#i figured out where in ustalav she's from

[lordcaptains]

Zephis Marin, Knight-Commander of the Fifth Crusade

"disdainful stroke" © wotc | "channeled storm" © zenimax | "jane foster" by miguel mercado

template by @jacobseed

[gischtglas]

5 Songs - Danica

Ben did a perfectly moody (and speedy!) (seriously, I’m jealous) job for his Jim Biggs*, PI. Poor fucker came from the same game as Saria and Selina, though he was absent for most of the fun. I presume Saria having poked him with an injector full of detox was at least partially responsible for that - it didn’t have a pretty reaction with the years of heavy drinking Biggs had done. I’ve always liked Biggs’ noir-y inner monologues, so this one was an absolute gem to read. That said: May I present, another healer. No, I don’t have a type.

*not innuendo (I’m presuming)

Akiko Shikata’s Pantalea - while Japanese and Ustalav do not necessarily mix (or for that matter at all, really), Pantalea belonged to Danica the second I first heard it. the jubilant tones, the hopefulness, the cheer, the celebration of beauty: all that is very Danica. she is her friend group’s sunshine-distilled-into-personhood, bright and cheerful and positive, and while she absolutely struggles with it when things get though (for her, which... is a different definition of though than for most other people), she takes that role rather seriously.

Dar Williams’ Around the World - she is an explorer, that one, be it of ideas or of the world around her. Danica’s mind rarely stops and chances are she is going to try that thing she just found out about sooner rather than later (and on herself, damn it, because at least that way nobody else is going to get hurt). but that doesn’t mean she doesn’t have a home or at least people (creatures?) she can always come home to - and will come home to again. eventually. and it’s truer now than it’s ever been / I am the lucky one that love has taken in...

Angel Nation’s Burn the Witch - growing up a witch in Ustalav has left Danica with a bright, stabbing panic around situations where mobs seem likely. sure, she is perfectly fearless around werewolves, Urgathoa cultists and hags (she can handle those), but mobs - mobs scare her. and Inquisitors. and Penitents. somewhere deep in her, there is still the scared little girl that met her Patron deep in the forest, that was given up for dead and returned anyway - and had to be hidden away from the village she had grown up in for fear of the entire family being handed over to a witch hunter. at the end of the day, nothing calms her as much as the feeling of having someone to protect her from the pyre she knows looms just one wrong word away.

Amy MacDonald’s Leap of Faith - no, you move. Danica dreams big, impossible dreams - cure lycanthropy. restore a man’s eyesight. help everyone. of course she knows she might not succeed, but why should that stop her? she also loves much the same way: there is beauty in the heart of everyone, even those the world has deemed monsters. everyone deserves to be loved, acknowledged, seen. people are close-minded in Ustalav. why should their limited worldview be allowed to trip up someone not believing in a single aspect of it?

RAIGN’s A Queen’s Head - to top of Danica’s general un-Ustalavian nature, she is pretty openly sexual. to make matters wise, she's also poly. she falls in love quickly - even she’d admit that - but every last of her crushes is precious to her. the push and pull of figuring out who comes out on top of every given interaction, the exhilaration of being at the centre of someone’s world and letting someone be at the centre of hers, the thrill of being wanted and wanting in turn... she isn’t entirely sure how to live without these anymore.

BONUS: Matthew Mayfield’s The Wolf in Your Darkest Room - where there is light, there must be darkness. Danica isn’t sure whether the casual ruthlessness and the equally casual cruelty that occasionally raise their head in her is her own set of thorns or whether it’s the crooning call of the hag that raised her, but as she is farther and farther away from the protection of her Auntie, she realises more and more that this darker side of her has its uses too - and whether she gives in or not in the end even she couldn’t say. (or whether it is such a thing as giving in and not more learning to strike a balance... but that is dangerous talk. she has always been fond of danger.)

[caliphas]

Sera, a Cleric of Sarenrae, and Anatole, a Paladin of the Sun Goddess, stood stock still as the sound of an approaching figure in the woods became audible. Sera looked around. “Be on guard. I feel we may not be alone.”

"Most observant, my friends. Most observant." came the gritty response. Anatole's hand went for their morningstar, eyes narrowing. "Show yourself." They called, shifting slightly to be in front of Sera. "I would prefer to avoid a fight." 

A figure emerged from the wood. He was tall, built like a gorilla- with a shock of black hair that splayed messily down past his shoulders and burning golden eyes. A wicked toothy grin was spread across his lips, and you could see that wire wrapped around his forearms. And behind it all, on his back- that terrible, terrible axe. "I have a lot of names. Which do you want?"

“Do not come closer, or I’ll be forced to draw my blade,” Sera says, clutching her sheathed weapon.

The figure walked closer. "At birth I was known as Zurath Huizhast. But honestly... don't you find names pointless? It's a label, when really, you should remember someone for their face, their voice- and what they can do." To this reply, the two holy fighters raised their weapons in preperation.

"Whoa, now." Zurath raised a single hand. "None of that now. I promote an alternative lifestyle. One where..." he cracked his neck. "We as a society can reinvent ourselves, with some outside help. And to do that, I believe- requires a full reset. Perhaps even a total wiping of the slate. Tell me, my friends- I need some help with a quick ceremony. In my foolishness, I didn't bring enough offerings for my deity. I can tell by your robes that you're all holy folks. I am too, if it was difficult to tell. Who is your god?"

“The Dawnflower, Sarenrae. Goddess of sun, redemption, honesty, and healing. I don’t suppose you worship the same goddess as my friend, or I?” Sera inquired.

"Oh." the shaggy stranger looked disappointed. "Your God isn't real then."

Sera gripped her scimitar. “How dare you?” Anatole, however, tilted their head. "And who is your god?"

"Don't get me wrong. I am sure that Sarenrae exists." Zurath yawned. "But she is no deity. A god should be a creature that has been around since the dawn of creation, not some pretender who claims ownership of the sun without even having spawned it. My goddess... my goddess is a true deity. A goddess who has existed long before any of this universe even existed, and shall continue to do so- when we are nothing but cosmic dust in some new infant universe- but by her grace, we will be given the gift of joy. The power to rewind and become what we once were, before your pretender gods took their place, before the spider Rovagug even breathed- the flailing, carnal chaos that once inhabited this world when the universe was new. My goddess is the goddess of life, the goddess of birth and death. My goddess is the Black Goat in the Woods. My goddess is the mother of a thousand young. My goddess... Shub-Niggurath." he shrugged, slowly retrieving his axe. It's huge. It catches fire, and immediately hisses as the edges of the blade seem to drip oil that corrodes as it lands..

Sera was afraid, but would not let herself falter. “You’ve gone mad, letting the whispers of the Dark Tapestry take you.” She lifted her weapon. “But I shall set you free.”

"You never answered my question." Zurath chuckled. "Won't you help me with my offering? All I need is... your... blood."

And with that, Zurath Huizhast lurched forward, and with his flaming, corrosive blade, mowed Sera down, her spine severing and scorching as her wound was instantly cauterized and eaten away by his axe.

Sera gasped in pain, spitting up blood as she falls to the ground, not dead yet. She always was a little more perseverant than most. “You’re—“ cough, “a bastard. And you’ll rot in hell the moment you die. May Sarenrae’s light—“ cough, “Damn you.” She held her scimitar tightly in her hand, tears welling up in her eyes. It hurt, more than anything she had ever felt before. But then she saw the light, brighter than the pain. “I’m— so sorry, Anatole. R— un—“ she sputters, and her body falls, as she follows the light.

"I love it when they keep talking." Zurath sighed, picking her top half up from the ground by the wrist, having split her body like a twig now. "Like a chicken with a head that's been cut off. It took a lot of work to perfect that technique." he licked some of the blood, and shot a glance at Anatole. "You there. Run home. Tell everyone that Chaos comes to Caliphas."

Anatole just.... stared. Expression blank, face stoic. Then they took a step back, and then another, staring up with their wide owl eyes at Zurath. They knew they were not ready for this fight, but they refused to let the adrenaline rushing through their veins make them a coward. Anatole continued their steady backwards advance, and then once they were well out of sight of Zurath, they turned and force themselves to walk calmly home. As Anatole fled back to Caliphas, they could hear the rumbling song of Zurath, like a lumberjack passing time as he sang: "Iä! Shub-Niggurath! The Black Goat of the Woods with a Thousand Young! May she descend upon mankind and devour the unworthy!"

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