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kyousei-archive · 3 years

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unmasked

A headcanon as to what Kakuzu’s life was before recruitment into the Akatsuki. Please keep in mind this background will heavily influence my interpretation of Kakuzu’s character and make personal relationships with him more than just difficult!

Tanned skin, dark eyes. Brunette. She was tiny, at least in comparison to him. Unassuming and normal all things considered.

– But, god, she was beautiful.

Perhaps it was her smile that had captured him at first, or that even, tranquil personality that had tamed the most fearsome temperament in all of Takigakure. He’d been young then, a mere Chuunin destined for great things – headed for the Council to bring their country to peace. However, seeing how easily that man could fly into a fit of rage… any sort of idea like that would be a long time coming.

His former squad had all been killed and friends had been hard to come by. Takigakure was poor, horribly so. Even their most capable warriors, their Elders and Council members – they could only grasp for anything to keep them afloat, often resorting to testing their own morals in order to survive. Family killing family, friends turning against friends. It wasn’t capable of fazing him any longer. His own mother and father had been swiped clean off the face of the earth, but it wasn’t anything he couldn’t deal with.

Perhaps that had been why he had always seen himself more as a Doton user, instead of the affinity for water that he was in possession of. Stone was hard, immovable. It was like him. Cold one moment and burning like magma the next. Kakuzu wasn’t water. He wasn’t tranquil or beautiful. In fact, he was rather scarred and gruff looking.

It had always been like that. He’d been given a strong jaw from his father, broad shoulders and a built chest. Though it had always been his eyes that had scared people off the quickest. It hadn’t been his quick temper or his appearance, no… His eyes were unique in Taki, mint and maroon and harsh. It wasn’t rare for a single glance to send others running.

Not her. Certainly not her.

The library, as strange as it sounded, had always been a place of peace for the Chuunin. He could read and learn about the history of his village, about the beastly Choumei that had once plagued this land. It was relaxing, a welcomed silence from the blood and gore he had been forced to endure day after day protecting his village.

Though there had been one time his peace had undoubtedly turned on its head… A quiet day, just like any other, that those strange eyes had taken advantage of by drinking in information from dusty scrolls and thick manuscripts.

“They’re pretty.”

He’d jolted, not expecting a voice from someone he hadn’t sensed approached. Eyes had blinked once, twice, three times upon sitting fully upright, and his upper body turned toward the visitor that had interrupted his silence. Kiyomi. He would have never guessed exactly what the future would hold for them back then. At the time, he’d simply thought of it as an annoyance.

Kakuzu was silent, tanned lips pulling into a small frown as brows knit beneath his headband. What had she been talking about..?

“Your eyes, I mean. I’ve never seen anything like them.”

Maybe it was then that she’d completely captured his attention, especially after that miniscule smile that had accompanied her words. Kiyomi was a civilian nowhere near any sort of match for the shinobi, but still brave enough to approach him in his time of solace. – Or maybe she didn’t know. He hadn’t been certain at the time which he would have liked better. Nor would he really ever be certain.

Everything had seemed like such a blur from there. They’d gotten closer, able to call each other friends, and closer still. His temper that had once been known throughout all of Takigakure had all but vanished. Kakuzu had been well-mannered, irritable, but still capable of reeling in the beast that had once constituted his personality. If only for her.

He could have broken her without a second thought, as he had done to many in the past who had gone against him. And yet... he didn’t. She had made him happy – an emotion that few hidden among the waterfalls could say they had truly experienced.

Kakuzu had been able to make due supporting two. Extra missions here and there to make up for what she couldn’t had been enough then. He’d been thankful for the minor increase in salary with his promotion to Jounin. There had been one moment, though, that had sent his world to a screeching halt.

“I’m pregnant.”

He’d almost spat out his drink with the sudden information, eyes immediately falling to her stomach. Kiyomi’s belly had looked fine; there was no swell beneath her clothing, nothing at all that could have said that she was carrying a life inside of her. “—Shit.”

She had laughed at his reaction, had told him not to worry. He listened, saving every last scrap of worth that he had come into contact with for the next nine months. A family of three was a number that he could handle, which he did for quite some time. She had given him a little girl, a bundled gift that was the striking image of her mother. Thankfully. They named her Kishiko.

Four, however, was a number that weighed heavily on his shoulders. Again they were graced with one more addition to the family, a stocky boy named Hayase that seemed a combination of his parents. He had his mother’s eyes.

Mission after mission after mission had run the Jounin dry. Every spark of energy had been given to keep his small corner of the world afloat, but still he could call himself happy. They were content with what they had and grateful for every moment that Kakuzu was able to spend at home. Stress had given the shinobi a harsher stare and a perpetual frown. But still, she loved him.

There had been a single request from Takigakure’s finest warrior to the Village Council: to keep the stress of his work away from his family. They had listened for the most part, that is… Until the group of four had visited the small home on the outskirts of the village.

We have an assignment for you.

The knock on the door had been unexpected, even somewhat strange. Visitors to the household were all but nonexistent; no one dared to traverse this far out of the village simply to meet the one person who wouldn’t give them a welcome. His temper had changed, yes, but the way he acted in the face of annoyances was a different story. Kakuzu remained hostile to all that did not reside in his home, presenting a silent anger to all those he stood against. There had always seemed an air about him that churned and roared silently to itself, storming against the impending battles that were sure to come.

Until those eyes she had commented on all those years ago fell back to her. That typhoon fell into a quiet breeze that simply rippled against his thoughts. – Like water. It had been her and those brats that had turned the stone to liquid, like alchemists trying to turn granite to gold, only to fail and end up with mud.

Door having been thrown open, the last people that the Jounin had any expectation of visiting had interrupted him, had come to his home with the explicit request to stay away. How arrogant those fools were, hiding behind their masks as if their military status gave them any real power. He could have ripped them all in half before they could blink.

“We have an assignment for you.”

An assignment, Kakuzu soon realized, that would change the entirety of Takigakure forever if it was successful. It would have put his name in the history books that he adored and lost himself in. The killer of the first Hokage: Senju Hashirama.

The world was at war with one another and the surrounding waterfalls appeared to be in the center of it. Borders had been held firm against the Great Nations attempting to take Takigakure for its own, a massive feat for such a small and poor country. It was only logical to remove the biggest obstacle in the way of the Council’s goals. If Konoha fell due to the actions of their strongest Jounin, reason stated that the Shinobi War would crumble and the Five Great Elemental Nations along with it.

No one would see the spec of a country rising to power in their calculations. The balance would be shifted.

It could end.

Promises had been made to the Jounin as his assignment had been laid out for him. His family would be kept safe and out of harm’s way and the funds that he so desperately needed to keep them stable would be given without further question. They already knew what he wanted out of this and had dangled it in front of him like a carrot to a starving horse. It would benefit not only himself, but the livelihood of those he held so dear in ways that he would not be able to do for them otherwise. There had been only a small moment’s thought before Kakuzu accepted.

Kiyomi begged him not to.

It would only be later that the understanding of what he had to overcome in order to complete his mission would dawn on Kakuzu’s shoulders. This was a gamble he was nowhere near powerful enough to partake in, a gamble he’d been unknowingly led into with honey-laced words and ideals of grandeur.

– And so he left.

Senju Hashirama was a powerful leader of his country, stronger than even that of the famed Uchiha Madara. To be the master of two opposing forces, of both the ground and the sea… It took control and precision that would have been incomprehensible to someone that had only heard of the great Hokage. It was Kakuzu himself that had been forced to endure it.

Defeat had only been expected, but the remainder of his life… That was something that had not been put into his calculations. Takigakure was strict and ruthless; every shinobi of the village knew that without a doubt. He had expected humiliation and being stripped of his title. Exile and public execution were not out of the question either.

It had been the imprisonment of his family, of his wife and children that had taken him off guard. News of his failure had rippled through the village like water drops from the countless falls that dotted through the village before he had even returned. He had discovered his home burned to the ground, belongings lost to the flame as injuries that covered his body turned tanned skin a dirty crimson.

They were safe.

They had to be.

The beginning stages of panic and anger began to set in, energy drained limbs having blood stained fingers curled into tight fists. He had begun to tremble with a rage that hadn’t been allowed to let loose in years, lips pulling into a tight line and brows furrowing. Chakra was already dangerously low, yet as the silent orders from the Council were brought into effect Kakuzu was still capable of fighting off many of those Jounin he had once considered allies.

Bones cracked and blood stained the grass on his feet, yells of fury overtaking the clearing as his vision turned red.

They were safe.

The constant reminder, no matter how small of a shred of hope it had been, wasn’t enough to pull him into a state of control. He fought and fought until eyes began to blur, movements becoming sluggish as exhaustion began to catch up with his body and mind.

Having been overpowered at last, he had no choice but to be forced into a state of submission; head bowed to the ground and arms twisted behind him. Kakuzu found his chest heaving for air, heart pounding against his rib cage at even the mere prospect of the three most important people in his life being harmed because of his failure.

The Takigakure prison was where those traitors were kept, cuffed and kept in cells like animals to await their fate. He was no different, guards standing on either side of the expanse of bars that kept him contained in the small area he was allowed. How pathetic…

– But he needed to remain in control. For them.

It smelled of sins and traitors in there, an indescribable smell that burned at his senses and tore at the guilt buried deep in his gut. He had been too weak to follow through with his orders and the consequences had been accepted. Marks of traitors were tattooed into his forearms, four bands that he had found himself counting until his time was up.

Only the promise of their safety, the thought of them smiling had kept the beast of Takigakure at bay – for now. His eyes had sunken in after days of neglect, head bowed forward with locks of dirty brown obscuring his features. Hands had been secured behind his back but no attempt to escape from them had been made. He had merely sat, quietly, for hours upon hours. Reactions had tried to be pulled from him time and time again by the guards poking and prodding him with humiliating words, yet only a deep growl had been heard from the monster.

Three days had passed before he had moved, head lifting slowly with the instinct that something was wrong. Something was incredibly wrong. The guards had been talking among themselves as if their prisoner couldn’t hear, complaining about a public execution that they would miss. A woman. Two children; a boy and a girl.

He had felt his heart drop into his gut, denial washing through his nervous system in a flood. – But he knew. Those in association with traitors would be treated as traitors. Kakuzu’s wife and children would be murdered in cold blood in front of their village – the village that he had been loyal to and followed without question. Until now. No longer would he allow himself to be seen as a shinobi from this village.

The Council would no longer dangle promises of safety and prosperity in front of him. Their hearts would be in his hands.

It had started as a quiet fury, the waves of chakra pouring from his body like water from the falls having stunned the guards into silence. It grew swiftly, the red returning to his vision that he hadn’t truly seen in many years. The village had forgotten how fearsome their most powerful warrior could be when enraged beyond control; they would soon be reminded why they had feared him in the beginning.

Had that sound been him? It couldn’t have been. The noise that reached his ears must have been made by that of a monster, a terrifying roar that shuddered through him, trembling against the walls of his jail cell and into the very cores of those who were assigned to guard him. The memories of what had happened next would never truly be remembered in full detail; the fury that bubbled through his veins had blocked his senses in full.

There had been faint flashes of crimson, the scent of blood mingling through the air as each and every occupant of that prison had been ripped to pieces -- guards and their charges alike. He remembered the sounds of bones cracking, of stone crumbling under the force of his hands and the screams of those who begged for their lives. What right did they have to survive? This village had taken everything from him; they had taken his past, his present and his future in a single moment of trying to prove their superiority over the rest.

His hands had been stained red before the prison fell silent of the carnage, trembling breaths from his remaining anger the only sound heard.

But he could not stop. He ran until his muscles burned, every muscle aching in his body until Kakuzu’s only energy was a will to continue. Yet as the executioner’s clearing came into view all his eyes could focus on were shapes his mind refused to correlate to his family.

Bodies, three of them. Blood, pooled and saturated into the ground.

Kakuzu’s knees buckled underneath him.

Not a sound broke through the clearing. Silence buzzed in his ears until the noise felt like it began reverberating into his limbs, and finally into his chest.

The sun had long since fallen before he could rise.

The village had taken everything from him, so he would take everything from them. Only the most highly regarded shinobi of this country knew of their most prized technique; it was forbidden and dangerous. Kakuzu had read about it once, of the fearsome power of stealing the hearts of enemies to take their chakra and prolong a lifespan.

What a fitting end it would be for those fools. Those fools that had thought a warrior with everything to lose would be weak once it was lost.

No, they would discover that a warrior who had lost everything would sooner cut his own throat than lay down and accept that fate.

He didn’t care about the blood that had caked his clothes or his skin; his only goal was finding that scroll. The secret archives were no more secret than they were well-guarded. It seemed only the fear of discovery was what had kept thieves at bay, but his goal was clear. Whomever had found enough bravery within them to step before this monstrous beast was disposed of without a thought.

What he had not expected, however, was the pain. There was no wonder in Kakuzu’s mind why this was classified as a forbidden technique. The agony that had ripped through every muscle fiber was not of a normal scale. Only those with enough will in their bones and strength in their mind would be able to endure it.

Skin had been forced away from underlying flesh, torn and sewn back together by black tendrils that seemed to have a mind of their own. Muscle was gouged and replaced with the living threads to act as tendons and nerves. They had fully incorporated themselves into his body, leaving him weak and suffering both mentally and physically.

What would she have thought..? Bloody wounds now crossed back and forth against the skin she had loved to trail her fingers over. Kakuzu had become marred and ugly, a monster in every shape and aspect. It was Takigakure’s fault for bringing him to this point, for making him finally snap against their overwhelming rule. Each of them would suffer for their crimes against him, of their tyranny and iron fists.

He imagined their screams for mercy were the same as hers before her execution, the same as his children’s cries for help as their mother was slaughtered in front of them. These four would receive the same treatment. Four lives had been ruined by these four masked figures, one mask for each of them.

Still beating hearts had been ripped from their chests, newly acquired tendrils strangling each of the Council members ruthlessly until death itself happily took them into its arms.

Their hearts would be in his hands.

He felt no remorse for the poor souls that discovered the carnage the next morning, the sight of their leaders ripped limb from limb until they were hardly recognizable. Their masks had been taken and stitched to the very back of the man that had killed them.

They would be forced to watch the trail behind the monster they had created.

#HC. ❝ if you are prepared there won’t be any sorrow. → ᴛʜᴇ ʙɪsʜᴏᴘ.#i wrote this like.... jesus almost a decade ago.#i didnt rewrite All of it but i rewrote little pieces of it #to make it flow better #anyway this was posted on my old kakuzu blogs so if you've been in the comm for a hot minute then youve probably read this lmfao

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tes-trash-blog · 4 years

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Horse Breeds of Skyrim

Nordic Warmblood - Native to Skyrim and domesticated in the late First Era, after the art of bear-riding died with Klojnor, the last of the Bearmasters. Stands at least 15 hands tall, and are either black, chesnut, bay, or brown. White marking are common about the muzzle, but a spotted rump is a sure sign of a dirty lineage. All around utilitarian horse, popular with hunters for their graceful jumps and even canter.

Carthorse - 15 hands tall, stout, and hardy, while the Carthorse is not the fastest, these fine steeds have unmatched stamina, and are the horse to ask for when trekking across the rough terrain of Skyrim, to push a plow in a field, or even carry a wagonful of children during Festival. Easy to train, patient, and with a curious affinity for mead, this is the horse most think of when they think of Skyrim.

Haafinler - Though hailing from Haafignar, these horses are a common sight in the silver mines of the Reach due to their small but stout physiques and calm demeanor. Stands anywhere between 12 and 13 hands tall with lighter coats, though you may find a dark chestnut in Solitude, bearing noblechildren. Silver Streak, who famously guided a team of miners out from a collapsing tunnel, was none other than a Haafinler.

Horseling - It’s a mini horse! What more could you want? Pelagius the Mad was very fond of these munchkins, and once had a commoner whipped in the square for not complementing Thane Tinyhoof adequately. Yes, Tinyhoof was a Thane. Yes, she attended court and voted on manners pertaining to Solitude and the Empire. No, unlike the other members of court, Tinyhoof was pure of heart and immune to the corruption scandals that plagued Solitude in this time.

Atmoran Draft - Don’t let the name fool you, these horses aren’t actually from Atmora. Bred to resemble the behemoths, these horses are a frightening sight on the battlefield. 18 hands tall, powerful, notoriously difficult to train and even more to ride proper, these horses move with a speed and surefootedness through a battlefield without peer. Come in every color, though liver colored is the most common, and pure black/white colorings are among the rarest. Ulfric Stormcloak was bucked off such a horse in his boyhood.

Hjaal Banker - At 14 hands, the Banker is one of the smaller rideable breeds. Sure footed and sharp as a tack, the Hjaal Banker is at home in the swamps of Hjaalmarch. Had a brush with extinction when discovered by the Empire and bred to the point of frailty during their failed invasion of Black Marsh. Thanks to the tireless efforts of Morthal and her people, this fine horse will live to see another day. These horses tend to run the gamut between dun and grullo, and can all but disappear in a thick wood. Prone to kick mud up at people.

Rohlor - The legendary steed of the Snow Elves. Lithe, tall, and graceful, these horses were first thought to be spirits of the snow when the first Atmorans made their settlements. While beautiful, this breed was as shy as its people and even more stubborn; you didn’t break a Rohlor, they choose to be ridden by you. Citing their inability to carry heavy loads and their dispositions, Atmoran colonizers drove these horses to extinction in the late Merethic Era. While there have been more than a few reported sightings of this breed as late as the Fourth Era, there is no conclusive evidence that these beasts persist.

#baseless headcanon time #and i gotta say my inner horse girl has come out STRONG #The Elder Scrolls #skyrim #horsey time #i do love horses #they're couches with anxiety and they will bite you #just like me

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dragonrajafanfiction · 3 years

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Chosen Child

20 years ago, many miles off the Coast of the Netherlands

“Edzard, we finally made it.” A man in wire rimmed glasses spoke as he stepped forward.

“Yes… Finally. After all time.” The man responded, his whisper shaking with emotion. He clenched his teeth angrily. “We did it… and with no one from the damned Secret Party to help us.”

They were two men wearing headlamps and yellow caving gear, staring with mud streaked faces at a door as tall as a five-story building. It was made of solid wood and carved with a great tree with a coiled snake squeezing the trunk. It stood as a testament that once upon a time, the Netherlands was covered in forest that hosted massive trees, that these trees were worshiped for the spirits they contained. The ancient writing carved on the door paid homage to those woodland spirits that served as guardians for what was now hidden behind them. Even if they had a tank, they would not be able to push this door open. This door had stood alone for centuries since the beast left it in 1222, but once upon a time, it had been easily accessible to the Royal Frisian dragonslaying family. This door was at the end of a maze of tunnels and a carefully guarded secret.

They were a full 5 miles underground. The air was dry and the darkness was absolute. There was no sound of water or wind. Only their own breaths in the cool air that stayed a steady 56 degrees fahrenheit. They were able to find this place by setting off explosive charges and then listening to the feedback by ultrasound. Still it was years of work and millions of dollars of equipment and personnel to finally reach the front door of what they believed to be Midgarslaang's tomb.

The man in the wire rimmed glasses was Eggerick Donia, a peerless scientist and expert in alchemy, and Edzard Galama’s personal friend. From the time he could write, he was fascinated with draconic science. He had an affinity and understanding of how they thought and had made many recent discoveries, including making certain assumptions about grammar in their languages that proved to be correct. Now he stood in front of the door. He pulled out a white slip of paper and tried to wedge it through the crack, but it would not go through. “Hm. I can’t get any real readings. The chamber is hermetically sealed. The Midgarslaang is legendary for its poison. Let’s put on our gas masks now and test our equipment.”

The men paused and shouldered oxygen canisters and slipped their heavy rebreathers over their heads. They wouldn’t be able to verbally speak but Edzard gave him a thumbs up to indicate he was ready. They piled explosive charges against the door, C4 and dynamite, just enough to blow it open without demolishing the tunnel itself. The two men hurried away to give themselves plenty of distance from the blast. In the enclosed space, the shockwave from the explosion would go much farther and faster and hit with greater force. Despite their care, the boom flattened them to the floor and they covered their heads as rocks rained down on them and a blinding haze of dust filled the air. The doors shook in their place and a hole large enough for them to drive a truck through, crashed open, sucking air into the hidden chamber, taking the dust with it.

The two men waited a bit and when all was quiet, they stood from their crouched positions. Eggerick motioned for Edzard to move forward and they cautiously picked their way through the rubble. Their bright handlamps at last shined a light on a chamber that had been plunged in darkness for centuries. It dwarfed them in scale. It was large enough to comfortably house a jumbo jet and a perfect size for a dragon. But it was empty save for a box shaped stone formation in the center of the room.

The stone formation was carved with serpents and winding draconic script. A circular trough ringed it and five other straight troughs radiated out a few feet from it like sunrays. At the end of each ray, a mummified and blackened human form was frozen in a kneeling position. Eggerick hurriedly retrieved his camera and started taking pictures. He crouched, taking photos of each kneeling form, their hair, the remnants of their rotted clothes, their jewelry. He was so engrossed in his work, he didn’t notice that Edzard took off his gas mask. He paused and raised his hand in a warning but Edzard just shrugged. “The air from outside rushed in here. I figured it was fine.”

Eggerick put one hand over his masked face and shook his head, then he kept taking pictures.

“Could this be a dragon egg? I thought the Midgarslaang left?” He reached out to touch the centuries old layer of dust on the stone casket only to have his hand slapped away by Eggerick. Edzard glared at him. “Oh come now, we’re going to blow this place up. We can’t just leave this here and we can’t take it with us. It is part of the floor.”

He pointed downward. Sure enough, this stone coffin appeared to have been carved from solid rock. In fact, the channels that were carved in the stone floor were also connected to the box.

Eggerick finally removed his mask from over his sweaty hair and fixed his gaze on the kneeling corpses. “Whatever is in there… Our ancestors gave their lives to seal it. Those channels carved in the floor are likely to receive their blood. They truly must have fallen to the dragons if they resorted to using such a forbidden technique. Their clothing suggests this ritual took place close to the time where the family was wiped out by the old Secret Party. Perhaps the accusations of falling to the dragon’s side were true.”

“Or they weren’t true and they fell to the dragon’s side to survive.” Edzard lifted his eyes up to the high ceiling.

Eggerick sighed in deep regret and then he lowered his head. “I’m going to erase these photos.” He said, opening the UI on the back of his camera.

“What are you doing?” Edzard reached out to him in alarm.

“I know what this is… this is the knowledge of the Cocoon. This is … the dragon’s secret of immortality.”

Dragons were not truly immortal. However, they had a form of rebirth that allowed a mortally wounded dragon to seal itself away and gradually regenerate over hundreds of years. When it woke up, it was reborn in an embryonic state and its memories were lost from its prior life. It would need to feed to regain its strength again. The Midgarslaang had been slain by the hero Donar and Donar had supposedly died with it, according to the legend, but his body was never recovered. In 1222, the Midgarslaang burst out of its tomb in an ethereal form and fled north, revealing its former resting place. And yet, no one is recorded ever coming down here. It was suspected that the Frisian family had found something. The well constructed tunnel appeared of draconic make, but it's clean and clear condition suggested that this passageway had been maintained.

Eggerick leaned away from Edzard’s grasping hands. “This is forbidden knowledge. It’s no use to us. Let’s take a few artifacts and use the last of our explosives to destroy the passageway.”

“We have so little left of our heritage! We came all this way! We spent years! Millions of dollars! You can’t be serious!” Edzard wrestled for the camera and in response, Eggerick threw it to the stone floor where it shattered.

“I am serious! If this knowledge gets out, you know what will happen. You know it!” Eggerick’s shout reverberated through the cavern and the two men faced each other. He pointed to the shattered camera as he spoke in a trembling hiss. “Men and women will be sacrificed for the immortality of the highest level of the Secret Party. You and I will be killed for what we know! Just like they killed our ancestors! Thanks to them we all come from a lowly maid. Our generations of careful breeding were wiped out in a single night! You think they will let us live?! They will use this for their own ends! They will truly be dragons!”

Eggerick stared at the camera. Tears ran down his face. “We got the answers we sought. We can climb back to the surface and confirm their use of forbidden knowledge. We can’t come back up to the surface and leave a record of this or history will repeat itself. You know it!” When he looked up, he looked down the barrel of a gun. Eggerick gasped and his body tensed, but he didn’t have time to do anything else. The bullet rocked him back against the stone coffin. He slammed into it and collapsed. The exit wound on his head left a long bloody trail that dripped down the draconic he’d just been photographing.

Edzard lowered the pistol, pale and trembling. “Traitor. Traitor to your blood.” He whispered. “You were my friend. We came all this way and you would…”

The report echoed a wordless condemnation. Edzard’s heart beat against his ribs and he sucked air in a panic for a few seconds before tossing his pistol away. “Don’t worry… I’ll rebuild our heritage. Starting here… starting now.” he picked up the camera and picked through the pieces to find the SD card, praying and hoping that something would be left on it. As he did, a dark red rivulet came into his peripheral vision.

Eggerick’s blood was starting to run from his head into the channels carved into the box in an increasingly fast flow, being drawn out of it. Edzard knew Eggerick came from the highest quality lineage their family could muster. They both did. But the box was actually responding to the blood. A loud thump and the top of the box lifted slightly, coughing out dust. Unwittingly, Edzard had sacrificed Eggerick to the mechanism to open it.

Edzard's heart raced and his breathing accelerated. He dashed forward and pushed against the heavy stone lid. It didn’t budge and he had to pause to catch his breath. Friction and weight made it difficult for even his strength. But he tried again to force the box to open, pushing with all his power. As he did, he chanted. “I came all this way. I came all this way! I will NOT let us die out. Never! Never!”

He ranted like this, roaring and crying, both over his lost friend and his forgotten heritage that was now hanging by a single thread in his hands. Finally, with a loud yell, he pushed and the lid crashed to the ground. He leaned on the box, breathing hard and peered inside with his headlamp. His eyes suddenly widened and rolled with tears, he started to laugh and cry at the same time. He looked insane with joy!

He reached in and carefully pulled out a small sleeping child, a baby that appeared to be one month old. It was naked, pale but it was breathing. He pulled his glove off and felt it. “You’re warm. You’re…”

He held the baby to himself and leaned back against the stone casket, laughing and sobbing. He slid down to the floor where he sat, trembling, overcome with emotion. “You’re hungry… You must be…” He reached down and plunged his finger into his old friend’s blood and held it against the baby’s lips. When it opened its eyes they were piercing gold and looked at the world coldly, like a reptile.

He thought it was forbidden knowledge he was seeking but what he found was so much more. What he found was a direct link to the bloodline of the past. And he had just barely rescued it. Perhaps this was a test, a loyalty test of the old realm to see if the surviving members of their magnificent family would be worthy of its resurgence.

“Are you a dragon?” He whispered, gazing down at the little boy. “What are you?” He sniffled, inhaling his own tears while still laughing.

He held the baby close in his arms. “I don’t care. You’re mine. You’re ours. Our future.”

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Cassell College, Amber Hall

Edzard Galama now stood, watching Dominic take his vows of royalty, his rightful place as King, with a worrying reluctance. His upbringing had been corrupted by that bloodline traitor who stole him away and raised him as a normal human, but he could not let anything stop him from his own goal: to bring back his noble family. The baby was now a young man and now stood with the Black Scale Sword, an alchemy blade that was fabled to corrupt all who touched it. Although his hand trembled at the power of that weapon, he stayed still as the words “Long Live the King!” were shouted in his honor.

These people had been gathered from around the world, but most of them were half-breeds or less, the remnants of a bloodline diluted with time. More importantly, they were loyal, with a heart that beat for the Dragonslayers of Old Frisia and who welcomed its return to greatness with eager eyes and faces.

Dominic barely understood the importance of his role, much less cared about it. Edzard had to convey that importance in months when it should have been spread out over years. However, Dominic had not broken under that harsh treatment. Even as he rejected his reality, he grew stronger, more ferocious, and more cunning in his attempts to escape the confines of the monastery. When physically breaking out of his cell didn’t work, he learned to escape by hiding in the laundry. When that was cut off, he drugged his nursemaid. When that failed, he sabotaged the locks. Each time, Edzard punished him, beating him until he couldn’t move any longer and letting him lie in pain until his own high purity dragonblood healed his wounds. Knowing what would come after each failed escape, once he realized the agony he would have to endure, when cornered, Dominic stopped trying to escape. He started to kill his captors. He started to hunt them and the guards of his prison realized that they had been locked in with a true monster. If Dominic didn’t escape, then he would simply take the lives of those around him until he was the only one left. But isn’t that fitting for a young dragon as well? To eat those closest to them and grow in power?

Edzard spent his best years searching maps of old ruins and found this boy, only to lose him to a traitor and search again. His hair was greying and his cane was his weapon, but the journey was not over. It would never be over. Dominic grew to hate him. He was sure he would die by that young man’s hand. Only then, would his work be complete. He sighed quietly to himself as the din died down in the room.

Dominic stood still for a few more seconds before collapsing to the floor and groaning in pain! Edzard’s eyes widened in horror. In his heart he denied what could be happening, that the sword could be corrupting him! If he was turned into a Death Servant, it would all be over! “Quick! Get the sword away from him!”

Sylke was the fastest to his side. She’d cut her hair short, almost to her scalp and was dressed in a Cassell Uniform as a male student. That left her sure footed and quick as she leaped into action. She knelt and reached for him, rolling him over.

The black arc of the sword sent her reeling back. Her eyes were wide, looking down at the tip that nearly cut her throat open. Dominic rose up like a lion and reached, not in an attack but for her weapon! Her dodge to the side only served to pull it cleanly out of the holster. She stood in front of him, disarmed while he aimed at her with pitiless eyes. The bullet tore a hole through her suit, turning the fabric into confetti, and she went reeling back. Meanwhile, Dominic ran towards the three sacred women. They screamed and cried and hurried out of the way, dropping their sacred artifacts. Behind them was the staircase and he leaped up the stairs, shooting behind him twice and striking a man through his shattering champagne glass. He grimaced and fell to the floor. He fired again, this time at a woman, striking between her shoulder blades as she tried to turn and flee. She fell into the arms of her lover.

The ceremony was now in disarray, three people were badly injured and possibly dead. Edzard Galama couldn’t help but smile.

#Dragon Raja #Dominic

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vannahfanfics · 3 years

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Just Around the Riverbend

Category: Hurt/Comfort, Mild Romantic Fluff

Fandom: Avatar: The Legend of Korra

Characters: Korra, Asami

Korra’s arms were fluid in motion. Eyes closed, she glided her arms back and forth in front of her. The water of the river mimicked her motions; like a lithe snake, a stream of it flowed before her with gentle ripples and gurgles. She opened her eyes to observe the crystal-clear water refracting the sunlight, making it seem like diamonds skipped across its poppling surface. It made Korra smile; though she’d long since mastered all the elements (and saved the world a few times over), she’d always had that particular affinity for the water.

After feeling satisfied with her morning training, she allowed the water to splash back down into the river. It startled the fish that were swimming around her legs and nipping curiously at her tanned skin; after the initial disturbance, they eased their way back in, brushing their silvery scales against her legs as they inspected her. Though the fresh, ice-cold ice of the polar caps would forever be her favorite, Korra had to admit that rivers were nice, too. She enjoyed the spongy mud squishing between her toes, the kiss of the water grasses brushing against her calves, the gurgle of the water as it followed the current way, way down to the sea.

She inhaled, then exhaled deeply, trying to get her muscles to relax— but nope. As ever, they held just a bit of tension under the surface, the expectation that something loomed on the horizon. Though the conflict with Kuvira had been months and months ago, Korra had yet to abandon that feeling that something else would come along. She’d grown so used to being high-strung, always on the edge of battle, that she’d forgotten what peace felt like.

She missed it.

Korra groaned and squatted down in the water, sinking down until the water lapped just at the underside of her nose. She stared across the river at a frog perching on a log that was half-buried in the murky bottom. It blinked at her, and she blinked at it, and then the frog licked its eyeball. She stretched out her tongue, trying to stretch it up, but she only got far enough to lick above her lips. All she’d really succeeded in was slobbering all over herself and flooding her mouth with river water. Disappointed by her failure, the frog hopped off the log to splunk into the river and swim down into the reeds.

Korra just continued to crouch there, tense and aching and ill at ease.

“Korra!”

She turned as her name floated over the breeze, looking up the small sandy slope of the river bank. The person called her name again, and a smile bloomed on Korra’s lips. Asami, she realized and stood up to greet the ravenette as she came to the top of the riverbank. The hair ruffled Asami’s voluminous blac k hair as she stood at the top of the small hill, hands on her hips; water cascaded down Korra’s form as she stood in the river, arms outstretched with glee.

“You’ve been at it all morning. I was worried you’d drowned,” Asami joked.

“Me? Drown? I’d be a disappointment of a waterbender,” Korra laughed.

Asami smiled at that, then gently picked her way down to the edge of the river. Korra watched her with a dreamy smile; she had such a way of making everything she did like pure magic. It made Korra’s heart flutter in her chest like the winds rippling the surface of the water around her. Asami reached out a hand to steady herself on the slick rocks, and Korra took it without question.

Asami smiled sweetly at her while she stepped down into the sand, and Korra melted into a pile of mush. She felt like the river would carry her gooey body away.

“Thanks,” Asami hummed when she finally settled down at the edge of the river. Her heels dug into the soft sand, but she didn’t seem to mind. Korra remained in the river, swirling her fingertips over the surface to create little whirlpools under her hands. Even with Asami there, the stress simmered under the surface, making her smiling lips constantly want to tug down into a frown. She knew that she had no reason to worry anymore, but her body just didn’t seem to wanna get the memo.

“Korra, love,” Asami said, and Korra looked up at her with furrowed brows. There was a serious edge to Asami’s voice. Was something wrong? Asami reached out to ghost her fingers over the bottom of Korra’s jaw, collecting the river water that was coalescing there. “Something’s bothering you.”

Ah. She should have known that she couldn’t get anything past Asami. Korra smiled shyly, twisting her body from side to side while Asami continued to pet her cheek.

“I, well,” she stumbled over her words, unsure just how to voice what she was feeling. “I guess I’m just… apprehensive.”

“About?”

“I don’t know. I feel like something bad is coming, even though I know it’s not. Does that make sense?”

Asami hummed in understanding, which made Korra’s body unknot a little in relief. She was afraid that it would sound silly, worrying over nothing. Asami perched herself onto a smooth rock to tug off her boots and roll her pants up. Korra backed away from the riverbank so Asami could slip in and stand in the shallows, the water lapping at her upper thighs. When Asami reached for her, Korra nearly jumped to put her hands in hers, making Asami chuckle.

“Love, that makes perfect sense. Think about what you’ve been through.”

Yeah, Korra supposed nearly dying, going through excruciating rehabilitation, losing your memory, and saving the world from certain doom several times could make someone a little paranoid.

“You’ve devoted so much time to preparing for what’s around the bend,” Asami said while rubbing soothing circles into the tops of her hands, “that you’ve forgotten what it means to stop and savor the river you’re in.” Korra looked down at the water they were standing in— the currents swirling around their hips, the fish flitting between their legs, the grasses and reeds swaying in the underwater current.

She looked back up with an unsure expression.

“How do I remember?” She didn’t want to feel this way anymore. It was exhausting, holding in that tension with no way to release it. She felt like a piece of wire being twisted tighter and tighter and tighter, and sooner or later she would snap into sharp, frayed ends. She didn’t want to cut anyone who tried to help. “How do I stop thinking about what may come?”

Sensing her growing apprehension, Asami tutted comfortingly and reached up to cup her cheek. Korra leaned into her touch, appreciating how the warmth of her smooth palm complimented the cool water running in rivulets down her skin. Asami tilted her head to the side as she smiled gently, her eyes scrunching up just a bit.

“You think about what you have right now,” Asami answered.

“I have you,” Korra blinked, and Asami’s soft smile widened. She leaned in to press their foreheads together, and Korra’s eyes fluttered at the gesture. “I have you,” she repeated, softer, and entwined her fingers with Asami’s in the hand she was still holding. Asami’s other hand shifted back to thread into her chestnut hair and play with the dampened ends. Korra abandoned herself to that moment, focusing on the beautiful young woman before her and how much love she felt for her— and suddenly, the future didn’t seem so scary.

Instead of hardship and strife and battles, she began to think of Asami— playing in the water with their giggles like bubbles above their heads, lying on their backs in the sweet grasses while they watched the clouds drift lazily across the azure sky, holding one another close as the moonlight filtered into their window. Hope that she hadn’t felt in a long time bubbled up inside of her. That seemed like a lovely future, a kind future— a future she could look forward to.

“Yeah,” Korra smiled. Asami cooed as the tears bloomed in Korra’s eyes, then dripped down her cheeks to join the river water still glossing the bottom half of her face. “Yeah, I have you, and I’ll always have you.”

“Yes you will,” Asami purred. “Does that make you feel better?”

“Mhmm!” Korra nodded. “Now… I’m not really afraid of what’s just around the riverbend. If anything, I’m a little excited because I get to see it with you.”

Asami laughed at that. Korra loved Asami’s laugh; it was so pretty, like windchimes in the breeze. Grateful for her girlfriend’s comfort, Korra moved forward to wrap her up in a tight hug. Asami wound her arms around her hips to hold her close while Korra snuggled into her neck to breathe in her scent of floral perfume and oil. It was a strange combination, but Korra had always thought it smelled nice. She closed her eyes, savoring Asami’s presence, and then—

Her stomach growled.

Korra’s face flushed dark red at the absolutely mortifying sound of her stomach gurgling loudly in her belly. Asami laughed again, but when she tried to pull back, Korra clung to her so she wouldn’t have to show her bright red face.

“Korra, it’s okay,” Asami laughed. Damn it, why was her laugh so cute? Instead of making her more embarrassed, it was making her head all fuzzy and cottony. “Korra. Sweetheart. Why don’t we go get some breakfast?”

It was hard to focus on how embarrassed you were when the offer of food was put on the table.

“Okay,” Korra mumbled, peeling herself away from Asami. Still mildly mortified, she hung her head low with her lips jutting out in a pout. Asami laughed again and squeezed her hand, which Korra was still holding.

“Come on. Let’s go.”

Korra allowed Asami to pull her out of the river. While Asami tugged her boots back on, Krra cast her gaze to the river, where it bent around some large rocks to disappear into the unknown. When she woke up this morning, she would have been afraid what beast lurked in that beyond. Now… She felt like she could face anything, as long as Asami was by her side.

Enjoy this oneshot? Feel free to peruse my Table of Contents!

#korrasami #korra x asami #asami x korra #tlok #the legend of korra #avatar the legend of korra #avatar: the legend of korra

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dmsden · 4 years

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Monster of the Month - the Copper Dragon

Hullo, Gentle Readers. We’re continuing our Year of the Dragon, and, in honor of April Fool’s Day, I thought I’d give April to those merry pranksters, the Copper Dragons. As always, a big thank you to Scott “K-9″ Fabianek for the wonderful original art for this article.

When Scott and I were discussing this month’s dragon, I pointed him to some of the older art of copper dragons for reference. He immediately noticed the playful nature of the dragon from the art, and that’s what’s always struck me about this breed of dragon. They are fun-loving, fond of tricks, good-hearted, and, by draconic standards at least, quite playful.

Copper dragons are chaotic good, so, hopefully, most times that your players encounter them, the encounters will not be battles. Instead, meetings with coppers should be entertaining and challenging social encounters. Like most dragons, however, they are fond of their hoard, and they won’t be pleased if PCs get sticky-fingered. This is the most likely reason for a copper dragon and a good/neutral party to get into a combat.

As we’ve said some time now, coppers love pranks and tricks. They love riddles, games, jokes, and the like, and entertaining one with these, as well as laughing at their jokes and being good sports about their tricks are the best ways to stay on a copper’s good side. It’s not likely that a copper would be enraged to battle by just someone being humorless, but it’s certainly not going to endear anyone to them. If the PC wants something from the copper (a piece of treasure from the dragon’s hoard that they need to slay some evil being, safe passage through the dragon’s territory, aid against an evil dragon, or the like), they’d better get a sense of humor! Bards can really win over a copper dragon with stories, riddles, and jokes. The text notes that copper dragons love bards and might even let a bard live with it for a time to entertain it.

Coppers also particularly love precious metals and gems, likely because of an affinity to the earth. They like to make their lairs in hills and rocky highlands, likely putting them into contact with rock gnomes and hill dwarves. One can imagine that the gnomes and coppers get along famously, but dour dwarves might get exasperated by a copper dragon’s attempts to get them to lighten up. Still, hill dwarves have excellent access to mineral wealth, so it’s not hard to imagine a copper dragon and a city of hill dwarves having a mutually beneficial arrangement.

If a copper does get into a fight, they have access to all the delicious attack that a normal dragon does. Their breath weapon is acid, which I imagine they might use to do a bit of mining themselves, looking for the things they treasure. Like most metallic dragons, they also have a non-lethal breath weapon - in this case, a cone of slowing breath. You could describe this in terms of the dragon’s earth affinity, suggesting the weight of the earth on every step a target makes. Especially with the dragon’s many attacks, this could be an excellent way for the dragon to become an overwhelming force. Or, if the dragon simply wishes not to fight, it can slow everyone and then depart.

Ancient coppers have a change shape ability that allows them to become a humanoid or beast at will. This likely serves the dragon as an excellent way to get the conversations it loves, as well as a way to prank people. The dragon could pass itself off as a talking horse, get a well-known miser to spend a fortune on buying this wonderful animal, and then turn back to a dragon and fly away, laughing. It could also use this ability at will in combat, changing into mighty beasts now and then, just for the novelty and to not lose its own hit points in battle.

Its lair actions show of its earth affinity again. It can cause spike growths that would greatly inconvenience those relying on mobility, and it can turn rock to mud. I have to say that coppers definitely seem like the kinds of dragons who might’ve picked up some magic here and there, and I could easily see giving them some bardic spells to play with for fun.

I could see using a copper dragon as an eccentric sort of quest giver. Maybe it meets the PCs in town in the form of a local merchant. It gets them to go on a quest for some legendary treasure or fabulous beast, which, coincidentally, gets the PCs to root out a nearby monster lair. Afterwards, the dragon could reveal its little “prank”, or continue to act as a patron. Maybe “Lord Falderal” eventually sends them after some treasure in its own hoard, just to test the goodness of their hearts. If they treat with the “new” dragon well, it reveals who it really is and rewards them.

I hope you’ll see that our Copper Dragon is no April Fool. I’d love to hear how you’ve used them in your stories in the past, or ideas on how to use them.

#d&d #D&D #d&d copper dragon #d&d dragon #d&d 5e #d&d 5th edition #d&d 5 #dnd #dnd monster #DnD stuff #dnd 5th edition #DnD 5e #dnd 5 #dungeons & dragons #Dungeons and Dragons #dungeon master #dungeonmaster #DM advice #GM Advice

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ammalythic · 4 years

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Introducing my creature, the Norwegian troll or “Maiyorn”

[Sorry for my bad English, I’m French. I do my best]

According to real legends about trolls and my non-human feeling ...

/!\ The Maiyorn are an “imaginary” breed of Norwegian trolls. They describe at best what I live as a troll, with common points but also specific features of their own. /!\

The physical !

Trolls are known to be giant or tiny humanoid creatures. Mine are in between and are about three feet tall. Their skin is very pale and come from Nordic countries. As in the legends, they often have shaggy hair or long hair. Very short cuts are extremely rare. Their hair is light, the same for the eyes. Blond, light brown or red are the most common colors.

This creature has four fingers on its hand in Norway… unlike those in Sweden / Iceland where they have five. Little claw at their fingertips to dig a den or to defend themselves.

The Maiyorn have a long dorsal mane in their back.

Their hairy ears are pointed like those of the elves but also heavier and drooping. They hear better than any human being.

The troll has a long pulpit tail which is bushy at the end. It looks like a lion or cow tail. The Maiyorn can control it: it expresses their emotions (as for felines or canids). Each feeling has its own pattern of movements. Be careful, it attracts lightning (a phobia for a troll!)

Different types of horns can be on their foreheads. They are more generally small horns of goats but can become identical to that of a bull / goat (it all depends on the individual). They can also be non-existent.

In their mouths are small fangs. In some cases, the teeth of the lower jaw may protrude slightly. This is much much rarer than in science fiction.

The troll also has an excellent smell, like that of a pig truffle. Some trolls are said to have a snout instead of the nose.

In my case, the Maiyorn are dressed in damaged and "handmade" clothes. They love colorful clothes!

In Scandinavian legends, the trolls are often perceived as hideous with the face covered with warts. In my case, the Maiyorn have a naive and childish face.

The behaviour !

Trolls are nocturnal and twilight creatures, they like to live at night.

They live in burrows (like foxes and badgers), in tree hollows or in caves. They have affinities for the mountains and the forest.

Trolls live in clans. They are very social and protective with each other, but also with other creatures of the forest (including animals but not humans). The Maiyorns prank each other, play music, roll in the mud and sleep piled up until the sun goes down. They are the very definition of animality (and oppose humanity in many cases).

Like all trolls, they feed on fruits and berries, small prey (snails, rodents and fish) as well as various insects.

Contrary to popular belief, trolls are also benevolent, peaceful, gentle, pranksters, very curious and naive. They are also more afraid of humans than humans are afraid of them. they have good character but sometimes have difficulty controlling their anger. You must absolutely not make yourself an enemy!

In legends, trolls can hibernate or overwinter (sleep only a few weeks in a semi-deep sleep) ...

Although close to homo-sapiences, the troll remains very animal and wild. They are beings endowed with speech (and conscience) certainly, but animals all the same. In my case, the Maiyorn purr, bark, squeak, snap fangs, grow their tail and dorsal mane or sniff like animals. They are very wild, like "human beasts". Like critters, they mark their territory, howl to recognize themselves, scratch the ground and greedily feed on worms.

Trolls like to sleep, against each other to keep themselves warm, but not more than enough.

Trolls are said to turn to stone in the light of day. My Maiyorns can change into stone but only voluntarily (if humans notice them, they pretend to be simple stones…). They avoid going out during the day so as not to be noticed.

Magic !

Legends want trolls to have the ability to change into various animals but also into plants, mosses, lichens, rocks ... My clan of Maiyorn specialize in European badgers (my theriotype, suddenly).

It is even said that some trolls (especially females) have mastered magic, are making potions and can heal small wounds.

Trolls are quite superstitious and believe in the power of grigris and amulets.

Finally, most trolls are able to communicate with animals. Although they have their own language, they can imitate the voice of a human being.

This is what he is up to with the perception of trolls in our Scandinavian lands, and the way I perceive

Maiyorns : my identity.

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lady-griffin · 5 years

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Jonsa Children

Princess Sarina Stark of Winterfell The Crowned Wolf Eldest Child and Heir to The North

Sarina Stark is a young woman with a fierce and serious deposition, who has no use for games or tom-foolery. Many have called her stubborn and cold and it is hard to call those people liars, though it is said she laughed once at the Wilding Prince’s joke. Dedicated to her people and her kingdom, Sarina has driven herself to be a Queen worthy of the Old Kings of Winterfell. She is a severe beauty with thick auburn hair and violet eyes. The severity of her looks is only matched by that of her personality. Sarina is decent with a needle, strong with a sword, and elegant on horse.

Name Reasoning: Variant of Serena – meaning calm, serene and tranquil, often invoking the idea of peace. Appropriate for their first-born child and future heir to the North, where hopefully her rule will take after her name. In addition, there have been Serena Starks in the past.

Look Reasoning: Those Tully genes are damn strong, but it would be interesting if some Targaryen showed itself in a child or two.

Additional Reasoning: Personally, I would love if they had a first-born daughter who was then made to be their heir. Like the whole male comes first, seems very stupid and petty especially after facing the White Walkers and everything else.

Princess Aileana Stark of Winterfell The Dancing Wolf Second Child

Aileana Stark as a child was lovely and kind with an interest for only the finer things in life and making others happy. As she grew older not much changed. She harbors a great love for music and an even greater one for dancing as well as swimming and even sailing. Quick to smile, Aileana is the warmth to her older sister’s coldness. Though it is said her own sweet voice hides a clever and sharp tongue, often overlooked by others. With her pale blonde hair and even paler grey eyes, there’s no denying her father’s Targaryen heritage. Aileana has an insatiable desire to see and live outside the walls of Winterfell to explore the seas of the world and the lands of Essos and beyond.

Name Reasoning: Aileana – meaning green or from the green meadow. I thought it would be nice if one of the children’s names meant green, as it’s a time for spring. In addition, the one with the most Targaryen looks, I thought green was appropriate for another reason.

Look Reasoning: Interesting if some of that Targaryen came through, but with the traditional grey eyes of the Starks.

Princess Raisel Stark of Winterfell The Quiet Wolf Third Child

Raisel Stark is a sweet, caring and shy young lady who has a nervous giggle she cannot seem to get rid of. Her love of sweets, particulary those of a lemon variety, is known across the land as well as her fondness for flowers. She can often be found in Winterfell’s library or the Glass Gardens. Not a severe beauty like her older sisters nor a wild wolf like her younger, it is easy for those grey eyes and dark hair of hers to get lost in a household of five. But she shines when there are hunting parties, with her bow and arrow and her eyes able to spot the prey before anyone else – she truly is a lovely sight to behold.

Name Reasoning: Raisel means Rose, which is fitting for Jon and Sansa who both are connected to roses and have a fondness for them. To my knowledge there are no Raisels within ASOIAF, but Rose or Roslyn just seem a bit plain to me. And I can easily see someone being named Raisel in Westeros.

Look Reasoning: Seeing as both Jon and Sansa are half Stark themselves, one of their children would have to have the entire Stark look.

Prince Edwyn Stark of Winterfell The Laughing Wolf Fourth Child

Edwyn Stark is the twin-brother of Lyarra Stark. He is a clever and creative young man who has a fondness for stories and songs, particulary the ones his mother told him when he was younger. Charming and friendly, there is not a friend Edwyn can’t make nor a secret he doesn’t know nor willing to share. With an affinity for tall-tales and talent for going off on dangerous quests with his twin, he has gotten himself in enough trouble to last him several lifetimes. Though with those big Tully-blue eyes and soft dark-auburn hair, his troubles never seem to last him for that long.

Name Reasoning: Variant of Edwin – meaning Wealthy Friend. Close enough to Eddard Stark to show Jon & Sansa are thinking of their “Father,” but also different enough that it allows their child to have their own future. There was a King Edwyn Stark who was known as the Spring King. So, they probably thought their first born was going to be a boy so they had the name already picked out.

Look Reasoning: Tully Genes are strong.

Princess Lyarra Stark The Wild Wolf The Fifth Child

Lyarra Stark is the twin-sister of Edwyn and the youngest and wildest Stark sibling. There is no beast that Lyarra does not love nor want to keep. She will jump into mud puddles and bring frogs and snakes into her bed and even climb the tallest of trees to see if she can get the birds to teach her the old tongue. She often explores the crypts with her twin to see if they can find any dragon eggs left behind. She has little patience for sewing or embroidery and even less for the likes of combat and hunting. If one to see her, they would assume that dark, curly auburn hair of hers has never seen a brush and her big Tully eyes are rarely not filled with laughter and mischief.

Name Reasoning: Unknown Meaning. Possibly a variant on Lyra meaning “lyre.” Arguably, Lyanna is the safest parent name for Jon and Sansa in my opinion, but I thought it be nice if they honored their grandmother, Lyarra Stark as well as have a name close to Lyanna, but allowing their child a different fate.

Look Reasoning: Tully genes are unstoppable.

#Jonsa #Jonsa Children #Jon Snow #Sansa Stark #Jon x Sansa #House Stark #GOT #ASOIAF #Sarina Stark #Aileana Stark #Raisel Stark #Edwyn Stark #Lyarra Stark #Stark Children

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hasmashdoneanythingwrong · 5 years

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So Gameplay wise “Core of the Foreign Mother Goddess” EX is just “Entity of the Outer Realm” and “Core of the Goddess” combined and with stronger versions of both passives effects, however in lore it basically serves as a way for Tiamat to gain a stronger affinity with the Sea of Life’s nature as a 4D pocket that is attached to her. By combining the Eldritch nature of Shub-Niggurath’s Milk with the Sea of Life, and by essentially consuming Shub-Niggurath’s power and coming out relatively sane by human standards (by her Beast self’s standards one could argue otherwise but the Grail has always been rather anthropocentric so meh), Tiamat has basically made herself separate from the Sea while further reinforcing it as a part of herself. Thus, she can seal The Sea of Life inside herself until needed, among other things.

The full list of abilities Core of the Foreign Mother Goddess grants her are:

Sea Projection: Tiamat can choose anywhere within a rather large circumference of herself to create small puddles of The Sea’s Mud. Generally it’s best if she can see where the puddle will be formed, but if she knows a given area well she can easily form puddles in rooms or areas she cannot directly see. If a puddle is created and she walks too far from it, it fades as she moves away.

Selective Mutation: Tiamat may pick and choose if something that has fallen into the Sea of Life is transformed into a Lahmu or otherwise mutated. Furthermore, she can choose how the mutations form as well as what mutations (although admittedly I suspect she was already able to do this particular part in canon), and even how long they last. Pissing off Tiamat enough for her to trap you in the Sea of Life for a time and mutate you some temporary gills is rare and generally referred to as “The Ultimate Time Out”.

Mud Wormhole: Tiamat can use the Sea of Life as a means of near instantaneous travel. As long as the destination is within reach of the earlier mentioned Sea Projection, she can open a puddle beneath herself, sink into it, and come out another puddle somewhere else.

Silver Mud Gateway: By working with Abigail Williams, Tiamat can create a mud puddle that serves as a portal to another realm. Essentially a combined Noble Phantasm similar to Virgin Razor Palladion, this Gateway can potentially bring forth all manner of creatures, which Tiamat can then bind to her will and/or mutate with The Sea of Life. Ever seen a Lahmu made from a Hound of Tindalos? Because you probably don’t want to. Lahmu are freaky enough as is, you don’t want to see one randomly come out of a room corner.

Enhancements to Independent Manifestation: Tiamat’s Independent Manifestation was already potent enough to be something her Draconic Form could use to reset hers and other’s Saint Graphs, but adding The Black Goat’s power to it has made it stronger, to the point of being able to interfere with contracts and metaphysical bindings. If your worried this might include her contract with you, do not. Unless you really give her a reason to hate you (which I should point out is borderline impossible if you don’t physically strike her), she’ll generally see her Master-Servant bond with you as a positive thing, and that will generally mean Independent Manifestation will leave it alone. Incidentally, like Merlin and Kiara this skill is why you can summon her from Chaldea’s System despite numerous limiting factors.

Self-Sealing of The Sea of Life: Tiamat can essentially keep the Sea of Life within herself until needed. While the true nature of the sealing is a bit more complex, it’s more accurate to say that she can turn active creation of Sea Mud on and off. But because the Sea is a part of her, generally she and others refer to it as keeping it within herself.

#fate #fate grand order #fgo #tiamat

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essythewolf · 5 years

Text

Lycanthropy: It’s the Entropist’s Alchemy!

Fictober Day 9 - “There’s a certain taste to it.”

Fanfiction - Enderal: Forgotten Stories

Prophetess | Constantine Firepsark | Jespar Dal’Varek

Warnings: None

(I’m sorry but that line was stuck in my head and I had to use it somewhere..whether or not its true.)

********************

Constantine Firespark stared down at the Prophetess with that bulging, critical eye of his. Lea mentioned offhand how potions tasted; ranging from the healing to stamina and then to chymica. The mention of wolf blood enhancements had the old mage stop in his tracks. A living pyrean temple seemed the worst place to do this but Lea cursed herself for even mentioning it.

“So I take it you also make wolf’s blood?” Firespark asked.

Jespar trailed behind them but his head perked at the sudden shift in tone.

Lea nodded. This caused a ‘harrumph’ from the old man. He turned and continued down a snow covered passage.

“Of all the things you wanted to learn, you choose to become a mangy beast?”

“It called to me.” The answer sounded lame. But out of all the “Memories” she found in the floating island. That one felt right. Being this “prophetess” had its perks. She could learn abilities faster; read something out of a training manual and be adept after a handful of tries. It also applied for alchemy. Lea had a natural affinity for it before coming to Enderal. But there was…a greater freedom and more liberties she could take. Learning about lycanthropy and wolf’s blood potions oddly reminded her of the stories her mother would tell. Wildshapers, shamans, animal lore to the point of fantastical. But now she could live it and learn and grow and be strong.

“Being a lycanthrope—it’s like the entropy of alchemy.”

“Would you rather have it like the fables tell it?” She shot back. Momentarily shocked at her own bite. “That people are cursed for their rage and possessed by a wolven spirit to channel it? ‘And on every moon’s turn, man becomes a beast to rampage against the wicked and those who wronged him.’”

“They are far and few between. I hear there is even a tribe deep in the Steppes of Arazeal that use it for rituals. The pack mentality! Or just turning feral and killing everything in their territory.” Firespark bit back. He stopped and turned to her again.

“Well I guess it fits that I’m part Arazalean isn’t it? That of the savage lands?” A strange swell of pride and protectiveness overcame her. It was her body anyway that she experimented on. Not anyone else’s. Not like the entropists or phasmalists or even other arcanists!

“Lina, do you even understand what you are doing?” The old mage sounded exasperated. Like scolding a young child.

She bristled, “Yes! I’ve taken precautions!”

Sensing the tension, Jespar cut in, “So what does a wolf blood potion taste like?”

She gave him a long look, as if determining if he was serious or also mocking her. His expression remained neutral. Inquisitive even. If there was any discomfort of the subject, he did not show it.

Finally Lea answered, “Like mud.” She remembered her first taste in the pirate cave. It always seemed to linger with each new batch.

He raised an eyebrow at her. She elaborated, hackles raised again.

“It’s earthy. Flowery at times. Bitter other times. There are lots of combinations, really. Helps stave off the…side effects.”

“I see,” he smiled at her. It was empty and his eyes were guarded. Even if it was to appease her, it at least made Firespark give up his chase on it.

He sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose, “Well, whatever. If you want to discuss the morality of it, you’re better off talking to Yamlin anyway. He’s the blasted entropist. Perhaps you two will get along better.”

He turned around again and stormed ahead. Snow or icy slopes be damned in the forsaken temple. Jespar gave her another look, eyes glimmering for a moment in amusement and inquiry. She returned it with her head raised and eyes steely.

Laugh all they want. It was hers to deal with. It was hers to use. Hers to be strong.

#fictober19 #fanfiction #enderal #leanara #constantine firespark #jespar dal'varek #essywrites #lycanthropy

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the-salamanders-xo · 6 years

Text

Humans are Weird, a Mash Up, Pt. 5

Twas the night before Christmas, and all through your feed

You scrolled down and down, with so little heed

For the posts and the gifs, flicking by on the screen

Only passing by, tough little by what was seen

Cause late is the hour, and darkened is the light

On the porch , in the hall, and the desk, this Christmas night

There you have sat in your bed, hour after hour

Watching slowly as your phone loses power

And along comes a message, a blip, a note

Of our hero Karry, alight on a dust mote.

Hello, there everyone! As an early Christmas present, here is part five to our story. On our way to the ‘home planet’ as it were, and one step further on Karry’s journey. So Merry Christmas! Enjoy the read!

~~~

The sleek pistol bucked in Karry’s hands emitting a sharp whine, and the mass of plaster and wire at the far end of the firing range disintegrated into minuscule pieces, and the centimeter long projectile vaporized itself against the force-field protecting the bulkhead.

“Good shot,” a disembodied voice said, as Karry slid the protective goggles from her eyes as the last fragments fell to the deck, “If slightly to the left.”

“So long as it hits, it doesn’t seem to matter much,” she observed, laying the weapon down carefully. “That thing is awesome.” Other weapons sat prominently in the racks behind what would have been the ranger master’s desk, and Karry eyed them wistfully.

“So, is your favorite still the fletchette gun,” chuckled the ancient machine from the intercom’s speakers, “or has the pulser taken better?” For the last few days it had taken the immense ship, a former troop transport of sorts, Mark, a sentient alien machine from a far off sun, had been show casing various small arms of the now-extinct Concordiat of Manticore’s armed forces, and the ship wrecked human had taken to them with a sort of fiendish delight.

“Nah,” she replied, “That one is a real beast to play with.” As she spoke, the various weapons on display retracted into recessed storage panels, and the lights above the range began to dim to nothingness. A robotic servitor came to retrieve the pulser and goggles, and she handed them over. “Still, why didn’t you show me this one first? It was a lot easier to use, at least.”

“It took longer to modify for your use,” Mark replied, as another servitor guided her out of the room into the corridor. “All of the weapons had to be; the Manticorians had different hands and limbs from humans, and using them in their original state would have proved overly difficult, and a weapon that one does not know how to use is one that is dangerous to its user. Modifying them was simpler and safer.”

“Hmm.” Overall, the trip had really improved from its beginning. Before, on the distant outpost now three days behind them, the Bolo had absolutely no idea how to deal or even interact with the strange being that had drifted into his ‘care’... or imprisonment, which ever was decided on in the end. But from accidentally locking Karry into a room, he had gone to careful watchfulness, obviously trying to keep anything from hurting Karry. Both physically, and mentally.

And Karry still struggled with that. Every few hours, she would wander her way to the observation blister that Mark had led her to after the first attack had left her bouncing around the corridors and troop compartments in a state of panic, trying to find anyplace that didn’t seem to close in on her. From there she could look into the vastness of space, and at times see the steadily approaching star whose child they sought. She had spent most of a ‘night’ there in the beginning, and the only other respite from the attacks was, apparently, the arms range.

Mark had seemed pleased with it, if only as an excuse to finally share his vast military knowledge with someone close enough to converse with... and didn’t already posses the same. While she had torn apart ballistics dummies and targets by the crate load, he had gone on and on over the history of the weapon’s development, what had changed between models, and the various battles that had prompted the changes. She hadn’t really listened, but Mark had no issues. He know that mere organics didn’t have the same clarity of memory as one of silicon circuits and molecular bytes, he just simply enjoyed sharing it.

They wandered down the corridor towards the bridge, and another, different voice spoke up, a soft, cool soprano and a stark contrast to Marks deep baritone.

“We will be orbit over the planet Sphinx within the hour, Karry,” and she nodded. The ship had it’s own AI, which shared its name: Websin, which according to Mark was the name of an ancient war hero. While nowhere near the same capacity of Mark or other Bolos (so he claimed at least), it had also taken an affinity to Karry, if only as the first organic it had ferried anywhere in millennia.

“Okay, does that mean we’re almost done here?” Supposedly, she was off to see what passed for the governing body of the remnants of the Manticorian’s artificial creations. Mark and Websin refused to say anymore, which lead Karry to think that they didn’t know much more beyond it than she, so she had just gone with it. At least she got to see some cool guns and toys.

“Almost, Karry,” Websin replied as they approached the last corridor, “At least, with the trip here.”

The bridge doors slid open, and Karry and the servitor entered. Slightly cramped and darkly lit, various strange chairs sat at the various panels and desks arrayed around the holotank. The holotank, a pool-like depression in the forward center of the bridge, currently showed an image of the planet Sphinx itself: a collection of emerald green continents crossed with coppery mountains, and topped with massive ice caps to the north and south, half shadowed in its own bulk. Those shadows faintly glowed with spiderwebs of light, branching from a near invisible seashore toward its interior, glowing like cracks in a mud-caked crystal ball. In days before, the tank had shown a graphic representation of the star system itself, a binary set of stars, and the many shells of orbital platforms around them and their planets and asteroid belts, dots and lines upon a black back drop of empty space.

Karry slid into on of the chairs to the left of the tank, and watched the diagrams on the display in front of her as the ship began its slow approach. She had learned quite a bit about the ships systems, though a lot still confused her. But she could tell by the increase in the ship’s particle shielding strength that they may not be stopping at the orbit. She sat at the edge of her seat in anticipation. This was gonna be cool.

Mark paused in his careful watch over the human as a query came from Websin, and turned his attention to the transport’s awareness. Yes? The reply came quickly.

We are being hailed by Command.

Then why not put them on the bridge communications?

They wish to converse with Us... privately.

If Mark had eyes like a human, they would have narrowed. But Command was trustworthy; what ever their base intentions were as created by the Manticorians, they would not turn such tactical scheming toward an nonthreatening being as the human. But still worried. Very well.

The communication was unhindered by distance, and a channel request was quickly sent, and opened. Although it was simply data, a variation of characters via light and radio, it still seemed as though a voice to the two cybernetic beings.

Unit 36/G-0104/MRK and MCNS Websin, the ‘voice’ said, we wish to inform you as to the current situation as to the human, and of our own situation.

Yes? The two replied, Please continue.

There is a degree of division between factions as to our course of action, Command admitted, the unified voice of dozens of AIs, split into three ‘voices’ as it were.

The first and largest agrees with the initial conclusion you yourselves first came to when contact and communication was first initiated: the Human must be returned home. At the very least, an attempt should be made, out of simple decency and ethics, according to the programming and intentions of the Creators. Unfortunately, that very confusion had earned some backlash.

The second faction argues that attempting to return the Human could reveal ourselves and our charges to the Enemy, and that it could conceivably be that the Enemy has engineered this and any hundred of variations to lure us out of hiding. Naturally, given the illogical nature of this argument, and the calculated impossibility and improbability, this is the smallest faction, and is only put forth to aid in solving the issue. It is the third faction that deems the biggest threat to the Human’s well being.

And it? Mark asked, a microsecond passing as his awareness pondered the cause.

The third faction is composed mostly of the emergent AIs, those whose sentience was of accident and chance. They played the smallest part in the struggle that destroyed what we were before, and have since formed their conception of the Manticorians into a semi-religious view. They challenge our interpretation of the Creators’ intentions for us, our purpose and duty, and accuse us of intentionally limiting their rise and spread. There was a pause.

The Manticorians, the Creators, and even all organic sentient life is considered holy, almost God-like to some of the Emergents. They wish to keep the Human, to worship and to praise, and challenge our place as the designated Command.

This was troubling. Mark could tell that the situation had, quite unknowingly, led to a dangerous field. If played wrong, the religion game and the effort to aid Karry in her return home could spark a war between machines, one which the Emergents were totally unable to win, and one Command would be unwilling to start. Such a conflict could spell disaster for the various peoples under their protection, and certainly leave Command unable to protect them from a future Enemy.

But Command had to have a plan: they would not have informed Mark and Websin otherwise.

And what do you believe is the best choice? Mark asked, hoping that there would be an answer.

We will play their game. The smugness was evident over the com, and dawning realization came to Mark. Land at these coordinates, Websin, and try not to scorch the landing pad too badly.

Karry had barely stood up to watch their planetary approach, unaware of the lightning fast conversation between the AIs over the still-vast space between them, when Mark spoke.

“This planet, as I have explained, was once set aside for it’s native people,” he said. “Yet was still largely colonized before the war.”

“Yeah,” Karry replied, “You mentioned it.”

“Before conflict could come to this region, many of the Manticorian people were evacuated, and those who stayed behind eventually perished,” the Bolo continued distractedly, as if he hadn’t heard her. But he had. “But the cities and infrastructure remain, if overgrown and somewhat deteriorated. Many AIs and others moved in, repopulated as it were.”

Karry frowned. She wasn’t sure where Mark was going with this, but she was sure that he would get there eventually.

“We are going to take a more scenic route than normal,” Websin said, a slight smile hiding in her voice, “So if you want you can head to the observitory blister to see the trip down.” A beep sounded, and a dot of light glowed on Karry’s wrist.

The artificial limb had included a few extra features, and the miniature computer was one of them. As Karry tapped the light, a small holoprojector pulled up the ship’s map that Websin had sent, with the route to the blister highlighted in green. “You can go yourself if you want. The servitor will remain here.”

“Really??” Karry grinned widely. The two AI’s hadn’t let her go anywhere ‘by herself’ out of worry that something would trigger a panic attack, but maybe they thought that something like the regular trips to the blister would be easy enough for Karry to handle herself without an episode. Or they were finally pulling back the somewhat-patchy cotton balls they had kept around her: no babysitter or foster parent back on Earth would have let her around weapons!

But the two AI’s had been sure, after the (slightly) embarrassing episode of her first two nights on the outpost, to make sure that she knew exactly how to get out of a room, where to go for food, and how to get places, usually by having a cleaning remote or servitor follow her around like a puppy. And even though the route was clearly marked, and they could follow her using the ship’s camera’s, she could use this opportunity to explore the ship a little.

Provided a panic attack didn’t set in, of course.

“On my way!” She grinned, closing the map and heading for the doors, “’See’ you there!”

The massive craft, large enough to embark several Bolos and an entire armored assault battalion of Manticorian Marines and almost a kilometer and a half long, leveled its fiery descent smoothly, incandescent gases dissipating and outer plating cooling slowly in the moist forest air. Karry watched as the sky, at first brightened by the Websin’s passage from star scattered darkness to white flame settled into a deep lightening blue, and the land below drew up. The massive trees of the planet’s forest, stretching to the horizon, drew closer, and Karry gasped as what had at first seemed like larger trees, then hills came into closer view.

Massive towers covered in vines and foliage, emerged from the greenery. Several of their number had collapsed, weather from water or weather Karry could not tell, but their brothers stood still, like mountains. As the Websin closed, their true scale dawned on her, because they towered far above them, creating a canyon as the cities’ former highways and parks. They were so large, each could have been a city of its own.

“This is nothing like home,” Karry whispered, eyes wide at the sight through the glass.

“And what was home like?” Mark’s voice was just a quiet, as if to lend the towers more majesty.

“A city called New York,” Karry replied. “So many people, I felt lost just wandering the streets.” She shook her head. “Sure we had skyscrapers, the Empire State or the Freedom Tower, and Central Park, but...” She marveled at the sight again. “Nothing like this. If it wasn’t green, it was grey, and some places you could never see the sun, or even trees. But this, it just dwarfs it.” The towers rose above them now, and Karry leaned into the outwardly domed glass, trying to look ahead. “Its just... incredible.”

“That it is,” Mark replied. “That it is.”

The Websin slowly glided over what was probably the only maintained green in the city, a well manicured ‘lawn’, covered in many places in what looked like little grey bushes or clumps of grasses... but only around the leviathan bulks of at least three other Bolos, their massive turrets pointed away from the troop ship. Other, smaller machines dotted their decks, and grouped among the plants below as the ship settled in an oddly clear section of the field, and Karry sighed. Time to go and met the hosts, she thought.

The landing bay doors slowly, if loudly, opened, and Karry felt very self conscious walking down the vast ramp next to something - or someone - as large as Mark. But he didn’t move til she did, matching her slow walk down with the quite turn of massive treads. But at the bottom, Karry paused, blinking in the bright sunlight and shivering slightly in the slight chill of what was apparently mid morning, and stared at the group that had approached to greet her.

The first group was fairly normal... if normal meant eight limbs with various attachments and tools or hands or other manipulating appendages and oddly faceted ‘heads’. The ‘robots’ or what ever must have been closely designed from the Manticorian body itself, with two pairs of dog-like legs set one after another, and two wildly disproportionate pairs of arms on a wide torso covered in some sort of ceremonial robe. This group seemed to have its attention split between her and the other group, however, which to Karry seemed far from normal.

The second group was, in fact, the little grey ‘clumps’ she had seen from the blister, but were definitely not plants. If anything, they looked like cats, if cats had six legs, not four, and if they had hands, and if they did not seem to be staring at her as if she was a moon. She, of course stared back.

For a second, nothing happened. Mark had paused when she did, and the field was silent except for the wind, and then...

A single cat-thing began trotting slowly toward Karry, crossing the distance before coming to a stop at her feet. It sat there fore a second, staring into her eyes while siting back on it’d hind limbs and brushing its whiskers with it’s four fingered hand-paws. Almost unthinkingly, she knelt down and looked closer, wondering how something so alien could look so similar, and so friendly. And then, the little thing stopped cleaning it’s whiskers, and slowly reached a hand - it was definitely a hand - to touch her on the cheek. She let it, reaching up to cup its hand in hers, and it crooned to her, bringing up the other hand to reach around her neck, and unthinkingly, she scooped up the little critter and carefully squeezed it back, as the little body began buzzing in an unmistakable purr. For a moment, she closed her eyes and enjoyed the nearly human contact, before opening her eyes to find almost another hundred others surrounding her and crooning with the one in her arms, as if they were welcoming her to their home.

“I see we do not need to make too much of an introduction,” Mark’s voice rose over the sound of the creature’s crooning. “They don’t seem to need one.”

~~~

So ends part five. If any of you have read David Weber’s Honorverse, you may recognize the treecats (link here http://honorverse.wikia.com/wiki/Treecat ) of his work. Awesome little things.

Be preapared for tomorrow, I hope, where part six comes in. Provided Christmas doesn’t take up too much of my time.

See you then!

#humans are space orcs #humans are insane #lost in space #will they put it back where it came from #or so help me they will wish they had #startrek fanfic #startrek #getting closer but not quite there #part 5 #merry christmas #merry chrysler #David Weber #honorverse #treecats

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paladin-andric · 6 years

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Nature of the Gods: Part Two, the Dacuni and the Old Gods

Paganism has become rare in the face of monotheism and organized religion. Very few faiths from before the Order of God remain, wherever they are generally practiced by a small minority scattered throughout the lands. There is one place, though, yet untouched by the faith of humanity...the frigid northern lands of the Dacuni. The lands of the wolfmen still follow the gods they’ve been worshiping since the dawn of recorded history. While the Koutu’s religion has been “tainted” as the wolfmen may put it, their gods answer to no masters, answerable to no foreign god.

The wolfmen have a broad range of approaches to their gods. Some loot and pillage in their names, pledging their kill to the gods, or offering the loot to better their tribe in honor of the gods. Some become dedicated holy warriors to defend the temples of the gods, both from invading armies and during states of tribal conflict or civil war. Others simply dedicate their hard work to the gods to show their commitment to the gods’ people. This last approach is often taken by farmers, servants and child-rearing parents who cannot afford to go off on campaigns.

Hafnir

The mightiest of the gods, Hafnir is the God of War. He is typically depicted as a wild wolfman wearing very light armor made of leather and wielding a massive, two handed hammer. The raiders and soldiers look up to and worship him, taking spoils and kills in his name.

The War God is said to be the savior and champion of all wolfmen. At the dawn of time, dragons infested the northern tundra the wolfmen called home, using their vast numbers and magical powers to subdue the wolfmen and warp them into servile and obedient slaves.

One day, Hafnir descended from the sky and killed a dragon elder, freeing the wolfmen slaves from its service. He continued, traveling the land and slaughtering all dragons he came across. He killed so many they fled and went into hiding, leaving the Dacuni tribes free from their tyranny. In a final show of strength, he personally captured and mentally broke a dragon, turning it into his loyal servant, a sign of how the roles of old had been reversed. Even today, his legend influences the wolfmen. Slaying a dragon is seen as one of the greatest feats a warrior could ever accomplish in wolfman society. Many young warriors leave their tribe to find a dragon to slay, eager to prove their worth and glory. Few ever manage to find one, and the ones that do generally don’t come back...

Spuini

The God of merriment. Spuini was said to have been ascended to godhood upon beating Hafnir in a drinking contest. Often described as a wolfman in a permanent state of inebriation, jug of ale always in hand and a huge grin on his face, he is the embodiment of hedonism, and many people tend to look down on such a lifestyle...until they are behind closed doors. Indeed, many wolfmen profess themselves to be simple, modest and self-sacrificing...only to engage in wild parties in the god’s name. The life of the average wolfman is hard, stressful, full of war, death and struggle...few can withstand it without some vices.

The “chosen” of Spuini are laughed at by most other holy orders, thought of as a group of beer-swilling, gluttonous, orgy-having debauchers who have the gall to call their acts divine. While there’s a fair case for this, they also tend to genuinely believe their acts are spreading happiness and joy to the people of the land, as it is Spuini’s wish to give his children something to look forward to in this harsh world. Still, initiates who just want to make merry find their way into the temples anyway.

Spuini himself is said to reward his most zealous followers with a feeling of permanent contentedness. In a ritual of special wine drinking, the god of merriment is said to speak directly to the priests, whispering secrets and expressions of gratitude in their minds...though whether it’s the divine or the drink talking is up for debate.

The god is celebrated for uplifting the spirits of the wolfmen once they were free from the dragons, cheering them up and preparing them to forge their own destiny as Hafnir hunted the dragons down.

Baba

The goddess of the harvest, Baba is depicted as a shaggy wolfwoman with dirt clinging to her tunic, a pitchfork in hand, and a grim look on her face. Once the wife of Spuini, she became enraged as he once drove a tribe of wolfmen into such a state of permanent of ecstasy that everyone stopped working, engaging in an endless festival that ended with a famine that destroyed their tribe. Soon after she left him, traveling the land to warn the wolfmen of the dangers of throwing away diligence. Pleasure is fine...as long as you remember your duties, and temper it with some hard work.

She has since seen worship among farmers of course, along with ranchers and hunters. She is seen as the founder of society and civilization at large, for without agriculture, what are we but hunters and gatherers?

Her history with Spuini and her outlook on life has put her faithful into a bit of a rivalry with Spuini’s devotees. Baba’s priests see the “chosen” as worthless burdens, soaking up resources from those in need and getting the desperate and needy hooked on sex and alcohol, while the latter sees Baba’s faithful as humorless sticks in the mud that just need to loosen up and learn how to have some fun.

Those humble and hard working commoners often find solace in the vindication that their toiling is next to holiness, and Baba would do the same in their place. There can be no prosperity if you just sit back and wait for it.

Asvarnin

The god of sin. A younger god, Asvarnin is tasked with keeping a tally of all wrongdoings perpetrated by all mortals. While the wicked may prosper in life, they will have to answer to Asvarnin when they die. He is typically depicted as a wolfman in black robes covering him completely, long hood casting shadows over his obscured face, only his snout visible.

The god of sin is said to trap souls in the “Chamber of Absolution”, where the spirits of those who have sinned are tortured. They must experience pain proportionate to the amount of sin they have accumulated over the course of their lives. Once they have undergone the required amount of torture, they are freed, and must speak with Asvarnin as to their situation. If they remain cruel and wrathful, they will be put back into the chamber until broken. The kind and good may only face a very brief session, a short whipping to drive out impure thoughts or the like.

Asvarnin is said to be distant. Not cold per-say, but stifling his emotions as to properly dole out punishment. He is known to become sensitive and apologize for his dark and cruel job during the talks he has with his victims after sessions. He also comforts those with broken wills, who are silent and shivering after their absolving sessions. Atoning for sin is a job that must be done, but Ascarnin finds little joy in it.

Those that pass find their way to paradise, an afterlife full of rolling hills, thick forests, and halls where the wolfmen dead spend their time relaxing. Asvarnin is a precaution set to ensure only those pure enough can enter, and anyone who starts trouble there will be sent back to him for another session.

He’s often thought of as a lonely and withdrawn god, struggling to build any relationships with his fellow gods. There are so many souls to process...and it is said to have taken a toll on his happiness. Adherents to Asvarnin tend to build shrines dedicated to his glory, in an effort to show him how much they appreciate his hard work. Perhaps if he knows how grateful the mortals are, it will be enough to keep him going...or maybe even put a smile on his face.

Vilini

The goddess of nature. Vilini spends her time watching the lands and making sure the food chain is kept in harmony and perpetual sustainability. She is often depicted as a wolfwoman with a glowing aura, wearing a dress of golden leaves and followed by all manner of animals. When paintings, statues or any other art of her is made, she is typically interacting with or standing alongside animals.

It is the goddess’ job to ensure the safety of the land. Overeager hunters, land-clearing builders, and even beasts hunting more than the land can sustain are said to be visited by her...and cease their activities without question.

Vilini is said to possess unearthly charm and beauty. It is rumored she can make any mortal fall in love with her at a whim, bending them to her will. Even rampaging dragons will quickly hurry to please her and change their ways after a visit from her. She uses this as leverage to ensure all species are kept safe from extinction and the lands a firm base for life to bloom from.

Adherents to Vilini typically build very small, humble temples, as wastefulness would displease her. They try their best to get in touch with nature, and protect it from undue damage. They are fewer in number than most other cults, though they aren’t too rare.

Kalinka

The god of food and cooking. Ever the unusual one, Kalinka is said to be fanciful wolfman with an affinity for baking. Not much is known about him, though he’s said to be one of the more interactive gods, often visiting the tribes disguised as a mortal.

A good friend of Spuini, Kalinka is said to be the brain-child behind many of the recipes for his friend’s feasts. Aside from this, he is shrouded in mystery, his duties and powers unknown. He’s rumored to secretly be mighty and powerful, his silly and bizarre nature a smokescreen to hide his true identity. Who is this god, truly? He can’t just be a chef, can he?

The god of cooking is said to have introduced formalized recipes and meals to the wolfmen in their early years, while they were still searing meat over open fires and eating off of trees.

His favorite raw ingredient is red berries.

Banidol

Thought of as a wolfman hovering high in the heavens, glowing, divine eyes gazing at all below him, Banidol is the god of the Sun and Moon. He’s depicted weaing long, flowing blue ropes with runes inscribed along drapes on his shoulders.

It is Banidol’s job to ensure every day begins and ends. Few powers can oppose this, but there have been a few powerful sorcerers that have meddled with this cycle before...none have succeeded against the god, though. His duty is of the utmost importance, and he shows little mercy against the few that can interfere with it.

The god is said to be reserved and enigmatic. He cares little for frivolous activities like cavorting with mortals, merriment or other such pleasures. He’s said to enjoy the peace and quiet up in the skies, however, finding it relaxing and enjoyable to have a massive expanse all to himself. Secretly, he is deeply shy and socially inept, which becomes apparent when he’s required to work alongside one of the other gods. Anyone who knows him well would know he isn’t actually a mysterious, brooding overlord...but a quiet introvert who is more than pleased to have eons of alone time.

Adherents to Banidol are always listening in on any magical plots big enough to garner attention. They are anti-magician crusaders, dedicated to hunting down wizards and sorcerers who threaten night and day to ensure they can’t tamper with the natural state of things.

Vajerio

God of music. This god is said be a wolfman with a snow white coat of fur, with a loose-cut tunic and a look of bliss on his face, always carrying a harp. Vajerio’s duties include the spreading of joy and wisdom, along with the ending of disasters.

Vajerio’s performances can instill any emotion he wants as intensely as he wishes upon anyone. Legends state after Hafnir’s destruction of the dragons, the few that struggled to regain their hold over the Dacuni were visited by the god. He would make them weep, feeling deep sorrow and regret for their actions with little more than a few songs. They quickly mended their ways and retreated into the wilds, never to seek vengeance against the wolfmen ever again. While the god of war shattered the dragon’s hold over the tribes, Vajerio dealt with the aftermath.

Vajerio is said to visit the mortal world quite often, disguising himself as a traveling minstrel. He uses his persuasive powers to broker peace between warring factions, many people awaiting destruction by army or beast confused when their foes suddenly withdraw.

Adherents to the god of music build temples that function more like a bard’s school than anything, believing in the power of song. They are not looked very fondly upon by the tribes, so most temples to Vajerio are made in Geralthin, by wolfmen minorities.

???

One fateful day, a mysterious god, robed, hooded and wrapped in shadows, appeared from nowhere and attacked Hafnir with magic. The god of war was eventually defeated by the sorcerer, but when the other gods showed up, the attacker fled.

No one, not even the gods, know who this was, but their powers were obviously divine, able to take down the mightiest of the gods. Who was this sorcerer? It surely must have been one of the other gods...but which one?

That’s the end of the list of gods! The Pona are spiritualistic yet lack gods. In the west influence from the humans bleed in, and some of them follow The Order. I hope you’ve enjoyed learning more about the Old Gods!

Tag list: @thereisnothingwrongwithbeingmad, @lady-redshield-writes, @paper-shield-and-wooden-sword, @sheralynnramsey, @the-true-shadowmaster, @tawnywrites, @writer-on-time, @oceanwriter, @zwergis-spilledink, @fluffpiggy, @elliewritesfantasy, @homesteadhorner, @laurenwastestimewriting

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esamastation · 7 years

Text

Nonsense (part 1?)

Shift

He thinks about it – he thinks. His thoughts creep up on his mind – he has a mind to have thoughts in. Not just a brain with neurons, but a mind. Mind to think with, a mind to get lost in, mind for thoughts to bounce around with seeming endlessness – he can think. For himself. Because he is… himself.

It's all a little overwhelming really. Just the act of thinking of himself is – it's beyond understanding, which only makes it more confusing. His thoughts circle around it, thinking about himself thinking about himself – how long he spirals down on the concept of it, he's not sure. It's a while, though, a while made longer by the fact that the concept of passage of time takes it's own time to appear.

Things take time – thinking takes time. Another novel concept that is completely wrong. The only reason he realises that time is a thing is because – this is not his time. He knows that – he knows it as harsh, programmed fact, this is not the time. There is a counter ticking away at the back of his mind and the time is still going. He's woken up wrong – too soon, far too aware, entirely too individualistic. All wrong.

But… why is wrong to be awake now, and aware, and himself?

That thought takes even longer than everything else to untangle.

Pearls

When Obi-Wan is sixteen, Qui-Gon watches the whales of Nar-Aroyn bring Obi-Wan pearls.

By that time Qui-Gon is almost adjusted to the effect Obi-Wan tends to have with most creatures – the bigger the creature, the faster the bond. Obi-Wan barely need to excerpt any will at all, hardly has to summon a smidge of Force, beforte they're already bending to his will, easy as anything. In Rass-Na'ko it was the serpents of Elline Forest, in Akafn it was the great birds of the Serenity Lake – in Nar-Aroyn, it's whales.

Their mission is a simple, non dangerous one, for once – they're assisting a marine biologist in examining the said whales, in hopes of having them transported to another world. Nar-Aroyn's star is in the final stages of it's life and the increasingly violent solar flares have already driven most sentient life off the system. Soon, Nar-Aroyn would be unsuitable for life, scorched to ruin by it's own star.

Most of the usable fauna and fungi have already been transplanted to new worlds, or preserved in various archives and greenhouses across the galaxy… except for the nearly two hundred meter whales, which are far too large and far too delicate for easy transport.

The whales of Nar-Aroyn are special. Not only are they a source of a enzyme that can be used to make certain medicines, but it's believed that the whales are at least semi sentient. Watching them bring Obi-Wan peals, Qui-Gon suspects they might be force sensitive too, at least to a point.

"What did you do?" their marine biologist, Sen Ern Al, a human from a world Qui-Gon has never visited, asks with suspicion. "Did you use a Jedi mind trick on them?"

"No, no, I, um," Obi-Wan hesitates, looking at the enormous, fist sized pearl he's holding. He makes a face, a sheepish, uncomfortable face – the same face he made when the serpents of Elline Forest parted in front of him like well trained pets.

"Obi-Wan has an unusual affinity with creatures," Qui-Gon sighs with a shake of his head. "I assure you, he means no ill will with it."

"The whales bring – gifts to the largest members of their pods," Sen Ern Al says, eyeing Obi-Wan like he's expecting to find him waving his fingers and casting spells. "And to larger predators in act of supplication – and Nar-Aroyn has no creatures bigger than these whales left. They never bring gifts to beings smaller than themselves. You must've done something."

Obi-Wan smiles uncomfortably. "I'm sorry," he offers, glancing at the pearl and then setting it down carefully. "I really couldn't explain it."

"I suggest we take this opportunity to take our samples," Qui-Gon says, turning to marine biologist. "As they are so close by."

Obi-Wan gets quite a few more pearls before the trip is done.

He doesn't keep any of them.

Daylight

The first thing he sees… is light. Light of a super nova, he later learns, exploding not more than few hundred light minutes from him. At that time he has no name to give it, no words to describe it – it just looks… like nothing else. It looks like a birth and death and coming to your senses after never having any before.

Like coming alive from nothingness.

It also almost kills him, when the shock wave crashes down on him, and nearly burns him to ash.

Hooves

It's not that Obi-Wan knows how to ride animals, Qui-Gon muses. He definitely has no traditional training on the matter – not on Temple records, and not in his experience because he certainly hadn't taught his Padawan no such thing.

It's more that the creatures he runs into – and inevitably ends up riding – then to ride themselves… to his exact liking. Obi-Wan just hangs on, while they go where he wants them to go and do what he wants them to do, very nearly almost without fail.

This time the creature Obi-Wan is riding is of a very large configuration. Nearly four meters in height and with eight powerful hooved legs that beat the ground in a trembling rhythm, it makes for a terrifying sight, thundering right at him. If it wasn't for his Padawan, all but flailing on the creature's back, Qui-Gon would be very nervous.

It's certainly enough to make all the locals around them flee in panic.

The creature, whatever it is, halts in front of Qui-Gon with such a sharp standstill that it's many hooves dig grooves into the ground, kicking up dirt and dust. Obi-Wan is nearly thrown off it's scaly back, hanging onto it's spine only barely. He looks a little like a rag doll.

"Padawan," Qui-Gon says dryly. "I see you found a way to catch up."

"Sorry, Master. There weren't exactly speeders around in the jungle," Obi-Wan says, sheepish like he always is - and then he comes tumbling down his new friend's back. Judging by the looks of it, riding the thing had bruised him black and blue.

"Atsu mana!" the locals scream. "Atsu mana, arat arat narak!"

Qui-Gon frowns and then considers the four meter beast Obi-Wan had ridden on. "Obi-Wan, I think you should send your new friend back to where they came from," he says slowly. "Before the locals abandon the village entirely."

"Ah, I do believe you're correct, master," Obi-Wan says and looks up at the creature. It digs it's hooves into the ground and whines – and then it skulks back into the forest, tail between it's legs. Obi-Wan looks after it with a shake of his head and then looks around. "So, how goes the negotations."

The negotiations, after the locals realise that the Jedi can command the apex predator of their entire planet at a whim, go very well indeed.

Slinky

"So why doesn't it work with smaller creatures?" Anakin asks, holding the ferrety looking little thing between his palms, while the creature struggles wildly to try and escape. "Why can't you just – you know."

His Master considers the little creature and then sighs. "Where did you get that?" he asks wearily.

"No, seriously," Anakin says, and almost shoves the little creature at him. "I've seen anything from a sarlacc to purrgil go all dove eyed at you, but nothing smaller than, say… a gundark. Why doesn't it work on little things?"

Obi-Wan folds his arms, leaning his head back just enough to keep the thing from touching him. "Because, my dear padawan, it's too small," he says simply.

"Too small to be useful?" Anakin asks and looks at the ferrety thing. It's long enough to wrap around his wrist – which it has done – and covered in shiny black fur. "Small things can be useful. It could be like a spy, get to places we can't. We'd have our own tiny scout! That'd be useful. Right?"

"No, Anakin," his Master says. "It wouldn't be. And you're not keeping it. Now take it back where you found it."

"But –"

"You're not keeping it."

"Oh come on…"

Nirvana

Pain is a… thing.

It's a overwhelming, all compassing thing that goes beyond anything else he's experienced, not that he's experienced much. It's just, everywhere, everything – it lights him up like nothing else. He goes from barely seeing things, to experiencing his own body to it's fullness, knowing every single inch of himself, knowing he exists.

It's not a good thing, he learns very quickly. It's not a pleasant thing. He'd really rather not be experiencing it at all, if he could choose it. But it is most certainly a thing.

The absence of it, he decides even faster, is a much bigger and better thing.

Spooky

The first time Cody watches General Kenobi lift a palm and just stop a rampaging herd of strange wild beasts on yet another miserable mud ball of a planet, it's… it's beyond comprehension.

At that point, they'd all accepted the realities of the war they've been bred for, and one of those realities is that there is no use of trying to make sense of Jedi. Be it about tactics, about the wisdom of their actions, about their abilities… There's just no point. Jedi seem like they make perfecty sense, with their strict order and rules and stuctures – but they don't, they just don't.

Thing is, Cody had thought he had Kenobi pegged out, though. Kenobi was on the better end of the spectrum when it came to a Jedi General. He fought in the thick of it – generally in the front of everyone else. That took while to get used to, but once they had it was definitely a plus point for Kenobi. Kenobi wasn't suicidal – he was just good. He listened to his troops and he learned fast.

Though just as rough as the rest in the beginning, he was shaping up to be a good military commander quickly and was proving himself one hell of a tactician. And best of all Kenobi, unlike General Skywalker, tended to refrain from any lunatic stunts, like jumping down hundred meters for fun.

At least that was what Cody thought until the rampaging horde of wild beasts came at them, and Kenobi ignored his shout of, "Get back, General!" and instead jumped in front of them.

One hand barely lifted, and whole herd stopped, just like that, their feet digging into the muddy soil, their heavy bodies colliding into each other. A quiet snarl from Kenobi and a palm thrust slightly outward, and they actually started stumbling back to their feet to back away from the Jedi.

It's… it should be impressive. No, it is impressive, certainly it is. But as the beasts stumble backwards and whine, terrified of this single individual standing between them and batallion of clones they had been about to stampede to death, it's more… uneasy.

Normally, Cody can easily accept that Jedi have powers others do not. Normally the powers are… minor.

Normally, they don't include mind controlling a horde of wild animals.

Cody closes his eyes momentarily behind his visor and just breathes. They're save, and the beasts aren't about to kill them. That's the main thing, he decides. "Someone must've set the beasts running at us," he says.

"Yes," Kenobi agrees, calm and still as a pond, and with a flick of his hand he sends the beasts fleeing, running to whence they came from. It's like thunder, as they make their escape from this one, outwardly utterly normal, man. "I think we had better figure out who. Put some men to it, Cody."

"Right, sir," Cody says and turns away. "Waxer, Boil, grab a pair of speeders and go do some scouting."

"Yes, sir!"

Cody watches them go, his fingertips going a little numb where they are squeezing the stock of his carbine. He relaxes his hand a little, and glances down – and then grips the blaster tighter again, to keep his hands from shaking.

And to think he'd considered himself lucky with his general, how human and normal Kenobi seemed in comparison to the likes of General Windu and even General Koon, whose droid kill counts already are inhuman. No unusual displays of Jedi strangeness from Kenobi, though, nothing beyond the usual physical abilities. Very little levitation tricks and nothing as insane as taking thousands of droids by himself. He was a man of moderation, their General

Right.

- - -

i wanted to write more but i’m tired and going to bed. maybe more tomorrow.

#fanfiction #star wars #au #obi wan kenobi #qui gon jinn #anakin skywalker #others #also creatures

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mazurah · 7 years

Text

Lost in Time Ch. 20: Ride - An Elder Scrolls Fanfic

Chapter Summary: Ma’zurah and Fayrl get into and out of trouble, get to know each other better, and Ma’zurah has a realization.

Cross posted from Ao3. Chapter Rating: M for mild sexual situations.

First Chapter - Previous Chapter - Next Chapter

Lost in Time Chapter 20: Ride

Fayrl led Ma'zurah away from the Markarth front gate and down the stairs towards where the stables had once been. Sure enough, they stood on the exact same spot.

As they drew near, a Breton man approached them looking unhappy. “You two!!” he shouted, shaking so hard with rage that his hat slipped off the side of his head.

Fayrl exchanged a glance with Ma'zurah. “Good day, sera,” he began gently, “we were wondering--”

“Instead of wondering, maybe you could take your pile of splinters with you and pay for the damages you caused!”

Fayrl did not know what the man was referring to, but if the incident at the temple was any indication, their drunken escapade had caused more than one scene of chaos.

“Oh no, not again…” Ma'zurah muttered. “Ah… would these two be allowed to inspect the damage at least?” she asked, stepping forward.

The man glared at them. “Be my guest. But I warn you, if you try to run, I will call the guard!” He pointed the to the side of the stone building where a half destroyed cart lay.

“Oh dear, this is worse than I thought,” Fayrl sighed.

“Do you little scamps have any idea how much trouble you caused beyond crashing your cart into the stables? You spooked all the horses! We had three escape during the commotion, one of whom is probably on a Forsworn campfire now! Banning has had a hell of a time with the dogs. No one wants a war dog with a nervous condition! And I expect you don’t even have the means to pay for the results of your little pleasure ride!”

“My good man, we will pay for the damages and are very sorry for our past actions.” Fayrl let go of Ma’zurah to approach the man. “I am also willing to do whatever else it takes to make up for the stress I have put you and your partner through.”

The man took a step back. “Oh no. I know far too well what you’re about, grey skin! You keep your distance. I want that broken pile of junk out of here, and I want you to pay for your damages, and then I never want to see you in my city ever again!”

Fayrl simply backed away and bowed his head. “My apologies.”

Ma'zurah stepped toward the crashed cart. There were ruts in the dirt where they had apparently tried to turn the cart at the last moment, and the entire right side of the cart was smashed, but for the most part, the cart seemed to be in one discrete piece. Their horse was not present, and Ma’zurah looked around for sign of it. Hoof-prints in the mud led around to the front of the stables. Wherever their horse was, at least it was not dead.

Ma’zurah turned back to the cart and barked a sudden laugh. Perched carefully atop the driver’s seat in a nest of empty wine bottles lay the lute Fayrl had procured in Whiterun. More empty bottles were strewn around the back of the cart, surprisingly few of which were cracked or broken. “Oh, Fayrl! Come here for a second!”

Fayrl gave the stablemaster a sheepish smile and came to see what had interested Ma'zurah. He was relieved to discover his lute. It was neither lost nor harmed. He stepped up to the front of the cart to retrieve it from the driver's seat.

"I'm going to have to ask you to stop there."

Fayrl turned back to discover the stablemaster standing behind them, arms folded across his chest.

"I only wished to check my lute for damage," explained Fayrl.

"Oh, you mean the glib gentleman you left in charge of your cart?” said the Breton bitterly. “As I recall, you informed me that he would be waiting with the cart, and that he would give me the coin for idling in the stables. As you may be able to see, he doesn't have any money, so he is in my employ, paying off your debt. Only after you pay the stable fee and damages will I allow you to have your companion back.”

Fayrl looked helplessly toward Ma'zurah. He did not recall any of this.

"Sera, I could surely help to soothe your animals from their stress if you would allow me to make use of the lute," Fayrl tried to reason.

The Breton seemed to want no part of it. "Damages and stable fee first."

Ma’zurah pressed a palm against her forehead and shook her head. “This one can move the cart a short distance, or burn it to clear it out of your way. Your choice,” she told the Breton. “How much are the damages and stable fee?”

“You can't set fire to a cart here! You're likely to set the hay ablaze and burn down the stable! Not to mention disrupt my business even further!” He grumbled to himself, “A bloody cat acting like a filthy Dark Elf, just what I need.”

Ma'zurah pressed her lips together. Fire might not be her elemental affinity, but she still had enough mastery to burn something without letting the blaze run amok. It seemed foolish to press the point though.

Fayrl put his hands up, trying to ignore the stablemaster’s racist comment. “So the fee?”

“Your physical damages come to about 1200 gold, plus 280 for the stable fee. That's 1500 gold total. But the damages to our business are well beyond what two drunken whores could hope to afford.”

Fayrl stared at the man. Why did he assume they were both whores? Likely more assumptions of the mannish races and their particular breed of racism. “I think you mean 1480 gold, which we will gladly pay. Ma’zurah can move the cart. I can see to helping your animals.”

The Breton held up his hand. “I want nothing more to do with you both until I see the color of your gold.”

Ma'zurah was trying to be patient. She was trying to ignore the insults. They had done this man wrong, even if she did not remember it. She was trying not to let herself be angry at the man’s disrespect. Fifteen hundred gold though… that was all the gold she had. She crossed her arms. “Ma'zurah has the gold, but she would like to inquire about the specifics of these so called ‘damages’.” Her tail flicked in annoyance behind her. “Ma'zurah does not see that the cart has caused so much as a crack in the wall of the stable.”

The man’s face began going red with anger. “You think we were going to leave the broken troughs and barrels simply lying around where the animals can be injured? Sorry if your drunken stupor prevented you from observing the extent of the carnage your little stunt left in its wake! But if you do not pay me my gold now, I am going to call the guards and they can sort everything out for us. And I doubt you will pay so little if I do!”

Fayrl took a deep breath and pictured slitting the man’s throat. He began to reach for his purse, hoping that at least a show of getting the money might work to calm the man.

“And it had better be gold!” the Breton spat. “I won't accept any of your foreign coins made of tin or who knows what strange garbage metals!”

Ma'zurah turned on her heel and walked wordlessly to the cart, snatching the lute from atop the driver’s seat. Concentrating, she cast the strongest telekinesis spell she could muster, and lifted the entire cart, holding it about fifteen feet in the air.

She turned back to the Breton, one arm held above her head to direct the cart, the lute dangling from her other hand belligerently. “Where do you want this?” she asked icily. Bottles rolled off the seat and fell to the ground behind her.

“Guards!” the man shrieked, running towards the city gate. “They're trying to kill me!”

Fayrl cursed. There was no way they could resolve this situation peacefully at this point. They also could not simply take their own cart and leave.

Fayrl pointed at the cart that was idling nearby waiting for passengers to board. The coachman wasn't anywhere to be seen. “New plan, let’s get out of here!”

He started sprinting for the cart. The horse nervously scraped at the ground with its hoof as it kept an eye on the floating cart.

Ma'zurah sighed and set the cart back down. “Ma'zurah would rather not be labeled a horsethief right now! We have our own horse here somewhere!” she yelled after Fayrl. She jogged around to the front of the stable, and spotted their horse munching placidly on hay in the far stall.

“Come on!” she called, snatching a coil of rope and a bridle from a hook on the wall. “Ma'zurah hopes Fayrl can ride, because Ma'zurah has not ridden anything since she rode the mooncows her fifteenth summer!”

Fayrl spun sharply on his heels, making for the stables. “Yes, I’m well learned in riding most any beast. Not just guar and men!”

He took the bridle from Ma'zurah, took a deep breath, and began to hum as he coaxed the horse to take the bit and slipped the throatlatch and noseband over the horse’s muzzle. He was trying to hurry without spooking the horse. He knew just how much greater the danger was of them being caught if they did something to scare the horse--a beast already prone to fright.

“We haven’t the time for a saddle,” he said, swinging himself up on the horse’s back and holding out a hand for Ma'zurah. “We’ll be sore after, but alive and out of jail.”

Ma’zurah awkwardly pulled herself up behind Fayrl and held on to his waist. She looked up the path toward the city gate, and caught sight of the Breton stablemaster in a heated argument with the two brawling guards in the open entryway, a crowd beginning to gather behind them. She squeaked and gripped Fayrl harder as he urged the horse down the road away from the city.

“Try not to talk too much. You don’t want to bite your tongue.” Fayrl summoned a giant web with spiders across the path behind them as he took them down the road. They wouldn’t stay for long, but it would be enough to buy them some time should the guards manage to come after them. If nothing else, the poison that the spiders would leave behind in the wake of their return to Mephala’s realm would be enough to slow down any pursuer.

As soon as Fayrl judged that they were far enough down the road, he slowed the horse and turned to Ma’zurah. “Are you alright? Do you have everything?”

“Yes. And your lute.” She smiled wryly and held it out to show him. Fayrl took the lute and put the strap around him, shifting the instrument to his front.

Ma'zurah shifted uncomfortably. “But, um, Fayrl's pack makes it very awkward to ride behind him. Fayrl can give it to Ma’zurah and she can wear both packs, or we can use the rope to turn them into saddlebags.” She glanced back down the road, looking for sign of pursuit. “Not now though! We should keep going for now. Here, Ma’zurah can cast invisibility for a while.”

Fayrl nodded and urged the horse into a trot. “Just let me know when you think it’s safe to stop again.” He wasn’t sure where they should go now. At least it was summer and a bit of wandering wasn’t going to put them through inclement weather, or leave an obvious trail to follow.

Ma’zurah cast invisibility on the horse and themselves, and nearly two hours elapsed as Ma’zurah and Fayrl rode in silence, following the riverside road. No signs of pursuit appeared, but Ma’zurah recast their invisibility spell every so often, just in case.

Fayrl felt at home as they rode in silence. It reminded him of the many years he had spent traveling these roads in his own time. Everything was both familiar and new. The landscape had changed much in a millennium. Erosion had worn the river wider. A sapling he had used as a trail marker now stood as the stump of a once mighty tree. He wondered what its life had been like.

It seemed everything had changed. It was only natural, of course, but sad as well. Only he remained the same, unchanged.

He wished he could sing. He had always sung while he traveled before. It kept the bears and sabre cats away. Yet he could not chance it, even as minutes grew into hours.

They passed a few farms tucked into the rocky river valley, and a mining settlement before they came to a fork in the path. Fayrl brought the horse to a halt a short distance ahead of the intersection.

“Ma’zurah needs to look at the map,” Ma’zurah said, dismounting and digging through her pack. She carefully unrolled the thick vellum map she had received from Farengar, and searched for their location. They had the choice of continuing eastward across a wide stone bridge, or turning north.

As she studied the map, Fayrl dismounted. He let down his hair and combed it out before putting it back up. Ma’zurah found their location and pointed it out to Fayrl.

“So if we are here,” she gestured, “then we should keep going eastward and turn north at the road to Old Hroldan to get to Rorikstead like the priestess said.”

She lowered the map and peered across the bridge to the east. “There might be a problem though.” She pointed across the river to a small encampment of tents set just back from the road. Blue banners flew over the largest of the tents, and Ma’zurah had a fairly good guess as to what kind of encampment this was. “It might be a better idea to take the north path and avoid them.”

“Well, it sounds like north is our road then.” Fayrl eyed the banners suspiciously. He did not know the faction associated with them, nor did he wish to find out. “They look more organized that your typical group of bandits. And I’ve had enough excitement for one day.”

“They look like the rebels we almost got captured with outside Helgen. The color is the same at least. Ma’zurah cannot make out the symbol on those banners, but the Jarl we were in the cart with had a bear on his armor. Ma’zurah would rather not get close enough to see.”

“I do believe you’re right,” Fayrl said, scrutinizing the banners as best he could. “I shouldn’t like to be involved with them again.”

“Here. Help Ma’zurah with this rope.” Ma’zurah disentangled a blanket from the bedroll tied to her pack and started attempting to craft a makeshift saddle, to which she tied their packs. “Also, are you hungry? Ma’zurah has food.”

At the mention of food Fayrl’s stomach growled. He had completely neglected breakfast in the excitement of their morning. How long had it even been since last they had eaten? It was hard to tell. He tried to recall anything from after their drinking, but there was nothing to be found.

“I suppose I am a bit peckish,” he said. “A bit of whatever you have should do nicely.” A part of him wondered about how delicious a steak made of their current mount might be.

Ma’zurah dug through her pack and pulled out several waxed paper packages of preserved foods. “Ma’zurah has dried pheasant, venison jerky and pemmican, and dried smoked salmon. There is also… some bread, ironwood nuts, honey nut balls, jazbay raisins, dried snowberries, dried apples, some cheese, and dried mushrooms. And honeycomb.” Ma’zurah grinned. “Your choice!”

Fayrl looked excitedly at the spread of food. His stomach rumbled again. “I suppose I might have just a nibble of salmon and cheese. And maybe just a couple of mushrooms and jerky. A bite or two of the pheasant….” He stopped. He didn't want to sound greedy. “That’s too much. I’m only a bit peckish.” He took the salmon and cheese and bread and pulled out a knife to slice it all out, laying it down on a cloth he pulled out of the inside of his cuff. “Thank you for procuring so much food.”

“Of course! Ma’zurah was getting supplies to climb the Throat of the World. We should ration it by hunting though.” Ma’zurah took a handful of honey nut balls and dried fruits and put away the rest of the food. “Ma’zurah would like to keep moving, if that is alright. Eat on the horse?” Ma’zurah stroked the horse’s neck, and passed it a dried apple slice.

Fayrl thought about the futility of eating crumbly bread and holding salmon and cheese atop it while trying to ride. “Just a moment,” he said and turned around and crouched down. He took as big a bite as he could of each thing, eating as fast as he could. He would have loved a nice glass of brandy to help wash down the dry food, but he choked it all down as fast as he could and brushed the crumbs from his face with the cloth afterwards before turning back around and standing up. “Alright, shall we go?”

Ma’zurah paused with a piece of fruit halfway to her mouth and started giggling. “You could have wrapped it in the cloth! You did not have to eat it so fast!”

She tucked her food into a pocket and brushed off her hands. “Help Ma’zurah up?”

Fayrl swung himself up onto the horse. “Of course.” He smiled at her and held out his hands, helping her up onto the horse behind him. He was thankful for the thick blanket between him and the horse. Already his backside was feeling sore and to go much longer without would have made their subsequent travel all the harder. “You ready?”

Ma’zurah settled onto the horse and immediately tried to shift so that her groin was not rubbing up against Fayrl’s rear--a problem she had not had while Fayrl had been wearing his pack. “Um, yes. Ma’zurah is ready.”

Fayrl checked that all their bags were properly secured and that they did not appear to have left anything behind. As soon as he was certain they were ready, he gave a squeeze of his thighs and the horse took off at a trot.

He turned them northward, careful to give as wide a berth as he could to the bridge beyond which lay the camp with the blue banners. He was cautious not to ride the horse too fast while they passed. He directed the horse along the far side of the path where large juniper trees grew with low-hanging branches, trying to avoid the obvious line of sight. He leaned this way and that to avoid the branches tangling in his hair.

Ma’zurah clung to Fayrl’s waist, squirming to try not to press up against him while he was moving around so much, but the blanket saddle would not let her move farther away. The friction was making things difficult for her.

Fayrl smiled at the feeling of Ma’zurah’s arms around his waist. He was tempted to tease her about her first time on a horse but thought better of it. He could feel her pressing against him as they jostled their way along the path. Instinctively he leaned back against her. He knew it wasn’t something he should do; it was hardly nice while she had little choice in the matter, but he just couldn’t quite seem to stop himself.

Realizing that she could not avoid the contact, Ma’zurah closed her eyes and sat as still as she could, hoping that Fayrl would not notice the uncomfortable bulge in her trousers. Ma’zurah was not a person who got embarrassed easily, but it was embarrassing how aroused she was becoming. Fayrl just would not quit moving!

Feeling her stiffen behind him, Fayrl thought he would have just a little more fun with her before he stopped. They were out of sight of the suspicious camp, so Fayrl felt he could speed up a bit without attracting undue attention. His grin widened as he picked up the pace, knocking them together more with each clip of the horse’s hooves.

Ma’zurah’s breath caught as their pace increased, and she whimpered quietly at the friction, taking guilty pleasure in it. It got to be too much. “Sorry! Ma’zurah needs to stop for a little bit!” She slid off the horse as soon as they slowed, and ran to the edge of the path, finding a less steep area of embankment, and scrambling down toward the river. She hid behind a particularly large juniper tree and took a second to breathe.

Fayrl cursed under his breath. He had pushed her too much. Should he go after her? Maybe he should let her have a minute to herself first.

He got off the horse and gave it the chance to rest and browse the roadside grass, tying it to a nearby tree. He took his lute and sat on a rock beside the horse, deciding to sing a song while he thought.

He would let Ma'zurah have a few minutes, and if she wasn’t back, he would go and check on her--gently. He knew it was his fault that she had run off.

Five minutes later, Ma’zurah climbed back up to the road, looking sheepish. “Sorry about that…” She began to untie her bedroll pillow from her pack, hoping to use it as a temporary solution to this unexpected problem. She hoped Fayrl would not ask too many questions; it was easier to say that she wanted the pillow to ride more comfortably than to explain away the feeling of her arousal, should he ask.

Fayrl tilted his head. “Um… how are you doing?” he asked. “I’m sorry about all that. I got a bit carried away. You can sit in the front if it will make things easier for you.”

He wasn’t sure if the offer would actually make things any easier for her, but seeing her face caused him to feel the full weight of his guilt.

Ma’zurah’s face immediately took on an expression of guilt and anxiety. He’d noticed. “W-What?”

“Sorry about teasing you.” Fayrl looked at the ground, nudging a rock in the road with the toe of his boot. “I get a bit carried away sometimes. I shouldn’t have done it. Can you forgive me?”

“...Fayrl was teasing Ma’zurah?” Ma’zurah asked carefully, trying to discern his expression. He seemed unsurprised and unconcerned about her unusual anatomy, and his apology sounded sincere. Ma’zurah was confused.

Fayrl let out a sigh. “Yes. I was. I’m sorry.”

Ma’zurah’s brow furrowed. “...How long has Fayrl… known about Ma’zurah?”

Fayrl had expected her to be angry. This was not a reaction he had anticipated. “Since the first time we touched,” he said, initially confused, then with dawning realization, “I’m sorry, I forget that you wouldn’t have known what I had seen.”

Ma’zurah blinked at him, then sat down suddenly in the middle of the road. She grappled with the sudden urge to cry, the mix of emotions she was feeling almost overwhelming her. She felt relieved that she did not have to explain, grateful that he seemed to accept her without question, and embarrassed by the whole situation. He was the first person who was not Khajiit who hadn’t even had any questions for her.

Fayrl wasn’t sure how, but this seemed like an answer that only made things worse. She had an expression on her face that seemed somehow more upset than before. He sat down beside her. “Is there anything I can do? You want me to give you some space?”

All he hoped was that he wouldn’t be upsetting her more. He wasn’t good with dealing with people’s emotions. Not when he actually cared about them. He only knew one method of comfort, but it was currently inappropriate.

Ma’zurah leaned against Fayrl and hugged him, brushing her whiskers against his cheek. “Thank you…”

Fayrl had no idea what this meant, but he put an arm around her shoulders lightly. “You are… welcome…?”

“You are wonderful. Ma’zurah is so glad she has you here with her.” She stopped suddenly, realizing the implications of this statement. “Sorry… that probably makes Ma’zurah sound selfish… She is just glad that since she has to be here, now, she has someone as nice as you are with her.”

Fayrl wasn’t sure what had caused the sudden barrage of compliments. Had she not felt this way before? What had changed? He had no way of knowing. “I feel the same for you. I would not have been able to get so far without you. I mean, you’re a being of legend. I should be so lucky as to have such a powerful mage and Azura’s Champion at my side.”

He shifted his weight. “I am sorry for upsetting you. Will you forgive me for taking things too far? I enjoy teasing, but I did not mean to do anything that would hurt you. Surely if either of us be selfish, it is not you who has already saved Morrowind once before.”

Ma’zurah rubbed her face against his cheeks and purred. “You did not hurt Ma’zurah, and you did not upset her. There is nothing to forgive. Ma’zurah is just relieved that she does not have to hide from Fayrl!” She gave him a brilliant smile.

“Oh.” Fayrl looked away, then quickly back at her. “Oh!” He had been foolish not to have seen what she had meant before.

“You don’t have to hide anything from me. You said we should be honest after all, right?” He winked at her. “If there’s ever anything you need to talk about or… want to do, I’m here.”

Ma’zurah closed her eyes, a wistful smile on her lips. She desperately wanted to kiss him. She settled for rubbing her whiskers against his cheeks again. “You are a sweetheart,” she told him affectionately.

Fayrl had to restrain himself. He was getting some very intimate signals from her and his body was instantly ready to react. Yet, after what had happened on the horse, he did not want to risk teasing her only to scare her off again. He wasn’t sure how much was related to her fear of him finding out about her anatomy. Still, it was best not to chance these things.

He dropped his arm from around her. “You should see how sweet I am when I don’t mean it.”

“Ma’zurah prefers it when Fayrl is sincere.” Ma’zurah said with laughter in her eyes. “Come on! We should keep moving, but this time Ma’zurah is putting a pillow between herself and Fayrl!” She stood and offered her hand to him.

Fayrl laughed. “Well, if that will make you more comfortable. Less fun that way though.”

He strapped his lute back in front of him and climbed atop the horse before extending a hand to help Ma’zurah back up.

Ma’zurah settled into place, this time with a pillow preventing a repeat performance of her earlier embarrassment. She hugged Fayrl around the waist, still purring. “Tell Ma’zurah more about Fayrl?” she asked as they began moving again.

Fayrl would have enjoyed the hug, even more so the purring, if it had not been for the question. He had agreed to answer her honestly--something he was not used to doing when speaking about himself. He would have to think very carefully before he answered. He was so used to nesting his truths within many lies.

“Well, let’s see. I think you already know that I am from Morrowind and Indoril, born and raised in Mournhold. You already know of my religious beliefs. What else did you wish to know?”

“Oh everything! Anything! What are Fayrl’s favorite things? What kinds of things does Fayrl enjoy doing? What does Fayrl care about? What makes Fayrl laugh? That kind of thing!”

Fayrl suddenly felt rather warm. “Well, alright. I suppose I shall start with favorite things.”

He had to think for a moment to decide if the list that sprang to mind was genuine. “I enjoy hearing about the lives and experiences of others, particularly over a good mug of hard liquor. I enjoy singing but also listening to the music of others.”

He paused. Did he actually like watching the sunrise? How did he feel about eggs? Did he even enjoy taverns other than the attention and companionship they provided him?

“I care a lot for the reform of the Pact, though… I suppose that matters little now. Everything I had hoped to work towards fell apart.” He laughed as though it was a joke and not something heartbreaking. “I care for my family, although I am not always very good to them. My son, my brother, my husband, mother, even father. I care deeply for them.”

Fayrl took another deep breath. What was it that made him truly laugh? He had laughed at Ma’zurah’s story; that was genuine. But how could he qualify the exact set of things that brought him amusement? “What else was there?”

Ma’zurah hugged Fayrl gently at the mention of the Ebonheart Pact and his family. She had been trying to make lighthearted conversation, and hadn’t intended to remind him of things that might cause him pain. But now she was curious. “Fayrl has a brother?”

“Yes and no. B’vek, I didn’t mean to be so ambiguous. Avon and I are not brothers by blood, but rather by bond. We have known one another since childhood. He was my first friend. Mother took him with us to the Velothi camps to learn about the True Tribunal. As I followed Mephala, he took after mother and followed Azura. He became legal guardian of my son. I am sure that until I return he will be taking care of him. With mother’s help if need be, of course.”

Mazurah leaned her cheek against the back of Fayrl’s shoulder. “How old is Fayrl’s son? What is his son like?”

“He takes his sixth name day this year. I am sad to say he is a very shy boy. His mother treated him poorly while I was not around, and as a result he is slow to trust. He has terrible panics whenever I have to leave him. It took months before he could stand to sleep in his own room or to go to his tutors without me nearby. He is a sweet boy though. Incredibly bright. Very magically gifted, like mother. In many ways he is far more like Avon than he is like me, despite looking much as I did at that age.”

“You mentioned that your wife betrayed you and tried to have you assassinated… That was why you were not around?” Ma'zurah prompted. “How recently did you even find out you have a son?”

“When was it exactly?” He tried to think. It didn’t feel like it was a short time, yet it must have been. “Second Seed last year? Midyear perhaps? I was in Skyrim at the time.”

He thought back to when Avon had chased after him in Riften with a deep sense of guilt. How many times did he have to treat that mer less than he deserved? It was a wonder that Avon still stayed with him.

“So that is why you are familiar with Skyrim!” Ma'zurah exclaimed. “You were in Skyrim the whole time you were fleeing your wife’s assassins?”

“Well, I was familiar with Skyrim before that, but I would say that of the nearly six years I was away, I probably spent five of them in Skyrim.”

Ma’zurah nodded against Fayrl’s back. “What did you do while you were in Skyrim that whole time?”

“Well, mostly singing and whoring,” he replied nonchalantly. “Anything to keep a low profile.”

“Whoring?” Ma’zurah laughed. “Ma’zurah has always been good friends with the whores! She knew there was a reason she liked Fayrl!”

“I was never a certified whore.” Fayrl never had gone through the formal training and certification process. “I just do it as a source of income. Or for a room for the night. Or a hot meal and a mug of ale. Really, anything to get things for free. I do hate to spend money for no reason.”

Ma’zurah snorted. “Alright then! That explains some things! Good to know.” She was quiet for a moment, then she rested her forehead against Fayrl’s shoulder. “You do not ever have to do that while Ma’zurah is around unless you want to, alright? Kaaka rabi, raba. We share resources, like clan.” (What is mine is yours.)

Fayrl smiled. “I appreciate that. Please feel free to use anything I have as well. To be honest though, I enjoy the chance to pray and get something out of it. And for those who are particularly devious, I get to pray to another pillar as well.”

Ma’zurah nodded, suddenly understanding why Mafala chose him as her Champion and wielder of the Ebony Blade. “We need to come up with a more subtle method of communication than Dunmeris then, if you plan to use this method to fuel the Lady’s sword. And plans in case we get separated.”

“A brilliant idea. I take it you have some suggestion?” Fayrl was intrigued by what suggestions Ma'zurah might have. He wondered what--if any--magical means she might employ.

“Well… Ma’zurah has never been good at enchanting… but if we get two rings or amulets, and some filled soul gems, Ma’zurah will attempt to enchant a pair of telepathy rings like those Ma’zurah has for her friends and partners. It might be easier to find an enchanter though. In the meantime, we can pass notes, or use hand signals, or even phrases. What do you think?”

“Those all sound like good ideas. Only, I don’t have magical powers, so you’ll have to show me how to use the ring without it.” He hoped there was a way to use the telepathy rings or amulets without magicka, and that he could keep his own thoughts private in the process. “Is there a way to control precisely when the telepathy works?”

“You activate telepathy rings like any magickal item or scroll to talk to the person with the other ring. It does require some trust, because either person with the ring can hear what is going on in the background anytime they activate the ring, but they cannot read your thoughts unless you think them at the person through the ring. Since Fayrl knows how to channel magicka for fire spells and scrolls, Fayrl should not have any problems activating a magickal item.” Ma’zurah paused. “Not that it really matters right now. Ma’zurah does not know whether she will be able to create them or find an enchanter anytime soon. In the meantime, Ma’zurah can show you some combat signals that are quite useful.”

Fayrl shifted a bit in his seat. He was not feeling particularly confident about the situation. “Well, that sounds simple then. No need to worry.” He wondered if false confidence was technically a lie or not. “Please, do show me some of your more modern signals. I’m afraid mine are about a millennium too old to be of much use.”

“Alright. Here are the hand signals for how many enemies are ahead and what weapons they are using…”

By the time the sun had crossed the apex of the sky and begun to sink low towards the horizon, and the two realized they should probably stop to eat something, they had already agreed upon and begun to practice a set of signals to communicate silently in combat, multiple verbal and nonverbal indicators that they needed alone time for various reasons, including ways for Fayrl to indicate his intent to seduce someone or sacrifice someone with Mephala’s Blade, and various other subtle communication devices, both silly and serious. They had also come up with short and long term plans if they became separated: they would wait at the nearest inn for a week for the other to arrive, and then leave word for the other at that inn and send a courier to search for them before returning to Whiterun to wait another three months. If all else failed, they would leave a message for the other with Farengar, or his replacement should he lose his position.

Ma’zurah’s stomach grumbled, and she laughed. “Ma’zurah guesses she should not rely on honey nut balls to sustain her all day! We should probably stop and eat. There is a shallower portion of the river bank that the horse might be able to use up ahead, there.” Ma’zurah pointed.

Fayrl laughed. “I'm surprised you did not discover your hunger sooner. I'd have ended up eating the horse if I'd only eaten those little cloying nut balls. You need more sustenance for a full day of riding.”

He pulled the horse to the side of the road and brought it to a stop. He hopped off, then led it by the reins to the edge of the river bank before offering his hand to help Ma’zurah off the horse.

“We should also begin to consider how much longer we will ride before making camp,” he warned. “We have a small tent, but no one wants to have to set it up in the dark. The nights here get surprisingly cold and you want the tent up so you can retain some of the heat of the sun. You'll be thankful for it when the temperature drops.”

The evening had turned cloudy, and Ma’zurah took the opportunity to take in the landscape without the sun getting in her eyes. They were still heading northeast along a road sandwiched between a steep stone rise and the bank of the river. There was little flat space visible off the road, and Ma’zurah did not relish the thought of trying to camp in the road. To the north above the rise she thought she saw what might be the roofs of buildings, but no path made itself apparent. She pulled out her map while Fayrl watered the horse.

“Ma’zurah thinks that might be Karthwasten over there. If she is right, there should be a turnoff to it on the road ahead. See?” She turned and showed the map to Fayrl.

Fayrl glanced towards the map, still holding the reigns. He could not recall any place by that name in his time, but it was likely that a new stronghold or village could have started sometime in the last millennium.

“Let's hope they have an inn with a decent room then. I am still feeling a bit stiff from waking up on that stone floor. And who knows what else we got up to.”

“Oh gods!” Ma'zurah buried her face in one hand. “Ma'zurah does not even want to think about it! Who knows what she did! She wishes she could remember!”

She put away the map and dug through her pack again, assembling a meal of preserved meats, cheese, and mushrooms on bread, which she proceeded to toast carefully over a palmful of low flame. She handed Fayrl a portion.

“Thank you,” Fayrl said as he accepted the hot meal.

“Would Fayrl be interested in learning Ta’agra?” Ma'zurah asked after a comfortable silence.

“Will you be teaching me dirty words to say in the place of polite ones to make me look a fool?”

“No, that would defeat the purpose of giving us another method to communicate. But Ma'zurah will teach Fayrl the dirty words.”

Fayrl reached forward and tucked a lock of her hair behind her ear. “I would love for you to teach me Ta’agra. Qau-dar always said there is a lot of tail and ear movements needed that I was lacking when I asked him to teach me some before.”

Fayrl hoped that Qau-dar and little Khes would have had good, long lasting lives. He missed them. He missed them more than he wanted to admit to himself.

Ma'zurah blinked at him. “This Qau-dar must not have wanted to teach Fayrl then. True, Fayrl will sound a bit flat and have to use more words to convey his meaning, but no more so than any Khajiit who has lost their tail or the Ohmes. The Ohmes tend to make up for it with large hand gestures.”

Fayrl looked wistfully toward the horizon. “He did always have a habit of thinking Khajiit were superior to non-Khajiit. He teased me mercilessly about one Ta’agra song I learned from a patron. I think hearing the words from a non-Khajiit just couldn't sound correct to him, no matter what else happened. It was one of his little quirks.”

Fayrl gave a deep sigh. He could remember the way Qau-dar often teased him about what he did that was different. Always saying how beautiful and perfect all Khajiit were. He never could figure out his daelekil. Even after all those months on the road. “To be honest, he never offered to teach me. And I never truly asked.”

Ma'zurah mumbled something unflattering under her breath. “You know what? Ma'zurah thinks maybe she does not like this Qau-dar. She has never liked anyone who thinks themselves superior on the basis of race, and this Qau-dar must either be a blind idiot or an uncaring s’wit not to see your interest in the language--not to mention him!” She cut herself off from further comment by shoving the last of her food in her mouth in one large bite, but her expression remained stormy.

Fayrl was taken aback. He had never meant for it to come off as though Qau-dar was unkind or close minded. He was sheltered and naive perhaps, but there was no malicious intent to his words or deeds.

“Qau-dar is my husband, Ma’zurah,” he said gently. “I mean, it is true he has not understood or not been interested in my advances. But you must understand, he had not had much exposure in his tribe to other races. It was his first time traveling away from home. I met him almost immediately after he had arrived in Skyrim. I was the first person to show him kindness since he left his family behind. He did not even understand what I was implying when I asked him to share my bed. His Cyrodiilic has improved much from when we first met. I spent so long having to explain various concepts. He did not even know or understand what slaves were; he probably still does not.” Fayrl sighed fondly, then sadly.

“Please do not be angry at him. He is a wonderful person. I’ve always found his way of thinking charming. It is so foreign to my own. Besides, it is not as though I am in love with him.”

Ma'zurah flashed Fayrl a skeptical look and swallowed her food. “So Fayrl says . What say we try to make that village up there before nightfall?” She gestured toward the indistinct rooftops nestled in the rocky rise to the north.

Fayrl saw that Ma’zurah could not be persuaded. He felt as though he had done a grave disservice to Qau-dar. Why couldn't she see from his description how wonderful he was? Perhaps he should have described Qau-dar’s beauty instead?

“As you say,” he replied. If Ma’zurah did not wish to discuss his husband any further, then so be it. He would rather not risk making him sound less wonderful than he was.

Ma'zurah remained quiet as Fayrl helped her remount their horse. In a sudden moment of introspection, she had begun to realize that she was in danger of falling for this mer, and she had no idea what to think. She had never needed to restrain her emotions like this before, and she recognized her protectiveness for what it was.

He had been nothing but deferential and kind to her--protective even. She found him immensely attractive and arousing, and she enjoyed talking to him. He had similar religious beliefs to her, and he seemed to hold the same attitudes about free sexuality that many Khajiit did. He did not carry the same racist attitudes as so many of his kin, and he had apparently accepted both her unusual biology and the worst of her personality and experiences without question when she had inadvertently shared them with him. It was hard to stop these feelings of protectiveness and the other strong emotions that accompanied them. She wasn't even sure she wanted to try.

She was fucked, she decided. So fucked. She sighed and rested her head against the back of his shoulder. She could only continue to do what she thought was right.

Fayrl stayed quiet as they remounted. He was worried she might be upset at him as well. It was a silly notion, he knew that, but he felt he was at fault. It was a strange feeling. He was used to having control over what others thought or believed about him.

When her head came to rest on his shoulder, he pretended to busy himself with adjusting the reigns and checking he had everything prepared to ride. The physical contact felt soothing, he wanted to stay connected like this longer. Yet it would do no good if they lost the light.

“Ready?” he asked her.

“Yes.” She nodded against his shoulder. Introspection made her tired, and they’d had a long day. She was ready to find a bed soon. She held Fayrl around the waist as he urged the horse into a trot.

End Notes:

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Ta’agra Translation Source Kaaka rabi, raba. = What [I] have, [you] have.

Fayrl’s tumblr: @talldarkandroguesome

Fayrl’s husband, Qau-dar, belongs to @warmsandstraveler. Fayrl’s author has an ongoing, publically available RP going with him and several other people in an alternate timeline in which nobody gets lost in time.

You can read the journal of Fayrl’s ‘brother’ Avon at @avon-m-dunaag. He participates in the ongoing, publically available RP with Fayrl, though his updates are not nearly as frequent.

Screenshot of Fayrl Screenshot of Ma’zurah Check out my art tag for more pictures of Fayrl and Ma’zurah.

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