#i think he either gets integrated back in until he's heavily implicated in everything like he was last season

[elftwink]

@turq8 replied to your post “@nayawilliams replied to your post: idk how to...”

Damien was only the "big bad" of the first two seasons (and really the second one mostly) bc Wadsworth & the AM hadn't been properly introduced yet. Now that they have been & we know how much of a threat they pose to the mains, Damien just seems like... an annoyance in comparison. Joan is scared of the AM in a way that she never really was afraid of Damien, & from some of Lauren's comments, it seems like we're moving farther into that world this season

yeah like damien’s still trash as hell and could wreak some havoc before his story totally wraps up and probably will but i def think the AM is going to be the bigger concern this season and i dont see damien having the same spotlight and there’s maybe a couple ways i can think of to keep him around without it being too much of a drain? but i also feel like if he stuck around too long he would feel like a distraction from the main plot if u know what i mean

[scurvgirl]

The Woods

Gets a simple prompt, turns it into complete AU building for a ship that is nowhere close to filling the prompt *shrug* 

Darevas and Felasel belong to @selenelavellan

Uthvir (yes that’s them) belongs to @feynites

Twins in Arlathan AU 

There is a certain amount of chaos that results from Andruil’s death. Miriel’s parents are quick to get them all out of the vicinity of other hunters. They’re a pack of vultures, ready to pick the bones of opportunity dry, but for her small family, they simply want to survive.

But because they are hunters, they know the woods well. They hide and hunt just enough to stay alive, waiting for the chaos to die down. In the process, they come across others and in time they form what the older members call a clan. It’s temporary, they all say. Just until they can make sure that they won’t be hunted themselves or somehow wrongly implicated in Andruil’s death.

But time drags on, years upon years pass and the idea of rejoining society becomes more difficult. And despite everything, they have done well for themselves.

They have makeshift structures, a miniature government consisting of representatives from each original group of runners. Caution sits for Miriel and her father, Tassan. There are four other representatives, and they get along as well as any government does, Miriel supposes.

Many of the people they’ve run into aren’t hunters, they’re not even properly skilled with weapons, but there is a tanner, a cook, and a few intelligent servants who have adapted well to the circumstances.

Every few years, they send someone out to see if they can rejoin society, to give authorities their location and then relay information to them that it’s safe to come out. But no one has returned, not in the now one hundred years they’ve been here.

She knows it seems dramatic that it’s been so long, but it isn’t so dramatic when considering she was thirty when it all began. Formally an adult but still a child to many, including her overly protective parents.

That being said Miriel is one of the few hunters now responsible for the majority of their food supply. She ventures out from the camp frequently to hunt, and often by herself since they are so few. While they are significantly removed from society, it’s temporary, they know this. They don’t violate any of the laws set forth from the leaders otherwise.

There’s this big speech they’re going to give to capitulate once they are assured that everything is safe again.

But Miriel is dubious. She likes this life. It is chaotic and not as lavish as they life she lived previously, but it is honest and good and away from the threat of sacrifices and ridiculous standards. The woods have granted them a certain amount of freedom and she wonders if they really will be allowed to peacefully integrate with the rest of Elvhenan again.

It is a calm day when Miriel leaves once again. She’s hoping to catch a deer or something sizeable, they haven’t had a large catch in over a week and it’s beginning to strain. She pulls her hair back and ventures out with her bow and quiver.

She finds trail signs of a deer not far from the camp and begins to track it. If she’s lucky, it’s a buck. Whatever it is, it’s sizeable and warrants following. It takes her hours of tracking it down to see it…and beyond it a sizeable contingent of soldiers, all bedecked in exceptional finery. The kind of finery very few are permitted to wear, if she remembers correctly. The two at the front wear the most refined of the armors, while the others are dressed in what appear to guard uniforms.  She counts ten in total, heavily armored and armed enough to rouse suspicion and concern.

She could still trace the deer, follow it, kill it, bring it home and ignore the strangers, but the strangers could be potential threats to the camp. This could be the indication that their time apart has come to an end.

Miriel shifts into an eagle and flies up into the canopy, watching the strangers closely.

The two at the front look regal, almost like Andruil had. Their faces are masked and the guards behind them all bear Dirthamen’s vallaslin. She knows…very little of Dirthamen’s people, all things considered. But she has heard that he wears a mask, so perhaps it is now in trend for his high ranked people to wear them as well? She is unsure but it her best guess for now.

Her eyes follow them closely and one of their ears twitch before he looks up at the tree she is perched in. Miriel remains still as he slowly turns back to the other barefaced man.

They’re too far away for her to hear what he says but the other man looks up at her roost. Her wings twitch. She flies away to a new tree, one that is closer to the camp and waits to see if they pass by it. When they come up on the ridge, she feels an overwhelming need to dive down and harass them in some fashion. They need to leave.

But no, they all knew this would happen eventually.

She has two options – either fly back to camp and prepare them or approach these people and hope to explain the situation before anything gets out of –

A net suddenly wraps around her, heavy and clunky, dragging her down, screeching and flailing. The world spins as her wings beat only to entangle her further. This kind of fall could kill her in her current form, she needs to shift.

Assholes knew that would happen.

Miriel shifts back into her elven form, stretching and breaking some of the netting, but not all as she collapses to the floor of the woods. The wind in her lungs is forced out of her and she wheezes as her vision blanks out. Her head…it hurts, she thinks.

She hears the dull thudding of hooves around her and she distantly realizes that the princes and their guards have found her. Shit. She needs to sit up, explain. Move, she demands of her body. She tries to lift her head only for it to spin and she hisses in pain.

“One of the Nameless?” A voice says.

“It is hard to tell. She wears Andruil’s old markings and that looks like old Hunter leathers.” A second voice, younger.

“What is she doing out here?” A third voice says, as young as the second but quieter – suspicious.

“Maybe she was trying to escape the chaos? Other low ranking Hunters have been found in the woods.” The second voice says.

“Yes, dead. Who’s to say she isn’t the one who killed them?” The third replies.

“Who’s to say she did?” The second says.

“There is little point in debating this when the only person who can confirm or deny it is in no state to answer,” the first voice interjects. Rational, older.

“True. Take her back to our father’s lands, we’ll interrogate her there.”

Interrogation. No. She knows what happens in those, she can’t – no, no. Hands wrap around her arms to pick her up and she means to zap them or fight but everything hurts in that moment. They move her and her blood rushes and then everything goes black.

**

The pounding in her head is unlike anything she’s ever experienced. They used slow healing on her, an encouragement she supposes for her to talk and answer truthfully. Her mouth is dry and judging by the emptiness in her stomach, they have either not bothered or managed to feed her. More incentive.

She needs none. But their hostility towards her is alienating in itself and she worries that this is what her clan may face. Will they all be interrogated to make sure they were not treasonous in their desperate bid to not die at the hands of other ruthless Hunters or other opportunists who kill indiscriminately?

Miriel opens her eyes slowly to a dimly lit room, a shadowed figure in the corner.

“You wake,” they figure says. She licks her lips.

“Yes. Water?” Her throat is unbearably scratchy and dry. The figure moves forward, a glass of water in their grasp. Their face bears Mana’din’s markings though, when she was expecting Dirthamen’s. Odd.

They don’t hold the water to her lips or loosen her restraints, just hold the water in their grasp.

“Need…to talk,” she says, wincing at the pain in her throat. They watch her for a moment before lifting the cup to her lips. She drinks it greedily, gulping it down quickly in fear they will take it from her. But they don’t, and allow her to breathe a moment afterwards.

“Talk,” they say.

Water drips from her lips as she looks up at them, “My mother and father were high ranking Hunters for Andruil. They could have vied for power in the wake of her death but they had me, and I was only beginning to climb the ranks. It was…chaos. Ranks closed in, people were eager to prove themselves, to weed out loose links. So we ran.”

“What are your parents’ names?”

“Tassan and Caution. They’re probably terrified.”

“Your name.”

“Miriel.”

They pause then, returning to their corner. They pick something up and she realizes there’s a table.

“There were seventy-eight reported missing individuals from Andruil’s lands after her demise. You, your father, and mother were all on that list.” Far more than the group she lived with, but that could easily be explained dead and other missing. Who’s to say their little enclave is the only one? Being so close to Ghilan’nain’s lands afforded them the protection of benevolent negligence.

Choices, choices. Lie, and they very well may kill her or torture her. Possibly both. They could name her a traitor anyways, though, that happens all the time. She could tell the truth, and they still may torture and kill her. And then torture and kill the people she’s come to see as family over the years.

She could attempt to bargain, but they could lie and hurt them all anyways.

Miriel remains quiet and they turn towards her.

“How old are you, Miriel?” They know the answer to that, it’s public record. One hundred thirty. Young, a shame for her to die.

“One hundred thirty-seven,” she replies, “I was thirty when the Lady Andruil died.” They turn back to her and stroll forward.

“Why have you not attempted to rejoin society?”

She licks her lips. Tricky question that will answer more than question depending on how she’ll answer.

“We were scared.”

They raise an eyebrow, “Lying by omission is still lying. One chance to change your answer. Why have you remained hidden?”

There is the glint of a blade and she resists the urge to whimper. Her stomach growls and she sags against her restraints.

“It was a free for all when she died. Many of the higher ups would have hurt me, or my mother, my father. And many, many others. I left with my parents. Over time we ran into others like us. We worked together. But it was just to survive, you have to understand, we didn’t do anything against the law, we just…worked together. Every few years we sent someone out to see if it was safe but they never returned. We sent out twelve people.”

There is a long pause before she realizes that they’ve left. She blinks and tries to look around the room. Is there anything she can use, anything to –

The door opens and the torches are suddenly all lit. She winces, closing her eyes against the harsh light.

“Take her to the healers, give her food and water,” her interrogator says. She blinks the spots away, in shock.

“What?” She says softly, watching as several servants wearing Mana’din’s vallaslin of all things rush in to start untying her. The person who is presumably her interrogator stands at the door.

“If what you say is true, then you will lead us to your camp. You need healing and sustenance for that.”

Her brow furrows as she steps down from the chair she was strapped into.

“If I am to lead you to them then promise me that they will not be harmed. We did what we had to survive,” she says, trying to sound stronger than she actually feels.

“I promise,” they say but she bares her teeth. They’re lying.

Servants guide her onto a moving cot and they disappear before she can respond them. Dammit. Worry sinks into her as she’s carted through what she guesses is a palace. The dungeon, or wherever she is, is not nearly as gruesome as she’d expect, but then again she is used to Andruil when it comes to her Leaders, not Mana’din. Perhaps the rumors on her mercy towards her followers are not exaggerated? It could be so hard to tell, she remembers.

The room spins and she shuts her eyes. The pain in her head blooms anew and she curls against the cot as it continues to move. When it finally stops, she is urged to a new cot, one lower and stationary so that the healers can fuss over her.

The clan had one healing assistant, young and inexperienced. She has…scarred from various accidents and miscalculations over the years. The healers strip her and fuss over the raised flesh on her arms, one by her clavicle where she broke it falling out of a tree, on her legs, her hip. There are none on her face, thankfully, but they click their tongues in disapproval anyways. They redress her in a cotton shift and set to work.

They root through her hair and begin the slow process of healing her concussion. More people arrive with a small cart of food consisting of breads, fruits, cheeses, and some dried meats. There is a pitcher of water, though she almost would prefer wine considering her predicament.

They lied. There is no promise that no harm will come to her people, and it feels like she is expected to lead death to her family’s door. She nibbles on the food while the healers work as she tries to figure out a plan.

Hunters plan, Mamae liked to say. They always have an escape route – physical or otherwise.

One of the healers tuts, “Injuries like these require several sessions, you won’t be fit for an excursion to the woods for some time.”

“A shame,” a familiar voice says from across the room. Miriel looks up to see one of the masked men from the woods. She immediately diverts her eyes.

“I was looking forward to seeing more of the woods.”

She resists the urge to roll her eyes.

“Perhaps if a net had not been so unceremoniously thrown at me, you could have explored further. Alas, I am injured,” she replies and the room falls silent.

“My Lord, she does not know,” one of the healers whisper and she frowns at the woman by her side.

But the man raises his hand and waves, “You have had no word of the state of affairs for over one hundred years, correct?” He asks directly to her.

“Yes, that is correct.”

“Then she does not know who I am any more than I know who she is. I do recommend to at least know who you are sassing, however,” he says and she narrows her eyes.

“And who are you, then that I am sassing to warrant such a response?” She asks. Clearly, she has erred and she wishes to kick herself. But her head hurts and she is still ravenous, and this may be the one who is responsible for all of this – a little ire and sass is to be expected, but depending on his rank, anything may never be warranted.

He stands straighter and strides to the side of the cot, there is magic in his robes, behind his mask, practically brimming over. His robes are unlike anything she has ever seen, silver with great care to detail that carries out from the folds of a cowl around his neck all the way to the floor. He is gloved, hooded, in tall boots, completely covered from head to toe. And in that moment, she feels extremely exposed in her cotton shift.

“I am Darevas, son of Dirthamen and Selene, brother to Mana’din, grandson to Mythal and Elgar’nan, nephew to Sylaise and June. And you did not sass me, but my twin brother, Felasel.”

Her body goes cold. He is…to be one of the leaders. Most likely to lord over what was Andruil’s lands with his brother and she –

She bends herself forward in apology.

“I beg for mercy, my lord, I-I did not know.”

She expects deliberation or pain but instead she is given…laughter?

“Normally I’m the only one who can sass my brother. What is your name?”

“Miriel, my lord,” she answers, still in her prone position.

“That is a lovely name, Miriel,” he says, lingering on her name.

“I came to wish you well on your recovery, and to see if you were up to discussing the woods. But it appears you are unfit.” He turns to leave and she doesn’t resume a regular sitting position until he has gone.

The healers heave a sigh of relief, murmuring about being glad that the lord was merciful enough to not undo their work on her. But she is foolish, tempting wrath like that.

Miriel leans back into the cot and tries to plan. Hunter always have a plan and she needs to make one soon.