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the-pen-pot · 3 months ago

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All that mattered was that they met here: enemies by the word of his father's laws and no longer the friends they had once been. Arthur was not ashamed to admit that it started out as something spiteful. His demand that Merlin learned how to use a sword was no peace offering: it was little more than an excuse to vent his anger.

Except he never did.

----- Arthur attempts to come to terms with the secret of Merlin's sorcery. Can he move past the betrayal, or will their friendship be wrought to nothing but ruins?

------

The wind raked its claws over the duelling ring, scouring the mud-churned grass and wobbling the fence that demarked its edge. At this time of day, there were no watching knights or eager pages looking to glean what they could from Arthur's swordplay. He wasn't performing for the audience of Camelot's general populace.

This, he thought with cruel, bitter relish, was a punishment for Merlin alone.

'Pick it up.' He gestured to the practice sword.

'Arthur...' Merlin's voice was low and hurting. He looked defeated, his narrow shoulders shuddering in the cold. The air plucked at the loose hem of his tunic, teasing it like a tourney pennant. 'I said I was sorry. I explained –'

'Stop.' His own blunted sword made a sweeping arc through the air, a dismissive slice to behead Merlin's sentence before it found completion. He had no wish to hear it.

Words. It was all just words.

They had tumbled, tremulous, from Merlin's lips, desperate and determined in equal measure, his secret laid bare for Arthur's judgement.

His magic made known.

Never, in all his life, had Arthur felt so utterly betrayed. It cut him to the quick, because this man, who he had thought of as his best friend, turned out to be little more than a stranger.

His throat clicked as he swallowed. His jaw shifted, his teeth clenching as he bit out his command. 'Pick. It. Up.'

This was the culmination of almost three weeks of silence between them. Day after day, he had turned the situation over in his mind, trying to reconcile his own bruised and bloody heart with his duty to his father's laws. The matter should have been clear-cut. Sorcerers received no mercy within Camelot's walls. That was why Merlin had clung to his secret for so long, after all. It was not some petty, trifling thing. Its revelation could cost him his life.

And he had placed all that in Arthur's hands, to be cherished or crushed as he saw fit.

As if any of it were that simple!

It hurt. In the deepest hours of the night, when he lay awake staring at the canopy of his bed, that was the truth that came back to haunt him. It was an ache that thrived no matter how much he attempted to ignore it. A throbbing hollow where his heart had once held reign. Worse, he did not know what to do about it. It felt as if he carried some great and terrible thing around with him. It kept lashing out to rake him anew with its claws, spilling his blood where no one could see.

'You need to learn.' He didn't know if he was talking about weapons training or something else – something too nebulous to put into words. 'Pick. It. Up.'

His hand tightened around the pommel of his sword as he inwardly begged Merlin to understand what even Arthur himself could not. Back there, within the castle's hale and hearty walls, he felt torn apart, rent asunder by everything that swarmed through his mind. Out here, the world was a simpler place.

He did not know if he sought understanding or merely to assuage his own pain. He only knew that he needed Merlin to meet him here on Arthur's terms, rather than his own. He could not understand magic, but he could help Merlin understand this: the clean thrust of the weapon and the skill of strategy.

Perhaps, somehow, he could create some common ground between them and they could find their way through this, one way or another.

To meet as friends or part as strangers.

Slowly, Merlin reached for the sword.

******

'No armour, Sire?' Leon's voice was soft with gentle reproach when he made his way indoors, stowing the practice swords in their barrel. He should have known that some of his knights would be keeping a weather eye on the situation. They knew. They were too close to him and Merlin both to keep in the dark, as near enough to brothers as they could be without the bond of blood. Leon had peeled the truth free from Arthur in halting, stumbling words, breathless with rage and struggling not to sob with the hurt he harboured. No doubt Gwaine had plucked the facts free of Merlin with equal tenacity.

Now they both stood watching him, their chainmail agleam: a striking contrast to the linen and cambric that had been all that stood between he or Merlin and the edge of a practice blade. Yet he knew Leon's comment was not about his own state of dress. They all knew Merlin's skill with a sword or lack thereof. Arthur had never been in danger of even a glancing blow.

'No.'

He turned away, hesitating as Gwaine's voice reached him, low and knowing.

'You didn't so much as touch him with your blade. Not even once.'

Arthur's hand tightened over the edge of the door, a splinter digging into his palm. There had been no shortage of opportunities. He had let each one pass him by.

'No.'

******

Every day, Arthur expected Merlin to make his excuses, and every day, he surprised him. It was not as if he had ever followed an order unless he wanted to, and it could not be more obvious that Merlin had no desire to wield a sword. Perhaps he understood there was more to all this than Arthur was saying. Maybe it was an olive branch, of sorts, or merely an effort at self-flagellation: something to make Arthur pity him.

He didn't know. He didn't care to know Merlin's motivations. All that mattered was that they met here: enemies by the word of his father's laws and no longer the friends they had once been. Arthur was not ashamed to admit that it started out as something spiteful. His demand that Merlin learned how to use a sword was no peace offering: it was little more than an excuse to vent his anger.

Except he never did.

This – teaching a man how to wield a weapon and defend the realm – was something that came to him naturally. It was an area in which he was the one in control. It was a dynamic that fit him far more comfortably than any robe or crown, and it allowed him to take the pain that lingered within him and mould it into something useful. Out on that sun-gilded, wind-stricken, rain-soaked patch of land, it felt as if he and Merlin could strip themselves back to their essentials, carving away everything extraneous that might stand between them so they could truly weigh one another's worth.

And grudgingly, Arthur could admit that Merlin was improving. It was slow – by the gods, slow – but he could see how hard he tried. His determination wrote itself large in every line of his frame, even when he lay on his back, his hair clinging to his sweat-brined brow as he panted at the sky.

'Will you ever forgive me?'

It was quietly said, as if Merlin did not feel he had the right to ask. After all, he was the first sorcerer in Camelot for twenty years or more who had not been dragged to the pyre or led to the headsman. He had his life, which was more than any other mage could boast. In the eyes of many, that was mercy enough from a Pendragon.

And perhaps Arthur's anger was not as weak in tooth and claw as he had thought. It still lay in wait to boil up in his throat, making his next words cold and dismissive. 'When you can disarm me in fair combat. Then I'll forgive you.'

It was a dishonourable challenge on his part. Not even his best knights had managed it. He had promised to pay Gwaine's tavern bill for a year if he ever succeeded in that same act, and he had not yet laid claim to that prize. Merlin's skills may be improving, but he would never be more than passable, and Arthur suspected they both knew it.

Perhaps it was a test: of Merlin's determination and commitment – of the magic he had not yet once brought to bear. Maybe that was Arthur's real aim in all this: to push and push and push until Merlin reached his breaking point and proved Uther right.

He didn't know. He did not know his own mind or his own heart. All he understood was the slice of the blade and the steel in the line of Merlin's shoulders when he reclaimed his feet and faced Arthur once more.

******

Fighting with the knights was different. In their company, he did not hold back. They bore his frustrations with grace, challenging him at every possible turn and whittling the mess in his own head down to a dagger point.

Lancelot was normally the one who faced him. A penance of his own, perhaps. He had known of Merlin's magic. He had kept his secret: complicit, in the eyes of Camelot's law, and yet Arthur could not find it in himself to be surprised. To question his decision would be to question Lancelot's very nature – his honour and compassion.

To expect his silence on the matter was foolhardy to the extreme.

'Do you intend to keep it up forever, Sire?' Respectful. Lancelot was always respectful, even when committing treason, it seemed. 'This punishment of yours?'

'Consider the alternative. Merlin should be grateful.' Arthur sliced and switched, scowling when Lancelot blocked him with enviable grace. 'As should you.' It was a pointed, cruel reminder. He hated it the moment it past his lips, but there was no calling it back.

'Perhaps you need to consider another question,' Lancelot said, after a moment's thoughtful silence interrupted only by the clash of their blades, 'At the end of all this, should Merlin find your forgiveness, do you think he will answer in kind?' One dark brow lifted, and the set to Lancelot's jaw was grim and resolved. 'Do you think he will forgive you?'

'What?' The snarl bolted free of him, the tip of his sword twitching in a feint and jab that Lancelot knocked aside at the last minute. 'And in what way have I wronged him? What secrets have I kept? He is the liar. The traitor.'

'If that's what you believe, then let him go. Let him walk away from here and live his life, rather than demanding the impossible. He cannot be anything different, Arthur, no matter how much you rage against it.' Lancelot lowered his voice, the words softening to something more gentle than Arthur suspected he deserved. 'He cannot change, but you can. How this ends is not in Merlin's hands, Arthur. It is in yours. Do not pretend otherwise.'

******

What secrets have I kept?

The words haunted him as he stared at the fall of moonlight across his chamber floor. The flagstones gleamed. His rooms were abominably tidy, thanks to George's service. Arthur had never thought he would miss the mess.

Miss Merlin.

He swallowed, sagging deeper beneath the inadequate comfort of his eiderdown. He had attempted to claim innocence, as if he had not been holding his own silence while his heart tripped and ached and sang. Merlin's betrayal would be easier to swallow, perhaps, if Arthur were not the fool who had fallen in love with him.

And where was that man now, with his beaming smiles and his startling wisdom, his honesty and his unfaltering belief? Was he gone, nothing but a performance from a sorcerer seeking an advantage?

Had he ever existed at all?

******

'Tell me.'

Merlin flinched in surprise, his focus breaking like a wave on the shore. The tip of his sword dipped, useless, leaving his flank wide open. If he were a knight, Arthur would smack him with the flat of his blade – maybe a bruise would help him remember – yet he did not.

'Tell you what?'

Arthur shifted his weight, never lowering his guard, never lifting his gaze. He refused to look into that face and witness his confusion. He would not give the tiny flicker of hope in Merlin's voice credence. He did not know why he asked, only that he had to know. Was it about learning an enemy's weakness, or finding his way to forgiving a friend?

He had not yet decided.

'Everything.'

The tip of Merlin's tongue darted out to wet his bottom lip. A creak of leather whispered through the air as he shifted his grip around the hilt of the practice sword. Blue eyes shifted, darting up towards the looming presence of the castle at Arthur's back, the towers thrusting into the sky and the flags at their peaks rattling their accusations. His gaze seemed to trace the windows, darting from one to the next before he looked back at Arthur.

There was no wide-eyed innocence, there; no joyful gleam of a teasing friend. Yet nor did he cower and cringe. Narrow shoulders hardened beneath his tunic and the line of his spine was like an iron bar. For once, Merlin looked as if he could be the older of the two of them, grim-faced and determined: a man discharging his duty.

Finally, after a silence defined by the whistle of the wind and the soft sigh of their breathing, Merlin began.

******

Arthur did not know what to do with the knowledge he had been given: the good and the bad of it. He was not sure what was worse – the way Merlin had outlined, punctuated by the chime of one sword on the other, all the notable things he had done with his magic since arriving at Camelot, or the flat manner of his delivery.

A knight in his position would have boasted of his triumph. He would have worn his own worth like a mantle for the world to see. Or, on the rare occasion when things went wrong, he would have humbled himself in his apology.

Merlin did neither. He sought no accolades for the times – so many times – that he had saved Arthur's life, starting from the day they met and never finding cease. Nor did he grovel over his role in events that could have wrought Camelot to nothing but ash or ended in a funeral instead of a fanfare. He offered explanations, not excuses, and left Arthur to his considerations.

As if he wanted to be abandoned to the furore of his own thoughts.

He prowled his chambers, marching in a tight line across flagstones and rugs, dipping into the balm of the fire's aura before withdrawing from it once more. The temperature over his skin matched the ebb and flow of his mood: warmth at Merlin's sacrifice and obvious devotion, a chill at his strength, hidden from sight but no less present. Heat as the anger rose in him like bile, only to quench itself in the ice of his own sorrow.

Because through it all, he had heard what Merlin never put into words. The ache of his loneliness gilded every statement. He did not condemn anyone else alongside him. If Gaius played a role, he spoke nothing of it, and he made no mention of Lancelot. Arthur had imagined them laughing behind his back, enjoying their deception. Yet he doubted the truth of his own fears. If nothing else, he knew Merlin better than that. Perhaps the revelation of his secret had struck at him like a knife blow, cutting him to the quick, but even in his anger, Arthur could see there had been no lie in his character.

He had not played a part when he claimed friendship with Arthur, and the goodness in his heart was no act. Merlin would know, all too well, the danger to anyone who might be seen as an accomplice in his treachery. He would have done his best to shield them from it, even if that meant carrying his burdens in solitude and relying on the advice of a dragon with an axe to grind.

Arthur sighed, collapsing to sit on his mattress like a man spent. He felt hollow and cold, assaulted from all sides and split at his seams by the dilemma that lay before him. As Crown Prince of Camelot, his duty could not be more plain, and yet, for weeks, he had held his silence. He had kept Merlin's secrets: an unwilling, furious guardian, more lost in his own pain than concerns for his kingdom's safety – more bothered by the shocking depths of his gods-cursed heartbreak than the fact that Merlin had magic.

Perhaps it was because, in the darkest, softest parts of him, he knew that Merlin would not purposefully cause Camelot harm. To do so would be to go against every fundament of his nature. He was not some robe-clad sorcerer, broiled in his own hatred for Uther and his legacy. He did not look at the townsfolk and see nothing more than vermin scurrying before him. He had never once, as far as Arthur knew, made the mistake of treating people like things.

There were few men of his acquaintance who could say the same; himself among them.

He was not ready, just yet, to let his anger go, but for the first time Arthur thought he could sense its horizon. He could feel the edge of the storm, where the waters calmed once more and clear sailing could be found. He could sense his own acceptance, or at least the possibility of it.

And for that, he was grateful.

******

He wasn't sure who was more surprised. Himself, shocked by the sudden pain of the blade across his bicep, or Merlin, who went white as a sheet and dropped his sword.

'Gods, I'm sorry!'

'You are a useless swordsman.' Arthur sighed, looking ruefully at Merlin's dropped weapon. 'The point is to hurt people.' Considering how Merlin got misty-eyed over the animals they killed out hunting, it was perhaps no surprise that he wasn't cut out for combat. Yet it wasn't as if Merlin had not taken a life before. He had not minced his words when describing what became of Nimueh or the Sidhe. He had placed the blame for their deaths firmly at his own feet, and with very little regret.

'The swords are meant to be blunt!'

The snap of Merlin's temper was almost a relief: a flash and spark of ire where Arthur had seen nothing but calm acceptance and grim determination for weeks. It lit him up from within, giving colour to pale cheeks and making his eyes gleam. Yet the hands that reached for Arthur were as gentle as ever, his long fingers warm over the cambric of his tunic as he eased the loose fabric aside and took in the injury.

It was a trifling thing, in truth. If he had been wearing chainmail, it would not have left so much as a mark. Any knight would say it was his own fault, and they would be right. Merlin's incompetence had lulled him into a false sense of security, allowing him to score a lucky hit. A nick in the edge of the blade had torn at him: a simple accident. Though he had to admit, it was bleeding a not inconsiderable amount.

'This is going to need stitches.'

Something bubbled in Arthur's chest, a sharp 'pop' of exhilaration that danced along the cusp of fear. 'Can't you just...?' He raised his eyebrows meaningfully, rolling his eyes when Merlin gave him a blank look. 'Fix it?'

'What, with...?' Merlin blinked before narrowing his eyes. 'It's against the law.'

'That's never stopped you before.' He smirked when he saw Merlin's jaw shift, stubborn as ever. Yet his reluctance was a veneer over deeper emotion: breathless hope and wavering uncertainty, as if he saw the peace offering in Arthur's command and ached to accept it. 'Can you, or is it too dangerous?'

That was the only reason Arthur would accept. He would wear his curiosity with pride, but he would not put Merlin at risk to appease it. The truth was, try as he might, magic still unsettled him. It was some vast, unknown thing, rarely spoken of within Camelot and never mentioned in favourable tones. He knew, logically, that Merlin had not lied to him when he listed his exploits, but it was one thing to know that magic could be used as a force for good, and another to see it in action.

And Arthur ached to understand, not just the magic, but the man who wielded it.

'No, it... no.' Merlin's gaze raked the empty practice field, where naught but the wind bore witness. 'Are you sure?'

Arthur shoved aside the whisper of his doubts, which spoke in his father's furious voice, and nodded his head.

There were no muttered words or showy gestures. No sparks fell from Merlin's fingers to scorch the earth beneath their feet. Instead, there was just the calloused warmth of his palm over the breach and the dazzling flare of gold burning away the blue of his eyes.

He had expected pain, perhaps, or a feeling of intrusion. Arthur had told himself that something so feared could not possibly be gentle, and yet there was nothing sharp and furious to the power that ebbed into him. It was like putting on a warm cloak after a cold day on horseback: an invisible embrace that wrapped him in its grasp. It did not linger on his skin but sank down into the core of him, passing all that was blood and bone to find a place beyond all that and striking a light within the darkness.

And the next breath Arthur took felt like his first taste of real air.

He had not known how void a life without magic could be until its fragrance exploded upon his tongue: not the fire and fury of a mage lost to their wrath, but that same power wrought to heal, rather than harm. He had not seen the hollow inside him until it brimmed with Merlin's light, as tender and careful as the man himself.

More to the point, when he looked at Merlin, he saw all of him. There were no shadows of secrecy or obscuring masks. It was like the last piece of him slotting into place, and Arthur could not believe he had never noticed what was hidden for him. What must it have cost, to keep something so integral locked away, out of sight but never far from mind? What must Merlin have suffered, keeping all that strength tucked neatly out of view?

It was like watching a falcon spread its wings after too long in the mews, reclaiming its freedom as it took flight.

Gods, he was a fool. To fear magic was to fear the sword: a pointless act. The weapon was merely an act of deliverance. It was the one who wielded it that directed its strike.

And Merlin would never set out to hurt him, or anyone else he called a friend.

Arthur's sword thudded on the grass, freed from his grip as he reached for Merlin instead, wrapping his fingers around his arm. It was all he would permit himself as the gold in his eyes faded from view. Merlin's hand still rested over the cut, but Arthur could feel that it bled no more. The pain had ebbed, replaced by tender warmth, and his touch lingered, the two of them connected by the press of their palms.

I forgive you. Can you forgive me?

'Arthur?'

'I'm sorry.'

Merlin gave a tiny shake of his head, his brow crumpling into a frown as he shifted his feet, not away, as Arthur feared, but closer. He did not try and interrupt, but listened with his head tilted, as if giving every world, every syllable, every breath his full attention.

'I'm sorry I was so angry. That I didn't even try and understand. I'm sorry that I spent three weeks refusing to so much as see you and then dragged you out here to put you through some kind of – of test.' The air strained between his ribs, hard and hurting, breaking across the words that burst free of him: pallid blood from a different kind of wound. 'I'm sorry that I saw you as an enemy when I should know better.'

The hand on his bicep twitched, pressing tighter against his skin. 'I never blamed you for that. For any of it, really.' Merlin looked down at the ground between them, where their two swords lay forgotten. 'I hoped you knew me better than to think the worst, but...' He trailed off with a shrug. 'There's really nothing to forgive, Arthur.'

'Yes, there is.' Merlin might not admit it, but Arthur would not allow himself off the hook so easily. There were reasons aplenty for the way he felt, from the way he was raised to the pain he had witnessed magic cause, and yet he refused to use any of it as an excuse. His anger may have been genuine – a double-edged blade – but he had not reacted in a manner befitting a prince, a knight, or a decent friend.

His pettiness did him no credit.

He could not change the past few weeks, but he could at least move forward from the wreckage.

'Thank you for telling me about your magic.' It was a murmur between them, a secret kept and shared. 'It was a brave thing to do; it would have been far easier, and safer, to hold your silence.'

Merlin swallowed, his lips twisting like he was trying not to cry. 'I couldn't. I just – I couldn't. Not anymore. It was easier, at the start, when you were being a complete prat, but –'

But they had nurtured a friendship between them, and despite all his doubts to the contrary, it had mattered as much to Merlin as it did to Arthur. In the face of that, Arthur knew Merlin had not been able to keep hiding what he was.

'So, what now?'

The question lingered between them, a breath upon the wind. It was one that had haunted Arthur through all these long weeks, edged in the gleam of an axe blade or choked by the pyre's fume. He could see now, with the benefit of hindsight, that he had been testing himself as much as he was testing Merlin, breaking down the walls of all the lies he had been told were certainties since boyhood.

Everything within himself that Uther would decry as a weakness, Arthur had begun to see as a strength. He did not follow blindly, obedient to his father's rhetoric. He did not look at the world without question. He did not put his faith in tradition or fear the rule of change.

He knew a kingdom could be remade, if only the right man wore the crown.

'I keep you, and your secret, safe. My father will never know, and if he finds out, I will protect you.'

'Arthur –'

His fingers rested over Merlin's full lips, cutting off his protests. At any other time, he might have laughed at the flash of annoyance in those eyes. He wondered how much restraint it took for Merlin not to bite. Yet he subsided, listening, which made a nice change.

'I will protect you,' he repeated, with more solemnity than any other vow he had ever offered. 'Just as you have protected me all this time, but for that, I need you at my side. Not up in the healing rooms or trotting off after herbs.'

Merlin leaned back. 'Are you giving me my old job back?'

Arthur smirked, feeling the icy cocoon of his pain crack open to let in the warmth once more. 'You say "giving" like I'm offering you a choice. George has made changes. I can't find my socks anymore. It's inconvenient.'

'Well, I don't know about that. My old boss was a bit of a prat.' Merlin arched one eyebrow, and Arthur knew he was testing the waters, trying to find out how much of their friendship had survived this breach. Perhaps it had not emerged unscathed, but Arthur knew that it had suffered far less, perhaps, than either of them feared.

'Only a bit?'

Merlin's grin was like the sunrise, dimpling his cheeks as they turned back towards the castle. His shoulder bumped into Arthur's, cautious, maybe, but there all the same. 'Yeah.' His voice softened, and there was something almost tender in his gaze. He spoke, not with sarcasm, but with a kindness Arthur did not feel he deserved. 'Just a bit.'

Arthur's heart fluttered, throwing off the burden of its pain. Perhaps it would take time to heal. Maybe he would need more than a few words of reassurance to set himself to rights once more, but together, they had already taken the first step of that journey. He did not know where the path might lead them – back to friends or something more – but he intended to walk every step of it with Merlin at his side.

In their wake, the practice swords lay among the grass, their blades set to rest: their job done. It was there, on that stretch of innocuous grass that the ruins of betrayal had been cleared away, and a new foundation had found its root. Not one built over the precipice of a secret but placed, firm and sure, on solid ground.

The cornerstone of a golden age.

#Merlin #Merthur #My Fanfic

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cheeserwinkle · 3 months ago

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Yaay reference for my baby :]

So, say hello to Cain, my gith-durge. This is the first (original) githyanki I created in the game, so I didn't think much about.. So he is storm sorcery and the only thing he remembers after the Orin's lobotomy is how to make a ✨skadoosh✨. And, he is also connected to one of my tavs, they are in the same universe.

The past, which happened before the game plot events, is a separate story, but he has his own Abel, and the situation there is roughly similar to the biblical story xD

After the lobotomy, he acquired a new personality that does not include the behavior of the average githyanki. Roughly speaking, Orin made sure that she erased his personality completely. That's why he behaves like a narcissistic, prim boy who is afraid of mud, gets his manicure and puts on lip ticker. At the same time, he indulges in bloodthirsty impulses and is not averse to... well, eating someone. But hey, he also helps old ladies cross the street! (Jaheira for example)

I also have a couple of facts, so. He has a autopsy scars or sutured wounds; because of Orin, he got esotopia (strabismus); she also cut off his long hair as a trophy, so he has an uneven, funny hairstyle; he also has canines that are too large for his jaw (larger than those of giths), which leads to the canines sticking out. Pity, I didn't draw it on the reference, but I think somehow in my future drawings... maybe.

The little braid was braided by a half-elf, my friend's tav. Although Cain originally wanted to eat him, but, well-

#bg3 #baldur's gate 3 #bg3 dark urge #bg3 durge #bg3 githyanki #githyanki #githyanki tav #he is not tav but still #githyanki dark urge #artists on tumblr #art #my characters #durge: cain

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fitsofgloom · 6 months ago

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You'll Fear My Name, I Am The Deathstalker!: 1983's "Deathstalker" was the most unabashedly trashy and wildly enjoyable of all the '80s Sword & Sorcery epics following in the wake of the success of "Conan The Barbarian." I'll actually go so far as to contend that it jump-started me into puberty. Years later, I can see that it is essentially "Enter The Dragon" with (as the Psychotronic Video Guide desbribed) a "selfish blond hunk" standing in for Bruce Lee as he infiltrates an arch wizard's gladiatorial tournament to bring down his reign from within. You get barbarians of all stripes bashing in each other's heads, tearing off clothes, and erotically wallowing in mud, a real blast. Decapitation, sexual bondage, betrayal, hermaphroditic transformation, drawing and quartering, and a seriously awesome score ensue. It produced multiple sequels, the first a hilarious "Airplane!"-style send-up of this genre, a terrible third entry, and a return to form for the fourth outing. I've learned that a promising fifth installment is in the works, and my loins are once again aflame.

#deathstalker #sword and sorcery #rick hill #barbi benton #1983

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illarian-rambling · 1 month ago

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Thanks for the tag @kaylinalexanderbooks!

Five Lines Tag

Rules: post a line from your WIP that follows the prompt

My prompts, which are: A line about the weather A line about a secret A line said sarcastically A line about home A line about an animal

Let's see what MG3 has in store

A line about the weather

“Avymere!” they hissed, waving eagerly.

The Duchon jumped, spluttering slightly as they squinted in confusion. Elsind caught the exact moment when they put together who the strange human shouting at them was. The changeling jogged up, a mirthful expression on their face.

“Greetings.” Avymere gave them a nod. “Enjoying the weather?”

Elsind couldn’t have honestly told you if it was sunny or cloudy, they just took Avymere by the hand, practically hopping in excitement. Tentatively, a smile made its twitching way onto Avymere’s face as well. It looked terribly strange sitting there. Not the sort of expression crafted for portrait sittings or cabinet meetings. This wasn’t a smile Avymere used often, as it was a rare honest one.

A line about a secret

“Cool your jets,” Astra made a soothing gesture. “We’ll be fine. These jobs’re gonna get done, no matter how much Antonin thinks he can stall for time. Besides, even if he is a pisswad, helpin’ us is in ’is best interest.”

Marius shook his head. “You don’t understand. Maybe you would if you’d actually thoroughly read the contract. Antonin isn’t going to give you shit once you finish the third job. It says in the contract that you must accept his decree of completion for the agreement to be fulfilled. I don’t know how to make it any more clear, but he’s not going to give you that godsdamned decree.”

“But why?” Mashal crossed his arms, confused, while Astra gave an indignant scoff in the background. “We— We’re trying to keep this city from being conquered. The entire Montane family will be killed if Vermir gets her way. He has no reason to not work with us.”

“Oh, you poor kids.” The banker sighed, shaking his head. “Do you know what a wartime economy would mean for this family’s finances?”

A line said sarcastically

“Oh, Avy….” Elsind sighed sadly. They got up and, from the sounds of things, began to put together a small tray of food.

“I don’t know what’s wrong with me,” Avyemere choked out. Even talking made their leg hurt. “I should be strong enough. I’m meant to be. My people deserve better.”

“Better than some elf half-delious with pain and stress? Yeah, I agree. But also, you deserve better, too. You shouldn’t have put that much pressure on yourself—no one should have to.” The bed dipped as Elsind sat back down. “Why don’t you get some food in you, take your meds, and see if that helps? I guarantee at least some of this is just your body wanting calories so it can heal your leg.”

Glancing over, Avymere saw that Elsind had prepared a small plate of cut fruit from the little coldbox at the end of the room, as well as a mug of steeping tea. Again, they felt even more tears threaten to break past their eyes at the sight.

A line about home

Here, away from the crowd, Astra could admit to herself that she was terrified. Divine magic or not, Vermir had nearly killed her twice before, and that was before she’d taken the sorcery of half a city. However, her terror was a strangely resigned thing. This was odd, as Astra had never been resigned about anything a day in her life.

Tomorrow’s gonna happen, she thought. I might die, I might win, I might end up lookin’ over a world conquered by that eikodoro monster knowin’ I was too weak to stop ’er. All I do know is that I’m tired a’ bein’ scared. Let’s just get this nonsense over with and call it a day. I miss my cat. I miss my folks. I wanna go home and get scared about little, petty things for a while.

A line about an animal

Tramping through the mud were dozens of hardbitten teamsters, all calling and crowing like birds greeting the sun. Horses snorted and stamped, so much bigger than Elsind had ever imagined, and much smellier, too. Wagons stood in rows like tarp-covered neighborhoods. The wind flowing down from the looming Siegewall Mountains whipped at hair, clothes, and anything not nailed down, kicking up massive clouds of dust that caused Avymere to cough uncontrollably.

“How do we know how to talk to?” Elsind asked, tapping his fingers nervously. Given the noise of the crowd, he nearly had to shout to be heard.

“We need to….” Avymere trailed off as they peered through the crowd. Their expression remained a serene mask, yet Elsind was a connoisseur of faces, so he picked up on the subtle furrow of their brow. The Duchon was as lost here as he was.

I'll tag @leahnardo-da-veggie @wyked-ao3 @jev-urisk @daisywords @theink-stainedfolk and anyone else who wants to play :)

Your prompts: A line about the weather, A line about a secret, A line said sincerely, A line about a house, A line about water

#writing #writerscommunity #writblr #my ocs #five lines tag

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lilyspond64 · 2 years ago

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PICK JUST ONE AND BE CAREFUL! YOU CAN'T CHANGE YOUR ANSWER ONCE PICKED!

#magic #poll

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grailfinders · 9 months ago

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Grailfinders Viewers' Choice #24: Dark Sakura

today on Grailfinders we’re making the big bad of Heaven’s Feel, Dark Sakura. she’s Sakura, but dark! I admit we haven’t played F/SN yet (heresy, I know), so if we get any lore wrong I profusely apologize. she’s got that grail gunk all up in her, so you know we had to give her the ol’ sorlock treatment. she’s a Great Old One Warlock for that GOO, and a Clockwork Sorcerer to get some of her own power. with those two in place, we have everything we need for omnipotence! maybe.

check out her build breakdown below the cut, or her character sheet over here!

Ancestry & Background

Sakura’s a Human, or at least she was before the goopening, and she grew up with a special pattern on her that’s teaching her magic. that’s a Mark of the Sentinel if I ever heard it, giving her +2 Charisma and +1 Dexterity (thank you Tasha), as well as the Sentinel’s Intuition for a d4 bonus on all Insight and Perception checks. the most important part of hiding yourself from people is making sure they don’t know if you know that they know what you know, y’know? you can also use the Guardian’s Shield once a day for a free casting of the shield spell, and you’re a Vigilant Guardian, letting you throw yourself between an ally and an attack once a day. we’re not really using that last one here, but maybe you’ll use it during Today’s Menu for the Emiya Family, who knows. bacon grease really hurts, so maybe that counts as an attack?

you also get an extended spell list, but we’ll just go over the ones we want as we get them.

you’re also a Haunted One, because dear christ is the Matou family fucked up. on the plus side, you’re proficient in Arcana and Religion. that totally makes up for the trauma, right?

Ability Scores

your highest stat is Charisma. if you want people to think you’re doing alright, you need to lie to them constantly, and that’s a lot of charisma checks. also, your magic comes from within, and also from a cup, and also from a cup within, and all of those are charisma based. second up is Constitution. you can keep fighting with like, 80% of your body gone, so yeah. you’re pretty tough. third is Intelligence, as magic in Fate is a mix of sorcery and wizardry- it would feel weird to have this low, even if we don’t need it. this means your Dexterity is just okay. as implied by that bit about your body getting torn apart, you clearly don’t get out of the way of attacks easily. which kind of makes sense, you’re still just a teenager with magic powers. speaking of, your Wisdom’s low. I don’t want to assume as to how you got a grail stuffed inside you, but I will say it probably makes it hard for you to focus on stuff. that means we’re dumping Strength. you are a teenage girl. plus you’re going to have plenty of minions to do all the heavy lifting for you. I hear one of them is the strongest in the world.

Class Levels

1. Warlock 1: starting off as a warlock gets you proficiency with Wisdom and Charisma saves, as well as Deception and History. you also get an Awakened Mind from your GOO! (that’s Great Old One btw, but both work to describe grail mud) that gives you an Awakened Mind, letting you speak telepathically with anyone nearby as long as they know at least one language. I know the grail let Medusa speak Japanese but wouldn’t it be funny if it didn’t? now you’re prepared.

The grail will also give you Pact Magic like all warlocks, allowing you to cast spells using your Charisma for the spell modifier and save DC. You only have one first-level spell slot at the moment, but it recharges each short rest, and you’ll receive more and stronger spell slots over time. Eldritch Blast gives you a basic ranged attack that any caster should know, while Infestation allows you to call upon the grail mud to poison a nearby creature while also forcing them to move one space in a random direction. If your DM is fond of pits and hazards, you will be fond of this spell.

For your leveled spell, you can bring the mud to bear against anyone near you with Arms of Hadar, attacking friend and foe alike around you, while also preventing them from making reaction. For your second spell, go on the defensive with Shield of Faith giving you or an ally +2 AC for up to ten minutes. Any damage avoided is effectively damage healed, if you think about it.

2. Warlock 2: Second level warlocks get Eldritch Invocations to shape the grail mud to your liking. with these you can don an Armor of Shadows for free castings of Mage Armor on yourself, instantly adding an extra 3 points of AC while not wearing armor. you can also use Agonizing Blasts, adding your Charisma modifier to all damage done by your Eldritch Blast.

Speaking of dealing damage via Eldritch Blast, your new spell this level is Hex. With this spell, you deal an extra 1d6 necrotic damage to your target every time you hit them, and they also get disadvantage on all checks made with an ability of your choosing. If your target falls to 0 HP before your hour is up, you can even move it to another target! Given how many attacks Eldritch Blast can fire off in a single turn, this is a great boon to any killer of humanity.

3. Warlock 3: At third level, warlocks receive their Pact Boon, an extra special gift from your patron to shift the tides of battle! When you enter the Pact of the Talisman, anyone can wear it and add a d4 to a failed check up to your proficiency times a day. If you know what’s coming, you can be better prepared for it. Failing that, you can at least pretend you were prepared for it and make your rolls better anyway.

You also gain second level spells this level, and Hold Person is a doozy! One creature of your choice needs to make a Wisdom save, and if they fail, they’re paralyzed for up to a minute, or until they make another Wisdom save at the end of their turn.

A paralyzed creature is Incapacitated, and fails all strength and dexterity saves. In addition, all attacks against them gain advantage, and attackers within 5’ of the creature always deal critical damage whenever they hit. If you want to kill a humanoid as quickly as possible, this is how you do it.

4. Warlock 4: At fourth level, warlocks gain their first Ability Score Improvement, allowing us to round out your Dexterity and Charisma at the same time! We still can’t summon Saber Alter just yet, but you can use a Sword Burst for more or less the same effect. You also gain your first pseudo-summon this level thanks to Phantasmal Force. This illusion can be of anything you wish, but if you make an illusion that would deal damage to the creature, they will take a little psychic damage each turn.

5. Warlock 5: Fifth level warlocks learn third level spells. Counterspell will allow you to no-sell just about anything in the game, when it works. Countering the right attack or escape attempt can instantly make you the MVP of any encounter, which feels appropriate for a holy grail.

You can also don a Cloak of Flies thanks to your new invocation. With this, you deal poison damage to every creature within 5’ of you while also gaining advantage on Intimidation checks, at the cost of disadvantage on all other forms of charisma. You can use this once a short rest, and it has no time limit! it’s literally free damage.

6. Warlock 6: In contrast, your new Entropic Ward is free anti-damage. Whenever a creature attacks you, you can react to give it disadvantage. If this causes the attack to miss, your next attack against the attacker is made at advantage. You can only use this once per short rest, but I’m sure most people would prefer to have as few stab wounds as they can manage.

You can also further spread the mud’s influence thanks to the Hunger of Hadar, making a 20’ radius sphere of darkness that slows movement within it and deals damage to anything that starts and ends its turn within it.

7. Sorcerer 1: now we’re going to jump back to Sorcerer real quick and pick up some regular Sakura spells. you can argue we should’ve done this class first then, but I wanted the extra HP. so yes, you have Spells, you cast them with Charisma too. these refresh on long rests, but you can use warlock spell slots for sorcery spells and vice versa. this also doubles your cantrip count with the addition of Fire Bolt, Frostbite, Lightning Lure, and Chill Touch so this level isn’t 100% regular Sakura. you can also use Magic Missile if you like multiattacking but hate missing, and Silvery Barbs for another way to make the infinite power of the grail work for you. react and force someone to re-roll an attack, save, or check. if they fail, you can give an ally advantage on their next attack, save, or check. it’s great.

speaking of roll fuckery, you’re a Clockwork Soul, which lets you Restore Balance. 90% of the time grails are doing the exact opposite, but whatever, it lets you remove advantage or disadvantage from a d20 roll you can see Proficiency times per day. you can make the grail do literally anything, so everything we do here is 100% canon. people will believe that, right?

8. Sorcerer 2: second level sorcerers get a Font of Magic, so you can burn spell slots to make sorcery points and burn points to make sorcerer spell slots. if you’re not aware of the “coffeelock” gimmick, this lets you turn warlock slots into sorcerer slots, then short rest to regain the warlock slots for infinite magical power. as long as you can stay awake and not die in the process, at least.

to help you not die, here’s False Life! it gives you temporary HP! that’s almost as good as healing!

9. Sorcerer 3: third level sorcerers get Metamagic! it lets you customize spells almost as much as your invocations let you customize you. Heightened spells give one creature in their effect disadvantage on their save for 3 points, while Quickened spells let you cast an action spell as a bonus action. you blast hard, and you blast fast. it makes sense, given the magical reactor you’re stealing power from.

also you can cast Alter Self now! I don’t know what your cool red and black dress thing is supposed to be made out of, but if it’s made out of you, now you can make it by using the Change Appearance option. you can also choose an Aquatic Adaptation or Natural Weapons if you want.

10. Sorcerer 4: fourth level sorcerers get an ASI to max out your Charisma for the strongest spells, as well as the cantrip Mind Sliver to mess up human brains even more, and Maximillian’s Earthen Grasp for a sorta giant. why make a giant the size of a mountain when you can make a giant out of a mountain? think smarter, not harder. (it restrains a creature for up to a minute if it fails a strength save and you can make the hand crush people while grabbed.)

11. Warlock 7: Seventh level warlocks can use fourth level spells like Dominate Beast, turning any beast you can see into your loyal companion for up to a minute, forcing it to obey any command you give it. Most of our enslavement tactics only work on humanoids, so if you have to fight Hessian Lobo, this can help bring him into the fold.

If that’s not beastly enough, you become a Sculptor of Flesh this level, letting you cast Polymorph once a day with a warlock spell slot. This will transform you into a beast with a CR equal to or lower than your level for up to an hour. This is effectively summoning a giant to fight for you while also giving you a much larger HP pool to work with. You can’t cast spells while polymorphed, but I don’t think you need to if you’re a T. Rex.

12. warlock 8: at level 8 u get another asi, this time you’re getting lucky! congrats, some people have to stay up all night for that one. with this, yu can re-roll a creature’s attack, check, or save (as long as it directly affects u) up to 3 times a day! you can’t loop the whole war, but you can loop an attack or two. or three, if you were paying attention!

you can also summon a guardian of faith now, it’s only large so pretty small for a giant, but it blocks an area and stabs stuff for radiant damage! plus these are concentration free, so you can make as many as you want!

13. warlock 9: ninth level warlocks get fifth level spells, and if you really wanna make a shadow giant, then you need BIGBY’S HAND!!! it makes a big hand you can control. sure it’s not the whole thing, but all the cool giant boss fights only let you hit one body part anyway. also yer eldritch blast is a lance of lethargy now, so once a turn you can knock 10’ offa someone’s move speed for the next turn. that’s why this build’s so late!

14. warlock 10: tenth level warlocks can toll the dead and deal extra damage to anyone not at full health, but more importantly you get a thought shield! your mind cant be read by anybody you don’t wanna deal with, and you get resistance to psychic damage bc the amount you block gets launched back at the sender! you’re mostly mud by this point, i think. you ever try to make mud freak out? doesn’t go well.

15. warlock 11: leventh level warlocks get a mystic arcanum, a fancy way of saying you have normal spell slots now that only work for the one spell you get them for. no upcasting allowed past this point! now you can create undead! wit this you can turn up to three corpses into ghouls that’ll stay under your control for 24 hours. you can refresh this control with another casting, or you can just let them run free on the populace, your choice. boom, creepy skeletons, done!

16. Sorcerer 5: fifth level sorcerers got Magical Guidance, giving you another way to boost failed checks if you got the points for it. also, you can dispel magic now. if you couldn’t counter it, at least you can cut through it after the fact! (kinda ironic you died to rulebreaker, huh?)

17. Sorcerer 6: at sixth level clockwork sorcerers become a Bastion of Law, letting you spend sorcery points to give yourself a barrier to block up to 5d8 incoming damage.

18. warlock 12: at twelfth level you get your last asi, makin you tough! that’s 36 hp now, and another 2 every time you level up from here on out! if you want to heal a lot of hp, you need a lot of hp. or not, you can just turn into a huge giant crab if ya want. you also get the protection of the talisman this level, letting whoever is wearing it get an extra d4 on their save proficiency times a day! you’re just better than everyone, huh?

19. Warlock 13: a thirteenth level warlock gets a seventh level arcanum like Finger of Death. it kills people and can turn them into your zombie minions, just like the grail mud.

20. Warlock 14: all of this is nice of course, but it’s not warping a servant to serve you indefinitely. thankfully, that’s why you can now create thralls! you can use your action to touch any incapacitated humanoid and charm them indefinitely, or until they get hit with a remove curse spell. as long as you two are on the same plane, you can also talk to each other with your minds!! just. convince someone to play Saber. alter them. boom, salter.

Pros & Cons

Pros:

Create Thrall is a huge boon, letting you turn just about anyone into your minion for practically free. there’s no save, even! while finding an incapacitated humanoid sounds daunting, it’s easier than you’d think with a liberal sprinkling of heightened Hold Persons. suck a servant into goop and make them your servants. or zombies, or just lie to them!

as a sorlock you get infinite magic as long as you’re willing to work without sleep, which lets you blast away with your strongest spells without issue. well, not your strongest spells since those are arcanum, but still, infinite upcast Magic Missiles and Hungers of Hadar. it’s nice!

of course if you want to talk defense, infinite spell slots means infinite sorcery points means infinite shields. your infinite magical power makes Bastion of Law just a silly power to have, with no limit to the number of times you can use it outside of how much mana you have to burn meaning you can block up to 5d8 damage every turn with no limit outside of your patience. this is on top of your decent (for a caster) hp, as well as an ungodly number of ways to block, disadvantage, and stymie attackers at every turn. if someone somehow manages to fight you directly, it’s going to be a while before they can even pretend to land a hit on you.

Cons:

it a good thing you have those shields, because your AC is terrible without them. 15 AC isn’t bad, of course, but it means you’ll have to use every trick in your book if you get cornered by someone with actual fighting experience.

also, that big pro I put up there with the Bastion of Law? it takes a bonus action to burn a slot into points, then an action to make the shield. that’s your entire turn gone every time your shield needs to be refreshed. if someone really gets you on your backfoot, you can last a while, but that’s about all you can do. this is why you need the minions.

but now that I brought up that “ungodly number of ways to block attacks”… you have an ungodly number of ways to block attacks. that means not only do you have to be really paying attention to the DM’s turns, you need to keep an eye on all those methods of defense so you A) can use them well, and B) you don’t burn through them too quickly. complexity isn’t a death sentence, but you should know it before going all-in on a build. some people just want to relax in D&D, after all.

#fgo #fate grand order #D&D 5e #DND #Sakura Matou #Sorcerer #Warlock

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nesiacha · 2 months ago

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Anacharsis Cloots: A Noble "Internationalist" Revolutionary, Hard to Pin Down

To this day, I still don't know if Cloots was a genuine revolutionary—both idealistic and, in a way, visionary—or a great cynical opportunist, possibly even a hypocritical revolutionary. I still can't figure him out. I once discussed Chaumette here, who I consider one of the most complex revolutionaries of this period, but at least I never doubted his revolutionary fervor. He remained clean. Cloots, however, is a different case.

Anacharsis Cloots was born in 1755 in the Duchy of Cleves. His father was an advisor to Frederick II, and his family was elevated to baronial status. He studied in France, returned to Prussia, and after his father’s death, moved back to France. He inherited an enormous fortune, largely from colonial sources. He identified as French. Cloots traveled extensively throughout Europe but hurried back when the Bastille fell. He entered political life, writing pamphlets and contributing to newspapers such as Brissot's Le Patriote Français or Desmoulins' Révolutions de France et de Brabant. He joined the Jacobin Club in 1790, proposing a motion to completely sever ties with the Church, rather than drafting a Civil Constitution of the Clergy, emulating what the Americans had done.

On June 10, 1790, Cloots presented various foreigners in support of the revolution to the Constituent Assembly, including Europeans, Arabs, and Chaldeans. He proclaimed himself the "Orator of the Foreigners' Committee" and declared that the Federation would be a celebration of the human race. According to him, “Twenty-five million free men have awakened the peoples buried in long slavery.”

He corresponded with Joséphine de Beauharnais, saying, “I was at the foreigners' celebration in the tribunes of the palace, as ambassador of the human race, and the ministers of tyrants looked at us with jealous and uncertain eyes. This national celebration transports you two thousand years back in time, by some ancient hue; it also transports you two thousand years forward, by the rapid progress of reason, of which this celebration is the early and delightful fruit.” For Cloots, the French Revolution had to extend beyond France’s borders, and in some ways, he was a precursor to internationalism.

However, he was a staunch supporter of the colonial system and was vehemently opposed to the abolition of slavery (let's not forget that his family's wealth came from the colonies, so was this cynicism, hypocrisy, opportunism, or selfishness?). During the debate between Barnave, Brissot, and Robespierre, among others, Cloots sided with Barnave. Letters have since questioned how Cloots, while claiming to be the "orator of the human race," could support slavery. Initially sympathetic to La Fayette and Barnave, Cloots later aligned with Brissot before denouncing the Girondins as enemies and even taking a shot at Marat in the process.

Cloots expressed deep hatred for the aristocracy and for Mallet du Pan, whom he grouped together with Marat, which is rather surprising. Here’s an excerpt: “March forward and we will avoid the mud of the vile Marat and the infamous Mallet du Pan.” He despised the agrarian laws proposed by revolutionaries like Momoro and later Babeuf. For Cloots, property rights were absolute (to be fair, many revolutionaries, even the so-called “enragés” or "exagérés" know as hébertists, were hesitant on this issue). Cloots believed social inequality was necessary because the rich ensured the subsistence of the poor (a summary of his thoughts by Vovelle).

After the King’s failed flight to Varennes, Cloots declared himself a republican but did not sign the Champ de Mars petition. His reasoning was that de-Christianizing the people took precedence, which seems like an odd priority compared to the petition. Here’s one of his justifications: “As long as the French attend the sorceries of the mass... it will be difficult to cure them of the deception of the royal phantom.” There were French people in favor of de-Christianization who still signed the petition, so his reasoning seems dubious. Meanwhile, Cloots argued for the abolition of nations. He initially aligned with the Girondins on the issue of war but feared the August 10th insurrection. However, after this, he distanced himself from the Girondins.

In 1792, Cloots finally obtained French citizenship. He once again attacked both Roland and Marat simultaneously. He voted in favor of the King’s death without delay, saying, "I know no other sovereign than the human race, which is to say universal reason: I say no." He also declared, "I likewise condemn to death the infamous Frederick William."

Cloots supported more revolutionary wars and aligned himself with the Hébertists, particularly due to their stance on the de-Christianization campaign. He was at the height of his glory when he became president of the Jacobins in 1793. However, revolutionaries like Robespierre began to attack him. In his newspaper Le Vieux Cordelier, Camille Desmoulins attacks Cloots (and Chaumette) "Anacharsis and Anaxagoras believe they are pushing the wheel of reason when in fact it is that of counter-revolution; and soon, instead of letting papism in France die of old age and starvation, ready to breathe its last breath without giving our enemies any advantage, since the treasure of the sacristies could not escape Cambon by persecution and intolerance against those who wish to liturgy and be liturgied, I urge to you to send a force of constitutional recruits to Lescure and Roche-Jacquelin".

Here’s an excerpt from Robespierre’s speech . When Cloots was asked where he came from, he responded that he came from Prussia, "a future department of the French Republic" in his words.

Robespierre’s attack: "Can we consider a German baron a patriot? Can we consider a man with more than 100,000 livres in income a sans-culotte? Can we believe a man who only associates with bankers and counter-revolutionaries, enemies of France, to be a republican? Citizens, do you regard as a patriot a foreigner who wants to be more democratic than the French, and who is sometimes seen with the Marais and other times with the Montagne?" He continued, "There is a third crisis that Mr. Cloots might boast of, but it will only involve fools or scoundrels. I am speaking of the movement against religion, a movement that, matured by time and reason, could have become excellent, but whose violence could bring about great misfortunes, which we must attribute to the aristocracy's calculations."

Cloots was expelled from the Jacobin Society, but he defended himself in writing, saying, "Lepeletier was once a marquis," and "if Marat had been born half a league further, he would have been Prussian." He attributed his misfortune to "loving humanity too much and not enough the cliques and personalities... France or Gaul, you will be happy when you are cured of individuals." He remained optimistic about his fate, remarking, "This speech (by Robespierre) would have had me hanged two years ago, but now it is not very dangerous in the time of organized sans-culotterie... The Abbé de Saint-Pierre was not hanged for his universal aristocracy; I will not be guillotined for my universal sans-culotterie."

However, on December 26, 1793, the Convention decreed the expulsion of citizens born in foreign countries from the national representation. Cloots was soon arrested and imprisoned. At first, he did not despair and wrote a manifesto addressed to "Hommes de bonne volonté." When Vincent and Ronsin were arrested and later released, they reportedly crossed paths with Cloots—though I would need to find the sources for that.

In any case, Cloots was brought to trial alongside the Hébertists, including Momoro, Ronsin, Vincent, Hébert, and others—some were fervent extremists, others were more dubious figures used to further discredit the Hébertists. Cloots remained very calm and defended himself the best. When a juror named Renaudin told him, "Your system of a universal republic was a deeply meditated treachery that gave the crowned heads a pretext against France," Cloots responded, "The universal republic is part of the natural order; I may have spoken of it as the Abbé de Saint-Pierre spoke of universal peace. Moreover, I can hardly be suspected of supporting kings; it would be quite extraordinary if the man burnable in Rome, hangable in London, and breakable on the wheel in Vienna were to be guillotined in Paris." Cloots faced the guillotine with great courage, urging his fellow condemned to die with dignity, reportedly in a calm tone. According to Tulard, he even made a joke to lighten the mood of the condemned, while Ronsin gave the same advice in a much harsher tone. Cloots was said to have worn a wide smile as he climbed into the cart and faced death with good humor.

So, was he just an opportunist, as Mathiez suggested? Jaurès had a great deal of sympathy for Cloots, saying he had a "warm internationalism," while Soboul referred to him as embodying a "bourgeois cosmopolitanism." Perhaps Cloots was all of these things at once, as historian Antoine Resche hypothesized.

Unfortunately, this kind of "racist" internationalism (I put it in quotes because the term didn’t exist, as far as I know, in 1790) would continue even among the most fervent figures on the left. The majority of deported Communards ( the Communards of 1870) supported the repression of the Kanaks and excluded Algerians from the fraternal republic they had dreamed of, a republic for which some had given their lives.

I’ll conclude with Antoine Resche’s excellent assessment of this figure ( in his site Veni Vidi Sensi): "Internationalist and yet a supporter of the colonial system, extremely wealthy, opposed to any form of land redistribution, yet close to the Hébertists—Cloots remains a difficult personality to pin down, but he certainly does not leave anyone indifferent."

Reddit: thanks to @anotherhumaninthisworld for finding in Camille Desmoulins' journal the passage where he attacked Cloots on dechristianization

Sources:

Antoine Resche

Jean Jaurès

Albert Soboul Anacharsis Cloots, l’Orateur du genre humain

Michel Vovelle

#frev #french revolution #cloots #robespierre #georges danton #hébertistes #josephine de beauharnais #history

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urwendii · 3 months ago

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Day 3: War + Day 4: Mercy of @eonweweek

Pairing: Eönwë x Mairon

Wordcount: 1.8k

Warning: War of Wrath shenanigans. Dubious moral. Dubious consensual blowjob (?)

Available on ao3

The rain has been pouring without respite for the past days as the Host settled into an uneasy victory. Too many have they lost to fully celebrate, the damp chilling bones and morales as the Elves build a makeshift camp that sprawls like a lazy snake over the broken hill. Tension still rides high as names are called, provisions numbered. Eönwë has been in council all morning, King Arafinwë and their generals debating the logistics of the following weeks.

Beleriand is a ruin, cracks where foul fumes and liquid fires belch, streams muddy and wild forcing new paths amongst gentle slopes and collapsed cliffs. The Beleriand Elves are weary of centuries of war and colonialism and do not welcome the Amanyar as heroes. Angband needs to be cleansed and many of Morgoth's forces are still roaming the ruined landscape.

Eönwë shivers as he tracks back to his own tent, nodding at a few soldiers. His boots sink deep in the mud and his wings hang heavy on his back, but the turmoil in his guts is the worst. He doesn't even let his surprise show when upon opening the flaps of what stands as modest, fast put up together, private quarters for the High Commander of the army of the West and finds Mairon sitting on a chair looking at him with cold resigned eyes.

Both say nothing.

Eönwë has been dreading meeting him on the battlefield yet the Lieutenant had been noticeably absent from all battles, leaving only a trail of sorcery in the shadows of his absence.

Four days ago, Eönwë had dragged Morgoth himself out of the fortress, repugnant and weakened as the Vala had then been, a pitiful mockery of what he should have been, Morgoth had wasted his last words hurling insults and taunting Eönwë.

Four days was all it took for Mairon to ressurface.

Eönwë sighs. Sharp and tired.

"It has been a long time."

What does one say to one who has caused so much suffering, one you used to count as your closest companion. Mairon looks at him then nods once. His hair is long and hangs past his waist, blond, almost ashen. His eyes are dark. His features, sharp and pale. If it is not for the fire burning within him, Eönwë would have thought him a different being.

"What do you want Mairon?" He asks when silence has stretched beyond what is acceptable.

The other Maia looks down at his hands then, demurely folded over his lap. This way Mairon looks anything but the picture of a war criminal and murderer. The truth still sits uneasy in Eönwë’s heart. The Mairon he knows– knew, is a precious memory he has forced himself to keep alive in the secrecy of his mind.

"I am here for your mercy." Demanding and a tad haughty. His voice is higher than it used to be.

"Why should I give it?" It's a rhetorical question. Eönwë is a war commander, has killed thousands in the last four decades, is still trying to deal with this reality and Morgoth's taunts have not helped. Of course he will give Mairon, the mercy of another chance.

But this, this is Eönwë the Maia, the former friend and companion's wish. His Lord has sent him on a mission and that is to free the Elves of Middle Earth of evil and the Maia sitting quietly, wearing a muted dark blue robe in a pretense of repentance, counts as such evil.

Enhanced by Morgoth's immense native power, Mairon has gifts none of their order in Aman owns. Mairon gives him a placid smile. Fake and strained.

"I will not dignify this with an answer. But you and I know you will not discard me."

Eönwë takes the slight with a flinch. Hurt, he strides to the other side of the tent, keeping the Maia on the periphery of his vision, then lets out a sharp sigh. Mairon if anything is the one who discarded them, him.

"You left on your own accord."

"I did."

Eönwë shakes his head.

"And now your master is no more and you shall have me thinking your coming back to me is genuine?"

He is surprised at the steel in his words. Perhaps war has taken more than a toll on his ëala. Perhaps it also has turned Eönwë into a new creature. Mairon remains quiet for a few moments, head tilted as he seems to ponder his next words. At last he says,

"Where should I hope to go then, if not where it all began?" This place is no more, Eönwë thinks angrily, suddenly and his shoves the thought, loud and pained, embroidered with the vivid images of the dying Trees, toward Mairon's mind, walled up as it is. The corner of the Úmaia's eyes tighten, the only physical evidence that he is well aware of Eönwë's despair.

"I am sorry for the Trees."

This more than anything is what angers Eönwë.

"You have lost the right to feel sorry for destruction, Sauron."

This brings a flare of life upon Mairon's pale skin, an ugly shade of red, splotched on his cheeks as he bares his teeth.

"Do not call me that."

Silence, frigid and icy, falls between them. Eönwë's sword hangs heavy from his waist and he wants to remove his boots. He feels exhaustion pressing behind eyelids, pressure building at the base of his skull. At times, wearing a fana is a burden.

He is about to ask what Mairon intends to do but the other Maia is rising to his feet. Despite the charisma he still exudes in this form, Eönwë remains taller than him, a good head above. Mairon's body is slim, waist narrow and deceitful in his perceived weakness, but tension has coiled around his shoulders as he takes one step toward Eönwë, stares at him with dull eyes then does something that makes all the air leaving Eönwë's lungs.

Kneeling in front of him, head hunched to the floor, Mairon asks forgiveness. Or tries to. His words are carefully picked to not put the blame on his shoulders and he avoids mentioning his regrets of joining Morgoth in the first place. Eönwë isn't sure he wants to hear this anyway for he knows it to be a lie. Mairon is cunning, and ambitious and unapologetic.

He will never regret his choice of allegiance. Still, the vision he gifts Eönwë, in this moment sends tingles to the tips of wings.

"You and I used to be friends." He adds quietly. It's an euphemism. They used to be closer.

"I have lost the war, and I am not delusional on what it means for my future."

Mercy.

Oh.

Eönwë blinks then. A flicker of understanding, for speaking with Mairon has always been like solving riddles and jumping ahead of conversations.

"I will not harm you, nor chain you." He carefully announces and intently stares as Mairon relaxes by a barely perceived degree.

"Will you forgive me then?"

Eönwë shuffles, uncomfortable.

"I will offer you a chance to seek atonement." He replies instead.

Mairon seems clearly displeased but he nods demurely, and gracefully stands up. They are closer now than they've been in long centuries, there are pale freckles splattered on Mairon's nose and his eyelashes are a tone darker than his hair.

Eönwë can see the flames burning behind the listless eyes, the fire that Mairon has never been able to tame down. The lips are the same. As soon as the thought has entered his mind, he feels disgusted with himself. Eönwë commands his legs to move, to put some distance with Mairon, and yet he remains there, counting every breath and exhales between them until he is sure that he has committed to memory that new face, strange yet oddly familiar in the way of Ainur.

"I'm sorry." Mairon whispers and Eönwë bites his own tongue.

He wants to believe it, he wants so many things. And none of them are worthy of his duties. He knows Mairon is possibly manipulating him when the other male reaches for him and applies cold lips against his own.

He doesn't want that kiss.

He should not be kissing him, but Mairon's grasp is strong and unrelenting as he slides a sinful tongue between lips and all but devours Eönwë's hopes and tiny breathy moans.

Stop it, he urges himself. Stop it, he repeats over and over again as Mairon presses his lithe body against his own, grinding hips that make bright sparks burst behind his closed eyelids.

Eönwë doesn't even remember closing his eyes and he tries to remain still, unresponsive, hoping against hope that Mairon will cease before he does something he will regret. One hand has snaked between their bodies and Eönwë gasps out loud when it palms his erection, hardening against his will.

From there it is a whirlwind of motions and Mairon is back on his knees, freeing Eönwë from the tightness of his breeches, erection hard and flushed against his stomach. What is happening, he thinks dazed as he watches with glazed over eyes as Mairon makes a show of licking his lips before running his tongue over the flushed head of his cock.

Eönwë whimpers, in pain and helplessness against base desire, against long buried feelings, against everything he stands for because it has been so, so long since he last has been touched this way. Stop it. He thinks again, weakly, shivering. Mairon has taken him whole in his mouth, swirling his tongue in a way that makes Eönwë's knees in danger of giving up.

It is a sudden nose outside of the tent that breaks the spell and calls him back to reality. Suddenly he pushes Mairon away, taking a second to mourn the absence of his mouth before awkwardly lacing back his breeches.

"Don't." He chokes, angry at both of them. Hurt and heartbroken.

Mairon's face is unreadable until a sly smile stretches his lips.

"Are you sure?"

Eönwë closes his eyes, shoves every ounce of improper feelings back in the far corner of his mind and squares his shoulders.

"I have given you my assent for atonement. Mairon. I am not Morgoth that I will demand to abase yourself to prove yourself."

Fury blooms on Mairon's face, followed by what looks to be hurt and Eönwë does not have time to ponder the reason when Mairon goes back on his feet and dust his robes.

"You know nothing." He hisses.

Eönwë doesn't like the sliver of satisfaction he feels at Mairon's pain.

"Maybe not, but I will not allow this behaviour. Go back with us to Valinor and ask Lord Manwë’s forgiveness, for I cannot grant you his blessing."

Something shutters behind Mairon's eyes and Eönwë has a bad omen. The Maia bows once more, wipes his still glistening lips and coldly tells Eönwë he will think about it.

Eönwë doesn't allow himself to weep when days later, Mairon has once more vanished into the wilds.

#eönwë #mairon #eonwe x mairon #eonwe x sauron #sauron x eonwe #mairon x eonwe #sauronwë #prompt: tolkien lgdrm

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cadsspark · 11 months ago

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RAIN FAN SPOTTED!!! WRITER SPOTTED!!! how about some headcanons for rain?

HELLO ANON!! Of course, I have a bunch if headcanons for him, so I have a few here to share ^_^

✨️💫

Rain has a deep knowledge of astronomy and moon phases. Understanding the influence of the moon on tides and water, he uses that to his advantage a lot. During full moons, his powers peak, showing the connection of his elemental control and the lunar cycle, yk? ^_^"

He sees water not only as a tool for combat but as an extension of himself. He takes advantage of the environment, manipulating water sources around him to gain a strategic upper hand in sticky situations!

Rain takes immense pride in the extent of his abilities, often showing his powers with a sense of ✨️regal✨️ confidence.

This might be canon BUT I think Rain can manipulate more than just water, yeah? Maybe other liquids like magma or mud. He's able to manipulate just about anything in a liquid state, maybe water is just the easiest to use?

He'd be a good dancer, 100%

Closeted bisexual, he/him

After seeing the destruction he caused in Seido, his past curiosity for dark sorcery diminished. Whether it be out of fear of how powerful he could get, or pure guilt, he put that fascination behind him.

Rain is just a silly guy who did nothing wrong and deserves the world (he killed thousands)

#cadsspark writes #mortal kombat #mk1 #rain #rain mk1 #rain mortal kombat #zeffeero #headcanon #i love rain he makes me want to explode #mortal kombat rain #hes so silly

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shiroandblack · 2 years ago

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I actually really wonder how Fingolfin and Anairë got together. Because we get details about Fëanor and Nerdanel, and to me it's a little easier to imagine how Finarfin and Eärwen met.

But Fingolfin and Anairë was just a blind spot for me and I didn't really come up with anything until now.

So basically my headcanon now is that they were competitive debate rivals.

It all starts one day during the finals of a debating competition (because looking at the Noldor, debating seems like something they would enjoy. Also, picking on people's arguments and tearing it down like their hopes and dreams is a craft in itself). I think Fingolfin would prefer being the Opposition, because while his actions are motivated by his own ambition a lot of his actions are also reactions to Fëanor's actions. Opposition of course, have their own arguments to bring it but they also rebuke the Government's arguments (the Government being the team who is arguing for whatever motion is presented).

So Fingolfin feels like he's doing great, he's the first speaker of the Opposition (whereas Anairë is the second speaker of the Government) and he is absolutely ready to tear apart her partner's arguments. So he does what he's good at, destroying people's opinions of something into itty bitty pieces and razing his opponent's confidence until it is just ashes (like Fëanor's corpse when he died).

That is until it's Anairë's turn to speak. And Anairë basically drags his argument through the mud. She destroys the philosophy behind his argument, completely dismissing his stance, and moreover she proves to the jury that Fingolfin's burden of proof is basically 0.

And Fingolfin is just seething. But because he's the king of restraint, he sits there with an amicable expression and hopes that one of Fëanor's inventions will malfunction and blow up in Anairë's face somehow.

He embarrassingly, gets second place.

And it is a fucking embarrassment because Fëanor airs out his loss during the family dinner that week and Fingolfin becomes ever determined to crush Anairë so badly she can never rise from the ashes of her defeat.

So Fingolfin is practicing so hard, he's going through different kinds of motions, different ways to frame his argument better, and ways to ensure his arguments are without any exploitable loopholes.

Enter Fëanor, who is like "I am going to help you because you embarrassed us as a family, the House of Finwë does not ever get second place". Basically, he's trying to help his brother because Nerdanel put him up to it (but she didn't even need to push hard at all) and because he also genuinely believes that whatever mongrel Indis is, his father is the superior creature and Fingolfin being Finwë's son means that he is an extension of that superior creature and must act accordingly.

So Fingolfin and Fëanor plot and practice. Fingolfin actually has a really good time, and Fëanor does too but he'd rather die than admit it.

So the day comes, and Fingolfin's feeling confident.

Only to lose once again.

This time it's Fëanor who's fucking livid, and he tells Fingolfin that during the next competition he will be Fingolfin's partner because obviously Fingolfin's teammate is shit if despite everything Fingolfin couldn't beat Anairë.

So again, the two boys practice. While their practicing, Fëanor decides to do a little background check on Anairë via his friends at Mahtan because she shouldn't be that good. She must be doing some kind of sorcery.

But nope. Anairë comes from a pretty well-off family, she's not common born like Nerdanel but she's also not high nobility. She's somewhere in the middle, with her family being of high enough social status to have access to private galas and balls but not high enough to meet Finwë on the regular. Oh, and her father made a fortune from breeding sheep. In fact, Míriel used to source the raw materials for her yarn from Anairë's family and that Anairë has a pet rabbit called Ball-Snow.

Fingolfin doesn't want to know how Fëanor found out about all that. It's pretty creepy honestly, but he does say yes to finding out how Anairë builds up her cases. And during this time, he starts noticing details about Anairë. Like how her dark hair shines silver under Telperion and how she has dimples when she smiles.

One day the two brothers basically stalk Anairë at the library, and act like fantastic creeps in general. These two are not subtle at all, so Anairë catches them quite early on. Turns out she's with a friend, who is to be her partner for the next competition. Eärwen of Alqualondë. Naturally, Fingolfin and Fëanor can't continue to be creeps around a princess because that would be a diplomatic crisis.

So their stalking amounts to nothing.

Come the debate competition. Fingolfin and Fëanor actually win. Fëanor is pleased, so whatever truce between the two is now broken.

Fingolfin is high on victory when he overhears Anairë talking to Eärwen, and she basically says that she lost on purpose because she could see how it was driving Fingolfin crazy to keep losing and she felt bad. So it was basically condescending pity.

Fingolfin bursts into the conversation. Eärwen, sensing this is gonna be a shitty argument sees Finarfin and is like "Let's climb over a wall" and Finarfin, because his longtime crush is talking to him is like "Sure!".

They argue. For a very long time. Fingolfin says shit like "I don't need your pity" and how he could take Anairë any day, any time. Anairë is like "yeah, you do" because Fingolfin has basically not been sleeping or functioning like a normal elf because he's just so obsessed with beating Anairë.

The argument continues and Fingolfin basically outs himself. He's like "I can't focus because of your stupid smile while I'm presenting my argument" or some cheesy shit like that and Anairë's like "great, because I can't focus whenever I look at your shitty face. I feel like I'm gonna falter"

So the two are left with a dilemma. Hmm.

Naturally, Fingolfin tries to talk to his dad about his crush on his rival and Finwë is just like "I don't know, I just knew that we were meant to be". And Fingolfin is kinda like, what kind of ass-tastic bullshit is that?

So he goes to talk to Fëanor, the only other guy he knows that is married. And Fëanor proves to be equally unhelpful because "Nerdanel was the one who started making moves and I liked it".

So Fingolfin starts sending Anairë gifts out of spite. It's her begetting day? She gets a full collection of Master Rúmil's dissertation on the inherent prey vs predator nature of every living creature. She won another round of debate? She gets a nice bracelet.

Eventually, Anairë sits the dumb guy down and asks if he's seriously considering courting her and lists all the reasons why courting her is the best option possible for someone like him. She basically presents it like it's her thesis defence.

Some years later, there's a wedding and Fëanor is unhappy because Fingolfin married his mortal enemy.

So the moral of the story is this kids: if you can't beat your enemies, marry 'em!

#fingolfin #anairë #the silmarillion #tolkien #sprinkled with fëanor i guess

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bugpysforge · 6 months ago

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Stunfisk enjoys wallowing about in the mud by the lake. When he's concealed and some creatures step on him by accident, he reacts by shocking them with an electric spell that may occasionally restrain them.

Race: Platipi Class: Sorcerer Subclass: Stone Sorcery Origin Location: Ballimere Lake Alignment: Chaotic Neutral

View the pokedex of all dungeon pokemon by following the link in the menu.

#Stunfisk #Platipi #Platypusfolk #Sorcerer #Stone Sorcery Origin #Chaotic Neutral #pokemon #dnd pokemon #pokemon dnd #fan art #dnd #dungeons and dragons #hero forge #hero forge minis

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lamuradex · 5 months ago

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Signs of Light and Shadow - Book 1

Prologue - Chapter 1 - Chapter 2 - Chapter 3

Chapter 3 – Dragonridge

Cerris led the way, as Elena followed, and Gareth lagged behind with the cow. He had joyfully accepted their offer of help, and so the girls had gathered up a few essentials for the trip. There was no need for water or food, as it would supposedly be a short trip to civilisation, so Elena only took a coin purse and an empty satchel, while Cerris took her axe and her shield.

They had been walking for a while now, and had passed the elms that marked the girls’ safe territory over an hour ago. Cerris eyed their surroundings suspiciously while Elena and Gareth chatted.

“So, what is it like, using magic?” he asked her.

“I don’t know how to describe it. It’s just something I do. It feels natural,” she explained.

“But does it tingle or hurt or anything?”

“It doesn’t hurt, no. Sometimes it tingles. More often it’s just tiring.”

“Does it need much focus?” Gareth asked enthusiastically. “Did you have to concentrate to heal my arm?”

“Sort of, for healing. You need to hold a concept in your mind.” She picked up a twig as she walked, twirling it between her fingers. “You focus on that concept, or word, or idea, you focus on what you want to happen, and then… it just sort of happens.” Runes formed in the bark and the end of the stick began to smoke. She made ribbons in the air with the vapor. “I’m still learning what I can and can’t do though.”

“So, could you make that twig grow?” Gareth wondered.

Elena looked at the dead stick between her fingers. It was half rotten.

“That… might be a bit beyond me,” she admitted. “I mean, I wouldn’t know where to start. What word to focus on. All I really know how to do is to burn something or crumble it to dust.” She demonstrated, the runes changing and the stick breaking into little pieces. It was so rotten that she likely could have crumbled it without sorcery. “I can also make a little ball of light, but that isn’t worth the trouble. Takes far too much effort.”

“And what about healing?”

“Healing is simple but… imprecise. It only speeds up the natural process and would still take a long time to heal a proper wound. You, Gareth, were merely scratched.”

Gareth sighed admiringly. “Wow. I can’t imagine just being able to fix people like that. I mean, I’m learning from one of our healers how to patch up wounds, but I wish I could just magically heal people.”

“Well… some people aren’t as fond of it as you are,” Elena said sullenly.

Gareth paused. He understood her meaning. He nodded in quiet, awkward sympathy, and soon thought of a different question.

“Where does it come from?” he asked.

“Magic? Inside me, I suppose.”

“No, I mean, how did you get magic? Where does it come from?”

“Oh, right,” Elena understood. “Well, I inherited it from our mother. I learned most of what I know from her.”

“And is Cerris a sorcerer too?”

“No, she isn’t,” Elena shook her head. “I was born with it. Cerris wasn’t.”

“Oh. That must be disappointing for her,” Gareth said before he caught himself. “Oops. Sorry, Cerris. That was rude.”

“No problem,” Cerris called back. “I could still beat her in a fight.”

“She’s not wrong,” Elena agreed, “but once I learn how to use a weapon-”

Elena was cut off as Cerris stopped. Past the trees, they could see a cottage. Gareth moved between them, still pulling the cow behind, and his face lit up. He strode forward, Clara keeping pace.

With a tense glance to each other, the girls left the safety of the trees.

They found themselves on a farm. It sat past the edge of a town, with a long stretch of road between the farm and the town proper. The town looked pretty standard, all grey and dusty buildings with mud roads between them, and behind the town, a colossal, flat-top mountain loomed, its sheer cliffs pressed against the town’s rear edge like a grey backdrop.

The girls turned back to the farm. At its centre was a cottage which was surrounded on three sides by fields and pens of animals. The cottage was big enough to be mistaken for a barn, if not for the smoking chimney. Chickens and sheep made confused noises as Gareth approached, and the girls followed at a short distance, eyeing their surroundings carefully.

A man was knelt next to one of the pens, who stood to inspect the noise. He was tall and muscled, with tanned skin from days working in the sun. A tidy beard decorated his chin, covering his mouth and dangling in a short braid. His hair was short too, apart from one long plait which reached down to his shoulders. He wore a shirt and trousers of a thick durable fabric, all uncoloured plain-brown. It sat in contrast to the royal blue belt around his waist which was adorned with golden thread. Seed bags hung from the belt like coin purses, dangling next to a sheathed broadsword.

Gareth stopped a few paces away, about to speak, before the man got there first.

“And where have you been all morning, young man?” he asked, his voice calm and deep even as his tone was scolding. He tapped a foot impatiently.

“I’m sorry, father. One of the cows got loose, I must have left the gate open last night and it got out, so I went to find it,” Gareth explained.

“And where, pray tell, did you venture that it took you all morning?” Gareth’s father looked down at him. Then he glanced in the direction his son had arrived from, ignoring Cerris and Elena, eyes landing on the tree-line. He returned to Gareth, wide eyed.

“Father-” Gareth tried to answer first.

“The forest? You went into those woods by yourself?” he erupted.

“I didn’t want to bother you, and I didn’t think the cow would be too far in. I could get her back and you’d never know. I’m sorry.”

“Forget the cow, Gareth. What about you? Those woods are riddled with predators. Who knows what could have happened.” He knelt down and gave his son a quick look over for injuries. “We can always buy a new cow, Gareth, even one as good as Clara.”

“But it was my fault,” Gareth murmured.

“And I’d have understood, but if anything ever happened to you…” He couldn’t finish the sentence. He hugged his boy.

“I was in good hands on the way back,” Gareth croaked from within his father’s arms. His father released him, taking notice of Cerris and Elena for the first time.

“I’m guessing you two are the ones who brought my son home safe?” he beckoned.

“Yes, sir. It wasn’t much trouble,” Cerris stepped forward.

“Well, you have my thanks all the same. My name is Bardor Everett,” the farmer introduced.

“I’m Cerris and this is my sister Elena.”

“A pleasure to meet you, sir.” Elena gave a courtly bow.

“Well, please, come inside. It must have been some journey,” Bardor gestured to the cottage. “Gareth? Show them in,” he prompted, as he grabbed Clara’s rope and led the cow away to a nearby field. Gareth gestured for the girls to follow him in.

They entered into a front room which was warm and well-decorated. The room was dominated by a dining table with a half-dozen chairs surrounding it, cabinets pressed against some of the walls full of books and trinkets, and a stone fireplace burned in the corner, the chimney running up into the ceiling.

Elena wandered around the room, inspecting the furniture. She cooed at some of the finer elements, with velvet cushions and little bits of inset filigree. Cerris stood by one of the windows and peaked out. Bardor had finished dragging Clara to her paddock, and as he returned, he pulled seeds from the pouches on his belt, scattering them in the fields. Cerris turned back to Elena, who was staring at the tablecloth.

“Have a seat if you like,” Gareth offered. His tone was edged with nerves, his eyes glancing to the window. Cerris walked over and stood near the table, feeling too awkward to sit in a stranger’s house. Elena was still inspecting the fabric.

“Learning a lot from that tablecloth?” Cerris elbowed her.

Elena snapped out of her daze and stood up straight. “It’s quite a nice fabric. Fine quality,” she coughed abashedly.

“It was a gift from a seamstress in town,” Gareth elucidated. “Most of the furniture is a gift from one person or another.”

“What? Really?” Elena glanced around at the other bits of finery.

Before she could ask further, Bardor entered the room. He stepped past Gareth, walked over to the table, and pulled out a chair to sit down. Then he looked over to Gareth, who approached and stood before him.

“Gareth. You should not have wandered into that forest,” he said, his voice cold and judgemental, his face stern.

Gareth nodded.

“You could have been hurt, or worse. These two seem to understand the dangers of the forest.” He gestured to Cerris. “Do you see how she carries a weapon?”

Gareth nodded again.

“Now, I realise you were trying to help, but that does not excuse your actions. As punishment… you are going to have to prepare all the meals for the next two weeks. Is that understood?”

“Yes, father,” Gareth nodded rapidly.

“Good. Now, these ladies might be thirsty. Fetch some drinks, would you?” Bardor’s tone relaxed.

“Yes, father,” Gareth said again, hurrying off to the kitchen. He sighed in relief as he left.

After a pause, Bardor turned to the two girls. “I’m sorry for any inconvenience my son has caused you. This must have led you quite astray, helping him get back here.”

“It’s no problem,” Cerris dismissed.

“Well, I thank you anyway,” Bardor insisted. “So, what purpose had you travelling through those woods? Whatever distance my boy has diverted you, I must pay you for your time.”

Gareth returned with a collection of tankards. “They live in the woods, father, in a camp a few hours north of here,” he described, passing the cups between everyone.

“They live in the woods? Those woods? The Greenveil Woods?” Bardor doubted.

“If that’s what you call them,” Cerris shrugged, distractedly inspecting her water. “We’ve never really needed a name for it.”

Bardor quirked an eyebrow. “You truly live in the Greenveil woods? Genuinely? I lose a chicken a month to the foxes alone, let alone the wolves and bears I hear live in there. Traders and merchants tend to just go around it rather than risk becoming prey. And you live there?”

“It’s true, Mr Everett,” Elena confirmed. “In fact, we were both born out there. We’ve lived there all our lives, barring the occasional trips to Greenwood. It’s our home. But it isn’t quite as bad as you describe,” she smiled.

“Well I never…” Bardor looked between them, perplexed. “How strange. I’ve honestly never heard anything about people living out there. I always thought those woods were too dangerous to walk through, let alone live. And you’ve never visited Dragonridge before?”

“We’ve never come this far south before,” Cerris said carefully, sipping her drink. “And don’t worry about paying us. We wanted to come. We have business of our own.”

“You’ve never visited Dragonridge before…” Bardor rubbed his chin. “Well, if you won’t take coin, then I can only see one way to repay you.”

Cerris and Elena looked at each other uncertainly.

“The town is always glad of visitors, though they admittedly aren’t common. If you won’t accept coin, we could at least do you the courtesy of showing you around. As payment for your help. What do you say?”

“If you insist,” Cerris accepted, but looked to Elena, who nodded in agreement.

“We’d be glad to,” Gareth grinned. “Now, is there anywhere in particular you wanted to visit?”

* * *

The little group walked into town following the dirt road. It took about twenty minutes, as Cerris and Elena stuck together, while Bardor led the way and Gareth swung back and forth between them.

As they entered the town, the dirt road became muddy streets with buildings either side. The houses were mismatched, some made of old brick, some made of rural planks and logs. Some were tall with multiple floors while others were bungalows barely tall enough to stand in.

As they reached the streets, passersby greeted Bardor, who responded in kind. The girls had seen similar, ordinary looking people in Greenwood, but they were still cautious of the strangers, their parents warning lingering in their ears. Even so, they proceeded without incident. After a little while, they came to a stop at a crossroads, with varied buildings on all sides. All eyes were drawn to one building, which rose before them, much larger than the others.

“This is the town hall,” Bardor gestured. “From here, Mayor Wilsh runs the town. Laws are written, court is held, and the rich stay rich,” he mocked.

The town hall was extravagant, especially in comparison to the ratty neighbouring buildings. Made of rich oak and red brick, it stood three stories high and significantly broader than anything around it. Some effort had been made to position wooden gargoyles and other statuary decorations, but most of it had been rain washed into disrepair. Massive oaken pillars held up the lip of the first floor, and lead crossed windows littered the façade the whole way up. The outside was also much cleaner than the surrounding buildings, with the exception of some soot and dust.

Cerris nodded, attempting to both look interested and watch her surroundings, while Elena politely listened to Bardor’s directions.

“Now, this is the main crossroads for the town,” Bardor began. “Most roads lead back here sooner or later. Down there-” He gestured to his left- “are various clothes and fabric merchants. The next street leads back the way we came. It’s mainly housing down there. That way-”

“Bardor!” a voice called. Bardor stopped and turned to see a stocky, muscular man approaching. He was wearing heavy clothes and a thick apron, his beard stained with soot. “There you are, Bardor,” he sighed.

“Smithy? What brings you away from your forge?”

“That you aren’t there,” Smithy said gravely. “The mayor needs that armour finished by end of day, and you promised to help me sort it.”

“By the heavens,” Bardor cursed through gritted teeth. “Sorry, Smithy. I’ve been busy. I’ll be with you in a moment.” He turned to his son. “Gareth, I have to go. I shouldn’t be more than a few hours. I hope you can look after these two while I’m gone?” He gestured to the girls.

“I’ll be fine, father. Take care,” Gareth wished.

“You as well,” Bardor smiled, before hurrying off with Smithy.

Elena watched the pair disappear. “My my,” she said. “He is a busy man.”

“Oh, yes. Always someone to help,” Gareth nodded. “But, while he’s gone, we should get started. So, where do you want to…” He stopped. “Cerris? What’s the matter?”

Cerris wasn’t listening. She was staring fixedly at a building across the way, fingers picking at the back of one of her gloves. The building was made of smooth grey stone, like it had been carved from a single piece of granite taken straight from the quarry. The walls sloped up, the building being basically triangular, as it stood in contrast to its boxy, shabby neighbours. A massive set of oaken doors hung open, welcoming anyone inside. Cerris stared at it with a lump in her throat.

“You alright, Cerris?” Gareth asked.

“What?” She stirred her brain. “Um… sure, I’m fine. It’s just… Is that your temple to the divines?” she asked. Her stomach churned as a cold weight formed in her heart.

“Oh, yes,” Gareth said brightly, not seeing Cerris’s nerves. “You said you wanted to see it, didn’t you?”

“It’s why we’re here, honestly,” Elena prompted, moving up to hold Cerris’s hand.

Cerris gripped Elena’s hand tightly, but tried to hide her face. She could feel her blood rushing from her cheeks into her toes. Forcing a smile, she turned to her sister.

“You two stay here. I won’t be a moment,” she said, trotting towards the temple, hands by her sides to resist clutching at the divine symbols beneath her gloves.

Cerris entered the monolithic building, the interior lit by candles ensconced in lanterns. The pews were made of fine wood, carved with ornate patterns of trees and branches. She approached the altar, looking up at the mural behind it. The carving depicted three mythical figures, the three of them combined covering the entire wall. One was a tall, cloaked man, shrouded in shadows, or in this case carved of a darker stone, with ravens flapping behind him. Opposite him was a woman, bright as the sun, carved in sandstone, leaping with deer and sparrows. They each stood at the edges, facing inwards. Facing the third figure.

The third figure was a silhouette, standing taller than the other two spirits, arms extended out to the very edges of the mural. The figure’s skin was dotted with stars, and their eyes were the sun and the moon, depicted as a spiked circle and a crescent respectively.

But Cerris had seen such a thing before. It was just a much larger version of their little shrine at home, which was just a little woodcut with a prayer written on the back. And it was more detailed than the one in Greenwood, though she had rarely been in there.

Cerris knelt down in respect.

“Dear Holy Father of Skies, grant me wisdom,” she prayed to the central figure.

“Feel free to sit if you wish,” a nearby man spoke up. He was hunched and old, and wearing a traditional holy man’s robes, white with two purple sashes hung across his chest. The old man tried to hobble over, before Cerris decided to spare him the trip and went to him.

“Are you a preacher here?” she asked.

“I do my best,” the clergyman greeted.

“Then, may I ask you something. What do you know about the powers of Aheazal and Zaheal?” She fidgeted with her gloves.

“Well, what do you need to know?”

“Everything you can tell me,” she begged, her voice close to cracking.

The preacher took a moment, but could see she was serious. “Well,” he ruminated. “Aheazal is the spirit of darkness, mystery and knowledge. We pray to him for wisdom and insight. He is a guardian of knowledge, and it is believed he has the ability to hide secrets, but also uncover those secrets through his darkness. For those that praise him, his symbols are the veil, the shadow, and the raven.”

“Mysteries and knowledge,” Cerris muttered to herself. She rubbed the back of her right hand without realising it.

“In partnership and opposition is Zaheal. She embodies light and ambition. A being of will and might. She is believed to have the ability to see into the deepest shadow, and to never tire no matter her efforts. She is the giver of willpower and truth. Because of this, we pray to her for revelation and strength in dire times, as her light is said to dispel illusion and bring hope. Her symbols are the horse, the sun, and the sword.”

“Willpower and truth?” Cerris repeated, less certain.

“That’s right, young miss,” the preacher continued. “Finally, there is the Father of Skies, sole parent to Aheazal and Zaheal, and the one above all others,” he gestured grandly. “The Father watches over this world, and is guardian to all the grand dominions of the heavens. He guides us through subtle winds and pouring rain and the blessed sun. The Father protects us, we weary souls, and we pray to him in hopes of a better dawn.”

Cerris contemplated what she’d heard. It wasn’t much help, and she vaguely knew much of it from her youth. She rubbed her hands, feeling the scars beneath her gloves.

“Preacher… Do you know anything about the gods giving their power to mortals?” she asked. While she held her composure, her heart pounded in her chest. Cold dread filled her gut. Fearful possibilities battled in her brain. Horrors and terrors and curses. The old preacher only took a minute, stroking his chin, but it felt much longer.

“I have heard of such things,” he began, “The gods have been known to bestowed their power on mortals, but alas, all I know is that there are stories of it. Myths and fables of spirits, aiding and cursing mortal men. Unfortunately, I can’t recall any of the details at the moment, and I’m not sure if we have any texts on the subject. To be honest, this isn’t the most stocked temple when it comes to ancient writings. My apologies.”

“Oh…” Cerris said disappointedly. “That’s all you know?”

“Sorry,” the old man said kindly.

“Okay. Thanks anyway…” she stammered, and sat in a pew.

Her heart fell. A new coiling tension writhed in her gut. There was still something inside her. Something that wasn’t her.

Cerris realised she was shaking, her heart like a drum. It was like a predator had been stalking her, and then it had just… stopped. The empty dread of not knowing whether to be scared or not. Her thoughts ran out of control. What power lay inside her? Had she been cursed, blessed, or some other thing? Was it dangerous? Why give it to her? What did the gods want with her?

“Are you alright, miss?” the old man queried, snapping Cerris from her worries.

“I’m… I’m fine,” she nodded. “Thank you.” She forced a polite smile, then turned and headed for the door.

The blessings itched at her thoughts. Their meaning, their purpose, their power. She plodded back towards the door, where Elena stood waiting.

Elena walked up, gave her a soft smile, and hugged her. Cerris relaxed into her arms.

“Are you okay?” Elena asked.

“I don’t know. I really don’t. I guess we’ll have to wait and see,” Cerris sighed.

Elena pulled back and nodded. “Trust in the gods, I suppose. Divines watch over us,” she tried to soothe.

Cerris looked back at the grand mural behind the altar. “Honestly, I’ve never had too much faith in the gods. Not after what happened to Mum and Dad…”

“Cerris…” Elena put a hand on her arm.

“…but I’ll trust in them for now, if you say so,” Cerris accepted. “No worries. Not now anyway. For now, we have a new town to explore, right?”

“Right,” Elena affirmed with a comforting smile. “No worries.”

Gareth stood waiting, having not pressed for details when Elena excused herself. He met the girls as they returned, Cerris hanging an arm around Elena’s shoulders, both of them smiling.

“So, where to now?” Cerris said, glad of the distraction.

“Well, there’s a number of places we could go,” Gareth said openly.

“Could we take a closer look at the town hall?” Elena requested. “It’s quite an impressive building.”

Cerris sniggered. “Wow. You really are wild, aren’t you?”

Elena pouted. “Well, it can’t hurt to take a look, can it?”

“It is the hub of important business in town,” Gareth said alluringly.

Cerris rolled her eyes. “If you insist,” she conceded, following them across the square. As they passed, she looked up to a sign hanging from a post outside. Its symbols were indistinct to her, but were marked in a fine gold paint. She recognised one or two of the letters but didn’t spend much effort on it. She assumed it read “Town Hall”.

They passed through and stood in the main hall. While the outside had been grand, it was still rough and patched together in places, like its neighbours. The interior was a marked difference. Marble pillars lined the hall and crystal lanterns illuminated the walls. Rows of simple chairs covered the floor, all facing a podium with a lectern, which was carved from a varnished dark wood and adorned with silver filigree.

As they took in the space, a servant shuffled out of a side door followed by a well-dressed young man. The young man berated the servant, then sighed and sent him on his way.

“This place is gorgeous,” Elena grinned, admiring the pillars.

“By the skies,” Cerris swore, more surprised by the grandeur.

“This is the oldest building in town,” Gareth explained. “Other buildings have burned down or have fallen into disrepair, but this one still stands strong. And so, the mayor lives here and uses it to hold court and have town meetings.”

“Well, it certainly is impressive,” Elena observed.

Cerris nodded, unable to argue, staring up at the patterns painted on the ceiling.

“It is,” Gareth said with a tone. “To be honest though, most people around here think it’s a tad extravagant.”

“Only those peasants who lack good taste,” a voice argued. “So, what can we do for you today, Gareth Everett?”

They turned to see the well-dressed young man. His tone rang with pomposity, and he wore a broad smile like a mask.

“We don’t need anything, Tiber,” Gareth sighed. “I’m just showing some visitors around town. Nothing to concern yourself with.”

Tiber didn’t seem deterred, though he did take notice of the two girls. He inspected them both, looking them up and down, before returning his focus to Gareth.

“Are you certain you’re best suited to that task, Gareth? Surely, these ladies would prefer to be shown the joys of our town by someone who actually has a hand in running it.” He grinned, condescension radiating off him.

“Tiber, can you just-” Gareth began, before Tiber simply stepped past him towards Elena.

“Charmed, my dear lady,” Tiber greeted, raising Elena’s hand to kiss it. As his lips approached her skin, Elena realised what was happening and pulled her arm back. He didn’t break stride however, and stood up straight, grinning. Cerris looked him over.

He was nimbly built, around his early twenties, and from his face and body alone some might have considered him handsome. That was if not for the rest of his image. He had pale blonde hair, cut neatly, but it was greasy and matted, perhaps from some product. His clothes were of a similar nature. The articles themselves were a fine jacket and buttoned shirt, with various gold buttons. Unfortunately, the image was ruined by the fabric, all course and tough material. Not strong or durable for purpose, but worn and dull coloured. There appeared to be some attempt at red and yellow dyes to brighten it, but they were washed out and faded, the fabric nearly frayed to its limits. He stood in his false grandeur and bowed to Elena.

“Aren’t you going to introduce me, Gareth?” he commanded.

Gareth sighed again. “Cerris, Elena, this is Tiber Wilsh. He’s the son of the mayor.”

“Charmed, my lady,” Tiber preened. “I’m guessing you are Elena?” he spoke solely to her.

“Yes?” Elena answered cautiously.

“I knew it. No one as beautiful as you could ever have a name as simple as Cerris.” He smiled another empty smile, not turning to see Cerris react. Cerris just raised an eyebrow in disbelief, while Gareth watched her cautiously.

“I think my sister’s name is quite pretty,” Elena argued. “A name to be chronicled in history.”

“Recorded as a footnote to you,” he parried in a manner he seemed to think was charming.

“Maybe it’s recorded for slapping the mayor’s son,” Cerris muttered. Gareth withheld laughter, as Tiber noted it with a glare. He returned his focus to Elena.

“Now, Elena, would you like me to show you around this wonderful town of ours?” he asked. Elena considered the offer for a minute.

“Sorry, no,” she answered curtly. “We already have Gareth to guide us, but thank you for the offer.”

“Oh, but this fool doesn’t know anything,” Tiber continued, oozing his so-called charm.

Elena looked to Gareth, as if to assess him. “He seems to know his way around.”

“But Elena, it would be a much more… private tour. Just the two of us,” Tiber purred seductively. Cerris suddenly felt nauseous.

“But I don’t want to go alone,” Elena rebuffed. “I’m here with my sister, who you haven’t even given the time of day to,” she added, sounding every bit the offended aristocrat. “That is very impolite of you.”

“My apologies,” he uttered, then turned towards Cerris. “Good day, madam,” he said, then returned to Elena.

Cerris rolled her eyes and decided to end this. “Alright, sir, but we are a bit busy today,” she said, pushing past Tiber. Tiber stuck out an arm to stop her.

“I’m not done,” he said annoyed.

Cerris grinned. “Yes-” She forced him aside, causing him to stumble. “-You are. We’ve got our guide. You can get back to your important business. And, of course, you must be very busy, being as important as you are.”

“But-”

“Good day, Mr Wilsh,” Elena called back as she headed for the door.

Gareth hurried past Tiber to join the girls. Together, they all wandered out, leaving Tiber to fume by himself.

The air outside bit with cold as they left, but Gareth beamed the moment they were out of sight, as Cerris and Elena hurried to gain some distance from the hall.

“What an unsettling man,” Elena shuddered.

“Sorry about him,” Gareth apologised, still smiling. “Should have realised he would come over just to mock me.”

“Not your fault,” Cerris reassured. “Though he does seem to have a problem with you… or is he just that rude to everyone?”

“He’s rude to everyone, but he’s always been annoyed by me and my father. Jealous, I’d wager. Everyone around here respects my father more than they respect Mayor Wilsh.”

“They do?”

“Oh yes. Tiber can’t stand that some farmer and his son are who people go to for help, and not the man who actually holds court.”

“Why is that?” Elena asked. “I’m not trying to say your father isn’t important, but…”

“He’s not the mayor,” Cerris finished for her.

“Precisely.”

“Well, it’s been like that for as long as I can remember,” Gareth reflected. “Father’s a good man, and people respect him for that, while Wilsh is a wretched old coot. But, looking back, I suppose it all started the last time the dragons attacked.”

Cerris and Elena froze, wide eyed.

Gareth looked confused. “What’s wrong?”

“Dragons?” Cerris checked she’d heard him right.

“Well, yes. Why did you think it was called Dragonridge?” he said casually.

“As in, big, fire-breathing, flying lizards?” she clarified.

“Yes?” Gareth continued to look puzzled.

“You’re saying there are real dragons here?” Elena worried, clutching at her dress and watching the sky above. “I thought you said this town was safe.”

Gareth stopped for a moment. Finally, he smirked and laughed as he realised. “Oh, that! No, there’s nothing to worry about,” he reassured. “Sorry to have frightened you, but we’re not in any danger. The dragons don’t just attack the town, or at least they haven’t done so for a long time. What I’m talking about happened decades ago, when my father was a young man, long before the three of us were even born.”

“Really?” Cerris checked one last time. Gareth smiled and nodded. Cerris relaxed and unclenched, and Elena straightened up, as if nothing had happened.

“The dragons live up on Dragon’s Peak,” Gareth explained, pointing up towards the mountain which loomed over the village. “There’s maybe a few dozen of them. Occasionally you can spot one, but other than that…” He paused and seemed to rethink his sentence.

“Are you sure? How are fire breathing lizards not a problem?” Cerris said doubtfully.

“We’ve only heard stories of such things,” Elena stressed. “Tales of giant serpents, big as mountains, and the knights who run to slay them. Princes rescuing maidens from scaly claws, and fiends that can melt steel with a breath. Honestly, I don’t think I ever considered them real,” she confessed.

“Well, they are real, but they aren’t the size of a mountain,” Gareth corrected. “Sure, they’re big, but not that big. Maybe about the size of a house at their largest. There are dozens of them up there, and they’re all different. Colours, shapes, sizes. And they aren’t constantly being fought off by princes either. We have…” he paused. “We have other methods to stop them. We should keep exploring,” he said distractedly as he led them down the street.

“If you say so,” Cerris said uncertainly, eyeing the mountain.

They marched on, Gareth leading and looking for some new destination. When it had been quiet for a few minutes, Elena pranced up to his shoulder.

“So… What did your father do to make everyone love him? Did he slay one of those beasts?”

Gareth blinked, then shook his head. “Oh, no, it was nothing like that. I don’t think anyone’s ever killed one. No, my father was just a young man who saved a lot of lives that day.”

“How so?” Cerris came up to his other shoulder.

“Well, from what I’ve read, the dragon attack was terrifying. Burned houses, ruined crops, many people injured or dead. And during the chaos of it all, the fire spread to a building where many people were sheltering. They would have sheltered in the town hall, but the mayor at the time sealed the doors to save his own oily hide, leaving everyone else to die.” Gareth spat in disapproval.

“He sounds awful,” Elena commented.

“He was. Father meanwhile leapt into the burning building by himself and tried to help the people to safety, even in the middle of the bombardment. Putting himself at risk, he used his broadsword and cut his way through to save them. It’s said that the moment those people were safe, the dragons just left. Some people even say it was because they were afraid of a man such as my father.”

“Quite a tale,” Cerris said simply.

“He really is a hero,” Elena admired.

“It also explains why your dad carries a sword, despite being a farmer,” Cerris noted.

“Yeah. He still carries it to remind people they can trust him, as apposed to the mayor,” Gareth said proudly. “And, ever since that day, people refuse to trust the seat of mayor, even since Wilsh took over. They trust the man that saved them instead.”

“Gareth? Why doesn’t your father just become mayor?” Elena enquired. “I believe it’s an elected position, correct?”

“Oh, he doesn’t like the responsibility of it,” Gareth dismissed. “He may like to help people, and he is quite wise, but he couldn’t run the town. Property disputes, legal matters, sentencing criminals. He prefers his work on the farm and helping out where he can in town, like helping Smithy, or settling the occasional petty argument.”

“Are there a lot of petty arguments?”

“Well, Mr and Mrs Baker often fight over how to best sell their breads. And those debates can get quite vicious,” he smirked.

“Saving the town and dealing with angry bakers. Truly a hero,” Cerris snickered.

Their walk reached a crossroads and Gareth decided they would head left, back behind the town hall, towards the mountain. As they turned, Cerris noticed a structure in the distance.

It was a raised wooden platform. The platform was on struts, only a few feet off the ground, with a large wooden pole through the centre, which stood about twice the height of a man. It looked recently built, the wood pale and unstained by rain. Despite people walking past, they all passed on the other side of the street. It had been constructed at the furthest edge of the town, with only the mountain wall behind it.

“What’s that?” Cerris pointed.

Gareth looked up and visibly clenched. “It’s… It’s part of what keeps us safe from the dragons. It’s nothing to worry about,” he dismissed and went silent.

Cerris and Elena could each feel the tension. Even so, they silently decided not to press.

Gareth didn’t relax until they were well past the structure and around a corner. Then he spoke, as if changing a non-existent subject. “Hey. It’s getting close to evening. How about we visit the pub?”

The sun was going down, but the sky wasn’t even orange yet. Even so, with a nod, the girls followed, glad of something a little more familiar.

* * *

The tavern was located in an old, wooden building on the far side of town. It was large enough for a few dozen patrons, with simple tables scattered around for seating. The bar and its barkeep rested against one wall as a fire burned in an open hearth opposite. It was currently a little early for most people’s days to have ended, so most of the tables were empty. There were a few idle townsfolk, one already sleeping at his table, but none of them noticed the trio. Gareth stood at the counter, waiting for the barman to pour some ale. Pressing the tankards together, he carried the cups to where Cerris and Elena were sat.

“Lovely place,” Cerris said falsely.

“It may not be so glamorous, but it serves its purpose,” Gareth retorted.

Elena eyed the décor harshly. “I’d hope so.”

“Here are your drinks.” Gareth put down the tankards. “Cheers.”

“Cheers,” the girls answered, then took sips of their drinks. They placed them down on the table silently. Cerris’s mouth twisted, while Elena’s nose scrunched up against the taste.

“I’ve had worse,” Cerris said eventually, her voice strained. “It’ll do.”

“It’s quite bitter,” Elena followed up. “Should it be?”

“I don’t know,” Gareth shrugged. “It’s all they serve. Don’t worry. It grows on you.”

“Then it’ll do,” she agreed reluctantly.

The three sat and drank for some time as they talked. Gareth explained what he knew about the town, such as interesting local residents. The blacksmith, who Bardor sometimes worked with. The family of tanners who had a constant bounty of one thousand gold for a dragon hide. The various little dramas and feuds.

In response, the girls told some stories of their lives. Battles with wolves. Friends they had made in Greenwood. The delicious ale and mead served there. Every few stories were accompanied by another round of drinks, which, true to Gareth’s word, did start to grow on them. After the third round they were already giggling.

Outside, the night was beginning to settle as a clock tower rang seven chimes. The door to the bar swung open and a figure entered, accompanied by two others. The man surveyed the bar, then wandered straight over to the group’s table.

“My dear ladies,” Tiber greeted, his two burly friends remaining silent. “I see you still choose to spend your time with this meagre boy, when you could spend it with a true man.” He put up his collar and puffed out his chest as if to illustrate the point.

“Go away, Tiber,” Gareth groaned.

Tiber ignored him. “Elena, a woman such as yourself should not have to drink such slop in such squalor.” He looked disgustedly at the cups. “You should join me and my father upstairs for a drink of wine.”

“I must refuse, Tiber, but thank you,” Elena said politely. She didn’t even look at him.

“I don’t think you understand,” Tiber resumed. “This will be fine wine, a vintage fit for kings. A delicacy. Infinitely more enjoyable than this bitter swill.”

“I’m starting to enjoy it,” she countered, looking into her cup. “It has a kick to it.”

“But, my lady…” He glanced around as if trying to hide something. “A woman of such refinement as yourself, dressed as you are, cannot be seen with the scum of this town.”

Gareth looked offended but Elena continued to sit. She finally deigned to look at him.

“I don’t know, Tiber. I like them,” she said, speaking with perfect diction. “And who am I to talk? I was born and raised in the woods,” she said, complete with fancy accent.

Tiber took a second to respond. After a long pause, he laughed.

“Oh, very good. You are a funny one, Elly,” he chuckled.

“Don’t call me Elly,” she snapped, rounding on him, eyes burning. Tiber took a step back.

“My apologies,” he recovered. “But you must join us upstairs. My father is waiting for us.”

“She said no, Tiber. Leave it alone,” Gareth said loudly.

“Ah, that must be it.” Tiber snapped his fingers. “You must not want to embarrass these two by up and leaving them alone together. They’re the ones keeping you here,” he smiled unpleasantly.

“I choose to be here of my own free will, thank you,” Elena answered. “And you continue to be rude to my sister and my friend.”

“There you go again, trying to protect these little peasants’ feelings.” He leant on Gareth’s shoulder. Gareth winced.

Cerris sat quietly, eyeing Tiber’s brawny cohorts.

“Maybe if my boys here take them somewhere, then you could join me without guilt.” He kept smiling.

Without a further word, one of Tiber’s friends grabbed Gareth by the arm. At first he was trying to guide him from his stool, but it quickly escalated to dragging.

“Let him go, you brute!” Elena called out.

The other man went to grab Elena, but no sooner had his hand touched her arm than Cerris got to her feet. Her shield rattled against her armour. She placed a hand on her axe, stopping when it was a couple of hands out of her belt. Tiber’s friend saw the axe. He saw Cerris. He saw her blank, cold expression. Both men let go and backed away, hiding behind Tiber.

“You idiots. If you want something done,” Tiber muttered and reached out, wrapping a hand around Elena’s arm.

Elena stared daggers. She reached down, grabbed her tankard, and whacked it squarely into his cheek. He recoiled and stumbled back, but Elena stood and advanced, pursuing him. The entire tavern was watching by this point, every eye and chair turned to them.

“You pathetic snake,” she growled. “I tried to be polite with you, but you didn’t seem to get the message. As such, here it is, put as simply as I can. Leave. Me. Alone.”

She punctuated her statement by throwing what remained of her drink in his face. It splashed over his head and his clothes, and without waiting for his response, she turned and returned to her table.

Tiber stood baffled in the centre of the tavern. He slowly became aware of everyone watching him, some of them laughing. With a huff, he turned and left, storming away with his two friends. As they left, he hissed to himself.

“I’ll make that harlot pay for this.”

* * *

The night continued undisturbed as the trio sat at their table. An hour or so later, after another new round of drinks, Cerris and Elena sat staring at each other, tankards in hand. Gareth watched, bemused.

“You ready?” Cerris asked competitively.

“As long as you are,” Elena grinned.

“Then after the count of three.”

“Alright then.”

“One.”

“Two.”

“Three!”

At once, both girls lifted their cups and began drinking as fast as they could. Gareth watched as they gulped down their beverages. Drink dribbled from the corners of Cerris’s mouth while Elena looked as prim and proper as ever. Twenty seconds later, the first cup was slammed upside down to prove its emptiness.

“Victory!” Elena celebrated. Cerris was still drinking and pulled the tankard away from her lips, gasping for air.

“I still do not know how you do that,” she spluttered.

“Undefeated!” Elena added, as all three burst into giddy laughter. Gareth was the first to stop as he had drunk less over the course of the evening.

“I hope you girls are enjoying yourselves,” another voice broke over the laughter. Bardor was stood beside the table, smiling. “You three have a good day?”

“Yes, father,” Gareth replied. “It’s been fun.”

“That’s good to hear. But for now, Gareth, you have some dinner to make.” He ruffled Gareth’s hair, then turned to Cerris and Elena. “And you two girls. Bit late to be travelling back to your camp, I’d suppose. There’s an empty house on the far side of town, and I’ve paid to let you stay the night if you want.”

“You didn’t have to,” Cerris responded, blinking tiredly. Then she yawned.

“I insist. Gareth repaid you today with his tour-”

“And the drinks,” Cerris added. Gareth nodded in agreement.

“His tour and the drinks. I’m repaying you now. Follow me.” Bardor signalled to follow. After a short pause to down the last of their ales, the three stood and joined him.

They wandered across town, the streets lit by burning torches and the moon above. The group chatted and giggled, stumbling as they walked. Finally, they reached an old house not far from the town hall, near the cross roads at the rear of the town. Bardor opened the door and let the girls inside.

“There are bedclothes and water in there for you,” he said kindly. “Now, Gareth and I must be getting home.”

“Goodnight, girls,” Gareth waved before following his father away.

Inside, the girls found two beds with fresh linens and a candle to light the room. One of them changed into their bed clothes in the other room, then the other. Very little was said between tiredness and drink flooding their heads. They both lay in their beds and relaxed. In the quiet, Elena spoke first.

“Hey, Cerris?”

“Yeah?” Cerris answered sleepily.

“Seeing Bardor and Gareth together is really sweet.”

“Yeah,” Cerris agreed blearily.

“It makes me miss Mum and Dad,” Elena admitted. Cerris didn’t answer. “Do you miss them as well?”

“All the time,” Cerris said quietly.

“Alright then,” Elena nodded. “Love you, Cerris. Goodnight.”

“Love you too,” Cerris answered, before blowing out the candle.

* * *

Shapes and images swirled and shifted. Dark clouds like mist and smoke.

The vision became a deep dark cavern. Images painted upon the wall. Silence in the stone.

A swirling flame of blue and green and red. Something inside. Something fighting.

Something sealed. The words on walls inscribed. Something breaking free.

She knew the images. She had seen them in her dreams before.

She could hear a voice shouting.

“Cerris!”

* * *

Cerris awoke with a start. She looked at her surroundings, surprised that she didn’t recognise them, then looked at the bed beside her. It was empty, with bed clothes folded and placed on the pillow. Elena had clearly woken early and gone out. Cerris climbed out of bed and stood, her armour laying out nearby. She just about recalled what had awoken her. A voice calling.

It called again.

“Cerris!” Elena screamed. “Help me!”

Cerris didn’t hesitate for a moment. She sprinted from the room and out of the house. She looked back and forth like a frantic animal, trying to pin down the sound. It didn’t take long. A large crowd was gathered at the far end of the street, surrounding the wooden platform they had seen the day before. Someone was tied to the stake.

Cerris sprinted towards the scene. The wind rushed over her as she went but she didn’t slow down. Elena kept calling for help, yet the crowd just stood and watched. One of the crowd happened to spot Cerris hurtling towards them. They warned the others. The crowd parted to let her pass, just as several guards in armour, wielding spears, charged to meet her.

The first guard was too far to stop Cerris at her current speed. The second attempted to block her path, but she pranced around him. Cerris suddenly became very aware she’d forgotten her axe and shield. The third guard tried to stop her with his spear, but she leapt aside, keeping momentum, struggling against the slippery mud of the road. The final two guards crossed their spears to block her. With a swift movement, Cerris fell and slid on her side between them. She converted her slide into a roll and returned to her feet. She was so close. She could hear the guards behind her, but she was yards away now.

Someone in the crowd screamed.

From the stake, Elena looked hopefully at her. But something was wrong. Cerris couldn’t hear the guards anymore. She could only hear people in the distance, getting further away. Elena looked up and went wide eyed. She screamed as a vast shadow fell on her.

Something landed. A powerful blast of air slammed Cerris backwards into the mud. She struggled to face forwards, and saw the beast before her. It was colossal. Its body was the size of a small building, even without its tail, head and wings. The wings were long, leathery, and reached to either side of the road, resting on clawed wingtips. Its legs were small for its size, but each was still as big as a man, holding up its behemoth body. A serpentine tail sprang from its rear, swinging back and forth, spikes covering its entire length. Its neck was nearly as long, topped with a massive, fang filled maw, armoured with horns and more spikes. Tiny eyes gleamed from the sides of its head, each one emerald green, contrasting the cold bronze of its scales. Its head reared back, its maw opened, and it fired a jet of orange flame into the air above. Cerris flinched as the heat fell on her, drying the mud beneath her.

The dragon stood, perched on top of Elena and the wooden platform. Elena screamed. Then, with an ear-splitting roar, the dragon flapped its wings and launched clear into the sky, ripping the platform free and carrying the entire structure with it.

Cerris cried her sister’s name, as Elena disappeared into the clouds.

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