#i desperately need to sleep but. i wrote over 4.5k words in less than 2 hours so I'd say it's captured my brain pretty well

[mariyekos]

OKAY BACK A FEW HOURS LATER WITH A DRAFT OF THIS CONCEPT BECAUSE IT'S GREAT! Doesn't cover the full thing bc I'm very wordy and ran out of time for tonight (apologies for typos, this is very much a not-proofread first draft), but I thought I'd share at least the first bit!

“The gates of Hell opened up and spat some- some thing into my pasture!” the caller had screamed into the receiver, the loudness of his voice and the poor volume control on Dante’s phone spilling the words out to where Vergil had sat on the couch nearby. “It’s huge and it’s killing all my cattle, and if it ain’t the son of Lucifer I don’t know what it is because I’ve never seen anything like it! Not even in those videos of Red Grave!”

Dante had given Vergil a look at that, one eyebrow raised and lips cocked to the side in a lopsided smile as if to say ‘get a load of this guy.’ 

“Ooh, sounds scary,” Dante’d replied, voice light and body loose as he twirled the phone cord around his finger, not a care in the world. 

For one, he’d already beaten Lucifer. For another, Vergil had long since learned that most people who thought they had a world-ending demon on their hands were in fact dealing with rabble that only seemed terrifying to the meager human mind. He and Dante had yet to have gone on a job that actually needed two people. Usually they only both went because they couldn’t decide who’s turn it was that day.

Dante continued on, sending Vergil a wink as he pulled out a pen with his free hand, dragging a notepad from the edge of his desk. He kept it next to the picture of their mother, always sparkling and dust free no matter the state of the rest of Dante’s abode. “Tell me the address and we’ll be out the door in a jiffy.”

The farmer did. Dante noted it and promised they’d be there before the end of the hour. Then he rose, lifted his hands over his head to crack both back and knuckles, and gave Vergil the bright smile he always put on when he wanted to call upon the Yamato taxi. 

“I can probably solo this one, but it’s over by the Highlands and I’m not sure I’m gonna make that even if I break a few speeding laws,” he said, eyes gleaming and expression playful.

Vergil snorted, in the mood to play back. “Oh? Is Cavaliere that slow? Or has your control over it faltered? Don’t tell me you’re growing soft in your laziness.” 

Dante scoffed at that, bringing a hand to his chest and puffing out his cheeks in offense. “Why Vergil, how could you ever imply I would ever let myself go like that! I’ll have you know that Cavaliere’s as fast as she’s ever been; faster even. I’d bet you a week of grocery duty on that.” He sticks up his chin, beginning to pace. “It’s just that while Cavaliere’s fast, there are these things called traffic jams, and I don’t want some poor man to learn what it’s like for his livestock to get eaten because I got stuck behind two semi’s that think it’s funny to stay side by side going ten under the speed limit for fifteen minutes.”

“You could always go around them.” 

It wasn’t as if Dante hadn’t taken Cavaliere offroading before. Vergil had decided to never, ever ride with Dante again after that. If they were going somewhere together, then it would either be by walking, by flight, by the Yamato, or by the old car Dante had taken for repairs three times since their return from Hell the year before.

Dante gasped, drama personified. “And risk hitting the old lady that decided to go for a stroll?”

Vergil raised a brow, not taking the bait. “On the side of the highway?”

Dante nodded. “Walking the city has begun to bore her.”

“At nine p.m.?”

“Old people don’t sleep.”

“You nap at least once a day.”

“Then clearly I’m not old! Mr. ‘I have a child and am older than you anyway’!”

“Hmph.”

Vergil rose to his feet, setting his book on the side table and walking over to the coat rack he’d bought shortly after moving in, pulling down his jacket and donning it in one swift motion. Yamato was in his hand a moment later. She always answered his call instantly; she was hardly ever parted from him, a security measure and reassurance that Vergil still struggled to part with, but he’d gotten comfortable enough to set her down elsewhere in the room from time to time and no longer felt the need to brush his fingers against her scabbard every minute or so as long as she remained in sight. 

“Where would you like me to take us?” he asked, watching as Dante pulled out a map of the area around their destination and began to cross reference it and the note he’d written.

“Let’s see here,” Dante hummed, eyes darting between the two. “Okay, so-”

And so the call had come.

And so they had left.

And so Vergil had been left terrified, lost, and alone, watching as Dante choked out reassurances that he would be fine, that the gaping wound in his stomach that was not healing would close any minute now, that okay maybe it wouldn’t but he had a gold orb somewhere on him, clearly that would kick in, okay maybe it wasn’t kicking in yet but if Vergil pulled it out of his pocket and set it on (in?) his stomach surely it would work, okay maybe it wasn’t working but he wasn’t quite unconscious yet and he was pretty sure they only ever kicked in when he blacked out, and okay it wasn’t working and he wasn’t healing and maybe-

Maybe this would be it.

Maybe this would be how he died.

And it wasn’t Vergil’s fault, it was not Vergil’s fault, if Vergil blamed himself for this Dante would come back from the grave and beat Vergil up in a way that wasn’t fun at all and make him regret ever feeling sorry for himself or Dante over it because their job was dangerous and it was Dante who’d been reckless enough to take a hit he could’ve avoided because he didn’t think that bad and they didn’t realize the giant goat-headed demon Vergil would behead a second later could apparently deal unhealing wounds, and he was so, sorry for leaving Vergil alone because at this point he had a bad feeling this might be it and Vergil might be left alone again, and he knew how much it hurt to be left behind, but Vergil would be okay because Vergil wouldn’t be alone because he had a son and he had Trish and Lady and Morrison even if they weren’t best friends, and Dante was so, so sorry, and he had to admit he was kind of scared but honestly it didn’t even hurt that much anymore, and he really was sorry, and-

Nothing.

Dante ceased speaking.

And so Vergil was left alone.

…

In the darkness of the night, Vergil let out a heartbroken scream.

Then, triggering, feeling the inheritance of their father washing over them, the form which they’d gotten from the first man to abandon him, he let out a piercing wail as he mourned the latest who’d joined that list, his heart and soul aching as the one who’d been born his other half died and Vergil felt certain a part of him had surely died with it. 

LINEBREAK

Vergil remains there for hours, clinging to Dante’s body, feeling the last of the warmth flee from his flesh. Blood coats Vergil’s hands and clothing. He trembles in the morning dew, body exhausted not by the exertion of holding his brother’s corpse up for so long but instead from the weight of it all threatening to drown him. 

When at last the first rays of sunlight break over the horizon, Vergil finally sets Dante down.

In death, he looks peaceful. Well rested. Calm.

He looks the opposite of what Vergil feels. That being utterly destroyed and inches from falling to pieces, from triggering and flying into the sun, from bursting as his roiling energy comes to the surface all at once and bursts forth from his body until the mind that is Vergil is burned to a crisp and only a raging monster- a demon in every sense of the word- remains. 

His brother is dead. His twin is dead. 

He is alone.

It does not matter who else may be in his life. 

He is alone, in a way he never has been and a way that, once he and Dante were finally reunited, once Nero stopped their fight, once they descended into Hell together, he thought he would never be again.

He removes his coat and sets it upon Dante’s body. He can’t bear to look at Dante’s face a moment longer. He doesn’t want to leave Dante alone, but he can’t leave a job undone. Dante would not forgive him for that. Nothing will touch Dante before Vergil returns; the two of them had spread their presence throughout the area as they’d chased down the demon who had eventually gored a man gone too soon, and as Vergil stumbles down the path that will lead him to the farmer’s house, he exudes as much of his own energy as he can to ensure nothing else so much as approaches.

When he reaches the farmhouse, Vergil takes a long breath. He rubs his hands against his face, then through his hair, massaging the top of his head and his temples as he attempts to calm the throbbing threatening to make him snap. His bangs fall into his face as he does so. They poke at his eyes, but he can hardly find it in himself to care. He needs to tell the farmer the job is done. Then he can return to Dante. Then he can take the two of them home. 

He knocks twice. The sound of boots thumping against wood worsens the pain in his temples, multiplying it in tune to each step. 

The door opens. When the farmer takes in the sight of Vergil, surely coated in blood (Dante’s blood) and making no attempt to hide his (emotional) exhaustion, he has a visceral reaction, practically leaping a foot backward and swallowing hard but ultimately not fleeing.

“The job’s done, then?” he gulps, cowering under the strength of Vergil’s gaze. The man has to be at least seventy-five, and even if it weren’t for the stoop in his back he’d barely reach Vergil’s chest.

“Yes.”

The farmer flinches. “So me and my girls are safe now?”

“Yes.”

The farmer swallows again. Vergil does not care that he’s being harsh. Stern. Done.

“Thank you. It, uh, means a lot. To me. For uh-” 

The farmer blinks a few times, nervous, head bobbing side to side as he tries to look around Vergil. Whatever the reason for it goes completely over Vergil’s head. He’s having trouble interacting right now. Why he’s even bothering, he doesn’t know. Dante is dead. Dante’s corpse is lying alone, unprotected, in a field. Why should Vergil care for his wish to speak to a man whose problem they’d already solved when his body could be getting desecrated while they speak? (Nevermind the fact that nothing would approach the body of such a powerful thing, still exuding power even though none of that power was enough to close the gaping hole in his body, to seal the wound that should have healed, that should’ve been gone in minutes, that wasn’t and that stole his life-)

“Say, where’d your brother go?” The farmer asks oh-so-cruelly, the weight of his ignorance making Vergil seethe.

“He’s dead.”

The farmer’s eyes go wide.

“Oh,” he breathes. He takes a step back. “Oh.” Another. “I’m so sorry. Here, let me get the money, I know it ain’t much and it’s not worth a life but-”

“I don’t need it. Your problem is solved. I’ll be leaving now. Never speak to me again.”

Vergil turns to leave. 

As he begins down the path, the farmer calls out to him. “I’m sorry, Dante.” 

Vergil freezes. 

The farmer continues on. 

“I didn’t…I’m sorry. I really am. I know how it feels to lose a brother, and it ain’t easy. I’m the youngest of six, and I’m the last one left. Couple of my siblings died from Old Man Time, but I lost one to an accident when we were in our twenties, and that sort of thing never stops hurtin’.”

Vergil takes a deep breath. He turns to the man, wanting to say that he’s wrong, that he isn’t Dante, that he doesn’t need to be told that losing someone will never stop causing you pain because he’s lost people before and even if he hadn’t he felt half of his soul die, and that pain will never, ever go away, no matter what, he’s sure of it- but he doesn’t. He doesn’t say a word. He does not tell the farmer he is not Dante. He doesn’t mention anything of pain.

Instead he turns around and breaks into a sprint. If the farmer tells anyone of the inhuman act he witnessed, Vergil will not care. He doesn’t have the patience to stay there any longer. He doesn’t have the strength.

Dante is exactly where he left him. Exactly as he left him. Lying beneath Vergil’s coat, face left in a faith smile, smile lines around his eyes and mouth relaxed and somehow bearing an aura of calm that Vergil thinks he will never again achieve. Next to him is his sword- the Devil Sword Dante he’d named it in a move Vergil hadn’t been able to definitively call either narcissistic or fitting- pulsing in a way its dead owner is not. While energy bleeds out from Dante’s body like a broken dam, the sword retains some measure of life that Vergil can’t help but feel is mocking him. Why is it that the sword remains when Dante does not? Why is it that his father and brother both have abandoned him, only a sword bearing their name left to remind Vergil of what he has lost and what was never truly meant to be his? 

Vergil removes the Yamato from her sheathe and opens a portal to the shop. He will not leave Dante to rot in the sun. 

Then, thinking on it a moment, he slashes it closed before opening a portal to a new destination. He puts the Yamato back on his hip. Dante is in his arms a moment later, the sword bearing his name resting across his shoulder and knees so Vergil can carry them both. Though he could mount the sword on his back as Dante does, it does not feel appropriate.

When he steps through the portal, he’s greeted by open air and a wealth of memories both good and bad. 

Before them stands the ruins of the house where their lives first ended.

Not far down the path is the grave in which Dante had buried their mother. The spot where she’d lain before ignorant humans had dug up her body and placed her remains somewhere Vergil had never been able to find, Dante warning him against investigating it for fear of revealing their identities and opening up a mystery he said was best to leave buried.

The headstone is still there. The one Dante had made. 

Vergil sets Dante’s body beside it.

In the light of the morning, he begins to dig.

In the dying light of the evening, he sits motionless before a grave meant for the mother and used for the son. Dante’s sword lies against it, the jewel in its hilt gleaming as it’s hit by the sunset.

“Why?” Vergil breathes. “Why…?”

Why apologize? Why reassure Vergil with his dying breath? Why insist it wasn’t Vergil’s fault? Why claim it was his own stupidity that got him killed and not Vergil’s insistence upon one-upping his brother that had lead Dante to throw himself in the demon’s path in the first place? Why leave him alone again? Why act as if Vergil would be okay? Why? Why?

Vergil’s hands find their way into his hair once more, fingers curling and running over strands over and over until the tips which had at some point turned to claws drenched his forehead with his own blood, causing soaked strands to fall down and into his eyes as if to shield Vergil from the world and the gravestone in front of him.

He screams again, this time lower pitched and more an expression of frustration than utter agony. 

Red Grave has begun to rebuild, but this area has been left untouched. There are none around to hear him. His pain is a secret kept between only himself and a dead man. 

He continues at it until night falls. The gemstone- the remnant of their mother’s amulet and their father’s legacy- continues to gleam in the moonlight. Once again, Vergil feels like it’s mocking him. Like it’s reminding him who their parents chose. Who the better of the two was. After all, who was it that sacrificed himself for the other? Who was it that spent his life cleaning up after his brother’s messes and upholding his father’s legacy? Who was it that had people who cared for him, who loved him, who wanted him to be in their lives and who helped him when he had struggles of his own?

Vergil’s well aware of their comrade’s feelings about him. Nero hates Vergil for abandoning his mother, nevermind the fact that Vergil hadn’t realized she was pregnant in the first place (nevermind the fact that it likely would have changed none of his actions at the Temen-ni-gru even had he known he had a son). Lady hates Vergil for the crimes he’s committed, nevermind the fact that she’s acknowledged her father was corrupt even before meeting Vergil (nevermind the fact that it’s only thanks to Vergil he was able to kill as many as he did and hurt her so badly). Trish hates Vergil for how he hurt Dante, nevermind the fact that Vergil neither intentionally hurt Dante nor that he did not intentionally convince Dante he’d killed him at Mallet Island (nevermind the fact that Vergil was the one who decided to fall when they’d fought in Hell almost a decade prior). Morrison is a mystery whose feelings Vergil won’t attempt to decipher, but he’s certain Morrison doesn’t like him, and he would say both Kyrie and Nico only tolerate him at best.

There are none who would mourn Vergil’s disappearance. There are plenty who will mourn Dante’s. Though he claims- claimed, it’s past tense now, Dante is dead and gone and there are no more feelings to be had- he kept few acquaintances and fewer friends, Vergil knows there are more beyond that list who care for Dante. He’s well aware there would be a healthy presence at his funeral were Vergil to send out invitations.

Vergil would not be missed. 

Dante will.

He does not know how he will break this news. Even if he didn’t expect Dante’s closest friends to blame him for it and attempt to kill him, he hasn’t the slightest idea how he’ll be able to so much as get the words out.

The Devil Sword bearing his brother’s name continues to gleam in the moonlight. Vergil rises to his feet, yanks it from the grave, cuts open another portal, and marches into the shop without a second look.

He takes the sword to the basement at first, meaning to leave it there with the numerous other Devil Arms Dante has accumulated over the years. But two steps up the stairs after having left it there, he promptly turns to reclaim it before bringing it to the second floor with him, where their bedrooms are. As with the Yamato, he cannot bear to have it leave his sight. When he goes to take a shower- to wash Dante’s blood off him, so heavy and pungent and still there in a way that seems so human and perhaps indicative of why he died given demon blood typically disappears in minutes and their blood, while typically remaining longer, should’ve long since disappeared too- he rests the two swords against bathroom wall to stay with him. 

After undressing, Vergil takes a deep breath. He looks into the mirror once before moving to the shower, perhaps intending to confirm his despair by reminding himself what it looks like, perhaps to pity itself, perhaps to do something he cannot name. Whatever it is is lost in what he does see.

Namely, Dante.

Vergil’s breath catches in his throat. The sink cracks beneath his grip. A fragment buries itself into his hands but he finds he cannot care. 

For there, staring back at him in the mirror, is Dante.

Or as close as any living thing will ever get to it again.

It’s Vergil’s reflection. It isn’t as if his despair-addled mind is conjuring the reflection of a different man to torment him. 

But it looks like Dante, and Vergil can’t help but choke at the sight.

In his hours of mourning at the grave, he knew he’d pulled at his hair, knew his bangs had fallen into his eyes, but seeing something is different than knowing it had happened, and Vergil is torn in a way he hadn’t been before. During their trip through Hell and in the year since, Vergil had let his hair grow out somewhat. He still kept it brushed back as he always had, but it had gotten longer, and on their return, Dante had cut his back by an inch or two. As a result, their hair was the same length. Dante had teased Vergil a few times by pushing his own hair back, and Vergil had mocked Dante by pushing his own hair forward. Same length, different styles. Their hair was still their own.

During their trip through Hell, they’d also both been…rejuvenated, in a sense. Hell had an ambient energy to it that wasn’t present in the human world that had certain restorative properties. Dante had commented at one point that the bags under Vergil’s eyes no longer looked so severe- a comment accompanied by something about how even the Qliphoth couldn’t do that, so how good was it, really- and Vergil remembered noting that Dante looked to be doing better too. Dante had shaved upon their return, and Vergil distinctly remembers a loud ‘What the fuck?! Are you younger!?” from Nero upon seeing them for the first time the next morning. Following that was an incident in which Dante’s former client-slash-ward Patty entered the shop and confused Vergil for Dante, as well as a comment from Lady about how she thought Nero had said they weren’t actually identical, but she remembered they’d been identical back when they were teenagers and they were clearly identical now so he must’ve been wrong.

Trish had also complained about them ‘feeling the same’ once. Said they even had the same smell. Apparently it frustrated her, because she couldn’t tell who she was going to walk in on until she opened the door.

Vergil’s mind drifts back to what the farmer said.

“I’m sorry, Dante.”

“I’m sorry, Dante.”

He’d thought Vergil was Dante.

The farmer didn’t know them well. The light hadn’t been great. Vergil’s hair was down, and he hadn’t been wearing his own coat. 

But the farmer had thought he was Dante, and even when seeing them next to each other, when not dressed in their typical outfits or when both had their hair down, Dante’s friends had confused them as well. Even Trish- a demon who should’ve been able to tell the difference better than anyone- had expressed she had difficulty identifying who was who.

Dante’s friends would be heartbroken to learn he’d died.

Dante’s friends would not care if Vergil died instead. They might even be happy.

Vergil’s eyes drift to the swords on the wall. To the Yamato, and, more importantly, the Devil Sword Dante. His brother’s sword.

He steps into the shower. His hand moves past the unscented shampoo he normally favors, instead reaching for the artificially scented one that Dante insists smells like strawberry but Vergil insists just smells like chemicals. Shampoo in hand, Vergil washes his hair clean of his and Dante’s blood both. A bar washes the rest of Dante’s blood off his body. Vergil steps out of the shower with an idea forming in his head.

Vergil quickly dries off and stands in front of the mirror once more. His hair is dripping wet and hangs limply in his face. He towels it as dry as he can get before reaching for the hair dryer and styling his bangs in a way he’d never cared for, watching his idea come to life. He practices a smile, cringing at how fake it feels, how wrong it feels, before putting it up again and again and again, trying to remember what it should look like, how it should tilt to one side, how his eyes should crinkle just so, how he would tilt his head for each emotion. 

Eventually, it begins to look right. 

It’s not perfect. It’s not lopsided in quite the right way. His eyes don’t sparkle in quite the right way. He’s got the tilt down, but even though Dante’s laugh lines had faded with Hell’s restoration of his skin, Vergil hasn’t quite mastered getting the right parts of his face to fold.

No matter. It’s fine if it isn’t perfect. It’s only logical that Dante’s smile would feel faked in the wake of his brother’s death.

It’s only natural Dante would seem off after Vergil died.

For that’s what Vergil is going to tell them.

When, inevitably, his friends come to question why he hasn’t contacted them in so long, or when they choose to drop by randomly as they are wont to do, and only find one twin standing there, they will learn that Vergil died on a mission, and Dante has been left to mourn him.

For no one would care if Vergil died.

But they’d miss Dante. They’d be hurt. They would never forgive Vergil. They’d miss Dante, and would cry for the man who’d been on the verge of death but had never died for so long.

Vergil has the looks and he has the sword. He knows his brother’s habits. Though Dante played a part far more often than Vergil, that doesn’t mean Vergil is incapable of acting, nor that he can’t play Dante in turn. 

Dante did not die.

Vergil did.

This Vergil will say. This Vergil will live.

He takes both the Devil Sword Dante and Yamato with him as he steps through the door. When he steps into the hallway, he heads down the path that will lead him to Dante’s room. 

Dante lived, and Dante wouldn’t sleep in Vergil’s room. Dante lived, and Dante wouldn’t put on Vergil’s pajamas. Dante lived, and though Dante has used the Yamato before, he wouldn’t abandon his own sword either.

Dante lived. Vergil died. Dante lived. Vergil died.

Dante lived. Vergil will make sure of it.

My brain was going a million miles a minute I am so sorry 😔

Au where post-dmc5, Dante is the only reason anyone lets Vergil come around and he gives him stability and a place to sleep in Dante's office, catching him up on human stuff. Vergil is aware of the fact it's all because of him, and isn't sure how he feels about it, but his human side certainly finds it nice to have somewhere to call home again.

One day they go out on a job together. It's another infamous 'big one' to the client, but for them it's just Tuesday.

Except.

Dante dies.

And Vergil has a decision to make.

(funeral and other things that to me are sad as fuck, read more at your own risk)

Does he tell everyone Dante died, and then have to find out what to do with no papers of his own, no job experience outside of demon hunting, and no way to take on the business in his own name?

Or, does he let his own hair down, swap clothes with his ever-coldening little brother, and proclaim Dante's body to be that of his own?

Does he take over the life of his own annoying little brother? He can do it well enough. He'd learned the dynamics to a degree.

Given everyone thought he was the one to die, not many attend the funeral. There's a harsh pang of guilt, knowing the many people Dante had likely helped throughout his life weren't there to see him off. It was small, quiet, and filled with regrets. When they would see his own corpse should he die, they would be facing an imposter.

He tries to shake it off. Its hard when he is unsure of how his brother grieved in front of others, so he did his best. Everyone just shrugged it off because of 'Vergil's' death.

But he can still see the looks of confusion from Lady when he starts taking money in jobs, actually saving it because he doesn't know about the kids of Dante's ex-hunter-partner man and he merely thought his brother to be too reckless.

How long will it take for them to figure it out?

[wingedashley]

The Princess & The Treasure Hunter

So. I’ve spent the last year playing in an Exalted campaign run by @winterwombat. My character (Tepet Sonorous Windsong) spent half of it in a will-they-or-won’t-they unresolved sexual tension fest with her circlemate Captain Juliet Harrow (played by the esteemed @myrastuff).

Well, that unresolved sexual tension has been conclusively resolved. Will they or won’t they? They will. They did. Oh yes.

To celebrate, I decided to try and build an annotated chronology of our campaign, as it relates to these two nerds and all the intersession RPs Myra and I wrote together. For those who’ve either been tracking us from the start or want to jump straight to the kisses, here’s where it happens:

Harrow/Windsong IV - Joyride (8k words)

For everyone else, here we go!

All artwork is courtesy of @myrastuff, and I highly recommend searching through her “Juliet Harrow” tag sometime. Each google doc RP alternates between sections written by Myra (Harrow’s) and sections written by me (Windsong’s). The Rest sequences are pretty optional, and don’t need to be read to keep track of the rest of the story.

Act 1

A Circle of Solars are brought together by an ancient pact made by their past incarnations, summoning them from across Creation to the West, soon after their Second Breaths.

Circle descriptions can be found here.

They’re quickly dragged into a desperate attempt to stop a Fae Queen from releasing a behemoth upon the Wavecrest archipelago, while simultaneously fighting a guerilla resistance against a sudden Realm occupation.

Much adventuring is had, as the party gets to know each other. Captain Harrow quickly takes on the role of the de facto “team leader”, drafting the other three Solars into joining her crew on her ship. Windsong spends less time bonding and more time reeling from the fresh facts that her parents left her to die, she’s now an anathema, and the Realm are the baddies.

It all comes to a head in a dramatic naval showdown with the leader of the occupation, Peleps Erena. On the eve of the final battle, Harrow attempts to turn the Queen from an enemy into an asset through the ultimate gambit: offering the Raksha a spot on her crew, and offering herself as a paramour.

It works perfectly.

One tiny problem. This gambit was as much a surprise to the rest of the party as it was to Eyasha (the Fae). And this was also the exact moment that Windsong realized that she had a huge crush on her dashing Captain, before proceeding to promptly have her first Limit Break over it.

Act 2

A month has passed since the battle for Wavecrest. The Circle have taken some well earned R&R time off together. Well, almost: Windsong has been extra broody and distant, and spent most of it burying herself in work and avoiding Harrow. Nika and Sil can see this trainwreck coming from a mile away.

They’re suddenly dragged back into action thanks to a series of unfortunate events, culminating in an ambush by a fully prepared Wyld Hunt party.

The fight is an absolute clusterfuck.

Windsong falls asleep by her captain’s bedside (it’ll be the last time she sleeps for months, kept awake in an endless workaholic fever thanks a few charms and a ton of new nightmares). When she wakes up, she decides she can’t hide her feelings any longer. Leading to the first written segment…

Harrow/Windsong I - Confession (4.5k words)

The Circle now know what they’re fighting for: the remnants of a First Age seabound empire built by their former incarnations. The Boundless Fleet. Three gargantuan superships still exist to be fought over, and they’re in a race with Peleps Erena to see who can reach them first:

The Archive, a priceless library.

Nef Lukai, The Floating City, a ship the size of a small country. Has its own factory cathedral.

The Immortal, the ultimate warship. Practically a superweapon.

They head West, seeking out the Archive. To get to it, they have to fight through the Guild. On the plus side there’s at least one familiar face to help them: Jacintha, the leader of an ex-slave guerilla resistance movement that the party clashed with in Act 1. Harrow kind of hated her and her fellow “Bloodless”, but Windsong got along with her swimmingly.

Did I mention fighting through the Guild? Well part of that involved fighting through the Guild’s terrifying pair of Lunar enforcers: Anastasia Ember (a seductive duelist) and Heartless Sona (a vicious gunslinger).

Vicious enough to cripple Windsong for life. Windsong’s left arm is vaporized after a desperate attempt to shield a circlemate from a lethal attack.

The Act concluded on a climactic naval / ground battle with the Guild in and around the Archive itself. It’s a Pyrrhic victory. They freed the Archive and even broke the Guild’s back over it, leaving Harrow’s growing trade fleet as the strongest economic power in the West. But Windsong was already mutilated and they lost Jacintha. She died and returned as an Abyssal only long enough to drag half the combatants permanently into the underworld with her. Windsong Breaks again.

The Circle prepare for a long journey up North, to stop Peleps Erena from taking Nef Lukai. Windsong, however, has had enough. Jacintha left her soldiers orders to obey Windsong if she died, and she resigns from Harrow’s crew to take command of the reeling Bloodless.

But before she leaves on a journey to unite her new forces, Harrow has a gift for her…

Harrow/Windsong II - Artifact (8k words)

Act 3

Nef Lukai has a problem. It spent a long while in the pits of Hell after the Usurpation, and only returned to Creation fairly recently. The upshot of this is that it’s absolutely crawling with demons. On the bright side, it means that Peleps Erena can’t just waltz in; she has to bring an army and siege the city.

A month has passed since the fight for the Archive, and Harrow’s ragtag fleet has (more or less) just arrived. Before they can get their bearings on how to approach the City, they’re suddenly caught in a vicious crossfire between the Peleps Navy and Hell’s. They’re forced to escape deeper North, landing on an abandoned island to recuperate and consolidate.

Complicating matters, Windsong’s back. And she brought friends.

A local Bloodless cell mounted a botched attack on a fleet of slave ships. Windsong arrived a little too late to do much more than mitigate the catastrophe: they successfully freed the ships, but they didn’t have the supplies to drop off the newly freed prisoners anywhere in sight. She decided to bring the ships along with her to her rendezvous with Harrow’s fleet, hoping they could render assistance. And they got marooned on the aforementioned island just like everyone else, except with literally nowhere else to go.

Before they knew it, the Circle started a settlement. The island had an abandoned village and temple on it already, which Harrow quickly refurbished. Over the course of a month, they played the long game, spying on Erena’s siege while opening diplomatic channels with the local Realm-occupied nation.

But before they could all play house, Harrow had to say goodbye to a controversial special someone. Eyasha had spent the last Act growing steadily disillusioned with her Fae nature, and asked Harrow to help end it…

Harrow/Eyasha Rest - Eyasha’s Farewell (5k words)

(Note: This segment was written using Myra’s indie RPG “Rest”. Because in addition to being a great roleplayer, webcomic author, all around craftsperson and fantastic artist… she also writes RPGs. Talk about intimidating.

Rest is a micro RPG system for dream sequences, built to interlock into other RPGs. @winterwombat wrote the somewhat-homebrewed sequence in its entirety and Myra played it through, page by page.)

On a happier note, Windsong also got to spend the course of the month getting used to her new arm!

Harrow had spent the month-long timeskip between Acts 2 and 3 building the Mercy Unconquered. Windsong had it grafted onto her left shoulder in the middle of the Hell/Realm naval crossfire, and used it to great effect to defend Harrow’s ship from Wyld Hunt boarders. The surgery was a bit more rushed than either of them would’ve liked, and Harrow decides to take a moment to make sure everything is okay…

Harrow/Windsong III - Checkup (7k words)

The party learn that Erena is on the precipice of an all-out assault on the demon city, one that’s gonna work thanks to the introduction of goddamn warstriders. They hatch a crazy plan to simultaneously sneak their fleet into the city via an intake port into the Canals district, before capturing and securing the sector before the demons can react.

Problem: they sure as hell can’t defend a beachhead in a demon-infested city, while also managing a new settlement and protecting the Hrimval (the aforementioned local nation). So they concoct a plan that’s just breathtakingly stupid enough to work: put all their eggs in one basket by evacuating both the Hrimval and their settlement into Nef Lukai with them. Nef Lukai is huge, each of its five districts being incredibly easy to fortify and the size of a bloody city.

Somehow, this works. They sneak a strike team into the central manse, and defend Nika long enough from demonic horde mode for her to take over and flood the entire district. They secure victory after killing a giant enemy crab (I wish I was joking, it had a keep full of demons on its back) with the help of a mysterious archer. Mysterious sidereal archer vanishes right after the fight, but not before everyone gets a good look at her:

Windsong’s younger sister, Saerie. The one she sacrificed herself for in the first place. That night, for the first time in a long while, Windsong actually falls asleep.

Windsong Rest - The Gilded City (1k words)

(Myra wanted me to playtest Rest prior to publishing it, and wrote me this sequence to play through.)

Windsong’s Bloodless and the Hrimval work together to build a new home in Nef Lukai. Peleps Erena captured the Academy District with her assault, and the Demon Queen of the city called a ceasefire. Said queen throws a lavish party in the central spire, and everyone is invited.

The Circle show up and settle down for a long night of politicking and gunboat diplomacy. On the bright side, they’re joined by two new allies: Anastasia Ember (seductive Guild duelist from Arc 2, now looking for work and FWB status with Windsong) and Auriana (Eyasha’s solar-powered Fae-ish reincarnation!).

On the less bright side:

Windsong tries to befriend the Wyld Hunt monks, and is utterly dismantled by them for being the naive, stinking traitor she is. How innocent is she really when mortals flock to her banner to die for her causes anyway?

Phaedra, the Demon Queen, is an Infernal. One with complete free will, who rejected her demonic masters and set out to conquer the world into a better place. She’s a perfect counterpoint to Harrow, a warmongering corrupted Solar with ominously familiar goals of world domination and affable charisma.

Harrow’s finally met her match, and has her first Limit Break over her building self doubt.

Nonetheless, they persevere. Windsong sorts her shit out and figures out where her loyalties lie (hint hint, with a certain Solar admiral). Harrow pulls herself out of her fugue too, with Windsong fussing over her every step of the way.

Some skullduggery and clandestine adventuring ensue, culminating in a vicious blitzkrieg by the Realm. They burned a path through the Gardens district, besieging the Canals with warstrider support. Windsong and Sil defend the walls, barely, scraping together a victory thanks to a 11th hour superweapon piloted by Harrow: The Ascendant Justice. Nika and Harrow had managed to capture and consecrate the Cathedral District, giving her access to the personal warstrider of Windsong’s former incarnation.

After the dust has settled, a lot of people are dead. Phaedra shows up to announce her official alliance with Peleps Erena, along with a formal declaration of war in 4 days.

Things are looking grim, but grim is the Circle’s specialty.

A few days into their preparations for the Battle of Nef Lukai, Windsong seeks out Harrow in a quiet moment…

Harrow/Windsong IV - Joyride (8k words)

Afterword

And here we are. It’s been one heck of a journey, and I’ve skipped and skimmed over so much of this campaign (an entire half of the Circle and a ton of supporting characters). Shoutout to @winterwombat again for keeping this carnival going.

I remember throwing in the “Windsong has a crush on Harrow” development on a lark in Act 1, and @myrastuff really ran with it. It’s been almost a year and it’s so very cathartic to see it finally come together. This isn’t the end of their story either, and I can’t wait to see how they develop over the Arcs to come.

Fun fact, I created my tumblr account in the first place just to take part in the tumblr Exalted community. You’re all wonderful, and it’s been a wild ride. ^_^