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midnightruleswriting · 7 years ago

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Fenrose swings one leg over the back of her mare, nimbly dropping to the ground. The clearing is cool at this time of the morning, with the fog just starting to burn off before the heat of the day truly makes itself known. She pulls the hood of her simple brown cloak low over her face to keep her red hair hidden from view rather than ward off the slight chill. The morning birds sing their songs high up in the trees, oblivious to the predators below.

For that’s who stands in front of Fenrose now. Predators—bounty hunters, really. Bundled in thick leather armor, with weapons gleaming in the morning light, every inch of the two men in front of her is as lethal as they promised.

Well, not men. The shorter of the two—still towering over six feet tall—is human. But the taller one has some orc blood in him somewhere, judging by the grayish-green cast to his skin and the set of his jaw, not to mention the hulking mass of him beneath his armor.

Fenrose suppresses a slight shudder. Not from the chill in the air, no. She came here alone, afraid to trust any of the guards with such a sensitive mission. And guards never accompany her on her early morning rides anyway. It would be out of place for her to ask. She’s made it more than clear she can take care of herself.

“I see you found the place well enough.” She places one hand on Cierán’s shoulder to steady the mare, uneasy now with their unfamiliar company. Fenrose never takes her eyes off the figures in front of her.

“Your directions were simple,” the human responds. The half-orc grunts in agreement. “You have a proposition for us?”

Fenrose studies them both for a long moment. “I’d like you to find someone for me. You believe yourselves to be the best in the business?”

The two men in front of her nod gruffly, but don’t interrupt her. Good. She didn’t care for the temperaments of the last group of bounty hunters she hired. Perhaps she shouldn’t be surprised they had not turned up after six months.

“I would like you to find Finley Liebertal.”

The bounty hunters share a look. “You speak for Lord Liebertal himself then?”

Fenrose lifts her chin, standing her ground. “I do, and if you succeed you will be generously compensated.”

“How much?” The half-orc speaks, voice low and guttural.

“Twenty thousand gold.”

Another look shared between the two. The human says, “That’s hardly enough to cover the expenses of my men for a few months, let alone however long this will take us to complete. Forty thousand.”

“Surely that’s incentive enough to work quicker?” Fenrose asks sweetly.

“Surely Lord Liebertal has money to spare?” The human shoots back, mocking her with a simpering smirk inching across his face.

Fenrose furrows her brows. She was hoping it wouldn’t come to this, but again, she shouldn’t be surprised. She’s been dealing with fellows like these men for four years now—they’re all the same, really. But they’re her only hope. She doesn’t know what else she can do at this point. She just wants Finley to come home.

She pulls a purse from under her cloak and tosses it across the clearing. It lands a few feet from the bounty hunters. “Ten thousand gold. Lord Liebertal makes good on his promises, so long as you keep your silence in return. If word of your mission is spread across the provinces, I will personally ensure you never see the light of day again. However, should you return Finley to Liansress Castle unharmed, you will be paid the promised twenty thousand for your trouble. Thirty thousand total. That is more than your men would typically make for such an endeavor, and certainly more than any of you would make pursuing any other living.”

Fenrose holds her breath, waiting to see if they accept her terms. They bend their heads towards each other and murmur under their breaths, too quiet for Fenrose to discern. They turn back to her after a long moment and nod, the half-orc bending forward to scoop up the purse.

“We accept you terms. We will find Finley Liebertal.” The human says, nodding again.

“Excellent,” Fenrose smiles, gripping Cierán’s reins and pulling herself back into her mare’s saddle. “I’ve included a description in the purse. Best of luck.”

She wheels Cierán around and nudges the mare into a gallop, letting the men’s voices fade behind her, drowned out by the staccato beats of hooves on dirt, running until the hair on the back of her neck is no longer standing on end, and she pulls Cierán back to a walk. It’s only the songbirds and the heavy breathing, both Cierán’s and her own, disturbing the quiet of the forest now.

The music swells around him, the gentle notes of the piano billowing into a frenzied maelstrom. Faylen’s fingers fly over the keys, eyes closed, allowing her fingertips to find the right notes at exactly the right moments. The music reaches its breaking point and shatters, collapsing under the weight of fury, settling into placating notes and drifting to its conclusion.

As the last tinkling note settles, a throat clears behind him, and Faylen jumps, eyes snapping open. He spins around on the bench to find his sister leaning against the closed door, arms crossed and hair a mess.

“What’re you doing?” Faylen asks, running a hand through his hair.

“I enjoy listening to you play,” Fenrose says simply, crossing the room in five strides and settling onto the bench beside him.

Faylen only frowns. Fenrose’s hair is a mess, her skin damp and cheeks flushed. She’s dressed in her riding clothes—leather pants and a loose tunic. But her rapier is belted at her waist. Usually she changes after a ride. And usually she doesn’t ride with a sword. A dagger or two, yes, but not her sword.

“Don’t let Father see you like that.” Faylen means it as a joke, but Fenrose’s gray eyes only darken. They could both do without yet another lecture on the importance of court decorum and dressing appropriately for their station. Faylen could practically give the speech himself at this point.

“You’re worrying me. What’s the matter?”

Fenrose wraps an arm around Faylen, pulling him close. He wriggles and pushes her away out of reflex.

“You’re all sweaty,” he protests, reaching up to adjust is glasses. “Add a bath to the list of things you need to do today.”

“I sent another band of bounty hunters after Finley this morning,” Fenrose says, face stony, eyes affixed to the ivory piano keys in front of both of them.

“Another?” Faylen sighs. He wishes Fenrose would let the matter go. He misses Finley too, but… he’d rather just believe Finley is happy somewhere is Dashyl, preferably not in Madiére, but in some other province. The last thing he wants, both for himself and for Fenrose, is for a band of bounty hunters to come marching in one day dragging a body behind them. “When will you give this up, Fenrose?”

Fenrose’s eyes snap to meet Faylen’s for the first time since she sat down, and narrow dangerously. “I’m sorry. Do you not want Finley home?”

If she were anyone other than his older sister, Faylen would cower before her. He’d seen enough men do so to know how frightening Fenrose could be, especially when her eyebrows began to creep into a frown and that sharp edge honed her voice. But Faylen has dealt with Fenrose for too long to be intimidated by her antics. “I just don’t think it’s worth the risk—”

“Of course it’s worth the risk—it’s been fourteen years—”

“—Of Father finding out and punishing you—both of us—for a child’s fantasy. Finley could be dead, for all you know.” Faylen rubs his temples. It’s an old argument between the two of them. While Faylen misses Finley—he does—he doesn’t understand his sister’s obsession. If Finley wanted to come home, Finley would be home. “What are you going to do if these men come back empty handed like all the others? Or worse—are you going to pay them if they come back with a body?” She had been sending bounty hunters after Finley with increasing frequency for four years now. None of them had returned with any success. Several hadn’t bothered to send correspondence in years. Either they’d given up, or were killed along the way. Faylen hopes it to be the former.

Fenrose doesn’t miss a beat, ignoring Faylen’s questions. She reaches out with long, graceful fingers and pulls one of his hands away from his temple. Her voice softens, “How’re you feeling today?”

“Fine. You’re the one giving me a headache.” Faylen knows not to push himself too far, but he also knows the signs of his illness better than anyone else. He can differentiate between a run-of-the-mill headache and one that will leave him crippled in bed all day within the first few moments of its onset. This is a regular headache—one he came up here to try to drown out with some music.

“I’m sure this isn’t helping. Wouldn’t you rather go lay down?” Fenrose doesn’t wait for Faylen to answer, instead crossing her arms as a different frown creases between her brows, one Faylen has seen more often than probably anyone else. “I suppose I’ll just have to go after Finley myself, won’t I?” Right back to the conversation at hand; nothing distracts Fenrose for long.

This time, however, Faylen has to consciously keep the surprise from his face. He’s not sure how to process this. It’s not new—Fenrose has said much of the same before, but never with such certainty, such conviction behind her words. Never with that steely glint of seriousness in her eyes. “You’re joking.”

“I’m really not.” Fenrose places her own hands on the keys in front of her. “Play with me?”

“Oh no, you don’t get to change the subject. Would you really go after Finley? Alone?” His heart races in his chest, almost painful. Fenrose can’t leave. She can’t. He wouldn’t know what to do without her.

“What other choice do I have, Faylen?” Desperation creeps across her features. “I need Finley home, safe.”

Faylen studies his sister for a long moment, letting the quiet stiffen between them, heavy with unspoken words. “Does the prospect of ruling scare you that much, that you would drag Finley back here and force the duty on someone who so obviously doesn’t want it?” It’s a sore spot for Fenrose, and strikes true.

Her eyes flash dangerously. “Shut your mouth. You don’t know what you’re talking about.” Fenrose pulls her hands back from the keys, her nails digging into her palms. She’s angry, but Faylen has seen worse. Her temper is nothing compared to their father’s.

“Don’t I? You’re terrified.”

“That is not why I want Finley home—”

“Then explain it to me.”

“I can’t—” Her voice breaks just as a knock sounds on the door behind them and it is pushed open with a long, slow creak. One of their servants stands in the doorway, red faced and breathing heavily.

“My lord, lady, I hoped I would find you up here—your father, High Lord of Madiére, requests your presence—”

“That’s enough, Teigo,” Fenrose dismisses him with a wave of her hand. He bows before backing away. Despite her reservations, Faylen cannot help but marvel at the way his sister commands. For someone so scared of power, she wields it more effectively than most.

“Coming, brother?” Fenrose stands, dusting imaginary dirt from her pants and smoothing her fraying hair down. It would be more presentable if she brushed it out and braided it again, Faylen thinks, but there’s no time for that now.

“What do you think this is about?” Faylen falls into step beside her as she marches towards the throne room. Their footfalls echo against the stone walls. The guards they pass are stoic and silent.

“Hopefully, not what we discussed earlier.” She shoots him a furtive glance, begging him with only a look to keep their conversation between just the two of them. He knows to keep his silence about such matters. Setting off Father’s temper is a rare occurrence, but a dangerous one. Best to keep secrets just that--secret.

Guards haul open the heavy doors to the throne room, and the court herald announces their arrival, titles and all. Faylen and Fenrose walk towards their father, standing on a dais, dressed in full green and gold regalia, dark red hair gleaming. The siblings mind their manners and bow deeply out of respect before taking a step back, standing in the center of the room, surrounded by the lesser nobles and councilors of their father’s court, assembled for whatever Lord Liebertal has planned.

“Father,” Fenrose begins smoothly. “You asked for us?”

“I did indeed,” his voice booms in the large room, loud enough for all gathered to hear. He allows the words to settle a moment. “I thought it best to formally introduce you,” he gestures to the side with a sweeping motion. Only then does Faylen notice the two young elves standing to the side of the dais. They almost blend into the shadows in their dark traveling clothes.

“My sister was the victim of a plot to sabotage our government, to overthrow our very system of order,” Faylen’s father announces, gravelly voice booming and reverberating off the stone walls. A collective gasp can be heard throughout the assembled court. Faylen isn’t quite sure how to take the revelation. He wasn’t previously aware he even had an aunt. Leave it to his father to reveal such information in front of the entire court; he’s always loved to have the whole room hanging off his every word. Something he has certainly achieved.

Before he can dwell on it too long, his father continues, “She and her husband, High Lord and Lady of House Arndor of Espedrinha, were murdered while their children slept, and the assassins slipped away unnoticed in the night. Our own people, nobles, are being targeted and slaughtered. This is not the first such attack, as many of you know, other minor nobles have been killed across the provinces. But it is the most prominent. I will be doubling security on the grounds and within the walls of this keep to ensure my family’s protection. And I, out of the goodness of my heart, have decided to take in my niece and nephew, to raise them as my own, while stepping in to serve as the lord of Espedrinha until young Amavain here comes of age and can handle the duties himself.”

Lord Liebertal chuckles then, low and throaty. It’s for the show, putting on an air of welcome, but the sound sends chills down Faylen’s spine. “Step forward, you two, no need to be shy! Fenrose, Faylen, may I introduce your cousins? Amavain and Aerlanna Arndor.” Faylen takes in their appearance, for a moment, as they step out of the shadows cloaking the side of the room. They can’t be much older than himself. The resemblance between the two and Fenrose and himself is undeniable. Sharp cheekbones, similar noses, and that famous Liebertal red hair. True, it is a few shades lighter, but undeniably a result of their shared blood.

The young elves look at each other for an uncertain moment before dropping into low bows. Judging by the looks on their faces, Faylen is sure he is not the only one surprised by the news of relatives. While it is not uncommon for children of nobles—especially those that happen to be related—to be carted off and raised with others their same age, their father has never spoken of his sister, not in Faylen’s lifetime, at least, Finley or Fenrose might have known, and just not thought to disclose it to him.

“I trust you two will show your cousins around the keep and get them situated? The servants can help set up their bedchambers and move their things. I expect to see you all at dinner.” With that, Faylen’s father pushes past them, likely to head back to his study and his solitude. He pauses at the last moment, and without turning around, says, “And Fenrose?”

Faylen does not miss the tightening of Fenrose’s jaw. “Yes, Father?”

“Do dress properly for dinner tonight.”

With that, he stalks out of the room, his loud steps drowning out Fenrose’s terse, “Yes, Father.”

The rest of the court officials begin filing out, heading back to their duties. Faylen watches as Fenrose studies the young elves in front of them, before she turns sharply to Faylen.

“You can handle this on your own, can’t you? I have more important things to attend to.” And much like their father, she turns on her heel and strides off, her braided hair swinging behind her.

Faylen’s eyes widen in surprise—the only reaction he can muster before she disappears from sight, and takes in the uncertain looks on the elves in front of him. Never comfortable as the center of attention, Faylen shifts nervously, dropping his gaze to the floor.

“Would you—like to see the keep?” He asks weakly, unsure if he should apologize for his sister’s behavior.

Aerlanna and Amavain don’t answer at first, and Faylen’s stomach twists itself into a new knot with each passing second. Chancing a glance at the siblings, Faylen notes a deep scowl settling itself on Aerlanna’s lips, and the apprehension clouding Amavain’s eyes. Until, finally, Amavain says quietly, “we would greatly appreciate it.”

Faylen swallows stiffly, and turns away from the siblings—his cousins—and leads them out of the throne room, scrambling for where to take them first.

Faylen groans as he falls into his bed. He spent the whole afternoon showing Aerlanna and Amavain around the grounds and the keep. Neither of the siblings proved to be particularly forthcoming. They only nodded at the stables and the training grounds and didn’t even react to the library or the studios full of natural light meant to practice artwork in. He even showed them a few of the music rooms, but not the one that housed his piano. They displayed only polite interest in their tour, and Faylen thought it best not to drag the thing on longer than it needed to be. Finally, finally, Faylen was able to pass them off to a servant who knew where their belongings had been moved to and could show them to their rooms, allowing Faylen to escape.

He hadn’t grown up around many other children. Both Fenrose and Finley are significantly older than Faylen, spaced further apart than Elven children typically are as a result of their mother’s poor health in the final years of her life. On top of that, Faylen had been only six when Finley disappeared, and he has very few memories of them all playing together. Since Finley left, Fenrose hadn’t really been one for playing, not when it was just the two of them. When other nobles stayed for extended visits, he’d been required to entertain their children, but Fenrose never abandoned him to these endeavors. She knows he doesn’t know how to comport himself around others his age. And she could charm even the most surly of guests and discordant of children into doing damn near anything. She prides herself on it.

Though he had tried to come across as welcoming and informative, without his sister and confronted with nearly unresponsive companions, he had spent the entire afternoon mumbling to his newfound cousins about different passages to take to get to the dining hall and the library—he had assumed they would join him for lessons and would need to know the way there. Laying on his bed in the quiet of his room, he feels exhausted, and would like nothing more than to sink beneath his blankets and sleep until breakfast.

A knock sounds sharply on his door then, and it is pushed open without waiting for his response.

“My lord? It is time to prepare for dinner.”

“Diermon, would you please tell my father I’m too ill to attend dinner tonight?”

“Has your illness returned, sir?” The servant pauses, ready to run for aid should Faylen require it.

“If I say no, can we keep the secret between the two of us? I’m quite a convincing actor.”

“No, sir. You know your father will take that rather seriously. Come now, up you get.” Diermon wastes no time in pulling Faylen to his feet and pulling out clean breeches, a fresh white shirt, and a gold stitched green doublet. Even his circlet is placed on his brow, a rare occurrence. It holds his shoulder-length hair in place. Diermon is quick and thorough, and wastes no time.

Diermon escorts him to dinner—probably to ensure he actually attends—and disappears once Faylen is seated.

Their table is long, even in their private dining hall, and lit by candles. Torches line the walls as well, providing a warm and well-lit ambiance, the light flickering across the green and gold wall hangings. Five plates and goblets are set in place of the usual three. The goblets are already filled to the brim with deep red wine. Faylen wastes no time sipping on his own. He has a feeling he is going to need it tonight.

Fenrose is the first to join him, dressed similarly in a gown of green with golden embroidery. Her own circlet is nestled in her hair. “I take it house colors are the theme for tonight?”

Faylen smiles weakly. “I suppose so.”

“Delightful.” Fenrose takes her customary seat to the right of the head of the table, and gulps her own wine, draining half the goblet. “I hope the servants are prepared to keep the drinks flowing.”

“I was thinking much of the same.” Faylen nods then, as their cousins enter, in their own matching outfits of +gray with deep blue and burgundy accents. Amavain’s hair is freshly trimmed, and Aerlanna’s is swept up into a braided crown, much like Fenrose’s. Their own brows gleam with shiny new circlets. Their father is not missing an opportunity to display the wealth and status at his disposal, Faylen thinks.

As always, Fierón Liebertal is the last to enter. He stands at the head of the table for a moment, studying Faylen and the others with his steady gray gaze.

“Excellent,” he says appreciatively as he takes his seat. “How excellent, to have our family whole once more!”

Across from him, Faylen doesn’t miss how Fenrose’s shoulders tense and her fingers tighten ever so slightly around the stem of her goblet. Of course, without Finley and their mother, their family would never be whole. And his cousins—Amavain doesn’t appear to react—but beside Faylen, Aerlanna grips the edge of the table. Of course, their own family has been torn apart. How could the Liebertals replace what they have lost? Between Aerlanna and his sister, Faylen can practically taste the tension weighing heavy across the table. His father, however, chooses not to notice.

The servants begin placing bowls of hot onion soup in front of them, accompanied by fresh-baked rolls. Faylen’s father devours his, pausing every so often to take a sip of wine and lean over to Fenrose to ask her questions about trading or taxes. Throughout the first course, his father ignores the two new faces, and keeps the discussion to business. Faylen keeps to himself. His father has a penchant for testing both his children’s knowledge over dinner, and while Faylen has no trouble keeping up with such conversations, he believes Fenrose is better suited for them. She’ll have to lead, after all. Even now, Fenrose and Lord Liebertal are going back and forth, discussing the benefits and drawbacks of raising taxes on the upcoming harvest, to ensure the Madiéran military can be better fed and supplied.

“Certainly there’s a way other than raising taxes?” Fenrose suggests. Her lithe fingers tear apart a roll. “Our peasants can hardly afford further burden placed upon them.”

Lord Liebertal shakes his head. “I have gone over this issue for weeks now. There just isn’t another way. If we do not tax the farmers—which I will agree, is possibly the worst course of action—then we tax the artisans. But there are few of them and many farmers, so the tax on the artisans would be higher, though it would impact less of the population. But it would encourage them to move to Cassírn, and we can hardly afford that either.”

“What about taxing ships that dock at our ports en route to Cassírn?” Fenrose supplies readily. Faylen begins to tune out the conversation, like he usually does.

Amavain and Aerlanna, like Faylen, keep their eyes on their own plates and eat quietly. Faylen has no doubts they may have their own opinions on the topic—Faylen certainly does. The military doesn’t need more food or supplies. They’re well-stocked. The guards here at Liansress need to be reinforced, as do the guards of other noble houses. Both the funding from that should come from household funds, and the Liebertals at the very least have more than enough gold to hire more guards. Many of the other nobles do as well. Raising a tax would only funnel more money towards the Liebertals, and not towards the lesser nobles that may genuinely need it.

Fenrose and Lord Liebertal carry on throughout the first course, debating at length. That is, until the bowls are cleared away and a large dish of venison is brought before them. A servant places the largest cut on his father’s plate and begins serving the rest.

“So, Amavain, Aerlanna, how was your tour? Did my children take care of you?” Faylen’s father cuts a large piece of venison off and shoves it into his mouth before he finishes speaking.

The siblings look at each other for a moment. Amavain shifts uneasily under the weight of the lord’s gaze. “We had a lovely tour, sir.”

“Good to hear. Your lessons will begin tomorrow morning after breakfast. You’ll join Faylen in the library. I’m not sure how my sister conducted your studies, but we have tutors here tasked with ensuring you receive the best education. You will inform them of where you left off, and they will resume from there. I assume you have developed some proficiency with weapons as well?” He cuts another large piece off his plate. Juice drips down his chin.

Amavain nods. Beside Faylen, Aerlanna stabs forcefully at her meal.

“Excellent. I will arrange for weapons training for both of you as well, and I would greatly enjoy it if all of you would accompany me on a hunt one day—I’ll have someone arrange it tomorrow, maybe for the end of the week—”

Aerlanna’s fork clatters to her plate. Faylen looks over, surprised to see her hands clenched into fists. She glares at his father, a muscle twitching in her jaw.

“Our parents are dead,” she says, deathly quiet, speaking for the first time. “They were murdered. We were taken from our home—and all you can speak of are taxes and lessons and hunts. Have you no sympathy?”

Faylen’s father seems unperturbed, but Fenrose’s eyes have narrowed. Faylen can tell she’s calculating, reevaluating. He’d give anything to know what is going through her head right now. To her left, Amavain looks to be chewing his lip nervously, looking anywhere but at his sister.

“My sister made many mistakes in her life. Getting herself killed was one of them.” Faylen’s father reaches for his goblet, only to find it empty. He shouts to a servant, who rushes to refill it. He drinks deeply, smacking his lips in appreciation.

“How dare you speak of my mother that way,” Aerlanna’s voice rises. “She’s dead and now—”

“And now, you live under my roof, and my rules,” Faylen’s father’s hand slams down on the table for emphasis. The resounding, meaty smack makes Faylen jump. “You will do well to learn quickly that I do not tolerate such behavior.”

Aerlanna tips her head back and laughs, cold and high and mirthless. “Now you lecture me about rules? My parents are dead, my sister is missing, and that is all you have to say to me? This is too much, simply too much.”

“Aerlanna,” the High Lord says in a tone that freezes the air within Faylen’s lungs. He watches, wide-eyed, as his father and his cousin bicker, pleading silently for Aerlanna to shut her mouth, to sit down, to put on a front until she’s behind closed doors. “One more word—”

“Answer my question, and I won’t speak another word,” she snaps suddenly. “Where. Is. My sister?”

“Enough!” Faylen’s father leaps to his feet, throwing his napkin to the table. Spittle flies from his lips and his face reddens as he bellows, “Bed. All of you. Get out!”

Silence falls, broken only by the heaving breaths of his father bearing over the four of them. Now she’s done it, Faylen thinks, glancing around at his sister and cousins. Fenrose is frowning again, while Amavain and Aerlanna appear dumbstruck. Quietly, Faylen pushes his chair back; there’s no use in dallying after Lord Liebertal has given a direct order. The gentle scraping of the wooden chair against the stone floors rallies the others, who soon follow suit, and they all traipse through the grand doors and out into the hall. The doors boom closed behind them. Dust shakes itself loose from the ceiling from the impact.

Fenrose rustles her skirts. “Well. That went better than I expected.”

Amavain only stares at her, wide-eyed.

Faylen shrugs, offering him a small smile. “Welcome to our charming family.” If they are going to live here, perhaps it is best to lay all the cards on the table early. It may just save them all from another dinner like tonight’s.

Aerlanna is pacing, wringing her hands and muttering unintelligibly to herself. Amavain catches her arm when she passes him, and pulls her close to his chest.

“Come,” Fenrose says. “We have much to talk about.”

“I don’t want to talk,” Aerlanna mutters, wrenching herself free of Amavain’s hold. “I want to find my sister.”

Faylen’s rarely seen someone as impetuous as Aerlanna. Certainly few as single-minded. She’s practically Fenrose’s twin. Faylen can only imagine the hell that will raise, having two of the same mind under one roof.

“I like your mettle, love,” Fenrose says, approval evident in her voice. “But you have much to learn, and sooner rather than later would be preferable. Come.” Not waiting for a response, Fenrose turns and heads up the hall. Faylen can only offer another shrug to his cousins, and follows.

#nhiri-lavellan #my writing

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bluezeri · 3 years ago

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for @nhiri-lavellan :D fun fact this is my first time using photoshop for an image like this, so that was fun :}

#i couldnt quite see the tattoo on the other side of her face i hope that ok D:#but anyway im pretty proud of how this turned out #swtor #SWTOR fanart #star wars #swtor oc #star wars oc #other people ocs

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nhiri-lavellan · 7 years ago

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The Side-eye Saga

For real though, by the time Trespasser came around, Nhiri was so beyond done with all of this bullshit.

#dragon age #Nhiri Lavellan

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shaydh · 8 years ago

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15 17 21 for the OC ask thing

15. Do you like to talk about your OCs with other people?

If they’re interested! And I love talking with my friends, of course!

17. Any OC OTPs?

Sakhure and Iraedra are the only couple I have. Although it was in the past, I still count it.

21. Your most artistic OC

Kharduul, since he’s a musician!

#nhiri-lavellan #shaydh replies #OC stuff

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moonlitalien · 7 years ago

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November's black and white portraits rewards on my Patreon! ♥

For @aguydrawsgames, @tweedpawn, @imkerfuffled, @darthsiha, @keldae and @nhiri-lavellan!

Patreon ● Ko-fi ● DeviantART ● Facebook

#swtor #rattataki #sith warrior #sith inquisitor #smuggler #chiss #moonlit art #portrait reward

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themidnightrulesarebreakin · 6 years ago

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2, 28, 36, 45, 52, 68,157, 174, 208~

Oh shit y’all I got two of these! Thank you ^-^

2: Do I have any nicknames?

I’ve gone by Becky, Becca, and Rhyan at various points in my life.Most people now call me Rebecca or Becca. Only my swimmers call me Coach Becky.

28: Something I miss?

Being in school and lazing around all morning with my dogs until I had to go to class.

36: My current obsession?

I have been obsessed with Critical Role for over a year and it’s still going strong.

45: Last film I watched?

I rewatched the princess diaries last weekend. But last movie I watched for the first time was Coco

52: When do I feel most at peace?

When I swim, or when I’m at the barn.

68: Who are my best friends?

Nick (nhiri-lavellan), Mandy, Michaela (pennsylvaniapastoral)

157: What makes me nostalgic?

Harry Potter movies, hot chocolate by the fire, the nine hour drive down to the beach.

174: Best gift I’ve ever received?

I had to think about this. Honestly, one of my swimmers knitted me a scarf and made me a card telling me all the reasons she looked up to me and why she was thankful I was her coach. I sobbed for an hour straight after I read it.

208: Do I collect anything?

Pop funkos, Magic cards, dice sets, new editions of Harry Potter

Thank you so much for this, Nonny! It was fun!

#asks #anon #thank you!#this was so much fun #Anonymous

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midnightruleswriting · 8 years ago

Text

I tried.

The surface is a riot of colors and scents and sounds, all assaulting her senses at once with no relief. Even after months on the surface, even after all her time spent with Sam, adjusting, it is still overwhelming. And this forest—Ollivan, the border between the provinces of Madiére and Cassírn, as Sam had taught her, was certainly full of color and life. So much life. Every skittering woodland creature and rustling bird overhead has her ears twitching. Even the little whines coming from Pip… nothing escapes her notice, though she tries not to stare blatantly at the world around her. It proves difficult; the well-worn path beneath her feet is simply not interesting.

And the elf beside her—Ilphynrae cannot quite discern how she feels about them. Tall—certainly taller than she—with Pip curled comfortably across their shoulders, Rowan carries themself casually. They move freely, without the rigidity borne from her own noble upbringing. But perhaps they have had a much easier time shrugging off those customs than she has. She certainly cannot blame them for wanting to forget them all. She has to suppress a shudder of her own just thinking about all those years spent training as a priestess. Now is not the time to dwell on the past, she reminds herself.

As they walk, her mind wanders, flitting through the last few days spent in Rowan’s company. They have been nothing but cordial, spent practicing magic in that same clearing. Rowan shows promise in the arts, even without the formal training usually emphasized in youth to ensure proper development of one’s magical abilities. No matter, Ilphynrae thinks. Should Rowan continue to practice, they should pick up a few tricks here and there. And perhaps, should she happen to visit them again in the future, Ilphynrae can teach them a few more.

The rest of their time together was spent either with Ilphynrae playing with Pip—a delightful little creature—while Rowan went hunting, or with Rowan teaching her more of wood carving. They were not wrong—it does calm the mind. When Rowan was gone and Pip asleep, Ilphynrae made time to meditate—she still found that more useful than carving, though it is nice to make something without using her magic for once. She cannot deny the small satisfaction she receives from it, though the pieces she has carved thus far are crude and lack Rowan’s finesse. She could make vastly more refined pieces with her magic, true, but they would not be quite the same.

As a parting gift, one day while Rowan was out hunting, Ilphynrae touched up their small treehouse home, sealing the cracks in the walls, closing the roof in and making modifications to make the place homely. The elements should not be able to intrude in the future. The cook fire should never go out and never burn the wood around it. The wood should preserve for years without worry of rot or the need for Rowan to replace any of it. Someone so kind does not deserve to live in squalor, not when her magic can so easily remedy it.

They walk for hours, winding their way through the forest until the leaves above take on that golden late-afternoon glow only cast off by a setting sun. Up ahead, she can see breaks in the forest as the trees grow sparse. The sun, setting in the west directly in front of them, warms her skin as they break the cover of the forest.

“It’s not far to Ozryn,” Rowan says, glancing over at Ilphynrae. “We’ll make it there before nightfall.”

Her only response is to nod, scanning the gentle hills stretching out in front of them for signs of a town. The path—more of a road, now, as it widens—winds its way past small homes and farms. A few humans are outside, finishing the day��s work. They do not seem to look up from their work as they pass. This road likely sees heavy travel, for them to not be wary of passers-by.

Just as the sun is sinking over the horizon, Ilphynrae and Rowan crest a hill. A town, reasonably sized, lays out before them. From their vantage point, it is easy to make out the center square and the clusters of homes lining cobbled streets. Out of precaution, Ilphynrae draws the hood of her cloak low over her face, hiding herself mostly from view. Rowan does not seem perturbed by this as they descend the final hill and make their way into town.

Rowan knows their way around Orzyn. Though they typically restrict their trading to Caldwell, just over the border in Madiére, they have traveled her on occasion to trade, when resources were scarce in Caldwell. It had happened on occasion over the last few years, and Cassírn never seemed to lack resources. While this meant Rowan’s meat and furs didn’t sell for as much, it also meant food wasn’t quite so hard to come by sometimes. At times, it was a trade worth making.

Rowan leads Ilphynrae through the streets, nearly deserted at this hour. Their companion keeps to the shadows for the most part. Rowan only moves swiftly, making their way to the inn at the heart of town. A respectable enough place for a hot meal and a night’s sleep.

When Rowan nods towards Ilphynrae and pushes the door to the inn, they are greeted with a warm gust of air—almost too warm in the late-summer night. While Rowan understands Ilphynrae’s desire to hide behind her cloak, they feel stifled in their long sleeve tunic and pants. They can’t imagine how she must feel with another layer. She hasn’t complained once, though.

A fire is crackling in the hearth on the far side of the room, adding to the warmth of the room. But that is not the first thing Rowan notices. Instead, they are confronted with a sight they have never seen here before.

“I think we have found where all the townspeople are this evening,” Ilphynrae murmurs behind them. Rowan can only nod in agreement. The inn’s main room is filled with people taking in a meal and raising drinks. The crowd is clustered around a large, blue-scaled dragonborn leaning back in a chair at the center of a loosely-formed circle. His voice booms across the room, and those gathered appear enraptured in the tale he is weaving.

“—our hero then turned to the man that dared confront her and cut him down without batting an eye.” The declaration elicits cheers from those gathered, and the dragonborn smiles, reveling in the commotion his story has caused. Even the barkeep has paused in his work, Rowan notices, listening intently. Rowan cannot ignore the chills that race down their neck; they love a good story, especially one told

“If you don’t mind, I’d like to hear this,” Rowan says to Ilphynrae, stepping over to the side of the door. Ilphynrae joins them, leaning against the wall and propping one foot underneath her, arms crossed, paying every bit as much attention as any of the other patrons. Rowan shifts Pip from their shoulders to cradle him in their arms. He nestles his head against Rowan’s chest.

“She ordered her soldiers to storm the town and pull all the reaming townsfolk to safety, but she had not counted on the Eylrulians having snuck into the houses and using them as bases. Even still, those cowards were no match for our Sanne, oh no! Her men snuck into the homes and took the Eylrulians out one by one, slitting their throats quickly and effectively, before they could even use their cursed magic to strike. And Sanne—well, Sanne was right there alongside them, fighting with her men and freeing her people. She ran with them as they escaped to freedom, helping children find safety with her Madiéran troops stationed just outside the village and returning time and time again to save even more.”

The dragonborn pauses then, letting his words sink in for dramatic effect. A lurch in Rowan’s stomach brings them back for a moment. As the dragonborn had been speaking, they had been wrapped up in the story, imagining with vivid clarity the elf that had led the rescue of that town. An old story, Rowan realizes. One they heard many times, settled on a rug in front of a roaring fireplace while their Mother rested in a comfortable armchair, or when they entertained guests and she dazzled the room in her full court regalia, telling stories of that long-ago war that wasn’t really last long ago, not for elves.

“It was on one of these return trips,” the dragonborn continues, their voice lowering and taking on a seriousness it has lacked thus far. “That an Eylrulian struck from behind, taking Sanne down when she was separated from her soldiers. They were preoccupied with their own tasks, too busy to help their commander.” Another pause. That’s not how Mother told the story, Rowan thinks. She wasn’t attacked from behind. Rather—it was honest battle, and she was struck down.

Perhaps the alteration is meant for dramatic effect. Rowan does not have long to ponder it, before the dragonborn continues. “Laying in the dirt, bleeding from a wound in her back caused by the wicked Eylrulian’s blade, Sanne had a decision to make. Let her soldiers continue on her work without her, let her husband lead their province alone, with no heirs, but the knowledge that her efforts had saved the lives of hundreds of innocent townsfolk, or get back up, and fight! And do you know what Sanne did? Well, do you?”

She fought, Rowan thinks, just as the crowd echoes the same.

“She got up, and she fought back! Quick on her feet, Sanne avoided blades and spells thrown her way. She used the town around her to dodge and hide. Oh she took hits, but she never went down again. And that blasted Eylrulian solider—he had magic at his disposal so dark, he had already been responsible for the deaths of a dozen small children in the town without expelling much of his energy. And Sanne had been battling over this town for nigh on a week with no rest, just her determination to save as many as possible. She was tired, and disadvantaged, but she did not let that wear her down!”

Rowan bites their bottom lip. No, but she was so close to giving up. This fight took more out of her than she was ever willing to let on. She never did like to talk about it, and when she did, she didn’t brag like this. She wanted us to understand how horrid war was. She never wanted us to think of her as a hero, not for doing what was right.

“Sanne hid for but a moment, recovered her strength, and when she heard the Eylrulian creeping towards her, preparing his next assault, she charged. She raised her greatsword over her head, let out the yell of a seasoned warrior making her last stand, and charged. The Eylrulian didn’t even know what hit him. With one strike, she had him on the ground, bleeding from a gash across the chest. And in her fury, she dropped her sword, heaved the Eylrulian off the ground, and ripped his throat out with nothing but her teeth!”

Collective gasps fill the room. A few clap and break out in cheers. Rowan’s mouth on falls open slightly as their brow knits together. She absolutely did not. Beside them, Ilphynrae scoffs slightly.

The dragonborn only holds up a hand, waiting for silence to befall the crowd once more. Once it does, he continues, “Sanne dragged the Eylrulian’s lifeless body through the streets with her. Her own soldiers and Eylrulians alike stopped in their fighting to watch her, bleeding and exhaust, but determined, pass. She marched right up to the commander who had situated himself in the heart of the town, the best vantage point to watch the chaos unfold. Sanne dragged that soldier right up to him, and threw his body down in front of the commander, and before the reality of what she had done to his solider set in, she slayed him too, cleaving his head from his shoulders in one swift movement. Her own men made quick work of the remaining soldiers. They saved the rest of the townspeople and moved them to safety—offering them shelter in her own town to the north, where they were able to rebuild their lives. And Sanne, our noble champion, she turned her attention to the next battle, never once letting those damned Eylrulians make headway into our land that she didn’t immediately turn back!”

Rowan shakes their head a moment, trying to clear their thoughts as the room erupts into cheers and applause once more. The dragonborn has settled back into his chair, looking pleased with himself. The crowd swarms him momentarily, thanking him for a story well-told and praising his talent.

Talent indeed, Rowan thinks wryly. Sanne could hold a room captive with her own story-telling abilities, but she told the story quite differently. Less denationalization, a greater emphasis on the horrors of war, the horrors she faced day in and day out. She did it for her people, she would answer whenever asked why. She did it because she loved her people more than anything, and as High Lady, she believed it was her husband’s role to command the troops, and hers to enact those orders and lead them into battle. To fight, and perhaps die, alongside her people, if that was what was required of her.

Rowan had always admired their mother’s bravery. The dragonborn had failed to mention the next leg of the story. Yes, Sanne had led her soldiers into battle after battle and fought back the Eylrulians, freeing her people from their conquest, but she had paid a grave price. In the final battle, fought on the beaches of Cassírn, not too far from Ozryn, actually, she had taken a poisoned arrow in the arm. Not a bad wound, usually. But the Eylrulians tipped their ranged weapons in a poison of their own concoction, usually lethal if treatment is not administered immediately. Rowan’s father, in the terms of surrender, was able to negotiate an agreement to be provided with the antidote to the poison, to save Sanne and the others poisoned in the final battle, the ones that didn’t die immediately.

The Eylrulians didn’t provide the antidote. Instead, they shipped in the plant the poison was distilled from and let the best healers and alchemists in Dashyl try to distill an antidote. Hundreds died prolonged, painful deaths over the following years. Sanne had lived another ninety or so years, longer than many others afflicted with the same poison, but her strength waned, especially in the final years of her life. The antidotes created by healers prolonged her life, bought her more time with Rowan’s father, but Rowan, having watched her health decline for much of their life, is still not convinced it was the right decision, that her suffering was really worth it in the end.

A light touch on their elbow brings Rowan back to the overly-warm inn. Ilphynrae looks up at them, her expression hard to read. Rowan pulls away, pushing past the thinning crowd to the dragonborn at the center of the room. A small elf stands at the dragonborn’s side now, handing over a massive tankard of ale and clapping him on the shoulder. The dragonborn throws back a swig of ale and slams the tankard on the table, smacking their lips appreciatively and laughing to something the elf says. He leans forward and places his elbows against the table as Rowan slides into a chair across from him, settling Pip into their lap as they do so. Ilphynrae hovers a few paces back, surveying the situation unfolding in front of her.

“And who do we have here?” The dragonborn says, tapping the chin of his elongated snout. Curiosity flashes in his dark eyes, all good humor and intrigue.

“Rowan,” they say easily, leaning their elbows on the table in front of them as well. Ilphynrae doesn’t make to introduce herself, so Rowan doesn’t jump to do it for her.

“Well then, Rowan,” the dragonborn pauses as he takes another long draught of his ale. “Lusacan, and my companion Aluhin. What can we do for you?”

Rowan takes a moment to survey the small elf in front of them. Short, dirty blonde hair just long enough to nearly brush the elongated ears. Fine facial features—marred by scars. Rowan swallows their surprise—the elf is covered in them. But that’s a conversation best not to be broached. Instead, Rowan turns their to Lusacan, still watching them with a measured gaze,

“Your story was quite captivating,” Rowan starts. “You had my companion and I enraptured.”

“Ah, well, thank you my friend! Always nice to hear,” Lusacan smiles broadly, revealing two rows of pointed teeth.

“I just have a question,” Rowan leans back in the chair, feigning casual indifference. “Where did you happen to come by that story?”

Lusacan shares a look with Aluhin, who has now pulled up another chair. Ilphynrae has yet to move. “We travel quite a bit. Pick up stories wherever we go. We’ve heard that one quite a few times over, thought it time to share it ourselves.”

“Have you always heard it the way you told it?”

“For the most part, yes. Are you two hungry? Your friend there can pull up a chair, you know.” Lusacan calls over his shoulder for meals to be brought to their table. Ilphynrae grudgingly grabs a chair from a nearby table and hauls it over, settling herself alongside Rowan while the barkeep hastens to bring them plates full of roasted duck and potatoes.

“Why do you ask?” Lusacan asks, returning his attention to Rowan.

“I’ve heard it rather differently over the years. I was wondering if you’d like to hear how we tell the story in Madiére.”

“By all means, be my guest.” Lusacan swallows a swig of ale.

Rowan studies the grain of the wood in front of them, choosing their next words carefully. “The retellings of that story I’ve heard have never had Sanne struck in the back.”

��Oh?” Lusacan furrows his brow.

“She was fighting with that soldier, and he was overpowering her. He struck her down fairly and was closing in for the killing blow, as you said, when she mustered her final bit of strength and decided to keep fighting. Sanne herself always emphasized her decision to fight for her people when she told the story.”

“Were you fortunate enough to hear Sanne tell the story herself?” Lusacan asks.

“Well, she only died twenty years ago. That allowed her plenty of time to recount her war stories to captive audiences.” Rowan smiles then, and offers thanks to the barkeep when he brings over their plates and fresh glasses filled with foamy ale.

“Fair enough. Any other things you’d like to point out?” Lusacan presses, slicing into his duck.

“Well, she certainly didn’t tear that man’s throat out with her teeth. They weren’t nearly sharp enough for that.”

Lusacan laughs at that. “No, that was an addition of my own. Thought the crowd would like it. I take it you didn’t?”

“I… appreciate it from a narrative perspective. But part of me is quite fond of the original tellings of the story I grew up hearing. I just thought you’d like to hear a different take on it.”

“Understandable, of course.” Lusacan wipes his mouth with his hand. “Did you say you were from Madiére? Where are you two heading now?”

It is Ilphynrae who answers. “Corholm.”

“The capital?” Lusacan throws his head back with a hearty laugh. “Us as well! You wouldn’t happen to be looking for a few more traveling companions, would you?”

Rowan and Ilphynrae share a look, her eyes flashing under her hood. “Perhaps,” she says carefully.

“Well, we’re heading back out tomorrow morning. You’re welcome to join us.”

Rowan feeds Pip bits of meat from their plate, deep in thought. They don’t particularly want to travel much further from Ollivan—they have a life to get back to. And if Ilphynrae could travel with these two, she would certainly be in good company.

“What business do you both have in Corholm, anyway?” Rowan asks.

“We have some business to attend to there. I’m sure you’ve heard about the call raised a few weeks ago?”

Ilphynrae nods, and Rowan bobs their head along with her.

“Well, we’d like to see what that’s about, and go from there, I suppose.”

Rowan gestures towards Ilphynrae. “She’s similarly interested.”

“Is that so? Then you should absolutely join us! We’d be happy to have another companion.”

Ilphynrae bows her head a moment, before reaching back and drawing back her hood. Aluhin blanches slightly, but Lusacan doesn’t seem perturbed.

“Well, look at you,” is all he says, taking another long drink. “The offer still stands.”

They chat and drink until the inn empties and Rowan can hardly keep their eyes open. Ilphynrae arranges rooms for the both of them, and follows Rowan up to bed, bidding good night to Lusacan and Aluhin, and promising to see them in the morning.

“Rowan,” she says, closing the door to one of the rooms behind them. It’s simple—a bed, an oil lamp, not much else. “Do you trust them?”

Rowan thinks for a moment. “I do.”

“What was all that about, earlier?”

“You mean you didn’t piece it together yourself?” If there was anything Rowan had learned about Ilphynrae the last few days, it is that she is incredibly quick on the uptake.

“I would like to hear it from you.”

Rowan settles Pip on the floor before collapsing gracelessly on the bed. Rubbing their face in their hands, they say, “Sanne was my mother.”

“Was?” Ilphynrae settles beside them.

“She died twenty years ago. Poison. Inflicted during the war.”

“I am sorry,” she says.

Rowan knows she means it, but they feel entirely drained from the events of the evening. It took a turn they had not been expecting, and all they want now is to sleep and forget. Instead of responding to Ilphynrae, Rowan stands, picks Pip up once more, and goes to the other room next door, leaving themself alone with their thoughts.

#nhiri-lavellan #My writing #thebuttramexperience

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midnightruleswriting · 8 years ago

Text

Trying to decide if I like this better? I’ll probably never make up my mind.

Chapter Four

The surface is a riot of colors and scents and sounds, all assaulting her senses at once with no relief. Even after months on the surface, even after all her time spent with Sam, adjusting, it is still overwhelming. And this forest—Ollivan, the border between the provinces of Madiére and Cassírn, as Sam had taught her, is certainly full of color and life. So much life. Every skittering woodland creature and rustling bird overhead has her ears twitching. Even the little whines coming from Pip… nothing escapes her notice, though she tries not to stare blatantly at the world around her. It proves difficult; the well-worn path beneath her feet is simply not interesting.

As they walk, her mind wanders, flitting through the last few days spent in Rowan’s company. They have been nothing but cordial, joining Ilphynrae to practice magic in that same clearing. Rowan shows promise in the arts, even without the formal training usually emphasized in youth to ensure proper development of one’s magical abilities. No matter. Should Rowan continue to practice, they should pick up a few tricks here and there. And perhaps, should she happen to visit them again in the future, Ilphynrae can teach them a few more.

They walk for hours in companionable silence, winding their way through the forest until the leaves above take on that golden late-afternoon glow only cast off by a setting sun. Up ahead, she can see breaks in the forest as the trees grow sparse. The sun, setting in the west directly in front of them, warms her skin as they break the cover of the forest.

“It’s not far to Ozryn,” Rowan says, glancing over at Ilphynrae. “We’ll make it there before nightfall.”

Her only response is to nod, scanning the gentle hills stretching out in front of them for signs of a town. The path—more of a road, now, as it widens and appears more well-worn—winds its way past small homes and farms. A few humans are outside, working the fields and tending to goats and horses and the like. They do not seem to look up from their work as they pass. This road likely sees heavy travel, for them to not be wary of passers-by. Ilphynrae pulls her cloak close around her, eyes watchful, prepared to steal within the folds should anyone appear to look too hard in their direction. None do.

Just as the sun is sinking over the horizon, Ilphynrae and Rowan crest a hill. A town, reasonably sized, lays out before them. From their vantage point, it is easy to make out the center square and the clusters of homes lining cobbled streets. Ilphynrae takes care to draw the hood of her cloak low over her face, hiding herself mostly from view. Rowan does not seem perturbed by this as they descend the final hill and make their way into town.

Rowan knows their way around Orzyn. Though they typically restrict their trading to Caldwell, just over the border in Madiére, they have traveled here on occasion to trade, when resources were scarce in Caldwell. It had happened on occasion over the last few years, and Cassírn never seemed to lack resources. While this meant Rowan’s meat and furs didn’t sell for as much, it also meant food wasn’t quite so hard to come by sometimes. At times, it was a trade worth making.

Rowan leads Ilphynrae through the streets, nearly deserted at this hour. From Rowan’s experience, this strikes them as an unusual occurrence for such a pleasant evening. Their companion keeps to the shadows for the most part. Rowan only moves swiftly, making their way to the inn at the heart of town. A respectable enough place for a hot meal and a night’s sleep.

A fire is crackling in the hearth on the far side of the room, adding to the warmth of the large main room. But that is not the first thing Rowan notices. Instead, they are confronted with a sight they have never seen here before.

“I think we have found where all the townspeople are this evening,” Ilphynrae murmurs behind them. Rowan can only nod in agreement. The inn’s main room is filled with people taking in a meal and raising drinks. The crowd is clustered around a hulking, blue-scaled dragonborn leaning back in a chair at the center of a loosely-formed circle. Dressed casually in a loose linen shirt and an unbuttoned vest, he looks for all the world like he belongs at the center of an honest crowd’s attention. His voice booms across the room, and those gathered appear enraptured in the tale he is weaving.

“—our hero then turned to the man that dared confront her and cut him down without batting an eye.” The declaration elicits cheers from those gathered, and the dragonborn smiles, reveling in the commotion his story has caused. Even the barkeep has paused in his work, Rowan notices, listening intently wish a dishrag still in hand. Rowan cannot ignore the chills that race down their neck; they love a good story, especially one told with the sort of conviction that has a way of transporting the listener right to the scene at hand.

“She ordered her soldiers to storm the town and pull all the remaining townsfolk to safety, but she had not counted on the Eylrulians having snuck into the houses and using them as bases. Even still, those cowards were no match for our Sanne, oh no! Her men snuck into the homes and took the Eylrulians out one by one, slitting their throats quickly and effectively, before they could even use their cursed magic to strike. And Sanne—well, Sanne was right there alongside them, fighting with her men and freeing her people. She ran with them as they escaped to freedom, helping children find safety with her Madiéran troops stationed just outside the village and returning time and time again to save even more.”

The dragonborn pauses then, letting his words sink in for dramatic effect. A lurch in Rowan’s stomach brings them back for a moment. As the dragonborn had been speaking, they had been wrapped up in the story, imagining with vivid clarity the elf that had led the rescue of that town. An old story, Rowan realizes. One they heard many times, settled on a rug in front of a roaring fireplace while their mother rested in a comfortable armchair, or when they entertained guests and she dazzled the room in her full court regalia, telling stories of that long-ago war that wasn’t really last long ago, not for elves.

She fought, Rowan thinks, just as the crowd echoes the same.

“She got up, and she fought back! Quick on her feet, Sanne avoided blades and spells thrown her way. She used the town around her to dodge and hide. Oh, she took hits, but she never went down again. And that blasted Eylrulian solider—he had magic at his disposal so dark, he had already been responsible for the deaths of a dozen small children in the town without expelling much of his energy. And Sanne had been battling over this town for nigh on a week with no rest, just her determination to save as many as possible. She was tired, and disadvantaged, but she did not let that wear her down!”

“Sanne hid for but a moment, recovered her strength, and when she heard the Eylrulian creeping towards her, preparing his next assault, she charged. She raised her great sword over her head, let out the yell of a seasoned warrior making her last stand, and charged. The Eylrulian didn’t even know what hit him. With one strike, she had him on the ground, bleeding from a gash across the chest. And in her fury, she dropped her sword, heaved the Eylrulian off the ground by his shirt, and ripped his throat out with nothing but her teeth!”

Collective gasps fill the room. A few clap and break out in cheers. A Halfling sitting at the bar falls off his stool in the excitement. Rowan’s mouth only falls open slightly as their brow knits together. She did nothing of the sort. Beside them, Ilphynrae scoffs slightly.

The dragonborn only holds up a hand, waiting for silence to befall the crowd once more. Once it does, he continues, “Sanne dragged the Eylrulian’s lifeless body through the streets with her. Her own soldiers and Eylrulians alike stopped in their fighting to watch her, bleeding and exhausted, but determined, pass. She marched right up to the commander who had situated himself in the heart of the town, the best vantage point to watch the chaos unfold. Sanne dragged that soldier right up to him, and threw his body down in front of the commander, and before the reality of what she had done to his solider set in, she slayed him too, cleaving his head from his shoulders in one swift stroke of her great sword. Her own men made quick work of the remaining soldiers. They saved the rest of the townspeople and moved them to safety—offering them shelter in her own town to the north, where they were able to rebuild their lives. And Sanne, our noble champion, she turned her attention to the next battle, never once letting those damned Eylrulians make headway into our land that she didn’t immediately turn back!”

Talent indeed, Rowan thinks wryly. Sanne could hold a room captive with her own oratory abilities, but she told the story quite differently. Less sensationalizing, a greater emphasis on the horrors of war, the horrors she faced day in and day out. She did it for her people, she would answer whenever asked why. She did it because she loved her people more than anything. She thought it was her role to fight and her husband’s to command the troops, because their province was his by blood and hers by marriage. Better he survive and hold his claim to power, and she fight, and perhaps die, alongside her people, if that was what was required of her.

Rowan had always admired their mother’s bravery. The dragonborn had failed to mention the next leg of the story. Yes, Sanne had led her soldiers into battle after battle and fought back the Eylrulians, freeing her people from their conquest, but she had paid a grave price. In the final battle, fought on the beaches of Cassírn, when this part of the province still belonged to Madiére, before the land had been gifted to a human war hero to honor his efforts and a new province and High Lordship carved out, she had taken a poisoned arrow in the arm. Not a bad wound, usually. But the Eylrulians tipped their ranged weapons in a poison of their own concoction, usually lethal if treatment is not administered immediately. Rowan’s father, in the terms of surrender, was able to negotiate an agreement to be provided with the antidote to the poison, to save Sanne and the others poisoned in the final battle, the ones that didn’t die immediately.

The Eylrulians didn’t provide the antidote. Instead, they shipped in the plant the poison was distilled from and let the best healers and alchemists in Dashyl try to concoct an antidote. Hundreds died prolonged, painful deaths over the following years. Sanne had lived another century, longer than many others afflicted with the same poison, but her strength waned, especially in the final years of her life. The antidotes created by healers prolonged her life, bought her more time with Rowan’s father, but Rowan, having watched her health decline for much of their life, is still not convinced it was the right decision, that her suffering was really worth it in the end. Even if that extra century meant that their parents had been able to spend that time together, rebuilding their province, that Sanne had been able to give their father heirs, despite her failing health. The pain she went through, the sacrifices she made….

“And who do we have here?” The dragonborn says, tapping the chin of his elongated snout. Curiosity flashes in his golden eyes with their reptilian-slit pupils, all good humor and intrigue. Up close, he is even more massive than Rowan had originally thought. Even sitting, he dwarfs the small elf standing beside him.

“Rowan,” they say easily, leaning their elbows on the table in front of them as well. Ilphynrae doesn’t make to introduce herself, so Rowan doesn’t jump to do it for her.

“Well then, Rowan,” the dragonborn pauses as he takes another long draught of his ale. “Lusacan, and my companion Aluhin. What can we do for you?”

Rowan takes a moment to survey the small elf in front of them. Short, dirty blonde hair just long enough to nearly brush the elongated ears—one has a piece missing off the tip. Dressed similarly to Lusacan, in leather pants, a loose fitting shirt, and a sturdy leather jacket. Fine facial features—marred by scars. Rowan swallows their surprise—the elf is covered in them, every visible inch. Face, neck, the exposed skin of their chest bared by the cut of their shirt, even the backs of their hands. Faded, silvery old scars and puckered, purple, newer scars, and everything in between. Rowan can only imagine what could have caused so many. But that’s a conversation best not to be broached. Instead, Rowan turns their attention to Lusacan, who is still watching them with a measured gaze.

“Your story was quite captivating,” Rowan starts. “You had my companion and I enraptured.”

“Ah, well, thank you my friend! Always nice to hear,” Lusacan smiles broadly, revealing two rows of pointed, white teeth.

“I just have a question,” Rowan leans back in the chair, feigning casual indifference. “Where did you happen to come by that story?”

“Have you always heard it the way you told it?”

“For the most part, yes. Are you two hungry? Your friend there can pull up a seat, you know.” Lusacan calls over his shoulder for meals to be brought to their table. Ilphynrae grudgingly grabs a chair from a nearby table and hauls it over, settling herself alongside Rowan while the barkeep hastens to bring them plates full of roasted duck and potatoes.

“Why do you ask?” Lusacan asks, returning his attention to Rowan.

“I’ve heard it rather differently over the years. I was wondering if you’d like to hear how we tell the story in Madiére.”

“By all means, be my guest.” Lusacan swallows a swig of ale, gesturing broadly with his free hand.

Rowan studies the grain of the wood in front of them, choosing their next words carefully. “The retellings of that story I’ve heard have never had Sanne struck in the back.”

“Oh?” Lusacan furrows his brow.

“She was fighting with that soldier, and he was overpowering her. He struck her down fairly and was closing in for the killing blow, as you said, when she mustered her final bit of strength and pushed herself to fighting. Sanne herself always emphasized her decision to fight for her people when she told the story.”

“Were you fortunate enough to hear Sanne tell the story herself?” Lusacan asks.

“Fair enough. Any other things you’d like to point out?” Lusacan presses, slicing into his duck.

“Well, she certainly didn’t tear that man’s throat out with her teeth. They weren’t nearly sharp enough for that.”

Lusacan laughs at that. “No, that was an addition of my own. Thought the crowd would like it. I take it you didn’t?”

“I… appreciate it from a narrative perspective. But part of me is quite fond of the original retellings of the story I grew up hearing. I just thought you’d like to hear a different take on it.”

“Understandable, of course.” Lusacan wipes his mouth with his hand. “Did you say you were from Madiére? Where are you two heading now?”

It is Ilphynrae who answers. “Corholm.”

“The capital?” Lusacan throws his head back with a hearty laugh. “Us as well! You wouldn’t happen to be looking for a few more traveling companions, would you?”

Rowan and Ilphynrae share a look, her eyes flashing under her hood. “Perhaps,” she says carefully.

“Well, we’re heading back out tomorrow morning. You’re welcome to join us.”

Rowan feeds Pip bits of meat from their plate, deep in thought. They don’t particularly want to travel much further from Ollivan—they have a life to get back to. Gallivanting across the southern portion of the continent was not in their plans for the week. And if Ilphynrae could travel with these two, she would certainly be in good company.

“What business do you both have in Corholm, anyway?” Rowan asks.

“We have some matters to attend to there. I’m sure you’ve heard about the call raised a few weeks ago?”

Ilphynrae nods, and Rowan bobs their head along with her.

“Well, we’d like to see what that’s about, and go from there, I suppose.”

Rowan gestures towards Ilphynrae. “She’s similarly interested.”

“Is that so? Then you should absolutely join us! We’d be happy to have another companion.”

Ilphynrae bows her head a moment, before reaching back and tucks back the corner of her hood, revealing one inky cheek and the edge of her pointed ear. Aluhin blanches slightly, but Lusacan doesn’t seem perturbed.

“Well, look at you,” is all he says, taking another long drink. “The offer still stands.”

The small group finishes their dinner quietly, before Lusacan leans back in his chair once more, surveying Rowan and Ilphynrae. He stands suddenly, clearing the plates from in front of them and carrying them over to the bar. He talks to the barkeep for a moment, tosses down a few gold coins and waits, returning with four drinks in hand. He passes tankards around the table, handing a wine glass to Ilphynrae before raising his own glass and saying, “To our new friends, eh?”

Rowan raises his own glass and downs a gulp. The mead burns a bit at first, but a sweet and subtle aftertaste lingers on their tongue. It’s a pleasant feeling, and a comfortable warmth settles in their belly.

“What is this, anyway?” Rowan asks, taking another swig. It’s even better the second time.

“Ironbramble Mead. I take it you approve?” Lusacan smiles broadly.

“It’s excellent.” Sweet, from the honey base. The fruit distilled into it don’t have that cloying, thick taste wine usually has. The scent is still enough to make Rowan gag. To their right, Ilphynrae swirls her wine, sipping it slowly.

“That, my dear,” Lusacan continues, shifting his attention, “is Lyri’s Embrace. A delightful blend of dark red wine and cloves, cinnamon, all those warm spices. Made not too far outside Corholm, actually. The lesser lords around here seem to like it, but don’t let that turn you off it. Plenty of us common folk drink it too.” Lusacan laughs again, a booming sound that sends the glasses on the table clinking. “You approve?”

Ilphynrae swallows another sip and nods in agreement. “Your taste in liquor is as varied as your stories, it would seem.”

This proves to be exactly the right thing to say. Lusacan’s eyes glitter with delight. “Drink up, Aluhin!” He says, clapping the small elf on the shoulder. Despite the force inevitably behind the motion, the elf doesn’t flinch.

Their conversation ambles on—mostly Lusacan recounting different drinks he’s tried all over Dashyl—as night closes around the town, until the inn empties and Rowan can hardly keep their eyes open. Ilphynrae arranges rooms for the both of them, and follows Rowan up to bed, bidding good night to Lusacan and Aluhin, and promising to see them in the morning.

“Rowan,” she says, closing the door to one of the rooms behind them. It’s simple—a bed, an oil lamp on a small table, not much else. “Do you trust them?”

Rowan thinks for a moment. “I do.”

“You are sure?” Ilphynrae implores, studying Rowan with those red eyes.

Rowan rubs a hand over their face, sitting down on the edge of the bed. The long day wears on them. “There’s something about them. I wouldn’t mind having either at my back if I got into a scuffle.”

Ilphynrae barks out a hoarse laugh. “That is how you decide whether to trust someone?”

“If I think someone will have my back in a fight, then I can trust them to be my travelling companion for a few days. That is all the trust you need.” Rowan rubs at their eyes once more. “Sleep with a knife under your pillow if you must. I think they’re fine.”

Ilphynrae is quiet for a long moment that seems to stretch on for a century. “What was all that about, earlier?” She sits beside Rowan, watching them evenly.

“You mean you didn’t piece it together yourself?” If there was anything Rowan had learned about Ilphynrae the last few days, it is that she is incredibly quick on the uptake.

“You have heard that story before, no?”

Rowan settles Pip on the floor before collapsing gracelessly on the bed. Rubbing their face in their hands, they say, “I had the great honor of hearing Sanne herself tell that story on the one hundredth anniversary of the end of the war.” And many other times, but that performance—done after a feast hosted for all their vassals in celebration of one hundred years of peace—has always stood out in Rowan’s memory. Sanne had worn a dress of the finest green silk, her gold circlet woven into the braids of her dark brown hair. She had risen from her seat at the right hand of the High Lord after dinner was complete, had walked to the front of the room, waited but a heartbeat for silence to fall, and launched into the tale. She spoke with just the right inflection, her voice rising and falling with the rhythm of the battle she recounted. She did not focus entirely on herself, but on the collective efforts of all her soldiers—many of whom were alive because of her, and seated in that hall that evening.

Rowan had never seen their mother so full of life.

“I take it that must have been quite a sight?”

“It was. Sanne—she was one of the best storytellers in the land. A fine warrior, yes. But she could make the world pause for as long as she spoke. You’d never want her to stop.” Indeed, Rowan would always beg her for more stories, even when her strength waned and she could barely stand on her own. There were many nights she fell asleep in an armchair beside Rowan’s bed, too exhausted to find her way to her own room. “She rarely put on performances after the war, but when she did, they were certainly a reason to celebrate in and of themselves.”

“I see.”

Rowan lays back against the bed, stretching their arms above their head, feeling their joints pop with the movement.

“And how did Sanne tell it them?” Ilphynrae asks.

Rowan sits upright, looking at her curiously. But her eyes are trained on the floor, where Pip is attacking a dust bunny. “I’m sorry?”

“How did Sanne tell the story? You seemed dissatisfied with the recounting that dragonborn provided. So I would like to hear your own.”

“I’m not nearly as talented as she was—”

“Give it a try.”

“I mean… we didn’t hear the beginning. But she started the story with a retelling of the war up to that battle. How the Eylrulians invaded and stormed our shores, intent on taking our land and conquering our people. How they fought grand battles in empty fields, battles at sea, and then—the Eylrulians were retreating, and they seized that town, intent on taking all the townspeople down with them. They did not intend to leave any survivors, and many died. Many more than Lusacan would have you believe, certainly,” Rowan snorts. “And Sanne and her husband could not allow their people to suffer so needlessly. Not innocent people. So they devised a plan and riled their soldiers for an incursion of sorts. Much of the rest of what Lusacan said was true. Except… Sanne was engaged in an honest battle, and the solider knocked her sword from her hand and then used a backhanded blow to throw her to the ground. He advanced, ready to land a killing strike, when Sanne mustered what she thought was the last of her strength and rolled out of the way, seizing her weapon and jumping back to her feet. She was exhausted. The fight had been raging for days, and the task was far from completed. The soldier, like so many Eylrulians, was a master of dark magics and was prepared to use them. The fight was ruthless, but Sanne did gain the upper hand through her quick wit and training. She kicked the feet out from under him and slit his throat.”

Rowan pauses a moment, shaking their head. “Ripping his throat out with her teeth… it certainly requires an active imagination to come up with that one. But she did drag his body through the town. No one really seemed to notice. Until she threw it down in front of the commander holed up in the center of the town. Another battle ensued between Sanne and the commander. She was nearly spent, and he had barely lifted a finger the whole fight. But Sanne’s men had come to her aid, and helped take him down. They allowed her the killing blow, and she decapitated him without much thought.”

A wry smile twists the corners of Rowan’s mouth. “She slept for three days after that fight. It took them nearly that long to account for the living and bury the dead, and then they had to move on. The war was far from won, though it would be over in another two years.”

“Lusacan told it better.” Ilphynrae murmurs.

A laugh croaks its way out of Rowan’s throat. “I told you I wasn’t particularly good at it. But when Sanne told it… she just had a way of making you feel like you were there. Her descriptions were so vivid—she just transported you right into the thick of it all.” Rowan sighs. “I’m not doing it justice, but I think you understand what I’m trying to get at. I blame whatever the hell was in that drink Lusacan gave me.”

Ilphynrae nods once. “What is our plan now?”

“I think it’s time for bed,” Rowan says, standing and scooping Pip up in their arms. “And in the morning, we go back down and have breakfast with them. And then we go our separate ways, I think.”

“Because you trust these people.”

“We already established that I do. But you may need to figure that out for yourself. And I’m sure if they even look at you sideways you could cut them down without a second thought.”

“Perhaps.”

Rowan ruffles Pip’s fur. “Get some sleep.” They turn and walk down the hall to the room next door. The sudden quiet is jarring, though welcome. Some time alone with their thoughts is just what they need at the moment.

#my writing #fantasy #fucking long post #nhiri-lavellan

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midnightruleswriting · 8 years ago

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Rowan stalks through the trees, near silent as they follow a large buck. Their feet find just the right places to fall, avoiding small twigs and leaves that would alert the deer to their presence. Soft, dappled sunlight filters through the thick tree cover, providing just enough light for Rowan to see as clearly as if they are standing in full sun.

The buck pauses, dipping their nose. Rowan’s fingers tighten on their bowstring, drawing back the notched arrow as they take aim—

But the buck starts then, lifting its head and scenting the air nervously. Rowan breathes out slowly, watching, as they lower their bow and press their back against a tree. Counting slowly under their breath, Rowan watches as the deer dips its head to drink once more. Rowan prepares their bow once more, taking aim and loosening their fingers on the string.

The buck starts again then, this time taking off and bounding through the underbrush, away from Rowan. Their arrow glides through the very spot the buck had been just a moment before, jamming itself into a tree.

“Gods damn it all,” Rowan mutters, slinging their bow over the back and sloshing through the stream to retrieve their arrow. Their long Elven ears hadn’t picked up any sounds out of the ordinary, but the buck apparently had. Pulling the arrow out of the bark, Rowan places it back in their quiver and surveys the forest around them. In the branches, birds call out to one another, and the stream babbles gently. Nothing out of the ordinary.

By now, the buck is long gone, though its tracks are easy enough to find; nonetheless, Rowan is without a fresh source of hide to trade in town. Rather than begin the fruitless task of trying to track the buck down once more, they begin the trek back to their treehouse, keeping an eye out for rabbits in the underbrush. Their pelts don’t fetch as much, but at least they provide a meal. The forest floor is quiet, though, as they find their way back to the path travelers have worn through the ancient woods. Though game is less likely to cross their path, it’s the fastest route home, and Rowan feels frustration sinking its claws into their shoulders. A day without a kill is not uncommon, and Rowan has plenty of food stores at home. But a day with no game means another day with nothing to trade, and nothing to trade means it’s that much harder to make a living.

Lost in thought, Rowan almost doesn’t notice the slender form on the ground, back against a tree. Their eyes scan the trees on either side of their own accord, but they’re not truly paying attention. Rowan is three steps past when they stop, turn, and take in the sight of the form leaning against the tree. An odd place to stop, they can’t help but think—the nearest town is only half a day’s walk or so from here. Most would push through, not wanting to spend another evening in the forest when a warm bed and hot meal could be found so nearby.

The form shifts then, white hair shifting, reveling a face. Rowan takes in the dusky skin, the color of the sky on a particularly bright night, the pointed ears, so much like their own. A pack lays at her side, and Rowan notices she’s not asleep—it looks like she’s meditating.

Cautiously, Rowan takes a step forward. This is not the place for a traveler to stop. Only a few steps from the path, it’s almost like she is asking for someone to rob her.

Rowan reaches out with their hand, intent on rousing her from her meditative state and ushering her on her way. A hand flashes up, closing around their wrist and halting its advancement. Red eyes bore into their own.

“Wouldn’t do that if I were you,” she warns, a lilt to her voice Rowan has never heard before. She is not from Madíere, that much is certain.

Rowan pulls their hand back, dropping it loosely to their side. “Do you need help?” They ask lamely, eyes darting back to the path. They don’t hear any other travelers approaching, but it’s better to be safe than sorry.

The elf looks at them, bemusement gracing their fine features. “I am quite fine, thank you.”

The hair on the back of Rowan’s neck prickles, but they press on, ignoring the unease that swells within them. They drop to a crouch, a pace or so from the other elf, and look over the pack at her side once more. Even resting on the ground, it’s obvious there’s not much in it.

“You look like you could use something to eat,” Rowan offers quietly. “Why don’t you come with me? I have a home, not far from here.”

The other elf studies them, her red eyes hard and unyielding. “I can find food for myself.”

“I don’t doubt that. But when was the last time you had a hot meal or a comfortable bed? You won’t make it to town before sunset.”

She studies Rowan, her eyes narrow and her face unreadable. She almost looks as if she would very much like to argue, but then her face almost—softens, just a bit. She pushes herself to her feet; Rowan scrambles to follow suit as she gathers up her pack.

“Fine,” she says, her hair swishing over her shoulder as she settles her bag onto her shoulders. “I suppose I am hungry, and I would greatly appreciate your hospitality.”

Rowan takes the lead, the other elf falling into step beside them. That prickling feeling on the back of their neck intensifies, and something in Rowan’s mind clicks. The formality in her words, the stiff set of her shoulders, even as she walks—Rowan has seen those all before. As they lead the elf off the path, and wind the way through the trees until they find theirs, they cannot help as their own shoulders stiffen, their hands ball themselves into fists, and they can’t help but wonder what exactly it is they’ve gotten themself into.

The one time I try to offer help to someone, it would be to a—

Their stream of thought halts suddenly, interrupted by the whine of the fox above them. Pip, greeting them.

The elf watches them with an unwavering gaze as Rowan hoists themself up into the tree. She follows without any aid, and surveys the treehouse. It’s rough—it leaks when it rains and seems to almost attract small rodents and birds, but it’s home. More of a home than Rowan has ever known, anyway.

Pip paws at Rowan’s boots as they sling off their bow and quiver. They keep their daggers at their belt, just in case, and don’t bend down to scoop up Pip like they usually would. Instead, they gently push the fox aside with their foot and check on the stew simmering over a small fire. They’ve done this before, many times, leaving dinner to cook while they hunt. The tree hasn’t caught fire yet, though Rowan always wonders when their luck will run out.

“Feel free to make yourself comfortable,” Rowan says, glancing over their shoulder. There are a few chairs and a table in the middle of the room. Over the years Rowan has lived here, they have slowly carved the furniture, making the place more homely with every addition.

The elf sits on the edge of one of chairs, back straight as one of Rowan’s arrows. She does not slouch, does not let her guard down for a single moment. Rowan feels their own instincts kick in, screaming at them to not turn their back.

But they have to, for just a moment, as they ladle out the stew into rough-hewn bowls and produce a loaf of bread. Bringing them to the table, Rowan is unnerved to see that the elf has not moved, not in the slightest.

“Thank you,” she says, her voice as stiff as her posture, when Rowan places the stew in front of her. They break the loaf of bread in half, offering half to her. She takes it, her fingers cool where they brush against Rowan’s hand.

“I never did ask your name,” Rowan says, taking their own seat and ripping off a piece of bread to soak in their meal.

“Ilphynrae,” the other elf says, her ears twitching slightly, picking up some forest sound from outside. Pip paws at her leg, affronted by Rowan’s treatment of him earlier.

“No, Pip—my apologies. He has no manners. I’m Rowan, by the way,” they say, shooing Pip away. Ilphynrae waves her hand.

“I do not mind,” she says. Rowan drops their hand, and Pip rubs his side along her leg like a cat, shooting Rowan a haughty look. Damned thing.

A heavy, terse silence falls between them then, as Rowan buries themself in their food. Only then do they realize they forgot to offer drinks, and they stand, hurrying to bring water and a decanter of ale to the table. Still, the silence stretches on. Rowan finds it difficult to look at Ilphynrae, difficult to look into those piercing eyes. They feel as if she can read their very soul.

Inplynrae, however, does not seem satisfied to eat in such an uncomfortable setting. Her wooden spoon thuds against the table, and her sharp voice ripping Rowan from their thoughts. “A review then, I suppose? Yes, I am a dark elf. Yes, I came to the surface. No, I am not a scout for some invasion. And no. I most definitely will not be sacrificing anyone to the Spider Queen while I am here. Was there anything else?”

Rowan drops their piece of bread into their bowl, a splash of hot liquid landing on their hand. They ignore it as they splutter, completely flabbergasted, “I'm sorry?”

Ilphynrae sniffs, taking a sip of the water she poured for herself. “You look as if you very much wish you had not invited me in here. I know that my kind are not accepted, anywhere up here, really. Yet you seemed unbothered by that before, no?”

Rowan’s brows furrow, trying to piece together what she’s said. Slowly, the pieces fall into place. Of course she would think their discomfort was from her race. Rowan had never learned to hide their feelings. “Your kind? Oh—oh! No that's not—I really don't care. My kind aren't exactly accepted either. I just—you're uh. Of noble birth, are you not?” Their voice shakes and they curse themself for letting their weakness show.

Ilphynrae stares at them a long moment. Though her face remains still, Rowan can see her mind working behind those red eyes, until they light with understanding. Her voice is different, this time, when she speaks, “As are you. And I take it that went as well for you as it did for me?” She allows a pause, just long enough for Rowan to bob their head in a nearly imperceptible nod. She continues then, her tone brisk and businesslike, much like the one Rowan uses when they’re conducting their trades. “Well I must look quite the fool after all that. I apologize. I am not a noble anymore. I-- have not been home in, oh, seven years. And I have no intentions of returning.”

“My story is quite similar,” Rowan says. Their hand trembles slightly as they scoop their sodden bread from their stew. “I apologize--I know my manners better than to let my discomfort show. But you took me by surprise, is all.” Rowan sighs, a deep, slow exhale; she’s not one of the nobles Rowan need be wary of. Relax, they chastise themself.

“No apologies needed dear. We are better off free of that life and the burdens that come with it. Eldath has put me on a better path than I could have ever walked in Menzoberranzan, and this life seems to suit you better than any court, no?” Ilphynrae busies herself with her meal once more. Though her formal posture has not dropped, her tone is significantly more cordial, and Rowan can feel some of their anxiety beginning to ease.

“Oh, absolutely. You should've seen the ridiculous clothes I used to wear. Over the top and unnecessary. I much prefer simplicity. I have what I need, I trade for what I want. I will say though, every once in a while I miss having a proper bed. But I can do without the rest.” Rowan gestures vaguely towards the pallet in the corner. Joking has never been their forte, but they feel the need to try, to reciprocate the amiable mood.

“Be glad you have never experienced Underdark fashion. The surface is tame by comparison.” Ilphynrae glances around the room then, her forehead scrunching as she takes in the gaps in the roof—if one could really call it such—and the rough walls. “I can understand the qualms about sleeping here, however. Have you much of a mind for magic? I know of a few spells that might help make your home more comfortable."

“I've only read about it. The arcane was strictly regulated in our household. I didn't dare test the limits.”

A sad and understanding look creases Ilphynrae's face then, the most emotion Rowan has seen her display thus fay, as she seems to commit to some idea. “They cannot hurt you here. Now come, I will show you a bit of what I know.”

Rowan pushes the remainder of their meal aside, and follows Ilphynrae back to the ground below. They try to control the excitement rising within them. Years ago, a lifetime ago, they would spend their evenings reading heavy old books on magic by candlelight. They fantasized about the day they would get to try their hand at it. They never thought that day would actually come.

Turning towards them, Ilphynrae tries rather unsuccessfully to hide a smile. The muscles in her cheeks twitch, and a small grin breaks over her lips. “We will try this over here. Now come along. Rare is the day you meet a Drow looking to do a good deed.”

Rowan quietly follows her to a small space between trees, and watches reverently as Ilphynrae, with a look of concentration and a flexing of her fingers, causes flowers to burst forth. Rowan lets out a small noise of surprise and excitement. Ilphynrae turns to them then, a larger smile gracing her elegant features.

She walks them through the basic spell, and over the next hour, Rowan is able to make small blossoms bloom. They find themselves clapping their hands in surprise and awe at their own success, all anxiety long melted away. And even Ilphynrae seems impressed.

“That is enough for now,” Ilphynrae says, placing a light hand on Rowan’s shoulder. “It grows dark.”

Rowan takes the opportunity to build a larger fire on a dry patch of dirt. The small cook fire in the treehouse would never provide enough warmth against the encroaching chill of the night air. As the fire begins crackling Rowan takes a seat, pulling out a carving nice from their belt and a spare piece of wood they scrounged earlier but didn’t throw on the fire. As the night creatures begin to replace the calls of the daytime ones, Rowan quietly works away at the wood, an idea coming to them.

They scooch closer to Ilphynrae and hold out their hands, with the piece of wood now stripped of bark. The other holds the knife. “I like to carve in my spare time. I can show you, if you'd like. I find it calms the mind.”

Ilphynrae wears a soft smile as she reaches for the wood and knife. “I would like that very much. I have—been looking for a way to calm myself for some time. Perhaps this will be the thing. Thank you.”

They're both quiet as Rowan shows her different ways to whittle the wood down. They show her on their own piece of wood, as they slowly work it down to the shape they want. As they work, Rowan quietly coaches Ilphynrae through the motions, guiding her with their voice. Her carving is rough, it being her first time. But as the fire begins to dims in front of them, Rowan places a delicate carving of a little wildflower beside her. “A thank you. For earlier.”

She takes the flower gingerly. When she looks back up from it, there are tears in her red eyes. “Her name was Sam. She died to save me from those who refused to understand. Me, us, what we had. The world is darker with her passing.” Her voice wobbles and breaks, overcome with the emotions thrashing just beneath the surface.

Rowan lightly places a hand on her shoulder. Touch is difficult for them, but they have a feeling it is what she needs in this moment. “I am deeply sorry favor your loss,” they say quietly. “The world is a harsh place, and too often the best among us become its casualties. She did not deserve such a fate.”

Ilphynrae clutches at the hand on her shoulder almost desperately. "Why did she do it? No one would have mourned an outcast Drow. Now she is gone and I do not know what to do. Those who did this—I killed them. All of them, and nothing is better."

Rowan is quiet, contemplating, thinking and choosing their words carefully before they speak. “She did it because she was kind. The world needs more kindness like that. And no, her death and the deaths of those that killed her would not make you feel better, would not make anything better. But the fact that she was in your life, if only for a fleeting moment, that makes all the difference.”

Ilphynrae pulls her hand away a moment, wiping the tears away. "You are right, of course you are. She was kind, and brave, and foolish. A bit of the sun itself. But that is what made her Sam. Perhaps—perhaps what needs to be done is to, carry that light. Make the world closer to the light it had when she was here."

“I think she would like that.” Rowan smiles softly, almost ruefully.

“She really would. She was so… adamant. That the world could be a wonderful place. If we just all worked towards that. That is what I need to do.”

“She sounds like a wonderful person. Doing so in her name—ridding the world of those that make it dark, truly make it dark and unwelcoming--it would be the greatest thing you could do for her.” Rowan falls quiet then, dark memories crossing their mind. They push them away abruptly. Dwelling on the past will not help in the present moment. In the distance, an owl hoots.

“She really was. I wish you could have met, she would have adored you, darling. She mentioned a call for the adventurous sort to help in a city a week or so southwest of here. She-- wanted to go so badly. I think I need to go there, see what I can do to help. Make the world a brighter place for her.”

The corner of Rowan’s mouth lifts in a tight smile. “I think that would be good for you, to get out and help people, in whatever way you choose to do so. Adventuring may be just the way to start.” The world needs more people committed to making it better, to ridding the world of darkness. It is not something Rowan has been able to bring themself towards confronting just yet, but that does not mean they should hold others back from the path.

“I always thought it would be an adventure she and I would take together. But you are right, this is something I need to do. But, before we part ways—” Ilphynrae disappears into the treehouse, leaving Rowan suddenly alone. Rowan takes the time to throw fresh wood on the fire, watching as it roars back to life. She is not gone long; she returns with her pack and rummages through her things before pulling something from a pouch. A small, silver raven figurine glints in the firelight. “I noticed, around your home, the animal figurines you make with your carvings and—I only brought a few things with me to the surface, but I would like if you kept this. His name is Zanjur'abbil. Speak his name and he will accompany you for a time or carry a message for you. If you ever need or wish to find me, he will know where to look."

Rowan takes the figurine and closes their fingers over it reverently. “I shall keep this close for if I ever need it. Until you must depart, you are welcome to stay with me. And if you wouldn't mind, I'd like to accompany you into town. I’m afraid I won’t be able to make it to the city with you, but I have some furs to trade. I need to make my way there anyway. Why not together?”

“Thank you. And that is agreeable. Another day or two of rest would serve me well. And I still have a few tricks to show you. Traveling together to town would be lovely as well. The roads are less than ideal to travel alone. The quiet was too much.”

A grin, a true grin, splits Rowan’s face then. The firelight glints off their red hair and the shadows only enhance their mirth. “Lucky for you, I know this forest like the back of my hand. We'll make sure the rest of your trek is more enjoyable.”

Ilphynrae settles herself back on the ground then, and Rowan goes to collect blankets from the treehouse. They spread them across the ground near the fire, and pass the remainder of the evening teaching Ilphynrae the names of some of the stars, until they both fall into a deep and welcome slumber.

#my writing #rowan #nhiri-lavellan

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midnightruleswriting · 8 years ago

Text

somehow this is fucking longer but the plot works better

Fenrose sweeps in the door one morning as if she hasn’t been gone for nearly a year. Faylen and Amavain share a nervous look over their morning eggs when she joins them all at the table, filling her long-empty seat to her father’s right. But Faylen’s father says nothing; he simply finishes his bacon and departs, barking orders at the servants as he leaves. Faylen has always wondered whether his father knows of the truth of Fenrose’s absence. His reaction gives nothing away.

Though she is home, Faylen sees little of her over the next week. She’s wrapped up in meetings, likely catching up on all she has missed, and keeps to herself in her free time. Faylen tries to contain himself—questions burn on his tongue every time she’s near, but he knows to wait for her to come to him. He just hopes she will.

Still, it is difficult for him to focus on his lessons when his thoughts are preoccupied by Fenrose. Had she been able to find Finley? She won’t even talk at meals, let alone look him in the eye. Midway through the week, it’s Aerlanna’s turn to disappear from meals.

“She hasn’t run off too, has she?” He asks one night, after yet another missed meal.

“She was in lessons earlier. She’s fine, Amavain.”

“She wouldn’t speak to either of us!”

“Perhaps she just needs some space?” Faylen suggests. “You know how your sister gets from time to time.”

“And what if she’s planning on leaving, like Fenrose did? What if she’s planning on going after Perya?” Amavain’s fingers tighten around Faylen’s arm, nails digging deep.

“Aerlanna is a valuable asset to my father. He keeps careful stock of his assets. He will not let her slip away as easily as you think. Even Fenrose did not get away so easily. Aerlanna is here, we know that. She just wants to be alone. We all have those days.”

Amavain does not look convinced, but he does not argue otherwise. Faylen leads him to the library, and they resume their searching through the old medicinal tomes by candlelight.

One morning, a little over a week after Fenrose’s return, she wakes Faylen early, throwing back his curtains and shaking him awake in the first rays of the morning sun.

“Would you like to go for a ride today?” She asks, chipper and not at all herself. “I’ll pack a lunch. We can have a picnic down by the river. There’s a clearing the horses can graze in. How does that sound? We can leave after breakfast, if you’d like.”

“That—sounds nice, Fenrose.” And with that, she’s gone, the door shutting loudly behind her. Faylen rubs his eyes. He had hoped for another hour or so of sleep, but that wouldn’t be an option now. Leave it to Fenrose to go from surly and unresponsive to a bright and cheery morning person overnight.

Diermon wastes no time in joining Faylen and straightening up his chambers. He adjusts the heavy curtains while Faylen is still convincing himself to get up for the day. Even the prospect of a ride isn’t enough to wake him up this early.

“How’re you feeling today, my lord?” Diermon asks, handing Faylen his glasses.

“Fine. Tired, but fine. Can you pull out my riding leathers for me? Fenrose has gotten it in her head she’d like to go riding, and has asked that I join her.”

“Of course, sir.” Diermon does as he asks, giving Faylen a few more minutes to ready himself before finally climbing out of bed and preparing himself for the day.

Even over breakfast, Fenrose, dressed in her own riding clothes, proves to be more amiable, talking to their father and greeting both Faylen and Amavain warmly enough. Aerlanna is still nowhere to be found.

“Faylen and I are going riding today, Father. Would you care to join us?” Fenrose smiles, turning to the lord beside her.

“Not today, daughter. I have too much to do, preparing for the Malanulls’ arrival. Though… it’ll be good for Faylen to get out. He’s been spending too much time in the library as of late. Perhaps another day?”

“Of course, of course,” Fenrose buries her face in her drink then, making it impossible for Faylen to read her expression. She couldn’t be serious, asking their father to join them for a ride? That is the fastest way to a miserable time. It would turn into a hunt, and their father is notoriously competitive over game.

After breakfast, Amavain departs to the library for his lessons, sans Faylen, leaving with a whispered promise to try and talk to Aerlanna if a private moment presents itself. Faylen takes his time walking down to the stables, soaking in the warm sun on his skin and the buttery yellow glow of the dew on the leaves and grass.

Fenrose isn’t there yet. Faylen takes the opportunity to shoo the grooms away and start preparing his own horse. He hasn’t gone for a good ride for months now, and while Lierno is exercised frequently, Faylen misses the days when he was the one responsible for his care.

Brushing out Lierno’s white coat until it gleams gives Faylen a sense of purpose. When he’s clean and tacked, Faylen starts on Cierán, Fenrose’s black mare. She’s larger than Lierno, but her coat is easier to clean. Fenrose appears just as Faylen finishes adjusting her saddle.

“You didn’t have to tack her up for me.” Fenrose touches her hand lightly to the mare’s neck, cooing into her ear.

“You know I don’t mind. I like the work.” Faylen hands her the bridle, and busies himself with Lierno’s, fitting the bit into his mouth and the various leather straps and fasteners into place.

Mounted, the two set off for the path that cuts through the trees towards the edge of the grounds. Under the cover of the leaves, dappled sunlight scatters across the path. The air is slightly cooler, and as Faylen urges Lierno into a ground-eating trot, the wind whipping his face fills him with new energy.

Cierán’s hooves pick up behind Faylen, and Fenrose appears at his side. She does not speak, simply allowing her horse to warm up at her own pace. The trail widens ahead, and Faylen urges Lierno into a canter, and then a full gallop. He feels the tension in his shoulders relax as the wind whips his hair back and makes his eyes water behind their glasses.

Cierán matches Lierno stride for stride, and then begins to gain ground, passing Lierno and opening up in front of Faylen. He watches his sister ride, graceful in the saddle and moving as one with her horse. He tries to copy her movements but he cannot deny how stiff he feels. He lets Lierno gallop on for a few more minutes, before pulling him back to a canter and then a trot. He can still hear Cierán’s hooves pounding on the dirt up ahead.

Faylen sucks in a deep breath, shoving his hair out of his eyes and patting Lierno on the shoulder. He hasn’t broken a sweat yet, so Faylen urges him back into a canter. When Fenrose comes back into sight, her own horse slowed now, Faylen lets Lierno walk.

They ride like that, apart but in each other’s view, for a few minutes, until a sudden wave of dizziness clutches Faylen. He lets Lierno have his head, trusting his horse not to bolt on a long rein, and reaches up to rub his eyes behind his glasses.

Despite his best efforts, Faylen cannot shake the dark spots from his vision. They encroach and swarm, until his vision is completely dark. The ringing in his head ceases, but his vision does not clear up.

Not now, not now, please not now, he thinks desperately. Beneath him, Lierno slows to a halt, sensing something is wrong with his rider. Faylen drops his reins completely, rubbing at his eyes with both hands. His heart begins to quicken as his stomach knots, clenching around his breakfast.

Ahead of him, he can hear the staccato beats of hooves on dirt coming nearer, Fenrose coming to see where he’s gotten to. He keeps rubbing at his eyes, praying to whoever’ll listen his vision will clear up, and they can get on with their ride, and Fenrose will never need to know what happened.

But of course that doesn’t happen. As she draws closer, she calls out his name, her voice clear and cutting through the quiet of the morning woods.

Cierán’s hooves quiet. Faylen hears his name again, and doesn’t answer. He can hear the rustling of Fenrose’s clothes and the solid thud of her feet on the ground as she dismounts.

“Faylen?” This time, when she says his name, he can feel her hand on his leg, clutching onto his calf tightly. “What’s wrong?”

Faylen drops his hands to Lierno’s mane and turns his head towards her voice, looking towards her with vacant, unseeing eyes. Her grip on his calf tightens as she exhales forcefully.

“Talk to me, Faylen. Please.” Her voice is quiet.

“I—I can’t see. I’m fine. But I can’t see.”

“You’re not fine if you can’t see anything.”

“I just meant—my head doesn’t hurt. No migraines. I’m fine, otherwise. I just can’t see,” Faylen repeats. Hearing the words out loud, in his own voice, is drawing him back to himself.

“You’re not in any pain?” Faylen can just picture the crease that is forming between her brows.

“Now that you mention it, I am. Your nails are digging into my leg. It rather hurts.” She loosens her grip immediately. “Thank you.”

Fenrose is quiet a moment. “I don’t—I don’t know what to do. I’m going to—can you knot your hands in his mane? I’ll take your reins. I’m going to walk them back. Please don’t lose your balance and fall off. I’m not sure I can handle that at the moment.”

“I never lose my balance,” Faylen reminds her, but he wraps his hands in Lierno’s mane regardless, hunching his shoulders forward to shift his center of gravity and riding with posture poor enough to make him cringe. Lierno, to his credit, walks on willingly.

Fenrose is quiet as she leads the horses back towards the grounds, lost in thought. Faylen keeps reaching up to rub his eyes, to no avail. When Lierno stops again beneath him, he can hear Fenrose barking out orders.

“Untack the horses and brush them down—we would do this ourselves, but we have other matters to attend to today. You—go fetch my father. Tell him Faylen has fallen ill.” A hand touches his leg again. “I’m right here. Drop your stirrups and dismount. I help you balance.”

Faylen swings down, his feet slamming into the ground. Sure enough, Fenrose catches him and steadies him before he lands flat on his ass.

“Can you hold on to my arm? I’m going to take you up to your room.” Fenrose closes his fingers over her upper arm for him.

“But Lierno—”

“We have grooms for this very reason, brother. Your horse will be fine. Come.” She pulls him away brusquely, guiding him across the grounds and up the stairs into the keep. Navigating the stairs without sight is difficult—he trips and stumbles and Fenrose has no patience for his fumbling. She pulls him along relentlessly, until he hears the heavy creak of an old wooden door and she pushes him down onto something soft.

“We’re in your room, if you couldn’t tell,” she says. Her hands begin tugging at the straps of his boots, unlacing them and tugging them off. “Make yourself comfortable.”

The door creaks again, and Faylen assumes he’s alone. He pulls off his glasses and places them on top of one of his pillows, before crawling under his blankets. He hadn’t been lying—he feels fine. No headaches, certainly not a migraine. Despite his apprehension, even his stomach feels normal. He just can’t see a damn thing.

Moments later, the door flies open with a bang. Faylen can feel the stone walls shake from the impact. The foce reverberates through the floor and shakes the bed. He doesn’t need to be able to see to know his father’s just come bursting in.

“Faylen,” he says quickly, approaching the bed and grasping Faylen’s hand in his own, large and rough with scars. “My son, I’m here. Fenrose said you couldn’t see. Tell me what has happened, so I may send for a healer—this is different from your usual spells?”

“I—yes, Father,” Faylen says quietly, taken aback by his father’s concern. He always grew tense when Faylen’s illness acted up, but never so outwardly worried. He usually handled the whole thing with an air of calm routine. Not since Faylen was a child had he reacted so strongly. “We were riding, and I became suddenly dizzy. I slowed Lierno and tried to deal with it, but my vision suddenly went dark and the dizziness ceased. I haven’t been able to see since.”

“But no migraines? No pain? You’re not in any pain?”

“No, Father. No pain. This is—different, as you said, from the usual spells. I feel fine.”

“Fine, but you can’t see.” Speaking to someone else in the room, his father commands them to send for a healer with knowledge of such afflictions. The healers in the keep had long since proven that, despite their vast knowledge, they lacked the finesse to handle a case such as Faylen’s.

“Do you need anything? I’ll have the servants bring you whatever you need.”

“Water would be welcome,” Faylen tries to smile then, but it feels forced.

“Rest now. I’ll stay with you until the healer arrives.” His father squeezes his hand tight enough to pop several of the bones.

“But Father, you said you had preparations to make—”

“They can wait, for now. I’ll deal with them later.”

Faylen knows better than to press the issue, and settles back against his pillows, letting his eyelids fall shut. Though he doesn’t feel tired, and his mind is racing at a league a moment, he tries to do as his father says. He’ll need his strength for later.

Amavain sighs, shutting the door quietly behind him. Faylen’s room is lit by candles on nearly every surface, and reeks heavily of herbs. Faylen’s servant sits in the corner, but nods when he sees Amavain and darts past to give him some time alone.

He settles himself into the chair closes to Faylen’s bed, watching as his chest rises and falls beneath his blanket. The corners of eyes closest to his nose are caked with a paste made out of herbs, and several vials of some sort of tincture sit on the table closest to his bed.

Amavain pulls out his book. He flips through the pages quickly, trying to identify the tincture by its color and consistency, even scent. But nothing close to it is identified within the pages of the manual. It’s probably another useless concoction.

In front of him, Faylen groans and shifts, reaching his hand up to rub at his eyes. Amavain grabs his wrist, stopping him from wiping the paste from where it has been applied. Faylen blinks his eyes open blearily, turning his head towards Amavain. But his gray eyes are blank and unseeing.

“You’re awake,” Amavain says quietly, breaking the silence. Faylen coughs weakly in response.

“I am now,” he rasps.

“What’d that man do to you?”

“Shoved all kinds of bitter things down my throat until I vomited all over him. Proceeded to poke and prod me for an hour while muttering to himself.” He pauses then to cough once more. “Then poured something vile down my throat that burned—still burns, really. And caked this paste on my eyes.”

Amavain takes dutiful notes in the back of the book, along with all his other notes concerning Faylen’s treatments. “Did he say anything about the tinctures he’s left?”

“To drink one every morning and every night until they’re gone.” Faylen shudders. “I hope they’re different from what he gave me earlier. I’m not sure I can stomach more of it.”

“For your sake I hope it’s something different, too. Did he say how long to leave the paste on?”

“I can wipe it off now, I think. It’s late. He said after dinner.”

“You haven’t eaten dinner yet.”

“No, but I take it you have?” When Amavain doesn’t answer, Faylen’s mouth splits into a grin. “That’s a yes. Hand me a dirty shirt or something. A rag, anything.”

Amavain finds a small square of cloth usually used when Faylen’s migraines set in. He bats Faylen’s hand away and wipes the paste off for him. Blinking his eyes, Faylen nods.

“That’s much better, thank you.”

“How’s your vision?”

“No improvement that I can tell—I’ll let you know if that changes.”

“What’s this mean, Faylen?”

A heavy sigh escapes his cousin’s lips, followed shortly by a sharp series of coughs. “Sorry—I don’t know, Amavain.”

“What happened?”

“You haven’t heard?”

“I want to hear it from you.”

“We were riding. I started feeling dizzy, and then my vision went black, but not—I didn’t pass out. Otherwise though—I felt fine. No pain, no migraine, nothing like normal.”

“That’s… odd,” Amavain finishes lamely.

“You’re telling me. I have to say though… if this is the end of it all, the end of this illness—maybe it’s for the best. No more pain.”

“You can’t see, Faylen.”

“No, I can’t. But we always knew that would be an eventuality. Ever since I was young, healer after healer told us the same thing. I would lose my sight one day. If this is it, at least it was fast.” Faylen sucks in a deep breath. Amavain bites his bottom lip to stop himself from saying something he might regret. Faylen continues, “I’m so tired, Am. I’m so tired of all these treatments and medicines. They’re wearing down on me. If anything, they’re making things worse. Being blind isn’t the worst thing in the world.”

Amavain’s heart aches at the resignation in his cousin’s voice. But this is nothing new—he’s heard it all before. Every time he stayed up late researching in the library, Faylen was right there beside him, helping him in his search but reminding him how fruitless it would likely be. Unsure of what to say—he’s said it all before, really—he reaches out, closes his fingers over Faylen’s bony hand.

“I know, Fay. If this is it… I’ll stop pushing, I promise.”

Silence falls between them once more, broken only by the hum of crickets outside and the quiet crackling of the candles. Faylen’s eyes slide shut, and for several long moments, Amavain thinks he’s fallen asleep once more. He watches him carefully, studying his thin face—all prominent cheekbones and dark circles. He looks like he’s been through hell and back. He knows the truth of Faylen’s words—if this is it, if he’s truly lost his sight, he’s ready. Even if it means he’ll never read again.

But Faylen’s eyes flutter open once more, blinking rapidly as his brow furrows.

“Am?” He says quietly, gaze lifted towards the ceiling. His eyelashes flash in the candlelight, casting long shadows across his cheeks.

“What is it, Faylen?”

“Can you get Fenrose for me?”

Amavain makes to stand. “Of course—”

“Can you tell her my sight’s coming back? That might make her come more quickly.”

Amavain pauses, halfway between sitting and standing. “Is it?”

“Slowly—I can only make out shadows at the moment. But it’s coming back, getting brighter.” Faylen waves his hand. “Go on, get Fenrose. Don’t tell my father just yet. I want to talk to her, first.”

Amavain nods once, and takes off, padding down the hall to Fenrose’s room. He knocks on the door, but after a few moments and no answer, he knocks again. Still no answer. He pushes against the door handle. It gives way easily under his hand; but upon close inspection, he realizes her bed chamber is empty. Not unusual, for Fenrose to be out late.

He checks the library next, but that’s empty. He doesn’t want to bother his uncle by poking his head into his study, so he starts asking the guards stationed throughout the halls if they’ve seen Fenrose. Most say the same thing: they saw her before dinner, but not after.

Now it’s not just Aerlanna he can’t seem to find.

Amavain wanders the halls, looking into every alcove. With each passing moment, apprehension gnaws at his insides. He doesn’t like leaving Faylen alone this long, not when he’s not well.

No sooner does the thought pass through his head than, up ahead, around a corner, he hears a noise. A quiet sniffle. Slowing his pace, Amavain moves forward.

Turning the corner, he finds Fenrose curled up on a window sill, her head resting against the stone wall, wiping at her eyes as she gazes up at the star-strewn sky.

“Fenrose?” Amavain asks, voice low. His heart hammers in his ears. He hopes she can’t hear it.

She looks over at him then, eyes red-rimmed. “What do you want?”

The disdain in her voice sends a shudder down his spine, but he tries to put it out of his mind. “Faylen’s asking for you.”

Fenrose nods, and sniffles again, but doesn’t move.

“He said—he told me to tell you his vision’s starting to come back,” Amavain takes another step closer, uncertainty edging his voice and making him sound weak. He curses internally. Fenrose is always the first to scold him when he lets his discomfort show.

Instead of leaping to her feet as Amavain expects, Fenrose buries her face in her knees and sobs. Taken aback, Amavain doesn’t know what to do. He’s never seen Fenrose cry. He’s near certain no one has.

“Scoot over,” Amavain says, perching on the edge of the windowsill. He doesn’t reach out or offer comfort to her—he’s certain she’d snarl at him and push him away. “What’s wrong?”

“Go away.”

Though he wants to, Amavain doesn’t budge. “Faylen wants you.”

“I heard you the first time.”

“I’m not leaving unless you come with me.”

“I can’t.”

“Why not?” Amavain looks over at her, crumpled and wrinkled from her face to her skirts. Her hair’s frizzing and coming out of its meticulous braids. He’s never seen her in such a state.

“Because it’s my fault,” she wails, her sobs doubling.

�� “What do you mean?”

“I took him riding, I drove Rowan away, Aerlanna won’t speak to me, it’s all my fault,” she cries, hugging her knees close. As Amavain watches, she rocks back and forth and keeps mumbling, over and over again, “all my fault.”

“Faylen’s illness is not your fault,” he says slowly. Fenrose just cries harder. Amavain quickly realizes this is out of his realm of expertise. “Okay, enough of this. I’m going back to Faylen. You can come and cry there, or you can cry here alone. But I’m not leaving him by himself.” Amavain stands, but Fenrose grasps his hand before he can leave, anchoring him in place.

“I’ll come. I owe him that much. I’ll come. Just give me a moment.” She pulls against his hand, drawing herself to her feet. She runs her hands over her skirts and pats her hair into place. It’s not much, but she looks more like her usual self.

“Did you say Aerlanna’s avoiding you as well?”

Fenrose glances over at him, wiping the last few tears from her eyes. “I suppose… I have much to share with the two of you.”

Fenrose marches towards Faylen’s room, Amavain rushing to keep up. His head spins, trying to process her words. But he’ll find out soon enough, he supposes.

Faylen is sitting up in bed, propped up against a mountain of pillows, when they enter, glasses perched on his nose.

“What took you both so long?” He asks, setting a goblet of water back on the table by his bed.

Amavain shrugs and says nothing, resuming his perch in the chair next to Faylen’s bed. Fenrose throws herself on the bed beside her brother.

“Move over some,” she says, pushing against his shoulder. “How are you?” She leans back against the pillows beside him, resting her head against his shoulder and pulling his arm close to her.

“Better. I can see now. Still blurry, but my glasses are helping. Maybe by the morning it’ll be back to normal.” He furrows his brows then. “Well, mostly normal. I haven’t quite gotten my peripheral vision back yet, so forgive me if I have to turn my head completely to look at you.”

Fenrose nods once. Amavain opens the manual again, jotting down more notes in the back.

“We need to talk, Faylen,” Fenrose finally says. “And I mean—we really need to talk. I was hoping to do this away from the keep. But. This will have to do.”

Faylen looks over at her in surprise, and even Amavain slows the scratching of his quill. They both look up at Fenrose expectantly. She sighs, looping her arm through her brother’s.

“Where to start, where to start—I am sorry, you know. For earlier. You took me completely by surprise—”

“I took myself by surprise. No harm, no foul. My illness is not why you dragged me out of the keep this morning. Speak plainly, Fenrose.”

“I will, I—I found Rowan.”

“Rowan?” Faylen asks, confusion creasing his face.

“Faylen—Finley changed their name. They’re alive and—”

“They? Fenrose, you’ve lost me—Finley’s our—”

“Stop interrupting me, damn it, and I’ll explain!” Fenrose hisses, swatting at Faylen’s shoulder. “Rowan ran away, years and years ago, because Father abused them. Burned and branded and mistreated them, because they couldn’t stand the rigidity of our customs. I knew—about the brands, at least. I saw them one night, the brands, right before Rowan ran away. I can’t blame them, honestly—I get it; I’ve lost you. I’m trying to explain. Finley changed their name, became Rowan, remade themself into something new, a different elf. They—yes, they, that’s specifically how I was asked to refer to them. I’m not explaining this very well, am I?”

“Ah, no,” Amavain says, after sharing a look with Faylen.

“So—confusing parts aside, you found Finley?” Faylen asks, trying to summarize.

“And you didn’t bring Finley home?” Amavain adds.

“They didn’t want to come home. They’ve made a life for themself, in Ollivan Forest. They hunt and trade in a small town nearby, providing for themself. It—it wasn’t right, to pull them away from the life they’ve built. Rowan’s happy, happy in a way they could never be at court. It took my whole journey home to come to terms with this but—I can’t bring myself to disturb them.”

“You didn’t—happen to hear anything about Perya while you were gone, did you?” Amavain asks, not daring to hope.

“I asked around, when I had the chance. But I never learned anything concrete. I’m sorry, Amavain, I really am. I wish I had better news. But after I found Rowan—I didn’t see much point in staying away any longer. I needed to be back here, with you all. I needed to—I need to regroup.” Fenrose sighs again.

“Is that it?” Amavain asks, his heart stuttering in his chest.

“Ah, no, I suppose it isn’t. Have you two noticed anything different about Aerlanna?”

“Uh—she was pissed after you left, for one,” Faylen laughs. It tapers off into a deep cough. Fenrose shifts and rubs his back.

“She’s kept to herself, really. Nothing new,” Amavain interjects. “But she has been more closed off, especially lately. Especially from me. And—I haven’t really seen or spoken with her in days.”

“Yeah, that would be my fault.” Fenrose wipes at her face again. “I went to find her, when I got back. I didn’t know who else to go to or how to explain everything. She didn’t… take my not finding Perya well. We—we were training, a few days later, and she… she’s—I’m worried about her.”

“What’re you talking about? What did my sister do?” Amavain’s mind races coming up with every possibility, but nothing can prepare him for what Fenrose says next.

“We trained and fought and—she beat me, Amavain. She’s never beaten me before.”

“And that’s reason enough to concern you?”

“No one beats me,” Fenrose snaps. “Not that easily.”

“You’ve been gone for nigh on a year. It’s certainly possible—”

“And in that time I have still been training and practicing when I’ve gotten the chance. I am far from out of fighting shape. I could give all of you a good thrashing and not be winded. And without me to spar with, do you really think she would have improved so much?”

Amavain and Faylen both shake their heads.

“I’m sorry,” Fenrose sniffles again, tears streaking down her face once more. “I lost control, and I yelled at her. It was the worst thing I could’ve done, because now she’s hiding. She’s still here—the servants have told me that much. She steals into the kitchens at night for food. But she’s avoiding me. I’m fairly sure that’s why she hasn’t been attending meals. I might’ve scared her off. I lost my temper and yelled at her and—she ran away. She left me there, and I didn’t chase after her.”

“What do we do?” Amavain says, lost in thought. “She misses Perya, I knew that. But I never thought she would—I never thought she would go this far.”

“It’s my fault—I left her here, I could’ve taken her with me—” Fenrose mumbles. Faylen wraps his arm around her shoulders.

“No—it’s not your fault, Fenrose,” Amavain says slowly. “Aerlanna’s wound tighter than most. She misses Perya. We’ll just… have to come up with another plan, another way to try and find her. What else can we do? I really—I don’t know what to do next. There has to be something.”

“I’ll think on it, and let you know.” Fenrose says, wiping her eyes and nose on Faylen’s shirt. He scowls at her in response.

“That’s disgusting….”

“What do we do now?” Amavain asks after a moment, letting the question settle between his cousins. They look at each other uncertainly. Amavain has never known Fenrose not to have the answer to a question.

Both his cousins are quiet for several long minutes. Amavain contemplates leaving them to their thoughts and heading to bed. But before he can climb to his feet once more and wish them good night, Fenrose suddenly scrambles away from Faylen and leaps off the bed, pacing the length of the room. Her hands fidget, tugging at her hair and wringing one another.

“Here’s what we do,” she says. “We work harder.”

“I’m sorry?” Amavain asks.

“I never wanted to lead. I don’t act like it, but Faylen knows this to be true. I wanted to bring Rowan home so I could lift the burden from my own shoulders and hide behind my older sibling. But that’s not possible. The only way—the best way—I can affect change is to lead myself, when the time comes. Rowan can’t do that for me. And you—” Fenrose wheels around, pointing at Amavain. He shrinks back into the cushions of his chair. “Look, your sister is a bastard, to put it bluntly. Perya, I mean. And regardless of whatever my father has done to her, he has no intentions of allowing her back in to court. My meeting with Rowan taught me that much, at least. He holds his grudges and will not compromise. He hates your mother for her misconduct—he’s not a forgiving one. Don’t take his kindness without a grain of salt. Don’t give me that look—Perya is not noble, not by his standards. And she will never be. That means rule of your province falls to you, Amavain. And you need to deal with that. Stop hiding in the library and burying your nose in medicinal records. Those aren’t going to help you.

“But I can help you. You train with me now. You sit in on war councils—don’t speak, but you’ll learn more from watching us plan and maneuver than you will from those stuffy old tutors. You’re pitiful with a sword, you know that? Please tell me there’s another weapon you’re somewhat decent with. A lord doesn’t have to be the best swordsman, but you cannot allow yourself to look weak, even on the training field. I’ll help you there as well. And please, for gods’ sake, straighten your shoulders. Your posture is ghastly, really. All those hours bent over books has taken their toll.” Fenrose finally, blessedly, snaps her mouth shut.

Amavain’s, in contrast, hangs open. His eyes are wide, processing Fenrose’s tirade.

“I’m sorry—did I say something offensive?” Fenrose glances between her brother and her cousin. “Get used to it, both of you. We have things to do. We need to make sure Father won’t try to pull some sort of shenanigans to take Amavain’s lands away when he comes of age. And to do that, we need to turn him into the perfect lord, even Father’s favorite, if we can manage it. And in all fairness, I could stand to do better in my own lessons.”

Fenrose turns on her heel, glancing back over her shoulder. “Get some rest, the both of you. We’ve got work to do.”

The door shudders closed behind her.

“Faylen?” Amavain asks slowly, ears ringing in the quiet.

“Yes?”

“Your sister is terrifying.”

#my writing #fenrose #rowan #fantasy #thebuttramexperience #nhiri-lavellan #if yall wanna read i mean

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midnightruleswriting · 8 years ago

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Prologue

The keep is usually quiet at night, disturbed only by wind shifting through cracks and crevasses in the stone. Tonight is no different, a gentle moan creaking through the ancient keep. The House of Liebertal, ruling family of the province of Madiére, had lived in Liansress Castle for centuries. The wind did not forget this. Nor did the stars that glimmered steadily. They watched, and judged, and when life came to a close, they were the ones to pass the final verdict.

Fenrose has heard those stories countless times. They were her mother’s favorite to tell before bedtime. Fenrose isn’t convinced she believes them, but on nights like tonight, when she can’t sleep, they run rampant, taking her imagination with them.

She’s curled up on the windowsill in her room, watching the stars and the moon slowly shift far above as they make their way across the night sky. The light is bright, and floods the grounds below with a cool, silver glow. The hallway outside her door moans once more as the wind kicks up, and then settles into quiet. Her mother used to say that was just the castle’s way of saying goodnight, that the wind carried thewhispers of long-dead ancestors wishing them well. Instead of comforting her, it raises gooseflesh along her arms and makes her shiver. Wryly, she thinks, if that’s her mother’s voice being carried on the wind, it’s probably telling her to go to bed.

And yet, something isn’t quite right, and she can’t seem to shake the feeling. There’s an odd taste in the air, not unlike that of an impending storm, but the sky is clear and quiet. Owls hoot in the distance, and a few bats flutter across the sky.

Though nothing appears amiss, Fenrose’s stomach twists and the hair on the back of her neck prickles. Her mind races, taking stock of her room, the grounds outside her window, where nothing moves. She climbs to her feet. No one but the guards should be up at this hour, and they’ve never batted an eye at her wandering the halls in the past. Perhaps a trip to the library is just what she needs to put herself at ease.

The flagstone floors are cool beneath her bare feet. She treads lightly down the hallway, checking around corners in case her father is lurking on the other side, up late conducting some business or another. But the hallways are empty and quiet, aside from the distant sounds of the guards’ footsteps as they patrol their corridors. Torches line the halls, casting shifting shadows that she darts in and out of, just to stay safe. Even if they have never let her down, no need to test the guards’ reliability tonight. She doesn’t need to incur her father’s anger. Almost anything seems to set him off these days, even things completely innocuous as being unable to sleep. He has little patience for the antics of his children.

The trek to the library is swift despite her sneaking, and Fenrose pulls open one of the heavy doors slowly, just far enough to slip inside—any more and it would’ve creaked loud enough to wake the whole keep—and lets it thud dully shut behind her. The air is heavy, thickly scented with aging parchment. Fenrose loosens a sigh of relief at making it down here without any trouble—she’s kept herself out of it, as of late—but she quickly notices something isn’t quite right. Muffled noises, nearly indiscernible, emanate from deep within the stacks. Someone else is here. Is her father still up, researching something for a new trade deal or working out the latest treaty? She dismisses the thought almost immediately. Her father hasn’t perused the shelves of this library in years. He sends footmen to do the work for him.

Could it be a servant, then, or a guest, poking around while everyone else is asleep? No—there’s no guests being entertained, they all left over a week ago, after the celebrations her father held to honor the one hundred and twenty-fifth anniversary of their victory in the last war against the Eylrulians.

Convinced now it must be a servant sneaking around, Fenrose decides to investigate further, ignoring the small voice in the back of her mind telling her to leave it be and go back to bed. The noise seems to be coming from her left, and she moves forward slowly, peaking around the towering stacks and pausing every few steps. As Fenrose creeps towards the noise, she notices a dim red glow flickering on the chairs and surrounding shelves that could only come from a torch or a fire in the hearth. With every step, the sound seems to get a little louder, until she’s standing behind one of the large, winged chairs right in front of the mantle. A fire crackles in the hearth, dying down, but not quite burned out. Crouched in front of it, shaking and whimpering, is—

“Finley!” Fenrose gasps, rushing around the chair and falling to her knees, the stone floor cold against her knees, shielded only by her thin nightgown. Finley’s arms are tucked in close, shaking through muffled sobs. Streaks of tears glimmer in the flickering light. “What’s wrong?”

Fenrose has never seen Finley like this, never crying. No, Finley is strong and full of light, telling all the stories Fenrose never got to hear from their mother after she died, helping her with her studies and her shooting and her swordsmanship, all the things they are expected to excel in. Never wavering, even when their father lost his temper and Fenrose’s lip would quiver and her knees would shake, but Finley would stand tall and take the brunt of their father’s anger without batting an eye. Finley never cries.

Fenrose pleads, on her knees, begging Finley to acknowledge her, to move, to do something. Snarling, Finley suddenly pushes her away, a sharp movement that sends her sprawling across the floor. Looking up in shock, Fenrose catches the fire glinting off something shiny on Finley’s arm—shiny, and angry, and red, very red in the dying light of the embers.

“Finley,” she breathes, reaching out, fingers closing around a muscled and well-defined wrist. She forces it over—Finley doesn’t put up much of a fight—and studies the sigils burned—branded, the word rings in her head. It’s what their farmers do to their cattle, so they know which ones belong to which farm. Finley taught her that, when she was supposed to be learning about the economics of their vassals. Brands—that’s what line Finley’s arm, pale and scarred and raised ones, marching down to a new, angry, red burn. Sigils. The brands are sigils, carved in an ancient Elvish styling. For weakness, cowardice, incompetency. Fenrose doesn’t recognize the new one—she’s never seen anything like it before.

“Finley.” Her voice breaks as tears well into her eyes. “Who did this to you?”

“Go back to bed.” Finley’s voice is flat and hoarse.

“But—”

“I said, go back to bed!” Anger bursts forth, something Fenrose has never seen before. Not like this. Not from Finley. Only from their father. She scrambles backwards, tripping over the hem of her nightgown, and runs. She doesn’t care how loudly her bare feet slap against the floor, or the slam of the library door behind her. She sprints through the halls, past befuddled guards that shout behind her, and up flights of twisting stairs.

She does not go back to bed. Nor does she try to find her father. He won’t appreciate being woken. Even if one of his children is hurt. He’ll roar at her to go back to her room, to go anywhere, to leave him in peace. He has others to deal with his children.

Instead, she pushes open the door to Faylen’s room. It creaks softly, but the small lump on the bed doesn’t move. Fenrose shoves back the covers and curls up next to her baby brother.

He stirs for a moment, blinking his eyes open. “Fenrose? What’s wrong?” He asks, his little voice thick with sleep.

Fenrose holds him close, fighting back tears. The angry red mark on Finley’s arm burns in her mind. It had that ancient styling—but she cannot recall the rune from her studies. And the others—who would do such a thing?

“Nothing. I couldn’t sleep, is all.”

“Can you tell me a story?” Faylen snuggles closer, drawn to her warmth. Oblivious to his sister’s worry. One of his elongated, Elven ears tickle her chin as he makes himself comfortable.

Fenrose whispers a story about the wind, a story of endings, as the seasons change and winter is ushered in. Faylen is asleep before she finishes. Telling the story calms her racing mind, pushes her exhausted body to the brink, and her heavy eyes slide shut soon after.

At breakfast the next morning, Finley is nowhere to be seen. Nor to be found in any of their bed chambers. Fenrose skips her lessons and spends the day meandering the halls, poking her head into every room. But Finley is not to be found. No horses are missing from the stables; none of the kitchen hands have any clues, beyond vague mentioning of loaves of bread and cheese missing, a few apples, but anyone could’ve taken those. Snacks are snagged from the kitchens almost every evening.

She cannot skip her lessons two days in a row, so when Finley does not appear for breakfast the following morning, Fenrose resigns herself to spending the day in the library with her tutors, who waste no time berating her for her absence. As they launch into discussions of economics, decorum, and diplomacy, Fenrose’s mind wanders, trying to make sense of where Finley could be, of what she walked into the other night.

She checks the stables again after her lessons are over for the day, but none of the grooms have seen Finley. An odd thing in and of itself. Finley prefers to spend as much time on the grounds as possible—

Perhaps that’s it. Finley’s hiding on the grounds somewhere, she thinks. But none of the other hands are particularly forthcoming, and Fenrose finds her way over to the training grounds, watching the off-duty guards spar with one another. She asks the weapons master if he’s seen Finley, but his answer is much of the same—Finley’s nowhere to be seen, but a well-crafted bow, a quiver of arrows, and a few daggers have gone missing from his collection. It’s not particularly useful information; any one of her father’s men could have taken them for some mission or another. Coming up short once again, Fenrose returns to the keep for supper with her shoulders hunched, her hands gripping the voluminous skirts of her gown.

She spends the evening in the library, searching through dictionaries and reference books, trying to make sense of the sigils that were burned into Finley’s arm. She keeps the small scrap of parchment she sketched them out on close. They are drawn out in the order she recalls seeing them, and checks the one she does not recognize against each unfamiliar mark she finds, but none match.

Fenrose keeps up her search for a week, but decides that Finley has gone missing. She cannot think of any other explanation to explain the absence. And her father seems completely unperturbed by the situation. After dinner one night, Fenrose paces the halls, working up her courage for three-quarters of an hour before finally squaring her shoulders and marching to the door of her father’s study. She knocks firmly, and the door opens slowly, revealing her father’s surprise. He quickly buries it beneath displeasure and disregard.

“Oh,” he says, his voice loud and echoing in the empty halls. The guards posted on either side of the door don’t flinch. “Fenrose. Is something wrong?”

Fenrose nods, dropping her gaze out of respect. “May I speak with you for a moment, Father?”

He moves slightly to permit her entrance to his study, but his imposing physique still blocks much of the doorway. She has to squeeze past him to enter the well-lit room. As her father closes the door behind her, she doesn’t miss the half-empty bottle of wine on the desk.

He offers her a goblet, which she politely declines, before settling back into his chair with a full goblet of his own. The bottle is nearly empty now. She should have waited a little longer—a half-bottle is only enough to take the edge off after a long day, but not nearly enough to whet his temper. She’ll have to choose her words carefully, then.

He studies her over his goblet as he takes a long draught. “What would you like to discuss?” He asks, settling the drink back on the desk with a solid thunk. Even now, her father is all business, every bit the lord, brusque and to the point. And not just any lord—High Lord, ruler of one of the six provinces that make up Dashyl.

“Father,” Fenrose begins slowly, turning her words over in her mind. “I’ve noticed—and some of the servants have as well—well, sir—we can’t seem to find Finley anywhere.”

She cowers under the weight of her father’s gaze, stormy and unwavering. He sits up in his chair, leans forward, and studies her for several minutes, peering down his long nose. Regret flushes Fenrose’s cheeks and she has to resist the urge to retreat back into the chair. Her spine stiffens reflexively, and she lifts her chin, pushing aside the fear her father usually incurs in her. The only noise between them is that of their breathing, and the torches crackling in their sconces. The light glimmers off the gold embroidery stitched into the green silk banner hanging on the wall behind her father. The golden stag of her family’s crest and the Elvish script that curls underneath looms in front of her, a weighty reminder of the tradition they are painstakingly raised to uphold. Preserving tradition, undefiled. Her father certainly took the words to heart.

“Finley is not your concern,” he says finally, curtly, pushing himself back in his chair with an air of finality, as if he expects the conversation to end with that.

Fenrose furrows her brow. “But—Finley’s my—”

“I do not,” her father’s voice raises, bouncing off the stone walls as if for emphasis, “want to hear your arguments on the matter. Finley is none of your concern. Focus on your studies. That is where your attention is best suited.” Danger edges every word, sharp as a blade.

Fenrose is quiet a moment, debating whether to press the matter further. She can feel her father’s anger building, filling the space between them with a live, crackling energy. But she has never been good at knowing when not to cross the line. And Finley deserves better than to be brushed off.

“Father—I’m just worried. Finley’s been hurt—burned, branded—and if something’s happened—if Finley’s—” Her voice raises a pitch, panic setting in. If her father won’t little to her—

“That is enough,” her father leaps to his feet, knocking his desk chair flying. “You will not discuss Finley again. And you will do well to put whatever you saw or heard out of your mind immediately. I have a province to run. I do not have time for this.”

“Your child is missing!” Fenrose bursts out, her own anger welling within her, hot and threatening to boil over.

Her father’s gaze turns to ice as he studies her once again. “I do not have time to worry about where Finley might have run off to. Go to bed, Fenrose.”

Something clicks in Fenrose’s mind, something she had hoped, deep down, would not prove true. The lack of concern, of surprise, or even interest…. “Did you—those brands—”

“I said, go to bed,” her father stalks around the desk, grabs her by the arm, and marches her to the door, unceremoniously yanking it open and shoving her out. He casts her one last cursory glance. “I do not tolerate failure, Fenrose. Remember that.” The heavy wooden door slams shut in her face with resounding finality.

Fenrose turns and slumps to the ground, her skirts pooling around her on the stone floor. The guards on either side do not break from their stances, not even to tell her to leave. It’s as if she is not even there anymore. She leans back against the door, her eyes falling shut as her anger sours into anxiety that grips her chest, making her heart flutter as her breaths come fast. The wind, quiet for the last week, chooses that moment to roar through every crack and crevice in the keep, striking a chord deep within her chest.

Oh, Finley, she thinks. What did he do to you?

#nhiri-lavellan #my writing

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