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theresattrpgforthat · 4 months ago

Note

Hello!

I've always wanted to do a stealth game/campaign, but all my attempts to hack it into DnD have failed. Do you have any suggestions for a stealthy system? Not something as abstract as Knives in the Dark (tbh, I just have never been able to get into it) but something that hits the Assassin's Creed feeling of watching the target, making a plan, and then sneaking through the base taking out guards and hiding their bodies and such. Preferably on a grid map or similar, s we're terrible at theatre of the mind.

Thanks!

THEME: Stealthy Games.

Hello there, so I did some digging and I found plenty of stealth games, although none of them seem to really require a map in order to play. That being said, I don’t think that should stop you from providing maps to your players, even if they’re abstract! Some of these games might ask you to sketch out a rough map of the town or building that you’re in, which may help you provide your players with some visual references as they sneak around, trying not to get caught. When it comes to stealth, I think of three things: horror, heists, and spies.

Delta Green, by Arc Dream Publishing.

Born of the U.S. government’s 1928 raid on the degenerate coastal town of Innsmouth, Massachusetts, the covert agency known as Delta Green opposes the forces of darkness with honor but without glory. Delta Green agents fight to save humanity from unnatural horrors—often at a shattering personal cost.

Delta Green comes highly recommended as a great way to play an X-Files type rpg, mixed in with the Cthulhu mythos. It uses a d100 system and is based in the modern day, casting your characters as former members of government agencies, recruited into a super-secret bureau that investigates supernatural things - and keeps those things hidden from the common public. The stealth of this game is mostly about covering up the eldritch and unnatural, even if it means framing someone else or condemning a beloved building.

Your characters in this game have some familiar pieces to them, such as six stats with the same titles as you’ll see in games like D&D. However, you’ll also have pieces like Bonds, which represent relationships that keep your character grounded, and a Sanity system that I’m personally not crazy about (I do not recommend this game for a group that doesn’t like trite mechanization of mental health disorders), but that gives you a way to incur penalties that aren’t just physical damage.

This looks to be the closest to a traditional rpg on this list, and with all the elements to keep track of, I can see how a physical map would be helpful. However, keep in mind that there isn’t a pace or speed stat attached to these characters, so things like line of sight or distance probably won’t be super granular - if you are shooting things you may have broad range bands to determine how difficult something is, but the final decision will be a GM decision, not something necessarily determined in the rulebook. Because the setting is a modern one, I think finding visual references for locations in this game would be very very easy.

If you want a taste of the game before you put your money down, you can check out the Free Starter Rulebook!

Minutes to Midnight, by Oliver S.

Minutes to Midnight is a game powered by Blades in the Dark about a crew of spies, trying to disrupt the balance of power in a modern cold war. They will have to stand strong in the face of their vicious opposition and handle a fragile web of untrustworthy informants, devious intrigues and deadly lies.

We play to find out if our agents can thrive in the cutthroat world of espionage. While the public may never know about their impact, their actions shape the political landscape and outcome of conflict. Will the players prevent the outbreak of a global disaster and use their influence to create a better future? Will they attempt to send the opposing bloc into a turmoil and establish a lasting hegemony? Or will their actions lead the world down a path of war and nuclear destruction?

The Forged in the Dark system uses a cycle in between missions and downtime, sinking your characters into the heart of the action as they pursue clandestine missions in locations built by the group in a session 0. Since the game takes place in the real world, using maps of real cities might be a great way to keep they players visually engaged, and using a city that the group has been to or is familiar with might also make it easier for the group to visualize the kinds of buildings and streets where their spies may be sneaking, scheming, and sleuthing.

Madstones, by xiombarg.

Those who know magic exists at all are the rich and teams of breakers like yourself that go into the jartowns for the Archons. Jartowns are created by burning folk alive in a wicker man, in a ritual known only to the oldest jet-setting Archons.

A jartown is an isolated area of spacetime that was cut out of our reality. Most jartowns consist of a small amount of space (enough for a suburb or town) and a loop of several years. Jartowns become more magickal and horrific with each loop, creating madstones.

Madstones are small things, from actual stones to human organs, infused with concentrated, distilled magic. They're secretly coveted by the wealthy.

In this tiny 24XX-based tabletop RPG, players are breakers, desperate folk from the occult underground who find a way into the jartowns, hothouses for magick, to perform errands for the ultrarich Archons.

Play as a variety of roles, from sawbones to sinner to spook, and choose to hail from one of four origins, including jartown native.

24XX games are another toolbox that you can pick up and play around with to help you get started with creating your own experiences. Your character consists of a few skills and gear packaged together in a character class. In Madstones, these classes are various specialists, trained to deal with different elements that might pop up when you go delving into eldritch pockets of reality. There is both a stealth and a combat specialist in this game, but there’s also classes for things like a getaway driver, a hacker, and an occult specialist.

24XX games also exist because of their OSR predecessors, meaning that combat is risky, and often deadly - and therefore finding other ways to solve the problem is implicitly encouraged. However, the openness of the system means that your players don’t necessarily need to resort to stealth - they might prepare an elaborate ritual, create a unique piece of technology, or just decide to run away as fast as they can. In regards to maps, I think you could probably use a typical dungeon framework: leading the characters through various rooms or sections of the pocket dimension, and throwing horrors and weird environments their way.

Night’s Black Agents, by Pelgrane Press.

The Cold War is over. Bush’s War is winding down. You were a shadowy soldier in those fights, trained to move through the secret world: deniable and deadly.

Then you got out, or you got shut out, or you got burned out. You didn’t come in from the cold. Instead, you found your own entrances into Europe’s clandestine networks of power and crime. You did a few ops, and you asked even fewer questions. Who gave you that job in Prague? Who paid for your silence in that Swiss account? You told yourself it didn’t matter. It turned out to matter a lot. Because it turned out you were working for vampires.

Vampires exist. What can they do? Who do they own? Where is safe? You don’t know those answers yet. So you’d better start asking questions. You have to trace the bloodsuckers’ operations, penetrate their networks, follow their trail, and target their weak points. Because if you don’t hunt them, they will hunt you. And they will kill you.

A combination of modern spy fiction and vampire intrigue, Night’s Black Agents uses the GUMSHOE system, which is an investigative roleplaying system that provides your characters with resources they can spend to get into secret locations, compete against vampiric agents, and pick up information to help you put together the details of a conspiracy. In Night’s Black Agents, finding clues isn’t left up to chance - you will always get information as long as you tell the GM that you’re using a relevant skill. The obstacles in this game are more likely going to involve getting in and out of sticky situations - and if your opponents are vampires, well, stealth is likely going to be a more appealing than trying to slit their throats.

GUMSHOE games don’t need grid maps either, but a rough map of the city or country is probably very helpful, and it might be fun to draw the floor plans of various buildings that your players investigate in order to help them determine what areas may be the most interesting places to search for clues.

The Breathing, by Fistful of Crits.

You reside in The Archive, an unending and depthless structure spiralling deep into the dark and misty depths, devoid of life and presided over by a being known only to you as The Archivist.

The Archive is made up of windowless rooms and halls that vary greatly in their height, size and danger. All these spaces house numerous shelves containing the collected knowledge of the world outside of The Archive; a place you have been told you must earn your access to. The price of your freedom comes from the discovery of new or forgotten knowledge that can be found in the deepest parts of the structure.

You, and a few others, are known as The Breathing, in a place full of creatures who were once like you but ultimately failed in their bid for freedom; now known as The Breathless.

The Breathing is just an example of a broader style of game, using a system called Breathless. Breathless games use a series of polyhedral dice that deteriorate as you use them, with different dice attached to different skills. Throughout the game you pause to “take a breath”, and re-set your skills, bringing your dice back to their threshold. However, pausing to take a breath also gives the GM a chance to introduce a new trouble or complication, creating a cycle of mission, rest, mission, rest, etc.

As a game system, Breathless is pretty light and is fairly easy to hack. But the lightness of the rules also allows for creativity and add-ons, which could include rules for movement or placement. Since the game rewards finding ways to solve problems without having to resort to direct conflict, I can see games like this encouraging characters to think carefully about when to use their resources and when to just… sneak around the problem. If you want to include maps and a grid, you could provide a blueprint of a room inside The Archive and watch the players try to navigate it using their limited resources, with designated “rest areas” that they would have to get to in order to take a Breath.

This certainly isn’t a solution in a box, but it might provide some interesting tools to help you build the experience you’re looking for.

Night Reign, by Sinister Beard Games.

Night Reign is a roleplaying game of stealth, guile, violence and devilry for a GM and one or more players, set in a quasi-Edwardian metropolis perched on an inhospitable peninsula beset by toxic black rain and ruled by a corrupt cabal of Noble Houses.

You take the role of members of The Red Right Hand, a conspiracy loyal to the recently deposed royal family, using your talents in assassination, infiltration and dark sorcery to strike out at your oppressors.

A game all about the things you do in the shadows, Night Reign uses cards to resolve conflict, rather than dice. It also uses a token system to help you overcome obstacles without having to resort to violence - loud, messy, dangerous violence. The Ruled by Night system (which has an SRD that you can download for free) is about balancing the suspicion you’ve already raised against an increasing cost to being stealthy. You spend Shadow tokens in order to be able to attempt to do something, and try to get a hand as close as possible to 21, or at least higher than whatever the GM draws. Your characters will also have powers that can be very effective, but are likely to draw a lot of attention, so using them is risky.

Because of how this game runs, things like movement and speed are not likely to be tracked. However, I don’t think mapping out a location so that the players can understand where things are or what kind of space they’re in is going to hurt the experience. The SRD describes something called City Conditions, which appear to be elements of the fiction that might result from the characters’ choices, or provide obstacles to the players. If you have a map of the city in front of you, you could draw symbols on the map to indicate what’s happening as the story progresses, and even cross out places that have been destroyed.

Heist, by Hark Forsooth Games.

HEIST: Get the Crew Together is a cooperative RPG where you and a group of suave, savvy and slick fellow crooks plan and execute capers, grabbing the fanciest loot from the world's wealthy elite.

Heist is great for fans of shows like Leverage or movies like Ocean’s 11: you’re going to steal something shiny from someone who certainly doesn’t deserve it, and you’re going to do it with style. While combat is an option, your characters will also have to deal with suspicious marks, security systems, laser grids and bank vaults. The characters are composed of special talents and personal flaws, and the GM has the task of designing something the game calls Murphy’s Gun - a major twist that will reveal itself midway through the heist.

It can be tricky to determine what to prep for a game like this, but one thing that you can for sure prep is the location. Design the building, draw the floor plan, and come up with obstacles for the different areas - there’s not really movement tracking in this game but having the layout will certainly help your players come up with ideas about how to get in, get out, and get rich.

Another thing to consider…

Mothership doesn’t have any stealth skills, but what it does have is the incentive to be sneaky. If an alien horror is moving through the ship, you’re more likely to try and stay out of it’s way - and having no stealth skills means that the players have to describe what they’re doing to stay hidden; climb into vents, squeeze yourself into cupboards, and try to wriggle into the space suit. However, this doesn’t mean that you’re not rolling - you might roll to clamber over something or to fit yourself into something, or you might roll to scope out a location to find an exit or suitable hiding place. It’s also excellent in terms of maps - plenty of adventures will provide at least a blueprint of the space station or ship that you’re exploring, which you can use to spook your players with fresh horrors.

#stealth #tabletop games #indie ttrpgs #game recommendations #dnd #asks #indie ttrpg

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rotworld · 1 year ago

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1: Pit Stop

welcome to the drift, where nothing is as it seems. you're heading north but first you need to stop for gas.

->contains gore, hand trauma, amputation, general creepy behavior.

The shift came sometime in the night. If you had been awake then, you would’ve felt it. The wind was itchy and the sky wound itself up in knots. There was the distinct odor of newness, like the whole world was a cramped, cobwebbed attic and someone had just yanked the door open. In poured the incomprehensible outsideness, and all the frightened things that lived inside cowered instinctively. Some people swear they can hear reality crack apart, the brittle and alarming krikrikrik of a frozen lake shattering in slow motion underfoot but from everywhere at once, but that’s probably just a myth. If shifts sounded like anything, you think, they wouldn’t sound like that.

In the morning, your lungs are sore. You keep having this nightmare where you can’t remember how to breathe. Something fluttered in the dark. Something dragged its cold fingers up your spine. You wake up on the floor, your throat feeling blistered and wrung out. The sun isn’t up yet. The shadows in the room are thick.

“I tried to wake you,” the woman leaning in the doorway says. “You’re the last one up.” She has short hair, you think, a hat rounding her silhouette. Her eyes are shimmery, robin’s egg blue flecked with sunrise pastels like opals. You shouldn’t be able to see them so clearly in the dark. “Eggs for breakfast,” she says. “How do you like yours?”

“Plain, thanks.” Your voice is hoarse, thick with sleep. She’s gone when you look again.

By the time you’ve showered, dressed and dragged downstairs, the sky is a lighter gray. The stairs creak under your boots, carpet transitioning abruptly to hardwood flooring. The coffee shop on the first floor isn’t open yet but the owner has flicked on the string lights dangling by the front windows and set a basket of eggs on the register counter, so fresh the shells are still tinged green. A laminated card propped against the basket displays a hand and a box hovering above the open palm, stylized in the blocky minimalism of a road sign; the symbol for couriers. A larger version of the same sign is plastered at the front of the shop, right in the corner of the door. You snag a few eggs as you wander over to the other couriers, all huddled around a table too small for the four of them. The woman with opal eyes pulls up another chair for you, wedging it in next to hers.

“Morning,” she says. You see her more clearly now, flannel sleeves rolled up to her elbows with a striped shirt beneath. Her hair is brown and jutting out from her beanie stiff like straw. A misshapen chunk of stone hangs from a cord around her neck, pitted on all sides with tiny holes. She bites into the tapered end of an egg, a burst of thick red jelly oozing between her teeth as she crunches through the shell. “You sleep like shit during shifts, too?”

“Not just during shifts,” you admit, rummaging through your backpack for pencil and paper. They make room for you on the table, nudging their notebooks and sketchpads closer to their laps. You’re in Henley Creek so that’s where you start, a cluster of landmarks sketched in the center of the paper with the town name underneath. “Where are you from? And where are you going?” you ask.

“Prismville. Feels due north of here, not close but not too far. Might be a town between. Ever been?” She smiles when you shake your head. “Make a trip sometime. Tell ‘em Kell sent you. They’re good to couriers, they’ll treat you right.” She tilts her notebook towards you and lets you see what she’s drawn, a handful of disembodied ink scribbles floating across the page. It’s an unlucky map. Prismville is the closest town and there’s a gulf of blank space between here and there. She’s marked it with a prickly shape, not quite a star. Everything else is too far to reach before the next shift. “I’m headed to the University if I can figure out where it is,” she adds.

“It might be east of us,” the man on her other side says, scratching his stubble with the end of his pen. He doodles while he talks, adding embellishments to the margins of his map. Headstones. Moths and mountain lions. A spider with too many legs. “It’s usually out east, isn’t it? There’s a few places you can count on. Wild Oaks is always way down south.” He leans over for a look at you, nostrils flaring. His shirt is so shredded and hole-ridden you aren’t sure how it’s staying on him. “I’m from Verlinda, by the way. Trying to get to Aliquando Island, if you know where that’s at right now?”

“I don’t, sorry,” you say. They’ve both put Verlinda on their maps a long way northwest from Prismville with deer crossing signs, but his deer has stranger antlers.

“And you?” Kell asks, bumping her shoulder against yours. “Where’re you from? Where’re you headed?”

You keep your head down, filling in the outline of a deer. “I don’t know,” you say. “It’s northeast of here. A long way northeast. I’m not sure what it’s called, or what’s there.” The table gets quiet. They feel bad for you. You don’t want to dwell on it. “I’ll go north, I think. Anything I should see in Prismville?”

Kell grins. “The Mountain,” she says, rubbing her thumb over her stone pendant. “Not like you could miss it.”

A crowd starts to gather on the sidewalk outside the coffee shop. They clutch cardboard boxes, paper bags with the mouths taped shut and gift-wrapped packages. One hastily scribbles an address onto an envelope against the window. Kell is the first one outside and she’s swamped as soon as she announces she’s going to the University. Nobody cares that she doesn’t know where it is yet—a courier will get it there one way or another, faster than anyone else. The man from Verlinda leaves with a thick stack of letters rubberbanded together and nothing else.

The air is cool and damp. Clouds move too quickly like leaves blown across a puddle. There’s a thorny feeling in the back of your brain, a feeling that won’t leave you alone.

“Prismville!” you call over the restless chatter. “Anybody got anything going to Prismville?” There are a handful of takers: a crate of something heavy that rattles. A few jars of cloudy liquid with some lumpy preserved thing gently floating in each. A wax-sealed letter. You heft everything into the back of your car and pull out of the parking lot, and only then does the tension fall away from your shoulders and your jaw unclench. You have a compass in the glovebox but you don’t need it. Home is northeast, your heart says. Something tugs at you from beyond the shifting haze of fog on the horizon. Old brick buildings give way to hilly suburbs and sparse farmhouses. Claustrophobic streets widen into three-lane blacktop. Soon, Henley Creek is vanishing in the rearview mirror and you are on the road again.

[NOW PLAYING ON THE RADIO: IS THERE ANYONE OUT THERE BY WELLMESS FEAT. CHRISTINE SMIT]

Legend has it that couriers like you are born out here, deep in the connective tissue that holds the Drift together. It’s not true, of course, but it must make some kind of sense to the people who don’t feel Home like a harpoon in the chest. They’re just trying to make sense of you. Most people only see the road, if they see anything at all through the fog. They aren’t paying attention to the grassy banks and gorges beside it, the redness of the soil right outside Compass Hill or the knee-high wildflowers in Verlinda. You could wander blindfolded and smell the difference between the earthy, fungal tang of the Stillwoods and the University egg gardens long before the welcome signs popped up to greet you. It’s not that the roads are any different for couriers. You’re just looking when they think there’s nothing to see.

The highway curves gently. A car slides into the passing lane and zips past you, the only other driver you see for a while. Something sprints through the fog on all fours, keeping pace with you for several miles before it breaks off and vanishes into the trees. The sickly sweet chemical stench of Henley Creek’s factories is just starting to wane when you realize you forgot to get gas in town. At the same moment, a blue sign comes looming out of the fog. PIT STOP: NEXT EXIT, it says. There’s no logo, no flair to the text, just the same terse uppercase font that announces speed limits and four words.

There could be something between here and Prismville. There could also be nothing, just the Drift stretching out lengths of highway like unraveling thread. You aren’t sure you want to risk it. You aren’t sure you want to stop either. You miss the exit trying to decide. You can push it, you think. You’ve gone further with less. The blink of a turn signal flashes in your rearview mirror and another courier speeds past. That four-legged shape comes loping up to the roadside again, not quite close enough to break through the fog, and you can still just barely smell Henley Creek. A sign comes. PIT STOP: NEXT EXIT.

You curse under your breath. Reluctantly, you take the exit. A sharp hairpin turn leads you to a gas station just off the highway, the metal canopy edged with eerie red neon that turns the fog to blood-colored mist. The words PIT STOP glow white above the door. There’s a pickup parked at the side of the building, still running, nobody inside. You pull up to a pump, take a deep breath, and head for the gas station doors. There’s no one at the register.

A bell chimes as you open the door. “One sec,” you hear, a grumble from somewhere in the shelves. There’s a mess in the gap where someone could step behind the counter, a sludgy wet spot and a halo of floor to ceiling spatters. It’s definitely blood, still fresh enough to drip. There’s a squelching sound somewhere in the store. A door slams. The gas station attendant comes sauntering out of the back with a wide smile.

It’s the same one you always see here—the only one you’ve ever seen. Big and broad-shouldered, calloused palms and short, dark hair. His smile is just a little off, a little too big when the rest of his face exudes menace. He wears a long black apron over his uniform, saturated with glistening spots of what could be oil, water or blood invisible until the light hits them just right. “Hey there, courier. Sorry about the mess,” he drawls, sidling up to the counter without even a glance down to make sure he isn’t stepping in it. He rubs his red fingers over the apron, wiping a new stain across the front. “What can I do for you?”

“I’m at pump three,” you say.

“Mhm?” He rests his arm across the counter and leans forward. He’s giving you that hungry look he always does, drumming his blunt, bloody nails in an uneven, faltering rhythm. “And how do you wanna pay?”

You glance back at your car, out at the fog. Stalling. The attendant’s gaze burns into your back. “The only way you’ll let me pay,” you grumble. You hear a muted click and clatter; dice rolling against his palm. He beckons you forward with one finger.

“C’mon, courier. I’ll let you pay all kinds of ways. I just don’t want your money,” he says. He stacks the dice on the counter between you, three in a little tower. “Besides, you know the rules. You don’t owe me anything if you win.” The blood on the ceiling is starting to congeal into something sticky and unpleasant. It drips infrequently, in big, gummy clots. “We’re playing Highwayman,” he says.

“I know,” you say.

He ignores you. “The target’s fifty-two. We alternate rolls. If you go over, you lose. If you roll two wolves, you lose. If we both go over, whoever’s closer wins.”

“I know,” you insist.

He chuckles and rolls first, counts up his numbers; a one, a four and a five. His eyes linger on your hand when you pick up the dice. You catch him licking his lips. “I’ve been hearing rumors lately,” he says casually. “Trouble down south. Up north? Wherever the Stillwoods ended up this time.” You roll, count, and wait for his turn. This is the easy part. “They’ve been seeing hermit seegris in the area. I’d tell you to watch yourself if you’re headed that way, but those things don’t tend to stay in one place for long.”

“Hermit seegris?” you echo. “Never heard of those. What are they?” Click. Clack. Clatter. Two sixes and a five. You’re ahead.

The attendant hums. His turn is quick. He barely holds the dice before he flicks them out of his hand. “Like a hermit crab. But a seegris.”

“You’re not gonna tell me what a seegris is, are you?”

He grins. You think he’s just enjoying being a jackass but his gaze is lower, by your fingers. You rolled a two, a three, and a wolf. Your heart skips a beat at the blotchy silhouette. It could be anything, honestly. A couple pine trees. A rabbit. A butterfly, if you squint. It’s the shape that’s bound to show up on any die face if you roll it in the Drift often enough. “You know,” the attendant says, “I hear you roll wolves more often if you’re nervous.” Now he’s taking his time, fondling the dice for a while before he tosses them on the counter. Your palms are sweaty. You almost drop the dice on your turn. “You ever think about retiring, courier? Is that even an option? Your type don’t live long enough to get old anyway.”

He just keeps talking. You don’t stop him. You’re hardly paying attention to a word out of his mouth, just rolling and counting and rolling and counting, each one harder, slower, more nervewracking than the last. Eventually, you toss the dice and his hand comes down hard over your wrist, trapping it against the counter. Your roll hasn’t settled for more than a fraction of a second but you know. It’s the look on his face. His eyes match his smile for the first time since you walked in, his face lighting up with glee.

A six, a one, and a wolf.

You look at him and he looks at you, his other hand dipping below the counter and returning wrapped around the heavy wooden handle of a meat cleaver. “Two wolves! Isn’t that something?” he says. “You look nervous, courier. Come to think of it, I don’t think you’ve ever lost before. I guess everybody’s luck runs out eventually.” He grins, thumb stroking your pulse. Your stomach lurches. “But hey, you got close. Forty-nine! I’m feeling generous so I’ll give you a discount. Either way, gotta pay up. Safety or certainty?”

You shake your head, stammering. “Wait, wait, I—”

“Safety or certainty. Those are the options.” His grip tightens when you try to wriggle away and he yanks you closer, sending you stumbling into the register counter and sagging into his grip. “Want me to pick for you?”

“No,” you say quickly. He hums, unconvinced. “Wait, listen, okay, how about, uh…how about…”

“You’re young, aren’t you?” he says conversationally. He makes you splay your hand open, palm flat against the table. “Awful young. Haven’t lost anything quite like this before. Don’t you worry, courier. The more you drive these roads, the more you’ll get used to it. What I’m taking is so small you won’t know to miss it. Might wake up one day and realize you were better off without it.”

“Wait, wait, no,” you beg. He’s not waiting, not even hesitating as he raises the cleaver over his head, your voice rising to a panicked pitch. “No, no, no, nononoWAITNO—!”

The blade comes down in a blur with a solid THUNK. The sounds your body makes are muted in comparison, so distant you don’t hear them over your own screaming, but there was the ripping of flesh as soft as a page turning, the crack of bone snapping and splintering. There’s oozing, throbbing pain shooting up your arm and the prickling wrongness of something not being where it should be, something that doesn’t listen when your body tells it to move. You sink to your knees without the attendant holding you, surprised through a haze of agony to find you still have a hand. There’s a gushing stump where the little finger on your left hand used to be. Shuddering connective tissue flexes and flinches in the wound.

“You want me to wrap that for you?” the attendant asks. You lurch away from the counter with your hand clutched to your chest, sucking in shaky breaths. “Courier,” he says, shaking his head like you’re the one being unreasonable. He cradles your severed finger in his palm, gazing down at it like something precious. “Go on, fill your tank. And be careful out there. The Drift’s a dangerous place, you know. Monsters everywhere.” He lifts your finger to his mouth and gives it a good, long lick, smearing your blood across his tongue.

You mutter an insult and shoulder through the doors.

(next)

#rotpeach writes #goretober #the drift #you would not believe the day i have had lmfao life itself conspired against me getting any writing done today #tomorrow will hopefully be more normal

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just-horrible-things · 1 year ago

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Loiral and Marcus - Routine - 8.ii

[First | Prev | Contents]

"Work" as it turns out is not the ordeal Loiral is expecting. He sits at the table with Marcus, and answers questions about politics. They refer frequently to the map as Loiral dredges his memory for troop numbers and movements, past skirmishes, trade deals and supposed alliances, and Marcus takes copious notes in an unfamiliar script.

He thinks about lying, but it seems unwise. It's difficult to sabotage an endeavour with misinformation when you don't have the first idea what that endeavour might be. And he's acutely conscious of the consequences of being caught out. He can't start to guess what the surfacer might already know, and that's before the possibility of magic for catching lies.

Marcus' attention seems to centre on Houses Det'tar and Noquvalin and their territories and affairs. What Loiral can infer from that he's not yet sure, but if he keeps his ears open maybe he will start to understand what is going on. Not having any personal history with Det'tar or Noquvalin, he struggles to answer many of the questions in much detail. To his profound relief, Marcus doesn't press him for information he doesn't have.

"I'm not a library," he grumbles sourly, unable to come up with anything about hypothetical dealings between Houses Det'tar and Barrahel. "Don't worry," Marcus smiles, "A library visit is in our itinerary. How about House Al'Sekath?" "We've probably bought something from them, or sold to them." "Come now, you can be more specific than that." "I'm thinking," Loiral protests plaintively. "I don't think I've seen anything with their stamp on it recently..." "And can you draw that stamp for me?" "I can try..." Reluctantly he sketches, on a new page, the stylised execution scene of the Det'tar sigil. It comes out lopsided and not looking much like the original. "Just look at their front gates," he jabs a finger at the map, "it's blazoned twelve feet tall."

"Hm. So, nothing recent, you say... what about less recently?" "I think we bought some maille from Det'tar when I was younger... just a few coats, nothing to wage war over." He remembers getting to touch it -- dark links that ran over his hands like water -- but it was meant for someone more important than Loiral. His aunt made the deal, he thinks. "If not Det'tar, from whom would you normally purchase arms and armour?" "House Orlivayas," he lies easily. "And does Det'tar export a lot of metalwork?" "I don't think so. They have an excellent smith and she does piecework for the occasional client, but as far as I know they don't have extensive forges..."

And so it goes on.

Nothing about this exercise ought to be particularly strenuous, but Loiral finds he is flagging by the time he's finally dismissed. His thoughts are sluggish and a headache is building behind his eyes. "Weapons practice in an hour," Marcus tells the drow. "You may do as you will until then." "Yes, master." Best behaviour. "Thank you, master." This is tolerable. If things stay this way, he can survive this. He will mind his manners and not provoke the human and maybe he can survive this.

Do as you will. He doesn’t know what to do. There is nothing in this bright, foreign house that he wants to do. The closest thing to want is he does not want to still be in the same room as his master. So he slinks back toward the pitiful bed that is his to rest in. He’ll rest for an hour, and then they’ll let him spar, and maybe he will feel a little more like himself for it.

Except he doesn’t get all the way to his bed. He meets one of the juveniles in the hall, the one – he thinks – who hit him in the face by mistake. The same whip is coiled on her hip, the same arrogant strut marks her gait. She grins when she sees Loiral, showing off a crooked mouthful of broad, oversized teeth.

He doesn't know the word she uses as a command, but the gesture is clear enough. One hand extended in front of her, a single finger pointed at the floor and then jabbed sharply downward. It can only be "Down."

Loiral's soul aches with humiliation. His hands itch to lash out.

When he doesn’t move fast enough, the girl sticks her hand out again and confidently grasps the front of Loiral's collar. She doesn’t have Marcus' terrible strength, but Loiral lets her force him to his knees anyway.

Even absent, the priest stands behind Loiral, controlling his every move.

He lets his head drop as the human lets go of his collar. Her hands run through his hair, invasive. Shame burns across his skin. One hand cups the back of his skull and pushes him down further. He folds like a doll.

She’s talking, jabbering in her own tongue, cooing like a woman with a favourite lover. The sheer perversity of it turns Loiral’s stomach. He could kill her, if her clumsiness with the whip is any indication of her general competence. She’s barely even bigger than him. He could kill her, and mutilate her corpse, and feed it to the lizards.

But instead he grovels at her feet, and her hands roam over his back, and he does nothing to stop her.

Even when the knife comes out, he does nothing. The edge kisses his skin. Cold – and then warm as blood wells. It’s sharp enough that it barely stings. Or she’s picked a line of scar tissue where he’s lost more sensation than he thought. Or his ordeal under the scourge has destroyed his perspective and his ability to tell what is damaging him.

She lifts his head, fingers tangled in his hair, and the tug on his scalp doesn’t really hurt either.

She speaks, the words loud and slow and drawn-out as if that could somehow breach the language barrier. Loiral watches mutely. Lack of reaction is most likely the best way to convey that he doesn’t understand.

Using his hair as a handle still, she sits him back on his heels. When her grip releases, he stays where he is put. More pointless, incomprehensible words, guttural even in her youth’s voice. She holds one hand out towards Loiral, palm up, as if pantomiming a request for something to be handed over.

Loiral has nothing, just the clothes on his back. He stares blankly at her hand. She sighs, and that at least seems to be universal. Not that it helps him to know that she is growing frustrated.

She grabs his wrist, moves his arm through the same motion, and he understands enough to present his hand, palm up. Another word. When she lets go, he holds still. Same pantomime, other arm. He offers her his other hand also. The same word again. Praise, perhaps. Or maybe she’s trying to teach him the word for hand, or for this gesture. He has no way to know.

It should, he thinks, be an effort to keep his palms out and vulnerable like this. He knows that nothing good is about to happen. But a strange calm has settled into the crevices of his soul, and he feels nothing but dull disgust for the girl.

Whatever damage she does, Marcus will fix it. He’s fixed everything he’s done so far, so it’s clear he wants his property fit and whole.

The knife is no surprise. The tip traces the lines of his palm, grazing the skin just enough that a barely-felt sting trails a few seconds in its wake. He watches, disinterested, as she presses a little firmer. It’s sharp. The tip sinks into the heel of his hand without resistance, without even exerting the pressure that might make him flinch downwards away from it.

It hurts a little. But it doesn’t matter. Less pain than biting his tongue, less than a deep bruise, less pain than the morning after a hard training session.

The knife comes away with just the barest hint of his blood still clinging to it. She’s scared to cut any deeper, Loiral surmises, more scared of the consequences than he is, somehow.

Instead she scores another shallow cut. The skin parts like paper, blood welling slowly to fill the indentation. What a nuisance. How is he to touch anything without leaving prints of blood now? Two, three, four lines, none of them deep enough to nick the sinews. One palm and then the other, and he doesn’t even lower his hands.

Blood trickles across his skin, runs round the sides of his hands, gathers underneath and drips from his knuckles onto his knees. Is it less red than usual? Diminished, perhaps, by how much he lost, and not quite fully restored by the magic he received?

Maybe he’s imagining it. Maybe it’s just his soul that is dimmer and drained of its vitality.

The human girl is exclaiming something. Impressed or annoyed by his lack of reaction, perhaps?

There – that feeling in his chest is fear, putting in an appearance at last. Not sharp terror, nor the suffocating anxiety of the priest’s presence, but a low, dull pang as he wonders how far she’ll go to get the results she wants. Should he be faking a response? Cowering, crying, begging her for mercy?

He can do it, he thinks, if he has to. He will do it, if it starts to be too much. The throb of his sliced palms is bearable, but he doesn’t want to know if he can bear losing a finger.

But all she does is lay the blade flat against one of Loiral’s palms, and close his fingers around it. He holds on, tentatively. The sharp edges are more painful buried in the flesh and shifting with every twitch of his muscles than they were just gliding across the skin and departing. But it’s bearable.

She lets go of the hilt. The absurdity of handing Loiral a weapon very nearly makes him laugh, but he schools his features to stillness. No need to warn her, if – if he –

His heart is pounding, thundering in his ears. He could kill her, right here, right now. He could open her throat and it would feel so good to take back that power. To take her life from her and watch the shock fade from her idiot, animal eyes.

It isn’t worth the price.

She’s pantomiming flipping his hand over, fist still closed. Loiral obeys, demonstrating that he’s really holding onto the blade. The metal bites a little deeper. It’s nothing more than a bravado trick. He’s seen more than one young soldier do it to themselves just for the social kudos.

The same idiots who really do lose fingers trying to catch blades barehanded once they’ve convinced themselves that it’s not so bad.

Loiral’s never felt the need to hurt himself participating in that kind of one-upmanship, but he supposes he could now without flinching. If he survives this, will it be the dead calm that persists, or the suffocating fear, the twitching at stray footfalls? Is there anything he can do to choose one over the other?

He’s almost sliding towards reverie as he watches the blood drip from between his fingers, but he jolts back to the present the instant the girl moves. She snatches her knife back, but she’s not quick, and Loiral is able to loosen his grip enough that he doesn’t think anything important is severed as it slides from his grasp.

She wipes it on his clothes, and even the deliberate slight doesn’t really sting either, because they aren’t his clothes and because he’s been filthy enough that he doesn’t care.

She wants to see the damage, of course, before she’s willing to move on. It does burn, loosening his fingers to let her see, and reluctance starts to well up from that ache in Loiral’s chest.

Those last cuts are deep. At rest the edges don’t sit closed, and white is visible in the wound as well as red. A little grimace from the human tells him she didn’t quite mean to do so much damage.

He wonders if she’ll be in trouble with Marcus. He hopes so. He remembers her fear.

She closes his fingers again like she doesn’t want to see, and Loiral keeps the hand fisted as away to apply pressure and slow the bleeding. Not that it matters. He won’t lose enough to die before Marcus finds him again and fixes it.

Her knee knocks his shoulder as she brushes past. The drow waits until she’s gone, then picks himself up.

Back to his mat he slinks, because he doesn’t know what else to do with himself. Especially now that he’d paint anything he touched with his blood. He lies down, curls up, and closes his eyes to feign sleep. They usually leave him alone when his eyes are shut.

His hands throb. The pain is ramping up now as his body realises the damage. He keeps them balled tight, as if he could crush the pain into submission along with the blood flow.

And then he’s crying.

One second he’s just annoyed at the indignity, the next the pain and helplessness and indignity hit him like a wall. He can’t believe he just sat there and let her do that. He can’t believe he didn’t even try to protest or pull away. And now he’s crying again, how pathetic, how spineless is he.

He rolls over to face the wall, as if it could hide his tears. He curls up tight around his hands. And, teeth gritted, telling himself over and over to just pull himself together, he sobs into his knees.

#my writing #loiral and marcus #marcus arcuarius #loiral al'sekath #this story is still theoretically inactive #but you have asked and I have delivered #one pathetic drow boi

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overthinkingtaleblr · 2 years ago

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Here’s how the League of Legends AU thoughts are going I’m drawing ✨Cosmetics✨ for no reason

That sounds bitter but I’m actually having so much fun. Based on how the story works. he Should be getting hit with the Ruined cosmetic from the pirate cosmetic, but I’m trying to properly define his style and general design bible before I do anything like that. I guess it’s kind of like voicing a character who is making an impression of another character: you need a good understanding of both before you do that.

Yellow guy in first picture is Light Zeron bc i like thinking about that time someone said they should be friends… honestly if any of my character designs needs a design bible its him because I promise he has distinct characteristics it’s just kinda hard to notice when i don’t use color and chose to say he has a variety of things he wears and uses hair dye and stuff— but I promise there is Some method Somewhere in the madness ^^

For people who missed my initial post here’s an explanation of the skins:

The pirate skins take place in a place called Bilgewater— its where the pirates all are— and at some point there’s a whole event that takes place there, where a bunch of characters across the map go ooh being a pirate sounds fun and get funky new styles and a story to boot. Gavin, specifically, would be going to Bilgewater with Light because the duo are traveling together as friends from the same region (Piltover/Zaun) and probably because they’re wanted for Some crimes. Gavin has powers over something called the Harrowing from Piltovians playing god, and Light follows Janna, a wind spirit who protects Zaun’s harbors from pollution, and has managed to get some powers over the wind from it. Together, they realize they’d be valuable to have on a ship that needs to go past the Black Mist— dark clouds surrounding what was formerly known as the Blessed Isles that contain very murderous souls (the Harrowing is an event where the clouds periodically expand over usually Bilgewater, since its closest, and it wreaks Havoc). Together they get on the good graces of a captain and get a job on her ship using paths through the black mist to get merchants and travelers to places faster than others, with light at the helm and Gavin at the front of the ship.

At some point not too long after they start, the spirits within the mist get restless and suddenly lashes out against the ship. Some manage to escape, but being so close to the front of the ship and being highkey completely exposed, Gavin is not one of them. The dude who basically acts as the leader of the black mist, Viego, realizes how useful of an asset someone who can control the Black Mist would be, considering Viego has a goal to basically conquer the entire map. So, Gavin becomes the first “Ruined” character of the Ruined King/Sentinels of Light event, where the black mist inexplicably spreads across the entire map— leading to several characters getting borderline possessed by Viego. Genuinely, I don’t think any explanation was given as to why the mist was suddenly able to expand across the entire map, so being able to add a character who retroactively explains that part of the story works for me. Plus, the Ruined skins has themes with royalty, which I think is fun for Gavin :] Everyone in this skinline Should have an equal and opposite in the Sentinels skinline from a similar place, but my style ideas for Light doesn’t work with the Sentinals theme. Ideas include Toast, leading to brotherly reconciliation, and Poppy, who I have as the captain of the ship who was able to escape because she is immune to the Black Mist.

That’s everything I find important to say for now? But these are the design sketches and I like them.

#taleblr #Gavin toast #light Zeron #Taleblr doodles #taleblr pie #he still has the scar in the pirate skin I just never drew him at a good angle to see it ^^;

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chaggle · 3 years ago

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[Crawls into your askbox] it's been ages but as usual im still thinking abt ur Aus.

Slimerancher au and superhostile au my fucking beloved

I miss them too ;-;

I have a couple of projects i needa (and want to) finish off first before i can work on my Slime Rancher Au,,,

But as a treat, here's a scrapped sketch of Etho's ranch more like a city at the rate he's been living on the planet

This has been in my wips since like,,, November/December of last year aaaa

I want to make his ranch a run-down solar punk themed, but it doesn't quite get it yet so i wanna work out more designs to capture the fact that his base integrated into the Moss Blanket and into the Jungle Trees

Kind of like a ruined area with overgrown wildlife with a mix of ruined/messy solar punk :]

I'm really excited to design Etho, Taxes, Chester, and Sidekit aaaa

(I was thinking Wilson was an Ai he created to help manage his base and drones since its so large)

Also!! Some doodles and scrapped wips for Hostile Takeover Au under cut

(Tbh I'm prob not gonna do anything with this au mostly because I don't have that kind of time nor commitment to stick to a long form project and fully write Hostile Takeover :/) I really do like this concept and want to work on it in the future but idk-

You know, without context this might be a bit confusing... So lemme explain what Hostile Takeover is lol

Hostile Takeover is a Hermitcraft au in which Vechs is a supernatural entity that absolutely loves to toy and mess with players.

Like how he communicates with players in his maps, he can only speak through signs and is perpetually in Spectator mode, but has access to world-editing commands

The plot:

Vechs was able to track down Joe and Cleo in the Hermitcraft Server (This au was made back in early Season 7) and had essentially destroyed and reformed the server into a Super Hostile Map.

The Hermits were all knocked out during this process and were tranported to the starting area of the map.

Joe was the first to wake up. Knowing that was likely his fault the Hermits are in this situation because Vechs was specifically hunting him down, he moves on without the Hermits to find the next checkpoint and fins resources.

When the other Hermits wake up they immediately notice three things: Several Hermits are missing, no one has admin privileges, and their communicators have been going off with death messages from Joe repeatedly dying.

The Hermits that are missing, besides Joe are: Jevin, Doc, Cleo, and Xisuma

Hypno, Beef, Bdubs and Etho take it upon themselves to inform the other Hermits who exactly Vechs is and what Complete the Monument maps are.

In this case, Vechs stated that if the Hermits are able to complete the Victory Monument with all the colors of Wool and obtain the Admin's communicator, he will revert the world and leave everyone before he had entered it.

The catch is: The missing Hermits are the ones guarding specific wool and have complete control over specific mobs that they can summon at will.

As the remaining Hermits progress, some stay behind and the closest checkpoint to continue to gather resources and food and help any Hermits that died while exploring

Another group heads out to conquer and light up the map until they find a wool or encounter stuff Joe has left behind to help them.

While the Hermits are working together, Joe put himself in the mindset that he was constantly used to when he was forced to play Vechs's maps. He's used to working alone in these situations and thinks that he probably works best alone.

He still leaves behind resources and books about his journies and ramblings behind for the Hermits to read and understand his feelings throughtout this entire map. The books are mainly filled with poetry and random rambles. On occassion they are pages filled with crossed out writing, torn put pages, or have splattered blood in them.

Ther Hermits wete eventually able to catch up to Joe in the first Boss Hermit, Jevin.

The Boss Hermits:

Jevin: Nether themed. Converted into a giant magma variation of himself, controls all nether mobs except the Zombie Pigmen

Doc: Controls all creepers and supercharged creepers, along with the spawning of natural mobs

Cub and Scar: Controls all Illagers, Ravagers, Witches and Vex. Located in a modified region that is made to look like a Woodland Mansion. (Insert joke about Vechs and Vex here)

Cleo: Control spiders, cave spiders, zombies, and skeletons. (Her area was themed as the old kingdom she ruled before Vechs encountered her world and converted it into a Super Hostile map)

Xisuma: End themed. Controls all end mobs, including the dragon. He can use admin controls to alter the world around him as well as shape shift into mobs he has used in the past.

With each defeat of a boss, they free them from Vech's control and also free the mobs that were controlled by them. The world also reverts in updates. This changes the Hermit's skins as they regress over time (Insert joke about newly freed Hermit that was under the influence of Vechs only being able to recognize Etho here)

Joe still moves ahead, alone, of the the group of Hermits. But always comes back to work together to fight the next boss hermit

At the end of Xisuma's fight, things take a turn.

The End begins to collapse around them and the Hermits rush to the End Portal.

Chains from the void latch onto Joe, Bdubs, Hypno, and Bdubs

The Hermits that haven't yet entered the portal yet rush to help them out. Beef breaks Bdub's chains but in return, was taken and dragged down into the void. Hypno, who was still being held back yells for the remaining hermits to leve before the world collapse and to take the wool. He promises they'll be fine. To leave and join with th group.

The remaining Hermits leave and wake up at the checkpoint.

Their communicators buzz.

JoeHillsTSD has falled out of the world.

Etho has fallen out of the world.

VintageBeef has fallen out of the world.

Hypno has fallen out the world.

At this point, the Vicotry Monunent has been completed with the black wool. But their friends are missing

Confused and angry, some Hermits yell at Vechs, knowing he's listening. And in response, he places down signs.

He tells them that they still need Xisuma's communicator.

Joe was the one holding that took it fron Xisuma during the fight was went down with it when he was dragged into the void.

Vechs reveals a new path.

And the Hermits, having Bdubs guide them, uses what the learnt from him, Hypno, Etho, and Beef and continue the map.

The Hermits that were taken were made into bosses, the world wildly fluctuating between different updates.

The new boss hermits:

Hypno: Modded minecraft (verson 1.8). The hermits were given a little mercy by Vechs and given some resources to help them in their fight against Hypno.

Beef and Etho: (versions 1.7) A pvp battle arena against the duo. The area has a bunch of red, green, blue glass pillars. All of these are used to help Etho make percise shots quicker, helping measure his distnace between him and his target. These two are incredibly deadly working together. The Hermits died several times fighting off against them.

Joe: (version is in limbo) A platform above the void. A parkour, and at the end Joe waits.

Majority of the Hermits that went out to get Joe didn't survive the course. The only ones remaining are Xb, Cleo, Jevin, and Xisuma.

He engages them in a 4 vs 1 battle, and is able to keep up. Unlike the orevious fights, Joe actively taunts them. He tells them to give up. That if they just give in Vechs will give them Xisuma's communicator and press the button on the command block. It woukd send them to another world.

The only stipulation is that Joe stays behind.

Of course the group calls bullshit on that and continue fighting. Cleo tries to to fight through Vechs's influence on Joe. They continue ti have a back and forth with Joe, countering his claims to leave him behind.

Eventually, Xisuma, Xb, and Jevin have all been slain by Joe.

Cleo missing an arm and her sword was tossed into the void. But Joe hasn't killed her yet.

She's still talking despite her injuries. Joe is just standing, his sword discarded in the platform. On his right, he holds Xisuma's communicator. Oh his left his hand is resting on the button of the command block. The command blocks that will send everyone, but him, to another world.

Joe is crying.

Cleo approaches him. Still talking to Joe despite his lack of responses.

Without thinking, Cleo hugs Joe. He doesn't return it, but his arms hand limply, away from the command block.

The two of them have been playing Vechs's game since the beginning. They've watched him destroy worlds and died countless times trying to play a game with a finish line alway being moved just out of their reach.

You can't win a game against a god by playing into their hands.

Vechs's control on Joe fades. He hands her the Admin communicator. And the two of them call out Vechs.

He's unammused with the outcome. But Vechs did say that he would return everything to normal and leave the Hermits for good if theh completed the Victory Monument and a Hermit is able to retrieve Xisuma's communicator.

He teleports the duo and back to the Hermits at the check point and agrees to his end of the deal. Xisuma and the other permitted Hermits get their admin privileges back and Vechs knocks everyone out (to be petty) and restores the world to as it was before he came.

The minute Xisuma wakes up, he's sure to ban Vechs , even if if probably won't do anything, to make sure he doesn't enter the server again.

And ta daaaa that's Hostile Takeover :]

#cyd answered a thing #green-t-tea #hermitcraft #hc slime rancher au #Hostile Takeover #cyd drew a thing #cyd doodled a thing #MAN NOW I MISS HOSTILE TAKEOVER #AHG #I wanna work on it again ;-;#i still have my old designs of Cleo Cub and Jevin's boss forms aaaaaaa

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freebooter4ever · 3 years ago

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Guardian Of Queens: Ahkmenrah/OC that takes place a few months after the first movie when everything is still a little new to our golden boy. Ahk is actually 17 in this, both characters are ace, there is a lot of fluff and sillyness, and art talk, and Ahkmenrah getting the worship he probably knows he deserves (Pharaoh!) that the movie didn’t give him. And basketball, because it’s the only team sport I know and Larry seems exactly like the kind of guy who if given the opportunity would create a sports tournament using famous historical figures on opposing teams just for shits and giggles a’la Hexwood.

Anyway I’m dedicating this to @zacksfairest who even after a decade of my blog still wants to read my writing?????

Setting the scene: it’s the winter of 2006, when the days are short and nights come early, and a sarcastic teenage artist is furiously sketching the stuffed animals in the Museum of Natural History, hurrying before they get kicked out at the end of the day...

The museum is closing and I'm packing my pencils into my case, when I feel a sudden strange gurgle in my gut. I recognize the feeling, and I know what it means.

"Hey D?" I ask my friend kneeling on the floor next to me, who is also hastily stuffing her art supplies into her satchel.

"What?" she asks distractedly, "We stayed too late, we gotta go or the docents will glare at us."

D's biggest fear in life is making other people angry at her, and number two is secondhand embarrassment. I'm the same way so we get along well.

"You know how you said I shouldn't have eaten food off those street carts? Because of what you saw in the storehouses?" I ask.

"Yeah…?" D looks at me.

"That food might be coming out of me sooner than expected…" I stand up and the slight stretching suddenly makes the need more urgent, "much much sooner."

The look of horror on D's face tells me everything.

"Bathroom options outside the museum…?' I ask, though I know it's futile.

"Closest one would be Central Park but that'll take at least a ten minute walk, maybe a five minute run," D says.

"Absolutely no running will be happening," I wince and try to take a step. My stomach gurgles stronger. Any movement is clearly dangerous.

"Just go in the museum," D pulls out her very wrinkled and folded ancient Natural History Museum map, "I'll meet you outside the museum doors and tell anyone who asks that you're lost." She circles the nearest bathroom with her blue pencil and shoves the map in my hands. D is the expert here, she grew up in the city. I'm just taking a college prep course for the summer.

Speed walking to the bathroom while trying to keep your butt clenched is not very dignified, but speed walking while also skulking around corners to avoid being caught by docents or guards is even less so. I barely make it in time. Somehow the body knows when relief is near, and the closer you get, the harder it is to hold everything in.

I will not repeat the noises I made once sitting upon the toilet, but suffice to say any passing museum staff member might have thought someone installed a new waterfall in the restroom.

Having the runs in a public bathroom is a real shit show.

It hurts, for one thing, and the rough low quality paper only makes things more raw. I lose complete track of time, focusing instead on making sure there is absolutely nothing left in me. It comes in waves, each slightly less painful than the last, until finally they subside. I wash my hands thoroughly and stumble towards the bathroom door. And then open it a tiny crack. I peek outside.

Nothing in the hallway - no movement, no noise, no museum guards. I open the door fully and almost step into the hall, when suddenly an RC car zips past my feet and scooters around the corner. I barely have time to process this unexpected intrusion before I hear a loud rumbling, like an earthquake. Except I'm no longer in California, I'm in New York where the ground doesn't shake...it couldn't possibly be…

A giant mass rumbles past the bathroom door so fast it's almost a blur. I slam the door shut and throw my body against it to keep it that way.

I fumble my shitty emergency cell phone brick out of my bag and dial D's number with shaky hands.

"Are you still alive?" D asks, "It's been a half hour! I thought maybe you fell in!"

"I'm really sick, D," I tell her anxiously, "I'm hallucinating dinosaurs."

"Like real dinosaurs or 'heffalumps and woozles' style animated dinos?"

"One real dinosaur. It ran past the bathroom door…"

"You're still in the bathroom??? Why are you still in the bathroom? We need to leave!"

"There's a dinosaur out there!"

"Dude, the sun's gone down!" D says frantically, "You know my parents hate it when I take the subway after dark."

"I know, I know," I sympathize, "You go home, I'll be fine."

"You're seeing dinosaurs, you are not okay."

"I don't think it was a full dinosaur, just like the skeleton, so it can't eat me, it's okay."

"Pretty sure teeth are bones. Even if it doesn't digest you, that's still a lot of mashing for your body to go through."

"Wait, I hear voices!" I hiss over the phone and press my ear up to the door, "And keys jingling. I think it's a security guard now."

"No more hallucinations?"

"No more hallucinations," I whisper back, "I'll wait till the coast is clear and run to the nearest exit. You take the train home, don't worry about me"

"Okay, but call me the minute you get out."

"I will," I promise. I click the phone off and shove it back in my bag. My bag I clutch to my chest, hoping to stop it from rattling or thumping or making any noise at all. And then I strain to listen at the door. Once I am certain there's nobody immediately outside, I push through and walk quickly down the hall.

The museum is a maze. I think I get lost, but I can't be too sure because all roads must lead to an exit eventually, right? In the end, it's the noise that draws me to the correct hall - a loud ruckus as if someone's having an after hours party. Potentially my lucky break because if there is an event happening, I might be able to slip out unnoticed as an anonymous guest.

I sneak onto the mezzanine and position myself behind a pillar. I'm just about to lean around the pillar and look out over the balcony when from out of nowhere a basketball sails past my head. The ball nearly hits me. I quickly duck into my hiding spot, and watch the basketball ping off the wall, hit the railing, and bounce slowly toward my feet.

I can't believe someone just threw a basketball inside the Museum of Natural History. In a room full of glass...and decorative sculpture. Where they won't even let you take large backpacks if you're not an artist.

Somewhere beneath the mezzanine I hear a bemused voice say, "Good enthusiasm, but maybe try a little less force next time, Atilla."

"I shall retrieve the ball," another voice says politely - too politely. This must be a golden retriever, goody-two-shoes, rich kid type. It's all in his accent. And I know the type - if this snitch finds me, I'm in trouble.

I jolt forward, still trying to stay hidden behind the pillar but also painfully aware someone is about to come pick up this ball any minute now, and I will be caught. My nerves are frantic, and I keep staring at the basketball as if it will turn into a magic eight ball and give me answers, but no luck. And the next thing I know someone behind me is politely clearing their throat.

I sit back down on my ass, lean back against the pillar, and look up. A few feet away stands a beautiful boy resplendent in royal regalia. He does look like the snitching type. Our eyes meet, and honestly he looks as dumbfounded as I do. His jaw drops in a sort of adorable gape, and he sucks in a deep breath, clearly about to tell me off or launch into a lecture.

I cut him off before he can start. I use my foot to gently roll the ball towards him. He looks pretty stupid, so maybe he will take it and go.

He expertly traps the ball with his foot when it reaches him. He bends down, picks the basketball up daintily using two hands and only touching his fingertips, and straightens. And then looks me in the eye, nods regally, and says, "Thank you."

I nod back.

He leaves as mysteriously as he arrived - in a stunning swirl of orange fabric that blows a gentle breeze at my face. He smells nice… like some kind of flower I can't name. And he's got gold on his sandals. Who the fuck puts gold on flipflops?

I crab-walk in the direction he came from, trying to remain hidden. I'm not bold enough to stand up in full view behind the balcony, but I am mollified by the brief encounter with cosplaying rich boy. Bold enough to dare to try and get a better look below. I can't see anything over the large railing, so I instead scoot my ass to the top of the staircase and crouch there.

It's a full on party happening downstairs.

The beautiful boy is no longer holding the basketball. He gave it to a short security guard and is now standing to the side while the security guard explains about free throws. There's a regulation height basketball hoop hooked up to the ceiling on one end of the hall. Someone marked court lines on the floor in painters tape. I get the feeling that this security guard might be in more trouble than me - absolutely none of this looks legal.

"You gotta make it swish!" the security guard explains. He takes a shot and the ball bounces off the rim.

"That was more of a 'clunk'," the beautiful boy observes skeptically.

"Yeah I know, that's not what I meant to have happen," the guard retrieves the ball and sets up for his next shot, "Swish!" This time the basketball bounces off the backboard and goes soaring.

The boy, transcendent in his orange outfit that matches the ball, lightly catches it, and throws it back to the guard.

"Swish!" the guard repeats, as he shoots again, as if saying it will make it happen. This time the ball at least bounces off the backboard and makes it into the hoop.

"Was that a swish?" the boy asks.

"No," the guard is getting irritable. He hands the ball to the boy, "I think I've demonstrated enough. You try, Ahk."

The boy - Ahk - takes the ball by his fingertips, and launches it into the air. His regalia and cape lifts when he does this. He's not wearing a shirt.

The basketball sails in a smoothly beautiful curve and falls straight into the basket with a very sexy 'swish'. No rim, no backboard, just net. I'm a little impressed.

"How…?" the security guard's jaw drops, "You just…????" He pantomimes the ball soaring.

"It's a simple matter of hand eye coordination and a swift calculation of the optimal angle to arc the ball through the air," Ahk says knowledgeably.

"Yeah but… You just...you made it swish. Shot the ball right into the net, like it was nothing," the guard protests.

"We built the pyramids, Larry," Ahk tells him flatly. With perhaps a hint of sarcasm.

"I think you've been holding out on me," Larry argues, "No way was that your first try."

"I have never held a basketball in my life," Ahk explains, "For one thing, it touches the floor regularly and princes were never allowed to come into contact with anything as vulgar as the unblessed floor, even by proxy. For another thing, throwing a ball is infinitely easier than throwing a spear accurately from a moving chariot."

"So what you're saying is you have experience. That's it, you can't be on my team anymore, it would make things uneven, you have to join Atilla," Larry says.

"But I want to be on your team, guardian of Brooklyn," Ahk looks crushed.

"Atilla needs you more. The guy can't shoot for shit," Larry points at a beefy looking man covered in furs.

Ahk pouts - an unbelievably adorable expression - but he obediently walks over to the other side of the 'court' and stands beside Atilla. His cape swirls around him as he turns to face Larry again. I briefly wonder how he's going to survive a basketball game wearing it. All it would take is a well placed foot on the hem and the boy'd be down for the count. And who would even notice the foul under all that swirling.

I'm so busy staring at his cape, and then at the Atilla guy, and wondering if Atilla overheats underneath all that leather, that I don't notice Ahk eyeing me till it's too late.

"Larry, did we get a new exhibit today?" Ahk inquires casually.

"Not that I know of, why?" Larry asks.

"Because there's a girl staring mutely at us from the top of the stairs. I don't believe she's figured out how to speak yet," Ahk replies and points straight at me.

"Ah shit," I curse under my breath. My muscles go into flight or freeze mode. They conveniently pick freeze.

Larry immediately looks my way. He recognizes that I do not belong to their creepy possibly illegal larping party and yells "Hey!"

Flight kicks in. I take off running down the stairs. I can see the museum entrance forty feet away. Larry looks slow and old, I'm sure I can beat him. I hit the bottom of the steps and see him coming from one direction. I spin around the opposite side, shoot out from behind the staircase, and sprint across the hall.

I can hear the old man security guard behind me yelling "Stop!" I am certain I have him beat, I am well ahead of him, dodging each of the strange creatures and people loitering around watching the basketball lesson. Until finally I reach the entrance doors. And collide into them with a painful thud.

The doors are locked.

I probably should have seen that coming. I shake them. The doors rattle mockingly. I shake them some more. It doesn't give. And the mechanism for locking goes both ways. I need a key.

Who the fuck needs to lock doors of a museum from the inside?? To keep something in? Someone?

"I tried to tell you," Larry comes up behind me. He sounds winded. I was right - he is old, "You're not in trouble but you can't leave. The doors are locked for the night."

"Don't you have keys?!" I demand.

"Yes but I really shouldn't unlock the doors. You have no idea how risky it is. We already lost Lewis and Clark that way," He tells me.

"Just let me out, five seconds to open and close the door," I beg.

"You're underestimating how sneaky these guys are, I'm sorry. You're stuck in the museum for the night," Larry apologizes. He at least sounds genuinely sorry, "Hey, it could be like a museum sleepover! Most kids have to pay top dollar for that."

"I'm not a kid, I'm seventeen," I grumble.

"Sorry, most seventeen year old kid's parents have to pay top dollar for that," Larry corrects sarcastically.

I glare at him angrily. "Isn't it illegal to keep underage kids against their will?"

"Pretty sure it's also illegal to be in the museum after hours," Larry taunts, sounding more childish than me, "What exactly were you doing, huh? Causing trouble? Trying to rob the monkey? Impossible at this time of day because trust me, after sunset, you do not rob the monkey, he robs you."

"I was in the bathroom," I cross my arms and glare harder.

"Well, that sounds like a load of shit," Larry says. He doesn't believe me.

"Oh it was," I insist, "Loads. Loads and loads of shit. Greenish too."

"Ooookay, don't need to know the specifics," Larry says, clearly regretting his inquiry, "How about you come over and watch the basketball game, huh? If you get tired, there are lots of blankets and pillows in the sea life wing where Teddy and Sac are holding a meditation retreat under the whale."

"Why under the whale?" I ask.

"Because whale noises are apparently really soothing to the human body's circadian rhythm or something," Larry says with a shrug, "I don't know, go ask them if you're curious." And he turns back to his basketball lesson without a second thought.

I follow him and sit cross-legged on the edge of the 'court' to watch.

The Ahk boy smiles at me and gives a shy wave.

I glare at him. This is his fault. He can take that stupid pretty face of his and shove it. Even if he is good at free throws.

"Okay, Ahk, we have to work on your dribbling," Larry says as he reclaims the basketball from an ostrich doing it's best to swallow it.

"Do not treat me like some snot nosed kid," Ahk says snottily.

"What?" Larry screws his face up in momentary confusion, and then realizes, "Oh…no," Larry corrects, "Not like snot dribble...like...dribble. Bouncing the ball…" He demonstrates.

"On the floor?" Ahk scrunches his nose in distaste. I can see him mentally counting every time the dribbled basketball smacks the tile.

Larry seems tired, "Look, if the museum had an ancient Egyptian priest mummy we'd solve the floor problem with a blessing or something. But we don't, so you'll have to make do."

"And dribble on the floor?" Ahk sighs.

"Yes, bounce the ball on the floor," Larry agrees, "Up and down. It's not hard."

"That still looks vulgar," Ahk says.

"Vulgar?" Larry asks.

"You are caressing that ball inappropriately," Ahk says.

"No, I'm not caressing...I'm dribbling!" Larry argues. He is a very combative individual. He bounces the ball to Ahk, who catches it and drops it on the floor. It doesn't bounce back high enough to dribble it.

"It's called palming the ball and it's bad form when dribbling," I interrupt, getting up from my seat and walking towards them, "You'll get a carry if you do that. Here let me." I steal the basketball from the fancy golden boy easier than taking candy from a baby.

"Anyone can make a basket," I say while dribbling effortlessly, "but to execute a perfect layup?" I jog towards the hoop, aware of the placement of my feet in the back of my mind, but at this point the technique's been so drilled into me it's almost natural. One swift jump at the end of my run, and I lob the ball up. It hits the square corner, bounces into the rim, circles once, and falls in.

"Why are we murdering a 'layup'?" Ahk interjects, looking confused.

"Okay that layup was pretty good," Larry tells me grudgingly, "Atilla, we found you a new team captain."

"My dad had dreams of me being a basketball player," I explain, "I was freakishly tall as a twelve year old."

"Yeah I was never blessed with that gift," Larry states the obvious.

"I see that," I nod.

Ahk chuckles at my comment.

Larry gives him a look like 'really?'.

"She speaks the truth," Ahk shrugs, "Even the shortest statues built of me would dwarf you." He raises his hand high above his own head, and then lowers it down to Larry's level.

"Teenagers," Larry mutters. He grabs the ball and passes it back to Ahk. "Your turn to dribble."

Ahk drops the ball to the ground again and pokes at it with his fingertips a few times before it thuds to a stop.

"Okay, that's a start," Larry says encouragingly, "Uhhhh, how about you," - he points at me - "...help Ahk out with the dribbling, and I'm going to try and drill it into Atilla's head that shooting hoops requires finesse?"

I accept my new role as assistant basketball coach without enthusiasm. The golden boy does not appear to have any passion for sport, and even less interest in basketball specifically. He stares at the ball as if he's never played a game in his life.

"I much preferred soccer," he informs me as I come up to him "Kicking things feels more cathartic than dribbling,"

"That's only cause you haven't learned yet," I tell him. I grab the ball from his hands and start dribbling it beside me. "Dribbling is all about control. You make this ball go where you want it to. You know everything about the ball, its size, its spin, its pressure…" I palm the ball and squeeze it between my hands, "well...actually...this basketball is kinda squishy, we'll have to get Larry to find us a pump. But my point is, if you control the ball you control life."

Ahk narrows his eyes at me skeptically, "That's a lot of expectations to place on a tiny orange sphere."

"I know," I shrug and continue dribbling, "But as a bonus you look super cool when you get good enough to do this." I bounce the ball through my legs and continue dribbling with my opposite hand seamlessly.

"That is pretty 'cool'," Ahk agrees, looking mildly impressed. He uses air quotes around the word cool, as if he's not yet convinced about the word's slang meaning.

"Try to steal the ball," I tell him with a grin. I continue dribbling at an even pace and position my body between him and the ball.

Ahk sighs and looks long-suffering, "I miss the days when I never had to steal anything. People just gave me whatever I wanted."

"Yeah, okay, I guessed you were spoiled," I laugh, "but there is no way in hell I am giving you this ball. If you want it, you'll have to take it."

"Maybe I don't want the ball," he crosses his arms and offers a counter argument, "I will graciously allow you to keep it. I do not covet worldly goods."

"Oh sure you don't, 'holier-than-thou' boy," I mock him.

"I am holier than you. I am holier than anyone, for I am a descendent of the gods," he declares.

"That's a lot of expectations to place on one tiny golden boy," I tease him.

He narrows his eyes at me.

"Come on," I urge him, "don't be a chicken."

He lunges forward to grab the ball, and of course fails as I pivot and switch hands. He tries again, and I once again maneuver the ball out of reach. After a few more doomed tries he finally stops in front of me and puts his hands on his hips.

"All right," he orders, "teach me the magic of dribbling. Show me how to control the ball."

I smile and do exactly as he says.

Ahk turns out to be a decent ball player once he puts his mind to it. He learns fast, and he is light on his feet. By the end of a few hours he is dribbling competently and smiling ear to ear.

"Awesome," I say as he steals the ball out from under my elbow.

He laughs and kindly hands it back to me. We still have to work on passing. The boy is far too soft to properly send the ball whizzing straight into his teammate's arms.

"Hey, can I see your hand?" I ask, reaching out my own.

He stares at my hand with wide eyes.

"I want to show you something," I explain, "I swear my hands haven't touched the floor."

He gives me a suspicious look, "You are making a joke, aren't you."

"Yes of course I am," I say, "You saw me literally sitting on the floor a few hours ago, of course I've touched it. Why's the floor such a big deal?"

He thinks about this. I can see the gears behind his eyes working, weighing the pros and cons - an open book, this one. After a few minutes deliberation, he stands straight and proudly extends his hand.

I take his hand in my own and spread his fingers apart. "See how our hands compare?" I ask. I place our palms together and lay my fingers against his, "Your fingers are as long as mine, but your hand is much wider. Means it's going to be easy for you to do this…" I drop his hand and palm the ball, holding my hand face down so the only thing keeping the ball from falling is the grip of my fingers.

He watches me intently, and then politely holds his hand out for the ball in order to try himself.

"Start by holding the ball in both hands, and press your palm fully to the surface," I carefully adjust his right hand grip, "Squeeze with your fingertips, and then let go with the left."

Ahk does as told, and magically the ball stays in place.

"Holy crap, first try!" I exclaim, "See, I told you this would be easy for someone with your hands!"

He beams at me. My praise elicits an expression of such joy and excitement, it's no wonder he's a quick study. I imagine every teacher in his life tried to constantly find something new for him to learn just to see him that damn happy and fulfilled.

"Good job, Ahk," I say.

He tries to move his hand, and fumbles the basketball out of his grip.

"Woah," I catch the ball as it tries to bounce away, "It's harder to palm the ball and move it at the same time. Even you will have to practice that, Mr. Naturally-Large-Handspan."

His smile broadens, and he reaches towards me. And then a loud ear splitting tone beeps over the loudspeakers. When the tone finishes, "In A Gadda Da Vida'' begins.

The whole hall breaks into chaos, everyone starts running at once.

"What?" I spin around in confusion, trying to make sense of the sudden spurt of activity this noise caused.

"That's the alarm to warn us we only have seventeen minutes of life left," Ahk explains kindly, "When the song ends, so do we."

"What?!?" I exclaim louder.

"We return to our exhibits and become lifeless once more," Ahk says.

"Exhibits…?" I echo.

"Walk with me?" Ahk takes a step towards the stairs and cocks his head, "Larry's got his hands full right now, so it must fall on me to explain."

"Okay…?" I follow the boy up the stairs and down a few hallways, "So you're really from Egypt?"

"I was born there thousands of years ago…" Ahk smiles and holds his hand out for me to step into the Temple of Ahkmenrah.

"Ahk...Ahkmenrah...you're the…"

"Pharaoh, yes," Ahk interjects. He looks delighted by my surprise and sudden comprehension. I get the feeling he enjoys mystifying people.

"How…?" I ask. As soon as I step inside his room the two Anubis statues turn to face us with very real, very dangerous looking spears. "Oh!" I freeze.

Ahk chuckles and says something in his old language. The guards stand down.

"Wow…" I drift forward and then pause before my hand connects with the priceless artifacts, "Can...can I touch."

Ahk nods his consent regally.

I reach out and place my palm on the guard's knee. "Wow," I repeat eloquently.

The guard bends down so his head is about at my height, and places his hand gently on mine. I touch his cheek, and run my hand up his face in awe. "I always wanted to be able to tell sculptures how beautiful they are," I say.

I swear the guard's cheeks crinkle under his eyes like he is smiling.

"They can understand me?" I turn to Ahk in wonder.

He grins and nods.

"You're amazing!" I gush at the guard, "I spend hours - days - studying the lines and shapes you create in three dimensional space. Thank you for surviving all these years and representing centuries of composite artistic knowledge."

The guard inclines his head lower in deference.

I glance back at Ahk, worried I might have said something wrong.

The boy's grinning at me again, looking especially pleased with himself. "Come, see my tomb," Ahk orders and sweeps regally past me in his cape.

"Your tomb? ...oh...hell," it finally dawns on me what all this is adding up to. I walk into the antechamber and sure enough, Ahk is climbing into the sarcophagus in the center of the room. He wraps his cape around himself rather tightly.

"It gets a little chilly in there," he explains when he sees me watching, "All that stale air."

"You're going to die again?" I ask in a little bit of panic, "Please don't."

"I don't have a choice," he gestures to the wall behind his coffin and smiles at me benignly, "This tablet brings me and the exhibits to life at night. But the minute the sun rises, the spirits return to slumber."

"I know," I tell him, "I figured it was something like that, I just had to say it. That I don't want you to go yet."

He smiles at me brilliantly. There's an innocent enthusiasm to his eyes that I'm pretty sure has always been unusual even in ancient times. It's hard not to feel bitter and shriveled in the face of all that open kindness.

"Do you close the lid?" I ask stupidly, staring at the person-shaped hunk of gold leaning against the tomb wall.

Ahk looks at it too. "Yes," he says sadly, the light in his eyes dimming.

Our conversation slows. It's a little odd talking to him when he's sitting upright in his coffin. A little too vampiric for comfort. "Do you need any help?" I ask. Probably another dumb question - he dies every morning, of course he needs help. More professional help than I could offer. And belatedly I realize it might be rude to be hanging around till he kicks it, maybe this time is private, maybe he wouldn't want anyone to see his lifeless body, maybe I should have left a half hour ago - what am I even still doing here, inside the museum after it already closed?

"Help would be greatly appreciated," Ahk says warmly. He looks at me like I just offered him the world.

I can feel myself blush, which is stupid. Shouldn't he be used to people offering him the world? Being a Pharaoh and all?

"The lid is not difficult, but I always have to do it myself because Larry is too busy with the other exhibits," Ahk explains quietly, "Would you do it for me?"

"Yeah, sure, of course!" I say, and in my enthusiasm to show how helpful I can be, I immediately start lifting the lid and shifting it closer.

He stops me with a hand on my arm, and his eyes earnestly beg. "No...," he says.

I drop the lid like it's hot lava.

"I mean...close the lid after I'm…gone," he explains, "...I don't like being locked inside there while I'm awake."

"Of course…I can do that…" I stammer, embarrassed that it hadn't occurred to me. Of course he wouldn't want to be enclosed in a tiny dark space while alive. Who would?

"Thank you, guardian of…" he waits for me to fill in the blank. His hand is still touching my arm.

"Um...Queens?" I offer.

"Of the Queens?" He repeats with surprise, "A venerated position!"

"Oh!" I exclaim, "No! Not those kind of Queens. Not any kind of Queens at all, really. More of a place."

"Ah...a place where queens reside," Ahk concludes. He lies back in his coffin and gets settled.

"No, not that I know of...I mean princess Di might have driven through Queens during her tour in the 90's, but she's really the only royal anyone cares about anymore and…" I start babbling.

"You live there?" Ahk asks, "Among this Queens land?"

"Yeah…" I say.

"Then I know at least one person of royal comportment resides in the valley you speak of," Ahk grins.

"Oh, no no no no no," I protest, "No I'm not royalty. In fact my great-great grandfather was a groundskeeper for some upper crust asshole in my family's home country, and he fell in love with the asshole's noble daughter, and the asshole was so angry that the lovers escaped to America to become my ancestors, but it also meant they lived in a one room shack in the appalachians and mined coal…" I shut up when I see Ahk's brilliant smile is back on his face. His eyes are dancing in amusement and I realize… "You're teasing me. You know I'm not royalty." He's not as stupid as I first thought. In fact, he might be a little clever.

He chuckles. He closes his eyes and leans his head back, and he must know something is happening, because he's ready. But I'm shocked when his body fades like a gradient from head to toe. Now he's the shriveled one.

I swear my soul leaves my chest as well, watching it happen to him. There was so much life there - more than the average human - and suddenly it's just gone.

"Ahk?" I ask, though I know he can't answer, "Ahkmenrah?"

The boy's smile is still on his face. A small comfort - knowing that instead of him pulling his own lid over and disappearing in darkness, he was laughing this time. But the room is suddenly so, so empty. I can feel the futileness of even talking to him like you would a ghost. He simply is no longer there.

I drag the coffin lid over his face and secure it. And then I think about him waking up in that tomb alone. And how maybe it takes Larry quite some time after finishing with the others to get to Ahk's exhibit and let him out. And I examine the hinge mechanism locking the lid in place. Unlike Ahk, this hinge holds no hidden cleverness. It's new and was obviously constructed by the museum.

I dig into my art supplies bag and pull out my palette knife. The hinge is glued to the side of the coffin rather than screwed in - probably to avoid putting holes in the solid lid. I wiggle my knife into the gap between the hinge and the coffin and slap at the knife handle. Slowly I chip away at the glue until the bottom half pops off. I do the same to the hinge at the foot of the lid, and then stand back to survey my work. At a glance the lock appears to be still closed. Unless anyone inspects it closely, no one will know, and this will let Ahk come and go as he pleases.

Satisfied that I've done at least one small thing to try and ease the unfairness of this boy's strange existence, I collect my bag and go.

~*~

YES ok if anyone likes this it may be continued...

@diasimar @edteche2 @poptod @perpetuallymywinchesters @zodiacaldust @actinggalkate @cactusnumber73 @bearkare

#ahkmenrah #ahkmenrah x oc

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somethingwitchythiswaycomes · 3 years ago

Photo

For anyone that could hear over the sounds of blacksmiths working within the grand city of Ironforge, there was the familiar tapping of boots hitting against stone as a woman was walking along with a young girl so they could reach the Deeprun Tram in order to get some traveling done. The black haired girl looked no older than nine or ten but she had this sort of determination about her, like she was ready for what was going to come, or whatever was going to happen. Whereas, the blonde woman was cool and seemed in a very good mood. Originally when Mia had asked Coroelan if it was alright to take Annalisa to Elwynn Forest, she had expected the man to say no so she was ecstatic when he gave her permission. The mender wanted to get to know the little girl better and thought this would be a good way to do it, maybe an excellent bonding experience as well because her father was quite a special person to Mia. She thought of him already as a mate despite the short time they had already been together, they just got along that well.

“So how come we have to go all the way to Stormwind?” Annie would ask over the sounds of the tram as they had both gotten onto one of the pods, and were soon on their way. Mia was looking at the passing metal walls accompanied with glass whenever they were passing through water in the tunnel. “‘Cause tha’s the closest place ta’ find a meadow. Could’a tried ta’ find somethin’ in Dun Morogh but it’s all just snow seems like,” there went the mender’s thick Gilnean accent again as she spoke. “Dinnae’ fash, I’ll have ya’ back ta’ makin’ yer’ maps in no time, wee lass. Just wanted ta’ show ya’ some thin’s.”

Already Annie had that curious look to her amethyst hues and Mia knew what it meant, she had hooked the child like a fish. Now it was time to reel her in and teach her a thing or two about nature, probably even some flower crowns as they had plenty of time that morning to do whatever.

In the tram as they had reached Stormwind City, the witch knew to take Annie’s hand just in case the child would try to wander off for anything. Unsure if the kid would, she just didn’t want to take any chances because she cared for the girl as well. There wasn’t anything she wouldn’t try to do to protect her, any way she knew how. Outside in the Dwarven District there was the familiar sounds of more blacksmithing going on and it took some walking before Mia and Annie had reached Trade District to get to the main gates of the city to venture out. All the while, she was still protective over the young girl. No one had tried to stop them when they left the city which was good. On the main road, Mia was comfortable enough to let go of Annie’s hand as they walk along. Currently, she was trying to use her nose to find herbs or flowers. Sometimes they had particular scents and soon she was walking off the main beaten road, and through some tree’s as the girl followed after the harvest-witch. She hated it sometimes, being Worgen but sometimes it had it’s perks too like the heightened senses.

“We’re vera’ close now, can smell it,” Mia says to the girl as they continue along. It’s just minutes before a small clearing is found and a few wild flowers along with it as she walks through some tall grass, eventually picking a spot to just sit down next to wild peacebloom. “C’mere,” she would motion Annie to join her and the young girl does so with a bit of a frown.

“This seems kinda’ silly,” she appears uncertain and had even brought a bag that contained her folder wrought with many of her hand-made maps that Mia knew about. Annie probably had plans to map and sketch out this place. “Nah, this es’ one of the vera’ first things ma’ mum taught me when I was yer’ age er’ close to. Here.”

A few particular peaceblooms were chosen as she expertly picked them without damaging much of the stems before she moves to sit beside Annie a bit better, being able to show how to make the start of a flower crown. When the nine year old picked it up so easily, it had Mia sport a pretty big and proud grin. “See? Ya’ got it.”

Annie was smiling just as big since she hadn’t had that much trouble learning the very small feat but this was just the beginning. Mia had a lot more she wanted to show the girl and this included her knowledge of herbs. Just as she had told Coroelan, she was certain that the girl would be good at it besides her skills in cartography. But because of the mention of her mother, of course she had expected the inevitable question from the girl. “What happened to your mother? Did she pass away like mine did?”

The child was certainly smarter than Mia realized and she had even gone so far as to pause in her teaching to stare at Annie, a little surprised on how she had said that. “Well...Aye, far as I know, she’s gone...” There was a trailing off as the harvest witch was trying to think on how to explain to her what had happened back in those days. “Some bad thin’s we’re happenin’ in the city and there was ah’ call fer’ healers. Menders. So, mum answered tha’ call. Da’ went afta’ when she didn’ return an he did’na come back either. I was ah’ coward fer’ not goin’ ta’ investigate but I dinnae’ ken’ what was happenin’. Then fer’ years I just stayed put.” There was a lot of regret re-telling partially what had happened, of course she had left out what had happened days later that had changed her life forever.

It must have been the look on Mia’s face as she explained what had happened to her own parents because as soon as she had gone quiet, Annie did take it upon herself to put down the beginnings of the flower-crown she had been working on. Soon, the girl’s arms had gone around the blonde’s neck and she was hugging onto the older woman which had a smile come to her, it wasn’t exactly expected. But whenever she did things like this, Mia seemed to grow ever more fond of the girl as if she were her own child sometimes. She patted one of Annie’s arms, clearing her throat. “It es’ alright, darlin’.”

Soon the pair had parted from one another and the witch saw Annie’s progress with the crown which had her proud smile make a comeback, “aye like tha’. Exactly,” she would tell her before the young girl returned to making her crown with Mia seeming to supervise and correct here an there. Eventually she did have a crown of peacebloom made and the harvest witch took it before putting it on the female’s head, “there.” Annie was beaming with happiness while glancing up at the flowers on her head but her eyes return to Mia, “is there more to learn?”

“There es’ always more ta’ learn but you will learn this first, nighean, just as ma’ mum did wit’ me.” She would tell the dark haired lass before Annie had to raise an eyebrow, “what does nighean mean?” In which Mia chuckles, reaching over to ruffle some of her hair that wasn’t being protected by the flower crown. “I’ll tell ya’ when yer’ older.” ((OOC Note: The character Annalisa doesn’t belong to me, she is borrowed from the person that plays Mia’s partner; Coroelan Raveneye. And some words that will be in different narratives are taken from the Scots Gaelic. She still has the Gilnean accent, I’m just having fun, guys. Enjoy. <3 ))

#character #character aesthetics #world of warcraft #roleplay

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survivoirs · 3 years ago

Text

Me just rambling about Our Flag Means Death verses for some muses. Just need to get some ideas out before I make set pages with verses.

Sharky with random ass pockets in his clothes in his OFMD verse that house various pyro tools~ not to mention homemade smoke bombs and shit and honestly he’s a menace. Honestly his cross necklace is probs a firestriker lol. The man is always ready to set something on fire when needed. He’s not too great with a sword but he is a very good shot. Also he’s weirdly resilient to explosives. Not like the actual fire/shrapnel of them but the blast itself he can get up from pretty fast. Years of making his own and testing them has made him pretty good at ignoring the ringing in his ears and the dizziness of being thrown. (Idiot energy i know). Sharky also has tattoos on his arms of flames like in his canon but obviously a more traditional style of the time. He also has some slight burn scarring on his upper right arm creeping over to his shoulder and a bit to his chest.

Dominic of course has writing utensils on him. Drawing stuff. Maybe a sketch book. He’s got a bag with his map making gear that he’s waxed to make somewhat fairly water resistant. He’s got a compass that Stede bought him when he hired him on as a cartographer for their adventures and honestly Dominic treasures it because Stede’s one of the first people who’s looked at him seeing potential in him. He was living the starving artist life on shore most of his life and he’s eager to put his skills to use in a more adventurous way. He might have random things he’s found on shore to try to make homemade paints with. Otherwise he’s making charcoal bits to draw with.

Paul rocking a long leather coat like in his canon because Please and Thank you. We don’t care that OFMD doesn’t get to accurate on their attire it’s Great. He does wear cloth over his face as a mask like in his canon to hide who he is when he’s liberating items from people to make money to send back to the orphanage he grew up in. He was raised by nuns and they probably don’t approve of him stealing but also don’t ask too many questions because he’s helped the children out a ton. Paul seldom carries a gun but is very talented with a sword. When he was in his teens he was lucky enough to catch the eye of a skilled swords master in town with his footwork and how light on his feet he was running across some beams to escape some older kids giving him a hard time. Paul actually pick pocketed the man when he caught up with him and upon noticing almost immediately, he was offered the choice to return what he took in return he’d be brought on as the man’s apprentice. It was an opportunity Paul would never get again with his life and so he jumped at the chance. The man became the closest thing to a father Paul would ever know.

#sb: oh are you happy to see me? Sharky: ...that's a smokebomb lump sorry lemme just *readjusts self*#ASDFGHJKL #ABOUT. [ burn baby burn disco inferno - Sharky ]#ABOUT. [ a little shy and sad of eye - Dominic ]#ABOUT. [ tomorrow is worth fighting for - Jesus ]

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footballerindreams · 4 years ago

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How I Met Your Mother - Kanemoto Yoshinori

Right timing! Yoshi’s birthday is coming up! Therefore here’s an imagine dedicated for him.

S/O to @treasuredays!

We all know that Yoshi has always adored his hyung, Choi Hyunsuk. But did you know there is one more person is adored…or should I say loved more than Choi Hyunsuk. You could say Yoshi’s family but it’s already given. Actually, there is another “Choi” that he loves: CHOI Y/N.

Who is she?

Oh. She’s just a Kindergarten teacher and just the beloved and closest cousin of Hyunsuk.

And how their love story bloomed is one heck of a whirlwind.

Aside from being an idol, Yoshi had engrossed himself with drawings and paintings. He draws and paints on his other free time (the other free time is producing music). One day Haruto came to his room to ask something and Yoshi was painting.

“Woah! Senpai! When was the last time I came here?” Ruto asked.

“Uhm, last week? Why?” the older Japanese replied.

“Is it just me or your room is now full of your artwork?” the younger said.

At the moment, Yoshi’s room is stacked with so many finished paintings on canvasses on one side of the room, a few stacks of sketches and drawings on his table. And now on the floor is another painting about to be finished as well.

“Do you have any plans for this, senpai?” HAruto asked again.

“Actually, no. You know me Ruto. I just paint and draw as a hobby.”

“Don’t tell me, your going to get rid all of these later.”

“WHAT! NO! I’ve worked hard on this!”

“Ok. But for sure you are not planning to look for another room and use this room as your stock room for all your paintings. And besides your works are good. Why don’t you show it publicly?”

“I did. Treasure map?”

“Aside from that.”

“Then what do you suggest to do?”

And so later that night, the members had a meeting and decided they will have an open exhibit for all of Yoshi’s work. At first they wanted it to display on the lobby of the YG Building. But the other idols (like Bobby-hyung) and the higher ups said, “Go all out.” and in the end Yoshi’s drawings are displayed at the Samsung Museum of Art.

Then came D-Day for Yoshi’s exhibit and as expected, many people came to see his work. From fans, to even high profile people. Hell! Even Samsung’s CEO came to see and wanted to buy some of Yoshi’s artwork and the man was shocked. Did he sold it, of course…No at first. The CEO wanted to buy one of his work for more than 2 Million Won and all of the members are flabbergasted…and more flabbergasted when Yoshi refused it. But after some consideration (thanks to Hyunsuk saying that he can do more paintings if he wants to), he said yes.

Yoshi is busy roaming around when he saw a group of children, probably Kindergarten students coming in the exhibit hall. Yoshi has always been fond of kids so he said his hellos to them, until he caught sight of their teacher.

“Y/N! You’re here!” Hyunsuk shouted running towards the teacher.

“Hi, hyung! Yeah. It happened that the kids have field trip today and I decided to take them to this exhibit when I saw an ad yesterday. I never expected to see you here too.” Y/N replied.

“Well, the exhibit is all Yoshi’s work. You know him, right?” Hyunsuk said with a smile while patting Yoshi’s shoulder.

“Wow! Is this all of your work?” Y/N was amazed.

“Hai…I mean…Ne!” Yoshi stuttered.

“They’re so beautiful.”

You’re beautiful as well.

“Arigato gozaimasu…” Yoshi bowed in embarrassment.

---

Well, that was not the last time Yoshi saw Y/N. The next time was at Hyunsuk’s birthday. And this time he really sucked up all the courage he has…just to get her number, which she gladly gave.

Sure after that they sent messages, called, and even hanged out!

Though Yoshi is liking her more and more, he never said what he felt. He thought hanging out with her is enough.

---

“Tadaima.” Yoshi said as he entered their dorm. He just came back from another hangout with Choi Y/N.

“Well, guess who came home so “early”.” Hyunsuk sarcastically greeted while sitting on the couch. It seems like he’s waiting for a particular someone to come home.

“Hyung, you’re still up?” Yoshi said.

Hyunsuk stood up almost jumping from the couch and approached the younger member who is taller than him. “Yeah. Care to say where have you been the whole time?” Hyunsuk asked.

“I was at the studio working on---”

“Don’t lie to me Yoshinori. I know you’ve been meeting with Y/N the whole time you are out of the dorm.” Yoshi swallowed the lump on his throat as he looked at his hyung. He knows Hyunsuk is really serious.

“Stay away from her.” Just is what Hyunsuk only said and then he went to his room.

---

Yesterday

Yoshi! I have free time this Saturday. Can we hangout?

Hi Yoshi! You’re probably busy right now. I’m sorry if I am disturbing you.

Today

Hi Yoshi. Is there something wrong? It’s so unusual that you’re not replying.

I know I sound intrusive, but you know, you can talk to me.

I’m fine Y/N. Don’t worry. =)

---

Y/N is so worried so after her class she decided to go to Yoshi’s dorm to check him out.

“Y/N! Did not expect for you to come. You should’ve told me. I should’ve picked you up.” Hyunsuk said as he saw his cousin outside the door.

“It’s okay. Sukkie-hyung. Anyway, is Yoshi here right now?” Y/N casually asked.

Then Hyunsuk’s face changed. “Why are you looking for him?” he sternly asked.

“I’ve been texting him but he’s not answering. I thought he has a problem, and I was a bit worried.”

“He’s not here!” Hyunsuk replied at bit loudly making Y/N flinched a bit. “I---I’m sorry Y/N. I did not mean to.” Hyunsuk immeditaley apologized.

“Uhm. It’s okay. But are you okay? You seem agitated.” Y/N asked. She thinks something’s up.

“I’m fine.”

---

“Yoshi!” Y/N screamed as she saw the Japanese boy sitting on a bench looking towards Han River. Yoshi heard her voice and looked at her direction. With widened eyes, he suddenly got up from his seat about to leave.

“Wait Yoshi, stop!” Y/N grabs his hand. “Why are you avoiding me? Did I do something wrong?” Y/N asked.

“No. Nothing, Y/N. I just really have to go. I still have some work---”

“I TOLD YOU TO STAY AWAY FROM HER!” Hyunsuk came dashing and grabbed Yoshi’s collar pulling him closer. Yoshi is now trembling.

“Hyunsuk, what are you doing?!” Y/N dashed to free Yoshi from her cousin but she was only stopped by the Japanese.

“It’s okay Y/N.”

Hyunsuk grabbed Yoshi’s collar tighter almost ready to punch the other’s face.

“Again. I told. You. To stay. AWAY FROM HER! Which part of that do you not understand?!” Hyunsuk shouted.

“Hyunsuk! I was the one who went to him! What’s your problem?!”

“I don’t want you to be hurt again, Y/N. DO you still remember the time that you came to me crying after you found out your boyfriend was sleeping with another girl?” Hyunsuk replied.

“I do! But Hyunsuk, Yoshi is different. I know, and I believe he’s different.” Y/N cannot take it anymore and said, “I like him, Hyunsuk!”

Hyunsuk let Yoshi got when he heard what his cousin said.

“I like him. What can I do? I can’t help it.” Y/N kneeled on the ground and cried.

Yoshi came closer to her and wiped her tears away. “Please don’t cry. I’m sorry I avoided you. It’s just that I don’t want Hyunsuk-hyung to hate me and you to become sad.” Yoshi held her hand. “But now I know too. I like you too, Choi Y/N.”

Y/N hugged him tight for the first time.

While Hyunsuk just stood there, feeling guilty for what he did.

It turns out that Y/N had a prior relationship before Yoshi. A Japanese expat working at a big Korean firm. Y/N was so in love with him and she would always tell Hyunsuk about him. But then she caught him cheating on her. When Hyunsuk knew, he could not control himself and almost thrown his reputation away as an idol. Thanks to Y/N and her kindness, he stopped before he lands a fist on the guy. At that point Hyunsuk was always on guard for his cousin, especially with Japanese men.

---

Yoshi and Y/N’s relationship bloomed and stayed strong. When Seung and Yong were born, Hyunsuk tried to tease them to seal the deal and give his twins a cousin to play with only for him to get a sassy reply from his cousin.

“Don’t you dare tell us to seal the deal. You haven’t even sealed yours! Do it first.” Y/N said that made Yoshi laugh at his hyung.

We can say Yoshi is a box full of surprises. During Jihoon’s wedding, he asked Jihoon to intentionally throw the garter to him and Jihoon’s wife to throw the bouquet to Y/N. The newly wed couple made it as natural as it is. And it really happened. The bouquet was thrown first, and Y/N got it.

Then instead of a garter, a small white box was thrown and Yoshi, as intended, got it.

They were at the center and the people are watching them. Then Yoshi kneeled and Y/N was shocked.

“I want us to be the next couple to get married. I think it’s time to seal the deal. Choi Y/N, will you marry me?” And Yoshi opened the box revealing an Aquamarine gemstone ring.

Y/N can’t believe what’s happening and cried, “Of course I will!”

---

A few months after their engagement, the got married in Yoshi’s hometown of Kobe. And during that time, Hyunsuk was the best man. He even delivered a speech for the couple.

“I don’t know why but my cousin has a thing for Japanese men. But I’m happy that out of all Japanese men she met, Yoshi is the one she is spending her life with. At first I was afraid that things will go wrong again, and that Yoshi, eventhough I know he is a good man, will be the same as the prick who broke my cousin’s heart. But he proved me wrong. And also, I know Yoshi adores me so much. Even during Treasure box time. But I did not expect he would go to the extent of being a part of my family tree. But anyways, welcome to the Choi family, brother, and cousin-in-law. Cheers to the newly weds.”

And then a year after, Hikaro was born, much to the happiness of Seung and Yong.

#kanemoto yoshinori #treasure #treasure fanfiction #treasure imagine #kpop fanfic #kpop imagine

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dankgemestho · 4 years ago

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If It Weren’t for You Mages and Your Filthy Dog

https://archiveofourown.org/works/30435621

(M!handers, Hawke goes missing and it's up to his mabari to find him)

@dadrunkwriting

When coming into darktown, the first thing you notice is the stench. It follows like a sad puppy and cloys like a scared kitten, a reminder of the death and disaster dealt with by people on the fringe of the society.

Kirkwall was a city founded on injustice and its historic walls and statues were only too quick to remind you. Rainwater pooled like tears at the base of the giant twins' eyes, and then spouted off like geysers, spraying cold water into the trapped sea below.

Outside of the clinic the rock was damp and slippery, puddles of muck pooled in through the doors as Anders searched on the floor for anything that needed to stay elevated and dry. He'd awoken that morning to find his manifesto half-soaked, ink running down the pages. He tried not to be too envious of his friends whose homes stayed dry and clean, tried not to think about why their papers were safe and his were not, and instead told himself it needed revising anyhow.

Anders heard scratching on the door, the telltale sound of big paws furiously digging through water-damaged wood. Anders put away some gauze and opened the door. The brown mabari rushed in, tongue lolling out the side of his mouth, tail wagging, and running circles around the blonde mage.

"For the last time Hawke, no dogs in my clinic!" Anders said, expecting Hawke to come in and restrain the dog. Hawke did not restrain the dog, in fact, Hawke did not enter the clinic at all. He simply was not there.

"Hawke?" Anders called.

The dog chuffed and whined.

"If Hawke's not here, why are you?"

The dog threw his head back.

"Go away. Go find Hawke."

The dog chased his tail, and then looked up at Anders.

"What are you trying to tell me--hey where are you going?" Anders asked as the dog ran off. The dog stopped to check that the mage was following and then ran off to The Hanged Man. Anders used his staff to help him move more quickly over the slippery ground of the former quarry and met up with the dog at Varric's private suite.

The dwarf was asleep in his small bed and snoring softly when he was pounced on and licked by the slobbery mabari. "Maker get off me, you're gonna crush me to death." He said, trying to push the hound off of his chest. The dog kissed him twice on the cheek and sat down at his bedside, wagging his tail.

"Blondie? I didn't expect to see you here. Where's Hawke?"

"I don't know. His dog brought me here. He seems to be on a mission."

The dog threw his head back. Varric scratched him between his ears. "Maybe the old boy is trying to tell us something about his master."

Anders shifted his weight. "Maybe… We should check if Hawke's home."

As soon as Anders finished his sentence the dog ran out of the bar, running through the legs of someone opening the door. Varric and Anders ran after him into the street.

"Now where's he gone?" Anders asked.

"No idea. Maybe we should check the Hawke estate."

They went to hightown and caught sight of the dog again. "You go catch him, I'll look for Hawke!" Anders said to Varric before running off in the other direction.

"I'm not the one who has immobilization spells, Blondie." Varric muttered under his breath. "Or long legs."

Anders slipped unnoticed into the passageway in front of Hawke's door and knocked. Bodhan answered the door. "Oh hello. You're one of Hawke's friends, I see. He left early last night, but I can tell him you stopped by."

"He left? Did he say why?"

"He said he was going to find a ring. I might have assumed one of you lot would go with him."

"Did he bring his dog?"

"Yes, he almost always does." Anders' face paled. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing. I need to go." He said, turning on a heel to go find the hound.

The hound, as it turns out, was sitting in Aveline's office, making puppy-dog eyes at the guard captain.

"What's wrong, Fido? You don't want to play with the guards?" Aveline asked.

Varric bolted into the room. "Oh there you are!" He said, clearly out of breath.

"Varric! What are you doing here?"

"The dog went and gathered me and Blondie. I think he wants us all together for something."

The dog barked happily.

"Where's Anders, then?" Waiting outside?"

"He went to see if Hawke was home."

Anders ran in and closed the door behind him. "Hawke's missing."

“Well that’s not good.” Aveline said. “Where was he last seen?”

“Bodhan said he left last night, taking his dog with him.”

“Should we follow him?” Aveline asked.

They all looked over at the dog. “Where’s Hawke?” Varric asked him.

The dog barked and scratched at the door.

Anders and Varric nodded. They let the dog out and followed him into Lirene’s Fereldan Imports.

“Oh not another maba-- Anders! What are you doing here?” Lirene said in lieu of a greeting.

“I’m looking for Hawke. Have you seen him?”

“Oh! Yes, he came in here looking for a ring. He didn’t specify what kind, and after I showed him what we had he just thanked me and left.”

“How long ago was this?” Asked Aveline.

“Last night, just as I was about to close up shop.”

“Did he have his dog with him?” Varric asked.

“Yes. He was on good behaviour, too.”

“Him or the dog?”

Lirene rolled her eyes.

“Thank you.” Anders said, leading them all out of the shop.

“So, where to next?” Varric asked.

“He was looking for a ring… something ferelden. Maybe he went to hightown?”

The dog barked.

“Hold on.” said Varric. “Maybe we should ask if Isabela saw him, first. She’s closer, and I hear they’ve got something going on. Maybe he found the ring and gave it to her.”

“They have something going on?” Anders asked.

“Isabela’s got something ‘going on’ with every handsome man she meets. They’re probably just flirting.” Aveline said.

Varric bowed his head in acknowledgement. “Still, we should check with her.”

The dog whined.

“All right.” Aveline said. She, the dog and Anders followed Varric to the hanged man. They approached Isabela.

“Oh hey Anders. Rough night?” She said, winking.

“What?”

She raised her eyebrows. “Uh, nevermind…”

“Rivaini, Have you seen Hawke?”

“He went to a lot of trouble just for a ring.” Remarked Aveline.

“I saw him last night.” she slurred. “Oh, not like that!” She frowned. “He… came to me for a private mission. Again, not like that.” She motioned over Varric and whispered in his ear.

“Oh.” Varric said, looking up nervously at Anders. “So we know he was looking for a ring, and Isabela told him about some buried treasure on the Wounded Coast.” He said, before muttering, “He should have just gone to hightown.”

“Come on, boy.” Varric said to the mabari. “Let’s go find Hawke.”

The group followed Isabela’s rough napkin-sketch map to a cave on the wounded coast. Outside of the cave lay freshly killed corpses, blood washed away by the rain. Clearly Hawke’s handiwork. As soon as they got inside, the hound started sniffing around everwhere.

“Is he nearby?” Varric asked the dog. He kept his nose to the ground and walked through the tunnel. They walked past skeleton archer corpses until they reached a locked dwarven door.

“I got this” said Varric, kneeling down to pick the lock. It opened and they followed the dog deeper into the tunnels, letting him choose which paths to take.

At the end of a short tunnel the dog lurched forward and pawed furiously at a door without a handle. As he whined, Hawke began to stirr on the other side of the door. Aveline went up and knocked. “Hawke? Are you in there?”

“Mmm? Aveline? Is that you? I must’ve hit my head…”

The dog growled.

“Hang on Hawke, we’ll try to come get you. Is there another way into the room you’re in?”

“I can’t… I can’t see anything.” he rubbed his eyes. “I think there’s three other doors. This place is like a big hallway or something.”

“Blondie, is there some spell you can do to blast the door open?” Varric asked.

Anders shook his head. “It’s dwarven. Even if it could I think it would hurt all of us more than it would the door.”

“We should go further in.” Aveline said.

“Are you leaving?” Hawke croaked.

“We’re going to go around.” Varric said.

The dog pouted at his traveling companions, not wanting to leave Hawke alone.

“Come on pup, we’ll need you. We can’t do this all by ourselves.” Anders said, for Hawke’s sake more than anything. The dog panted once and stood up off the ground.

Aveline led them deeper underground. The tunnels were carved out of the same stone most of kirkwall had been dug from, with red accent stone and fine dwarven carvings, eroded by the corrosive limestone dripping down from the ceiling. The lime must have been hiding the smell of the corpses littered everywhere, some of which were half-mummified, others bloated and drowned. Varric found a chest, picked the lock, and discovered it was empty. “Hawke must have looted this.” he thought.

The tunnel shook and stalactites dislodged themselves from surrounding rock and hit the adventurers on the heads. Shades clawed themselves out of the fade as demons possessed corpses. They were surrounded by eight corpses, four skeletal archers, and two shades. Varric started firing off crossbow bolts indiscriminately, moving in a clockwise circle. Anders cast a protective barrier around himself and Aveline took on the shade closest to Anders. The Mabari leaped on the nearest corpse and shred it’s flesh from bone.

The skeletal archers rained arrows down from above as Anders threw three fireballs down from above, scattering the enemies. They all ran past their fallen bodies so that they would only be encountered from one side. Just as Anders cast Elemental Weapons, Varric’s crossbow jammed.

“Bianca, now’s really not the time!” he said, pin in his mouth.

Aveline put up a shield wall and stabbed at the corpse directly in front of her. Anders continued to fire off spells from Aveline’s cover until Varric fixed Bianca. “I’m ready-- do the thing!”

Aveline taunted the enemies, who rushed into Anders’ cone of cold and were shattered by Varric’s hail of bolts.

Anders healed everyone as Aveline finished the rest of the demons off.

They heard clapping from behind them. “Well, well well. Very well done, all four of you. Don’t you think it’s time for a little break?”

“A sloth demon! Don’t listen to it-- kill it!”

Aveline and Varric looked dizzy, The dog just looked confused.

Anders sighed exhasperatedly. “C’mon boy, sicc him!”

The demon laughed. “That dog doesn’t take orders from you! When have you ever given it a reason to trust you?”

The dog whined and set his head down on his paws.

“I’ll give you treats!”

“Treats?” A feminine voice said from afar. “That’s my job.” A desire demon said, floating out from behind a wall. “Do you want a treat?”

The Mabari growled.

“Oh I know what you want even more than a treat. You want your master to let you back into bed with him. You must be very jealous of the mage who took your place.”

The dog whined.

“That’s not fair.”

“You wan’t him gone, don’t you? You could do it, right now.”

“Be quiet!” Anders shouted, summoning up enough mana to cast a fireball at them.

“You’re not enough.” Sloth said. “That spell must have taken a lot out of you, don’t you want to take a rest?”

“Guys, snap out of it!” Anders said to his friends.

“I’m… Trying…” Varric said.

“Aveline... “ The Desire demon began. “It must be so tiring, every day, protecting so many people, day in and day out, missing Wesley. Draw your sword and cut your throat with it.”

Aveline drew her sword. “N-No! Anders, Help us!”

The dog, sensing the desperation in aveline’s voice, growled at the demons.

“Good dog.” Anders said. “Sicc ‘em.”

The dog Leaped on the Desire demon and finished her off for Anders. The sloth demon tried to escape in terror, but weakened it’s hold on the party long enough for Varric to shoot it in the back.

“Sorry blondie.” Varric said.

“Don’t mention this to anyone else.” Aveline said.

“Let’s just find Hawke.” Anders said. “You’d like that, wouldn’t you?” He said to the dog, who began wagging his tail.

Varric kicked in the door and found Hawke passed out on the floor. They all ran to him.

The dog licked all over his face and tried to drag him by the arm, before being shooed away by Varric. “Hawke, wake up! We’re here!”

Hawke was covered in sweat and clutching something tight to his chest. Aveline pried it from him. “It’s an… Engagement ring.”

Anders felt his face get hot. “Oh, you fool…”

Varric Grimaced. “So blondie, can you heal him?”

“...I’ll need some help. Let’s go talk to Merrill.”

The three of them brought Hawke to his bedroom in the city and went to Merrill.

“Merrill I know we don’t get along--” Anders began.

“What do you mean? We get along great!”

Varric grimaced.

“...Right. Well, I need a favor from you. It’s about Hawke.”

“Is he alright?”

“He’s… bewitched. We found him in a cave with some strange magic. I believe his consciousness is in the fade.”

“What? But he’s not even a mage!”

“I know. I need the help of your keeper.”

Merrill whined. “But I hate talking to the keeper without Hawke’s help. But I do love Hawke--I mean we all do, right?”

The dog tossed his head back.

“Oh right.” Varric replied sarcastically. “My mistake.”

“Some of us love him more than others…” Varric muttered under his breath, looking pointedly at Anders.

“What?” Anders squawked. “Don’t believe everything a Demon tells you.”

Merrill smiled confusedly. “What are we talking about?”

“It’s nothing.” Aveline cut in. “Will you help, or not?”

“Of course i’ll help! It’s Hawke we’re talking about. So I assume you’ll all be helping, too.”

“What do you need?” Aveline asked.

“If the keeper comes here, we’ll need someone to keep her safe.”

Aveline nodded. “I’ll help. Of course I will.”

“Anders? Will you help me talk to the keeper?”

“Why me?”

“I don’t even know what Hawke needs. You could convince her better than me, right?”

“It’s worth a shot.”

The five of them departed for sundermount. When they arrived at the camp, two hunters stopped their egress.

“Shem are not welcome here, Merrill. I’d like to say the same about you, too.”

“But I am welcome here, and so are my friends. We need to speak to the keeper.”

The female elf sighed. “I’ll go get her. She’ll want to speak with you.”

The hunter returned with the keeper. “Merrill.” Keeper Marethari said, her eyes crinkling in smile. “It is good to see you. Bring you bad news?”

“No, keeper. I bring Anders, Doctor of Darktown. He needs help with a patient.”

“The patient is Hawke.” Anders added.

“Very well, how do you need my help?”

“Hawke went to find some ring but it was… possessed. I believe he is fighting off demons, similar to a circle mage’s harrowing. It’s not too late to save him, but we need to reach him in the fade.”

“I see. Can he be brought here?”

“That would take too much time. It may already be too late.”

The keeper inclined her head. “Very well. I will go. Take me to see him.”

“But keeper, we need you here!” One of the elves spoke.

“Child, I will go where I am needed most. I will return. Dareth Shiral.”

The hunter looked down. “Dareth Shiral, keeper.”

The group left sundermount and arrived with the cover of night at Hawke’s hightown estate.

Anders unlocked the door and let them inside, earning a quirk of Varric’s eyebrow.

They entered Hawke’s bedroom where he still lay, breathing in shallow slow breaths.

“Who are you taking with you?”

Anders recalled his earlier encounter with demons. “I’d rather not take any of you.”

“I’m sorry, blondie, I’ll try to make it up to you this time.” Varric said.

“I’m not sure I want to mess with demons.” Aveline said.

“I’d be happy to go with you!” Merrill said.

Anders sighed. “I’ll need all of them, since I can’t bring the dog. He can protect our bodies while we sleep.”

The three mages began casting spells and one by one the team opened their eyes in the fade.

“Go quickly.” the keeper’s voice rang out in the back of their minds. “I cannot keep this up forever.”

In the fade it was nearly impossible for Anders to control Justice and the others were startled to see Anders’ skin glowing.

He walked stiffly in long strides into Hawke’s dream. They were in the cellar of the Amell estate, from after Gamlen lost it but before Hawke bought it. The greenish fade air distorted the walls like stained glass might. Merrill gazed about and kept her back guarding Anders’. Varric marched on to keep pace and aveline crossed her shoulders and withdrew inwards.

They went into the next room and saw Hawke hitting a training dummy as his father looked on disapprovingly. He seemed not to notice them come in.

“Push yourself Garrett. Make me proud.”

Hawke’s voice came out strangled and boyish. “I’m trying! Why can’t you see that?”

“It’s okay to ask for help.”

“I don’t need help! I can do this!”

Justice stepped forward. “That’s not your dad.” he said.

Hawke whipped around. “Anders? I don’t understand!” He looked between his dad and his lover.

The pride demon stepped towards him. Hawke dropped his daggers and ran away.

“Nonsense! Make me proud, boy!” The demon said.

“That is a pride demon. Resist him.”

“Great.” Varric said. “You spooked him.”

“You! You spoiled my plan!” The demon said, morphing into it’s true form.

He summoned two electric chains and tugged Merrill and Aveline to the ground. Varric fired off shots at the demon’s massive chest as Justice calmly stepped forward and ripped the demon’s heart out.

The demon begged with his eyes before Merrill froze it and Varric shot it.

“Damn blondie! That was mental!”

Justice shrugged him off and kept moving.

Next they checked the broom closet. When Justice realised what was going on, he slammed the door shut behind him. Hawke was in his finery about to open the robe above a kneeling anders when he saw the real anders.

“Justice?!” Hawke cried, stepping back in surprise.

“That’s not Anders. It’s a desire demon.”

“Oh.” He squinted. “Is it?”

The demon rose from the floor. “Yes you fool. I have so much more to offer you than the real anders. Help me beat him and Justice will never spoil your fun again.”

“No… I… When I fell in love with Anders I accepted Justice with him!”

The Demon spat.

“I wish you could be here.” He sobbed. “I might get engaged soon.”

Hawke pulled his pants up and ran through the walls. Justice opened the door and let his group take care of the Desire demon.

They searched through the remaining rooms and found Hawke in his mother’s bedroom, crying on the bed as a ghostly Leandra fed him sad memories.

“How could you get married without your mother in the audience? You shouldn’t go.”

“That’s not your mother.” Justice spoke.

“How do you know?” Hawke cried. “You didn’t know my mother! Maybe this is her spirit!”

“See you said maybe, Hawke. You have no way of knowing what’s real here. Don’t let her taint your memories.” Varric said.

“You’ll want to remember her as she was.” Aveline said.

Hawke looked up and nodded. “You’re right. I must resist demons.”

“Are you ready to wake up now?” Justice said.

“No! You cannot forget this pain!” The demon drew back and transformed itself into a snake, coiling around hawke. Aveline charged at it and slashed away at it’s regrowing tail.

Merrill and Anders united their mana together and cast a strong ice spell, freezing just the serpent, and Aveline hacked the brittle beast to bits.

“Yeah.” He sniffed. “Thanks, Justice.”

They all awoke from Hawke’s dream in his room.

Hawke sat up fast. “Where’s the ring?”

Anders eased him back on the bed and held his hand. “You don’t need one. The answer is yes.”

“But you’re pretty. You deserve a ring as pretty as you.”

Anders scoffed. “I’m offended you think a bit of twisted metal could ever look as gorgeous as I do.”

Hawke smirked “Did you geta pride demon plus one in there? Are we making this relationship a foursome now?”

Varric cleared his throat. “We’re still here.”

“Oh I know that.” Hawke said, throwing his head back in laughter.

“Thank you Keeper Marethari. I am truly in your debt.”

“It was nothing child. If you must help me, ease my way home.

Hawke grabbed his arm and silently begged him not to leave.

“You guys go on, I’ll make it up to you some other day. And take the dog, I don’t want him to stick around and watch.”

Merrill made a face. “Yuck. I’m going.”

The rest of them left and the couple was all alone for the night.

“Well, maybe I was overblowing the animosity between us. I wouldn’t want you to think of me as untrustworthy just because I’m a cat person.”

“You know, your dog really does not like me.” Anders said, caressing Hawke’s arm.

“Doesn’t he?” Hawke frowned. “Well you’re not exactly the nicest to him. I’ll have you know I have no trust for someone my dog distrusts.”

Hawke smiled. “Did you mean it, when you said yes?”

Anders nodded against his shoulder. “I still think it’s crazy that you’d openly live with another man--an apostate. Aren’t you scared?”

“No. Not at all. Are you?”

“I should be.” he smiled. “Right now I just feel warm all over.”

“Hmm… Maybe we should get you out of that stuffy robe then.”

Anders laughed. “Maybe.”

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relatablegenzwriter · 5 years ago

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30-Day Writing Challenge (for novelists)

this challenge is intended for novel writers who have had a strong novel idea for a while and know their story fairly well, or who have already made a little progress on a novel, and are stuck on it. i’m not an expert so i don’t know how much this is actually going to help you get out of that rut, but the hope is that you’ll spend a month immersing yourself in the world of your story and you’ll get some motivation out of it. i’d suggest taking about 30 minutes (at least) to do each activity, and to do everything completely distraction-free, with your phone in another room and your computer on do not disturb (if you’re writing on a computer). enjoy you nerds.

1. Write out your entire plot, even if you’ve already done it. This will re-familiarize you with your project.

2. Get the basic information on your main character. Write their backstory up until the point where your novel begins, make note of characteristics, and get their basic appearance down. Got multiple main characters? Great! You get to write more. (That’s what you get.) For all characters, make sure you know:

your character’s wants

your character’s values

at least five character flaws

the role your character will play in the story

how you want them to change over the course of the story

optional but recommended: cultural aspects like race or religion, which will help you develop their background and values a lot better.

3. Do some basic worldbuilding: what year is this novel set? Country? Planet? What are some traditions or norms? Is there magic or new technology? What’s up with the government? If your novel is set in our current world, work out the specifics of the characters’ neighborhood, home, city, etc.

4. Without allowing yourself to see any previous versions that may exist, write the opening scene.

5. Do what you did on day 2, except for your antagonist. No clear-cut antagonist? Pick whoever’s closest, or do the prompts for a supporting or minor character.

6. Research day: go through what you’ve already written and highlight everything you wanted to look up later, then spend some time researching it. You’ll probably find out more things that you’ll want to add to the plot.

7. Character day: you’ll have four of these, so divide up your characters accordingly. Do some of the character work you did for your main and antagonist for however many . You can go into less detail if they’re less important, but make sure you still know the six main points that you got to know about the more featured characters.

8. Pick a few parts of your worldbuilding exercise that you want to go more in-depth into (i.e. political systems, technology, cultural traditions) and spend about thirty minutes writing, brainstorming, and researching things to flesh them out. There will be three worldbuilding days, so make sure to save some material for the others!

9. Look through the plot you wrote out and see if you can find any plotholes, concepts you want to flesh out more, or parts that are unclear or missing. Really take some time to understand what the problems are, and come up with some possible solutions. It’s great if you figure out what you want to do, but if you don’t, that’s fine! You still made progress.

10. Without allowing yourself to see any previous versions that may exist, write the ending scene. Spoiler alert: this is going to be really hard. You can try writing a couple contenders, or even outlining a scene if you’re not quite sure where to go. Don’t worry about trying to make it pretty, because it’s not gonna be pretty: you don’t have all the details that you would if you were writing in chronological order.

11. Character day

12. Write your favorite scene. If you have a strong story idea in your head, you most likely know the one: you daydream about it when you wish you were doing something else, it plays like a movie in your head, it’s probably located somewhere around the middle of the book, and you probably haven’t let yourself write it because you “haven’t gotten there yet”. Today’s the day. Go nuts.

13. Rewrite the opening scene from a different character’s perspective. I know this sounds really cliche, but even if it doesn’t give you more insight on the story, it’s fun to do.

14. Worldbuilding day

15. Research day: research new stuff that you hadn’t written last time, plus anything over from the first research day. Not sure what to research? Characters’ cultures, the history of your setting (if in our world), famous fictional worlds, language development… if you sit and think for a little, you’ll figure out something you want to know.

16. Pick a few of your favorite character relationships: romantic, platonic, familial, whatever you want, and spend some time sketching them out. Think about their arcs, how they met (if they’re not related), what they think about each other, how they interact… basically anything you want, as long as you come away knowing more about the relationships between your characters. Also, please make only half (or less) of these romantic! It’s super important to develop the other relationships in the story.

17. Pick up from where you left off in your opening scene and write the next scene. Again, don’t look at any previously existing drafts.

18. Character day

19. Emotion break! Make a list of everything you don’t like about your book. Get all your insecurities out onto the paper, then refute everything you don’t like. If it’s specifics like “I don’t like that x happens”, figure out how to make x not happen. If it’s general doubts like “This has been done before and I’m unoriginal,” refute that too! Everyone doubts their work all the time and I can guarantee that we are all more critical of our own work than others will be. Finish today’s unconventional activity off by writing a list of everything you love about your book.

20. Pick any scene you’ve written for this book, whether it be from this challenge or something you had before, and rewrite it in some form of AU. Change the genre, time period, location, context… you are a god.

21. Worldbuilding day

22. You know those books that are stories told entirely in poems? You heard me. (Start anywhere you want to, write at least five or however many you can get done in 30 minutes. No one will ever read them, so don’t complain that you’re not a poet.)

23. Find a list of dialogue prompts and pick a few to do with your characters. Want a challenge? Choose two characters at random. (I mean using a generator or drawing names out of a hat. COMPLETELY random.)

24. Pick up from day 16 and write the next scene.

25. Last character day :(

26. Write, or at least, begin, a very short story in your world. Try to include no characters from your actual story. If your novel takes place in our world, focus in on the characters’ neighborhood, time period, workplace, school, etc. This exercise will help you get to know your world through a different perspective. Don’t stress too much about this! It doesn’t have to be very long or even to be finished.

27. Fun day! Pick three of these activities to do with your novel:

Make a playlist about the novel as a whole, or make some character playlists

Design the cover

Cast actors in the film/TV version

Draw: character portraits, scenes, maps, landscapes…

Put together a moodboard for the novel or a character

Write that completely unrealistic scene you love so much but can’t put in the novel for plot reasons

Make memes about your characters

Sit and daydream for a solid 10 minutes about the Vibe of the novel

Anything that falls into a similar category

This is a callout activity for all you ””””””””writers”””””””” who spend more time daydreaming about novel ideas than actually writing. (this is 100% a joke because this is 100% me)

28. Rewrite your opening scene from a different narrator. If you wrote in first person, use third. If you wrote in third, use first. You can also mess with second person if you feel like you have an artist superiority complex and aren’t like other girls.

29. Pick your favorite activity from so far and do it again.

30. List everything that you need to do before you can jump right into the first draft. Then do it.

#writing #writers #writing tips #writing prompts #writing challenge #imma do this too yall #hopefully it actually works oops #my advice posts

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wu-sisyphus-gang · 3 years ago

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Motion Sickness Chapter 49

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We left Wutai behind weeks ago and sold the horse in Shumi at the same vendor that I'd bought it from with a considerable mark down.

I didn't really care much about that.

Instead I cared about securing an airship in Mistral. Which we did after the train ride from Shumi.

"You're going to be able to fly this thing?"

Neo nodded. Our relationship changed slightly after Wutai. She knew that I wasn't blowing smoke about my origins. She knew I wasn't lying about Mother's control over my mind.

She knew how dead serious I was and a bit more about how fucking crazy I really could be.

Good.

Don't cross me, Neo. I'm not a man whose bad side you want to be on. Don't believe me, just watch.

We walked out on an air-pad together in Mistral. We climbed aboard our small military freighter together. It was a small ship with the Mistrali cockpit to it and a bit of Atlas inspiration in the geometry of the wings.

She strapped herself into the pilot's seat and bit back a bit of yawn.

I sat back in the cabin and kicked my legs up. I pulled out the little black book we'd gotten from Merlot's laboratory and began to read through it. My new favorite pastime.

There I was, notes on me and how my skeletal structure was forming. Sketches of me at different stages of my development. It was the closest thing I had to a family picture book.

"You know where to be able to land this thing in Solitas?"

She shrugged at the same time she nodded.

"Good. We'll get there and the first thing we'll need is data, not money." This plane had run me a few hundred grand but I still had a few million Lien. A small fortune.

Neo still had all of her money from the last one. I'd run the lion's share of our expenses out of my pockets.

"That means heists regarding the most valuable of commodities."

She gave me a backwards glance as she started the plane up.

"No, not water Neo. Don't be ridiculous."

She rolled her eyes at me.

"Its information. Unfortunately my semblance doesn't give me a million eyes and the ability to hear and see shit across the city. I'm just good at smashing kneecaps. So that's what we'll have to do."

"I want to know what Ironwood is up to. I want to know if there is a maiden in Solitas. I want to know where she is, if she's there. I want to know how she takes her tea or if she drinks coffee. She'll either be summer or winter, because Cinder is fall and spring."

I read through a few notes of how my musculature was tested through dance while I was in the tube. My father hadn't wanted me to know how to fight but needed a way to test my movement. Dancing was good for that while floating in embryonic liquid.

It also gave my nervous system the tests he felt it needed.

The fucking sicko.

Neo held up her scroll at me with some typed words.

"Ice-cream?" I asked, reading aloud. "Sure we can get some when we land. You've more than earned it. We'll find a cafe, get you a sunday if you want."

She gave me a glittering smile and ran through some preflight checks. She flipped a few switches I could only guess the purposes of.

"Yeah yeah you're an old fashioned ice-cream girl. I should have guessed."

I pulled out my pipe. I started to pack it and my mouth watered slightly. Neo turned on the no smoking light in response. I grumbled and stowed the pipe in my pocket again. She just gave me a smug grin.

"This is how you repay me?"

She held her nose.

"Yeah I guess. A bit stuffy in here. Can't exactly open a window, either. I have to wait to smoke and you've got to wait on that ice-cream. Is that it? Fair enough, I suppose."

The bullhead took off with a hovering heave.

I read a little more out of my little black book in Merlot's tight scrawl.

Subject has been implanted with memories of living in the areas surrounding Vale. I avoided giving him memories of nearby locations in the event that he escapes.

That cruel son of a bitch.

He spasms and calls out for his mother. I can only assume he means Salem. It appears she is imparting him with some memories of her own, she does so even as I write and sleep. I should like to find out more. What all she leaves him with in addition to my own vat training creates an unpredictable specimen, however. I fear letting him out of the tank and it's doubtful we could have a reasonable dialogue. I wonder if Salem would pay a price to have him.

It may be a method to acquire more of her cells. A trade of sorts, for this son. She already gave up some cells for inferior Grimm specimens I created. It may just be possible.

At some point the text just ended. With no mention of how I ended up in Vale with a sword or even the falsified huntsman records. I could only guess at how that happened. Salem claimed to have had a bit of role in that. Making sure I infiltrated Beacon and was on my way with Ozpin none the wiser but I was no closer to figuring out how she'd done it.

Perhaps she took Merlot up when he tried to sell me back to her and used yet another of her agents. It was unclear.

What was clear was that I was a bit of a mess. A bunch of accidents had created me and left me in the state that Merlot had dubbed a partial failure. Salem had been poisoning my mind before I left the womb, so to speak. It was possible she continued to poison me in my dreams now.

And with that terrifying thought I closed the book and tried to get some shut-eye as the plane flew.

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We landed in Solitas in the depths of a pine subarctic forest. Neo put us down in a clearing and the plan was to hitch a short ride to Mantle by train or car in a nearby township.

It was the borders of Solitas that were closed so now that we were on the northern continent I didn't expect that we'd encounter resistance to our arrival.

"You're not wanted here, are you?"

Neo shrugged.

I took that as meaning, 'if anyone recognizes me.' So probably no more than in Mistral. We'd walked around pretty freely down there so, again, I didn't expect much trouble.

"You've got disguises on you, too, though." She rolled her eyes and they turned green and her hair switched to black before they all shifted back to their natural colors.

I nodded and set about unfolding a tarp over the top of the airship to protect it from the elements. We couldn't exactly get it close to the city without alerting Atlesian air-control to our presence.

Neo was mute and couldn't respond to air traffic controllers and we didn't know the appropriate communication codes to fly into the airspace, besides.

The whole place was in a state of lockdown, unlike Mistral and Vale, and they'd probably shoot us down if we didn't skirt the edges. I'd been worried a patrol might head us off and start shooting at us even as far away as we'd flown.

I tied the tarp tight over the ship with bungee-cords and refueled it from the dust supply we'd brought in the back of the ship. It took powdered burn, and a hefty amount of it too but we couldn't exactly refuel around here.

It took us a bit of a hike to get to the nearest township, Senew, we'd had to land far enough away that no one could have seen us.

I marked the place we landed on the map on my scroll so we wouldn't lose the airship. It would be hard to find again unless we knew where to look. And that's assuming it didn't get buried under snow in the meantime.

I marched through the snow drifts. My clothes which had been a stray too hot down in Mistral under all my armor were more at home here. The thick cape didn't help with getting through the drifts but my boots were key.

Neo had to step along through my foot prints, following me. She was short enough that I was worried I might lose her if she had to mark her own trail. I had to resist the urge to laugh at her tiny form as she struggled through the snow, something I knew she wouldn't take well.

I lit my pipe and eventually we made our way to Senew.

I found a small cafe and ordered Neo ice-cream, just as I'd promised her. I wasn't sure if she'd change her mind because of the cold weather but she seemed content with her selection. It couldn't have been a popular order in this cold. She deserved a treat after flying all the way here and then hiking a few kilometers in the snow, though. I ordered a hot coffee and we sat together in the cafe.

"Are you sure you won't be cold?"

She nodded.

"It's just that you're so small. And your ice-cream is so large." It was a decently sized sunday topped with a banana and hot fudge. I suppose that the hot fudge might help with the cold.

She kicked me under the table.

"It's adorable."

She kicked me again.

"Alright, alright. It's not adorable."

She glowered.

"I just can't win with you, can I, Neo?"

She gave me a look that said 'you're not even trying to win with me.'

"Fair enough. So this is Solitas. Looks bleak."

I listened to the wind through the window of the cafe. It was howling. It might whip itself up into a blizzard and I didn't want to be caught up in that.

"Do you think things will be better in Mantle?"

Neo shook her head.

"So it's pretty desolate there, too."

Neo nodded.

"You've been? Well once we're there we'll need to narrow down our search for the maiden. Probably in Atlas, at a guess. Probably in a bunker if Ironwood has his way."

Neo nodded and took a bite of ice-cream.

"But bunkers don't much matter to you, do they Neo? We'll find her. Even if we have to break into every bunker in Atlas."

I was tempted to light my pipe again but there was a man near the Cafe's bar wiping down tables and I didn't want to do anything noticeably illegal within the first few hours of landing here. Mary Jane was a prohibited substance all across Remnant and the cafe probably had rules about smoking and I didn't want to be thrown out, at least not before Neo had finished her ice-cream.

“Come to me, child…”

The wind whispered and with it came a cruel voice.

“My child. My little puppet. You will bring me the relic.”

My hand fell to my side and patted the relic where it hung. It still had two questions left. I considered using them on Cinder's whereabouts. Or that of the remaining maidens.

I had so many options. So many questions. I'd only ever get two more answered. There were so many secrets about my own life I'd never get answers to if only due to the opportunity cost of only getting any two answered.

And that was if I didn't ask about the maidens. Or Cinder. Or Ozma. I knew so little. Perhaps I was just a puppet with Salem pulling the strings.

The hidden truths about how I came to be in Vale alone held a dozen questions. Why had she sent me to Vale. How had she done so? Where was Merlot now? Where were my sisters? How had they come to be?

On instinct I'd burned one of my questions because I needed to know how to deal with Salem. I had a loose plan for that. Destroy her body so completely that she could never reform. Scatter her remains across this world such that she'd never take possession with her feet ever again, let alone her mind. The relic had indicated that such a thing was indeed possible. I just needed to get close enough to do it.

It took me forever to muscle up the courage to use the thing. Even looking at it reminded me of Ren and Nora and what I'd done to them. It felt wrong for me to be the one using the questions for that reason. Once I'd cleared my mind of the bloodlust I had only one choice in moving forward. To use the relic. So I did. And I'd burnt one of my valuable questions.

I could ask how to resist her commands so that I could actually strike at her without her dominating my mind. I could ask how else I might be able to defeat her. There were so many options. So many choices. I found myself paralyzed by the sheer number of them.

And I had only two left.

Finding out Salem was immortal had been a kick in the gut. But it wasn't so bad knowing that she could still be stopped. Still be delayed. I could still shut her down. She could be wounded.

And like a god of a myth of old, if I scattered her pieces fine enough, she would never return to power. It was just a question of breaking her hold over me. I couldn't cut her into bits if she controlled my thoughts.

So what questions should I ask the relic? Should I even ask it anything? A good question, one I'd ironically like the relic to answer.

I could also ask about the other donor who'd created me. My surrogate. It was a mystery I may never have the answer to any other way.

I sighed and stood up, I slammed back my coffee. Neo was finished eating and I had a train to catch.

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We took the train ride into the city. I watched Atlas loom overhead. A giant rock with engines dangling beneath. The gondolas and their cables stretched to the upper city like a spider's web. Hovercraft swarmed the floating rock. All in Atlesian design and bearing Atlas' colors.

I knew a little of the place's history. How Atlas had been set up above the city of Mantle. I know about how some had been left behind.

The lower city was dirty. It was mostly a giant slum with buildings pacted too close together for comfort. I looked out the window as we rode in on the place. I imagined a lot of people worked in the upper city and commuted there each day from down here.

The cobbled streets were packed with vendors in a way that reminded me a little of Mistral's middle and lower levels.

It must be hard to see such affluence then to come back down here day in and day out.

There was a quiet resentment to the place. Angry about the rock that hung above. A constant reminder of haves and have-nots.

We shuttled past a dust mine in the middle of the city. A large open-pit thing that seemed to threaten hunger. As though on a bad day it might stretch it's maw wide and swallow the place whole.

I only caught a narrow look as we bulleted past the famous dust mines of Mantle. It looked like the kind of place no one would choose to work in. It was about needs.

There were faunus every which way you looked. The racial segregation couldn't have been more prominent any where else in the world. The upper city, that's for humans, the lower city, that's for faunus. A clear dividing marker to segregate the two based on economic strata now, and social strata in the past.

My life might be a total piece of shit but hey, at least I wasn't a dust miner.

"Come on Neo. Let's find a place to stay."

We found a small motel willing to put up with us. They managed to keep it clear of the soot of the mines. There was a grime to the air which only heavy machinery spinning into the earth could throw up. I imagined how clean and fresh the air in the city above must feel. I imagined trying to raise children in a place like this. I promptly stopped.

I was just making myself depressed and pointlessly. There were real things in my life about this city that should make me depressed. I needed to find a branch of the Malachite or a rival gang organization.

It was at times like these that, let me tell you, I got the White Fang. Their purpose was a noble one from the sight of the Mantle slums. I could see how and why the Fang were born when I looked out a window here.

"Let's take a tram up."

The upper city couldn't have been more different. It was also built down into the rock it floated on. Atlas Academy, I could see it from our gondola, had windows looking down and out over the wastes. They were dug into the mountainous slab.

There were also taller buildings which stretched upwards. Giving the illusion of some sort of man-made crystal, hewn from a different kind of rock. The city was a geode. Building upwards and downwards into the dull mound.

We landed and made our way off the gondola. We were surrounded by Mantleans working clerking jobs in the upper city. We stood out a little as hunters but only a little. We were given second glances but they were only that.

"I'm not sure I like it here. I think I prefer Mistral to Atlas." I told Neo. I watched busybodies bustle. "At least in Mistral they don't pretend that the lower floors are part of a different city."

pq pq pq pq pq pq pq pq pq pq pq pq pq pq pq pq pq pq

-WG

#neo #neapolitan #cloud strife #jaune arc #ruby rose x jaune arc x weiss schnee #war of the roses #lancaster #white rose #whiterose #whiteknight #white knight #cloud!jaune arc #sephiroth!Jaune arc #motion sickness #rwby #ffvii #ff7

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cinaja · 4 years ago

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Before the Wall part 35

Masterlist

----

In the following months, there are no further incidents with Jurian, which Miryam interprets as her plan having been a success. Jurian clearly works better with a larger, entirely human army. From a military point of view, her plan worked perfectly. But from a personal viewpoint, it is rather catastrophic. Any negative development that started before Drakon left seems to increase tenfold, and all Miryam can do is to stand by helplessly.

She does what she can to make things easier for Jurian, but none of her attempts work. Jurian doesn’t want her sympathy. He doesn’t want to talk to her either. Not about his feelings, or his actions, or anything else. The slightest disagreement sends him on edge. Miryam doesn’t know why, but anytime she says something against him, he seems to consider it to be a personal betrayal. So he snaps at her. Sometimes he apologizes afterwards. Most times, they just pretend nothing happened and move on with their lives.

And that would be fine. Miryam can take arguments, even if they always leave her feeling like there are splinters stuck under her skin, cutting with each moment. She can deal with Jurian’s anger – she understands it well enough. And if Jurian’s way to deal with it is to convince himself that all will be well if just kills Amarantha, she won’t stop him. But these days, Jurian prioritizes his private vendetta over everything else. Miryam had to keep him from going against orders to chase after her four times already.

The fourth time was yesterday, and Jurian is still angry enough that he barely spoke to her these past few days. If Miryam had been a little prouder, she would have let him stew, but here she is, sitting in his tent, once again apologizing for an argument that was his fault to begin with.

“We could have won this battle,” Jurian argues. He slams a file on the table with a bang.

“We had orders.” Through lots of practice, Miryam manages to keep her voice calm. “We were meant to keep our position to prevent the Vallahan army from marching east and ambushing out forces there.”

“It was a unique chance!”

Miryam sighs. “This war is bigger than your fight with Amarantha, Jurian,” she says softly, knowing that he likely won’t like this, “Revenge won’t bring back the dead, but there are millions of humans we might still save.”

Jurian glares at her. He’s angry now, she can see it in his eyes. “You don’t understand this,” he snaps and returns to his maps.

Miryam presses her lips together. Usually, she accepts Jurian’s behaviour with a shrug, but she can’t stand when he acts like this. How dare he pretend he knows more of anger and suffering and hate than she does?

She tries to understand, she really does, but damnit, Jurian isn’t the only one to have lost people. Does he think Miryam forgot about the thousand slaves Ravenia had murdered? Does he not know that while they are stuck in their endless fight against the loyalists, more of her people get slaughtered every day? Jurian isn’t the only one who is furious, nor the only one who wants revenge. If he has a right to anger, then Miryam does, too – but unlike him, she understands that this war is bigger than personal retribution. Aren’t the millions of human who still live in shackles more important than any revenge they might gain?

“I’ll be going to the mess hall.” Jurian stands so abruptly that his knee slams against the table and his ink pot nearly falls over. “You coming?”

She doesn’t want to come. She wants him to stop acting like she is the one who doesn’t understand, and since that’s not likely to happen, she wants to be left alone. But this is a peace offer, and in their current situation, Miryam can’t risk to refuse it, no matter how angry she may be. Jurian is suffering far more than she is, so that means it falls to her to look past her own feelings.

So she makes herself smile. “Sure.”

Jurian gives her a curt nod and stalks out of the tent, Miryam following shortly after. The mess hall is full already, but soldiers move over to make space for them. She smiles and thanks them. Someone hands her a bowl of stew and two slices of dark bread.

While they eat, Miryam barely gets a chance to talk to Jurian. She is busy listening to the soldiers, asking the right questions and smiling at the right times, Jurian next to her doing the same. She only pauses when a hush falls over the assembled soldiers and all eyes turn to the entrance.

Miryam frowns at the Seraphim soldier standing in the entrance. She doesn’t recognise him, but his presence itself is unusual. Following their argument, Jurian made it clear that he doesn’t wish to see Drakon or anyone who works for him within five miles of his camp. Indeed, Jurian is glaring openly at the soldier.

“I thought I told Drakon to keep his people out of my camp.”

Miryam puts a hand on his arm. “I’ll see what this is about.”

The soldier bows to her when Miryam approaches. “My Lady,” he says, “Prince Drakon requests a meeting. Urgently.”

Miryam’s frown deepens. Ever since they split camps, she has been meeting with Drakon at least once a week, but this is the first time he had one of his soldiers ask her over. Something must have happened.

“I’m coming right away,” she says.

From where he sits between a group of soldiers, Jurian frowns over at them. Miryam smiles and mouthes it’s important at him. Jurian rolls his eyes and returns to his conversation.

Maybe a part of Miryam is glad about the excuse to leave the camp. Visiting Drakon is the closest she comes to relaxing these days – even though Drakon’s message sounds like the visit today will be far less enjoyable than usual.

On the way into Drakon’s camp, Miryam runs into Nephelle, who just landed accompanied by two other cartographers.

“Miryam.” Nephelle smiles warmly. “What are you doing here? Not that it’s not good to see you, but didn’t you visit only yesterday?”

“I’m not entirely sure why I’m here myself,” Miryam admits. “Some emergency, I assume?”

Worry wipes the smile off Nephelle’s face. “I don’t know of any emergency, but I was out of camp for most of today.” She pats a bag hanging over her shoulder. The edge of a freshly drawn sketch peeks out. “We’d best go find Drakon.”

Miryam nods and follows Nephelle through the camp. As they walk, the Seraphim keeps rubbing her right wing, wincing.

“Damned cold,” she mutters. “When the weather is like this, it always hurts worse than usual.”

Miryam would suggest warm bandages to help with any cramping, as well as a salve, but she assumes that Nephelle, who likely had trouble with her wing for her entire life, likely knows best how to deal with it. Besides, she probably has more qualified healers to help her should she need it.

Nephelle doesn’t seem to expect a reply either way. She turns to the soldier who brought Miryam. “Where’s Drakon?”

“In his tent, Lady,” he replies.

Four guards are posted at the tent’s entrance, but they let Miryam and Nephelle through without comment. Inside, Drakon and Sinna appear to be in the middle of an argument, but they both fall silent when the door opens.

“Miryam?” Drakon looks at her like she is the last person he expected to see in his tent.

“I asked her to come,” Sinna says. She is leaning against the table, her arms so tightly crossed that they look like they might snap at any moment. “You refuse to listen to me. Maybe she’ll have better luck.”

“Luck with what?” Nephelle asks. She shoves past Miryam and gives Sinna a brief kiss in greeting. Sinna smiles in return and takes her hand.

“I can’t believe this,” Drakon says to Sinna without giving her a chance to reply to Nephelle. “You ask Miryam here to…” He shakes his head.

Miryam exchanges a look with Nephelle, who shrugs and grins. “You know what?” She nudges Sinna in the side. “How about we go wait outside and let Miryam and Drakon talk, now that she’s here. While we do, maybe you can tell me what this is about.”

Sinna grumbles something, but there is no real anger behind it and she follows Nephelle out of the tent without complaining.

Drakon turns to Miryam, wincing. “Sorry about this,” he says. “Sinna…” He shrugs. “Well, you know.”

“And what is it about this time?” Miryam asks.

It must be something serious. Sinna worries about Drakon, that is true. It is equally true that her methods are usually rather blunt, sometimes harsh, and Miryam isn’t always fond of them. But usually, she doesn’t go over his head like this. She speaks her mind on everything, but in the end, she accepts that Drakon can make his own choices.

“I got a letter from Ravenia,” Drakon says in a too-quiet voice.

“What?”

Miryam stares at him. Drakon shrugs a bit too casually.

“She wants to meet,” he says. He does an admirable job of keeping his voice detached, but Miryam knows him too well to be fooled by it. “Was all formal about it, too. She even wants to use the Lake Palace. You know, the one where the Alliance and the Loyalists met at the beginning of the war.”

Miryam nods slowly. “And you argued with Sinna because she didn’t want you to go?”

But in truth, she is far more interested in Ravenia’s intentions here. Why is the Queen of the Black Land so interested in Drakon? There is no logical reason for this, at least not one Miryam has been able to figure out, and it annoys her to no end.

Drakon shakes his head. “She doesn’t really have a problem with that. If we’re meeting under the seal of neutrality, Ravenia probably won’t do anything – she won’t be able to, if we’re meeting in the Lake Palace. No, Sinna just doesn’t want me to go alone.”

“Why would you go alone?” Miryam asks.

Up to that point, Drakon’s reasoning made perfect sense. Ravenia wouldn’t violate neutrality, the political repercussion would be too severe. But if the meeting follows protocol, Drakon and Ravenia should bring one companion each. Officially, it’s meant to be a protection, but with wards ensuring neutrality, the choice of the companion is usually more a show of power. Ravenia will bring Artax for sure.

“I’d just prefer it”, Drakon says, but he doesn’t look at Miryam. He sits down on his bed and stares down at his knees. Sighing, Miryam sits down next to him.

“Why?” She asks. “It’s the protocol, if you go against it, it will look bad.”

Besides, Miryam can’t think of a reason why Drakon would want to go alone. If she had to meet with Ravenia, she would always want at least one person who is on her side with her. Without Jurian and the other Alliance members beside her, she doesn’t think she would have been able to get through the meeting with the Loyalists.

But Drakon shakes his head. “I can’t take anyone along.”

And suddenly, it makes sense. “It’s because you don’t want them to find out why Ravenia wants to marry you, isn’t it?”

“What do you mean?”, Drakon asks. His confusion almost seems genuine. Almost.

“Oh, you know,” Miryam says, “You’ve known ever since the Black Land. I just don’t understand why you’re so adamant to keep it secret.”

Drakon keeps staring at his knees. Miryam very badly wants to push. After all, this might well be relevant for the war effort. It might hint at a weakness of Ravenia’s, and if that is the case, she needs to know. But she has too many secrets herself to be able to push Drakon on his with clear consciousness. She can’t push, at least not without making herself into a complete hypocrite.

She reaches for Drakon’s hand. “And you’re sure you can do this?” She asks.

If Drakon is surprised that she dropped the subject, he hides it well. He just gives her a grateful smile and squeezes her hand.

“Yes,” he says, “I mean, I think so. There isn’t much Ravenia can do to me if we meet in the Lake Palace, right?”

----

In spite of his big words, Drakon desperately wishes that Miryam was with him when he arrives in the palace in the lake the Continent uses to host neutral meetings. He is more than half an hour early and the palace is still deserted when he walks up the bridge that leads over the black lake to the island in its centre.

No guards stand in front of the gates, but on each side, a huge crystal bowl is placed. Drakon takes a dagger from his belt and draws it over his palm. Blood wells up and drips into the bowl, crimson on sparkling crystal.

„I swear that while I am on these grounds, to do no harm to anyone here, not by action or intention. I swear it on my life and on my blood.“

Rays of light shoot up from the bowl, painting rainbows into the air. That seems like a good sign. Still, he wishes someone was here to give him directions on what to do.

“Please don’t fry me”, he tells the wards and slowly steps forward.

The wards don’t fry him, which is rather nice of them. The great iron doors to the palace swing open as if pulled by invisible servants and Drakon enters. Slowly, he walks through the entrance hall, looking around. Even though the palace has been abandoned for years, the spells woven through the stone kept it from decaying. The palace is still splendid, but there are still signs of its abandonment. Wines sneak through the windows, a bird built a nest in one of the chandeliers and two mice skitter off as Drakon approaches.

“Admiring the view, Your Highness?”

Drakon only barely manages to keep from flinching. He turns around slowly, with all the grace he can muster.

Ravenia stands by the doors, dressed in her customary loose white clothes. Golden jewellery glints at her arms. As Miryam predicted, she is accompanied by Artax. The head of the Witcher’s Guild is dressed in the light grey robes of his profession, a scroll and a feather stitched on his breast.

“You need to bow”, Ravenia says, “In case you were wondering what the protocol demands in this situation.”

Drakon looks at her, and he sees the dark dungeon cell she locked him into, her masked torturer and the glowing iron in his hand. He hears her voice and his ears ring with screams – his own and those of others. Before he can stop himself, he has taken a step back, away from her. His power comes to life in a whisper, making a wind rustle though the room.

He digs his fingers into the fabric of his coat. “Don’t you think we’ve left protocol behind long ago?”

Ravenia clicks her tongue. They are the same size, but somehow, she manages to look down on him. “Still, nothing speaks against some common courtesy.”

This is exactly what Drakon despises about Continental politics. You can murder thousands of innocents and no one will bat an eye. Blackmailing and torture are perfectly acceptable. But Cauldron forbid that Drakon botches up a formal address.

“I would also have appreciated some courtesy,” he says, “when I was in your court. You remember? You had me thrown in the dungeon and tortured.”

“Now, we both know that this was entirely your fault,” Ravenia says with a dismissive wave of hand. Behind her, Artax picks up a vase from one of the pretty little tables and turns it around in his hands. “And it is not what I called you here to discuss.”

Drakon is beginning to think that Sinna may have been right. He shouldn’t have come. What is he even trying to accomplish here? Why does he go to a meeting with two of the most unnerving people he ever met? Just to get ridiculed?

“Then kindly get to the point”, he says.

Artax bristles. He must have released his hold on his power, because the room seems to turn colder. No, not colder precisely. But the air suddenly feels heavy, loaded the way it does in the hours before a thunderstorm.

It only stops when Ravenia shakes her head ever so slightly. She has started examining her nails like Drakon is not even worthy of her attention. “I’m rather dissatisfied with you, you see”, she says lightly.

I’m not exactly happy with you either, Drakon thinks, but he doesn’t say it. Not when Artax is watching him the way a hawk might stare at a mouse, unblinking and predatory. His courage is spent. All he can manage is to keep from running, and to hide his trembling hands behind his back.

Ravenia sighs. “You don’t seem to realize that I have been kind with you as of yet. Continue refusing me and that will change.”

Kind. Drakon tries and fails not to think of iron burning his skin, pain that never seems to end and the helplessness of being unable to make it stop. He doesn’t trust himself to speak. Ravenia would certainly hear the fear in his voice – as he is sure she already sees it in his eyes.

“I have no need of Erithia, you see”, she says, “Your land, I could use, but your people?” She smiles slightly. “Until now, I spared them in this war, but my patience has come to an end. So the choice is up to you: You can either agree to this marriage, or watch me burn your country to the ground.”

“No,” Drakon whispers.

Artax lets out a low laugh, but he ignores him. This can’t be happening, it can’t – it simply isn’t possible. There are hundreds of thousands of people in Erithia. Ravenia can’t be threatening all of them just to get Drakon to agree to a marriage. This is the woman who murdered over a thousand people just to punish Miryam, he reminds himself. She won’t stop at his country either.

It is a terrifying realization. But worse is that Drakon knows, deep down, that he won’t be able to stop her. He can’t give her what she wants. Not just because of vows or gods, but because if Ravenia got her hands on the sword, it would not just be Erithia that burned, but the entire world.

“No,” he repeats, this time more forcefully.

Ravenia just shrugs. “Your choice. Which reminds me.” She gives him another smile, but this one is more vicious. “Do give my regards to my little runaway slave. Tell her she can continue to play at being leader of the Alliance. For whatever little time she has left.”

With that, she turns around and stalks out of the room, Artax close behind her.

Drakon remains standing rooted on his spot, unable to move. Ravenia’s words echo over and over again in his mind, leaving him unable to form a coherent thought. He shouldn’t just stand here, he needs to return to his camp and tell Sinna what happened. They have to prepare, send a message to the Alliance, do something.

But deep down, he knows that it will be no use. Ravenia wouldn’t have told him in advance if she hadn’t been sure that she’ll win no matter what he does. Warning him was just a final taunt – making sure he knows what is coming, knows that he did everything in his power to stop it, and that it still wasn’t enough.

Drakon hasn’t been to Cretea in over a year. Since he can’t get into the cave anymore, he avoided the island rather than face his failure. But now, with nowhere else to turn, he returns to the cave. What he needs is a miracle, and this is the only place where he could find one.

The mist at the cave’s entrance twirls in front of him. It forms a male figure, masked and with an iron bar in his hand.

“Let me through”, Drakon hisses. This illusion cannot scare him more than the meeting with Ravenia and he has no time for this, not when his country is being threatened.

In answer, the mist crumbles. Drakon blinks. Nothing is ever that easy. Hesitantly, he starts forward, but before he can step through the opening, the mist rises again. But this time, it takes another form.

For a heartbeat, Drakon simply stares at his father, as confused as he was when he went into the cave after his coronation. Then, he also saw his father, but after what happened in the Black Land, that changed. Until now, it appears. Not real, he reminds himself. This isn’t real, it’s just an illusion. Unfortunately, that doesn’t change a thing as his father starts to speak.

“What kind of trouble did you get into now?” He asks in a tone that isn’t angry, but rather disappointed.

“You aren’t real,” Drakon says, but his voice shakes.

“That’s true,” his father agrees, “But as long as you continue to run my country to the ground, I’ll keep appearing.”

Drakon nervously tugs on the hem of his coat. He got past his father and his taunts before, he should be able to do it again. But with Ravenia’s threat still ringing in his ears, he can’t summon the confidence he would need to get past the spell. How can he confidently tell his father that he is doing well as a ruler when his country might get invaded?

“I’m trying,” he says instead, “Just let me through, I’ll find a way to fix this. Please.”

The mists don’t move. Drakon’s father shakes his head. “Trying isn’t enough. You swore you would never let our people down, but you did and now, thousands might die.” He shakes his head sadly. “I always knew this would happen if you were put in charge. There was a reason, after all, why I decided to sell you to Ravenia.”

Drakon spins around and stalks back through the tunnel. He made it about halfway to the door when a raspy laugh sounds from behind him. Drakon slowly turns around to the ghost who materialized behind him. His face is shrouded in shadows as always, and his body seems to appear and disappear sporadically.

“What do you want?”, Drakon asks. His voice sounds shrill in his own ears.

The witcher shrugs. The movement looks off without an actual body. “Maybe I just enjoy watching you.” He laughs again. The sound sends shivers down Drakon’s spine. “You’re rather entertaining. Can’t even get past a simple spell. I’d like to see how you even manage to run your country – can’t work very well, right?”

Drakon’s eyes begin to burn. He blinks rapidly, trying to keep the tears at bay. He balls his hands to fists and turns his head away. “Shut up.”

“Now, that was witty.” The witcher moves a bit closer, not taking a step but gliding over the ground. “Hit a spot there, didn’t I? Come on, surely you didn’t manage to reduce your country to rubble in the few years you’ve been in charge in Erithia.”

“You want to know what happened?”, Drakon asks. He is shaking now. Ravenia’s threats mix with his father’s taunts and he just can’t take it. “How about five years of war? How about the fact that this entire Continent is on fire and more people die each day, or that even after five years, we are still at a stalemate and if we lose, millions of humans will end up enslaved?” Drakon’s voice echoes on the tunnel walls, gets thrown back and forth and distorted more and more.

The witcher’s shape flickers once, as if in surprise.

“And Erithia,” Drakon continues, “well, Erithia is about to be invaded because Queen Ravenia of the Black Land somehow found out about this stupid sword and now wants to get her hands on it to set herself up as Queen of the Continent or something like this.” Drakon feels tears running over his face and wipes them away. “So from the way it looks, Erithia is indeed about to get reduced to rubble and I’m too stupidly incompetent to -”His voice breaks. “Shit”, he whispers, “shit.”

He lets himself slide to the ground, wings tugged in tightly, and buries his face in his arms. It’s all hopeless. Ravenia is going to burn his country to the ground and he won’t be able to do a thing against it. After all, he has never once been able to do anything against Ravenia.

“Hey”, a light voice says. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to – “

Drakon is surprised enough that he looks up. The witcher is kneeling before him – only his looks are completely changed. Gone are the shadows, instead, a sturdy young man with ruddy brown hair and a friendly face kneels in front of him.

Drakon yelps and jumps the his feet. “What the –“

The man vanishes and reappears five feet further away. “Sorry”, he repeats. “I thought you might find this more comforting. But I could change it to something else.” Again, that awkward shrug. “At least you stopped crying, so I guess that’s something.”

Drakon lets himself slide back to the ground. He tries and fails to process that the local evil ghost is actually a nice-looking man who seems only a few years older than him. Upon closer inspection, he looks more human than Fae.

“I didn’t mean to upset you”, the ghost says. “I mean, I kind of did, but I didn’t mean to actually make you cry. None of the others ever reacted. At all.”

Drakon doesn’t manage a reply. All he can do is stare.

“I mean, can you blame me?” The ghost asks. “I don’t exactly get much company down here. Just you Erithian royals, and you are generally not very talkative.” Now, he even gives him a small smile. “But maybe you want to talk? About that war of yours, and this Ravenia.”

Wonderful. Apparently, Drakon is now pathetic enough to make the evil ghost trapped in this cave for his deeds feel bad for him. That’s a new low.

He bites his lip. Telling the local evil witcher the truth about what happened seems like a bad idea. But not that the he mentions it, Drakon realizes that he does want to talk. Badly. And the unfortunate truth is that there is no one outside of this cave who can ever know the entire truth.

“Alright,” Drakon says, wondering if he’ll yet regret this.

Haltingly, he begins to talk. He starts at the very beginning, with his engagement to Ravenia. It occurs to him that he never told this story to anyone before, at least not entirely. At first, he stumbles over the words, but after the first few sentences, he finds that he can’t get himself to stop talking anymore.

The ghost watches in silence, without interrupting him once. He doesn’t blink either. The only reaction he shows is that his form flickers from now to then. Even long after Drakon finished talking, he remains silent, staring at Drakon. He stares back, drumming a quick rhythm on his leg.

“So what did you come here to do?” The ghost finally asks. “To beg for help from a goddess who never once answered your prayers?”

Wonderful. Drakon should have known better than to hope for any help from him.

“Let me guess,” he says, “You want me to free me so you can help me defeat my enemies.”

“Wouldn’t be the worst idea,” the ghost shoots back, “If you’re worried about what using the sword might do to you, I’m pretty sure you could get away with it if you use it just this once.”

Drakon is far more worried about possibly setting a dangerous criminal loose on the world. There’s no way for him to know what the ghost would to if he were to release him. Instead of helping, he might turn on Drakon.

“Sorry,” unsure if he means that, “but I can’t.”

��So you’d rather let this… this person get her hands on my sword?”

“It isn’t your sword. You stole it from Daín.”

Drakon draws his knees up to his chest and wraps his arms around them. He doesn’t understand this. Why does this even interest this witcher so much? Is he just trying to manipulate him, or does he actually care about what Ravenia getting her hands on the sword might mean?

“True.” In the blink of an eye, the ghost disappears and reappears in a sitting position opposite Drakon. “But if you count on the Mother for help, then you’re in for a disappointment.”

“And whose fault is that?” Drakon asks, “You killed her consort, Daín, to steal his sword. You caused the Mother to disappear.”

To his surprise, the ghost starts to laugh like Drakon has just told him the funniest joke. “You never knew Étain. Even if she was still around, she wouldn’t give a shit about any of this. She cared about exactly three things: Being worshiped, herself and Daín. Certainly never about humans. Or Fae, for that matter.”

Drakon blinks at him. “Étain,m” he repeats. “You mean the Mother. You knew her?”

“Of course. Her and Daín both.” He gives Drakon a smile filled with too-sharp teeth. “And let me tell you something: If you are truly fighting against slavery, you would have been sorely disappointed by your precious goddess.”

Why did he even start this conversation? He should have known that debating this war with the ghost of an evil witcher could only end badly. Yet here he is, stupid enough to try it anyways. He can’t even get himself to brush off the words like he knows he should.

“The mother didn’t favour slavery,” Drakon says softly. He leans his head against the wall and looks up at the glowing plants that grow all over the tunnel. “Why would she? She created this world, full of different species as it is. Cleary she valued diversity.”

“But what if she didn’t?” The ghost presses. “What would you do then?”

“Change religions,” Drakon replies without thinking.

With a start, he realizes the sheer ridiculousness of this situation. His country is about to be invaded, and here he is, debating religion with the witcher who murdered his goddess’s consort. He wants to laugh. He wants to cry.

Again, the ghost laughs, but this time, it sounds almost appreciative. “Good answer,” he says, “Watch out, little prince. I might start to like you yet.” His form flickers and he reappears in a standing position. “You don’t want to believe me about the Mother,” he says, looking down on Drakon. “That’s you choice to make. But before you count on any divine assistance, you might still want to consider the possibility that I am right.”

----

A/N: I'd really like to thank @croissantcitysucks here, because we came up with everything regarding the sword, the Mother, Daín and the ghost in the cave together and that entire arc would have been far less interesting without her and the discussions we’ve had❤

Tags: @sjm-things

#I feel kind of bad about how things with Jurian are going #but I hope it's understandable that he's only acting that way because he is suffering #and I hope the other characters are understandable too #before the wall #miryam #jurian #drakon

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visarcana · 4 years ago

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What do we know about... Egzardia

Okay, let’s finally do this. Egzardia is another of Asturia’s neighbors and allies and the home to a certain snake of a prince in my fic; not a popular character I guess, but also real fun to write!

So what do we know about this country from the series, artbooks and other official material? So, similar to Basram (the previous in the WDWK series), this fictional country seemed to have an obvious source of inspiration, which was the Earth’s France. Or was it?

Canon information

1. Egzardia is a country famed for its fashions

And that is what first pointed into the direction of France. The pants that Millerna wears are somewhat outrageous in Asturia but in Egzardia, where she got them from, they are the height of fashion. Here’s Millerna, her pants, and a bonus “come at me bro” Allen.

So, the new trends for the daring come from Egzardia, as the Filmbooks confirm also near the picture of the soldiers (”when it’s not uniforms, Egzardia seems to set the trends in fashion”).

This sort of goes together also with the fact that “they try to make even their guymelefs beautiful” (Roman artbook). The same book also says their guymelefs have elegant, round shapes (the Mazdas of guymelef world haha).

2. Egzardia is a neighboring country to Asturia

Because Asturia formed an alliance with its neighboring countries (episode 23). The map of Gaea (from the Vision of Escaflowne Fanbook) puts it north of Basram and South of Zaibach. Makes you wonder where the border with Asturia was supposed to lie? But yeah, as we know now, this whole map is fanon.

3. The design of the soldiers/guymelefs

Regarding the soldier designs, it is, again, obvious that somebody did their homework and looked up the 17th-18th century military uniforms as an inspiration.

Here is the Egzardian general named Jardi (Jarudi) and his regular soldier underling. There are no official transcriptions of these names so we can only guess how it was supposed to be transcribed (Giardi? Jardie?).

Anyway, what I was able to figure out was that the inspiration for the general was the European uniform of a grenadier (the soldier who throws grenades) that became distinguished from other troops in 17th century. Mostly because of the mitre cap (like the Pope wears) which is a trademark of this troop.

Upon closer look, the closest examples look to be the British grenadiers! The bottom part of the mitre above the forehead in particular looks very British (compare).

So was I off with France after all? When you google French grenadier, you see that mostly their mitre caps are all fur and they look a bit further away from our guy Jardi... but he does have a French-looking pom-pom on the top of his hat... and the gillet, the gaiters... guess the uniforms of the era had these elements often in common.

Here’s image for ants of Jardi from the back (Settei Artbook). I want to use the ponytail and bow on Gilles’ design as well.

4. The flag/coat of arms

It looks like this (this is my work using the sketch in the artbooks and coloring it according to the scheme shown in the anime).

So, what do you think it represents? I think the other crests are more obvious in that than this one. The only thing that comes to my mind is a variation of Fleur de Lys, but I guess it’s because I’m partial to France with this. Or maybe a fancy-looking spear? They definitely use spears on the battlefield.

(don’t ask me why Basram flag is involved in a shot of mostly Egzardian soldiers lol)

5. The Egzardian warship is called Triville.

For this, we have a transcription from the official subs. Tréville is a commune/family name in France (okay, not to be too partial to France, you can find another little town called Treville in Italy). And also a character (based on a real historical figure) called Monsieur de Tréville in Alexandre Dumas’ The Three Musketeers. The name seems related the region of Trois-Villes, so basically, tréville is a fancier way of spelling “Three Towns” to my understanding. But there was also a French admiral de Latouche-Tréville who had three French ships named Latouche-Tréville after him, so this seems the most likely inspiration, if there was any.

So what did I do with this information so far?

Not too much to be honest. Obviously, I named the prince Gilles and I made up the name of the capital of Egzardia as Marsial, just a play on Marseille. I made Gilles dress flashily, but he would not pause at it as an Egzardian. Since Basram is said to be the only republic among the known countries, I made Egzardia a kingdom as well, but put Gilles himself further down the succession line.

This was necessary because this engagement with Millerna is a “plan B” not only for King Aston (who had her engaged to Dryden before that), but also for Egzardians. Gilles’ older brother, who is the current king in Egzardia, is already married with a son. If Millerna (or any of the Asturian princesses) had been considered for the marriage, they would have arranged it much sooner, while Gilles’ father had still been alive. Instead, this deal is closed in wartime with the younger brother being sent. Who’s all women, hunts, games... that sort of stuff. And not too eager to marry. But he quickly takes liking to Millerna hahaha!

I would also like to point out that the order of succession is male primogeniture, so the sons of the older brother pass over Gilles as they are born (and he already has one), so poor guy really can’t think of getting the throne in Marsial anytime soon. Which is another reason for Gilles to be married off to Palas, where he can think of being a king regent through Millerna.

This isn’t an ideal situation for Aston either, because it becomes possible that the two countries will be joined after his death, and not necessarily with Asturia coming out on top, if the older brother has much power over Gilles. So yeah, it is a plan B for a reason, even though it may seem a better match at the first sight. It’s not necessarily an upgrade for Millerna to marry an actual prince instead of the wealthy local merchant prince, who brings the money and at least keeps the power securely in Asturia.

But the war goes on, Grava needs allies, he is sick, and he has to make sure Millerna has a suitable husband after he’s gone. Coughwhoisnotallencough. Because once he’s dead, Millerna can do whatever she wants, she’s a queen. And Eries won’t have the “older sister” privileges much longer either... since she didn’t want to be the queen, at some point she would have to bow down and respect Millerna’s will, not the other way around. I wrote a bit of this change of dynamic in Chapter 9 already .

So yeah, Aston really has a grudge against Allen in my head, so he could even play dangerously to prevent him from marrying Millerna. But then, Asturia and Egzardia could be joined also with Palas as the capital. Asturia is the strongest after Zaibach, so currently stronger than Egzardia. So if Gilles held some grudges or an ambition to take over his brother once he’s married to Millerna (and she lets him rule her country and do as he pleases), there is an option of that. So yeah, a risky game, but the possible gains (and losses) for everyone involved are great with this marriage.

By the way, Gilles and his as of yet unnamed older brother also have two unnamed sisters. I’ll probably name them only if they appear in the story. Gilles is the youngest one, that is why he’s had all the time and resources in the world to play around until now. He has a guymelef as a member of the royal family (guymelefs are rare and expensive goods) and is a skilled swordsman. He’s quite charismatic and quickly became popular with the Asturian courtiers.

I made his character a bit of a play on the trope of the rakish handsome brute who after his youth spent womanizing falls for the innocent heroine (possibly with an arranged marriage involved)... aand then does a magical 180 by the power of love, becomes a great man and off they ride into the sunset. But that’s another story which is no longer worldbuilding, so I’ll just stop here. Sorry for the long post again.

#escaflowne #visarcana #egzardia #asturia

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