#are they ooc? mayhaps. Do i care? hm. not that much

[maegalkarven]

Empty Prayers AU pt 4.

Aftermath of the Urge trying to take a hold on Nemo.

Characters: Enver Gortash, Astarion, Durge (Nemo).

Dark Urge x Gortash, implied/hinted Dark Urge x Astarion.

It would be easy to hate Nemo, if not for this, not for the way Bhaal commands, demands and straight up takes control over his body.

If not for the fact what apparently he, Gortash, is the reason of Bhaalspawn's defiance.

It started with him.

It started with Nemo, the perfect murderer created out of the god's flesh, caring for him.

Which would be considered a sin in Bhaal's eyes. And it was considered just that.

And this is where it led them both.

Nemo is in the heap of blankets on the floor; his companions are like birds or small animals, really. The moment bhaalspawn's head hit the surface - gently as the vampire lowered him down - they immediately went into building this freaking nest of pillows and blankets around the man.

Like it would help, like a small comfort provided to Nemo in his restless feverish sleep would change a thing. Would fix a thing.

Adding the God of Murder into the seemingly endless list of people Enver despises is a useless thing, yet he does it anyway.

Nemo is his, not some mad god's. He made his bhaalspawn stray from Bhaal's intended path and he will keep him there. There and alive, because Nemo is-

Nemo is-

He is not allowed to die. Not after the mess he made, not after the mess Enver got dragged into because of him. Not after everything they have created and everything they have lost and those small scraps they have gained back.

Nemo has to stay alive, because without him alive Enver has...What, two allies? Some old contacts, some half-assed alliances, some services he is not able to pay for?

His plan is lost, his Steel Watch is stolen, a puppeted by the Brain Florrick hunts him down like an animal, and it's all because of Nemo.

That's what caring for someone brings him. A failure.

There's not a sign of banite activity in the city; all dispersed, disappeared as if there was never such a thing as the Church of Bane. Where Lord Bane commanded them to move Enver has no idea, but Lord Bane clearly decided to wash his hands of this mess.

Gortash heard there was a fight in the Steel Watch Foundry: what Steel Watcher attacked some of the faithful, what they had to flee. Perfect creation, that of his Steel Watch. Now in the wrong hands, overseen by the True Souls.

The weapon you can't use should be destroyed, as much as it pains him to bring that particular feat of his genius down.

He will rebuilt the watch, make it invincible to any outsider's influence. With time, but Enver will fix things. And he needs no gods for that, no allies.

Well, maybe one ally.

A pathetic excuse of a man; pale, with hair sticking to his sweaty forehead, battling his father for control even in his sleep.

Nemo, the cause of the entirety of Enver's latest misfortune.

Nemo, his perfect-

Nemo moves, trying to break a hold of the chains tying him down. A low, pained growl erupts from his chest. His fingers move, long, sharp claws at the end of them reaching for something. Digging into his own flesh, bloodying the blanket he is tucked into.

"No, no, no," the other spawn, the vampire spawn comments. "This will not go. Leave these poor hands alone, you little monster."

There's the undeniable affection in his voice, as well as the noticeable amount of concern. Astarion reaches out and forces the palms open with his own, surprisingly strong fingers.

Enver takes his time observing the vampire, the way the man handles his lover. Ever since he has found Nemo lets the vermin bite him, he has known no rest.

He asked why, mocked, tainted, but apparently this was the hill Nemo decided to die on.

"We are alike," he kept repeating over and over again like a broken music box. "More alike than you could ever understand."

It felt like a slap, like a hit it was intended to be.

Nemo too blames Enver for his downfall. He cares, but does not forget who made him fall out of his father's graces.

Some part of bhaalspawn has to hate Gortash for it.

And this...spawn, this Astarion; Enver isn't sure the man himself is aware, but he is clearly interested in Enver's lover the way Enver does not approve of. Nor should he tolerate.

"You don't really have to worry about that," the pale elf comments, as if sensing Gortash's ire. "He has already turned me down."

So the elf made a move on Nemo, and Nemo refused. Good.

Wait, turned down how?

"And what exactly were you proposing?" He can't help but ask.

Enver has a bad feeling about it, the unkind type of a suspicion.

What cause Nemo would have to refuse? He didn't use to deny himself a little fun here and there, no matter how big of a bloodbath it ended up in.

After all, he, Enver Gortash, was the only lover who bedded Bhaalspawn and lived to see the day.

"Night of passion, of course!" The vampire makes a dramatic gesture. "There I was, offering him the best night of his life, and then he just...brushed me off. Said I'm better off without him snuggled up to my insides."

Well, that's...something.

Gears turn in Enver's mind, quick and relentless and cruel in that.

"Anything else he said?" Asked almost innocently, as if he doesn't care.

He cares so fucking much he wants to end Nemo's life while he's asleep. To strangle him or stab through the heart, or better yet, gain control over Absolute again, toss this damn astral prism away and make Nemo love him.

Make bhaalspawn see only him, care only for him. He wouldn't take all the free will of his favorite monster, of course not, just enough to not let him stray away, just enough so he would stop seeing other people for...well, people.

Now it's the vampire spawn who's watching him, unblinking. Enver suppresses the urgent need to stab him now.

"Yes," the spawn mulls it over. "Nemo said a single night with him is not worth it." there's a crease between his brows now. "Worth what, I wonder?"

Enver doesn't have to say anything. He can just get up and leave; away from this conversation, away from these ugly feelings, from the awful pathetic man who causes them, from the way Nemo makes him weak; wanting and needing and hurting-

"He would kill you," falls off his lips faster than he catches his thoughts. "He kills everyone he brings into bed, with just one single exception." This exception currently sitting next to the vampire, feeling like shit.

He felt so special, knowing Nemo killed all his other lovers, so mighty, so in control.

Knowing Nemo willingly strayed his hand to keep this vampire spawn alive is worse than if it would happen by accident, if Bhaal's hold simply...slipped.

The elf's face contorts, eyes growing wide, lips parting, but no sound comes.

"Oh," he finally lets out after a pause what feels like eternity. "All of them?"

"Yes."

"All but you?"

"Obviously."

"So is this why?" The man turns to the spawn on the floor. "He didn't want to- And I thought- But this means-"

"It means nothing," Enver snaps and there's anger in his voice, and irritation, and command, and-

The elf looks back at him, his expression slowly turning smug.

"Oh, but it does," he hums and this would be a perfect moment to strike. He can say Nemo did that, not like Nemo could testify otherwise. And how poetic it would be, Nemo not wanting to kill a spawn, the higher power moving his hand... "And don't think of killing me now, no one would believe Nemo did that."

"I can make it look convincing enough," Gortash tries regardless.

A spawn laughs into his face.

"I will raise ruckus what will wake up everyone in this house and then beyond. I will not go down quietly, especially not now," a defiant stare that stretches into eternity.

"You think you own him, don't you? A poor little Bhaalspawn, haunted by his father for the crime of having a lover. Your perfect little pet, your bloodthirsty attack dog," the spawn leans closer. "Well, let me tell you something, lordling. Nemo belongs to no one. He is his own damn person and he will stay exactly that."

This actually surprises Enver; he had expected the elf to voice his claim on the man in question, and instead this fool rushed in to defend Nemo's integrity.

And Nemo isn't even awake to hear it.

What an idiot.

"He will never choose you, you have to know that," his words are sure, have to sound sure. He can't allow the spawn to see the uncertainty underneath.

Regardless of what this nobody says about it, Nemo indeed is his; his lover, his ally, his. No one else will see Nemo for who he truly is, no one will understand him like Enver does-

"We are alike. More alike than you would ever understand."

His face has to give it away, for the vampire smiles; sharp teeth glaringly obvious, predator lingering in the unnatural redness of the eyes.

"Will he not?" The bastard hums. "Maybe he won't, or maybe he will. We won't know till I try. And if, per chance, Nemo does choose me, whatever is it you'll do then, lordling?"

Enver hits him straight into the jaw. He can't help it, it's almost instinctual, this knee-jerk reaction of his.

They descend into the flurry of kicks and hits, a mess of limbs and teeth and bad intentions.

Then someone clears the throat.

"Very sweet of you two to provide me some entertainment," the voice is raw and hoarse from the strain it was under before, but it's unmistakably Nemo's.

Astarion moves to push Gortash away.

"Darling," he exclaims, ever the opportunist. Enver would admire him for that if he wasn't so damn angry. "You're awake!"

"So I am," the bhaalspawn agrees, his golden eyes meeting Enver's. "Had fun while I was down?"

There's suspicious glint in his eyes Gortash matches with his own. A single, troubling thought breaches his conscience; just how much of the conversation to pass did Nemo hear?

***

Everything is a blur, everything hurts. Nemo can't even tell up from down and left from right. He struggles to open his eyes to no avail and fears for the worst, until-

"Anything else he said?" A familiar voice, a beloved voice, but sounding...strained?

Why?

"Yes," Another familiar voice, the one Nemo grew to be accustomed to. Somewhat comforting, this voice. "Nemo said a single night with him is not worth it. Worth what, I wonder?"

Well, well, well, would you look at that.

An interesting conversation the two of his favorite people are having. It would be a shame to reveal he is awake now; surely that can wait.

And it does indeed wait.

[kiseiakhun]

What are your feelings on Kyle/Jason/Wally. I kinda think it might happen if Kyle had a crush on both. Accidentally tells Wally. Teasing. Jason finding out. Jason and Wally overdramaticly flirting. Dick finds out and Kyle dying from the close proximity of both Jason/Wally Wally/Jason Jason/Kyle Wally/Kyle. And then Flirting/Showing off intensifying. Although I don't really know much about Wally or Kyle. ❤

RUBS HANDS TOGETHER

Hello? This is the greatest ask anyone’s ever sent me. Kyle is a lovey-dovey dumbass who falls in love after two seconds of knowing someone, so like. It’s real. It’s very real. He and Wally would’ve had their thing first? Because of their whole enemies to lovers arc in JL, except - because of that whole dynamic where they started off ragging on each other, I feel like they both would’ve been oblivious to their feelings. Add in a healthy dose of compulsory heterosexuality from Kyle, and yeah... the adults of the League have probably been waiting years for that ship to sail, except the babies just keep being oblivious dunderheads.

(Wally realized in his teen years that he’s not strictly heterosexual, because being on a team with Dick Grayson when you’re male tends to draw out any bent inclinations very, very quickly. It’s just. Kyle is the snot-nosed rookie too big for his britches. He’s a baby? He’s an infant. Wally is not attracted to an infant, wtf.)

And then Kyle goes off on his journey of self-discovery with Donna and Jason. Well, journey of self-discovery for him, because Jason’s ass and body and his devil-may-care tough guy attitude is the culmination of Kyle’s bisexual crisis. Seriously, countdown is basically Kyle going “ugh, that stupid hot sexy asshole is so hot and sexy around Donna, there’s no way she can resist him. Why is he attractive? He needs to stop. I’m going to fight him because he’s TOO HOT.” It’s incredible. If the writers weren’t cowards, countdown would’ve ended with them being in a triad.

Donna’s probably the one who points out that mayhaps... Kyle’s constant mooning over Jason might mean something different... and Kyle’s like wtf, no. And then he actually thinks about it, because Kyle’s one of maybe two (2) men in the dcu who has a semblance of emotional intelligence (idk who the other one is, but I’m sure he’s out there) (edit: it’s Connor. Connor Hawke. Connor is the other man. I was going to say Clark but Clark keeps going to extremes whenever he or his are threatened and. like. he tries, bless his heart, but there’s still a lot of repression going on with him) and he’s like wait. Fuck. Well what do I do with this information!! It’s not like Jason is into guys!!!

To which Donna just looks at him like, how are you so smart yet so stupid at the same time. She remembers how baby Jason mooned over Roy and Dick as much as he mooned over her. She Remembers.

(Also, lbr, Donna’s very experienced by now at dealing with dumb boys in denial about their non-het leanings. See previous statements about being on a team with Dick Grayson. She saw all of it, man. She’s seen so much.)

Cue Kyle, sitting bolt upright in bed after they’ve just wound down for the night and just saying, “Oh my god, Wally.”

And Donna’s just like, yup.

And Jason’s just like ? wtf is that asshole up to now. Whatever, idc, blissfully unaware of Kyle’s bi panic.

Anyway. The world is saved, and they get back to their Earth, and Kyle manages to put it aside because Everything Happens So Much. He’s the Green fking Lantern, okay, he doesn’t have time to deal with sexuality crises, except. Except. It won’t leave him alone?

Like, in his downtime he hangs out with Wally a lot since they’re friends, and oh yes, hello raging crush that he can no longer pretend isn’t a thing, because once Kyle acknowledges his attraction? That is it, man, there’s no turning back from that point. And ik that in canon, Jason threw a snitfit and left Kyle and Donna in the middle of their happy fun space adventure fieldtrip, but let’s say he didn’t have a sudden ooc personality turn because of writer mandate, and he stayed with Kyle and Donna until the end of their journey, and they stayed in touch.

And Kyle realizes, to his horror, that Jason is charming, and funny, and not bad on the eyes, and fuuuuck. This isn’t really helping his stupid dumb crush. Stupid dumb crushes. Goddamn.

(Sometimes Jason even joins him in his Space Adventures because of his new team. More specifically, Kori and her shiny new spaceship that can sustain humans in space conditions, and he is not jealous, shut up, Roy.)

(Roy caught on pretty quickly, because he’s much more empathetic and in tune with other peoples emotions than he pretends to be 90% of the time. Unfortunately, he only uses his powers for chaos.)

Ofc, Wally would start getting curious about Jason eventually because suddenly this kid is fucking everywhere? Dick’s calling on him for intel in the middle of a firefight, and he’s ragging on Roy’s atrocious dress sense, and he’s joking with Donna and Kyle’s giving him the same shit that he used to give to Wally, excuse me. Wasn’t he a villain or something? The last time Wally paid attention to him, he was sawing heads off in Gotham, and now Wally can’t seem to turn without tripping over him. When the fuck did that even happen?

(I’m not sure if Wally ever met Robin!Jason. Hm. Were Jason’s guest-appearances on the team during when Wally was pulling one of his stints of... I don’t WANT to be a hero, I want to be a NORMAL BOY who goes to COLLEGE, even though I literally re-created the Flash’s lab accident down to the letter just so I can have his powers and be a hero and save the world? ... ykw, we don’t acknowledge that era of Wally. This was back when he was a meninist incel or something. Ick.)

... and damn, Wally really can trip over him now, huh. Because he sure did grow up big, and strong, and rugged, and haha fuck now Dick is starting to glare at him, too, and not just at Roy, abort, abort.

...... Wally does attempt to subtly ask Roy, later, if there’s any truth to the statements about him and Jason and Kori that Roy says to Dick to get him all riled up. I say “attempt to” because Wally is bad at subtlety. It’s part of why he and Kyle get along so well. Roy realizes what he’s asking and he about has an apoplexy because Wally? Wally? Now there’s a surprise contender he did not expect, tossing his hat into the ring.

But also. Also... hot.

Roy and Kori are watching all of this while munching popcorn like damn, this is better than TV. Because Kyle’s having his crisis, his Love crisis, and Wally’s having his oh my god why do I find my best friend’s little brother hot crisis, and Jason is just happily oblivious to all of this, because he’s too busy angsting over his dad not loving him enough and dismantling trafficking rings and being the big, bad scourge of Gotham to notice Kyle pining after him like a lovelorn puppy, and Wally eyeing him appreciatively like he hasn’t eaten in a whole hour and Jason is a tender piece of marbled steak roasted on both sides to perfection. He does notice the way Kyle and Wally look at each other, though, because he’s only observant when it comes to the positive emotions of other people. And he is not stepping in the middle of that, tyvm, because from what Roy’s told him the two of them have a looooong history and he does not want to get caught in the middle of that crossfire.

Roy and Kori are both like, what makes you think it’s going to get messy, anyway? And Jason, whose real world examples of functioning relationships are 1. Willis and Catherine Todd, 2. Bruce and Selina, 3. Bruce and Talia, 4. Dick and all his exes, 5. Roy and all of his not-exes because he doesn’t date but people keep falling in love with him anyway and he panics and ghosts them because he is Roy William Commitment Issues Harper, 6. Kori and whatever the fuck she’s got going on with Dick and like, an ex? back on Tamaran? who she might still be married to?? what the fuck, 7. Kyle and Donna and their messy breakup(s)(?) (Jason doesn’t ask, because he Does Not Want To Know) (he’s too busy repressing to realize it’s half because of jealousy), is just like, that’s just how things go.

And Roy and Kori, both having mentally run through all of those ^ options while Jason was thinking of a response, are just like. ... yeah, alright, that’s fair enough.

God, every single relationship in DC is a mess.

Where was I even going with this?

Oh, right. Basically, Kyle is pining like a lovelorn idiot, Wally doesn’t know what the fuck he’s feeling and it’s making him confused, and Jason is ignoring his feelings because maybe if he just represses them hard enough, they won’t spill over and punch him in the face. Honestly, I see Wally making the first move, because his inadequacy issues don’t run as deep as Jason and Kyle’s do, and Kyle’s just like :D and Jason’s like, what the fuck. What the fuck? Because it literally blindsides him, even though it’s stupidly, painfully obvious to everyone else around him.

Either that, or Roy gets sick enough of watching their lovelorn pining, and employs Dick’s help to lock them all in a closet, naked, and fuck it out.

(Dick doesn’t actually disapprove of Jason sleeping with his friends, he just needs to get over his mental block of still seeing Jason as a baby)

Anyway. They’re all a whole-ass mess.

[florihilda]

The Waterwheel Turns (Klaus Valerian Gaiden)

The heavy, pressing ennui of this life in the Shroud has had its effect on his writing, he worries-- or maybe the threat of censorship still weighs heavily on his mind, though he knows that no one knows where he is, now. It has not been more than two cycles since he was a wanted man in Ala Mhigo, after all-- is it really so irrational to fear lifting a pen, after all that his innocent prose had swept him into?

(ooc: just reposting an old bit of Flora's dad's backstory I wrote literal years ago!)

A heavy rain beats down hard on the roof, until it sounds like the building is in very real danger of collapsing-- And every bucket in Klaus’ possession is being put to use, at current, collecting the rainwater that drips down from leaks in the ceiling. Though he can’t see the level of the stream beside the millhouse, he knows it must be flooding, from the rapid, shrill creak of the waterwheel outside.

It ought to go without saying, but he can’t sleep with all of this racket- though he’s been lying there and trying to keep his eyes shut for bells and bells. He supposes he ought to just stay up and write; that’s the best use of these dark, awkward bells before dawn. The mun-tuy beans in the mill require no work at this moment-- the water passing through the wheel does all the labour. During this easy, leisurely phase of the growing cycle, there’s nothing to do but listen to it.

He sits up from his bedroll, and reaches for his quill, his inkwell, and his notebook. He regrets rising, already, but he needs to accomplish something with this time. Especially since he’s had so many phrases on his mind-- phrases that seemed like they could work so well in cohesion. But the heavy pressing ennui of this life in the Shroud has had its effect on his writing, he worries-- or maybe the threat of censorship still weighs heavily on his mind, though he knows that no one knows where he is, now. It has not been more than two cycles since he was a wanted man in Ala Mhigo, after all-- is it really so irrational to fear lifting a pen, after all that his innocent prose had swept him into?

He’s barely begun jotting down these scraps of ideas, before he hears footsteps at his door-- and without thinking, as if he thought Theodoric’s men themselves were lined up at his door, he shoves his notebook under a blanket.

But instead of the stuff of his nightmares, he hears something not quite so bad as imminent torture and death-- the high, familiar voice of a woman, from outside his door, laughing and chattering with someone else whose voice does not carry at all. This sound is followed by a jangling of keys, and the rattle of his door handle as it opens.

Standing tall in the doorway is the tall, lithe form of a shadow-black Duskwight Elezen, swathed in a loose, boldly-patterned dress: it is Lisette Desmoulins, his landlady. Of course she enters like she owns this place-- because she does. She’s followed by a tiny, pigeon-toed midlander girl, who carries her lady’s wet cloak over her arm-- her wide eyes heavy and tired, but alert.

The duskwight grins as she sees Klaus sitting up in his bed-- she’s truly the only one energetic and awake, at this hour. “Ah, you’re awake! Good, I’ve much to discuss.”

“Good eve, Lady Desmoulins,” Klaus begins as he stands, placidly patting down his hair. He’s learned to show no irritation at these late-night calls, no matter how late or how often they may be. As unpleasant as this living situation was, he was in no danger of being arrested or beheaded.

The title of “Lady” brings a proud, wry smile to the Duskwight’s mauve-caked lips. It is a title only recently earned, and it’s still a novelty to her, though she’s been dressing and acting the part for many cycles, now. With a snap of her lady’s fingers, her midlander handmaid sets down a folding wooden stool, so that she might sit down.

She sits, and brushes the rainwater off of her skirt, staring straight forward at him. “How goes the milling, Nicholaus? I see the caverns are all picked. You’ve been hard at work. I knew I was right to assign you this tract.”

“I think we will have it all ground in the next sennight. It shall be ready to ferment, after then, yes.”

“I have been doing some work of my own-- have you heard?” She leans forward, with a mischievous grin, peeling off her thin satin gloves. “Has someone written you about it?"

“I have not received any correspondence,” Klaus replies, with a curious blink. “Not in moons.”

“Hm. That is unexpected of him. Well,” she crosses her legs. “I went calling in Gridania. I have paid a certain typesetter a visit about your latest works. I am surprised he did not write you immediately, or send you a proof-- or did he? I know he has kept busy, these past few moons, but I cannot believe he would not have time for you, of all men!”

Klaus’ jaw stiffens. “Yes-- indeed, I’ve not heard from him. What did he say, when you went to his shop? He has received my final drafts, yes?"

“Well, yes, but there is a story to be told,” she says, with the sort of indulgent tilt of her head that only happens once she knows she has his undivided attention. “When I laid eyes on the fruits of your labour, I was stunned. All of those poems-- why, I scarcely realized you’d written so much in your time here! I told him, it is a shame these cannot be leatherbound-- yes, that they would be much too conspicuous to get back to Ala Mhigo, I know, I know they must be smuggled, given, ah, the political content. But it pained me to hear they must be bound into mere flimsy pamphlets-- I was just about to inquire if he could make me a leatherbound copy for my cartonnier-- when dear Jeanne has the most delightful idea.” She tugs at her handmaid’s sleeve. “Do show him, Jeanne, do.”

The midlander girl holds out in her trembling hands some sort of double-sided leather strap, stitched on both sides. She still cannot pry her eyes up from the floor to even look at Klaus, though it’s plainly visible that her cheeks have flushed up to a vibrant-rose-red hue. Jeanne stands there in an apprehensive silence, as if expecting the worst reaction from him. He hated being called ‘that Ala Mhigan fugitive--’ and this was why. Jeanne must have thought he was a violent criminal, of some sort, after hearing that epithet.

“What-- what is this?” Klaus inquires, in a gentle voice barely above a whisper-- but Jeanne still ducks her head down, terrified, upon hearing him address her at all.

Lady Desmoulins bats her eyes, so proud of work that wasn’t even hers. “Genuine anole skin-- the lightest and softest sort, mayhap fit for an Ala Mhigan lady’s subligar, though I daresay such a garment would chafe parts of me I would not dare name.”

“The-- the poem is inside-- I--I-if I tear this seam, it--��� Jeanne takes a plain copper seam-ripper from a pouch on her waist, and starts to pick the stitching open. She holds the strap open-- and, indeed, a little slip of paper lies inside, with a series of familiar stanzas printed on it. The paper is coated in a thin layer of wax-- presumably, to safeguard the ink from moisture. “It’s inside. Your-- your writing is inside."She’s able to look up, at this point, but only to flusteredly clarify, “A-- a print of your writing.” (Very helpful, yes, he couldn't tell.)

“Isn’t Jeanne smart? I love her so!” The duskwight beams, reaching up to take the midlander’s hand in her own and pat it fondly. “And your work still has the dignity of being leatherbound-- Technically. Someone will just be wearing it to Ala Mhigo, you see?”

The handmaid starts again, in a shaky voice, “I--I spoke to my brother, and--” but she freezes up, and has to look away.

But her lady is able to finish, for her, grinning: “Jeanne’s dear brother is an apprentice leatherworker. He has access to the appropriate facilities. And I’ve already paid him to make these, ah, modifications to his patterns. These subligars and harnesses are eastward bound in a moon, to the acquaintances of yours we discussed, last time.”

Klaus rapidly rises to his feet, shocked to hear any insinuation of spent coin. “Lady Desmoulins--”

Lady Desmoulins only needs to suspect a ‘thank you’ is coming, before a loud, boisterous cackle spills out of her mouth. “I am already harboring a fugitive. And, frankly, I have never half-arsed anything in my life, is that understood? I said before that I take care of those in my employ, did I not?” Lady Desmoulins' long, black-lacquered nails happily rap against a nearby fermentation barrel-- And in this light, her nails are nigh-indistinguishable from cockroaches or beetles. “Keep on these beans. Ensure this paste is the most savoury concoction to come from Hyrstmill. The more it sells for in the Bower, the less you shall owe me, come winter.”

There was always a drawback, with this woman. There was always some condition to any kindness she paid him. At this rate, he’d be here in Hyrstmill forever, working off whatever debt she deemed him responsible for-- working in these damned Mun-Tuy caverns, for the rest of his days.

Before Klaus can even manage a reply to the conditions presented, the duskwight is already standing and spinning away toward the door-- Jeanne, the well-trained puppy she is, has snapped shut her folding chair, and is draping a cloak over her lady’s shoulders so that she may leave.

The duskwight looks over her shoulder and gives him a blithe, innocent smile-- It disarms and silences him. “I am counting on you, Nicholaus. And so is Ala Mhigo. I will notify you when the goods are ready for transport.”What if this truly was just her way of showing her support for him and his craft? Some bizarre, misguided way of showing his people succor? It was still some way to hold him under her thumb, regardless-- he was certain of that.

“Yes--�� He says, staring forward-- trying not to blink, trying not to let any suspicion show on his features. “I will do my utmost.”

When Lady Desmoulins has left, there is nothing to be heard in the shack, save for the rain and the turning of the waterwheel. Klaus sinks down to his bedroll, again, and though his quill is in his hand, he can’t think of anything to write.

[progeny-of-the-fury]

The Comet’s Call: Subduing Peak, the True Griffin

Log date:  6/17/18

OOC Note: The text in these logs are strictly for the reader’s enjoyment. Anyone using the knowledge displayed within this text without the participant’s knowledge risks the potential of blacklisting from future communication and roleplay. Please do not meta-game!

Tags: @floating-city-of-nem

Rhuli'a Kanjun frowned, uncomfortable at the sight of the Castrum

The Resistance member guarding the gate gave them a small pause, demanding a writ of passage from Rhuli'a. Playing along with the formalities, the party soon found themselves crossing into a scene from the Liberation.

Rhuli'a Kanjun: "Bah, as gruesome as ever."

Fiona Delaine seems ambivalent about the approach of the old Imperial fortification. At most, she finds the Cermet plating and brutalist design distasteful. Perhaps she hasn't had much personal stake with the Imperials. It's at the sight of the gunned-down ruins of the great towers that she pauses, grimacing.

Ghalleon seems visibly more comfortable inside the walls of the fortress than outside them.

Hestia De'bayle twists her lips from under her helm. "I was present for one of the campaign battles here... I will never forget the horror of when the entire building collapsed."

Fiona Delaine: ".. this was a place of .. much death. I can feel the pain and dying in the air. Even now."

Rhuli'a Kanjun: "I had fallen ill, I think I would have been slain if I were not. I always get chills."

Fiona Delaine: "...you were there, dame Hestia?" Fiona's eyes widen.

Hestia De'bayle: "I was lucky to have even made it out alive, period. Pulled from the rubble as I was. Those nights were filled with terrors of 'what could have been'. But more importantly, what was."

Fiona Delaine: "... gods..."

Rhuli'a Kanjun: "And you Flora? Where did you find yourself?"

Fiona Delaine shivers. "Fury be praised you made it. It- many did not."

Hestia De'bayle lowered her head solemnly, as though the very thought brought her pain.

Flora seems largely numb to the scenery around her-- she just keeps walking with her eyes pointed forward, and keeps walking. "The Striped Hills, when we heard. It's-- we come through here often, running supplies, but it's still..."

Rhuli'a Kanjun: "Change will be invoked soon enough. You've my word on that." Rhuli'a turned, making to continue on.

Ghalleon taps his lips and says nothing for the time.

Duties to others had obviously seen the Resistance fret their time elsewhere. Much of the ruins of the outpost still lay untouched, mechanical corpses strewn about as plentifully as the shards of steel and stone. Crouching low, Rhuli'a turned to address the party. "Peak, the griffin in question, makes his home in the uppermost reaches of this accursed place. The hired tamers have set themselves ready, hidden among the ruins by way of scent, sound and sight alike. On our mark, they'll spill a mixture of Griffin pheremones, signalling a challenger. Peak ought to take with it with gusto. We've kept watch, and he's been nigh unchallenged for mayhap a moon by now." Putting a hand to his forehead, Rhuli'a spoke then to Hestia. "Once he's drawn out, bring him to ground. You've ample time to prepare, so I do not doubt you'll miss. 'Tis up to you on the severity of your strike. See to it that you weigh mercy and might equally, aye Dame?"

Flora seems to visibly brighten up a little, at the idea of finally coming to blows with this beast.

"My husband has parted me with sedatives,” Hestia declines, “ While he will need be wrangled with still, I will do so only until I can inject him with such. I aim to avoid hurting him as much as I can."

"...hm. With time to prepare I can like line the area with runes of binding to snare Peak once he hits ground. Might make it easier."

"Then see to that preparation, Fiona. Yet, there be one more thing..."  Handing out a wealth of tinctures, Rhuli'a began to explain the next step.

Flora frowns. Mayhap no griffin for dinner, after all.

"Once aground, our tamers will begin their work. Peak is wild and proud, we'll need to hammer humility into him in order to bring him to heel. Set up the three tamers with as much leeway to work with as you can. They're not combatants like us, so if they draw his ire, there's little they can do in order to protect themselves." Motioning to the concoctions each party member carried, Rhuli'a continued his explanation. "These carry a dizzying mixture among them. If you've no ways to taunt or disorient Peak, you can trust in these. However, if you toss them near enough both Griffin and tamer, it will befuddle both. Take care."

"Ah, thank you,” Flora nods.

"Do you wish for one, Ghalleon? I'll not pressure you into violence,” Rhuli’a asks.

Hestia accepts it, storing it away within one the small packs on her abdomen.

Ghalleon Helseth seems chary.  "I wish to be of help in whatever way I can," he says, accepting one.  "I expect this to be a handful, so I will stand by.  I will wait to act, though, until necessity demands it."

"Oui? Let me know. I'll prepare the site- ah. Alright. Good to know."Fiona stows the vials in her bandolier, and then moves forward. Time to get to work. She draws her dagger- and slitting her palm again, she gets to work. Ink and blood mire together, spilling forth to creep across the area between the three towers, shimmering glyphs creeping to settle upon convenient surfaces.

Looking all over, Rhuli’a spoke once more. "Questions?"

Fiona bustles between sites, adjusting and creating new runes. In short, she was making a gravity snare- something to ensure the griffin wouldn't be able to fly freely away once grounded.

Hestia De'bayle steps forward herself, pulling her lance free. "Nogelle. Prenu la altan teron," she spoke out toward the wyvern on her shoulder in what sounded like practically gibberish to those around her. From her shoulder, the little creature took flight - distancing himself from Hestia.

"None, no." Flora responded.

"Steel yourself and make ready. Once Fiona prepares her trap, we'll smash the bottle, and herald the beginning,” Rhul’a ordered.

Ghalleon hides--that is... tactically positions himself, behind a mass of rubble.

".. this is about as good as I can do with what I have on-hand," Fiona calls over, the area covered in a series of intricate crimson lines between clusters of elaborate sigils. They don't look like typical arcanima- too spidery and sinuous. And then she ducks behind a fallen pylon.

Hestia De'bayle peers around the rubble. Her expression is unreadable from behind her helm, but her hands tighten audibly to the haft of her polearm.

Rhuli'a gave a gesture. A signal. Three tamers appeared, ropes and nets aplenty. One reared his arm back and tossed a bottle!

With the bottle broken, the challenge was issued. And answered it was, almost instantly, a typhoon of rage and fervor that swept throughout the remnants of the outpost. Machine and pillar alike were blown apart in a gust as the griffin they sought to neutralize flew overhead! Blue eyes surveyed searchingly at the ground, confused for but a moment at the lack of a contender to his domain. Now was the opportunity to strike!

Directing her gaze toward the sky, Hestia hopped up onto a higher piece of rubble - the wind at her feet gusting once more as she was thrusted up into the sky toward the flying beast. Out reaching her lance, Hestia latched it onto one side of the beasts neck to hook and toss herself up onto its back. Grabbing a hold for just under the blade, the young woman tightened the polearm to its neck, attempting to cause it to struggle and fall.

Beleaguered, the True Griffin cried out. Flapping madly, it soon realized it was unable to wrest the woman off! Going to ground, it made to roll itself upon the rubble, in an effort to unseat its oppressor!

And as it lands, Fiona springs her trap! Rather than rely on proximity, she instead remained tied to the wards- and with a snap, discharges the stored aether. The area suddenly feels much heavier as the air thickens, umbral earth triggering a manifestation of gravity to weigh everything down. It'd be a struggle to fly, to be sure.

Rhuli'a Kanjun started, his right hand dropping low. With his shield strapped to it, tears sprang to his eyes at the sudden shift of pressure. Blinking them away, he roared out, "Forward! See it brought to heel!"

Flora Valerian begins to ease herself out of her hiding place, halberd held tightly in her hands. She takes a moment to survey the situation before charging in.

Rhuli'a Kanjun started, his right hand dropping low. With his shield strapped to it, tears sprang to his eyes at the sudden shift of pressure. Blinking them away, he roared out, "Forward! See it brought to heel!"

Hestia's Gae Bolg loosens against the creatures feathers - a weapon clearly not built for such. Being flung off, the woman manages to twist her body, landing on her feet - if not at least with a stagger. "Do not kill it! Whatever you do!" Rushing forward, Hestia reached into her pack to retrieve the sedative. "Force it still!"

A wealth of ropes and nets were being sprung onto the Griffin! A shrill cry echoed out, and it flapped its mighty wings once! It bucked fiercely beneath the ropes, yet remained in place. Two tamers, however, were thrown to the side, their nets beginning to lose their grip...

Hestia holds her ground, awaiting for others to move toward binding the ropes so that she might have a clear path toward sedating the beast.

Ghalleon is, as yet, still processing what is happening before him, and trying to assess the situation.  Trying not to make a a mess of anything, he takes no action at this moment.

Peak thrashes about in captivity, growing wearier by the passing second. Turning to the side, he bats his wings once more, sending a gust screaming towards Fiona, interrupting her spellcasting. However, distracted as he was, Flora and Rhuli'a have an easy time in holding him down. The griffin seems to tire...

Ghalleon enthusiastically nods, as if this is helping the situation improve.

Rhuli'a's binding came free! Leaving his wounds untreated, and being in an unfamiliar environment causes him to balk, his rope slipping from his hand!

Despite the others struggling with the bindings, Hestia leaves behind her spear as she jumps up and onto the Griffin with the injection in hand. Holding to its plumage as it thrashed around, the young woman managed to stick the needle into the creature, injecting only a portion of the substance into it before she is forced to rip it out and hop back away to safety.

Recovering from her befouled spell and shaking off the wind-gust, Fiona makes a few swift hand gestures, ink flowing without blood to bolster it. Sigils form in the air between her hands, sharply aspected to umbral, and then she lets her augmented gravity pull her down to hands and knees- and press that sigil to the earth. A field of shadowy tendrils erupts from the cermet panels beneath Peak to loop and wrap around it. The freezing, strength-sapping grip is not very tight, but it's something.

Flora continues to hold tight, gritting her teeth as the game of tug of war intensifies. Certainly she'd give, eventually, but not just yet....

The griffin thrashes once, twice, thrice. And falls. Eye wild, its claws opened, closed, then opened again. From his position on the ground, Rhuli'a barked out a hoarse, "Forward! Sedate it fully! Dame!"

Adjusting the injection within her hand fittingly, Hestia lunged forward again with a mighty cry. Thrusting the needle into the creature one last time, she inserted the rest of the contents into them before freeing it of the vial and tossing it aside. Hopping down off the beast, Hestia moved toward one of the ropes to assist in binding it down, hoping to keep the Griffin from hurting itself in the process.

Quieting down finally, the beast gave a final, gusting blow of its wings, the combined might of the nets, shadow magick, and sedatives finally overcoming it. Fainting away cleanly, it lay like a corpse, albeit with odd breaths coming from it.

"... Hundreds of thousands of gil wasted on charlatans who thought themselves able to control this beast,” Rhuli’a scoffed.

And finally, with the great and noble beast asleep, Fiona ceases channeling. She wipes at her brow- and places a hand upon the Gravity ward as well. Soon, it too unravels into motes that she rapidly absorbs in a swirl of shimmering lights. And immediately, the area's easier to stand in and breathe in.

Ghalleon smiles broadly. This group is competent indeed.

Releasing the ropes with an exhale, Hestia stepped forward toward the creature. Reaching a hand up, she patted its feathers calmly and silently.

"You've a fondness for the beast? I had not desired its death, but you seem to go above and beyond. Dare I say, a hint of compassion?" Rhuli’a teased.

Flora breathes out-- she's unsure if it's too soon to stop holding the rope tight. "Is it over?" she calls out. "All done?"

"Aye, Flora! 'Tis.,” Rhuli’a answered.

"I have no malice toward beasts. My mother is a Beastmaster. I find fondness in most all of them. He did nothing wrong to deserve pain for his living. I do hope they will treat him well," Hestia lowers her helmed head to its slowly breathing chest.

"I hope the same," Fiona whispers.

Flora looks curiously to Hestia, canting her head to the side. She makes a prolonged hum.

The tamers soon hefted the beast onto a massive cart, which had rumbled up the ramp behind the party as they spoke. Soon rolling on and out of sight, Rhuli'a reaffirmed Hestia. "They're tamers. Think of it as sending an unruly child to a trade guild. Tough, but fair, and all the better once they've come out of it."

"And they'll put it to use?" Flora asks, her voice dry and flat.

"I know the trade. Ishgard is known for its Chocobo's after all, and they are just as unruly. If perhaps not worse," Hestia says in some dry amusement. "There is an innocence in those eyes I wish to see protected. Not just for beasts who wish to live in peace." She moves back to fetch her spear, latching it onto her back once more.

Ghalleon Helseth: "You all are very competent.  It was well done."

Rhuli'a Kanjun: "Only the best, Helseth. It would be remiss of me to accept any less."

Flora Valerian's gaze shifts over to her husband. "I'm glad you think so."

Hestia De'bayle: "Some beasts do well free, others on the other hand may find their lives shortened for it as spoken get in the way of their lifestyle. It is a cruel trade of life, but if it means their life will be extended and they can continue on. I find no complaints or anger."

Fiona Delaine: ".. supposedly," Fiona murmurs. "Ala Mhigo's known for its griffin-riders and has great respect for the beasts. I hope so." She softly hums.

Rhuli'a Kanjun: "Griffin-riders, lancer legions, Fists of Rhalgr..." Rhuli'a's shortlist was filled with pride, the nationalistic Miqo'te wearing a wide smile.

Ghalleon Helseth: "Like as not, it shall fare far better than had it chosen to alight in this place in former days with its Imperial occupants."

Hestia De'bayle: "I have faith. After All, faith is all we can have," the woman looks forward, "their very image is that of the great white beast, I would think they would show it some respect."

Flora Valerian: "Well, I hope he makes someone a passable steed, or he'll end up on someone's plate."

Rhuli'a Kanjun: "Anyroad. This be the end of this journey, for now."

Fiona Delaine decides not to talk about her grandfather's accolades for his valiant showing in the Autumn War.

Rhuli'a Kanjun: "I'll not require anymore from any here."

Fiona Delaine: "For now," she nods, slowly. "T'was good working with you all."

Hestia De'bayle: "Thank you for allowing me the honour of assisting in subduing the creature, rather than having it slain."

Rhuli'a Kanjun: "Know full well that this endeavor was only made possible by contributions from all of you. Gyr Abania, and by extension, Eorzea grows stronger."

Ghalleon Helseth: "I am very, very glad to know you all," Ghalleon says with enthusiasm.  "Please do take care until we meet again. Traders bless your fortunes in the meanwhile."

Hestia De'bayle moves her hands up to remove her helm, once more, offering the man her crimson gaze.

Flora Valerian: "Aye, I'm headed out, as well. Strength in Rhalgr." Flora strides on over to Ghalleon's side, suggesting she's leaving with him.

Rhuli'a Kanjun: " 'Twas why I sought you ought, Dame. The other option was a ballista."

Ghalleon Helseth smiles faintly at his wife.

Fiona Delaine: ".. I might try and see if I can't get a look at that Ziggurat."

Rhuli'a Kanjun: "And, I did not wish to see such an important icon taken in such a way."

Rhuli'a Kanjun: "If you wish. Take care, the Qiqirn are not known for their hospitality."

Flora Valerian: "To Thanalan, or to Ala Mhigo?" she asks.

Rhuli'a Kanjun: "Is there more you wish to say, Dame?"

Fiona Delaine: "I'll like.. send a familiar, Veil-shifted, to record what it can for me.."

Ghalleon Helseth: "Shall we spend the night in Ala Ghiri?  I know you care not for it, but I would spend the coin for comfort."

Hestia De'bayle: "Forget not of that boy left in Ala Ghiri, Sir Rhuli'a," Hestia gestures up a hand.

Flora Valerian mutters something that sounds like a reluctant agreement.

Rhuli'a Kanjun 's mouth turned up into a smile. "I shan't. But Jel will hold him for a time. As it stands..." Rhuli'a looked to his wounds, less severe from before, but still present. "May I trouble you for a moment longer, Fiona?"

Fiona Delaine: "Certainly. I'm surprised you didn't ask me to tend them before we bound Peak." She approaches, having a closer gander up and down the Keeper's body.

Hestia De'bayle: "I have nothing more to say. I will begin to take my leave. Do take care, and call upon me if you need my services. Though, I may not be able to assist in such rigorous tasks in the moons to come," she nods, stepping aside.

Fiona Delaine: "Au revoir, dame Hestia... Non?"

Rhuli'a Kanjun: "Safe travels, Hestia."

Hestia De'bayle: "You all take care."

Flora Valerian: "Strength in Rhalgr, yes."

Rhuli'a Kanjun: "Comet guide."