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ambiguouspuzuma · 1 month ago

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War and Peas

She was a princess, not a ghost, although at times it could be difficult to tell. That was how it felt at night, for instance, when her face hung like a second moon aglow above the candlelight; or indeed during the morning, when she seemed to fade against the coming of the dawn; or perhaps at noon, when the midday sun seemed to stream on through her without pause, and she left but the merest smudge of shadow in her wake.

Viscount Sethorzy was fascinated. He had agreed to their match out of a sort of absent-minded acknowledgement of duty, in the way one might vaguely concede that a room needed cleaning without any firm plan to do anything about it, leaving the specifics to be worked out by future people later down the line. He had been planning to spend the bulk of their marriage, as he had his bachelorhood, with his beetles - but the Princess Alessia had been a revelation.

She was the fairest in the land, as any mirror would attest, enchanted or otherwise. Not just in her beauty - ethereal though it was - but in her pallor, which bore the perfection of untouched snow, as if the world had not yet smudged her with its fingerprints. Her skin was impossibly pale, almost translucent, like the lace of the curtains - the finest silk, the mist that rolled over the forest pines. It was like the cast shed by a person who was whole.

The Viscount was used to a gentle approach. Many of his specimens were fragile: the film of an iridescent wing, the glinting of a tiny compound eye. He wore special gloves, used special tools when he dissected, with magnifying lens and a miniature surgeon's kit. But for the Princess, even a light touch seemed to be too much. She flinched when he took her hand, even for the most perfunctory of kisses. She carried herself as if every step was agony, imagining caltrops on his smooth marble floors.

Even her clothing was impossibly light, as insubstantial as her skin. She wore a gown of isinglass lace, a patchwork of see-through silken scales with only the merest hint of thread to bind them into one. She floated like a phantom across his hall, a morning mist in human form, and the Viscount couldn't help but be entranced. There was something so captivating in that frogspawn fragility, the sense that an contact could melt her like snow. She had refused to touch him, and yet he found that he was firmly in her grasp.

He had furnished her rooms for a princess, as if adapting a terrarium to display his latest find. Four-poster bed. Armoire. Vanity. He left others to pick the fittings out, having been told what she might need, with less interest than when selecting pine chippings or a stretch of rotting bark that might be used for shelter, less used to keeping people than invertebrates. They'd put her in the East Wing, above the stables: separate and yet joined to the main building. She would want privacy, at first, he'd been told. That had been absolutely fine with him.

But even from that low bar of understanding, Princess Alessia was not at all what he'd expected. She did not take well to the rooms built for a princess: when he called to visit her the next morning, she was visibly bruised, a hint of red onion under the silverskin, the marks of a day's ride roughshod and bareback over cobbled streets. She would only complain of nightmares, suspecting she had done it to herself: but the Viscount could hear the mares that danced beneath her sleeping form, and feel the slightest of vibrations in the walls. He was determined to prove otherwise.

Viscount Sethorzy had always been noted for his enquiring mind; a longstanding patron of the sciences, and patroniser of his less enlightened vassals. Until now, his beetles had held the benefit of his attention, but now it turned to the beauty in his care. Ever the gentleman, at least by birth, he arranged for their rooms to be switched. But to truly accommodate his guest, he would need to understand her needs. This called for some experimentation.

His room had been outfitted for the luxuries of rule, but he had done away with many through the years, not wanting all of that distraction from his work. Now he restored them in abundance. Back came the blackout drapes, a velvet shield against the light. Reinstated were the cushions and carpets, plump and plush, swan-feather and sheepskin. He had the room buttressed with mattresses, insulated against the outside world, a pillow fort to withstand any siege; and then, in the depths of those fortified foundations, he placed a solitary pea.

The next morning confirmed it. Princess Alessia was brought breakfast in bed, and Viscount Sethorzy's curiosity brought him with it - for all the trek across the palace it required. His rooms had been at the tip of the North Tower, far removed from any distractions, with unparalleled views across the valley. He had been told that they were quite beautiful, although he had never seen the benefit himself. The Viscount had never been one to know beauty from a distance. As with his beetles, he only recognised it from up close.

The Princess lay across the sheets like the lightest strokes of paint upon a canvas, as delicate and many times as beautiful. She wore a silken robe and eiderdown crown, and the champagne mist of her hair was strewn across the pillows like a halo in paradise, or the morning sun rising from behind white clouds. Viscount Sethorzy thought she could have been the missing link between humanity and the divine; between Creation and the void that came before. He took in the view, pastries in hand, and asked if she had found the new room more to her liking.

"The room itself is wonderful," she sighed, even her voice a whisper of a breath. "It is only a pity that the mattress was so lumpy. I am afraid it was another largely restless night, twisting and turning until I could find a position to avoid the worst of it. The discomfort seems to be most acute in the centre of the bed, if that is helpful for you to know."

"It is, thank you," Viscount Sethorzy replied. The experiment had confirmed his initial suspicions: her ailment was touch, an overabundance of feeling. The Princess was extraordinarily sensitive, and could feel a distortion no matter how disguised. "I am sorry to hear of your continued distress. I will of course see what more I can do."

He already knew the answer to that. They would need to keep her here, with a new mattress, cleared of peas and any crumbs or dust or hairs; sequestered in a sterile room, insulated from the remainder of the palace and its grounds. It felt a shame, not to have her to share it with, but the Viscount told himself that it was no great miss. Theirs had been a strategic match, he remembered. Royal blood; a way to strengthen his claim over these domains, given the unrest at the borders. His advisors had been clear about that.

It she had to be sealed away, the albino olm in her cave, so be it. He had meant to marry her, and then return to his work; not to spend the rest of his life tethered to her side. Of course, heirs may be out of the question, but that could be something for his advisors to rue. He would not miss the rest, and had harboured no expectations of romance for himself. If the Princess was more comfortable in this sanctuary, stationed away from the rest of his life, then that was all to the good. He had been as well - and would otherwise have needed to excuse himself from her company. They could exist in solitude together.

It lasted four days before the curiosity returned. The Princess was too compelling to be ignored. Viscount Sethorzy was fascinated by this guest under his roof: the nature of her affliction, and how it might be turned to more productive uses. This called for more experimentation. He plucked one of the living specimens from his collection, and used tweezers to place it underneath her floorboards. Within a minute of taking to bed, she had called a servant to have it removed, complaining of an unbearable scuttling that only she could feel.

But the servant had been briefed, and roused Viscount Sethorzy instead. "You can feel it moving from your bed?"

"Yes." She was again a dream made flesh, a breath given life. Her skin, the merest morning mist that lay across the the valley outside. Her hair, the gentle gold of seafoam at dawn. "Although I could not say what it was, and confess that I am still unsure. Are they native here?"

All this was music to the Viscount's ears; locating the beetle, which had taken him months to find, and with her own dosage of curiosity too. "Come with me on my walk tomorrow," he asked. "It will be easier to show you."

The Princess agreed - and, meeting him downstairs on the morrow, gave the Viscount one of the most agreeable mornings of his life. He took her to the woodlands his predecessors had once used to hunt, and where, in his own fashion, he now did as well. She was able to say which bark hid the most hidden life, and even start to recognise their motions with experience: the many footsteps of a centipede, the frantic movement of a louse, the stolid progress of a worm. They continued to venture out together, taking short walks at a time, and his collection grew at a rate that he had never known before.

He also uncovered a greater understanding of her condition: Princess Alessia lay like a fragile spider in her silken web, registering every vibration, each disturbance from her trembling spindly fingertips. She was sensitive enough to feel a pin drop, registered even before it hit the floor. With practice, she was able to feel the crawling of a woodlouse at twenty paces - and, equally impressive to the Viscount's mind, able to bear the sensory overload he felt that such an awareness must surely provide.

"I can stomach it in small doses," she said, when he raised that final concern. "I've learnt to find a balance in the chaos; I just have to seek out the melody amongst the noise."

"Just that?"

She nodded, perhaps not recognising the sarcasm in his tone. Too subtle, even for a lady such as her.

"Then I shall endeavour to make your life more tuneful."

There were certain accommodations to be made, in addition to her room. Viscount Sethorzy observed them well, as if in one of his experiments, and made adjustments as they went. The Princess wore silk gloves outside, and kept her touch as light as her countenance, as if she couldn't countenance anything more. They had to travel in a palanquin, and she wore a velvet moretta and cloak against the sunlight and the wind, each of which would sear the fragile snowmelt of her skin.

At first, the Viscount had thought her face painted with lead, but she was too attuned to touch for that as well; her skin was natural, and had to be preserved away from nature's own crimson paints. There was much to learn, but he had always been a quick study. Her sensitivity was extraordinary; in time, he came to see it was much a talent as affliction. There were many practical uses for such a gift. Princess Alessia was able to locate the splinter in a horse's hoof, the growth of clot beneath the skin - and, more excitingly, tell the beat of beetle under bark. She drew needles from haystacks, worms from wood, and Sethorzy from the drudgery of his previous life.

Together, they settled into a new routine. A melody, amongst the noise. The Viscount in his study, inspecting the minutiae of his realm. The Princess in her tower, content looking out over a distant world. They found what even Alessia might have known as peace - aside from the hassle of the occasional travelling knight, who stopped to enquire if she needed rescuing, at all? But, of course, she didn't. For once, sequestered in her room, she felt safely set apart from all the noise. To her, the North Tower wasn't a cell. It was protection.

Still, more than anyone, Princess Alessia would have known no silence lasts for long - and soon the Viscount came to feel vibrations of his own. There were rumblings of unrest - growing from the edges of his domains into the central provinces, much as mould consumes an overripened peach - and the royal match had failed to stop the spread. At least, not yet. The Princess's name may not have stemmed dissent, but she had more to offer than her hand. Or, rather, her hand had more to offer than a finger for a ring she'd never worn.

"What do you make of this?" Still moving gently, testing her tolerance with every step, Sethorzy set his wife to more strategic work.

"I can read it." She stroked her palm over the page. The revolt had taken to using ciphers, and the Viscount was working on translating them, but it was easier when the Princess could read the imprint of the original message from previous sheet. She could even trace the damp marks of invisible ink. He was beginning to wonder if there was anything she couldn't do. "The rebels are planning a surprise assault. Here."

"Does it say when?" Her skin evoked tracing paper itself. Like he could hold a candle to her chest, and watch the organs dancing underneath. He could see through it to the blue blood in her veins; almost luminous, like bioluminescent ink. It was hard to focus on the war, when he had peace herself within his home.

"No need," the Princess said. "A force like this - several hundred men, marching in lockstep through the valley? I can simply tell you when they leave."

#writing #original writing #creative writing #short story #writeblr

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modern-inheritance · 5 months ago

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Modern Inheritance: Over the Edge (Pre-war)

(A/N: WIP title. It's not really abuse, but wanna say that there's a very very brief moment of rough-handling of a kid. No hitting, only a brief shake to a kid the size of, let's say a 7-8 year old human. Also, we get to see Islanzadí for the first time in pre-war, with this taking place probably a month or two before The Promise and Arya's oath with Brom. She's struggling with the turmoil after the Fall, the loss of Evandar and not really having the time to mourn him due to the sudden rush of responsibility and new duties {that sounds like a theme for this bloodline huh} and she is barely keeping her head above water. Because of that, she tries to tell herself that it's okay to focus solely on her duties as queen, because, through trickle down and big picture, her doing well as queen keeps Arya safe from Galbatorix and the Forsworn. That's what she tells herself. If she believes it is up to you as the reader at this point.)

~~~~~~

MODERN INHERITANCE: OVER THE EDGE

Out of nowhere the door to the queen’s study slammed open with a horrendous bang. Däthedr, Fiolr and Islanzadí all jumped as one.

“What is the meaning of this int–” Islanzadí’s thunderous voice was immediately silenced by the equally stormy eyes that snapped to her. Despite his frail nature, Oromis’ presence filled the doorway, looming over them like a threatening anvil cloud.

“Leave us.” The Rider’s voice held unmistakable steel. The two elf lords flicked their gazes to the queen, unsure of who was in control. Slighting one would be dangerous, though which was more threatening at the time was yet to be decided. “Leave!”

A great rumble shook the roots arrayed beneath their feet and a massive golden eye suddenly glinted outside the window overlooking the courtyard.

Däthedr and Fiolr were out of their seats and bowed just low enough to show apologetic respect before they fled, kicking up moss in their haste.

Silence but for the soft whooshing of Glaedr’s great lungs outside the walls filled the room.

Islanzadí slowly settled back into her chair. “Can I help you, Oromis-elda?” The brittleness that accompanied her clenched teeth and the hard line of her shoulders was not masked in the slightest. Islanzadí was livid at the intrusion and far beyond angry at the subversion of her authority, in front of her advisor no less!

“Do you have any,” Oromis paused to collect himself. His own rage was very close to boiling over. “Any inkling of just where your daughter is?”

The queen blinked. Arya? When was the last time she had seen her? Surely not that long ago. Breakfast, probably, scampering out the door. Or did she see her in the Menoa tree while on a walk? No, that was yesterday, she had a meeting with the Council after that, so it had to be yesterday.

A heavy stone of guilt dropped into Islanzadí’s stomach. Could she really not tell him when she last saw her own child? The days had been going by in a whirlwind, filled with meetings pushing for more resources for the border, more spellcasters to maintain the barriers, power struggles in Ceris–

Islanzadí had no earthly idea where her own daughter was.

“I…”

Oromis reached behind him and marched into the room. “Spare me the attempt, Islanzadí.”

A small yelp of indignation followed him, or rather, was dragged alongside him. Arya let out a half feral yowl at the Dragon Rider pulling her by one gangly arm, silverskin glowing a muted flush of pink anger at her cheeks at the unintentional roughness.

The elfling’s hair was wild, though that was nothing new. Her braid was half undone, the tie at the base loosened. Knees scuffed, elbows bruised, knuckles scraped, pine needles stuck to her clothing with sap. Yes, that was her Arya, scowling up at her from where Oromis had planted the child in front of him with his hands on her shoulders.

“Tell your mother.”

Arya’s scowl deepened. Stars. She looked so much like Evandar during combat when she did that. Her brows met with the same lightning pattern, jet streaks of midnight above endless emerald green. “Nothing happened.”

Another growl rattled the window hard enough to send it gliding inwards on hidden hinges. Glaedr snapped his massive jaws, a sharp crack loud enough to make the gathered elves flinch. Outside, a trio of pines juddered from the impact of his tail before he subdued the lashing.

‘Hatchling!’ His voice was thunderous in their minds. At the dragon’s mental touch Islanzadí felt the sensation of wind pushing against her body, a momentary inkling of confusion, then a fear of failure, fear of the outcome, and then…relief. And rage. ‘We have warned you!’

Against all odds, Arya snapped her own teeth, a defiant snarl rattling her thin chest. “I’m not scared of you, Glaedr!”

The golden dragon audibly balked. That stung more than he cared to admit. Especially coming from one so small.

“What is this about?” Islanzadí snapped. That surge of fear felt through Glaedr’s memories twisted her stomach into knots. Besides the usual scrapes, though, Arya seemed unharmed. “I have work to do. You interrupted a meeting that was planned weeks in advance!”

Outside, Glaedr shifted.

Arya bared her teeth. With a hollow mental wave of her hand to put it aside for later thought, Islanzadí noticed the girl’s canines had fallen out. When had that happened? Not too recently, it seemed. The tips of wickedly sharp ancestral teeth were already poking through, giving the child an almost comical appearance with both top canines barely coming in while the lower set were nearly level with her incisors.

Oromis’ eyes flashed at Islanzadí’s words. His grip on Arya’s shoulders tightened. “We found your daughter after she leapt off the Crags, Islanzadí.”

Islanzadí’s heart dropped, the wind knocked from her lungs. “What?”

‘We were flying and caught the hatchling after she jumped off the Crags of Tel’naeír.’

Arya…jumped from the cliffs?

Islanzadí was around the desk in an instant and seized her only child by the arms. “What were you thinking?” There was only panic thudding in her chest, the image of a small body crumpled in the beds of pine needles flashing to her mind. “Have you gone mad?! Answer me!”

“Islanzadí!” Oromis’ bark was sharp and swift. It was only when Arya stifled a squeak did Islanzadí realize she was shaking her.

The queen released the elfling as if stung, hands hovering an inch away from the pink blotches blooming on silvered skin. “Arya…?”

Arya lifted her gaze from where she had dropped it to the ground.

Was…was that fire in her eyes?

Defiant but calm. Determined. The lanky child squared her shoulders as best she could under Oromis’ grip and met her mother’s conflicted storm of golden lightning and locked them eye to eye.

Arya’s voice was soft, deadpan. “I wanted to fly.”

Fly. Said as if it were entirely normal for elf children to take to the skies after a quick breakfast. Islanzadí stared at her child, unsure if this was some sort of elaborate ruse to hide a darker motive, some childish cry for help, or if her daughter genuinely had planned to leap off a thousand foot cliff and sprout wings.

The queen closed her mouth, suddenly aware that her jaw was hanging open a good half inch in dumbfounded bewilderment.

“...Fly?”

Arya nodded. Never broke eye contact. Never changed her expression. “I wanted to test the spells I made. The Crags are the highest and clearest launch point.”

A dull headache began to throb behind Islanzadí’s forehead.

Why? Why did it always have to be her child. Couldn’t she find something normal to do? Couldn’t she see that Islanzadí was struggling to keep the entire elven nation together just over a handful of years after the Fall? Arya was known to be remarkably observant but how could she not understand, after her father–

The fear for her safety was quickly turning to white hot anger at the center of Islanzadí’s chest. Of all the foolish things….

The queen inhaled and held her breath for a long moment before letting it out in a tight huff. “Arya. You are far too old to be pretending you can fly, and far too young to be meddling with experimental magic!” Arya opened her mouth but Islanzadí cut her off. “No. Enough of this. You know how important the meetings today are.” Islanzadí rose from her kneeling position and knocked the knees of her dress free of dirt. “You and I will discuss this at length in the evening. Now go to your quarters.”

Again, Arya tried to speak. She even took half a step forward, something flashing and flaring bright in her emerald eyes. “I–”

“Enough!” Unmistakable. The voice she used in court. Commanding. The voice of a queen. “To your quarters!” Islanzadí threw an arm in the direction of the door, pointing sharply. “Now!”

The elfling’s mouth snapped shut, jaw clenched.

Islanzadí couldn’t tell if it was horror, pain, or anger that surged to her throat when her daughter straightened into a smart attention, knocked her knuckles to a disheveled shoulder as she had seen countless times before, and bowed.

“As you wish, my queen.”

Hollow, detached. Quietly and barely masking the seething underneath it all.

Arya was at the door when Oromis called out. “Arya.” She turned to him, never once looking back to her mother. “Lessons early tomorrow. Bring your books and your training blade.”

“Yes, ebrithil.” The murmur held more respect than anything she had said to Islanzadí. “I will be there.”

Once the door was closed, Islanzadí took a moment to rub her temples and just breathe. She could still feel Oromis staring at her, anger not yet gone, thunder still in his eyes.

“What?” She didn’t mean to snap. She bit her tongue. The Dragon Rider merely shook his head. “Speak, Oromis! I do not have time for games! I have two more meetings, not counting the one you interrupted, and I have a stack of reports on attempted border incursions by Wyrdfell waiting for me.”

“You don’t have time?” The words stung hard against Islanzadí’s ears with flabbergasted accusations. Oromis must indeed be outraged if he was acting this emotional with her. “You do not have time for your own daughter?”

The queen whirled back to her desk and stalked around it. “My daughter should know better than to jump off cliffs and think she will fly!” She shoved a stack of papers to the side roughly and sat. “She knows how important these weeks are. Arya is capable, she should be able to take care of herself.”

“That is not the matter at all, and you know this!” Oromis followed her, bracing slim hands on the back of one of the chairs. “Islanzadí, Arya is hurting! She is still trying to come to terms with Evandar’s death–”

“Get out.”

“Islanzadí–”

“Get out! You will not lecture me on how to raise my child by invoking the name of my dead mate!”

For the first, and quite nearly the only time, Islanzadí witnessed Oromis Thrándurin in a true, uncontained rage.

The unmistakable rumble of dragonfire swelled in the crippled Rider’s chest. Islanzadí shrank back instinctively as the elf seemed to grow before her, white teeth flashing, fingers cracking through the chair’s wood as if pierced by ivory claws.

Oromis’ voice was harsh with crackling flame, roaring at her above the din. “Then raise your child, Islanzadí Dröttning!” His thin chest heaved, as if the effort of holding back true fire taxed him to the limit. “Arya needs her mother. Not a queen. Go to her. She is a child! She only wants to be held by her mother and told that it will all be alright while the world is falling apart!”

The words had Islanzadí shooting to her feet yet again. “Yes! The world is falling apart! And right now, the only thing keeping us safe are magic barriers, far too few uninjured spellcasters, a handful of cities lending all the strength they can to fortify them, and spells that are millenia old and in desperate need of repair!” The queen threw an arm out, gesturing to the expanse of Du Weldenvarden mapped out on the wall of pine. “Everyone is hurting! And I am the queen of an entire race that is hurting! I do not have time to lie to my daughter that everything will be fine when we cannot know for sure! My time is spent endlessly fortifying our defenses, trying to make sure we last to the end of the month in case Galbatorix decides to send his entire collection of Wyrdfell to sweep the forest with dragonfire! Time not spent with her is time spent keeping her alive!

“Arya will just have to learn how to live with some sacrifices. I will not hold her hand when it means the possibility of losing this entire nation.”

Oromis once again looked every year his age.

“Are you finished?” He asked softly.

The queen lowered herself into her chair, hands shaking. “Get out. And take Glaedr with you.”

Oromis again shook his head, as if in sad disappointment. “You will lose her if you continue like this, Islanzadí.”

Islanzadí did not look up from the piles of reports on her desk.

When the door finally clicked closed behind him, the queen of the elves buried her face in her hands, and cried.

Oromis was not halfway down the hall when the soft sound of sniffling caught his attention. A small droplet splashed on the back of his hand, warm like a spring rain in the dead of winter.

He looked up. “Oh, little hatchling. Come down from there.” He gave a small, sad smile. “Please?”

Another quiet sniffle, the rustle of woven pine boughs, and the lanky elfling dropped from one of the skylights in the hall’s ceiling. Arya wiped her nose on the back of her arm, scrubbed at her eyes with the heels of her palms and stifled a hiccup before squaring her shoulders as she had earlier.

“Arya. Were you listening?”

She nodded. Blinked.

“Oh, little hatchling. I’m so sorry you heard that.” Her eyes shone with tears when she met his gaze, throat convulsing as she swallowed another stuttered gasp of misery. Oromis opened his arms, chest aching. “None of that, now, Arya. It is okay to cry.”

Arya sniffed again. “F…fighters don’t cry.”

“My dear girl, everyone cries.” But she was already in his arms, face pressed to his ribs and eyes squeezed shut.

He let her sob out her frustration and pain there in the hall, tucked into his embrace and in a little sheltered bubble of silence where no one would be able to hear her tears. She pulled away when she was done, rubbing at her face, trying to hide the evidence again as the two of them retrieved her training blade and books before beginning the long walk to the Crags. She would sleep under the stars there, an unspoken agreement forged by the many times Glaedr had awoken to the elfling tucked against his paw, or curled under the roots of a tree at the edge of their cliffside dwelling.

“I’m…” Oromis flicked his gaze to the child at his side. Arya heaved a few deep breaths, forcing herself to calm fully. “I’m going to fix it.”

“Fix what, little hatchling?”

“The world.” Arya nodded in affirmation to herself. The Rider at her side couldn’t help the small grin that tilted his lips. Leave it to the youth to declare such things with so much confidence. “I’m going to fix the world. Then Mum won’t have to work so hard, and you and Glaedr won’t be so sad all the time.”

The matter of fact mentioning of his and Glaedr’s pain hit like a stone loosed from a sling. He pushed it back, did his best to keep the soft smile on his face. “Do you have a plan for this?”

“Yeah.”

Oromis nearly missed a step when he glanced down. Arya’s face had transformed from the light frown to a near frighteningly wild smile, teeth bared in fierce determination. Her eyes were alight with brilliant fire, brows lowered in challenge.

“I’m gonna fight.”

~~~~~~~~

#eragon #inheritance cycle #the cyclists #the world of eragon #the inheritance cycle #modern inheritance #modern inheritance stories #ket's modern inheritance cycle #arya #arya drottningu #islanzadi #islanzadí #queen islanzadí #queen islanzadi #dysfunctional family #oromis #glaedr #pre war #pre eragon #when i was 3 i jumped off our king size bed and shattered my elbow into a zillion pieces #i loved peter pan and told anyone who asked what happened that i tried to fly #in retrospect i was actually just jumping on the bed and missed like a fool #but i did always want to fly #title is a wip #we are making it better for the next generation! they're fucked up! the next generation: okay i'll do it myself #iz: IM DOING THIS SO SHE DOESN'T HAVE TO GO TO WAR!#arya: o shit thats an option? sign me up! it sucks here!#iz: FUCK!#do i capitalize queen i can never remember

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evesaintyves · 1 year ago

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for @remadoramicrofics october 3rd prompt, "cellar"

698 words. warning for violence and implied sexual violence

read it below or on AO3 🩸

In the last week of the waxing moon, Remus dreams that he is crushing the rat under the heel of his shoe, feeling the crunch and snap of little bones, hearing the pathetic squealing until it concedes to a satisfying silence. Sometimes he wakes up laughing. He dreams he is eating a hank of raw meat, not a steak but a long ragged silverskinned muscle, tearing it with his hands and teeth.

He's never quite sure if it's the stress of what's coming or if it's his other half making itself heard through the membrane that separates them, singing to him of its hunger and its lust.

He dreams he is fucking Tonks.

Sometimes she's taut with pleasure, incisors gleaming in her open mouth, bracing her hands on the headboard, breathing yes—yes—yes with his thrusts.

Other times, though—she's not.

And lately more and more she is there in his bed when he wakes up, cupping his cheek in her hand, cooing, "Shh, It's okay. It's all right. You're here with me." Not understanding that that's part of the problem. And when it happens he turns and lets her enfold him in her arms, tuck his head against her chest where he can shut his eyes and inhale that scent of salt and powder that lives in the smooth lowland there. He puts the dream away in the deep dark place where those things go. It's a physical feeling of pushing, cramming it down, shutting a lid on it.

He's quite efficient at it.

"I'll be there with you tomorrow," she's telling him tonight. She's rubbing his back like she's trying to keep him warm. The state the dream has left him in—sweating, tingling, heartbeat skipping, hard and digging into the flesh of her thigh—isn't as easy to stuff away. "Just outside the door."

He'd rather she wasn't, but he's in no shape to argue and arguing wouldn't do any good. She's better at it than he is, because she doesn't care about annoying him, losing her composure, making a scene. She only wants to win.

"I could read to you," she goes on, "or play some music."

"It wouldn't make any difference."

He can feel her heart rate spike.

"You know, you're living for free in this bonkers fucking house, you've got a safe place to go and—and do your thing, you've got Sirius, you've got me, I'm dragging a pillow and blanket down to the fucking cellar door and spending the night there with you—maybe you could count yourself lucky, mate. Maybe you could say thank you, Tonks, I'm glad you're here. "

"Thank you, Tonks."

She's quiet. It's a relief. His body is calming down too, his eyes start to roll, and he could forgive himself for falling asleep there in that shallow solace of her stroking hands, her swells of breathing.

"Sometimes," she says, startling him, "I have this dream that I've got the cellar door open, I'm standing at the top of the stairs, and you're at the bottom. You don't look like a werewolf, but you've got… these eyes… I know you are one. I've got my wand on you, and I'm going to kill you before you kill me. It has to be that way, it makes sense, the way things just make sense in a dream."

Tomorrow night, it will be as if they never spoke of this—he will kiss her before he walks his aching bones down the stairs. Standing behind her, Sirius will pull a smug-looking face. Remus will lock the door behind himself and hear the muffled thump of her weight as she sits against it. He'll find his way in the dark to the alcove where he puts his wand, his clothes. He'll still feel watched and want to cover himself, even in the dark, even alone. And he'll be afraid. Not of the breaking bones or the blood he'll wake up covered in: of the wanton, abandoned release he'll feel when he changes.

Now, she runs her finger down the vein that stands out in his neck. Her arms around him are as much comfort as restraint.

Softly, she asks, "Do you know what I mean?"

#remadora #remadora microfics #remus lupin #tonks

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loominggaia · 2 months ago

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Folkvaran History

HISTORY

Primal Age

Folkvar’s territory was first inhabited by Silverskin dworfs, Woodland gnolls, and Ibias fauns. Scattered populations of Patchback centaurs, Mountain hogmen, and Oprezka goblins were quick to migrate over within the first few centuries, drawn to more abundant resources on Noalen’s eastern coast.

The dworfs largely kept to themselves up in the Shrieking Mountains, having little contact with the other peoples who squabbled below. There were many conflicts in these early times as different tribes fought over real estate. Nomadic gnoll clans seemed to dominate for quite some time, successfully raiding and pillaging the stationary tribes around them. This is referred to as the “Golden Age of Gnolls”, when this now-extinct species was at its most powerful.

1st Age

By the start of the 1st Age, gnolls became the most populous species in the region. They were largely war-like and lived nomadic or semi-nomadic lifestyles. The fauns developed offensive spells specifically to defend themselves against the gnolls, but it simply wasn’t enough, as the gnolls liked to use filth to their advantage, and fauns were particularly susceptible to the plagues they spread. As time went on, many fauns were forced to assimilate into local goblin and centaur tribes for protection, or else be driven to extinction.

Gnolls were known to raid faunish and goblin tribes frequently, but did not fair as well against centaurs or hogmen. These heavyweight gaians could defend themselves more easily, but even they struggled at times due to the gnolls’ sheer numbers and dirty tactics.

Some say that Folkvar Kingdom has been at war long before the conflict with Evangeline, for these earliest ancestors were spilling each other’s blood since the day Gaia breathed life into them. Its violent history is how it earned the title “The Warrior Kingdom”.

2nd Age

Around the start of the 2nd Age is when the Silverskin dworfs began venturing down from their mountains in large numbers, seeking more favorable climates to settle. They found temperate forests that were rich with the timber and farmland they sought, but these forests were also crawling with hostile gnoll and hogmen clans.

Gnolls still dominated the woodland regions at this time, and their numbers were only climbing. The beast-like heads of the gnolls and hogmen made it very difficult for them to communicate with other species, so it was rare for them to form alliances outside their own kind. Needless to say, the dworfs did not receive a warm welcome. The nomadic beast-headed raiders prevented them from colonizing Noalen’s eastern forests for a long time.

Back in their motherland, however, the dworfs were quickly advancing. They developed clever ways of surviving their cold, mountainous region by tunneling right through the rock and living mostly underground. They used their engineering prowess to develop complex ventilation systems and other devices, making them the most technologically-advanced culture on Gaia at the time.

The dworfs would attempt to colonize the forests again towards the end of the age, this time with more advanced weapons and equipment to deal with hostiles. Even with their fancy new crossbows, gunpowder muskets, and metal armors, they were outnumbered and overpowered by the stone age natives. All the dworf’s advancement came at a heavy cost, and they were starting to run out of resources like food and timber in their homeland. The pressure was on to conquer these forests or die trying.

In the meantime, they started trading with the Balbastrans (proto-Evangelites) to the southwest.

3rd Age

In the 3rd Age, Balbastrans increased contact with the Silverskin dworfs. Balbastran humans assimilated particularly well into dworfen culture, bringing with them the concept of beast-taming. In return, they adopted some of the dworf’s new steam-based technologies such as trains. These great advancements led to the founding of Evangeline Kingdom.

Initially, Evangeline's territories stretched from Noalen’s western coast to the eastern edge of the Blue Valley. Colonizing the eastern forests proved difficult, as they were still populated by hostile gnolls and hogmen, as well as established stationary tribes of fauns, centaurs, and others.

Evangeline succeeded, however, using a combination of violence and diplomacy. The kingdom was able to assimilate many of the established tribes, and together with their combined resources and technology, they were able to finally start pushing back against the beast-headed raiders. Gnolls quickly began losing control of the region, but the hogmen would remain a threat to Evangeline until the end of the 4th Age.

4th Age

The kingdom experienced a huge cultural revolution around the year 4200, when its leadership decided to combine Evangeline law with Lindist doctrine. Things had been heading this direction for centuries before this, however, as Evangelites were getting fed-up with hostile tribes of hogmen and other species terrorizing their remote towns.

The Full Moon Genocides also took place around this time, a period when the kingdom was ravaged by the novel lycanthropy disease. The High King took advantage of the peoples’ fear, anger, and desperation, and used it to install a heavy-handed theocracy.

Fae and gaians were declared lesser beings by Lindist leaders, and Evangelite law decreed that they should only exist in the kingdom as slaves. This caused many fae and gaians to flee the kingdom, but those who could not escape were enslaved, beginning an oppressive new era for Evangeline.

The kingdom also began a genocidal campaign against hogmen around this time, but it did not successfully drive them to extinction until the very end of the 4th Age–about 800 years later. In less than a century, Evangeline’s whole culture shifted into something unrecognizable. The kingdom had become a haven for male commoners and a nightmare for everyone else.

But this oppression was a boon for the upper classes, who were reaping big profits from Evangeline’s growing trade industry. Thanks to slave labor, food production became very cheap and could be sold to foreign markets. Zareen Empire was their biggest customer, and this is still true today.

The religious revolution caused much civil unrest among the lower classes, however. Things came to a head around the year 4500 when a civil war broke out between those who supported the revolution and those who opposed it. Most of the opposers lived in Evangeline’s neglected northern and eastern territories, and as a result, the kingdom split in two. The revolution-opposing territories banded together to make their voices heard, and they became known as Folkvar Kingdom. In Volkaspek, this name roughly translates to “Kingdom for the People”.

The Folkvarans demanded freedom of religion, equal rights for all peoples, and abolishment of slavery, and would not pay taxes to Evangeline until their demands were met. Evangeline refused and the two sides went to war. This war is still raging today–2,000 years later–with neither side gaining or losing much ground since it began.

Folkvar quickly formed an alliance with Etios Nation, which automatically put them at war with Matuzu Kingdom. While Folkvar usually fights Evangeline by land, most of its battles with Matuzu occur at sea.

5th Age

Folkvar Kingdom spent most of the 5th Age establishing supply lines and trade routes with foreign powers, all while defending itself from constant assaults by Evangeline and Matuzu. It experienced a large population boom after the Gold River War displaced many Morites in the south, a lot of whom fled to Folkvar Kingdom to become citizens. This proved helpful in the wars.

High King Gultopp came into power near the end of the 5th Age, and he still holds the throne today. Folkvar Kingdom has always welcomed immigrants with open arms, as it has struggled with population stability since its beginnings, but King Gultopp took this policy even further. He passed a law that grants anyone instant citizenship, so long as they or someone in their immediate family serves at least five years in the Folkvaran military. The military saw a sizeable boost in recruitment since then, though Gultopp has been criticized for pampering soldiers while ignoring the needs of civilians.

6th Age

King Gultopp continues to hold the throne, focusing his campaign on military recruitment and promoting immigration to feed his barracks. At the start of the 6th Age, he secretly began working with an Evangelite spy named Azura to destabilize Evangeline Kingdom. He did this by hiring mercenaries to steal Evangelite slaves and escort them back to his kingdom, where they were forced to join his military in exchange for freedom. Princess Azura provides him with valuable intel to pull this off successfully. The scheme is called “Operation Chaincutter”, and it has steadily been gaining traction over the years.

In the year 6007, Kelvingyard was damaged by an earthquake, leading to the escape of thousands of Evangelite slaves. Most of them ended up fleeing to Folkvar and joining its military. This event was a painful blow to Evangeline’s economy, and Folkvar took full advantage of their weakness by launching strategic attacks.

King Gultopp realizes he is growing old and will likely not see the fall of Evangeline Kingdom in his lifetime. However, he is considering passing his crown to his daughter Blomi, who has promised him that she will finish what he started. He entrusts her to keep working with Azura to take over Evangeline Kingdom, and in return, Azura promises to help end the Etios-Matuzu war peacefully.

Gultopp may be known as a warmonger, but he truly hopes his grandchildren will see his kingdom at peace for the first time in its history.