#soldier greaves

[proxycrit]

DAY 30- LURELIN VILLAGE

The destruction of a village by a corrupted machine of war is nostalgic to Zelda the way a knife in the spine is. Like missing a step in the dark, or seeing a flash of a ghost— she’s suddenly viscerally reminded of a history she had left behind, a hundred and five years ago.

But you never forget your roots, not really.

(This totk au is called Familiar Familiar! Zelda never goes back in time. Everything shifts slightly to the left. The scars from botw are still present, and still painful. The usual shenanigans ensue anyways.)

((Want to support me? Check out my sketches on PATREON! Please note that all purchases through the apple app charges 30% extra as tax, ew. Ppl should consider membership through web or android.))

[streets-in-paradise]

You gotta give some credit to Troy for at least making its soft boy inacurate Patroclus interested in fighting and not drowning in self pity for not being strong enough every fucking time they mention a mere posibility of him having to fight. In the movie it's the other way arround, boy can't wait to fight and is frustrated because he believes in himself.

tsoa patroclus is an annoying insecure bitch soft boy, while troy patroclus is an annoying brat wannabe soft hearted hero that trusts too much on his student-level skills.

[brendathedoodler]

From @wilds-ponytail ‘s tags on this post

He deserved it

[artandsomethingcreated]

me: "oh hey! I could have this connect like this! This is a good head canon that will work in this story! I just need to see what exactly it said in game"

Me: "wait... it already draws a straight line to... ?? Ok... maybe not a head canon? Is this actually implied or am i just..." 🤨

This is now one of THOSE THINGS that i feel like the writers ment but did not have time and space to be really clear on.

[oathswornmaliketh]

[Image description: Plain and rusted metal greaves worn over plain and rusted chainmail. All pieces share the same dull gray color and are covered dark red rust. End description]

Godrick Soldier Greaves

Greaves worn by soldiers loyal to Godrick the Grafted. Rust-worn and stained through unending conflict.

[tobylix-blog]

Vita sine libertate nihil* - Aragorn x Reader

Content & Warnings: violence, attempted suicide, use of y/n, enemies-to-lovers trope Word count: 5.8k Summary: *Life without freedom is nothing. When the Gondorian army came to the CIty of Corsairs, Umbar didn't have enough sources to withstand the siege. Faced with the choice between surrender to the king and keeping your honour, you picked your blade.

A/n: This is based on request for enemies-to-lovers imagine. Well, turned out a bit more than just imagine. I'm going to write more stories with the same trope for other characters (Legolas, Boromir and Gimli are in process)

The heartbeat pounded through your head like a bell, the blood seemed thick as it pulsed in your veins. The consciousness was slowly slipping away from the grasp. Gentle blackness covered the edges of your sight. Even though blurred with agony the view of the pale towers and walls calmed you. You were to accept death in the City of Corsairs, Umbar Baharbêl, along with your people, as strong hands pulled the silks tight around your throat.

When the darkness was finally there to take you, you felt a strong hit land on your back. The first, unintentional inhale was sharp, setting your air depraved lungs on fire, while you scrambled off the floor. Your obscured vision focused on the shining mithril helmets. Gondorians.

They came to take over the city, destroy what was left of the mighty Umbar fleet and kill all who resisted. You had no power to stop them, but you had enough to not let them take your life. At least so you had thought. But now the slave, who was supposed to strangle you, was lying at their feet beheaded with one impatient swing of a sword.

“One concubine is better than none at all. What a wild custom to kill them all as the enemy storms the castle,” one of the men shook his head.

You felt his grip on your hair. The tug wasn't as strong as it was disgusting. The very thought of following these people from the North raised a wave of rebellion in your pained heart. You'd rather died before your eyes ever set upon the beauty of the sea than became a slave of Gondor.

With every bit of resolve there was you drew a narrow, curved dagger from your hip and stabbed the soldier's leg, just behind the knee between the plates of his greaves and the edge of his chainmail. The painful hit made him let go of your hair and the unexpectedness of the attack was enough for you to get away to the window.

Your back pressed to the cold corner of the wall, the fallen city just behind your shoulder, you stood against the soldiers. You couldn't fend them off, you wouldn't even buy time, even more so now that there was not a soul to buy that time for. But you still had a chance to win for the last time.

You raised the blood covered dagger and, under the multiple tense gazes, plunged it between your ribs aiming to get it right through the heart.

Darkness enfolded you before the Gondorians comprehended what happened and even before any sign of pain reached your mind. Blissful was that darkness. You seized the last straw and pulled yourself out of the living hell.

______________________________________________________________

Diffused light filled the space. You could almost feel its soft palms stroking your face. The view was in the same haze as the thoughts. For a whole century you were only looking up into the white nothingness above you. Or perhaps only for a few minutes.

Senses were coming back slowly yet surely. First was the vision. After the light was hidden away by a few flashes of blackness – you realised that it was simply blinking – the room became a clear image before your eyes. The ceiling that you mistook to be white was a pale grey surface. The light was streaming through the tall and narrow window in the wall on the opposite side. There wasn't much in the chamber. A couple of chests with candles on top of them, a chair by the window and a bed. The sense of touch came back next. Soft bedding beneath your fingers, tight embrace of bandages around your chest beneath a plain chemise.

You raised on your elbows slightly, pushing the pillows further against the headboard. As you were sitting up you felt the stinging in the flesh under the bandages and heard the subtle rustle of the fabrics. Hearing was coming back too. In the silence of the room you could pick out some retreating footsteps in the hallway behind the wall.

Smells returned the last. And with them came the difficult realisation – you were still alive and most definitely not in Umbar or even Harad. You couldn't find any of the familiar smells in the air – there was no thick oily scent, no aroma of spices tickling the nose and no salty fragrance of the sea. There were little to no smells at all. At least none that stroke any familiarity within.

The door creaked unpleasantly. You winced. The sound echoed around the room and retreated through the window cowardly, leaving you behind with a man who entered. You had never seen him before, but the silver glow of a diadem in his dark locks and the sight of guards standing outside the door were enough to understand his position.

The king had come to mock the defeated enemy, hadn't he? To laugh in your face and rise further on your defeat. Your teeth gritted at the thought.

“I was informed that you have finally woken up. Your wound was so severe that I feared you would never come back to the world of living,” he said. His intonation seemed rather plain as he looked down on you.

“It is not wise to dread death. Particularly the death of an enemy,” you remarked.

After closing the door the king took a chair from the wall and approached your bed. His eyes never left your face, his gaze calm and measured.

“I would have not chosen such a painful way to end your life,” he said quietly and sat in the chair he took, “But you would rather perish through suffering than become my captive, wouldn't you?” There was a trace of a sad amusement in his voice.

“There is no honour in one, who surrenders at their own will.”

“Honour? Yes, it is a word that can do the most beautiful and the most terrible things to people.” His gaze roamed across the chamber until his grey orbs caught the light from the window. He closed his eyes and inhaled slowly before turning back to you. “Tell me, were you the one who gave the order to execute all the concubines in the harem? My men mistook you for one of them, but the attire and the dagger spoke otherwise.”

You smiled bitterly. “Your people are quite ignorant of our customs. One of them presumed his hand was worthy of touching my hair. Now, with every step, he is reminded of that mistake.”

His eyes narrowed dangerously. “You may be the scion of some noble house in the south, but you possess no more justification for your cruelty than my own soldiers do. Do not forget yourself.”

“All that remains of me is my dignity. Yet you seek to deprive me even of this. You are a cruel king, Elessar,” you spat out lifting your head.

“Your words sting like wasps in the late summer. That usually proves as a sign of weakness. Though perhaps you still possess enough strength to pursue the path of diplomacy and share your name.”

“Diplomacy?” you shook your head in disbelief. “The time for diplomacy was over, when your ships dropped anchor in our harbour.”

He stood up without a single word of response. The silence was eloquently deafening – the encounter, or rather, the audience was over. The king pushed the door open, sending a draft through the chamber. “But perhaps, there is little honour in being called 'prisoner',” you said before he took the last step to the hallway. “[Y/N] would be more pleasant.”

You sensed him nodding rather than saw the movement. The door slammed shut behind the monarch, and you were at last left alone.

______________________________________________________________

The worst thing about being a royal prisoner was that it wasn't particularly unpleasant. You weren't tortured or even interrogated after the first visit of the king. You stayed in a regular room of what seemed to be the house of some nobleman situated high above the White City. You had all the necessities provided. Many of the commoners would be grateful to lead such life until the end of their days. But you utterly hated it. You hated the way your physical well-being mismatched your mind's suffering. How your heart pained from the thought of living in captivity, while your back sank into the soft pillows. How your thoughts raced around the man who took away your honour as your body healed by his efforts.

You pushed away the half finished plate. You couldn't swallow another bite. Honestly, the food was probably the worst part of the king's hospitality so far. Too plain to your taste and hardly seasoned. As your gaze drifted from the dull knife to the mountain peaks that were not hidden by the clouds anymore, a knock came to the door. A maid came in to take away the plates. It would all be too much like you were but a guest of the house if not for a guard who stood in the door frame observing closely.

You sat back calmly in the chair watching the beautiful scenery and paying the servant and the man less attention than a fly would get. They remained silent as well. Probably had an order restricting them from talking to a prisoner. Or prisoners. You weren't entirely sure that you were the only one, whom Elessar kept captive.

When your thoughts turned back to the king, you noticed that the maid and the guard became quite nervous, looking out into the corridor every now and then, and left shortly. Puzzled by their behaviour, you took a few steps away from the window and closer to the door. Muffled noises of speech and footsteps gave away the commotion in the hallway. You shook your head and took a step back.

Just in time to not be hit by a door swinging open. The king took such a long stride inside the room that he ended up right in front of you, a mere feet between the faces. Your expression seemed rather calm save for the raised eyebrows while he looked disturbed in a way.

“Is there trouble in your kingdom, your majesty?” you said as the door closed behind his back, certainly not without a helping hand.

Elessar noticed the mocking tone right away, but let it slide for now. “There is a matter for discussion.”

“Well then, I am all attention,” you responded, and sauntered towards the window.

He took a good pause before beginning his speech. “My first and foremost interest as a king is to bring peace to the realm of people. Therefore the peace treaty with Harad has been signed on terms of lands North from river Harnen returning under my rule and Umbar becoming a neutral land. While-”

“While the City of Corsairs is to be deprived of the military fleet, and its walls must be razed to the ground,” you cut him off, quotation from the official letter dropping off your lips like venom. “I am well aware of your interests in the South. Have you come to vaunt the great achievements of your army in my homeland?”

He winced. “I am not the monster you paint me, [Y/N]. My intentions are to bestow peace not cause deeper wounds. Umbar rejected the suggested terms, and that is why I had to resort to violence. Had your lords agreed to those suggested conditions, there would be no war and no pain.”

“And no walls, and no ships, and no freedom. What a great life!” You exclaimed, and turned away to the wall hiding the overwhelming resentment. “The sea is our life and purpose. Our ships are our honour. Without them there is only so much we could do. And having no defences against the threats from the land... We would be no better than slaves to Harad until we all become them.” Your voice sounded muted in the chamber, that seemed to be shrinking around you as your heartbeat quickened.

“There would not be any slavery! And there will not be now,” Elessar replied firmly. “Neutrality of Umbar means its freedom from foreign influences. If any danger hovers over it, the army of Gondor will set out on a march for the cause at the first call.”

His promise rang with genuineness as he took a step closer to you.

“You say so, and yet I watched the ships burn in the harbour, and I stay here. What is there left for us? The plain taste of scraps from your tables? Memories of the past slowly fading into fairytales?”

“Your people will be alive and free, I swear. Once the rebellion comes to an end there will not be a single soldier from Gondor in Umbar Baharbêl,” he spoke. “And you can aid the cause.” He moved to the window, standing side by side with you. “I see your wish to help your people, to alleviate their hardships. Right now is the time when your wish may become reality. The war is ongoing, but there is a possibility it will end soon. With your assistance it might be a matter of weeks if not days before Umbar settles in peace.”

You shot a glance to his side. His face held the same expression as when he had entered. Somewhat troubled, but at the same time assured. There was no hint of guile in his steely eyes and the straight line of lips pressed together, which allowed you to take another step in the diplomatic exchange.

“So what would be my course of action were I to agree with your proposal?”

“There has been a significant growth in number of outlaws – thieves and rogues – since I overturned the advance of the Black fleet. Whoever managed to run away turned against my rule by harming the small folk. Recently many of those have joined soldiers, fleeing from the City of Corsairs. They formed the rebellious groups, squads even,” he explained. “They are the issue. While there is no significant force in their possession, they know the land and remain hidden from my soldiers. But their presence and untimely attacks obstruct the path to peace in the region. They stir up the locals, calling fishermen and villagers to their banners, at times against the men's will... But no matter the price their resistance holds no meaning. In a year they will have no power to pursue the same goals and will turn back into thieves.” His hand pressed heavily against the windowsill.

“But that means another year of occupation and food shortage for common people. And you can help to stop this now. It would take you so little to relieve Umbar of suffering... Only a few of your words. A letter. A message to those, who still hold the weapons against Gondor. Order them to surrender, and your homeland will once again be free.”

You took his words into consideration. On one hand, he hadn't revealed all of the reasons. That the raids, while not being particularly dangerous for the Gondorian army, were still a threat to separated squads. That getting those rebels to capitulate would cut the losses and set up a secure basement to establish further diplomatic relationships. On the other hand, he was right in the assumption that resistance wasn't entirely supported by the commoners and mostly led to prolonged famine and downfall of trade. That reason alone would be enough to agree if you were the sole ruler. However Umbar hadn't been like many other kingdoms in terms of governance. All the major decisions including those of declaring war and signing peace were to be made by a council of lords.

In times of need the only remaining lord (or the one assumed to be the last living) would be able to take responsibility in full and declare his will as the rightful decision. But you were not a member of the council. You were a child of one. Moreover, your father happened to be the Master of Temples. His power was grand over the civil life of the City. If any edifice was to be built, his consent would be required. If any celebration was planned, it would be under his control. If the markets were set up, they would be watched closely by him. Even the way slaves lived in the City was his concern. That was the very reason behind your arrival to harem in the palace of Lords. As his successor you executed his orders.

But being a successor wasn't enough. In given circumstances you could only take the power in your hands if the council in entirety was dead along with their immediate heirs. Then and only then would your decision be considered legitimate.

“I cannot accept your proposal, Elessar,” you spoke, your voice quiet and firm as you explained the situation carefully. Every new piece of information was falling on the shoulders of the king with such loud noises that they echoed through the chamber. “I do not have the power you seek. You saved the wrong person,” you finished at last.

The afternoon sunlight enveloped the room in the thick blanket of silence. You stood straight with visible tension in every muscle and refrained from looking anywhere but outside the window. There were the mountains. Their tall peaks tearing up the few clouds. There was the city unfolding down at some ungodly sharp angle. Its streets hidden from view by more and more stone walls. There were the vast plains. Pale green of the late summer stretching beyond the horizon. But even though your eyes remained fixed within the window frame, you couldn't help but notice Elessar watching you. His gaze felt heavy as the stream of a waterfall, making you tense ever more to push against it.

You both remained motionless for a while. Until suddenly the atmosphere changed with a dry chuckle. You turned sharply to see the king smirking.

“It is truly the rarest of occasions to find a person, who could speak of their worthlessness with such dignity,” he explained, and you surprisingly realised he didn't mean to insult you in the slightest. It was but a statement of his genuine amusement.

You raised your eyebrows in return. “It is rather delightful to see you so unaffected by the failure.”

“My own council advised against the attempt of negotiations on the matter,” he replied. “So finding compassion in you is more than I should have expected from this venture. Our inability to put an end to the situation sooner is dispiriting, but the price of it will not be unbearable for my people, therefore I must accept it.”

Despite the careful acting you saw right through his words and understood that he did in fact hope for your assistance. Moreover the unfortunate result weighed on him noticeably, but he chose not to show it.

“Now that this matter has been settled…” he paused, pondering how to phrase it better. “I cannot let you leave, but I hope for your stay to deem bearable.”

You watched him walk out of the chamber, and each step restored his composure and regal facade. There was a similarity with the ancient Numenorean kings, as the light cast sharp shadows on his face. The image brought uneasiness at how truly different your current positions were. If you had been less honourable, you could've lied your way out — exchanged the potential influence of your name for personal freedom. But you held dignity in high regard and spoke truthfully. You were losing your value as a prisoner. And you were well aware of that. It wouldn't come as a surprise if your next bed would be a pile of dry grass in some forgotten cell beneath the castle. The only source of hope was the king's promise.

______________________________________________________________

The next day began with an unexpectedly early visit. You were still in bed as you tended to sleep longer hours to keep your mind off worries and let the days pass faster. There was a knock, more like a full-blown hit on the door, and then a guard entered. Same armour as all of them wore, but his face was unfamiliar to you and his arrogance was completely unmasked, which led you to an assumption that he held some higher position, a highborn officer most likely. Surprisingly enough he brought in a pile of books, their leather covers too delicate in comparison to the metal of his breastplate.

“A gift from His Majesty*, the King,” the man announced putting the whole pile down on the chest with a loud thud. He eyed your form covered in a thin chemise and a blanket with contempt before spitting out, “prisoner.”

Seeing the way he was on edge from simply being in your presence and fulfilling the royal order in your favour, you couldn't miss the chance. You practically jumped out of the bed, and in a moment you stood a mere foot away from him.

“I understand my image must seem divine to you, however I happen to be a human. And as such I have a name, [Y/N]. Do me a favour and memorise it. Perhaps, that is not beyond your feeble abilities.” You spoke confidently and clearly, looking down at him despite being physically shorter. “It is rather simple to put mind to use, once you first succeed. Do not fear... Though fears come from knowledge, alas-”

“Keep your dirty mouth shut, prisoner! Don't test my patience.” The agitated response came just as you had expected.

“Is that the extent of Gondorian wit? To reply with insults to fair advice? Should have expected as much from the northern barbarians. All swords and no quill. I hope you have at least learnt how to read, poor thing.”

His fists clenched as he mustered another sentence. “Don't you dare. My family has served the High Kings before Umbar became a thing. My mother comes from the line of Rohan kings-”

“Oh, Rohirrim? Those that sleep with their horses?”

The chamber blurred before your eyes. You winced from the explosive pain in your nape. It took but a moment for the man to grab you by the shoulders and push against the wall with brutal force. Strength truly was an undeniable trait of his.

“You bastard! Take your words back!” he practically shouted.

“The truth cannot be contained,” you hissed back with a growing smirk.

One of his hands slid up to your throat. “I'll make you regret.”

“You are too weak for that,” you managed with the little air remaining in your lungs as his grip tightened. It felt like the blood filled your head slowly to the brim, pressure growing with every beat of heart, low hum in your ears cutting off sounds like cotton. You could still see the man's face red with anger, his mouth falling open with more threats and curses. Your lips stretched into a wicked pained grin.

But then it was all over. His hand retracted from your neck as hastily as it came. He stepped back and turned around. Through fading humming you heard his voice. “-it! See, I already let the scum go. And mind your tongue! No subordination in this damned place.”

As the man walked away you noticed a young face painted with worry peeking through the door frame. Another guard, probably the one, who was on duty for the night. He was torn between the desire to ask you something and the order restricting conversations with prisoners.

You peeled your back from the wall and croaked. “Close the door.”

The boy — you could hardly call him an adult — fulfilled your wish with eager haste. You both had the same thought — “Out of sight, out of mind”. You collapsed on the bed, rubbing the crimson marks on your neck with a dissatisfied sigh.

______________________________________________________________

Candlelight was hardly enough to keep reading but you still continued. Sentence after sentence of history written down by someone's precise hand brought peace to your mind. Old names, some familiar and some new, greeted you from the yellowed pages. Great deeds and political decisions carefully recorded in ink invited you to the ancient halls of Annuminas. You stopped mid-sentence as the door creaked open. The little flames danced in a draft. You looked up from the page and over the shoulder.

Who would have thought? The king came to visit you. Now that was quite intriguing. You assumed he wouldn't have much interest in talking to you after the previous meeting resulted in nothing. However, he had caught you by surprise twice since then. First time with the books, and now he was in your chamber himself.

You leaned back in your seat. The flickering of lights slowed down and then stopped altogether, illuminating your neck strewn with bruises. Violet and blue in the centre, they faded into a pale green towards the edges, looking like some bizarre necklace. 

“What is that?” Elessar appeared genuinely puzzled as he approached you, his hand, unbeknownst to him, raised to trace the outlines of the brightly coloured spots.

You fought back the urge to pull away from his touch. “Results of an unsuccessful provocation. Either I have lost the sharpness of tongue or that of my perception.”

Seeing the amount and noticeable size of the bruises, the king assumed your inflammatory was rather successful. He received contradictory reports regarding the incident and bore hope that it was nothing of importance, until his gaze fell upon evidence of the contrary. The view rose a wave of resentment much higher than he anticipated. His first thought was to find that officer and punish him with a good old exile under the name of “thorough inspection of our borderline fortifications”. But soon came a much darker understanding.

“You intended to have your life taken,” he said. His intonation half-questioning as his fingers retracted from you neck. “I could understand your motives when you spilled your blood for the glory of your city. But now... Is it truly so unbearable to stay here?”

You frowned and closed the book abruptly. “Bearable is not the proper word for the given circumstances. Many would leave behind their lives to exchange places with me. However the capture in itself is a blow to one's honour,” you took a breath, before looking straight into the grey eyes of the king. “I do not resent you for the war, even less so for the victory. It pains me to know that my folk has to suffer more hardships, but that is the way of the world – if you had not defeated them, someone else would. And yet you took more than the land. The custom commands me to seize my life from your hands, Elessar. To get revenge for that last trophy at any price.”

He shook his head with a sorrowful expression. “This custom is a torment for both. The sole existence of it is tragic.”

You shrugged at his remark. It seemed completely ordinary to you. The sky is above, the water is wet, the honour goes before life. It had been a law for generations before you and would become one for many more. All the more strange appeared the sheer confusion of your royal companion.

“If that would be of any relief, you may consider yourself my guest. Being a guest does not defile honour, correct?” Elessar spoke up again. Undeniable hope of his suggestion lingered in the air.

“With all due respect, it is rather difficult to deceive oneself in such a matter when one spends their whole days inside the same chamber,” you retorted with a bitter smile.

“I had the intention of allowing you more freedom of movement within this house once you heal. Though it happened sooner than I expected.”

This confession took you by surprise. Not the words. On their own they had little value. But the meaning they held and his sincere tone. You couldn't place his true intention as your gut insisted that the king was honest.

“You may roam the halls of this house at your wish, [Y/N]. Leave these chambers at any hour and return whenever. Spend days in places that please your heart,” he put a hand on top of a book pile beside you, “get accustomed with the library. There are many more than just these few tomes.”

He spoke as if directly from his heart, earnest to ensure your convenience in this place. His intonation, the subtle glimmer of his eyes, his open stance didn't match the impression you had of him. But the facts all fell into place like a mosaic. Elessar saved your life and – if his words were trustworthy – did so in order to help. He attempted to reach out to your people and propose peace repeatedly. He saw to it that conditions of your imprisonment were satisfactory, even when you proved to not have much political value to him. And it didn't get past you how his face contorted in displeasure at the sight of the bruises. He took your injuries very personally. Not in the way any jailor would.

______________________________________________________________

Season changes in Minas Tirith affected lighting the most. You learnt that in a span of a year. When summer gave way to autumn, stronger winds began to rise. With the first days of Ringarë** fireplaces were constantly kept lit to ensure that coldness and moisture remained outside. As spring finally came and then so did summer you felt more familiar with the weather becoming warmer and calmer. But even so nothing changed as much as the sun did. At least in your eyes. Plain white light of the ending summer was replaced with contrasts of golden dawns and gloomy days, which in their time gave way to blood-red winter sunrises and bluish light filling the streets after noon. At last when nature began to stir from slumber you noticed how the rays turned warmer in colour.

For a solid year you had been a guest of this foreign land. A guest, that's right. Ever since you had first set foot outside of the house, it was getting increasingly harder to deem yourself a prisoner. By the king's order you could go wherever your heart desired, as long as you had some escort. Growing up as a noble had you accustomed to such measures, so a guard following you through the city streets was but a tiniest distraction. In the eyes of the strangers you looked no different than any courtier – well-dressed, eloquently-spoken and accompanied by a guard.

The more time passed the less differences you felt yourself. Beside permitting you more freedom and sending various gifts: rare books, elegant garbs and some undoubtedly exquisite trinkets, Aragorn – it wasn't long before he asked you to address him by his old name – visited you frequently and counselled on important matters. As well as some matters of little importance. You soon discovered that his interest in conversing with you rarely depended on the issue at hand. In fact he was rather eager to spend time in your company even when he only had so little of that time.

And slowly but surely you discovered the same eagerness in yourself.

At first you attributed your growing softness for Aragorn to the fact that he brought you news from your homeland. How the revolt died down by the time winter came. How a new council of lords was established. How the Gondorian army was slowly leaving Umbar. And how their provisions remaining on the land were distributed among the locals by the appointed Master of Temples. How the merchant ships began to fill the harbour instead of the military fleet.

But the time passed and you knew better than to believe your own lies. The way you couldn't tear your gaze away from the king as he walked you through the court. The way you imitated his manner of speech to please him. The way you accepted his gifts without as much as a second thought. All these undeniable facts burnt your self-deception attempts to ashes. You were seeking Aragorn's attention just as much as he was seeking yours.

______________________________________________________________

Despite the great weather of the early morning in the still, half-asleep city Aragorn insisted on remaining inside. His request came unexpectedly, but you complied with it. At this 'ungodly hour' – as servants often called the time you chose to begin your days – you were practically the only people awake in the whole house. 

“The South has settled mostly. Whatever work remains here can be entrusted to the Prince of Ithilien,” he began uneasily as his hands squeezed the bundle he held close to his chest. “Therefore I must be taking the road to Annuminas.”

“You mean to restore the old capital?”

He nodded in response. “Both Gondor and Arnor need their king. Now is the turn of the Northern Kingdom. It had remained in ruin for far too long…”

It was reasonable. If Aragorn wished to reunite and restore the Two Kingdoms, he would need to grant attention to lands of Eriador. You sighed silently. People called him 'the Renewer' and now he did exactly what the prophecy foretold. But you couldn't shake off the longing to keep him close. He became a habit that you didn't want to leave behind. Even more so since you were the one to stay, while he was going to distant lands.

“...before I leave,” his voice cut through your thoughts, “I intend to return this to you.”

Soft glimmer of metal in his hands drew your attention. As he unfolded the fabric, you realised what it was exactly. The king held your own dagger. You would recognize that shape and ornamented handle anywhere. You reached out and wrapped your fingers softly around the decorated sheath.

“However I have a condition. You must promise that you will only use it to protect your life from now on,” he said both softly and firmly.

You looked into his eyes filled with expectation. “I can't make such a promise.”

As his expression melted into one of chagrin, you lifted your other hand to cup his face. The warmth of his skin against yours sent shivers down your spine, causing you to lean closer. “I might need it to protect your life, too,” you whispered practically against his parted lips.

For a brief moment Aragorn remained still, before he closed the remaining inches. You could sense his profound relief in the way he kissed – breathlessly and earnestly. The action finally put you both on the same page and pushed away idle apprehensions. There was an oath and a prayer in the movement of your lips.

When you pulled back, his hand on your shoulder and the cold of metal beneath your fingers served as the only anchors to physical reality. Your eyes glued to his keen grey ones and blind to everything else, you spoke.

“Allow me to follow you North, my King.” ______________________________________________________________

* – I couldn't find or remember what titles of respect are used to address kings in Middle-Earth. If you have some better idea, please share

** – Closest equivalent to December in New Reckoning

[prettyboykatsuki]

prompt: gale trying really hard not to look as you unashamedly undress in the open in order to strap into some totally cool and immediately necessary armor (there's no time to go back to camp or find a suitably sized tree you need to switch clothes immediately it's a matter of life or death)

✮ tags ; pre-relationship, reader is a fighter and ex-soldier, reader has a tattoo of a snake, gn!reader, gale is Unwell, 18+

There's no time.

Gale knows there's no time. You'd already had the whole strategy planned out. There's a five minute time frame before the guards outside the tower will turn far enough to see Astarion - who you've sent in ahead of you both.

He'll shoot off the first arrow, Shadowheart who went with him will cast a spell. After that, it's up to you and Gale to rush in. Gale will cast haste, let you hit a few times in a row. The only problem is, your ambush is unplanned. The timeline of your mission had bumped up an egregious degree.

And due to unforseen circumstances, there wasn't enough time to return to camp to change. You had five minutes to change and no where to do it, and you're about to be in the heat of battle.

Gale is well-aware that his reaction to your need to change is a little bit inappropriate. You hadn't even announced it as Astarion and Shadowheart left the premises. Gale only turned to look at you, to say something about the battle to come.

By that time, though - you're already stark naked. You undress fast, tossing your camp clothes somewhere onto the floor beneath you. Gale feels his eyes widen, freezing before realizing he absolutely should not be looking.

"Oh! I'm sorry, I didn't realize," He turns to face away from you, his voice so honestly betraying him.

"It's fine," You reply back, your voice is smooth and calm and so collected Gale wonders if you really don't care. But he remembers that you used to be a soldier, before all of this. You probably did this a lot. "I hope you're not too uncomfortable though."

Well, he is - but probably not in the way you're assume. You're too busy getting yourself geared up to notice the way he turns back to look. His curiosity gets the better of him.

His eyes widen when he gets the real, proper glance. He's trying his best not to stare, but with you just in your underwear - he gets the clearest shot of your back. Your camp clothes cover the large tattoo on your spine. Your only visible one is the one on your throat, the sword from your army days.

This one is more menacing, a snake coiled almost up to your neck. He almost gaps before realize he shouldn't be looking in the first place, shouldn't be contemplating the sheer strength in your muscles as you hoist a pair of greaves over your legs and put on your boots and other armor.

He watches in mild awe, at the shape of your silhouette. The curve of your waist, the structure of your arms and hips and body. You are impossibly attractive. The image imprints on his mind. He can't control it, but he forces himself to turn away when he realizes how long he'd been looking.

Any longer and he would've had a different problem to take care of and now is really not the time for that.

You manage to get ready with time to spare, the last of your armor clanking into place. You stretch your arms out wide, doing a quick check on your movement before coming up behind Gale and patting his back in a friendly way.

"Alright. Let's march on," You say cleanly. Gale gives you a tight lipped smile as you both begin to jog towards the battlefield. The way there is mostly quiet.

"Gale," You prompt, not turning to look at him.

"Yes?"

"Next time you want to have a look at me, just ask." You say, with the same steadiness in your voice as always. Gale nearly trips when it registers what you've said. "You've got handsome enough mug for me to bed you if you wish."

He clears his throat, hoping his voice doesn't break when he replies. Gods, what's happening?

"Oh, uhm. Right. Yes, I'll keep that in mind."

[dootznbootz]

There's something really fascinating about how Athena treats Diomedes so differently from how treats Penelope and Odysseus (even Telemachus but that's a lil different too)

Athena has basically known Diomedes since he was born (some even say that she had a say in naming him) because of Tydeus. I don't think it's far-fetched to say that in a way, she possibly "molded" him. And Diomedes is kind of known for being the "perfect warrior king". He's respectful of the gods and most of his comrades, an incredibly skilled soldier, and has already achieved so many things despite being one of the youngest kings in the war.

I sadly think that's why Athena treats him so differently than Odysseus, Penelope, and Telemachus.

She cares for him, but it's still "distant" in a way. Or almost in an "I molded you. You will react the way I would want you to therefore I will not be surprised."

When it seems like she's known her other favored mortals for less long, she didn't get to "mold" them. They surprise and bring something "new" for her. She sees her little tricksters' scheme and plot and watches with intrigue but watching the perfect warrior is a "Yes, perfect form. That's what I'd do."

I mean even how her favored mortals pray to her tells you a lot about the relationships they have.

For example, in the Iliad, Odysseus doesn't need to really give as much reverence to her to "earn her favor" during book 10's Night Raid.

Odysseus rejoiced, and prayed to Pallas Athene: ‘Hear me, daughter of aegis-bearing Zeus, you who are with me in all my adventures, protecting me wherever I go. Show me your love, Athene, now, more than ever, and grant we return to the ships having won renown, with some brave act that will grieve the Trojans greatly.’ And Diomedes of the loud war-cry followed him in prayer: ‘Hear me also, Atrytone, daughter of Zeus. Be with me as you were with my father Tydeus in Thebes, when he went there as ambassador for the bronze-greaved Achaeans, camped there by the Asopus. A friendly offer was what he made them, but on his way back he was forced to take deadly reprisal for their ambush, and you fair goddess, readily stood by him. Stand by me now, and watch over me, and in return I will offer a broad-browed yearling heifer, unused to the yoke. I will tip her horns with gold and sacrifice her to you.’

(Book 10, A.S. Kline)

Diomedes brings up his dad and offers a young heifer (granted that could just be how Diomedes is with every immortal) while Odysseus doesn't and is basically like "Yo, help me out like you always do!". Odysseus is much more casual and personal with Athena. And with Penelope, Athena takes the form of one of her sisters to comfort her!

While Athena also most likely has known Telemachus since he was a baby, she's still closer to him than Diomedes.

Imagine that. You're basically molded by a goddess since birth, listen to her and other immortals dutifully, basically become her perfect warrior, and yet you can't seem to reach that familiarity with her. The same warmth she has for her other favored mortals.

[moondustgleam]

Every Armor Description in TDP: Xadia

There will be no accompanying visuals on this post, the designs are already on my blog under the individual character's tags. This is a compilation of all of them for people who don't want to scroll through all the images to get to the juicy lore. I reccomend everyone read Rayla/Runaan's, Callum/Karim's, Claudia's, and Soren/Viren's if you care about the show's lore.

They're organized by order they appear in the hero select menu in TDP: Xadia, region, and type of armor if you were wondering.

Rayla & Runaan’s Armor

Firebrand Wraps - Seize what is yours and burn away the rest.

Firebrand Waistcoat - Meant to keep the heat out!

Firebrand Runners - Let your colors shine in the light of the Sun.

Shadowblade Gloves - An assassin knows she holds fate in her hands.

Shadowblade Cover - An assassin knows she is already dead.

Shadowblade Footpads - An assassin knows we are all, in the end, alone.

Nightsky Grips - The Nightsky Bandit had no interest in the Great Climb, only in its climbers’ pockets.

Nightsky Vest - While the others sought a single treasure, he had his pick of plenty.

Nightsky Buckleboots - Only the Nightsky Bandit ever grew rich from the Great Climb - and his feet never left the ground.

Amaya & Zeph’s Armor

Katolian Gauntlets - “We are the hands of our kingdom…”

Katolian Surcoat -“...we raise blades, we bear shields, we carry the scars of the past…” 

Katolian Greaves - “...but we are the strongest when joined with others.” - Katolian Soldier’s Oath

Nightguard Gauntlets A relic of long-ago warriors who served the Dragon Queen, Luna Tenebris.

Nightguard Brestplate The Nightguard vanished with their Queen, but their spirits remained.

NIghtguard Sabatons Now they roam the Moonshadow Forest, searching for Luna’s heir.

Stormrunner Gauntlets - Maybe you could punch the Eternal Storm in the face!

Stormrunner Cuirass - Armor that really says, “Come at me, Eternal Storm! Bring it on!”

Stormrunner Sabatons - You know what? The Eternal Storm could use a good kick in the butt, too.

Callum and Karim’s Armor

Flamedance Tassels - Dance, little flame, dance to a silent song.

Flamedance Chemise - Warm our hearts and bodies, keep our spirits strong.

Flamedance Sandals - Dance, little flame, dance - for the night is very long.

Illusionist Handwraps - “Most people believe that reality is truth and appearances are deceiving…”

Illusionist Amice - “...but the Moon Arcanum tells us we can only truly know the appearance itself…”

Illusionist Treads - “You can never touch the so-called reality that lies just beyond the reach of your own perception.” -Lujanne

Feathered Wrists - Let nothing clip your wings.

Feathered Jerkin - Let nothing weigh you down.

Feathered Footwraps - Let nothing keep you from the sky.

Claudia’s Armor

Dawnheart Maniple - No shadows escape the wrath of the Sun at its zenith.

Dawnheart Amice - You buried your shadows deep - but the Light sees them still.

Dawnheart Slippers - When the darkness in you burns away, what remains?

Silvergrove Bracers - The traveler told a breathless tale: a village, there one moment and gone the next.

Silvergrove Vest - Impossible, they laughed at him: the forest’s magic has simply played a cruel trick.

Silvergrove Boots - But when the Moon is dark, is she not still there in the sky…?

Daybreak Reach - “I found my lover weeping, gazing up at the night skies…”

Daybreak Doublet - “... I took his hands in mine and said, my darling, dry your eyes…”

Daybreak Walkers - “...the dark is not forever, love! The sun must always rise.” -Skywing Song

Janai’s Armor

Golden Knight Vambraces - Gold, for the Sun’s light.

Golden Knight Hauberk - White, for her radiance.

Golden Knight Treads - Red, for her power.

Moonfire Grips - Some say the Moon is the Sun’s shadow, a pale imitator, a sad reflection.

Moonfire Tunic - Some say the Sun kills the Moon hen she dares grow bright enough to challenge her radiance.

Moonfire Greaves - The truth? The Moon and the Sun are sisters, a fire charred between them.

Empyrean Gloves Some - Great Climbers keep an open mind about strategy.

Empyrean Brigandine - One path to victory is to beat everyone else to the prize…

Empyrean Stompers -  …another path to victory is to beat everyone else with your fists.

Soren and Viren’s Armor

Blacksteel Grips - Something echoes in the metal.

Blacksteel Aegis - Does it sing, or does it scream?

Blacksteel Boots - What did they bury down there beneath the earth?

Ghostfeather bands - “Bit by bit the moon fades away, then bit by bit it will brighten again. That is our cycle.”

Ghostfeather Treads - “...for those who will come after you, think on all you will give them.” - Lujanne

Ghostfeather Tunic - “For those you have left behind, think on all they have given you…”

Skyblazer Vambraces - A group of elves called the Skyblazers were the first to ever attempt the Great Climb

Skyblazer Collar - Their ambition drove them higher, higher, and higher still…

Skyblazer Sandals - …but hubris brought them down again.

[m3dieval]

Late 15th century soldier on horseback. The lack of greaves is very interesting. As is the moustache, facial hair seems to have been unpopular in the 15th century Catholic nations.

Scanned from Arms and Armour by Frederick Wilkinson (page 70) because he does not cite which manuscript he pulled this illustration from (the bastard). He cites the museum, Graphische Sammlung Albertina, which does not narrow it down that much.

[she-who-paints-with-fire]

FOUR WORDS

The titanium-composite battle plate softly clicked into place, and Lux ran the strap around her thigh, then cinched it down tight enough to still have bloodflow without the plate moving about. Then she leaned down and clicked the two-piece greaves into place, securing them tight on her shin.

Beside her, the woman she'd spent the night with rolled over and mumbled something.

"Repeat your last, lovergirl?"

"Whuhsswiththuhharmor?"

Lux finished clicking her other greave into place and leaned over to give the worried girl a kiss on the forehead.

"Don't worry about it."

"Mmmgh. Dodging the question..." the girl grumbled, raising their head and rubbing their eyes, smudging last night's makeup in the process. Lux hummed quietly as she pressed her pistol holster to her thigh and wound the straps around her leg and belt.

The girl pawed at Lux's shoulder. "Answer meeeeee," she whined, doing her best puppydog eyes.

"You won't like it."

"Hmph."

Lux slipped on her torso armour, tightening straps and fastening clips, sliding her karambit into its dedicated chest holster before strapping on her shirt's armour plating, starting with the pauldrons that clicked into place on her bodyglove before being strapped down. Sure, SSC, Harrison Armory, and IPS-N all sold more advanced armour systems—Sylph undersuits, or silicone carbide nanoweave shirts with magnetic attachment points for extra armour plating, for instance—but Lux had never seen any point in complicating a simple system like that. GMS-standard, DoJ/HR-issued paracord straps and heat-treated titanium-composite plating with a mesh antispalling layer was perfectly adequate for her.

She went to put on the second pauldron and felt the woman she'd slept with tonight resting her chin on that shoulder.

"Do you really need to go, soldier girl? Can't you stay?" Evidently, her lover had figured out that she was putting on her hardsuit.

"Not this time, babe," Lux replied, turning to give her a quick kiss. The lady frowned, looking at Lux with big puppy eyes that were so, so difficult to resist.

"What if something happens?"

Lux had made peace with that eventuality a long time ago, but it broke her heart to see the worry lining her lover's face, welling in her eyes, straining her heart. "Well, then something happens."

"You could die!"

"I can risk that," Lux shrugged. If she died, she died—Christ the Buddha knew she'd killed enough people to probably deserve it. "Think of the upsides."

The woman bit her lip, unsure and probably scared. "I'm not seeing them."

"More lives to save." Lux tapped the crest on her shoulder, denoting her status as a combat medic, right before she finished strapping on the second pauldron and tightening it until it felt snug. She then slipped on the armoured bracers and tightened those, checking that the uplink with Dawn Always Comes was still functional. A return ping from its TLALOC-class NHP, SACRED SYMBOL, confirmed that it was.

"I'll be safe, love," Lux murmured, slipping off the bed and placing her pistol in the holster, then securing it.

"I love you," the woman whispered. "Be safe."

"I love you too," Lux replied, wrapping her camouflage scarf around her neck before slipping on her gloves, tightening them, and then donning her helmet, waiting as the full Heads-Up Display activated.

The woman on the bed gathered the blankets around her and hugged a pillow as Lux left, heading for where her mech was stored. Right before she stepped across the doorframe, Lux looked back.

"You'll see me again," she promised.

Both women tried to ignore that sinking feeling that they wouldn't.

[newtonsheffield]

Okay, I can’t get this little snippet out of my head so this is for @plishprincess927 who I know is an Inheritance Cycle girlie from way back

The heat was sweltering in the tent and angry voices buzzed in Anthony’s ears but he drowned them all out. He could still feel the heat of the battle hours ago. He could feel the sweat soaked into his leather shirt under the armour and his ears rung with the clang of swords.

His arm had ached from the shock as he whirled through the field and men fell in front of him, the blood and sweat and grime had felt as though it were caked against his skin. A sword had clattered against his side and he’d pushed his sword through the soldier’s mail shirt with a feral snarl and it had all happened so quickly. He pulled his sword back and as he turned he realised the next soldier was upon him, too quickly. His heart started to pound in his chest as he took a deep breath, almost sure it would be his last when he felt an enormous beat of wind and an almighty roar as fire spread across his vision and the golden dragon’s scale glittered in the sunshine as it landed and soldier’s fell all around it.

“Anthony, I thought you were supposed to be guarding me, Princeling.”

His heart fluttered in his chest as the woman sat astride the dragon laughed, her dark curls tossed back and her golden sword seemed to glitter as it moved swiftly through the air. She leapt from the dragon driving soldiers back from Anthony in a wide circle, and he could see the terror in the men’s eyes as they saw her.

“I thought you looked a little bored in truth, Kate.” Anthony grunted, swallowing the panic in his chest, “Where’s your helm?’

She laughed again as her Dragon leapt forward and she caught his saddle, pulling herself up seemingly effortlessly. “I must have misplaced it! Don’t die, princeling.”

The dragon took to the sky, lighting the field with fire as it did, arrows bouncing off his own armour and Anthony bit back a curse as he forged forward.

She was sitting across from him now, her feet lazily on the table, her bracers and greaves still on but the rest of her armour abandoned as soon as she possibly could and Anthony could feel the hot breath of her dragon on his neck where his head was poking through the flap of the tent. The dragon he had sworn to protect when he was only an egg. Long before a farm girl from nowhere had found it. A trick of fate. A trick that had started every moment of turmoil Anthony had felt since.

“Anthony.” He snapped to attention, ignoring the smirk that turned Kate’s lips at the corner and turned slowly towards his mother’s voice. “What say you?”

He swallowed, “The way forward seems well set. We were glad to see your army on the horizon today.”

The murmur had rippled through the battle and he’d recognise the horns anywhere, The elves were here. Finally coming to fulfil the promise they’d made over a stolen egg and a treaty.

His mother’s eyes burned into him as the meeting broke and she turned slowly towards Kate who snatched a chicken off the table and winked as she tossed it towards Newrius, the dragon huffing happily as he caught it. Kate bowed her head, greeting his mother.

“Well met, Rider.” His mother had honoured her, by speaking first and everyone in the room knew it.

“Well met, Majesty. A Welcome sight.”

Newrius tugged on the back of Anthony’s shirt with a wheezy growl that sounded almost like a chuckle as Anthony stumbled and his spine prickled as his mother’s eyes burned into him again as the Dragon teased him.

Without a word Anthony ducked out of the tent, glad of the breeze fluttering through the camp and took off running, desperately hoping to clear his head. The wind whipped past him and the camp disappeared behind him and his lungs burned in his chest. He came to a stop on a grassy hill, trampled flat as the army had retreated and Anthony ran his hands through his hair, squeezing his eyes shut against the pounding in his chest.

This has to stop. This must stop now. You cannot feel this way about-

“You seem very fond of her.”

Anthony sighed at the sound of his mother’s voice, neutral as it always was since the death of his father. “Kate and I have become good friends, these last years. I pledged myself to ensure the survival of her dragon.” He leaned against the tree, “Surely you remember, Mother. You were so against my taking this position.”

His Mother sighed, “I became the queen of our people because you were not ready, Anthony. You were too young, you are still young amongst our kind but… You will take your place one day. I had already lost so much, I couldn’t… Well. You never did listen anyway.”

He could feel the weight of her expectations weighing down on him, just as he had then. When she had raged against his choice. “I believe in the cause we fight for. I have a duty to our people, to fight for that cause.”

“And is that all it is now? Duty?”

He should have been expecting the question. He had faced it with so much dread when what he had feared was stirring in Kate’s chest, in the smiles she tossed him across the fire as they travelled to his homeland together was laid at his feet with Kate’s hands gripping his tunic lightly.

His voice had shaken, even then. “Kate, please. You are young, you…”

“I will live as long as you will, Anthony.” Her lips had nearly been brushing his and his chest had ached to lean in and close the distance between them. “You know that as well as I.”

“You will… What you feel… you will not feel forever.”

“Do not do that, Anthony. Do not minimise what I feel for you. What I feel is real and I will love you, as long as I live.”

“This can never be.” He’d whispered it and felt the tears sting his eyes as he turned as walked away, ignoring the sob that broke the night and the growl that rumbled over his head as her dragon caught sight of him.

Anthony swallowed, tilting his chin to look his mother in the eyes. “It is a duty. We all have our duties.”

His mother nodded slowly before she sighed, “She has a destiny, Anthony.”

His stomach churned, “We all have a destiny, Mother.”

A wry smiled crossed her face, “Yes. That is true. But not every destiny involves the fate of every person in this land. I do not think I need to remind you how very disastrous it would be were she to be distracted from this task.”

“No, Mother.” Anthony said quickly, his heart pounding in his chest. “You do not. I’m sorry, I’m very tired and there is much to do for tomorrow.”

He bowed respectfully and strode past her, his boots crunching against the grass as he did. His head was still spinning as the sun set over the camp and the smell of campfires filled the air. He felt exhausted, tired in the very bones of him as he tugged at the laces of his leather bracers approaching his tent. He let them fall to the floor as he swept aside the flap of his tent, stepping inside.

“I don’t think your mother likes me very much.”

He relaxed at the sight of her, lounging in his bathtub, her dark hair damp with the water and she was so beautiful in the candlelight his chest ached. He crouched beside her, pressing his lips to hers gently, “No, she’s disappointed in me. I’m a distraction for you.”

Kate sighed, chasing his lips for a moment, “I would very much like it if you were distracting me. Don’t worry. No one saw me come in here.”

Anthony chuckled, leaning into her touch, “Very well then. I do still have to thank you for saving me today. And Newrius as well I suppose.”

“Oh I wouldn’t thank him,” Kate hummed, “He was very torn about it.”

“I would expect nothing less.”

[whistold]

Greaves Ester

Age 25

He/him Male

Timber Wolf

Pyro, Spectral, Spiritual Magic

Relatives: Dove (mother), Felix (father), Jay (father, legally), Mieka (sister), Lenna (sister)

Friends: Kamu (partner), Lucius

Greaves is the general of the Wildland Army and King Lucius’ closest ally. Greaves was born and raised in the Desert District with his mother, Dove Ester, and father, Jay Ester. Greaves’ family lived a secluded life in the Desert where Greaves had no formal access to schooling. Greaves devoted most of his childhood and teen years protecting his younger siblings, Mieka and Lenna. 

When Greaves was a teen, his parents became progressively more abusive. Jay and Dove gradually stopped returning home, and eventually burned down the family home, killing Lena, Mieka, and Greaves. Somehow, Greaves woke up in the charred remains of his home as a Specter. Unsure how he survived and not knowing where to go, Greaves wandered the Desert District until he was captured by Wildland soldiers where he met Prince Lucius II and slowly befriended him. 

While at the Wildlands Castle, Greaves suffered through heavy depression and found himself coping by doing work at the castle, eventually becoming the Wildland Army General. As time passed, Greaves started to work with Lucius and Guardian Relic in researching the Whistold Prophecy. While Lucius researched the Prophecy, Greaves left the castle and the Wildland Army now refers to him as an exile.

Extra Notes: 

Greaves’ third eye on his forehead is somewhat sensitive so he tends to cover it with a blindfold. 

When Greaves woke up after the fire, he had a lantern at his side with no visible damage. The lantern houses spirits that Greaves encounters, starting with one of his younger sisters.

Greaves typically stays in his inverted wolf form, even around Wildland Castle, due to his large size. He doesn’t like the feeling of looking down on everyone.

Greaves has a tendency to burn his hands, but his fur grows back fairly quickly. He usually wears gloves to hide his hands and avoid questions about the scarring. Despite the fur growing back quickly, his hands are still rough and scarred even when the fur isn't burned off.

Due to the fire that killed him as a teen, Greaves is somewhat hard of hearing and has a poor sense of smell, though he’s gotten used to it and never mentions it, so most people don’t realize.

[fanfoolishness]

Ill-fitted (The Bad Batch)

Crosshair prepares for his first mission after the fall of Kamino, but something feels wrong with his armor. ~1000 words, set during the beginning of The Solitary Clone. A study of angst, guilt, and denial (AKA the Crosshair special).

---

The new armor is identical to his last set, down to every detail; the slight asymmetry in an inner seam, the pleasing snap of the cuisses joining the knee plates, the hue of the green transparisteel of the visor.  Crosshair straps his armor over his blacks, piece by piece.  Vambraces, pauldrons, cuirass, greaves.  He is methodical and careful in this, as he is everything, and slowly, finally, he begins to feel a soldier again.  

Except… the armor rubs across the shoulders, a centimeter loose.

He frowns, ducking his head, rolling his shoulders.  He shrugs experimentally, but the armor still sits wrong.  

It is a small thing.  Nearly imperceptible.  Wrecker would have never noticed the difference.  Echo would have gone back to the armor’s specs.  Tech would likely have found a clever way to alter it on the fly.  Hunter would have --

His nostrils flare, lips narrowing.  Crosshair shakes his head, face twisting into a grimace.

He must have put it on slightly crooked.  The armor is exactly the same make and design as before.  There is no reason it would have changed.  He stands up straighter, jutting his chin out, tugging at the plate around his neck.

Still loose.

Perhaps it’s not the armor.  Perhaps it’s him.

The hunger gnaws at him, a raw pithing agony --

He tries pacing the platform to distract himself, but it’s getting harder and harder.  He’s so tired now, and the platform pitches and bucks around him, spinning dizzily in the Kaminoan downpour --

He holds out a weak hand to the ship in the distance, and through his haze he can see every tendon mapped, the sharp jutting of the knuckles, the sickly translucence of the skin --

Crosshair swallows.  Medical cleared me.  He’s fine.  They told him he was fine.

He decides to ignore the loose fit across the shoulders.  He will take it to the armory after this mission; he’s due to meet his new commander soon, and there is no time for something so trivial.  Rampart’s dig about his unreadiness to command again flickers in the back of his mind, but he ignores that, too.  If this is what they ask of him, he is ready to comply.

He reaches for his helmet, places it squarely on his head.  His vision swims green.  The visor, perfectly narrow and rectangular, shifts his sight and trains his focus.  

But there is still no extra cutout for his right eye.  Before Kamino he had submitted four requisitions asking for an alteration to the helmet, and all had been denied.  He stifles his disappointment.  They have their reasons, he is certain.

Though Crosshair still remembers working with the Kaminoans and his squad, pooling ideas and designs for customized armor and weaponry that would make their enhancements shine.  They’d been feverish with excitement: Wrecker crowing about materials with increased durability and explosive resistance, Hunter sketching out endless designs for the knife in his gauntlet, Tech waxing rhapsodic about the helmet and goggle system he’d been dreaming of for two years.  Crosshair remembers his own requests, his voice steady and sure, filled with the proud certainty that he knew his own abilities and exactly how to boost them.  

They’d had their requests granted, every one.  When the new armor arrived they’d stayed up half the night in their barracks, gleefully trying out every modification until the regs shouted at them to keep it down.  

He reaches up and touches his left pauldron.  His gloved fingers brush over its smooth edges, perfectly alike to the right.

They have their reasons….

He picks up his rifle.  A replacement 773 Firepuncher, its balance inspired, its weight and heft as familiar as his own arm.  He should feel whole, holding it.  Restored.  Ready to be of service again at last. Yet its weight in his hand does not steady him the way he had expected.

He pushes past the feeling.  No matter; the mission calls.  Desix and his new commander await, and with them an opportunity to serve the Empire.  He opens the door to his room, ready to take it.

The hallway outside his quarters flows with regs in white and black.  They march lockstep down the corridor, their boots a steady rhythm like a heartbeat.  It irritates him, the sound unpleasant in his ears.  He follows at his own pace behind a squad of ten, keeping his gaze down on the floor, and his ill-fitting armor rubs against his neck.

The First Battle Memorial towers above him.  He spares it barely a glance, its sea of names having little to do with him, and situates himself near one end to await the meeting with his new commander.  He slips off his helmet and stands stock still, tucking the helmet beneath one arm as he rests the butt of his rifle against the floor.  

More regs hurry past him, ready to go where they’re needed.  They have their orders.  He has his --

Good soldiers follow orders.

Good soldiers follow orders.

A pressure building in his head, a voice he doesn’t recognize but knows within his bones, the order -- he was meant for this -- they all were -- why don’t they see it?  An ache, confusion, anger rising in his chest, a ringing in his head, what’s happening to him -- 

All he ever wanted was to be a good soldier --

His shoulders slump slightly.  He’d done what needed doing.  He would have done it without the chip, if they’d have asked.  He’ll prove it.  What’s loyalty, after all, without action?

You weren’t loyal to me.  

But they hadn’t seen it that way --

His chest aches, heavy beneath his ribs, and it has nothing to do with the fit of his armor.

Crosshair stands silently beneath the great memorial, the golden light softening everything in view.  The regs march on past, side by side, footsteps echoing in the vast hall.  He shifts his weight and draws himself up to his full height.

He stands alone.  The shadows pool around him, and he waits to go and keep the peace.

[novankenn]

They call to me...

Inspired by @danurso's A new opportunity.

"Jaune please, don't." Weiss pleaded as she watched Jaune strap on the few remaining good pieces of his armour, namely his vembraces, guantlets, greaves, sabatons, and revembrances. "I need you."

"Weiss... we need you to make this work. I need you to make this work." Jaune turned and cupped the side of her grim covered face with his gauntlet covered hand. Even through the steel and leather, Weiss could feel the Jaune's warmth. "We both know this is the only way I can help... I WILL give you all the time you need."

"But..."

"I won't lie to you, love..." Jaune leaned down, pressing his bare forehead to Weiss'. "I'm scared, I don't want to lose you, I don't want to face them anymore... but we both know we can't hold out any longer... we've lost... lost too many..."

"I can't lose you. This is suicide! You're going out there to die! I'll be alone!"

"I've wanted to die for so long, you know that, but this is not that." Jaune tipped Weiss' chin up and gave her a soft kiss full upon her lips. "You saved me from that. You make me want to live..."

"But why? Stay her with..."

"You need time to make the ritual work. That I can give you." Jaune grazes her lips with his once again. "All our hopes are riding on this, if it works we can really be together... if not... we'll still be together."

"Jaune..."

"I have to go. Be strong... do what you have to do... and I'll do what I know I can do." With one final brush of lips, Jaune turned and left their shared quarters. It had been a lucky find, this isolated Dust Mining camp, and for almost a year they had peace to purse Weiss' theory... but they had been found.

/=/

"Fearless Leader." Nora replied, her weapon draped over her shoulder. Jaune gave her a weak smile. She and him were the final ones standing of team JNPR. She had latched on to him, and despite everything he said, Nora stood at his side unwavering. Nora was the other rock of his world, that kept him from stepping fully into the void.

"Nora... you don't..."

"No. I do. For you and them. I need to do this."

Jaune didn't say anything, but gave her a smile and a nod. Twisting the hilt of Crocea Mors her activated its great sword form. The pair walked out of the small compound, letting the heavy doors, once used to contain possible violate dust explosions, seal behind them. The thirty or so non-combatants that had been with them were long gone. Being escorted to a new safe zone under the care of those soldiers, huntsmen and huntresses that chosen to follow Jaune, Weiss and Nora.

The plan was simple. Weiss would work the ritual, sealed with in the mine, while Jaune and Nora would sell their lives for as high a cost as possible, to give her that time. Salem's forces had been getting sloppy, secure in their dominating power they had allowed their approached to be discovered... that gave the trio time.

"You sure about this, Nora?"

"Aye. I want some new scars to show Ren when we see each otehr again." she quipped darkly, Magnhlid's haft gripped tightly in her gloves hands.

Jaune chuckled as well as they waited. The walls of the compound would not hold long, but they would give them a few seconds before being completely over run, seconds Jaune and Nora were going to use... were going to stretch out. Jaune raised his sword before him, pressing his forehead into the cool metal.

"Lo, there do I see my father..."

"Lo, there do I see my mother, my sisters, and my brothers..." Nora joined in.

/=/

Weiss watched through the video monitors, situated in the room where she would conduct the ritual. There was no sound, but she knew what her dear friends were saying, even without it. I was an ancient Mantlean Prayer, that both Jaune and Nora took to reciting...

"Lo, there do I see the line of my people, back to the beginning..." Weiss smiled so very weakly as she spoke and turned her attention to the task at hand.

/=/

"Lo, they do call to me... they bid me take my place among them," Jaune and Nora continued to recite in low voices as they began to move forward, as the first of Salem's grimm crested the wall, "In the halls of Valhala where the brave my live...forever."

Flaring his aura, Jaune sent a jolt of amping into Nora, who crushed a shard of lightening dust in her hand. Less than a second later, blade and hammer, slashed and crashed into the charging mass of death. The pair knew there was no escape from this conflict. There would be no retreat, and no one would come to save them. They were okay with that, because they had faith that Weiss' plan would work... and that was the only motivation they needed. Weiss would have all the time in the world to do what she needed to do... and he'd die giving it to her.

(This is just something that jumped into my head after reading the above original post by @danurso. It is NOT intended to be a continuation of their work, just something inspired by it. Hope you enjoyed, and please give the post that inspired this some love. Thanks.)

[card-queen]

Title Card / Writeblr Intro

Hey ho, redid this because I wanted my post to look pretty!

My name's Gem, I've only started writing in earnest for the last two years, give or take. I mainly write with games in mind but the only impact that has had is making me more insane about lore and world building. Languages, countries, monsters, world maps, I go a bit overboard with it all.

My favourite book is Tinker Tailor Soldier Spy My favourite book series is the Brother Cadfael series My favourite author is Brandon Sanderson

I love being tagged in things

I love being asked things

I can offer advice of impressively suspect quality

I have room in my heart for only one annual crunch month and that's ArtFight

I draw lots of stuff: Fire Emblem, King of Fighters, Blue Exorcist, The Witcher mainly but also some Otome game stuff for my sisters~

Always happy to be tagged in Sylvie Paula Paula content <3

My current projects are...

Memories of Aether: Shadow Elements

Fantasy / Suspense Series

It is the working title for the fantasy story I have in mind. The ‘story’ as it is, was designed to be a Strategy RPG with war, conflict, companionship and secrets that shake the foundations of the world at its core.  While much of the original concept has remained, writing it as a novel first has allowed some of the finer points to be enhanced, improved and given new life.

The unprovoked burning of a manor by a wild rebel faction. The murder of a simple woodsman with no known enemies. The slaughter of an unknown military campsite that not even the locals knew about. Three events, all brutal and all seemingly isolated, linked by an unseen connection that seeks to bring the nation of Ethelia to its knees. Castowen Daine, a young captain in charge of keeping peace in the Ethelian town of Peaton, discovers an unmarked campsite whose occupants lay slaughtered and hidden within tents. Their leader, a young nobleman completely unknown to Cas. Amidst the corpses, two survivors were found: a soldier on death’s door and a mysterious woman in black. At the same time, Cas’ brother Conoric discovers the unfortunate remains of the local woodsman; a man with no enemies or friends to speak of, murdered and hidden from view. The tragic events shrouded in mystery seem to have a common thread around the town of Peaton, and Cas comes to understand how close his town, and even the whole of Ethelia, came to devastation. Together, Cas and Conoric find themselves swept up in a bid to find out who or what is threatening Ethelia.

Accessories to Murder

Faux-1920's Detective Game

A four-chapter adventure game with an emphasis on deduction and conversation. Each of the four chapters will contain a murder that, through twisting circumstances, needs to be solved by the main character, the fabulous dressmaker, Stella St. Clair, and her friends & associates of a more criminal leaning. While each case is separated by chapter, they are connected by the involved characters and underlying motivations. At the midpoint, a common thread appears to emerge as the story progresses, revolving around the mystery surrounding Stella’s past and her true identity.

Sun & Moon Stories

Fantasy RPG

A joint-RPG my sister and I have been working on for quite some time. The main idea behind Sun & Moon Stories has remained unchanged throughout its development: two different sides of the same war. The war itself has become less us vs. them, and the lines for every side are a lot more blurred due to the complex nature surrounding all the involved parties. Another idea that has remained is the parallels between the two main characters and their individual struggles.

The main characters for each side are Lu Greaves and Rai Reed. Lu takes on the more political aspects of the war, dealing with traitors, lies and figuring out who benefits for any given conflict or alliance. As the child of a fledgling Antisian bureaucrat and an outcast within her own family, she is perfectly suited to figure out who is who on the main stage of the conflict and get to the heart of any matter. Her most powerful allies will be from important families or with unwavering loyalties and it will be her keen eyes and clear head that will allow her to thrive and broker alliances. Rai’s story revolves around the Dhamunsa (Dark Moon Saviour), Roha Din and the Dark Moon Gate: the true desire and threat the whole war revolves around. Finding the truth and clearing the names of those involved is paramount to Rai and his side of things. He lived a simple life and has a much looser grasp on the political aspect but he’s intune with the call of the world and his earnest nature earns him friends in high places. His dedication to the truth and justice earns him allies and inspires those who believed things hopeless until then.