#Ran away from the army but if caught he would immediately accept whatever punishment they gave him.

[technofinch]

Thinking abt. Mulligan again....

[neostriatum]

All we are, and all we have...

[AO3] [Dreamwidth]

Title taken from these photos (archived version here) in one of photographer @rabbitinthemeadow's series. All Mando'a translated at the end.

--

Maul inhaled.

This was unusual, given his certainty that this time he had died. It had not quite been the death he had been craving, but it had been an honourable one at the hands of his arch-enemy, and the peace it had granted weighed heavily in his hearts despite their absurd insistence at beating.

Exhaling, he stretched his senses out into the Force. It was the surest way to place himself, and the thrum of the living against his mind was enough confirmation for him.

So. Alive again. And not even on Dathomir.

The walls of the palatial bedroom were obscenely Kryze’s, still holding the decorations and gilding he hadn’t the presence of mind to change early on in his reign. The confirmation laid bitterly on his tongue, and abruptly he was fed up with the idea of living on a planet he had already spent roughly twenty years on the first time.

The Force was a strange beast, and the idea that it could punish him by undoing so much of his life as he had breathed his last sounded about right. But- and he clenched the ridiculously expensive sheets in his grasp, but-

Light seeped into his skin, a thready but still present brush of warmth against his skin and senses. It reminded him of Kenobi, the gentle reassurance of peace as he died. It was almost cruel, how comforting the memory was, especially now that the destruction of the Jedi hadn’t happened yet.

His comm chirped, fracturing the euphoria of the revelation at hand. Maul clapped a hand to his mouth, not sure whether he was restraining a laugh or a sob. The Light was fracturing his resolve to the Sith, and all he could feel was relieved.

Forcing himself to steady, he pulled the comm to him, answering with a brusque, “Maul.”

Hope. What a strange feeling.

--

It was difficult, trying to undermine the goals Sidious had so deeply impressed on him that they were etched into his bones. But no longer did the man’s edicts reverberate in his lungs with every breath he took, filled instead were they with an unrestricted buoyancy that threatened to make him hover at the slightest provocation.

Was this how a Jedi felt? It baffled him, but also explained the way they seemed to flutter through the Force, a marvel of nature instead of a tragedy shaking the ground beneath their feet.

Meditation was at once easier and excruciating. The Force had always been a soul-sucking entropy, to be treaded carefully and yet bent to one’s will. But these shards of light burned, forcing growth in the holes in his soul that had been scraped raw where Sidious had laid claim. Where a grave once stood now blossomed a garden, and beauty caught his eye more often than grief as he accepted the Light making itself comfortable.

His thoughts strayed often, his deaths compounding and overlaid. Many times did he force himself to put his comm away, to restrain the urge to howl in the direction of Obi-Wan Kenobi and bring the entirety of the man’s formidable army upon Mandalore’s heads.

Perhaps, Maul pondered, it would provide suitable vengeance for Kenobi. To conquer the world of his once-lover and reassert balance sorely lacking in this galaxy.

The thought clung to his mind, a thorn catching on cloth, and it unraveled the loose plan. Kenobi - despite his once harshly-denied ties to the Dark - was not the type to exact his rage upon the world, no matter how deeply routed the ditch of grief ran in his heart.

No, only hope would attract hope. And Maul, with his own hearts still thudding painfully at the still-burning loss of his brother, knew Kenobi now better than the man himself did.

With a smirk, Maul gestured one of his soldiers close. There was a trap to be laid, and he knew just the bait.

--

Obi-Wan stared in bewilderment at the missive tied to the trooper in front of him. It was, to put it politely, unhinged chaos.

The trooper wasn’t even one of his - he had checked. And then handed the very long roster of the entire Third Systems Army to Cody to double-check. And then, on Anakin’s insistence, to R2.

“Well, Lieutenant,” He sighed apologetically, “It does indeed look like just a spot of bad luck.”

“If it helps, sir, I’ve got a clean bill of health.” Smoke offered, still looking a bit pole-axed to be in the same room as him and Cody, but faring rather well, all things considered.

Cody sighed even deeper than him, which had the expected impact of Smoke straightening his back to parade-perfect straightness. His commander waved the trooper back to at ease, pressing a thumb to his temple in an attempt to relieve the burgeoning migraine from this shit-show of a situation.

“Healthy except for a shaved head.” The commander commented, and wasn’t that the crux of it. No injuries, nor signs of surgery, though that was no guarantee given Smoke’s… transit time, and that in itself was a bundle of issues.

The good lieutenant shrugged, and, well- that did seem to be that. Only a lingering sign of sedation, but then being sent through the absurdly mundane postal system in an admittedly well-equipped box did carry that sort of assumption.

Helix, moving aside the privacy screens to perform another check on the trooper, patted them on the back, “Think about it this way, vod. You were important enough to be mailed first-class.”

Cody gave up all pretenses at maintaining an authoritative façade and groaned, “Usen’ye, vod.”

The medic made a wry, rude gesture back, chuckling. Helix clicked a few things on his datapad, and gestured to the trooper, “You’re good to go, vod. I’m recommending to put you on light duties in case anything crops up, but everything seems to be in order.”

“Oya!” Smoke grinned, looking forward to their unintentional vacation. Hopping off the cot, they grabbed their helmet and left, a bounce in their step.

“Well at least someone’s enjoying this,” Helix shook his head. He glanced at their Jedi, who was still scrutinizing the honest-to-gods paper that had come with Lieutenant Smoke, “What’s on that thing, anyway, General?”

Obi-Wan startled, smoothing his beard absently. “Oh, some sort of message,” He surmised, “I think someone’s asking for help.”

Cody grunted at that, sidling up to the general to peer over his shoulder. The message itself was in Mando’a, written neatly and precisely. “It is paper, though.” He said, “Are you able to-” “Check it for signatures?” Obi-Wan hummed, already switching the paper to one hand so he could remove the glove from his other. With glove sufficiently bitten and removed, the man mumbled, “Not quite as well as Quinlan.”

The two clones exchanged an amused look at the man’s single-minded intensity for a new discovery. It was dropped as quickly as the glove from their shocked general, a strangled gasp mingling with the dull thud of Obi-Wan’s glove as his hand laid as if riveted to the paper.

“General,” Cody said, tone stiff and demanding information.

Obi-Wan shook his head once, muttering the message out loud, a lilting cant to the words as he absorbed the new information. “K'olar, Kenobi. Jorhaa be mirjahaal.”

The intervening few moments were tense, and Cody wondered whether he should tap out an alert as a preemptive measure when his general’s gaze snapped to his. The blue eyes seemed to glow, something physically impossible for the man’s species and yet perfectly understandable for the scope of his mythological status.

It drew that familiar stirring of faith forth, and Cody nodding in acknowledgement. Whatever the General saw, he approved of, for he nodded back, seeming to fold himself back into his mortal form.

“Gentleman, I have a call to make.” Obi-Wan announced, “I believe we’re going to Mandalore.”

--

This lure of hope was maddening, tugging at his spirit in a fluctuating jerk of attention. Maul took to pacing more, which in turn drew the attention of Kyr'tsad and the few New Mandalorians that lingered in Kryze’s court.

“Alor.” Bo Katan interrupted him while he prowled in search of some way to release all of this damnably energy. Sparring had ceased to entertain him days ago, the thorough victories and the sheer fact that his rage was no longer reliable fuel.

Brave warrior that she was, the Kryze sister merely stared placidly back at his scowl. “Who is it, precisely, that we are expecting? There are rumors growing, and it would be better to quell the dissent.”

He exhaled sharply, feeling the burning warmth of the Light sinking deeper with the action. “Haatyc or'arue jate'shya ori'sol aru'ike nuhaatyc,” He chided her, a distant part of him relishing her shock at his smooth handling of this system’s language. “We are heading into a war, Kryze. And I have invited a powerful ally to bring us all to glory again.”

It was interesting, how stark the hope was that flooded his senses. And pleasing - for Maul was right. Hope brings hope, and only shall it grow when given room.

He felt the insistent tendrils of Light settling in his own hearts, and smirked at joyful look that greeted him.

--

Obi-Wan felt it difficult to meditate. He sighed, glancing in the direction of his desk, where that damnable paper was carefully stowed away.

The Force was an insistent swell, burgeoning with ultimately welcome but distinctly unhelpful feelings like joy and anticipation. He appreciated the encouragement to rest his worries, but feeling the remnants of Maul’s Force signature was only ever going to be unsettling.

Should he trust the sincerity ringing forth from Maul’s message? It wasn’t something that could be easily faked, but then specialists in Force artefacts like Quinlan were too far away for a quick consultation, and whatever was brewing now on Mandalore, it needed immediate attention.

Anakin was worried, and that in turn set himself on edge, dredging up the feeling of Satine’s cooling body in his arms and how much it had hurt to breathe through the fracturing of his heart.

And now, exactly like last time, Maul was at the center of it. But now, only Maul was at the center of it.

That in itself was a quandary, for Maul had become so prevalently obsessed with him since their first fight on Naboo. Not that Obi-Wan could say much, for a twin flame burned in his own spirit at the mere thought of the other man. Grief at lost opportunities, yes, but now he had to contend with an overture of… what?

Peace? Was that what Maul truly wanted, now? The Force seemed insistent that it was no lie, and the Force had never led him astray, no matter how confusing the path.

He inhaled, loosing his spirit into the currents of the Force once more. One tone stayed with him, and it was the consistent feeling of hope.

Whatever it was, it would be alright. Obi-Wan had to trust that.

--

Entering the Mandalore system was nerve-wracking on its own, their only steering the stark thread of faith beating along with Obi-Wan’s heart. With Cody at his right hand, and Anakin at his left, he managed to feel unmoored from the reality of how quickly access was granted to the Negotiator as they made their way to the capital planet.

His troops seemed to sense that they were about to escort their general into some battle they couldn’t accompany, and the Force surged with the echo of their prayers as they worked in calm, professional tandem. Obi-Wan found that his heart had room to swell in pride, listening to their manda as they passed checkpoint after checkpoint.

Eventually, though, all good things must come to an end, and he regretfully withdrew from the jatne manda his troopers unintentionally enveloped him in. He inhaled, steeling himself for the upcoming meeting.

“Olarom at Manda’yaim.” Echoed through the Bridge from Mandalore’s flight control.

Obi-Wan nodded in acknowledgement, clapping a hand to Anakin’s shoulder with a smile at the press of well-wishing from his old padawan. He met his commander’s eye, watching the man draw himself up in anticipation.

“You have the bridge, Commander,” He ordered, knowing that the Negotiator and everyone on it was in the safest hands they could possible be.

“K'oyacyi, General.” Cody assured him. The Force bolstered his commander’s sentiments, and Obi-Wan found himself smiling.

“I will, Commander.”

--

Although their assigned diplomatic partner was… unusual, Obi-Wan had still insisted on peacetime protocol rather than the loose-handed play at reconnaissance and body-guarding the 212th had become accustomed to during their general’s usual diplomacy. It had brought sour looks to even the High Council when they had convened at his request, but if Obi-Wan was going to throw all of his faith into the Force’s will, then he was going to follow its pull to the letter.

And with that notion in hand, he arrived with only a complimentary guard and his lightsaber as bodily protection, armor shed and cloak donned. It almost made him nostalgic for the first time he and his master had arrived, guileless but with heightened awareness.

The trip to Sundari was mostly quiet, and it felt good to practice his Mando’a with those who had grown up through the same Mandalorian turmoil as he had, a common ground by which to foster good relations with the guards accompanying him. The variety of dialects was pleasing, and the stories fulfilling.

It made him miss with distinct fervor his own troopers, the camaraderie so similar it was at once dissociative and yet yaim’la. The guards were attempting to be polite to their Alor’s guest, but curiosity was a trait every sentient shared, and so Obi-Wan whiled away the time between his shuttle’s designated landing spot and the palace by sharing tales of home and the front lines, cultivating rapport in the manner he had learned as a Padawan.

The flutter of hope settled warmly across his shoulders with each smile and laugh, Mando’a settling on his tongue as if it had never left from that year traversing the system with Qui-Gon and Satine.

(Maybe Anakin did have a point about that year here.)

New friends tentatively made, they traversed the corridors to deliver Obi-Wan to a very familiar room. Bo Katan Kryze lounged in front of the closed doors, a moue twisting her features despite the curiosity burning in her eyes.

“Kenobi.” “Lady Kryze.”

She scoffed, but stood aside with a nod of her head that still managed a respectful tilt. He nodded to her, feeling the mantle of the Force’s direction settle in his bones.

It was time to see what Maul wanted.

--

For all his planning and treading the edges of Sidious’ intimidating scope of influence, Maul still couldn’t help the stutter of his breath as Obi-Wan Kenobi walked through the doors of this room exactly as he had hoped.

He had abandoned the idea of the throne room as soon as it had occurred to him and his overeager advisors. They were meant to meet on equal grounds, and this antiquated room with its oblong table, seats of the same height, and walls illustrated by tapestries of famous monarchs past would make its mark.

The impression was certainly gathered by Kenobi, curiosity flitting across his face as he recognized that this was neither throne room nor the one more popular for meetings with advisors. He gestured for the other to sit across from him, taking his own seat.

In lieu of speaking, Kenobi instead pulled the missive out of his pocket, sliding it across the table with a flick of his fingers until it sat in the middle, slouching in his chair.

“Tion gar vercopaan par ... me'jorbe?” The Jedi drawled in askance, “Jorhaa'ir be mirjahaal?”

Maul ticked a brow upwards, catching how loaded the tension was between them. He leaned back himself, matching Kenobi’s posture. “Elek. Haatyc or'arue jate'shya ori'sol aru'ike nuhaatyc.”

And that irrevocably caught Kenobi’s attention, a considering frown and nudging at his shields the other’s reply. Maul lowered some of them, where the Light was the most enduring, and felt the ripple of stupor from Kenobi at the revelation. The Force bounded between both of them, a thought-quick upending of expectations.

Kenobi broke his gaze, glancing around the room before twirling a finger. He nodded, flicking his wrist in dismissal.

The Jedi leaned forward, “Sidious.”

Maul leaned with him, “Is Palpatine.”

Kenobi made a punched-out sound, not questioning the answer as he tugged at his beard. The Force was an insistent undulation over his senses, now, the familiar press of the Jedi’s signature settled against his own as the other man thought.

It reminded him of the last time he had died, weariness eclipsed by the Light and Kenobi’s own spirit as he was sent off. The sensation coaxed him to close his eyes, mellowed by the reassurance that Kenobi was taking significant part in the future.

He drifted in the Force for a while, buoyed by the Light surrounding and binding him. It was calm, a gentle warmth while he waited for his next directive.

Peaceful.

And interrupted by a firm hand on his shoulder, somnolence shaken from him with determination by Kenobi himself.

“Maul. Maul.” The Jedi called to him, looking altogether too relieved for an accidental meditation. “I was about to call for your guards. Are you alright?”

He gusted out a sigh, ascribing the trembling in his hand as he grabbed Kenobi’s to weariness. While the Force still sung to him, a clarion call of peace that rung in his ears, Kenobi’s presence pressed more forcefully upon him, a rousing direction to bring his senses to bear.

“I’m fine, Kenobi.” He muttered, sitting up and ignoring the way the other helped him do so. The nudge the Force made to speak the truth, however, wasn’t so ignored, “It is no easy thing to change alliances in the Force, Jedi. Not for a Sith.”

The searching, concerned look he bore as gracefully as he could, pulling the paper on the table toward them both. Maul read the words he wrote once more, turning to hand it to Kenobi.

“I can bend Mandalore to my will, Kenobi.” He said, firmly twisting his words together with his memories of the Jedi Purge, “But it will be more difficult to bend your army to yours. We have a common enemy, and I will help you with this.”

“Because they will not listen to me?” Kenobi questioned, frowning.

“Because their will is not their own,” Maul corrected, withdrawing the control chip from a pocket, holding it up and watching the pieces come together on the other’s face, “This is in every clone’s brain. It is Sidious’ doing.”

The lash of Dark intention was unnerving, not only from its originator, but also how aberrantly different it was from the Light he had grown accustomed to. It sat bitterly on his mind, but heartened him at the resolve this Jedi tempered himself into before his own eyes, how similar it was to their last meeting on Tatooine.

It was that blend, that knife-edge Kenobi strode, that spoke hope to his senses. And it made him smile, bouncing that emotion back at the Jedi before him, something real and earnest that drew a sigh and tentative smile from Kenobi.

“You removed one.” Kenobi stated, a cunning light in his eyes. “How do we remove the rest?”

Maul grinned, “Very carefully.”

--

Mando'a Translations

Usen'ye, vod - Piss off, mate

Oya - Many meanings: literally *Let's hunt!* and also *Stay alive!*, but also *Hoorah!*, *Go you!*, *Cheers!* Always positive and triumphant.

K'olar, Kenobi. Jorhaa be mirjahaal. - Come, Kenobi. Speak of peace. -- mirjahal - peace of mind, *healing*, general term for emotional well-being especially after a trauma or bereavement

Kyr'tsad - Death Watch (lit. Death Society) - breakaway Mandalorian sect

Alor - leader, chief, *officer*, constable, boss

Haatyc or'arue jate'shya ori'sol aru'ike nuhaatyc - Better one big enemy that you can see than many small ones that you can't. (Mandalorian proverb.)

manda - the collective soul or heaven - the state of being Mandalorian in mind, body and spirit - also supreme, overarching, guardian-like

jatne manda - good mood - a complex sense of being at one with your clan and life

Olarom at Manda’yaim - Welcome to Mandalore

K'oyacyi - 1. *Cheers!* 2. Can also mean: *Hang in there* or 3. *Come back safely.* Literally, a command; *Stay alive!*

yaim'la - comfortable, familiar, sense of *at home*. Can also mean local to the speaker.

Tion gar vercopaan par... me'jorbe? - You wish for... what reason?

Jorhaa’ir be mirjahaal? - To speak for peace (of mind)? -- mirjahal - peace of mind, *healing*, general term for emotional well-being especially after a trauma or bereavement

Elek - yes

[kirain]

Hello, everyone! I’ve been playing Skyrim lately and, aside from my Dragonborn character, I thought I’d post the OCs I created to join and rebuild the Dark Brotherhood after its destruction. Here’s the lot of them, along with a short bio.

Name: Ellora "Elle" Decentus Race: Dovahkiin (Imperial) Age: 27 Class: Multi (mage/warrior/archer) Affiliations: Leader of the Dark Brotherhood, Arch Mage, Nightingale, leader of the Thieves Guild, leader of the Companions, member of the Dawnguard, bard of the Bard's College.

Bio: Elle is an Imperial who lost her parents at a very young age. She has no memory of who they were or even how they died, as she was barely an infant. She was raised in an orphanage just outside the province of Skyrim, but ran away when she was twelve due to the abuse she endured from the staff and other children. She lived on the streets and fended for herself for months, eventually catching the eye of an Altmer named Resaeus. Caught stealing from him, Elle was certain he'd report her, but to her surprise he gave her everything he had and more. Angered and confused by his kindness, she rejected his gifts, saying she didn’t need his charity. For days, however, she stealthily followed him around, curious about his strange character. Eventually he was captured by a group of other Altmer, who threatened to execute him for his “betrayal”. Through eavesdropping, it became obvious to Elle that Resaeus' only crime was rebelling against traditional Altmer views, and so she elected to save him. When the deed was done, Resaeus suggested fleeing to Skyrim, where he could live out the rest of his days in peace. Impressed by Elle’s skill and grateful for her help, he offered to find a home where she too would be welcome. She gladly accepted. For years they laid low, with Resaeus opening and working in an alchemy-based apothecary; but Elle soon grew restless and longed for adventure. While travelling across Skyrim, she honed her abilities and eventually worked as a mercenary, often accepting contracts that few others would, but also keeping her ethics intact. Eventually her travels landed her in Imperial custody, where she was mistaken for a Stormcloak and sentenced to the chopping block.

And that’s where the real story begins.

Name: Bogg gro-Lok Race: Orc Age: 37 Class: Warrior (blacksmith) Affiliations: Dark Brotherhood, Largashbur, Dawnguard.

Bio: Bogg is a renegade Orc from Fort Largashbur who left after a violent dispute with his leader. Scorned by the other strongholds for his insolence, he and his husband decided to join the Dawnguard. Due to their unprecedented skills in smithing, the faction of vampire hunters quickly welcomed them with open arms. For years they supplied the Dawnguard with exceptional weapons and armour, but Bogg grew weary after the siege of Castle Volkihar and slaying of Harkon. With the brunt of the vampire threat greatly reduced, he felt as though his talents were being wasted. Eventually he decided to lend his skills to the Dark Brotherhood, who had offered him and his husband a position in their ranks several months prior. Bogg is snarky, quick-witted and argumentative. Notoriously lazy, he can usually be found laying around the sanctuary, but he still remains one of the best blacksmiths in all of Tamriel.

Name: Caska Lu'et Race: Redguard Age: 25 Class: Multi (mage/warrior/archer) Affiliations: Dark Brotherhood, Alik'r Warriors, Dawnguard. Bio: Caska is an impressively skilled combatant and the daughter of Ka'vo. After her father fled with her from Hammerfell and joined the Brotherhood, he taught her the ways of the Alik'r. Surpassing all of her father's expectations, she mastered every technique and memorized the code before she was sixteen years old. She was also raised in the Brotherhood, thus exposing her to more tactics and teachings. Wanting to do more for the people of Skyrim, she later joined the Dawnguard, under the suggestion of her friends, Bogg and Oodagh. Unlike her father, Caska is only half Redguard, as her mother was an Imperial. This is why she, unlike her father, bears a surname. Next to Elle and Veezian, she is one of the most skillful warriors in the faction. Secretly, she has romantic feelings for J'juka, though she isn't certain how to express them. At times, Caska's own strength overwhelms hers (a typical problem in young Redguards), which occasionally causes her to break things accidentally. Having been raised in the sanctuary since childhood, she feels an enormous responsibility to the people she serves with, and she considers Elle and Liori to be her sisters.

Name: Faolan Bjørnsbane Race: Nord Age: 35 Class: Warrior (werewolf) Affiliations: Dark Brotherhood, the Companions.

Bio: Faolan is a Nord cursed by Hircine when he interfered with the Daedric Prince's hunt. Killing a wolf with his bare hands to save his younger sister, he soon found himself surrounded. He ordered his sister to run while he held them off, and as she fled he managed to slay every creature, getting severely injured in the process. Upon collapse, he was visited by Hircine, who was enraged by the man's impossible strength. Waking hours later, Faolan was shocked to discover that his wounds were healed and the wolves were nowhere to be found. He decided the whole ordeal was a dream and he headed home, only to transform into a werewolf upon arrival.  In a blind rage, he killed his sister and every neighbour in his village. Horrified by his actions, he attempted to end his life, but as further punishment found that he was blessed (or cursed) with immortality. As such, he sought out the Companions, who eventually taught him how to control his transformation and murderous urges. However, his lust for blood must be inevitably quenched. So he joined the Dark Brotherhood to slake it.

Name: Faustus Race: Breton Age: 60 Class: Wizard Affiliations: Dark Brotherhood, Psijic Order.

Bio: Not much is know about Faustus, other than the fact that he is, or once was, a member of the mysterious Psijic Order. His knowledge of spells and incantations is unmatched by any other member of the Dark Brotherhood, which has made him a valuable commodity. He is a very soft-spoken man who avoids answering personal questions, either by changing the subject or telling obvious tall tales. His kind and calm demeanour is unsettling to some, but generally works as a powerful asset. He is probably closest to Ellora and Wendellyn, both of whom he loves very much. While he has sworn himself to the Brotherhood and devotes himself to them entirely, he has a habit of disappearing for days, and reappearing right when a contract becomes available. Whether or not he is actually sixty or even named Faustus is a popular debate amongst the younger members, with Liori insisting that's he's really several hundred years old and that he's figured out the secret to immortality. That is, however, just a rumour. Or is it?

Name: Haelyn Mosswood Race: Bosmer Age: 28 Class: Archer Affiliations: Dark Brotherhood, Thieves Guild.

Bio: Haelyn is a Bosmer who rejected the simplistic lifestyle of her fellow Wood Elves and longed for something materialistic. Determined to see the world and shape her own future, she left Valenwood and travelled from province to province until she ended up in Skyrim, where she eventually joined the Thieves Guild. Realizing that her skills were limited to archery and a quick silver-tongue, she committed herself to a life of crime. Haelyn is an ace archer, swift runner, and remarkably unapologetic. She takes whatever she wants whenever she wants it and holds firmly to the belief that that's how the world is run. When the opportunity to join the Dark Brotherhood presented itself, she took it up in a heartbeat. She is humorous, proud, shamelessly outspoken, and has no qualms about getting her hands dirty.

Name: J'juka Salani Race: Khajiit Age: 31 Class: Warrior Affiliations: Dark Brotherhood.

Bio: J'juka is an ex-merchant, having been run out of Elsweyr by his violent and jealous competitors. He sought vengeance after his home, store, and all of his belongings were burnt to ashes before his very eyes. He tried to retaliate, but was forced to flee when his younger sister, La'kisi, was severely injured during the attack. As La'kisi spent days recovering from her wounds, J'juka performed the Black Sacrament, pleading with Sithis to avenge them. Much to his dismay, his prayers were never answered. He and La'kisi spent the next few years travelling with next to nothing, working day and night to make ends meet. Eventually their luck improved and they were hired by a kind innkeeper in Markarth. Although La'kisi seemed happy, the permanent scar on her nose served as a constant reminder of J'juka's failure to protect her. As such, he trained himself to embody a living weapon and travelled back to Elsweyr, unable to forget the transgressions against him. While there, he hunted down his attackers and slaughtered them where they stood. A day later, he was surprised to receive a note calling him to the Dark Brotherhood. Angered by their audacity, he confronted the sanctuary and asked where they were when he needed them. When told of their troubles, and loss of influence in Tamriel due to the death of Alisanne Dupre, J'juka agreed to join; if only to make sure justice would always be served to those who prayed for it.

Name: Ka'vo Race: Redguard Age: 42 Class: Warrior Affiliations: Dark Brotherhood, Alik'r Warriors.

Bio: Ka'vo is a skilled swordsmen who denounced his Alik'r brothers. Though most Alik'r serve with a tight code of ethics, his particular band grew mendacious. They started to murder freely, and no longer followed the orders given to them by their nobles. The limit for Ka'vo was crossed when Haktu, Ka'vo's band leader, killed a general of the Hammerfell army for his gold. Ka'vo reached for his sword, but was shocked to see another blade pierce Haktu's chest. He immediately recognized the attacker as a Dark Brotherhood assassin, and when he inquired about her motive, she told him that someone performed the Black Sacrament; a woman whom Haktu had assaulted two days prior. Ka'vo immediately headed to the nobles to inform them of his band's corruption, but before he could reach his destination, he was intercepted by his fellow Alik'r, who held his daughter at knifepoint. They ordered him to leave Hammerfell forever, lest they murder his entire family. Defeated, Ka'vo fled the city with his daughter, but luck would put him right on the aforementioned assassin's path. Recognizing his skill, she offered him a position in the Dark Brotherhood, which he accepted with pride. Years later, after proving himself and teaching his daughter the trade, he returned to Hammerfell and exposed his still corrupt band to the court. Though his honour was restored and he was accepted back into the Alik'r, he had pledged himself to Sithis and the Night Mother. While still a member with various connections and a patriot of his homeland, Ka'vo is devoted to the Brotherhood. Although he knows that Caska will one day take his place, he is a slightly overprotective father and a stern but cordial man. He believes wholeheartedly that the Night Mother only calls for the blood of souls deserving.

Name: Kessaris Lytvi Race: Dunmer Age: 112 Class: Mage Affiliations: Dark Brotherhood, College of Winterhold.

Bio: Kessaris was a celebrated graduate from the College of Winterhold. For the majority of his studies he was treated poorly, as his age and race made him a target. He was older than most of the other students and often found himself a victim of their prejudice, but that only pushed him to work harder and surpass all of his classmates. Before graduating, Kessaris mastered and even invented several spell cast techniques, and gained a rather large amount of favourable recognition for it. Some mages, however, took offence, believing that Kessaris must have cut corners or involved himself in necromancy. When they couldn't find any evidence to that effect, they followed him home, drunk and belligerent. When Kessaris tried to force them out of his house, the spiteful students accidentally murdered his wife, an Imperial woman named Hamona. In a cruel twist of fate, the once respected graduate did turn to necromancy, desperate to bring her back. He spent years dabbling in the dark arts and drowning in his sorrow; but every spell, every experiment, proved unsuccessful. Three decades later, when nothing more than a wondering, homeless shell of a man, he collapsed outside Dawnstar, ready for death. Though unable to fully restore the soul of a dead being, he had become infinitely more powerful, which piqued the Brotherhood's interest. They quickly saved him and asked him to join, and he agreed under the condition that he be allowed to continue his research and be given the souls gems of their victims. Due to decades of isolation in the mountains with his wife's frozen corpse, Kessaris has gone slightly (yet understandably) mad. He can often be heard muttering to himself, spewing nonsensical algorithms, poetry, and incantations. He is also a chronic kleptomaniac with no sense of people's personal space or belongings. Ironically, he only listens to Elle, who is the only person who can pull him out of his stupors. Although it's never stated why, Liori believes it's because he thinks Elle is Sithis incarnate.

Name: La'kisi Salani Race: Khajiit Age: 27 Class: Duel (mage/warrior) Affiliations: Dark Brotherhood, Thieves Guild.

Bio: La'kisi is a cautious but curious Khajiit and the younger sister of J'juka Salani. Not long after arriving in Skyrim, she immersed herself in the stories that bombarded the Sliver-Blood Inn. She loved hearing customers talk about their adventures, and through the grapevine, she became vastly interested in the Thieves Guild. The idea of skulking around in the dark, moving in shadows and hiding her face (which, at the time, she considered hideous) struck an appeal. Against her brother's wishes, she quit her job at the inn and travelled to Riften, where she was welcomed into the Guild after showcasing her potential. She was trained by Gallus Desidenius, but fell out of touch with the Guild after he died. Mourning the loss of her mentor, she returned to her old job in Markarth, but shortly thereafter found herself missing the mischief and freedom. Though happy and willing to move on from the tragedies of her past, she wasn't disappointed when J'juka returned to the inn as a full fledged member of the Dark Brotherhood. Noting his sister's newfound confidence, he extended an invitation to the faction, which La'kisi accepted with great determination. She even reunited with her guild members and opened new trading deals with Vex and Delvin. Unlike J'juka, La'kisi is lively, vivacious, and fun, but knows when it's time to be serious.

Name: Liori Lachance Race: Imperial Age: 19 Class: Archer Affiliations: Dark Brotherhood, Thieves Guild.

Bio: Liori is the youngest member of the Brotherhood, but hardly useless. Hailing from aristocracy, Liori denounced her rich heritage and fled to Skyrim after her father tried to arrange her marriage. Stealthy, cheeky, and shamelessly hedonistic, Liori looks out for number one. At least she did, until she met the Dark Brotherhood. Meeting Elle and Caska, as well as the others, changed her life forever. She now happily serves Sithis and the Night Mother, and takes great joy in archery, espionage, and manipulation tactics. She also remains one of the Brotherhood's hottest assets, as she has contacts all over Tamriel (some of them royal), that often provide useful information about targets. She's well aware that Faolan has feelings for her, but she's waiting for him to make a move. Upon Elle’s suggestion, she also joined the Thieves Guild for some extra, mindless fun.

Name: Mesar Rusenees Race: Argonian Age: 26 Class: Duel (warrior/mage) Affiliations: Dark Brotherhood.

Bio:Mesar is the newest addition to the Dark Brotherhood. Although not the youngest member, he is treated like the youngest member. Mesar lacks a level of maturity, as do many of the younger initiates, but he has a definite drive to prove himself. A bit of a libertine, a bit too conceited, Mesar takes pride in his ability to wield magic beyond the ability of most Argonians; though when distracted the outcome is often disastrous. He has a habit of running his mouth and he has botched more than one mission, but he has potential that Elle isn't ready to dismiss. While some of the Brotherhood members find him insufferable, he isn't hated. Much like Elle, he spent most of his childhood on the street, fending for himself and evading orphanages. For this, he earns some modicum of sympathy. Some. Although he would never admit it, Mesar truly admires Veezian and aspires to be his apprentice. He also has romantic feelings for Persilus.

Name: Oodagh gro-Maralg Race: Orc Age: 40 Class: Warrior Affiliations: Dark Brotherhood, Largashbur, Dawnguard.

Bio: Oodagh is a notoriously skilled blacksmith and the husband of Bogg. Disproving of their relationship, the leader of Largashbur attempted to banish Oodagh from the stronghold, accusing him of corrupting an Orc of a higher bloodline, which is forbidden. To save Bogg's livelihood he agreed to leave, but this lead to Bogg going berserk and attacking the leader. During this altercation, Oodagh was struck along his right eye, severely cutting and eventually blinding it. Blaming himself, Bogg declared himself a renegade and fled the stronghold, leading Oodagh along. He apologized over and over, despite the fact that Oodagh didn't blame him at all. Before joining the Dawnstar, Bogg and Oodagh married in the Temple of Mara and decided to use the names of their parents as surnames. Both he and Bogg are witty, crude, and outspoken, though Oodagh is a bit more personable and a better conversationalist.

Name: Persilus "Perdy" Adertheedus Race: Argonian Age: 26 Class: Duel (warrior/mage) Affiliations: Dark Brotherhood, Bard's College.

Bio: Persilus, AKA “Perdy”, is mainly the Brotherhood's sanctuary healer. She joined the Dark Brother after she was saved by Elle, who later taught her how to fight. Although Perdy mostly relies on magic, most of her expertise lies in healing and restoration. She is very supportive of what the Brotherhood does, as she believes only Sithis has the right to lay down a sentence of execution. When Elle is away, she also tends to Kessaris, which isn't usually a problem unless he has a psychotic episode, which she soothes by singing. Perdy is also a bard from the Bard's College and she has an amazingly beautiful voice, which is rare amongst Argonians. Ironically, she also has a very venomous bite.

Name: Armindor " Resaeus" Elsinious Race: Altmer Age: 300 Class: Duel (mage/warrior) Affiliations: Dark Brotherhood.

Bio: Resaeus, real name Armindor Elsinious, is a fugitive and traitor of the Aldmeri Dominion. His only crime, as far as Elle has ever been able to divulge, is defecting from the Dominion, openly opposing Thalmor supremacy, and starting a rebel movement against them. He supports the worship of Talos and religious freedom for all, but whether or not that's the whole truth is a mystery. He was a prominent father figure in Elle's life and in fact unofficially adopted her when he found her pick pocketing people on the streets. A free spirit with a troubled past, raising Elle proved difficult; even painful at times, but he loves her more than the world itself. Over the years, Resaeus' health has drastically declined, and so he mostly stays in the sanctuary, aiding the Brotherhood when he can and offering Elle tactical, edifying, and parental advice.

Name: Singer Race: Nord Age: 27 Class: Duel (mage/warrior) Affiliations: Dark Brotherhood.

Singer is the result of brutal experimentation conducted by several radical mages. Deep in the Skyrim mountains, many Nords were kidnapped in the night and forced to endure the effects of forbidden spells and remedies. Most victims died, but some like Singer developed special abilities, thought to originate from the Void. A powerful conduit for magic, Singer's body can project destruction spells at a far more powerful, long-lasting, and widespread level than most mages. Her voice, now cursed by whatever the mages did to her, produces a sound so high pitched that her whisper can burst the brain of her targets. Though it can be focused, this technique is very difficult to control, so she prefers to use it as a last resort. Singer was saved by the Brotherhood when several members stormed the hills and slaughtered the mages, answering several Black Sacraments. Sadly, she has no memory of her life before the cruel experiments and considers the Brotherhood to be her only family. Naturally, Singer prefers to live and identify as mute.

Name: Veezian "Vee" Chala Race: Argonian Age: 42 Class: Duel (warrior/archer) Affiliations: Dark Brotherhood, Shadowscale.

Bio: Veezian is a sacrosanct Shadowscale and devoted member of the Dark Brotherhood. The first Argonian to join since the death of Veezara (his cousin), he went above and beyond what was expected of him. On par with Elle herself, his skills as a warrior are terrifying and formidable. He takes it upon himself to train the new initiates and spar with every member, while also performing his own tasks with ease. Possibly the most nimble member, Vee is always called upon for the contracts that sound impregnable or heavily guarded. He is a master escape artist as well as infiltrator, and has therefore instructed initiates in all of the new sanctuaries around Skyrim. He has the utmost respect for Elle and the man who raised her. He often describes himself as Elle's sword and shield, devoting himself to her and the Night Mother entirely. Vee is sly, cunning, loyal, and astonishingly good friends with Cicero.

Name: Wendellyn "Wen" Lavahni Race: Imperial Age: 65 Class: Witch Affiliations: Dark Brotherhood, College of Winterhold.

Wendellyn is and old mage who has happily embraced the superstitious title of "witch". Coming from a backwards village where magic was regarded as evil, Wen was abused and neglected by her family when she started showing signs. At the age of ten she hit her limit, and in a rage ignited a wildfire that spread through the town like a twister. When the neighbouring village came to investigate, they found Wen alone, crying, and devastated. From there the child's remarkable grasp of magic only grew. Each tantrum sparked another disaster-- and another and another-- until Wen became a sought after bounty. Terrified, the child responded to every hunter, every traveller, every bandit with violence, regardless of their intentions. Eventually the mages from the College of Winterhold made contact, but Wen saw them as a threat and ran. For years she lived alone, hiding, living off the land and practising self control. To her surprise, animals took kindly to her and became her only friends. Years past, and Wen, age seventeen, found peace. She thought she could live in the middle of nowhere forever, until one day poachers arrived. Desperate to stop them, she grabbed their weapons, only to be recognised as "the little witch who went missing". The men attacked her, holding her down and cutting her face. Once again the fury raged inside her and she burned the men alive. Sadly, much to her dismay, she did the same thing to the forest, and everything in it. Traumatized, she headed for the College of Winterhold, where they welcomed her with open arms. After much hardship, Wen was able to hone her abilities, once again finding peace. At the age of twenty-five she left the college, despite being asked to teach. She returned to her little patch of nowhere, where she lived contently for another fifteen years; save a few visits from the odd "witch hunters". By the time the Dark Brotherhood found her, she had become a notorious pacifist, but they convinced her to join as a teacher for initiates and a herbalist. Lonely, tired of living in a shack on some cindered land, she agreed. When talking to the initiates, Wen will sometimes say, "You're very beautiful. I was beautiful once." To which Faustus will reply, "You still are."

[broomballkraken]

Title: Anger

Fandom: Fire Emblem Awakening

Pairing: Gregor/Cordelia

Word count: 1395

Warnings: None

Summary: “What did you do to Gregor, witch? What kind of horrible curse did you place on him?”

"I did no such thing."

Cordelia yawned as she walked through the camp. She had just finished caring for Aurora, making sure to give her some extra special care due to her grand performance in their last battle. Her pegasus could be moody at times, but she was a loyal companion and invaluable to her. Cordelia had managed to loose track of time and skip lunch, so she was pretty hungry. She was making her way to Gregor's tent to see if he wanted to join her for dinner.

She didn't have to go all the way to his tent, however, because she spotted Gregor running towards her from the other side of the camp. She smiled and waved as he got closer.

“Ah, Gregor! Do-” Cordelia started, but Gregor did not stop as he ignored her and sprinted by Cordelia, continuing to run until he was out of sight. She had caught a glimpse of his face and he ran by, and she was immediately concerned. He had looked incredibly distressed, and it seemed like he had been crying.

“Gregor...” Cordelia whispered to herself as she frowned. She looked back in the direction that he had come from, and her frown immediately turning into a scowl. She clenched her jaw and stalked off in the direction he had came, making a bee-line to her tent.

Cordelia had noticed that Gregor had been conversing with Tharja quite frequently as of late. That worried her, though not because she was jealous. Gregor was not that kind of man, and even if he was, he would quickly meet with the business end of Libra's ax if he tried anything with Tharja. No, Cordelia was more worried that he would come back after one of their meetings missing an eye or finger, or he'd have some horrible hex cast upon him. Judging by his reaction, Cordelia concluded that the latter may have happened, and she was not going to let Tharja get away with harming the love of her life.

Cordelia didn't bother to announce her presence as she stormed into Tharja's tent. The dark mage turned and glared at Cordelia. She was clearing items from a table, which were probably used to cast whatever hex that she did on Gregor.

“Barging into someones tent unannounced is rather rude, Cordelia.” Tharja said, sniffing as she turned to continue putting away her things. Cordelia's growing anger boiled over as she lunged forward and grabbed Tharja by the collar. Tharja's eyes widened with shock for a moment before resetting into a searing glare.

“What did you do to Gregor, witch? What kind of horrible curse did you place on him?” Cordelia asked through gritted teeth. Tharja just rolled her eyes.

“I did no such thing,” Tharja said as she grabbed the hand that was gripping collar and shoved it away. Cordelia kept the hand raised for a moment before lowering it slowly.

“You must have done something. I've never seen him look so upset.” Cordelia said, taking a deep breath to calm her feelings of rage.

Tharja sighed. “He wanted to talk to his dead brother. He offered me his soul in exchange, so of course I couldn't refuse.” Cordelia opened her mouth to protest, but Tharja ignored her and continued. “I set up the ritual and he was able to talk to his brother. It seems he was a bit overcome with emotion.”

“Oh.” Cordelia said, suddenly overcome with feelings of guilt. “What did his brother say?”

“I don't feel comfortable telling you that. It would be better to ask Gregor yourself. Besides,” Tharja gave Cordelia a small smile, “he could probably use someone to talk to about it now, and the best person for that is you.”

Cordelia nodded and looked down in shame. “Tharja...I'm sorry for barging in here and accusing you like I did. My anger clouded my judgment.” she said as she looked back up at Tharja. The mage shrugged.

“Apology accepted. Now get going. You're taking up my valuable research time.” Tharja said as she turned away from Cordelia. Cordelia turned to go, but she paused at the tent opening and turned back.

“Um, Tharja? You...didn't actually take Gregor's soul, did you?” she asked nervously. Tharja just shrugged.

“No. I'm too tired to perform that ritual now. I'll get around to it someday.” she said, her smile hidden from Cordelia. Cordelia sighed in relief.

“Oh good. Well, I'll see you around.” Cordelia said as she finally left to find Gregor.

*

Cordelia found Gregor standing by a large tree outside of the camp. He had one hand pressed against the trunk. His other arm was crossed in front of his face, and as she stepped closer, she could hear him sobbing softly.

“Gregor?” Cordelia said quietly as she stopped beside him. Gregor looked up at her, his eyes red and puffy as tears slowly ran down his face.

“A-ah, Cordelia. Is good to see you.” Gregor said, managing a smile as he sniffed and rubbed his face. Cordelia reached out and cupped his face in her hands. Gregor blinked as she wiped his tears away.

“Tharja told me what happened. That you talked to your brother.” Cordelia said as she ran her hand through Gregor's hair. Fresh tears filled his eyes. “I was so worried when I saw you run passed me earlier. I thought she had cursed you or something.” Cordelia adverted her gaze. “I, um, was angry. I confronted her and kinda blew up on her. I feel terrible about it now.”

Gregor laughed suddenly, startling Cordelia as he pulled her into a hug. “Oi! My Cordelia so brave! Confronting dark mage just to stand up for Gregor! Is truly blessed man to have beautiful woman love him so!” Cordelia couldn't help but smile and she laughed with him.

“Yes well, I still feel bad about it. Tharja was only helping you, right? I was very rude to her.” Cordelia said, frowning as she adverted her gaze.

“Ah yes, Gregor ask Tharja for help. She not as bad as everyone think she is. Is actually big ol' softy.” Gregor said with a chuckle, “You think a priest would fall in love with someone who doesn't have big heart?”

Cordelia grinned and nodded in agreement. Libra and Tharja's relationship was probably one of the oddest in the army, even more so than Virion and Sully, or Vaike and Miriel.

“Did Tharja tell Cordelia what Gregor's brother say?” Gregor asked as he ran his fingers through her hair. Cordelia shook her head.

“No. She didn't feel like it was her place to tell me. You don't have to tell me either if you don't want to. I just wanted to make sure that you were okay.” Cordelia said.

“It fine, Gregor will tell you.” he said as he took Cordelia's hands in his. “Gregor's brother say it not Gregor's fault that he died. That Gregor should forgive self, and that he proud of Gregor.” Gregor sniffed as he fought back fresh tears that threatened to form in his eyes. Cordelia smiled and squeezed his hands.

“Oh Gregor, that's wonderful. I'm glad you got to talk with your brother again. I knew he would be proud of you. You're a wonderful man.” she said as she leaned up and placed a light kiss on his lips. Gregor grinned.

“Heh, Gregor tries his best. Brother also mention Cordelia during conversation.” Cordelia tilted her head, curious. “He say he happy that Gregor find wonderful woman to love, and if Gregor ever hurt Cordelia, he come back to haunt Gregor as punishment.”

Cordelia giggled. “You brother sounds like he was a wonderful person. I can see where you got it from.” she said as she entwined her fingers with his.

“Oh yes, Gregor's brother good man too, but Gregor much more handsome looking!” Gregor said with a laugh. Cordelia laughed along with him.

“I'll take your word for it, Gregor. You are certainly hard to beat in that department.” Cordelia said as she moved her face closer to his. He grinned as their foreheads pressed together.

“Gregor has irresistible charm, and also very good kisser.” he said as he closed the distance between them and pressed his lips to hers. Cordelia smiled against his lips and deepened the kiss, as the anger she had felt earlier in the day was completely forgotten.