#and now i think about it every time i see knights or inquisitors in anything

[mydogatemymotivation]

And if I said that the Inquisitors were better representation of medieval knights than the Jedi? What then? There's a modern idea that all knights were honorable and chivalrous - and those did exist, certainly - but those standards weren't universal, and for a long time a lot of knights acted more like a protection racket. They were (often) the ones out collecting taxes from poor citizens and working with local law enforcement. They're the reason Robin Hood was written, they were the ones collecting for the Sheriff of Nottingham. Like. ACAB. Sorry. They also had a 'shield tax' (scutage). If knights were rich enough, they could pay their way out of wartime service. A lot of knights were really scummy people, it wasn't all King Arthur's round table. Who do you think was the manpower behind real life inquisition? Inquisition was state-sanctioned tribunals to combat heresy, apostasy, blasphemy, witchcraft, and deviancy.

Being used as an arm of the state's power to punish deviancy and harassing under-privileged villagers under a tyrannical monarch… I'm just saying.

The Jedi fit the more honorable, modern, idea of the knight that we have today - and there's nothing wrong with that. I just think it's interesting that what we think of as knighthood in Star Wars, is almost the opposite of what knighthood was in a lot of places back in the day.

Good knights existed tho! This wasn't universal. Just frequently left out of the conversation around knighthood.

[drenched-in-sunlight]

I contemplated a lot whether to reblog that post because i think most of it was wrong, but the addition is so great and refute pretty much everything while raising some amazing points so if i could reblog only the addition without the original posts i would.

It’s just funny to me how every time i see ppl “here are Marika’s crimes” they list like 50% is what she actually did, and the other 50% are things that either was during Radagon time (when Marika couldn’t even have a proper statue that depict her as being the one in control), done by some other guys, or after she got strung up inside the Erdtree. Y’know, literally impaled and knocked out cold ?

The ritual sword and shield talisman (which depict sword and shield of Crucible Knights too btw) pointed at Radagon’s face to say by his time, all ritual combats in honour of the Erdtree had died out, but in LoS it was maintained and Messmer even had a talisman of Godfrey in his castle. A talisman depicting Godfrey accepting the duty to be his Mother’s Lord. Without wavering.

The ritual combat is just another thing that will remind people of the first Elden Lord’s devotion to his Goddess, which would do Radagon no good. so that, along with the Crucible Knights, gotta go.

All this just show how by Radagon’s time, the Golden Order’s ideal no longer reflects the Erdtree’s - another testament at how far from each other his and Marika’s will have diverged.

Also, i really like the fact that the Zamor and Ice Dragons allied with Marika to fight the Fire Giants who had chased them from their home, because to me that means at the start of her age, Marika was extending her help to people who needed it (with ulterior motives, yes).

Her age wasn’t built in a vacuum. She was a healer Godling with no offensive spells, Messmer’s health just got a bit better, Godfrey with all the implications in SoTe, was probably just a simple bear hunter? What on earth those 3 could even do in a land where the Hornsent royalty reigned supreme?

Go somewhere else, recruit as many people and make as many alliances as they could. I have no doubt the world under the Hornsent was a violent one (hell, it still is now, every time i went into a Gaol i want to go back and smack the Hornsent inquisitors a few more times). And for a new God to appear, and instead of stuffing people into jars, delivering Death, entrapping their followers into watching over some flame for eternity, running away and leaving their Lord to get backstabbed by a tyrant, this new God… healed people? Big shock!

So of course people would flock to Godfrey’s banner, believing in a Goddess that could barely fight, but soothed away all of their pain and sorrow. Sounds fucking familiar isn’t it.

Btw, why do people like to invent a bunch of authority and power for Marika then at the same breath will say whatever her kids do is to… spite her and show kindness to the oppressed?

So she is an all-powerful tyrant that could kill whoever she dislikes, and by some ppl’s standards she dislikes literally everyone in Lands Between (💀), but Godwyn could just befriend a dragon and spread a cult about them within the Capital, Messmer could have an albinauric as his Commander (to command an army that she paid wads of cash to and bless them with her hammer’s power???), Miquella and Malenia could go their merry way and build a whole ass tree castle (where is the fund. Where is the fund) and she couldn’t do anything to stop them? Even though those actions directly affect the strength of her army? What?

I swear i can’t even see other people’s Marika as Marika. Because their Marika sounds dumb as hell and a doormat too. Like what is this???? 💀 do you think i sacrificed my back and wrist to draw Elden Ring characters as beautiful as possible, so they could go be devote to someone like the Marika some of y’all envision? The bar was on the floor for you but not for me.

[gothyanki]

@ardentkurashk tagged me in this meme forever ago (thank you!! <3) Now it is time. Lots of yelling about Vin'ath inbound.

Name: Vin'ath

Age: 31

Race: Githyanki

Class: Paladin (Oath of Vengeance).

Alignment: Trying their hardest to be a Lawful Good True Storybook Knight while also following vengeance oath tenets to the letter. This… does not always work out well.

Deity: Having been raised in a cult, Vin is deeply and understandably suspicious of all gods. They’ve dedicated their life to their oath instead, which is totally different.

Favourite spells: Shield of Faith for practicality; Colour Spray for aesthetics. They also love smiting. Divine Smite is their fave, although they couldn’t tell you why it’s the most satisfying.

Armour (Act 1): Scale Mail of Vengeance.

Armour (Act 2): Adamantine Splint Armour.

Armour (Act 3): Still Adamantine Splint Armour! High paladin fashion.

Favourite dye: Baby blue and gold. They flat-out refused to dye their gear at all until they got to Rivington, where they grudgingly agreed to try it out. The description points to a much more militaristic meaning, but to Vin those colours have come to symbolise the sun and sky over the world they love.

(I have a LOT of feelings about the default vengeance paladin colour scheme in light of “I see only blood-red and death-black”. Vin hasn’t drifted as far from their upbringing as they’d like to think.)

Weapon (Act 1): Monster Slayer Glaive (+ anything else they could grab that looked useful).

Weapon (Act 2): Soulbreaker Greatsword.

Weapon (Act 3): Silver Sword of the Astral Plane. Sorry, Lae'zel - it's just too perfect for a githyanki paladin. (In my headcanon, Lae does end up getting it after some token face-saving resistance from Vin. They’re not comfortable with the idea of wielding a silver sword and don't really want to give up the Soulbreaker - they've still got a lot of complicated feelings about the way they won it and they feel responsible for all those whispering souls.)

Buffs: Ooh, it’s been a while - I’d have to load up the game to see what they’ve got on. Githborn Psionic Weapon? Wielding the Soulbreaker Greatsword feels so right to them (ditto for Voss' silver sword, in the very brief space of time they had it); they’ve thoroughly compartmentalised that feeling so they don’t have to think about Why.

Main love interest: Karlach. It was a bit of a rough road to get there (the touch issue might have been the least of their problems), but now they’re an unstoppable team. To hell first, then onward to the stars!

Favourite NPC(s): Vin’s got a huge soft spot for the tiefling kids, especially Mol. (They’re very protective of children in general, for reasons they won’t admit have anything to do with their own upbringing.) Meeting Varrl and Varsh Ko’kuu gave them some hope in a difficult time, even though the circumstances were painful. They also greatly admire Dame Aylin and Isobel… and kind of see them as #relationshipgoals.

…and then there’s Kith'rak Voss. Yeah, that’s a complicated one.

Favourite enemy: Kith'rak Therezzyn and Inquisitor W'wargasm W'wargaz. There was a LOT of emotional fallout after the adrenaline crash, but for a while there they were riding the high of having faced down two terrifying childhood authority figures and lived (not to mention the staring contest with Vlaakith herself…)

Favourite battle: Gortash. That one was very personal - vengeance paladin mode on full display. (The conversation after it was… significantly harder for them to deal with.) Rescuing Halsin from Orin & co. was a close second - they were just so relieved they’d got there in time.

Favourite dialogue: Is “every single dialogue involving Karlach” cheating? Not just the overtly flirty/romantic ones - Vin would happily listen to her read the Faerûnian phonebook.

Aside from that, they got so much vicarious joy out of hearing Lae'zel reject Vlaakith - they don’t tend to show much emotion, but they may have done a little fist pump at “she has sinned against me!” Also, the conversation where Wyll opened up about the circumstances of his exile - Vin felt very honoured that he trusted them enough to let them see beyond the Blade of Frontiers persona, and it led them to drop their Perfect Paladin walls a little in return.

Decision about the Absolute: Red laser destroy destroy destroy + the Crown returns to Mystra. Unlike Lykos, Vin'ath isn’t tentacle-curious.

I tag anyone who hasn’t already done this (see: forever ago) and wants to!

[dujour13]

Owlcatober 4. Luck

part 3 of The Prodigal Tiefling - also on AO3

(CW dead bodies, human sacrifice)

“Knight-Commander. You haven’t slept in at least forty-eight hours. Now that you brought my wife back safely, I’m officially declaring bedtime.”

“I just have to make sure—”

“About face, soldier.” Anevia seized his shoulders and turned him toward his tent among the trees at the base of Lost Chapel Hill. He almost expected a boot in the backside.

“Fine. Wake me at midday.” Maybe a couple hours’ sleep would prevent him making rash decisions, like running the Hellknight paralictor who’d invited himself along on the crusade out of the camp before he could make another scathing remark.

Scathing remarks that hit too close to home.

The paralictor was right, anyone minimally competent would never have let this happen. The Crusade had been woefully unprepared.

If only he’d deployed more scouts, reinforced camp defenses, put a stop to the drunkenness and gambling, and been more vigilant for traitors, just as the Inquisitors kept warning him to do even as he sent them packing back to Nerosyan.

Yet he had to stay true to his vision. That sleepless night at the Defender’s Heart when the Queen had proposed he take up the banner of the Fifth Crusade, his dreams of igniting the flames of freedom to fight the Abyss felt like divine inspiration, as if Desna Herself breathed hope into his heart so that he could lead this Crusade in a whole new fashion, one never attempted before, like his homeland Andoran a grand experiment in the strength of egalitarianism.

There would be hitches. He’d never deluded himself otherwise. But this was one big hitch, and entirely his fault.

The moment he closed the tent flap behind him his whole body shuddered violently. This was why he didn’t want to sleep, and why he didn’t want to be alone. The last thing he needed was time to think.

The gargoyle disaster. The last-ditch march on the Lost Chapel. Crusaders transformed into ghouls and hung from meathooks. The showdown with Nulkineth. Another surge of power like the one at the Gray Garrison, this one stronger yet, making him feel too big for his body, like his insides were made of pure, boiling stars and magic, like he was an alchemist’s bomb and the glass was cracking. This whole thing was one huge cosmic mistake.

His hand went to the butterfly pendant at his throat. Lady of Dreams. Wake me, tell me this is a nightmare.

He dropped onto his bedroll and shakily tried to remove his soaking boots and socks, until one sock stuck and he didn’t think he had the strength to peel it off his leg and he began to sob.

And the worst of it.

Woljif.

Of course he ran. He had every reason to run. Why did it bother him so much?

The Knight-Commander crumpled onto his bedroll, one wet sock halfway off, crying into the crook of his arm.

Gods, they had to find him, out there alone in the Worldwound. If the gargoyles didn’t get him something else would before long, resourceful as he was, and that would be one more death on Siavash’s conscience he really didn’t need.

The Sellen! I’m sure of it.

Pretty sure.

With the renewed energy of the last dying spark of hope Woljif waded through tall grasses onto the riverbank and began to stagger downstream, boots dragging on glacial gravel. He reckoned Kenabres couldn’t be that far now. Probably. Maybe.

Half-dead from exhaustion he didn’t even see the remains of the campfire until he almost stumbled on it. His feeble heart leapt. Civilization!

The campsite was by no means fresh, but strewn around the ashes were comforting signs actual people had been here, maybe only a day or two ago. They’d pulled bleached logs into a circle around their fire, all cozy-like, and roasted something on whittled sticks that still smelled tantalizingly of grease.

Not far now. Just a little rest and a few more hours’ walk and we’ll be there.

Where? Wherever—a hunters’ lodge or a farm or the temple of an evil god or anything would do at this point. He knew his last dregs of strength would soon run dry.

Knees wobbling, Woljif lowered himself onto one of the logs and then jumped up again in horror as it ceded with a disgusting, foul-smelling sigh under his weight.

A dead body.

Dry-heaving to within an inch of his life he crawled blindly away toward the river.

It was bad. A couple days old, ashen-skinned, bloated and fly-ridden. A human man, stripped to his trousers, his hands bound tightly behind him, and a great, ragged hole carved out of his chest like somebody didn’t quite know how to get to the heart and had to dig around. When he realized the dark patches on the river gravel were blood, their pattern suddenly resolved itself into a sloppy pentagram.

His head spun, his limbs felt like lead, every inch of him hurt. The hunger was a raging animal tearing him up from the inside.

Woljif lay flat on the gravel and moaned at the cursed morning sky overhead.

I’m not gonna make it. This is it. End a’ my miserable, pathetic life. How’s that for tragedy. He died young and poor, tossed on the riverbank like an old rag for nothin’ but crows to find and eat out his eyeballs. Never had time to strike it rich. And just when things were lookin’ up, and he had his legacy and fr—associates and everything.

Tears rolled down Woljif’s temples and soaked into his curls.

And nobody could care less.

As soon as his head hit the folded-up cloak he used as a pillow, all the pent-up anguish exploded into Siavash’s skull, hammering so he thought he’d never be able to sleep. He pressed the heels of his hands to his eyes as if to hold his skull together and played his last resort card: prayer.

Great Dreamer, Song of the Spheres, Lady of Luck.

Help.

All right, I know you’re not going to come down and sort out this whole mess, so I just ask one thing. One little thing is all, though gods know I don’t deserve it. Not for me.

Just make sure Woljif is safe. Please.

The prayer was barely finished before sweet oblivion took him.

Though he’d given up all hope, lying there on the riverbank until Pharasma took pity on him just felt too pathetic even for him. Woljif eventually hauled himself to his aching feet and carried on trudging down the river, mind blank, regret clawing at his heart and the shadow raging in his ears.

It was for sure talking to him for real now.

Unless he’d gone completely off his head, which was more than likely.

Especially because he now thought he could smell nice, crispy roasting meat on the wind. No way that was real.

Or was it?

Had his luck turned? The smell jolted him out of his daze so thoroughly he got his wits back just in time to stop himself from stumbling like a madman into the campsite that he soon located. Instead he laid low, listening in on the morbid conversation around the campfire and plotting his salvation. Some poor sod in mud-stained Iomedean colors languished roped to a tree while the cowled figures around the fire debated how best to go about removing his heart still beating, because surely that would invoke the most powerful of demonic magics, and then they would have it made.

So that’s their game.

Idiots. I can pull this off.

He drew the Moon of the Abyss out from his collar so that it shone in full view, summoned up a good gout of blue flame, and stepped into the circle of firelight with all the semblance of self-assurance he could muster when he felt like he was about to pass out.

“Hail Baphomet.”

[infectedhau]

So there's a new Dragon Age coming out, and as someone who's owned the first three for literal decades at this point without ever touching them, I figured I'd get caught up

My broad thoughts: this is the first time I've seen a franchise go through puberty (disclaimer, I don't actually know anything about the development history of Dragon Age, these are all just my impressions from my mostly blind playthrough. I didn't look up anything story wise, but I did do a little research into builds just to make sure the combat got a fair shake)

Starting Origins, you can clearly see that it wants to be an ARPG, but was realized by a bunch of guys that had only done CRPGs up to that point. You've got these flashy cinematic finishers, a camera that can technically be zoomed out to a more traditional top-down view but prefers to sit over your shoulder, and a tactics menu that basically means you don't have to micro your party at all if you don't want to (maybe you do on higher difficulties, idk, I went through on normal because the thing kept crashing and didn't wanna have to deal with constantly redoing fights). I can feel the Baldur's Gate energy in it, but I can also feel some guy saying "and we want it to be more dramatic and dynamic" while a copy of Dragon's Dogma floats over his shoulder like a stand. Lore-wise, it's a darker, lower-magic setting, which I honestly think works pretty well for it looking the way it does. You've got your occasional crazy armor or fantasy-ass sword, but everything else was pretty grounded, and I definitely got the feeling that I wasn't all that stronger than the enemies, despite being a diet witcher. That being said, it's an older game, so it's pretty easy to break. I played a Blood Mage/Arcane Knight build, and basically every single encounter was solved by stunlocking the entire room to death, which somewhat ruined the immersion of these guys being an actual problem. Maybe if the Templars weren't such dicks about it this would've all been solved sooner.

On to Dragon Age 2, and boy oh boy can you tell this game was made in the early 10s. Everything has gotten spkier and edgier, you've got more impractical armor and weapons, the opening shot is your sister's tits bouncing around as you run through a battlefield, and the game tries to start you as an unremarkable white guy with a goatee and a shitty haircut (I shut that shit down real fast, though I didn't really customize lady Hawke either since from what I understand the customization doesn't carry over). You also see it crawling a bit further towards ARPG territory, now even your auto attacks are flashy and stylish, especially if you're a Rogue, but the bones are still basically the same. You still attack on a timer, you can still click to move, and there's still a pause button. The AI has also improved, I don't think I even looked at the tactics menu and I still got through with minimal difficulty. Also, they retconned a wholeass race, with the Qunari graduating from "humans but bigger" to these cool gray horned dudes. Definitely an improvement, no I am not at all biased, don't look at my Qunari inquisitor lady and my Dranei Death Knight lady and my Au'ra Mahcinist Lady this ain't about her. Also turning the duelist trainer from Origins into a slutty pirate lady was... a choice, but honestly I liked her character, and her, Aveline, and Merrill were my core party members through most of it (still though, put some pants on girl, cmon). This is also where my first actual complaint comes in, that being that they seemed to think the best way to add difficulty was to just swarm you with guys. I don't mind big fights, but having to chew through two or three waves of enemies with every single combat encounter got a bit old by the end.

And now, Inquisition, where we're almost there, it's so close I can taste it. You finally click to attack, you have a jump button, the tactics menu is basically gone, but it's still clinging to its CRPG roots, the pause button haunting your hotbar like a ghost of real-time-with-pause past. I haven't noticed any dramatic changes lore-wise like I did with 2, but they did manage to find some (slightly) more reasonable armor designs and thus far none of my party members are running around half-naked. An overall improvement, and while I'm not done with this one yet I've been enjoying it so far. From what I hear, the new one is finally a proper ARPG, and all I can say is holy hell it took them long enough

[rhonuscorner]

Thank you for the tag! <3

Cullen and my Taerel Lavellan. I was gonna include my Oliver Hawke and Anders as well but I couldn't get them to look right.

So uh, I know I've mentioned I was gonna try a Cullenmance playthrough with Tae about a year ago, because even though I had Iron Bull as his canonical romance (since literal release day) and had just finished a playthrough with them, but I wasn't really feeling that ship anymore. Those who were around on my old DAI blog will remember Tae's old Solavellan days as well, and some might even remember the brief time I had him paired up with Dorian before that.

(Tae's been around lmao).

But yes, that last Iron Bull playthrough was meant to be my finalized canonical playthrough in preparation for DAD but I just... wasn't satisfied with it. I considered giving Cullen a try, prepared a stable modlist for it and then my PC broke and I didn't get around to actually playing DAI again until late last summer... and in hindsight I don't think I actually ever posted screenshots or even talked about it when I finished it because I fell for a pair of silly/murderous robot jesters shortly after.

I'm sitting on a whopping 795 screenshots of that playthrough lol.

I really enjoyed Cullen's romance (somehow I had managed to avoid spoilers for it for all those years so it was quite the treat and had me kick my little feets) and I do consider it canon for Taerel now. What with Tae's own history with templars and the like, they go really well together (plus the romance scenes were so wholesome??? Omg my feels?????).

I also made some chances to the above pic, added the green glow to Tae's eyes, his vallaslin and his custom earring that I actually MODELED and PUT IN THE GAME WHOOOOO. It shows up in every single cutscene, I'm so happy with it. That and his fully custom hair took me TWO WHOLE MONTHS to make and get working in-game but it was totally worth it.

And I'm never doing something like that again lmao. What a pain.

As for song lyrics, I had a hard time finding a song that fits them but I'm going with Globus - Save Me. Cullen's POV involving his lyrium addiction and how he needs the Inquisitor's support to beat it.

So here I am in the corner of a dark room The same way I began alone With these mournful thoughts And a loaded gun in my hand But a foolish part of me Still holds out for a shred of humanity For a queen in a robe Or a knight on a steed Can't you see that I'm just a child on his knees?

Now I'm standing alone in the moment of truth As the judgement's handed down And my feet are scarred from the broken glass Strewn across the ground Then you come to my side And only to you I confide

That I've been battered and shattered and bruised and abused For the very, very last time Won't you help me, just

Save me from fear and pain And love rain on me Save me Save me today Before tomorrow Find me at rest

Tagging... anyone who wants to, I barely know anyone in the Dragon Age community anymore (not that this is limited to Dragon Age or anything).

kissy picrew

Thanks for the tag @theluckywizard!

Rules: make your ship(s) in this adorable picrew, then give me their song. Tag some friends to share too!

Tagging @askweisswolf, @magicmissiled and @sandcastlekings

Naturally Frederick Amell and Morrigan, my sun and stars, my beloveds were the first I had to make. Frederick is bright, hopeful, melancholic, and devastatingly romantic in a tragic poet sense and speaks to the side of Morrigan that lies beyond her endless list of expectations thrust upon her. For their song, honourable mention to Inkpot Gods but I think I need to be basic with this mashup of I Was Made for Loving You / Please Don't Say You Love Me because it feels like a dialogue between them in keeping with her views on love and how they alter over time, along with the impression of what love is that Frederick maintains over the Blight before it deepens into something far more purposeful

Frederick: I was made for loving you / Even though we may be hopeless hearts just passing through / Every bone screaming I don't know what we should do / All I know is darling I was made for loving you Morrigan: Please don't say you love me 'cause I might not say it back / Doesn't mean my heart stops skipping when you look at me like that

Next up, Raynda Lavellan and Cullen Rutherford, the OC who brought me to the DA fandom to begin with! There's a lot of recognition of the self in the other between them, though their experiences are so vastly different. A bit of mutual brokenness and needing to restart and rebuild. One of my favourite songs for them is Someone Who Loves Me by Sara Bareilles

I'm the worst I've ever been / Afraid of almost everything /The skies are clear but storms are always coming / Your gift to me is just to be bracing for the winds I always summon / My home, my heart / Thank God you are someone who loves me

[passable-talent]

anakin skywalker x gn!reader

redeemer: part 4

new chapters every two days at 10 am EST :) until all eight parts are posted

first | previous || next | last

Vader decides that floating beyond the galaxy isn’t getting you anywhere, and sets a course for Daiyu. It’s a city planet, like Coruscant, but the population density is lesser, and more varied. It doesn’t have the levels that Coruscant has, reaching high into the sky but descending deep into the underground. Instead, Daiyu has markets on the streets, and a fairly level skyline of four or five story structures. Between this community of vendors and the trade of both legal and illegal goods, it’s a planet with its thumb on the pulse of the galaxy. 

Vader docks the ship—still unnamed, to your knowledge—and stands from the pilot’s seat. His helmet and cape, in the past few days, migrated off of your seat and onto a switchboard to his left. He hasn’t touched either since they’ve moved, but when you stand, your gaze lingers on them. 

“What are you, to the Empire?” you ask, your back to the viewport and its red and blue neon of the Daiyu skyline. 

“A traitor,” Vader answers, raising his gaze to yours. His eyes are blue, but you know him, now. You know how he starves; how his volcanic soul longs for the pain he’s felt these ten long years to explode outward. 

“Do they know that?” you press, standing tall before Vader in a way that you could never have, before you’d soothed his nightmares. He narrows his eyes and you see rage overtake his face, but he’s not looking at you; his gaze is distant. 

“They will,” he snarls, and you take a step just beyond the copilot seat, hoping to draw him back to the present. 

“You’re being rash,” you tell him softly. “Think strategy. You have the Empire’s resources at your disposal.” Just for a moment, Vader’s eyes widen with something that you think almost looks like fear. 

“The Inquisitors can’t know about my son,” he says. “They’d bring him to the Emperor, and then-”

“They don’t need to know anything,” you interrupt, recognizing your tone for the first time in a decade as a Jedi Knight, General of the Grand Army of the Republic. “You are their superior, are you not?” 

Sometimes you soothe him, comfort him, but not when his battle-blindness is keeping him from seeing sense. He looks at you with, at first, the face of a boy being scolded, but he relaxes into the familiar mask of general and commander, the same as you, as he understands what you’re suggesting. 

“You owe them nothing. As far as they know, you’re only looking for Kenobi.” 

“Which isn’t unusual,” he says, and his gaze drifts to his helmet, tossed aside onto the switchboard. Silence soaks the cockpit for a moment, and something heavy settles in his stomach. You feel it. “They’ll still see me as Darth Vader.” 

“I won’t,” you say, and he doesn't move. “And neither will Luke.” Vader, still focused on his helmet, shocks you with what he says next. 

“I don’t deserve to be anything more than I am.” 

You take another step closer, the space between you shrinking. You understand, suddenly, his hesitation in facing down the Inquisitors, in crawling the streets of Daiyu. He doesn’t know how to be anything other than what he’s been for the past decade, and any courage to break free is being eaten by doubts that he deserves it in the first place. 

“And what are you?”

You expect him to hesitate, to have trouble putting words to the tangled emotions you’ve felt, deep inside his subconscious as he sleeps. You thought he might take a moment, but his answer comes immediately. 

“A beast.” 

Hearing it shocks you. He answered without hesitation, so you know it comes from the very core of what he thinks of himself. Every instinct you have, every fibre of kindness in you jumps to reassure him that he isn’t what he thinks, and yet. . .

Vader is a beast. He’s a genocider and murderer. You’ve seen him decimate families and planets both; you’ve felt his hatred close around your throat and felt his malice roll from his body. You can’t deny it, and you know he can’t, either. There’s no point to empty reassurances that would only rot and reveal lies. 

“Maybe,” you breathe, following his gaze to his helmet. You wonder if he fears the bloodstains that you, too, felt might soak his imperial uniform. “Does that mean you don’t deserve compassion?” 

In the silence of his non-answer, you wonder if he remembers what compassion feels like. He flinches when you bring him rations; he doubted your selfless intentions when you met him. Does he know how to treat it? Did he ever get it? In the temple, he must’ve. . . but how does a man fall so far, if he was given the reassurance he needed?

“I don’t know what happened during the birth of the Empire, I was too far from the core worlds,” you continue, “so I don’t think I can fathom what you went through. But something made you fall.” Bravely, you place a hand on his bicep, and you feel his muscles flinch, but he doesn’t move away. 

“You were dragged to the depths you’ve fallen. And you’re strong enough to drag yourself back, through every trial and test and every demanded retribution for what you’ve done. You deserve them, I know you know that. But you also deserve someone to pull you up, the same that you were pulled down. Or at the very least, wait for you at the top.” 

Over these few days that you’ve spent in this ship with him, he’s slowly adjusting to letting you help him. Is he doubting that anyone else would give him the same chance? Is he doubting that his son would accept him?

“You’re changing for Luke. You’re trying to climb back to who you used to be, for him. When he grows, and learns, he’ll understand that. And until then. . .” You think deep into your past, the slightest glimpses that you have of your parents, the flashes of memory that comprise all you have of your family. You know that Vader had more, once.

“Until then, you’ll be there. You must know how important that is for a child.” 

He still says nothing, so in the silence you glance down at your palm on his arm. Though your nerves can’t register it, you feel nonetheless the solar fire within him. 

“You weren’t born evil, Anakin. No matter who you’ve been, you can be that man again.”

Now, finally, his gaze turns to yours. Your eyes meet, steady, and you hardly blink as you watch him take you in. He takes a breath, and you scarcely hear the way his lungs tremble. 

“I haven’t heard my name in a long time,” he says, softer than you’ve ever heard him speak. You hadn’t even realized you’d said it. “I’d almost forgotten how it sounds.”

He closes his eyes and turns his head from you, but for the first time in the eternity since the ship docked, he moves more than his head. He lifts his hand, the furthest from you, and just for a moment rests his palm overtop the hand you’ve held on his arm. His skin is warm, and though marred with the saber blisters at the base of the third and fourth fingers, soft. His fingers slide over your knuckles as he steps away, swinging his cloak about himself and suiting it to his shoulders, then setting the helmet over his head. He turns back to you, once again the terror that the galaxy knows. 

“Keep your saber visible as we walk,” he says, voice once again modified by his vocoder, “but do not ignite it. If they think you’re an Inquisitor, they won’t question you.” 

“No, wait,” you say, pulling your saber from your waist and looking at it, considering it. “I don’t think I should be at your side.” 

“What?”

“Think about it,” you say, taking a step closer, closing your fist around your saber and lifting it to him as though it proves your point. “The Inquisitors haven’t found him in ten years, we can’t just do what they’ve been doing. We need to somehow get on the inside of what’s been keeping Jedi alive and connected. There has to be something- Kenobi found me somehow.” 

“So what do you think we should do?”

“I need to be a double. . . double. . . agent.” Anakin doesn’t move, but you can almost picture him raising an eyebrow. “I need to look like I’m a Jedi trying to find help. Like I’m being chased by Inquisitors. Then, if there is some sort of underground system that helps Jedi, it’ll open its doors to me.” 

“You’d make a target for yourself,” he says, and you wonder if you would’ve heard concern in his voice, hadn’t he had the vocoder. “What if actual Inquisitors find you?” 

“Then they relinquish me back to you, and we try again,” you say, a smile growing on your face. “It’ll work. Put out an order- tell the Inquisitors to look for me, tell them that you’ve tracked me to this planet. Tell them that I’m connected to Kenobi and that I’m of high priority. It’ll turn heads. I’ll find allies.” 

Anakin still doesn’t move, but eventually you hear him huff. 

“It’s a good plan. I don’t like it, but it’s a good plan.” 

You laugh and clip your saber back to your belt, turning to the door of the cockpit. You take a step beyond it to drop down into the cargo bay, searching quickly for anything that might hide your identity. You couldn’t wear an Empire officer’s uniform, as you had been. No, you need something that looks like a Jedi, trying to blend in. You find a cloak, a medium green, and toss it over your shoulder, looking further for a tunic, and this one you find in a soft blue. You loop a belt around your waist and rub your pants against the wall, hoping to smear them with dust and oil. When you climb up again, and look through the threshold into the lounge, Anakin stands in his suit before two figures projected from the data table. The first, the Grand Inquisitor. The second, your image from the Jedi archives, looking as you did a decade ago, the last time you were sent on a mission in the Clone Wars. Beneath it: your name, and the word WANTED. 

“I’ve followed them to Daiyu,” Anakin says, with the pure authority of Darth Vader. “Join me. I expect their capture shortly after your arrival.” 

“Yes, my lord,” the Grand Inquisitor says, and the transmission cuts. Anakin turns to you.

“Go. If the Empire has any moles, they’ll know of you soon.” You nod, and pull your hood over your head as you turn to the ramp and activate it, flooding the ship with the humid, warm air of Daiyu. You pause at the threshold of the ramp, suddenly filling with cold dread, but it’s not yours, you realize. It belongs to him.

“We’ll see each other again,” you promise him, looking back into the ship’s interior. “We’ll find them.” 

You rush off the ship, and disappear into the crowd.

***

first | previous || next | last

[zephyr-mew]

twitter: @ZyxousMew

fandoms I'm currently love very much

✨Yakuza (mainly Infinite Wealth)✨ Ichi ❤️ Masato 🖤 Zhao 💛 Nishiki ❤️‍🩹 (!!untagged spoilers will be happening!!)

I have SO MANY FEELINGS-- • kiryuichi when • polycule when • dub defender, hearing people actually speak like local boys is wild (it actually feels like here!! ;w;) dub obispo my beloved

fave boys: (I've got love in my heart for most of the boys tbh)

ichi • kiryu • masato • zhao • daigo • ryoma • majima • akiyama • nishiki • yamai • tomi • adachi • shinada • kaito •

fave ships: (I ship most things ngl, this is by no means an exhaustive list)

kiryuichi • masaichi • kiryuichitomi • kiryuichizhao • tomiyamai • nishikiryu • masadai • ichizhaohan • minedai • kirinan • ebisawa • yamaichi • shinakitani • shinadai •

honestly anything yakuza has consumed my soul, so that's uh,, kinda it right now lmao

×

faves of yore

📺 RTVS + Friends 📺

love all of them so much 💜

🌌 Arcana 💚Muriel💚❤️Julian❤️💜Asra💜

mash these boys together in every which way and I'll die happy 💜 also lucio/valerius fucks. unfortunately a simp for devil lucio

Jerma

jerma

Stanley Parable

ultra deluxe reignited my love for this :3 check out the demo, it's a completely separate thing from the main game + absolutely worth playing

Homestar Runner

a formative childhood experience + permanent vocabulary alterer

Jak and Daxter

Jak ✔️ Erol ✔️ Torn ✔️

Hotel Dusk + Last Window

thinkin bout Hyde... and Jeff... and Charles... and Louis... and Tony...

Dan Vs

official episodes are all free on youtube 👀 all my love for this fucked up little dude

Subeta

honestly the best avatar and pet site I've ever seen, hmu @ LyricZephyr for buddy gold account gifts :3 please they're just sitting there uselessly otherwise

Ace Attorney

Apollo best boy ❤️ haven't played anything past 5 tbh, they did my boy dirty and I needed a long break from the fandom

OFMD

izzy meow meow - particularly fond of steddyhands and rizzy

Hotline Miami

×

other things that I have liked at some point under the cut

A Way Out

acab ✌️

Animal Crossing

Kicks is bae, he's the only one who didn't make a Big Fucking Deal of me trying on femme stuff as a guy back in New Leaf

Be My Princess

Roberto my love my life ❤️

Beginner's Guide

Bugsnax

these bitches gay, your honor

Cause of Death

iOS game that shut down in like 2010 ;_; I miss Mal. and Kai. Fun fact, I shipped Mal with Hyde from Hotel Dusk - mainly bc they're both detectives lol. nevermind the fact that they're in different time periods

Créme de la Créme

from Choice Of games - literally writing up a whole rec post for this, there's so many queer options it's great

Dem Salty Bois + Friends

Pat 💜 Wade 🐔 Gar 🐺 JP 🍍 special guest BreadHeroDan 🍞

Dragon Age Origins + 2 + Inquisition

tbh I haven't personally played much, but I watched a lot of my sibling's playthroughs. I've got a soft spot for a lot of these guys. god I wish I didn't have to draw/commission stuff myself to see more of my inquisitor/warden/hawke

Dream Daddy

Damien especially 💜

Fire Emblem Awakening + Fates

admittedly weak for takumi. and a lot of the boys tbh. maaaybe someday I'll play 3H

Gabriel Knight 3

why this. damn my weakness for shitty 90s games and a sassy bitch boy with chaotic bi vibes

Journey

Legend of Dragoon

The Longing

the scronkly bab ;w;

Markiplier

look

Metal Gear Solid 1-3

I haven't played myself, but I grew up watching my sibling play these a lot. Ocelot's stupid hand guns gesture and Raiden slipping on bird shit are forever burned into my brain.

Motorcity

lost before its time

My Little Pony

Braeburn 💛

Osomatsu-san

def a Karamatsu boy 💙

Oxboxtra

Persona 3/4/5/Q

tbh I've only fully finished 3s male mc route and q, the rest I've roughly half finished? I'm aware of 4s major spoiler, somehow never seen 5s I think - but honestly, I don't care about spoilers for this fandom. yusuke best boy

Portal

Professor Layton 1-6

Punch-Out Wii + Super

I don't know why I love these characters as much as I do, but hey

Return of the Obra Dinn

Sam & Max

alas I am not immune to Jergen the goth german vampire and his fucking doorknocker-ass nipple piercings

Sims 2 DS

I like Sims in general, but this particular weirdass game had a stranglehold on me for a hot minute

Smosh

Sorted Food

Stumpt

Tales Runner

Rough... Kai... Ocean... Maki... I forget what they changed their names to in the newest server, they're dumb and I'm not using them

TF2

trucks 👏 n 👏 vans // hmu for my decade-old playlist of sfms and music~

Wild Kratts

stg Chris looks like Apollo Justice, Martin looks like Chris Dan Vs, Zach looks like Dan Dan Vs... what is up with this

Witcher

I'm gay

Wolf Among Us

I just,, really like Bigby okay

~

for any youtube types, hmu for my most likely absurdly long playlists of them ✌️

[hunnybadgerv]

July Writing Prompts: Day 15 - Dead Flowers

Summary: Cullen struggles with his loss.

a/n: July Writing Prompts #15: Dead Flowers. The writing timed itself with this week’s @dadrunkwriting

Dead Flowers

The sweet scent on the breeze teased his senses. Cullen turned and stretched his arm out across the cool sheets. The lack of warmth, the absence of her body, jolted him upright. He stared for a moment at the empty bed, then leaned back on his elbow and searched the room for a trace of her. Falling back against the matress, his head lolled to the left as memory crashed back over him like a wave battering the Storm Coast.

His heart sank, a chill shivering through him as he stared at the wooden cup holding the drooping dry stalks and petalless heads of flowers. He knew by the empty feeling inside him that he’d dreamt about her. The grief, the sense of loss always proved sharper after Aderyn appeared in his dreams. Closing his eyes he tried to will it away, even knowing that the method had yet to actually work he still fruitlessly tried it.

Cullen dug the heels of his hands against his eyes. They shifted with little resistance, lubricated by tears he would not claim. Sitting up, he pressed his fist over his heart as if grinding his knuckles against his sternum could chase away the feeling of the hole her loss opened up in him.

Finally feeling numb again, he pulled on his leathers, then his boots. Gradually and almost automatically, he dressed. He concentrated on every lace, every tie, anything to keep his memory from kicking in. He’d always thought he lived in the moment before, but now, he could not even chance the slightest break in concentration, lest it drag him into darkness he didn’t know how to escape. So, he stayed here.

The schedule of the day ran through his head. Exercises in the yard. Meeting with the advisors and the Inquisitor. Tactics discussion with Rhys. Drinks with Varric. He sighed, pushing his hand through his hair as he tried to think of a way to get out of that particular event. It could only end poorly.

Like most days, since the events of Adamant Fortress, Cullen tried to avoid every little thing that could remind him of her. At the same time, he refused to let go of anything she’d brought into his quarters.

When he returned from breakfast with the intent to prepare for his meeting in the war room, he came upon a young woman tidying up. He’d ignored her at first, then he noticed something was missing from the window sill.

“Where are they?” he barked.

“Pardon,” Meijla said.

“The flowers.” His volume rose with every word. “The wildflower on that window sill. What have you done with them?” he growled like a man possessed. He marched toward her with fury, looming over her even as she scrambled away from him.

“They … the dead ones?” she asked.

“How dare—”

Something wrapped around him, but it didn’t calm his ire.

She cowered against the wall, fearing to look up at him. “They were mouldering. I thought it best.”

“You thought—”

“Cullen!” a voice from far beyond seemed to break through his anger.

“Go!” a strained voice yelled.

The commander growled when the young woman bolted through the door, yelling, “Dead. They’re dead.”

He pressed against whatever held him at bay with a frustrated growl.

“Come on, brother,” Carver grunted. Both he and Ser Barris struggled to wrestle the commander back into the room while Cullen’s gaze stared out the door after the young woman who’d just been sent in to clean up.

When the door slammed shut behind him, Carver glanced over his shoulder to see Varric breathing heavily.

“What the hell is going on up here?” the dwarf asked, clearly irritated.

“Your guess is as good as mine,” Hawke said.

“The flowers,” Barris said, struggling against Cullen’s movement.

“What the hell?” Varric asked.

Getting one hand free, Cullen threw an elbow back and nailed Barris in the temple. “Not dead,” he yelled.

The young knight reeled from the blow and caught himself on the edge of the desk. Cullen grabbed Carver by the collar now that he had more leverage and forced him back a few feet, slamming him into the wall.

Cullen shook with anger. “She’s not …” Cullen stared into Carver’s blue eyes, willing every word in his mouth to be true. “She can’t be.” Carver stopped fighting against Cullen and the commander’s grip loosened equally. “You can feel it can’t you? She’s not dead. She can’t be.”

Carver’s jaw tingled, tears welled in his eye as she stared at the man who had become more than his friend, more than his brother in arms. He wanted more than anything to agree with him. As much as he and Aderyn had gone at each other since childhood, as many times as they had been at odds, he wanted to be able to tell Cullen he was right and be confident in that claim.

“They said she was dead before,” Cullen said, the faltering of his resolve echoing in the trembling of his voice. “And she came back.”

“That was different,” Varric said.

It distracted him enough that Carver could get his arms around Cullen in a tight embrace. “I wish I could say yes. For both of us, I wish she was coming back.”

Cullen tried to push Carver away from him. “You’re wrong.”

“He’s not,” Varric said, with a weakness in his voice that Carver had never heard before.

“You’re wrong. You’re both wrong.” Cullen thrashed in Carver’s grip before he finally just laid all of his weight on the younger man.

“She loved you, fucking stupid templar bastard,” Carver told him with his own voice quivering.

Cullen choked on a sound that might have been akin to a laugh. Carver hoped maybe he was remembering the time he caught up with Cullen in an alley and threatened to unman him if he harmed Aderyn.

“She’s not gone,” he argued, fighting against the logic of Carver and Varric’s words. “I would know.” He managed to push Carver off him to pound his fist against his chest with a dull ringing sound.

“Curly, come on. Even Solas said there’s no way she could have survived that thing.”

“Bullshit,” Cullen pointed sharply at the dwarf. “You damn well know better.”

Varric had seen Aderyn come out of some seriously fucked up situations, and as much as he wanted to see her come strolling out of the Fade with smoke rolling off her robes, he was starting to loose heart. It had been nearly a month. They should have heard something by now. And none of his contacts had even heard a whisper. Though that wasn’t much of a shock—Aderyn knew how to hide as well as he knew how to find things. If there was one person who could stay out of Varric’s circle of influence, it was her.

“I’ve had people looking everywhere,” he yelled back. “You and the kid are the only people who want that to be true more than me. But she’s nowhere.”

Cullen backed into the edge of his desk and stumbled, letting himself crumple to the floor.

“Barris, go get a few bottles of whatever’s strongest,” Carver ordered. The younger man slipped out quickly and with purpose.

Carver crossed the room and sat on one side of Cullen as Varric took up a spot on the commander’s right.

“What was with the flowers?” Carver asked.

Cullen pulled his knees up and cradled his forehead. Eyes closed, he didn’t battle his memory when it called up the memory of her walking in with an arm full of flowers. He’d allowed himself to be distracted by her flitting about, humming, and filling small cups and containers all over his quarter with little fresh pops of color—pinks, yellows, purples, blues, greens. “After she filled everything that could be considered a vessel with little blooms and greenery, she pulled the papers out of my hands and took up residence in my lap. Told me I was working too hard, and that I should give her a tour of Skyhold.”

His mind wandered through that stroll. How she’d kept pulling him into alcoves to steal long, slow, deep kisses. Then in the undercroft, she’d gotten distracted by the dusty tomes, her mind racing with the possibilities of what could be found down there. Cullen had repaid her distraction techniques with great success, and for a moment he wondered if his handprints were still pressed into the dusty coating of that ancient desk. He kept those details to himself, as he stared across the room.

The door opened a moment later and Barris appeared with the Inquisitor in his shadow. Rhys carried two bottles in each hand. He sat near Varric and passed his booty to the others. Barris joined them as well. He didn’t know Aderyn Hawke, but he understood grief. And Cullen and Carver had been his friends for some time. He chose not to partake, but the other men uncorked dark bottles. Varric and Rhys drank deep from the outset. Cullen sipped, and Carver stared into his.

“I wanted to kill you when I found out you were a bloody templar,” Carver told the opening of his bottle before he took a drink.

“Finding out she was a mage was a bit of a shock, too,” Cullen replied.

“Shit! She only told me when we were all but sure we’d die in the Deep Roads. Said she hadn’t said anything all that time because she was sure I’d put you in my next novel,” Varric chided.

“Surprised you didn’t, honestly,” Cullen retorted, taking another sip.

“No one would by it.” Varric leaned against the desk. “And she told me that if I did, I would spend the next ten years wishing she would kill me.”

The others started laughing loudly.

“I knew her well enough by then to know it wasn’t an idle threat,” Varric added. “She was an incredibly creative woman.”

“That she was,” Rhys agreed. He saw that in the Fade.

“You don’t know the half of it,” Carver told him. “Aderyn could be infuriating.”

“Stubborn,” Varric offered.

“Selfless,” Cullen said quietly.

No one else added to the list.

For a long while, they sat there in silence, all remembering Hawke in their own way as they lubricated their grief with the strongest alcohol in Skyhold. Cullen tried not to think about the flowers. Tried not to think about how every inch of his quarters held a memory of her. Tried not to think about the feeling that hung in his chest; the one that told her she was still out there somewhere he couldn’t reach her. That she needed him, and that he couldn’t help her. The least he could do was keep her memory, or so he thought.

But for that moment, he needed to just let go. Feel the pain, lest it explode uncontrollably again.

[anathtsurugi]

So, Star Wars buddies, y’all remember how I wrote that soulmate AU a couple years back...

Well, When You Pry it From My Cold, Dead Chest is finally getting a continuation. The new story will be posted in about a month as part of @kalluzebminibang‘s mini bang event, but the first chapter is available right now on my Patreon. So if you still remember my odd little story, if it touched your life in some way and you’ve maaaaaybe got a few spare dollars lying around for a rainy day, you can hop on over and be one of the first to see the start of the new fic.

But for now, if you haven’t got the spare change but are still excited for the new story, here’s a little sneak peek at the upcoming You Can Take My heart, You Can Take My Breath.

~*~

 Ever since returning from Mandalore, Kanan had been working with him to try and figure out a way to regain his soulmark. Nothing they'd tried had come anywhere close to succeeding. Zeb still possessed amber in his field of vision, and would occasionally report other flashes of color flickering in and out. So it seemed the problem lay not with him, but with Kallus himself.

 These last few days, he had gone out early in the morning to meet with the Jedi, before he had to be on shift and before Kanan would meet up with Ezra for their own regular training. But this was even earlier than he normally woke. He doubted Kanan would even be awake yet. Even so, he would head out, maybe take a little extra time to get into the necessary head space...

 "I know you're not goin' out at this un-Ashla hour," Zeb grumbled from the bunk just as he finished dressing. "Y'should come back to bed."

 Kallus gave a fond sigh as he crossed the few steps back to the bed, dropping to one knee beside it. "I will do no one any good lying here unable to sleep," he said, leaning down to press a kiss to his partner's lips. "Go back to sleep, my love. I'll return in an hour or so."

 "Mm, there's other things we can do if you can't sleep, y'know," Zeb mumbled, voice thick with sleep.

 "Be reasonable, Garazeb," he started with a small laugh. "We can't have sex every time I can't sleep."

 "We could. It's an option. You're just choosing not to."

 Again Alex laughed, placating his lover with one last kiss. "Maybe so, but you at least require sleep, and if you're a good boy and get enough rest, I promise you can kriff me up against the wall when I get back."

 "Promise?" the Lasat grumbled peevishly as he rolled away from him.

 "Promise."

 "Fine. But I'm holdin' you to that. I don't care how late we are for morning shift."

 "Fair enough," Kallus conceded as he got back to his feet.

 "L'ashkerrir an," Zeb mumbled, barely awake.

 Kallus stopped in the doorway at the sound of those words, feeling that same flutter of unbound joy in his heart as he had the very first time Zeb had spoken them. He hoped it never stopped.

 "And I you...my dearest Zeb," he said softly, adoringly, before allowing the door to slide closed behind him.

 Kallus took no weapons with him when he departed the Ghost, despite every instinct he had always begging him to. The very first time they'd gone out into the jungle, Kanan had insisted he wouldn't need any weapons.

 "Are you crazy?" he'd asked, certain the knight hadn't yet been informed about the local fauna. "Do you have any idea what's out there?"

 Kanan had simply given him a shit-eating grin and offered up cryptically, "Only what you take with you."

 Whatever that meant. Still, Kallus had obeyed, and he had not found cause to doubt Kanan yet. This particular morning was no different, if not a touch earlier than even he rose. The sky had barely begun to lighten as he moved through the dense jungle. He'd likely have had trouble finding his way if he didn't already know where he was going. However, much to his surprise, their usual clearing was not deserted when he arrived.

 "Couldn't sleep?" Kanan asked as Kallus stepped into the circle, clearly having been sitting in meditation for some time already. As had been the case on all the mornings prior, he was not wearing his typical mask.

 "I don't know that I've slept properly since Atollon," he admitted, tired of his own stoic front. He had learned quickly that the knight could read him like a holobook. "Though neither, it seems, could you."

 "Call it a hunch," the Jedi said, nodding to indicate he ought to sit down beside him. "Feel up to contemplating your innermost self this fine morning?"

 "As much as one ever is 'up' for such a task," he conceded as he came to sit beside the man he had previously hunted. "Though Zeb did try to argue that it isn't even properly morning yet."

 "And he was right. Unfortunately for those of us with normal biorhythms, the Force says 'jump' when and where it wants to, so we mortals must abide. Let me see your arm," he said, holding out his hand.

 "See, Kanan?" he joked half-heartedly as he rolled up the sleeve of his jacket, resting his forearm in the Jedi's outstretched hand.

 "I can see better than you can right now," Kanan returned in a similar tone, caught somewhere between joking and serious. Exhaling, he brought his other hand up to run his fingers over the skin where the soulmark had once been, and when he winced at whatever it was he was feeling, Kallus was once again grateful not to be able to feel it.

 "Close your eyes," the Jedi told him.

 Kallus did as he was bid, easily quieting the skeptical voice in his mind that had grown smaller and smaller since he'd watched the inquisitor burn away a piece of his soul.

 "Quiet your mind," Kanan coached him.

 Kallus knew the Jedi had not found it easy to convince him to let go of the tight patterns of control Imperial conditioning had worked him into. He still didn't find it easy to just...let go. To give up control of his mind and his thoughts and allow himself to just...be. The closest he came was his state of mind when engaged in a particularly fierce fight ― the sort where he had gone beyond gauging his opponent and plotting his own moves and had simply become lost in the rhythm of the moment...the dance of it. He couldn't say how much time had passed when he became aware of Kanan's voice again.

 "When you first realized Zeb was your soulmate...what did you feel?"

 "Relief," he answered without having to think about it. "Even though I had tried- to give it up...I had feared that my partner had died soon after Lasan. There was something...freeing...in finally hearing those words spoken aloud."

 "But...?"

 "That relief was immediately followed by anger."

 "Because he was your enemy?"

 "Because I was his."

 "What do you mean?"

 "I think I had always known...from the moment I was able to understand the words on my arm...that there would be enmity between my partner and I. The older I became, the more I was prepared to hate myself...for all of it. When the moment finally came...all I had left was anger...hatred...for him, myself...for the galaxy and everyone in it. I tried to tell myself I'd done the only thing I could do..."

 "But you knew different."

 "Deep down...I suppose...yes. I didn't begin to consider the implications of any of it until after Bahryn...and then everything was happening so quickly...and Zeb was forgiving me everything...even if he shouldn't have done. I loved him...so fiercely in those days. I clung to it when I was weak...in my darkest moments..."

 "And then you were captured."

 Kallus gasped, any response he might've had slipping away from him as the memories pierced his awareness, sharp and unforgiving.

 Thrawn's red eyes...his cruel sneer...

 The inquisitor's chilling voice...her molten, scorching touch as she-

 "NO!" he cries out in anguish, struggling to pull back, to turn away from the horror of it.

 "No. Don't run from this. Stand your ground, Fulcrum," the Jedi's voice comes to him again, firm but not unkind, guiding him in the darkness. "We're so close now."

 So Alex let the memory play out, trembling, but not looking away as he relived his worst moment.

 "It- broke me...when that bond was cut," he recounted, his voice unsteady. "I had bled for it...killed for it...in a way, I had died for it...and they took it from me. As easy as peeling off a glove...they stole a part of my heart from me...the part that was good...that was true and worth saving...the part that Zeb loved. They stole it from me," he hissed, feeling the sting of tears as they pushed their way through his closed eyelids.

 "Do you really believe that?" he heard Kanan asking him. "That the part of you that's worth saving is lost?"

 "Yes," he answered, voice still unsteady, but certain. "I don't- doubt his love...but why should someone as wonderful as Garazeb Orrelios...be bound to such a broken creature as this?" He had taken comfort in Zeb's promises...after Atollon...but did he believe himself worthy of them?

 No.

 "That's it, then."

 Inhaling sharply, Kallus suddenly found himself blinking his eyes open in the grey pre-dawn light to find Kanan now sitting in front of him, unseeing eyes gazing rather pointedly into his. Kallus had to resist the urge to pull back from him.

 "I...what?"

 "That's why you haven't been able to regain your soulmark. It's because you aren't certain you deserve to have it...that you don't want Zeb to be tied to you when, in your view, he has the chance to be free."

 "It- would seem so. Yes," he said quietly, achingly, as he let his gaze drop to the small patch of dirt that separated them.

 "Then there isn't anything I can do to help you," Kanan told him, reaching a hand up to grip his shoulder. "Until you know what it is that the two of you share, that bond won't return."

 Kallus inhaled slowly before giving a long sigh and looking up at the Jedi. "I understand. Thank you for everything you've done."

 "Don't give it up for lost yet, Kallus," Kanan scolded him mildly as he climbed to his feet. "Zeb's a stubborn one. He'll help you scrub out that Imperial mindset. You just need to give him a chance to prove himself. Go back to him. You two can probably get in a little extra time before the day gets going."

 "Right. I'll...catch up with you," he said, voice still little more than a whisper. Not watching Kanan go, the only indication he had that the younger man had done so was the quiet sound of his footfalls.

~*~

Interested yet? Wanna see some more? Come check out the full chapter over on Patreon.

[biot08]

Preaching to the choir

*long, long before the events of the ARR, before her adventuring career:*

Rayford Portier was reaching the end of recounting the things that he wished to bring to Ser Vauban’s attention regarding the current state of everything he had felt affected the little fort in Coerthas. There was much; despite the lack of importance of the family’s name, the fort was still a critical outpost in the Dragonsong war, and the patrol routes that left it regularly covered a large area. He had mentioned the need for certain supplies, had brought in letters that would need to be distributed, and the skywatcher’s early reports for the upcoming season. But at last, he found he could finally no longer avoid the news he was not looking forward to relaying. “…and, ah, your father sends word of one last bit of business.”

He did not continue talking. Zoissette had spent much of the meeting busying herself with the watch schedule, her pen scribbling names into slots. She was paying attention, and the break in the flow of Rayford’s speech did not go unnoticed. Her writing slowed as she finished writing one last name for now, and she gently stuck the feathers of her quill into her mouth before slowly looking up with a head tilt. Rayford simply fixed her with a steady gaze. She reached over, and placed the pen back into its ink pot, and she sat up.

“The Inquisition intends to make an appearance at the closing of the next moon.”

The two looked at each other. Zoissette drew a long breath in and then let it out slow. She leaned forward, and clasped her hands tightly together on the desk. She had been at the fort for a bit over five seasons. During that time, she had seen and participated in several skirmishes. She had taken care of her people as best as she was able with the meager budget a lesser house could spare. The fort was important enough to be manned, but not at all glamourous. It was sticks duty. There would be no chance for young up and comings to make their name out here, mostly rebuffing scouting parties. It was a duty that was tolerated as necessary, but not celebrated, and gaining the trust of the soldiers and support staff had required simply showing up and doing the work. No speeches. No lectures. No preaching. Just showing up, and showing that she was simply there to do the job. And certainly no delusions of power (she didn’t have), delusions of holiness (she didn’t feel), nor displays of extravagance (she wouldn’t waste precious resources on).

She could feel it all fraying and coming apart under the heavy hand of the Holy See.

When she spoke, she drew out her words, enunciating fully, as though care of word indicated holiness of intent. “Have they said what cause of heresy they suspect?”

“None, ser. They claim this to be a routine visit. It has been some time since they have come out this way. Apparently, to hear your father retell it, they merely think now to be an opportune time. The astrologians believe this to be a point of a longer lull than usual in the fighting. The Holy See wishes to make an appearance. Do a few interviews. Make sure all is well, and when they find that it is, take the opportunity to… remind the soldiers who they fight for, and what they fight against.”

Rayford’s tone was politely neutral. It always was. A skill he practiced as he lived. Zoissette was pretty sure his idea of raising his voice was inflecting his syllables differently.

“I… see. Well, I doubt they will find anything here,” Zoissette said. There was an unspoken ‘I hope’ there. She was new yet, but not stupid. Heretics, if they were present, would certainly go to pains to keep themselves hidden.

“May I be free with my words, ser?”

“Always, Rayford. Always and particularly now.”

“The men and women will need to be told, but you should be careful with how you handle them in the coming weeks. This will be a delicate time. Many of them have had run ins with the Inquisition over their lives. All of them will have seen the Inquistion’s work at a distance. The work may be necessary, but it is often brutal, and even the most innocent and pious sort of man may see a hollow shadow behind him in the mirror when he hears that the inquisitors will be calling.”

Zoissette buried her face in her hands. “I know.”

~~~

The Sergeant at Arms stood over the practice pit, watching lancers and archers coordinate their attacks on the training dummies at the far end of the area. He was an old hyur, with gray grizzled hair and a scar on half his face. He had lost an ear and his good looks to a dragon early in his career, and like as not would be at the fort supervising others rather than being out on patrol. He did not care for that, but his experience was valuable, and he had the rare enough knack of teaching.

Zoissette liked him. He tolerated her. She knew that, and appreciated it for what it was.

He was now frowning at the news. Zoissette often would just stop in long enough to do turnover with him and then be on her way without getting in his, but this time, she lingered, watching him mull over the news, and wanting to be present should he have something to say about it.

He looked over at her, expression dark, and lowered his voice.

“Do they suspect heresy here, madam?”

She hated being called madam, but she let him get away with it. Again. Good teacher. Rare knack. And he didn’t let the others do it, so a minor loss for a better gain.

“No. Routine visit, they say. Just want to conduct interviews and remind us of our duties.”

The man’s scowl deepened, and he pointed at a pair of trainees that had slowed their advance. Once they were startled back into action, he turned to Zoissette.

“Ill news. Almost be easier if they had announced they had found heretics and were performing their investigation. Then my soldiers would have focus. They would not trust each other for a bit, sure, but I can work with that. As it is, they will be jumping at every shadow, jumping over each other to ‘prove’ their piousness. Discipline’ll improve, sure. Moral, though? It’s going to plummet. The next month is going to be hell.”

Zoissette sighed, and nodded. “I know.”

The two continued to discuss the realities of the situation and how to try to work through it, and then both returned their attention to their respective duties.

~~~

Zoissette was in the fort’s library. The fort was small, but it did have its library, and a reasonable selection of books. She was hoping to find a treatise on pole arm tactics.

Instead, as she turned away from the shelves empty-handed, she found one of the maids standing there, eyes downcast and hands folded in front of her. The woman was obviously in distress.

Odd. Usually the house staff would go to Rayford if they needed something.

“Esmerelda?”

“Y-yes madam. Knight! Knight ser. Ser. Yes, yes ser,” the woman stammered.

“Hey hey hey. Deep breath in, let it out slow, you’re okay, we’re okay.”

“Yes. Of course, ser. Yes ser. Begging your pardon, ser…”

The woman’s voice trailed off, becoming small. Zoissette clasped her hands behind her, and gave the woman her full attention. She suspected.

She was right.

“Ser, do we… do we have heretics, here, ser?”

Zoissette shook her head. “Not that I know. Look, it’s… it’s just a routine visit. Nothing to worry about. They say they just-“

The woman swallowed, hard, and stared at the floor. Zoissette fell silent, to let the woman have space to speak.

“My… my apologies, ser. This is hard for me. I … I am a good and pious woman, ser. I know I have nothing to fear from the Inquisition, ser. I know it. I … I KNOW it, ser. But… I want you to know it too, ser.”

Zoissette inwardly had to admit, that usually Rayford was the bridge between her and the staff, much as the Sergeant at Arms was the bridge between her and the non-noble soldiers. But this woman was clearly in distress, and it fell to her to be present. Zoissette nodded, and put a hand on the maid’s shoulder.

“Of course. I have never had cause to suspect.”

“I… I apologize, ser.. I just… it’s just… I came to House Vauban because I could no longer stand to stay at my previous house, ser. They found… they found heretics among the staff, ser. They… they chose to make an example of them, ser.”

The woman took several deep breaths, steadying her nerves, and then all of a sudden, her expression went dead, and her body seemed to fold in on itself.

“They put them to the sword in the courtyard, ser. I thought several of them my friends, ser. They ended it quickly, thank the Fury for small mercies, but… I am no soldier, ser. I am just house staff. I had seen death before of course. We all have. But this was different. I did not handle it gracefully. In the days and moons afterward, I could not see the courtyard without seeing … them. So I left, ser. Your family was kind enough to take me on, ser. It can be hard for a commoner to find good work if they leave their priors like I did, but yours took me on, and I am grateful, but…”

The woman’s voice trailed off. Zoissette tried a smile she hoped was reassuring and squeezed the maid’s shoulder. The maid looked up at Zoissette’s hand, and reached her own up, to touch it.

“I know I am out of line, ser. And I know the Inquisition is necessary ser. But I cannot forget that day, ser. I am a good and pious woman, I promise ser. I just… I just need you to know that.”

“I know,” said Zoissette.

~~~

“We’ve got a problem,” said Ser Jervoix.

Vauban was a minor house, and the fort was not an important one, but sometimes the other minor houses would pass around their knights, both as a show of mutual support and a way to expand the experience of their officer corps. The fort was not a prestigious outpost, and the work was not exactly easy, but it still had to be done. And that was how Zoissette had come to have another visiting noble who helped her. She had only been there for a season, and would only stay for another. She had been surly at first, but had steadily grown used to the situation, and while she was not a friend, she was at least reasonable to work with. So while Zoissette handled matters closer to the fort, being the face of the family, Gilda Jervoix had been leading patrols and managing the remote camp.

That she had come back early said much. That her first sentence was that said more. Zoissette nodded and gestured to the table nearby. The two sat, and Zoissette poured them both a cup of the customary mulled wine.

“One of our men spooked at the news of the Inquisition coming,” said Gilda. “When he went, several others abandoned their posts also.”

Zoissette groaned. “Heretics after all?”

“I am sure the Inquisition will suspect so, but no. I don’t think so. I spoke with the men. It took some asking around, and a bribe or two, but I learned much. The man who first ran was in a village that had unknowingly harbored heretics. They were apparently sneaking into an abandoned house using a tunnel system of some sort.”

“I think I recall hearing this news from my father. It’s one of those inspiring stories they like to tell. The heretics were found out because they were stealing from the villagers under cover of night. When the villagers investigated, they stumbled upon the heretics’ stash, finding both their stolen items and some draconic artifacts. Rather than handle the situation themselves, they pretended to ignore it. Notified the Inquisition.”

“I heard the same story, right. The Inquisition swept in, burned the heretics, and held the people of the town up as model citizens.”

“I feel like that story must be at least ten years old. What’s that have to do with our missing man?”

“That story is a just a little older than your guess. Older than I remembered, to be honest. Sixteen years ago, it made quite an impression on a certain eight year old who watched the house next to his get burned to the ground… with the people still inside.”

Zoissette sat back in her chair and stared at the ceiling, and groaned.

“As for the others, I think they were already skittish. If a man who was declared such a holy example from his youth feared the inquisition…”

“…what hope could they have. Yeah.”

Gilda looked at her drink.

“I know the work the Inquisition does is necessary. There are those who would tear down Ishgard, and do the same to us, if not worse. But should we not be better than them? Should we not be so… brutal?”

“I know,” said Zoissette.

“More may flee in the coming weeks. Maybe not permanently - I got news from one of the other holdings, in fact, that our man had been spotted on the road -to- Ishgard. I think he was merely hoping to not be here while the Inquisition is. Hard to say. But with him and the others gone… our patrols are thinner now. It’s going to be hard to fill out schedules. Like I said… we’ve got a problem.”

“I know,” Zoissette repeated, feeling a sinking weight in her chest.

~~~

Zoissette greeted the Inquistor at the door with a salute.

“Greetings, with all due respect from House Vauban. It is our privilege to host you at our holdings. Please, come in.”

The inquisitor walked into the fort, looking around, taking stock of his surroundings. He wore a coat, lined thick with sumptuous fabrics. Gold chains littered the outside of it, and various rosaries and other symbols of his holy office. His presence was unmistakeable, and he seemed fit to try to fill the space with himself.

He smiled warmly at Zoissette.

“Ah, Madam Vauban, Ser Knight. Thank you for receiving me.”

“Of course. We have prepared a meal for you, of course, that you may have at your leisure. If you are tired after your journey, our house servant, Rayford Portier, has already prepared a room for you. He is at your disposal for the duration of your stay, as, of course, am I.”

The inquisitor nodded, a faint smile on his face. “Of course, of course. Thank you, Madam Vauban. I trust that you, of course, understand the importance of our work out here. I will need to see your books, of course, so that I can schedule interviews with the people. I do not think I will find anything, but often you can find hidden truths that point, if not at a person, at least elsewhere. Diligence is the price we pay, and we will pay it in full.”

“I know,” said Vauban.

“And it is the hope of the Holy See that the men will find the site of one of us visiting even such a distant outpost will be inspiring. We care for them, after all, one and all. They will surely look upon this as a momentous occasion, as their purity is seen for the truth of itself, and be bolstered by knowing their own holiness demonstrated. Our purpose is for the glory of Ishgard, you know.”

“I know,” said Vauban.

“Good, good. Of course you do. All is well for now, then. I think I shall retire for the evening. I have been traveling all day, and we can start our work early, and fresh, tomorrow morning. This is good work that we will do, Madam Vauban,” the inquisitor said, offering Vauban a smile.

Zoissette returned the smile, but her eyes were cold, and her smile was brittle.

“I know,” she said.

[mirageofthecrystal]

FFxiv 30 Day Writing Challenge - Day 13: Oneirophrenia

Oneirophrenia: A hallucinatory (dream-like) state that is caused by such conditions as prolonged sleep deprivation, sensory isolation, and drug use.

Faiolan stumbled, slipping on the uneven ground and slamming his down onto his knees. The pain hardly bothered him, but his eyes burned, each blink feeling heavier and heavier as he struggled to keep himself conscious. Sleep was a luxury he could ill afford, at least until he reached his destination. He had left behind the snowy highlands of Coerthas, traipsed across the Black Shroud, and had reached the sweltering plains of Thanalan. Ul'dah, a glowing jewel of possibility, was not much further. The freedom of anonymity amongst the crowds was the only protection that could keep the cloying hands of the Holy See at bay, for their influence lessened the further one traveled and the longer one remained lost to their perception. As a consequence, however, Faiolan had not slept in several days. He knew that they were on his heels, prepared to foist further blame upon him for the deaths of those knights, and the Inquisitor as well. The fortuitous arrival of both the snowstorm and the heretics themselves may have saved him from capture, but also lent credence to his complicity with that radical element.

"Run all you like, heretic. Run far and wide across all this world if you wish, but know this: you are ever under the gaze of the Fury, and her faithful shall not give up the chase until they see you punished for your crimes."

Faiolan felt his heart jump into his throat, tearing his blade free from it's scabbard and spinning to face the source of the voice. Yet he saw nothing, save for the rustling of leaves and grass as a gentle breeze blew over the plain. His breath began to slow and settle, and he cursed his imagination for playing tricks on him. Exhaustion was setting in, and this stomach firmly reminded him of his hunger as well, for as long as he lacked sleep he also lacked sustenance. Whatever he could scrounge from his surrounds had been all he could muster. A fire would create smoke, attract beasts or worse. Hunting took time, energy, and equipment he did not have. In any other situation, stealing would have been out of the question, but he was shamed to remember he'd been forced to do so while passing through a small settlement under the cover of night, afraid that if anyone saw him, they'd be able to answer when any of his countrymen came calling.

"So that's it, is it? Given the chance you'd abandon me? You'd abandon our family? What makes you so special? Why am I still the one rotting in a cell, while you get to breathe the fresh air? Am I to take your place in the grave as well, dear brother?"

Another familiar phantom calling to him, and still no one to be seen. He could hardly press on now, though he believed he was drawing closer. To sit and rest for only a moment... he had little choice in the matter. Pulling a waterskin from his belt, he tasted the last drops of water as it ran empty, his throat dry and scratching. He dropped to the ground, back against a tree to stop him from collapsing outright. The world around him was beginning to fade, the ground 'neath him feeling as if it were spinning.

"Hmph. I thought I trained you to be better than this. I suppose you'll always be that weak little boy that they sent my way, won't you little lord? It's no wonder you shamed me, your country, and your family. To think you could ever have served alongside the Heaven's Ward... we were all mistaken about you. I did not want to believe you were a heretic, but now I see the truth."

The third specter spoke with the voice of his mentor, and Faiolan could just make out the silhouette of Sergeant Reynard Belmont shaking his head in shame as he looked upon his former protégé. "No... it's not... it's not what you think. I'm no heretic. The accusations... they're false. I would never... betray Ishgard. I fought alongside you, against Dravanians untold. I almost died for you. You... have to believe me..." Faiolan begged the specter, but his voice was growing hoarser by the moment, to the point where every word was a labor.

"You fought because you had no choice. A little lord like you does what he's told. He does things for the honor of his family, lest they look weak, inferior, or like the traitors they are. Or perhaps... perhaps you're not a liar, but a coward. You saw the might of the dragons, and you believed we had no hope. That if you could not defeat, then perhaps you could join them and be spared. Is that it, Faiolan? Is that why you spit in the face of everything I stood for? Is that why you spit on my grave? And to think I ever saw anything in you... to think I could have ever loved you. Better to be a corpse than to love a traitor."

Reynard was no man, replaced by a woman's form. It was concealed by shadow, but he recognized her voice, the shape of her armor, the lance in her hand. A stray beam of moonlight broke upon her, though he swore it had been day only a moment ago. It set upon her face, and revealed a helmet cracked asunder. Her eyes were the milky white of death, her flesh cold and grey, her jaw torn halfway from her skull, hanging from a last strand of sinew. The moonbeam expanded, revealing a body that had been torn by tooth and claw, bones stabbing through the flesh where they had been broken at unnatural angles. "Traitor." The woman's voice spoke again.

"Traitor," came the second voice. The voice of his sister, Brielle, dressed in the rags of a prisoner, chained to the wall of her cell and awaiting her sentence. "Traitor," spoke the third voice, his disappointed mentor who was growing tired from fighting this long war, and to see his pupil throwing away all that he had learned. "Traitor," finally spoke the first voice again, but rather than disappointment, it spoke with satisfaction. "Heretic," it continued, stepping forward into the light. The robes of the Inquisitor billowed in unseen breezes, his face still shrouded in the dark of the night. "Kinslayer," Blood stained the front of the robes, gurgling from a still open wound. Inquisitor Mariuseaux, with a jagged gash running down the length of his throat, his speech unimpeded by the mortal wound. The voices began to speak together, repeating the words over and over; "Traitor, Heretic, Kinslayer, Murderer... Faiolan."

The shadows of his past encroached upon him, and as the light of the moon above illuminated them, the world around them all grew dark. Faiolan felt weakness settling into his body, as it surrendered to the exhaustion of these many days past. He braced himself for his fate at the hands of those he had wronged... and succumbing to his fatigue, fell unconscious against the tree.

[ask-mortarion-the-death-lord]

some continuation i guess

this time with the emperor

we get the basic rundown, born to human parents, massively gifted, immortal, hidden among humanity and all that. It’s here where his motivation to shepherd humanities psychic awakening is really first brought up [something thats given overall more prominence in the book as well]. a much more interesting note however

now, this probably seems inconspicuous enough at first glance. Indeed even in modern canon 40k’s imperium is first actually created over ten millennia ago. However, take into consideration this little bit earlier in the lore section that i didn’t think to much off at the time

now, taking this into consideration, the implication here is that the age of strife, something that is typically thought to end right before the unification wars in modern 40k lore, is only considered to have ended after the emperor’s internment upon the golden throne, and that further the imperium seems to only officially be a thing upon the that internment. Now this suggests some things to me, two large ones possibly being

a) the unification wars and the great crusade were more so part of the same wider war, ie that the wars ‘only the emperor remembers’ were a large conflict between various warlords to determine who got the rightful rulership of the crumbling pre age of strife human civilization. or

b) the emperor started the age of strife in order to dominate humanity to control and shepherd the psychic awakening he saw humanity stumbling into.

take your pick i guess. food for thought and all that. also

in my earlier post i jumped the gun, the 1st edition emperor is still a punk who needs human souls to survive. Though in this case its not some vague need to bind his soul to the chair or anything, no, its just that he apparently cant eat or drink anything else and hes really god damn hungry and thirsty all the time. Which is hilarious and i almost feel is just a better explanation in general.

to be fair he does look like this 10 millenia later

makes sense he would need to eat unconventionally.

as well, as opposed to specifying 1000 psyker souls a day it just mentions a vague ‘hundreds dying every day’ which is still a lot but also likely less then modern emps eats everyday.

some explanation/emperor wank on why the emperor needs to be fed everyday. not much to say, just that i feel like the implications here atleast lean a bit more towards the emperor being pitiable in his own right as someone so dedicated to this vague future ideal of humanity that hes forsaken most of his own physically and mentally. 

apparently humanity underwent no genetic changes over 38,000 years that werent the direct result of mutation from environmental hazards.

@ lordsofmedrengard  early dark angels lore, here we can see where they got stuck with the moniker of “first legion” from in 30k modern lore, and its cause here in the first 40k book they’re noted as being ‘honored as the first marine chapter’. Guess it was something they felt needed to carry over... I like the copious more amounts of wine in the old dark angels chapter, and they seem a lot more aristocratic here then in modern 40k. Which makes an interesting contrast compared to the barbarian stocks of soldiers mentioned earlier in the book as being preferred for “legiones astartes”

we get some rundowns on the branches of the adeptus terra next, not much particularly new to note outside of them all being part of this larger governmental priesthood. some highlights though

the old school custodes uniforms are in fact the traditional uniform of the custodes in 1st edition. 

custodes wielded ‘lasers built to resemble the traditional and symbolic guardian spear’ whatever the fuck that means

tech priests and the adeptus mechanicus were monastic monks who primarily lived on earth and didn’t stick metal parts into and all over their bodies. they were consequently much more boring as the echlissiarchies IT department.

arbites basically doubled in the sisters of battle’s role as the militant branch of the state religion.

arbites fashion choices and the arbites acting in a similar manner of chaplains as well really.

the more voluntary nature of the astronomican in the first edition, the trainees learn how to safely let the battery drain them but it still seems to be a demanding job with a high fatality rate

they also share monastic tendencies and a uniform with the mechanicus, though theres is a fashionable blue.

included the entire bit on the administratum cause honestly, i find it incredibly fascinating. The parallels are certainly there between modern and 1st edition administratum, but i feel how its presented here just has more teeth and intrest to it. That is to say, its not just the ‘oh what fate, administration has become even more horrid, tedious and soul draining in this grim dark future, woe be us!’ that tends to get tossed around when mocking administration. Instead its a literal organization of religious monks dedicated to tax filings, school administration, rezoning and what have you. Blessed be the regulations and all that. Is there small cults dedicated to paper clip gods? what holy rites are involved when faxing documents compared to when faxing fourms? This is shit i want to know more about.

all adeptus terra adepts carry a knife and are likely legally allowed to shiv you here as well incidentally. 

the inquisitors are mostly the same, though with no mention of chaos whatsoever. less sub divisions from the looks of it too. this bit did catch my attention though.

psychic powers seemed to be a hell of a lot more common among inquisitors back then as well.

quirky inquisitors, who’d have thunk it. [its not that surprising, i just like that they took the time to mention it is all]

don’t know wtf is going on here though, especially as to whats going on with dudes armour on the left. looks like a knight crossed with an oven.

we get the usual spiel of psyker background, but then we get some interesting differences in opinions here on psykers compared to modern 40k imperium. How justified or not it is, is up to you but its definitely a shift in tone i would say.

possibly the proto servitor narrative wise? As said, 1st edition 40k readily uses robots, so servitors would be unnecessary. technomats on the other hand fall between that as menials who likely operate these things but dont full on replace them like servitors eventually will.

astropaths are basically the same, though the 90% statistic im not sure if it holds over to modern 40k. im thinkin likely but i could be wrong.

navigators outside of not ubiquitously having the third eye mutation also seem to have much more personal freedom and respect in imperial society in 1st edition. probably pretty comfy to be a navigator back then really. Aside from that, navigator families are still a thing.

space marine time!

well we get the same ‘feral world recruits as warrior god soldiers’ sortta stuff, it is mentioned and stressed that hive world criminals apparently make better stock in terms of raw aggression. Entire gangs will even be rounded up for the purpose of making new space marines.

the early process to create a space marine. no special organs, but bio-chem and the black [plastic?] carapace were there from the start, and hypno indoctrination is alluded to. Apparently this is still barely controlled chaos though. [and on a personal note, nothing that indicates it was male exclusive either, outside of general attitudes of the 1980′s]

early organization graph of a space marine chapter.

chapter markings and armour

AND THE POSSIBLITY OF SPACE MARINE BAGPIPES, WHERE ARE THEY GW WHERES MY SPACE MARINE BAGPIPERS!

iron hands apparently only had the one iron hand?

list of chapter symbols with names and colours, these keep appearing in the book. seems i was wrong on only the imperial fist symbol, its actually the crimson fists chapter symbol so thats 3 of the modern big 9 that didn’t exist back then.

we get a break down on the typical structure of a fortress monastery for space marines next, using the space wolves funnily enough who were far more normal as it were in 1st edition [and also their home world was lucan isntead]. and its got a lot, and well its all fairly interesting ill just shotgun blast some highlights

that the space wolves had an entire fuckin ship hanging in their great hall i find endlessly amusing, so thats why its there. the rest are interesting in terms of the domestic situation of space marines.

[blarrghe]

ooo could you do “Can we make cake? I like cake.”

@midnightprelude also sent me this prompt, approximately a year ago now lol, and I've been dwelling on it for sooo long. Anyway I just woke up and decided to fill this very cute prompt with some Lavellan Fam and I think there’s a sequel brewing. ft. @serphena ‘s Theo and Kiara! -- Taren used to be good with kids. He used to spend his weekend mornings teaching the children of the clan traditional dances, he used to light up holiday nights with bursts of magic whisps that made them ooh and ahh, he used to tell the littlest ones, the scared ones whose parents were away, or just gone, the same old stories that had been told to him, when he'd needed them. In his heart of hearts, he always wanted kids. A family. A home. He never really talked about that. He still never really talks about that.

There are five kids at Skyhold. Five is nothing compared to the number of scampering, laughing, rambunctious children he used to sometimes be put in charge of supervising as a First, back when Keeper Deshanna thought he’d needed practice at responsible. He isn’t in charge of supervising any of the children in the fortress. He’s had more than enough practice at responsible. But they’re well taken care of, the children of this strange new clan. The baker’s daughter has her mother still, the merchant’s three children come and go, and Kiara... Kiara is just like her father, independent. And when she isn’t being independent, she’s stuck to the legs of Theo, and when Theo is away, Cassandra. He tries not to be offended by the fact that his brother’s daughter doesn’t seem to like him very much. If he were her, he wouldn’t either.

It’s a good thing, really, that there are other people to supervise the children. The Inquisitor has enough on his plate without having to worry about things like mediating fights over building blocks or soothing nightmares, and in this chaotic world with it’s green, gaping sky filled with literal demons, there have been a lot of nightmares. Now, he is the story parents tell their children when the bad dreams come at night: the Inquisitor will fix it. He has a magic hand and he’ll heal the whole sky, patch it right up.

He tries not to hear the stories, but his brother’s daughter looks at him like he’s one part mythic hero, one part imminent threat to everything she has ever loved.

She’s no stranger to danger, even though she’s barely five. Theo told him about how they used to live, running from place to place, threat to threat. Even with the gaping green hole in the sky, this is better. Skyhold feels safe. Sometimes, Skyhold feels like the only safe place in the world.

Which is why she doesn’t like Taren very much. Because every so often, when the gaping green hole is being particularly nasty, spitting out its demons and smaller tears of awful and green into the world, Taren sends her papa away. Really, Theo volunteers to go. Taren never asked for his help, he just showed up and offered it. He’s always been the kind of person who could never just stand by, they have that in common. And by the looks of things so will Kiara, one day, but right now she just misses her papa, and worries about the demons she knows are out there, and looks at Taren like he’s responsible.

And he can’t blame her. He is.

Which makes being put in charge of supervising her while both Cassandra and Theo are away exceedingly difficult. He volunteered to do it, of course. Promised Theo it would be fine, fun, even. Reminded him of how good he has always been with kids, told him he’d be grateful for the opportunity to get to know his little niece. And now she’s huffing at his every suggestion, and running away from him when he offers her dinner at the end of the long days, and hiding in her room with a doll Krem made her while refusing bedtime stories at night. Krem, who is a great, scary mercenary from a band of great, scary mercenaries, who lives in the tavern making lewd jokes and telling gory stories with Bull, is better loved by Skyhold’s children, by his own brother’s child, than he is.

Of course, he understands it. If he was a child, he’d like Krem better too. Krem makes little nug dolls with wings on them, and it’s hard to compete with that.

Still, it’s not just a jealousy thing. It’s not just a want of family or a desire to see enthusiastic appreciation for his skills at story-telling and whisp-making again. It’s not even just that he’s missed so much of his brother’s life, that he found out about Kiara when she was already four years old, and that Theo’s story about that life they had on the run sank into his heart cold. Those are all good reasons to feel a sense of determination about this, to want to prove that he is a fun, funny, warm and welcoming uncle. To want to be there for her even when her papa can’t be. To want to be considered as family. But it’s more than just love, he’ll love his brother’s child even if she does nothing but throw tantrums and slam doors the entire time Theo is away. What he really wants, selfishly, is a break.

He still knows how to make colourful whisps, but it’s been years since anyone’s needed his magic to do anything other than hurt. He still knows all the old stories, but it’s been years since anyone wanted to talk about Elvhenan as anything other than a puzzle to solve. He still knows the traditional dances, but the only dancing he’s done in years took him in stiff steps over marble floors, analyzing the threats hidden behind glittering masks, until finally, at the end of the night, someone tried to kill him. He’s just tired. He just wants to have some fun. 

So he decides, after four days of enduring a five-year-old’s brooding, that today they will have fun, whether Kiara wants to or not. They clearly both need it.

“Hey Kiara Kiddo,” he calls out to her where she’s picking dandelions from the courtyard green. She looks up at him with a sour expression, but she doesn’t get up or abandon the chain of flowers she’s connecting, which is a promising start. He sits next to her on the grass.

“Why do you always call me Kiara Kiddo?” she asks, stubborn, huffy, eyes narrowing to a squint. She doesn’t have Theo’s distinctive eye colours -- one blue, one green -- hers come from someone neither of them have ever met, and they’re deep and endlessly brown, but they squint just like her father’s. Taren leans back in the grass, and squints back at her.

“Because you’re a kiddo,” he says, “and it starts with the same letter.”

“I’m not a kiddo!” she huffs, “I’m a knight! Like Cassandra!”

Taren stifles a chuckle. Yesterday, she proved her skill with a practice sword by hitting him with it when he tried to tell her it was bedtime, which wasn’t very knightly, but her sword skills are rather good for a five year old, and now he has a bruise on his knee.

“Ok,” he says, “I’m sorry, Knight Kiara. That starts with the same letter too.”

Kiara considers this for a moment. “No it doesn’t.” she determines, “Knight starts with ‘nnnn’.”

“There’s a ‘K’ there first, you just don’t say it aloud.” Taren explains, “do you want help with your crown, Knight Kiara?”

“No.” she says, as she returns her attention to the linkage of yellow flowers, “why are there so many letters you don’t say?”

“What do you mean?”

“Laugh has a ‘guh’ at the end you don’t say, and know has a ‘K’ before the ‘nnn’ too.” she says, squinting down at her chain, “and Uncle Dori says that lots of big words sound smaller once you learn them.” Dorian is teaching Kiara to read. Dorian, who is probably the last person anyone would ever expect to even go near a child, never mind being the one to tell one stories, has earned himself a nickname and several flower crowns. Taren is head-over-heels in love with Dorian, though neither of them has said as much, and seeing him with a flower crown on his head about stopped his heart, the first time. But that doesn’t keep the jealousy from rising in his throat right now, when Dorian gets to be “Uncle” and he’s still spending his days feeling like he’s more title than person. More title than person to everyone, not just to Kiara, but not getting to be anyone’s uncle, that’s where it stings the most.

But if Kiara wants to be a knight, then he can be the all-important Inquisitor.

“He’s right about that,” Taren agrees, “do you want to go find a story about knights? I can help you read it.”

“No.” says Kiara.

“Or you could teach me sword fighting,” he suggests. Kiara simply shakes her head.

Taren is determined. He has an arsenal of kid-friendly activities at the ready to suggest. Colouring and stories and games and imaginative adventures they could go on around Skyhold, since he holds all the keys. She could sit up in his throne or they could visit Leliana’s birds, they could steal Cullen’s chess board or borrow Solas’ paints. He suggests a few of these things, and Kiara continues to say no, and squint at the grass.

Taren sighs. “Well I don’t know, Knight Kiara, what should we do?”

“Nothing.” she says.

Taren frowns. “That doesn’t sound like much fun,” he picks a few dandelions of his own, and fiddles with their stems, “I told your papa that me and you would have lots of fun while he’s gone,” he tries, “what are we going to tell him when he comes back?”

Kiara looks at him, fire in her warm brown eyes. “I don’t want to play with you until papa comes back. I just want papa to come back.”

“I know, kiddo.”

Her frown deepens, her eyes blaze.

“Sorry, knight,” Taren sighs again, “he’ll come back soon.” he promises.

“Why did you make him go?”

“I --” Taren pauses. His defence is not what Kiara wants to hear, not what she needs to hear. She’s already asked that question of him a hundred times, and she knows what his answer is. She asked Theo the same question a hundred times before he left, too, and Theo’s answer was the same. “I miss him too.” he says instead, “I’m worried about him too.”

“Then why don’t you make him come back.” it doesn’t sound anything like a question.

“I can’t,” he says, and it’s an honest answer, then he smiles, “no one can ever make your papa do anything, and no one will be able to stop him coming back to you.” that’s true too, mostly. Kiara is silent, she picks at the petals of one of her flowers.

“Do you want to see where he went?” Taren offers. She’s seen the maps before, Theo outlined the whole route and showed her the maps he’d be taking with him, and she’s gone over all the place names so many times that now she can recite them from memory, but sometimes it helps. “We can go look at the big map in the war room,” Taren offers, knowing she’s always been curious about what goes on in there, “or we can climb to the tallest tower of the castle and look out, if we face the right way and look really hard, we might see their fires.” That’s less true. Some scout fires can be seen from Skyhold’s peaks at night, but none of those are where Theo is. 

Kiara considers, then she shakes her head.

“We could write him a letter,” Taren offers next, “and take it to Leliana’s birds.” That helps too. He knew it would, so he suggested it to Dorian, and now they do that almost every day. Kiara gives him a startled look, like she’s surprised that he knows about the power of writing an absent parent letters, but then she shakes her head again.

The stem of one of Kiara’s flowers snaps when she tries to tie it, and she drops the whole thing with a disappointed groan. Taren picks it up. “Here,” he says, delicately taking the thing from the ground and waving a hand over its broken end until the stem grows out. He magics them together, pulls on the fade until it the stem is long and sturdy and then gives it reinforcing vines of magically grown plant matter to bind it, tying the whole thing together, “all better, see?” It’s an easy thing to do, sprouting a bit of green. Easier than calling on the spirits of the dead to fight after they fall, or summoning a rift he still doesn’t really understand to isolate his enemies, much easier than flinging bolts of electricity or even putting up a barrier. Kiara’s eyes go wide while she watches him.

“Do you have green magic because of your green hand?” she asks, for the moment more curious than she is upset with him, which is something.

“No,” he answers, “well I do, but not that kind of green magic. That’s a trick our Keeper taught me, when me and your papa were both young.”

“Papa can’t do magic.” Kiara frowns, “you have two kinds but all papa has is a bow.”

“Your papa doesn’t need magic,” Taren says, but Kiara looks unconvinced, “we learned together, you know, your papa with his bow while I was learning magic, and every time we fought he’d win.”

“Why did you fight?”

“Just for fun, just for practice. Like you and Cass.” he says, “we used to have fun together all the time, me and your papa.”

Kiara looks at him, her big brown eyes taking in his face, on which he’s projected an honest, if somewhat sad, smile. Then her eyes travel down to the flower chain, to the hand he waved over it and then to the hand he didn’t, that glows green.

“Papa won?“

“Always.” Taren says, “I don’t think even The Iron Bull could beat him.”

Kiara nods seriously.

“Did your papa ever tell you about when he was little?”

Kiara shrugs, “papa didn’t have a mama either, and he didn’t even have a papa, but you took care of him. That’s why I have to listen to you while he’s gone.” she recites, not like she knows it, but like she’s been told. Taren frowns.

“We had each other,” he says, “we had the whole clan, like a big, big family, but...” he pauses. He doesn’t want to make her sadder than she already is, “I didn’t have a mama or a papa either, so we took care of each other.”

“Were you sad?” her eyes travel back down to the ground, and she picks up the crown again, admiring the mended flower stem; it’s seamless. 

“Sometimes,” Taren shrugs, “we both were, sometimes.”

“Did you help papa when he was sad?”

“Of course.”

“How?”

Taren thinks. Stories, games, helping to get them into mischief some days and to keep Theo out of trouble on others.

“Once, we got some cake from a merchant, and ate so much we got sick.” he suggests, “and I did this, and told him stories,” Taren waves his hand, the ordinary one, up into the air, and colourful whisps begin to dance about. Kiara watches a blue one flit around her flower crown, and a corner of her lip almost makes it up to a smile.

“Can we make cake?” she asks, “I like cake.”

“Good idea, Knight Kiara,” Taren smiles, “but I bet to make a cake we’ll need supplies. Are you ready for your first quest?”

Kiara smiles a little more, and nods. “Here,” she says, offering the flower crown she’s just finished out to him, “if I am the knight then you have to be the princess.”

“Got it,” Taren agrees, and places the crown on his head.

[allycryz]

WOL Challenge #3: You

[Prompt List Here]

[Filled Prompt List Here]

Haurchefant x Nerys, set immediately after Ardent [Ao3 Link]

Heavensward, right after Inquisition trial and before “Keeping the Flame Alive”

Rating: T for off-screen sex, sex talk

~*This is 2K words, most of it is fluff and I revel in it*~

The Fortemps library is a grand one. Haurchefant is not certain how it compares–he has only been in Haillenarte's with Francel–but imagines it is the finest in Ishgard. His father is a man of letters, a true believer in the power of words. And one who expected his sons to follow suit.

His education differed greatly from his brothers’ the day he became a knight’s page. Even still, his lord father sent him monthly parcels of books. He was expected to read them all and send detailed reports on the contents. Had he ever kept up his thaumaturgy studies, he would have been hard-pressed to find the time.

As it was, he’d stayed up often to fit in the poetry and novels not on the list. Count Edmont was a modern man and his syllabus reflected this–vetted popular authors and poets made it into the parcels. Never in the quantity Haurchefant would have liked. And never some of the one-gil books he bought in The Pillars.

When he was a boy, there were songs for sale about body functions and noises; exaggerated tales of heroes fighting all manner of beasts and foes. As a youth, these became long, violent epics of battles and bravery. As a young man: lurid poems and explicit romance novels. Some as grand and sweeping as the classical romances his Father promoted. Some were not.

He has managed to introduce some contemporary poets into the collection. Not all. Edmont’s tastes in poetry run more traditional. Some of the rising stars of the field are roundly rejected.

Haurchefant is working on that.

Today, he feels romantic in both classic and literal senses. And as his Father has ordered him to stay for a day and night, indulging in a novel sounds just the thing.  It seems that getting trapped in a blizzard–even if things had gone fine, more than fine–means your noble father turns to such decrees.

At least, that is what it means now they are growing close, as they never had been. Another miracle Nerys has wrought with her coming. And as Haurchefant has full faith in Corentiaux and the rest...he allows himself to be thus ordered. 

Someone else is in the library. He can sense it soon as he enters. A soldier learns to tell when others are near, even in safe environs such as this. Haurchefant softens his footfalls, peering about the shelves. There, in the alcove reserved for study, he finds the source of today’s romantic mood.

Nerys looks up, eyes turning soft. His heart swells in his chest, his mouth cannot help but smile. It’s unstoppable and he does not ever want it to cease. Was it really only yesterday? That she told me my love was returned?

It seems a dream now, albeit the sweetest one he has ever had.

Her hands sweep at the papers she has laid out, pulling them into a stack. Flips over the one on top. “Hello.”

“Hello, my dear.” How nice to call her that. “I thought you were on a shopping expedition with Emmanellain?”

“I was.” She touches her neckline. So caught up in her eyes, he hadn’t noticed the gown she wore.

Scarlet as the unicorn on his shield, set off with dangling garnets in her ears. The heart-shaped neckline shows off her elegant neck and collar bones. The sleeves are slashed to reveal white fabric beneath and the cuffs have delicate pearls. “I found this. For when I’m here at the manor and not about to fight Inquisitors or dragons.”

“You are breathtaking in it.” He circles the table to take her hand. Bows over it before pressing his mouth to her knuckles. Etiquette demands he should kiss the air above it but surely exceptions are made for lovers. 

She is my lover now, he thinks in wonder. Her cheeks stain with a fetching indigo shade. “My lord is kind.”

Haurchefant drops to one knee before his lady and turns her hand. Her palm is just as lovely to kiss. “Your lord means everything he says. But if you require further proof of my ardor…”

Nerys darts a glance about before tilting up his chin. Her kiss is sweet and soft and not a little heated. Would that he might lay her upon the table in this temple of learning and know her better.

Alas, Nerys has asked for discretion. Time to better acquaint themselves as lovers before declaring themselves. They are still friends–always will be, if he has anything to do with it–but this dynamic is new and strange. Haurchefant can understand why the most public figure in Eorzea might want some measure of privacy. 

Though, he reflects as he parts from her. Half the fun would be keeping quiet and avoiding discovery.

“I know that look,” she says. “You’re thinking of something lascivious.”

“When I had this look before I confessed, what did you think it meant?”

“The same,” she admits. “But that your love of innuendo was good-natured teasing.”

He heaves a sigh. Either he is not as obvious as Estinien always accuses him or she’d been in deep, deep denial. “Dearest love, how-”

The library doors bang open and the culprit whistles as he walks inside. Haurchefant rises, knowing exactly who it is before he comes into view.

“Old Girl! Old Man!” Emmanellain grins. “You didn’t tell me we were having a party in the library.”

“Impetuous Youth,” Haurchefant shoots back. “What if one of us was deep in study?”

“Oh I don’t deal in ‘what-ifs’. You two are having a conversation, not studying; ergo all is well.” 

“He has a point. I think,” says Nerys. “By the by, if Haurchefant is ‘Old Man’, what do you call your eldest brother?”

The two men exchange looks. Smile. Say in unison, “Artoirel.”

Nerys groans and flaps both hands at them in dismissal. “Go fetch whatever you two were looking for. I am actually working on something.”

“Am I to be banished for my baby brother’s crimes?” Haurchefant presses a hand to his heart. “Mistress Eluned, you wound me.”

“If I must be quiet and meek like a mouse, so must you. After all, I am the true leader of our brotherly trio.”

“You are right of course. I could never compare to you.” Haurchefant shakes his head. “Very well, Impetuous Youth. As mice scurry to cheese, let us go to the books we seek.”

“Ordered to seek,” Emmanellian mutters. “I’m to review Ymbelet’s Theorem of Command and deliver a report. As if we hadn’t put our schooling well behind us.”

Haurchefant does his best to soothe his brother. They quiet down at last: the younger man taking his volume off to his chambers, the elder settling into an armchair within eyesight of Nerys. (Far enough away that she may stop hiding her work.)

His novel is a work of popular fiction he’d garnered approval to stock here. No erotic scenes, but romantic enough. Should he ever get his eyes to stay on the page.

Alas, the white-haired sorcerer-king and his beloved princess and his soul-eating sword are no match for the Warrior of Light. The curve of her cheek. The braided coronet of purple and white hair, crowning her while the rest of her curls are a lovely raiment over her shoulders. The quirk to her dark, sweet lips.

She lifts those golden eyes, meeting him. If he were not already lovestruck and bedazzled, that gaze would ensnare him. He smiles and lifts his shoulders in a helpless shrug. Haurchefant isn’t sorry for lingering before a sunset; and that natural wonder is naught in comparison.

“My lord,” says Nerys, her voice carrying. “May I help you?”

“Nay, Mistress.” He shakes his head. “Simply exist as you are and I am satisfied.”

That is when Alphinaud bursts in, looking drawn and pale. If Haurchefant is annoyed at another interruption, that vanishes at the sight. He jumps to his feet. “My lad! Are you alright?”

The youth shakes his head. “Nerys. Tataru has grave news about General Aldynn. We must be off at once.”

She rises, hurrying over in a rush of white and red silk. In an instant she has changed from playfulness to resolute determination. Always ready to become The Warrior, his Nerys. 

“Do you require anything?” He asks them. “You know my sword is yours, as is any resource at our disposal.”

Alphnaud shakes his head. “No one must see us enter Thanalan or leave. As soon as we cross back into Coerthas, we’ll send word.”

“I thank you. If you needs must bring the General somewhere safe, Camp Dragonhead’s doors are open to you.” If he must return to his command rather than fight at her side, at least he might be of some use to her. He loves–truly loves–his role but lately, his dearest wish is to be a shield at her back and a sword in her arsenal.

Ah, well, even Sorcerer-Kings do not get all they want. Why should he?

He dips into a sweeping bow to them both. Alphinaud returns it before rushing out, every emotion writ upon his usually perfect diplomat’s mask. Should the General die, the youth will carry it as he does everything else that occurred with the Braves. Haurchefant sends a prayer to Halone, asking for mercy on him.

Nerys takes his hand. Squeezes it. He squeezes it back. She smiles before picking up her skirts and rushing afterward.

It proves impossible to focus after that, even more than before. For a moment he entertains armoring up and following. This isn’t Dragonhead and so none of the knights with orders to keep him safe are here. (That time with Iceheart, Corentiaux had actually sat upon him.)

But they have asked he stay behind. So he will.

Haurchefant can take care of Nerys’ papers for her. He means to pointedly not look at the contents. He truly does. But he sees a piece of paper with his name on top, another with his last name, and his resolve crumbles.

The first piece of paper is titled “Minako” in large, neat letters. Beneath are names like Mamoru, Umino, Motoki. Her Yellow Chocobo is named Minako. Therefore, this is for…

The next sheet of paper confirms his suspicions. Under the heading “Black Chocobo” are the names Endymion, Starlight, Twilight, Onyx. Below that, a subheading “Elegance” with virtue monikers: Noble, Dignity, Charming.

And so, when he arrives to the last three papers (titled “Haurchefant”, “Greystone”, and “Fortemps”), he cannot contain his joy. The little note scribbled atop “Haurchefant” tickles him further. He gave you the Chocobo and you adore him. Will he be offended? He might be offended. 

Haurchefant is certainly not offended. 

He delights in the candidates, even some of the ones she crossed out. Sadly, there is no option for “Haurchefant” or “Haurchefant II.” I suppose that might get confusing.

Grinning, he picks up her leather folio and tucks her work inside. Hopefully, she will forgive his snooping because he has some ideas about this.

--

The Lord Commander’s bed at Camp Dragonhead may be the most comfortable place in Eorzea.

Nerys should get up to clean, brush her teeth, all the little nighttime rituals. But she is so pleasantly exhausted and the blankets are so soft and warm. She stretches, luxuriating in the feel of them against her skin. It has been a harrowing few days since her abrupt departure from Ishgard. But all is well and now, she feels nothing but comfort.

The bed could be warmer with her companion. But then she wouldn’t get to see his bare bottom as he slips into the bathroom. Halone must adore him to bless him with such a lovely rear.

“My love,” he calls after a while. “I have a confession to make.”

“Oh? Should I be worried?”

“I hope not.” He returns with a washcloth, his black silk robe barely closed against the cold. The fireplace sends flickers of light across his sculpted chest.  “I may be overstepping but...I must say that I truly adore the name Grey. Though Tempsy is charming. Also, may I suggest Haurchon?”

What does he...oh. Oh! Nerys groans and buries her face in a pillow. She had been in such haste to rescue Raubahn–rightfully so!–that she had left all her papers there. All face up, all in the open.

The mattress dips as Haurchefant sits beside her. One hand strokes her hair, gentle and sweet. “I should not have pried but Nerys–my dearest one–I am utterly and truly touched by the idea. Though of course, if you pick a different name I will not be offended.”

“I only...well, I wouldn’t have him if not for you,” she mutters into the pillow, heat filling her face. “And if not for him, we wouldn’t have been in Coerthas that day.”

“So we owe him a great honor, for bringing us together at last.” His lips press against her bare shoulder. “Of course, the truest honor would be to name him after yourself-”

She turns then, mortification at last leaving her. Cups his face in her hands. “I am not playing this game where we go on for hours about who is better.  Let’s agree it’s you and end it there.”

“Oh my love,” he sighs, bending down to her. “Though you are wrong, I must obey if it proves to you the depth of my regard.”

“I know another way you could prove it,” she says, pulling him atop her.

--

Grey likes his name.

[crimsonfluidessence]

Prompt 28: Bow

Moths were attracted to the light, but what was attracted to the darkness?

Esredes Rosemond, a shapeshifter just like any noble, or Ishgardian for that matter. It was all the matter of the game, and while he had learned it very early, he nevertheless hated it at many times.

It was his parents that taught him one of the key mechanics of shapeshifting. When they got going, it was in his nature to argue back, to devour their words so his own may find purchase. But it was a battle that could not be won, and only made the retaliation worse. It took until he was sixteen to fully grasp the strategy involved there and his place in the world. People responded better when he was quieter, when he didn’t let his flame show, when he gave the illusion that he was fully and willingly stepping into their court with many knives under his coat. A flame, after all, burned people, and people were afraid of fire. They preferred a small flame on a candle, something they believed would not cause a house fire.

And when you presented as a mere ember on a candle, they took you through more of the house, and you got to see exactly what you were dealing with. For they could easily blow you out just like that, but you could just as easily brush up against a piece of wood and start the fire. A delicate game, for a delicate balance, and still, he hated every second of it.

Sometimes when they blew the candle out, he was simply in no position to reignite and set anything on fire. They not only blew the candle out, but they took it out of the holder entirely and snapped the wick off, perhaps even the entire candle, and then asked it to do everything for them with nothing in return.

Sometimes the split candle simply went away. Sometimes it was forced to stay.

The list of names only grew over time. Alastor, who left him after declining to help him further only to come back when he needed help. Heilyn, repeating his son’s mistakes, coming back after putting a knife to Esredes’ throat and begging for him to help get rid of an Inquisitor he set on his own ass. More towards the present, there was Pyralis, completely rude to him for trying to help him only to come back begging in the most peculiar of ways.

He set these people on fire without remorse.

The sergeant who completely humiliated him in public, the witch who thought she could come back to him for help after calling him a monster only to throw that back too, the utter psychopath that was Ivarault coming into his office, the Inquisitor who harassed him begrudgingly trying to ask his help only to then try to humiliate him further. He would set all these people on fire without remorse too, but he wasn’t a powerful enough ember to do the job. At least, not without the little candle being eviscerated completely.

But that was the role of a candle. It gave light, it set fires, it was discarded as a common household item. Candles were made to be burned out.

Esredes had seen his fair share of candles that burned much more beautifully than himself, as well, so much larger and more refined than his simple little one. And each time he saw them, he was fascinated by their presence.

Except for Ferrant, anyhow. That had been a candle that snuck up on him when he wasn’t prepared, and Esredes was afraid of being burned alive. It was hard not to, it was during one of his first trips back into the city after his pardon, he wasn’t even wearing red, and the man had just walked behind him and asked his name as if any random person would do something like that. So bright were his words, but all Esredes could focus on was the fire. I want you to work with me, had been the crux of his words. And when he told him he was uncertain he could come back to the city at all, he launched into a little rant of questions about what Esredes wanted from life, if he wanted to start a fire and do something meaningful, that he had many choices to think about. No fucking shit. Is this the life I am thinking of leading? Esredes had thought to himself in that moment. One where nobles will just take advantage of my weakness to get me to do their bidding? No, then perhaps coming back was a bad idea. Perhaps he should stick to the wilderness. Yet somehow the Lord seemed to pick up on his distress, and was quick to apologize multiple times. Ferrant was a bright candle, but he was too enthusiastic for his own good sometimes. Even still, his flame was mesmerizing despite its imperfections, and for a while Esredes perched like a moth right behind the flame of this man a few years his junior. I can’t let Ferrant down. I must prove myself to him or else. It was just his overactive mind, though, in the end. Ferrant didn’t need to be impressed, and he realized in time they were but similarly sized candles. So the moth fluttered on to other flames.

He only seemed to seek out a specific kind of candle each time. There was Kalas, the Emerald Atoner, who he recognized was not exactly a perfect flame either. But nonetheless, he had drawn him in with all the talk of how heroic Esredes seemed, how the man seemed to be able to be so open about his bloody past and instead become a public hero- how did he do something like that so perfectly? Regardless, Esredes’ heart had cold spots, and he craved the warmth brought by him. He stuck his hand right next to the flame and let the warmth be almost scorching. He would have probably burned himself, if not for the selective presence of the man limiting his exposure to the flame. And by the time he saw it again, once more, it was just a flame like any other. Kalas was a fun presence, but he was just that, a man, a friend. Esredes could feel the heat without being so close now.

There was that Au Ra knight, of all things, who had saved him from an angry loyalist in the Brume. He truly was a shining example of chivalry, something Esredes himself could only be in awe of, but he was just that, an encounter that went with the wind.

As time went on, Esredes didn’t find himself coming so close to the flames he found particularly bright as before. Here and there he stepped a little closer, but he left it at that. And then one day out of the blue, he stepped into the presence of an incredibly radiant candle. It was just a man having lunch near the Fortemps manor. Nothing more than a wave, if a man was enjoying himself, who was he to deny him the pleasure? Only for him to be addressed back by name, and given a name that was nothing but chatter around Ishgard to him before. High Inquisitor Alphinoix Luitomiere. Most Inquisitors were soulless husks, enemies for Esredes to try and bring down, but this one was a true pillar of justice and anti-corruption, perhaps one of the only true Inquisitors in existence. Yes, for as measured and polite as his demeanor was, he could see that shining silver and blue candle. It had to be one of the most bright flames he ever saw, even rivaling Ysayle herself. Still, he was absolutely going to be burned to a crisp if he got too close, no doubt about it. Righteous or not, he knew he was not exactly a holy pillar of justice himself. So he maintained his distance from the flame, only for said flame to ask him for help. To spend time in the Blue Room, away from the prying eyes and ears of Ishgard, to finally talk to someone he decided in that moment he trusted. Had the man just stepped right into Esredes’ meager flame, asking him not to burn him? So the man went to you, Esredes said. So he wanted to be a person and not a High Inquisitor, that was fine. Esredes had a task now, to treat the man as a colleague and peer, and he was going to place himself at the optimal distance from the flame. Close enough to warm one another, but far enough so he wouldn’t plunge himself right in. He told himself this over and over as the taste of flames beckoned him closer. You could expect nothing but what was given from a candle like that. It was more than enough to do one’s part to be sure it kept burning.

And when it was all said and done, there Esredes returned to candles like his own, ones he knew well. The flames of his circle of trusted associates. His flame helped light all of their wicks and keep them burning, without setting them on fire. Esredes held each candle close in his hands and fanned the delicate flames of each one.

Yes, the most comfortable candles were the ones you knew would never draw away from fueling themselves on your own fire.

—

@thecalmnessandthestorms / @heartofthefury Alastor, Heilyn, Ferrant

@1emon-vii Pyralis

Kizo Lanvalloix (unnamed mention)

Sere Ymiraude (unnamed mention)

Arius Ivarault

Zenith Alphinoix

Star Brenciar (unnamed mention)

@emeraldeorzean Kalas