#Shadowed Dawn AU

[last-of-the-lot]

Alright it is still gnawing at my brain stem, the vengeance saga is still swirling in my brain, and I am avoiding work, so I am going to flesh out Critical Role/Epic the musical AU. Working name; Shadowed Dawn AU.

I'll come up with something more witty as I write more.

For anyone who has no idea what the hell I am talking about, go read this post.

So! First and foremost I am going to take all my ramblings out of the tags and put them in this post and give more context to them.

What does Percy make and unmake during the night? He creates and melts down parts for an intricately carved pocket watch.

In the Odyssey, Penelope is weaving something. It escapes me if it is a mourning shroud for Odysseus or for his father, but I know that it is something important enough to stay the hands of the suitors. In this version, Percy was commissioned to create a pocket watch or something mechanically beautiful, and elves with their understanding of art and all that respect the time he is taking. To a point.

Why is Percy being passive? Well he married Vex and moved to Syngorn of course.

Going by campaign canon, Syngorn sucks for non-elves. The books expand on it, but I think that Percy could get by but not outwardly go against the system that is in place. He also has a daughter to think about here and despite his family being willing to help him out, they can't just mess with a line of succession.

Where has Vex been for twenty years? Trying to get back from putting down an ancient dragon and every other monster that got in her way.

I like to imagine that this sort of a No Briarwood/ an Arranged Marriage AU. Not a no Orthax AU, that is important. (Or will be later.)

Vex and Percy married youngish. They had known each other for even longer. Right now I'm thinking they met when Percy was ten and Vex was fourteen. (Vex had already been training with The Dawnfather for four years, yes this will be explained later.) They got married in their twenties around the age they would have been during the first campaign. Vex leaned into society dealings more, and Syldor saw that as having a use. Hence arranged marriage.

Instead of a dragon the monster might turn into a city killing aberration, as The Dawnfather has an issue with those. Maybe he sent our his champion to go deal with that and didn't anticipate how badly it would go.

What is the Bow? Feanthras obviously.

In the odyssey the reason that stringing and drawing the bow was such a challenge was because the thing was made for Odysseus specifically, who was the descendant of a god. In this, I think that it has more to deal with the life Vex led as an elven ranger trained by The Dawnfather than anything to do with relations to a god. Reasoning being if she continued to do the same things that she always did while pregnant with Vesper, then a bit of what made Vex special made Vesper special as well. Sort of how a few people like to headcanon Vesper as an aasimar.

Why did Vex not take it with her? Same reasoning that Odysseus didn't take his bow to Troy.

Despite not going to war, Vex still went to go kill some stuff on the opposite end of the world. She left her bow because it was a symbol of strength and maybe because she trusted herself to get the job done without it.

Why is Vex in a position of power? Because Syldor died (of mysterious circumstances) and Velora was too young.

Yes I think someone merced his ass. Probably not Vex, despite what everyone believes. Syldor died right before the marriage was supposed to be completed but not in time for it to be called off. Vex didn't look unhappy but people talk. No one would outright say it, but it would further explain why she is respected. Why didn't Velora's mother take over in Syldor's place? Line of succession and Syldor had no written grips about Vex, so she got the job.

The Dawnfather is Athena and Vesper is Telemachus

Okay a lot of this part is just going to be rambling, but this dynamic is something I need everyone to walk with me on. Take Luke Holt's voice, and imagine it coming from the faceless, burning power of the SUN. Now imagine the Sun kicking your ass. This is the dynamic the Dawnfather brings to the table. And we know from Downfall that he can care, he can care so much.

The Dawnfather would move a lot in avatars. Not so much a smaller version of himself or even anything human looking. I think he would favor appearing as a mouse when he needs to whisper into the ears of his chosen, and a dragon when tearing people apart. In wider canon, Pelor is often the god of time, so I feel alright giving him some form of quick thought even if that isn't his 'God Move' as they are known in Epic. It is just him exercising his power of his domain. What would his 'God Move' be? Good question, I'll get back to you on that.

Vesper is a bit like Telemachus and also presents a more refined appearance. Elven ideals and all that. But she is a vicious thing when pressed. I like to imagine she has sword training from both her father and Dawnfather, and also a bit of magic that no one can explain. It's god given. (Might have been a group effort.)

In my head Percy is draped in a mourning veil and tasteful symbols of both the Archheart and Dawnfather while making the challenge because he is mourning both his autonomy and hopefully the suitors while making a plea to both the god of his new home and the god of his childhood to protect his daughter.

Okay this one is a bit big but let's see if I can condense it. Vex began to read up on the Dawnfather as a way to connect with Percy, as it would be something that she knew he would learn as he got older. The Dawnfather took an interest in her before it even got to that point, and trained her for ten years before sending her off on a fight. He continued through this AU's version of the Cyclops incident, before leaving for reasons I will flesh out later. The Dawnfather is aware of his wayward De Rolo and the prayers being sent, but the Archeart is having too much fun with the scenario to really let him do anything beyond mentor Vesper.

I feel as if the Archheart is taking the place of Hermes here in personality more that role. But I can see them making sense for helping out Vex in multiple ways. The Archeart did create elves, so that does make Vex a descendant of theirs in a way. Plus I feel like they would love a show.

The veil itself is inspired by the veils that the priestesses of the Matron of Ravens wear as well as the act of being a dead man walking and covered in the sheet that would one day cover his dead body. He knows that he would probably not be buried the Whitestone way, and this is his way of making peace with that. The symbols are calls to the gods a last ditch hope that their attention will turn in his direction. I think that Percy at this point would be as much of an atheist as he could get away with. Not as much as he was one in the campaign, and I will NOT be getting into Exandrian religion and what atheism means in a world where you have tangible proof of the gods in this post, but in context of this AU and Percy I think he still has a spot of hope in him. Yes Vesper still gets into a Little Wolf like fight and yes she would have eventually strung Fenthras like Telemachus almost strung Odysseus' bow

I touched on the second part of this earlier, but now to expand on the first part. Vesper is properly educated and trained as Syngorn children are, but she is more human than Vex ever was and Vex had issues with elves.

So she gets in fights a few times. Her magic manifests around her thirteenth birthday to literally everyone's surprise but the Archheart who is too busy laughing their butt off and running from a pissed off Dawnfather to really explain shit for a few years. Percy ( rightfully ) takes this to mean that his daughter has the blessing of the god of their home despite being more human than elf, and incorporates the Archeart into his daily prayers. The suitors started really pressing the issue of Percy's remarriage and the control of the Vessar estate and power seat around her seventeenth birthday, and the little wolf fight is her going up against a blade singer mage maybe a century or two her senior.

This is when The Dawnfather comes back to support her, and the Archheart goes off to find out where that darn champion of The Dawnfather's went. Maybe if he had her back, he'd leave them alone about the amount of magic they gave the younger champion.

That is a lot of my thoughts on the Percy side of things. There are still more, like what role Orthax plays in this, but that is for when I form all my thoughts together.

Next post will probably be about the crew Vex has on her journey home.

[tw1nkee28]

Mer!au Dawn from the discord server :]

He's a Lionfish !! Very poisonous,,,,

Reference of his colors and hands :D

(I love Lionfish,,,🫶)

[sad-endings-suck]

same person different font

[justreadertings]

Concept: rowaelins child drawing all over her face and arms to look like her dad

[yell0wsalt]

Feishan: hold up. Yangchen, where’s Chaisee?

Yangchen: eh, gone.

Feishan: w-what?! And you let that slide? Go get her!

Yangchen: being a bounty hunter is not in my job description. Not in this lifetime

—

Kyoshi: 🧍🏻‍♀️

[omen-of-the-stars]

after many months of procrastinating, it's done! the refs for my warriors fic!

listed in allegiance order: Furled Bracken, Running Horse, Cloudy Sun, Whispering Breeze, Dawn River, Broken Shadow, Falling Rain, Falcon Swoop, Stone Song, Chasing Clouds, Dark Whiskers, Jagged Lightning, Shy Fawn, Rising Moon, Owl Feather, Fish Leap, Fallen Leaves, Dove's Wing (renamed Dove Flight), Jay Wing, Half Moon and Rushing Water, who you can probably guess who will become.

[allthenicknamesweretaken]

How the hell do you draw a hood

[forallofthedas]

Inquisitor AU Tag Drop

Aka I like to be mean to my muses and explore fun aus

👑 fate can be cruel: alistair theirin au ⚖️ a herald of justice not vengence: anders au 🛡 finally free of the shadow but at what cost: carver hawke au 🦁 the templar rising anew to be the man he was meant to be: cullen rutherford au ۞ the son a magister andraste's herald funny how fate works: dorian pavus au 🐺 always in the shadow of the magisters: fenris au 🌼 andreaste's dawn brought by a dalish pariah: merrill sabrae au  🏹 an inquisition built on shaken faith that will not break: sebastian vael au ➵ never wanted to be like the heroes i write: varric tethras au

[the-au-collector]

ooooh!! like constellations for the wip game, if it hasn't been asked already? 👀

Thanks for the ask 💖

Like Constellations is the first part of my College Radio AU! I'm naming all the stuff in that AU after Oh Hellos songs because their song Boreas inspired me to make the AU.

Here's a snippet from chapter 1:

“How’s moving in?” Link asks unsurely. Dawn starts talking about how lovely Aurora’s house is and how nice the girl called Dot she’s living with is. Dot’s a junior, but in the same major as Aurora, and apparently she has a boyfriend who Dawn has never seen despite Dawn moving in last week and this boyfriend being from around the area. “I swear, he comes through the window!” Dawn insists as they’re standing in line for food. Link glances at Aurora for confirmation, and the older girl shrugs. “He comes through the window sometimes,” she says, like that’s not weird. Dawn and Link laugh about it through the rest of the line, ordering at the kiosk, and waiting for their numbers to be called.

[the-sky-queen]

In Future Families, Shadow and Rouge quit GUN around the time of Ember's custody case. (haven't decided yet if it's before or after) Then Whisper starts up a new group called the Guardian Angels and the two decide to join up. Fastforwarding, the GA has become the new central hero force of the world. Shadow, Rouge, and Amy are all a part of it, as well as a lot of other people. (Sonic is not because he's a free spirit, but he still helps out whenever they need him.) There's even a new heroes program to help get kids the training they'll need if they want to do this sort of thing in the future. There's a minimum age requirement though. They don't want kids going in as young as Tails and some of the others did. So the Robotnik and Hedgehog kids go through regular school for a few years before deciding if they want to join the GA. (Most of them do.) As it stands currently, Ember, Joy, Lux are training with the GA. Rose is about to to enter and she is beyond excited.

[dathomirdumpsterfire]

~~Chapter 7: Welcome to Dathomir~~

Read live one chapter ahead on Ao3! Link at the bottom. This is the sequel to Desertification, so read that first if you're new to the series. Updates Tuesdays! Comment to be added to tag list. :3

Maul sits hunched over a tome from Mother Talzin’s library, breathing the scent of dust and old leather as words swim in front of his eyes. On the opposite page, a painting of two witches blurs as an oil-slick fractal blooms across his tired vision. The witches dance beneath inconsistent, wriggling lines that morph slowly into the impression of a many-legged arthropod.

The sith presses the heels of his hands to his failing eyes, growling faintly as he demands they continue to work.

For over a month he has not slept more than two hours at a stretch. His legs tingle, ache, and go numb in turns. Full supply crates stand empty, depleted as he burns through calories double-time. Regardless, hunger claws at his belly as he reads. As ever, he turns to the force, fueling himself with rage as he searches for some record of what could be hunting him. A clue, a tale, a rumor, a scrap.

The comm on his desk chirps with a new message. He ignores it. Attending meetings on holocall is a waste of time and risks embarrassing collapses, so Vos is contacting him at random hours with reports he barely retains. Planning his next move, planning anything, is an exercise in wrangling concentration for long enough to come to a point. Meals and habits are interrupted. Thoughts are interrupted. Everything is interrupted.

Clinging threads hunt him through the force, day and night.

Still, progress has been made, inch by miserable inch. The nature of his enemy continues to elude him, but his research has not been entirely fruitless. The nightsisters’ unique mastery of the force yet survives in their writings, and Maul has found himself improving very quickly at two things: the obfuscation of his force presence, and the use of a nightmagick cantrip which makes the user harder to perceive. Neither work as well as the sanctum’s wards, but together they have stymied his enemies’ attempts to hook their spell into his bones.

With two other practitioners, he would have been able to perform the same mistwalking ritual the sisters once used for assassinations. If only securing the help of other witches was not unfeasible in the wake of Sidious' massacre. If only the temple’s library held some tale of this strange affliction. If only its ghosts responded to his presence as though to a witch rather than a mere nightbrother.

If only, if only, if only.

Maul digs claws further between his horns and growls in disgust at his own thoughts. Pointless, pathetic speculation in the face of his failure to find answers.

Or more accurately, his failure to go get answers. The knowledge he seeks is somewhere out there, away from Dathomir.

His ability to withstand the attacks without sheltering in the sanctum is growing, but it remains an inevitability that without the wards’ aid he will, eventually, be overcome. Weeks, a month… perhaps two.

The hunters will persist— chasing him from sleep, interrupting his plans, dogging his every step. He can draw on the dark side to sustain his body beyond exhaustion, will do so without hesitation, but resisting the threads’ pull requires concentration. Closing his teeth on the power of the dark side is to be bitten and held in turn, to lose himself in its churning depths. Eventually his mind will unravel, drawn out on a riptide. In that one moment he would lapse, and the threads would have him.

He cannot risk leaving Dathomir without direction.

With no other options immediately available to him, Maul is left waiting on the mercy of Dryden Vos, stewing in the certainty that the wretched man is going to savor each and every moment of this miserable showcase like another one of his priceless Nubian wines.

Vos at least arrives swiftly after being summoned, sauntering down the ramp from First Light wearing incongruous white silk belted at the waist and a large silver pendant cut into the unmistakable crest of the Crimson Dawn. An AL-T model astromech trundles behind him, bearing a case upon the serving tray installed in place of its dome.

The near-human looks around as he descends, pale eyes greedily eating up his first look at the temple’s facade. But even his obsession with force nexus -of which Dathomir is a unique example- and ancient history -which the entire complex is a monument to- do not distract the man from giving Maul an unwelcome and thorough once over.

He knows how he looks. The inspection is unnecessary.

“My lord.”

White teeth flash in a honeyed smile and Vos bows smoothly at the waist, hand-to-heart with the other arm swept out to the side. It shows off a half cape lined in shimmering ivory, and the custom petar knives sheathed at his hip.

Maul gives him a narrow look.

The crime lord’s expression turns toward affected concern as he straightens.

“My, what circumstances the galaxy brings us.” The man’s outstretched hand comes to rest on Maul’s upper arm, steel blue eyes flickering down and up a second time.

Irritation burns in the sith’s chest.

“You look…“ Vos dithers long enough to bite a knuckle, then shrugs expansively, frowning. “Well, terrible, honestly. Are you eating?”

Fingers alight on Maul’s collarbone, then catch under his jaw, daring to tilt his chin up as Vos makes a show of examining his face with light, doting touches, his gaze far too sharp. “... Sleeping?”

Snarling, Maul grabs the man’s wrist and squeezes until he feels bones grind.

The scrutiny ends. Vos’ face goes flat as he meets the sith’s glare, exaggerated expressions and loose movements exchanged for focused stillness in a second. Good. Maul has little interest in playing at the moment.

Dryden’s markings flush a shade darker as he leans closer, brows lifting. His voice drops into a murmur despite their lack of an audience. Unless one counted the droid. “Tell me there’s been some good news since last we spoke?”

There is none, of course. Maul closes half the distance to Vos’ darkening face and lets his voice lower to a tense drawl.

“What have you brought me?” he asks slowly.

A muscle in Dryden’s cheek tics at the question, irritation and impatience swirling in his weak force presence. A blink, and it is all shuffled from view as the man disengages, showing his teeth in a smile. Maul does not so much as blink, but he does release fragile wristbones from his crushing grip.

Vos turns without a word to the gleaming white and gold astromech droid, finally letting go of Maul’s arm, and keys open the case it is holding. The seal breaks with a hiss, and he withdraws two books, flimsiplast and bound. One is simple and blue, the other is covered in what looks like nautolan skin.

"My lord, I am afraid that these are the only relevant texts in my immediate collection… but as promised I have assets hunting through a more robust selection for further options."

Maul accepts the meager offering and gives the books a cursory examination, ready to investigate any line of inquiry -no matter how thin- that might get him some fucking sleep.

Vos lingers at his side, but physically leans toward the carved redstone of the temple behind him. Manicured fingers idly trace the jagged markings at his throat. The lines begin to flush again, from pale pink to darker mauve.

It makes the desired compensation for this man’s help -hand delivered- abundantly clear.

"A start," Maul comments about the books, turning for the entrance. "Follow. We shall discuss these, and what else you might offer me, over tea."

"I would kill for some tea. Honestly, what a day," says the blonde, moving to walk with him, astromech in tow. A historian’s gaze explores the fallen remains of titanic Paecian architecture, the broken artistry laying scattered on either side of the entry it once guarded.

"Mnh," the sith replies. They both know it is not about tea.

Maul leads them through the central cavern and into a series of winding corridors cut into the stone beyond, all the way to the northern edge of the mountain.

The cramped tunnels open to a series of gouges in the cliff side. It looks like something unreasonably large had taken a swipe out of the rock, or that the mountain had withstood a glancing volley from a ship’s laser cannons long ago. It is here, in a bid to escape the reek of tibanna soot and decaying battle droids, that Maul has made his home. For however many years it had been just a peculiar set of overlooks. Now, the view of the northern swamp across the horizon remains, but the elements are held back by transparisteel.

He takes Vos directly into the open cavern that is his living room, a broad circular depression in its middle. The walls here are a work in progress, only partially smoothed. What was once a scattering of boulders are now various pieces of furniture arranged around a magnificent, man-sized hearth where burns a woodless green ichor fire. These were his idle projects, his distractions, carved when Maul wanted to think while his hands were kept busy.

The other man does not hide his curiosity any longer, although his face is a study in polite, inscrutable interest. His eyes linger most on Maul's decor. Cloth hangings and useful pottery he had recovered from the abandoned nightbrother village. Tapestries of fine weave from the nightsister's dwellings. A growing collection of trinkets gathered during his travels, and gifts from various sources, mostly given in tribute to Crimson Dawn and diverted his way by Vos.

Or perhaps it was Vos’ secretary who thought of him, given how the man in question pauses to examine a verne spine, coiled and bejeweled, like he had never seen it before. Some things are his own additions, lifted from sith temples or taken as trophies after an assassination.

The result is art both fine and rustic. Treasures and trinkets that range from sentimental to priceless. Hints of his tastes from living on Coruscant for so long, set right alongside banners for dead Night Clan bloodlines.

Seeing the figurehead of the Dawn in the middle of it -all bespoke white shimmersilk and silver accents- is odd in a way he cannot begin to define.

Maul shakes off the useless feeling and gestures Vos toward the sitting area. The man heads down into it with a nod, gracefully taking a seat."Wait here," he orders evenly, "I will return."

He can feel it, again. The build up before the threads come.

Dryden collects a datapad from the droid and gets comfortable, looking entirely too agreeable. “As you wish, my lord.”

Maul withdraws to the kitchen, setting the books down on the rock that is going to, eventually, be a dinner table. The sith takes a moment to cross the room and add water to his battered kettle, flipping it on to heat. It fails to start. He flips the switch twice more before the mechanism hums to life. Then, he goes to sit down while it boils, hands clasped on the rough stone slab before him.

There, he waits for it…

The whisper of claws and gossamer string come searching, winding, looking for him-

w,

h,

e,

r,

e

?

?

?

Maul uses the little twist of will he had worked out which empowers the cantrip. The edges of his hands grow blurry, fingers becoming like claws of smoke. He reels in his energy, his self, his senses, until the average force user would tell you that he simply does not exist. Not a gap in the world -like a droid- nor a living thing.

Nothing there.

Still the threads wind around him, this cloying sensation of being petted and cherished and-

The kettle begins to scream.

The sith hisses. Hiding, hiding, hiding-

Finally it goes.

There is a shake to his limbs as the smokiness fades, but Maul regains his feet without pause. A meager flush of victory runs through him. The war wages on, but this latest battle has been won, and won more skillfully than before. Every centimeter of progress gives him the will to carve out another.

The afflicted nightbrother inhales deeply once upright, refocusing as the tremors settle.

Maul finishes making tea, then returns to the social call with a tray. He brings two steaming cups and a bowl of nuts, none of which should be harmful to a near-human. Probably.

"My lord, I have a question."

Maul sets his burden on the roughly cut caf table, and offers Vos a glazed black mug, detailed with poisonous flowers.

The man takes it delicately, blue gaze intent on Maul’s face. The sith meets that look, recognizing hunger in any form it takes.

"What is it?" he asks, getting his own drink and drifting away to take a seat on a distant section of couch.

With a slow, delighted grin beginning to stretch his features, Dryden points at a wall hanging made of embossed metallic slats that sits by the door. "That, unless I am entirely mistaken, is over seventeen thousand years old. At minimum. A mirialan poem, from their third 'iron renaissance'?"

A glimmer of collector's lust sparkles in Vos' eyes. Hungry indeed, for history it seems. "An accurate assessment. It is."

The other man rises, drink in hand as he approaches the metal scroll, beginning to recite its words in their original language.

"As an imperfect actor on this stage,

Who with fear is put beside their part

Or some fierce thing replete with rage,

Whose strength's abundance outdoes them

So I, in my fear, forget to say

The perfect ceremony of love's rite

And in this way my own strength decays"

Vos holds himself like he is trying desperately not to touch the thing. "What a little treasure you have here. The speaker… overcome by their own depth of emotion… they fail to express themselves to their love, and their confidence is then lost? Perhaps their position as a suitor entirely?"

Maul hums, "I would argue it is their self control, not the depth of their passion, that leads to their failure, whichever it might be."

The crime lord sighs, and takes a drink of his tea, lingering there. "Wonderful. If you have other such pieces I would be so interested in seeing them."

Maul considers it a moment. Letting Vos loose among his collection of artifacts has its drawbacks, but it would serve as plentiful distraction. The sith stands, takes a long pull on his own drink, then abandons the rest in favor of a handful of nuts. "Follow."

"Don’t mind if I do," Vos smiles, joining Maul as he leads the way down a set of stairs to the level below.

He brings them down to his treasury amid the unfinished stone walls, and gestures at the clutter. At the sea of clutter.

Vos’ takes an audible breath, lets it out in a little sigh and a barely-there huff of… something unclear. His faint force signature roils with many emotions at once, all of them intent.

Those jagged markings are going off again, flushing bloody as he starts forward into the room.

Maul puts up a hand to stop him, and the man walks right into it. Blue eyes- their whites gone pink in a pale mirror of a sith’s stare- snap sharply to his face, openly hostile for the barest moment before a veneer of affected warmth slides back into place.

It is Maul’s turn to lean in.

"Be wary,” he lilts. Glaring down people a head taller than him is an art and he has perfected it. “A third of these items might kill you at a touch, and no few are… seductive in their draw."

Vos grins at him and dares to take Maul’s hand off his chest, bowing to kiss the knuckles. "You spoil me, my lord."

Maul thinks putting up with him is the greater benevolence, but keeps that to himself. "Mnh."

The blonde starts exploring with the caution of a man who specializes in the forgotten and forbidden. Maul is content to munch on nuts and leave him to it, watching only to ensure that Vos is not ensnared by something desperate to escape its prison; or a bauble meant to test a fully realized sith and not someone with a mere iota of force training.

It is almost peaceful until the threads come cresting back in a rush, syrupy strings and insubstantial claws. New. The syrupy quality is new. Maul folds under the onslaught, stumbling back into the doorframe with teeth bared.

It sticks, it clings, it wants -

s

s

s

e

e

e

k

i

n

g

«

«

Maul roars at the searching threads, shoving them all away, away! They peel off and slither back, trying to find their way in to bind him. There is no time for the cantrip, he holds these at bay with rage alone.

He comes back out of his internal world damp with sweat and panting, hunched down on his knees. Green mist leaks from his mouth and nose, and the air smells of burnt things.

Vos is standing before him, very still. "My lord, are you… well?” the other man asks, eyes bright and lips slightly parted as though witnessing something riveting.

Maul rises, chest vibrating as a growl of frustration pours out of him, at the threads and the softly-spoken question alike.

A blonde head tilts, birdlike. "Perhaps… you should rest? I could not feel that as you do, merely a faint, mm… vertigo? But it did look…” the man finally inhales and blinks, body language relaxing out of a predator’s stillness into something almost normal, “…rather exhausting to overcome."

Another lingering once-over and pale brows turn up in an expression that does not match any aspect of how Dryden Vos feels in the living force.

Maul grinds his teeth and stands to his full height, forcing his voice steady, "I will go review the texts you have brought. Do as you will."

He turns to go, and hears Vos follow at his back.

taglist: @savageopressbignaturals

[dandelion-wings]

Tonight's not-so-much-warm-up-as-wind-down presented with absolutely no context, except a warning for non-graphic but extensively discussed domestic violence/child abuse. There's an establishing backstory fic-bit in my head that I have absolutely no time to write any time soon, but this was much shorter and a good mental cooldown, so have a very AU version of teenage Jean being talked into a bit of vigilanteism!

---

Jean catches Kaeya and Rosaria going out the window of one of the storerooms on the cathedral's upper floor.

Rosaria has her spear with her, and Kaeya his sword. That only makes certain what Jean has suspected for a while--that their pretense of hiding away to fondle each other has been exactly that. No matter what they say, she can tell that Kaeya is comfortable with Rosaria in the same way he is with her, different only in degree, not kind. His affection is a false front, overblown, and Rosaria has never sold the lie at all. There's something else they're up to.

"Where are you going?"

Rosaria pauses with one foot on the window, reaching back to grip the haft of her spear where it's strapped to back, though Jean is certain she wouldn't actually draw it. Kaeya looks back and smiles at her, theatrically sheepish.

"We're just looking for a little privacy."

"With your weapons on you?"

"Sister Victoria does say it's dangerous out there at night."

"Kaeya-"

"We're going to put the fear of Barbatos in Gottleib Spitz," Rosaria says shortly, over her shoulder. "You can help, or you can stay out of the way."

Jean frowns. She doesn't have to ask why. "That's something the Knights of Favonius should be taking care of."

"Unfortunately," Kaeya says, "they seem to be falling down on the job."

"If we could just get a report filed-"

"Elsa has lied to them the last three times she's come in here. If it was just her, I wouldn't care." That's a lie and Jean knows it; Rosaria had dug in too determinedly with all her questions about the reporting process and why the Knights couldn't just take the nuns' word over Elsa's, the first time the woman came in with her bruises and her flimsy lies, not to care. "But now that he's putting Clara in the same state, that's not just her business anymore."

She isn't wrong. Jean knows what she'd seen last time, when the senior nuns handed Clara off to her to heal while they tried to badger Elsa into finally reporting her husband to the knights. Kaeya had seen it too, when he sat down to entertain Clara for her while she worked. All Rosaria would have had to do was look at their faces while Clara was distracted to know what kinds of injuries Jean was tending.

"Under other circumstances, the Knights might take the same stance," Kaeya adds, soothing, as if he thinks Jean's objection here is the offense to the Knights. "But given everything that's going on, they must be stretched a little too thin. It only makes sense for the Church to step in while they're overextended."

"By terrorizing Gottleib Spitz in the middle of the night?"

Rosaria rolls her eyes. "By dealing with someone who hurts kids the way he deserves to be dealt with. Isn't that what you got your Vision for, anyway?"

Jean's breath catches at the careless cruelty of Rosaria's words. That isn't what she did--that wasn't what her mother was. Her mother was grieving, and hurt, and had no one giving her (them) the help that she (that they) needed to deal with the weight of all that grief. That things came to a head the way they did wasn't anyone's fault, except maybe Jean's.

"I wouldn't put it that way," Kaeya says, catching something of that protest in her expression before she can find the words to make it. "But you've said yourself that it's your duty to Barbatos to protect the innocent and defend the weak. Leaving the Spitz situation alone won't help anyone."

"Unless you want to wait until Clara ends up in the same position as your sister," Rosaria adds.

"That wasn't necessary," Jean snaps, but already the breath is coming back into her lungs, determination flowing with it. "Just let me get my catalyst. I'll come with you."

[tw1nkee28]

WOO more doodles cause I think I'm brainrotting now @mythrite 🫶

Also I randomly remembered that I used to have Dawn be a traitor for Shadow Company, spying on 141 as a part of their team

And then I started imagining Dawn and Switch knowing each other from 141 but then theyre just hanging out at the SC base, see each other and just-

[lucky-clover-gazette]

when i get some free time and can balance it with my other responsibilities i do fully intend to write some kind of canon divergent fic where the (adult) player character matches volo’s freak and helps him workshop his shitty plan

[justreadertings]

Till Death Do Us Part 11

Author’s note: Yes. You heard me. I’m back from the dead. I am bringing this fic back stronger than ever before! I know this fic had so much love in the past and I am so excited to see what you all have to say about it! I think the formatting might look a bit differnet from now on, but think of it as a show that got a bigger budget and has nicer stuff now. I have SO MUCH of this story to share, so I am very excited to bring you the second part of it! Thank you to everyone who encouraged me to bring this back! This is FOR YOU!!!! I hope you enjoy it :) Ok rant over- Magee

masterlist    

TW: cursing, mentions of violence, mentions of war, mentions of Lyria (sorry squad)

2169 Words

Till Death Do Us Part Chapter 11

Aelin’s laughter bounced off the walls, her hand tucked firmly into Rowan’s arm. The wedding went off without a hitch. It was strange. Not unwelcome… but definitely strange.

The room had been a sharp pain to her heart when the doors opened. As they had made their way down the golden carpet, she tried her best not to see the casket of her loved ones. The pillars had been as restored as they could be, emerald banners hanging with the other decorations. Rowan had squeezed her tightly to him as their country finally, after years, laid their eyes upon her.

Her heart had beat quickly, and it was only his presence beside her and the crown in front of her that kept her feet moving. Gasps and whispers flowed through the beautiful domed room, but she and Rowan got to the pillars. His voice boomed, silencing the rowdy crowd. She had ignored all their eyes, and only kept them on Rowan. They flowed through her coronation, their army an unmovable force beside them, and both she and Rowan had tears in their eyes as he finally placed the crown upon her head.

Then, they moved onto the ceremony and she tried not to bristle as her country moved to the edge of their seats. Rowan spoke more pretty words, her body still on high alert, and she had to focus on his shiny bandolier for most of it, lest she lose her nerve. For a moment, she mourned. When she’d been twelve, she told Rowan that one day they were going to get married out in the gardens and the little patio would be covered in wildflowers. She’d told him that only Maeve and her parents were allowed to be there. And her dog, once she was finally allowed to get one.

She never expected the big crowd, the huge decorations, the formal words. She’d always just wanted Rowan and a kiss.

But Aelin supposed she could ignore the castle, and imagine the patio when Rowan finally leaned down. The whole country seemed to hold their breath. Aelin glanced up at him, and there was something… different in Rowan’s green eyes. Something warm and happy.

So she smiled and curved her hand around his neck, and he grabbed her waist. It truly was like a fairytale, Rowan holding her firmly to him as their mouths pressed together. Really, that was all the country needed. But Rowan’s hands were still around her, and she could smell his pine and snow scent, and she did not wish it to end.

Their eyes met for a moment, and it felt like electricity passed between them. For the first time in a long time, she felt like she was just Aelin and he was just Rowan. Them, hiding under her bed, them up in a tree, them in front of their country. So she brushed her nose with him, teasing him a bit. His lips quirked to the side, and he brushed his nose against her’s back before he kissed her again, their mouths moving slowly, leisurely. The country faded, and as he lightly dipped her, her heart fluttered.

The crowd slowly came back into focus, Rowan’s face slightly flushed, just as she assumed her face was. Everyone was cheering, there were trumpets blaring, but she could only hear Rowan in her mind.

The crown suits you.

Hmmm, she thought back to him, you don’t look too bad either, Prince. A smile crossed her face. King, she corrected.

Rowan brought her hand to his lips. My Queen.

Her heart jumped. The evasions on her home, the loss of her parents, her rulers, the loss of her childhood, everything… it had been for this. For this perfect moment. No one could ever take this crown from her now. No one could ever belittle her or push her thoughts to the side. She was truly and forever the Almighty Queen of the United Throne of Terrasen. With a smile, she slipped her hand into the crook of Rowan’s arm, and he led her back out the way they came.

She was still bouncing on adrenaline, floating on the fact that no one had been hurt or threatened. Aelin’s brow furrowed as Rowan kept walking into the palace, but she didn’t question his silly smile.

Where are you taking me, Buzzard?

His eyes sparkled. She was starting to think he was high on emotions, too. Patience, Fireheart.

She pursed her lips to hide her smile. They were entering a wing of the castle that had to have been completely rebuilt after the final raid. Rowan led her to a room she’d never seen before, pushing open the double doors to reveal a windowed room over the gardens, pretty emerald curtains hanging. A simple couch sat before a fireplace. It was small. Cozy.

But it was not the room that caught her eye. Aelin’s feet halted. Her rushing heart, so exhilarated off of her crown and her kiss slowed down. She nearly tripped over herself. As Aelin came to a pause, two hands came up to her shoulders, squeezing. Her fingers came up to cover her mouth, and she leaned back into him a bit.

“Rowan-” she whispered.

Emotion rang true in his voice when he whispered back, “Congratulations, Fireheart.”

The grand piano was gorgeous, white and gold. Her heart beat wildly in her ears. Tears grew hot in her eyes. She made her way to it, almost scared to touch it, it was so perfect. Aelin’s fingers drifted lightly over the keys as they shook. Emotion rushed through her, and she couldn’t help but turn, staring into those beautiful green eyes.

“It’s beautiful,” she whispered again, the moment so fragile she didn’t want it to break.

Where harsh calculation normally sat, it was replaced by relaxed fondness. Aelin reached out her hand, a bit hesitant, but Rowan took it, and pulled her into him. Just as he had when she’d first rushed out of that carriage, he held her close, a hand holding her head to his chest. She could smell his pine and snow scent, calming her senses.

How was he a brutal, careful warrior one moment, a calculated and emotionless king another, and then a soft, caring man the next? Her Rowan had survived their wars to be here, to gift his queen with pretty presents. To rule their country beside her.

“Evalin and Rhoe would have been so proud,” he told her.

Tears spilled down her cheeks. “I hope so.” In the quiet of the room, she confessed, “I wish they were here.”

Rowan spoke into her hair. “They were.”

Her face hurt from today, but she couldn’t help the smile that came to it as he said those pretty words. She didn’t know what to do with them, with him.

She didn’t know what to think when he hooked a thumb around her chin, and tilted it up to press a simple, chaste kiss to her lips. Much different than their kiss for their country, this more for closeness than anything. Their boundaries were blurry, and it messed with her mind. She pressed her forehead to his.

Aelin thought back to when she was a little girl, when Rowan used to hold her and press his head to hers and tell her that he would always keep her safe. If they were playing or fighting or tired, he would always protect her and look out for her. But they were grown ups. And he couldn’t protect her from everything. So she savored the peace for a moment more, breathing him in. Until finally, she asked in a hush whisper, “What are we going to do about Lyria?”

He pulled back, clearly upset at her intrusion. He had never been one to run away from a fight… but clearly he’d been wanting to avoid this conversation with her. Especially now. She tried not to regret ruining their perfect moment too much. She needed to know.

“I cannot hide my child from the world Aelin,” he told her, honestly, their soft voices the only sound in the room.

She shook her head. “I never asked you to.”

His eyes fluttered closed, hands curling. This string between them was growing taunt. Their first decision as Queen and King. “But to do that is to humiliate you, my queen. To think I do not value or respect you… I do not want to start our reign like that. For our country to see us divided.”

Aelin tried to think of something to say but… she was just as stuck as he was. Aelin began to understand, a bit, why he might’ve been avoiding her. She said, though, “but we are divided.”

His voice wavered. “Are we?”

Irritation spiked her voice. “Well, your fiance just watched us get married. So it’s a bit complicated.”

Rowan’s eyes unfocused over her shoulder, as if he was trying to think of a response, but couldn’t. Aelin did not want to ruin their night. Today was good, successful. So she only placed a hand on his cheek for a moment, then dropped it and went to leave. She got to the door before he spoke.

“I wasn’t going to marry her, you know.”

Aelin’s breathing hitched. She turned back at him with wide eyes. “What.”

Rowan’s face was… devastated. Confused. He sat down on the piano bench. “I wasn’t going to marry her.” His eyes found her’s, as if pleading with her to understand. “But you were gone, still. I didn’t know when you were coming home. If you were coming home. I just knew-” his voice halted a little. Her heart squeezed. “I knew that when you came home, I would break it off.”

She didn’t know if she was breathing.

“But then she told me. About the baby.” Aelin shut her eyes at the emotion in his voice, at the tears forming in her own eyes. “And I didn’t know what to do. I just knew that I had to do right by her, had to do right by this baby that I dragged into this mess. Had to do right by you. So I decided that I would step down, if that’s what you wanted. If you wanted to get married someday, and make him king, I would let you.”

Aelin grabbed her necklace, the space above her heart, as if she could hold it and stop it from bleeding so much.

Rowan pleaded with her, “So I proposed a few days later. And two hours after that I got word that your carriage was to arrive in three days' time. That’s the only warning I had.”

“Rowan,” she cried, voice breaking. They’d both lost so much. She was tired of life taking from them.

“This wasn’t supposed to happen. Not to you. I was trying… I was going to remove myself from this. Let you have your crown and your kingdom. What you’ve always wanted.”

Aelin’s heart cracked. How could she tell him that her crown wasn’t the only thing she’s wanted since childhood?

He shook his head. “It’s not right, Aelin. I know that. I probably should have never been with her in the first place. I should have focused everything I had on Terrasen. But when I came back from Adarlan, I was… broken. Lost.” His eyes found her’s, as if pleading for her to understand. “I was so lonely, Aelin.”

She wiped her tears, furiously. “I know.”

“And I needed to get out of my head. I’m still so in my own head…” He rubbed his hands down his face. “I needed a distraction. It was never supposed to be this complicated.”

“I know.”

He peered up at her. “I’m sorry.”

Aelin tossed everything he’d admitted to her around in her head. Finally she said, “I know that too.”

They watched each other for a moment. He held such devastation in those green eyes. It broke her heart a little bit. The only sound in the room was her heels clicking on the tile. Aelin knelt down to him, took his face in her hands.

“You are a good king. And a kind man.” The small shake of his head, the disagreement peeled at her aching heart.

“No, you are good,” he argued.

“You don’t know what I am,” she whispered.

He only stared at her. Searched her. Saw into her soul. “It wasn’t supposed to be this way.” Marriage in only name, union under only the crown.

“But it is.”

“Can you live with that?” He asked her. She waited for him to ask her something else. It seemed like he wanted to. But she knew. He would always do what was right. What was good. The responsible choice.

At his silence she only responded with, “can you?”

Ever so slowly, he pressed a heavy kiss to her forehead. Her hands slid off his face to fall limp into her lap. The moment lasted an eternity, a lifetime.

“I can try,” he whispered.

-

-

Ok I hope that answers some of your questions. And brought some brand new ones. Hehehehe. Cannot wait to hear your thoughts on the fic!

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[nonbinary-weirdo]

I need a fic of Gray Wing leading Jagged Peak, Turtle Tail, Jackdaws Cry, Rainswept Flower and Moon Shadow to the Lake instead of following the Sun Trail

Then they'd not have to deal with Clear Sky's horse shit, meet One Eye or the other dangerous rouges and loners.

Turtle Tail has Gray Wings kits, allows a few good loners into their group, and Thunder is still born but from Rainswept Flowers litter with another loner ginger tom called Sage Runner, Bumble lives in the Horseplace but visits to share gossip on the Island (pretend it has stepping stones due to a drout) and some cats live on the moorland but Jagged Peak moves to the Quarry in the forest part of the lake with a silver tabby queen his age called Dew Drop.

GrayClan has begun (or should it be WingClan cuz Gray 'Wing'?)