#an onyx void reports

[an-onyx-void]

Why can't internationally recognized aid organizations get internet access, Israel? Is there something you don't want them to say? Or something you don't want us to see?

[an-onyx-void]

This is unconscionable. (more)

[azulyrae]

❛ —— 𝐈 : The Pawn.

his life had been but a recurrent and miserable passing of time; plagued by the constant questioning regarding his value; the nagging behind the point of his meaningless existence and the place he occupied in the reality in which he was inserted. azriel had not lived; rather survived, doomed to loneliness despite the amount of friends he had made. one could not be overjoyed with such a fate; one could not see the point to insist on the stubbornness of life, if one could not share it with a partner.

after five centuries, azriel had felt the bond snap inside his heart; a dagger that tore the flash of the muscle; whose blade twisted and spilled his blood. for once, his agony was but self-inflicted; the pain, a consequence of the emotional absence of [name] archeron, his lightning bolt. azriel had been a lonesome wanderer, grasping to an abstract concept and companion that had finally found him mid-travel. and after quiet ponder and the insistence of his mate’s sisters, the shadowsinger decided to steal her from the tortuous path of self-sacrifice, and led the queen and king of their chess game to quite an experimental and potentially catastrophic game.

the first chapter of onyx sword of sorrow.

check the original post to be aware of the trigger warnings.

azriel/fem!archeron sister. reader with mind control & the ability to shapeshift.

word-count: 10K.

“I long for you; I who usually longs without longing, as though I am unconscious and absorbed in neutrality and apathy, really, utterly long for every bit of you.”

― Franz Kafka, Letters to Milena

The leisure room’s stillness brought the male comfort. His thoughts, once a swirl of revolt, were reduced to mere pondering. The sound of his pacing, incessant during the first half-hour of his arrival, ceased with the time spent in silence. Azriel sat on his most favored elbow-chair: made of charcoal-colored leather; with enough width to accommodate his wings; the one further from the hearth; and had not left since then. The hollow pair of his eyes were fixed on the peeling brown-paint of the walls near the shelves — even if they did not perceive a thing.

When he had reached the familiar space of the House of Wind, Azriel scurried to the least frequented room and enclosed himself inside. By then, the sun held itself with pride in the middle of the day sky, burning and fierce, while a warm whiff entered sporadically through the opened doors of the balcony and the wind swayed the linen curtains. The Shadowsinger poured himself a generous amount of aged scotch with ice and proceeded to lose himself in mute and almost betrayed speculation.

The male didn’t need, nor did he ask, for the eventual reports of his shadows regarding the time passage. Azriel could deduce the lingering of his presence according to the light’s position. Although he had drowned the first dose of whiskey inside a luminous room, by the time his twentieth one doused his sore throat, the full-moon shone, its bright light a rival to the countless stars in Velaris’ night sky.

The House lit the hearth at least three hours prior, and Azriel commanded it to extinguish the flames. It wasn’t the first time, and the Spymaster doubted it’d be the last too, in which he wasted precious periods of his day staring into the meaningless and oppressive void; seconds and minutes and hours converging into a single unity until Azriel could no longer discern, nor notice, their passage. Pale and ethereal, the weak moonrays entered the ambient — that grew more frigid as dusk arrived — and the peeled pattern of the old tint could scarcely be seen in comparison to the daytime’s. But Azriel would’ve been able to point each furniture with precision, or move without hesitation, for he knew every centimeter that constituted the House of Wind’s extension. More than all, the Spymaster could’ve reached a particular point of the leisure room even if he was tied and blinded.

His sight burnt figurative holes in the untouched chess board, still secured inside the store’s package, despite the fact that it had been gifted to her months before, during the Winter Solstice. It rested under a pile of unwrapped presents, each thoroughly thought and given by a member of the Inner Circle. His High-Lady, Mor and Elain had spent weeks trying to convince her to join them for the Winter Solstice, their promises of amusing and private festivities not fazing her in the slightest. So, before their departure, Azriel had told Clotho to leave their gifts somewhere in the library where she would see them, for not a soul managed to learn where she had ventured to. When he returned and found the damned pile, Azriel felt a sudden wave of rage trespass his very being. Because the Spymaster lacked Cassian’s patience, such an offense was not ignored.

Azriel was left both enchanted and wary once his eyes fell upon her figure for the first time. Prythian was close to war against Hybern then, and they were in dire need of allies. In order to contact the Mortal Queens, Feyre had resorted to her sisters, and though she’d granted them an overview of their personalities and shared past, the female was particularly vague regarding the older one. The Spymaster was half-expecting fidgeting and condescending women, quite uninteresting and avoidant. However, she held none of those said characteristics.

With briefness, she had informed Feyre of the occurrences the sister had missed after her return to the Fae Lands. Their father sailed to where she theorized to be the farthest west, and with the man gone, her, the oldest — [Name] — was in charge of their coin, the employees, and their mansion’s maintenance. Feyre once confessed that was it not for one of her sister’s sacrifices, she would never have survived a single winter to wield a bow. The fact alone granted the said woman great respect amongst them all, though her identity was only confirmed when Azriel and his brothers faced that force of nature.

Feyre had advised — rather threatened them — to maintain a certain and specific distance. The three were given no further details, yet, were all glad to adhere to her orders. Still, with her clear avoidance regarding the topic and the deep sorrow in her eyes whenever she covered her older sister’s brief character, Azriel had managed, to a certain extent at least, to connect the pieces of the puzzle. And with what he presumed to be a precise knowledge, the Spymaster expected a strong, yet secluded woman; one who’d offer her home out of consideration for Feyre without engaging with their troubles any further.

How wrong he was.

When the soon-to-be High-Lady informed the three sisters of their need, Nesta’s discontentment came in brisk and sharp words, while Elain remained silent and, in fact, quite nervous over the prospect of a discussion. But all [Name] had asked her sister was whether she’d need anything more. As if offering Feyre her home was no bother; as if she was willing to offer her entire being, if it meant granting the youngest sister a solace of her own.

She led them to the private office upstairs, and Azriel absorbed the small glimpse of her ferocious spirit, overwhelmed by her scent and presence in every centimeter of the room. A shelf took over an entire wall; there were countless maps of the Mortal Lands plastered on a mural, most with colorful arrows traced with either red or blue paint, as if to showcase hot and warm currents; and an enormous table placed on the center, with pages whose scriptures varied from long, handwritten notes to numbers and formulas Azriel himself couldn’t understand, despite the five centuries he’d lived. The chessboard was the last thing he saw. It was placed in a corner, a melancholic sight to a male as himself, who adored the strategies and competition the game’s matches granted him. [Name] had no opponent; no friend she could invite to play against.

The Spymaster had then noticed the clear loneliness of the Archeron sisters. He could still remember Feyre’s haunted and paranoid figure, resorting to self-isolation for she was not taught to accept the offering hand of potential allies. The parallels were absurd as [Name] fished a silver-necklace from her dress’ collar, using the small key hanging from it to open one of the many drawers from the center table. And from the inside, the mortal pulled a detailed plant of the mansion’s entire extension. She was distant, her words were sharp and matter-of-fact. Yet, the older sister was analytical and prone to listen, quick to action and unafraid to voice her opinions. Despite their five centuries of experience, [Name] somehow managed to catch on to a concept or idea the brothers oversaw, and didn’t hesitate to point clear errors on their strategies, nor was she embarrassed to acknowledge possible improvements regarding her schemes. And once Azriel noticed the manner with which Feyre’s eyes shone with pride and admiration; how close they held one another when the female was to return to Velaris; he knew [Name] had, unbeknownst to her, passed some of her coping skills to the younger sister.

During the first reunion with the mortal queens, they were all left with a sour instinct and anticipation. Yet, [Name] was the single one immediately sure of their betrayal, as if, somehow, the female grasped onto aspects of their stances and personalities the others overlooked. It was her certainty that drove Rhysand to order Azriel to return regularly to the Archeron mansion until their next scheduled reunion. While his High-Lord was off to the Summer Court, the Spymaster was inside that same private office, studying more recent mansion-plants that [Name], somehow, convinced the architects to let her borrow, as Nesta watched them like a hawk with an untouched novel in her hands.

As expected, [Name] was indeed detached and blunt; disdainful, even, when annoyed. The surprise of it all, whatsoever, came with the fact that she was also hotheaded. [Name] seemed to him as a powerful fortress. Her words coated in sarcasm, voiced with little forethought or regret; her ruthless honesty and logic. She was not warm, nor was she raised to. Instead, [Name] was reliable. The tree that never bent; the castle built on a mountain rock, impenetrable and magnificent. One would not imagine that under such coldness hid a chaotic thunderstorm. A well-phrased insult and he could almost catch a glimpse of her lightning; an arrogant grin to prove her wrong and he could see a twitch in her plain features. Azriel, surprisingly, noted that he quite enjoyed the act of annoying the oldest and provoking a reaction. Even better, for his own personal and secretive satisfaction, the male also proved to be great at it. 

But once those banters were put aside, one would notice that [Name] wasn’t cruel nor prideful, and whenever Nesta grew tired of their technicalities, with Elain assuming the chaperone’s position instead, Azriel managed to strike less task-driven conversations.

He learned that [Name] first engaged in chess matches at the ripe age of seven, when, bored to no end, she saw their old mansion’s chief of cuisine play by himself. The man taught her well, and what he could not answer, she searched for in books. The mortal was dutiful to her studies, quick-witted and with keen observation skills that, combined to her well-chosen words, left every single one of her father’s late investors at her disposal, regardless of her young age. And when they weren’t lost in provocations and meaningless competitions related to who could come up with the most logical and efficient strategies to the possible outcomes of their encounter with the Mortal Queens, Azriel enjoyed sharing stories of Prythian with [Name], covering the continent’s territories, and listening to her theories. His favorite part of the whole interaction was noticing how the woman’s eyes would shine with anticipation, her imagination running wild at his words. He noticed then, her endless fierceness; how her core shook with thunder and catastrophe. There was more than the simple desire to learn more of the world; there was rage for what she would never see, resentment for her mortal limitations, and grief for the one she could’ve been.

Although he didn’t quite consider her a friend, Azriel wasn’t blind to their similarities either. The eldest of their respective families; the ones assigned to the ugliest, most dutiful aspects of their homes; the paranoid and distant personalities that granted both of them a fearsome first impression. He had no doubt she would’ve made whatever sacrifice, gone whichever length necessary, to free her sisters from related burdens. And — she had once said — if the trail ahead required her to taint her hands red, [Name] would comply, wash them after the process was done, and repeat the cycle for as long as it was needed.

Azriel had spent his almost half-six centuries of miserable existence yearning for a twin-flame; one that would be more pure and moral, empathetic and sweet, less prone to brutal logic and violence. The Spymaster once believed that if Morrigan, the female of pure altruism and resplendent strength, was to bless him with reciprocal love, she would purify the darkness within him; adore him until he learned to see himself through her perspective. Yet, during those comfortable conversations, Azriel couldn’t contradict the inherent truth of the fantastical feeling of being thoroughly understood. Although he remained sick and twisted, a vile creature built on hatred and violence and revenge, the male found that [Name], with her bottled rage and strength; her obstination to understand various concepts; to surround herself in theories and studies and schemes; to gather private informations from possible threats just in case; was a more comforting companion than a pure, immaculate female could ever be.

Azriel had no expectations, whatsoever, to match the mortal’s good heart. He caught a glimpse of her paperwork once, and noted that she was investing part of the re-gained family’s coin in business in less fortunate regions to increase the employment tax. Feyre had also told them that her sister learned not one, but three different languages in a decade, to communicate better with the foreign investors, and to aid the illegal immigrants that worked for their family at the seaport. And though it didn’t seem possible that [Name] could understand and match his struggles, during the quietest moments of dawn, Azriel liked to pretend otherwise.

Duties, however, were a constant call, and the Shadowsinger was assigned to spy on the Mortal Queens, rather than to return to the Archeron’s household. The bitterness on his tongue lingered through it all, both from the unforeseen difficult character of his mission, and from the sudden thought of Cassian visiting the mansion by himself. However, whatever infatuation Azriel labored for her, grew cold during the aftermath of Hybern’s mischievous plan.

[Name] was the first. She was chained, and struggled in her fight as the males threw her inside the Cauldron. The sight of her desperation was overbearing. He had wanted to slash those who held her in half; needed to protect her from the rising waters of her past. His sudden response to her screams was what granted him a week-worth of time spent on a sickbed, for the single movement to reach her had been enough for the poison to spread. Hybern was astute enough to catch on to the female’s importance to her sisters; he knew that, by destroying her fighting spirit, the other three would soon follow. However, the Cauldron expelled her after no more than half a minute, as if whatever happened between their brief encounter, whatever it saw in her, was too disturbing; vile; dangerous. It didn’t wait for Hybern’s soldiers to grab the borders and turn it, throwing the female on the ground in the process. 

No, the Cauldron moved on its own, the pitch-black water stinking of surprise and desperation when the artifice fell and the female arose, reborn. Hybern himself had been shocked and afraid. For the months that ensued, Azriel wondered if his poisoned mind had deceived his sight, for he had met the sister’s eyes then, and stared into the thin pupils of a dragon; he wondered whether the poison was to blame for the devastating tug on his heart, the brief light that sliced through the darkness of his core and shook his very being with its power.

However, when he next saw her, [Name] was a High-Fae — taller, her movements more fluid, and a stance that was both terrifying and compelling. Yet, it was the sheer strength and promise of violence that undid him. The eyes that met his own were determined and hostile, challenging and commanding, as if [Name] noted her enforced physique and decided not to hesitate if the time urged her to use them. She was desirable and breath-taking as a mortal, with hypnotizing complexions, too; a woman aware of her attributes and influence and unafraid to use them as she saw fit. But being a High-Fae made her more lethal, a fantastic and splendid female granted with the means necessary to pursue her goals, to back up the violence hidden under the sarcastic retorts.

Azriel’s knees nearly buckled. He wasted precious centuries pitying himself, for he had been assigned the burden of aggression. His hands were scarred and eternally tainted with blood, vile things that were the living proof of his fate. However, [Name] embraced the future the Mother drew; she’d be the serpent and the bite and the venom; she’d be the tortuous pain that preceded death. And if that meant protecting herself and those she cared for, the guilt would be non-existent. Nothing but twenty-five, and the female made peace with the demons that had been plaguing him for five centuries. 

She had a pile of books clutched against her chest, and maps that depicted what seemed to be the detailed territory of every Court and Faerie Realm of Prythian, rolled up and secured between her biceps and forearm. His shadows began to hum a soft and low ballad, dancing around their bodies. The Spymaster waited for [Name] to recoil, yet, she stared at the dark-tendrils of smoke with slight curiosity and the gleam of something else. Her eyes moved between his shadows, in a manner he learned to be those of her scheming. The hall in which the Spymaster stumbled upon [Name]’s renewed powerful figure seemed to diminish as he, enchanted, stepped closer. However, the curiosity that pooled in her eyes a second prior turned into hard-steel, a sense of despise and deception covering the grateful stare. Azriel noted the silver-blue color of the dragon’s eyes; the thin pupils of a violent storm retributing his entranced glance. His steps ceased; his shadows recoiled; and Azriel managed, a tad too late, to mask the hurt from his features.

The male wasn’t sure of what he had done wrong. Nevertheless, despite his initial surprise, and after a more attentive glance, he managed to find the hidden signs under the fearsome veil of those hard-expressions and astute irises. [Name] was in a disheveled state, with purple bags under the tired eyes and a mark between her eyebrows, of what he presumed to be left by constant worry. Azriel found himself wordless, sent into a foreign state of near-fidgeting. Ever since he’d left the burdens of a green-boy behind, Azriel had ceased to be nervous around females. He was desirable, confident, and managed to seduce them just fine, with no need for a repertoire filled with poems and romance quotes. But with [Name], it was as though the green-boy had returned, now laughing at his matured silence and nervousness. He yearned for the previous camaraderie, but had no clue of which phrases to use in order to reach it.

His hesitation wasn’t well-received. The female’s grip on her books grew tighter, and a sudden, powerful scent filled the air as she said: “If there’s nothing you wish to tell me, clear the way.”

He remained glued into place. Even if the Spymaster attempted to move left and grant her a free passage, his body had turned into nothing but a wayward bag of aching bones. For Azriel had words unsaid, his muscles were stiff and unnatural. He closed his fists in frustration, aware that his eyes were a pool of hatred. Not even his shadows ought to move, paralyzed in the scarce space between him and the female.

“You’re looking like crap,” he lied, for [Name] hadn’t demanded him to be true in his statement, only to speak up.

[Name] didn’t flinch nor showcased hurt, as if she’d found the real aspect of his thoughts somewhere within his cloaked expression. He wouldn’t confess his desire to hold what he presumed to be quite a heavy pile of books; to help her find whatever information she was searching for; to offer the distraction of a long and well-pondered chess match. Yet, her eyes flickered with acceptance and sorrow, the fate of a self-imposed loneliness one thought to be worthy of.

“I don’t need your help,” [Name] said. Grasping onto the late thoughts of lending an aiding hand seemed as though trying to capture water with a closed fist. Whenever the male found himself close enough to the instinctive wish to help, it slipped through his fingers as a volatile liquid. Despite his best efforts, Azriel caught himself fighting against the sudden lack of free-will, for, once again, nor his mind or body were his own. “You won’t offer to help me, either. I’m perfectly capable of managing on my own.”

“Of course you are,” he agreed in a haze, his words sounding slurred and disconnected.

The Spymaster hated himself for being susceptible to that treacherous manipulation; hated her for wielding it, too, and displaying all but a small remorse in the process of stealing his freedom. He connected the lines then; from the venomous scent of power to the abrupt fear of the Cauldron when it had expelled her. A hypnotizing voice, one that managed to control even his intangible companions. He wondered where the limitations of such power were placed, while fearing there were none. The previous concern related to whether or not he should propose to carry her books seemed small and meaningless in comparison to the inescapable authority he was trapped under. He, instead, began to fear for his entire Court, for there was nothing besides, perhaps, her sisters, capable of stopping [Name] from stealing Velaris from under their noses.

“I have no intentions to cause harm,” she said, waving his worries as though they were a nagging fruit-fly. Opposite from the female’s previous statements, this one didn’t feel as a demand of her part. The well-justified suspicions remained rooted in his mind, instead of slipping through his consciousness before he could even process the thought. 

However, what scared him the most was the fact that [Name]’s mental-powers surpassed those of a daemati. The Shadowsinger never once left his mind-barrier unattended; it had been a wall of revested, pitch-black steel, ever since he learned of the existence of those able to read his thoughts. He was sure they were intact, and yet, she slipped inside as if it meant nothing.

“Meaning you draw the line at generalized battles, but find it acceptable to read one’s mind without their verbal permission,” Azriel retorted. The male crossed his arms against his chest, the anger overpowering the modest shine that accompanied the beating of his heart. The Spymaster looked down on her, resorting to the glance he used to terrify his opponents and prisoners. He had noticed a tad too late that his stance mirrored his father’s, and both disgust and regret enclosed his once arrogant and spiteful stance.

But rather than recoiling, [Name] raised her chin, the eyes of the dragon returning with a barely-contained rage that matched his own. “I was thrown inside a Cauldron without granting them permission to do so; I was Made and kept hostage inside a Fae-house I’m not allowed to leave. My youngest sister is gone, and I wield powers that are directly connected to emotions I’ve spent my entire life repressing. I can’t control whose minds I can read. This place is cacophony of thoughts and fears, and I would’ve given the entirety of my lost riches to be mortal again; to not hear the suicidal and terrified intents of my sisters.”

Azriel felt a sense of shame creeping up his spine. Even if his anger of her commands for him to remain distant, and ignoring his every nerve rebelling against doing so, had lingered, the Spymaster found quite a soft-spot upon hearing her point of view. She seemed pained and confused, a lashing animal that adorned herself with claws and fangs, scales and poison, because she failed to envision a different perspective. The sudden reminder of Feyre’s tendency to self-isolate and self-sacrifice, and from who she’d taken said characteristics, went as a brisk breeze, refreshing his consciousness for too little: since the acknowledgement of [Name]’s pain meant he’d want nothing but to reach for her and help, and the female had denied him that right.

He had never resented her more, doubted he ever would. The pressure, placed upon his jaw because of the effort to struggle against those commands, was quick to bring an ache. The Spymaster had no doubt that soon, the too quiet hall would be filled with the sound of the crack of his bones.

“I can manage by myself, I don’t need nobody,” she repeated, the slight mark reappearing between her eyebrows as her expression shifted into one of obstinate confusion. 

Despite the order, Azriel’s insistence prevailed; his words were near to spill, that fucking, stupid offering to carry her books, but the scent of her hypnotizing power managed to inebriate his senses at last. 

“I. Don’t. Need. Nobody. It’s my tragedy alone to endure.”

The resistance must’ve faded from his features, for the female’s eyes returned to their normal appearance, and she passed through him. Their shoulders touched — Azriel’s bare muscles brushing against her clothed skin — and a terrible shiver went through her. The female gritted her teeth, searching for that armor of nonchalance and uninterest. 

“I don’t need nobody,” she said, his back facing her own. “But Elain does. She’s lost, and I’m sure you owe me no favors, but my sister treated you well during our scheming afternoons, and isn’t the one to blame for my character.” 

He hadn’t felt compelled to reach for Elain, enough an indicator that [Name] was but giving him the right to choose for himself whether he wished — or not — to keep an eye on said sister. As it seemed, [Name] didn’t care to wield her voice if the consequences fell upon her shoulders alone, but refused to drag others into her labyrinth of thunderous hatred. Azriel didn’t answer, and his shadows were in a mingled commotion of confusion as their desire to check on the female was countered by her own command to be left alone.

Rhysand had then approached from where he, for sure, observed their interaction. The male was quite conflicted, noticing the rebellious instinct Azriel couldn’t conceive. Instead of flying to the balcony, to then winnow to the River House, they decided it was less bothersome to dialogue inside the nearest, more private room of the House of Wind: that being the leisure room. His brother updated him of the most recent occurrences — those he’d lost during the week under an induced sleep — and Azriel himself was left puzzled at the end of Rhys’ report.

[Name]’s commanding powers bloomed after Feyre’s departure to the Spring Court. Upon failing to find the youngest sister, she invaded the private reunion of the Inner Circle — Rhysand, Morrigan and Amren, the three conscious at the time — and demanded to be informed of Feyre’s position, leaving them all aghast with their willingness to answer. Azriel observed, through the mental glimpses Rhys offered, the internal fight of his brother’s brain, and how she had, too, crushed his desire to uphold that particular information. A High-Fae whose mind was closed to the daemati, wielding a tongue that could put even a High-Lord to his knees. She suddenly was a threat twice as dangerous and unapologetic, willing to use her power whenever underestimated, and Azriel’s wariness increased with the fact.

However, [Name] hadn’t needed to repeat her orders until then. Her powers had been enough to intoxicate the minds of two of the most powerful Fae alive, and an ancient creature, at the same time. With that in mind, both were left to wonder why Azriel, out of all people, showed such resilience against her commands, and though the possible answer seemed obvious, the Spymaster refused to nurture such hope, especially since he wasn’t sure where his trust was placed with the Archeron sister. 

Azriel maintained his distance. He, indeed, began to check on Elain. At first, the male did it as both a taunt and a peace offering. Yet, despite his efforts to grasp [Name]’s attention, she had enclosed herself inside the House of Wind’s library, the books she borrowed being supervised by Clotho. And with all honesty, Elain was rather a comforting companion, her silence matching his own. The female indeed was in need of someone; someone who had no expectations, nor judged her mad for her incoherent mumbling. She grew to be a friend, one that had catched on Azriel’s ragged breath when he laid his eyes on [Name] for the first time in days; who had then begun to state the burdens of her sister and how, although used to loneliness and with her heart buried deep within, she was desperate to see the day where her duties would no longer be overpowering, while also terrified with the idea of leisure. Azriel understood her better then, and was given the confirmation of their similarities once again. Yet, that meant nothing, for the female continued to avoid them all. 

Her situation improved in the slightest when Feyre returned, and their shared conversation later-on influenced his High-Lady to encourage [Name] to accept Morrigan’s help. The females spent the next months vanishing during most mornings, whereas [Name] was nowhere to be seen later on, deciding to spend the remnants of her day lost within her studies inside the library.

Morrigan, who was Azriel’s loyal friend — and once, the biggest love he knew — understood his anguish. And though she seemed to empathize with [Name]’s motivations as well, the female made sure to keep him attuned on both [Name]’s physical and mental evolution. She kept most things to herself, of course. And considering the amount of time the two spent together, it was half-expected for [Name] to be a modest swordswoman; though she did improve, it became clear that they were discussing other things, too.

When the War was declared, [Name] abandoned her months of quiet isolation in the library or private training sessions with Mor to help them strategize and scheme. Azriel glimpsed the storm underneath the long period of sorrow and concern; fell victim to the same banters and competition and even went as far as to share a deep and meaningful conversation outside the Archeron’s sisters tent. At the time, Elain had just been rescued, and although the three of them slept inside, [Name] refused to do the same, choosing to guard them instead.

Azriel’s tongue felt heavy and useless on the morrow, when he attempted, once again, to offer his help. The male thought of a dozen synonyms and different speech forms to bypass her command, but they were all in vain. And even if she learned to control the mind-reading aspect of her powers, Azriel’s efforts must’ve been crystal clear, for she rose from the ground, her steps crushing the autumn dried leaves, and repeated: “I don’t need nobody.”

He grew tired and revolted then. It was easier to obey her desires when one had given up on contourning them. The last battle came, and Azriel’s mind was set, for he refused to keep walking around those walls’ borders, to venture on the female’s stubborn need to retract herself and put on a veil of feigned detachment. The Spymaster would no longer care, no longer offer help. And it was only when the dragon emerged from the battlefield — dark scales with blue and silver undertones — that he’d noticed those weren’t his desires, but the consequences of her command inside his mind. Though he was once resolute, a second later, the male wished for nothing but to claim the skies with the magnificent flying serpent. Considering the quickness with which his mind changed, Azriel grew both scared and amazed at the extension of her will. It was the first time he’d experienced what Rhysand and the others must’ve felt during her first morning at the House of Wind; the first confirmation that her imposition worked differently on him, as if he was made to pass through the venom curtain and sit close to the female behind it, granting her the companionship she didn’t deem herself worthy of.

At the time, the sight of the dragon was magnificent: the shadow of a flying serpent, covering the sunlight; the strong scent of ozone that hang in the air as the creature flew to the open sea, where Hybern’s fleet was seen in the horizon; the open jaw — one the size of a grown Illyrian warrior — that breathed not fire, but lightning. [Name]’s rage had resulted in the screams of a thousand soldiers, their pained cacophony reverberating as the water — the best conduit for electricity, he’d soon learn — helped murder whoever intended to plunge against them through the sea. Yet, the sight of the Fae’s eyes after such occurrences wasn’t at all welcoming. She was broken; shallow; tired. Even if he could still catch a glimpse of the brilliant and breath-taking dark scales under the common flesh, there was something amiss. Not guilt, but perchance, a sense of adamant worry and disorientation, as though she had no idea what to do next.

Azriel waited until the Inner Circle returned to Velaris. The Archeron sisters were granted the offer to find a home of their choosing, and although Elain agreed to live with Feyre, Nesta found herself a decrepit apartment in one of the poorest districts, while [Name] had insisted on staying in the House of Wind. It made sense. Between the three Made females, [Name] was the one that did not need to face the ten thousand steps whenever she wished to leave; she could shift into whatever winged-animal she saw fit, and fly to whichever path she meant to take. Although Morrigan and Feyre were quite harsh with both him and Cassian, warning of the consequences were they to invade her personal space, Azriel was glad — and hopeful, even — that she decided to linger for more than just the desire to resume her constant visits to the library, or the wish to part ways from her sisters. The future was promising without the war and the perspective of peace, and he’d have enough space to return to that old camaraderie. 

Or so he thought.

The female gave him a single glance and repeated those four fucking words. Their first dialogue was built on sarcasm and bad manners, both mistrusting one another and wishing to test their motivations and boundaries. Of course the bond would sing the loudest then. Not when the dragon emerged or when [Name] was Made; not during their heartfelt conversation outside the tent; but when he was mad with anger at her obstination, wishing to grab her shoulders and shake her to her senses. Still, a malicious sense of victory, one his entire family would disapprove of, glowed with the unprecedented truth. [Name] enjoyed being several steps ahead but could not have predicted their mating bond in a thousand years. She wasn’t aware that with the unilateral snap, her commanding powers lost considerable strength against his mind. 

So, when [Name] said she didn’t need his help, Azriel had answered: “Of course you don’t.”

Ever since then, in between the not-at-all accidental stumbles on different routes of the House, he made sure to pretend. Pretend to be at her words’ mercy; pretend to be affected by her commands. All in the while decreasing their late distance with poisonous phrases and acts of his own, that [Name] was quick to retort. However, he didn’t expect her latest one to be so vile and spiteful; never would’ve thought his mate would be so cruel.

Nuala and Cerridwen’s report was but a kneaded ball of paper, falling victim to the Shadowsinger’s unmatched anger. He stared at the pile of unwrapped gifts. Feyre had given her older and most admired sister a personalized chess board: the pieces had the texture of a dragon’s scale, and each group-piece was represented by a thoroughly designed flying serpent; the board was made of enhanced glass, and the structure underneath was a pitch-black pattern of the lightning of a violent storm crashing against the stones of a dozen mountains. Rhysand chose a long leather coat, its shoulder pads with silvery-blue spikes as those she had on her dragon back. Elain gave her a beautiful vase of colorful dragon-flowers, one he knew [Name] began tending to. Amren picked a silver necklace, the pendant with — according to her words — a blue kyanite, the rough stone carved as if to resemble a dragon head. Cassian bought three books, one being his most favored about battle strategies, and the other two — personal recommendations from Clotho, who said she was searching for the subject, and couldn’t find nothing close to it in the library — of The Story of Prythian’s Currency: Volume I & II. Whereas Morrigan was more subtle. The female said she’d give a gift related to her past experiences, one it wasn’t made to be seen by their curious eyes.

Each of the previous gifts stood in the unwrapped pile, but Azriel’s was nowhere to be seen.

He spent months trying to come up with something. It’d be the first Winter Solstice with his mate; the first gift he’d give her. Since his memories were no longer lost in a haze, the male was brought back to their first true conversations months prior. [Name] told him she had learned how to properly wield daggers and throwing knives, for someone had taught her, and she trained tirelessly ever since. Morrigan complimented that aspect, too, commenting that [Name] had quick-feet, with an agility that was made for close combat. So Azriel gave his mate two sai daggers. The butt-end was of dragons’ heads, designed in a way as not to hinder her moments; the grip was made of cool and weightless leather, with an undertone of dark blue, and one silver-colored bolt of lightning on both sides of the material; there was a stone in the middle of the wing-base — the shade, the same blue of his Siphons — and the steel from both the wing-base and wings had the pattern of scales. The shaft had a thin scripture written in the runic-language of Ancient-Fae — a courtesy of Amren, who, he was sure, felt the bond between them — that said: “The bolt that cuts through darkness, the light that breaks the night.”

Azriel placed an order to the smith for a set of throwing knives too, and this time, instead of choosing a dragon, Azriel went for two swallows taking flight and staring at one another, placed at each side of the guard. However, he prided himself more in the pair of personalized sai daggers. The Spymaster knew the Inner Circle would pick the dragon alone, for they didn’t know that at each dawn, [Name] shifted into a white and blue swallow, small and silent, and ventured through the night skies, returning on the morrow under the same form. What better metaphor for such a fast, small animal, if not throwing daggers? Regardless, he found her choice odd. Why would one prefer to be a swallow, instead of an eagle, or even a dragon? He came to the conclusion that perhaps [Name] and her unspeakable past did not wish to be perceived; after a lifetime of being placed on top of a pedestal, attracting both admiration and lust from those who stared from underneath, it seemed as though she was glad to be a merely invisible bird, rather than a devastating creature. He respected that, but nevertheless, [Name] didn’t seem to have enjoyed the gift.

When Azriel searched for the sai daggers and knives, he wasn’t sure what would’ve hurt more. The prospect of finding them yet wrapped, or in the same state as the rest of those on the pile. He never once thought they wouldn’t be there at all. The Spymaster left clear and severe orders to his shadows, and despite his companions’ wishes, they weren’t allowed to search the House of Wind — especially [Name]’s room — for the gift. Hope was an unreliable feeling, and nurturing it was a direct step into disappointment. Rage and resentment, however, came easier. Azriel was sure that his shadows had disobeyed him, and were desperate to share their information. Yet, he didn’t welcome it. Instead, the male fell straight into the rabbit hole of his duties, making it all the easier to ignore his mate. Summarizing it all, said decision was what brought him to that current dismal state, and guided him to the emptiness of the leisure room. 

Not two weeks had passed since the Winter Solstice, and Azriel was already assigned to infiltrate Montesere’s barriers. Considering the land’s history of allegiance with Hybern, and the infertile political situation between the Courts after the Wall between Fae and Mortal Lands fell, his brother and High-Lady’s concern regarding Montesere’s silence was well-based. At first, the Shadowsinger thought it’d be an effortless task. Yet, during his first attempt, he was met with a barrier that countered each and every power he had at his disposal.

The male had faced such a bothersome obstacle before. The Mortal Queens once wielded a similar protection; one that had avoided his net of spies and his own shadows for months. Azriel still remembered the consequences of his failure; the fatal mission that had him laying on the floor with poison in his veins; that left Cassian with ruined wings and pain written all over his near-unconscious expressions; the yet-human Archeron sisters being thrown, one by one, inside the Cauldron. The fatality that led [Name] to her current state, one he failed to foresee and prevent.

There was a small knock on the ebony door. A crevice — all but large enough for the head of a winged-Illyrian warrior to pass through — presented Azriel with the sight of his brother, his ever-present grin appearing as soon as he laid eyes on the Spymaster at the elbow-chair. Azriel’s previous thoughts were put on hold, his surprise apparent, and his shadows moved around him, their whispered words sounding hurt and worried: “We warned you, we warned you.” But the male, once again, didn’t hear a single thing.

Those occurrences weren’t rare, nor something he was unfamiliar with. Azriel found himself frequently tangled within them, as if his thoughts were a labyrinth with deviant entrances and constant, creative traps, he never seemed to dodge. The worries and self-loathing gave way to a frozen and profound lake; the water was corrupted, viscous, carrying a darkness Azriel himself wasn’t used to. Avoiding those traps felt as though walking with heavy boots on the thin ice that covered such a lake. He was bound to fail — to fall, — and once Azriel was captured by it, he scarcely attempted to swim, to leave; no light could reach him there, no sound or positiveness, it was a place not even his shadows dared to enter. The Spymaster wasted hours inside it, and only managed to leave it once an external presence pulled him from the putrid waters of his thoughts.

As Cassian had done, entering the leisure room and choosing the elbow-chair in front of his own. His brother glimpsed at the near-to-be empty scotch bottle, an eyebrow raising in the process. The male seemed to believe Azriel had more than enough, for he grabbed it from the center-table and gave it a gulp directly from the bottleneck.

“Are you kidding me?” The Spymaster complained, his voice a mixture of both frustration and anger towards his brother. Azriel wouldn’t dare to pour himself more after that, finding it unhygienic; all in the while, Cassian was quite aware of his brother’s antics, and drank it on purpose.

“Don’t be all selfish, Az,” the male mocked him, drinking another mouthful of the scotch. Azriel rolled his eyes, placing his empty cup on the center-table with unnecessary strength. “You’re done for the night, at least.”

“I’m not even drunk,” he argued. Cassian — the bastard — shrugged.

“That’s because you have a high alcohol tolerance,” his brother’s eyes narrowed. He placed the bottle on the ground, near his feet, and sat with a straightened back. “Do you want to talk about it?”

Azriel, in fact, didn’t. His scarred left hand clutched the kneaded report, the sound of paper ringing through his ears. That stupid piece of scribbling what was led him to that position in the first place. The Spymaster flew to the house his High-Lord and Lady shared, filled with a modest amount of shame. The twins had been surveilling Montesere’s magical barriers for almost an entire month, searching for a pattern, hoping to catch on to an immigrant or some poor other bastard attempting to leave. Azriel held that strategy to no hope, aware of the fact that it was doomed to failure. Yet, facing the predicted truth gave him a sour tongue.

Once he told the dreaded information, a reunion was summoned. However, with Cassian at Windhaven and Morrigan returning from Valahan, Azriel had a few hours ahead of him to wait for the reminiscent members of the Inner Circle, and decided to accompany Elain in the kitchen. The female, for sure, must’ve been feeling quite lonely since the twins’ departure to Montesere, and Azriel didn’t mind talking to her either. Elain, after all, was a terrific and attentive friend, with observant eyes and the willingness to listen. The Spymaster thought her thoroughly underestimated during most times, and made sure to let her know that he was, too, willing to train her if she ever thought needed.

Although he expected not much from the conversation at hand, Elain had trapped him a few minutes in. At first, the female repeated the familiar questions he’d been mostly glad to answer. However, at some point, Elain moved to place the trail of dough inside the oven, and her voice had reverberated from where she knelt.

“How is she?”

Azriel knew who she was referring to. Considering the male’s seen proximity with the oldest Archeron sister, and the fact that she barely left the House of Wind, Elain had but few choices besides the one to ask for his words regarding her sister’s state. During the past months, however, Azriel made sure to avoid [Name], and had no answer besides the honest truth no one wished to hear: she remained the same. 

The entire Inner Circle grew worried. During the first stages of the War, [Name] spent hours inside the library, hovering over a pile of books, studying every subject regarding Prythian’s history and territory; memorizing each drawn line of the borders; trying to predict their enemies’ movements, and coming up with retaliations to those, too. She also had a peaceful relationship with the priestesses, and after [Name]’s self-isolation, Clotho was instructed by both Feyre and Rhys to send a weekly report regarding the female’s behavior. It wasn’t ideal, but his High-Lady’s heart rest assured that her sister was, at least, within physical reach.

Those weekly-informations were scarcely enough. [Name]’s dragon form, and how she had saved them all to some extent during the last battle, couldn’t be forgotten nor ignored. Of course, the female’s acts to protect her sisters during poverty — and before that, even — weren’t overlooked by Rhysand, either. His brother had the bigger sense of gratitude between them all, and weren’t for Feyre and Elain, Azriel would state that he was the most eager to help [Name] somehow.

Despite Azriel’s attempt to change the subject, stating that he hasn’t been to the House much and that Cassian was a much better option to inform her, the female didn’t allow him to run. Elain insisted that [Name]’s self-isolation tendencies came from the fact that she, after the War, had no perspective. The female was taught to be of use to her sisters; to provide for them, no matter the cost; to be the anchor in which the three youngest ones could rely on during hardships. However, Velaris had changed that need for the better. And Elain was sure that, despite the fact that [Name] was glad the younger pair found solace and comfort and didn’t need her to sacrifice herself any longer, she was also lost and alone. Without her duties and the position of command that she was placed on at a very young age, [Name] was left to deal with the memories and consequences of her life’s decisions all by herself.

Azriel had lost it then. He’d been attempting to reach for his mate for months, and all she did in response was demand him to leave her alone, going as far as to use her hypnotizing voice to achieve such an end. And once he voiced his discontentment and the fact that self-isolation was [Name]’s choice, their first discussion ensued. Elain, shockingly, had snapped at him. Though she remained quiet on behalf of [Name]’s past, the female’s words were forceful and precise. She covered her sister’s relationship with both their parents and how she chose to be there for the three of them, while denying them to do the same for her; Elain pointed most of [Name]’s personality, and during it all, Azriel’s retorts grew short, since the male was again reminded of how much he related to his mate in levels he dared not confess. 

His silence wasn’t wasted either. Elain argued that [Name] needed to be of use, to feel that she was protecting her sisters somehow, in order to accept her healing process. Azriel feared that the female found out their mating bond then, but no sooner that doubt was discarded and he regained his calmness, Elain’s next phrase threw that out the window. 

“You should train [Name] to be a spy and assign her to Montesere.”

Azriel’s mind went blank. His rage was nearly blinding. He didn’t care how Elain had learned of his struggles regarding Montesere’s barriers, for all he saw was [Name] — his mate — under a complicated position, thrown into a territory they had no intel of, somewhere no one could reach.

“No.”

He refused to wear a more active and demanding voice with the members of his family. Azriel hated the possible wariness it could cause, for the sound of itself was enough to make their prisoners wet themselves in terror. But Elain didn’t falter. She gritted her teeth, meeting his gaze, her eyes a shade of silver, and continued to defend her sister.

“[Name] speaks four languages and is learning the Ancient Fae speech by herself. She has a commanding voice that worked in a room filled with High-Lords, can shift into different mortal-shells, a lightning dragon and smaller animals and beasts, too. She’s smart, light on her steps, and has enough physical training to face stronger opponents,” Elain closed her eyes for a second, as if trying to avoid the memory of a particular vision. 

Azriel was reminded of the Seer’s words when she still lived in the House of Wind, staring at the window with no emotion plastered on her face: ‘The scaled-beast of myths that flies through the airway, destined to rescue those lost in dismay. The bolt that cuts through the darkness, the light that breaks the night.’

“All she needs,” continued Elain, the familiar brown back into her eyes, “is guidance.”

Because [Name] was meant for so much more, was so much more, than the astute, self-sacrificing and scarred oldest sister. Because regardless of Azriel’s unwillingness to train her, his mate’s destiny was calling to her; growing closer to her calves with each passing day. And with, or without the Spymaster’s interference, she’d have to face it.

Azriel sighed, the prospect of it all bringing a sudden headache that made him crease his forehead. “I’ll ask Rhys—”

“Rhys agrees,” his brother said, entering the kitchen. Azriel turned, half-betrayed by his shadows, who didn’t warn him of his arrival, and half-shocked with himself, for it had been a long time since he’d been so invested in an argument, he failed to hear a third person’s approach. “Do you agree, Feyre darling?”

His High-Lady entered the kitchen, striving for Elain’s freshly-baked biscuits. She shared a knowing, yet proud, look with her sister, and hummed her approval, giving Azriel an apologetic smile. Cassian, Amren and Mor entered soon after, and the Spymaster learned that their argument was, in fact, heard by all of them. Nevertheless, once the [Name] topic was cleared, the reunion began. After it was clear their kitchen wasn’t big nor comfortable to accommodate the entire family, they all moved to the living-room — Rhys didn’t want his office to be filled with biscuit’s crumbs — and covered other worrying subjects, such as the Mortal Queens’ sudden silence; Mor’s first week at Valaham; Lucien’s eventual reports about Jurian and Vassa; Nesta’s condition, and the twins’ report. Azriel was but a shell of himself during it all, his mind drifting to Montesere and [Name]’s training, the inevitable destiny that awaited.

Once the gathering was over, Azriel barely bid his goodbyes before winnowing the closest he could to the House of Wind. Rhys’ voice entered his mind as soon as he landed, his question the same as the one Cassian had made: “Do you want to talk about it?”

His brother would understand the dilemma the best. Rhysand had stayed an entire month without news regarding Feyre’s well-being when the female acted as a spy inside the Spring Court. Azriel wished to ask him how he had managed it; how could it be possible, or at least bearable, to wait in Velaris as his mate was risking her life somewhere he couldn’t reach. But their situation was different. Rhysand could’ve winnowed to the Spring Court to assist Feyre if the female was in need; Azriel had his wrists tied against one another, aware that if [Name] managed to enter Montesere’s barriers, he’d have no news, no way of learning whether she was safe.

So, he gave Cassian the same answer he gave Rhysand: “I’m fine, there’s no need to worry.”

And as the latter, Cass respected the boundary drawn between them, didn’t question any further. Instead, he stared with curiosity as Azriel rose from the elbow-chair.

“Where are you going?”

“To give [Name] the great news.”

“It’s four in the morning.”

“She’s awake.”

Azriel didn’t care enough to continue that game of pretense, one where he didn’t voice his certainties regarding the female’s state in order to maintain their mate bond in utter secrecy. Considering Cassian’s lack of reaction — besides the clear amusement — the Spymaster was sure most of the Inner Circle’s members already had their suspicions.

“Good luck!” Cassian taunted as Azriel left the leisure room. The male’s hands grew sweaty with anticipation, and he rubbed them against the cloth of his trousers.

[Name]’s decision to continue living in the House of Wind came with an inevitable change of rooms. He had to walk up one extra floor, for the female chose the bedchamber placed on the hallway above the one he and Cassian shared, and his shadows began to move with a mischievous lack of control once they noticed the Spymaster’s intentions.

Azriel knocked on the door, announcing his presence through the shadows that peered inside. Not a second later, he heard [Name]’s frantic steps, and she, as expected, didn’t seem as though awakened from slumber. Her eyes were suspicious, and the female was dressed in traveling clothes. She didn’t care to state otherwise, nor to hide her provisions and backpack placed on the corner of her room.

“It’s a little late for a visit,” [Name] stated, although not surprised. Instead, the female seemed to analyze him, trying to find out why he was there in the first place.

“It’s a little late for tracking,” he mocked. If she was anyone else, Azriel would’ve supported his shoulder-weight on the door, a foot pushing against the crevice, inviting himself in. But [Name] left him wary of his words and acts; with a sense of unknown anticipation. Azriel felt, once again, as though a green-boy unaware of a female’s tastes. [Name] placed him on a chess board, and Azriel was left under the impression that she needed but a single misstep of his to steal his king.

“It was a spontaneous decision,” his mate answered, unresponsive as his shadows reacted to her voice-tone and began to flutter closer, like small and innocent butterflies.

“So was mine.”

“Bold statement coming from someone who’s been ignoring me for months,” she bit. Azriel didn’t allow his surprise to rise to his features. Both managed, after all, to wear a veil of nonchalance despite the implications behind their words.

“Bold judgment coming from someone who commanded me to do so.”

“You never seemed to listen,” [Name] answered, waving her hand.

“Were you sad that I did, for once?”

Her stance changed, if only for a mere second, but he caught on it. Mother be damned, he tucked that information closer to his heart than he should have. 

“What are you doing here?”

“Your sisters are worried.”

[Name] accessed him, aware of the low blow; the mouse-trap he placed on the board. She ignored it. “They’re welcome to visit me anytime.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

“What are you doing here?” [Name] repeated, and Azriel was caught by surprise. Her commanding voice was, at least once, only triggered if she used an imperative phrase. The Spymaster never saw her use it as a question, which meant that she had been training somehow, it was only left for him to find out in whom.

Azriel was physically close enough to the point where pretending to be affected by her demand was useless. She would’ve noticed the absence of haziness coating his eyes; the overall alert state of his body. The male moved his pawn, the information he kept a secret for so long, finally clear for her to see. “There’s something we need your help with.”

Her eyes grew wide, a slight shift in her scent that indicated neither fear or anger, but excitement. Azriel felt a sudden tremble that went through his entire body. The fact that [Name] now knew would change every single damned thing between them for the better. The Spymaster could already anticipate the fierceness of their future competitions, her obstinate glance and taunting grin, the quick-pacing of his heart. Mother be damned, he already yearned for the sight.

“You’re immune,” she pointed out with slight wonder, clearing the path for him to enter the room.

“Yes.”

“For how long?”

“Long enough.”

“This isn’t an answer,” [Name] bit, her tone assuming one of annoyance and anger. He forgot how good he was at bringing that side of her to the surface. Never again, Azriel decided. Never again would he be departed from her long enough to forget of their banters.

“It’s the one you’ll get,” he insisted, kneeling near her backpack. “Where were you planning to go?”

His mate grew quiet, as if pondering her next movement and the consequences it would cause. She seemed to decide whatsoever, judging the odds favorable. “The Mortal Lands.”

Azriel’s back stiffened. He had no doubt that the adaptation was rough, but he didn’t suspect, not even once, that she could’ve been missing her late home. The male rose from the ground and away from that pack, as if the object was forsaken — wrong, — turning to stare at her instead.

“Why?”

“I have unfinished business,” [Name] ignored his disheveled state, staring at him as though he — and his entire social-circle, for that matter, — were stupid for thinking she had left nothing behind after twenty-five years of living in the Mortal Lands. “Something that, coming to think of, I could use your help with.”

Azriel gave her a stare most would cower from. She returned with one most would lose their confidence against. The male envisioned that damned board, memorized the position of his pieces, and made his move. “I presume your sisters weren’t informed of your plans.”

“Obviously.”

“So why,” he taunted, moving closer while still leaving enough space between them, “would I cross my High-Lady’s wish, and help with whatever it is you came up with?”

[Name] crossed her arms against her chest, reading in between the lines of his expression and coming to terms with his words. “It will be faster with your winnowing, but this isn’t what you wish to hear, is it? You want to strike a deal.”

He grinned, victorious, as her eyes trailed to the paintings on his forearms and exposed shoulders. His knight was so close to her king, he could almost hear the check-mate coming from his lips, even if that was all but a metaphorical game on a metaphorical board. 

“You’ll help me get to the Mortal Lands, then what? What am I supposed to do?”

“Train with me outside Velaris. You’ll be the Court’s spy, and once judged ready, I’ll assign you to a mission in Montesere.”

[Name]’s eyes narrowed, as if seeing the plastered map of Prythian on her mind. Azriel had no doubt the female had studied the land’s expanse and history, had no doubt she wasn’t clueless, at least not entirely, as to why the Night Court needed someone inside the magical barriers. There was a gleam there, and her lips curved with the same malice she wielded during their strategizing, when she saw something he didn’t; when she was sure he wouldn’t be able to counter her movements. Azriel shuddered then, not with fear but with expectation. It had been ages since the last time his mate showed enough patience and will to strike, to enter a mental competition. That game of theirs, filled with taunts and strategies and low-blows, was exciting; the type of conjunction between a sense of immaculate victory and determination upon defeat one could only find when their competitiveness was perfectly matched. 

One [Name] forgot she enjoyed until Azriel invited her to play again.

“As I see it, I’ll do as I’m told and then be given a reward,” she said, moving left to her murals. [Name]’s room was a bigger version of her late office, with books and maps and annotations plastered wherever the eyes could reach. His mate grabbed a white powder from the inside of a drawer, its scent sleep-inducing, and Azriel was left aghast at her abilities; her potential. “That doesn’t seem fair, especially considering that you might need me, but I don’t need you. Not crucially, at least.”

“Put me to sleep, and once I’m awake, I’ll inform the entire Inner Circle of your intentions,” the male answered matter-of-factly, because there was not a chance she thought that plan would lead somewhere.

“Then, what? You’ll follow my trail, because I could command everyone else to turn a blind eye? Where would that lead us, if not the Mortal Lands?”

“I’d find your trail before you even managed to reach the Day Court,” Azriel answered, his words filled with well-based arrogance. [Name] inserted two fingers inside the small, glass-made pot, and smudged her digits with the white powder. The female grew closer, and his shadows danced around her neck and waist; her thighs and arms; all of the places Azriel himself yearned to touch, but didn’t dare to.

“I don’t think you’re understanding your position. A dragon might be easy to find but what of a beetle? A serpent? What is a sparrow-hawk in the Autumn Court, if not a single bird between many others?” [Name] discarded the powder, and repressed a smile at whatever his shadows had whispered. “I’ll vanish and tend to my business, and you’ll have my sisters’ wrath and a lot of frustration to take care of.”

Somehow, a knight drew closer to his king too. Azriel’s smile was bitter, sleep no longer hazing his senses, as he glimpsed the situation, noticing the inevitable siege that had formed around his pawns. “I would’ve managed nevertheless, but this isn’t what you wish to hear, is it? You want to strike a deal.”

He purred those words — her words, — and [Name]’s grin widened, voicing the phrase that would grant her a plain upperground. “I’m sure my sisters came with the training aspect, so I’ll follow along, if only for their sake. We’ll train outside Velaris, and once I’m judged prepared, you’ll winnow me to the Mortal Lands.”

“And Montesere?”

“I’ll go there after we see to my business, not a heartbeat before.”

The feigned training would grant coverage to their departure to the Mortal Lands. Azriel wouldn’t need to report his dismissal to either Rhysand nor Feyre, and [Name] would leave the House of Wind, as it was expected. Their small venture would prepare the Spymaster for the idea of leaving his mate, by herself, near Montesere’s barriers; perhaps he’d even find another possibility until then. He offered her an opened hand, the sign of his agreement. 

“That’s a deal,” said the Spymaster. [Name] touched his palm with her own, seeming to anticipate a shudder that didn’t come. Azriel’s shadows tangled itselves in between their hands and stretched arms, accompanying the route of their tattoos, shielding the male’s gaze from his terrible burnt scars.

“That’s a deal,” she repeated. He felt as those words drove the magic to his back; traced the mark that seemed to form the letter S, from the bottom of his waist to his right shoulder. A dragon, his shadows had informed, surrounded with the illustration of scars left by a lightning strike.

Somehow, Azriel knew her back had been marked, too. And his first chess match against his mate had ended in a draw.

general notes: i am deeply thankful for all of the support this story has been given since the very first time i have posted about it. the entire thing is wrapped up in my mind, and i am so excited to see your further reactions to [name], that became such a beloved writing of mine. regardless, thank you once again! i hope you have enjoyed this bible of a first chapter. xoxo <3

taglist [comment to be added]: @nyotamalfoy @rachelnicolee

[creampie-capital]

║𝘙𝘦𝘴𝘶𝘳𝘳𝘦𝘤𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯║

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MINORS DO NOT INTERACT 18+ CONTENT

Promiscuous Masterlist ━━━➤ PROMISCUOUS

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Do not steal, copy, or repost anywhere. My work is currently on both CREAMPIE_CAPITAL on wattpad and Imtropicalbaby on Quotev. If posted on another account or website, please report and notify me immediately.

Now onto the story :)

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↳𝐆𝐚𝐬𝐩𝐢𝐧𝐠

awake, every fiber in your body began to ignite as if they were set ablaze. Your eyes flickered open, rendering sightless from the intensely pure light.

The air was fresh, clean, yet suffocating.

It was taking a moment to center yourself; controlling your breathing, and welcoming your sight back. You had to recognize that you were uninjured, your heart still beat within your ribs, and not a mark was left behind by the penetration of Apollo's sacred arrow.

By the time your vision did return, you were blessed with the scenery of Otto's watch above The Cosmic Void.

To say that you were a bit grateful for the sight of ferns and vines covering the walls and surrounding the columns that open to the terrace was an understatement.

Though...on that balcony stood the one creature you wanted to slaughter with your bare hands.

"You f*cking punk!"

Otto's massive hooded figure twisted to face your frame with the nippy stygian whisp beneath his robes fluttering.

"Whatever do you mean, Little Nymph?" Its deep rumbling voice penetrated your sensitive mind and spurred on a raging headache. They felt to be of your blood vessels throbbing, pounding against your skull.

Even with the discomfort of your brain, you stepped onto the frigid marble flooring to stride towards the creature.

"I already had Apollo obsessed with me, so why didn't you bring me back?! That motherf*cker became a freak and would have torn my legs off if I didn't kill myself!" You snarled with a fury that gripped your limbs and dug into your muscles.

Otto's boney, soot-black fingers danced across the staff's stem while humming. It would have been a purr, though the way it sent tremors beneath your feet was like an earthquake.

"The fun had yet to start, not until his obsession and jealousy sunk into him like arrows. It's unfortunate his mania didn't last as long-"

"Because he was trying to f*ck me!?" Your arms raised in the air with your hands morphing into fists that shook. "Why couldn't you just bring me back once he was done!?"

The creature's pallidity voids seemed to intensify in blankness as his monstrous frame approached threateningly. "Your promiscuous urges are against the rules; the rules I implanted." You narrowed your eyes with your jaw clenching. "Furthermore, the sole method for you to return is if you have achieved your main objective. Only then will you be able to strike yourself with the deity's sacred weapon."

"What!?" You bellowed so audibly you were sure your voice could have splintered glass. "I have to die every time I want to return back!? That's absolute bullsh*t! You piece of-" Before you could finish your rant, onyx-hued tendrils shot forth from beneath his robes to grasp your throat.

The force was like that of being struck by a moving vehicle. Your bones raddled within your limbs with air stollen from your lungs due to the tightening grasp.

Your stomach tingled.

"You may be able to act a fool in front of the gods; however, I do not allow such boldness in my presence." It tightened the appendage, choking you greatly as your nails dug into the tendrils. The texture was like playdough; regardless, the density of it was great. Your nails couldn't tear through it.

Within your lungs, they burned as if lava were flooding through the organ. Drool trickled the corner of your lips as you fought for your freedom; feeble wheezes reverberated out.

Thick opaque tears glossed over your (e/c) optics that stung, teetering on spilling passed your lids. Pressure built like that of an avalanche with your head, growing and expanding the longer it choked you.

Your mind was growing numb.

"I make the rules." Another tentacle inched closer, slithering up your face before stopping at your nose. "I enforce them." The appendage swiped across your heated cheeks that you hadn't realized trailed with tears. "And you'll follow them like a good little girl."

Black inkblots flickered across your muddled vision; however, those pallidity void eyes had never been so bright and clear.

Your cl*t was throbbing.

Like you were being pulled down into the depths of the ocean, your limbs weighed downwards. All of your senses zoned in and out, wavering between overbearing and devoid.

"Is that understood?"

Your teeth ground against each other as you fought to remain conscious.

"I will only repeat myself once more." You were lifted into the air with more tendrils encircling your shins up to your upper thighs, where they squeezed. The force was as if they were attempting to rip your legs apart from your pelvis. "Do you understand?"

No...

"...Y-Yes."

In an instant, the tendrils released your figure and snaked back under the stygian whisp and thick ebony-hued robes.

You descended to your knees harshly where the bone connected with marble. It should have hurt, shooting forth pain all through the area, yet the only thing you could discern was your head that throbbed so viciously.

And your fingertips quivering from the delight that once mixed with your blood through your veins.

Now that you were unrestrained, your body hunched over as you coughed and gagged. Your esophagus tenses and relaxes, aching from the strain that once crushed it beneath skin, muscles, and bone.

"Pathetic."

Your head snapped upwards to face the creature.

"Becoming aroused, permeating this air with your desire...You're disgusting..." It lowered the staff with spike until the pointed tips pressed into your heated cheeks. "...You're pathetic..." The spiked barbs caressed along your flesh, pressing into it yet not tearing until it was still on your lips. "...You're perfect for this."

A grin quirked on your face, with your stomach coiling between nausea and ache.

"Perfect, huh?" You croaked while reaching for your tender throat. "So, did you enjoy my performances then? Did you enjoy observing me humiliate Apollo? Did you enjoy watching me disgrace myself on my knees?"

Otto shifted the staff to nick a thin short wound on your bottom lip. You flinched, instinctively leaning back, yet Otto's slender jointed extremities grasping your cheek and forcing you in place stalled any movements.

"Your performances were lackluster, mediocre at best."

The grin on your lips fell like angels plunging from grace. Blood dripped from the cut and trickled down your chin.

"I blessed you with so many abilities, yet that was the best you could? That was all you could muster? And to think I believed you were the best of the best..."

"I am!" You snarled, nearly lurching forward as if desiring to bash your head against 'its.'

"You're not good enough."

Something snapped, like ropes tearing after being tugged apart for so long. Your lips trembled as you reached for its wrist; the frigid texture of its skin felt all too human for its monstrous figure concealed by thick robes.

"You don't know what you're talking about!" Blood oozed into your mouth from the wound that refused to heal. Its metallic tang did nothing to distract you from your raging emotions. "I'm better than anyone you could have picked! I'm more than enough!"

"Really? You were void of those thoughts in your timeline." His ethereal voice echoed within your mind like a purr.

A lump formed within your throat and strained against your sore esophagus. Your eyes glossed over once again, with the inner corner of your eyes stinging.

"You don't know me, f*ck face."

"Oh?"

Two thick rooted tendrils slithered against the ground before rising to grasp your wrist and chain them behind your back. Otto's fingers on your face migrated to the top of your head, where it knotted them within your hair to tug your gaze upwards.

From the gloaming darkness where its face was shielded, a lengthy taffy-pink tongue rolled out and began to lick the blood from your chin.

The appendage was scorching hot, like that of a lit match, which provoked you to flinch at the contact. Your eyes snapped shut, squeezing as they trailed all along your lower jaw.

"I know you better than you know yourself, (Y/n)... I am inside your head; I am mended within your brain." Its saliva was just as burning on your skin. "The parts that you locked and threw away the key are where I have crept in."

Otto's fingers cautiously released your hair, with its tongue slipping back into the dark emptiness of its hood. The tendrils eased their way off your wrist so they could slip under the robes.

"Now, your next timeline is awaiting your presence, little Nymph. Do keep the same attitude if you wish to succeed."

Just as it has once done, your body was lifted into the air like you weighed nothing but a feather and hovered.

Only for a second before you were thrust over the railing and descending into The Cosmic Void, where hundreds of orbs swirled.

All awaiting your presence.

꧁𓊈𒆜 ━━━━━━━━━ 𒆜𓊉꧂

"Never forget your place, (Y/n). You are nothing."

"Then what is my place, father?"

"On your knees."

꧁𓊈𒆜 ━━━━━━━━━ 𒆜𓊉꧂

Liquid - frigid and cold liquid pelted your figure vigorously. Your hair soaked swiftly, and the expensive silk of your clothes adhered to your skin.

You swayed rhythmically, a harsh but patterned rock that stirred you from the deep unconsciousness. The vibrations of drums, the cracking of its snares jostling through your bones.

It tingled as the swaying ceased, and you could discern your body descending to lay on something firm.

Parting your lids, forcing them open only welcomed the sight of lightning flashing, splintering off of a gold-encrusted dagger raised in the air above you.

In the gloaming darkness, the rain cascading down from the heavens fell in slow-motion, as so did the blade.

Before the scream could even bellow out into the night, your lower abdomen was punctured with a sickening squelch.

The drums beat faster, their cadence rising and tempo fluctuating.

Your hands flung outwards to grasp the assailant's wrist, yet they removed the weapon only to plunge it into your waist.

It scarcely avoided your ribs and sunk deep between the bones.

This time you produced a scream that overcame the music, the rain, and chanting.

Vibrant lightning painted the skies in indigo and white, its streaks like that of the sky breaking apart.

With your body impaled, that scream faltered into a weak, feeble wheeze. The pain spread everywhere, all the nerves beneath not igniting like that from pleasure but scorching so hot in pain.

You felt like you were drowning in smoldering lava.

Blood oozed from your wounds like that of a hole in the bottom of a bucket. It just seeped out, making its escape.

Your hands flailed out beside you, and the tender skin of your palms came in contact with metal objects.

Flinging your head downwards and assessing what lay around your figure, you witness golden artifacts, coins of gold, copper, and silver, and jewels surrounding the altar you lay on.

Your blood painted them red that would not wash away with the rain.

The already frigid rainwater descended in temperature and felt to freeze the patches of skin it came in contact with.

Abruptly, the beating drums ceased as a guttural growling grew in pitch. The rain, the thunder; had become a whisper and canine barking morphed into a forewarning.

Your lungs replace air with blood, trickling down from the corner of your lips.

"Run!" A man's voice reverberated out in the clearing, followed by the duplicated barking of a wolf or some type of dog.

With another flash of lightning coating the sky in the dawning, you were graced with the sight of canines bombarding the men and women who once chanted.

The pain had numbed into a consistent throbbing that pulsated everywhere. You discerned your body growing weighted and immobile.

Yet it wouldn't do you any good to lay there, bleeding out on gold and treasures. Twisting onto your side, your teeth ground into each other as you forced your body to move.

However, you became stagnant like frozen ice when a growling emanated right in front of your face.

It breathed out, snarling, and with another flash of lightning followed by rolling thunder, the creature was illuminated for you.

A canine - a black jackal. The fluff in its ears was shiny - golden - with its eyes the same smoldering optics.

"You are wounded...perfect."

It was Otto.

"Shut the hell up!" You shrieked before nearly tumbling off the altar from its wet surface.

The jackal reached forward, puncturing its teeth in the loose clothing of your apparel and tugging you to the edge of the platform.

"Follow me."

Your bare feet grazed over soggy mud before you descended to your hands and knees. The mix of rain and blood only stalled you from steadying yourself.

Even if the pain was nothing more than throbbing, your body, regardless, struggled to function.

"In here."

You peered up and witnessed the onslaught of a pack of jackals devouring the humans around them. Nevertheless, a few feet from the altar stood a mausoleum encrusted in a variety of gemstones.

Otto's animal figure trotted up its steps, tracking soil across the white marble by the entrance.

"I'm gonna get you back for this sh*t." You seethed as the rain trickled down your face.

With every step, it felt to be as though your ankles were strapped to weights, and someone was clutching onto your stomach, yanking you back.

"She's fleeing!"

Adrenaline coursed rapidly through your blood streams once again to lighten the weight holding you down, permitting you to limp upwards on the stairs and lean against the cool metal doors.

The roof shielded your frame from the storm while your presence ignited oil lamps against the wall without anyone's commands.

"F*ck." You cursed under your breath and removed your hands from the bleeding wounds to push open the bulky double doors.

Frosty air whipped across your body like air escaping from a balloon. The speed nearly blew you off your feet if it wasn't for the gates colliding shut behind you.

Inside, oil lamps just like the ones stationed outside lit on their own yet did nothing to lighten your path. However, you could make out some sort of drawing - more so hieroglyphs embellishing massively elevated walls.

"Let us commence."

"Commence what!" The blustering racket of your voice echoed through the long, gloaming pathway of foreboding. "I just got stabbed twice, for f*cks sake!"

The jackal by your legs nearly blinked those smoldering golden eyes before trotting down the corridor.

"H-Hey! Where are we going!?" Otto ignored your words which spurred you to respire a profound exhale and trail behind the best you could.

Your stomach pulsated and throbbed, tingling all the same and spreading across the surface like lightning continuously striking the earth.

Once you get the chance, you're going to wring Otto's f*cking neck.

Every step echoed with a melodious pitter-patter, followed by the dripping of water and blood on the stone floor.

The temperature rivaled that of a frozen tundra with the way the air became so icy and challenging to breathe.

You could be standing at the apex of a mountain, reaching past the clouds, and there still would be no difference between where you were now.

It was beginning to become increasingly demanding to continue as the adrenaline dispersed and the effects of your injuries broke down your body.

Every step weighed a ton, and the energy to even hold your eyelids open dispersed in short order.

Your body wanted to give up.

You wanted to give up.

"You are almost there, little Nymph." Otto's voice resonated in your head, yet you shook your crown as if shaking him free from your mind.

"You're almost there, my f*cking a**!" Your own voice was drawing out and slurring from the fatigue creeping in as if they entered through the two stab wounds on your body and replicated hastily.

An abrupt creaking reverberated through the halls, originating from the darkness that filled you with an unimaginable amount of dread.

Paranoia flourished within your mind; the trepidation and bleeding were spurring your stomach to coil uncomfortably and mull down like lead.

Finally, a light at the end flickered lividly, yet your vision began to distort it with black inkblots plotting over.

Your hearing was zoning in and out, fluctuating between hushed ringing and blaring wailing.

Holding onto the wall was the best you could do to keep yourself upright though your knees were begging to give out.

"(Y/n)."

Otto's voice was like he was speaking miles ahead, just barely audible.

Like before, everything moved in slow motion. The flickering of fire, the pitter patter of your bare muddy feet, and the descending of your weak body.

A slight sting resonated from your palms and shins, quivering as though they were lashed unfailingly.

With your head bowed, you endeavored to control your breathing, though the inhaling and exhaling of your lungs matched the erratic beating of your heart.

Yet the sight of someone's bare feet hued the same as melted chocolate inches away stole away any discomfort.

Gingerly raising your head with jerking movements, considering it required all the energy you could muster, your eyes took in the sight of someone's thick muscular thighs.

They were barely covered by an ebony-hued scarf around their hips decorated with loose shimmering gold bangles.

Oh god(s), their stomach was bare of nothing but a few glimmering belly chains that contrasted well against their dark skin. You could see the rows of abbs so profound and toned, so built.

Finally, your gaze rose higher to discern golden rings concealing their bulky throat like a chocker and hanging an Ankh symbol in the middle of their chest.

The person chuckled, gaining your attention to their face half covered by an encrusted jackal-inspired headpiece that shielded their molten golden eyes that peered through the shade.

"Look at what we have here." This man cooed in a melodic tone and kneeled to grasp your face, bearing his tipped-colored nails in your skin.

"Stuck between limbo, teetering on oblivion, yet you just... won't...fall." His succulent lips quirked into a grin, an eerie smile that you knew all too well. "Shall I see your truth?"

Before you could even respond, your breath hitched, and your body jerked as his free hand punctured through your chest to seize your heart.

"Will your heart weigh more than the feather, or will it rise above?" And he pulled his hand away, dragging your soul with it.

꧁𓊈𒆜 ━━━━━━━━━ 𒆜𓊉꧂

"Never forget what you are, (Y/n)."

"What am I, mother?"

"A mistake."

꧁𓊈𒆜 ━━━━━━━━━ 𒆜𓊉꧂

Next Chapter ━━━➤║𝘈𝘮𝘣𝘪𝘨𝘶𝘪𝘵𝘺║

꧁𓊈𒆜 ━━━━━━━━━ 𒆜𓊉꧂

𝐌𝐚𝐦𝐚 signing out

[an-onyx-void]

Article found here for more details

[yourfavoritemenace]

°*•🐈‍⬛» Names !

-> Nyx ; meaning “night”, the goddess of darkness

-> Oggy / Oggie ; short for Ogopogo, which is kind of like the Canadian version of the Loch Ness Monster !

-> Adrienne / Adri ; meaning “the dark one” 

-> Conner ; based off of the puma genus “puma concolor”, pumas were the first British big cats* to be reported. 

-> Luna / Lune ; most popular black cat name

°*•🌺» Pronouns !

-> voi / void / voids / voidself 

-> cry / crypt / crypts / cryptself ; shortened word for “cryptid”

-> on / onyx / onyxs / onyxself ; shiny black rock

-> claw / claws / clawself 

-> chit / chitter / chitters / chitterself ; cats can chitter, but also I find chittering to be spooky at night so sort of a cryptid vibe to it (?)

*The British Big Cats are a “cryptid” that, according to Wikipedia, are big cats not native to the British / United Kingdom area that started appearing around in the wild. Due to no captured cases — and the definition of a cryptid being “something that is said to exist but has to proof that it does” — it has been deemed a cryptid.

[yymiya]

shoutout to the vampire!diluc fic i started in march and never finished because of exams & uni... this was the first scene LMAO

This is the third letter in five days.

There are likely a number of others, led astray by the blizzard, beaten down by the fall of snow, but precisely three have reached his hand. The terrain here is beautiful, if fatally unpredictable and volatile. Lines of correspondence are often clipped by the conditions much sooner than intended—this, Diluc is acquainted with.

Yet, once more, his falcon drifts along the howling wind and dives down to perch on her master’s raised arm, and he knows the parchment fastened to her leg is not the biweekly report of the Dawn Winery’s affairs that he awaits but something else entirely.

Ordo Favonius has been unusually, frustratingly persistent as of late.

How typical, intercepting his commercial communications to deliver a message—several, rather—of their own without a care for the routine they disrupt. They must have forgotten that he intends to complete this journey alone. He doesn’t need their aid, or their ingratiating, sickly words and void oaths. 

Diluc halts. His boots kick up a gust of powdery snow. It settles between his boot buckles and the creases in his trousers. 

He should read the letter. For what reason would they write him, if not one of great importance?

The others had been scorched, set aflame before the parchment was unravelled to reveal more than the Favonius Coat of Arms. He typically finds a vestige of satisfaction in allowing the stamped ink to smoulder and fall away but...

It isn’t there.

Instead, the letter bears the emblem of his family name.

His falcon is dismissed. She glides through the dull evening and seeks refuge atop a high branch. Only once she begins preening does Diluc’s attention return to the parchment clutched in his fist.

He gouges the Ragnvindr crest with a blade, bending one knee to smear the ink in the snow. It isn’t necessary. Each letter he keeps is then stitched into his jacket lining, but this needless routine of self-preservation is familiar, tried and true.

He stands. Narrowed eyes flick across the page. His sight is obscured by the snowflakes mired in his lashes but he blinks them away, each word bolstering something within him that he wishes not to address.

The anger that festers is white-hot, spiking at the edges until each facet of his being stings.

Only Kaeya is this bold. Hiding behind a crest to which he no longer belongs. Using that horribly sapid handwriting that they had been taught together in their youth. Pretending that he is owed a favour, as though a decade of those weren’t enough.

Diluc presses the back of his hand to his mouth, eyes tightly closed. That isn’t it. Much of his anger directed towards Kaeya faltered with the searing of rain-soaked flesh. Mere vestiges remain.

It seems time away has done little to assuage his distaste for the Knights.

Onyx flames teeter between the ridge of his index and the parchment, but the strange light dissipates with the tremble of his hand. For now, he tucks it into his inner pocket and takes shelter beneath a tall pine.

His falcon keeps watch from above. If a commotion emerges nearby, she will notify him, but Diluc must think for the time being.

The letter is simple, devoid of Kaeya’s flowery, placating language and double entendres, and the message simpler: Inspector Eroch has been purged from the Knights of Favonius and Diluc is permitted to return at last.

The fulfilment of a promise should be gratifying—one more senseless bastard driven out of Mondstadt—but Kaeya’s warning to proceed with caution should not be taken lightly. Eroch’s allies have not yet exposed themselves to the investigation, but they are there, and several of their covert workings presently cause instability within Ordo Favonius.

Despite their differences, Kaeya's judgement is trusted. After all, they were reared by the same hand, the same goal. Their minds are intrinsically tethered together.

Still. Diluc is nothing if not saddled by duty. A legacy sits beneath his skin, bitter and empty and surrounded by stagnant, aged blood. It is Mondstadt that earned his devotion; his family and friends, however few remain. He has a duty as a child of the wind.

He sighs, working his jaw. What choice does he have? They—

They will rescind his exile. They will forgive his transgressions.

This existence is a lonely one, but whether the warm winds of the city will thread him together, he isn’t certain. The community would shun him if they became privy to the truth. Each patrolling knight, complicit or otherwise, would serve as a heavy reminder.

Diluc pulls his glove taut. This place is callous and unwelcoming, a dead-end that stretches for miles of barren desolation. He has scoured all corners while lying in wait.

Gods, has he waited.

His falcon sounds up ahead. There must be trouble nearby.

Hasn’t he done all he can?

[jackhkeynes]

Glossary of Terms: from A to Z in the Boralverse

aphlox | carbon dioxide billrod | cochineal connit | disguise dackin | indigo ersteigung | apex, crest, sforzando fecundation | fertilisation guild | corporation heredian acid | DNA indreck | nonprofit, charity jalick | tuxedo kenonaut | spaceship lencorve | line of credit, tab mitigor | ethene, ethylene narjill | coconut ostracon | lottery, sortition parachthon tales | speculative fiction quanga | butler, secretary rath | bike shadome | tomato threshold mill | nuclear power plant ubiquity | cultural supremacy, totalist ideology viker | steward well-mint | well-off xanthal | neon yacht | cult, secret society zetter | note, memo

The full list of Boralverse jargon may be found under the cut.

adamant | titanium

aeronaut | airship

air-steeple | telegraphy post on a balloon

alchemick | chemical, relating to chemistry

alchemist | chemist

alchemy | chemistry

aldreman | mayor, municipal leader

alluning | moon landing

aphlox | carbon dioxide, also carbonic acid as a liquid

aquifex | hydrogen

arithmat | computing

astrapic | electric, electromagnetic

aumond | almond

autonome | autonomous, unauthorised

autune | sparkling wine, esp. from the Autun region

bdella | virus

billrod | cochineal, a crimson dye produced from the shell of an insect and imported from Lower Mendeva

bit-sheet | tabloid, cheap newspaper

blacklair | horror, media intent to scare

blankpine | white pine, Weymouth pine

bookhouse | library

brimstone | sulfur

caddar | to distil, purify, extract

calamine | zinc oxide

case | cell

casting | publishing

chain substance | polymer

chimer | chimera, hybrid

christmas pie | savoury pie eating on Revillon across Northern Europe but especially in Borland

circular function | trigonometric function

clavier | keyboard, piano

cmm disk | vinyl record

cmm | "chain muriac mitigor", polyvinyl chloride, PVC

codnere | kidney

collocker | interviewer, investigator

collock | chat, dialogue, interview, conversation

collusion | collaboration, confederation

concord | treaty, agreement

concrescence | instantiation, model, prototype

concurrence history | history of a particular time period

conjure | to conspire, to collude

connit | disguise, inconspicuousness, secretiveness; hiding place

connock | ice skating

console | leader of merchant republic, esp. Genoa

convoker | representive, PR person

convoy | troop, division, band of soldier

copperplate | right-wing

coppers | cheap seats, nose-bleeds, lowest-quality product

copysheet | study notes

coronal | helium

corporal quillsam | periodic table, set of chemical elements

coshow | rubber, esp. natural rubber, latex

costumery | clothing catalogue

coswer | cousin

counter-zoic | antimicrobial

covring | (maths) surjection, surjective map

dackin | indigo

daily gyre | circadian rhythm, body clock

daplight | LED

davarn | grand hotel, resort

deficient | positively charged

deixism | approach to research focused on collecting primary sources and references

deixist | researcher, archivist

detaxion | synthesis, combining, esp. in chemistry

dominium | region of control, domain, demesne

druckdue | the silver screen, cinema

drypepper | peppercorns, black peppercorns

edition | publishing, publication

ersteigung | apex, crest, sforzando, peak, climax

excourse | competition, tournament, quiz, game

extent | field (physics)

fecundation | fertilisation

fendle | fennel

filmic | cinematic

geoscopic | exploratory, cartographic, intending to see the world

giftale | media set in or taking aesthetic inspiration from Italy

grade | separate, sort in categories

green snowfall | first snowfall of the new year (after the first of March)

guild | corporation, company

gum | rubber, esp. synthetic rubber

gyre | orbit, cycle; to orbit, to ring around-

herdtale | agricultural stories and songs of mid-19C Gulf Mendeva

heredian acid | DNA (also shortened to heredian)

hereditarian | genetic

hereditature | genome, DNA

heredity | genetics

heverrath | bicycle, velocipede

hever | lever, pedal, also the verb

hourchain | rosary, armilla

hydromotor light | microwave radiation

iamb 5' | iambic pentameter

icon | photo, photgraph

igniac | oxide

ignifex | oxygen

indreck | nonprofit, charity

in peripatetico | abroad, on an exchange, on a sabbatical

in tesquo | in the wild, in practice, in real life

Iscovalian variation | evolution by natural selection

jalick | tuxedo, high formalwear

jast | zinc

kenonaut | spaceship

kernel | cell nucleus

kester | beggar, panhandle

lacker | veneer, false surface

laic | secular, irreligious, oecumenical

lampfire | naked flame used as a light source

leavingstore | gift shop, shop for trinkets

lencorve | line of credit, tab

limmon | lemon

lineball | team ballgame, resembling (soccer) football or rugby

lithing | account, list, enumeration

lodginghouse | waystop, inn, traveller's rest

longform light | radio waves

lorrer leaf | bay leaf

lovetale | romance writing

luetic pox | syphilis

lux | radiation, elementary particle

machinal | automatic, by rote

machovine | strontium

manner | property, nature

mapbook | atlas

masquira | genre of stories typically featuring vigilante characters and plots driven by hidden identities, high society and complicated schemes. It has some overlap with the later spycraft genre, especially in modern works.

matching | (maths) bijection, bijective map

mechanics | dynamics, physics of motion and collision

mecon | metre (length of pendulum with halfperiod 1 second

melee | high society, the gentry (old-fashioned), the ton, the activities of the gentry

meshforum | online community

mesh | network

methodics | computer science, programming

ministry | department, ministry, bureau

mitigor | ethene, ethylene, C2H4

modest | socially conservative, with respect to family, children and gender relations

moneypurse | wallet, purse

mozardisto | member of a populist faction involved in the Second German War primarily made up of Andalusian Christians but expanding in scope, especially towards the end of the war.

mozard | populist, antiestablishment

muriac | chloride

muria | chlorine

myton | type of merchant ship in wide use during the late fifteenth century

namecard | ID, nametag

narjill | coconut

natron | sodium

normal nawat | Classical Nahuatl

normal speed | lightspeed, œ

nucalic acid | DNA (see heredian acid)

odyssey | cinema, movie theatre

oeculux | electromagnetic radiation

oecumen | landscape, outlook, overview, universe

one-case | single-celled

one-zeffre | binary, one-bit, digital

onyx lace | shell pasta, conchiglie

ostracon | lottery, sortition

parachthon | speculative, science fiction and fantasy (of stories)

penetrating light | X-ray radiation

petersly | parsley

plenty | electric charge

poise | currency of Britain as of 1950 N

prase | administrative head of ancient and modern Borlish government

propagant | wave-like

prosequent | descendant, progeny, something proceeding from a source, accompaniment

pseudogum | synthetic rubber

quanga | butler, esp in East Asian context; secretary, PA

quasipolitic guild | multinational megacorporation

quasipolitic | resembling a nation or polity

quaterno | textbook, handbook, primer

quill | source, spring, basis, foundation, (maths) domain

quire | reference book, textbook

quister | phone, telephone

quist | to call, to phone

raincatcher | gazebo, free-standing roofed structure without walls

rath | bike

reckoning | arithmetic, counting

redirection bank | switchboard

refettorio | refectory, cafeteria, mess hall

replacement code | substitution cipher

revillon | christmas eve

romance | story, tale, fiction

sam | set, group of things, (maths) set

sandrine | vitamin C, ascorbic acid

scattering light | ionising radiation

scattering | ionising

scitation | examination, test, exam

scole | school, college

scratcher | (colloq.) journalist, reporter, writer

sevring | (maths) injection, injective map

shadome | tomato

shortform light | gamma radiation

signum | macron, long diacritic

sithing | (in mathematics) function, assignment

slate | display, screen

sodality | group, club, association

sodal | member, element

solarium | sunroom, seaside resort

songcraft | music, composition, music theory

sorty | party, get-together, do

spycraft | espionage, spywork; also a genre of fiction

staddomain | trade colony, colony for the purposes of resource production, esp. those colonies of the Stadbund in Cappatia and Africa

starce | coin used in mediæval Borland

stauron retainer | intra-uterine device

steeplecard | telegram

steeplemesh | telegraph network

steeplepost | telegraphy

steeplescript | analogous to Morse Code, with four symbols

steward | deputy, second-in-command

sticket | label, tag

subcase construct | organelle

subrussic light | infrared light

sufficient | negatively charged

surblavic light | UV light

switcher | one working at a redirection bank

tachslate | touchscreen device

tachygraph | typewriter

tallath | province, region (esp. of Britain)

tapestry | big screen, billboard, film screen

tapper | telegraph operator

tartoffer | potato

technic | technical, scientific

Tellard book | atlas (archaic)

tender | barman, bartender

tenyear | decade

the hex hours | the small hours, the middle of the night

threepoint method | triangulation

threshold force | nuclear fission power

threshold mill | nuclear power plant

timehold | marine chronometer

tinplate | left-wing

Tiong loom | Jacquard loom

toriot | large wind instrument with roughly the range of the bassoon

totalism | absolute monarchy

totalist | absolute, authoritarian

tovarick | homosexual

tovarism | homosexuality

trevold | novel, story

trone | currency of Provence as of 1950 N

ubiquity | cultural supremacy, totalist ideology

veck | bus

vectory | bus, omnibus

veldsvindung | global economic recession, depression

viker | steward, affairs manager, right-hand man

vittles | diet, food intake

voidtale | story set in space

void | outer spaceship

walkway | pedestrian footpath, esp in urban context

wares | ingredients, apparatus

wayport | supply point along the coast for long naval voyages

weekly | a weekly newspaper

well-mint | well-off, prosperous, wealthy

whitefish | white fish

workshop manufacture | industrial production

xanthal | neon

xenic | alien, extraterrestrial

xenozone | alien, extraterrestrial being

yacht | cult, secret society

yatherpot | casserole, one-pot dish

yearturning | the New Year

zest | vibe, morsel, speculation, suspicion

zetter | note, memo

zoia | microorganism

[spinneryesteryear]

DRK Headcanons

- tapping into the abyss is a skill that has manifested and been practiced by a few individuals across almost all times and cultures, but it has been most refined by Ishgardian dark knights, who paired it with a greatsword and elevated it to new heights

- as conjury resonates with the organic materials of crooks as their implements (wood, blood, etc.) and thaumaturgy resonates with the inorganic materials of rods (metal, gems, etc.), dark arts resonate with blood and iron, including the metal of the dark knight’s greatsword

- Unleash fills the air with the scent of the dark knight’s blood, maddening monsters and enemies and drawing them away from the weaker party members towards him instead

- dark knights in frequent communion with the abyss tend to have keener aetheric senses, quickly noticing any creature with blood and/or living aether in their vicinity, thus negating or diminishing the use of conventional stealth by their enemies. Dark knights are easy to outnumber but hard to ambush.

- they also have some degree of night vision. Their tapetum lucidum effect is more red than green-blue, however, no matter the species or race.

- Dark Side slowly but continuously drains the dark knight’s mana pool (i.e. aether easily liquidated and spent) even without the usage of skills or spells (the Heavensward drk mechanic); when this pool is depleted and if Dark Side is not dropped, it begins to slowly but continuously drain the dark knight’s health pool (i.e. aether liquidated and spent only with pain), similar to how darkness abilities in previous FF titles were frequently Cast From HP. This is not advised.

- a dark knight’s eyes glow red when HP is being drained in this manner

- Low Blow: dark knights are taught very early on in their initiation into the dark arts that kicking their enemies in the crotch is always a valid tactical move

- although they have no formal order or brotherhood and although they usually work and live alone, dark knights in the same geographical/sociopolitical region are aware of each other and may come to each other’s assistance if there is a grave problem in another dark knight’s ‘territory’. Tying in with the previous headcanon, dark knights can sense the presence of other dark knights’ aether over comparatively long distances and cannot mistake the flare of blood-soaked aether when another walker of the path is slain. Nearby dark knights will travel to the site of their fellow’s death to retrieve his armor, weapon, and soulstone and to give his body honorable burial, if possible. As dark knights have no formal order and are persecuted as outlaws, their arms and armor are not easily replaced and thus must be carefully repaired and preserved for new initiates.

- training in the dark arts is usually given from one master to one or two apprentices at a time; there is no formal schooling for the discipline and no formal records of the history or members of the creed. Weapons and armor are also usually passed down along the same teaching ‘lineage’, with apprentices frequently receiving the weapon and soulstone of their teacher’s late teacher.

- DRK job soulstones are very ‘alive’ in comparison to those of other jobs, as they very strongly soak up impressions of their bearers’ memories and feelings. Unused DRK job stones are cold and dark, like chunk of obsidian crudely cut into the shape of a heart. Over decades of being carried, especially by multiple knights, the job stone slowly takes on life and warmth - faint at first, like a single candle lit against the yawning void, but steadily growing. A well-worn DRK soulstone resembles a crystallized heart red with living blood, warm to the touch. Such a job stone can usually stave off the hungry abyss long enough for a novice knight bearing it to find his flame in the face of initiation into the dark arts.

- the WoL wasn’t the first novice dark knight to have an identity crisis on picking up a DRK soulstone unawares, especially one whose previous owner just died unjustly in violent combat, and won’t be the last. Actual visible manifestations of parts of the dark knight’s soul is a new one, however.

- dark knights seek no glory for themselves and frequently eschew their given names in favor of a title, by which they are usually known to the uninitiated (e.g. Deepblack, Obsidian Heart, Onyx Shade, etc.). If they have living kin, they also lessens the chances of their families being persecuted by inquisitors. Bounties out on a dark knight’s head usually only lists their title (if known), a description of their armor, and guess at their usual location of operations.

- no Ishgardian knight, nobleman, or cleric is ever admitted to have been killed by a dark knight; the shame is too great. It is always attributed to the work of heretics or to some unfortunate accident. (Of course, dark knights ARE viewed as heretics by the Ishgardian Orthodox Church, but not the usual dragon-loving sort.) The incident is promptly hushed up.

- dark knights were once slightly more numerous in Coerthas, but Archbishop Thordan of late, unhappy memory cracked down on them once he began consorting with Ascians and planning his own godhood, as he feared they posed the greatest threat of discovering and/or wrecking his goals. Ompagne and Fray both died in this purge, which lasted several years. As Heavensward opens, Sidurgu and a tiny handful of others are the only dark knights remaining in all of  Coerthas and Dravania, and Sid’s the only one of them crazy enough to remain in Ishgard itself (largely due to Rielle and opportunities to pick off temple knights). Ignorant of dark knight practices, the Ishgardian Church believes Obsidian Heart is the leader of what dark knights remain.

- they also believe he is a dragon-blooded heretic, of course

- dark knights and the knights dragoon have maintained a largely neutral relationship for centuries. (A lone dragoon can jump rooftop-to-rooftop through the Brume with no one to disturb him. Lone temple knights get dragged into dark alleys and stabbed.)  The dark knights say nothing when the dragoons sneak past the church to harvest dragon scales and blood for their armor, and the dragoons rarely report dark knights they spot on patrol. However, a dark knight will interfere with dragoons on a mission on occasion, and despite their avoidance of politics dragoons may occasionally report the sight of a drk-led massacre (identifiable to trackers by the greatsword wounds and dark magic burns).

- for basic communication purposes, dark knights use aether-infused blood to trace out makeshift hobo marks or waysigns for other walkers of the path to find, e.g. simple glyphs indicating ‘danger’, ‘shelter’, ‘sympathetic residents’, etc. Some Brume residents have caught onto this and trace sigils in blood discretely on exterior walls when they need DRK intervention. Ishgardian clergy absolutely believe dragon blood is involved.

[an-onyx-void]

The article is question is from 2018, but the point still remains.

[fourangers]

In a split second, his world turned upside down, tilting his view on its axis. He screwed his eyes shut, feeling his brain rewinding every important memory in his life. This was it, this was how he was going to die. Oh God, he’s too young to die and he hoped he had done enough good deeds to grant him a passage to Heaven.

There was a black void for a second, before his vision was inundated with a flash of light. Grunting, he peeked through an eye, sighing.

“Okay, life signs seems stable, his heartbeats is around 80 per minute. He’s recovering his conscience.”

Naruto frowned, feeling a painful throb at the back of his head. Maybe he’s in heaven after all, there weren’t any cute angels but there’s a hot one welcoming him. Maybe this is Heaven’s way to award him, countless sexy men to have a full blown orgy.

Hot angel picked a flashlight and opened his eyelid. “Can you talk to me sir? Are you feeling any pain, discomfort?”

Hm, hot sexy angel should stop asking him questions and strip all his clothes. Hot sexy angel was signalizing someone to come closer and this woman was rather plain looking. Wait, this woman looked like a nurse and she’s adjusting his body to a sitting position. Naruto tilted his head to one side, slowly sharpening his vision till he realized that nope, he’s not dead yet and hot angel was actually his doctor.

“Can you talk to me? what’s your name, birth date and profession.” Sharp onyx eyes studied his report, before staring back at the dazed looking blond man.

Naruto slackened jaw, mumbling. “Um...Naruto Uzumaki, October 10th and I’m a teacher.” 

“Alright, you remember what caused your concussion?”  

“Well...” He licked his lips, curling a lopsided grin, glancing up and down towards his doctor. “I can answer that if you tell me your name.”

There was a twitch of an eyebrow showing on the doctor’s perfect face. “This is not a two-sided conversation, just answer my question.” 

Tsking, Naruto shrugged. “Well...to tell the truth...” He beckoned the doctor with his hand and the latter obeyed him with a roll of eyes. “I was in the middle of a deadly gun fight, because I went to retrieve a student I wanted to help. While we were running away from a gang, we had to jump five stories below to a raging river and that was how I blacked out. Heroically.”

“Really.” The sardonic tone was heavily laced in the baritone voice. “I read in the report that you fell from a scooter when you accidentally ran over a water puddle.”

“Um! Was I? You sure?” Naruto babbled.

“Yes, this came from witnesses that aided you when you passed out. Maybe you’re still hallucinating from the concussion...” The doctor said, smirking a little.

“No, I’m perfectly fine!” Naruto protested. “No wait, if I’m not fine yet, does that mean you’re gonna continue examining me?”

Standing up, he rolled his eyes. “Sure, we’ll do some x-ray.”

“And then you’re gonna do a full check-up on me? Do I have to take off my clothes?”

The doctor just sighed, placing the clipboard back to the hospital’s bed. Naruto continued to admire the toned body, smooth milky skin, sturdy muscles shown even beneath the uniform. His face was chiseled with elegant angles, stylish dark hair and beautiful eyes that he could get lost just staring at it forever.

Ok, Heaven didn’t grant him a sexy angel, but at least geared him to meet this sexy doctor which it’s also pretty high on his kink list. 

“God, I want to suck your cock like it’s a lollipop.” Naruto muttered in a dreamy voice, wiping off his drool.

“Excuse me?” The doctor narrowed his eyes. “Did you say anything just now?”

“Nope, nothing!” Naruto hopped off, face burning. “I gotta take a leak, see you later doc!”

PS: Someone continue this story pls lmao.

[just-onyx]

Legs dangled as she sat high on the top of the pillar watching the vale below.  Battles rang in the air, the sound of yelling to the suckle of void clashed causing no harmony.   A poor human was stuck in a tentacle trying to free himself in the distance as Onyx nibbled on her granola bar.  “Suck to be him.” She mused to the empty air beside her. 

Loneliness was better than joining the masses and possibly being eaten by some old god.  Up here the food was fresh and the air was crisp.  Down there blood and void tainted the soil, rot and death saturated the air.   Even the demonic blood infused to her own had little desire to play with the void below. 

“More monsters to hang with I suppose Amisria, maybe one of them will find us irresistible give us all the wealth/love in the world.”  She chuckled.   “Well suppose we should report this all to bossman, I bet he knows. “ 

Onyx in vain squinted to see if she could see the others of her company down below.  A large part of her would not be surprised if she any of them walking in the purple void themselves control the tentacles that made a meal out of the human who wailed for help.

Slight @duraxxor mention

[an-onyx-void]

I don't want AI even doing that.

[the-house-of-the-nine]

In Depths Below: Reunions Part 1

]|[  Hello Friends and Followers, in typical fashion, I am continuing the narrative of the Nine story by adding the next part of our story with this interaction between Lazarius and his prime, Zalra Azurestar.  Marking specific characters for their contributions here.  Thank you all for supporting us!  ]|[

“I will be as safe as I can be...but humans are nosy...pesky and above all else, desperately in need of something to bicker about.  I must say I miss Stormwind.” . . .

“In any case Zalra remains deep undercover there. . . I need to seek her out...”

[ L.K ]   All but three weeks had passed since the planning of the Kashebahl siblings and their demon brother in law.  The plan to end these Magisters who were planning to extort them.  As it stood now, the Inquisitor had plans of his own.  All that needed to be set in motion within the Bastille was proving fruitful.  It was time for him to find her.

A slow roaming bird overhead. The sounds of waves crashing and falling against the sand. The heavy wind. The smell of sea foam and shells and rum? Must have been booty bay. The soft caw of the birds. The dark rolling blackness from the deep The pain of sorrow and hatred. The heavy sounds of drum like rumbles. The feeling of dread. The cloud of pure void manifesting in front of her. 

Lazarius stepped out from the inky black vapor and as it expelled, so too did the foreboding evil. Calmness returned and he waded toward her showering her with a grin and cascading his hands down her shoulders with a grin. “My dear sweet Zalra...how I have missed you so badly these last few months. I have missed out training and our talks, our romantic nights and endless days fighting beside one another. Tell me dear...how have you been?”

[ Z.A ]   Zalra’s eyes drifted to regard the bird’s silhouette against the twilight skies; circling her for a brief moment before heading out to the sea’s horizon. Her gaze followed the creature until it was nothing but a speck against the purple clouds. Peaceful was the description that immediately came to her mind, enunciated by the soft sigh leaving her lips as she allowed more shallow waves to cascade around her ankles. Oh, how much she had missed this. Being stationed in Kul’Tiras really did make the Ren’dorei crave the warmth; missing that brief satisfaction of her old country’s eternal spring. She found herself seldom visiting Quel'thalas, despite The Nine providing means to disguise herself.

It wasn’t until an odd sensation plagued Zalra's stomach, twisting anxiety into her very core, did she take her eyes from the stars. The feeling almost forced the woman to step backwards, but when vapor started to form before her visibly, she paused. This was…familiar. An audible sigh of relief escaped Zalra’s dark lips the second she recognized the aura passing through and even beamed when the man finally stepped forth.

“Lazarius,” she breathed, hardly able to make a sound, “Words cannot express how much I have missed you.”

Her accent danced heavy upon her echoed tone, as she went to hug Lazarius around the waist; she felt awkward at the thought of haphazardly throwing her arms around his neck. “I am…alright. Spying and what not is simple enough." She smiled. "How have you been?"

[ L.K ]   Letting eyes fall upon the maiden and adapting to the change of temperature from Northrend to Stranglethorn. He waltzed up toward her and allowed the brief pause to linger longer than it should as he waited for a response.It came in the form of a hug, which was deflected. The much taller man raised her arms with a gentle guiding, he wanted those arms around his neck.

And when they were and he was able to stand, he made it a point to lift her from the ground. He wanted to hear that little squeak when she was dangling. He wanted to hold her. And she could tell from the tightness of his own embrace that this contact was something that was sorely missed.

As he held there holding her, waiting for her to wrap legs around his waist at this point, she could hear his labored breathing, he was happily smiling into her hair and face. “Things are complicated...”. Said the dark lord as he continued to hold her. The waves beneath them crashing now against the pair of them.

[ Z.A ]   The exhilarated expression that shone upon Zalra’s pale face, shifted quickly into a look of embarrassment when Lazarius softly clasped her wrists in each one of his hands; only to find herself soon afterwards flushing a dark purple while her arms now rested around his shoulders. Despite this, a soft giggle bubbled at the base of her throat.

Damn, did she ever miss this… Zalra let out the small, mousy squeak Lazarius was presumably waiting for when she felt herself being lifted from her feet. Instinctively, her legs wrapped around the man’s waist, and he could feel her previously ridged posture relax in his hold.

“Complicated?” she breathed, finding herself focusing more on the feeling of Lazarius’ cheek against hers than the conversation at hand.

[ L.K ] The black eyed man would sigh. “I have many tendrils leeching out to the world and all are reporting much of the same. War. I’ve begun synthesizing a chemical void mixed with a bunch of other ingredients. Whistletorque claims it may help many Ren’dorei with their addictions and void dependence. But also highly potent and addictive when mixed right. It’s...a process and I have no intentions of offering it to them. . .let them suffer.”

[ Z.A ]  Until the reminder of war and the insurmountable amount of power at the Inquisitor’s fingertips grabbed her attention fully. There was always a part of the Ren’dorei that was intimidated by this notion.

“How on Azeroth were you able to synthesize an essence like the void?” Those were code words that immediately had Zalra’s mind spinning into an array of possible inquiries.

[ L.K ]   He would turn his face and lightly kiss her cheek. It was a pause. He moved a bit closer and kissed the bottom of her jaw. A pause. Her chin. A pause. The corner of her mouth. Had she not stepped in this would continue with each kiss, and if she hadn’t stopped, she would feel his own pair of cold voided lips against her own. A passionate, yet loving kiss that spoke more words than he could express of how he did in fact miss the connection they shared.

[ Z.A ]    “What else have…you--” The kiss to her cheek elicited a soft gasp from Zalra’s dark lips, slowing her rate of speech bit by bit.

Another kiss, to her jaw, “--seen this drug--” Her chin. She swallowed audibly, “--d-do?--” His cold lips continued to the corner of her mouth, and once more, she was caught off guard. Resisting nothing this man did, she slowly allowed Lazarius to wrap her around his finger once those lips of his pressed against hers.  However, much to both of their dismays, Zalra ended the kiss prematurely.

She leaned back enough to study Lazarius’ onyx gaze and in the brief moment of silence, she tried to spot the galaxies she missed seeing flit across his eyes. “I did miss you. Hearing you, most of all.” She whispered just under her breath, still studying his visage.

“Please, tell me more of what has been brewing. The war you hear. The synthetic drugs?…”

[ L.K ]   “The void forge is fully operational despite the several months you have been stationed within Kul Tiras. Mind you I appreciate your exuberant efforts of espionage more than you can imagine...I believe I miss having you at my side most of all.”. He would not disappoint either, the kiss, the embrace and now the longing gaze. He studied every inch of her as if it would be the last time he’d be able to be this close, which under the circumstances...might be the case.

“You are aware that the forge and its intentions were to sacrifice those who were traitors to the Horde, not out of loyalty but simply because the ren’dorei are the closest tapped source of void energy outside the nether.” he would drawn in a slow breath as he continued on.

“ So...war criminals and non innocents are being used to fuel the forge. The husk...so to say, is discarded. Blood and sinew are sent to Lady Dawnblood the Magus for study and the pure raw void Magic’s are being studied, heavily so, by myself and the good doctor. This...’drug’ for lack of a better word; we have synthesized is a combination of the siphoned void magics, arcane and other potent herbal drugs that we are using to create a 94 to 97 and a half percent pure.. hallucinogenic.”  he couldn’t help himself from smiling. “And it is something I plan to distribute without any hesitation.”

[ Z.A ]   Zalra was immediately transported back in time at his mentioning of the void forge. Deserts and intense heat. Violence. And the creature that Lazarius formed into before descending into the intimidating depths of the catacombs. A path the woman did not follow; instead whisked away his younger sister from the scene. Guilt churned in her stomach, however, that image of horror lingered on the corner of her thoughts.

“I am glad to hear progress has been successful with your projects.” She responded, returning her conscious to the present. Hearing the percentage of purity that this hallucinogenic contained, her breath caught in her throat.

“That is potent…” she murmured mostly to herself.

“H-How have you tested it thus far?” she asked with natural curiosity. The comments on how the forge was being powered and used didn’t seem to bother her in the slightest. War criminals and non-innocents were the perfect fodder in her opinion.

Absentmindedly, with her arms still around the Inquisitor’s shoulders, Zalra’s fingers brushed against his locks resting against the nape of his neck. Comfortable and happy to finally see Lazarius again.

[ L.K ]   “Do you really want to know how we’ve tested it?”. He said with a curious look while she brushed hair away from his vision. “Perhaps it is better to just leave the effects to a bit of trust...”.

Oh he was manipulative at that, canting his head to the size and flashing her that grin, that cheshire grin. A row of faded pearly whites peeking out behind his curled vile lips. Oh yes he would bat those beautiful lashes and charm his way along.

“You know you do not need to remain away..I am glad to see you are eager in your espionage but... it does get lonely without you...”. He would say softly to her. “Maybe I could kidnap you for a weekend ... you wouldn’t object would you? We could train at bit...dine......the usual activities we’ve always found so enjoyable?”. His grin returned and he would peer at her. “Or are you that deep under cover?”

[ Z.A ]   “I--” She stuttered in response to his counter “I m-mean…” Did she? Of course in the urge to satisfy her curiosity the answer was quite obvious. She did want to know. How could she possibly resist pestering when there was something new to observe and study? However, despite academic pursuits, something caused Zalra to hesitate.

A tone buried under the Inquisitor’s words. Something that enticed the woman to shake her head slowly. No. Perhaps she could know at a later date. The diversion and manipulative intentions proved to be rather efficient; further confirming how much of a grip Lazarius had on the Ren’dorei.

And, oh, how that sly grin on his gaunt face kept Zalra complacent in her ignorant state of mind. “Does it get lonely without me?” she challenged; her accent dancing upon her soft, echoed words in a playful manner. “Hm…it does sound enticing…” she began, placing a kiss upon not his lips, but his cheek.

“Though, I don’t know if I’ll be able to sneak out. You just might have to whisk me away.” A sly grin of her own tugged at her dark lips while she attempted to tease Lazarius.

[ L.K ]   “That was always the plan...I honestly had no intention of letting you go this time, far too long have I wished to be in this exact place, in this exact stance, with you so gracefully wrapped around me...death would be a welcome and fitting end here, should it claim me... I could say I was able to rest complete, with everything as perfect as it is right-this-way.”. He smiled widely at her and wriggled his nose in a cute manner.

My how he enjoyed the hunt, sappy words mixed with the eloquence of his thick accent and deep tones. He was purely flourishing at this point, wanting to not only flirt but woo her into submitting to his desires. Did he honestly have to try? Had she not submitted many times before.

“You do not know the half of it Zalra.  Lonely does not even begin to express how missed you are. I have not been so forlorn in some time, without you it feels as though a part of me is missing...”. His eyes, galactic and swirling would drift to the side as his gaze fell on the sand and shore beside them.

[ Z.A ]   Zalra’s round, freckled face flushed a deep burgundy while Lazarius spoke so eloquently. His speech of feeling so at peace, so comfortable that he could die at that moment captivated the young Ren’dorei woman. Her violet eyes remained fixated on the man’s expression as she studied his visage for any falter in his words; investigating any deceit behind his proclamation.

Finding none, Zalra relaxed. Gazing to the gentle waves, she slipped from his hold to once again, feel the warm waters against her toes. “Lazarius…I don’t think I h-have heard someone say…” she breathed, looking back to his eyes.

Opening her mouth, she attempted to continue with her sentence, however, found herself pausing when Lazarius wriggled his nose. Now that was an expression she had yet to see. And, boy, did it ever make her heart leap to her throat.

“I…” she paused.

“Cute--” The word was almost a whisper as it was clear she did not intend for her thoughts to become audible to Lazarius. But, it was true!

No, he didn’t have to try with his flirtatious words; she was a sucker for any words of caring.

“Without you it feels as though a part of me is missing...”

Now her heart ached. “Steal me away, then.” Zalra teased softly. “Whisk me to Northrend…and I will be yours for the weekend. To dine. Converse. Whatever you would like.”

[ L.K ]   “I don’t think Northrend is nearly suitable for us...for our needs and our required optimal necessities...no no no we need something better, far greater than a cold underground tunnel hidden beneath miles of permafrost and tundra.”. He would smile as she kissed him once more, in truth, she was a welcome addition to his company. Zalra always seemed to bring out a much sweeter side of the man known to most as a ‘dark lord’ and a ‘demon among men’.

Lazarius waved his hand upward. “Maybe a moonlit veranda over the star lit skies and violet fields of the Nighthold in Suramar?”. He hummed to himself as an image of the horizon over the Shal’dorei capital came into light.

“Maybe the red timbers and rolling landscapes of the grizzly hills, nestled in a lodge with other wealthy couples?”. He laughed at the though.

“No... how about a cabin I keep hidden to the world on the summit of Kun Lai, in western Pandaria? Just the two of us? A hot spring? Huddled together in a blanket by the fire? Cindervine red and plenty of gnomish record devices to keep us warm?”. He wiggles his eye brows at her. “Sounds nice to me...private and romantic?”

[ Z.A ]   “Oh?”  Zalra murmured, canting her head to the side with curiosity. Their needs, hm? Well, truth be told, anything would be better than the dingy barracks she had to sleep in. It wasn’t that she was not used to minimalistic accommodations—her old apartment was proof enough—but, what really bothered her was so many people bunking in the same, large quarters. No walls. No privacy. He began to list luxurious getaway spots in enthusiastic detail; painting vivid imagery in her mind.

The bright twinkling starts against a purple sky. Smooth, curved architecture that always held lascivious hues. Or, perhaps the fresh scent of pine permeating through thick forests. Trees taller than one could imagine, and bears as far as the eye could see. Only images from texts surfaced to her thoughts as the Ren’dorei had not yet visited these lands. Which just excited her more. Then finally, the final destination was proclaimed with a rather alluring tone.

“Pandaria?” Zalra echoed, mulling over the suggestion. “All of those sound like luxuries I would like to experience for the first time.” She teased, smirking.  “Sounds perfect to me.~”

[ L.K ]   With that, Lazarius would turn and casually wave his hand toward the same position in which he appeared. A portal, no bigger than him and only double in width would rip from the space time fabric of their reality, an image that portrayed the inside of a cabin would be on the opposite side. His mastery of the void clearly improving over time—even now he had far greater control than before.

“Shall we?”. He asked, leading her toward the opening.  A tear in the fourth dimensional wall which on the opposite side was a cabin.

As they neared the threshold, only if she would allow, would he step through without a though or word beyond that. It would be an instantaneous transition between worlds, she would see the inside of the cabin laid out before her in all of its majesty, it was like a lovely little resort away from home.

Couches, lounges, chairs and animal pelts across the wood floor. Cracking fire in a massive hearth with the entire northern side panes of glass exposing them to the clear night sky which overlooked nearly all of The valley of Pandaria. They were after all at the summit of Kun Lai. Steam would rise from the heated bath which was on the deck outside, the perfect combinations of hot and cold. On the table where the kitchen would be, all granite and marble of course, she would find a chilled bottle of champagne and of course his room temperature bottle of Cindervine Red. And beside that, a black parchment wrapped gift with a lovely violet velvet ribbon. For her?

Lazarius would step toward the large lounging sofa and grab what appeared to be a robe of some sort. His normal dressing gown would begin to be unlaced and unbuttoned slowly. His black eyes never once leaving the woman while she would more than likely wish to explore a bit. So the process of disrobing would be made more simple.

“Do you like it? I invested in this lodge before the fall of my estate and seizure of my funding by the war campaign.” idle conversations as he stripped down to a dark pair of cotton briefs.

“I come here on nights that I need to relax or be alone. I come here to find peace and quiet when an otherwise maddening world wishes to claim me...but most importantly I come here when I need to prepare.”. Now pulling the plum colored satin robe over his shoulders and tying around the waist with a sash, he would move toward the refreshments.

“Champagne or wine, dear?”. He said, clearly providing a glass of the red for himself. While waiting for her response. “You are fortunate, I’ve never actually brought anyone here...you are the first to actually know my little secrets and hidden hideaways.”. He said with a smirk, flashing her those lovely eyes and a wriggling nose as he took a sip and teased her.

[ Z.A ]   “Shall we?”

“Of course.”  As Zalra managed to bring forth Lazarius’ sweeter sides, so too did he manage to bring a warmer aspect of her forward. The icy, monotonous demeanor she kept up in Kul’Tiras was numbing, and it was nice to feel a little piece of herself again.

After gathering her equipment from the beach’s shore, Zalra returned to Lazarius’ side in an instant to keep pace with him through the rift; finding herself too excited to pay much attention to the preview the portal provided her. Though, even if she did, she knew it would not compare to the real thing.

A small gasp immediately left the Ren’dorei as her illuminated gaze took in the scene before her. Plush, cozy furniture and a warming hearth. Expensive accented design. And despite the snow lining the sizable windows, steam was seen obscuring a portion of their viewing to the dark skies. The beautiful display of stars captivated her attention as she slowly began removing her gear, neatly placing it in a corner near where they had just entered. Those violet eyes of hers still glued to the windows.

“Like it?” Zalra finally managed to breathe, “It’s beautiful! I…”

After leaning her bow against the wall, she turned to face Lazarius. “I love it. I really do.”

Luxury living was a taste Zalra found herself getting accustomed to. Was that a bad thing? Well, at least she looked considerably more at ease than one would expect. Her gauntlets, armour, and boots were then removed and left neatly with her bow, leaving her in only thin, under armor. Oh, right. This impromptu trip had left her no time to prepare, and she found herself without any changes of clothing.

Despite this, her ingrained anxious behavior subconsciously prevented her from asking Lazarius for any. Woops. With that briefly pushed from her mind, Zalra began to cross the threshold of the house to the northern end to gaze outside properly. Beautiful, snow-covered mountains surrounded either side of the cabin, and plains of farmland dotted the grounds below. It was breathtaking. And she could have stood there for hours if it was not for Lazarius’ smooth voice catching her attention once more.

She turned to face him, idly bringing her attention to his tattooed covered form; helping herself to the sight before his robe soon blocked her. Afterwards, she brought herself to hold Lazarius’ gaze with her own.

“If I were to ask what is going through that mind of yours,” she began, her tone smooth like velvet. “And what you could be preparing for, would you tell me?” Her eyes fell on his glass while walking towards him.

“Wine, please.” Her face started to flush a deep maroon upon him admitting her privilege to Kashe’bahl secrets. The pleasant ones, at least. She could feel her heart pounding in her throat as she spoke, “You haven’t? What about your other trusted advisors?” Standing a foot or two away from Lazarius, Zalra leaned against the granite counter to regard him.

[ L.K ]   He was hardly surprised by her curiosity, after all it was a trait he found warmly inviting whenever she was around. Her curiosity was becoming, and quite fetching all things considered.

“You would find that there are more doorways and possibilities in my mind than any one person should ever be privileged to...”. He said in an almost scattered forlornly mild tone.  The wine would be poured for two considering her request. “The beauty of the Pit of Lothia, in the Bastille is it creates a hive mind...I can always know who, what and where people are. Who they are with...talking to, collecting information..I’ve learned to silence it when needed. Like now.”. He smiled lightly into his glass as he took a sip with her.

[ Z.A ]   Zalra leaned further on the table, her smirk growing wider, as her playful demeanor snuck its way visibly across her face. “Oh, really?” she paused, “How many of those doors are locked tight?” How many of those doors could she get through, was the actual question. Curiosity did have its faults, but she managed to vocally stay in her own lane enough to keep her expression from betraying her unintentional, intrusive inquiries that surfaced.

Her gaze drifted to the wine glass that was poured for her, before looking back at the Inquisitor. She had yet to reach for the drink while she listened to his descriptor for this…Pit of Lothia. Something she had not been privy to see. Not yet, at least. Would she ever have the chance to see what twisted magics Lazarius performed? Besides the brief moments of accidentally seeing monstrous forms and small teachings of the void. Though, she was grateful for what she had learned from him thus far.

“Have you ever tapped into this hive mind to review…me?” Zalra asked, bringing her drink closer to her. “In Kul’Tiras? Vol’dun?” Suddenly, a small bought of giggles left her Cute. “Apparently ditching my life in Stormwind on the dime wasn’t proof enough that I enjoy following your…suggestions.” She followed that up with a well-placed wink.

[ L.K ]  “Of course I have, but not always intentional. . .I just happens.  I don’t sit there watching it all.” he said with a playful laugh as he waved off the thought.

“If you would like honesty though...I was planning to falsify a reason to lure you here, if only for a few hours to gain your company. Something simple to lure you away from your duties... but you seemed interested and willing...as far as planning to do now? Well that depends...talk, drink...I have not been intimate with anyone in quite a while...some flesh, contact if only to have you need is needed. I have spent almost my entire time in Northrend alone.”. He would shrug it off like it was nothing.

“And given the amount of clothing you’re beginning to reduce yourself to...that and the wine are sure to make things challenging for me to resist tear what is left off and having my way with you...”.

He was grinning behind his glass, and again, shrugged into a chuckle as he took a sip. “In all honesty...”. He started slowly as he looked toward her. “I am teasing you but I really do miss your company...we spent so many weeks together only to have it end...so abruptly... it’s nice to have you back.”

[ Z.A ]    Hearing the man mention his lack of intimacy within the Bastille made her pale, freckled face flush deeply “I--” Aw, here came the charming stutters. Lazarius always had a way to get the Ren’dorei flustered.

 “I missed you too, Lazarius.” She finally murmured, holding her glass out for a little toast before drinking a considerable amount. Zalra was a hard liquor gal. She still didn’t grasp the whole “sipping” concept of wine.

[ L.K ]   “The majority of us have never seen the Pit...”. He said absent mindedly, it was more or less in passing. “Save for the council. It just serves as a mixing pool for the collective blood I took from you and everyone else, mixed with the Magic’s and other various things, it allows passage to and from the Bastille. And yes, it isn’t as much a ‘tapping in’ as it is a constant. I always see and hear the entire orders thoughts and voices. Even now...”. He murmured into his glass sipping from it. 

The talk of teasing and indulging his sexual desires was enough to cause him to glance up. It was no lie they’d been intimate in the past, and stopped for no lack of attraction. More or less due to her position in the field.

“I would like to see you return more often. There are plenty of things I’d like to train you in. So many avenues you have yet to master.”. He smiled as he thought about it and slow in his words, it would match his steps, making his way toward the large double pane glass window. 

 And then, quite suddenly. “Why do you stay with me?”. He said curiously. It was a question from out of the blue, but with his back to her as he peered out into the moonlit world from above, he would pause and ask more specifically.

“Why me? Am I that fortunate to say that I have in you, a pupil who surpasses any I have taken on? You’re proven countless times your talent...I just wonder what keeps you returning to me, there must be plenty of skilled teachers and better sources...and yet your loyalty remains with me...”

[ Z.A ]   Zalra bit her lip softly, looking somewhat embarrassed for a fraction of a moment. If the Inquisitor had access to all members’ thoughts and voices, that would mean her failure in Vol’dun was displayed like a movie for the man. The lack of skill she demonstrated trying to scavenge for parts in the unforgiving desert. The camp she thought to be abandoned was filled with Bilgewater Cartel members, and upon spotting her in the shadows immediately attacked. She barely made it out alive, and now that she realized Lazarius saw this, she couldn’t look him in the eyes.

Thankfully, he took that opportunity to begin his pacing toward the northern end of the cabin to presumably study the sights. But then, a strange question bubbled from his cold lips that threw the Ren’dorei for a loop.

“Why do you stay with me?“ She took another gulp of wine; her glass was becoming half-full in the matter of a couple of minutes.

Why did she stay with him? There was a multitude of reasons, but now that she was put on the spot, she found herself struggling to find the right words. This was surely something she didn’t expect to be asked. “Why you?” she echoed, rhetorically confirming his inquiry; letting her mind digest what was being asked. “W-Well…I…” -

“You’re proven countless times your talent...”

As soon as those words were spoken, Zalra gestured her hand at the man while simultaneously taking another drink. Slow down, girl. “There. Right there. T-That is one of many reasons,” she began, “I have n-not had someone h-have so much confidence and faith in my talents in…fifteen…twenty…years…maybe longer.”

She paused for a moment.

“Back when things…were…right...” Her grip on her wine glass began to tighten as thoughts cascaded in her mind. She managed to fracture the stem superficially and placed the drink down before she actually shattered the thing. Hopefully, Lazarius didn’t inspect his dishes closely.

“And I’m not here for solely your teaching…” she murmured under her breath, “I…I like talking to you…you have this way with words that captivate me. Your ideas, projects…inspiring? I…”

.......continued Part 2........

@zalraazurestar

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