#something so deeply good and noble beyond the mere appearance of it

[wildsaltair]

respectfully I need to climb him like a rope ladder and do him so good we both ascend into the clouds and never recover

[sinnamonrolle]

[ the little moments] ♡ Beelzebub

6 - That moment when you accompanied Beelzebub to the military.

✿ part of a series! ✿

❀  gender neutral reader  ❀

Warnings: Mentions of blood

“I’m sorry,” Beel said. One of his hands patted your head in the form of a silent apology. “Our date got postponed because of the military summon… I really wanted to share Madam Devian’s new dessert with you.”

You smiled at him, catching his hand in yours and giving them a squeeze. You couldn’t deny that you also were excited to try out the new cake that Madam Devian released recently, but any time with Beel was time well spent. It didn’t matter whether you went to a bakery or the military, as long as you were with him.

“It’s alright. We can always go later,” you said. “But are you sure I can go in with you?”

Beel scowled at the fence gate in front of you two, its barbed wires separating you from the military encampment. He gently squeezed your hands back. “Don’t worry. They will let you in.”

From beyond the gate, way in the back, you saw a demon in a white military uniform rush out from a large building. His cap almost flew off from how quickly he arrived at the gate.

“General Beelzebub!” the demon greeted, saluting. He opened the gate, and you two stepped inside. “I have been awaiting your presence. I thank you for coming here on such short notice.”

“Don’t worry about it, Colonel Alastor,” Beel said, but you knew he was secretly a little upset about it. You could tell from the way his eyebrows were furrowed, the slightest bit of indentation appearing at the base of his forehead. “What do you need me for?”

“Of course, general, please follow me to the training grounds. I will explain on our way there,” Alastor said, but then his eyes fell on you, and he added on, “General, may I ask who your guest is? So that I may provide the correct identification tag.”

“My lover,” Beel said, his face straight. He didn’t even blink.

You almost choked at how naturally Beel spoke, as if he was simply ordering a meal at a restaurant, but it seemed you weren’t the only one surprised. You saw the shock settle on Alastor’s face before he quickly collected himself.

“I apologize, Your Grace. Please excuse my rudeness,” Alastor said to you, bowing deeply at the waist. “Please allow me to welcome Your Grace to the Royal Army.”

“Ah, thank you,” you said, feeling your cheeks warm up slightly. You were trying your best to not appear flustered, but perhaps your nervousness was leaking into your actions. Beel announcing that you were lovers made butterflies flutter at the bottom of your stomach—you even thought your heart might have skipped a beat. “Please, don’t worry about me. Just go ahead and do what you need to do. I’m just here to, uh, sightsee.”

Alastor smiled and closed the gate before leading you two to a field further down the path. It was a stone path, you noticed. After visiting almost every nook and cranny of the Devildom, you could conclude that Devildom didn’t have any concrete. The flooring was always wood, stone, brick, or marble.

You nudged Beel in the side. “You’re a general?” you whispered as you both followed Alastor. You knew demons had enhanced hearing, but you whispered anyway. It wasn’t anything that needed to be kept secret, but you felt that it was a bit embarrassing to ask a question that seemed to be common knowledge.

Beel didn’t seem to mind. “Lieutenant general to be exact,” he said. “I’m referred to as ‘general’ though. Diavolo is the actual five-star general. Although, I don’t know if I still count as one since I’ve been taking a break from the army ever since you’ve arrived in the Devildom.”

“If I may interrupt,” Alastor spoke up from the front. “I would say that General Beelzebub has all rights to keep his rank. Even if he has been away from the army for some time, he has been very helpful in leading us, especially with new recruits. They are always a willful bunch.”

“Is your new batch acting up?” Beel grumbled. “You just have to give them a good beating.”

Alastor sighed. “I would do exactly what the general advises if they weren’t children of nobility. As a demon of common blood, I’m afraid they will complain to their families and have them take my head.”

“Even though you are a colonel?” you asked, baffled. Even if Alastor wasn't a noble, this was the army. How could new soldiers affect the colonel? To this day, you still weren’t a hundred percent clear on demon hierarchy. Perhaps, after spending so much time with the brothers, you’ve become desensitized to it all.

“I may be a colonel to them, but to their families, I am a mere commoner,” Alastor replied with a chuckle, and then he stopped in front of a field. Since the Devildom was always dark, several round balls of light hovered in the air, lighting the field enough that you could barely see the faces of the recruits. They were spread all over the field, but it didn’t really look like they were training. “Alright. General, Your Grace, we have arrived at the training grounds. Your Grace, please take this visitor tag.”

Alastor handed you a clip-on tag with the word “VISITOR” printed neatly in bold letters. But before you could accept the tag, Beel took it from Alastor and carefully pinched it onto your clothing.

“They don’t have benches on the field,” Beel said, smoothing out your clothes. His purple eyes met yours. “Will you be okay standing nearby?”

You brushed his bangs away from his eyes and smiled at him. “I’ll be okay. Will you be okay though? Are you hungry?”

“I’m not hungry.” Beel brought you into his embrace, his arms wrapping around you. When you returned his hug, he brushed his lips against your cheek and murmured into your ear, his voice a low, soothing hum, “I have you here with me, after all.”

And then Beel was pulling away from you. You had half the mind to chase after his touch, but you held back, knowing that perhaps now wasn’t the best time.

“Hold my jacket, please?” Beel asked. When you held your hands out, he shedded his jacket and gave it to you, pressing a kiss to your forehead. “Thanks, Pudding. I’ll be back soon. If anyone annoys you, just let me know. I’ll deal with them.”

“Okay.” As you followed Beel’s figure with your eyes, you pressed his jacket to your face, the traces of his remaining heat warming your face and the soft smell of laundry detergent filling your senses. With his back straight and his posture full of confidence, every inch of him was unyielding, commanding, demanding to be obeyed.

In that moment, you could see Beelzebub on a battlefield, blood darkening the streaks of his orange hair. A spear in hand, the silver of the blade dripping red and dampening the carmine tassel tied beneath the blade. Beelzebub tattered, tired, torn apart mentally—you could see it, you could see it all in your head because you knew he lived through a war before. You could see the blank look on his face, the agony tightening his throat, the truth of loss settling into his body—

“Your Grace,” Alastor said, his voice breaking you out of your reverie, “it may be safer if you stand over here against the wall.”

You broke away from Beel, who was now speaking with the recruits. Alastor stood slightly further away, off to the side next to a gray brick wall. Smiling, he waved you over.

Clutching Beel’s jacket closer to you, you hurriedly walked over to him. There was a slight embarrassment creeping up on you when you realized that Alastor probably saw you staring at Beel for who knows how long.

“I’m sorry,” you said, settling yourself against the wall when there was a respectable distance between you and Alastor. “I didn’t realize I was blocking the way.”

“Not at all, Your Grace.” Alastor laughed. For some reason, some of his mannerism reminded you of Barbatos. “Everyone knows that the new recruits are training today, so not many others will be around here. Since the recruits are allowed to use magic in their training, I am afraid that a stray spell might hit you if you stayed out in the open. If the noble families will have my head if their children complain about me, then General Beelzebub will ensure that I suffer for the rest of eternity if I allow you to get hurt.”

You hummed, hands fidgeting with the zipper of the jacket as you turned back to Beel, eyes adjusting to the dim lighting to find his silhouette. The balls of light were sparsely distributed across the entire field, emitting enough light that you could just barely make out the details. You supposed that the lights were just so that the demons weren’t training in complete darkness. Most demons have excellent night vision, after all. But for a human like you, you were glad the field wasn’t that big and that they weren’t that far out. Otherwise, you wouldn’t be able to see Beel tilting his head as he crossed his arm, the warm light whitening the orange strands of his hair.

“Maybe not for the rest of eternity,” you quipped with a smile, although there wasn’t much room to disagree.

There was something warm in hearing that Beel would raise hell to protect you. To know that there was someone out there that cared about you, someone that loved you, someone that considered you as family—a fluttery feeling coursed through your body, spreading out from your chest, and your heart was clenching in something that wasn’t pain but something similar enough that it hurt yet still felt so sweet.

“Your Grace is right. The general would destroy me instantly,” Alastor said, but you could hear the amusement in his voice.

It was then that you were able to clearly make out the voices on the field. You weren’t that far away in the first place, but when Beel first approached the recruits, you didn’t hear anything distinct at all.

“For honor?” Beel asked, his voice raising in disbelief. “What kind of honor could you be fighting for if you’re fighting in such a lackluster way? How honorable is it to fool around?”

“Fool around?” a demon scowled. He stood at the forefront of all the other soldiers who had gathered around Beel. On his chest was a rose crest, imprinted into his brown military uniform. “Do you think we are fooling around? Who are you to say that?”

Beel scoffed, shaking his head in disappointment. “Your footing is off. Too clumsy. You don’t put enough weight into your strikes, and your moves are too extravagant. Fighting with your body is not supposed to be flashy. This is the battlefield, where your lives are on the line, not some game where you show off. You don’t even have the basics down. Colonel Alastor is an excellent teacher and fighter. Haven’t you been listening to him?”

The demon with the rose crest growled, his hands bunching into fists at his sides. Another demon next to him crossed their arms and sneered.

“Are you mocking us? Why should we listen to a mere commoner?”

Next to you, Alastor sighed and rubbed at this forehead, seemingly more troubled than offended. You could see why. They were essentially spoiled brats who thought the worlds revolved around them.

The rest of the group also spoke up, their voices mixing into each other as they tried to announce their displeasure, but after listening for some time, Beel just simply raised a hand.

“Enough,” he said. Pure power, heavy and pulsing, rushed out from the word as it rumbled from his chest, the oppressive force pushing the recruits down. Some of them buckled under the pressure, while others tried their best to fight back against it, only to end up collapsing entirely. “This is the army. It doesn’t matter what family you’re from if you’re not strong enough.”

Even though you were farther away behind Beel, you still felt the residue power wash over you in waves. You shivered at the sensation, and the urge to make yourself appear smaller briefly crossed your mind. Out of the corner of your eye, Alastor shuddered but remained standing upright.

“Who are you to say that?!” a demon at the front gasped, a hand on their knee as they straightened themselves. “You’re not even wearing a military uniform or a tag! Do you even have the authority to be here?”

“That’s General Beezlebub to you.” Beel took a step forward and started stretching his arms, rotating them slowly. You knew him well enough to know that he was most definitely frowning from the tone of his voice, the ends of his lips curving downwards and his eyes narrowed, the dark purple glowing dangerously. “Although, from the sound of it, I doubt you would address me properly.”

“Beelzebub? I’ll have you know that I am the eldest son of the Duke of Rosales,” the demon huffed, smoothing out the rose crest on his chest, “and I have not heard of a Beelzebub from any noble family.”

Beelzebub snorted, switching to his other arm, and took another step forward. The recruits, despite their tough act, all took a collective step back.

“Son of Rosales,” Beel said, “since you’re so adamant about status, I’m sure you are well aware of those above you. Address me correctly then—it’s Prince Beelzebub, the Avatar of Gluttony.”

The son of Rosales gulped, his body stiffening against the warm lighting. In the silence following Beel's command, the whispered words—the non-sovereign prince, Beelzebub—hung loudly in the air.

This was a first for you. You’ve never really seen Beelzebub flaunt his status, nor have you really felt the weight of the ranking of prince until this moment, where the once prideful recruits were now cowering in part fear and part awe.

Pride blossomed in your chest. This was Beelzebub—your prince, your Beel, your lover.

“Why don’t you come and show me what it means to fight for honor?” Beel asked the demon with the rose crest. “I’ve never slacked off, not even after I took a break from the army. Every single day, I kept training because I knew why I was fighting. I fight to protect my family. Every moment of suffering will pay off in the form of my loved ones’ lives in the future.”

Beel readied himself, bringing both of his hands up close to his face, and said, “So, recruits. Show me your determination. In return, I will show you mine.”

The world faded around you as you watched Beel throw himself into fight after fight, often defeating the recruits within one or two moves. Despite appearing so burly, he possessed surprising agility. He seemed so limber as he evaded all of the punches and kicks thrown his way, almost like he was dancing.

The recruits that Beel struck down always made their way back up, like a switch had been turned on inside them. It must had been what he said earlier, the pure determination of his words inspiring the soldiers, as well as the natural instincts of a demon to respect the strong.

Beel turned around with a sweeping kick. You briefly saw his well defined abdomen as the shirt fluttered back into place. A dark tail aimed for his head, but he leaned backwards slightly to avoid it as it swept past, extremely close to brushing against the tip of his nose. As he did so, the white light warmed the outline of his body like a halo—illuminating.

Beelzebub was utterly enchanting—you couldn’t deny it at all. You didn’t want to, and you didn’t need to, because that was the truth, and the truth was all yours to appreciate. Watching him like this took your breath away.

A group of recruits jumped out of nowhere. They lunged at Beel’s back in a semicircular formation, their demon forms out, and you almost shouted out to warn Beel when, with barely a glance behind him, he slammed his foot into the ground. The force of it shattered the terrain into fragments. A wave of magic rushed out, colliding head-on with the soldiers, and it swept them away in a heap of tangled limbs. The recruits groaned in pain.

The residue of the magic electrified the air, crackling along the broken edges of the ground. You felt it sparking against your arms, the sensation of his magic a familiar feeling to you, yet it never failed to give you goosebumps.

“The battlefield doesn’t tolerate failure,” Beel said, swinging an arm behind him just in time to elbow a recruit right in the middle of their chest, knocking the breath out of them. “Failure means death.”

Perhaps you were too captivated by the sight of Beel displaying his prowess, but it was only when Alastor called out did you realize that a particularly huge but unstable spell was coming straight at you.

“Your Grace!”

You knew better. You really did. You didn’t survive this long in the Devildom for nothing. You had your fair share of experience in surviving dangerous spells, at closer distances than this, but as you watched the roaring flames come at you, you could only stay frozen in place, hands clutching Beel's jacket in your hands.

Vaguely, you heard Beel shout your name—the sound echoing in the air, echoing around you, echoing in your mind, matching the increasing tempo of your heart—then everything went dark.

The faint smell of leather and something that you instinctively recognized as belonging to Beel filled your nose. Strong arms wrapped around you, the embrace familiar yet also somewhat strange, and with a low buzzing sound in your ears, you also heard—no, you felt the desperate heartbeat.

Beelzebub.

Beel held you to him, so tightly to the point that you were crushed, your body completely melding with his. One of his hands cradled the back of your head, pressing you into him, and the other clasped your waist.

Beel was shaking.

Even though he was the one holding onto you, like you would disappear if he didn’t hold onto you hard enough, his body was trembling—in fear. Fear of you getting hurt, fear of losing you, fear of not being quick enough, of not being strong enough, of not being decisive enough to protect his family yet again. The debilitating terror that often accompanied his nightmares—you were all too familiar with it.

So you wrapped your arms around him, feeling the unsteady, nervous flapping of his wings, now understanding why you felt leather instead of skin, and you squeezed him back.

I’m okay. I’m okay. I’m okay.

You gathered all the feelings bunched up in your chest and sent them through your pact bond, hoping he could feel that you were absolutely safe and unharmed. He shielded you, after all. From the ebbing magic on his body, you could tell that he teleported over to you. That was how he made it on time.

Beelzebub. I love you. I love you so much.

Beel slowly pulled back, his eyes a chaotic mixture of purple and magenta, and you noticed that he had indeed transformed into his demon form. But before you could say anything, he started running his hands all over you. Gentle but hurried fingers traced your face, down your throat, around your torso, all the way down to your feet. He inspected every part of you in a desperate frenzy.

“Beel,” you said, cupping his cheeks. “I’m safe. I didn’t even feel the heat. But are you hurt anywhere?”

Beel shook his head and went back to checking your body, but you patted his face, huffing. He stopped almost reluctantly, eyes meeting yours once again.

“I’m not hurt,” Beel said. “Alastor casted a barrier just in time.”

Something silver shimmered in the air behind Beel, barely noticeable unless you knew what to look for. Gratefulness flooded you. Beel might have thought it was fine to protect you with his body, but you didn’t want him to get hurt at all. If you had just reacted fast enough earlier… then Beel didn’t have to throw himself in front of you, and Alastor didn’t have to cover for you.

After the gratefulness came the guilt.

“You’re really not hurt anywhere?” Beel asked, but his eyes were already searching your body for any potential injuries. “Really, really?”

“Really, really,” you answered. “I’m really okay. I’m sorry though… I don’t know what came over me. I saw the spell coming at me, but I didn’t move at all. And I had to disrupt your training session because of it. I’m sorry.”

Beel visibly relaxed at your reassurance, his body no longer tensed up like before. “No, Pudding. Don’t be sorry. It wasn’t your fault. I will stop everything to protect you,” he said, kissing your forehead.

Your mouth opened, cheeks warming as you tried to respond appropriately, but then, Beel blinked like he remembered something. He stepped away from you, his eyes narrowed dangerously, and turned to the recruits who had all stayed silent earlier.

“Who casted that spell?” Beel asked, a frigid aura surrounding him. You bet the recruits were in for a world of pain.

No one responded. The recruits remained in their positions, not daring to move.

Beel clicked his tongue. “Don’t make me repeat myself again. Who. Casted. That. Spell?”

When no one spoke, Beel didn’t bother again. He came back to your side and wrapped an arm around your waist, tucking you into his side as he reverted back to his human form.

“Colonel Alastor, increase the daily training by three. Send me a list of all recruits here today. I will be back at a later time to properly train them,” Beel said.

Colonel Alastor saluted. “Yes, general!”

Beel nodded and headed for the gate. You glanced at the recruits still frozen in place and Alastor who waved at you with a smile. You nudged Beel in the side.

“Are we leaving already?” you asked.

“Yeah,” he said, taking his jacket from you. “Thanks for holding my jacket, Pudding. Let’s go get some food. I’m starving.”

You tilted your head, raising an eyebrow in surprise. “Are we resuming our date? After what had just happened?”

“They’re not important,” Beel said, and then he smiled at you, peppering kisses all over your face. “Let’s go back to our date.”

“Alright, alright,” you laughed, covering his mouth. “Let’s go.”

-------

Masterlist!

Ahh, I don't know if this is good enough :( but I hope you enjoy it!

[obutsuwrites]

a single feather (tengu!hawks x f!reader)

tumblr request:  Hi! I just read your new story on ao3 and it was amazing!!! Your writing style is really fantastic and I saw your requests were open. Could I request Yandere Hawks x fem Reader? Bonus points if it’s also NSFW but it doesn’t have to be, I just really enjoyed your take on yandere Katsuki and was curious to see how you’d approach a yandere hawks. Thanks so much for your time!

summary: “G-g-get out!” Her words sounded strangled and afraid. The princess sat up and frantically scooted away from the strange man. ‘She’s so cute, scared like this.’

She wondered how long the man had been watching her. Was he the source of the crimson feather? Was this not a man, but an oni? A pit formed in her chest, heavy with dread and fright.

“Don’t be like that, little bird. I’m a kami, shouldn’t you be falling at my feet?” Keigo asked, his tone casual. His lack of concern or formality was alarming. No one had spoken to the princess in such a way. Under normal circumstances, she would have welcomed his nonchalant nature, but now -- in her darkened room -- it was a threat. xxx basically a really self-indulgent, kinda researched feudal!au with tengu!hawks bc he rlly do got me feelin sum typa way 😳

word count:  6,209

warnings: yandere elements, dubcon, stalking, loss of virginity, choking, possessive behavior 

my ao3 for more shitposts

my ko-fi~!

my ask box is still open 4 requests~!

glossary:

Tokin - a traditional or fictional small black box worn on the foreheads of Yamabushi – practitioners of Shugendō – or Tengu, dangerous yet protective spirits of the mountains and forests from the Japanese mythology

Yuigesa - pompom stash worn by Yamabushi

Yamabushi - Japanese mountain ascetic hermits

Shoji - door, window or room divider used in traditional Japanese architecture, consisting of translucent (or transparent) sheets on a lattice frame

Kami - are the spirits, phenomena or "holy powers" that are venerated in the religion of Shinto

Fundoshi - traditional Japanese undergarment for adult males, made from a length of cotton

lil special author's note: from what i've been able to read, kami/tengu are really similar?? but here obviously they're two different things v.v so hawks bein a lil misleading lmao

◆:*:◇:*:◆:*:◇:*:◆

It was midnight and the princess had retired to her chambers. Her plush mattress and soft covers were simply too inviting. She had collapsed into bed and dove into a deep slumber. Quiet snores echoed through the obnoxiously large bedroom. It hadn’t been her choice to have such a spacious room… but it was never her choice. The princess of the kingdom was merely a figurehead. A token of the nobility. Seen in public, but never heard. Her voice was reserved for servants and other royalty behind closed doors.

‘As a lady should,’ her mother would say. ‘Your breath isn’t worth the common folk.’

The princess argued, ‘But mom, the servants… they are common folk. It’s no different!’

Her mother’s face scrunched into a sour expression, as if she ate a lemon. Under other circumstances, her expression would have been humorous, but the empress was a severe woman. A serious woman of royal blood and polite nature.

‘A woman of noble birth only attracts scoundrels and yokai.’

That had ended their discussion. Yokai -- as the princess knew -- were spirits and demons that inhabited the untamed land beyond their kingdom. They preferred the eternal darkness of dense forest. A perfect habitat for such apparitions. She had never seen one, of course, but the princess learned of their many forms from maids. Fantastical tales of wild beast men with protruding horns and unkempt hair; fox-like spirits that brought good fortune, but possessed a mischievous side, and cat yokai that roamed the mountains, often transforming into humans. However, there was one yokai that caught the princess’ attention.

The tengu; a dangerous spirit of the forest. A yokai that possessed the talons and wings of a bird, but the celestial beauty of man. Tengu wandered mountains and forests as the land’s protector. Their wings were said to expand as wide as the sun. They donned the traditional dress of a yamabushi, adorned with a tokin and yuigesa. Tengu were accompanied by strong gusts of wind generated by a magical feather fan. Sometimes, as the princess learned, tengu instead carried a pewter staff. Their approach could be told by the jingle of their pewter staff and currents of wind that almost magically appeared. Some servants even told of handsome tengu. Tengu that charmed and bewitched with their allure. Mischievous and curious.

In truth, the princess yearned to escape the frigid confines of the castle, and explore the forest. She wanted -- wished -- to stumble upon a tengu. She wanted to feel their fabled soft feathers under her fingertips, to taste the crisp air they produced. The princess had no qualms with finding a hideous tengu with a beak, as the maids told her, tengu with beaks were more common. They were also more monstrous. Portrayed as wild birds of prey that lured young women into their nests for unspeakable acts. Eventually, the young women would return… but they were different. Blind. Insane. Soiled.

These stories did not deter her. The princess knew better. She knew such stories were only regurgitated as a means to frighten her. Tales meant for cheap scares of common folk. She was no common folk; she was nobility.

The woman began to drool into her dreamless sleep, too blissfully unaware of the winged beast hovering outside her window. A curious, crimson feathered tengu that was drawn by the scent of royal blood. He inhaled deeply; the princess’ scent mixed with the humid summer air in harmony. Known as Keigo, the yokai’s expansive wings flapped violently, and left shivers of feathers that fell gently like petals. Keigo wondered what she looked like; was she clothed in a thin nightgown or nothing at all? Keigo preferred the latter and nodded his head in solitary agreement. It wouldn’t hurt to take a peek, would it? ‘Her snores could wake the dead… ’ He chuckled at the thought; a woman of her nobility never spoke out of turn -- seen but not heard -- and yet this woman could produce a symphony of noise in her sleep.

“What other noises do you make, little bird?”

Slowly, Keigo unlatched the princess’ window and crept into her quarters. The room wasn’t remarkable, but her scent was etched into every corner. A patchwork of divinity itself. He wanted to bury himself within the fragrance, bury himself within… her. Curious golden eyes searched the darkened room for the princess’ sleeping form, finally resting upon a human-shaped mound. She looked so innocent. So unaware of the tengu’s presence. He could snatch her right now and be within the forest by daybreak, but he restrained himself. He wasn’t like the beastly oni. ‘No,’ Keigo decided, ‘I’ll simply watch over her.’ Keigo watched as the princess shifted in her sleep and caught a glimpse of her chest. Ample and supple. Absolutely begging to be touched and conquered. He ran a cold hand down the woman’s exposed flesh and thought, ‘I should at least take a trophy. ’ A means to memorialize her existence.

The tengu detached himself from the woman and began his search. He wanted a garment, something personal -- something private to her. Keigo remembered that mortals kept such clothing hidden away in drawers. Like treasure. As quietly as he could manage, Keigo rummaged through exquisite textiles and cloth, until he palmed satin material. Curious, Keigo grabbed the garment and examined it. A pair of panties. He brought the undergarment to his nose and inhaled. Fresh linen, welcoming and clean. The tengu would have preferred a pair with the maiden’s carnal scent, but even possessing something that was so close to her body was a gift. It was meant for him, Keigo decided. Stuffing the panties into his robe, Keigo allowed himself a final look at the woman before quietly flying off.

◆:*:◇:*:◆:*:◇:*:◆

She awoke, drowsy and exhausted, as if sleep had evaded her. The princess stretched and exhaled a soft yawn. Morning light streamed through the woman’s only open window. Wait. Open window? The princess had no memory of opening her window before bed. In fact, she had been too exhausted the night before to even take off her slippers. She had collapsed into bed in a weary state and fell promptly to sleep.

‘This is odd. So very odd,’ the woman thought and closed the window. She had been awfully weary, perhaps she opened it and had forgotten? It was possible, but the princess still felt perturbed and began a rudimentary inspection around her chambers. Nothing seemed out of place, until she happened upon a single crimson feather that appeared within her dresser. It was long, far too long to be a bird. The feather was unlike anything the woman had seen in her garden.

Tucking the feather away, the princess slowly started to get dressed. She savored this time in the morning. It was her simple slice of heaven. Her escape from prying eyes… and her mother. This was the princess’ only ritual that wasn’t tainted by maids and royal duties. It was a situation she had insisted upon and insisted upon until her mother eventually relented. She was an adult -- the sole heir -- and had no need for maids to dress her anymore. It had been convenient and almost fun as a child, but now as a young maiden, the task seemed almost inappropriate for hired help. The woman reasoned that their time could be spent elsewhere. This was her mother’s weak spot; the empress detested a lack of work ethic. She reasoned it was an absence of pride in one’s work. The maiden believed this to be the very reason for the garden.

The garden was quaint. A private sanctuary away from inquisitive eyes and lurking mothers. A place to call her own. This was a space not yet invaded by her controlling mother or by intrusive maids. Serenity in every meaning of the word. Plants flourished there; the modest terrace was alive with flowers and greenery. She was permitted this piece of serenity if she toiled in the earth. Hands smeared with dirt and sweat trickling down her brow. Such hard work earned her seeds and decorations for the princess’ little terrace. Fairy lights, statues, and decorative pebbles. The princess cherished every addition.

◆:*:◇:*:◆:*:◇:*:◆

She sat in the lively terrace, hands tired and dirty. The peculiar feather plagued her mind throughout the day, until finally, the woman decided she would rid herself of such compulsive thought. Toiling in the earth allowed her mind to wander beyond it. Idle hands were the devil’s work, as her mother would say.

The afternoon sun was high in the sky and beat down upon her back. The silk fabric of her summer kimono stuck to the maiden’s back like tree sap. Impossibly thick. The princess felt exhausted and unbearably hot, but busy work kept her thoughts at ease, and away from the stark reality of a midnight visitor. She had wrestled with the thought. How could an animal -- a beast -- flutter into her room, only to escape and leave behind a single feather? What bird could manipulate a latch? Originally, the woman settled on the possibility of a trained eagle being her intruder… but the idea was preposterous. Insane. Unlikely. The empress had no mortal enemies. Not a living soul was capable of such a feat, no commoner had reason. Her mother’s public demeanor was a farce. Kind. Generous. Loving. Traits she lacked in private, behind pristine castle doors.

Unbeknownst to her, on a nearby towering tree, sat a red-tailed hawk. Golden, predatory eyes were trained on the princess; unmoving and calculating.

◆:*:◇:*:◆:*:◇:*:◆

Throughout the day, the princess couldn’t escape the feeling of being watched. Like a lab rat. The thought was preposterous. The castle walls were far too great for peering eyes. No pervert could spy on her, and yet, she felt like this. This tightness in her chest that had appeared once she began to toil within the garden. It was so suffocating -- so frightening -- the princess decided to abandon any cultivation for the day. Instead, the princess focused on her studies. Academic topics specially suited for a “maiden of her stature,” as her mother would say. Subjects included etiquette, housewifely duties, mathematics, language, and archery. Archery, of course, was the maiden’s suggestion. A term the empress begrudgingly obliged. If a woman couldn’t protect herself, what sort of woman was she?

The bow fit neatly in her callused hands. Rough palms were earned from hard work and determination. Hands “unbecoming of a noble,” the empress would chide. As if it mattered. The princess was of age, but still had no suitors. No man of nobility had even considered her as a wife. She was never seen in public enough for such courtship. The castle was her home and her prison.

An arrow flew through the air, hitting its target. Archery was simply another means of keeping idle hands busy. Nothing more, nothing less. The woman felt safer within the confines of the castle. She didn’t feel the carnivorous eyes that burned into her body like hot coals. Perhaps this was all caused by the feather. It’s discovery caused her mind to wander with possibilities until her thoughts landed on something irrational: a tengu.

The thought had crept into the back of her skull and taken up residency like a canker sore. Unrelenting and impossible to ignore. It only grew in size as the day continued, until the idea was all she could muster. A large part of the princess was excited by such a discovery, but a smaller, weaker aspect dreaded the possibility. Her room wasn’t a forest and the maiden didn’t require protection, which left only a simple reality; the tengu was attracted to her. The empress’ previous words now echoed, ‘A woman of noble birth only attracts scoundrels and yokai.’ Was this true? If it was, no maid gossiped about it. It was unlikely shrill midwives could keep such a juicy secret to themselves, the princess reasoned. She prayed it was true a crimson feathered tengu had visited her. She didn’t mind if the tengu wasn’t handsome and instead had the face of a bird. She merely wanted the feather to have significance. It should, at least.

However, the maiden did wonder if the prying eyes were that of a tengu. They could shape-shift -- she only knew from castle gossip -- but they preferred a more mortal form. Imposing wings and a yamabushi’s robe, sometimes, tengu would wear a red mask with a long nose. This was less common now. Instead, such a mask existed for festivals and revelry. An accessory taken by man. Maybe the tengu had taken the shape of a bird. They were, after all, protective yokai of the forest. A bird’s eye view of the land seemed the most logical… but if it was a tengu, why did she feel so uneasy? Why did her skin prickle and become so sensitive?

She was familiar with stories of tengu that were renegades. Yokai -- like oni -- that preferred mortal desires. The mortal sin of flesh. It was a topic that was taboo to the princess. Courtship wasn’t a necessary knowledge. It was more useful of her time to learn household responsibilities. How to hold a babe. How to preserve fruits. What linens were best for summer months. Nothing truly of value beyond mathematics and archery. The prospect of a tengu that wanted her for carnal reasons left a horrid taste in her mouth and her knees weak. It was both thrilling and frightening.

◆:*:◇:*:◆:*:◇:*:◆

Days melted into one another, but the princess couldn’t purge the feeling of being watched. Her garden was no longer a sanctuary. It was crypt; suffocating and miserable. Because of this, she opted to stay inside and attend to her studies. Busy work that kept prying eyes at bay. The castle walls now provided protection from the rotten anxiety decaying her gut. Caring for plants used to be a welcome chore; an activity that broke up the monotony of royal life. Instead, the fresh air and bright sun only brought a sense of dread the princess couldn’t escape. It sat in her gut like a stone. Heavy with burden.

She experimented with venturing out during different times of day. Neither the cool morning nor the starless evening cure her. Everyday was the same, except for her lack of gardening. Servants took note and tried to coax the princess into the terrace, but she held fast in her fear. It was becoming all consuming. A black hole even the empress noticed.

◆:*:◇:*:◆:*:◇:*:◆

“You insisted on this ridiculous hobby, and yet, you won’t be appreciative?” Cold, hard eyes observed the woman, waiting for a response. Her mother’s eyes never quite held any warmth of familiar love. It was an aspect the princess was accustomed to.

The princess, playing with the hem of her kimono responded, “I… Of course I appreciate it, Your Majesty.”

“Well then, why don’t you tend to it, little bug?”

She winced at the epithet. It was an embarrassing and old name that was born of the maiden’s interest in plants. Nothing more than an insult veiled as a loving moniker. The name brought forth memories of childhood. Memories of learning cruelty.

“It’s been too hot lately, Your Majesty. My kimono sticks to my back and it’s very unbecoming.” Picking her words carefully would be the key here. She knew the vicious nature her mother carried. A stick to beat others down into submission; into the dirt.

Satisfied, or perhaps finally disinterested, the empress curtly nodded and continued her stroll around the castle grounds. The lack of her mother’s love didn’t bother her anymore. She was the empress. Nobility that commanded -- demanded -- respect.

◆:*:◇:*:◆:*:◇:*:◆

The day had transformed into night. Humid summer air that melted into a brisk evening. Typically, twilight was the perfect time for tending to her garden, but the princess hadn’t set foot within her sanctuary. She sat directly in front of the shoji that led to the terrace, timid hands fumbling with the hem of her kimono. It was a nervous habit that followed from childhood.

‘Should I try again? ’ Thick saliva began to pool within the maiden’s mouth. A bundle of anxiety coiled within the pit of her stomach; like a hot brand. Truth be told, she wanted to run and hide further within the castle. The princess’ bed was her sanctuary now.

‘...but it’s only a feeling. Mother wouldn’t want me to be such a child. ’ Swallowing the saliva, the woman stood up and meekly slid open the door.

Sticky, heavy air stuck to her lungs. Her chest rapidly rose and fell; the princess desperate to not suffocate. It was a starless night. An inky blackness that threatened to swallow the princess whole. The evening was darker than usual, which allowed dread to further creep into her body. Instinctual goosebumps decorated her arms as she slinked towards a bed of flowers. The floral scent was almost nauseating. Too overpowering and fragrant.

Shaky knees knelt into the earth and trembling hands began to pull at weeds. Her lack of care supported an invasion within her garden. It was no longer a garden of love. Now, the terrace sat abandoned and overrun. Stubborn weeds were plucked and tossed aside. The princess’ hands ached and were caked in dirt. Not becoming a of woman. Of a princess. But the woman lacked care. She didn’t want to live in fear of her only outlet. Her only safe haven from her mother and from the castle servants.

Tears gathered at the corner of the maiden’s eyes as she worked. Her disdain and anxiety had become tangible. She brought a dirt crusted finger to her eye and wiped away the salty liquid. Crying was a sign of weakness. It was a saying the empress had drilled into the princess since birth. Crying wasn’t allowed for nobility. The woman needed to be strong and feminine; not a blubbering child. Gradually, the feeling of being watched dissipated and was instead replaced by a feeling of inadequacy and misery.

Atop a neighboring tree within the terrace sat a red-tailed hawk. Beautiful and majestic. The bird watched the woman below. It cocked it’s head in interest. Despite his watchful gaze, the tengu known as Keigo hadn’t seen the princess cry before. The action seemed almost foreign to her, as if she had never cried before. Her chest didn’t heave and no sound emitted from her. Instead, the maiden sat on her knees and silently toiled. This lack of passion angered Keigo in a way. He wanted to see the woman in all her entirety. He wanted to witness her anger. Her sadness. Her wailing. A part of him would envision her beneath him, begging him with tears in her eyes. It was a sick pleasure, really. Keigo wanted to be disgusted by this desire, but it was a thought that dug its heels in, refusing to leave. He was left with the only option; to embrace it.

Keigo continued to watch the quiet sobbing until he grew bored. Until an idea surfaced. He should try to comfort her, shouldn’t he?

‘I want to touch her. I want to feel her warmth. I want to feel her writhe underneath me,’ the tengu thought as he gently fluttered to the ground. Keigo didn’t want to approach her as a man. He knew mortals weren’t stupid; she would question why a strange man with golden eyes suddenly appeared within her castle. ‘I want you to love me. ’

Softly, the tengu made his way towards the princess. Keigo’s footfalls were ignored by the maiden until he rubbed a wing against her. Startled, she released a quiet yelp and looked at the creature. The bird was small for a hawk and looked to be the runt. An unfortunate bird that had been given the same lot in life as herself. The princess regained her composure and reached out, touching the little bird.

“You scared me! Are you lonely, little birdie?” She asked, trying to stifle a giggle. Being frightened by such a small thing was comedic in a way. Deep inside, the bird and it’s tiny, insignificant body reminded the woman of herself. Perhaps this creature had been the prying eyes? ‘It was so silly of me to worry,’ the princess thought as she petted the bird.

The hawk released a low growl, as if the sound came from the very back of their throat. It reminded the princess of a cat’s purr. A sound only produced from trust and contentment. Soft lips curled into an insignificant smile. Her lips felt tense and unfamiliar with the action; smiling wasn’t common within the castle. The empress saw it as fictitious and unnecessary.

‘You can express pleasantries through your words. A noble woman doesn’t need to stoop down to a commoner.’

She reasoned the bird couldn’t be more than a young babe; the runt of a litter. ‘Are its wings hurt? Is the mother looking for..? ’ Before the princess could finish her thought, the bird gently pecked at her palm. Almost like a warning. The feeling of being watched had subsided; the princess was confident that her intruder was a lonely baby hawk. She hadn’t seen such a bird before. Hawks weren’t common in her kingdom and the woman was unsure the creature could fly. If the bird couldn’t fly, surely she should nurse it to health and then release it. The woman had never raised a dog before, much less a hawk, but it’s kindness proved too powerful.

◆:*:◇:*:◆:*:◇:*:◆

The princess managed to smuggle the hawk into her room. The operation had required bribing maids, but ‘business deals are important and are to be honored,’ as her mother would say. It wasn’t bribing; she was merely asking for a service and in turn, the maids were paid. ‘A simple transaction,’ she told herself.

Currently, the hawk was cuddled against the woman. She had made several attempts to leave, but the creature would loudly squawk like a threat. The princess knew her mother would at best be displeased -- and at worst -- demand the bird be confiscated. No animal was worthy of a princess. No creature was bred with the same noble blood. The empress deemed animals unworthy of her daughter’s company. ‘To rule, you must have conviction and a barn animal would only dirty you.’ Remembering her words only caused the woman to flinch. Even the ghost of her words carried severity and coldness.

Keigo was growing annoyed. Yes, it was blissful to be smothered by this woman, but he desired more. His heart grew black with a carnal want that only oni experienced. He wanted to defile her in the worst way. He wanted to feel the princess squirm underneath him, begging him in ecstasy. Naturally, the mind of a tengu is always several steps ahead of a mortal. A plan began to form; once she retired to bed, Keigo would reveal himself, explain he was a kami and had selected her for his divine touch. The tengu knew that even among nobility, the visit of a kami was prized. It was an offer the princess couldn’t -- wouldn’t refuse. Keigo ruffled his feathers in anticipation.

◆:*:◇:*:◆:*:◇:*:◆

The night was still and silent, except for a slight breeze that blew through an open window. The princess had retired to sleep, but decided to keep her window open for the little bird. Keigo sat atop the windowsill and watched her sleeping form. He noted how small she was; an impossibly tiny body dwarfed by a mattress decorated in ornate blankets and pillows. This form allowed for the tengu to watch the princess undress. Her body was delicate and without blemish. A part of Keigo felt excited by this; a perfect body he could ruin. He would claim her and defile her.

With a quick pop, and a patch of black smoke, the bird was no more. In place sat a young man with ash blonde hair and golden eyes. His features were sharp and almost avian like, but his expression was laid-back and carefree. He wore the traditional garb of a yamabushi, complete with a tokin. He was a handsome man, but carried the dark intentions of a predator. Yellow orbs that burned with want.

Keigo slowly drifted towards the princess, leaving red feathers in his wake. He watched with interest as she tossed in bed. So blissful. So blissfully unaware of him. Unable to resist any further, the tengu placed a gentle kiss on her cheek. She was soft -- malleable -- and smelled of perfume. Like a garden.

The princess awoke suddenly from the action and came face-to-face with the tengu. By the moonlight, she couldn’t make out his features, but knew the shape was that of a man. Shock ignited in her eyes and the princess instinctively opened her mouth, but no sound came out. She felt suffocated by the intruder. As her eyes adjusted to the darkness, she noticed how bizarre the man’s silhouette was. He stood of average height, but it looked as if the man had hidden an object behind his back. An object that resembled the wings of a bird.

Finally, a whimper escaped the woman. A small and pathetic sound that aroused the tengu. Before the princess could helpless babble, Keigo spoke, “Sorry if I scared you! Wasn’t my intention, but I’m Keigo.” A lop-sided grin found its way onto his thin lips. The smile did little to quell the fear in the woman’s gut.

“G-g-get out!” Her words sounded strangled and afraid. The princess sat up and frantically scooted away from the strange man. ‘She’s so cute, scared like this.’

She wondered how long the man had been watching her. Was he the source of the crimson feather? Was this not a man, but an oni? A pit formed in her chest, heavy with dread and fright.

“Don’t be like that, little bird. I’m a kami, shouldn’t you be falling at my feet?” Keigo asked, his tone casual.  His lack of concern or formality was alarming. No one had spoken to the princess in such a way. Under normal circumstances, she would have welcomed his nonchalant nature, but now -- in her darkened room -- it was a threat.

The princess’ heart hammered in her chest like a drum. Too loud and too thunderous to ignore.

“A k-kami..? I -- you visited me several nights ago, didn’t you?” She desperately wanted to believe the man. Any other possibility was horrific. She squinted in the dark and noticed the sharp features he possessed; blonde hair illustrated in the moonlight and yellow eyes that seemed to glow.

The tengu laughed. It was soft and gentle, the pure opposite of the roaring cackle she was accustomed to.

“I wanted you to have somethin’ to remember me by, little birdie. It’s flattering how close you keep it.” It excited Keigo that the young maiden had kept the feather. Especially because she kept the feather so close, buried underneath her kimono, right atop her breast. He hoped her breasts were as soft as her cheek.

Plump cheeks flushed with pink. She hated being teased. It was one of the few social interactions her mother was capable of, but it always left a sour taste in the woman’s mouth.

“How… how do I know you’re a kami? You could simply be a convincing oni, a pretender.”

His smile faltered. “You don’t trust me? That’s okay, little birdie. I’ll take my leave,” Keigo replied. Leaving wasn’t a part of his plan, it was merely a distraction from the bewitching magic he cast. A glamour that would enlighten the princess to desires held deep within her heart.

The princess didn’t want him to leave; it was improper to turn away a guest. Compelled, a delicate hand grabbed Keigo’s robe. It was tightly woven material, similar to the great textiles within the castle.

“Stay,” she begged, “please stay. I didn’t mean…”

Keigo placed a large hand atop the crown of her head and stroked. The maiden leaned into the touch, it was unlike any sensation she had experienced within the castle. It wasn’t the uncaring, technical touch of a wet nurse, but the tender touch of a lover. Warmth began to bloom in the pit of her stomach. A feeling that was foreign, but welcomed. She wanted nothing more than to melt into the tengu’s touch.

The woman patted the empty spot next to her. She hoped the winged man would slide into bed and perhaps hold her. Simply hold her and their body heat mixed together in the summer air. A small, childish part of the princess desired to touch the man’s wings. If they were as soft as the feather, they must feel like heaven. ‘He’s divinity in every sense of the word.’

Silently, Keigo slid into bed beside the princess, his wings ruffling against her soft skin. He shivered from the sensation. Tingly and electric. Keigo draped an arm around her and pulled the princess closer. He needed to hear her heartbeat and feel the blood coursing under her skin. The maiden’s floral scent was overpowering now; the smell fresh and heavenly. The woman buried herself into the tengu’s robe. His body was warm, almost hot. A summer heat draped in a man. He smelled of the earth and pine. It was a scent that the woman found comforting.

“Eager little bird,” Keigo joked, his hand now drifting down her form. He was desperate to memorize the soft landscape of her body. She was a treat to be savored. “Gonna touch you and make you feel good, okay little birdie?”Keigo grabbed the princess through her nightgown, her breast fitting perfectly within his palm, as if she was made for him. Only one thought came to Keigo’s mind: ‘This is mine. She is mine.’ It was uncommon for the tengu to feel so territorial -- so protective, but she was giving herself to him, afterall.

He palmed the woman through her nightgown, eliciting a quiet moan. Keigo had to strain to hear it; she tried to stifle the sound. It was unnatural and embarrassing. She had never been touched like this before, much less by a kami.

“Don’t be so shy.” Keigo continued to caress and massage her breast, his other hand wandering down his lover’s nightgown. His hand stopped at the hem of her gown, sliding up the material until it was bunched around her waist. The princess shivered from the cool air, and from a foreign feeling of shame. A part of her wanted to push the winged man away and lock herself in a neighboring bathroom until guards arrived, but another insatiable piece wanted the kami to take her maidenhood right now. Her body burned with an undeniable passion that only Keigo could extinguish.

Mewls of want penetrated the night air as the tengu circled a finger around her sensitive lips, the warmth of his touch separated only by satin panties. The cloth -- saturated with her juices -- would be Keigo’s prize. Another memento of the woman, of his lover. Her squirming underneath him only cemented that fact.

Greedy, trembling hands reached for Keigo; needy for his body to be pressed against hers. She slid a hand underneath his robe, and traveled down his body, stopping at his waist. Pleasing a man was never a topic of discussion in the princess’ studies. The maiden’s hands glided under Keigo’s fundoshi. His member stood proud and leaking pre-cum, unsure and nervous, she began to rub his leaking head. A groan rumbled from deep within Keigo’s chest, like a thunderstorm.

“Don’t stop, little bird,” Keigo murmured, the tengu too enamored from the woman’s touch. He had dreamed of this for several nights, but finally, her soft hands were working his manhood. She stroked down his length, clumsy and inexperienced. The tengu was growling now; noises guttural and rough. Like a wild beast set free.

Encouraged by her touch, he tore her undergarment, allowing for proper access to her nether region. Roughly, Keigo parted the woman’s lips apart and a calloused thumb began to rub her now swollen clit. Under normal circumstances, the princess would have recoiled from such brazen action; she was taught a man should never tear a royal’s garment. It was an act perpetrated by oni and men of lesser nobility, but this man wasn’t of lesser nobility. He was a kami. A god.

Golden, hungry eyes looked down at her; like a wolf appraising meat. Predatory and insatiable. An idea formed within his mind and the tengu detached himself from the princess. She released a whine, her features twisted in a pout. A little brat denied subsistence.

“Touch me,” she requested. Her tone was demanding. It was more of a command than a request. Her hands felt empty and useless, the maiden convinced her only purpose now was to please the kami.

Keigo positioned himself at her entrance and commanded, “Lay down, let me pleasure you.” His words were like velvet, his voice like nirvana. Sickeningly sweet and light. With hesitation, the woman laid down, her cunt in full view of the tengu. She felt another pang of embarrassment. Even wet nurses hadn’t seen her exposed like this. Her instincts screamed to cover up and to run away, but the allure of Keigo proved too much.

A single finger was harshly jammed into her slick core as Keigo’s mouth engulfed her mound. His hot tongue swirled around in her cunt, learning every sensitive spot. His wide finger sent a shock of pain up the maiden’s body, but the sensation was soon replaced by warmth that spread between her thighs. He pumped into her, scissoring and stretching her. Preparing her for him. His teeth grazed against her delicate clit, evoking a wanton moan. Her legs trembled as Keigo shoved another finger into her wetness. She felt full -- whole -- with the tengu’s fingers inside. A thumb prodded her clit again, gently rubbing the nub. The red-hot coil within her center made the maiden feel as if she would burst, the sensation of an orgasm building. Sounds of squelching and a river of moans flowed from her.

The tengu brought his face up to her, fingers wet with her arousal.

“Little birdie all ready for my cock, huh?” Keigo stood up and quickly disrobed. His lean frame vibrating from excitement. In the moonlight, the princess could make out the sculpted body Keigo possessed. The body befitting of a kami. He crawled over her body and positioned his cock up against her lips. Slowly, savoring the moment, Keigo pushed into the woman. His cock stretched her, far more than his fingers. Sensitive, wet walls clasped around him. Her body was desperate to swallow his member whole. The tengu crammed his soaked fingers into his lover’s mouth, muffling her moans. “Don’t want you too loud, little birdie.”

She wondered if this was a normal part of lovemaking, but obliged the tengu and sucked on his fingers. Lewd sounds erupted from Keigo, along with a string of swears. The princess hadn’t heard such depravity before, but Keigo’s thick cock was too distracting. He sped up, provoked by the sucking of his fingers. His balls slapped against her ass at a feverish pace. Keigo’s strokes were no longer slow and delicate, but harsh and starving. A man -- a beast -- possessed. The force of his strokes almost hurt and his fingers were jammed to almost the back of her throat.

“Pl-please stop,” the maiden slurred, spit trailing down her chin. Keigo had to strain to hear her, but decided to partially accommodate. He removed the saliva coated fingers, leaving her to gup down chestfuls of air. Instead, strong hands clasped around her delicate neck. A neck that had only known the pleasures of cotton or satin. His touch around her neck was the opposite of the tenderness she had known before; his touch now felt possessive and dark. An aura of blackness that threatened to consume her. Keigo’s grip tightened, along with his feverish pace. The princess’ hips now began to ache underneath him.

The coil in her stomach reached its peak; a feeling of relief washed over her. The maiden felt grounded, more aware, less hazy. She finally noticed the dangerous shine in the tengu’s yellow eyes, which sent a deathly chill down her body, leaving goosebumps. She no longer wanted this. She no longer wanted him. The woman began to squirm underneath the tengu, defaulting to her original fear. Realizing the turn of her nature, Keigo released a final pump into her soaking cunt. A deep growl sounded from his chest, this time the sound no longer velvet and soft. The sound of a predator. As he climaxed, Keigo’s grip around her worsened. The maiden feeling out of breath. Asphyxiated. She beat against his chest, her vision becoming a blurry mess of black spots and dots.

Keigo’s large hands fell from her neck and the princess swallowed greedy gulps of air. ‘She looks so beautiful like this,’ the tengu thought, ‘sweaty and broken beneath me.’ His seed began to leak out of her, staining her plush thighs. The sensation made her feel dirty, wrong, used.

“L-l-leave.”

Yellow eyes bore into her features, memorizing every inch. A carefree grin plastered on the tengu’s handsome face.

“...but you’re mine now, little birdie.”

[thewhitefluffyhat]

Featherine Augustus Aurora

What is this guide?

<< Previous (Lambdadelta)

Reading List: Highlights

Umineko Episode 6/Dawn “??? Tea Party” [ Video / Text ]

Featherine requests her old miko return to her service once more. (Everything to know about Featherine’s personality in one scene)

Umineko Episode 6/Dawn “The Witch of Theatergoing” scene

Video [Scene starts roughly 6:20 and continues to the end of the video]

Text [Search on “Amakusa ran his finger down my cheek.” Scene continues to end of the page.]

[Spoilers - this references several major twists from the previous two Episodes, though not the truth of the mystery.] Featherine ropes another human into acting as her miko. (A demonstration of the way Featherine/Hachijou blends the mundane and the magical worlds.)

Umineko Episode 8/Twilight “Magical Battle” scene

Video [Scene starts roughly 38:40, stop before 53:35]

Text [Start at top of the page and stop at the screencap of the key.]

[Spoilers - this is one of the battles at the climax of Umineko! It doesn’t involve the core mystery, but it will spoil which characters ultimately side with the protagonists.] A scene for if you’re curious what happens when Featherine gets serious.

Reading List: I want it all

(These are all repeats from the list for Bernkastel.)

”Whose Tea Party?” [ Video / Text ]

Bern gets invited to a tea party. (A simple and silly scenario, but also a window into the differences in how Featherine and Lambda think of Bern.)

”Bernkastel’s Letter” [ Video / Text ]

Bernkastel writes a letter to (maybe) Featherine, explaining what she’s discovered about the rules to Beatrice’s game. (This is a bit of a strange one - to me it feels like some details of Bern’s relationships in this early work were retconned by the time of Umineko Episodes 6-8.)

Umineko Chiru (Episode 6/Dawn, Episode 7/Requiem, Episode 8/Twilight)

Umineko Saku’s Last Note of the Golden Witch involves Featherine somewhat. Blink and you’ll miss it, but she’s in 07th Theater too.

-...And that’s it! On the plus side, it’s easy to read all there is of Featherine, since there’s so little. Unfortunately, as you can see from the Highlights, what does exist is often neck deep in spoiler territory…

Wiki Links

https://07th-expansion.fandom.com/wiki/Featherine_Augustus_Aurora [Some spoilers, though only the same as in the Highlights links above.]

Quick Facts

-As Hanyuu is in Higurashi, Featherine is the closest being to a god in Umineko.  However, while gods in Higurashi are related to Shinto concepts (plus parasites and viruses and aliens), Umineko’s godhood is based on the idea of an author being god of their story, summoning universes out of the nothingness of a blank page.

-Featherine’s unusual name is probably a reference to Hanyuu. The kanji for Hanyuu (��入) are “羽=feather” and “入=in”. And Augustus Aurora = Hanyuu’s “Au au” catchphrase. Hachijou (八城) can also be read “yashiro,” as in Oyashiro-sama.

-Physically, Featherine appears as an elegant adult woman whose exact age is hard to place. She does not have horns, but she does have that suspiciously horn-like memory device floating around her head.

According to that Umineko Episode 8 battle scene linked above, Featherine’s memory device once was damaged, leading to Featherine having a different personality and appearance for a time.

(As it so happens, Hanyuu has a chipped horn and a very different personality from Featherine, what an intriguing coincidence...)

-Long before the events of Umineko, Featherine ascended to the realm of the gods and returned. She also goes through a cycle of sleep/death and rebirth which can last centuries.  All aspects that call to mind that ascension Hanyuu mentions in Saikoroshi.

-Outside the Meta-World, Featherine’s double is a mysterious and reclusive author who goes by many names. (Hachijou Tohya is just one of them.)

-Remember how Ooishi and Akasaka write a book called “Higurashi no naku koro ni” in-universe? Umineko does something similar, but explores the idea even further. Hachijou is the supposed in-universe author of some of Umineko’s arcs, and as such, some fans consider Featherine/Hachijou as a stand-in for Ryukishi07 himself.

Personality

-Much as Bern’s personality is similar to “dark Rika” but kicked up to eleven, Featherine’s personality is similar to Hanyuu when Hanyuu acts as a god. She’s calm, serious, and refers to humans as “child of man.”

-Lacking Hanyuu’s shy and childish mannerisms, Featherine comes across as intimidating and rather condescending. Though she’s more polite and reasonable than the average witch. (Which honestly says more about other witches than her, really...)

-Bern and Lambda are very fey-like, tricking and tempting mortals into doing what they want. Featherine, in contrast, doesn’t use tricks or threaten violence because she doesn’t need to. Asking for consent from mortals is a gesture of respect from her - you don’t have the ability to refuse.

-In almost the inverse of Hanyuu, Featherine has no problems getting other characters to perceive her; indeed, she’s subtle but often quite forceful about dragging others into conversations inside her realm.

-Also unlike Hanyuu, Featherine has no particular love of sweets (that’s Lambda), and does seem to enjoy alcohol.

-Featherine, an ancient being, suffers from the “disease” of boredom. Entertaining herself with stories is the only medicine for this ailment, and the relief it provides is only temporary.

-As such, Featherine enjoys stories as deeply and thoroughly as possible.  Meaning, she doesn’t just appreciate mysteries and characters as they’re first presented - she also likes to “tear out the guts” to see what makes them tick.

...Not with her own hands of course!  That’s Bern’s job.

What, did you think you were done with the Watanagashi imagery when you finished Higurashi?

-At several points in Umineko, Featherine a gets called a monster. While this may be yet another callback to Higurashi, unlike Hanyuu who hates that label, Featherine takes it as a compliment.

-So… is Featherine evil? Many characters, and even Ryukishi07 himself in interviews, call her such. That being said, in Umineko, Featherine can be callous, but she doesn’t revel in sadism the way other witches do. Although, presumably she was much worse in the past...

Abilities

-Featherine is the “Witch of Theatergoing” - she is primarily a spectator to the events of Umineko, rather than a player on the stage. (Just like Hanyuu.)

-Bern’s “Theatergoing Authority” may derive from her. She also has the ability to instantly promote a character to the position of Game Master.

-Featherine is an author and therefore a “Creator,” surpassing the level of even powerful witches like Bern and Lambda. Her powers function as her breaking the fourth wall and literally writing the rest of the script on a page.

-Like Hanyuu, Featherine can stop time. Though unlike Hanyuu, Featherine can act in the frozen time, including that aforementioned reality writing.

-Featherine’s home is the *deep breath*  “Great Witch of Theatergoing, Drama, and Spectating's Noble City of Carefully Selected Books” - an impossibly large magical library filled with countless stories, each a universe of their own like a Fragment.  (Everyone just calls it the “City of Books.”)

-Featherine’s servants are the main characters of these stories, now in the form of black cats.

-Featherine’s relationships with her mikos are also through the lens of an author. Featherine’s mikos are also known as “Readers” - they narrate the events of a game board to Featherine. As an author is a god, a reader is also able to put their own interpretation on the story they tell.

Featherine and Bernkastel

-As Hanyuu is to Rika, so Featherine is to Bern... more or less. They’re still a god and her miko.

-Unlike Rika and Hanyuu, Bern and Featherine do not share their senses.

-Rika and Bern have both lived beyond a normal human’s lifespan, but they both still consider themselves young in comparison to Hanyuu/Featherine’s ancient existence.

-When Rika would bully Hanyuu, Hanyuu did little but cry and complain.  Bern still backtalks and is generally disrespectful of Featherine, but the result is different - Bern’s the one acting defensive and scared while Featherine is merely amused by it.

-Bern is also distrustful yet subservient toward Featherine in a way Rika never was to Hanyuu.

-However, when Bern is in danger, she will demand that Featherine help her, much as how Rika did the same to Hanyuu once in Matsuribayashi.

Featherine and Lambdadelta

-Featherine and Lambda appear to be on amicable, if not especially close terms.

-On Featherine’s side, she primarily seems to know Lambda as Bern’s friend and playmate.

-On Lambda’s side, she knows she’s completely outclassed by Featherine, and is very afraid of crossing her.

-Lambda does know quite a bit about Featherine - including that tidbit about Featherine’s personality change in the past.

Featherine in Higurashi Gou?

Is this Featherine? And what does that mean for the rest of Higurashi Gou? 

Well, after reading this guide, what do you think?

Regardless, this is as far as I can guide you with my knowledge of Umineko. If you wish to go further, you’ll have to forge that path yourself, through the ravenous wilderness of unconfirmed theories and dangerous speculation.

Good luck!

PS: If you’d like a rough map of some popular destinations, I also have an old Bingo Card of Umineko-Gou connection theories.

PPS to folks from Reddit: If you liked this guide, I also do episode analysis/theory posts too.

[buzzdixonwriter]

CASTLE KEEP: An Analysis

Few movies resonate as deeply with me as Castle Keep.

It is truly sui generis.

It’s a deceptively simple story: In the waning days of WWII, eight walking wounded American soldiers occupy a castle in Belgium, a token sign of force as the war rages past them. The castle belongs to a noble family who owned it for generations and stocked it with a vast collection of priceless rare and irreplaceable classical art. The current count wants to keep his castle and his collection intact, but he also wants a son to carry on the family name and tradition. He is, unfortunately, impotent. And even more unfortunately, the castle is located in the Ardennes forest, on the road to Bastogne…

Now, those raw elements are more than enough to fuel a perfectly good run of the mill WWII movie, with plenty of bang-bang-shoot-em-up and some obligatory musings on the meaning of it all.

And I’m sure that’s the way they pitched Castle Keep.

But director Sydney Pollack and screenwriters Daniel Taradash and David Rayfiel (adapting the eponymous novel by William Eastlake) delivered something far more…well…phantasmagorical is as apt a way of describing it as any.

Because despite being solid grounded in a real time and a real place and a real event, Castle Keep moves out of the realm of mere history and into a much more magical place.

Not so much fact, as fable.

And as fable, it gets closer to the Truth.

. . .

Before we analyze the movie, let’s set the contextual stage.

First off, understand the impact WWII movies still had on audiences of the 1960s and early 70s.

For those who lived through the war years, it occurred scarcely more than 20 years earlier, a period that seems like forever to teenagers and young adults but flies past in the blink of an eye when one reaches middle age and beyond.

Not only were WWII movies popular, they were relatively easy to make.  A lot of countries still used operational Allied and German equipment up through the 1960s (Spain’s air force stood in for the Luftwaffe in 1969’s The Battle Of Britain), and for low budget black and white films or pre-living color TV, ample archival and stock footage padded things out.

Most importantly, WWII was a shared experience insofar as younger audiences grew up hearing from their parents what it was like, and as a result there was some degree of relatability between the Greatest Generation and their children, the Boomers.

But the times, they were a’changin’ as Dylan sang, and the rise of the counter-culture in the 1960s and the civil rights, feminist, and ant-Vietnam War movements (and boy howdy, is that a hot of history crammed into one sentence but you’re just gonna hafta roll with me on this one, folks; we’ll examine that era in greater detail at some point in the future but not today, not today…) led to younger audiences looking at WWII with fresh eyes and to older film makers re-evaluating their own experiences.

So to focus on WWII films of the time, understand their were 3 main threads running through the era:

The epic re-enactment typified by The Longest Day (1961), The Battle Of The Bulge (1965), Patton (1970), and ending with A Bridge Too Far in 1977

The cynical revisionism of The Dirty Dozen (1967), Where Eagles Dare (1968), and Kelly’s Heroes (1970)*

The absurdity of How I Won The War (1967) and Catch-22 (1970)

Castle Keep brushes past all those sub-genres, though it comes closest to absurdity.

. . .

While released in 1969, Castle Keep started development as early as 1966 (the novel saw print in 1965).  Burt Lancaster, attached early on as the star, requested Sydney Pollack as director.

Pollack, an established TV director, started making a name for himself in the mid-1960s with films like The Slender Thread and This Property Is Condemned; he and Lancaster worked together on The Scalphunters prior to Castle Keep.

While his first three films were well received, Pollack’s career really took off with his fifth movie, They Shoot Horses, Don’t They? and after that it was a string of unbroken successes including Jeremiah Johnson, The Way We Were, The Three Days Of The Condor, Tootsie, Out Of Africa, and many, many more.

In fact, the only apparent dud in the barrel is Castle Keep, his fourth movie.  

Castle Keep arrived at an…uh…interesting juncture in American (and worldwide) cinema history.

The old studio system that served Hollywood so well unraveled at the seams, the old way of doing business and making movies just didn’t seem to work anymore.

Conversely, the new style wasn’t winning that many fans, either.

For every big hit like Easy Rider there were dozens of films like Candy and Puzzle Of A Downfall Child and Play It As It Lays and Alex In Wonderland.

As I commented at the time, it seemed as if everybody in Hollywood had forgotten how to make movies.

It was a period rife with experimentation, but the thing about experiments is that they don’t always work.  While there were some astonishingly good films in this era, by and large it’s difficult for modern audiences to fully appreciate what the experimental films of the era were trying to do -- and in no small part because when they succeeded, the experiments became part of the cinematic language, but when they failed…

Castle Keep is not a perfect film.  As much as I love it, I need to acknowledge its flaws.

The Red Queen brothel sequences feel extraneous, not really worked into the film.  Women are often treated like eye candy in male dominated war films, but this is exceptionally so.  Brothels and prostitution certainly existed during WWII, servicing both sides and all comers, but the Red Queen’s ladies undercut points the film makes elsewhere.  

Their participation in the penultimate battle shifts the film -- however briefly -- from the absurd to the ridiculous, and apparently negative audience testing resulted in a shot being inserted showing them alive and well and cheering despite a German tank blasting their establishment just a few moments earlier.

Likewise, an action sequence in the middle of the film where a German airplane is shot down also seems like studio pressure to add a little action to the first two-thirds of the movie. 

Apparently unable to obtain a Luftwaffe fighter of the era, Pollack and the producers opted for an observation aircraft, then outfitted it with forward firing machine guns, something such aircraft never carried.

Once the airplane spotted the American soldiers at the castle, it would have flown away to avoid being shot down, not return again and again in futile strafing runs while they returned fire.

It’s action for the sake of action, and like the Red Queen scenes actually undercuts other points the film makes.

. . .

But when the film works, ah, it works gloriously…

Pollack used a style common in films of the late 1960s and early 70s:  Jump cuts from one time and place to another, with no optical transition or establishing shot to signal the jump to the audience.

Star Wars brought the old school style of film making back in a big way, and ya know what?  Old school works; it was lessons learned the hard way and by long experience.

Still, Pollack’s jump cuts add to Castle Keep’s dreamy, almost hallucinogenic ambiance, and that in turn reinforces the sense of fable that permeates the film.

For as historically accurate as Castle Keep is re the Battle of the Bulge, as noted above it is not operating in naturalism but rather the theater of myth and magic.

Pollack prefigures this early on with a dreamy slow motion sequence of cloaked riders galloping through the dead trees of the Ardennes forest, jumping a fence directly in front of the jeep carrying Major Falconer (Burt Lancaster) and his walking wounded squad.

It’s a sequence similar to one in Roger Vadim’s "Metzengerstein" segment of 1968’s Spirits Of The Dead, and while it’s unlikely Pollack found direct inspiration from Vadim, clearly both drew from the same mythic well.

The sequence serves as an introduction to the count (Jean-Pierre Aumont) and Therese his wife (?  Niece?  Sister?  Nobody in the movie seems 100% sure what their relationship is, but she’s played by Astrid Heeren) and the fabulous Castle Maldorais.

The castle is fabulous in more ways than one.  While the exterior was a free standing full scale outdoor set and some large interior sets were built, many of the most magnificent scenes were filmed in other real locations to show off genuine works of art found in other European castles.

This adds to the film’s somewhat disjointed feel, but that disjointed feel contributes to the dream-like quality of the story.  

. . .

As mentioned, Maldorais is crammed to the gills with priceless art, and the count doesn’t care who prevails so long as the art is unmolested.

The same can’t be said about Therese, however, and as the film’s narrator and aspiring author, Private Allistair Piersall Benjamin (Al Freeman Jr.), notes “We occupied the castle.  No one knows when the major occupied the countess.”

The count, as noted, is impotent.  To keep Castle Maldorais intact for future generations, he needs an heir and is not fussy about how he obtains one.  Therese’s function is to produce such an heir, and if the count isn’t particular about which side wins, neither is he particular about which side produces the next generation.

Despite being the narrator and (spoiler!) sole American survivor at the end of the film, Pvt. Benjamin is not the focal character of the film, nor -- surprise-surprise -- is Lancaster’s Maj. Falconer.

Falconer is evocative of Colonel Richard Cantwell in Ernest Hemingway’s Across The River And Into The Trees, in particular regarding his love affair with a woman many years his junior.

Falconer wears a patch over his right eye, the only visible sign of wounding among the GIs occupying the castle.

Several military movie buffs think they found a continuity error in Castle Keep insofar as Maj. Falconer first appears in standard issue officer fatigues of the era, but towards the end and particularly in the climactic battle wears an airborne officer’s combat uniform.

This isn’t an error, I think, but a clue as to Falconer’s personal history.

An airborne (i.e., paratrooper) officer who lost an eye is unfit for combat, and if well enough to serve would be assigned garrison duty, not a front line command.

Falconer figures out very early in Castle Keep the strategic importance of Castle Maldorais re the impending German attack and very consciously makes a decision to stand and fight rather than fall back to the relative safety of Bastogne.

Donning his old airborne uniform makes perfect sense under such circumstances.

If the count is impotent invisibly, Falconer is visibly impotent -- in both senses of the word -- and sees his chance to make one last heroic stand against the oncoming Nazi army as a surer way of restoring his symbolically lost manhood than in impregnating Therese.**

. . . 

Before examining our focal character, a few words on the supporting cast.

Peter Falk is Sgt. Rossi, a baker.  Sgt. Rossi’s exact wounding is never made clear, but it appears he suffers from some form of shell shock (as they called PTSD at the time).

He hears things, in particular a scream that only he hears three times during the movie.

The first time is after an opening montage of beautiful works of art being destroyed in a series of explosions.  When a bird-like gargoyle is blow apart, a screech is heard on the soundtrack, and we abruptly jump cut to Maj. Falconer and Sgt. Rossi and the rest of the squad on their way to Castle Maldorais.

For a movie as profoundly philosophical as Castle Keep (more on that in a bit), Sgt. Rossi is the only actual philosopher in the group.  His philosophy is of an earthy bent, and filtered through his own PTSD, but he’s clearly thinking. 

Rossi briefly deserts the squad to take up with the local baker’s wife (Olga Bisera, identified only as Bisera in the credits).  This is not adultery or cuckoldry; Rossi sees her bakery, knocks, and identifies himself as a baker.

“And I am a baker’s wife,” she says.

“Where’s the baker?”

“Gone.”

And with that Rossi moves in, fulfilling all the duties required of a baker (including, however briefly, standing in as a father figure for her son).

The baker’s wife is the only female character who displays any real personal agentry in the film, Therese and the Red Queen and her ladies are there simply to do the bidding of whichever male is present.

This is a problem with most male-oriented war films, and especially so for late 60s / early 70s cinema of any kind; for all the idealistic talk of equality and self-realization, female characters tended to be treated more cavalierly in films of that era than in previous generations.  Olga Bisera’s character appears noteworthy only in comparison to the other female characters in the movie.

Pvt. Benjamin, our narrator and aspiring author, is African-American.  There is virtually no reference made to his race in the film, certainly not as much as the references to a Native American character’s ethnicity.

Today this would be seen as an example of color blind casting; back in 1969 it was a pretty visually explicit point.

Again, it serves the mythic feel of the movie.  At that time, African-American enlisted personnel would not be serving in an integrated unit.

While Castle Keep never brings the topic up, the film -- and Pvt. Benjamin’s narration -- indicates these eight men are bottom of the barrel scrapings, sent where they can do the least amount of damage, and otherwise forgotten by the powers that be.

With that reading, Benjamin’s presence is easy to understand.  As the apparently third most educated member of the unit (Falconer and our focal character are the other two), he probably would not have been a smooth fit in any unit he’d been assigned to.

Whatever got him yanked out of his old company and placed under Maj. Falconer’s command probably was as much a relief to his superiors as it was to him.

Scott Wilson is Corporal Clearboy, a cowboy with a hatred of Army jeeps and an unholy love for Volkswagens.

Volkswagens actually appeared in Germany before the start of WWII but once Hitler came out swinging those factories were converted to military production.  Nonetheless, the basic Beetle was around during the war, and commandeered and used by many Allied soldiers who found one.

Clearboy’s Volkswagen provides one of the funniest bits in the movie, and one that plays on the mythical / surreal / magic realism of the film.  Clearboy’s obsession is oddly touching.

Tony Bill’s Lieutenant Amberjack tips us early on to the kind of cinematic experience we’re in for.  Under the opening credits, Amberjack is asked if he ever studied for the ministry; Amberjack says he did.

“Then why aren’t you a chaplain?” -- and Amberjack bursts out laughing.

Amberjack does not go with the others to the Red Queen -- “That’s for enlisted men” -- and while he enjoys playing the count’s organ, by that I mean he literally sits down at the keyboard and plays music.

But as we’ll see, Castle Keep is not the sort of movie to shy away from sly hints.  Amberjack’s specific “wound” is never discussed, so it’s open to speculation as to why he’s assigned to Maj. Falconer’s squad.

(Siderbar: Following a successful acting career, Bill went on to produce and direct several motion pictures, sharing a Best Picture Oscar for The Sting with Michael and Julia Phillips.)

Elk, the token Native American character in every WWII squad movie, is played by James Patterson.  Elk doesn’t get much to do in the film, though Patterson was an award winning Broadway actor.  Tragically, he died of cancer a few years after making Castle Keep.

Another character with little to do is Michael Conrad’s Sergeant DeVaca.  Most audiences today remember him for his role in Hill Street Blues.

Astrid Heeren (Therese) gets a typically thankless role for films of this type in that era.  She possessed a beautiful face that’s so symmetrical it gives off an unearthly, almost frightening vibe.  A fashion model in the 1960s, she appeared in only four movies -- this one, The Thomas Crown Affair, and two sleaze fests -- before quitting the business.

As noted above, no one is ever quite sure what her exact relationship to the count is.  Towards the end it’s speculated she’s his sister and his wife, but since the count is impotent, does that really constitute incest?

Whatever she is, it’s clear the count considers her nothing more than an oven in which to bake a new heir, and in a very real sense she possesses less freedom and personal agentry than the ladies of the Red Queen.

At least she survives at the end of the film, pregnant with Falconer’s child, led to safety by Pvt. Benjamin.

Finally, Bruce Dern as Lieutenant Billy Byron Bix, a wigged out walking wounded who is not a member of Falconer’s squad.

Bix leads his own rag tag group of GIs, equally addled soldiers who proclaim their newly found evangelical fervor renders them conscientious objectors.  They wander about, singing hymns and scrounging for survival, until the penultimate battle of the film.  

Falconer, trying to recruit more defenders from the retreating American forces, dragoons Bix and his followers into singing a hymn in the hopes of luring some of the shell shocked GIs back to the keep.

Bix agrees -- and is almost immediately killed by a shell, not only thwarting Falconer’s plan but also raising the question of whether this was divine punishment for abandoning his pacifist ways, fate decreeing Falconer and his squad must stand alone, or pure random chance.

Dern, as always, is a delight to watch, and he and Falk get a funny scene where they argue about singing hymns at night.

. . .

So who is our focal character?

Patrick O’Neil was one of those journeymen actors who never get the big breakout role that makes them a star, but worked regularly and well.

He worked on Broadway, guest starred on TV a lot, starred in a couple of minor films (including the delightful sci-fi / spy comedy Matchless), but spent most of his movie career supporting other stars.

Castle Keep is his finest performance.

He’s supposed to be supporting Lancaster in Castle Keep, but dang, he’s the heart and soul of the film.

O’Neil plays Captain Lionel Beckman, Falconer’s second in command, a professor of art and literature whose name is well known enough to be recognized by the count.  

Besides Falconer, Beckman is the only character explicitly acknowledged as having been wounded; this is revealed when Falconer mentions Beckman won the Bronze Star (the second highest award for bravery) and the Purple Heart.

Beckman is enthralled by Castle Maldorais; he and the count strike up a respectful if not friendly relationship.

He sees and appreciates the cultural significance of Castle Maldorais’ artistic treasures and futilely tries to share his love of same with the enlisted men.

He also understands how little Falconer can do at the castle to slow the German advance, and makes the entirely reasonable suggestion that perhaps it would be best for the squad and the castle to retreat and let the treasures remain intact.

Lancaster reportedly wanted to make Castle Keep a comment on the Vietnam War, but the reality is there’s no adequate comparison.

History shows the Nazis were a brutal, aggressive, racist force determined to conquer all they could and destroy the rest.

Beckman is not a fool for wanting to spare the castle and its art, and that’s why he’s vital as the film’s focal character.

He sees and feels for us the horror at what appears to be the senseless waste about to befall the men and the castle.  His voice is necessary to express there are ideals worth fighting for, and there are times when not fighting is the best strategy.

But Maj. Falconer is shown as a good officer.  While he maintains an aloof attitude of command, he’s interested in and concerned about the men under him, he’s willing to be lenient if circumstances permit, and he keeps them openly and honestly informed at all times of the situation facing them.

He figures out the meaning of the flares seen early in the film, anticipates what the German line of attack will be, but most importantly realizes more will die and more destruction will occur if the Nazis aren’t resisted.

He and Beckman’s difference of opinion is not simplistic good vs evil, brute vs beauty, but a deeper, and ultimately more ineffable one over applying value in our lives.

Falconer and Beckman represent two entirely different yet equally valid and equally human points of view of when and how we decide to act on those values.

Falconer by himself cannot tell the story of Castle Keep, he needs the sounding board of Beckman, and only Beckman can bridge the gap between those opposing values for the audience.

. . .

Before we go further, a brief compare & contrast on an earlier Burt Lancaster film, The Train (1964).

It touches on a theme similar to Castle Keep:  As Allied armies advance on Paris, the Germans plan to move a vast collection of priceless art by rail from France to Germany.  Lancaster, a member of a French resistance cell, doesn’t see the military value of stopping the train, but when other members of his cell decide to do so in order to save French culture, he reluctantly joins their efforts.

The film ends with the train stopped, the French hostages massacred, the art abandoned and strewn about by the fleeing Germans.  Lancaster confronts and shoots the German officer responsible then leaves, dismayed and disgusted by the waste of human life over an abstract love of beauty.

The French resistance fighters who died trying to stop the train did so of their own fully informed consent; they knew the risks, we willing to take them, ad faced the consequences.

The civilian hostages massacred at the end had no knowledge, much less any say in the reason why their lives were risked.  Lancaster, in successfully derailing the train to prevent it leaving France, also signs their death warrants when the vengeful Nazis turn on their victims.

The Train proved a critical success and did well at the box office, yet while it raises a lot of interesting points and issues, it ultimately isn’t as deep or as humane as Castle Keep.

The Train ends with a bitter sense of futility.

Castle Keep ends with a bittersweet sense of sacrifice.

. . .

All of which brings us to the screenplay of Castle Keep, written by Daniel Taradash and David Rayfiel off the novel by William Eastlake.

I read Eastlake’s book decades ago and remember it to be a good story.  

The screenplay kept the basic plot but built wonderfully off the complexity of the novel, reinterpreting it for the screen.

It’s one of the few cinematic adaptations of a good literary work that actually improves on the original.

Taradash was a classic old school Hollywood screenwriter with a string of bona fide hits and classics to his credit including From Here To Eternity (1952), Picnic (1955), and Hawaii (1966).  He also scripted the interesting misfire Morituri (1965), about an Allied double-agent attempting to sabotage a German freighter trying to get vital supplies back to the fatherland.

I suspect Taradash was the studio’s first choice for adapting the book, and as his credits show, an eminently suitable one.  

But when Pollack came on as the director, he also brought along David Rayfiel, a frequent collaborator with him on other films.

Rayfiel’s career as a screenwriter was shorter than Tardash’s but more intense, vacillating between quality films and well crafted potboilers.  Rayfiel and Pollack doubtlessly shaped the final form of the screenplay, and despite what appears to he studio interference, turned in a truly memorable piece of work.

As I said, Castle Keep is truly sui generis, but there are other films and screenplays that carry some of the same flavor.  

The Stunt Man (1980; directed by Richard Rush, screenplay by Rush and Lawrence B. Marcus off the novel by Paul Brodeur) bears certain similarities in tone and approach to Castle Keep.  It represents an evolution of the cinematic style originally found in Pollack’s film, now refined and polished to fit mainstream expectations.

True, it has the advantage of a story that hinges on sudden / swift / disorienting changes, but it still managed to pull those effects off more smoothly than the films of the late 1960s did.

As I said, some experiments work…

Castle Keep’s screenplay works more like Plato’s dialogs than a traditional film script.

Almost every line in it is a philosophical statement or question of some sort, and underlying everything in the film is each character’s quest for at least some kind of understanding if not actual meaning in life.

As noted, Sgt. Rossi is the most philosophical of these characters, though his philosophy is of a far earthier, more pragmatic variety than that of the count, Falconer, or Beckman.

All the major characters have some sort of philosophical bent, even if they’re not self-aware enough to recognize it in themselves.

The dialog is elliptical, less interested in baldly stating something that in getting the audience to tease out its own meanings.

Pollack directs the film in a way that forces the audience to fill in many blanks.

Early in the movie, Falconer and the count find themselves being stalked by a German patrol.  They take refuge in a gazebo, duck as the Germans fire the first few shots --

-- then we abruptly jump to the aftermath of the firefight, with Falconer and the count standing over the bodies of four dead Germans.

Falconer, seeing they’re all enlisted men, realizes they wouldn’t come this far behind enemy lines without an officer.

There can be only one destination for the officer, one goal he seeks…

Pollack then visually cuts away from Falconer and the count to Therese in the castle, but keeps the two men’s dialog going as a voice over.

In the voice over, we heard Falconer stalk and kill the German officer as he approaches the castle…

…and without ever explicitly stating it, the audience comes to realize the count and Therese are not allies of the Americans, that they are playing only for their own side, and that their values are alien to those of both the Allies and the Germans.

The count is using Therese -- with or without her consent -- to produce an offspring for him, and if the Germans can’t do the job, let the Americans have a go at it…

This theme provides an undercurrent for Beckman’s interactions with the count.  Beckman would like to believe the count’s desire to keep the war away from Castle Maldorais is just a desire to preserve the art and beauty in it, but the count’s motives are purely selfish.

He doesn’t desire to share his treasures with the world but keep them for his own private enjoyment.

The works of art are as good as gone once they pass through Castle Maldorais’ gate.

Later, at the start of the climactic battle for the castle, the count is seen guiding German troops into a secret tunnel that leads under the moat to the castle itself.

Falconer, having anticipated this, blows up the tunnel with the Germans in it.  Through Falconer’s binoculars, we see the Germans shoot the count in the distance, his body collapsing soundlessly into the snow.

A conventional war film would show his death in satisfying close up, but Pollack puts him distantly removed from the Americans he sought to betray, and even the Germans he inadvertently betrayed.  

It shows him going down, alone, in a cold and sterile and soundless environment, his greed for beauty scant comfort for his last breaths.

The film portrays the Germans as mostly faceless, seen only in death or at a distance, rushing and firing at the camera.

The one exception is a brief scene where Lt. Amberjack and Sgt. Rossi patrol the forest around the castle.

Amberjack, playing a flute he acquired at the castle, catches the attention of a German -- a former music student -- hiding in the nearby bushes.

The unseen German compliments Amberjack on his playing, but says if he’ll toss him the flute he’ll fix it so it plays better.

And the German is true to the word.  Unseen in the bushes, he smooths out some of the holes on the flute and tosses it back to Amberjack.

Amberjack thanks him --

-- and Sgt. Rossi shoots him.

“Why did you kill him?” Amberjack demands.

“It’s what we do for a living,” says Rossi, ever the philosopher.

. . .

Castle Keep isn’t a film for everyone.

It offers no pat answers, no firm convictions, no unassailable truths.

It’s open to a wide variety of interpretations, and the audiences that saw it first in 1969 approached it from a far different worldview than we see it today.

It isn’t for everyone, but for the ones it is for, it will be a rich meal, not a popcorn snack.

Currently available on Amazon Prime.

  © Buzz Dixon

  *  I’d include M*A*S*H (1970) in this group even thought (a) it’s set in the Korean War and (b) it’s really about Vietnam.  Except for the helicopters, however, M*A*S*H uses the same uniforms / weapons / vehicles as WWII films; for today’s audiences there’s no discernable difference from a WWII-era film.  It was a toss-up between putting this in the cynical revisionism or absurdity class, but in the end M*A*S*H is just too self-aware, too smirking to fit among the latter.

** Falconer’s relationship with Therese and (indirectly) the count and the castle also harkens back to a 1965 Charlton Heston film, The War Lord, arguably the finest medieval siege warfare movie ever made.  Like Falconer, Heston’s Norman knight must defend a strategic Flemish keep against a Viking chieftain attacking to rescue his young son held hostage by the Normans; complicating matters is Heston’s knight taking undue advantage of his droit du seigneur over a local bride which leads to the locals -- whom the Normans are supposed to be protecting from the Vikings -- helping their former raiders.  Life gets messy when you don’t keep your chain mail zipped.

[flywolfwriting]

The Legends Are Wrong

Writing Prompt: Write about the character who happens to be an ancient magical creature, though they don't look the part. This character has lived for so long that they actually used to be acquainted with the people who later went on to become legends. Explore the point of view of this character as they overhear the retelling of a particular legend, and realize that they got it all wrong.

 

 

Sometimes I can pretend to forget them, the people I once called my friends. Sometimes I can lock the memory away so deeply I can get some sleep at night. It’s always a lie; there will always be something that brings them back, crashing through my barriers and locks and chains just like they used to do – like I used to do with them. Everything floods back as if I was reliving it, though it was so very long ago.

 

I like to walk alone in the woods, along the same paths I have haunted for hundreds of years. It calms my mind and helps me pretend. I never fear for my safety; it’s been a long time since I’ve feared anything beyond my own past. The creatures of the forest know and respect me. Some I even call friend, though their lives are fleeting. It is good not to be alone.

 

“…at that moment she knew things would never be the same…”

 

The young voice floated through the still night air, accompanied by the crackle of a campfire and the smell of roasting sugar. The crunch of s’mores was hard to mistake. Campers. I was nonplussed; they weren’t a rare occurrence here, and I generally let them be.

 

“What did Alira do?” Another voice, even younger, asked with awe.

 

This made me pause, the memories straining against their bonds. I knew the name of course. Alira, hero of Numeria, and the best friend of my youth. I creep closer to listen, standing in the shadows beyond their fire to listen. It was a group of six children, huddled around a small fire with their camping snacks. What appeared to be the oldest of the group held the others enraptured in her tale.

 

“She needed to prepare,” she continued, growing confident in the attention of her audience. “Alira gathered the people she knew she could trust and set out to find the Stone of Yadeer before the king.”

 

The gates slammed open and the events that ensued consumed my mind. Once again I was living through my past, this time narrated by a child. The journey, the battles, discovering the gem… yet as the story progressed, her telling of it began to diverge from my own recollection.

 

“Alira was strong and brave. She was the life of her team, the glue that kept them together when the doubted. She never lost faith.”

 

I remembered a girl who was ridden with anxiety and doubt. She was afraid and lacked confidence in her ability. It took all of us to keep her going. Not one of us could be labeled the ‘glue’, but if I had to pick one it would have been Katile, small but fierce.

 

“She was unbeatable on the battle field, charging in first and cutting down any who stood in her way without looking back.”

 

Alira cried for weeks after she took a life for the first time and had nightmares almost every night for the rest of her life. She’d nearly died many times in the avoidance of killing.

 

“A model for all, the Noble Alira was the perfect leader for her crew of honorable questers.”

 

We played dirty. We would gang up on smaller groups, steal food and other resources, sneak in through the back to take out the head before a proper fight started, and set traps and ambushes. When it’s five against the world, you had to break the rules to survive.

 

“Though the evil Kusit tried again and again to tempt her, Alira was never swayed to leave her course.”

 

“That’s not what happened,” I whispered, though it was barely a breath between my lips. Kusit was never evil, just naïve. He was trying his best with what he had, and he needed to protect his own. He begged us to stay out of the way, to let him save his brother. Just because he was too young to know the consequences did not mean the young ruler was evil.

 

There was a pause in the narrative as the children surrounding the fire eyed the dark trees around them. Their storyteller soon resumed, voice hushed as she approached the climax. “When they finally found the Stone of Yadeer, Alira entrusted her closest friend, Zali, with its protection.”

 

I could remember the warmth of the apple-sized gem cradled in my palms. It was smooth, round, and a translucent violet. Some kind of energy seemed to skitter across its surface in the wake of a finger stroke and tingled where I touched it. I could feel its odd sensation dancing across my skin.

 

“Victory was finally in sight, but before they could celebrate Kusit appeared and captured Alira!” The exclamation was met with gasps and the girl was clearly pleased with the aghast expressions of her friends. This part was only somewhat true; Kusit asked to merely talk to Alira and hoping to avoid bloodshed she went… and never really came back.

 

“Her friends came to rescue her, and everything came crashing down.”

 

I closed my eyes. I could see it happening before me, as if I was a third-party witness again and again and again. Alira called us in, and like fools we went without question. It was a trap. She had turned against us, convinced that there was a way to save the young prince and protect the people from the Stone. We tried talking sense into her, tried to warn Kusit.

 

They took the Stone from me anyway, and the king’s men restrained us. Alira kept apologizing, telling us this was for the best, that we would all be able to go home soon.

 

Katile struggled. She’d sacrificed too much to prevent this moment. It wasn’t that we hated the king and his little brother… we just feared what we knew would come from using the Stone of Yadeer. It was a curse we were trying to save them from. Katile broke free from her captors and sprinted towards Kusit…

 

“During the struggle, the evil king gained the Stone and used it to kill one of Alira’s friends.”

 

Violet light blinded us, and everything grew scorching hot for only a few moments. Katile lay on the ground, grey and unmoving. Alira dove for her, but the moment her fingers touched our friend, she dissolved into ash.

 

The room erupted into screaming as we all fought to escape. Alira turned slowly to Kusit, who was staring in horror at the smudge that once was our friend. Though the ruler of many, the boy looked even more the child he was as he went pale, eyes never leaving the empty space. He was unaware of the danger he now was in.

 

“Noble Alira launched into battle to avenge the fallen hero!” The girl’s voice began to crescendo.

 

“Alira no!” I’d screamed as she’d surged towards Kusit. His eyes flicked up and he flinched, and I saw the stone start to glow again. I broke free and ran to protect not only my best friend but also the child she was attacking.

 

I darted between them, wrapping my body around Kusit. I was aware of two things: the heat spreading across my back, and Kusit’s piercing shriek in my ear.

 

The narrator’s voice continued to echo back through the years, tone hushed again. “The evil king pulled Zali in front of him at the last moment. Alira had no chance, no time to turn aside, and her best friend fell dead to the floor.”

 

I shivered. I could remember how at first there was no pain when I slid to the tent floor, unable to make my limbs work. It was hard to breathe. As soon as I realized what had happened, pain slashed across my back and I gasped. Alira’s horrified face swam above me, and I could hear Kusit crying at my side.

 

“In that moment,” the girl whispered, “Kusit knew he couldn’t escape his crimes and smashed the Stone of Yadeer.”

 

I looked down at my hands to make sure they were still there and saw them peppered with the shards of a broken gemstone.

 

“’What have you done?’ Alira gasped.” The storyteller continued in her quiet tone.

 

But she had said that to me, not Kusit. I had shattered the Stone, not him. “I didn’t mean to,” I’d choked out, still struggling for breath. My heart raced as ice began to creep through me.

 

“Alira, now having two friends to avenge, would show the villain no mercy.”

 

My friend had snatched the king, holding him by the throat and snarling. All traces of the girl I had grown up with, tender and kind with nightmares about killing, was now lifting an ten-year-old boy off the floor and strangling him.

 

“No! He’s just a kid, he’s just a kid…” I tried to protect him, dragging myself around her feet and grasping at her clothes, begging her through my pain to spare him.

 

That’s when the true pain began. It started with burning in my fingers, little pieces of hellfire spotting my body where the shards of the Stone of Yadeer hand landed. I cried out and convulsed as my body naturally tried to curl into a ball. The burning spread quickly, and I tried to get my flaming clothes off me – only to find there was no fire. It was in my skin, bubbling and searing; my own body cooking me alive.

 

“The pieces of the Stone began to glow, igniting. Alira pinned the king down and screamed for her friends to run!” The air around the campfire was thick with tension. “They didn’t want to leave her, but she insisted, and they finally fled.”

 

The pain faded to a mere throb, pulsing with my heart. The blood soaking my shirt was gone, and my formerly rubbery limbs now felt stronger than ever.

 

I sat up, black powder falling from my shoulders as I lifted my hands to gape at the purple lights dancing down my arm. They looked like tiny lightning bolts leaving a faint lavender mist in their wake. My skin prickled, not unlike the charge in the air before a thunderstorm.

 

I was alone, surrounded by charred tent poles and ash. “Alira? Kusit?” I’d said meekly, still trying to ignore the throbbing in my body.

 

Then I saw the arm, and when I scrambled to pull Alira from the blackened remains of the tent she dissolved, just like Katile. A wail was building in my throat, but before I could release it quiet sobbing drew my attention. Kusit was not far from me, buried beneath the burned earth. He had miraculously survived what could only have been an explosion.

“It’s okay,” I had whispered, tenderly extracting him. The same light hovered over his body, though as it moved it almost took on an indigo hue. I cradled him, whispering comfort into his ear while he cried. “We need to be dead,” I’d finally said, still fighting the panic rising within me. I couldn’t fully wrap my head around what was happening… it had all been so fast. This morning we were happily starting the last leg of our journey. In the afternoon we found the Stone. An hour ago Kusit had asked Alira to talk, and fifteen minutes ago the rest of us walked into the tent. Now Alira and Katile were dead, as well as the king’s guard. I didn’t know where the rest of my friends were, but I knew they would be back soon and I had to protect the child in my arms.

 

My mind focused on getting us out of here alive and I calmed. I was able to get him to his feet and guide him away, still sniffling.

 

I had gotten lost in the memory and was only snapped out of it by the narrator’s somber voice. “They managed to escape the explosion, but when they returned it was too late. Alira was gone. She had sacrificed herself to save her friends and her country. The evil king Kusit died with her, and she can rest in peace knowing she succeeded. The Stone of Yadeer’s power was spent, lost to the cosmos and can never hurt anyone again. The three surviving friends went home, where they became powerful allies to the new ruler and brought peace to the land.”

 

I blinked. I couldn’t begrudge Alira a little honor; it had all started our innocently. I wished poor Kusit didn’t have to take the brunt of their rage and the blame for their deaths. I was the one who really killed them, after all. The best thing I did in this whole thing was take Kusit away from them.

 

As the children began to settle and the younger ones asked questions, I looked down at my hands. Faint purple bolts dashed across my exposed skin. I’d had many years to learn to control the powers the Stone had imbued me with, though I hardly used them. I could still feel the throbbing pain throughout my being. I’d long since grown used to it and only really noticed when I thought about it.

 

A hush had fallen, and I realized the children were all staring into the trees. Staring at me. I froze, the flickering lights vanishing. It was too late; they’d already seen me and were now shining a light at my face. “Who are you?” The storyteller asked in a quivering voice.

 

I smiled. “Once I was someone, but now I’m merely a part of a legend told around the fire.” I let the energy momentarily swirl around my person, careful not to let it reach them, and faded back into the night to continue my walk. I could hear them still speaking in now-hushed tones, trying to figure out who I am and if I was lying. I felt an odd sense of contentment as I left them behind. It was nice to be remembered all these generations later, even if the story was inaccurate. I would have to tell Kusit next time I visited the arctic.

[dark-unimaginably-stupid-kids]

Fate Au- Rider and Shay

More Fate AU. This one was started a while back and finished yesterday.

---

Shay doesn’t want to be a master. She doesn’t want to be a master, Rax wanted to be a master. Rax wanted the power and the glory, wanted to bring the Balmera name back up the ranks of the mage society. Shay was perfectly content letting him. 

She was happy not being in the lime light. Her mana wasn’t strong enough anyway. 

And yet. Here she was. 

“Servant Rider, happy to help you master.” 

“P-please call me Shay…” 

He smiled brightly at her, and held out one large dark hand. She took a long moment to examine it, nails bitten but clean, thick fingers and strong palms. She put her hand in his, her eyes scanning over the red marks there now, keeping them bound for the duration of this war. 

His skin is warm even though she knows he’s merely a manifestation of her mana in the form of a hero from another age. 

Honestly, that should be encouraging. It’s not. But if she could think about what she’s done here as an accomplishment she’d be proud. 

But she’s not. 

His hand is warm and his smile is bright but she doesn’t want this. 

She doesn’t want any of this. 

“I don’t want to die.” It’s sudden. It slips past her lips so fast it’s almost violent. Her throat is dry. 

His eyes widen in surprise and then immediately soften. His grip tightens around her hand and he pulls her in, wrapping his arms around her. 

“I won’t let that happen.” He says with such sincerity she doesn’t think she’s ever believed anything more in her life. 

She sunk into him. 

“I will protect you, Shay.” He presses.

She doesn’t know why she feels so safe, in his arms like this. She doesn’t even know his true name. Since the summoning had initially been for Rax he was the one who’d done all the research. Maybe her family said his name once while explaining the ritual to her. 

Maybe she hadn’t heard it over her panicked heart beat.

Or maybe they didn’t trust her with the name. 

Regardless, for someone she’d just met to be so comforting for her… 

“I will always come back to save you.”

Always…

—-

Their summoning takes place months before the start of the war. 

They have too much time together. 

Too much time to get to know each other. 

He thinks it’s smart that she doesn’t know his true name or noble phantasm. But his friends called him Hunk, he tells her, at least back when they were alive. 

She laughs, and he waggles his brows at her, asking if the name is accurate.

She says yes. 

Too much time to flirt. 

He says he learned most of his flirting from an old friend in his past life. He says he didn’t use it much because the girl he loved was already won over by then. 

She asked him about it. About the girl in his past life. 

He smiled at her. 

Too much time to care about someone whose existence would either be erased by a gruesome death or by the end of the war.

She asked him what he would do with his wish, if they somehow, against all odds, win the war and gain the grail. 

She’s wearing his relic as a ribbon around her wrist and he takes her hand. He brings it to his face and kisses the knot. 

Not the fake flirting he learned from his friend that makes her giggle. This feels more real. Genuine. Makes her pulse quicken.

He tells her he already got it. 

Too much time to fall in love with a ghost. 

She doesn’t want to die. But she doesn’t want him to either. She doesn’t want to lose him. 

She wonders if… 

maybe that can be her wish. 

The first time she tells him this he kisses her. 

Then he changes the subject. 

—-

Rider’s first interaction with another servant comes after four months. 

Four months and it’s the first time she sees him rattled. 

She’s ashamed when she thinks that maybe he’s scared. Maybe he’s not a strong servant and realized he couldn’t protect her like he promised. 

He finally asks her for a bit of mana to summon his steed. As a rider, of course he has one and she realizes suddenly that she has no idea what it is. 

She allows him to take the mana and some moments later she can’t hide the scream as a giant yellow lion takes up half the space of her fairly large kitchen. 

He doesn’t acknowledge the scream beyond a soft almost sad chuckle. And then he drops himself onto the lion, arms wrapped around its mane as it nuzzles the top of his head. 

“He used to be made of metal and altean magic but this form is really soft… good for comfort cuddles.”

Shay watches him cuddle the lion and asks what “Altean magic” is. Rider laughs awkwardly. 

“I’m… actually not too familiar with it. That was more the princess’s schtick.” 

Shay feels a pang in her heart, “princess? The...girl you loved?” 

Rider squeezes the lion but shakes his head, “Princess Allura was her name. Amazing girl. Saved the whole universe… but not my princess.”

The lion made to move, make itself more comfortable. Rider went right down with it, a pile of servant and fluff on her kitchen floor. 

“You’re my princess… always have been… in every life, it’s you…” he buried his head in the lion's mane and sighed, “I’ve been so lucky already... so of course this had to happen.” 

“What‘s wrong, Rider?” She asks him, trying to over step the ever present idea that he might look at her and see someone else. This is far more pressing. This is life or death. 

This is...

He sighs deeply, opens his mouth around a syllable he stops himself from uttering aloud and finally clarifies, “...Archer.”

—-

The actual altercation involves an arrow whizzing past Rider’s head as he escorted Shay to an evening of archery club activities. Shay isn’t a good shot but she goes to feel like she’s a part of something mundane and easy. 

It takes her a moment to realize the arrow isn’t one that belongs to the club and she realizes her lack of awareness means very bad things for her standing in the war. 

The arrow is metallic blue with a red tip and Rider stares at it in confusion as well. 

It’s been so long, they could almost have forgotten they were in a war. 

But that’s not why he’s confused. 

There’s a glimmer of mana around him, a man taking form at his back. The other archery club members are distracted and too far to realize what’s happening and Shay finds herself too terrified to scream.

“Well isn’t this surprising…?” says the stranger, his long blue gunners coat moving with the wind brought on by his sudden appearance.

Rider stays perfectly still as the man drapes an arm over his shoulder. His stance is casual then, a smile on his face, but his eyes are decidedly cold. A steely blue, clearly his preference. 

“Had to get a better look to be sure but man, it really is you, isn’t it?”

Rider speaks but his voice is too low for Shay to hear from her distance. The stranger laughs and releases him, his moves are wide and almost like he’s dancing. He seems like he’s used to smiling, like he’s used to making others smile. But Rider’s not smiling.

“No worries buddy, I’ll let you stick around a while longer but… you should know. This only ends one way. I’ll be seeing you.” 

He disappeared as quickly as he’d come, a laugh on the wind, and Rider sunk to his knees in his absence.

---

“Shay...Master, I’m sorry.” He explained, wrapped around his large golden lion. 

She stood beside him, confusion etched in her face. 

“Why are you apologizing…And why are you calling me that?”

“I’ll defend you, always. But… I can’t fight in this war.” He doesn’t look at her as he says this, his brown eyes are heavy with this decision. 

She knew winning the war was unlikely. She knew… but there was a part of her that had held onto the hope that maybe, if they won they could…

But if he’s not even going to fight. If he’s just going to protect her until his death… Then they’ll never…

There’s no chance at all.

There’s… no future…

She sits down beside him then, and asks if she can pet the lion.

He nods, “Of course you can. Sunshine is the best.”

“Did Archer know sunshine too?” She says it without thought. Much like when they first met. She knew there was something there and the words find their way out first. 

“...Yeah. He did.”

So Archer was also part of Rider’s old life. 

So… if Rider had to fight, he’d be fighting his friend.

…

“Okay. We’re not gonna fight.”

[minescript]

Freya [Who knows the number]

[The constant difficulty of posting these is that I have a very clear time line on my head but I keep switching back and forth and the majority of these are sent over whatsapp as far too long blocks of text so heh.]

“You are not paying attention.” The potions around the two figures hunched over the workbench kept on bubbling, casting green and blue shadows where they hit the many vials that covered the walls and, despite the constant buzzing of the magical burners enhanced with the aid of some good-quality residuum the genasi was able to listen to the rustle of fabric as her newly minted apprentice shrugged, eyes down and lost. Ireena titled her head as she stared at the purple lines adorning Freya’s features, at the intricacies in where the braids of her hair framed her face: deceitfully young. She had seen the pointed ears and the lean physique the second she had gotten close enough to the young woman, her elven traits not exactly subtle with the tint of her skin, the way her eyes felt older than the rest of her. She had, also, seen the deep sorrow that enveloped everything the kid did; moving a part of a process that felt almost painful with crouched back and curled fingers around a silver chain in where an equally silver ring hung low. She had seen the way it rested against the bones at her collar, at the way it hit the hollow point of the half-elf throat, as a constant reminder of something she wasn’t entirely knowledgeable of what it was. She knew Allura would eventually tell her or she would be able to get the girl to tell her but she felt as if, for now, she still needed to reach a level of understanding of the reason why her friend has asked her to help the woman in front of her that blocked everything else, every other question she might have. And she had plenty. She wasn’t a patient woman after all; she didn’t like the very same concept of deceit unless it came from magic she was able to wield and bottle and there were dark shades into Freya’s story, on the very little she had gotten to learn from her. Allura had told her she had the knack for magic and she had been right: She had come to her dressed like a poor mix of some of the guile that filled the dankest districts with daggers and the ability to walk while not making much of a sound but she, and Ireena had seen that instantly, did not answer to what a thief would do. There was a connection to something else there, deep beneath the layers of sorrow and grief and despair. She looked like she had lost someone and, despite her impatience, Ireena could understand that fully. Which was what made her wonder if it had been the reason why Allura had asked her to do this rather than the others that roamed through both the promenade and the Cloudtop part of the city. Clearing her throat, she glanced at the books on creature physicality and what could one do with every part of their bodies and shook her head: while she preferred a much more mental approach to magic it might be time to try something new: something different. “Freya.” Her name gathered the half-elf attention; with an owlish blink, she returned back to the shop, a wince at the ready on her lips. She looked pale, paler than her complexion would have considered to be healthy and Ireena found herself wondering when had been the last time she had taken a full-night rest. “I’m sorry, I…” Halting in the middle of the sentence, the half-elf hugged herself with bony fingers and pointy shoulders; the blouse she wore loose on her shoulders and poorly fastened around her frame. She looked distraught, as if she had been trying to pull out something from the very depths of herself only to come out empty. Biting on her bottom lip as she tried to find something to say, she looked even younger, even more lost. Narrowing her eyes, the genasi pointed at books and scattered notes before closing them with a well-placed boost of air. The breeze writhed and got caught on Freya’s hair, the pixie cut she wore enough to make some strands of hair cover her eyes for a moment before she blinked, more present now. “I will quiz you about this tomorrow.” Ireena made her voice sound strict but warm, knowing full well there would be no point on her trying to keep maintaining the façade she would keep on saying bouts of wisdom to her apprentice. It would only make the distress grow even further and she, as someone who knew her plants, knew how difficult deeply rooted angst could be to destroy once such things took place and found a place to grow. “I was thinking we could take a stroll instead.” Freya changed her posture, nervous and surprised and Ireena almost smiled at the way the girl looked at her. She knew that, in all the weeks she had already spent teaching the half-elf, they had yet needed to go out the safety and comfort of her shop, but she shook her head in a negative when Freya opened her mouth, probably readying a question as of the how or why. “You haven’t done your first transmutation yet, am I right?” Picking up her cloak, fastening the brooches that kept the fabric in place, she turned towards Freya as the girl frowned; confused. Rolling her eyes at her own pedantry, Ireena pointed at the door of the shop and blasted it open with a calculated change in the air around it. It was a handy and flashy trick but enough to get the half-elf moving. “Your first animal form.” Freya shook her head, her boots not making too much noise as she approached the door from which the noise of the promenade filtered through. Rising her chin, Ireena waved her hand, letting her know it was time to go. “No, I haven’t. I thought you…” Freya stopped herself, shoulders retaining some of the lack of sharpness but back straight, as if posture was something her muscles went back to no matter how or when. There was something there, Ireena could recognize it in the same way she had recognized the carefully rounding of vowels and consonants, but she preferred to feign she hadn’t even when the two of them walked into the sea of people that run through the vein-like streets of Emon. “I planned on teaching you.” She finally answered as she closed the shop, half-glad it was early enough in the afternoon for many of the morning merchants to have already closed up shop. The Promenade was full, but she wasn’t forced to raise her voice as she kept on walking, letting Freya follow her as their feet hit the pebble-covered street. “But I think it would be better for you to see first-hand where you go towards when you are presented with the necessity of transmuting yourself.” Freya didn’t answer to that but nodded at her side, not quite hiding herself on the long-shadows that were beginning to appear at the walls of the nearby buildings at both sides of the promenade but walking with enough lag on her step for Ireena to need to twist her neck, so she was able to follow her movements. There was the dissonance once again, the picked-up traits of a rogue, of a fiend who fed themselves in the aid of darkness but the bright, almost blinding light of someone used to walk with a kind of walk that commanded presence, strength. She wondered if Freya was aware of such dissonance. Another thing to ask Allura whenever she found time to go visit her back at the Cloudtop. Not like they were going to go very far from where her friend lived but she wasn’t planning on telling Freya that. “Through here.” Taking the hill that would put them in front of one of the many gates that led to the Cloudtop, Ireena shook her head when one of the many street vendors approached the two of them: her eyes enough for the young purple Tiefling to recoil before muttering something or other in infernal. Smiling to herself, she answered back in abysmal, the dialects different but similar enough for the Tiefling to grumble before, finally, letting them keep on walking. “You shouldn’t have talked to him like that.” There it was; the sense of righteousness that Ireena knew Freya hold within her, beyond the anger and grief. Shrugging herself, she rose one single eyebrow to one of the guards at the gates before producing the ring she had been giving by the Council, the symbol of Emon enough for the guard to let them pass with no small curiosity etched onto his features. “He shouldn’t have insulted me in the first place. I merely reminded him that one shouldn’t infer the ability to put one’s head up your ass by their looks.” That garnered a poorly hidden smile: a small, minute one that made Ireena hide one on her own. She liked Freya, liked what she could see whenever the half-elf let her guard down and it could that be precisely the reason why, despite everything, she kept on teaching her. She had the ability to be a wonderful druid, her connection with nature unparalleled. And if her teachings were enough to make her think on something else, anything else, beyond the ring she now had started playing once again as they kept on walking… well, that was for the better. “Where are we going?” The question came as the rounded one of the corners that run through the upper and furthest ends of the Cloudtop. They weren’t quite at the epicenter, the houses bombastic and bigger than what one would see back at the Central district or the ones at her own neighborhood but not as disgustingly rich as the ones that rose beyond the roofs of the ones they were walking by. Fiery lights sitting atop metal poles were a signal, however, that they had changed the lower slums in where torches still would illuminate the place once dawn came from a place where gold run much more freely. Fewer people, more guards, more humans, mortals, was the price to pay for the change as well and Ireena could feel her skin prickling as the two of them were stared at. Not out of hate, maybe, but curiosity and the genasi sucked on her teeth as she was reminded yet again why she didn’t like the stuffy nobles that liked so much to look at them all through reddish rimmed eyes. Pointing at the thin, narrow tower that rose above every other building in the area, Ireena let Freya take into the blue glimmer that came from the brimstones etched at the sides of the tower walls. Their light wasn’t strong yet as night had yet to come and no skyship was expected so no lighthouse was needed at the time but the look of the glyphs running through the brimstones was equally magical, powerful, and precisely what the half-elf would find interesting. “I’m sure Allura had already given you the tour.” She said, nonchalantly. “And you might have already seen one back where you are from: The Alsfarian Union is very set onto making as many of these as possible after all. But I think going to the skyport will be beneficial.” Freya frowned while rising one of her hands so she could shield her eyes: her Drow elven traits were kicking in: the slowly turning orange light hitting the tower with enough force that while Ireena double eyelids kept her irises protected she guessed it wasn’t the same for the much particular irises of the half-elf. “What has that to do with my animal form?” Ireena smiled but said nothing as she kept on walking, nodding to every other guard while prominently waving the ring around: it didn’t matter how much the ones at the Cloudtop wanted to make themselves think they were better: racism was a thing; prejudice another. Finally, as they entered into the narrower alley that opened up the plaza from where cables had been thrown and fastened around the brimstones many feet above their heads, she let out a sour chuckle. One that made the other woman hum at her side. “How good do you think you are at flying?” The question rendered Freya speechless and Ireena kept on walking, nodding her greetings to the two safeguards that, idly, smoke at the entrance of the narrow tower. Narrow enough, if anyone wanted Ireena’s honest opinion, to make the thing unsafe. Or would have, if it hadn’t been for the brimstones themselves who, fueled by the magic from the Alsfarian Union, kept the skyships not only in perfect condition but the stone from where the tower had been built. “Can you hoist us?” The question was met with intense curiosity, but she produced a few gold coins to pay the passage, her movements slowed down so she exuded the confidence of one born with titles and power. The oldest of the humans grunted an affirmative as he killed the cigarette he had been smoking, the faint odor making Ireena wrinkle her nose as she stood at the wooden platform that had been mounted on rails alongside the entire surface of the northern wall of the tower. “Come on.” She called as Freya followed her, head tilted towards the sky, as if she was counting how many feet it rose above everything else. Quite a lot, but not something Ireena was ready to disclose: many were the druids who found themselves unable to perform a transmutation the first time after all. Specially one that would force them to fly and leave away the security ground provided. Which was, precisely, the point in all of that. As the worker approached one smaller brimstone at the right-side of the platform, infusing it with residual magic that fed into the clogs beneath their feet, Ireena ironed her clothes around her frame, pointing at Freya as the half-elf pressed the palms of her hands against her upper thighs. “Careful with the wind.” She had just said it when the platform began to rise, the yelp from Freya enough for Ireena to suppress a chuckle: the first time she had been brought here by Allura she had made a similar scream out of surprise. It felt good; knowing some things didn’t truly change. The platform rose above the Cloudtop district, above the houses Ireena so hated, above Allura’s own tower that while visible from where they were, was still hidden by many alleys and streets, the whiteness of it blinding and far too much on its own right. It rose until the air felt thinner and colder, coming to a stop atop of it all; the flat surface of the tower a welcoming port to the skyships that could be marooned at both sides of it with the aid of low-hanging ropes in where stones and gems rested, ready to latch onto the ones peppered alongside the ships themselves. The fall was, obviously, quite the big one and Ireena glanced down with just the slightest bit of trepidation as Freya took into the sight in front of her, above her. Emon rose and surged in all its glory: the circles that constituted the city itself silver and brown at their feet; the upper and lower slums, the central, temple, erudite and military districts gleaming with their own right beyond their own gates as the Ozmar sea glowed in iron and white. It was beautiful on its own right, that much was true, but Ireena didn’t let Freya get too lost on the sight. “You told me you felt Sehanine calling to you.” At the mention of the Moonweaver Freya glanced at her, quick enough for Ireena to wince inwardly at the possibility of a whiplash. Nevertheless, she continued. “Many will tell you that Melora is always a better one to follow the druid’s path.” Shrugging, she pointed at where the shadows of the moons could already be sensed as the sun kept its path on the sky above. “I say that you are right on your perception, as long as its true. That’s what transmutation is about, no matter what the Sorceress and Erudites might tell you.” Freya’s eyes were open, the sorrow still there but curiosity gnawing at her and Ireena chuckled slightly before she pointed beyond the moons, towards the sky. “While we theoretically can transform into about anything, we need the knowledge to do it. Some transmutations will come easier to you than others. Some animals won’t be possible until you are able to see them beforehand. But I want to see what you can do now. I want you to focus on that abstract possibility and follow it. Understood? You have seen enough birds, I’m sure. Look into one. Call the power forth. Use the focus I lent you.” The focus was a small stone, one that had been in one bracelet before she had given it to the half-elf and while it would never be the one Freya would settle for as focus needed to be chosen, not gifted, it would do the trick. And everyone, in Ireena’s opinion, needed to feel powerful when all they felt was small and lost. She waited and stared as Freya grasped the gem between her fingers, lines on her face hardening momentarily as the wind rose and surged at their side. With no ships expected to arrive the platform was empty and only the creaking of the wood could be heard, no seagulls flying high enough for them to be able to hear them. Ireena wondered for a second which form would Freya take: the theory was easy after all; she didn’t bear any doubt her pupil would be able to transform. In what, however, would be more telling, more informative, than anything else she could come up with. A hawk perhaps, some eagle, a small sparrow. When the distant moons winked at them sending a blue-ish light that formed rivulets of power around and within Freya’s form, however, Ireena took a step back, her feet hitting the surface of the platform with more strength than she had anticipated. Absolution, freedom. Where Freya had stood now a white crow awaited, intelligence shining on her eyes. Interesting. Ireena didn’t need to ask her what she wanted her to do next; wingspan already at the ready, the crow rose proud and regal, spirals painted on the sky as she rose and rose, lowering when a set of clouds blew icy wind onto their way. Well well, Allura had been right. The kid HAD a knack for this. And, as the crow kept on flying, Ireena cracked up a smile. Proud.

[ask-the-crimson-king]

Ascension

[Breaking blog theme here. But I decided to write a thing inspired by an encounter on shamchat and then boosted by a friend giving me good ideas. So this now exists. Enjoy(?), its a long one.]

The chamber was large, quiet, and empty save for a sole occupant. Light seemed to shy away from the walls, leaving them cloaked in shadow. Occasionally, there would be a flicker, a soft orange glow, but it was always fleeting. Within the center, in the middle of an ornate mosaic of the Chaos Star that covered the floor of the chamber, was an altar. Upon it was a large, old tome, however its pages looked as though they were unaffected by time or use. Candles flickered around it, and carved into the altar itself were the sigils representing each of the four gods; Khorne, Slaanesh, Tzeentch, and Nurgle. Before this altar, with the candleglow flickering over his features, knelt a man. A man who had suffered through exhaustive trials over the past ten thousand years, proving himself time and time again to the gods who had given him favor. It was not for nothing. No, he had been rewarded greatly for each trial he passed. Power undreamed of was his. He could unmake worlds with a simple command, although he could do that before when he was a true man. Not the thing he had become now. Certainly not the thing he was about to become. Outside the chamber walls, before the Templum Inficio, a man stood before a crowd of thousands of superhuman warriors, surrounded by millions of unagumented humans. Vox systems were rigged across the world and beyond, so that every member of the Legion would hear him speak, from noble Astartes to lowly serf. The man was ancient, as were a great many of his peers. But it was he who showed his age more than most. His breaths left him with a ragged whistle, his skin had grown thin, his eyes sunken and hollow. A great wound he suffered ten millennia ago still went unhealed. It was a miracle he stood or spoke at all. "Faithful of Sicarus," the man began, "studious of Ghalmek, and valiant warriors of the gods. I ask all of you to hear me now, and listen well. I am Kor Phaeron, your Keeper of the Faith. I speak now so that we may prepare ourselves for an event that shall rock the very foundations of this galaxy. I speak in the name of my son, our most holy lord, Lorgar Aurelian." He paused, allowing his words to sink in. Murmurs arose over the crowd, along with exchanged glances of unease. "For ten millennia have we worked in his name. For ten millennia have we fought the heretics and sheep within the Imperium. For ten millennia have we brought about the will of the gods themselves. For ten millennia have we venerated him with our prayers, offering sacrifice so that he may one day return to us. I tell you now, Bearers of the Word, that day has finally come." Within the chamber, the man kept his head bowed. The glint of his tattoos scattered some of the candlelight. His eyes were closed, his hands in loose fists placed upon his thighs as he knelt. His lips were moving, forming silent syllables. 

Upon a world light-years away, within the Material realm, standing atop a tower of obsidian, a demigod stared into the roaring maelstrom of his adoptive world. Daemons were shrieking and cackling around him, but they were leaving. They ascended into the clouds and vanished. Thunder and lightning flashed and roared, along with winds that would threaten to rip a lesser creature away. It merely ruffled the feathers of wings of warpfire, stirring long, crimson hair. One eye kept staring into the skies. A glaive was clutched in one hand, the other resting on a book bound by his side. Footsteps from behind him made him glance over his shoulder. "My Lord, the daemons, they're fleeing!" said the sorcerer, his voice altered by his helm. "This storm is drawing them in. What do we do?" "They are not fleeing, my son," replied Magnus the Red. He turned and looked down at the warrior, his single eye a mix of color, betraying none of his emotions. "They are flocking." "Flocking? Flocking where? The Warp is-" "-tumultuous, yes, I am well aware. A storm is building. The tides recede." Magnus looked to the skies once more, gesturing to it with his glaive. "They swell elsewhere. Something is gathering." "But... what could it be?" the sorcerer asked, following Magnus' gaze. Magnus lowered his arm, and answered.

A world of bloodsoaked battlefields was full of nothing but dueling warriors. Some sparring, others fighting to the death, each locked in a lethal dance. Blade met blade, sparks shedding from the more brutal clashes. A lumbering giant with bat-like wings and crimson skin stood from a throne of skulls. His eyes constantly were full of hatred, pain, and an unending bloodlust. But something drew him away from the combat. The daemons that usually swarmed this world, acting as friend and foe in equal measure, were leaving. Some flying into the crimson skies, others merely turning and running, reminding the man of herds of animals. There was even braying and trampling of the weaker creatures, their broken bodies returning to the realm where they were born. The giant let out a huff. "Deserters," Angron Thal'kyr growled. Yet he could feel what they were running towards. He could feel something... growing. Something building in the realm beyond, in the realm that bathed this world. Something about it was strangely familiar. Through a mouth of fangs, he growled out a name, hefting his weapon into both hands. 

Lounging upon a mass of cushions, a four-armed creature lay, his serpentine tail lightly wound in a loose coil. In one hand rested a jeweled chalice, filled with a wine so exquisite that mere mortal men would kill each other for a taste. His chamber was full of light and music, warriors in garishly-colored armor gathered around him, ready to serve his every demand. His chamber was lacking something, however, and just before he could move to speak, a mutilated warrior approached him. "My Lord Fulgrim," he greeted, head bowed. "What news?" Fulgrim asked, taking a sip from his chalice. "It appears that the daemons are leaving. None are speaking with us." "Leaving?" Fulgrim echoed. He finished what was left within his glass, passing it to a waiting warrior. "What do you me-" his words were cut short. He looked to a nearby window, revealing a tumultuous sky beyond the polished and perfect walls of his sanctum. Daemons were, in fact, leaving. All of them. He then knew why. His eyes became narrowed as he hissed a single name like a curse. 

Death and decay wreathed him. It marked him as deeply as it did the warriors within his Legion, from his torn insect-like wings to the rot that crept upon his armor and the gas he exhaled through his affixed rebreather. Though he was far from the destruction he had wrought now, he still could feel the pestilence and smell of death around him. The daemons that swam alongside the craft in the void only enhanced this feeling, until... ...it began to recede. He could feel the tides being drawn somewhere. His own knowledge of the Warp told him that something... no, someone is pulling them in. Someone he had not seen in millennia, not truly. He could feel it even attempting to draw upon him, like a moth to a flame. But Mortarion was no simple moth, no. He would not join them. He wheezed out a name as he stared into the maelstrom of the Immaterium. 

"Our glorious Primarch ascended to the most esteemed ranks of daemonhood ten millennia ago, as he secluded himself away from us, sparing time for none save the gods themselves," Kor Phaeron spoke. "Our prayers have not gone unanswered. It is because of us, because of the toils of our beloved Daemon Primarch Lorgar, that he ascends once more!" Upon this pronouncement, the crowded erupted into gasps and murmurs. "Ascending further? What could this mean?" one asked. "What is happening?" "He says a lot without saying much." The flames from the candles flickered, growing and diminishing as though a wind blew throughout the chamber. The man's body was trembling, all of his muscles taught. His face was locked into an expression bordering on pain, his fingers digging into his palms. His eyes were still screwed tightly shut. Voices whispered in his ears as he continued to mouth fervent prayers that slowly became a long incantation. The pages of the tome began to rustle, the candlelight flickering, growing brighter, bright enough to cast shadows upon the walls. 

They came in their thousands, their ten-thousands, hundred thousands, millions. Flying, running, slithering, galloping, moving in every way ever imagined in every color ever seen. They came screeching, crying, braying, cackling, roaring, bellowing. They came together, from four different gods, from four different worlds, from four different Legions. They nearly blotted out the skies. On a world that could have been described as a forge world, now corrupted and twisted by darker machinations, a warrior clad in hulking plate stepped out of his great workshop to see them pass overhead. He saw his own daemonic allies joining them, and he saw his own Legionnaires attempting to keep the daemon engines here. He knew their efforts was futile. As he watched, he spoke a name echoed throughout the Immaterium and beyond, a name that was slowly gaining power. As he spoke, five others joined him. From the distant realms of Segmentum Solar, a demigod returned to bring glory back to a dying empire knew something was happening. He knew a brother was returning. He knew of the shifting within the tides of the Warp. And he spoke a name. They all did. "Lorgar."

With a cry of release, the man threw back his head, opening his eyes. Light poured from them, his form bulging and becoming wreathed in pure psychic power. It was golden at first, slowly becoming blackened. Tendrils of energy began to crawl up his bare form, his slender musculature altered by his ascension to daemonhood, slowly becoming undone as he began to become something greater. Something more powerful. His cry became a roar, a wordless release of emotion as his very being became both unmade and remade. Outside of the chamber, a storm grew. Thunder bellowed, lightning flashed, winds howled. And upon those winds, they came. "See now his power!" Kor Phaeron cried. Some of the humans listening became fearful, some seeking to flee but finding themselves trapped by the Legionnaires. With a final cry, it was over as soon as it had started. With a flash of light, the man within the chamber was gone. In his place knelt a being, a being slowly becoming bigger, more animated as the power of the Immaterium began to swell within him. A crown of horns encircled his head as it had before, but his eyes were bright. His face seemed human, his golden scripture renewed and seemingly glowing, with new glyphs added to the old.  His face was innately human, as beautiful as it had once been, but fangs filled his mouth. Psychic light streamed from him, forming great, folded wings, one feathered and one bat-like and torn. His hands were, seemingly, different. One was as it had been when he was merely a human that had experienced advanced evolution. The other was clawed, more calloused and monstrous. His body was muscled, as he had been before, but the scripture covering him differed. Some glowed brilliantly, others pulsed with duller energies. Power flowed through him, fluid, begging to be released. The Warp was calling to him, as it always had, but now he had an even greater mastery over its song and its tides. He felt the Neverborn flocking to him, he felt them craving to be near his radiance. They were fleeing his brothers, he knew. But even his brothers would come. Oh, they would come.

If not willingly, then by his Word. The Warmaster had done it. He would be more than capable of such a feat.

And the Warmaster would be the first to kneel.

His ancient armor formed around his new body, and it seemed it too had changed. Altered to fit his new form, now with differing script, similar to that which now covered him. He took up his old crozius arcanum, and he disappeared, leaving the chamber empty and silent once more. 

The being appeared before a crowd of millions, with millions more quickly flocking to him. All who looked upon him gasped and wept, most immediately kneeling before him. Even Kor Phaeron knelt. "Behold!" he wept. "Our Lord returned to us, ascended! Behold -- Lorgar Aurelian, Patron Deity of the Faithful, Lord of Truth and Valor!" The daemons finally came, descending upon the Templum Inficio. They bowed, all of them. Seas of them kneeling or crouching, demonstrating their deference however they could. Lorgar looked upon all of them, with eyes of blazing gold. He stood there, now so far above them that he realized how... insignificant they seemed. He understood, then, what the Pantheon felt. For although he was not their equal, far from such a thing, he was still a god. In all rights, he was a god. A minor one, one still growing and nursing from the power of the Immaterium, one still barely connected to the Materium, but a god nonetheless. It was Faith that fueled him. Not only faith in the Pantheon, no. The fervent zealotry within the Imperium... that fed him also. It almost made him laugh. His hated enemies, now a part of his flock, in an odd way. He spread his arms wide, his mismatched wings extending alongside them. The daemons began to cry and bray at him, joined by the chanting of his name. Aurelian! Aurelian! Aurelian! Lorgar ascended. A new god of the Empyrean. A greater servant to the Powers than any other. As the crowds chanted, his eyes went to the skies above. In the depths of madness, he saw a man staring back at him, looking like a warrior, an aged sage, a weary father, a battered traveler, his expression never sticking to one visage. He saw gold that mirrored that which he now shed. A smile finally came to his lips.

[fanesavin]

@xxtuaharjunaxx and Fane prior to the coronation discussing some concerns regarding security.

[ Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 (x) | (x) ]

Fane couldn't admit to being in the best of moods. After the events of last night his head hurt, he felt tired and an argument this morning had seen Lady Lacroy decide to depart the city. He'd ended up retreating to the Dawnguard headquarters in town not wishing to be around noble faces for a little while, he'd seen enough of them already in this trip and their mind-melding political manoeuvring was beyond his patience. As it was he was sat at his desk, forehead held in one hand and quill in the other writing up a small report on the last couple of days affairs. Namely the Grand Lady's kidnapping and Lady Lacroy's assault. It was quiet here and finally he could think in peace.

Tuah The last thing he wanted to face this morning was the nobilities trying to get over the previous night’s hangover, seeing that he hadn’t indulge himself in a drinking stupor. Tuah was one of the few that had woken up fresh this morning, ready in his everyday garments before heading out, his confidante always by his side. It was during his walk that he noticed the Dawnguard headquarter, and his heartstrings were pulled enough that he decided to enter the building. He was attended by one of the stationed guards who recognised him for the service that he had provided instead of his title, and Tuah couldn’t help but be pleased with it. “Is Lord Savin here?” he asked out of idle curiosity. They hadn’t be able to talk much during the festivities the night before, so he’d be glad if they would have some time to themselves before everyone else woke up.

Fane had ended up writing the same word thrice over, frustration bubbling up he curled his fingers into the parchment and crumpled it into a ball before launching it across the room at the fire. He sat back hands pressed to his head as he stared up at the ceiling. Downstairs the guard that recognised Tuah nodded before pointing a gloved hand to the stone staircase leading to the higher elevations of the building "aye m'lord, he's upstairs."

Tuah nodded, his gaze followed towards the upper level of the building and nodded his thanks towards when the guard escorted him to Fane’s room. He watched with a gentle smile at Fane’s little antics before he decided to knock on the door gently. “Rough morning?” was his greeting to the other, a sympathetic smile now painted his lips.

Fane hadn't anticipated guests, he'd come here to avoid seeing people. After throwing his ball of paper, which was now catching flame in the hearth, he sunk back into his seat eyes closed. Though a familiar voice stirred them to flicker open and where Tuah smiled Fane grimaced. "You would never believe." His eyes flickered to the guard at Tuah's side, not particularly in the mood to be overheard or seen in his present condition "thank you Torrhen you may return to your post." The young man bowed and departed back down the steps. Once he was gone Fane waved to the spare seat in the room indicating Tuah could take it if he wanted.

Tuah winced when he saw Fane grimaced. Perhaps this wasn’t a good time for them to spend their morning together, and he was about to excuse himself when Fane invited him over. “You’re dismissed, Hassan,” he waved his confidante away, though seeing the protest that was about to bubble forth, Tuah raised his hand. “Nothing will happen to me while I’m in Lord Savin’s company, I assure you. And even if something is to happen, I can take care of myself just fine.” He resigned himself when his confidante seemed adamant to stand guard outside of Fane’s office and walked across the threshold of the office, taking a seat offered to him. “Would you like me to call someone to prepare something to soothe your mind, Lord Savin?”

Fane watched the exchange between Tuah and his confidante in astute silence. Eventually they were left alone and Fane finally exhaled slowly. "No need, just... tiredness and frustration after yesterday," he mustered a smile though it was a little more wan than it had been the previous evening. He wasn't so skilled at the game of faces as other nobles.

Tuah arched his brow at the other’s comment, an inquisitive look on his face. “Something in particular happened?” he asked, wondering what could it be to have Fane expressed himself so.

Fane snorted under his breath, had something happened indeed. But that wasn't what he wished for Tuah's opinion on, well, not right now. Where he stood on formalities with others Fane now pulled his knee up to his chest, propping the heel of his boot on the edge of his chair but he was feeling far too restless to care overly much about appearances. "Two things specifically," he paused "you know of Cassandra? Grand Lady of Summerset?"

Tuah was not there to judge, merely lend an ear to ease Fane’s burden somewhat, if that was what the other needed right now. He would not have forced Fane to share if he didn’t want to either, opting for other subject to talk between them. They did have a lot to catch up on, after all. Tuah nodded slowly, sifting through his memories who Fane was referring to. “I am aware of who she is, yes,” he turned his attention towards Fane with a cocked of his head to the side, sitting comfortably in his seat, “what of her?”

Fane propped his forearm on his knee as he turned his attention to a map of the different regions of the kingdom. "Someone tried to kidnap her yesterday... Reports from the people I had looking into it suggest that House Kesley were responsible. Equally, Lady... um... Lacroy was assaulted in the streets." His frowned deepened a little at mention of the latter but it would be mistaken for concern over the matter at hand, "I'm concerned this is a prelude to something... more." The coronation was today and bloodshed and violence did not bode well for a supposedly holy day of peace.

Tuah followed Fane’s gaze towards the map, brows furrowed together as he run his fingers along his clean-shaven jaw. The two incidents seemed unrelated, but with the coronation merely hours away, he understood why Fane was gravely concerned. The last thing they needed was mass panic from the nobilities and the people alike. “I assume that you have proof to support your claim, otherwise you’re only going to make matters worse.” Tuah turned his attention towards Fane, steepling his hands together.

Fane tapped his fingers on his knee, "both crown princes of the Forty Isles and a few knights of their entourage witnessed the kidnapper claim for House Kesley. Equally, it's a house notorious for it's... prejudices against those who claim or are reputed to have any associations with magic." That being said Fane rubbed his shortly trimmed beard with his index finger and thumb. "It just feels a little... convenient wouldn't you say? A house with historical feuds and apparent... ill will towards one of the few guests in attendance that might rouse trouble with the common-folk. Don't you think?" Perhaps it wasn't and he was thinking too much into it, but Fane couldn't entirely help how he saw the events unfolding.

Tuah “It is indeed,” Tuah noted, “and for the kidnapper to have easily claimed that they are of House Kesley? That itself is odd indeed.” He was quiet as he took this all in, leaning back against the chair as his steepled hands brought to his chin, brows still furrowed deeply. “Was there any other account apart from House Cardero? Any servants that might be present during the kidnapping?” After a moment, he asked, “Was Lord Cardero present during Lady Lacroy’s incident as well?”

Fane flourished his hand towards Tuah in a small gesture resembling something akin to I know. "Not that I know of, though it took place on the street and the man responsible rather inconveniently is no longer with us." As for Lady Lacroy his fingers curled until his thumb then pointed back at himself, "no, but I was... um, with her... Walking... we were walking... together... Outside, yesterday... that is... And her assailant came upon her screaming she was a witch and had a blade to her throat before I could even register what was happening..."

Tuah hummed, amusement flittered across his face when Fane stumbled through his words. For as long as he had known the other, Fane had been very eloquent in his speech and had never lost his composure. So to witness something as such was definitely interesting, and a token to tease the older gentleman further. “Lady Lacroy must’ve been in a state of shock after such incident,” he remarked, a teasing lilt evident behind his voice, his lips curled into a slight smile. “Did you manage to comfort her afterwards?”

Fane levelled Tuah with a stony ice-laden look befitting the frigidness of a Northerner. "Not particularly, we spoke some... But she decided that the incident was evidence that she was unwelcome here chose to leave the city this morn'."

Tuah was unswayed by the look that was thrown at him, having used to being stared down many times as he butted head against the general during his serve in the Dawnguard. He hid his smile behind his hand, stifling a laughter so as not to offend the other further. “All the more you should convince her otherwise, no? You do have quite a way with your words.”

Fane was unamused by Tuah's point, "apparently not with her." He glowered realising he'd gone off topic, "that's not the point-- the point is--" and at that moment the bells started to toll, long and rich notes chiming over the city. Fane pushed to his feet and went to the window, "Gods," he was hardly ready by any means. There was no time for plans. "I might take some of the Guard with me... Something about all this just... feels off."

Tuah might have continued to tease Fane if the bell hadn’t start to toll. He heaved a sigh and straightened his back and pushed himself to his feet. He was already in his official garments before going out this morning, so there was no need for him to change again. He nodded at Fane’s suggestion, resting his hand on the sword by his hip. “You have my service if need be,” he offered, never one to shy away from his duty as a Dawnguard. “I’ll be sure to keep my eyes open if there’s something afoot.”

Fane looked at his old friend and gave a small nod. "Wait a few moments and I'll walk with you to the castle," with this he vanished behind a divider into another room glad that he kept a few of his spare clothes here. He dressed simply never one for ostentatious displays of power and after pulling on his boots stepped out. "Come," he said to his friend smoothing his hair back and more flat "let us head to the ceremony." On route he summoned some of his trusted swords to fall in behind as their entourage requesting they carried the bare minimum in terms of arms and plating. This was a day of peace and he didn’t wish to upset or inspire inclinations of distrust in other lordlings but Fane trusted his gut and he something about today made him feel uneasy.

[nameless-articles]

The Regional Differences of Nier (And Why the Western Version is Better)

Nier (2010) is one of countless games to change based on the region its released in. While the localization process is nothing interesting in the realm of video games, the extent to which Nier changes is quite immense. The significant difference between Nier Replicant, the Japanese Playstation 3 version, and Nier Gestalt, the Japanese Xbox and worldwide version, is the age of the main character (canonically and for the sake of this essay titular) and his relationship to Yonah. In the former, Nier is Yonah’s older brother, while in the latter he is Yonah’s father. There appears to be a twenty or so year difference between the two Niers, and in general this does little to affect the gameplay. Yoko Taro is on record as saying Replicant was the original premise, while Gestalt was an attempt to appeal to a wider audience, as they feared the younger protagonist would not mesh well with western players. While their fears weren’t misguided, this change has wider thematic implications that overall service the narrative better than if Nier had remained a brother.

While Gestalt is available in Japan, it’s important to note that it is the Xbox version. Japanese support was weak for the console, hence any user being hard-pressed to name several noteworthy Japanese made games that did not cater to the west in some fashion (at least overseas, because there were a surprising number of japanese only shoot-em-ups and rpgs exclusive to the Xbox). All to say, that even if this version was available in Japan, the developers didn’t make it with Japanese players in mind.

Yoko Taro is no stranger to challenging tropes in video games, and this is one of the surface reasons Nier’s age difference works between versions. Tropes vary depending on regional culture, so it is not too far-fetched to suggest a game challenging conventional game design and its tropes would change important/visible aspects of its game to challenge them. While a caring big brother is a common trope in the West, there are more instances of it in Japanese media (particularly games and other contemporary media). On the other hand, the caring father figure is a trope that, though it would not be amazingly popular in video games for another two years after Nier (thank you The Last of Us), is familiar to the average consumer. On a basic level, the big brother and father roles are functioning the same outside of a few script changes and different voice acting. Gameplay wise, brother Nier has a better excuse for not having the ability to wield greatswords and spears than father Nier, but this doesn’t amount to much beyond a jarring absence of those weapons in the first half of the western version. As the game goes on, there is a different importance placed on the character depending on their age and relationship, and the implications for the story are greater for father than they are brother.

Our expectations for these characters’ knowledge varies depending on how old they are; we would expect father Nier to be wiser, to know more about this world than we would for brother Nier. What we would chalk up to naivety for brother Nier is then considered willful ignorance if not outright manipulation for the older one. Brother Nier is a simpler character in this regard, because he’s young, and we can only despise what he does so much before realizing he didn’t know any better. Father Nier, on the other hand, is old enough that his lack of empathy provides stronger commentary for his character.

At the root of Nier (game) is the matter of perspective: what looks good for one character is disastrous and hostile for another. The game reveals this information towards the end of the first playthrough and all throughout the second. This information then informs the player’s perspective on both Nier’s behavior and what we presumed to be hostile acts. Let’s take a look at the cutscene after Emil destroys the Aerie. 

Emil is overcome with grief and sorrow because of the destruction his actions have caused. He seems genuinely concerned and remorseful after having destroyed the town, realizing all the innocent people that were surely killed in the process. Despite actions having consequences throughout the whole game, none of them up until that point have had that great of a change. From this point on, this area becomes more or less useless (and for those interested in grinding out upgrade materials, a sour sight as you wait until the next play through to grind for eggs). People to talk to, quests to complete, whatever you needed in that place is completely locked away for the rest of the play through. All that remains is a huge and empty pit.

How does Nier respond to Emil? He tells Emil, “But you saved our lives,” and goes on to explain how it was a case of them or the shades, that there was no other choice to take, and ends, almost like an order, by telling Emil, “Don’t look back.” Nier does not want Emil to think about the negative consequences of his actions, a running theme present throughout the story, usually used with regards to killing shades, where no matter how innocuous their behavior might seem, Nier will posit that there is no other choice but to exterminate each and every shade they encounter. Nier tells Emil this to keep him on his side, to influence the way Emil should see his monstrous actions. Nier needs him to believe in his cause, and there’s no room to question who’ve you hurt, or whether you are wrong.

Nier’s stubbornness persists throughout the whole game, culminating in the end where, despite knowing that the Shadowlord has just a noble a cause - in fact, probably a nobler cause considering he is the original Nier and his daughter is the original Yonah - Nier refuses to sympathize or stop himself from taking what he deserves. This isn’t to say that the Nier we play as the whole game is necessarily “the bad guy,” but that our entire notion of what it means to play “the bad guy” is entirely dependent on the perspective and player agency of that character.

It is much easier to view these enemies in simple terms as we are forced to do in the first play through, before we understand Kaine’s backstory and see how shades behave when they aren’t being murdered by the replicants. These are enemies, plain and simple. Though there are side quests and moments where this comes into question, for the majority of the main plot, up until the very end, we are meant to believe that our fight is the right thing to do. However, the second playthrough complicates this situation, and it starts to become less clear whether we should keep on going. However, Nier’s own persistent despite our own knowledge is what differentiates him from most other playable protagonists. While the player is able to make choices throughout the game, it is never during the most critical scenes (despite arguably the ending (though even then the Shadowlord must always be defeated)). Nier is stubborn and committed to the purpose he has set for himself until the very end.

Again, as a brother these actions come across just as stubborn, however this stubbornness is different from father Nier. We can look at Nier’s actions more critically when we accept that he’s consciously exerting himself and manipulating others to get the result he wants.

This becomes most clear during the battle with Devola and Popola. The sisters make the game’s point clear: Everyone has their own motives and desires driving them, and conflict happens when different characters with opposing purposes meet. It really is that simple. However, after Nier kills Devola, he tells Popola to stop. Popola responds with what might be the most powerful statement in the entire game. Her line, “Do you think I have the luxury to stop?” is particularly poignant because it invites the player to consider how important her role is and whether she could call it quits even if she wanted to. But most importantly, it makes the player question why we ourselves haven’t stopped. Why have we continued to play this game and kill these characters? Even if we separate ourselves from the characters and believe we only play to get to the end, what does this say about our behaviors and why we continue to play games at all. Why don’t we just stop? Before her phase in the battle begins, she exclaims, “No one ever stops!” She’s just as assured in what she’s about to do as Nier. While this article focuses on how Nier (the character) is changed between regions, it would be foolish not to include that this line, as it’s expressed in the English dub, does not exist in the original Japanese. In Japanese, Popola just exclaims that she’s going to kill you… Besides removing many of the implications that her English exclamation has, it really limits how deeply we can think about Devola and Popola. The English version gives a better sense of thematic ideas that have been present throughout.

The credit song for ending A works to this goal as well. Though the song is interesting for the way it explains how the world of Nier (the game) relates to Drakengard by giving the events shortly following that game’s ending, there are several lines that speak to the thematic points that I argue are made clearer in the English version. The chorus of the song goes, “Hidden so deep in veils of deceit, / Imprisoned in twisting spells - / Are we the plaything of fiends, or merely the dreams / That we're telling ourselves, telling ourselves?” While Devola acknowledges the reality of everyone having motives, she neglects to note how difficult it is to discover those motives; even Nier doesn’t find out until they tell him explicitly, and up until then everyone is certain the sisters are on the side of the replicants. These lines also acknowledge the unfounded nature of everyone’s motives and purpose. Do our duties come from a manipulative figure (as we see Nier doing to Emil) or do they come from something we hope is achievable (as we see in the side quest where the boy wants to escape his family of thieves). Are either of these better than the other?

The lines directly following the first chorus, “Strive till the phantoms are broken, / Fight till the battle is done,” refer to the end goal of these motives, which is to say, not necessarily to achieve those motives at all. If phantoms are taken to be haunting visages of the past, then we continue on until we forget about them. If we set out for war, all we can do is fight until there is nothing left to fight. Fighting until the battle is done is not the same as fighting until its won. The one referenced in the lyrics only wants the fight to be done, regardless of the results. Neither of these existences are spoken of with much reverence, more so with an acceptance that this is one framework through which we view actions in our lives. Further playthroughs build our understanding of everyone’s actions, but the game’s final ending being locked behind deleting the player’s save data asks us to question what these goals are worth (or they would, if consoles didn’t have cloud-saving and backup features).

While the song lyrics and final-ending mechanic are present in the Japanese version as well, that version of the game, primarily by having Nier portrayed as a younger character, doesn’t reinforce these larger thematic ideas as well as the English version, despite arguably having better voice acting. The English version feels like it has a more concentrated focus on these interactions because of the little things changed to appeal to a western audience. While most games don’t/wouldn’t benefit from a western localization, it’s interesting to encounter a game where such a release feels like a more tightly constructed work of art.

[lysandra-vanburen]

Strengthening Infatuations

The following story was written as a collab rp between @itraeis and myself. It has been edited and written in the third person.

Currently this snippet follows the events of these letters as well as ‘War of Witches’.

                                             Mood setting music.

Viewer discretion highly advised; Mature and suggestive themes below the line.

The evening had been one full of well placed anger, inner turmoil, a sprinkle of misery and a dash of the wrath of a scorned mother. Lysandra Vanburen's bitter mood and deeply rooted maternal instincts had set the entirety of Melstone Estate’s functions into a harrowing halt.

Still Lysandra buzzed with the thrill of the kill but despite the lingering knowledge of having utterly destroyed the witch responsible for her children’s current state of rest... There was still an unsteady shake to her hands, her body swaying and mind consumed with such fury that it didn’t matter that already the enemy currently at hand had not only been apprehended, but Lysandra reasserted herself as the alpha in the situation... At the end of it all she got the last hollowed laugh, so why did she continue to linger on the issue?

Try as she might it became harder to compose herself, fingers flexing and stretching out as far as they were able before curling inward toward the palms of her hands in an effort to steady herself -- though still her body shuffled around in restless pacing.

With every stretch of her fingers had the plants within her childrens’ shared medical room would grow in size, retracting in size as Lysandra’s fingers curled into fists again. She was so consumed with revenge that she hadn’t even thought long enough about anyone beyond the Vanburens -- much less her, admittedly, current interest... Itraeis Holt. The man which last she swore to meet with for a date in her last letter.

Such a letter which had been filled with apologies and promises of a day together, swearing she’d meet him at his current inn some time in the afternoon of the very day and very time she was busy pacing... Such a letter that, with her swearing and promises, carried the details of her boldly printed address: .

Unbeknownst to Lysandra... He had waited out front of the noble accommodations patient as a man could be, despite the passing minutes... Still she never showed up.

An hour went by, then two.

Had she stood him up? Itraeis wasn't sure.

Part of her seemed almost distraught when they met the other night, he acknowledged, and it was true she was startled but that was more so with her own personal feelings drudging up in the presence of such a handsome and flirty younger man...

But the letter she sent back made her seem more than interested? He was conflicted, confused, and his pride a little hurt. But he wasn't about to turn and lick his wounds like some injured dog. He was going to be a man of action!

Connections were made, a few palms greased, and Itraeis had managed to procure travel with a small entourage heading into Drustvar. The address he gave was a slight detour for the caravan, since he didn't have his bike here in Kul'Tiras, and he wasn't overly good at horse back riding, thus he had to rely on his coin and his wit to convince the party to take him on.

But now he was here, at the main door of the addressed estate Lysandra had written down.

He took a deep breath and knocked on the large door, one hand held behind his back as he did so and then waited patiently for someone... hopefully her... to answer.

Her staff were all just as sluggish as the Lady of the House, seemingly too weighed by the troubling future ahead. Often their heads hung in prayer or thought, but they all were wishing for the wealth and good tidings of the currently ailing Vanburen children regardless of their own personal state of being.

Albert and Charlette had easily wiggled their way into the lives of those responsible to care and keep the manor of Lysandra Vanburen functioning, they were the sun and moon... Two opposites that brought light and joy into every instance, they were precious as could be... To think they were currently fighting for their lives was outrageous... All within the Manor were currently miserable, trounced by their concerns.

Jennifer was of no exception, the ginger haired handmaiden carrying a look of permanent exhaustion at all times... Even as her fingers twisted and pried open the door of the Estate’s grand entrance to address who had so boldly knocked against it’s thick wooden frame.

The door would most certainly open if only to expose the droopy eyed and deeply frowning woman dressed in a simple green frock and apron, her orange hair tugged into a rushed ponytail. She stood there a moment, coming to recognize that there was already familiarity to his features... To those dark, inviting eyes. Was this the debonair Lysandra gushed so fervently about merely nights ago?

"My apologies, sir," Jennifer spoke gently, her voice lingering on the edge as tears welled in her eyes, "The Lady Vanburen has canceled all lessons and business this week on account of her ailing children,” she pushed aside the thoughts of his familiarity, clearing her throat, "If you'd like to reschedule a meeting for next week, I can make those arrangements for you?"

Itraeis was taken by surprise. He had come to expect Lysandra had simply changed her mind on their meeting, or at best got caught up some business venture. But ailing children was not something he had anticipated...

"Actually, it was more of a personal meeting myself and Lady Vanburen had arranged. A date. When she didn't appear with no letter or messenger, I thought to just come here and ensure everything was alright...” 

Jennifer's eyes lit up with glee, newfound hope standing before her in his smoldering glory. Instantly she'd open the door wide for Itraeis to enter, exposing a fairly extravagant foyer where once Jennifer was standing, now no longer blocking his view.

“If you could let her know it's me, before we commit to reschedule? Now that I know the circumstance I'd like to, at the very least, see how she fares. And hopefully brighten her day even a bit," he explained, from behind his back he pulled a bouquet of wildflowers.

Jennifer instantly recognized that many of the flowers were native of Drustvar, a beautiful bunch of colorful and extravagant dome as well as numeric shaped flowers which carried an intoxicating smell.

"Do come in," Jen encourages, a hand beckoning him forth, "I imagine her Lady would be quite thrilled to have the support of her beau in these troubling times. Please, allow me to show you to the drawing room and I'll see to it Lysandra is made aware of your being, sir."

"Thank you, you're most gracious," Itraeis praised, pulling out a small purple flower and handing it to Jennifer in thanks.

The main entrance would be closed behind him, thus snuffing out the cold winds carrying through the grounds on this particular fall evening.

He stepped beyond the threshold and immediately soaked in the wonders of the home, taking in the sights of the grand manor. It was, by en large, much more impressive than his. Then again, Itraeis didn't really have his own lands or estate. He was a glorified squatter.

Inside the foyer alone was a rush of warmth, inciting the idea that hearts and radiators were on to challenge the chilly bone nights. The foyer was decorated softly colored wooden walls accented by golden fixtures nailed into the wood, lit candles providing bright, artificial illumination for the patrons of the estate home.

There were three different open archways leading into the east, west and north of the home. From the mere sound of it the east doorway led to the kitchens with clattering of pans and chattering servants being such indication. Otherwise the other doorways were mere mysteries.

On the air was the lingering smell of a calming lavender mixed with rugged, polished leather.

The most pronounced and startling of sights in the entirety of the wide foyer, alas, were the grand staircases leading up and splitting into two, leading up to the second floor.

Near the top of the first set of stairs was the statue of a winged beauty, her hands cradling a dove before her exposed bosom, a haunting look of longing upon her features as she is allowing the winged creature to take flight -- a moment etched in cool, cold white marble which easily matched the overall elegant aesthetic of the home.

It was down the hall beside the right of the staircase that Jennifer would lead the Holt gentleman, her clammy fingers clinging to the offered flower all the while. The walk was a short one, in which Jennifer pushed the door leading into the Lady Vanburen’s drawing room, offering for Itraeis to enter whilst she held the door.

The drawing room itself was decorated by varying animal heads and stuffed bodies. From wild boars to the slinky, gorgeous stoats the room was kin to a forest in its own right, with plants lingering on any furniture that would stand, a magnificent hearth lit aflame casting a warm glow into the room.

Above the heart, too, was the head of the green scaled raptor in all its frightening glory, red eyes staring down toward its marvels with solidified hate.

Along the coffee table set between two Kul Tiran designed couches was a single crystal decanter with water -- or so that was what Jennifer said before assuring her swift return with the Lady of the house. With the decanter were there four glasses stacked upon one another.

The couches were softer than life itself, dark navy in color and providing a splash of oddity in comparison to the earthy tones of the room- from the multicolored brick fireplace to the black bookcase.

It was a butler who hustled in, providing the presumed beau an option for other drinks he might desire, ranging from juices to alcohol of wine and liquor variety, "Do you require anything sir?"

"I'll be fine with the water, thank you." he politely declined. Best not to take up a drink when he still wasn't entirely sure if his presence would be as well received by Lysandra as it was by her ward.

He made himself comfortable on one of the plush couches.

Damn was it comfortable...

He could sink right into the cushions and fall asleep quite easily if he were so inclined. But he was here with reason. So he kept his posture proper, awaiting for when Lysandra would enter so he could rise to his feet and greet her properly.

When the news reached the distraught mother of her handsome visitor, she had been stunned momentarily, meeting Jennifer’s bright features with her own doubtful frown. A bubble of guilt blossomed in her chest and weighed against her so heavily it was getting increasingly hard to breathe...

Itraeis, of course... How could she have forgotten her promise to meet him?!

Turning her eyes toward her son and then her daughter the woman carefully pressed a kiss to each child's forehead, whispering reassurance that she'd be back soon before turning to Jennifer with a more desperate expression. "Watch them?"

"Of course," Jennifer assured, sending Lysandra out of the healers ward with this confirmation.

It was a short trek from the downstairs ward to the drawing room just on the opposite side of the estate, but it was fairly lengthy as each time she'd pause in front of a hall mirror to try and smooth over her frazzled locks and brush away the dark red tear tracks on her cheeks.

Alas, there was a final embrace to her look that came out as a soft exhale of: "Tides help me."

She atleast made the effort and adjusted her frilly neck cream blouse, taking the time to smooth out the fabric and stuff it beneath her dark brown trousers.

Her return home from confronting the Heartsbane witch responsible for her children's current state had been spent worrying for her children. She hadnt taken into account how crazed she must of looked, for while she had changed into fresh clothing she had yet to shower the grime, built dirt and dried blood off her skin.

Not only was she not immediately concerned with her appearance upon returning home, but she wasnt concerned with the prospect of being visited-- especially by a gentleman.

She'd enter the room with flustered cheeks and a rush of apologies jumbled together, her hands held up in defense as she first addressed Itraeis, "Darling I am so, so sorry. Things unraveled so quickly, I forgot our meeting completely unintentionally and I.. I'm not certain how much you loathe me right now, but know that I never intended to upset you, alas my duties as a mother trump what the heart wants at times!"

Itraeis couldn't help but smile at the way she apologized so profusely. He let her ramble away with her explanation while approaching her with the bouquet in hand. Once she had finished with her winded apology, the young lord placed a hand on her shoulder and leaned in to kiss her forehead as he handed her the gift.

"Lysandra, don't worry so much," he said in a comforting tone, "I'll admit, I was a little distraught when you didn't show up and there was no words. But your aid explained in brief that your children were ill. I may not have kids of my own, but I more than understand a mothers duty to her children. I'm just glad to see you're okay, all things considered." His gentle, reassuring smile clung to his features as a single hand raised up to tuck a lock of hair behind her ear.

For a moment the maiden was struck dumb in her astonishment of the gift provided. Her hands took claim of the bouquet, marveling its beauty up close whilst tilting her head forward to admire their smell. Alas, the gentle brush of lips on her skin would stir the woman from her state of excitement and silence.

Golden eyes observed the young Lord in that moment, admiring him mostly whilst the fingers of one hand clung to the stems of the tied flowers, her second hand lifting to momentarily caress the boys cheek. All the while she provided him with a genuine smile, her eyes longing, a second emotion hidden in her irises.

"I'm not okay," she'd whisper in return, honesty thicker than ichor, dripping from quivering lips whilst she slowly stumbled closer to Itraeis, the flowers hanging at the woman's side now as she aimed to nestle herself against his chest.

She felt so vulnerable, reeling back on the incident with her children. It left her shattered, her confidence was snuffed out for the time being... And the only thing keeping her from bursting into a fit of tears was the comfort and warmth Itraeis brought her. It was an explainable feeling but..

It was something she wasnt going to push down and deny when she needed it: The comfort of a friend.

“ Of course not, love, of course not." he whispered.

His arms immediately wrapped around her form-  Once his arms had enclosed around her figure the maiden paused to gesture toward her lingering butler. Instantly he moved forth to collect the flowers, assuring Lysandra they'd be placed in a vase and presented in her room. Thus she indulged in the closeness without fear of squishing her beautiful gift. One hand rested on the small of her back and gave her a squeeze. The other stroked down her hair in long, gentle caresses. He could tell she was far more shaken than even she was letting on. Even if they had only spent one night truly conversing, he appreciated her as a person. Enough so to travel across the isles just to check in on her.

"Would you like to sit for a moment?" he asked, though he still rested his head atop hers and held he close for as long as she desired, "We can talk if you wish. Or I can simply be your comforting shoulder to cry on. Either way, I'm here for you, Lysandra. You need only say the word."

"No, please, sit with me..," thus she'd dare to curl her fingers around the front of his garb as to tug him in tow as she lowered herself into the comforting cushions of the couch, her voice maintianing shaky confidence.

For a moment she’d hesitate, her hands having ultimately retracted and moved to fold atop her lap. Of course he would sit beside her. Although her hands rested in her lap, his arm still remained around her in a comforting gesture. His body turned to face her properly, as she spoke.

Lysandra soaked in the moment as she tried to wrap her head around the generous display Itraeis had put on for her... So valiantly braving unknown territory just to come and visit her. It was charming.

"I'm selfish, dear... Please, I'm but your humble host," she'd remark quietly, aiming to simply bury the pain, "Uhm.. How have you been today, b-besides my mishap in standing you up," she'd provide him a small smile, "Which I am fully prepared to make it up to you, too." 

"I'll be sure to take you up on that then," he teased with a wink in return, "But you need not apologize nor bury your burdens on my account. I'm here  for you,” he took a slight breath, looking the poor woman over as she did her best to hold herself together through it all.

If she needed to talk, he would surely listen. But if she really did just want to forget it all for a time, he'd happily oblige. "But, to answer your question, my day was fine. The ride from Boralus to your estate was quite lovely." he said with an earnest smile.

Bury her burdens... How Lysandra wished it were that simple. There were facts revolving around the story of her family that ultimately led to the disruption in routine for her children that Lys absolutely could not share with Itraeis. And try as she might to prevent it, it hurt her heart thinking of not being open with a man she'd known for only a day. Her infatuations, she came to bitterly recognize, were stronger than she liked.

Damn boyish grin.

For a moment the maiden simply brought a hand up to comb and fiddle with her own hair in an effort to busy herself, distracting her mind by focusing on making herself presentable or at least less like a forsaken.

"No easy feat, the trek from Boralus to Drustvar. I admire your resilience," Lysandra flashed him a small smile, dropping her hands to rest atop the man's torso whilst nestling herself into his side, "I know I talked up the ride quite a bit the last I saw you, though while there is immense beauty in the scenery it can be... A daunting, exhausting ride. So..," nibbling on her bottom lip for a moment the woman would push back her doubts to remark, "If you desire, I can see to it the maids might prepare the guest room for you?"

Itraeis continued to hold on to the distraught maiden as she spoke. A gentle sigh as he accepted her desire to keep quiet on the topic at hand. As was her wish, he would happily serve her as best he can.

"It was lengthy, I cannot deny. But fortunately it wasn't me alone on a steed that rode out here. I traveled with a caravan. A few gold coins and a silver tongue and I convinced them to drop me off here. The company helped. Although these Kul'Tiran common folk are rather rough around the edges, aren't they." he described with a chuckle. “But you spoke the truth the other night. Drustvar does remind me a lot of Duskwood back home. It's oddly comforting, to be in a wood so... spooky. As for the guest room, well I certainly wouldn't say no. In truth... I didn't really plan my way home from here." he admitted with a bashful smile.

Returning to the main city was... Romantic, in it's own. Infact it's what would bring the mother to lean forward and press a lingering kiss to the man's lips.  Alas the affectionate gesture was not long lived, a mere chaste kiss that was followed by Lysandra confessing: "I assure you I am fully prepared to see a carriage readied for you to return to Boralus if you wish to leave tonight or tomorrow, all in all... Your presence here, right now.. It means all of Azeroth to me. Truly, you..," the mother paused for a moment, dropping her gaze toward her hands which lingered atop Itraeis's chest, quite bashful now.

"You've made me happy in such a short amount of time during which... Nothing seemed worth being happy before besides the fact Albert's coma means there's a chance he'll come out of it alive and Charlette's trauma will be healed within months of hard work..."

She'd hesitate, her mind now lingering on her children once more. Then she'd glance up toward Itraeis, "If you'd like, I can see to it you're provided a hot meal and whatever else you desire? I.. I can't promise I will be readily available at all moments, I do not wish to be far from my children long as they heal..." A soft sigh escaped the lords nose as their lips locked for that brief moment. As Lysandra pulled away, a quick nuzzle of his nose against hers extended the intimacy of the gesture if even for a fleeting moment. "I have no where to go anytime soon, darling Lysandra. I can stay for as long, or leave as soon as you desire. Just say the word," he reassured her. His free hand gravitated towards hers that rested against his chest, enveloping them in a caring squeeze.

"Albert and Charlette, I'm sure their recovery will be smooth. I'll look forward to meeting them when the time arrives," he whispered with a smirk, doing his best to keep her mind away from their condition and focused on happier thoughts, "And you need not worry about me. Allow me to join you for breakfast in the morning at the very least and I'll count myself as blessed. Otherwise, be the strong woman I can see you are and tend to your children as you need."

For a moment Lysandra opted to bring one of Itraeis's hands to her lips, skimming across his knuckles before flickering her gaze up to meet his. Itraeis carried a similar smile, now as she wore a teeny, bemused grin, "You were so unexpected... Alas, I'll not linger and doubt what ever has sent you my way. I'll simply enjoy it." "My reasons for coming were simple. You didn't come to me, so I elected to come to you," he answered. He brought his lips to the crown of her head as they sat and conversed, a soft sigh of content escaping him.

It seemed there was a greater meaning to her words. How he'd interpret it was his to decide, all in all Lysandra would provide the man a grand smile.

"Tomorrow we'll share a breakfast and, perhaps, I can give you a tour of the estate? Bring you to see the horses?" Pointedly she was avoiding the idea of him visiting her children.

Both because the kids were in a vulnerable state as was, but to involve a gentleman who's intentions were still unclear to Lysandra herself... It seemed best to keep those thoughts far at the back of her mind rather than drag him deeper into her family life merely based on a day and some hours worth of knowing him.

"Perhaps we'll even put you to work, if you fancy a bit of labor," her eyes twinkled with mischief.

"All of that sounds lovely, Lysandra. Though I'll admit I'm terrible when it comes to labour. To be totally honest, the only calluses my hands have ever known were from that of a sword. So unless you have someone that needs cutting, I fear I will be terribly useless as a laborer," he teased back, offering her a wink in response paired with that boyish smile.

"Awh, fret not dear. Labor for houseguests on the estate grounds includes a majority of time consuming tasks. Often the guests help me with my broodmares-- Cleaning them, feeding them, providing moral support as they're all officially pregnant..." Lysandra had simply guided the fellows hand to rest on her hips, providing him a more impish smile now paired with her lashes fluttering flirtatiously.

She felt like a teenager again, basking in the warmth of her beaus presence.

"Too there is aiding in collecting dinner itself. Often that follows after helping me with my horses, and after polishing the tack for riders who will be eventing in the next week. On more pressing matters, pheasant is on tomorrows evening menu I believe. Too, there are other gathering objectives for the meal in store for us," the woman then provided the gentleman a lavish smile, "Or you could stay here in this drab home and linger in your boredom waiting for the day to drag on?"

With a slight purr the maiden leaned toward Itraeis, tilting her head thus to bring her lips to the boys ear, "If you allow me, I plan to whip you into shape, darling."

Her claim was followed by a titter of a giggle and a well placed kiss to his earlobe.. To his neck... Then to his jaw, then his cheek. Just dotting, butterfly kisses. A great show of affection and the attempt to stir a reaction from him.

A shiver shot up Itraeis's spine as her whispered breath glided across his ear. The peppering of her affectionate kisses brought goose pimples to his skin and the hair on the back of his neck to stand on end.

"Well..." he said with a breathy tone, "...I suppose that does all sound rather fun. And if even a fraction of it is time spent with you I have to resoundingly agree to such terms."

Thrill and gratitude mingled within her mind ince she registered his original statement of agreeance, alas that bonding kiss seemed to only further seal the deal in the older nobles mind. All in all she'd manange a smile midst the kiss, soon to bring a hand upright to rest along the boys neck, her fingers gently curling along the back of his neck, dragging her nails up through his hair and back down in slow manners.. Just allowing her nails and finger pads to gently scrape across his scalp in a comforting gesture

The way her lips glided across his skin, from his ear to his neck. From his smooth jawline to his cheeks. The young lord Itraeis couldn't help but squirm some in his seat as he felt the stirring of his nethers begin from her affections... Alas, he was not one to act as a shy boy.

A hand rose up to cup her cheek so that the next kiss she made was firm against his lips, "I'll gladly let you whip me... into shape, that is." he remarked between breaths of their kiss.

Her lips molded against his own, her second hand gripping at the front of his garb. Between kisses-- that for her were becoming just a smidgen more  passionate -- Lysandra would murmur against his lips: "Then you are mine all of tomorrow, Lord Holt." 

How she lingered in their embrace... She was a fool to cling to being loved so tenderly by a younger man... Alas, she resonated and reassured herself that she so desperately needed the release and relief a mans touch provided. Already she was smiling more genuinely, not quite as angry or grief stricken... 

“Thank you,” she murmurs.

"It's my pleasure," he whispered in response amidst their kisses.

His breath became a touch more labored as his heart beat began to quicken. Excitement ran through his veins as a new lover's lips were against his own. He dared let his tongue slip free in that lusty manner. For a moment she'd hesitate midst their lip lock, her thoughts betraying her as concerns for what would come consumed... Alas, as his tongue broke beyond her lips and mingled against her own had the maiden simply.. Melted.

As her hands curled around the nape of his neck and played with his her, so too did the arm around her shoulder begin to curl long tresses of her hair around a finger. His free hand that still cupped her face offered a slight squeeze as he continued to pull her lips back against his own between breaths and words exchanged.

"An entire day with you... tomorrow... I greatly look forward too." he whispered back.

Instantly she was upon him, rolling her hips in the effort to guid her body upward, pressing a knee atop the cushion. She was a step away from straddling the man, and it was here she would fully hesitate, breaking their kiss ti murmur: "I assure you now... I'm not seeking to romp at this moment, Itraeis."

There was no definitive declaration that she would never lay with him. Just not now.

Despite so, once it was said, the maiden boldly settled herself on the boys lap, her cheeks flustered and eyes searching his for some sign of discomfort. Something to assure her insecurities that she had been reading things wrong this whole time.

"That's good to know, Lady Vanburen. For I'll have you know it takes more to convince me to relinquish my modesty!" he proclaimed with a playful smirk and a wink of his eyes, "You won't get me free of my pants on any less than a third date!"

A devious snicker escaped Itraeis at his own quip before his lips found hers once more. Truly they both knew he was the hunter here. And although his words were filled with the assurances that he was okay with her terms.

They could both feel his biology betray his words. He meant what he said, but that did not change that his body was flooded with desire. With the Lady Lysandra on his lap so, there was no way she wouldn't be very aware as well.

"Of course I won't pressure you, my dear Lysandra. My interest in you does not simply lie in your body."

With a little giggle the woman provided the fellow another kiss, whispering here: "It seems you've provided me with a goal, Lord Holt," before she'd knowingly roll her hips into his-- disguising the gesture as her attempt to draw herself to her feet.

"Oh have I now, My lady Lysandra?" he asked with a knowing smirk, "Well I'm always happy to indulge a challenge."

Of course, immediately his hands would wrap around her waist. Holding her down to stop her from rising to her feet, or so he believed her to be doing.

The instant she was anchored back down into his lap was the moment Lysnadras lips twisted into a massive grin, simply putty in his hand, sinking into his arms and against his body. Her arms carefully curled around the boy's shoulders, her nails of one hand curling and combing comfortingly through his hair.

"I assure you, Itraeis, I'm ever the competitive woman. The mere idea of a challenge thrills me," she'd muse, her lips delicately kissing along from the edge of his mouth down toward his neck, a trail of butterfly kisses left in the wake of her plush, soft lips.

Alas, as her lips came to his neck, she'd begin to nip and nibble at the flesh, careful so as not to harm him.

The poor boy was really no match for this woman. She knew exactly where and when to kiss, nibble, or deny him. He may have been the young buck seducing the cougar, but she was the one who could play him like a violin when she pleased.

Perhaps... he was actually out matched. But he'd never admit that, to her or himself.

"Well then..." he said in a quivering tone as her teeth grazed against the soft flesh of his neck. Once more his skin was dotted with goosebumps and a tingling sensation traveled through his left butt cheek. She had found one of his greater weaknesses. "...you're welcome to try... but I won't... concede so easily." he tried his best to speak the part.

But for every word he said in playful defiance, his body told a different story.

His one hand traveled up the length of her back. One tangled with her hair as if to humbly request she continue her efforts. The other traveled southward along her spine until it dared to take a grip upon her derrière.  And, of course, betwix his legs laid the hard shaft that surely, and unintentionally, prodded at the older lady.

He was no longer a boy, she was no longer his senior. Now Itraeis was only her current fixation, a thing - nay... A man which she so desired to touch... To feel.

Truthfully she wasn't seeking to wake the next morning intimately embraced with the boy, with naked limbs tangled and her bedroom a haphazard tornado being evidence of a romp bred from sexual frustration and genuine desire. No... She simply wished to feel his kisses and exploring hands making a map of her every curve. And quietly she'd express this to him, her words coaxing, suggestive:

"Touch me however... Familiarize yourself," her encouragement was followed by her teeth biting down on the tender spot she had found on his neck, alittle more aggressive in her kisses and suckling, aiming to apply a vicious red love mark in this place.

Too, she made it a point now to tease him so mercilessly, her hips shimmying in his lap, 'unintentionally' and innocently brushing against the stiffened portion of his trousers. A sleek, sly minx in this game of love that liked to play dirty.

"As you wish, Darling Lysandra," he whispered in response, for explore he did.

His hands traveled everywhere. Immediately following her words, his hands stopped what they were doing and found purchase on her ankles as she straddled, and teased, him. In unison they traveled up, along the length of her calves. Meeting the junction of her knee, he then traveled up farther along her thighs.

A firm pressure from each fingertip to feel and experience the tone of her legs. Clearly, a woman who rode horses as much as she, had legs as hard as stone. Once more his grip found her rear, as tight and as toned as any youth. Perhaps even more so.

From her rear, his hands traveled north along the the wide set of her hips down to her waist. His fingertips gave her a slight squeeze at the waist in a ticklish manner, testing to see if she were the sort to fall victim to such playfully torturous methods.

The backs of her knees, the patch of flesh beneath the ankle and before the foot itself...on both legs this caused violent tremors to rock throughout the woman's lithe figure. Too, the small area above her crotch and below her belly button proved especially sensitive, the curves of her sides, as well...

Even the hands clinging to his hair would tense and pull at the dark tresses, whimpering heard from her lips as she fought to compose herself.

Truthfully these shudders were that of a neglected woman, having gone long without a lover she was susceptible to being turn into jelly with the most casual of brushes.

She'd ultimately release his neck from her mouth, opting instead to reclaim his own lips for hers in a tongue twisting, deep lip lock. 

Her kiss caught him off guard for a brief second. The intensity of her desire pleased him, however. It played to both his sexuality and his ego. Each time her body shuddered from his touch, he'd make a note of the spot. A place for him to exploit in the future, if it ever got that far of course.

From her waist his hands traveled further upwards. His fingers touched each rib as though playing the ivory keys of a piano.

Eventually, his hands came to rest just underneath her bosom. His advance halted there for a moment, though he never stopped indulging in her passionate kiss, the pause alone a question in and of itself. Any further and he dared taking this exploration to a more intimate level than it had yet reached.

For a moment even Lysandra hesitated, breaking the kiss momentarily to unravel her hands from his hair and around his neck. Her hands would then collect his before applying a gentle kiss to his lips, murmuring against them,

"And that is second date constellation prize."

As she pulled away and denied him that ample bosom, Itraeis suddenly found himself a bit a flounder as he came back to more conscious senses. That primal lust no longer clouding his mind. He gave his head a quick shake and looked back up at her as she spoke. A tender smile now gracing his features as she spoke.

"Of course, Lysandra," he agreed, his hands returning to her waist.

Now that she was no longer locked at the lips was the moment she was able to freely marvel and admire the younger man.

A hand would reach across to caress one of Itraeis's cheeks, her eyes soft and carrying an expression of genuine mirth.

"Damn you for being so enticing. I've completely negated all sense of manners and proper etiquette.. I'm simply ashamed of myself," she'd chuckle halfheartedly.

"I promise, I won't tell if you don't," he replied with a wink, "No one shall know of how uncouth we act behind closed doors. That is something I'd keep close to the chest anyway. I'm not the type to kiss and tell."

Despite how the heat of the moment began to cool, Itraeis wasn't make any inclination as to willingly let her leave his lap just yet. Looking up at the woman as she looked back at him, he couldn't help but appreciate her beauty. Such refined grace and loveliness was still captivating to the young lord. He wanted nothing more than to let this moment continue indefinitely.

With a small smile the woman leaned forward, resting her forehead against Itraeis's, soaking in the closeness whilst her hands dropped to lay on his chest. "Are you the type to find, bed and disappear?"

Now she had leaned back once again, court trained eyes peering intently toward the fellow, awaiting his reaction and his words... Trying to find hesitation, a lie. As desperately as she desired to... She wasn't willing to get her hopes up with this wonderfully talented and enticing man.

"I've had a share of brief encounters, I won't lie," he admitted to her. It was a rather risky move on his end, to be so bold as to admit to his indiscretion.

"But I also can say with all honesty, I've never traveled across foreign countryside just to bed a fair maiden. You are worth more than cheap wine and easy tricks. You, Lady Lysandra Vanburen..." he spoke, a pause as a hand rose to stroke her cheek, "... you are a women I seek to hold close. Not just bed and vanish before the dawn. Yours is the face I would look forward to seeing in the morning many dawns over."

"Ever the charmer," she'd accuse gently, biting back the urge to jump his bone right then and there. Instead she'd nuzzle her nose against his own before brushing her lips over his, remarking in a hushed voice, "You'll have to forgive me overall... affections, alas, I'm overwhelmed. Essentially it's not a well enough excuse--," she'd quirk the corner of her lips up into a small smirk, nervously beginning to fiddle with the collar of his shirt, "But I... Well when you say things like that," she'd gently jab at his chest, "It gets me all riled up! So shame on you."

Awh, ever the one strong with the words.

"Does that paint me the villain? To manipulate you so. Shall I stop using such a silver tongue to tempt you, my darling Lysandra?" he asked with a playful mirth, "If that's the case. I can certainly stop such honeyed words in your ear. Perhaps my silver tongue could find a better use instead." he added with a wink.

Oh he was a daring one.

Though his hands remained on her hips, his lips now sought to pepper his own kisses against the soft skin of her neck. Even a few nips to return the gesture she offered moments prior.

"Perish the thought," she'd mewl sweetly, beginning to roll her hips into his once again, alas the gesture would simply be followed by the older woman aiming to lift herself from his lap, "If anything I'd prefer more for I am a vain little lady... Though there's alot more I'd desire from you," and with this she'd pause in her standing to remark, "Such as you just laying me flat out on this couch and ravishing me. Alas," smiling for a moment she'd draw off after murmuring, "Tides, what was I saying before..."

It seems his harmless little kisses and nibbles had caused a short spout of loss of memory, triggering a state of thoughtlessness -- unless her thoughts were how she could live in this moment forever.

He did his best to hide his frown, for he didn't want the moment to end either. But despite such devilish words, he did truly wish to earn her trust and genuine affections. Not simply play the seducer and leave her feeling regretful in the morning.

“You know, darling Lysandra, I could lay you down and ravish you whilst also singing your praises. If I were to take you so, you'd deserve everything your heart desires." he paused, leaning in to steal one last kiss, "and I aim to give you exactly that."

Mindfully the mother rose after indulging in final kisses from the fellow. Alas, she'd find it an appropriate time to part, taking a moment to adjust her blouse whilst wearing a small smile: "If you need anything, darling, the servants are prepared to wait on you-- My bed chambers are simply down the hall from your guestroom if during the night you require--," hesitating the woman remarks whilst smiling wrly, "Anything simply seek me out or inquire a servant."

"But of course, Lysandra," he accepted with a charming smile, flashing those pearly whites, "I'll try not to wake you unless absolutely necessary. Rest well."

With a bashful smile the woman promptly excused herself, turning atop her heels to exit the drawing room, instantly acquiring a servant and sending them in to collect Itraeis to locate his designated bedroom. After such, she quickly returned to sit with her babies. 

Itraeis watched her walk away the whole time.

“She has... A great ass..." he said wistfully to himself before letting out a great sigh and following the guide to his chambers for the night.

[shardclan]

A handful of light-born nobles had remarked to Telos that House Betelgeuse was wasteful and excessive given less than half the clan lived there. Often those same nobles would later throw a fit over their designated accomodations being little more than glorified kennels, and Telos would always raise her eyebrows and widen her eyes until her expression of innocent confusion was well into the territory of caricature, and say "My apologies; I understood your preference was for conservative, utilitarian living spaces."

They soon stopped remarking.

House Betelgeuse was absolutely too big, but it was precisely that ludicrous scale that allowed for dozens of large breeds to sail the upper chamber and walk the courtyard without any crowding. Add to that its being way up in the western cliffs away from the Summerlands and it was rare to see anyone who wasn't stomping around in full form. This made it very easy for Telos to identify Ranti. She sat cross-legged in her humanoid glamour, draped in silks the color of a steam gyre flying by night and sighing curious salmon-colored smoke courtesy of a beet molasses. And down below her cool gaze were Shekhinah and Faded, flaring at one another like angry capricats.

"A back row seat is prudent," the bogsneak warned. “Neither heed us now.”

Telos nodded faintly, and found herself a bit light-headed. Shekhinah almost certainly understood Faded's nature right away, because he wasn't forgetting that they were there when they phased out of his sight. And Faded was probably the only one for miles who had a good handle on what Shekhinah was, which made it either very relaxing or completely terrifying that they didn't like one another. 

"I think with Faded present it's time that this shyness about what you've been waiting for comes to an end."

Ranti hummed and smoke gushed from her nostrils. "Shyness is not, I think, the term. Sometimes you know a thing without knowing the true shape of it; as one knows a stray egg contains a hatchling but can never say what its appearance will be."

She gestured to the sky above the warring oddities. "There, something strained. You were not ready perhaps? It matters not. The birthing place of the Seat in the Sunbeam Ruins is neat and controlled. Covered and guarded by the portal within the Archmage's once-staff. But up there? A place it almost tore through. And now something else will come through."

Lutia unconsciously began to shrug off the extra layers of her cloaks, but Telos paused her with a tired wave that clearly said 'don't even bother'. “May I take by your calm that it’s not going to be a bad thing?”

“I cannot say. But if it cannot be brought to heel between Shekhinah and that one there we never had a chance anyway.”

Telos lips thinned, but she took a deep breath and sat beside Ranti. Lutia remained standing, and watching, but the Morning Queen had learned--gods had she learned--that sometimes things had to take their course and nothing but headaches came from fretting before they did.

It seemed she had only settled herself onto the grass when both the imperial and guardian suddenly stopped bickering. The air shimmered above them. It turned and twisted in a way that made Telos’ eyes itch. Where she had once seen nothing and felt nothing she was suddenly aware of a glaring fissure in the sky, cracked and hideous as an unhealed wound. A chill ran down her spine, and she caught both Lutia and Ranti stiffening on either side of her. They seemed expectant, but Telos felt a very particular kind of dread-- the one typically reserved for when you realize you’ve left a door unlocked through the night and you understand you were at the mercy of the indifferent universe while you slept in perfect, assumedly safe contentment through the night. 

Then there was light. Like a rising sun appearing in the sky right in front of them. Only when it had fully passed through did it reveal its true shape.

It was a pearl. Smooth and impossibly perfect for its size and so enticing in its light that could instill greed in the heart of even the most humble and charitable dragon only to blind them when they came too close. 

A creature came with it, but it was difficult to say if it was truly a pearlcatcher. It had four arms, two of which were held around the pearl by a shining chain. It also have four wings--each a creamy, translucent white-gold membrane. It had no eyes, and where they should be only a fluttering, glittering cloud of damselfly wings could be seen. It had no mouth. Merely a smooth jaw with no openings to be seen. It had horns, but they didn’t appear to be a pearlcatchers, or an imperials, or match any known species for that matter. 

This creature, whatever it was, fell from the gap with a sound like the entire sky sighing at once, right into Faded’s arms. And in an action that made Telos feel queasy and caused every hair on Lutia’s body to stand, they began to dance and coo with it as if it was some beloved offspring they had finally been blessed with. All the while Shekhinah trailed after them like a younger sibling demanding their fair turn with their elder’s toy. The attachment was instant and painfully obvious. 

But Faded wasn’t supposed to attach to anything. Their very nature was to go unremembered and to let no living thing sway them. Yet here they were; beyond happiness, beyond joy, and shooting past delighted like a star.

The fissure in the air took on a that sullen hue again, and both of them forgot their reverie. Despite the animosity between them only a moment ago, they stood close together, fangs bared as the sky seethed. Something else was coming, and this was not something welcome. 

Ranti’s pipe barely had time to hit the grass before she was up and running. 

Moyo used magic circles to bring the stones to life. An elder sister to both of them sang the stone to life. Their father had once chanted the stone to life, and others of their ancestry were well known to dance mountains into being. Ranti did not call on the stone in any of these capacities. She had prayed in the lonely dark below the Shatter Pillar, and the lost understandings had been given to her. 

She pressed two fingers to her lips and murmured an ancient word between them. With the power caught there, she traced her wish into the world, and what answered her was not mere stone. Around the murky edges of the ear in the veils, a pale blue cloud formed and thickened and solidified until it formed a  crust of crystal, pale but so clear it was nearly invisible.

Telos advanced, already intent on figuring out just how an Earth dragon could possibly call on something like celestine, but Lutia gripped her shoulder and tugged her back with enough force that it bowled the both of them over. 

“Don’t,” she said with such urgency that Telos couldn’t even be mad at the sudden outburst. “Look at it. It’s white.”

“Is that bad?”

Lutia hesitated, and her eyes flicked as she sought the words to explain. She had never expected to use them though they had been taught to her when she was young. It was supposed to be just a fable. Something that circuses and crooks crafted to scare Arcanites.

“It’s white celestine!” she finally cried.

“The original celestine,” Ranti added, cresting the hill and passing them by. She sat again at her hookah and pulled in deeply. “Created between gods of Ice and Earth who knew the Arcanites would destroy themselves as the Arcanist had if left to their own devices.”

She exhaled long and slow, her eyes distant, focused on something only she could see.  “It is celestine as it was designed to be. And it will kill you if you touch it.”

[ladyiceflame-blog]

An Inconvenient Wedding:

Chapter Eleven: Black and Silver

Akamaru couldn’t suppress a soft whine of ill-ease as the six genin closed in on the Tsuroyuni pavilion.  It smelled so....unhealthy. “I hear you, Akamaru,” Kiba sympathized, hugging his ninken closer to his chest, as he rode on the inside of his jacket.  “This place stinks.” Naruto sniffed the air experimentally.  There was a strange incense smell, but he couldn’t factor much beyond that.  But it was definitely creepy.  The main pavilion was made of some black material, which seemed to greedily swallow the lights of the braziers around its perimeter.   “Whoever this Tsuroyuni guy is, he has horrible taste in wedding decor!” Sakura whispered harshly.  “This looks more like a funeral.” Hinata shuddered.  “I...I believe that black is his clan color.  Even his....scrolls are made of black paper.” “Where do you see that?” Kiba asked. “...and how could you write anything on a black scroll?” Naruto demanded. “It was...in my father’s office...at home, Kiba-kun,” Hinata explained to her team mate.  “And the ink was silver....Naruto-kun,” she added, blushing. “The Tsuroyuni clan has long been steeped in matters macabre,” Shino informed. “It means, ‘creepy’, before you ask!” Sakura informed Naruto. “They were one of the founding clans of Kirigakure, and specialize in espionage...and some say, the occult,” Shino continued. “What...do you mean...?” Naruto demanded, sounding a bit rattled. “Oh...you know,” Sasuke smiled cruelly, knowing his team mate’s fear of all things eerie: “...ghosts, zombies, werewolves howling under a full moon....” “We like to howl at the full moon, don’t we, Akamaru?” Kiba smiled.  “Nothing wrong with that...” “I am also guilty of such a thing, but now is not the time,” Pakkun reproached, as they found a thick cluster of trees to hide amongst.  “We need to formulate a plan, based on what we can observe.  Those braziers fill my nose with a ridiculous scent that is obviously meant to confuse a ninken’s smelling ability.  This man already offends me.” “This whole wedding offends me!” Naruto growled back.  “What’s the point if no one even knows each other?” “Arranged marriages can be difficult,” Shino began, sagacious as ever, “...but are sometimes necessary to secure a sense of stability within a family.  Or a country.  The Aburame Clan has occasionally made overtures to families who were deemed worthy.” “How romantic,” Sakura huffed. “We don’t get out much,” Shino excused. “Some...some of my...cousins...were married that way,” Hinata came to the aid of her team mate. “Its something that the noble clans generally concern themselves with,” Sasuke added.  “It normally ends well enough.” “Well, ‘well enough’ will never be good enough for me!” Naruto swore, prompting Hinata to blush yet again. “My...my father...didn’t believe that Asaito-sama was good enough, either,” the shy Hyuga finally shared. “What?” Kiba demanded.  “Did Tsuroyuni propose to you, too?!” “No!” she rebuked, annoyed at the suggestion.  “My cousin....Hibani...” she resumed.  “He...wanted to marry her.  My father refused.” “On what grounds?” Sakura pressed. “He didn’t say,” Hinata admitted quietly.  “But, his refusal was...immediate.” “We have got to find out why,” Sasuke intoned gravely, steeling everyone’s resolve.  “Hinata, can you employ your Byakugan?  My Sharingan can’t see into the main tent.” Hinata focused, and tried to peer past the dark, shadowy material, to no avail. “I can’t see anything, either,” she admitted sadly.  “The cloth seems to be woven of some...strange chakra substance.” “Our noses are worthless here,” Kiba lamented.  “Akamaru and I will keep watch over the main path that leads here from the Frost encampment.” “I’ll guard the northeast, and use my insects to surround the camp,” Shino volunteered, as Hinata finished her scrutiny of the rest of the area. “There are guards in the other tents....and sitting around a fire-pit.  They look like they are eating supper, or sleeping, for the most part.” “Then this is the perfect time to strike,” Sasuke decided.  “When their guard is down.” “And the secrets lie inside that main tent,” Pakkun wagered.  “Team Seven, follow me.  Hinata, keep a sharp eye out here.”

Miriyume looked across to the complete stranger on the other side of the table, and silently wished that she had inherited her mother’s eyes instead.  Renara’s unique dojutsu could effortlessly see into the very core of a person...their inner thoughts, their hopes, their regrets....  It had been impossible to lie to her, growing up.   But Renara’s uncanny insight into a person’s soul had forced her to become somewhat reclusive.  In her words, prolonged exposure to ‘darker souls’ caused her mental, and even physical pain.  In remote Shimogakure, she was safe.  In the larger world beyond, she tended to suffer. Miriyume had noticed how her mother was trying to keep her focus on the Hokage, while her father was conducting most of the expected questions and replies with the groom, and that creepy-as-hell monk.  Renara ate and smiled, but this was clearly paining her. The Hokage seemed to realize this, too, and tried to catch her eye often.  He was such a compassionate man.  Her mother had often alluded to Sarutobi-sama’s soul as a brilliant sunrise: a life-sustaining manifestation of hope that never failed to strengthen those who were caught in its light. <“Just one more course, Mother,” she silently soothed.  “And then you can escape Asaito’s dark aura.”> “So...” Ryuumaru began, as he signaled for his dinner plate to be removed.  “How exactly did my darling little Stormfly catch your attention, Asaito-san?” Asaito looked taken aback.  “Was my poem not clear enough?” “Poem..?” the Shimokhan echoed in confusion. “The hundred and eight-line love poem that accompanied Asaito-sama’s letter of proposal....” Wakame reminded.  “Written on black parchment...in silver ink...?” “Oh, that poem!” Ryuumaru remembered.  “I....never had much of a head for those kind of things....” turning in desperation to his wife.  “Was it a good one?” “It was exquisite,” Miriyume recovered for her father, “In form and language, it ranks alongside the classical works from the Land of Ancestors, of which I am much enamored, but it is  perhaps a bit overly generous on the praise...” “Nonsense!” Asaito retorted sternly, catching Miriyume’s eyes fully within his own.  “In fact, I lament that I only had the clumsy medium of mere words to express how completely you have enchanted me, dear lady.” Despite the menacing tone, the pure ardor kept everyone intrigued.  Or was it his eyes?  Kakashi couldn’t be certain.... “I will never forget the day I first saw you....” Asaito continued, buoyed by everyone’s rapt attention. “Do tell,” Matsuko prompted after a beat of awestruck silence, “...for all of our edification.” “It was a beautiful spring day, not unlike today, in the Outer Whalebones Islands,” the bridegroom continued, standing up,  “I had committed one of my own fleet captains to the Water Daimyo’s cause of bringing down a notorious water baron, and had joined the crew to lend further assistance.” “I think I remember this....” Gekido began.  “...that bastard who called himself ‘Man-of-War,’....? “Correct,” Asaito acknowledged with a small nod.  “Our motley armada had closed in on the sea-faring tyrant, only to fall prey to his nefarious Labyrinth of Fog jutsu.  One by one, our ships were tricked into crashing into each other, or attacking our allies out of paranoid desperation.  Even my thermal vision dojutsu couldn’t pierce that infernal mist.  The bastard had turned our greater number suddenly against us, and we were at his cruel mercy....until....” He looked at Miriyume. “...the Storm Sage Priestess appeared, screaming her fury, and dispelling the mist.  I looked up from my wave-battered deck to see this....armored angel with thunderclad hair, and eyes like a tempest, perched on the prow of another ship a mere six paces away from my starboard side.  Had she not froze the water between our ships, the collision would have surly sunk us both. “Dressed for battle, her long hair swirling in the whirlwind of her heady, lightning-infused chakra, eyes containing every shade of color that ever existed, she was as a primordial goddess to me as she stood there. “With a gesture, you launched a blinding harpoon of electricity at the retreating tyrant’s ship, and brought down his main mast and rigging.  Then with a sweep of your arms, you directed the sea itself to turn your ship, the Freewind Star, toward our shared enemy, and renewed the hunt.  The Daimyo had him in custody only an hour later. “You spared my ship, saved my life, and stole my heart in a single moment, Miriyume-sama,” Asaito gave her a bow of respect.  “Please allow me the honor of spending the rest of my life thanking you.” The reverent hush that had stilled even Gekido’s tongue deeply disturbed Kakashi.  Kurenai had paled, and was blinking excessively.  Ryuumaru swallowed hard.  But nothing cut him as painfully deep as the look of glassy-eyed ardor on Miriyume’s face.  Had this silver-tongued, cold-cored man so completely enthralled her? Kakashi silently cursed the gods that had dealt him this fate.  Enduring this anguish.  Every fiber in his being was screaming out in protest of this union.  This marriage of hell and heaven.  How could something so foul ensnare someone so radiant?  His words were honey-coated poison, miring everyone’s ill-ease in a bog of amorous musings to which Asaito’s heart was utterly alien.  Why couldn’t anyone else see this?!?  Those kids had better find something solid enough to use as evidence...or he might have to revert to some of the tactics he employed during his Anbu days.... “Again, you are overly generous with your opinion of me,” Miriyume recovered, after a moment  “Our success that day was the result of all our efforts.” Ryuumaru, ever the doting father, chuckled at her persistent humility.  “My girl has always been overly humble when it comes to accepting compliments.” “But she makes up for it by being ridiculously eager in giving abuse,” Gekido quipped, “Which she did that day...” “...and many days since,” Matsuko added. “...and many more days to come, no doubt,” Hiruzen concluded, with a toast. “Perhaps a marriage to a noble clan can curb some of her hell-raising habits...” Oda mused aloud. There was a full five seconds of dead silence before the Shimogakurans all burst into laughter.  Even Renara was wiping away tears. “My daughter is called the ‘Storm Priestess’ for a variety of reasons, Oda-sama,” Renara returned.  “There has been nothing yet discovered that can quell her wild ways.  And nothing should seek to.” “Yes, well...” Oda tried to recover, “that’s what they all—“ A sharp sound and an alarmingly vicious glare from Lord Asaito cut the monk’s words completely off.  Oda even paled somewhat beneath his jaundiced pallor. “...and I certainly intend nothing of the kind, honored Heron Priestess,” Asaito’s harrowing aspect snapped back to geniality so fast that it nearly gave one whiplash.  “Miriyume’s spirit is a rare, wondrous bloom amidst a sea of bland flowers.  It would be the highest of crimes to wish to change her,” Asaito pledged. Oda was looking rather sullen at the moment, fielding a new tension between him and his lord.  What had he nearly let slip, Kakashi wondered? “I know that my own village of Konoha would feel immense pride to have such an accomplished kunoichi marry into its citizens,” Hiruzen smiled, in an attempt to lighten the darker mood.  “In fact, had I known that Miriyume-sama was considering proposals, we of the Land of Fire  would have provided Asaito-sama with some competition...” “First...you attempt to charm my wife, and now you’re going after my daughter, Hiruzen!?  You’re as bad as that trashy-romance writing Toad Sage!”  Ryuumaru playfully scolded. The Hokage blushed, as Kurenai stifled a laugh, badly. “That’s not what I meant!” Hiruzen snapped, as everyone else had a chuckle at his expense.  “I only meant that there are a number of single jonin in Konohagakure who would be very taken with Miriyume-sama’s charms, and I would have been in complete support of their attempts.”  He smiled tenderly at Miriyume for a moment, and sighed.  “For some strange reason, well beyond my humble understanding, I always thought that the daughter of my dear friend would have made her home in the Village Hidden in the Leaves.  At least, for a little while...” What was this?  The Philosopher of Konohagakure hinting at prophecy?  Hiruzen was well known as a ‘sensor type’ shinobi, capable of seeing what most could not.  Or was this merely wishful thinking out loud? “The world is my home, Hokage-sama,” Miriyume returned, as the last of the dinner plates were removed.  “Ever since Team Three of Shimogakure changed their name to the Wandering Lights Brigade, and took to the road all those years ago.” “Its gonna be strange,” Gekido smiled, “Setting up a home base on this island....” “We can have an actual library!” Miriyume smiled at him. “...and a Rock Garden!” Matsuko added. “So, you both intend on becoming citizens of the Land of Water?” Asaito asked Miriyume’s team mates. “Of course we do!” Gekido returned.  “We’re a team, aren’t we?” “Then you are aware of the fact that you will be ranked among the lowest caste of our society....?” Oda warned. “If it comes to that, I’ll not take offense,” Matsuko stoically replied. “I will!” Miriyume returned immediately.  Hotly.  Her chakra had flared so bright it made Kakashi wince.  “They are my equals, in all things, and will be accorded the same respect as I am....or I will not marry you!” The last was spoken with the full gravity of a sacred vow before the gods themselves, and drained all semblance of mirth and levity from the room. “To insult them, is to insult me,” Miriyume continued, her eyes growing painfully luminous, sparking visible lighting from the outer edges in response to her ire.  “They are my team...my friends...my kin....” her every word was a hot needle, stitching her feelings into all ears. A hard lump formed in Kakashi’s throat, as he regarded her stormy aspect.  This was The Bond.  The nigh mythical tie that bound only the most blessed of teams.  The bond that had been so cruelly sabotaged in his first team.  The bond he so desperately wanted to forge for his current students.  Had he known nothing else about Miriyume Yaseiarashi, this moment alone would have caused him to fall in complete love with her... He swallowed as he felt a tear well up in his left eye.  The eye that had belonged to the teacher of his most treasured lesson. Reflexively, he covered the Sharingan, and his emotions. All was silent.  Even the wait staff were holding themselves back from intruding on the tense moment that had followed Miriyume’s proclamation.  Was this farce finally at an end?  Would the legendary solidarity of the Wandering Lights Brigade spare him the hell of tomorrow? “I had expected as much,” Asaito smiled, “After receiving all the reports on your...various adventures throughout the Land of Water.  You are undoubtedly devoted to one another, and I have  planned for this. “I have commissioned a small manse to be built on the grounds of my estate, big enough for two grown men....and a large dog, to live quite comfortably.  Miriyume will have different lodgings, of course, but I have always wanted the Brigade to feel completely welcome, and granted the highest respect my Prefecture can offer.” “Then...we’re still on for tomorrow,” Miriyume’s frightening ire ebbed away, to be replaced with her diplomatic poise, as she sipped her wine. Ryuumaru and Wakame sighed in relief.  Hiruzen resumed regular breathing.  Kakashi nearly sobbed. “Allow me to apologize if I did not clarify Lady Ice Flame’s unyielding position regarding the inclusion of her team mates, Oda-sama,” Wakame stood, and formally bowed her apology to the monk as the wait staff set bowls of vanilla bean ice cream in front of the diners.  “I was careless, trusting that their particular fame would have enough to signal their desire to remain together.” “Your oversight is forgiven, Wakame-san,” Oda returned, as a splendidly attired cooking-nin and an assistant bearing a large bowl filled with sliced apples, a shaker of powdered cinnamon, and a bottle of brandy on a cart entered.  “My Lord had once again seen and provided for what I have failed to.” “Well,” Ryuumaru segued, “We’re all on the same page, now, so let’s not belabor the misunderstanding with blame.  Dessert looks ready to serve, and we’ve got a party to get to....” “Yes!” Gekido picked up on the Shimokhan’s lead.  “We’ve got to give our girl a proper send-off!” “Must keep with tradition,” Matsuko seconded, as the head chef lit the brandy-doused apples with a fire jutsu, nearly torching his assistant in the process. “Speaking thusly,” Wakame began, as everyone watched the serving of dessert in mild alarm, “I understand that the Lord Asaito will be taking a vigil tonight, but, would he be willing to join us for the Father’s Toast, at least?” All eyes regarded Asaito, as he lowered his head, causing the uneven locks of his raven hair to conceal his pale face and burgundy eyes for a moment. “I regret that my own traditions prevent me, Wakame-san,” Asaito smiled.  “The men in my family have always spent the night before their weddings in deep meditation, to focus the mind and spirit for union.  And I believe that I will need every ounce of spiritual strength to even hope to do proper justice to my bride.” “Hmm....” Ryuumaru mused aloud, as he savored his first, and highly anticipated, bite of flambeed apples, “Those of Shimogakure tend to lean in another direction, regarding the groom’s mental state.” Hiruzen gave a sudden bark of laughter that made his honor guard jump.  “‘Lean’ is an apt word, Ryuu-kun!  If memory serves me, and it does far too well, you nearly required crutches to stand at your own wedding alter!” “In my defense, ‘Sake reveals the true heart,’” quoting a well-known adage.  “And my heart was never truer than on that day,” turning to his wife and kissing her cheek. Miriyume smiled brightly.  Hiruzen sighed in defeat.  Kakashi regarded Miriyume. “Aww...” Gekido cooed, feigning teary-eyed sentimentality.  Miriyume lifted a piece of ice-cream soaked brandied apple toward him, then let it fall into Aoseishin’s open mouth at the last second.  Matsuko laughed. “And I fervently wish that my daughter’s heart will be as true at her own wedding,” Renara added, then gave Kakashi a subtle glance and smile. Kakashi blushed at the enigmatic woman’s attention.  Was she being cruel....or conspiratorial? Back at the Tsuroyuni camp, three genin and a well-seasoned ninken had managed to slip inside the main pavilion, and were perusing its interior.  Despite the warm, fresh spring air outside, the climate beyond the inky curtains was stale, preternaturally cold, and redolent of decay. “Is he farming mushrooms in here?” Naruto complained, suppressing the urge to shiver. “It is cold in here,” Sakura agreed.  “Too cold.  Almost like a cave.” “Or a morgue,” Sasuke added, as they inspected a curtained-off chamber containing four empty sleeping cots.  “There doesn’t seem to be anyone in here.  Anyone living, that is....” “Did you find a dead person?!?” Naruto demanded, trembling. “We might, if you three keep yapping instead of searching....” Pakkun warned.  “Let’s hurry up and find something useful.  It feels as if this place has eyes...” “What do you mean, ‘eyes’...?” Naruto fretted, slightly quieter, as they parted another shroud-like curtain, and crossed into a new chamber.  This one looked like a study, full of ebony scroll-racks and a small desk.  In the far corner was a lone cot. “Whoever this person is, they like to read,” Pakkun commented, ignoring Naruto’s question, and crossing to the cot, sniffing the bed clothes, “...and use a disgusting unguent...” Sakura wrinkled her nose in agreement, as she moved closer, “This is that monk’s room.  He reeked of the stuff.” “It’s very off-putting,” Pakkun continued, taking a moment to scratch behind an ear.  “It almost wants to make me stop breathing–like the incense from those braziers outside.  Very suspicious, too, such a deliberate attempt to thwart my nose.” “Maybe he doesn’t like dogs,” Naruto offered, as he examined the ink well on the desk.  Silver ink. “Then there is something horribly wrong with this man!” Pakkun fired back angrily.  “Only deeply evil people don’t like dogs,” he declared, as he watched as Sasuke reached for one of the many of the dozens of scrolls.  Black scrolls. With a flick of his wrist, Sasuke unfurled the dark parchment, causing a cloud of dust to appear. Sakura and Pakkun moved back to avoid breathing it in.  Naruto didn’t.  Sakura’s finger was suddenly lodged beneath Naruto’s nose, cutting off the sneeze that would have surely resulted. “What did you find, Sasuke-san?” Pakkun asked, as the boy’s eyes angrily scanned the dark page, absorbing every detail with his Sharingan. “This is a roster of the Uchiha Clan, but it only mentions the women.” Sakura released her hold on Naruto’s nose, and moved to regard the scroll.  Silver ink on black parchment... “Why have some names been circled and crossed out?” she asked. “No idea,” Sasuke admitted.  “The closest in relation to me that have been marked is a cousin on my Mother’s side...who was a little older than...” he paused a moment, then forced the next words out: “...my brother.  The next closest is a great aunt who died long before–“ ”A cousin...” Naruto repeated, following a muffled sneeze.  “Like Hinata’s cousin...?  Like she mentioned earlier?” “What are you muttering about?” Sasuke snapped, clearly on edge about the sensitive information in his hand. Sakura’s eyes registered Naruto’s train of thought, “Sasuke-kun....this is silver ink...on black paper....like Hinata described....” Sasuke’s eyes flashed red, making the connection.  He scanned the other scroll cases.  “Look for the Hyuga Clan seal...” “Here!” Naruto announced, taking the scroll and unfurling it.   “All the women again...” Sakura observed. “But almost all are circled,” Sasuke continued.  “From both the main and branch houses.  In fact, the only ones who aren’t circled are women who married into the family.” “They wouldn’t have the Byakugan,” Pakkun noted. “Most of them have been crossed out as well,” Sakura related, as suddenly recognized a name.  “Look, there’s Hibani!  Crossed out.” Sasuke’s eyes narrowed dangerously.  “But look who’s circled, and not crossed out....” Sakura gasped, as she followed Sasuke’s finger.  Naruto looked. “Hinata...” Naruto intoned. “This monk seems awfully interested in the maternal genealogy of people,” Pakkun growled.  “There are scrolls from all over in here.”  The ninken stopped to examine the mon of a low-racked scroll.  “This is the mark of the Kamizuru clan, from Iwagakure...” “Are there any more from the Leaf?” Sasuke asked. “This one looks familiar...” Naruto suggested, pointing to a scroll. “That’s the Senju crest!” Sakura easily recognized.  “And the Yamanaka, the Aburame....Nara...” “Yaseiarashi....” Pakkun called out, before plucking it from the shelf.  He nosed it open on the floor, as the genin crowed around. It was a small lineage, it seemed.  Only a handful of women were listed.  One was Renara.  Circled, crossed out.  One was Miriyume.  Circled.  Circled again. “It would seem that Asaito has been very meticulous in his selection process,” Pakkun deducted.  “Seems a bit overdone, though.” “But why is someone like Hinata circled?” Sakura posited.  “She’s way too young to even be in contention for a man like him!” “I don’t like this,” Sasuke announced.  “This is sensitive information.  We should destroy it. At least, the scrolls concerning the Leaf Village.” “Ordinarily I would agree with you,” Pakkun returned.  “But that action would prove that someone was here, and Kakashi said to take no risks in getting caught.” “Actually, what he said was, ‘Don’t get caught,’” Naruto amended. “...which entails using the first Rule of Espionage: Leave no trace,” the pug retorted.  “Now, roll all these up and put them back where we found them.” Sasuke huffed, but did as advised.  Naruto began to roll up the Yaseiarashi one, and suddenly stopped, regarding an entry. “Hurry up, Naruto!” Sakura urged, moving to assist him.  His wide eyes were fixed on something.  “What....?” She followed his gaze, and gasped softly. Uzumaki.....Renara! “She’s....my....” Naruto began, hardly able to form words. “Blood relation!” Sakura finished for him. Sasuke scoffed.  “Figures.  She’s almost as ridiculous as you are...” “Sasuke!” Sakura chided, but laughed a little.  “You know...I can kind of see a little of the resemblance, now that I think about it.” Naruto smiled and even blushed a little. “But you’re still goofier than she’s ever been, I am certain!” Sakura ended. “Enough!” Pakkun barked.   “Let’s keep moving.” Once the scrolls were all replaced, they parted another, thicker curtain, and found themselves in a pitch black, shockingly cold space.  Sakura began to rummage in her ninja pouch for a flashlight. “Ugh...its too cold in here,” Naruto whispered harshly.  “Did we just find a freezer?” “No.  A bedroom,” Pakkun returned, as Sakura’s flashlight cast a ray of illumination on an ornate, iron, four-postered bed.   Sakura gasped, and instantly clutched at Sasuke, who winced slightly from the minor pain she had inadvertently caused his arm.  Naruto also glomped onto the reassuring huddle, and the flashlight fell at their feet.  As it rolled away, its light passed over a few more pieces of equally uncomfortable furnishings, until it stopped on a large, rectangular object, opposite the bed.  It seemed to be made of some coal-black wood, and carved with a riot of ‘unwholesome’ designs involving captive maidens, sadistic demons, and lustful beasts. Sakura averted her eyes.  Naruto openly gawked.  Pakkun and Sasuke took it in with their own brands of stoicism. “Its like something out of a horror movie!” Sakura accused.  “Is the Lady Ice Flame going to be some kind of sacrifice in some weird ritual?” “I’ve seen enough,” Sasuke announced disgustedly, moving back toward the curtain-door that they had just stepped through.  “I’m going to regroup with the others, and see if they found anything.” Pakkun huffed, letting the boy go.  He knew full well why the Uchiha had excused himself.  His clan compound had become a rather cold and forbidding place since that horrible massacre.  He couldn’t blame him for being uncomfortable here. “I don’t see any blood stains,” Naruto reported, as he dared to inspect the strange piece closer.  The bas-relief of a woman and a squid....locked in a passionate embrace made him turn bright red, and bleed a little out of his nose. “Its not blood that the Tsuroyuni Clan craves, child,” came a soft, sibilant voice from the shadows behind them, startling them all.  “Their tastes are much more....refined.”  The same voice was now on top of a grim-looking wardrobe. Sakura and Naruto both drew kunai knives. “Show yourself, coward,” Pakkun demanded, upset with himself for not sensing the new presence. “If I were a coward, I would have just kept watching you bumble about from the shadows...” replied the voice, as a black cat, wearing a metal-plate collar, padded into the flashlight’s beam.  Her bright, golden eyes seemed to carry a smile, “....clumsy ninken.” The ninekko’s insult was too much.  Pakkun barked and lunged, propelled by deep-rooted, natural animosities.   “Pakkun!  No!” Sakura pleaded, hardly believing what was happening.  Wasn’t Kakashi-sensei’s ninken supposed to be the calm, level-headed one?!? Outside, Sasuke had chosen to find Shino first, out of a desire for clear-headed intel.  He wasn’t disappointed. The spying beetles had been deployed, and had heard a tremendous amount of gossip amongst the guards, and it all indicated a deep sense of communal fear and loathing for their employer. “One man even expressed a desire for this Lord Asaito to die, to be rid of the clan for good,” Shino reported.  “Although he was reprimanded for airing such an opinion, no one seemed to disagree.  The monk seems to be equally reviled.” “How can one surround themselves with such an apathetic group of guards?” Sasuke openly wondered. “Because of what all odious people of power come to rely upon: hired muscle,” Shino answered.  “If the pay is good, mercenaries can tolerate all manner of abuse and atrocity.  And these men are paid well.” The sound of a dog barking ended their conversation abruptly. “That was not Akamaru....” Shino immediately deducted. “Crap...” Sasuke muttered, springing into motion. Naruto had used his well-practiced, yet poorly thought out, cat-catching technique of ‘pounce-and-grapple’.  The ninneko was incensed enough to claw his cheek before teleporting a small distance away in a cloud of gray smoke. “How dare you grab me!” the ninneko hissed, “After I shared information with you!?  Perhaps you’re not as helpful as the Mistress thought!” “‘Mistress’?” Sakura picked up.  “You mean, you don’t belong to Lord Asaito?” The ninneko made a wretching noise, obviously insulted.  “I don’t belong to anyone!  And least of all....Asaito Tsuroyuni!  My Mistress and I have a contract, because she’s interesting.  And has good food...and fluffy blankets...” “So, you’re a spy....?” Pakkun demanded, having composed himself. “Just as you are,” the ninneko replied back, as she delicately washed behind an ebon ear.  “Although....I’m a better one, for Yonome is never caught.  Farewell, fools!” She then slipped out of sight, like the shadows that seemed to cling to her, just as a trio of Tsuroyuni guards burst into the tent chamber. “How’d you get in here?!” a particularly burly one demanded, grabbing hold of Naruto, as the other two pounced on Sakura and Pakkun. “Uh...um....” Naruto floundered for an excuse, squirming in the guard’s iron grip, “I...was...chasing after my dog!  He ran in here, and I got lost...” “And why are you here?” the guard holding Sakura continued, as he rather noticeably shied away from standing too close to the strange alter. “Because I was chasing him!” she raged.  Kakashi-sensei was going to be furious!  At least Sasuke had escaped. “Sounds fishy,” the guard holding Pakkun by the scruff of his neck commented.  “Why would a dog willing run into this tent?” shuddering slightly in the dim light provided by Sakura’s flashlight. “Good question,” came another voice, from the other side of the room.  “But a better question is how did it escape the notice of you, and the rest of that sorry lot outside?” A tall, dark figure, as tall and muscled as Zabuza had been, stepped out of the cold, deep shadows.  Much in the same way the ninneko had. He wore the same sooty-hued armor as the others, but surmounted by a long, black, hooded cloak.  His eyes were onyx pits, and his mouth was a little more than a sober slit, devoid of any warmth or emotion. “Who are you...?” Sakura’s captor asked nervously. “I’m the guard our Lord assigned to secure this sanctum, knowing full well that you morons wouldn’t be enough to ensure its safety,” he replied gruffly, taking Pakkun out of the guard’s hand, and holding him up to his own eyes.   Pakkun actually cowered and whined plaintively. “Pakkun...?” Naruto called out in concern.  “Put him down!” he raged. “I hope your mutt is well-worth the punishment you’ll be receiving from your Village’s own hands, little shinobi,” the dark guard warned, as he shoved the dog into Naruto’s arms, then grabbed the two genin roughly by the collars, and began to march them outside.  “Not to mention the little abuses I will inflict on the way there...” Out of genuine shock and dismay, Naruto and Sakura went along without much resistance.  Had this man seen all that they had done?  Pakkun’s nose was useless! “So, they’re not spies?  Or thieves?” one of the guards, the highest ranked, probably, pressed as he followed the procession to the edge of the campsite. “It was as they said,” the dark guard assured.  “The dog snuck in, and they followed.  No real harm done, unless we’re talking about your reputations...” scowling back at the unwanted escort.  “I’ve half a mind to tell Lord Asaito all about your incompetence, get you all fired.  Or worse...” The trio of guards, and the few who were brave enough to be curious all paled at the last part of the dark guard’s theat. “But being as how this has all been so absurd, and our Lord had much more....pleasant business at hand, I’m willing to remain silent to preserve all of our integrity.  Agreed?” Everyone nodded.  Many swallowed hard, and looked skyward in gratitude.  Asaito’s rage was apparently the stuff of nightmares.

“Let me go!” Naruto demanded, as he struggled against the man’s unrelenting grip on his turtleneck collar.  “I just wanted to get my dog back!” The dark guard gave a soft chuckle.  “We both know that’s not true....” Sakura screamed.  “You’re hurting me!” as the man steered her forward with a handful of her pink hair. “You bully!” Naruto seethed, as he attempted to begin the hand jutsu that gave him ludicrous back-up.  Pakkun wasn’t helping.  The ninken bit him, forcing Naruto to drop the dog, and the guard came to a stop. He turned both his captives to face him, giving each a withering scowl. “‘I lost my dog’?  Was that seriously the best cover you could come up with?”  A familiar, mocking tone had crept into the man’s voice, as he released his hold on them. “You...?  You’re not a...guard?” Sakura puzzled out aloud.  “You aren’t turning us in?” “I should,” the man crowed, “But, since our sensei is so keen on improving our teamwork...” Sakura’s smile of relief quickly reverted to alarm as a ball of feral rage slammed into their cunningly disguised team mate. “Kiba, no!” she screamed, as the Inuzuka stood proudly over his body-slammed target, dusting his hands.  Hinata and Shino quickly closed in. “Why are you complaining, Sakura?” Shino demanded.  “We were only trying to assist....” “Where’s Sasuke?” Kiba asked.  Akamaru informed him with a soft whine.  “Oh,” the feral boy acknowledged with a blush, stepping away from his victim. “Yeah!  Where is that good-for-nothing deserter?!” Naruto demanded. “Right here, you moron!” the dark guard sat up from his sprawled landing, and wiped away the blood from the minor cut on his lip.  Sasuke then dispelled his Doppleganger jutsu, and stood.  “I don’t abandon my missions.” “Oh, Sasuke-kun, you were brilliant!” Sakura gushed, as she pressed a medicated gauze patch to his cut lip.  “You scared Asaito’s guards absolutely silent!” “Why’d you bite me?” Naruto demanded of Pakkun, as he sucked on his bitten finger.  Hinata attempted to examine his hand. “Because you would have ruined the illusion that Sasuke-san had created to ensure the guards’ silence!” Pakkun huffed. “So you knew it was Sasuke-kun all along?” Sakura asked. “Of course!” Pakkun returned.  “My nose is the best out of Kakashi-san’s pack!  And I could read his intentions well enough.  A truly gifted ninja is a master of guile as well as stealth.” “Speaking of stealth,” Shino spoke up, “Why was it that you started barking?” Pakkun had enough decency to look a little ashamed as he considered his reply. “Because he saw a cat!” Naruto blurted, as Hinata succeeded in wrapping his hand in a bandage. Kiba laughed.  Akamaru growled in sympathy. “But not just any cat,” Sakura defended.  “It was a talking cat, who moved in the shadows like a fish moves through water.” “A ninneko?” Sasuke sighed.  “So, our mission’s secrecy has been compromised after all,” he fumed, kicking at the loamy trail in frustration. “No, I don’t believe so,” Pakkun countered.  “The cat was also a spy, for some unknown woman, who also seems to suspect Asaito of bad intentions.” “....and considers us as allies, to some degree,” Sakura added.  “So there must be someone else among these guests who thinks that this wedding is a bad idea.  Kaka-sensei will be so relieved.” Kiba scratched the back of his head, and smiled in smug satisfaction. “Kurenai-sensei had been skimming your teacher’s thoughts lately, out of a growing concern for his...excessive oddness.  She says its been...interesting,” the Inuzuka smiled. “Interesting how...?” Naruto pressed. “Interesting in how uncharacteristic it is for Kakashi-sensei to be so swayed by his emotions,” Shino provided.  “In fact, Kurenai-sensei has said that she has never known him to be so emotionally transparent as he’s become since arriving here.  It troubles her....and the Hokage.” “Well, you can just tell them that there’s nothing to be worried about,” Naruto defended.  “He just wants Lady Priestess Knock-Out to be safe, is all.” “I think it goes a little deeper than that,” Kiba smiled, glancing over at his Hyuga team mate.  “Hinata-chan knows what I’m talking about....” giving her a playful wink.  Hinata’s cheeks flushed an immediate crimson, since she’d been caught staring at Naruto again. “Knows what?” Naruto asked, utterly lost.

[kingdomvale]

Ballek of Hobb’s End

The tale of Ballek of Hobbs end.  

Ballek was a gambler and down on his luck.  After being involved in several strange and wonderful adventures he found himself on the wrong end of the King’s good justice and also deeply in debt to a local usurer of some power within the money lenders guild.  More importantly, Ballek had run a-foul  of Harbis Klormin, a half elf and the leader of the thieves guild of Dunwich.  Needless to say, Ballek found himself in need of a vacation as quickly as possible and fled from the temperate south to the highlands on the borders of the old forest.

It did not take long before Ballek found himself following a large winding river into the unknown hills.  After a brief encounter with a young hill giantess named Gressa(to whom he professed his undying love and promised to wed).  Gressa had agreed that Ballek could leave for a year and a day so that he  could gather sufficient wealth to keep her in grand fashion (and provide her all the mutton she could eat).  As Ballek made his way up the river he was surprised one morning to find the sun reflecting off a beautiful lake of enormous size.  Though he could see the far bank well enough the end of the lake disappeared across the horizon and appeared to be swallowing the sun.  

Ballek blessed his luck and journeyed along the lake until he found a large tree that hung over the water.  He could see from the branches of the tree and abundance of fish glistening like silver in the water.  With little effort he caught several fish using his cloak like a net to scoop them from the lake.  Ballek sat down to a grand breakfast which he ate as if he were starving (which technically he was having not eaten in almost a week).  Having his fill of fish and clear water, Ballek wished only that he may have a little wine, some cheese and perhaps toasted bread.  You see, Ballek was the kind of man who is never satisfied even when he has a good thing he wishes for more or better.

As Ballek wandered along the western bank of the lake he wished that he had a place to rest.  He also wished for a fire to warm himself or better a soft bed and a roof over his head so that need not sleep out under the stars.  No sooner than he wished this a voice came from near the edge of the water.

“there is a fine camp only a few miles ahead” said the voice.

Ballek was taken aback for he had believed himself alone on the shore of the lake.  

“Thank you kindly” he replied.  

Ballek looked up and down the shore searching for the source of the voice. Seeing no one he cast his gaze inland to the forest and again could see no other person.  Shrugging he began walking again and whistling to keep his courage up.  Before long, Ballek had all but forgotten the voice.  He sang and laughed and tossed stones into the lake as he wandered further north.  Eventually he became hungry again and said aloud.

“If only I had something to eat on this lovely day”

No sooner had the words left his mouth than he saw ahead a small table and chair sitting on a large rock that jutted out into the lake.  The table was covered with a fine red cloth and on it was spread a meal of bread with butter and honey, roasted chicken, and a silver goblet full of golden mead.  

Ballek stared in amazement, but remembered his manners.  He had heard tales of the fey folk who would entertain lonely wanderers only to turn on them when offended by the slightest word or misdeed of their guest.  

“This is indeed a fine table and fare suitable for a king.  I give my heartiest thanks to you and yours”  He said politely as he approached the table. “There is but one thing that could make this feast better.”  Bellek mused.

At this the same voice as before was heard  “what is  it that could improve the meal I have provided?”

Though the words rang clear and sweet as a bell, Ballek felt he could sense that he may have insulted his host.  “Why nothing could improve this fine meal, but I have wandered long and lonely and would love some company as I eat.  I hate to ask but I would be most deeply honored if you would join me that I may share your company and thank you personally for your generosity”

With that, Ballek glanced out the corner of his eyes toward the forest. Ballek knew that you could not see faerie folk if you looked directly at them unless they wished to be seen. Looking away he did not see the beautiful maiden as she emerged from the water and was shocked and flustered to see her standing beside the table when he looked back to his meal.

“Do I frighten you?” she asked.

“No, not at all sweet maiden.  I was merely stunned for a moment by your beauty.”  Ballek was used to uttering such pleasantries in order to charm his way into the hearts of women, but rarely had he been so honest.  The maiden was gorgeous long of limb with hair the color of flax and brilliant eyes that shimmered blue like the sky.  

I need not go further into the details of that meal on the rock, but the two were great company for hours and hours until the sun began to sink behind the mountains to the west.  Ballek offered to build a fire and stay with the maiden through the night, but she insisted that she must be away.  

��No, I insist.” Ballek exclaimed and quickly began gathering wood and building a pile of sticks for a fire on the rocky shore.  The maiden watched bemused as Ballek tried his hand at starting a fire with the damp wood.  He had just given up when of its own accord the fire sprang to life.  He stared at the burning wood wondering how it had suddenly caught light when he heard a small splash in the water.  The maiden was gone.

Ballek was no fool and prided himself on his memory of tales of wonder told by grandmothers around evening fires.  He knew of selkies and the mischief that they could bring to men who were foolish enough to fall in love with them.  But this night he did not care, he sat with his back to the fire and watched the waters until sleep took him.

The next morning beside the cold ashes of the fire he cursed his stupidity, but only quietly so that no one could hear him.  He was sore and stiff from sleeping on the stony shore.  What was worse, the table and food from yesterday were gone and there were no fish to be found in the water.  Everything was oddly silent and a thick fog hung over the lake.  

Resigning himself to no breakfast and a dreary day, Ballek continued north toward where the maiden had told him a hunting camp could be found.  He wished for sun, for the fog to lift, and for something to eat.  It was at this last wish that he noticed a change in the sound of the waves lapping against the shore.  He looked to the loch but could see no more than a few yards due to the fog.  A chill that was more than the bleak cold of morning grew in him.  There was something in the lake and it was close and large.  

Ballek thought to head further into land when he noticed that the banks of the loch had grown into steep cliffs.  The climb would be perilous and returning south pointless.  Ballek had no choice but to continue north along the shore. The beach grew more and more narrow, until he found himself walking in shallow water with one hand braced on the cliff wall.  The water made strange sucking sounds as the gentle waves lapped at his ankles.  He had almost resigned himself to death when he saw a group of men far ahead on the shore.  They were casting nets into the water and he cried out to them.  As he did, there was a mighty splash behind him. Without thought, Ballek raced ahead as if pursued by a demon.

The men were nobles from the hunting camp.  The welcomed the lost wanderer and offered him food and drink. It was only after he was safe and warm that they mentioned the giant shadowy shape that had loomed behind him in the fog. He had been within striking distance of a beastie that they called Cryssy after the name of the loch. Ballek thanked the gods for their blessings as he sat warm, happy and well fed for the first time in months.  That is until the Usurer from Hobbs End joined him at the meal.  Later that day he danced on air watching the sun dip low beyond the mountains, as he was hung to death for his indiscretions.  Some say that they heard a woman crying somewhere off shore as his body hung limp in the breeze.

[consciousowl]

How to Find Unconditional Joy

Participate joyfully in the sorrows of the world.

We cannot cure the world of sorrows,

But we can choose to live joyfully.

Joseph Campbell

In April 2015, two extraordinary spiritual and political world leaders met in Dharamsala, home of the Nation of Tibet in Exile, led by His Holiness, the Dalai Lama. Archbishop Desmond Tutu, who, along with Nelson Mandela, led South Africa out of decades of bitter apartheid, flew all the way to Dharamsala in Northern India to honor his close friend on the Dalai Lama’s 80th birthday.

Most of both men’s lives were spent fighting oppression and alienation. The Dalai Lama had lost his country when the Chinese invaded it, destroying thousands of monasteries and killing over a million people.

Bishop Tutu struggled under a virulent form of racism that subjected the majority population of Black people to permanent status as marginalized, third-class citizens in their own country.

Both men forgave their enemies to a truly remarkable degree. While Nelson Mandela won freedom for Black people throughout South Africa, the Dalai Lama failed, despite decades of effort, to free Tibet. Despite all this, the Dalai Lama has successfully recreated his nation outside Tibet, becoming a global citizen and making Tibetan Buddhism a household word. No one alive today is more popular or holds greater influence.

Spending a week together, both leaders exhibited a playfulness and exuberant joy rarely seen anytime, anywhere. They constantly teased each other, literally dancing around in their advanced years. They shared their secret to the world in YouTube videos, as well as in The Book of Joy, by Douglas Abrams.​

What the Dalai Lama and Bishop Tutu Want to Share with the World

Both luminaries have constantly emphasized that true joy does not depend upon circumstances, but is, rather, a deliberate choice.

Joy is our natural condition. Life is a precious gift. People are more good than evil. There is no one out there beyond the need for, and the power of, forgiveness.

Your well-being is not totally dependent upon what is out there. It is achievable through inner growth and discipline. Joy is always in the moment. It is always waiting there for us as we learn to let go. While Desmund Tutu believes in God and the Dalai Lama practices kindness as a religion, they both share Mahatma Gandhi’s view that the arc of the moral universe is long, but it bends towards justice.

Humor is redemptive. No situation, how grim, even climate change, is above wit and laughter. Bishop Tutu believes that God is giving us a practical education in divinity by forcing us to spread our wings and fly. Making it too easy for all of us would have been a severe disservice to humanity.

Beyond Happiness: Cultivating Inner Bliss

Most of us continually seek happiness, and cannot but hope that things work out according to our own agenda, that we get our way all the time, that we control our destiny with a snap of the fingers. When we undergo a series of setbacks and reversals, we begin to doubt ourselves, and our dreams.

The word “happiness” implies happenstance, favorable circumstances. If we only get a break, then it will be all right. Happiness is usually measurable in terms of dollars and cents. Power, fame, wealth and romance sum it all up for most of us. Some of us even cherish the feeling that money is god, the next best thing to happiness, itself.

Inner bliss is on the level of our very being. Life, itself, even in the midst of pain and suffering, is an incomparable celebration. We are ultimately privileged to be here and hold a vital role in this time-bound stage. This is the final mark of a saint. As Saint Peter put it, “Joy unspeakable and full of glory.”​

What Is Unconditional Joy?

Unconditional joy is the mark of profound transformation and enlightenment. It floods every cell of our body. As Jesus Christ put it in the Gospel of John, “Out of his innermost being shall flow rivers of living water.” As Saint Paul put it, “Love, joy and peace are the fruit of the Spirit,” of divine consciousness. When you partake of that consciousness, you cannot NOT feel boundless joy.

Today, we are beginning to realize that no spiritual tradition has a monopoly on it. The Dalai Lama and Archbishop Tutu are from very different paths, but they are far more alike than different. There is no one and nothing to stop their love, joy and peace.

When you stop putting conditions around what it takes to be happy, when you decide that life, itself, is enough, you become deeply inspiring and truly free. You stop seeking temporary happiness, because you have direct access to something infinitely more fulfilling.

Finding Unconditional Joy as a Deliberate Choice

Every moment, we have a choice to enjoy our experience, whatever is brought before us. As we gently guide our monkey mind through hours of practice to be fully in the Eternal Now Moment, we discover endless vistas of pure delight. I have experienced bliss in Southern France waiting at the edge of a highway to hitch a ride while smog was filling my lungs.

We can consistently choose to interpret our experience in the best light possible.

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Sales people who are optimistic enjoy their job more, sell more and find themselves luckier than those who are pessimistic. The glass is ALWAYS half full IF we choose to see it that way.

I have a Christian Science friend who is deeply grateful for the least attention and sees every moment as a fresh opportunity to live in the spirit. Abundance is found in God, and God is never very far away from her. She keeps on choosing to live it and share it, to live it and share it, to live it and share it.

Finding Unconditional Joy Through Detachment

Buddha taught us that life inherently involves suffering. We not only get what we don’t want, but we stop getting what we do want. As a consequence, we habitually cling to that which is forever passing.

The moment we let go, that which we seek has a way of coming back to us.

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The Noble Eightfold Path is an elaborate discipline to develop what Jiddu Krishnamurti called choiceless awareness. This is good. That, too, is good. It’s all good. We need simply plunge into the heart of life and totally experience it, rather than merely conceptualize about it.

It is very natural for most of us to be profoundly attached, to frantically insist that things turn out a certain way. This is OK. We simply need to observe our attitudes and behavior. The closer we observe, the more they will begin to peel away.

Finding Unconditional Joy Through Forgiveness

Jesus Christ ultimately had a supremely simple message. To realize God, forgive everyone. If someone offends you 20 times in a given day, forgive him the 21st time. There is no limit to God’s forgiveness, because His is Infinite. Since we are all His children, we can do no less.

Most of us have taken this as a solemn injunction, rather than seeing it as the most powerful spiritual practice that has ever been devised. If you can forgive, bless and pray for someone totally committed to doing you in, what power does he or she have over you?

Even more to the point, if you truly love someone, you will fast lose the appetite to gain the upper hand. You will take more joy in their triumph and success than in your own. Who can long resist such love and forgiveness? The fact that this very faith conquered the Roman Empire is no accident.​

Finding Unconditional Joy in Our Contemporary Planetary Society

We might be tempted to say that this is all well and good for those who lived in past societies, but today’s global civilization is too cut-throat. There are just too many of us. We have chosen a suicidal direction in human affairs. We have abandoned our Mother Earth, and there is no turning back… Why even try?

Yet, we all know better. When we see and hear people making a difference in the world, even billionaires, such as Sir Richard Branson, we find our hearts leaping to their invitation to join them in making a difference.

You can make a difference in the world today by practicing the eternal truths that were forged thousands of years ago. Mahatma Gandhi encountered two exceptional thinkers, Henry David Thoreau and Count Tolstoy, along with the Sermon on the Mount. Nobody in history before Gandhi was able to apply this successfully from the bottom of society on a national scale. The fallout of his brilliant experiment was the British Empire.

Nothing is impossible.

Seven Steps Towards a Joy No One and Nothing Can Ever Take Away

Close your eyes and BE HERE NOW. Just BE.

Breathe deeply and take a walk. Notice the inescapable beauty in the world around you.

Be thankful that you are here today and have a fresh opportunity to make a difference.

Find a way to laugh at yourself. Realize that, yes you can be stupid, but always you are beautiful in God’s eyes.

Forgive whoever at the moment happens to be at the bottom of your “shit list.” You can start by simply wishing them a blessing.

Bless at least one person you meet, even if she hands you a bill.

Remind someone that you meet that he or she is divine. “You can’t fool me. You are a child of God. I am so happy that you are here!”

How to Find Unconditional Joy appeared first on http://consciousowl.com.