#ifan: bow of the divine

[travelers-of-the-multiverse]

@divinityblcd

The jungle marshes outside the fort's walls were filled with the buzzing of mosquitoes, croaking of frogs, and splashes of puddles as boots step in them. A group of about 7 different people were marching through the muck. Two humans, an elf, a dwarf, a skeleton, and two lizards. The male human looked about the area, gently aiming his crossbow about. The female human was doing her best to keep her hair out of her face and mouth. The elf was on edge, her eyes darting on high alert. The dwarf kept an ear out, listening for something familiar. The undead looked bored, but clonked his skull every now and then to get the mosquitoes out. The male lizard led alongside the female lizard from the front, looking regal. But everyone was really following the blue female, who looked happy to be traveling with them.

"Well, it's looking like we're doing so far so good. We made it out of Fort Joy, got Ifan's crossbow, Sebille's next target. Now we just gotta find a way off this island, and the dreamer Sadan looks for." She exclaims, not seeming to be afraid of anyone listening in. She was quite blasé about all of this it would seem. And she, with the others, we not aware of someone else who might be nearby.

[superherosanonymous]

Help. I started playing Divinity Origin Sin 2 and I am in love with my entire current party. I love all of them for different reasons. Fane is an asshole, but like, in a hot way. Sabille is scary, but hot way. Ifan is soft and let me touch his cross bow. I'm trapped in a glass box of emotions and there is a squirrel yelling at me about a large acorn. Send. Help.

[about-feathers-and-claws]

Sandor das Balurik’s house in  Arx [Fic: The Divine Doom]

Main room: it is where Sandor mostly works, invading with books any free space. On the workbench can be seen some arrows, bows, and explosives; details of Ifan’s presence in the house. 

His room: it is where he keeps working too, but on his desk. There should be bookshelves everywhere, but DOS2 Game Master’s inventory lacks of any library (wtf?). In fact, the only item remotely close to a library is that disaster pile of books. Sniff. Not so fitting for a scholar, but well.

The bed has two bedside tables: one with water and some rings [Ifan’s items], and the other, of course, has books on it. 

Beside the bed, and behind the folding screens, the bathroom can be seen, in the Divinity fashion [the bath inside the room], where the mystical mirror [hatch behind it] is placed. Behind it there is a corridor that connects to the Barracks, with the former Lord Kemm’s chambers [Now Ifan’s].

Kitchen: it is a humble, yet well provided kitchen to cook mainly stews, since it is the only thing that Sandor knows how to cook. A video walking around the house can be watched [here], ignoring the damned bugged dwarven statue in middle of the room [haha, Game Master mode is so full of bugs and lacked of items].

[verrottweil]

la plus belle de céans

unbeta'ed but i just needed to get the first chapter of -whatever- this is out of my system, okay?

i wrote this because i really really like the way ifan says lohse's name and because i also high-key want to make the canonical sex scene a 100x more grittier and desperate. i mean i haven't written it yet, but /details/

on ao3

.

-Coin in the dead pauper’s mouth

will give me Lucian’s luck,

the noblewoman whispers before she slots

a Ducate

between an orphan’s frostbitten lips-

.

Superstition runs rampant in Verdistis.

At dawn, the prettiest scullery maids scour the skies for a single blue heron in the hopes a wealthy merchant’s son will notice them, and at dusk the city guards coat their breastplate with the crushed petals of a yarrow flower to ward off daggers in the dark.

Never mix your ales, the innkeeper reminds a barmaid when she cracks open a barrel, it brings us no luck lass.

Novice summoners throw bottles of expensive wines against late Corinna’s house, merchants refuse to shake hands over the threshold of their mansions and even the most crooked of thieves dutifully shoots a quick, simple prayer to the Divine before a heist. You was one o’ us, they’d whisper hotly, fumbling with a lockpick as if a demon was on their tail, and there’s still honor among us thieves, ain’t there?

These are certainties–

Good fortune rests in a pinch of salt thrown over the shoulder, a touch of stardust powder on a lovely woman’s cheek, a golden coin inside the dead pauper’s mouth–

Wolves will steal away little children sleeping too close to the edge of the bed and drag them underneath the willow root–

Ghosts won’t enter a home where sage is burning in the fireplace–

Lohse is ten years old and she knows that last one is complete and utter nonsense. Her mother crumbles sage leaves in the burning hearth every evening, but that doesn’t keep the spirits and demons out, doesn’t prevent her from turning into a haunt. Some take, some give, some teach her things – how to heal, how to hunt, how to hurt – and others don’t go gentle into that good night at all, seizing control of her small body and sending her into violent fits. One turned her tiny, clenched fists onto the city guard and she was dragged back home by the scruff of her neck, spitting curses in a foreign tongue, shrieking and wailing.

She’s a half-sized pint of energy regardless, wild and bright-eyed, with hair the color of a forest fire and skinny, skinned knees.

Don’t sleep too close to the edge of the bed, her mother often warns her, reaching for her under the threadbare coverlet, pulling her close against her chest. Her collarbones grow sharper, more defined as the days turn into months, and her face gaunt, pale, stricken with worry. The hovel smells of smoke, of sage, but the cold keeps biting at their toes regardless. Or the wolf will drag you to the forest, under the willow shrubs, my little one.

She bites her tongue, swallows down the brutally honest words she wants to give in turn sometimes, I’d let him mum, I’d bloody well let him.  

On crowded street corners, Lohse sings, jokes or dances, and on lesser days during the cruel, cold winter months mostly, she pleads, begs for alms or feigns death when a rich, soft-hearted noblewoman passes by.

She knows the city’s alleyways like the back of her hand and Lohse learns to survive on the skin of her teeth, on her lightning quick wit and razor-sharp tongue.

Whatever keeps the hunger at bay.

People have precious little coin to spare these days though. These are hard times, she overhears the general store merchant say to her mother, I heard sly ol’ Lucian’s rallying his army against the Black Ring, there’s a war coming, mark my words lady. She doesn’t really get what a war has to do with poverty, with an empty belly and no supper on the table, but her mother seems to understand and sighs and stretches herself even thinner.

The drunkards in the Ducal Inn always raise their mugs in unison when they talk about the war against the orcs, as if they were there too. In candlelight, they praise the Divine with flushed cheeks and slurred words as the barmaid brings another round to the table. Ferol is feral land, they agree, and bless Lucian for trying to tame it.

Lohse’s whole world is contained within Verdistis’ walls, and beyond there’s only woodland, the crumbling stonework of the old church they visit for mass, Rivertown market.

.

After the last frost’s thawed, the city holds a festival. Fanfare rings throughout the streets as the travelling troupe dances over the cobblestones, and people set up stalls in the park, hang garlands between the trees, hand out soup made of watercress and green peas for the poor, try to sell trinkets they no longer have use for.

Outside the wine merchant’s store, his servants load ox-drawn cart after ox-drawn cart with barrels and crates full of bottles.

Verdistis is bright, bold and proud in the face of a crusade.

Lohse’s thirteen years old and musters a cheerful smile, wanting to impress the sour-faced, burly leader of the travelling troupe with her song and dance.

There are patches poorly-sewn into her dress. Her fingers were clumsy from the cold, that seemed to creep through every crack between the planks of that sorry excuse for a hovel she lives in. I need to get out of here, she thinks, desperate, and sings even louder, does a magic trick.

Her mother died a fortnight ago. Ah yes, the bloody flux, the good doctor had exclaimed gravely, looking silly with his dainty handkerchief hard-pressed against his nose, you’re extremely fortunate not to have contracted it yourself, young lady. Lohse had to pay him two ducats for his troubles, and sold off anything valuable left to finance the funeral, to afford a cross planted in the rich graveyard soil with her mother’s name carved into the wood.

Orphans only last so long on alms and Lohse doesn’t intend to survive on moldy breadcrumbs and strangers’ bleeding hearts alone.

“Enough,” the ringleader bristles curtly. Her skirt whips around her ankles when she comes to a complete standstill, stopped dead in her tracks, and she rubs her hands together, shaking off the sparks. His eyes are glassy, like brass buttons under candlelight, when he gives her another once-over.

With a nod, – and even that’s too generous a description, it’s more a light inclination of the head – the leader of the travelling troupe makes up his mind. Lohse meets his scrutiny head-on, staring up at him with a defiant expression, as if her heart isn’t threatening to leap through her mouth. “If you know how to earn your keep, I got no qualms in you staying, girl.”

“I will. I mean, I do. Know how to earn my keep, I mean,” Lohse replies excitedly, rocking forwards and backwards on her toes. She tilts her head, pops her lips and asks, “So, uhm, what do I call you? I mean—”

The ringleader bares down the full weight of his gaze on her bony shoulders, on her patchwork dress and wildfire hair. He’s built like a brick house, scars and muscles, the type of man her mother would warn her to steer clear off if they’d met in one of the city’s alleyways. “Chief,” he says. “If you’re gonna call me anything, call me chief.”

Lohse meets the other members of the travelling troupe that same afternoon.

They’re a colorful bunch of singers, musicians, dancers, jokers and fortune tellers, from every corner on the continent it seems.

She pulls her weight. A young lizard dancer called Blaisdell, whose scales remind Lohse of the jellyroom growing in the shadow of the Ducal Inn, teaches her how to dance with magic, how to shoot searing flames from her fingertips. She learns how to strum the snares of a lute with nimble fingers, how to hold a high note without her lungs giving out, and how to execute the punchline of a crude joke properly.

They travel dangerous roads, so the chief has her practice with a bow, a sword, a dagger in each hand, and what her newfound family won’t teach her, the new spirits her roadside inn of a mind attracts will.

On one evening, after the travelling troupe’s just set up camp at the edge of the Dark Forest, Lohse shacks up with a fortune teller from the Mezd desert. Candles are burning in little stone bowls on their heavy trunks. Outside the dwarven musicians are quarreling about a lost game of dice.

My specialty’s palm reading, she says in a soft, melodious voice as she takes Lohse’s hand in her own, would you -perhaps- like a demonstration?

Her fingers are adorned with heavy rings and thin golden chains looping back to a fine, bright stone on the back of her hand. There are crow feet at the corners of her almond-shaped eyes and wrinkles around her mouth. Candlelight flickers over her face like a blessing.

With her forefinger, she gently traces the curve of the bracelet lines above Lohse’s wrist and hums lowly, channeling a burst of Source within her. When Lohse looks down on their held hands, there’s an unearthly glow clinging to their skin. She tells her of demons to come and adversities to expect, the customary niceties really, until…

You will run with a lone wolf, the palm reader intones, simultaneously looking and not looking at Lohse as she speaks, And make the whole world pack.

Those words seemed to stick, like honey to a teaspoon, like balm to skin, like blood to a murderer’s hands. Lohse would spend the night wondering what those words meant and would fall asleep dangerously close to the edge of the makeshift bed.

.

Even if Lohse feels indebted to the chief and his travelling troupe for getting her out of Verdistis, she was told there was never any obligation for her to stay permanently. Artists have always joined and left their ranks at a whim. Why’d you be any different, girl?

She’s eighteen years old and lingers hesitantly at the grand stone city gates, genuinely nervous for the first time in years, with a knapsack under her arm and a lute strapped to her back. Arx is noisy around her, and while the bones of the city are old and stately like a prim and proper merchant’s mother, the square is still thrumming with life and activity, even after the travelling troupe’s broken down their camp and loaded the oxen-drawn carts with their sails and tentpoles.

It’s close to lunchtime when she takes her goodbyes. Two magister recruits in their brazen red robes scramble past her towards the barracks, almost tripping over the cobblestones.

“Your name better haunt the roads, girl,” the chief says, with the midday sunlight baring down on his broad back and bald head. There are far more wrinkles around his eyes now, than when she first met him. She blinks back the tears in her eyes and ushers a facsimile of a smile. “Break a hindleg, like Blaisdell would say.” His voice is gruff, and Lohse could swear she saw something akin to pride on his face.

Lohse clutches the strap of her knapsack tightly and nods.

“There’s a whole continent for me to conquer, chief,” she responds determinedly. “And if Lucian can tame Ferol, what’s stopping me from doing the same, right?”

.

It’s hard, life on the road, but Lohse’s long-since learned how to scrape by on next-to-nothings.

She rouses tavern guests with rowdy drinking songs, watching how they toss coins at her feet until her throat’s sore and her voice’s gone hoarse, and the last of the drunkards slump over, asleep in their creaking chairs or against the counter of the bar. Oh, all the coin I e’er spent, I spent it in good company, she sings loudly, laughing when the crowd starts to sing along, and all the harm that e’er I’ve done, alas it was to none but me. Sometimes she falls into the good graces of one of the barmaids and gets a fresh pint, free of charge.

The farmers in Paradise Downs like her well enough when she leads the procession during the harvest festival, humming the traditional hymns, dressed up in autumn colors. Dead leaves crunch under her bare feet. There are swipes of dried sheep’s blood on her cheeks and the smell of apple cider hangs heavy in the air, like the promise of a night’s rest in a barn or – even better – in a farmstead’s bed. Lohse bows her head low to an effigy of Rhalic and prays that she better gets paid handsomely for this.

During a ride along Reaper’s Coast, she watches the faraway horizon slowly eat the silhouette of a magister’s ship. Lohse kicks her legs, holding onto the back of the wagon; the wheels squeak when they grind pebbles underfoot. Madcap fiddles with the strings of the fiddle, cursing sourly under his breath when another one snaps. Kroller keeps telling the same dirty joke about the difference between a lizard’s and an elf’s tongue to the coachman until he gets the punchline right. It takes a while.

Papa Joris claps her on the shoulder and points towards the sea. “Lohse, you ever find yourself in a sinking ship, follow the rats. They’ll find you a way out.”

“What’s this all about?” She asks, leaning back and settling her elbows on the wood, staring at him upside down. Her unruly hair falls pin-straight for once.

The well-natured dwarf takes on an air of importance and looks out over the water. He idly rubs at the large, jagged scar on his right cheek, that starts from his ear and disappears under the thick hairs of his beard. “I once fought a real beast, you know, in a different life. When I still served in the queen’s army.” Papa Joris sighs and all the tension bleeds out of him; the memories promptly tucked back under his skull and away from his loose-lipped mouth. “So. Take my advice, and follow the rats.”

“Sure thing, chief,” Lohse replies easily, bouncing her foot to the tune of Madcap’s broken fiddle.

.

Summer heat swelters under her skin, poised upwards like needles; sweat gleams in the hollow of her collarbones, in the curve of her elbows and knees.

The crescendo of her voice—

is not her own.

She’s the prettiest of the house, take her by the hand.

She’s the prettiest of the house, take her by the hand.

People are clapping to the beat of her feet stamping down on the floorboards. Lohse recognizes the numbness that comes with possession and has no choice but to allow the spirit’s presence to wash over her. Her awareness gets pushed into a narrow corner of her mind as her vision fogs up.

The crescendo of her voice—

rises, rises, rises.

Bring, bring our beautiful.

Bring your sheep from the fields, shepherdess.

Her hips sway like a snake-charmer’s pet, from right to left to right again. Someone smashes a bottle over the back of a woman’s head, and blood-stained glass and strong-smelling ale gushes down onto the floor. Whatever’s gotten a hold over her mind, is terribly persistent, hammered into the heart like a nail in Anhar’s boots. Stuck.

The crescendo of her voice—

rises, rises, rises.

Bring, bring our beautiful.

She’s the prettiest of the house.

Through the fog, Lohse hears someone screaming.

Everyone in the inn is staring at her, breathing haggardly, stumbling unsteady feet, holding onto one another as if dancing. The room stinks of spilled alcohol and blood.

The crescendo of her voice falls.

When Lohse catches a glimpse of her face in the reflection of a silver goblet, she finds her eyes turned pitch-black.

She swallows dryly and thinks,

shite.

.

It happens again at her performance near Driftwood—

One young magister backhands her harshly across the cheek; Lohse accidentally bites her own tongue and the overwhelming taste of blood fills the inside of her mouth. She watches the maddening crowd pull and push at each other from a frog’s perspective, lying defenseless on the ground from the blow. There are blurs of reds around her.

Two magisters haul her up by her arms and drag her away, muttering under their breaths about how she’s the ‘second sourcerer causing trouble’ and how there’s ‘still a spot on the Merryweather’. They hold her up so high, her toes barely brush the grass.

Lohse opens her mouth to speak, but before she can manage a word, the tallest of the two magisters kicks her in the shin and hisses for her to keep quiet. She can feel the bruise forming there, the shape and size of his foot, and groans incoherently in response.

They slip heavy iron bands around her wrists and ankles, and a strange, tight-fitting, blue-flickering collar around her neck–

“You’ll be cured,” the magister tells Lohse before she pushes her into the metal cage on the cart and slams the door in her face. “You better be grateful.”

“Oh really?” Lohse prompts back, stretching the ‘y’ in the word really, holding onto the bars. “I doubt you’re sending me to Fort Joy for an exorcism and a two-week vacation.”

The magister doesn’t acknowledge her anymore and turns the key inside the lock, and if there was ever a picture for the word final, this would be it.

.

[absolutelyabsolem]

A Long, Long Afterlife (2/?)

First part here!!! and reminder that this is post-ending, ifanmance. Also this chapter is doubling as “If you don’t like this world, then change it!” request. This ended up as a behemoth at about 9.3k words, and is also probably the most intensive editing I’ve ever done on a piece lmfao

     As Adelliah had predicted, Ifan had bolted as soon as they disembarked from The Lady Vengeance. Since then, she had been traveling from tavern to tavern, following every rumor of his appearance, or of Lucian's. Over the course of that time, she had thought and re-thought everything she could say to him, every way the encounter could play out. On lonely nights, she contemplated simply throwing herself at his feet, begging his forgiveness. She missed his smile, his laugh, his warmth... Her chest ached, and she had never felt its emptiness more keenly than those nights. She wondered if he missed her too, or only thought of her with rage now. Those thoughts hurt the most.

     It had taken Adelliah the better part of a month to track Ifan down, finally catching up to him while he was camping in the woods. Suspecting her welcome would not be a warm one, she kept ready to draw her spear as she stepped out into the light of Ifan's campfire.

     "Was wondering when you'd show up. You never were the type to just let things go." Ifan grunted, getting to his feet. His hands rested on his sword and shield, eyeing her warily. "So, are you here to stop me?"

     "If you mean 'to stop you from hunting Lucian,' of course not. The rest is up to you, Ifan. I'm not here to fight, but I will if you won't listen." One hand fingered her spear, as she stepped closer to Ifan.

    "Well, we might as well get this over with then. You know me. I can't just let things go either. If you want me to listen to the words of a traitor, you'll have to make me." As Ifan spit the final words in Adelliah's direction, he whipped his shield around, tossing it straight at her. She deflected it just barely, grunting from the impact. Taking the opportunity his shield throw left, she darted in with her spear, aiming for his unprotected side, but Ifan jumped backward, the spear nicking his armor but doing no damage. They stared each other down, each waiting for the other to move. Adelliah broke the lock first; raising her hands, she summoned her champion incarnate from the campfire beside him. Flames licked at its hulking figure as it brought itself down upon Ifan. As it rose, Adelliah spotted Ifan knocked to the ground, and her soul panged with grief and worry. Still, she steeled herself, advancing forward toward Ifan, spear at the ready. She knew it would come to this, just as it was clear he knew how this fight would end, his countenance resigned but still determined.

    "I have traveled this land for millennia before your existence was even conceived. And you think that I do not understand your grief, your rage at being betrayed? At losing everyone you ever cared about? Do you think every story I told you, every wound I shared with you, was naught but that? A bed-time fairy tale? " Adelliah stared Ifan down, spear pointed at his prone form, though her hands shook from the intensity of her emotions. She had thought she was prepared for this conversation, but still his words cut her deep. Her summoned Champion loomed behind her, its flame wrapped body lighting her from behind while the lightning that crackled down the spear illuminated her face, reflecting on the gold plating of her skull. Ifan quivered in fear at the visage. He had never seen her so angry, so upset, and for a moment he truly feared her. "I was there, Ifan. When the deathfog hit, I watched thousands die before my eyes, as I stood among them. I walked through that hell. Do you know how many I've buried, Ifan?" Ifan paled as she spoke, his own memory of that time never far from his mind.

    Readjusting her grip to steady her hands, Adelliah tapped his chest with the tip of her spear as she spoke, "Well now I won't give you any choice other than to listen. If you don't like this world, then change it! It is not Source that makes people good or bad. It is not having it or not having it that makes people do wicked things or allow wicked things. We have slain Magister and Sourcerer alike for their misdeeds, and been saved in turn by both Magisters and Sourcerers. I would have thought this, at least, to be something you knew. Clearly I was wrong." Adelliah started to lift her spear up from where it lay against Ifan's chest, and he closed his eyes, preparing for a blow that never came. In an instant, it was all gone. The incarnate unsummoned, her spear lowered. The sight of Ifan fallen before her had slowly broken through all her resolve and emotion, as piercing as surely as her own spear would be.

    Adelliah dropped to her knees before Ifan, the spear clattering on the ground. Her voice was filled with tears she could not shed, and the fatigue of thousands of years without sleep. "Please, Ifan, I am not asking you to forgive Lucian. I certainly never will. I am not even asking you to forgive me - I do not deserve it, after sacrificing my dearest friends. But no one in this world needs such power, let alone everyone! Could you imagine a world where everyone was a Sourcerer? Only half of them would ever learn to wield it, and who knows how many would even be using it for good. I only want you to see that the fate of this world is bigger than one man. One evil man that can still be brought to justice, regardless of the state of the world. And if you want revenge on me too, then so be it; I did not plan to survive this adventure anyway. But I cannot stand by as this rage consumes you. And I could not let the thousands of Sourcerers sacrificed be in vain. Too many have paid the price of Lucian's reign already." Adelliah’s hands were limp at her sides, head bowed before Ifan, a penitent awaiting judgement. She had said her piece. Whether he took her words to heart or not, she could not tell, too scared to raise her head. She heard a clatter, saw him pick up her spear from the corner of her eye. Eyes she wished desperately she could close, so that she would not see the blow coming.

    And come it did. Adelliah's own spear pierced through her armor, straight through where her heart would have been, and out the other side. But Ifan had missed every one of her bones, and she looked up, confused. He had not harmed her at all. Ifan stood above her, hands still clutching the haft of the spear. He was breathing hard, one lock of hair noticeably singed from earlier. Closing his eyes, he screamed his frustration at the sky. Adelliah flinched, the spear creating an uncomfortable pressure between her ribs, which creaked at the movement.

    "If I don't like this world, then change it? What kind of bullshit is that. The world is bigger than one man, but if I don't like it, I should change it? I am one man, Adelliah. One human, mortal man, who up until recently was nothing but a husk because of you. I have no power, no influence, no millennia to spend on such a venture. A wolf without a pack. You changed this world, for better or for worse. Lucian changed this world. That doesn't mean everyone can." He sat before her, shoulders slumped and head upturned. He took a moment, steeling himself to admit, "But... Hunting Lucian this past month, I've had a lot of time to think. It's true that you betrayed me but... I said I know you. And I like to think that I do, ass though I've made of myself. I gave Alexander a chance to talk.. Hell, I even gave Lucian a chance to talk. But I never listened to you - it was too fresh, too soon. I was wrong to compare you to Lucian, too. You did not use me, and you did not sacrifice thousands for an easy win."

    Ifan took a deep breath, turning to stare into the flames of the campfire. He had looked everywhere but at her by this point, the spear still embedded in her chest. Adelliah sat quietly, giving him time to say all he had to say. "Everyone having source, and no one having source... Maybe they're just two sides of the same coin, eh? I'm still not convinced, but we can't change what's in the past and... I'm willing to give it a chance. I'm willing to give you a chance. Same quest, but a fresh start. This time let's make sure Lucian stays dead, though. Only then will Divinity truly be over." Finally, Ifan looked at Adelliah. His eyes were wet with tears unshed, but his expression was a comfortingly familiar mixture of wry humor and his own gruff countenance.

    Adelliah's voice cracked, her hands covering her face as she whispered, over and over, "Thank you... Thank you, thank you, thank you." Ifan reached out, yanking the spear from her body with a grunt. Tossing it to the side, he gathered her up in his arms. Adelliah clung to him, her head pressed into his chest, still muttering her thanks repeatedly. He sighed, some of the tension leaving his body as the tears he had been holding back rolled down his cheeks. Though the issue was far from settled, in this moment they could be at peace in each other's arms.

    Pulling away from Ifan, Adelliah traced the edge of the hole in armor, her voice shaky but joking. "Did you really have to stab me? This is going to cost me a pretty penny to repair..."

    Ifan shrugged. "It made me feel better. Besides, I happen to know you have plenty of money, you hoard it like a dragon. You could just buy a whole new set if you wanted. Maybe you should - we can't lose Lucian waiting for your armor to get repaired." The way Ifan said we put a spring in Adelliah's step, the sun rising over their backs as they continued the hunt, together.

[travelers-of-the-multiverse]

The day's celebrations were underway. Alliance Day was in full swing at Arx, with every races members here. In fact, this is the first year with Orc and Imps joining the festivities. The stalls don't really have specific sections, it's a rather beautiful mish mash of cultures and styles.

Reyna was spending time with her friends and family, enjoying each other's company, catching up on what's been going on for all of them. It was nice, peaceful quiet. Something Reyna has been sorely lacking to be frank. It's just been one hectic thing after another, whether it's something from another world or her own. To be able to relax like this, hearing Lohse sing, watching Sebille smile, Ifan and Beast telling stories, hearing Sadan and Sadha go on about how amazing their children were, and Fane proclaiming his goals for the next year...it felt like she was on the road with them all again. Traveling, enjoying what precious moments of comfort they could earn.

This, in her mind, was what Alliance Day was about: This bond they all share, the unity that brought them together.

[travelers-of-the-multiverse]

It was certainly issue to have even seen that abhorrent demon Adramahlihk in the first place. Now though, after some investigating, it appears the situation is even worse than it initially seemed. Adramahlihk seemed to cast a spell that split his soul into 'full pieces'. Not fully himself, but pieces of himself that could exist on their own. There wasn't too many thankfully, but he took advantage of the knowledge and rifts to other worlds learned of by and others.

"Well, this is a right mess...I need some help, but who can I ask?" Reyna mutters to herself in contemplation. She can't ask for Sebille and Lohse's help, those two some of this world's best adventurers. And of course, Sadan, Sadha, Beast, Ifan, and Fane have their own very important duties to consider. So who...?

"If you need help, you could just ask us you know." A familiar voice says from the door to her study. Looking back, she spies two old allies of hers. One was a lizard woman of dark scales, with amber eyes, and a pose that exudes a sense of superiority. The other was a human woman, elderly and wearing black clothes and having short white hair.

"Siva? Wendigo? What are you two doing here?" Reyna asks.

"My Lady Divine, we saw you researching about the demon Adramahlihk and his recent actions. It seems you will need to travel out to find what he has accomplished, and stop him." The elderly woman, Wendigo, says.

"Besides, I'm frankly tired of just leaving this to you. You brought me back to life, restored my Source and what? I'm just going to sit around doing nothing? Nonsense, you need me more than ever frankly." Siva, the lizard states.

Reyna smiles at the two of them warmly for their offers. "Well...I do need some help on this. So, thank you both, I gratefully accept your aid." She says bowing to them.

"Think nothing of it, Lady Divine, I owe you my life after all." Wendigo says.

"Well, I mostly just want to stop sitting around, teaching these plebeians about their source when you have a dozen other teachers for it." Siva says.

[travelers-of-the-multiverse]

Reyna sure did like visiting this world often. It was so obvious that a couple of her former companions actually got curious about it. Reyna is usually terrified of insects, so having a world full of them not freak her out? Was something they had to see for themselves to believe. So they ended up traveling to the world with her this time.

Both of them were humans. One was a tall burly man with a rugged beard and black hair, wearing full chain mail with a crossbow on his back. He had the look of someone who had been through a lot. The other was a lithe female, with orange hair with a white streak, blue eyes, a long purple robe and a staff on her back. Her eyes were filled with curiosity about the place they now found themselves in.

Reyna leads them on through Dirtmouth on the lookout for Ghost, though there were no signs of them so far. She sees what appears to be a bug in a cloak and mask and decides to ask if they’ve seen Ghost. She walks over to them and politely bows to them. “Excuse me, hello. I’m looking for King Ghost, are they here in Dirtmouth right now?” She asks.

@artfullydevoted

[travelers-of-the-multiverse]

The 14th day of this month is a day of celebrating love! Does anyone have anything special planned for that day?

"I plan on heading to the Forbidden City with Sadan and Sadha for a honey moon!" Reyna says happily.

"I might or might not have some plans of my own." Lohse says with a wry smile as she glances at Sebille, who isn't paying attention to the question.

"Not much for me. Fane is going to be going on a search for his wife again, since he still hasn't found her." Ifan says with a shrug.

"As fer me, nothing more than a good ol pint with me men down at the docks." Beast says.

[travelers-of-the-multiverse]

*It's now cold enough that it's started snowing! Is anyone outside playing in the snow?*

The 4 dragon children absolutely are. Slane is completely at peace making dragon shapes in piles of snow. Meanwhile, the other three are enjoying testing their fire powers on the cold snow, which is relatively safe.

In addition, Lohse is having a blast with Sebille, as the former dragged the latter out for a snowy good time.

Beast is staying inside, while Ifan just wanders around watching the snow fall down.

Fane is, as always, studying the snow and understanding it.

And Reyna, Sadan, and Sadha are enjoying a nice quiet moment together, watching the snow fall from the inside of the cathedral, near the fire place.

[absolutelyabsolem]

How about.... “I’ll be here as long as it takes.” UndeadOC/Anyone

You really know how to tickle my wishbone lmfaooo ANGST! ANGST! ANGST!!!! I completely most of it way earlier in the day, but I got distracted by a kdrama right before I finished lmfao… Thank you sooo much tho~

      When Adelliah became undead, she quickly learned waiting was something she would have to become accustomed to. As the centuries passed her by, years started to feel like seconds. Snapshots in the years of memories built up. Time only slowed in the heat of the moment; the fire of battle, of passion, of happiness, of sorrow. Still, those were the most cherished of memories, and the times that were hardest to leave behind. Each lifetime added a hundred, a thousand, a million moments worth living for, but with each lifetime those moments became harder and harder to let go of. Friends became family became fodder, en endless cycle of gain and loss, with no end in sight. She could measure her lifetime in the lifetimes of her friends, most cut tragically short by blade or bow, or the rare occasion magic. She told herself each time, that she would become accustomed to loss, that this was part of who she was now. She never did.

      It happened so close to the end Adelliah could have tasted it if she had a tongue. The final battle - they all knew it. Sebille, Beast, Ifan… They had traveled with her, put their trust in her.

     Sebille was free, really truly free, her former master dead, her duty to the elves ended, and yet she had followed Adelliah still. For friendship, as the first decision she made unbound by any shackles. Because she said Adelliah was the best friend she had ever had. The first friend.

     Beast had finally found a chance to confront Justinia, to pull her out from the influence of the Black Ring. Adelliah had watched him plan with Justinia, to go back to the dwarven lands and rebuild, despite her protests that he should become Divine. Beast had simply smiled and shook his head, telling Justinia that if anyone became Divine, it would be “the lass.”

     And Ifan… Oh, Ifan. Lucian, right in front of him, retribution staring him in the face. And they had felled him! Fallen to the ground, the first of their enemies to go. They had all felt Ifan’s rage, his grief, had known that Lucian would be their priority - that no matter what happened, they had to take him down. Adelliah had deferred to him, as she had every time something was important to one of her companions. No, her friends. She had held his hand when confronting Alexander; hugged him after the talk with Hannag; kissed him, loved him, after their escape from the well…

     All for naught. One by one, they had fallen to the Kraken. Sebille had gone quickly, already weak from the previous fighting. A small mercy, that. Beast was the second to fall, flames licking at his flesh. His beard did burn, in the end.

     Ifan was the last of the three to fall, desperately fighting side by side with Adelliah, Braccus Rex the only adversary left. She could still hear his labored breathing as he struggled to hold up his sword and shield, the pained grunt as a bolt of electricity hit him from Braccus’s staff, the clatter of his armor as his knees hit the ground. She had watched in horror as his bloodied body sagged the rest of the way to the ground, his eyes trained on her, resigned. Regretful. Seconds stretched into millennia, and she had never felt the passage of time so acutely as she did with each of his shuddering, weakening breaths. She screamed as his eyes glassed over, flinging everything she had at Braccus - and won. A hollow victory, surrounded by the corpses of her friends. Her family. She sank to her knees beside Ifan, shaking him, pleading, “You have to get up, come on, Ifan…! It’s over! Ifan? I know you’re tired and hurt, love, but we can get you patched up, you just have to get up! Please! Please…” She looked up, toward where Sebille and Beast lay. At the death all around her. Rage built - rage at the “gods,” the “divine,” all the lies and hatred that had hurt her friends… and led to their deaths. She lashed out, a bolt of blood striking a pillar.

     Adelliah yelled at them, what was left of them, “How could you fall here at the end! You had it all in your grasp…!” She beat Ifan’s chest ineffectually, his body as cold as hers, but stiff. Her voice dropped to a whisper, shoulders slumped, defeated. “All of you… You were all so close, you could have spend the rest of your lives doing whatever you wanted. You could have been happy. So why? why? Why did you join me, if you were just going to leave me like this…” Unable to shed tears, she screamed her anguish, the broken cry of a woman who had lost too much, for too long. Stumbling to her feet, she walked to the throne where the Aeteran floated, awaiting use. She clutched it to her chest, and went to the bodies of their enemies, draining their source one by one. Braccus… Dallas… Lucian. One more person’s worth of source was all it would take, and she could seal away the Voidwoken. Free everyone from this war, this cycle…

     "I’ll be here, guys. I’ll be right here. As long as it takes for me to join you in the Hall.“ So she sat, Ifan’s head in her lap, holding one of Sebille’s and Beast’s hands in each of her own, as her source was drained away by the Aeteran and cast back into the Veil. Quietly, as her consciousness slipped away, she sang to them, her voice echoing in the crypt beneath crypts.

     Rumor spread that the path of blood had become haunted by the pilgrims who had died to its trials, and even when the cathedral eventually fell to ruin, it was said that a voice could be heard, singing and singing for her friends to come home.