#from what i’ve seen it looks like a neat healer

[ansu-gurleht]

windwalker is so fun. especially when you do a big pull of like 4-5 guys and you have such good multitarget like. 1) fists of fury 2) spinning crane kick with its many modifying talents 3) strike of the windlord and its modifying talents 4) shadowboxer’s treads to make blackout kick cleave 5) whirling dragon punch (might have modifiers idk yet just got it) 6) jadefire stomp and its modifiers. plus all these are good single target too alongside rising sun kick. plus good survivability with fortifying brew/expel harm/the talent that gives you strong instant vivifies/the talent that boosts your dodge chances. such a fun spec all around

[justallihere]

Firstly, thank you so much for writing sitq- I found it just as I finished reading IF and has very much kept me going! If you ever write any original fic and get published, I’d be very interested in reading as your narrative style is lovely.

Question I’m not sure I’ve not seen asked yet -has poor Xaden spend the week learning to do Violet’s hair while her shoulder is bad, and if yes what is Violet’s reaction going to be to this while she’s so unspeakably furious?

Additionally- can Brennan even heal her shoulder for her, or does that give Basgiath the information that they have a healer that they may want to keep quiet?

Thank you so much!! 🩷🩷

Honestly I started writing a tiny little drabble of Xaden asking Sloane to teach him to braid hair after @skyfallscotland asked but I didn’t love it and I probably won’t bother to flesh it out more, so you can find what I did write below the cut. As for Violet’s reaction—idk if it’s even a thing that will make it in, but it wouldn’t come up for a long time. Xaden wouldn’t just be like “I learned this for you this week!” so by the time she figured it out she wouldn’t be mad at him anymore

Re: Brennan it wouldn’t be that big of a deal. Menders are rare but it’s not impossible that Tyrrendor would’ve had at least one or two since they started training their own riders. No one would immediately assume that it’s Brennan who would’ve healed her

“Sloane.”

“Yes, your majesty?”

Xaden gave her a dry look, but her face didn’t change. She only used the title sarcastically—otherwise she called him Xaden or, in recent weeks, when he particularly annoyed her, Violet’s husband. It seemed everyone in his life liked his wife better than him now. “I need your help.”

“I don’t like the sound of that.” She crossed her arms and gave him a searching look. “What’d you do? And why are you asking me?”

“You know how to braid hair.”

Understanding lit up her eyes, but she said, “I like this even less now.”

“Look.” He tucked his hands in his pockets and returned her unwavering stare. “Violet doesn’t always feel like doing her own hair. I’m trying to learn how in case she needs help. Are you willing or not?”

For a long moment, Sloane didn’t move. Finally, she said, “Fine. But only for Violet,” she added firmly. She turned away. “We’ll need more than just me for this.”

***

“That’s, uh. . . not quite right.”

“She means you’re fucking it up horrifically,” Sloane translated for Tessa. The dark-haired young cadet stood to Xaden’s right—Sloane sat on the table in front of them with her legs crossed, their model for the day as Tessa tried to talk Xaden through the process of creating the coronet braid Violet preferred. Tessa’s own hair was in two braids on either side of her head, twisted together at the nape of her neck into a neat bun. She had more variety in her hairstyles than Violet did, and certainly more than Sloane, who rarely bothered with more than a simple bun, or a braid for flying.

“You have to pull it tighter than that,” Tessa said. “Like—“ She stopped, stared at the mess of tangles that Sloane’s hair had become, and reached for the brush at her hip. “Just start over,” she said finally. A little sigh was the only sign of her disappointment. Earning any sign of annoyance or displeasure from Tessa was a feat in and of itself, and a good indication that this was going even worse than Xaden had thought it would.

He started over.

[dendroaspis-viridis]

Retribution

The Breach that opened above the Temple of Sacred Ashes weakened the Veil across all of Thedas, and none felt that instability more strongly than the Mourn Watchers of the Grand Necropolis.

Rating: M (Nothing explicit, just gore)

AO3

I wanted to get a feel for how Katareth interacted with her fellow Watchers, as well as how they interact with each other, so I made this. I also took some liberties with Johanna and Myrna’s abilities (one tank and three mages does not a balanced party make), so Johanna functions as more of a DPS flanker and Myrna is a support/spirit healer.

TW for some gore, as now it’s Kat’s turn to get grievously injured. Anyway, enjoy! :)

-----

9:41 Dragon

It was early in the morning, with only a handful of other Mortalitasi shuffling about the large dining hall where Johanna, Myrna, Katareth, and Emmrich sat around their usual breakfast table. In the center lay a small stack of papers, topped with a manifest containing a detailed and expansive list of supplies for their expedition. Beside each item on the list was five… six… seven neat check marks, with an underlined note at the bottom that read, ‘Check all supplies immediately before departure!’ in Katareth’s tidy, angular print.

Under normal circumstances, any sort of multi-day expedition was only required to contain two Watchers. Recent events, however, had necessitated that number being increased to four at the very least, with even more being much preferred. As the group Katareth had selected were all fairly experienced, there was no pushback from any of the higher-ups regarding her decision to utilize the bare minimum.

The qunari sat to his right, reviewing their goals as she carded through the stack, “We’ll be checking on half of the wards during this trip and repairing what we can.”

Locating the parchment she was after, she set it atop the manifest for everyone else to see. It was a charcoal drawing of a defaced ward, surface marred with dozens of deep gouges. “But if we can find the higher demon —or demons— responsible for commanding the lesser spawns, killing it should become our top priority. A group of Guides disposed of a few rage demons a few weeks ago on the eighth floor, but fearlings have been seen as close as the fourth, more recently.”

Emmrich could listen to her for hours. The rich, deep timbre of her voice mixed effortlessly with the rounded vowels and rhotic pronunciations of her prominent qunari accent, bringing to mind the measured draw of a bow across a cello’s taut strings.

“I’m estimating the trip will take about four days, though I’ve packed enough supplies for eight on the off-chance that things go sideways. Or we find undocumented areas and need time to catalogue them,” she amended, gesturing to Emmrich and Myrna. Katareth took a quick sip of her coffee before she concluded, “Um, feel free to look through my notes, too. They’re on the bottom. Johanna’s reviewed them, but it never hurts to get more opinions.”

As Katareth tucked into her breakfast, more Mortalitasi trickled into the hall, yawning or rubbing their eyes as they began their days. Emmrich reached to the center of the table, flipping through the stack to find parchment embossed with the equine heraldry of House Naletski.

Her notations were remarkably thorough, he thought. There was an entire page dedicated to explaining every incident within the past several months, highlighting injuries and deaths that resulted from either demons or the unique osteological creatures that resided within the Necropolis. A summary at the bottom noted that at this time last year, there were less than a quarter of the incidents reported. There were also letters from both Cumberland and Hunter Fell’s Necropoli reporting similar upticks in accidents.

The next page detailed potential causes, with the most likely theory being the explosion at the Temple of Sacred Ashes three months prior, resulting in the death of Divine Justinia and rending the Veil atop the Frostback Mountains.

As he continued reading, Johanna praised her former protégé, “You know, Kat, you’ve come a long way from the surly, mute twenty-something I took in a decade ago.”

“Thank you…?” Emmrich’s eyes rose from the parchment to look across the table, just as surprised to hear Johanna’s praises as the woman receiving them.

“I’m serious. When I got that letter from Cumberland’s Watchers asking if I’d be willing to mentor a ‘rather troublesome young Mortalitasi,’ I assumed they were sending me another Van Markham brat to humble, not the world’s meekest qunari. Now look at you: leading expeditions left and right!” When Katareth smiled, she continued, “And you speak! Granted, it’s not much when anyone else is around, but we’re getting there…” As she trailed off, her eyes wandered to a group of Guides of the Path piling their plates across the hall.

Emmrich and Katareth followed her gaze, landing on the tall, willowy frame of Yelena Petrovk, with her long salt and pepper hair tied back in a low ponytail. Looking up from her plate, the Guide noticed Kat’s stare, flashing the large woman a sultry smile and quick wave. The qunari turned back around in her seat, eyes trained on a lonely slice of toast as though it might start clawing at wards any second now.

Johanna snorted before leaning in to whisper, “Interesting… very interesting…” She scrutinized the Guide further, taking in the woman’s every detail. “I wonder if that little wave has anything to do with why Yelena’s walking like that…”

Emmrich took another quick glance out of the corner of his eye, catching a subtle, sore teeter to the woman’s gait.

Katareth remained enthralled with her toast.

“Kat? Nothing to say?” her voice dripped with mock confusion.

The qunari stumbled over her words, managing, “She might’ve slept wrong.” When Johanna’s smirk only grew, Katareth hissed as pink crept up her face, “There could be a million reasons that don’t involve me.”

Her mentor leaned back, lips pursed and eyebrows raised. “Fair enough… But would any one of those million reasons also explain the hickey currently peeking out from her collar?”

Rather than respond, Katareth squeezed her eyes shut as she muttered a quiet ‘vashedan…’ before taking a long gulp of her coffee, attempting to shrink in on herself more than she already had.

While Emmrich knew the two had a more antagonistically familial relationship—with Johanna once describing Katareth as ‘the younger sister I never wanted’—he still felt the need to jump to the qunari’s defense. Or at least do something to distract himself from the uncomfortable roil of… was that jealousy? Surely not.

“Andraste’s grace, Johanna. Really?” he castigated, setting down Katareth’s notes on top of the stack for emphasis.

She threw up her hands in mock surrender. “I’m simply ensuring my former protégé doesn’t make some of the same mistakes I did in my youth, and a Watcher’s work is never through! I’m quite certain you’d do the same if Myrna was ever interested in anyone.”

At the mention of her name, his own protégé-turned-assistant raised her head groggily from the plate of potato and sausage she’d been slowly working on, still not entirely awake. “Hmm?” While she was an exceedingly bright mage well ahead of her peers, Myrna was by no means a morning person.

“And I’m quite certain that I would not. Even if I did have concerns, I wouldn’t be badgering her first thing in the morning in the dining hall. Now can we get back on topic?”

“Gladly.” Kat set down her empty coffee mug like a gavel, grabbing the substantial list of wards they needed to examine and laying them out, reviewing the ones that’d been confirmed as damaged.

From across the table, Johanna scrutinized him, eyes shifting from himself to Katareth several times before conceding with a clipped ‘Hm’.

-----

It had been several hours since they left the residential area of the Necropolis, and they’d made great progress thus far. Many of the protective wards this close to the surface were still in working order, only requiring a simple dusting that could be done atop horseback.

Katareth led their party, flanked by Johanna and himself, with Myrna riding behind Katareth. The necromancer watched as Kat gently tugged on Gustav’s reins each time they approached an intersection, head canting slightly to the side as she focused. He recalled her describing the Grand Necropolis’ ‘voice’ as a low, warm hum that quietly purred at the base of her skull, guiding her through the endless, ever-shifting maze.

The silence was broken when Myrna commented, “I read that the Herald’s began recruiting rebel mages to help seal the Breach in Ferelden.”

“Good. Maybe things will settle down around here once it’s finally closed,” Johanna asserted. “I’m tired of all these damned demons running amok.”

There was a brief lull before Myrna asked, “Do you think they were actually sent by Andraste?”

“No. They’re probably just some poor kid unlucky enough to be in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

Katareth nodded in agreement, flicking a Veilfire brazier to life as she passed.

Emmrich was waiting to see how things played out before drawing his own conclusions. From what he’d read thus far, Shrike Adaar was a fairly young qunari. Too young to be a Ben-Hassrath spy sent to assassinate Divine Justinia, as some of the less charitable papers had speculated. Though their prior anonymity—and the fact that they were the sole survivor of an explosion that leveled the entirety of the Temple of Sacred Ashes—left just enough space for Emmrich to entertain the idea that they may have been one of the so-called ‘higher dead’.

From his right, Myrna sympathized with the herald, “Mm. However they survived, or wherever they came from, I don’t envy them. Having the eyes of the world on your every move… grappling with the deaths of everyone around you…” She thought for a moment before looking to their expedition leader. “Katareth, I have a question about Qunari life, though there isn’t really a delicate way to ask it.”

“I’m listening.” Despite Kat’s typical frustrations regarding the near-constant onslaught of inquiries thrown at her regarding the Qun—especially now that the identity of the Herald was common knowledge—Myrna was a rare exception. The two had shared sleeping quarters during their early years in the Necropolis and developed a deep friendship, granting the human a significant amount of privilege when it came to asking questions about her heritage.

“I heard the Herald lost their mother in the explosion, but I’ve always been told Qunari don’t have mothers. Or at least mothers don’t raise their children.”

“That’s correct. There aren’t family units under the Qun like there are here, as they’re considered an inefficient use of resources.” Though she continued to face forward, Emmrich could imagine the lopsided curl of her lips. “Instead, we’re raised in groups by women called ‘Tamassrans.’” She paused at another fork, listening intently to the Necropolis before nudging Gustav forward.

“That’s why I believe Adaar’s a Vashoth, not a Qunari qunari. Their mother might’ve been born under the Qun and fled when the Tamassrans tried to take her child.”

Emmrich felt his eyebrows raise slightly as he asked a question of his own, “How often does something like that happen?” He’d always assumed the vast majority of Qunari found life under the Qun’s strict philosophies acceptable, and Katareth was a rare exception due to their frankly barbaric treatment of anyone with arcane abilities—however minor those abilities may be.

“More often than you’d think. I can remember two separate incidents just like it happening within a month of each other back in Qundalon.”

“Do you know what became of them?” He hadn’t meant to ask the question aloud, but he couldn’t help his academic curiosity.

“Unfortunately, I do not… Uh, I ended up needing to flee about a week after the second one left,” she stated awkwardly.

“Oh, I-” Emmrich struggled to articulate an appropriate apology, with each one he considered sounding woefully pathetic when compared to his blunder. Had he known his questioning would lead to the delicate subject of Katareth’s childhood—or rather, the abrupt end of her childhood—he would never have opened his mouth in the first place. Of all the oafish things to ask about-

His self-flagellating was mercifully interrupted by a rare show of compassion from Johanna, who redirected the conversation in her own irreverent way. “And by the grace of the most holy Maker, you were shepherded beneath my generous, benevolent wings, little Kitty Kat.”

The qunari gave her a withering look, deadpanning a monotone, “How auspicious.”

“Awww, there’s my favorite scowl!” Leaning over on her own skeletal horse, Johanna patted Kat’s thigh patronizingly.

“My apologies, Katareth. I hadn’t intended to open old wounds,” he managed after far too long, in his critical opinion.

She turned, throwing him a warm, reassuring smile over a broad shoulder, “Don’t be. Leaving was the best decision for me, anyway. I… wouldn’t have thrived, had I stayed.” She thought for a moment before adding, “I can’t think of anywhere I’d rather be. Truly.”

-----

Despite the normally calm halls being abuzz with false life, the second day of their trip passed without any major hiccups.

Some of the bone amalgamations that rattled about in neglected halls had grown rather territorial as of late, forcing the Watchers’ hands on more than one occasion. To Emmrich’s immense delight, there were two previously undocumented morphologies, as well! Curiously, both were in vaguely lupine shapes. One conglomerated into the general form of a typical wolf, albeit several times larger, while the other resembled a werewolf, lumbering about on its ‘knuckles’ that were made of fragmented ribs.

Another notable event occurred after repairing an otherwise nondescript ward to a passable state. The moment the glyphs glimmered to life, a low rumble emanated from deeper within the Grand Necropolis. For every subsequent ward they repaired after that, the noise slowly grew in volume.

And the demons: they were everywhere! It seemed like every corridor had at least one. Many were easily dispatched, returning to the Fade with little fanfare. Others fought a little harder to remain, with a particularly stubborn envy demon attempting to masquerade (poorly) as a Guide of the Path, shepherding a flock of rage demons.

The pack-like behavior wasn’t particularly notable—weaker demons often grouped in an attempt to overwhelm potential threats—but the way they grouped was too… organized. Too regimented.

Emmrich wasn’t the only one to notice, with Myrna wondering aloud what variety of demon was at the top puppeteering them. A pride demon was the obvious choice, but Johanna reminded everyone that they likely would have heard its boastful taunts by now, leading to a fierce but friendly debate over what exactly they were up against.

As they deliberated, Katareth marked another ward of her list with a neat checkmark.

-----

Their second night had not been so fortunate.

It was a well-documented phenomenon that dreams tended to become progressively more vivid the deeper one went—with Emmrich speculating it to be a result of the ancient magicks that permeated the Necropolis, mixed with the strange liminal space it occupied between the material plane and the Fade. Under normal circumstances, this would not have been an issue. But the recent influx of demons resulted in night terrors that felt all-too real, dredging up nightmares Emmrich hadn’t had since before he left for the Circle.

Everyone’s fitful rest was disrupted by Myrna’s terrified scream, scrambling from their tents with swords and spells at the ready. His assistant had profusely apologized, diffusing the situation and assuring everyone it was just another bad dream. Johanna threw a few quick alarm spells up around their little camp before retreating to her tent with a grumble, encouraging everyone to attempt to get some sleep.

After ensuring Myrna was alright after what must’ve been a horrible dream, he slipped into his own bed roll. Just before his consciousness slipped, he heard a muffled, “Katareth…? Can I sleep in your tent tonight? It was the bear dream, again…”

A low “mhmm” rumbled in response before a quiet flap of leather signaled their own attempts at rest.

-----

The following morning was passable, all things considered. Breakfast was slowly eaten while reviewing which wards had been repaired thus far and which would require a second trip with rune forgers (forty-three and eight, respectively), as well as a quick overview of the last six they planned to visit before returning to the surface.

Camp was broken without issue, and the first two hours or so of their day had been spent making their way to the next ward. As they continued their descent, the time between wards only grew.

Emmrich found this extra distance to be a double-edged sword. It was fortuitous as it allowed them the opportunity to explore more of the lower levels, including a previously-undescribed catacomb. Less fortunate were the long lulls between conversations or new discoveries, allowing his fatigue from lack of sleep to creep in. When he felt his eyelids grow heavy, he wished he’d taken Katareth up on her offer of coffee earlier that morning.

His weariness evaporated when Myrna dismounted next to him, approaching the defective glyphs carved into a polished slab of chalcedony. Collecting a few material components from his Saddlebag of Holding, he joined her. A quick examination told him it would be a simple fix, requiring maybe twenty minutes at the most.

Katareth and Johanna stood guard, sending motes of light in either direction down the dusty corridor. As Myrna laid out the tools they’d need, he heard Johanna ask, “Hey, Kat. What kind of dragon is this?” The glyph opposed the opulent double doors that lead into the Gervhardt catacombs, decorated by a large mosaic depicting a furious battle between several hunters and a swooping high dragon.

“It’s a Kaltenzahn.” He heard the clink of sabatons on tile as she approached. “She has the distinctive red and blue pattern they’re famous for. Oh!” She gasped, audibly excited, “And if you look here, she’s clutching onto a human!”

He caught Myrna’s smirk out of the corner of his eye as the pair worked, listening in on their guards’ conversation.

“Assuming the records are accurate, the figure should be Damian Gervhardt. The Kaltenzahn’s claws pierced his chest in several locations when she grabbed him. But before he bled out, he was able to jab his sword between her osteoderms here, likely severing one of the arteries in her neck. She crashed on the shores of Lake Merdaine, and the rest of his hunting party was able to kill her once she was grounded.”

Johanna hummed, asking a few more questions that were too low for his ears to catch. Returning his full attention to the repairs, Emmrich was pleased to find their work completed within minutes. With a few final incantations, it flickered back to life, wafting a pleasant warmth across his face. Like stepping into sunlight.

A few moments after their restoration, Emmrich recoiled when a deep, guttural roar scraped against the inside of his skull.

“Cease, you pathetic rats! Your feeble defenses only serve to stoke my ire. This horrid tomb has become my chrysalis, and it is time for my triumphant emergence!”

Johanna huffed, rubbing her temples. “I’m ashamed to admit I was wrong; it appears we are just dealing with a pride demon,” she complained, taunting the corrupted spirit.

“You think my motives so base, wretched human? NO. I desire something far greater than anything your simple pride could wring...”

Everyone hastily returned to their mounts, trailing the qunari as she began following the voice to its source, nudging Gustav to a canter with her heels. She rushed through junctions, refusing to slow down now that the cause of their current predicament had revealed itself.

“You scurry like the disgusting vermin that slaughtered my younglings. No matter, you will fall just as they did.”

After several more jeers from the demon, they arrived at the ostentatious courtyard leading to the Pentaghast’s sprawling burial estate. Ivory marble braziers cradled emerald bonfires, casting reflections off gurgling fountains of red wine that were dotted throughout the topiary garden. It was beautiful. And massive. One of Emmrich’s colleagues had recently published a paper on the original blueprints of the estate, theorizing it covered nearly twice as much space as their castle on the surface. Laying eyes on the exterior alone, he believed it.

Within the tidy rows that connected the lawn’s many decorative features, possessed corpses shuffled about, draped in armor from centuries passed. They were typically passive towards Mourn Watchers, content to allow the Necropolis’ guardians to pass unhindered. This time, however, the corpses suddenly grew hostile, growling as they limped forward.

With a few well-practiced gestures of his hands, the mummies froze, unable to break through Emmrich’s arcane hold over them. He maintained the spell long enough for everyone to race toward the gilded doors of the estate proper, doors slamming shut behind them with a deep thud. With a flick of his wrists, he released his hold over the corpses, now safe from their misguided defenses.

Looking around, the almost gaudy extravagance that pervaded everything House Pentaghast did on the surface continued below. A massive chandelier glittered with thousands of little crystals above, tinkling gently as it threw sparkles of green light down upon the Watchers. The black marble under their horses’ trotting hooves was polished to a mirror finish, and the red velvet curtains that covered each window were accented with gold embroidery featuring Nevarra’s prominent skull and flower motif.

“NO! You will not stop me! Not when I am so near my prize…”

A piercing PING rang out through the foyer as the chain from which the giant chandelier dangled broke, sending the metal frame plummeting toward Myrna. With a quick snap of her fingers, she disappeared, rematerializing a few feet away as the chandelier crashed upon her horse, sending bone fragments and shards of crystal in every direction.

The normally genteel healer blurted an exasperated “Damn!” as she righted herself and dusted debris from her skirts. Myrna pulled herself up onto Emmrich’s saddle, seating herself behind him. She urged them forward and answered everyone’s concerned questions with a breathless, “I’m fine, I’m fine! But let’s continue on. Whatever this demon is, we need to kill it before it brings the roof down on our heads.”

Katareth’s fury was evident when she returned her attention to the culprit, shouting, “Speak, then! What prize!?”

“RETRIBUTION!”

The qunari’s silver brows furrowed, likely expecting a more grandiose desire befitting a pride demon.

“Myrna, you may have been right when you speculated the Necropolis’ interloper was a revenge demon, yesterday.” Were they in more agreeable circumstances, Emmrich might have used this as an opportunity to excitedly lecture his colleagues on the seldom-seen inhabitants of the Fade. Instead, he was restricted to an abridged summary, “Revenge demons ride a fine line between pride and rage, but they can be distinguished by their singular goal of exacting whatever vengeance the corpse they possess sought in the moment of their death.”

Katareth turned to face him, “Are they more or less dangerous than a pride demon?”

“I’m unsure. There have been so few encountered, and even less that have adequate descriptions of those encounters,” he explained quickly before adding, “Though—like with most possessions—the physicality of the body they inhabit does play a role in determining their threat. If this is a Pentaghast mummy, I’m confident the four of us could subdue it without too much issue…” he trailed off uncertainly.

Johanna interjected, “That didn’t exactly sound like a Pentaghast’s final demand, Volkarin.”

“I know…” Emmrich sighed. While he dreaded the alternative, the demon’s earlier claims of ‘slaughtered younglings’ combined with the many dragon corpses that have been carted down here over the centuries pointed to a much more dire conclusion.

It seemed everyone had independently come to the same answer when Myrna cautiously confirmed, “Professor, are you implying there’s a possessed dragon somewhere on the estate?”

“It’s certainly a possibility.”

Katareth heaved a breath, rubbing circles into her temple, “Well that complicates things, somewhat.”

None present had ever been on one of the Pentaghast’s famed dragon hunts, though it was widely known that they were typically conducted with dozens upon dozens of combatants. The specific location of the demon also put the Watchers into an exceedingly dangerous political situation, as well.

While the Mortalitasi held significant power and influence within Nevarra, there were already suspicious whispers among the upper echelons that King Markus’ Mortalitasi advisors puppeteered the aging monarch, ruling the country through him. Were word to get out that a group of Mourn Watchers sat idly by—or even abandoned!—the Pentaghast’s charnel estate while it was torn asunder by a demon, the resulting outcry could lead to an all-out civil war. Emmrich’s thoughts grew more grim when he realized their expedition leader’s heritage would only stoke the flames further. There was no option other than to continue forward, regardless of the potentially lethal threat they faced. Anything else could be considered high treason.

“Well… we’ve come this far, there’s no point in turning back now,” Katareth stated confidently, attempting to rally her companions.

Johanna nodded with a grim determination. “Who knows, maybe you’ll get to see your first dragon.”

“I was rather hoping for it to be alive, but beggars can’t be choosers, I guess,” she laughed humorlessly. “Um… Let’s check the charnel halls first; if it’s truly vengeance the demon wants, we should check areas with the highest concentrations of bodies. If we don’t find anything there, we can look elsewhere.”

Setting Katareth’s plan in motion, they moved on, forgoing proper etiquette such as dismounting in favor of exorcising the demon as quickly as possible.

All of the charnel wings were void of demons, only hosting a few lounging Pentaghast mummy that paid their party little mind. Continuing deeper into the mansion, Emmrich had to resist stopping his horse several times, in awe of the magnificent architecture and gaudy décor.

Everywhere they examined proved fruitless. The bathhouses that bubbled cloyingly-perfumed waters, the library with towering bookshelves extending far past what Emmrich could see in the dim light, and even the chapel with its golden statue of Andraste, arms beckoning their entrance, sat empty.

When Katareth pushed open the double doors encrusted with jeweled dragons that led into the expansive trophy room, they knew they were on the right track.

Dozens of dragons had been strung up and taxidermized in action poses, and even more lay haphazardly along the perimeter, dragged in unceremoniously following their slaughter. None of the draconic mummies were complete, all showing some variety of post-mortem manipulation.

Broad chests lay deflated following the removal of lungs and hearts, and several were decapitated entirely, leaving expertly-sliced stumps at the end of thick necks. A few were skinned completely, revealing greyed muscle that had been tanned with time. In the very center of the room sat an empty exhibit, metal supporting wires splayed in all directions.

Katareth halted. “Do you hear that…?”

Everyone held their breath, straining to listen… There it was! Emmrich felt more than heard a deep, rhythmic thump from deeper within the mansion.

Hot on the demon’s trail, the Watchers galloped down long corridors, following a wake of gouged tiles and shredded tapestries before passing under a large, broken lintel. On either side lay two massive oak doors, blasted off their hinges.

Katareth halted at the top of a grand marble staircase, frozen in place by what she saw. The lavish grandiosity of the Pentaghast estate seemed to have abandoned the decimated remains of the grand ballroom. Many of the stained-glass windows were shattered, casting kaleidoscopes across the ground that were interspersed with tattered velvet scraps and the stone limbs of smashed statues. Once-exquisite paintings featuring glorious dragon hunts were clawed through, canvases singed and frayed at the edges. But all that destruction paled in comparison to the horrible visage that waited at the far end of the room.

At the top of the stairs, pounding into the massive golden double-doors that led to the throne room where Caspar the Magnificent reposed, was a colossal mummified dragon. Massive swaths of its hide had been peeled away over the centuries, providing a disgusting glimpse at sinewy muscles that ground against each other with every ear-splitting rake of its claws against metal.

Upon realizing it was no longer alone, the demon halted its assault, slowly swiveling its head like an owl toward the Mourn Watchers. Emmrich couldn’t suppress the shiver that ran through his body when the vacant, hollow pits where its eyes would have once sat seemed to peer into his very soul.

“Is that… Caspar’s Vinsomer…?” Katareth whispered almost reverently.

Though the high dragon’s maw didn’t move, Emmrich nevertheless heard its awful voice in his head. “So you DO understand what you meddle in… And still, you attempt to thwart my righteous vengeance against the one who butchered me?”

Kat found her voice, “But you’re not the high dragon slain by Caspar all those centuries ago, are you? You’re a simple demon whose found an empty corpse to parade around in!”

“SILENCE!” The revenant roared, spreading its leathery wings and kicking up a gale. “If I must kill you to reach my true prey, so be it…”

The dragon leapt from its perch at the top of the stairs, landing in the center of the grand ballroom. The mansion quaked under its feet as a swarm of dust swirled.

As she unsheathed her greatsword, Katareth rushed information to her fellow Watchers. “Vinsomers are especially susceptible to damage originating from the Fade, but I’m not sure how the possession will affect that. Regardless, try to take out her wings first, and be mindful of her tail. Above all else, don’t get caught.”

When everyone nodded in confirmation, the qunari kicked her heels in to Gustav’s ribs, charging ahead to draw the demon’s ire away from her lightly-armored allies, sword cloaked in Veilfire.

Emmrich erected a quick arcane shield as he retreated to the far wall with Myrna, giving her the safety and distance she needed to weave precise bolts of magic that sliced away at its tattered wings. There were a few corpses scattered about the hall that he was able to guide spirits into, entreating their help. It was a careful balancing act, managing both his summons and mount, painfully aware of the fact that it was not just his own life he needed to guard with his jockeying.

He spotted Johanna darting along the perimeter, slamming devastating volleys of Veilfire into the exposed muscles. Each successive hit pulled a roar from the demon. “When the cur you call ‘Caspar’ is naught but dust, I will hunt his every heir like the vermin they are!”

Just when Emmrich thought the high dragon would bring a foul hand down upon Katareth, Gustav sidestepped, rushing between the revenant’s legs as she raised her sword to slice down its belly. It reared back, swiping its tree trunk of a tail into one of Emmrich’s summons, sending it careening into the wall. The marble buckled under the force of the impact.

The qunari circled around the dragon, drawing her greatsword across its ankle, beginning the arduous process of slicing through taut ligaments. As the revenant limped away, a ruined wing flumped to the ground behind it, freed from its shoulder by Myrna’s precise casting.

“His soul shall know the pain of my wrath, Watchers!”

Giving his reins a firm yank, Emmrich’s horse bolted to the right, narrowly avoiding a slab of stone launched by the demon in retaliation. Skeletal warriors hacked at its other ankle, pulling the demon’s attention in far too many directions.

The dragon inhaled, fraying the wiry muscles of its pectorals as its chest expanded. Its remaining wing beat furiously, kicking up a gale. With a deafening CRACK of thunder, it exhaled a gout of lightning up into the chandeliers. Magenta bolts arced wildly throughout the wrought frame and shattered the thousands of crystals, conjuring a devastating squall of razor-sharp shards.

Emmrich realized all too late that his shield only guarded their front when the rain of crystal nicked his exposed skin, trickling warm blood down his face. He felt Myrna tuck herself into the back of his leather battlecoat, protecting herself from the majority of the onslaught.

“I will reclaim my rightful lands from those who usurped me!”

As the high dragon maintained the storm, Johanna caught its remaining wing alight. The incessant beating only fed the flames, quickly spreading to engulf the entire limb as emerald chewed through dried flesh like kindling. As the patagium that stretched between bones disintegrated, the winds petered out, driving the revenant mad with desperation.

“N-No! I will end the Pentaghast bloodline! Just as they ended mine!”

Blood dripped into Emmrich’s eye, stinging as it blinded him. He attempted to rub it away and handed the reins to Myrna. Squinting, he watched blearily as a massive arm swiped out at something across the ballroom. A pained feminine wail rang through the hall. From behind him, Myrna shouted, “Johanna!” while his horse rocketed forward as the spirit healer raced to assist.

By the time they made it to her, Johanna had managed to sit upright, though one of her arms dangled unnaturally and a large gash marred her right cheek. Using her good arm, a whip of green magic snagged around her panicked mount’s neck, reining it in. “Fucking bitch slapped me off my horse…” Blood dribbled down her chin into the collar of her arming jacket.

Myrna leapt from his saddle, hands already aglow with cyan magic as she palpated the smaller Watcher’s arm gently. Turning to look up, his assistant urged him, “Go help Katareth; we’ll be fine!”

He’d managed to blink away the majority of blood, regaining his sight to watch as Katareth guided Gustav hither and thither, struggling to remain just out of reach of the revenant as she refocused its aggression away from her injured mentor.

“Little Tal-Vashoth! I sense the coils of fear that squeeze at your heart… Join me and become my champion against the Pentaghast blight,” it implored in a last-ditch effort, limping toward the reaper as its strength waned under their collective efforts. “We will paint the streets of Nevarra red with our vengeance!”

Dodging a grasping paw, the qunari raced to the dragon’s side, raising her greatsword to stab into its chest. Utilizing Gustav’s momentum to force the blade deeper, Katareth twisted her blade as fire blazed at the edges of the gaping wound.

When the flames reduced to smoldering chartreuse embers, Emmrich had a clear view of its withered heart, pulsing pinkish with the demon’s corrupt essence. Locking in on his target, the Mourn Watcher wove a hex into the exposed chest cavity that clutched around the corrupted organ.

Oblivious to the Walking Bomb now nestled between its ribs, the revenant crackled magenta along its throat, exhaling a gout of lightning that danced across the cracked tiles. The blast narrowly missed Gustav as he leapt away. But when the asaarash landed, a boney hoof slipped into one of the numerous fissures in the floor, snapping a metacarpal and spilling both himself and his rider across the floor.

Katareth rolled several times, coming to an abrupt halt when a massive, anisodactyl hand came down upon her chest. As the demon dragged her closer, her plate armor screeched as it carved jagged scars in the black marble. Emmrich watched helplessly as she struggled, his summons’ brutal attacks going entirely ignored as the revenant stared down the much livelier prey now in its grasp. Kat attempted to hold back the mangled digits that pressed into her cuirass, shouting with desperate exertion as the metal slowly crumpled like parchment under the immense weight of her captor.

Acting on instinct, he conjured a rope of Veil and connected it to the middle digit of the dragon’s hand before tying it around the horn of his saddle, kicking his mount to move. ‘I just have to buy time for the hex to finish charging. Should be any moment now…’ he reminded himself.

As more lightning zapped along its massive neck, the high dragon lowered its maw to hover over Katareth’s terrified face while it’s mandible creaked open. “I will not be felled again!”

Two more glowing ropes connected to the revenant, one joining his while the other looped around a thick horn. Looking to his side, he watched hopefully as Myrna gave her cord a savage yank from her seat behind Johanna, saddled once again.

With a flick of his assistant’s wrist, Kat’s greatsword skittered to her side. Taking hold of it, she thrust it upward, crunching through the dragon’s soft palate and into its rotted brain.

“I. WILL. HAVE. VENGEANCE.”

Despite their ironclad hold, the Watchers’ combined strength was no match for the dragon as its desiccated fingers flexed, piercing through her armor and ripping a blood-curdling scream from the reaper as maroon bubbled up and over.

Emmrich was momentarily taken by the strange, macabre beauty of the way her lifeblood snaked through the delicate embellishments of her breastplate—like a dozen little crimson rivers that waterfalled into the pool that expanded on the black tile below…

With a deafening ‘BOOM’, the necromancer’s Walking Bomb finally—finally!—detonated in a blast of violet, heralding the demon’s demise. The explosion obliterated its withered heart and split its chest along the spine like a flytrap in reverse, splaying ribs and vertebral projections in all directions. It was only thanks to Myrna’s continued pulls on the dragon’s horn that prevented it from landing directly atop Katareth, jagged jaw slack as it thudded between themselves and their prone ally.

His assistant wasted no time dismounting, letting the rope in her hand disintegrate while she darted around the skull. He and Johanna followed, dismayed to watch as Myrna fumbled with the reaper’s armor, not entirely familiar with how it all fit together. Slapping the spirit healer’s hands away, Johanna hurriedly unbuckled Kat’s gorget, instructing Myrna to cradle the qunari’s head while she peeled it away, unclipping her dented pauldrons at the same time. From her position at Katareth’s side, Johanna barked an order to hold the dragon’s hand still while they figured out what to do with her crumpled cuirass.

Grasping the giant paw between his hands, Emmrich placed a foot on either side of her hips, in awe of the sheer size of the limb he hoisted. Looking up, he made eye contact with their qunari, yellow eyes glazed somewhat with shock. Her gaze lazily traveled downward, following Myrna’s hands as she teased the breastplate from around each claw with a pair of thick shears.

Kat struggled to speak, hacking droplets of red that splattered the back of Emmrich’s hands as her arms pawed weakly at a mummified digit.

“Shhh… You’re fine, Katareth! You don’t need to do anything—we’ve everything well under control!” He attempted to reassure her, though his voice lacked any sort of conviction. Surely she couldn’t die, right? She was far better than that Gervhardt dragon hunter from earlier…

With a grunt, Myrna bent away the last of her breastplate, revealing a tattered evergreen gambeson now stained black with blood.

As the spirit healer cut at the thick, quilted wool, Johanna cooed, “Emmrich’s right. You’ll be fine.” Her brown eyes trained on Kat’s mangled chest; face pinched into a deep frown as things were distinctly not fine. The final layer of linen was peeled away with her gambeson, leaving only a black brassiere to protect her modesty.

Her state was… grave. Emmrich’s usually vast vocabulary failed him as that was the only word his mind could conjure. Grave. Her sternum bent awkwardly between two claws, and while she was thankfully still drawing breath, it appeared to be a laborious undertaking every time.

Myrna quietly but confidently doled out instructions, slipping a strip of leather between the reaper’s teeth. “Professor, pull them out one at a time when I give the signal. You’ll have to move with the curve of each claw, so do your best to not damage anything further. Johanna, try to keep her as still as possible: healing will progress much more smoothly if she’s not squirming about.” Looking down, she addressed Katareth directly, “And you… you… don’t die. I forbid it.” Uncorking a vial of mercurial liquid, Myrna threw her head back, grimacing at the bitter taste of lyrium.

They began with the hallux lodged just above her right hip, as it would give them greater freedom to manipulate the other digits. Emmrich gripped it at the base, pulling with a hasty flick as his assistant cupped her hands around the wound. Myrna’s eyes and hands glowed, calling upon Fade spirits to knit grey skin closed as Kat attempted to roll away with a groan, still not entirely cognizant. When the healer withdrew her hands, they revealed a wide divot of fresh, silvery skin.

Next would be the fourth digit, wedged between two lower ribs on her left side. This one also slipped easily, but was longer than the last, requiring a bit more finesse to extract. Katareth’s head lolled to the side, jaw clenching on leather as she recoiled more forcefully, attempting to buck Johanna off with a hiss. Nevertheless, it healed just as the last one had.

Wiping sweat from her brow and throwing back another vial, she advised, “These last two will be the worst, so let’s work quickly, yeah?” With a nod of her head, Emmrich attempted to remove the first digit just as he had the last two, embedded above the swell of her right breast. As he pulled, it held fast, snagging.

“It’s stuck on something!” The reaper lurched under him, spitting the leather strip to the side as she cried out.

“Then unstick it!” Johanna snarled, pressing her entire bodyweight onto Kat’s shoulders as she thrashed.

Myrna’s steady voice interrupted his rebuttal. “Try pushing the claw forward more, then pull,” she suggested, pressing radiant hands on either side of the puncture. “The tip is cracked and it’s catching on a rib.”

Following the spirit healer’s advice, he was relieved to find that worked, wincing at the awful sucking sound the claw made as it was pulled free. Her chest heaved as the wound’s edges glimmered cyan, stitching together.

Focused on ending Katareth’s agony as efficiently as possible, Emmrich wrapped his hands around the middle digit embedded behind her right collarbone, gasping when a cold, clammy grey hand wrapped around his wrist like a manacle. Cold. Maker, she’s never cold. She was staring at him again. Before, the reaper appeared somewhat dazed. Now, however, there was an awful mixture of anger and fear that turned his stomach.

The comparatively tiny hands of Johanna attempted to pry Kat’s fingers from his wrist, pleading, “Damn it, Kat! He’s trying to help you, I promise! Now let go!”

With some not-so-gentle persuasion, Katareth reluctantly allowed the smaller Watcher to peel her hand away, though her eyes remained trained on Emmrich’s every move. The necromancer had to remind himself that she was likely not in her right mind, in immense amounts of pain.

Above her, Myrna mouthed a countdown. When she reached ‘one’, he dragged the last massive talon from behind Katareth’s right collarbone, blood briefly rushing as pressure was released.

A gurgled shout bounced off the walls of the ballroom, devolving into wracking coughs as the spirit healer’s magic repaired her cracked sternum and punctured lung. Once she was satisfied with the reaper’s stability, Myrna helped roll Kat to her side, allowing her to more easily dispel the blood in her airway.

As she hacked and spat, Johanna leaned down next to her, quietly praising her former protégé as she rubbed at the qunari’s back soothingly, “Easy, get it all out… You did so well, Katareth, I’m so proud of you…”

Emmrich rose, dropping the paw by Katareth’s feet before stepping away with the distinct feeling as though he were intruding on what was supposed to be a private moment. Myrna must have felt similarly, as she too left the qunari’s side, wiping her hands on her skirts and leaving thick, red streaks across the fabric. She joined Emmrich several paces away, reaching up to heal the paper-thin slices that peppered his face and pressing a red vial into his hand.

He accepted the glass and placed a steadying hand on her shoulder when she swayed slightly, pupils constricted from the lyrium she’d imbibed. “Thank you… And to be clear, I’m incredibly proud of you, as well, Myrna.”

She gave him a tired but contented smile, sitting on one of the high dragon’s biceps as she looked around the trashed ballroom. “So… who will be the one to tell Prelate Pentaghast about all this?” She pulled a second vial from her satchel, clinking it against his own before taking a long draught.

He exhaled as he sat next to her. “Technically, that would be one of Katareth’s responsibilities as the expedition leader. However I suspect Vestalus will take the news better if Johanna or I tell him, so I’ll volunteer myself.” She’d been through enough already, and the Prelate’s likely ire would serve as something of a penance for the additional pain he’d put her through.

The spirit healer hummed, leaning to rest her chin in her hands, eyes closed. The two sat in companionable silence for several minutes as they finished their potions, the only sounds being Johanna’s inaudible praises and Kat’s occasional wet coughs.

Gustav!

Rising, Emmrich spotted the massive skeleton hunched protectively near the qunari, snapped leg still wedged between two broken slabs of rubble in the distance. Dislodging the limb with no small amount of effort, he considered his next course of action. Reconnecting the bone would be simple; Emmrich had plenty of experience repairing his most recent project: a human skeleton he’d been referring to as ‘Manfred’. Working with Gustav, on the other hand…

In life, the asaarash was an absolute brute, throwing his substantial weight around and bullying anyone who wasn’t his master. Following his death, Katareth somehow managed to find a spirit of duty that replicated his deplorable behavior to a T, much to the disappointment and frustration of everyone who wasn’t her.

Emmrich attempted to call the spirit away from his reaper’s side several times to no avail. It wasn’t until Johanna looped a finger under the skeleton’s mandible and shoved him toward Emmrich with a steely, “Move, you big beast!” that Gustav slowly hobbled over, snorting in displeasure. He kneeled before the horse, holding the jagged ends of bone together and fusing them with a few whispered incantations.

Clearing her throat, Katareth’s scratchy voice drawled from several feet away, “Let’s rest here for a few hours... We can fix the last of the wards once everyone’s feeling a bit better…”

Johanna was quick to rebuke. “Mmm, I think not. There are other groups of Watchers who’re perfectly capable. I agree with resting, but we really should get you to the surface. No offense, Myrna—you did wonderfully! I just… want to get another set of eyes on her.” The spirit healer hummed affirmatively, too exhausted to render further aid even if she wanted to.

When Kat frowned, Johanna patiently reminded her: “One of our primary goals coming down here was to find whatever was responsible for the wards being broken in the first place. We’ve done that.” She looked to Emmrich, entreating the support of her long-time friend.

“I concur. There will already need to be a subsequent trip to replace the wards Myrna and I could not repair, and I don’t think the rune forgers will be too terribly put out if we give them a few more.”

With Gustav’s leg reconnected, the horse tentatively placed his weight on the limb before returning to Katareth’s side dutifully.

The reaper finally conceded with an exhausted, “…Fine.”

The next few hours passed peacefully as they took a brief respite, with everyone attempting to return themselves to a somewhat presentable state. The crumpled remains of Katareth’s armor were shoved haphazardly into Gustav’s Saddlebag of Holding, opting to change into one of her looser-fitting linen shirts with Myrna’s assistance, instead.

-----

As the party began their gradual ascent, Johanna saddled up to Katareth’s side. Scrutinizing the qunari, she sighed, “Damn, Kitty. You look terrible.”

Katareth appraised her elder. “We look terrible,” she corrected, plucking a crystal shard from Johanna’s armor.

She laughed, “Fair enough. And hey, we’ve got matching scars, now.” Johanna gestured to the fresh scar that sliced below her right eye, comparing it to the prominent jagged line that ran from the reaper’s left chin to cheekbone.

The qunari hummed approvingly, “So we do! Yours is on the wrong side, though.”

“Ugh. There’s no pleasing you, is there…” Johanna huffed. Thinking for a moment, she smirked, “…I guess I’ll just have to ask Yelena for advice.”

Despite the small pool of blood she left behind in the Pentaghast’s grand ballroom, Katareth still had enough in her body to flush a dusky rose. “I hate you.”

Johanna’s cackling laugh bounced off the corridors, “Tell you what: next time I’m facing down a mummified dragon, I’ll politely ask it to attempt clawing out my left eye, instead. How’s that sound?”

“I’d appreciate that, thank you.”

[starlitangels]

What Should Have Been

So... Erik mentioned in a stream that the Imperium probably looked down on turning empowered humans into vampires because it was stripping them of their powers... and Sam was a Freelancer... 1.9k words

—

Advanced Healing

The messy, large letters scrawled across the board were the first thing I saw as I ducked into the classroom. I sat down in the middle of the front row and took out my textbook and notebook. The professor wasn’t in the room yet—probably. Everyone looked too young to be teaching Advanced Healing.

I scrawled Adv. Healing in the top margin of my notebook and waited.

After a minute, the door at the back of the classroom opened. “A’right, a’right. Pipe down, y’all,” a voice said.

I peered over my shoulder to track how the professor came in.

He was in his mid-forties, probably. Laugh lines around his eyes, grey hair at his temples. Tanned from the waning summer sun. Dark wash jeans tucked neatly into a pair of cowboy boots. Plain grey T-shirt under an open checked flannel. He had the class textbook in one hand, the other in his pocket.

He dropped the textbook on the teacher’s table at the front of the classroom and leaned against it, folding his arms across his chest. I caught a flash of a wedding ring on his finger.

“A’right,” he said again. “Hi. I'm Professor Sam Collins. But do not call me Professor Collins. It’s Sam, got it?” He looked around at all of us. “Got it?” His accent made it very obvious he wasn’t from Dahlia.

“Yes, sir,” I said softly. A few other students nodded.

Sam made a face. “I appreciate the respect, but the ‘sir’ ain’t necessary either.” I nodded quickly.

The professor went back to looking at everyone else in the class. “Now. Y’all are here because you passed Intro and Intermediate healing. Odds are, you’re interested in healin’ as a career, or you’re specialist Healers who wanna know your craft a bit—” His eyes met mine and he stumbled on his word. “—better,” he finished. He shook his head. “Now, this is the advanced course. Don’t expect anythin’ to come too easy. We’re gonna start meetin’ on Thursdays at the Healer’s hospital so y’all can get some real experience under your belts. We’re—somethin’ you wanna share with the class?”

Sam’s eyes were fixed on the whispers in the back of the classroom. There were only a handful of students in here to begin with, so there was no ambient noise to hide the whispering under.

I looked back. One student was lounging in his desk chair casually, in an Imperial Academy of Dahlia—School of Healing sweatshirt. He had messy hair and the neat-and-clean aura of a Healer. “You’re a Freelancer,” the student said to Sam.

“Yes, I am,” he replied.

“Well, no offense, Sam, but wouldn’t specialist Healers know healing magic better than you? Do you really think you can teach us more than we already know?”

My stomach dropped straight to the floor and I curled my shoulders forward, hunching down in my seat to brace for the storm. What kind of life had this guy lived that he felt safe enough to just backtalk someone who had power over him? I didn’t think I’d ever get over the way magic-borns treated each other.

Sam Collins snorted. “Son,” he started, “I’ve been healin’ complicated compound fractures longer’n you’ve been alive. I think I know a thing or two you ain’t seen yet.” He seemed more amused than offended. “Now, we’re gonna start with the syllabus, and then we’ll get started on the actual coursework breakdown…”

—

“Freelancer,” Sam said as I was the last to file out of the classroom. I paused and turned to look at him. He waved me over. Keeping my head down, I plodded over.

“Yeah?” I asked.

“Did you realize durin’ class today that you’re the only Freelancer in this time slot?”

I nodded, not meeting Sam’s eyes.

“I’m not tryin’ to put extra pressure on you, but in a class of specialists, you might struggle to feel like you’re measurin’ up to their skills or power levels. I want you to know that it’s not a matter of raw power when it comes to healin’. It’s a matter of… finesse. And, as a Freelancer, you’ll never have the same amount of control as a specialist. But that doesn’t mean you can’t be just as good at healin’ as your classmates are. I’ve been healin’ for… twenty-some-odd years. As a Freelancer. And I’m one of the best healers in the capital. So don’t get discouraged, ya hear?”

I nodded again.

“Hey. Don’t be scared-a me. I’m not lookin’ to hurt your pride,” Sam said.

I finally met his eyes. They were green and warm, wrinkled at the corners where he was giving me a gentle smile.

“President Moore doesn’t want me to take this class,” I admitted. With no idea why I said it. Sam just felt… warm. He reminded me of the family I left behind when too many people in the unempowered slums started to suspect I had magic.

Darkness passed over his expression. “Why?”

I bit the inside of my cheek. “He thinks healing is just a tool and I should aspire for greater things. But… I want to help people.”

Anger twisted his kind face. “That airheaded little pr—” He cut himself off. “He’s young, I’ll grant him that. But he wouldn’t understand true fulfillment if it slapped him in the face with a catfish.”

I couldn’t help the snicker that escaped my nose.

“Why’s our good academy president takin’ a personal interest in your classes?”

“I’m humanborn,” I said.

“Ah. I see.” Sam nodded, but he was looking past me, like he was imagining actually slapping Lasko in the face with a catfish. “Well. If he gives you too much trouble about what you’re wantin’ to pursue as a career, you let me know, okay? Don’t let him discourage you. Just because he failed my Intro to Healin’ class when he was attendin’ the Academy means he doesn’t have any room to talk about what you want from your life, ya hear?”

I nodded again, smiling wider.

“Good.” He gave me that warm smile again. “Now, get on outta here. I’m sure you got another class to get to.”

“I do. Thanks Da—Sam.”

Before I could make an even bigger fool of myself, I rushed out of the classroom.

—

Sam chuckled as the Freelancer disappeared down the hallway. “Been a while since someone almost called me dad,” he muttered to himself, gathering up his textbook and the whiteboard marker he’d pulled out of his pocket. “Poor thing. Humanborn. All alone here. Had to leave their family behind…” He sighed and shook his head. “Promisin’ talent though.”

—

“Okay. Welcome to the Healer’s hospital. You’ll each be given a green coat to signify you’re in trainin’, and a Healer to shadow and practice your magic at their discretion. Each week you’ll rotate who you’re with so you can get a broad look at how each Healer practices their trade,” Sam said. He picked up the duffel bag he’d brought with him and dropped it on the break room’s table. “So. When I call your name, come get your coat, and I’ll assign you to a Healer, got it?”

We nodded.

He started reading out names, handing out healer’s coats, and giving each student the name of a Healer to track down and shadow.

Until it was just him and me in the room. He called my name, finally, and I stepped forward. He handed me my coat. It was mint green and had my name and Freelancer embroidered in darker green thread on the left chest. He held onto it after I grabbed it to hold my attention.

“I’m assignin’ you to someone very special to start you off, Freelancer,” he told me seriously. “She and I went through the academy together. Another Freelancer. And I’ll never admit it to her face but she’s probably a better healer than I am. You’ll learn a lot from her.” He turned toward the door. “Audrey Jane! Your student’s ready!” He let go of my coat, patted my shoulder, and left the room while I put it on over my scrubs.

As Sam left, a woman came in. Same age. Similar laugh lines and grey hairs. Motherly and smiling kindly at me. “You must be the Freelancer in the class of Healers,” she said. Her accent was the same as Sam’s too.

“Yes ma’am,” I replied. She beckoned me closer.

“I’m Audrey,” she introduced as I stepped up. I gave her my name in return. She shook my hand. “Sam’s had nothin’ but good things to say about you. Says you’re a promisin’ young healer.”

“Just wanna help. However I can.”

“Well, now. That’s somethin’ to be admired, ain’t it?” She smiled wide. “C’mon, Freelancer. Let’s get you started. If you’re as good as Sam raves, I think I have just the thing to start you off. Now don’t worry,” she added as my eyes widened, “it’s nothin’ life-threatenin’. Just a kid who got on the wrong end of a shifter’s jaws. It’s deep wounds but it’s all soft tissue. No arteries were hit. Think you can manage?”

I nodded. “I can try,” I said.

“Good. And I’ll be right behind you should you not feel like you can finish it up, okay? Nothin’ to worry about.”

“O-okay,” I replied, following her out of the room. She led me to an exam room, where a teenager was lying on the exam bed with a towel over his leg.

“Hi,” Audrey Jane greeted. “I’m Audrey Jane. This is my student healer. We’re gonna get you all fixed up, okay?”

The teenager nodded.

—

“Freelancer,” Sam said as I was leaving the classroom again. “Stay a minute.”

I paused where I’d been putting my things away. “Okay.”

Once the classroom was empty, Sam boosted himself up onto the teacher’s table. “Audrey Jane called me Friday mornin’,” he said.

Terror shot down my spine. I ignored it. “Okay.”

“Don’t look so scared, kid. She had nothin’ but praise for you.” He regarded me thoughtfully. “Said you healed a whole shifter bite on your own and didn’t even leave a scar,” he continued. I nodded. “You know how difficult that is, even for a specialist?” I shook my head. “Kid, it’s damn near impossible to heal punctures that deep without scarrin’. How’d you do it?”

I shook my head again, this time with a confused shrug. “My Intro to Healing professor said that you can’t hit the injury with magic or you’ll make it hurt more than heal. She said you have to introduce yourself kindly to the body you’re healing and it’ll accept the magic better. That’s what I did. I introduced myself and my magic from the deepest part of the tear and worked my way up. It was kinda slow, maybe, but the kid said it didn’t hurt much, even without magic to dull the pain.”

Sam chuckled and shook his head. “Incredible. I haven’t seen compassion translate into talent like that in… quite a long time,” he said. “You’re somethin’ else, kid.”

“Thank you, sir—Sam.”

“You’re welcome. Keep this up, and you’ll be teachin’ this class faster than I got to it. And that’s sayin’ somethin’.”

I smiled. “Thank you.”

“All I can say is keep at it. Maybe there’s a ray-a hope for this Imperium after all with kids like you in it.”

I fought down the warmth that burned at my ears and neck. “Thanks, Sam.”

—

Tag list: @zozo-01 @thegoldenlittlerose @mainhoesstuff

[ichorai]

frozen hearts, flaming arrows ; p.sh

parts ; one. masterlist. two coming soon.

pairing ; fire!seonghwa x ice!reader

summary ; two enemy clans. one icer healer, one flamer soldier, one brewing war. love was never meant to be a part of this. but then again, when is love ever supposed to be a part of anything?

words ; 7.3k

warnings / includes ; cursing, violence, a make-out scene !!, future suggestive / mature content, hwa being sexy as always, ANGST okay this is a lot of ANGST and hURT, enemies to friends to enemies to lovers trope lol

a/n ; bet yall didn’t see this one coming lol but yea pls enjoy !!! im rlly excited for this series omg !!! im sorry this part was rlly short and kinda bad kkdfjdf but this is just the beginning and i swear part two will be much better !!

A snowflake glowing a luminescent blue lazily floated above your palm, multiplying into several others until you held a mini-flurry in your hand. You walked past all the frosted-over trees, huffing in deep breaths of cold air as your boots stepped over piles of unblemished snow and crispy dead leaves. 

Being a healer was exhausting. Though you were still fairly new to the job, you couldn’t help but lay all the blame on yourself for being incapable of saving a life today. You just… hadn’t expected there to be that much blood. Icers had thicker blood for a reason; it wasn’t usually a problem. The head healer tried to reassure you that you did everything you could, but you couldn’t stand to be in the medbay for much longer. You needed air. 

And that’s how you ended up here, head spinning dizzily as you stomped through the wintry grey forest, releasing out a frustrated groan from the bottom of your lungs.

“You’re dangerously close to our territory, Icer.” The sudden deep-timbered voice had you flinching so harshly you hit your head on an icy tree branch. “I’d watch my step if I was you.”

Breath caught in your throat, you watched with wide eyes as the Flamer stepped out of the shadow of a tree. He was undeniably handsome; his irises were dark, flecked with a fierce gold the same hue as the edge of a fire, his slicked-back hair a nightly black, and a curl of his carmine lips that was nowhere near friendly. An obvious insignia of a red flame was embedded into his unwrinkled jacket, a clear sign of this man being from the Fire Tribe.

“I’m sorry. I hadn’t realized I was so close to the border.” You murmured, backing away slowly. The small snowflakes that you had accumulated in your palm quickly dissipated into the air, but miniscule particles of snow still floated around you, no doubt a result of your quaking nerves.

Noticing this, the man watched curiously as a snowflake drifted by him. He raised a finger towards the ice crystal, a small orange flame bursting out of the tip. The snowflake melted into a droplet of water, falling to his feet. You noticed the snow had melted away from him in a large circle around his shoes, now standing in a patch of wet grass. Even from the great distance between the two of you, you could still feel the wavering heat pulsating from this strange man.

“What are you doing so far away from your people?”

You knew you shouldn’t be talking to a Flamer stranger. They were dangerous, and it was common knowledge that Icers and Flamers weren’t on the best terms as of late.

“I couldn’t be there anymore,” You whispered, just loud enough for him to pick up. At his raised eyebrows, you continued on. “I’m a healer. It was a lot of pressure not to mess up.”

He nodded, his curiosity getting the best of him. He stepped closer and asked, “Then why are you a healer?”

“Because I’m good at it.” The words came off far too snobbish for your liking, so you quickly added in a sheepish tone, “Also because I like helping people.”

The two of you fell into a queer silence, before he nodded, somewhat satisfied with your answer. The Flamer turned his back to you, “I best get going now. The lands aren’t going to patrol themselves. Run back to the rest of your people, Icer.”

You could feel his heat retract as he walked away. More snow fell to cover his tracks, as if the strange man with flaming eyes was never there.

It wasn’t until the same time the next day that you found yourself strolling towards the forest, back to the same spot last night, feet acting to their own accord. You paused in your steps when you realized where you were heading. 

Would you really risk getting a Flamer angry at you for getting too close to their borders again? With not another thought, you pushed back the doubts and walked onwards… it wasn’t like you actually crossed the border. There was a large grey strip of forest land that belonged to neither tribe; it was far too costly to maintain and the forest gave them nothing but bugs and piles of dead leaves.

Much to your surprise, the man was already there, watching you with those glowing eyes of his. “What are you doing here?” He hissed.

“I can ask you the same thing,” You retaliated, arching an eyebrow.

The cold wind whistled as it blew past you, but you were planted firmly to the ground. He, on the other hand, grimaced quite obviously as the breeze tousled his neat hair about, sending dark strands careening into his eyes.

“I’m Y/N,” You said with a small smile. Although he pulsated with heat, that only made him feel the frigid sting of the cold wind all the more. At the sight of his shivering form, you wondered just how bad a Flamer can be.

He eyed you suspiciously before stepping forward quite boldly, sticking out a hand, “I’m Seonghwa.”

There was a strange arrhythmic thump in your chest. Now that he was so close to you, the lilith-hued snow around your feet started to wilt away as well, your cheeks flushing at the sudden rise in temperature. Icers weren’t very good with heat, that was obvious.

And when you took his hand, it was as if he was the coldest thing you’ve ever touched. But that couldn’t be it… you couldn’t really feel the cold much. Nonetheless, you gripped his palm unflinchingly, staring him dead in the eye. It became like some sort of challenge, but the both of you knew that you had obviously won. Seonghwa winced at how freezing your fingers against his were.

“Do you come here everyday?” The Flamer asked once he retracted his hand from yours to shove into the warmth of his pocket.

“Yesterday was my first time. I wasn’t planning on coming back today, but I just ended up here on instinct.” Your boot scuffed the pristine snow, avoiding the way his gaze seemed to quite literally burn holes into you.

Seonghwa frowned slightly. Funnily enough, the same exact thing had happened to him. He wasn’t on patrolling duty today, so really, he had no cause to be out here. He could be curled up with a book in front of a nice, warm fire, instead of standing in the snow with an Icer, of all people. Gods, he must be crazy.

“So… what are you doing here?” Your seemingly innocent question had Seonghwa struggling for words. 

In all honesty, he had been curious whether or not you’d come back. An Icer healer in the Grey Forest was more than enough to pique his interest. Nothing remotely gripping ever happened in the Fire Tribe (other than the various men and women who threw themselves at him whenever they got the chance). He hadn’t actually expected you to come back. 

“I’m… hunting.”

“It’s illegal to hunt outside of your tribe lands, everybody knows that.”

“Who said I was hunting for an animal?” Seonghwa crossed his arms over his chest to try and look somewhat menacing, but you just grinned. “I was looking for a book I lost.”

You hummed slightly, “Right.” As you waved your arm about, little snowflakes seemed to trail after you, and Seonghwa watched in masked fascination. “Can’t you just admit that you came to see me again?”

“Who’s to say that it’s not you coming to see me?”

“Hmm, let’s just say we both came to see each other. I’ve never seen a Flamer up this close before.”

Seonghwa blinked down at you with wide eyes, as if realizing just how small the distance between the two of you was. His cheeks reddened quickly as he cleared his throat into a fist, stepping backwards and almost slipping on more snow. When he attempted to sidestep the large wet puddle he’d created because of his rippling heat, his foot caught onto a tree root and he tumbled backwards. Snowflakes clung onto his dark hair and he shivered yet again. You tried to conceal your sniggers behind a palm, but Seonghwa still seemed to notice, his blazing eyes narrowing in mock-offense.

“You’re enjoying this,” He stated with an accusatory tone.

“Of course I am,” You replied through muted laughs. “I’m sorry. I would help, but I’m afraid I’d only make it worse.” To emphasize your point, you shook your hands slightly, blue crystals of snow whirling about.

Seonghwa’s fiery eyes seemed to soften at this. He pushed himself up to his feet, now shivering so harshly that you could hear his teeth chatter. You’d only known this Flamer for less than two days and yet he’d already managed to tug at your heartstrings.

“You should go back and get warm. I’ve read about Flamers and their immune systems… you guys are absolute babies when it comes to the cold.” Out of instinct, you reached out to touch his arm, like you did to most sick patients. But of course, you paused just before the tips of your fingers brushed against his jacket, curled your hand into a palm and forced it back down to your side. “I wouldn’t want you getting a fever just to see an ordinary Icer.”

Seonghwa cracked a half of a smile, shaking his head in disbelief.

But when he spun on his heel to leave, you called out before you could stop yourself, “Will I ever see you again, Seonghwa?” He stopped in his tracks without turning to looking at you. Stomach coiling into a tight knot of tension, you awaited in the palpable silence, a heavy lump forming in your throat.

“Next time, let’s go somewhere a bit warmer, yeah? Meet me closer to Flamer territory, by the river next to the largest tree in the Grey Forest. If you get to see me shiver, I get to see you sweat, Icer.” And then he continued on his way, until his lithe form disappeared behind the misty haze and the frosted shrubbery.

Oh, fuck. Oh, fuck, fuck, fuck. Just what were you thinking, agreeing to meet with a Flamer? Were you always this stupid or had you just realized now? You couldn’t believe you were spending your free time with some random Flamer from the Fire Tribe. 

Thoughts of doubt swirled about in your head as you wove your way through the Grey Forest. The low rumbling of the river had you gulping down a large lump in your throat. It was already far too warm for you liking, the little snowflakes that buzzed around your head slowly melting away in water droplets. You didn’t think you’ve ever been this nervous before; not even back when you performed your first major surgery. There was just something about Seonghwa that you couldn’t stay away from… like when your Nan used to tell you no sugar candies before bed, it only made you crave for them all the more.

By the time you spotted Seonghwa leaning against the large tree, you were panting heavily, perspiration marring your skin. 

“Fancy seeing you here,” The Flamer chimed, seeming to be in a much better mood now that the tables have turned. He seemed quite at ease, not a bead of sweat to be seen. “Already worked up quite a sweat, have we?”

Pathetically, you lifted your arm to conjure a small snowball, proceeding to press it against your head for cool relief. It quickly melted into a slushy of ice and water, dripping down your hair. You frowned, while Seonghwa grinned in return.

“Not so fun, is it?” He teased while you kicked off your boots and dipped your feet into the river, moaning in relief at the slightly cooler temperature of the water. You wished to make it colder, but much to your disappointment, the water wouldn’t crystalize because of how quickly it was rushing by. 

Seonghwa crouched next to you, but still kept a decent length away, picking up rocks to skip across the river. For that, you were grateful, because if he made you any warmer than you were at that moment, you would’ve gotten up and stormed back to Icer lands. 

“The first time we met,” You started after flicking water onto your face to cool down, making Seonghwa glance at you with curious eyes. “You were telling me to go back to my territory. But now, you made me come closer to Flamer lands. What’s up with that?”

“I don’t know,” He answered honestly. “You’re just… not what I thought an Icer would be like. It made me curious.”

“And what did you think we’d be like?”

A small shrug lifted his shoulder, “Cold. I mean, not that you aren’t, but cold as in… your hearts would be frozen over as well. I grew up with stories of Icers freezing Flamers to death and placing them in their gardens as statues. But you don’t seem like you’d do that kind of stuff. Especially when you told me that you were a healer.”

“For me, everybody knew the story of how the Fire Tribe would lock the Icers they captured in a sealed room, and the snow they made would melt and they’d slowly watch as the room filled with water, unable to turn it into ice because it was too damn hot. And eventually… they’d drown.” At the last few words, you frosted over your fingers and dunked them beneath the waters’ surface.

Seonghwa’s horrified expression made you chuckle slightly.

“Well, for the record, we don’t do that. We aren’t barbarians.” His words were said huffily as he crossed his arms and turned fully to fix his rapt gaze on you.

“I know. It was merely a silly childhood legend.”

The hours dribbled away fairly quickly, you and Seonghwa exchanging tales of your childhood that only increased in absurdity the farther you recounted. He told you about his friend, San, and how they once snuck into Wind Tribe territory to steal rare Gustberries that only grew in the harsh fields of the Breezers. You told him of Hongjoong and Wooyoung, the former being your closest friend and the latter constantly getting himself hurt. Laughs and giggles and the quiet hum of the river filled the silences in between the gaps of your vivid conversations. The more time you spent talking with him, the more you found yourself growing fond of the fiery-eyed man. Who would’ve thought?

By the time the sun had already set, you and Seonghwa were sitting much closer than when you had first sat down, his heat pulsating through the air in waves. To be honest, you didn’t quite mind the subtle warmth after you got used to the initial shock, but you knew you were pushing your limits. An Icer shouldn’t be out in high temperatures for this long. 

You pushed yourself up to your feet, head swimming dizzily as you sucked in lungfuls of air. Slightly concerned, Seonghwa reached out to help you find your feet, but he pulled away at the last moment, just as you had last night. The tables really have turned, you thought in mild amusement.

“Are you okay?”

“I’m… fine…” You swayed on your feet slightly, pressing your cooler palm against your warmer-than-usual forehead.

“Come on, let’s get you back to the cold. You guys are absolute babies when it comes to the heat.” He said, mimicking the same exact words you told him yesterday. A weak laugh slipped past your lips, as you leaned against a tree branch.

Oh, everything was just too hot. You’ve been out of the snow for too long…

All of a sudden, the world was flipped onto its side, damp grass pressing against your face. You could barely register Seonghwa startled yelp before everything went dark.

“Hey. Icer, are you okay? Icer! Y/N, come on, I put you back in the snow, I don’t know what else to do.”

Though your head pounded as though someone had whacked you with a tree branch, you could just barely make out Seonghwa’s concerned tone. When your eyelids fluttered open, you were met with the sight of the Flamer’s handsome, yet alarmed face.

“You okay?” His words came gentle and soothing.

Puffing out a small sigh, you nodded tiredly. Being back in the snow felt much better, “Yeah. Thank you,” You croaked out sheepishly.

Seonghwa beamed down at you, before shuffling away so as the snow around you wouldn’t melt. But just as soon as the smile graced his features, it quickly dissipated into a frown, “Don’t scare me like that,” He practically scolded. “You win, okay? Next time we can stay in the snow.”

Breath caught in your throat, a heavy blush laid over your cheeks, “Next time? You just can’t get enough of me, can you?”

“No, I suppose not,” Seonghwa said somewhat nonchalantly, shocking you.

“I… well, thank you for the, well… uhm, getting me back,” You stumbled over your words the longer Seonghwa stared. Oh, what was this man doing to you? “I have some… healer things I need to do… so, I best get going… erm -” Without another thought, you pushed yourself onto your knees, snow crunching underneath your breeches as you leaned over towards him.

He was so warm. His face, especially, once you brushed your far-cooler lips against his cheekbone. The Flamer reared back with a ridiculous, startled expression, eyes comically wide. One of his hands came up to clamp against the cheek you kissed, mouth opening and closing but no words coming out. 

“It was really nice talking to you. Thank you again,” You murmured while hiding a grin behind your palm. With that, you turned on your heel and left the blushing Flamer alone in the snow.

From then on, you saw Seonghwa practically every day. Oftentimes, you’d meet in the snow and stroll through the Grey Forest until it got far too warm and the both of you would have to turn back. The moment he’d see your skin dampen with sweat, he’d have the two of you abruptly changing course, steering away from the heat of the Fire Tribe. You thought that was incredibly thoughtful of him. 

Once, Seonghwa discovered a more shallower part of the river that you could actually crystalize to keep yourself cool. That day was a good day. You had gently taken his scorching hand and tried to help him run across the ice before his heat could melt it away. The two of you left soaking wet, boisterous grins painted across your lips.

Hongjoong, being your closest friend and all, was constantly questioning and badgering on about where you went every afternoon. After all, you were a healer and your tribe needed you. But, however selfish it was, you didn’t want to stop seeing Seonghwa… he made you feel things no person from the Ice Tribe had ever made you feel.

The more you saw him, the more you had the urge to yank his stupidly sharp jawline towards you and shove your lips onto his. You’d imagine the way the warmth radiating off his skin would feel underneath your frigid palms and lips. You thought back to the second-long cheek kiss you gave him a couple months back, a fond smile tickling at the corner of your mouth.

“What’re you thinking about?” Seonghwa asked from beside you, nudging you slightly. Over a long course of time, the pair of you grew more and more comfortable with one another, inching closer and closer with each meet-up. At this point, you were practically sitting on top of him, one of his legs intertwined with yours and your head laying on his shoulder, the both of you leaning against a frosted tree trunk. Seonghwa smelled of sweet, burning sugar with a heavier scent of roasted coffee beans. He also often complained about how cold you were, although his tone was always fairly light and lacked any true bite. 

“Nothing,” You were quick to say, pulling your head away from his shoulder to peer up at him.

Shrugging off your strange attitude, Seonghwa glanced down at you with excited eyes, “You wanna see a new trick I learned?”

Without awaiting your answer (because he knew you’d say yes anyway), Seonghwa cupped his hands together and pulled them away to produce a thin orange flame morphed into the shape of a shooting arrow. You watched in rapt fascination as the fire-arrow spun in the air when Seonghwa whistled sharply. Then, he pushed it away to embed itself into the tree across from you. The tree’s dry bark was quick to catch aflame, but you flicked your hands and caged in the fire with frost, the orange dying out into the blackened wood. 

“Learned that during archery,” Seonghwa beamed down at your bemused expression. “You know, only the best Flamers can morph their fires into shapes. It takes a lot of concentration.”

With no effort at all, you twirled your fingers to make an intricate rabbit out of ice, whiskers and fur and all, holding it out to Seonghwa with a minuscule smile. The Flamer scowled slightly, and touched the tip of his finger to the clear crystal, watching it dribble into liquid through the gaps of your palms.

You rolled your eyes to the side before leaning your head back onto his shoulder with a content sigh, “Don’t you compete with me, Park Seonghwa. You’ll never win.”

Much to your surprise, he didn’t bother to argue, and instead pressed his warm nose into your frosty hair, humming, “Yeah, yeah. And who was the one that fainted in the heat again?”

“If I recall correctly, you’ve caught more than three colds just this year! And it’s only the fifth moon, too!”

His hands suddenly darted out to tickle your midriff, to which you squirmed away with a smothered laugh. 

“Hm, wanna put it to the test? I promise I’ll go easy,” You said teasingly once you managed to capture his wrists. You could feel his pulse rapidly thumping against the pad of your thumb. 

“I don’t know… I wouldn’t want to hurt you.”

“Trust me, you’re not the one that’ll be hurting.”

“Oh, you’re on, Icer.”

The two of you stumbled onto your feet and you held yourself up in a defensive stance. With a faint smile, Seonghwa mimicked your position. Admittedly, it wasn’t a very fair fight; you were a healer and he was a well-trained fighter.

But nonetheless, you were the first to throw, a frozen ball of ice the size of your fist hurtled towards him at top speed. Seonghwa was quick to react, blasting the ice with orange flames until it melted mid-air. You frowned and lithely dodged behind a tree when he reconjured his fire arrows and sent them after you. In retaliation, you quickly brought up a thick ice barrier with a laugh, smothering the thin lines of fire away with the sole of your boots. 

The air was chock-full of his crackling flames muted by your snow, crystalline icicles dripping from nearby tree branches, and lame taunts tossed back and forth by the both of you as you play-fought for another couple of minutes.

Seonghwa might’ve had the upper hand in combat, but you knew how to play dirty. Just as he was stepping forward, you sent a sheet of slippery ice to slide underneath his boots. With a bewildered expression, Seonghwa flailed about for a moment, the small fire he prepared in his palm dying down to glowing embers, before tumbling down into the snow. 

“That was low, Y/N,” The Flamer huffed out whilst trying to catch his breath against the pale white mound of snowflakes, glaring at you with playfully narrowed eyes. You were glad to see that he wasn’t actually angry at you.

“Do you call defeat, Seonghwa? There’s no shame in admitting it, you know!” Your jaunts were light-hearted as you walked closer to him and Seonghwa found himself grinning despite the cold stinging his skin. 

Sticking your hand out to help him up, Seonghwa eyed you for a moment with an indiscernible expression, his playful nature fading away into something you couldn’t quite decipher.

Instead of pushing himself up, he suddenly pulled you down with him, a startled shriek leaving your lips and echoing across the Grey Forest. You fell on top of him with a grunt of pain, meeting his glowing amber eyes with your confused ones. During your hazy moment of puzzlement, Seonghwa tugged you closer, his warm palms curled around your forearms gently. 

And then, without further warning, he kissed you. This one was nothing like the first kiss you gave him. That one was merely an innocent peck on the cheek. But this one… this one held passion and furtive desire and yearning. The both of you most definitely wanted this, it was quite clear by now.

Your senses were overwhelmed in the best way possible. All you could smell was him, the heavy undertone of roasted coffee beans sending your head into a cloudy daze. Your lips were slanted against his hot ones, noses of starkly opposite temperatures bumping against one another in your moment of desperation. You weren’t sure where to place your hands, so you balled them up against his jacket, just close enough to feel the hardness of his chest underneath.

For you, everything was hot, searing with a need for more as his plump, warm lips laid over yours. For him, however, everything was cold. The snow beneath was a mild annoyance, and yet he was willing to bear through it for you. You were equally freezing, but Seonghwa welcomed the cold for once, a dangerous ache that would grow to be lethal if neither of you were careful.

A small, frosty sigh left you when he pulled away for a second to stare at you with those intense eyes of his. You stared back with part-confusion and part-longing, lips agape. That apparently set something off in him, because he sat up with you straddling his hips, hands now encircled around your midriff as he kissed you more passionately, leaning forward so your back arched into him.

This wasn’t supposed to be happening. Why were you feeling these emotions for a Flamer of all people? Why couldn’t you have just stayed within your own tribe? Turmoil churned about in you as you kissed him in somewhat of a frantic manner. You hated yourself for loving it so much.

The second time he pulled away, you were both gasping for breath, lips swollen and clothes rumpled and askew. You could tell he wanted to kiss you again, and probably a thousand times after that. To be frank, that was all you wanted as well.

But you knew this had to stop. And so, when he leaned forward to capture your lips with his again, you flinched none-too-subtly and slid off his lap. An expression of genuine hurt flickered across his handsome, reddened features. A twinge of guilt gnawed away at your stomach as you got up onto your shaky feet.

“Go home, Seonghwa,” Was all you could find yourself saying with a hoarse voice. “You’re going to catch a cold again.”

You couldn’t look at him anymore. And so, you left him laying crestfallen in the snow, hurriedly making your way back to Icer lands, small blue snowflakes trailing behind you and cold tears pricking the corners of your eyes.

The next day, Seonghwa didn’t show up. You waited by your usual meet-up place, gnawing on your lip anxiously, glancing every which way in hopes of seeing the raven-headed Flamer. In the midst of your worrying turmoil, more and more snowflakes emanated from your skin and it didn’t take long for them to accumulate by your feet, completely covering your boots in a pristilline white blanket. You stepped out of the feather-soft pile, opting to impatiently trudge about in an attempt to steel your nerves.

You hadn’t been able to sleep that night. Seonghwa’s heartbroken expression was imprinted into your mind, leaving you in a mess of guilt and regret and anger. 

Why did you have to push him away? Seonghwa, your first non-Icer friend, shoved away as if he meant nothing. You released a frustrated groan, smacking your palm into your forehead.

It made sense that he didn’t want to see you. If you were in his shoes, you probably wouldn’t leave your room and have the light of day touch your face for a whole moon. The idea of Seonghwa upset just didn’t sit right with you. Nonetheless, you could do little else than bide your time for him, however much you hated waiting.

He didn’t show up the next day either. Nor the one after that. 

By the fourth day of waiting, you started to feel twinges of discouragement, but you never gave up, determined to set things right with Seonghwa. The niggling thought of him never showing up was one that often pestered you while you patiently awaited his return, although always quickly shoved down into the corner of your mind. You didn’t want to think about what you would do if you never saw him again.

It took just over a week of waiting for him to come back. At that point, you hadn’t thought he’d come back at all, reluctantly accepting that you’ve ultimately ruined your friendship with Seonghwa.

And so, imagine your surprise when his voice rang out through the trees, your name rolling off his tongue smoothly, “Y/N.”

Startled, you flinched so hard that your head hit a branch that hung lowly on the icy tree you were sitting beneath. It reminded you so much of the first time you met him that you couldn’t help but crack a smile after your initial pained grimace.

“Seonghwa,” You gasped, eyes round with shock and mouth agape. “You’re… you’re back!” 

The excitement in your voice didn’t go undetected by either of you, but his features were set in stone, unmoving and neutral. Those blazing eyes of his seemed to bore holes into you, and you felt strangely naked underneath his gaze. You noticed that his appearance was more disheveled than ever, eyebags dark and hair not neatly slicked back like usual. He looked broken, but far too proud to admit so.

“Seonghwa…?” You stepped closer, the frosted leafy foliage crumbling under the pressure. This man was someone you deeply cared about, and you knew he felt the same about you.

So why was he staring at you like you meant nothing to him?

A shiver ran down your spine, a sensation that only Seonghwa could bestow upon you. Which was ironic, because the cold feeling that tickled down your spine was ignited by a man with powers of fire and heat. 

You and him didn’t belong together. That was clear as day by now.

“Seonghwa,” You mumbled again, reaching out to him once close enough.

He shut his eyes as if looking at you were torture. It stung more than you liked to admit, so you retracted your fingers, clenching them into a fist and dropping them back by your side awkwardly. The air was so tense, so utterly uncomfortable, you could feel the crack in your heart splinter into more branches.

“Stop saying that.”

“Saying what?” Your bottom lip trembled. This wasn’t the Seonghwa you’ve grown to be so fond of. This man scared you. You had half a mind to grab him by the shoulders and shake some sense back into him. Where did your Seonghwa go?

An angry huff escaped his lips, misting visibly out of his carmine lips. The very ones you kissed a little over a week ago.

“You can’t… just… don’t say my name. Please. We can’t be like that anymore. We can’t do this. We can’t keep seeing each other.” Seonghwa’s stoic mask disintegrated into raw emotion. He looked to be on the verge of tears, and you wouldn’t be surprised if you mirrored the same exact expression.

There was a part of you that wanted to yell and scream and throw sharp icicles at him until he had no choice but to run back to Flamer territory. Anywhere, as long as it was far away from you. The other, more rational part of you, whispered that he was right. After all, you were the one that pushed him away first. It was only fair.

A broken bone won’t heal if you keep putting pressure on the wound. Being a healer, you couldn’t just ignore your own teachings.

But for just once in your life, you wanted to be selfish. You wanted to hold Seonghwa tightly in your grasp, no matter how dangerous it was. You wanted to call him yours, and you wanted to be his. You wanted to kiss him again, despite the small action being the ultimate downfall for the both of you.

And so you found yourself croaking out, making sure to emphasize his name, “Seonghwa, you know just as much as I do that there’s something here between us. You can’t just ignore it and toss that all out the window!”

His face screwed up in an effort to keep the onslaught of tears at bay. Perhaps what he felt for you wasn’t yet as strong as what he’d call love, but he wasn’t very far from it. He cared too much for you, so much more than anybody else in his life.

He needed you. And because of that, he had to let you go. Fraternizing with the enemy wasn’t something to be taken lightly. If his tribe knew about this little escapade of his, they’d have his head and would finally have a good enough reason to declare war. Regardless, it was only a matter of time. The Fire Tribe has hated Icers for centuries and centuries, teetering on the brink between neutrality and complete bloodshed. 

“We have no choice,” The words were said in a low tone, rumbling deep down in his chest. Seonghwa shuffled closer, so close that you could feel his familiar heat wavering against the ice once again. You longed to reach out and place your hand on his chest, feel his heart thumping against his ribcage frantically, just as yours was. “Do you know what they’d do to you - to us - if our tribes found us together? It’s too risky, Y/N. I don’t know what I’d do if you got hurt.”

“I’m a healer. I can take care of myself! And we can just stay careful like we always have. Besides, people rarely come into the Grey Forest anymore!” Your words came out fast and jittery and panicked. You thought that you had already come to terms with losing the man that stood in front of you, but you were far from acceptance, you knew that now.

Seonghwa carded a pale hand through dark strands of hair, “I’m sorry, were you not the one that told me to go back home? You started this. You wanted this!” He was so agitated that when he swung his arm back to his side, small crackles of fire lit up his fingers.

Something inside you snapped, “I most definitely did not! It was just… all too sudden and I needed time to think. Now that I’ve already thought, there’s no need for us to run away and never see each other again! You’re overexaggerating, Seonghwa.”

“No, you don’t get it. Don’t you know, Y/N? Our tribes are verging on war. We’re supposed to be enemies, you and I. Don’t be daft!” His voice raised a notch or two louder, and you found yourself shrinking into yourself.

Tears pricked your eyes and you looked away from his fierce gaze, “We don’t have to be a part of that. We can just -”

“Just what? Pretend? We can’t play picnic in the forest and act like our people aren’t planning to slaughter each other!”

“You know what?” You shouted so loudly that the birds nesting on treetops fluttered away, a mass of dark wings and agitated squawks. “If you want to walk away from this relationship, from me, then go ahead! I won’t stop you. Fuck you, Seonghwa. Fuck you for throwing this away the moment it became something more.”

“You were the first to push away!” He protested, pointing an accusatory finger at you.

“Well, I’m sorry!” You cried out, furiously swiping away the tears that dribbled down your cheeks. “I’m sorry I was scared! I’m willing to try again, but you’re not giving me the chance. I waited for you every day, you know.”

“I know. I saw,” He said, suddenly quiet. “I’m sorry for making you wait.”

The two of you stared at each other defiantly, heavy breaths misting the air in front of you. His nose was tinted a deep pink, no doubt because of the cold.

“I’m leaving,” Seonghwa said after a long while. “And you shouldn’t come back here. Ever. I need you to know, Y/N. I’m doing this because I care about you. I expect you to do the same for me.”

Then, after casting you a forlorn expression, he tore his blazing eyes away and stiffly swiveled around in the snow. A gust of wind tousled his hair and he blew out a sigh of pale white mist. The cold made his nose red, and you subconsciously noticed the way he shivered slightly, brushing snowflakes off his sleeve. You’d miss that.

You’d miss him.

His heat grew fainter as his long strides took him further away from you. Your tears had crystallized on your cheeks uncomfortably, a frozen reminder of what you’d lost. You had half the mind to storm right up to Seonghwa and force him to stay here, by your side. That was the child speaking within you, however, and you were no longer a child. 

Flicking the solidified salt water on your cheeks away, you did just the same as Seonghwa had minutes ago, trudging your way back to Icer lands. Little did either of you know, the two of you cried fresh tears along the whole journey back. 

The last time you ever stepped foot in the Grey Forest was just the day after. Your eyes were puffy and aching, hair a terrible mess, and a wax-sealed envelope was tightly clutched in your hand.

There was a chance that Seonghwa would never come back. In fact, it was most probable that he’d never get the precariously written letter you left by the usual meeting place, considering what he told you yesterday.

Fond memories sunk its sharpened claws into you, stealing away your breath as you cupped both hands over your mouth, overwhelmed in every way possible. You were far too drained to cry, having emptied away all your tears the day before.

And so, you brushed stray snowflakes off the periwinkle-hued wax stamp, placing it down by the tree stump where Seonghwa usually sat. 

Then you muttered a quiet, broken goodbye, stomping back to Icer lands. You were never going to see Seonghwa again. 

Dear Seonghwa,

I know you told me to never come back. I won’t, I promise. I just wanted to leave the letter because… we never properly got to say goodbye, did we?

Well, congrats, you big dummy. You’re right. You always were, and you always are. We were never supposed to be friends. I mean, I suppose we’re enemies now, aren’t we? It was quite the foolish fantasy we had going on there, huh? I get it, we have to stay loyal to our respective tribes, we can’t risk getting caught, so on so forth. I just hope that when war is declared (which doesn’t seem to be long from now, to be quite honest), I won’t see you on the battlefield. I don’t think I’d be able to handle that. 

So, I guess this is goodbye. It’s a little hard to believe that I won’t ever get to see your stupid face again. Remember when I threw a snowball at you so hard that it broke your nose? You panicked and blood went splattering everywhere and it didn’t stop until I got you to calm down. For a highly-ranked Flamer soldier, I’d expect you to be less squeamish at the sight of your own blood. It’s alright, though. As a healer myself, blood still freaks me out just a bit.

I thought I ruined your pretty face for all the poor ladies and gents who were mad in love with you back at the Flame Tribe, and I felt so guilty. And then you smiled! I remember feeling envy and astonishment at the same time because how the hell could one look pretty while smiling through a broken, bloody nose? 

I’m glad I didn’t ruin your face, though. You’d probably get really mad at me if I did. But you would’ve forgiven me eventually, right?

Frankly, I don’t know if I deserve your forgiveness for what I did. And no, I’m not talking about hurting your precious face (they say a once-broken nose makes a man more attractive!). I’m sorry for pushing you away, Seonghwa. Really, I don’t know what I was thinking. I was scared and I needed time to think. I hope you understand that. If you don’t, that’s okay as well.

If I could rewind time, I wouldn’t have stopped kissing you. I could’ve carried on for days and days and days on end. Did you know that you’re the second person I’ve ever kissed? Don’t ask about the first, drunk Wooyoung isn’t really something to brag about. Well, for the record, you were the first kiss I actually enjoyed. Congrats.

Of course, all this doesn’t mean that it was entirely my fault. I waited for you for a week, and you did nothing but hide behind trees and watch. That was real shitty of you, to put it plainly.

I’ll miss you, though. I’ve never felt this way about any Icer and I doubt I ever will. Of all people to set my sights on, it just had to be a Flamer. What rotten luck we have.

Goodbye forever, Seonghwa. Stay safe, alright? For my sake.

With much love,

Y/N.

Seonghwa read the letter through so quickly that his pupils seemed to be moving at lightning speed. Then, with a numbed heart, he read it a second time, this time much slower.

By the third time he reread each of your carefully handwritten words, warm tears of salt water were running over his cheeks. His face had grown considerably hotter, the salty liquid steaming misty tendrils against his skin. He was angry. So, so ridiculously angry. At himself, at this stupid rivalry between the tribes, at you for being so goddamn perfect. Of course you’d managed to squeeze in jaunts and jokes in a farewell note.

There was a part of him that wished he’d never come back to the Grey Forest and found the letter. Fat droplets of his tears trickled down his jaw and soaked through the parchment, marring the intricate ink characters. With a gentle sigh, Seonghwa brushed the dampness away and stiffly flicked his wrist.

The letter burst into glowing orange flames. And Seonghwa watched on, stifling down the urge to break down into a fit of chest-wracking sobs, until your goodbye was nothing but a measly pile of blackened ashes on his palm.

[beauregardlionett]

healing hands

Healing magic only did so much, especially when the wounds were deep.

There was a distinct...she wouldn’t say touch, but something to each caster’s magic. Like most of the arcane and divine, it took time to attune to the intricacies of the individual, to find those subtle and unique cues in the weave. By now, Beau could pin point how stretched Jester’s magic was by how intense the zing was through her veins. She knew Caduceus needed to rest by how deeply the warm curl of his magic traveled through her muscles. And if she didn’t sense it in the moment, she knew by how much she ached afterward.

A fair amount of healing meant sore muscles - like she had done a vigorous workout the day before. The best healing Beau got meant any lingering trace of stiffness was long gone by the time she finished her morning stretches.

This time though, a full day later, she sat up in her bed and winced. Her shoulder was tighter than it had been in a while. The joint stubbornly refused to move through her full range of motion without some kind of protest.

Beau raised her arm again, forcing herself to breathe as she did. Despite her best attempts, something pulled and protested and she dropped her arm again with a strangled curse. She couldn’t even put her fucking hair up. It seemed a miracle Beau got dressed this morning. But now she sat on the edge of her bed, frustrated at her inability to do this one simple task.

If she couldn’t even put her own hair up, what was she going to do if the group encountered hostiles in their travels? Without full mobility and use of her arm, Beau might as well be dead weight. The group would have to compensate and carry her weight, and what if they decided she wasn’t worth the effort? They had come a long way since Trostenwald, sure; but how far were they willing to go? Beau understood little about healing magic other than how it felt, but she figured it did little for old injuries. This one had been healed over with minimal magic and a night’s rest. Would magic even matter?

A knock on her door.

“Beau? Are you up?”

Yasha.

Beau debated staying silent, but that would likely only incite further concern and she couldn’t have that.

“Yeah,” she called back. “Just getting ready.”

“Okay,” Yasha said through the door. “Everyone is heading to breakfast. Do you mind if I come in?”

There was no reason to say no. Beau had stated that she was getting ready, so her unfinished appearance would not be unusual. Even if she pretended to be half dressed, the entire group had literally seen every one of them naked and soaking in a hot tub. Modesty did not exist between them.

“Yeah,” Beau answered without too much pause. “Come on in!”

She could not see the door to her tower bedroom from the edge of her bed, but she heard it open, then shut. The soft pad of Yasha’s boots against her floor followed, growing louder as she got closer. Beau tried for a normal expression and knew she fell painfully short when Yasha stopped in front of her and cocked an eyebrow.

“You look tense,” Yasha said without preamble. “Are you okay?”

Useless.

Beau bit her lip and tried for a grin, knowing before the expression even finished setting that she convinced no one. She held her limbs like she was in pain, like she might bolt with one wrong move. (Both of which were true.)

But what was she going to say? That she got hurt and was therefore useless to their day’s plans? That when they put the tower away after breakfast, Beau feared being left behind? They hadn’t even had a cup of coffee yet. It felt far too early to confess such massive insecurities.

Her silence must have been more telling than she meant it to be, because Yasha knelt in front of her and placed her big, warm hands on Beau’s knees. Her mismatched eyes were twin pools of gentle concern. One thumb rubbed back and forth over the uneven ridge of Beau’s kneecap. Every line of Yasha’s posture denoted attentiveness to Beau’s condition, a willing participant in her struggle. It was something Beau still struggled to comprehend.

Sometimes she wished she knew how to lie to Yasha.

Except she didn’t.

The thought alone left a foul taste in Beau’s mouth. Yasha had only ever been honest with Beau, and she did the same in return.

They had come a long way since Trostenwald.

Beau deflated with a heavy exhale, fingers picking at a hangnail.

“My shoulder hurts,” she muttered. Something aged and defensive curled with an unpleasant roil beneath Beau’s sternum. “I don’t think it healed all the way after that fight the other day. I can’t even raise my arm to do my hair.”

Yasha’s eyes tracked to Beau’s shoulder, something shuttering over her expression for a moment as if she remembered the nasty wound that had sat there. Her fingers tightened for a moment over Beau’s knees before Yasha smoothed over her ragged edges with a steady breath.

“You’re scared.” Not a question.

Beau nodded, finding her voice failing her.

“Would you like my help?”

This was why Beau could never lie to Yasha. Even after months and months of travel and trial together - there was never any assumption. She always asked, and she always took the word ‘no’ without question. Yasha was obvious in her desire to be close to Beau, but she still remembered to leave room for permission. She also held Beau’s fears with all the care she afforded her flowers, and promptly banished them with ease.

“Please?”

Yasha’s smile unfurled the way a summer storm came on. First, a shadow. Then, a slow, steady trickle of what was to come before it completely unleashed - full and inescapable.

She stood from in front of Beau and climbed up onto the bed behind her. There was a moment of shuffling, of rumpled sheets against shifting legs before Yasha’s fingers were in her hair. Her fingers combed through Beau’s tangles, working to unwind knots as tension unspooled from Beau’s shoulders. Her blunt nails against Beau’s scalp felt like permission to cease existing for however long Yasha would let her.

Beau became so lost in the repetitive, soothing sensation of Yasha’s fingers in her hair that she failed to process when Yasha finished. Her hair was neat and spun up into a braided bun, secured with her hair ribbon like always. Beau only realized Yasha’s hands had worked down her neck and over to her shoulder when a flare of pain pulled Beau sharply back into focus.

“Sorry,” Yasha murmured, her fingers lightening their pressure. “It’s been a long time since I’ve done this.”

“Done what?” Beau managed as the pain faded to a dull throbbing.

“This,” Yasha repeated, applying less pressure than before. “We did not have many healers in my tribe, so we all learned the basics. If it hurts too much, I can stop.”

“No,” Beau said, perhaps a little too quick. “No, it’s okay. It just took me by surprise.”

“Are you sure?”

Beau twisted enough to find Yasha’s eyes over her shoulder.

“I’m sure.”

With Beau’s permission, Yasha continued her work, tentative at first. Her fingers worked with more expertise than Beau realized she had, applying pressure to knots and spots of tension. She held her fingers in certain places, adding more weight in slow increments behind the press, rubbing to soothe the spot when it finally released. It ached, of course, but by the time Yasha had given attention to all of Beau’s shoulder, she was a limp, loose puddle of content.

Yasha cupped her hands over Beau’s shoulder, moving it in careful circles, testing the mobility. Her hands grew warmer, glowing in Beau’s peripheral.

Of course. How could she have forgotten?

Where Jester’s sang like an electric zest, a sugar rush, and Caduceus curled like sunshine and a warm drink, there was also Yasha’s healing magic. Yasha, who was not a healer by trade. Who raged quietly in battle and personified a storm. Her magic spread like the buzz of static electricity over Beau’s skin, but sunk into her muscles and her veins with the gentle heat of summer rain.

She was so caught in the familiar fever of Yasha’s balm that she offered no resistance when Yasha lifted Beau’s arm all the way above her head.

“That seems better,” Yasha said, voice soft.

Oh.

Beau blinked and looked up at Yasha and her arm.

“Much,” Beau agreed, voice hoarse. “Thanks.”

Yasha grinned, clearly pleased with herself. As she shuffled off the bed, Beau tried not to mourn the loss of her warm hands. But then Yasha stooped to press a quick kiss to Beau’s forehead as she grabbed her hand, tugging Beau to her feet.

“Breakfast?”

There were a million other things Beau would rather do than eat breakfast right now - every one of them involving Yasha’s hands staying on her. Perhaps they could explore all that later, when Beau’s brain remembered how to form a full sentence and Yasha wasn’t looking at her like that.

“Sure,” Beau croaked. “I could eat.”

She didn’t let go of Yasha’s hand for most of the morning.

[samstree]

Hug a Witcher Day (3/4)

In which Jaskier goes missing in the spring. Can Geralt finally realize his feelings for the bard in the middle of a crisis?

(hurt/comfort, soft geraskier, 3k, rated T, cw: mentions of a canon-era plague, sick children, and a citywide lockdown.)

part 1, part 2, read on AO3

The third year since Jaskier invented Hug a Witcher Day, Geralt all but forgets about it completely.

He steps into the Two Weatherfish, where they agreed to meet, and realizes that the bard isn’t here. Or in the entire city of Ard Carraigh. No one has seen any trace of the famous bard who won’t quit singing praises for witchers.

Geralt pushes down the slight panic in his chest as he steps out of the last tavern in the city, and decides to just head for Oxenfurt.

It’s not like Jaskier has been the most reliable companion in the past, often distracted by dalliances or even anything shiny and new. One time he wandered off to watch a local celebration and Geralt found him hours later next to a lake, with thousands of lanterns floating above the water, illuminating the night sky like burning stars peppered on a dark canvas.

The soft, orange light spilled over Jaskier’s features, his eyes gleaming like the stars too.

Geralt snorts despite himself. There’s no doubt the bard is just delayed by someone who caught his eye and decided that a promise to a witcher isn’t all that important—the same witcher who he keeps claiming to be his best friend.

Geralt isn’t sure how to feel about that, or how to react when he finally sees Jaskier. Perhaps he will cease to talk about hunts for a while, leave the bard hanging, just so he can get a taste of the same frustration.

The pettiness remains in Geralt’s mind up until he steps into the academy and rampant fear licks up his chest.

Essi is the one who meets him at the gates, worry deep between her brows and rambling about how Jaskier never made it to the yule ball like he should. In her hands are two letters, clearly Jaskier’s handiwork judging from the neat curves and flourish, talking about his excitement to see his ‘Little Eye’ perform again, and how unfortunately his travel would be delayed due to an unexpected ailment.

Don’t you fret, poppet, for I am sure to beat this sickness within days. The promise of listening to your new ballad is already doing wonders for my health! It is a shame that my stay in Vizima is soured thus. The city, so beautifully rich in culture…

“Vizima,” Essi says frantically. “A plague broke out in the city last winter. Smallpox.”

A buzz begins to ring by Geralt’s ear, muffling out Essi’s voice and leaving only the thundering of his own heartbeat.

“They told me King Foltest sealed the gate to stop the spread, and…and no one has heard from anyone inside since then. Geralt, please, you are a witcher. Aren’t you immune to human sickness? That’s what Jaskier told me, isn’t that right?”

“I…yes.” The lump in Geralt’s throat stops any other words from getting out. His blood runs cold in the warm breeze of Oxenfurt’s spring.

“Please, Geralt, you must find him. I need to know. The university won’t allow me to go, but I…I must know. No matter what happened to him.”

The implication hangs in the air.

Tears well up in blues eyes too similar to Jaskier’s. Essi would be my sister in another life, Jaskier once commented adoringly and it’s only standing right here that Geralt can truly see the identical fierceness in her eyes.

As if Geralt needs her to ask. As if he isn’t willing to charge into the land of the dead if it means Jaskier gets out of it unscathed.

“Of course, Essi,” he promises solemnly. Her clutch on his forearm is so tight that any other man would be bruised by the force. “I promise.”

“Keep him safe, if it’s not too late.”

In his near-century long life, Geralt has rarely felt cold, unrelenting fear as he does when Essi breaks into sobs.

 *

The sickness in Vizima casts a gloomy cloud over the sky, choking Geralt’s breaths. The streets are eerily empty. Only a few people will pass through in a frenzy every now and then.

Geralt’s legs take him right through the main streets, to the far corner of the city, where countless makeshift tents are set up and stretching towards the edge of the woods. If anyone has indeed fallen to the disease, that’s the most likely place they will be sent to. If anyone passes, that’s also where they keep the records so friends and families can look for their names.

Bile rises in his throat at the idea of looking through stacks of books for Jaskier’s name.

Geralt walks between hundreds of beds of one tent after another. Some healers throw him an odd look but carry on with their work, the flash of their white scrubs weaving through the busy establishment.

Against all odds, a pang of relief hits Geralt when he notices how the patients are well-treated by healers who seem to know what they are doing. The fever is brought down with a soaked cloth and a minty salve is applied for the irritation on the skin.

He searches and searches, until the sun is almost down, when—

A soft tune is carried over by the gentle breeze of spring.

And there Jaskier is, kneeling next to a little boy on a bed and humming a lullaby that Geralt only remembers vaguely. The bard is wearing the same white scrub like every carer at this camp, his brown hair slightly ruffled, and dark circles are hanging under his eyes. Geralt can see how tired he is by the hunch of his shoulders and the barely-there quiver in his singing, by his unkept stubble and the smile that’s dangerously close to falling.

And yet, he makes the most beautiful sight in the world.

Geralt stands there, drinking in the presence of his bard. The languid heartbeat of a witcher picks up, fluttering and almost bursting out of his chest.

Jaskier runs his fingers through the boy’s hair when the lullaby comes to an end. He tucks in the blanket and slowly pulls himself up, his knees creaking from the strain.

Blue eyes meet Geralt and Jaskier’s shock morphs into unbridled, blazing joy. Within the blink of an eye, the bard is standing right in front of Geralt.

“Geralt,” Jaskier breathes oh so carefully like he’s scared of waking from a dream. “What are you doing here? Wait, you don’t have any protec—oh right! Witcher biology. Can’t catch anything from us.” The bard lets out a sigh and his shoulders drop in relief. “How did you get through the gate? Punched another guard, didn’t—”

“You are okay,” Geralt says, dumbly.

“I am. Why wouldn’t I be?” Jaskier frowns. “Geralt, why did you come to Vizima in the middle of a plague? Not that I’m complaining about seeing you, but how exactly did you find me?”

Geralt doesn’t want to look away from Jaskier’s face—ideally for a long time to come, but he needs to rummage through his pack for the crumpled letters.

“You sent these to Essi last winter.”

Jaskier takes the letters, flattens the frayed edges before reading his own words.

“Yes, I did tell her…” Cold horror takes Jaskier aback. “Shit. She must think—Oh, Geralt, that wasn’t it! I only caught a stomach bug. It was never the pox! But then…they locked the city gate so fast and everything was in chaos for weeks. I couldn’t get more letters out. Oh, I wish I could take it back! I didn’t think—”

“You damn well didn’t.”

The words come out a lot harsher than Geralt intended, and Jaskier flinches back. Geralt pinches at the bridge of his nose, feeling contrite at his untimely outburst.

“No, Jask—I’m not…” he heaves out a sigh. “She didn’t even know if you were alive for months.”

Neither did I.

“I’m so sorry.” Jaskier is close to tears. “She must be worried sick.”

“She is.”

I was.

“And you too, Geralt. Please forgive me.” Jaskier’s chin wobbles, his arms hovering between the two of them as if he wants to put them around Geralt. “I want to ask you not to be cross with me again, but that seems to be all I do.”

“Jaskier…”

Geralt calls out when he finds not even an ounce of anger in his heart, not when he just spent weeks fearing the worst, not when Jaskier is standing right in front of him, safe and hale, his eyes flowing with guilt.

Jaskier might just be the death of him.

“Fuck. Just don’t pull this again.” Geralt softens his tone, knowing how unfair the request is when such things are out of Jaskier’s control, but the bard replies in earnest.

“I won’t. I swear.”

Exhaustion washes over the bard once again, making him look a lot older than he is. From the looks of it, Jaskier has been working in these camps for months and the last thing he needs is an unsupportive friend.

And Geralt doesn’t intend to become one.

“And you are dressed like this because?” Geralt nudges Jaskier in the shoulder to ease the apprehension on his face.

“Funny you should ask.” The bard presses his lips into a thin line before continuing. “I may have lied—nay, implied—that the seven degrees I acquired at Oxenfurt included…medicine. Hold on! Before you judge, I do know how to care for pox patients. I caught it as a child too and that’s why I’ve been fine this whole time.”

“Hmm. But you don’t have the—”

“The scars. No thanks to my grandmother’s secret healing salve that she insisted on keeping secret. It worked like a charm back then, almost like magic. We’ve been trying to replicate from whatever I remember. The mint is helping a little but something is still missing. Oh, well.” The bard rubs his fingers at the hem of his scrub. “Perhaps that explains all these crazy rumors about her heritage, with all her herbs and teas that always miraculously cured everybody. Honestly, I don’t even blame them.”

Geralt muses the possibility of Jaskier’s grandmother not being completely human and makes a silent decision to unpack it later.

“Then I guess your personal experience should come in handy if we are going to stay here for a while.”

“We? You are staying?”

“The exits are still closed.” Geralt tilts his head in nonchalance. “Might as well lend them a hand.”

And never take his eyes off of Jaskier again.

“That’s…wonderful, in a terrible, terrible way. Being trapped in the same place during a plague. Gods, that sounds like something out of the cheesiest romance novel.” Jaskier gasps as soon as the words are out. The smile on his face blossoms into a heated blush.

“Just promise me one thing, Jask.”

“What?” The cornflower blue eyes uncharacteristically avoid Geralt in a vain attempt to hide how flustered he is.

Don’t scare me like this again.

Don’t get taken from me.

Don’t leave me.

“Read less romance novels. Once this blows over,” Geralt answers, finally.

The fluttering in his chest returns, although this time for a completely different reason. The reason not being how adorable Jaskier looks embarrassed and rosy-cheeked.

No. Definitely not.

 *

“Little Simon asleep?”

Geralt asks as he stokes the fire, watching Jaskier struggle out of the sweat-soaked scrub and throw it into the laundry pile. The bard sits down next to him on the log with a groan and leans into his arm.

“As flattered as I am that he can’t fall asleep without my songs, it does get a bit taxing to sing every night while kneeling on the floor.”

“The kid is sick. Can’t blame him for having bad taste in music.”

The jab would have landed better if he isn’t wrapping his arm around Jaskier so that he can rest his head on Geralt’s shoulder. The days are too long even with most of the patients released home, and it’s been taking a toll on Jaskier.

“Cruel to me when I’m down, huh?”

Under Geralt’s palm, it’s unmistakable that Jaskier’s arm isn’t as thick as it once was, and he really doesn’t want to think about how the sharp of Jaskier’s jaw is becoming more prominent by the day.

Geralt rubs gently up and down Jaskier’s bicep to draw a contented purr out of him.

“Hmm. Now you’re forgiven.” Jaskier nuzzles into the crook of Geralt’s neck so his muscles loosen under the ministration. “It’s so unfair that a shift never wears you out like the rest of us, my dear. So unfair that you don’t need as much food too. I’d kill for some witcher superpowers these days.”

“Trust me, you won’t like what they cost.”

The late summer heat, mixed with the smell of sweat in Jaskier’s hair, should make it extremely uncomfortable to be sitting so close, but Geralt only finds it calming to have Jaskier sagging against him.

Jaskier’s thinning shoulder is too worrisome. Geralt will have to leave him most of the dinner rations again. Excuses are so easy to find, once Geralt realized that Jaskier never questions what he’s told about witcher biology, trusting every word from Geralt’s mouth. It’s just a little lie, a little exaggeration.

The bard is rubbing off on him.

“Simon is among the last ones here,” Jaskier says tiredly into Geralt’s neck. “It will soon be over. They are saying everyone can go in a month or so.”

“We can go even now.”

The prospect of traveling again stirs up something hopeful under Geralt’s skin, prickling with excitement, but he knows more patience is required for now.

“Nah, I should at least see little Simon home. You were right that the boy has suffered enough. The fever is terrible. Even I still have nightmares about it after so many years. It’s excruciating, almost like death is trying to mock you. One moment a fire burns through your whole body, the next it swallows you whole into this…nothingness, cold and alone.”

Geralt tightens his hold and breathes in the melancholic scent emanating from Jaskier’s skin.

“It was my grandmother, again. She sang the same lullaby to me every night, kept me sane. It’s helping little Simon too.”

“It’s in elvish,” Geralt murmurs absently when Jaskier is close to drifting off. The bard’s leveled breathing fans over the collar of Geralt’s neck.

“…hmm?”

“Nothing. Maybe for later.”

Geralt’s fingers reach the side of Jaskier’s head and thread between the soft brown locks, keeping his drooping head in place for the nap. When he looks down to where Jaskier casually drapes over half of his body, the two of them almost melding into one, Geralt is suddenly hit with how much their relationship has changed over the past few years, and at the same time, how it feels completely natural like puzzles fitting into place.

This newfound intimacy should scare Geralt, but strangely, it doesn’t. Maybe it’s because the witcher has learned long ago to treasure his bard as a companion and friend, to protect him and care for him, even without ever admitting it out loud.

Maybe he should.

And what would he even say? Geralt is equally elated and stumped at the thought of the two of them growing into something more. If the fluttering in his chest is a result of loving Jaskier, the bard deserves to know, and he deserves the best words.

Geralt scoffs softly when he realizes that he’d kill for something completely opposite. Not the strength of a witcher, but the silver tongue of a bard, the ability to weave the most beautiful prose to describe what Jaskier means to him.

The summer cicadas are singing with renewed vigor, the sizzling sound disrupting his train of thought. For now, Geralt will need to content himself in simply being with Jaskier.

And, perhaps, in pressing a tiny kiss into his soft brown hair as well. Under the night sky, only the stars will know.

--

I didn't know plague doctor Jaskier could be a thing until I started writing this chapter, and the ending just had to make way for it. Sorry that the chapter count has gone up. I promise hugs are cuddles are on the way!  <3

Tagging: @wanderlust-t @rockysstupidity @flowercrown-bard @alllthequeenshorses @mothmanismyuncle @percy-jackson-is-sexy- @constantlytiredpigeon @behonesthowsmysinging @birdsflyhome @dapandapod @artisanbaguette

Please feel free to tell me if you want to be removed or added to the list <3

[crapmagak]

Engage Drip Marketing: Weapon Triangle and Breaking

Well, looks like we’re getting a quick this monday

The weapon triangle has triumphantly returned, but with a twist. We have our classic rock paper scissors trio, but now daggers and gauntlets have returned with their own rule set. Tomes, bows, and daggers are all neutral now, and gauntlets beat neutral. Not only that, but light has finally been shed on the break mechanic.

Basically, when you break a foe, they can’t counter attack until the end of their next turn. Seems like a neat mechanic, adding to the importance of the triangle without being too punishing. Should also make feeding kills to weaker units easier as well. Most notably, though, it gives fist units more a purpose, being anti ranged units. In three houses, I mostly used them to kill giant monster units since they almost always quadruple attacked them. This does seem interesting, though. Hopefully this means we’ll have a dedicated offensive fist class like Brawler, instead of just mixed healers who’ll have to divide their attention.

But wait, there's more! We get this little screenshot of Alear performing a break. But what’s this? His target is an ax knight without a helmet on. In fact, he seems to have distinct blue hair tied back into a ponytail, along with some kind of headband. Meaning he’s likely a recruitable unit, the games resident ax knight. Of course, it's not the best look at him, but it's still exciting to meet a new unit.

As for where these screenshots take place… I have yet another theory. The map seems to take place in a courtyard of sorts, with dragon statues all around our heroes. This actually seems to be the same map in the leaks where we first got a good look at Alear. But most importantly, we can see some of the map in the background of the weapon chart. So, this seems to be a tutorial map of sorts to teach the player about weapon match ups. Alear could’t break his opponent in the first chapter, but Vander could in the night bridge chapter. As such, I think this is the actual second chapter, during a training course to teach the player about the triangle. This blue haired fellow may be another member of the dragon guardians here to help teach Alear. This would also explain how a bunch of presumably level 1 units could make the jump to level 4 in just three chapters.

As for this blue haired chap, I am curious. We haven’t seen him at all before, which points to him not being available in the early game. Perhaps he dies in the attack on Lythos, or we simply don’t get a chance to recruit him until later. Makes me wonder if he’ll be the only named enemy in the tutorial chapter.

(Warning, the following paragraph contained dangerous amounts of cope)

Finally, I am kind of curious about the pace of the drip marketing. We’ve gone from one character a week to news about gameplay. From what we’ve seen of the first trailer, there’s still plenty to introduce that we’ve already seen a bit of; Sigurd, Micaiah, Roy, Etie, the fighter, Chloe, Citrinne, the blue haired archer, the red haired swordsman, and the blonde cavalier. Kind of makes me wonder if they’re slowing down on purpose. I’ve always figured we’ll get another trailer in mid to late November (2 months away from the reveal trailer, two months away from release). Perhaps there's more details being saved for that trailer they don’t want to reveal too soon. I’m curious about when famitsu articles will be rolling in. I also assume around November, December at the latest. Either way, man I hope we get another character this friday.

[genuineformality]

Febuwhump Day 4: Nightmares

Six of Crows, Inej Ghafa

In her dream, Inej is in the caravan again. 

The dream caravan is not like the real one. The wagon she shares with her parents is simultaneously too large and too small, too bright and too dark. It is always twilight, the liminal space between day and night. The dream caravan is a real place and it is nowhere. 

Caravan dreams have a rhythm. Inej wanders through the lanes the tidy rows of wagons make, but the wagons are infinite and stretch on to the horizon. She sees aunts and cousins, raises a hand to greet them, but when she tries to catch sight of their faces, their features slip away, sliding like wet paint. She knows them all and yet they remain strangers. 

She searches for someone she recognizes, whose countenance does not fade when she looks directly at them, but the effort is futile. Dream Inej doesn’t know this and she runs through the neat lanes and tidy rows, recognizing the painted patterns on the sides of wagons, knowing that this one belonged to her aunt, another to an uncle. Like the faces, though, the patterns change when she looks too closely; painted flowers and vines writhe like snakes, turning the familiar foreign. 

The dreams always start with Inej in her own body, but as she runs faster and faster, searching, always searching, she feels herself leave, disembodied and helpless to do anything but watch. She can see her body, a marionette on strings. When she follows the strings up, up into the colorless sky, she sees black gloves on slender, lockpick’s fingers, and a pair of coffee-brown eyes hidden in misty nothingness. 

-=-=-=-=-=-

Inej doesn’t scream when she wakes; she can’t. Whatever holds her mind from her body prevents her from being able to make a noise, even if she wanted to. Instead, she gasps, tries to make some sound come forth between panting breaths. She wants to make noise, to hear herself, to know that she cannot be silenced should she choose to be heard, but nothing comes. 

“Hey,” a voice says from her side. 

Inej rolls away from it, hits a wall. She grasps for any of her knives and finds one sheathed under her pillow. Only with a knife in her hand does her mind finally come fully into her body again.

Jesper is a few feet away, both hands held up in surrender. “Hey, it’s me, Inej. You’re safe.” 

She tests the balance of the knife before daring to look around. She’s crouched on a pallet on a wooden floor. Jesper’s seated on a pillow, and she recognizes Kaz’s makeshift desk, the door on a couple of stacked fruit crates. Just past the desk is Kaz’s bed, and in it is a figure whose head is swathed in bandages. She’d know that nose anywhere, though.  

“Where… What…?” 

Jesper keeps his hands up, his voice low. “You were both in bad shape. Healer’s been to see you, bribed him to keep quiet.”

Inej tries to remember what happened and finds a confusing jumble of memories. “Kaz?” 

“Apparently has a hard head. He’ll be alright,” Jesper says quietly. “Healer said your shoulder should be good in a few more days.” 

She glances at her left shoulder to see it bandaged, but feels little pain. Rolling it experimentally proves to be more than she can easily take, though, and she sinks back down to the pallet, loosening the death grip she has on her blade. She’s grateful to find she’s still mostly clothed; only the tunic where she was shot has been cut away. 

“Why am I here?” she gestures to the room. 

“I needed to keep an eye on both of you,” Jesper mutters. Inej realizes then that the Dregs must know; the idea that any of them have seen her, touched her- her stomach turns a somersault.

“I told the Dregs that you and Kaz are on a job. Anika and Pim are running interference, but even they don’t know. Only the healer’s been in.” 

Saints. “How long have you been…?” Inej asks, terrified to know the answer. 

“Only a day.” He flashes a dazzling smile. “You and Kaz have been easy convalescents. I’ve been getting plenty of beauty sleep,” he gestures to his own pallet on the floor on the opposite side of the attic room. 

The flood of relief Inej feels leaves her feeling faint. Jesper seems to notice, but he doesn’t come closer. “You should get some more sleep. Healer says it’s the best thing for you.” 

“I should get back to my room.” Even as she says it, the idea of trying to stand up, let alone move, is overwhelming. 

“And deprive me of the easiest job I’ve had in months?” Jesper retreats to his bedroll.  

Inej takes a deep breath. She’s safe. Jesper is safe. Kaz is… as safe as he ever is. She nods, resheathes her knife and places it back under her pillow. 

As she lowers herself back to her thin mattress, Jesper murmurs, “sweet dreams”.

They never are, not anymore. But she appreciates the sentiment.

[narukoibito]

St. Mungos, since feeling is first who pays attention and Muggle FWB for the WIP Game?

Thank you for the interest, Anon! This took a while because things in my personal life are in chaos, but thank you for the request.

St. Mungos

This is my Healer!Ginny story that has been lurking in the back of my brain since last year. I’ve written a good amount of words, but then an entirely different plot appeared and now I may have to rewrite most of it, hence it’s lack of progress. But I still really want to finish this one day.

Ginny is a Healer on the 4th floor of St. Mungos. Her first patient is someone named Harry Evans. (This is a Harry never to Hogwarts story.)

The first thing Ginny notices is his eyes. They’re the most vivid, bright green that she’s ever seen. It’s unnerving how unseeing they are. A pressure builds up in her chest, an aching pain and nostalgia she can’t place.

The morning light from the window washes over his face, dancing off these round wire-rimmed glasses. His dark hair (black like a blackboard) appears to be on some ineffable scale of entropy — tousled and pointed in every which way, yet somehow it’s charming and works well with his sharp, unconventional features. Some of that hair spills over a bandage wrapped around his forehead. 

But it’s also the pleasant, vacancy in those eyes that strikes her, like she’s looking at the embers of a once bright flame. He looks like an innocent, half-lost child, his lips curled in a ghost of a smile.

Her clipboard and supervisor tell her his name is Harry Evans. The name creates an itch at the back of her head, something she wants to scratch at, but the odd sense of nostalgia must be misplaced significance. He’s her first real patient. 

He must matter to someone important to have his own room on the fourth floor of St. Mungo’s Ward 49. Usually they lumped all the long-term spell damaged patients in one place, let them wander under the supervision of one Healer. But this room is spacious and private, protected by complicated wards and concealing charms. Someone really cares about Harry Evans, and for some reason it causes a subtle burning behind her eyes. Maybe it’s because he looks like a newborn fawn. 

Who wouldn’t want to protect him?

“You’re new, but he’s not difficult. It’s mostly maintenance,” her supervisor says. “He makes it easy, don’t you, Harry?”

Harry’s gaze drifts toward the window.

Ginny scans his file. It’s actually surprisingly thick, but a lot of it has been redacted. The summary page sums it up though: he’s twenty-one; he has been here for three years; the diagnosis is vague (severe curse damage); there’s a long slew of attempted cures, none of which were successful obviously; now it’s about making sure he’s comfortable whatever that means.

“All right, let me know if run into any trouble.” Her supervisor is already starting for the door.

“Um — what about — I know his treatment is maintenance, but can I…?” Ginny’s not sure what she’s trying to say exactly. Harry Evans has seen a lot of Healers if the list of attempted cures is any indication, but she gave up Quidditch to become a Healer in the long-term spell damage ward specifically because she wanted to do something.

Her supervisor gives her a rueful smile. 

“Stick to maintenance. Harry Evans is a special case.”

Ginny turns back to Harry, who is facing her again, looking painfully innocent.

Somehow she doesn’t need convincing that he’s special.

since feeling is first who pays attention

This was a gift for the Harry/Ginny Discord Incognito Elf exchange. I managed to finish in time to gift it, but I want to take some additional time to rework it before posting. It is missed moments over the years as Ginny and her feelings for Harry evolve.

Ginny presses her face against the wall, peeking between the stair spindles. Her bright brown eye lands on the two boys hunched over a chessboard. Her brother Ron and Harry Potter, who, despite appearing to be losing, doesn’t look the least upset.

Harry Potter. 

The Harry Potter is in her house. Looking comfortable on their couch despite the faded, mended cushions. His face crinkles in laughter at something Ron says, his green eyes bright with contentment. Ginny doesn’t miss the occasional look of awe at the things she’s always taken for granted. It’s almost as if he can’t believe he is really here.

He isn’t what she expected – isn’t what she imagined he would look like after all those years listening to Mum recite her favorite bedside story, about the heroic Savior of the Wizarding World. She had pictured neat hair, a dashing smile, someone who would recognize a comrade in her and take her on all sorts of adventures. He would be different, he wouldn’t discount her dreams of flying and doing everything her brothers could and more.

Instead, Harry Potter has the messiest hair ever, a sheepish smile, and clothes that he nearly swims in. Oh, and he has somehow missed the memo and found the comrade in her brother Ron instead. 

Her fingers curl around the spindle. Not for the first time, a spike of envy shoots through her. If only she were a little older or a boy. Then maybe she would be the one playing chess with Harry. Maybe she would be the one to hide under his invisibility cloak and battle trolls and face You-Know-Who with him.

Ginny presses her face a little closer and lets out a sigh.

But Harry Potter is kind. He ignores all the times she has made a fool of herself. And he has the greenest eyes she’s ever seen. They are as green as those glowing jars of pickled toads at the Potion ingredients store Mum had taken her to. Pretty and kind and not dismissive of her patched clothes or her glowing red face.

Harry Potter. If he likes Ron, if he looks like he actually likes the Burrow, if his face grimaces at the attention at Flourish and Blotts, could it be possible that one day he could like her too?

Muggle FWB

Hah, so this was the first idea that I rambled off to my beta, which ended up with long, long emails back and forth on this idea that I never wrote! Here’s a snippet of that exchange:

Harry thinks he only see Ginny as a little sister, so when she suddenly proposes that they become friends with benefits in uni, he’s floored and says they’re practically family. Blinded by her anger over the rejection, she kisses him so that he knows what he’ll be missing. Of course, he then realizes his attraction to her. As their physical relationship progresses, they develop feeeeeeelings (gasp!). But Ginny thinks she only wants a physical relationship and once they have sex, it'll get out of her system. Harry has to work to convince her that she actually wants more.

But the backdrop is that Ginny doesn't think she wants more than sex is that when she was 11, she was kidnapped by Tom Riddle for as a kid (they met at the park a lot, and none of her brothers/Harry/anyone realized he'd been "befriending" her). Kid Harry figures out where Riddle took her and saves her.

Ginny wasn’t molested but she/Harry/everyone else is deeply affected by this event even though they don't realize it. Ginny thinks she's overcome it, and she's still a BAMF some the books but she's not fully over it as shown by her fear of being emotionally involved with Harry. It's why Harry refuses for a long time to think of her anything else outside of a brotherly way. 

Ginny has a really bad sexual experience (though it doesn't go all the way), and as a result she's disgusted by men (not scared), but doesn't feel any revulsion with Harry. After not being able to get close to any boy for a long time, she decides to proposition Harry. Harry, being noble, absolutely refuses at first, but she kisses him, he's very attracted to her, and is convinced by her that he's helping her get over this tick. So it's FWB but it fits their personalities, and still stays true to the Ginny is subconsciously afraid of a real relationship/intimacy with Harry, who realizes he wants more but doesn't know if just getting to be physical is more than he'll ever deserve and he wants what he can get if not real love from her - until, of course, he realizes he can't do it anymore and she has to decide if she's brave enough to actually let herself feel.

HAHA omg I’m reading over my emails and I talk about getting into The Changeling and only sleeping 4/5 hrs a night and then the exchange ends with my coming up with my alternate dimension idea of Harry getting thrown into the BWL!Neville universe. So you guys can see why this story never went anywhere despite several thousands words between me and my beta.

–

Whew, long post. Hope that satisfied your curiosity! 

I’m honestly not sure there are any left, but let me know if you have any other wip asks! Though note that I will be rather absent in the near-future because of life.

[crystalbahamut]

pounds of flesh

FFXIV Write Day 3: Scale

Summary: The Exarch is familiar with tactics used to dodge those most dangerous of creatures (Healers) and offers you his assistance.

Author’s note: Am currently ignoring the fact that there’s no faucet in the Pendant room (that I could find) because that seems inconvenient for such an otherwise nice kitchenette. The prompt started me off with the idea of scaling a staircase feeling on par with scaling a mountain but it sort of veered off from there. I really loved this prompt though; there are so many ways to take it.

Warnings: Shadowbringers spoilers, unspecified WoL, non-healing WoL (kind of), 2nd person pov, WoL/Exarch, overworking oneself on purpose

Words: 1,876

 ---

You might have gotten a little bit…carried away today. Triffids, hoptraps, wargs, and more; you had carried out a number of quests to reduce the threats posed to those traveling the roads of Lakeland, and that wasn’t even counting the morning spent in Rak’tika helping out the Night’s Blessed with some of their chores. You don’t mind– it’s nice to be helpful, good, necessary even– but now that everything aches and some of the cuts have opened up again you wonder if maybe you took it a little far. All you wanted to do was make sure you slept well tonight, but even taking the intercity aetheryte was too much to ask of your energy stores. You have scaled cliffs and mountains, but right now the thought of scaling the steps to your room is making you want to find a place the guards don’t patrol and just lay on the ground. It’s a good thing the manager is on break right now, or you’d have to field some uncomfortable questions about why you’re just standing around, staring.

“There you are.”

You flinch. Mayhap the manager would have been the lesser of two well-intentioned evils, considering the Exarch sounds…not exactly smug, but knowing. You stand taller and clear your throat. “Evening Exarch,” you say. “Did you need something?”

“Not precisely, though I am wont to worry when you stay out so late,” he says and steps towards you.

That…you almost turn around for that. He worries? You shake your head; of course he worries, you are (supposedly) the one hope for the world’s survival. ‘Tis nothing more than prudence. “Nothing to worry about; I’m quite fine.”

“Oh?” You can hear the smile in his voice as he comes around your side, and you quickly look away. “Should I be flattered that you seem to be emulating me?”

You scowl and pull the head covering down farther. How in the world does he see anything like this? “You didn’t invent hooded robes, Exarch.”

“No, I did not,” he chuckles. “However I have not seen you wearing one, until now.”

“Mayhap I simply felt like it.”

“Mayhap you did,” he says. “Or mayhap you are trying to hide a head wound incurred when a lake viper used its tail to swat you into a tree.”

You don’t have a good comeback for that. “You know, nobody likes a know it all,” you grumble and try to sink into your shoulders. One of these days you are going to break that damn magic mirror of his.

“My dear warrior,” he sighs as though indulging you in a whim. “What would it take for you to accompany me to Spagyrics?”

You turn to give him a look of incredulity and then realize that probably isn’t very effective. However he sighs and says, “I see.”

“Do you?” you ask. “I can’t see anything like this; I don’t know how you do it.”

He doesn’t take the bait, unfortunately. “Would you allow me to see to your wounds then?”

“I can heal myself.”

“If you could, you already would have.” He puts a gentle hand on your shoulder, though right on a sore spot that twinges, and you try not to wince. “I would just like some assurance you are well enough. If you are uncomfortable with me, I can fetch one of the Scio-”

“You,” you say immediately and take his arm. You pull back the hood to see with your good eye and find his mouth partly opened in surprise. “I trust you.” Also, if Alisaie or Y’shtola see you in this state, they will put you out of their misery. But you meant what you said. You do trust him.

“Thank you,” he says earnestly, as though he’s honored, and the wondrous tone of his voice is enough to give you the energy to make it up the stairs and to your room.

“I don’t think I’ve seen someone manage to limp so successfully on both legs before,” the Exarch says and goes to the cupboard where the first aid kit lives.

“It’s not that bad– though I’m going to warn you that I’m a bit dirty so it probably looks worse than it is,” you say and pull off the robe. Gently, as everywhere it touches seems to throb with new pain, or maybe the fatigue is getting to you. While he’s turned around you quickly (ow) change into some shorts and a tank top and sit on the bench by the door.

When he turns around the Exarch actually stops in his tracks. “Wicked white,” he says and sighs. “If Chessamile saw you like this…”

“The Warrior of Darkness would be ended by the wrath of a bypassed healer.” You put a finger to your lips. “But surely now my trusty accomplice will help me.”

He smiles again, though he looks like he’s trying to wrangle it back into a disapproving frown. “Extortion now, is it?” he asks as he starts filling a bowl with water.

“I think your offer belied the feelings of one used to dodging chirurgeons,” you say and give yourself a quick check to make sure anything that needs treating is visible. Thankfully your torso just endured some bruising; it’s your limbs that took the brunt of everything. And your head, you’re reminded as you try to gingerly scrape off some of the dried blood and accidentally reopen the wound, making fresh blood course back down over your eye. “Oops.”

“Perhaps I have, but even my own injuries pale in comparison. I can see why any healer would have their hands full with you,” the Exarch says as he comes over to take your hand, shove some cloth in it, and force you press it hard against the cut. “Pray just hold that there for now.”

Now that you’re able to relax and do nothing, exhaustion courses through your bones and you do as he bids if only because anything else is far too much effort. You struggle to stay awake as he pulls over a chair, the medical kit, and the bowl of water, and blink yourself back to consciousness when he sits down.

“Are there any sprains?” he asks as he looks over the injuries.

“My right ankle feels a bit funny, and I think I pulled something in my left thigh, but mostly I’m just scraped up,” you say. He dabs some of the scratches with the clean water and it’s uncomfortable but not unbearable. You almost start to fall asleep with his gentle ministrations.

But when he presses a new, slightly damp cloth to those scrapes, the stinging wakes you right up. “Thal’s balls!” you hiss and resist the urge to rip his hands away. On the plus side, your head has stopped bleeding again; now it only throbs as you set the bloodied cloth aside and try to quell the nausea caused by pain.

“I apologize,” he murmurs and dabs it more gently. It’s not a good feeling but you can bear it a little easier now that you know it’s coming. He clears his throat. “What were you working on so frenetically today?”

“Huh?” You think about the question. “Oh– nothing much really; I was just taking a few jobs here and there.”

“Are you in need of gil?” he asks and lifts his head. Presumably to look at you. “Surely some of these jobs could have waited another day?”

You take the washcloth and wring it out before you start cleaning your other leg, and then your arms. It will help him get through this easier. And it also makes it so you don’t have to look at him now. “They could have. But I wanted them done.”

“Because you plan to take the day for yourself tomorrow?”

“Perhaps,” you say. “Perhaps this is how I want to spend my days.”

“Working yourself to the bone when you already do so much?” He finishes wrapping your ankle and grabs your hand. He says your name gently, without reproach. “What is wrong?”

“Nothing is wrong.” You shut your eyes. “Sometimes…I just want to sleep. That’s all.”

“I see,” he says and doesn’t press for more. If this were Alphinaud you wouldn’t be able to escape without some awkward attempt at platitudes on his end, or Urianger, who would try to make suggestions while also nearly putting you to sleep with one of his lectures, but the Exarch keeps tending to you with hands that are gentler than they have any right to be.

When he starts treating the cut on your head it’s a good excuse to close your eyes, but even without some supposed excuse you don’t think you would do any differently. He’s so…gentle. Healers, even the kindest ones, are all business– as they should be, as they’re always the ones that have to make sure everyone is fighting fit for the next catastrophe. But the Exarch touches you so tenderly, like he wants to put you back together piece by piece, with soothing motions and soft brushes of skin, and crystal that’s warmer than it looks, and it’s all you can do to keep from falling apart in his capable hands.

“One moment, my warrior,” he murmurs and you realize you’re halfway to sleep by the fact that you can’t seem to open your eyes when he leaves, but it doesn’t bother you overmuch. When he comes back and nudges you to stand, you manage to do so, but you still don’t open your eyes even as you shuffle over to the bed with his help. You sit on sheets– the cover has been pulled back already, you realize with delayed thoughts as the Exarch tucks you in. You’ll be mortified in the morning, but for now…

“I pray sweet dreams find you tonight, my warrior.”

You think you imagine the gentle kiss placed upon your brow, but in case this isn’t some lovely dream and he is still around to hear it, you whisper, “Thank you.”

 The next morning finds you sore and a little stiff, but you can recognize that you’re better off than you would have been otherwise.

You also find a collection of medicinal-looking mixtures all lined up in bottles in a neat little row on the table. And, when you go over to investigate, a note from the Exarch.

 My dear warrior,

Though it is not a happy thought, there are many in Norvrandt who share your desire for uninterrupted sleep, as well as your difficulties attaining it. These elixirs each have their own cards describing ingredients and dosage; if you find one to your liking, it would be a simple matter of requesting more, and I should be delighted to do so.

Also, if you ever find the climb to your room to be too arduous, perhaps the smaller staircase leading to the tower itself would be less of a strain. Once inside, there are easier ways to get around that I would be happy to show you.

With fondest wishes,

The Crystal Exarch

 You smile and fold the letter back up. An easier way to the Ocular, hm? You’d like to see that. Perhaps now is a good time to stretch your legs and make the climb.

[feralcherry]

Naruto takes that might enrage you (girl addition)

Warning, some of these takes might enrage you- that’s fine.

Fillers don’t count as canon, don’t even bring them up if you talk about this post lol. Also it’s been a while since I’ve seen the whole series, so some of these might be disproven as I continue with my rewatch. The excuse that Shounen is for boys is also very weak and holds no weight, as tons of girls (and nonbinary folk) relate to the characters in this show, so that doesn’t excuse Kishimoto for his weak writing of women.

To preface, I love this show. Love it to pieces. It was part of my childhood and holds a very special place in my heart. But there are some things I personally don’t like or wish could have been done better. I love every character and will go blue in the face talking about how much I still love this show. That doesn’t free it from my criticism. I’m also only listing what I don’t like and what I would change, though I’d be more than happy making a post about what I loved.

Let’s start off with my girl Sakura Haruno. She is easily the most hated girl in the series, and all because of how ‘weak’ or ‘annoying’ she is. As if that’s not the fault of Kishimoto himself lol. She was shoved off to the side continuously and never given cool storylines, unlike the other members of her team.

What I took issue with about Sakura:

-What were this girls dreams?? The whole reason she became a ninja was never really talked about nor were they really developed as time went on. She was all about Sasuke, which would be fine if she grew out of it. But no. 

-Her crush on Sasuke was super stale. He was handsome and powerful, but what else was there to him? He was a jerk to her most of the time (there are some instances he’s somewhat kind to her, but if we go off canon, it’s not enough to make her deep love make sense). I think it would have been so much more interesting to see her grow out of her infatuation for him. If they had to have ended up together, watching them relearn each other and fall in love would have made them more compelling. She stayed loving a boy who thought very little of her. 

-She’s pitted against her best friend and doesn’t develop much of a relationship with other girls her age. It’s kind of sad, and I think they should have fought over something other than a boy. 

-We are told repeatedly that she’s super powerful by other characters, but she’s never given time to truly shine. She got like a single battle with Sasori and she deserved more cool moments like that!

-She was a healer, which makes perfect sense. But why is it mostly girls who are the healers? It’s a bit weird, when there’s also Neji with his perfect chakra control. She only has her healing abilities and her super strength; but even then someone like Kabuto has more offensive healing based techniques than her. Like his chakra scalpel. 

What I would fix:

-New dreams. Show her find a dream outside of her team and grow into it. Also give her more of a backstory. Sai has more of a backstory than she does and he’s way newer than she is.

-I would let her fuck up one of the Peins instead of Konohomaru- she’s a main character and passed over for that little brat?? She should have gotten to do more than scream out for Naruto and heal people :/ 

-She her intellect a bit more. She’s so smart, and yet we don’t really see it.

-She’s perfect for genjutsu, Kakashi himself said so. So why not give that to her? Or play more with ninjutsu. She has earth and water on her chart, so why not give her those abilities? Maybe even wood jutsu to even her out with her super OP teammates. Idk how, it could have happened, this is a show full of demons and god like abilities, it could have happened someway.

-She should have grown out of Sasuke and not married a man who doesn’t really appreciate her and isn’t there for her at all.

-I would totally have expanded on Inner Sakura more. Imagine if it made her mind impenetrable? Could have woven that in with her skills for genjutsu and made her unaffected by other’s illusions.

Next, let’s go with a more beloved character of the fandom. Hinata. Now personally I don’t care much for her- she could have been so cool but just like Sakura, they kind of messed her up.

What I didn’t like about Hinata:

-Her entire existence is revolves around Naruto. Naruto this, Naruto that- and yet she simply sat back and watched as his life was shit and did nothing despite her ‘love’ for him. And then fillers/movies are added to show that oh wait! she’s been there this entire time!! no lol. Build her up from the start as his love interest at the very least.

-She stayed super meek the entire time. Shy girls are okay, but I wanted to see her grow into herself more and not need as much reassurance. She’s a ninja and should stand on her own two feet more.

-She’s less skilled then Neji and I would have loved to see her outmatch him at some point, even once. Or gain abilities outside of her clan, or do something that made a name for herself outside of being the heiress of the Hyuga.

-She never fixed her clan which was one of her few spoken goals. That was a huge bummer.

-I think it would have been cool to see her mess up Pein a little more. She only stepped in because it was Naruto, which reinforces that she’s only about him. But at least let her land a hit if she’s as powerful as people say she is. 

-She makes the most sense to be a housewife or a healer with the way her attitude is but in Boruto, she’s kind of rewritten to be a ‘scary’ mother which just doesn’t fit her. Plus, she tells Boruto to go and take care of his dad?? Bro, that’s your child and your husband is the hokage. 

What I’d fix:

-Prove her dad wrong and show him that her compassion isn’t a weakness but a strength. 

-Fix the Hyuga clan bs.

-More character growth and showing more of her life away from Naruto. Her romance with him could also have been better. I hated her always watching him but never standing up for him, it kills me.

-Neij dying for her proved their clans hierarchy bs to be right and it just doesn’t make sense for him to die for her. It showed that he was right to feel caged and that he simply existed for the benefit of the Main family.

Now with the others, there’s much less I have to say about them because they aren’t main characters or the love interests.

Ino-

-Jealous of Sakura, no dreams of her own, stupidly loves Sasuke and for what? WHAT’S SO COOL ABOUT HIM?

-I like her growth for the most part, it was cool watching her fight in the War Arc with her team. 

-Why is she the medical ninja? I never got that.

-She got with Sai but they didn’t really show their development and how they fell in love with each other. It’s like she only likes him because he looks like Sasuke and called her pretty once.

Tenten-

-Should have gotten to train with Tsunade at some point, since she was the one who originally idolized her. 

-We know nothing about this girl at all. She doesn’t even have a last name.

-Her weapon usage was meant to be so cool and yet she missed so often- there’s a disconnect there. Her abilities could have been built up more. Imagine if no matter what she never ever missed. That would have been cool.

-Her weapon shop isn’t doing well. Just because it’s an era of peace doesn’t mean the need for weapons is totally over, not if there are still active ninja??

Karin-

-I actually like her, she’s kind of funny and I like that she’s mean even if she can get annoying.

-Again, another healer, though she’s also sensory which is more interesting. I’d like to see her with some jutsus though. That would have been neat.

-Her love for Sasuke makes sense since he saved her and smiled at her, making her think of him as her hero. And she’s the only one he apologizes to without Naruto strong arming him into it.

Temari-

-She’s pretty solid in my opinion. Though I would have loved to see her more without her brothers.

Konan-

-Her goals in life were to support Yahiko and Nagito’s dreams. It would irritate me so much if other girls in the series were more well rounded and din’t also have some sort of dream involving a boy.

-She was underused. I would have loved to see her fight more.

Tsunade-

-Only becomes hokage to support others dreams...All of them men. And then later passes the title onto Kakashi who doesn’t even want to be Hokage either. 

-No other justus used, she’s on par with Jiraya and Orochimaru and yet she’s only super strong and the best medic. She should theoretically be more well rounded than that, right? She also should be shown fighting more even if she’s a medic, she’s also s legendary sannin 

-Had to be saved by 12 year old Naruto. I know it’s a show about him, but she’s meant to be a literal badass but needs a kid to save her.

Kushina-

-Wanted to become the first woman hokage and then didn’t. Her husband did. and then she became a housewife?? What?? She should have become the first woman hokage with a badass husband or had another prominent role in the village like as a council member or something.

Kurenai-

-Always lost a fight? She’s some genjutsu using badass but always lost fights.

-No real personality, she’s just chilling there. Sexy as hell though. Has a kid and that’s about it.

-What I will give her is that I’m so glad she was allowed to age. So many anime mothers always look the same as their teenage self and she looks like she can be anybody's mama.

Over all, the girls could have been handled much better. I wouldn’t find issues with any of them being housewives or all about boys if that weren’t what seems to be the standard in the anime. I just wanted more of a variety and better character development, especially for Sakura and Hinata who are the mains 😩

Now to what might REALLY piss people off- ships! I’m not trying to start some war here, this is just my opinion and you can take it or leave it.

Sakura- Naruto, since they had the most development and showed more than two seconds of caring for each other. Even Sai in Shippuden has more of a connection to Sakura than Sasuke did.

Ino-Shikamaru, if she had to end up with a guy it makes sense it’d be him since they spend more time together than her and Sai did. (inosaku for the win tho)

Hinata-Shino or Kiba, again, because they spent more time with her. Naruto and her felt very rushed and I don’t quite understand the appeal.

The one that made the most sense and became canon was Shikatem, though their son’s design was lazy :D 

If I do a second part, it’ll be about the boys and the ships with them that made sense to me. For now, this is all I have. If you’ve made it this far, thank you lol

byeee

[kckenobi]

You’re not alone.” With Obi-Wan

76 — “You’re not alone.”

Anakin knew something was wrong the moment he entered the room.

Obi-Wan’s quarters were usually impeccably neat—as a Padawan, he used to roll his eyes at how Obi-Wan ordered his tea leaves alphabetically and wiped the countertops every night like clockwork. So when Anakin saw the boots kicked off on the middle of the floor, the datapads and scattered papers dumped on the table, the spilled glass of water soaking them—

 “Obi-Wan?”

When he got no response, Anakin barreled into the bedroom.

The only thing poking out from the bedsheets was a tuft of auburn hair. Obi-Wan had a pillow over his head, his face turned away from the light that poured through the window.

Kriff.

Anakin pulled the shade down, enveloping them in darkness, and sat down on the edge of the bed. “Migraine?”

He decided to interpret the high-pitched noise Obi-Wan made as a yes. 

“Okay,” Anakin said, keeping his voice soft. “When did you last take your meds?”

Obi-Wan shifted a little beneath the sheets. He stuck out his hand and uncurled the fist, and inside it—a tiny orange bottle.

Anakin cursed under his breath.

It was empty.

“You’re all out?”

The slightest nod.

Though Obi-Wan—to Anakin’s chagrin—was usually fairly quiet about it when he didn’t feel well, Anakin had seen this play out before. The medication didn’t always stave off the pain, but without it, it was definitely worse.

“I’ll get it refilled. Hang tight, okay?” He pushed the hair off Obi-Wan’s forehead—found it damp with sweat. His heart clenched in empathy. “Wait...”

He stood up and dug through Obi-Wan’s linen cabinet, then drenched a washcloth in cold water. Sliding his hair back again, Anakin set it down on his forehead, watching as Obi-Wan’s grimace lessened just a little.

“I’ll be back soon. And the trash can��s next to your bed just in case.”

The second he shut the bedroom door behind him, empty pill bottle in hand, Anakin started to run.

The Halls of Healing were somewhat busy—they always were during the war—but the waiting room fell silent as Anakin skidded into the room, panting lightly, and pushed his way to the front desk.

“I need a prescription refill,” he said, slapping the empty pill bottle down on the counter. “Obi-Wan Kenobi, date of birth—"

“Do you have the prescription with you?” The Padawan healer smiled politely, yet for some reason Anakin felt a flare of irritation. “I just have the bottle, is that good enough?”

She picked it up and scanned the print on the side. “Unfortunately, it looks like this has already been refilled twice. You’ll need a new prescription from one of the Master Healers, and then you can probably pick it up in a few days—"

“Well, I need it now.”

The Padawan looked over her shoulder, but no one else was there. “I’m sorry, Master Skywalker. But I can’t—"

“That’s not an acceptable answer.”

“I don’t—"

“Anakin?”

Anakin whirled around, suddenly acutely aware of all people in the waiting room staring at him, and there behind him was—

“Bant,” Anakin said, exhaling. She had a clipboard tucked under her arm, and her eyes were tired, her clothes a bit rumpled—the war wasn’t easy on the Healers, either.

“What’s wrong?” she said.

Anakin just stuck out the empty bottle. She took it, reading the label on the side, and Anakin watched her face fall.

“It’s bad again,” Bant said, more of a statement than a question. Anakin nodded. “I knew it. He‘ll never admit it at his physicals, but—"

“Can you just refill the meds?”

Anakin regretted the impatience in his tone—he’d been rude to that Padawan, and now he was being short with one of Obi-Wan’s oldest friends. But her face was soft as she nodded, unbothered, empathetic.

With a full pill bottle and muttered apologies to the Padawan healer, Anakin ran from the Halls of Healing.

His heart was hammering by the time he made it back. Obi-Wan was still buried in blankets, his face pale and furrowed as he turned over in bed, and Anakin sank to his knees beside him.

“Hey, buddy. How we doing?”

Obi-Wan opened his eyes just a crack, grimaced, and shut them again. “Don’t feel well,” he murmured.

“I know.” Anakin said. “Can you sit up?”

Obi-Wan shook his head. 

“Well, you gotta at least lift your head to take the meds. I have them here.”

Obi-Wan exhaled, but it was shaky. The wet cloth slid off his forehead as he lifted his head, eyes fluttering open, and propped himself up on his elbows. Anakin handed him a glass of water and a pill, and helped Obi-Wan raise the glass to his lips when his hands trembled. 

“It’ll pass soon,” Anakin said softly. 

As he sank back into the pillows and squeezed his eyes shut, Obi-Wan didn’t reply.

But it did pass. Eventually—after what felt like hours of Anakin sitting in the bed beside him, switching out the washcloth when it got warm, squeezing his shoulder when the pain spiked—Obi-Wan’s face finally relaxed. He was breathing easier, and Anakin thought he might be asleep, when—

“You should go,” he murmured. “I just want to be alone.”

“Well, too bad, because you’re not alone,” Anakin replied. “And you’re not going to be.”

The corner of Obi-Wan’s mouth quirked up—not quite a smile, but almost. “You are impossible,” he said. “Well, then, if you’re going to overstay your welcome, perhaps you can at least make yourself useful. Can you com the Council? Tell them I apologize for my sudden departure.”

“I’m sure they understand.”

“Please,” Obi-Wan said. “Just tell them. They’re aware that this...happens, sometimes. But I don’t think I was particularly coherent when I left the briefing.”

Obi-Wan closed his eyes, folding his hands behind his head. Anakin didn’t get up.

“Something’s different,” he said. “You’ve been off for a while. You’re not yourself. Is this...this isn’t the first time it’s happened this week, is it?”

For a long moment, Obi-Wan didn’t answer. When he finally spoke, his voice was soft.

“It’s just...it’s been worse. Recently.” He swallowed, the creases between his brows growing deeper. “Since Zigoola.”

Oh.

“I’ve been lucky, in the past. It’s never jeopardized a mission, but now...with the war, if I’m not at my best...” His voice faltered, and Anakin was surprised to hear it waver. “There are so many lives at stake.”

“The only life I’m worried about right now is yours.”

Obi-Wan sighed, as though the thought exasperated him. But when he opened his eyes, they were a little wet.

“I’m okay,” he said quietly.

“I know.” 

Anakin pulled the cloth off his forehead, smoothed Obi-Wan’s hair back in place. 

“But I’ll always be here when you’re not.”

—

Thank you for the prompt!

From these angst/fluff prompts :)

[murasaki-murasame]

I probably shouldn’t have, but I decided to summon for Ayaha and Otoha because they look really fun and I already have other dream summon targets to worry about.

So here’s how that went.

I got them after 20 summons, lol.

I still don’t have Gala Agni, but I have Gala Leonidas and all the other good flame dragons already, so I’m just gonna quit while I’m ahead.

This was definitely very risky and stupid since I would have needed to go through most of my unread stories if I needed to actually spark them, but thankfully it all worked out in the end.

I’d accepted that this would mean skipping New Years, but I guess now I can probably still spark then if I really want to. I’d still have to go through a lot of my unread stories, but we’re getting like four events added to the compendium this month, along with the Kaleidoscape mode, and the New Years event itself, so that should help build up my stash. I think right now I have like 140-ish summons since I already got everything from the new event rerun, so the upcoming events should hopefully get me to around 200 summons. We also might get some random Christmas/New Years rewards, and maybe a free summon event, but we’ll see.

The annoying thing is that if it’s anything like last year, we’re probably getting two separate zodiac banners again with the new units spread across them, so i’d probably have to skip one of them anyway. But at the moment we don’t have any info on what to expect from that, so who knows how that’ll go. Going by the teaser epilogue we got from Mitsuhide’s event, which we now know was teasing at Izumo’s design, we’re probably gonna see the big dude as the tiger zodiac, and the person with the eyepatch as the off-schedule zodiac that’ll probably be on a separate banner.

Anyway, I haven’t had the time to mess around with them yet, but from all the videos and stuff I’ve seen showcasing them, I think AO are extremely good, and I’m kinda shocked that they’re permanent, since they have the level of power and utility that you’d expect from a gala unit.

Even though they’re [on paper] a staff unit, it seems like the best way to use them is to build them as a shapeshift spamming DPS unit, but even then, their healing actually seems good enough for most endgame content. H-Lowen might still be more consistent, but one upside to using a shapeshift build on them [especially with Mars] is that you get to also spam their healing skills a lot, which helps make up for them being relatively weak heals.

I’m not sure about all the exact numbers, but their dragon form seems extremely powerful. Maybe not as much as something like Nyx, but the combination of burn/scorchrend res down, stun/scorchrend affliction, a map-wide AoE skill, and a large AoE dragon strike seems extremely useful for most endgame flame content. They also have a dragon damage co-ability, which is really nice in general, and their combo = buff time chain co-ability also seems useful. 

Funnily enough I think Laxi is one of their best partners, since her high hit count can ramp up Leonidas’ dragon battery chain co-ability, and her team 3 strength amp can enable AO to fairly easily reach that on their own, since on top of everything else they do, they also have fast ramping team strength amps.

In general they do basically everything you could possibly want from a flame unit nowadays except for dispel, but you can have other characters cover that, or you can just give them a dispel shared skill or something, so that’s not a huge deal.

H-Lowen and Y-Cassandra will probably still have their niches [especially H-Lowen], but for the most part I think AO is going to be the dominant flame healer because of the sheer amount of buffs and utility she brings in addition to her heals.

Now I’m curious to see if we’ll get the other Agito bosses as adventurers, and how they’ll work, since AO’s entire kit is really heavily themed around the mechanics of their boss fight, which I think is really neat. I at least hope Volk doesn’t just get relegated to being a dragon, since I like his design a lot, and we already have his lance skin. Though on the other hand I also wonder if we’ll get Beast AO as a gala dragon in the future.

Also, I was wondering how they’d handle it if they ever made AO into adventurers, but I like the way that you swap between them in combat. I wish their win animation used both of them, but it’s kinda neat that it changes based on which one you’re using at the end of the fight. They also have a unique animation for when you summon them, which has both of them dropping down at the same time.

So yeah, I really don’t think I deserved to get this lucky considering how bad I’ve been at resisting the urge to summon recently, but here we are, lol. At least now I don’t have to worry about using a dream summon on them later. I think my next one will probably go to either Sandalphon, S-Leonidas, or S-Chelle, but we’ll see.

[deavtivateggcndnd]

brutally rating genshin impact characters

anemo traveler: my main dps all the way. i like playing as the main character 10/10

geo traveler: who? 5/10

kaeya: the love of my life. i don’t care what anyone says. he is my favorite 10/10

albedo: baby. i love him. so cute. don’t play with him much tho. i really only use him for his elevator flower 8/10

diluc: please come home,,,, i don’t have any main pryo characters bc i’m waiting for him 10/10

klee: honestly i’d be happy with her if i didn’t get diluc. i almost want her a little more? she’s cute and i like her fighting style but i’ve wanted diluc for so long it feels wrong to change up 10/10

lisa: horny, but she’s cool 5/10

amber: annoying. only useful for her pyro bow. 1/10

beidou: big booby mommy milky knockers. i like her shield too. i think she’s very pretty and i’ve always loved pirates so i’m glad i got her! 10/10

Qiqi: i have her but don’t use her. kinda bland. i think it’s the voice. i also don’t understandably she’s a zombie??? that doesn’t feel like it fits into the genshin universe very well 6/10

barbra: only a tiny bit annoying very sweet. #1 healer. how would i do spiral abyss without her? 10/10

zhongli: i wouldn’t mind having him but idk i just don’t find geo players that useful??? also no offense but i don’t really understand why people ship the traveler with him bc i view him as a grandpa. his form is hot but he just seems unromantic 9/10

venti: little shit (in a good way). i don’t have him and i don’t particularly want him, but he would be cool to have. same thing with zhongli where i can’t imagine him being romantic. kind of make an exception for xiao tho 9/10

xiao: at first i just wanted him bc he looked cool. then i played the trial and now i NEED him. pls come home bb 10/10

bennett: just got him! he’s a cutie and very useful but i’m still probably gonna use klee or diluc if i get them 8/10

ningguang: pretty lady. i’m going to get her from the free four star thing in the lanternrite event bc she’s the only one i don’t have. i don’t fully understand her attacks but pop off ig 6/10

mona: i don’t really get the hype about her? she’s cool tho. her sprint is neat but always throws me off a little 5/10

xingqiu: kinda boring. seems like he could be a good fighter but idk i don’t use him. i don’t really use any hydro characters for their damage, really 4/10

childe: ok i know i just said i don’t use any hydros for dps but i would make an exception for him!!! his narwhal attack is so cool!!!!! i haven’t played as him yet but i fought him and i feel like he would be a really good character to have. plus i like his personality (and his harbinger form? 🥵) 8/10

ganyu: cutie and i like using her to kill all of timmys pigeons but that’s really the only thing i need her for since kaeya is my main cryo dps 7/10

jean: i know she’s probably like 20something but i always picture her as like a 40 year old woman??? nice but kinda bland 5/10

razor: don’t have him. don’t really want him 4/10

noelle: i love her character design, she’s very pretty. do t really u set stand her that much tho. like every other geo character i’ve played with, not a big fan of her attacks 6/10

fischl: bro shut UP. all of her idle dialogue is annoying. she just seems kinda cringy. she’s a good fighter tho, but i replaced her with beidou as my main electro dps 4/10

sucrose: sweetie! don’t know much about her tho. i like her character design. sometimes i forget she exists 4/10

kequing: like her character design and fighting style. don’t particularly want or need her tho. i like her personality 6/10

diona: i have her but don’t use her that much. her personality seems slightly annoying but she gets bonus points for the cat ears 5/10

xiangling: only a little annoying. i like her attacks but her bear stresses me out bc sometimes he doesn’t face the right direction. i don’t like her hair that much. also i feel like she should get wayyy more bonuses on food but so far i’ve just seen that she can make one (1) special dish. my main purpose character for quite some time tho so i have to give her credit 6/10

chongyun: i don’t know much about him. it’s cool he’s an exorcist tho. 5/10

xinyan: also kind of annoying. good fighter but probably the worst of the pyros imo. the drum sound when she jumps annoys me. 4/10

[qwertyfingers]

faith healer, come lay your hands on me

here’s a snippet from the self indulgent traumatism (trauma and autism) fic if anyone wants to read it lol. Sam and Cas love to have have problems in the middle of the night. Gen, 2k words, warning for discussions of food scarcity and calming someone down from a panic attack, nothing graphic though. Set in a nebulous late-seasons time period because I respect canon literally not at all. 

It’s the middle of the night, sometime between Dean’s custom of falling asleep on his keyboard and Sam shepherding them both to bed, but before his nightly waking up from a nightmare to wander around the bunker checking the wards. Cas is in the kitchen wiping away mostly-imaginary detritus from the counters when Sam finds him; wild-eyed and looking frayed at the seams. He nods at Cas, but nothing follows it. He just stands there in the centre of the room shaking slightly. His eye sockets look like bruises.

Cas tilts his head and squints, considering, “Are you alright, Sam?”

Sam startles in a big way. Huffs breaths in and out of his nose, forehead crinkling with the effort. “What? I. yeah I’m- I’m fine.” He pauses for a few seconds though, hands twisting at the edges of his shirt like they do when he’s worrying. He makes several aborted attempts to keep talking, each less successful than the last. Kicks gently at a table leg and scowls to himself.  “It is fine it’s just...” but he doesn’t continue, just starts gesturing with his hands, like he’s run out of words.

Cas turns back to his cleaning, watches Sam filter through all of his most common nervous gestures in the edges of his vision, seemingly not comforted by any of them. He clenches his hands, drags them over his jaw and face, tugs his hair through his fingers roughly. He bounces, frenetic, from foot to foot, socked feet making muffled tapping noises on the hard floor. Says nothing for a long time.

Cas doesn’t sleep much, so he measures his nighttimes in completed tasks rather than minutes and hours. He gets through wiping the surfaces, cleaning out the sink, and setting the dishwasher to its self-clean cycle, before he hears anything from Sam.

When he does finally speak, the words seem to burst out of him all at once, quiet but tense and all in a rush — pressured speech it was called, in the books Cas had been reading. He figured at least one person in the bunker should know about trauma’s effects, and twelve years’ experience had taught him it wouldn’t be the Winchesters.

“You know, when Dean and me were kids we- we didn’t always have a lot to eat. A lot of the time we didn’t have enough to eat. And Dean would… Dean would always feed me first.” He stops and takes a heaving breath, then three, hands clenching and unclenching arhythmically in front of him. They’re hovering just above the kitchen counter without touching, arms held awkwardly aloft like he doesn’t know where to put them. He’s curled forward, and down, head and shoulders hunched in. He looks pained.

The instinct to make oneself small learned from a childhood desperately trying to hide from the reality of his own life. Cas has long since chased away the instinct to get angry about their life before he knew them, but he never stops feeling the sadness of it. There is a deep well of agony that will never be truly told.

“The portions were already so small and he’d- he’d do this thing where he’d, like, eat half his meal and pretend to be full so he could pass the rest on to me. Never took no for an answer. And of course at first I was too young to notice what he was really doing, but then I was twelve, thirteen, and he’d still feed me like I was-” Sam winces, coughs out a small laugh, grimaces, drags his left hand over his face. “God, like I was his son. His ‘baby boy’ he used to say. And he was so thin for so long and-” Sam stops himself here, looking winded. He taps the fridge door sixteen times with his right hand as he bites at his left thumbnail.

“And obviously we were both fine in the end, Dean’s big and he’s tough but. Sometimes I get this-” he interrupts himself to tug his hands through his hair, sharp, “god it sounds so stupid but I get this thought that. That if Dean hadn’t had to feed me he’d be as tall as I am now and I get all. Normally it’s fine and I just laugh it off because it’s so ridiculous it is a ridiculous thought.” There’s a wet catch in Sam’s throat, and he’s looking at Cas like he can’t tell if he’s about to laugh or cry.

Cas nods slowly, feeling sombre. “Dean is six feet and three quarter inches tall. He is hardly a small man, Sam.” He tries a small smile, to be encouraging, in-on-the-joke but not poking fun, but he can still never tell if he’s hitting the mark or not. A face has so many muscles, and only so much conscious control over them.

Sam surprises him by laughing and crying at the same time. “He’s six feet tall, and he’s one of the strongest humans I’ve ever met — despite being completely allergic to the concept of exercise and I hate him,” he rants, a hint of panic tingeing his voice purple, “so fucking much, and I’m so tired of his bullshit, and yet sometimes I startle awake at night in a panic convinced that I deprived him of his “true height” by having the audacity to be hungry.” The air quotes are a little twitchy, but the attempt to be funny is probably a good sign. Hopefully. Sam’s less prone to sarcasm as a cover for soul-crushing misery than his brother.

Sam starts rearranging the sauce bottles scattered by the stove, hands jerky with the motion. Cas notes in the back of his mind to put them back in place once Sam calms down — Dean needs the kitchen just so. He’s been prone to his own late night trips down memory lane, lately, and he doesn’t need the added stress of obsessive compulsive cleaning on top of it all.

“I told you it was stupid, Cas,” he splutters, and he’s fully crying now, teetering on the edge of hysterical. “Christ, I feel like such an infant.”

Done with the cleaning, Cas folds his cloth into a neat rectangle, hangs it carefully through the loop of the oven door handle as he passes by. He picks up a clean cloth from the pile in the cupboard below the sink too. He heads towards Sam, movements slow and careful to give him a chance to back away — Sam’s liable to startle like a rabbit even on his best days. Cas has been trying his hardest not to trigger it; the ‘fight/flight/freeze instinct’ as he’d learned. It’s helped him understand a lot of Sam and Dean’s reaction better. He only wishes he’d known about it sooner.

He presses his hand gently to the outside of Sam’s elbow, looks him in the eyes and holds his gaze steady. “It’s not foolish, Sam. But surely, your childhood was full of enough tragedy, that you needn’t add to it.”

Sam’s breathing is heavy and ragged, and his eyes are darting between Cas, and the walls, and the condiments he’s still twitching across the counter. He stops, breathes deep, tugs his long sleeves down over his hands and dabs at his wet face. He huffs a laugh between bouts of sobs, mutters something that sounds like “Yeah, yeah, doesn’t help me stop thinking it though,” but Cas can’t be entirely sure, because Sam’s speaking into his shirt cuffs with hands clamped tight over his mouth.

Cas moves his hand slowly from Sam’s elbow to his shoulder, leans in slow to bring his other arm around Sam’s back and hold him loose to his chest. Sam gasps loudly and sobs, wet, shoves his face into the front of Cas’ shoulder indelicately as he responds with his own arms. He clutches at the back of Cas’ coat and weeps, done with trying to hold it all in. He’s shaking less now, but it’s impossible to know whether it’s progress or if he’s turning further inward without seeing his face.

Cas pulls him closer and moves the hand on his back upwards, rubs it in slow, careful circles across his shoulder blades. Pressure is good, he’d read, especially with flashbacks. Pressure grounds you in the present; a small, physical beacon of something that’s unquestionably real. He’s not sure if Sam notices or appreciates it, but he’s not going to ask; doesn’t want to run the risk of making their home feel clinical.

It seems like the kind of crying where speaking wouldn’t help, so he lets it run its course. He keeps up the pressure at Sam’s back, and takes his palm to pet at Sam’s hair, something he’d seen Dean do so many times. Sam seems to jump at first, coughing once into Cas’ sodden shirt, but doesn’t move or ask him to stop, so after a long moment of awkwardly holding his hand still on top of his head he strokes his fingers out, and Sam sighs on the end of a gurgle.

Cas hears words now and then, ‘stupid’s and ‘christ’s and once, bafflingly, ‘fucking lucky charms’, but for the most part Sam seems content to simply cry until he stops. It’s not a quick thing. The air stills around them as Sam calms, gentled down from wracking gasps to sniffling tears, to simple heavy breaths.

Extricating himself is a clumsy affair even for Sam. His arms seem to catch, held in that clutching shape by the tension of the moment, and he has to slowly roll all of his joints loose. He unfurls slowly, like a flower in sunlight, until he stands back at full height. He does look brighter, now, and he carries the crackle of something almost like grace in him, Cas thinks. Peace always shines out of a person.

He grasps Cas’ upper arm for a moment, takes the offered cloth to dry his face before handing it back to Cas and gesturing at the front of his shirt. From the wry, wrinkled-nose smile he throws him as he steps away, Cas thinks he’s also realised the shirt is already a lost cause, but Cas pats himself down anyway, something to occupy his hands for a moment.

Sam leans back briefly to rest against the counter, then gets a different idea and twists around toward the cupboards. He takes out three cups, some chamomile tea, fills the kettle up to the line drawn on the side in red sharpie. “Thanks, Cas,” he whispers with his head in a cupboard, ears tinting red. “I - heh - think I needed that.” He huffs a laugh again, some genuine mirth in it now. “Sorry about your shirt.”

“It’s quite alright. How are you feeling?” Cas can feel himself gazing a little too intensely, watching for Sam’s reactions, but he’s not worried. They know eachother well enough now that Cas can predict what would happen if it got too much; Sam would tell him knock it out, would you, would punch him lightly on the upper arm. He’d most likely try to crack a joke that would land flat, because Sam and Cas have never understood eachother’s humour very well, even when Sam isn’t sleep deprived and beginning to fade at the edges. Cas would apologise and start cleaning again just to keep out of his way. Out of his hair, as Dean would say. These are familiar dances.

Cas also knows he’s not likely to do it though, that Sam is used to his staring. And then he’s blindsided by another thought — that Sam is used to him. His presence and his quirks and his whims. Cas feels himself smile at that, warm, knowing that it’s true. They’re standing in the kitchen, in their home, and Sam just got snot all over his shirt — the shirt he’ll have to wash, manually, and iron, because he’s not really an angel anymore, doesn’t have the grace to maintain his signature look without effort anymore. The shirt that he’ll still choose to put on each morning when he could choose something simpler — because he trusts Cas enough to subject him to his 3am childhood trauma meltdowns. Cas is a human, with inexorably fallible human hands, and Sam is willing to hand him his heart in the quiet hours of the morning for a little field surgery. Cas almost thinks he feels a little sick.