#corvan speaks

[jinxic]

My character sheet

Hey @taterswithranch I colored it lel

[blog-of-reaction]

Star Trek Discovery season 1 episode 4

I don't like you Lorca, BUT I am attracted to you.

The transmission from Corvan 2 just played and…..and oh my goodness science guy (I think his name is Stamet's.) l'm not sure I like you but I love you. And oh my goodness science guy he's so stressed and this is like really sad and I just got all the feels.

And Micheal and the creature and security lady (wait is her name Landry because if so that would be cool because like, you know Stargate Sg-1 and General Landry.) Like, Micheal is just trying to understand the creature and not judge it and shit while Landry and Lorca are just sitting over here like, "We gotta weaponize this thing." (Which is especially concerning and raising more red flags than it usually would since just watched all the Jurassic Park movies back to back speaking of Jurassic Park is amazing and I love all the characters and love Blue and yeah I just gotta make a seperate post about Jurassic Park)

But back to the creature. Like, Landry decided to call it Ripper? Also, it's a giant Tardigrade and Tariarade's are awesome so I love this little guy.

And Micheal is like, "hey don't judge this thing on one interaction and it's past actions in that interaction and yeah poor Micheal has to deal with so much guilt and also others not liking her and stuff. And like, it's stupid cause she legit probably could've prevented the war had people listened to her.

(Speaking of, fuck Saru.)

And also like, if Lorca only cares about what the Tardigrade can do for him does he think the same about Micheal? It kinda puts her in an unfortunate position where she is being viewed as like just a tool and that sucks.

[amoonglove]

A Kindness Returned II

((This work does not belong to me and is shared with the permission of the writer ♥))

Early the next morning, Corvan arrived at the clinic via aetheryte. He was immediately greeted across the yard by Frey'ja, his retainer. "Morning, doctor. I'm actually just on my way out… there was a package for you that arrived by moogle post just now, and I took the liberty of leaving it on your desk."

"Oh… strange. I am not expecting any deliveries for another day or two. Speaking of which, please head into town and fetch some produce and topsoil. Cherryfeather prefers tomatoes, so please get some extra ones… worry not about the quality."

"You got it. You want me to drop them off at the estate?"

"Naturally. I have no place for either of those things here. Carry on."

Frey'ja grinned, gave her usual two-finger salute, and dashed off.

Sure enough, at the desk near the entryway, there was a large package tied off with string; it was incredibly similar to one he had received not long ago. Excitedly, yet with care, he cut the string and opened the parcel. His nostrils were immediately flooded with the most pleasant scent; had he not eaten a hearty breakfast that morning, the contents would have soon been consumed. The first thing he grabbed was the letter within, and he recognized the handwriting immediately. Every last sentence caused his smile to grow.

"That darling woman… I dare say she is attempting to murder me with kindness," he said to the fishtank. Of course, they did nothing to respond except to make more circles in their enclosure.

It seems Maruna and I will have a delectable lunch today. The gods know that I need it. Let us see how well she handles spicy food. If anything, it will be an opportunity for getting to know her better, he thought. "My debt with you grows ever larger, miss Anthea. You win this round."

((All rights and credit to the writer of Corvan Hawklight who authored this piece and who’s carrd can be found right here! (https://corvanhawklight.carrd.co/)))

[featherfang]

Chapter 33 is up!

"...He found it either way. Luck ass," Cayde's voice came on as the video focused, revealing the Vanguard room once more. He's leaning on the table with his forearms, speaking with his teammates, a cocky grin plastered on his face. "Leave it to Z to actually figure out where Shin Malphur's gun was hidden. Super sweet hip fire on that thing." It's a rather normal day, with Cayde boasting about one of his hunters. Zavala shakes his head slightly, amused if only slightly.

"Well, I suppose it's a good thing. With Corvan running around with The Thorn… It would have been wise to have destroyed that gun."

"Naw, Corvan isn't the type to turn on us. Yor was always a bit… unhinged, we all know that," Cayde offered in defense of his fellow hunter, having finally forgiven him. Ikora raised a dark brow.

"And what happened with Crota isn't a bit worrisome anymore?" At her statement, Cayde's eyes go dim slightly and he sighs.

"I'm not saying it wasn't, but he seems to have learned from his mistake. You didn't see the way he looked after Skylar when she was ignoring him outright. He cleaned up his act, Dredgen never even tried."

.

.

Read the rest here!

[therisingtempest]

Aithne and Corvan's relationship is fascinating. Do you have any headcanons for them or parts of their history you can share?

THESE ARE MOSTLY CORVAN-CENTRIC BUT GONNA JUST @calltothesea RIGHT NOW PLS CALL ME OUT ON ANY OF THIS THAT DOESN’T GEL WITH YOU GURL

Corvan trusts her. He will not admit this out loud, but she knows it and anybody in close range of his inner circle can see it.

He still hides injuries from her. He’s a firm believer in pain as a teacher and often suffers in silence longer than he has to out of some masochistic effort to learn something??? idk he’s fucked up

They have very different definitions of what constitutes a “minor” injury.

She’s an expert in approaching him when he’s pissed off or in pain. Despite Dahlia (Lily’s first mate) being the master manipulator and people person of the crew, nine times out of ten they’ll be pushing Aithne to go to him when he’s growling.

While he is extremely careful not to harm her beyond repair, he is not a talker and probably doesn’t have a gentle bone in his body anymore. Despite her talent in dealing with him, she still occasionally oversteps or simply missteps or gets fed up and JUMPS clear over That Line, and he speaks a language of physicality almost exclusively. This usually means pushing her out of his way, pinning her to surfaces, occasionally grabbing hold of her throat just to make her stop talking.

He’s only hit her once. Not sure why, but pretty sure it was something to do with Airn. She almost hit him back, but decided instead to just deathglare and calmly point out he’d allowed his actions to be influenced by his archnemesis. Corvan hated the thought so much he never did it again. Aithne is probably the only person (mainverse-wise) who can talk about Airn in his presence without regretting it permanently.

They’ve definitely fucked. Definitely more than once. Corvan’s definitely not sure how he feels about that. He doesn’t make a habit of banging crew, let alone one who already sees him vulnerable more often than most. The fact that Aithne seems unbothered by it kind of throws him off even more.

Whether because he trusts her or he’s gotten used to her, Aithne is one of the few people who can talk at him without boring him or irritating him. She can also broach topics no one else can while her fingers are covered in his blood. It’s a unique bond and one she’s never abused for favors, but often presses in the interest of her own curiosity. He’s taciturn, but sometimes interjects replies while she works.

Despite her compassionate spirit, she knows her position and is ruthless where loyalty is concerned. Several mutineers and upstarts have approached her with offers and plans over the years given how often she’s near the wounded lion. She’s turned every single one over to her captain. She doesn’t often watch the outcome of these reports, unless someone was particularly offensive to her with their demands.

Despite being nowhere near the feral ferocity of some of the rest of the Golden Lily crew, Aithne will still clear a path through most crowds just by walking. Word got around very quickly that the lion does not like his healer being assaulted, molested, or otherwise inconvenienced.

He’s afraid to lose her.

[ask-the-infiltrators]

Opaque nodded, getting right to the point, "Alright, first off, your father made three mistakes the day he died. The first is inarguable: he ran off to battle clearly injured and unable to fight as long as he did. The second, was confronting Lucid about all of the experiments and the like. And the third... Was reporting that my brother was the sole sabetour In said fiasco. I am hurt, but now because of some petty thing like being ignored."

He sat down in his spot and explained, "I see no harm in telling you the truth, because a Kaiser's word is law. My brother was already exiled and there is naught that can change it. I was not lying when I likened my brother to an innocent bug. There was a sole sabetour, but it was not him, it was I!"

He cackled maniacally, "You had best listen well, because I shan’t say it twice. I say this not because of some sort of love for my brother, a means of absolving him, I want all to know that Onyx May have ruined Lucid’s life before I could, but I have the last laugh."

"When your father's plot was discovered, Lucid did have every intention of spying on him, but I would not allow it. You see, I hated your father almost as much as Lucid, because Lucid HATED him. And seeing him get so riled up by someone else made me incredibly jealous. That was when I got an idea. I saw an opportunity, both to absolutely ruin Onyx, but my brother as well. Ever since an incident when we were young soldiers, Lucid has always had trouble with his memory, so I exploited that with a little Dream suggestion and spiking his drinks. I use a simulacrum to cause havoc with Onyx and his plans, and planted the memories of my double within Lucid, and judging by how he acted a bit ago, he honestly forgot I was even involved anymore."

He showed off this ability right before their eyes, making a magic duplicate of himself laying right accords his back, clapping in an applause, "and the best part is, despite Onyx falling for the bait and ignoring me, no matter what you say to him, he will believe he did it all."

"You even fell for Onyx's lie, the weak, spineless you... You were too dumb to see through it all before casting judgement, too weak to confront your father before I did, and too much of a failure of a Kaiser to not condem an innocent hybrid and his family. Ah, the Evergeen family truly is cursed. First there was my brother compact, me, and now the traitor of a son Lucid. Father Abstract must hate himself now."

The simulacrum hopped off the changeling hybrid's back and booted Echo and Corvan on the nose, "Honestly, I am surprised how much he stuck to the lie I gave him. Guilt must have killed him, because he would never let anyone else in on his stealth opps. He tried to tell you, a cry for help, but I forbade him from speaking until now."

No Place For Heroes (closed starter)

‘Days passed after the end of the one day war. As life struggled to bounce back from the horrors of that day, one boy’s world would be more difficult then he could have possibly imagined. Echo would cope with the devastating reality he found himself in a little at a time. However, as time moved on something became apparent that had slipped beneath the notice of the Allfather’s court. Something that needed his attention immediately as it being dealt with was one less problem of the pile that lay upon the shoulders of the boy emperor.’

‘Lucid would receive a very ominous summons in the coming days. A package with a gemstone placed inside atop a note was all that it was, at first. The gem carried a menacing aura as its appearance resembled the eyes of none other then Onyx Allfather. The note underneath was a summons by Echo requesting Lucid’s appearance in his office within the next twenty four hours. The gem itself was the symbol used by the royal family as a token of importance as the eyes of onyx meant the royal family was personally involved and watching closely. This meeting was mandatory it seemed. The letter included the instructions of bringing the gem to the empire to allow entry, otherwise the guards would turn him away.’

“You’ve been summoned to the Allfather family court located within central Nexus. Kaiser Echo Allfather wishes to speak with you. Personally. Your arrival will take place within the next twenty four hours. Attendance is not optional. Bring the stone with you, it will allow access to any part of the hive so long as you are expected. Please do not be late.”

‘The letter had no names attached to it.’

@ask-the-infiltrators

[quasi-normalcy]

Thoughts on “The Butcher Knife Cares Not for the Lamb’s Cry”

Star Trek Discovery spoilers follow

What the fuck is up with that title? It took 19 years, but something has finally displaced “Wrongs Darker than Death or Night” as the most pretentious Star Trek title of all time.

I like the dichotomy between Georgiou and Lorca; I really feel like they’re trying to set it up such that Georgiou is the nice, normal, “good” Starfleet captain like Picard or Janeway and Lorca is supposed to be like Garth of Izar or Captain Ransom. Really he’s the kind of guy who would be a one-off villain-of-the-week on TNG or TOS, though I suspect that they will give him more depth.

Speaking of Georgiou, those Klingon bastards ate her! Well, so much for my theory that she was still alive.

(It’s been thoroughly established that Klingons do engage in ritualistic consumption of the hearts of their slain enemies, but just eating the whole body seems like something that they would only do after facing starvation, which they were, so...whatevs)

I love and support the tardigrade.

They should have an episode where Christopher Pike or somebody comes by to give Lorca a good talking to about cruelty to animals.

Actually, with the whole tardigrade thing, Lorca reminds me a lot of Captain Ransom from the Equinox episodes of Voyager, and given that one of the writers of Discovery does most of the post-series Voyager novels, I think that this is probably pretty intentional.

Burnham needs to work on her people skills. Actually, that could be the tagline for this entire season so far.

How did someone as manifestly idiotic as Landry ever ascend to the rank of Commander, my god? Well, at least we don’t need to have her around anymore.

How come it took 6 months for anyone to try to help out good ol’ Voq and has sarcophagus ship?

Kol of the House of Kor. Presumably, he married into it.

I wonder if Kor himself will put in an appearance. If so, I hope he’s appropriately smooth-headed.

I checked to see whether Corvan II had appeared before in canon; apparently it’s the origin of that rare anteater thing that Riker and Worf ran into a burning classroom to save. So kudos to the Discovery for saving those anteater things from marauding Klingon invaders.

Lt. Stamets is a prick, but I appreciate that even his prickishness takes a backseat to his love of science.

So given that it’s not because of evil tardigrades slaughtering starship crews, how come we never see these fungal drives in the future? Maybe they’ll get lost in space. Ooh, or time.

[thecatsidhe]

People show and recognize love in different ways: gift giving, words of affirmation, quality time, physical touch, and acts of service. These different ways are called love languages, and while everyone understands a little of each language, we all speak and understand one or two better than we do the others. Our love language is how we most feel loved. use THIS SITE to determine your character’s love language! then repost with the results!

TAGGED BY:  @mentalitynotes (off of a technicality) TAGGING: @lostartfuldodger, @therisingtempest (Airn and Corvan), @incrediblyvexing, @whorunwithwolves (Morgause), @airanddarkness, @fridge-o-mancer, @alaricseer, @spellofthesouth, and anyone else who wants to

You respond to physical touch

For you, love is as simple as a caress. Where ever it happens, how ever long it lasts or how it is: it could be just holding hands while walking about, having a quick cuddle once the kids are in bed, stealing a kiss here and there, exchanging touches while passing each other in the hallway, and of course making love, particularly in the warming up phase – body to body, skin against skin… Physical touch is security and reassurance for you and makes you sure that your partner loves you. On the contrary, the absence of physical contact hurts you deeply and you can feel ill treated or rejected and you close down emotionally. But when your partner communicates in your love language, it touches you deeply inside, creating strong emotional intimacy that opens you to yourself and to your partner. Some advice: Every person has his or her own geography when it comes to bodily touch. Don’t think that touching them in a way that pleases you will necessarily please them and vica-versa. It’s important to verbally confirm the touches and caresses that you like, ‘You know I love it when you hold my hand… ‘I like it when you brush against me while passing by’ or ‘I adore when you take me in your arms’. You can invent a couple’s game to make your partner guess which styles of caress you like and which zones of your body are more receptive (Getting hotter, getting colder… ) If you are seriously lacking contact, begin by explaining to your partner how you operate in sensorial terms and perhaps invited them to find 5 different ways of physical contact during the day.

[jinxic]

A little thought dump, dont mind me

"ITS TOR-TEE-YA, HIJO DE PUTA" will forever be my most favorite Overwatch fancomic quote

why is the sonic frontiers ost so goddamn good

also SEGA having OK ONE REPUBLIC make Vandalize is so fucking cool

Kellin Quinn and Merry Kirk-Holmes did not have to go that hard its literally a game about a fast blue alien hedgehog

im going to make a list of all the people i find pretty

that list:

Alastor

Giovonni Andromeda (agoti)

Juan-Baptiste Augustin

Lucio Corriea Dos Santos

Gabriel Reyes

Genji Shimada (can you tell im hyperfixated on ow?)

Rouxls Kaard

My wife (obviously)

You/p

[redeyestakewxrning-blog]

Remember the headcanon where Jack manufactures his fembots and mandroids commercially? It's now obsolete and I'll delete it later.

Jack keeps his lifelike androids a secret from the US government, including Corvan the black-headed spider monkey android assistant; Corvan doesn't talk in front of people Jack hasn't given him permission to speak to. Jack went as far as to forge an exotic pet license for him.

He uses his androids for his dirty work, such as assasination, espionage, and related things. They're actually improved versions of the chameleonbot, able to transform into the likeness of anyone, or even take different traits of multiple people to create a whole new appearance. Their default forms vary, the fembots looking like beautiful goth girls, and the mandroids are handsome hunks.

Both "genders" of androids have usable genitalia and, well, fuckable mouths and licking, moisture-less tongues; these body parts are made of a faux-fleshy material; they don't ejaculate and are never warm like an organic body would be. They have built-in vibration for extra stimulation.

[lizhly-writes]

full circle

Your name is Brigit Corvan.  You sold your soul to fallen angels six years ago.  It’s been six years for you, anyway.

Younger-you is awake, but she doesn’t notice when you walk into her hospital room and swing open the curtains surrounding her bed.  She should have. You might not be loud, but you aren’t quiet either, your footsteps clicking audibly against the linoleum floor.  Some of your more sensitive coworkers would have startled at the noise.

Your least perceptive coworkers would have at least noticed you’re standing directly in front of them.

Some of it can be attributed to grogginess.  Your second-hand medical degree tells you it’s shock.  But the truth of the matter is that you were never a very observant child.  Even if she was in possession of all her mental facilities, she probably wouldn’t have given the slightest bit of notice to the world around her unless she was forced to.

So you’re free to lean your head back and study her.  The very first thing you note is that she’s… small.

You know, logically, that you were a late-bloomer - that you didn’t even approach average height until you hit sixteen.   You remember the exact measurements, year by year, written down in neat little rows in your medical record - below average height, below average weight, scrawny body and skinny little limbs. You remember having to tilt your head up to meet everyone in the eye. You remember being mistaken for two, three years younger than you actually were.

Now you’re twenty, and you know that if she was standing up, she’d maybe clear your midsection.  Your chest, if you were being optimistic.

Not that you think she can stand up.  She might be conscious, but there are fine tremors running through her body, and her head is listing downwards.  There’s heavy bruising marked under her eyes, which are even more vacant than what you remember seeing in the mirror.

“Brigit Corvan,” you say - and it feels wonderful to say it out loud, without anyone around to tell you that that isn’t your name anymore, without anyone telling you that you need to add Solanthes to the end. You’d almost forgotten how it sounded.

As expected, she doesn’t hear you.  You have to repeat your shared name four more times before her head snaps up and she finally sees you.

You’d forgotten what your eyes used to look like.  They haven’t been that shade of blue-grey for quite some time.

You let her blink dazedly at the fluorescent lighting for a moment before you start in with the pleasantries. “Good morning,” you say dryly.  “Had a nice nap?”

The expression on her face is unbearably dull.  “Nap?” she repeats, her voice rough from what must be disuse.

“You’ve been in a medically-induced coma,” you say, and when she doesn’t make even the slightest indication that she gives a shit, you add, “for two weeks.”

Her eyes are wide.  If you were anyone else, maybe you’d think she was shocked.  But you’re not, and you know that particular quirk of genetics had angled your eyebrows upward and left just enough sclera exposed around your irises so that at fourteen, you looked as if you were in a perpetual state of mild surprise.  

In other words: all you’re getting is her default expression.  

You narrow your eyes.  “Because you got hit head on by a car.”

There is no reaction.  

You take a step forward.  “Head-on collision with a semi.”  Another step. “Traumatic brain injury.”  Step. “A wide variety of broken-slash-crushed bones.”

There might be surprise in her face.  Maybe.  If you squint.

This is supposed to be the end of her world.  It certainly was the end of yours.  But she’s acting like what you’re saying isn’t even worth the time to listen to, her face a perfectly still, blank mask.  

You want to break it apart with your bare hands.

It happens like this:

You are fourteen years old and you are walking home from the grocery store, a bag full of milk and eggs and bread.  You stop at a crosswalk, stare blearily at the light shaped like a hand until it turns into a walking person, then proceed to cross the road.

This is simple.  This is routine. What is considerably less routine is the car accelerating into the red light and into you.

A light truck, your mind still insists, useless information filtering through your head. Classified as weighing one to 6350 kilograms.  Black.  Model unknown, license plate located at the very front, number begins with 4 -

By necessity, you know your own medical record by heart.  Given enough time, you can reel off every single snapped bone and pulverized muscle that came from That Day.  For all of Fides’s miracles, you still have the scars.

You knew how that was supposed to end.  She knows how she was supposed to end.

Your voice is acidic when you tell her, “Legally speaking, you’re dead.”

There is a pause.  Ever so slowly, younger-you tilts her head to the side. “What?”

You wait, but that’s apparently it.  That’s all she says.

“You’ll never see your family again,” you continue, narrowing your eyes.  “They’ve had your funeral.  You’re now a citizen of a completely different country that doesn’t even technically exist with a completely different language and culture.  You are now a refugee.”

Brigit Corvan doesn’t even look like she cares.

“Do you remember the deal?” you snap.

Because you do.  

You remember the deal in all its glory, your body screaming in pain and slowly shutting down, and a little voice in your mind asking you what are you willing to do to live?

You had told it anything, and in Fides, “anything” always means “everything”, and there’s only one thing “everything” could possibly mean.

“You sold your soul.”

You wait.  And wait.

“I sold my soul,” she says, finally.

You knew you were stupid and slow at that age, but you never realized just how much.

“Congratulations,” you say bitingly.  “What gave it away?”

“I sold my soul,” she repeats, just a little louder.  There’s finally something that could charitably be called emotion in her voice, but for you, that’s too little, too late.

“Yes,” you snap.  “We’ve established that.”

God, you hate yourself.

[ask-echo-and-marissa]

‘Echo felt semi insulted at hearing Aaron’s words. He knew full well that Aaron was getting his information, or rather misinformation. To think someone would accuse him of lying after he’d worked so long on a spotless reputation. Granted, assumptions were unavoidable, that much was certain. Echo felt the need to correct Aaron, but let him continue up until he asked the question, which the young boy nodded upon hearing it.’

“You spit on my honor as a gentleman and an honest man. I have told no such lies. If there are activities going on within your borders that involve us, then these actions have nothing to do with me. And they likely don’t, as I have no say in what Corvan decides to do with the military or espionage. In a manner of speaking, the right hand doesn’t know what the left hand is doing.”

‘Now that Echo was aware of the going on’s within Corla, he’d have to talk down Corvan. That was remarkably easier than trying to talk down Aaron it seems, as he appears convinced Echo and his hive are up to no good. And if Echo knew anything about his father, that very may well be the case. The work was only piling up from here, and the end was nowhere to be found.’

“As for the process, unless things change and losses grow too great to handle, the gathering of children is strictly voluntary. At least to my knowledge. I can’t speak for what happens in Mercalla since I’m not in charge of them. I rule over one of the two castes in the hive, the workers. If Corla had so many complaints and grievances, perhaps you should have come to me sooner instead of sitting on your hands and letting it continue.....”

‘With a stern town of voice, the kaiser scolded the parliament’s inactivity on the matter. As far as he knew, no attempts to resolve or amend what was going on in Mercalla were made, and thus the inactivity was seen as purposeful negligence by Echo who had similar worries over the issue. Until today, Echo knew of no such activities. He was blind to what was going on except for the process Aaron spoke of. Project zeta, the gathering of children of any species. Echo knew of that very well. After all it was a project he inherited once he became a co ruler of the NCE. It was one of the few things his father pushed that he could freely say he agreed with.’

“I believe your worries on Mercalla’s behalf are not only unwarranted, but unreasonable. I’m sure you and your leaders know full well Mercalla was not going to conveniently stop at our borders when we are such a small presence. You know when they were done with us, you’d be out there fighting them yourself. I do hope you’ll keep that in mind as we proceed sir Aaron.”

Closed starter- The odd meeting.

[therisingtempest]

{tales} Honesty

continued from this

With the blessing of saltwater upon his body, Airn's recovery became an enjoyable experience rather than an infuriating one. His healing process—while still slow and near mortal—now included healthy doses of both Rowena and the sea. Sometimes he had both at once, just like the first time. Those were the best days. The Gaelic healer still scolded and berated him, and even once or twice smacked him again when he really deserved it—in addition to one very solid punch, as threatened previously—but he didn't mind any of it anymore.

In fact, her rigid rules for his health now only made him smile and wink and grab stealthily for her hips or her hair. Rowena had glares that could make even the strapping castle guards swallow and shift on their feet, but the young Fomoiri relished the fire, loved to reflect it back to her and watch it burn pink in her freckled cheeks.

In this time, he also grew closer to Lady Calla, though in less of a physical sense than with Rowena. The lady of the house was busier than any woman he'd ever known—a bit unsettling since she was only human. He once followed her around for a full day. From dawn when she rose and said her prayers to near midnight when she sat writing and reading by candlelight.

Mornings were for reflection, she'd told him. For calm and quiet and setting one's mind right for the coming day. She read from a thick book she called the Word of God. First to herself, but when he'd asked what it was about, she'd read him aloud a passage or two. It wasn't quite a story with plot and characters, but there was a strange poetic quality to it that kept him silent and attentive, watching her soft features and the way her lips wrapped around each word. She explained the psalm she'd read was meant as worship of a creator-deity, written by a long-dead king, meant to be sung, though they'd lost the knowledge of its intended melody. She thought it sad they didn't sing them anymore.

Later, when he mentioned it, Rowena smirked and told him it wasn't proper for people to read this Word themselves. They were supposed to leave that to holy men who would interpret for the common masses. It was his first hint that the Lady Calla was not quite the delicate flower her name suggested.

By mid-morning she would order the gates opened, granting entrance to any villagers who wished to speak their minds to her. In the main hall stood an elaborate chair of finely-polished wood with gold inlay, precious metals embedded in the head. Calla never sat on it. Instead, she perched always beside it and down a few steps, on a simple high-backed chair from the dining table. She heard every request and complaint herself, at times giving immediate judgment, at others admitting she needed a respite to sort it out.

Sometimes this period of hearing lasted well into the afternoon. Sometimes she'd need to go into the village to investigate some claim. Even if no information needed gathering, she always went down to the hamlet next. Airn hated the village. With so many people looking, he needed to work that much harder to keep his glamour perfect. Besides that, they knew he was a survivor of the “curse ship” that they'd burned on the beach. No one was ever exactly rude, but they got quiet. They shied away. It made him want so desperately to drop the mask from his face and speak in ancient tongues. Just to watch them pale and faint.

But he didn't. Mostly out of respect for his benefactor. Calla moved among them like a gull skimming the surface of the water. Her clothes were fine, but not opulent, well made but plain. She stood out from the rougher materials of the working class, but never above them. She greeted children by name, remembered aches and pains of old fishermen, asked after couples planning marriage, insisting they have the ceremony at the castle's chapel. Airn couldn't fathom it. This was not a large village, but it was also not small like a ship's crew. That she cared so much and remembered so much left him both startled and unnerved. He became sure she fed off them in some capacity, for why else would she be so concerned for their health and happiness? But when he mentioned this theory to Zafi the sprite had snorted. He'd never snorted before and Airn got the message.

After moving through the village, the Lady Calla would return to the castle for dinner, but never alone. She brought with her those in the most need. Beggars who had nothing for their next meal. Sailors in port with nowhere to lay their heads until they shipped out the next day. A widow and her six children, still struggling to come to grips with the loss of a husband and father. And always, always, visitors to the area who had no family to house them. There was apparently a plan in the works to add onto the village inn. With Lady Calla funding all of it.

“How does it feel?” Rowena had asked him on the first night he'd been well enough to come down to the dining hall to eat with this unexpected crowd. She'd smirked at him slyly. “Knowing you're not the exception?”

He'd muttered swears at her, at the time, but now it perplexed him even more. No lord on Mag Mell behaved this way. No captain cared this much. Now it no longer surprised him that this woman had leapt from her horse and climbed into a ditch to keep him conscious until help arrived. Of course, it still baffled him, but it made sense to her character now. Her bizarre, charitable, razor-smart character.

After dinner, those staying the night would be given rooms and, if none remained, would be bedded down in the great hall near the fireplace with a servant given express orders to keep the flames stoked through the night. And Calla would retreat back to her quarters to jot down happenings of the day, reports made, what tribute was brought by grateful villagers and what had been dispensed back out to those who lacked. She kept a painfully detailed accounting, filling both ledgers and journals with a patience so calming it drove him mad to watch. She did not undress nor sleep until this work was done.

Watching her in the dark and flickering light of candle and fire, Airn thought she had transformed into another person. This creature bent over ink and parchment in the near-dark seemed so far removed from the ethereal being who read forbidden words in the straight-backed chair in the beaming light of morning. The mix of light and faith with this hidden intellect and exacting darkness drew the Fomoire by his very bones. When he wasn't adventuring out away from the castle or with Rowena, he was at Lady Calla's side, no matter where she found herself in her daily process.

In just an effort to be near her, he'd found himself a part of her charity, helping to carry tired children, dispensing blankets, and even sharing food. Zafi had arched an eyebrow at him more than once, but Airn pretended not to see. Boredom was a sailor's worst enemy and between his stalwart healer and his quiet hostess, it hadn't even crossed his mind.

Things moved so much slower with Calla. She was too busy to give him the attention he wanted from her. And she seemed immune to the goading he used on Rowena. So many times he cursed his iron-weakness, wishing he could just dip his fingers into her mind and turn her eyes to him. But, like he'd felt with Rowena's foul mouth and fearlessness, he got the sense she wouldn't be quite as much fun if she weren't moving through her life as she always had.

Still, there were countless garden walks. Conversations. Quiet moments by firelight wherein he perhaps sat too close but she did not pull away. And one night he'd told her she reminded him of his captain. Not the traitorous one but the one before. Fearghal. He spoke the man's name for the first time in a century. He told her how this captain had cared for each individual crewmember as family rather than weapons, how he'd practically raised him. How he'd loved him.

Like that was a floodgate cracking open, the rest of his story came rushing. Life on the streets as an orphan, meeting Fearghal, loving Fearghal, the mutiny, Corvan, fleeing to obscurity under a new captain, a bad captain. He caught her all the way up to the tale he'd already told of the shipwreck and she said not a word throughout it, only watching his face and reaching out to squeeze his hand when his voice choked around the telling of Corvan slicing open his captain's throat.

She even pretended not to notice his tears when he wiped them away.

If she had the spare time, she was with him. But always, always, at the end of the day, she'd politely request he leave and he did—to his shock—every time. He'd never seen her in less than full gown and jewels. Once, she'd fallen asleep on his shoulder, exhausted, and he'd only carried her to bed and pulled blankets over her, pushing for no mischief mostly because he didn't know how he'd explain it without glamour and the thought of being cast out of this place struck him as terrifying. To a paralyzing degree.

But he was Fomoire. And he was young. And he did push mischief in other areas. His kiss lingered perhaps too long against her knuckles. His hand strayed a bit too low on her back. When they were alone, he found comfort with her enough to stroke her hair and tip her chin and even kissed her once, catching her just inside the kitchen corridor as she went to fetch extra bread herself since the servants were all busy.

She'd done nothing more than blink at him when they parted, and neither'd had a chance to speak before the flow of traffic interrupted and then there was work to be done again. It hadn't changed anything between them afterward either. Except, perhaps, that she sat a bit closer to him. Flushed a bit brighter. At the meal, she even reached under the table to thread her fingers with his.

It was as slow and maddening as his ironwound's healing, but Airn enjoyed the hunt. For the first time in his life, he understood that patience could actually bring rewards. Of course, back then, he had almost none of it and it wasn't long before he caught her on her way from her rooms to the hall to hear petitions. Before she could finish her greeting, he had her pinned back against the tapestries with a peaking hunger. Even in recovery his body shifted fluid, like the wake of a ship or the roll of a sail in gentle winds. It was hardly a movement at all, he was just simply…closer now.

“Wh-What are you doing?”

Her hand fluttered up to rest against his chest, but she didn't push him away.

“Calla…”

His smile and tone would’ve been patronizing if not for the warmth. Like sunlight on shallow water. The way his voice pooled low, it almost seemed to slither through her body like a thing alive. He might not have had enough glamour to fill a thimble, but he was still fae. His head canted.

“I’m seducing you.”

He nearly kissed her trembling lips before he registered the dull ache pressing to his breastbone.

His curse and jerking backstep might've startled her even more than the iron had him.

“Are you alright?” were the first panicked words from her mouth.

“I...” Airn cleared his throat. “Just my wound. It pains me.”

It did. Constantly. But where at the beginning of their relationship Calla might've offered her sympathies and inquired into his health, now she reached out a slim hand and laid it against his abdomen. If he'd had his wits and she hadn't been wearing her new jewelry, he might've turned the moment back toward seduction. But as it was, he could only blink at the woven metal lying so innocuously around her neck, draped over the subtle swell of her breast. At the end of the chain hung the simple asymmetrical cross shape he'd seen in the castle's chapel. He tried to affect nonchalance while still boring holes into her chest.

“That, ah, that's new, isn't it?”

Calla followed his gaze at last and removed her hand from him to close her fingers around the chain. With a smile, she lifted it to show him better. He resisted the urge to pull back again. He knew, in his heart, that it would only sting. That it could not hurt him beyond a little pain if it only touched his skin. He'd played in iron filings from the jewelers and the smiths like any Fomoiri child after all. But now the smell alone had him nauseous. His wound throbbed like it had when it was fresh and oozing.

“Yes, it is,” Calla said, oblivious to him for the moment. “Rowena suggested it. A simple cross. Made of the metal that would've formed the nails that killed our Lord.”

His breaths had shortened.

“Rowena?”

The lady nodded. Then tilted her head. “It's funny. I hadn't thought Rowena paid that much attention to the teachings of the Christ. We discuss beliefs quite often. I know she values the pantheon of her people most highly. Nature is more real to her than anything. Which I admire, to be honest. So few Christians value the earth we live... Oh, goodness, you look very unwell. Should I fetch her?”

Airn did, in fact, feel very unwell. Dizzy, hot and cold in the wrong spots, heart pounding. But it wasn't from the iron and it wasn't from his injury. His voice came out more threatening than he meant it to. Like it had in the beginning before he'd learned the limits of human fear.

“I'll find her.”

And he did. She had to know he would. And even though he approached with the dangerous sort of quiet that killed, she did not jolt quite enough to satisfy him when he grabbed her arm. They were alone in the airy woods on the verge of a field. A low stone wall ran the division between the two types of green and brown. No witnesses for miles.

His lip curled as he looked down over her body.

“What? No iron for you?”

Her pale skin paled more, making the spatter of freckles across her face stand out darker. Her free hand slipped around behind her and she backed away. He let her go when she wrenched her arm free, but moved with her, keeping the distance close. His head tilted too quick, too alien, and she made a soft noise of alarm, pulling her hands back around in front of her, now both wrapped around the hilt of her little plant-cutting knife.

“Stay back.”

Airn laughed, deep and mad and from his gut. He might've been weak enough even a Fomoiri child could take him down, but this girl and her little sliver of metal did not frighten him. Funny, despite the sharp iron, he didn't feel the same sickening dread as with Calla's necklace. Maybe because he was angry now.

When the little healer feinted forward a bit to try to make him retreat, he caught her wrist and pulled, twisting, sending the knife bouncing away and yanking her against him. Her voice came out in a rush, like he'd crushed the words from her in the move.

“I know what you are.”

“Do you?”

“We have stories, you know. We're not stupid.” She was angry now. The fire had returned, flushing red through pale cheeks. “The sidhe steal children and corrupt minds into mush so they can play—”

His frown deepened with every word until he talked over her. “Rowena—Rowena. I am not sidhe.”

“What else could you be? You skirt around your Name, you listen in threes, and you nearly died of iron poisoning.”

He studied her confusion. She knew he was not human. She even knew enough to pick out what would harm him. And rather than attack him, she'd simply used it to protect her ladyship. What did he have to lose by the truth? He felt more concern that she'd think him one of those filth than any desire to protect secrets that seemed so unimportant now.

“I'm Fomoire.”

“Fomoire.” Her tone darkened with disgust and she pushed away. “The demons that came from the sea?”

And just like that he absorbed all of her confusion. “Demons? From the sea?”

“Oh gods, you're some horrible beast under that skin, aren't you? Have you got fishy parts?” She whined high in her throat, paling, shaking her hands. “What's been inside me?!”

With a building snarl, he dropped the glamour from his appearance like wrenching a curtain open. Though sudden, the differences were subtle. His bones were shaped smoother and sharper. He stood differently, his weight held in new patterns. Inexplicably inhuman, taller than he'd been, and more like a predator. His features changed the most, sharpening to an alien beauty. He knew for a fact the whole picture was quite accentuated by the seething irritation in black eyes. In some lights, to some people, he would look nearly demonic.

Rowena's legs gave out and she half-sat hard on the stone wall and stared, unbreathing, frozen like a rabbit in tall grass. After a few heartbeats, she teetered in her seat and reflexively took a short breath to avoid a faint. Seeming to snap out of her shock a bit, she moved closer again. Airn remained very still, watching her approach. She lifted a hand to touch the accentuated line of his cheekbone where the fresh pink scar had taken a strange new twist. She withdrew quickly, as though his skin were just this side of too warm to remain in contact. Another long pause.

“You're beautiful.”

“Beautiful?”

She squeaked in surprise. His voice pitched lower in this form, echoing larger and deeper somehow. It was still his. The same tones and rhythm and mysterious accent. But there was an Otherness to it now, beyond its depth. As though he could command cowards to stand and the hopeless to fight.

“Maybe...beautiful isn't the word. I...I don't know the word. Majestic, perhaps.”

He snorted, completely shattering the image of some sea-god come to her forest. Rowena laughed, a sharp sudden bark of mirth and the tension evaporated. She covered her mouth as if to take back the sound, but her fingers slipped down to reveal her usual grin. Strangely, he felt almost none of the rage he'd burned with before, but his smile slipped away again.

“This is Fomoire, Rowena. I hate the sidhe. And I love you. Even if I had the power to crush your mind, I never would.”

Her grin faded as well, down to something almost smug. “You love me?” Before he could even start to splutter, she'd curled her fingers around his wrist, pulling him to the stone wall to sit beside her. “Could we...? Well, I mean, could you...stay like this?”

“Not in the village.”

“No, just for now. I want to...”

She leaned up, kneeling beside him, to investigate the subtle point to his ears and he let her, trying very hard not to smile too wide.

“To see?”

At her hurried nod, he chuckled.

“Not like that!” She smacked his chest hard. “Well, maybe like that. But I want to know how you work. I spent a week keeping you alive and you were hiding this from me! I could've helped you sooner if—”

“No, you couldn't have.”

“Well, I might have.” She squirmed closer, all at once childlike. “Which stories are true? What can you do? Tell me everything about your kind. And you'll have to show the Lady Calla this, of course. As soon as we get back.”

“I think she might take it less well than you.”

“Less well than trying to stab you? Oh, aye. She's a vicious one.”

Airn studied her then, in silence. It took her a moment to focus from her own thoughts and meet his gaze and when she did it was still a little distant. She gave a cautious smile.

“What is it?”

“You gave her iron. To protect her.”

“Aye, that was the idea. Worked, it seems, as you're not covered in blood nor talking of her in the past tense.”

Airn fell quiet again, unsure how to ask, how to put it to words. Her care was such a subtle thing, not like Calla's feeding of the masses. Rowena fixed what broke and then turned around and smacked it when it was being stupid. She worked out theories and came up with solutions without any grand gestures.

This time she didn't wait for him to press again before continuing, her voice quiet, smile still small but no longer distant. “Remember, I loved her long before I loved you. If everything else slips your mind about we humble mortals, never forget that.”

He gave the intensity the pause it deserved before he grinned. An expression that, on his new face, made her breath hitch a little.

“You love me, Lady Jailer?”

She hit his chest, but she climbed on his lap and kissed him soundly.

[jinxic]

anotha one for the both of ya.

favorite video game and/or video game moment?

gta

v-videogame-??

i keep forgetting you're fucking stupid/lh

[jinxic]

sup.

to corvan and dwight:

just how much chaos are you capable of causing?

I am a mimic I work in healthcare

[ask-onyx-and-eight]

‘Onyx could not be more excited, nor could he be more happy, to be flying over the zebra city and laying down a silent takeover of the place. Parading as its savior when in actuality, the whole problem was caused by them in the first place. Not that any of that mess mattered when it came down to bras tacs. Speaking of important things, Onyx looked down over the battle and watched as the titanic monster was attacking such a beautiful city. Only the sheer mass of changelings being sent in and their centurion zeppelins were stopping the beast from waltzing over the place. Such chaos and tracer fire eating away at the beast and the armies below brought a tear to the former Kaiser’s eye. This was what true excitement felt like, and it was amazing.’

“So we finally deployed the colony class? Marvelous. I’m impressed with the interior design love, though I’d like to clear up some misconceptions you have~.”

‘Onyx sat back down at the table, eyes still glued to the war raging outside. The hive mind was alight with activity and anger, but more importantly it was focused. Unified. Working together to kill its foes. Such imperial pride and unity would surely boost morale and inspire the newborns to want to go into battle even faster and fight harder. Such was life in a battle hungry hive.’

“I am not the kaiser anymore. I’ve abdicated my position to my sons. Corvan to the warrior caste, and Echo to the workers. I’m sure you’ll see better results from us in the near future. As for rescuing the citizens of this city, I’d like to make its population of babies......well, let’s say disappear for now, die on paper. That monster can take any blame, I’m sure. You trust my judgement don’t you dear?”

"How would you like to go on a romantic dinner my King?"

“Considering I have all the free time in the world now? Anything for you dear.”

‘Onyx smiled and snuggled up against his wife, hoping nothing too bad would happen to him when he brought the news to her. Hopefully she’d be calm when he told her that he quit his job.’