#cus of her whole blood magic deal any everything

[dungeons-and-dragon-age]

Anders buddy i have barely done anything 😭

[fivenightslaughter]

Wicked Serpentine (Part 6)

pairing: draco malfoy x femravenclaw!oc

summary: slowburn enemies to lovers fic, a TON of parts. <3

warnings: blood purism, bullying, swearing, descriptive physical danger, violence. Awful Draco 

word count: 3,192

taglist: @gloryekaterina @miso-tang​

I had decided to sit in the very front on the right side. With Malfoy tucked away in the left corner, I felt content with my choice being the polar opposite of his. Snape stood at the front, giving a very subtle and quick nod at me.

He strode forward and placed a book on my desk, swishing back to his original position with eerie ease. I was thankful his gesture went unnoticed and immediately my mood was uplifted.

I was here to learn everything I possibly could. I could already feel in my bones that despite Draco’s (thankfully now damp) presence in the room, this would come to be my favorite class.

Students filtered into the room and I heard booming bell chimes. I assumed that would mark the beginning of classes. I was thankful to have made it on time.

A boy slid into the seat next to me, a broad smile on his face. He was a bit lean and his brown hair lay around his head indiscriminately. Round-rimmed glasses circled his green eyes, which were slightly blurred through the thickness of the glass.

He eagerly turned to me, jutting a hand out for a shake.

“I’m Harry.”

His voice was warm and honeyed. He wasn’t overly pleasant to the point of it being sickly, but it was welcoming nonetheless. Taking note of his house colors, I’d guessed it was a trait likely shared among Gryffindors. Bravery.

I shook his hand, fighting hesitancy from my body. He was the first person who had spoken to me just for the hell of it since I’ve gotten here. Cho didn’t count much in my mind- she was a friend, of course, but we also had to share a room and that was very much a forced circumstance in my book.

“Eris.” I replied, facing the book Snape had placed on my table for me.

He seemed to wait a beat, as if he was expecting a different reaction. He turned to face a redheaded boy sitting behind us that looked rather bewildered.

“You know, he’s bloody Harry Potter!” He yelled in a rather hushed-whisper tone.

I turned in my chair like Harry had and faced him, my head cocked to the side as soon as I met eyes with him.

“Hey, you must be one of George’s brothers, right? A Weasley?” I spoke, my eyes raking over his mop of orange hair.

The two of them met eyes immediately, both shocked this time, and the redhead paused before letting out an incredulous laugh.

“Sweet hell Harry, she recognizes me instead of you? I must be moving up in the world!” He spoke endearingly as his hand traveled up into his hair. His face spilled into a crooked grin and Harry gave a short laugh.

I tried holding a straight face but couldn’t help myself as I quipped again, attempting to match their humor.

“Whoa, I saw you at King’s Cross when I met Fred and George. I wouldn’t call you famous just yet, Weasley. I don’t even know your first name.”

I saw Harry’s eyes widen and his mouth broke into a half smile.

“She got you there, Ron. You could be any damned redhead Weasley.”

His orange brows furrowed and he sucked his teeth, his grin beginning to teeter down.

“Lay off, mate. You’re just sore she won’t kiss you just ‘cus you’re the Harry Potter.” A brown haired girl elbowed him, pursing her lips.

There was his full name again. I’d be sure to ask someone later what the big deal about this kid was. Snapping us all out of conversation, a book banged loudly on our table and I whipped around to see a scowl evident on Snape’s face.

Not that it wasn’t the usual expression on his face, however, it hadn’t been directed at me in this way so far. I attempted to brush it off, going silent for the rest of the lesson. I still heard Harry and Ron exchange a couple jokes and words, but I’d decided it was ultimately not in my best interest to continue interacting.

Most of the rest of the lesson went on without a hitch and I noticed that whenever I’d hover my hand unsure of an ingredient, Snape would narrow his eyes at me. He wouldn’t look away until I’d palmed the correct one, and thus ensued an unspoken language between us.

Without it, I’m sure whatever I was concocting would have blown up in my face by now. Much to my enjoyment, there were a few times where Harry looked over and would exclaim positively about my progress.

I felt good. Great, actually. I wasn’t the best by far and I had a lot of room for improvement, but I hadn’t been an utter failure. I could swear Snape’s sourness had decreased just enough for the room to feel a tiny bit brighter.

As I furthered in my work, Harry and Ron started to become a bit of a distraction. They seemed very absorbed in themselves and their conversation as their volume slowly increased. The minutes ticked by and they were becoming less bearable.

I felt myself growing agitated but unable to express it. I couldn’t scare off two people I’d just met, my first two friends. If you could even call them that. I found myself rereading the same lines of instruction over and over, stress starting to become evident on my face.

I craned my neck to find Snape stood at the back of the classroom near the door as he surveyed other students. He wasn’t looking in my direction as my face pleaded for some kind of escape. My nails bit into my palms as the conversation next to me overrode my senses.

A sharp, hissing voice spoke from the back of the classroom, just to the right of my view of Snape. My eyes darted to the sound, accidentally meeting the speaker’s silvery ones as he spoke.

“Must you keep blathering with your boyfriend, Potter? Your voice carries worse than a mandrake. It’s all rather foul, honestly.” He faked a disgusted shiver and elbowed a boy next to him humorously.

His lips curled into a smirk when we broke eye contact and went back to whispering with the boy sitting with him. I scanned his partner at the table that he’d elbowed; he was rather attractive as well. He had smooth, dark skin and his hair was trimmed short and cleanly cut. He had reclined comfortably in the seat, his arms crossed behind his head as he tilted towards the wall.

Were all Slytherin-sorted boys plagued with an air of pretension? I turned back to face my instruction book, hearing Ron mutter under his breath behind me before likely doing the same.

“Malfoy, Zabini and that whole lot…” The rest was incoherent and I wondered what words he could be cursing at them. Harry nodded, pressing his lips in a tight line.

I wondered what kind of secret language they had and if it was anything like the one I shared with Severus. It didn’t matter to me now, though, as Snape strode to the front of the room. I was finally able to read and I stirred final ingredients into the cauldron on my table.

It bubbled and Snape raised his eyebrows questioningly as he stopped by our table. He placed a hand on the dusty wooden top, peering into both of our cauldrons.

“It’s decent…Ravenclaw. As for you, Potter, I suggest you learn to pay attention. Your… Inability to focus… Is hindering your classmates.”

Snickering erupted from the back corner, bouncing off of the walls.

Snape turned to fully face the entire class before he drawled,

“You all may thank Potter for arrangements… That will take effect next time we meet.” He spoke Harry’s name with a certain malice and it made me wince. The class gave a groan and I could see redness creep up Harry’s neck to his cheeks.

I felt guilty for thinking he deserved it considering I had literally just met him within the last hour or two. He was a bit intolerable, but perhaps that was good enough reason for why I’d been sorted where I was. Away from them.

I wasn’t exactly the brave or sociable type. I just wanted to learn and succeed here. I wanted to learn magic. If I couldn’t gain that from a friendship with these two boys, perhaps it wasn’t detrimental to my time.

I watched Harry check his watch and shove his book into his bag and I figured they’d be leaving soon. I wanted to talk to Snape first, though. I’d have to wait for everyone to leave and stay behind.

As suspected, the large bell towers on the grounds chimed within the minute and everyone eagerly left, rushing off to wherever they had to be next. I sat, not in any particular hurry as I pushed the book and parchment I’d taken a couple notes on into my bag.

Snape eyed me carefully, striding over to my table. He seemed to have something to say as well.

“Do not get involved with Potter. He is nothing but a vile trouble to this school.” He spoke sternly, every sentence with Harry’s last name was spoken with venom so far.

I gulped, nodding. “He seemed surprised when I didn’t recognize his name, who is he? Is he popular?”

Snape swept away deliberately, gathering items from a desk and purposefully setting it somewhere else. I wondered if it was genuine or busywork.

“You could say, yes… Popular.” It seemed bitter coming from his mouth and I decided to not press on any more Potter related matters.

“I wanted to say thank you. For the box.” I breathed, changing the subject and feeling a bit sentimental.

He gave no indication that he heard me, but the room was quiet enough for me to know he had. I took that as a signal he was done with conversation and I finally stood up, tucking my chair in and leaving the classroom without another word.

Much to my surprise, the hallway was not empty. In this lighting and proximity, the boy who stood outside the doorway looked as if he were of the same marble as the stairs in the entrance hall, still and pale.

“Took you long enough.” He spat.

Confusion etched itself onto my face and I was beginning to tire of twisting my features every time I didn’t understand something. His light grey eyes rolled at my expression, mouth looking as if he’d just eaten something sour.

“Charms.” He stated brusquely, his nose scrunching in disgust as he began walking off in a direction. He glanced behind him in a way that made it clear I was supposed to be following. My legs working faster than my brain, I hastened after his long strides.

Many thoughts attacked my brain. Had Snape told him to wait for me or something when I wasn’t paying attention? I couldn’t piece together why he’d be assisting me but against my better judgement, I decided not to ask.

Instead, I walked nearly by his side. It was a little unsettling how much he’d slowed and allowed me to do so. Sweat formed at my hairline and all I could hear were the taps of his shoes on stone.

“Thank you,” I started uneasily. I felt like I was gulping a brick.

Just as Snape had, he ignored me. Slytherin definitely made sense for him. It seemed like he fit so easily into a category and had his entire life planned out. The way he carried himself, it was obvious he never doubted a single step he took.

I envied it. In a way, I envied him. Likely growing up fully submerged in the most glamorous pieces of the wizarding world, rich parents, freedom to say and act however he pleased.

Even rudely, terribly, horribly. He could do whatever he wanted, couldn’t he?

His lips parted, exhaling lightly. He continued walking as he spoke, looking slightly agitated.

“Stop staring, you damned pest. I know I’m irresistible, but keep the drooling to a minimum.”

I scowled, narrowing my eyes at him. I didn’t react to his usage of pest, but it certainly made this adventure clear it wasn't of his own volition. At least he indirectly answered the nagging question in my mind.

“You’re too full of yourself. Definitely not an irresistible trait.” I snipped.

I could see his jaw set tight at my response. The defined bones in his face made him look picturesque. His hair reminded me of pearls, moon-white and fine, almost iridescent. I suppose he was rather attractive, but it was clouded by his nasty attitude.  

“Hasn’t stopped you from ogling something you’ll never deserve, you lowly creature.”

The air got much tenser. My hands clenched and unclenched at my sides and I stopped walking in stride with him. I stood still in the hall and he had halted only a few steps down, noticing I’d paused. He spun to face me, his eyebrows pulled together, likely attempting to dissect what was happening.

“What the hell are you doing?” He spoke sharply, now impatiently leaning on one foot.

Frustration was evident on my face. I hated how easily he could talk to me like that. With the tension snapping, I wondered if I was capable of replying calmly and moving on to Charms in silence. The answer was no, I was not capable.

“I’d rather wander aimlessly and miss a lesson than spend another minute with a foul git like you.” I enunciated, internally declaring a battle between my brain and feet. I wanted to turn off in the opposite direction and dart into the depths of the school alone, as long as it meant being away from him.

I dug into my bag and grabbed the stupid green box from earlier this morning, angrily tossing it at his chest. He didn’t react as it hit him, which had made my heart begin to race. This didn’t feel right. Why was he just staring at me?

He stepped closer to me, his face eerily calm. He was dauntingly slow and careful. It was enough to make me step backwards, a tiny stumble kicking me into the beginning of a run. I was seconds from darting.

He lunged at me like some kind of predator. My body was twisted halfway behind me, partway in a run. I was mid-turn when he caught me. He had gotten as close as he could to me before grabbing my wrist, as if I had been a wild animal. My heart felt like it had completely torn its way from my body.

I felt his icy fingers begin crush my hand, the searing cold of a metal ring biting into my skin.

He quickly shoved me towards the stone wall of the hallway. The hand he caught me with released me, snapping back to his side. He looked furious, genuinely. I noticed his wand in his free hand, angled towards me. I hadn’t known he could look any angrier than his resting face but being in this position, I was fucking terrified.

Absolutely fucking terrified.

Seconds before, he was an intolerable teenage boy with an insufferably outdated blood bias. A typical pureblooded school bully. But right now, he looked like an adult. No, not just an adult. He looked like the scariest man I’d ever laid eyes on - and he definitely had the means to hurt me.

It felt hard to breathe. My chest heaved as if I’d just run a mile. My shoulder blades pressed uncomfortably against the rock behind my body and I felt paralyzed with fear. All I could think about was the way the frigid stone nipped at the back of my neck. I felt myself sliding down the wall, ever so slightly as my own weight slugged me down.

His head was upturned, looking down at me. His hand gripped his wand so hard his knuckles were white. I could tell from his eyes that he was deep in angry thought.

I felt tears prick my eyes as I turned over what could be going through his mind. I laid my palms flat against the wall, my fingers twitching at the sudden brisk. 

Everything felt hot and cold and I couldn’t look at him anymore. I squeezed my eyes shut, my head turned in a flinch and I nearly ground my teeth together clenching my jaw.

What was he going to do to me? What were school rules about killing a girl no one knows? Was it something his father could find a way to pardon, regardless of the rules?

I had slid all the way down to the floor without realizing it and my arms guarded my chest. I was curled up into a ball on the floor against the bricks behind me. I felt and looked utterly pathetic and powerless.

I didn’t realize I was actually crying until I tasted salt in my mouth.

After what felt like an eternity of stillness as I waited to die, I opened my blurry eyes. I took in a sharp, quick breath of shock when I noticed he was bent down, his face parallel to mine and only an arms length away. I jolted backwards, smacking my head on the wall.

The pain seared and my breathing was still unsteady. His face was filled with curiosity and what looked like a twinge of guilt. I must have been imagining it, though, considering I wasn’t sure a reptile like him was capable of guilt.

He slowly outstretched a hand to me, straightening his legs back to a stand. I eyed his hand and his face wearily, back and forth, searching for some kind of falter. Some bubble of amusement. Something to tip me off to whether or not he’d drop me or laugh in my face for accepting his help.

There was nothing. The guilt and curiosity had evaporated, leaving a poker face.

My stomach lurched as I shakily put my hand in his, expecting him to make some rude comment about needing to wash away the dirtiness he was convinced coursed through my veins.

He didn’t.

Instead, he pulled me up, one hand around mine and the other on my elbow on the opposite arm. Once I was fully upright, he retracted his arms to his own body, dusting his hands off on his pants.

There it was. He had wordlessly done it. Attempted to wipe his hands clean of merely touching a muggleborn witch as if I'd been some kind of nasty task. He noticed my narrowed eyes at his action and rolled his.

“Your robes were dusty.” He muttered, surveying me up and down. It made me feel a bit sick noticing that he felt the need to give an explanation. 

He motioned to the hall ahead of us, swallowing and examining the corridor as if it were the most interesting thing in the world.

“At the end, turn left and take the stairs up. It’s Flitwick’s class- your head of house. I’ve got better things to do.”

He turned and disappeared back down the hallway we came from before I could utter a word. Unlike earlier, he’d walked without much noise at all. It was as if he had become a ghost.

[perfect-fourth]

Hⁱˢ ˡᵃᵗᵉˢᵗ ᵃʳʳᵃⁿᵍᵉᵐᵉⁿᵗ ʰᵃᵈ ᵇᵉᵉⁿ ˢᵘʳᵖʳⁱˢⁱⁿᵍˡʸ ᵉᵃˢʸ ᵗᵒ ᵒʳᶜʰᵉˢᵗʳᵃᵗᵉ.

A year had gone and past in conjunction with his arrival to Piltover-Zaun, his third reappearance in the twin cities and certainly not his last, had he any say in the matter.  Getting out of Tuula again had been simple enough.  Even without the old man commanding the Navori, they found use of him and his methods; and for the most part, left him to his own macabre devices when he completed whatever menial task they set him on.  It was never anything that created conflict with his own intentions, and they knew better than to ask anything of him that did, at least without the former Eye of Twilight to tell them what to do.  He didn’t much care about their cause; be it for better or worse, so long as it gave him a means to further his own.  

  It wasn’t that he especially enjoyed the region; the constant whirring and buzzing of machinery was a distraction rather than a calming white noise, and more often than not he found himself falling ill to the smothering smog and toxins that permeated the atmosphere, no matter how careful he was to protect himself and cleanse his numerous temporary habitats.  His only solace was found in the part-time work he’d taken as a keeper for one of the many greenhouses that spotted the city, little pockets of foliage in an otherwise bleak and repugnant landscape that offered little hope to anyone who had the misfortune of living there.  Truly, he couldn’t have been the only one who saw the irony in the unholy green glow of the Sunken City, a color representing life to taunt a place overwrought with death.

  Of course, there was also his art, the driving force behind his motivation to return to such a technological dystopia.  As uncomfortable as it was, there was no denying the grotesque beauty in this place.  Twisted iron and even more twisted people, Jhin had felt for a long time now that he hadn’t realized his full artistic potential in his previous installments.  His work back then had left much to be desired, especially in the case of...

No, no, no, no.  Now was not the time to think about Zed, or Shen, or that wretched girl who had systematically ruined his vision.  Tonight was not about them, and it was unlikely they’d heard anything of his whereabouts this time around.  It had been both a blessing and a curse to operate in a place where he was only one of many to paint the streets in blood.  In Ionia, no masterpiece went unnoticed, everything held a weight to it that echoed horror through legends that spun themselves into the cautionary bedtime tales of many a defiant child.  But in Zaun, most of his feats were swept away with the rest of the muck that soiled the bowels of the city, no more than a small snippet of acknowledgement in the local papers. It wasn’t for a lack of trying, but it seemed almost every time he performed there he was plagued by some misfortune or another. Be it a trap not going off when it was supposed to, or a composition disrupted before it’s full beauty could be realized, Jhin was half convinced by now that some sort of horrible curse had befallen him.  Either way, surely nothing substantial that was likely to circulate beyond the sea.  Even if it had, the last he’d heard about the Master of Shadows, Zed had his own hands full dealing with the backlash from unrelated endeavors.  Something to do with the vastaya, and two in particular, though he knew little else outside of this. Served him right, really. 

It was of no matter, in the end.  Tonight was the night he’d force the dual cities to bear witness to his gruesome techniques.  Tonight, he would make his mark on the consciousness of Piltover-Zaun.  Permanently.

  The hexdraulic descenders were one of many industrial splendors that helped to shape the outline of the city; so prominent a landmark that the local hooligans had taken to riding on one of them as a right of passage.  The Howler, they called it -- certainly a beast of a transportation device that had initially peaked the virtuoso’s interest,  but soon fallen to the wayside when he’d grown to understand the importance of the smaller, more streamlined descenders.  They carried less passengers at any given time, most of whom held power in either or both of the neighborhoods.  Government officials and high-profile scientists, popular entertainers and media influencers--those who would set Piltover’s Finest into a frenzy trying to uncover the cause of their untimely demise. 

 Working in the gardens had been a genuine form of stress relief for him; but it also carried the added benefit of camouflaging him as nothing but a faceless bystander in a place that was often frequented by the higher class.  He’d overheard many an interesting conversation in his time there; but one conversation in particular had cued him in on how and where to find the schedule logs for these descenders; a knowledge he put to great use for that night’s performance.

5 minutes.  It was 5 minutes until the clock struck twenty hundred hours.  Not his favorite time, but a necessary one to ensure a perfect number of victims would unwittingly meet their demise inside the private descender that was set to rise back into Piltover.  He’d studied the four passengers who were to be boarding that night; ever the meticulous sort, though who they were meant little to Jhin personally.  Just that they were important, and that their deaths would leave a scar on the hearts and minds of not only those who bore witness to his designs, but the region as a whole.

Being there had given him the liberty of exercising his creativity; exploring alternate means to express his art and magic, and tonight was no different.  Jhin had never much entertained the idea of modifying poisons before, but the abundance of toxic substances that were at his disposal were a little bit more than tempting to fool around with.  After a lengthy two months of study and experimentation, he’d found the perfect substance, and the perfect disruption method via modified gas grenades.  Placing them inside the descender at the appropriate time had been the most difficult part; not because of anyone taking notice of the fanciful bits of molded metal and cogwork that looked more like decoration than anything, but because the person--creature--whatever he was who he’d recruited to do the task for him with his stealthy abilities kept accidently setting the little devices off before he even got to the location.  He’d had to reschedule his performance at least twice because of this; eventually coming to the conclusion that the assortment of knives the jester carried on his person were piercing the canisters.  How his physiology bypassed the effects of the fumes was beyond him, but it certainly brought to mind some questions about whether or not he should be involved in any dealings with this other, so-called ‘demon’.         

In 3 minutes, now, the four passengers would finish boarding what would inevitably become a chamber of death; locked away beside the inconspicuous embellishings that at just the right moment would release a concoction of horrible toxins, with a very specific effect.  He could visualize it so clearly in his mind.  Slowly, these unfortunate aristocrats would begin to lose their ability to breath as the chemicals bound to their cells, transformed them, their lungs splintering like tiny shards of glass. They'd gasp and choke for air, but each breath would only bring more pain as the contamination spread into veins and arteries, eventually rupturing skin and kissing away their lips and eyelids with the corrosive fluid that was once their blood eating through soft tissue.

 It was a hideous and painful process that left behind a bubbling mess of flesh and bone, just barely distinguishable as human.  Whoever had luck enough to stumble onto his latest masterpiece wouldn't see this, though-- at least, not at first. Where blood would boil and seep, his magic left streams of gold, and where flesh would tear and melt, delicate roots of wisteria would sprout and spread along the floor of the compartment.  It would be a sight to behold when they actually managed to breach the door, but that would take them quite a fair bit of time to accomplish.  Every facet of his plan had been carefully conducted, right down to the the workings of the machine itself.  By his meddling, the descender would shudder to a halt at the exact spot where it was to cross up into the golden city above-- where those in both cities would be able to marvel at his display.  Threads of magic would unfurl around the spherical machine into illusionary flora that gave it the appearance of a blossoming lotus-- and concealed the gnarled metal cables which would inevitably swallow the cart thanks to the nature of gravity.

 Clad in attire suitable for any other faceless citizen of Zaun, Jhin sneered at the flavorless layers of drearily hued fabrics and simplistic patterns, something he tried to bolster at least a little with choice accessories and one of the numerous protective masks he’d acquired during his time in the city.  By no means was it any kind of substitute for his most beloved facial wear, but he wore the device well, just as one would expect of an astute actor challenging themselves with an unfamiliar role. He had to admit, the abundance of selection when it came to facial wear in Zaun was pretty impressive.

He watched the events of the city below from beyond the panes of an abandoned alcove ascending the walls of the two cities, a delicately crafted telescope at hand.  He’d set up camp there a few hours earlier, beside him a small lantern, a satchel containing extra supplies, two flasks; one water, one alcohol, and a handful of homemade snacks were he to find himself stuck there longer than intended.  Naturally, he kept Whisper at hand, though with no intent of use.  A precautionary instrument, and a source of comfort for the artist, he stroked metal-clad fingertips across her emblem, an invariable and timed motion.  It wasn’t long, now, before the beauty of his craftsmanship would express itself in full for the whole of both cities to marvel.  He could hardly contain his excitement as he heard the soft tick of the pocket watch at his breast, and for a moment, he reluctantly desisted his gun-fondling to tip the telescope up to his line of vision and peer out into the crowded city below.  They were boarding now, each of them, one astutely dressed woman and three...

Two.

One, two. 

Where was the third gentleman who was to board the descender?  Perhaps he’d already entered?  Yes, that must have been it, surely, he hadn’t been watching the entire time, after all, and--

No...

“No.”

  Once, twice, again, again, he scoped across the panels of each window, he stood, he repositioned, he scanned it from every conceivable angle but... There were only three people on board.  He could feel his pulse start to pound in his temples.

One would think that if the sanctity of these individuals lives were of non-importance, than it wasn’t really of any matter if one slipped away, but that sadly just wasn’t the case.  He’d had a very distinct and fixed idea that he’d wanted to convey that night, and while the mechanisms that he’d implemented did indeed seem to be working without a single misstep, it was not what he had arranged.  As the seeds of his creation took root, the artisan barely heard the loud echo of creaking metal beyond the ringing in his ears. He clutched the telescope he’d brought but no longer used it, so tight that the retractable brass slid out of alignment beneath the bow of his fist. 

“This is wrong, this is all wrong!  Where is he?  Where is the Professor?!  I don’t understand, why isn’t he--this can’t be happening to me again.”  

Shambling to bring his now partially dismantled telescope back up to look at the scene that had unfolded, Jhin took little comfort in the suffering of the three who thrashed around in their last ditch effort to cling to life.  Hands trembling, he lowered it once more and forced himself to inhale on the count of 4.  Hold for 8, exhale 4-- a repetition that continued until he had managed to calm himself down enough to at least stop shaking.  This did not mean he was in any way, shape, or form happy about his circumstances, but he couldn’t allow that to control him.  

By the time he looked at his artwork again, everything had fallen into place, and bystanders had started to take notice.  Silent, save for a deep sigh, the maestro prepared his hand canon with an impressive swiftness.  He unlatched the window and rested the muzzle through the slight opening, taking aim at the first person he saw within range down below.  Whisper sang her tune into the unsuspecting courier’s flesh, leaving the woman’s blood and brain matter in a scattering of petals across the cobblestone.  Four.  But not how he’d envisioned.    

“Unacceptable.” he spat to himself, collecting his bearings from the kickback of his canon.  A sneer was hidden behind the sharp contours of his gasmask.

“Uninspired.  Absolute garbage!” As much as he wished to continue berating his own work and breaking things, he knew he couldn’t linger there long.  His improvising had left him vulnerable to discovery, already people were looking to see where that powerful blast had come from, though more were simply trying to find shelter in case the onslaught were to continue.  Collecting most of his things haphazardly, the killer stood and rolled onto his heels towards the tiny passageway he’d found his way through earlier that day.  He had been planning to leave Zaun as soon as he’d accomplished his work anyway, but it’s simultaneous success and failure had ensured his departure.  Once he gathered the seldom few necessities he’d left in a safe space nearby, he’d be out on the next boat.  Siren began screaming in the distance.  

He needed to reassess his work.  He needed to get his inspiration back.  It was time to go home. 

[fuwafuwamedb]

A False Norns (Rin, Cu, Merlin, Sigurd, CasGil, Hakuno, Romani, Gudako)

The room was dark.

Hakuno looked around the room, her body shaking in the cold space. The walls were stone, she could tell that by touch alone. She could sense breathing, hear it just off in the distance, but there was no telling where at.

She moved to stand, finding herself wobbling on her feet.

Reaching down, she winced as her hands came up against roughness. Someone must have tied her up or bound her somehow. Along with that, they hadn’t been gentle about it.

The urge to call out was strong, but…

If the enemy was around, then they would find her. She didn’t need that happening.

“After Kvasir, imagine what the norn will bring us,” a voice murmured softly.

“Shhh, Fjalar. We need to find the one. He cut loose that maiden and ran.”

“He cannot get far, Galar.”

“Shhh,” the second voice bid, “they may be near. The gold hair will help us find them.”

She could see light. With that light, she could also see Caster.

His body was heavily bloodied, his hair was coated in grime. Whatever had happened, it was clear enough that he had risked a great deal. Hakuno moved as quickly and as quietly as she could, grabbing the caster from where he lay.

His breathing was odd.

“Galar-“

“Shhhh.”

The lights were coming closer.

Hakuno looked around, felt around. She could feel an opening in the close distance. She pulled the king with her as best she could, hating the sounds they were making by walking. They had to quieten up somehow. They had to do something.

They could separate.

She could lead the two away from Gilgamesh, down the path further. Gilgamesh could be in this other option, ready to run when he was able.

It was Gilgamesh though. Gilgamesh was too stubborn. He’d follow. He’d risk his life for her again even if it cost him greatly.

What to do…

Her eyes fell to his vest.

She ripped it.

Just a little.

Setting the man down in the tunnel, she moved back into the main area and could see more of the stones and rocks. She let the vest flutter to the ground just inside the next path she could see. She felt her own person, cursing mentally at not having jewelry or something she could lose.

Her shoes though…

She left them in the mud, as though she’d lost them in flight.

Then she rushed back to the tunnel with Gilgamesh, pulling him up against the wall as the light grew bright enough to be clear.

Two small figures moved through the darkness, their torchlight flickering as one of them grinned and nudged at the other.

“They’re this way.”

“Shhhh.”

The creatures moved forward.

The direction they had come would be the best direction for them. This was a cave system ahead of them. If it went deeper, they’d never know. While going the way they had fled wasn’t a great plan, it also meant that there was a chance they could find the surface.

Being outdoors meant a better chance for everyone at Chaldea to locate them.

Gods, and they needed to be located.

She’d never seen Gilgamesh in such a state. When she gained strength, she would need to heal him immediately. His face had been marred. His body was lined with gashes and blood. If they waited any longer, then the two would come back and see a blood stain. They may assume the truth of her plan to lure them onto a false trail.

“Gil,” Hakuno whispered. “Gil, I need you to lean on me and hurry. Can you do that for me?”

Her hands stroked at his face.

“I’m going to get us out.”

Somehow, someway.

Gilgamesh’s eyes weren’t opening though. There was something on them and she didn’t dare touch it right now. Something about the glue like stuff made her shiver.

That came off first.

The torchlight was entirely gone again.

Carefully, Hakuno pulled the king alongside her, bringing him towards the direction that Galar and Fjalar had come. She didn’t know what the two beings were, but they had wronged her king. They had wronged her.

Later, there would be time for vengeance against them.

For now, she just needed Gilgamesh safe.

###

“Romani?”

Gudako held onto the man, looking around room they were in.

Her wrist was aching, her mind fluttering over what she was seeing. If she had had Mash around, then she would have asked, but the room already was creepy enough without the knowledge of what it was for. She could see two vats and a pot nearby, containers of what looked like honey were lined up on the walls.

But… But more importantly, she and Romani had been chained up.

Her chains had been easy enough to remove. Was her one wrist broken? Yes.

Was her other wrist probably at least sprained? Also yes.

Still, she was free from the binds that had been placed on her. She had the chance to hold Romani and held she was doing. There was something over his eyes, a paste or a pus or something. She went to touch it, but something made her pause.

There was something wrong with that stuff. She didn’t know what, but something.

Looking around, Gudako moved carefully. She grabbed for a cloth nearby, bunching it up and wiping at the man’s face.

The paste was actually staining the cloth a different color. There was something wrong with the way it was coming off.

It had to come off though.

Whatever it was, it had to come off.

She moved to the walls again, apologizing and moving to where the jars were.

She needed water.

If he was going to be opening his eyes, then she needed to make sure whatever that pus or paste was got off his face entirely. Until that was done, she wasn’t going to risk anything.

Honey.

Empty.

Honey.

Honey.

She wasn’t sure what the deal was, but she didn’t like the look of the runes and she didn’t like the look of the jars.

Where the hell were her servants.

Gudako lifted her hands, murmuring the command for Caster Cu Chulainn. She needed him at the very least. Cu Alter would have been good though. Maybe Penth or Ushi would have been nice.

Silence met her call. Her command spells were not doing a thing.

And she still needed water for Romani.

Nothing in the room looked like it would have water. She’d checked everything. The only thing left was beneath the floorboards.

Taking a good look at the old wood, Gudako had her doubts about trying that trick.

No magic. The doctor was out.

She needed to plan this out carefully.

First and foremost, they needed to leave this room.

She didn’t need to be an expert to know that a few tables with bindings and the instruments near those jars like ropes and knives were enough of a sign for danger.

“Come on, Romani,” Gudako pulled the man close, patting his back softly. “Come on. We’re going to leave. Don’t open your eyes right now though, alright? Someone put something on them and I really don’t want you getting it into your eyes any more than you are now.”

He looked like he was breathing normally.

At this point, she wasn’t sure about much.

Gudako opened the door slowly, staring into a large room.

The room was filled with jars. Antlers and horns lined the walls. Furs covered the couches. Looking at the expanse of it all, all she could think was death.

There were so many vats and pots.

All of them were bound shut.

“…Romani,” Gudako murmured. “We’re going to be quiet for a while. We’re going to be really quiet.”

“What’s… what’s wrong, Gudako?”

“Nothing’s wrong. I just… I am worried about something becoming wrong. Right now we’re fine. Big room. Lots of weird symbols.”

“Gudako.”

“Totally fine. The symbols are probably just a cultural thing.”

“Gudako-“

“Shhh, it’s fine, Romani. It’s fine.”

“I have rings missing. They’re in a bag. I had them on my person before. Now I don’t feel them.”

“Rings?”

“They’re important.”

They didn’t have time for rings. After they got out of here, she’d get him a whole new bag of rings. She’d get him a barrel, a truckload. What they didn’t need was to be running back-

“Gudako, please…”

The man was moving again, starting to head back towards the direction they’d come.

He wasn’t going to leave without the rings.

“…Don’t move,” Gudako murmured. “Don’t move. Don’t speak. I want you to stay right here.”

She moved back to the other room, searching again in that other room. She didn’t see anything that was showing indications of being a bag of rings. She found more jars. She found more honey. There wasn’t anything that she could see that was what Romani had referred to.

Which meant it might be downstairs or in another room.

Gudako moved quietly, grabbing Romani by the waist.

“Gudako?”

“Keep your eyes shut a little longer,” she murmured. “I didn’t find your bag, but it might be in another room. I’ll find it for you.”

***

Merlin glanced over at her nearby, hesitating.

“Merlin,” Rin crossed her arms. “…Where are Gudako and Hakuno at?”

Merlin hesitated, glancing over to the oddball servant that stood near him. The full mask was in place, the piercing blue gaze starting to creep her out. Whoever he was, she didn’t like this. None of the alarms in Chaldea had been online. In fact, a lot of things in general had been off, including her humidifier in her room.

Waking up against Cu Chulainn with her hair a frizzy and tangled mess was not something that put her in a great mood. Then again, finding that most of the place was silent, with the servants feeling more lethargic than usual was not a great sign.

Gilgamesh Archer had been her first signal that something was wrong. The servant had been in a rage, looking for Hakuno and Caster Gilgamesh. Edmond and Arjuna had been the same way with Gudako, looking around uselessly. She’d gotten the systems back online, but the full reset of the system was going to take time.

“I am sure they are somewhere around here,” Merlin tried to tell her.

The servant nearby stepped forward.

“Are they able to use foresight?”

“Foresight? No. No, they can’t. Merlin and Caster Gilgamesh are the only two I know that have clairvoyance.” Rin glanced to the magician. “Which would be really handy right now for telling me how the hell the entire facility suddenly became offline!”

“He was taken by dwarves,” the stranger told her.

“He what?”

The man moved to sit, setting his blade on the table between them. “They are known as dwarves. The two that I found this man with are known for their talent at making mead.”

“Great. Mead. I don’t care. What the hell does that have to do with-“

The man removed his mask, his glasses needing an adjustment as the blue eyed man looked to her. “They don’t simply make mead, dear woman. They create mead from the blood of special individuals. In my culture, they created the mead of poetry.”

“Mead of poetry?”

“You drink it for wisdom. I believe they may have stolen your friend here in order to create a mead with the capabilities that your friend possesses.”

Rin glanced between them a moment before sitting back.

“Did you see others?”

“I did not check the entire place. Dwarves are clever creatures.”

That would explain Hakuno and Gilgamesh Caster. If Gilgamesh was in danger, Hakuno was very talented at ending up in the midst of his troubles. It wasn’t too much cause for concern. She had dealt with troubles before, including but not limited to the Moon Cell… However…

“Romani and Gudako are missing,” Rin told the two.

“…The doctor?”

“Yes, I went to check his room since he has a thing for Gudako, but the room was badly tossed.” Rin looked over at Cu Lancer, earning a head shake.

No dice in locating them so far.

Merlin groaned, wiping at his face. “Was there a bag in his room?”

“A bag?”

“Little leather one. It should have rings in it.”

Rin just stared, trying to think of what to say to that. Why would she be caring about what the good doctor threw around in his room? Her friends were missing. She had a doctor missing. …And there was Caster Gilgamesh. No real loss there. Just more silence.

“We need to look-“

“You’re not going anywhere!” Rin slammed her hand on the table, scaring the magician into sitting. “Cu Chulainn can check for your ring bag! Tell me why this is making you worried!”

Merlin hesitated.

“I swear to God, I know Hakuno and Gudako are fond of you, but I won’t even hesitate.”

“Rings… They would not be rings of divine capability, would they?” Blue Eyes looked over at Merlin, earning a shake of the head.

“They contain Solomon’s power.”

Solomon…

SOLOMON SOLOMON?

AS IN- THE ASSHOLE BEHIND THESE SINGULARITIES THAT GUDAKO WAS HAVING TO RUN AROUND IN?!

Why the hell would Romani of all people have rings containing that power? Were they new? Why was no one telling her about diminishing that asshole’s power?

Gudako had explaining to do.

As did Romani.

However-

“They must know that Romani is Solomon,” Merlin murmured, looking to Blue Eyes. “Sigurd, we have to go back.”

“HOLD ON!”

The two were standing up, but she sensed Cu Caster a moment before the druid smacked them both into sitting.

It felt good to have a partner set like Cu Chulainn. Even if she didn’t give power to Cu Alter yet.

“Gentlemen,” Rin moved to stand, glaring to them both. “What I’m hearing is that the two of you know where my two friends are. I don’t know what secrets you’re hiding. I don’t really care why you’re hiding them. You’re taking me to save my friends and you’re both going to help me lock that asshole Solomon behind a good steel cage when we’re done rescuing them.”

“We can’t tell you the details around Solomon,” Merlin complained.

“Oh, not to worry.” Rin glanced to Cu Caster, giving him a bright smile. “You see, I’ve learned a great deal about runecraft over my few months being in this place. One of my favorite symbols is fire.”

“I know nothing, but I can take you to where I found this man,” Sigurd told her.

Progress.

Rin pulled out one of her gems and motioned for Sigurd to join her side.

Making a certain idol masquerading magician squeal wouldn’t take long. She just needed to be quick.

[leothelionsaysgrrrr]

So I'm actually torn between Emma and Silver for my favorite OC of yours. Emma has a special place in my heart cus of her dynamic with Oliver, which never fails to give me all the feelings in the world. She has such a unique backstory and I just love her a lot. But then there's Silver, who I fell for almost as soon as I saw him lol. My weakness for pretty men is well known, I think, and he's got that idealist streak I can't help but admire. Plus, I love Tevinter OCs on principle.

THANK YOU :D  Fair warning, I have a lot of feelings about these two so I’m gonna go completely off the rails here!!

I am so GLAD you like Emma’s backstory, and you know I have all kinds of feelings for her and Ollie’s friendship as well :’)  There’s enough difference between them that they don’t 1:1 EXACTLY understand the other’s trauma, but there’s enough similarity in the process of accepting and understanding what’s happened to them that they're uniquely suited to supporting each other, and honestly Emma needs that so much.  Her situation is a good bit muddier than it would be if she’d been made Tranquil by the Chantry, and she’s left with a lot of questions regarding how she’s supposed to feel about what’s happened to her.  How angry is she allowed to be that every formative emotional memory and experience from her childhood and adolescence was stolen from her, essentially murdering the person she would’ve been otherwise, given that the person who caused that didn’t intend any harm and was in fact trying to help her?  Is the person she is now worth having been through that?  Worth less than she would have been if she hadn’t?  Is cured Emma worth more than she was before being cured?  Was she cured, with all the pain and hard work that’s come with it, to honestly help her, or to make others more comfortable with her - to assuage Sala’s guilt over having done this to her in the first place, and Rémy Sparrow’s despair over his beloved daughter not loving him in return?  

It puts her on quite a journey, trying to marry her academic understanding of emotion and connection to others with what she herself thinks things like love and family really mean, learning how to want things for herself (really, how do you answer when someone asks you ‘but what does it mean to want something?’) and recognize and communicate when she does, and dealing with her crippling fear of loss.  In the end, I think the connections she allows herself to make, to her friends, to her LIs (who all highlight and strengthen different areas of growth in her), and how she chooses to relate to her biological father and half-brother as well as her adoptive fathers and her lovers’ families, all of this gives her the support she needs to be successful in that journey, and she’s all the better for it.  It’s incredibly interesting for me to consider her perspective and complications that arise from it, and her quirks are so much fun to figure out, too.  I’m so glad you like her :) <3

Silver under the cut ;)

and SILVER.  This man.  Oh my god.  I feel like I yell about him all the time, but I DON’T I just rave at @lavellanlove about him until kingdom come and don’t say ANYTHING in public, HAHA.  But like, I know I gave him an unreasonably pretty face, but there’s SO MUCH MORE about him that makes him really, really stiff competition for Lux for my Favest Fave.  He’s so incredibly generous and kind with all of himself and everything he has, to anyone who needs it, but is also a snarky, petty little shit.  He LIVES for this sweet dessert that is basically loukoumades but is otherwise super picky about eating well.  He believes intensely in body positivity and would never consider someone unattractive based on how they look.  He identifies as a man, but his gender expression is kind of all over the place and he doesn’t see any reason for it to be otherwise; he dresses the way he likes, regardless of whether his choices are considered traditionally ‘masculine’ or ‘feminine’.  He knows he’s hot, and he’s vain af about it.  He thinks magic and mages are trite and boring, but he uses subtle blood magic to do what’s more or less Jedi mind tricks to de-escalate tense situations - make people reconsider attacking his people or fail to notice them at all, that sort of thing - fueled only by a finger prick’s amount of his own blood, never anyone else’s, and never more than that because he’s squeamish as all hell and can’t stand the sight of much more than that.  He doesn’t know how to fight and doesn’t want to learn because he genuinely doesn’t want to hurt people, even if they pretty objectively deserve it.  He does things that are super brave even though he’s scared as fuck to do them, like standing up to defend others from rude patrons, his secret work to smuggle escaped slaves out of the Imperium, and accepting a seat on the Magisterium knowing he could make a huge difference there despite also knowing it puts a huge target on his back, and feels guilty about being scared and hesitant.  He’s privileged and he knows it, and he uses it to the advantage of those who aren’t rather than himself.  He has his own struggles dealing with his past and his family, his own grief and losses, and has a strong tendency to try to deal with all of that himself despite having lots of people who’d gladly help if they’d let him.  I’m not even going to get started on his relationship with Emma which is so interesting to me because how do you navigate meeting an adult sibling???  Especially when your adult sibling is HER and you’ve spent your whole life wanting siblings and now you somehow have to establish a relationship with someone whose reaction is ‘but why?’ that’s supposed to have been cultivated over your entire lives in a couple years??  And all of this from a character who was supposed to be a one-off mention in TSU and nothing else.  I love him so much, thanks for loving him too :)

[fistsoflightning]

14: hero’s journey

prompt: part || masterpost || other fills || ao3 mirror

word count: 4813 (i DONT want to talk about how long this is)

You are not simply a hero, but this is still your journey, and the parts of you are waiting along the way. All you have to do is take them.

DRK shenanigans, anyone? Note: distinctly not canon-DRK things ahead, hopefully still keeping the same emotional sort of weight? Also, second person POV! There’s no spoilers because this is just me going off on a tangent :P

Someone had noted—an age old teacher, perhaps, memories inlaid deep onto your crystal—that grief causes the greatest oddities to occur. Simulacrums formed of it weren’t so uncommon as one might be led to believe with a surplus of aether and enough love turned sour.

You just weren’t expecting to be one of them.

Like wildfires, you expect to fade back into the darkness of the abyss easily enough; the hands of such a young knight wouldn’t be able to bear being stained so pitch-black, you think, not when she glows with Halone’s blessing and something even more. Her hands leave freezer burns over the facets of your crystal, frosty fog forming as she keeps training, keeps hunting down more and more aevis until there’s nothing left. Even Ishgard’s worst blizzards fail to stand up against the winter storm of her fury.

Must be some sort of rebellion, violent and reckless as it is. You sit back (as much as a distant flame in the abyss can, anywho) and wait until the worst of her temper fizzles back into snowmelt—which, obviously, doesn’t happen like you assumed, otherwise you wouldn’t be here, now would you?

(When you hear the truth of it, crystal fed enough blood and aether to reach out further than just from the little knight’s pockets—when you hear betrayals and exiles and my brother is dead because of your Braves, Alphinaud, what more do you want from me, your realization shows itself in coldflare and dark light, wrapping itself as best it can around someone so blessed and “loved by the gods” as your ward.

Though you need her more than she needs you, it still doesn’t hurt, you think, to cover her armor in a veil of darkness, even when her shield sings of nevermelting ice and wraps light around her anyways.)

But eventually, it does; Lumelle—you find out her name from a man willing to jump in front of inquisitors and magical spears alike for his beloved friends—her enraged grief bubbles off into a quieter sort at the beginning of Ishgard’s new dawn, and you are left by her bedside when she falls into a sleep after destroying a wyrm with grief that, really, wasn’t all that different. (Besides the whole eternal lifespan and eyeballs of power, and the wyrm’s sibling being eaten by Lumelle’s ancestors thing. That had thrown you for a loop.)

And oh, you expect it to end there, your tale that of accompanying a girl who didn’t need you so much as she needed closure; fading after protecting someone so bright would be an honor.

...

(But there is no rest for the righteous, now is there?)

...

Your next chapter opens in the palms of someone already acquainted with bloody hands, and though the little time spent out of Lumelle’s hands has left you wanting for your senses yet again, it takes hardly any time to figure just what this one’s deal is. 

(Her hands shake whenever she sees her party’s astrologian—so small, her head is practically the size of your ward’s fist balled up—and the thought of Vylbrand sours every conversation like milk left to rot. Y’shtola utters the word crone and the spike of earthquake panic you both feel lets you understand the jumble of misremembered nightmares that still haunts the warrior so far north from the place.

When she almost drowns herself in the memories, asking the sea to take her back into her arms, you are the one screaming the entire time—not because she is taking you with her, no, but because you can feel the summer breeze and hear the quiet pond rushing about the housing district looking for her, and you do not know what you’ll do if her death reignites Lumelle’s tempered anger.

The scholar cries out her name just as she falls too deep; Syhrwyda, you remember—you’ll force her name onto this damned crystal if you have to—and the breath of relief you sigh when the white mage forces the ocean to spit her out is all but audible.)

You expect her to let the little supernova cut her down, cleanse burns with blood and old aches with a trip into the abyss, because if Lumelle’s aches were screaming freezer burns then the gentle warrior’s are a quiet erosion. Even dripping blood can wear down a mountain, with enough time, and with a Calamity come and passed, the proof burned onto her skin, it is more than enough to see this mighty willow fallen to the skies opening up and pouring a tsunami’s worth of suffering in retribution.

Both you and her close your eyes when the axe comes swinging down, kneeling on the ground in pain. You do not expect it to be swift or painless like the rumors say of guillotines and execution, but you hope it is anyways.

And yet, and yet, the blade does not come.

(Part of you wonders: would the girl shrouded in fallen moonlight have done the same thing, if she had seen what Syhrwyda had seen? Would she, knowing that the choice was submission or death, have still seen her friend and ally in the woman that burnt her childhood with naught but a single incantation?

It matters not. There is no turning back time, and she has decided to give her friend a boon.)

It is not metal that comes, but a flurry of stars calling a lost sailor home instead, so potent that her magic seeps into your crystal as she collapses against your ward’s shoulder, whispering I’m sorry, I can’t, I won’t like little wishes made upon falling stars. You don’t know if you imagined the croaked it isn’t your fault or if you simply missed the mumbled movements, but Syhrwyda’s aether settles in time with the stars bursting across her skin and you know that your time with her will come to an end soon.

When she sets your crystal by a small crystalline lamp, you hum in amusement, letting yourself slip down into the abyss once more as the watery blue light ripples off the bookshelves.

…

(Who are you?)

(No one of consequence.)

…

You find yourself more confused than before when the scholar picks up your small crystal, facets gleaming brighter than before but still dulled from decades of being frozen under Ishgard’s snows; nothing about him sings of the same pain like the last two. He pockets your crystal easily and you wonder just what use he’ll find from you if he has no abyss of his own to draw from, no font to gather his strength for him to find.

(You miss how quiet he is in the din of everyone and everything else, tuned up to near painful when you open your eyes again. You miss the words he reads, the spells he crafts, the spared glances to his usual tome. Nothing about the man betrays it; hardly anything he does seems to suggest even a hint of regret, grief long since frozen over and forgotten of a home he’d long lost.

This was never an easy road—traveling down into the abyss and to rise back up again—and you do not expect easy wards, but the scholar—)

Even deadly waters can be calm at the surface, deceiving depths holding something stronger, and when he rises to meet the Illuminati and the (not their) primal, you start to see the signs of something lurking in the water and strain to open your eyes, drained as you are so close to Alexander. 

(You should have noticed how he balked away from poisons, preferring to sit far away from the rogue; you should have felt the gentle ripple when Mide mentioned Alexander’s purpose and wondered more.

It is too late for regrets, but it is not too late to stop this man, whose hands are too gentle and weary, from falling further into something he did not truly want.)

Are you daft, you whisper, and it’s not the best thing you’ve ever come up with but it’s the first words you’ve truly spoken to be heard. Like the rest, you expect your words to fall on deaf ears—stubborn people, the ones that have found you—but this time the scholar stops. Lingers, the precipice of a typhoon brewing up from the bottom of his soul. Do you truly think this will work?

“Not completely,” he says, his voice a quiet rumble as his small carbuncle shimmers and shakes its way into existence; part of you wishes you were strong enough to do the same just so you could shake the fluff out of this man’s brain to where it belongs. “But it might, and even the smallest chance...”

What of your friends today?

You don’t know what you expected, really; the scholar clams up and so do you, a connection cleaved in two as he walks away from the hand of the giant primal, stone in hand, and you are too exhausted to try and pry his heart open wider. Convincing him to let it all spill forth is harder than convincing a rock to move on its own, so you don’t try.

This time, when you fall back asleep atop a book with a soft leather cover, you desperately hope this is the end of it.

…

(Did you know them, too? Did they lead you to me?)

(In a way, yes.)

(Then you can stay, for now. Just… keep quiet.)

…

And of course, it never is.

It’s hard to describe your next awakening as anything but a bolt of lightning straight to your center, with how much aether rushes through your crystal and into the abyss. Too fast, too quick, like a flame burning too hot too soon. From freezing to the fiery depths of hell, you think incredulously as you reach out, looking to just who might be so dangerously close to tipping too far.

You don’t expect to find the timid white mage staring down at your soul crystal, red eyes and all.

(In a way, perhaps you should have known it would happen; the man was too damned reserved, all flower petals and no bark, the look in his eyes when he saw someone injured too intense for simple worry. He hates bloodshed yet makes his career in it all the same, and you’ve been held by Lumelle so tightly that you felt his magic—summer’s night bottled into a cure, blooming flowers pressed over scars, and you think nothing could be kinder than the way he loves.

Shame that you forgot that sometimes kindness is forged in the abyss.)

You’re sure he doesn’t mean to keep your crystal at all—hells, he sets it at the bottom of his satchel before he goes running off to join the fray in the same place that nearly killed him, the damned martyr—but you get taken with him regardless, and you see just how badly he’s dealt with it all. You don’t retort as snarkily as you might have with Duscha; your current ward is like paper thin glass, and you worry that if you push him he might break into pieces so small not even the sun’s light could find him.

In fact, you’re not sure what will happen if you make yourself known at all. He doesn’t seem strong enough to handle the idea that his guilt is making a simulacrum manifest.

(If you truly wanted, you could make him a fine dark knight. Teach him how to take his love and turn it into strength and protection stronger than anything the realm’s elements might give him, no matter how loved he is by them. Stain this white mage in dark.

But you see his dreams, sometimes—you never had found your way into dreams before, but with someone practically bleeding their life aether onto you, a simulacrum fueled by memories and pain, it’s hard not to have new experiences—and his hands are always coated in blood. His own, someone else’s, his mother’s, his father’s…

You choose not to take him through the abyss. You don’t want to know if he’ll still be there when you walk out.)

Finding someone that might be able to help someone who very stubbornly doesn’t want help is… a lot harder than intended. There’s not too many people… happy, with your ward; not after Baelsar’s Wall, and the man that Lumelle sent flying. You faintly remember a name—Caelestis, or something—but you care little for details and more for solutions, so you keep peering outwards and looking as best you can without fully peering into their heads.

That is, until that someone comes running at the white mage like a teal tulip some sylph chucked at you with the force of a demon.

(He introduces himself to everyone as Haruki, but you can’t help but call him Ruki after one too many trips into A’dewah’s head—Dewah, he says, and you don’t know much about Seeker names but you know that it means more to your ward than it does to anyone else—and you think you can get him to help, even if A’dewah himself is trying to avoid him like the plague. 

Especially because he’s avoiding Haruki like he’ll die if he doesn’t.)

It takes a few minor illusions and a trip to the Steppe (you didn’t know how to do these before A’dewah, you think as you practically lead a trail of hints from the Enclave to the tree A’dewah’s stuck himself in) but Haruki’s always been smarter than he might look (you still can’t get over the peacock feather of a mess his hair is) and eventually, eventually, your plan comes to fruition.

You don’t try to listen when they talk, but the rush of relief in A’dewah’s aether and the slow transition of summer bottled up tight enough to crack glass to the light warmth of, say, a greenhouse in full bloom tells you all you need to know, anyways.

(Doma is freed, soon after, and the Warriors are called back home, to Ala Mhigo’s war, but you look one last time out to Doma and see the last moments of A’dewah’s goodbyes, and of course it’s Haruki he tells last. His eyes burn like a solar eclipse, and you think if it weren’t for his son—so small and brave, callouses already on his fingers—he’d come back with you.

You think it might be puppy love, somehow, but you take one last look at what you know and think that maybe he’s just tired of being left behind, of being the last one. Might be love, might be wanderlust.

It doesn’t matter. You still have to leave, even if it hurts.)

On the ship’s journey back through the Sirensong Sea, A’dewah finally acknowledges you, in a way.

“Thank you,” he murmurs to no one in particular as he ties up his hair tighter. His eyes aren’t reddened from crying anymore—just the unfortunate lot of his mother’s eyes being blood red by nature—and you think you can rest, now.

So you do.

…

(Don’t you understand to call for help?)

(I can manage.)

(So sayeth the Weapon of Light.)

…

From one firebrand of a caster to another, you think as your crystal gets put into Valdis’ open palms—you learn her name early, this time, instead of just before the climax of the story—and though her aether is quiet you know well enough that it doesn’t mean there’s nothing hiding behind it.

(It’s the same sort of longing for something long past, you remember. Duscha’s aether had a similar balance to hers, even if Valdis is mostly umbral shade and hardly a hint of water among the flames she pulls into form. Where Duscha was restrained she is explosive, and you don’t need to look too hard to find the root of the issue.

The thing is: you’re too exhausted.)

You’re lucky she doesn’t fight closer to the front line, like Lumelle or Syhrwyda, because you can hardly summon a shadow at this point—perhaps you were played the fool by A’dewah’s tears into doing too much, not saving enough.

But then you look at Valdis and think she might be fine on her own, eyes still lit up and hopeful. Spitfire in her hair and embers in her eyes, already burning like a flame that knows how to rise from her ashes already.

There’s something to be said about youth, maybe, and you sigh as you close your eyes and hope to wake when she needs you.

(The thing is: she doesn’t need to.)

…

(... Hmph.)

(If you’re expecting an apology, you’re getting none from me.)

(I do not need—)

…

Your next venture leads you into the hands of someone so astrally aspected you don’t know if you can even summon the strength to peer outwards. Their aether and yours conflicts so greatly that it’s hard to tell if the abyss is flaring up or dying down, really, but you try regardless.

You will eternally be glad you do not have a face, because the pure shock when the face you see is one that was supposed to be long dead is not a face you’d ever like to see.

Lumelle had been your catalyst, and the little machinist before you the cause; you didn’t think he’d survived, somehow, even if you saw the monk that supposedly fell with him. He’s brighter than you’d thought he’d ever be, as close to the abyss as his sister was, and then you realize—

He truly doesn’t need you. His eyes still gleam on their own, not shrouded by something buried deep. If Duscha’s abyss was well hidden enough for you to mistake it, there can be no mistake here.

When he keeps your crystal close, anyways, you close your eyes again, thinking that perhaps this time you won’t be needed like before.

And for the most part; he doesn’t.

(There are times, surely, when a speck of darkness flickers into the light that fills his aether, but you hardly need to look at it to tell it’s over something silly. A flame that will flicker out soon enough. You don’t lift a finger over that.)

In a way, his hands are a restless reprieve. You cannot sleep, truly, because if you do you don’t want to know how much your crystal’s facets will fade, but there is nothing for you here, either.

So. You watch.

…

(But. Don’t you want?)

(I already want enough. I can get by.)

(Doesn’t mean you should.)

…

The rogue plucks your crystal from Elwin’s bag, a shadow in the night, and you hardly realize the change until you’re set by a pack of crystals. You nearly think to panic—what disaster do you have to reconcile now, tired as you are—but then the rogue whispers like he already knows.

(Maybe he does. Every rogue you’ve seen through other eyes has always been a bit sharper than they make themselves to be.)

“Take a breather,” he hums, flipping his daggers in the air and watching them glint in the dim moonlight. You think you might know his name, uttered once or twice in passing, but you’ve hardly begun to rest from your time in Elwin’s bright hands and aether that it’s slipped you by once or twice already. “Ye’ve helped us out. ‘S high time we pay back, hm?”

I do not do this for payment, you sigh, but his aether is the easiest of them all, really, more comfortable than even Valdis’ despite the light chill of it. He doesn’t respond, merely whistling as he walks along the metal pathway—Garlean territory, and he’s so calmly strolling through it?

You don’t choose to rest, even though you could, and keep an eye on the man anyways.

(It’s worth the trouble, you think when you shroud him in shadows, narrowly avoiding the gaze of some wisened soldier who knows the tricks of the trade. Even if nothing’s gained in return.)

…

(They’re...gone. They’re gone, gone, what do I do now—)

(Breathe. You’ll find them again. You always do.)

(But what if I can’t this time? What if I find them only to lose them?)

(You won’t.)

(How can you be sure?)

(Because you want to find them. I’m still here, aren’t I?)

…

There isn’t so much of a rest between leaving Tehra’ir’s palms and falling into the monk’s own, really; not when the rogue collapses alongside Valdis and the man with the eyepatch after some reverberating call that shook even you, incorporeal as you are. If you’d a physical form, the pain behind your eyes would be overwhelming; the sensation of being ripped from one’s body must be horrible, but even more so being torn from the very aether that keeps you.

Either way, the Elder Seedseer drops your crystal into their hands when she comes from the infirmary with a grim look on her face.There is something so familiar about this new bearer, aether so tempestuous and yet… calm. Leaving you contented and wanting all at once.

You don’t know what use you might be to them, either, but if you belonged in the hands of your past seven bearers then you are at home in theirs, lightning crackling from their skin to your crystal’s surface with great ease, for two non-metallic things.

(There is nothing I can do, the Seedseer murmurs and the sharp ache that immediately takes over the dull pain in their head echoes to you and oh, you understand more than ever now what you must help resolve, head spinning as the abyss flares and rages around you.)

You are there for everything after; when they flee to the Steppe, when they hole up in the empty house, when they take Ochir and fly across the mountains until Lunya calls them back home. Your crystal is usually hidden away in their pocket, safe in the leather pouch and buttoned into the cloth of their pants, and never once do you feel ignored, sitting in mutual silence. There’s nothing to be said, really, because their loss is just as much yours.

Both of you grin when you finally, finally make it past the gates into the First despite the horrid circumstances you have been brought to resolve, because it brings you both one step closer to finding them again.

(At first, you think they’ll be just fine without you, that you might be prudent to fall back dormant once more in face of the terribly draining light. At first, it seems like the others might just be a day’s journey away. The Exarch may be hiding things, but if the Scions are scattered then so too are the wayward Warriors; nothing so difficult as pulling souls back across the rift, yet.

Hah. When has anything ever been so simple?)

The journey is the hardest it’s been out of your eight travels, really; whether it be from the Light or from the constant confusion and grief that they struggle to pull from you do not know, and you keep your eyes open when they cannot—especially after Malikah’s Well.

(You are not the one fighting—never have been, even on that odd occasion that you’ve been able to force your way out of the abyss—but in Eulmore you see the flying eater’s wings seconds before they come crashing down on your bearer’s back with talons and when you reach out, for whatever banal reason, it is not darkness that springs forth.

At first, you think it a trick of the Light, because the last time you saw this shield it was back when you were still convinced you were ephemeral, but the next time you reach forth your ward’s wounds are healed in a burst of crystalline lilies.

You are not so stupid as to think this is your own strength, but they have not been with you for so long that you can’t tell what else it could be, what could be more than the others you have traveled with. 

Oh, how blind you were.)

Here, down in Amaurot, it’s harder than ever on them but the easiest it’s been for you, and when they start slipping you have to drag them back to their heels again, lest the Light breaks free and both of you end up dead. You don’t have anything else to give—you do not have Lumelle or Syhrwyda’s inhuman strength or the healer’s prowess of A’dewah or Duscha, too incorporeal to give support like Tehra’ir or Elwin and too loud to stay as quiet as Valdis—but you are there and that has to be enough.

(If Zaya themselves is not whole enough to be worthy in that Ascian’s eyes, then you will find the missing parts that make them whole and bring them home, because in your eyes there is nothing more than them and the little family you’ve somehow managed to pass through like a hand-me-down, and if you and the friends that remain are not enough to guide them through Hades’ abyss then one of them will be.

And the funny thing is; you do, because the missing parts of their soul were the storm in you.)

The final days of Amaurot are harrowing; you are there when Zaya nearly falls to a bird demon, of all things, and you are there when the tempest of aether above a simulacrum of Emet-Selch’s world nearly shatters you into a million stars. It is less you taking the reins and more you standing by their side, the shadow in the light of falling stars that pushes forward when they cannot.

You think Ryne and Y’shtola can see you, can see the glow of seven crystals at Zaya’s side, but it matters not when Emet-Selch still refuses to take reprieve of the abyss and see the merits of something different from what he knows; all that does is that you are by their side, a shade in a city of simulacrums.

(How funny is it, that in his grief Hades dipped into the abyss just as Zaya did in theirs?)

You don’t remember much of what happens afterwards. There is a blur of light, a man’s voice—seven voices you recognize as the abyss flares and takes you back, because there is no space left here for darkness, not now. You expect to die, somehow, because you’d been fighting for so long in a place that threatened to swallow you whole and keep you there even if you followed Zaya resolutely, Hades taking you in his grasp and shattering you just to prove that they are nothing.

There’s a moment of clarity—when dark overtakes light once more—and you take the chance to stretch yourself out, to cover as many people as you can tell are here because Hades’ claws glow with something terrible and you will not lose anyone now, not when you’ve found yourself in them. Even Urianger, even Alphinaud, even Thancred, who is yalms and yalms away from Zaya—all of them have become too precious to lose, too beloved to let be harmed, and if Hades’ form is large then you will become the event horizon that swallows him.

(If you disappear here, it will be worth it—you have served your purpose as a shield, gouged on aether and memories as you are, and if you can give them even a moment more the price of your existence, as much of a simulacrum as you were, it would have been worth the trouble. 

If Hades wins you don’t know what you’ll do.)

But he loses. He loses, and you go home as small of a flame as you were when your journeys began.

And when all is said and done, your crystal ends up on a necklace of thin chain and leather, held close to Zaya’s breast. Dark lightning crackles over the shining facets, finally polished to its prime like it was all those years ago when your last owner died; even then, you don’t know if you can ever come back again, really, exhausted and drained and frayed as you are.

It matters little, those ifs and maybes.

(“No matter where you go,” the gunbreaker says, and you can feel Zaya’s soul warm, cracked as it is—or maybe that’s yours, feeling a bit like your own promises are being voiced through his. Ardbert, the bloke, smiles from behind you, and the little part of you that knows exactly how you and he are similar grins wildly. “I will be there, guarding your back.”)

When they need you next to pull them from the blackest of nights, you’ll be there to see the beautiful dawn they bring in return. There is nowhere else for you to go.

…

(I’ll have to leave soon. Heroes don’t stay, you know.)

(Well, you do.)

…

From the depths of the crystal, a quiet light shimmers brightly, and you are reminded of home...

Action learned: The Brightest Dawn.

[the-house-of-the-nine]

In Mind of Misery: Might

[ I wrote this scene to bridge between the gaps of our guild RP story and some loose ends I felt needed to be addressed.  This takes place directly after Reflections: Part 5.  Lazarius has gone to say goodbye to his daughter, but Marseille is off to collect someone for questioning.   I hope everyone enjoys this little solo story.]

“Some loose ends to deal with. . .” 

The final words of the ancient elf guardian as he exited out of the Grand Library where the official meeting had taken place.  More unofficially was the look granted to him by his esteemed Inquisitor. 

Marseille knew that look; it was one of silent action to be taken.  Something he and his master had practiced for countless months.  Their time together since the day he was collected had been near infinite.  Lazarius had taken the much older elf under his wing and groomed him; much like he had been groomed by his former Mistress. 

When Pyravari had discovered the mad elf in Suramar only days after the shielded veil was lifted, he was completely gone.  He had lost all he had, given up on life, had taken to body augmentation through arcane runes and manipulated the arcane energy within his blood.  Marseille was all but ready to kill or be killed when he was finally freed from the prison he’d placed himself in.

But rather than kill him outright, the Harbinger spared him, seeing promise in his talent as a bladesman, and also as a gift to her brother.  Lazarius spent weeks mending the damaged psyche of the Shal’dorei; time that would have been spent better elsewhere as far as he was concerned, but try as he might to resist him it was to no avail.  Lazarius managed to break through, begin mending the damage and in the end; freed the ancient elf from the madness he’d slipped into.

The life debt was something he took very seriously; and despite their connections to the Old Gods at the time, and the horrific things he’d come to learn they had done in the past, Marseille refused to abandon them.  He could see past it; and did, because to him it was far more important to repay the man and his kin who’d saved him from the haunting spirits of his own.

That look though; he knew what it meant.  Lazarius and him shared a very well in tune bond that was less telepathic and more cued upon expression.  But this time, the voice of his Master would creep effortlessly into his mind as he exited the Library with Verzatea on their way to tuck their daughter in, and share a bit of time together before the pack departed.

“The goblin has returned, unannounced, and Koltun has clarified his missing whereabouts.  Something does not sit right; if he is crossing the order, he will pay and I will discover the truth.  See to it he knows I am displeased with such careless action, and ensure he is held in our finest interrogation room. I will deal with him when we return...”

Krazzlowe the Goblin Slave Baron had just recently returned from Silithus mysteriously and without any type of announcement.  This was not only unorthodox but also unnerving.  Lazarius felt only the slightest shiver across his cold flesh when the talisman he’d given the creature was activated.  He knew he’d returned.

With Koltun needing to walk back, and the goblin being able to instantly transfer himself here; it was all very curious.  Lazarius had given strict orders to everyone not to use their Talismans during this time.  NZoth and the agents that served it could sense the artifacts; giving off any type of magical signature was like inviting them into the Bastille. The main reason why their current quest to rid him of the unsightly eye was meant to be completely stealthed and without any use of power.  And another reason why Lazarius was not pleased.  Perhaps they’d gotten lucky this time, but he would not risk a second.

Just weeks prior. . . .

Krazzlowe sat on a large yacht just off the coast of Tanaris; sun bathing in the warmth of the desert sky, a dry air running over his now liberally greased sap green skin.  Two other goblin females were dotting over the portly Baron as he sipped from a small umbrella drink and enjoyed the leisure's of his relaxation.

The bikini clad women were rubbing his shoulders and feet; as disgustingly awful as they were, but they were in no place to protest; slaves did as they were told, especially with explosives strapped to their necks.  Yes, goblins took extreme precautions.

“Ill tell ya Rodney, this is the life. . .”  Krazzlowe said slurping up his fruity cocktail through a straw inserted in a coconut.

“Ya really got a sweet set up here, a fella could get used tah dis.”

Rodney was the owner of this sea fairing mansion, another “Baron” no doubt who was self proclaimed just like Krazzlowe.  The two of them were more or less ‘friends’ but in the long run neither really trusted the other.

“Well don’t. . .” Rodney replied as he lowered his own sunglasses and peered across the deck to the other goblin lounging in his chair.

“You promised two shipments a month, you’re late Morty.  Been late for the last few months, what happened to our deal?”

The use of his actual first name caused the snide, and robust baron to slowly roll himself in the direction of his accuser.  His long fat nose turning upward in disgust at the claims that he had not lived up to his part of the agreement.

“Look, I told ya, since the end of the War everything has gone to shit.  You gonna go set somethin’ on fire? How about the Exodar, blame the fuckin’ Horde for that, get us back into a war. You start the son-of-a-bitch back up and I’ll have you three shipments a week.” 

Krazzlowe all but kicked the girl rubbing his feet away as he struggled to sit upright; it wasn't easy being as round as he was not to mention greasy from the tanning oil.

Rodney peered toward him in disgust; he knew he was right but still, he wouldn't admit it.

“And another thing.  Where do you get off?”

Krazzlowe barked.

“You swore up and down you could move the Azerite faster than I could get it.  Well guess what Mac, I checked ya hull, and the ledger. . .you’re sittin’ on enough to last a whole year.  The Horde aint buyin’ and the Alliance aint dealin.  So you tell me, Asshole. . .who dah fuck’s gonna buy dis shit now?  I aint got my cut yet, so I would say we’re dead-nuts-even. Wouldn’t you Rodney”

Both goblins sat there peering at one another on the deck of the yacht.  It was silent, both of the slaver girls had pulled themselves back against the railing now, waiting to see what would happen.  Their glowing azure eyes fixated on their Master as he was fixated on Krazzlowe.

Rodney turned first and scoffed at his partner, the smaller and much more attractive; if you could call either of them that, of the goblins backing down.

“Dats what I thought. . .”  Krazzlowe continued and slowly lowered himself back into his chair.

“Get me anotha one of these fruity mixers, toots, and you. . .how about a bit more on the arches, dem bunions aint gonna rub demselves!”

Rodney was sickened by the vagrant use of his two favorite women, but then again he was clearly out maneuvered by his partner.  Krazzlowe was no dummy, and certainly not without his own set of skills that caused him to be formidable opponent.

“Yep. . .dis is dah life, doesn’t get much bett--” 

The sound of a large bug swooping forward caused the goblin to cut off from his speaking and flip his shades.  Krazzlowe peered around, it was as if a small bird had just whizzed right past them. 

He noticed now that the sun had almost entirely been shaded, like a massive cloud had passed in front of it, but it was a cloudless day.  It looked like a large swarm of. . .

“What dah fu--”

A large flying Aqir slapped right against the fat little goblins chest; stuck to his tanning oil and grease.  He screamed, the Silithid screamed, both of the slaver girls screamed and Rodney shot up.

“For the love of all that is combustible its a fuc--” 

Rodney was then scooped up by a much larger, and much more terrifying Silithid that swooped down and plucked him off of his lounge chair like a raptor snatching up a rabbit from the sky. 

Both girls now screamed even more as their master was taken away, and Krazzlowe tumbled out onto the deck with the creature now successfully swiped from his greasy body.

“RODNEY!”  Krazzlowe shouted as he peered up to see the Silithid flying over the open ocean.  It was about fifty feet in the air and climbing upward.

In the sky above them there was a massive swarm that had blacked out the sun.  The sound of their humming now reached the ears of the baron as he peered up at Rodney being taken. “You still owe me money!”

And then, he was dropped.  Like a stone heading toward the ocean.  Whether or not he managed to survive the fall was uncertain.  But after the slap against the surface of the water vibrated across his ear drums, the goblin would scoff and finalize his decision.

“Welp. . .looks like we’re even.”  He chuckled, grabbing his partners sunglasses that had fallen on the deck before he had been taken and replacing his own.

He whistled casually as he headed below deck in pursuit of the women, but not before noticing that in the distance, Silithus was most likely overrun.  Oh well, looks like the deal is done.  Better head on back and collect what he could and just sit on this little goldmine until a more opportune moment came about.

Back in the Bastille. . .

A frantic and fevered search began when the Goblin tore through the veil of space and time and entered through a broom closet on one of the lower floors.  Not where he had expected to land, but then again he was not exactly one of the most welcome guests even today.  He tumbled out onto the saronite floor and immediately hopped up onto his feet with a panicked look in his eyes.

It was by convenience that Lazarius; out of trust, would have given the goblin a talisman to allow him to come back when needed.  Especially on times when he was summoned by the High Inquisitor for reports about the mining operation in SIlithus; and also whenever Lazarius requested.

“Where is it. . .where is it, dammit I hate this fuckin’ place.”  the goblin snarled as he began opening doors and checking for whatever he could in the hall that was presented to him.

He was looking for the area that he had stashed all of his paperwork and belongings before heading off to Silithus to begin the Azerite operation.  This was about the time when the sword was plunged into the planet and both factions began scrambling to the site.  Krazzlowe had ensured nothing of his own would be lost while he was away and stashed everything he needed here in a room given to him by the dark lord.  But where was the room.

As he turned the corner, the short; though taller than most, goblin was face to face with a most unpleasant welcoming party.  The blunt side of Marseille’s hatchet forcefully kissed his orbital bone over his left eye and the cheek that was directly below that.  It shattered the cartridge of his nose causing a burst of crimson to spray outward and begin flowing steadily down his upper lip and chin.  The goblin was immediately floored. 

He was almost unconscious but damned if he would be knocked out.  Goblins had extremely thick skulls, and they were often known to take a good beating.  But this was cruel and unusual punishment, the use of the weapon could have easily killed him had the elf flipped it around and used the sharpened end.

“Your Inquisitor has decreed that you are hereby relieved of your services as coordinator of the Silithus operation, Baron Krazzlowe.”  the ancient elf proclaimed as he grabbed hold of the blood soaked creature by its ankle and slowly began arranging him for transport. “Henceforth, you will be given a new assignment and stationed much closer to home for observation. . .”

Krazzlowe was nearly in another plain of existence at this point, and his smashed face was making it hard for him to talk at the moment.  He was trying to fight off being taken but he was far too injured to even attempt it.  He just barely understood what this meant, his clouded mind absorbing the hidden meaning of the shades words.  Lazarius knew.

The goblin began to stir and groan as he was more or less unaware what had happened, but the shock was starting to wear down.  He’d just been busted wide open.  The strike had caused a large deal of blood to splatter across the old elf and he would remark as he began to collect his prize.

Marseille wiped his left hand across his right shoulder and down his arm, it had stained his beautiful pastel grey blue skin.  The streaks of crimson would drip across his shoulder, down his elbow and wrist, but also managed to stain his throat and ribcage.  Luckily he did not wear a shirt most times.

“I’ll need to wash this off before I leave. . . most generous of you Baron.”  he stated crassly while the goblins feet were joined to make it much easier to pull him.

Marseille dragged him along the cold, saronite floor.  Down stairwells and through doorways that would have caused even more trauma for the little goblin.  It was not long after the first or second bump that the goblin had blacked out completely due to the head injury.

He only awoke some time later when the door of his cell was being slammed shut.  He would peer around while coming to his senses, and slowly folded over and rolled off onto the floor. “*No!*” He managed to scream out just barely

Marseille was already walking away, his attention elsewhere.  He had planned to stop and visit with Siida-Ray before departing with the rest of them for the Ghostlands.  The goblin was where he needed to be; and at this point he did not care what was being said.  Krazzlowe was considered a prisoner now. And as the footsteps of the elf echoed in the hall, the goblin plead for his case.

“Ya dont understand, its gone! Its all gone! Somebody get me outta here! I didn’t do nothin’.  I just want whats mine! Hello! Somebody!”

The echoed screams of the little battered goblin danced down the hallway like a brilliant acrobat performing for their audience.  But unlike such a marvelous affair, not a single ear would be pulled in the direction of the pleading goblin.  And he would remain down there until such a time as Lazarius saw fit to interrogate him.

“You are makin’ a mistake! Its all gone! The site, the people. . .It wasnt my fault! Wait! Com. . .Come on!”

But his words fell on deaf ears, not a soul cared, and not a single soul would come to his rescue.  But as he sat there in the darkness, the silence began to tease his mind, a strange humming sound came from the floors above, a faint heart beat, a curious tone.  The goblin curled up against the back corner of his cage and whimpered, truly his greed had now cost him his life.  He had no hope of savior in this place.

@siidaraykashebahl​

@frompage112​

@whatadarkbitch​

@zandalaridruidofgonk​

@pyravari-kashebahl​

@thebladeitself​

[theironbottomsound]

[REVIEW] Corpse Party: Blood Drive - The Finality

Makoto Kendouin has returned with yet another sequel of the Corpse Party series. The sequel known as Corpse Party: Blood Drive serves as the concluding tale of the Heavenly Host saga. New characters, new enemies, and a whole new Heavenly Host Elementary School await the unfortunate souls.

The game now comes with a full 3D rendered characters and environment, as well as new 2D sprites. New mechanics have been introduced which isn’t found in the previous games. Some mechanics also returned to full enhance the player experience.

Corpse Party: Blood Drive follows the story from Book of Shadows’ final chapter (it is highly recommended to play the first two games). Ayumi Shinozaki, stricken with grief and guilt at the loss of her dear friends and her sister, seeks out a way to revive her fallen friends. Armed with the Book of Shadows she found in the Shinozaki estate, Ayumi sets out on a journey to redeem herself and undo everything she’s done. But little did she know, a new curse is rapidly growing within the walls of Heavenly Host.

I tried to be as vague as possible with the synopsis to not spoil the story of the entire game to you. If you have no idea on the story of Corpse Party, I highly suggest you play at least the first game. Blood Drive is not an entry-game for players who are new to the series to pick up.

Story

The game is composed of 10 main chapters as well as 8 extra chapters. This is an upgrade from the previous games who only sort 5 and 8 main chapters respectively. Each chapter will give the players the ability to control certain characters and navigate their way into the halls of Heavenly Host. Ayumi is stricken with guilt at being responsible for the death of her friends: Suzumoto Mayu, Sakurato Morishige, Shishido Yui, and Shinohara Seiko, who all died during the events of the first game. It is said that those who died in Heavenly Host, their existence in the real world will be wiped out. It means that no one would be able to remember them except for the survivors.

New characters were introduced in Blood Drive. While they “may” be new to the main games, most of them have appeared in a spin-off game called Corpse Party: Anthology~ Sachiko’s Hysteric Birthday 2U.

Some of these new characters include Niwa Aiko, an intelligence agent and a student of the Paulownia Academy. As one of the characters who accompanied Ayumi in her journey, she is a cheerful person whose real intention is to extort information with the people around her. Her sister, Niwa Kuon, served as the homeroom teacher for Ayumi’s class into the game.

Another one would be Magari Mizuki, a transfer student from the Paulownia Academy. A girl who’s a part of an occult and has vast knowledge of the Book of Shadows. She helped Ayumi traverse the halls of the school in search for a way to revive her fallen friends.

The game also now sports a new antagonist under the name of Sachi. Sachi roams the halls of Heavenly Host. She poses a grave threat to those unfortunate souls who traverse the halls of the school.

It is also said that Blood Drive a lot of references from the other Corpse Party Media. It references heavily from the first two games, Corpse Party Cemetery0, and the anime OVA, Corpse Party Tortured Souls. If you have any idea on what the story of the mentioned media is, then I do hope you’d immediately get the reference after encountering them in the game.

I’d probably talk more about my insights of the story later in this post.

Gameplay

The gameplay vastly improved compared to the first two games. After the backlash that was Book of Shadows, the devs listened to the cries of fans and reverted back to an adventure-type of game. With the enhanced technology of the Playstation Vita, it gave Team GrisGris, the company responsible for the series, new abilities and mechanics that they can incorporate into the game.

Puzzle-solving has returned from the first game. Players get to solve the puzzle behind the story to unlock new areas, new CGs, and progress into the story. The puzzles have been fairly difficult compared to Blood Covered. Each action of the player will have its consequence whether it is good or bad.

The flashlight mechanic has been introduced to the player in this game. Players can use it in order to navigate the school safely. It comes with battery lifespan so players need to scavenge around for batteries to keep the light going. Upon the fans’ requests, the devs also placed in an “endless battery mode”.

Characters can now move diagonally into the world. This is really helpful when dodging traps, enemies, and other entities inside the school. Phantoms are also incorporated into the game to chase you around the school until you have successfully hid from them or purify them with talismans. This posed a problem because the game lags EVERY TIME a phantom appears. This kinda ruins the overall player experience for lagging on a console. Plus, they can be pretty annoying because they follow you wherever you go.

Graphics

The graphics of this game have improved. Gone were the days of pixel sprites and now comes the age of 3D models in the series. Blood Drive is the second game of the series to ever support 3D models (first being 2013 Corpse Party 2: Dead Patient). While the upgrade from pixel-art to 3D models is good, I think it doesn’t seem to fit well with the overall theme of the game. They looked cute but they’re supposed to be running for their lives, right?

The CGs returned to facilitate better experience for players upon reaching crucial parts of the story. I want to note also that the game is very very brutal. They took the liberty of not putting up CGs or torturing the character models for the sake of narrative execution of the story. This can be their way of “censoring” brutal moments that may deem unfit for their target audience.

Audio

The audio of the franchise is something that I really really enjoyed hearing. Each has been recorded and cued to play at important moments in order to provide the overall atmospheric feel of the current situation in the game. Even if the game doesn’t provide a CGI on some of the brutal murders, you couldn’t help but cringe at what the character is going through with the use of carefully executed sound effects.

The BGM feels great although for me, it doesn’t seem to sit well with the game. BGM now sports more techno-feel at some parts, unfit for a horror game. Kinda ruins the immersion that I have while playing the game. Unlike in the first two games, where the BGM can subtlely provide context on what’s the next thing that would happen, in Blood Drive, it’s almost impossible to decipher what’s next because of how the BGM is played. This isn’t a bad thing since it keeps players in their toes with what’s happening story-wise.

This time around, there are two opening themes that players can listen to. “In the Rain”, sung by Hara Yumi, is played all throughout the first 6 chapters of the game. I couldn’t help but feel that the song reflects Ayumi’s desire to regain her friends from the curse of the school.

The second opening theme is called “Keshin” (Trans: Incarnation) sung by Ayumi’s voice actress, Imai Asami. The song will start to play from Chapter 7 until the final chapter. The song basically reflects Ayumi’s determination and resolve after finding out the truth behind Heavenly Host. Knowing the dangers that she has to face, she steeled herself to face them head on and not run away anymore.

Note: The following below will contain MAJOR SPOILERS to the entire Corpse Party series. If you haven’t had any idea about the overall story of the game, turn away NOW.

Overall Insights

Blood Drive is (in my opinion) the scariest game out of the Corpse Party franchise. I was really scared while playing this game. Aside from the darkened view of the hallways, phantoms will start to chase you out of nowhere and I, as a player, really really hate things that chase you around in horror games. I’m fine with jumpscares just not something that will chase me around.

The story for me feels a bit weird. The inclusion of more depth in the occult-theme of the series kinda threw me off-guard. It kinda became a fantastical thing compared with Blood Covered. Though I’d admit, it was this storyline that gave answers to my questions ever since finishing the first two games. But upon clearing the game’s main story, it just popped out a lot of questions from me once more.

I hated Ayumi ever since the first game. Whiny, crybaby, and disregards other people’s feelings, she was the reason why my favourite character in this series is dead. However, in Blood Drive, I can see the toll of the stress from dealing with black magic have an effect with the blue-haired girl. Having lost her friends in the school, her sister in the Shinozaki estate after her meddling with a forbidden spell, with Naomi’s left eye being damaged because of it. She also tried to deal with everything’s that’s happened on her own so that her friends wouldn’t worry. She became desperate. It turns her into someone who’d trust anyone who has knowledge crucial to Heavenly Host. It was because of her willingness to trust anyone at this point that kickstarted the events of the game.

Her friends, the other survivors of the first game, are all worried about their beloved class-rep. So when they learned that Ayumi went back to Heavenly Host alone in order to atone for her wrongdoings, they took it upon themselves to bring her back to the real world. I felt each of the character’s struggle into thinking of coming back to the place where their friends met their demise once more.

I get to see Ayumi, distressed and emotionally unstable, which was used against her. Her distraught made me easily manipulated by some of the characters to do their goal. I think that Blood Drive expounded more on Ayumi’s character development as she comes to terms with what she has done. Her naiveness paved way for her to be more determined and resolved after going through harsh challenges and emotional stress.

So over the course of this game, I slowly started to like Ayumi. Her coming into terms and doing whatever it takes to bring the dead back to life amazes me. It keeps me on my toes on what’s the next thing that would happen. I was also secretly hoping she’ll be able to revive Seiko and the others and have the happy ending that they all so deserve.  For the first time in my playthroughs of the games, I hoped that finally, Ayumi’s desires would see the light.

Aside from Ayumi, my fondness of Yoshiki also grew in this game. It is still clear that he truly cares for Ayumi, even to the point of following her blindly into Heavenly Host. The girl used to brush off his antics and concerns but in the course of Blood Drive, the two of them managed to settle their differences...slightly. Ayumi still brushes off Yoshiki at times but acknowledges his presence more over the course of the game.

As for Heavenly Host itself, my first reaction to it is “what the hell happened in here?!” Red patches of blob are scattered all over the school. Tentacle-like tendrils wrap themselves in doors, preventing entry to those who wish to enter. When they say that the school is currently unstable, I was expecting jumbled dimensions and all but not those tentacle...things. It’s disgusting.  It doesn’t help that later in the game, the school will once again change its layout, making it even more disgusting! There’s even a poop-shaped thing in the middle of the room!

Another thing I really loved about this series is that the game leaves what is happening to your imagination. Certain parts of the game do not have anything going on in them but the descriptive narrative and the audio enhances the story for the player. While this may be their way of censoring “brutal” happenings in the story, it is also a way for players to let their imagination run wild as to what is currently happening to the game. If you have a wild imagination then I hope you’d be able to sleep at night.

The phantoms are the only thing that I really hate with the new Heavenly Host. I tend to suck at the hiding mechanic of the game so I mostly avoid places with phantoms lurking around unless I have a talisman for them. They also made my game lag so much every time they spawn, which incites panic to me. The lag is a result of poor optimization on the developers’ end since it happens 100% of the time.

Speaking of development, there was a game-crashing bug that I encountered in between chapters 3 and 4. Upon reaching a certain part of the game, it will crash. This is a known bug in the Japanese release and the developers made a patch to fix it. But I’m not sure if the patch got carried over to the West when they did their localisation.

All in all, Corpse Party: Blood Drive serves as a sick, twisted, but overall the best way to end the Heavenly Host saga once and for all. The ending of Blood Drive has been referenced in Corpse Party 2: Dead Patient. The game is set 5 years after the events of Blood Drive and for those who have seen or played the game, the introduction of the game finally made sense once you’ve completed Blood Drive. I highly highly recommend this title for anyone who is a fan of the horror genre as well as a fan of the Corpse Party series. Setting aside the technology problems, its well-written story and characters will be enough to keep you up at night.

Make sure to play this at night with your headphones on for a much better and thrilling experience!

[cwdcshows]

The Flash - S6 E7 - The Last Temptation of Barry Allen Pt 1

Holy shit, this CGI is bad.  What the fuck. That does, stop fucking using CGI unless you could make it look good.  Jesus tap dancing Christ.  Earlier today I answer a question on Quora about whether CGI in movies getting worse; and the answer is, it really is, because everyone has to use it for every fucking thing these days, even for the simplest fucking effect that could be done practically, but they still use CGI instead.  Some of it is because it's actually still cheaper than a practical effect, but it's gotten to the point that effects houses are going bankrupt, because so many things want CGI now, that they don't have time to do all it right, so they have to do it fast and cheap; such that even blockbuster movies get the substandard CGI effects, in order for the movies to be ready in time, then the effects companies are expected to go back and improve the CGI in time for at home media release, often for little if any additional cost.  This drives all of the smaller effects houses out of business and makes the workload for the remaining effects companies even worse, perpetuating the problem.

And I get using CGI on fucking Elongated Man, but did they have to fucking CGI Dr. Coffee Guy?  When they first went over the edge, he looked about ten shades paler than the dude should be; for a second it looked more like Grant Gustin than fucking Sendhil Ramamurthy.... Was that shitty, shitty CGI even necessary for the 10 seconds of super fake flailing, just to cut to the real actors laying on the ground?  It's more jarring than anything; it was like they briefly accidentally cued up a clip from a cartoon before switching to the program that was supposed to be airing.  And splitting the logo in between literally and figuratively destroyed any concept of momentum of these two supposedly falling from a large height. I get Dr. CG being a dick to other people's personal property, and it's par for the course in a superhero battle, but for like a split second they actually had me thinking that Ralph might do the honorable thing and not completely total some random person's car by flinging it down the block.... How did Frost even know Ralph was there much less the need to look for him? Has Caitlin honestly been suppressed for last the 6+ episodes? Convenient that Barry's magic blood is also the type that won't kill three-quarters of the population.  In which case, should he donate blood as often as possible and spread his healing factor?  Or what Flash blood become some sort of commodity, that people would clamor for to such a degree that it'd be best to keep it a secret? With his heightened metabolism, how often could Barry donate? I'm not suggesting that Team Flash strap Barry down and basically turning him into their own figurative and literal blood bank, but I'm also not not saying they should do that.  Add a few electrodes to harness his speed force lightning and feed it onto the grid, and Barry is basically.... I don't know, Buddah, Jesus and Santa rolled into one or something. You know what response you don't give when someone asks about your husbands secret alter-ego? "How did you know?" That's pretty much a dead give away, especially if the other person only has a sneaking suspicion or nothing verified. Sure, having them do the whole "you're husband's the Flash," "No he's not," "Yes, he is," "Okay, you got me," dance would be tedious, but surely there's a better way of doing this whole stupid story than having someone who should know better speak out of telling someone he didn't know somebody else's vital secret and other people just rolling with it. The stuff going on inside Barry's head is fair; the Thanksgiving feast with the goo is sufficiently creepy, they work the angst well enough with Barry not getting to hold Nora.  I just can't help but think they could have worked this all better with a single focus A story and not divide it with the newspaper crap or even tease it with Ralph's attack kicking it off.   These psychological stuff makes me think of the Star Trek TNG episode Frame of Mind, where Riker is inside his own head and finds himself bouncing back and forth between two distinct "realities" and state of minds and he becomes uncertainty which is real (as it turns out neither are) And I feel like that's the sort of structure this episode could have made really good use of.  They didn't need Ralph being attacked to set the stage, they didn't even need to tell us right away that Barry wasn't in his right state of mind at first, but let it build gradually; then go back and reveal how he got there at some point much later.   Just playing on the whole concept of "the temptation of Barry Allen" theme and him wanting to hold baby Nora, that could have been part of the built in concept of the episode, where we see Barry leading an otherwise ordinary life with Iris and Nora in some idyllic world where either he never was the Flash or he'd given it up after the Crisis; and then slowly the facade begins to fade and he begins to realize he's not where he thinks he is. He's dead. everybody's dead. Everybody is dead, Barry.

I mean.... Barry has literally seen the "people" Dr. CG has infected and he knows that what he's saying is complete bullshit; so why would he suddenly be tempted with this obvious lie that accept his goo will let him save others without consequence? So which is it, Ramsey's telling lies or holds the key to Barry's salvation?  Nothing they've shown suggested anything good for Barry if he just gives in.  Yeah, I get that he's playing on Barry's fear or dying and leaving the people closest to him and giving everything up to save the world, yet Ramsey's offer doesn't seem like it should be the least bit appealing with regards to those fears.  He's completely full of shit and Barry would have to be a fucking idiot not to remember what blending with not-Venom had done to other people.  Who the fuck would want to live that way? A scene that should be really great - Barry angry about the speed force "choosing him" and facing his mortality - is undermined by the sheer stupidity of the alternative he's entertaining; never mind the fact that, once again, Barry is obviously not going to actually die and stay dead following the crisis, so this whole fucking bullshit is pointless anyway.  All it does is diminish the original story where Barry Allen had to make a split second decision to either save lives or think about himself and he chose to be a hero. Oh, for fuck sake, what the hell is this shit now and Frost having a panic attack with Barry's critical medical health? Oh no, Barry killed his not-mom....whatever will happen now..... 🙄 🤦‍♂️

Oh, I guess he just needed a V8.....

or 10, or whatever.... Gee, I wonder if he really beat it, since this is fucking PART ONE! Can I just say, Barry's mom is pretty hot.  The one thing this episode has going for it is actually giving Michelle Harrison something to do on this series, other than die or be put on some sort of Virgin Mary-esque pedestal. This scene with Iris writing the Crisis article is weird.  I mean, for one, again, he's definitely still going to be alive when all is said and done after Crisis is over, but that aside, is there such urgency to begin writing this article before the events even happen, that she needs to start working on it right now?  Is she afraid it won't be ready in time?  And for that matter, there's an important paradox factor here, which is that they're trying to play this scene as if it has all this deep and profound heart as she comes up with the words for the article - but she's already seen the fucking article and what at least the first couple of paragraphs say.  It's the bootstrap paradox, so aptly explained by the 12th Doctor.

And you might say, perhaps the article changes, the way the date and author has been previously been shown to change, but therein lies another paradox - is it only changing because she's intentionally trying to write something else and is it that why it changes? Seriously, what the fuck?  The last episode had Nash and Allegra go through this stupid song and dance where Allegra needed to us her powers to see where certain mineral was, so Nash would know where to dig; and now he just brings this big honking device that unleashing a pulse 6' in diameter and clears everything away like it's no big deal. Fuck you, writers. Wait, wait, I know this; the engraved characters say, "For a good time, call Brainiac 5" Halle-fucking-lujah.  Can I just say, after melting my brain watching Days of Our Lives again recently, because I'm genuinely that bored, it's actually refreshing that someone uses their God damn brain and recognizes when someone is acting out of the ordinary or under the influence of some mind altering whatever... Man, I wonder if Barry and the rest if his team will manage to overcome this latest hurdle before Crisis in two weeks....

[rayaarchive]

Bar Maid

She wasn’t sure how long it had been since she made it to town, weeks maybe, and she nearly regretted everything from all the groping and cat calls she had to deal with as she served drunkards day in and day out. She hadn’t been ignorant to the perks dating the Commander had given her… Yet it was a living. Enough to change her clothes and dye her hair as not to get recognized, she had even let it grow out a bit and hid her ears.

No one here knew her, and somehow, she saw the familiar face of a Red Kite who looked as long faces as her owner. She scowled, minutely, and sighed.

Excluding herself, leaving her dish rag on the counter with the bar keeper, she took her break and headed outside to retrieve the bird. The long sleeves of the tunic she’d acquired lessened the sting of Ada’s claws into her arm that had been offered out as a perch.

“Fahleon here?” She mumbled, not wanting to seem daft to any passerby. There was no screeching answer, only a disconcern with her and then preening. Raya took it as a no and left it at that for now; she took her around back and into the kitchen for a quick moment before returning outside as not to be seen, and offered up some form of meat that had yet to be cooked. She wasn’t in charge of the meals here so she honestly had no idea what kind of meat it was.

“I suppose writing a not telling him ‘no thanks’ would be useless?” It was half rhetorical but Ada looked at her in a way that could only be ‘well duh’, had she been human.

She pecked at her hair, pulling a few strands free and covering them in bits of blood from the mystery meat.

“Ew… yeah, I dyed it so I wouldn’t be found… clearly didn’t work.” She commented, using her sleeve to rub the red out of the rutty brown she’d made it. She absolutely hated the color, she missed looking like herself.

She kept Ada for as long as she would stay, even making a few coppers here and there by showing her in the bar, careful not to let any one too close to her, but it was a different friend she’d made that kept the men away from her.

A half starved Possum had been getting into the waste behind the bar, causing a bit of trouble for her employer, so she took to catching it. It had taken weeks for it to trust her, eventually eating from her hand, then allowing her to pet it. She’d named her Hara’Nal, and kept her as a pet until she discovered, due to a customer, that she had far more potential than just a companion pet. They taught her to pick locks and pockets. An investment of worth if she had to say. Worth the coin it took to teach the animal.

As always, her contentment was shattered; at least this time it was gentle this time, with the absence of Ada. She wondered how long she had stayed with her but quickly decided it didn’t matter when she saw who would be her patron today.

Not a single soul in Thedas could copy nor mask The Iron Bull.

She stood in the door way, contemplating just leaving, until her boss called her over.

“Fake name?” Odd greeting, but warranted.

“Fake name.” She parroted, Confirming the question.

He motioned for her to sit next to him, and light as the business was so early in the morning, she lacked an excuse not to.

“Nice hair… ugly cat.” He grimes into his pitcher and she snorted as she pet Hara’s butt,

“She’s a possum… a very useful possum.”

She needed that; how long had it been since she cracked a smile? Everything was so stressful at the castle, and every ones mood rubbed off on her piece by piece until she couldn’t handle it any more. She knew she didn’t used to have tantrums so often, she used to be fine in her place, with her work… but that was before the world started falling apart.

“Are you hear to bring me back or kill me.”

“Neither,” he shrugged, poking at Hara and causing her to snap and screech at him,

“I just promised Beau to come look for ya and the Inquisitor that is find his bird.”

“You’re not a good liar for a spy.”

His laugh caught her off guard and she nearly fell off her stool and damned it’s backlessness.

“Am I now!?”

Raya squinted at him and scrunched her nose and mouth,

“Yes, you great oaf -don’t scare me next time- and Fahleon would never trust any one with Ada, so you have to be lying.”

Bull whipped a finger under his eye and nodded,

“That’s true, you got me there, but Beau did send me. And the commander, though indirectly.”

Raya only soured more and loomed off out the window as not to aim it at him,

“Then I’m glad you’re not here to take me in, as I care for neither of their opinions.”

“And why would that be all of a sudden?”

She rolled her eyes, knowing what he was doing as it was something her mother did as well. She’d play along simply because it was easier than fighting him.

“Why should I care for their voice when they wouldn’t hear mine?”

He stayed silent for a beat before humming a note to himself,

“That seems fair.”

For a long moment, Raya wanted to just scream. She didn’t want to deal with this and she didn’t find it fair that no one listened to her, every one was older and treated her as if she were something to be swept aside or used as decoration as needed… the whole of Skyhold lately had felt as neglectful as her father had been. Even as much as she knew she had been a ‘spoiled slave’ she knew she was also completely inept at acting like every one else who had never had that sort of confining life. Instead, she sighed and leaned into Bull’s shoulder and stared blankly at the bottles of spirits on the shelves across them.

“I don’t want to go back… but i don’t want to not go back either……….. what are they saying?”

“The inquisitor And Lilliana managed to change the rumors, Beau cried about you dying for a few days once you left,” he chuckled as he tried to spit out the next bit, “and the food is god awful!” Raya grinned into his arm in attempt to hide it, “For my sake, come cook for us! I can’t stand another day of yeast loaf and mincemeat.”

A beat of content silence settles between them before it was broken.

“Any way I can go unnoticed back home?”

“Possibly.” He took another drink befor sighing with weight Raya didn’t quite understand, “Any chance you wanna tell me why you attacked the commander? There’s rumors of course, but I’d rather hear it from you.”

He looked at her expectantly and she nearly bulked for a moment before chuckling and shaking her head.

“Out of everyone in Skyhold, you happen to be a pillar of sanity ina sea of politics and spite ridden alliances.” How amazing was it that the o e person she hadn’t trusted at first was the only one she could trust now?

“Shortly, It was half truths and misunderstandings.”

“And longly ?” He prodded a bit more.

“Fahleon left the war room in a tizzy -not his normal pissy mood but a real special occasion- so I asked Lilliana, she said cu- The Commander has sent Templars to rid some bandits that were harassing the Lavallen clan, and how it would have been better for her spies to go but no one listened to her plan…. I may not be a whole elf, but I know how horrifying Templars are… I know what they do to people… to elves. It’s nothing good.” She looked up at Bull with misty eyes and a wavering voice, “They’re probably dead.”

He placed a hand on her shoulder and promised her that they weren’t.

“I… I went to deal with Fae, and he was crying and I tried to help even though he never wants it even when he needs it. I promised not to tell any one, and I didn’t! He said yelling at Cullen was the same thing though, that no one respects him now. I didn’t even set anything on fire, the world Dow busted and the papers caught from the heat, then … ok, yeah, I set the desk on fire Cus Cullen liked it and he kept trying to silence me and tell me I don’t know what’s best, like a human can speak for an elf!” People we’re watching, murmuring, “I don’t get to claim either! Not elf or human! It’s not fair for every one to take my voice!” She’s crying and her hands are covered in frost as they’re fisted on the table in front of her, “and fucking Beau, uses magic on me while saying not to use magic on others. The circle has soured her brain and made her a pawn.” She spat. She saw the offense in his eyes and set in the corners of his mouth, but also that he -on some level- also understood.

“She’ll speak to you when you come back. She’s promised to hear you this time, if you care.” He offered, paying for his drink and rising to his full height.

“Not right away, and I’ll come back.” It was hardly a negotiation, more a demand.

“Deal, just do it eventually.”