#matriarch of solitude

[swordmaid]

i wanna draw more art of shri’iia in her oath of the crown era/with her matriarch like she really had a 100 year long situationship with that woman. and she spent most of it hidden away in a tower. alone. 🫶

[schemmentigfs]

Sweetening The Deal. (part 9.)

Summary: Teresa Schemmenti suffers from the consequences of her past while dealing with dementia and Kristin Marie reflects about the complex relationship between her mom and sister. Meanwhile, the redhead and you are in your own private paradise in Lake Como.

tags: @lifeismomentsyoucannotunderstand @lisaannwaltersbra @italianaidiota @kukikatt @dopenightmaretyphoon @schmentisgf @pitstopsapphic @jeridandridge @aliensuperst4rr

(this chapter is 5k words, but I promise that is worth it.)

Part 1. Part 2. Part 3. Part 4. Part 5. Part 6. Part 7. Part 8.

The Schemmentis estate was quieter than it had ever been before. The massive mansion, with its towering columns and intricate ironwork, seemed to hold its breath under the weight of time. The once-stately grandeur of the place now felt more like an imposing relic, a monument to an era long past. Dust motes swirled lazily in the light that escaped through the heavy curtains, casting shadows that seemed to stretch for miles. Every creaking floorboard and distant echo of silence told the story of forgotten years, of once-bustling rooms now swallowed by the weight of solitude. The scent of aged wood and leather lingered in the house, combined with the faint, musty smell of a property that had been left to rot at the edges.

The grand staircase, with its polished banister and spiraling ascent, was the heart of the mansion, but now it stood like a sentinel—silent, unyielding, and uninviting. It had once been a symbol of privilege and power, a place where the Schemmenti name had been proudly carried up to the highest floors, where the echoes of laughter and conversation had filled every hallway. Now, it was little more than a reminder of what had been lost. Melissa, the only decent member of the Schemmenti line, couldn’t help but feel the weight of it every time she looked at it—its grandeur mocking her as she tried to escape the suffocating legacy her family had left behind.

In the well furnitured living room, Teresa Schemmenti, the once-feared matriarch of the family, sat in her ornate armchair, which seemed far too large for her now. Her frail, shaking hands rested in her lap, the skin on her wrists thin and translucent, as if life had been drained from her body over the years. The chair itself, a fine piece of antique furniture with carvings of roses and vines, seemed out of place in the room—too elegant, too alive for the hollow shell of the woman who occupied it. Her posture was slumped, her back once proud and erect now curved with the weight of age and illness.

Her once cared short brown hair, carefully styled to frame her sharp features, now hung in disarray around her face, bangs falling out of place as though even her hair had begun to lose its battle against time. The icy, piercing eyes that had once intimidated businessmen, rivals, husbands and even her own children were now clouded and unfocused, betraying the mental fog that had long since taken hold of her. The sharpness, the venomous gleam that had made her a force to be reckoned with, was gone—replaced with confusion and vacant stares.

She didn’t recognize the faces of her eight children, nor did she remember the names of her last husband’s business partners—the people who had once kissed her rings and bowed to her will. The very ones who had once feared the power of the Schemmenti name now seemed like distant ghosts in her mind. But there was one thing that Teresa still clung to with surprising clarity—the taste of bitterness. It lingered in her mouth like an old wound, and she remembered it well. The resentment that had once fueled her, the sharp tongue that had torn people apart with a mere word—these memories refused to fade. They clung to her like a poison, an embittered truth she could never forget, no matter how much the rest of her mind deteriorated.

In a moment of clarity, she would sometimes try to speak, her words coming out garbled and confused, a jumbled mix of frustration and desperation. But more often than not, she would simply sit in silence, her hands trembling and her eyes far away, as though waiting for something—or someone—to remind her of who she had been. But no one did, and slowly, the mansion that had once been filled with her commanding presence felt more and more like a mausoleum.

Her caretaker, a soft-spoken woman named Elena, stood nearby, her posture tense with the weight of the responsibility she carried. The matriarch had been slipping further into the grip of her dementia, and the youngest did her best to keep the old woman calm, though it was often a losing battle. She adjusted the blanket over Teresa’s frail legs, trying to soothe her, but a sharp voice broke the silence.

“I know what you’re doing,��� the eldest hissed, her eyes narrowing at her caretaker as she leaned forward, her trembling fingers gripping the armrest. “You think you can trick me, huh? You think I don’t know what’s going on?

Elena’s face was a mask of patience, but her lips tightened slightly. “Mrs. Schemmenti, you’re just feeling a bit confused today. It’s alright, I’m here with you.”

The gaze sharpened, even if it didn’t quite reach clarity. She blinked several times, as if trying to force her mind to settle into something more tangible, but the moment passed. “Where’s Melissa Ann? Where is that girl? I need to talk to her.”

Elena exhaled softly, glancing at the door. “Your daughter isn’t here right now, Mrs. Schemmenti. She’s probably at work, but she visited you weeks ago. See that flower over there?” she pointed to the coffee table. “Melissa brought it to you and held your hand while asking about your week.”

“No, no... She’s always gone,” Teresa mumbled, her voice quivering with hysteria. “Always gone, leaving me to rot in this damn chair!” She slammed her palm onto the armrest with surprising force for someone so frail, her eyes wild. “She’s hiding from me. What’s she hiding? What’s she been doing?”

The caretaker stepped closer, trying to calm her down before she could escalate further. But it was clear Teresa wasn’t listening. “I’m fine, I’m fine,” the old woman muttered under her breath, as if trying to convince herself, her hands clutching the arms of the chair tightly.

At that moment, the door to the sitting room creaked open. Teresa’s eyes snapped up, her expression full of expectation and longing, but it was Kristin Marie who stepped through the threshold, her heels clicking sharply against the marble floor.

“Ciao, Ma,” the blonde started, her tone heavy with the weight of her disapproval. She was younger than Melissa, but her presence felt equally commanding and terrifying. As she walked into the room, she took a long look at her mother before her eyes flicked to Elena. “How’s she today?”

The girl sighed, clearly relieved to see someone else taking charge. “She’s been upset, but it’s the usual. She’s confused.”

Kristin nodded curtly, then turned her focus entirely on Teresa, who was still muttering to herself, her frail hands twisting the fabric of her dress in agitation. “Ma, are you... okay?”

Brown eyes snapped to her daughter’s, recognition flickering in and out. “You—Kristin, right?” The voice held a sharp edge, but it was fleeting. "Where’s Melissa? Why is she always gone? I need to speak to her. Where is she? Tell me where she is!”

Kristin Marie’s lips pressed together, and for a moment, there was a flicker of irritation that passed through her expression before she masked it. “She’s not here, Ma. You’ve already asked that.”

Elena moved to ease the tension, but the blonde held up a hand. “Let her speak,” she interrupted. “Let’s see if she remembers anything.”

The Schemmentis matriarch’s eyes clouded again, her head tilting in confusion. “I don’t remember...I don’t... remember where my baby is. What did I do... wrong?”

Kristin’s gaze hardened, and she gave a glance that could’ve cut glass. “I just don’t get it. How did she end up like this? You’d think with all that business smarts she’d have been able to avoid this...”

Teresa’s confusion deepened. She looked at her daughter, a flicker of recognition crossing her face before fading. “Business?” she asked faintly. “What business?”

The blonde’s expression twisted with something less than sympathy. “Right. You don’t remember.” She sighed and crossed her arms, her eyes never leaving her mother. “I heard something. A rumor, actually,” Kristin said, her voice lowering as she stepped closer. “People are saying Melissa’s got herself a... sugar mommy situation going on. Some young girl—what’s her name, hmm? Doesn’t even know how to do the basics, apparently. That’s the gossip.”

The eldest blinked, her expression as blank as a piece of paper. “Melly...?”

“Yeah. I can’t believe it. What has she been doing with her life? First, she lets her mother fall apart, and now she’s... running around with some young woman. I heard all about it.”

Teresa’s head jerked back as though struck. “No... No, that’s not Melissa. She would never... She’s my daughter,” she muttered, her voice breaking.

Elena stepped forward quickly, concerned. “Mrs. Schemmenti, you’re getting upset. You need to relax.”

Brown eyes flashed with a sudden burst of clarity, or perhaps it was just anger. “No... she’s not like that. She is my daughter. She would never...”

But the moment passed as quickly as it had come, and her expression went blank again, the panic returning as she gripped her caretaker’s arm. “Where’s she? Where’s my Melissa? Where’s my baby?” she whimpered, the words almost indistinguishable as they came out in a helpless wail.

Kristin stood there, arms crossed, watching the scene unfold with cold detachment. She was used to this—used to the brokenness of her family, the way her mother’s mind slowly slipped further away, leaving behind nothing but the remnants of the woman who had once commanded so much respect. The fact that her sister wasn’t there didn’t surprise her; she’d always known that Melissa was the one who would eventually leave.

Elena took a deep breath, trying to soothe the fragile figure once more. “She’s coming back, Mrs. Schemmenti. She’s just not here right now.”

Kristin’s gaze was fixed with a certain hardness, her eyes sharp as she took in the scene before her. The contrast between the two women could not have been more stark. Her mother, Teresa, sat in her ornate armchair, her frail body swallowed by the heavy fabric, while the caretaker, stood nearby, a picture of quiet exhaustion, trying to hold the fragile thread of normalcy in place. It was an impossible task—no one could fix what had been shattered over the years. Not Elena, who had taken on the heavy responsibility of taking care of her, and certainly not Kristin herself, or any of her siblings. She had long since learned that some things couldn’t be mended, no matter how much you wished for them to be.

As Teresa whimpered softly, her frail hands shaking in her lap, the blonde’s eyes narrowed, her sharp mind turning over thoughts she had long buried. She watched as her mother’s eyes wandered around the room, her gaze flicking between her and the girl with a confusion that seemed to grow by the day. It was the kind of confusion that made the air heavy with the past—the kind that made Kristin wonder just how much of the woman sitting before her was truly still there.

Despite everything, there was something that made her stomach churn. For all the cruelty Teresa had shown Melissa over the years, there was something else now—something that couldn’t be ignored. The brunette, in her fragile state, seemed to be searching for something—someone. And that someone was Melissa. Despite the venomous words she had spat at her daughter throughout their lives, Teresa was now yearning for the one person she had so often pushed away.

It was almost as if she didn’t recognize how deeply the words she had said to the redhead had cut, how the sharp criticisms and disdain had driven a wedge between them that could never fully be repaired. In these moments of clarity, Teresa seemed to regret it all—the sharp remarks, the cold detachment, the times she had made Melissa feel less than. Now, with her mind fraying at the edges, all that remained was a deep and painful longing for the daughter who had once been her pride, her heir apparent, the one who carried the family name with such precision.

Yet even as that longing flickered in her eyes, there was no way to bridge the chasm between them. Melissa Ann Caterina Schemmenti was gone. And even if she were to return, Kristin Marie knew there would be no easy fix. The damage had been done long ago, and the years had made it only worse.

As the sound of Teresa’s whimpers filled the room, an air of helplessness seemed to hang over the estate. The bustling house, the meetings and dinners that once carried the weight of Schemmenti influence, was now still. The walls that had been filled with the loud voices of family members, the clinking of glasses, the sound of laughter, were now almost oppressive in their silence.

If the rumors about Melissa were true, if she had indeed become involved with someone younger, someone she was supporting financially—then there was far more at play here than just a simple scandal. A part of Kristin had always believed Melissa was trying to escape. Escape from the family, from the legacy, from the prison they had all been trapped in for so long. But now, as the thought of Melissa hiding away with this young woman stirred in her mind, a more unsettling question emerged. What if this wasn’t just about money? What if there was something deeper? Something that made her sister want to distance herself from everything that had once been her world.

And then there was the inevitable truth that no one dared to speak aloud: The moment Teresa passed, Melissa would be removed from the heart of the family. It was the unspoken agreement that had loomed over the estate for years, ever since the deep rift had opened between mother and daughter. She had already distanced herself from the family, choosing to carve out her own life far away from the Schemmenti legacy. But when Teresa died—if that day ever came—Melissa Schemmenti would be completely cut off.

Kristin Marie, though she resented her mother’s harshness, knew that this moment, this slow unraveling was only the beginning of something darker. And yet, the thought of the estate without Melissa at its center left a hollow ache in her chest. Despite everything—despite the bitterness and the years of bad blood—Melissa was still the last Schemmenti who carried any spark of what the family used to be. The estate, without her, would feel empty. Like a ghost of itself.

And as the woman looked back at her matriarch, who had slipped into another wave of confusion, her tears quietly falling, She couldn’t help but wonder if it wasn’t too late for a reconciliation, or if that was simply a fantasy too far gone to reach.

Meanwhile, the days passed in a blur of boxes, sorting, and new routines for you. The moving truck had come and gone again and again, leaving a trail of cardboard and plastic wrapping in its wake. Melissa’s penthouse, already filled with luxury and elegance, was now marked by the presence of your things—your clothes, your collection of books, a few framed photographs of family—you and your mother, and a small stack of your favorite records. It was strange, after almost months of living in her shadow, both physically and emotionally.

But now, you were here—permanently, it seemed—and it felt like a step into a new chapter. You stood in the bedroom that now belonged to you, folding clothes into the closet while Melissa supervised from the bed, flipping through her phone with a glass of wine in hand. Her robe hung loosely around her, and she hadn’t yet bothered to change from her earlier errands. Despite her busy schedule, she always made sure to be there, making decisions about where things would go, though she never overtly tried to control the process. She let you settle in on your own terms.

The scent of a lavender perfume lingered in the space, mixing with the fresh smell of new furniture and cardboard boxes. You glanced up from the clothes you were folding, the sight of her lounging so effortlessly beautiful in her silk robe catching your attention. Her auburn hair cascaded in loose waves, and her lips, painted a soft shade of pink, barely parted as she scrolled through her iphone. The glass of wine in her hand shimmered in the clear light, the clink of the ice cubes a gentle reminder of the evening that was settling in.

“Everything alright?“ she asked without looking up.

You nodded, trying to shake off the strange feeling of being an intruder in her space, even though the space was now yours too. The penthouse, with its sprawling windows and sleek furniture, had always been an embodiment of Melissa herself—elegant, sophisticated, and polished. It was surreal to be here, unpacking your life into her world, but it felt like it was meant to be.

“I think I’m almost done here,” you sigh, folding a pair of jeans and adding them to the closet. “How’s work going?”

The redheaded woman finally looked up from her phone, giving you a lazy smile. “Busy bullshit, as always.” She paused, taking a sip of the glass. “But I think I’m ready for the night. I’ll just need a shower, and we can order dinner. Then cuddle.”

You felt a flicker of excitement at the thought of being with her, just the two of you in the quiet of the penthouse. The idea of slipping into something more comfortable and enjoying her company felt like the escape you both needed from the busyness of moving and settling in.

“Sounds perfect,” you replied, glancing at her as she stretched lazily, her robe shifting to reveal a hint of her toned freckled legs.

Olive eyes sparkled. There was something comforting about the way she always seemed to look at you, like you were the most important person in the room, no matter who else was around. You had come to love that about her—her attention, her presence. It was intoxicating.

“Come here dolcezza,” she said suddenly, setting the wine glass aside on the nightstand.

You walked over to the bed, standing beside her. She reached for your hand, pulling you closer. Her fingers brushed against yours, warm and inviting, and for a moment, you could forget about the outside world. You were here, at this moment, with her.

Melissa looked up at you with a smirk that could melt steel. She pulled you down onto the bed beside her, the silk of her robe brushing against your arm. Her gaze traveled over your face, lingering just a beat too long, her hand never letting go of yours. “You know, thank goodness this moving business is done, we’ll finally be able to enjoy a little… peace.” She trailed her white nails along your forearm, her touch as light as a whisper.

“Peace, huh?” you replied, tilting your head at her, though your pulse quickened under her touch. “Is that what you’re calling our trip to Lake Como tomorrow? I heard peace and you don’t exactly go hand in hand.”

The older woman chuckled, leaning back on her elbows, the red robe slipping just enough to reveal a hint of her collarbone. “I prefer luxury, but sure, we’ll call it peace if that helps you sleep at night.”

“Luxury,” you repeated with a snort, leaning against the pillows. “You mean the private villa that belongs to you?”

“Don’t sound so surprised, bambina,” she drawled, her Philly accent curling around the word like a caress. “The Schemmentis have been dealing in real estate for years. Lake Como just happens to be a little... perk.”

“A perk. You’re insufferable.”

Melissa reached out, catching your chin between her fingers. “And yet, you’re still here,” she murmured, her eyes darkening with something you couldn’t quite name but felt all the same—a pull, magnetic and undeniable.

You swallowed hard, suddenly hyper-aware of the space—or lack thereof—between you. Her thumb brushed your jawline, and for a moment, all the stress of the day, the unpacking, the lingering awkwardness of moving into her world, disappeared. All you could think about was the way her lips parted ever so slightly, the way her green eyes locked on yours, unrelenting.

“Stop looking at me like that.”

“Like what?” she asked, feigning innocence.

“Like you’re thinking something inappropriate,” you sighed softly, though your body betrayed you, leaning closer to her without even realizing it.

Her fingers moved to your waist, pulling you just close enough for her breath to ghost against your mouth. ”Whatever.”

For a moment, the only sounds were the city hum beyond the penthouse windows and the distant clink of the wine glass on the nightstand. You wanted to kiss her, and you knew she wanted it too.

But then your lover pulled back with a groan, running a hand through her auburn waves. “Dammit, Y/N. If we start making out now, we’ll never finish packing.”

You laughed breathlessly, sitting up and shaking your head. “You’re the one who started this.”

“And I’m the one stopping it,” she finished, though the way her gaze flicked to your lips betrayed how difficult it was for her to stick to her own rule. “I promised myself I’d make you wait until we’re in Como.”

“Wait for what?”

Melissa rolled her eyes but smirked, standing from the bed and tying her robe tighter around her waist. “You’ll find out soon enough, cara mia. Now, finish packing before I change my mind.”

You couldn’t help but smile as you watched her head for the kitchen, the sway of her hips unmistakably deliberate. “This trip better be worth it,” you called after her.

She glanced back. “Oh, trust me, it will be.”

The drive from the airport to the villa was long, but the anticipation was enough to make the journey feel like it passed in an instant. As the car wound through the narrow streets of Lake Como, the view outside the window grew more breathtaking with each passing second. The rolling hills, dotted with lush greenery, eventually gave way to the shimmering expanse of the lake. It was beautiful beyond words, a place where time seemed to stand still.

The villa itself was tucked away, hidden from the road by a stretch of perfectly manicured trees. As the car pulled up, the grandeur of the place took you by surprise. Stone walls, ivy creeping along the sides, and windows that overlooked the sparkling lake gave it an air of timeless elegance. It was exactly what you imagined—luxurious and imposing, but warm in its own quiet way.

Melissa’s hand never left yours as you both stepped out of the car, her fingers curling around yours in a silent promise that this trip, this moment, was all for you two. The cool Italian air brushed against your skin, carrying the faint scent of the lake and the earth beneath it.

“Welcome to paradise,” the redhead announced with a grin, smooth as velvet. You looked at her, her pupils glinting with mischief, and nodded. The moment you stepped onto the grounds, you felt like you were in a dream.

The inside of the villa was just as stunning. High ceilings, exposed wooden beams, and a large, open kitchen that spilled into a cozy living area. The large glass doors opened out onto a terrace, where you could see the entire lake spread out before you, its surface shimmering in the afternoon sun.

After a brief tour, you and her dropped your bags in one of the bedrooms, but you didn’t waste time. You both knew what came next.

“Let’s jump in,” Melissa suggested, with excitement and something else—something more daring. You looked at her, surprised.

“Jump in?” you prompted, eyes widening.

“Into the lake, pretty girl,” she said with a smirk, already pulling off her jacket. She tossed it aside before turning toward the terrace, where a stone stairway led down to the water's edge. “Come on, let’s do it.”

You hesitated, but her body language was all the encouragement you needed. You followed her outside, your feet pressing into the warm stone as you made your way down. The water looked inviting, but you knew it would be a shock to the system once you jumped in.

When you reached the bottom of the stairs, you stopped for a moment, your heart thumping in your chest. The lake, though beautiful, had an undeniable depth to it, both literally and figuratively. It was vast, and the stillness of it felt almost... intimidating. But you couldn’t back out now.

“Ready?” she asked, standing at the edge of the dock with a mischievous grin on her face. Her body was already poised, her arms spread out in anticipation. You took a deep breath.

“Let’s do this,” you said, swallowing the lump in your throat, and stepped up beside her. You were no longer hesitant. This moment was too perfect to waste, and you weren’t going to let fear stop you from enjoying it.

The two of you took a quick glance at each other, silently agreeing. Without another word, Melissa leapt first, her body disappearing into the cool water below with a splash so loud it echoed through the air. The ripples spread across the surface, sending a chill through the air, but you followed almost immediately, throwing yourself into the lake after her.

The cold water enveloped you instantly, a shock to your system that stole your breath for a second. You surfaced, gasping for air as you wiped the droplets from your face. The redhead was already gigglin, her head breaking the surface not far from you. She tossed her wet hair back, looking every bit the beautiful, carefree woman you’d fallen in love with.

“See? Nothing to it. You okay, though?”

You looked at her, a laugh bubbling out of you as you felt the tension from the day, from the move, melt away in the cool embrace of the lake. “I think I’m fine,” you answer, taking in the beauty around you. “This is beautiful.”

The sound of your laughter echoed across the water, and Melissa swam closer, her body cutting through the lake with ease. She reached out, grabbing your hand and pulling you toward her. The closeness of her, her warmth even in the cold water, was everything you needed. You leaned into her, your bodies pressed together as you both floated for a while, the world fading around you.

Swollen lips were just inches from yours, and you felt the weight of the moment, heavy with desire and unspoken words. You could feel the pulse of attraction in the way your bodies moved together, and the heat that remained even though you were immersed in the cool water. It was like a slow dance in the most intimate sense—no rush, no words needed.

“I’ve wanted this. I’ve wanted you... here. With me. Like this.”

You could feel your heart racing again, not from the water, but from the weight of her words. You didn’t need anything else.

And then, as if there was no longer any reason to hold back, you kissed her with all the hunger in the world. The coolness of the water seemed to heighten everything—the touch of her mouth, the taste of her, the way she pulled you in just a little closer.

There was no past, no future. Just the here and now. You and Melissa Schemmenti, in the lake, in this perfect, stolen moment.

The lake stretched out before you, its serene surface reflecting the fading glow of the setting sun, but the redheaded woman’s mind was racing in an entirely different direction. Your body pressed so close to hers, the heat between you both, the way your breath hitched as your lips met hers—it was intoxicating. The cool water lapped against your skin, but all she could focus on was the fire burning inside her, an ache that pulsed through her with every subtle move of your body against hers.

As Melissa kissed you deeper, her hands gripping your waist underwater, she felt it—a gush in her own panties, unmistakable and entirely because of you. It caught her off guard for a moment, the intensity of her own arousal startling her.

She wanted you. Desperately. The villa was hers. The lake was hers. There was no one to hear you, no one to interrupt if she let herself give in. The thought of pressing you against the smooth stones at the water’s edge, of her hands sliding up your wet skin while her lips claimed every inch of you, sent another wave of heat through her. Her breath caught in her throat as she shifted her legs slightly, the damp fabric of her panties clinging to her in a way that made her bite back a moan.

The older woman pulled away from the kiss just enough to catch her breath, her green eyes dark and hooded as she gazed at you. She could feel her heart pounding in her chest, her body alive. The way your eyes lingered on her, heavy with want, only added fuel to the fire. She was barely keeping herself together, the intensity of her need for you threatening to overwhelm her.

Her sharp fingers traced down your back, lingering at the curve of your hips as she fought the urge to do more, to let her hands roam to places she knew would unravel you completely. The cool water did nothing to dampen the heat between you. Her thoughts betrayed her—flashes of you writhing against her, of her hands gripping your thighs while the water splashed around you, of the quiet, unrestrained moans and screams she wanted to pull from you.

She swallowed hard, trying to focus, but her body wasn’t letting her forget. She felt another gush of cum, the damp heat between her thighs now unbearable. Melissa clenched her jaw.

“You’re mine,” she murmured, her breath hot against your skin as her lips brushed against your ear. Her words carried more weight than you realized—she wasn’t just talking about you. She was thinking about the power you had over her, how you could make her lose herself entirely with just a look or a touch.

You smiled at her and Melissa could see it—the way your body shifted toward hers, the silent invitation written all over you. She wanted to take you right here, in this quiet sanctuary, where nothing else mattered but the two of you. But she held back, forcing herself to savor the moment, to let the tension build.

Her grip on your waist tightened slightly as she leaned in again, her lips brushing against yours, teasing, though every nerve in her body screamed for more. And though she didn’t say it out loud, the thought was there, burning in her mind: Soon. Very soon.

(Next Chapter.)

[dread3r]

100 Years of Solitude by Gabriel Garcia Marquez

my goal is to convince you to READ or WATCH this series, these are the vibes (applicable to all generations because they do not give a flying f**k about family history):

xxx FIRST GENERATION xxx

Jose Arcadio Buendia

- married his cousin

- does not give a f**k about superstitions or traditions

- inventor/alchemist & is obsessed with learning & proving new sh*t

- kills someone and is forced to find a new village to find “peace”

- locks himself in his lab

- family time with his sons consists of locking himself with them in the lab

- goes batsh*t crazy when his best friend dies

- goes batsh*t crazier when his wife was not physically with him

- ends up getting tied to a tree

Ursula Iguaran Buendia

- married her cousin

- fated to have a child with a tail of a pig

- scared that she will have iguanas as children

- strong matriarch of the Buendia family and is born to witness the demise of the family she built

- a force to be reckoned with

- does not give a flying f**k about political colors (the men in her family are liberals)

- does give a flying f**k about her family

- hates/despises/abhors Arcadio’s guts

- has Rebeca as her favorite child

xxx SECOND GENERATION xxx

“Jose Arcadio” Buendia

- has such a big 🍆 his mother taught it was a deformity

- he does one of his mom’s friends // the same friend his brother f**ks in a few years

- continues the Buendia line with his illegitimate child (which he never acknowledges)

- freaked out about having a child and became a gypsy

- disappeared for so many years

- will disgrace the line even more once he returns

“Aureliano” Buendia

- is languor and has clairvoyant eyes

- has solitary air in him

- locks himself in his father’s lab during his younger years and before he dies

- he does one of his mom’s friends // the same one his brother f**ked years before

- also continues the Buendia line with his illegitimate child

- will fight for your liberal rights but will also marry and f**k a child

- will have 17 children, all named after him

- will face the firing squad

- will live long enough to become the tyrant

- started 32 wars only to let people paint their houses the color they want

- will only make gold fishes in the end

- will regret everything when he dies

Pilar Ternera

- the woman whom both Aureliano and Jose Aracadio will formicate with

- will bear them both illegitimate children

- was once a friend of Ursula

- watched Ursula give birth to Jose Arcadio

- is a witch

- reads cards/the future

- masters what happens to the Buendia men

- Buendia men approach her to get love advice after they have fornicated with her

- called a “whore” by his own son

“Remedios” Moscote-Buendia

- the said child Aureliano marries

- she is 14 in the book but Aureliano wanted to marry her even when she was 12

- there is literal sunlight wherever she goes

- would have been a great enemies to lovers trope if she WAS NOT 14

- daughter of the family’s rival

- brings peace, love, and prosperity to the Buendia home

- always so so so beautiful

- dies at a young age (often meets futile ends)

“Amaranta” Buendia

- described as plain and elegant like her mom’s grandmother

- is such a good seamstress

- hates Rebeca’s guts since childhood

- hates when anyone is prettier or more loved than her

- will fight over a guy who plays piano with Rebeca

- prays every night for something horrible to happen so Rebeca would not marry piano guy

- will end up burning her hand on the stove and wear a glove forever

- refuses to love anyone romantically

- will be romantically involved with her nephew

- will die once she finishes sewing something for her funeral

“Rebeca” Buendia

- is an ADOPTED child

- she only eats earth (soil) and whitewash on the walls

- arrived in Macondo with a bag of bones that moves (bones of her dead parents)

- described as the most beautiful in the line (prettier than Amaranta)

- fights over a guy who plays piano with Amaranta

- ends up being engaged with piano guy

- all that jazz just for her to end up choosing someone else

- said "someone else" triggers a forbidden love affair that is a favorite trope in this universe

- dies later than Amaranta

xxx THIRD GENERATION xxx

Jose “Arcadio” Buendia

- the illegitimate child of Jose Arcadio I (the gypsy) and Pilar

- looks like a child even when he was a young adult

- Ursula never accepted him so he has mommy issues

- almost f**ked his biological mother because no one ever told him who she was

- will also continue the Buendia line but this time with his legitimate children

- will also become a tyrant

- will also face the firing squad

“Aureliano Jose” Buendia

- the illegitimate child of Aureliano (the pedophile) and Pilar

- is an acknowledged natural child because his father didn’t want him to be treated like Arcadio

- was baptized

- fell in love with and wanted to f**k his aunt so bad

- when his aunt said no he drafted himself to the army

- never gets his “happy ending”

this is my PSA go read it, go watch it, its so insane and crazy don’t even buckle up just enjoy the ride, thank you!

[chirpthingz]

i think i figured out the order of events in edm (many spoilers below), feel free to add on because i probably forgot some things

-> updated 12/20/2024 with contributions from @/factorialsotherfandoms

-> stuff separated with / happens in the same general time frame

many years before

the first strach matriarch (i forgot his name) receives visions of the prophecy of the unhaunted one, starting the cycle (thanks sam)

many years after

jaser is born / andrea dies as a result of childbirth / the first vision is given as a result of jaser's birth

yuri fucks off to his castle in pursuit of immortality / goliath escapes to the cave in pursuit of solitude / abraham starts building the cathedral in pursuit of becoming the god of fear

unknown amount of time passes

the order begins sending agents to the perimeter, most of which die (assumedly because of yuri's experiments or goliath), and those that do return have no memory of their mission

12 or so years pass

abraham locks jaser up / jaser escapes

order arrives / jaser kills abraham

lethicia, fernanda, beto, theo, amy, and daniel are sent to the cemetery / diogo, george, and a number of unnamed agents are sent to the castle / alan, oswald, and a number of other nameless agents are sent to the cave / verssimo, calisto, and sofia stay in the mansion w/ jaser

the underground base starts to be built / the first version of the motor is built

unknown amount of months passes, at which some point sofia realizes she is pregnant and tells verissimo

the "paranormal light" effect is discovered by agents in the cave and the paranormal flashlight is created

diogo and george begin using the paranormal light in the castle

george loses an arm in an accident with the tyrant

fernanda maps out the cemetery

theo requests to work in the cave / theo's request is denied by oswald

fernanda goes missing

crystals begin to affect the vision of those in the cave / diogo's begins to age unnaturally

sofia begins to experience strange symptoms

theo engineers the cracked radio with the help of beto

sofia realizes she is pregnant and isolates herself / calisto starts to understand the prophecies of the unhaunted one

the underground base is finished

unknown amount of time passes

verissimo continues to prevent others from seeing sofia / the strange behavior of verissimo and sofia is noticed by the cemetery team and especially calisto

verssimo requests information from lethicia about memory loss regarding leaving the perimeter

agents in the cave activate the eye of fear, an experiment urged on by verissimo / a number of agents in the cave die due to goliath as a result of activating the eye of fear

mia is born / sofia dies as a result of childbirth / those in the perimeter receive a vision as a result of mia's birth / verissimo escapes the perimeter with mia / jaser enables calisto

some time passes

mission directive switches from destroying the perimeter to achieving the other ending

george loses his arm in an accident involving the tyrant

theo requests to work in the cave again / theo's request is approved by lethicia

lethicia attempts to play the melody of fear and isolates herself afterwards / the ECOS are discovered in the cemetery

alan discovers how to make the perpetual motor work / diogo discovers the petrification effect on the slime

theo returns to the cemetery and at some point retrieves the paranormal flashlight from diogo

diogo and george begin to torture unnamed agents as a source of slime for the pillars

calisto discovers the immersion ritual

theo learns the immersion ritual

rossi, amy, and theo collect the necessary ingredients for the ritual

theo uses the ritual on rossi's gravestone, discovering his fate and locking the garden

diogo discovers the looping effect created by the slime / diogo uses himself as a infinite source of slime to finish the rest of the pillars

some time passes

all agents of the cave, except for oswald, are officially blind

alan and oswald seek a way to help and slash or contain goliath and decide to trap him inside the containment zone

george is killed and absorbed by the tyrant as he is trying to save diogo

theo uses the immersion ritual a number of times on lethicia's gravestone with little progress

theo confronts rossi about lethicia / theo kills rossi in self defense

amy ends up at the mausoleum and dies for an unknown reason

alan decides to sacrifice himself to kill goliath to complete the mission and save oswald

oswald sabotages alan's explosives in an attempt to save goliath

alan fails to contain goliath and dies

goliath kills oswald / theo returns to the cave / theo is killed by oswald, who has started to become a blood zombie

calisto kills beto in front of lethicia

lethicia goes missing and assumedly dies

20 or so years pass

verissimo returns to the perimeter

verissimo kills calisto / calisto gravely inures verissimo / jaser locks up verissimo

mia arrives to the perimeter

some amount of hours pass, at which some point samuel transcends

mia transcends / mia kills the tyrant and diogo / mia kills lethicia's specter monster / mia contains goliath / mia opens the unhaunted one's wing / mia uses the immersion ritual on jaser's gravestone

verissimo frees himself from the chains and goes to confront jaser

and, of course, depending on the player's actions two paths can be taken:

verissimo dies OR an "impossible" intervention occurs / mia saves verissimo / lupi saves mia / jaser chooses to not existe / mia and verissimo reunite / the other ending is acheived

[seygay]

I'm only 100 or so pages into A Hundred Years of Solitude and like???

Úrsula my BELOVED, girl you are the matriarch of doom, you're going to watch so many of your decendants die while your husband goes crazy

And Amaranta? burning her hands because she told a guy to kill himself and he did...

[horeformilfs]

Shattered Past

Cassandra Dimitrescu x Fem! Reader

TW: SA, PTSD, Flashbacks, Sensory Overload, Derealization, Panic Attack, Anxiety

------------------------------------------

The grandeur of the opera hall echoed with the distant bickering of the Dimitrescu sisters, their voices bouncing off the ornate walls. Y/N moved gracefully, methodically dusting the elaborate furniture, her timid demeanor concealing the turmoil within her. Lady Dimitrescu, towering and regal, presided over the conversation, her daughters engaged in a heated exchange.

As tension escalated, Bela's and Daniela's argument reached a fever pitch. The air grew thick with hostility, and Y/N, with her heart pounding, struggled to maintain composure. The anniversary of her assault loomed like a dark cloud, intensifying her anxiety.

A sudden clash of raised voices and shattering supplies punctuated the air. Y/N, overwhelmed by the escalating discord, dropped her cleaning supplies, the metallic clang echoing through the hall. The startled gazes of Lady Dimitrescu and her daughters turned toward the fleeing maid.

Cassandra, the perceptive one among them, couldn't ignore the subtle shifts in Y/N's behavior over the past few days. Lady Dimitrescu, concerned yet authoritative, turned to her daughters for an explanation. Bela and Daniela merely shrugged, oblivious to the turmoil brewing within their unassuming maid.

Cassandra, however, wasted no time. "Mother, something is amiss with the maid," she observed, her voice carrying a mix of curiosity and concern. "I've noticed it for days."

Lady Dimitrescu, her stern expression softening slightly, regarded her observant daughter. "Then go, Cassandra. Find out what troubles her."

Cassandra nodded, her steps swift and purposeful as she left the opera hall in pursuit of Y/N. The dimly lit corridors seemed to close in on the anxious maid, her footsteps echoing her racing heartbeat.

"Cassandra," Y/N stammered, surprised to see the tall Dimitrescu daughter approaching. "I-I'm sorry. I didn't mean to interrupt."

Cassandra, her gaze softening, reassured her, "No need to apologize, Y/N. What's bothering you?"

Y/N hesitated, but the genuine concern in Cassandra's eyes encouraged her to speak. "It's just... the arguments, the tension. I... I can't handle it right now. I need to be alone."

Cassandra nodded understandingly, her empathetic nature shining through. "I see. If you ever feel the need to talk, I'm here. Don't hesitate."

With those words, Cassandra left Y/N to her solitude, returning to the opera hall to provide a vague explanation to her mother and sisters. Lady Dimitrescu, though authoritative, recognized the importance of compassion. As the opera hall resumed its air of regality, Y/N found solace in the silence, appreciating the unexpected understanding of Cassandra.

The following day, the absence of Y/N was palpable in the expansive castle. Cassandra, growing increasingly concerned, approached her mother's study, where Lady Dimitrescu sat engrossed in her affairs.

"Mother, have you seen Y/N?" Cassandra inquired, her usually composed demeanor betraying a hint of worry.

Lady Dimitrescu glanced up from her documents, her expression unreadable. "No, I haven't. Is there a reason for your concern, Cassandra?"

Cassandra hesitated, the worry etched on her face. "She's been avoiding everyone, Mother. I'm worried something might be wrong."

The tall matriarch sighed, setting aside her papers. "Very well, Cassandra. Find her and see if she requires assistance. But be discreet; we don't need unnecessary gossip."

Cassandra nodded, determined to uncover the mystery behind Y/N's sudden disappearance. Her search led her through the labyrinthine corridors of the castle, inquiring of other maids who shook their heads, echoing the same ignorance Lady Dimitrescu displayed.

Finally, Cassandra spotted Y/N in a secluded corner, her shoulders hunched, a visible aura of distress enveloping her. Cassandra approached cautiously, her concern evident. "Y/N, there you are. I've been looking for you. Is everything alright?"

Y/N, avoiding eye contact, mumbled, "I'm fine, Cassandra. Just leave me be."

Cassandra frowned, her worry turning into frustration. "You've been avoiding everyone, and now you won't even tell me what's wrong. Is it something I've done?"

Y/N clenched her fists, anxiety tightening its grip on her. "It's not you, Cassandra. Just drop it, please."

Cassandra, unable to contain her concern, raised her voice. "I can't drop it, Y/N! I want to help, but I can't do that if you won't tell me what's going on."

Y/N, now visibly distressed, took a step back. "Please, just stop."

Cassandra, frustrated and desperate to break through the walls Y/N had erected, continued, "No, I won't stop until you talk to me. You can trust me."

The intensity in Cassandra's voice triggered something within Y/N. Overwhelmed by memories of the assault and Cassandra's raised voice, panic seized her. Gasping for breath, she clutched her chest, sinking to the floor in the throes of a panic attack.

Cassandra, realizing the gravity of the situation, immediately softened her tone. "Y/N, I'm sorry. Please, breathe. I didn't mean to scare you."

But the damage was done, and Y/N, caught in the grip of her anxiety, found solace only in the echoes of her racing heartbeat.

Cassandra's eyes widened with concern as she witnessed Y/N succumbing to the grip of the panic attack. Y/N trembled on the floor, gasping for air between sobs. Cassandra knelt down beside her, her hand extending tentatively to touch Y/N's shoulder.

"Shh, my dearest," Cassandra whispered gently, her voice a soothing melody amid the chaos. "Breathe with me, love. In, out, slowly."

Y/N, lost in the tumult of her own mind, struggled to synchronize her breaths with Cassandra's calming rhythm. "It... it feels like I'm not here. Like nothing is real," she stammered, her words barely audible through the haze of panic.

Cassandra, realizing the severity of Y/N's dissociation, gently cupped her face, attempting to redirect her attention. "Look at me, Y/N. Focus on my eyes."

But Y/N's gaze remained distant, unable to connect with the present moment. Determined, Cassandra delicately guided Y/N's face, her fingers brushing against soft skin, until their eyes met. Cassandra's yellow gaze, usually a symbol of her vampiric nature, softened with genuine concern.

"Can you see me now, love?" Cassandra murmured, her voice a comforting whisper.

Y/N, still struggling to ground herself, nodded weakly. "It's so... dizzy, like I'm floating away."

Cassandra, understanding the disorienting nature of panic attacks, maintained her gentle touch. "You're safe, Y/N. You're with me. Focus on my voice, on my eyes. We're here together."

Y/N's panicked breaths began to slow, but the fear lingered in her eyes. "I feel like I'm dying."

Cassandra tightened her grip on Y/N's hand, offering reassurance. "You're not, my love. You're not alone. I'm here with you, and I won't let anything harm you."

As the minutes passed, Y/N's breathing steadied, the panic gradually subsiding. Cassandra remained by her side, providing unwavering support. "You're so strong, my darling," Cassandra whispered, pressing a gentle kiss to Y/N's forehead. "I'm here for you, always."

In that vulnerable moment, Y/N found solace in Cassandra's presence, the genuine care in her eyes offering a lifeline amid the storm of anxiety.

Cassandra continued to cradle Y/N in her arms, the aftermath of the panic attack leaving Y/N physically drained. The dimly lit corridor echoed with the soft sound of Cassandra's footsteps as she gently guided Y/N towards her room.

"Love, can I help you stand?" Cassandra asked, her tone filled with genuine concern.

Y/N hesitated for a moment before nodding, allowing Cassandra to assist her to her feet. The dizziness overwhelmed Y/N, causing her to stumble into Cassandra. Quick to react, Cassandra effortlessly lifted her, carrying her with surprising ease.

As they made their way through the castle's intricate corridors, Y/N slowly began to relax. The soothing scent of Cassandra's perfume became a comforting anchor, grounding her in the present moment. Cassandra carefully laid Y/N on her bed, tucking her in with a tenderness that spoke volumes.

"I'll be right back, little one," Cassandra assured, her voice a gentle caress. "Just need to change into something more comfortable."

Y/N, feeling vulnerable yet safe, pleaded with Cassandra not to leave. "Please, don't go. I'm scared the nightmares will return."

Cassandra nodded understandingly. "I'll be back in a moment, my darling. I promise."

True to her word, Cassandra returned shortly, clad in more casual attire. She climbed into bed beside Y/N, her arms open in invitation. Y/N hesitated, uncertainty clouding her eyes.

"It's your choice, love," Cassandra reassured, sensing Y/N's hesitation. "I won't force you into anything you're not comfortable with."

Encouraged by Cassandra's understanding, Y/N shifted closer, finding solace in the warmth of Cassandra's embrace. Cassandra wrapped her arms around Y/N, their closeness bringing a sense of security.

"Are you okay with this, my love?" Cassandra whispered, her words a gentle inquiry.

Y/N nodded, resting her head in the crook of Cassandra's neck, one arm draped around her waist. The tension slowly melted away as Cassandra held her, the rhythmic rise and fall of their breaths creating a comforting cadence.

Cassandra, stroking Y/N's hair with a soothing touch, asked softly, "Do you want to talk about it, darling?"

Y/N swallowed, her voice filled with apologies. "I should be able to, but I'm just not ready."

Cassandra kissed the top of Y/N's head, offering reassurance. "You don't need to apologize, love. I'll be here whenever you're ready, every step of the way."

Y/N stood before Cassandra's door, the weight of her past heavy on her shoulders. A soft knock preceded Cassandra opening the door, concern etched across her face.

"Come in, love," Cassandra invited, gesturing for Y/N to enter.

Taking a deep breath, Y/N stepped inside, the room cloaked in a calming ambiance. Cassandra closed the door behind them, her eyes fixed on Y/N as she gauged the gravity of the conversation that was about to unfold.

Cassandra spoke gently, "Are you sure about this, darling? You don't have to talk about it if you're not ready."

Y/N nodded, determination flickering in her eyes. "I need to, Cassandra. I trust you, and I want to let go of this weight."

Cassandra offered a reassuring smile, "Alright, my love. Take your time, and remember, you can stop anytime if it becomes too much."

Seated on the edge of the bed, Y/N began to share the painful chapters of her past. The vulnerability in her voice resonated through the room as she recounted the assault and the subsequent betrayal by her own parents.

"They didn't believe me," Y/N admitted, her voice barely above a whisper. "They forced me to leave, and that's how I ended up here."

Cassandra's eyes softened with empathy, her hand reaching out to gently squeeze Y/N's. "I'm so sorry you had to go through that, my love. It's not easy."

Y/N shrugged, a self-deprecating smile playing on her lips. "It wasn't even that bad. I should be over it by now."

Cassandra shook her head, her voice firm yet compassionate. "There's no timeline for healing, Y/N. Trauma doesn't have an expiration date. What you went through was undoubtedly painful, and it's okay to acknowledge that."

Y/N looked down, her hands fidgeting nervously. "I just... I've lost trust in people."

Cassandra tilted Y/N's chin up, meeting her gaze. "Trust is earned, not given. And it's perfectly okay to take your time. You've been through something that fundamentally shook your sense of safety. Healing takes time, and I'm here to support you every step of the way."

Y/N felt a mixture of emotions—vulnerability, gratitude, and a glimmer of hope. Cassandra's understanding and unwavering support became a beacon of light in the shadows of her past.

[seraphicsimmer]

[Pictured: The Landgraab-Goths... or is it the Goth-Landgraabs?

Not pictured: Johnny ”Zest” and family, Alexander Goth and family. Grab some popcorn, the lore is wild.] ____________________________________________

Geoffrey Landgraab – The ever-so-charming Southern gentleman who plays the real estate game like Monopoly. Geoffrey’s docile demeanor hides a cutthroat landshark mentality. He’ll snatch up your property before you’ve even had a chance to flip through the latest Vogue. How a genteel man like Geoffrey ended up with his platinum[card] blonde is anyone’s guess.

౨ৎ

Nancy Landgraab – The powerhouse (pun intended) behind Landgraab Power. Whether she’s in the spotlight or not, Nancy’s gaze is omnipresent, especially when it comes to the Goths. Her distaste for Bella Goth is no secret, but the reasons remain as shadowy as her business dealings. Nancy managed to bend Cassandra to her will—who do you think persuaded her to drop her maiden name? Now, her sharp jade eyes are set on her granddaughter, who seems to be her very clone. Is she on the inside too?

౨ৎ

Malcolm Landgraab – A man torn between his mother’s ruthless ambitions and his father’s honest work ethic. Malcolm’s life has been a tug-of-war between power and virtue, shaped by summers at Osteer Ranch and lessons in cutting-edge business. His romance with Cassandra brought a brief respite from the shadows, but their daughter Priscilla’s arrival changed everything. Malcolm’s recent career move puts him right under Nancy’s thumb—now, which empire is he really preparing to inherit?

౨ৎ

Priscilla Landgraab – Welcome to Sim City, little Landgraab. I’ve had my eye on you for quite some time. Overprotective Cassandra vowed not to let her daughter grow up as isolated as she did, so she’s been hovering over every detail of Priscilla’s life. But here’s the million-simoleon question: what’s worse—being tossed to the wolves or raised under a microscope? Something tells me Cassandra and Priscilla might not see eye to eye on this one. Priscilla may have been raised in the shadows of Sim City's elite, but she’s wrapped in more mystery than her designer wardrobe. And believe me, the intrigue is only beginning. There’s nothing quite like watching a sheltered socialite take center stage. Will she crack under the pressure or rise to the occasion? My guess? This little Landgraab is facing a choice, much like her dear daddy, Malcolm, once did.

౨ৎ

Cassandra Landgraab – Oh, Cassandra. There’s no tale quite as tragic as that of our resident gloomy girl. Raised by a father who indulged her artistic soul and a mother who loved her... from a safe distance, Cassandra had all the solitude and inspiration to become the musician she always dreamed of being. But music doesn’t pay the bills. Isn’t that right, Nancy? After graduating from Britechester University, Cassandra was swept up in the Landgraab empire. Now she plays the role of their financial advisor... or so they let her think. On weekends, you might catch a glimpse of her sulking in the back row of a symphony orchestra, drowning her sorrows in violins. That is if Geoffrey decides to let her out. Poor Cass, always playing second fiddle in more ways than one.

౨ৎ

Mortimer Goth – Famous gallerist, better known for marrying up. Some say Mortimer Goth has it all: a high-paying job that lets him curate his passion, two picture-perfect children, and a smoking hot wife with a past as mysterious as her present. Maybe the Landgraabs and Goths have more in common than we think—like the fact that both families’ matriarchs run the show. Even Bella, who disappears more often than a limited-edition Fabergé egg. But is Mortimer truly happy, or has he learned to keep his questions to himself? After all, ignorance is bliss, right? Something tells me dear Cassandra didn’t quite get that life lesson from daddy dearest.

౨ৎ

Bella Goth – The ever-enigmatic Bella Goth, Sim City’s very own Mona Lisa with secrets behind that famous smile. Once a model and forever a mystery, Bella Bachelo traded in the runway for a life of high society as Bella Goth. And let’s just say, the intrigue hasn’t stopped since. But while Mortimer lives in his art-filled bliss, Bella’s not just playing house—she’s playing a much bigger game. Always jetting off on one "business trip" after another, you have to wonder what’s really keeping her away. Of course, it’s all very hush-hush. But with her sharp mind and sultry charm, it’s clear Bella isn’t just a pretty face at fancy galas. Whatever she’s up to, one thing’s for sure: she’s definitely not on Nancy Landgraab’s guest list. Nancy may control half of Sim City’s power grid, but Bella? She’s always two steps ahead. The real question is, how long can she keep everyone guessing?

You know you love me! XOXO, Sim Snitch.

[feline-ephemera]

Turnabout Is Fair Play

A Knight is sent after a quarry who doesn't take her seriously.

6k words

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Lucerne knelt to pull leather-fletched quarrels from the wolf’s matted hide. A crossbow may not have been one of the traditional chivalric weapons, but one was invaluable for jobs like this, and chivalry was not for beasts besides. 

At a rustle Lucerne dropped the quarrel and pivoted, braced her poleaxe just so to allow the wolf’s mother, this pack’s matriarch, to impale herself on its spike. Lucerne lifted the hounskull from her head, revealing in the feline flesh beneath the misnomer of the helm. That made eight, including the pups, which was the full count for this ensorcelled pack. She pulled the poleaxe from the wolf-matriarch’s chest. It was time to return to the Order.

—

In the city-state of Claim, a compound belonging to the Knightly Aver Order lay stretched out like a great beast lounging within the city’s walls. Deep within the sconce-lit depths of this compound Lucerne knelt and received instruction on her next assignment. It was a witch, sequestered in a forest surrounding one of the city’s outlying villages. Possibly connected to the recent ensorcelling of the wolf pack. 

Her mentor said to her, “The order is grateful for your work and devotion, Lucerne. You have been granted a freer hand than most for this next cleansing. You may capture or kill this one onsite, as you wish. She is a self-confessed witch, by all accounts, so bringing her in for an inquisition is unnecessary; if you do kill her yourself though, a pyre is still preferred. You have been allowed however much time is necessary to complete the act, though do not take this as allowance for slothful idling. You have free leave to requisition what equipment you desire from the armory. All else is as usual. Complete your mission, and return to us.” 

Lucerne almost made as if to rise, hopeful the litany would not come this time, before a hand on her black-furred brow stayed her and it began. 

“As always, remember your mask and cloak when out of battle-harness. The layfolk of the land will reject and scorn your bestial form if they learn of it, outside of this, your one refuge.” Lucerne had heard this a hundred times, incanted always with the tempo of something well rehearsed. But they would keep telling it to her, no matter how well she knew the fact better than the man across from her.

—

Lucerne arrived at the village of Latch and checked in with the Order’s outpost there to receive directions and supplies before heading off towards the woods. Upon consideration, she left her poleaxe in the case of the outpost’s quartermaster. Parting with it was uncomfortable but it would be cumbersome and noisy in a forest, and was unlikely to be of much more use than a sword against this quarry. She had replaced her full plate battle-harness with a jack of plate for similar reasons. Her helm remained with her, of course.

A short while after leaving the outpost Lucerne crossed the boundary between Latch’s fields and the surrounding forest. It was late, but she did not wish to rest even the night back in that outpost. Too many uncomfortable questions and stares. Better cold food and solitude in the forest. Lucerne was close enough yet to Latch that it was unlikely a witch who chose to live in isolation would see a cooking fire, but witches were not things to take chances with. Every precaution was necessary. 

Lucerne had been sent to dispatch many beasts and troubles of both mundane and mystical nature, but she had only been sent against a witch proper once before, and that as a disciple following a more experienced knight. It had been a harrowing experience, and they had come through it only  through the most meticulous and careful preparations.

—

Forests were home territory for Lucerne. Especially those surrounding Claim. Even if she had never been to this exact stretch before, she knew their character. Forest, most wilderness to be honest, but most especially hardwood forest, was much more comfortable to her than any city. There was refuge within the Order’s compound in Claim, of course, but general life in cities was horrific to her. Forests were much nicer, much safer, much simpler.

All of this meant Lucerne had absolutely no excuse to have gotten lost. It was ridiculous. She wasn’t some foppish stripling who inadvertently walked in circles whenever they were away from a road. Sure, the canopy of this place was dense; navigating by sun was difficult and by stars impossible, but that had hardly ever been an obstacle to her.

It was a day and a half before she re-emerged from the forest. In very nearly the same spot she had entered. Lucerne gnashed her teeth. This was infuriating. The place was a maze! She turned straight around and went back between the boles, this time determined not to lose focus on the task at hand.

The third time Lucerne emerged from the woods in more or less the same spot, she was certain. Witchery was afoot here. Her ears twitched against the inside of her helmet (that was one advantage of this bascinet, it came to an apex which allowed a cavity for her ears—though she had had to cut slits in her coif and the helmet liner to fit them into it). Witchery was to be expected when dealing with a witch, of course, though the average witch typically simply set traps to poison, maim, or otherwise kill hunters. They did not often invest the time in laying enchantments of confusion over stretches of forest to deter investigation. This sorceress was crafty. Traps were something Lucerne had already prepared for, and were still likely when she got deeper in. Now that she had assessed the outer defense of the misdirection spells, she could begin work on circumventing these as well. The first step was simple. It was back in the direction of Latch. Lucerne had taken advantage of her access to the armory and brought sufficient equipment from Claim in case of such a defense, along with equipment for several other scenarios. She had left what she thought likely to be extraneous in the care of the Order’s outpost. She sighed, pulled her hounskull visor down over her muzzle. Back to the stares.

—

Lucerne returned to the forest for the fourth time armed with about ten pounds of fine twine and more importantly, a mariner’s lodestone compass. Claim was a port city, so she hadn’t been terribly surprised to find it when prowling through the Order’s armory. She was glad for the foresight to have brought it with. With the compass, a map, and twine to mark her path it would be much shorter work to penetrate the web of misdirection laid over the forest.

Lucerne began her work with the twine while just barely in sight of the edge of the wood. There was no way she could carry enough to string a line all the way to where the witch was estimated to reside, but that was inadvisable anyway. Once she got close enough she expected some trickery of the prey would move any laid yarn to attempt to misdirect the cat, making it useless at best past that point.

She spent about [a day and a half? A day?] stringing yarn between branches in intermittent lines. She separated them to make the cordage last longer. For navigation it was necessary only to see the lay of the previous strand so as to lay the next properly in line with it. She tied the start of each strand with one knot and the end with another, so that if she were to lose her way and then come back across a yarn she would be able to tell in which direction lay the edge of the wood and which led deeper in. This task was simple to begin, among the parts of the forest well-tended and kept clear of underbrush by the woodcutters and charcoal-burners of Latch. Eventually the brush began to increase in density and laying straight strands became more difficult. Lucerne ran out of yarn shortly afterwards, so the issue was not long lasting.

 With the yarn depleted, it was time for the intricate lodestone compass to pick up the slack and earn its prodigious cost. Witchcraft could not confound the senses of such a device so easily as that of a person, or of a beast in Lucerne’s case.

The Knight made quick work of the miles, taking them in stride with newfound confidence buoyed by the compass. It was about another half-day of picking her way through the underbrush before she encountered the first trap. Deep maroon thorns of a bush running with a toxin not natural to the plant. She had reached the edge of the prey’s defences. 

It was near dusk and while Lucerne had excellent night vision, the cautious path was not to move into such territory in darkness. She stepped back and began searching for a covered spot to rest through the night.

After an uneventful night, Lucerne spanned her crossbow and laid a bolt of hawthorn wood and soft iron (materials chosen for their counter-magical properties) upon the string before setting out once more well rested and better able to see the lay of the traps before her. They were not terribly taxing to overcome, though they did demand vigilance. Unfortunately it was necessary for her helm’s visor to be down at this point. Anyone Lucerne encountered past the boundary of the traps would be either the witch herself, or in her thrall. Hostilities could commence at any moment, which just demanded more vigilance. Her ears were swiveling constantly, for whatever good they would do confined in the point of her bascinet.

After another several hours of picking her way around envenomed thorns, small pools of water with a faint scent of wickedness no human nose could detect, creepers strung above suspicious numbers of deer bones, and once or twice just straightforward steel foothold traps hidden in the leaf-litter, Lucerne was startled by a voice.

“Hey there cutie, you lost?” Lucerne pivoted to the side where the voice had come from and raised her crossbow to her shoulder in a single smooth motion. Almost before the sentence was finished the hawthorn bolt was flashing towards the speaker.

“Eep!” She ducked behind a tree before the bolt could strike anything more material than long dark hair, dropping the basket of mushrooms and leaves she had been carrying. “Rude!” came the cry from behind the trunk.

The knight dropped her crossbow and ran towards the tree, drawing her sword mid-stride. Distance favored this quarry, and must be closed as soon as possible. “Why not lay down and die, you wretched fucking—” Lucerne shouted out as she dashed across the undergrowth. Goading a witch to speech could interfere with their sorceries. This one did not take the bait, as she peeked out from behind the tree, crooked the fingers of her hand, and spoke a few syllables in a language Lucerne had never before heard.

“—witch!” Lucerne was no longer amid the forest. She looked around where she found herself inexplicably laid out on her back.

“That witch…” Some sorcery had taken place. Lucerne found herself back at the edge of the wood, again. In nearly the exact same place, again. This was absurd. Had Lucerne not been more aware and wary of wicked tricks from her prey she might’ve thought she had fallen asleep here, and dreamt of the encounter. She had no memory of the intervening time between that encounter and her arrival back at the fields of Latch, so some kind of soporific enchantment seemed likely anyhow. Lucerne had draughts from the Order’s alchemists which provided wakefulness. They would serve to counteract such spells.

Lucerne chided herself for foolishness in not having downed one prior to encountering the witch. The meeting had been by surprise and the potions had deleterious side effects, but it still would have been prudent. There was little reason the knight should be alive right now to make sure that mistake wasn’t repeated in the future. If the witch had cast her asleep it would have been simple for her to have pulled Lucerne’s visor up and slipped a dagger past her eye. It was a mystery, but one that Lucerne did not particularly care to solve. Solving it might involve a conversation with the witch, which was one of the least advisable things she could think of.

Lucerne felt well rested, so after restocking her supplies at the town outpost she set back out. The jute yarns remained strung, though if they hadn’t been removed wholesale then they had surely been tampered with to lead her astray and were hereafter an untrustworthy guide. Lucerne would have to rely on the compass, taking care not to damage the device (her original reason for using yarn as much as possible). 

More walking through the forest. Surprisingly, the yarn seemed to maintain the original path as Lucerne remembered laying it out. Regardless, she stuck to finding her way via the compass.

Lucerne made it back to the start of the trapped perimeter. The same low-down tangle of acrid poisoned briars. She downed the first of her draughts of wakefulness, spanned her crossbow and placed another bolt on the string. She could not be surprised again. It was miraculous she had survived the last encounter, and it was unlikely she would survive another if she did not catch the witch unaware and engaged her with swift brutality.

One point to Lucerne’s advantage—witches tended towards egregious overconfidence within their established spheres. This was the most likely reason Lucerne had been spared the knife; the witch felt no threat from her. Insulting, but opportune and exploitable. 

The knight approached the scene of that past confrontation carefully, scanning the ground… there! The witch, predictably overconfident and incautious had left tracks in the damp soil, beside a depression in the ground that Lucerne realized she must’ve made herself upon falling unconscious to the hex. Lucerne followed the tracks back towards their origin, moving even more carefully and with greater vigilance than before. Her tail would’ve been twitching in anticipation had it not been wrapped around her waist under her garments. 

She dogged the trail, which meandered between what must’ve been sites to gather various plants and mushrooms—no doubt ingredients for the quarry’s wickedness.

A ways up the trail, Lucerne’s ears perked up within her helm as she heard something out of tune with the normal song of this forest. An unnatural rustling, off to the side. The knight quickly raised her visor, took another draught, and pulled the visor back down. She stalked through the wood until she spied, through the brush, her prey. The witch had her basket once more, and was collecting something from the bole of a tree. From her position directly behind the witch’s bent over form she couldn’t see the head or heart of her prey. Aiming for anything but a kill-shot was untenable. Repositioning would be folly. So Lucerne waited several moments for the quarry to finish her task and then raise her upper body back up. 

Sights set upon the prey’s heart, Lucerne tickled the trigger of her crossbow. The bolt flew, but did not land. What? She had lost track of the projectile in its flight, but it had been a dead-on shot aimed perfectly to hit her prey’s heart. Sure, her hands were perhaps shaking slightly from the effects of the draughts she’d been taking, but Lucerne could’ve made that shot in her sleep. She was drawing her sword and rising to charge as these thoughts raced through her head.

They were interrupted by the witch calling out “You’re advised to look behind you before trying anything rash.” The witch did not turn from checking her basket.

Lucerne struggled to resist the urge to look. After a moment she concluded, perhaps against better judgement, that she should check just in case the witch wasn’t bluffing. She turned mid-stride just enough to see behind her through the perforated breaths in her hounskull. What she saw widened her eyes. Strands of something—no, the jute yarn, the same she herself had used to chart her initial course into this forest, it was strung taut between every tree she could see behind her in interminable tangles like the creation of some manic spider.

At the suppressed laugh from the witch, Lucerne realized she had unintentionally paused in her death-driven stride. She looked back forwards. The witch was facing her now, and around the witch, and to all sides, was that self-same tangle of pale beige cord stark against the dark trunks. The crossbow bolt was there, caught in the tangle. 

No time to question it. Lucerne resumed her charge, hardly needing to raise her sword for the first strands as she broke through them easily. They were still just yarns. She could still succeed.

“Is this all you have arrayed against me?” She cried out as her sword swung effortlessly through a tangle. Get the quarry talking so she wasn’t doing something effective. 

Another quiet, two-note chuckle from the prey. The tangles were getting thicker, far thicker than they had looked initially, as if more strands were moving into her way somehow.  Lucerne was still moving quickly, but relying more on her sword and less on simply breaking through the strands by force of body now. “Why, you’re so strong,” the prey said, still with the glint of laughter in her eye, “perhaps I should’ve arrayed more indeed.”

Lucerne was slowing down though. Each strand was nothing by itself but the multitude of them grew wearying. A leg got snagged, halted. She freed it via application of the sword. An arm caught this time, again swiftly freed but not before a leg was ensnared in its place. 

“Then again,” the witch continued, this time with a grin as toothsome as any Lucerne’s feline maw had ever given, “perhaps not.” Both legs caught now. The threads were definitely employing unnatural movement to ensnare her. A few more moments and her off-hand was caught, and then her sword arm. She kept a grip on the hilt, but the cuff of her gauntlets prevented her wrist movement such that she couldn’t angle it back to cut herself free any further.

Lucerne was caught. Arm’s outspread, one leg snagged off the ground mid-stride. She struggled, which bore no fruit. More and more treacherous yarns wrapped around her, securing her restraints not just around her limbs but also her shoulders and hips and reducing the ability for struggle further with each moment. The miles of twine added up until she might as well have been held by hawsers. The witch approached. 

“Certainly seems like that was enough!” Lucerne’s glare back in response to the witch’s taunt was one of those that felt like it should be burning its object down to ash.

Once she ceased her futile struggles, Lucerne responded: “Kill me.”

“Awfully forward of you,” said the witch, “we don’t even know each other's names yet. Mine’s Ciara by the way.” Lucerne doubted that.

“Kill me.”

“Not going to ask me to let you go first?”

Lucerne raised her head to look better at the witch. “I have failed in my task. Twice now. Kill me and be done with it and I will have received what I deserve.”

“First time might’ve been a freak occurrence but you coming back in here and now saying this confirms it, you work for the Order, right?”

“Kill me.” Lucerne thought it a little strange she even had to ask, nevermind repeatedly.

The witch sighed. “No, so stop asking. Did you know you have very interesting pronunciation?” No one had ever told Lucerne this before. She weighed asking the Witch to kill her again against the risk of giving her more examples of her pronunciation of such a request. Who knew what she could do with that knowledge.

Ciara continued: “Very interesting m’s in particular, along with a few other consonants if I'm hearing correctly. Don't get me wrong, your diction is very good, it's just a few hairs of oddity in there.”

Lucerne remained silent. The witch seemed to enjoy the sound of her own voice.

The witch shifted topics unexpectedly. “Tell me dear, isn’t that helmet rather outdated? I know the Order equips their catspaws with more modern kit, which that fancy crossbow you’ve tried introducing me to seems to fit the description of. Now, don’t get me wrong. I’m certainly not an expert, but that thing on your head looks like it was in vogue, what, two centuries ago?”

They were standing face-to-helm now, the witch within reach if only Lucerne were able to bring down her sword arm enough to deliver a blow. 

“No, the Order has its faults but at least it equips its servants reasonably well. Meaning there must be some other reason. Which I think I could guess, but, why bother when you’re right here?” The witch reached out and raised Lucerne’s visor. Her discipline was nearly insufficient to stop her from snarling at the violation of her privacy. She suppressed the ingrained feeling of stomach-churning anxiety at having her face exposed, out in the open. The witch would know now that she had been hunted by, and had defeated, a mere beast. Something subhuman. She was sure to gloat over Lucerne’s nature.

“Ooh,” The witch exclaimed. “You’re kinda cute.”

“What?” Lucerne mentally chided herself for breaking her silence, although it seemed the angle for which the witch had brought up her pronunciation was moot now.

“You heard me. And I’d like to note that had I voiced my earlier guess, it would’ve been on the mark. And that with me having been polite and not looking under your helm when you so rudely fell asleep last time we spoke.”

Lucerne continued trying to learn how to kill someone via staring at them hard enough.

“Now, dear, I hope you won’t mind me speculating a bit on what your life has been like up until now. You’re a pawn of the Aver Order, and I’d guess you’ve been so since you were very young. Probably an orphan ward of theirs, as so many of their hunters are. Normally I’d call them hunting dogs but in your case that doesn’t seem quite accurate, does it?”

Teeth flashed in the shadowed forest as Lucerne’s upper lip pulled back, semi-involuntarily.

The witch leaned on a nearby tree and brought out a small leather-bound book from some hidden pocket of her skirts. “If I know the Order, and I know more than I care to,  I’d confidently wager that their treatment of you has been less than kind. To make an understatement.”

“They treat me extremely well for a beast,” Lucerne muttered, no longer caring about maintaining silence. “Not that it is any concern of yours.”

“Is that how it is? Do you truly see yourself as nothing more than a common beast? Do you see common beasts as less than the creatures in charge of the Order, or of Claim?”

“Of course.”

“Hmm. Did you know that if you were to sail south-west from Claim for about a week, you would come to a city with a large population of people like you who live peacefully alongside what you’d regard as typical humans as equals? People like you, mind, not beasts. I’d imagine that you haven’t been sent near there on your travels for the Order.”

Lucerne had never been to nor heard of such a place, despite having traveled extensively for the Order. She had not been sent southwest much at all, so it might exist, even if she thought the idea of such a place where she might be regarded as human was ridiculous. “Even ants make cities,” she eventually said.

Ciara scoffed, flipped through her book a few pages. “I don’t even know how to argue with you. Rhetoric is not a skill of mine.” She huffed. “I’ll make you an offer though. I’ve been meaning to attend to some business of mine near there soon, and I don’t like travelling without a retainer. Join me and you can come see this city, and be free of the Order at the same time.

Lucerne just looked at her in incredulity. Be free of the Aver Order? Her one refuge in the world?. “Kill me,” she told the stupid witch. 

The stupid witch reached over and cuffed the side of her bascinet, too quickly for Lucerne to successfully bite the hand though not for lack of an attempt. “Bad girl. I told you to stop asking that.”

So much for treating me like a human, Lucerne thought. Perhaps she should’ve gone along with the witch’s idea if only to stab her in her sleep some night on the road, but she was untrained in such guile and it was beneath her besides. 

Ciara snapped the book closed. “Well here’s how this is going to work then. You will leave this forest and I warn you not to return in anger. Do you understand?”

“I understand your words. Now unbind me.”

“Not so fast. I want a memento first.” Was the witch going to take her hand for the offence, or something of that sort? Lucerne supposed she deserved as much for her failures, if she was not to be killed. The witch moved around the yarns suspending Lucerne from the trees and the knight felt a firm grip upon the back of her helm. She tried to turn to see if she could bite the hand touching her, but found herself unable to against that grip. She heard a buckle unclasp, and felt the helm loosen, and then be pulled off her head. Seemed the witch would take an ear as trophy then. That was good, less of a handicap than losing a hand.

Ciara moved back around to stand in front of Lucerne. “This will do,” the witch said, rapping her fingers on the helmet held under her arm.

Lucerne’s eyes widened. “No! You can’t. Take something else. Cut off my ears, or my tail, or what have you,” she said in a voice verging on panicked.

“Why is that dear? I rather like this helmet. And I think it will look nicer on my shelf than a jar of pickled ears.”

“I need that. You can’t take it from me.”

“You’re not in charge here.” Lucerne did snarl this time, despite the gross impropriety of it. She was desperate. “I cannot show my bared head back in Latch, back in Claim. I cannot.” She gritted her teeth, managed to mutter: “...please.”

“No.”

Lucerne snarled louder, hurled obscenities, railed against her bonds. The witch stood there watching the display and giggled. She reopened her book and flicked through it until landing on the page she was looking for. Eventually Lucerne tired, breathing heavy against the restraints and her jack. “Fine,” she huffed out, despite the anxiety that was back in her stomach that would no longer be suppressed. “Unbind me. I will leave.”

“I did not say you would be leaving under your own power.” The witch scratched down the page with a nail, and the yarns vibrated into a flurry of motion. 

Lucerne grunted as she was hoisted fully into the air by the strands and they snapped out to different trees, pulling her along through the air. They were carrying her back out the way they came. They sped up, until Lucerne was mildly concerned she would be struck by a tree at the blistering speed they moved at though the strands moved her from the path of any obstacles before this happened. She was much more concerned when her sword was struck by a tree and thrown from her grip. She tried to mark the area where it was lost, but was moving too fast to get a good register of the place.

This kept up for a while, being propelled by the yarns at such an unnatural speed such that she dared not risk struggling against their grip. Soon, much sooner than she had expected given the distance into the forest at which she had encountered the quarry, she reached the edge of the wood and was thrown out by the yarns to the ground. Her sword and crossbow, which she had dropped back after taking the shot, were thrown down onto the ground beside her. She gathered these then raised herself to her feet and turned back to the forest. The jute yarns had gone limp and fallen to the ground, no sign of their enchantment remaining. Lucerne did not buy this. She gathered them up and immediately set fire to the bundle. 

That done, she took a deep breath and exhaled before moving along the edge of the wood. Someone might investigate the fire so she couldn’t stick around. That knot of anxiety in her stomach was not subsiding.

She ended up waiting out the rest of the day on the outskirts of the field, ducking into the woods if any villagers happened to come nearby. Once night fell and she felt it was dark enough to move, she secreted herself back into the village, into the outpost. She held her composure well enough through a staredown with the acolyte on duty there to intimidate them into retreating, though only just. She felt likely to vomit. She stayed there only long enough to grab a cloak and some traveling rations from where she had stashed her supplies. She had the outline of a plan already to catch her quarry. No magics would prevent her this time. But she had to go back to Claim first. Damn that witch! Had to go back to Claim for a replacement helm, but travel without a helm was much more difficult. Alas. Lucerne would have to manage with the cloak.

Still in the dead of night, a knight departed the village of Latch. She could sleep on the road. As she walked, she thought on the witch’s offer. Not out of any consideration of going back to accept it, of course, but out of idle, unbidden pondering while plodding along. How did she feel about how the Aver Order treats her? She felt there was no room for her to feel but grateful to that Order which had raised her, trained her, provided her with shelter and occupation. That she had never been treated the same as the human number in equivalent station was only natural, whatever the witch claimed. That said, though, she had gone on many hunts for the Order. The dark, nasty, low-down assignments which human hunters refused for being beneath their honor. Lucerne did have her own honor, even if it were similarly low-down and bestial honor as all of her must be, as all of her is. Was it beneath her honor to leave the Order? Had she repaid her debt to them such that she could justify leaving? Mayhaps. But that was all assuming she had reason and ability to leave.

Lucerne had seen how the others of her kind were treated by the human citizenry of Claim, those times she had gone out among the city streets (helmed or firmly cloaked, of course). She did not envy the experience of those who shared her bestial nature but not her proclivity and ability to mask herself, as well as the relative refuge provided her by the Order.

There was something perhaps appealing in the thought of devoting herself to something personal rather than the large but ultimately intangible Aver Order. Something, someone, she could see and touch in its entire. But it did not seem worth the material sacrifice of leaving the Order; and while perhaps she could justify that leaving, to enter the employ of a witch was certainly beneath even her honor. Idle thoughts, not serious consideration.

The Order knew of secret ways to enter and depart from Claim. Lucerne availed herself of one such entrance so as to avoid inspection by the gate guards. Others might have been looking forward to a repose after several days on the road, but Lucerne’s anxiety was such that she intended to leave immediately upon acquiring what she came here for. The tunnel led directly to the Aver compound, thankfully. She was able to requisition a replacement helm and a surprise for her quarry, integral to her next plan of attack. The helm was not blued to match the rest of her armor. Alas.

—

Back in the forest around Latch. Care taken to enter with stealth, no encounter with the witch before Lucerne reached her destination could be permitted. She had darkened the bright, un-blued steel of her replacement helm with soot the night before so it would not flash in the dappled sunlight coming down through the trees. She had brought her poleaxe with this time, and she maneuvered it with care so as not to rustle the underbrush. The knight was searching for the witch’s abode, likely a cottage or hut of some sort. 

Eventually she found it, stalking human tracks in the soil back to a small, stone-walled cottage in a small clearing. It was midday, and looked unoccupied at the moment. She crept closer until able to peer into a window. Confirming the witch was out for the day, she began her preparations. It would be good to finally get the stink of sulphur out of her pack.

—

The trap set, Lucerne camouflaged herself as well as she could and hid beneath some brush with a view of the clearing and cottage and waited until the witch came home. After some hours, the quarry came into view, entering the clearing to Lucerne’s right. Infuriatingly, upon entering the clearing her prey looked right at Lucerne’s hiding spot and waved. Waved! Then she continued in to the cottage.

Lucerne held her breath and did not react. Did not show any hostilities. The quarry clearly did not see her as a threat. It was insulting, but at least it worked to her advantage. The prey had entered the trap.

It was time. Her crossbow was spanned. Materials had been prepared. Lucerne pulled out the slow match tied to her pack that she had kept carefully tended and lit while waiting. She held it to the pine-resin mixture affixed to her crossbow’s bolt, courtesy of the Order’s tame alchemists. The knight tickled the trigger, sending the burning bolt into the small pile of straw set against the cottage side wall.

Crossbow nut still spinning, Lucerne dove behind the thick bole of the tree she had been beside. She was breathing heavy in anticipation. This would have to be done swiftly, but she was ready. As the straw caught and the flames reached toward that other gift of the labs, the Knight began pulling her helmet off her head.

The petard went off. Lucerne flew to action, coming out from behind the bole in a sprint towards the newly three-walled cottage. As she entered through the smoking, dusty hole she saw the witch coughing with a shocked, pained look that Lucerne had only a moment to appreciate before the helmet she hurled hit the woman in the mouth, knocking her on her ass. 

Lucerne was on her in an instant, stepping on the witch’s hands and shoving fingers into her mouth as her other hand pulled her dagger and held it to the back of the prey’s neck.

“Try another fucking soporific hex, or charmed twine. I dare you.”

—

Lucerne had stripped her prey of all jewelry and other small accoutrements which might be charmed, feline claws making short work of necklace thongs and bracelet-cords. The small spellbook had been tossed in fire. A gag more secure than fingers was tied in place. To keep the prey’s hand immobile Lucerne had soaked strips of leather and used them to tie those hands to opposite ends of her poleaxe’s haft, placed horizontally behind Ciara’s shoulders such that it kept her arms outstretched in opposite directions. Those leather bindings tightened as they dried, making sure those fingers stayed painfully still. Normal rope was used to further secure the half to her arms, neck, and torso.

The prey was kneeling in her binds outside the ruins of her cottage. Lucerne sat looking down at her from a stool that had somehow survived the blast. She rapped staccato claws across the properly blued steel of her old helmet, resting on her knee after she’d dug it from the rubble.

“You opened my thoughts to the possibility of leaving the Order. Not that I am convinced to do so, but it is a possibility. So that leaves me with a question. What now?”

The witch had held an indignant cast to herself. As she looked up to Lucerne when she spoke, and beheld the look in those feline eyes, that indignance changed to stark fear.

[elysiumania]

title: a dagger's embrace pairing(s): jing yuan/reader warnings: angst, slow burn, violence, hurt/comfort, manipulation, suggestive themes. word count: 7.2k

MASTERLIST

CHAPTER 04

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Standing at the entrance of the Seat of Divine Foresight, a faint reluctance tugs at your heartstrings. Your gaze meets the watchful eyes of the guard stationed at Jing Yuan's office, and while his expression remains inscrutable, a glimmer of intrigue shimmers within his gaze. It hints at a familiarity, a recognition forged during the grand engagement festivities that resonated through the sprawling expanse of Xianzhou Luofu.

How did the threads of fate intertwine to bring you to this place, defying all odds? Bound by the confines of the Hongying clan's estate, you yearned for a chance to venture beyond its walls, and now, here you stand, entrusted with a crucial mission.

The matriarch, in her relentless pursuit to dismantle the barriers encircling Jing Yuan's heart, has commanded your presence in his office, under the guise of fostering a closer connection. It is a strategic maneuver, a subtle attempt to dismantle the fortifications around his soul, one fragile piece at a time, until he warms to your presence.

Yet, even in this ostensible voyage towards forging a bond, solitude is never granted. The matriarch's influence echoes through the presence of a handpicked maid, tasked to attend to your needs. She stands beside you, clutching a box swathed in opulent red fabric, an emblem of prestige and import. But even amidst this shared path, two guards accompany you, their vigilant gazes serving as a constant reminder that your every step is monitored, your every interaction subjected to scrupulous scrutiny.

With a voice steeped in politeness and respect, you extend a formal greeting to the guard. "Greetings, esteemed sir. I am known as (Name). I have ventured here in search of General Jing Yuan. If it does not impose too greatly upon your duties, might I be granted a brief audience with him?"

The guard's gaze lingers upon you, his scrutiny both measured and intense. Each passing moment heightens the sense of anticipation, causing your heart to quicken its rhythm.

"Do you have an appointment with the general?" he inquires, his tone maintaining an air of composure and restraint.

"Regrettably, I do not," you admit with a gentle shake of your head. "I have merely come forth to deliver his midday repast."

The guard blinks, his eyes narrowing ever so slightly as he assimilates the unexpected nature of your request. After a brief contemplation, he nods, seemingly acquiescing to your explanation. 

Traditions and protocols prevalent within noble circles dictate that appointments and scheduled meetings be adhered to when seeking an audience with someone as busy and esteemed as Jing Yuan. However, the matriarch's capricious whims have effectively cast such conventions aside, disregarding the need for customary procedures.

A fleeting thought flits across your mind, hinting at the treacherous schemes of the matriarch and her cohorts behind Jing Yuan's back. Their desperation to undermine his influence and power becomes apparent in their disregard for decorum. However, you, akin to a sharpened blade, are but a tool in their hands.

Gratitude swells within you as the guard assures you of his intent to convey your arrival to Jing Yuan. Time passes in measured increments, each moment stretched taut with anticipation as you await his return. Finally, he reemerges, granting you permission to step into the revered sanctum of the General's office. However, the weight of the matriarch's decree presses upon you, and you are completely aware that your entourage—the guards and the maid—must remain outside. Their presence is deemed superfluous, as this encounter with Jing Yuan is meant for you alone. With a resolute nod, you issue instructions for them to wait, offering assurances of a swift return.

Thankfully they yield, understanding their place in this meticulously choreographed charade. With a subtle roll of your eyes, you can't help but feel a twinge of annoyance at the matriarch's transparent intentions. It appears she is the one vying for Jing Yuan's affections, her fervor for his attention laid bare. The realization leaves a bitter taste upon your tongue, but you dare not disobey the command of the clan head. You are, indeed, their marionette, bound to dance to the tune of their every whim.

Stepping aboard the awaiting starskiff, you find yourself carried towards the Seat of Divine Foresight, your heart fluttering in a tumult of anticipation and trepidation. It dawns upon you that this will mark your inaugural visit to Jing Yuan's office, an unexpected deviation from your carefully calculated plans. The matriarch's impatience has set the wheels of fate spinning far earlier than anticipated. Though you harbor your own strategies for fostering a connection with Jing Yuan and fulfilling your mission, you cannot disregard or disobey the mandates of the clan head. You are naught but a pawn, manipulated by their unseen hands, destined to fulfill their desires.

As the starskiff gradually comes to a halt, signaling your arrival at your destination, you disembark to find yourself confronted by the towering doors of the Seat of Divine Foresight. The sheer grandeur of the edifice overwhelms your senses, its very presence echoing the commanding essence of Jing Yuan himself. An undeniable aura of authority and import suffuses this place, a testament to its association with the esteemed General.

Stationed by the doors, guards stand with resolute determination. As their eyes capture your approach, you bestow upon them a respectful bow, reciprocated by their own deferential inclinations. The two sentinels positioned beside the imposing threshold swing the doors open, revealing a tableau infused with intrigue and enigma. The groan of the heavy doors reverberates through the air, augmenting the mysterious ambience that permeates this domain. Grateful for their assistance, you express your appreciation before crossing the threshold into Jing Yuan's office, fully cognizant that the destiny of your intricate mission teeters upon a precipice.

Stepping further into the place, your gaze is immediately ensnared by the opulence that pervades Jing Yuan's office. Flanking the entrance, two guards stand by the two lion statues, their silent vigilance adding an air of authority to the ambiance. Yet, it is the holographic chessboard that commands the center of the room, its intricate design and shimmering pieces evoking a sense of intellectual prowess and strategic contemplation. And there, upon the chessboard's expanse, stands Jing Yuan himself, a vision of charismatic grace, hands clasped regally behind his back, his smile radiating warmth and anticipation as he awaits your presence.

"Greetings," you address him with an amiable nod, a subtle curve gracing your lips. "I beg your pardon for this abrupt visit, having failed to secure an appointment in advance."

Jing Yuan dismisses any notion of inconvenience with a shake of his head, his countenance exuding an air of genuine delight. "Apologies are unnecessary. Your unexpected presence brings me great pleasure. It seems you are returning the favor of my own impromptu visits, would you not agree?"

"You jest, General Jing Yuan, such was never my intention."

“I jest.” His eyes gleam with amusement, briefly glancing toward the box nestled within your hands. "Pray tell, is there a specific purpose to your visit?"

Raising the box slightly, you offer it to him. "I have merely come to deliver your lunch."

Jing Yuan's eyebrows arch in surprise, momentarily taken aback. However, the astonishment swiftly dissipates, replaced by a gentle smile that graces his features.

"I must confess, I am quite astonished. This gesture of unexpected kindness truly caught me off guard. I assumed it will be something important for you to come here," he remarks, his voice carrying a genuine note of gratitude. Extending his hand toward you, he beckons you closer. "Nevertheless, I am sincerely appreciative of your thoughtfulness. It has brought me joy. Thank you."

As he expresses his gratitude, a pang of guilt tugs at the strings of your conscience. Regret washes over you, for he unknowingly extends his appreciation to an act not borne of genuine thoughtfulness, but rather a sinister scheme orchestrated by the matriarch—an intricate ruse meant to gradually thaw Jing Yuan's heart towards you, all in service of the mission. Behind your polite smile, the weight of deceit gnaws at your conscience, a constant reminder of the intricate threads manipulation in which you find yourself entwined.

As you inch closer to Jing Yuan, extending the lunch towards him, emphasizing your intention to depart promptly, he surprises you with a subtle tilt of his head, his eyes twinkling with a playful glimmer.

"Must you be in such haste? You have only just graced my presence," he comments, his voice laced with curiosity. "Why not linger a while longer?"

"My entourage awaits outside. I can’t let them wait for long.”

"We shall take appropriate measures to address this matter.” A mischievous smile dances upon Jing Yuan's lips, leaving you momentarily perplexed. His gaze shifts toward the discreet figure standing in the corner of the room. "Qingzu, kindly inform Lady (Name)'s chaperones that she shall be staying for a while. Accompany them to a suitable setting," he calmly instructs.

Your eyes widen in disbelief at his unexpected command. Turning to him, a mixture of surprise and protest etched upon your face, you voice your objection.

"General, there is truly no need for such an arrangement. I am here solely to deliver your lunch," you insist, hoping to dissuade Jing Yuan from his spontaneous proposition.

Yet, he meets your gaze with an unwavering determination, firmly holding your eyes before diverting his attention to the timepiece adorning the wall.

"The hour of luncheon approaches, and since you have already graced me with your presence, would it not be delightful to partake in a meal together?" he suggests, his tone inviting and warm.

Stunned by Jing Yuan's unexpected invitation, you find yourself momentarily lost for words. Your breath catches in your throat, and a lump forms, rendering you unable to respond immediately. His penetrating gaze remains fixed upon you, patiently awaiting your reply. Time seems to stand still, and you steal a glance at the clock, realizing that lunchtime is indeed approaching.

A conflict arises within you, torn between the fear of incurring the matriarch's wrath for lingering longer than intended and the flickering hope that this invitation could be an opportunity. Perhaps it could serve as a plausible reason to the matriarch, a sign that you are actively forging a connection with Jing Yuan, as she desires.

"Very well," you eventually acquiesce, your voice barely audible, a soft murmur in the air. You notice a gentle smile grace Jing Yuan's lips in response, his eyes lighting up with a touch of delight. It's as if he understands the inner turmoil that clouded your initial hesitation.

"I accept your offer. However, please understand that I shall not overstay my welcome," you add, determined to keep your word. "After the meal, I shall take my leave, allowing you to return to your important duties."

"I don't mind if you extend your stay.”

"I do not wish to divert your attention from your duties, General Jing Yuan," you express, understanding his position. "I am well aware of the burdens you carry and the weight of your responsibilities."

As your gaze fleetingly shifts towards Qingzu, who stands nearby, you catch a glimpse of skepticism in her eyes. As if you have said something wrong for her to react in such a way, especially at how he looks at him. An unspoken connection seems to exist between her and Jing Yuan, a fleeting recognition that piques your curiosity. However, you resist the temptation to pry, knowing that answers will unfold naturally with the passage of time. Patience becomes your steadfast ally.

Jing Yuan's unwavering eyes remain fixed upon you, emanating a warmth that cascades over you like a gentle wave. A genuine smile curves his lips, and a flicker of amusement dances within his gaze. 

"You need not concern yourself with distractions, Lady (Name)," he assures you with sincere tones. "Your presence is a welcome reprieve from the weight of my responsibilities."

You tilt your head slightly, a hint of innocence coloring your expression. "Is that truly so, or do you perhaps desire my company?" 

The words slip from your lips, carrying a playful curiosity. A tranquil hush falls upon the room, swallowing even the faint hum of the starskiff's engines. All that lingers is an enchanting stillness as your eyes remain locked with Jing Yuan's, steadfast in your refusal to break the connection.

Jing Yuan's surprise is unmistakable upon his countenance as he studies you, his eyes widening ever so slightly. Yet, a gleam of amusement sparkles within them, as if he relishes the unforeseen turn in the conversation.

"Do my words imply such intentions?" he responds, a mischievous smile tugging at his lips. His answer leaves you intrigued, a mixture of anticipation and wonder swirling deep within you.

"Another question, General. It seems you take pleasure in keeping me guessing, do you not?"

A soft chuckle escapes him, a melodious sound that fills the tranquil atmosphere. "Hmm… I shall leave it to your own contemplation, then."

A fleeting moment of defeat lingers within you, evident in the hitch of your breath and the subsequent sigh that escapes your lips. Once again, the encounter with Jing Yuan serves only to deepen the well of questions within your mind. His responses, veiled in ambiguity and marked by a tendency to respond with further inquiries, perpetually ignite your curiosity. Does this elusive nature stem from an intrinsic aspect of his character, or is it a deliberate manifestation of his enigmatic persona?

Despite your extensive research, delving into countless articles and news pieces about Jing Yuan, the man standing before you remains an inscrutable puzzle. No matter how closely you scrutinize him, his inner workings elude your grasp, rendering his future actions unpredictable. While his amiable demeanor creates an illusion of approachability, an invisible barrier shields you from unraveling the complexities that lie beneath. Doubt seeps into your thoughts, chipping away at your confidence in executing your mission flawlessly.

Frustration simmers within you, stoked by Jing Yuan's enigmatic presence. His talent for keeping you in suspense, for shrouding his intentions in enigma, fosters a yearning for clarity. You long for a glimpse beneath the surface, a glimpse that might illuminate the true essence of the man to whom you are bound. Nevertheless, you guard your emotions with utmost care, unwilling to expose any vulnerability in his presence. Complexity intertwines with complexity in this intricate dance of understanding, entangling both of you in a realm of unanswered queries.

Nonetheless, you remain composed and resolute, concealing any semblance of frustration that might betray your inner turmoil. Revealing vulnerability before him is the last thing you desire. Your focus sharpens, and determination takes root within the depths of your being. Neither his enigmatic presence nor the puzzle he personifies will sway you from your path or detract from your purpose. The mission at hand demands unwavering commitment, irrespective of the intricate riddle that Jing Yuan embodies.

With measured breaths, you fortify your resolve, reminding yourself of your own strengths and capabilities. While Jing Yuan may remain an enigma, you possess your own arsenal of skills and intuition. There exist methods to navigate the intricacies of his character, to gradually unravel the mystery thread by thread. Patience, astute observation, and adaptability will be your allies in this pursuit. Determined, you vow to fulfill your mission, to honor the obligations that lie before you.

Qingzu's interruption fractures the contemplative atmosphere, capturing both your attention and Jing Yuan's. "General, should I convey your message to Lady (Name)'s entourage?" she interjects, her presence commanding and efficient.

"Please do so," Jing Yuan responds with an air of calm authority. "Inform them that my fiancée will be joining me for a meal."

Acknowledging her task, Qingzu nods and takes her leave, destined to relay the message to the maid and two guards who accompany you.

"Let us find our seats at my table," Jing Yuan suggests, his gaze radiating warmth and hospitality. "Allow me to relieve you of that burdensome lunch box. It seems rather heavy with all these delectable delicacies."

With a gentle and considerate touch, he reaches out to take the lunch box from your grasp, and you willingly surrender it, grateful for the respite it brings.

Jing Yuan sets off toward his table, and you follow suit, exuding an air of reserved presence. Although permitted access to this space, an innate awareness cautions you to remain mindful of your surroundings. With each step, you tread cautiously, ever cognizant of the limitations that exist, even in this comparatively relaxed environment outside the estate's confines.

As you draw nearer to his table, your gaze is inexorably drawn to the mound of documents that adorns it. Towering stacks flank each side, while a solitary document claims center stage, accompanied by a poised pen. It becomes evident that Jing Yuan had been engrossed in attending to these papers before the guard interrupted him with news of your unexpected arrival.

Guilt tugs at your conscience, a twinge of remorse for disturbing his work. The weight of responsibility settles upon your shoulders, the gravity of the tasks that still demand his attention acutely apparent. The sight of those awaiting files serves as a tacit reminder of the obligations that encumber him.

Yet, despite the guilt that permeates your thoughts, you maintain a composed demeanor, concealing any inkling of unease that might betray your inner musings. It is not your intention to burden him further or impede his progress. Resilience becomes your ally, fortifying your resolve to seize this opportunity while remaining mindful of the delicate equilibrium between personal and professional spheres.

"Can you truly assure me that my presence won't prove burdensome to your work?" you inquire, the words slipping from your lips while your gaze remains fixed upon the stack of papers adorning his table. Reluctant to meet his eyes, you pause, hesitant to gauge his reaction.

"I have given you my assurance that it will not," he responds calmly, his voice imbued with reassurance. Jing Yuan gracefully navigates the space, making his way to the seat he occupies. With a graceful gesture, he invites you to join him in the vacant chair at his side.

Complying with his unspoken request, you lower yourself into the seat, the weight of uncertainty still lingering within you. Your gaze shifts from the pile of papers to meet his, finding Jing Yuan turning his head to face you.

"Did you plan to share your lunch with me?" he inquires, a hint of amusement twinkling in his eyes, complemented by a playful smile.

For a fleeting moment, you contemplate revealing the truth—the truth that would expose Lady Mingzhu's orchestration of this encounter and unveil your own lack of agency in the matter. However, you swiftly recognize that vocalizing such thoughts would only complicate an already intricate situation. The delicate equilibrium of appeasing the clan heads, and, more significantly, Jing Yuan himself, demands that you tread cautiously, even in this seemingly innocuous conversation.

"Yes, I have contemplated it for some time now, particularly in light of your visits to the estate unattended," you emphasize the word "unattended," ensuring he grasps the implication.

Jing Yuan's response is swift, his voice carrying a playful undertone. "Ah, so now I am persuaded that you seek to reciprocate."

"I made no such claim; I leave it to your own interpretation.”

A deep chuckle resonates from his chest, filling the space between you. "You certainly possess a talent for clever comebacks, do you not?"

"I am merely stating the truth. I remain uncertain of your meaning."

His gaze holds a fleeting smile as he redirects his attention to the documents before him. Jing Yuan proceeds to grasp the untouched parchment, his eyes scanning the contents as he moves from left to right. Despite the task at hand, he does not let the conversation wane, maintaining the connection between you.

"So, how have your days unfolded since the engagement festivities?" he inquires, his eyes still fixated upon the document before him, his focus divided between the conversation and his work.

Loosening the tension in your shoulders, you maintain your composed demeanor. "I have been inundated with numerous letters and even some gifts, all extending their blessings upon our betrothal. It has been an overwhelming experience. And what of your own encounters?"

Jing Yuan sets his pen down after scribbling a few notes on the document, deeming it complete. He moves it to the other side of the stack, his gaze then shifting to another paper from a separate pile.

"I, too, have received a multitude of messages and offerings. Yet, time seems to elude me, hindering my efforts to attend to them all. There are pressing matters that demand my unwavering attention."

As you observe him meticulously jotting down annotations on the fresh parchment, you nod slowly, acknowledging the weight of his responsibilities. "Undoubtedly, the role of a General entails formidable challenges, does it not?"

A moment of contemplation lingers before he responds, his voice resonating with quiet confidence. "One might assert that. However, with the passage of time, I have grown accustomed to the demands it bestows."

In the depths of your contemplation, a profound understanding dawns upon you, unveiling the centuries that have passed since Jing Yuan assumed the mantle of the General of Luofu. It leaves you wondering if the confines of his grand office have become a monotonous routine, one that might be tinged with ennui. The realization strikes a chord within you, for you, too, have wearied of the constraints that confine you within the walls of your modest chamber in the Hongying estate. The inability to venture outside and pursue your own desires has taken its toll, exacerbated by the whims and demands of the clan heads. Endless hours spent studying and tending to chores have drained your spirit, leaving you yearning for a taste of freedom denied to you.

Jing Yuan's words on transcending the mundane now resonate on a deeper level. You comprehend the underlying motivations that prompted him to accept this union, yet you remain convinced that there are other factors at play, concealed beneath the surface. Such a weighty decision cannot be made lightly, for marriage is a lifelong commitment, bound by duty and responsibility.

In the realm of high society, convenience prevails, and unions are forged to strengthen alliances. Children are promised to one another before their birth, a predetermined course dictated by their noble lineage. It is a somber reality that those of noble blood seldom have the luxury of choosing their own heart's desire, as their fate is irrevocably intertwined with the preservation of their family legacy. Duty binds them, and they must comply to safeguard their lineage—an obligation that casts a pall of sorrow upon the notion of love.

Though emotions such as love have never occupied the forefront of your mind, your upbringing having molded you to prioritize strength and appeasement of the clan heads' commands, you cannot escape the melancholic weight of the circumstances that surround you. The marriage with Jing Yuan holds no sentimental significance for you or anyone else. Instead, it serves as a means to an end—a stepping stone toward your ultimate goal of freedom. The shackles of duty tug at your conscience, but the allure of liberation beckons, seducing you to sacrifice anything necessary to break free from the clutches of the Hongying clan.

Your yearning for emancipation, where you can finally embrace a life devoid of restrictions, grows ever stronger. You are prepared to relinquish anything, even if it means forsaking all you have known, to seize that precious freedom. Xianzhou Luofu may fade into the past as you seek solace and tranquility in a new world.

"Are you eating well?" 

His penetrating gaze lingers upon you, delving deep into the recesses of your being, as if seeking to unravel the truth hidden beneath the carefully crafted veneer. A flicker of unease dances within you, threatening to betray the realities you strive to conceal. However, you summon your well-honed composure, determined not to let the facade crack under his scrutiny.

"I assure you, General, that I am sustaining myself adequately," you reply with practiced grace, the words slipping past your lips like a silk ribbon. Yet, the truth remains concealed, shrouded behind a veil of half-truths. In reality, the nourishment bestowed upon you is meager and insufficient, a stark contrast to the opulent feasts relished by the clan heads and their privileged associates. Your fabricated existence as their daughter, a pawn in their intricate game, denies you the bountiful indulgences bestowed upon those of true lineage.

While your engagement to Jing Yuan may have been orchestrated successfully, it has done little to alter your station within the confines of Xianzhou Luofu. The vast disparity between the lives you observe from the periphery and the life you are consigned to fuels an unquenchable hunger within your soul. Twice a day, you partake in meager sustenance—simple soups, cups of rice, and solitary fish—a meager offering that serves as a constant reminder of your humble place within this grand tapestry of existence.

As Jing Yuan's unwavering gaze persists, its intensity bearing down upon you, you avert your eyes, seeking solace in the surrounding environment. Desperation fuels your desire to redirect his attention, to divert him from the tempest of emotions brewing beneath your calm facade. In a feeble attempt to assuage the restlessness gnawing at your core, you subtly shift in your seat, a silent plea to regain a sense of equilibrium.

“It doesn’t seem you’re eating well.”

His discerning gaze pierces through your meticulously constructed façade, his perceptive eyes refusing to be deceived by your practiced composure. An irksome flicker of annoyance washes over you, casting a chilling shadow in your gaze as you meet his unwavering stare head-on. Anticipating this very comment, the subtle note of concern laced within his words, you steel yourself, ready to counter with a plausible explanation, a calculated ruse that he might accept without prying further.

"Since birth, I have carried this affliction," you offer with a measured tone, weaving a web of deception in hopes that he will accept your words at face value. "It is an inherent trait, deeply ingrained in my genetics."

There's a moment of pause and beat of stares before acknowledging your explanation. A trace of comprehension softens the contours of his features, a flicker of understanding dancing within his eyes. 

"Indeed, such predispositions do exist," he concedes. "In that case, I shall refrain from further remarks on the matter. It eases my heart to know that you are adequately nourished."

A veneer of indifference settles over you, strengthening the walls that shield your true emotions. A stoic composure is maintained as you coolly respond, "You need not concern yourself, General Jing Yuan. Rest assured, if I were not partaking in sufficient sustenance, surely I would have perished."

A subtle transformation overtakes Jing Yuan's countenance, casting aside his customary visage and unveiling a new expression that catches you off guard. The lines of his brow knit together and jaw clenched, etching a palpable distaste upon his features—a departure from the perpetually serene and playful mask he typically adorns. This unexpected shift in demeanor both unsettles and captivates you, evoking a whirlwind of amazement and surprise that swirls within.

His voice carries a tinge of dismay as he addresses your previous remark, emphasizing the gravity of the subject matter at hand. 

"Exercise caution when discussing matters as grave as death, (Name). It is not a topic to be approached with levity. Please be mindful of your choice of words in the days to come."

When he said his point, your jaw clenches, as a surge of guilt courses through the depths of your being, though the precise reasons for such remorse elude you. His solemnity, a stark departure from the composed and amiable Jing Yuan you have grown accustomed to, sparks an unexpected vulnerability within you, urging an immediate response.

"I extend my sincerest apologies," you utter with genuine contrition, your voice carrying the weight of remorse. A subtle shift in your posture causes you to shrink ever so slightly in your seat, an instinctual gesture to appease the disapproving gaze that you dare not meet. "My words were callous and insensitive. I pledge to exercise greater care in my choice of words henceforth."

Your head bows in a humble display, a visual testament to the sincerity that permeates your apology. The magnitude of his unanticipated reaction reverberates within you, kindling a heightened awareness of the need for heightened caution. In this game of shadows and intricacies, a single misstep can prove perilous. As you raise your gaze, tentative and watchful, you harbor a glimmer of hope—a silent plea for forgiveness and a longing for the restoration of that familiar amiability that has thus far characterized your encounters.

Regret permeates your being, a weighty burden upon your conscience, as you confront the ramifications of your careless words. The mission you painstakingly constructed, designed to secure Jing Yuan's favor and placate his sentiments, teeters perilously on the edge of unraveling. Straying from the path meticulously laid out before you is a treacherous gamble, one that threatens to undermine your objectives and spell failure—an outcome that cannot be tolerated.

In this moment, the profound gravity of Jing Yuan's role as a General envelops you, casting a somber light upon his existence. His tenure on the battlefield, his duty as the guardian of Xianzhou Luofu, has immersed him in the harrowing realm of mortality. The weight of countless lives lost—foes and comrades-in-arms alike—bears down upon him, an ever-present ache that has woven itself in the integral parts of his existence. Across the vast expanse of time, he has borne witness to the unyielding specter of death, a persistent shadow that haunts his every step.

The starkness of your earlier insensitivity becomes painfully apparent. You grasp the profound impact that death has had on Jing Yuan's life, the scars it has etched upon his soul. In the wake of his intimate acquaintance with loss, your casual mention of such a weighty matter struck a raw nerve, exacerbating the pain that perpetually simmers within him. Waves of remorse crash over you as you acknowledge the depth of your thoughtlessness and insensitivity towards his enduring torment.

In search of redemption, you resolve to exercise greater mindfulness, acutely aware of the far-reaching consequences of your words and actions. Success lies in harmonizing your intentions with the delicate intricacies of his experiences, deftly navigating the labyrinthine corridors of his emotions with grace and tact. It is of utmost importance to remain attuned to his sensitivities, shielding him from any inadvertent anguish that your presence may unwittingly engender.

Only through this concerted effort can you hope to forge an unbreakable bond, bridging the chasm between your disparate worlds and ultimately fulfilling the mission that hangs precariously in the balance.

You notice his breath flowing through his nose, followed by that familiar slight twitch at the corners of his mouth—a gesture that signifies his amusement. "Let's divert our attention. What activities do you typically engage in within the estate?"

Uncertain whether this sudden change of topic is an indication of Jing Yuan's forgiveness and an attempt to ease the tension, you observe his gentle expression and infer that he might be choosing to overlook your earlier indiscretion.

Despite carrying the weight of guilt and a lingering desire to apologize further, you decide against it. Jing Yuan has made the effort to steer the conversation away from the palpable strain between you, and it would be wise not to delve any deeper. You cannot afford to make more mistakes that might tarnish the impression you've made or weaken the fragile connection you share with him.

"Primarily, reading within the courtyard," you admit. Jing Yuan acknowledges your response with a casual hum, his focus still fixed on the document in front of him.

"The secluded one?" he inquires.

"Yes," you confirm, careful not to disclose the full extent of your confinement within the estate. You are relieved that you caught yourself before revealing too much. Despite the brief pause, you instinctively conjure another excuse, as if deception has become second nature to you. "Roaming freely proves challenging within the vast expanse of the estate. Merely exploring halfway through its grounds can leave me weary before long."

You steal a furtive glance at Jing Yuan, searching for any inkling of skepticism towards your excuse. A wave of relief washes over you as you realize that his countenance remains unperturbed, his focus fixed on the document, allowing you to breathe a little easier.

"Indeed. Having frequented the Hongying clan estate on five occasions, I am well acquainted with its sprawling expanse."

"And what about you?" you ask, his attention now fully directed at you. "Despite your duties here in the seat of Divine Foresight, how do you occupy your leisure time?"

"I'm unsure if I should reveal this to you," he admits, his voice laden with hesitation. "But it seems I have no choice but to answer your question."

Confusion furrows your brow as you seek clarification. "Why is that? Is it a matter of confidentiality? If so, there's no need for you to force yourself to respond."

Jing Yuan's chuckle interrupts your words, a soft sound tinged with self-consciousness. 

"No, it's not a matter of confidentiality," he confesses. "I simply find myself mindful of the impression I may leave on my fiancée. Though it is no secret to the public eye," he adds, further deepening your intrigue. "During my leisure time, I take solace in the simple pleasure of indulging in a nap."

"But even beyond leisure time, you find yourself succumbing to slumber?" The words escape your lips before you can restrain them, catching Jing Yuan off guard and momentarily disrupting his composed demeanor.

His reputation as a proficient dozer is an open secret, whispered through the corridors of the estate and passed among the locals and diligent servants alike. While the news articles and reports fail to acknowledge it, the rumors have spread like an unruly tempest, impossible to disregard. Initially, you held skepticism, as mere gossip lacked the substantiating evidence you sought. Yet, now, with his candid confession, you can confidently affirm that the whispers held truth at their core.

"You are already aware," he affirms, his tone devoid of doubt. It is not a question seeking validation, but a self-assured statement acknowledging your understanding of this facet of his character.

"Regrettably, yes," you admit with calmness. "I have heard the murmurs circulating among the servants. However, I grappled with belief, considering your heroic exploits and formidable prowess as the Divine Foresight. They overshadowed any other notions. Yet, now that you have disclosed it yourself, I can no longer deny its authenticity."

A smirk graces Jing Yuan's lips as he rests his chin upon his hand, his gaze fixed intently upon you. "So, has your perception of me been sullied?" he inquires, a glimmer of curiosity shining in his eyes.

Resolutely, you shake your head. "No," you assert. "Every individual possesses flaws. No one is exempt from imperfections, be it in attitude or ability. Drawbacks are inherent to all beings, even inanimate objects. It is normal to harbor a negative habit. Why should that mar one's overall impression? Does perfection truly exist, devoid of any disadvantageous traits? Even the Aeons, in their own manner, are not flawless. Even the starskiff faces its share of issues. So, what then, if you are simply a fallible human being?"

Jing Yuan remains attentively silent as you express your viewpoint, his smile lingering upon his face unwaveringly. His gaze remains fixed on you, locked in place like a magnet drawn to its target.

Without shifting his position, he finally breaks the silence, his voice gentle yet probing. "So, despite everything, you still hold me in high regard, hmm?"

"Of course," you respond without a moment's hesitation, your words resonating with genuine sincerity. "I hold profound respect for you, General."

A deep, rumbling chuckle escapes Jing Yuan's lips, his eyes narrowing slightly as he continues to gaze at you. "I do believe I have reminded you not to address me with my title, but simply by my name.”

"And I do believe the same applies to you, Jing Yuan,” you retorted placidly, your tone carrying a subtle edge. “Since our acquaintance, you have consistently referred to me as Lady (Name). Therefore, I kindly request that you address me by my name alone."

"Oh?" he exclaims, clearly entertained. "Then, (Name), I shall oblige and address you solely by your name."

As the conversation between you and Jing Yuan unfolds, the passage of time becomes palpable, and the arrival of lunchtime draws your attention. Without hesitation, Jing Yuan takes the lead, guiding you to a separate table where the meticulously prepared meal awaits. The lunchbox itself exudes opulence and meticulous effort, adorned with an array of delicacies. It is evident that significant care went into its creation. While the estate's chief may have prepared the culinary display, it was Lady Mingzhu who provided guidance in selecting the delectable treats.

Divided into four compartments, the lunchbox presents a tantalizing variety of dishes, each exuding its own savory or succulent aroma. The scent wafts through the air, tempting your taste buds with its tempting allure. The sheer abundance of food becomes apparent, capable of satisfying the appetites of multiple individuals with generous portions to spare.

Jing Yuan's eyes widen in admiration as he takes in the magnificent sight before him. He expresses his appreciation, acknowledging that inviting you to share this meal was a wise decision, as consuming such a bountiful feast alone would be an impossible feat. Even with both of you partaking, it seems unlikely that you will be able to finish even a fraction of the lavish spread, unless Jing Yuan possesses an extraordinary appetite.

With enthusiasm in the air, the two of you embark on a journey of culinary delight, savoring the meticulously crafted flavors that grace your palates. Jing Yuan's praises fill the air, his eloquent words extolling the exquisite flavors and textures that dance upon his taste buds. He even muses about the prospect of seeking out such a remarkable meal again in the future. Amusement tugs at your heart as you shake your head in response, a gentle smile gracing your lips as you relish in his unrestrained enjoyment.

The lunchtime conversation flows seamlessly, guided by Jing Yuan's eloquence and your own unreserved honesty. You find yourselves exchanging genuine answers and opinions, creating an atmosphere of comfort and mutual understanding. At times, you venture to inquire about his position, although he remains cautious, offering only surface-level information, likely guarding against revealing confidential matters.

As the clock strikes one, marking the end of the meal, you express your need to depart, aware of your mother's possible anticipation of your return. Deep down, a part of you yearns to escape from it all, to break free from the confines of your present circumstances. Understanding your obligations, Jing Yuan assures you of his commitment to honor his word, allowing you to take your leave.

Accompanying you to the grand doors, he insists on seeing you off, despite your protests that such a gesture is unnecessary. Yielding to his steadfastness, you acquiesce, acknowledging that perhaps he genuinely upholds chivalrous values towards women, faithfully adhering to traditional courtesies.

Just as the doors begin to swing open, poised to grant you passage, a loud voice resounds from the other side, shattering the tranquility of the moment.

“General, I thought you'd train me—oof!” 

A young boy with long, blond hair tied neatly in a ponytail, dressed in a vibrant blue attire, barrels into you with an inadvertent collision. His face meets your chest briefly before he quickly retreats, his surprise evident in his eyes. Reacting swiftly, you offer a sincere apology, recognizing that you were standing by the door and unintentionally obstructed his path.

"I apologize. It was not my intention to bump into you," you utter, your words flowing forth in a hurried stream.

“Yanqing.” Jing Yuan's voice cuts through the moment, calling out to the boy.

"I've been waiting for you for two hours! You promised to train me today!" Yanqing exclaims in frustration.

The young boy turns his attention to Jing Yuan, meeting his gaze directly, only to divert his gaze towards you upon the introduction.

"Yes, I remember, but I shall train you at three. I have a visitor, you see," Jing Yuan explains, gesturing towards you. "This is my fiancée, Lady (Name) of the Hongying clan."

"Greetings," you say, your voice carrying a gentle tone as you acknowledge his presence.

Yanqing's eyes widen in shock as he comprehends the significance of Jing Yuan's introduction. A trace of panic flashes across his features, and he bows hurriedly, his voice filled with guilt. "I apologize for my rudeness! I am Yanqing, General Jing Yuan's retainer."

You offer a reassuring smile, displaying kindness in your expression. "No need to apologize, Yanqing. It was an accident. I'm delighted to make your acquaintance."

You glance at Jing Yuan, nodding subtly to convey your intention of leaving the premises to return to your entourage.

Jing Yuan got your signal and returned the gesture. “I will escort (Name) first Yanqing. You can wait for me inside.”

“I shall escort her, too!”

“Oh my, you don’t have to.” You place your fingertips on your lips. But just like Jing Yuan, he insisted. He even reasoned out that you are the General’s betrothed that he needs to respect you.

You couldn’t help but smile at his thoughtfulness. But his resoluteness seems to be taken from Jing Yuan. You can tell that he will grow strong. Maybe he might surpass Jing Yuan.

The two escort you to starskiff. You say your thanks to Jing Yuan and he does too.

“Have a safe journey on your way home,” he says softly, and you nod.

“I will.” 

With a graceful gesture, Jing Yuan bends his upper body, delicately clasping your hand within his own. His lips brush against your skin, imprinting a soft, lingering kiss that sends a flurry of emotions coursing through your being. Surprised yet captivated, your gaze meets his, and a mischievous smirk dances upon his lips, leaving you breathless with a tantalizing mix of anticipation and intrigue. Before the moment can fully sink in, he releases your hand, resuming his upright posture with a regal air.

"Then, you shall go. If you ever choose to visit again, appointments will not be necessary. You are welcome in this place at any time," he assures, his voice resonating with genuine warmth and sincerity.

With final farewells exchanged, you step into the starskiff, glancing back to offer a parting wave. Yanqing reciprocates the gesture with a blend of eagerness and amiability, while Jing Yuan stands tall and dignified, his hands clasped behind his back. Locking gazes one last time, you share a silent nod, acknowledging the profound connection forged throughout the day.

As the starskiff's engine roars to life, propelling you towards your destination, you settle into your seat, reflecting upon the events that have transpired. The memory of Jing Yuan's tender kiss upon your hand lingers, igniting a surge of anticipation within you. Embracing this newfound sense of purpose, you prepare yourself to rejoin your entourage and fulfill your duty of reporting the day's events to the matriarch.

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[heya-moth]

Dog Teeth (1-??)

Frieza x M!Reader

This is a little thing I'm going to write in and when i have time/ motivation

TW'S

Frieza is abusive, there is blood, there is swearing, and mention of death.

Summary

You are an alien solider serving on the Frieza force and Lord Frieza takes a strange liking to you

What is the reader?

You the reader are a species I made named the Stellargon, they're a matriarchal gladiator species. The reader is the only one left because frieza wiped your race out because they were interfering with his plans. You were a male gladiator who was Imprisoned for speaking out against Empress Malvoria Voidshard.

Word Count; 882

He regards you with disdain in his eyes; you're nothing more than a creature unworthy of the love and attention he bestows upon you. So, why does he bother? To him, you're little more than a chew toy.

"You're relieved of your post," Ginyu declares as he approaches. You nod and bow to both him and Lord Frieza before departing the throne room. The lord snorts in disappointment as you make your exit.

You serve as a Stellargon soldier for the Frieza Force, the last surviving member of your species, thanks to the tyrant himself. Stellargons are characterized by their dual-colored skin—shades of red, blue, green, white, and black—along with softer facial features and eyes. You, my dear, are a unique case among the Stellargons, labeled as an "angel." Angels are powerful fighters with a special form, and you wear power inhibitors to control this unique ability. This is why Frieza keeps you close, often drawing comparisons to the Saiyans.

The sterile metal flooring of the hallways echoes beneath your boots as you walk back to your quarters. Another grueling day in service to Frieza is behind you, and you look forward to unwinding until your next shift. The door to your quarters slides open with a metallic hiss from the hydraulics. While the room itself is unremarkable, at least it's your private sanctuary—something your acquaintances, if they could be called that, envy you for.

You shed your shoes, belt, chest plate, and shoulder pads, not bothering to change into fresh clothes. Lying down on your bed in only your undergarments, you gaze up at the ceiling, contemplating the path that brought you here. Reflecting on how Frieza discovered you in the dungeons for presenting as male and essentially abducted you before obliterating your homeworld into dust particles.

"Maybe I should've perished alongside my people," you hum before drifting off into a restless sleep.

Frieza scowled as he peered down at the screen before him. Shaking his head in disdain, he lifted his gaze to the subordinate standing in front of him.

"Take these reports back and don't return until you locate what I desire!" he commanded with a thunderous voice.

"Yes, my lord," the Grunt replied meekly, shuffling away and leaving Frieza in solitude. Frustration etched across his face, Frieza tapped his fingers against the desk while scrolling through the reports. Boredom plagued him—bored with the conquered planets and colonies, weary of the same grunts and soldiers. The insatiable itch for destruction gripped him once more.

"Tch," he scoffed, powering down the screen and rising from his seat. As he walked to the window, he gazed out into the vast sea of stars and uninhabited planets, contemplating which ones to obliterate for his own amusement.Yet, nothing stirred Frieza's interest — not a planet, nor the prospect of annihilating another feeble race could alleviate his boredom. His mind fixated solely on you, his favored plaything, a source of amusement to chew up and obliterate at his whim. Grinning at the thought, he snapped his fingers, conjuring a screen on the window.

"Alert the Stellargon, report to me immediately," Frieza commanded through the screen. The device chimed with a check mark, confirming the transmission. Content with his decision, Frieza smiled as he settled back into his seat, eagerly awaiting your arrival.

An alarm blared, rudely interrupting your slumber and jolting you awake. "God dammit," you muttered, swiftly changing into your armored uniform. Heading to your computer, you checked the source of the transmission. "Why is Frieza requesting me...?" you wondered aloud, securing your hair into a tight, high ponytail before departing. As you traversed the hallways leading to the throne room, you noticed your colleagues and peers glancing at you, exchanging hushed whispers. Though not uncommon, it still unnerved you. Had you angered the lord? Left your station in disarray? Perhaps a promotion was on the horizon? The latter, however improbable, lingered in your mind.

The doors to the throne room slid open, crashing closed behind you as you entered. "My lord," you greeted, bowing to Frieza, who bore into you with his deep burgundy eyes.

He gestured for you to approach with a crooked finger, and obediently, you walked toward him. "Roll your sleeve up," he commanded sternly. Perplexed, you complied, exposing the softer flesh of your right arm. Frieza seized your wrist forcefully and sank his teeth into your forearm. Pain surged through your arm from the bite and the vice-like grip on your wrist.

A sharp yelp escaped you, and instinctively, you attempted to pull your arm away, only intensifying his bite. His teeth pierced your flesh, and your light red blood spilled from the wound, creating a brutal tableau. Frieza released your arm, pulling away with blood staining his teeth and the corners of his mouth.

"Oooh Hohoho!" Frieza laughed, bringing his hand to his face. "You are weaker than I thought!" His laughter echoed as your arm twitched and bled.

Disbelief etched across your face as you tore fabric from your undershirt to fashion a makeshift tourniquet. Wincing and whimpering in pain, you questioned, "Wh... why did you do this?"

Frieza's tail flicked as he smirked. "Because I was bored, and you seemed like the perfect thing to bite," he declared, baring his teeth stained with your blood.

[relicsongmel]

Sister Iris' Name

WARNING!!!!! Do not be fooled by any seemingly serious analysis to follow. This is a Shitpost. Proceed if you dare.

There’s a lot to be said about all the reasons I’m utterly obsessed with Sister Iris but by far the funniest example of my Kin-Adjacent Projection is one of my theories regarding Iris’ real first name that somehow manages to have quite a bit of substance behind it despite the fact it’s a straight up Meme Headcanon

I have a lot of thoughts on the Iris Name Drama and while I’m not 100% committed to the idea that “Iris” is just her temple name, one idea I DO like is the notion that if Mr. No-First-Name Hawthorne went to all the trouble to cut all ties to the Feys. If he made sure his daughters would never again be associated with that matriarchal society by virtue of replacing their last name. Who’s to say the twins’ first names weren’t changed as well, in a sort of final fuck-you to Kurain (and especially Morgan)?

I know it sounds odd but given how miserable Iris and Dahlia’s life in the village must have been as the powerless daughters of the woman who failed to become Master, I don’t think it would have taken much convincing for them to want to start over with wholly new names (that’s precisely what “Melissa Foster” does later, in fact). It also makes for a more believable explanation of Mia not recognizing Dahlia as her long-lost cousin in Turnabout Beginnings (even after learning her “true” name—to say nothing about not having seen her in eleven years).

Iris and Dahlia not being the twins’ original names also explains why the two don’t fit into the Fey naming convention of having a first name that starts with the letter M. And before you ask about Pearl, her being an exception to this rule actually makes sense thematically, because her name breaking the pattern is indicative of Morgan’s intent to use her to break Kurain tradition and dethrone the main family. The twins, however, are a different story—Bikini states that Misty took Morgan’s position about 20 years prior to BttT, and since Iris is 25 according to her profile…that means she and Dahlia were born back when Morgan still thought she was set to inherit the Master’s seat, and her eldest daughter would also eventually succeed her. To put it simply, Morgan would have no motive or reason not to follow tradition at the time she had her first children, if losing out to Misty was the true source of her bitterness and contempt for Kurain culture—and what eventually drove her to plot murder over it (I’m sure some would argue that she was always just a Spiteful Bitch but to me it’s a lot more interesting and tragic if she wasn’t).

“Wow Mel, that’s a lot of background and thought-provoking analysis! What’s your conclusion?” Lol. Lmao even. All this to say, there is absolutely nothing stopping me from saying Iris’ birth name…is Melanie Fey.

An M name. French for “the dark one.” Symbolic of how her character design is meant to mirror Dahlia’s—dark hair and dark pink clothing, contrasting with the fact she still has a light of goodness inside her…unlike her sister. Her sister, who has bright red hair and white/light pink clothing, masking her much darker true self underneath. The tragedy known as Dahlia Hawthorne Marisol Fey.

Another M name, Spanish for “Mary of the Solitude,” but also containing the word for “sun.” The sun, the center of the solar system. The Master of it. Marisol, daughter of the fallen Master, with nothing left but her blinding light. And if her light can’t lead as it was meant to…then the only thing left is to use it to burn the world to cinders.

The vengeful sun, Marisol…and the dark moon with no light of her own, reflecting the light back, in hopes that maybe the sun will see she’s still worth something.

Melanie Fey.

I, Melanie Relicsongmel, can make a well-thought out and justified explanation for headcanoning Iris’ first name to be the same as my own and the fact I can get away with it will never not be hilarious to me. Never ask me for any Iris meta ever again because clearly I cannot be trusted with this kind of power. Don’t say I didn’t warn y’all

[scribeofskyrim]

Middas, 20th of Frostfall, 4E 201

By the Nine, this place is THICK with Forsworn.

The weather had cleared by the time we woke up, and as we broke camp we realized we'd been sleeping practically in the shadow of a Forsworn encampment! If we'd continued on the path over the hill last night we would've walked right into it.

I can't believe they're this close to Solitude!

Luckily the main part of the place seemed to be in a cave, so we just took out the guards before we moved on.

Turns out the way up the mountain was not actually a way up, so we kept going around the base of it until we found the road again, which led us to the right place. We saw two hunters fighting some Forsworn scouts on the road and we went to help. Lydia told me to watch out, and grabbed me and Septim before we stepped in some bear traps that the Forsworn had set all over the road. They'd already caught a traveler and killed him; poor bastard.

Once we'd dealt with those two and the hunters went on their way, we saw a partial ruin on the side of the mountain. There's an altar-looking space and a tent with some loot in it. There were only two archers as guards, along with a mage.

We didn't find the sword, but we did find a rickety door leading into the mountain.

Inside, we found a cave that turned into a ruin. There were a few Forsworn in there, but they were in pairs at most, so they were little trouble. I managed to dodge a swinging blade trap with minimal scratches, too! Just past that we found a room where there were three lightning runes on the floor!

Valdimar told me Ice Spike can set them off, so I gave it a try. That's handy!

There was a door with a nasty lock in there, along with an archway to another room. I tried my hand at the lock first, and got it in five tries.

Not my best, and Lydia won the bet.

We checked the next room before we went on, and found an enchanting table along with a sleeping mage in a side bedroom!

I have no idea how she slept through three lightning rune explosions, but the first thing she did when she woke up was summon a Frost Atronach that practically filled the room!

She wasn't counting on me putting my Flame Atronach behind her summon, thus trapping her in her room to fight the flames while we dealt with her conjuring.

Once she was dealt with, I found a key on her that presumably would've opened the door I'd just picked the lock on. Oh, well. I'll take the practice. I also found a letter on her desk addressed to an "Alaric" that said their "Matriarch" whoever that is, had brought them there, and that their numbers were growing.

That's not good.

Through the door we found a nice Dwarven sword stuck in some rubble, stepped over a very obvious circular trap trigger that was right next to a spiked door - It's like they're not even trying - and went up some stairs. There was a door at the top of it, and when I went to put my hand on it, I noticed that it was cold.

I told the others we were going back outside, and to get ready. It was probably an encampment, and I was… Mostly right.

We went through, and honestly, even with the Forsworn camped everywhere, it's beautiful. Even Lydia said that she's never seen anything like this.

Surrounded by a wall of sharp, sheer rocks is a huge clearing scooped out of the top of the mountain. Erandur said it was probably once a volcano. It's filled with an ancient Nord ruin, with arches, platforms and a tower at the far end. There's trees by where we came in, and there's even a wide stream complete with fish running through it.

You could probably fit a small village in here!

And it felt like there was almost a village's worth of Forsworn pillagers, Briarhearts and other fighters that turned their bows on us and let down a storm of arrows as soon as they saw us. I managed to Shout the first volley out of the sky, and was glad for the trees that blocked a lot of the rest as my voice recovered. Other Forsworn swarmed the narrow bridge to our half of the clearing, which made them relatively easy pickings for Lydia, who held her spot on the bridge next to Valdimar. Erandur and I both managed to find spots on either side of them so we could go after their attackers or concentrate on the archers with our magic, and Septim stood between us, mauling the few who managed to break through to us.

Good dog!

Eventually it was only the archers left on the back platforms, so we rushed them as a group, with Septim and my Flame Atronach leading the way.

You know, I think they're afraid of dogs. As soon as Septim gets his teeth on them they turn and run!

I mentioned this to the others, and they'd noticed it, too. Why the Forsworn didn't realize that running from Septim just made him single them out was beyond me. It's fairly normal dog behavior, but maybe they don't keep dogs at all? They must know that dogs aren't wolves.

Right?

Anyway, we've cleared them out as far I know, and I'm sitting at a table next to a campfire writing this while I eat some of the food we've found. It's cold out here, but we found a fire with a circle of tents around it with some bedding in them. We're keeping watch to keep the fire going and make sure there's not another Forsworn fighter lurking in the dark somewhere.

It was too dark by the time we finished to really search the place, but I did find Hjalti's sword in a chest behind the table here! We'll do a more thorough search in the morning and see what other goodies we can find.

It's almost time to wake up Lydia, and while I know I'm not going to sleep well in this cold, I don't mind it too much. Septim's claimed a tent for me, and he's curled up on the pile of straw and furs. It'll be warm when I go to sleep, thankfully.

The stars are really beautiful from this high up. The cliffs surrounding us block the rest of the landscape, so it makes you focus on them.

Divines, I could use some of that.

[swordmaid]

🐺🔅

for shri'iia.....

🐺 - How does this oc deal with solitude?

i think it's more like how does shri'iia handle with being with a lot of people because she is so very used to being by herself considering she was isolated in that tower for like, a near century when she swore her fealty to her matriarch. i don't think her matriarch visited her often too -- or the visits becomes sporadic, so shri'iia would've figured out how to manage her time being stuck in that space for god knows how long. so she handles it well because she's used to it! she knows how to distract herself, or keep herself busy, but when there is nothing else to do shri'iia will most likely meditate and just recite prayers to lolth over and over until she figures out something else to do. but solitude is something familiar to her, being in a group of people and interacting with so many people is not hence why i think she does come off as a bit standoffish and quiet.

🔅 - How does this oc deal with physical pain?

shri'iia manages physical pain very well. i think she has a pretty high pain tolerance as well, and she probably gets beat up often considering she's a paladin so she can manage her pain pretty well. i also have a hc that shri'iia doesn't like others healing her - she much prefers to nurse herself so she probably masks a lot of the pain she's feeling so that others won't try to heal it for her. and it's both she doesn't want anyone seeing her in such a weakened state and she doesn't really trust them to do a better job than her, so she shri'iia will most likely heal herself at the end of the day and not ask anyone for help because she doesn't want to be indebted to them, but if she's too tired for that then she'll just sleep with the pain.

oc emoji ask game.

[timesimmer]

The Blackburne farm, once a place of quiet solitude, was now a bustling hub of activity. The arrival of Lilyana and Alexander's daughter, Ingerid, had brought a new wave of joy and chaos to the household. Selena, the matriarch of the family, found herself juggling the demands of being a grandmother, a mother to her youngest, and farm life with newfound vigor.

As September dawned, the farm was bathed in the golden hues of autumn. The air was crisp, the sky clear, and the harvest was plentiful. To celebrate Beatrice's thirteenth birthday, Selena had baked a special honey cake, a recipe passed down through generations.

"Happy birthday, my dear," Selena said, placing the cake before her daughter.

Beatrice's eyes lit up with excitement. "It's beautiful, Mother," she exclaimed.

"Would you like to call your siblings to join us?" Selena asked.

Beatrice shook her head. "No, Mother. I'd like to spend some time with you. They can join us later."

Selena smiled, her heart warmed by her daughter's request. They sat together, sharing slices of cake and quiet conversation. Beatrice spoke of her hopes and dreams, her voice filled with youthful idealism. Selena listened attentively, offering advice and encouragement.

In the next room, Lilyana was soothing a crying Ingerid. The sound of the baby's cries mingled with the soft murmur of their voices, creating a comforting symphony. As Selena watched Lilyana, she couldn't help but smile. She had seen this scene countless times before, her own children growing up and starting families of their own.

A pang of sadness washed over Beatrice as she listened to the sounds of her niece. The thought of motherhood, of having children of her own, filled her with a sense of dread. She had always envisioned a different future for herself, a life of adventure and freedom. The idea of settling down and raising a family seemed suffocating, a burden too heavy to bear.

As she gazed out the window, she pondered the path that lay ahead. Would she follow in the footsteps of her mother and sister-in-law, embracing the roles of wife and mother? Or would she forge her own path, independent and free? The answer, she knew, would shape the course of her life.

[twola]

Devil’s Backbone : Diablo Ridge IV

Pairing: Arthur Morgan x FemOC/Reader POV Tags: Longfic, Slow Burn, Smut (18+), Violence, Canon-Typical Injuries

Limpany’s burning was a lot more than meets the eye. Deception, greed, and murder follow everyone touched by Leviticus Cornwall. A story where the Van der Linde gang gets even more inescapably involved in Cornwall’s dealings, with the survivor of the massacre at the heart of it all. Slow burn. Pre-Blackwater and beyond.

Diablo Ridge IV: Camhanaich

Above the banks of the Dakota, amongst this band of outlaws, Ruth slowly ingratiates herself. For better or worse, things finally come to a head.

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“Y’know, Missus Shaw -hic- the Lord will bring -hic- comfort to those who m-mourn -hic.”

The man stumbles, very nearly falling to the ground, and catches himself on a tree trunk several steps away from you.

You blanch, hitching your skirt and rushing toward him, placing your hand on his back to try and keep him upright. His breath reeks of alcohol, even this early in the morning, when the sparrows haven’t stopped their singing. His graying hair, splotched in its original red color, is completely disheveled. The collar of his ordainment hangs open, a sad testament to the depths the man had fallen.

“R-Reverend-”

You had returned to what had become your escape, the spot high on the ridge where you could see the Dakota meandering below. Unable to sleep, you had crept up there with your shawl wrapped tightly around your shoulders, breathing into your cupped hands against the dawn’s chill.

It was quiet, this place, a good ten-minute walk outside of the camp. The solitude here gave you the permission to think, to be alone with your thoughts, as damning and destructive as they were.

“Reckon I don’t deserve to be called - hic - that no more…”

Somehow, Orville Swanson had stumbled upon your sanctuary, ironic at the core. You had seen him around the camp, passed out at all hours of the day, drinking at all hours of the night. The girls would gaze upon him with looks of pity before turning back to their work. 

Fortunately enough for him, his wobbling gait had not taken him off the cliff that he had found his precarious way to. He leans against the tree, about to tumble forward again, and you quickly grab his arm and throw it over your shoulder, pulling him to lean against you, “Alright now, let’s get back to camp.”

The walk down the hill took twice as long as it should have, especially with a stop you had to make as the disgraced preacher retched bile onto the ground, and himself. By some providence, your clothes and shoes were spared.

As you reach the camp, the drunken man leaning on you seems to fall into unconsciousness, and you yelp as you start to tumble trying to hold the both of you up.

“Oh! Mercy…”

Susan Grimshaw hurries toward you, her usually stern face softening slightly as she takes Swanson’s other arm around her shoulders and helps to drag him to the open tent where his bedroom lay.

“Let’s get him back over ‘ere, Missus Shaw.”

Between the two of you, you're able to maneuver the deadweight of the preacher to lie on a bedroll under a large awning. He moans slightly, his eyes fluttering and closing again as he fades back into sleep.

Grimshaw sighs; stooping down on her knees and taking the unconscious man’s dirty shirt off. Swanson’s eyes have rolled to the back of his head. She balls up the shirt and leaves him in his union suit, pressing on her knees to stand back up again.

You watch in something akin to amazement, the stern and overbearing matriarch of the gang seems...gentle. She notices your trepidation and motions over toward the laundry for you to follow her.

“The Reverend, he suffers. Years ago he saved Dutch’s life. I don’t even know how, but Dutch, he’s not one to forget somethin’ like that.”  Susan says as she throws the vomit-covered shirt into a washtub.

She places her hands on her hips. “Reckon plenty of people want to get rid of him, but we look out for him. We try to keep him out of trouble.”

You look back at the man, who passed out drunk before the morning coffee was even ready. Your mouth draws in a firm line as you feel a rush of pity come over you. You shrug the shawl over your shoulders, wrapping it around you again.

“Come, Ruth. There’s work to be done today. Thank you for your help with the Reverend.”

The call to work you’ve heard from her numerous times. But this morning, it doesn’t have its usual bite. It’s hours later that you realize that Susan Grimshaw actually used your first name.

-

“Y’gonna do something with the boy or just stand there like a dumbass?”

“I don’t know what the hell you want outta me, Abigail.”

“Be a goddamn father to your son, John Marston.”

The two young parents were mercifully outside the center of camp for this row, but that didn’t mean that their argument couldn’t be heard faintly in the distance.

The aforementioned child sits on the ground in front of a small tent, fiddling with a small wooden horse figurine between his fingers. He frowns, as one of the wooden legs has fallen off of the toy. The boy frustratingly tries to reattach the leg but is unable to. 

“Jack.”

Jack looks up from his broken toy, forlorn and frustrated,  “Uncle Arthur… it’s broken.”  His voice cracks in a childlike sadness, trying to keep himself from crying, but teetering on losing that battle.

“C’mere. Give it here.”

Jack pushes himself up from the ground and teeters over to Arthur, who sits in a chair next to the campfire. He gives the toy to the gunslinger, who takes the pieces in his large hand and inspects them.

“Here we go. Just gotta pop this…” Arthur pushes the leg back against the horse’s body, and with a bit of pressure, the wood slides back into place, “…right here.”

Jack’s face lights up as he sees the end result.

Arthur hands back the toy horse to the child, who holds it up to inspect the man’s handiwork.

“Thanks, Uncle Arthur!” Jack smiles brightly as he looks over the wooden toy, now back in working order.

Arthur musses the boy’s hair affectionately, a smile creeping across his face in return as the boy looks up at him with nothing but admiration.

“Sure thing, kid. You bring it to me if it breaks again. I’ll always fix it.”

Jack gleefully takes the toy and runs over to his previous spot, nearly throwing himself on the ground again to push the horse along in the dirt.

You’ve watched this all with piqued interest from your vantage place, elbows deep in the laundry tub, halfheartedly scrubbing stains of unknown origin from a union suit that you are afraid belongs to Uncle.  Maybe that’s what Lenny meant about Arthur being pleasant from time to time. Thus far, you’d seen nothing but the piss and vinegar that the young man had mentioned.

“I swear, that man is the most useless sack of shit on this earth.”

Your view is immediately filled with a steaming Abigail, who gets down on her knees to shove her hands into the laundry tub as well, muttering to no one in particular. She vigorously scrubs a shirt against the washboard, cursing under her breath.

After a few choice words, she sighs, slightly deflating, as she wrings the shirt out between her fingers. 

“I guess… I guess I just picked wrong.” Abigail mumbles lowly, to keep the conversation between the two of you.

“Men are exceedingly stupid… not just him. My husband…” You trail off a bit before swallowing your nerves, “He had his moments. Even after ten years of marriage.”

“ ‘M sorry. I shouldn’t be whinin’ about John when you’ve just lost your husband.” Abigail grabs another piece of laundry, submerging it in the murky, graying water of the tub.

“It’s alright.”

A silence falls between the two of you, awkward as it is heavy. You decide to break it, a grin making its way to your face.

“Though…John does seem to be exceedingly stupid.”

Abigail looks up, and at the side of her mouth, a sly smile begins. Not that you know that the man is stupid; you’ve barely spoken to him, but you recognize that he does little with the young boy that is his namesake, no matter how much Abigail gets on him for it.

“Let me tell you ‘bout how the time that man…”

Abigail begins her story, and through the next hours, you listen, nodding and murmuring answers to her rhetorical questions. The afternoon passes. Through the time she’s able to recount to you her tumultuous relationship with John, you realize she’s getting less frustrated. You get a feeling Abigail Roberts didn’t have many people who would listen to her and her plight.

That’s fine. You could do that. You could listen.

-

“There’s not enough money in the box for that right now, Mister Pearson. You’re gonna have to make due ‘til there’s enough money or until someone can steal a wagon.”

Pearson swears under his breath as he stalks away from Dutch’s tent back to the butcher’s table where you are preparing the kettle for the morning’s coffee. You yawn, scooping grounds into the beaten metal kettle before placing it on the grill above the fire.

“Missus Shaw.”

“Yes-” you yawn again in the early morning light, “Mister Pearson?”

“You got a wagon in those skirts of yours?” He grumbles, taking his large knife and dramatically slamming it into the table.

That woke you up.

“Excuse me?”

Pearson blanches, a blush rushing over his face as you flared at him, obviously unable to retort back as he loses his nerves. 

“Need a- need a new wagon.” He mumbles, looking at the table, not meeting your eyes.

“No, I don’t have a wagon under my skirt, Mister Pearson.” You say pointedly, leaving the kettle on the fire. 

Though you weren’t hopping mad, or even that aggravated, you would certainly take advantage of the situation to get out of further chores this morning.

You move to sit on the cut stump of a tree that has been utilized as one of the makeshift seats around another campfire. Placing your chin against your fist, you absentmindedly stare into the flames. Pearson still grumbles about a wagon across the way as he prepares breakfast.

The camp is slowly coming alive with the morning sun. 

It strikes you, as the flames spit and pop with the newly added wood. The wagon left behind the old homestead. It was small, sure, but it was better than nothing. 

There was a chance it was still there.

Also, as the piercing weight settles in your chest, you know it would give you the chance to go to him. Visit where he lay… 

“Good morning, Güera.”

You are interrupted from your thoughts as Javier steps next to you, leaning over to hand you a cup of coffee. The pot must have finished as you were lost in your thoughts. Javier takes his seat on the ground a few feet away from you with his own cup of coffee.

You take your first drink of the bracing liquid and your gaze flits to the revolver in Javier’s belt.

“Javier…"

He sips, “Mm?”

“Can I ask you…a favor?”

“Sure, what do you need?” He replies after taking another drink from his cup.

You take another sip of coffee to steel your nerves, "You know how Pearson has been needing a new wagon for supply runs?”

“Yeah, don’t know how I wouldn’t with how much he’s complaining about it,” A smirk crosses his face as he brushes random long hairs of his hair out of his line of sight.

"I think I know where a wagon may be.” You lean toward him, lowering your voice so that only he can hear.

He laughs, placing his coffee down. “Look at you, Güera. Bruise has barely healed on your face and you’re wanting to get back out there? Makin’ an outlaw out of you yet.”

You blush, looking down at your coffee mug, "It’s not… well if it’s where I think it is, there won’t be any stealing to do.”

"Oh?"

“The wagon was mine. I was run off my homestead near the state line when my husband died… I left the wagon, it may still be there. Maybe a few other things in the cabin left if bandits haven’t gotten to it yet…” You trail off, unsure that you were making a good enough argument to have him take you out there.

“Sure.” He responds before you can go any further, “Let me see who else is free and we can head out there. I want another gun in case we run into trouble.” The dark-haired man looks around the camp, thinking as he takes note of who is awake at the early hour, “You go get ready, meet me over by Boaz in a few minutes. You said out by the state line, right?”

You nod. Javier takes a long drink of his coffee, “Then we should head out, have a long day ahead of us.”

You’ve gone back to your tent and grabbed your shawl again, throwing it over your shoulders as you pull your hair back into a low bun. Throwing some water on your face to wake yourself up a bit, you inhale slowly as you spy a reflection of yourself in a dirty mirror belonging to Mary Beth.

It does not do to dwell. You look a little rougher, your long hair frazzled and cheeks reddened from the sun. Releasing the breath you realize you were holding, you pull your gaze away from the glass and move toward the horses, where Javier is waiting.

“Ready to go, Güera?”Javier leans against the hitching post as you arrive. As you nod, he waves you toward his horse, and lifts you onto the rump of the American Paint, and swings himself up into the saddle in front of you.

“Charles is going to meet us out in front of the logging camp. Then we head out west.”

Wrapping your arms around his waist, you give a small noise of agreement as he spurs Boaz away from the outlaw camp that has become your home.

-

Charles isn’t much of a talker. You haven’t spent much time around him, but he remains fairly quiet along the road, up and down through rocky valleys, and dense forests. Through the pines of Tall Trees and over the waters of the Upper Montana.  The road gives way to ponderosas, their sweet scent wafting through the air. You used to like that smell - but now, it seems too sweet, choking, the smell reminiscent of funeral parlors and smothering the stench of death under flowers and candles.

“Just over this knoll.” You point over Javier’s shoulder, more than an hour after the group passed Manzanita, a small logging outpost in the middle of Tall Trees. He nods, kicking his spurs, and Boaz picks up the pace as your hand returns to hold onto his waist. Charles follows up the path, his horse whinnying as she also breaks into a canter from the trot she was in.

As the horses reach the top of the knoll, and the clearing with the cabin just peaks into view, Javier pulls the reins tight, and Boaz skids to a stop. He swings himself down from the saddle before placing a hand on your knee, his other hand coming up in front of his mouth, motioning for you to stay put and quiet. Charles gets down from his horse as well, and both men unholster revolvers as they quietly pace toward the small cabin. 

Over the next several minutes, you fiddle with your shirttail as they creep around the area, until Javier’s voice, calling out his nickname for you, cuts through the silence, and you slide off of Boaz’s rump and grab the reins, leading the horse, along with Charles’s mount, Taima, to the clearing where the homestead stood.

Your eyes immediately fly over to the lonesome pine across the clearing, where the disturbed earth was only noticeable to someone who knew to look.

“Güera, there’s the wagon out back, at the very least. Think there is anything inside?”

“I don’t know…maybe there’s something left.”

Javier nods, “I’ll go look.” He rejoins Charles, who kicks in the door with ease. They move around the cabin as your gaze drifts back to the ponderosa. You slowly walk toward that solitary tree, as the two men work to gather anything worthwhile in the house.

The steps feel endless as if you’re moving through quicksand. As the forest around you blurs with the unshed tears welling up in your eyes, you finally reach the unmarked grave.

You sink to your knees at the dirt and press your hand to it, and allow yourself the grace to shed tears. Your husband, your loving and energetic and wise and wonderful Frederick, lay dead underneath this earth, where grass begins to sprout, life moving on.

After several minutes, you hear heavy footsteps behind you, but do not turn to acknowledge them.

“Your husband?” Charles asks, his voice low and even and gentle.

“Yes.”

A large hand lands softly on your shoulder. Comforting in its grip, but not overwhelming.

“I do not pretend to know what it’s like to bury half of your heart. But from what I know of loss, I know it is a wound that will not heal.”

You stare at the ground, the dirt in which the culmination of Frederick’s life lay. All of the miles and work and dreams and love, it all ended here. A sob cracks from your throat as your eyes water over again, and you bring one hand over your eyes, trying to hide your tears. You don’t know why you do this, as you were far past the point of hiding it anyway.

Charles stoops down on one knee next to you, his hand still on your shoulder. He remains silent, but his hold is steadfast as you take the leave to sob aloud.

Minutes pass before you can gather your composure, wiping at your cheeks with the back of your hand.

“ ‘M sorry,” you hiccup, a blush settling on your cheeks, “Shouldn’t be burdening you with…”

“You’re not a burden, Ruth,” Charles replies, in the even, soothing baritone of his voice.

You turn to him with a skeptical look, because for the past month, you’ve felt like nothing more than a burden - to Thaddeus, to Doctor Smith and Rosalia, to the ragtag gang feeding you.

Charles removes his hand from your shoulder and pushes himself off his knee to stand. He offers you his hand, which you take and he pulls you up.

“Uncle is a burden. The man doesn’t do anything other than drink whiskey and eat food. You do plenty around the camp, I’ve seen you.”

You close your eyes and nod, remaining silent.

“We should head back to camp. Javier’s got Boaz hitched up on the wagon. We were able to grab a few things from the house - but the wagon is in good shape and will be helpful.”

The large man takes several steps back toward the cabin.

“Charles.”

He looks back at you, as your gaze is upon the earth where your husband lies. You take a deep breath, and turn toward him and the horses, knowing that your only way of living was moving forward.

“Thank you.”

-

You sit in the back of the wagon as it rolls down the trail. The irony is not lost on you that you’d done something similar many weeks ago. Javier has hitched Boaz to the wagon and sits in its single seat, while Charles trots alongside the wagon as it rumbles, atop his Appaloosa. The horse snorts as you lay your chin on your forearm along the railing of the wagon. There wasn’t much left inside the cabin in the way of supplies, but what was left was tossed into the wagon with you - a few blankets, random cans of food, not much else.

It’s much slower returning, the sun has long set by the time the three of you return to camp. Javier brings Boaz to a stop and jumps down from the seat, untying his horse from the yolk, which it seems quite happy to shed.

“Oh! Look at this! Javier, Charles - this is wonderful!”

Pearson rumbles toward the wagon, raising his arm in a celebratory manner as he inspects it. Charles swings himself down from his saddle and frowns.

“Actually, it was Ruth that got this. She just brought us there.”

Pearson’s eyebrows raise as he regards you from your seat in the wagon bed. You cannot help but to smirk at the cook as you push yourself to stand. Hosea, smiling as always, moves to help you step out of the back of the wagon. As you take his hand and jump down, he says a soft thank you into your ear and gives you a wink. You turn and hand him a heap of blankets, which he takes 

“Where the hell have you been?”

A deep, agitated voice snarls from across the camp. You turn and see Arthur stalking toward Javier, obviously annoyed.

“Calm down, we were out by the state line gettin’ this wagon and a few other things.” Javier retorts, unfazed by Arthur’s agitation, “Ruth was able to set us up with some things from her old homestead.” He waves off the annoyance, taking Boaz by the reins, and leads him toward where the other horses are hitched.

Arthur’s glare lands on you.

“We don’t have the time to be goin’ on little field trips for you to get trinkets from your house across the state. They have better things to do - like gettin’ ready for this huge job they’re pullin’...”

Something breaks. It cracks. That something has been burning, festering, for months now, it’s bubbled its way to the surface. All of the pain, the loss, the anguish that has piled and piled and piled on you - it bursts free from a pit of rage.

“Y’shouldn’t be wastin’-”

Your hand flies at his face and connects before he has the time to react. The loud sound of skin meeting skin echoes all through the camp. His head turns on a swivel at the force of your blow. The black gambler hat that was perched on his head lands in a patch of grass at his feet.

With this burning anger in your blood, you don’t give a second thought to the fact that you’ve just smacked a man that you’ve seen kill people in front of you.

It takes a moment, but Arthur slowly cranes his neck to face you again, his eyes incredulous for a moment as he works his jaw. He opens his mouth to retort something at you but you cut him off, your fists clenched and teeth grit tightly as everything that has happened to you flows out in waves of anger.

“I have done nothing, nothing,” you stick your pointer finger against his chest, fearless in your rage, “-to provoke any type of ire in you, Mister Morgan. I don’t know what in god’s name is up your ass, but you need to stop taking it out on me.”

Arthur’s brow furrows, and a hardness sets in his eyes.  You don’t let him respond, turning on your heel and marching away. You’re quite aware of the silence of the camp, the stares of other people.

You’re far too gone to be worried about the consequences of your actions at this point. You go straight to your bedroll, ripping your boots off, throwing them to the side. Gritting your teeth, you get down into your bedroll, furious and fuming. Pulling a blanket tightly over yourself, you breathe out heavily.

These fucking people. You’ve had enough. Tomorrow, you’re going to Hosea and telling him to take you back to Blackwater. You’re going to Saint Denis -so you can leave this stupid chapter of your life behind.

The campfire you just left remained silent. Arthur scowls while watching the flames. Hosea looks between him and the women’s tent as he comes back to the wagon.  The older man eyes the red blooming along Arthur’s cheek, just under the scruff of his day-old beard.

“I have no idea what you said to that poor woman, but I know she ain’t done nothing for you to be so sour to her.” Hosea narrows his eyes at Arthur as if the six-foot gunslinger was a child again.

“You’re gonna apologize to her.”

“But-“

“Apologize.” Hosea reiterates, his voice low and firm, with all the sternness of a disappointed father. He glares at Arthur for another moment before taking his leave.

Arthur peers over toward the women’s tent, where you have covered yourself with a blanket on the ground. He grits his teeth and breathes out heavily through his nose, turning away and back to the campfire.

-

The ponderosa pines wave in the warm breeze, the sweet vanilla wafting through your nose as the clearing opens before you.

The cabin stands quiet across the way. Far quieter than when you left.

The door was left open.

Aethon isn’t hitched up, but the wagon is still next to the cabin.

The door was left open.

With unsteady steps, you slowly reach for the doorframe, looking down when your boots make a muted squelch on the wooden floorboards of the porch.

The door was left open.

Blood runs in wretched rivulets from the inside of the cabin, out the threshold, and into the world.

You step into the cabin, and upon the ground, his body is contorted into a death throe, his eyes wide open and blood running from the hole in his forehead.

As if you were caught in molasses, you move slowly toward the body, reaching out toward your dead husband who seems to be just out of reach. Finally, finally, when you reach him, you touch his cold form, hands on his shoulders, slowly coating your arms with his blood.

Your Frederick, dead on the floor. You weep into his shoulder, loudly wailing the mourning dirge.

A loud noise from outside draws your attention, and you turn to see a large shadowed figure in the door.  A lantern is thrown into the cabin by the figure, bursting into flames on the wooden floor.

The flames lick at the walls, the floor, and the ceiling. There is no escape, not this time. You close your eyes, resigning yourself to your fate, as you lay over Frederick’s body. 

The fire burns.

-

You jolt awake, breath heaving as you clutch at your chest, your heart racing. A throb of pain shoots through your shoulder, and you wince as you sit up in your bedroll.

The hour is late, or far too early, as your eyes get accustomed to the darkness. Campfires have burned down to embers, and quiet, punctuated by the occasional snore, sits heavy throughout the camp. You look down the line of sleeping women next to you - Karen, Tilly, Mary Beth. They all lie still, dead asleep. You rub at your eyes, knowing you were up for the day after a dream like that.

Grabbing your shawl, hanging from the wagon overhead, you pull it around your shoulders to stave off the chill. You sit up, silently reaching for your boots as you crawl from the bedrolls. Standing up, you’re able to shove your feet into your shoes and quietly pad toward the tree line, knowing your way by heart to your destination.

The inky blackness of the sky shows the slightest sign of fading as you move up your worn path to the top of the ridge, relying on the muted light from the stars to guide you through the pine trees.

By the time you reach the fallen tree at the familiar cliffside, the sky is beginning to bleed red-purple light from the east.

Heavy footsteps make their way up the ridge behind you. You don’t bother to turn and look who it is until a large frame stops next to you, looking out over the cliffs. The scent of a lit cigarette wafts toward you.

“Mister Morgan.”

“Missus Shaw.”

Silence falls between the two of you. It’s obvious that Arthur is not going to apologize. You are not going to apologize either. He deserved that blow as far as you are concerned. After moments, you finally break down and end the silence.

“It’s the camhanaich.”

“ ‘scuse me?”

“It’s a word to describe the half-light of the dawn,” you point out at the east, where colors are changing as the sun’s rise becomes imminent, “The hope one gets at the birth of a new day. It’s an old Gaelic word.”

Arthur remains quiet, his hands falling to rest on his gun belt, slung low on his hips. His cigarette remains between his lips.

“Been seeing it a lot recently,” Your voice gets low, “I keep thinking I’ll get that hope… but reality isn’t much different than the nightmares that keep me awake anyway.”

Your gaze remains rooted to the eastern horizon, where the red-purple haze of the impending sunrise begins to creep into view. 

Arthur drops his cigarette to the ground and smothers it with his boot, "Best to ignore them bad dreams. Dwellin’ on ‘em ain’t gonna do anythin’ but cause y’ more pain.”

“You say that as if you’ve had them.”

He remains silent. You take this silence as admission, but do not press any further. Arthur takes his leave to go, turning on his heel without looking at you. He makes it three steps before stopping shortly.

“Missus Shaw.”

An unstated truce falls between the two of you. You do not turn to acknowledge him, nor does he.

“Mister Morgan.”

The sun rises on the mountainside.

[illarian-rambling]

for the ask game: 🧑‍🧑‍🧒‍🧒 !!

👨‍👩‍👧‍👦 — how many people are in your oc's immediate family? how many people are in your oc's extended family? do they have aunts, uncles, cousins, grandparents, etc? who in their family are they closest with? are they close with their birth family, or do they have a found family?

I suppose Twenari would have the most interesting answer for this!

So, Twenari was raised by her neglectful and exploitative mother, Undeta. Her father was never in the picture (though she always knew she must've gotten her sorcery from him), and her only other family was her grandmother, Idan, the founder of the Tunnel Wasp smuggling ring. When she ran away from home and her fate as a living weapon, she ended up in the custody of Izjik and Sepo. She sees them sort of like older siblings who stepped up to the plate of actually raising her. Later on, Djek joined their little found family as well, firmly cemented as the middle child equivalent.

After some years had passed, through a set of odd and dangerous circumstances, Twenari ended up meeting her older cousin on her father's side, Yedan Devaris. Yedan then introduced her to the extended plethora of siblings, cousins, and in-laws that make up the large and prosperous Devaris clan. This family is where Twenari gets her sorcery from, and all are extremely magically gifted. Prominent figures include Denafra, the family's matriarch, and Oyanna, Twenari’s stepmom and the one who runs the business side of the Devaris sorcery production enterprise.

Twenari also got to meet her father. Azhur never knew about her, as his encounter with Undeta was heavily intoxicated. Sometime after Twenari was born, Azhur married Oyanna and had a son with her. Unfortunately though, the boy drowned as a toddler, causing Azhur, mad with grief, to lock himself within a demiplane of his own making. He was unable to escape as the demiplane was half-formed, and ended up stranded there for a decade of solitude. Twenari freed him eventually (Azhur’s child's DNA was the key to unlocking the demiplane. He intended the plane to be a training space for his son, but Twenari’s DNA worked just as well) but he wasn't in the best mental state after so long alone. However, he does want to be a proper father to Twenari, and offered to pay for her education in a way the Outcasts could not.

That said, Twenari loves both her found family and her biological family. She spent so long without any warmth in her life that she's overjoyed to have not one, but two loving families.

Thanks for the ask!