#adiran short

[stonebreakerseries]

Aftermath (Adiran and Riin)

So this started as a sappy meme prompt about two people touching forward and the stubborn one whispering ‘I missed you’, then turned into a 2200 word monster. Because apparently I have no chill. Who knew.

This is quite spoilery, so if anyone cares about that, read at your own risk!

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

Everything had happened too quickly. Too quickly for Adiran to pause and think. Too quickly for his mind to catch up with what he was seeing, yet alone what he was doing. Now, as waves beat against the ship’s hull, the lights of Vetrose grew smaller and smaller until they were no more than pinpricks on the horizon. Hundreds of tiny, earth-bound stars. All his life, Adiran had never seen those lights slip into the distance like that. It had always been the other way around; always been the lights of Talvera’s capital rising to meet him as he returned from a day on the road, lanterns bleeding life into streets and windows.  

Would he ever see those lights again?

Movement to his right caught his attention. Riin was sweating, his skin ashen, his body wracked with tremors. He was trying to heal. Or at least, that’s what Adiran assumed was happening. He didn’t know enough about the Kyriin, yet alone the black-eyed krea morei, to say for certain. All he knew was that Riin had burned through what little strength he had left during their escape from the palace. Divider, just thinking about how close they had come to being caught sent a chill down Adiran’s spine. If he hadn’t called in his favour with Crosus - if the Northerner hadn’t come through for them and carried Riin from the upper city to the docks - they might not have made it at all. 

A familiar sensation, like a hand closing around his throat, sent his heart into a stammer. With a shaky gasp, Adiran reached up, knotting his fingers in his sweat-damp hair. Stop it. You idiot. You’re out. No one caught you. Everything is fine. Everything will be fine.

For now.

Deep down, Adiran knew that the King and Queen would hunt for them. Try to spin their escape as some kind of kidnapping; anything not to lose face in the spiteful eye of the court. But there was more to it than that. A missing prince warranted a bitter, desperate search - one that wouldn’t raise any suspicions. The fact that they were actually after Riin didn’t matter. All Talvera would see were two panicked parents. Not monsters chasing what he had stolen from them. 

No. 

The thought - that single word - arrived so hard and so bitter that Adiran could taste it on his tongue. No. He hadn’t stolen a damn thing. They had no contract. No claim. No right to Riin, as man or soldier or prisoner. No one did. 

I should have seen him off. I should have insisted. Made sure he...

Guilt, like a restless snake, twisted inside Adiran, hollowing out a pit in his stomach. Divider, he’d let a full season pass in a self-absorbed haze, barely looking up from his own loneliness. If he’d just been paying attention, he might have realised something wasn’t right. He might have been able to...

A soft groan, lower than the protests of the ship’s aging wood, pulled Adiran from his thoughts. He looked up, heart stammering to a near-halt as he leaned over the makeshift bed. Hope, like baited breath, knotted at the back of his throat. 

“Riin?”

The Kyriin’s brow was tense; a furrowed echo of a deeper pain. Agony was etched in every line of his face; every clenched muscle. In any other moment, Adiran might have taken him for having a bad dream. A true, burning nightmare. 

Maybe he was. Certainly no one would blame him. 

“Hey…” Adiran hated the way he sounded. Hated the way his voice felt so hollow. Uncertain. Afraid. Weak. But instead of flinching from it like a hand from a flame, he forced himself to move closer. To reach out and rest his hand over Riin’s. “Can you hear me?”

Adiran knew it was a long-shot. Even before, back in the palace undercroft, Riin’s lucidity had been a short-lived, flickering thing, erratic as a candle on a windowsill. Divider, Adiran would never forget the way Riin had looked at him, when he’d forced his way through the cell door. His eyes, framed by dark circles and bled half-way black, had seared into him like hot iron. Thick blood, dark as pitch, was dried in layers on his skin; had soaked into his ruined clothes. It was impossible to tell how long it had been there. 

Adiran wasn’t sure what he had been expecting, when he hit the bottom of those uneven stairs. All he knew for certain was that, after that heart-stopping moment of recognition, Riin had hated him. 

And he’d had every reason to.

Sitting there, his hand a feeble warmth against Riin’s icy skin, a new fear slowly crawled its way up from the bottom of Adiran’s chest. In the frantic mess of unlocking chains and checking wounds, Riin had clearly set aside any mistrust for a chance at freedom, no matter how slim. Even if came at the hands of someone he despised. The entire time, he’d barely spoken to Adiran. But the first words he’d said had been a knife to the gut. 

So, it was all true. He’d gave a bitter laugh. Or was it broken? I wondered how long it would take for them to send you here.

He should have said something. Thinking back, he needed to have said something. But he hadn’t. In the moment, he’d been too focused on escape. Too terrified that Lirea would betray him, and the palace guard would come flooding in like rats to a carcass. There hadn’t been time for reassurances, or the truth, or---

“You’re... hurt...”

Adiran jolted, nearly losing his balance between the narrow crate and the uncertain sway of the ship. Riin’s voice was raw, ragged from screaming his pain and fury to unfeeling stone. The words were barely able to cross the narrow distance between them. He was awake, watching him feverishly, one eye a clear amber, the other drenched in shadow. A dark stain, like spilled ink, spread from the inner corner to the furthest edge of his iris.

There he was, with one foot in the grave, worrying about everyone but himself.

“What? Are you s---” To Adiran’s surprise, his voice hitched. Once the shock had passed, he cleared his throat sharply. “Are you serious? Fuck how I am. I’m nothing. I’m fine. I’m…” Slowly, he realised that Riin’s eyes had drifted down to where their hands were resting, one atop the other. Without intending to, Adiran’s fingers had somehow managed to avoid the ruined skin ringing Riin’s wrist. In a rush, he realised he’d never actually seen Riin bruise before, yet alone bleed. It was childish - sheer foolishness - but he hadn’t actually thought it was possible. Even after eight years of sparring together - eight years of swords and sand - he had been convinced Riin was untouchable. Invincible.

But in the wrong hands - hands willing to scrape and grind - even the strongest stone would eventually break.

Riin’s breathing was shallow. Worryingly so. Still, he forced himself to speak, the words limping from his lips. “N-No... you’re not f---.”

---“Stop.” Adiran barely recognised his own voice, pleading and pathetic. All of a sudden, he was a child again, curled in the corner of his room, his first bruise blossoming on his upper arm. “Damn it, Riin - don’t. Don’t make this about me. Not now. You… you’re…”

He couldn’t find the words. Couldn’t say them. What could he possibly say? You’re hurt? You’re shaking? You’re terrifying me?

“You’re crying.”

Adiran froze. His awareness, weaponised over the past hours like an out-turned blade, faltered at Riin’s words. Then, slowly, it angled inward. In that hanging silence, his sense of self slipped back beneath his skin, and Adiran finally realised that yes. He was.

“I’m not... it’s nothing.” Roughly, he pressed the heel of his free hand to both eyes, swiping away the offending tears. There was too much to say. Too many emotions pushing against this skull, ravaging his chest, crowding his throat. “I’m just… I...” Like betrayal, a sob broke past his defenses, weak from exhaustion. Weak from relief. “I’m sorry. Riin, I’m so f-fucking sorry. I didn’t know. I didn’t even think...”

The shame was too much. Adiran cracked. Curved forward. Buried his face in his hand and just cried. It was all too much, but at the same time nowhere near enough, as though he was deep inside his body and outside and around it all at once. He knew he had to stop. That this wasn’t the time. His guilt wouldn’t help anyone, yet alone Riin. It was just another burden; a capstone atop the torture he had already endured. Divider, Adiran didn’t even know what he had been through. The extent of the pain he was in. How deep those wounds truly ran. But he knew what he should have said, back when he had first laid eyes on his friend in that dark cell. When he’d first seen the blood, smelled the sour sweat, tasted the rot on the back of his tongue. An apology was not enough. He knew that. No words could ever undo what had been done. But Divider, that didn’t make it any less of the truth. 

If Riin let him, he’d spend the rest of his life proving it. It was the least he could do for the only man he’d ever called friend.

Suddenly, Adiran felt a pressure on top of his hand. Heavy, but without force. Without roughness. Part of him knew that, if Riin had the strength, he would have squeezed. Maybe in reassurance. Maybe in forgiveness. Maybe just in tribute to the bond they had shared; one that had surely been severed, now. But, when Adiran finally looked up, only one thing had truly changed. Riin’s gaze was resting on him. Quiet. Pained. Feverish. Relieved.

But the hate, seared so clearly and so terribly into Adiran’s memory, was gone.

“I knew,” Riin breathed. “I knew y---AH!” Suddenly, he cried out, arching, gritting his teeth as his upper body spasmed. Maybe it was a fit. Maybe it was pieces of bone snapping back into place beneath his skin. Regardless, all Adiran could do was look on, horrified, and hold his hand through it, wishing feverishly that he knew how to make it stop. It passed in seconds that felt like minutes. It left Riin gasping, shaking, tangled in his thin blanket, skin soaked with sweat. Just as Adiran was about to scramble to his feet and call for help, Riin’s weak voice reached out from the bed, like a hand snagging the corner of his shirt.

“I-I knew you couldn’t have… they said... so many things. But I didn’t...”

Adiran just nodded, not quite understanding. almost afraid to. Just thinking about what Riin might have been told - things to make him break - turned Adiran’s stomach. Cheeks damp, throat tight, Adiran just shifted closer instead, his thumb stroking the back of Riin’s hand in a feeble attempt to smooth away the pain. “Whatever those bastards told you, they were lying,” he said, because he desperately needed him to hear it. To know it the way Adiran knew every line of Riin’s face. Every scar on his hands. “I swear on my life, Riin, if I’d known…”

Slowly, Adiran trailed off. Partly because he didn’t know how to finish the sentence. If he’d known… then what? How would he have stopped it? Would he have challenged the King and Queen - his own family? Would he have kicked and screamed and threatened his way into his own set of shackles?

He didn’t know what would have happened. Maybe they would have both found themselves in chains, Inquisitors cutting bored slices from their skin. Just the thought of it was enough to turn Adiran’s stomach. If he’d been there - if he’d been forced to watch... Divider, he would have told them anything. Anything to make them stop.

Would Riin have broken his oath and done the same?

Luckily, there was no immediate pressure for Adiran to finish his hanging sentence. At some point in the silence, Riin’s breathing had slowed its pace into something halfway resembling sleep. His hand lay limp in Adiran’s, but somehow, he just couldn’t bring himself to untangle their fingers. Not just yet.

Instead, Adiran hesitated, then leaned forward until their faces were just inches apart. Slowly, tiredly, he closed his eyes, exhaled, and gently rested his forehead against Riin’s. Their lashes brushed, their breath mingled, and just for a moment, he let himself feel it. Really feel it. Just for long enough to remind him that the man he cared for more than anyone else was really, truly there. Beaten and bruised. Alive and wonderful.

“I missed you,” Adiran breathed. The confession fell from his lips more easily than his own name. And, for the first time, he didn’t care if anyone heard him say it.

They would get through this. 

Somehow, they would get through this,

[thereluctantinquisitor]

#46 ✨✨

46 - shimmer

“Take your time, Adiran. Fight better.”

Maybe it was all in Adiran’s head, but he swore there was a challenge in the words. Mockery. Disappointment. He ground his teeth until they creaked, pulling in air like the world was running out of it. “Fight better? That your official advice?” He spat in the sand, blinking away sweat, his hair slick with it. It had been for hours. “You know what? I’ve spent the past eight years training with you, and you haven’t taught me a single fucking thing I didn’t already know!”

Standing a few yards away, Riin’s brow twinged, but if the comment had bothered him, he gave no further indication. Instead, he just swung his sword down from where it rested on his shoulder, the movement slow and meticulous. His feet slid into position. 

“You believe I have taught you nothing?”

Before Adiran even had a chance to muster a scathing reply, Riin was coming at him in a rush of cloth and steel, sand churning beneath his feet, blade arcing high, sweeping down, cutting towards his side---

--- without thinking, Adiran lunged forward, breaching the distance between them, slamming Riin in the side with his shoulder. The warrior let out a grunt as he was thrown off-balance, landing in the sand hard enough to shake the blade from his grasp. Staggering a few steps, stunned by his own response, Adiran spun, breathing hard, harried and wild around the edges.

“What was that supposed to be?”

Pushing himself up in the sand, Riin shook his head and spend a moment in silent contemplation, as though regathering some pieces of himself that had been shaken loose. But then he glanced up, and there was an almost amused tilt to his lips. “I did what you do when you are frustrated. More often than you should. What you just did to counter it...”

Something about the shimmer in his eyes locked Adiran in place. Pieces began to slide together - the unpredictable lunge, using his shoulder to deflect a reckless charge. How many times had Riin sent him to the ground with the exact same move?

Like a hollow stump, Adiran just stood there, for once unable to find any words to tip the situation in his favour. After a moment, sensing Adiran would be lost for a while, Riin grunted and hauled himself to his feet. As was custom after a fall, he began to dust the sand from his hair, his clothes, from his skin. Adiran watched as those hands, so at home holding a weapon, ghosted gently over his shoulders. Followed the tattooed lines that ran like rivers down his arms, thick and dark until they branched into a delicate delta, reaching towards his fingertips...

Adiran returned to himself with a sharp clear of the throat, eyes quickly seeking interest somewhere else. Anywhere else. “Yeah, well, you never actually taught me that, so...” His gaze found purchase on a nearby pillar, as though the pale stone was suddenly the most fascinating thing in the whole damn kingdom. “It doesn’t count.”

And that was when Riin laughed. Despite just being knocked down - despite the long day in the heat running endless drills at Adiran’s request - the sound was warm and fond and...

Focus on the pillar, idiot. You’re just tired.

“Some people learn better with gentle praise. You are rarely one of them, Adiran.” Kind enough not to call attention to Adiran’s strange behaviour, the Kyriin set about retrieving his sword before squinting up to consider the position of the sun. After a moment, he nodded to himself, silently declaring the session over as he rolled his shoulders and headed towards the storeroom. Not in the mood to argue, Adiran patted down his own breeches, then used his teeth to find the edge of the cloth wrapping his hands.

But one thing still bothered him. “Fine. I’ll bite.” ADiran forced his gaze away from the pillar as Riin approached. “How do I learn. According to you.”

Riin paused and regarded him for a while, his tall frame statue-like against the glare of the sun. At first, it seemed like he wasn’t planning to answer at all. Adiran was about to stalk off when Riin finally reached out and rested a firm hand on Adiran’s shoulder. 

“You, Adiran, learn best through frustration.”

[raevenlywrites]

One Phrase Prompt: Is that a deer eating a sheep?

It wasn’t what she’d expected when they’d told her Adiran could take care of herself. Watching the majestically antlered head dip below her line of sight, to rise again with muzzle covered in blood and bits of entrails… Definitely not what she’d expected.

Lia turned away from Adiran and his sheep, trying not to think of the night he’d captured her in a bizarre game of Big Bad Wolf. It had all worked out in the end, but the terror she’d felt that night had been real, and she knew it lurked just beneath the velvety stag’s surface.

“So what kind of faery is he again,” she asked, trying to distract herself from the bone shuddering crunches going on behind her.

Theo paused. “Well, if he’s officially a member of your court, I guess that makes him a hobgoblin.”

Lia blinked. “A hobgoblin? Like, those little green men running around in skins with clubs and things?”

Theo tsked, shaking her head. “Not all pop culture is loyal to its source myths. Hob just means hearth or country, depending on who you ask, and goblin is just a catch all for faeries who cause mischief.”

“So all faeries of the Hunt are goblins, but not all goblins ride with the Hunt,” Gil added. Lia felt dazed. The creature behind her was neither cute nor tiny, but it definitely looked like it belonged with the Wild Hunt.

When Adiran rejoined the group, he seemed perfectly put together again, not a spec of blood on his now human form. But the eyes… something about it remained in the eyes, and it made Lia shudder. She was grateful he took the front seat, leaving her to huddle in the back of the jeep with Gil.

[captainsaku]

hmmm 37 for Nin or 12 for a character of your choice!

Ohohohoooo I see why you’d ask for 37 specifically for Nin. Love your thinking, 100/10. Hilariously I asked for the exact same one of you thinking of Adiran xD SAME HAT!!!

Send me a number and I’ll write a micro story using the word or phrase

37. Defy

“I will not hear any more on the matter, Nínimeth. That... thing... is not welcome here anymore.”

“They are a perfectly civil person, father, and I will not stand for this disrespect. Rasha deserves a place here, and your gratitude. Not... this. I refuse to accept it.”

“Are you defying my authority, child?”

For the first time in her life, Nínimeth snarled at her adoptive father, the King. “I am no child, Charles,” she spat, his name on her lips an angry sneer. “I am a grown woman, and Rasha has shown more respect, civility and friendship to me than any of the noblemen who have come to the palace looking for my hand in marriage.”

“Enough!” the King snapped, voice booming and echoing in the large chamber. “It has to go, and that is final.”

“Fine,” she replied, a cold rage burning in her eyes like chips of ice set into emeralds. Her lips pursed, pressing into a thin, disapproving line, and she drew herself to her full height. Nínimeth might have been short, but in this moment, she seemed taller than the tallest spire in the palace, chin held aloft in defiance, her eyes boring into the King’s. “If they go, then so will I.”

She didn’t wait for her father’s reply. Instead, she turned on her heel and strode away, ignoring the way her limbs trembled and the tightness in her clenched stomach.

She ignored his voice calling after her, staring straight ahead as she walked with purpose towards Rasha’s living quarters.

She had meant every word she’d said.

[stanathanxoox]

The War Part 1

gif is mine

Bloodbound au fic where during the fight between Priya and the good vampires at the mall (book 2) Arnold is killed and Lula loses the only last living relative she had. MC is heartbroken and holds Lula close. After the battle with Gaius MC and Adrian decide to adopt her due to MC's connection to her.

Screams...

Blood curdling scream...

The sounds were enough to make your skin crawl. All around you vampires were battling one another, the sounds echoing surprisingly around the mall that you had all taken refuge in. Whilst vampires fought, others tried to escape without being seen. You look around, at everyone engaging in battle, Jax and Lily are fighting a bunch of Priya's clan, whilst Adrian is engaged with members from other clans, Lester and the Baron may be dead, but they're clans were not and they had all sworn their legence to Gaius, turning to him for control and leadership the moment he took over New York. Even some of Adrian and Kamilah's clans had turned against them and were here now fighting against you. Speaking of Kamilah, you reach out and give her hand a gentle squeeze as the two of you continue to fight together, trying to end Priya once and for all, before the final showdown with Gaius.

You hear a gruff voice call out and you whip around in time to see a broken chair leg being used as a stake, stabbing Arnold in the back and being pressed heavily through his body. As his body turns to ash you let out a blood-curdling scream

“NO!”. You want to rush over and attack the vampire who had killed one of the good guys, a vampire who you had come to care deeply for, but Kamilah holds you back. Arms wrapped around your waist, holding you close as you sob, tears streaming down your face.

“We've got keep on fighting Y/N” Kamilah whispers in your ear, your eyes flare with hatred and anger. With one final sob, you meet Kamilah's brown eyes and give her a slight nod of the head, Priya's distracted by the success she sees from her vampires and you and Kamilah pounce. Kamilah going for her throat whilst you plunge the knife into her chest, there's a slight gurgling sound before she too turns to ash.

The fight goes on for what feels like forever before you are finally able to run into Adrian's waiting arms. You run your fingers up and down his chest, along the broken fabric and stained suit he's wearing

“I'm so glad you're okay Adrian” you whisper, he tilts your head up, blue eyes meeting yours and they convey so much, fear, hurt, hope and love, all the emotions he's trying desperately to control before he lowers his head and captures your lips with his own. It's full of so many words and promises made to each other, things that had yet to be said but its enough. For now.

You have about three hours before sunset, the fight had lasted way too long and the vampires in the Shadow Den that had managed to escape were now returning. Over the last couple of minutes, you had refused to let Adrian go, but you watched as the others returned to the damage. You saw Nikhil make his way over to Jax and threw his arms around him, thanking the lucky stars that he had made it out of the fight mostly unscathed. Others returned as well, sending small smiles to those who had remained to fight, a grateful gesture, hoping beyond all hope that soon this would all be behind you. Liv and Lula raced back in to the mall and when you saw the two your heart broke, Jax lets go of Nikhl and walks over to Liv, trying to tell her that Arnold hadn't made it, Lula who had been looking frantically around the room for her uncle hears and burts into tears, and your heart breaks even more. Letting go of Adiran, you make your way over to the young vampire who is sobbing uncontrolably and when you crouch down beside her and gently place a hand on her shoulder, she moves, faster than you'd ever seen her before, throwing her small arms around your neck and sitting herself in your knee. She's crying hard, her body shaking with tears and all you can do is run a soothing hand up and down her back as the two of you cry. You feel a strong pair of arms wrap around the two of you, and you tense slightly before Adrian whispers in your ear

“It's alright Y/N, I've got you. I've got you both”. You relax into his arms, settling into his comforting embrace.

When the sun sets, you struggle to pull yourself away from Lula, wanting nothing more than to stay by her side and take care of her whilst she suffers through this loss. With a kiss to her forehead and a promise that you'll be back for her, you leave her with Liv before you make your way over to where the others are. Preparing for the final battle with Gaius. Nikhil is standing to the side of the group, listening to Jax as he gives what may well be his final orders and Nikhil throws his arms around him one last time before turning and walking away. You look around at everyone in the group, a frown on your face as Kamilah says what your all thinking. Hearing the words, you look around at the people who had come to mean so much to you in such a short amount of time. You look from Kamilah to Lily, Lily to Jax and then finally you look to Adrian, the man who had captured your heart so completely, the man who had loved you from the moment he stepped into the interview room almost a year ago. You meet his intense blue eyes and before you know it, you throw your arms around his neck and place one final kiss to his lips, a kiss full of everything you feel for the man who is holding you securely in his arms.

“Y/N...” he breathes when you break the kiss and you give his hand a gentle squeeze, knowing exactly what he's wanting to convey as its exactly what your wanting to say to him.

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

The fight with Gaius is long and tiring, you watch time and time again as your friends get blasted by his power or flung across the room, and that's when you realise, your the one who has to end him, whilst he has control over his creations he has none over you. Grabbing the stake from the tree that had created the first, you manage to sneak up behind him as he's gloating stabbing him in the back and pushing hard, driving it into his heart, he whips around and turns to you, Jax's sword in his hand, but you barely realise what's happened to you until its too late. Your just glad that Gaius is gone, that he has no control over the people you care about and as you look around at the people you care about, you smile

“Oh my goodness we did it” you say taking a step and staggering forward, Adrian is beside you in an instant, covered in blood and wounds that are already beginning to heal.

“Y/N...” he says, his voice cracking and you look up at him, reaching up cupping his cheek

“We did it, Adrian, he's dead” you whisper and Adrian nods, as tears begin to fall down his cheeks, he leans down and rests his forehead on yours as he whispers

“You've got keep fighting Y/N. You've got to keep fighting for us, for me” he whispers, his voice sounding strained in your ears, and you cough, breathing is getting harder and harder and your vision is starting to truly blur around the edges

“I'll always be fighting for us Adrian” you whisper, your fighting desperately to stay with him, wanting to be here in his arms forever and spend the rest of your life with him. He closes his eyes as he whispers

“I never thought I would find the woman of my dreams through all of this. Y/N I lo-” and that's the last thing you hear before your swallowed whole by the darkness.

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[ourshellsimmer]

The Sims 4 CAS: Billie Eilish

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> Hair 2: https://www.thesimsresource.com/downloads/details/category/sims4-hair-hairstyles-female/title/nightcrawler-charmed/id/1399778/

> Bracelet: https://www.thesimsresource.com/downloads/details/category/sims4-accessories-female-bracelets/title/toksik--lavish-watch-and-bangles/id/1318524/

> Hair 3: https://www.thesimsresource.com/downloads/details/category/sims4-hair-hairstyles-female/title/nightcrawler-kylie/id/1356625/

> Short: https://cherry-sims.tumblr.com/post/171051100205/short-f-bottom-here-for-all-swatches-preview

> Billie LV: https://www.thesimsresource.com/downloads/details/category/sims4-clothing-female-teenadultelder-everyday/title/dreadmermaid-%7C-billie-eilish-style-lv-outfit/id/1422207/

> Nails: https://www.thesimsresource.com/downloads/details/category/sims4-accessories-female-bracelets/title/sintiklia--long-cut-nails/id/1336756/

[reluctantwrites]

One Last Chance

Part 1 - The Letter |  Part 2 - Cope | Part 3 - The Arrival | Part 4 - Necessary Risks | Part 5 - Eleven Years | Part 6 - One Step

Part 7 - Trust (AO3 Link)

Athran heads off to perform his duties, and the team reconvenes to plan the final assault - the grand theft. But sometimes, even planning the plan does not go according to plan.

CW: violence, (very) minor character death, mentions of abuse

Athran released a shaky breath, his skin clammy, his hands curling and flexing by his sides as he walked a few steps behind his escort. The guard was one he’d only seen once before, but it had been recently, and it had been memorable. As they moved down the hallway the large man paused, turning, a thin smile curling up the corner of his mouth.

“Well, you’re looking better than when I left you. You elves must heal up well.”

Immediately, Athran looked down, casting his gaze to the marbled floor. He was meant to show reverence to the guards as well as the guests, and the last thing he needed was to anger the man who’d already beat him senseless earlier that night. His face still ached from where he had been struck for dropping the tray, and part of him wished he’d remembered to apply the salve. It would have helped numb the area; muted the pain.

He supposed a lot had happened between then and now.

After an extended pause, the guard scoffed and turned, continuing to walk. “Didn’t think I’d get many kicks out of this job, short as it is. Should thank you for being a clumsy bastard. Thought I’d die of boredom tonight.”

Athran hated the mercenaries. Or some of them, at least. There were no consequences for men hired for days or weeks at a time. They just did what they liked, and so long as it didn’t directly inconvenience Talveron, they got away with it. As most could never afford slaves of their own, they often treated it like a fun little experiment; a way to get a taste of what that might be like. Athran had learned quickly to avoid such men, but this time, that seemed almost impossible.

Although compared to some, this one wasn’t so bad.

The guard paused, glanced down at a card of paper, then huffed. “Right. Here you are.” Reaching out, he knocked three times, then stepped away, walking back towards Athran. He paused, leaning in close, his breath hot and honey-sweet with mead. “You have fun, eh? And try keep it down. Walls are thin ‘round here.” He snorted. “Or don’t. Some folks might like a bit of a show.”

It took everything Athran had to suppress a shudder as the guard slowly looked him over then left him there, standing alone in the corridor. Suddenly, he felt cold, as though instead of being surrounded by wall and stone, he was out in the open, afraid and exposed on an empty field. He wanted to run. Flee. Anything.

Then he remembered the warmth of Hanin’s arms around him. How, for the first time in eleven years, he’d felt safe somewhere, even if only for a few seconds before reality had come crashing back into place.

The door creaked open, snapping Athran back to the present. Even knowing who was behind it, his heart thrummed wildly, hands growing clammy as it opened and a man appeared. He was handsome. Tall. Well-dressed in a robe and subtle jewellery, his hair neatly combed, his moustache perfectly maintained. That didn’t mean much, usually. Most of the worst people in Tevinter looked something like that.

“You must be Athran, yes?”

Swallowing tightly, Athran dropped his gaze, horrified that he’d actually let himself look higher than the hem of the man’s expensive robes. “Yes, my lord.”

There was a pause, then Magister Pavus stepped aside. “It would be best if you came inside. I can’t say I’m particularly fond of holding conversations in the corridor.”

Athran obeyed, moving past the Magister, careful not to accidentally touch him. Some could be picky about that, and he really had no idea what to expect. He trusted Hanin as much as he could trust anyone he hadn’t seen for eleven years, which naturally left a bit of room for doubt.

Regardless, it was still more than he trusted anyone else.

The door closed and Athran released a slow, shaky breath, trying to keep it as silent as possible. Magister Pavus’ footsteps were slow and careful, moving in a wide circle until he stood in front of Athran, the deep crimson of his robe a blur of colour at the edge of his vision.

“I… don’t suppose you know who I am, do you?”

Athran wet his lips and bowed his head. “The Magister of House Pavus. I am here to serve.”

He heard the man exhale, the sound almost uncertain. “Ah. Yes, well… that I am. Although I tend to prefer Dorian, when not conducting business.” He moved again, over towards a set of plush chairs at the side of the room. A small table sat between them, a leather case sitting on top. Athran didn’t want to know what was in that, and he remained rooted to the spot, not entirely sure what to do. Normally he would have been given orders by now. It seemed the Magister also realised this, because he cleared his throat gently. “Come. Take a seat. There is much to discuss.”

Athran obeyed, settling across from the man, his heart still thumping hard against his ribcage. He knew Hanin wouldn’t lie to him. Logically, he knew that. But no one, slave or servant or otherwise, ever wanted to be alone with a Magister in their room. It never led to anything good.

“You are of clan Lavellan, yes?”

Weakly, Athran nodded.

“And you have been in the Imperium for quite some time?”

Again, he nodded, then hesitated. “Eleven years, my lord.”

Even though he wasn’t looking directly at him, Athran saw Magister Pavus stiffen slightly.

“I see. And please, Dorian is fine. I… know it may not seem as such, but I am on your side.”

If he wasn’t so utterly terrified, Athran might have laughed. As it was, he just gave a faint nod, feeling strangely light-headed with the motion, his stomach in a knot. “I was… told as much.”

“You were? Ah. Excellent.” There was a measure of relief to the Magister’s words and he seemed to relax. Good for him. “That saves us some time, then. But first, I recall the incident at the party. Are you well?”

This time, Athran did glance up, mostly out of sheer confusion. Magister Pavus must have read the expression on his face because he smiled kindly, shifting to clasp his hands in front of him. “Forgive me if I am wrong, but I struggle to imagine Talveron Idaris as a…. lenient man.”

The throbbing pain in Athran’s face was enough of a reminder of that fact. Even if it had not been Talveron’s hand that dealt the blow, he would have condoned it without question for embarrassing him with such clumsiness. “I am fine. Thank you.”

“Are you in any pain?”

“No.” The response was like a reflex. He had been asked so many times in the past and no one had ever been interested in the truth. But then, Athran paused, something about the way the Magister watched him with a kind of patient concern leaving him curious to test the waters. “Yes. My eye. Sometimes. It is nothing unbearable.”

“I see.” Magister Pavus nodded, then cleared his throat, turning slightly in his chair. “Adiran. Could you come here a moment?”

At first, Athran wasn’t sure what to make of that. Then a door opened at the side of the room and a young man stepped in, all nervous energy and tousled hair. “Yes, D--” His bright green eyes flicked across to Athran. “I mean, ah, Lord Pavus?”

“Would you mind fetching some ice from the kitchens?” The Magister’s pale grey eyes flicked across, then down, as if inspecting Athran’s form. It was hardly unusual, for him to be measured in such a way. The result, however, certainly was. “Something to eat and drink as well, if you please. Whatever you can comfortably carry alone.”

“Of course.” The young man bowed, straightened, smiled warmly at Athran, then hurried out of the room.

There was a lot Athran could tell from first impressions, and he discerned two things in that brief exchange. Firstly, the young man, Adiran, was not afraid of his employer. The smile had been as much for Magister Pavus as it had been for him. Secondly, the Magister himself, who had watched with a kind of fond amusement as his servant hurried out of the room, genuinely seemed to care about him.

That or he was a fantastic liar.

“Now, while we wait, I imagine you have a number of questions. I will answer what I can.” As the Magister spoke, Athran found his gaze returning to the man’s face. Dorian smiled at that, the expression encouraging as he reached out and snapped open the clasps of the leather case. “However, I find it is often easier to talk when partially distracted. It frees the mind from the burden of overthinking.”

Athran watched warily as Dorian removed a board from the case, unfolding it and setting it on the table along with a number of small pieces of various shapes. He worked wordlessly as he set it up, and Athran’s curiosity quickly got the better of him. “What is that?”

Dorian glanced up, and for a second, Athran feared he had become too complacent. That he had been tricked into a false sense of security; into overstepping. But quickly, a smile returned to the Magister’s face.

“A Ferelden game. They call it ‘chess’. I understand it’s quite popular among strategists.” Finishing, he sat back, two rows of pieces now standing at either end of the board; black and white. “Have you heard of it?”

Slowly, Athran nodded his head. “Yes. They played it in the Free Marches too, sometimes. But I never…” He swallowed, fingers anxiously plucking at the fabric of his pants beneath the table. There was no use pretending. “I don’t know how to play.”

Luckily, Dorian was not at all taken aback by the confession. Instead, his eyes almost seemed to brighten, and he waved a graceful hand towards the board.

“Would you care to learn?”

Hanin and Lyrene practically flopped onto their cots the second they stepped back into the overflow barracks, the twin sensations of relief arriving and anxiety flooding out of them overwhelming as Launcet closed the heavy door.

“And you’re sure this won’t be a fucking problem?” Cyrus, who had been with Launcet when Lyrene and Hanin were ‘summoned’, looked about as pleased as a rain-drenched cat. “Some Magister is going to be expecting a couple of slaves to show up at his door. What’s he going to do when they don’t?”

It was true. Hanin had to admit, the excuse had been… lacking. After Athran and the other slaves had been gathered and sent to their respective rooms, it had taken almost another hour before a second summons arrived, this time for Hanin and Lyrene. Apparently, they were to be taken to the rooms of Magister Sildarius, with Launcet and Cyrus as their escort. Instead, of course, they had returned to the overflow barracks.

“Do you think this is my first infiltration?” Launcet’s gaze cut between Cyrus and Hanin, as though sensing the elf’s silent agreement with the Orlesian. “I have it on good authority that Sildarius was drunk as a beggar by a brothel. With the hangover that old bastard’s going to have, he won’t remember asking for any company, yet alone enjoying it.”

Hanin’s eyes narrowed. “Who’s authority?”

“Mine.”

Hanin startled, turning, his eyes widening as Varlen slunk out of the shadows. “Sildarius was already pretty drunk at the beginning of the night, when I saw him talking to Riv,” the silver-haired elf continued. “By the end, he actually needed some servants to pretty much carry him to his room. It’ll be fine.”

“What are you doing here?”

Varlen stiffened, his resolve hardening before Hanin’s stern glare. “Helping, obviously. Dorian can’t go pulling that stunt every night, you know. Once, sure, people won’t really ask any questions. But more than that?” Varlen shook his head. “It’ll start looking suspicious. So unless you want Athran being sent around to other Magisters - which I sure as hell don’t - we need to come up with a plan. Fast.”

There was something about the way Varlen said it. So matter-of-fact. So callous, yet so undeniably true. Hanin’s jaw pulsed, teeth grinding, but eventually he had no choice but to concede he was right. As much as he hated the idea of Varlen taking the risk of being there, Hanin had to admit his insight would be valuable. “Fine. Stay.”

Varlen arched a brow, moving over to join the rest of the group. “I wasn’t really asking for permission.” When Hanin’s glare sharpened, Varlen swallowed and added quickly, “But, ah, real great to have it! Yep. Super great. Happy to help.”

Sighing wearily, Hanin turned his attention back to Launcet. “Did you get the new rotation?”

The man nodded, gesturing towards a piece of paper already on the table. He must have dropped it off earlier in the night. “Sure did. Was able to, ah… adjust it, too. Just a little. Couldn’t go tampering too much or folks would get suspicious, but swapping some names here and there won’t raise any eyebrows.” Hanin reached over, taking it off the table for inspection as Launcet continued. “We’re going to get you back into the slave’s quarters tomorrow, but that’s about the only part that’s staying the same. Instead of that charming bastard who was keeping watch tonight, we’re going to have an actual charming bastard do the job.”

Nodding, Hanin read aloud from the roster. “Daimon: slave quarters.” He glanced up. “That’s you, Ralon.”

Ralon just grinned. “Great. Should I bring a book?”

Lyrene snorted in amusement. Clearly, she had already briefed him about that aspect of the night. “Sure. Make sure it’s something sleazy, though. Gotta keep it authentic.”

The mood soured at that. Even leaving, the guard had taken it upon himself to make a lewd remark about Lyrene as she passed. It had only been the woman’s painfully tight grip on Hanin’s elbow that had stopped him from swinging around and decking the man.

“Keep reading,” Launcet interrupted, nodding towards the roster. Obediently, Hanin returned to task, scanning until a familiar name jumped out at him.

“Ayden: southern door.” Hanin paused at that, a thought dragging him from his task as he looked up at the young man. “How did you even manage to pass as a guard?”

An almost dangerously sweet smile spread across the blond elf’s face. “Aye, well, pretty easy to hide my ears under a helmet. Sleeping in the barracks got a tad tricky, but I just shared a cot with Cassius and no one dared get close enough to bother.”

Immediately, at the sudden wave of raised brows, Cassius, who had been quietly looming at the edge of the group, rolled his eyes. “Nothing like that. Get your heads out of the damn gutter.”

Ayden just grinned, jerking a thumb towards the tall human. “See? Who wouldn’t give that a wide berth?”

Grunting, but ultimately satisfied, Hanin returned to the list. It took a little longer for him to spot another familiar name, which was testament solely to the sheer amount of security Talveron had operating at his estate. “Livia and Kian: southern sector.”

Connors exchanged a glance with Cyrus and nodded. “That will provide you with clear passage to the wall.”

“Exactly,” said Launcet, pleased that someone had put the pieces together. “Now, I’m stationed up on the back wall, but I’m not alone. That’s where the problem’s going to be.” Walking to the table, he leaned back over the map of the estate. “There are no mercenaries on wall duty, just Talveron’s private guard, which means they’re well trained and probably not  open to accepting a bribe.”

Hanin nodded. “Then we kill them.”

In truth, he had been expecting a series of groans and a few rolled eyes, but instead what he received was a tense, uncertain silence.  

“Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that,” was all Launcet said, arms folded tight across his chest. “But if that is what it takes… do it quickly and quietly. Leave no survivors. The Nightingale doesn’t want any talk getting out about who you lot actually are. If we can blame this on a rogue group of mercenaries, that would be ideal. From what I’ve seen, I can’t imagine Talveron interviewed them all personally.”

“Alright then,” Hanin said, glancing about the room. “It’s a start. But how are we--”

A loud series of thumps suddenly sounded at the door, hard enough to make it shake in its frame. Silence fell across the room, panicked glances darting about, everyone frozen in place as though they had forgotten how to move.

Then, the Dusk Squad launched into action.

Cassius had Hanin by the arm, hauling him to his feet, the others manhandling his squad in much the same way, shoving them towards the cots. “Go,” Cassius hissed, “under the cots. Hide as best you can.”

They scattered, sliding under beds, Hanin grateful for the first time in his life for the lack of armour as he shimmied his way beneath the low frame. It was a tight fit, but he managed, the floor pressed to his back, the bottom of the bed to his chest. Part of him worried if he breathed too hard, the whole frame might shift. Relax. Don’t think about it.

From where he was, Hanin could see a slice of the scene unfolding by the door. The Dusk Squad were out in the open, all clad in Inquisition attire, three of them sitting around the table, seeming utterly unphased as whoever was outside the door pounded a second time, the act somehow increasing in aggression. Breathing out, Cassius gave a final check of the room then threw the door open. The movement was so perfectly sudden and unforgiving that the knocking man staggered forward slightly, caught off-balance as the door gave way beneath his fist. From what Hanin could tell, he wore the colours of a guard. One of Talveron’s proper soldiers, if he had to take a guess, based on the crispness of his uniform and his carefully groomed exterior.

“Right. What’s going on in here?” He demanded, recovering from his stumble, tersely tugging his coat back into place. “You are all with the Inquisition, correct?”

“Sure are.” Daimon stepped forward, his face the puppy-like picture of confused innocence. “And I’m pretty sure nothing’s going on? We’re just staying up playing a few rounds of Wicked Grace. Right lads?”

As if on cue, Ayden, Krissa, and Livia gave a wave, the elven man smiling brightly as he fanned a handful of cards. Where those had come from, Hanin couldn’t begin to say.

“I’m winning, for the record,” Ayden announced, then yelped as Krissa kicked his shin, her scowl sharp enough to slit a throat.

“Not for long you’re not!”

“Ow - what the hell, Ly? That’s going to bruise…”

Sighing, Cassius turned away from the commotion back to the guard in the doorway. “There. That is what is going on here. I take it there are no rules at the estate against card games?” He thumbed back at the now healthily bickering group at the table. “If the noise is the problem, I’ll give them a talking to. We’ll keep it down.”

The guard stood his ground, something about the way he was looking past Cassius through narrowed eyes spiking Hanin’s heart rate. Slowly, the guard’s posture stiffened, as though he were being drawn up by a string at the crown of his head. “I know what you’re doing in here. Come clean, now, and I won’t report it.”

Cassius seemed at a loss for words, but Daimon quickly filled in the gap, two steps bringing him directly before the guard. “Afraid you’re going to have to be a bit more specific. Great that you know what we’re up to and all, but it’s hard to confess to something we don’t know ourselves.”

“The servants.” There was no room for argument in the guard’s tone, the words delivered sharp and clear. They sliced through the faux-squabbling of the table group like an axe through a neck. Shifting slightly, peering around the room, his hand drifted down to rest at the hilt of his sword. A warning. “Or slaves. I caught a glimpse of their uniforms slipping through the door. I don’t know why you’ve got them in here, but it’s over now.” When he was met with nothing more than stunned silence, he gave a frustrated sigh. “Listen. It’s late. Just bring them out and I’ll get them back to their quarters. So long as you haven’t done something stupid, like roughed them up, there doesn’t need to be a fuss over it.”

Cassius and Daimon exchanged a slow, uncertain glance. Then, after a moment, Cassius nodded and Daimon took a step away, removing himself from the conversation. “Alright,” Cassius said, spreading his hands. “You got us. It’s hard to resist the temptation of company after so long on the road.” He cleared his throat, turning towards the beds, the guard warily moving further into the room. “You heard the man! Jig is up. Come on out, you two.”

Slowly, not entirely sure what they were thinking, Hanin did as he was told, sliding out from under the bed. Or, more correctly, shoving the bed off of him, then rising to stand awkwardly in the space left behind. Lyrene performed a bit more gracefully, her expression sculpted into what Hanin hoped was a mask of fear. If not, he would have to find some way to make all of this up to her when they were back at Skyhold.

Luckily, none of the others took this as their cue to reveal themselves, and remained concealed.

The guard eyed them over carefully as they stood, revealed, lingering for longer on Lyrene. Hanin knew that look well. It was one he had given his squad many times. The guard was checking them for signs of injury, so Hanin made an effort to stand taller and raise his chin.

After a moment, the guard grunted. “Alright. Come on, then. You two know you’re not meant to be around the soldiers’ barracks, yet alone in one.”

Hanin was about to follow his instructions but noticed Lyrene was remaining rooted in place. As though she was terrified.

Or as though she was waiting for something to happen.

“They won’t be in trouble, will they?” Ayden asked suddenly, lurching to his feet and moving to the guard’s side. “Please, ser, it was just meant to be a bit of fun. We didn’t know they weren’t allowed.”

The guard regarded Ayden for a long, calculating moment. “Do you take me for a fool? You wouldn’t have hidden them unless you knew they shouldn’t be here. As for the slaves… I don’t deliver punishments. Just enforce the altus’ orders.”

“But--”

The guard raised a hand sharply, cutting off Ayden’s distressed protests, but something seemed to give way before the young man’s imploring. “Alright, look… I’ll keep it quiet as best I can. The altus wants this to all go smoothly, and this… it isn’t ideal for any of us.” He turned, brow creasing when he realised Hanin and Lyrene hadn’t moved. “Come on, then. Quickly and quietly. I’ll get you back befor--”

Suddenly, there was movement. Like a lioness pouncing on her prey, Livia was on him, the belt from her uniform wrapped tight around his neck. The guard jerked and staggered, rasping, hands flying to his throat, but she held fast, her once soft expression hard and grim. The chatty nervousness that seemed to shadow the woman had all but vanished, and she twisted the leather tighter as he bucked and clawed at the belt, his throat, her. She didn’t even flinch when he reached down, groping blindly for his blade, ready to slash blindly to save himself.

“Ah. Poor bastard’s looking for this, ay?” Ayden grinned as the guard’s hand passed through air where his sword used to be, then raised the blade himself, turning it over curiously in the lamplight. “It’s nice, you know. Think I might keep it. Bit of a souvenir.”

The guards movements were slowing, aborted coughs jerking his body as his lungs tried to pull in air. He sank to his knees, Livia’s hands still affixed to the belt, pulling it tight, crushing his throat. His face was almost as red as his uniform now, veins bulging at his temples, eyes wide and blood-shot as his fingernails raked his skin in his struggle to pull the leather from his neck. Slowly, almost inevitably, he slumped, a few more broken attempts to breathe causing him to spasm, until he went suddenly, impossibly still. Blood ran down his neck in slow trickles, soaking into his collar. Livia, expression blank, kept the belt tight well after he stopped moving.

“Shit,” Lyrene breathed, taking a shaky step back. Hanin couldn’t help but agree. None of them were strangers to death, it was true. But with a blade, it seemed different, somehow. Cleaner, or perhaps just less personal. Stab a man in the right place, and you can comfortably leave knowing he would eventually die. You were free to just move onto the next opponent on the battlefield.

But that…

“Y-You killed him.” Darren had made his way out from under one of the cots, his face stark-white, eyes staring at where Livia still held the corpse of the guard in a kneeling position. He seemed almost transfixed by it, stunned into a kind of emotional delay. “W… Why did you do that?”

Looking at the ‘Dusk Squad’ now, Hanin could see it. For the first time, he realised with no small amount of certainty that these men and women who had been joking and laughing with them moments ago, were agents. Assassins. Killers and murderers and thieves, brought together by order of the Nightingale to complete a task. His task. They were dangerous. Ruthless. Willing to get their hands dirty and cast aside morality to ensure success..

They were exactly the kind of people he needed.

But even knowing that, the look on Darren’s face made Hanin wish they weren’t.

“It was us or him, kid.” Daimon’s gaze cut away from the guard’s body, something cold and calculating in those brown eyes that matched his sister’s. It was entirely at odds with the person Hanin thought he knew. “We get sprung here, and it’s all our necks on the line.”

He didn’t even cringe at his choice of words, but Darren did. “But he… he was just doing his job. Wasn’t he?” He searched around imploringly at the crowd of faces. “Wasn’t he? I-I thought…”

“We’re not here to do things gently.” Kian spoke for what Hanin felt was the first time since they’d met. The young man’s expression was somber yet resolved as he leaned back on the edge of the table. “But this isn’t on your conscience. It’s on ours. It’s why we’re here. What we’re here for.”

Mortified, words failing, Darren turned to Hanin, distress seeming to radiate from him despite his silence as he sought something from him. Disapproval. Reassurance. Disgust?

Hanin just shifted his attention to Launcet, who was dusting himself off miserably as he crossed the room. “What do you plan to do with the body?”

Grunting, clearly far from thrilled, Launcet nudged the guard’s knee with his foot. Only when there was no response did Livia finally allow him to thud heavily to the floor. The most off-putting part was probably the way she slipped the belt back around her waist, as though it hadn’t just been used to choke a man to death.

“Might have to get creative with this one. Some mercenary would’ve been easy enough to deal with, but one of Talveron’s own?”  Launcet exhaled in a rush, running a hand down his face. “Maker’s fucking balls...”

Daimon clapped him on the back good-naturedly. “C’mon, Launcet. Gotta earn your keep.” He paused, gaze drifting down to the guard, then shrugged. “At least we kept it clean for you. Good call with the belt, Liv. I was just going to knife him.”

Livia gave him a half-smile, her old mask slow to return. “Thanks. Figured we could use as little mess as possible.” She scuffed the floor with her boot. “Besides, it’s real hard to get blood out of wood...”

Turning away from the Dusk Squad as they argued over what to do with the corpse, Hanin found himself faced with a different kind of problem. Darren was sitting on the edge of one of the cots, Lyrene and Cyrus by his side. Ralon and Connors slunk nearby, the Antivan seeming perturbed while Connors showed about as much interest in the affair as she might give to a tree in passing. Sighing, sensing this wasn’t something he could just ignore, Hanin walked over to the group. Each step felt heavier as he approached. Each step left him less certain of what he was going to say.

“They murdered him.” Darren was speaking softly as Hanin drew near. There was less horror in his voice, now. Less everything. He just seemed... lost. Shaking his head, he looked up at his squadmates. “We don’t do that, do we? Just… kill people because it’s convenient?”

“No, we don’t,” Lyrene said softly, her arm wrapped around the young man’s shoulders. “We don’t, Darren.”

“But they do.” There was something about the way Cyrus said it; a kind of unspoken certainty to the words; that left Hanin both reassured and unsettled. “It’s why they’re here. The Nightingale hired them for this.”

“I know. I do. It’s just…” Darren just shook his head. “How are you all just okay with this?”

“Because the alternative would have been worse.” Hanin’s voice projected far more confidence than he felt, but when Darren turned those shocked eyes on him, something wavered. “Thata doesn’t mean it was right. Or just.”

“Then what does it mean?”

“It was necessary.”

Sometimes, when people change how they see you, it happens slowly and silently. Often, it’s strung out over a long series of events; events that form a picture different to what they imagined. Eventually, painfully, they realise, with ever-increasing clarity, that you were never that picture to start with.

But sometimes, it happens in the span of a sentence.

And Hanin knew. As Darren looked away, defeat written in the the curve of his shoulders, he knew he had lost something. Something important. Something that had been freely given the moment he was introduced to the young man as his Captain.

Trust.

There had never been a moment where Darren questioned him. Argued with him. Defied him. But this time, it was different. This time, the young man couldn’t seem to find a way to agree, even though part of him was undoubtedly desperate to. He couldn’t find a way to justify what had happened, even if it meant standing his ground alone. Even if it meant going against the word of his Captain. Even if it meant questioning what he was told to be true.

And, with all the doubt he carried, Hanin couldn’t help but feel that was for the best.

[beautyinthebloodline]

Underworld Gossip

When Adiran pops in for a small talk and catching up he likes to inform Abigail on what she likes to the call the Underworld Rumor Mill. It mostly consists of gossip and unnecessary drama amongst other demons, half breeds and humans that serve under their father. Because Adrian is by his side the most he oversees most of then. Luckily most of their fathers minions are individuals neither sibling enjoyed sharing space with, making for quite a few good laughs when addressing unpleasant acquaintances and there short comings as well at their negative situations.

[donnie17829046-blog]

Mischievous Sex Dreams She Privately Wants You would certainly Attempt! Shock!

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[thereluctantinquisitor]

OC-tober Day 3 - Duel

It seems I will be doing these very sporadically, but I managed to produce something! The prompt is from @oc-growth-and-development‘s OC-tober list - thank you for putting it together!

Here we have Adiran finally in his element, and a bit of how Riin’s experiences with the prickly prince of Talvera have softened over time into something resembling mutual understanding. (996 words)

--

There were a lot of things about Adiran that were ‘unideal’ for a Talveran noble. Over the years, Riin had come to know them one by one, as though the princeling was intentionally collecting them out of spite. He was brash and hot-headed, until he found himself at a ball or a celebration. Whenever he needed to be social, he retreated into himself, his perfectly tailored clothes a weak shield to deflect the worst of people’s judgement. When he was younger, he had endured his studies until the moment the bell tolled, then fled with his books and ink still scattered on the table, the work half-done. Alone in his rooms, he would read. About the histories he had abandoned just hours before under his tutor’s watchful gaze. About tactics and leaders and all the brilliant ways they had failed. He would thumb through plays - tragedies, comedies, dramas - until his eyes began to blur and the sun was a ghost at the horizon, translucent and pale. 

He hid the romances under his bed. Riin had asked which one was his favourite once. Adiran, his face bright red, had responded by avoiding him for an entire season.

All in all, Adiran was a series of contradictions. Quick-witted, but only when he chose to be. Compassionate, but only in certain company. Everything he felt, he felt too deeply. Everything he thought, he thought about too much.

But when Adiran dueled, he danced.

It was just a casual match. The challenger, Dusett, had come down from the northern provinces with his father to pay respects to the royal family. From what Riin could tell, he and Adiran got along well enough. The moment formalities ended, they had stolen away to the training ground, like a pair of lovers taking flight at the end of a gala. Riin had watched them go, an amused smile on his face, until Adiran glanced back. Locked eyes with him. Delivered his well, are you coming or what? look that Riin now knew was the closest thing to an invitation.

Of course, nothing happened in the castle without ten sets of eyes making note of it. Now, a small crowd had gathered at the training arena. Most were off-duty house staff and guards, but a few of the more prestigious guests had also caught wind and wandered down from their quarters. Even without eyes, the clashing of dulled steel would be enough to alert anyone in the nearby buildings that there was free entertainment to be had.

Adiran was breathing hard, but not as hard as his opponent. Dusett stood about a head taller than the prince, his dark hair tied back in a short tail near the base of his neck - the latest fashion in Talvera’s north. They had been at it for a while now; long enough for Riin to give up his seat to one of the older kitchen hands, whose back was curved from years of huddling over a stove. Instead, he ambled down to the sands, joining some of the soldiers along the perimeter. Typically, training would continue despite Adiran’s presence. In fact, he insisted on it. But with two noblemen on the field, well… it was better for everyone to just give them whatever space they needed.

Adiran had pivoted around, using his speed to dodge Dusett’s swing and slap the flat of his blade against the man’s back. With a grunt, Dusett staggered forward a few steps, then whirled back, his easy-going smile turning brittle as the audience gasped and murmured its approval. There was a moment of perfect stillness - of two duelists sizing up one another. Of matching breaths and beating hearts. Of silver sicets quietly changing hands among the wealthy in the stands.

Then, Dusett and Adiran lunged for each other, and their blades met again in a clash of ringing steel.

Leaning against one of the arena’s outer pillars, Riin just watched, arms folded loosely across his chest, as the pair sparred. He watched as Adiran spun and wove his way around Dusett, more relaxed with a blade and an opponent than with a partner at a ball. He watched as Dusett, skilled in his own way, began to pick up on Adiran’s tactics, swinging to meet him with greater certainty, the sound of a parry punctuating the steps of their dance. 

Above Riin, some of the palace servants, bustling about in the stands, began to still. Sank down on the long benches. Leaned their cheeks on their palms and gazed almost wistfully not only at Dusett, but at Adiran, the young man they typically avoided in the hallways. Riin couldn’t help it - he smiled at the sight. Just quietly. Just to himself.

Adiran deserved to be seen like this. Comfortable and bold and unapologetically alive. 

Sweat mingled with sand as the fight continued, both duelists beginning to flag now that the rush of combat had melted into a more defined pattern. That was the problem, when everyone received the same Talveran training. It made competition more predictable. Of course, skill still played an important role - Riin would never suggest otherwise. But when everyone knew what strike required what parry; what moves left a person open to what kind of riposte; it took away some of the unpredictability of a real fight. It left some duels feeling as scripted as one of Adiran’s plays.

But, as it turned out, Adiran had not received traditional training. Not for the last year and a half, at least.

The pair broke apart for a moment, staggering backwards, sucking in lungfuls of air as a smattering of applause and a few modest cheers rose from the crowd. In the brief reprieve, Adiran’s blue eyes scanned the stands, before dipping to the arena’s edge and finding Riin. Still smiling, sensing the unspoken question, he gave Adiran a single, slow nod. Go on. Show them.

And, after flashing a breathless smile in return, he did.

[raevenlywrites]

36, 42, and 48 from the OC asks!

36 Who has Pets - I will stick with those who have animal pets, though many more have human pets and/or riftlings

Ruth has a (...Sheltie? Collie? Whichever one is the smaller breed) familiar named Crescent (Cressie for short)

Zig has had many doggos, include Duke the Great Dane, Freecloud the Burmese Mountain dog, and Harringbone, his youngest son's Terrier familiar

42 who has the most Patience - KAIN. That man is a mountain and will not be moved. Seth or Zig is probably a close second (though Seth will act mad just to blow off steam and Zig is easily flustered)

48 Who needs Caffiene in the morning? All of them they are all me Gil. Adiran's love language is making sure the coffee maker is set for Gil before going to bed

[thereluctantinquisitor]

WIP Whenever

Thank you for the tag @captainsaku! At the moment, I’m still limping through the opening chapters of Stonebreaker, trying to get a feel for the story and work on strengthening my atrophied writing muscles. Anyway, I figured I’d share what I have so far of Adiran’s introductory chapter. It’s basically just an awkward, descriptive mess, but at least it’s something. At this point, I’ll count that as a win!

I also put a short glossary at the end in case some terms were confusing. <3

Chapter 3 - A Scene

Be present. Do not cause a scene.

They were simple enough requests, Adiran supposed, as he braced himself and drained his third flute of wine. He knew it was poor form to cringe after swallowing, but the dry white was about as pleasant as a mouthful of sand and only went down half as well. If he was the paranoid type, he’d think the servers were offering him the worst vintages on purpose.

Then again, the celebration had stretched into its ninth day, now. Even the royal cellars had a limit.

Despite overstaying its welcome, the event remained at a predictably lofty height of splendour. In the ballroom - Vetrose’s famed Silver Font -  delicate rivulets of water, no wider than the span of a hand, curled their way across the marble floor, draining into a shallow pool at the base of the royal thrones. Above their heads, weavelight strings were draped elegantly between pillars and across wide arches, their glowing pinpricks joining the blazing chandelier to bathe the room a honey-gold.

Beneath that radiant light, the Talveran nobility moved like swans, jewellery glittering, ankle-length gowns and embroidered jackets flashing enough to catch the attention of nesting crows. Hundreds packed the Font that night - an entirely different crowd to the evening prior, and likely the one prior to that. Attending Talveran court, with its litany of demands and expectations, was an exhausting and expensive affair. Every evening demanded a new outfit. A new glittering showpiece. A new plan for navigating the treacherous waters of social interaction, careful not to show too much interest in any one person. One night was difficult enough to survive. Very few could afford to be present for an entire turn’s worth of celebration.

Unfortunately, Adiran had no choice in the matter. It just had to be his brother returning from the northern border. As if no one else had ever come back from that waste of a campaign.

Another mouthful. Another weary swallow of something half as strong as it needed to be. Honestly, he’d almost rather be swallowing sand. At least that meant he’d be in the arena, getting his ass kicked practicing for something that mattered, instead of wasting his time decorating the wall. Divider’s Own, Lorvain was meant to have arrived by the third day! Adiran might have been able to slip away if he had been around to soak up the attentions of the lords and ladies. But no. The beloved Crown Prince had probably stopped to fawn over milkmaids and shepherds at every town between here and Morgate. Really, they should have accounted for that before throwing such a ridiculous event...

 A prince should want to know his people, Adiran. I thought you understood that?

Threading paths expertly between the nobility were almost three dozen servers dressed in vibrant Volise green. Silver trays were held aloft on the pads of their gloved fingers as they moved in rehearsed patterns around the room, making sure every hand that sought a glass found a delicate stem. It was a different sort of dance; the kind that typically went unnoticed, the same way a clock’s hands are appreciated more than the mechanism behind the face. They knew the position of every crack in the stone; every rivulet.

None of them ever looked down.

Speaking of timing, the only reason Adiran paid the servers any heed was to make sure he got his right. On cue, he finished his wine with a grimace and thrust it towards a well-groomed young woman, her dark hair braided and pinned neatly around her head. Without so much as an errant blink, she bobbed carefully at the knees, accepted the glass, and replaced it with a new one from her tray. 

“Careful not to drop that,” Adiran said, taking the drink and giving it an experimental sniff. Sweeter. Thank the Divider for that.

The server hesitated. They always did. Every night. “Your Highness?” she asked, and her lilt was perfection. Just the right amount of simpering, blended with polite curiosity. Someone had taken her training seriously.

“Am I slurring already? What I’m saying is that if the Crown Prince finally shows up and you’re in the middle of mopping a puddle, the King will have your hide for saddle leather. So...” He extended one bored finger towards the tray, a smirk curling the corner of his lips. “Tread lightly.”

The server’s mouth opened, and for a moment no sound followed. For just one blissful, fleeting second, Adiran thought he’d finally done it. He’d finally won. 

Then, like underappreciated clockwork, her lips shaped themselves into a beatific smile, and she dipped into a curtsy. The tray never even wobbled. “Thank you for your concern, Your Highness. On my word, I will remain diligent. I would not dare bring shame on our King’s house.”

Damn it. The smile Adiran flashed back - half a sneer - could cut glass. But the server had already completed her parting bob and returned to her dance, weaving and gliding among the gaggle of silver-bloods with her tray of weak wine. Expression turning brittle, Adiran huffed and leaned back against one of the massive marble pillars - just one of fifteen lining the room. He’d claimed it on the first evening, like a hound staking its territory. Most people knew better than to bother him once he’d found his haunt, but the serving staff simply didn’t have that luxury. He supposed it was probably unkind, to force them to speak to him. But Divider, he was just so bored...

Scowling, he took a long swallow of his new drink, the chilled, sweet liquid a welcome enough sensation as it ran down the back of his throat.

So he was unkind. So what?

“Are you finished losing to the servers for tonight, or should I come back later?”

A familiar voice, and right on time. Adiran gave no indication of surprise, barely even turning to acknowledge the man. After all, this was just another ritual for them; a way to take a knife to long hours of affluent, barely drunk loitering. “Yeah, I’m done. An earthquake couldn’t shake them.” His gaze finally cut across, delivering what he hoped was a scathing look as Riin settled against the pillar beside him. “Took you long enough. Get distracted by all the pretty gowns and pouting lips?”

Folding his arms across his broad chest, Riin chuckled softly, utterly immune to Adiran’s glare. “Could you blame me if I was? Everyone looks appealing under this light.”

“That’s generous of you.” Sniffing, Adiran glanced up. Even with the smoke-glass covers encasing each glowing orb, he still had to squint against the brightness of the weavelights. “Guess it could be worse. We looked more like corpses before the covers were put on.”

“Really? I’m glad I missed it.”

“Yeah. Being dead inside is more than enough.”

Riin laughed, and a faint smile curved Adiran’s lips. He quickly hid it behind his glass. Truthfully, the entire ‘weavelight saga’ had been ridiculous. The King and Queen had commissioned hundreds of them from Tel Shival, purely because no one else had ever done it. Even the wealthiest families only ever had a few per household, usually kept in a lantern or a sconce in the most frequented rooms. After two seasons of painstaking arrangement that nearly killed two of their staff, the Silver Font soon found itself bathed in a thematically violent silver light. It had been an exciting novelty, at first; nobility flooded in from all over Talvera just to bask in the glow of thousands of wasted sicets. But then they quickly realised that colours didn’t behave the same way. Their favourite jewellery didn’t catch the eye. Their skin didn’t appear as youthful and rosy. Instead, every flaw - every stray hair or unpolished button - was placed on stark display for the vultures to pick at.

The weavelights were as bleak and clinical as a physicker’s ward. They sucked the warmth out of everything they touched.

In Adiran’s mind, the wash of corpse-light over each soiree was a perfectly fitting thing. But, as was typical, no one else agreed. So, they decided to encase each of the weavelights in honey-tinted glass and returned the room to almost exactly how it looked before. Back when it was lit by oil and flame.

That was how things were in Talvera. Decisions were made, sicets were spent, and then everyone just wanted to go back to how things used to be. Like nothing had ever happened.

GLOSSARY

Weavelight - spheres of crystal or glass, with a light-bearing glyphstring engraved by a thaumist specialising in Weaving. Maintains a bright, steady silver light. Cannot be dimmed or turned off at will. Thaumist - a well-trained practitioner of the thaumic arts, capable of manipulating thaumic essence. Turn - ten days. Tel Shival - An independent, famously insular city dedicated to the training and cultivation of thaumists and thaumaturgical study. Sicet - Currency used in the Allied Kingdoms.

---

Tagging: @frenchy-and-the-sea, @leothelionsaysgrrrr, @bladeverbena, @thefluffynug, @rufinagertrude, @arduyn, @anarchyduck, and anyone else who has a WIP they’d like to share!

[thereluctantinquisitor]

How about 18, 24 or 37?

Thank you for the prompt! <3

37. Defy (850 words). In which Adiran’s older brother is recovering in the palace from a bad injury, and his visit to his room took a bitter, resentful turn.

“What? You think you can just show up half-dead, and that somehow gives you the right to tell me what to do? Who the fuck do you think you are?”

“I’m your brother, Adiran.” Even with his torso and leg thickly bandaged, Lorvain still struggled to sit higher in the bed. Breathing gingerly, he tried to speak through gritted teeth, his brow damp with sweat. “If you... if you would just listen to me—”

Any hope of that was dashed when Adiran barked a dry, bitter laugh. “Oh, so now you want to act like my brother? When you’re bed-bound with nothing better to do?” Still laughing humourlessly, he paced the length of the room, his footsteps a low counterpoint to the sharpness of his words. He wielded each one like a weapon - hurled them across the space between them. “You’re not trying to help me, so just drop the act. I’m not backing out of the tournament.”

His brother’s dark hair fell limp to either side of his face, its ragged ends barely brushing the tops of his shoulders. He was gaunt. Unusually pale. Some part of Adiran knew he shouldn’t be doing this. Not right now. But damn it, Lorvain gave up the right to tell him what to do a long time ago. Back when he had the chance to care. “Adiran, I am trying to help you,” Lorvain argued weakly. Despite Adiran’s derisive snort, he pressed on. “I know that tournament. The Red Fury. I fought in it when I was near your age. People die. All the time. And Crosus? Divider, if he” —a cough, sharp and short, wracked his frame, earning a second wince— “i-if I’d had to face a beast like that? I don’t... I couldn’t have...” Out of breath, Lorvain sank back down, shaking his head slowly. For a moment, standing in that sickly-smelling room, Adiran felt a twist of fear. A twist of truth, like a dagger in his gut, because Lorvain had always been the better duelist.

But it only lasted a moment.

“No.” He forced himself to snap out of it, nails biting crescents into his palms. “No. You don’t get to take this from me. None of you do.” He turned to glare daggers at his brother. “This is mine. I’ve worked for it. I’ve bled for it.” He ignored the way Lorvain cringed at that. “And you know what? I’ll win. I’ll win the whole damn thing while you watch from the sidelines with that fucking hole in your leg. I’ll defy you, and anyone who thinks I can’t do it!”

It took until the end of his speech for Adrian to realise he was shouting, his voice echoing against the heavy stone walls. Breathing hard, his mouth suddenly dry as sand, it took everything he had not to storm out of the room and leave his brother to wallow in his own self-pity. In that self-serving concern of his that was just another mask for his guilt. No - he didn’t get to lie there and feel better about himself just because he’d caught the wrong end of a blade. Not if Adiran had a say in it.

“You... You really think I don’t want you to succeed.” To Lorvain’s credit, the statement lacked his usual incredulity; that doe-eyed shock when someone in their damn kingdom didn’t love him just for breathing. “Adiran, I know I haven’t been... I haven’t been what you needed me to be. But I’ve always been on your side.” When Adiran didn’t dignify his bullshit with a response, Lorvain tried to move again, then cried out, his face knotting in pain. “G-Gods!”

At first, Adiran assumed it was just a convenient trick to get out of making a proper apology. But when Lorvain, teeth clenched, squeezed his eyes shut and arched against the bed, he knew something was actually wrong. In the midst of the spasm, Adiran almost went to him. He was surprised, really, when the urge arrived like a whip-crack out of nowhere. But he stopped himself mid-step. Forced himself to set his jaw and turn away until his brother’s rapid breathing began to even out again. No. He didn’t owe Lorvain anything. In fact, he planned to say exactly what Lorvain said to him, three years ago. Back when he’d actually needed him.

“You brought this on yourself.” Despite being exhausted from days of agony, Adiran still saw something in Lorvain tighten. Shiver. Break at his words. It should have felt good. Maybe even just. But instead, Adiran just felt off-balance and anxious, like the ground around him had suddenly dropped away, leaving him alone with nowhere to run. The feeling was so intense that he found himself speaking before he had a chance to stop himself. “Just... stay still. I’ll get the physicker.”

“A-Adiran...” His name was barely discernible, weak and gritted out from between Lorvain’s clenched teeth. “Please... wait...”

With a hollow feeling in his chest - one that he tried to convince himself was satisfaction instead of shame - Adiran ignored his brother’s plea and walked away.

[thereluctantinquisitor]

Favourite Works of 2020

I was tagged by the wonderful @frenchy-and-the-sea - thank you! :)

So as with most folks, I found this very difficult. I produced some things in 2020, but I’m not sure of the extent to which I am proud of them as pieces. But they exist, and that is at least some kind of step in the right direction (that direction being writing), so I can safely say I am proud of that!

Rules: It’s time to love yourselves! Choose your 5(ish) favorite works you created in the past year (fics, art, edits, etc.) and link them below to reflect on the amazing things you brought into the world in 2020. Tag as many writers/artists/etc. as you want (fan or original) so we can spread the love and link each other to awesome works!  

The following are in no particular order:

1. A micro-story prompt about Delver and Sylda. This, naturally, turned out to be anything but a micro-story lol. I liked being able to explore their dynamic as a duo and get into Delver’s head a bit, especially when he’s not feeling his best.

2. Another micro-story prompt that ended up being a regular-length prompt. This one surrounded some side characters in Stonebreaker, regrouping after losing the War of Chains. It gives particular insight to Dassian Varo, who was appointed War-King on the battlefield, and his conflicting emotions regarding the conflict and its motivations.

3. A short piece of Adiran and Riin sparring, where they banter about how Adiran learns best.

4. Ironically, this Witcher AU for Varlen and Hanin, in which the roles of who was the Witcher and who was the Bard were the opposite of what most would expect. It was quite fun, imagining Varlen as a gruff mercenary-type and Hanin as a lore-conscious bard, determined to spread an accurate message about monsters and how to harm them. I finished 2 parts, but ran out of steam for the final installment. *shrug*

5. This early piece from Delver’s POV, after he rescued Sylda from the gallows. It’s just him musing in a tavern room, but I kinda like it. Plus it was one of my first pieces of 2020, so it gets to go in the lineup lol

I will tag: @lavellanlove, @dafan7711, @captainsaku, @bladeverbena, @cobaltash and anyone else who wants to share (just please tag me so I get to see it)!

[thereluctantinquisitor]

👨‍❤️‍👨💍💯 for Adiran please!! :)

Thanks for asking! 

💑 What are my muse’s requirements for a potential partner?

Adiran needs someone dependable and compassionate, although not for the reasons he might think. He believes he needs someone like that to make up for where he is lacking, but the reality is that he possesses both of those traits, and is just desperate for permission to be them. A partner with similar traits - someone he loves and respects - would help act as a kind of bridge between Adiran’s self-destructive tendencies and his core nature, and help him fully embrace it.

He also requires someone who can make him laugh. He’s often starved of laughter and joy, to the point that he is typically avoided by people because he has a (well-earned) reputation of being cold and difficult to get along with. Someone who can actually make him laugh not only breaks through that shell, but has taken the time to get to know him enough to make it happen. For Adiran, a person making him laugh is nothing short of a surprise, because it signals that someone found him worthy of effort.

💍 Has my muse ever had a one-night stand?

Basically all of Adiran’s relationships between 19 and 23 could be characterised as one-night stands. There weren’t a lot of them because his position as Prince, even the youngest, meant he had to be careful about being seen or creating problems/scandals for his family. His attraction to men was also something he had to keep quiet, because having multiple potential heirs for the throne is one of the most important aspects of Talveran royal culture (which is all excessively complicated to the point that an entire field of scholarly work is dedicated just to unravelling and explaining it back to the nobility on a need-to-know basis). The basic unspoken understanding is that, after marriage and an heir or two, he can do whatever he wants in the comfort of his own home. But before that, he can’t do anything that would threaten his eligibility in the court. So basically, brief flings in taverns as far from the palace as possible were his only outlet, because everything else revolved around maintaining his family’s position on the throne. 

💯 What is my muse’s ideal date?

Something private and intimate. Being around a lot of people when he’s trying to feel a connection with just one person is hard for Adiran, and he finds himself feeling too self-conscious/aware of everything he does and how it looks to people that don’t matter. So a date that is somewhere reasonably quiet, away from prying eyes, where he can just relax and enjoy being with the person he is with, is ideal. A quiet date also flusters him a bit (in a good way) because it makes him feel like he’s enough, and that his partner doesn’t need something to distract them just to get through it. 

Sex + Romance Headcanons

[thereluctantinquisitor]

💋📀🥝🌸 For anyone you're feeling at the moment!

Send me an ask from the Jumbo Ask Meme!

I decided to go with Adiran for this one (my grumpy princeling from Talvera - all answers under the cut)!

💋 How affectionate are they with their friends? Their family? Their romantic partner(s) (if they have any)? Are they more physical or emotional when it comes to displaying their affection? Why?

Adiran is very subdued when it comes to showing affection. I mean, he hasn’t exactly had a healthy model for it, growing up, and being part of Talveran royalty comes with a certain amount of prudishness, lest you give the wrong impression. With his friends, Adiran basically shows affection by laughing. Genuinely, of course. For him, that’s a form of letting down his guard, so it means he both likes and trusts you. He is also candid to a fault, so anyone he calls friend has to have a tough skin by default, because he won’t sugar coat things (especially if he is asked for advice on something - he’ll just say exactly what he thinks, no matter how rough it might be to hear).

With a partner, Adiran starts out very physical, because he genuinely thinks that’s the way it’s meant to be. Like, he is under the impression that the physical side of the relationship is what makes the person a partner, rather than just a good friend, and he tries very hard to ‘do his part’ as a result. That fact that he struggles with his emotions also makes physically engaging in affection easier, and before Riin, it’s basically where his romantic relationships began and stayed. However, he does discover that he’s someone who craves emotional intimacy more than physical. He just never realised knew that was actually an option, and never knew how to ask for it.

📀 How easy is it to shock your OC? To confuse them? To lie to them, to manipulate them? How are they with feelings of trust? Can your OC be trusted?

Adiran can be shocked pretty easily, as well as confused. He’s lived quite a sheltered life, and while he is intelligent and well-read, he definitely lacks worldly savvy. As soon as something is out of his field of knowledge, he struggles to adapt. Lying to and manipulating him is a tricky one. On the one hand, he’s been lied to and manipulated for most of his life by his family, the court, and everything in-between. However, for the most part, he’s perfectly aware that it is happening. He just has no real choice but to go along with it. Once he’s out of that environment, he is pretty good at reading people and their intentions. He claims it’s one of the few benefits of spending every awful courtly function people-watching instead of drinking and flitting about. 

Regarding the people he knows/cares for, Adiran can absolutely be trusted. 

🥝 What does a bad mental health day look like for your OC? Walk us through it with them. What kind of things can help them out of this slump and what kinds of things comfort them when they start to feel like this?

He gets extremely frustrated/snappy when he’s having a bad mental health day. His fuse is very short, and he finds it genuinely difficult to be around anyone (especially if they want anything from him). For the most part, he just wants to be left alone on those days, because having to consciously mediate his mood to avoid hurting the people he cares about takes more than he has to give. In that way, keeping away actually is helping him. However, those closest to him also know that bringing him something small (a meal, a book, etc.) to help distract him from his mood is another way to help, and even if he seems put-off by the intrusion, he actually does appreciate it (and will awkwardly say as much when he’s feeling better, typically while returning the favour).

🌸 What does your OC’s voice sound like? Their laugh? Are they good at singing? Do they have an accent?

I’m so sorry I really hate voice questions - I suck at them. Uh... I guess he has a tenor voice, and when he genuinely laughs, it always sounds like it caught him by pleasant surprise. He was trained to sing as a child, but he resented it with a deep and unrelenting passion (so he can sing, but will only do so under pain of death). He has a Talveran accent, but I have no idea how to describe it so I won’t lol