#moonlite rabbles

[moonlite-drabbles]

Cloud Retainer/Xianyun meets this small little engineer tinkerer named Freminet and immediately tries to take him back to Mt. Aocang to raise him. She’s very confused when he runs away

Xianyun: small child… you are familiar with engineering?

Freminet, wide eyed staring at the bird lady: uhm… yes? I-I like to tinker but I’m not the best…

Xianyun, neither of whoms children liked gadget making, and who secretly wants and child she can teach things: Wonderful, we leave immediately!

Freminet: …W-what?

Xianyun then snatches Freminet up in her talons and flies like how a large bird carries off a small animal to eat

[violettesiren]

Like the song of the bird that's nesting, Like the surge of the summer sea, From the far-off deeps of fancy, Sweet music comes to me.

It bears to the troubled hour The grace that the past has worn, O'er moonlit wakes of memory Into the present borne.

The echo of all things tender That ever were sung or said, The loving words of the living, The sacred words of the dead.

No sweet word ever spoken But echoes in that song, No noble word but whispers Its thrilling cords along.

Listen, oh soul! believe it, This comes from the human heart; I heed not the roar of the rabble, The noise of the street and mart.

And ever and ever onward May the strain still stronger grow, Till what I hear in my fancy, Over all the earth shall flow.

Earth's Music by Edith Willis Linn Forbes

[stuckonjbbarnes]

Far Away {One Shot}

Word Count: 1.3K

Pairing: Sam x Reader Prompt: A Drop in the Ocean - Ron Pope A/N: I've been wanting to write this song for a while. This flows similarly to Time (linked if you haven't read it/want to).

~ ~ ~ ~

Then.

“A drop in the ocean; A change in the weather. I was praying that you and me might end up together.” The jukebox blares in the corner, an uncharacteristically gentle song serenading the biker bar.

“It's like wishing for rain as I stand in the desert but I'm holding you closer than most cause you are my heaven.” You hum along behind the bar, catering to your regulars.

You almost miss the stranger walking straight for the empty spot you’d cleared moments before. He offers you an easy smile so at odds with the way he’s stiffly holding himself. He’s not like the regulars; all men of various sizes outfitted in leather with angry stares for everyone but you, their favorite bartender. No, the glares were never at you, the sweet spitfire amongst the rabble.

“Interesting music.” The new man offers by greeting, giving a toothy smile, unaware or unbothered by the men glowering at him.

“I chose the song.” You offer, setting a napkin and a menu in front of the man. “What can I get started for ya?”

“I’ll have a beer. Your choice.”

“Bold move, new guy.” One of the men nods his approval and the stranger nods back, looking more comfortable.

“Sam. Sam Wilson.” The man just grunts in return.

“Here you go, Sammy.” You offer him the frosted mug with a soft smile before turning to where your name is being called on the opposite side of the bar.

Now.

“I don't wanna waste the weekend. If you don't love me, pretend. A few more hours then it's time to go. As my train rolls down the east coast I wonder how you keep warm.” Ironic that this song always played, as if a cue that Sam would be there. “It's too late to cry...Too broken to move on.”

The smell of burnt cigarettes and wasted beers hits him just as hard as it had the day he met you. That wasn’t what you smelled like, no, you were all cinnamon smiles with a dash of something he couldn’t put his finger on; Something sweet. The bar that you moonlit on the weekends, that’s what was currently assaulting his nose. But you’re not there. That was to be expected but it still hurt him in a way that almost wasn’t fair.

“You don’t belong ‘round here.” One of the men from the first night calls to him, his eyes promising violence.

“Where?” Not a question of where he should be but where you went. The men just offer him cold stares.

“It’s been months, guy. You better be going.”

“Her song is playing.” Sam states, “I know that means something.”

“Sam? What are you doing here?” He freezes at her voice and frantically looks for wherever she just appeared from, the kitchen, as it happens.

“And still I can't let you be...Most nights I hardly sleep. Don't take what you don't need from me.” The jukebox might as well be wailing at him. Traitor. Traitor. Traitor.

“I-

“Sam, you can’t be here.” Confusion melds into anger.

Why couldn’t he be here? He’d only been gone a few months. She was going to turn on him like that after a few months? And then he noticed the subtle changes, the differences. He was too late.

Then.

“A drop in the ocean. A change in the weather. I was praying that you and me might end up together...”

The rain had come out of nowhere. The regulars were unruffled, out on their bikes in seconds, waving off your attempts to keep them around for an extra hour. Leaving you alone with the stranger, Sam. He kept to himself, when he wasn’t asking for another round. His presence was oddly comforting as you began wiping down the bar for the night.

“It's like wishing for rain as I stand in the desert but I'm holding you closer than most cause you are my heaven.” You fall into the soft melody again, humming before shifting to singing.

“It’s really coming down out there.” The man comments, looking at the rain hammering the pavement.

“It usually does. It’s been a great monsoon season.” You respond, filling the dishwasher with the discarded beer mugs.

“I’m sorry I should get out of your hair.”

“In that?” Thunder cracks emphasizing her point. “At least stay until I’ve officially closed up. It should end by then.”

“Thank you, that’s sweet of you…?”

“YN. Pleasure’s all mine.” A smile and then silence as the jukebox continues its concert.

“Are you gonna be okay out in that?” Sam finally asks as you finish mopping.

“I’m not going anywhere.”

“Oh?”

“I live upstairs.” Should you have said that much? Probably not but there’s something reassuring about him. He feels safe. You watch as he shrugs on his jacket and bite your cheek, contemplating before blurting, “Wanna come up?”

“I’d like that.”

Now.

“Misplaced trust and old friends. Never counting regrets. By the grace of God I do not rest at all.” That stupid song is grating on his nerves as everything starts clicking into place.“New England as the leaves change, the last excuse that I'll claim I was a boy who loved a woman like a little girl.”

He was too late. He stayed away for too long… Those months he was here made no impression compared to the time and distance of a departure. You looked as good as the last time he’d seen you. No...even better than that. You had smile lines by your eyes and phantom happiness behind the shadows now noticeable in his presence. You really had no reason to wait for him. But he wishes you would’ve; waited, that is.

“And still I can't let you be. Most nights I hardly sleep… Don't take what you don't need from me.”

It’s true. Those months away he hardly slept. He thought it would be best to move on but you lingered; like something incurable. But he had hoped and prayed that you’d be here, to make everything right again. And you were here but not for him. At the edge of the bar a man closer in age to the both of you stares; assessing, scrutinizing, almost warning. Don’t get any closer, don’t make me get up.

“You have a new boyfriend?” Less a question, more an observation.

“Bucky.” A nod, “He’s good to me.”

“I know of him...used to kill people.” Sam scoffs.

“He’s made amends, done counselling. He’s a good man.”

“I’m sure he is.”

“Please be happy for me.”

“Of course.” He manages and leaves the way he walked in, cursing himself for ever leaving.

Then.

“A drop in the ocean, a change in the weather. I was praying that you and me might end up together. It's like wishing for rain as I stand in the desert but I'm holding you closer than most cause you are my….heaven.”

A night turned into a few days turned into a couple months before you forced Sam to focus on himself. He was no good to you if he wasn’t happy and he wasn’t happy standing by as other people managed to save the world.

So you sent him off and it tore you apart but it was for the best. You fully believed in the saying “if you love something let it go, and if it’s meant to be it’ll come back”. So you let him go, hoping he’d be back as soon as he saved the day.

But he didn’t. You waited for days. For months. For almost a year. Your regulars hated it. Cursed him for ever having shown up in their slice of the world. He ruined their sweet spitfire. Except he didn’t. Sam showed you love and how to be loved. So when Bucky showed up; brooding Bucky, you knew exactly how to care, how to let him make you happy. And he continues to make you happy and the regulars love him.

And Sam, you think, will find his happiness. Just not here in this bar, not here with you. But somewhere else, somewhere where time doesn’t factor in and walking out the door doesn’t mean a permanent goodbye.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Permanent Taglist: @buckysmischief​ @murdermornings​ @donnaintx​ @kitkatd7​ @thosekidswhohuntmonsters​ @firefly-in-darkness​ @buckys-other-punk​ ​ @escapingthoughtsandsecrets @smilexcaptainx @sweater-daddiesdumbdork @my-favorite-fics-and-imagines @cherrys-recommendations @avantgardium-leviosa @mypassionsarenysins @lovinlikeloki

[merryfortune]

Promised Ring

Clover and Violets 2022

Day 3. Promises

Title: Promised Ring

Ship: Zinniashipping | Aoi/Miyu

Word Count: 1,490

Universe: Vrains - Canon Compliant

Rating: T

Tags: Fluff, Engagement

   The night was not by any means young but they were.

   It was well past midnight and yet, here they were, gallivanting around as they were. Or at least Miyu was. She was traipsing all over the sidewalk, holding onto Aoi’s hand, singing the songs that were stuck in her head as she supposedly was trying to head back to the apartment. Aoi, though she was a night owl, wasn’t quite as perky as Miyu. 

   But she wouldn’t deny it, they had had a lovely night together. They’d had dinner in a fancy restaurant earlier and then they went clubbing and when the clubs closed, that’s when Miyu thought it would be the best time ever to take Aoi on bit of an adventure through the city.

   Den City was beautiful, especially at this hour, well past the witching hour. It felt like a hot minute since they visited. A lot had changed since high school. They had gone to university in separate cities; Miyu was studying communications and publicity so she could go into the pageantry that was show business as an agent or manager. Meanwhile, Aoi had gone into law with a specialisation in children’s courts and family law. And taking those paths of study was just the beginning of their young adulthood together.

   Though separated by different cities, they still eeked out every possible excuse to see each other. Not to mention all the texting and calling, on the phone or via video chat. Despite being far apart, they had never felt closer and when the final bell rang for them on graduation, they were all too fast to make plans to travel together. See some more parts of the world.

   Akira gave them both some pocket money but they both had been working through university, saving up some money for exactly this occasion and it was great. They jet-setted all around, various parts of Europe, for example, and a couple cities in America. They got into plenty of rabble rousing adventures, the sort they could never tell Akira or Miyu’s parents, and turned out okay for it, maybe even better than okay.

   Truly their early twenties were roaring. Fun, friends, family, fashion: they were having a blast. Of course, with every high there was a low and there had been plenty of frictions and frustrations in both their individual lives and in their relationship that could have ruined the past ten years since being sixteen for them but they got through those rough patches. And on the other side, well, they had the beginnings of illustrious careers and they’d done their gap year. In fact, there was really only one sort of thing left on the seemingly universally accepted schedule for people in their twenties: engagement. Its not like they hadn’t spoken deep and hard about becoming one another’s fiances, but it was making Aoi a little suspicious.

   A sudden holiday in Den City, Miyu trying to orchestrate the best date of their lives. Nothing but the latest and greatest for them both and now a moonlit stroll on the beach.

   That’s where Miyu’s little adventure, hand in hand with Aoi, ended up and Aoi wasn’t surprised in the slightest. It was the perfect night for it to happen and it did. They kicked off their heels and wandered into the shallows of the water. It was freezing but it just made them laugh. They looked out into the sea. It wasn’t a spot for swimming but nor was it a harbour for very many ships or boats. It was perfect. 

   The ocean was calm, the beach was quiet and it was just them and their reflections, muddled in the ripples and the stars. The smog of the city lighter than usual, allowing the grandest moonlight and starlight to penetrate the gloomy, ever-present clouds.

   “Look.” Miyu gasped. 

   She pointed outwards and Aoi caught a glimpse of how Miyu’s face lit up in delight at the observation, Aoi could hardly appreciate the phenomena for Miyu’s euphoric expression. But she managed to tear away her eyes and returned them out to sea. It was all indigo and blue, dark and deep yet calm. Speckles of silver here and there as the sparkling, bioluminescent bluey-green began to bubble and toil on the surface of the waters. It was gorgeous, the Stardust Road occurred once more in the bays of Den City.

   “Wow.” Aoi murmured.

   “It's so beautiful.” Miyu agreed.

   “Not as beautiful as you.” Aoi replied.

   “Oh, stop it.” Miyu retorted, snorting, playfully rocking Aoi’s hand to and fro as their fingers remained interlocked.

   When Miyu’s bubbly laughter faded out, they both appreciated the silence for a moment. Or at least the near silence. The steady rhythm of the water lapping at their ankles, perpetual and frigid, was like magic to them both as they soaked up the seasalt and coldness.

   “Ne, Aoi,” Miyu murmured, she turned her face and her eyes looked bluer than the ocean as Aoi turned her own to meet Miyu’s earnest yet excitable gaze, “will you marry me?”

   Aoi blushed and looked away, she hid the bottom of her face in her hands. Her heart began to pound erratically. It wasn’t as if this was completely out of the blue, despite it being Miyu, this was something they had discussed in previous albeit, not recently. Though, the signs, in hindsight, had been there all night and Aoi had picked up on them. She had been half-expecting it. Or at least she should have been half-expecting it given her suspicions of Miyu’s romanticism. Especially in the last half an hour or so when Miyu decided it was not yet time for them to retire back to Akira’s place and yet, it still came as a thunderously exciting shock. She smiled behind her fingertips and batted her eyes.

   “I would love to.” Aoi finally confessed, removing her hand from her face.

   “Aw, thanks, I wanna marry you too.” Miyu cheekily grinned.

   “Do you even have a ring?” Aoi asked.

   “Of course I do.” Miyu pouted. “It's right here.” With the flick of her wrist, it was like a magic trick, she showed Aoi the ring she wanted to marry her with.

   Miyu reached around to the back pocket of her sealed tight pleather mini skirt. A tiny coin wouldn’t have fit in it and yet, Miyu had managed to keep a ring there all night, safe and sound. And not just any ring, Aoi would recognise it anywhere, in the youth of day or in the old of night, in the dim light of right now with all the neon city lights behind her, she was certain she knew it and that she would know it anywhere.

   The ring gleamed in what light it caught. The moon’s, the stars’, and of course the Stardust Road. It was small and humble, unassuming compared to some of the rich and famous, or even olden antiquity. It was merely a silver ring with a single stone embedded, likely turquoise polished and smoothed down as it had no faucets cut to be an emerald or similar green gemstone.

   “Oh, Miyu, no.” Aoi gasped in horror as Miyu produced said ring that she felt could only ever portend of misery and misfortune. “Don’t you think it's unlucky to reuse your divorced mother’s ring?” Aoi’s expression writhed with anxiety. “And the very same ring that caused our childhood friendship to split?”

   “Yes, I’m certain.” Miyu chirped, confidently nodding her head.

   “Why?” Aoi asked.

   “Because,” Miyu said and she reached for Aoi’s recoiled hand again, using both her own she cupped it and brought it to her face, she nuzzled it with the utmost love in her eyes, “it's our promised ring. I always wanted to give it to you and now I can, with full permission from my mother and I want full permission from you to accept it. Will you?”

   Aoi’s heart quaked in her chest as she recalled those still painful memories from her and Miyu’s childhood and yet, she softened, “I accept. I want to marry you, Miyu, and if this is the ring you want to use, then it's the ring I want to wear. With pride.”

   “I’m glad.” Miyu replied, she didn’t sound excitable, like Aoi was expecting, no, she sounded more wizened and gracious than that.

   Aoi smiled nervously as she let Miyu gently thread the ring onto her finger. Aoi felt herself grow warm, even in the cold water at her feet, with all the emotions of devotion and intimacy: of a promise twenty years in the making and hopefully, another twenty or more in the future. Miyu kissed the ring once it sat nicely on Aoi’s finger.

   “I love you.” Miyu whispered.

   “I love you, too.” Aoi replied. She caressed Miyu’s face as Miyu still held her hand and kissed her finger and the ring that she wore again with the most reverent expression.

[moonlite-drabbles]

^^ it’s just weird.

to yall people writing fanfics of mcyt and sbi and shit

don't write stuff about techno having cancer, that is really fuckin stupid and immoral, and also contradicts the main thing about writing about characters, rather than real life people

also, fuckin, get your vaccine and support technoblade

[undermounts]

Empire of Light—Prologue: Of Monsters and Men

AO3 | Table of Contents  | Ashes and Embers | Playlist 

Fic Summary: In the aftermath of the Battle of Ash, the party travels across Morella in search of allies to defeat the Empire of Ash, once and for all.

Chapter Summary: In the sparkling capital of Morella, strange things go bump in the night.

Notes: this is a sequel to my first Blades 2 fic, Ashes and Embers. If you haven’t read that yet, you can do so here!

➳ ➳ ➳ ➳

Whitetower was not the sort of city that slept.

Even at the oddest hours of the morning, there was always some sort of trouble afoot—sometimes good trouble, sometimes bad, but always mischievous. The evenings were filled with the merry music from open tavern doors, the raucous laughter of drunkards, the rapturous cries of lovers, and other things that went bump in the night. Deals were made in dark alleyways, schemes were carried out amongst thieves atop the terracotta shingles that lined moonlit rooftops, and assassins and mercenaries earned their coin in underground fighting pits, where the wealthy and poor alike frequented to bet on the odds.

The Temple of Light, mercifully, was always quiet, and Cili loved quiet.

Cili, however, did not love Whitetower. He couldn’t wait until he ascended the full rank of priesthood—even though that was many years away—so that he could lead the pilgrimages across Morella or the recruitment journeys that picked up orphaned magic users such as himself, if only so he could get out of the city. It was too loud, and in some places, like the Nooks and Crannies, too smelly. In fact, if Cili had to pick a few words to describe Whitetower, they would simply be, “too much.”

Cili could still remember the day he had arrived in the capital city three years ago, not long after his fifth birthday had passed, when the priests had brought him to live at the Temple. Permanently. To put it quite frankly, that day was one of the most terrifying he’d ever had. 

Whitetower was overwhelming, a sensory overload. After crossing through the city’s borders, Cili had seen more people within a few moments than he’d ever seen on the quiet farm he grew up on. The sheer volume of people that occupied the capital made him nervous—they were a tide he could get lost in, could drown in. He was used to small communities and houses that were fields apart. Even after three years, he was still adjusting to living at the Temple with all of the other acolytes and priests.

The Market District was especially stressful. There were so many people, so many voices, smells, colors, and sounds—all of it blending together into a cacophonous mess that made Cili cling to the sleeves of the nearest priestess and bury his face in her robes. 

And beyond what Cili had experienced in his sheltered upbringing at the Temple were the stories he had heard. Some of the older students at the Temple gossiped about Whitetower’s underworld, the secret guilds of thieves, mercenaries, and assassins. Apparently, there were entire networks of tunnels hidden beneath the capital, dozens of secret passageways, and hundreds of peepholes for espionage.

The first time Cili had heard the gossip was in the hours after lights were out and the acolytes were supposed to be asleep. After that, he had spent the following day scouring the walls and rafters of the Temple for spies. He’d soon realized that he was acting a bit foolishly—the Temple of Light was perhaps the most secure place in Whitetower, right after the palace, but he still made sure to stay close to the priests whenever they were led throughout the city for their weekly services. While the other acolytes spoke of the criminals of Whitetower with some degree of awe or amusement—mostly about a thief dubbed the “Whitetower Reaper” that had mysteriously vanished a few years ago—Cili could only pray that he never encountered such rabble.

Nobles, knights, Light-users, traders, merchants, thieves, and assassins—Whitetower seemed to have it all. 

The one thing Whitetower did not have was monsters. At least not of the beastly kind, with fangs and fur and claws. Although, the same could not be said of those ruled by greed and ambition… No, Whitetower was not home to strange creatures, aside from the occasional noble-owned voxper. 

Or at least, that used to be the case. 

Now, a giant, winged creature stood guard on the city walls with a blazing fire in his lungs. And unbeknownst to the general public, strange beasts prowled the shadows… 

Cili quietly shuffled down the moonlit marble halls of the Temple, collecting and extinguishing the old candles that had been burning all evening and replacing them with new ones he would light tomorrow morning. This was the last part of his daily routine, his final task of the day as one of the younger acolytes, and his least favorite chore. He would never admit it, especially around the older children, but his heart always beat a little faster when he carried out this task, the tempo increasing with every flame he extinguished. Cili was not afraid of the dark, but he was afraid of the things that may lurk within it.

Growing up in the quiet countryside, Cili had never had any reason to believe in the folktales about wicked monsters or strange beasts that would snatch little children out of their beds at night. He’d only ever encountered lapna and kromps, which were more or less content to stay away, especially if rewarded with food. But after the events of the last year—portals opened to the Shadow Realm, the Crown Prince’s death, the Dreadlord’s rise and fall, the Battle of Ash, the Blood King’s ascension, and the guardian dragon’s arrival…. After all of that, Cili was no longer sure what to believe. He only knew that whenever he blew out a candle and stared into the shadows that crept in, he had the sinking, dreadful feeling that something was staring back.

Cili came to a stop in front of one of the white marble statues that lined the Hall of Saints. This statue in particular was of Saint Damaris, who was known for protecting children—especially orphans. This was Cili’s favorite Saint of Light, even if Damaris’ death was one of the more gruesome ones on record. Cili had learned that Damaris had died during the Great War—as most famous Saints did—while protecting a chartered boat of orphans from winged shadow gargoyles as they crossed the Silban River to safety.

Cili looked down at the candles at the base of Damaris’ statue, glanced at the darkening hall around him, then decided to extinguish those ones last. He did not mind having the Saint’s protection for a little while longer. 

Cili continued down the Hall of Saints, blowing out and replacing candles as he went. As he did, he recalled the names of the Saints and their stories, a tactic he had once used to strengthen his memory of the famous figures that had soon become a habit. Saint Ahlai, protector of settlements along the Golden Coast, drowned while defending a cluster of fishing boats from a bloodsquid during a storm. Saint Noa, protector of travellers, stoned to death while protecting a royal procession from raiders. The list went on and on—Saint Pasha, Saint Viktor, Saint Emira, Saint Holland, Saint Calla, Saint Athos… One tragedy after another. 

As he went about his task, Cili wondered if anyone he knew would one day ascend to the status of saint. A part of him hoped not. Revered as they were, almost every Saint seemed to meet a tragic end.

Cili reached the end of the hall, coming to a halt at the base of Saint Alina’s statue. He gazed upon the Saint’s alabaster countenance, her beautiful face at once nurturing, fierce, and sorrowful. She was one of the most popular saints, known as the protector of the innocents. Cili shuddered as he recalled her particular demise: burned while defending a town of human serfs during the Great War. The young acolyte shook that gruesome thought from his head as he withdrew a fresh candle from his basket and placed it at the base of her altar and leaned down to blow the flames out.

The moment the last candle guttered out, Cili felt a sudden chill wash over him, as if he had been plunged into a frozen lake. He inhaled sharply, clutching the basket of candles tightly to his chest as ice spread through his veins and the fine hairs on the back of his neck stood on end.

Something was wrong.

Heart pounding in his small chest, Cili slowly turned around. There was nothing behind him, although he found no relief in this small discovery. With the doors to the outer courtyard of the Temple closed and most of the candles extinguished, Cili was shrouded in darkness. His attention tunneled to the flickering semi-circle of candlelight that surrounded Saint Damaris’ statue, the only source of illumination in the entire hall aside from the watery moonlight

Cili’s blood was loud in his ears. He could not explain it, the inexplicable urge to run. Something was watching him, he could feel it. Waiting for him.

Cili inhaled deeply, his breath shaking ever so slightly as he smothered the urge to run toward the ring of light. Surely this was just some sort of joke. If anyone was watching him from the shadows, it was the other acolytes, playing a prank on him. Cili had a bit of a reputation around the Temple of being easily scared, after all. If they wanted to get a reaction out of anyone, Cili was the perfect target.

“This isn’t funny,” Cili declared, his voice quivering despite his best efforts to keep it steady.

No response.

“Marco?” he questioned as he clutched the basket of candles tightly to his chest and then slowly began to creep toward the other end of the hall, careful to keep his steps steady so he did not betray the immense fear he felt. He did not want the other acolytes to get the satisfaction of seeing him run. “Jude? I know it's you guys. You can cut it out. I’m not afraid.”

Again, no response. Then—

There was a rustling sound, like the flap of wings. Then the scrape of something solid and heavy against the smooth marble stone and—

Cili lost his nerve and ran, dropping his basket of candles as he sprinted for the semi-circle of candlelight around Saint Damarius. No sooner had he begun to run did the creature in the shadows flare to life. 

A horrible snarl ricocheted off the marble and alabaster floors of the hall, followed by the abrupt boom of beating wings and the click, click, click of talons snapping against the floor. 

Something hot and leathery struck Cili across the back of his legs and he stumbled, crashing to the floor only a few paces away from Saint Damaris’ light. Cili’s chin throbbed from smacking it against the marble tiles, but he shoved himself to his hands and knees, hastily scrambling for the ring of light like his life depended on it.

It did.

Cili waited until he was fully within the semi-circle of candlelight, naively believing that the light of a few measly flames would keep the mysterious creature at bay, before he flipped onto his back, throwing his hands up as he finally faced the beast.

His scream lodged in his throat, which felt as if it had been swollen shut with fear.

Cili did not know how to process what exactly was before him. He had never seen a creature like this in his childhood storybooks, had never even heard of a creature like this, either from the other acolytes or the old storytellers that sat around Whitetower’s town square. 

The beast had the face and wings of a bat, although its body was distinctly humanoid, corded with rippling muscle. But the creature’s composition was not nearly the strangest thing about it. The beast did not have skin nor fur, but rather, it appeared to be made of shadow. Tendrils of darkness wicked off of its body like smoke and glowing lines of reddish orange light trailed along its arms and torso, like molten lava bubbling through the cracked, blackened surface of cooled magma.

As it slowly prowled forward, the gargoyle screeched at him, baring a mouthful of razor sharp teeth and Cili flinched back, throwing up his hands defensively. He called desperately upon his teaching of the Light in a vain hope that something the priests had taught him would be useful in warding this creature away, but defensive magic was too advanced for someone his age, its teaching withheld until he reached his tenth year. 

The young acolyte scuttled backward as the beast stalked toward him until his back met the base of Damaris’ statue. Trembling, Cili’s eyes were trained on the gargoyles taloned, hideous feet as it lumbered closer to the circle of light. Closer, closer, closer—

One of the gargoyle’s talons breached the light.

And nothing happened.

Cili whimpered, realizing that there was nothing that could save him, not the candlelight, not Damaris, and judging by the quiet that still settled over the temple, not the priests, either. Desperate, Cili conjured an Orb of Light in his palms, the only bit of magic he could confidently do. In response, the gargoyle hissed, rearing back as a clawed hand swung forward, narrowly missing Cili’s face as the boy lunged back. Almost instantly, due to his fear and lapse in concentration, the Orb guttered out.

Panicked, Cili tried and failed to conjure another Orb of Light as the gargoyle shifted over him. Cili’s hands fell uselessly into his lap as the monster cornered him against the marble statue, its tepid breath ghosting over the boy’s face as it opened its gaping maw wide for the killing blow.

Left with nothing else to do, Cili closed his eyes and began to pray. 

“Light guide me through this endless night and protect me from the darkness. On Viktor, on Calla, on Athos and Alina. On Noa, on Pasha, on Damaris—” Cili broke his prayer and sobbed desperately. “Saints, save me!”

The doors to the Temple slammed against the walls as they burst open, and a flash of Light so bright it was blinding illuminated the room. The beast above Cili was thrown back by the blast and struck the opposite wall with an animalistic whimper of pain.

Cili’s gaze snapped to the open doorway where two cloaked figures appeared, silhouetted by the night sky and the mist that drifted across the cobblestone roads of Whitetower. The one on the right, distinguishable by the taller stature, swayed ever so slightly as the one on the left lunged forward with incredible grace and speed. Cili just barely caught the glint of steel before two blades shot out of the cloaked figure’s gloved hands. It was only until Cili followed the path of the blades that he realized the Shadow beast had gotten up from its supine position against the wall and had begun to charge toward him once more. 

The blades sunk into the gargoyle’s stomach, slowing its advance. The monster roared in pain and frustration as its wings snapped out, lifting its body into the air. There was a whizzing sound and sickening squelch as an arrow embedded itself in one of the beast’s wings, quickly followed by another arrow that struck the other one, causing it to crash to the ground once more. Cili looked to the taller figure, who now brandished a glittering bow of silver and gold metal. Beneath the folds of their coat, he could just make out the silver hilt of a sword. 

No sooner had the beast fallen from the air did the second figure with the knives spring forward, gripping the protruding shafts of the arrows and using them as leverage to shove the gargoyle back, pinning it to the wall. The Shadow creature howled as Cili’s rescuer used their weight to trap the beast, then yanked the arrows down, shredding its wings to the point of uselessness. The cloaked figure pulled back, unsheathing a knife strapped to their thigh, and raised the gleaming weapon high, prepared to stab deep into the beast’s heart.

Cili’s breath caught in his throat. He could not believe what he was witnessing, could not believe that he was about to watch these mysterious heroes defeat this monster, could not believe that he was saved.

Cili’s heart dropped like a stone as the creature lashed out with its snapping teeth, forcing the cloaked figure to jump back, leaving just enough room for the gargoyle to swing out with a muscled arm. The back of its taloned hand caught Cili’s defender across the midsection, batting them aside. As the figure tumbled to the ground, their hood fell back, revealing a head of shoulder-length, dark, and wavy hair. The face underneath was tan and ruggedly handsome, distinguishable by a well-kept beard and a scar that crossed a single eyebrow.

The beast shoved away from the wall, lurching toward the doors out of the Temple in a desperate attempt to escape with its life. But then the other figure was there, moving faster than a wicked wind as they darted forward and struck with their gauntleted fist, catching the gargoyle with a blow so savage and powerful, the weakened creature rocked backward, stunned.

Like the gears in a well-oiled machine, the man on the ground swung his legs out, catching the beast by its shadowy ankles. The Shadow creature slammed into the ground just as the man rolled out of the way and shoved himself up to his knees. He brandished his dagger once more, stabbing clean through the monster’s shoulder to pin it to the ground.

His voice was low and gruff as he demanded, “Do it!”

Cili watched in awe as the taller figure unsheathed the sword at their side—the strangest blade Cili had ever seen, crafted of steel but threaded through with a blueish, crystalline substance that resembled forks of lightning. The figure lifted the sword high, a silver glow—The Light, Cili realized—emanating from their hands and spearing down the blade as they stabbed down, piercing the gargoyle’s chest, and presumably, its heart.

There was a bright flash and Cili watched as the Shadow beast dissipated into nothingness.

When the Light faded, Cili gaped at the space where the creature had once been. There was nothing left behind to indicate that it had ever existed within this temple, nothing but a few soot stains on the milky white marble floors.

A soft, tired sigh drew Cili’s attention away from the marks on the floor and he looked up in time to see the taller figure rest the tip of their sword against the floor and lean against it as if winded. The man quickly retrieved the blades that had clattered to the floor after the Shadow beast disappeared and tucked them away before snatching the arrows as well. He clambered to his feet just as his hooded companion straightened, nodding gratefully as they slid the offered arrows back into their quiver and sheathed that peculiar sword.

Cili watched in awe as his rescuers righted themselves, the realization dawning on him. “You’re Saints, aren’t you?” he breathed, slowly pushing himself away from the base of Damaris’ statue. “That’s why you saved me.”

Immediately, Cili’s rescuers stiffened, their attention snapping to him for the first time since they arrived as if they had just remembered he was there.

“Aw, hells,” the man muttered beneath his breath as he quickly yanked the hood of his cloak up, concealing his face beneath the shadows once more.

The two figures wordlessly glanced at each other as Cili’s gaze flicked between them, awaiting an answer. He could not believe it. They had heard his prayer. The Saints had come. The Saints—

“We aren’t Saints of Light.” The voice that replied was dulcet and sonorous—a woman’s. Cili thought he could listen to her speak all day.

“But I saw you use the Light,” Cili insisted, shaking his head as he got to his feet. There was still a slight tremor in his legs, his body still thrumming with adrenaline, although he paid no notice. “I prayed for you and you came—”

“We aren’t Saints,” the woman repeated gently, glancing over her shoulder at her companion before she took a slight step forward. “We’re just… devout followers of the Light. Purging the realm of darkness.”

Cili tilted his head, leaning forward in an attempt to see under the woman’s hood. Sensing his efforts, the woman pulled away and Cili frowned, although his disappointment was short-lived. Another thought crossed his mind. “So you’re… like adventurers? Heroes, like those in the storybooks?”

Cili had a feeling the woman was smiling as she tilted her head to the side. “Something like that.”

Cili nodded slowly, his gaze sliding from her concealed face to the soot stains that marred the floors. “What was that thing?”

“Just a monster,” the woman replied. “A bad guy. But it’s gone now. You don’t have to worry about it anymore.”

Cili chewed the inside of his lip, sidestepping away from the spot where the creature had died. The danger was gone, but he still felt unsettled. “Will more come?”

It was the man who replied this time. “Not if we can help it.”

Cili frowned, unconvinced, but did not reply.

As if sensing his unease, the woman reached out with nimble fingers and swiped something off of the man’s person, much to his dismay, but before her companion could protest, she knelt before Cili.

“Do you want to know what you can do if one of those beasts ever comes back?” she asked gently.

Cili’s eyes widened. He was nodding before he even realized he was doing so.

The woman held up her hand. Between her slender fingers was a small, sheathed knife. But Cili’s attention was not on the blade. Instead, his gaze lingered on her skin, which was a pearlescent shade of blue and horribly scarred as if it had been severely burned. A single gold ring adorned her thumb. 

The woman took Cili’s hand and pressed the hilt of the blade into his palm as she spoke. “The priests at the Temple will teach you how to protect yourself and others,” she told him. “That sort of training will be invaluable. But magic won’t always be there to help you, especially if you choose not to use it.”

Cili’s brow furrowed. “But why—”

The woman shook her head. “That is a choice you will make when you are older and understand the world better. And you must make it for yourself. But until then, you should know how to defend yourself without magic, too. Just in case.”

She curled Cili’s fingers around the hilt of the blade. “This can help protect you, but you must only use it if you are in grave danger, understand?”

She waited for Cili to show that he did. When he nodded, she continued. 

“If one of those beasts ever comes again,” she said slowly, a teacher guiding a student. “You take this—” She squeezed his hand, guiding it toward her chest. “—and put it here. Understand?”

Cili swallowed. “Yes.”

He looked up then, peering beneath the woman’s hood. He just barely glimpsed her pointed ears and a blur of green that was so bright, he thought they might be gemstones, and caught a whiff of starflowers, pine, and mist, before she pulled away. The woman dropped his hand as she straightened and stepped back.

“Be careful,” she instructed him. “And only use that when absolutely necessary.”

Cili nodded.

The woman stared at him for a few moments longer, her gaze heavy without being seen. Then she bowed her head. “May the Light guide you.”

Cili echoed her response, still shell-shocked as she turned on her heel and faced her companion.

“Uh, yeah,” the man said, reaching into the folds of his cloak. When he pulled his hand out, a glittering silver coin danced between his fingertips. He flicked it towards Cili, who caught it against his chest, confused.

“This’ll be our secret, yeah?” the man prompted, his hood shifting as he gazed around the Temple and sighed. “Bet they don’t pay you enough for this stuff. Wandering around creepy hallways at night.”

Cili did not know how to tell him that the Temple did not pay him at all, so he only nodded and replied, “Yes.”

“Right,” the man said slowly, before turning on his heel to follow his companion. As he went, he gave a lazy salute. “Light guide you, kid.”

Cili watched, stunned as his two rescuers made their way toward the doors that led out of the temple, their whispers carrying in the empty hallway.

“Please tell me you did not just bribe him.”

“Yeah, well you’re the one who taught him to kill a man, so I don’t think either of us are winning role model of the year, kit.”

Cili waited until they were halfway down the marble steps that led up to the Temple entrance before he scrambled after them, hiding behind the door to watch them go. They both moved like shadows, lithe and nimble as they stuck to the darkness and leaned against each other, as inconspicuous as any other couple wandering around the city after a night in the taverns. 

Bewitched by the two figures that had just saved his life with magic and steel—he was still not convinced they weren’t Saints—Cili followed them as quietly as possible off the Temple grounds and into the misty streets of Whitetower.

It was not until they reached the end of the block that his rescuers straightened, putting a casual distance between them. As they shifted apart, Cili saw why.

Cili watched from behind a barrel, mist swirling around his calves as his rescuers met up with two more cloaked figures, hidden in the shadows of an apartment that sat atop a shoemaker’s shop, which was closed for the night.

“I thought I told you to stay home,” the woman murmured, her voice nearly inaudible as she brushed her hand along the slope of another figure’s shoulder. Her other hand twisted behind her back, the mist churning with it. “Where it’s safe.”

“Oh?” the figure replied liltingly with a teasing edge as his head fell to the side. “Are you giving me orders now?”

A low laugh filled the air, full of warmth and affection. The sound was so entrancing, Cili almost didn’t notice that the mist had thickened around them, nearly concealing his saviors from sight. By the time the woman finished laughing , they were just fading blurs in the fog. 

“I would never do such a thing,” Cili thought he heard the woman reply, “Your Majesty.”

Cili’s breath hitched and he moved to follow, but the fog was so thick, he could barely see his own hands.

He tried to find the mysterious figures by sound alone, but when the mist cleared, they were gone.

➳ ➳ ➳ ➳

Notes: And we’re back

Tagging:  @diamonds-and-decorum, @kelseaaa, @xsweetnspookyx, @tyrils-star, @maeksoo, @tylorswft, @somin-yin, @vesselsynths, @mikewawazoski, @rainesenator, @desperatetrashwives, @choicesficwriterscreations

Let me know if you would like to be tagged/removed!

[thunder-rolled-a-seven]

For A View

Ark: Survival Evolved / Island

Characters: Nerva, Mei, Rockwell (ish)

---

Notes: Been playing for 2 years. Finally caved in to write. I enjoy the thought that Mei unintentionally set everyone up for pain because she couldn't let go and let herself be the hasty death machine she is (before Extinction). Also, because I'm an ass. Pardon errors - I tumblargh via phone.

---

Nothing.

The word pounds against the walls of his skull, behind his eyes, and within his chest, and suddenly the iron will he had wrought upon man, beast, and land withers into frightening despair. He falls; his sword, fashioned with the crest of his homeland and christened with blood, clatters upon the moonlit tile beside him. Its clamor echoes across the expansive, hollow chamber: this cold, metal end.

Fingernails crusted with blood, soot and sweat carve into the floor as doubt rakes across his once soaring pride. He had been dutiful, courageous and fortuitous in Rome and on the nightmare he had awoken to, and yet he had been denied the power he sought - the blessing he had been promised. With it he would have tamed the Island, and ruled in the pantheon's name, bringing justice, honor and peace to the tireless, savage land.

But no. The heavens he sought were empty.

"Nothing."

The warlord's head bows towards his chest, pinching the sorrowful croon of his failures into a whisper. His throat burns from his former cries of fury, and his tongue, bitten in battle, bleeds bitterness into it. With a clenched jaw the once decorated commander forces back the salty tears pooling in the corners of his eyes, refusing his warriors the chance to see him cry.

But there were none left, he remembers with a sharp exhale. He was alone. No one would judge the woes intending to caress his battered face. No one would tell this cautionary tale.

Gaius Marcellus Nerva floats above the world on a sea of corpses. By poison, fire, stone, teeth and claws, the remnants of his once powerful army had perished, leaving only those whom stayed behind to carry the New Legion's banner. Weakened, they were likely undone by the Island's small minded rabble - a legacy turned to ruins and dust. "All this death," he pants, his words heavy and sour, "for a view." Inevitably he begins to wonder if anything would have been different had he done nothing at all.

Earth brown eyes, tinged with red, rise towards the gallery of stars beyond the chamber's translucent walls, and remain blind to their majesty. Unknowable, untouchable, they stay as distant as those he knew as a boy. He shivers beneath their ancient gaze, wishing to trade this hollow tomb for the coarse summer sands, sun dappled woods, and human chatter from those better days he had long since left behind.

Instead, a chilling peel of laughter shatters the stillness, and the requiem of his thoughts disappears like his breath within air.

The alchemist, Rockwell, his once honoured guest and the only other survivor to that great massacre, must have found amusement in the foreign diases - some code or drawing that furthered the scholar's interests and none of the former lord's.

Nerva's core immediately explodes with burning jealousy, a consuming rage that sears his palms and tightens his already knitted brow. Snarling, he lifts his gladious, and jolts to his feet, his faults forgotten. That snake! It was the alchemist's silvered tongue that seduced the warlord towards the path of ruin, he reasons, wiping the dust from his eyes. For this he would see it cut from the bearded man's maw.

Determined strides soon echo a fiery dirge across those mirror-smooth floors. Fate's ugly number would fall upon the proud, self-proclaimed gentleman. None of Rockwell's struggles would stay his inevitable death, so help him, Mars.

Amidst the forest of silver hued pilars he discerns the elder man's shadow upon tile and wall. It writhes, limbs flailing like a kraken's tenticles as its owner frantically pours over foreign discoveries. The sound of mirth is quickly quelled by frustrated growls. Nerva sneers. Should Rockwell remain still, he would be merciful. "Gentlemanly." Their partnership had been of mutual respect before it crumbled, stank, and staled. It was the least he could do to honour their agreements before the fall.

He takes another step and another. Practiced muscles coil and ready to launch his blade between hunched shoulder blades and sever spine.

A light explodes between them.

At once the commander stumbles back, shielding his eyes from the blinding might separating him from his quarry with one outstretched hand. The beam is familiar, fluxing and hexagonal like the gate he passed through to this astral theater, and for a moment he wonders if he is not trapped amongst the stars in failure after all - if his gods had chosen this moment to bestow their presence upon him. His heart skips, and his eyes dare to flutter. Lips part in one last gasp before he holds his breath in anticipation to what he might see.

First nothing, not even Rockwell, whom might have slithered away just in time, nor the figures decorating the ground, nor the stars that ignored him now. Before him lies a breathless mass, unknown, less dense than space and hollow. Then Nerva stiffens. Slowly, between splayed fingers a darkness different than shadow dances: a ghost, a dream; a nightmare made tangible with long dark hair and darker eyes stares back at him through the white void.

His heart falls, crashes, and splinters as the prismatic light fades back into the chamber's eerie calm. He barely hears the rise and fall of his own breaths beyond the flooding rush within his ears.

Demoness. It was the first time he had seen her so alone. There had always been a pack of scales, claws and teeth at her heels to accent the chattering sounds of death. To see her surrounded by the same silent, recycled air as him made the approaching woman smaller than she already was.

But no less deadly, he curses, steadying his ground. And no less a dagger in the Roman's side.

His lip twists into a bitter, mocking curl as she steps confidently before him. He would curse the gods if he did not fear their wrath, for even still he silently called for favor and aide. "Cruel dryiad," he hails in spite tainted awe. "Beast Queen. Had I not delivered you to the gates of your snow-capped hell?"

Her lips purse between the curtians of long black hair that far past her shoulders - near her hips, which swayed with the grace of a prowling, hungry lioness. Nonetheless, beyond her stoic return he could see the twitch of pain in her thigh, where he had once struck her in hopes of turning her lame, and the anger from her own defeat still burning within her slanted eyes. She says nothing in answer. Her greeting came with the raising of her sword towards his heart.

Nerva's jaw clacks with vigorous resolution, and the blood hums thick between his bones. His sword sings and cuts once through the air, meeting her challenge with fervour.

"Then let's try this again," he hisses and both warriors lunge towards their fate.

Rockwell and the divine could wait.

[moonlite-drabbles]

May I introduce you to Empires Smp? In particular my fav Geminitay. It’s fairly new and you won’t have much trouble catching up.

A lot of the people on it are talented at building, and it’s the coolest. Mix of people just chillin and doing game progression and stuff and short little bursts of plot easy enough to sprinkle into a YouTube video without it being all of it.

does anybody know of any current female/queer/nonwhite minecraft youtubers? i would honestly really like to have an smp to watch but i am really not interested in white boy flavor of the month

[moonlite-drabbles]

The Tsarista, about to do the funniest thing ever: hrmmm. Your code name will be “Father” for your role as the head of the House of Hearth.

Arlechinno: thank you, your majesty.

The Tsarista, turning to Tartaglia: and your code name will be… “Childe”!

Tartaglia: …thank you, your majesty.

~

Later:

Tartaglia, upon stubbing his toe: fuck

Dottore: Language! What would your father say?

Tartaglia: she’s not my dad!

Arlechinno: I’m not mad, just disappointed.

[askthehalfshiny]

Traveller: A moonlit creature making their way out onto the warming sands, that seems an odd combination, I would think you would prefer the shade to the solar rays beaming down. My company is yours should you desire it, I know some prefer the quiet to the rabble and chaos of others.

“–!! H-hello there, um..”

“I.. I’m Gemini..!”

@askthetraveller

[honeylikewords]

I hope you feel better!! Hmm... Vampire Mr. McCarthy definitely does the the cemetery walk where they talk about the past for Halloween. He loves it.

Thank you for your well-wishes, dearest! I really appreciate it!

And I totally agree; Vampire!Eddie loves a good “haunted history” walk any time of year, but with a particular vigor around Halloween. He sometimes goes on them just to linger in the back and chuckle to himself when the tour guide gets something factually incorrect (though he never corrects unless the error is particularly egregious), but also to have a sort of stroll down memory lane.

He’s visited many of these old houses, supped at these taverns, attended funerals at these “haunted” graveyards. Every one he passes sparks a memory he thought he’d forgotten, and he’s glad to say that many are happy memories, if tainted bittersweet by the passage of time. 

Once Eddie has found his, *ahem*, after-life partner, he goes on these walks with her, too, and whispers to her his own recollections of the past, usually with sordid, juicy details that only someone personally privy to the moment or intimately familiar with the people of the past could possibly know. He also likes to tease his beloved when she asks if any of these places are really haunted.

“Why, of course they are,” he grins, the barest hint of his fangs poking out.

“They are?!”

“Mhm! I’m here, aren’t I, haunting the place? Boo~!”

At that she socks him softly in his large bicep and he fakes a wince, rubbing sorely at his unwounded arm. He produces an exaggerated pout, slouching deflatedly.

“My dearest, my little sanguine soul, my darling, why do you strike me?!”

“Because that joke was terrible,” she laughs, then kisses his cheek sweetly, which puffs him up with pride. “But I am happy to be haunted by you.”

They walk hand in hand as the tour guide waggles an LED lantern about ominously, the pair of lovers strolling into the misty, moonlit night, not quite listening to the dramatic retelling of witch trials and murdered brides, more caught up in one another. 

On another note, I think Eddie is just theatric enough and dramatic in his leanings towards Gothic with a capital-G sentimentality that he’d probably have frequent nighttime dates with his beloved in cemeteries, preferably ones in the shadow of a grand cathedral. 

He’s not actually there to mire himself in the idea of death, but because he’s fond of relaying histories to her and big on admiring the architecture. And he likes to feel small and in the awe of something grandiose, you know? Immortality can lead to an inflated ego, so sometimes just sitting in the cool, dewy grass, surrounded by bygone friends and strangers, holding the hand of someone he loves, staring up at the great, spanning monument thousands of people built to worship in... it makes him feel like a common speck of dust, instead of a timeless oddity, in the most reassuring way of all.

He likes to walk with his beloved through the rows of graves, sometimes talking about the architecture and style of the grave (”So, let’s discuss the symbolism of the Puritan death’s head that you can see on this one--”) or the loveliness of a mausoleum, or sometimes about the person buried there.

“Eugh, I knew that guy,” he says, pointing at one particular grave. “Confederate, and a total bastard about it. Plus, he tried to steal my horse!”

“You had a horse?”

“Her name was Pumpkins and she was the greatest creature to ever walk on four legs.”

Eddie has lots of fun in the graveyard, honestly.

Plus, he thinks his lover looks unspeakably lovely in the cast of the moonlight as it shimmers on her skin, illuminating her like an etherial, nameless wonder, and he just can’t help his Romantic with a capital-R heart from leaning in to steal a kiss beneath the stars.

As a bonus, if he’s in the graveyard on a date night, he also scares off any rowdy teens that might wander in and desecrate the graves. Eddie is very, very insistent that graveyards be a place of love and care, so when he sees teens wandering in with beer cans and spray paint, he likes to bring out his scary side. Hissing in the dark, glowing red eyes, dripping fangs, a raspy voice snarling “get out” darkly... you know, typical “monster in the graveyard” stuff. 100% of the time, those rabble-rousers drop what they’re doing and book it, screaming, and Eddie returns to his natural self, walking back over to his beloved with a smug smile.

“My big brave boy,” his sweetheart says, squeezing his hand. Eddie juts his chin out confidently.

“That I am, my little moon-blossom!”

“Though, really, it’s not like they could ever land a hit on you, so you’re not really in any danger--”

“Let me have this, honey,” Eddie replies, patting her shoulder. “Let me be the hero of the hour, I’m begging.”

She laughs at him but allows him his pride, and grants him a “hero’s reward”: a big, wet kiss, as he dips her, both of them smiling at the excess of the gesture, but equally pleased to be in excess for one another.

Feel free to send more messages!

[therunawayscamp]

Kylmia 'av Russawel Glathemath 'ye Varlaire-Admanenthar 'aba Alaxonfeld-Gaendral Adonire Heculius Lattalor-El, known as Lady Kylmia to her friends, enemies, and everybody in between who couldn't spare ten mintues out of their day to pronounce her surname, was a refugee from the Summerset Isles. So Sham had said. R'khan was inclined to believe her, although he had never before known a refugee who was not only in possession of a mansion, extensive gardens, and enough money to throw a soirée for all the nobility of High Rock, but who had also avoided being murdered by the Thalmor.

The circumstances of the Scamps receiving an invitation were somewhat suspect, too. Shamilia's family in the Isles were a mongrel assortment of half-bloods, whose only claim to fame was their merchant ties, and the upper echelons of Altmer society were unlikely to pay them any attention -- least of all their runaway daughter and her unsavoury associates. A party was a party, however, and if exiled nobility felt inclined to amuse themselves with the antics of sailors, the crew were glad to oblige, particularly when Sham threatened to bludgeon the fingers of anybody who denied her the chance to hear news about her family.

Impressively, they were being given a run for their money. Springwater wine flowed freely from a crystal fountain in the centre of the mansion's hall and trickled through the warm, golden candlelight. Servants were placed at strategic points around the room, each one holding a silver and glass ewers, cut to perfection, the silver shaped into vines and flowers, and glowing to the brim with metheglin. Somewhere there was the smoky smell of Crystal Tower Whiskey, although this was more discreet and Braskan had been spotted doing his utmost to deplete the supply.

Guests Lady Kylmia particularly approved of were eventually guided through the hall and into an adjoining lounge, hung on every wall with fine silk tapestries, all obscured by a fine pink mist and a general haze of debauchery. Naked golden bodies stretched out beside sweating grey skin, slick fur and sparkling scales, and that was only what was on display, what hadn't been hidden behind the drapes. A few of these remarkably friendly individuals pressed themselves against R'khan as he entered the room himself, but he slipped past them and aimed for a pair of double doors on the opposite wall, held open to the stars and the moonlit garden.

He had only been in the lounge for a minute, only the time it took to push through the pulsating, writhing crowd, but he breathed in the night like a drowning man. There was music somewhere distant. It became more distant still as R'khan strolled past the marble bowls full of living flowers, past the couples hidden in rose bowers, around a vast, dark pond, and down a corridor of shrubbery, until he reached an orchard. It was full of apple trees. They were still and quiet, undisturbed by winds or the music. And he was not alone.

The flare and hush of someone lighting a roll of hackle-lo gave him away. R'khan stopped beside a tree, then eased. Only one person would bump his head on a low-hanging branch and curse in such a distinctive Solstheim accent.

'All right, Vi?'

There was a thump as Vilayn turned his head and succeeded in knocking an apple to the ground. Like R'khan, he relaxed when he identified his companion, and ambled down the alley of trees to join him. When he drew level he held out the hackle-lo, which R'khan took, and produced a second for himself.

'Right enough,' he said, and sighed out his first drag on the hackle-lo. R'khan watched the embers light up the smoke.

'Didn't think you'd be out here. Where there's debauchery, you ain't usually far. Don't tell me you're shot away already.'

'No, but Lady Kylmia did invite me to snort moon sugar off a mirror while her admittedly rather handsome cousin sucked my--'

'Vi.'

'--and a very pretty Bosmer tied up my hands and--'

'Vi.'

'--me from behind, but when she suggested it I just felt... tired. Old. How long are we going to keep asking Vilveriah for more time? How long do we keep doing this?'

R'khan puffed on his hackle-lo a few times, then bent down to pick up the fallen apple. It came up wet with dew, which showered over his sleeve as he tossed it in the air a few times.

'Vilayn.'

'What?'

'You don't snort moon sugar.'

'That was the other reason I said no.'

Lady Kylmia wouldn't miss one fruit. R'khan pocketed the apple and chose to savour the rest of the hackle-lo rather than reply immediately. Vilayn did the same, and a companionable silence, broken only by an occasional rustle of leaves or sigh of smoke from between their lips, closed in around them.

When the hackle-lo was finished and everything was dark, when his face was hidden, R'khan said,

'Your answer is forever. There ain't no fate worse than death.'

'Not even carrying on after everyone else is gone? The Admiral. Your boy. Casethar and-- and Hazil.'

R'khan would have answered. Definitely. The words were on the tip of his tongue, of course they were, about to be spoken at any second, when the sound of somebody else crunching through the grass distracted him and forced them out of his mind, saving him the trouble.

Both his head and Vilayn's turned towards the noise. A few seconds later, Sham stepped into the moonlight. She was dressed for a party, sailor slops discarded in favour of a silver gown, carpentry tools swapped for an equally lethal array of hairpins, boots for silk slippers. The latter sank into the earth when she came to a stop.

'What are you doing out here?'

Even her voice had changed to suit the occasion. She had returned to her old accent, the haughty tones of an Altmer to whom the mightiest of the Daedra were considered part of the great unwashed rabble, and it was hard to drop it at short notice.

'Smoking,' said Vilayn.

'Mebbe I could ask you the same question,' said R'khan. Sham paused, then leaned against a tree, kicking off the slippers and digging her toes into the dirt.

'If you must know, captain, I asked Lady Kylmia about my family.' She turned her face upwards to look at the sky. The moonlight brought out more of the grey in her skin than the gold. 'They're gone. Nobody knows whether they escaped in the night or whether they were rounded up by the Thalmor. They just... disappeared, not long after I left, and nobody's heard anything about them since.'

'I'm sorry, lass.'

It was rare for the captain to offer sincere sympathy, and its emergence now was spoiled by a crash from the direction of the house and the sound of somebody stomping through the rose bowers, throwing something in the pond, and approaching the orchard. Vilayn lowered his hackle-lo and looked up sharply. Sham ignored the sound.

'Does it matter, though?' she asked, her lip curled and sour. 'Really? Even if they made it out, they would have been killed somewhere else. You heard about the Night of Green Fire, right? All the refugees in Sentinel, dead. And I've known it all the fucking time, haven't I? I just didn't want to believe it, so I didn't fucking think about it. They're dead. All of them.'

If it was rare for the captain to offer sympathy, it was even rarer for Sham to admit any weakness or sentimentality. She stood, shoeless, trembling, with her hands knotted into tight, angry fists. After decades of cramming these thoughts away into the depths of her psyche, they were all trying to erupt at once, and the only thing stopping them was deciding which to start with. She looked as if a single touch would cause her to explode, or shatter, or fold onto the ground and sob.

And then Braskan arrived. He walked into a tree, bellowed an incoherent insult at it, and stank so strongly of whiskey the apples withered on the branch. It was wonderfully, gloriously normal.

'Ah, wha's ya fuckin' s'wits doin' out in th'fuckin' dark, ya fuckin', fuckin'... s'wits? I's lookin' fer me shipmates and all a' ya's gone an' fucked off!'

The change in Sham was instant. Braskan's total ignorance of the scene playing out before him did what no amount of words and consolation could have. She grabbed him by the shoulder and gave him a shake, leaving her arm slung around his neck.

'You're the fucking s'wit, you s'wit! Came all the way out here and you ain't got any booze for us?'

'Nah, they’s all on th’skooma, isn’ they? I ain’t inta tha’ shit. I’s got fuckin’ class.’

He paused to belch, which gave Sham an opportunity to jump in again. Although she addressed Braskan, she stared at R’khan and Vilayn, daring them to mention her momentary failure.

‘Never used to bother you in Oblivion’s Gate.’

‘Aye, but tha’ don’ figure now Hlen’s gone, do it? Things jus’ ain’t the same these days. They jus’ ain’t the same.’

Before a third person could join the melancholy, Sham punched his shoulder, then kicked him in the leg for good measure. The last of her  stamped down the last of her worries and fears were stamped down out of sight.

‘Then go find the kitchens while they ain’t looking.’

‘They ain’ got no more booze, anyway. Finished it, din’ I?’

'Guarshit, you just don't want to share it. Bet you I can get a drink soon's I'm in the door.'

'Not if I gets there firs'!'

There was no particular hurry to try and beat Braskan, who, with no outside interference, looped around a few of the trees several times before stumbling towards the exit of the orchard. Sham took a few steps barefoot, stopped as if she was going to say something, but never turned around and never spoke a word. R'khan watched her shoulders lift as she took a deep breath, and then she was running, laughing at Braskan, hauling him forwards by the scruff of his coat.

The air had changed. It was hot and humid outside, despite the sea breeze and the darkness. Vilayn stamped his hackle-lo into the ground and picked up Sham's slippers.

'We'd better go back too. Make sure they don't break anything too expensive.'

After a pause, R'khan nodded. They walked through the gardens in silence, leaving the orchard, the pond, and the things they couldn't say behind.

[the-real-rg]

It was twelve past midnight when the Devil walked in.

These trips to the hospital were unavoidable. Devi’s profession would simply not allow it; the bruisers of Querevage’s underground Arena were not prone to leaving matches uninjured, and Devi had stopped trying to resist the call of the ring a long time ago.

Ahava’s clinic was untidy the way a vulture was; untamed and unnatural, yet not unkempt. Sitting on the edge of the city centre, it was the only thing someone like Devi could truly call a hospital for four square miles. Inside, clay pots covered every space not occupied by a box, or a bottle, or a book. Inscriptions ran along their sides, dates and ingredients and names. Forgotten bundles of herbs and flowers dangled from the ceiling in bunches. The medic would claim they were drying. At present, the normally buzzing waiting room gaped with the emptiness brought on by the late hour as moonlight filtered through decrepit shutters and dirty glass. The rest of the city scum would crawl in an hour or two later; Devi’s match had started earlier tonight. A small blessing.

The night sat strange in Devi - something was different. Perhaps it was in the people. A full moon always brought out the worst of Querevage. Brutes to begin with, an excuse for mischief was never passed up, and the beck and call of a supernatural mistress was beyond tempting, but tonight’s twilight was soft as it settled into the city; a god all its own in the way it claimed the streets. It curled and whispered against the edge of the fiendish towers, her winds a gentle touch, carrying with them songs of a thousand desperate men. Maybe that was it. In Querevage - in the Capital - tenderness was a rare commodity that unsettled the bones. And not all had havens to retreat to, not like Devi had Ahava’s.

It wasn’t like she deserved the doctor’s help to begin with. Especially not when she insisted on showing up at this hour. Nerves crawled up Devi’s spine as floorboards creaked under her pacing boots, steel toes clicking along the wood in time to the pulsing rabble of an unsleeping city. Waiting for Ahava to appear was never an easy task. She had wounds that needed tending to and, with each rattling inhale, Devi got more and more tempted to crawl out a window. What it would be charge into the night on her own - bloodied face and all. Bliss? Maybe. Anxiety wriggled in her stomach. Maybe Ahava was sleeping? She needed her rest too. No, Devi reassured herself, Ahava was never far from death, and Devi - bleeding, gasping, and limping - stunk of it.

It only took a few more moments for the good doctor to descend from the staircase, much to Devi’s relief. Her curly hair was pulled back in a bun so sloppy it could have been mistaken for a nest. She must not have taken it out before bed; the rumpled medic’s garb she wore supported that idea. It made Devi feel worse about waking Ahava up so late.

The doctor looked her up and down, clearly counting injuries, measuring the damage; assessing which wounds needed to be tended to first and which were life threatening. She wouldn’t accurately know until Devi stripped out of her armour, but first impressions were important, and Devi wasn’t in a position to complain. She could do that later. As if sensing her plan to be a nuisance, Ahava fixed her with an exasperated gaze, and sighed. Devi just laughed, some broken sounding rattle, before choking out, “You should have seen the other guy.”

Ahava’s face flashed with concern, but she said nothing; it was the same bitter comment Devi made every time she was handed a look like that - the routine they’d built insisted upon it and Devi, a creature of habit, was in no mood to change it any time soon. And the doctor, bless her, had accepted that part of the gladiator long ago, just as she had accepted their silent agreement: she was not to criticise the bruiser for reappearing each night. In these moonlit hours, her only job was to treat Devi’s wounds, not prevent them. Friend or not, Ahava had to respect that.

It didn’t stop Ahava’s gold eyes - dark and faded and full of rotting magic - from turning cold when they found nastier wounds. Devi took no offense, it was so very like Ahava to become stern when faced with an uncooperative patient - whether they were ignoring prescription or common sense, and Devi was a sure convict for the latter. But what was Devi to do? She needed the money from the Arena as much as she needed the adrenaline. A known enemy of the state didn’t have choices, especially one so addicted to the high of the fight. Especially one whose most common moniker was ‘Devil’. At least Ahava had managed to keep some dignity about her despite being an ex-magician.

“Devi,” Ahava greeted, tone careful. “Please wait for me in the other room while I get ready.” The speech was so mechanical it almost made Devi wince.

“What, am I bleeding all over your floor?” The words were joking, if weak. Ahava, it seemed, needed some brightness right now.

“Yes, actually,” The doctor shot back, sarcastic to a fault, an overdramatic sneer scrunching her nose, “It’s rather unsightly. If you could do it in the other room I’d really appreciate it. Less mess to clean up before I dispose of the body, y’know how it is.”

Devi gave an amused huff, before grunting in acknowledgment. Relief made heavy limbs light, but it took a brief struggle to get moving again. She gave Ahava a quick peck on the cheek as she walked by, an affectionate but outdated form of greeting, one that made the doctor grumble unhappily. But Devi knew deep down Ahava appreciated the sentiment.

As she stepped towards the doorway to the side room, her companion remained outside, materials shifting as Ahava pawed her way through the mess, seeking out the package made specially for Devi’s visits. If the bruiser walked straight into the doorframe they wouldn't mention it till next morning, when teasing was welcome and more than expected. Right now, the clock was ticking too fast for anything more than light banter. Devi’s injuries needed stitches, and fast.

A blood-coated cough shook Devi something terrible, drawing Ahava from her search, fear flickering over her features for a fraction of a second. Anyone could tell that the wet noise was not a good sign. Swaying on her feet now, Devi was barely able to look up when Ahava spoke, “I’ll be with you in a minute, lie down and stay there.” Despite the harsh tone, they were comforting words. Devi couldn’t blame her for the mistake; Ahava was perpetually new to the whole friend thing.

She settled into her cot without complaint, and allowed herself to nestle into the fresh sheets, and sighed for a moment, taking in the nook that seemed to get smaller with every visit. The side room was not Ahava’s traditional examination area, much more akin to a storage closet with a bed in it. But it was Devi’s room. For Devi’s examinations. And the gods knew she didn’t have enough things to call hers anymore.

A soft patter of footsteps hailed the medic’s approach. Their work began.

The cot was small, the going was slow, and the time was late, so tan hands pressed stitches into Devi’s dark skin and a rhythm was created in time to the soft tune Devi hummed. It was quiet, but at least it kept her mind off the push and pull of the needle and the rattle in her ribs. Ahava, she knew, appreciated the melody too; kept the tremor out of her hands. The song was a soothing thing; an old lullaby that managed to hold its nostalgic charm despite the ragged, off key notes that clawed their way out of Devi’s throat. She’d forgotten its name ages ago, but she knew it was old; it had been taught to her before Amator had been assassinated, and it was a reminder of better times - of wealth and glory and friends. The song had become just another private memory.

The sky faded like an old dye outside the window, light beginning to settle into the room, glinting off the needle. It made her spine itch. In the morning there would be crowds, and the sultry masses would give her no privacy - each desperate for an easy target. She had founded this nation alongside Barachiel and Amator before the latter had shamelessly been murdered, and she had been kicked to the gutter like trash. The fighter’s fall from grace had been a public spectacle that none were keen to let her forget. Despite the many years that aged its memory, the incident had even given life to her nickname in the Arena; The Devil. Half of its permanence in the public mind was Desdemona’s doing. After all, what better way to remind the people of Querevage that she had slaughtered its founder than parading around his partner like a caged tiger. To think she was all that remained of Amator’s legacy… Appalling.

Devi left with the moon, skulking off to the withering shack she still refused to call home. A painful endeavour with the state she was in - Ahava could only do so much for her aching bones without the use of illicit magic - but both knew there was nothing more to be done. Devi would tear the stars from the skies before she gave up this fix. An addict she was, but the call of the Arena was too great to be denied, no matter what the doctor suggested.

Devi knew that if she chose to, Ahava could detach herself from the situation entirely, reign in her emotions and just mend the wounds she was presented with - if she chose to mend them at all. Ahava was a doctor. Professionalism was the first rule of the trade; too many died to get attached, so their agreement was a precarious one - based initially on pity, and only later a genuine fondness that had grown between the two dark-skinned women. But fondness didn’t disguise the grief stooping in the doctor’s gaze as the door shuttered behind Devi as she escaped into the veins of the city, a small packet of hormone pills clutched in one hand. Streets and avenue and cobblestones spreading out before her in the night, branching out from the beast that was the ancient Montgomery Street.

Devi huffed, watching the fogging breath drift off in the breeze. Montgomery Street, sunless, was cold but not necessarily lifeless. Bar chatter seeped out of the cracks in the walls of the Blind Sparrow, just across the street. Its lit windows shone like cat’s eyes, and she felt vaguely like she was being watched. For a moment, she met its gaze, heard her pulse in her ears.

She had survived the Arena, her heartbeat a testimony to that. She had survived. She was alive. What a beautiful, insignificant miracle. It took her breath away. Alive, what a concept.

The bruiser moved on, shaking off the sudden reverence with a shudder. Devi padded down the cragged street, looking for her exit. The clinic wasn’t her last stop tonight, and she couldn’t keep Alphonse waiting much longer. With luck, she could take the alleys and get there before the magician broke another pair of glasses.

Alleys were the only real way to travel in Querevage, even before Desdemona’s takeover.

Taking her usual route, Devi found herself cramming her way through a particularly narrow street. Most would be unnerved in the claustrophobic setting, but for better or for worse, the fighter had become particularly acquainted with the nooks and crannies of the Capital. Cool walls draped themselves along the passageway, bricks wet with the night. Cobble stones with runes scratched into them ran against her vision as she moved, only half of which had been painted over by the Night Guard - a new staple in all Quereven cities. Moonlight spilled over her back as she scurried down the alleyways. She could taste the magic in the air, illegal and beautiful in how it was still alive despite Desdemona’s hard working hands. It made her laugh and her cheeks flush, better times dancing in her head. Some part of her could tell she was more than a little delirious with either shock or blood loss. Who knew. Who cared. 

The bruiser’s dark skin all but melted into walls of the backstreet, a disguise built into her form. She’d appreciated it more and more over the years, this inlaid ability to sink into the dark backdrop of the city, her only spotlight the moon. Haloed and aglow in the dawn, she forged onward. There was a destination in mind, a definite course set for her senseless wandering, but not the place she’d led Ahava to believe. Ahava was a friend, yes, but the doctor was too lawful to be trusted with the secrets of the Hive and the magicians that lived within it. Alphonse had only told Devi because he trusted her. She wouldn’t betray him to a woman he didn’t know, no matter how much Ahava meant to her.

If her wounds were left untreated, she'd be unable to move the next morning, and she'd have to be dragged back to her shack before she unnecessarily spent time there, but with the help of Alphonse and his magic she’d be fully functioning in an hour. And with his help, the hut could stay as distant from her life as possible; exclusively for sleeping and storage and sometimes not even that. Devi could always trust that Alphonse would help, he was a blessing too good for this earth and she was lucky to have met him before the Guard forced him and all other practicing magicians into hiding. The Hive had saved Quereven magic from extinction and Alphonse from the jaws of death. It was tucked between the fabric of here and now, a nontruth that wasn’t actually real according to any natural laws, and had entrances that didn’t exist unless you already knew they were real.

In short, the Hive was a magical, semi-sentient collection of spaces called Fantasies, things aptly named for their unique nature of being entirely conjured realities. Taking a variety of shape and form, a Fantasy could be as small as a single bedroom or as large as a city, all the while using no physical space, merely taking advantage of the illusion of it to explain its own existence. A fourth dimension, if you will. Realities within reality. They took a complicated network of spells to make and a great understanding of magic, not to mention an obscene amount of luck and skill. Alphonse had all of the above, and had built many of the Fantasies that stemmed off the main tunnel of the Hive. Many were now empty.

Magic had disappeared, but the persecution of it had not.  

Ahava had chosen to give up magic in exchange for a life above ground, where you could interact with real, actual objects, eat real, actual food, and listen to the sound of real, actual rain. The doctor hated falsities, and thus she refused to live one. Devi would have to side with Ahava at the end of the day. She loved Alphonse, but even his familiar Fantasy was unsettling in a primal way. The food tasted foreign, never quite right. Telltale signs for the mimicry it was. And the sounds felt flat. It sat heavy in the bones and watched like a cat. Living in a Fantasy was isolating. It was just you, and the world, and the knowledge that the only pulse on this plane was yours. Most couldn’t live with that.

Devi, peering into the Portmans Avenue entrance, knew she certainly couldn’t. She stepped into the tunnel, and felt it swallow around her. The Hive was a winding thing, a living being that breathed and pulseed, though she couldn't say if it physically pulsed or magically pulsed, even though she had one hand on its wall, trailing down the easy dips and peaks that rippled down the tunnel. She wasn’t sensitive enough to magic to tell the difference. Al’s Fantasy - Trinkets - was the third opening to the right.

The gateway opened to a countryside manor settled comfortably atop a glassy lake. The water sprawled out in front of her, painting a mirror image of the canopy that towered above her. Only floating knots of islands disturbed an otherwise flawless reflection. Trinkets’ red brick emerged from the charcoal trees like a dragon, seeming to breathe with chimney smoke and stare with shuttered eyes. It was the only warm colour in this place, homey like a mother’s wrath amongst the cool tones of the sunken forest. Trinkets itself rested on the very cusp of the water, serene in its untouchability.

Fake, all of it, but God, how beautiful.

Parts of the house flickered in and out of vision like a dying flame, shrouded in the mist rising from the water. Though, admittedly, the opaque liquid wasn’t water at all. It held no weight where it clung to her boots, and it wasn’t cold. It was warm. Eerily and surreally so. She always hated walking over to the door, the pooling sky cut her feet off by the ankles, and she'd lose them wherever she stepped. Below the water, nothing existed. Nothing had been programmed to exist below the water, just as nothing had been programmed to exist beyond the thick layer of fog encircling the manor.

Alphonse, here, was God. And God had not wanted to lie to himself with fake creatures. Nothing here breathed but her, and Al, and his husband. And thus this place belonged to the three of them. The husband in question, Kimon, could be seen in the greenhouse bulging off the side of Trinkets like a blister. She waved to him, and in turn Devi saw him nod in greeting at her, before his silhouette dipped back inside the house. It was good to remind herself that isolation did not mean alone.

She wondered, briefly, if Kimon and Alphonse ever got used to the feeling. The Devil supposed they must have, over the years. With nothing but each other for company, conversation must be hard to come by. Or, she mused, perhaps not. Each quirky and sporadic in their own right, Kimon and Alphonse got on like a house on fire. Their bond was something Devi could only hope for. Kimon could leave at any time, abandoning Alphonse to the loneliness of solitary existence, something that would undoubtedly kill the social man. And yet he stayed, warm and tucked away here with the love of his life. Universes would bend under their determination, and this sanctuary proved just that. Trinkets was private, and Trinkets was Alphonse’s, and Trinkets was Kimon’s.

Devi was just a guest. While Alphonse was like Devi, a criminal by law, Kimon was a beast of a different kind. As a coliseum mage, Kimon was charged with exploration of the Quereven badlands, and combating the monsters that inhabited them. It was a position of power, one that allowed Kimon the ability to practice magic despite the laws against it. Amator had been a coliseum mage before they had founded Querevage properly, back when it had just been a bunch of mercenaries squatting in tents. Those had been some of the most blissful days of Devi’s life, when she had him and Barachiel by her side she’d felt like she could take on the world. She had never seen the same appeal in the crazy world of politics that had followed just a few years after. Give her a pulse, a sword, and a monster any day. However, she was glad that part of Quereven culture had carried on.

Some things were so signature to the nation that not even Desdemona could erase them. The status that came with being a coliseum member was one of them. That, and the need for a coliseum mage to ensure the survival of the troop meant that Kimon had the most idealized life one could have in Querevage, both before and after Amamtor died. He was a lucky man. And she believed Amator would have liked Kimon, which was what was most important to her, what with Kimon being the current holder of Amator’s first title. The two men were kindred souls, both having a fearsome appreciation for magic and for their partners. At least she could trust Alphonse not to try and murder anyone, much less his husband. Who she was now face to face with.

Kimon, holding the door open for her, looked deathly tired. Bags were stamped under electric blue eyes, unusually dull against his tan skin and dark lashes. Several scratches littered his face, with two nasty ones clipping along his cheekbone. He was typically an attractive man but his slouch and the grime coating him took away from that. Kimon was careful about his appearance, to see him in such disarray was especially concerning. Hopefully nothing had happened to Alphonse.

“Rough day?” She asked, stepping into the house. The Coliseum was a one-way ticket to fame and success, but it rarely left one feeling anything but battered and exhausted. She wouldn’t be surprised if that was the cause of his disorder.  Devi, still aching from her match, could sympathize.

“Yeah,” He said, bluntly, closing the door behind her, “And we got a letter. Didn’t help.”

Devi wiggled her toes as she shook water from her pants, it was good form to make sure all of them were still there after a trudge through the water. “Pardon my asking, but who from?”

A dismissive grunt. “Gemini. It’s about her promotional ceremony.”

Officially the young woman had been serving as general for over a month, the celebration was merely a formality, but it was still the most highly anticipated event of the season. Public events celebrating military grandeur were an excellent way to reassure the masses, after all, so the monarchs put extra time into ensuring their success.

“What’s the matter with that?” Devi asked.

“I’ve been formally invited. Alphonse on the other hand… has been… asked not to attend. Formally.”

“Oh.” Devi knew things had been tense between Al and his eldest child but she hadn’t thought it was that bad.

“Yeah,” Kimon nudged at the floor with his shoe. “He’s rather torn up about it. She said it was because she didn’t want him getting caught. Which is admittedly a risk, and a reasonable one at that, so I can-“

The bruiser almost laughed. “Al? Get caught? Magic smothering is a temporary enchantment, yes, but heavens he’s better than that. You and I both know that she’s just embarrassed to admit her father is a witch.”

“Watch it,” Kimon snapped. “You all but raised her. I was hoping you’d be able to translate for her, not make her look worse. She doesn’t mean to hurt him. Alphonse needs to remember that.”

Devi huffed. Gemini had changed when she’d gotten her first taste of life outside of the Hive. She’d been a sweet young girl but now she reminded Devi scarily of Barachiel. Too much so to be a coincidence. It wouldn’t surprise the Devil if he’d actually started mentoring her.

“Devi,” Kimon pleaded, putting a gentle hand on her shoulder, “Promise me you’ll talk to him. It’s… awkward when I do it.”

She met his eye, and hissed. “I will not lie to him.”

“Then don’t. The only person who knows her better than you is Alphonse. You know she doesn’t mean it like that.”

She tensed, agitated.

“Please. He can’t lose any more family.”

A beat of hesitation. “I’m getting my damn stitches fixed first.”

Kimon beamed. “Knew I could count on you.”

“Where is he, anyway?” They could both tell she was making small talk as she wandered over to the living room door, “I usually can’t get him off me long enough to have a proper conversation with you.”

“Hiding,” Kimon answered, bounding after the woman’s longer strides, “Think he wants to surprise you.”

“Oh? Alphonse nearly scared me half to death the last time he ‘surprised’ me.” She stopped just outside the door frame, turning to look at Kimon, a smile playing at her lips.

“You were only paralyzed for a week, Devi.”

She scoffed, playful. “Does he still tell the story?”

“To anyone who’ll listen.” The corners of Kimon’s blue eyes crinkled happily as his mouth tilted, fondness glowing in them.

“So every night over dinner, then, when you two sit down to eat?”

Kimon laughed pleasantly, “You know him too well.”

“Just promise me this surprise doesn’t involve alpacas. I’m still picking fur out of my teeth from my last encounter with them.”

The mage shuddered, the memory fresh in both of them. “No alpacas.”

“Great.” Devi stepped through the doorway. And screamed.

Al, always one for dramatic entrances, had dropped down from the air like a bat, and upside down shrieked; "If it isn't the great and powerful Devi!" His smile spread bright, "You're home!" And she was.

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[heikitsune25]

The Silent Watcher

Primrose generally keeps her distances from the affairs of her fellow travelers. Yet she there is one pair she loves to keep a nice eye on. A silly, and annoying pair of a thief and huntress dancing to the song of love.

You can read it here or Check out my Petreon for more of my work!

The silent watcher

The more Primrose stayed around H'aanit, the more impressed with the woman she becomes.

'I would have slapped the fool by now….' The blighted dancer lamented in her thoughts as she watched the stoic hunter form her seat at the table across the tavern in.

For the past twenty minutes, H'aanit he her pursued by an eager flirt. To the man's credit, he did not look like the common rabble that normally comes to the Sunshade Tavern. Ever since the death of Helegnish, the place has gotten less disgusting clients. The dancers still danced on stage, alluring and beautiful as ever, with men and women cheering them on. The security is tighter, and it looked like any inappropriate touching is banned. The new head of the place seemed to be a more upstanding gentlemen. Not that the former star of the stage cared.

Primrose and the other seven of her companions are resting here before they disembark on their next quest. The only thing here for her distance memoires that have become nightmares.

At the moment she is here as a patron. And a quite observer of her new found friend in H'aanit.

"Would a simple walk under the moonlit night suffice?" The man still speaking with H'aanit said. With the huntress giving off a heavy sigh.

'By god he's still going with the cheesy lines too.' Primrose giggled as she watch the grown man crash and burn at his attempts of wooing the huntress. Only getting the ire of her loyal feline companion.

The man is nicely dressed in slick back black hair, and kind eyes. Clearly form a rich family, he is actually being rather respectful to the huntress with sweet smiles and keeping his distance. He, however, still seemed to not tale no for an answer. No matter how many times H'aanit would say no, the man would still pursue her. Even with Linde constantly growling at him.

He wouldn't put his hands on her, or even use any foul language. He even sat across from her at the table. Yet, as polite as he is, it didn't change the fact that H'aanit isn't interested.

'The man has courage I'll give him that.' Primrose thought. Used to the men seeing H'aanit to ae stuck by her strength of character and stubble on their words. The only men she hasn't seen do that are the ones she is currently traveling with.

'Although there as odd as an elk in the sands…' Primrose thought as she planned to pull the man away from H'aanit, only watching this long for fun. The dancer couldn't help but curious about how the huntress handles men. She's never seen the woman act even blush much let alone actually react to a man's advances.

Not even the innocent, yet sly lips of Cyrus could get a rise out her. Still she had her fun and made plans to go over a rescue the poor woman. However, her eyes caught the aloof thief in their party doing his usual rounds of steal purses and information.

Sitting at a table filled with drunken men and women, Therion seemed to be doing his everyday routine. Talking to the drunk and loose tongued while his hands would reach into their pockets to take what the wouldn't notice until it was too late. However, this seemed to a different time.

He sat with his back turned form a jovial, and large man who laughed with his friends at the table. A pirate by the looks of his ragged sea smelling tunic and the deadly blade on his side. Hiss face rough with a few scars here and there; one on his lip and two on his eye. He wasn't drunk, but he bellowed and sang like he was.

The dancer watched the thief curiously. Knowing he was going towards the man coin purse. And sure, enough it happened. And as the norm, she missed the whole action. It wasn't even a flash. One split second, Therion's finger's twitched, she blinked and the man's purse is gone. With the thief is already walking away.

"Oi!" The man suddenly jumped up in rage as he noticed his belt felt a little lighter. "The 'ell me coin purse go!?"

'Now that's odd…' Primrose may have only been traveling with Therion for a few months, but she knows his fingers are always light enough for no one to notice them dipping into their pockets or untying the sting of the pouches. At first, she had thought that the impressive thief had slipped up and had been caught. Yet the man didn't even notice Therion walking away franticly patting his person to find his suddenly lost leaves. But it wasn't as the crafty thief is escaping.

Primrose watched as Therion passed by the persistent man hounding H'aanit, unnoticed by him, and placed the purse in his back pocket.

"My my what is our little thief up to…" Primrose stayed rooted in her seat as she watched Therion with a knowing gaze.

-OOO-

"Sire. What doth I have to say for you to understand?"

H'aanit sighed at the man's stubbornness.

'Thou may maketh a good hunter. If he would put that that stubbornness to use.' H'aanit thought with morbid humor. Wondering if she should just let her partner Linde maul the man.

Sitting at the table in the Tavern, the huntress is resting with Linde while the others in the large party of eight went about their own busy. Cyrus, the ever-curious bookworm, went to look into the history of the city, while Teressa went around to sell her wears along with Alfyn who joined her. Ophelia and Olberic both setting out to care of their own business.

Leaving her, Therion and Primrose to rest at the Tavern. She had hoped for a quite day, yet this man's forwardness has shattered that idea.

"Come now miss. A simple night out is all I ask." The man put on his best smile. Only making H'aanit sigh for the final time. Preparing herself to stand and leave the tavern before she does something she would regret.

"Hey. H'aanit." Therion's voice sliced between them as he rudely stepped in front of the man. "Heard something interesting about a beast that roam around the outskirts of town."

That raised the huntress's brow. Catching her attention more than the other, tireless man. "Oh?"

However, the man was far from amused as he glared at Therion. Taking note Therion's rude entrance and shady state of dress.

"Excuse us ruffian." The flirt hissed with venom. "We were talking."

"Sorry but I need to talk to…" The lonely thief paused to find his next words. "My comrade for a moment. And besides…."

Therion placed a cocky hand on his hip as a shadow loomed over the man. Hiding the smirk under his cowl. "You have more important things to worry about."

"Oi!" The man was suddenly grabbed by his collar. The large burly thug form before picking him up off his feet easily.

"You greedy stuff shirt! Is yer purse not fat enough!?" The massive man spat in the face of the gentlemen who shook in fear of the tight grip around his shirt.

"I-I have no idea what your talking about!" The man yelled as he squirmed around. Allowing a purse, not belonging to him, to drop out his pocket with a heavy thud.

Both the pirate and the sweating socialite looked at sack of coins on the ground. Then back at each other.

The man squeaked.

And the pirate growled.

"H-hold a moment-GAH!?"

Therion winced at the large fist slamming into the poor man's face, as it sent him flying across the tavern and over the bar. Crashing into the expensive bottles of wine on the wall and spilling their contents all over him.

"Tsk!" The man picked up his pouch and left back to his table.

"Hm. His appearance doth be deceiving." H'aanit noted as the watched the man be helped up and escorted out of the bar. "While he beth a persistent barking hound, he looked to be harmless. To thinkth he would thief."

"And a bad one at that." The expert thief sighed in disappointment. "Gives us humble, honest, hardworking thieves a bad name."

"Heh." H'aanit smiled. "Hard working to be true, but thou are far from humble and a mountain away from honest."

"At least I am consistent." Therion chuckled. "Anyway, word around town is that there's rather curious beast causing trouble in the sands."

H'aanit leaned forward a little. Her curiosity piped. "What type?"

The thief shrugged as he sat down. Turning the chair of the former flirt around and sitting in it. Although not before taking a mug of ale form the tray of a passing by waitress. "Can't say for sure. But it sounds like some sort of panther or something."

Therion took a sip form the mug with a nonchalant shrug. "Could be a nice meal for tonight."

"Hmmm." H'aanit leaned back in her seat. The spark of the hunt in her eye. "Sounds like an interesting quarry. Would thou jointh me Therion? Thine sharp eyes would be helpful in these sands."

"Eh. Sure." Therion said causally. "I've already made my rounds. I'll wait for you to get your stuff."

"Hm." H'aanit nodded as she stood up to go get her supplies. Leaving the thief to silently drink his newly acquired drink with Linde sitting next to him.

"Next time," Therion said as he patted the head of the massive cat. "Just bite them."

The large cat purred in agreement.

"Never expected you to be the white knight type."

Primrose's voice made the thief rise a brow at her as she approached him. The dancer smirking at him with a knowing glint in her eyes. Sitting down next to him and Linde with a cheeky smile.

"I have no idea what you're talking about." Therion deadpanned as he placed the empty cup of alcohol back on the passing waitress tray.

"You know you may as well tell her how you feel. Lord knows she can't read your mess of a mind." Primrose said suddenly. Making Therion miss his chance to take another drink for the other passing dancer.

"…." Therion stayed quiet. Choosing to glare at the exit as if debating to run out of it. However, it gave Primrose to continue lecturing him.

"You only have one Dragonstone left to find. And once she saves her master, H'aanit's going right back to her village." The alluring woman continued. "Who's to say you will ever see each other again."

"…." Therion was silent or a moment before sighing. Looking the dancer in the eye as he said. "You and I both know there is no fairy tail ending for me. And H'aanit doesn't need a guy like me in her life."

Therion clearly isn't a man of romance. Ignoring his 'charming' personality, his profession is one meant for a lonely life. The number of enemies he's made are as numerous as the trees in S'warkii forest. Not to mention he is a wanted man if his identity ever gets found out. And it didn't help that the coy dancer is correct about his feelings.

He doesn't know when, nor dose he know how, but the thief had fallen for the odd speaking huntress. Hard. While it was easy to keep up appearances in front of her, as unexperienced in love that she is, around other's it is rather hard. Especially form the keen-eyed dancer. Maybe it the way H'aanit is kind to everyone, even going so far as to trust a thief like him and wears her heart on her sleeve. Or the fact that she take immense pride of her skills. The cool, relaxed stares she has when she draws her bow on a target. The spark in her eye and small smile on her face.

Or he's a fool who hasn't grown at all from the years of experience in his craft of thievery.

H'aanit is a woman far beyond him. Born in raised in forest with noble heart, she shouldn't even be in the same room with a thief. Yet fate seemed to drag them together. Knowing that Therion would fall in love with her and torture him with the fact that she may never love him back. And even if she did, he would never force her to deal with loving a man like him.

'Guess this just the world 'judgement' for me.' He almost wanted to laugh at that thought.

While it pains him to know that their union is short lived, he is used to being alone and used to heartache. Another notch on his belt isn't going to kill him. Even though this one has significant weight to it.

"I am happy keeping my distance." Therion said after a while in his thoughts. "And H'aanit will be happier with some Knight or something. Who knows what her master would say if he found out that his would be daughter is seeing a criminal."

"Honestly you men are so self-centered." However, the desert rose rolled her eyes at the thief's foolish reasoning.

"You act like you're the only one with checkered history here. By the end of this my hands will be soaked in blood. And I may be on every wanted poster in the realm." Primrose spoke as if she was talking about the weather. Speaking of her quest of revenge casually while letting a darkness shadow of her eyes.

"I have no illusions of having a happy ending with 'lovely husband'. But that doesn't mean I am going to let any sort of happiness given to me slip through my fingers." Primrose shook her head. As if imaging herself doing something similar in Therion's situation.

"And besides," The dancer continued. "What about H'aanit? Do you think she'll be happy with you out of her life? Do you even know how she feels about you?"

"…." There was a hum in the back of Therion's throat. A pensive hum of thought while he played the outcomes of his choices in his head.

"Are thou Ready?" H'aanit, who had come back form getting her weapons, addressed Therion. Her bow on her back and her axe at her side.

"Yeah…." The thief said a little too quietly. Lost in his thoughts for a moment.

"Let's go." The young man stood up. Not even giving the dancer a second glance as he followed H'aanit out of the tavern.

'Love is such a troublesome thing…' Primrose sighed as she watched the two of them and then look at Linde who was stretching herself out to fallow them. The panther looking up at her for moment.

"Watch over those two fools if can. They're going to need more than a little help."

To her surprise the beast seem to nod to her in agreement.

"Cometh Linde." Until her master called for her. Leaving the dancer to sigh at the headache her two friends are giving her.

[theaceofgays]

Moonlit Chariot

A Charoix Fanfic for @chariotdunord‘s birthday

Word Count: | 1,383 Read Time: ~6 minutes

“And what a spectacular performance from Luna Nova’s Star pupil, Croix Meridies!” The announcer shouted as the crowds went wild. Croix watched the faces around her, some familiar, some not, all cheering for her. She didn’t see any need to. She had only done what Woodward had asked of her, produce a map of the stars, tell stories through constellations. It was nothing flashy. Nothing worth standing ovation. Her team mates sure thought differently though. Each giving her praise she felt was undeserved. As the cheers died down and the excitement was mellowed out, she turned to exit.

Croix had just stepped off the stage, behind the curtain, when she made eye contact with Chariot as her group appeared, dressed in robes draped over their ceremonial uniforms. There was glint in Chariot’s eye, a spark that Croix had only seen faintly before, one filled with determination, the kind the Samhain Festival was meant to ignite in students who just didn’t care. Not like Croix did. Not like Chariot did. But no one could really be compared to their friendly rivalry.

“You nervous?” Croix asked.

“Never,” Chariot grinned back. She walked up the steps, leaning in to whisper in Croix’s ear. “Watch me.”

“Don’t worry,” Croix whispered back. “I will.”

Croix weaved her way through the acts in transit, drowning out the general compliments with a smile and a nod, ultimately inattentive to the words coming out of anyone’s mouth as she made her way around the stage props and students to the general seating. However, just as she rounded the corner, one voice in particular caught her attention.

“Miss Meridies~” Croix turned to find Headmaster Holbrook waving her over.

“Headmaster~ I wasn’t expecting you,” Croix made her way over to the small, old witch with a smile and nod.

“I’m just taking a break from supervising,” Holbrook admitted. “Professor Finneran can be a hard woman to avoid.”

Croix chuckled. “I’ll bet. I’m glad to see you. Have you been enjoying the festivities so far?”

“Yes, of course~ I’m proud of what my students have accomplished here.” She nodded, turning to look at the stage as it was being set up for the next act. “Though I will have to admit, I’m rather impressed by your performance. It isn’t typical of you to do something so… flashy.”

“I suppose I had a bit of influence from someone else,” Croix admitted, smiling as she caught a streak of red peek behind the curtain, teasing her from a distance.

“Definitely a better performance last year’s. Hoping to reclaim your title?” Holbrook mused.

“Oh no, I wouldn’t want to take that title from someone who deserves it far more than I. I simply did as expected of me,” Croix said, bowing.

“Oh? Do you have someone in mind you think will win the title over yourself?” Holbrook quirked a brow at Croix’s statement and watched as she crossed her arms and smirked.

“You’ll just have to wait and see, won’t you?”

The announcer called for Chariot’s group and revved up the crowd once more. The deafening cries around them drowned out Holbrook’s farewells as she made her way back to her table, earning a glare from Finneran, who was, indeed, upset at her unprecedented exit. As the group stepped on stage, all was silent. No one else had any idea what to expect from Chariot, and as the whole school’s eyes were glued to the stage, Croix felt a sense of pride well up in her as she watched her friend take the world by storm- or- moreover- by swarm. A rabble of butterflies, a kaleidoscope of color ignited on stage, taking shapes of cats, and sharks, and horses, and birds, each in succession with one another, each demanding audience captivity, and each receiving a variety of awe as they danced and streaked their way across the night sky. As Croix watched she felt her heart race, and thought back to those countless months spent in the field they’d considered their place, watching Chariot practice this routine. With each transformation she remembered each of Chariot’s failures, the time she spun herself dizzy and fell to the ground, the time she failed to transform into the creature she’d hoped for, the time she had accidentally cast the spell on Croix instead. Each time she heard the phrase she could feel the static in the air rising, almost as if the distance between them had dropped away and they were once again back in their field, Croix sitting on the small stone wall, watching Chariot perform for her, and only her. Open Your heart. Arae Aryrha.

Chariot finished off with a dazzling display, a combination of her own magics alongside her two assistants, showering her in shimmering starlight, iridescent, incandescent, impossibly spectacular. Croix had blinked and returned to the present with a wide grin, finding herself practically in tears with how beautiful everything looked. She knew Chariot had worked hard, and she knew that there was no reason for her not to be cheered on by the crowds. But they were stunned into silence, so Croix broke that silence with her own cheers, louder, and more passionate than she could have ever managed before. It was then that the crowd broke out into cheers, far louder, far more ecstatic than they had been for Croix’s own performance, not that Croix would ever be jealous. Chariot deserved the praise. She thought she saw tears in Chariot’s eyes as she turned to walk off stage, but was unsure if the glint had been waterworks or the afterbirth of metamorphosis magic.

Croix rushed back through the crowds of students, bobbing and weaving, ducking and dodging, all to make her way back to Chariot’s side. She had to be there. She had to get to Chariot. She had to—

Chariot was in tears when Croix reached her, she’d broken away from the crowds that had cheered her on, past everyone, and sat outside one of the many dressing tents, bawling her eyes out. Croix called out to her and rushed over, barely able to say much of anything with how winded she was. She tugged Chariot into a hug, squeezed her and refused to let go, and as Chariot cried, Croix pet her gently.

“You did wonderfully out there… I’ve never been more proud of you, Chariot,” Croix cooed, pulling away to wipe tears from Chariot’s face.

“I was so scared I was going to mess up. When everything was quiet I thought I had done something wrong… A-and then…” Chariot sniffled.

“And then?” Croix nudged Chariot to continue. “It’s okay, Char. I’ve got you…”

“And then you were the first person to cheer for me, and it was like the weight of the world just rolled off my shoulders.” Chariot sniffed again and pulled Croix into a tighter hug. “Thank you, Croix.”

Croix chuckled and hugged Chariot back. “Gees, you’re such a mess… What am I going to do with you?” she teased, before pulling away to wipe the rest of Chariot’s tears away, cupping her cheek. “I had no doubt in my mind you could do it.” Croix planted a kiss on Chariot’s forehead. “Now… let’s get you cleaned up. I believe you have an award to accept.”

Chariot nodded and took Croix’s hand as she helped her up and the two of them made their way inside of the tent. Croix helped clean Chariot up and tugged her along back the way she came to stand by the crowd while the final announcements were made. As Chariot was called up to receive the crowning of Moonlit Witch, Croix couldn’t help but grin ear to ear. She walked Chariot back to the stage and assisted her in fastening the robes. As the hat was placed on Chariot’s head, the crowd went wild once more, and Croix felt the same warmth she had at the start of Chariot’s performance. As the ceremony concluded and Chariot left the stage, she returned to Croix as her usual, bubbly self, twirling around to show off her winnings. “Look, Croix, look~ I did it! I actually did it!”

Croix felt her heart swell as Chariot giggled and spun, finding herself becoming dizzier and dizzier with every frenzy of twirls. “That you did, Char-Bear. That you did…”

[moonlite-drabbles]

Ima be so out of pocket and cope BUT I think that if the pyro archon being a pale skinned himeko character is the price that needs to be paid for hoyo to make the rest (or the majority at least) of the Natlan cast to be dark skinned: then I don’t care, do it.

Make her so white she’s more blinding than the loading screen, I DONT CARE. If a pale himeko clone as the archon is what it takes to distract hoyo higher ups so they can put more dark-skinned people in DO ITTTT. I DONT CAREE ABOUT THE ARCHONNN LEMME HAVE SOME BEAUTIFUL DARK SKINNED GENSHIN CHARACTERSSS

Am I happy? No.

Do I want a dark skinned claymore wielding woman? Yes.

Do I understand that this Chinese company that operates in a 99% mono-race country, that markets mainly to that country, which has deep roots in colorism, probably won’t deliver? Yes.

Ps: they typically aren’t ‘white’ they’re Han Chinese. The majority of the characters ppl complain about being white (which I get it’s annoying) are just pale Asian. I promise, it’s pale centric colorism, not white-centric racism. Not everything is about white people. Call it what it is.

Context: Leaker said every character except the Pyro archon is (currently) dark skinned. Pyro archon also said to be a “Himeko expo”—which is a reoccurring character in their other games.