#covered in lightning burns from the mages

[somemaycallthisjunk]

the struggle for the Amulet of Julianos

[nerevar-quote-and-star]

I Didn't Know You Were Keeping Count — Part XI: Cat

ao3

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Author's note: All right, here you go: The first part of Season Unending, in which Leara is not as together as she'd like to be following the disaster in Solitude.

Tag list: @ravenmind2001 @incorrectskyrimquotes @uwuthrad @dark-brohood @owl-screeches @binaominagata @constantfyre @kurakumi @stormbeyondreality @singleteapot @aardvark-123 @blossom-adventures @argisthebulwark @inkysqueed @average-crazy-fangirl @the-tuzen-chronicles @shivering-isles-cryptid @orangevanillabubbles @cosmermaid @thelurkershideout

Content Warning: This time, it's not Bishop. Look out for Thalmor wearing dark robes.

#######

The claw traced an electrifying trail down the side of her face, nipping at her lip before cutting down her neck. 

“Oh, my pet, but you’ve been a terribly bad girl, haven’t you?”

“I’m sorry—”

“Ah!” The claw tapped her collarbone, sharp and piercing. Sparks sprang up in its wake, hissing as they kissed her skin. “Don’t speak. I’ll not have another lie off your pretty tongue tonight.”

Iron and ozone clogged her nose. “Please—”

The claw dug deeper, joined by others, and bit into the bare swell of her chest with the shocking teeth of the mythic swamp dragons in the south. Pain seared through her veins, eroding her heart and boiling her blood. Leara screamed.

Hard stone met her, and she jerked up. Something heavy drug her arms down, and with a cry, she pushed and thrashed. Then it was at her feet, and she saw it for what it was in the dim light of the white mage’s candle. Her blanket.

At the end of the bed, Karnwyr whined. 

“I’m sorry,” Leara gasped, voice hoarse. Dry, as if she’d really been electrocuted. 

She shivered.

Lifting the blanket from the floor, she wrapped the heavy wool around her shoulders. She felt Karnwyr’s eyes follow her as she slipped her stockinged feet into the shafts of her silver and leather boots. “Go back to sleep, I’m okay,” she whispered and, for good measure, gave the wolf a reassuring scratch under the chin. Karnwyr’s brow creased, clearly skeptical. Still, he huffed and lowered his head back on his front paws. “Shh,” Leara soothed, giving him all the comfort she couldn’t feel. “Sleep.”

As if against his will, Karnwyr was lulled back to sleep by the gentle affection. He was snoring as Leara slipped out of the room. 

It wasn’t yet dawn. No light teased the eastern horizon to proclaim Magnus’s rise. She hoped it would be a bright, sunny day. She wished to feel the touch of magic on her skin before she plunged into the pending maelstrom that would be the peace conference. Yet with every breath, she could almost taste the approaching storm, hard and cold and as real as the chaos that would soon house itself in High Hrothgar. Even in the silent hallway, lit by nothing save faint starlight and her own trailing candlelight spell, she could feel the bitter wind bite at her cheeks and stir her unbound hair. Was it a bad omen, or was she still shaken from her nightmare?

What did she dream, anyway?

A cooing voice and an electric touch. Leara swallowed, her throat tight. Some variation of the same nightmare that haunted her sleep since the night of that thrice-cursed ball. Sometimes, there were other voices, and sometimes, there were knives or harp strings. Burns and smoke. But always, always there was the voice and the lightning. White hot and cloying in her veins. The stuff of nightmares that never ceased to dog her steps in the waking world. 

Bishop’s solution to her nightly awakenings was to sleep through them. In the near fortnight since leaving Solitude, Leara began to wonder if anything short of a rampaging mammoth or a legion of Daedra could be counted on to wake the ranger from his deep sleep. It worked in her favor, though. He didn’t ask about the thrashing or the crying – he didn’t know about them. Rudimentary Illusions, the kind every girl in High Rock learned to use, covered up the signs on her face. Illusion itself was never her strongest school, save her practiced Muffle and Clairvoyance, but hiding the bags under her eyes and the pallor of her skin was becoming second nature. It wasn’t the first time she’d used magic to disguise her appearance. In a twisted way, it was almost a comfort.

The door to the courtyard opened noiselessly under her hand. The frigid air didn’t bite her as hard as she might have expected, but her system was still flooded with adrenaline from the nightmare. Overhead, the thin forms of Masser and Secunda cast distorted shadows over the snow and stone, twisting the world into a vision of another world. She remembered the dancing auroras overhead when she’d left Paarthurnax that first time, back when he’d directed her to find the Elder Scroll. Now, the skies were shrouded in clouds through which only the brightest stars could pierce. All around her, the world was haunted, holding its breath on the edge of doom. The last sigh before the final plunge. 

Creeping across the barren snowscape, Leara eyed the archway and the path to the top of the Throat of the World. High winds howled against the mountainside, barring the way to Paarthurnax. Yet Leara wanted desperately to make the climb to meet him. Do dragons sleep? Would he be curled against the ruined Word Wall, lost to dreams, or awake in silent contemplation of the heavens? Would he welcome her company or turn her away at such an unholy hour?

Her legs trembled beneath her. Leara collapsed to the flagstones, her back against the unlit brazier stand. The blanket fluttered around her. Her chest ached. Burned. Froze. Then her head rolled back against the stand, her eyes sliding closed. 

She was so tired. So tired. She couldn’t make the climb.

Tears froze on the ends of her lashes.

“Paarthurnax, please . . .”

·•★•·

A gentle hand shook her awake. 

Predawn was sweeping in across the sky, depthless midnights touched here and there with the golden pinks of pending morning, mixing in a dappled grey and bruising violet off toward the west. It wasn’t yet half after four in the morning. 

Blinking in a slow haze, Leara peered up to find Master Arngeir standing over her, a frown set on his weathered face. 

“Are you well, child?” he asked, worry set around his mouth. Leara supposed she’d worry too if the prophesied hero she’d had to nurse back to health went and froze to death on the back porch before fulfilling her destiny. If her face wasn’t numb with cold, Leara imagined she’d have blushed with shame. 

“I’m all right,” she whispered. She wasn’t, but it was fine.

Master Arngeir’s frown deepened, probably because he wasn’t foolish enough to take her words at face value. He offered her a hand, and after a moment, Leara took it. Some other time, she may have been alarmed by how easily the elderly Greybeard pulled her up, but she already knew she hadn’t been eating well since long before Solitude. Maybe since before Mirmulnir. She wasn’t sure anymore. “Good morning.”

“Let us hope it will be,” said Arngeir, grim. “There are many hours still before our guests arrive, but there is much to prepare.” His hand on her shoulder, her teacher guided her back toward the monastery. 

An early breeze swirled the edges of her blanket, brushing her bare legs. Leara cast a longing look to the mountain peak, hidden as it was by clouds and the vanishing night. Her gaze fell, and she found Master Arngeir watching her, knowing. 

“It isn’t forbidden for you to make the climb whenever you wish,” he told her.

“I was worried he was sleeping,” she blurted, not willing or able to admit the exhaustion gnawing her limbs, rooting her to the earth when she sought the sky. “Have you ever seen a sleeping dragon?”

To her surprise, Master Arngeir laughed. Full of the same light, wry amusement she could almost recall in her grandfather’s voice from her earliest childhood memories. “I imagine that even dragons must rest sometimes.”

Good, maybe when this was over (if she was even there when it ended), she could rest, too.

·•★•·

Master Borri spied the Imperial and Stormcloak delegations coming around the curve of the mountain near noon. They were maybe around half a mile apart from each other, neither party daring to get too close to the other. Each was mounted with additional guards and pack horses. Amid the snow and ever-present ice on stone, it was a slow climb to the monastery. 

Even from the table where Leara sat with a light lunch of dried berries and herbal tea, she could feel the tension growing like a tightening bowstring. Or perhaps a noose, growing tight around her throat as she fell through the gallows—

No, she would not think like that! This was an opportunity, a hope to forge peace – if not a lasting peace, then perhaps a peace that could pave the way for a stronger, more steady solution down the road. Skyrim was in turmoil, and if she could in any way soothe the gash made by the Civil War while tending the burns from dragon’s fire, then she would do her best. As Dragonborn, she could only succeed or die trying.

Of course, it was as impending death crept back into her mind that Bishop finally made his appearance. Yawning and stretching, he gave his side an absent scratch as he sauntered over to Leara’s little table. Snagging a fistful of berries off her plate, he threw them back, chomping down with a short cough.

Leara winced behind her teacup. “Lovely for you to grace us with your presence.”

Beside the table where he was gnawing on a cow bone, Karnwyr grunted.

Bishop burped. “Took me forever to get comfortable on that damn cot,” he grunted. He plopped into the chair across from Leara and reached for her plate. 

She smacked his knuckles. “Oi! Let off! You snooze, you lose!”

“Please, woman, I catch most of the food you eat!” Bishop snorted. 

Leara withdrew her plate from the table, holding the remaining fruit out of Bishop’s reach. “I’m afraid you don’t have time to filch off my plate. You need to get ready!”

“Ready for what?” he asked, wiping crust from his eye.

A grimace twisted Leara’s mouth. Bishop was a frightful sight: His hair stuck out in nearly every direction, and his night clothes were in equal disarray. She was glad none of the Greybeards were there at the moment to see him. As dignified as they were, Bishop was just as frightfully embarrassing to look at. 

“The delegations will be here within a half hour or so. We need to be ready to open the doors and get the peace talks underway.”

Bishop flapped his hand in mimicry of her talking. Leara pursed her lips in a tight line. “This little tea party of yours has nothing to do with me, sweetness. It's all you and the old windbags, thinking you can get everyone in Skyrim to kiss and make nice.”

Leara ate a berry, grinding the semisweet fruit into shreds. 

“What are you going to do?” he went on. He pushed the chair back on its rear legs and leaned against the wall, his arms behind his head. “Are General Troll Face and the Stormdrain going to sit around the campfire and braid your hair? Will you do each other’s nails and makeup, too?” He leered at her, “Can I watch?”

Silently, Leara drained her teacup. Then she set it down. “You will not make a fool of me in front of them,” she said, voice cold. 

“Me? Make a fool of you? No, darling, you do that all on your own!” Bishop laughed. “What are you even trying to accomplish here, anyway? Because you sure as Hell aren’t going to establish a lasting peace between those two warmongers.”

Scooping the rest of the berries into her hands, Leara restrained the urge the throw them at Bishop’s head. Instead, she dropped them one by one into her mouth, methodical. She was too tired for this. So little sleep and such a long time before she could try to get more. The day stretched miles onward in front of her, but her patience with Bishop was growing desperately short. She was done tiptoeing around him.

“I’m trapping a dragon in Dragonsreach.”

Then she walked away, the clatter of a falling chair and broken pottery behind her. 

·•★•·

Leara was careful to avoid Bishop in the intervening time before the Imperials and Stormcloaks arrived. After leaving him in a spluttering mess of chairs and pottery shards, she’d disappeared into her cell. Her blue gown hung on the wardrobe where she left it the night before, freshened and primed for the council. Wearing armor to conduct peace talks didn’t sit right with her, so the blue dress it was. Running her fingers, still tinged pink from frostbite, over the lace, something in her chest loosened. She made it this far. She could do this.

She had to.

Once dressed, she went to stand in the foyer of High Hrothgar, her hair carefully pinned and her hands folded before her. Nerves ran electric up her arms and around her ribs, but she pushed it away. She had to. This was for Skyrim. Her discomfort wasn’t even worth considering.

The heavy doors opened, and she heard Master Arngeir greet Ulfric Stormcloak and his party. Leara’s hand tightened over her rings, the enchanted bands biting into her skin. Master Arngeir said something. Ulfric replied, his voice humming against the stones. They exchanged words that she couldn’t understand, but she remained in place. 

The thump of heavy footsteps came down the corridor, and then Ulfric Stormcloak entered the hall beside Master Arngeir. His gaze wandered over everything but her, for which she was almost grateful. Let her be a backdrop. He was taking in the ancient stones and carvings that formed High Hrothgar. Oh, yes, he lived here once, didn’t he? He was supposed to be a Greybeard a long time ago. Before the war. Odd that that slipped her mind. She needed to remain focused. It wouldn’t do for her memory or attention to slip during the peace talks. Things were tense enough as it was without her issues getting in the way. Leara swallowed, her eyes trailing from the Jarl to his party. There weren’t many of them in reality, just Ulfric, one of his generals – Galmar, wasn’t it? – and some guards. A few carried bundles of supplies on their backs; these followed Master Borri into the west wing, where the parties would be housed in empty cells for the night. The couple that remained stood near to their Jarl’s back. 

A blond head caught her eye, and Leara blinked. Then, a genuine smile blossomed over her face. 

“Ralof!”

All heads turned toward her, and Leara’s ears grew warm as she realized that, yes, she did call out her friend’s name. Her smile curved bashfully as one of the other guards elbowed Ralof, snickering. Ralof gave her a jaunty wave, and she relaxed. 

“Ah, Dragonborn,” Ulfric Stormcloak began. He stepped forward, his attention on her. “It seems your efforts have paid off.”

“That remains to be seen, Jarl Ulfric,” she said. She squeezed her rings, the black band hot. Meeting his eyes was incredibly difficult, especially after the incident with Bishop in the Windhelm Jail. Mara’s mercies, she managed it, if only because of the iron stiffening her neck and spine. “Thank you for making the trip.”

“You made a convincing argument. I’m hoping your position at the negotiation table will be as credible.” He didn’t appear quite as hard as before, but Leara remained on guard. 

“I hope not to disappoint.” 

The General, Galmar, grunted. Leara recalled how he initially scoffed at the idea of the peace council, though he gave Ulfric his support when the Jarl asked for it. She found herself glad that Ulfric brought him and not the other general, Yrsarald. Both were opinionated, yet Galmar gave the impression of being a little deeper in thought than Yrsarald. “Make it worth our time, then. The road from Windhelm was too long for us to come here to be made fools of.”

Leara’s smile was thin. “I wouldn’t dream of it, General.”

Beside them, Master Arngeir held out his hand. “Dragonborn, if you would, perhaps it is time to show Ulfric and his party to the meeting hall.”

“Of course, Master,” Leara bowed her head. “Please follow me.” 

Up the steps and down the wide stone hallway, she led them, Ulfric and Galmar at her shoulder and the guards behind. This close to Ulfric, the fine hairs on the back of her neck prickled. Did any escape her bun? She’d need to duck out and get another pin before they opened up the peace talks. Maybe two, just to be sure. 

“Well, Dragonborn, I trust there will be a point to all this,” commented Ulfric.

Leara cleared her throat. “We haven’t discussed the terms yet, Jarl Ulfric. You may not like them. Besides, General Tullius isn’t even here yet.”

“He can take his time getting here,” Galmar scoffed. “Damn faithless Imperials. Can’t even get to a meeting on time.” 

One of the guards chuckled. Ulfric’s wry face caught in her peripheral. Leara stared resolutely ahead. “They should be here fairly soon. Only, their party is larger than yours,” she said. “It’s slower going on the steps with so many.”

“Aye, too many. They can’t go anywhere without their Thalmor handlers holding the leash, and Talos knows those elves are dragging their feet every step up this mountain.”

The Thalmor . . .?

If Ulfric and Galmar hadn’t been at her back, Leara would’ve frozen in place. As it was, her knees wobbled, threatening to buckle under her. The Thalmor? She shoved her right foot forward, continuing her walk down the corridor. The Thalmor were coming? Electricity stung the too-raw nerves of her hands, biting and itching under the skin as it crawled up her arms. The Thalmor were coming. Anxiety and lightning gathered in her chest, burning and binding. 

Elenwen. 

There was the door to the meeting hall. It was a wide, low-ceilinged room with a large round table dominating the center. Its shape rather resembled a horseshoe, with a low hearth burning between the table’s arms. It was empty: Master Einarth had gone to help Master Wulfgar with the delegations’ animals. “If you’ll please be seated on this side,” she said, indicating the left. To her ears, her voice was high away and cool, lost in the clouds her head was threatening to dive through. “Would you care for some mead?”

“Yes, if you please,” Ulfric said. He was watching her. He knew. He knew. He knew—

“For me as well.”

“Right,” Leara nodded. “I’ll be back.” She turned and left. 

But barely had she stepped into the hallway when a large hand slipped around her arm, encircling her small wrist. Panic seized Leara’s heart, squeezing harder and tighter than before. She whirled around, free hand freezing over with frost magic. 

. . . and then it dispersed just as quickly. 

“By Shor, you’re still as flighty as a pine thrush!”

“Ralof!” Leara scoffed and swatted his arm. But the relief that eased her heart and muscles was visible in the small smile she shot her friend. 

“I figured you might want some help,” Ralof shrugged. 

“Sure!” 

Her arm linked with Ralof’s, Leara guided him down the monastery corridors to the kitchen. High Hrothgar was ancient: From what Leara understood, the monastery once housed dozens of disciples and students to Jurgen Windcaller’s Way of the Voice, as well as masters of the Voice and clever arts (or whatever it was the Old Nords called their magic). It was an old building, very cold, but made of a sturdy dark stone that blurred the building’s silhouette from afar during snowfall. It was tranquil and distant, far apart from the world below and full of peace. Despite the turmoil twisting in her soul over her destiny, High Hrothgar held in its walls a centered grounding that reminded Leara of her youth at Cloud Ruler Temple. Reminiscent, but calmer and heavier, too. Heavier with the weight of the world. Leara couldn’t help but hope that the Imperial and Stormcloak delegations would feel some of that peace mingled with purpose when they met at the negotiator’s table. 

“How have you been?” she asked Ralof. 

“I can’t complain. No more near executions, so I’ve had that going for me,” he laughed. His golden hair and sunshine smile were a bright spot in the dim halls. “Can’t believe I’m actually here at High Hrothgar. But you’re used to it now, right?”

“Hardly,” Leara echoed his laughter. 

Ralof grinned, “It’s hard to believe that scrawny elfling from Helgen turned out to be the Dragonborn.” 

There’s a good-natured disbelief in his voice that reassured her. Ralof’s was a genuine and kind character. Without him, she’d have never made it out of Helgen. His company on the road to Riverwood and the invaluable aid his family gave her once they got into town were vital components to her journey into Skyrim, without which she would have been in dire straits. Leara smiled softly. She’d missed Ralof. “Yeah, it really is.”

Earlier, Master Einarth had set a pot of spiced mead on the hearth to warm. It was meant to be served when both parties were present, but Leara needed space from the anxiety of Ulfric and the Thalmor pressing into her lungs. A platter of goblets sat on the heavy wooden table that served as both a counter and dinner table. Passing these, Leara took up the ladle to gauge the mead’s temperature. 

“I don’t mean to pry—”

“You do a little bit.”

Ralof chuckled. “All right, perhaps I do. But what is this meeting about? How is peace going to stop the World-Eater?”

Her hands stalled their stirring. “Did Jarl Ulfric tell you it was Alduin at Helgen?”

“Aye, he did.”

“Ah.”

“Leara,” Ralof hesitated, “what are you planning?”

She pressed her lips together, hard. Was it only over an hour ago that she fired the answer off in Bishop’s face? Her throat tightened. She’d need to get a hold of herself before the meeting began.

“I need to go to Sovngarde,” she whispered to the hearth. 

“What?”

“I—” Am going to die. “Need to trap—” A dragon, a live dragon. “I need to use Dragonsreach. Peace is Jarl Balgruuf’s price.”

Large hands gently pried the ladle from her brittle fingers. Ralof hooked it on the pot’s handle. “You don’t have to tell me everything,” he said, not unkindly. “I’d just like to know you’re taking care of yourself. You look tired.”

“Thanks,” she laughed, but it wasn’t as full as before. “I’m fine, really.” She wasn’t, but she would be. She had to.

Carrying the platter of goblets, Leara led Ralof back to the meeting hall. Entering, she found Ulfric already seated at the table, a frown creasing his face. It smoothed out when he looked up at her, a cloud passing from in front of the sun, but Leara could only offer a small smile in return. Galmar stood beside him, talking lowly, though, on Leara and Ralof’s entrance, he went silent. Akatosh, please let me make it to Sovngarde. If she was to die, it’d be far more beneficial for everyone if she did so while defeating Alduin rather than if Ulfric exacted revenge for her Thalmor past and her role in the war. 

“We’ve prepared spiced mead,” Leara explained, gesturing for Ralof to set the pot on the stone sideboard rather than the hearth. Best to keep it out from the middle of the potential battleground. Lips pursed, she cast a subtle warming rune on the bottom of the pot to keep the mead hot. She took a goblet from the platter and ladled it full of mead, then she faced the table. The guards were watching her, and Galmar, his arms crossed, was eyeing her, too. Was Skyrim much like High Rock? It was better to be safe than sorry. She brought the goblet to her mouth and swallowed a mouthful. Master Einarth’s spice blend was warm and comforting and left her chest warm for a blissful moment. 

Then she handed the goblet to Galmar, and the feeling was gone. 

“What are you doing?” he asked, gruff. 

“It’s not poisoned,” she replied. 

“Why would it be poisoned?” 

“Galmar, don’t torture the woman,” Ulfric said, sitting sideways in his chair so as to face his general. 

The grin that curved across Galmar’s face ruffled his mustache and crinkled his eyes. “I’m only putting her through her paces.”

Leara tried to muster a light smile, but she was sure it looked like a grimace. “Perhaps that’s best left for the peace talk.”

“Perhaps,” Ulfric said, accepting the goblet from Galmar. 

Perhaps. Leara nodded. “If you’ll excuse me, I need to be ready to greet the other delegation.”

“Of course,” Ulfric lifted his goblet. 

Skirts brushing around her ankles, Leara forced herself to walk sedately from the room. Ralof shot her a quick, reassuring look, and some of the renewed tension in her chest eased. Once in the corridor, her shoulders dropped, and she heaved a sigh.

“Having fun playing hostess?”

“As much as I can, I suppose.”

Bishop pushed off from the wall, his arms crossed over his chest and his face dark. “We need to talk about this circus of yours.”

“What’s there to talk about?” Aside from the litany of issues she needed to address this afternoon alone. 

He followed her down the hall. “You want to trap a dragon in a damn castle, and for what? So, you can fly off into the sunset and die?”

“That’s not why, and you know it.”

Bishop caught her wrist in his. His hands were harder than Ralof’s. “You know why I worry about you, woman. You know why—urgh!”

Resigned, Leara came to a halt. “Bishop, please. Whatever concerns you have, can we please discuss them after the meeting? I’m pressed for time now.”

“You sure as Hell weren’t pressed for time when you were avoiding me all morning,” Bishop grumbled. “All right, fine. Have it your way. But when they hang you out to dry because even your demands are too much for those egomaniacs, don’t come crying to me!”

“I’ll try to remember that.”

Pulling her wrist from Bishop’s grip, Leara continued down the hall. She wasn’t surprised when, a moment later, his footsteps echoed after her. 

“Where’s Karnwyr?” she asked.

“In your room, out of the way.”

Oh. That was probably meant to be considerate. Still, she missed the wolf’s comforting presence by her side. 

“I saw you getting friendly with that guard. What was that about? You taking in any man who bounds after you like a lost puppy, or do you just prefer blonds?”

“What, Ralof?” Her head twinged. Lovely, on top of the discomfort from sleeping outside, she was gearing up for a headache. “He was helping me with the mead. Which, by the way, I didn’t see you offer to do.”

Bishop barked a laugh. “Me? Serve mead to the Stormdrain himself? Listen, sweetness, you and the old windbags can play political nursemaids all you want, but I’m not getting involved.”

Not getting involved, her right hip! Bishop had done nothing but insert himself in her business since she met him! And, all right, she did allow him to after the entire Blackreach incident, but still. His definition of non-involvement was clearly from a different dictionary than hers. And it was wrong. 

She moved to tell him so, then paused. A familiar voice caught on her ear, and Leara spun, her eyes blown wide. “By Akatosh.”

“Now what is it?”

Ignoring Bishop’s question, Leara lifted her skirts and hurried down the corridor. She rounded the corner, only to freeze at the top of the stairs, a confused Bishop at her heels. There, in the foyer, were precisely who she didn’t want to see standing in the middle of the Greybeards’ home. 

Delphine and Esbern. 

The Thalmor were coming. The Blades were here. Ulfric Stormcloak was down the hall.

Nausea rolled in her stomach. She swallowed hard, her throat dry. Her attempts to keep the Blades and the Greybeards apart in the course of her destiny were in vain. Delphine would figure out how much she sympathized with the Greybeards’ philosophies over those of the Dragonguard that Delphine sought to restore, and Arngeir, Arngeir would learn of her red past as a Blade, and the Greybeards would banish her from High Hrothgar. The sanctuary at the top of the mountain would be lost. Paarthurnax’s guidance would be lost. She was going to be ill. She couldn’t afford to be. Akatosh.

Master Arngeir towered over Delphine, though he stood eye to eye with Esbern. For a peace-loving monk, he looked ready to toss the two Blades out on their rear ends—violently. “You were not invited here. You are not welcome here."

Delphine was dressed in Akaviri armor; prim and put together, she looked every inch the Knight-Sister. Conversely, Esbern was in warm wool, making no distinction toward his affiliation to the Blades. But his Thalmor dossier aside, his association with Delphine was enough. 

“We have every right to be here for this council,” Delphine said, glaring down her nose. Watching a small Breton glare down a venerable Nord was jarring enough to be funny if Leara weren’t agonizing over why they were here. “Actually,” she went on, “more so, since the Dragonborn is a member of the—”

Esbern, who was busy studying the architecture of the monastery, caught sight of Leara at the top of the stairs. “Ah, Elanor! There you are!”

It was like watching a train of merchant wagons piling up in the marketplace, unable to prevent the accident and unable to look away from the disaster. Master Arngeir’s frown turned to her, and Leara’s heart sank. 

She descended the stairs. “Good afternoon, Esbern, Delphine. How remarkable to find you here, seeing as I didn’t invite you.”

“An oversight on your part, right?” Delphine lifted an eyebrow, as pale and condescending as ever. “You look comfortable.”

Stopping short of standing by Master Arngeir, Leara was keenly aware of the room’s tension settling on her shoulders in a heavy shroud, all attention on her. “How are you here?”

“It’s no secret that you fought Alduin and lost,” Delphine sniffed. She cast a wary glance over Leara’s shoulder at Bishop, then, ignoring the darkening glare on Master Arngeir’s brow, she went on, “Just because we packed up and moved shop doesn’t mean I don’t still have my contacts. I’ve not been on the run this long making stupid decisions like completely cutting myself off.”

“Of course not,” Leara smiled, gritting her teeth. 

“I still have my contacts in Whiterun. You’re not as subtle as you think. I’ve known about this little council meeting for nearly a month.” Which meant as soon as Delphine found out, she was ready to make the trek to High Hrothgar. Wow. “We have just as much right as anyone else to be here, seeing as we’re the ones who helped you get this far in the first place, Elanor.”

Leara spluttered. Arngeir’s scowl deepened. “Is that so? The hubris of the Blades truly knows no bounds.”

“If it were up to you people, she would stay sitting here on your mountain all day with her head in the clouds!”

It was Bishop’s hand on Leara’s elbow that kept her from popping Delphine in the mouth. Absence, it seemed, made the heart grow fonder. Leara felt better about Delphine and the Blades’ contempt for the Greybeards when she wasn’t in the same Hold as her. 

“Delphine, please,” Esbern said, speaking for the first time. “We didn’t come here to debate the philosophies of Blade and Greybeard. Remember the issue at hand: Alduin must be reckoned with.” Then he turned to Master Arngeir, a tired look on his weathered face. “You called this council for that reason. You wouldn’t have done so otherwise. We have much information on Alduin and the crisis at hand.” There was a glimmer in his eyes. “You’ll need us here if you want the council to succeed.”

Despite this, Master Arngeir’s scowl did not relent. However, after a long moment, he bowed his head—shallow but acquiescence, nonetheless. “If this is how it must be, then so be it. You may attend the council.”

Esbern nodded his thanks, but Delphine only smirked. 

Leara wanted to scream, and they hadn’t even started the damn meeting yet. “If you’d please follow me—”

“Actually, Dragonborn, I would like a word,” Master Arngeir went on. He did not look at her. 

Oh. Her throat tight, Leara turned to Bishop, who, by some undeserved mercy from the Divines, had kept whatever snide comments he usually had to himself during the exchange with the Blades. “Escort Delphine and Esbern to the table.”

“Are you serious?” said Bishop. “Did we not just have the conversation about why I’m not getting involved with your little—”

“Bishop, please.”

He quieted. Then, casting her a shady look under pinched brows, jerked his head toward the stairs. “C’mon,” he told the Blades, “What her ladyship decrees.”

A harsh breath pushed through Leara’s nostrils as the Blades followed after a grumbling Bishop. As he passed, Esbern clasped her shoulder, but it did nothing to settle her nerves. Actually, Leara was feeling too much. She knew it. Too much was happening. She thought she could handle it, but . . .

No, she had to handle it. She would. It was fine. 

“When you told us that it was the Blades who showed you Dragonrend, I knew to worry about what other counsel you might take from them,” Master Arngeir said. He did not look at her; instead, his gaze was fixed on the tapestry above the entrance. Leara remained silent. “Their claim that they are responsible for you traveling the course of your destiny should be laughable.” Then he faced her, his eyes tired. “I have told you before how the Blades use the Dragonborn, but it seems you already know it.”

“Yes,” Leara said. She recalled the lessons, the stories. Watch for the Dragonborn. Protect the Dragonborn. Follow the Dragonborn.

“I did not fathom that the Dragonborn was a member of the Blades, and yet, all this time, that is who you are.”

Leara lifted her eyes, her shoulders set though they wanted to sag. “What do you want me to say, Master? That I should never have joined the Blades? That I regret the years of service I gave and the lessons I learned? That I renounce them?” And hadn’t she thought of it? If Delphine’s dismissal of Leara’s standing as a Knight-Sister wasn’t enough, the fact that she abandoned her post during the war was enough. She all but did renounce the Blades, for all her delusions on the contrary. 

Master Arngeir’s countenance was grim. “I would know that we can take you at your word, but now I see that we have reason to question, not only your means, then your intentions as well. We must take you for what you are, Dragonborn.”

“And what am I?”

“A charlatan.”

·•★•·

His thumb stilled on the goblet’s rim when she entered, followed by the Imperials.  

He stood at her entrance, Galmar following suit. His eyes met General Tullius’s over the Dragonborn, Leara’s shoulder, and his jaw tightened at the sight of the towering forms of the Thalmor ambassadors behind him. A smirk cut across Elenwen’s face, and Ulfric’s scowl deepened. So, they expected him to sit down and treat with the Thalmor today. 

They were wrong. 

In with Tullius and Elenwen came a host of others, a great number that drowned the small company Ulfric selected for his entourage. Ever present at the General’s side was Rikke, as fierce and hawkish as he remembered her. There was a storm in Rikke’s eyes that seemed determined to strike him across the room. After Rikke’s gale came the slight figure of Jarl Elisif, barricaded by her ever-present housecarl. The would-be queen was wide-eyed and still, almost as if being in High Hrothgar, in this room, drew her into her shell. Mousy, he thought. 

Two legionnaires trailed the group, a small blonde woman and a taller Nord with a dark mustache. They, like he and his men, were disarmed, their weapons likely in the antechamber with the Stormcloaks’. After them came two guards with the golden horse of Whiterun on their armor. Balgruuf came between them, apart from the Imperials, but clearly of their delegation. Even if he would not choose a side, Ulfric questioned whether Balgruuf could ever truly be persuaded from the safe path laid by the Empire. It was the type of safety that bore complacency from the familiar, refusing the call to action from conviction. Balgruuf knew what was right. Ulfric knew this. But Balgruuf would sooner turn to the familiar for the protection of his people rather than risk all for his convictions. This was the truth. 

And yet. And yet, for the sake of their old friendship, Ulfric hoped Balgruuf would find the courage to follow his convictions, to join the cause and free Skyrim from her bondage. That alone would carry more weight than any peace treaty that the Dragonborn thought she could orchestrate. 

After the delegation came Master Arngeir and the other Greybeards. Not for the first time, Ulfric wondered why they agreed to host the war leaders in their monastery. High Hrothgar, always remembered as a bastion of peace, was now the host to warriors and their opposing views. How Leara convinced the Greybeards to open their doors to this council, even to discuss the dragon threat, Ulfric didn’t know. But no, one glance at Master Arngeir’s face showed a lingering shadow in clear eyes. Arngeir, at least, was not happy about this turn of events. 

At once, Leara returned to the pot of spiced mead and prepared the tray. Ulfric only caught a glimpse of her pale eyes as she passed in a swirl of blue. 

“Take your seats, and we can begin,” said Master Arngeir, sitting himself at the head of the table. Off to the right, Delphine huffed. “Now that everyone is here, the Dragonborn will serve the mead. We offer this in goodwill, in the hope that everyone has come here in the spirit of—”

As he spoke, Elenwen sat down at the table. Ulfric, on the cusp of sitting back down himself, stiffened to his full height. 

“No, we will not sit at the same table as that woman!” he said, forceful. “You insult us by bringing her here as if you expect us to just accept the presence of your chief Talos hunter!”

Legate Rikke scoffed. “Here we go.”

Galmar growled, eliciting an eye roll from Balgruuf. Elisif sighed. 

“Now, Ulfric, I have every right to be here,” Elenwen said, poised like a serpent on the edge of her chair. “It is in the best interest of every party for a representative of the Aldmeri Dominion to ensure that the terms of the White-Gold Concordat are upheld. Particularly given the history of certain local governments in disregarding those terms as they see fit. Such a breach of treaty is a reason enough to be concerned, wouldn’t you agree, Miss Ormand?” 

The air stilled, cooling. “Yes, Mistr—Madame Ambassador, perhaps.”

Then the room warmed again, but a chill ran up his spine.

Her head bowed, Leara returned to his field of vision, her tray laden. In silence, she served the mead. 

“Look here, Ulfric,” Tullius said, pointing his hand. “You cannot dictate who I bring as part of my delegation. If you can’t accept that, then there’s no point in us going any further.”

Ulfric gritted his teeth. Beside Rikke, the Dragonborn stilled. Across the table, he saw her purse her lips. Elisif took a goblet, and Leara moved on.

“If we must negotiate the terms of the negotiations, then we will never get anywhere,” Arngeir said. There was a rumble in his voice. “Perhaps this is a matter best addressed by the Dragonborn.” 

Standing between Balgruuf and the Thalmor, Leara’s cold eyes flicked from Tullius to Ulfric and back. “I believe—”

The nerve of those Imperial bastards, Ulfric brooded.  

“As Ambassador Elenwen said, we are discussing matters that may encroach on the terms of the White-Gold Concordat. It is to the benefit of all that we respect the existing treaties so that we can work out an agreement that works for everyone.”

And here was the Dragonborn, with her half-answers and line-walking. The chill curled around his spine again, sharper. He did not expect this, not from her. But what does he really know of her? “Either she walks, or we do,” he declared. “If you think I will sit at the same table as that Thalmor bitch—"

Leara’s chin was defiant. “You misunderstand me, Jarl Ulfric. It is imperative that we observe the existing treaties, but I don’t think we need the Dominion to hold our hand to do so.” She turned to Elenwen, who was within arm’s reach of her. Behind Elenwen’s chair, another golden-haired Altmer woman stood, her statue’s face unable to conceal the heat as she stared down the Dragonborn. Leara merely smiled. “If you’ll pardon us, Madame Ambassador, your presence may do more harm than good here. Please, excuse us.”

Elenwen stood. She was taller and darker than the Dragonborn, Ulfric noticed. He had never used magic himself, but there was something in the air that left an electric film on the back of his throat. He wondered if anyone else could feel it. 

“Very well, Miss Ormand, you may conduct this meeting as you see fit.” Elenwen’s eyes cut to Ulfric. “Enjoy your petty victory, Ulfric, as long as your Dragonborn is here to win the battles for you. The Dominion will treat with whatever government rules Skyrim. We would not dream of interfering in your civil war.” Turning on her heel, she beckoned her lackey. “Come, Hindalia,”

Tearing her glare from Leara, the other Altmer followed her mistress. 

“Run away!” cried Galmar, slamming his fist on the table. His goblet wobbled. “We’re not as easily culled as your Imperial pets! Skyrim will never bow to the Thalmor!”

Rikke charged to her feet. “You’re lucky I respect the Greybeards’ council, Galmar, or I’d—"

“Legate!” Tullius’s hard snap cut her off. “We’re representatives of the Emperor here! Act like it!”

Her dark scowl carved a harsh line across her face, but Rikke obeyed like the good legate she was. “Sorry, sir.”

Leara placed a new goblet in front of him, removing the old one. She did the same for Galmar. 

Arngeir cleared his throat. Despite the Thalmors’ exit, the tension in the room was heavy. “Now that that is settled, may we proceed?” 

Ulfric cleared his throat. “I have something to say first.” 

“Are you serious?” muttered Rikke. 

“I agreed to attend this council to come to an agreement about this dragon menace. That is it. Beyond that, we have no interest in negotiating with the Empire over any terms.” After all, hadn’t the Empire denied them in the past? Turnabout was fair play. “I consider even talking to the Empire a generous gesture on our part. It’s only a matter of time before they’re driven out of Skyrim.”

“Are you done? Or did you want to continue dictating from your soap box?” Tullius asked, eyebrow raised.

Galmar bristled. He moved to speak, but Ulfric held up a hand. “Fine, let’s get on with it.” 

On the other side of Galmar, Leara sat in the empty chair. Intention lit up her face, but there was a shadow lurking there, under the blue. She watched them. 

Master Arngeir stood. “Good. General Tullius, Jarl Ulfric, this council is unprecedented in nature. Never before has High Hrothgar opened its doors to mediate a war, yet we stand here now at the Dragonborn’s request. I would ask that you respect the spirit of High Hrothgar and its history of peace and benevolence. Your being here brings the hope that we can find a lasting peace for the good of all Skyrim. Dragonborn?”

“Yes, thank you, Master Arngeir. Jarls, Generals, Legate,” she nodded to Rikke, “I have asked you here to discuss the present dragon crisis. The Greybeards have been generous enough to open their halls to us, allowing us a neutral meeting ground where we might discuss terms for a truce that would allow for a swift handling of the dragons’ threat.” Perched in her chair, Leara leaned forward as she spoke, straight-backed and still. “Jarl Balgruuf has agreed to allow me to use his palace Dragonsreach to capture a dragon, but it is imperative that we first reach an agreement that protects the people of Whiterun in such a delicate situation.”

Capturing a dragon! So, that was her plan. Ulfric wasn’t sure what to make of it. When he agreed to the council, he knew it was an opportunity to confront Tullius without a battle’s bloodshed, but even when the Dragonborn insisted this circus was necessary to defeat the World-Eater, Ulfric never expected her solution was to capture a live dragon! Did she hope to ensnare the World-Eater himself, or was this dragon a rung in the ladder as she ascended toward the top? What did she hope to gain from capturing a dragon, information, allies? Ulfric sat back in his chair, lost in thought.

Around the table, the other reactions varied. Balgruuf, knowing Leara’s plans from the start, simply stared ahead, determined. Galmar, however, and Rikke too, it seemed, were more affected: Galmar’s loud splutter over choked mead nearly drowned out the Legate’s heated swear. Her General, it seemed, didn’t quite catch the ramifications of such a declaration. This was to be expected. Ulfric didn’t imagine an Imperial like Tullius would realize the meaning behind holding a dragon in Dragonsreach, much less comprehending the threat of the World-Eater himself! But it was Elisif’s reaction that caught Ulfric’s attention. Her hands pressed to her mouth, the Jarl of Solitude was wide-eyed and speechless. 

Good, Ulfric thought. Perhaps with the legend of Olaf One-Eye brought into the modern age, she might learn a new respect for Nordic history and tradition. Somehow, though, he doubted it. 

Delphine’s near-silent “Damnit” against the whispering of the guardsmen pricked at the edge of his attention. When the Blade appeared in the doorway, clad in her Order’s armor and shadowed by the old man, Ulfric hadn’t known what to make of it. Hers was a face he’d never expected to see again, and yet here she was at the Dragonborn’s peace council. He half-wondered why she was here. 

After the initial reaction, Leara continued, “In light of this, I would ask that the members of the council look beyond things such as territory and resources in order to help ensure the dragons are dealt with swiftly. Thank you.”

“Yes,” Arngeir nodded. “Now, let us open the floor. Who would like to start the negotiations?”

The muscle worked in Ulfric’s jaw. Until now, he fully intended to open his position by demanding Markarth be handed into Stormcloak hands. Still—

Tullius held up his hand. “Our terms are simple: Riften must be returned to Imperial control. That is our price for agreeing to a truce.”

Elisif’s eyes darted to the General, wide, then, finding Ulfric’s gaze, they hardened. Her mouth thinned.  

“By Talos, he’s got stones!” gristled Galmar. “You’re in no position to dictate terms to us, Tullius! If you think we’ll turn Riften over just because you barked an order, then you overstep yourself!”

Crossing his arms, Ulfric leveled a look at the Imperials. “That is quite the opening demand. Tullius.” One he was loath to meet. 

Galmar’s scowl was fierce. “Ulfric! Don’t say you’re considering accepting this demand! It’s outrageous! We can hold Riften against these milkdrinkers, and Jarl Laila—”

He could see Rikke bristling. For all that he appreciated Galmar’s gumption and tenacity, it could easily lead them into trouble. Ulfric was no fool: He knew good and well that there was little stopping Tullius from making another attempt to capture him on the road from High Hrothgar. It was only the respect held by Skyrim’s people for the Greybeards that stayed the General’s hand. But respect could only be stretched so far before it snapped with tension. Ulfric’s men were outnumbered here. Their cards needed to be handled with care.

 Ulfric held out his hand. “Peace, Galmar. We’ll do whatever I find to be in the best interest of Skyrim, understood?”

Still glowering at the Imperials, Galmar nodded, “Yes, my lord.”

“Come on, Tullius, do you really expect us to simply hand over Riften? Just like that?” A wry smile tugged at Ulfric’s mouth. “Because your legion has failed to take it by force, do you think we’ll surrender our hold if you ask instead?”

“I’m sure that General Tullius does not expect something without discussing a price,” Arngeir said, voice hard and peaceable all at once. 

In the corner of his eye, Ulfric saw Leara cross her hands. Her face was closed. 

“Of course he doesn’t!” Galmar barreled on ahead. “What are you willing to pay for Riften, Tullius? Empty promises and more Imperial bluster?”

“That’s enough, Galmar.”

“Jarl Ulfric, in exchange for the Rift, what would you want in return?” asked Arngeir.

Now, since they were asking. “First, let me be clear: The sons of Skyrim have learned from bitter experience that talking to the Empire is a waste of time. Their promises are always punctuated with a sword and a shackle.” The memory of the betrayal at the Markarth gates still gnawed at him decades later. “However, I accepted the Dragonborn’s invitation to this council, and so, whatever the Empire does, I will negotiate in good faith.” Galmar nodded his agreement. 

Turning to the Dragonborn, Ulfric found himself met with a cold blue stare. Unlike a month ago in the Windhelm jail, when she would no longer look him in the eye, she met him head-on. But there was an edge to the ice that he hadn’t seen before in their previous encounters. If he weren’t so preoccupied, he might have wondered if it had anything to do with that fleabag, Bitchup, or whatever his name was. He would have wondered if the man was still hounding Leara. He may even have spared half a thought toward the woman’s dog. But they were fleeting curiosities. This truce and its potential ramifications dominated his attention, and he couldn’t spare much more from that. 

“Well, Dragonborn, this is your peace council, right? Tell us, what do you think the Rift is worth?” he asked.

Tilting her head, Leara regarded him from the end of the table. “The Rift has its own advantages that would be hard to match from another Hold,” she said. “If you were to trade Riften for, say, the Reach, that would split the holdings and scatter both sides across the map. No matter how you cut up the map, problems rise up.”

“This whole Civil War is a problem, Leara, or have you forgotten?” Tullius asked. 

Leara’s lips thinned. “I am keenly aware of what’s at stake here, General, but I don’t consider tossing Holds back and forth like some kind of game to be a productive use of our time here. The Stormcloaks cannot surrender the Rift.”

“You’ve disappointed me,” Tullius grumbled, brows drawn low. “I agreed to attend this council based on your good name, but it seems you’re determined to favor Ulfric at every turn!”

“You’re mistaken, I do not—”

“Markarth is our price,” Ulfric stated, coming to a decision. He did not want to give up the Rift. That would put the Empire right on his southern flank. But if he could gain the Reach from it, the silver mines and its proximity to Solitude would soften the blow. And who’s to say they couldn’t retake Riften in the coming months? His soldiers knew Riften and its advantages better than Tullius could ever hope to! The sons of Skyrim would shatter the Imperials in a siege. Of this, Ulfric was certain. 

“Are you serious?” Elisif said, speaking up for the first time. “This, both of you—you disrespect the Greybeards and the Dragonborn by using this council as a means to advance your war engines! We are here to negotiate a truce, not draw new battlelines!”

“Jarl Elisif!” barked Tullius. “Let me handle this!”

“But General!” the woman persisted. “These demands are outrageous! Did none of you hear what the Dragonborn said?” 

“Jarl Elisif—”

“I can’t believe this,” Balgruuf said, half-rising from his chair. “This is how the Empire repays us for our loyalty? By trading us like playing cards?” Ulfric moved to speak, but Balgruuf jabbed a ringed finger at him. “And don’t you start on how your cause is any better! That’s a load of sheep’s dung! You came here intending to barter for Markarth, consequences be damned!”

Ulfric ground his jaw.

“General Tullius!” cried Elisif, refusing to back down. Over her shoulder, her housecarl lurked in threat. “You don’t intend to go through with this! You can’t trade Markarth for Riften! Not to that, that traitor!” Well, the girl had guts, Ulfric could give her that. If only she’d found them before. 

“Enough!” Tullius snapped, rubbing his temples. “That’s enough!”

“What’ll it be, Tullius?” demanded Ulfric. “Markarth for Riften? Or is that too steep a price for your vanity?”

Galmar huffed.

“Don’t try me, Ulfric! The day is coming when I’ll have you back under the headsman’s axe, and there will be no dragons there to save you!”

With a shout, Galmar shot to his feet. “I’d like to see you try, leech!” 

“That’s IT!” Rikke was out of her seat. “Keep your tongue, Galmar Stone-Fist, or I will take it from you!” 

Noise sprang up around the room. Ulfric was on his feet. The cries of his men and the legionnaires joined in a maelstrom of sound, drowning Galmar’s shouts and Rikke’s threats. Balgruuf was on his feet, but Ulfric couldn’t understand what he was saying, though the red in his cheeks hinted at his explosive anger. Elisif’s housecarl had a hand on the back of her chair; his Jarl pressed backward as Tullius leaped up beside her. 

“Never trust an Imperial!”

“Have you heard nothing—?”

“—will not stand by while you—"

“Damn faithless—"

“Oh, I should’ve expected this!”

“—nothing left to say to—”

“We will WALK!”

“This is a farce!”

“How dare you—”

“By Talos!” Delphine swore, “Can you hear yourselves?” She was drowned out. 

“This is no negotiation at all!” yelled Tullius, voice loud above the din. 

“You’re losing the war, and you know it!” Ulfric retaliated. His fingers itched for his sword. 

“How many lives must be spent before you see the cost of this war?” Elisif cried out, rising to her feet. Her housecarl hovered nearby like a mother hen.

Galmar’s snarls filled Ulfric’s ear.

“You always were a fool, Ulfric!” Rikke’s voice went shrill.

“The Empire’s pretty words are worthless!” 

“Says the speechmaker!”

“Keep your forked tongue behind your teeth!”

“QUIET!”

A thrill of chilled air curled through the chamber, dowsing the storm of voices in cold silence. Ulfric turned, words caught in his throat, to see Leara at the foot of the table. He was alarmed to see frost creeping along the tabletop from where she’d braced her palms against the stone. A lock of hair curled from the braided bun at the base of her neck, as frozen still as the rigid set to her thin shoulders. He caught her eye, then, as she stared down everyone at the table. The guards behind him shifted in discomfort, and Ulfric couldn’t say he wasn’t unsettled himself. It was like looking into the Sea of Ghosts in the dead of winter: Desolately cold and inhospitable. The caress of frost from her glare was as bitter as the icy mists of the northern waters. 

“Be quiet,” she said again, tone level. Power hummed in her voice, even at a lowered volume. “Please. You’re acting like children.”

Arngeir let out a weary sigh, his hand over his eyes. Guilt and embarrassment niggled at Ulfric at the sight. Despite his leaving the Way of the Voice and his future as a Greybeard to fight in the Great War, he still held the utmost respect for Master Arngeir. It was not lost on Ulfric that he’d spent more time with the elder Greybeard than he had with his own father during his childhood. 

Clinching his fist, he held his tongue, but he stood his ground.

“Is this what passes for diplomacy in Skyrim?” Leara sniffed. “I expected better.”

Ulfric rounded on her because, Ysmir’s beard, she wasn’t helping, despite Tullius’s assertions, but then the old man beside Delphine stood. There was a shift in Leara’s posture then, almost imperceptible as she drew back from the table. Her hands fell to her sides, drawing the frost away with them. Ulfric turned away. 

The man tugged at his wool scarf, sorrow written in the lines of his face. “You are all so consumed by your hubris that you are blinded to the real and present danger! What do wars and territories matter when the doom of creation hangs by a thread? Nothing!” 

“Is he with you, Delphine?” Ulfric asked, crossing his arms. “If so, I’d advise you to tell him to watch his tongue.”

Short though she was, Delphine forced forward an imposing figure in her armor. “He is with me, and I would advise all of you to shut up and listen to what he has to say before this gets any more out of hand.”

Across the table, Tullius rolled his eyes. 

Squaring his shoulders, Delphine’s friend stepped closer to the table. He was tall. Ulfric imagined he’d been taller before age set into his bones, but there was a spark of wit about him that pushed back the years. Long ago, Ulfric recalled learning that the Blades Order consisted of more than just knights and warriors. Throughout their vast network were spies, scholars, and scouts, among other things. Although the Empire dismantled the Blades after the war, leaving them to be picked off by the Dominion’s hunters, the infamous Order’s operatives were no strangers to hiding. Or so the stories told. But looking at Delphine and her companion, Ulfric wondered how many Blades really evaded the Thalmor. He hoped more were as successful as Delphine and the old man seemed to be. 

“Don’t you understand why the Dragonborn must capture a dragon? Don’t you understand the reason why the dragons are such a threat to us?” the old Blade said. “Alduin the World-Eater has returned! He is here, now, at this hour, and he devours the souls of the dead, of your fallen comrades! Every life lost in this pointless conflict only adds to Alduin’s power. If it goes on, his strength may become unmatched.” The Blade’s focus centered beyond Ulfric, and he knew the man was watching the Dragonborn. The woman who had offered hope. “Can you not, just for a moment, set aside your anger and hatred in the face of this mortal danger?” 

Isn’t that what the Dragonborn asked when she met with him in his war room? And he agreed to come, didn’t he? He knew what the dragon threat meant—Leara told him then, and since Ulfric found himself dwelling on it when his mind should be on the movements of his troops and the planned attack on Fort Snowhawk. Yet field reports and casualty lists struggled to hold his attention when contending with the World-Eater’s shadow. Every soul in Sovngarde fed the World-Eater’s strength; whether it came from an Imperial or a Stormcloak, every child of Skyrim whose spirit sought the solace of Shor’s Halls was lost to the black dragon’s maw. 

It was sickening. 

“I don’t know about the end of the world,” Tullius began slowly. He rubbed his chin in thought. “But these dragons are getting to be more than the Legion can handle. If this truce can help the Dragonborn eradicate this menace, then we all benefit.” Lifting his gaze, Tullius sent Ulfric a hard glare. “It would do you well to remember that, Ulfric.”

“If he’s right about Alduin,” and Ulfric was sure the old Blade was, “we each have just as much to lose as the other. Remember that, Tullius. Now,” his hand on the back of his chair, Ulfric sat back down. “Back to the matter at hand—”

“I would like to call a recess.”

Almost as one, Ulfric and Tullius turned toward the Dragonborn. Leara was sitting back in her seat, prim yet for her drawn face and the still-frozen curl. Her gaze glossed by his to meet Master Arngeir’s. 

“I think a break might benefit us all,” she continued, straightening. 

Master Arngeir nodded, slow and tired. Ulfric could see the exhaustion creeping across the elder’s face. This council was wearing on him. Part of Ulfric regretted that. Another part wished to have things over with so that he could return to the Palace of the Kings and plot his next course of action during the intermittent peace. “We will adjourn,” Master Arngeir said. “The council will reconvene in an hour’s time. When we do, may cooler heads prevail.”

This time, the scraping of chairs was loud against the silence. Properly chastised, the council members stood. No doubt, each would go off into their corner to discuss new terms and unravel the reasoning of the Blades and the Greybeards. 

And the Dragonborn, Ulfric thought, watching her disappear through the doors in a swirl of blue skirts.

Ulfric didn’t understand her at all.

·•★•·

The echoes of the fight rang through her head as she darted down the hall, away from the meeting hall and the crowd gathered there. She needed a minute. She needed water. She needed sleep. She needed, she needed to breathe. 

Bursting out one of the side doors, she entered the courtyard. The sun glittered off the surrounding snowbanks, lighting the area a brilliant white. It was perhaps a little warmer than it had been during the night, but Leara didn’t pay any attention.  She fled toward the overlook near the edge of High Hrothgar’s mountain shelf to a half-moon of stone benches facing out toward the Whiterun Plains below. She collapsed on the middle bench, half laying, half reclining on the cold stone. With a shaking breath, she pressed her forehead into her arms.

Elenwen, Elenwen was here. And so were Delphine and Esbern. 

And the peace talks!

Arngeir thought she was a liar. 

Leara’s chest constricted. She forced icy air into her lungs. Her hip ached where it dug into the bench. 

What in Akatosh’s holy name were they doing? What just happened? As soon as she gave either man the floor, Tullius and Ulfric made grabs for the other’s land. What they could not take by force in battle seemed like fair game at the negotiating table. But didn’t she tell them this wasn’t that kind of negotiation? They were here for the good of all Skyrim—all Tamriel, and yet they used their compliance as a shield to guard their true purpose: They both sought power over the other. 

That’s the way of war, Leara reminded herself. Just or unjust, to show weakness to the other side was a risk most didn’t recover from. Was leaving Whiterun alone a weakness? She didn’t think so. She knew Balgruuf agreed with her. Whiterun’s safety when Leara captured the dragon was his utmost concern. But how far would Balgruuf go to ensure Whiterun’s safety and neutrality? Further than she would, Leara mused darkly. She wasn’t willing to appease egos just for her own benefit. Balgruuf, loath as he might be to surrender to either side, would make concessions if it was for the wellbeing of his people. But Leara couldn’t choose the people of Whiterun over the rest of Skyrim. She didn’t have that luxury. She needed an agreement that took care of everyone, or if not that, at least one that didn’t put them into a worse position than they were already in. Trading Markarth for the Rift was not the answer.

Hard nails bit into her palms as she squeezed her fingers into fists. No, she and Balgruuf might have a similar goal, but even he wasn’t on her side. He didn’t owe it to her to be. Neither did Tullius. Certainly Ulfric didn’t. 

We must take you for what you are.

A charlatan.

A dry sob seized her ribs in a vice. After today, she wouldn’t have the Greybeards either. Despite everything she’d done to follow their teachings, her past as a Blade won out. Arngeir no longer trusted her. Oh, he put on a good show for the negotiations, but there was a weary shadow over his shoulders. She knew what he wasn’t saying. She was a monster—

Not even Delphine and Esbern could be counted to side with her. Delphine never made her distrust of Leara a secret, and Esbern’s proximity to the other Knight-Sister cast his friendship in doubt. She missed Cloud Ruler Temple. She couldn’t trust the Blades. 

There was no one’s side for her to be on, because no one was on her side.

“Akatosh, don’t let me be alone,” the sob broke from her throat, rocking her body in its wake. “Don’t let me be alone!”

“Oh, but my pet, you are alone.”

Leara stilled, her muscles tensing. She didn’t dare raise her head from the nest of her arms.

The whisper of boots on stone was her only warning before a familiar hand trailed long fingers through her hair to the coiled bun. The nails dug into the back of Leara’s skull, drawing out a gentle pain. Leara inhaled, breath catching in her throat. The hand left her skull for her neck, trailing lightning to her shoulder. Her nerves burned. 

“What do you want, Elenwen?” whispered Leara, holding herself still. She could not defend herself. She couldn’t even move from the fear freezing her blood. 

But she could still hear the smirk in Elenwen’s voice. “Is it too much to believe I might wish to speak to a very old friend?” 

Her fists tightened. “We are not friends.”

“Oh, but weren’t we?” Then Leara was wrenched into a sitting position, Elenwen’s thin arms disguising the strength in her hold. Leara was pulled up to face her and found herself powerless to stop it. But that’s how it always was. 

When Elenwen and her newest protégé had swept into the foyer behind General Tullius and Jarl Balgruuf, effectively ending Leara and Arngeir’s conversation, an iron corset had laced itself over Leara’s lungs, pulling her inward and stealing her breath. The haunted memory of the Aldmere’Loren weaving its darkling shroud over the ballroom at the Blue Palace asserted itself, drawing with it the sight of hundreds of devastated faces, each wrecked with emotion too deep for mortal hearts to comprehend. The image shadowed Leara’s gaze as she greeted the Imperial delegation, spine stiff, face frozen. Night terrors full of cooing whispers and crackling electricity threatened to take her in the light of day as she led the group to the meeting hall. The entire time, Leara could feel the pinprick of lightning on her skin, a shadow and a threat, ever real, never sleeping. Elenwen knew, and what was more, the Ambassador had told her companion. One needed only to meet the younger Altmer’s burning glare to know this. 

Yes, Mistress.

Where Leara found the strength to deny Elenwen’s attendance to the council, she wasn’t sure. But if she took nothing else from him, she could thank Ulfric’s adamance that the Thalmor be denied presence. And he had every right to do so. How could any of them fathom what Elenwen had done to him during the war?

What Leara did to him.

She shuddered. 

The golden iron of Elenwen’s grip held Leara’s wrist in a snare. “Considering all the years we spent together, I had hoped you would think differently.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Oh, but don’t you, Vilya?”

Leara twisted back, tugging at her wrist, but Elenwen’s grip remained firm. The other hand came to catch her chin. Again, Leara threw herself back, but Elenwen was firm. Then her thumb and forefinger cradled Leara’s chin as the other fingers, long and biting, splayed across the side of Leara’s neck. She could feel her pulse drum against the steal hold. 

“Don’t be a brat, Vilya. You know how I hate your childishness.” 

The fingers tightened, pressing into her windpipe. “Yes, Mistress.”

“Good girl.” The hand did not relent. No, instead, Elenwen leaned closer still, lips so close to Leara’s ear that she could feel the cool breath brush her skin. A shiver ran down her neck and into her chest. The corset tightened. “This is how it is going to be. Your little charade is over. This defiant streak you’ve fostered will be pruned. Perhaps you believe you’ve been clever in your evasion of the Aldmeri Dominion, but no one can run forever, not the Blades, and certainly not you, my pet. Is that clear?”

“Yes, Mistress.”

Elenwen regarded her with green-gold eyes, as bright and acidic as any ripening citrus fruit. Unbidden, a memory of someone in her class comparing Elenwen’s eyes to Lady Finduilas’s citrus orchard rose up. Their glower was just as sour. “The only reason you will walk out of here alive,” Elenwen said softly, poisonous, “is because intelligence reports you are the only one capable of ending this little dragon crisis. Certainly, those fools you’ve invited to this mockery of diplomacy seem to think so. Once it is resolved, expect to be visited by a Justiciar force. Resistance is futile.”

Leara tried to swallow, only to gag against the collar of flesh around her neck. 

“I don’t know how a half-breed such as you managed to infiltrate the ranks of the Thalmor and ascend to such a high position,” Elenwen continued, low in Leara’s ear, “but believe me, we will find out. When we take you, you will beg for death before the end. We will unmake you, and when at last you die, you will not know your own name, Vilya, or any other.”

The mechanical “Yes, Mistress” clawed its way up Leara’s throat, but she fought it down. She fought Alduin—and lost—but she survived the first encounter. She wouldn’t, couldn’t, shouldn’t let Elenwen leave here believing she had the upper hand. Again. Leara tricked the Ambassador for years, back when she was not nearly as important as she was now, and hadn’t Leara done it again just months ago at the Embassy party? She was a Blade first, and hiding was in her nature. 

You are the one who revealed yourself to the Dominion, you bloody bimbo.

Wasn’t she? The pieces didn’t all fit within her mind, but then, Elenwen’s intelligence network was more than Leara could keep up with amid the dragon crisis. The Thalmor had agents hunting her for months. Every move she made was chronicled by their eagle-eyed spies. And she’d made some bad moves, her encounter with the wizard Ancano, for one, and the performance in Solitude, for another. And then she answered to Vilya. Yes, Leara passed the point of deniability long ago. It seemed Elenwen anticipated that, or else she wouldn’t have touched her. She knew Leara for what she was. 

Hopefully, hopefully, Leara could pull the wool back over her eyes when she came for her. Or, if not, daze the Thalmor enough so that Leara could once again escape their grasp. 

The defiance strangled the old compliance. “Surely you realize I will go to someone and tell them what you’ve said. You’ve promised me death. I don’t think the Nords will take kindly to their Dragonborn being threatened by the Thalmor.”

But Elenwen only smiled, flashing pearly teeth in a predatory gleam. “Who would you run to? After all, you said it yourself: You’re alone. Tullius is mine, and Ulfric won’t help you once he realizes what you are. Sooner or later, the Jarl of Whiterun will ow to one of them, and you’ll have nowhere to turn. Not even the old men want you here.” Her thumb stroked along Leara’s jaw. “I do hope you’re not counting on that little ranger of yours. He will soon flee than fight for you.”

Tears bit at the corners of Leara’s eyes, icy as they wound down the side of her face. Cooing, Elenwen released her wrist and brushed them away. “Now, now, my pet, don’t cry. You knew this was inevitable the moment you crossed the Dominion. Perhaps if you hadn’t left, I’d have kept your secret. After all, you always were my most promising instrument.” 

Then Elenwen drew Leara forward and placed a kiss on her forehead. It was dry and hard, just as it always was. Her thumb brushed the lingering tears on Leara’s still face, and then she stood. The sudden cold was a relief from the intensity of Elenwen’s proximity, but still, Leara couldn’t breathe. She would relearn to breathe soon, but for now, she was still choking on the doom in her chest. The bands of iron did not release her lungs. 

“Compose yourself quickly, my pet,” Elenwen sang, saccharine. “Didn’t I teach you not to fall apart outside closed doors?” Her laughter was light and high. “Don’t fret. I will see you again before we leave High Hrothgar. And after that,” her eyes softened, but not truly. It was a false gentleness. Infantilizing and demeaning. “It won’t be long until I have you again.”

Like that, Elenwen was gone, leaving Leara in a huddle of gooseflesh covered by too-thin clothes. Her hair was a mess, but she couldn’t bring herself to care anymore. The iron corset encasing her lungs was freezing over, binding hard around her. Was this what others felt when she cast the Frozen Façade over them? Her fingers jerked, painful as they unwound from the tight fists, but nothing happened. Not even her magic could banish the feeling. Feim. Zii. 

Pressing both palms over her heart, Leara pushed against them, panting. Air trickled into her lungs, painful against the force Elenwen exerted on her throat. Just enough not to leave a bruise but enough that Leara wouldn’t forget the touch too quickly. She kept panting, and soon, her lungs were working against the fear strangling her. Feim. Zii. 

Once she felt she could breathe, Leara wavered to her feet. Her mind reeled at what Elenwen had said. The Thalmor weren’t just coming for her. They were going to kill her, and now there was no doubt. And there was no one to help her. No one.

She was alone. 

But hadn’t she always been? It was foolish for her to ever think otherwise. 

Yet that never stopped her from surviving, did it? She had until she faced Alduin to decide how best to evade Elenwen’s agents. But such a decision hinged on Leara’s surviving the battle in Sovngarde in the first place. More and more, she was starting to think that it may be best for her to die facing Alduin, so long as she took him down with her. Perhaps it wasn’t a matter of surviving indefinitely but surviving until she faced Alduin for the final time. 

Because that was her destiny, wasn’t it? She was Dragonborn. By the grace of Akatosh, she was born to face the World-Eater in this twilight hour. Everything before that a stepping stone needed to reach that point. 

Dashing the remnants of half-frozen tears from her face, Leara turned back toward High Hrothgar. And then, the fine hairs at the back of her neck prickled as if there were eyes still on her. Eyes that never left her. Lifting her skirts, she hurried back toward one of the side doors, the closest to her bedroom. 

But even in the shadow of the monastery, the eyes never left her. 

[chysgoda]

Investigations

(A story of the Turali weird west)

Bel opened the shutters on the windows of the abandoned saloon. Bright daylight streamed in making the dust in the air sparkle like gold dust. She absently righted a chair as she walked past it. She didn’t bother with being quiet, if there were vampires hiding in the basement they would have smelled her long before they could have heard her. She made her way around the bar looking for an office. She opened windows as she passed them letting in more light. 

When she found it, the office was a mess. Loose paper, much of which was charred, was scattered everywhere. She found the accounting books the pages had been torn from and sighed. Finding all the pages and putting them in order was going to be a pain. Best to just gather what she could and work on deciphering it when she got back to the city. She filed the pages in the books and turned her attention to the desk. She checked the drawers for false bottoms and carefully ran her fingers over seams and along anywhere that might have enough volume to hide something. When her fingers caught on the faintest seam she smiled in satisfaction. 

It took the better part of twenty minutes but she eventually found her way in and to the pristine books hidden there. Quickly she slipped the books into her bag and closed the hidden compartment. It might not get her any information about Baelsar but it may open up paths for her investigation. She checked for anything else interesting but didn’t find anything worth further examination. 

A creak made her head snap towards the main room of the saloon. She shoved the half charred book into her bag and pulled her grimoire off her hip and felt the familiar tickle of the mage flames that sparked from the cover.  She took the wood turned channeling quill Grandpa Hesphestious had commissioned for her and with a few strokes and the opalized fossil tooth that rested against her breast bone warmed. From a single point of aether a feathered scale-kin spun into existence. The beast shook out its pearlescent feathers that shifted between whites, blues, pinks, and greens. Now accompanied with helpful talons and teeth Bel stepped out into the saloon. 

Through the broken door she could see someone in a bone white coat waiting at the bottom of the stairs. Her red chocobo was still on the boardwalk just outside the doors. She glanced at the windows trying to decide if she could jump out one and be off before the unknown visitor could do anything. 

“Mr. Baelsar would rather I bring you to his office uninjured, Miss Lahabrea,” a soprano voice with a grating arrogance called out.  There was a crackle and high pitched whining that started and raised the hair on the back of Bel’s neck. She dropped to the floor a half heartbeat before lightning ripped through the wood and into the abandoned bottles behind the bar. The explosion of super heated alcohol roared above her head. 

“Fuck,” Bel snarled to herself. So much for uninjured. She motioned her familiar to the door. “Little, forward!”

The opalescent scale kin jumped over her and rushed through the door to launch at the enforcer with talons as large as most spoken men’s hands. Bel scrambled across the floor and tried to ignore the way lightning that hit her familiar echoed dully across her own nerves. She levered herself up and over the window sill. From the corner of her eye she caught sight of red staining the sleeve of the white coat but didn’t stop to see more. There was fire on the back of her coat that filled her nose with the scent of burning skin. 

The chocobo shied away from her, but she made a grab at the reins and threw herself up into the saddle. She pointed the bird in the right direction and let it have its head so it could bolt. She heard the enforcer scream behind her and levin hit the back of her shoulder. She screamed but kept one arm wrapped around her grimoire and the bag with the accounting books. She felt her connection with Little stretch thin and then snap back to her as the familiar dissolved and all of the aether that made it slammed back into her soul. The hhetsarro woman gripped the bird with her and focused on the land the bird was eating up ahead of her. She had to get back to Stonewood. Get back to the deputy’s office and the safety of someone that wouldn’t sell her out to the wolf. 

Or her grandfather, the wolf’s lawyer. 

She glanced over her shoulder, did Baelsar’s people have those motorized bikes she’d seen? She couldn’t see through the dust her own bird kicked up. She looked forward again; that was the only direction that led out of this. She kept her eyes on the horizon and hoped her body wouldn’t remember how to feel pain between here and there.

(many thanks to @scrollsfromarebornrealm for creating the sandbox)

[ohtobearandomftblog]

scar/mark headcanons bc. why not

natsu has more than the neck and face scars

theres a starburst scar on his right shoulder thats mostly covered by his mark and is almost the same color as his skin. he didnt remember how he got it. during alvarez he learned it was caused by a roar basically right outside the wall he was leaning against

his left ankle has odd blob scars all over it bc of the forest vulcan that grabbed him during happys egg thing. the vulcan broke some bones before gildarts came over and they pierced the skin

the scar on natsus neck is noticeably a lighter color than his skin

the scar on his face is unnaturally darker, like it was tinted with a pure black instead of trying to match his skin tone

wendys first dragon force gave her markings in the exact outlines of the scales that appeared all over her body. theyre not scars but theyre definitely not birthmarks n whatnot

all of gajeels piercings that he got before the eclipse scarred. he just puts bigger jewelry in them to hide the edges. every piercing he got after the eclipse and, for whatever reason, let close left a beauty mark

after calling the celestial spirit king lucy got All of the constellations as freckles somewhere on her body

yes All Of Them

some that havent even been discovered. some that will never be discovered again

the biggest ones are cancer, on her upper left arm, aquarius, on her stomach, taurus, on her back, and leo, on her right cheek and neck

she was confused why virgo and sagittarius werent that big and the response she got was ‘they didnt have too big of an impact on you as a celestial mage’. she did not like that answer

makarov has a lot of scars. enough so that he forgot where most of them came from. even laxus is still learning where some came from

speaking of laxus. his lightning scar is only Like That before he figured out dragon force. then it became like proper lightning and is only really visibly when talking face to face but then its very visible

evergreen has a dark birthmark under her own guild mark

when bickslow is using his figure eyes magic the mark on his face starts moving and changing until it matches who the magic is targeted on

even though it wasnt burned into her skin, the phantom lord mark is still faintly on levys stomach. she never wears crop tops

juvia has a scar on her forehead from where a kid threw a rock at her back when she couldnt control the rain. gray makes sure to kiss it whenever he can

lyon has a matching scar opposite the one gray got on galuna

even though he couldnt die zeref could scar. im sure you can imagine how many scars a suicidal immortal could possibly have

erza has many scars both from the tower and from quests but she had one specific one on her stomach that she had no clue where it came from. it was irene. she couldnt implant herself onto erza and tried to kill her, but the guilt quickly set in and she healed her before putting her at that village

[tabitha42]

The Wizard's Apprentice - Chapter 5

Saffron is just a lowly apprentice with barely a successful firebolt to her name. So what chance does she have with the arch mage she's slowly falling in love with?

Gale x Tav, slow burn, eventual smut

Chapter 1 Previous chapter Next chapter

They decided to find a secluded spot for the lesson, one far enough away that the others wouldn’t be kept awake by the sounds of fireballs and lightning. It didn’t take them long to find somewhere - a nice clearing which would have made for a good camp spot had they not already chosen one. “This looks ideal,” Gale decided as he looked round the area. “That rock will make for a perfect target. Far enough from the grass that we won’t risk starting any accidental forest fires,” he said, gesturing to a large rock in the sand by the river bank. “Now, show me your firebolt,” he instructed, standing back a few steps. 

Saff nodded and took a deep breath. She was actually quite nervous, having someone assess her on something she knew she wasn’t very good at. Especially someone so good at it that she wanted to impress. 

She raised her hands and began to make the movements. 

“Ignis!” 

She threw her arm forward and the firebolt launched from her hand, slamming into the rock and leaving a blackened mark. She smiled widely and turned to him, proud of herself. “Good. Again,” he said, waving for her to continue. She did as she was told, throwing another firebolt. Slightly more off target this time, glancing off the side of the rock. “Keep going,” he instructed, holding his chin in his hand as he watched. 

She continued, throwing them now until he said to stop. As she did he watched her movements, her gestures, her positioning, listened to the pronunciation and emphasis of her incantations. 

“Alright, stop,” he ordered, and did so. “Your technique isn’t bad, but there is room for improvement. Show me your opening stance again.” 

She did as instructed, raising her hands into the position. He stepped towards her and paused, seemingly contemplating something for a moment, before reaching out and gently raising her elbow. “Have this arm just a little higher,” he advised, “and this one a little lower,” he added, lowering her other hand slightly. “Also, splay your fingers a bit more. Now try that.” She did so, and was amazed when the firebolt that came out was notably bigger. 

“Wow!” she gasped in surprise.

“Much better!” he said happily. “Do you know any other offensive spells?” 

“Not really… I know the movements and incantation for Ray of Frost, though I’ve never tried to actually cast it.” “There’s a first time for everything. Give it a go.” 

She nodded, and once more raised her hands into the position. 

“Glacies!” 

“Wait-!” 

Instead of forming a crystal lance to throw at the rock, the ice that erupted from her hands instead exploded, covering her in jagged ice and knocking her back off her feet. She fell to the ground, the wind knocked out of her, shivering.

“Saff!” Gale gasped, running to her side and dropping to his knees. “By Mystra, are you ok??” 

He gathered her into his arms and helped her sit up, feeling her shake from the cold. Quickly he summoned a small ball of flame in his hands and held it in front of her, letting it warm her up. Gradually the ice began to melt away, soaking into her clothes. 

“S-sorry…” she stuttered, looking down in shame. 

“Don’t be sorry,” he assured her. “After all, what’s a magic lesson without an unexpected explosion or two?” 

Despite the shivering, she managed to laugh at that. 

“It didn’t get you, did it?” she asked, looking up at him. To her relief, he shook his head. 

“You rather bore the brunt of that one for me,” he said with a small chuckle. 

“Well, good,” she said, softly chuckling to herself. She watched the fire in his hand for a few moments, enjoying its warmth. 

“Perhaps we should have covered armour spells before going straight into attacks,” Gale mused. “Do you know Mage Armour?” She shook her head. “We will start with that once you’re better.”

She nodded, though something was on her mind. 

“You said ‘wait’… you knew that was going to happen?” she asked eventually. 

“Your pronunciation was all wrong,” he explained. “It’s glak-ius, with a hard C. Not… glay-sees.” “Oh!” she gasped, a flush of embarrassment rising in her cheeks. “Well… I’d only ever read it… I’ve never heard it said out loud…” 

His eyebrows raised in surprise. 

“Wait, you’ve never heard it said out loud? Where did you learn these spells?” 

“Well, I… learnt them myself,” she admitted, looking away slightly. “I never had the money to go to an academy. I learnt a few basic spells myself, then was picked up by a wizard in Baldur’s Gate who said he’d teach me. But he always said I shouldn’t learn combat spells, that it was too dangerous.” 

“He… said you shouldn’t learn combat spells?” Gale said in surprise. That sounded odd to him. “Every wizard needs to learn combat spells…” 

“Not according to Malitas,” she said with a small shrug. “He said I should focus on my druidic studies.” “I see. Well, when we get to Baldur’s Gate, I’d love to meet him. I’d like to give him a piece of my mind,” he growled, the anger evident in his voice, which surprised her. “You’re… angry at him?” 

“Of course. He’s left you in a dangerous position, not being able to defend yourself. But, no matter. I can put that right,” he decided, quickly getting back to his usual upbeat tone. “Especially now that we have all day to practise.” 

“Ah yes!” she laughed, looking up at him. “I need to thank you for that. I… am not sure I’m ready for another day on the road without some time to properly learn some combat spells.” 

“Indeed. We’ll get you up to scratch, not to worry,” he assured her. She looked at him with a grateful smile, though all he could see were the painful, red marks on her face where the ice had hit. “For now though, let’s take a break, at least until you’re dry,” he decided. He leant forward and placed the orb of fire on the ground, then as he leant back performed a few hand gestures, growing the flames to the size of a campfire. 

Saff leaned forward, getting the most of the heat. The ice had all melted now, but still left most of her clothes soaked in cold water. 

“Gla-kius,” she said after a moment, then looked over at him. “Is that right? Glakius?” 

“Perfect,” he complimented, smiling at her. “And what about Chill Touch? Timere?” 

“Less tim-ear, more tim-may.” “Gods, I’ve got a lot to learn,” she despaired, though with a slight laugh, as she looked back to the fire. 

“You’ll pick it up, I’m sure,” he said confidently. 

“I hope so. I’m going to need it…” she murmured, a bit distantly, knowing what would face them in the future.

They sat quietly for a bit, staring into the fire, enjoying the serenity of the evening, til Saff spoke again.

“Oh! I meant to ask. You mentioned earlier the first time you had to fight…” she looked over at Gale, meeting his eyes. “What happened? If you don’t mind talking about it.” 

“Don’t mind at all,” he said happily. “I was 15, and perhaps unsurprisingly, it was to impress a girl.”

She burst out laughing. 

“Oh, of course it was! You really got yourself into mortal danger to impress a girl?” 

“A tale as old as time,” he chuckled. “A trade caravan heading to Waterdeep had been plundered by goblins and she was devastated that a necklace she’d ordered from Baldur’s Gate had been taken. So I sought out the goblin cave and entered, set on finding the necklace and winning her heart. Needless to say, one 15 year old against a group of goblins was hardly a fair fight, even if that 15 year old was me. I was discovered trying to sneak through the cave and just about managed to escape with my life intact. Though the wrath of the goblins was nothing compared to the wrath of my mother,” he joked. Saff laughed along with him, shaking her head. 

“I can’t believe you’d do that for a girl. I used to have so much respect for you.”

“Oh I assure you I’ve changed a lot since then. If that situation were to happen now, I’d be able to take out the goblins.” 

She playfully pushed him away as she laughed. 

“And what did she think of your daring deed? Did it impress her?” 

“No, I’m sad to report. Had I succeeded perhaps it would have done, but she was thoroughly unimpressed. I was heartbroken.” 

“Well I hope you learnt your lesson and you don’t do stupid things to impress girls anymore.” 

His smile faded slightly and he looked back into the fire. 

“Hmm… perhaps I haven’t changed as much as I thought…” he said quietly, a bit distantly. He then looked back at her with a smile before she could question it. “Think you’re ready to continue with the lesson?” 

They started with Mage Armour, another essential in a wizard’s arsenal as far as Gale was concerned. After a few practised incantations and gestures Saff tried it out, and was amazed as a subtle shimmer of golden light shrouded her body. 

“Perfect,” he complimented. “It’s not quite as effective as a full suit of armour, but it’s an awful lot better than just robes. Make sure to apply the spell every morning, it’ll last all day.” 

After that they returned to combat spells. Following a few more attempts at carefully pronouncing the incantation, she was delighted to successfully cast ray of frost, and the blackened burnt spot on the rock soon became coated in ice. A few more rounds of firebolt to melt the ice and they decided it was time to call it for the night.

The two of them headed back down the river towards camp. It was fully dark now, the moonlight reflecting on the water’s surface while stars sparkled in the ripples. Wind gently rustled the tree leaves, accompanied by the occasional sounds of animals. Now that she wasn’t focusing on her lessons, she could see how beautiful it was. 

“Too bad we have to go back. It’s beautiful out here,” she mused, looking up at the stars. 

“It is, isn’t it?” Gale agreed, following her gaze. “It’s been a long time since I’ve been somewhere like this. I spend most of my time in the city.” “Me too…” she whispered softly, trailing off a bit. She stopped walking, pausing to admire the beauty around her, not wanting it to disappear just yet. Gale stopped a few steps ahead of her and looked back once he realised she was no longer by his side. She looked deep in thought. 

“This is why I wanted to study druidic magic, you know. Places like this, they just seem so… perfect…” 

She walked over to the river’s edge and knelt down, looking into the water. She reached down and cupped some in her hands, lifting it out and watching as the surface settled and the reflection appeared, before letting it seep back out through her fingers. 

“Sometimes I wish I was born a druid. I feel so… at peace here. Like everything is right with the world, despite how much I know it’s not.” 

She stood again, her gaze lingering at the river a few moments longer, before finally turning back to Gale. When she caught his eye she saw how he was looking at her, the slight, unconscious smile on his lips, the look in his eyes… she felt her heart skip a beat once more. Though it was only there for a split second before he quickly composed himself.

“You’re quite right,” he said, looking around the forest and up to the stars as she had. “I really need to get out of my tower more. It’s too easy to forget places like this exist in the world.” 

“You definitely need to get out more if you’re forgetting they exist,” she teased as she caught back up to him. He chuckled softly as he brought his gaze back down to her. 

“Well, it’s easier to remember to do that if I’ve… ahem… got someone to enjoy the walk with,” he said softly. Her heart fluttered with excitement - was he… flirting with her?? Or was she reading too much into it? Gods she hoped he was. Everything about it swept her away - the soft, warm tone he spoke in, even the slightly awkward, nervous stutter in the middle of the sentence. It was strange to see Gale, who was usually so confident, get nervous about something. It was adorable.

“True… it’s always better with the right person,” she agreed, not taking her eyes off of his. 

The two of them stood there for a long moment, staring into each other’s eyes… until he finally took a step back. 

“Let’s hope we have many more walks like this, before we leave this place,” he said, inviting her to walk with him again down the river towards camp. She smiled and continued on with him, only now realising how fast her heart was beating with excitement. 

By the time they reached camp the campfire had burnt down to just the embers. They stepped carefully over the various camp supplies outside everyone’s tents until they reached their own. 

“I’ll see you in the morning,” Gale whispered to her, careful to make sure no one else would hear. She smiled and nodded eagerly. 

“Goodnight, Gale.” “Goodnight, Saff.” 

The blankets of her tent were much warmer and comfier now than the night before with the addition of various blankets and furs they’d got at the druid’s grove, but it was thoughts of Gale that truly warmed her heart tonight. Again, she tried to tell herself not to fall for a guy she just met, but just the way he whispered goodnight could completely drown out those thoughts. She closed her eyes, imagining what future walks along the river might bring.

[onwesterlywinds]

PROMPT #3: Tempest

Some deep and instinctual part of her had expected a tempest, but at least this sight would be the last one to fill her eyes in this life. A follow-up to Prompt #3, Scale, from #FFXIVWrite 2021. Content warning for implied suicide.

The annals would make note that the hurricane over the southern seas had delayed Emperor Xande's arrival to the Meracydian front. Official imperial records aside, the news of this temporary forestallment somehow traveled to all corners of the great Allagan army in record time, bearing with it the sobering reminder that not even the greatest ruler the star had ever seen was exempt from the whims of nature. Any other man might have been expected to wait for a few days, perhaps in the comfort of an estate; instead, the emperor stood at his flagship's top deck for the better part of a week without rest, grinding his teeth as the storm's static knocked out instruments, scrambled readings, or battered the hull with lightning. All the while, he retained his unerring focus on the coast to the south, heeding not even the whispers of his chief technologist.

But the emperor did not lead his troops to the site of his most recent victory over the dragons, outside of commanding a small contingent of elite fighters and their pacted voidsent to proceed deeper into the heart of the mainland. He marched with his retinue up and along a coastal road, paying no heed to the Meracydian smallfolk cowering from the ruins of their burned villages. More than once, he instructed his soldiers to cut through whole forests of dense underbrush, the better to follow the coast by quitting the main road outright.

At last, at sunset on the fifth day of such travel, the emperor's party emerged into a small clearing that gave way to a cabin and then a cliff. The sound and smell of the ocean's rush was close at hand, closer now than at any point throughout their strange journey.

Inside the cabin, the hearth sat cold, the home in disarray - not the mindless destruction of looting, but the cumulative work of neglect and inaction. A thick layer of dust covered the shrine to the Goddess, a selection of fruits had given way to purple and white mold, and a faint crack in one of the windows permitted a thin, wispy whistle of wind from without.

Perhaps the only detail given any deliberate care or intentionality within the entire cabin was the corpse of the woman in the rocking chair, and the accoutrements she had been bestowed: a faded Meracydian uniform tucked into her lap, the knife in her hand, and the heavy stain of blood covering it all. The woman's corpse was already flyblown, decomposed to the extent of appearing tortured, though Xande knew intimately that such observations had no bearing on the deceased's peace or lack thereof.

Amon met him outside, at the very edge of the cliff and the bygone fate that awaited him below. The second corpse would scarcely have reached half the size of his hypertuned body; exposed to the elements in death, she was smaller still.

And Xande II could see, in the blood that yet covered her own arms up to the elbows, that the storm had not landed this far to the east. If it had, the tides would surely have dislodged her body from the merciless shallows, or else brought forth the rain to clean her for her eventual burial at sea.

"Come, try to remember," the mage invited him. "You have witnessed such a sight before - have you not, my lord? Wherever, whenever could it have been?"

If he had, such memories would have been the province of his predecessor. Certainly the mage knew this as well as he.

Xande raised his great, clenched fist, and the broken girl's red hair rippled in the gusting wind as he summoned his companion from the void. The Cloud of Darkness emerged so fluidly from the sudden dark rend in the sun-shot sky that half his own retinue screamed. The deity needed no instruction, no guidance for what followed: they inhaled and drew the cabin into them - from the dead woman and the uniform she carried, to the fragments of Sophia's altar, down to the house's aged foundations and the stone well beyond it. It was over in mere seconds, with only a patch of barren earth to demonstrate that a family had ever eked a home from the remote cliffside.

The Cloud of Darkness disappeared, then reemerged over Xande's shoulder in a blink. As they made to absorb the body far below them, the emperor lifted his hand again, and their connection to the world from the void was severed.

Amon merely chuckled beside him, and his mirth gave way to outright laughter as they left the girl to decompose - as they began their long trek back to the Meracydian front in earnest.

[astarab1aze]

➥ Loux's Grimoire

a list of spells at loux's disposal that can be found in the myriad pages of his oh-so important ledger - the very book he uses to manage his 'business'; if he sounds over-powered, it's because he is, and this list may only expand; also, this does not and will not include anything related to shapeshifting

Automatic / Utility Casts, always available

Fahrenheit; thermal spell that changes atmospheric temperatures

Fireskin; mage armor spell that envelops the caster in wild, untouchably hot flame

Flicker-Fish; conjuration of light and smoke in the shape of swimming fish, typically koi or goldfish; animals conjured may occasionally be different, but most common is koi fish

Foxfire; conjures a small flame that fits in the palm of the caster's hand, usually of low enough temperature as to be harmless and typically serves as a light, but can be used to burn a target similarly to Wildfire

Guiding Light; fiery directive illusions, commonly taking the form of arrows or lines, serving the purpose of guiding a target to a specific location

Hypnotic Eye; allows the caster to superimpose their will onto a chosen target or lull them unconscious and willing to do or admit anything; randomly activates automatically

Red-handed Hicky; thermal spell that heats up the caster's hand to near-burning, allowing for harmless red marks to be left on the target's skin

Sanctuary; a cloaking veil that hides all within it from the outside world, without exception

Smokescreen; calls forth an incredibly dense cloud of smoke, allowing for the caster's quick escape under cover

Non-Divine Casts, always available

Backfire; causes targeted combustible objects to spontaneously explode

Bullet Hell; massive or rapid-fire cast of Gunvolt at twice the firepower with addition of ricotheting motes

Chain Lightning; arcing strikes of lightning bursting from the caster's hands, which can only arc a maximum of three times

Dragon's Breath; self-explanatory, fire-breathing spell dependent on the caster's mastery of the fire affinity

Firestarter; a small spark designed to build into a much larger flame over a longer-than-natural stretch of time, completely unnoticable at first; a more basic spell fine-tuned for precision arson

Gunvolt; concentrated plasmic energy shaped into a small mote or volley of motes, used more similarly to bullets

Heatsink; dumps overwhelming heat into a target through sustained physical touch, cooking them from the inside out in minutes without need for open flame

Hellfire Volley; homing arrows made of hell-hot flames

Lava Flow; opens a tear in dimensional fabric to the core of the earth and commands one or several streams of lava to bleed onto both intended and unintended targets

Magma Glaive; a telekinetic pull from deep within the earth, resulting in the sudden erection of massive volcanic spikes, dealing widespread damage

Thermal Field; more or less a simple repulsion field made of the caster's thermal heat; the stronger the mage, the hotter the heat

Thermal Suicide; automatic and instantaneous self-immolation that can be caused by extreme distress or by choice, may or may not result in the caster's death so depends on their mastery over fire affinity

Wildfire; occasionally automatically or instinctively cast - conjures a fast-spreading, destructive flame that burns and burns away at all in its path, simultaneously providing the caster with restorative/healing energy as needed

Zeus' Spear; summons a concentrated and supercharged bolt of lightning physically wielded in the caster's hands; more or less a single-use 'bound weapon'

Divine Casts, unlocked upon reaching godhood

Door to Oblivion; opens a literal door to any chosen location in the Hells

Fracture; a curse that splits the target's soul into multiple pieces and scatters them, preventing true death and/or reincarnation

Sunfire Lance; a massive lance formed of divine light and flame, a single strike sweeping across a broad range and setting everything in its path on fire

Sunfire Meteor; conjuration of a small cosmic body engulfed in flame, drawn in from the outer rim on a collision course with a chosen target; causes widespread devastation

Sunfire Resurrection; revives a chosen target and reunites their soul with their body, healing them to a survivable state

Sunfire Retaliation; counterspell that can only be cast right as the caster is being attacked, conjuring a fiery burst paired with sunfire 'rods' that pierce the attacker from behind and set them ablaze

Sunfire Storm; summons a dark, richly red bank of clouds that touch the earth with flaming tornadoes and red lightning

Sunfire Whip; conjures tendrils of burning vines that whip at both specific and non-specific targets, dealing widespread damage

Sunfire Wings; conjures a series pair of disembodied wings of divine flame, enabling direct flight; cannot be dispelled through conventional means

Sunfire Sanctuary; erects an unseen veil that simultaneously shields and hides all within it from the outside world without exception

Sunfire Starburst; cosmotic spell that targets and causes a chosen star, specifically, to go supernova, to shape and mold the universe

Timekeeper; temporarily pauses time, allowing the caster to move freely where everyone else remains frozen in place

Touch of Immolation; ejects a jet of divine sunflame that instantly chars the target through brief physical touch alone

[spacemagicandlaserswords]

Tech Lives Reason #2

Humans have survived long falls before.

I don't care how clutching at straws (toothpicks?) this is, there are numerous recorded examples from history of humans surviving long falls. @ilcuoreardendo-fic wrote the wonderful ficlet The Fall (don't worry it's a fix-it where Tech lives), which was one of the first pieces of fanfic that I could manage to read after the season 2 finale. In the notes they mention an example that I've since seen cited in other posts about this topic.

Alan Magee

He was an USAAF airman in World War II who survived a fall of 6,700m/22,000ft from his B-17 Flying Fortress after it was shot down.

That is a fall of 6.7 kilometers. He fell over 4 miles.

How did he survive?

He fell through the glass roof of the Saint-Nazaire railway station in France.

That's not to say that he wasn't injured. Magee suffered serious injuries including a broken right leg and ankle, almost severed right arm, 28 shrapnel wounds, punctured lung and kidney, severely damaged eye and nose, partially crushed lungs and other internal organs, along with injuries to his teeth, knee, leg and ankle.

But he survived. He lived.

Interestingly, Magee was treated by a doctor in the German military, who said to him "we are enemies, but I am first a doctor and I will do my best to save your arm." Parallels to Tech being captured and kept alive by Dr Hemlock? Hmmm?! Coincidence? I think not!

There are numerous other examples of humans surviving long falls as well.

Vesna Vulović, who holds the Guinness World Record for surviving the highest fall without a parachute, a distance of 10,160m/33,000ft. She was trapped in the fuselage of the DC-9 that she was a flight attendant on after it exploded mid-air in an attack in 1972. The fuselage, with Vulović inside, crashed at an angle and then slid down the snow-covered and heavily wooded mountainside near the village of Srbská Kamenice in the Czech Republic.

Ivan Chisov, a Soviet Air Force lieutenant in World War II who survived a fall of around 7,000m/23,000ft after he had to bail out of his plane that was attacked in 1942. He hit the edge of a snowy ravine and then tumbled down the rest of the way. Severely injured (spinal injuries and a broken pelvis) and was in a critical condition for a month after surgery but was back flying 3 months later.

Nicholas Alkemade, a Flight Sergeant in the RAF who survived a fall of 5,500m/18,000ft after leaping from his burning plane upon discovering that his parachute had been destroyed in the fire. He landed in a deep snow drift in a pine forest outside Berlin. Astoundingly, his only injury from the fall was a sprained knee. His other injuries (burns, cuts and shrapnel wounds) were from when his plane was attacked and was literally burning and crashing around him. Interestingly, both of his flying boots were missing when he landed, which may be because they were ripped off as he crashed into tree branches on the way down.

Christine McKenzie, a South African skydiver who survived a fall of 3,400m/11,000ft in 2004 after both her main and emergency parachute failed. Despite this, she survived with only a broken pelvis and bruising as she fell into power lines before hitting the ground. These were key to her survival as they appear to have absorbed a lot of the energy from her fall.

James Boole, another skydiver who survived a fall of 1,829m/6,000ft in the Kamchatka Peninsula in 2009 after only opening his parachute 20m from the ground. He left a 1 meter crater in the snow where he landed. Despite this, he survived, even with a lung full of blood, internal bleeding and a broken back and rib.

Juliane Koepcke, who survived a fall of 3,200m/10,000ft in 1971 after the plane she was flying in disintegrated mid-air after being struck by lightning. She survived and managed to walk away from the crash with a broken collarbone, deep cut in her right arm and cuts on her legs, along with an injured eye, ruptured knee ligament and concussion. After all of this, she then managed to survive for 11 days alone in the Peruvian rainforest before finding people to help her. She has a number of ideas as to why she survived, including that the bench seat she was strapped to slowed her fall and that it also helped to cushion her fall when it struck the trees in the dense rain forest on her way down.

So there is precedence and there is hope. Tech can survive that fall. The chances of him surviving are admittedly not great. Very slim in fact. Though I'm sure Tech has already calculated the odds of survival and also knows exactly what he needs to do in order to give himself the best chance of surviving. This is Tech we're talking about. The man's a genius.

Tech has his vast brainpower to his advantage but he's going to need a lot of other things to go right for him. Fortunately, the survival examples I listed, and others that I've read, all have a consistent theme.

Every person had their fall broken by something.

The common one seems to be snow and tree branches from a tree dense environment, such as forests or jungles.

Now, the Batch were on Eriadu to try and sneak into Empire Con (thank you to for @feltpool who came up with this, it continues to amuse me far too much).

And what does Wookieepedia list as the primary terrain on Eriadu?

Mountains and jungles.

So we're at least in an environment where tree branches and densely populated trees could break Tech's fall. One of the examples I listed above even survived their fall in a jungle.

However, due to the clouds, we aren't able to see what sort of environment is beneath Tech when he falls. From a narrative and storytelling perspective, that is definitely deliberate. There isn't even any mention of what sort of environment is below the rail car line in any of the dialogue either. I think Omega refers to it as 'down there' or 'that' at one point but there's no way I'm going through the emotional destruction of watching that finale again so I'm just going to have to go with my memory for now. Please feel free to correct me if I'm wrong, you brave souls that can rewatch something like that. Basically, we get very little to almost no information on what the terrain is below the rail car line, but we do see what the environment is like near by.

After landing on Eriadu, the Batch creep through what appears to be a wooded forest-like environment, complete with trees that look suspiciously like pine trees. Take a look at this gif from @barissoffee (who continues to do just amazing work with their gifsets).

Gif from this gifset by @barissoffee

Look at the branches and leaves in the background. That's a pine tree. You can see the trunk of a big pine tree behind Tech and Echo in this gif and there are two pine trees fairly close to each other behind Wrecker and Omega in this gif. Add in the dappled sunlight breaking through the shade and what looks like moss covering the rocks on the ground in this hilarious gif (poor Wrecker) and they are definitely in a pine tree forest.

So we have an entirely probable likelihood of the terrain on Eriadu, and thus the terrain below the rail car, being an environment that is suited to breaking a fall. All we need now is some snow. However, I don't think that's going to be the case. We don't see any snow on the top of the mountain where Tarkin's compound is, which appears to be the highest peak. From a narrative perspective, I don't think snow is likely to appear either. Crosshair's episode 'The Outpost' was still fairly recent and that was a completely snow covered shitstorm of emotional devastation for everyone involved. (Someone please just give Crosshair a hug. @crosshairs-wife are you able to come and get your man and wrap him up in a blankie?)

So Eriadu probably doesn't have snow but it does have mountains, which may aid in breaking and slowing down Tech's fall and reducing the distance he has to fall as well. The clouds cover the (likely) pine tree forest below the rail car line and given that Eriadu is mountainous, it is entirely possible that there are smaller mountains below the clouds. Rather than falling straight from the rail car to ground level, Tech may hit the side of a smaller mountain below the cloud line and then continue to tumble down the side of said mountain before eventually coming to a stop. @heyclickadee made an excellent post about this, which even includes diagrams!

Image from this post by @heyclickadee

This lines up with what some people have been able to get from screenshots and gifs. Here's a screenshot from @ellie-the-oracle that shows Wrecker's perspective looking down from the rail car.

Image from this post by @ellie-the-oracle

This is the clearest shot I've seen of the terrain below the rail car line. It's still partially obscured by the clouds but what we can see looks an awful lot like the steep side of a mountain peak surrounded by forest.

The next two examples include gifs from Tech's death scene so consider yourself warned and feel free to skip ahead if it's too much. The first gif does include Tech Thighs and Crotch, if that would help ease your pain.

This gif from @dreamswithghosts shows what looks like the lower peaks of a mountain range behind Tech as he's up on the top of the rail car line in the clouds.

Gif from this gifset by @dreamswithghosts

It also gives us a medium shot of Tech Thighs and Crotch walking straight at the camera. Feel free to walk straight towards me with those anytime sir.

And in a completely record scratching change of tone, this gif from @barissoffee of Tech dangling below the rail car (*sobs*) shows what looks like the side of a mountain peak in the background, just above the blaster in his holster on his left thigh.

Gif from this heartbreaking gifset by @barissoffee

In fact, one might say that is looks intriguingly similar to the steep side of a mountain peak we saw in the first screenshot.

Basically, there's mountains and a pine tree forest below the rail car line. I think I've made my point. Tech is falling into terrain that is advantageous to breaking his fall and helping him survive. If he was falling straight to sea-level with nothing in-between then he'd be toast.

Which reminds me of a quote from a trauma surgeon I found while researching whatever this giant ramble has turned into. Dr Izenberg states that "Anything above 10 or 12 stories and you've reached terminal velocity. So a fall from 20,000 feet sounds dramatic, but there's really no difference from a 500-foot fall." So it really doesn't matter how far Tech is falling, once he's reached terminal velocity then he can't fall any faster. I think this contradicts one of my earlier points but who said this was going to be in any way coherent. It's also important to remember that terminal velocity is not the point at which falling speed becomes deadly. It is the maximum speed an object can obtain when falling through a fluid, usually air. So basically, the fastest speed that humans can fall, which is about 200km/h (120mph) in a stable, belly to earth position.

Dr Izenberg also gives us another other small crumb of comfort. Regarding the skydiver Christine McKenzie, who crashed into power lines that broke her fall, Izenberg states that "By the time she hit the ground she had already used up and transferred the energy when she hit the power lines". This emphasizes again the importance of having something, or even multiple somethings, break Tech's fall. What a good thing that there's mountain slopes for him to tumble down and the branches of pine trees for him crash through. I going to turn into a pine tree after this with the amount of times I've typed those words. Pine trees pine trees pine trees.

There's one final point about the quote "It's not the fall that kills you, it's the sudden stop." from Douglas Adams. Izenberg emphasizes "that's really true, whether you're talking about a fall or an automobile accident. You have a rapid deceleration, a sudden transfer of energy."

TL;DR Tech needs to break his fall and slow his descent to survive and the mountain slopes and pine tree forest below the rail car line are very well suited to doing just that.

It's probably worth mentioning at this point that water isn't the best surface to fall onto. While it sounds like a good idea, there are a number of problems with falling into water. Firstly, liquid doesn't compress, which means that hitting water is basically like smacking straight into the pavement. The other problems are that hitting water tends to knock people unconscious and as you can't swim when you've passed out, you're then more likely to drown. As counter intuitive as it sounds, Tech will actually want to avoid falling into a river or lake, but I'm sure he already knew that.

So what does this all mean for Tech. Can he survive that fall? Yes. Are the odds of him surviving that sort of fall good? Not particularly but it has been done in the past. Is Tech going to be ok after the fall. Probably not. In all likelihood, he will be very badly injured. This is going to pose more problems for what happens to Tech after his fall but that point is for another post.

Is Tech still alive? Yes.

I am still firmly in camp Tech Lives and for a whole multitude of reasons but the rest of those are going to have to wait for subsequent posts because I've already rambled on for far too long and this post has turned into an unwieldy monster. Well done to you if you made it through this entire thing. Go reward yourself with some excellent fix-it Tech Lives fanfic. There's even a tag.

I'll be interested to see if they actually show how Tech survives the fall or if we get any kind of explanation, maybe Hemlock monologuing or Emerie briefly mentioning it when she's alone with Crosshair. Or will it's just be sort of alluded to or implied that Tech survived somehow and then hand waved off and narrative focus brought back to the current problem of Tech's injuries and his situation (probably captured by Hemlock) and we all focus on that and forget to question how he actually survived the fall.

But for now, take comfort in the fact that Tech can survive that fall and for a multitude of reasons, I still firmly believe that Tech is alive.

[dark-elf-writes]

Wren couldn’t remember their parents. The memories of them long since blurred like a carving worn down over too many fingers even before the death of their first clan.

They remembered flashes. White hair in the light of the fire. A deep voice rising in falling in the comforting rhythm of conversation. Brown-red eyes glinting with laughter. Shattered pieces of history was all they had left.

No one else was alive to give them more.

—

Wren was raised by the clan as a whole as was so common even for non orphans. It took all of them working together to raise a child after all. An entire clan working together to build the next generation in their image.

The Keeper had kept a particularly careful eye on them. They wondered sometimes if he had known, even then the calamity they would bring.

—

Their magic came when they were just shy of ten, a maelstrom of lightning leaping from their fingertips when a group of Shemlen had happened upon them and the other children when they were playing in the forest.

They remembered the tang of ozone on the back of their tongue. Remembered the screams of the shemlen as they watched their friends jerk and seize. Remembered the looks on the faces of the other children before a wave of exhaustion had dragged them into unconsciousness.

Fear. The others had been afraid of them.

Rightfully so. Their clan already had a First and Second. Wren’s magic was the harbinger of change and that was always terrifying.

—

They pretended they didn’t remember the last night with their first clan. Pretended their face didn’t burn with half healed wounds. Pretended the adults of Clan Lavellan didn’t look at them with sad eyes whenever the bandages covering most of their face needed to be changed.

They were always good at pretending.

—

Clan Lavellan only had one mage. The First and Second had been lost some years before in a terrible accident.

Wren nearly electrocuted the first person who claimed it was all the work of the Creators, and ran into the forest. Another child found them, Mahanon he called himself as he chattered away about nothing at all. They didn’t remember how to say thank you.

—

Wren couldn’t look at the statues of the Creators in their new home. No one had the heard to make them help when it was time to move them to the next camp.

Wren couldn’t do a lot of things. They couldn’t speak common like the others. Didn’t know how to act around the Shemlen Clan Lavellan traded with. Couldn’t listen to the stories the hahren told around the fire without sending arcs of lightning around the camp.

No one got mad at them. That made it worse.

—

When they slept they saw a wolf.

They woke up screaming for weeks.

—

Mahanon was the only other child in the camp that wasn’t afraid of them. Wren didn’t remember how to smile either. He never seemed to mind.

—

The wounds on their face healed, though most of the adults in camp still couldn’t look directly at them. At the snarling wolf carved into their cheeks and brow. At the raised scars that rested along the stark black lines.

Mahanon said adults were stupid. That they were all so worried about the past that they would miss the arrow coming for their asses in the present. Wren laughed at the idea, shocking themself most of all.

They thought they had forgotten how.

—

They stopped being scared of the wolf when they realized it didn’t do much other than snore and ooze. Besides, it wasn’t a wolf that had hurt them. It had been the keeper. Their family. It was hardly the wolf’s fault they had used his name to do it.

—

The wolf slept on. For months and then years.

Wren didn’t remember when they decided to start talking to it while it slept, but every night they told it a bit of everything and nothing at all in a mix of common and elven that only Mahanon could really understand.

—

Wren had long since lost their fear by the time the wolf woke up in the middle of one of their stories. They looked into six blood red eyes without backing down, and wondered, distantly what the wolf thought of them.

—

They were sent to the Conclave soon after the wolf woke. Mahanon wanted to come with them but Wren made him promise to stay behind. One person with brains had to stay back and watch the others and Mahanon was the closest they could come to that without Wren there.

He shoved them into the river, spooking the halla. Wren almost missed the boat that was supposed to take them to Fereldean trying to catch them.

—

The sky ripped apart, and their hand was on fire, but all Wren could think was that this was horribly familiar. At least this time half of their face wasn’t covered in bandages.

They could do without the whole prisoner thing though.

—

There’s an elf wearing a wolf jaw. Wren would laugh if they weren’t still half convinced Cassandra would strangle them if they did.

—

They close the hole in the sky… kinda.

It takes everything in them not to scream when the first person calls them the “Herald of Andraste”. They don’t think they manage it very well.

[silversiren1101]

🌸💅🏽 for Mino and dragon queen? :3

Hey Arrow! Happily!

[Asks from this ask game]

Minovae

🌸 What do they smell like? Do they wear a signature scent?

Minovae spells like all sorts of things! Depending on the time of day and how soon she's not just bathed but had one of her "grooming nights", and whether or not she's been in her armor.

Her typical "passed her in the hall" scent would be a mix of armor polish and metal but something sweet and spicy laced with it. Her ganzi physiology means she has all sorts of different products for the different parts of her: skin vs hair vs scales vs feathers. Everything requires their own unique care and so she has a pretty elaborate routine with lots of scents involved!

Her skin gets a simple milk and honey scented wash that hydrates any chafed skin from armor or her scales pinching, and is then moisturized with a scentless lotion derived from oats (so she doesn't smell like a walking perfume shop). Her scales are treated with a kaolin clay scrub and then sealed with a beeswax and honey based balm so they have a protective layer to keep them from chipping and flaking, and keeps them shiny too! Her feathers don't get shampoo since it dulls their color and makes them stiff and itchy, instead being treated with a cleanser and oil that leaves them soft, shiny, vibrant, and smelling strongly of citrus (specifically bergamot). Last is her hair, which the shampoo and conditioner combined leaves smelling faintly of warm sweetness, almost vanilla-like.

So as for signature scent? If anything it would be that citrus, which reminds her of home and isn't particularly offensive. On occasions where she need get dressed up and look nice, she might dab some of that oil on her wrists and neck.

💅🏽 How do they keep their nails, long or short? Do they paint or decorate them? Do they bite their nails or pick at their cuticles?

Wow I haven't actually considered Mino's nails much! Truthfully, she would keep them short and groomed lest risking infection and breaking in battle. It'd be part of her weekly grooming night, making sure they're as short as possible and filed, and the cuticles are pushed back and any possible hangnails dealt with.

She wouldn't bite her nails or pick at her cuticles either--her nervous picking habits would be at her scales if she's pressed enough.

On fancy occasions she would paint them to match her outfit.

Morolai

🌸 What do they smell like? Do they wear a signature scent?

A much, much stronger scent. She has to cover up the underlying scent of acid that lingers around her from her black dragon lineage. She'd been drawn to all sorts of floral scents, rotating between them to match her outfit and mood: jasmine, lavender, rose, etc.

That smell of acid, burning and hot, will always be lingering beneath though, like a quiet warning.

She might also smell like any recent magic she's cast! Ozone from lightning spells and such.

💅🏽 How do they keep their nails, long or short? Do they paint or decorate them? Do they bite their nails or pick at their cuticles?

Oh, Morolai's claws are her everything. Since awakening to her bloodrager heritage, her claws have always been lined with black scales and the nails themselves are black as the starless night. They're nearly indestructible and even if they do break or chip, they heal extremely quickly (even just a surge of magic from within her is enough to repair them on the spot!).

So, she doesn't really have much of a choice in their length, even if she cared about keeping them short. They're long - several inches long, and do make basic tasks a nuisance at times, though nothing a servant or mage hand can't fix. She does often tease the tip of them between her teeth, when she's in a "toying with her prey" kind of mood (cheeky, flirty, playful).

Since they're her pride and joy, she's always fussing over her cuticles and making sure her hands stay healthy. No paint, since "they're already perfect", she would say.

[magnaswingwritings]

Black Bulls Month 2023 Prompt #1: Morning

Pairing: Magna x Luck

Magna was gently woken up by the rays of sunlight filtering through the curtains of his bedroom window. There was a sense of calm and peace. The sound of birds chirping outside. Staying where he was, he relaxed and listened to that sound for a bit before opening his eyes.

Facing him was a sleeping figure. Blonde hair in various directions, eyes closed, blanket held up to the chin, curled up against his side. It was the calmest the fire mage ever seen his partner. It made having an early internal time clock worth it. Getting to see that peaceful expression every time he woke up.

He thought back to the first time Luck spent the night in bed with him. It was just after a tough mission. The kind that left them injured and bloody but at the same time victorious. Magna always keeps extra burn creams and healing ointments in his desk drawer due to all the training he does with his flame magic, so he invited Luck in to help patch him up. The lightning mage was so exhausted from the fight that he didn't argue or tease. He just lied down on his stomach on the soft comforter covering the mattress while Magna applied the ointments on the wounds.

He was overly gentle in the application of the ointment, hands shaking slightly, making sure there was no added discomfort. But then lightning mage had fallen asleep during the process. It came as a shock to the fire mage when he noticed that fact. Very rarely does Luck get this tired that he just passes right out. Typically it's the other way around after a tough mission.

A chuckle escaped Magna as he finished applying the ointment and decided to get ready for bed himself as quietly as possible. Letting the lightning mage get some much needed rest. Once his hair was down and he changed into some more comfortable clothes, he carefully climbed into bed next to his partner. Sleep came quickly as soon as his head hit the pillow.

Zzzt!

That following morning, a zap of electricity woke the fire mage up and shot him out of bed. The sound of laughter being the first thing he hears as he shakes the sleepiness from his eyes and figures out what's going on.

"Hahaha good morning!" Luck said as he stood over Magna's body on the side of the bed with a large smile plastered on his face.

"What the hell was that for!" He responded loudly, his gray and black hair floating in different directions due to the static generated by Luck's wake up call. "Is that really how your gonna wake someone up first thing in the morning?!"

"Not just someone! You!" The lightning mage matter of factly answered.

Magna was not quite sure what to do with that response, his face dusting a light shade of pink. Mouth opening and closing a few times before he could finally grumble, "Good Morning to you too."

"Ahh don't be like that Magna! Come let's grab some food and then we can spar!" He cheerfully grabbed Magna's hand and dragged him out the door.

His mind snapped out of his reminiscing and back to the present when he felt the body against him begin to shift. His body tensed, preparing for one of his partners usual morning stunts. He looked down and grey eyes made contact with blue. Pink dusting both their cheeks. Time lost all meaning to both of them. Luck ended up speaking first, voice raspy from sleep, "Morning"

Magna chuckled and felt his body relax. Contentment filling him as he held Luck closer.

"Good Morning."

[asleepinawell]

random ideas for new ffxiv jobs in the future (with the understanding that I don't know shit about classic ff classes which they seem to favor so oh well this is just for fun)

necromancer - healer. give me a goth healer thanks. I did a whole post about how it could work

druid - shapeshifter with nature magic. I want something like that cool roots growing spell titania does and also to turn into a kitty. fungi infection dots. halmarut lore!!!!!

beast master - actually is from ff someone just told me about it. whips!!! (we should probably not be given whips 😔) and pets

storm mage - we don't use water and wind magic much so it would be cool to see that expanded on with some lightning thrown in as well. maybe a weather mage in general. give your enemies peeling sun burn

ocean mage or healer - similar idea but focused on the power of the ocean and sea creatures. kraken attack. (we should probably not be given tentacles either 😔)

channeler - invokes the power of the twelve. can call on different gods for different things

ranger - I think square said they weren't doing any more multi jobs from the same base class so this is unlikely but it'd split off of archer and be a pet class (another thing they don't like doing). possibly use a different type of bow or could even share

thief/trickster - another split off a base class. alternate route for rogue. more physical and less elemental. debuff management my beloathed

holy/light dps - think a rogue/paladin hybrid. there was an avenger class in d&d 4e that would be close. melee with light spells. some utility healing or protection. would be excellent for soloing. amdapor origins

geomancer - I think they're fucked after hydaelyn is gone but if not! role quests could be finding a new source of geomancy or something

warlock - reaper almost has this vibe. I'm not sure what else you could make a pact with though just think we deserve magical sugarbabies. maybe the loporrit style of "safe" primal for patrons

magitek related - we've got mch already which partly pulls from cid and therefore garlemald but I was thinking something more firmly garlean with mechs. probably tricky to pull off well

alchemists - we got alchemists in thavnair. might be a way to turn it into a job with some chemist thrown in (edit: op forgot that crafting jobs are a thing that exists but maintains that this would still be a banging combat class basis)

misdirection tank class - a tank who relies more on enemy debuffs. confusion, slow, blind, etc. would be tricky to do

dynamis class - ????? (would need to start post-ew)

some of these are far-fetched but it's fun to imagine how they'd work

(also not really covered here but I'd love to see stuff from a wider range of real cultures but only if it's handled well...like I don't feel comfortable tossing out random ideas for those myself without looking into them more but would love to hear ideas)

[ambiguouspuzuma]

The Bookworm

There comes a time in every profession, once ropes are shown and lessons learnt, once spurs and won and stripes are earnt, that the masters of their trade must choose the way to specialise. Such it is that masons become sculptors or builders, blacksmiths become armourers or farriers, and writers become playwrights or poets.

None are excused from this impossible choice, this fork in the road, this gamble between futures. Farmers must choose orchard or paddock; masons carving or construction; bakers biscuit or bread. Even in the lofty tiers of the wizards' tower, newly initiated mages don the robes of pyromancer red, necromancer black, or witch-romancer green, according to their own preference alone.

At a certain juncture, every walk of life divides into fletchers and bowyers, cobblers and cordwainers, coopers and hoopers, narrower pathways which diverge to reach more specified ends. Society is a puzzle of a thousand different pieces, and every novice must choose a side on which to grow, and cut another part of them away, in order that they might find their fit. Together, that is how they come to form the greater whole.

At least, that was the theory.

As puzzle pieces went, Alexandria was a particularly rare and unaccommodating shape. If some professions were taken to be the corners of society - farmers, perhaps, and builders, or carers, she wasn't sure - and many others held the sides between, she was certainly a centre-piece. She was an artist and a work of art, no more load-bearing than the breeze that whisked away unfastened scarves, no more essential than the shadows that concealed her as she worked.

She was a thief. A general purposes, one-size-suits-all, no-job-too-big or too-small, all-inclusive purloiner of other people's things. Alexandria had been a thief for some time now, a particularly good one, and now she felt the need to become something more. She could be a pirate or highwaywoman, cat-burglar or cattle-rustler, pickpocket or cutpurse.

She chose to be a thief of books. A library's scourge. A bookworm. It began with the antiquarian in town, a particularly valuable printing of one of the world's earliest novels, but she soon spread like fire into the shelves of collectors and the stacks of every bookseller for miles around. She stole first editions and manuscripts that were yet to be published, right out of an author's typewriter. She stole the final pages from mysteries, the covers from books that might have otherwise been judged, and deprived the lunar temples of their holy texts.

Eventually, she found her way into the wizards' tower.

Spells weren't a thing that could be memorised, she'd learnt from one of her prizes. They had to be read afresh each time they were cast, a living thing that coursed through its reader, a lightning strike no man could capture in a bottle. They lived in books, vast dusty tomes which were seldom opened, for opening them meant the lightning was released. This were no ordinary texts, bound tight in dragonskin and spellbound with protective enchantments, stacked high out of the reach of unenlightened hands.

Alexandria took them all.

"Stop!" the first wizard to catch her said. She'd made it out of the library, but it was difficult to disguise her bulging sack of loot, especially as it was glowing and humming in a disconcerting way. "You give those back right now!"

"Or what?" she asked, still backing away.

"I'll hit you with a fireball!" He was a young pyromancer, as she could have told from his scarlet robes and the fuzz that grew along his jaw. They were all young, apparently. As a profession, it didn't have the greatest life expectancy - which meant that those who chose that path to specialise were not always the brightest in their class.

"And burn all of these books?"

"I..." his threats smouldered into ashes as she kept putting paces between them. But his shouting had attracted another two young wizards, probably barely on their separate paths, and Alexandria knew she wouldn't have much longer to make it to the door.

"Are you sure you wouldn't rather stay?" The second wizard wore robes of emerald green. According to her book, the witch-romancers had an even higher mortality rate, but nobody else knew why. "We could make things... amenable for you."

"Positive."

"I know a few things about taking what doesn't belong to you," a third wizard, clad in velvet black, attempted to empathise. Necromancers hadn't signed up for fighting. They chose their creepy path for its much lower mortality rate - which was, after all, in the negatives. "There's always a price."

"I find that stealing means you don't have to pay the price, actually," Alexandria told him. She was almost at the door. "Go on, what will crossing this threshold really cost me?"

"We'll hunt you down."

"Others have tried."

"I can cast a spell to have you traced by spirits from beyond the grave."

"Can you?" she asked. "Or is that spell inside my bag?"

That stumped them, and the three wizards looked at each other in the sudden realisation that they were unarmed and unprotected for the first time since they won their robes. Even the witch-romancer, who was used to working without the robes themselves, was suddenly feeling uncomfortably exposed.

"Seriously, just give them back!" The pyromancer managed. "They don't belong to you!"

Alexandria tutted at that.

"Is that the best way you can ask?" she taunted, slipping back across the doorway, out into the night which was her home. "Come on now... don't you know the magic word?"

[eclipsecrowned]

Do you ever dream of squad fight scenes to the tune of Rasputin bc I’m thinking of my T*vs—

Hel looking an enemy dead in the eyes. Rests her quarterstaff on their shoulder. They are suddenly aware of all their blood in the worst way. A more physical fighter strikes them down. Path to Grave’d. Lae’zel, Karlach, and Aurelia gravitating towards Hel for status buffs and her AOE help. She’s throwing enemies off their game and blinding, bane’ing, and healing in her party’s favor.

Sybelle is on a table burning through her spellbook. Sweating. It’s her first tavern brawl. She looks over. Gale is low key grooving along to the bards music as he struts and fires off spells. Sybelle wishes she was so cool. Wyll counterspells a sorcerer that was aiming at her. She’s mortified. Thanks, Wyll… She realizes backup is heading through the doors. Astarion! Yes, Sybelle? Throw a grease trap at the door! He thinks he’s about to get barbecued thugs and is delighted. She instead fireballs the grease on the floor and doorframe. No one gets in or out. She resumes focus.

Aurelia is providing range/stealth backup to party tanks. Sussur dagger in hand to silence any mages with funny ideas. Almost throws one dagger at the backup that’s coming through the back door, but don’t worry. Hel’s Ward has it covered. The air brims with thunder as every man in range takes damage. Aurelia high key trying to show off for the Githyanki by becoming a literal attack lesbian. Barely dodged a raged up and enthused Karlach. Having a great time in Tank City.

Valas sits with his stupid little frou-frou drink still sat at the table bidding the bard continue playing. Lidol sippies. Waits out a round or two, then stands and tells Shadowheart to follow him. What? Just do it. They ascend the staircase and he kicks out part of the railing on the top floor. It hits a random halfling. Four points makeshift weapon damage. He begs the Dark Lady’s blessing. Shadowheart obliges. What, he purrs, no kiss? But thrn from above with advantage he multitargets lightning them chains it between goons. It’s all over once he activates it. He cheerfully informs the party he accepts thanks in gold, flattery, and passionate fornica— Shadowheart silences him, then does a healing prayer.

[electric-ecclectic]

@fxmiliarity asked:

The air was thick, almost enough to drown anyone who dared get too close. Deep in the chasm Yvaine stood, standing tall with head lowered and swaying as if they were about to fall asleep or drunk. With her back to Signe, it took the little mage speaking up for the elder to respond, slowly lifting their head at first. A roll of their shoulders and slowly, Yvaine faced them. Dark mud coated their body, sticking to their skin like it was feeding off of them. Eyes that once held the stairs were now voids, with even their scleras turned dark. A mixture of drool, [red] blood, and more mud coated their chin, neck, and hands. At her feet, the Knight that had accompanied Signe. Merely standing there, the bright turquoise of their eyes came back, almost glowing while locked onto Signe. Like a predator hunting their prey. Like a monster looking at their next meal. Wings sprouted forth, adding to the haunting image and mess of goop around them. Tail swung lazily behind them, only giving a quick lash as a warning before Yvaine attacked. As quick as lightning and Yvaine had slammed Signe into the ground, wrists pinned above her head with only one clawed hand. Everything about the god felt bigger, from their hands to their sheer height. More drool escaped past Yvaine's lips and their tongue, coated in the same disgusting mixture, licked their teeth and moistened their lips. Slow and deliberate as if to tease the mortal. Like Yvaine could taste the fear burning within her. Their canines had grown sharper as their lips split apart, cracking their skin and revealing how their 'human' teeth had gone closer to sharks teeth. Made for ripping and tearing, just as they planned on doing with her. A hungry growl and the monster before Signe covered them with her wings, moving oh so slowly to clamp down on her shoulder..

The feeling of being watched sent shivers down the mage's spine, and the distinct feeling of being hunted flashed across her mind. They had just come down to the Chasm to investigate some strange activity - and while she had come with a group of a few other knights, Signe had thought it fine to bring along just one knight for extra protection. The knight himself was a younger recruit, only just a few years into his training. Between herself and Yvaine, the mission was supposed to be an easy one, only descending to collect some luminescent starshrooms and study some distant, eroded ruins.

She had only turned away for about ten minutes, feeling around for a way out of the pit of the Chasm they had found themselves in. The few starshrooms they had passed would suggest that they were nearing Sumeru, but now it seemed that everywhere they turned was filled with more dark, noxious mud. A distant scream echoed down the cavernous hallway she'd found herself in, the tone of which made Signe's hair stand on end. She turned on her heel to race back to where she had left the other two, before stopping entirely as the Chasm seemed to go silent. Was it safe to go in? She was certain Yvaine had stayed behind with the knight, but had any danger befallen them, they would have been able to fend it off. Unless...

As Signe entered the cavern where she had started, her heart dropped into her stomach, and a wave of nausea hit her almost immediately. Hunched over the body of the knight was Yvaine, monstrously distorted with the unmistakable image of flesh hanging out of their mouth. Signe froze with fear, boots glued to the ground, as she desperately tried to force herself to move. But it was too late - the dragon-like creature was upon her as soon as she reached for her spellbook, and in an instant she was knocked to the ground.

"What are you doing!?" was all she managed to ask, amber eyes wide with fear as she desperately held Yvaine's mouth back with all the strength she could muster. Her arms started to shake, and Signe's heart pounded as she realized her grip was slipping. With a burst of electro, she managed to roll away, reacting quickly to put some distance between herself and the god. Her breathing was ragged as she haphazardly dug around for her grimoire, readying her next spell with trembling hands.

"Don't do this," she warned, the vibrant purple of electro thrumming to life in her hands.

[hecatemoon87]

WolfBlood - A Viking Fantasy Story

[A James Delaney & Eddie Brock AU]

Chapter Summary: The princes have a strange dream and meet the Queen. She speaks of a ritual that will awaken their godhood. 

Warnings: mention of murder

Word Count: 2,319

Masterlist

Chapter 2: The Queen of Rakovec

As the princes slipped into a deep slumber, awaiting to be retrieved by the Queen’s mage, they began to dream. A lone banner stood erect at the entrance to the WolfBlood royal house. It was on fire, the flames eating at the maroon fabric embroidered with a golden wolf. The royal house too was ablaze, thick billowing smoke rose up into the sky and to add to the polluted air was the terrified screaming of WolfBlood citizens. In their sleep, James and Eddie twitched and groaned as they watched their city come to ruin. 

The hot, white ash that peeled off the destruction drifted through the wind, finding its way to the royal cemetery where their mother had been laid to rest. The ash aimlessly circled the white stone statue of their mother, Queen Salish. It was her burial marker now covered in ivy and weathered by the elements. The sky above was a sickly green and rumbled with thunder. There was an eerie moment of silence before the sky opened up and torrents of rain fell heavily from the heavens. Suddenly, a single bolt of lightning charged out of the sky, connecting with the statue. Large fragments of stone exploded, scattering the remnants around its base. 

The emotional impact from seeing their home burn and watching the desecration of their beloved mother’s image accelerated their breathing as they slept. A film of sweat crept over their brow as they watched the horrific sight unfold. Then in the darkness a faint golden light approached. As it slowly came into view it appeared to be shaped like a silhouette of a woman. It began the chore of picking up the stone pieces of the statue. Piece by piece, she rebuilt the statue as if it had never been destroyed. As she worked, her image became clearer. As the last piece was secured, they could see a woman wearing an indigo cloak with a hood. She carefully removed the hood and looked up at the statue with satisfaction. She gradually turned, her face coming into view. 

The loud sound of the deadbolt being released startled the brothers awake. They had seen the woman’s face, but had not recognized her. Now inside the chamber, Nashwa and four armed guards awaited them. 

“I apologize for the hour, but the Queen would like to see you now,” Nashwa said, motioning a hand to the hallway.

The princes arose from their chairs and followed Nashwa into the corridor. The guards followed, creating a box shaped formation around the twins as they proceeded forward. Eddie glanced over to James, wondering if his brother had dreamed as well. 

“Did you…uh, did you dream of anything while you slept?” Eddie whispered. 

James nodded in affirmation, but said nothing. Eddie was too curious and pressed the issue.

“I think I had a nightmare. I saw home, I saw it on fire. And then…and then mother’s statue…it…it,” Eddie stamared over the last part as it caused his heart to ache. 

“It was destroyed,” James said, staring ahead blankly.

“Yeah…and then some woman rebuilt it. Did you see?” Eddie asked.

James once again nodded. 

Eddie could feel gooseflesh creeping over the back of his neck. It was a very eerie sensation knowing that they had shared the same dream. They walked the rest of the way in silence. Eventually they exited the palace and found themselves outside in a large courtyard. Surrounding the perimeter were high stone walls. Any chance of an easy escape from the palace grounds had become unlikely. 

The night was late, the temperature a bitter cold nipping uncomfortably at their exposed flesh. Above in the dark sky the waning moon gave off a faint silvery luminescence. It provided enough light to guide them through the darkness. It was silent around them with the exception of the soft crunch of frozen snow beneath their boots. Nashwa led them over to a Viking longhouse. The guards climbed up the steps to open the doors. It was warm inside, the aroma of fire smoke and incense scented the air. Nashwa took them to the center of the longhouse where they found a woman kneeling before an altar. The altar held several images of the gods. There were several burning candles spread in front and an array of golden coins and weaponry decorated the surface. From behind, the woman had long black raven hair that reached to her mid back. 

“My Queen, I have brought the WolfBlood princes,” Nashwa said. 

They approached the woman, waiting a few feet behind her. She seemed to ignore Nashwa for a moment, then she stood up and turned to face them. James and Eddie almost took a step back. It was the woman from their dream. Her appearance was simply divine, that of a goddess who had stepped forth from Asgard. Yet she was kissed by the blessings of the Arabian sun. Her skin was a smooth olive tone, her eyes were large golden-brown pools shrouded by dark lashes and lips full and sensual. She wore an elegant Viking dress the color of indigo. 

She had intelligent eyes that carefully inspected each brother. A brief silence hung over them like a weight of great anticipation. A strange sensation enveloped the brothers, though they knew not that the other was experiencing the same feeling. It was as if this woman exuded a sense of deep tranquility. Her mannerism felt familiar and the energy about her, the aura, brought peace to their minds. A peace that they had not felt since the death of their mother. 

“Greetings, I am Queen Ravina, protector of Rakovec,” she said. 

She had a modulated voice, controlled and pleasing to the ear. It held a sense of authority, yet was comforting at the same time. 

“I’m pleased to finally meet you both. I know you have been through much. Are your quarters comfortable? Are you lacking anything?” she asked.

“Uh, I’d like to request a change in clothing,” Eddie said, glancing at the matching clothing he and James were wearing. 

The Queen’s eyes flickered across the brothers’ impressive physiques. 

“If that is what you wish,” she replied.

There was a brief moment of awkward silence. There seemed to be an uncertainty of where the conversation should lead next. James decided to take control of the situation and get to the point of the matter. 

“What exactly is the purpose of our presence?” James said. 

Ravina walked closer to the brothers, the light scent of her perfume, a citrusy ginger, fragranced the air. She held them in a steady gaze before she spoke. 

“I hope to convince you of merging your kingdom with Rakovec,” she said.

“No,” James said, frankly. 

Ravina nodded and then looked over to Nashwa, who was standing off to the side.

“Would you give me the room, Nashwa?” Ravina asked.

Nashwa lowered her head in a slight bow and left the room. Ravina then resumed her attention on the princes. 

“Where shall I begin?” she said, seemingly speaking to herself. “You see this is a delicate matter. And any attempt of me explaining it will seem…off putting to you.”

“Well, try,” James said. 

“Very well. You, both of you, share a destiny. And that destiny is to become the Kings of Vikingdom,” she said, matter of factly. 

This was not what the princes had been expecting. Their assumption had been that she wanted them to take the knee and relinquish their kingdom to her. Between the brothers, Eddie’s face was the easiest to read. James, on the other hand, always kept a stoic expression. A look of disbelief spread over Eddie’s face and he shoved his hands into his pockets. 

“I’m sorry, what now?” Eddie asked, his brow furrowed in contemplation. 

Ravina smiled. She had a very pretty smile and try as the brothers might, it caused them to find her even more alluring. 

“Good, now that I have your attention. The rest might not seem so unbelievable,” she said. 

“Well? Get on with it,” James said, growing restless. 

She gave James a bit of a distasteful glance. After all, she was a queen and was not accustomed to being told what to do. But she went ahead and began to tell them exactly why they were there.

“On September the 15, twin princes were born. Those princes were not the sons of King Horace, they were the sons of the Wolf God, Marrok,” Ravina said.

“Now, wait just a minute,” James said, interrupting. 

Ravina shook her head and held up a hand. 

“No, you will listen first then you can speak,” she said, her voice a bit sterner now. 

James fell silent, though he was burning to disagree with her accusation. 

“The blood that flows through your veins is half god. Your mother, Salish, was visited by Marrok and thus you were conceived. The god’s intention was to bring forth a new era, having his sons reign over all the kingdoms of Vikings,” Ravina said.

“That’s rubbish, absolute nonsense,” James scoffed. 

“Queen Salish, however, died. She wasn’t able to ensure that the ritual for her sons to accept their godhood was secured,” Ravina said, ignoring James’ comment. 

“What are you going on about?” Eddie said, now thoroughly confused.

“King Horace is fully aware you aren’t his sons. What I’m about to say is based on what I’ve been told by the Oracle of Rakovec and she is never wrong,” Ravina said. 

James and Eddie folded their arms, already deciding that the Queen was completely mad. 

“You’re mother, Salish was murdered,” Ravina said. 

This information floored the brothers. It was the equivalence of being slapped in the face. 

“You’re fucking wrong,” James said, angrily. 

“We were never told how she died, James…” Eddie said, in a low voice. 

“That doesn’t mean she was murdered!” James said, turning toward Eddie. 

“Why? Why was she killed? And who killed her?” Eddie asked, his head low but his eyes looking at Ravina. 

“Horace killed her. He found out that you weren’t his children. How, I am not certain. But in his rage, he murdered Salish,” Ravina said. 

“Enough of this! You lie, you only want our kingdom and you’re lying to influence us,” James growled. 

“No, I’m not lying. In fact, I can have you see. If you allow me to perform the ritual that will awaken your godhood, you will know the truth,” Ravina said. 

“If any of this is true, why are you trying to help us? If we are in fact future Kings of Vikingdom, won’t that mean you lose your crown?” Eddie said, challenging her. 

Ravina hesitated for a moment, but shook her head.

“The gods have told me that my destiny is intertwined with yours,” she said. 

“So it is you who will forfeit your kingdom to us?” James asked. 

“No, that’s not what I’ve been instructed to do. I’ve been told to awaken your godhood and then…” Ravina said, trailing off and looking away almost in embarrassment. 

“Then?” Eddie said, pushing her to finish. 

“Then I am to wed you both,” she said, quickly.

The brothers could see that the Queen was beginning to blush. She had kept her head held high up to this point, but was now looking down at her shoes. 

“Wha…we, uh…can you say that last part again?” Eddie said. 

“I have been told I am your consort,” Ravina said, looking briefly up and then away again. 

Eddie scratched the back of his head, trying to digest all the information he had just heard. James was almost expressionless, albeit a slight glare imprinted on his face. He wasn’t pleased by the news of his mother’s demise. But now he wasn’t entirely sure if the Queen was lying. All he knew at this point is that he wanted to go home. 

“This is madness, we will not be participating in any fucking ritual,” James said. 

Ravina looked up, her golden-eyes staring hard at James.

“You must! This is essential. Do you know that DragonBane will storm WolfBlood on the way to my kingdom? They will destroy your home. If you concede to this ritual, it will unleash your godly potential. Right now, I assume you two are stronger, faster than the average man. If you open up the magical properties in your blood, you’ll be unstoppable and you can save WolfBlood,” Ravina said.

“No, I’m not giving you a chance to enchant us, witch,” James hissed. 

“Witch? I am no witch and there will be no enchanting,” Ravina said, a little offended. 

“This ritual…how is it performed? Uh, just asking out of curiosity,” Eddie said, adding the last part when James glared daggers into him. 

This time Ravina’s cheeks blushed a dark crimson and she folded her arms, looking off to the side again.

“Oh, um, it’s…I…well…” she said, stammering over her words. 

James and Eddie stared at her, waiting for her to explain. 

“Well, it’s fairly basic…the Oracle said to perform the same action that…um, brought you into conception…” Ravina said, now looking up at the ceiling. 

“You mean…sex?” James asked. 

Ravina nodded, but still unable to look them in the eyes. 

“Huh…that doesn’t sound terrible,” Eddie said, looking over at his brother.

James rolled his eyes, but was thinking the same thing. 

“It doesn’t matter, we won’t participate. We are going home,” James said, firmly. 

This comment brought Ravina out of her embarrassed state. She placed her hands on her hips and glared at James.

“It does matter and you aren’t going home,” she said, just as firmly. 

“What are you going to do? Rape us?” James said. 

“Of course not! Oh, this is ridiculous! You know what, go to your room and think about what I said,” she said, pointing her finger in the direction of the palace. 

Eddie looked over at James, a smirk on his face.

“See, I told you she thinks she’s our mommy,” Eddie said.