#OC Farren Breakwood | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

druidx · 2 months ago

Text

Someone You Don't Wanna Meet

Or "How Elo Found Out About Farren's Boxing Addiction"

Universe: Titan Fighting Fantasy CW: Eye dialect, swearing Tagging:@aquadestinyswriting @jacqueswriteblrlibrary & @hannah-heartstrings

"Mickey! Fancy seeing you here, me ol' mucker."

A sudden spring shower has swept down the street, leaving the cobbles sparkling in the afternoon sunlight and pedestrians emerging, rabbit-like, from under convenient overhangs. They're lucky, really. Elo and Farren are off-shift, in their civvies, headed to the Scholar for dinner. Farren freezes at the call, tense as if he's been caught with his hand in the cookie jar. Before Elo can say anything, he's spinning around, taking a side step, putting himself between her and the stranger. She frowns at the unnecessary, unusual, behaviour.

"Darryl! Great to see ya buddy." The Farren that sweeps towards the dark stranger with his broken nose and cauliflower ear is not the Farren of 30 seconds ago. To all intents, he's relaxed, jovial, happy to see this man. Elo's instincts are twisting her guts in knots that something is wrong.

The two men are clapping each other on the back in a blokey hug and Farren is using this to manoeuvre Darryl so his back is to Elo, all the while carrying on like they're oldest of friends. Elo and Farren have been Watch partners for a few months now, and Elo thought she'd met all his friends. And even if she hadn't, she doesn't understand why he's trying to hide her from this one.

Clearly, though, she's not wanted here, so Elo wanders back to where they'd been sheltering from the rain. Farren's eyes track her movements. Darting. Anxious. His face is smiling, but his eyes aren't.

She's normally good at reading body language, but the disparity between his open gestures and the tightness about his eyes is throwing her. She thinks it might be panic. Might be fear. She thinks he needs rescuing. But Farren's gone to so much trouble to hide her from this Darryl, whoever he is. Farren's done it deliberately and so must have a damned good reason.

Farren always does things with a damned good reason – it's something she likes about him. He can seem dumb and laissez-faire, but it's all on the surface. Underneath he's all quick thinking, figuring out the next steps so he can move on a penny. She likes that he nearly always has a plan. She doesn't like that he sometimes forgets to share it with her. In this case, it seems like the plan is to keep attention away from her, at the cost of himself. He needs her backup, but he doesn't want her to be seen.

Elo hates riddles. Too impatient, too literal. She's working on it, Farren's a good teacher. But still. Elo thinks that sometimes the best way out of a situation is through. Farren wants this man to go away? Elo picks up a pebble. She's good at being a nuisance when she wants; her biological mother always said so. Farren wants her to stay hidden? She can do that too – it's a good job she was trained by the sneakiest sneak in all of Allansia.

The pebble hits Darryl square on the back of his head. He whirls. "Some little shit just threw a rock at me!" Farren peers over Darryl's shoulder and doesn't let out a sigh of relief. There's no culprit in sight. Only a couple with groceries looking startled at Darryl's outburst and a dray in the distance. "Must have been the horse," Farren says, flicking his chin to indicate the beast. Darryl rubs his head and grumbles. "Anyway. It was good t'see you, mate, but I've gotta be getting on. Gotta get dinner 'fore goin' back to the factory. You know how it is." "Yeah." Darryl turns back. "Yeah, sure. Say, will you be in the ring on Seaday?" Farren rubs the back of his neck. "I dunno, mate. Depends what shifts are on at the factory." "Listen, Mick." Darryl puts a hand on Farren's arm. "I'm willing to pony up on you taking down Burton. The payout'd be more'n you'd make in three shifts at the stinkin' factory." Farren scoffs. "You're having a laugh, aintcha?" "He's naught but a wet-behind-the-ears pup," Darryl insists. "Yeah, he's got youth on his side, but you've got experience. You could have him." "Yeah. Maybe." Farren thumbs at his nose and sniffs. "We'll see." "Eh?" Darryl grins, slapping Farren on the arm. "See you on Seaday for that match then, me lad." The bruiser wanders off. Farren continues his walk towards the Skiving Scholar.

A shadow detaches itself from the wall once Darryl's out of sight down the way. "What," says the shadow, "the fuck?" Farren goes for his baccy pouch. "Once upon a time," he says, starting a rolly, "there was a young Watch officer whose superiors thought had fists of gold…"

#oc elowyn o'toreguarde #oc farren breakwood #writing #fighting fantasy #titan fighting fantasy #wandering words #What even is this style? It feels so different from what I normally write...

9 notes · View notes

druidx · 4 days ago

Text

Her Countenance was Light - Chapter 49

CW: None AO3 ; Chapters: 01. 10. 20. 30. 40. 41. 42. 43. 44. 45. 46. 47. 48 Tag list (ask for +/-): @aquadestinyswriting, @hannah-heartstrings, @jacqueswriteblrlibrary, @babyblueetbaemonster @mr-orion

Elo dozes in the car, tucked against Farren's side. When they arrive at his place, he carries her up the stairs to his condo. Elo doesn't have it in her to argue.

She sleeps some on his couch, surrounded by scents and noises that mean home and safety. Monday wakes her up to slurp down some water that tastes weirdly of bread and sugar, and gently helps her with a bowl of beef broth. She goes back to dozing to the low babble of conversation from her colleagues. Maybe an hour after they arrived, the doorbell goes. Yates places a placating hand on her shoulder when she starts awake. Farren allows entrance to a woman in a smart, starched white dress carrying a doctor's bag. She kneels in front of Elo, honey-brown hair pinned back and an easy smile on her pretty rosebud lips. "Hello, Detective. I'm Nurse Rowlands. Detective Breakwood asked me to stop by and check how you're doing. Would you lift your shirt please, so I can listen to your breathing?" "Anything for a pretty face," she says. The nurse rolls her eyes and proceeds to check Elo's vitals. When she's done, Farren, with arms crossed tight over his chest, asks, "So what's the prognosis?" "Her heart rate is a little higher than I'd like, but it's strong." Rowlands pulls out a clipboard and writes on it then passes it over to Monday, hovering next to Farren. "Check it again in two hours, and if it's still high, take her to the emergency room. Aside from that, just keep up her fluids, and with some rest, she'll be perfectly fine." "Fine enough to take you for a drink?" Elo asks. Rowlands laughs and pats her knee. "That's sweet, but no thank you." "You sure? I'm only here for another week." Rowlands laughs again and stands, collecting her bag. She gives Farren a meaningful glance. "No alcohol." He walks Rowlands to the door and gives her a peck on the cheek. "Thanks." "Take care," Rowlands says and is gone.

Elo feels noticeably perkier after the nurse's visit, so is less dozy when the telephone rings half an hour later. Cobbleskater gets to it first. "Hello?… Yes… Understood�� She's recovering well… Of course… About 40 minutes, depending on traffic… A beige Buick Centurion, plate number RA7 5PY… Understood… Roger that." He hangs up. "That was the General's security team. They want us to take Elo over now." Elo uncurls herself for the corner of the sofa, her face drawn. Farren glances over but his empty eyes don't quite meet hers. "Alright, lads," says Monday, "Let's roll out."

–––

They nose through the throng of people outside Strucker's house and the driveway gates are shut behind them. Elo stares at the big house. Most of the windows are dark. She thinks again about Strucker rattling around in there on his own. How the house will be filled with serious martial murmuring, instead of buoyant laughter. The door opens, letting in a rush of cold air. Before she can protest, Farren has scooped her up, carrying her towards the door. "My legs do work, you know." "Yeah, I know." "You can put me down anytime now." "Mmhm." Elo sighs and stops protesting. Besides, Farren is warm and the night is not.

Inside the house, Strucker is waiting for them. Farren lets her down, and Elo clasps Stucker in a rough hug. "Not gone to the noose," she whispers. "But still… A year gone…" "Is nothing. Not nearly as bad as it could have been." They break apart, and Johan gruffly clears his throat. "The bed's made up. There's cold cuts, if you're hungry." Elo shakes her head. "The lads fed me. Besides, I've only got two strong needs right now. One is a tipple, the other is more sleep, and I'd prefer them in that order." "Nurse Rowlands said no booze," Farren says, frowning. "C'mon," Elo weedles. "Don't you think I deserve a little something after the day I've had." Strucker is already headed towards the den. Farren throws up his hands. "Fine. Just one."

The three of them enter the den; Monday is liaising with Strucker's security, and Yates and Cobbleskater are already bivouacking somewhere in the house, ready to take their turn at watching her door – an absolute necessity, apparently, despite the phalanx of other security measures in place. Strucker, taking up station behind the wet bar, pours them all a drink, and they clink glasses. "Here's to not going to the noose." "Here, here," the others echo. The liquor is sipped in a contemplative silence. Elo finishes her drink and puts a hand over her mouth to hide a yawn. Stucker's eyes twinkle. "Bedtime for you, I think." She makes an affirmative murmur. "All the other bollocks can wait until tomorrow." Strucker grins. "Eloquently said." Farren plucks the glass out of her hand and places it down. "Right, I'm cutting you off. Come on." "Yeah, yeah." Elo slides off the wet bar stool with some degree of grace, albeit in the lower numerals.

Farren helps her up the stairs and into her room. She flops down on the bed, slumping over on her side. "You gonna be okay?" he asks. Elo groans into the mattress. "I don't know. Doesn't matter. 'Feelings' come under the heading of 'other bollocks' and can wait until tomorrow. Brek, I love you, but bugger off would you? I need sleep." Farren snorts and starts helping her take her boots off. "Well, now I've seen everything. First, you let yourself be coddled and now you openly admit even you need rest. Next, the sky'll be filled with fire and ash, and the end times will be upon us." "Fuck off," she says with a tired laugh. "Fucking off, ma'am," Farren says, closing the door behind him.

–––

She isn't sure how long she's slept before she's woken by the feeling of being watched. Elo lies still, staring into the dark. Could be her imagination. Could be Farren or one of the others checking on her. It doesn't feel like that though. She huffs a sigh and twists so she can look around the room. In the deep darkness of the corner at the foot of the bed are a pair of eyes, glowing like twin coals. She sits up. "Snotgrut?" "Kasskekadmas," he amends evenly. Elo groans and flops backwards, pulling the covers over her head. "Come back tomorrow," she says, voice muffled by the blankets. "I'm not in the mood for a fight." There is a noise, like cracking ice, that could be laughter. "Youse kin relax, Atnešė, I ain't here for a fight." Elo pulls the covers back down and squints at the figure. "I came to keep me watch, as promised. Didn't mean to wake youse." "Snotgrut–" "Kasskekadmas." "Kasskekadmas, what happened to your voice?" There is that crackling laugh again. "Finally noticed, did ya?" he says. "May as well ask what happened to the rest of me too." Snotgrut, who is apparently no longer just Snotgrut, stands and paces to the centre of the room. Against the haze of the wall, he looks taller. He makes a gesture towards the window. Clouds pull back from Aukštasvilkas' silver eye so Elo can see him in the moon-blue slice through her curtains. Elo sits up, arms wrapped around her knees as she regards him.

He's definitely taller. His build is the same, still narrow and pointy. There's less of a potbelly, his ears have lost their point and his skin is smooth. It's hard to tell in the moonlight, but she thinks he's no longer green – maybe tan or olive. He's still wearing the scraps Cobbleskater found for him, a trilby and trench coat draped over the arm of the clothes chair in the corner. "What happened to you?" "Funny thing, eh?" From someplace, he pulls a cigarillo of all things – bent and crushed – and puts it in his mouth. "I was trottin' along, on me way to the liddle meet you called, when I got this pain in my chest. Right sharp, like I'd been stabbed or somesuch. So I'm there, near to keeling over cuz it hurts like buggery, when I sees that I'm in a puddle of moonlight. And that's not so strange, mebby, 'cept I think my eyes is playing tricks, cuz the damn thing's getting bigger… Here, doll, youse mind lighting me up?" He waves the cigarillo at her. "Sure," she says, although she's not sure she believes that she actually can. She lifts a finger, holding it towards the end of the cigarillo, and thinks about the baking sun, angled through a lens at a patch of punk. A flame, weak and stuttering, appears, enough for Snotgrut to get a draw. He takes a deep lungful, leaning back and letting the cloud out towards the ceiling. Elo pinches her flame out. "You were saying?" she prompts as he wanders back to the chair. "Yuh… So that puddle, it swallowed me up, see? And I got explained to me a thing or two about how the old Dvasia boss weren't no good and how I was gonna be the next, and… Well." He takes another long draw on the cigarillo. "Youse remember tellin' me how you burnt? And you asked if I ever felt anything like it, but with ice? Yeah, well, now I have, 'xactly like how you said." He takes another suck on the cigarillo. "So… Looks like I'm the boss now, eh?"

He looks lost, she thinks. Shell-shocked and confused. She wonders if this is something he ever wanted, ever even thought about. She wonders if he's had anyone to talk it over with, if he reached out for help from anyone. From the look on his face, they couldn't have been too helpful if he did. She thinks she should've looked for him, instead of waiting for the new Kasskekadmas to come to her. But until the trial, she'd relegated all this back to the land of make-believe. "Youse gonna say anything?" "Hmm." "More'n that I meant." "What do you want me to say – congratulations, commiserations?" Elo sighs tiredly. "Someone has to bear the light. If not us, then who?" She shakes her head. "We've got a lot of work to do, sure. A lot of things to set straight, a workaround for Drakemar's monkey wrench–" "Youse mean what the Dragon said?" "Yeah. The dragon." For a moment Elo feels pleased that she wasn't imagining it when she looked at the man and saw instead the echo of a giant, fire-breathing wyrm. "I've been thinking about that. And, well, youse know how to write Eshen. And that oldster, Aster – afore you came along they used to talk to Bonerot, so they kin translate anything you say into Dvasia for me." Elo's eyebrows raise. "You'd willingly go to an Eshen for help?" "Came to youse, didn't I?" Snotgrut crosses his arms and pouts. "We both know you didn't come to me for help." Elo grins. "You just accepted the coffee in the spirit it was given." He grumbles something. Elo gives another tired sigh. "A lot to figure out, for sure. But it can wait until I've had a full night's sleep, okay?" He squints as if only now realising she's dead tired. "Sure thing, doll. Don't let me keep ya." Snotgrut – because she cannot get used to calling him by a title made ugly by another – melts back into the shadows of the chair and starts to hum a soulful little tune that eases Elo back into the land of sleep.

#oc elowyn o'toreguarde #oc farren breakwood #npc irvine cobbleskater #oc pryderi monday #oc themistocles yates #npc johan strucker #pc snotgrut #writing #HCWL Chapters only #WIP 'Her Countenance was Light'#titan fighting fantasy #fighting fantasy #ttrpg fanfiction #wandering words

4 notes · View notes

druidx · 3 months ago

Text

A Prelude in Orange

Universe: Titan Fighting Fantasy CW: Alcohol Notes: This is written from Farren's POV because I fancied giving it a go. Y'all can judge how well I did. Tagging: @aquadestinyswriting @jacqueswriteblrlibrary & @hannah-heartstrings

The pub is warm, filled with the golden light of high-class oil lamps. I ease myself back into the soft and worn cushions of our booth after coming back from the bar, swirling the cheap brandy in my glass. Across the dark oak table, sticky with the spills of many nights, Bug's fidgeting. You know, I don't even think she knows she does it. That little tap-tap-tap of a finger against the glass. Means she's antsy about something. If I thought it'd do any good, I'd tell her to relax. But it don't. If anything, it makes whatever she's ansting about worse, cuz then it's on her mind instead of at the back of it. 'S always best to let her chew and say whatever's bothering her when she's ready.

The weather's on the turn, right now. It's been a damp day; nothing heavy, just that messy shit that soaks you through if you ain't wearing an oilcloth. There's bound to be a nip in the air when we leave. Fortunately I've already got a few beers sloshing in me, but the chaser's my jacket for the road. Not that Bug looks like she's in any mood to move on right now. Whatever's caught her, got her well and truly mired.

I cast my eye around the taproom. The Skiving Scholar's an academic's bar, foremost, and got co-opted by us coppers at the Eighth only later. Means that mostly it's a safe spot to relax away from the office. Yeah, sure, sometimes the scholars get into a bout of fisticuffs over some arcane bullshit, but it ain't often that some stupid swarf makes the mistake of tryna start something in here. Still, I look over the crowd, just to make sure it's not one of the patrons that's got my Elo chewing the mental cud.

"Brek?" she says. I turn my attention back. She's glaring at her drink, hardly touched. "Yeah?" "You have brothers, yes?" What a question, huh. "Four of 'em, for my sins." "Did any of them ever…" She rolls her hand, searching for her words. She thinks a lot, does my li'l partner. Wants to make sure she's concise and accurate and says the right thing at the right time. A proper little diplomat. But I can never make up my mind if she's just like that, or if it's a side effect of having to speak in something she ain't native to. "Have any of them ever gotten into trouble they can't handle?" I furrow my brow. "Like a fight?" I can't see what she's driving at. "No. Something worse." She's fidgeting again. Won't meet my eye, passing her tankard back and forth between her hands. Cuthbert brace me, is all I can think. It's gotta be Ashbury. Wickerswitch is a good lad, knows his leaves from his bark, got a talent for woodling plant magic, same as their Mam. Ashbury on the other hand… Boy's got no lick of sense between his ears and it shows in all the get-rich-quick schemes his and his no-good mates conjure. I say, "Not much else to get into trouble with, out in the sticks where they are." The tankard stills. "Huh." Over by the fire, the scholars are devising what sounds like a drinking song in draconic. "What's eatin' ya, Bug?" I ask when she doesn't offer anything more. She gives a quick shake of the head. "Nothing. It's fine." She lies like a sieve, but, Don't push, I have to remind myself before the drink can force the issue. We've been partners a year at this point. Long enough for me to figure out when to push and when to let her come to me on her own. If this is a family matter, then it's definitely something I can't push.

Abruptly she chugs back her beer. "We've got an early tomorrow," she says, dropping the empty with a thud onto the table. "We should be getting back." "It ain't an early early. No one's gonna worry if we oversleep a bit." I say. Such a stickler, she is. But then, 's what got her landed with me in the first place. "Let me enjoy my drink, huh? We've got time." "Breakwood." Full name, unimpressed tone, head canted to the side with a frown. Yup, not the time to push. "Sure, alright." I knock back my brandy in two swigs and set the glass on the table. She's already on her feet and heading out. All I can do is trail after.

#oc elowyn o'toreguarde #oc farren breakwood #writing #fighting fantasy #titan fighting fantasy #wandering words

5 notes · View notes

druidx · 5 months ago

Text

I'm trying to do that writing exercise 'Paint a picture of a character by describing their bedroom while they’re not in it' for Farren's Modern AU room, but every time I try, it flips around and becomes my parent's bedroom even though it makes no sense for a window to be there in Farren's room...

#oc farren breakwood #fighting fantasy #titan fighting fantasy #bitching and moaning

6 notes · View notes

druidx · 2 years ago

Text

Thanks for the tag STSMGM, and the question, writingamongthecoloredroses! Happy MGM to you :)

The Name Picker has chosen Farren Breakwood for this, so of course that means we need to also talk about Elowyn O’Toreguarde.

These two have a lot of history, and so there is a lot of needling about “that time when-”, however their go-to argument is either:

About the injuries Farren sustained while participating in cage fights. The crux of this argument is that the fighters were totally unnecessary. At the time it was a serious point of contention. Now, while they are able to joke about it more, it’s left Farren with a lot of long-term health problems which flare up after a misadventure, leaving Elo frustrated that she can’t heal them.

About Elo’s inability to put herself first (ie, she’s always the last one through the door of a burning building). This one goes a bit deeper. Farren understands - after all, it’s a large part of what makes Elo who she is, and why he loves her - but he doesn’t like it. He’s quote vociferous about the thought, especially when it comes off the back of some misadventure.

MGM, 1/4

Happy Meet and Greet Monday.

Are there are any stupid arguments that your characters come back to constantly to fill silence? Are they actually stupid or do they go deeper?

@stsmgm

Whoever sees this!

#meet & greet monday #writeblr community #writeblr event #oc farren breakwood #oc elowyn o'toreguarde #fighting fantasy #titan fighting fantasy #meta wandering words #this has been in my drafts so long #meta writing #series DNS

10 notes · View notes

druidx · 3 months ago

Text

Her Countenance was Light - Chapter 35

CW: None AO3 ; Chapters: 01. 10. 20. 30. 31. 32. 33. 34. Tag list (ask for +/-): @aquadestinyswriting, @hannah-heartstrings, @jacqueswriteblrlibrary, @babyblueetbaemonster @mr-orion

Johan drops her off outside the station, and – childish though it is – she's glad he doesn't come in with her. She gets enough weird looks and stares as it is.

Inside, she takes a breath filled with the scent of stale coffee, musk and nicotine, revelling in the normality of the bullpen's chatter and the click-clack-ding of typewriters as she winds her way to her desk. Fugit's office door is firmly closed; while Elo feels a bit sorry for whichever poor sod's getting an earful, she's glad that for once it's not her. Finally at her desk, she notes that the two to the right have been cleared of the previous occupants' nicknacks and replaced, presumably, with Monday and Yates'. Of her officers, there's no sign, so instead she turns to her desk. Someone has left her a bottle, tall and filled with dark liquid with a red ribbon and tag tied to the neck like a cravat. She picks it up, examines the label: Jamaican dark rum, of a rather exclusive brand. 'You're likely to need this' reads the tag, signed by Captain Fugit. Elo smiles because her captain is probably right about that.

"Lieutenant!" Cobbleskater pipes up from behind her. Elo turns. Well, that explains where her officers are. Cobbleskater is already moving towards his desk, but Farren – Monday and Yates behind him – stay where they are. "Wasn't expecting to see you today," Farren says, his crossed arms accusatory. Elo gives him a tight smile. "Gentlemen," she says, addressing the others, "Breakwood and I need a word. If you'll excuse us." She flicks her head towards the stairwell, raises her eyebrows expectantly, and turns to leave.

Elo finds an empty interview room and flips the marker to 'in use', perching on a table as Farren follows in, closes the door and resumes his angry, crossed-arms stance. "Alright," Elo says. "Lay it on me. Whatever you didn't want to say last night." Farren looks at her, gaze appraising and shoulders tense. Then he huffs and pulls out his tobacco pouch, pulling open the soft green leather to show her all the tobacco has been replaced by rolled-up cigarettes. "I wasn't kidding when I said you owed me another packet of baccy," he says. "When I wasn't out hunting for you, I was making rollies. And this is only half. I've smoked the rest." "I'll put it on my shopping list," she says evenly. The baccy pouch hits the table beside her, spilling its contents. "That's not the fucking point!" "I know." He's waving his arms now, waging a finger at her. "There's summint going on with you, girl. An' it ain't politics or grief, nor battle trauma. There's summint else. An' you think I can't tell! I know you better than anyone else could ever hope to know you. I thought we were past not trusting each other. So why won't you talk to me? I'm your partner. How am I s'posed to back you up if I don't know what's going on? How am I s'posed help, huh? Tell me." Elo waits until he's settled back, his face a mix between stricken and outraged. She says, "This isn't about not trusting you. You're my brother, Brek. I trust you better than I trust my own mother. And you're right, something is going on. But I don't understand it myself yet, and I don't have the words for it. But I promise, Brek – I swear on my badge – that when I know, you will too." She watches his shoulders drop a fraction. Farren plucks one of his roll-ups from the pile beside her and lights it. "This is what you were set up to apologise for last night?" "No." Elo braces her hands on her thighs and stares at the floor as she takes a breath. Then she looks up and meets Farren's eye. "I did a lot of soul-searching up that tree. And I realised I've not been fair to you. I was changed by what happened to me while I was out of the city and the things I did whilst seconded by the Triumvirate. None of it was for the better. You watched your partner leave but that girl didn't come back. You got a stranger in her stead. "You know, I was a one-woman command unit out there. Made all the tough calls. Took all the shit when things went south. I guess when I came back, I forgot to let that go. "So that's what I'm apologising for – forgetting how to be your partner. Forgetting that I have support here. That I don't need to be that person anymore. Not here. Not with you." Elo blinks away the water which mists her vision. "I'll do better, I will. But I'm going to need your patience. Do you remember what I was like as a rookie?" Farren pales, stubs out his cigarette. His voice is rough, as he says, "Yes." Elo ducks her head to the side with a small, allowing shrug. "Yeah. It's not quite that bad. But I– I'm gonna–" Farren's stance relaxes and he reaches out to place a hand on her arm. "I got you outta your shell once, Li'l Bug. I can do it again." Elo squeezes his hand and gives a thankful nod. Telegraphing his movements, Farren sweeps her up in a hug, and if she makes a damp patch on his shoulder– well. It'll be dry by the time they get back to the bullpen.

As they separate, Farren says, "If that's all you came in for, you should go home and get some rest." Elo rubs her red eyes. "Not yet, I want an update on the case first. I'm still your CO. Difference is, now I have my own commanding officer to report to again." Farren huffs what could be a laugh as he collects his tobacco pouch. As they exit the room, she continues, "And then I have to go soothe some ruffled feathers in the Council chambers." "Oh?" "There's been nay-sayers about the trade negotiations since King Storri arrived. Y'know, those who were always going to firmly side against the Icelanders, just like there was during the Brotherhood incident. But now they're trying to sway the fence-sitters by saying that my disappearances are because I secretly don't want the negotiations, even though nothing could be further from the truth." Elo runs a hand over her face. "So they're dragging your ass up there to prove these nay-sayers wrong?" Farren sounds disguised by the idea. "I'm dragging my ass up there," Elo clarifies. "You know I missed Merri and Yourk's wedding because of this bullshit. I will not let this deal fall through."

Back in the bullpen, Elo calls out for Cobbleskater. "Do you have that information I asked for?" "Of course, ma'am. Everything you need to know is in my report." He hands over a manilla folder, and she flicks through the contents, eyes grazing falling graphs. "Thank you, this looks very thorough. And where are we with the translations?" His little sigh tells her everything she needs to know. "I am having a touch of difficulty with it, ma'am. As much as I would prefer you to be resting as we were informed you would be," Cobbleskater gives an apologetic shrug to Farren, "To be perfectly honest, I could do with your help." Farren harrumphs, but Elo ignores him. "Where are you set up? We'll go after I've got any updates on the case." "Room 107," the little man says, rising. "I'll just go… tidy it up." He gives her a strange look, pushes his glasses up his nose and scurries off. Elo c back at Farren, now ensconced on his side of their desks. "Should I ask?" "Best not." He grins, then nods at the bottle on her desk. "Who's leaving you gifts this time?" "Like you haven't looked." "Nope. Irvine rapped our knuckles with a ruler when we tried." Elo snorts, as she slides it into a drawer. "Good." "Well?" "It's a commiseration gift from Captain Fugit. For my promotion."

"Well I, for one, am happy you made LT," Monday pipes up from where he lounges in his desk chair. "Yeah?" Elo shoots him a wry grin as she flicks through the contents of her inbox. "Seems like it's always much more interesting over this side of the office." Farren barks a laugh. "Interesting," he says, reaching for his baccy pouch. "That's one way of putting it." "Do you really want 'interesting' at your time of life?" Yates asks Monday with a teasing grin. "Took you as my partner, didn't I?" Monday quips back. Elo slaps the paperwork back into the in-tray and leans against her desk. "Right then, gents. Updates, please." "Yates?" Farren invites.

Elo looks over at the officer. He's perched at the intersection of his and Monday's desks so she doesn't have to twist to talk to them both, which is thoughtful, but does make her neck ache having to look up so far. "Ma'am, I spoke to Candice yesterday. She concurred with your opinion that the book is handbound with parchment pages. She also said to tell you it's not human leather?" Yates raises a perfectly groomed, ash-blonde eyebrow. Elo shakes her head. "We'll fill you in another time." "…Righty-o. She says your book isn't written in any language she knows of, though she did find correlations between the book's content and the markings on the artefact." "Ah, I thought so," Elo murmurs. "Her expert is supposed to come in today to look at the items, so until then we won't be able to postulate what meaning the artefact had to our vic, nor the book to the boat's owner." Elo cants her head. "You assume the boat's owner was part of the plot?"

It's Monday who answers, running a hand over his copper hair, cut down to a military fuzz. "It's not registered to the owner of Tattham docks." "Facts, then supposition," Elo says. Monday gives an allowing nod. "While the clerk was, ahem, distracted, I borrowed her ledger for a little look-see. The jetty is being rented out by a company called Paragon Autologistics." Elo pauses him with a frown. "Clarify 'distracted'." Monday chuckles, his jowls shaking. Yates' expression sours. "How many buttons you have undone, Yates?" Farren asks with a smirk. "For the record," Yates says, "she started flirting with me." "I see," Elo says, struggling to keep a straight face. And she does; for all that she likes the ladies, even she can appreciate that with his blond hair in its rakish cut and penchant for quality tailoring and loose collars, Yates has his charms. She can well imagine this unknown young lady being instantly smitten as soon as Yates so much as fluttered his long lashes. "Ma'am, I would never compromise the integrity of the badge while on duty," Yates offers by way of argument. "Understood." Elo uses a cough to cover her laughter. "Did you get anything aside from the name?" "There were some financial irregularities on the books," Monday says. "The rent they're paying for a jetty is nominal at best. I've got a friend at the ombudsman who helped discover that Paragon Autologistics is a shell corporation. I've got them running down any other shell corps which might lead to the owner." "This is above board, right – you put in an official request?" Elo asks. "I'm sure Breakwood's told you this is personal for me. I don't want this guy getting off on a technicality." "Relax." Monday holds his hands in a placating gesture. "Everything's shipshape and watertight." A lesser officer might have been offended that she even had to ask, but Elo recognises the slack Monday's cutting her. Presumably, Farren's already been over this. "Thank you." "So our theory is, even if the boat owner isn't directly involved, they're certainly up to some associated shady shit." "That would concur with the information from my informant, that the vic was given a tip-off about something of interest on the boat, which is why she was down there in the first place. It would follow that someone related to the boat had some secrets to keep…" Elo presses a hand against her forehead, quelling the tide of anger that rises inside her as she thinks of brilliant Evie, on the cusp of sussing out some truth, before the Shadowling struck her down. "Knowing what the vic thought she might find would be extremely useful," Yates says. "I'd better go help Cobbleskater with the translations then." Elo forces a smile. "This is really good work, lads. Was there anything else?" "Not yet," Monday says. "I'll get back onto my guy, see what else he's found." "Breakwood's case notes said the vic was close with a woman named Samantha Fallight, right?" Yates says. "I'll hit her up, see if she knows anything." "We'll also give the dock owner a shakedown. He had to be getting kickbacks to make the rent so low." "Alright. Oh and if someone from City Hall comes around for me, set them up in the breakroom with coffee and a pastry until I'm done, would you?" "Sure thing, LT," Monday says. Elo smiles as she stands to head up to where Cobbleskater's working. The fallout from telling a half-truth will be worth it, she thinks. "I'll walk with you," Farren says. "You know, some of these rooms are tricky to find…"

"I know this station like the back of my hand, as well you know," Elo says, waspish, as she and Farren exit the bullpen. "And you hardly need to walk me everywhere–" Farren snorts, taking a long drag of his cigarette. "Sure, because look how well that's worked out." "Excuse me!" "Getting shot up, your bike trashed. Vanishing for a whole day!" "Those were unforeseen–" "Doesn't matter. You were right. Everyone up on the Hill's mighty edgy. So to mitigate it happening again, we've been told not to let you alone, not even to go to the bathroom." Elo scoffs. "That is a gross overreaction." "Is it?" Farren takes another long drag of his cigarette, crushing it as he does. "Ignoring what you said about those vultures on the Hill, ignoring that this is the Acting Magister's direct order to help unruffle those feathers – ever since this case started, any time you're alone you manage to find a way to get into trouble, which has been impressive, even for you. So you tell me, if this was anyone else – hell, if our roles were reversed – how would you react, hm?" Elo opens her mouth to protest, but Farren holds up a hand. "No, don't just spout some BS. Actually think." So she does. She thinks about when she discovered Merri had been chased by racists from the Brotherhood of the Cleave. Her first instinct had been to wrap Merri up and hide her someplace safe. Elo tries to put herself in Farren's shoes. If he'd been targeted like she has, if he'd publicly been upset and vanished without a trace for over 24 hours… Elo presses a hand to her forehead, then scrubs it down her face. "One day," she says, "you're going to be wrong about something." Farren gives her a self-satisfied smirk.

#oc elowyn o'toreguarde #npc irvine cobbleskater #oc farren breakwood #oc pryderi monday #oc themistocles yates #writing #HCWL Chapters only #WIP 'Her Countenance was Light'#titan fighting fantasy #fighting fantasy #ttrpg fanfiction #wandering words

4 notes · View notes

druidx · 1 month ago

Text

The Stitches Beneath

CW: General angst, injury, blood Note: Set in the modern alt universe of "Her Countenance was Light", but with vanilla canon implications Tag list (ask for +/-): @aquadestinyswriting, @hannah-heartstrings, @jacqueswriteblrlibrary, @babyblueetbaemonster Or read on AO3

Elo's standing by the sideboard, examining the new titles he's bought, when Farren saunters over with her coffee. "You're welcome to borrow it after I'm done, if you want," he says, putting a hand on her shoulder. Elo's eyes flash wide and she hisses, pulling away from his touch. "Sorry, I didn't mean to startle–" "No, it's fine, sorry, I just– Long day, you know?" Elo flashes a tight smile. "That I do," Farren says, and sets the cup down. Elo's turned to face him, and Farren notes she's standing very stiffly, the shoulder he just touched hunched unnaturally. "You sure you're alright?" He points to his own shoulder. "Did you pull something?" "No, yeah, I'm fine," is the quick answer, eyes darting away. Libra's scales, but she's a shit liar. "Alright. Well, let's stop standing on ceremony, eh?" He gestures to the sofa. "Make yourself at home." This is the fifth or so time he's had her round for dinner. She could just still be feeling the need to be polite. The fact she's picked up the mug in her non-dominant hand could just be convenient. He could be the Queen of Sheba. They sit on the sofa, Farren sprawled comfortably. Elo is gingerly easing herself back, and even then she sits stiffly. "I could always give you a shoulder rub if you've over exerted," Farren says. "No! I-I mean, that's okay, thank you." "Just, I can't imagine it was easy dragging me out of that warehouse?" Her lips are pinned in a flat line, glaring at the switched-off TV before she answers, "Backup had arrived by then. One of the uniforms helped me." He watches her a moment longer. Nothing more is forthcoming, and Farren decides he's given plenty of opportunities to fess up to whatever's wrong. "You lie like a hooker, you know that?" "Excuse me?" He sits forward. "Cut the crap and tell me what's wrong with your shoulder."

Her mouth works. She rubs at her forehead. "It's nothing. Just a scratch." "Bug. What happened?" She throws her hands up. "I was coming down the warehouse stairs with Vecchio and the other backup when I saw McCleary push you over. So I yelled to Vecchio to cover me and… I was going towards you anyway, you know? But McCleary took a step back and picked something metallic off the ground, so I dove over you… And bloody Vecchio! I don't know where he thought he was shooting, I swear his aim used to be better than that. Man needs glasses or something…" "Bug?" Elo takes a staggered breath. "Right. So McCleary brings this wire or whatever down and he catches my shoulder. Vecchio and the unis tackle McCleary, the medics are more interested in you and there's only room for one in the blood wagon anyway, so I went home on the way to the hospital and patched myself up so you and your what-turned-out-to-be-mild concussion wouldn't be worrying about why I was bleeding." "Did you log it?" Elo snorts. "No. It's just an iddy scratch. Next you'll be telling me I have to log my papercuts." "If you haven't been to see Matilde about it and you didn't get it looked over by an EMT, let me have a look." She pulls back, stance closing off. "Why? It's fine." "A cut on the back is hard to deal with on your own." He raises his hands in a placating gesture. "I just wanna check it got cleaned up okay." Elo's arms snake defensively around her middle and her cheeks colour. "But I'd have to remove my shirt and bra, and… Um. Well, I'm not sure that's professionally appropriate." "I'll lend you a towel, you can use that to cover up. Think of it like wearing a strapless dress." "Because we both know how often I do that…" She shakes her head. "Why are you so bothered about a tiny cut?" Farren purses his lips and looks away. "It's just… I had a mate, over at the 86th. He got caught by a junkie's shiv on the ribs. Just a small cut, he said he patched it up. But he didn't get it cleaned out properly. It got infected, went septic. Within a 10-day he was dead." Farren turns serious eyes on her. "I'd rather that not happen to you, if it's all the same." Elo swallows. "Oh." "So your choice is me, now. Or Matilde tomorrow morning – and I will be checking with her." Fear laces the tightness around her eyes, but her voice is sharp. "Fine. Get me the towel."

After changing in the bathroom, Elo settles herself on one of the stools at the breakfast bar where Farren's laid out his med kit. The dressing is longer than Farren's expecting, held on more by hope than microporous tape. He peels the dressing off and sucks in a breath. "Bug, this is not just a scratch!" The wound is at least six inches long. Paper sutures wonkily attempt to hold the sides together. It's already looking angry. "You were just going to leave it like this?" She mumbles something he doesn't catch. "And how would you've dealt with it on the streets, huh? What kinda backup would you be, writhing on the ground after some turkey pushed you into a wall!" "I would have managed! Taken painkillers or something. It's only cuz I'm relaxed that it hurts." "Bullshit!" "On like you can talk, Mr 'I ran on a sprained ankle'." "That was different. And at least I told you!" Farren slams the flats of his hands on the counter. "Libra's scales, why are you like this!" She freezes. Voice cold and husky, "I think I should leave." Then she's sliding off the stool, and grabbing for her coat. "Bug, stop. Wait. Stop, I said!" Farren grabs Elo's arm, wrenching her back around to face him. She tries some manoeuvre to get out of his grip, but he's like a dog with a bone and she's not at her best. "What is it you think I'm like? Tell me – what name are you gonna throw at me?" "Why the hell are you doing this to yourself?" He shakes her. "Who gave you the idea this is how it should go?" Her eyes widen and her lips press tightly. "Who told you, huh?" She looks away. "Was it Dalliance?" Her head whips around. "No! How dare you–!" "Then who? Huh?" He shakes her again. "I want names, damnit." Lips press again into a bloodless line as she angrily holds his gaze. Farren lets go, stepping back. Elo twists into a fighting stance. Knuckles white where she grips her coat. "Gods dammit…" He cups the back of his neck, eyes squeezed closed, forcing himself to take deep breaths. When he opens, she's watching him warily, body tense like she's expecting to fight. A trickle of blood stains the towel. "At least let me dress that, before you go." She relaxes her stance with a wince. Her lips are twisted in a nauseous expression, her lightened skin sheened with sweat. She gives a tight nod.

They move back to the breakfast bar, silent aside from the odd hiss or grunt of pain as Farren cleans the wound. It's only as he's applying the dressing, that he says, "I'm sorry. For losing my temper. But this isn't procedure. And I know you know that. What's the handbook say, huh?" Her voice now tight and small, Elo quotes, "If an injury is sustained that will be detrimental to one's normal working duties, it should be reported to a superior officer and logged by the in-house medic." "And what's the reasoning given?" "Injuries must be logged primarily to ensure the injured officer is given appropriate time off, or reduced duties, to expedite the healing process and return them to normal duties as soon as practicable." "Damn straight. So tomorrow, you're gonna go to Matilde and you're gonna tell her you didn't realise it was as bad as it is until you got me to look at it. And now you know, you're reporting it in accordance with procedure." He takes a juddering breath. "And I'm not gonna keep pushing. You wanna tell me who made you think this was normal, you do it when you're good and ready. But you do this to me again…" His hands still on her back, and she can feel them shaking. Something burns in Elo's chest. "I won't. I promise. On my badge." Farren draws in a deep breath. "Good." His hands go back to work.

#oc elowyn o'toreguarde #oc farren breakwood #writing #series DNS #Universe: Her Countenance was Light #modern au #titan fighting fantasy #fighting fantasy #ttrpg fanfiction #wandering words #+ a special easter egg for Aqua

4 notes · View notes

druidx · 1 month ago

Text

Her Countenance was Light - Chapter 41

CW: None AO3 ; Chapters: 01. 10. 20. 30. 40. Tag list (ask for +/-): @aquadestinyswriting, @hannah-heartstrings, @jacqueswriteblrlibrary, @babyblueetbaemonster @mr-orion

The sky is overcast, threatening rain, as Elo sits with Farren's phone, legs bunched on the green twill armchair, ear glued to the handset as she waits for the call to connect. "Emerald Star, Christopher speaking. How may I assist you?" "This is Detective O'Toreguarde, TPD. Could you put me through to room 1803?" The concierge pauses. "And may I enquire about the nature of your correspondence?" His Nibs is a high-profile guest; of course, they're screening his calls. "It's Triumvirate business. I'm afraid I'm not at liberty to disclose anything further." Another pause. "And whom should I say is calling?" Didn't she just–? But maybe the concierge is on her side… Elo sighs. "Lady Elowyn." "Very good, your Ladyship. Connecting you now." Elo can hear Farren humming from the bathroom, mingling with the drone of his electric razor. "Good morning, Lady Elowyn," comes a lilting, feminine voice. "This is Unka, His Majesty's personal assistant. What can I help you with?" "May I speak to His Majesty directly?" "I'm afraid he's still asleep at the moment. Perhaps I can help?" "I understand that making travel arrangements to return to Iceland may take some time. I thought, while that was completed, His Majesty and I could take in some more of the city sights. I'm still relieved of my duties as a policeman, and I suspect that neither of us is particularly keen to visit City Hall today." There's splashing coming from the bathroom now. The phone line stays quiet. Elo forges on, "Despite any implications made during yesterday's negotiation meeting, I have enjoyed His Majesty's company this past week, as a friend, and I have enjoyed showing him the city I love. If he's of the same mind, I would like to continue until he leaves." The silence from the other end of the phone continues, and Elo wonders if she's on speakerphone. In for a dollar… "I may also have a selfish motivation. The head of his security detail is my best friend. If these talks fall through I don't know when I'll be able to see her next. I already missed her wedding. I don't want to miss anything else. And His Majesty is the last link I have to my dear Aunt. I don't want to lose that either. "Please, Your Majesty, if you're listening, would you at least consider one final trip out with me?" The line stays silent. "I'm staying with Detective Breakwood at the moment. Or you can always reach me at the station." Elo gives Farren's number and her desk number, waits a few moments more, and sets the handset back in its cradle.

"Guess it didn't go well, huh?" Farren asks from the doorway. Elo scrunches herself further into the chair. "No. He wouldn't even speak to me." Farren bustles around the kitchen, making a cup of freeze-dry coffee. "You know, you were right. You're not expected at work or at City Hall." He keeps his back to her. "You could stay here and take a day?" Elo lets her head fall onto the backrest. Outside, central Toreguard is hidden by the haze of low clouds. The filigreed dome of the Theater d'Olidammara is a flat yellow. On the twin bridges, Comedy's traffic is nose-to-tail but Tragedy flows freely. She could take the day. But then do what – sit around and mope? At the end of Farren's street is a deli/bodega. Elo watches the crowds on the sidewalk dipping in and out with take-out cups or bags of cheap convenience, watching as they hurry on their way to a job or school or to care for someone. She wonders how many of them are also having a crappy week. How many of them also ache and grieve and have to push on. She shouldn't be so selfish. Elo uncurls and stands. "Just because I'm not expected, doesn't mean there isn't work to be done." Farren's shoulders slump as he gives a heavy sigh. "Yeah. S'what I thought you'd say." He turns and holds out a mug of coffee. "Here. Get this down you and we'll head on."

–––

At the station, Elo busies herself with the ever-increasing stack of paperwork in her in-tray; there's not much more to be learnt from Evie's journals, Cobbleskater tells her, and he can handle it himself. Elo suspects he's in a snit because she wasn't prompt with finishing the translations.

It's just shy of mid-morning, she's in the breakroom getting coffee with Ayton, when there's a stir in the bullpen. They peek out to see King Storri leaning against Elo's desk. Merri is idly pawing through the in-tray. Ayton looks up at Elo with a delighted grin. "Oooh, girl! Is that who I think it is?" "Yeah." "And just what did you do to get him to show up here?" Elo looks at Storri, back at Ayton, and presses a hand to her forehead. "Technically, it wasn't me. But I can't talk about it right now. Ask me again when I've got something stronger than coffee in my hand." Ayton's face drops. "Oh, shit. That bad?" "Worse." Elo takes a gulp of coffee, hands it to Ayton, straightens her shirt and steps out, once again fully aware that she has the attention of the whole bullpen on her.

"Your Majesty," she says, giving him a bow from the waist. "What can I help you with?" Storri startles upright, covers his startling with a cough, and inclines his head. "Detective O'Toreguarde. Is there somewhere more private we may speak?" "Of course, Your Majesty." Elo glances at her old companion, and adds with a bite, "Agent Gruksdottir, do you mind?" Merri waves from where she's now poking around in Elo's top drawer. "Not at all. On you go." Elo purses her lips and huffs. Merri glances up, sees Elo's face, says, "Oh," and sheepishly closes the drawer. Elo inclines her head in sarcastic thanks, then gestures the king ahead of her. "This way," Elo says, leading the way from the bullpen.

They find a free interview room, and Elo flips the marker to 'in use' as she ushers the king in. Elo stops on the threshold, but Merri gives a quick shake of her head; she'll remain out here. Elo closes the door and steps away, crossing her arms. "So," she says. King Storri draws himself to full height. "I have acted, to you in specific, in a most unbecoming manner. Having heard your words this morning and knowing that you were the butt of yesterday's farce, I have considered my behaviour and found it lacking. If you are still willing, I would enjoy a final day in your company to further explore the city you and my beloved call home." His beloved… Elo doesn't think she's going to get used to hearing anyone refer to Aunt Alexis as 'their beloved'. She loosens her arms. "Your apology is accepted. And I would love to show you more of Toreguard. I'd still like to apologise for yesterday–" Storri holds up a hand. "I think, perhaps, it best to leave politics aside. I understand your desire to have our two nations on speaking terms again, but," he turns his head away with a shake, "I cannot countenance it. Not anymore. Not after Drakemar, and after what they did to your Aunt, and now what they've tried to do to you. This is the final coffin nail." Elo swallows, allowing her gaze to fall with her shoulders. "I understand. I'll be showing you the city today, not as Lady Elowyn, but as Elo who could have been your step-child." Storri crosses the space between them and clasps her shoulder. "It is for the best." "Right. Well then," Elo looks up and forces a smile. "I know the perfect place to start."

–––

"They did love her, you know," Elo says. "Despite the Triumvirate bowing to the Business Consortium's wishes and placing the Edict, they loved her and the others enough to make these statues." They are standing on the quayside of the Ring Canal, bundled up against the spring drizzle, and staring across the busy water at the statues which stand sentinel at the edge of the City Hall Plaza. The Ring of Heroes, which Elo has delivered a short lecture on, is too far to complete on foot, so instead Elo has chosen to show him Alexis' statue. The gracefully carved marble gazes watchfully out over the city, the long rifle Foreign Policy resting at ease in her hands. A phantom wind twitches her trench coat and cornrows. "They love her still, too. There're always parties on the anniversary of Greydown's defeat. Always toasts to her skill and bravery. Although," Elo's gaze falls away, "with each passing year they love the legend a little more and the person a little less." Storri is immersed in a thoughtful silence. "Why are we not up there?" Merri asks. "Enezeag, Felix and Darrius are," Elo says. "Technically, you're a traitor, and I keep – ahem – forgetting to attend the sculpture sittings." Merri laughs and loops an arm over Elo's shoulder. "Never change, cridhe. Never change."

They move on to the City Museum. It's a beautiful building, made of red brick and terracotta mouldings, and filled with the story of Toreguard's rise, fall, and phoenix-like regeneration. Elo focuses their attentions on the parts her aunts have played in the city's history, how they fought for it and saved it. She draws Storri's attention, too, to the descriptions of Greydown – the man who thought himself above others and brought ruin down on everyone, including himself. The King smiles tolerantly, and Elo has to remind herself of course he knows about it already; it's much more recent history for him than it is her. Storri strides past the section on Drakemar and his emissary with barely a glance. Elo doesn't understand what his issue with Drakemar is. She can't see what's wrong with taking money from a wealthy benefactor and turning it around to rebuild the city and rehome all the people displaced by the bombs and subsequent fighting. There've been some small concessions in governance which benefit Drakemar and his people, she knows that, but isn't that acceptable when, without him, Toreguard would not be standing? But he said no politics, so she doesn't bring it up, and they move on to the museum restaurant instead.

Elo finds herself wanting to apologise to the staff and other patrons as Storri's security sweeps in to clear a whole corner – one with the best view, no less. To their credit, the maître de doesn't bat an eye, and lunch, with a complimentary bottle of bubbly, goes down well; the cheque that Unka hands over, with such a great deal of zeros, probably helps a lot too. They linger up there, with Elo pointing out the dome of Theater d'Olidammara, now glittering in the sunlight pushing through fat clouds, and the university buildings behind it. City Hall takes up most of the view from the other direction, but in the distance, they can just make out the obelisk-shaped spire of the Temple of Heironeous.

Then it's time to move on, but not without one last little stop. The way up to the restaurant is lined with portraits, which had Storri pausing by each to examine and read over the placard. So Elo steers them out via the Ovoxi Hall, a large room of which one wall is taken up entirely by the faux-renaissance painting The Casting of Challenge Seeker. The mighty canvas depicts five heroes standing with their backs to the viewer at the top of a crenellated tower, while around them are littered the corpses of demons. In the tumultuous clouds above a titanic, Olympian-esque figure is visible from the waist up. This Titan has his arm outstretched in the starry heavens, as if he has just thrown the silver sword which glitters like the north star just beyond his grip. Storri reads the info plaque next to the recommended-viewing bench, making noise of exclamation as he learns the piece is younger than Elo, that it was gifted by an anonymous creator and donor almost as soon as the museum opened, and just what it represents. He then steps forward to take in the details of the smallest member of the party, and once he is done, turns back to Elo with a solemn nod.

Outside the museum, Elo hails a punt and asks the punter to take them a circuitous route to the covered markets at Olmsafon. As they travel – down the North Trunk then turning East into progressively smaller waterways – Elo finds herself giving a running commentary of each district and item of import they pass. Sometimes it's a grand event, sometimes it's a silly memory, but it builds up into a verbal cloth, woven of all the threads that tie her, and tied her Aunt, to the city they both love; a cloth which Elo, with all the skills she can, drapes around Storri to show him Toreguard and her people are worth his attention and alliance.

The markets are bustling as the punter pulls up to the docks. As they disembark, Merri shoots Elo a distinctly unimpressed look, which Elo accepts with a repentant tilted head. It's possible, having lost track of the days, she hadn't quite thought this one through – with so many locals doing their weekly shop and tourists enjoying the ambience, it makes the King much harder to protect. But equally, Elo reasons, if someone deliberately meant to do him harm they would need to know his movements in advance; and considering that none of them knew an hour ago where they were headed, Elo thinks it's probably safe. And anyway, she thinks – as she wanders around with him, their arms linked like a step-child and father aught, pointing out things that take his fancy and she explaining some particular oddity brought by the city being such a melting pot of culture, chatting with the vendors, sampling victuals, and buying an increasingly extravagant amount of goods – he's relaxed and having fun. She does not like the amount of grief that he had been subject to by Brauma; Merri said he was here in part to take a break from everyday stress, and Elo should be facilitating that, not causing more.

It's just past four when they exit the markets. A car is called to take all the parcels back to Storri's rooms, and then they move on for afternoon tea at a rather hidden, and thus exclusive, cafe that Aunt Selene liked to frequent. Elo hasn't been here in a while – it's one of those places that, on a copper's salary, is quite a lot out of her price range – but it's just as delightful as she recalls. They're tucked into a snug by themselves, bestowed with pots of tea, stands of petit four and finger sandwiches, and told to holler if anything more is needed. So they sit and chat, and Elo tries to absorb having Merri by her side, storing up the feeling like a squirrel stores food for the winter.

They've been having a ribald conversation on the knife-edge of decency – the sort they used to have, back when they travelled together – when they both become aware that King Storri has not said anything in some time. He's staring down at the tartlet on his plate with some intensity. "Kóngurinn minn?" Merri says gently. He sucks in a breath as if he was very far away. "While I am aware it was I who requested no political discussion, I have been thinking…" Both women set down their cups and pay attention. "Elowyn, it has been a joy getting to know you this past week. You are an expert conversationalist, knowledgeable in many areas and the love you feel for your city is tangible. That you have anticipated my want to learn more about the home of my beloved is a grace. As you wished not to lose connection with Agent Gruksdottir, I too, should not like to lose connection with you. "Thus, I would like to offer you citizenship of Iceland." Elo feels her mouth drop open as she stares. "That is… an incredible offer. Thank you." The cogs in her brain whirr at this opportunity, and she pounces on it. "I would be honoured to accept… "Except, and I am in no way trying to downplay or dismiss what you're offering, but I must ask. What of Toreguard's people – don't they deserve to see Iceland too? To see her sprawling mountains, volcanoes and geysers. To eat puffin in Fangthane and drink brennivín made from glacier waters. What of those who want to watch an aurora in the spray of a waterfall?" Storri's brow furrows. "You never give up, do you?" At this Merri laughs. "She'd fight to the bitter end if you let her." Storri takes a bite from his tartlet. "And what of your own people?" Elo asks. "I'm sure they'd relish the opportunity to eat as you've eaten. Cakes and curry and the Conquistador's Revenge. Puffin gets wearisome for every meal." An eyebrow raise. "It's not that bad," Storri mumbles. Elo looks at Merri. "With respect, Kóngurinn minn, it does get tiresome very quickly when it's your main source of protein." "And that is nothing to speak of when compared to a village's grain being turned to hardtack right after harvest." Something shifts on his face then, brows furrowed as he stares at his tartlet. He remains quiet and thoughtful, and Merri makes some comment, and she and Elo take up whatever thread they'd been talking about.

Storri sets his tartlet down, half-eaten, his expression so serious that it is just shy of a glower. Elo and Merri leave off their conversation again. "I will not truck with either the Master of the Exchequer nor the Acting Magister," Storri says. "Even if your tastes swayed towards men, even if I did not see you as the child of my beloved Alexis, even then your age would not allow me to accept you as a spouse. I remain infuriated with those prune-shriven runions for their blatant disregard, disrespect, and cavalier, vinegar stunt. "The actions of those black toads aside, you have shown me this day that Toreguard is as fair as one could hope, filled with as exotic sights and sensations as any traveller could dream of. The vibrancy of her people and the care and enthusiasm in which you have shown these things has convinced me that perhaps not all hope is lost for this city. "I will persevere with negotiations, but only with yourself or Strucker. I have no desire to engage with any other of your council." The elation rising in Elo's chest during Storri's little speech dies a cold, hard death. "You are aware that, despite my pretty title, I don't have any real power? You will have to deal with Clayrmantle eventually. After Greydown, it was decreed that no singular person would ever have that much executive power again. So while the Senate can vote in favour of a resolution, in order to pass, it requires the signatures of at least two Triumvirate members. Something as large as this may even require all three." The King regards her with a flat stare, eyes flashing like embers, and Elo thinks she's screwed the whole thing again. But these are the facts and there is no escaping them. He says, "I will not deal with Exchequer Brauma. I cannot guarantee my behaviour will befit my station while around him." "Alright. I can sit in and moderate any meetings with Clayrmantle. And, while I can't guarantee this will be accepted, I can request that the Secretary to the Treasury be the Exchequer's proxy in meetings that would require him. Is that acceptable?" Storri lifts his chin, considering the colourful bunting along the snug's picture rail. "This is acceptable. With this in place, I feel we could finalise an accord between our two states." Elo smiles, letting out a slow breath, feeling her spirit soar. He turns his gaze back to Elo. "I have one final condition." She feels her heart still in its victory dance. "I would expect that I will have to return several times to complete this deal. At each of these visits, you will take me to a different eatery or watering hole, and let me dine in anonymity with you." Elo grits her teeth, assuming a grim expression. "Agreed. Then I also have a further condition. I request a new artwork featuring your country that I can display in The Shield and proclaim you the donor." Storri nods in regal consideration. "It is done then," he says. His eyes never leave Elo's as he speaks, though his lips tremble in the suppression of a smile. "Unka will have the contract drawn up when we return to the Emerald. I will have this deal in writing." From the other table, Unka says, with laughter in her tone, "Já, Konungur minn." Merri stifles a chuckle. At that Storri breaks, his grin wide and mischievous, his laughter a roll of thunder, starting small as a chortle and rising to guffaw, and Elo finds herself following right along with him. "Oh, my child. Your face – it was a picture!" King Storri chuckles, as Elo finds she has to wipe her eyes at the mirth spilling from them – such is her nervous relief. "You rotten old troll!" she gasps out, grinning. "You had me really worried for a moment there." Storri finally finishes off his tartlet. "I look forward to being able to festoon your community hall with the finest art my countrymen have to offer." Elo smiles widely at that. "And it will be my pleasure to introduce you to all the flavours my city can offer your palette."

#oc elowyn o'toreguarde #oc farren breakwood #pc meredith gruksdottir #npc storri nargondsson #oc ingrid ayton #writing #HCWL Chapters only #WIP 'Her Countenance was Light'#titan fighting fantasy #fighting fantasy #ttrpg fanfiction #wandering words

3 notes · View notes

druidx · 4 years ago

Text

Thanks for the question @adie-dee and for the tag @stsmgm.

Elowyn O’Toreguarde would love to be in some kind of Modern sport/ nature/ hunting AU (idek if that’s a thing). Basically give her and the SRU team a chance to get out of the city and go camping.

Millicent Wauters would be ideal for some kind of smoft Coffee/ Bakery/ Flower shop AU. I’m just not sure who the Attractive Stranger she gets to pine over would be...

I think Farren Breakwood would want to either be in a “small Gothic mid-west town” AU (again, idek if that’s a thing), or some kind of Space AU.

Snotgrut would love some kind of College AU. He’d be all over that formal education and getting to hang out in libraries type thing.

Meet and Greet Monday Open Question:

If your characters could choose an AU to be part of, what would they pick?

@stsmgm

#meet and greet monday #writeblr events #writing #fighting fantasy #Snotgrut #torguard #meta wandering words #oc elowyn o'toreguarde #oc farren breakwood #oc millicent wauters

8 notes · View notes

druidx · 2 months ago

Text

Her Countenance was Light - Chapter 40

CW: None AO3 ; Chapters: 01. 10. 20. 30. 31. 32. 33. 34. 35. 36. 37. 38. 39 Tag list (ask for +/-): @aquadestinyswriting, @hannah-heartstrings, @jacqueswriteblrlibrary, @babyblueetbaemonster @mr-orion

When she finishes filling in the blanks, Farren sits back, leaning against the mortuary table leg, looking like he's aged 10 years. "I won't lie," he says eventually. "This will complicate things." Elo shifts, her butt having gone numb from the cold tile floor. "You're taking this better than I expected." Farren scoffs. "What'm I s'posed to do, huh? Send you off to the nut house?" Elo pulls her knees under her chin. "Anyone else would have." "Yeah, well, I ain't anyone else, am I?" The clock ticks. "No. Thank you." Farren waves it away. "You'd do the same for me," he says, and Elo knows he's right. "I don't know what to do next," she says instead. "You leave your summaries as they are. No one else needs to know about… the other side of this. I'll catch the boys up with the sanitised version tomorrow and keep them on-task, digging up what we can to help support this theory." At Elo's raised eyebrows, he holds up a placating hand. "I'll tell them we've got reasonable cause to believe Brauma ran you off the road and about his ridiculous stunt at City Hall – it's not gonna paint him in an innocent light." "Yates has contacts with the Art and Antiques Unit. Take a copy of… of the vic's exposé and see if he can get them to share any intel they might have about the smuggling ring." "That's a good shout. In the meantime, I don't want you anywhere near City Hall for the next few days." Elo huffs. "You'll get no argument here. I think my secondment is probably over anyway." "And I think you should get a uniform to drive you home." The clock above Snips' desk says it's nearly 19:00. "I thought we were going to get dinner?" "You need sleep." "I'm fine. And I still gotta eat."

Farren grumbles but in the end, they clock off and go around the corner to the Scholar for their usual. It's not until they're exiting, that Elo notices the colour of the sky. "Shit! Oh shit, piss and blood!" Farren looks back with a raised eyebrow. "I was supposed to meet the two factions tonight at dusk and get some answers." Farren picks up his pace towards his car. "Where're we going?" "My tenement. Someone put Shortcut Bridge back together – I said I'd meet them there." As the engine roars to life, he looks over. "Where someone tried to drown you? Bug." "I thought it would be more convenient." Farren huffs and rolls his eyes as he pulls away from the curb.

Farren pulls up alongside the brownstone row which holds Elo's tenement building. "You should wait in the car," Elo says, even as they're out and walking towards the alley which leads through the brownstones to the towpath and canal at their back. "And let you engage with potential hostiles alone?" "I don't want to spook them." "I'll hang back. But I'm not letting you do this alone – they already tried to kill you once." "I managed before, I can manage again." "You really have been out in the wilds too long," Farren says as they near the alleyway's exit, the darkling waters of the canal just beyond. "Remember the Rule of Two? Withnail would hoist me by the hamstrings if he ever found out I knowingly broke it." "Withnail isn't a captain anymore." "You think that'd stop him?" Elo falls quiet. Along the strip comes the distant shouts of someone having a domestic. A TV blares to drown it out. There's the heavy thud of a ball against a wall; kids having a kick-about. From the canal comes no sound at all. In the dim light and lengthening shadows, it's impossible to tell if anyone's waiting down there. "Stay here, at least?" Elo says. "Right you are." Farren leans against the wall, jacket brushed back from his weapon's holster. "Holler if you need me."

Elo trots down the concrete steps and stands on the towpath. It's preternaturally still and quiet. The water is flat and glossy, like the nail paint Candy uses, and smells of weeds and cold. "Snotgrut?" she calls when no one appears at her entrance. "Aster?" Grit on the path grinds under her feet. A window opens, spilling pop music into the air. The wind is a breath on her cheek. Then the shadows ripple. "Whatcha, Boss." Elo squints. "Legnok? "'S right." He sounds pleased that she remembers. "Where are the Eshen?" "Scarpered. 'S too dark for 'em, innit?" "Oh." Elo sits down on the steps and presses a hand to her forehead. "Bugger." "They weren't too happy when they left. Were wus you, anyway?" "At work. Lost track of time." "Snotgrut's a bit pissed an' all." "Yeah. I can imagine. Gods damn…"

Elo stares down through her hand-blinkered vision at a dandelion pushing through the concrete, suddenly envious of the teens she can hear singing along to the radio, full of carefree spirit. She remembers her teen years – Aunt Alexis driving her, blindfolded, around the city, windows down and quizzing her about where they were based on smell and proprioception. A rare flare of resentment bursts in her chest. It's tamped back with a deep breath; after all, Elo asked for this life. Alexis could have said no. Instead, she'd used every resource at her disposal to ensure Elo was the most prepared for it that she could be.

Elo hauls in another breath, then stands, reaching for her wallet. "Here." She hands over some bills to Legnok. "I promised you a beer if I ever saw you again. Bark, blood, bond, et cetera. Go round to the Scholar, old Davie's not gonna ask for ID." Legnok squints down at the greenbacks in his hands, his face a mixture of awe and suspicion. "There's enough there for two," Elo continues, "because – and I'm sorry to ask this – but d'you think you can get the Eshen leaders back here, same time tomorrow night?" The bills vanish into Legnok's shirt, and he scrapes out a bow. "Blood as my bond," he says. The shadows lengthen, Elo blinks, and he's gone.

"Well, what happened then?" Farren asks when she returns to the alley. "I was too late. The Eshen had gone." "Who were you talking to? Snotgrut?" "No, another Dvasia. I guess he was hanging around to let me know that everyone'd gone. I've asked him to try and get them back tomorrow night." It's full-dark now, and Elo shivers in the cool of the Spring night. Farren grunts, and the ember of his cigarette flares. "Time we got you home, eh?" Elo wants to argue – it's still early, they could chat – but inexplicably feels a wave of weariness, as if the night is dragging on her bones. Instead, she murmurs what could be an agreement and waves him ahead.

The radio is chirping as they draw alongside Farren's car. He slides into the front seat, door open, for Elo to lean up against, peering in. "Dispatch, Alpha Charlie Five responding," Farren says into the handset. "Detective Breakwood? Do you have Detective O'Toreguarde alongside?" "Affirmative, Dispatch." There is a note of relief in Sally's voice as she says, "Roger, Alpha Charlie Five. Requesting your position for General Strucker." Elo's face contorts on its own, but Farren reads everything he needs to in her grimace. "Dispatch, we are just leaving the Skiving Scholar," he lies smoothly. "O'Toreguarde is very much off-duty at this juncture, and will be sleeping it off at my apartment." The traffic rushes past. "Roger. Have a nice night, Detectives." "Affirmative, Dispatch," Farren says with a grin.

Elo remembers to breathe, as Farren replaces the handset. "Thank you," she says, straightening. "I guess you'd better head on home." "Not without you. Come on." Elo tucks her chin down and frowns. Farren scratches an eyebrow. "Elowyn, do I really gotta remind you that someone's out there trying to kill you? Allegedly one of the most powerful people in the city. Allegedly a supernatural entity. You really think it's a good idea for you to be alone, at all?" Elo opens her mouth to protest. "You've got spare skivvies at mine. And if you say anyfin along the lines of 'it's fine, I can manage, I'm used to it', then so help me, I will handcuff you to the doorframe and we'll both sleep in the car." Elo swallows. "Scooch over then," she says and slides into the car.

#oc elowyn o'toreguarde #oc farren breakwood #writing #HCWL Chapters only #WIP 'Her Countenance was Light'#titan fighting fantasy #fighting fantasy #ttrpg fanfiction #wandering words

3 notes · View notes

druidx · 5 months ago

Text

The Commonalities of Experiences

CW: swearing, angst, magical violence

"You have the right to remain silent. You have the right to an advocate. If you cannot–" A subtle change in the air made Elowyn stop talking and look up from where she was cuffing her suspect. The rogue sorcerer they were trying to apprehend raised his hands, eldritch light a nimbus around them. Farren, standing on the canal edge, fumbled with his wand of Hold Person. A flash of light hit his chest. Elo's stomach dropped as he went over. A wordless cry ripped from her. She was already on her feet, hurtling towards the sorcerer, though-projecting the event to anyone who could pick it up. She collided hard with the sorcerer, sending them down like a sack of spuds. "Officer down! Officer down!" Elo screamed, latching the anti-magic cuffs around the sorcerer's wrists. From the building behind them came the bellow of an angry dragon. Heavy pounding feet sounded. "Neutralise the mage!" Elo called to it over her shoulder, already rising to yank off her boots.

Then she was in the water, diving down into the murky depths of the canal. The flash of Farren's Watch insignia drew her to him; the man himself not moving, sending spikes of panic through her. Thank the Gods, thank the Gods, she was strong enough to speed through the water, arms clutched about his chest, dragging him to the surface. "I've got you," said the golden dragon, one clawed paw splayed across the rogue sorcerer, the other incanting a levitation spell. They landed away from the canalside, and Elo shook Farren, lightly slapping his face. "Brek, c'mon. Don't do this to me. Not again." No response. Pulse thready. Elo tears off Farren's chest armour and rips the undershirt to reveal a violent, sooted mark over his heart. Bless St. Cuthbert, bless Galana, and thrice bless Kerellîm that she has healing magic this time. Gods save him, she prays, as golden light spills from her fingers. "Breakwood, you stupid sonofabitch," she says, throat tight, "You listen here: if there's a man with a scythe you tell him 'no thanks, not today' and you come home."

The light pools against his skin. It should be absorbing, making the injuries glow from within. "'S not working. The fuck isn't it working?" Elo's words are mumbled, but of course Aurianna hears. The dragon picks up her charge and shakes them. "What did you hit him with?" she demands. The sorcerer, a person of few summers, has paled. "I… I dunno?" they say with a thick farmer's accent. The light – what colour was the light? Elo squeezes her eyes closed, looping the moment of impact. Green, comes Aurianna's voice in Elo's head. While Elo's fear is Auri's fear, the soul-bind adds a filtering layer and the Dragon is not drowning in panic like Elo is. Poison, Elo fires back, dropping her healing spell. Blessed be Kurtulmack, prince of cunning, she prays. In the golden glow from her hand, the sooty mark turns a lurid green. Rivulets radiate outwards, like claws digging into her partner's body.

Elo swears sharply; some ghastly combination of orcish and draconic that makes Aurianna wince. Her guts congealing like cold porridge, Elo raps out, "Sargent Dench! Sargent Bodfann! Get the Lœg back to the station and start interrogating with Cleric Varis' help." Behind Elo comes a chorus of "Aye, ma'am." Elo flicks a glance at Aurianna as she prepares to loft Farren onto the dragon's back. "I need a higher power cleric. Which temple's closest?" "You're not going to like it." "I don't have to like it. He has to live." "Deep Sashelas." Elo nearly drops Farren. "Of course it fucking is." She resumes getting him situated on Aurianna's back. "I don't care. I don't care." Elo's voice cracks as Aurianna lifts off. "He just has to live." Elowyn clutches Farren's face with both hands, tears standing in her eyes. "D'you hear that, rath? You're not allowed to leave me again. You can't. Please."

#writing #oc elowyn o'toreguarde #oc aurianna aurum filiae #oc farren breakwood #fighting fantasy #Titan Fighting Fantasy #wandering words #idk what this is really. half an idea at best that I just wanted to bang out with little editing to get writing again #and ofc it's angst XD

5 notes · View notes

druidx · 2 months ago

Text

Her Countenance was Light - Chapter 39

CW: None AO3 ; Chapters: 01. 10. 20. 30. 31. 32. 33. 34. 35. 36. 37. 38. Tag list (ask for +/-): @aquadestinyswriting, @hannah-heartstrings, @jacqueswriteblrlibrary, @babyblueetbaemonster @mr-orion

The room Cobbleskater has commandeered is empty when they arrive. Farren dithers, unwilling to leave her alone; but Elo knows he has his own work, back in the bullpen. "Off you go." "Bug…" "I will be fine. I'm hardly going to get in trouble staying in one room, am I?" Farren raises an eyebrow. Elo scratches her neck. "That was… I wasn't feeling great that day. Look – I need you to follow up with Yates and Monday. I promise I will not get in trouble." Farren grumbles. Elo sighs, tired. "Don't make me pull rank, Brek." "Fine. I'll come grab you for dinner." With that, he huffs off, back to the bullpen. Elo rubs her forehead and then settles down to work.

She collects the pages she'd been reading before Stucker arrived and sets about typing a modified version of events. Somewhere between the first round of cross-country shooting and the second round of swimming Elo had made her choice. She justified it by thinking of her own safety. If Brauma knew that she knew he was the Shadowling it might force his hand into a confrontation she isn't ready for yet. She has to play it safe a little longer. That it comes with the benefit of no one questioning her friend's sanity is a bonus.

Elo sits back, scanning further pages of the exposé and diary to see if Evie had any evidence that Brauma was the one behind the smuggling ring. Tired eyes lose focus, and instead she stares at the journal, contemplating the glyphs tumbling down the pages like autumn leaves – and feels that tickle in the back of her mind again. Here is a language that Evie and Elo thought they'd invented, a language that turns out to be spoken by a subset of creatures neither of them had even dreamed existed. No wonder Snotgrut was surprised when she said she couldn't read it; her memory just needed a jog. The Dvasia speak something different – Elo knows this. But the book downstairs has only one script… Which makes her wonder what the Dvasia were doing with it. And why would the Eshen approach Evie, yet the Dvasia set a trap for Elo? Elo tilts her head. It's almost like they were confused…

In a rush, Elo stands. Her gut churns as she rushes along the corridor. "Oh!" Elo narrowly avoids crashing into Cobbleskater and sending them both tumbling down the stairs. "Lieutenant–!" "Be right back! Need to test a theory!" Elo calls back. She jumps the final basement steps, using the bannister to propel herself towards Evidence, shouting an apology to the three other people she nearly collides with. "Mikey!" Elo beams as she comes into the Evidence lockup. "How's the wifey?" The officer looks up from where he's been reading at his desk inside the cage. "Not too good, Sarg– Sorry– LT. She's picked up the sniffles from one of the kids." "Sorry to hear it. You make sure she gets plenty of vitamin C." "Will do, LT. What're you after?" "I need to take another look at the items from case number 12112017." "Right-o. Paperwork?" Elo grimaces. "I'm so sorry. I had an epiphany and forgot to fill it out. I won't have them long. They're only going to the mortuary." The officer purses his lips. "I swear, I'll fill them out when I'm done testing my theory." A frown. "Are you okay, LT? It's not like you to come without the proper chits." "Yes. Fine." He doesn't look convinced. "Just… a lot of pressure. With this case. And… and the Icelanders." The Officer's head tips up in understanding, and he readjusts his belt as he stands "Ah. Well then. I'll fetch your items. A book and a… doodad, right?" "Yes," Elo breathes a sigh. "Thank you." "Just this one time, mind you." "Of course."

Once she has the items in hand, Elo scurries to the mortuary. At this time of day, Snips isn't in, and the fluorescents switch on with a whine. Elo places the book on an empty slab, flicking through it and skimming the pages with her newly recalled ability to read the flowing script. She stops when she reaches a picture of an Eshen with a crown of elaborately-petaled blue flowers. Willowsprout's hair was green moss tufts. Aster – the elder of the two Eshens in the tree – had hair of russet and umber leaves. The girl had a collection of white morning glories tucked into her long, green grassy hair. Of the few she's seen, none of them have looked like this. With growing anxiety, Elo casts a look at the bank of chillers, then at the artefact in its little evidence baggy. She takes a staggered breath. Walks to the chillers and pulls open Evie's tray. With the artefact in hand, Elo looks through the little hole at the center – and gasps. Her Evie is transformed. Her skin is a rich carmine-brown, smooth as a birch, though missing the lustre of life. Her hair is curled brown leaves, crowned with flowers that have faded to cobalt with their dryness. For a moment Elo sees her alive, skin glossy, leaves and petals wafting in a leisurely breeze, smiling with all her teeth. An ache in Elo's chest forces her to set the artefact down. Fingers grasp at her temples, covering her eyes as she gasps for air. Her theory still needs to be tested. Recovering herself, Elo takes a breath and turns to where the stainless steel reflects her – too gaunt, too bruised – face. With another deep breath, she raises the artefact, closes one eye – and nearly drops the thing in shock. They look exactly alike.

With a shaking hand, Elo looks again. No. No, not quite. Not exactly. Evie has dark flecks across her cheeks and shoulders. The leaves on Elo's crown of flowers are serrated; Evie's are smooth. Evie's nose is that bit narrower, and Elo's cheeks are rounder. She lowers the artefact with a shaking hand. Mind spinning too fast to catch a coherent thought, she pushes Evie back into the chiller, puts the artefact back in its baggy and turns to the book for answers.

Elo reads the accompanying text – and, quite frankly, it reads like the synopsis of a pulp novel. "Chosen one…" she mutters. "Born to lead, blah blah… time is right, etc, alongside–" That draws her up short. The text says an Eshen, like the one in the picture, will have the same power as Kasskekadmas and should rule in tandem with him; each to their own sphere of course, but in harmony. From what Aster said, from what Evie's diary says, from the effort Brauma is going through to be rid of her… They all have assumed the same thing – that it would be Dvasia or Eshen to come out on top, not both. Elo looks again at the bank of chillers. But why are there two of them who look like the Eshen in the book? It doesn't make sense. Unless it was expected something like this might happen. An heir and a spare. But who–? And then the answer comes to her, and really, Elo could kick herself. Because, of course, Evelyn was meant to be the heir. Beautiful, brilliant, charismatic Evie. Evie, who could charm the birds from the trees, who sparkled like a diamond in a crowd, beloved princess of Toreguard. Who is now gone. And only Elo left, scratching around behind her. That explains why the Dvasia were confused, why they laid a trap for Elo. Why they were so startled when Evie turned up on the docks. But – the thought stops her cold – but the trap they'd laid for her on the canal must have been set up long before Evie went onto the boat. Elo was the one who should have died that night. Does… does this mean– Did Elowyn get Evelyn killed?

Of course, it's Farren who finds her, sitting with her back to the chiller bank and knees drawn up to her chest and a thousand-yard stare. And of course, he has the audacity to be prissy about finding her there. She doesn't want to hear it. "Breakwood." It comes out hollow and tired, and his demeanour changes instantly. His eyes flick to the book then back to her. "What did you find?" "It's weird," she warns. "I can deal with weird." "This is orders of magnitude above our normal weird." He holds out a hand to help her up. "Let's see, then."

So she directs him to put on gloves and take out the artefact while she pulls Evie's tray from the chiller again. Elo leans against the chillers. "Hold the artefact up to your eye, and look at her through the hole in the center." Farren raises an eyebrow. Elo nods downwards, so Farren does as he's bid and looks– –and jumps back, eyes wild. "The fuck? Holy– What is that thing?" "It's still Evelyn Strucker." Farren is breathing hard. "How do you know? It could be something wearing her skin, or, or a simulacrum, or… " Elo chuckles hollowly. "You watch too many movies." "How do you know?" he asks again. She takes a ragged breath. "Use it on me." He does so, hand trembling. Blinks through it for a second. Lowers it slowly. His face is a rictus. "What. The fuck?" Without waiting for an answer, he looks at his reflection through the thing. "What do you see?" Elo asks, curious despite herself. His mouth works. "I look exactly the same." He looks back at her. His voice has the faintest of tremors. "You weren't kidding, huh. About the weirdness levels." "They're called Eshen. We're… Eshen." It sounds strange to say it out loud. "They're a race of… tree people." "Is that why your… alternate selves… look so similar?" "No. At least I don't think so. I think one of us was supposed to… lead these people, and one of us was the spare. I don't know which, the book doesn't say. But it was probably her." Farren raises a hand. "Hold up. What?" Elo forges on. "There's an alternate faction, they live underground. They're the ones who tried to kill me with the canal dunk. But I, um." Elo's voice shakes. "I think that trap was set before Evie died. I think she walked onto that boat and they killed her, thinking it was me, because I was the spare. Farren," Elo looks at him with eyes bereft, "I think I got her killed."

Then there's cold tile against her knees. Breath short, erratic. Farren clutches her shoulders. She can see his lips move, but can't hear over the pounding of blood in her ears. He cups her face in his hands, and she wonders how she never noticed how like molasses his eyes are or that little nick of a scar on his cheek– "Elo!" She makes a startled squawk as he shakes her. "This isn't your fault. D'you hear me? You didn't stab her. You didn't know about… this Eshen stuff. You did nothing that would have caused her death. The fault lies solely on the one who–" "Brauma." Elo focuses her watery gaze back on his face and hiccups as she labours to get her breathing under control. "I think she was killed by Lerrald Brauma." "The Master of the Exchequer?" "Yes." Farren gapes, eye round. "Bug… That's a huge accusation." "It was him that ran me off the road. I recognised his car in the VIP parking lot this afternoon. Strucker confirmed it's been in the shop for the past few days. I bet if you talked to the mechanic that fixed it, they'll tell you the undercarriage was wrecked and they found lumps of gold fairing inside." "Okay, but that only proves he ran you down." "Why else would he! Evie's journals say she spoke to an Eshen who told her that someone in high office was responsible for the forged art smuggling ring. The boat she was killed on was part of his operation." "This is all circumstantial." Farren drags a hand down his face and fixes her with a stern look. "I'm clearly missing parts of the story. You better start from the beginning. Don't leave anything out." She stares at him, stricken. "It's insane, it's like something from a bad movie. You won't believe me, you'll think I'm high, I promise I'm not taking anything! I hardly believe it, I don't– Maybe I'm going crazy, everything's falling apart–" His hands are back on her face and shoulder. "Bug, breath." He strokes hair away from her tear-stained face. "Shh, come on. I always consider everything you say with an open mind. When have I not?" Breathing under control, Elo gasps out a laugh. "Red Sonics vs The Hurricanes, four years ago." Farren gives her a mock scowl. "One time," he says. "That was one time!" But he's smiling and relaxed, and so she relaxes too. They sit on the cold tile floor and Elo tells him everything, from the nightmare to what she's omitted from her summaries of Evie's journals.

#oc elowyn o'toreguarde #oc farren breakwood #npc irvine cobbleskater #writing #HCWL Chapters only #WIP 'Her Countenance was Light'#titan fighting fantasy #fighting fantasy #ttrpg fanfiction #wandering words

3 notes · View notes