#at least I remembered to put mage armor on. for once

[tevinterdays]

I forgot that in this screenshot you can see every bad choice I have ever made

gays going to brunch* *killing cazador

these guys just looked so silly so that was my damn warmup ig

[howtofightwrite]

What do you think of the squishy wizard trope? Shouldn’t people that travel around and go “adventuring” have some baseline of athleticism?

So, we're back to a game design discussion, again.

The short version is, if it doesn't make sense to you, don't use it.

Squishy wizards are almost more of a gameplay consideration. If you have a game, and you're balancing ranged damage against melee damage, if your ranged damage units do enough damage, you can create a situation where melee damage straight up doesn't work. It's not viable. The 40k meme about the Tau comes to mind: “Sure, they suck in melee; too bad you'll never get there.”

If you tone down ranged unit's damage, that can easily create a situation where they become the ones who are irrelevant. Such was the experience of every level 1 Wizard in AD&D. Once in awhile, you can get into the perfect situation to end an encounter, but most of the time you're just biding your time until you get to level 5 and can learn to accidentally fireball your party's front line, but that is a long time from now.

If ranged units can do a lot of damage, they need to be fragile enough that you can remove them from the board. And the Tau comparison comes back to mind once again.

All of this combines to create a board environment, where melee fighters need to be tanky enough to get into combat and stay there. Ranged units need to be fragile enough that they can remove each other, deal enough damage to harass the melee units, without doing so much damage as to render them completely irrelevant to the board.

And, while you can build a story around that structure, you don't need to.

Gandalf isn't a fragile wizard. He's not some “book nerd,” who spent high school getting shoved into lockers. When the time comes, he goes toe to toe with a Balrog (or, the Balrog, whichever), and doesn't immediately die. He clearly manages to hold his own, in melee combat, with a massive monster. (In fairness, he's also not human. I mean, none of Tolkien's, “the race of men,” are conventionally human, but Middle Earth's Wizards are an entirely different race of beings.)

In a lot of games, solution is to give the frontline fighters a ridiculous amount of health. Now, I'm going to trash on D&D for a second, but consider that a 10th level Fighter should have somewhere around 94 - 114hp. Remember that critical hits represent some kind of significant injury. These are not just blows that connect with your armor and will leave a bruise, this is someone ran you through. Someone could crit on your fighter, with a long sword, and stab them in vital places at least 4, and probably 5 times, before it actually kills them. That's a comical amount of damage someone to suffer. (Now, granted, a 10th level character in D&D is basically a superhero. If you're thinking of Boromir's death in Jackson's Fellowship of the Rings, that is what it takes to put down a relatively high level fighter in D&D. Which is to say, hilarious amounts of abuse.)

If you signed up for that, cool. I'm not going to stop you. I'm not even going to tell you it's wrong. If you want to tear down a super-humanly powerful character through prolonged combat sequences, or due to attrition of multiple fights in quick succession, that works. I mean, hell, that's how DC killed Batman in the 90s.

If your wizard power fantasy is that a wispy intellectual gains cosmic power through hard academic study, cool. Again, that's entirely valid, and as I mentioned, it even fits into a power fantasy. If you were bullied as a teenager for your atypical interests, and habit of reading, here's a character that studies strange and esoteric subjects, and has real power as a result.

At the same time, it's entirely reasonable to have an averagely healthy mage, whether they study magic academically, or have some ingrained talent that they've honed, plop them down next to a veteran swordmaster who's fought in wars on nine continents with the scars to prove it, and while they may look a bit anemic in comparison to their buddy, is still in better shape than the average villager they interact with on a daily basis.

That's where I tend to land in all of this.

When you're creating characters for your writing, it can be helpful to assign them attributes. Now, I don't mean this in the literal RPG stat blocks. (I've tried that a few times, it doesn't really work for me.) But, just a few text descriptors (which, does sound like Fudge, come to think of it.) You might describe your mage as Smart, or Intellectual, Wise (or Absent Minded), Willful. You know, “wizard stuff.” If you describe your warrior as, Strong, Tough, Tenacious, and Cunning, you're not making the wizard squishy, you're making another character less squishy. A lot of the time, we set the base line by what other people are doing. It's reasonable to say your mage is less durable than your soldier. (Unless your mage has a reason to be that tough. Maybe they're from some frozen wasteland, and are just absolutely jacked from surviving in a hostile environment.) But, that comparison doesn't mean that your mage is deficient.

Now, on the other hand, frail characters can be interesting. You're taking out their ability to fight conventionally, so when they do start decisively ending situations, whether that's through their own creativity and guile, or sheer magical power, it can be very gratifying. And, to be clear, I am very fond of flawed characters, especially when they have to work within the framework of their flaws to find solutions, rather than just overcoming them through the power of love, friendship and mescaline.

When handled well, flaws are about creating limitations for how your characters can solve problems. These can also make your story more interesting. If you say, my character can't fight, (and you don't back down from that and just let them cheat so they can fight, because they're so goddamn special), they're going to need to find other solutions. That can result in a better, more interesting, and less predictable story.

-Starke

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[annoyed-galaxy]

Fictober 2024 ~ 9

"don't listen to me, listen to them"

Fanfiction - DAI I kinda struggled figuring out what to write for this prompt, but as I've been thinking more about my world state and all my characters being mages, I wanted to write just a little something where one of them is dealing with being both loved and hated. My Inqy really hates being Inquisitor but was forced into the role and does what she has to. Can also be found on Ao3

It was one of those nights where Willow was exhausted and worn out from traveling for so long. Coming back to Skyhold had been a relief, but also brought its own menagerie of thoughts. She ignored almost everyone who greeted her, hailing her as “Herald”. Maker, she hated that title. 

She wandered her way to the tavern, finding a lonely corner to drink some of her sorrows away. At this time of day, the tavern was thankfully empty and she gave a look to the barkeep to not bother her and just ignore her. Of course, that was unlikely to happen considering the Inquisitor herself was in his tavern. She rubbed her head and sighed as she took a drink of the strong liquor that he had placed in front of her, nervously. 

“There you are,” came a familiar deep voice. Willow turned and saw the charming dwarf, Varric, smiling up at her. “I heard a special someone was brooding about.” The dwarf pulled a chair up to her table and sat across from her. “Do all elves brood like this?” he asked her, signaling to the barkeep to bring him a drink. 

“Do you know many elves?” she asked, her eyes lowered and heavy with exhaustion. 

“A few. And at least one of them was the most broodiest of elves I ever knew.” Varric received his drink and made a toast motion to Willow. “To broody elves!” Then he downed the drink. 

Willow rolled her eyes and just stared into her cup. 

“So what’s going on, Willow?” he asked, his face changing from light-hearted to seriousness. 

She let out a long sigh and closed her eyes. “I hate all of this.”

Varric nodded slowly. “I bet. Being put on a pedestal that you don’t even want to be on does tend to suck.” Another drink dropped off. 

Willow looked up at him and frowned. “You would know?” 

Varric shook his head. “No, but I know friends who’ve dealt with this.” 

“Hawke?” she titled her head.

Varric nodded and there was a sadness in his eyes. “We’ve had quite a few heroes in these past few years.” He smiled as he remembered something. “Did you know the Hero of Fereldan was an elven mage just like you?”

Willow’s eyes widened. She didn’t know that. 

“Of course, she grew up in the Circle, wasn’t Dalish. I met her once. She was very passionate about a lot of things. She was the one who told us that the story about the Hero of Fereldan is so skewed that she forgets she’s the one they’re talking about.” 

Willow scoffed. “Of course. Who wants to admit they were saved by a mage? An elf too.” 

Varric shrugged. “I thought everyone liked the Grey Wardens, regardless of what they were.” 

Willow took another sip of her drink. “If you’re a mage, no one likes you.” 

“That’s not true,” Varric argued. Some people had found their way into the tavern, not noticing the Inquisitor sat in the corner. Willow was thankful for that, but still shied closer to the wall and turning her face away. “Look, I don’t know what it’s like to have magic, but I do know people. And while the popular sentiment is that ‘all mages are bad’, there are just as many people who like mages.” 

Varric looked over to some of the newcomers who were laughing and having a good time. He strained his ears to listen in on their conversation. 

“She’s inspirational!” one of the people said, a young elven woman. 

“I was there when she took down that pride demon. I’ve never seen anyone fight with such passion before,” said another, a stocky human decked out in armor. 

“My son loves hearing stories of her and wants to be like her when he grows up,” said a middle-aged woman with a staff on her back. 

Varric smiled and turned back to Willow. “Don’t listen to me, listen to them,” he jerked his chin to their location. 

Willow sighed and flicked her ear to attention, listening in on their conversation. They continued to talk about her, praising her and saying how much of an inspiration she was and a good leader. They were proud to be part of the Inquisition with her as a leader. 

Willow’s ear flicked again as she stopped listening. A slight smile spread across her face. “I just feel like I hear the negative comments louder than all the good ones.” 

“Everyone always does. It’s hard to accept that you’re a good person in a position of power sometimes.” Varric downed his drink again. “Don’t doubt yourself too much, Willow. I’ve met lots of people who have been thrown into a similar position. You’re a good woman and probably one of the fiercest mages I’ve ever seen.” 

Willow let out a dry chuckle. If only he knew her secret. 

“Thanks Varric. You always manage to cheer me up,” she smiled. 

Varric raised his empty cup and smiled back. “That’s what I do.” 

[barbex]

happy friday! :D for DADWC and a pairing of your choice, ❝ if people can hate for no reason, than i can love for no reason too. ❞ from the emotionally charged sentence starters?

Thank you for this prompt! Happy @dadrunkwriting, have another fenders fic!

I'm combining this prompt with one I got from outside of tumblr from @the-goat-bazaar-of-art: jazzy lounge singer Anders.

I apologize to singers of any kind, I know nothing.

---

It was Varric's idea, of course. A great party for Hawke's birthday. At the Blooming Rose, of all places. And then someone must have told Varric that Anders can sing. At least he could, once upon a time. It's been ages since he performed. In the last few years, only the mice in the walls of the clinic hear him sing, in the morning, before he opens the clinic.

So now he's in the dressing room behind the stage, under the combined glare of Jethann and Madam Lusine, clutching his coat to his chest. "I always wear this coat." 

"Yes," Jethann says. "That is obvious."

"It's..." It's his coat, his armor, the only thing he kept from the wardens. "It's a good coat."

"Unacceptable." Madam Lusine frowns at the coat as if she wants to strangle it, just in case it decides to come alive. "This house has a reputation to uphold."

Anders can think of several things to say about the reputation of a mid range brothel but he stops himself. The Rose is a good house, probably the best in Kirkwall, and the usual performances here have a certain class. "Do you have anything here I could wear?"

"Not with trousers," Jethann says as he slides his hand along a rack of colourful dresses. "They're not much in demand."

Something like defiance makes Anders straighten his back and cock his hip. "I can wear a dress, no problem. It's not so different from wearing a robe."

Jethann's eyes light up. "Oh, darling." He looks Anders up and down. "Darling, when I'm done with you, you will rock that dress."

--

The Blooming Rose feels surprisingly nice tonight. Tasteful decorations, a table laden with food, and a capable band playing in the background — it's better than Fenris expected. And since it's a private party with Hawke's friends and acquaintances, nobody has taken him or Merrill for servants or pinched their ears so far. It looks like a promising evening. 

Fenris settles down on a couch with his wine. A good tevinter red, he should thank Varric for getting it for him. For a while he watches Hawke circle the room, how he throws a massive arm around any shoulder, making everyone feel welcome. Even some of the higher nobles, who obviously feel out of place among the merchants and traders from Lowtown, suddenly engage in lively conversations. It's a gift, almost like magic, how Hawke manages that. 

The music is pleasant, some string instrument being plucked and a piano filling the air with gentle sounds. He leans back, lazily watching Merrill trying every food at the buffet, chatting with a merchant woman the whole time. He keeps an eye on her, just to make sure that no one takes advantage of her. Hawke would be furious if anyone mistreated Merrill.

But as his gaze wanders again, he notes that the mage is missing. Sitting up to get a better view, he scans the whole room. He's certain that Anders came with them, he remembers how tired he looked and how Varric whispered something to him that made him smile. How he suddenly didn't look tired anymore. How the skin around his eyes crinkled as he smiled.

--

Anders looks at his reflection in the mirror. In the last half hour, he had focused on warming up his voice and making sure that he still knew all the words to the songs, while Jethann fluttered all around him, did his hair, put something on his face, painted his eyes, and draped jewellery over his chest. Now, actually looking at himself, his mouth falls open. 

"I look amazing!" he finally says. 

"Yes, you do, darling," Jethann says, pride resonating in his voice. "Turn around."

Anders turns, straining his neck to look over his shoulder. The glittering dress is yellow, goes all the way down to his feet, and leaves his shoulders and his back bare. Jethann put a golden necklace on him, and draped it low over his shoulder blades. His scars are visible and for a second he thinks about covering them up. 

"I have a scarf you can drape over your shoulders." Jethann, perceptive as ever, holds a gossamer thin scarf in the same shade of yellow in his hand.

Anders looks at his back again. The scars are part of him, he won't hide them. "No, I like it better this way. 

"You look fabulous," Jethann says, handing him long gloves in the same colour. They go up over his elbows and complete the whole arrangement perfectly. "Fabulous." Jethann rises on his tiptoes and presses a kiss to his cheek. "Now go out there, they're waiting for you."

Anders takes a deep breath and steps through the curtain. Someone lights several lanterns over the stage, making it harder to see the audience. He is grateful for that. He's nervous enough, he doesn't need to see people's faces. The man at the piano nods at him, and Anders steps over to him, resting his hand on the polished wood. Hopefully, nobody can see his knees shake under the dress. 

The man at the piano plays the first few keys, and then it's suddenly easy. Now he just has to sing.

--

It's a man on the stage. It's not a man dressed to look like a woman, it's a man, confidently wearing a glittering, long, yellow dress. And he sings. His voice is warm, soft like velvet, with an edge of roughness for emphasis. Fenris stares, enthralled. The man sings a song of dreams and hope and butterflies or something ridiculous like that, but the singer makes it sound like it is important. 

The songs ends, people applaud enthusiastically, and the singer turns around, grinning over his shoulder. And now Fenris recognizes him. That smile, the scars on his back, the way the dress contours his ass. The singer is Anders. His long hair is pinned in a loose bun, but a few strains come free as he moves across the stage, dancing around his face. 

It is Anders. And he looks stunning.

He starts the next song, a fast paced thing he animates people to dance to. He swings his hips as he struts across the stage, his voice broad and powerful. Soon, nearly everyone is on the dancefloor, performing an impromptu group dance under Anders' guidance.

Fenris doesn't get up. He can only stare.

That the mage is attractive is nothing new, and that Fenris may have looked at his ass more often than he looked at Isabela's is also nothing new. But seeing Anders like this, beautiful, confident, singing like he never did anything else — it does something new. He can't place the feelings in his chest, can't name them, but he has to dig his fingers into the seat cushions to stop himself from running up on that stage and drag that mage to the next nearest bed.

Anders sings a few more songs, ending with a sad ballad about lost love. He has his eyes closed as he sings, draped on a barstool, his voice nearly going brittle as he sings of saying goodbye to his love. It feels so real, it feels like a knife wound in Fenris' chest, and he can't stop himself. He gets up, moving through the couples on the dancefloor, until he reaches the stage, putting his hands on the raised platform. 

--

This is not a good song to end on, it's too sad, his voice gets too sad because it always reminds him of Karl. As the piano player plays the outro, he whispers another song title to him, a joyful song about love and freedom. Anders tells the bass player the name of the song as well, discreetly wiping off a tear that the last song caused. A little happy song will be good for all of them.

He turns back, letting the dress swing around his legs, and dances into the next song. It's a joy to sing and his solemn mood disappears. He twirls the dress again, letting his arms dance along — and then he nearly loses his balance, barely catching himself on the piano. 

Fenris stands right at the edge of the stage, staring at him. 

That he did not expect. 

Fenris, looking at him, not angry, but definitely interested. Hungry. Anders leans against the piano and throws his head back as he stretches out one leg on a high note. From the corner of his eye he sees Fenris' eyes widen. 

Definitely interested. 

He keeps watching Fenris as he sings of freedom, of warm embraces, dancing, and hot kisses. When the song ends, the applause wakes him from a strange daze and he nearly forgets to take his bows. 

Behind the stage, he leans against the wall, and waits for his heartbeat to slow down. What a strange situation. The sexiest elf of Thedas, who doesn't even like him, apparently loves his singing. He shakes his head. Better not make more of this than it is.

A door opens on the other side, letting in a triangle of light and Anders instantly recognizes the shadowy figure standing in the doorway. There's only one muscular, tall elf who stands like this, like a predator ready to attack.

"Hello, Fenris," Anders says carefully. "Did you like my singing?"

Fenris steps in, leaving the door ajar. "Yes. I did not know you could sing." 

"It's not an ability I use often." He pushes himself away from the wall, but Fenris is suddenly right in front of him, pushing him back. His eyes shine in the dim light and he steps closer, setting his leg between Anders' legs. His hand slides up Anders' gloved arm until he reaches his neck, drawing small patterns on his skin with his fingers. 

Anders shudders as heat rises up his neck. "Is this really what you want, Fenris? You have no reason to like me."

Fenris steps closer, his breath flowing over Anders' neck. "If people can hate for no reason, I can... not hate you for no reason." 

"Not hate?" Anders laughs. "Well, it's not perfect, but what is in life?" 

That seems to sober Fenris and he steps back. "I apologise if I have been too forward. I..."

"No, shut up." Taking him by the shoulders, Anders pulls him back. "Do you not hate me enough to kiss me?"

A mischievous grin grows on Fenris' face. "Would you like me to kiss you?"

"Yes, and more." Anders lets his gloved hands slide over Fenris' arms. "I have a room with a bed here." 

The predatory look is back in Fenris' eyes. Anders takes him by the hand and drags him out of the room and up the stairs. As he opens the door, he looks at Fenris. "Do you want the dress on or off?"

Fenris leans over his back and places a kiss between his shoulder blades. "The dress stays on."

Anders grins at him. "Lucky for us, I'm not wearing any underwear."

[glowing-blue-feathermage]

Hallo beloved! you know who I haven't heard about in a long time? Solona! Could she and Anders get into some worrisome hijinks with a bit of [ COAT ]:     sender removes their jacket and drapes it around the shoulders of the trembling receiver.

pretty please? 🥺

helloooo love! ty for the prompt! some Solona Amell & Anders, cw: blood, blood-magic

for @dadrunkwriting

The last of the darkspawn fell to the arrow lodged in its throat. When he was sure it wasn’t going to get up again, Anders stepped over it into the next room. 

The silence that followed was incongruous, broken only by the hiss of cold wind around the bones of the farmhouse. 

Dust and detritus covered the floor, scuffed with footprints. The smell of wet wood and decay filled Anders’ nose as he picked his way around weather-rotted furniture to the back rooms.

The first thing Anders realized as he moved down the hall was that there were no voices. The templar that had led them here in search of a renegade mage—one they meant to rescue—had said there was a trap door in a storage room, and Solona had gone with him. The darkspawn had attacked from the fallow field behind the abandoned lot, and Solona hadn’t come back. Anders had a sick feeling, holding his breath until he could hear his heartbeat in his ears. He shouldered the door open at the end of the hall, the coppery tang of blood making his nose tingle.

“Solona?” he called. 

She didn’t answer, but the sun streamed in through the broken window on the north-facing wall, making a wan pool of wintry light in the center of the room. It glinted off silver armor, picked out the auburn in Solona’s hair and made it shine like fire, and illuminated the lake of blood on the floor. 

The Warden-Commander was standing over the body of the templar, her arms limp at her side. A knife was in her right hand and a slow trickle of red seeped from her exposed arm, sliding down the pale, freckled skin and dripping to the wooden beams at her feet. 

“He didn’t remember me,” she said at last, because Anders was still standing in the doorway staring. 

Anders looked at the templar again and her words fell into place easily enough. His throat felt dry and a sharp pang of hatred and anger lanced through his chest. 

“Your face was the last thing he saw,” Anders told her firmly, stepping into the room at last. The floor was sticky and slick, but he made his way to her. 

“Once—” She stopped, her voice hitching briefly. When she spoke again, it was more of a hiss. “Once was not enough.” The hand holding the dagger was trembling.

Anders wasn’t going to try to take it away from her or heal the cut on her arm. They’d learned long ago that Solona’s own spirit wanted no other to care for her wounds.

He could, at least, comfort her. Practical gear was something Solona insisted on. Tevinter-style robes might look pretty, but they were lacking as armor and insufficient in cold weather. Solona herself, though, never wore anything with thick sleeves, nothing that she couldn’t shuck quickly or cut through to get to her flesh with a blade.

Anders shrugged his own coat off, ignoring the prickle of gooseflesh that stung his arms. He moved closer until she could see his face, until he could meet her eyes before he gently draped it over her shoulders. 

It made her look small, almost waifish. Her face was ashen, her blue-gray eyes feverish, auburn hair stuck to her forehead beneath a tacky smear of blood. 

“He didn’t remember me,” she told him again, like she’d forgotten telling him a moment before.

Anders swallowed around the knot in his throat and carefully put an arm around her. “He’s dead now,” was the most comforting thing there was to say. The only thing that really mattered. 

Solona said nothing for a moment. Then the dagger in her hand slid back into the sheath on her opposite arm and she leaned forward and spit across the ravaged, blood-stained face of the dead templar. Anders felt the tug of the Fade around them seconds before the corpse erupted in flames. 

“I want them all,” she whispered. 

“So do I,” Anders told her. And she finally let him guide her out of the burning room. 

[saldrath]

Short Story #1 - The Strongest

This is the first short story I wrote in my own universe, the main character is The Dragon King and The Sword Magus. I'm not gonna spoil more and I hope you enjoy! Please tell me what u think in the comments :)

__________________________________________

If you ask anyone on the street “Who’s the strongest mage in this era?” everyone without a hesitation will give you one name. A name which belonged to someone who took all the definitions of how “Mage” should look, and decided to just throw them all out. To someone who made their own path of magic, a true Magus. Many people at first disagreed, that it was something that shouldn’t be called magic, that it’s not true magic, but soon they were reminded of the words of the ancient Mages - “Magic can have any form, and only if u find your own path u can call yourself true Magus.”. And Midas Van Haathe was exactly that. He made his own path, and thus became the first Magus that was born in a thousand years. But even the great Magus had no way to win a fight versus this… 

In the middle of what once looked like a great palace, there were two men, standing in front of each other. One of them was Midas - a person they call the “Sword Magus”  - his once golden hair was now stained with blood, dust and sweat. His eyes were covered by a simple bandage, compared to the rest of his clothes. He was wearing a black loose long sleeved shirt, similar to something a warrior would wear under his chainmail or armor, and a black pants that were tightly tied around his waist. One can only imagine that the clothes looked good one day, because they certainly didn't now - they were torn up, and you really couldn’t tell whether they were supposed to be red, black or maybe gray. To sum things up, he looked like a complete mess, sweat was running his whole body, and u could see he was really tired.

On the other side stood a person who in contrast looked totally different. Their hair was long, bountiful and black, tied into a single long ponytail. His clothes were extremely fancy and looked like they costed at least a small fortune. Compared to Midas, he did not have a single speck of dust on his clothes. But what made him stand out the most were the black and white horns that grew up from his head, and big majestic wings that spanned at least five meters long. 

— Midas, you really should have known that you stood no chance versus me. I applaud you for being the first Magus of this era, but that’s it. — his voice was loud, and you could easily hear the power behind it. — After all, they do not call me the King Of Dragon’s without a reason. I lived from the beginning of the time, and defeated many Magus, what made you think that you’re different from any of them?

��� Don’t worry, oh mighty Dragon King, I still have a trump card that will make you kneel. — Midas said with a smirk, but to be honest, he wasn’t so sure about that, but it was his only and last option. 

— Oh? Show me then. 

In the head of our Magus there were many emotions and thoughts running through right now, but a few stood up among the many. It was awe, fear and… fun? Midas couldn’t remember the last time he had a good fight, when the opponent put him in a corner. Well I wouldn’t even call it like that - right now he was getting absolutely destroyed. But he was having fun? He didn’t know the answer as to why this was like that, but the blood in his veins was boiling, he was itching to fight, to make the great enemy before him kneel, to defeat him. It was in his blood, magic, body - the itch to fight, to become stronger. No. To become The Strongest. He didn’t want to become just a Magus, he wanted to become someone who would be remembered as the strongest person that ever walked this world. 

Midas untied the bandage around his eyes, and revealed his eyes in the color of gold. No, it was an understatement, they looked like they were real gold. His eyes were extremely beautiful, they gave a feeling that u would never find something that looked better than them. But the act of uncovering his eyes was just a trigger action, to help him prepare for his next move. All of his senses suddenly expanded, and he could see and feel much, much, much more than before. All the mana in the atmosphere slowly gathered around Haathe and his sword, seeped inside of his body, in every muscle, every bone, every tiny nerve and in the end it formed a thin coat around him and his weapon. It was the first time a phenomenon like this happened in the world, even the Dragon King was looking carefully with awe.

The Magus finally looked around, and saw the effect of their fight. Hundreds of different weapons were lying around in the ground, but none two the same. Pillars made of marble and stone cutted, smashed were lying around. U really couldn’t point out a space that was not destroyed. 

— This is it, you better get ready. — Midas took a breath, knowing that this may very well be the very last breath of his life. He didn’t regret a single thing. He knew that every life had to come to an end one day, and today was his day to go and meet Death. His mouth formed a small smile, as he rushed forward with his old trusty sword. He was much faster than before, it looked with every step he took he was bending the reality, and when he finally slashed his sword - it slashed through everything - mana, space and even time. And it was the first time his sword catched the Dragon King. It was also the first time the dragon felt fear and awe.

…

The last stand of Midas took hours, and it destroyed everything in the vicinity. And I mean, everything - mountains, forests, rivers and even mana. The place where the fight took place now became manaless, and no living being could even stand in here. It became a bare crater with a span of hundreds of kilometers with no sight of anything other than the dying Dragon King — Midas Van Haathe - I have to admit, you are after all the strongest. There was no one stronger than you, and never will be. — he said to himself, knowing very well that even when he could not see the body of his opponent, he was listening. These were his last words, and soon even his body disappeared. 

[crossroadsdimension]

FFXIVWrite 2024 Day 20

Prompt: Duel

(FFXIVWrite 2024 Masterpost)

(spoilers for the Sorrow of Werlyt, ShB)

Cross Sylvan had picked the sparring grounds, just outside of Terncliff with enough space for them both to move at whatever speeds and distance they chose — within reason, at least.

Gaius Baelsar couldn’t help but consider the coastal cliffs and the severe look on the Warrior of Light’s face with more caution than when Cross had suggested the idea.

The young woman looked like she had brought him out here to duel, rather than for a friendly test of each other’s abilities.

But turning down the Eikon Slayer wasn’t something he had considered an option, and he doubted Cross would have given him that chance.

Gaius drew his gunblade and settled into a ready stance. He could see Cross had opted not to use her usual mage’s staff, and instead carried a sword and shield at her sides. They — as well as the armor she wore — looked like they had rarely seen use.

Likely because she preferred to fight at a distance. He remembered her preferring her staff during their combat in the Praetorium, and additional reports that she sometimes relied on a bow rather than magicks. Something was different about this, and Gaius planned to find out what, and why.

“Whenever you are ready,” Gaius called, and braced himself.

Cross flicked her sword and charged without a word.

Gaius brought his blade forward and met hers. The resounding sound of clashing steel rang across their chosen arena, followed by the scraping sound of blade against blade as they both pushed against the other.

Cross moved first, twisting her blade to force Gaius’ away, then quickly brought up her shield when Gaius moved to strike again.

Something about the movement felt familiar. Gaius put the thought out of his mind — better to focus on what was going on now, rather than what might have been.

Except that, the longer they fought for, the more that nagging feeling settled at the back of his mind.

He had fought someone with almost this exact style before, but who? And for what reason?

Cross seemed to notice his slowly growing frustration. She caught his blade on her shield and held it there. Her focused, blue-eyed frown met Gaius’ scowling face with an expression that was almost calculating. “You’re distracted.”

Gaius gritted his teeth briefly at the remark, then pulled back his blade and stepped back. When he didn’t raise his gunblade to strike again, Cross lowered her own sword. “Do all adventurers who train in the sword and shield train to fight in this style?”

Cross’ frown deepened at the question. “Not all. Only some are allowed to learn some of those techniques. Why?”

“I feel as though I fought an adventurer in like manner before, but I cannot recall his face, nor much else beyond the encounter itself.” Gaius’ scowl twisted with frustration. “I am not old enough for my memories to be uncooperative, and yet….”

Cross blinked. Her eyebrows raised slowly, turning her expression from a focused, confused frown to one of realization.

Gaius almost didn’t notice. He shifted his grip on his blade, prepared to sheathe or raise it for another round, but he stopped when he saw the look on the Warrior’s face. It made him pause, and frown in confusion. “What is it?”

Cross blinked again, then shook her head. “Ah — nothing.” She sheathed her blade.

Gaius noticed her movements and did the same with his. “With you, it is never ‘nothing.’ But if you do not wish to speak of it, I will not press.”

Had she experienced an Echo vision from him, perhaps? It was not unprecedented, although they were reported to be accompanied by headaches, were they not?

He decided to put the thought out of his mind. There were other matters to attend to.

Gaius inclined his head at Cross. “Do you wish to go another round, or are we done for the day?”

Cross shook her head. “No. Once was enough.”

Gaius considered the Warrior and her stance. There was a stiffness to her shoulders he hadn’t noticed before, and her hands were almost clenched. She’d closed her eyes, and they looked pinched in the corners.

They were all pieces to a puzzle he had yet to fully discern, but he could at least guess at what was going through her mind. Had she known someone who had fought him in that style in the past, and she had been hoping to see if she could make him remember?

A possibility. But he was not going to consider the situation. Not unless Cross confirmed herself that was what she’d had in mind.

“Very well,” Gaius said instead. “Then let us take a moment to rest and consider our next move. I doubt the VIIth Legion will allow us much longer before they deploy their next Weapon.”

Cross breathed in deeply, and she nodded. “Right.”

[sl0ppygw]

This is a part of a story I wrote as a 8th grader, so here

Chapter 1:

A Start

To me, UE 301, 21, Spring

It isn’t usual that I would write a journal to. myself,

however, the circumstances that I’ve been placed in are

far from usual. 'When the world calls, a hero answers,'

or at least that’s what the royalty said when they

revealed the hero to us. Of course, the royals were

late to do so, for that tiefling nation had attacked those

poor elves some year ago, then they make that

idiotic choice to put me in the party with the hero,

yet we got less training than the court’s dogs! I only

hope that this mission is as easy as they said. 'Tieflings

only know how to fight amongst themselves' is what they

told us five. Anyway, remember to write often; maybe you

might get some coin after all this is done, and…

“...remember to stay safe,” she sighed with relief. She leaned back in her chair, restlessly staring at the ceiling of her tent. The bed was still made, because she hadn’t slept since they left the city. How could she? They were being sent into an active warzone. It was noxious just thinking about it. She was just an average knight, sure she was a bit more responsible than most, but not heroic in the slightest. She sighed once more as the rest of the party was getting ready outside, yet she was sure none of them felt even slightly prepared, at least that’s what she felt.

She closed the journal, laying it on the table, placing it in her bag. The noises from the rush preparation of the rest of the party had begun to slow as she joined them outside.

“Heya, Miss Aur-Aurlia?” Lina attempted. Poor young girl was just a church child, and she can only guess that the only reason Lina is with the party is that she has some mage ability or something.

“Aurella,” she corrected Lina.

“Oh, Miss Aurella, are you ready to head out? We've almost made it to the first town.” Lina spoke with a childish innocence. Aurella couldn’t help but despise the royalty even more for sending a child with them.

“Yes, I am ready. Do you have everything you need?”

“Yes, Miss!”

“Then let us not keep them waiting,” Aurella stated blankly, trying not to intimidate the young girl. She walked by Lina tapping her on the shoulder as she passed. The rest of the party were waiting by the road, the hero or Linthall as he called himself was on his horse gazing at the plains ahead. She looked to the right, glancing at Ziro, a bit of character; he was a foreign accomplished archer or at least that’s what his file said, but all he has done is stick to himself. Aurella turned to her horse, which was being attended to by Ritter, a towering man. He heard him talk to the hero quite often, and his armor can only be that of a noble’s.

“Are we taking our leave yet?” Aurella inquired

“Yes, we waited for you.” Ritter stated

“Wasn’t necessary,” she snared

“Lina is the one who said that,” Ritter mouthed. Aurella mounted her horse, as Lina finally grouped up with the rest of the party.

“Lina, you're coming with me.” Aurella commanded, pointing to the small bit of room behind her.

“Y-yes ma’am!” she answered, hopping on the horse sloppily with Aurella’s assistance. Then the hero signaled for them to follow, and they continued to the small town of Burnsted boarding the kingdoms.

[stesierra]

@alnaperera tagged me for Find the Word tag!

My words are: throw, major, month, and pitch.

I'm tagging @bellascarousel and @akiwitch and @aziz-reads! Your words are hunter, danger, kill and soft.

Throw (Stitches and Memories)

Far down the way, next to one of these tree-walls, two men in dark cuirasses stood along the verge. As the trio marched towards them, they spread out across the road. Antea offered them a smile and kept walking, but the hair on her neck rose. That armor looked very familiar. But surely she was wrong. They couldn't be attacked a third day in a row, a stone's throw from a soldiers' post, and why would bandits all wear the same outfit, anyway? Criminals didn't have a uniform.

Major (As Immortality Fades)

Eventually, the men stopped patting me with their cloaks, and one of them, a blond man with blue eyes, said, "Your Majesty? Are you all right?"

I stayed balanced on their knees because there was nowhere else to go. Dagmod and Eysta were shouting from the edge of the crowd. I took stock of myself. My mantle was nothing but hot char, and my hair was a foot shorter. My back was in agony, so the burn couldn't be that deep. I had seen a man burned once so badly that his skin turned white and black, and he had confided to me that he felt no pain at all anymore. And then he had died. I said, "I'll live. Thank you for coming to my aid."

The men flushed, seeming to become aware of my position in their arms. They let go of me, and the whole crowd scrunched together until there was just enough room for me to sit on my knees, although I still brushed against the men on either side. The man who had spoken said, "Your Majesty, it was our duty as your subjects to aid you. We didn't mean to push you into the fire. If we had known what that Valteifur meant to do, none of us would have stood so close."

"What did he do?" I asked, for I could not make sense of their sudden appearance. They were a strange bunch. Oh, their faces could belong to any of my subjects, bearing a mix of skin and eye and hair colors that came from Kathild being a major center of trade. They were a mixture of ages, from young to old, nothing special there. But their clothes looked decades, even centuries, out of fashion. Some of them wore light shirts and dresses better fitted to spring and summer. A few even stood clothed in a sheet alone. The men and women in spring clothes wrapped their arms around themselves and shivered against the wind. The ones dressed in sheets looked about to turn blue.

The men that had helped me exchanged glances. The second, whose hair was almost as red as Indrig's, said, "Your Majesty, he brought us back."

Month (The Halfway Revenant)

“What are you going to pay me?” the junkman asked, bumping against her table. “You want that one. Don’t you?”

She scooted her stool back. “I’ll give you a page of facts. No more, no less.” He wouldn’t remember them, not high on sooz. If he was lucky, he could read.

“Good facts?”

“Enough to buy a whole month of meals.” Or a few servings of sooz.

Pitch (Stitches and Memories)

Antea surprised herself with a laugh. "I can't believe that one of the favored can't get work."

Jedan rolled his eyes. "All right, I can, but the jobs are all excessively holy. I'm not just a collection of miraculous powers and I won't put up with being treated like one."

She rested her chin in her hand. "Why not? Sounds like fun. Show me a miracle."

He sighed nobly, but his lips twitched upward into a faint smile.

"You need to work on your martyred look," she told him.

"Martyr is one of those jobs I'm not applying for," he said with a wave of his hand. "The pay is terrible anyway."

"No, seriously, what can you do?" People revered the favored because they were the chosen of the gods and guided directly by their hands. But the favored were also held in awe because of the divine powers the gods granted them. Jedan probably had at least half a dozen magical abilities. And unlike a mage, he wouldn't need thirty years of study to learn how to use them.

"Track people if I have part of their body or something they've made. That's one."

Gods, the constables would love to have someone who could do that in their pocket. No wonder they'd tried to recruit him. His powers aroused her curiosity, but what did she have to give him? She owned hardly anything, so she handed him the dragon book and leaned towards him, propping her elbows on the table. "Can you tell where the writer of this is?"

He laughed and waggled it at her. "No. That and the age of the thing answer your question, though. In a grave."

She took it back and smoothed her hand across the battered leather cover. "It doesn't work if they're dead?"

Jedan nodded.

She had one more possession beside her blanket, dress and book. Antea's lip bled a drop of copper onto her tongue when she bit down on it. Dare she give him her father's note? Could she stand to know whether or not her father was dead? She wanted to hide in the bedroom Fenka had promised her, where the promise of answers wouldn't haunt her. Instead she reached a hand slowly into her haversack. "Would you do another one for me?"

"Sure, I love being a party trick."

She freed the letter and held it out to him. Words failed her, and her throat tightened until it hurt.

She didn't know how she looked, but his smile vanished and he sat up straight, his gaze fixed on hers. He took the paper from her fingertips. When he held it in front of his eyes for a long moment, his pupils widened, pitch-black against gold.

"The trail starts that way," he said, pointing south-west.

Nausea hit her like a club to the stomach. "The writer's alive?"

"The writer's alive."

[contreparry]

Arriving in a new city and remembering an identical evening in a different city that was happier (or unhappy) - for any pairing of your choosing

Absolutely! Here's some pre!Surana/Zevran (once again from a modern!Thedas AU) for @dadrunkwriting!

Bran was good at uprooting his life.

It was part of being a Mage, being in the Circle system and not in a Clan, part of being an orphan and getting lost in the system. Sometimes you got shuffled from place to place, from one town to the other all across Ferelden as people learned that you weren't just a Mage but a talented one, that you weren't just sullen but a bit of a problem child, when you were... well, when you were someone like Bran Surana, you got used to moving around from place to place and never staying too long. But as he looked over the chilly waters of the Bay of Amaranthine, Bran thought of another time he looked over a big body of water as the sun set. He wondered if this time, this time, he might finally grow those roots his grandmother always told him about.

"Roots aren't always a place, they're also a people," she would say, and Bran remembered the lonely nights at Kinloch College, when he stared out at the lake from his dorm and tried to remind himself that all the lonely nights of studying would be worth it in the end. He almost heard his grandmother's voice as he stared out the 3rd floor library window at the bay. There was a shipping freighter out in the distance. If he squinted he could count individual shipping bins stacked on top of each other. Bran stared out at the water. Choppy. Sort of like Lake Calenhad. The lake was big enough to have tides, though Bran saw the difference between lake tides and ocean tides now. Bran hadn't put down roots, but he was... putting out feelers. Testing the soil? He was now familiar with Amaranthine and the winding streets. He was... getting used to it.

"Ah! I thought you might be up here," a now familiar voice murmured near his left ear. A warm arm snaked around his waist and a hand came to rest on the bony part of his hip. The warmth bled through his thin cotton shirt. Bran recognized the hand: slender, long fingers, warm amber skin, neat manicured nails. He also recognized the polished steel ring with the delicate engravings and onyx stone on the man's middle finger. What was it that Leliana's friend said about her party guest? Something something "he's lovely once you get to know him," something. Bran felt like she was telling him the truth, but the only problem was-

"Oh. Messere Arainai," Bran said, and he turned to look at his companion. He was dressed as fashionably as ever: dark overcoat, dark slacks, dark boots that cost more than his monthly stipend, blond hair perfectly disheveled. The only bit of color to the man's wardrobe was the ocean blue green scarf tied about his neck and the ruby earring that dangled from his right ear like a drop of blood. He was effortlessly elegant, yet somehow no one seemed to notice him. They stood at the window and looked out at sea, surrounded by shelves full of dusty books on magic and mathematics.

"Zevran, my dear bookseller," Arainai- Zevran- said with a smile. It was the fake one again, the one that was too perfect and charming, and Bran frowned. This was the problem with Zevran Arainai: he wore his grace and affability like armor, and Bran wanted to pry it off of him and speak to the person underneath it all. The messy person who would wheeze when he laughed and seemed greedy for conversation- just some conversation! Bran wasn't good at talking, but for that laugh? That little sliver of authenticity? Bran would try.

"Zevran," Bran said as he ducked away from Zevran's touch, hovering just out of reach. "I don't remember telling you where I'd be." Zevran had an annoying (alarming) habit of showing up when least expected. He swept into the room, spun Bran around until he could hardly think, and then he was gone and left nothing behind, not even a trace of cologne in his wake. Weird. A fashionable man like Zevran seemed like the type who would wear cologne, or at least use some scented soap.

"I saw you purchase a coffee downstairs and thought you might enjoy a snack to go with the caffeine," Zevran said, and he held up a paper bag with an oil stain slowly spreading at the bottom of the bag. Bran eyed the bag. He might be rigid in some respects (safety first, theory before practice, always have a fire extinguisher on hand), but when it came to bribery... Bran nodded towards two armchairs by the window.

"You thought correctly," Bran replied. "I'm not much for conversation, got a lesson plan to review."

"No need to converse, dear Bran," Zevran assured him, already on his way to the chairs and the window. "I am happy to be in your company, even without words."

Despite the smile and polish, there was something in Zevran's voice that made Bran flop down in his chair and settle in. Sincerity. Bran was used to uprooting himself, but maybe... Bran reached into the paper bag and pulled out a slightly squished apple turnover. Maybe this was a place with the people where he might just grow his roots.

[dufreydiaries]

Lucline woke a good hour before Rasina was supposed to come for her. One did not travel into the desert unprepared if they wanted to ever return. She cast a simple alteration spell on her pack to allow it to hold more things. She put a weeks’ worth of dried food rations and the same rations of water. Then she layered in extra clothing as well. Only then did she pack her research supplies and close the pack. Then she grabbed her mage’s staff from its holder and headed out into the dark.

As she stepped out, her sandaled feet crunching in the sand. She brought up her hand and cast a floating light next to her shoulder as she waited. She was scantily clad in the outfit that Rasina had gifted her as the night had been just as hot as the day. She had heard the deserts elsewhere got freezing cold at night. This did not happen often in the Alik’r. The nights were usually just a little cooler than the daytime. The difference was, there was no intense sun to burn you. When the light came, she would see if the cloak would be needed. She hoped it would not, given she could already tell the sky was completely cloaked with clouds today.

A shadowy figure approached her from the darkness. Rasina appeared, dressed in an identical outfit with a pack on her back. Rasina had no weapon, but that wasn’t an issue. Rasina’s sword was always close to hand.

“Good morning, Rasina.” Lucline greeted with a smile. She tried to tell her racing heart to calm down, they had a job to do. It didn’t help things that Rasina was a very beautiful girl.

“Good morning, Lucline,” She greeted in return. She stopped and her head went down as if examining her. “I always find myself surprised at how well you wear our native garments. I sometimes wonder if you should have been born here.”

Lucline giggled. “Maybe. I’ve always hated the stifling fashions of High Rock. Give me something minimal and/or silk any day. As for corsets, they can go burn.”

Rasina frowned. “I would hate to see you in one of those. First, you’re far too skinny as it is. Second, it would be a shame to take your freedom from you. I bet you can barely move in one of those abominations.”

Lucline nodded firmly. “Oh yes, that’s very true. Well, shall we go?”

Rasina whistled and two camels came around the corner. Lucline sighed as she climbed in the saddles. She settled in, for once glad that her parents had forced so many riding lessons on her. At least she did not need to ride side-saddle. She hated riding side-saddle. She smiled as Rasina climbed up. The fighter gave her a look.

“What is it?” The blonde mage giggled. “I just remembered the first time we rode camels together. I never saw you more panicked.”

Rasina snorted. “Of course, I was! You were being dragged in the sand by one leg. I thought you were a goner.”

“Nah, I had ridden enough to know I needed to cast a Flesh spell and armor myself with magic the moment I started to fall. Thank you for going out of your way to teach me.”

Rasina turned her mount away, but Lucline could have sworn there was a blush on her face as she did.

“It’s no trouble. Would have been bad if you ever needed to go in the desert and didn’t know the difference between a horse and a camel. Shall we go?”

Lucline smiled and urged her mount forward. They rode off into the dark.

*Elder-Scrolls*

A/N: And they are off on their first adventure! I know these chapters are short, but I would like to do a chapter a day if I can for some time. We will see if I can keep up with it or decide to go longer. See you next chapter.

[brotherslayer]

Any unpopular opinions on Death is the only ending for the Villainess?

overrated. It's full of abuse apologism, dare I say pro imperialism, pro slavery, all women in this manhwa only exist to torment the mc and get their punishment while the men (only if handsome!) are forgiven

the characters are flat. We don't know anything about their likes and hobbies. Iklies at least has the excuse that as a slave he has no time or money to pursue an interest but the other male leads are nobility. They should have a life that doesn't revolve around Penelope.

Iklies being a yandere doesn’t mean his character has to be two dimensional. Yanderes are capable of following their own agenda aside from their obsession with their s/o. Let him have that.

Iklies deserved better

the Eckarts deserved to die or put in prison

why is Derrick a love interest when he lusted after a 12 year old as an adult?  Why is no one talking about that?

Callisto should be executed for the genocide in Delman. If he was old enough to participate in a war, he would have been old enough to be judged for his crimes according to the law of his time. But I think even if we applied the modern law he could be tried for everything he did from age 18-23. And if someone tries to apply the insanity defense here then by that same logic he shouldn't be allowed to rule a country but send to therapy.

villains who are only complicit or have an understandable motive get harshly punished, meanwhile the main perpetrator or the one who indirectly caused this goes free (the cook loses her job, Emily, a child abuser, stays, the imperialist and enslaver gets his happy ending, the slave loses the girl he loves and is villainized for rebelling and wanting his abusers to die)

the fandom has a problem with abuse apologism. I saw someone once calling Penelope paranoid and partly guilty for the abuse against her.

Penelope has plot armor

I’d be more interesting if she had lives left she can use up (maybe 5 for each love interest?). Adds more suspense as we’d know she’ll die but wouldn’t know when or how she would die.

Callisto/Penelope scenes seem forced. When he held his sword against her neck and called her a rat and she said she loved him I cringed so hard. Was that supposed to be romantic? Her family back in Korea used to call her a rat. So far iklies and Vinter are the only LI’s who haven’t degraded her. But Vinter is a plot device and Iklies a villain.

this has to do with personal taste: I hate the fan service (men showing their abs) and the manhwa could do better without them. This is a death/survival game. How the narrative tries to insert Callisto scenes and attempts to make them seem romantic breaks me out of the flow. It just feels misplaced.

the behaviour of some characters is inconsistent (i.e. Penelope decided to keep the abusive maid around with the excuse that no one can gurantee her if her replacement won’t be worse, but then after establishing her place in the Eckart household she decides to leave for the palace where Mr grimreaper crown prince lives, the people that ordered the assassination and hundreds of servants that no one can gurantee aren’t dangerous because they could be working for the queen. Also why did she even expect the Eckarts to help her after everything they’ve done to her. That was foolish.)

making the og! heroine the villain, making the og villainess secretly a saint/mage is cheap. Been there. Done before. The manhwa had such a unique premise but then it fell into the usual cliches I thought it would avoid.

Penelope should have attempted to run away when she had nothing to lose anymore. I wonder why she never tried to go the independent route because if I remember correctly some Otome games do provide routes where you don’t necessarily need a man. (Arcana Famiglia I believe where Felicia can become a mafia boss without marrying anyone). The fastest way to end the game in Code Realize is not choosing a man and travelling the world alone. (It counts as a bad end but still). What I’m saying is it’s strange Penelope never tested out other options.

the abuse against Penelope should have had an effect on her health. Doesn’t vitamin defiancy lead to poor eyesight? Things like that.

I find it hard to believe Ivonne was such a nice person when she was raised by classist and racist people. The Eckarts probably idealized her in their memories.

Cha Siyeon pursuing a degree in archeology..you won’t get a lot money and it is a scientific and academic discipline which doesn’t have a lot of practical application, I heard you have to suck up to rich people and fight a lot with rich people (who are for example annoyed to stop construction work on their factory because they could damage an important artefact or historical burial site). So if she did it to escape her rich family she’d just be at square one. I’ve heard her family has already sabotaged her life in hopes she’ll return to them (the shitty appartment for example), so choosing a field to major in that isn’t very lucrative is well maybe not a good idea. I get it she did it because it’s a subject she’s passionate about but as someone rational as her I’m not sure if it was a good decision or even in character. (debateable) If you want independence, money comes first. I’ve read yelansdicecharm‘s concept of Siyeon being a computer major and that by hacking the game to achieve a happy ending she caused the error which sucked her into the game world. I think that concept is very cool.

[agentwashingcat]

Take a Break

I mostly wrote this cause I usually write my Warden taking care of Alistair and wanted to flip the script. Show that they both take care of each other :3 Set after Here Lies the Abyss quest.

Mostly fluff but it gets a little suggestive at the end. Just a little bit lol

Cross posted on ao3!

Elysia was up to her ears in paperwork. Nothing ever seemed to stop for the Inquisition, day or night. It was a miracle any of them got any sleep. This was exactly the reason she had given up her Warden-Commander position in Vigils Keep.

But the Inquisition had needed help and she had, stupidly, offered to stick around and help out in between her own research. Which was increasingly being put on hold. Leliana had been kind enough to find the papers Elysia had been looking for, if only she could find time to actually read them. But, unfortunately, coordinating the movements of the remaining wardens for the inquisition came first.

On top of that, she was also trying to help the Inquisitor with her backbone. Gwen had proven time and again she could be counted on when their backs were against the wall. If only the poor girl could bring that shiny spine into her day to day work as inquisitor, they would be golden. And as Elysia was in the unique position of also being a former circle mage having been thrust into a position of power with little to no say in the matter, she was the best accustomed to try and help.

It was certainly a process, but Gwen was already doing better, at least. That was a little bit of weight of Elysia’s shoulders.

A hand gently rested on her upper back, and Elysia started, turning to see Alistair standing beside her. “Alistair? I didn’t hear you come in.”

He chuckled softly. “No, you were quite focused on your reports.” He placed a gentle hand under her elbow, pulling her out of her seat. “Come with me?”

Elysia raised an eyebrow. “Where are we going? I still have things to do.”

“You’ll see.”

She scrunched up her nose, but didn’t object further.

Alistair led her out onto the Battlements, pausing to look out over the frozen mountains. Somehow, Skyhold was a pleasant temperature, even at this time of night. Must have been some enchantment, since the Frostbacks themselves were freezing year round. The place was thrumming with so much magic, however, that she hadn’t been able to untangle any of it. Whoever had placed the enchantments on this place had certainly known what they were doing.

She leaned against Alistar, and he wrapped an arm around her, pulling her close. Without his armor on, she could feel the warmth of him and smiled, pressing herself closer. She expected them to continue moving, but they just stood there, enjoying the view. Which she wasn’t complaining about, it was a nice view after all.

Still, a few minutes later she spoke up. “I thought you had something to show me?”

Alistair smiled sheepishly down at her. “Yes, well. You’re looking at it. I thought you needed a break. And I knew you wouldn’t take one yourself.”

She squinted up at him. “When did you get so sneaky?”

He laughed, pressing a kiss to the top of her head. “I’m not that sneaky, love. I was just giving you the excuse you needed to walk away from your desk.”

Elysia hated to admit that he was right. Once she got pulled into something, she tended to ignore everything around her. Including her own needs. There had been many times as warden-commander that Alistair had brought her food so she would remember to eat.

She stood on her tiptoes, pulling his head down to kiss him properly. “Have I ever told you you’re the best husband I’ve ever had?”

Alistair laughed. “I’m the only husband you’ve ever had.”

“And the best. That’s why I only need one.”

His cheeks flushed and he beamed at her. “You’re too good to me.”

“Nonsense.” She pulled him down for another kiss.

After they parted they spent another few minutes holding each other, looking out at the surrounding mountains. Enjoying each other’s company and the breathtaking view. 

Finally, Elysia sighed. “I do need to get back to work.”

“Are we absolutely sure I can’t distract you for another few minutes?” He gave her a mischievous grin. “Back in our room, of course.”

“I could be persuaded,” she purred, looking up at him longingly. “Have to promise more than a few minutes, though.”

His grin widened. “However long you want, love.”

“Oh, I will hold you to that.”

“Maker’s breath I hope you do.”

[impagines]

Falling for you!

(Childe x Reader one shot)

Content Warning: blood mention, concussion, mild violence typical to genshin.

Summary: You asked the traveler‘a team to escort you through some of the more dangerous part of Liyue. Of course, things don’t go according to plan. But at least Childe is there to soften the blow!

Childe and you are out with the traveler’s exploration team. As an archaeologist, you may not be a fighter but you’re still curious and adventurous. Thus, leading you to being escorted by everyone.

Childe played up his role as escort, going as far to say that he was “your knight in shining armor” for the afternoon much to your chagrin. He even takes your hand and hovers his face over it while over-exaggerating some kissy noises.

Everything was supposed to be fine. Until, of course, it wasn’t. Somehow, the Traveler and Childe always seem to be attracting trouble to themselves. This time the trouble came in the form of three abyss mages; one hydro abyss mage, one pyro abyss mage, and one cyro abyss mage.

Your group was now stuck in a cavern, trapped in by the trio of misfits. You were standing behind everyone, at the edge of a harsh cliff side leading into a deep, dark ravine below, trying your best to not get in the way of the group. However, this doesn’t prove to be useful in the face of enemies that can teleport straight towards you.

A cryo abyss mage appears in front of you and cackles at your fear. With a yelp, you barely dodge a stray icicle it unleashes, stepping backwards in the process. You stumble, and look behind you to see there’s little to no space between you and the cliffedge. One step forward means getting caught up in the abyss mage, and one step back means falling straight off, there’s no way you’re getting out of this without being hurt.

A little more luckily, Childe had seen your distress and immediately sprinted towards you and the abyss mage. Even if the element matchup was horrendous, he was still determined to keep you safe. A quick shot of hydro from Childe is enough to get the abyss mage’s attention. But it’s not enough to draw it from its position, where it starts to dance and chant. Your eyes widen at the barrage of icicles that are about to rain down upon you. You close your eyes tight, wishing that at least it’d be a quick death.

Childe is at your side in an instant, holding onto your waist, pushing your head into his chest and… leaping down the ravine?

You let out a scream of pure terror, trusting a fatui with your life had to be the worst mistake you’d ever made!

Except for the fact you weren’t exactly plummeting, instead you seem to be making a slower descent than you initially thought. You peek up from Childe’s chest, where you not-so-discreetly were curling up, to see that his glider had been pulled out and a cheeky grin was plastered onto his face.

“Scared?” Childe teases. “I promised I’d protect you already, and I can’t just back out of a promise.” He readjusts you in his arms, which is a lot more horrifying when you’re midair and the only thing you can latch onto is him. “Hold still, this is gonna be a rough landing.”

You brace yourself for impact, your jaw still managing to find a way to knock into a rock and reverberate the pain through your skull. Although you have a minor migraine, your fall has been mostly cushioned by Childe, who groans in pain below you. Despite his masochistic tendencies, it doesn’t look like he’s enjoying himself.

Quickly, you scamper off of his body and check him over. You pull his hair back with your hand, looking on in horror as you spread blood through it like it’s a gel. You wipe the blood off your hand and onto his uniform.

“Oh my archons, Childe are you alright?” Putting the slightly-bloody hand to his cold cheek as you inspect his face for any injury, he half-heartedly laughs at the concern.

“Aw, you don’t have to worry about a guy like me,” He pats the hand on his face. “I’m tough as nails. “

“That doesn’t mean anything, where does it hurt?” You continue to nag slightly, and he takes a moment to process the question before answering.

“It’s blurry,” he starts. “My head hurts, ears are ringing.” He gives another pat to your hand. “But I’m all good.”

“I think,” You squint at him, carefully looking into his eyes, and watch as his pupils dilate further. “You may be concussed.”

“Am not.” He slurs unconvincingly.

“Follow my finger with your eyes.” You hold up a finger, waiting for Childe’s eyes to latch onto the digit, and slowly move it from left to right. His eyes lag behind and he squints at the air dubiously.

“I’m no doctor but I think, at the very least, something is not right here.” You sigh and settle for unbuttoning his coat. Childe lazily pushes at your hands.

“Woah, woah, isn’t this a bit fast?” He wiggles his eyebrows, or at least tries to. It still gets a reaction out of you in the form of a flushed face and a scowl.

“You’re freezing, Childe. Or do you not remember the Hydro and Cryo Mages?” You bat his hand away and with shaky hands you unbutton the rest of the coat. Once you push the offending piece of cloth off of his shoulders, a shiver racks through him once exposed to the cool air. A droplet of water rolls down from his neck, going down the middle of his chest and into the crevices of his muscles before you catch it with your hand and wipe it away. His abs tense up for a moment before he relaxes, but he’s still shivering.

“Here, put your arms out so I can put you into this.” You request while taking off your own coat.

“Don’t need that,” Childe insists. “Won’t fit.”

“It’s oversized on me anyways, and you need it more. Just stop complaining already and let me help you.” You insist.

It’s a struggle to pull Childe’s arm through before he gives in. Once he’s in the overcoat, he seems much warmer once you button it up. On you it swamps your shape, but on him it’s a better fit, and he seems comfortable in it, albeit grumpy.

“Better?” You ask with genuine concern, eyeing up the apparent red spotting in his hair.

“‘M a bit cold, maybe a kiss will warm me up!” He makes an annoyingly exaggerated smooching sound as he looks up at you with mirth.

Your tongue swipes at your bottom lip and a copper taste fills your mouth. Your lip is totally busted from the whole ordeal.

“Sorry, I can’t do that. My lips are-.” You manage to catch yourself a little late, and your face heats up. Obviously Childe was kidding with you, even if it was a lot slower of a quip, but that was just due to the nature of a concussion!

Childe straight up giggles, it’s giddy and childish and you briefly wonder if this was a sound his family heard a lot growing up. “Your face, you should see the look on it,” Childe’s hand comes up to your cheek this time, and you know he can feel the heat because your face feels uncomfortably warm in this frigid cave. “Ah, my own personal fireplace.”

You have half the mind to scold him, but you figure it’s not worth the energy and you just slump against him carefully. Your arms come around Childe’s form and you hear his breath hitch in your ear.

“Is this warmer?” You ask quietly, but you know he caught it because you’re right next to his ear that is slowly turning red.

“Yeah.” He chokes out. Dare you say it, he seems nervous when he wraps his own arms around you and returns the embrace. You smile into his neck.

“Thank you for saving me. The others will certainly come looking for us. So we can stay like this for a while, yeah?”

[grailfinders]

Fate and Phantasms #169

Two builds in one day? That’s right! Today’s my birthday, and that means I get to pick the servants! As a birthday gift to myself, we’re making Caster of the Nightless City! As usual, expect spoilers in the build breakdown below the cut and in their character sheet here!

Scheherazade is a Creation Bard to truly bring her stories to life, and a Genie Warlock to create her own Bedchamber of Survival.

Race and Background

Wildly, Scheherazade is a Human, giving her +1 to all abilities. She’s also a Guild Artisan with one of the most demanding patrons in the world, giving her proficiency with Insight and Persuasion. 

Ability Scores

Your Charisma better be as high as possible, you’re literally famous for your storytelling skills. After that is Wisdom. Anyone can read a story, but to tell a story you’ve got to be able to read the audience. Your Intelligence is also pretty good, because let’s be honest, remembering over 1,000 stories is pretty goddamn impressive. Your Dexterity isn’t awful, because we need to be able to go from standing to dogeza in seconds. This means your Constitution and Strength are rather low. Sadly, telling stories doesn’t make you all that battle hardened.

Class Levels

1. Bard 1: Being a bard gives you proficiency with Dexterity and Charisma saves to avoid fireballs and being banished to other dimensions. (Though I guess banishment is better than death?) You also get proficiency in three bard skills, that is to say, three of any skill. Performance for storytelling, Acrobatics for faster dogezas, and History for more story material.

You can use Bardic Inspiration to give a d6 to an ally Charisma Mod times per long rest, and these dice can be added to pretty much any d20 roll to make it a bit better. (Not yours though, heaven forbid you have to get out there and... attack things.)

Speaking of not attacking things, let’s talk Spells. You cast em with Charisma, and get stuff like Blade Ward for taking less damage and Friends for convincing people to let you live in the first place. You also get Charm Person for a similar reason, Bane to weaken their offense if they still want to try anything, Feather Fall to avoid death by heights, and Silent Image for the first of your storied illusions.

2. Bard 2: Second level bards become Jacks of All Trades, adding half their proficiency to ability checks they’re not proficient in. By becoming more useful, you’re less likely to get killed! Probably. You also get a Song of Rest to boost healing during short rests. Healing is good, healing helps people not die. Finally, your Magical Inspiration lets allies add your inspiration dice to damage or healing caused by spells. Again, healing is good, and I guess doing more damage can be nice sometimes.

Speaking of doing damage, we’re not doing that. Instead, grab Sleep for a bedtime story.

3. Bard 3: Graduating from the college of Creation will help you bring your stories to life thanks to your Performance of Creation. As an action you can create a nonmagical object once per long rest or by spending a 2nd level spell slot. The item must be medium or smaller, and can only be worth at most 20 times your bard level in GP.

You can also help your allies star in legends of their own with Stories of Potential that add extra effects to your bardic inspiration depending on how they’re used. Ability checks get advantage on rolling the inspiration, attack rolls deal thunder damage to nearby creatures if they fail a constitution save, and saving throws add temporary HP to their users.

You can also cast Calm Emotions to keep the king from beheading you in the morning.

4. Warlock 1: Now that that’s taken care of, let’s get some help from a Genie. Picking this patron gives you a Genie’s Vessel, a tiny object like, say, a scroll case, within which you can find a Bottled Respite that you can hang out in for up to 2x your proficiency bonus hours per long rest, but you can only enter once per long rest. Any items you leave behind stay in the respite until the vessel is destroyed or you take them out again. Also, I gotta remember to point out the inside is bigger than the outside, space isn’t an issue for you.

You also learn to imbue your attacks with a Genie’s Wrath, adding thunder damage equal to your proficiency bonus to one attack per turn. You don’t really attack that much, but it’s nice to make every bit count.

Speaking of attacking, you can actually do that with your new Spells! You still use Charisma, but you have Pact Magic, so these slots don’t mix with your old ones. The plus side is they recharge on short rests instead of long ones, and you can still cast bard spells with warlock slots and vice versa.

You get Minor Illusion for cheap lifelike stories, as well as Eldritch Blast for the ever-present caster balls. For first level spells, you get Detect Evil and Good and Thunderwave for free, as well as Comprehend Languages because copyright doesn’t exist in D&D, and Protection from Evil and Good. Some kings are evil, some are good, but very few are neutral. (WARNING: does not actually protect against good or evil aligned humanoids)

5. Warlock 2: Second level warlocks get Eldritch Invocations, ways to customize the selling your soul experience. Armor of Shaodws gives you free mage armor to avoid dying, and Eldritch Mind makes it easier to concentrate on your spells, which are keeping you from getting killed.

Speaking of spells, Sense Emotion lets you read the prevailing emotion of a nearby creature as an action, and you can repeat the action each turn. Good storytelling requires you know what your audience wants.

6. Warlock 3: Third level warlocks get a Pact Boon, and Pact of the Tome gives you a super cool magic scroll that gives you three cantrips from any spell list. You get Guidance and Resistance for added protection, and Mage Hand. Handling hot objects can be dangerous! Now you don’t have to do that.

Besides that, you get second level spells here, like Enthrall. Being the center of attention is dangerous, but you’re the most personable member of the party, so this might be less dangerous than letting them talk. You also get Phantasmal Force and Gust of Wind for free, letting you attack with fictional characters and just make things a bit more dramatic.

7. Warlock 4: At fourth level you finally get your first Ability Score Improvement, which will be used to round up your Dexterity and Constitution for a higher AC and higher HP. Not dying’s good, you should try it out.

You also get Prestidigitation to add minor effects to your stories, and Flock of Familiars to summon background characters.

8. Warlock 5: Fifth level warlocks get third level spells, like Major Image to make larger effects for your stories. You also get Create Food and Water and Wind Wall for free.

On top of that, the invocation One with Shadows lets you turn invisible as an action in dim light or darker, and lasts until you move or take an action. When a truly good storyteller gets going, the story takes on a life of its own, and they just sort of... fade into the background.

9. Warlock 6: Sixth level genilocks get an Elemental Gift, giving you resistance to thunder damage. Like Cursed Arm always says, you can’t travel the desert without protection from wind. As a bonus action, you can now fly for 10 minutes Proficiency times per long rest. Admittedly you don’t really do that too often, but I’m sure you can illusion up a big genie hand or something to lift you up.

You can also summon a main character now thanks to Summon Fey. You can create a small fey creature in one of three moods that can teleport around and fight for you. Fuming fey get advantage on attacks after teleporting, mirthful fey can charm creatures, and tricksy fey create magical darkness which you can use to turn invisible.

10. Warlock 7: Congrats on your fourth level spell slots! Your freebie spells are Phantasmal Killer and Greater Invisibility to put less focus on yourself and more focus on the terrifying monsters you can summon. You can also use Hallucinatory Terrain to reshape the world into the world of your story. You can also use Trickster’s Escape once per long rest to cast Freedom of Movement on yourself to get the hell out of dangerous situations.

11. Warlock 8: Use this ASI to bump up your Charisma for better spells and better stories. You also learn how to Charm Monsters to avoid even more danger by just... getting along with everything.

12. Warlock 9: Ninth level warlocks get fifth level spells, like the freebies Creation to make even more nonsense out of nothing and Seeming to again, avoid danger. On top of those, you can use Modify Memory to retcon your stories to prevent your audience from getting too upset. You also gain the Gift of the Protectors, allowing you or another creature to write its name on part of your scroll. The scroll can hold the names of Proficiency people, and once per long rest the first creature to drop to 0 hp sticks around at 1 hp instead. You can also erase names if you have a falling out, but since it’s first come first served you might just want to keep this to yourself.

13. Warlock 10: Tenth level genielocks get a Sanctuary Vessel, allowing you to take up to 5 willing creatures into your Genie’s Vessel with you. You can eject creatures as a bonus action, by leaving yourself, dying (don’t do that one), or by destroying the vessel.

On top of all of that, creatures that stay in the vessel for at least 10 minutes get all the benefits of a short rest, plus they add your proficiency to any healing they get from hit dice. That’s on top of the d6 they were already getting from your song of rest.

Oh right, you get another cantrip too. Grab Blade Ward again. You can never be too careful.

14. Bard 4: Yeah, did you think we were done with bards? Nope! This level of bard gives us another ASI that’ll max out your Charisma for the best spells possible!

You also learn Message, because miscommunication can be deadly, and Lesser Restoration. You never know what kind of status effects might doom your party, after all...

15. Bard 5: Fifth level bards get their inspiration bumped up to d8s, and they finally become a Font of Inspiration to recharge their inspiration on short rests. I wanted to get sanctuary vessel as quickly as possible for the sake of getting your bedchamber of survival, but it’s awfully tempting to put these two levels earlier, ngl.

You also learn how to Feign Death, because nobody’s going to bother killing you if you’re already dead, right? This spell makes you or the targeted creature effectively dead by the reckoning of anyone around them. They can’t take actions, are blinded, and can’t move. They get resistance to all damage except psychic, and any diseases or poisons they’re affected by are frozen until the spell ends an hour later.

16. Bard 6: Sixth level bards can use Countercharm to protect their party from effects that would charm or frighten them, giving them advantage on those saves for a round.

You can also put on an Animating Performance to turn a large or smaller object into a Dancing Item, which follows your orders, given by your bonus action. You can do this once per long rest, or by spending a third level spell slot.

Your last bard spell is Catnap, putting up to three creatures to sleep for 10 minutes. If they stay asleep the entire time, they get the benefits of a short rest. Dying of overwork... what a horrifying concept.

17. Warlock 11: At eleventh level, instead of getting your spell slots made bigger you get a Mystic Arcanum, allowing you to cast a sixth level spell once per long rest. Guards and Wards is very useful if you’re paranoid, creating wards to protect up to 2,500 square feet of space (a.k.a. 100 5′ squares). You can specify creatures that are immune to effects, or a password that does the same thing.

In corridors, fog fills the area, and forks in the road have a 50% chance of forcing creatures down the wrong way.

Doors are magically locked, and up to 10 doors in the area can be covered by illusions.

Stairs are covered in Webs that regrow when destroyed.

You can also place: Dancing Lights in four corridors, Magic Mouth in two places, Stinking Cloud in two places, Gust of Wind in one corridor or room, and Suggestion in one five foot square.

Casting Guards and Wards in the same place every day for a year makes it permanent.

18. Warlock 12: Use your last ASI to bump up your Constitution for better concentration and health. You also learn your last Invocation, Minions of Chaos! Once per long rest you can cast Conjure Elemental using a warlock spell slot. It is a little bit risky, but even you have to be willing to stick your neck out at some point. Might as well be level 18.

19. Warlock 13: Your seventh level Mystic Arcanum is Mirage Arcane, allowing you to reshape reality in a square mile, altering the entire terrain to your story and even making entire structures out of nothing. Even creatures with true sight will still feel the illusion, so feel free to recreate the tower of babel and hide out on the top of it.

20. Warlock 14: Your capstone level gives you a Limited Wish from your patron, recreating any spell of fifth level or lower once per 1d4 long rests. Sometimes your story just needs a Maelstrom, and nobody’s going to wait for you to take 9 levels of druid just to finish a story.

Pros:

If your DM rewards creativity and you’ve got the mind thoughts to power this build, this build will treat you very nicely. This whole thing is basically an excuse for the roleplayer inside of you to ham up your acting, chew the scenery, and distract everyone from the rogue rifling through their pockets.

Speaking of distractions you can make some really good ones. Show up to the BBEG’s lair, butter them up with some stories, then trick them into entering your vessel, and then they’re trapped in there for up to 12 hours. If you can trick them into allowing you to catnap them, that gives the rest of your party a full 10 minutes to ransack the place before they even know what’s happening. You can always kick them out if they’re being unwelcome guests, but there’s no way for them to leave on their own outside of killing you. And that’s easier said than done, because...

You’re really hard to fight. Between all the illusions, summoning creatures to fight on your behalf, the invisibility, and the altering reality in a mile radius, landing a blow on you is an ordeal, especially if you know they’re coming.

Cons:

If you’re actually stuck in a cage match with an enemy it’s gonna take a while, because you really aren’t built for damage. You have a negative strength stat, and your first damaging spell doesn’t show up until level four. Just bring them into the vessel, help them relax, and put them to sleep with catnap, that’s way less work than actually fighting them.

On a similar note, anything that can see through your illusions is going to cut through you like butter, because you’re pretty squishy. Only 15 AC and just shy of 150 HP means you should avoid fights like... well, you do in canon.

Another side effect of your squishiness is that your concentration saves aren’t that great, which is really bad for an illusionist/summoner. Neither your animated item nor your invisibility use concentration though, so you can actually get away with more than you’d think, it’s just a complicated juggling act. And trust me, you do not want to drop them in the middle of combat.

[undyingembers]

Luxuries on the Crusade - Chapter 9

AO3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/33560173/chapters/87933259

Pairing: CommanderxDaeran Rating: T Summary: Two closed hearts cannot love. Or so it might seem. An Aeon, the very principle of order who must suppress all emotions and attachments and a hedonist who's encased his heart in barbed ice have been sharing moments some might almost call sweet. 

Daeran had a problem with equestrian statues. Lenarius knew this. He got to know this very well.

It had started with a throwaway line Daeran had said after they had gotten back from his birthday party. “Can’t you come up with something more exciting to ask me about? For example, why I hate equestrian statues and what befell the marble horse of my marble grandmother?” he had asked. Lenarius hadn’t given it much thought for the rest of the campaign to retake Drezen, and in all honest, he had thought it had been merely a joke Daeran used to deflect from talking about his past.

Now that they had the city back under Mendevian control, they saw plenty of such statues. Drezen had once held many monuments to heroes from the First and early Second Crusades. The demons had destroyed and defaced practically all of them in the most disgusting and humiliating ways they could think of; the ones that had still been standing were covered in excrement and intestines or affixed with blasphemous symbols of Deskari and Baphomet. Mendev’s forces had brought it upon themselves to restore what they could and also to build new ones to more recent heroes who had distinguished themselves.

Predictably, Daeran derided and complained about the project. Every time a proposal for a new statue would be brought to the war council, the Count would say something like, “Why waste resources on these obnoxious eyesores when we could decorate Drezen with more sensuous marble silhouettes?” or “It would be much better for morale to have musicians play bawdy ballads all day right in the middle of Drezen’s town square.” It had been easy to think that Daeran’s issue had been with the monuments in general—indeed no proposal had been spared from his mockery.

It hadn’t occurred to anyone that it had been because most of the statues depicted people on horseback. Mendev was incredibly proud of its calvary. The quintessential Mendevian knight was a holy devotee of Iomadae, sword raised and riding headfirst into the demonic hordes. Now that Lenarius thought about it, given his own experiences growing up with the very types of people who held that standard at its highest and the pain that had inflicted on him, was this the sort of thing he wanted people to idolize? The symbol that meant salvation and grace to so many humans in Mendev meant something very different to tieflings, witches, and outsiders, people who also wanted to defend their world. Like Daeran had once told him, so much of what used to have been Mendevian culture had been completely consumed by the Crusades.

The incident that had brought Daeran’s aversion to equestrian statues to the forefront of Lenarius’s mind was when the builders put forth yet another proposal for such a sculpture: that of the Commander himself. For some reason, these people thought Lenarius’s best look to be atop a horse, overlooking Drezen with a grim look on his face. At least they remembered that Lenarius was a mage and gave him a staff instead of a sword (or more inexplicably, put him in armor).

Daeran laughed out loud. “When have you even seen the Commander on horse? Who comes up with these designs? The fact that they would devastate a most lovely figure should be a crime against good taste.”

Lenarius raised a brow at Daeran’s outburst but politely sent the proposal back. “Perhaps this should be changed to something that is a bit more to my character.”

Equestrian statues were also often the target of Daeran’s more adventurous endeavors. He’d often vandalize them when he was deep in his cups (or get his hanger-ons to do it), submit mock petitions to replace them with dancing bears, and mock them relentlessly when he and Lenarius went on walks. On said walks, Lenarius would also imagine he’d noticed Daeran inching a bit closer to him or cling more tightly to his arm every time their routes would bring them close to one of those statues.

Only after that did it click that, oh yes, Daeran had mentioned a dislike for equestrian statues. For the life of him, Lenarius couldn’t fathom why. The Count loved horseback riding and would often brag about the many breeds of horses he kept in the stables of his numerous estates. Lenarius didn’t care too much for riding. In addition to having horns, a tail, and unusual coloration of his eyes and skin, he was also unlucky enough to have his infernal blood manifest in a way that made most animals shy away from him, with the exception of rabbits and hares (who in all honesty were naturally skittish anyway). He was able to mount the Mendevian warhorses to go on excursions into the Worldwound only because these particular horses had been trained to keep calm on massive battlegrounds where blood and demons were everywhere. A meager tiefling would not unsettle them.

Lenarius thought about asking his lover about that. Daeran’s response would probably be roundabout and joking, but not worthless. Despite what a lot of people thought, Daeran always had something valuable to say.

“Is your dislike of equestrian statues due to the fact that horses represent a facet of Mendevian chivalric ideal?” Lenarius asked. “Just one more aspect of Mendevian culture that has been overtaken by the Crusades?”

“No, actually I hadn’t thought about it,” Daeran responded smoothly, perfectly easing into the topic that Lenarius had brought up rather out of nowhere. “But that one was good. I shall have to add it to my list.”

So, the dislike was real and not just a device to deflect real conversations, Lenarius almost said, but he chided himself. He would not join the others in dismissing Daeran’s feelings and opinions.

“Would you like to know the real reason?” Daeran asked.

“Please tell me,” said Lenarius.

“When I was seven, my grandmother died fighting in the Fourth Crusade. To ‘honor’ her, some friends of the family commission a giant tacky statue of her likeness on horseback as a gift for us. One day, I was outside playing in one of the courtyards. I was so engrossed in my game that I hadn’t noticed the new statue until I got very close. When I looked up, I saw this colossal, towering marble horse rearing its powerful marble legs above my tiny handsome head. I was absolutely terrified; I thought it was going to trample me! I ran out of the garden screaming. It still affects me to this day.”

Lenarius didn’t know whether to take it as a joke or not. Daeran put on the same smirk and used the same mocking voice he had once used when recounting the tragic tale of how he hadn’t been allowed a pet lamb as a child. But even then, although he knew for certain that Daeran had been jerking his proverbial chain, Lenarius wasn’t so sure that what he had said had been untrue.

At a young age, Lenarius had been quickly disabused by his family of the notion that people and relationships worked the same way they had in his romance novels. People who put up a cruel and uncaring front did not have a softer underside. With Daeran, he wasn’t so sure. It was safer to stay on guard.

“They’re also just so pretentious,” Daeran continued. “If a sculptor—or his patron—wants to make the most pedantic self-important nobody look grand and marvelous, why just slap that person on a horse! It’s almost as if they’re aware that absolutely nobody will care about so-and-so’s small personality and meager accomplishments, but they must have been important if there’s a statue of them on a horse!”

“What of Galfrey?” asked Lenarius. “Everyone already knows who she is, and her accomplishments are not small, yet there is no end to equestrian statues of her.”

“Those are the worst!” said Daeran. “Oh, this person is incredibly important, we absolutely must put them on a horse. How else are we going to capture their greatness? That just tells me that whoever had the statue made was incredibly lazy and uncreative.” He shook his head. “Every time I see these wretched things, I get the undeniable urge to knock them down a peg or two.”

“Now I know not to let anyone make an equestrian statue of you,” said Lenarius, “lest your mount’s powerful stone legs terrify the next generation of Mendevians.”

Daeran snorted. “Don’t think I would ever spare your statue, if one should ever be made. I already have a list of ideas for what to do with it.”

Lenarius chuckled. He decided to believe Daeran’s story of being scared of his grandmother’s statue.

When the sculptors next came to Lenarius, Lenarius insisted the statue depict him standing on the ground and holding a rose.