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soyeahitsmiddleearth · 4 years ago

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Hello there! Can I request a Legolas x reader oneshot where the reader suffers from an injury, and Legolas being the best friend takes care of them? Fluff pleasee. Thankyou <3

Safe With Me

---

It happened during the Battle at Helms Deep.

There was death, pain, anguish, and sorrow everywhere. No matter where you turned or where you looked, someone somewhere was suffering (either from the pain of death, grief, or fear).

You've always been confident in your fighting skills; you know that you're good and can hold your own in a fight, but 'holding your own' paired with protecting others never seems to end well.

Those fools thought it better to put weapons in the hands of children rather than the shield maidens who hide down below in the caverns, and though it does make sense that they would be the last line of defense, surely they could still spare some women instead of forcing the children to pick up their slack?

Even so, it's because of this decision that you're in your current state of injury.

After the wall had been blown to bits and everyone began their retreat to the inner levels of Helms Deep, you tried to gather everyone you possibly could.

Being as you're a rather skilled fighter, having trained from a very young age within the confines of Mirkwood, you managed to save a good deal of men and slay an excellent number of orcs, but there is a limit to your victories.

With each stroke of your short swords do orcs fall; every slash and stab reaching a mark that leaves the orc army with one less ally. Try as they might to overwhelm you, you're just too quick for them, so their blows remain useless for the most part (though you do get the occasional cuts and slices that leave you hissing in pain).

You're in the midst of battling those nasty orcs 4 on 1 when it happens. Having been doing all you possibly could to keep the numbers off of the unskilled and dying men and young boys, you begin to focus more attention ahead than behind you, and one of those foul creatures manages to run up on you and finally get in a proper hit.

The initial blow is easy for you to dodge, for you feel its' presence lingering behind you, but you quick duck prevents you from escaping the lower blow dealt to your right leg.

As soon as the blade makes contact with your calf you know you're done for.

The deep slash causes your leg to give out from underneath you and you collapse to one knee, left crying out in shock and pain as your arms grow weak.

Very vaguely do you hear someone yell your name, your sharp elf ears enhancing your hearing so that it may reach you, but you can't turn to look.

In your downed state the enemy begins to overwhelm you, so you push your pain away and drop back as another blade comes swiping above your head, an action that would've taken your head with it had you not moved in time.

You jab your sword up and impale the closest creature, muscles shaking and aching as it goes lax and slumps over towards you.

Your energy wanes quickly, and the heavy, dead orc only further drains what little fight you have left in you.

There is no time for you to reclaim your blade from the body of the dead monstrosity, so you're forced to release your beloved short sword and strategically roll away from the other oncoming attacks, and while it does prove to serve you well, you're now left injured and with only one of your weapons.

The imbalance caused by losing one of your short swords is an alien feeling, for you always have both to fight with, and on rare occasions, neither.

Another one of those dastardly abominations comes for you in when it sees your hasty retreat and weakening form and tries to stab you, but you role low to the ground and knock it off of its' feet, jabbing your remaining sword down into his belly as soon as he's at your level.

Fighting so low to the ground, unable to stand is no easy task, and very quickly are you overtaken again.

A large armored foot comes up and hits you right in the face, and you go down with it having been unable to react in time.

You fall back and land none too gently on your aching spine, and in mere moments is your left shoulder run through and pinned to the ground.

The unnatural feeling of the intruding weapon in your shoulder draws a pained cry from between your parted lips, and you find that you can no longer move that arm (if it were any bigger of a blade, you would've lost the arm altogether), so you rely on the other weaponed arm to stop the killing blow.

With the last of your strength, you jab your sword upwards and stab it through the chest, relishing in the telling squelch and screech as metal and flesh alike are ripped to nothing, and then the wriggling creature stills and slumps heavily atop you.

It's heavy and knocks the wind out of you completely, an unwelcome and suffocating feeling, and you'll later learn that this saves your life.

Moments later, your world fades to black.

---

You were so sure that it was all over. That, while you tried your hardest, you failed.

The last thing you remember was the horrible pain blooming from your shoulder and the blade protruding from your broken and battered body, and then the newly dead orc falling on top of you followed by complete and utter darkness.

The bodies of man and orc alike littered the very ground you once stood on and the enemy was gaining more ground than you had to spare, so when you did finally wake up to see color again, you thought yourself to be dead just like all those around you.

Only, you didn't quite anticipate that the Halls of Mandos would allow you to feel the pain and anguish of your past life.

A quick look around tells you that you are, in fact, not actually in Valinor, for one of the very first sights you see is that of a dim wooden ceiling and your body laid out of a bed of mans creation.

Pain is the first thing you feel once the anesthetic of unconsciousness wears off, and it's quite the pain alright.

A quiet, agonized groan puffs past your chapped lips and your teeth clench together in tandem with your soft whimpers.

You try to sit up, slowly raising your upper body from the bed, when a fresh pang of pain shoots through your shoulder and pins you back down to the bed.

Instead of trying to get up this time, you just angle your head down and analyze your shoulder wound.

It's at this moment that you realize that your outer layer has been removed (probably cut away), and you're left with nothing but the gauze wrapping your shoulder and a covering for your modesty.

When you look further down you see that your cut up calf has been treated much the same, and the only missing layer is that single leg of your trousers.

Your vision suddenly goes blurry and you're forced to squeeze your eyes shut again, but this time when they open, there is another presence in your line of sight.

It takes a few seconds for you to recognize the person hovering above you, but as soon as you do a small smile up turns the corners of your lips.

"Legolas..." Uttering that single name takes quite a bit of energy from your already bone dry reservoir, but you don't regret it for even a moment.

Those sparkling pools of blue shine with relief when your whispered speech reaches his ears, and as soon as he's there does he disappear from your immediate vision.

"I thought you were never going to awaken." He breathes, leaning over you once again with a damp towel in hand this time. "Tell me, how is the pain?"

The towel is most likely to keep you from overheating, though you can't feel any sort of cold or hot like other mortal beings, and you appreciate it greatly.

Your voice is barely a whisper when you reply, and it makes his elven heart throb in his chest with many emotions. "Painful?" Truthfully, it's a rather intense suffering that makes it hard for you to even think straight, but you don't wish to worry him any more than you already have. "Nothing that I cannot handle, I believe."

"That look in your eyes betrays a different story." He counters softly, reaching down to graze your too-warm cheek gently. "I will have to change your dressings soon. But I'm not so sure you will want to be awake for that."

An alluded to promise of pain much worse than what you currently suffer, something you seldom wish to experience, though it's not like you can just pass out on command.

"I will have one of the healers prepare for you a sleeping elixir, should you agree to have it."

"What of the others? Surely I am not the worst of the wounded. You should conserve what you can." The words leave you even though you don't necessarily want to abide by them, but you don't take it back either. If you could prevent pain from anyone else, then you would. There's no guarantee that you'll react promisingly to it any ways.

"There is plenty to go around. Do not worry yourself over others for the time being and allow me to help you." Those words don't make you feel any better.

If there is an abundance, then that means there haven't been enough wounded to use it (and not from a lack of injury either).

A moment of silence washes between the two of you, and then in that same delicate whisper of yours do you ask, "How many...?"

Hesitation rears its' ugly head and morphs his pleasant stare into a sorrowful, crestfallen frown, and it promises you nothing good.

"Too many. But we must worry about that later when you have regained your strength and replenished your health. Please, rest." His places his hand over yours, touch as soft and careful as a feather, and he says no more on the matter. "I shall-"

"Please, don't leave." You plea before you can engage your filter, curling your fingers around the warmth of his own, "I cannot handle the solitude right now."

He hesitates once more but does not require further prompting, for he takes the seat next to your bedside and sits down. "Then I will stay right here with you."

Your head tilts to the side to look over at him and the smallest of smiles brightens your pale face, "Thank you, Legolas. You've always done well by me."

"For you, my friend, I would do anything. This is nothing."

You're in good hands being left in his charge, and this thought lulls you into a pleasant, painless sleep.

#ask box #ask #legolas x reader #legolas greenleaf #legolas #lord of the rings fanfiction #lord of the rings #reader insert #platonic #angst #comfort #fluff #tolkien

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bard-llama · 3 years ago

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PWP WiP Snip: Iorveth/Roche

I fell asleep on @useless-empty-brain before finishing my new PWP, so I figured I’d share a snip, that what they have something to read today!

Iorveth’s face was twisted into a snarl as he stared down at the duty rosters for his Scoia’tael and tried to figure out how to ensure that they stopped losing people to the Blue Stripes, led by Vernon fucking Roche.

He hated Roche, hated everything that Roche stood for and everything that Roche was. But, he had to admit, the man was damn good at what he did.

The problem was ‘what he did’ was kill Iorveth’s men. Far too many had been lost of recent and Iorveth knew they blame laid entirely with him. He hadn’t prepared them well enough, hadn’t been able to make them understand that you could never underestimate the Blue Stripes.

Individually, each Blue Stripe commando posed a significant threat. But when brought together by a man who seemed to be able weave battle plans specifically tuned to enhance each of his commandos, they became even more deadly.

That was Roche’s strength. He understood his people down to their core. He knew how they thought and what their habitual openings were and he used that knowledge to give them every edge possible.

It was kind of amazing, honestly. Like, it was absolutely horrible that Roche led the Blue Stripes so effectively that Iorveth was losing too many people. But from one commander to another – Roche was impressive.

“It’s a shame such skill serves the enemy,” Iorveth lamented. Then he was startled by a knock against his window and then a young elf cartwheeling into his office. “Rinn! Wha–?”

She waited until she was standing in front of him on the other side of his desk to raise her fingers and sign her answer. If you’re done daydreaming about him, your dh’oine just crossed the perimeter into the forest.

“Alone?” Iorveth asked in surprise. And then her words really hit him and he flushed brightly. “I was not daydreaming! And he’s not my dh’oine!”

Uh huh. Rinn looked supremely unimpressed. You know, you’d probably be less agitated if you just got laid already.

Iorveth let out a choked croaking noise, face burning. “You – what – that is beyond inappropriate for you to care about.”

If you decide you wanna get a leg over, Rinn continued, entirely remorseless, he’s at the ruins of Cáelmewedd. I’m gonna nap for the rest of my shift. If you want someone to watch him be stupid enough to enter the forest, you’ll just have to go see yourself.

With that, she yawned and walked out his door. Iorveth sputtered, not entirely certain what had just happened. Rinn was an agent of chaos, always eager to encourage mischief, but she took her work seriously. She knew she was one of the only spies that could tail Roche without getting caught. If she was quitting in the middle of her shift, then there had to be a good reason. And sure, she’d put it crudely, probably just to make him blush, but she couldn’t actually mean that. Roche was his enemy, there was no way he would be ‘getting a leg over’ with Roche!

Roche was dangerous. And Rinn was asking him to take over for her, which meant it was serious.

Iorveth nodded to himself. He should go to Cáelmewedd immediately. He was wearing only light armor, having dressed down with the expectation that he would not be going out this evening. If he’d had time, he would’ve pulled on the gambeson and mail and all that – but he didn’t have time. It would have taken time for Rinn to return to base to report, and if Roche had been without a Scoia’tael shadow for nearly half an hour, there was no telling what kind of damage he might have done. No, Iorveth needed to leave now.

Decided, he grabbed a few more daggers and his swords and was off, climbing out through his window and jumping to the nearest tree branch. Because it was faster, obviously, not because he didn’t want to announce that he was going after Vernon Roche. Alone.

Ciaran was definitely going to kill him for this later. But there hadn’t been time to gather back up and Iorveth and Roche had always stood on equal ground in a fight. Sometimes Iorveth lost and sometimes he won, but even though he’d never managed to kill Roche, he could fight Roche off.

Once he reached the ruins of what used to be a beautiful bathhouse, he drew his blades, creeping silently around the perimeter, searching for his prey.

Except Roche didn’t seem to be anywhere in sight and Iorveth was growing frustrated, not thinking to watch his footing–

And then he was falling down into a bath with a huge splash, leaving him breathless and struggling to his feet. His sodden clothing weighed him down and that distracted him long enough to draw a proper breath – except then he caught sight of Vernon Roche. Vernon Roche, who apparently came to actually bathe in the elven baths, because he was entirely naked and Iorveth sputtered, distracted by all the skin on display.

Which was why he was completely unprepared for Roche to charge at him, shoulder hitting his solar plexus and pushing him back into the water. He couldn’t breathe and Roche’s warm hands held him under the water and–

Then he was being pulled back up, mind fuzzy even as he sucked in precious oxygen. He had just a moment to meet Roche’s dark eyes and then Roche was pushing him under again. The water over his head turned his vision hazy, but he couldn’t seem to look away from Roche’s body.

He’d only ever seen Roche in battle before. He knew from spy reports that he dressed more casually in his personal life, but every time they’d met, Roche had been wearing layer upon layer of armor. Iorveth hadn’t even known what Roche’s hair looked like before this.

That was the only reason he was getting so fixated. He’d never seen a naked dh’oine from up close before and Roche had always seemed so much bigger in battle, but even if Roche was a lot more scrawny without all those layers, he was still as competent as ever, one hand tight around Iorveth’s throat, holding him under.

Iorveth tried to struggle, but he just couldn’t get enough air, and instead of the fear and hate he should feel in this moment, he just felt – calm. Restful, almost, with his mind hazy and focused entire on Roche. He knew there was some reason he wasn’t supposed to give into those feelings, but it had been so long since he’d been able to turn off his brain and–

Roche pulled him up again, tugging him forward into Roche’s body in an unexpected flood of warmth, so startling after the cool water. Iorveth sucked in air greedily, slumped against Roche and not particularly interested in moving again ever.

“Iorveth?” he heard Roche ask vaguely, but he felt overcome with a lassitude and he found he didn’t quite care about anything at all, as long as Roche’s warmth remained wrapped around him.

He wasn’t sure how long he spent like that, clinging to Vernon Roche, but eventually he became aware enough to remember why that was super weird. He stiffened and the hands that had been stroking his back pulled away.

“Iorveth?” Roche asked, gripping his shoulders and pulling him away from Roche’s chest.

Iorveth grumbled, not enjoying the way he was suddenly cold everywhere that Roche had been touching him. “What?”

“Uh,” Roche cleared his throat, then grabbed Iorveth’s thighs and stood up, twisting to seat Iorveth on the bench next to him.

Iorveth blinked, unreasonably disappointed to lose that strong touch against his thighs. “You should fuck me,” he blurted, flushing as he realized what he’d said. He didn’t take it back, though.

Roche stared at him with wide eyes, adam’s apple bobbing as the dh’oine swallowed. “Only if you get naked, too,” Roche said, seeming almost surprised at himself even as he uttered the words.

Iorveth licked his lips, lust and want flooding through his veins like fire. He grabbed the hem of his tunic and tried to pull it off, but the wet fabric kept getting stuck to him and when he tried to pull it off over his head, he just got stuck in it, vision blocked and arms tangled in the cloth.

There was a soft chuckle and then warm hands were touching him again, shifting Iorveth’s arms until they could pull the clothing off.

Blushing slightly at his show of ineptitude, Iorveth looked up to meet Roche’s judging gaze – only Roche was much closer than he’d expected, close enough that he could clearly see that there was no judgement in those hazel eyes.

He swallowed hard, feeling almost like he was under a spell, under the sway of the man whose lips parted, and his own mouth fell open on instinct.

“Iorveth,” Vernon murmured, almost close enough that Iorveth could feel the shape of the word.

Close enough that, when Iorveth’s tongue darted out to wet his lips, it dragged over Vernon’s lips too. Vernon made a soft sound and Iorveth felt suddenly desperate, reaching out to tangle his fingers in Vernon’s hair and pull him closer. Vernon’s heat pressed along his front and Iorveth shuddered, kissing Vernon properly.

Vernon moaned, low in the back of his throat, and Iorveth had never given much thought to kissing, but somehow he never wanted to stop kissing Vernon. So when Vernon pulled away, a whine escaped him before he could think about it.

Smiling softly, Vernon kissed the corner of his mouth, then dropped down to the ground, kneeling on the cold tile of the bathhouse ruins. Iorveth gaped down at Roche, awe and something else coursing through his heart. Vernon cupped the back of his right calf, signalling for him to raise his leg.

Iorveth obeyed automatically, and Vernon slipped his boots off, first his right, then his left.

Wearing only his hose and underwear, Iorveth’s arousal was more than obvious – thighs wet with slick and his cock bulging against the material. He flushed, feeling like he should be embarrassed to want this so transparently, but Vernon just licked his lips and knelt up to hook his thumbs in the hose, stroking Iorveth’s hips.

“May I?” Vernon asked, mouth close enough to breathe hot air over Iorveth’s cock.

Iorveth swallowed and nodded.

Moving slowly, Vernon pulled down his hose, once again signaling for him to lift one foot at a time. Now only his underwear stood between Vernon’s mouth and his genitals.

Except the sight of the green lace and silk panties was clearly a surprise to Vernon and the dh’oine froze for a moment, glancing up at him. He blushed fiercely, wanting to pretend that he didn’t know why Vernon had stopped. He just… liked feeling pretty. He wore enough layers of armor that normally, his habit of casually wearing beautiful lingerie underneath his clothing would never be discovered. But here, here where he’d worn only a tunic and hose, his perversity was on full display.

He cleared his throat, something sour roiling in his belly. So of course that was the moment he realized that when Roche had been holding him under, his bandana must have come off. Which meant his scar was on full display.

Stiffening abruptly made Roche look up at him with an expression that surely couldn’t actually be concern. Why would his enemy be concerned over him? Horror would make more sense. Roche had just discovered that his mortal enemy wore panties, as if some pretty silk could hide his ugliness and gods dammit, Iorveth wanted to not care what anyone thought, but this was Vernon, and his opinion mattered.

“Iorveth?” Vernon – Roche – the dh’oine’s voice was soft as he rose to his feet and yes, it really did appear to be concern in his eyes.

Iorveth’s throat clicked as he swallowed, feeling nauseated at the confused jumble of emotions in his belly.

“If you’ve changed your mind,” Ver – Roche said, giving him an opening to leave.

Except… he… didn’t really want to leave. He didn’t understand why Roche might want him, why Roche wasn’t reeling back in horror from his scar. But… looking into Roche’s eyes, it was clear that horror was nowhere amongst the things he was feeling.

Iorveth’s lips parted, “I haven’t.”

Roche – or should it be Vernon now? – wrapped warm hands around Iorveth’s hips, thumbs rubbing into the skin again. He pulled Iorveth closer to him, leaning in to kiss the corner of Iorveth’s mouth again.

A soft sound escaped Iorveth and he tilted his head until their lips were sliding together properly. His fingers found their way into Vernon’s hair again and when his hips bucked, their cocks brushed against each other, making them both moan.

“Fuck,” Iorveth panted, shoving Vernon back to sit on the bench again. Then he crawled into Vernon’s lap, grinding his panty-covered cunt against Vernon’s cock.

“Oh!” Vernon gasped, head falling back, relaxing into Iorveth’s grip on his hair. “Iorveth.”

His name was whispered breathlessly and Iorveth immediately decided that that was the best way it had ever been said.

He rocked his hips, dragging his cunt along the length of Vernon’s cock, and even through the material of his panties, he was getting Vernon wet.

Shuddering, he used his grip on Vernon’s hair to pull the other man in for another kiss. Vernon returned the kiss passionately, like he was putting everything he was in Iorveth’s hands. And Iorveth had no idea what to do with that, but he was helpless to resist the urge to kiss back, meeting him with just as much hunger.

Vernon’s hands slid up his back, one tangling in his hair and the other cupping his face so very sweetly and Iorveth could do nothing but lean into the touch as they kissed and kissed and kissed.

Gods, he could happily kiss Vernon forever.

He was still grinding against Vernon’s cock, but everything that wasn’t Vernon’s kiss sort of faded into the background and Iorveth had no idea how close he was until Vernon pulled away to nip a line of kisses across his jaw.

“Come for me,” Vernon growled in his ear and his hips bucked, muscles seizing as he did as ordered, pleasure overcoming him in hot licks of fire.

#rorveth #iorveth x roche #pwp #wips #my fics #the witcher

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thewarriorandtheking · 4 years ago

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Mistletoe

Imagine what would you do if you saw the King walking under mistletoe...

A bit of Warrior and The King holiday fluff I wrote last year...revised to flow better (because I will never stop editing).

Enjoy!

The Warrior and The King Masterlist

*******************************************

Balin stowed the last parcels in the wagon and climbed onto the seat, moving to the middle to make room for Thorin who stepped up behind him. Fili picked up the reins and whistled to the ponies, guiding them toward the city gates. The wagon creaked as the wheels rolled through the ice on the puddles in the road, clouds of steam from the pony’s breath swirled around their heads, forming ice crystals in their furry ears.

It was a crisp midwinter day; they had started out from Erebor in a flurry of snowflakes but over the day the skies had cleared. Now the sun was just setting, bathing the Lonely Mountain in a soft lavender glow, the land sleeping under its white blanket. Balin looked over at Thorin, his beard buried in his fur coat, his face grim. The King had been in a murderously dark mood for months now, Balin had convinced him to come to Dale today hoping a change of scenery might lift his spirits. Thorin had brightened up negotiating with the traders, but now it looked like his black mood was reasserting itself. Balin worried at the grip this dark humor seemed to have on his King. He had always felt Thorin’s recovery from dragon sickness had been too quick, his worst fear was it would one day reassert itself.

They made their way slowly through the streets of Dale. It was the day before the midwinter holiday of Men and the streets were crowded. As they passed through a neighborhood with many inns and public houses, they were stopped by a herd of cattle being driven up a cross street. Balin was talking to Fili about trade deals when he felt a breath of wind and looked over to see Thorin was no longer sitting next to him. Surprised, he looked around and saw him hastening down the side street toward a large public house at the end.

“We seem to have lost the King,” he said. Where is he going? “Your young eyes are better than mine, what is the name of that pub?”

“I do not think it is the pub that caught his eye,” Fili said, smiling crookedly. “There is a tall black horse tied up at the rail.”

Balin could just make out a black horse in the fading light. “Are you sure?”

Fili shrugged. “Looks like her saddle, and there are not any horses like that north of Rohan.”

Balin shook his head. “This is not good, there are many things that need the King’s attention in Erebor!”

Fili laughed, punching the older Dwarf in the arm. “Cheer up! At least my uncle will be in a good mood!”

Thorin had been idly wondering if he could make up an excuse to stay in Dale. The weight of his kingdom had been sitting very heavily on him lately, sometimes he felt as if it was crushing him. The demands on his time were endless and Shurri seemed to be going out of her way to make his life difficult. Even forging offered him little relief. He had enjoyed getting out of his city, now he felt like staying for a few days. When the wagon stopped, Thorin was idly looking around when to he spotted what looked like Kaylea Wolf’s horse. He was off the wagon before he even thought about what he was doing. When he drew closer he could see it was definitely her horse, there was no mistaking her saddle. He strode up to the inn and pushed the door open.

The place was pleasantly warm after walking in the chill air. The crowd inside seemed to be mostly tradesmen; armorers, masons, leatherworkers, a few who looked like woodsmen. As Thorin’s eyes swept the room he spotted Kaylea Wolf at a table in the corner near the hearth, the hood of her coat covering her golden hair. She was studying a piece of parchment in her hand. As Thorin started to walk across the crowded inn he became aware the place had fallen silent. It was not every day that the King Under the Mountain showed up at the local pub. Thorin knew he should probably be more cautious, but right now he only had eyes for the woman he loved. As the hush fell over the room Kaylea looked up, her face surprised at first, then melted into a wide smile. She held her hand up and Thorin paused. He heard some whispering from the Men at the nearby tables, pointing at something over his head. He looked up to see a sprig of some plant with small green leaves tied to the beam above him with a bright red ribbon. Then Kaylea was in his arms, her hood thrown back, silver beads in her hair glittering in the lamplight. Thorin drew her mouth down to his, feeling all the worries and frustrations of the last months fading away, he knew only the taste of her mouth, the feel of her body against his, the desert smell of her skin. It was a very long moment before he drew back, closing his eyes and pressing his forehead to hers.

“My love…I cannot believe you are here,” he whispered. “It is all I have wished for these many months.”

“Congratulations, your majesty,” said a tall man in weathered clothing sitting at a nearby table. He raised his mug in a toast and drank.

Thorin eyed the greenery over his head. “I do not know this tradition of Men,” he said. “Perhaps you can enlighten me.”

“If you kiss a lady under the mistletoe it is said she will be your wife,” the man replied. “And your love will long endure.”

Thorin glanced up, then smiled widely at Kaylea. “If that is the case, I will kiss you again! Just to be sure.” He pulled her close, aware of the whispers around them, but not really caring. Suddenly the bell rang at the bar and the pub came to life, Men jumping up from their tables to shout drink orders to the barkeep, the Dwarf King and his warrior woman quite forgotten. Thorin looked over to see Balin sliding a stack of coins to the innkeeper. The old Dwarf crossed the room, setting three mugs of ale on Kaylea’s table.

“Master Balin, it is good to see you again,” Kaylea told him. Thorin slid onto the bench next to her, running an arm around her shoulders, she snuggled against him, her hand caressing the inside of his thigh.

Balin smiled at her. “It is always good to see you, lass.” He liked Kaylea Wolf almost from the moment he met her, and he never tired of looking at her. Many years had passed since their first meeting on the road to Rivendell yet she was completely unchanged, her face smooth, her hair untouched by grey. It seemed his notion that she was of Elven blood was true after all. This was not the best time for her to make an appearance, but if anyone could draw Thorin out of his black mood it was her. Sometimes Balin chided himself for not encouraging her to marry Thorin all those years ago. It would not have been the right choice politically, but it would have been the right choice for the King.

Fili had parked the wagon and joined them, glad to see a smile on his uncle’s face again. They spent a merry evening catching up, Kaylea wanted to know all that had happened in Erebor and the Dwarves were curious to hear her news from the South. Finally, as the evening crowd began to thin, Balin stood up buttoning his coat.

“We should get back,” he told the King.

Thorin dismissed him with a wave. “You go ahead, I will catch up in a day or two,” he said. “I think I will stay here for the winter holiday.”

Balin gave him a reproachful look. “You have a formal feast for the princes of the Blue Mountains tomorrow. And your cousins from the Iron Hills should have arrived today.”

Thorin scowled at the old Dwarf. “So, make up an excuse! Shurri will be more than happy to preside over any formal occasion.”

Balin looked to Kaylea for help, but she only smiled at him and shrugged. “Perhaps you could delay the feast for a few days,” she said, looking at Thorin. “If it is what the King wishes.”

Balin sighed. “Well, I suppose I do have the ride back to Erebor to think of something.” He gave the King a reproachful look. “You owe me one, laddie. Or I should say, another one.”

Thorin chuckled. “Put it on my tab.” He watched Balin and Fili leave, then turned to Kaylea. “My love, do you happen to know if there is a room nearby where we could have some…supper?” His fingers traced the skin of her stomach under her tunic.

“Upstairs,” Kaylea answered. “This place has excellent rooms, one has a view of Erebor.”

Hours later, Kaylea rolled over to watch Thorin as he walked across the room to stoke the fire. As she had promised the room was large and well-appointed, the bed soft as a cloud; it was one of only two rooms at the top of the inn. From the windows the gates of Erebor could be clearly seen, the braziers along the top brightly lit. Kaylea noticed Thorin had gained some weight since he had been king, no longer the thin warrior she had met on the road to Rivendell. She decided to tease him about it, but not tonight. Her eyes traveled down his body, lingering on his mane of dark hair, his wide shoulders, strong arms scarred from battles and years of working hot metal, the curve of his back, the thick muscles in his legs.

Feeling her eyes on him, Thorin looked over at her. “Are you watching me?”

“Just enjoying the view.”

Thorin chuckled. He went to the window, studying the gates of his city in the moonlit vale. For the first time in months he felt a little distance between himself and all his responsibilities. After a moment he turned back toward the bed, looking down at his feet. “I am afraid I do not cut quite as dashing a figure as I once did.”

Kaylea smiled at him. “You need to start training again. I decided to tease you about that tomorrow.”

Thorin slipped back into bed beside her, pulling her close. “Is that so? Then tomorrow I will tease you about your clothes.” The fact that Kaylea always wore her black fighting clothes had always been a sore spot for him. She had a few dresses in her wardrobe in Erebor, he wished she would bring some new ones. “Do you not have tailors in your land that can make you something different?”

“Is it decreed in Erebor that the King should have three helpings at every meal?”

“Actually, it is four. But I will resolve to only have two if you let me order you some new dresses.” Smiling, he brushed her hair away from her face. “Tell me about this winter holiday of Men.”

“This is the holiday that marks the new year for Men,” Kaylea said. “The shortest day of the year has passed and the days are starting to grow longer. It is a time to gather with your family, exchange presents. People decorate their homes and enjoy a feast. There are many little traditions this time of year, it is the only time you will find mistletoe indoors.”

The King laughed. “You stopped me when I was standing under it,” he said. “Does that mean you do want to marry me?”

“I told you before it is not my destiny to be married, but I hope our love will always remain strong.”

“And I told you I will not take no for an answer. One day you will be my wife,” Thorin replied. He stroked her back with his fingers. “You said it is a time for gift-giving, did you bring me a present?”

Kaylea smiled mischievously, taking his hand and guiding it between her legs. “You already opened it.”

“Mmmm…exactly what I wanted! How did you ever guess?”

#fanfiction #thewarriorandtheking #thorin x oc #thorin fanfic #tolkien fanfiction #the hobbit #lord of the rings #middle earth #true love #thorin #christmas story

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thehoneyjournal · 4 years ago

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Legend Lore Entry #3: Fafnir the Dragon

Your vision fades, and as it returns you realize you are sat astride a small horse, a giant of a Tiefling riding a warhorse at least two feet taller than your own next to you, a massive two handed greatsword slung on his back. He rides with a practiced ease, the dusty mid morning sun illuminating the cobblestone road in front of you. You turn, feeling a lithe elven frame twist in the saddle, looking backwards towards the silver walls of your home as they shrink into the distance.

“What exactly is the point of this excursion, Lethalin?” The Tiefling growls. I am one of the foremost battlemasters of the mercenary’s guild, and I do not take kindly to babysitting a tiny academic such as yourself.”

I frown at the sun, absent mindedly gauging the hours left until sundown, barely acknowledging the rudeness of the meat mountain to my left.

“Mack, You’re here as a deterrent to bandits, mostly. My magic will be enough protection for us both, but the Order of the Vanir would rather us not kill anyone with our abilities if at all possible.

The Tiefling grunts again, frustration evident with the vagueness of my answer.

“Thats all well and fine, but why me and not some other intimidating fellow? I was to travel to Geldorcraft to aid in the defense of the city!”

This gets my attention.

“Did the guild not tell you anything?”

“Well...” I turn to look at Mack, who is squirming in his saddle with what appears to be self consciousness.

“I may not have been fully listening at the time when they gave my assignment.”

I sigh (quietly- this man has a reputation and a capacity for extreme swiftness and violence).

“We are to observe the dragon Fafnir and attempt to make contact with him, in order to see if he will aid the conflict in Geldorcraft.”

There's a long silence, for at least a mile if not more before Mack speaks again.

“And what do we do if the dragon says no to our proposal?”

I shrug- in truth my excitement at getting to see the last dragon in Midgard is somewhat tempered now that I am away from my colleagues and the safety of the city walls.

“I suppose we will see if your reputation is earned then, Mack.”

This shuts him up for the rest of the day.

The rhythm of the horse lulls me into a dull trance, which we elves are known for. The faint echo and scent of magic lingers on the air from the north, even this far away, a whiff of sea water and something darker, like sulfur or brimstone.

We stop for the night, setting a fire. I find a small stream, filling a pot with water before starting the fire with flint and steel. I feel Mack’s eyes on me, as well as the all too common question coming.

“Lethalin?”

“Yes?”

“Why aren’t you using magic to do all that?”

I grin, a memory of Allana’s teachings coming to my mind from when I was but a sapling, being trained in the great halls of the Order of the Vanir.

“Mack, do you shave with your greatsword?”

He pulls back, a look of confusion on his broad, light purple face.

“What? No! Of course not, that would be impractical and dangerous!”

I wait, but see no resolution or realization in his features. I gesture to the water, which has begun to steam and bubble gently in the night air.

“The fire’s hot. The water’s boiling. Simple tasks don’t require dangerous tools. I won’t use my powers for the same reason you won’t use that cleaver on your back to rid yourself of morning stubble. It’s.... what's the word? Overkill.”

Mack’s expression clears.

“That makes sense, I suppose. Like I can’t lift the heaviest weights possible every time I train, or I’d hurt myself!”

I nod, a quick grin crossing my mouth.

“Yep, that’s it exactly”, I say lightly, my tone giving nothing away.

The following 3 days pass without incident, and I find myself enjoying this warrior’s company. He frequently asks questions about life as a magic user, how it works, what it means to me, and other probing questions. I confess, I began to enjoy his company.

Then we met the dragon.

On the third day, there’s a dull rumble in the air- Mack and I are both on edge, seeing the dull red glow in the distance of Geldorcraft. The last messages had told us that the Goddess had ripped the demon limb from limb and that he had run from the field, but his followers had apparently gone into a frenzy for days after the hell spawns ignoble retreat, and the city’s fate was still very much in the balance.

As it turns out, the rumble was not the battle in the city.

Do you know the collective noun for a group of dragons? The word has not been used for a century, not since the grand culling of the wyrms by our Aesir protectors. The word is a ‘thunder’ of dragons.

I submit to you that a single dragon is enough to warrant this word’s use.

I thought the sky had cracked open, as a blast of wind sent our horses into a panic, throwing me from the saddle, the breath whooshing from my lungs. Mack collected his reins, setting his horse expertly, drawing the sword over his shoulder in a practiced motion, holding it easily in a single hand, facing against a mountain of black scales and wings the size of a galleons sails.

Mack jumps off his mount, his armor causing him to land heavily on both feet. His voice is deceptively calm.

“Lethalin? Now’s a good time to get on your feet. Maybe even to use some dangerous tools.”

I stumble up, feeling a bruise already forming on both legs and my side. For the first and last time in my life, I observe the majesty of a fully grown dragon.

Fafnir’s scales are so black they appear to absorb light. At different times they appear as sleek black steel, other times stone. His teeth are as long as Mack’s sword, his claws the same, and both look sharper as his claws have carved furrows into the stone below him just from standing. A glow at the back of his throat signals to that most famous ability of dragons. His wings spread to either side for nearly 50 or 60 feet. His eyes, shockingly, are a piercing green, and each one is as tall as Mack is. I can feel the magic radiating off of this creature like a furnace, and for a moment I doubt our plan. My fear is forgotten a moment later as an impossibly Deep voice rings out from behind the teeth, the dragon’s mouth and tongue somehow framing language better than I ever have.

“Greetings, Men of The East. I welcome

You to my domain, the vast grasslands of Fafnir, last and greatest of the dragons in Midgard.”

I swallow, feeling the lump in my throat. Mack has stood up out of his fighting crouch, the sword hanging from nerveless fingers, some fell magic working on him, numbing him with fear. I feel it to, but fight it down, saying:

“Greetings to you, Fafnir, son of Bolin. Well met, and we acknowledge your greatness. We come bearing gifts for your treasure hoard, and a request if you will allow us smaller beings to take up any more of your time this day.”

A mischievous light flares, and a breath of wind whuffs from the dragon’s mouth, nearly knocking us flat.

“Oho! Flattery! Tis only natural, for I am nature’s fury in all it’s glory and mastery. Your compliments are well received, young one. What is this gift you have brought me?”

My hands are shaking as I produce a tome

from my bag of holding, written in draconic. I hold it up, stepping forward, feeling the ground shake as the dragon brings one its eyes around to blink slowly and peruse my gift. It reads aloud, seeming to savor the syllables rolling off it’s tongue.

“A complete genealogy of the dragons- 8th edition. A good gift, a fine gift! Perhaps now this rumor and legend of me once being a dwarf will now be put to rest once and for all.”

I nod, breathless. The eye suddenly locks back on me.

“And your.... request?”

I swallow my fear, my voice cracking as I blurt out:

“We wish for you to help us find and kill the one they call Prusias, and to help defend the city of Geldorcraft.”

What can only be described as a frown crosses Fafnir’s face.

“I cannot do this, hatchling. No- I will not. Tell me, who is the leader of your coastal city?”

I wince. “Njord,” I say.

The majestic beast bends down, its eye level with mine once more.

“I can tell you know why this is a problem. Those Aesir destroyed my race. I am alone in the world because of them. My brothers and sisters have left for other realms to avoid extinction. Our race will survive, but we were made here, and our ancestral home is now forever denied for us. So ask me for any other boon, hatchling. I cannot grant what you ask.”

Tears cloud my eyes, and I feel a breath of wind on my cheek before the voice rumbles once more, quietly, filled with sympathy.

“I have watched your race’s persecution with great sadness in my heart, little one. Your kind are so long lived and mysterious to those who don’t understand what centuries do to a person. I am glad that you have found acceptance with your companion here. It gives me hope that you two legs will work things out someday.”

I swipe my hand furiously across my face, hoping that Mack can’t see me- a quick glance confirms the sword is now on the ground, his eyes entirely vacant with fear and whatever magic is clouding his mind.

“Will he be okay?” My voice sounds small even to my ears now. A earth rattling chuckle.

“Yes. He will likely remember this as a terrible dream.”

I look up at the dragon once more. A kinship fills my heart, and I instinctively reach out towards the dragon, touching the scales below it’s jaw. They are warm to the touch, like sunkissed rocks, and i scratch along the jaw, right where I would if Fafnir was a cat.

The green eyes close, and a dull rumble fills the air, a humming that is nearly subsonic, felt but not heard. I do not press my luck or ask again for the favor. The dragon gently grabs the manuscript from where it lays on the ground, somehow cradling it in a paw. It inclines its head to me before launching into the air, knocking Mack and I flat to the ground as it climbs into the air. I watch it leave, unsure if I’ve done the right thing. It feels right. The wounds of a hundred years ago are still fresh to beings like me and Fafnir, and I understand his reasons. That will have to be enough.

#Found Lore #legend lore #Miere Notes

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thepilgrimofwar · 4 years ago

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The Holdouts of the Black Banner - Edited Roll20 Log

[Event Start!]

The journey up to the Cloudrend Glades starts with cobbled path up a minor slope, to a winding road snaking its way up a mountainside, then, as Zarannis takes the Heroes of the Emberglades off the beaten path- a climb with steps made from ancient wooden boards to terraform the soil itself into steps. Before long, they were hundreds above sea level and could see the whole realm from an outlook in the mountainous woods. Mist shrouded lakes of the Cloudrends, beyond that, hills and woods, beyond that the half-burned fields of the Heartlands, and beyond those was The Great Sea.

Zarannis turned back to the others. “Not far now,” she said, carrying upon her back her black greatsword as well as the Black Banner of Lord Tar’saren. One that Sederis had once carried into battle. The hope was that the sight of it would lure out one of their patrols to at least speak with them- at worse, ambush them thinking they were Alliance lackeys who had stolen it.

Then, as they drew to a narrowing between two minor cliffs, something felt off to any observant enough to feel it.

[Perception Roll]

[A figure steps out of the woods. An unshaven elven man armed with a crossbow.]

Gerren Shatterspear lowers his weapon, a crossbow of shoddy construction maintained by animal sinew and hewn wood from the surrounding trees. “Lady Highdawn?”

Zarannis looks back to the member of her entourage.

Thanidiel just fucking squints - the blaze of her fel-green eye dimming some through her golden greathelm. A very simple, direct-to-the-point, statement sounds: "Who the shit are you?" Which, if anything, confirms the man's guess.

Ethalarian:"Making friends everywhere you go, Thanidiel."

Gerren Shatterspear regards the others around her and further lowers his weapon to his side. “Gerren Shatterspear. You don't know me, but we know of you...You were there at the Battle for the Isle. You were there when Lord Emberheart fell.” He pauses for a long moment, as rusty cogs begun churning within his mind. “We didn’t we? We actually won?”

Thanidiel lets out a long 'Mmmmm' that reverberates deep through her chest and comes out muffled from her armour. Perhaps debating Ethalarian's choice of the word 'friends.' "The Kingdom of Quel'Thalas stands, the North from the efforts of the Black Banner preserved; the South diminished by foul magicks."

Zarannis nods at Thanidiel's response. “In short, yes we did. Months ago. Hadn’t you heard?”

Gerren Shatterspear shakes his head. “It’s hard to receive news when you’re constantly fighting for your life.”

Zarannis narrows her eyes. “If you consider stealing grain and cutting down crops fighting- I’m afraid to tell you that you’re inflicting misery upon the local peasantry.”

Gerren Shatterspear frowns. “No, even if they aren’t the Alliance subjugated serfs we thought they were, the peasants were a means to an end.” He thumbs behind him into the deep woods. “You know of the Troll Tunnels that run beneath the Glades?”

Zarannis gives him a look. “I am familiar.”

Gerren Shatterspear “So you know they were infested with the Undead, even after Sederis’ campaign to make them safer.”

Ethalarian perks up.

Zarannis lowers her head. “They’re still down there then.”

Gerren Shatterspear gives her an ominous look. “Them and more. Truth be told, I’ve been sent to get help. From the Alliance. But it’s clear that you’ll make a good substitute. Because the Amani are hunting us down.”

Zarannis also perks up. “The Amani? Here? Impossible, the Amani who lived in the Cloudrends were wiped out in the Fall. Sederis and I went in search of them.”

Gerren Shatterspear nods. “They hunt us from beyond the grave.”

Iriina pipes up. "Going to be hard to get help from the Alliance when they've run off with their tails between their legs."

Gerren Shatterspear shrugs. "Then it is pure luck that I've run into you and yours then."

Thanidiel:"I would not turn down putting down beasts; I believe we were aware it may come to such when we were first briefed."

Following Gerren, the Heroes of the Emberglades find themselves at the entrance of a grand tunnel. Black obsidian tiles marked with intricate designs and pagan runes that held no more meaning for the living. “Follow me close.”

Gerren Shatterspear speaks, half-preoccupied with a lost zombie. Giving some direction to the party. "My company is up ahead. Left tunnel, then turn right once you hit the end and following on through until you hit a cross section.

"Are we moving as one or shall I delve as far as I can go?" asks Thanidiel.

"I can run with you if necessary," Iriina replies

Zarannis nods, "as far as you can go as long as we can support you."

“Then it will be so." Thanidiel shoulders past Ethalarian, taking at Zarannis' heels and eventually outpacing the Farstrider down the tunnelway.

[Combat Start]

The group moves as one initially. Cutting down the Undead that wandered the halls that seemed to grow thicker in number the deeper they went. But as Thanidiel and Zarannis spearheaded their way into the darkness, they quickly leave behind others who begin exploring smaller offshoot tunnels. Zombies start coming at them from all directions, and though they were large in numbers, the party deals with them easily. Save for Iriina who is eventually covered in viscera as she holds back the ones that explode.

Eventually they regroup at a junction where a centralized force of Undead seemed to be fighting the Undead Amani Trolls that Gerren had spoken about. Capitalizing on this, the group engages them while they are occupied. Tearing into them and drawing the attention of their leader.

[Undead Mage Encountered]

A skeletal mage in ragged robes and a blue fire in its chest steps round the corner. Confused to why half of his warriors had ceased to be in the last two minutes. Siviri Stormsinger screeches. “Who in Fel are you lot?” It verbalizes through a blue flame at its heart. It’s teeth clattering as he spoke as if by habit.

Gerren Shatterspear blinks. It is obvious that the soldier had never run into an undead in the tunnels that spoke. He decides not to shoot it on sight. "The living?" Gerren responds, as he wrapped his mind around this.

Thanidiel notes this, "and now we have a target." She leans sidelong, looking behind her and down the corridor to Ethalarian in the distance, "Dawnstalker!" She barks, "Double time, we've the leader of this band ahead."

Ethalarian wastes no time in blitzing down the corridor, Faithbreaker a veritable beacon in the dim light by this point so hot is are the winding flames along the blade's edge. Leader. The mage? The mage. Once in range, he steps hard with his front foot and snaps his hips, putting every ounce of his weight into this blow.

Siviri Stormsinger screeches and responds with a spell, freezing the air around Ethalarian.

Ethalarian grimaces as the air around him immediately turns to ice, freezing his exposed skin and biting all the way down to the bone.

Thanidiel moves forward to support Ethalarian, her poleaxe starting to flare with the same holy flame as her companion. The weapon swings to crumple its weight down into the mage's guard.

The Mage’s Boneguard disintegrates into a pile of bones and armor pieces in a pillar of flaming light.

Ethalarian had wavered for a moment after the ice lance punched through his armor. His Light flickered in the dark, and his knees threatened to buckle. Before they buckled entirely, he managed to brace himself against the wall. "You'll find I'm not so easily killed, stranger," he says to the blonde as he downs the phial of viscous crimson liquid and presses forward down the corridor behind Thanidiel. When he catches sight of the group of trolls just beyond his colleagues, however, he doesn't waste a moment in blitzing past them to engage the newly emerged threat.

[The Bone Mage is Slayed. The group travels forth, and engages the Undead Trolls now]

Highdawn rounds the corner and see's a barricaded section of tunnel, besieged by Undead Trolls. "Are the men behind that barricade?"

Gerren Shatterspear yells. "Then we don't have much time!"

Zin'dayat bellows, her voice carrying through all the nearby tunnels. "More living? Slay them too! Trespassers, all of them!"

Thanidiel yells back at the party. "Hurry up, I'm taking attention off the barricade."

Facing two Troll Warlords from beyond the grave, the party tears into their numbers. Unleashing explosive arcs of Light that sanctifies the waves of minions that are sent to slow them down. Thanidiel charges in, placing herself between the barricades of the Black Banner Holdouts and the worst of the assault. Giving the reckless paladin cover with their crossbows, the Undead Trolls soon find themselves surrounded and attacked from both sides, their retreat down the main tunnels cut off.

In the final moments of the battle, the barricades are breached. But instead of a retreat the Black Bannermen surge through the gap and engage Zin’dayat with bolts and steel. Joining in as the party brings Taufik and his raptor low and putting an end to the would be Warlord of the Amani Tunnels underneath The Emberglades.

[Combat Ends!]

Gerren Shatterspear waits for a moment more as silence begins to finally fill the hallways of the tunnels. Then when it is clear that there was no more fighting to be done, he starts to laugh. "To think we could have ever lost the war. He looks to the heroes around him as the other Black Bannerhold outs retreat to the rest of the company- Many of them not at the barricades themselves wounded, or tending to them.

Zarannis lowers her weapon. "We came to get you home. I'd say that as long as your commanding officer doesn't believe that we're somehow Alliance spies- We've succeeded this day."

Muroco speaks. "Do I look like an Alliance spy to you?"

"That's how they get you," Thanidiel says, dry and humourless.

Gerren Shatterspear gives the Tauren a look. "No, and I'm sure the company won't believe that either." He shakes his head and gives Zarannis a look. "And there is no commanding officer. We're a collective- And we don't have a home- Lord Tar'saren made sure of it to deny Lady Everleigh entry to the Glades."

Muroco gets a cloudy thought bubble over his head as he thinks about all the Alliance members that want him dead. "If someone like me was able to ingratiate myself into the Sunguard for years and act as an Alliance spy then your race truly is doomed."

Zarannis snorts at Muroco's comment.

Iriina is busy helping tend to the wounded, but she starts laughing at Muroco's comments anyway.

Isilos speaks. "Our race is doomed for many reasons, but that is not one of them."

Zarannis turns back to Gerren, raising the Black Banner off her back and giving it to Gerren. "Then we'll build a new one. I've been offered Lord Tar'saren's title." She does not mention that she had not taken it, nor that she had been avoiding it. Until now.

Thanidiel gives the girl her support. "Commander Wintergale proved herself like no other after Tar'saren fell in the Kingdom Greater."

Gerren Shatterspear scratches his chin. "We've heard rumors of reports but had believed them to be fabrications of the Invaders to lure us out of hiding. But I see that the reputation of not only her, but all of you were true to life."

Zarannis points to the others around here. "We're all here to fight for Stenden. Rightful ruler of the Emberglades. I'm sure you've seen signs of fighting down in the Heartlands. Now I won't press you to fight for us, seeing that you've never stopped fighting as it is. But any support you can give me will be appreciated."

Ethalarian:"I'd definitely recommend not fighting against us at the very least."

Gerren Shatterspear shakes his head. "You misunderstand, Commander Wintergale." The girl doesn't seemed phased by the description any longer. "Fighting is what we do." He shoots her a smile. "If there's no home to return to- Warfare is the next best place we can go to."

With that, Zarannis gains the command of a Company of Black Bannermen. Though it might take some time to gather up the wounded and get them back to fighting shape, it gave her the power she could use on her family's behalf.

[Event End]

#Epilogue #Roll20 #Zarannis

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montesquedemeadowshire · 6 years ago

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Silver Ravens Pt 1

A crowd waited.

In the city of Kintargo, under the hot noon sun, a crowd waited in front of the city’s renowned opera house. The new Lord-Mayor of the city had announced that he would be making his first public proclamation that day at midday, and the crowd gathered to bear witness.

Some waited because they wished to see this man who had been appointed to lead their city by the far off empress of Cheliax, this Lord-Mayor who had, in the month since his arrival, passed a variety of strange and seemingly petty ordnances into city law. Others waited, and talked, and tried to gain support for a variety of causes, many of them mutually exclusive. Here, a young man speaks to a warrior with two swords, explaining to him the glories of the Thrice-Damned House of Thrune and the Cheliax Empire which it had brought to prominence. There, though more quietly, a half orc carefully seeks out those he might tell of the horrors he has seen within the Church of Jaedis. Still others are there only because it seemed the most likely place for something interesting to happen, such as a young elven maiden and a lizard-woman, both newly arrived to Kintargo, both still seeking their place in the bustling port city. They see one another and, each for their own reasons, turn away, distracted by the growing dissatisfaction of the crowd.

The dissatisfaction does not go unnoticed, for around the court yard of the Opera House are several detachments of the Kintargo city guard, known as the dottari. Many of them are beginning to look uneasy, fingering their weapons and casting steely looks upon any of the assembled citizens who appear to be getting too boisterous. Noon has come and gone, and the crowd is edging ever closer to becoming a riot, as their dissatisfaction grows in the hot summer sun.

At last, the silver bells atop the Opera House begin to chime. Once, twice, thrice they chime, and as the third pure note fades softly, the quieted crowd looks up to see, upon the balcony of the Opera House, a man dressed in the blacks and reds of House Thrune. He is of moderate build, with a harshly lined face, black hair cut short in the fashion of a warrior. He looks out upon the people and carefully represses a sneer, for, after all, he is Barzillai, of House Thrune, and they are his people, whether he likes it or not.

“Good citizens of Kintargo, my apologies for keeping you waiting. I am still used to the rather relaxed timekeeping of the capital, and am still adjusting to your admirably provincial punctuality. It does you credit. I appear before you today to greet you all as your new Lord-Mayor, and express my hopes that our relationship will be a long and fruitful one, both for myself as well as you, the citizens of my city. Of course, for this to be the case, we must first deal with destabilizing foreign elements. As such, all foreign-born ships captains are hereby banned from setting foot into the city of Kintargo, on penalty of squassation.”

This announcement garnered the confused reaction he had been expecting. After all, squassation was a form of punishment that hadn’t been practiced in centuries, and he was quite proud of having rediscovered it at all. He certainly didn’t expect any of these provincials to have heard of it.

“You mean torture!” A voice shouted from the crowd.

Barzillai froze. Before he could respond, this voice was joined by a throng of others, some agreeing with it and some denying it, but all shouting to be heard among the others. Then, from out of the crowd, quicker than he could react, a fragment of a cobblestone came flying through the air, clipping the side of his head. His vision turned red from pain and fury. He was the legally appointed ruler of this city, and these rubes dared to assault his person? “Guards!” he shouted, “Nox! Deal with this rabble!”

He turned his back on the city, cape billowing behind him, and retreated back into the cool depths of the Opera House.

In the crowd outside, a score of men and women threw off their cloaks, revealing the armbands of the Chelish Citizens’ Watch, an organization dedicated to the promotion and maintenance of the rule of the House of Thrune over Kintargo. Several of them immediately flocked to the man who had thrown the stone from the crowd, beating him senseless before he could escape.

Another approached the young swordsman who had been speaking with the Thrune supporter. The young man eyed the vigilante warily, but only moved when the man’s mace came swinging toward his head. Drawing the long blade at his waist, he blocked the man’s blow, then before his assailant could react, drew his second sword with his left hand and cracked its hilt against his temple. The Citizens’ watchman dropped like a sack of grain, and the young swordsman began to make his way around the edge of the crowd, seeking the nearest road by which he could escape the scene.

Several other knots of conflict had arisen around the square, some single fighters holding off the watchmen coming after them, some knots of resistance fighting against small groups. Most people, of course, were simply trying to flee as swiftly as possible.

As he hastened along the edge of the square, one of these conflicts spilled in front of him. A slim man with slightly pointed ears and a burly one in mail armor backed in, pressed by two watchmen and two women. Dodging a thrust from a dagger, the slim, unarmored man spun and kicked his attacker behind the ear, putting him down. The other was harder pressed, being the more apparently resilient target, but seemed to be enjoying himself nevertheless, if the laughter was any indication.

The swordsman looked for a way around, but the crown was pressing in now, and it looked like the only way around was through. Sighing in irritation, he stepped lightly forward, cutting the back of the nearest Watchwoman’s knee, giving the large man the opening he needed to pin her to the cobbles with his spear. Now outnumbered, the watchmembers exchanged glances before melting back into the crowd.

The swordsman likewise looked to the other two, and said, “they’ll be going for reinforcements. Stick together until we’re out of this?”

The larger warrior laughed again, “You seem to know your way around those blades of yours. Let’s show those devil lovers some pain!” The slender one merely nodded and responded, “Aye.”

No further trouble assailed them, no doubt because the three together looked like more trouble than they were worth, and as they finally reached one of the major thoroughfares leading from the square, they heard an increase in the commotion behind them. From the front of the opera house, a sturdily built woman charged forth, swinging her glaive and cutting down those few who remained in opposition to the watchmen. In one hand she held a lead, which was attached to the collar of a hulking black dog with fiery red eyes. Behind her came a swarm of the Dottari, the official Kintargo City Watch who swarmed around the fallen to begin tying and cuffing them.

“Looks like we got out of there just in time,” observed the smaller man.

“I don’t know that we’re out just yet. Come with me to my clanhold, and I’ll make sure we all make it out of this none the worse for wear,” the swordsman offered.

“Clanhold?” The brawler asked, confused, “are you with those foreigners down on the South Bank, then?”

“I am. Shigaraki of House Sakaki, of the Crane Clan. Thank you for your assistance.”

“Winmer Felhold, of…well, here and there, I suppose,” said the slender man, with a slight smile.

“Korgac, no last name that I know of, right here in Kintargo,” was the large man’s response. “Now, let’s see about getting somewhere quiet, eh?”

#silver ravens #writeblr #original writing

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gmassets · 4 years ago

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Pathfinder AP: Hell’s Rebels. Night Vision.

A Dream of Devoted Saranites:

Voices all around me making small talk mixed with the clinking of glasses and plates at a warm evening party with the patio doors all open. A hundred people in absurdly expensive outfits admiring one another. One voice rises above the others, simply exclaims the word “Look!”

Rising to gaze over the crowd and out the veranda doors away Southwest, I see huge columns of black smoke, even in the failing light they are plain to see. Many small ones, and three larger than the rest. The docks are the nearest. An entire pier must be ablaze.

The second great fire is across the River, downtown in the shop district. A huge plume of smoke 50’ wide. Alarm bells began to ring across the city. Staring hard again at the shop district, my heart begins to pound in my chest.

I sprint for the balcony. Knock over a waiter. Shove an old fat lady aside.

As the balcony rail comes at me fast, I see the fire blocks away. I dive off, four-floors-up, glide to the outer wall designed to keep the riff raff out. I barely grab the edge of it with my fingertips. “GO” I yell at myself out loud. I pull myself up and race across the wall, again diving over the side to glide down into the streets below.

Running hard now, scimitar banging against my hip. The fire is straight ahead but the main street is blocked for construction. I know which alley to take. I sprint through a small market knocking over chairs and tables. Through someone’s front yard. I’m on the street again now, there’s bright light ahead.

The building is consumed. It flows up the outer walls, bursts out of the windows. A forty foot wide pillar of black smoke churns out of the roof and up into the night sky. People are running away from it. I can’t see inside, the fire is too thick. I cut left around a neighboring building to try to see the front entrance on the dock side. It has completely collapsed.

Across the river to the South, I see a huge burst of fire rise up into the night and become a smoke cloud over the city. My stomach clenches. I can’t breathe. Tears are coming. I race to the end of the burning dock. Voices yelling around me, at me, as I dive full speed into the river.

I shape my dive perfectly to slice through the calm flow. I see the reflection of a beautiful silver-haired elven woman with dark lines streaming down her cheeks and a crazed look in her eyes coming straight at me and then cool water surrounds.

The water smells foul, death and ash choke me as I try to breathe it, but it’s too foul. Holding my breath, I surge ahead. I hit the surface on the other side so hard I launch all the way onto the sidewalk and start running as water gushes out of my clothes and concealed armor.

In a few steps it’s fallen off me and I’m at a full sprint again. I can’t breathe but I’m not tired, I run on pure terror.

I cut through the dense neighborhood on the South shore of the river, cutting left and right until I get to the square. I burst out of a side street, straining to see to the West.

“No, no NO” I hear myself say as I see which building is burning. The surrounding buildings are caught too. It’s all on fire. I’m running straight at it. The heat knocks me off my feet and I sit on the stones in the middle of the street as the upper floor collapses down into the first. I struggle to my feet, hands shaking. Tears stream down my face. I can’t breathe. I’m trying to inhale and I can’t.

I feel hot, inside. My hands and feet are tingling. I feel like I’m on fire. I don’t notice the heat of the blaze anymore. I finally gather a deep breath. I scream.

I feel a hand on my shoulder, turning me around. I look into the faces of four armored men. They wear red sashes with the symbol of a red cross in a red circle.

“WHY?!” I spit on them as I say it. They reach for their belts. Maces or clubs or some other slow heavy thing hanging there. The scimitar is in my hand and sweeping across my body before they even raise their weapons. I take off the hand of the nearest soldier, his scream drowned out by my own. I dance through their clumsy attempts to strike me. Two more hit the street dead as I cut the shoulder tendons on the last.

Laying on his back in the street clutching his limp arm, I hold my blade an inch from his face as fire courses down the hilt to its tip. “Where is your Lord?!” I struggle to say to him, my voice wavering. “Opera house” he spits through clenched teeth and a look of terror.

I am running harder than I ever have in my life, straight down the middle of the street. People I pass are yelling at me. Some try to follow but they can’t keep up. Every part of me feels like it’s on fire but I feel energized.

I see more soldiers ahead in Aria Park, in front of a huge grey building on my right. Four men on the street and two more at the doors.

Through clenched teeth, I whisper “Celeb Yavie Cuar” and my scimitar changes into a longbow. Silver arrows with shining silver tips conjure directly into my hands as I draw, each one bursting into flame as I fire. Six shots, six hits. Two guards fall dead, the others retreat around the side of the building with their wounds.

“Celeb Yavie Salka” and the bow changes back into a scimitar and then splits into two blades. I kick the front doors open and charge into the foyer. Two more guards are dead before they hit the floor. I enter the main hall, race down through the cheap seats yelling “THRUNE, FACE ME!”

Four guards appear at the balcony 20’ above me with crossbows pointing down.

“Celeb Yavie Lindur” as my swords become a violin and bow, I begin to play and the archers freeze just as they take aim. “Celeb Yavie Cuar.” They stare at me in horror as the violin changes back into a bow and I put a burning silver arrow through each throat. They fall into the orchestra pit with a terrifying crash one by one.

Running boots and armor turn me around in time to see a huge woman coming at me from the side hall. Black hair, clothes, and armor, but solid white eyes. She leads with a huge polearm and has a running start. “Celeb Yavie Salka.” Bow returns to sword form and sparks fly as her blade scrapes mine in passing.

The strength of her blows is jarring, I cannot block them so I deflect and dance around them. There is a foul white fire smoldering in her eyes and a savagery to her movements that suggests she is more than she appears. Again and again she brings her weapon around in long sweeping strokes and thrusts that destroy the seats around us as if they were paper.

I am on my heels. I fake a stumble after her last swing and she lunges hard at the false opening. She quickly regains her footing and turns with another killing stroke but my hand holds the back of her neck and my sword has passed through her heart before she can bring her huge weapon around.

I tear the scimitar free of her as she growls and stares at me from the ground, somehow still alive. I feel the spell hit me before I see a bald man in grey plate standing on the balcony above me with his outstretched hand. A thousand invisible bricks build a wall around me. I cannot move, I still can’t fucking breathe.

I hear wings. The flapping of small leathery wings behind me. Something sharp stabs me in the leg, then the hip, then the neck. The heat drains out of me and numbing cold seeps in. I feel frozen and heavy. The only part of me that still moves is my heartbeat. It slows, and stops.

Dreamer wakes up in a panicked sweat with a burning need to feel their own heart, which is indeed still beating.

#pathfinder #adventurepath #hellsrebels

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thesong-spectre · 5 years ago

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Tales of Azden: Enslaved by a Sorcereress

ONE

Ashidavar Ruins, Somewhere in Cyrodil, 15th Day of the Evening Star

Azden Riseri valued what little light the orange flames of his torch made down the seemingly endless dark corridor. Usually a retched stench seeped into these kinds of places from damp corners and the moisture that outside air swept through cracks and holes in the walls. Naturally rats would squeak and scutter against the floors and spiders made homes near the delicious morsels. And at this point of his life Azden had seen so many skeletons that he could draw a perfectly detailed one from memory. But none of these things were present within the cramped spaces of Ashidavar Ruins. And that worried Azden beyond imagining.

As a self-proclaimed artifact hunter, Azden took great value and pride in knowing his stuff. In digging up the past so others can admire history in the present, in discovering the secrets of Tamriel’s greatest magi, or gripping onto the last remnants of the dwarves. But here, it was like the rooms were perfectly preserved all save for the eerie darkness. He could hear his own heartbeat, it bothered him.

The young Redguard turned the gaze of his unique violet eyes, the one’s he had since that magical incident, and directed it toward the faint white light of snow a few meters behind him that hinted at the entrance. He wanted to remember it one last time before he stepped deeper into the shadows. He ran a hand through his short but curly black hair and took a deep breath. 20 years of age, six feet tall, broad-shoulder and strong athletic figure, and yet these simple walls made him think at any moment this place would crush him and his puny mortal form. His special cloth weave jacket and black pants and boots no longer felt so protective, even though both had stopped a good arrow or two in their past.

The further he descended into darkness the weaker his torch got. But he sensed no chill in the air, nor moisture from the snowfall outside. Maybe the shadows tickled and grabbed at his light? Slowly pulling apart the beacon he held so close to himself, only caring to distance it enough to not burn his skin. Ashidivar ruins, ‘The living evils of the Black Mage’ That’s how the commoners described it. The informant’s story hadn’t been far off from that. He hadn’t had much time to read into this Black Mage, but apparently some long time ago, how time was usually written, a Breton adept in a strange necromancy had founded a haven for himself. More of a temple where he and his acolytes and worshippers had lived, terrorizing locals for years. Kidnapping people and bringing them into his haven to do experiments and what not, dark things, evil things. No one knew for sure because no one had ever stepped involuntarily in and made it back out. The place was sure built more like a prison than a temple. Deep underground rooms lined equally along an endless corridor…

For his own sanity, Azden prayed the corridor had an end. For his own safety, he gripped a spear tight in his right hand in case the gods didn’t answer. No creature had come within a mile of the broken stone arches on the hilltop outside, the doorway had not a vine intertwined in iron grates. The life outside must’ve known about the death within, Azden started to think it would’ve been better to heed the warnings. His eyes almost shot open when a new light appeared a not far walk ahead, a soft purple glow. The darkness of the corridor slowly spread thin and finally fell to the torchlight once more. Azden increased the pace of his steps, yearning to be away from the possible horrors of the accursed darkness.

A chamber. One for arcane and occult practices of some sort, filled with dusty destroyed tomes and broken remains of many researcher’s tools. One’s Azden had never seen anything like before. But the stunning item, the thing he came to receive, his reward for braveness or stupidity, he always which one later, sat on the floor in the room. A tablet of some strange metal, shiny like cleaned steel but fine feeling and looking like a silk, whatever it was didn’t come from this plane. Multiple symbols were engraved onto it, letting out the soft glow that reminded him of the color in his eyes, a discomforting thought. Any time he discovered something with strong magic presence he felt hesitant to take it. The tablet must have been the length of a nightstand and the width of a table, yet it weighed nothing and felt natural to hold. He stared at it, maybe a bit too long. It barely fit in his backpack, but it fit.

Azden walked back toward the entrance, not bothering to take anymore items with him. Quick and efficient this time around. Some placed shouldn’t be poked around in. Though maybe it was the relief that he could leave task free, but for a moment the darkness of that same corridor felt inviting. Nice even, and the subjects of his work within it. The king would pay for his treach—

Wait, what was he thinking about!? Azden gulped and shook his head, the darkness held weight once more. He would bring this curse to that Imperial buyer and he would be rid of it soon. Enjoying a cold drink, warm meal, and soft bed at the closest inn before nightfall, yeah.

At least, that was the plan.

Dead Man’s Drink, Cyrodil, 15th day of the Evening Star

The sorcereress’ patience grew thin with every wavering moment that she had to seduce the drunken fool that gave answers with half-sense to them. It would have been much easier to read his mind and then blast him away with a firebolt. But the unwanted attention would ruin all of the delicacies put into her elaborate plans. She sighed to herself and gave a seductive and manipulating look that boasted the beauty of the Dunmer, or any of the elven races in which they were blessed to have. Her hands to her chin in an innocent girl façade with her arms purposefully placed to squeeze the size of her breasts a bit further out of her wine-strewn tunic than usual, she pretended to be wooed by the Imperial that stank of ale breath and cheese. Ugh. Just remember what you’re doing this for, what’s on the line.

“I would love to hear more about how you saved a town from goblins once Kornir, but I must ask you another question,” The sorceress implied. She was young, even in Dunmer lifespan, for humans’ years she would be about 24, which looked more of 18 to many folks who weren’t an elf. And she used the youth of her body and voice to her advantage.

“Please do,” He half slurred the words.

“This Redguard, this, Azden, will he be returning here?”

“Why of course, I am paying him for the job after all. Though to be honest I may cut his pay a bit, it’s taking much longer than I thought.” Kornir took a swig of ale from his tankard.

“So, he should have been back by now?”

“I think so. Tell me uh, Sylvia was it? Why’s a pretty thang like you so interested in dusty ruins anyway?” He asked with a tad of suspicion. No amount of seduction in the world could get between an Imperial and their coin.

She almost cast a spell at him for disrespecting her with such an insulting title as ‘thang.’ Though she forced an innocent smile and replied, “Sylviana Lietgrei. And it’s just family business you could say. And I think males who involve themselves with such dangerous work are attractive.” The last word almost rolled off of her tongue and into Kornir’s heart. She even touched his hand for a moment as a distracting tease. In truth, the sorceress took pride and joy in being able to bend men to her will so easily, a fun part of the already rewarding job of being a sorceress for the Lietgrei bloodline.

“Well you’re more than welcome to stick around and see how the rest of my job goes, Sylviana.”

It didn’t sound right when he said her name, most people could not pronounce the intricacies of elven tongues. It seemed she had more waiting to do. At least she would have it soon. And an even better thought, she could be out of this dump soon.

Yes, the delicacies of her plan were all coming together. By next night she would be back at her home, Myrwatch, within the deeps of Skyrim, being praised and rewarded for her work. Gaining power. Yes. This day would be a good one.

A forest too thick, somewhere in Cyrodil, the 15th of the Evening Star

Searing hot pain, that’s what it was. Azden had experienced many wounds in his dangerous but amazing life as a self-proclaimed artifact hunter, and had the scars on his young muscled body to prove it. But nothing compared to the still bleeding gash across his chest from the ethereal looking blade of, whatever the hell those things chasing him were! And in the cold and snow of all environments.

He had been five minutes out of the ruins with the tablet in his hands because it made an odd humming sound. He heard something, like air warping and suddenly a skeletal faced but heavy armored creature stood above him, some sword of purple flames found its way against his bare skin. It hurt more now than it did those moments ago. His spear found its way through the creature’s chest, slaying it into an ash pile of magic residue. But four more warps later and he ran for his life.

Gods the pain.

What kind of sensation was this? Two potions of healing he downed now, and the pain intensified as he attempted to cure it. But survival had been a skill he held high since childhood, since he was an orphan in the unforgiving place of Hammerfell, he would not give up.

His feet gave him distance fast. Their lack of feet took them to him faster.

“They don’t give up,” He muttered and stopped to breath. He could not outrun them that much was clear. But the pain across his chest was fuel to his fire, he could distract them. Na illusion would be needed, a shaping of reality. Not many illusionists could pull of such amazing and tiring tricks such as shaping of the world itself instead of a single mind. Luckily for Azden, he had the best teacher.

Using what Magicka he could, he bended the nearby thickets and trees to look that of an impenetrable vine wall of sorts. A mile in each direction, which would be impossible in the geography of the woods. But that’s the point.

He stopped to look at what was real, seeing the four horrors become still and angered. One let out a blood-curdling scream, but they truly fell for it. Adonis forgot about all his physical limitations and pushed on into a sprint away from his now stumped pursuers. They wouldn’t be stumped for long, he just needed to get out of the area by then.

After a little while he found himself back at Dead Man’s drink, the inn placed in the middle of nowhere as far as Cyrodil civilization went. Not many people were around except for the common traveler or two. When he stepped inside the building it was more or less the same with the number of customers. Most of everyone slept from drink or had been too intoxicated to acre about his sudden entrance. Most except for the Imperial and…a Dunmer? An exceptionally beautiful one at that, but most elves were when compared to the other races in the room.

Adonis’s healing potions had taken some effect, the bleeding wound now a partially sealed one. Still open enough to catch a nasty cold though. The pain never decreased in intensity, the opposite actually, the more it healed, the more it hurt. Dark and Deep, Adonis thought the swore. He took a seat at the table with his contractor and the gorgeous woman and took a moment to breathe.

“By the gods man, what happened to you!? And what took you so long?” Kornir asked in surprise.

“Your tablet summoned some visitors. I escaped them, and honestly I don’t know if they gave up chase or not.” Azden’s voice was soft-spoken and silvery, even in a stressful time. The Dunmer on his right fell shocked by the pleasantness of his voice, he had a special accent. Like one of someone who spoke many languages and therefore developed a beautifully conflicted tone.

“Visitors? What kind of visitors?”

“Ghastly I would say.” Azden looked to the woman on his right. “I’m Azden Riseri by the way.” He greeted assuming she had business with the Imperial as well.

He intrigued her for some reason she could not explain. She forgot to greet herself, truly.

“Listen, Kornir, this tablet, I don’t know what it is, but I don’t think you should be buying this sort of thing.”

Kornir slammed his tankard on the table. “Hey, I’m already docking your pay for how late you’ve been. Don’t try to smoot talk me into giving you more coin by pretending you’re doing me some favor!” He complained.

“W-what? N-no I don’t care about the coin! Look, the things chasing me are connected to this tablet somehow. It’s dangerous,” Azden attempted to warn the drunken fool.

“Just show mt eh damn thing.”

Azden sighed, but did just that. Placing the behemoth of runes on strange material on the table. Kornir raised a brow at the glowing symbols. Sylviana stared mesmerized at it. Finally, what she came for sat right in front of her. She didn’t want to waste anymore time in this foul place.

“Now, let’s talk about pri—”

A gust of flames threw both Kornir and Azden off balance and watching Sylviana. “Actually, I’ll be taking it for free. And if anyone argues I will burn them to a crisp.”

“Hey, what’s going on over there, don’t make me call the guards!” The innkeeper shouted. A lightning bolt striking a bottle next to his hand shut him up.

“Damnit! I should’ve known not to trust a pretty face!’ Kornir cursed aloud.

“Listen, you don’t know how dangerous that tablet is. If you take it, you’ll get hurt, surely!” Azden pleaded to her.

“I’ll let that insult to my power pass this once because you are cute, but do it again and I’ll have to hurt you.”

Azden blushed at her sudden compliment and threat, it was quite confusing. Kornir was cursing himself to death, but staying quiet enough to not become a charred corpse or pile of ash. Azden saw the woman gaze at him, as if she contemplated something. She made her mind up.

“You, Azden Riseri, put the tablet back in your bag. Slowly, try anything and I’ll kill you,” she demanded. He did as she asked, but could not tell where this all was headed. “Now, I will be taking the tablet, and you with me.”

“What! Why!?” Azden and Kornir asked in perfect unison.

“Because I said I will. I need no more explaining than that. Unless you’d rather die?” She asked him.

“It’ll take more than some spell to slay me,” he grunted almost.

She laughed. “Naïve and cute, this should be fun. Not by my spell Redguard. No, no, no. That mark across your chest. Let me guess. It hurts oh so much, the more you make an attempt to bind it.” Her voice had a victorious tone.

“H-how did you know that?” A stunned expression ran across his face.

Sylviana had smooth dark-purple skin, curves in all the right places, especially her juicy and attractive thighs, hips, and chest, long flowing milky white hair like spider-silk, and sharp yet elegant crimson eyes. Azden hated how much her form messed with his heart as she stepped closer to him. Her index finger traced his wound, bringing a wince from him that caused her to smile.

“Because I know a lot of things Azden Riseri. Things you could only dream of learning as you delve in dirty and blood-filled dungeons all day long. I, Sylviana Lietgrei, daughter of Morigsi Lietgrei, am a powerful and intelligent being. And you will learn to fear me in the upcoming days,” She softly whispered into his ear. The tickling sensation of her breath being what Azden dared felt pleasant had she not been threatening his life. To think that those soft and plump lips had been so close to his skin…

NO! What am I thinking!?

“So, as I said I will be taking you with me.”

“What makes you think I’ll come with you?”

She laughed again. A harsh thing to do to someone in a time like that. A tease that he had no power or control. That he had no chance. It scared him as much as those dark hallways of Ashidavar had. “Because even if you had a choice, I’m the only person you know, this I’m sure of, that can save your life from your wound and now, your new and powerful foe.”

That last word put him on edge. What foe did he make grabbing that tome? What exactly did he pull himself into? Azden could not argue with those words, so he spoke no more.

Before more could be said the door kicked open. Someone screamed and fell as a corpse into the room. An ethereal blade in their chest. No way. They found where he was. Two of the, things, floated into the room, more of flew with incredible speed. Azden reached for his spear, but Sylviana had put fire near his face, a warning to what would happen if her grabbed it. Two lightning bolts, more like one that jumped, quickly dispatched of the two creatures.

“Come with me or piss me off and make me drag you. Trust me, it’s healthier for you to obey me.” Sylviana waited for his response.

Azden glanced at Kornir and the corpse on the floor. With a sigh he left his spear on the ground and followed the Dunmer. She led them out to her beautiful black horse and got on its saddle, then waited for Azden. The same woman who threatened his life had been the same one who said she could save it. What was really going on? He got on with her and they rode out. For a moment he thought himself an idiot for nor fighting her. But then turned to see twenty of the creatures descending upon the small inn. Everyone would be slaughtered. And this Sylviana probably could care less.

Sylviana had rode all night to keep distance from the Scourge beasts. Simple yet effective creations. Killed as easy as a bandit, but able to clear out a town of commoners. This Dark Mage must have been quite the person to employ the common use of such mocked creatures. The seductive, powerful, strong, and capable sorceress chuckled in victory. She had the tome and the cutest guy she had ever seen too all to herself. And the most interesting guy as well. Violet eyes in a human, that was new. She loved that detail about him. Azden had been quiet the entire night, part of the creature’s blade magic was energy sapping, he could probably barely stay awake. The fact that he did stay awake all night showed how little he trusted her. He didn’t have too, he just had to obey.

She stopped the horse on the road for a while just to stretch her legs, but also to do more mischievous things. Azden sat facing the treeline, just staying awake and alive. Thinking about the odd events that happened to him in such little time. The life of a self-proclaimed artifact hunter proved daily to be a challenging and interesting one, but he loved it. Like anything in life, it came with pros and cons. He wasn’t sure what to label this part of the job. Vexing?

“Azden, get off the horse and face me,” Sylviana stated in that demanding tone.

Too tired to argue or feel anyway about it, he did just that. The cut on his chest still searing with pain. Sylviana held long strands of silk in her hands with a grin that spoke danger to Azden.

“I’m going to bind your hands and feet, then gag you. You are going to let me.”

“What! NO! WHY?!” He argued, now more awake than he had been.

“Because I said so. And if that is not enough for you, though it should be, the only way I’ll save your life is if you agree to this. It is the only way I can trust you won’t attack me or run.”

“I shall not be bound and made defenseless.”

“Then I will force you to be.” A grin crept across her face. A firebolt formed in her hands. Azden warded it away.

“So, the boy knows a spell or two. How cute.” But for a moment he disappeared. Invisibility spell? Really, what does he take me for, some fool? She walked around the close trees for a minute. A smile on her face. “I can hear your breathing. That wound must be getting unbearable. I could help you with that. If you obey me.”

“I’m not your slave,” He responded, appearing behind her.

“You will be, after you owe me your life,” she giggled.

So that was her plan. That’s why she brought him along, to make him as slave. Azden walked behind a tree. She followed to see nothing. And come to think of it the forest itself looked odd, wasn’t that tree on the other side…

Suddenly, a hand came for her head in an attempt to knock her unconscious, only being saved by exceptional hearing that allowed her to hear the swishing of the air. Azden’s hand missed and hit her shoulder instead, it didn’t feel good. She didn’t look happy.

“Clever illusionist!” She summoned an arm and hand of some odd energy and grabbed Azden by the throat with it, lifting him off the ground.

His lack of air made the chest pain even worse somehow. That iron grip around his throat. Azden kicked and thrashed but could not break free from this spell.

“You are going to regret that. I am going to give you one last chance. You push tour luck Azden Riseri. Defy me again and experience pain much beyond that of your chest wound, a slow agonizing death. I could play with you, take the air from your lungs, then give it back. Over and over til I tire of the game. You don’t know true power yet or fear. I could treat you well and be kind, but you must learn to be like the lowly creature you are and obey me!” She almost shouted in anger now. She hadn’t meant to get like this. She was losing control.

Azden could not reply. Only feel his lungs begin to burn with the lack of oxygen. Only be at the mercy of this cruel and wicked person. She dropped him, he gasped for precious air as he slowly massaged his own throat to make sure it hadn’t been crushed.

Sylviana put a hand on her hip and waited for something. Life or death.

Azden glared for a few moments. But too weak to fight, he put out his wrists so she could easily access them. “Kierna moertu makta thir nena,” He spoke in a different tongue.

Sylviana tilted her head. “You speak the language of my people?”

He hadn’t notice. An old habit from being with his best friend. “Yes.” This tone of his voice sounded cold, calculating, dangerous and sharp. Sylviana was taken aback by it. Maybe it was needed to bind him.

“Well you are right. You don’t have a choice.”

Myrwatch, Swamps of Hjaalmarch, 16th of the Evening Star

Azden did not talk or fight the entire trip. Even as they crossed into the freezing lands of Skyrim and its holds, as they went through woods, mountains, and swamps, he could not fight. He felt weak. He tried to stay awake, but just like his wound, the more he fought exhaustion, the more it overcame him. The more he tried to fight her, the more powerful she seemed to be. The more he ignored the tome, the more it loomed in his dreams and thoughts. Was he truly doomed to a destiny of loss and submission? Or was this just another rough patch in the road. ‘The obstacle is the path’ Virezi used to say. ‘What you throw into a fire is fuel for the fire’

Well some paths aren’t meant to be taken, and water sure as hell ain’t fuel for a fire.

The thought didn’t help as snow fell from all directions. Is Skyrim always some frozen hellscape of bandits, war, and Dragons!? He hadn’t seen one yet, but hopefully such creatures don’t actually exist. Or at least come close. But with his recent luck, becoming dragon food would probably be a better fate.

Myrwatch she kept saying. Talking to the man who could not talk back, Myrwatch this and that. Her lovely home, her lovely mother. Her show-off sister. Seemed Sylviana didn’t care for her sibling. Maybe that would help later on? Nah, probably not. The horse stopped again. The small vibration pushed pain onto his chest. He grunted.

“You must be tired, and hungry, and thirsty. You poor thing,” the Dunmer teased. Azden just let the words pass through his head, no point in giving her more satisfaction of his struggling reaction. He was beyond tired; he hadn’t eaten in a day or drank anything. And with the gag around his mouth he could not capture a couple snowflakes for refreshment. All the while she had made sure to give herself proper nourishment the days ride. She pulled him off the horse, he did not struggle. Azden had not been completely broken or even bent. But as a survivalist he knew to save energy where he could. No point of being prideful if you can’t live to feel pride.

She pulled her waterskin from the saddle of the horse and a small pack that had fresh juicy berries and fruits, Grapes and plums. She ate one and drank a bit of water, making sure Azden saw every bit of it as she licked juice from her plump lips.

“Tell you what Azden Riseri, you have not given me trouble for a day now. I think you deserve at least this much.”

A glimmer of hope filled his still vibrant violet eyes. She teased to reach for his gag, then stopped.

“But you still never paid for that little stunt you pulled earlier. You are a big strong man; you could have seriously hurt my arm you know?” She chuckled. His eyes never left the waterskin or fruits. “If I take this gag off, you must beg me exactly as I tell you to for this. Ok?”

He barely nodded, but the embarrassment did fill his thoughts.

She removed the gag and saw the emotionless yet tired expression of his face. What she imagined most philosophers looked like all the time. “Now, repeat after me. Oh, great Sylviana, my soon to be savior and master, please allow me a taste of your food.”

He cringed at the sentence, but his belly would hurt more than his pride if he hadn’t gotten any food in this frozen place. “Oh, great Sylviana, my soon to be savior and…master, please allow me a, uhm!” He was interrupted when she shoved a grape in his mouth. A sudden lewd look on her face, she was enjoying this, a lot. She gave him a few grapes, then an entire plum. He hungered for more, but would not put himself in more trouble to complain about it.

“Now, for the water.”

“Really? Must I do it for both?”

She began to recoil the water away. He sighed.

“Repeat. Oh, mistress Sylviana,” she began with a smirk, “please fill my stomach with the life liquid in your possession.”

Maybe he could quickly swallow some snow off the ground? Better than giving her that kind of sentence. He couldn’t do it. Say such a thing. How could she make him?

“Well, I’m waiting.”

“I-I”

“I-I-I” She mocked his stutter. “I don’t remember it starting with I.”

He swallowed any emotion he felt. Turning into that calm and collected him he usually was, except those times he hadn’t been in anything like this. “Oh…mistress Sylviana.”

She put a finger to his mouth. “Again.”

“Oh… mistress Sylviana”

“Louder.”

“OH—”

“Just the M-word.”

“Mistress.”

“Louder!” She exclaimed with glee as if this was a new discovery. She loved to hear him call her that. A bit too much, or maybe not enough.

“Mistress Sylviana!” He shouted what he could manage.

“One last time!” She clapped

“MISTRESS SYLVIANA!” That time had been of many things. Frustration, anger, sadness, but also a bit of relief. Ultimately, catharsis.

“Yes, yes! I love it so!” She knelt in front of him and let him drink of the waterskin. She let him have the entirety of what remained for being such a submissive boy. His face blushed, hers did more. Azden felt the coolness of the life liquid enter his being. He would never take it for granted again. He felt odd, yet…a little bit turned on at once. He hoped this would be the only and last time he felt such a confusing emotion.

When he drank it all she smiled at him. He had to face away; he could he look at her after such an embarrassing moment!? Sylviana lightly took his chin and made him face her. She gazed inro those violet eyes that she wanted to belong to her forever. Then her lips pressed against his. Azden felt shock, pleasure, and comfort. He felt comfort from his captor. Huh. They were so soft and inviting, the nicest thing he felt in a while. He hated to admit it, but his flesh yearned to kiss her more, to feel her lips again. She giggled.

Slowly Azden’s eyes began to close. Exhaustion finally won. The last thing he saw as a smiling beauty, and a dangerous devil as he passed out in the snow. All in all, it seemed his future and destiny would revolve around this woman somehow. Maybe, maybe that wasn’t such a bad thing?

#Skyrim #elder scrolls #fanfic #freewritting #story #writing #dark elves #dark elf #dunmer #romance #fantasy #magical

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hellspathfinder · 7 years ago

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Night Visions

Written with this track in mind:

youtube

A Dream of Femick Embersword:

Voices all around me making small talk mixed with the clanking of glasses and plates. A hundred people in expensive outfits admiring one another. One voice rises above the others, simply exclaims the word “Look!”

Rising to gaze over the crowd and out the veranda doors away Southwest, we see huge columns of black smoke, even in the failing light they are plain to see. Many small ones, and three larger than the rest. The docks are the nearest. An entire pier is ablaze.

The second great fire is across the calmly flowing Yolubilis, downtown in the shop district. There last is a huge plume of smoke to the Southeast. Alarm bells began to ring across the city. Staring hard again at the shop district, my heart begins to pound in my chest.

I sprint for the balcony. Knock over a waiter. Shove an old fat lady aside.

As the balcony rail comes at me fast, I can see that it’s definitely the Badger. I dive off four-floors-up, glide to the outer wall designed to keep the riff raff out. I barely grab the edge of it with my fingertips. “GO” I yell at myself out loud. I pull myself up and race across the wall, again diving over the side to glide down into the streets below.

Running hard now, scimitar banging against my hip. The fire is ahead and to the left, over the rooftops. I know which alley to take. I sprint through a small market knocking over chairs and tables. Through someone’s front yard. I’m on the right street now, there’s light ahead.

The Badger is consumed. It flows up the outer walls, bursts out of the windows. A forty foot wide pillar of black smoke churns out of the roof and up into the night sky. People are running away from it. I can’t see inside, the fire is too thick.

Across the river to the South, I see a huge burst of fire rise up into the night and become smoke over the shops by the opera house. My stomach clenches, I can’t breathe, tears are coming. I race to the end of the burning dock. Voices yelling around me, at me, as I dive full speed into the river.

I shape my dive perfectly to slice through the calm flow. I see the reflection of a beautiful silver-haired elven woman with make up streaming down her cheeks and a crazed look in her eyes coming straight at me and then cold water surrounds.

The water smells foul, death and ash choke me as I try to breathe it, but it’s too foul. I surge ahead. I hit the surface on the other side so hard I launch all the way onto the sidewalk and start running as water gushes out of my chain shirt.

In a few steps it’s fallen off me and I’m at a full sprint again. I can’t breathe but I’m not tired, I run on pure terror.

I cut through the dense neighborhood on the South shore of the river, cutting left and right until I get to the square. I burst out of a side street, straining to see to the West.

“No, no NO” I hear myself say as I confirm what’s burning. The surrounding buildings are caught too, it’s all on fire. I run straight at it. The heat knocks me off my feet and I sit on the stones in the middle of the street as the upper floor collapses down into the first. I struggle to my feet, hands shaking. Tears stream down my face. I can’t breathe. I’m trying to inhale and I can’t.

I feel hot, inside. My hands and feet are tingling. I feel like I’m on fire. I don’t notice the heat of the blaze anymore. I scream.

I feel a hand on my shoulder, turning me around. I look into the faces of four armored men. They wear red sashes with the symbol of a tyrant clasping them.

“WHY?!” I spit on them as I say it. They reach for their weapons. Maces or clubs or some other slow heavy thing. I have Stirling in my hand and sweeping across my body before they even raise their weapons. I take off the hand of the nearest soldier, his scream drowned out by my own. I dance through their clumsy attempts to strike me. Two more hit the street dead as I cut the shoulder tendons on the last.

Laying on his back in the street clutching his limp arm, I hold Stirlings blade an inch from his face as fire courses down the hilt to its tip. “Where is your Lord?!” I struggle to say to him. “Opera house” he spits through clenched teeth.

I am running harder than I ever have in my life. I pass people in the street, most are fleeing. Some yell at me and try to follow but they can’t keep up.

I see more soldiers ahead in Aria Park, in front of the Opera House. Four on the street and two more at the doors.

Through clenched teeth, I whisper “Celeb Yavie Cuar” and Stirling changes in my hands into a longbow. The artifact faithfully conjures arrows with shining silver tips into my hands as I draw, lighting each one aflame as I fire. Six shots, six hits. Two guards fall dead, the others retreat around the side of the building with their wounds.

“Celeb Yavie Salka” and Stirling changes back into one scimitar and then splits into two. I kick the front doors open and charge into the foyer. Two more of Thrune’s flunky guards are dead before they hit the floor. I enter the main hall, race down through the cheap seats yelling “THRUNE, FACE ME!”

Guards appear at the balcony on either side of me with crossbows pointing down.

“Celeb Yavie Lindur” as my swords become a violin and bow, I struggle to focus enough to play but finally find the music and freeze them just as they take aim. They stare at me in horror as Stirling changes back into a bow and I put a burning silver arrow through each throat. They fall into the orchestra pit with a terrifying crash one by one.

Running boots and armor turn me around in time to see Thrune’s bodyguard coming at me from the side hall. She leads with a huge polearm and has a running start. Stirling returns to sword form at a whisper and sparks fly as her blade scrapes mine in passing.

The strength of her blows is jarring, I cannot block them so I deflect and dance around them. There is a foul black fire smoldering in her eyes and a savagery to her movements that suggests she is more than she appears. Again and again she brings her weapon around in long sweeping strokes and thrusts that destroy the seating around us as if they were paper.

I am on my heels and need to fight smarter. My rage has not cooled but I am thinking again. I fake a stumble after her last swing and she lunges hard at the false opening. She quickly regains her footing and turns with another killing stroke but my hand holds the back of her neck and my sword has passed through her heart before she can bring her huge weapon around.

I tear Stirling free of her as she growls and stares at me from the ground, somehow still alive. I feel the spell hit me before I see The Count standing on the balcony with his outstretched hand. A thousand invisible bricks build a wall around me. I cannot move, I still can’t fucking breathe.

Femick wakes up in a panicked sweat with a burning need to feel his own heart, which is indeed still beating.

#d&d #pathfinder #fanfiction #hellsrebels #lindsey stirling #pathfinderrpg #paizo #adventurepath #cheliax #thrune #shensen

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aeyemenethes-blog · 8 years ago

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Lathbora viran Ch. 1

This is the first chapter in my Solas x Lavellan fanfic that is on AO3. Here's the link: http://archiveofourown.org/works/10213937/chapters/22667927. I do have the chapter here is well. It is in Solas 1st person POV.

Chapter One

Darkness swallowed up the world – cracking its structure into fragments – and the Fade cried out. The sundering shredded along my skin, blood and nerves, bringing a prickling of warm liquid to the corners of my eyes. In a snuff of a candle, lives beyond counting extinguished, reminding me of another day similar to this one in its passing.

The Veil stretched out before my eyes as a puckering scar still within the first hours of its making.

A sharp green glow stung my vision, drawing me toward the dead, and – on wobbly legs strained against a crudely shaped staff for support – I cut a path to the base of the mountain. Seeker Pentaghast would be waiting there with her soldiers just in case the Conclave went awry; though I doubted her forces could repair this. Echoes reached out first from the dead, and then the living, as I crossed the stone threshold into Haven.

“Follow.” The Seeker’s bark tore at my senses, and I caught her armored form tearing through onlookers in a mad dash. “Bring her.”

A small contingency of soldiers – no more than five – carried a lithe, limp body clad in ill-fitting clothing meant for comfort as much as camouflage. I stopped to watch them make their way to Haven’s Chantry and found myself rooted in two directions. Pressed one way toward the spirits drifting through the new vortex in the sky, and yet drawn to see who it was the Seeker and her men carried. A whimper tore at the back of my throat, more wolf than elf, but I forced my feet through the ankle deep snow. Numbness had replaced my uneasy relationship with the cold long ago until all I wore were the foot wraps, and not shoes, thankfully.

In the Chantry, people huddled – many in fervent prayers – both elven and human, while others wept openly and rent their clothing before the statues of a woman. I caught husky tones calling out her name as well as the name of their god – her lover – in supplication. Always the same no matter the era. In tragedy there was no division between race and class, just oneness in grief. Heavy smoke and incense from lit braziers of Andraste, and priestesses swinging pendulums belching fog permeated the room, deadening my senses further. In the haze, I could just barely make out the forms of the soldiers by the parting of the gathering crowd.

Seeker Pentaghast led her group down into the dungeons, and I slipped through the door behind them keeping to the shadows. Curiosity spurred my body despite still reeling from the sudden shock in the Fade. It happened while I visited the battle of the Hero of Ferelden against the former cultists who claimed Haven for a time. When the Fade buckled, I was shot out of the memory as if I became ice water thrown onto a blazing fire.

With the harsh reality of the living temporarily dampening my connection, I warred between terror and relief before resigning myself to present events. So many lives lost in a single second threatened to overwhelm me, and I touched my temple where I felt the tender blossoming of a headache beginning. It fluttered in tempo with my heartbeat – accelerated and shallow.

“Solas.”

Cassandra’s clipped tone as she spoke my name jarred me from thought, and I noticed her gaze hovering through the darkness in my direction. No reason existed adequate enough to excuse my hiding in the shadows like some Darkspawn Hurlok. Somehow I knew she was aware of that too. Curling my calloused palm tighter around the worn, leather binding of my staff, I took a tentative step into the torchlight. Cool eyes followed my movement, narrowing as I drew closer, but I dropped my gaze to regard the Seeker’s quarry.

A brow twitched and my jaw ticked as I saw a bloodless face, strained and slick with sweat. Gaunt from a lifetime of rationed meals and hard work. Refined, delicate features lay beneath a thick layer of blood and gore – most of which did not appear to belong to them – seized and jerked in pain and fevered dreaming. Curiosity gripped me again, and I knelt beside the prone figure careful not to touch them. Yet.

Precaution and, perhaps, warding were needed before I proceeded.

“What happened, Seeker?” I asked, wincing slightly at the hoarse whisper of my voice, though I doubted the human saw anything past a crease of my brow.

The question, however, sparked something in the woman’s eyes. Anger? Hatred? And she stabbed a finger upward – presumably at the sky beyond – her nostrils flaring. “Are you daft, elf? Did you not just see what happened to the sky… to all those…”

People. I finished silently but said aloud, “Even the blind can see the sky now, Seeker. I ask after the condition of this person.”

Pulling herself to her full height, Cassandra folded her arms just under the indent of the breastplate she wore. The way she puckered her lips into a frown tore at the scar down her cheek, as if opening the old wound, though only in illusion. “Many are dead or wounded so it shouldn’t surprise you that I bring one into the Chantry.”

I gave her a flat stare, letting her know I would neither back down from my inquiry nor fall for her baited trap. She couldn’t place the blame of whatever happened at the Conclave on my shoulders. I wasn’t even near the mountain top when that magic rent the sky asunder. Instead, I thumbed at my temple again, feeling the dull ache now throbbing. “Cassandra, I am only surprised you chose the cell of a dungeon as your base of operations when your patient requires healing.”

The ichor in her eyes simmered, and I felt the heat of her emotions fan over me. I braced for the inevitable boiling that usually accompanied her tirades, but her face softened to show a momentary lapse into sorrow. It hardened just as quickly.

“Save her, Solas.” Cassandra’s command was tinged with a warning. “She is the only one who survived the explosion at the Conclave. I want answers.”

Again my eyes slipped down to the unconscious woman, and feather light shivers ran down me as I saw the strange curls of greenish mana lacing her tattered body – congregating particularly around her left hand. It felt so familiar and nauseating. Wrong. Reaching forward – knowing what I would find, but needing confirmation all the same – I picked up the hand and turned it over, tracing a dispassionate gaze transversely on the glowing fissure carved into her palm. I forgot about the want for wards the instant the puzzle pieces fell into place.

Mine. There was no mistaking the Mark’s origins or how it came to be on this woman’s flesh. Now, however, was not the appropriate time to explain my knowledge of it. Not when admittance would beset the fangs of these rabid dogs down on me. I couldn’t fend off their onslaught in my current state. Soon, but…

Setting down the hand, I looked up to see the Seeker sneering, but with a questioning gleam in her eye. “You would do well to get a mage who excels at healing magic, perhaps Adan. My magic is better suited--”

“By the Maker!” Cassandra grasped her hand around my bicep and jerking me upward, the metal from her gauntlet biting through the cloth of my tunic to the skin underneath. Her face was mere inches from mine and – when she spoke – her breath clung to me hot, and damp. Uncomfortable. “This isn’t a request so you better succeed, Solas. Not just for her sake but yours.”

A growl pushed its way out of my nose, and I yanked my arm free, more annoyed that it would bruise, than angry about how she handled me. If our positions were reversed, I might’ve done the same thing were I a millennia or two younger. I didn’t blame her for her brusque manner. Fear laced behind those dark eyes not used to having the situation ripped from her control.

I pinched the bridge of my nose to ward off a crashing wave of dizziness from my newfound headache. Then gave a soft sigh. “I can promise nothing but to try.”

Gesturing to one of the soldiers with a slight nod of her head, the man slipped out a sword from the scabbard at his waist, and pointed it at me. Inches from my chest. A part of me laughed at the act. If I was a little stronger I would have actually laughed out loud, but I just rocked back on my heels, and returned my attention to my new charge.

“See that you do, apostate.” Cassandra seethed through clenched teeth then turned on her heels, and left me with her soldiers – swords trained on me – and the pitiful, collapsed creature on the flagstone.

A sick feeling washed over me. Underground, the voices of the dead and dying – of the torn Veil and Fade demons spewing from the green hole in the sky – all were muffled and niggled at the edges of my suddenly weary mind. Except one. I sidled the woman's limp body onto my lap for better access, and called forth what healing magic I possessed.

The mana itched to the surface of my skin through veins and nerve endings alight by the rush of raw energy. All at once sensations of dread and arousal blanketed me as it did every time I summoned up my magic. Maybe it was the Veil filtering and dampening my connection that brought about these unpleasant emotions because they were never present before the Veil’s creation. But now I found I couldn’t deny my body the urgent addiction the very act of magic brought. Pushing down the ill-conceived thoughts into the precipices of my mind to pick apart later, I concentrated on the matter at hand.

Grasping onto the mana with a sharp, calculated tug, I guided it into the unconscious woman, watching her body pull onto the streams of faint light like it was dying of thirst. Working through the intricate system of a living creature came with some resistance, but in such a weakened state, I batted it aside with little effort.

The Mark on her left hand flared to life, and I felt it reach out trying to choke me. I cast a barrier around myself, and continued grafting the healing magic onto the areas she hurt the most. Her body was scorched and dry in so many places, and the healing soaked her like a wet balm along her desert planes. I hummed gently under my breath as I worked to knit flesh and restore blood. And when the blood and gore receded from her face, I looked upon her as if truly seeing her for the first time, and I gasped.

Inside me, the Wolf stirred.

#solas #solavellan #solas x lavellan #solas romance #solavallen #dreadwvlf #fenharel #fanfic #solavellen hell #romance #writing #writers

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kar-a · 7 years ago

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i really suck at writing fight scenes so i made up a few characters, a conflict, and wrote one. feedback is greatly appreciated. i wrote it to this song which is maybe inappropriate for something so fantasy, but whatever !

“Peggy Bamber,” Soran purred low in his chest, cutting the woman's path off with his horse. “Is the entire Order of the Posągi here? A little bird told me that Aravae Beinorin has given birth and that Helena of Midmadra now possesses the child.” He stepped onto the forest floor. “I won't keep you long, girl. Give me what I want, and I'll let you go.”

The sorceress, dark skin glimmering in the crescent moonlight, scowled. “Even if I did, the child is slipping through your fingers, tyrant. Better catch her.”

“Never fear,” Soran smiled wickedly. “I will. After I cut down each one of you. Until she is alone.” Soran had stepped away and drawn his own sword. The elf started to circle around Bamber, who had instinctively drawn her steel sword at the sight of the elven king.

“Whatever you think you’re doing, this is the longest way to catching the girl,” Peggy warned, knowing her poor odds against the elf.

“Oh, but you know, this is exactly what I need. It will certainly help me to persuade our Helena to show herself and ultimately give the child to me. Because if she doesn’t, you will die here. Bleeding out in the forest.” The sneer on Soran’s ace grew savage, and he attacked. Despite his size he was incredibly fast. Although Peggyhad trained with elves more than once, Soran was a completely different opponent. He was taller, faster and stronger than any other Cesarski,perhaps even the Blae’nnor as well. In addition he had the use of magic and already Peggy felt the icy cold creep into her, searching for a weakness. She gritted her teeth and let her training take over. Somehow her body seemed to remember that she had already fought the king of the Cesarski. Peggy was able to block some of the more ferocious attacks before the elf drew back and continued his circling. Despite the cold and the ice forming on the ground around them, sweat had started to build between her shoulder blades and she could feel the thick drops sliding down her back. Despite her brain trying to find a reason for the actions of the king, her body had already decided that fighting was the only way forward. With effort Peggy managed to tear her thoughts away from the ‘why’ and concentrate on the ‘how’. How she was going to defeat Soran here alone, no doubt surrounded by his soldiers who would immediately kill her the second she brought their king down.

So she would make it count. Pirouetting into a complicated pattern she managed to distract Soran enough that the king opened himself up. Peggy’s sword cut into the opening and the blade sliced along the elf’s armor on his hip. Soran took a few faltering steps back and glanced at spatter of blood marring the virginal snow; the witch’s sword had cut through metal and leather and bit into the soft flesh underneath. With a snarl Soran grabbed his own blade with both hands, and through a barrage of blows managed to force Peggy back step by step. Every single parry made the magician’s body ache to the core. It felt like she tried to block the huge water-powered hammer of a dwarven forge.

Peggy wondered how her sword was still holding up to the brute force when at one last blow the blade finally gave in. With a strange high whine, the metal suddenly broke apart close to the hilt. The shard flew towards her face and she evaded it only because of her reflexes. Peggy felt the razor-sharp edge singe along her cheek as it flew past before hot blood warmed her frozen face. She grunted and went down to one knee, the broken sword still in her right hand. Soran stood over her, triumph blazing from his eyes. However, he did nothing to attack.

Peggy realised that the elf was just playing with her, like a cat played with a mouse. As long as she moved, Soran would continue to torment her. And Peggy wouldn’t stop moving - she couldn’t simply betray all her instincts, in the same way she couldn't stop breathing. She was made to prevail and she would not give up easily. Slowly she raised himself, looking at the remains of the sword in her hands. “Looks like the blade for monsters will be the right one for you, after all,” she growled while drawing her silver sword. She knew that the weapon was too fragile to block the elf’s brutal blows. Peggy needed to find another way to fight Soran . The elven king smiled and his eyes lit up “The famous silver sword; I suppose I should feel honored.” And he attacked once more. This time he didn’t use his superior strength to drive Peggy back but he changed his technique to something more refined, that actually paired well with the sorceress’s style. For a while it looked like both of them were not on a frozen forest ground but in a ballroom, whirling around in a complicated dance, whose movements were only known to them.

Every now and then, Peggy tried to force Soran into attacking by leaving herself open or seemingly making a mistake. But the elf never fell for it. He continued to chase the witch around the clearing. Peggy could finally feel that her stamina and strength were starting to reach a critical level. Soran himself wasn’t completely unaffected. Sweat ran down his temples and his breaths came fast and hard. His movements hadn’t slowed down yet, but had just become a bit more hacked off, not as fluid as they were at the beginning. If Peggy would have had her full strength, she would have been able to defeat the elf. But her muscles had started to tremble, and it took all her remaining strength to at least keep up with the Cesarski. Suddenly Soran jumped back, out of the reach of Peggy’s sword. The witch remained where she was, her blade in a defensive position, knees slightly bent. She was breathing hard and blinked to get the sweat out of her eyes. Slowly some drops of blood from the slash on her cheek made their way to her jaw and dropped down onto the frozen undergrowth. The world held its breath. Soran stood there, watching her with something like scientific interest. “I have to admit, you are rather hard to kill, witch. But I think I’ve played enough.” His expression didn’t change when he raised his hand. It was sheer luck that Peggy saw the archer release his arrow. Her sword came up just in time to block it. She managed to block the second one with magick, but the third hit home. She felt like she had been punched in the side, and looking down saw the shaft tremble to a stop just below her ribs. All remaining strength left her and she dropped her sword before landing hard on her knees. She then just sat there, waiting for the rest of the arrows to land and punch through her. Finally she was about to meet her end.

She hadn’t expected that this morning. But Soran stopped his men and no more arrows came. Pain started to creep from where the arrow head was lodged in her body, and she lifted his head to stare at the king of the Cesarskian Elves. “You bastard. Stop playing and decide what you want.” She managed to finish the sentence without a groan. “Fight me, kill me, just stop this cowardly teasing.” “Both options have been tempting, but for now I would rather have you where you are.” Soran drawled. His voice was back to it’s usual icy cold tone and as he looked up his face showed no emotion at all. He looked around, as if searching for something. “I know you are here. You have been watching all along. Seeing her like this must pain you. Come out and I will make sure that she is treated, and will not bleed to death.” With the last sentence Soran stepped forward and ripped the arrow out of witch’s side.

Peggy screamed as the barbed tip tore through her flesh and she fell roughly onto her side, body aching as the cold tore at her resolve. Her hands flew to the wound, trying to stop the blood flowing. She curled in on herself and desperately tried to concentrate and not lose her consciousness. She shivered, her face losing colour, her body losing life. Another elf, decorated in battle armour, approached his king. She could hear his voice, deep and quiet. Her eyes were fixated on the king however. For a moment, a wild lick of fire swept across his icy eyes. His lips pursed, his body tensed. Soran dismissed the lieutenant and stalked towards Peggy. He bent down on his knees and grabbed her around her throat, growling low in his chest. His gloved fingers squeezed just hard enough to be uncomfortable. His eyes were wild, face contorted with a rage just for her. The pain in her side was suddenly dwarfed by the icy burn that ran through her body. She felt her blood slow, her organs stop, her body shut down as it was overcome by ice. The last thought that crossed her mind was the knowledge that Helena of Midmadra had evaded the elves, Aravae’s child was safe, and Peggy had done her job.

#my writing

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