#expansion shield with bolt

[fixdex-fastening-technology]

M6/M8/M12 4pcs shield anchor with color zinc plated,high quality with best price

[fili-urzudel]

Hello!! Could you do 14, 15 and 31 with Fili? Romantic or platonic, up to you. Thank you 💜

13. Sitting together

14. Handholding

15. Sharing a blanket (potentially violent)

31. Stargazing

This combination is classic and oh-so-fluffy, and with my favorite Dwarf to boot! I went ahead and added another prompt as well.

Everyone lives AU, because there is no other ending in my mind.

BTW I'm sick :( but I'm going to try to get at least one other prompt request out this week

Warnings: None

Word Count: 1.8k

Moonrise - Fíli Durin x Reader

The Durin's Day festival was always fun, but it was all the more spectacular in the newly reclaimed Erebor.

"The first autumn equinox since the mountain was reclaimed, can you believe it?" Fíli said with a bright smile, looking with pride at the crisscrossing bridges and vaulted ceilings of the entrance to the mountain. There was still plenty of work to be done, to be sure, but its improvement was impressive regardless.

"And in a couple days, the anniversary of when it was reclaimed," you nodded in agreement. "A few months after that, the anniversary of the first time you walked around by yourself."

"Hush, I'm trying to enjoy this," Fíli gave you a fake scowl, unconsciously probing the scar hidden beneath his tunic.

You changed directions. "Of course, my Prince," you teased. "You look very nice today."

You meant it. His hair was freshly washed, the slightly damp strands frizzing out in the cool morning air. Each bead was carefully placed, a few decorative gold ones added in place of a crown. His tunic was a smooth yet understated silk underneath his leather vest and wool coat. Every detail was precisely placed, the burnt oranges and browns blending seamlessly. He had clearly been seen to with the utmost care. He looked like royalty, even without the royal garb. Most importantly, he was healthy.

His smile softened, his cheeks turning a bit pink under his mustache. "Thank you," he glanced to the ground before looking back up at you. "And you're beautiful as ever."

You blushed deeper than him, unused to compliments. You plucked at the placket of your own wool coat, dyed a deep woad blue. It was your favorite. "Thank you," you said, choosing for once to believe him. "What duties do you have today?"

"None, surprisingly," Fíli breathed. "Thorin's let me have a break, so I can enjoy the first festival in our new home right alongside you." Something about that little word, our, set your heart ablaze. "You want to stick with me?"

"If you'll have me," he smiled again. That smile was impossible to resist.

"Of course I will."

Erebor had been steadily growing over the past year, but that day, it seemed more alive than ever. The market squares were full, overflowing into the wide side streets. Jewelry, blades, shields, ceramics, sculptures--anything made out of earth or in forges were certainly found somewhere in the expansive space. The Ereborian dwarves' tentative friendship with the Men of Dale caused new, less traditional stands to pop up as well: flower stalls, street food vendors featuring fish dishes, and clothing and homeware shops full of bolts of linen. The mountain had only dwarves—and Bilbo—in its halls, a presently rare occurrence, and so you were all free to speak Khuzdul, the sharp sounds ringing pleasantly in your ears.

The two of you strolled as quickly as possible through all the markets had to offer, determined not to miss the afternoon's performances. You exercised exemplary self-restraint, only stopping at one of every five stalls that caught your eye.

"No," became a very popular word as well, what with resisting Fíli's unceasing offers to purchase anything you liked.

"Well, if you will not spend any of your share of the treasure, I must spend some of mine and relieve what must be the terrible, stifling boredom of your living quarters, my friend," he teased, mustache beads swinging from side to side.

"I will have no prince wasting his money on me."

"Oh, it's never a waste if it's you," Fíli told you surely.

There he went again, saying things that made your palms sweat and your cheeks flush. "You're too kind."

Fíli smirked at the way you diverted your gaze. "Well, if I cannot buy you a rug, at least allow me to buy you lunch," he gestured to a permanent restaurant on the corner that was swarmed with dwarrow.

You couldn't help a smile at that. "Hot stew?" You asked, referring to the almost overpoweringly spicy meat-and-potato stew that was a dwarven classic. Benron's was your favorite.

"As hot as you like, of course," He agreed, guiding you forward with a gentle hand on your back.

The stew made your eyes stream in the best way, and you pulled Fíli out of the restaurant scarcely once he was finished eating. "We have to find good seats!" You reasoned as he raised an eyebrow, still wiping his mouth.

"You do realize that Thorin has the best seats, and by extension, we do as well?"

"Right," you said. You had forgotten. Somehow, none of the Durins were royalty in your mind. They were still your traveling companions, dirt poor and looked at as crazy.

"Still, it is sort of nice to take a seat before everyone starts filtering in and it gets too loud," Fíli reassured you. "After you."

The grand presentation began with a song to the mountain. In the ancient tradition, singing was a way to ask the mountain to reveal its secrets, a careful gathering of tones that would uncover its nature.

This song, however, was made more to please the ears of the listener. It was a song of thanks, of hardly believing that this mountain was once again the shelter for her people. You tried your best to control the tears that rose to your eyes.

Fíli leaned over, bumping your shoulder with his. You gave a small smile that he returned, and you could see in his eyes that he was thinking of all that it took to get there.

"We did it," you whispered.

"Yeah, we did."

The opening songs were followed by traditional dances, a speed-forging competition, and a few spars. You cheered on the brothers as they fought each other, with a healthy dose of brotherly teasing. Fíli let his little brother win, or so he told you. The look on Kíli's face was more than worth it. You congratulated him and let them both clean up as you headed to the gates.

The gates were still open, cool air pouring into the mountain as the sun dropped in the sky.

Dale was dimmer than usual—the city was empty. The men were lining the edge of the water with candles. This equinox now also marked the anniversary of the fall of Laketown and many of their loved ones. The dwarves tried their best to be respectful of their vigil.

You leaned against the wall and watched. You hoped they found peace and remembered to enjoy their new lives. Bard, standing at the back of the group, turned around. He caught your eye and nodded.

"Come with me, I think we should see something," Fíli's low whisper startled you from your reverie, and his hand wrapping around yours even more so.

"Where are we going?" You asked, not that it mattered. With his hand in yours, you'd probably follow him anywhere.

He led you on a trek around the front of the mountain, the setting sun turning everything orange and making his hair appear as flames as you went.

Caught in the daze of bliss, it took you a while to notice what was draped over his other arm. "Wait, is that—I told you not to buy that!"

It was the woven blanket you had noticed earlier, the tapestry depicting sunrays falling through a thick forest of firs. "And what if I bought this for myself? I have uses for it."

"Then it's alright, I suppose."

"You can keep it once I'm done with it, though."

"Sly fox."

"Coin pincher."

"Seriously, though, where are we going?" You asked.

Fíli smiled at you. "A certain very large staircase."

You gasped. "Leading to a secret doorway?"

"The very same. I figured, since we were both trying to help Kili, erm, not die, we missed the excitement, and now we can see it for ourselves."

"That's extraordinarily thoughtful of you."

"Eh, I'd say averagely thoughtful at best," Fíli shrugged.

"Perfectly suitable for me," you told him.

"Good."

The achingly long trip up the staircase was rewarded with a very nice sight: another, less decorative blanket spread across the stone, a couple flat pillows, and three lanterns, already lit and ready to face the darkness.

"When did you find time to do this?" You asked Fíli, grinning from ear to ear.

"I have my ways," he said mysteriously. "And help."

"That's where Bofur, Bilbo, and Dori disappeared to," you observed. "I see. Well, it's very sweet of all of you."

"I'm glad you think so," Fíli said, still holding your hand as he guided you to sit on the blanket with him.

The stairs had taken longer than anticipated, so the sun was already almost gone. You quieted as you realized how close the time was. The two of you watched in quiet admiration as the moon rose, bright and perfect, into the sky, before you turned, hoping to catch a glimpse of the door.

You gasped. "There it is!" The moonrise revealed the shape of a perfectly hidden keyhole. "That is very neat, indeed."

"Mmhm," Fíli agreed. "Beautiful." The keyhole was not what he thought was beautiful. He wasn't actually looking at the door at all, but rather you, and the way the moonlight reflected off every spectacular detail of your face.

He had never known quite when he started to feel this way, only that he didn't in the Blue Mountains, when he barely knew you, and he did now.

You turned your gaze from the keyhole once the wonder had made a comfortable space in your heart, and looked to the stars, all too aware of how close Fíli was.

You read out the constellations to yourself in the comfortable silence, assuming the prince was doing the same. You then heard him shift.

"Lay with me," Fíli offered, and you turned around in record time, cheeks blazing and eyes wide.

"What?"

He was already lying down with his head on one of the pillows. "To watch the stars more comfortably."

"Alright," you said, voice quiet. You scooted down until you could lay your head on the other pillow, before changing your mind. You decided to take a risk and settle your head on his chest instead.

"Is this alright?" You asked immediately. The last thing you wanted was for him to be uncomfortable in this situation.

"Of course it is," he said softly, his arm raising to hold your waist. "I enjoy being close to you."

It wasn't quite a grand confession, but it was good enough for your heart to begin hammering in your chest. "I enjoy being close to you, too."

[pastshadows]

Shadows of the Past

Chapter 14: Peril

Summary: After a year of blissful cohabitation, Astarion disappears without a trace, leaving behind a heartfelt letter explaining his departure. Determined to find him, you traverse Faerûn in search of your lost love, only to realize that some absences are meant to be permanent.

Returning to Waterdeep, you find solace in the company of Gale as you come to terms with Astarion's absence. But just as you begin to heal, Astarion reappears, begging for a second chance at love.

The question looms: can you forgive his abandonment and trust him once more? As you grapple with your emotions and trauma, a sinister force lurks in the shadows, targeting you for unknown reasons.

With danger closing in, you must navigate the treacherous waters of trust, love, and betrayal to uncover the truth behind the mysterious entity's motives. Will you be able to reunite with Astarion while facing the demons of your past? Can you unravel the secrets that threaten your very existence?

Setting: Post End-Game. Mostly canon compliant.

Word Count: 6.3K

Content: Explicit 18+ - intended for mature audiences.

Warnings: [Additional tags will be added, but expect mature content / read at your own risk.]

Spoilers. Mentions of in-game missable content. Violence. Sexual Assault [Implied/attempted sexual assault: Chapter 7]. Past Trauma. Murder. Death. Longing. Sexual themes. Smut. Blood drinking. Angst. Innuendos. High use of sarcasm. Completely fabricated camp interactions. Panic attacks. Anxiety.

Time itself moves sluggishly as the spawn descend upon the petrified, screaming miscreants that share your cell. Your heartbeat thuds in your chest, fighting your ribs like striking bolts of lightning. You steel yourself against the rising panic, wrapping yourself in unflappable poise and watch for your opening.

As soon as the wave of spawn crashes and parts, you squeeze Hecat��s hand to signal her it’s time to move and bound through the gap. The corridor is a catastrophe, the stones painted in fresh crimson, bodies of guards ripped open, with their raw innards spilling out like gruesome garlands wreathing the walls. Hecat pales at the sight, dry heaving, but you’ve long become acquainted with such nightmarish affairs.

You tug Hecat along behind you, bare feet smacking the stone with such force it sends jolts of pain charging up your legs as your bones shudder with the impact of every step. That is nothing compared to the acute, explosive pain stabbing your chest with every inhalation.

Hecat stops, acquiring a shield and sword from a fallen guard. The blood makes the stone slick, and every step must be taken carefully. You cannot afford to fall. A stumble will almost surely mean death. Spawn that have finished their meals are starting to take notice. Hecat deflects them with her shield, stabbing with her sword when she has an opening and keeping you safely behind her.

The passageways are labyrinthine, confused tangles of convoluted twists and turns that sometimes double back or arrive at dead ends unexpectedly. Tears are creeping out of the corners of your eyes, dallying down your grimy, red cheeks from the agony radiating from your ribs with every expansion of your lungs. Panic starts to crumble the blanket of calm, surging through you as you frantically dart through the shadowy, disorienting hallways. The angry army of thudding footfalls of the spawn in pursuit echoes through the corridors.

Bounding up a dim stairway, the hilt of a dagger peeks out from between the joints of armour, nestled into the corpse of a guard. You yank it out with a quick tug, but time is not on your side this night. A spawn grasps your ankle, its clawed fingers sinking into your flesh and jerks you off your feet. Your head bounces off the stone slab stair, peppering your vision with black sparks of dazing pain. The only thing you can see through your muddled sight is those glowing eyes. You lash out with the dagger and sink it deeply into the socket. As soon as you’re released, Hecat is already towing you back to your feet, pulling you up the stairs and into the next room.

The milky eyes and pallor of bloodless bodies greet you. The undead in this part of the prison seem to roam, unsure of their orders, but as soon as the thudding of your heart is heard, their heads snap in your direction. They swarm around you like enraged bees. Despite Hecat’s exhaustion, she is unwavering. Her sword slashes through the air, shield deflecting the snapping fangs and shredding claws.

You feel the pangs of irritation at your uselessness. Your magic, once your greatest weapon, is now a prison in its own right. The vampires press in closer, surrounding you like a pack of ravenous wolves, their movements orchestrated by an unseen hand, but they don’t move to attack further as they corral you.

“What are they doing?” Hecat pants with wild eyes, frantically searching for an escape.

“I don’t know.”

A red aura shifts around the spawn, the same one Cazador used to control Astarion’s sibling during their midnight visit to your camp. They part for a tall, pallid figure that appears seemingly from the shadows.

“Nice to see you again, Sorceress,” it speaks. You recognize that voice, and your heart arrests in your chest, sinking into your stomach.

Aldous.

Your mind reels, trying to make sense of what you’re seeing. No. He is dead. You watched the life be abducted from his eyes yourself. Yet, he stands before you, pale as death with glowing crimson eyes. His face splits into that repellent smile, and his cackling resounds off the walls.

“That one.” He points at you, “She is to be taken alive. The Tiefling matters not.”

“What the fuck,” Hecat breathes.

“I’ll be seeing you soon, Sorceress,” Aldous laughs, hysterical and bone-chilling. “And your fanged friend. I cannot wait to drain you dry in front of him.”

A harrowing scream tears from your throat, a melody of rage and sorrow as Aldous disappears in a burst of red, drawn home by his unknown master. Grabbing Hecat’s hand, you eye a door and dash toward it with renewed vigour. The vampire’s claws and fangs pierce your skin as you burst through the legion. You stab and slash with reckless abandon, sinking the dagger into anything that attempts to halt you.

Hecat and you stumble into the room and try to close the door on writhing arms and legs. Hecat lashes out with her sword, severing limbs from bodies obstructing it until it slams shut and locks.

“Help me!” Hecat yells as she throws a table over. You help barricade the door with whatever is available.

“They want you?” Hecat snaps, levelling the sword at you, “Who the fuck are you, dragon girl, and why the fuck do they want you alive?”

You’re doubled over, hands on your thighs, trying to inhale as much air as your lungs can possibly take, but the splitting pain in your side hampers your ability to catch your breath.

“I don’t know,” you retort venomously, eyeing the sword and Tiefling.

“That one knows you,” she hisses, shifting her stance and getting ready to strike. “Who the fuck is he?”

“A dead man,” you sigh, pushing your hair from your eyes. “I killed him. Apparently, it didn’t stick.”

“You’re a murderer?!” She gasps, bringing the steel blade to your neck.

“Yes,” you growl, unbothered by the threat.

Hecat laughs, withdrawing her blade, “I would not have thought you possible of such a heinous crime.” She winks, “I like you even more now.”

You cannot help but choke out a pained laugh, but it’s more of a groan than anything. You look around. Waxy moonlight floods the room from a small window. It’s the first window you’ve seen, but bars in a crisscross pattern make escape impossible, and the wood door is starting to splinter and crack under the barrage rattling it on its hinges.

A sudden shift in the atmosphere makes your skin prickle as the dam of suppression is released, and the Weave returns to you in an overwhelming deluge. You don’t have time to wonder why or how, and you don’t much care. The Weave causes the air to crackle, abuzz with powerful energy, and you fill yourself with it. You grip the iron and allow the potency of your draconic fire to spill out of you with a daunting laugh you cannot stifle. The bars heat, whine and wail, glowing white-hot and oozing, and Hecat thrusts her sword into the gooey mess of molten metal to clear your path.

The moon hangs high in the sky, casting an eerie glow upon the building, and the air is brisk as you clamber onto the roof. You cast Shatter, crumbling the stone around the window to block the pursuing spawn.

“That’s some potent magic you have there,” Hecat grins. “I’ve never seen anyone melt metal with their hands before.”

Her words of praise float over you as you eye the raging war of the courtyard below. Some guards remain alive, fighting another horde of spawn descending on the grounds. From the height, you can see beyond the solid walls surrounding the compound, and your feet move unconsciously, eyes skipping over the landscape - searching, searching, searching…

There.

“We could jump,” Hecat says hesitantly, peering over the edge.

“No,” you bark with a smile. “We fly. Follow me.”

You cast Fly, taking her hand and soar into the air. Hecat yelps at the suddenness of your movement and clings to you. You cannot quite reach your target before your feet hit the soft, muddied terrain. Spawn trample the ground, careening toward you like a blight on the land. Hecat stands in front of you, but you are muzzled no longer.

“Detono!” You howl, and the wave of crackling energy bowls the spawn over.

You cast Fireball and rain blazing death, warping the fire into flames that burn blue, bending it to your will. Your fingers dance in the moonlight, under stars that envy how bright you burn. Hecat stands at the ready, prepared and reinvigorated, but with unfathomable rage, you don’t miss. With every step, every twitch of your fingers, every syllable that brushes off your tongue, you are violence, you are slaughter, you are death incarnate.

It feels magnificent. Exhilarating. You are so wonderfully, splendidly fucking alive.

Whatever spawn remain have begun to retreat, much to your displeasure, disappearing in puffs of red mist, back to whatever hole they crawled out of.

“Kamena!” Strong arms wrap around you, lifting you off the ground, and pressing you tightly to firm, sculpted muscles. You would do anything to stay in this embrace but the pain in your ribs forces a pained cry from your lips, and Astarion jerks away from you.

Hecat screams, charging forward with her blade levelled at Astarion before you have time to explain. Astarion dodges swiftly and has one blade to Hecat’s throat and the other pressed firmly to her stomach before you can blink.

“Astarion, don’t,” you wheeze, shaking your head. “She helped me escape. Hecat, this is my friend.”

“Friend?” Hecat barks as Astarion releases her with a skeptical frown, and she reels back. “You failed to mention that your friend is also a fucking vampire.”

“Astarion is a person,” you growl. Without the adrenaline rocketing through your veins, your injuries and weariness have begun to take their toll on your body, and you stumble.

Astarion catches you, “You’re injured?”

“Her ribs are broken, I think,” Hecat replies for you. “The guards did not treat her well.”

“Shadowheart!” Astarion bellows and slightly lifts the hem of your shirt, revealing the edges of mottled blue, black and yellowing bruise expanding up your side. “Good Gods, my love.”

“I’m fine.” You bring Astarion’s eyes to yours, gazing into the scarlet sea you have longed to swim in. It almost makes it past you, but your brows furrow, “Did you just call for Shadowheart?”

A hand lays on your shoulder, and blue magic laves away the cutting pain in your side, “This was supposed to be a nice, boring vacation,” Shadowheart tuts, nose rising into the air with a snort. “I should have known better than to think you might be able to keep yourself out of trouble.”

“Shadowheart!” You pivot, wrapping your arms around her. “Gods. I’ve missed you.”

“I missed you, too.” She drawls, returning the hug gently.

“Where is the wizard?” Astarion asks, “We should get her home. She smells terrible.”

Shadowheart chuckles with Astarion as you frown at them. “She really does. If I can smell her, I can’t imagine how bad she smells to you, vampire.”

“Be glad you can’t,” Astarion wrinkles his nose at you but sweeps you off your feet and into his arms, kissing your forehead.

“Take her home,” Shadowheart instructs. “I’ll wait for Gale.”

The conversation between them starts to sound far away as lethargy drags at your mind.

“What do we do about this one?” Astarion gestures to Hecat.

“Leave her with me,” Shadowheart concludes with a tinge of threat. “She can bring me up to speed on exactly what in the Hells is going on around here while we wait for Gale.”

“She helped me,” you murmur. “Be nice, Shadowheart.”

Shadowheart smirks, “Aren’t I always nice?”

“Wake up.”

“No,” you grumble, forcing your eyes open.

“Yes.” Astarion purrs with cold breath on the shell of your ear that sends delightful shivers down your spine. “You are not crawling into our bed smelling like a flophouse latrine.”

You giggle, wrapping your arms around his neck and pressing your body tightly to him. He tries to tug you away half-heartedly between his grunting protests, but there’s no real force behind his playful pulling.

“Now, you smell, too!” You chime as he sets you back on your feet and starts drawing a bath.

“Naughty girl,” Astarion smirks, chuckling.

You catch a glimpse of yourself in the gilded mirror. Your hair is matted and dingy with grime. Filth streaks your face, dulling your complexion. Your shirt, once a pale blue, has been rendered brown, stained with dirt and blood that’s both new and long dried.

Movement behind you catches your eyes, whisking them away from your reflection. Bottles of oils float through the air, appearing to move on their own as Astarion pours oils into the water, and notes of lavender, sandalwood, and vanilla arise with the steam. This is something you’ve never gotten used to. Objects seemingly floating, as if picked up by a breeze and carried aloft of their own free will.

“Odd, isn’t it?” Astarion says, moving your hair and bringing you back from your contemplations.

“What?”

“No reflection.” Astarion’s cool fingers curl into the hem of your shirt, and you lift your arms, allowing him to peel the disgusting garment from your body, “Objects moving on their own, a ghost underdressing you.”

“A little,” you admit. “I just don’t understand how you always look so fucking perfect all the time.”

“Oh,” he giggles, turning you around, hooking his fingers in your waistband, and crouching. “Do go on.”

You put your hands on his shoulders, leaning some of your weight into him while he strips you, lifting one leg at a time, “I missed you."

“I missed you, too. Very much.” He says, taking your hand in his, “Come. Into the bath with you before it gets cold, and you chastise me.”

Climbing into the steaming water is like climbing into a sun-soaked dream. How very odd is it you can forget how your skin feels when it’s clean. As you slough off the dirt, blood and filth, the pads of your fingers do not recognize the buttery softness of your skin without the grainy texture.

“Tilt your head back,” Astarion instructs. He pours hot water over your head, fingers gently detangling your matted hair, lathering it with soap.

The bruise extending up your side is still faintly visible, staining your skin in hues of blue and yellow, and your fingers skate up, poking and prodding.

“What happened in there?” Astarion brushes the backs of his fingers gently down the marbled skin.

“The guards had a bone to pick with me,” you shrug, trying to cover the solemnity of the conversation with a pleasant smile. “I don’t wish to talk about it right now, Astarion.”

“Kamena…” Astarion sighs with a sullen shake of his head.

You press your fingers gently under his chin, bringing his eyes to yours. Gods. When he looks at you, it is not a glance. It is a song, a message, a constellation of promises wrapped in scarlet, and you never want to look away.

“I’m not running, Astarion.” You assure him, “I will tell you all about it, but tonight, can we just be us?”

Astarion smiles, nodding his understanding, “Of course.”

“Thank you.”

Astarion’s fingers massage your scalp as he washes the soap from your hair, rinsing it until the water finally runs clear.

“Do we have wine?” You ask on a whim.

“Gale does,” Astarion grins momentarily, but his lips press into a thin line. “Is this celebratory drinking or “it’s better to forget” drinking?”

You wince at the question. You know it’s not exactly the healthiest way to deal with your problems. You are tempted to lie to him but force the truth from your lips, “A little of both?”

“I can live with that, I suppose,” Astarion nods, helping you stand and wrapping a plush towel around you, patting you dry. You smile as he dotes on you, “I know where the wizard hides the good stuff. I will go raid his cellar.”

Slipping into one of Astarion’s shirts, you light the fire with naught but a thought. It feels good to have your magic back after being deprived of it for so long. You grip the Weave, pulling the mystical essence from your blood and bones, and it feels like taking a deep breath after you didn’t realize you were holding it. Fire spurts out of your palm, and you fashion it into a ring, forcing the flames to move unnaturally as they chase each other around in a never-ending loop.

You lift the flaming ring above your head, hovering between your palms like a fiery halo, and force it to expand and contract simply because you can.

“Did no one ever teach you it’s dangerous to play with fire, Sorceress?”

“Perhaps for the untrained, Rogue,” you smirk, snap your fingers, and the halo bursts like a firework, pinpricks of fire whirling around you.

You let the fire ebb and die out slowly, relinquishing your magic with a sorrowful sigh. The Weave fills you with life, comfort and peace. Without it, you’re thrust back into a stark reality. Astarion hands you a glass, and you grab the bottle and wink as you drink deeply. The wine is a crisp white wine, buttery with hints of vanilla. It sparkles on your tongue and fizzes down your throat, and you cannot help but close your eyes at the pleasure of it all after drinking brown-tinged water for a week.

“Shall we sit, or would you prefer to keep standing in the middle of the room?”

“Gods,” you smirk, handing the bottle to Astarion and trotting over to the bed. You flop onto it gracelessly. “Let’s drink in bed! I’ve been sleeping on stone for a week, and this is lovely, but it’s missing something.”

“And what’s that, my dear?” Astarion cocks his head handsomely with a boyish smile that tells you he knows exactly what you think it’s missing.

“You!”

“In that case,” Astarion giggles and removes his shirt. He thrusts the wine bottle into your hands. Your fingers fumble to catch it, senses entirely possessed by him, “We might as well get comfortable, yes?”

“Yes,” you breathe, swallowing thickly.

Astarion saunters around the bed, discarding pieces of clothing along the way. He makes it look casual, unpremeditated, but it’s maddeningly slow.

“You’re a tease,” you mutter under your breath, sipping the wine and slipping out of your shirt.

“I am not!” He chuckles, “You’re just exceptionally impatient. Good things come to do who wait, sweetheart.”

“Do they?” You quirk a brow at him, “I’m not so sure about that. Do you have proof of this notion?”

“I waited two hundred years for you.” Astarion purrs as the bed dips under his weight, and he presses his body against your back, wrapping his arms around you.

“I love you,” you murmur, craning your head to look at him, slipping your fingers into his hair.

“I love you, too. I should not have let the wizard talk to me into leaving you in there so long. I—“

“Not tonight, Astarion.” It sounds like a whimpering plea, “Please."

“Right. Apologies,” he rasps, lips against your neck.

“Have you been eating?”

“Always so worried about me,” his lips twitch into a smile. “I’m fine.”

Perhaps he is fine, but you are most certainly not. Suddenly, you’re impacted with a deep-seated need to feel that intimacy, that descent through the branches of his veins. You want to bleed into him, your soul and his, intertwined as one. The intensity of the emotion catches you off guard.

Are you chasing the bloodless daze that his feedings provide? Are you hoping it will lay a shroud over the dread sinking your stomach? Is this another way to run?

Maybe.

But you are so good at running.

“Would you like a nibble?” You bite your lower lip, trying to keep the hint of anticipation from your voice.

Astarion jerks his head up, pushing your shoulder until you’re lying on your back and looking up at him with an arched brow. He regards you thoughtfully, “I’m not so sure that’s a good idea tonight.”

“Why?”

Astarion rifles his fingers through his hair, “You are well aware of the effect you have on me when I feed on you. I cannot promise that once your blood dawns on my tongue, your skin under my fingertips, I won’t lose myself in the need to make every inch of you mine.”

You wrap an arm around Astarion’s neck carefully, kissing along his jaw. You whisper in his ear, “So make me yours.”

Astarion shudders amorously as you ghost your lips over the ridge of his ear to the tapered tip. He grabs your waist with a low, rumbling growl, pulling you into his lap to straddle him. His desire for you pressed firmly against your already slick sex. Astarion looks deeply into your eyes, holding you still as if trying to figure out if you’re in your right mind.

You’re trying to figure out the same thing.

He catches your lips in his, gentle at first but with progressively more ferocity. He groans into your mouth. It radiates down your spine, stealing your breath, and a chill rushes through you, settling in your core. Your heart flutters with desire, the increasing drumbeat of it making its way between your thighs.

Astarion’s hand grips your hips, undulating them, his cock sliding between your folds, brushing up against your swollen flesh. You have been so fundamentally deprived of his affection that every touch sends shivers over your skin, every slide of his tongue against yours makes you want to sigh, and every groan steals the air from your lungs.

His fingers tease the peaks of your nipples, and you throw your head back and gasp. Astarion kisses up the column of your throat, his free hand cradling the back of your head, fingers twisted in your hair.

There’s but a moment of clarity. You are running headfirst, barrelling into anything that might hope to make you numb - him, pleasure, alcohol, bloodlessness.

Astarion’s fingers glide between your lips and sweep over your sensitive pearl, and coherence is lost in a white-hot rush of pleasure. You melt, draping your arms over him and biting his shoulder to hush your cries. His lips trace along your neck, and you roll your head to the side. His fangs sink into your flesh, and he growls, deeply and lofty, his chest rumbling against yours as if thunder was rolling through it. Your essence trickles through his veins like a gentle rain as he draws in methodical sips, savouring every drop.

Your hips buck as he continues his ministrations. You yearn to feel that decedent stretch of your walls as they envelop his cock, and he knows it. Astarion encourages you to lift your hips, pressing the swollen, blunt head of his cock to your entrance, and you sink down his length as he rubs against all your ridges so exquisitely that it makes your vision blur.

You don’t even notice his fangs retreat from your neck as his lips mould to yours to dampen your unadulterated breathy moans. You close your eyes and fade in and out as your head spins around with pleasure so intense you cannot think straight. The woozy fog of blood loss only adds to your dwindling reason and logic. With every pump of his hips and every roll of yours, you are walking on the fine edge of paradise.

But there’s something not quite right in his movements. They are tactical, methodical, and too perfect. You drive your eyes open, blinking away that haze of ecstasy. When you look into Astarion’s eyes, he’s not looking back at you. He’s looking past you as if through you, but his body knows this dance well enough, and he continues to go through the motions even when he’s a million miles away.

You go rigid, halting all movement in a split second, and your heart seizes, bound by the flash freeze in your chest. It jolts him back to himself, and he blinks rapidly, almost confused.

“Astarion,” you purr, concealing the hurt in your voice. Why didn’t he tell you? Why didn’t he say something as he promised he would? “Let's stop.”

“No,” he protests, shaking his head. “I’m fine.”

“It’s okay, my love.” You cradle his cheek, trying very hard not to move a muscle until he tells you, “Tell me when I can move.”

“I’m sorry,” he looks away from you, brows downturned, rubbing his eyes. “I want this. You. I was there, and then I just… wasn’t. I don’t know what happened.”

“Healing is messy. Isn’t it?”

“You are a gift,” Astarion folds his arms around you, hugging you close to him, and you try to hug him back, but it’s admittedly awkward when he’s still inside you, and you’re trying your best to keep yourself still. He laughs, “You can move, Kamena. I’m not uncomfortable.”

“You’re still inside me,” you retort, almost as if to alert him to this fact.

“Yes, that’s considerably obvious, but thank you for pointing it out,” he chuckles as you relax slightly. “Do you think we could stay like this? Just for a little bit? I find it… strangely helpful.”

This is new. Not unwelcome, but definitely new, “You want to sit here with your cock inside me, and what, chat?”

“Precisely!” He chimes happily, leaning back with a grin, “I’m so glad you understand, darling. Hells. Do I have some stories for you! Do you know how hard it is to break into the government buildings here? They are locked up tighter than a patriar’s purse, but I do love a good challenge.”

You can’t help but burst laughing at his carefree attitude, the way he’s still rock hard inside you, talking about committing crimes as if you were sitting at a table sharing stories over dinner and drinks. This is not typically how you remember him reacting, but this… this is progress, and you will take it.

You groan, “Why were you breaking into the civil buildings, Astarion?”

“How do you think Gale knew where to find and nullify the device suppressing magic at the prison?” Astarion drawls, pleased with himself. “That man is terrible at stealth. Even worse than you. He complained about his knees the entire time! Gods. I am centuries older than him, and you don’t see me bellyaching.”

“How utterly annoying! I’m surprised you didn’t kill him,” you giggle at how he smirks with a wily glint in his crimson eyes. He definitely considered it. “In that case, you’re going to have to take me on a date where we break into this government building that gave you a hard time. This is something I must see.”

“You cheeky little minx,” he laughs. “I would love nothing more.”

The murmur of voices, clinking of cutlery on the tableware, and smell of what is surely Gale’s cooking drift down the hallway as you approach. Astarion follows closely behind, his hand at the small of your back. He has not stopped touching you in some fashion since you returned, as if he’s worried that you might disappear.

You stop dead in your tracks when you see the back of Hecat’s head, sitting at the table, shovelling whatever gruel Gale provided into her mouth and nodding as he recounts tales of your grand adventure in the Underdark. It takes substantial effort not to tell Gale to shut his trap. He does realize that you met this person in prison, right?

Shadowheart sees you first, leaping from her chair and dashing over, sweeping you into a tight hug, “Gods. You smell much better,” she giggles when you groan and squeeze her hard enough to expel some air from her lungs, “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” you nod, but you haven’t been able to take your gaze, etched with skepticism off Hecat.

Shadowheart whispers, “She had nowhere else to go. Gale invited her.”

You snort, “Of course he did.”

“I’ve been watching her closely,” Shadowheart sniffs. “And I will continue to do so.”

You suppose the woman was instrumental in your escape, and perhaps, for now, you should give her the benefit of the doubt.

“Sit,” Astarion instructs, pulling a chair out for you. “I will get you some food.”

You arch a brow at him and give him an almost imperceptible shake of your head. Although anything will be better than the stale bread and dried meat the prison served, whatever Gale has fashioned resembles wet dog food, and your stomach, as hungry as it is, flops in your belly.

Astarion kisses your temple, “Trust me.”

You sit, and Astarion gathers fresh fruit from the fridge, cutting it up in deft, precise movements. He glares at the knife spitefully, assessing the edge and rolling his eyes. You would giggle, knowing he’s judging Gale for the state of his knives, if you were not so flabbergasted that Astarion is preparing your food.

Hecat’s voice breaks you from your astoundment, “You clean up nicely! I almost forgot what colour your hair was under all that crud.”

She, too, looks substantially different without dirt smudged on her face, “I could say the same about you,” you retort a little too sourly.

Hecat smiles, not catching the venom in your voice, “Your friends are very nice.”

“Yes,” you give Gale a sideways glance, and he looks bashful. “Gale is very generous and trusting.”

Gale’s face flushes red, and he clears his throat, putting a finger in the collar of his robe, and pulling it away from his neck like the garment is restricting his breath.

Astarion places a bowl of perfectly diced fruit before you. He sits, dragging his chair close to yours so he can keep a hand resting on your thigh. You don’t miss the way Shadowheart glares at him with unspoken bitterness.

“Dear Shadowheart already gave me quite the berating,” he shimmies his shoulders as if he enjoyed it.

He actually might have.

“Not enough of one if you ask me.” Shadowheart scoffs, her eyes narrowed and blazing with acidity.

Hecat arches a brow, confused at what is going on, and you’re not about to lay out your life story for some stranger you met in prison, so you push the conversation forward.

“Aldous is a vampire,” you say far too casually and are met with looks of shock and silence.

Gale and Shadowheart eye Astarion.

Astarion scoffs, rolling his eyes, “Oh, don’t look at me like that. It wasn’t my bloody doing. I am a mere spawn. I do not have the power to turn anyone. Gods,” he shakes his head. “I don’t believe it possible. I disposed of him. Thoroughly.”

“Did you destroy his body?” You ask. Gale almost chokes on his tea at the indifference in your voice.

Astarion nods, “Entirely. There was nothing left.”

“Is that the man who was after you?” Hecat asks, but her eyes are not on you.

They are moored to Astarion, like a shipwreck lying on the ocean floor, irretrievably bound. Astarion doesn’t seem to notice as he typically does not, but these dew-eyed ogles always make jealously flare to life. You place your hand on Astarion, stop yourself from growling “mine,” and instead, settle on scowling.

Astarion is alerted to your discontentment by the heat radiated from your palm. He makes a show of kissing each of your fingers, slow and lingering, trying very hard not to snicker. He finds your jealousy endearing but equally foolish, and perhaps it is.

Hecat does not seem to care or notice. It drives you mad, so you crawl into his lap, placing yourself between him and her gawking orange eyes. You can hear Shadowheart chuckling under her breath. She knows your protectiveness of Astarion all too well.

Astarion remains casual about it as if it’s not unusual for you to sit in his lap during breakfast. He grabs the bowl of fruit you have yet to finish and shoves it into your hands, “Eat.”

You grumble curses under your breath only he can hear, at him and his bossiness, at Hecat, and shovel fruit into your mouth.

Astarion chuckles, kissing your cheek, and purrs reassuringly, “I only have eyes for you, thiramin.”

You know this, but it’s not his eyes you’re concerned about.

A knock on the door breaks you from your brewing hostility, and you nearly answer it as a reflex, but he holds you and shakes his head, “No. Not this time.”

“I’ll get it,” Shadowheart chimes.

Gale accompanies Shadowheart. All three of you are holding the Weave, ready to cast at a moment’s notice. There is an undertone of mumbling, and Astarion’s face transforms into a formidable scowl. His grip on you tightens, and he brandishes a dagger.

“Blackwell,” he growls.

Flames immediately jump to life across your skin, licking up your forearms and through your hair. Hecat is on her feet, her fists balled, stirred by your unease.

Gale returns, looking contrite, wracking his hand over his face, “I’m sorry, my friend, but we must hear him out.”

Astarion is the first to answer, his voice rough and grated in warning, “Absolutely fucking not! I don’t care what information he has or what he has to say, Gale. If you let him into this house, I will kill him. I promise you that. You would not want to get blood all over these lovely floors. Would you?”

“Information?” You ask, placing a hand on Astarion’s as he grips the dagger so tightly his fist shakes.

“Don’t be an idiot, Kamena,” Astarion snarls.

“My son,” you hear Mr. Blackwell’s voice as he sidles up behind Gale as if using him as a shield. Shadowheart has a tight clutch on his shoulder, bristling with fury, “I’ve made a grave mistake. I know I have no right to ask, but I don’t know where else to turn. I... I need your help.”

“Help?” You seethe, fingernails digging into the table to keep yourself from burning him where he stands, shoulders slumped, wringing his hat in his hands. “You want our help?! That’s laughable.”

“You killed him.” Mr. Blackwell mewls, “Didn’t you?”

You do not answer. No one does. Instead, you level him with a glower sharp enough to cut through mountains.

It is answer enough.

“I made a deal,” he continues. “No one would listen to me. No one cared. I was out of options, and then I was approached by a woman while I was at a tavern. She told me she could bring him back. She told me there was a spell that would return him to me. She said the only payment she would ask was that he would be in her service. I... I did not ask questions. I did not know what she was!”

“You godsdamned idiot,” you hiss, clenching your teeth so hard the nerves trill. “You made a deal with a vampire?”

“Nobles,” Hecat scoffs with a disgusted twist of her lips. “All wealth, zero intelligence.”

“I didn’t know!” Mr. Blackwell cries, slipping to the floor into a puddle of sorrow. “She said he would return to me the next night, and he did, but he was not the same. His mother let him in. She was so happy to see him she did not notice or care. She hugged him. He… He bit her! I could not get him to stop. He looks like you,” Mr. Blackwell says sullenly, nodding toward Astarion. “Red eyes, pale as a sheet.”

“I am sure he does,” Astarion beams a fanged, threatening grin at him, making Mr. Blackwell squeak like a mouse caught in a trap.

Questions are whirling through your mind. Why would a Vampire Lord take notice of you? Why would they waste resources – spawn, scrolls or otherwise? Why bother having you imprisoned, beaten, and weakened? There is always a purpose to their madness, but what could you have that they want?

“What could a Vampire Lord possibly want with you?” Gale echos your thoughts, fingers on his chin. “And why bring Aldous back? How did they bring him back?”

“Aldous is easy. Most likely a scroll of True Resurrection. I imagine they turned him because they knew his thirst for revenge would make him easy to manipulate. Vengeance is a powerful motivator.” Your brows furrow, tapping the table with your finger rapidly, “What I don’t understand is what use they would have for any of us. I can’t think of a single relic in our possession that would do a Vampire Lord any good.”

Hecat looks between all of you with a puzzled look. She knows too much now, adding yet another complication.

“Astarion,” Shadowheart prompts him, “You’re the resident expert on vampires. Care to speculate as to why they would go through all this trouble?”

Astarion’s brows furrow and he shrugs, “I don’t have the slightest clue. Vampires are territorial beasts, but I do not think they would go to such lengths when they could have simply attacked me while I was hunting if their concern was territory.”

You give the worn noble on the floor a once over, and you feel nothing but hatred for the pathetically snivelling man. Should you feel merciful? Gods. When did you become so callous? “Did Aldous say anything else?”

“He muttered things here and there.” Mr. Blackwell sighs letting his head drop into his hands, “Something about ruins being the key and a contract, but none of it made any sense. He seemed like he was in a haze, drunk-like.”

Ruins being a key and a contract? It's not much to go on at this point, but you suppose, it’s a start.

“Whoever this Vampire Lord is,” Shadowheart crosses her arms, “They will know exactly who we are. They will not underestimate us.”

“Indeed,” Gale agrees with a curt nod. “We must take precautions, prepare and plan for the worst.”

“Who the fuck are you people?” Hecat asks, slack-jawed and wide-eyed.

“Adventurers,” you trample over Gale who is about to spill your entire story, looking him in the eyes with a warning. His mouth snaps shut. “Nothing more.”

It seems your adventure in Waterdeep is just beginning.  

Thank you to all those who read/like/comment/follow/reblog/etc. I'm forever thankful for the support. I love reading your comments ❤️

Chapters Master List - Shadows of the Past

AO3: Crossposted

If you're interested, I also write fanfic for Ascended Astarion x Spawn Tav - Fangs and Fractured Hearts

Small Notes:

Shadowheart ❤️

I'm dying to hear all your theories on why a Vampire Lord has taken an interest! 😁

Are we trusting Hecat?

Fucking Aldous 🤬 Hopefully we get the chance to kill him... again.

[usafphantom2]

To help reduce the radar cross-section the pie shaped and rectangular shapes were used around the outer edges of the SR 71. This is one of many reasons why they did not allow photographs. The SR -71 was made of 93% aged titanium and 7% composites. The fins and triangle wedges that framed the outer edge of the aircraft were composite constructionsmade from a mixture of asbestos and epoxy. They provided high-temperature radar absorbent characteristics to reduce the aircraft radar cross-section. They found that to attach thin, titanium skin to heavier wing structures, simple standoff clips were developed. These gave structural integrity while providing a heat shield between components with different expansion rates.

According to Wisconsin Metal Tech, the engineers of the SR-71 were among the first people in history to make real use of the material. In that process, they ended up throwing away a lot of material, some through necessity, some through error. At times the engineers were perplexed as to what was causing problems, but thankfully they documented and cataloged everything, which helped find trends in their failures. They discovered that spot welded parts made in the summer were failing very early in their life, but those welded in winter were fine. They eventually tracked the problem to the fact that the Burbank water treatment facility was adding chlorine to the water they used to clean the parts to prevent algae blooms in summer, but took it out in winter. Chlorine reacts with titanium, so they began using distilled water from this point on.

They discovered that their cadmium plated tools were leaving trace amounts of cadmium on bolts, which would cause galvanic corrosion and cause the bolts to fail. This discovery led to all cadmium tools to be removed from the workshop.

Linda Sheffield

@Habubrats71 via X

[cerastes]

any expectations/predictions about the DLC you might like to share, Mr Dreamo?

(This is about the Elden Ring DLC)

My expectations are very high, because FromSoft has always done their very best on DLCs to their games, due to a strong internal culture of taking in criticisms of their base games and trying to rectify them while elevating their base, solid formula. It's why they tend to take a while with DLC: They don't immediately go into DLC development as soon as their base game ends, at least not in full (they likely do conceptual groundwork and all the sundry parts you don't really need a lot of feedback for, like world assets and such), they always take their sweet time cranking out those bad boys, and it always feels like they address the weaknesses of their base games in their DLC.

So to hear that this is the biggest expansion they've ever produced as a company is not surprising at all: Elden Ring is, by far, their biggest game. And not only that, they managed to make an open world game that actually feels full. Miyazaki mentioned in an interview that the DLC map will be as big, if not bigger, than Limgrave, and Limgrave in terms of size alone is like a fourth of the base game, so That's Pretty Impressive (though... Is he counting the Weeping Peninsula in there? WP is part of Limgrave so I assume he is but there was no specificity). There's also apparently 8 new equipment categories, which is kind of insane to me? Likely they'll have 1-3 weapons each obviously but making 8 new equipment types is also pretty ambitious. We saw Dueling Shields, and we've heard rumors of odachi as well (Walmart Mortal Blade real?), and I will be cautious in my enthusiasm and assume it won't be 8 new weapon types specifically (probably some kooky meme items there like the double door shields or some gimmick torch with attacks from DS3, wouldn't be Fromsoft without clown nose equipment) but new weapon types outright is in fact a perfect way to revitalize a game further. All I want is for the new weapons to be relatively easily accessed for new characters instead of necessarily an endgame or NG+ deal unless you're willing to kill endgame bosses with a very low level character so we can do full NG runs with these new toys (see: Moonlight Greatsword runs or Rakuyo runs in Bloodborne. Have fun REALLY learning Ludwig and Maria on no-hit formats! Hope you brought plenty Fire and Bolt Paper, respectively!)

And my biggest hope, perhaps even cope, is that the triple flying kicks we saw in the trailer are Martial Arts weapons and not just an Ash of War. If the Bone Fist from DS2 finally returns in spirit, you will catch me dropkicking player and god alike until the end of time.

[tashacee]

You said you’d made aspect of grace to be a lot whumpier at first

*Looks right*

*Looks left*

You uh, you still got that whumpier version?/j

Genuinely though, what was it originally like?

Let me look through my drive, see if i can find the rough draft lmao

Okay, turns out i still have the entire original chapter and DAMN it is whump. OOFT.

Also originally the lizalfos that killed Wild was straight up Dink. I forgot about that.

Anyway, I'll put it under the cut if you're interested :)

Wind knelt beside wild, numb, his mind refusing to process, refusing to accept the terrible truth in front of him. Around him he could see movement, hear his brothers shouting, feel someone grab his arm and try to jolt him out of his stupor, but he didn’t pay them any heed.

It didn’t matter. None of it mattered. The world had stopped turning and all the colour had been drained from the world around him

Because wild was dead. 

It had been a normal day, like any other. No, scratch that, it had been better than that. It had been a great day. The sun had been shining and despite the cool autumn morning they had all relished in it, stripping cloaks and coats and enjoying the rare day of quiet sunlight. They were crossing a wide expanse of wetlands, the sunlight reflecting off of the water as all of their boots and socks were soaked through, but despite a few token complaints, no one much minded. 

It was a good day. They were all happy and high spirited, cracking jokes and grinning and messing about, Wind most of all.

Any other day he wouldn’t have grabbed the slate from wild’s hip. Any other day he wouldn’t have cackled and dashed off, waving it in the air in the world’s most childish game of ‘keep away’ he could manage.

Wild had yowled in protest and dashed after him, but fast as the cat man was, wind had a head start and was determined to mess about in the way that only a little brother could. 

The others had joined in. When wild had been about to catch him, wind tossed the slate to wars, who nimbly caught it and took over running away, laughing all the time. Wild had been laughing too, yipping in amusement as well as giving the rumble that Wind was pretty sure was his version of swearing.

If he had really been mad, wind would have stopped. None of them would have gone on. But he was laughing. He was having fun. 

Wars three the slate to Hyrule, who threw it to Twilight, who wind feared for a moment would give it back to Wild. But the Rancher just threw it back to Wind, sticking his tongue out at his brother while the others crowed in laughter, and wind bolted off again.

It was a good day. 

And then it wasn’t. 

The lizalfos had seemed to come from nowhere. It must have been hiding in the space between some rocks, waiting for them to approach. That was the thing about black blooded monsters, they were so much more clever, so much more intelligent, and this one seemed so much more than most.

It sprang out, teeth bared, jagged blade drawn. Its eyes glowed red against the oily black of its scales, and it radiated a dark magic so thick that wind could taste it in the air. He shouted in surprise and tried to leap out of the way, but his foot caught on a submerged root and he stumbled.

He went sprawling, dropping the slate in the mud as he fell and landing face first in the water. He barely rolled over in time to miss the next blow from the lizalfos’ blade. He tried to scramble to his feet, to get his bearings. He needed to move, to defend himself - he reached for his sword but he was of kilter, his hands were shaking and he fumbled. The lizalfos swung-

And it’s bland was blocked, parried away as a massive shape dove in front of him. Wild, his sword drawn as he repelled back the creature’s blade, teeth bared and growling.

Where were the others? Where they really that far behind?

There was no time to stop, no time to think. Wind finally got his grip on his sword and shield, ready to dove in and help his brother, but it was too late.

The lizalfos swung again. Wild blocked him again with his sword, but it was an old, worn thing from his own era, and it couldn’t take the strain. The blade shattered, and seeing the opportunity, the lizalfos lunged again.

And it’s blade met fur and flesh and bone. And wild made a sound, small and breathy and pained, his eyes widening in shock.

Wind surged forwards, kicking the lizalfos backwards and swinging at it wildly as the others finally reached their position. Wars, legend, and time leapt into battle with him, pressing on the beast as behind them Hyrule rushed to wild’s side.

It was only one lizalfos. Even black blooded, it shouldn’t have been as fierce, as intelligent as it was. It shouldn’t have looked like it was smiling. It shouldn’t have cackled when time finally ran it through, and rather than dissolving to dust like a normal monster, fading away like a shadow in the sunlight. 

Something told wind that it wasn’t gone for good, but it was gone for now and that was good enough for him. Shuddering, he dropped his sword and spun around, running to where he had left Wild. He would be fine, they’d all been stabbed before, but wild was strong! He was hardy, he would be fine-

He was lying in the water, limp and unmoving. Twilight has pulled his head and shoulders onto his knees and was bent double over him, his face screwed up and sobbing. Beside him, Hyrule sat pale faced and horrified, his hands at his side. Why wasn’t he doing something? Why wasn’t he healing him? 

The fur on wild’s torso was matted with blood, the water around him stained a horrible red. He wasn’t breathing. He wasn’t breathing 

“Wild!” Wind ran forwards, grabbing his hand. “Hyrule help him! Do something!”

Hyrule just shook his head, tears beginning to slip over his cheeks. Wind knew why. He could see it plain as day, could see the gaping wound through Wild’s chest, knew that it was not an injury anyone could survive. Still, even as all of his brothers knelt around them, saw the terrible sight and understood the horrible truth, Wind could not accept it. Would not accept it. 

So he knelt there, staring at his unmoving brother, holding his hand and not caring as the frigid water soaked into his trousers.

Wild was dead, and he just couldn’t accept it.

-

After Wild’s first adventure, the gifts given to him by his fellow champions had faded. His old friends had moved on, after all, their spirits finally getting to rest after so long in limbo, and one by one their gifts left the space where they had rested in his soul.

Wild was okay with this. Much as he missed them, much as he missed the powers they gave him, he was glad that they were finally at peace. 

Mipha was the last to linger, and he wasn’t really that surprised. Her caring instinct had always been strong and she had always wanted to help. 

Then the weeks turned into months. And the months turned into years. And somehow, although he couldn’t quite feel her presence, there was still a sense of… something. Something that felt like gentle healing and and glowed a soft blue. Not the presence of a spirit, but the tender touch of a blessing.

know this: that no matter how difficult this battle might get... if you—if anyone ever tries to do you harm... Then I will heal you.

Zelda theorised that it was the final gift of the Zora princess. That even though she herself had moved on, the healing power of her Grace had remained, in one form or other. Even with the scant few memories of Mipha that Wild had, he was inclined to agree.

This said, he had never been particularlykeen to try it out. Mipha’s Grace had only ever activated when he had been injured badly enough to be at the point of death, and funnily enough he wasn’t overly eager to get to that point. It was enough to feel her blessing, however strong it may be, and to know that she had found peace.

Now, though, Wild floated in a limbo.

He wasn’t entirely clear on how he had ended up in this foggy, dark place. Someone had been in danger, someone important to him, and he had acted on impulse to save them. He had saved them, this important person, he was certain of that, but in the process he had gotten himself badly hurt.

He was dying. He knew that. And something about that was familiar.

He floated there, in that dark limbo, neither warm nor cold, neither feeling pain nor comfort, neither seeing nor blind, and he wondered vaguely why he was still here. He was no longer in his body, of that he was certain, but neither was he moving on.

Why was he not moving on?

Maybe something else had to happen first.

He waited, and inside of him something soft and blue began to pulse and itch. Around his chest, he felt something begin to come together.

This was also familiar, but he was sure that whatever it was used to be faster, stronger.

Huh.

He waited, patient in the darkness, and then all of a sudden hhis awareness came back to him with a terrible clarity. He was Link - wild! - and he had been trying to save Wind. He had taken a sword to the chest to save his brother and he was dying, should be dead already - 

But swirling around him, in the soft darkness of death, was a ribbon of blue energy, oh so softly knitting his wounds together. Mipha. Her grace, her final blessing, still saving his life so long after she had left hers behind. It would take longer, without the strength of her spirit to guide the healing, and it would not be as complete as it had been in the past. It would, he knew now, save him from death.

He couldn’t believe that he had been given such a gift. If such a thing was possible in this strange, limbo space, he would have wept.

Instead he waited for an indeterminate amount of time for the healing to be done.

And then he opened his eyes.

-

Every ounce of him hurt.

It wasn’t really the nicest feeling to wake up to, but given that he was waking up at all, he didn’t really feel as if he had the right to complain. In the past when Mipha had healed him he had come around almost instantly, his wounds fully healed and his energy restored, but it didn’t look like that would be happening any more. He was saved from the brink of death, but he still had plenty of wounds that needed healed.

And damnit, they hurt.

He wanted to groan but he wasn’t quite there yet, wasn’t quite ready to fully control his body. Everything felt so heavy. Instead he focused on grounding himself, on figuring out his surroundings, on what was happening around him.

He was lying on his back, on the ground. No not quite on the ground, someone had laid out a blanket underneath him. One of his softest blankets, if he was feeling it right. Aw, guys! He couldn’t help but feel touched that they had done that for him even when-

Oh. Oh right. They probably all thought he was dead. There was no telling how long he had been out while Mipha healed him. Shit.

Well, at least he hadn’t been buried yet. He really didn’t fancy climbing out of his own grave.

Again.

He focused on more of his surroundings. He could feel someone clutching his hand, their head pressed against his knuckles as they sobbed silently. Against his other side a small figure was curled up and also crying, less silently. WInd? And maybe Twilight?

This wasn’t good. He needed to move, to tell them that he was okay. He tried to put some strength into his aching muscles but he was still too groggy, his mind felt like he was swimming through a haze, his body not obeying his orders.

In the background, he could hear the crackle of a fire, but no one was speaking. He thought that he could hear a few more people crying, and someone moving something metal, was that a ladle on a cookpot? They weren’t trying to cook, were they? It was bad enough that Wild had died, now they wanted to give themselves food poisoning?

Wild tried to move again and was not successful, but did manage to push a low whine out of his throat.

THe hand holding Wild’s tightened and the sobbing stopped abruptly. To his side, the small figure that he was certain was wind sat up, moving close to his face.

“Wild?” Wind’s voice asked, horribly rough and choked with tears.

Wild was still too weak to move, but he whined again and managed to get his eyelids to flutter, his vision blurry but just about focusing on the tear stained faces of Twilight and Wind. Hylia they looked awful, their faces pale and drawn, their hair a mess. They were both covered in blood, both red and black, and looked like it had never occurred to them to clean off.

WIld whined again, and Wind shot to his feet.

“HYRULE!” He all but screamed. “Hyrule hurry up! He’s alive! Wild’s alive!”

There was a commotion at the other side of the camp as several of the chain shouted in disbelief. Wild focused on Twilight as the rest of his brothers rushed over, managing to tilt his head to butt at his brother’s knee and rumbling softly.

Twilight’s face crumpled into a smile and he began to cry again, throwing his arms around Wild’s shoulders and burying himself into a hug. Wild couldn’t lie, it hurt, but he didn’t mind and leaned into it as best he could. On his other side, Hyrule had all but thrown himself on the ground beside him, tear-streaked and breathless, his eyes wide with hope and amazement.

Wild looked around and met his eyes, purring weakly in greeting. Hyrule gasped and covered his mouth and then set about looking over Wild’s wounds.

“Twilight.” came Warriors’ voice, thich with emotion, “Come on, you can still hold his hand but you need to sit up so Rulie can look over him.” the Captain appeared in the periphery of Wild’s vision, gently peeling the Rancher back and helping him sit up.

Twi sniffed in an extremely undignified manner and knuckled the tears from his face, laughing weakly as he took Wild’s hand again. He squeezed it, and Wild squeezed back, rumbling softly.

He could see the rest of the chain hovering around the edges of his vision, watching and waiting with baited breath as Hyrule looked over his injuries. The slash across his chest was still there, though no longer so deep, and the myriad smaller cuts and bruises across his body were still open and burning.

The familiar pulse of Hyrule’s magic began to wash across his chest, slowly closing the wound and easing the worst of the pain. While no longer life threatening, it was still deep, and clearly too much for Hyrule to heal all at once, and with the main injury more or less closed he sighed heavily and flopped down next to Wild, exhausted. He turned to look at him, his eyes heavy with exhaustion, and buried himself into his side, sobbing.

Wild purred and carefully lifted his arm to stroke Hyrules hair as the Traveller burrowed in closer to his side.

“I think.” Came legend’s voice from beside Hyrule. Wild looked around and was surprised to see that even the bitter, caustic Veteran had tear tracks down his cheeks. “I think that means that Wild is well enough for us all to give him hell for that shock.”

Wild whined softly - the slash in his chest may have closed, but he still felt sore and exhausted. But Legend was smiling as he spoke and reached down to ruffle Wild’s hair. “Glaad to have you back. Don’t know how we would have broken the news to the citizens of cat island.”

Wild snorted and shook him off. Legend cleared his throat and looked away, looking suspiciously like he was blinking back tears.

“Come on, guys, give the idiot space. He’s just come back from the dead, he doesn’t need us climbing all over him.” Legend smiled and moved away, cheeks flushed with emotion. He pulled some of the others with him, Warriors and Four and Sky all pausing to squeeze Wild’s arm, shoulder, to tell him how glad they were to have him back before retreating to the campfire. At Legend’s urging, Hyrule stumbled up too and let the Veteran guide him over to his own bedroll where he could rest properly.

Almost immediately, Wind threw himself back into Wild’s side. Wild squealed as he jostled his wounds and Time, still in his full armour, still dishevelled and battle-worn, put a hand on his shoulder. “Come on, Sailor, go easy on him.”

Wind squirmed and pulled back a little, his face tearful as he looked at Wild. “I’m so sorry.” he whispered, gently setting a slightly muddy sheikah slate next to Wild. “If I hadn’t stolen it I wouldn’t have tun on ahead and you wouldn’t have - you wouldn’t have gotten hurt-”

Wild whined and turned slightly out of Twilight’s grip to nuzzle at the sailor, ignoring the pain that flared up through his chest as he moved. Rumbling softly, he disentangled his arms from his brothers’ grips to try a shaky sign.

“All good. Not you. Me. My-” dammit, he didn’t know the word for ‘choice’. Ugh, whatever. Moving on. “Wind. Brother. Family. Safe.” that would have to do, he didn’t know any more sign and he was getting exhausted.

“The only person at fault was that damn lizard.” Time repeated soothingly. “Go and get some water, will you, Wind? WIld probably needs a drink.”

Wild nodded and gave a thumbs up, and glad to be useful, Wind dashed off.

Now alone with just Time and Twi, Wild exhaled heavily.  He understood why his brothers were so emotional, he was feeling pretty emotional himself, but he was really too tired to taake it all in.

Time sat down beside him. “You really were dead, weren’t you cub?” he asked. On wild’s other side, Twilight shuddered. Wild nodded. “But you came back. Did you know you would? Or do you know how?”

Wild shrugged weakly and then nodded. He didn’t know for sure it would happen, hadn’t even thought about it when he dove in front of the lizalfos, just acted. But he knew exactly what it was. Who it was.

Time’s face softened and he squeezed Wild’s hand. “Well I’m looking forward to you being able to explain, but for now let’s just get you comfortable. Okay?”

Wild mewled as Time began to pull out and set up his bedroll and myriad blankets next to him. Wild shuffled as Twi helped him to sit up, scratching at his scars. They itched like hell, and he had never been more relieved at how easy it was to unclasp his prosthetic and dump it on the ground beside him. Ah, sweet relief.

He let Twilight help him into his newly made up bed and happily collapsed into it, barely able to draw up the energy to knead with his free hand. Twi curled up beside him, unwilling and unable to leave him alone after the day they both had had. As they settled down, Wind came  trotting back over with a cup of water and wide, anxious eyes.

Wild sipped at the drink and then seeing that Wind was still shifting nervously from foot to foot, held out an arm in invitation. Well. He tried. It was his right arm, which he had recently discarded, so he was actually just wiggling his stump. Still, Wind understood the invitation and immediately dove in beside him.

“I’m really glad you’re not dead.” he whispered, and both Time and Twilight snorted.

“I think we can all agree on that one.” Time replied. “Get some sleep, Wild. Boys, go easy on him, yeah? Hyrule wouldn’t appreciate you wearing him out. Nor would Wild, i’m sure, for that matter.”

Wild chuffed and burrowed down into his blankets. Wind curled in tighter, curling his legs around his brother’s.  Wild wanted nothing more than to sleep, to get some rest, but there was one last thing to do.

He rumbled and leaned into twilight, nuzzling at his hair.

Brother he was saying brother. Okay. safe. Brother.

Twilight sniffed and looked up at him, smiling. He gently butted back. Idiot brother. Scared! Sad! He burrowed in closer, digging his hands into his fur.

Wild rumbled and pulled him in. Safe brother safe. Safe nowSafe. Twilight repeated, safe. Brother. Family. Safe.

[norcumii]

RexObiBingoSithAU

(re: this meme. Thank you for playing! And, er, sorry for the delay; it’s been a weird week)

*gleeful bounces* Ok, so! At one point I picked up a RexObi bingo card because that seemed like a neat challenge, started a whole lot of stories, and then Life got annoying and I haven’t finished any of them. Bethatasitmay, my chosen line for bingo had one stumper: Fake Relationship. It’s just not a thing that usually does anything for me, so I kept poking at it because while I could swap it out, I wanted the challenge.

Then I registered that I do very well with the tumbl meme where people send random combos of tropes and I have to mash them together. And here I had a whole bunch of random tropes! So I set my own personal challenge to use ALL the tropes in a row/column in one fic, because no one said I couldn’t and why not?

Which led me to smashing together: Fake Relationship, Undercover Missions, Alternate Universe, Body Swap, and Force Bonds. Obviously, Obi-Wan would have to body swap across universes into one where he was a Sith, and Sith!Obi-Wan was on some kind of undercover mission with Rex where they had to pretend to be in a relationship something something Force Bonds makes for better spies. Easy! :D

A sample, for your entertainment!

Obi-Wan did not expect to wake up. He lay in a bed for awhile, just absorbing the experience. The last thing he remembered was some high powered blaster shot – sniper rifle, most likely – knocking him off his eopie. It’d gotten him right under the arm, so if it hadn’t cauterized everything – those kinds of shots didn’t tend to – then it had to have severed the artery.

He’d had time to muse that it was a lovely kill shot, then he’d slid towards unconsciousness.

There had been the vague impression of voices, for an impossibly long moment. Rather reminded him of that hazy nightmare on Mortis, but at least two of those three people were dead.

As he should be, but instead he was waking up, not in pain. Quite comfortable, truth be told, and he felt energized for the first time in...years. Rather a lot of years.

He shoved that notion away as quick as he could, as reality settled in slowly, exaggerating the sensation of a lazy holiday morning. Even with his eyes closed, Obi-Wan could pinpoint a hotel room. Mid-range, given the slight hum of noise dampeners keeping the outside well away. The one sheet and one thicker blanket had that crisp, not-quite-floral smell of many trips through the sonics, and the abundance of pillows had a range of fluffiness no single being would ever bother to stock.

There was also someone in the bed with him, and that was the biggest shock so far. It had been a long time since he’d shared a bed with anyone, and he couldn’t recall the last time it wasn’t for a mission.

Whoever they were, they were also a very precise distance away, the way one did when sharing with someone one didn’t like.

Not as foreboding as the whole possibly dead thing, but it didn’t strike him as good news.

“Sir,” a terrifyingly familiar voice declared from that precise distance next to him, “you said you wanted an oh-seven-hundred wake up call.”

Obi-Wan bolted upright, shocked awake in the way only a sudden hit of adrenaline and old trauma could manage. The man next to him sat up as well, eyeing him warily. “Everything all right, sir?”

There were so many things wrong about the situation that Obi-Wan didn’t even know where to start. The room looked close enough to a hotel room as to not matter – still wasn’t the desert. The man next to him was indisputably a clone, and while his Force presence was shielded better than Obi-Wan had ever encountered, he was fairly certain this was Captain Rex. However, Captain Rex looked young, with less scarring than he’d expect – there was no evidence of the sniper shot that had almost taken him down on Saleucami.

And he was also staring at the Captain’s chest in a way that was perhaps neither reasonable nor civilized, but it was a nice expanse of chest.

That was another significant oddity: Obi-Wan felt young – no, he felt hale in ways he hadn’t for quite some time, like he hadn’t been ground down by years of injuries and war and all the horror following the extinction of the Jedi.

He certainly didn’t feel dead. Obi-Wan scrubbed his face, hoping for some clarity, but he only found more mysteries. He was clean-shaven – it had been literal years since that last happened – and his hair was long, back down to his shoulders again. Back to the brighter auburn it had been years ago as well, which also made no sense.

He had no idea what was going on.

~end bit

[llondonfog]

For the fic meme thing maybe some angst like Lilia protecting an injured silver maybe?

[✐meme] three sentence fic meme

As a soldier, there are certain limits to compassion on the battlefield. A moment's pause of sympathy could mean the difference between survival and a falchion in the throat, the choice to defend a companion gravely wounded bearing the cost of two lives instead of only one. Lilia has grieved this lesson in the blood of the dearest friends unsalvageable, forged it in the hardness of his battle-weary furnace heart; in wartime, duty can be all that matters.

( "Nothing else but Malleus' safety can be of importance when you're protecting the prince. Should anyone other than him be harmed, even yourself, you are to never waver in your duties— that is what it means to be his knight. Do you understand, Silver?" )

He has spent over five hundred years upholding the rules of war; one does not become Briar Valley's most celebrated General in acts of kindness and salvation. He has allowed the deaths of countless fellow fae standing by his side because he knew he could not save them, no matter how they may have screamed and pleaded otherwise. He is not some fledgling thrown into a world he does not understand, he knows how the game is played, the sacrifices that must be made.

So how is it, that as his son, his one and only darling, dearest son, crumples to the ground from a vicious strike of blinding viridescent lightning, Lilia finds his body and mind acting as one despite centuries of discipline to propel his limbs forward with a fear the likes of which he's never known?

Malleus still rages blindly before them, the shouts and desperate commands of those who had foolishly come to help echoing dimly above his head, but Lilia's awareness has been reduced to a wide expanse of Silver's torso that's been horrifically burnt away by the lightning bolt, the colors of his skin wrong and flesh mangled with melted uniform as an ugly stench begins to build in the air between them. And the boy, the blessed sweet child, is trying to fight against what must be a howling pain to fulfill his wretched father's ridiculous guidance, teeth clenched to stifle whimpers that pierce Lilia through the gut as if each one had been specifically designed to maim him in the worst way possible.

Lilia has never once turned his back in battle, but he falls over his son now, heedless of the streaks of colored lights crisscrossing the sky as spells are cast uselessly against the thick hide of dragon scales. His boy, his child, is lying injured in his arms, and Lilia has not one drop of magic to heal him.

"F—Father, you have to— Malleus-sama—"

"I'm afraid I will have to beg the prince's forgiveness, but to lose two family members in one day is simply something I cannot allow!"

It's only fitting then that he becomes Silver's shield while Kalim takes one look at the expression on his face and shouts desperately for help, altering the course of their battle as he's forced their friends to choose between the saving of their own. Only fitting that for Silver, for his chosen human child, he throws away the most callous of rules that had allowed him victory over the boy's kin.

Lilia's always known he'd go to war for this child; now, he supposes he'd stop one for him too.

[marroniere]

fic: strength of heart (tenderness of the soul), thranto, E, WIP, almost finished

Word count: 201,308 words so far (5000-word chapters are posted twice a week, 39 chapters overall)

Warnings: canon-typical violence, angst with a happy ending, mpreg, Thrawn dealing with his traumatic past

Excerpt:

The return to the Springhawk does not feel real. The only sensation that Eli can find remotely grounding is the pain from the blaster burn; the bolt only grazed his shoulder when he shielded Thrawn, but he can barely move his arm now.

The chip with the data thief program and all the ship records is in Eli’s pocket; he can tell he will have a lot of fun deciphering that.

The warriors carry the tied, unconscious Grysk prisoners to the brig. In the medbay, the medics clean Eli’s wound, and then he gets bacta and painkillers. Thrawn goes to the bridge for a quick conversation with Kharill but promises to return.

As Eli watches the medbay ceiling, his heart is still pounding. Reality comes back to him in small increments. Short, simple thoughts. They have won this battle. They have a chance of locating the Grysk homeworld and bases as well, and it might mean no battles with the Grysk invasions anymore.

Tonight, he, Eli Vanto, is going home with his husband and his crew.

He tries to send messages to everyone on Naporar, but all he gets is a pale grey dot on the screen that means no connection. No matter. He will do it again when the Springhawk is closer to the nearest triad transmitter.

“We’re going home,” Eli mutters when Thrawn comes back. “In the end. Can you believe it?”

Thrawn plants a light kiss on his temple.

“There was a moment, I will admit, when I started to doubt that. Not for long, however.”

He reaches for the painkillers left by the medic on the stand by Eli’s bed.

“Not this again,” Eli hisses. “You can’t have them for breakfast, lunch, and dinner, y’know.”

Thrawn’s response is a deadpan stare.

“Your suggestions are most welcome, Eli Vanto.”

Eli glances at his shoulder, a blistering red expanse of skin under the bacta patch. He contemplates his situation, but not for long. The shoulder hurts, all right. But the idea of potentially conceiving a child with Thrawn on the Springhawk…Eli finds it too good an opportunity to miss. This would have been quite the story. It’s not as if he has a lot of people to tell it to, so it’s purely for his own sake, but it’s quite the story nonetheless.

“Ah,” he decides, “fuck that. How much time do we have?”

“Pellaeon and Faro wish to meet us,” Thrawn says. “So does Ar’alani. Uingali and the Garwians, as well. They all need an hour to assess the damage.”

“Your quarters, then.”

“I have a better suggestion,” Thrawn says.

“I’m not—” Eli suspects his face must be all flushed red at this point. “We’re not doing it here. ”

“I was not suggesting to do it here,” Thrawn says, his voice innocent. “I would prefer a modicum of privacy.”

Eli studies his face for a few seconds. Then he realizes.

“If you say ‘supply closet,’ I’ll shoot you. I still have one healthy arm, mind you—”

“The supply closet, like my quarters, can easily be locked from the inside with the captain’s code cylinder,” Thrawn says. “But unlike my quarters, one of the supply closets is situated on this deck, which will leave us more chances to stay unnoticed.”

Before Eli has a chance to answer anything, Thrawn adds, “Besides, it makes for an entertaining story.”

“Supply closet, kark’s sake,” Eli mutters. “Promise you’ll never tell this to our children.”

Instead of an answer, Thrawn gives him one of those enigmatic stares that say all too many things at once—and kisses him again.

[ikeromantic]

Through Her Eyes

A Chevalier Michel fanfiction. Approx. 3800 words. This scene takes place in Chapter 6-8 of the main route and is told from Chevalier’s POV. Part 8 of a series.

First: Bravery Becomes Her

Previous: A Word of Advice

Chevalier surveyed the crowd with a discerning eye. It was easy to dismiss these parties as a waste of time, but he knew better. This ballroom was a battlefield where fights were won with a cutting remark or a cold glance. Alliances hid behind studied avoidance and subtle nods. Weapons here were style and wit. 

This was not the province of the brutal beast, but he learned to wield his intelligence and arrogance as well as a sword and shield. He stood on his own metaphorical hilltop like a victorious general, letting the crowd perceive his disdain. It made them hate him. It made them fear him. But that, Chevalier knew, was power as well. 

His eyes found Leon, surrounded as always by a cloud of sycophants. It wasn’t a fair assessment, perhaps. His brother brought out true loyalty in his followers, but Chev wondered how far that would take him in the face of threat and violence. He did not think any of those nobles could accept the hard choices a king must make and Leon . . .

The Belle entered on Clavis’ arm. Her dress was white with silver trim, tight through the bodice and flared through the hips. Though the gown was sleeveless, she wore gloves that came up just past her elbow, and a single pendant necklace on a thin silver chain. The teardrop diamond hung just below the delicate hollow of her throat, leaving the expanse of bare skin below it looking all the more naked to his eyes. 

Beautiful.

Chevalier looked away from her as if he hadn’t even noticed she came in. 

A noble approached him a moment later, but his petty maneuvering did little to distract Chev from the Belle’s presence. He saw Flandre approach her. Clavis, smiling. Was this part of his brother’s game?

“So I was thinking, Highness, if you put in a good word?” The noble smiled hopefully.

“Don’t waste my time with your petty goals.” He let his full attention settle on the man for a moment, well aware of the effect his icy gaze had on weak souls. 

The man bowed low. “Y-yes, of course. Highness. I’m sorry. Very sorry.” He backed away. 

Chev’s eyes found the Belle just in time to see Clavis lean close and whisper something in her ear as Flandre walked away from the two of them. Heat rose in her cheeks as she nodded agreement to whatever was said. Her expression was focused, intent.

“Highness, if I may?”

A matronly noblewoman stood just to his left, eyes cast demurely down. 

“What?”

“Allow me to be brief - “ and to his surprise, she was. She succinctly described the impact of a new Jadeite tariff, something that had crossed Chevalier’s desk a few weeks ago. 

He gave a curt nod. “I am aware. And I will include this information in our negotiations.”

“Thank you.” She gave an appropriate curtsy and left. 

Chevalier wished all the nobility he dealt with were so efficient. Though he did not intend to, his eyes returned to the Belle. Something Clavis said caused an expression of shock to ripple across her features. Every muscle in her tensed as if she were about to bolt. But Chev knew she wouldn’t. The Belle was a stubborn girl. His lips curved up in a brief smile, gone almost as soon as it arrived.

Then Clavis motioned in his general direction and she turned to look at him. Her gaze flitted between Chevalier and Leon, studying them with the same intense look she wore when reading. She was evaluating him, comparing him. Part of Chev hated the idea that he needed to prove himself to this slip of a commoner - as if her ignorance was some sort of mystical strength. But part of him was impressed with how seriously she took her role. Her determination to learn all she could of the princes so that her choice was the best it could be. It was pre-

Clavis took her hand and began dragging her through the center of the ballroom, gathering stares from curious nobility. What was that idiot playing at, Chevalier wondered. The two of them stopped at the fringe of Leon’s circle, close enough to listen in. 

“Highness?” 

Chevalier glanced at the next petitioner. 

“N-never mind. Highness.” They practically ran. 

The Belle looked pleased with what she heard from Leon’s faction. Her eyes crinkled at the edges and some of the tension left her jaw. Chev wasn’t surprised. Black was . . . friendly. Kind. He cultivated love in his followers. It was an approach Chevalier understood - but one he would never pursue. Love was fickle. He knew that from his - his books. 

Such loyalty as love brought only lasted while things were easy,comfortable. He had no use for it. Fear lasted longer and it was more reliable. 

“If you have a moment, Highness?” The nobleman now in his vicinity wasn’t slouching. He held his head up, deferential but not too much so. He was clearly confident.

Chevalier inclined his head. 

“Excellent. I wanted to request additional troops along the border. My properties . . .” He went on, giving a concise but detailed report of the condition of his border properties and the continued issues with Obsidianite raiding. 

The second prince was already well versed in the problems he described. In fact, he’d ordered several improvements already. “Have the border security structural changes been completed?”

“No, Highness. You see, we’ve encountered difficulty deploying construction personnel. Finding those with adequate skill and a willingness to work in dangerous conditions.”

“If you can’t fill the worker shortage from your own domain, petition other lords for assistance. I am sure you will have a favorable report for me next time we meet. And then I will consider your . . . request.” Chevalier let his disdain drip from every word. It was frustrating how easily these nobles gave up on tasks that cost them their own time and effort. How quickly they would come begging for favors without satisfying even the minimum of their duties. 

The nobleman bowed. “Yes. Of course, Highness. I am very sorry.”

Chevalier looked past him to the next approaching noble. “Next.” As the man approached, Chev saw the Belle had as well. At this distance, he could see the light color on her lips, the slight shadowing on her eyelids, the flutter of her lashes. Emotions played out in the depths of her gaze. Anxiety and determination in equal measure. And yet she came forward with her back straight and her head held high. As if she belonged right where she was. 

He listened to the noble report out with half an ear, adding what little information of import there was to his mental catalog. Chev waved that one away and allowed the next to come forward. He realized about halfway through the third petitioner what he was doing. Trying to look good before the Belle. To seem more approachable. To make sure she noticed how busy, how efficient he was. 

Ridiculous.

As if the Belle’s opinion would matter in the end. But. But it would be so much easier if she named him king. He wouldn’t need to kill Leon and Sariel. And he wanted her to choose him because . . . no - Chevalier cut off that line of thought with brutal quickness. This was not one of his books. This was Rhodolite and he must remain focused on his kingdom above all else.

Clavis leaned close to Belle, whispering in her ear again. Chev wished he could hear what was said. Whatever it was, she nodded agreement. Then she said something that made Clavis draw back, eyes wide with surprise. Then, after a hurried conversation between them, his brother began to laugh. Like a braying donkey, Chevalier thought.

Everyone was staring at them now, with the way Clavis nearly bent in two with laughter. Chev did his best to ignore it. He had plenty of practice. It would have worked, had Clavis not clapped loudly and then announced in his high, clear voice, “Hey Chev! Your charming brother has brought you a sweet young lady!”

It was moments like these that made him want to murder Clavis. Chevalier glared at them as his brother dragged the Belle forward. “I don’t recall asking you to do that.”

The Belle shivered, her skin prickling. 

If Chev was being honest with himself, which he wasn’t, the sight made him want to brush his fingers along her collarbone and lay kiss to the spot beneath her pendant. To feel and touch those tiny little dimples that broke out across her skin at his tone. These thoughts lurked in the back of his mind, hidden under the layers of propriety and fratricidal ideations. 

Clavis chuckled, perfectly aware of the fine line he walked with Chevalier. “Aw come on! Don’t say that! This lovely young lady wanted to have a chat with you.”

“Prince Clavis! I did NOT say -”

Of course he didn’t let her finish. Clavis shushed her with a finger to her lips. “Now now, don’t be shy! Weren’t you just saying how lonely you thought Chev looked?”

The sudden flash of heat in her face was evidence enough that Clavis was not lying, about this, at least. 

Chevalier raised an eyebrow. Lonely? He? “What a nauseating reason for bothering me.” Did he seem lonely to her? It was a more astute observation than he expected, and that in turn made him uncomfortable. 

“This sweet young woman said she wanted to relieve you of your solitude.” Clavis winked. “I think you should take her up on her kind offer.”

“No thank you.” Chev saw the way his words hit the Belle. The slight fall in her shoulders. The brief closure of her eyes, followed by a deep breath. 

Clavis saw it too, of course. And he grinned in a way Chev knew meant trouble. “I just remembered! I have something I must go do. Well, it looks like I must leave Emma in your capable hands.” And then he walked off without a look back.

The Belle would have needed to run to catch up to him. “Prince Clavis! Are you serious? W-wait!”

Of course Clavis didn’t slow or turn. “Good luck!” He waved before disappearing through one of the side doors.

Chevalier felt his jaw tighten. He’d picked Clavis for the Belle because he’d expected his brother to stay by her side. For the entertainment value of watching the the girl react, if nothing else. It seemed he was wrong. A rare enough occurrence. He should have pushed her to Nokto. A lecher, perhaps, but a reliable one.  

In a voice more confident than her expression, the Belle asked, “Is it alright if I stay beside you until Prince Clavis returns, Highness?”

He looked at her and gave a nod. “As long as you don’t get in the way.” Her relieved smile took him by surprise. What sort of ridiculous girl would look so happy at such a curt acceptance? She was - she was - 

Chev grabbed her hand as he noted the approach of yet another obsequious noble. He only realized halfway through pulling her behind him that he was probably holding her hand too tightly but at least it was done and just in time.

“Prince Chevalier, may I have a moment of your time?” Marquis Blois bent his head just enough to be proper. He carried himself like a man well aware of how far his wealth and power reached. 

Today there was something new in his calculating gaze and it took Chev a moment to understand. Only a moment though. This was a plot few were brave enough to try with him. 

“Today is my daughter’s debut. I’d like to introduce her to you.” He gestured to a girl that stood several lengths away. She was very young for a debut, or she seemed so to Chevalier. Barely past playing with dolls. Her expression was one of wooden terror. 

She stepped forward obediently, if a little unsteadily as well. Her curtsy was acceptable though lacking for someone that would have been trained in social graces from the moment she could walk. “It’s an honor to meet you, Prince Chevalier. My name is-”

Chevalier waved her off. “I don’t need your name. I have no interest in those that are useless.” He knew the harshness of his cold, flat voice would have a longer reach than any kinder rejection might have. The tears gathering in her eyes would serve as warning to every noble out there with a daughter of marrying age. 

When he married it would be for the good of Rhodolite. An advantageous union that would bind the kingdom to its allies. He’d known that was his fate since he was in diapers. Princes married for duty. Why, now, did that make his throat feel tight and hot? 

The girl paled and shrunk back from him as if slapped, while her father gave a sickly smile. He was not yet cowed. “If I may be sol bold, Highness, my daughter has a deep knowledge of music. I am sure she could entertain you with -”

Chevalier raised an imperious brow. “If you want to demonstrate her worth, tell me what she can do for this kingdom. Not what she can do for me.”

“I . . .” The Marquis struggled to come up with an answer, not that Chev gave him much time.

“If you’re unable to answer, then I have no business with you. You may go.” His dismissal was curt, barely within the realm of acceptable court behavior. But who would dare scold him?

“M-my apologies, Your Highness.” Marquis Blois sagged in his finery, his brief ambition thoroughly quashed.

Chevalier didn’t deign to look at him. He was turning to look back at the Belle when he heard her take a deep breath. 

“Prince Chevalier, is it alright if I introduce myself to the marquis and his daughter?” 

She didn’t look timid now, not in the slightest. The Belle looked regal. Demure and elegant. Her head held high, her shoulders back, a slight smile on her lips. 

Chev could see something was bothering her in the way she held her skirts, a bit too tightly, and the firmness of her gaze. Interesting that the Marquis and his daughter would bring this out of her. He was curious where she was going with this. “Do what you like.”

The Belle bowed her head demurely. “Thank you, Your Highness.” Then she looked up, a smile on her lips, though it did not reach her eyes. “It is very nice to meet you. My name is Emma, the eldest daughter of Lord Nicola.”

Marquis Blois and his daughter looked confused and unsure what to say. Dismissed by the prince and yet unable to withdraw. The marquis had no similar experience to draw from and his daughter had no experience at all. 

“I overheard just now that you have a deep knowledge of music,” the Belle went on as if oblivious to their uncertainty. “Do you enjoy playing any instruments?”

While her father still looked nervous, this comment brought a wide, genuine smile to his daughter’s lips. “Oh! Yes, I’ve had many opportunities to put my knowledge to practical use. Sometimes I play with the orchestra in town.”

“That’s wonderful! I’m not a performer myself but I do love music -”

Chevalier watched the exchange, noting the warmth that grew between the two ladies. This, he decided, was the Belle’s goal. She wanted to ease them, despite his own curt dismissal. It annoyed him but not enough to intervene or walk away. 

“I think a talent that can make so many people smile is one that is worthwhile, something you can be understandably proud of,” the Belle’s words seemed pointed at Chev rather than the girl now, and he took notice. 

The marquis did as well, and he tensed a bit as his daughter made a sound of surprise.

The Belle went on, “I am sure the people who listen to your music would say the same.” And then, as if to provoke him, she turned to Chevalier, “And what about you, Your Highness?”

He studied her face. Though she spoke lightly, he could see steel in her gaze, just as he had when she faced him down in the street. In moments like these - Chevalier’s lips curved in smile. “Yes, I’m sure she does have worthwhile talent. More than a certain simpleton I could mention.” He shifted his gaze to the marquis. “Though it may be worthless to me, the same is not true for others. If you wish to present your daughter, you should do so to someone who will recognize her value. A marquis in the neutral faction, for example. ”

Marquis Blois blinked. “Ah, Lord Keith? Yes . . . if I’m not mistaken, he’s working to further development of arts and culture.”

Chevalier gestured. “He’s over there. Mention my name when you introduce yourselves, if necessary.”

“May I, Your Highness?” The marquis sounded surprised.

“Yes.” Chevalier’s smile fell. “If you’re able to win the marquis to our faction, that will have value to me as well.” 

Marquis Blois and his daughter looked pleased with this redirection. He nodded, squaring his shoulders. “Thank you, Your Highness. I’ll do my best to meet your expectations.”

Interesting. Chevalier wouldn’t normally have wasted the time, but this outcome was better than simply removing the annoyance. He glanced at the Belle again, only to find her wavering. She looked as if she might pass out. Chev reached for her, settling a hand at her hip to support her. 

“Thank you.” She gave him a gentle smile. 

Only she would be silly enough to smile at him like that. She was like a thorn that had worked its way under his skin, finding a soft spot or perhaps, making one. Had she been anyone else, he would have let her fall without a second thought. “You’re quite graceless. I can see that your legs are shaking.”

“Ah! No. It - it’s just your imagination, Your Highness.” She tried to straighten up and pull herself from his grasp but he didn’t let her go.

“Why did you interfere?” Chev felt fairly certain that he knew but he wanted to hear her explain it. He bent his head closer, watching her reaction. Her cheeks heated again and he could almost hear her heartbeat. She didn’t seem afraid now. She seemed . . .

“I - uhm - honestly, I am not sure.”

“Are you joking?” Chevalier could not help the way his eyes fell to her lips, remembering how soft they felt against his fingertips. The warm, light scent she left on his sheets. Would she smell the same now, if he pressed his lips to her bare shoulder? He found himself leaning even in as if she drew him forward.

Unaware of the turn of his thoughts, she shook her head. “No. I just - my heart led me and I acted before my thoughts could catch up.” The Belle sighed. “I couldn’t just leave it be.”

Her words brought his full attention back to the subject. “Let what be?”

“Well . . .”

Chevalier sighed. He should have expected that she wouldn’t be able to verbalize her thought process. “Even children can put their thoughts into words. Unlike you.” He added the last bit as a challenge, knowing it would needle her.

Her eyes went wide, fury sparking in their depths. “Did you just compare me to a child?”

He felt his lips tug up at the corners. “Isn’t that preferable to an indecisive fool who can’t say anything at all?” Chev could see her mulling that over and coming to the conclusion he knew she would. This seemed to hearten her, enough so that she didn’t need his support. And he should draw away from her. Staying so close would create rumor, and danger for her as well. 

Chevalier let go, if reluctantly, and took a step back from her. 

“Your Highness, why didn’t you just introduce that girl to someone else right from the beginning?” 

He shrugged. “They were the ones who ended the conversation. If the marquis wanted such instruction from me, he could have asked for it. Or made the same point as you did himself.”

The Belle looked surprised. “What?”

“This is what happens when I speak with nobles. They frighten too easily and stop talking.” Chevalier gave a low laugh. “I suspect they see me only as a beast of prey. And they are not wrong.”

The way she looked at him, Chev knew she was debating her words.And when she spoke, she said them softly, but with the same determination she’d had when she interrupted earlier. “Aren’t you being a little mean?”

“Oh?” He grinned. “Insulting royalty must mean you’ve become foolishly brave.” 

She reached to fiddle with the pendant at her neck, nervous now. “I - no! I am just speaking my thoughts. I wasn’t trying to insult you.”

Chevalier found it adorable how she could get so easily entangled in her own emotions. It made her so easy to tease. But he didn’t want to unsettle her too much, a thought that surprised him. He poked her forehead, bringing her attention back to the moment. “If you wish to redeem yourself after this, I suggest you give me a better explanation.”

Just as she was about to respond, the orchestra began to play and couples assembled in the open center of the floor. “The dance is starting, isn’t it?”

“If you look around you, you’d have the answer.”

She nodded absently, her eyes fixed on the spectacle.

Chev had been attending these kind of balls since he was out of diapers. They were a means to an end, a trial to be endured, a necessity of position. But tonight, watching her as she watched the dance begin, he got to see for a moment the beauty of it. Experiencing it as she did. For a breath, all the expense and time fell away to become a garden of shifting colors and graceful motion. He wanted to take her hand and lead her into it. To hold her against him as they stepped and turned and spun . . .

And then he came back to himself, remembering who he was and what that meant. It wasn’t fair to keep her here, trapped beside him and unable to join in. “A woman who doesn’t get asked to dance is a wallflower. I hope there is someone here that found you worth their time.”

“What?” She turned a look at him, startled from her reverie. 

Chevalier gave a scornful laugh and turned to walk away. No one would approach her with him so near. 

“W-wait! Where are you going?”

“I have no interest in these pointless social interactions. Besides,” he added, feeling the need to clarify, “I don’t think anyone would be brave enough to approach you with me beside you.” As soon as the words left his mouth, he wanted to take them back. Why had he felt a need to explain it to her? So what if she felt hurt by his abrupt departure?

Chevalier left, determined to bury himself in a book until sleep found him. He would not - under any circumstance - imagine the Belle dancing with someone else. She could dance with who she liked. She was a fool. Beautiful. A simpleton. Precious. Unimportant. Adorable. He didn’t care.

Next: Under His Skin

[quirkwizard]

What are some modifications and changes you would make to Poltergeist in order to make it more interesting and fleshed out (Regardless of screen time)? Can I send out more of these questions in the future?

What are some expansions you would make for Mushroom to be make it more interesting and fleshed out?

First off, I'm a little confused by the phrasing. Do you mean changing the Quirk itself or expanding on it? Because going by your second question, which I already covered, it seems to be the latter. Second, if that is what you mean, you are more then welcome to send in questions like this. While I usually do stuff like this for my Original Quirks, I'm more then willing to expand on ideas for canon Quirks.

I don't think "Poltergeist" itself needs to be changed, it just needed better showings. Because telekinesis can be one of the most interesting powers around. The most we see Reiko using it for is throwing objects to set up for "Twin Impact" and "Size" and using it to catch a falling Denki. There are plenty of ways for you to make it more interesting, like with some Support Equipment. Reiko could carry around literally anything hand-held, and it would be useful for her, like knives. Some metal orbs would be a fun addition, letting her move and shape them in a variety of ways. Everything from firing them off as projectiles, placing them onto allies to move them, or bunching them together to protect themselves. Bandages would be great as well. Not only would they add to her ghostly look, but they would be so easy to move around and manipulate. It'd be like everything Aizawa and Izuku are able to do. Then there are Super Moves, like throwing everything around in a massive telekinetic storm, bombarding someone with a burst of random objects, or pushing her power to the limits to lift far larger objects. If you really want to expand on the power, it would mostly be with a greater diversity of applications.

-Subtlety move objects to simulate bad luck -Carefully remove debris in a disaster zone -Use it on her own clothes to fly around -Redirect solid attacks to avoid or hit someone -Fling objects around form multiple angles -Move harder object to use as shields -Pull away enemy items, like weapons -Manipulating locks to open them up -Throw objects to block an escape -Float cameras around to spy on villains -Telekinetically mess with people via their clothes -Mentally take something apart, like bolts on a pipe -Fly her allies around via moving their clothes -Air lift hurt people without moving them to much

[makuta-tobi]

Destinytober 2023 Day 11: Waypoint

I wasn't super sure what to do here cause waypoints aren't really a thing in the game? Anyways,

Several years ago...

“How much further?” Tobi-17 groaned, once again pulling up his navigation system. A single set of coordinates was scribbled on a piece of paper he had tucked into his robes, and he was comparing them to his current location.

“If you had paid attention, you would be there by now,” Nova's voice said over his comm. “If I'm seeing you right, it should be just over past that craggy rock formation.”

The Exo sat back on his Sparrow and looked around himself, gesturing to no one in particular at the surrounding pale stone.

“This is Io,” his voice tinged with annoyance, “it's all craggy rock formations.”

“Then I guess you better get going. Unless you want to get smoked by some Taken.”

“Rather be fighting those Dark-infested creeps than run on this wild Sparrow chase,” he muttered.

“What was that~” her singsong voice was irritatingly cute.

“I said coming,” he sighed, slowly opening the throttle on the engine and driving away, through the canyon. As he flew past natural caves carved into the rock, he could see the formation of the Vex machinery, taking note of their progress on the technoformation of the planetoid. A Harpy here and there would appear from inside one of the gaping maws and fire a laser rifle beam at him, which he maneuvered around as best he could.

The great expanse of the moon was filled with gorgeous greenery, intermixed with pale, rough sand and dust that kicked up as he passed by. The few small organisms he saw crawling around would scurry at the sound of his engine. And still, he had no idea where he was going. He would periodically stop to check the nav coordinates against his current location, occasionally needing to turn around and backtrack, or make a sharp turn and slip between various rock formations. Finally, he realized, he was getting close.

The Warlock weaved his vehicle through some natural stone arches, into a wide field of broken landscape and white flowers peeking between the dry cracks in the ground. It was around here somewhere. A patrol beacon flashed away nearby, and he briefly wondered if that was the reason he was out here in the first place. Nova hadn't exactly been forthcoming with the purpose of his trip. He dismounted his Sparrow and his boots made a soft crunching sound in the dirt, his feet sinking slightly as he walked, looking around for any sign of why he might have been sent out here.

He thought he might have found his answer when a chirping grunt echoed to his left, and the sudden appearance of a Minotaur caught him unaware. The Vex rotated its arms into position, temporarily shifting itself from left, to almost directly in front of him, the loud whine of its servos and body sounding almost intimidating. It raised its arm and swung downwards, but he jumped back before it could make contact with his helmet. Drawing his Fusion rifle, he charged up a burst and fired; the bolts made contact with the large machine's shield, and it detonated, staggering the Minotaur momentarily. He readied another volley, but his action was cut short by a loud crack that echoed across the canyon. The Minotaur suddenly lurched forward and then fell on its face, Radiolaria dripping from a massive hole in its back.

“You're very welcome,” Nova's voice chimed on his comm.

“It was one Vex, you think I couldn't handle one Vex?” he stepped over the Minotaur's dead shell and traced the direction of the shot. Atop a wide, flat, natural pillar of stone, Nova leaned on her sniper rifle and gave a brief wave. Tobi-17 sighed and jogged over to where she was perched.

“What are we doing out here?” he asked, craning his neck up to look at her.

“Why don't you come on up here with me,” came the very unhelpful reply. Still, shaking his head, he let his Light carry him up and onto the flat pillar above. A wide blanket had been carefully laid out, though it didn't look particularly soft. A small crate lay next to it, open, with a few bags scattered around. Nova had sat down on the blanket, and was gesturing for him to come over near her. Reluctantly, he approached, stepping on the edge of the blanket, and dropping, with his knees crossed.

“Care to explain?” he cocked his head at her impatiently. But the blonde Warlock just giggled and gestured out in front of them. He turned to see what she might be indicating, when it all sank in.

The massive valley ahead of them was glowing white and blue. The mixture of the Light, leftover from when the Traveler first touched down on the surface, to the Radiolaria that now ran through the satellite's crust, cast a bright glow over the hazy yellow-green surface of the planetoid. Small birds chased each other in whirling patterns over the vast expanse, weaving in between the natural rock formations and diving into the glowing ground, only to launch themselves at full speed up and into the sky.

Tobi-17 reached up, undoing the seals on his helmet and taking it off for the first time in hours. The cool breeze immediately touched on his face, and the alloys that constructed his body felt chilled.

“It's beautiful,” he said, not entirely certain of how to react. “So the past few hours, it's all been-?”

“I wanted to have a picnic, you ass.” Nova's smile caused his fans to hitch briefly. “I found this area while I was exploring the caves a few weeks ago, and thought it was lovely. Placed the beacon so I could find it later. I've been coming here just to unwind, but I wanted to share it with you.” Not for the first time, Tobi-17 was glad to not have skin, because he was sure it would be bright red at the admission.

“Well, I'm glad you did,” he responded, not making eye contact and fidgeting. “You don't get too much enemy activity?” his attempt to change the subject was both his way of finding a little bit of mental peace, but he genuinely was curious.

“Not much more than the occasional Vex patrol. Seen a few squads of Taken twitch through here, but not much else.”

She reached into the crate and dug out some sweets, offering him a wrapped cake.

“You know it's not super important for me to have this, right?” he asked, quite stupidly, even for himself. Nova laughed.

“Yes, you fart, but I want you to have it. It's important to me, now eat.”

She sat back down and scooted next to him. The two unwrapped their snacks and watched as the sun made its way past the horizon, the darkening world around them illuminating with the natural light emanating from the ground. She leaned against him, and the two quietly contemplated their surroundings. A jumpship flew past, its engines lighting contrails in the sky, and the beauty of the world felt both fleeting and eternal. And the two Warlocks figured, this would be their spot. And no one would take it from them.

[usafphantom2]

To help reduce the radar cross-section the pie shaped and rectangular shapes were used around the outer edges of the SR 71. This is one of many reasons why they did not allow photographs. The SR -71 was made of 93% aged titanium and 7% composites. The fins and triangle wedges that framed the outer edge of the aircraft were composite constructionsmade from a mixture of asbestos and epoxy. They provided high-temperature radar absorbent characteristics to reduce the aircraft radar cross-section. They found that to attach thin, titanium skin to heavier wing structures, simple standoff clips were developed. These gave structural integrity while providing a heat shield between components with different expansion rates.

According to Wisconsin Metal Tech, the engineers of the SR-71 were among the first people in history to make real use of the material. In that process, they ended up throwing away a lot of material, some through necessity, some through error. At times the engineers were perplexed as to what was causing problems, but thankfully they documented and cataloged everything, which helped find trends in their failures. They discovered that spot welded parts made in the summer were failing very early in their life, but those welded in winter were fine. They eventually tracked the problem to the fact that the Burbank water treatment facility was adding chlorine to the water they used to clean the parts to prevent algae blooms in summer, but took it out in winter. Chlorine reacts with titanium, so they began using distilled water from this point on.

They discovered that their cadmium plated tools were leaving trace amounts of cadmium on bolts, which would cause galvanic corrosion and cause the bolts to fail. This discovery led to all cadmium tools to be removed from the workshop.

Linda Sheffield

@Habubrats71 via X

[luminashdawnwing]

August 2023 DWC Day 3: Ominous / Possibility CW: Death; some blood

The crystal clear water in the basin ripped as Luminash dropped his fallen son’s – someone else’s fallen son’s, perhaps better to think – necklace, letting it slip through the glassy surface and settle on the bottom.

Scrying had never been his strongest skill, let alone focusing on something behind a veil woven from time’s threads, but he had to try. Theras had excused himself, and had only returned to retrieve his effects before heading to Valdrakken. To clear his head, the young man had said with a strained smile. He’d be back soon enough, he promised. Luminash believed him. At least, that this Theras would return.

A surge of Arcane power sprung from the magister’s palms as he lay them upon the basin’s edge. The glow, bright violet-white, flowed into the water, setting it into motion, swirling with bands of temporal gold. The other Theras was too far gone, but what possibilities lay beyond the expanse of time and space? An infinity, to be certain. In the water, nonetheless, a hazy image began to form.

* * * * * * *

A spray of ichor flew free as the ghoul’s chest collapsed under the force of Theras’ spear. Others around it fell, too, courtesy of other defenders, a mixture of magisters, his father among them, and their apprentices, Farstriders, Blood Knights, and mercenaries. More always came, clambering over their dead. The Scourge force knew no end, and with the Crown of Domination shattered, some began to fear it never would.

“Loose!” A command from behind the front lines, followed by a hail of arrows driving into the heart of the Scourge mass.

The Blood Knights were pulling back towards the Farstrider ranks, a few skirmishers like Theras, lightly armored, swift, and relentless, harassing the Scourge’s flanks to keep them channeled into the archers’ range. 

Truly, he was more comfortable on his own here than relying on the Blood Knights’ shields to protect him. A sweep of his bladed spear towards the knees of a few shambling skeletons and their brittle bones split, sending them toppling to the ground blackened with death and drying blood.

“Loose!” Another volley of arrows came, interspersed with flame, frost, and whirling bolts of pure energy. A scan of the battle, and a pang of concern. Amidst the shouts of the elves and the gurgling of the Scourge, sounds of panicked disorder. The left flank, across the Scar from the Theras, was buckling. Did the others not see it?

The younger Dawnwing hefted his spear as he began to stride, and threw the weapon, driving it through another ghoul and into the ground behind it. At a dash now, he pulled the spear from its resting place, sweeping blows clearing a path before him, dry and brittle Scourge crumbling.

“Loose!” Another rain of barbs, now striking in the thick of the Scourge overrunning the left flank, clearing enough of the rotting, shambling bodies for Theras to make out, in their midst, a circle of the Cult of the Damned. The men, wreathed in necromantic magic, drew their broken, fallen chaff back from their second resting places and threw them anew against the Thalassian defenders!

How many of his countrymen were dying in this field right now because of them? How cowardly that no one was striking at their heart, cutting off the enemy’s reinforcements at their source. Flickers in his mind of Silver Covenant cutting down Sunreavers. How cowardly they had been to run. How cowardly he had been to hide. How–

Theras’ foot caught, at first he thought on a stone, but he saw the truth too late, bony fingers curling around his ankle. A fallen skeleton still scrabbling in the dirt for prey. He kicked, shaking one grasping hand free, only to feel another from behind, new dark magic swirling around inanimate bones. Then another, clawing its way from under a layer of loose soil.

The ranger brought his spear down, piercing the skull of one assailant, but before he could pull back for another blow, he felt a grip on the haft, dragging the weapon to the ground, the rotten fingers of a newly-rising ghoul wrapped around the wood. Panic began to set in with the dull, distant realization that he was alone. The rest were pulling back. He saw, on the high ground where the archers were stationed, his father shoving through the retreating Blood Knights, curses on his lips.

There came the creaking of bones from behind, and before Theras could try again to shake free, he felt the tip of the spear. Then more as the Scourge soldier, rusted and dented armor rattling over long-dead bones, pressed the weapon home, breaking through Theras’ leathers and sliding between his ribs.

As he faltered, knees sinking to the ground, cold, clammy flesh and dry bone clawing him down, he saw his father again, closer. It must have been delirium that gave him this vision, but his father blazed in the Arcane, less an elf and more a raw force, any Scourge soldier coming close nearly evaporating from wild bolts whirling from the magister, their rotted bodies shredded until little remained.

“Theras!” The voice was distant, but familiar. It was his father, but it sounded like…

“My son!” Yes, his father was speaking, but somewhere else was…mother? The realization struck as light faded from his eyes, blood pooling on the ground as Scourge began to tear at his still-living flesh.

This must be…

* * * * * * *

The magister, like the vision in the pool, slumped and fell to his knees, grasping vainly at the edge of the basin and sending it toppling to the floor, water pouring forth, blessedly empty of any bitter, vile sights. His stomach was in knots; he could taste bile in his throat; his head swam, and he felt faint.

As he recovered his senses, the sleeves of his robe clinging to his arms, wet with the spilled scrying water, he recalled that day. It had been among the final pushes by the Scourge before mortals had ventured into the Shadowlands, but that day, Theras had come back. The left flank had collapsed, and the Scourge fell under a counterattack after reinforcements arrived. He had not run off to play the hero. He came home.

But for Luminash’s echo, that other possibility, he hadn’t.

@daily-writing-challenge

[kalevalakryze]

The Darksaber: Pre Vizsla

"What do you know of this blade?" "I am told it is the Darksaber." "Indeed. Do you understand its significance?" "Whoever wields it can rule all of Mandalore."

The darksaber had passed many hands in a few short years, Bo Katan has watched and, in true Mandalorian fashion, has followed each wielder to some degree.

Pre Vizsla was Mandalorian, true to their traditions and heritage, unlike the pacifists that now sat in their homes capital, dishonoring their ancestors. Pre Vizsla, by all rights, the true Mand'alor was the only one who had truly seen Bo-Katan Kryze's truth. Could see past the clan and her sister's rule, and see what she was meant to be. Joining Death Watch had been the best thing for the young warrior, aligning herself with like-minded warriors who would see their home returned to True Mandalorians, and Pre would be the one to unite all, except those weak willed enough to bend the knee at the mere thought of conflict. He wielded the darksaber, and with it, the power to rally and lead, to strike down all who would demand a change to their warrior traditions, so long as he had his loyal lieutenants at his side.

Bo had risen through the ranks with blood, sweat, and anger. Her ferocity made her a force to be reckoned with, and it didn't take long for him to acknowledge the fire that burned so deeply inside of her. She had just needed some guidance, a helping hand to guide her along the creed, to help direct the destruction that Bo brought with her. So Pre started to mentor him, in his own way. He needed to make sure his lieutenants were properly motivated and knew what was expected to stay at his side.

"again," his voice cut through the air, his helmet tilted down to stare at Bo Katan, kneeling on the ground and clutching at her abdomen. It was never easy, to get her down in a fight, but he'd always won, and would continue to push her, to punish when required, to build her into a proper mandalorian. like him, lest she get too weak and turn to her sister's ideology.

The teenager pushed herself to her feet, muscles aching as she gathered her blaster from where it had been knocked from her grip in their last spat. In his hands, the darksaber reignited, held off to his side as she prepared herself to defend, the shield in her vambrace sparking to life as their jetpacks started to release fumes, ignition coils warmed and ready to be called upon for flight. Bo took to the air quickly, feet pushing herself from the dirt and using the pack to propel herself over Pre's head. Her blaster rained yellow bolts of laser down upon the man, batted away by the saber before they could breach his personal bubble.

The darksaber swung, the acrid smell of fire seemingly burning away the air around it as it swiped in an arc towards her abdomen. A quick twist in the air and a firing of her thrusters got her away from the blade with just a second to spare, the force of her impact on the ground sending her to one knee. Her arm raised in just enough time for the black blade to glance across her shield, though Pre had rolled with the deflection and twirled the blade, moving behind him in a fluid motion that gave her time to stand and release her blade from her gauntlet.

A duck of her upper body and the propulsion from her jetpack had her close in Pre's personal space, arm, extended with a polished blade set to aim for the sliver of exposed flight suit around his abdomen. When his left arm dropped down hard onto the unarmored part of her elbow, she'd forced her leg up, boot smacking into his shin, the metal toecap of her boot getting the room it needed to smash directly into the unarmored piece at the back of his knee.

The darksaber swiped as he started to go down, narrowly avoiding her bicep as she rolled out of the way. He was on her in the next moment, propelling himself to smack them both into the ground. With the added propulsion of jetpacks, he was able to drag her across the snowy expanse of ground, sending freezing cold snow into her armor and chilling her to the bone. Her leg swung around his wait, and a shove of her palms against the ground gave her the force she needed to switch their positions, sending him to the ground as her hand came drown to slam into his helmeted face. The ring of beskar echoed into the bones of her hand, keeping her fingers curled even after her arm reeled back.

Her actions followed to the letter however, his helmet knocked from it's position locked on his head, and obscuring Pre's sight for a brief moment. His leg moved up as she was scrambling to stand, planting firmly into the unarmoed joint between her legs and hips, forcing her back and a hand to drop to her leg at the feeling of his force damn near trying to kick her leg from it's home in the socket. Vizsla took her stumble in strides, rolling to his feet and sending a fist into her gut. The darksaber was disengaged and returned to his belt as he lifted his leg, catching her across the chest and reeling back from a kick.

Still not willing to go down yet, not willing to show weakness when it got tough, Bo's arm lifted, her grapple shooting out and cuffing his waist, yanking him forward hard and jamming her helmet into his face. The force of it all had him dazed, even as he cut the line and sent the spool reeling back into her armor with a snap, his hand had raised to his head, fingers pressing into the visor.

When she moved on the offensive again, his hand shot out, fingers curling around her throat as he caught her, forcing her head up as both of her hands moved to his one, unable to see the way his unoccupied hand was holding the unlit hilt of his sword, or the anger that burned in his eyes. "that's enough," A squeeze at her throat had her hands tearing at his wrist, trying to pry his fingers from the bruising grip. She was released just as her vision started to black out, crumpling to the ground and sucking in harsh breaths, fingers buried into the dirt beneath the snow to steady herself.

"you have done well, but remember, a True Mandalorian never stops honing their skills," He called down to her haughtily, and she felt a spark of resentment flare to life, wise words from a man who wouldn't change his ways, who jumped the gun and lost each time. Her mouth stayed shut, however, he was the True Son of Mandalore, he would return them to glory, and she would still be his second in command, the warrior he turned to for council, even if it was seldom taken. It was her place, to be by his side, united as True Mandalorians.

▬▬ι═══════>

"It's like you said. . . only the strongest shall rule."

Bo Katan's eyes widened in shock and horror as the dar'jetti wielded the blade of their people, and for the first time in a long time, she felt the ice cold fingers of fear digging into the pits of her stomach. The intention was clear, Maul defeated Death Watch's leader in fair combat, according to their traditions, he would be the one to rule. But Pre... She forced her gaze to remain on the dark blade that emanated shadows, tried her best to block the sound of his dismembered head rolling across the throne platform, focused more on the sounds of whispers and blasters being lowered. Focused on the must of Pre's aftershave that still hung in the air, the air that seemed too thick with the sickly smell of singed blood.

"I claim this sword and my rightful place as leader of Death Watch." Maul declared, holding the ancient weapon above his head for all to see, daring anyone to dismiss his honorable accomplishment against Pre.

Her shoulders shook of their own accord as she tried to control her breathing, the Nite Owls at her side were still prepped to fight, they knew her distrust of the dar'jetti from the start, and like the loyal family they were, had read her intentions clear as day. "never," no outsider will ever rule Mandalore!" She challenged as her spark turned into a fire, face twisted with anger, with loss, and with certainty that her next moves would be right, this time.

Bo Katan and her niteowls would escape Sundari, and she would throw herself into battle plans and scenarios. She had an Ori'vod to save from the dar'jetti, after all.

[bargainshouse]

#UKDEALS AFASOES 6pcs Expansion Anchor Bolts M6 x 60mm Expanding Eye Shield Bolt Fixings Heavy Duty Sleeve Anchors Ring Lifting Eyebolts with Closed Hooks for Secure Fixing in Wall Masonry Concrete https://www.bargainshouse.co.uk/?p=123059 https://www.bargainshouse.co.uk/?p=123059