

But he’s the only one who understands.

[izukusensei]

what spring does with the cherry trees (part i)

Midoriya Izuku has been away from Yuuei for five years now, a boy when he left, a man now grown. Since then, Izuku’s father has sadly passed on, his mother long since gone, and instead of staying in Rome with his step-brother and wife, he decides to return to Yuuei, welcomed without question into the Todoroki household.

There, he meets Bakugou Katsuki, Todoroki Enji's champion gladiator.

author: izukusensei pairing: Bakugou Katsuki x Midoriya Izuku word count: 2k+ warnings: gladiator au, smut, violence, slavery, character death

i. 

"How you must have suffered getting accustomed to me, my savage, solitary soul, my name that sends them all running..."

Sword meets spear, steel against unyielding steel, sending a symphony of sparks flying from both men’s weapons and onto the sands. Izuku can feel the roar of the crowd around the pulvinus where he sits, the vibrations finding haven in his otherwise motionless body, creeping its way through his heart like desire. But even still, the sound of steel rings in his ears, drowning out all other noises of the arena until all he can hear is sword against spear against shield.

The day is growing late, coloring the sky with a deep magenta glow that signals the approaching dusk. Though the sun is slowly descending, the heat still lays on him like a blanket, surrounding him, warming his already overheated skin as he absentmindedly call for wine.

Izuku startles when he feels a hand at his shoulder. His thoughts have been intent on the games, but now free from his reverie, he looks up at his godfather and accepts the glass offered to him.

“You have never before been so captivated by the games,” Enji says to him, obviously pleased at the revelation, the changes that he sees in the young man after being gone for so long.

Izuku has been at school and away from Yuuei for five years now, a boy when he left, a man now grown. His best friend and godbrother, Shouto, had left at the same time, as boys of a certain age and status do when the time comes. Since then, Izuku’s father has sadly passed on, his mother long since gone, and instead of staying in Rome with his step-brother and wife, he decided to return to Yuuei, welcomed without question into the Todoroki household.

Shouto had decided not to return, staying instead with his own mother to care for her once she was dismissed from his father’s home. Izuku would miss his childhood friend, and although Shouto vowed never to return to Yuuei, he promised that they would never be too long away from one another.  

Being Shouto’s friend, and spending so much time at the Todoroki Villa, Izuku was well acquainted gladiators and what the sport entails. As a child, Izuku could barely stomach the gladiatorial games, disgusted at the senseless killing, the bloodshed. The skill that the warriors possessed, that he was intrigued by, studying them as they trained in the practice field below the Todoroki Villa balcony. But the idea of forcing someone to kill for sport, that his younger self could not bear.

“I have only now realized their appeal,” Izuku admits to his godfather before taking a sip of his wine.

Admittedly, it is not the games themselves that he has learned to favor, but the gladiators who fought in them. More precisely, one gladiator in particular who is putting on quite an impressive show at the moment, leaving Izuku fixed on the edge of his chair.

The gladiator’s hard body shines radiant beneath the Roman sun, so much that Izuku believes that he must have been sculpted from bronze, carved with thoughtful, meticulous strokes, lovingly crafted by the gods themselves. He is made of strong lines and chiseled plains, wide shoulders tapered down to a slender waist. Powerful arms, stronger legs, a graceful jaw paired with eyes like jewels and lips like sin.

Bakugou Katsuki is the most glorious being that Izuku has ever seen.

“A spectacle isn’t it?” Enji asks his godson. “Bakugou is well versed in pleasing the crowd.”

“Well versed, indeed,” Izuku replies, though he is not so joyous.

The thought of this match has plagued him since news of it. Bakugou and the undefeated Champion of Yuuei fighting sine missione – to the death. It was enough to reduce him to tremors and sleepless nights. But now, seeing the two gladiators before Izuku, his nerves quickly fade, leaving only longing in their wake.

Bakugou owns the arena – the sand beneath his feet, the swords in his hands, the crowds clamoring around him. His opponent will soon be his too. The day will be won, and he will be the city’s new champion.

Bakugou side steps his opponent’s attack, leaving the beaten and bloodied man sprawled upon the ground. He quickly recovers, though, and lunges for Bakugou who evades the sword meant to pierce his stomach and bends beneath the weapon. He then lands a blow to his attacker’s back, once more sending him to the sand.

Bakugou’s laugh finds its way up to the pulvinus, wrapping around Izuku like a tangible thing.  He has heard Bakugou speak in the ludus, instructing his fellow gladiators with the right combination of firm demands and helpful guidance. He has heard his voice during practice spars, taunting his opponent with harsh but playful banter. He has dreamed of his voice, of Bakugou whispering in his ear as he thrusts inside of him, passionate words made rough and thick as gravel. Izuku believed that even if he were deaf to everything but the gladiator’s voice, still he would be a contented man.

“Does your gladiator fear nothing?” Izuku asks of your godfather, never taking his eyes off the man in question.

“Bakugou is fear!” Enji says to him. “See how the Champion of Yuuei quivers before him!”

And how Izuku quivers, too, now that he can share in his godfather’s mirth, for he spoke the truth. Not but minutes after his declaration, the once champion’s head rolls upon the sands, his body dropping to the ground. Izuku cannot suppress the smile that blooms upon his face as Bakugou’s name echoes through the air, a steady throb trembling throughout the amphitheater, not so different from the one forming between his thighs.

“A celebration is in order!” Enji announces, once back at the villa. “The House of Todoroki will be on every tongue in Yuuei!”

Izuku smiles at his godfather’s rejoicing. A celebration was in order, indeed. Bakugou’s victory in the arena has turned the incessant fire within him into an inferno, not easily quenched nor sated. The flames lick at his flesh, heating his body with a sultry blush, so much that he fears his godfather will feel the warmth radiating from his skin.

“Truly this has been a most joyous day,” Izuku replies, “but I believe it is time for me to retire for the evening. The hour grows late, and I am weary from such blessed excitement.”

“May you have peace in this night of celebration,” Enji’s newest wife, Narumi says. “Surely the men in the ludus are commemorating their house’s victory tonight as well. I pray the noise does not resonate too loudly in your chambers.”

Izuku gives the woman a courteous smile. “A discomfort born free from grievance. The Champion of Yuuei must be honored accordingly, on this a most splendid day.”

Izuku inclines his head in acknowledgment, then turns, as if heading off to his chambers. Before he can go too far, he stops stops to look at his godfather and his wife once more. “And what of our champion?” Izuku contemplates. “Surely he should be properly rewarded for his showing in the arena.”

“All the wine he could ask for,” Narumi replies. “I’m sure the others will see that his glass stays overflowing.”

“And women!” Enji says, then turns to his body slave. “See that his bed is overflowing as well!”

“Preparations would have to be made for a whore befitting his new station,” Narumi explains. “For tonight, wine will suffice.”

Izuku pauses to feign thought for a moment before speaking. “I could send my slave, Hiroshi, to pleasure your champion. Surely a tribute such as he would be most welcome, yet untouched as he is.”

Enji gives his son a curious look, jaw set stiff as if on the verge of declining, when Narumi says, “A generous offer, Izuku. Someone will be sent to prepare your slave immediately.”

“Oh! There will be no need,” Izuku replies, before Enji can speak a word. He looks over at his slave, Hiroshi, whose expression is veiled, but Izuku knows that he will be chided once in the privacy of his own quarters. He is in no mood for a lecture, but he knows that the outcome will be well worth it.

Izuku turns to his godfather, concealing excitement beneath a nonchalant demeanor. “I will see to Hiroshi’s preparations.”

“Do you think this wise?”

Izuku turns and considers his companion. “And of what do you speak?” he asks with mock curiosity.

Hiroshi scowls at him, and in turn, Izuku can’t keep the smile from his face. He begins to remove his jewels as he awaits an answer.

“You think me so dense I cannot see through your schemes?” Hiroshi asks of him. “I am quite aware you won’t be sending me to the gladiator this night. You plan to go in my stead.”

Izuku lets out a small laugh, quirking one arched brow. “You know me well.”

He does. He knows Izuku better than anyone else, and though Izuku is younger than Hiroshi is, he has known no one longer. And though Hiroshi is, strictly speaking, Izuku’s slave, he has a deeper connection with no one else.

The two of them share a similar visage, as well. Lips akin to one another, eyes both of identical shape and emerald green color. They both have a constellation of freckles across their faces, but where Hiroshi’s skin is a sun-kissed bronze, Izuku’s is more pale, but quickly darkening now that he’s back under the Yuuei sun.

The most obvious distinction is their hair - Hiroshi’s is black as obsidian, where Izuku’s is black as well, with hints of green like scales shimmering in the light. They’re both beautiful in their own right and obviously quite similar to those who regard the two only in passing. Some people do dare remark on how Hiroshi favors Izuku, while most stay silent, all obviously aware of his father’s indiscretion.

But to Izuku, Hiroshi is his closest companion. His slave only by birth and custom. He knows the only difference between the two is their mother’s stations, and for a purpose unknown, the gods have seen it fit to bless Izuku with a proper Roman birth. Regardless, Hiroshi is his brother, and were it that their roles were switched, Izuku knows that Hiroshi would treat him similarly.

“You worry for nothing,” Izuku reassure him, but Hiroshi merely shakes his head and begins to assist in undressing his companion. “Do not be so sullen.”

Hiroshi throws his hands up with a sigh and moves away from Izuku. “We could be caught,” he tries to explain, but his concern falls on deaf ears. “We are not children anymore, Izuku. Were we caught, our actions would have consequences.”

Izuku groans in irritation as he removes his clothes and launches the bundled fabric at Hiroshi. “I will cover my hair,” Izuku assures him. “I will cast my eyes downward. If someone comes to you, you will merely feign sleep. ‘Tis a simple task, carried out time and time over.”

“And what of you?” Hiroshi asks, walking the clothes to the closet. “You could be hurt! He is a gladiator and a volatile one at that! He put a man to grass today!”

“And how I trembled as he did!” Izuku replies, smiling at Hiroshi through his vanity mirror’s reflection. Hiroshi begins to take the plaits down the other man’s hair and Izuku furrows his brow at his agitated expression. “Would you deny me my one desire?” Izuku continues, pouting.

“Your one desire?” Hiroshi asks, incredulous. “Never have you desired only one thing. You are a greedy boy and the gladiator will quench your thirst for now, but then eyes will be set upon new conquest. When you have your fill you will leave him as you do all things.”

“No,” Izuku responds, appalled. “No, never. If he were mine, I would never see him from my arms.” His eyes twinkle with mischief as he smirks. “Or my ass.”

“The mouth on you!” Hiroshi gasps. “Just because you seek to lay with a savage doesn’t mean that you have to behave as such.”

Izuku huffs in displeasure. “Bakugou is no savage!”

“And you know this how?” Hiroshi asks and Izuku feels his cheeks heating at the words yet unspoken, knowing how they will sound in the ears of his companion. His thoughts will seem naïve, childlike, but they are so heavy on his tongue that he must speak them anyway.

“His eyes,” Izuku says. “The depths in which are more burning, more crimson, than any flame I’ve ever seen. How I long to gaze into them as he touches me, his war-hardened hands gripping my flesh. His voice deep and low in my ear.”

“You talk as if in love!” Hiroshi says, clucking.

“Nearly so,” Izuku replies.

“You have yet to even share words with the man,” Hiroshi says, “and now you make declarations of love.”

Izuku doesn’t respond, not quite knowing what to say, so in the silence, Hiroshi leaves him to disappear into his adjoining room and then returns with a handful of folded clothes.

“Will this suffice?” he asks, unfolding the stola and holding it up for Izuku to see.

It is something Hiroshi has not worn in ages, too small and too short, but perfect for Izuku and his purpose. Izuku takes the stola and drapes the soft fabric over one shoulder and wraps it around his waist, letting it fall high on his thighs. He cinches it with a belt of woven gold thread and tassels, then slides his feet into Hiroshi’s sandals.

“Come,” Hiroshi beckons and then he dabs scented oil onto Izuku’s skin where Bakugou might linger – behind his ears, in the hollow of his throat. He removes the small, golden collar from his own neck and places it around Izuku’s.

“Should I mark your skin as well?” Hiroshi asks sarcastically, eyeing his companion’s bare ankle. Hiroshi’s own bares the Midoriya family mark, permanently tattooed to distinguish him as a slave.

“That seems a bit unnecessary,” Izuku replies, smirking at Hiroshi as he places a thin veil over his hair. “The marks he will leave on my body will be well worn.”

Hiroshi rolls his eyes as Izukue stands tall, looks at him, waits for his impression. “Do I look a slave?” he asks.

“No,” Hiroshi replies. “You look a Roman in slave’s clothing. As always.”

Izuku smiles. “For tonight, it will do.”

[duraxxor]

The Dreamscar Part II

Duraxxor. A name that was created from the shortened Durand and a twist of Scourge tongue. At least, that’s what they stated when you were given the rebirth through the necromantic energies the Lich King Arthas. Whether it be Deathcleave or Daevara, it as carried with you all through our Azeroth.  A blemish. No... A brand bestowed upon your ashen flesh.  Knowing this information though, have you ever considered it the name was to be worn by one that chose to fully embrace the ways of thy kin?

Anger. It’s something you’ve experienced multiple times, Duraxxor, right? One particular case was when they used a certain phrase to describe the evolution you obtained through your second damnation. Well what if I also told you that there was a path where instead of choosing to discard the terminology of San’layn, you had embraced it to the point that you created a revolution of evolutionary proportions? A rage that was forged as you watched several of those whom attempted to reconnect with their former kin, only to be cut down and executed out of fear. That rage can spark a wildfire, can it not? You became that flame, Duraxxor. You gathered the remnants of those whom understand and formulated a grand scheme that brought you to heights that you could never imagin

Silvermoon has become the Capital City of Sin’thalas. It’s people no longer the children the living, breathing radiance of the Sun. Instead, they have joined you and your’s as children of the damned. Those who would oppose you are fit only to be cattle to the slaughter so that your’s would grow powerful. And over time, Sin’thalas would span to the very edges of the Thalassian Pass and the Amani territories. Your subjects would reach a break through that would adapt the very environment to blossom forth with an abundance of lifeblood. And those that chose to invade would soon be cut down, fed off to your people like wild game. Who could oppose the? The world trembles at your might...

My King... 

My King... 

“ My King? “

“... Hmmm? “ The sound rumbled from within the breathing chamber of a mask of obsidian, matched only by a crown. A grin visage decorated such that contrasted to the pale lock that cascaded with bloodstains. Crimson jewels dilated to focus upon the one whom addressed royalty.

“ ... Is something amiss? “ The creature before him stood at least eight feet tall and appeared to be a Sin’dorei male in an undead state. However, the sheer size, crimson gaze, and  myotis-like ears stated otherwise. Gray hair was slicked back in a widow’s peak as this tall fellow peered towards the King with concern in mind.

The pale headed King rumbled once more with a depth to his voice that caused vibrations in one’s eardrums. The obsidian armor hinted further that this particular ruler was much taller in size by a stronger amount. “ Everything is as it should be. Continue... “ He stated such words while sitting atop his throne of bone and steel.

“ As you wish, your highness. “ The man bowed his head graciously with a hand folded upon his chest. “ As you know, the efforts to advance into the Plaguelands has become rather successful thanks to the convenience of the Forsaken in the far west. However, we have found an intruder amongst your lands... “

A sudden pressure was felt across the entire room with the skittering sound of light chatter from crimson beads that watched carefully. All eyes were on the man in the center.“ ... Well, what are you waiting for then, Chancellor? Bring them to me... “ The irritated growl was spoken through his words as his right hand fetched for something within his cuirass.

“ Very well, sire. “ The chancellor rose nervously and gestured with his hand, signaling twin guardsman to shamble in with a prisoner being dragged by saronite shackles and chain. She was a ashen skinned Kal’dorei woman that possessed lightly emaciated features and faded azure hair. Groans from weakness were expelled from her lips as they tossed her upon the stone flooring, revealing bite wounds from what appeared to be a fight amongst his ravenous kin.

“ A Kal’dorei woman... “ He stated rather dryly as if the race really made a difference to him. Though, he would indulge his company, nonetheless. “ Look at me... “ His tongue twisted into the dialect of her kin in hopes of garnishing her attention. To which, his efforts sparked an interest in the pathetic elf. Her gaze had been dulled by the lack of energy, only seeming to glow as she basked in terror at the behemoth before her. Sure the woman had seen his kin but never the King of the San’layn who had lead an entire army to turn his own people into the monstrosities they were on this hollow afternoon. The crimson tide within his gaze peered deeply into her very soul, seeking to find the tethers of what she was thinking, whatever she may be feeling. “ Show me... Show me why you should live... Show me why you are worthy to draw another breath! Show me that fire within your soul! “ His voice bellowed out with great volume as the entire room chittered with excitement. The scent of blood itself became thick, almost choking to the lungs of the living. The night elf’s body shivered with a sensation that had been driven into her very core that tested her resolve. 

A single minute had passed before her lips finally made an attempt to curl upward. However, before words could even be spouted, the King instantly turned his head away and made his declaration. “ Devour her, my children... She lacks the strength of will... “ The chittering in the background heightened and soon after, several large batlings trampled over slowly, salivating at the mouth as they anticipated their newest addition to the things they have feasted upon. 

The woman squeaked in protest as she was robed any chance to speak of her courage. “ N-no! You can’t! Damn you, Blood King! The Alliance are c-coming to march upon your g-gates... Elune curse you! “ Her body wriggled tiredly as she began swatting at the approaching winged beasts. The woman’s wept in fear, trickling with her final tears like some cornered deer. 

“ Let the come... I want them to come and wage war... their numbers will feed my entire kingdom and there is nothing that Elune, the Light, or any God can do to stop this glorious feast to come! Nothing! “ The King, his Chancellor and the other’s who observed, joining in maniacal laughter as the young monsters lunged onto the helpless Kal’dorei, creating a merry ballad of screams and cries that were balanced by the sound of rending flesh and blood spilling upon his majesty’s floor. 

And as the sea of blood runneth red, so too did the endless abyss return as black as night. However, even the darkest nights sometime reveal a binding light deep within it’s shroud...

To be continued... 

[lightdancer1]

Agni grinned at the panther spirits.

You forget your place, creatures of the shadows. To ask them to bring back the ways they used to revere us is to bring that place. I am the Fifth Sun, the maker of the world as it is. I am the ruler of the spirits of fire and of blood.

She tapped the hilt of her blade with an amused gesture that was not quite a threat but was not friendly, either.

For her to return, the children of Fire must return to the place where their fires were first kindled. There the Smoking Mirror, the Second Sun will restore her flesh. It is a fitting irony that one who hates mirrors will be restored by one.

She then did draw the blade. At the one hand it was a Fire Nation Dao, great and terrible and lit like the heart of a star. At the other it was the swooping flat blades adorned with fire-glass. A shark-toothed thing that was no less deadly in its own way and just as vicious when applied to flesh. She looked at it with a wicked amusement, savoring the memories of the old days and then sheathed it again as it resumed the shape of the Dao.

They destroyed their past and only by facing it and braving the ruins can they restore what will be.

The jaguar-spirits moved like shadows.

Should they not be told?

Agni's eyes blazed with a more terrible heat.

I remind you that you do not give me orders. I am the Sun, the visible power by which Firebending itself functions. By my will they acted in the old days, by my will they still do so. You are children of the shadows and you are felines, and thus you cannot accept simple statements the first time, or the second.

And then Agni moved like light and fire and grasped the three jaguar spirits by their scruff.

Disregard my warnings a third time and there will not be mercy. You wanted them to remember. Remember they shall. To remember under the direct compulsion and order of gods and goddesses shall change nothing. If they obey, and it is no clear thing that they would, they would see it as a threat and the rift would grow.

If they seek it themselves and are drawn of their own will, then and only then will the curse be lifted. Mortals must liberate themselves, for us to give them the guidance and the straight path is not the way to change things. In our names they eradicate a fourth of themselves, declaring this what we would will.

Agni shook her head, still holding the jaguar spirits.

It was not, but I elected not to act, then.

A voice spoke in the spirit world as a figure moved with the thump of a bone-adorned stump on the ground, a thump with the sound of two feet or four feet, as suited the being in whichever shape he elected to walk in that moment.

I did warn you that not acting would lead to such results.

The figure that moved was the greatest of all the jaguar spirits, its shape like an obsidian mirror, streams of smoke echoing from it. Or like that of a man clad in lamellar armor, the stump of his foot making a distinct sound with each step.

It has given the impression of our sanction and that we would tolerate such things. In the old days we were worshiped with dripping hearts in deeds to forestall the end of time. Blood, but they knew the price of it and the dire necessity for it. To tolerate Sozin's madness was to sanction something worse.

Agni gave Tetzcatlipoca a sour look.

Unhand my sons, sister.

She dropped them and the younger cats ran to the one-legged entity.

I agreed to this scheme, in the end, because it will strike blows at the heart of the power that arose in our names. Because the people who claim to honor us have become so arrogant they sanction attempts to pull the moon from the sky as if they too do not rely on the water and the tides governed by Tui the Moon-Queen.

Tetzcatlipoca looked at a hand in between a paw and a hand, great wicked claws shining with mirrored sunfire from Agni.

And it has been a year and a half. The mortals show no sign of grasping the lesson you intend them taught.

Agni's laugh was the roaring howl of a volcano.

So impatient, Smoking Mirror. We were old before the first volcanoes erupted on the rising world, we will be here long after the race of men is extinct and all the lifeforms that come after them are. What is a year, or a few years ,to something older than ocean and mountain?

"Hey you remembered to give the fire princess a way to transform back, right? .... right?"

*blink* "Why would I have done that?"

"...oh no."

[freezing-kaiju]

Survivors of Shards

chapter 13

@apollowuzhere @irazel @grilledwatermelon

more willa cause i wanna get this done

I followed Cuprite out of the metal room into the bright sun.  She bent down and picked up the bubble holding Billy’s gem, then turned to the surrounding gems, who I assumed was the rest of her crew.

“Everyone, I have an important announcement,” she declared.  “Stay away from Gravity Falls.  The people there are hostile and posses a weapon that can instantly corrupt gems.”  A yellow gem on my right gasped.  “For your own safety, stay out.”  Her expression switched to something a bit more pleasant.  “Oh, and some good news.  Willa here will be joining the crew.”  With that, she turned around and retreated back into the room with my bubbled sibling.

I felt uncomfortable under the gazes of the many gems around me.  “Um….hello,” I said, smiling softly and giving a small wave.  They probably didn’t look at me too fondly since I had attacked them not too long ago.  I shifted nervously.  The others looked at me with a mixture of expressions: some sympathy, some disgust, some fear.  Then a large golden gem stepped forward, her chubby hand outstretched towards me.

“Hi!  I’m Amber,” she greeted cheerfully.  “I think we sorta met before, but that doesn’t count….but anyways nice to meet you!”

This gem, Amber, seemed nice enough, but I did a quick sweep of her mind just to be sure.  Her mind was very pleasant, filled with positive thoughts and little things she’s noticed on earth that she likes.  She had a particular interest in bees, specifically how cute they are.  She also seemed fond of the peridot that was with the group.  Once I was a bit more sure I could trust Amber, I cautiously reached out and shook her hand.  She happily returned the shake and smiled.

“Is it ok if I hug you?” she asked.

“Um….y-yes I suppose so,” I agreed.  “What an odd request.”

“Yay!”  Amber lunged forward and wrapped me in a very soft, warm hug.  I tensed at the sudden impact, but relaxed almost instantly.  It was nice.  I felt almost….safe.

Amber pulled away from the hug, to my disappointment, and a hand clapped me on the shoulder.

“Heya!” the responsible bismuth exclaimed.  “Nice to meet you too.  What exactly are you gonna be doin’ here las?”

“D-doing?” I questioned.  I felt a lump form in my throat as I began to panic.  “Is….is there something I was supposed to do?  I’m sorry, was I supposed to be helping you with your ship?  I did not know.  I’m so very sorry.”  I bowed my head and clasped my hands together in shame.

The bismuth’s gaze softened a bit.  “No, no, it’s ok.  I was just saying….well we could sure use the help, if you want to.  We’re down about thirty crew members.”

“Yes, well I-” I cut off mid sentence, losing my footing and grabbing at my gem.  The corruption had swelled up, the burning feeling returning for a moment, then retreating, leaving me a gasping, sobbing mess.

The bismuth stepped back in fear, muttering, “Was it something I said?”

Then another gem, a pink and yellow one, ran forwards, waving her hands in a series of symbols.  I remembered long ago there was a human who used those motions.  They did not have the ability to hear or speak, so that was how they communicated.  I only knew a few words, but could never use it fluently.  

I tried to stand back up, only to have my knees buckle under me and land with a small “thud” back on the grass.  The pink and yellow gem raised her eyebrows and stared at me with her gem eye.  It was over her right, just like mine.  It glowed and a beam shot out at me.  I was frightened and started crawling away, but when it hit I felt a feeling similar yet different to Cuprite’s.  I was calmer, but also….invigorated.  I apologized and stood back up, thanking the gem.  Then I realized something.

“Can you hear me?” I asked her.

The gem nodded.  I let out a small sigh of relief.  I didn’t want to be rude by speaking when she couldn’t hear what I was saying.

“What’s your name?”

While she signed, I recognized the word “name.”  She finished and the bismuth translated, “‘My name is Lemonade Tourmaline.’”

“Very nice to meet you.”

Lemonade Tourmaline nodded, and a figure in the back moved closer.

“Hey,” they said.  “My name’s Peridot Facet-4T6B-Cut-9JH.  Glad to see another addition to this mess of idiots.  We’re all doomed here, but hey, we’re doomed together!”

I shrunk back from the peridot.  The word “doom” repeated in my mind.  “I….um….I’m s-sorry….I’ll….I’ll do better….”

“Nah nah nah, not your fault.”

Amber butted in, placing a hand on the peridot’s arm.  “I’m sorry, 9JH can be a bit blunt sometimes.  Everyone’s still trying to get over the tragedy….I’d say so far you and Lavander Jade have cried an equal amount, poor dear….”

“Oh, well I’m sorry for being such a burden,” I said, feeling guilty for getting in their way.  “I’m sure you didn’t need this in a time of crisis.”

“Eh, buck up mate!” a voice behind me shouted.  I turned and saw a lanky red gem grinning and leaning on a sword.  “We’re all in this together, roight?  Least you are now….’less you wanna leave.  I’m Aventurine, by the way, but you can call me Red.”

“Hello.”

A jasper pushed Red and 9JH to the side, mumbling, “Outta my way wankers.”  They then continued a little louder, “Willa, aye?  Got a few….ok, a lot of questions for ya.”

“....Ok-kay….” I agreed.

“First off: you from homeworld or from Earth somehow?  Second, what happened to you?  Third, would it hurt if I poke you in the corrupted bits?  Fourth, what the hell is Spain?”

I was a little startled by the barrage of questions, but I had done so little to help already….

“Well, my sibling and I were originally from homeworld, but we came here after an….accident on our ship.  We arrived a while ago and a….not so nice human….hurt us….and….” I stopped to collect myself.  It was hard to retell the story once, let alone twice in one day.  “Anyway….yes it would hurt, so please refrain from doing so.  I have heard of Spain, but do not know quite what it is.  My sibling and I have not traveled far from Gravity Falls.”

“Right, ok, right, gotcha.”  The jasper scribbled down the information, then smiled.  “Thanks!”

I smiled back.  “Glad I could help.”

“What the hell is going on here?” the alabaster, who I recognized from in the woods, asked, kicking down a door. “This guy stabbed me! Why are we letting them free?”

“I….I’m very sorry about earlier,” I said, trying not to upset them any more than I already had.  “I didn’t mean to hurt you….I-”

The alabaster growled slightly. “Cause anymore problems, and you’ll get more punishment than just a hug. I really hope you like bears.”

I stepped away from the gem, shaking.  A high pitched voice laughed behind me.

“I think a hug from you would be punishment enough Al!” they exclaimed, scaring me even more.  I was really starting to regret coming out here without waiting for Billy first.  My head shot around to make eye contact with a grinning hematite.  The alabaster rolled their eyes, mumbling something I couldn’t quite make out.  

“She’s not wrong you know,” an obsidian said flatly.  I hadn’t noticed her there before, and the sudden appearance made me want to retract back into my gem.  There were way too many people here for me to process.

Then the yellow gem from earlier, a beryl by the looks of her, ran up to the alabaster, panic on her face.

“Are we just going to ignore the fact that Calcite went back towards that awful town?!” she shrieked in fear and anger.  “Not to mention that neither of the rubies can be found anywhere!  They could have followed her!”  The other gems seemed taken aback by her outburst.

“I already had this talk with Calcite,” the alabaster responded.  “She didn’t want me following her. Believe me, I wanted to go with her. What can I do if she doesn’t want me to? I got the feeling she’d try and fight me if I did. If the rubies followed her, at least she has some protection.”

“Those rubies are sweet, but they are no protectors, and if what Cuprite said is true, I don’t think it would make much of a difference.  She’s too stubborn for her own good.  I’ll go with you, hopefully she’ll listen to me.”

“Fine. Perhaps we could try to track her down. The bird has decent eyesight, so it should make things easier.”

The beryl nodded and began hovering off, the alabaster in her wake.  I watched for a moment, thinking on whether or not my next choice would be a mistake.

“Wait!” I yelled.  They both stopped to look back at me.  “I’m….I’m coming with you.”

“That’s not happening. You’ll just cause trouble,” the alabaster said.

“Besides, we could never ask you to go back to that place,” the beryl agreed.

“Listen,” I began, a bound of confidence flowing through me.  “I’ve lived in that town for decades and I know those woods like the back of my gem.  If anyone will be able to help you find your friend….it’s me.”

“And I have to help the Calcite that helped me.”  I kept that one to myself.

“I mean,” the hematite contributed, snorting a bit and wrapping an arm around my shoulders, “their gem is on their eye, so the back is probably easy to see.”  The beryl and the alabaster shared a glance at one another.

The alabaster shook their head and shrugged tiredly. “I can take them in a fight, and they might be able to help. It’s up to you, Beryl. How do you think Calcite would react?”

The beryl looked like a deer in headlights, rubbing her hands together nervously.  “I….uh….I think she would use whatever resources she had.”

“Fine.” the alabaster grumbled. “You can come, but don’t slow us down and don’t try anything.”

“Y-yes!  Of course!  Thank you!”  I began following the two back into the forest I had been trapped in for so long.  But before I could leave, I heard a voice call out from behind me.

“Willa, darling,” Cuprite said, “would you please come in?”

[shanastoryteller]

*shyly whispers* do u think u could do another Greek Mythology story~

“Your tapestries are sofine,” the merchant says in wonder, “that you must be blessed by the goddessAthena.”

Arachne tosses herhead, braided hair falling over her shoulder like an obsidian waterfall,“What’s Athena got to do with it? My hands wove these, not hers.”

The merchant blanchesand looks to the sky, as if expecting Zeus himself to smite them for blasphemy.Personally, she thinks the king of the gods has better thing to do with histime. “Ah,” he says weakly, “I suppose.”

He pays her for herwares and she leaves, almost immediately bumping into a hunched old woman withgrey eyes. “Do you not owe Athena thanks for your talent?” she croaks, gnarledhands curled over a cane.

Arachne is not stupid,but she is foolish. They will tell tales of it. She looks into those grey eyesand declares, “Athena should thank me,since my talents earn her so much praise.”

She pushes past her andkeeps walking, ignoring the goddess in humans skin as she disappears into thecrowd.

They will tell tales ofher hubris. They will all be true.

~

The next day she bumpsinto the same old woman at the market. Everything goes downhill from there.

“Know your place,mortal,” Athena says, grey eyes narrowed. There is a crowd around them, andArachne could save herself, could walk away unscathed, and all she has to do issay her weaving is inferior to that of a goddess.

She will not lie.

“I do,” she sayscoolly, “and in this matter, it is above you.”

She is not honest as avirtue, but as a vice.

Athena challengers herto a weaving contest. She accepts.

~

Gods are not so hard tofind, if you know where to look.

“It’s a volcano,” thebaker repeats, looking down at her coins, as if he feels guilty for takingmoney from someone who’s clearly not all there.

She grabs her bag ofsweet breads and adds it to her pack before swinging it over her shoulders,“Yes, I know. Half a day’s walk, you said?”

“A volcano,” he insists, as if she did not hear him perfectly well thefirst dozen times.

“Thank you for yourhelp,” she says. He’s shaking his head at her, but she knows what she’s doing.

She walks. She growshungry, but does not touch the bread she paid for, and walks some more. Thesun’s begun to set by the time she makes it to the base of the volcano. It’stall, impossibly large, and for a moment the promise of defeat threatens tooverwhelm her.

But Arachne does notbelieve in defeat, in loss. They will tell tales of her hubris. Those taleswill be true.

She ties a scarf aroundher braids then hikes her skirt up and ties the material so it falls only toher thighs. She fits work roughened hands into the divots of cooled magma andbegins her slow ascent.

~

The muscles in her legsand arms shake, and her hunger pains are almost as distracting. Her once whitedress is dirt smeared and torn and sweat makes her itch as it covers her bodyand drips down her back.

“What are you doing?”

Arachne turns her headand bites back a scream, looking into one giant eye. The cyclops holds easilyto the volcano’s edges, even though her hands are torn and bleeding. Sheswallows and says, “I heard you like honeyed bread. Is it true?”

The creature tilts hishead to the side, baring his long fanged teeth at her. She thinks he might besmiling. “You’ve been climbing for hours. What do you want?”

“Is it true?” sherepeats, refusing to flinch.

“Yes,” he says, lookingat her the same way the baker had, “it’s true.”

“There’s some sweetbread in my pack, baked this morning,” she says, “it should still be soft.”

His hands are bigenough and strong enough that it could probably squeeze her head like a grape. Insteadhe gently undoes her pack and reaches inside. The honey buns look comicallysmall in his large hands, and he swallows half of them in one bite. He lickshis fingers clean when he’s done, and his smile is just as terrifying thesecond time around. “I am Brontes. Why are you climbing my master’s volcano?”

“I’m the weaverArachne,” she takes a deep breath, “I need your master’s help.”

~

They tell tales ofHephaestus’s ugliness.

They are not true.

He’s got a broad,angular face and short brown hair. His eyes are like amber set into his face,and his arms are huge, and he’s rippling muscle from the waist up. He has legsonly to his knees. From there down his legs are bronze gears and golden wire,replacements for the legs destroyed when Hera threw him from Mount Olympus.

“Had your look, girl?”he asks, voice rough like he’s always a moment away from breaking into acoughing fit.

“Yes,” she says, anddoesn’t turn away, keeps looking.

His lips quirk up atthe corners, so it was the right move. The heat is even more oppressive insidethe volcano, and all around him cyclopses work, forging oddly shaped metal thatshe can’t hope to understand. “You’ve gone to an awful lot of trouble to find me,girl. What do you want?”

She slides her pack offher shoulders and holds it out to the god, “I have a gift for your wife. I havewoven her a cloak.”

He raises an eyebrowand doesn’t reach for the bag, “You believe something made with mortal handscould be worthy of the goddess of beauty?”

They will tell tales ofher hubris.

“Yes.”

They will all be true.

With a gust of wind theoppressive heat of the volcano is swept away, leaving her chilled. In its placestands a woman – more than a woman. Aphrodite has skin like the copper of herhusband’s machines and hair dark and thick and long. Her eyes are deepest,richest brown, piercing in their intelligence. People don’t tell tales ofAphrodite’s cleverness. That is because people are stupid.

“Let’s see it then,”she says, reaching inside the pack and pulling the cloak from its depths.

It unrolls beautifully.It’s made from the finest silks, and it shimmers in the light from the forges.The hem of the cloak is sea foam, speaking of Aphrodite’s beginning, and upalong the cloak is intricate patterns it tells of her life, of her marriage andher worshippers and escapades, all with the detail of the most experiencedartist and the reverence of her most devoted followers.

Her lips part insurprise and she slides it on, twirling like a child. “Gorgeous,” Hephaestussays, though Arachne knows he does not speak of the cloak. She doesn’t takeoffense.

The goddess smiles andArachne’s heart pounds in her chest. She does her best to ignore it – Aphroditeis the goddess of love, after all. It is only expected. “Very well,” thegoddess says, “you have my attention.”

Arachne swallows.Aphrodite’s attention is a heavy thing. “I have offended Athena,” she says,“She has challenged me to a weaving contest.”

Their faces somber.Hephaestus rubs the edge of a sleeve between his fingers and says, “Athena willlose such a contest, if judged fairly. She does not take loss well.”

“I know,” she says,“you are friendly with Hades, are you not?”

There are no tales oftheir friendship. But she’s staking her life on its existence, because whywouldn’t it exist – both of them even tempered, both shunned by Olympus, bothhappily married.

Gods hate being made tofeel lesser. It is why they say Persephone was kidnapped, why they sayAphrodite cheats with Ares. It is why Athena will crush her when Arachne winsthe weaving contest.

“Clever girl,” Hephaestussays, smiling.

Aphrodite stares at herreflection in a convenient piece of polished silver. Arachne assumes Hephaestusleft if lying there for that express purpose. “Very well!” the goddess says,not looking at her, “when Athena sends you to the underworld, we will entrenchupon our uncle for your release.” She turns on her heel and points a finger ather. Arachne blushes for no reason she can think of. “In return, you will weaveme a gown, one equal to my own beauty.”

A gown as exquisite asthe goddess of beauty. An impossible task.

They will tell tales ofher hubris.

“I accept.”

They will all be true.

~

The contest goes asexpected. Athena’s tapestry is lovely, but Arachne’s is lovelier.

The goddess’s face goesred in rage, and her grey eyes narrow. Arachne stands tall, ready to accept thedeath blow coming for her.

The blow comes.

Death does not.

~

She is an insect. Even if she can make it back to Hephaestus’svolcano, even if they can help her, they will not know it is her. She has nohope left, no course of action, she should just give up. But –

She doesn’t believe indefeat, in loss.

It was a terribly longjourney on foot, that first time. It is even longer this time, although now shehas eight legs instead of two. She makes it to the volcano, and creeps inbetween crevices, until she finds out a hollowed room, one with a sliver ofsunlight and plenty of bugs to keep her fed.

Athena’s cruel joke ofallowing her to weave will be her downfall. Her silk comes out a golden yellowcolor – it will look exquisite against Aphrodite’s copper skin.

~

It takes seven yearsfor her to complete it. She hasn’t left this room in the volcano in all thattime, and as soon as it’s done she scurries out back toward the village. She’sa large insect, but not that large.

She arrives just as thesun begins to rise, and leaves before the first rays have even touched theearth, her prize tied to her back with her own silk.

Arachne doesn’t returnto her room. Instead she goes to the more popular parts of the volcano, hurriesand runs around terrifying stomping feet until she finds who she’s looking forand scurries up his leg and onto his shoulder.

“Huh,” Brontes looksonto his shoulder and blinks. “What on earth are you?”

She cautiously skittersdown his arm, waiting. He bends closer and lightly touches her back. “Is – is thata piece of a honey bun?”

She looks up at him,waiting. It’s her only chance, if he doesn’t remember, if he doesn’t understand–

His face slowly fills witha cautious kind of wonder. “Arachne?”  Shejumps in place, being unable to nod, and Brontes cautiously cradles her in hismassive hands, “We must find the Master immediately!”

She jumps down, landingin front of him and running forward. “Wait!” he calls, and she makes sure he’s runningafter her before skittering back to her corner of the cave. It’s almost toosmall for him to enter but he squeezes inside and breathes, “Oh.” He stares forseveral moments, and Arachne climbs her web and waits. Brontes shakes himselfout of his reverie and uses his powerful wings to bellow, “MISTRESS APHRODITE!”

There’s that samebreeze and she’s in the crevice with them, “What was so important, Brontes,that you had to yell?”

Arachne sees the exactmoment that the goddess sees the gown, golden yellow and glimmering, madeentirely of spider silk. “Beautiful,” she says, reaching out a hand to brushdown the bodice. Her head then snaps up, “Brontes, where’s Arachne?”

She warms at that, thatAphrodite knew it was her weaving even though she hasn’t been seen in sevenyears.

They’ve told tales ofher hubris.

They are all true.

Brontes points at theweb, and Aphrodite steps over and holds out her hands. Arachne crawls onto thegoddess’s palms. “Athena is more powerful than I am, I cannot undo her work,”she says, “but I know someone who can.”

Then they are in frontof a river. A handsome young man stands there waiting with a boat. “GoddessAphrodite,” he says, “we weren’t expecting you.”

“Thanatos,” shereturns, “I need to see Persephone.”

The man’s face stayscool, and for a moment Arachne fears they will be refused and she will be stuckin this form forever. Then he smiles and says, “My lady is of course availablefor her favored niece.” He holds out a hand to help her onto the boat, “Pleasecome with me.”

~

Arachne weaves a dressfor Hades’s wife as a thank you, and returns to her volcano.

“I can take yousomewhere else,” Aphrodite says, “you don’t have to hide here.”

Arachne pauses at herloom. She has lived in this volcano for seven years. It’s her home. “Would youlike me to leave?” she asks instead.

Aphrodite scoffs, “Ofcourse not! How could I dress myself without you here?” She’s wearing thespider silk dress Arachne spun for her, and she’s working on another for thegoddess now. Aphrodite runs a gentle finger down Arachne’s cheek and for amoment she forgets to breathe. “You are the finest weaver to ever exist.”

She looks up at thegoddess, “Then as the god of crafts and goddess of beautiful things, where elsewould I belong besides with you and Hephaestus?”

To declare your companyequal to that of gods is the height of arrogance and blasphemy.

They tell tales of herhubris.

“An excellent point,”Aphrodite murmurs, and tucks a stray braid behind Arachne’s ear.

They are all true.

gods and monsters series part iii

[componentplanet]

What If Fallout 76 Isn’t a Video Game at All, but Something Much Darker?

Much of this story presented firmly tongue-in-cheek.

War. War never changes. On October 23, 2077, the Great War between China, the United States, and the USSR broke out. By the time it ended, two hours later, the world had been forever changed. Humanity’s once-proud cities had been reduced to ash and rubble. Only a handful of humans remained on the surface, clinging to life in the poisoned wastes.

But all was not lost. In the decades before the War, cutting-edge scientific teams across the United States had collaborated against the Red Menace. Some of those projects, like Liberty Prime and FEV, attacked our enemies directly. Some had… other applications. Long before the bombs fell, Vault-Tec’s Obsidian Butte facility had made an astonishing discovery — a portal to another world. A bare handful of Vault-Tec employees managed to leap through this gateway before nuclear fire closed it forever. These freedom-loving researchers found themselves in a world very much like — yet also completely distinct from — their own.

Abandoned and bereft, this small team of researchers headed east. In their own world, they had been the architects of one of the darkest chapters in human history: The Vaults. Pitched to the desperate masses as the only safe refuge in a world gone mad, only a handful of people at Vault-Tec knew the truth. While there were a bare handful of “control” vaults intended to operate normally, most of these facilities had been designed as twisted social or scientific experiments.

Vault 12’s door was impossible to seal. Vault 27 was deliberately filled with twice the population it could sustain. Vault 95 was filled with drug addicts who were given unrestricted access to illegal substances months after the vault was finally sealed. Some vaults were used to test the effects of genetic engineering, drug treatments, or psychological conditioning techniques. One vault was nothing but a single man and a crate full of puppets.

Marooned in this alien world, the Vault-Tec employees knew they could never return to their original studies. The only alternative? Create a virtual vault. Name it after the same pioneering spirit of discovery and adventure that had proven a critical part of the founding myth of two different versions of the United States of America.

Thus, the Vault 76 project was born. Through a still-unexplained series of events, the alt-world doppelgangers may have killed and possibly eaten their counterparts in our own world. There’s no proof they did, but there’s no proof they didn’t, either.

Little by little, the plans for Vault 76 took shape. Unlike the actual vaults of Vault-Tec, this facility would be virtual — a meta-vault accessed via the internet. To cover their own lack of skill, the replacement programming team opted to use the same engine and tools their predecessors in our own universe had leveraged for game creation. Like the physical vaults of old, this new project would appear bright and promising before failing in a number of high-profile ways. These problems would seem obvious and easy to avoid in hindsight, yet prove devilishly difficult to fix in the shipping title. The in-game store would promise not to deploy pay-to-win mechanics, only to make extensive use of them. Much-requested features, like private servers, would eventually be offered — but only for a monthly fee.

Fallout 76

Like the real-world vaults, sadism ran deep in Vault 76. In the real-world, Vault-Tec facilities were deliberately intended to stress their inhabitants. A group of Vault Dwellers with deep fears of nudity would be deliberately assigned to a Vault without any clothing. In Vault 76 — or Fallout 76, as the project is now known — players who invested in purchasing the Collector’s Edition of the game would be shafted with poor quality rewards. Multiple collectable items built in conjunction for the launch would be recalled or slagged as poor quality.

Players who stuck with the game over the long term would be rewarded with the first-ever major content update, only to be hit with a surprise delay just a few weeks later. The delays and problems mount, until even long-time fans of the franchise are left questioning how Bethesda could possibly have so little respect for one of the finest game worlds ever created. Theories fly thick and fast. EA is somehow blamed. No one suspects the truth. In his lair, Evil Todd Howard pokes Good Todd Howard with a stick, threatening to pour a bottle of Nuka-Cola Quantum where the sun don’t shine. Good Todd Howard knows exactly how bad strontium-90 is for you. Good Todd Howard keeps his mouth shut.

All of which is to say: As much as the above is complete and utter claptrap, it explains the long-term evolution of Fallout 76 far better than any other explanation we’ve heard to date. FO76’s collectibles have been recalled for mold contamination and replaced for false advertising (but only after enormous fan outcry). Its patches have been legendary for breaking the game. From the beginning, players have fought the game’s own systems as much as they’ve battled any Appalachian monster. People are so angry about Fallout 76, the handful of players who are actually paying for private servers are reportedly being griefed for it.

I don’t know why any company would do so much damage to its own IP, but hopefully Bethesda realizes what a problem it has created for itself. Players are holding in-game protests and openly declaring their intent to quit the game. The handful of people paying for a Fallout 1st subscription are seen as part of the reason why Bethesda has engaged in such egregious conduct in the first place. The amount of bad faith Bethesda has generated around Fallout is astonishing and the company needs to wake up to the scale of the disaster it’s creating in one of its most prominent IPs.

It really shouldn’t make sense to argue that Bethesda actually turned Fallout 76 into a virtual vault experiment. And yet, here we are.

Now Read:

Bethesda’s ‘Fallout 1st’ Paid Server Launch Has Become a Disaster

The Outer Worlds Review Roundup: A True Roleplaying Gem and Spiritual Fallout Sequel

Waste Virginia: Fallout 76 Nuked From Orbit By Reviewers

from ExtremeTechExtremeTech https://www.extremetech.com/gaming/300999-what-if-fallout-76-isnt-a-video-game-at-all-but-something-much-darker from Blogger http://componentplanet.blogspot.com/2019/10/what-if-fallout-76-isnt-video-game-at.html

[four-moms-tragedy]

Title: For Family and For Legion

Author: Mod Square

Characters: Obsidian

In an age of Gems long past, there lived a little Gem boy, and his loving father and mother. The boy's parents were architects - grand builders who played a part in building great shining spires that rose above the clouds. But the little Gem boy was convinced he was destined for something greater. Something more….exciting.

And on one day, he decided to bring this up to his parents.

"Mother, father,", said the Gem boy sweetly, "I don't think building towers is right for me."

The boy's parents then gave each other a concerned look. If their child didn't want to follow in their footsteps, what could he possibly have in mind? But after a few moments of silence, the boy's parents gave him a gentle, encouraging smile.

"Our dear child," they both said in a caring, compassionate voice, "whatever it is you want to do, we will love you no matter what."

That brought a bright smile upon the boy's face. Hesitantly, he finally told his mother and father his heart's desire. "I….I want to be a knight! I want to help protect other Gems, just like the heroes in my storybook! And I want to learn how to use a sword! Please mother and father, I beg of you!"

Once again, the boy was met with a brief silence. But eventually, his father let out a deep sigh and gave a small nod to his mother. "My dear child, there is no need to worry." said the boy's mother, "If a knight is what you want to become, then a knight you shall be. But in my heart, and in your father's, you will always be our precious little boy. Our dear little Obsidian"

All of a sudden, Obsidian wrapped his mother in a tight embrace. And soon, his father joined them. "Thank you, mother. Thank you, father.", Obsidian whispered. To hear that his parents would allow him to chase his dream of becoming a knight and protecting Gem-kind made his heart feel as light as a feather.

And so it was, and so it would be - that Obsidian would grow from an aspiring young child into a soldier of the Homeworld. But little Obsidian did not have any possible idea that this was just the beginning of his story......

Third Age of the Gem Expansion

Planet Apophis - Home planet of the Kel'tal race

A cool breeze swept through the air, rustling the grassy plain that the two opposing armies stood upon. On one side stood a mob of rabid, insectoid soldiers - their many eyes shined a blood-red, and were fixated on the enemy that dared stand against them. Instead of steel-forged or magic-summoned blades, they wielded claws of bone and hardened exoskeleton - the foam on their mandibles signaled their desire to plunge these weapons into the hearts of their enemies. These were the Kel'tal, a species of hive-minded alien warriors who had declared war upon their enemies who had trespassed into their territory.

On the other side stood the 17th Conquest Legion of the Gem Homeworld, arrayed in traditional formation - several lines of heavy infantry stood unflinchingly in the front, while several more lines of archers took position at their flanks. The armor that they wore was uniform, without any hint of uniqueness whatsoever. But the lack of uniqueness did not dampen their armor's intricacy - the chestplates and shoulders of the legion shined brightly in the light of the midday sun, making the diamond-shaped symbols they wore seem as though they were glowing.

Obsidian's pride to stand once again on the battlefield was only dimmed by the strange cylinders that were placed in front of them. The cylinders had two wheels on one end, and a diamond-shaped bore at the other. Crews of four Gems manned these strange objects. The Homeworld soldier cast the objects a suspicious look - these were supposed to be a prototype for what younger soldiers called 'the laser light cannon'.

Fitting that the scientists send us to test this new sorcery.....I can only pray that it does what they believe it does....

"Obsidian! Hey, Obsidian!"

A hushed voice snapped him out of his thoughts. Recognizing the voice, Obsidian turned his attention to a soldier standing to his right. "Do you require something, Coral?", he asked impatiently, not wanting his commander to catch him fooling around before a battle.

"Where's that squire boy of yours? Aquamarine was it?"

Obsidian raised an eyebrow at that question. "I had him clean swords back on Homeworld. If the rumors are true, and he is indeed from the Preschool, then he will need all the time he needs to recover. Once we are finished here and back on the ship, I will contact him. Why do you ask?"

The other soldier shook his head in disbelief. "You're making a super-soldier clean swords? You do know Jasper wants any of those Preschool stragglers on the frontlines as soon as possible right? She's not gonna like-"

"Jasper is not my commander. I do not recognize her authority to dictate what I should and should not do. She is simply a squire to Yellow Diamond who thinks too highly of herself. Nothing more. Now be silent, Coral. It appears our commander wishes to address us.", Obsidian replied before facing forward once again.

A figure clad in shining gold armor, bearing the logo of the Diamond Authority proudly on his chest, soon appeared in front of the legion. The Gem's face was grizzled and aged. This was none other than Commander Beryl, one of the few Gems in the army that was as old as Obsidian but still in service. "Well.....what a sight this is! Truly, the Homeworld is gracious - there is no better gift than to stand beside soldiers as honorable as the lot of you!"

Commander Beryl began pacing up and down the line, locking his pale yellow eyes with each soldier he passed. "As I'm sure you've all heard, this will be my last battle before I return to the Homeworld. In three weeks I shall lay my eyes upon the shining skies of my beloved planet, and dance yet again with my beautiful wife. Imagine where you will be, and it shall be so."

Obsidian slightly winced to hear that his commander was retiring. Old soldiers like himself were quite a rare breed nowadays. It appears I'll have to apply for another transfer soon....

The commander then turned to face the enemy army, and jabbed his index finger in their direction. "Do you see those pitiful aliens across the field? Those inbred primitives aren't fit to wipe the stains off our boots! What they are fit for, is a swift death! Those barbarians thirst for our blood, lads! Let us quench it with fire and steel! The horde you see before you is the last of their vile species! Let us send them to meet their companions in hell! Strength and Honor! Glory to the Homeworld!"

"Glory to the Homeworld!", the legion replied in unison.

As if on cue, the Kel'tal horde let out a sickening, mangled roar and started rushing towards the Homeworld legion at full speed. "Steady.....", said Commander Beryl. "Steady.....Cannons, open fire!"

On Beryl's command, the cannon crews activated their weapons. Deadly beams of white light shot out, and promptly singed much of the charging enemy to ash. "Recharge!", the commander bellowed. The Gem teams then placed their hands around their respective cannons, and ciphered as much of their magical energy into their weapons as they could. "Fire!"

Over and over again those beams of light poured forth, and rendered each Kel'tal in its path into a neat pile of ashes. Obsidian wasn't sure whether he admired this new weapon, or was deathly afraid of it. Once the Gem cannon crews were exhausted, Commander Beryl then turned his attention to the rest of the legion. "Archers, draw arrows!" Like a perfectly drilled machine, the archer units summoned their bows and aimed their arrows skyward. "Loose!"

Hundreds of arrows were launched into the sky, and fell upon what remained of the charging Kel'tal like rain of steel. More and more of their insectoid bodies fell to the ground, covered in arrows and quivering in a pool of lime-green ichor. Still the horde surged on, undaunted by the carnage and hungry for vengeance.

But Obsidian, like the rest of the legion, stood firm. This was not the first time he had stared death in the face. In fact, it was what made the old Gem feel.....alive. He and Commander Beryl momentarily locked eyes before the latter drew his sword. "Shocktroopers, stand to!", he ordered.

Obsidian then summoned his sword, and felt the familiar heat of his blade. Adrenaline now pumping in his veins, the Gem warrior eagerly awaited the signal. With the barbarian horde now only a few yards away from them, Commander Beryl raised his sword high into the air. "Come with me and take this planet! For the Homeworld!

"FOR THE HOMEWORLD!", the legion roared as they charged across the plain. When the two armies met, it was a chaotic flurry of swords and claws. Obsidian carefully parried an oncoming strike from a Kel'tal warrior, before slicing off two of its appendages in one fluid motion. Two more followed. Then two more.

Without fear and without remorse, Obsidian waded in to the thick of the battle. The flames on his sword danced and flickered with each of his swings, as if they were the soldier's partner in an intricate routine. This dance of death and brutal melee continued on until finally, only one of the insectoid warriors remained. Obsidian plunged his sword into the last Kel'tal before it could crawl away.

After making sure there were no more enemies, the Homeworld soldier raised his fist into the air. "VICTORY! Glory to the Homeworld! Glory to the Homeworld...."

"Glory to the....."

Obsidian looked around, then promptly smacked his helmet when he realized that he'd fallen asleep while on guard duty. The rest of his new legion, including Commander Ammolite, were busy getting some well-deserved rest. Thankfully, his sleep-talking hadn't awoken the others.

The knight smiled beneath his helmet. Obsidian had the fortune of growing up with a family, and he had served under many legions, as well as fought in many battles. But the little legion belonged to now, his little legion, were something in between. And Obsidian would have it no other way. Truly he treasured their company. The company of all.....two of them?

"Prasiolite!"

Obsidian was about to frantically start looking for the Preschool Gem when he felt something tap on his leg. He looked down, and let out a very loud sigh of relief. "Prasiolite! By the stars, you had me worried.....is....is there something you need?"

The green Gem nodded. "Yeah....could you....ya know....kneel for me? I gotta tell ya somethin' important."

While he was confused, Obsidian granted Prasiolite's request. But before Obsidian could say anything, he felt Prasiolite kick him in the face. Hard. "SHUT THE F*** UP! I'M TRYIN' TO GET SOME SLEEP!"

The Preschool Gem then promptly stormed off, letting out a few choice curse words as she did so. Obsidian's smile only grew wider as he watched her walk away. "Truly....there is no greater gift than this....", Obsidian whispered.

And so it is and so it shall be - that the boy who grew into a soldier found something more than glory and knighthood. He had found a legion he could stay with. And a legion he could call....

Family.