#a heart of a poet who was raised to fight and kill and spent her childhood hiding in daydreams to cope with the constant clan wars

[l0nglives]

year on the run ! satine is both sansa stark and arya stark and buttercup and no i will not explain further

[jaskierswolf]

The White Wolf (2/3)

Previous - Shifter!verse

Geraskier - 2.1k

TW: blood, animal death

______

Geralt gnawed at the venison shank that he gripped between his paws. Geralt had stalked a doe with ease through the forest, combining his tracker skills as a witcher and his new wolf senses. Taking the prey down had been harder. He was used to fighting with swords not his teeth and he’d tripped over his paws more than once trying to pounce but eventually dinner had been his. He tried not to think about the raw meat he was consuming but the more human part of his mind still recoiled as he tore the carcass to shreds with his teeth. He was hungry though. They hadn’t eaten since breakfast and even then it hadn’t been much.

His ears twitched as he heard a twig break nearby. He stared into the darkness of the trees, and sure enough the sound of Jaskier’s endless chatter floated through the air and Geralt could smell his honied chamomile scent from where he was resting. Geralt huffed and went back to his dinner. Jaskier would see to Roach, there was fuck all Geralt could do to help.

Jaskier burst into camp wearing one of his many doublets, judging by the shapes of the fabric it was one of his dark blue ones but for Geralt, colour was but a distant memory. Unfortunately, his hearing had only gotten better. Jaskier was humming away as he always did, until the moment he saw Geralt. Jaskier squinted at him in the darkness.

“Is that… blood?”

Geralt barked and looked over at the rest of the carcass, hoping Jask could see it in the darkness. To this surprise, Jaskier just started laughing.

“Oh wow, Geralt. It didn’t take you long to get the hang of this did it?”

Geralt let out a low growl.

“Oi, none of that. It’s a compliment!” Jaskier knelt in front of him and buried his face in Geralt’s fur.

Geralt could feel Jaskier’s fingers grip into his fur. It felt… not unpleasant, similar to how it felt when Jaskier brushed his hair. He could see why Jaskier enjoyed it so much. Geralt bumped his head against Jaskier’s and nipped at his ear.

“I missed you too, dear heart.” Jaskier kissed his nose and then began to strip off his clothes.

Geralt gave a short quick bark and tilted his head.

“I’m hungry,” Jaskier whined. “but I am not eating that as a human, my stomach wouldn’t be able to handle it.”

Geralt snorted. Jaskier’s explanation made sense. He’d never really thought about it before. Jaskier tended to just steal from Geralt’s plate when he was in animal form, although Geralt couldn’t help but remember how Jaskier had gobbled down an entire deer in one bite when he’d shifted into a dragon. He certainly wouldn’t manage that as a human, Jaskier barely finished his own plate of food when he was human.

Once Jaskier clothes were tucked into Roach’s bags and the mare was safely tied to a nearby tree, he shifted. Geralt couldn’t see the dark coppery colour of his fur but he could picture it clearly in his mind along with Jaskier’s never-changing blue eyes.

Jaskier barked happily as he landed on four paws and he pounced at Geralt. Geralt snarled as he was pushed over onto his back and Jaskier bit at his ears. Geralt tried to bat Jaskier away but the shifter was more practiced with his wolf form and Geralt was still struggling to get control of all four paws. He huffed as Jaskier’s collapsed on top of him with a howl.

Geralt howled back before he could stop himself then snapped his jaw shut with an audible clack of teeth. He snarled at Jaskier who had rolled off him onto his back and was yapping away in a sort of strange laugh. Geralt snorted and went back to his dinner, turning his back on the other wolf. Jaskier whined and trotted over to him but Geralt kept turning away. If Jaskier wanted to laugh at his misery then he could find his own deer to eat. Jaskier let another long pitiful whine and nudged Geralt’s head with his muzzle.

When Geralt looked over at him Jaskier was doing his best wolfy version of a pout, his eyes were wide and he looked miserable. Even in this form Geralt couldn’t say no to his mate. He nodded towards the rest of the meat. Jaskier barked and wagged his tail as he dug into his dinner. Geralt watched Jaskier for a few minutes, feeling oddly satisfied that he had managed to provide for them both. It had been his hunt, his kill.

The wolf instincts were different. He was still him, and he still felt human enough but there was a calmness to being a wolf that he hadn’t anticipated. It didn’t matter about coin, or lodgings, or monsters. He could just… exist. They ate in silence until they’d both had their fill, the rest of the carcass would be taken by scavengers once they’d abandoned it but it was now completely dark and the day had been long. Geralt curled up on the ground with a heavy sigh. Jaskier flopped down next to him, using his back at a pillow and wrapping his tail around Geralt’s front paws. Geralt nudged Jaskier’s back legs with his nose and let out a soft whine.

Before long they were both snoring soundly in the forest.

___________

When Jaskier woke up he was still in wolf form. It was rare for him not to change forms in his sleep. More often than not we went to bed in one form and woke up in another but Geralt’s presence as a wolf seemed to have stabilised his own instincts to shift. He’d learnt more about his shifting in the last few hours than he had in his lifetime. Even the books in Vesemir’s vast library had yielded nothing but Jaskier now knew deep down that shifters were meant to live in packs. He’d guessed that whatever form the pack leader took would dictate the forms of the others.

Part of him wondered if he’d ever met any shifters and just hadn’t managed to recognise them and he was sure no one would ever suspect a lone shifter. He couldn’t help the howl that tore from him at the break of dawn. He missed Geralt’s family. He missed his pack. They’d met up over winter but it was now nearly summer and he was so alone. Only he wasn’t alone. Geralt joined in with his howl. Jaskier cut himself off and stared at Geralt. Geralt slowly stopped his own howl and then tilted his head at Jaskier. Jaskier barked and bounded over to Geralt, licking and mouthing at his snout.

Geralt let out a low growl and bit Jaskier on the ear. He rolled over and wagged his tail before finally shifting back to human. He gazed up at Geralt his a dopey fond smile and laughed as the wolf licked his face. He buried his fingers in Geralt’s fur. “Now as adorable as you are, my darling. Shall we try and find another mage?”

Geralt nodded and butted their heads together.

“Any ideas on where to start, dear witcher?”

Geralt nodded again.

“Excellent! Let me get dressed and see to Roach, then we’ll get going, alright love?”

Geralt’s ear flicked and Jaskier took that as a yes.

___________

The Temple of Melitele had only been a few days away from the Sorcerers crumbling tower. Jaskier spent his nights as a wolf beside Geralt and his days as a human so he could keep an eye of Roach. Roach was impressively not fazed in the slightest by Geralt’s new canine look. She even seemed to recognise that the wolf was her witcher. Jaskier supposed travelling with a shifter for two years had helped. Jaskier hadn’t been sure where they were travelling until Geralt had insistently tugged at his hand, pulling him through the gates of the temple.

Nenneke had been fiercely protective of her students when Jaskier nervously approached the temple building with a fucking ginormous wolf by his side but Geralt had just laid down on the ground and wagged his tail as Nenneke stared down at him.

“Geralt of Rivia?” Nenneke asked the wolf with her hands crossed in front of her chest.

Geralt nodded.

“And you are?” Nenneke turned to Jaskier.

“Jaskier. I’m Geralt’s friend,” Geralt let out a low growl. “and partner.” He amended and scratched Geralt behind the ears. “We’re looking for a mage or sorcerer or someone who can help with umm… well.” He gestured at Geralt.

“There are no mages here, but I might know someone who will be able to help you with your predicament. How long has he been like this?”

Jaskier frowned as he counted back the days. “Four days?” He glanced at Geralt who gave a quick nod. “Four days.”

“And he still seems like himself?”

Jaskier’s fingers gently tugged at Geralt’s fur as he thought. “Yeah, I think so. He still grumbles when I talk too much, except I know he’s not really mad because he wags his tail!”

Geralt gave a low growl but sure enough his tail was still beating steadily against the ground as Jaskier scratched behind his ears.

“See? It’s brilliant. He absolutely hates it of course. Oh his diet has obviously become a little more raw meat than your average witcher but that’s to be expected,”

“But he’s not becoming feral.”

Jaskier shook his head. “Nah. He’s actually quite cuddly.”

Geralt nipped at his fingers.

“Oi! Bad Geralt.”

Nenneke looked unimpressed. “Geralt, can you understand me?”

Geralt barked and nodded his head.

“Remarkable. Unfortunately you’ll have to stay outside. I’ll have a riot on my hands otherwise. Jaskier, you may sleep inside for your stay here.”

Jaskier frowned. “Ah, umm. Well actually, it’s a generous offer, venerable Mother, but you see,” He glanced at Geralt.

Nenneke raised an eyebrow at him. “You would rather stay with him in the cold than spend the night in a warm bed?”

Jaskier scratched the back of his neck and smiled sheepishly at the priestess. “That just about sums it up, yeah.”

Nenneke laughed and threw them a knowing smile. “Have you tried kissing him? True love’s kiss has been known to cure all manner of curses.”

Jaskier felt himself blush but he brushed it off, putting his hands on his hips and flashing her a toothy smile. “Dearest Nenneke, I have a degree in the seven liberal arts from the esteemed university in Oxenfurt, I am a bard, poet and troubadour of famed renowned, and, I might add, an unparalleled lover. I am well aware of the power of true love’s kiss.”

“So have you tried it?”

Jaskier scoffed and rolled his eyes. “Of course I’ve tried it. Wait… what sort of kisses are we talking about here?”

Geralt let out a long drawn out whine and covered his snout with his paws.

“Exactly, I love him but I’m not about to start making out with a wolf not even���” he cut himself off, Geralt might trust Nenneke but he was still reluctant to reveal his true nature to anyone outside of his pack, not unless he was forced to. “not even Geralt is that cute.”

“I will contact the local sorceress,” Nenneke said sharply, and Jaskier got the feeling that she didn’t really like him very much. “Make yourself at home in the gardens. Geralt?”

Geralt’s ears pricked up.

“Don’t scare my girls.”

Geralt nodded.

“And you, bard. Keep your hands to yourself. I know your sort.”

Jaskier gaped and put his hands on his hips. The accusation wasn’t entirely unfounded, at Oxenfurt he had loved freely and abundantly but he was with Geralt! Even if his boyfriend was currently a wolf. He wasn’t about to go cheating on his partner. He bit his cheek to stop a scathing insult flying out at the priestess. He may not believe in the gods but he knew it was foolish to be purposely disrespectful. Instead he put on his most charming smile and bowed. “As you wish.”

She narrowed her eyes at him and he winked. Geralt nudged his hand with his snout and Jaskier dug his fingers into the thick fur on Geralt’s neck. He glanced down at the wolf and tilted his head. “Shall we go find some shelter? Then I’ll see what I can do about finding us some food.”

Geralt wagged his tail and nuzzled against Jaskier’s leg.

“Thank you, Nenneke. We appreciate your assistance.”

“I’ll leave some food in the courtyard, try and stay out of sight.”

Jaskier nodded. “We will. Thank you.”

_____

Next

[semperintrepida]

When We With Sappho

“Tell me about her.”

Kassandra drained her cup and wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. “Why? She’s lost to me now.” Was this her fourth cup? Or her fifth?

The woman sitting next to her shifted closer. “I’m a poet. And you seem a good story.”

“You want a story, poet?” Kassandra didn’t know the woman’s name. “I can tell you an epic tale. How I killed monsters and men and hunted the heads of a hydra all across these fucking islands.” She reached for the wine.

The jug slid outside Kassandra’s grasp. She blinked, then saw the poet dragging it across the table. First this annoying woman had given Kassandra the wine, and now she was taking it away.

“I’m more interested in a different sort of story,” the poet said, picking up the jug. She refilled her cup, then Kassandra’s. “Pramnian wine. They make it here, on Lesbos. The grapes wait on the vine longer than anywhere else, growing sweeter the more they’re denied the harvest. Once picked, they’re piled high enough to crush themselves under their own weight. The result is as close to ambrosia as mortal hands can make it.”

Kassandra knew of Pramnian wine and how sweet it could be. It had been the taste on her tongue the night she and Kyra had— She shook her head and stared at the dark liquid in her cup. This wine didn’t taste as good, but then again, nothing tasted as good, no color looked as bright, everything lesser now that there was no Kyra to share it with.

The poet kept talking. “I could go to Athens and find someone singing an epic on every corner. But my poems aren’t about the past. They’re about the here and now.”

“Right now, we’re sitting at a table, drinking in a kapeleion. If you think that’s worthy of a poem….”

“Always so literal, warriors. What’s more exciting: listening to someone tell a tale of battle, or fighting in one?”

“Fighting, of course.”

“That’s the kind of feeling I’m trying to capture, but my poems aren’t about war. They’re about desire.”

“Love poems?” Kassandra huffed a breath out her nose. “I can’t tell you anything true about love.”

“Not love. Desire.”

“Then tell me a poem about desire.”

“When I look at you, even a glance leaves me speechless.

My tongue breaks, and thin fire races under my skin, as my eyes see nothing and my ears fill with a roar.”

Kassandra remembered the wanting, the thrill just beneath her skin, the drum of thunder in her ears, so vivid she could feel it. “Is there more?”

The poet smiled. “It’s no longer desire once you get what you want,” she said. “I gave you a taste of a poem, now give me a little of you, stranger.”

Kassandra desired things she could never have again. She lifted her cup and drank deep. “She is fierce and beautiful,” she began — in the present tense because that was the hopeful tense — “and she caught me suddenly in her snare…” and as Kassandra kept talking, it wasn’t as terrible as she feared it would be, and for a moment it felt as if Kyra was sitting right there with her, as if she’d somehow spoken Kyra into existence, the Kyra she knew before she’d fucked everything up so badly.

Tell me about her, the poet had asked, so Kassandra did.

.oOo.

The sun was setting over Mykonos, shading the island with bright golds and jeweled greens, and Kassandra breathed in the crisp sea air and smiled before she turned from the balcony and walked back into the atrium where the symposium was in full swing.

She found Kyra talking with Barnabas and Iola in her favorite corner, the one piled high with yellow and blue flowers, and Kassandra’s heart did the double-thump it always did whenever they were reunited after a time apart.

“Business is very good,” Barnabas was saying. “We’ve added another run from here to Athens, and opened up a new route from Naxos.”

Kassandra put her arms around Kyra from behind and rested her chin on Kyra’s shoulder. “Soon you’ll be ready to retire,” she told him.

He grinned. “I’ll retire when you do, Kassandra.”

She could feel Kyra’s laughter vibrating against her chest. “Kassandra? Retire? I can’t even get her to slow down.”

“Well, there are a few ways you could…” Kassandra said, and she whispered some suggestions into Kyra’s ear that involved their bed, and their bed, and their bed that made Kyra’s cheeks turn a deep shade of pink in a way Kassandra found immensely satisfying.

Barnabas grinned and raised his eyebrows. “It’s good to see you both so happy,” he said. They — all of them, really — had gone to Hades and back before they ended up in a place of stability and peace, and they’d all learned not to take any of it for granted. “Iola and I were thinking about buying some land here and making this our home port.”

Iola smiled and said, “So if you know of any olive groves that might be coming up for sale…”

“Oh, Barnabas. That would be wonderful,” Kyra said. “I’ll put out the word.”

One of Kyra’s attendants approached and stood off to the side, waiting to be addressed. Kyra tilted her head in acknowledgement, and the attendant said, “I’m sorry to interrupt, Archon, but your guest has arrived.”

Kassandra snuck a kiss on the back of Kyra’s neck before Kyra wriggled out from her arms. “My poet is here,” she said. “I’ll be right back.”

“She has her own poet now?” Barnabas asked. He always did love a tale well told, and he’d spent a fair chunk of his visits trading songs and stories with Kyra.

“No, this one is a traveling poet. But Kyra is a fan of her work.”

“Are you?”

“You know pretty words are lost on me.”

“A shame, really, as you’ve inspired so many.”

Iola took Barnabas’s hand in hers. “Let’s refill our cups before the performance begins.”

He raised his cup to Kassandra as the two of them wandered off towards the tables of food and wine, and Kassandra stepped closer to the center of the atrium, where she’d have a good view in every direction. She leaned back against a pillar, and settled in to wait for Kyra’s return.

Soon enough, Kyra reappeared, accompanied by a woman dressed in an elegant peplos, and Kassandra had another opportunity to marvel at the ease in which Kyra could bring a room to silence, in the way she moved, and her subtle projection of authority.

Kyra stood at the edge of the steps that led down to the atrium’s court. “It’s a joy to have all of you here this evening,” she said. “And joining us tonight is one of my favorite poets, Sappho of Lesbos.”

Kassandra’s eyes widened as she got a better look at the poet. She knew this woman, remembering the dingy kapeleion on Lesbos where she’d drunkenly spilled her heart all over a stranger.

She was still trying to recall exactly what she’d said when Kyra found her at the pillar, and Kassandra opened her arms and welcomed Kyra inside them.

The poet turned a searching gaze over the assembled guests, and once her eyes finally met Kassandra's, she gave Kassandra a small nod and the hint of a smile. Then she said to the room, “It’s an honor to perform for the Archon of Mykonos and her friends and family. I’d start with a poem about home and hearth, but given my present company, I think I’ll begin with this one instead.”

“It is usually a terrible thing to be hunted. But when you were the hunter, I didn’t mind.”

And the poem unfurled itself through the imagery of an eagle and a hunter. A few stanzas in, a murmur passed through the guests, and Kassandra could see glances being sent their way. All she could do was hide her smirk in Kyra’s hair and tighten her arms around her hunter.

Eagle and hunter. Pursuer and pursued. And the poem’s central question: who was hunting whom?

As soon as the poem was finished, Kyra said quietly, “I know Sappho’s work, and I’ve never heard that poem.” She turned and stared at Kassandra. “That was about us. How did she know those things?”

It delighted Kassandra that Kyra’s first reaction was to suspect her of being up to something. “I met her, once. Apparently this was the result of that conversation.”

“When?”

“After the Plague of Athens.” When she was still reeling in grief from one loss after another, and after she’d scorched the earth across Lesbos looking for the cultist known as The Seer, only to come up empty handed.

Kyra lifted her hand, and cupped Kassandra’s cheek. She said nothing, but what was there to say? They’d been together long enough to speak without words.

“I never stopped loving you,” Kassandra said. Not once along the way to Hades and back.

Kyra lifted herself on her tiptoes and said, “I’m glad you believed.” And then she leaned in and kissed Kassandra, softly, and Kassandra’s heart did the double-thump it always did whenever she returned home.

Author’s Notes:

The title of this drabble was shamelessly stolen from the title of one of my favorite poems: "When We With Sappho," by Kenneth Rexroth. You should read it.

My deepest apologies to Sappho for putting words in her mouth, and additional apologies to her, Gregory Nagy, and Anne Carson for my mangled re-translation of a snippet of Fragment 31.

Sappho's appearance in this story is an anachronism. Her life predates the Peloponnesian War by a good two centuries.

[justfangstvdto]

Open Coffin 2 | Chapter 02 “Lovely Day For A Riot”

Disclaimer: This is a sequel! Find Part 1 here. For some context, I´d advise you to watch The Originals to understand some occurrences.

Chapter warnings: typical TO violence (and the reader is enjoying it a little too much in this one tbh), blood, murder, and some more subtle foreshadowing

Word count: 4779

Tags & Author Note at the bottom. Feedback is my lifeblood and keeps the writing coming.

Open Coffin 2 Masterlist

Your name: submit What is this?

The written word was everlasting. King to Beggar, Poets to Wallflowers, Monsters to Saints - they all had the opportunity to be immortalized, to be remembered once they´ve turned to bone or ash.

That, you always thought, was why your brother Stefan resorted to writing in his diary and why you chose to write letters to Kol when you were last here in 1914. To leave something behind in case your almost immortal life ended sooner than you thought. Now those letters served as a reminder of what might never be again. Yet, with uncertainty came the need to check on them in their hiding spot. 

So that's what you did. 

And it was as if you ́d stepped back in time. The cemetery was untouched in almost every way. Only the weathered stones and visible marked lines of the flooding after Katrina were reminders of how much time had actually passed. 

Another change that was eerily unnoticeable once you reached the older part of the cemetery, was the relocation of gravesites the City council had ordered. You thought it macabre to relocate someone's resting place as if they were nothing but a waste of space. 

What was once the Voodoo Queen ́s Laveau’s tomb was now only a monument in her honour. But what the tourist who resorted to smearing words with permanent marker on that very stone didn't know was the hidden compartment in the back. It was sealed with numerous spells, followed by a specific order of bricks you had to push in. 

Panic filled your senses when you saw the bricks already pushed in and the secret compartment opened wide. There was a dirt film on the stone surface and nothing but empty space in the compartment beneath all the dust. 

You reached in, hoping they just shifted back, but all you grasped was a layer of leaves that found their way inside.

The letters were gone. 

------------------------------------------

You could not wrap your head around who could have had access to your letters, and who would even care to steal them from you. They were not just letters, they were confessions of loneliness, frustrations, confessions of love. Whoever had them now, they knew your deepest emotions, some buried six feet under others worn on your sleeve - but all secret. 

Even now staring at the grimoire in front of you, surrounded by Kol's hideout, you couldn't think of anyone who knew about them. The only one you told was Kol back in Mystic Falls when you thought you were dying. But there was no time to dwell or be embarrassed by your secrets laid bare. 

You had work to do, and you had to focus. Unfortunately, focus was hard to come by when you had someone breathing down your neck. 

“How frustrating. A novice trying to interpret the work of a master.” Mikael paraded around, sighing dramatically. 

“Can you shut for one second?” You glared at him “I´m busy here.” 

You had summoned him back in New York with the promise of delivering Klaus on a silver platter. He was another part of your plan, one that was - by a longshot - the most dangerous. But you had to have an insurance and Mikael was the only one who knew Esther better than anyone else. If Esther would trick you into a wrong spelling, Mikael would be able to tell. 

“It's a simple de-linking spell,” You explained further “It's not that hard.”

"Simple? You're trying to erase the link between Klaus and every single vampire he's sired.

"No. All I care about is Marcel and my brothers. You kill Klaus? They die, too. I can fix that. I have Esther's grimoire, it's just a matter of time." 

“Perhaps I can help you solve the riddle.” He offered.

You flipped the book closed and looked at him “Do you think I´m stupid? You ́ll just trick me into a spell that will free you from my control.”

“You know, for somebody who despises Klaus so much, you certainly share his paranoia.”

You didn't like the comparison, but he was right. And it pissed you off. 

“And for somebody who wasted years hunting him, you don't know him at all. He won't just come here if I ask him to. I have to gain his trust, offer my help until he takes the bait. And that takes time.” 

He seemed satisfied with the answer. "The sooner you perform the spell, the sooner I'll be free to kill the bastard." 

"I'll bring Klaus to you when the time is right. It's not right yet. I have to save a few people first."

"I assume my son included. Let me ask you this, why have you resurrected me instead of him?"

"I tried, but I couldn't find him on the other side before it collapsed. By the time I had enough power and knowledge, it was too late.”  

Thinking back to the countless hours spent searching, consulting with witches on the other side and reading page after page of all grimoires - it hurt producing failure upon failure. 

Mikael went quiet when you pulled out your phone, sending a text to Klaus number. 

Y/N: Still stalling Esther. Let me know if you need help kicking some ass. 

Klaus: Meet me at the Compound in 30 minutes.  

"I'll be back soon.” You informed him” Don't go anywhere. Oh wait, you can't." 

----------------------------

“Okay so let me get this straight;" You said, looking between Elijah and Klaus. "A resurrected witch you knocked around with put some sort of spell on you that sucked up all your hybrid slash original power to juice up moonlight rings? And those moonlight rings were given to the Guirrerra wolf pack?"

"That about sums it up, I'd say." Klaus shrugged, leaning back on his office chair. 

"You and your bad taste in women, I swear." You shook your head.

"Well,” Elijah that leaned against the fireplace´s mantel said, “Niklaus is renowned for choosing strange bedfellows." He grinned and dragged a finger along the mantel´s surface, flipping the dust of his fingers in disgust. He probably had to arrange additional meetings with the maid.

"Yeah, you can say that again." You snorted. You could not count on one hand how many times a fling of his screwed him over. And not in the good way. 

Klaus rolled his eyes, "Can we please return to the task at hand?"

"Right" You sighed, hating to get back on track so soon "Moonlight rings. How many do you think are left?”

"We successfully retrieved all but a small group which deserted the fight," Elijah informed.

"So we ́re fighting cowards.” You concluded. ” Easy. Do you know where they're hiding?" 

Elijah walked up to the map placed on the table, resting his finger on "They remain in public, hoping we won't retaliate out in the open."

"Which we don't give a shit about right?"Elijah glanced at Klaus who returned a look of hesitation."Oh, come on, really? I expect Elijah to go according to the rulebook, but you too? "

"There are certain rules we must abide by in this city." Klaus returned. 

You could not believe what you heard. Klaus following rules was something entirely new "You ́ve lost a few steps over the years. But works for me either way. ́ll just do it myself."

"You alone against a pack of wolves?" Klaus dismissed as if he'd forgotten that you were able to handle a much greater threat than a few moon howlers. 

“A few wolves are nothing. You forget I have some new tricks up my sleeve. And I really really need to kill something.” You were ready to leave, ready to deal with those wolves out in the open. 

But Elijah had other plans.

“Before you go, a word please." Elijah looked at his little brother, asking him without words to leave the room. Klaus seemed surprised, perhaps even insulted that Elijah wanted him to go. 

"He can stay." You reassured him, much to their surprise, "Whatever you have to say to me he can hear. We ́re a team, right?" 

Elijah hesitated for a moment, but eventually gave in."Given your past grievances, I cannot help but question your Intentions regarding your alliance with us."

And there it was. The usual patronizing tone that made it obvious that he thought himself still superior and you lesser than. You could move mountains and he'd still question your intentions. In this case, it was not far fetched to assume the worst, but you thought at least he ́d give you some leeway. 

"If you think I want to kill him again, don't ́t worry.Been there, done that, got the shitty fridge magnet."

“Judging by the company you keep, I cannot help but doubt the truth of your words.”

“Not really my problem is it? I can only say what I want to say, I have no control how you perceive it.” You shrugged “And my company was once a part of your family, but we all know that writing them off is one of your specialities.” 

Klaus laughed out loud, amused by the way you dared to talk to his older brother.  

“It is your problem if you wish to stay in my good graces” Elijah replied, unfaced by your comment. 

“No offence, but I don't give two shakes of a rats ass if I ́m in your or anyone ́s good graces. I ́m here to take Esther down and bring Kol back, that's it. I don't expect you to like or agree with it.” 

Elijah raised his eyebrows and cringed at your nonchalance. He wasn´t used to someone speaking to him in that way. He clenched his jaw and reacher for the button on his suit jacket and forced it through the Buttonhole. He would always do that before he got into a fight, a physical or verbal one.

Klaus ́ amused smile fell and he chimed in before the situation escalated “Brother I think that's enough.” 

“I agree." You glared at Elijah before looking at Klaus, directing your next words to him “If you want to join me now's the time.”

"I'll meet you there," Klaus replied and you left the room, ready to fulfil the plan. 

“She seems well,” Klaus said once you were out of earshot. 

“On the contrary, brother. Heed my warning, she does not have our best interest at heart."

“You must not remind me of the danger she now bleeds out into the world. Which is precisely why I intend to give her my trust. For now.” Klaus stepped forward, ready to follow you but Eliah held him back once more.

“She cannot know our secret.”He shakes his head, demanding eye contact “Not while mother and Finn still breath air.”

"She won't. I'll see to that personally.” Klaus reassured before he too disappeared out of the room. 

----------------

You parted the crowds unintentionally heading to where the pack frequented. 

Looking at the people that passed you by, you wondered what stories they desperately needed to hide, and how they would react when those secrets were now known by someone hidden in shadows. You felt uneasy, knowing that there was someone out there who knew what was only intended to be read by the only person you trust. Now they were out there, ready to be used against you. 

Entering Rossiuss, you kept your eyes sharp, searching the crowd for the wolves. But besides a few afternoon drunkards, college kids and a group in the back there was no sign of your target yet. 

You settled for your booth in the back with a drink in your hand. As you passed by tables and people recognized you, they retreated to the front. Some chose the bar, others on the other side of the room, only in an attempt to be as far away from you as possible.  

Soon, the whispering began, as it always did.. Ah the whispers..how you wanted to silence them all. 

You sat there for a good hour pretending to read the book you bought, checking the time every few pages. There was absolutely no sign of the pack, nor of Klaus.

He was late, as always. He said he had to deal with something else first, but promised to be back for the action. But he wasn't. Who arrives to a good ol ́ slaughtering too late? A thousand-year-old vampire, with so much blood spilled he got bored of it, that's who.

It was unbelievable. What were you supposed to do until he decided to arrive? Sulk in the silence you despised until the wolves showed up? 

Pfft. Nobody valued punctuality anymore. 

The door rattled again and a few more stepped into the establishment. Among them was a tall guy that seemed to steal the attention immediately. He was towering over most with his height and radiated confidence with how tall he stood. Although his appearance seemed somewhat juvenile, his calm and unhurried nature made him look quite composed. In this city, and especially in the tense situation it has been in for months, he seemed out of place. He was too happy to stay alive here.  

You watched him observe the cowering crowd on the left side of the room, then your side, then back again before he was headed straight into your direction.  You pretended to read the lower lines on the page, hiding your face behind as much book as you could without looking like a complete idiot. What was he trying to prove talking to you?  

His heartbeat was erratic when he sat down, so much so, you saw his fingers rising and falling with his pulse. You observed him, glancing over the edges of the book. 

He had slightly curled brown hair and what looked like grey to blue eyes. You were unable to tell in the dimmed light. He had something familiar about him, but you could not put your finger on it. Perhaps you've crossed paths somewhere before. Or perhaps he had just a face you easily mistaken for someone else. 

After a few moments of silence, you decided to speak “You sure you want to sit here with me?” 

“It's the best seat in the house. And I like to piss people off.” He said, his British accent trickling through his speech. He looked over his shoulder, scoffing at the people that stared at him “Look at them, knickers twisted in a nod already.”

"What, are you some against the stream type of guy?"

"You have no idea." He smiled. It wasn't the kind of smile you ́d see every day, it was drunk with stories untold and probably on the defiant side "Or maybe you do." 

He watched you intently, as your eyes drifted on the table and the book still open in your hand. 

“I know that ghosts have wandered the earth. Be with me always--take any form--drive me mad.” 

“What?” You asked, and he lifted his head to nod to the book. “Oh. You ́re a fan of Wuthering Heights?”

“I ́m a witcher with remarkable taste.” He shrugged "In books and company." 

Ah, a witch. You knew there was something he was hiding. There was something in the way he held himself that bled familiar secrecy. You were an expert juggling several secrets at once, figuring out if someone else carried them was easy. 

“Brave of you to admit that.” You replied, “It's not really save for you here right now.”

Despite your warning, he did not look like he would leave any time soon, “What can I say, I ́m a thrill-seeker.” 

The door rattled once again, this time it fell into the lock with a loud banging. You looked over and recognized the Guerrera wolf pack immediately.

“Yeah well, it's about to get really thrilling here.” You said and the stranger next to you roamed your face with an intense stare you shifted uncomfortably on your seat. “You should probably leave if you want to keep your limbs attached to your body. They´re not fucking around.”

 “Nonsense.” He shook his head slightly. ”They ́re nothing but rabid dogs that need to be put down.”

You expected him to run, or to look at you as if you lost your mind, but instead, he hopped on board of the murder train.  Not that you were complaining. 

“I don't ́t know who you are, but you're definitely speaking my language now.” You said “What's it gonna be? You ́re up to cause some trouble?”  

“Well, it's a lovely day for a riot, isn't it?” He replied.

“A riot, huh? Not a bad idea.” 

He scooted closer and lowered his voice, “Do you see the group in the back? A rival werewolf pack with a score to settle.”

“You gotta love coincidences sometimes.”  

All you needed was a little push. A shoulder colliding, a hateful glare or - god forbid - an insult. That would be all it took to start a fight. They were so easily manipulated, it was almost comical.

You looked at the group on the other side of the room. They were heavily engaged in a conversation, and all but one listened eagerly. One girl was off to the side, quietly listening to groups meaningless chatter, while she stared holes into the other pack´s backsides.

The quiet ones were a breed of their own. They were the ones observing when the rest was talking their life away and that made them dangerous when they finally spoke. They saw what others overlooked. And that was always the perfect target to rile up. 

You gave her a little magic courage by whispering a spell into your hand before you let your breath carry it over to where she was sitting.

She slammed her glass on the table, the malty liquid spilling over the edges. Her companions looked at her briefly, before they returned to their conversation.

She walked over and knocked the drink out of one guy ́s hand with the force of her shoulder colliding with his much larger frame. He turned to her and recognized her face - his packs rivals - instantly.  

There was stillness first before the girl threw the first punch, then there was suddenly movement. Both sides rose from their seats and clashed together. Screams broke out. Furniture ripped. Bones broke. Blood was spilled.

It was magnificent chaos.

One of the participants on the sidelines decided to head for your table, dodging a broken off table leg that flew through the air. You shared an unimpressed look with the stranger next to you before he leaned back and gave you free rein to do what you wished to him.

With a look that bled concentration and the rubbing of your index finger with your thumb, you magically splintered every single bone in his body. The sound was drowned in the backgrounds happenings that included shattering glass, growling and howls of pain. He continued to scream bloody murder, and then, suddenly his face grew stoic as if made of stone, and he fell forwards, his jaw colliding with the edges of the table.

“Wrong table to squabble with, mate.” The stranger snickered. He leaned back, dodging a scrap of wood that came flying in his direction.

His amusement was short-lived, however, when he failed to sense a second, much larger piece of wood - a broken off table leg knocked him square into the back of his head, and he slumped forward, his head colliding with the table surface. 

"Shit." You whisper under your breath. You listened for his pulse, hoping he hadn't just broken his neck, but his heart was still drumming along just fine. 

Something peaked out of the bag hung over his shoulder, a written letter it seemed. On a second look, you couldn't believe what you saw. They were in your handwriting. 

You did not have the time to ponder about how the stranger got them, because someone rapidly approached from behind. You moved just in time, and the makeshift stake pierced through your shoulder instead. 

“Ah, the free stake for my drink. How nice.” You forced the guy off of you, and you gripped the stake and pulled out from the front. “Can I keep or do you want it back? You want it back, right?”

It was slick with your blood when you hurled it towards the attacker. It flew through the air and landed in his eye, piercing the iris like a bullseye.

“Damn my aim is good.” You congratulated yourself. The attacker, though now most likely blind on one eye, growled and you knew you´d finally had someone almost equal to fight against. “Come and get me.” 

-----------------------------------------------

You held the letters in your bloodstained hands when a set of heavy footsteps echoed through the now lifeless room. You looked over your shoulder to see Klaus standing there, taking in the chaos you created. 

One wolf was impaled on the wall, others stained the floor with blood that came out of their eyes and some had gaping holes in their chest where their hearts had been. 

“What is this?” He asked, counting the casualties to more than a dozen. Both supernatural and human.

“A party gone wrong. Or right, depends how you look at it.” You laughed and gave him a glance in the hopes he would reciprocate your joke, but he wasn't laughing. 

Instead, you saw how dishevelled he looked. His dark jacket had a gaping hole with what looked like dried blood on the edges. 

“Looks like I ́m not the only one that got staked.” You said and brushed your fingers over the same spot. 

His eyes flickered from your wound to his own, and judging by his face he discovered something close to an epiphany. "It appears so." 

You went back to counting the moonlight rings by throwing them in a make-shift bag out of some dead guys shirt. “But look, I made it look like a very deadly bar brawl, it's fine. Nobody saw anything supernatural. ” 

“Though you did achieve what we discussed, we also agreed to be discreet. This is far from it. ”

You could not believe what you heard. Klaus and discretion was like war without casualties - simply not possible. 

“Seriously, what happened to you? Where's the big bad wolf I know and loathe?"

“At lost has happened.” He replied quietly. You expected him to reply with usual sarcasm, but when you turned an utterly different version of the mighty Klaus laid before you. A broken man, torn apart by the love and loss of his child. Once fueled by rage, he now ran on guilt and grief. 

You felt pity for him, you did, but this was still Klaus. But however morbid and unfair it might have sounded, it could have happened to someone less deserving of such grievances. 

"Losing the only person who'll never see you as the monster you truly are hurts, doesn't it?" You finally said, “Especially if you're to blame.”

His face was hard, but regret slipped past his stoicism, and you knew he understood that what just slipped past your lips was directed mostly at yourself, rather than him. 

“This one is still alive.” Klaus diverted the topic to the stranger that was still passed out on your table. 

"Leave him."

“Friend of yours?" He asked with a slight smirk that tugged on the corners of his mouth. 

“I don't know yet.” You replied, before tying a knot in the shirt “Catch.” 

You threw the bag to him, and the silver rings clacked together when Klaus balled his fist around them.

“Listen, I have to report back to Esther soon, and you ́ll hear things that ́ll probably piss you off. Just remember that I am not working against you. You'd be the first to know if I did."

"Well, you do look quite trustworthy kidnapping that lad. How could I not trust you with the person I loathe most?"  

“I guess you have to put your paranoia aside and trust me for once.” 

The irony of what you just said, almost made you laugh. If Klaus knew you had the person he feared most trapped only a few miles away. If it ever came to him knowing about your involvement in reviving Mikael, you ́d be on a real warpath with Klaus. Not the cat and mouse game you used to play, a real war where your odds less than optimistic.

---------------

No passport, no driver ́s licence, no name - you found nothing to identify the stranger you dragged through the French Quarter. How did a Noname like him get to your letters? How could he have possibly known? If he knew about that hiding spot, what else 

All these questions ran through your head, staring at the French Quarter streets below you. You chose this building because it was small, unconscious and out of the way. It had somehow managed to elbow it ́s way between a block of apartments and was longer than it was wide and the rooms were stacked on top of one another like a house of cards.

Ambulance sirens rang through the narrowed streets, heading to Roussous. Finally, someone found them. You always found it amusing that, after a massacre or any life-ending violence they chose to send ambulances instead of coroners as if someone was still needing it. They lived amongst creatures that were death walking on two feet, and even then they chose to remain hopeful, that somehow they too were able to cheat death. 

Unwavering hope ....yeah no, that ship had sailed. 

Your ears picked up stirring and a pained groan from inside, and you went inside. He was sitting up on the couch in the middle of the room, looking around to orientate himself. You thought about chaining him to the radiator, but it would have been overkill. 

“Kinky.” Noname chuckled, inspecting the witch shackles you put on him when he was unconscious “Under different circumstances, I ́d say this is bound to be fun. This isn't quite it.”

“If you ́re thinking about strangling me with those chains, forget about it. You wouldn't succeed.”

“Oh, I know I wouldn't. You ́re Y/N after all.” He said, and grinned when he saw the surprise flashing over your face “Though I have to say, you ́re way prettier in person.” 

Was this guy serious? 

“So you know who I am.” You said, glancing over his flirtatious attempt to gain your sympathy. 

“Well, you're practically famous around here.”He shrugged “ I ́m a lot like you, you know? Don't really believe in authority. We ́re.. kindred souls.”

You let out a huff. This guy was killing you with his endless chatter.

“Listen, there's only one thing I need to know before I decide what to do with you.” You picked up the letters on the table in front of him “Who the fuck are you, and how did you get these?” 

“Well, that's a rather long story. But let's start at the beginning.” He said and stretched out his hand as far as he could, “My name is Kaleb.”

-------

A/N: And we´re back with another one ^^ If you´re still reading this when I post it, you´re probably used to me being slow as hell, so sorry once again. Uni, work and life just get in the way of my writing even more than it has months ago. So feel free to wait until more chapters of this are done, I won´t mind. 

Anyway, what did you think of this one? Did you like it? Was there anything that stood out to you? Anything that you liked or disliked? Whatever it is, let me know! I would love to hear your thoughts.

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[yodawgiherd]

More than just red fabric

Rating: T Setting: current canonverse/manga chapter 118

Prompt: Could you please write Eremika to the 118th chapter. Something like the battle is already over, and Mikasa meets Eren, recovering from his wounds.

Note: Yo peeps, this is totally what's going to happen, i have through mysterious means acquired the future script of SnK, trust me. ;)

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

It was over in the blink of an eye.

Marley military, arguably the mightiest in the world, quickly lost its bravado when faced with dozens of colossal titans emerging from the walls all around them. The battle, which up until now was rather one-sided, ended with a quick surrender of the invader, granting the defending forces of Paradis an unconditional victory.

But such triumph couldn’t have been achieved without sacrifices.

Zeke’s face was still etched into Eren’s memory, the relief on it quickly turning into horror as he was being picked up from the ruined body of his titan and swiftly brought to the waiting jaws. Once he ate his brother, and his royal blood coursed through Eren’s veins, the full potential of the coordinate was unlocked to him, giving him a complete control over the army in the walls. To be fair, Eren liked his brother, to a degree, but his zealous intent to end any life on the island was not a goal he could ever back. Euthanasia? Not on his watch. Eren had to play by Zeke’s rules, up until now, as he held most of the cards, but no more. Now the aces were in Eren’s hands.  

And so, the rumbling began. Not on the full-scale, just a few of the giant titan army, but it was more than enough. No one could have faced this. With all their titans out of commission and the airships shot down, Marleyans had nothing to hit back with. Some pockets of resistance tried to keep their fighting spirits up, but from his vantage point high on the wall, where Eren climbed for a better view, he could easily direct the attention of his awoken colossal soldiers to quench any danger to his comrades. Now with the fighting done the unsung savior of Eldians sat down for a moment, to catch his breath and organize his thoughts. Because while today was won, the long-term effect was still fickle, and debatable, and he had to make sure that….

“Eren?”

A voice he knew, more intimately than his own, voice of a person he both longed for and dreaded to meet. Steeling himself and turning his head slightly, he decided to face the inevitable, which was coming to him in long strides.

Mikasa looked battle-worn, her uniform burned and cut, multiple new scratches and bruises on her skin, but didn’t appear to be seriously harmed. There was something about her, something Eren couldn’t quite place, that just didn’t sit right, not until she came to stand next to him and he finally managed to connect the dots together. Her scarf was gone. The usual redness underneath her chin being replaced with the pale glow of her skin, and a pink scratch on the left side, most likely from a bullet. The realization made Eren gasp. Not the fact that her scarf was missing, but that she was this close to dying, being shot down by a random soldier who’d never know that he killed the most impressive woman who ever lived.

“I left it behind.”, she said, seeing the stare at her bare throat, misinterpreting it. Defiant, she held her chin up, challenging his look with her own, unflinching. Apparently she was ready for him to be disappointed or something, even after everything he’s done to her. This girl was really one in a million.

“I’m glad.”, looking away, back at the city, Eren caught the change in her expression only at the edge of his vision, the simple words taking her aback.

“You’re…glad?”

“Of course. It’s good to see that you won’t let anyone insult you, not even me. Good to see that you’re finally free.”

Bark of laughter was the last thing he expected, but there it was, making him look back at her with a raised eyebrow.

“Something funny?”

“Are you really that dense?”, she asked, shaking her head with a bitter smile.

Unsure of what she meant, Eren waited for her to go on. Not like he had anything better to do right now anyway and having a moment alone with Mikasa was precious to him, especially now when everything else went to shit.

“That scarf, what do you think it meant for me? A bond? A chain binding me to you?”

Shrugging, he remained silent, because while he would most likely choose different words, the meaning was basically the same. The scarf was nothing but a collar to a leash that was firmly attached to him, not by anyone’s choice, but by her birth, and the tragedy that occurred. Mikasa was not to blame for it, no one but whoever forged that genetic chain was, and those people were long dead.

“You’re wrong.”, she cut into his thoughts, voice clear of any doubt in her heart, “It wasn’t you, the reason why I wore it, it was so much more.”

“What do you mean?”

“Look at it from my perspective. I was nine years old and my parents were just brutally murdered in front of me. I was cold, hurting, alone, about to be sold off as cattle and then you came in. Saved me, wrapped that scarf around me…” Mikasa half raised her hand towards her neck before she remembered that it was bare, letting it fall back to her side, “It was warm, and safe, and showed me that there’s not only blood and violence in this world, but beautiful things too. That’s why I clung to it so much.”, she shook her head, sadness seeping into her words, “I would have given it up, if I had other reminders, but what was our life Eren? Was it nice? Safe? Warm? No. Your father disappeared, your mother died, our home was destroyed, and we spent every waking hour training and fighting to kill giant man-eating monsters. That’s hardly the life a young girl wishes for herself.”

“You didn’t have to join the military with me.”, Eren pointed out, “You decided to do that yourself.”

“And what was I supposed to do?”, she countered, “Let you die alone? You were my last link to the safety and warmth, you and the scarf, and with how you treated me when we were trainees…”

Eren could feel his ears warming up slightly when Mikasa reminded him of that time. She was right, he was nothing but an asshole towards her, jealous of her strength, hating how overprotective she was. It took him a long time before he realized it, and he regretted it ever since. And Mikasa was still far from done.

“We had to almost die together before our relationship improved, and once we reached the ocean I thought that maybe we could finally be done with this fighting, finally have a home to return to, not an endless line of camps.”, she sighed, “But I was naïve, wasn’t I. In the basement, we found out that titans were never the true enemy, that there are people, humans like us beyond the ocean, wanting nothing more than to exterminate us all. Another war to fight, perhaps even more brutal and savage than the one we just won. More restless nights. More training. More blood and violence.”, her voice turned bitter,” You disappeared, leaving me with nothing but memories and the stupid scarf to remember the warmth by. And when you returned, did you bring back the safety I craved? No. More war, insults, and hate I did not deserve in the slightest, both for me and Armin.”

“Mikasa I… I’m sorry. I didn’t mean…”

She didn’t let him finish.

“Yes, you did. Maybe not word-by-word, but overall you meant those words you said to me, don’t deny it.”, she pointed towards the city, “The battle is over, so I was wondering, would you perhaps tell me why? What did I do to make you hate me?”

A fair question, one that deserved a well-thought out answer from him, in the least. He had to make her see, understand, because their time was already growing short, and Eren had no idea what will happen once they are discovered.

“It’s… not that I hate you, I said that wrong and I apologize. I was angry at that time. Disappointed.”

“Disappointed?”, she tilted her head to the side, a gesture Eren found downright adorable and had to bite his tongue not to say it out loud, “Why?”

“You asked me to see from your perspective, so now please, do the same for me.”, he took a deep breath, doing his best to organize the words, but he was no poet. There was no way around this, and Mikasa deserved the truth.

“After we reached the ocean,”, he began, “I came to realize many things. My life is going to be short; I don’t have much time left. We, as a nation, are doomed, unless we do something. And, perhaps most importantly,”, this was hard to say without blushing, “the attention of the girl who used to annoy me to no end was actually rather pleasing after all.”

Mikasa blinked in surprise, her mouth dropping to a small “o”, but Eren pressed on, determined to get it off his chest.

“I don’t know what it was, the fondness I had for you, I think I had it in me for a long time, never realizing it. But here we were, maturing, both in body and in mind, and day after day I looked at you and wondered how I could ever take you for granted. The way you acted towards me, so attentive, and supportive, gentle, it was all I needed. When I was younger, it was just titans this, and titans that, experiments, shifting, but now I found myself wondering if you smile was always so radiant. If the way you tuck the strand of hair behind your ear was always so adorable, and if you were always so a-…uhm… attractive.”, unable to continue, fumbling on words, he  looked away, “This is so embarrassing to say.”

“I was not the only one who changed, your body matured a lot too. A few years back we were the same height, and now I have to look up to see eye-to-eye.”, Mikasa offered, hoping to ease him out of his sudden muteness.

It took him a few seconds to realize what she was saying, but then it hit him. Did Mikasa just compliment how he looked?

“You still haven’t told me the whole story.”, she pointed out, before he could really start mulling over it.

“Right.”, he agreed, “So here I was, thinking about all these things I never cared for before, mostly regarding you, and I came to a conclusion. No matter how I felt, the lives of our nation come first. I left, as you said, crossed the ocean, met my brother, and we talked. He told me a lot, about the titans, the world, and also about you, the Ackerman clan. The bond you create, the unnatural strength, the way your bodies are genetically enhanced to serve as elite bodyguards. And it got me thinking. What if all this fondness you have for me, what if its not from you, but from the bond instead? What If you don’t like me because of your free will, but because you have to?”, Eren looked back at her, “What if all those feelings I realized I had for you, what if they were all a lie?”

Eyes swinging back to the city, Eren went on.

“Then I saw you, back at Marley, saving my ass again, and realized that I can’t control it. Even with all this knowledge about the bond, I still loved you. I hated myself, I hated you, I hated the stupid bond and whoever created it. And I said all those words, later, and you’re right that I meant them, to a degree. It was wrong to say them, but my feelings were still hurt, and Yelena was breathing down my neck, and it all came out much harsher than I ever wanted to. I don’t hate you, as a person, because you’re wonderful, but I hate the possibility that I forced you to love me, that I bound you to myself with that scarf, made you nothing more but a servant when you have the capability to be so much more.”

Silence fell after his words, because he said everything that he wanted to say, and now it was up to Mikasa to digest those words.  And she did so with a laugh.

“Dummy.”

Eren looked up, unsure of what she meant, to see her staring down at him, face unreadable.

“Stand up.”, she ordered him, tone leaving no place for discussion.

Scrambling to his feet, Eren watched her unmoving expression, wondering if she wanted to punch him in the face or something, motion that was completely justified in his eyes and he would do nothing to stop it. There it was, Mikasa took a deep breath, and soon would pull her arm back to…

“Kiss me.”

“W-What?”

“You heard me.”, tone still completely militaristic, as if she was directing recruits on the field, her eyes holding steel in them, Mikasa’s lips didn’t do as much as twitch.

“I said kiss me.”, she repeated.

Slowly, sure that this is some kind of joke, or a revenge, Eren leaned closer, a bit scared of what would follow, and closer still, until he could gently and carefully press his lips against her forehead. Still, she didn’t hit him for some reason.

“Eren…”, she whispered instead, “You’re so incredibly dense sometimes.”

What? Did she want him to kiss her on the cheek or something? Surely not, he did not deserve such familiarity, not matter how much he craved to….

Her hands, appearing out of nowhere, took his face into a strong grip, and before he realized what was happening he was being pulled down, with a strength he could not deny, until his lips met hers, and they were actually kissing. The feeling made him freeze completely, because it felt much better than he ever even dared to hope, soft and warm, and while Eren couldn’t do much but stare Mikasa was way bolder, swiping her tongue alongside the seam of his mouth before pulling back, a wicked smile on her face.

“Dummy.”, she repeated, “I don’t have a single doubt about what I feel for you, not anymore. After you told me all those things, I was hurt, but in the end and after a lot of thinking I realized that you were right in a certain way. You made me look beyond the horizons I made for myself and see the bigger picture. I realized something. I don’t need the scarf. I don’t need you.”, she leaned closer, “But I want you, and there’s nothing unnatural about that.”

There was a lot of things he could say to that. But all of them felt unnecessary, as right now, there was a burning need inside him, one that he hasn’t felt in his life before. Wrapping his hands around her waist, he kissed her again, high on the wall, above the city that was still waking up from the aftermath of that terrible battle, the city that had many reasons to hate him, but with Mikasa in his hands and her lips moving alongside his own, he couldn’t bring himself to care. That was until she pulled back, making him growl, already missing the connection.

“You gotta apologize to Armin.”, she breathed out, “And Jean. They both trusted you.”

“They did?”

“Mhmm.”

“All right.”

But when he tried kissing her again, she pulled back out of his reach, giggling.

“Promise me.”

“Fine! I swear I’ll apologize to Armin.”

“And Jean.”, she added.

“And Jean.”, Eren agreed, already dreading the moment.

“And Connie.”, she went on, just about exceeding the limits of his patience.

“I’ll apologize to everyone, hundred times over. That enough?”

She nodded.

Whatever humiliation laid in his future was however completely worth it, as she allowed their mouth to combine again, each kiss feeling better than the last one. It didn’t matter that there was still the shortened lifespan of his to take into consideration. That while they repelled Marley for now, the danger persisted. That Yelena was still at large, somewhere below, most likely plotting her revenge already. That the world was still out to get them, even with their newest colossal guardians standing at attention. But Eren didn’t think about any of this, as for the moment he allowed himself to be selfish and focus solely on the woman he held.

Because any city can be rebuilt, but most importantly, maybe their relationship, which he thought dead and killed by his own hand, could be rebuilt too.

[vergils-daughter]

Ahihi! It's my turn! 🖤🖤🖤 Can I please request for V and Reader splitting up, with her trying so much to make him stay but, he still leaves? Then, many, MANY weeks later, he seeks her out, wanting to fix things with her. I want to see what's your take in it. Thank ya! 🖤🖤🖤

Well, first thing I am sorry it took me so long. And a second apology - I may have gone a little crazy and literally punched the canon in the face. But I like to describe time and place and put Reader in specific environment. If you wish, I can write more canon-like fic, just let me now :-)

V x Reader splitting up 

This should have never taken place. Nevertheless, just like small sand grains all these malices, divergences, bagatelles became serious misunderstandings and started to disturb the work of delicate mechanism called your relationship. All this leads to the day when V leaves you…

“You need to understand that I can change myself for you, but i cannot stop being myself!”

Of course it would not be the first time he leaves the apartment to put his mind at ease. The way you are, you could make a stone crack from rage and V, despite his phlegmatic temperament, has his limits, too.

“I cannot be with someone who controls every aspect of my life. I need space!” - this is one of those rare occasions when V talks with his voice raised up. You are standing face to face in your small apartment. V’s silhouette is towering above you, as he is much taller than you, but in reality it is you who is the dominating one. You felt it in the way he turns his head. He is talking to you but it is already obvious that he wants to retreat. He wants to escape. No way!

“First of all, do not shout” - you speak with a cold voice - “and secondly, I do not control you, but I do organize our life, because YOU are not capable of it”.

Ouch. You see how he snorts and how his muscles show when he clenches his jaws. Then he opens his mouth as though he wanted to say something, but you cannot allow him to interrupt.

“You don’t have a normal job and because of all this business Dante dragged you into you almost died. Certainly you are not fit to be a demon hunter, V! Has that episode with Qliphot not taught you anything?

"Well, it is good that you always support me” - he speaks with a hurt tone.

“Spare me! You are saying, that I organize your life, but in fact you are angry that someone other than that long dead poet tries to put everything in order. Grow up, at least a little!” - Your anger starts to overflow you and the next wave takes you with it. V grabs his book and makes a move as if he wanted to open it. - “Don’t you dare to put a quote or I will throw this fucking book through the window!”

V clenches his fingers on the book as though he was afraid that you would really take it away from him. His eyes become dark, he has had enough. He turns his back to you and speaks very slowly.

“There is not a thing in me that you like. Maybe you were just wrong about me?”

And now he … This was getting out of control. Maybe this time you pushed him too far? You approach him and grab his arm in an attempt to turn him to face you, but he just pushes you away.

“You know that is not the case, V!” - you try, desperately.

“The truth is… I do not know, what IS. And I do not want to enquire any longer.”

With increasing amazement you watch him take his coat and the bag which he always took for the long missions. Then he walks towards the door.

Not entirely understanding what is happening now – or maybe, not wanting to understand? – you shout behind him:

“Don’t you dare leave!”

But of course that doesn’t stop him. When the door slams behind him you call out, so that he can hear you from the corridor.

“Don’t you think I will cry after you!”

Well, you do that a bit later, when you wake up at the morning, after a night spent on frenetic cleaning of the apartment, and find out that all of his stuff is gone. He must have come when you were asleep, but he did not wake you up. He took his books and clothes and just disappeared from your life. Perhaps for ever.

…

Dante wouldn’t be himself if he simply accepted just like that what had happened. When you said that you are moving to the far east, he looked at you as though he saw you for the first time.

You cross your arms and shake your head.

“But it is not the fault of this..” - he tries.

“Dante, I need to be back in my homeland” - you interrupt him before he starts the topic you very much wish to avoid right now. It is obvious that your splitting up with V sent some shock waves across the demon hunters’ world. Your romance started dramatically after the destruction of Qliphot and you saving V from crumbling into pieces. The rituals you had to use will give the demonologists something to ponder on for at least a few decades. However hard you and V may have tried to maintain some privacy afterwards, you were quite famous for a while.

“I have on offer for you, though” - you add. “I will set up a DMC branch office. Where I used to live there are demons, too, and there is no one to take care of all that rabble. Besides, I want to come back to giving lectures. I have so much to offer to my students after this Qliphot incident.”

Dante nods.

“You surely are not the type of person whose mind one can easily change, are you?” - he says, but you can see a genuine disappointment in his eyes.

Well, hell no, you are not.

…

“The concept of performing rituals that are based on demonic artifacts is very tempting, however the risk is very high. Sadly, not all of us are sons of Sparda” - you smile when you see the halls’ reaction to that - “…who can easily switch between the astral states of the soul. This is why for us, humans, rituals which originate from our tradition and available resources are more appropriate. Today we will talk about the angels’ talisman.”

You turn towards the board and draw a circle. The chalk squeaks, accompanied by the scratching of the pens and pencils. The hall is full, you notice not without satisfaction. The young, the old, a few theorists and occultists like yourself, but also some hunters marked with scars. Some of them are taking notes, and some came to listen, like this tall guy sitting in the last row, all in black…

Your squint as your weak eyes cannot see him clearly from this distance, but his silhouette seems familiar. You shake your head and resume the lecture. You do not have any time for this.

As the lecture ends, for some reason you leave the hall quickly when the lecture ends, before any of your students has a chance to rise from their seat.

Not now, not now…

From the university you go straight to the DMC office and the thought of all the work that awaits you there causes you to release a small sigh. You took a lot on yourself and even the fact that you no longer do any field work did not help. It got even worse – when your team is on the mission, you coordinate the transport and the details of payment and future commissions. You wonder how Morrison managed to work without a place to store all the documents and contacts. As you are walking by a store, the light of street lanterns reflecting in its windows, a thought crosses your mind – perhaps running an antiques shop would be an interesting change in your life?

But when you look at the window you see the reflection of a person following you.

You feel the shivers running across your spine. You are sure that is it not a random pedestrian that goes in the same direction as you. You feel the attention focusing on you. You pretend that you did not notice anything and try to keep a monotonous pace and walk as though nothing happened.

Something tells you that you should not run or it will be like in one of this silly horror movies. The tapping of your steps and the beating of your heart muffle all other sounds. You grab your talisman subconsciously and you focus so much on that someone stalking you that you don’t notice a man who arrives from around the corner. With a surprised cry you both fall down to the ground.

And when you try to get up quickly, not sure if to fight or apologize, you see the face of the man you fell on. V’s face.

That is, you see a bearded guy with a long ponytail, so unlike this sleek mage that miraculously survived the destruction  of Qliphot. Wearing linen pants, a black t-shirt and a heavy coat that covers his tattoos. In clothes that are surprisingly… plain. And in boots instead of his favorite sandals, although that is a little less surprising as it is wet and cold on this distant isle he arrived at.

But the eyes… they remained the same. You were unable to forget them, even though you have been trying so hard. If your heart was pounding like crazy in your chest a moment ago, now it is clenched painfully like a fist. You jump up and watch V rising up. Ah. Whoever was following you a moment ago, vanished. Was it a trick of V’s?

“What are you doing here?” - you say through clenched teeth. You look at him in a way you hope looks hostile. V brushes away some stray hair form his face in a manner so familiar to you and smiles shyly. You really want to rub this smile off of his face with a fist.

“We need to talk” - he says.

You rise you arms as in defense and shake your head. But before you manage to say something, he grabs your arms and pulls close to him.

“I was wrong, I cannot make it without you, you were right, I am not fit to all this” - he says on one breath, hugging you tight. You feel that he trembles.

“V, I…” - you make an attempt to see something, but he holds you even tighter.

“Forgive me for leaving you, S/Y. This world is full of suffering and I cannot separate myself from it. All of this is too strong…” - he presses his lips to your ear - “You gave me peace and calamity. I cannot live without it…”

“V, you cannot live in a constant fight” - at last you can say something. - “You are not capable of killing. This is why you felt so lost…”

“But I’ve changed my job” - he says.

“Wha…” - you are at a loss for words now. You tilt your head and look at him with amusement. -“You…  resigned from being a demon hunter?!”

V only nods his head.

“And… what do you do then?”

“I… collect magical artifacts and… stuff. Rare books. Dante helped me to organize a small shop, I run something similar to a used book seller.”

You shake your head as you cannot believe what you hear. You take a deep breath, because it costs you a lot to say what has to be said.

“I… shouldn’t have imposed anything on you and tried to gain control over you. I only wanted to… protect you, but not by changing you. For that you must forgive me” - you end the sentence in a voice so quiet that you are not sure if he heard you at all. You look at him, not sure what you will find in his eyes, but there is only pure adoration on his face. He leans towards you and kisses your lips, very gently, and you cannot hide that you missed it so much.

You loose track of time in this intimate moment. You feel that an urgent desire awakens in you to recall one additional aspect of your relationship. With a sigh you break the kiss and take his hand.

“Umm… do you have a place to stay for the night? Because I have an apartment nearby, so..

"I do not. Will you invite me?”

“On one condition”.

He gives you a suspicious look, but calms down when he sees your smile.

“You need to shave this beard. I bet that when you are summoning Nightmare you look like a Santa on drugs.”

  And the Polish version:

To się miało nigdy nie wydarzyć. A jednak, niczym powoli nawiewane ziarna piasku, wszystkie te złośliwości, rozbieżności, drobnostki urosły do rangi poważnych nieporozumień, zakłóciły delikatny mechanizm, którym był wasz związek. Wszystko to doprowadziło do dnia, w którym V cię opuścił.

-Musisz zrozumieć, że mogę się dla ciebie zmienić, ale nie mogę przestać być sobą!

Oczywiście, nie byłby to pierwszy raz, gdy opuścił mieszkanie w poszukiwaniu chwili oddechu. Masz tę skłonność, że nawet kamień potrafi przy tobie pęknąć z wściekłości, a V, mimo swojego flegmatycznego temperamentu, też ma swoje granice.

-Nie mogę być z osobą, która kontroluje każdy aspekt mojego życia. Potrzebuje też miejsca dla siebie! – to jeden z niewielu momentów, gdy V mówi podniesionym głosem. Stoicie naprzeciw siebie w salonie, w małym mieszkanku, które dzielicie od paru tygodni. Sylwetka V wznosi się nad tobą, jest wyższy o głowę, ale tak naprawdę to ty nad nim dominujesz. Czujesz to w sposobie, w jaki na wpół odwraca głowę, słowa kieruje do ciebie, ale już widać, że chce się wycofać. Chce uciec. Niedoczekanie.

-Po pierwsze, nie krzycz – rzucasz zimnym tonem – po drugie, nie kontroluję ciebie, tylko ORGANIZUJĘ nam życie, bo ty nie jesteś w stanie tego zrobić.

Auć. Widzisz, jak się żachnął, a mięśnie odznaczyły się pod skórą, gdy zacisnął szczęki. Otwiera usta, by coś powiedzieć, ale nie pozwalasz mu.

-Nie masz normalnej pracy, a przez ten cały biznes, w który cię wciągnął Dante, prawie zginąłeś. Przecież ty się nie nadajesz na łowcę demonów, V! Ten jeden epizod z Klifotem cię nie przekonał?

-Dobrze jest mieć w tobie wsparcie – mówi urażonym tonem.

-Och, daruj sobie! Mówisz, że ja ci organizuję życie, ale tak naprawdę to jesteś zły, że ktoś inny poza jakimś dawno nieżyjącym poetą próbuje ci wszystko poukładać. Dorośnij choć trochę. – gniew przelewa się kolejnymi falami i unosi cię ze sobą. V wyjmuje z kieszeni książkę i wykonuje ruch, jakby chciał ją otworzyć. - I ani mi się waż rzucić jakimś cytatem, bo wywalę tę pieprzoną książkę przez okno!

V zaciska palce na książce, jakby bał się, że mu ją wyrwiesz. Jego oczy ciemnieją, ma już dość. Odwraca się od ciebie i mówi powoli.

-Nic ci we mnie nie pasuje. Może po prostu myliłaś się co do mnie?

Czujesz, jak grunt usuwa ci się spod nóg. Chyba tym razem za bardzo go przycisnęłaś. Podchodzisz do niego i chwytasz za ramię, próbując go obrócić twarzą do siebie, ale się wyrywa.

-Wiesz, że nie o to chodzi, V!

-Prawda jest taka, że ja już nie wiem, o co ci chodzi. I nie mam ochoty dłużej dociekać. – z rosnącym zdumieniem patrzysz, jak sięga po swój płaszcz, bierze torbę, którą zabierał na dłuższe misje i kieruje się w stronę drzwi.

Nie do końca rozumiejąc, co się właśnie dzieje – albo nie chcąc rozumieć – krzyczysz za nim.

-Ani mi się waż wychodzić!

Ale to go oczywiście nie zatrzymuje. Kiedy drzwi zatrzaskują się za nim, wołasz jeszcze, licząc na to, że usłyszy cię na klatce schodowej.

-I nie myśl, że będę za tobą płakać!

Robisz to znacznie później, kiedy po nocy spędzonej na frenetycznym sprzątaniu mieszkania budzisz się rano i orientujesz się, że zniknęły jego rzeczy. Musiał przyjść, kiedy spałaś, ale nie obudził cię. Zapakował swoje książki i ubrania i po prostu zniknął z twojego życia.

…

Oczywiście Dante nie mógł tego zrozumieć. Kiedy zapowiedziałaś swoją przeprowadzkę na wschód, popatrzył na ciebie jakby cię zobaczył pierwszy raz w życiu. Krzyżujesz ręce i kręcisz głową.

-Ale to nie wina tego…

-Dante, wracam w rodzinne strony. – rzucasz szybko nim pociągnie temat, którego wolałabyś teraz uniknąć. Oczywiście, że twoje rozstanie z V rozeszło się już szerokim echem po światku łowców demonów. Wasz romans zaczął się dramatycznie, od zniszczenia Klifota, ocalenia V od rozpadnięcia się na miliony kawałków, a rytuały, które były w to zaangażowane, zapewnią demonologom materiał do badań na kolejne dziesięciolecia. Jakkolwiek próbowalibyście zachować prywatność, przez jakiś czas byliście dość popularni - Ale mam dla ciebie propozycję. Założę filię DMC. Tam, gdzie mieszkam, też zdarzają się demony, a brakuje kogoś, kto ogarnąłby całą tę hałastrę. Poza tym chcę wrócić do wykładów. Mam za dużo do zaoferowania studentom po tej przygodzie z Klifotem.

Dante tylko pokiwał głową.

-Cóż, nie jesteś osobą, której zdanie łatwo zmienić, co? – rzuca, ale widzisz w jego oczach szczery zawód.

Oczywiście, że nie jesteś.

…

-Koncepcja przeprowadzania rytuałów opartych o artefakty demonicznej proweniencji jest kusząca, ale niesie ze sobą spore ryzyko. W końcu nie każdy z nas jest synem Spardy – uśmiechasz się, widząc poruszenie na Sali - który potrafi swobodnie przechodzić między astralnymi stanami duszy. Dlatego dla ludzi bardziej odpowiednie są rytuały oparte na naszych tradycjach i dostępnych środkach. Dziś omówimy talizman aniołów.

Obracasz się w stronę tablicy i rysujesz na niej okrąg. Kreda skrzypi po tablicy przy akompaniamencie skrobania długopisów i ołówków. Cała sala jest pełna, zauważasz z zadowoleniem. Osoby młode, stare, teoretycy i okultyści jak ty, ale też poznaczeni bliznami łowcy. Niektórzy pilnie notują, inni tylko słuchają, jak na przykład ten odziany na czarno wysoki typ siedzący w ostatnim rzędzie…

Marszczysz brwi – z tej odległości twoje słabe oczy nie widzą go wyraźnie, ale jego sylwetka wydaje się znajoma. Kręcisz głową i wracasz do wykładu. Nie masz teraz na to czasu. Z jakiegoś też powodu wychodzisz z sali jak tylko kończy się wykład, zanim ktokolwiek ze studentów zdąży wstać.

Nie teraz, nie teraz…

Z uniwersytetu kierujesz się prosto do biura DMC, a na samą myśl o czekającej tam pracy wzdychasz ciężko. Sporo na siebie wzięłaś i nawet rezygnacja z pracy w terenie nie odciążyła się. Gorzej – kiedy twoja ekipa jest na misji, ty koordynujesz transport, dogadujesz szczegóły zapłaty i kolejne zlecenia. Zastanawiasz się, jak Morrison to wszystko ogarniał bez jednego miejsca, w którym trzymałby wszystkie papiery i kontakty. Kiedy mijasz witrynę sklepu, w której odbija się światło ulicznej latarni, przychodzi ci na myśl, że prowadzenie sklepu z artefaktami mogłoby być ciekawą odmianą.

A kiedy zerkasz na szybę, widzisz odbicie postaci podążającej twoim śladem.

Włosy jeżą ci się na karku. Jesteś pewna, że to nie jest przypadkowy przechodzień zmierzający w tym samym kierunku. Czujesz jak przez skórę skupioną na tobie uwagę. Nie dajesz po sobie poznać, że coś zauważyłaś. Starasz się zachować jednostajny rytm i iść przed siebie, jakby nigdy nic.

Coś ci mówi, że nie powinnaś zrywać się do biegu, że to  będzie jak w jednym z tych głupich horrorów. Odgłos twoich kroków i bicie serca zagłusza wszystkie inne dźwięki. Podświadomie zaciskasz palce na amulecie ochronnym i jesteś tak skupiona na obecności za twoimi plecami, że wpadasz z rozpędem na człowieka, który wychodzi zza rogu. Z okrzykiem upadacie na ziemię.

A kiedy otrząsasz się i próbujesz wstać z mężczyzny, na którym leżysz, niepewna, czy powinnaś walczyć, czy przepraszać, dostrzegasz jego twarz. Twarz V.

To znaczy, jakiegoś brodatego, długowłosego gościa z kucykiem, zupełnie niepodobnego do wymuskanego maga, który cudem ocalał zniszczenie Klifota. W lnianych spodniach, czarnym t-shircie i ciężkim płaszczu ukrywającym jego tatuaże. W ubraniu zaskakująco… zwykłym. I w krytych butach, co w sumie nie powinno cię dziwić, bo na tej odległej wyspie, na którą go zagnało, jest zimno i mokro.

Ale te oczy, one pozostały te same. Nie udało ci się ich zapomnieć, mimo że bardzo się przez ostatnie tygodnie starałaś. Jeśli do tej pory twoje serce tłukło się jak szalone w piersi, to teraz ścisnęło się boleśnie jak pięść. Zrywasz się i patrzysz, jak V wstaje powoli. Ktokolwiek cię śledził, zniknął.

-Co tu robisz? – cedzisz przez zaciśnięte zęby. Patrzysz na niego koso, i, masz nadzieję, wrogo. V odgarnia z czoła niesforne kosmyki – ten gest pamiętasz aż za dobrze - i uśmiecha się do ciebie nieśmiało. Masz ochotę zetrzeć mu ten uśmiech z twarzy pięścią.

-Musimy porozmawiać.

Wyrzucasz ręce w górę w obronnym geście i kręcisz głową. Zanim cokolwiek powiesz, V chwyta cię za ramiona i przyciąga do siebie.

-Myliłem się, nie mogę dać sobie bez ciebie rady, miałaś rację, nie nadaję się do tego wszystkiego. – rzuca na wydechu, obejmując cię mocno. Czujesz, jak drży.

-V, ja… – próbujesz coś z siebie wydusić, ale on przytula cię jeszcze mocniej.

-Wybacz, że tak cię zostawiłem, S/Y. Ten świat jest pełen cierpienia, a ja nie potrafię się od niego odseparować. Za mocne jest to wszystko… – przyciska usta do twojego ucha - Dawałaś mi spokój i ukojenie. Nie potrafię bez nich żyć…

-V, nie potrafisz żyć w nieustannej walce – w końcu udaje ci się coś wtrącić – nie jesteś stworzony do zabijania. Dlatego byłeś tak zagubiony…

-Mam inną pracę.

-Co…  – na moment cię zatyka. Odchylasz głowę i patrzysz na niego zdumiona. – Zrezygnowałeś z bycia łowcą demonów?!

V kiwa głową.

-To co teraz robisz?

-Kolekcjonuję magiczne artefakty i przedmioty. Rzadkie książki. Dante pomógł mi w zorganizowaniu małego punktu, w którym prowadzę coś na kształt antykwariatu.

Kręcisz głową, nie wierząc w to, co słyszysz. Bierzesz głęboki wdech, bo sporo trudu cię kosztuje wypowiedzenie tych kolejnych słów.

-Ja… nie powinnam ci wszystkiego narzucać i próbować cię kontrolować. Chciałam cię chronić, ale nie poprzez zmienianie cię. Wybacz mi. – kończysz głosem tak cichym, że nie jesteś pewna, czy w ogóle cię usłyszał. Zerkasz na niego, spodziewając się gniewu albo goryczy, ale jego twarz wyraża tylko czyste uwielbienie. Pochyla się i składa ci na ustach delikatny pocałunek, a ty nie jesteś w stanie dłużej ukrywać, jak bardzo ci tego brakowało.

Nie wiesz, jak długo trwa ta chwila bliskości. Czujesz jak budzi się w tobie nagląca potrzeba, by przypomnieć sobie jeszcze jeden aspekt waszej znajomości. Z westchnieniem odrywasz się od niego i ujmujesz za rękę.

-Hmm… masz gdzie nocować? Bo mam tu niedaleko mieszkanie…

-Nie mam. Zaprosisz mnie?

-Ale mam jeden warunek…

V rzuca ci podejrzliwe spojrzenie, ale łagodnieje na widok twojego uśmiechu.

-Musisz zgolić tę cholerną brodę. Pewnie podczas przywołania Koszmaru wyglądasz jak naćpany święty Mikołaj.

[tonal-modulator]

Meet the OC: Ildari Llothri

Role: Nerevarine, Hero of Kvatch

Race: Dunmer

Born: 13 Rain's Hand (The Mage) 3E 400 (26-27 at the time of Morrowind) (Note: 13th of Rain's hand is the Day of the Dead, at least in Daggerfall. From UESP: "The superstitious say that the dead rise on this holiday to wreak vengeance on the living.")

Class: Artificer (primarily an enchanter; officially a stealth focus, with strong magic influence)

(This bio was written before she defeated Dagoth Ur. I still have to take her through the Tribunal DLC, but I already started her Oblivion campaign because I have no patience and I’m just playing on the assumption that she has already done the Tribunal stuff by the time she gets back to Cyrodiil.)

Ildari was born in the Imperial City to Telvanni mages from Vvardenfell who had come to Cyrodiil in 3E 397 at the suggestion of their friend and former mentor. Said friend had made the trip a few years earlier in the hopes of broadening her horizons beyond the insular and at times old-fashioned Telvanni style of magic. While she had planned to spend a year at most in Cyrodiil, she found that there was much more to learn than she had expected, and ended up extending her stay indefinitely. Ildari's parents had just gotten married and were excited to start their lives together. As much as they loved Morrowind, they were also at times unsatisfied with their House's resistance to progress, and they were worried that it might not be the best place to raise kids if they should have any, because of the growing Blight and the way the Tribunal seemed to be growing weaker and less able to protect the people, and so they took their mentor's advice and moved to Cyrodiil.

They disappeared shortly after Ildari was born in 3E 400. The circumstances surrounding their disappearance were somewhat murky, at least to Ildari. No one seemed quite sure if they were arrested or killed—or, if they did know, they wouldn't tell her—only that it had to do with alleged "anti-Imperial activities." But from what Ildari could gather, while her parents may have had no love for the Empire, the accusations were unjust and based on stereotypes of Vvardenfell Dunmer (particularly Telvanni).

Her parents' friend who had invited them to Cyrodiil ended up raising Ildari as though she were her own child, and Ildari came to know her as her mother. She made sure Ildari received a good education with strong magical training, which was not difficult in the Imperial City, and that she had plenty of room to explore her interests.

But Ildari was at times concerned because of how little she knew of her own background. She had never been to Morrowind or seen its legendary mushroom towers. She spoke Dunmeris only on occasion and often substituted in Aldmeris words or constructions by accident. Although she (thankfully) wasn't so disconnected as to be raised to worship the Nine, she also had only a vague familiarity with the Tribunal from the occasional passing mention, often in the form of a malediction, and she likewise made no strong distinction between "good" and "bad" Daedra, instead being wary of all Daedra and believing it best to stay away from them altogether. She knew next to nothing about her biological parents; her mother preferred not to talk about them, claiming that to do so might attract unwanted attention. Ildari assumed that the preference really came more from her mother's deep sense of guilt for convincing her friends to come to Cyrodiil in the first place, but the concerns about attracting attention were also probably valid, and Ildari was definitely not going to push. After all, her mother had knowingly taken in the child of alleged enemies of the state, to whom she had close ties. They were most likely already under more scrutiny than they cared to imagine.

Ildari found that magic suited her interests well, although she also had a somewhat odd talent for influencing people. She wasn't even particularly comfortable talking to people, but they seemed willing to agree with her and follow her suggestions or requests to a degree that some found suspicious. In reality, she even found it a little unsettling herself. So she spent most of her time away from people, which suited her perfectly well, as it allowed her to pursue her interests in peace.

Then one day, a local mage was killed. Ildari didn't know him well; he studied at the Arcane University, and she had met him once or twice in passing, but they had never even had an actual conversation. Unfortunate as it was, everyone expected it to blow over quickly, until it became known that he was actually a Blades agent. Then the rumors began to fly, and Ildari, with her persuasive (now being called "manipulative") ways and traitor parents, found herself at the center of the suspicion.

Of course, she had no strong alibi, as she spent most of her time away from anyone who could vouch for her, and before she knew it, she was sitting in a cell in the Imperial City Prison. Then, a few months later, she was on a boat to the East, to Morrowind...

Naturally, she had no desire to work with the Empire on whatever it was that they were planning for her, and so when a mer waiting outside the Census and Excise office offered her an alternative, she was quick to take advantage of the opportunity. It also didn't hurt that the interested party was a Telvanni Master, as she figured this would be a good opportunity to finally get formally enrolled in the House she was born into.

She also joined the Tribunal Temple shortly after she arrived in Morrowind, mostly because she wanted to learn more about this land of her ancestors, and frankly, because she wanted to fit in. But she found herself more interested than she had expected in the history of the Tribunal, with almost a vague familiarity, as though she should know everything about them even before their apotheosis. It was a similar feeling that accompanied the nightmares she would occasionally have about the man in the golden mask (who she eventually learned was the evil immortal enemy of the Tribunal, Dagoth Ur).

Ildari didn't know what to think when she learned about the Nerevarine prophecies, much less that she supposedly might have the look of fulfilling them. Her skepticism was only alleviated somewhat by the third trial, when Azura spoke to her and called her the Nerevarine, and she was able to put on Moon-and-Star without dying. But even then, she remained uncertain, as it wasn't exactly easy or ethical to "prove" that the ring would kill everyone else.

Her meeting with Vivec was the turning point. The moment she saw hir floating there in the temple, the memories came flooding back with such intensity that she couldn't even see or feel her surroundings—Vehk had to come down from hir floaty perch and support her to keep her from falling. All at once, she was remembering her life as Nerevar, and her lives as all of the Incarnates before her (at least, the ones who were actually failed Incarnates, not just random people who had claimed to be them). She remembered Vivec, really remembered hir from her first life, and Almalexia—her wife, how could she have forgotten her wife?—and Sotha Sil, and Voryn Dagoth, and how much she loved them. She remembered the Tribunal's broken oath, how she had hoped beyond hope that their honor and their love for her would be strong enough to resist the pull of the profane tools, and how they may as well have smashed her heart with Sunder for how much it hurt, even from Moonshadow, but wishing Azura would have mercy all the same. And she remembered the first time she had to fight Voryn, the soul-wrenching feeling of taking up arms against him, how Trueflame trembled in her grip as she begged him to listen to reason, and it made his present campaign that much more painful, and more personal.

When her mind cleared up enough to process her environment, she realized she was sobbing into Vehk's shoulder. So many memories, so much life and emotion, it was hard to deal with all at once. Their meeting ended up lasting much longer than anticipated. She even ended up spending the night in an old and no-longer-used quarters in the temple, because they had so much to discuss and she had so much to process that it couldn't all be done in one sitting. (Really, they hadn't seen each other in well over 3,000 years; they had a lot of catching up to do.) By the time she left, they were both convinced of her role, and she had a new sense of purpose moving forward. This was no longer about faceless gods and vague legends and a secret dead House. It wasn't even about Azura, though she wouldn't dare say that out loud. It was personal. She had united the Dunmer as Hortator and Nerevarine, and now she would fulfill her duty. She would recover the Tools of Kagrenac, eat the sin of House Dagoth, face Voryn one final time, free the Tribunal from the Heart of Lorkhan and end the Blight on Morrowind.

But for all the grandeur of the legends, it didn't feel very heroic. To the people of Morrowind, the ALMSIVI were their immortal gods, receiving their worship and prayer for thousands of years. Dagoth Ur was a caricaturized figure of evil, more of a concept than a person. But to Ildari? To Nerevar? They were her closest friends. Dagoth Ur was her Voryn, her trusted advisor, her loyal friend. ALM, the Merciful Healing Mother, was her Ayem, her wife and her friend, at once noble, fierce, loving, and goofy. Their marriage may have been for political purposes, but their friendship was full of enough love to make up for it. SI, the Father of Mysteries, was her Seht, her friend and teacher, quiet, contemplative, patient, and incredibly caring. VI, the Warrior-Poet, was her Vehk, her friend and companion and protégé, buoyant, shrewd, and at times frighteningly discerning. They were her advisors, and she was their Hortator, their Neht—or maybe their Iya now—and she loved them all so much. Going on a campaign to defeat the Sharmat was one thing. But she was going off to kill one of her closest friends. Again. And in the process, the rest of her closest friends might just die too. Vehk assured her that they understood and were willing to take that risk, but they had had thousands of years to prepare. Was she willing to take that risk? Broken oath or no, they were all she had. She had just gotten them back, and now she had to accept that one was irredeemable, and the other three might also be lost, all over again.

That was just it, though. She had to accept it. She was Ildari, some mer born under a certain sign to uncertain parents who found her way to Morrowind through a series of misunderstandings, but she was also Indoril Nerevar, "Saint" Nerevar, Nerevar Moon-and-Star, hero of legend. The Tribes had named her Nerevarine, and the Houses had named her Hortator, and the people of Morrowind were relying on her to end the Blight. It was her duty and her destiny, and she would not let them down.

[bleached-d-soul]

Going Rogue

The 20$ commission for none other than @the-wayward-arc featuring one of my favorite crack ships in RWBY

Length: 10, 058

Remnant was the land of miracles and nightmares. On the one hand, you had Aura, Semblances and Dust. On the other hand, you had the Grimm of all forms, shapes and sizes. With the threat of hordes of creatures of horror, everyone was forced to one day make a choice. The choice of how you would survive. Do you put your faith in strength? Do you pray your feet can carry far enough? Or do you build walls and fences and hide behind them?

The Branwen Tribe had mastered all three. And that is why they survived for so long. Since the days when the Moon above was whole, the Branwens were the survivors. Vernal had no illusions about her tribe. As much as some Mistralian poets and Atlesian pseudo-rebel brats loved to glorify the bandits, Vernal never forgot what the Tribe were and what they were not.

They weren't some roguish heroes that stole from the rich and gave to the poor. They weren't free spirits out to live lives, unlimited by social conventions and norms. They didn't spean days talking philosophy or playing music as everyone laughed around the fire. No, all that shit belonged only in the books of some sappy bitch who would wail one day in their life.

Branwens were the survivors. And surviving was not pretty.

They stole from those weaker than themselves and ran when facing someone stronger. They raided villages and towns, taking whatever food and supplies the people there had before leaving them to die of sickness and starvation. And some of their own fell? They would spend one night drinking and mourning at best before splitting the valuables of that person among themselves.

Their life wasn't pretty. But it was the only life she knew and had.

In the tribe, everyone had a role to play and the weight to carry. Those who weren't strong or vicious enough to fight had to accept their role as the lowest on the totem pole, only occasional captives were given rougher treatment. Having been born into the tribe, Vernal felt it on her own skin what it meant to be the weakest. And she promised to never find herself in that position again.

She trained to be strong. And she worked to be useful. She made one sacrifice after another, all for the sake of the tribe. So that she wouldn't be left behind. So that she never became a burden to be discarded.

And now here she was, taking one for the tribe again.

"Are you comfortable?" the woman's silky voice slithered around Vernal's ears like worms. "You seem stressed."

Raven was strong. Their tribe wasn't much, relying far more on their target's weakness and sheer numbers, but Raven was strong. Strong enough to take on this bitch and her two little sycophants. Strong enough to tear the three to shreds and not even break a sweat. Raven could kill them.

But she didn't. Which only meant that whoever was behind Cinder Fall was someone even Raven feared. Feared enough to not even try to escape. Whoever this person - or creature at that - was, if Raven feared them, then Vernal knew better than challenge them. It was just how the survivors lived, kill and use those weaker than you. And, in turn, be used by those stronger than you.

"Not used to flying, that's all," Vernal grunted out. It was a shameful thing to admit, especially to some outsiders. But having spent her whole life on the ground, she never realized just how much she hated the air. "How long do we have to go?"

How much longer did she need to play along, was left unsaid. Cinder told her that they would be in Vale in an hour at most. The green brat and her cripple of a friend were already waiting for them at some hotel on the outskirts of the city, ready to do whatever their little owner told them to.

"I am sure Raven appreciates what you are doing for her," Cinder smiled, not bothering to hide her pleasure at getting her way. "Once we are done with the mission, your tribe will be granted full safety and protection from our Mistress."

Vernal knew it was all bullshit. She herself had given such promises before to so many suckers and stabbed them in the back all the same. She knew it was a pile of crap but didn't call the woman out on it. And so, with nods and half-hearted agreements, Vernal forced herself to swallow the shit Cinder was feeding her. After all, what would she do after calling the woman out?

What even could she do? In the end, every choice she could make would lead to her death. The only chance at survival Vernal had laid in her trusting herself to stay alive and praying for Raven to come up with something.

As the two got off the plane. As they picked up their luggage, one of the employees smiled at Vernal, "Welcome to Vale! Hope you will enjoy your stay here."

Somehow, Vernal doubted she would.

VA

When Vernal was seven, she took the diary from the village they raided. The owner - whom Vernal assumed was a woman by how neat and honeyed was her writing - used to study in one of the bigger cities and wrote all the details about how exciting her school years were. At first, the little Vernal used to dream of living the same life. The life where she wasn't forced to pick up other people's trash and do back-breaking chores for scraps of food.

It was a nice little dream, one that she cherished for years. Her safe room where she could escape after getting shit beaten out of her for doing something wrong or just for the laughs of some creep. Those dreams used to keep her warm at night.

But that was before she realized how foolish that dream was. She was a bandit. A damn good one too. What would she do if she ever came to attend some fancy school in the city? Drink tea and eat cookies all the while gossiping about some stupid stuff? Lose her sleep over some silly crush?

Ever since her first kill, Vernal hated her childhood dream with all the venom and spite one could have.

And now here she was, in the hall of the school, just like she thought she would hate.

The first night at Beacon is everything Vernal feared it would be and more. After listening to Ozpin talk about the duty and responsibility of huntsmen and huntresses - y'know other than dying like a bunch of morons to buy other idiots a couple more days - they were locked in one room. And boy, did Vernal wish she could kill them all and be done with it. Seriously, if Cinder wanted the damn comatose girl, why not just come here with her army and kill everyone?

That would make taking Amber or whoever so much easier.

No matter where she looked, she found something or someone to loathe this place even more for. The girls who kept giggling and chatting as if they were having some sleepover. And guys who were trying to show off their physiques. Granted, some of them were quite well-built but what did it matter when facing against a Grimm? Unless you knew how to use all that muscle, you were just making a bigger meal for some lucky Grimm out there.

At least, she was spared hanging around Cinder and her posse. The Fall Maiden wanted them to spend the night apart, as a precaution in case Ozpin found the four students becoming a team so smoothly all too suspicious. Paranoid but Vernal couldn't care less. She would enjoy whatever peace she could get.

Her peace didn't last for long.

"Stop stalking me!"

"I am just trying to be friendly! Why do you have to be so crabby?"

Quarrels and yelling weren't uncommon in the tribe. Honestly, every day some morons found a new reason to start trouble with each other. Someone stealing another guy's drink. Or some bitch banging someone else's man. The everyday trouble was the kind of trouble you got when placing every arrogant and self-centered piece of crap into one family where the only law was the law of the blade.

The fights between their own weren't uncommon and, in fact, somewhat encouraged by Raven.

But these two were nothing like that.

With the mixture of amusement and annoyance underneath her skin, Vernal watched two girls - both looking too young to even be here - argue over a vial of Dust. She quickly recognized the Schnee heiress and entertained the thought of stealing her wallet at some point in time in the future. Vernal briefly toyed with the idea of buying tons of sex toys for with whatever card the heiress had.

And then she saw him.

Tall, blonde and wearing the dumbest choice of sleepwear she had ever seen. He wasn't too bad on the eyes, if looking more like an errand boy than an aspiring huntsman. A couple of girls giggled as they watched him pass with guys laughing at him. And honestly would you blame them?

What kind of idiot wears baby blue pajamas? Let alone in front of everyone? If the boy's intent was to ensure he wouldn't get any till the graduation, then he did a fucking great job at it. Still, at least, he managed to make her laugh if not knowing that himself.

"Bold choice, blondie," she heckled, getting a few laughs out of the people nearby. The boy blushed in embarrassment but stopped and turned to her. Stupid, honestly. Should've walked away faster. "Got something to say?"

She kind of wants him to start trouble. To give her an excuse to vent out her frustration. Instead of hissing or glaring, the boy looks more embarrassed than anything and mumbles, "I like it, that's all. It's really comfortable."

"I bet the others think it is," she chuckles as the blondie briefly looks around the room. His face grows even redder as some girls whistle at him in a mocking fashion. She almost feels sorry for the idiot, he really should've left when he had the chance to.

"Eh, I can deal with it," the boy shrugs, though failing to play it cool. "Not the first time someone laughed at it."

She didn't have trouble believing that for obvious reasons. "Pretty confident in yourself, huh?"

"I like to think I am," the boy smiles before sitting down by her side. Vernal raises an eyebrow but the boy seems unfazed by her seeming lack of amusement. With the same goofy mile, he extends his hand, "Jaune Arc. Short sweet, rolls off the tongue. Ladies love it."

"Are those ladies your mom and sisters?"

"Yup, mom and all seven of my sisters."

"Seven?" Vernal does a double take before looking the boy up and down in search of the clue at him joking. Nope, he is not shitting her. He is absolutely serious. "Wow, your parents are rabbit faunus or something?"

Some girl with black bow glares daggers at her and actually hisses. Eh, she would deal with her later. "Er, no, I don't think so. They just really love each other and-"

"They are pretty loud about it, right?" Vernal grins as the blondie blushes deep red again, no doubt reliving the moment he caught his mommy and daddy fucking. "Having some repressed memories? I wonder what was the weirdest place you saw them do it?"

"Okay, let's change the subject! Please?"the boy raised his hands in a plea. Alright, she was done with the joke. No need to come across as some sex-starved deviant. "So what's your name?"

"Vernal Wennbar," she said offhandedly. "Simple and memorable. The people whose villages I pillage and burn don't remember it though."

She is kind of disappointed when the boy takes it as a joke and laughs. As much as the conversation amused her, she was getting tired by the Mr Sunshine here. After a few seconds of laughter, Arc sighs and looks at the room with the weird longing expression, "Man, I can't believe that I am finally here."

"Let me guess, your parents are huntsmen as well?"

"I wish," Arc scoffs in annoyance. "Maybe then dad would actually let me come here."

The boy instantly freezes as the realization of what he just said hits him. To someone like him, a boy who never knew how cruel the world could be, running away was probably the peak of the debauchery. DId he expect her to be impressed or horrified? As if. Running away from your parents' home was about as petty as stealing candy as far as Vernal was concerned, "No worries, I am not ratting you out to anyone."

Seriously, who could she even rat him out to? And if she had someone, why would she do that? This was his life and his mess. Still, Arc thanks her with genuine smile, "Thank you, Vernal. I owe you one."

And just like that, the two kept up the small conversation. Bits and pieces of what they did prior to coming here, with Vernal lying at each and every step. Not that she expected Arc to be able to do anything even if she told the truth. But he looked like the kind of moron who could let it slip that she came from the tribe of bandits around the teachers.

And so she told a tale of poor little her who grew up on the streets, harsh and cold. How she was saved by the powerful huntress and now wished to be one to help people. And hey, other than the part about helping people, she was almost honest about her life.

As the time to sleep came closer, the blondie wished her luck on tomorrow's test. Cute if she needed it. She wished him the same, though not on passing the exam.

But simply not dying too painfully.

VA

"Now remember, you need to be on the same team. Roman will supply you with the proper communication equipment but you still need to be careful. Who knows where Ozpin might have installed surveillance. The last thing we need is him suspecting the new team of collaborating prior to the exam."

Keep your head down. Don't give away your powers. Blend in. Those were easy enough instructions even if given in annoyingly condescending tone by the Fall. All she had left to do was make sure she ended up partner with one of her little lackeys and she could get over the damn test.

The Grimm here were pretty weak as well. A few Beowulves and Ursas with big ones like Nevermore or Deathstalker few and far between, and even those were half the size of what a healthy Grimm should be. Her guess was the teachers controlling their numbers by routinely exterminating stronger ones. A dumb thing to do, really.

If their applicants couldn't handle a couple of stronger Grimm, then what good would academy do them? Weak should just stay in the line and not get in the way of the Strong. Weak died. Weak suffered. Weak begged for mercy and cried for help.

"Help! Somebody help!"

Case in point. Now where did that noise come from? She looked behind and saw nobody. From the right then? From the left?

"I am stuck up here!"

Vernal looked above and did double take. After she rubbed her eyes, the sight before her didn't change. It was the same blonde from yesterday. Impaled to the tree by someone's spear. Jeez, whom did he piss off that much that they tried to off him during the exam? Not to mention so dumbly. Seriously, if you wanted to kill Arc off, you could at least try and make it look like a Grimm attack.

Oh well, not her kill to steal. Before she could properly leave, Arc noticed her, much to her chagrin.

"Oh hey, Vernal!" He waved and smiled even though he looked deathly pale. "Uh, could you please help me get down? I think someone accidentally threw their spear at me and now I can't get down. I am not very good with heights so..."

Vernal barely suppressed the urge to throw a pebble at the guy. What was he doing here at the huntsmen academy in the first place if he couldn't even get down from the tree? It was so pathetic it was almost funny. Like watching a cat stuck on a tree. Or some moron with his head between the bars.

"If you need help getting down from there, you might as well quit the exam," Vernal said, enjoying how the boy flinched at her words. "Seriously, if you can't handle some heights, then how are you going to handle the hordes of Grimm?"

"Oh come on, is there nothing you can do at all? Come on, you aren't going to leave me hanging up here like that, right?"

It was almost amusing how wrong he was. She left much many more of much better people to much worse fates. Then again, if he made her a good enough offer, she just might consider helping him out, "What do I get out of it?"

"W-Well, I am pretty good with cooking and massages," at her raised eyebrow, Arc scratched the back of his neck awkwardly, "Living with seven sisters will do that to you. You won't believe how many times I had to make up for my mess by giving them a good foot rub."

Hmm, that did sound tempting. But she could always get a professional for it. "Sorry, but if you can't offer anything better, I think I best leave you to your own-"

"I can get you a fake ID!" Arc blurted out in panic. Now if that wasn't interesting. "If, uh, if you help me get down, I can get you the fake ID. For buying drinks and getting into clubs and other stuff like that."

Well, well, it seems it was always the quiet ones. "How good are you at making those? Cause I can tell bad forgery from proper one, you know."

Arc looked uncomfortable as he sighed, "I am pretty good at it. Criminally good, you might say."

"Then you got yourself a deal,"

With a smirk, she released her weapons.

"Thank you!" Arc smiled brightly. Though that smile waned as he saw her approach the trunk of three with the savage grin. "Wait,what are you-Aah!"

The bark didn't even make the sound as she cut through it in one swift motion. The blonde did though, letting out the girliest cry Vernal had the displeasure hearing. With a loud crash, he groaned on the ground. "Ow... I think my arm is broken."

"Your Aura will heal it."

The boy looked at her as if she had just grown a second head.

"What is Aura?"

Was he fucking serious? "Are you fucking serious? Are you telling me that you are trying out for the Beacon Academy to fight Grimm and you don't even know what Aura is?"

"I, uh, was kind of planning to learn it later? You know, catch up on all the material once the semester starts and all."

Catch up on all the...

"You have no idea what Aura is, do you?"

The boy deflated, "No..."

"Great," for a moment, Vernal considered leaving the idiot alone in the woods for Grimm to eat. It was only right, after all. The idiot brought it on himself by coming here unprepared. And hey, maybe some meat would placate the other Grimm around and make it even easier for her to kill them.

But if he died right now, then she would be losing her fake ID maker. And while she didn't doubt the Fire Bitch could help her get one, Vernal was sure she wouldn't get her one. Alcohol makes you sloppy. Alcohol distracts you from the mission. And more of the same dumb garbage she didn't need listening to. Not to mention that if she was given one, those little lapdogs would follow her all the way to every good drinbking spot.

With a sigh and thoughts of quiet pleasant drink in mind, Vernal motioned for Arc to come closer, "Come over here. Before I change my mind."

He did as told, trusting her entirely. Seriously, who was this guy? He was too weak to be a huntsman. Hell, he trusted her - a random stranger who cut down the tree he was stuck to - as if they had known each other for years. For all he knew, she could just stab him and take whatever was of value on him.

Which she had done already. Many times.

And yet he didn't run or even look suspicious of her. Ah, she had no time for that. Better be done with him and move, "What are you going to do? Why is your hand glowing?"

"Just shut up and let me do it," Vernal snapped at him. The boy fell silent. The bandit took a deep breath as she placed her palm on his chest, letting her Aura flow free into the boy and find its way to his own. "For it is in our power that we achieve freedom. Through this, we become juggernauts who know no restraint. Free from laws and untamed by nobody, I release your soul and by my hand empower thee."

She could feel the momentary rush - the feeling of sharing her Aura with another and forcing it open. She felt slightly winded, both annoyed and impressed at how large his Aura reserves actually were. Well, her work was done here. With those reserves, he should be good enough to last until the teachers arrived to save him if something went wrong.

"So long, blondie," she said as she headed off in her own direction. "Try not to die too fast."

"Wait, aren't we partners now?" Arc asked awkwardly. "I mean-"

Partners... Yeah, right. "Oh just shove it, will ya?" Vernal scoffed. "You already owe me two favors. Don't go pushing your luck."

Just as she left, she heard someone else call out for him. Vernal didn't look, of course. She already helped that moron enough. Not that Aura would help him once Fall brought the whole place down. Helping out the weak wouldn't them any favor in the long run.

She just wanted to get whatever was worth out her deal with him.

VA

Days passed by and their team - appropriately named Venom (VENM) even if the Headmaster didn't know - was about as close as four strangers pushed together could be. Unlike many of the other teens though, there wasn't any real attempt to bond. And honestly what could they bond over?

Their kill counts? Favorite types of knives and guns? Their top ten ways to kill someone? Vernal just knew that it was much better to just put up some distance between each other. Mercury and Emerald would hang out with each other. That Neo girl would do... whatever it is she did when they weren't watching.

And Vernal would enjoy her lunch by herself. At least, the food here was decent enough. As much as it sucked she couldn't get any booze here, at least, they served some decent meat and fruit as well as some sweets. The latter of which they didn't keep around in the tribe.

Pancakes and waffles were, in particular, the rare treats around her home. She reached for the last plate standing when someone else grabbed it out of her reach. Well, this was looking like a good day already.

"Sorry, you snooze you lose~" the girl with ginger head and sickeningly sweet voice said in a sing-song tone as she made away with her pancakes. Heh, if it wasn't for the girl's love of frilly and pink, they might have gotten along. After all, pancakes, as everything else, belonged to those who got them first.

And who was strong enough to hold onto them.

"What the- Woah!"

The girl slipped and fell, her tray flying up with everything else. Eggs, bacon and juice all spilled all over the floor. And only the plate of flapjacks were safe, carefully snatched by Vernal. Her Semblance was usually for combat only. But who would judge her for that?

"Oh my God, Nora! Are you okay?"

Vernal didn't even make three steps away from the mess when she heard a familiar voice. As she sat down at the nearest empty table she watched as the three other students surrounded the gingerhead. A redheaded tall girl. A boy with pink strand of hair. And the blonde she kind of assumed was dead by now.

So they were a team, huh.

To her credit, the girl, now identified as Nora, didn't make much of a fuss about her clothes or hair as Vernal expected. She looked positively nonchalant until her eyes caught something missing among the pile of food. Eyes suddenly narrow and sharp, the girl looked around the room until her eyes zeroed in on Vernal.

Specifically, her plate of pancakes.

Vernal smirked as she slowly cut a piece of thick cooked dough, covered in honey and sprinkled with berries. Just as slowly she brought it to her mouth without breaking an eye contact with the girl. Their eyes locked, Vernal bit into the treat, making sure to show the gingerhead just how much she enjoyed it. The quickly growing scandalous look on the girl's face made the already sweet treat so much more delicious.

You know what, maybe the breakfast was a great time to be petty.

"You thief!"

With the impressive speed, the girl was in her face, an accusing finger pointing in her face. Under the scrutinizing gaze, Vernal saw no other option than take another slow bite and say, in a mocking imitation of the girl's voice, "Sorry, you snooze you lose~"

"Why you..." The girl looked positively murderous, ready to get into a fight. Great, just what she needed. And hey, whatever happened to it would in self-defense so she could go pretty much all out. "Rennie?"

Or would have, if her boyfriend didn't step in. Along with the two other people. "Come on, Nora. You may have mine if you want."

"Eh, but yours are never as sweet as I like them," Nora whined. "Can I have Jaune's instead?"

"Hey, I never agreed to that!" Arc protested. Only to fold in when the brunette gave him the look that said it all: his pancakes were no longer his and he had to deal with it. "Oh, alright alright. I'll just double down on the cereal then. Oh hey, Vernal!"

"Hello, Jaune," Vernal greeted him in return. "I see you aren't dead. Congrats, I guess."

Arc laughs awkwardly, probably thinking her words were a joke instead of genuine surprise. "Thanks, Vernal. I couldn't do it without you helping you there. Hey, where's your team, by the way?"

Probably robbing a shop or torturing someone. "They decided to skip breakfast."

"Why don't you join us then?" Vernal groaned silently. "My mom always said, breakfast is best with people."

Not when anyone could snatch your food when you aren't looking, Vernal wanted to add. Unlike the blonde overe here, Vernal actually liked being by herself when eating. No bastards smoking near her food or trying to stick their fingers in it. She had half a mind to tell the blondie to go and screw himself. But the way Jaune was smiling told her she wouldn't get out of it that easily. "Sure, thanks."

"Great, let's go then!"

The breakfast went from quiet attempt to enjoy her food to the lively conversation with the group. Surprisingly, the whole situation was not as annoying as she might have expected. None of them pried too much or did anything to particularly annoy her. And, in a way, it helped her out with her mission. As it turned out, Jaune got himself the famous Pyrrha Nikos as partner. She didn't even recognize her, with how shy and quiet the girl in front of her was acting.

Someone as strong as Nikos should have carried herself with more weight.

Still, Champion of four years in a row was someone she might need to keep an eye on. If Ozpin was half as smart as Raven described him, he would pick someone strong. But also someone gullible or naive enough to mold into a perfect little Maiden. Mistralian Champion with obvious self-esteem issue would definitely do. Not the only potential candidate but one who fit the bill well enough.

"Hey guys!" Slowly, four more people joined their small group. This one, looking all so much more interesting. With the exception of the quiet brunette with a dumb bow, she recognized the three easily. Two girls from the night before the exam, one of which was the potential score of a lifetime and another was a jailbait brat. "Who's your new friend?"

And, of course, Vernal recognized Yang Xiao Long. The weakling Raven had abandoned. The daughter whom her leader didn't want to have. She would have lied if she said she wasn't itching for the chance to meet her. If only to see what kind of warrior Raven's daughter could be.

"The name's Vernal," Frankly, she wasn't impressed. The blondie was strong, that much was obvious to anyone. She was strong but not powerful. For her, strength meant just raw physical power, disregarding the ruthlessness and killing instinct necessary to be truly strong. She could see it in the way the girl carried herself. Not like a warrior who would slay anyone who opposed her. But rather a fool who thought she could take on any challenge that came her way. "Nice to meet you."

The girl shook her hand, without any hint of doubt or suspicion. Even with her teeth shown and eyes sharp, Xiao Long didn't think twice before letting her get so close to her. If Vernal wanted, she could kill her. A knife within her reach would be enough - she was too fast for the girl to activate her Aura in time. And just like that, the bimbo would be dead and Raven would have one less nuisance distracting her.

Then again, murdering a fellow student would be a bitch to explain.

As the discussion within the group shifts from discussing weapons to weekend plans to dances and teachers, Vernal is feeling more and more frustrated with her position. With her plate now cleaned of any food, she asks what class they have first. And silently, she prays that it is not the Port's class on Grimm. She would rather suck Shay off than listen to another lecture by the man.

When she hears that they have the Combat Class by Goodwitch first, Vernal feels genuine relief. She finally gets to kick some ass around the place without any worry for her cover.

VA

"For the final match," Goodwitch says as the screen behind her is flashing with photos of students. "Cardin Winchester and Jaune Arc, come forward and prepare your weapons."

By this point, Vernal is ready to go out and fight the woman herself. Having been forced to sit out the whole class watching the others fight was one thing. But having to watch these morons fight so poorly was just infuriating. Everyone moved slow. Their attacks were sloppy and didn't have any actual force behind it. They were holding back, afraid to hurt someone. Scared of getting hurt in return.

Vernal was simply disgusted with it. And the final match promised nothing better.

Winchester was a hulking mass of muscles. And he had some skills and traits Raven would appreciate. But the shining armor he wore along with the arrogant grin that seemed to have been painted all over his face made him look less of a fellow survivor and predator and more like a hyena. It was clear that all that he had came from power and money. And those born into those things were always the first to break under pressure.

That, however, didn't change how this match would end.

Because even if Winchester was an arrogant prick, he still had enough strength to act like one. And Arc, for all his passion about being a Huntsman, was weak and as skilled as a toddler in terms of combat.

The match proceeded just as she expected. The bigger guy didn't seem bothered by the gap between them. In fact, it was quite the opposite as it was clear to everyone that Winchester enjoyed kicking the blondie all across the ring like a puppy. Arc was clearly faster and more agile but, just as with his sword and shield, lacked any actual experience in using those to his advantage.

In the end, Arc has no other option other than put all his remaining strength into holding his shield and taking on the hits. Vernal is somewhat impressed with how long it takes blondie to run out of Aura. His reserves are definitely twice what a normal huntsman his age should have. If he were better trained, he would make a fearsome warrior with those reserves. But the way he is right now, all he can do and is doing right now is just whimpering behind his shield as he weathers down the hits.

"Mr. Arc's Aura is in the Red, Mr. Winchester wins the match," Judging by her tone, the older Huntress hardly considers this a match and Vernal can't help but agree with her. A bully dishing out hits and leaving himself open because of his arrogance. And a weakling too unskilled to take advantage of said openings and turn the tide. "We will be covering the shortcomings of you both next class. Trust me, there is enough to last a semester."

Winchester scowls at the insult but doesn't do anything. To the professor, that is. As soon as Goodwitch's attention is focused on the rest of the class, the bigger guy quickly shoves past the blonde, knocking him down. Vernal expects the latter to yell, get angry, do something. And, unsurprisingly, she is disappointed as she sees the blonde just bury his eyes in the ground as he simmers in his own frustration and self-pity.

She stays a bit longer and watches on as his teammates try to comfort him. It's not his fault, they say. He will get better, Nikos promises. With a smile a bit too eager and desperate, she offers to train him. Get him up to speed on some basics. A generous offer, if one asked Vernal. She heard some people were willing to pay top Lien for private lessons from the Invincible Girl.

"Thanks," the blonde responds, with much edge to his tone than she expected from him. The trio mistake it for frustration with his loss. But Vernal feels like there's more to it. "I mean it, Pyrrha"

And in that moment, she sees something worth her attention. It is small but unmistakable for Vernal. The smallest glynt in Arc's eyes as he considers Nikos' offer. Briefest and impossible to catch unless you were watching, but it is there. But it is not the noble or grateful spark in the eyes of an aspiring hero. Not the bright flames of determined champion of the weak and oppressed.

But rather the same lust for power she and Raven shared.

The desire to be stronger than anyone else.

Vernal scoffed to herself as she gathered her things to leave. There was a spark, but hardly anything more. So what if the boy had some twisted desire for strength like her? From what she had seen, he had neither the drive nor readiness to do what needed to be done to achieve that kind of power. He wasn't willing to stain his hands and siul with the blood of others.

In the end, it was only those two things that determined whether you were predator or prey. And Jaune Arc had neither of those traits. He was a rabbit wishing to be the wolf. And creatures like that didn't last long out in the cold cruel world.

A sad yet simple fact.

VA

Days pass and Vernal wonders how long she would have to stay here. The classes are boring and useless as far as she is concerned. She knew plenty about killing Grimm and surviving in the wild. Why she needed to know about history was beyond her.

Luckily for her and any poor soul who'd suffer for her boredom, just when it seemed she was ready to start some trouble for the sake of having something to do, she happened to overhear something truly intriguing. A conversation between Nikos and Jaune, one she caught only thanks to her room being so close to the roof.

She expected a lot of stuff. A heartfelt confession. Or maybe even the two banging up there. Whatever high school cliche on the roof you could expect, she did. But what she heard was something completely unexpected. Though, in hindisght, maybe she shouldn't have been.

"So what you are saying is, that Arc kid faked his way in here" Black asks in the mid of their spar. For an asshole with no legs, he fights well enough. He actually makes her break a sweat. "Gotta say, I didn't expect that from him. It's always the dumb ones, I suppose."

Vernal notices that tiniest bit of respect in assassin's voice. And she can see why. Faking documents wasn't exactly an easy task. His fake ID was good enough for her to use, sure, but she never expected something of this scale.

Forging the certification from a huntsman school well enough to enroll into Beacon? This wasn't some sick note to skip school or prescription for drugs. This was the place where future fighters of humanity were raised into warriors of high calibre. To fake it so well... Jaune certainly had some talent for it. His skill would definitely be useful for the jobs in the cities if he were a part of the tribe.

Too bad he was too busy chasing after fairy tales and daydreaming.

"Cinder will like it," Sustrai smirks. "If I am right on Nikos crushing on that guy, we can use it as leverage. Get him to dig up whatever weaknesses the Champion has."

Vernal sighs in annoyance. That was indeed a good leverage. But just like everything else, only good in the right time. And theirs might have passed them by already.

"I doubt that will work out right now. From what I saw, Nikos is giving him a cold shoulder right now. Man, for a professional athelete, she is really uptight about the whole cheating thing."

Seriously, where could honest work get you in life? Slaving away from morning till night in some office as those born into power and money kept bragging about their hard work? Or work until your body breaks for someone to swoop in and take all that you've earned? In the end, the world didn't care if you got what you had by honest work or through cheating.

All that mattered was if you were strong enough to hold onto what was yours.

"And then there is Winchester," Vernal scoffs as she blocks Black's kick and goes for his gut. He dodges but she finds an opportunity to get him in the shoulder. "He knows it too."

The thief and the merc exchange brief looks before the latter smirks, "Feeling sorry for the Arc kid? Don't tell me someone got a crush."

The comment costs him a blow to the chest. Her crushing on Jaune? Right, as if she wanted to have some needy weakling for a boyfriend. As if she even wanted one. The guy looked like the kind of sap who would try and introduce her to his family after the third date or so. Life was short and Vernal wasn't one for commitments. And most definitely not to someone as weak and pathetic as that kid.

"I could care less about what happens to someone as weak as him," Vernal says honestly. "But lately the prick's been getting bolder. Thinks that just cause he got some weakling under his thumb, he is the king of the fucking school."

And she hated those kinds of assholes. Because if there was one thing Vernal despised more than weaklings, it was weaklings who thought they were some tough shit. Then again, she couldn't just kick his ass. Everyone knew that she was stronger than him. Her beating him up wouldn't humiliate him as much as she wanted him to be. No... If she wanted Winchester crushed, he had be beaten by someone he saw as weak. Someone whose victory over Winchester would leave him burning with shame.

"I am tired of being weak... This is why I came here. To learn how to fight. To never be left behind as my friends put themselves in danger trying to protect me!"

Arc's words from that night echo across her mind. She didn't buy all that crap about him wanting to protect friends, of course. What, would he be happy being weak and useless if there were no enemies? No, underneath all noble and heroic act the boy convinced even himself of, he wanted the same thing as all the people wanted. The same thing that people would fight and die for.

Power.

Winchester wanted power to push those weaker than him around. Black sought power to be free. Sustrai was a moron who hungered not for her own power but sought to give it all to her owner. And Vernal wished to be strong just for the sake of being strong. In the end, none of that crap mattered. Why they wanted it. How they would use it. None of meant anything.

It only mattered that you had power.

For power, you would sacrifice your soul and heart. For power, you would break your body over and over again. For the sake of never feeling weak, you'd do anything.

Even betray your partner.

"Leave Nikos to me," Vernal smiles as the plan brews in her head. "By the time I am done with Arc, he will be ready to hand over whatever he has on Nikos."

Power came before everything, after all.

VA

Mom always said that hatred was like poison. It entered your body and killed you from the inside. She always told them how important it was to let it go. Let the anger and rage wash all over you and fade away.

But how could he do that when he was drowning in this hatred?

"You better have my paper ready by tomorrow, Jauneyboy!"

Jaune grits his teeth as he struggles to keep himself in control. The bully notices it and smirks at the impotent rage on Jaune's face. He makes sure to look him in the eyes, challenging him to do something - anything at all.

He wishes he had enough strength to fight Cardin. To wipe that arrogant grin from his damn face. Or failing that, make it damn hard for Cardin to win. But he doesn't have the strength to do it. What's worse, he doesn't have the guts to even try doing something. Not just a weakling but a coward too...

Though honestly, what even was there for him to do? Even if somehow, through some miracle, he was strong enough to beat Cardin, he would still be ratted out and expelled. He would be paraded out of the school as everyone saw him for a fraud he was. And forging the documents into a huntsmen academy wasn't as forgivable as making fake IDs to get some alcohol.

At best, he would be blacklisted from all schools that trained huntsmen. He wouldn't be allowed anywhere near the academies and his best chance at fighting Grimm would be joining some faraway outpost city.

At worst, he might even go to jail. Mom and sisters would be devastated. And dad would blame himself for everything. His family would be shunned by everyone around them as the news of their only ending up in jail spread.

In the end, it didn't matter what he did. He was screwed either way unless he somehow got Cardin to never tell his secret.

"I always could kill him and bury his body somewhere in the forest," Jaune jokes as he walks to his room. His mind is falling apart under the stress as he struggles to do the double workload thanks to Cardin making trouble each and every class. "Yeah, right, that would totally solve all my problems."

"Don't be so sarcastic," a familiar tone interrupts his thoughts. Jaune is surprised to see Vernal. And slightly embarrassed about saying those things out loud. "Violence solves a lot of problems. More than you'd think, actually."

He gives Vernal a tired smile and half-hearted greeting, "Vernal, hey," Secretly he wishes he was in a better mood right now. Vernal was a good person, not the nicest girl, but a good one. "Sorry, but I am a little busy right now. I-"

"I know your secret, Jaune," the girl smiles and Jaune can almost feel the ground slip from under his feet. "I know all about your transcripts."

Suddenly, Vernal doesn't look as innocent or harmless as before. There is no pity or disappointment in her voice or eyes, but neither there is any support. As he looks longer at her, his heartbeat grows more frantic as he sees the same miscievous glynt in her eyes. The same burning in the eyes that he saw in Cardin's.

Both look like predators. But if Cardin looked like a hungry beast who had caught its prey, Vernal seemed more akin to a cat.

She looked like she wanted to play with him.

"Vernal, please, just listen," he doesn't even try to play dumb. The girl's eyes tell him that she knows everything and won't be fooled. "I know I messed up and I know you don't owe me anything, but please, don't tell anyone about it. Whatever you want, I will do it."

Pathetic and weak. Coward and wuss. Those are some of the nicer words that swin in his mind as he is trying to get Vernal's silence. Gods, how pathetic could he be? He wasn't strong enough to get in without cheating. And now he was too much of a coward to face the consequences like a man should. Though disgusted, he still begs and pleads for silence.

"You are tired, aren't you?" Vernal's question stops his pleas and he looks up at her in confusion. "The stress of keeping the secret, the whole Winchester mess... Those are really troublesome, aren't they?"

He nods miserably, feeling as the weight on his shoulders is slowly being lifted. "I just wanted to be a huntsman... To get strong enough to protect others. Where did it all go so wrong?"

"You chose the wrong purpose, that's all," Vernal smiles at his confusion. Wrong purpose? What was wrong with seeking strength for the people he loved and wanted to protect? "People don't seek power for the sake of others. The only person you should seek power is yourself and only yourself."

"That's not true," he quickly protested. "Huntsmen and huntresses all across Remnant train to help others. To fight the Grimm. How is that not for the sake of protecting those who can't protect themselves?"

"I think it is the part where they are strong to deal with Grimm," Vernal chuckles when he has nothing to say to that. "Think about it, Jaune, why seek power to fight Grimm if not to ensure that you don't have to fear them yourself? How many huntsmen and huntresses trained and graduated from one of the four academis yet chose to find safer places where they are the strongest?"

No, she was wrong. "There may be some bad people, Vernal. But that doesn't mean that all of the hunters are out for their own gain!"

"Yes, you are not one of them, are you? You only have the noble intentions," Vernal sounds genuine, yet something in her voice rubs him the wrong way. Like garlic floating in sweet tea. "Which is why I want to help you out."

What?

"Really?" he curses under his breath at the note of suspicion that creeps into his words. Vernal seems unfazed, even somewhat amused, by it though. "Why would you do that?"

"Maybe I have a thing for you. Maybe I fell for you the moment you came in that ridiculous sleepwear and have been pining for you ever since, waiting for the chance to get closer to you," Jaune chuckles humorelessly at the obvious bait. Normally, he would blush and stutter at the way Vernal widened her eyes and spoke just a tiny bit higher, obviously mocking the cliche romance tropes. But it was his life and dream at stake right now, so it was a bit harder for him to feel anything but fear and pressure. "Or maybe I just think there should be more noble huntsmen around. Someone who knows right from wrong. Someone willing to fight for what he believes in."

Coupled with her comments from before, Jaune can't help but feel the doubt in his gut grow. Was she serious about training him? Or was she just stringing him along for the sake of some cruel joke?

"She is not Cardin," Jaune chastised himself as he looked at Vernal again. This was the girl he befriended on his first night here. The same girl who helped him get down from the tree and even unlocked his Aura. Because of all the shit Cardin pulled on him, he now was blaming an innocent girl of something she didn't even do.

"I would like to take you up on this offer then," Jaune takes her hand. For a second, he feels the weird cold feeling coil around his heart. As if he was stepping into the dirty waters or night forest. He quickly shakes off the uncomfortable feeling, opting to focus on the more important things. "You can't imagine how much this means for me. Ever since I fought with Pyrrha-"

No. He won't talk about Pyrrha. Not like that. Not behind her back. His partner didn't deserve him lashing out at her back then. And she certainly didn't deserve him talking trash about her just bgecause he was dealing with consequences of his own actions.

"That's no problem, Jaune," Vernal smiles. "I am sure you will pay me back someday."

Definitely.

"I give you my word, Vernal. And an Arc never goes back on his word."

VA

Invincible Girl was the idol of countless people. The Champion of Mistral, capable of taking on any opponent, be it a professional fighter just like her or a very personal and invasive interviewer. Yes, Invincible Girl was indeed a confident and unshakeable person.

Too bad that Pyrrha Nikos was a nervous wreck, always anxious and worried. Her fame and success kept the others away from her. Alienated and starved for the interaction with her peers, she wished just for the normal person whom she could talk to without them going crazy over her status as the Champion.

And then she finally found one in Jaune. He had no idea who she was or how much being a Mistralian Champion meant. With him, she could be just Pyrrha Nikos. Not an Invincible Girl who had to carry herself with the power and esteem of the elite warrior but just another teenager.

And then she pushed him away.

Sure, Jaune had cheated his way in. But his heart was in the right place. He just needed someone to help him and Pyrrha was sure he would make an exceptional huntsman. But their first training session ended unpleasantly and now Pyrrha had no idea how to fix it with him. For all the interviews and meet-n-greet's she's done over the years, she still had no idea how to smoothly talk to someone when they had a fight.

Jaune, I don't agree with what you did but I want to help.

Hey, Jaune, weird week we are having, right?

Hi, Jaune! Wanna get back to training tonight and pretend nothing happened?

It wasn't just the fact that they had a fight, but also Cardin's increasing bullying of her partner. She wanted to put an end and she could. On the other hand, how could she know it wouldn't only worsen the relationship between her Jaune? If she just went and made Cardin stop bullying her partner, how could she knoew Jaune wouldn't see it as her looking down on him?

No. She was going to talk to him. No hesitation or doubt. The moment he walked inside, they would talk and resolve all their issues. No match could be won by remaining on the defense or waiting for your opponent to make a mistake. You had to be proactive and create opportunities on your own. With deep breath, Pyrrha promised herself that the moment Jaune came back, she would talk to him.

The door clicked open. Jaune entered. That confidence vanished.

"Hey, Pyrrha,"

Crap.

"Hi, Jaune," she smiled politely. "How was your day?"

"Not bad," he responded briefly, going for the closet in search of something.

"Good, that's good," she said and, for a few brief moments, there was awkward silence. Finally, Pyrrha decided to follow through with her tactic. "Look, Jaune, I know that- Wait... Where are you going?"

Only now did she realize that in those brief silent minutes, Jaune had changed out of his school uniform into some training gear. What concerned her even more was almost manic expression on his face as he packed Crocea Mors.

A small spark of hope lit up in Pyrrha. Could it be that Jaune also wished to bury that fight and get on with their training? "I see you are going to train," Jaune nodded in response as he checked his bag. "Great, just let me change into my workout clothes and I-"

Someone knocked on their door. Loud and hard.

"Hey, Goldilocks! Hurry up!"Pyrrha's words died in her throat as her mind struggled to match the face to the voice from behind the door. Not Nora or anyone from team RWBY. Then who was this? "You make me wait one more minute and I am breaking the door!"

"Oh man, she is pissed," Jaune didn't look afraid or surprised. In fact, he looked positively excited. Just who was this girl? "Sorry, Pyrrha, can't talk right now. I will be late so tell Ren and Nora not to worry."

Another loud banging on the door, followed by something that sounded suspiciously similar to blades being sharpened. "Five... Four... Three..."

"Okay, gotta go. Good night, Pyrrha!"

With a swipe of his keycard, Jaune opened the door. Behind it stood the girl whom Pyrrha vaguely recognized from their breakfast a week or so ago. Now also clad in combat gear of sorts, the girl looked positively annoyed. "Just for making me wait, I will make sure you are all sore by the morning. Oh, hey there, Champion."

"Hi, Vernal," Pyrrha feels something form in the pit of her stomach. Something small but hot. Something ugly and unpleasant. And that feeling grows bigger and stronger the longer she looks at Vernal and how close Jaune stands to her. "W-Where are you two going?"

"Just some late-night training," Vernal smirks. And Pyrrha can't help but feel the urge to wipe it off her face. "Jaune over here asked me to beat him into shape. Hope you don't mind if I borrow him for a few nights."

She did mind. She minded very much.

"Oh, sure," curse her tongue. "I am really happy Jaune has someone like you to help him out."

Even though he already had a professional fighter as his partner.

"Cool, then I'll return him by breakfast," Vernal slapped Pyrrha's shoulder, giving her a wide grin. Then, turning to the left, she called out for Jaune, "Let's go already. Trust me, blondie, you want to start the training as soon as possible."

Jaune doesn't even question or comment, instead obediently following the instructions as he runs after the girl. As she watches the two leave, that nasty burning feeling coils itself around her heart like a snake. Her fists clench and, for a brief moment, she considers fighting the girl right there and then. But then she stops...

It was good that Jaune found someone to help him out. Even if it wasn't her, Pyrrha wasn't going to start trouble over some jeal- concern for her partner. It was rational, after all. It was logical and normal to allow Jaune to train under whoever he wanted, he was old enough to make his choices after all.

But the further they left, the less Pyrrha believed her own words. And as the two disappeared behind the corner, that ugly feeling tightened its hold around her heart. She was happy for Jaune. But she certainly did not trust Vernal. Whatever was happening between the two, she would keep a close eye on it.

For both her and Jaune's sake.

VA

Vernal smiled as she stood in the pale moonlight, enjoying the sensation of cold light on her skin. Opposite of her, clad in his own gear, Arc stood ready. Ready to listen. Ready to follow. Ready to obey. In a way, she felt some gratitude to Winchester for driving the boy so desperate that he would listen to her every word. People, when backed into corner, would always take any chance to get out of it, after all.

"I hope you are ready to hurt, Goldilocks." She cracked her knuckles and let her Aura flare. "Because I am not going easy on you."

No pep talk. No kiddy gloves. No safe words or any other crap. If he wanted to be strong, he had to be vicious and mean. No matter how much she pushed, he wouldn't get to Cardin's level of brute force. So they would make up for that with pure viciousness and resilience.

"I am ready, Vernal."

To his credit, the blondie didn't let himself be intimidated. Instead, he stood tall and confident. Determined to take on any pain as long as he got what he wanted. That kind of determination was almost impressive. Bigger men than him ran away from her, begging for mercy.

"Do your worst..."

Despite being weaker, he grins. And in that grin, in those azure eyes, she sees the same hunger she once saw in her own reflection. The same desire for power that started out innocent and then turned primal. The same look in her eyes when she promised herself to stand above all with her strength. The same fire that burned in her eyes today every time she fought.

"Because I am not backing down!"

And she liked what she was seeing.

[quantumrpg]

NAME: Virginia “Gin” Rose Anderson  AGE: May 10th, 1900 SPECIES: Werewolf OCCUPATION: Owner of Mileage YEAR OF DEPARTURE: 1925 RESIDENT FOR… one year FACECLAIM: Amber Heard

t i m e  i s  a n  i l l u s i o n,  b u t  n o t  o u r  s t o r i e s…

Virigina’s life was straight out of a fairytale. Raised by her wealthy Southern grandmother and father, Virginia spent her beginnings in the lap of luxury. Despite not having a mother, she was raised to be the perfect woman. Her grandmother would teach lessons where her precious granddaughter would walk around the house with a book her head while reciting poetry from an English poet that she could not quite remember the name of. Virginia hated these lessons, although did not complain because her grandmother allowed her and her father to live there.

Her father was her best friend. Thomas Anderson was an angel in the guise of a   human. He did not care if she smashed down the rules that were set forth for her by her grandmother. In fact, he cherished her most difficult ideas; grinned when she returned home with her dress dirty. He was not your typical man, but, then again, she was not the typical daughter.

When she was ten, he taught her how to fix her first car. The cars then were small but complex. Little moving pieces captivated her fingers and as she worked, her dad would tell her stories of her mother. She was, her father said, ahead of her time, just like her daughter. The two of them would spend hours in the garage Ginny’s grandmother had bought for him. The shop was named “Ginny” and she would have lived there, helping her father, if it wasn’t for the war.

Her father left for Europe in April of 1917. Virginia watched him go, waving him off on the ship, hat in the air, tears streaming down her face. That was the last time she cried. Virginia took over his shop while he was a soldier, despite her grandmother’s wishes, but she managed to keep up both her teachings and running the store. By the time she was eighteen, Virginia did not have time to think about marriage, even though her grandmother kept trying to set her up with someone. She kept her head down, mostly under cars, and isolated herself from the world. She missed her father but she knew he would be home soon. After all, Ginny had heard the war would be over in a couple of months anyways.

While those whispering were right about the war, 1919 brought devastation to the Anderson family. Her father was killed in the last month, about to go home when a bomb destroyed their camp in the trenches. Ginny, devastated, did not know what to do other than leave her hometown. The south was not her home, anyway, and she had always wanted to go to the city. Sneaking out was easy, and although she felt horrible about leaving her grandmother, at least she had the comfort of knowing that her home was safe. Leaving a note behind, Ginny hopped on a train and headed to New York.

Living on her own was not nearly as easy as she thought. After spending about a month homeless, Ginny joined the circus learning how to be a trapeze artist. She  stayed on the circus routes for a couple of years and had become quite talented when she finally decided that it was time to go back to the city. Although she’d made next to nothing, at least she had been on her own and able to make her own decisions. The people there did not make her feel like she was nothing. Instead, she grew into herself, and allowed trust to form between her and her fellow circus artists.

That was until the summer of 1923. One of her closest companions had taken her out to the woods just outside of where they had set up the tent. He wasn’t feeling so well but they always explored on the first night and Ginny wasn’t about to let a little stomach ache stop their fun. Of course, she would never regret anything else in her whole life other than that night. It was his first time changing, as he’d only been bitten a couple of days before. Ginny was lucky he did not eat her alive and rather just bit her and ran, leaving her stumbling back to the camp.

Nothing happened, for a month. Ginny did not make mention of what happened and her friend, well he had never returned. For a while, she had thought that maybe she had merely imagined what had happened to her. Of course, that was until her stomach started hurting, her hands began sweating, and her body felt like it had been run over. The night of the next full moon, she dragged herself to the woods just in time and changed for the first time.

When she awoke, she was miles from the circus. Naked, and having no idea how to get back or what had happened to her, Ginny stumbled into the nearest town. After buying clothes, Ginny found out that the circus was close by and instantly returned to get her things, panicked, and returned to New York city. She could not trust her own self now and so pushed away those she cared about. Besides, it wasn’t like she knew anyone else who turned into a wolf at the full moon. The only other person had abandoned her and she was left to fend for herself. Like usual.

She spent two years traveling around New York, working on cars to keep herself busy, and trying hard to focus her energy on anything other than the full moon each month. Those two years were the most miserable of her life. She spent most of her time drinking or tinkering, finding solace only underneath a car hood. Until 1925, Ginny was not living her life. She was just getting by.

The liminal space was a blessing. She entered by car, merely test driving a car for a very rich client. Ginny still uses the car when she can, and it sits out back of her shop in case someone wanted to admire her prized possession. However, one minute she was driving among trees and the next, as she turned the corner, she saw the skyline of Manhattan grow. She’d almost slammed into a tree at the shock but managed to stop the car, get out, absolutely terrified at the fact that some of the buildings had grown hundreds of feet.

Tessa showed up not hours later and before Ginny knew what had happened, she was sucked into training. Tess was like a big sister to her, and even though training was hard, it was rewarding. She finally opened her own shop after finishing her training early, and although she is still closed off to most of the world, at least she doesn’t quite feel like she’s so out of place. Ginny found her family; found her pack. She was maybe even happy again.

She became Gin, and has not looked back since.

t e l l  m e,  a r e  w e  a  p r o d u c t  o f  w h o  w e  u s e d  t o  b e?

+ Logical: Gin has always been able to see the straight path. She often does not follow her heart and is known to always suggest the most practical solution. Her dreams are not too big, not too small. Her hopes are never too high. She keeps her head down low but knows that she will always find a solution that makes sense.

+ Adventurous: The only time she is not logical is when she allows herself to travel. Nature has always been her friend, especially now that she is a werewolf, and she loves hiking, exploring, and finding new places to be in the world. That’s why she loves the city; it is not quite nature but it is as unpredictable, in her opinion. Gin always hopes to try new things.

+ Confident: Maybe her confidence comes from her ability to be logical, but Gin knows that she has the tools she needs to succeed. After years of not being confident, of relying on others, Gin decided that the only person she could really rely on is herself. Gin knows that she can pull through, so long as she thinks that she can.

- Abrasive: Sometimes, she doesn’t quite mean to be so rude. But oftentimes, her curtness comes off hard. She doesn’t like people. Gin has only had bad experiences with them in the past and so her abrasive nature has come from those rough experiences.

- Stubborn: Gin is unable to step down from her point of view. It’s a horrible trait, and even she hates it sometimes, but she often puts herself in fights with others if they don’t believe in the exact same ideas. She is unmovable; a mountain.

- Detached: After losing so much, Gin has cut herself off from the rest of the world. She spends most of her days either with Tess or in her shop, unable to think about even making friends in fear of getting hurt again. Gin doesn’t know if she will ever be able to feel completely alive again but maybe one day she will plug back in to the world. For now, though, she remains as far away from everyone as she can.

[brn1029]

Today in music history,

January 29th

1961 - Bob Dylan

Bob Dylan achieved his dream of meeting his idol Woody Guthrie when Guthrie was on weekend release from hospital where he was being treated for Huntington's Chorea. Dylan told him; ‘I was a Woody Guthrie jukebox’. Guthrie gave Dylan a card which said: ‘I ain't dead yet’.

1964 - The Beatles

The Beatles spent the day at Pathe Marconi Studios in Paris, France, The Beatles' only studio recording session for EMI held outside the UK. They recorded new vocals for ‘She Loves You’, ‘I Want to Hold Your Hand’ and ‘Can't Buy Me Love’, after EMI's West German branch persuaded Brian Epstein that they would be unable to sell large quantities of records in Germany unless they were recorded in the German language. A translator coached John, Paul, and George, although their familiarity with the German language from their Hamburg days made things much easier.

1967 - Jimi Hendrix and The Who

Jimi Hendrix and The Who appeared at The Saville Theatre, London, England. 20 year-old future Queen guitarist Brian May was in the audience.

1968 - The Doors

The Doors appeared at The Pussy Cat A Go Go, Las Vegas. After the show singer Jim Morrison taunts a security guard in the parking lot by pretending to smoke a joint, resulting in a fight. The police arrive who arrest Morrison and charge him with vagrancy, public drunkenness, and failure to possess sufficient identification.

1969 - Fleetwood Mac

Fleetwood Mac had their only UK No.1 single with the instrumental 'Albatross' which was composed by guitarist Peter Green. 'Albatross' is the only Fleetwood Mac composition with the distinction of having inspired a Beatles song, 'Sun King' from 1969's Abbey Road.

1972 - George Harrison

The triple album The Concert For Bangladesh went to No.1 on the UK album chart. Organised by George Harrison to raise funds for the people caught up in the war and famine from the area. The set featured; Bob Dylan, Ringo Starr, Billy Preston, Eric Clapton, Ravi Shankar and members from Badfinger.

1979 - Boomtown Rats

16-year-old Brenda Spencer killed two people and wounded nine others when she fired from her house across the street onto the entrance of San Diego's Grover Cleveland Elementary School. Spencer fired the shot's from a .22-caliber rifle her father had given her for Christmas. When asked why she did it, she answered 'I don't like Mondays.' The Boomtown Rats went on to write and recorded a song based on the event.

1983 - Men At Work

Australian group Men At Work went to No.1 on the British and American singles and album charts simultaneously with 'Down Under' and 'Business As Usual'. The last artist to achieve this was Rod Stewart in 1971.

1992 - Willie Dixon

American blues singer and guitarist Willie Dixon died of heart failure. He wrote the classic songs 'You Shook Me', 'I Can't Quit You Baby', 'Hoochie Coochie Man', 'I Just Want to Make Love to You' and 'Little Red Rooster'. Dixon was a major influence on The Rolling Stones, Cream, The Yardbirds and Led Zeppelin.

2010 - Sly Stone

Sly Stone filed a $50m (£30.9m) legal claim against his former manager, alleging fraud and 20 years of stolen royalties. The 66-year-old funk musician of the 1970s group Sly and the Family Stone, claimed in the Los Angeles Superior Court that Jerry Goldstein diverted millions in royalties to fund a lavish lifestyle.

2015 - Rod McKuen

American poet, singer-songwriter, and actor Rod McKuen died aged 81. McKuen's translations and adaptations of the songs of Jacques Brel were instrumental in bringing the Belgian songwriter to prominence in the English-speaking world. McKuen's songs sold over 100 million recordings worldwide. His songs have been performed by such diverse artists as Barbra Streisand, Perry Como, Petula Clark, Waylon Jennings, Johnny Cash, Andy Williams, Dusty Springfield, Johnny Mathis and Frank Sinatra.

2016 - David Bowie

Three weeks after his death, David Bowie lodged 12 albums in the UK top 40, equalling a record set by Elvis Presley in 1977. His last album Blackstar, spent a third week at No.1 with Best of Bowie, Hunky Dory and Ziggy Stardust all in the Top 10. Bowie's other albums in the top 40 include: Nothing Has Changed (5), Heroes (28), Diamond Dogs (30), Station to Station (32) and Scary Monsters (36).

[thyvillainy]

Headcanons & Ambitions:

Heath tried to reach out to his father on several different occasions but who would want anything to do with a child they didn’t see as their own? The first time he tried, he sent multiple letters as a child. He’d spent hours writing them and then give them out to be mailed. Naturally, his father didn’t respond but Heath refused to believe that it was his father’s fault. Instead of realizing that his father wanted nothing to do with him, he blamed his bitch mother. He got it in his head that she was never sending out his letters. That had to be the reason why his father wouldn’t write back. It only made his resentment grow. Heath knows he’s backwards. The people he should love, he can’t help but hate them. God, he wonders if he had it in him to really hurt his own mother. 

In primary school, Heath was easily well liked and popular. With a bone structure like his and those sea blue eyes, he had a smile that caught the hearts of his female classmates and teachers alike. His grades were high and he played a variety of sports but he especially excelled in rugby. It was acceptable for him to play rough on the pitch where he could - for a moment - unleash the dark void that bubbled in his breast. 

That dark void always lingered, a toxic storm cloud that was always present. Nothing he did or anyone did made a difference, he couldn’t care. As he grew, he learned to hide it better. Still, there were instances where it revealed itself in the ugliest of ways. Simply bullying of some of the smaller kids turned into aggressive harassment as he grew. He had a pack of loyal friends but their loyalty was more out of fear rather than fondness. One wrong step and he’d turn on someone, destroy their social lives with a forwarded picture or simple rumor. His prominence and family money made it hard to hold him accountable for anything. He grew with money and a lack of responsibility. His attention was a fickle thing: here one moment and gone the other. Girlfriends were nothing: something to be used and discarded until her. 

There was something about her, something that eased that rage in his chest. God help him, it was the first time he truly felt love toward another person. He could feel that black hole in his chest lessen everytime he was with her, to the point where he actually started to become nicer. He could tolerate his mother better, he kept his violence in check, he wanted nothing more than to be with her the rest of his life. Everything was brighter, more vibrant like someone had injected light deep into his veins. She was a shot of adrenaline, a cure to the apathy. The moment she left, a world in color faded into one of black and white. He couldn’t find the setting to turn it back. Instead of trying to get over her, he let himself fade into the void readily this time. There was no strong emotion anymore. 

He came back more charismatic, more seductive, a lure to all. If only they could see the nothingness behind his gaze. Such beautiful blue eyes, they crowed at him and he allowed them to ply him with compliments until their voices grew hoarse. And then he fucked them. Sex, drugs, liquor, Heath was a package. He extended his lust to men as well, accepting anyone who would succumb to him. The harder they were to seduce, the more the thrill lessened the void in his chest. Hell, the chase was better than the actual sex and he promised whatever they needed to hear to let him in. Of course, when they let him in, all he did was just fuck them up, mucking around in their feelings. 

He killed almost immediately after Lucifer’s revelation. It was one of his lacrosse friends at boarding school. He was fifteen when he strangled Richard Calvin behind the boathouse. It was unsure how the fight had started. They were friends after all. Maybe Richard had called Heath’s manipulative tendencies out, maybe he had broken free, maybe it was over a girl but blows were thrown. Heath ended up with a black eye but somehow ended up on top of Richard with his hands wrapped around his neck and squeezing. His knees on Richard’s shoulders, he squeezed and squeezed until the life left his eyes. The life seemed to leave him and go straight into Heath, filling the void in him. He felt more that night than he had in months. 

Talia to Heath is, perhaps, the only thing he feels anything for. He can’t pinpoint his feelings. They’re certainly not romantic but he’s possessive of her. He sees her as his through and through. He’s beaten men who have dared to try and touch her, not out loyalty to Lucifer but out of the connection as the Noli. They’ve danced the same bloody waltz through history together. They bicker and they argue with ease, doing the most they can to get on the other’s nerves. The only real connection he feels to anyone is to her. She’s his other half in the monstrosities that Lucifer has created, the only other person who could possibly understand where he’s coming from, who understands the dark power. 

In his past lives, Heath has been many. With his considerably strength, he made a killing (pun intended) as a gladiator in an Ancient Roman arena. In the Victorian era, he had the luck of meeting and becoming the lover of Oscar Wilde, influencing the writer so that Wilde used him as the muse for the Picture of Dorian Gray - beautiful, arrogant, empty. Christopher Marlowe, English playwright, poet, benefactor and lover to William Shakespeare. A communist in Lenin’s entourage, sacking the Russian palaces. An accomplished actor and writer during the Golden Age of Hollywood. During one of his past lives when he was a street urchin in France, his parents died young. Stepping up to the plate was Leviathan. Leviathan raised Heath that life, taught him, loved him, sang him to sleep. He grew up interacting with demons without knowing it for a while. To this day, one of the clearest feelings of love he has is whenever he listens to a certain French lullaby that Leviathan used to sing to him. That’s the only known feeling of love Heath truly knows anymore. 

The Horsemen amuse Heath, more than he will ever reveal. It’s half childish pettiness and half absolute boredom that has him following their progress. They’re something even Lucifer can’t contain, let alone a failure of a God could. He quietly hopes they’ll continue, maybe they’ll bring the excitement that he so craves. 

Heath loves easily breakable things. He’ll break things on purpose all the time just to see them shatter. Crunching glass under his feet, feeling it disintegrate fills him with such a sick joy. He’s a bull in a china shop on purpose. Especially with people. Despite thinking he was one of them for most of his life, to knowledge that he is not quite human has brought up a wall between he and them. People are so easily breakable to him - both physically and emotionally. He’ll pick out the fragile ones, and toy with them, planting TNT in their minds and bodies just to see them break.

He went on one of those bullshit, feel-good-about-yourself mission trip once with his beloved girlfriend. He spent a week in Africa and when everyone talked about feeling pure and feeling like they were doing God’s work, Heath felt absolutely nothing like that. He didn’t feel like he was doing anything? He absolutely hated the entire week, longing to get back to his life but he did it for her. Never again, though.

As a novelist, Heath writes tales of the macabre and dreadful. Think Stephen King famous. Herald of Horror. He’s not afraid to write those “gritty” scenes that other writers might hesitate with when it comes to the detail of which they write. Think IT, Think The Shining, Thing Gerald’s Game. 

Ambitions

The tale of Abaddon ripping off the Archangel Gabriel’s wings has lingered in Heath’s mind since he heard. Angels, so infamously hard to kill, but not completely invulnerable. And an Archangel at that? They’re breakable too. Abaddon had ripped the wings from Gabriel’s back like she was nothing. Heath wants to do that. Heath wants to hurt an angel. He wants to see something ethereal and holy hurt in the worst ways. Perhaps not fully rip their wings off - even though he wants to - but to feel their bones shatter under his grip. He’s amused by the fact that he is stronger than them. He could do it with ease. Old man Lucifer and uncle Raz would never allow that - Heath suspects that he might still have some residual fondness for the angels having been one - but it’s a thought that he keeps coming back to. 

The nephilim are a source of interest to him. They are opposite sides of the coin but they would know better than anyone the identities that Talia and Heath possess. He wants them to doubt their purpose in their world - especially Josh. Josh - Adam and Jesus - is teetering on an uncertain line as the martyr and perhaps Heath can push him over. Be the Judas to his Jesus. He wants to gain his friendship, waxing grief to him about understanding the road that the cosmos had placed him on. That just as Josh had no control over being the martyr, Heath had no control over being one of the Noli. If he can get in Josh’s head, pull the strings, make him doubt himself and his purpose and his sisters, it’ll be one of his greatest accomplishments.

[gogh-bot-blog]

Everything Else

Originally published in Gravel magazine.

Mozart was crazy. Flat fucking crazy. Batshit, I hear. But his music’s not crazy; it’s balanced, it’s nimble, it’s crystalline clear. There’s harmony, logic. You listen to these, you don’t hear his doubts or his debts or disease. You scan through the score and put fingers on keys and you play. And everything else goes away. Everything else goes away… — “Everything Else”, Next to Normal   My favorite confessional poet is Anne Sexton, who committed suicide by carbon monoxide poisoning at age 45. A book of her poetry, published posthumously, featured her therapist:   I have words for you, Dr. Y., / words for sale. / Words that have been hoarded up, / waiting for the pleasure act of coming out, / hugger-mugger, higgiliy-piggily / onto the stage.   When I was in kindergarten, a boy hit me in the forehead with a toy truck during playtime because I asked to play with him. I sat in the corner and cried. Eventually, the teacher called me over. What’s wrong? she asked me. I don’t have any friends, I replied, sniffling. The teacher called all of the kids to the front of the classroom and asked them to raise their hands if they were my friend. Everybody raised their hands. I don’t know why, but this was probably the moment that I became crazy.   Or maybe I was crazy all along.   She laughed when I told her this story. She said it was incredibly sad and funny. I’m glad she saw how funny it was. Then she asked me, have you ever written about this?

Eunoia is a dated term for mental health. Literally, it means beautiful thinking. However, some of the most beautiful thinking has been done by people with mental illness. Consider the incredible artistic achievements of people like Vincent van Gogh, Virginia Woolf, and Sylvia Plath. And if you look for mental illness in artists, writers, poets, musicians; the list goes on.   We were running about Whole Foods. I say running because she kept forgetting things on her list and going back. We probably circled around the store three or four times, picking up various items along the way. She was in constant motion. Couldn’t stand in one place. Got excited over a jug of coffee. Perhaps she didn’t even notice, but I did: a slight fidget, balancing on one foot at the cash register. We looked at the things she’d ended up buying and laughed. Talking constantly. I am attuned to these kinds of things. She had told me, though, that she felt manic. I wished I felt as manic as she did, but I was not; rather, I was plagued by a familiar moroseness, a heaviness.   Asked about JS, I mused well, I think you’d win a fight with her.   A few months after the breakup with JS, I fucked a fashion designer from the city. He was kind of cute, dyed hair and a stutter. He slept in my bed with his arm around my waist. I slept uneasily. In my dream, I saw JS. It was the first time in a while I’d seen her face in my dreams. I don’t remember what she said, but I woke up all at once warm and shivering, cold sweat dripping down my forehead. I snuck out from the boy’s grasp and went into the bathroom and splashed cold water on my face. Looking into the mirror, I thought how strange it was. I started to cry. He gave me his shirt afterwards.   I don’t usually see people’s faces in my dreams. I rarely ever learn a person’s face. This is a condition known as congenital prosopagnosia. In fact, I only come to individualize the faces of people I’m in love with. When I told her this, she said it was very romantic. I did not tell her that I had come to know her face.   There is a thing known as a flow state: when words come out of your brain like blood seeping from a tapped vein, an insatiable passion for the task at hand. Manics often get into flow states. The world is poetry, you breathe it like air. Maybe this is part of why we are so successful in art. Love is also like a flow state.   She’s a doctoral student in the psychology department. But she told me that she used to write as if seized by a certain fervor for it, for the language, for poetry. I imagined Van Gogh and his passion for painting, his insatiable hunger. I thought I wanted to kiss those lips stained with yellow paint. Yellow, the color of the edges of a street, the boundaries of a self crossed like two neurons, the actualization of a synesthetic dream. To imbibe it is to take all of that in, the passion, life thrust under your tongue. I wanted that.   When I was a child, I sat by myself at recess. The teachers saw that I was always alone; they gave me chalk to draw on the sidewalk. My hands dusted with pastel yellow, I would watch the other kids play. It’s not easy for me to admit, but I hated them. I truly hated them. My heart was so full of hate that I couldn’t bear to watch them anymore, and I would go to the bathroom and cry. I’ve never been a good person.   Sadness is part of the human condition, said one of my writing professors, a woman who seemed perpetually rather flummoxed by the world. Without it, you’d be a monster. I wanted to ask, with sadness, am I not a monster?   For me it was different. I, too, was seized by passions; but they occurred for me in successions, a pattern sometimes disapprovingly called serial monogamy. I was like that with my writing, too. But when I was engrossed in the page, or lost in her eyes, everything but the space between my canvas and I disappeared. Everything else goes away.   I wrote constantly when I was in love with JS. Everything I felt was transferred to the page. She was my muse; she was the gasoline to the fire behind my eyes.   Kay Redfield Jamison wrote an entire book about the connections between mental illness, particularly bipolar disorder, and artistic talent. It’s called Touched with Fire.   My heart has holes in it. They’ve been there for a long time; before JS, I’m sure. But maybe I could have ignored them before that. Not anymore. I wanted to patch them up, fill them with cement, or gorilla glue the pieces back together and pretend that it was the same as it was before. A clean canvas, a blank page, a fresh start. But it’s never been the same. I’ve always been different from other people. Maybe that is why I write. To escape the sadness of being alone. The desolation, the emptiness, the misery of a life condemned to this certain loneliness.   Sometimes I try to fill the holes with other people’s loneliness. It never works. I knew right away that she wouldn’t be a suitable shape to fit there, like a square peg in the round hole of what I really needed. I was filled with this dread of knowing. But when I looked at her I would forget.   Everything else goes away.   I was ten years old when I first decided I was going to kill myself. I wanted to slice off my arm with an old circular saw, patched with rust, and die in a pool of blood on the hard cement floor of my garage. I daydreamed about it, wondered endlessly what it would be like to die there, cold and alone and smeared with bright red, a baptism in blood.   It was Anne Sexton’s therapist, Dr. Martin Orne, who encouraged her to write poetry. Perhaps he thought that poetry would be a form of healing, a way to expel her demons through the pen, exorcism in the act of creation. Put your ear down close to your soul and listen hard, she said. I am a collection of dismantled almosts, she said. Suicide is, after all, the opposite of the poem.   But suicides have a special language. Like carpenters they want to know which tools. They never ask why build.   Lithium is like an emotional straightjacket, or at least like wearing a shirt that’s too tight. You can’t breathe. You can’t feel the way you felt before, not manic or depressed or happy or sad or anything. You wonder if you can even write. I didn’t write for months after I started taking it.   She told me she feels sadness only fleetingly. We’re opposites, I guess; two sides of the same coin. I live in a state of melancholy permeated briefly by manic interludes. But I wonder if mania is really like happiness. Or is it like a saccharine substitute for happiness, itself almost a deeper form of sadness?   I remember hanging upside-down on one of the hospital couches and pacing up and down the long hallway, smiling cheerfully at anybody I passed along the way. The doctor informed me point-blank that I was manic. I’m happy, I said. There’s nothing to be happy about, she told me.   Although the official diagnostic term was changed to bipolar disorder in the DSM-IV, maybe this is why some people identify more with the older term manic depression. Vincent Van Gogh’s stay at the little yellow house in Arles, France, from February 1888 until he was committed at the St. Remy asylum in 1889, was arguably the most prolific period of his entire career as a painter. He believed that the growing disruption of his inner chaos stirred within him this compulsive creativity: The more I am spent, ill, a broken pitcher, by so much more I am an artist... a kind of melancholy remains within us when we think that one could have created life at less cost than creating art. His time in Arles culminated in an episode wherein he cut off a portion of his left ear and attempted to give it as a gift to a prostitute, requesting she keep this object like a treasure.   Perhaps, in the end, this is the ultimate display of love: to give a piece of oneself to the other. To be something more than a memory, something tangible, something real. It’s a distinctly human error, this drive to be treasured.   I was sitting across my kitchen table from her. She was wearing my pajama pants and my sweatshirt, an oversized blue one that falls in folds around her thin wrists. I thought it looked better on her than it did on me. She had a look of deep consternation as she studied. I was quiet. I was watching her mannerisms, an absent-minded gesture of her fingers as she stared into the screen. The harshly azureous light of her laptop illuminated a sharpness in her almost perfectly symmetrical face, a ubiquitously beautiful face.   Perhaps it is not simply that the artistic temperament comes in tandem with emotional pitfalls, but that inner turmoil fuels the creation of art. If Van Gogh had not been crazy, would he have painted at all? Perhaps, like his brother Theo, he would have settled to be an art dealer, and never dirtied his hands with the business of creation.   Do you ever feel like I do, that you know a lot of people, but you’re still very lonely? But sometimes, maybe just when the stars align quite right, I meet someone that sees me. That looks at me like I’m not invisible.   She came up to me in the courtyard one day, a small green space in between the psychology buildings that’s mostly overgrown with ivy and shrubs. I was pacing back and forth, taking long drags and blowing smoke into the October sky. She asked me to bum a cigarette and smiled and said, I’ve seen you out here. You have a very thoughtful walk.   You always say the right thing, Elliot. You toss out aphorisms like you’re handing out daisies, she said. (Aphorism: either a pithy observation that contains a general truth; or, a concise statement of a scientific principle.)   And you know it’s just a sonata away. And you play, and you play. And everything else goes away. Everything else goes away. Everything else goes away...   She says she finds solace in her loneliness. I wonder if I could ever come to view things the same way. I’ve been alone for a long time, since my childhood. It wasn’t a tragic childhood. But it was solitary. For my whole life, I’ve wanted to find whatever it is that breaks down this invisible wall that divides us, that brings the fragments of people together into one, into a mosaic of shared humanity that I’ve never quite fit into.   I feel like I can tell you anything, she said. You’re very understanding. I feel like you understand me. I smiled sadly.   Is talking easily about something the same thing as healing a wound? About her family, about foster care, about the scar on her thigh? She gave a small laugh, like it wasn’t really a big deal. It’s not my place to say something like are you really okay? No. I couldn’t heal her. She couldn’t heal me. I just wanted to listen, to understand you in the way I have never been understood. That’s why I write.   Balanced there, suicides sometimes meet, raging at the fruit, a pumped-up moon, leaving the bread they mistook for a kiss,   I thought to call JS. It rang only twice; I knew she’d blocked my number months ago. I wanted to say, but I was always there for you. I wanted to say, but I loved you. I wanted to say, but I need you, I need you, I need you. Please. Two rings. Silence. leaving the page of the book carelessly open, something unsaid, the phone off the hook and the love, whatever it was, an infection.   She told me about enneagrams, a theoretical model of personality. She told me that I was a type four, the individualist, which she qualified as the suffering artist: expressive, dramatic, self-absorbed, temperamental. In love chiefly with my sadness. I wanted to say, and you are not?   I’ve changed, she says.   But why are you still here?   We read Maggie Nelson’s Bluets. Her voice grew incredibly impassioned as she read aloud: I say something about how clinical psychology forces everything we love into the pathological or the delusional or the biologically explicable, that if what I was feeling wasn’t love then I am forced to admit that I don’t know what love is, or, more simply, that I loved a bad man.   Sometimes I would wait in the spot where JS and I would always meet together before class, as if she’d appear there again if I waited long enough. She never did. I found myself there, cold, alone, staring at the sky in its seemingly infinite vastness. Eventually I stopped waiting.   I want to write again, she told me one day, sitting outside the front of her house, smoking a cigarette. The smoke drifted into the gray sky and faded like the unintelligible, inexplicable fragments of a dream upon waking. You should, I said. It was the best healing I knew of.

[haljathefangirlcat]

The Waltharius as a Triad Poem

So recently I discovered the existence of the Triad Verse AU thanks to this wonderful blog: @triadverse

(Read their world-building posts they are SO COOL!)

… and since then I may have kinda sorta maybe spent a whole day, night included, imagining a Triad AU of the Waltharius Manu Fortis. Yes, the German poem by Ekkehard I. Yes, these are kind of things I usually think about. No, I don’t know why, I just do.

(Warning: I’m actually not that good at history and/or speculation, so this will probably end up not mostly not making sense. Yay!)

 So, the plot of the Waltharius is this:

Attila the Hun plans to expand his power in the west. King Gibicho of the Franks, fearing the oncoming invasion, asks his vassals what he should do, and they advise him to pay a tribute to the Huns and to send a hostage to them. Now, Gibicho has a son, Gunther, but he’s too young to be separated from his mother and embark on such a journey, so instead the king sends Hagen, the son of one of his vassals, whose family is supposed to be descended from the Trojans and so is noble enough not to be deemed an unfitting hostage.

Following Gibicho’s example, Heriric, king of Burgundy, sends his daughter and heiress Hildegund as a hostage, too. King Alphere of Aquitaine then also sends a tribute and his son Walther, who happens to be Hildegund’s betrothed. Now satisfied, the Huns return to their land, Pannonia. Attila decides he will raise the three hostages as if they were his own children: he personally oversee Walther’s and Hagen’s education, and lets his wife Ospirin in charge of Hildegund’s. Walther and Hagen eventually become first men in Attila’s army, while Hildegund is made the steward in charge of all his treasures. In the years they spend together, Attila and Ospirin grow to love them all dearly, Hagen and Walther become the best of friends, and the love between Walther and Hildegund grows.

Things abruptly change when Gibicho dies and Gunther take the throne, dissolves the treaty with the Huns and refuses to keep paying the tribute. Fearing for his life, Hagen flees back to the land of the Franks. After discovering this, Ospirin fears Walther will want to leave, too, which would diminish the strength of Attila’s army. So, she tells her husband he should convince him to marry the daughter of one of his Hunnish vassals to tie him to their court forever. Walther, however, refuses this proposal, saying he wants to concentrate on serving Attila in his army and that having a wife and children would only distract him from his military duties. Having said this, he leaves to go suppress a foreign king’s rebellion.

When he comes back, he finds Hildegund and declares his love to her, but apparently, the maiden has heard of his earlier rejection of marriage, and so doesn’t believe his feelings are sincere. Walther reassures her of his honesty and reveals that he wants to flee to his homeland with her, and that in truth, the thought of leaving her alone in Pannonia is the only reason he hasn’t run away already. The two lovers then concoct a plan: Hildegund will use her access to the treasure to steal the king’s gold, while Walther will prepare a feast for the whole court and make everyone drink until they pass out, and then they will escape together, unnoticed and full of riches.

The plan works and the couple do leave Pannonia unscathed, because even after the wine wears off and Attila comes to his senses and tries to send his warriors after them, everyone is too afraid of Walther to run after him and challenge him. Eventually, Walther and Hildegund come to the valley of Wasgenstein (also called Vosges), where they set camp and rest for a while. Meanwhile in Worms, not far from there, Gunther and his court hear news of the arrival of two mysterious travelers. Hagen immediately recognizes his old friends and is overjoyed. The king rejoices, too, but only at the thought of challenging Walther and taking his gold, which he sees as a repayment for the tribute the Franks once paid to the Huns. Despite Hagen’s pleas and warnings about Walther’s strength, Gunther orders twelve of his men to come with him to fight him. Hagen, too, is forced to follow him. Once they reach Wasgenstein and Gunther refuses Walther’s initial offers of peace, though, he distances himself from the other knights and refuses to fight.

Walther fights the Frankish warriors and defeats them all, one after the other, until Hagen’s nephew Patavrid challenges him, too, despite his uncle begging him not to. Walther initially refuses to fight the youth, understanding that his friend holds him dear, but Patavrid still insists on attacking him and accidentally almost wounds Hildegund, so in the end Walther’s forced to kill him.

Eventually, of the twelve Franks who came to Wasgenstein, only Gunther and Hagen are left alive. After much pleading, promises of generous rewards and insults to his manhood and martial prowess, Gunther finally manages to persuade his vassal to fight by his side. Together, they ambush Walther and attack him, and despite Walther’s pleas for Hagen to remember their friendship, the fight resumes. The ending is a bittersweet one: Walther cuts off Gunther’s leg, Hagen cuts off Walther’s hand, and Walther pokes out Hagen’s eye, but after this, they all finally stop fighting, and Walther and Hagen even start joking together about the situation, the way they used to in Pannonia, while Hildegund pours wine for them. After the friendship between the two warriors is repaired, Hagen and Gunther go back to Worms, while Walther and Hildegund resumes the journey towards Aquitaine, where they’ll marry and one day rule for thirty years after the death of Walther’s father.

 Now, the reasons why Walther/Hildegund/Hagen is, like, the best OT3 ever:

- They were all taken away from their families and homelands at a young age and raised together. Stuff like that’s likely to make people grow very close. Especially if you consider that, while Attila appears to have lots of vassals of Germanic origins living at his court in other poems, he seems to only have Hunnish warriors by his side in this one. And even if he did German vassals off-screen, they probably wouldn’t be in his hostages’ age range anyway, living them still quite isolated and likely to cling to each other.

- They’re all brilliant, gifted people. Growing up, Walther and Hagen “surpassed the brave in strength and the wise in wit, until soon they boldly excelled all the Huns” and “whenever [Attila] made a campaign, [they] sparkled amidst triumphal decorations”, while Hildegund “abundantly displayed her outstanding character and the industry of her works” and as a result “was but little short of ruling herself, for, whatever she wanted, she actually did”. Their position as, respectively, first men in the army and steward of the king’s treasure, are clearly both given “not undeservedly”. Acknowledging and appreciating each other’s qualities and virtues, they may all be drawn to each other.

- Walther and Hildegund clearly love each other. Walther can’t bear the thought of leaving Hildegund alone and always strives to protect her, and Hildegund is visibly upset when she doubts his feeling and intentions. Once reassured of Walther’s sincerity, the girl declares herself willing to follow him and support him no matter what he will do, even if his actions will cause her suffering.

- Walther and Hagen have some serious No Homo™ thing going on. Like, really. The Wasgenstein part of the poem, where Hildegund gets (sadly) sidelined to focus on all the loyalty conflicts and the fighting, looks more like a love triangle with Walther and Gunther competing for Hagen’s heart than anything else. There’s lots of talk about childhood games and promises, unbreakable bonds based on a “famous harmony” that “used always to remain in both war and peace, never knowing the traps of temptation” and apparently almost made the two youths forget all about their families and homelands, and other things like that. An example I personally find really shippy: when he attempts to convince Hagen not to fight him, Walther remembers how, during their recent farewell, Hagen “seemed hardly able to be pried away from [Walther’s] embrace”. Which seems quite an emotion-driven and risky thing to, as Hagen had to quickly escape in the middle of the night or risk being discovered and caught, and likely couldn’t afford to lose too much time. Oh, and right before saying this, Walther sees Gunther embracing and kissing Hagen to “comfort” him before the fight and feels “fear” at this sight. Which in the poet’s mind probably just means he fears the king and his vassals joining forces against him and becoming an actual threat to him, but a shipper can dream. Also, the ending with them joking about the mutilation they’ve inflicted on each other instead of hating each other forever is lovely.

- If random essays found on the internet aren’t lying to me, there are versions of the story where Walther wants to flee together with Hagen, but Hagen himself stops him, reminding him that he’s betrothed to Hildegund and that the maiden will be a fitting bride to him so he should treat her like an empress. Which, let’s face it, probably means Hagen likes Hildegund, at least platonically, and he totally ships her with Walther.

 How the story could work if it was written in a world run by the rules of the Triad Verse:

- In the original Waltharius, before being shipped off to Pannonia, Hildegund is supposed to “reside at her father's court and […] to enjoy the wealth collected there”, as she is the “heiress” to the kingdom of Burgundy. In this Triad version, this could mean Hildegund and Walther hadn’t yet been betrothed to the third member of their marriage at the time of the Hunnish invasion, which means Hildegund should have been able to live at her parent’s court for at least some more years and learn to manage its wealth, before being married off. Perhaps, Hildegund and Walther’s betrothal as a primer couple was initially born out of political necessity, but there wasn’t yet any real urgency to complete the triad and go on with the actual wedding. Or perhaps, Walther and Hildegund would have been allowed to search for a third together and discuss the matter between themselves as a primer couple, maybe as a way to prevent their parents meddling in and trying to find a third that would really be beneficial to only one of the families.

Their ideal third later turns out to be Hagen, of course, as they both fall in love with him in Pannonia.

- If I understand correctly, in ancient times in the Triad Verse, MFF triads were encouraged over MMF, so as to produce more heirs. This would be especially important for noble and royal families, having also a need to pass titles, lands and power to said heirs. Two wives also likely means two dowries given by the brides’ families to the groom’s families, and two noble or even royal brides’ dowries will consist of lands and various riches. Therefore, Hildegund’s and Walther’s parents probably wouldn’t be too happy to find out their children would actually prefer a MMF marriage.  

However, Christian theology actually encourages MMF marriages, as they are seen as a reflection of the holy triad of God/Mary/Joseph in everyday life. Now, Walther is a very Christian character, the kind of devout hero who first mercilessly slaughters enemy after enemy and then thanks God for allowing him to defeat them while also begging him to redeem their sins and allow them to find their way to Heaven. If there’s one character who would pull out that particular example to justify the validity of his relationship, that’s probably him.

Incidentally, Hagen is the kind of character who (in the Nibelungenlied) tries to drown a priest in an attempt to avert a prophecy and save his kings and comrades. So, it’s safe to assume that he’d put practicality over religious morality, and even over morality itself. The scene where he encourages Walther to stay with Hildegund instead of following him could be incorporated in the Triad Waltharius, but inserted at an earlier point in the text and reworked as a more complete discussion between Walther and Hagen. I can just imagine a young and love-struck Walther declaring that, as soon as their exile will end, he will do his best to persuade his and Hildegund’s parents to let them marry Hagen, only to have Hagen protest that Walther should look for a more advantageous MFF marriage for himself and especially for Hildegund and find a noblewoman who will be a fitting bride for them both. This would evolve into a discussion of pragmatism versus spirituality, and eventually Hildegund would have to do what many other Germanic and Norse women have done before her and step in between the two men as a mediator and peacemaker, as she would wish to marry Hagen too but wouldn’t want him and Walther being driven apart by a discussion over events which they may still not need to think about for years. Of course, this would also mean giving more speaking lines to Hildegund, who is a young lady with lots of sadly unexplored potential and who I love from the bottom of my heart. In short, it would be a win-win situation with lots of philosophical discussion, introspection and character development for everybody.

- Still on the subject of MMF marriages: parental consent aside, the marriage between Walther, Hagen and Hildegund could actually be a viable option. For a MMF marriage to work, at least in ancient times and then in more traditional (read: patriarchal) cultures, it needs a wife, a “lord” husband, and a “swain” husband. The swain husband should be weaker/more effeminate than the lord husband and be submissive to him. Hagen is not weak by any means, and I doubt anything about him could be described as “effeminate” in any traditional sense, and clearly is not “submissive” by any means in German tradition. He is a fierce warrior who strikes fear into his enemies and later on, in the Nibelungenlied, becomes a cunning and ruthless advisor to Gunther, with a vital role in his court. But he is still the son of a vassal, while Walther is the son of a king. So, Hagen is of lower social rank than Walther, and that must count for something, when it comes to the acceptability of their relationship.

I briefly wondered if Hagen’s father would be offended at the idea of what his presumably his first male child (I actually have some sort of headcanon about Patavrid’s mother being Hagen’s older sister, but that doesn’t really matter here) and heir ending up marrying as a swain husband. But, after all, he would still be married to a future king, which I’m sure wouldn’t be all too bad of a position.

- On a semi-unrelated side note, one of the things I love about Walther/Hildegund/Hagen in the Waltharius is how their relationship looks very unequal from all sides but is actually pretty well-balanced when you look deeper. When you look at it from a social point of view, Walther and Hagen are men while Hildegund is a woman, but then again Walther and Hildegund are the children of royalty while Hagen is only the son of a vassal. Seen in this light, their dynamic sound unbalanced. Growing up in Pannonia, though, Walther and Hagen become friends, treat each other as equals and obtain the same rank in Attila’s army, and Hildegund gets a very important position too when she is made “the steward to watch over all the king's treasure” and afforded the freedom and independence that goes with it. This makes it all sound more equal. Adding a possible lord/wife/swain dynamic to this would mean adding yet another layer to the pre-existing dynamic, making it even more interesting and complex.

- Now, for the part after Hagen’s escape (which would obviously include a tearful farewell to both Walther and Hildegund, this time). Attila himself would have two wives, who I think should be the Ospirin of the Waltharius and the Helke/Herke of other Germanic traditions, and these two very wise and cunning wives (because of course they would be) would first consult between themselves, fearing Walther and Hildegund could flee to the Franks to reunite with their lover, before bringing the matter to their husband. Attila’s attempts to give Walther a Hunnish bride would become attempts to convince him to add a Hunnish lady as a third to his primary couple (as a substitute to Hagen and the possible but disadvantageous marriage with him), and Walther’s refusal would become a refusal to give his complete attention to two women and a serious, complete relationship. Hildegund would be upset about Walther denying her, possibly forever, the chance to experience the complete happiness of a full marriage, and without even bothering to ask her how she feels about their recently-failed relationship with Hagen or their status as a newly-incomplete couple.

- Hagen’s inner conflict between loyalty to his friend and loyalty to his king, one of the main themes of the original poem, would turn into a conflict between love and duty/social obligations. Gunther would be read by scholars not only as a greedy king but also as alternatively an immature youth still unable to fully understand the love of a triad or a selfish suitor trying to separate Hagen from his lover to have him all for himself. The last fight scenes would be even more intense and heartbreaking, as would be the death of Hagen’s relative Patavrid at the hand of his lover Walther.

- Hagen losing an eye could be read symbolically by later commentators as punishment for his decision to blind himself to the love he still feels for Walther and Hildegund. Walther would lose his hand as punishment for raising it to strike his almost- swain husband. Gunther would lose his leg for daring to step in between an established triad and ruin their relationship. Many scholars would probably read the poem as a cautionary tale meant to warn readers not to prefer MMF triads over MFF triads, but others would think it’s actually about how social duty should take a step back when it risks endangering a triad’s bond.

- The last scene, with Hildegund pouring wine for Walther and Hagen, would become a mirror to the earlier scene where she offers a cup to Walther and he makes the sign of the cross over it as a way to renew their betrothal’s promises. Walther telling her “"Now mix wine and offer it first to Hagen” would not be meant as a half-compliment half-jest as it is in our Waltharius (in it, Walther motivates it by saying “He is a good athlete, provided that he keeps his pledge”), but rather as a symbolic way to complete the couple’s bond to Hagen before they’re forced to separate themselves from him yet again, this time forever. Of course, Hildegund would then skip offering the cup to Gunther, too, but after all, she is never actually shown doing that in the text.

- Other German poems dealing with the Burgunds/Nibelungs or even the general concept of triadic love would likely refer back to the Waltharius as either an earlier source to draw on or a model to follow or deconstruct.

- In the Nibelungenlied, instead of taunting Hagen about not being brave enough to fight Walther, Hildebrand could remind him (and the poet’s audience) of the events at Wasgenstein by accusing him of being unfaithful and dishonest to his lover.

- In the Rosengarten zu Worms, where several knights come to Worms to fight each other in hopes of earning a kiss from Gunther’s sister Kriemhild or one of her ladies in waiting, Walther could renounce the promised reward and ask instead for a kiss form his older lover Hagen, if he should win his duel.

In conclusion, I personally this story would be perfect for a Triad Verse - style reworking.

Now... time to find other Medieval material that could work just as well...

*squints in Arthuriana’s general direction*

[bloodandwinemuses]

FANTASY (MAIN & SUMMARY): 

A father and confidant once, Nolan wanted nothing more than normalcy. A nice job, a loving wife, a living child. Magic and beings of supernatural origins fascinated him on a theoretical level only. After all, he was the son of two determined researchers set out to discover new creatures thought extinct. Many believed them to be fanatics, readily sucking in myths and tales with no realistic roots to speak of. And truthfully, Nolan conceded, too. Until there were two losses: his son and parents. As life would have it, he had none of what he wanted. Afterwards, there was an ending: an amicable divorce. No ire, no nothing. The goal, then, was to regain something. His parent’s wish, slightly bent to a much more efficacious, long lasting result. The bestiary which they had almost religiously studied for so many decades was severely outdated. Possibly, one might ponder, the lack of knowledge had shoved death a little too close to Nolan’s parents. That, at last, became his one ambition, the voyage he would dedicate his life to. Nowadays, Nolan’s a wanderer, a rover traveling from town to town, country to country so long as his finances allow for it.

In summary, Nolan is always on the lookout for mutually beneficial relationships. Anyone willing to acquire rare scripts, rolls, or even potions ingredients work rather well as far as interactions go — especially other, non-human creatures. Like in his witcher verse, Nolan isn’t opposed to taking care of monster-related problems for his contacts, albeit Nolan will agree to do so reluctantly and never on the spot. Unlike witchers, he has neither undergone mutations, nor is he able to utilize simple yet effective combat magic. As such, he is heavily dependent on outside sources and relationships in business related matters.

PIRATE VERSE :

The product of generations of seasoned seamen in the merchant service, all Nolan had ever known in the same manner pious, virtuous men sought solace in prayer, was the sea. His boyhood, therefore, was spread out over years on board. The seaport in Bristol was his home, his childhood landscape - and the women left behind soon forgotten, for they would not live long. In a moment’s notice, it was just the two of them, father and son, sailing for their trade. In cloth and tobacco, they found their earnings - until even their skills as navigators and traders alike couldn’t prevent the capture of their ship by pirates. She was armed with forty-six guns and the crew relatively overwhelming at seventy men. To them, they were booty.

When Nolan’s father defied and refused to hand over their cargo,the captain, a tall, sunburnt personage with a wolfish, devious smile yet deceivingly dissolute appearance cut his throat - Nolan right at his side. His son, however, would demurely take the offer and voluntarily joined the crew. Quickly, it would seem, Nathaniel Flynn, his now alias, though referred to only as Nate, rose up in the ranks, popular amongst his fellow men. Though not necessarily a man of letters and not blessed with a liberal education, Nolan was a quick learner, articulate, and most importantly skilled as a navigator. Up he rose, claiming the title of quartermaster merely two years after he had joined the captain who had murdered his father in cold blood. Henceforth, those years were a ploy, till he, too, seized an opportunity to remove an unpopular captain to become captain himself. His predecessor, alas, had continually failed, neglected his promises to the crew, thereby keeping their purses, bellies empty whereas, on a calculated whim, Nolan had ensured just that months prior.

Why, however, did he take to piracy? Why did a man who was going to be a father take upon a career that would likely end with a noose around his neck? The answer, as ever, was simple. It was easy to provide, and it was swift. His trade and resources as a merchant, meanwhile, had slowly begun to dwindle - no chance to provide for his soon to be family. At sea, there was a side of his carefully kept under wraps on land, the side heavily armed, uncouth, and depicting the same cruelty with which his father had been killed - a reality no man, no father should ever let to the surface. Nolan, too, was lured by plunder and an easy life; a life that kept him grounded in fast-paced admiration by crew as well as his involvement with wealthy landowners who were to benefit from his exploits. And if he could amass gold within his numbered lifetime for his family, then Nolan would willingly await the trial just around the next bend. Should harm befall his wife and son, he knew his trusted friend, aristocrat, a man of letters, a personage of liberal education and good nature, would protect them in his name.

WITCHER (FANTASY/GAME-BASED/TINY BIT BOOK-BASED 

[only The Last Wish & currently reading Time of Contempt]

After a whole pack of creatures had ravaged the village Nolan had always called home and slaughtered his parents, only he managed to survive. Barely, as one might add, for two wayward witchers saved him from suffering the same fate in the nick of time. With no parents or home left, the boy begged to go wherever the path would lead them. Albeit reluctantly, they agreed. Once in Nilfgaard, he underwent extensive training early on, instructed by firm and relentless teachers. Having survived the rituals of the school of the viper, as was their wont, Nolan readily and quickly honed his skills. Bound to instructors and old witchers in a winding string of gratitude and solidarity, Nolan was soon exposed to ruthless mental conditioning as well. Barely a man, he nonetheless did not wield, eager to achieve. Every time Nolan showed a most curious resilience that was futher honed during his training, and tested again and again when subjected to alchemical procedures and instructed to consume mutagenic compounds. Despite the low survival rate of witchers, he survived.

Nolan proved a survivalist years later when the school was disbanded after an incident that remains in the shadows of history, brothers and teachers now scattered all across.

A life on the path, years spent accustomed to hostile whispers and accusative whispers about his fellow brothers, Nolan traveled from city to city, accepting contract after contract. Once a moralistic, good young fellow, he wouldn’t quarrel about the coin too much. Until his amicable nature in spite of a witcher’s infamy nearly had him killed. Wounded after a fight with a royal griffin who had plagued the farmers, he dared demand a little more for his efforts than what they had agreed upon. It was a royal griffin, after all, and as such warranted more coin.

His next memory remained foggy until this day, for he only remembered the blue eyes of a slender woman and the black tufts of hair of a boy. Her name was Dana, though she would scarcely ever reveal more in her lifetime.  She had found him bleeding out on a haystack behind the barns, and taken him in at her boy’s pleas.

Before long, Dana had changed his course, taken him away from a life on the path and given him a home and a family. But there was unrest in her veins, for she longed to update her bestiary and scrolls of rare herbs. A dangerous trajectory, surely, and yet Nolan offered to go with her. Love, as poets said, led to great folly.

The land was slick with blood and strife, for the years of the witch hunt were in full bloom and were just reaching its peak when the pair fell in the arms of witch hunters on horseback. These witch hunters would be Dana’s death sentence. They beheaded her  with a sword, zoned in on her like some beast. They claimed her son, too.  

Nolan did not sheathe his steel sword until every last of them had fallen.

Nowadays, one might encounter the scholar witcher in a tavern engrossed by some light reading. A researcher he had become, with only the occasional contract to complete should the financial need arise (and said need arose plenty) for he had his eyes on realizing her goal.

DRAGON AGE 

[All games but games only]

The house of Trevelyan has carried ample weight for centuries reaching back as far as […]. Somewhere set in […] it was their rich ancestry which  has ensured and strengthened their noble line for many years to come. Every member, even their youngest, are raised to memorize their history by heart, for it is pledge and proof simultaneously to commoners whispering too boldly behind their backs – the gossiping crowd predominantly being rivaling novelty.

Most praised for their summer balls, political prowess, and piety while feared for their strong connections to the chantry and the Templar order alike, only few have dared denounce a family whose whispers can reach even  king Markus’s  ears in times of crisis.

Much to their discreetly voiced displeasure upon their rank within Ostwick, a Trevelyan elder has always been instilled with an unquenchable demand for improved status among nobility. This house, for all its blood-stained history and might, has never turned down an alliance to advance their goals. A promise kept, however, is likely never going to become a sacred motto upon which their cold crest yet lingers.

Having grown up around opportunistic minds and prayer seeking hearts, Nolan knew from the very beginning none of his siblings were going to live through their boyhoods peacefully. Once taken from their weak grasps, each was carried off to different courts in Thedas, instructed from an early age to form connections beyond their distinguished ties. From advantageous marriages to courtships, his older siblings haven’t sullied their name; but contributed to Trevelyan infamy instead.

Nolan, though of noble blood, struggled to please insatiable parents whose roots have always inevitably, irrevocably been shielded by flame. In awe of the Maker, the tiniest blasphemous bluster from his lips was punished harshly – oftentimes with less philanthropic methods.

Unlike his siblings, Nolan lacked inherent grace for diplomacy, finding his political mind to be wanting also. At court, he would disgrace them in barely a month’s while and so they invoked their secondary plan, a trajectory laid out for a child whose tactless mouth would never cease to wreak havoc upon them all. In spite of his temper, he was to become a Templar. And truly, his parents sent him off wearing relieved smiles on tired features. Henceforth, the boy should be their nuisance.

Life at the circle

His adolescent years from then onwards never belonged to him. The Templar order is a bastion of order and tradition under which Nolan had never imagined to prevail. Reciting the chant of light while candles were burning down to their last flicker had his focus wavering to and fro ancient rolls in the mage’s library — documents Templar eyes weren’t meant to see. And yet, throughout his training figures of authority instilled in him principles, all of which Nolan devoured like fine wine as if he had never tasted so great an honor as to belong to something.  Eager to become a model student, the lad had swiftly charmed teachers and older Templars alike; they were shepherds to him heralding fate and structure in a world gone mad; they had become a family looking out for impressionable youths so as to guide them towards their full potential.

When first he was stationed to serve at the circle of Ostwick after his training had been completed, Nolan felt humbled by his new sense of purpose. Known for its sedate policies, the mages were largely content to live and let live. Surely, a handful of them would extend to him reproachful glances over their shoulders, venomous smiles; a message to signal they knew where armored shadows loomed day and night.

During those years leading up to the conclave, Nolan found a friend in the unlikeliest specimen: a mage, and not a loyalist as it would soon turn out. One night while he was wandering the corridors, plagued by midnight terrors, he spotted a figure sifting about in the library by dim haloes of candle light. A male mage barely a few heads shorter than he, cradling a book in pale hands — another stigma born out of their confinement. He knew. Approaching him silently, his hands moved away from his sheathed sword to indicate no harm was to befall the lad if no spell would be cast on him.  The mage, at last, glimpsed past book corners and stared, blankly, at the towering figure nearby. A gruff voice, then, bounced off silent walls, inquiring if he knew jack shite about herbalism. Nolan, feeling sheepish, shook his head no.

By the name of Ewan, a Templar had therewith found a mage teacher.

The Conclave

At Divine Justinia’s behest, all mages and Templars were to attend the conclave. Indeed, scarcely a soul failed to heed her call for peace between these more than estranged fractions. Ostwick, however, was one of the last to join fellow circles on their travels. Their soil stayed spotless; but this was not so for long. In secret those rebels had been gathering for months, slipping past Templar scrutiny aided by blood magic and advanced illusion spells to send them into slumbers. The cry for freedom, for independence had tempted their blood to boil, having molded obedience into all-encompassing rebellions. No more, so it would seem, was their motto, their creed which they clung to like mothers to their babes.  In the end, many a loyalist mage lost their life in the months leading up to Justinia’s bid until, alas, Ostwick’s floors had also been bloodied and stained, the taint of murder having sunken into castle walls. A senior enchanter, likewise, was strangled by one of her lambs through magical abilities she had thought to novices.  

Still having strong ties to the chantry, Nolan was the first candidate called upon to take the voyage to attend the conclave in company of a senior Templar as custom imposed. Only the night prior, a mage who had long since earned the title friend stepped into his room and pleaded to him, pleaded for flight in lieu of duty. As if on impulse, Nolan refused without kindness and gestured to the door as though they had never spoken as brothers did.

Ewan’s plea along with his panic had swayed him, though, conspiring him to choose a friend offering him freedom and identity over a family in gilded cages. For all his fond memories, for all those praise hymns earned, it had been his parents who had forced a child to become a servant of fate — not because they believed in their son, but because they feared still his deficiencies might ruin their legacy.  Ewan, meanwhile, was a true friend, a shelter of sorts, a mirror reflecting flaws, a chance for growth, for life.

He took it, that night, took it and turned his back.

He hasn’t looked back since.

Nowadays (After/during DA:I)

Appearances can be deceiving as even a peasant should know. If ever one spots a merchant caravan traveling throughout city, a towering figure standing next to a bloke rumored to be an assassin, the general consensus is, indeed, to avert one’s gaze and to lose any memory of their presence altogether. For where these two roam, trouble is afoot. Their names aren’t known, nor their outlawed status in Antiva in most of Thedas.

And yet still, their reputation bears not only the fruit of fear, but of efficacious infamy also. Fast lyrium smugglers, they claim to be, and have proven aplenty. Albeit not the only item these two willingly smuggle for coins, it’s their specialty. In scarcely a few years’ time, they have amassed a frightful list of contacts all across the lands, and know just whom to contact in the underworld to double their pay.  The giant, as he is called, often offers his sword, whether to slay beasts or men. The scarred one, meanwhile, is content to tend to wounds inflicted by the war. Hiding, more frequently than he would like, his magical aptitude.

As rumors would have it, they are lawless bandits without honor. This is not so if one fancies to follow their steps for longer than just noon. The scarred one and the giant alike have been seen twice and thrice feeding orphans or sneaking inside alienages to heal those too poor to afford proper care.

Bandits, they are. And yet also healers, herbalists, smiths, smugglers and brothers fighting to maintain their freedom.

Note: this verse can be adapted to fit into the events of DA:I so that these two could be active members or agents of the Inquisition depending on whether or not your Inquisitor believes their talents could be utilized.

Verses under construction: 

Tattoo shop verse (Normal) 

Crime Verse

AUs: 

Bounty Hunter verse with @secondhandmckie

Literally whatever else you peeps are up for. 

[angelavengedinspo-blog]

I’m going to kill Maureen,” Isabelle said. She had both doors of Alec’s wardrobe open and was flinging clothes onto the floor in heaps. Simon was lying barefoot on one of the beds—Jace’s? Alec’s?—having kicked off his alarming buckled boots. Though his skin didn’t really bruise, it felt amazing to be on a soft surface after having spent so many hours on the hard, dirty floor of the Dumort. “You’ll have to fight your way through all the vampires of New York to do it,” he said. “Apparently they love her.” “No accounting for taste.” Isabelle held up a dark blue sweater Simon recognized as Alec’s, mostly from the holes in the cuffs. “So Raphael brought you here so you could talk to my dad?” Simon propped himself up on his elbows to watch her. “Do you think that’ll be okay?” “Sure, why not. My dad loves talking.” She sounded bitter. Simon leaned forward, but when she raised her head, she was smiling at him and he thought he must have imagined it. “Although, who knows what will happen, with the attack on the Citadel tonight.” She worried at her lower lip. “It could mean they cancel the meeting, or move it earlier. Sebastian’s obviously a bigger problem than they thought. He shouldn’t even be able to get that close to the Citadel.” “Well,” Simon said. “He is a Shadowhunter.” “No, he’s not,” Isabelle said fiercely, and yanked a green sweater down from a wooden hanger. “Besides. He’s a man.” “Sorry,” Simon said. “It must be nerve-racking, waiting to see how the battle turns out. How many people did they let through?” “Fifty or sixty,” Isabelle said. “I wanted to go, but—they wouldn’t let me.” She had the guarded tone in her voice that meant they were closing in on a subject she didn’t want to talk about.  “I would have worried about you,” he said. He saw her mouth quirk into a reluctant smile. “Try this on,” she said, and tossed him the green sweater, slightly less frayed than the rest. “Are you sure it’s okay for me to borrow clothes?” “You can’t go around like that,” she said. “You look like you escaped from a romance novel.” Isabelle laid a hand dramatically against her forehead. “Oh, Lord Montgomery, what do you mean to do with me in this bedroom when you have me all alone? An innocent maiden, and unprotected?” She unzipped her jacket and tossed it to the floor, revealing a white tank top. She gave him a sultry look. “Is my virtue safe?” “I, ah—what?” Simon said, temporarily deprived of vocabulary. “I know you are a dangerous man,” Isabelle declared, sashaying toward the bed. She unzipped her trousers and kicked them to the floor. She was wearing black boy shorts underneath. “Some call you a rake. Everybody knows you are a devil with the ladies with your poetically puffed shirt and irresistible pants.” She pounced onto the bed and crawled over to him, eyeing him like a cobra considering making a snack out of a mongoose. “I pray you will consider my innocence,” she breathed. “And my poor, vulnerable heart.” Simon decided this was a lot like role-playing in D&D, but potentially much more fun. “Lord Montgomery considers nothing but his own desires,” he said in a gravelly voice. “I’ll tell you something else. Lord Montgomery has a very large estate . . . and pretty extensive grounds, too.” Isabelle giggled, and Simon felt the bed shake under them. “Okay, I didn’t expect you to get quite so into this.” “Lord Montgomery always surpasses expectations,” Simon said, seizing Isabelle around the waist and rolling her over so she was beneath him, her black hair spread out onto the pillow. “Mothers, lock up your daughters, then lock up your maidservants, then lock up yourselves. Lord Montgomery is on the prowl.” Isabelle framed his face between her hands. “My lord,” she said, her eyes shining. “I fear I can no longer withstand your manly charms and virile ways. Please do with me as you will.” Simon wasn’t sure what Lord Montgomery would do, but he knew what he wanted to do. He bent down and pressed a lingering kiss to her mouth. Her lips parted under his, and suddenly everything was all sweet dark heat and Isabelle’s lips brushing over his, first teasing, then harder. She smelled, as she always did, dizzyingly of roses and blood. He pressed his lips to the pulse point at her throat, mouthing over it gently, not biting, and Izzy gasped; her hands went to the front of his shirt. He was momentarily concerned about its lack of buttons, but Isabelle grasped the material in her strong hands and ripped the shirt in half, leaving it dangling off his shoulders. “Goodness, that stuff rips like paper,” she exclaimed, reaching to pull her tank top off. She was halfway through the action when the door opened and Alec walked into the room. “Izzy, are you—” he began. His eyes flew wide, and he backed up fast enough to smack his head into the wall behind him. “What is he doing here?” Isabelle tugged her tank top back down and glared at her brother. “You don’t knock now?” “It—It’s my bedroom!” Alec spluttered. He seemed to be deliberately trying not to look at Izzy and Simon, who were indeed in a very compromising position. Simon rolled quickly off Isabelle, who sat up, brushing herself off as if for lint. Simon sat up more slowly, trying to hold the torn edges of his shirt together. “Why are all my clothes on the floor?” Alec said. “I was trying to find something for Simon to wear,” Isabelle explained. “Maureen put him in leather pants and a puffy shirt because he was being her romance-novel slave.” “He was being her what?” “Her romance-novel slave,” Isabelle repeated, as if Alec were being particularly dense. Alec shook his head as if he were having a bad dream. “You know what? Don’t explain. Just—put your clothes on, both of you.” “You’re not going to leave—are you?” Isabelle said in a sulky tone, sliding off the bed. She picked up her jacket and shrugged it on, then tossed Simon the green sweater. He happily swapped it for the poet shirt, which was in ribbons anyway. “No. It’s my room, and besides, I need to talk to you, Isabelle.” Alec’s voice was terse. Simon grabbed up jeans and shoes from the floor and went into the bathroom to change, deliberately taking plenty of time with it. When he came back out, Isabelle was sitting on the rumpled bed, looking strained and tense. “So they’re opening the Portal back up to bring everyone through? Good.” “It is good, but what I felt”—Alec put his hand unconsciously over his upper arm, near his parabatai rune—“that isn’t good. Jace isn’t dead,” he hastened to add as Isabelle paled. “I would know if he were. But something happened. Something with the heavenly fire, I think.” “Do you know if he’s okay now? And Clary?” Isabelle demanded. “Wait, back up,” Simon interrupted. “What’s this about Clary? And Jace?” “They went through the Portal,” Isabelle said grimly. “To the battle at the Citadel.” Simon realized he had unconsciously reached for the gold ring on his right hand and was gripping it with his fingers. “Aren’t they too young?” “They didn’t exactly have permission.” Alec was leaning back against the wall. He looked tired, the shadows under his eyes bruise-blue. “The Consul tried to stop them, but she didn’t have time.” Simon turned on Isabelle. “And you didn’t tell me?” Isabelle wouldn’t meet his eyes. “I knew you’d freak out.” Alec was looking from Isabelle to Simon. “You didn’t tell him?” he said. “About what happened at the Gard?” Isabelle crossed her arms over her chest and looked defiant. “No. I bumped into him in the street, and we came upstairs, and—and it’s none of your business.” “It is if you do it in my bedroom,” said Alec. “If you’re going to use Simon to make yourself forget you’re angry and upset, fine, but do it in your own room.”

“I wasn’t using him—”

Simon thought about Isabelle’s eyes, shining when she’d seen him standing in the street. He’d thought it was happiness, but he realized now it had more likely been unshed tears. The way she’d been walking toward him, her head down, her shoulders curved in, as if she’d been holding herself together. “You were, though,” he said. “Or you would have told me what happened. You didn’t even mention Clary or Jace, or that you were worried, or anything.” He felt his stomach clench as he realized how deftly Isabelle had deflected his questions and distracted him with kissing, and he felt stupid. He’d thought she was glad to see him specifically, but maybe he could have been anyone. Isabelle’s face had gone very still. “Please,” she said. “It’s not like you asked.” She had been fiddling with her hair; now she reached up and began twisting it, almost savagely, into a knot on the back of her head. “If you’re both going to stand there blaming me, maybe you should just go—” “I’m not blaming you,” Simon began, but Isabelle was already on her feet. She snatched the ruby pendant, pulled it none too gently over his head, and dropped it back around her own neck. “I never should have given it to you,” she said, her eyes bright. “It saved my life,” Simon said. That made her pause. “Simon . . . ,” she whispered. She broke off as Alec suddenly clutched at his shoulder with a gasp. He slid to the floor. Isabelle ran to him and knelt down by his side. “Alec? Alec!” Her voice rose, tinged with panic.Alec pushed aside his jacket, shoved down the collar of his shirt, and craned to see the mark on his shoulder. Simon recognized the outlines of the parabatai rune. Alec pressed his fingers to it; they came away smudged with something dark that looked like a smear of ash. “They’ve come back through the Portal,” he said. “And there’s something wrong with Jace.” 

[investmart007]

LONDON | A year on, horrific Grenfell Tower fire haunts Britain

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LONDON | A year on, horrific Grenfell Tower fire haunts Britain

LONDON — In the shadow of London’s Grenfell Tower, the pain is as fresh as the newly laid flowers for the dead.

One year ago, the residential high-rise was destroyed by a fire that killed 72 people. It was the greatest loss of life in a fire on British soil since World War II, a horror that left the neighborhood and the country in shock.

On Thursday, survivors, bereaved families and people around Britain are marking the anniversary of a local tragedy that’s also a national shame — one for which blame still is being assigned and traded. Was Grenfell a tragic accident, the product of government cost-cutting and lax safety standards, or authorities’ disregard for people who lived in public housing?

“I don’t see this as a tragedy. I see it as an atrocity,” Hissam Choucair, who lost six members of his family in the fire, told a public inquiry last month.

For the somber anniversary rituals, survivors will gather near the base of the tower’s shell before a nationwide minute of silence at noon. There will be vigils and marches across Britain, while landmarks will be lit up in green, the color of remembrance adopted after the lethal fire.

“We want the nation to keep Grenfell in their consciousness,” said Yvette Williams of local campaign group Justice 4 Grenfell. “The anniversary is about love and support — the fight can start again on Friday and Saturday — and keeping that humanity going on that day.”

A year on, the west London neighborhood around Grenfell echoes with sounds of construction. The ruined tower, which stood for months like a black tombstone on the skyline, is covered in white sheeting. A green heart and the words “Grenfell forever in our hearts” are emblazoned at the top.

Notice boards and walls nearby carry hand-written tributes, expressions of sorrow and promises of resolve: “RIP to the fallen”; “I love my Uncle Ray”; “RIP Yas”; “We won’t fail!”

Flowers, candles, and well-worn teddy bears that were left in memory of the dead are tended by local volunteers. A note from Prime Minister Theresa May, attached to a wreath of white roses, promises: “They will never be forgotten.”

The fire broke out shortly before 1 a.m. on June 14, 2017 in the kitchen of Behailu Kebede’s fourth-floor apartment. Kebede woke the neighbors on his floor and called firefighters, who soon arrived.

High-rise apartment towers are supposed to be designed to stop apartment fires spreading. But within minutes, the flames had escaped Kebede’s apartment and raced up the outside of the 25-story tower like a lit fuse.

Many residents fled, but some on the upper floors observed official fire-safety advice and stayed put. The fire brigade changed the guidance at 2:47 a.m. By that time, the building’s only stairwell was smoke-filled and treacherous.

Several people died trying to get out. Others perished in their homes as they waited to be rescued, or died in neighbors’ apartments where they’d taken shelter. Three people were found dead outside, having fallen or jumped from the tower.

Rania Ibrahim, who died with her two young daughters on the 23rd floor, broadcast her final hours of fear and prayers on Facebook. Mohamed Amied Neda, 57, who had fled the Taliban in Afghanistan to build a life in Britain, left a voice message for his family: “Goodbye, we are leaving this world now, goodbye. I hope I haven’t disappointed you. Goodbye to all.”

By the time the sun rose, a building that could be seen for miles around was a blackened, smoking shell. Hundreds of people were homeless and dozens were dead, though the destruction from the heat had been so great it would be months before police were certain of how many: 70 died that night, plus a premature baby, Logan Gomes, who was stillborn later that day. Maria del Pilar Burton, a 74-year-old resident of the 19th floor, was hospitalized after the fire and died in January.

Local government workers, police and volunteers rushed to help, setting up temporary shelters and bringing clothes, food, money and help for the hundreds of people displaced from the tower and nearby buildings.

Grief was soon joined by anger — at local authorities in Kensington and Chelsea borough, which owned the building; at the tenant management organization than ran the tower; and at Britain’s Conservative government, seen as distant and uncaring.

Many residents said they had complained about safety and poor maintenance and were ignored because the tower was home to a largely immigrant and working-class population. A public-housing block in one of London’s richest boroughs, a stones’ throw from the pricey boutiques and elegant houses of Notting Hill, it came for many to symbolize a divided and broken Britain.

The anger is still visible on the walls around Grenfell. Mixed in with tributes to the dead are the words “TMO = terrorists” — a reference to the tenant management organization — and expletives directed at the prime minister.

May acknowledged this week that the government had been too slow to act. She vowed that survivors would get “the homes and support that they need and the truth and justice that they deserve.”

After the fire, the government immediately promised to re-house all those displaced within three weeks. But some residents spent months in hotels, and many are still in temporary accommodations. May said Wednesday that 183 of 203 affected families have accepted offers of new homes, though most have not yet moved in.

A judge-led public inquiry finally got underway last month. It will take 18 months and look at the fire’s causes, the response to it and Britain’s high-rise building regulations. But some survivors are critical because it won’t investigate wider issues around social housing and social policy.

Already, the testimony has been damning. A report by fire safety engineer Barbara Lane listed multiple safety failings, including the flammable aluminum-and polyethylene cladding installed on the tower’s facade during a recent renovation.

Stephanie Barwise, a lawyer for some of the survivors, said the cladding helped flames spread “more quickly than dropping a match into a barrel of petrol.”

The safety failures at Grenfell have national implications. More than 300 towers around Britain have similar combustible cladding. The government says it will spend 400 million pounds ($530 million) stripping the cladding from publicly owned high-rises.

Questions have also been raised about whether lives were lost because of the fire department’s “stay put” advice.

Police are considering corporate manslaughter charges in the blaze, but no one has been charged.

Tony Travers, a professor of government at the London School of Economics, said the disaster was likely the result of “a systems failure” rather than a single cause.

“It’s likely that there will not be a single guilty person or institution, but more a chain of events that together led to a catastrophic failure,” Travers said.

Even if the inquiry identifies causes and who deserves to be held accountable, the formal review is unlikely to end Britain’s soul-searching over a disaster with victims from 23 countries — taxi drivers and architects, a poet, an acclaimed young artist, retirees and children with bright futures.

“Ill fares the land that left these people to be so exposed to such trauma and such death,” Danny Friedman, a lawyer for some of the bereaved families and survivors, told the inquiry.

“In the end,” he said, “the Grenfell Tower fire is an example writ large of how inequalities of political, legal and economic power can kill people.”

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By Associated Press

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