#a necromancer who raises the dead with his flute!

[idyllhaze]

Baskerville Qiao

[lemonprick]

Any sort of musical instrument where memory is stored in the vessel. 

A necromancer who plays his flute with the last breaths of the dead. “It agitates the soul,” he explains, “raising the dead and allowing them to speak. So you’ve got to let them go.” 

A violinist -healer who plays the first cries of a newborn. Wounded soldiers in the infirmary heard their sons and daughters before they were well enough to return home and saw them for the first time.

A royal horn that contains the war cries of kings and queens of old. Their last battle had ended in a stalemate, but it was a miracle that more than half the troops had survived — some swear they saw the spirit of Queen Aatehluwa herself descend upon the enemy and scare them away.

Church organs made from the bound bones of lovers who now lay where they declared their vows. A groom promises himself to his bride while the voices of her grandparents ring through the hallowed halls.

Ceremonial drums bound with the skins of the great deer of the forest.  A chieftain leads the hunt, and the drum by her side soothes the trees into granting them protection from wayward spirits.

The dead don’t talk, but they sure as hell can sing.

[gothgirlshowdown]

Propaganda:

Wuxian: His birthday is on Halloween. He is a necromancer, who raises the dead by playing his flute, and who resurrected his dead best friend. He also pioneered a lot of dark magic harnessing techniques after losing his ability to perform normal magic. He spends a while living in a burial mound with mystical properties that, before him, no one had ever been known to return from. He’s died and come back.

Goth Girl: Little is known about her, but she does guess “mortality” while playing charades with another character

[hashtagloveloses]

my propaganda for wei wuxian is that despite the power of the others, wwx is the FOUNDER AND CREATOR of it in his own world. no one can beat him. no one except his own cursed object backfiring when HE tried to destroy it could kill him. when he was not even in his own body and had a shitty flute and he was more powerful than cultivators who had trained their entire lives.

nico is OP after TSATS but still needs a juice box if he goes too hard. harrow as a lyctor is immortal and unkillable but is she the FOUNDER of necromancy in her world??? no she is not!!! she would come close but WWX doesn’t even need to use his own bones he can just whistle a little fucking TUNE.

barry bluejeans is POWERFUL and an undead lich himself but how many people has he ACTUALLY raised from the dead? he can throw hands but he’s not touching WWX, who created the first fully sentient fierce corpse and commands ARMIES just with a little FLUTE.

also if wwx was ever taken out of commission his husband would step in and he is not a necromancer but does work exorcising the dead and restless spirits, and lan wangji could beat gideon, who just uses a sword, could beat will solace, who is powerful yet not a fighter, and could beat Lup, who would provide the most fight, but she is an undead being and he is canonically one of the strongest people alive trained from birth to exorcise undead beings.

in my last fictional necromancer battle poll, MANY people brought up how i had left out a NOTABLE character, so. REMATCH:

reblog with YOUR REASONING SHOW YOUR WORK.

[bioerin]

pls bestie tell me about the wonky necromancer

You want to hear about my blorbos? My dear necromancers? My mentally ill traumatized boys? I have two !! Wonky necromancers under my belt hehe AND you asked for it.

The first one you obviously have noticed because he's on my blog a lot: Wei Wuxian.

He plays his flute to raise and control the dead! A crooked path and frowned upon practice! The feared Yiling Patriarch!

Yet he's a literal sunshine who happened to experience so many tragedies in his lifetime, and all he ever wanted was to help, to protect the weak against the strong.

It didn't matter that he helped to win a war with his powers, as soon as he noticed the same thing was going to happen with a different leader, he was cast out as the biggest evil one could know.

As his brother said to him: When you’re standing on their side, you’re the bizarre genius, the miraculous hero, the force of the rebellion, the flower that blooms alone. But the second your voice differs from theirs, you’ve lost your mind, you’ve ignored morality, you’ve walked the crooked path.

And ohhh boy so much more!!! He lives in my head rent free. I'm completely normal about him.

My second wonky necromancer is Klaus.

Born with the ability to see the dead, sounds cool but the ghosts are scary. However, his father thought, why not develop his ability and make him fear the dead less? Let's lock that kid in a mausoleum for days! No way is this going to result in trauma! (It obviously did).

Many tragedies happened to him too! A lot!! But he survived all that as a disaster human (affectionate) he is and he's still very nice and tries his best to be emotional support. He also learned to summon and control the dead!

Anyway, to sum it up, bring me tragic necromancers trying to do their best

[pheita]

Flash Fiction Friday: The Devil’s Music

Trigger Warning: Death, Dead Bodies,   The grin on his face was a crooked grimace, born of the pain and contempt that blew at him daily all these years. High on the hill outside the city he was far from the people who tried to stop him, called him crazy or even wanted to see him dead. Bitter laughter echoed from his mouth across the city. A laughter that could make a pious person's legs ache. That was exactly what he wanted to achieve. They had mocked him, beaten him, thrown stones and leftovers of food at him after he had saved them from the plague. Now they should get their payment back multiple times. Worshiped as a hero, fallen and now called a demon, because they were too afraid of what would happen in death. A demon he would show them. Slowly he would raise his arm with the flute. The wind whipped in his back. It was perfect to carry his music over long distances. The city would only know what hit it when it was already too late. Carefully he began to play a gentle melody. A devil they had called him the last time he played, so it was only fair to call this particular melody the devil's music. Strengthened by the magic circles he had spread all over the city during the last days, the devilish melody was carried even through the smallest streets. He could feel how the magic did its work. Slowly the first corpses rose. He called for the last dance, and they obeyed the first necromancer in hundreds of years, as if it had always been their destiny. As if guided by a ghostly hand, the corpses gathered, some of them just a few days' underground, and flooded the streets with their bones. The stench of death and disease followed them. He changed the melody and his puppets of bones accelerated their steps. Within a short time they had drawn a ring of death around the city. Now he only had to wait until the first people went about their daily work. Patiently he sat down in the high grass. It promised to be a pleasant day. A typical early fall day. Once upon a time he loved these days, but that seemed to be three lives ago. So much had changed since then. He had changed. No one could deny it, not even him. In his mind he was preoccupied with the question at what point everything had gone wrong when the sun touched his face. The grin came back. In the distance he heard the first startled screams. Good. That's the way he wanted it. He wanted them to know who had made them the damned. His revenge for them neglecting his own just because they were related to him. No one wanted to help, everyone was guilty. The few to whom he promised mercy he had given talismans the day before, so that they were protected from what was to come. He was a monster, but the children couldn't do anything. When everything was over, he would take care of them. In peace and quiet he got up, knocked grass off his clothes and put the flute back on. The melody of before sounded again and the undead army began to move. The sounds from the city delighted his ears and his heart. No one who was guilty would escape. A shrill trill of the flute gave the final command. The undead pounced on the inhabitants of the city. From a distance he watched it all. His free hand went into his pocket and took out a medallion. "They will never again do to anyone what they have done to you," he whispered into the wind before throwing the medallion away. He was no longer human. He did not deserve such sentimentality. From now on he was only the lord of the undead.

@flashfictionfridayofficial​ I got a bit carried away here. It defintively got some Pied Piper of Hamelin vibes and yes it is partially influenced by Mo Dao Zu Shi. 

[eyeslikefoxglove]

Episode 20 - ChenQing Syndrome & Tangents everywhere

Hello cupcakes, and welcome to episode 20. How’s everyone doing? I hope y’all are as safe and can be. I’m pretty sure I need to sleep for at least 24h because I am exhausted so forgive me if I’m suuuuuper low energy.

On another news I am officially mosquito bait. Yay.

I don’t know if I said so in the previous commentary but I Do Not Vibe with eyeballs so yeah.

Speaking of eyeballs, here is what happened the last time my mum and me consumed a medical drama in public. We decided to go to the cinema to watch The Physician, and in the intro credits there is a tray with a pair of eyeballs by a scalpel and my mum, who’s a GP goes (without lowering her voice of course):

“Those are not human eyeballs, too big, they’re probably cow’s”

I swear the whole row just turned around to give us A Look and I haven’t felt more like a serial killer since I started giggling (again in the cinema) watching Death Proof. So there you have it, I lose my shit when tv doctors do bad medicine and she makes ominous comments that make me want to explain to everyone that no, we don’t dismember people for fun.

Listen, necromancy is whatever, but “Imperio-Ing” people into harming themselves and making them hallucinate by playing the flute is what would freak me the fuck out about WWX ngl. I mean, I know he’s a good egg, but he’s Havana Syndrome-ing this bitch and that gives me chills.

Oh I love this shot of one WWX’s eyes cast in light. Cinematography on point as always.

Ok ok ok I am going to go on a terrible tangent in here. I know that in the book shit was even worse, with the cannibalism and JiaoJiao shoving a whole chair leg down her throat but there’s something that’s always caught my attention. If I’m not mistaken she bit off WC’s dick. Now call it a coincidence that WWX took advantage of, but, because I’m The Worst ™️ it made me think. If I’ve learnt something about Criminal Minds is that you don’t go after someone’s bits unless:

a) you’re a sexual sadist and can’t get off any other way (which WWX is not nor is he killing for sexual gratification)

b) those bits have gone near you when you didn’t want them to and it is revenge.

I mean, same way I didn’t want to make you wonder what WWX ate trapped in a mass grave for three months I don’t want to make you think about this but I need to get if off my chest.

Oh hey, now that I think about it the cannibalism could also be personal because again, they yeeted him into a palace full of corpses where “nothing grows”. God I hate my own brain sometimes.

Did these two just walk up to the front door of the Supervisory Office? I mean, the guards are all dead so it is fine, but that’s one shit strategy.

... that’s one ineffective way of tying a hangman’s noose.

JC IS BEING SOFT WITH WQ OMG!

YOU ARE BREAKING MY HEART. STOP. (Watch me go read ChengQing fics after this is done)

JC: is there anyone more wicked that the Wen Clan?

Me: *takes a deep breath* how much time do you have?

Gotta give it to WWX, the boy knows how to set the mood.

Yup yup I’m cackling.

Go my creepy necromancer son!

(Once again, I cheer when someone gets shanked)

(Once again, assume I’m screaming about the cinematography)

Bless LWJ’s brain cell, I remember when I first watched this being super worried about these two also getting ChenQing Syndrome.

So is the Red Woman an actual entity or is she an anthropomorphization of what he’s doing to them? Am I assigning too much Poe to this scene?

JC and LWJ straight up jumped through the ceiling to save WWX I love them. (But think, if they’ve been slightly slower and WZL had realised there wasn’t a core to melt, oh the delicious delicious canon divergences we could have)

Now that’s an effective noose.

THAT HUG WAS TOO SHORT! AND WWX WAS GOING TO RECIPROCATE BUT JC STOPED NOOOOOO. (Again JC looks like he gives the best hugs)

Misdirecting WWX is misdirecting.

Aaaaaand you can see the PTSD start to rear its ugly heard the second they want to know where he was the last three months.

WWX: *starts spinning bullshit*

JC: *relaxes his frown and eyerolls*

Aw bb he was really worried. I mean, it is still misdirection but I can see how JC inexperienced as he is with trauma (and dealing with his own) could interpret that as his baby brother just being himself.

Aw they’re falling back into being their soft yet prickly selves I die.

Nope LWJ! I know that you’re worried and shit but the last thing you want to do to someone with WWX’s trauma is trigger their fight or flight response by asking questions and making them sound like accusations.

(Also, interlude to say, WWX seems super reluctant to admit he fucked with the talismans, which fair enough, I’m thinking his trauma conga line is probably making him think he’ll get in trouble if he admits it or they’ll start distrusting him. But really looks like simple curiosity to me)

I’m just gonna scream incoherently at my screen because they are doing it fucking wrong.

Me with other fandoms: KISS GODDAMNIT

Me with this one: COMMUNICATE

DRAG HIM (ok GusuLan) WWX. I know LWJ only wants to make sure WWX is safe and healthy and loved but listen, he doesn’t have the full picture, he is still somewhat naive about you know, the amount his idols can disappoint him. Yes, it is exacerbated by WWX raising his hackles and his overall paranoia but; GusuLan is where the Sect Leader and the second in command (I know Netflix calls LQR “grandmaster” but I also know the translation is incorrect) decided that lashing their own family was an appropriate corrective. I’m not even going to go into the genocide victims or the reasons for the punishment but yeah, lashing. It hasn’t happened yet, but the potential is there, and as much of a self-sacrificing idiot as WWX is he must have some survival instincts if he lived in the streets for years, I’m not saying they don’t get negated when someone he loves is in danger, but you know, they have to be there. I think his brain has been *Kill Bill sirens* about GusuLan for a long time and now the guy who lives and breathes by their rules wants him to go back? Yeah I absolutely think it is valid that he thought the “help” he was gonna get would be horrifying punishment to “put him in the right path”. Do I see a fuck ton of parallels btw GusuLan and abusive Bible-thumping religious fanatical groups? Ok yeah, my b probably, but I Can’t Unsee.

And again, I know LWJ just wants to keep him safe and I know he’s an awkward potato but this one is on him. WWX is in no emotional place to play “guess WangJi” and it might make his soul shrivel up and die inside but a Long Conversation should be had.

Ok, allow me to go on another fucking tangent, there aren’t enough already. I’ve seen posts saying that western people misinterpret LWJ’s short and blunt speech (is short speech something you say in English?) as him being awkward/clamming up/not liking to talk when it actually is considered a very elegant thing to be able to get your point across with as few words as possible, because our culture values eloquence. First of all, I’ve seen that point made with the English language, and I’m Spanish, I don’t know if it affects my point of view but we also have the same idea of getting to the point ASAP here, it isn’t like the height of elegance but it is very common. That’s not my reasoning to say LWJ is an introverted/awkward potato, although it influences it. Because I’ve seen the show a few times, and because YiBo is the patron saint of micro-expressions, I’ve caught several instances in which, after pleasantries are done, a stranger tries to talk to LWJ and he get the tiniest “oh shit people want to have a conversation someone save me” look on his face. The most notable one is when YunmengJiang is trying to get into Cloud Recesses.

Just because someone can be a good conversationalist doesn’t mean they actually like to talk to people or be around them.

Bless JC to the rescue.

Btw regardless of me going off about LWJ’s lack of communication it doesn’t mean I’m not side eyeing WWX for unleashing on people who are not at fault for his trauma.

LET MY YUNMENG SIBS BE HAPPY GODDAMNIT

So that’s all for this episode. I’m so sorry for my tangents, I can’t contain myself. Thanks for reading!

[cascadingsorrows]

@princeofnxght​ - Plotted (ish) Starter              Muse -> Wei Wuxian || Dark!Wuxian 

A sorrowful melody echoed throughout the valley as black robes flowed in the gentle breeze, long black hair caressing's his face as nimble fingers danced against the polished instrument as he continued to play. Most curious hikers would flee at the very first note played, the shrill sending them running in fright. 

Yet, Wuxian felt no remorse, in all his time protecting his self made secluded haven he rather enjoyed sensing the fear from those brave enough to venture past the cleverly placed warnings. He also quite enjoyed the outrageous stores that surrounded the valleys because of his pranks on these adventurous humans. 

Then again his music always attracted those that bump in the night, crows would pay him a visit when he called upon the dead, when death was fresh and the souls of those lost raises to the heavens. They would often bring offerings to their master as they settled in the trees around and listened to the nightly stories. 

Wei Wuxian only paused in his playing when one of his many sentries approached him, body stiff and in various state of decay. His corpses lacked the means to communicate besides the grunts and moans, yet Wuxian, the mast of the undead could easily understand them with one glance. 

“A visitor you say?” he fringed surprised as two twin red clad spirits manifested from the darkness of his home and curled around his legs, their heads resting on his lap and he chuckled as he ran his pale fingers though their silky hair. Lifeless eyes stared out towards the direction of the visitor as he twirled his flute between his fingers. 

Wei Wuxian was a necromancer that ruled the dense forest of Yiling, no one knew how he got there or how old he was but it neither concerned him of those who foolishly ventured past his haunting music and warnings, accidents do happen of course. Flicking his wrist he sighed, “Very well, send them in.” he commanded, visitors that reached this far needed something and he would be eager to assist. 

“I was not expecting guest! haha forgive this one for the mess~” a wicked grin twisted against his lips as he added with a lazy tilt of his head, “Oh where are my manners, do come inside.” he taunted as his harem of spirits and corpses gathered around his throne, he was a flashy necromancer that’s for sure. 

Resting his cheek against his propped hand he asked, “To whom do I owe this pleasure to?” 

[xantissa]

Hi, thanks to your fic I have finally stumbled into The Untamed fandom (and it was rly hard stumble and konmaring in one) - till that moment it was only too pretty boys making cow eyes at each other. So thank you. Do you intend to write more in it? (after Embers) Btw, I love how you changed their dynamics as most ff that I found afterwards are lwj toping.

Hi there! Ahh nice stumble. I love all the pretty. I was always weak for good aesthethics  (one of the reasons why i hate modern idea that all movies have to be grey and dark to be ‘edgy’)

Embers is actually fully written, just waiting to be betaed. 10 chapters total.

As far as I know the lwj top thing comes from the novels. my personal opinion is different and while I can definitely see them switching the idea of lwj as this uber dom just makes me laugh and laugh.

I do love the wwx/lwj pairining but I can see myself looking at all the possible combinations. I was always a multi shipper at heart (greedy that way) and I might stumble sideways into strange combinations!

I have a few ideas rattling around in my brain right now but not sure which one to start writing. The one where WWX is ressurected not as the well adjusted young man but half insane necromancer that raises an army of dead and marches on Lanling because he can sense Wen Ning - and if he is alive then WWX can tell something is seriosuly amiss.

or that one idea @cobaltmoony gave me where Lan Zhan is killed at Nevernight and wwx goes insane - and turns LWJ into an undead like Wen Ning? That one might turn into another lancest one actually.

or the one where Chen Qing after being reunited with WWX decided nobody else shall touch it again and actively attempts to kill people who so much as touch the flute by accident.

Or the one where the rumors about Yiling patriarch wild orgies weren’t exactly untrue - because back at Burial Mounds wwx accidentally discovered an array for sex magic that allowed him to mitigate most of the side effects of the resentful energy - and then it kind of went out of control?

Or the one where Wen Ning was not only a friend (after his almost-death) but a lover too becuase damn it somebody had to take care of WWX then? And Lan Zhan learns about it and kind of accepts it? Wen Ning also extremely protective of both lwj and wwx?

Or the classic back in time fic where wwx as a sixteen year old goes off and slaughters most of the ruling clan members of the Wen clan, takes over the yin iron, and then, with the scary reputation it gives him - tries to get lwj to fall in love with him?

Oh, and don’t start me on the Nie brothers. That’s a kinky, angsty story waiting to happen.

Also Lan Xichen and Nie Mingjue early years - that has so much potential.

So yeah, many ideas, not sure which ones I want to write, if any, or maybe I will be hit with a completely new idea? Not sure yet!

[sleepymarmot]

The Untamed liveblog, eps. 33-38

Didn’t post a liveblog yesterday to avoid possible spoilers in the replies, so here it is now.

33

Before I proceed, here are my guesses as to the identity of the mysterious flute player: 1) Guangyao, the most obvious candidate 2) Xue Yang 3) idk, a new character 4) Guangyao is a red herring. The real villain is Nie Huaisang because that's funny

Relieved that WWX experienced the 16 years too. I was afraid he was regained consiousness straight from the moment of his "death" of whatever it was, so LWJ would be 16 years older with him which would have made the romance VERY awkward.

The room scene is beautiful, but one thing I particularly appreciate about it is that finally, probably for the first time in the show, these two are allowed time alone together in safety and relative privacy, and the scene can organically develop into a tender private moment that isn't for the camera to see or show.

"I must not reveal my identity" says WWX, who is dressed almost exactly like 16 years ago

Oh god I still can't tell apart the two young Lan disciples.

Switched to the subtitles from Viki. Unfortunately, they need to be resynced manually every time, and that, for some reason, messes up the file's internal subtitles. Ah well, I don't know Chinese anyway, and now the English subtitles actually say accurately what the characters call each other.

34

Feeling both represented by WWX's dog phobia and offended that it's a running joke

Oh "cool", another casual mention of supposedly likeable characters brutally beating their children :/

god, JC is really shitty at leading/parenting. "I'll break your leg", really?

"With my uncle's character, he would rather catch the wrong one than let the right one go." And execute the wrong one? Yikes

35

Wait, are you telling me NHS is a baddie for real lfmao

Aw, the fan scene is cute

Oh, so the first time we see Guangyao again is in a flashback about the mysterious death of the clan Nie leader. How convenient.

36

Stop! Making! Flasbacks! To the fucking Nonconsensual Alcohol scene! I am trying to ignore its existence! Why did you have to tarnish the current scene, very endearing by itself, with its presence?

Gasped IRL when Wen Ning's silhouette appeared. Good job writers!

Ouch, that looks painful

Oh, so the siblings weren't killed? That makes sense, if you pretend to spread their ashes on the wind, you don't need to show the bodies. Hopefully Qing survived too, but I wouldn’t expect much towards a female character from this series... Killed off the only two women, now we’re in No Woman’s Land comfortably and forever I presume

And here I thought WWX was actually going to apologize to Ning for treating him like a thing or a slave, now that he unexpectedly has a new opportunity to do so!

I'm assuming the chicken are a wedding gift joke?

WWX got so disctracted by the drunk LWJ he completely forgot about Ning smh

Maybe now it finally occurs to WWX to ask about his son...

Loving every look at how the common people interpret and interact with the epic history he participated in

I want to meet more of the recurring characters, but on the other hand: ghost town and WWX leading a field trip for a bunch of teenagers!

37

This show is too multi-faceted. I'm constantly going "This is my favorite part of the show: the sweet romance. No, this is my favorite: the ghosts and WWX being a cool necromancer. No, this is my favorite: the family drama. No, this is my favorite: clan politics. No, this is my favorite: WWX with kids." and it just keeps going in circles.

Aww, the kid thinking WWX is like LWJ because they're both competent leaders who make others feel safe*

And now it's an action movie where the hero and the villain exchange a whole spiral of "No, I outsmarted you first" and drop one-liners every minute. Hilarious

The kids watching two zombies punch each other through a window like a football match on TV, I'm crying

Kids: "Don't you think Light Bearing Lord is good?" WWX internally, with a dreamy smile on his face: "Haha what they're asking ME if I think the love of my life is 'good'? How would it even be possible to less than utterly admire someone who is so graceful, skillful, protective, just, kind, beautiful... Oh wait are they still waiting for an answer"

* Added after the episode: If this kid is actually Yuan and he feels this way because they're both his dads I'm gonna scream I WENT BACK TO EPISODE 1 AND THE SUBTITLE SAYS 'LAN YUAN'. TIME TO SCREAM I GUESS. I KNEW THIS NAME COMBINATION SOUNDED FAMILIAR Did LJW get beaten for bringing him in, then? Did he spend the first three years raising him? I checked the subtitles and the name Yuan is written with different characters but that's probably fine? I doubt LWJ ever asked WWX how his son's name was written, or even if he knew, he could have wanted to protect the kid's identity - he's Lan and not Wen, after all If this is true then WWX has the funniest and most valid excuse for being an absent father. Sorry I missed your entire childhood and adolescence, kid, I was literally dead the whole time But also, if this is true, why didn't LWJ bring it up immediately DAMMIT I WAS PLANNING TO GO TO BED AND NOW I WANT TO SEE THE FAMILY REUNION ASAP God, in the light of this, the silence spell scene in ep 2 becomes even funnier. The more I know about these characters, the better it becomes. LWJ's silent stare at JC, apparently, meant "Look how well I raised WWX's son. Must I also raise his nephew, since you are clearly unfit for the job?" Involving kids, especially other people's, in your powerplays is shitty, but the scene is fucking hilarious. Anyways if this ends up being a giant coincidence and the kid is given so much focus for no or some other reason you're NOT allowed to laugh at this paragraph

38

God, this feels like... idk any Celebrimbor/Annatar fanfic lmao. I'm in pain. Let me guess, people write very painful fics about these two right. Fuck. I'm 21 minutes in, is this going to last the entire episode aaaaaaa

Fuck. Well how am I supposed to sleep after this. This episode didn't even make me cry once, it's not that type of bad thing. And not the type where something is so brutal I shield my mind because I prefer to pretend that level of pain can't exist. It's just diabolically designed to be maximally fucked up.

[mysticmysterywrites-blog]

Prompt #6

Hey, so this prompt ended up being over 2000 words. I'm telling you now, you absolutely do not have to match it. Like, you can choose to. This is something you can choose to do! But I'm not going to force you to, because I'm 9/10 not gonna match this fuckers length again for a good long time.

Anyway!

I'm kinda hoping for a male character as a reply? The character I'm writing is like, 100% homo of the sexual, and he absolutely fuck with your character a few times while they're traveling. That said, if you really want to play a female character, I'm not that hard to convince (being the massive fucking gay that I am). But also, might end up needing to wipe the romantic aspect from it!

At least w/ Kimon, anyway. His brothers fair game to all genders.

Real fast. Kimon and Thales are human twins, the first being a bard and the second a wizard. They have darker skin, with red-brown hair and brown eyes. Kimon keeps his styled a bit shorter, and sticks to wearing lots of blacks and greys like the emo fucker he is. Probably best known for playing fantasy My Chemical Romance in the middle of the night. Thales keeps his hair down to about his chest, and dresses up in robes and a barrage of colors and patterns thats insulting to anyone actually trying. He's actually p happy, as a person. And you know, the necromancer.

When he's 5 he trips and cuts his leg on the pointed ocean stones, the sea salt slipping into the wound with each lap of the water

He cries and cries and cries, letting the tears replace the ocean mist on his face. His mother eventually notices his screams and comes rushing over to check on him, but his brother watches the way the blood falls from his wound, eyes wide in facination, hand gripping his in an attempt to comfort him.

The memory is eventually forgotten with time, but the fascination is not, and the two of them take very different paths in life.

~~

He starts learning the piano when he's 7, takes fascination in the way that it sounds and feels. Every touch of a new key is a new feeling of wonder and excitement, Eventually, he takes excitement in the way that the lights around him glitter and dance, turning to the tune of the piano. He gets caught like that, playing to lights that shouldn't be there.

His mother is hesitant, of course. Bards are well known for their love of travel, for never standing in one place. Their father was like that. Always wanting to travel and move, always wanting to explore the world. It got him killed, and screwed her leg up, and she didn't want that for her baby boys. She wanted them to live a comfortable, cushiony life. Something boring. Something safe.

However, eventually she relents. He's not a particularly happy child (and hell, even as an adult is admittedly not the tellitubbies sun.) But playing against the piano always made him smile, and she loves when he smiles.

Over the years, He learns to master the piano, and then the violin, then the flute, then the guatar, and even the harp. Always falls back to the piano, but finds just as much enjoyment in every other instrument he learns. Violin offers him the most mobility, however, and mobility eventually offers him places amongst parties of adventurers or caravans.

His brother studies book after text next to him, humming along to the songs he plays time and time again, and eventually is rewarded a stave for his troubles.

~

They leave home when they're 16.

It's a hard choice to make. Admittedly, they have a rather comfortable life. Their mother has money and resources. Earned her place amongst nobility, rather then born. She knows who to talk to, and how to talk to them, and as a result they all live comfortable lives.

But he wants to travel, and his brother is running out of books to study from. He craves knowledge, craves digging deeper into magic he shouldn't have access to. He doesn't understand it, at the time. He, personally, just wants to tell stories. Learn other people stories. Wants to learn stories that have been passed down time and time again, and pass them onto other people.

But his brother wants knowledge, the kind hidden behind lock and key deep in temples and forgotten cities.

And forgotten cities have some pretty damn kick-ass stories to tell.

~~

When they're younger, there's this tiefling girl that comes to their house a lot.

Her names Laelia, and she has this absolutely gorgeous purple skin, and big horns that crook and curve down, following the curve of her back and curl of her black hair. Her eyes are a bright green color, and fingers and teeth are sharp and shinning. She scares his brother, at first. But, Their mother welcomes her with open arms, speaks curses of the girl's parents and their dismissal. Sometimes, she stays for months on end before her parents remember she exists, come and claim her once again.

But she always end up back at their house, and their mother teaches her how to stalk around in the shadows, how to take full advantage of the smallest blade. Her sons might have been magic users, but the girl becomes her daughter, and she gladly passes on her techniques to her as she would a child of her own blood.

She travels with them for a while. She grows close to dying three times, then meets a small group

Her last words to him weren't a goodbye. She didn't believe in goodbyes, whatever that meant. She believed that the word was "Kimon, watch out for your brother," she'd tell him, placing her hands on his shoulder and glancing over at him, "he's getting into some things that are far outside his payroll, if you get what I'm throwing down."

He raised an eyebrow, and at the time he didn't understand. She could see that, he thinks. So, she just sighs and mutters.

"Its- nevermind. Just focus on keeping yourself safe, babe," and then she'd smack him on the back of the head, and turn to walk away. ~~

They find the first book in a temple hidden away, seemingly lost to time itself. Its made of stone and gold, the shine of the metal seeming to dance through the cracks of the stone. Light struggles to make its way inside, and Thales lights their path with a small flame, just in front of the two of them.

Theres a skeleton in the middle of the floor, a body as forgotten as the temple, and stains that even sink into the cracks of the floor. They ignore it, and go about shuffling through the books and notes the deceased wizard had left behind.

Thales thumbs through it with fascination glinting in his eyes and mouth opening and shutting about every now and again. "It's powerful stuff," he mutters, mostly to himself, "I don't know if I've ever seen anything like it."

They spend over a month there, as his brother copies spell after spell down. He doesn't mind, because he's spent three months in towns writing down stories and local fables. But it still worries him, the way his fingers linger over the necromancy books for so long.

~~

There's this girl they meet.

She's beautiful. Hair large, curly. Pure white against a nice tan. She dresses in pinks and whites, carries around a hammer larger then she is. Her skin is callous around her fingers, eyes are brighter then ocean water, and she has a laugh he thinks he could play a song to.

Kimon likes her well enough. Thales falls for her immediately.

The sound of her spine snapping is somehow both memorizing, and sickening.

~~

His cat brings him a little dead bird one day. It's feathers are pulled out and it's guts are destroyed, and the little bastard looks so pleased with himself over it. He grumbles and goes to clean it up, but his brother snatches up the job before he has the chance. Whatever. He's always been a fucking weirdo.

He doesn't think much of it. Wizards were just kind of like that. Maybe he needed the bones, or the feathers. Maybe it was some rare kinda bird, or maybe he just liked the look of the thing. He wasn't one to judge, he supposed.

He comes back three days later, holds up the bird, fluttering and chirping and as happy as could be.

"Kimon," he tells him, hope barely stinging through his voice, "I think I could bring her back."

~~

His brother leaves in the middle of the night, one night, and he doesn't bother coming back. Doesn't leave a note, doesn't say goodbye. He just fuckin' leaves, like the goddamn jackass he is. His anger is replaced by worry only when, two years later, he hears stories of a necromancer causing trouble on a snowy mountain.

~~

There's a few times where he's wrong

There's a few times where he joins a party chasing after a necromancer, only for them to stumble across a cult, or some other dumbass wizard in over their head on the concept of their own power. He doesn't feel bad, helping to bring their end. He doesn't have a connection to them, doesn't feel the pain they do. But it's disappointing everytime. He wants to find his brother, wants to know hes okay.

But he almost always ends up jumping from the party, after they're done.

He meets up with Laelia's party again, travel with them to some sea side town he knows he's been to but doesn't remember the name of. He doesn't tell them about his brother, knows the looks Laelia gives him when he asks are knowing and worried.

They stop at a little in, one thats run down and near abandoned, but has maybe some of the best fries he's tastes in years. He preforms for them to snag them a free room, and thats where he meets them.

They're different. He doesn't know why, but they feel different. He lingers around for a bit, listens to the way they speak and the tales they spin. It might be eaves dropping, to a small degree, but he finds himself so inticed by their words that he doesn't care.

He only approaches them after they tell the tale of a necromancer they've taken down, and how they plan to hunt down another one sometime soon. "I hear you're going after a necromancer," the words feel foreign, sour on his tongue, despite the fact that he's said them time and time over, "Up north, right? How much are you paying?"

And then he separates from Laelia's party once more, to fall in line with them.

~~

He sleeps with them about three times, overall

The first time was excusable. They were both drunk, and he was admittedly touch starved. Every moment their hand lingered against his arm, it shot a feeling of euphoria up into his side, made him see lights he didn't know existed. He tried to play his instrument that night, but the cords were sloppy, and tune was off, and all he succeeded in doing was making them laugh. And hell, their laughter was gorgeous. Waking up the next day curled into their side hadn't been surprised, but he found he couldn't care as much as he should have with a hang over.

The second time wasn't as easily excusable, so much as it was stupidity. Theres this dance they go to, you see. Need to get all dressed up for it, know how to slow dance and eat finger foods and shit. They need to get in and steal a book from the man running the party, something of an easy task. They're talking in private, somewhere quiet, more like arguing, when the doors open. He thinks too fast, doesn't think through his plan. All he knows is that they have papers, books that they shouldn't, and that could be anyone. He slams his lips down onto theirs, lets them linger as the intruders startle, then pass. Flustered, but not knowing any better as to what they've obtained. And they don't bother separating, at least for the night. They're both touch starved, both angry.

The third time? There was no excuse. Nothing he could blame it on. They'd been sitting out by the camp fire, as he plucked gently at the strings of his instrument and played a quiet tune. It was just the two of them, party members be damned. It was cold. They were both tired, both hungry. They'd move closer together, quietly- gratefully- taking in the warmth of the other body heat. He'd bitch at them for ruining the tune of the song he was playing, and they'd laugh at him for it. He'd place his head on their shoulder, place his violin down. Move closer. Kiss them.

They end up in his tent, and he ends up with cricks all up his back, and half a regret from the night earlier.

~~

He tells himself not to get too attached to them. They're a means to an end, nothing more, nothing less.

But Dammit.

He likes them

~~

Theres tubes, filled with green liquid he can't really see through fully, but can see enough through to make out the form of a person.

The basement becomes colder, especially as he hears familiar humming deeper in it.

~~

He would have slept with them more, is the thing.

But despite being a bard, he can't seduce to save his fucking life, and they always shuffle away when he gets close. So he doesn't, and they move on with their lives.

~~

There's this little cabin tucked away in the mountains that they stumble across. While it appears abandoned at first, it's worn and well loved on the interior, Ash and dust having collected, just as much as footsteps and food have. There's evidence of someone living there, but not evidence of there currently being someone THERE.

They find a door under a rug, and that's where they hit gold.

~~

They travel together for at least a year.

They have a tendency to get, well. Sidetracked, is the thing. A small quest here leads to a bigger quest there, and suddenly something that should have only taken three months at most is taking a year to get done. Its an easy pattern to fall into. They're the first person he's felt compelled to stay around in a while, and he doesn't mind getting dragged off to do the next big thing.

Still. He worries what will happen, in the end.

~~

He makes a choice he decides not to regret.

He changes his target.

He's always been good at adding buffs. He plays on the defensive, prefers not to get hit. But it's hard. It's hard to concentrate on protecting both teams. He doesn't want his brother dead, and his brother doesn't want to die, which makes him terrifying. Thales always had a good grasp on magic, and watching him use it against them turns his heart cold.

He could tell that his brother, at least, was picking up on something being off, the way he noticeably double takes at him. His mask covers only the base of his face, but his hat covers the rest of it. But he knows his play style is unique, knows his brother has watched him cast spells with his magic almost his entire life. He notices, about half way through, how Thales backs off. Opens his mouth to say something. Gets himself knocked out as a result of it.

The shriek of the violin stops the battle in it's tracks, and he's turning his heel as his brother falls to the ground. Passed out, he tells himself. He's hurt and bloody and tired, but his brother is only passed out. He looks over the eyes of the person he's been traveling with for over a year now, the person that sweeps his feet out from under him and plays with his heart.

He's not sure if what he feels is love, or lust, but it doesn't change the fact that he's pointing a knife at them.

"Let me make this very clear," he raises the bow of his violin up, something he liked to think was a little more threatening due to the curve of the end being sharpened, due to them having watched him fight time and time again, "If you touch him, any farther, I- I will kill you. Even you can't be /that/ fuckin stupid. Step OFF."

[decorous-biohazart]

Answer Me

Trona Quicksilver flashback to her youth for my sub-blog @the-science-of-stories. 

Headcanon for this story: 

-Trona severely despises Necromancers because she dabbled in Necromancy when she lost her village in a disillusional plight to bring them back. She discovered that this magic does not return loved ones, but rather is a tool for manipulating the dead; an act she considers the highest disrespect for the deceased.

More Stories

“How many did we lose?” 

“Couple dozen, ma’am. There wasn’t much left for identification.” a male voice responded.

“What about Trona?” 

“In the other room, my lady.”  a female voice answered. 

Echoing off the stone walls of a stronghold were the voices of three figures. Two clad in armor and uniforms synonymous to the group known as the Harpers, a semi-secret organization intent on the balance between humanity and nature as well as the promotion of good and safety in Faerun. There was a burley male Dwarf and a toned female Elf. 

Before the two guards stood a human woman, towering just above 6 feet with long silver hair. Her gaze was firm and demanding, but her voice was gentle yet commanding. A comforting tone that made whoever spoke to her feel cared for and protected. 

She was astonishingly beautiful, her lean figure clad in leather armor with a sword on one hip and a flute on the other. Anyone who knew the Harpers would recognize her as Storm Silverhand, also known as ‘The Bard of Shadowdale’ and one of the Seven immortal Sisters who were chosen by the goddess Mystra.

“I will speak with her, secure the perimeter. No one else comes into the holding cells without my clearance.” 

“Yes, my lady!” the guards said in unison with a firm salute before they trotted down the hallway to complete their orders. 

For a moment Storm stood in silence, only the crackling of the torches lining the walls offering sound over her thoughts. 

She raised her head and breathed deep through her nose before she stepped forward to a wooden door and pushed it open. 

Immediately the sound of footsteps approached the door as she opened it and was met with the long beak of a Plague Doctor mask just inches from her own. 

Inside was a high set window, a bed in the corner, papers strewn across a desk with an oil lamp as well as across the walls, an Alchemy station and the figure before Storm. It was a woman, clad in tattered Plague Doctor robes and bandages across her wrists and ankles. 

“Lady Silverhand!” the woman greeted quickly in surprise, taking a step back and bowing low in apology. “I... Never expected to see you here.”

Storm watched the woman she referred to as Trona for a moment, clearly able to distinguish the fatigue and fear in the young girl’s voice despite how hard she tried to hide it. Judging by her figure, to an outsider she couldn’t have been older than 16. 

“Hello, Trona. It’s good to see you, dear.” the Sister responded with a gentle smile as she shut the door before placing a tender hand on Trona’s shoulder, causing her to raise her mask and hood clad head a couple inches. 

“You... Came because you heard what I had done.” Trona observed sheepishly, her ability to observe clear despite having no details on Silver’s arrival. 

She was a woman renowned for her compassion for her subjects, and it was always likely she’d appear in times like this. 

“Are you here to punish me?” Trona asked, more curiosity in her voice than fear. 

“No I-... No, Trona.” Storm stammered, clearly nervous she was perceived as a threat by the young girl. “I am just here to get all the details and make sure you’re alright. Your outburst, from what the others said, it was unlike you. You are a young Alchemist who has always had a knack for professionalism, but according to the healer that saw to you you had something akin to a panic attack” 

Trona raised her head to look her superior in the eye, but did not answer. 

“Come,” Storm beckoned, slipping passed Trona as she gently took her hand and led her to the bed to sit before she took a seat across from the concealed girl in the desk chair, “Sit with me for a moment, and tell me everything you remember.” 

It took Trona a moment of silence before she answered, her thoughts and memories hanging in the air like a thick smoke. 

                                                                                               -1 Hour Earlier- 

“WHERE IS HE!?” A voice yelled, a small female voice that boomed with desperation. 

In the stone halls of the stronghold a small silhouette akin to a bird sped through the halls with boots thunking against the floor at a rapid pace as she ran. The clattering of armor as guards pursued not far behind her. 

Her lungs burned as they struggled for air in the tight quarters of the castle, feeling as if the very stone was absorbing the oxygen out of the air. But her head buzzed with thoughts like an itch that she could not sate without answers. 

Eventually she reached a barred metal door, instinct taking control of her limbs as she pushed with almost inhuman strength for her size to push the door open. 

“Trona, no! Don’t go in there!” A female guard called. 

But she did not listen, and within moments she had the door open and stood in awed silence as she stared at what she found inside. 

Across from her, in a single chair in the center of the room, was a lone figure of a male Drow slumped over in a chair. 

Then her mind went silent, a signal that she found who she was looking for. 

Dashing forward with reckless abandon, Trona’s gloved hands took hold of the mans collar and began shaking him violently. 

“How did you do it!? Answer me!” she demanded, her voice almost at the level of screaming as it cracked under the stress. 

The Drow lifted his head, his eyes closed and jaw slack as if he were asleep. Then suddenly his eyes creaked open and stared at the Alchemist with two piercing green irises. His lips twitched with very faint gasps that almost sounded like laughter before they stretched unnaturally wide with a grim smile; his teeth cracking as they formed into sharp fangs and a feral growl rose from his throat. 

Trona gasped and stumbled backwards just as the teeth snapped at where her neck had been just a moment before. 

The sound of a bowstring snapped as an arrow whistled as it was loosed through the air and burrowed into the eye socket of the Drow prisoner. His head slacked forward, face frozen in a look of feral anger and shock as black blood dripped from his maw. 

Trona had stumbled to the floor as the arrow flew, her hands shaking in fear as a desperate ‘No!’ escaped her mouth. 

Suddenly a pair of burly and strong hands were holding her shoulders as a Dwarven male, standing at even height with Trona from where she sat.

“Trona, Trona! Look at me, gal, look at me!” he demanded, trying to quell her panic. 

Small and quick gasps left Trona’s mouth beneath her covered face as her entire body shook as the Dwarf demanded her attention. Her gaze slid upwards as she saw a Half-Elf woman with a fresh arrow in her crossbow that she now had aimed at the body of the Drow. 

“Say somethin’, Trona.” The Dwarf requested, his tone softer as Trona scrambled to her feet and bolted out the door. “’Ey, wait!” he called after her. 

“Let her go.” the half-elf said with a sigh as she lowered her crossbow, “she’s headed right for the medical bay. She’s living over there right now, she’s bound to run into Keerla.” 

The Dwarf huffed with a shake of his head as his eyes looked back to the now deceased prisoner. 

“Dammit, gal...” he muttered. 

                                        -Present Time-

“That’s when I was found in the hallway by Keerla, and then... I woke up here in my quarters.” Trona finished, her hands sheepishly placed in her lap as she struggled to meet Silver’s eyes. 

The human Bard nodded understandingly, her hands elegantly layered in her lap as she listened to the girl’s story. 

“Keerla had to sedate you, she said you were frantic.” the immortal explained. Keerla was the Elvish healer in the stronghold that had taken Trona in as an apprentice. “What happened in there, Trona? What made you go in there knowing the danger?” 

Trona was quiet again, her gaze fixed on the floor as if she’d find her answer among the floor tiles. 

“He... He was a Necromancer.” Trona eventually answered, shame in her voice. 

“Yes, yes he was.” Storm affirmed, prompting her to go on. 

“I thought-” Trona’s voice caught in her throat as her head shot up and she forced the reply from her mind. “- I thought he could show me how! How to use it differently!” 

Silverhand’s expression turned to that of sorrow, already understanding what Trona meant by the words. 

Just hours ago, the Drow had launched an attack with Necrotic magic on a nearby settlement. Trona was told to remain behind due to the danger, but when they returned with the Necromancer in custody she demanded to get to speak to him. Instead she was met with the transformed, primal nature of the prisoner as she attempted to shape-shift and break out; nearly costing the Alchemist her life. 

“Trona... You saw what Necromancy can do, what it is created for. It is a dark magic that consumes your very being-” Storm began. 

“But that can’t be all there is!” Trona interjected, “There is a good and evil side to every magic!” she argued. 

“Yes,” Storm replied, her patience as resilient as iron, “But that other side to Necromancy comes at a cost as well.” 

“I-I... I had to try.” Trona whimpered, her voice wavering. 

“I know, dear... I know.” Storm said in a comforting tone as she wrapped her arms around the girl, pressing her head to her chest. “I know what it’s like to lose family. When Syluné perished to that red dragon and then having seen her spirit destroyed I had many similar thoughts. Wanted to barter with Mystra to bring her back, but...” Her eyes closed for a moment, “... But I knew she was gone, and that was the way it had to be.

“Necromancy is a dangerous magic, and even the most adept cannot return a soul back to a body without severe consequence, and even then they will never be what they were. To challenge death after it has claimed a life is to risk it taking you, as well.”

For what felt like hours there was no answer from Trona, her shattered heart taking any words from her. Eventually, she seemed to have finally drifted off in Silver’s embrace and she left the girl to rest and recover from her injuries. 

However, the peace did not last. 

Just a few hours after the exchange, Storm arrived back in the medical wing when she was informed by an alert sent out to the guards that a book that was confiscated from the Necromancer had vanished. 

What could only be intuition told Storm to find Keerla. 

When she entered the potion maker’s lab she found the dark-haired Elvish woman working frantically with two Cleric’s as a bright light shined from a bed hidden by their bodies. 

“What happened-?” Storm asked as she approached, panic in her voice before she stopped with a gasp as a hand shot to her mouth. 

On the bed before them, laid out with eyes wide open in shock was Trona. Her white hair spilled out over her features and shoulders as her right arm rested in Keerla’s palms as the two Clerics performed a ritual that Silver recognized as Dispel Magic. 

Trona’s bare arm radiated with Necrotic energy as black tendrils snaked over her skin, barely held at bay by the full force of the two Clerics. 

“Lady Silverhand.” Keerla said, her voice somber. 

“What happened?” The Sister asked, her voice that of a heartbroken spectator. 

Keerla wore an expression of sorrow on her thin face as she turned her head to look back to her apprentice. 

“She has been in this state for a few minutes now. She sneaked out of her room passed the guards and raided the confiscated materials from the attack. As soon as she grabbed the Necromancer’s spellbook some sort of spell initiated as a defense-mechanism and...” she trailed off, the condition of the young Alchemist clear as the consequences. 

“L-L-Lady S-S-Silverhand...” Trona stammered as Keerla gently shushed her. 

“Save your strength, Trona.” her mentor requested gingerly, but she disobeyed. 

“I-I-I’m... S-S-Sorry...” 

What Storm had been afraid of from the beginning had become truth. Trona had sought Necromancy after having been exposed to its power believing it would answer her prayers to bring her village back. 

She had not only suffered the agony of the consequences, but the crushing reality that she had no options left to see her home returned.

[hdawg1995]

sad head canons for my DnD charater: Envoy Tantrum

so i’ve had a few sad head canons but this one was long and complicated so i was like “screw it imma just write a fan fic. be anksty as the kids say”

the bard sailed through the air and tumbled. her form rag dolled as she blacked out. when she landed the last thing she heard was shouts and roars. the last thing she saw was darkness and the last thing she felt was a punt from what they thought was a easy fight. she didn’t know how long she was out but she when she woke up she thought it was thanks to her friends... but they were no where to be found. the darkness chocked her as she felt her way around before realization came to her. weakly, she tapped her armor and it began to glow. her wounds weren’t that bad- it seems the punt did most of the damage and she had recovered from it... she thinks. her head still hurts as she smoothed over the antlers and carded a hand through her hair.  “Alicaria?....” she called. no response. she stood up on shaky legs and took a few steps forward. a few feet away her light illuminated a limp unmoving ninja druid. with a gasp the girl knealed down and cradled her friend. “alicaria! hang on, i should have a spell slot...” she spoke to the corps as she cast raise dead.  the bard’s heart stopped when nothing happened. “Ali.... he-... this isn’t funny ali hehe...” the body remained limp. she felt no cold from the uldra. it sunk in quickly that it must have been over 24 hours or worse. the bard fought her tears as she scrambled up, blue companion in her arms.  “SPINE! VALEKEMIN! ELIZANDER! NE-AH!” in her paniced running she tripped and tumbled again. she braced her friend’s small body against her’s to keep it safe but when she uncurled and saw what she had tripped on she couldn’t hold her tears back anymore.  before her was a tangled heap of the young witch and witcher she had been calling out for. she checked their pulses and found nothing. her mind searched with grabbing hands at spells but her magic was gone now- used up on the raise dead attempt. she was hysterical as the winged bard cried out her friend’s names in moose. she begged her deity for this all to be a dream, for this to be a nightmare.

then she remembered Spine. Spine was a necromancer. he had one of those things uhh- she couldn’t think of the name. she just reached into alicaria’s pocket and pulled out what the group called “The pokeball”. it was actually her personal home on the go. she poked her friend’s bodies into it, placing the corpses onto their beds and chilling the rooms to keep them preserved. she got up once again, tears streaming down her face and feathers ruffled and out of place.  “S-Spine can fix it... Spine can fix them. it- *cough* it’ll be okay! Spine can save them!” she petted her wings and carded a hand though her hair- calming exercises she had picked up. this isn’t the first time shes been panicked and it won’t be the last. everything will be fine once Spine is okay. she didn’t notice when she started running but she was really booking it. “Spine can fix this...” the bard breathed as her wings beatted in a attempt to make her go faster. “IT’ll be okay.” it wasn’t okay. along the way to poked Nazul into the ball- his body mostly intact save for his arm. valekemin was next and she had to chock back a sob. was she really the only one alive? she petted her wings again, wrapping them around her in a hug as she continued to search the darkness for her friend. the bard stood unmoving when she found the necromancer. his body with limp as expected but something wasn't right. she took a hesitant step forward. she called his name and there was nothing. she swallowed roughly as she knelt down and looked him over. any of her healing spells would hurt him... and even if they didn’t she didn’t have any magic in the first place. the more she thought about it the more hopeless she felt. no harming spells to heal him. no way of reviving her friends who could heal him... she was up a creek without a paddle. 

the bard was panicking again. her feathers rustled and she couldn’t keep it together. she babbled in moose before she start just sobbing and wailing. it was the only thing she could do. she clasped her hands together and practically yelled a prayer to her deity. she slowly began to calm down and breath. her mind clearing, she remembered some things about her friends: Nazul is able to revive himself. because he didn’t, his soul is in the spectral sea or what ever. Vale and her animals go to the hunt if they are ever to die permanently. Neffestia... she wasn’t sure. but the witch was friends with Alicaria before and Alicaria is close with the gods- she could possible be brought back even after 24 hours. elizander didn’t beleive in any gods. hes gone... this thought caused Envoy to curl in on herself again. WHY WOULD SHE BE REMINDED OF THAT? Spine... spine....... SPINE! the bard’s eyes shot open and landed on his deity’s bracer. the necromancer was a fellow avatar and he had a relic. fleeting over the large lizard so she cold get a better look at said relic she dared to touch it. when nothing happened she picked her friend’s arm up and her the large garment firmly. breathing in she thought about her words carefully before simply sobbing out “bring him back”. there was no response. frustrated and hopeless the pure good bard shook the pure evil necromancer’s limp limb “Bring him back!” a few tired swings and a sore throat later the girl resorted to sobbing with her brother figure’s hand resting on her head, the bracer in her white knuckled grasp.

“woooorrrssshhiiipppp....mmmmeeeeee” the bracer whispered in her mind.  “Bring him back...” she sobbed.

this exchange was held multiple times. down bellow in the abyss, Lord Yethan groaned as he repeated his demands to the bard.

“Lord Yethan... if i may?” the avatar of disaster's spirit approached. “what is it, Spine?” envoy’s voice echoed her request and the god face palmed. “May i talk to her? though the relic?” the crocodile seemed to know what he was doing and honestly hearing this pitiful voice in his head was beyond aggravating. “Fine. get her to worship me.” the deity waved his hand and Spine grinned evilly as he was “handed the mic” if you will.

in the material plain Envoy’s wings layed limp as she cried into the bracer. she had no more tears at this point, just the wails of a girl who lost her family. 

“Envoy? envoy can you hear me?” the bard whipped her head to the necromancer’s face but it was still. she whispered a small yes and was given instructions. she was promised Spine and the others would be brought back to life if she got Lord Yethan some followers. without another word, Spine’s Minion agreed. she was told to wear the bracer and place Spine’s body in his room the same way she had placed and preserved the others. she was hesitant as she held the lizardman’s bracer in her hands. 

“if this isn’t the path i need to go on... this is your last chance...” she spoke in moose and waited. there was no response.

Envoy sucked in a breath as she placed the relic on. though some sort of magic (Yethan’s probably. Spine’s she figured) the relic swank to fit her human arm. it hurt like hell itself as the necrotic energy wrapped itself around her. thinking fast she played her special flute- the one her friends helped her make. the song she played healed her faster than the necrotic energy could damage her. a moment pasted and the pain went away. studying her arm, the bracer seemed to fit like a glove. “Don’t worry *sniff* i’ll give it back Deon. i promise.” she took a few steps out until she found the exist. where ever she was.... thats where the wrecking crew died. a paign of hatred pulsed though the bard as she left- that place would burn and be destroyed. she sword on the blue flying moose it would. but first....

it was time to play a few songs for Yethan...

----

down in the abyss Yethan seemed the slightest bit impressed.  “so how many followers did you agree on?” “i didn’t.” “didn’t what?” “agree on a number. she didn’t ask, i didn’t say.” “....so she will simply go and convert others-” “-until you revive me and the party-” “which you and i both know i won’t be doing any time soon.” “for you, Lord Yethan” “even in death you are a good avatar, Spine.”

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

this came from the fact that if envoy was the last one left alive and couldn’t revive anyone, she would just be a desperate wreck.

[bellascactus-stan]

AN: this is the first chapter of book two of my fanfic- I’ve decided to start posting them here because why not?

Ao3 link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19446952/chapters/46285984

“My friend Tom,” he starts, kicking the prisoner who had begun to struggle to stand back onto the dirty floor, “he says that traitors should be delivered death. He says they don’t deserve to live- that they should be culled like the filthy animals they are.” The air hummed and shimmered with faint silver vibrations, the prisoner didn’t dare to move, held in his shaking, shallow breaths. “Tom’s kinder than I am in this way. Death is a reprieve that comes to all of us. Well, most of us. Traitors don’t deserve death. Death is a mercy. Don’t you agree Montague?” Montague didn’t reply, his body only shook with the cold and the starvation and the fear. Harry raised his wand hand “I must tell the truth,” the scars on the back said. “Oh you do? Perfect. We’ll start now then- are you ready? CRUCIO!

--

The summer night air was thick and suffocating. Harry sat up, heart pounding and he fumbled around for his glasses. The dream was fading fast, but he could feel the dust in the air, smell the mildew and rust settling deep into the brickwork. It had been like this for weeks now. Ever since he had settled into Peverell house he dreamed horrible truths and catastrophic events. Murder, torture, love, grief. At first he had thought they were premonitions of the future, unchangeable consequences of things he had already done. But… that wasn’t quite right. They revolve around this Tom. Someone he didn’t think he knew, but in some he killed this person, in some they were friends- lovers even. Maybe they were all just possible futures? Other universes?

Harry slipped the crisp white covers off, and padded softly over to the large ornate windows of his new bedroom. And that was something in itself wasn’t it? His, and only his. To live in, to maintain, to own. A plot of land, untraceable, where he can do anything he wanted. The freedom was tangible and daunting.

There was a dark figure in the garden.

Harry studied him intently, as the cloaked being, possibly man, possibly not, weaved intricate patterns around the rosebushes. He couldn’t be certain but the roses bloomed a little bigger, a little more vibrantly than before. Whenever Harry had asked Death why this was Death simply smiled. He’d say, one day over breakfast, that it was because there was an innate balance to everything. Because what is Death without Life?

The figure turned and waved at Harry. Harry waved back, turning from the window to see if he could get any more sleep. The dreams always seemed to shake him, he felt guilt settle coldly in his stomach after every one, even if he couldn’t even remember exactly what he had done to feel this way. Sleep, it seemed, was unobtainable tonight, and the thought of slipping back into that dank cellar, to hit and torture and maim sat wrongly on his conscience, so he watched the first rays of sun slip over the horizon. Pink and orange streaming over deep blue and ash grey. His stomach rumbled, was it already breakfast time? Harry rubbed his eyes, pulling off the thin summer sheets to grab a day robe. This one was a light blue, green vines with flowers blooming over and over on the hem and cuffs. Magic was still finding ways to surprise him. The dining room of Peverall house was large and opulent, with tall vaulted ceilings and polished wood floors. The windows had stained glass depictions of three brothers, one with a wand, one with a stone, and one with a cloak. This room was far too big to eat dinner alone in, but Ouroboros needed the space these days. He had grown massively over the summer, with all the mice and rabbits in the forests surrounding the building. There’s a popping noise to his left as Harry sits down at the head of the table, one of the Peverall house elves, Haner, has arrived to give him the post, and his blue journal. The post today was bigger than the usual bank statements and report on investments the goblins had made on his behalf. Harry thumbed through the sepia parchment until he came to an odd note sealed with the Hogwarts crest. Having already received his book list for his second year, whatever this was Harry knew it was unofficial.

“The bumbling bee is at it again I see,” Death mused, materialising on the chair to Harry’s right. He seemed to be holding a tall champagne flute of amber liquid, something the young ravenclaw hadn’t seen before, but he didn’t bother questioning it. Death was always odd, nothing he did ever made sense. He’d still yet to explain why at Peverall house he could traverse as he pleased, where Lady Magic couldn’t. Harry hummed a small note of agreement, taking in the emerald letters as he waved a series of spells over the parchment. As subtle as Dumbledore was, and these were subtle charms, the thick magic of Harry’s home, and his own heavy suspicion of the grandfatherly character made them quite useless. He’d really need heavy use of the imperius to get Harry under his control.

Dear Harry,

I am writing to you because it has come to my attention that your whereabouts are currently unknown. Imagine my shock and upset, when your loving aunt sends me a letter in tears, finding that you had not come home from King’s Cross as you were supposed to. I dearly hope that you are safe, and that your childish exploits of running off end soon. We’re all very worried about your safety, you are a very public figure in the wizarding world, and many people wish to do you harm. Inside this envelope is a portkey, say the words “Magic is Might” and you will be transported to Hogwarts, where I will return you to your doting relatives post haste.

Hoping you return soon,

Professor Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore,

Order of Merlin (first class), Headmaster of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, Supreme Mugwump of the International Confederation of Wizards, and Chief Warlock of the Wizengamot

Harry laughed at the audacity of this wizard. The ridiculous stories he was trying to spin, the nerve to be involved in things that weren’t his business, his obnoxious use of titles.

“He really is trying his hardest isn’t he? Even Weasley could probably see right through this if he ever met Aunt Petunia.” Death summoned the letter over to give it a quick read through, before snorting in the most undignified way the destroyer of worlds could.

“I’m almost impressed with his delusions of grandeur, but I cannot say any of this is surprising. Have you spoken to Magic today?” Harry shook his head, stroking the soft leather of his journal tenderly.

“I haven’t yet, but I fear something is wrong. She looks almost sickly, is it possible for you entities to become ill?” Death’s pale face became rather serious for a moment.

“Only in the most dire of circumstances.” He said gravely, running a long finger over the rim of his glass. “Entities get energy from the aspects we control. Time, Life and I are the most powerful on that alone, because Time is unending, Life is plentiful and Death is inevitable. But..” He sighed, wondering whether the burdens of the universe were ever fit to fall on the shoulders of someone so young. “Magic is.. Different. She uses the controlled native magic to sustain herself and wixen populations are dwindling. Especially here in Great Britain. With all the recent wars and pureblood ideology, Magic is weaker than ever. It’s why we had to choose a vessel. You.”

“Me?”

“Yes. Someone with great integrity, to bestow our gifts upon. Intelligence, wit, power, morality. We cannot upset the scales, I cannot touch the true mortal plane, none of us can without great consequence.”

“Like Time and the time turners. Destiny and the daughters of Delphi. You and Dementors.” Death nodded slowly, looking towards the door as Ouroboros came slithering in, along with an elf carrying the breakfast tray. Delicious plates of scrambled egg and bacon, sausages and fried tomatoes, and a large pot of tea.

“Speaker! The rats are getting quicker and smarter when trying to escape me, the chase is far more fun- are you going to join me one night?”

“I doubt it Ouro,” Harry replied easily, relishing the ease at which he spoke the serpent’s tongue. “Humans aren’t meant to catch and eat rats like you are. I guess we’re just broken like that.”

“A shame. We serpents are clearly just superior to you silly two leggers. That’s why you wouldn’t be half as successful without someone like me.” Harry nodded eagerly, sipping on his tea and relaxing back into the plush chair. It was darjeeling this morning and it was delightful.

After enough breakfast to hit the spot of a growing boy, Harry returned to the library, an enormous set of rooms with rows upon rows of books in every language. Mathematics in arabic and greek, italian philosophy, parselmagic, mermish, the language of the dead. In fact, Harry was wondering whether the Peveralls had a fascination with the dead or not. Death seemed amused whenever he’d try to research the question, but there was still so many unanswered questions that Harry couldn’t narrow it down. Were they necromancers? Vessels? Alchemists before Flamel, keen to discover the philosopher’s stone and secure immortality? The pale boy runs a hand through his thick burgundy curls, grabbing a quill to write a scathing reply to Dumbledore’s missive. He was not a puppet- or an idiot, and he refused to be treated as such.

Headmaster Dumbledore,

It is with regret that I shall not be returning to my relatives this summer, or any other summers in the foreseeable future. I’m sure that they are as happy with this arrangement as I am, as I can sleep in a bed and eat when I wish, without locks on my doors as bars on my windows. As I’m sure you are aware, the Potters had a grand estate, and many other branches on the continent and in the americas. My new magical guardian, Magnus Mortei Potter has been more than willing to step up and look after me, and continue my magical studies in the summer, and any other holidays I wish to return home for. I no longer see my residence at the Dursleys as home, and I hope you understand my wish for privacy in this family matter. After all, according to the Hogwarts charter, Section 9 Subsection 3B on Line 4, ‘The Headmaster of Hogwarts has no responsibility over any magical student that has another suitable magical guardian.’

Hoping you have a wonderful summer,

Harry Potter

Heir apparent to most noble and ancient houses of Potter and Black.

[therabidjackalope]

SNIPPET TIME!!!

(Don’t get too attached to him)

Nadirah sat stretched out on a stone roof top, looking out over a land that seemed to be made of clouds. It was one of the few remaining roofs in the entire city, and had quickly become her favorite drinking spot.

Sitting up next to her head, Oswin tipped a bottle to his lips before passing it back to the doe who had become his constant companion. “So how long have you been... you know....”

“I really wish you'd stop doing that.” Nadirah responded with a heavy sigh. “What ever it is, just spit it out already.” She accepted the bottle and took a deep swallow.

“You're right. I'm sorry.” The ghoul replied, offering an apologetic grin. “I was wondering how long you've been,... dead.”

The MidKnight looked up into the sky as she traveled back in time. “Well, I was about thirty-something when I was killed, and then it took at least five or six years more to get free of the-”

“Wait.” Oswin interrupted. “You were only thirty years old when you died?”

The MidKnight turned her head to look at him. “Well, a few years over, but round about there.”

“Wow. You're still pretty young then.” Oswin exclaimed. “Aren't cow years about a two-to-one or three-to-one ratio to human ones?”

Nadirah's ears pulled back in annoyance. “No, we measure time the same as everyone else.” She snipped. “A day is a day and a year is a year. What the hell are you going on about?”

“No, not like that.” The ghoul replied. “Hold on, I got this.” He began to mutter something as he extended his fingers one by one. “Oh by every god, living and dead, you're just a kid! I'm falling for a teenage cow!”

Nadirah gave a snort and cast her gaze back up to the sky. “Well if that's what you wanted to know you should have just asked.” She grumbled. Her ears suddenly flipped forward. “Wait a minute, you said-”

Oswin chuckled, running a hand over his greasy hair. “Yeah yeah, I know what I said, cow.” He rested his arms on his upraised knees and shot her an uneven smile. “Anyone ever tell you that you're big for your age?”

“Actually, yes.” Nadirah said softly, a frown pulling at her mouth. “Someone did. Once.”

Oswin waited, but when she offered no more, he decided to drop the subject and move on to safer ground. “Yeah. So anyway, I was just asking about when you, um... died, because you're still... well, whole. You look like you were just raised yesterday.”

The MidKnight sighed softly and rolled onto her stomach, studying her companion a moment. “I guess I'm just special that way.”

The ghoul's smile grew wider and he stretched out his arm, sliding his fingers gently across her cheek. “Yeah, you're special alright. I've never met anyone else like you, living or undead.”

Nadirah tilted her head slightly at his touch, leaning into his hand. “Is that why everyone seems to want a piece of me lately?” She asked wearily.

Oswin chuckled again, dragging his fingers upward to trace the line of one horn. “You mean those crazy druids you were telling me about?”

Nadirah nodded and closed her eyes after resting her head on her folded hands. “Those druids, the necromancer, just about everyone who happens to look in my general direction... I'm glad everyone here leaves me alone. Now.”

“Well, you've been here nearly a full month, they had to get used to you.” The ghoul replied. He continued fingering the flute of her horn before flicking his finger across the point. “These things sure are sharp.”

“Apparently so are your powers of perception.” The MidKnight retorted.

Oswin laughed and lowered his arm back to his knee. “You've definitely got a lot of spark. I've always liked that about you, you know. From the moment you stole my juice.”

“That's usually the thing everyone likes the least about me.” The doe quipped.

“Idiots all of them, then.” Oswin retorted. “I haven't laughed so much since... Well, I can't even remember the last time I've enjoyed myself so much as when I'm with you.”

Nadirah lifted her head to look at the ghoul closely. An unfamiliar emotion swirled within her, one she had not felt for a very long time. There was a slight queasiness developing in her stomach and a tightening of her chest, shortening her breath. Despite the sudden discomfort, she found herself pleased with her situation. A shy smile crossed her face. “I have fun with you too, Oswin.” She said softly.

As she spoke the words, she realized that the ghoul had become more than just a drinking partner. While the other freemen had grudgingly accepted her presence over time, Oswin had purposely sought her out time and again. Like the Ruined City itself, he had shared what he had and asked for nothing in return. Like the city, he made her feel safe, protected and accepted. He allowed her to forget what she was and just enjoy the company of another without always needing to be on the defensive.

She smiled, flicking her ears forward at him. “And I think I may be falling for you, too, ghoul.”

Oswin's smile brightened his entire face, despite his shriveled black gums and rotting teeth. His leathery skin crinkled audibly as it was forced to fold and stretch. “You could see yourself... spending the rest of your unlife with a ghoul like me?”

The doe's tail swayed lazily as she pretended to consider his question. “Just how like you is this other ghoul we're talking about?” She asked slyly. “Is he only a little like you or could be your identical twin similar?”

Oswin nearly choked as he took a swallow of Gut Rot. Nadirah smirked while he coughed. “You ornery heifer!” He rasped, his voice like the ruffling of dry parchment. “You know exactly what I'm asking.”

“If you're asking to be my mate,” She replied, her tail still swaying lazily in the air, “Then you have to wash your hair first.”

The ghoul put a hand to his hair as if to check if it was still there, then jumped excitedly to his feet with a whooping cry of excitement. “Cow, for you I would wash the entire city if I had to!” He scrambled down from the roof swiftly, yelling out “She said yes! She said yes!” Over and over as he ran through the ruins.

Nadirah just watched him go with a soft laugh before taking another pull from her bottle. “Welcome home.” She said softly to herself.

[fictionerd]

The Story of Marilene Post 2

Chapter One: Bard (continued)

“You could use some light in your life.” - Marilene

---Last Seed, 19th, 4E 201--- Funny, Why would the innkeep give me a double?

The answer, as with so much of my life lately, is Melodia. Sometime shortly after I'd laid down to sleep I felt her slip into bed with me. I knew it was her by her scent. The smoke from the effigy couldn't completely mask Lavender and Nightshade. She didn't make any advances, merely cuddled up to me and we both slept like the dead.

I have a sneaking suspicion she was watching my back up until Dead Men's Respite. Making sure nothing untoward happened. She may have even followed me into the crypt.

When I awoke I found a note from her on my bedside table.

"Looks like you can finally head out into the world huh, Lene? It's been lovely to see you again, but duty calls me away. I'm headed to Riften. If you find yourself there in your travels do look me up. I'll either be at the worker's bunkhouse or down in the Ragged Flagon. Oh, and if you met a red-headed stepchild named Brynjolf don't let him bully you too much.

Your infrequent bedmate, Melodia"

This is always how it is with her. She shows up, does something to help, something to hurt, something to tease, and then she's gone. I've imagined what it might be like to be with her, but we both know it wouldn't work. Not the way I'd want it to anyway.

I'm a believer in true love, and while my curiosity has lead me to temptation, Melodia's standards are more strict. She is not one for long-term commitments and makes sure she only "plays" with people who are the same. Or at the very least won't be hurt by her leaving when she's grown bored.

On a more practical note: Viarmo said that the other professors at the college would likely have tasks to be done. I'm going to check with them and then maybe have a look at the notice board. Today I head out into Skyrim to adventure. I wonder what I'll find there.

Unbelievable. Each of the professors has me going out to hunt for a missing instrument. You'd think Bards would keep better hold of these things. Though to be fair they all have good reason. Bandits broke into the college, One of the students sold it off, and the most legitimate: It's a treasure lost to time.

So perhaps I was being uncharitable to my esteemed teachers. I just find it amusing that it is the retrieval of instruments that have them sending me hither, thither and yon.

According to what they've told me Rjorn's Drum is in Falkreath Hold. Panatea's Flute is in the Pale, and Finn's Lute is in the Rift.

The Rift       Melodia

No there's no way she'd have a hand in that, besides. She wasn't even in a position to do so when the instrument was stolen.

I took a ferry from Solitude's Docks to Dawnstar. It took longer than I would have expected, but we arrived regardless. Upon entering the Inn I heard a commotion. There were some local miners pressing a priest for answers regarding some epidemic of nightmares plaguing the town.

The priest, Erandur, confided in me that these Nightmares were the machinations of the Daedric Prince Vaermina. He has a plan to free the town of her grasp, and I've agreed to help him once morning comes. Panatea's Flute will simply have to wait.

---Last Seed, 20th, 4E 201--- Today has been a day. I awoke and after a bite to eat I set out with Erandur to Nightcaller Temple. It was located within a tower on the hill above Dawnstar. Within lie sleeping orc raiders and cultists of Vaermina. All of them between us and the object of our mission: The Skull of Corruption.

Daedric Artifact of Vaermina herself, the Skull of Corruption famously feeds on the memories of others to fuel its vile magick. Our mission was to destroy the Skull and stop it feeding on Dawnstar's memories.

We were not long to the task before we were stopped by a barrier spell set up by the cultists of old, but Ah, Erandur had secret knowledge and from it formulated a plan.

As a former priest of Vaermina from that very temple Erandur knew what sorcery was housed within its walls. Believing as I do in the power of redemption I followed through with his request. To find and drink the concoction known as Vaermina's Torpor. Borrowing its effects I might delve into the past through dreams to transport myself to the other side of the barrier.

So drink I did, and travel I did. Within the dream I bore witness to the day the orcs attacked the temple through the eyes of one Cassimir.

The barrier thusly circumvented we delved to the depths of the temple. There upon grim pedestal lay the Skull of Corruption. Guarding it the las of Vaermina's Priests. Veren and Thorek who knew Erandur by the name he'd once held among their number: Cassimir.

Though he fled from the temple when the priests did plunge its occupants into deep, prolonged sleep He's spent hs waking hours sense seeking forgiveness. This nobility of spirit was deserving of praise and reward. Which he received from me and Mara both.

Erandur used a ritual to lift the seal from the Skull and destroy it. Though I know that such artifacts will, inevitably, return to Tamriel I am glad that we are rid of that hungry beast all the same.

Now, off to sleep. Tomorrow I've plenty of ground to cover, and a flute to retrieve.

---Last Seed, 21st, 4E 201--- On my way to the location Panatea pointed out to me I came across a strange sight.

The burned remains of what I assume was a mage. The ground around them was still burning, and on the ground before them was a tome designed to teach a fire cloak spell. Whatever happened here it must have been SOME mishap.

It is with solemn mood and somber heart that I pen this latest entry to my tale, oh journal. I have failed, and it weighs upon my heart.

I made my way to the cave where the Necromancers in possession of Panatea's Flute resided. Within I heard cries for help from a woman in their grasp. I rushed through the cave as quickly as I could, but by the time I'd reached their final sanctum the fiends had already put her to the knife and raised her as their thrall.

It's one thing to know that something like this is coming, it's another entirely to actually go through it. I knew when I began this quest of mine that there would be days like this. Days when I would fail. Days when I wouldn't make it "Just in time" to save some one.

I tried to be stoic about it. To mourn in secret for the life of this woman I didn't even know. To mourn for the life I failed to save.

I couldn't manage it. I fled from that place, Flute in hand and Necromancers dead. I ran across the snow-laden tundra and glacial shelves. Through wolf and bandit to Wayward Pass. When I reached the wayshrine and saw it was dedicated to Arkay I feel to my knees and wept. Praying to the divines for forgiveness.

"How can I become the hero I so desire to be if I let those I place under my protection die?" It's a ridiculous thought. No Hero's tale ever explicitly states it, or at the very least few do, but No hero is perfect. No Hero was ever able to save every life within reach. Alessia waged war with the Ayleids. The Hero of Kvatch couldn't be at every Oblivion Gate in Tamriel. I   I couldn't reach the woman in time.

I've rented a room for the night at a roadside Inn called Nightgate. I've changed back into my College Robes and have been performing for the scant guests. More to occupy my thoughts than anything. I hope that playing the music I learned in Solitude will help to lift my spirits. Seeing the smiles of contentment on the faces of the audience is a blessing.

-N-    Nine forgive me, and grant me respite.

---Last Seed, 22nd, 4E 201--- I've made it south to Stony Creek Cave where the bandits who stole Finn's Loot should be hiding. I've stopped for a moment to collect my thoughts before heading in.

On my way south I entered Windhelm to trade off a few things and be gone as quickly as I could. Being a Solitude Bard I didn't want to end up on the wrong end of Stormcloak scrutiny. Unfortunately I happened upon something I couldn't ignore.

When I first entered the city there was a drunk Nord harrassing a Dunmer woman. I was not about to stand by and watch that happen so I sprinted over and grabbed him by the shoulder turning him around.

"What? Don't like my attitude Halfsy?" He sneered. I punched him in the mouth.

"A hundred septims says I can teach you manners," I said loosing the wolf-fur cloak I'd taken to wearing and letting it drop to the ground.

He took me up on the bet and charged me. It was a near thing, but I've been practicing my footwork. Eventually his swings got so large and lumbering they were easy to avoid and I laid him out on the ground. Much to my surprise he actually paid up on the bet. Though I suppose I shouldn't be surprised. He /was/ a Nord after all.

Suffice to say I was drawing approving and disapproving looks from various guards so I made with my market trip and then bought a horse before leaving so as to get away from the city all the quicker.

I'll need a name for her. I'm thinking Tambor. Short for Tamborine. Something about the beat of the hooves striking the ground complimented by the jangling of tack.

I suppose I've put things off long enough. Time to head inside and get that lute back.

Well that's a pleasant introduction, but was I expecting anything else?

Well that's another instrument gathered, only one left to go, and the Lute isn't all I found.

I came across this unusual stone in the Bandit's lair. I'm certain it must be valuable. So long as I'm in the Rift I may as well head to the capital, maybe look up Melodia and get this thing appraised.

---Last Seed, 23rd, 4E 201--- With a single exception Riften has been a downright loathesome place. I've been shaken down, accused of meddling, solicited for criminal activity, and assaulted, and that was only in the hour or two after I arrived last night.

According to Melodia's instructions from back in Solitude I looked for her first at the bunkhouse. The moment I mentioned her name the proprietress kicked me out. Something about "/another/ poacher on her turf" whatever that means. That left only the Ragged Flagon. Asking about I learned that it was in the ratway beneath the city. Within those cramped warrens I was attacked no less than three times.

When I finally reached the Flagon Melodia instantly recognized me and came rushing down from the wooden platform that housed the bar.

"Lene!?" She accused, "What in Oblivion are you doing here?"

"Looking for you, obviously," I replied. She pressed the palm of her hand against her forhead.

"Dear, sweet, innocent, Lene. I wasn't at all seriously suggesting you-" she cut herself off and took a deep breath. That's when I notced she was not dressed as I expected her to be. She wore a close-fitting leather cuirass with breeches and boots to match. All soft, and seemingly padded. Her gloves left her fingers free. The neckline of the cuirass dove just a tad, and a leather hood hung from round her neck fastened by a brooch that seemed to be fashioned into the form of a bird and laquered black, "But of course you would. I never should have put that in the note to begin with."

She looped an arm around mine and turned me back toward the door.

"Hey, I've got-"

"Things to do, people to see, damsels to rescue," she fluttered her lashes at me, "Yes, you do but not here. Let's go get a room at the bee and you can tell me all about your adventures."

So we did, and I did. Though I insisted on performing for the late-night crowd at the Inn. A self-respecting Bard doesn't let a crowd go to waste (Or a chance at a free room go by).

I handed off the unusual gem to her. She said she'd get some one in the Flagon to take a look at it for me. She also gave Brynjolf a piece of her mind when she found out he'd already zeroed in on me. We spent the night together and that curiosity came over me as we lay there. I think she sensed it because she laced her fingers through mine.

"Lene, I know. I'm poison. Perhaps not deadly, but poison nonetheless. You're destined for things so much greater than I. Let me be the knife in the dark to your shield in the light."

Being careful to keep ahold of her hand I rolled over to look into her eyes.

"One night," I said, "Not tonight, but one night I want us to have something. You deserve some light in your life."

She smiled, and I saw tears in her eyes. She slid closer and gave me a hug, "And maybe you could use some shadow in yours."