#sunborn summoning

[aurelion-solar]

Legends of Runeterra: Dreamlit Paths Steel Gale - Veiled Blessings - Malmutation - Bandle Bright - Forgotten Artifact - Sunborn Summoning - Glacial Fell - Blighted Battleaxe - Mercenary Manners - Monstrous Eruption

[i-guess-im-making-this-happen]

Queen Goddess Leilan and the Dawnblade

Leilan, Queen of the Sunborn, ended the [Demon War] when she killed the [Dark Lord] on the battlefield. She became a legend when a strike from her poleaxe summoned a blazing pillar of purifying flame from the heavens, killing the Dark Lord and causing his entire army of demon-possessed soldiers to collapse on the spot. She was celebrated as a hero, but she and her people believed that she was a god.

Her claim to godhood is divisive, with many people believing it to be especially blasphemous because she isn't just claiming to be one of the elemental gods in human form. Instead, she is putting herself above the elemental gods and believes that she is the seventh god: the god of Living Light itself, the element that the three Living Elements fall under.

The Dawnblade is allegedly a group of ambassadors and missionaries, but it's a widely known that they are really Leilan's personal inquisition. Although they aren't unfamiliar with using intimidation and force, they often get away lightly with their actions. Even if Leilan isn't a god, the power that she wielded on the battlefield was still very real and people are hesitant to do anything that could be considered a diplomatic incident.

[gloamingdawn]

Chapter 2

Prologue

Chapter 1

Lyn realized in an instant how much she stuck out against the black and gray rock; it had meant a lot to her that Eyir had turned the original dark armor that she’d been made by the other women in Skold Ashil, a joke about her ‘black sheep’ nature among them, golden. But now it seemed a disadvantage.

A subtle shift in the air to her right drew her attention as an almost imperceptible hum filled the space nearby. Ve’nari’s projection flickered into life and didn’t even wait a beat, “How fortuitous! You just happened to be transferred to a location in which I have a certain... interest. Place the aural sequencers I gave you and I will attempt to establish a functional signal. Such a perilous location will require the utmost discretion. You will want to use your ethereal cloak to avoid being seen.”

Right. The cloak and the sequencers. She felt the keyhole eye of the Broker’s face fixated on her as she pulled the item out of the equipment pouch on her bag and slung it back around her shoulders, hoping that it worked. With luck, placing the sequencers would help her scout the place out and find living Val’kyr — if any remained. Having an idea of how to get around the winding paths would help out the mercenary group later if they were ever sent there at any rate.

Lyn found a few stable handholds in the rocks she’d materialized on and wound her way down the small cliff-side, careful to keep an eye on the Maldraxxi patrols that wandered past her on the road. None of them paid a single lick of attention to her and she let out a breath she hadn’t known she’d been holding as her boots touched the ground with the quiet rattle of metal on stone.

Slipping past potential threats unknown made the chore pass by with surprising swiftness; Each of the sequencers was placed in what felt like the correct spot before Lyn slipped off again, doing her best to stay conveniently hidden from view. It was the fourth and final drop that literally struck gold.

A trail of brilliant feathers littered the ground, heading toward what looked like the edge of the place. Southeast, if she had to slap an Azerothian direction on it. The projection of Ve’nari crackled into the space next to her again, the Broker’s lilting voice cutting in. Whatever it was she said, Lyn hadn’t heard. She had to save whoever was left here, if anyone. That was her task, not whatever this stranded, inter-dimensional trader wanted. She took off again, following the fallen feathers down a winding path as quick as she could.

It was hard to miss the glowing, golden Sunborne Val’kyr suspended above the ground like a bird in a cage, just past the dais littered with the corpses of their sisters and her — Helya — presiding over whatever ceremony. They’d all had names, a purpose in death, and now they’d been snuffed out for eternity. Not this one, not if she could help it.

Lyn wound her way past supplicant Mawsworn Val’kyr and Vyraz’ chosen; As she stepped in behind the cage, trying to get cover before dropping the cloak, the Sunborne’s visor tipped in her direction and a bright smile — perhaps the first she’d worn in this place — dawned across the trapped woman, “My heart rejoices to see a noble face in this realm of nightmare!”

There was palpable hope in the trapped Val’kyr’s voice, and Lyn couldn’t help but smile back, “Eyir sent me to free you and whoever else remained… Who keeps the keys, Danica?” They had never met, but Lyn knew her name. It sifted up through her memory as if she’d always known; but why wouldn’t she? They were sisters, connected by death and their great Lady’s design.

Danica pressed down toward the bottom of the cage, bringing herself closer to her would-be rescuer to keep her from having to speak too loudly, “You are the Alvilda... Keeper Odyn must be warned of this foul betrayal! The Mawsworn called Kjellrun holds the seal that can free me. You can find her gloating in the nearby hall.”

Lyn glanced back over her shoulder toward the arched metal passage that led down into the dark below before looking back to her sister with a sharp nod, summoning her spear to her hand with purpose, “I’ll be back before she takes you, I promise.” She turned and ran, traversing the stairs two at a time. The ethereal cloak’s magic allowed her to skirt past the guards as unseen as before.

Kjellrun stood at the back of the room, surrounded by the bodies of other dead Val’kyr. If she could get behind the towering, twisted facsimile of the Maw’s dark version this would be over quickly. The Light would still answer her call here, she could feel it warm in her chest — waiting. As soon as she got into a favorable position she lunged forward, ramming the spear directly through the center of the Mawsworn’s chest armor with a blaze of golden magic.

Helya’s Val’kyr clamped a gauntleted hand down on the spear’s blade and turned her head to glance back at the now visible paladin, the hollow eyes of the mask locking with Lyn’s own. The weapon disappeared before her adversary could snap the shaft, sent away with another pass of magic before Lyn summoned it back into her hand again to focus a gout of holy flame in a sweeping arc from the tip in a frantic frenzy. These were dead creatures, and a slight miscalculation could be covered up by dumping retribution and fury into every strike.

It wasn’t a subtle light show, and she heard the panicked shouts of the Maldraxxi posted as guards further up the corridor. Kjellrun swiped at Lyn, raking the sharpened black metal fingertips of her gauntlet across the smaller woman’s face and spattering blood across the wall and floor. She’d feel it later — for now, she had an opening and Lyn pressed it. There wasn’t time to fuck around.

Lyn threw her body weight behind ramming her weapon up and into the skeletal visor with a howl of challenge, pitching Kjellrun’s head back. The dark Val’kyr twitched and shuddered, clawing at the spear with futility before dying again, abruptly. Lyn grabbed the seal hanging around her neck and pulled, severing the chain and pulling the taller creature further onto her spear for good measure.

The guards' footfalls were getting closer still, she could hear them over the pounding of her heartbeat in her ears and the throbbing across her forehead, nose and cheek. She had to go. Lyn snatched the ethereal cloak up off the ground where it had fallen off her shoulders in the scuffle and threw it back on hastily, the magic immediately taking hold. Vyraz’s men didn’t even notice her as she ducked past them, their realization of failure echoing off the walls as she ran.

As soon as she was within reach of Danica’s cage she tossed the seal up onto the floor, and her sister’s spectral hand closed around it with triumph. The metal groaned and shifted, the door opening as the seal made contact with the magical lock. As soon as the Sunborne Val’kyr was free she unfurled her wings, stretching them out for what must’ve been the first time in a while. Lyn let the cloak slide down to the dusty ground, there was no point for subtly anymore, and if they were going to make a stand it might as well be—

“I mourn the loss of my sisters and desire nothing more than to avenge them. Yet I know that I am no match for the witch's magics or her army of Mawsworn. We must let wisdom guide us and fly from here. Though I am weak from my captivity, I have the strength to leave this place if you fly with me. Let us go, sister,” Danica kept her voice hushed as she cut off Lyn's train of thought, but she was right.

Not that Lyn thought she could fly, but stranger things had happened. Helya turned her gaze on them both with one of her harsh cackles, another dark Mawsworn taking point in the sky as the body of a spent Sunborne fell to the ground. Lyn grit her teeth and dug deep, activating Ashildir’s gift as Danica’s hand clamped around her arm.

The transition was always odd back on Azeroth, but here it was worse. As golden wings sprouted from her back and the token visor appeared in place on her own spectral Val’kyr form, she could see them all — hundreds of thousands of flickering souls, scattered across the Maw. Trapped, bound to this hellish plane where so many of them weren’t meant to be. If she had breath in this body, she knew it would’ve hitched in her chest at the horror of it all, but all Lyn felt was a terrible sorrow.

Danica pulled her up with a sharp tug, and it shook her out of her thoughts long enough to remember that they had to go. Helya snarled a message at them both and cast the scroll toward them with a magic that flickered an unsettling blue-black. Poison to deliver to Odyn. The first of them, the cursed sea witch, Lyn felt sorrow for her, too.

“Skyja! See them out.”

It wasn’t to be a friendly escort. Danica’s wings start to beat and Lyn focused. She’d never used her own wings in this form before, it had always been a measure to stave off death just a little longer, but wasn’t that what this was, too?

As the Mawsworn dove toward them, she and her sister flew out and away — the pair of them supporting each other as they tore through the Maw, into the In Between, and then toward Skyhold.

[thefugitivemango]

New Story - The Few Remaining

"Nervous, Nora?"

Wy'nora jumped as Brent stepped out of the shadows before her. One hand brought up to her chest, as if to still her startled heart. The other sparked momentarily with an arcane flame, extinguishing just as quickly. She exhaled a sigh of mild relief, laying eyes on Brent. The eyes lingered, looking him over for the first time since his transformation.

"--By the Sunwell… I didn't think you could look any more broodingly aloof, Brent." she nodded, lips playing at a smirk. "I miss you with the shorter hair, honestly."

"Candid as ever." Brent quipped back, pulling his mask down. "Call on some of that candor and tell me why I'm here."

"--Ooh, and a beard, too? Influence from your new Dwarven friends, I imagine."

"Nora." he huffed.

She waved a dismissive hand, chuckling lightly to herself. The warmth was second nature to her, playful but sincere. But in the moment, it felt forced; pushed out to compensate for her uncertainty. It kept Brent on edge.

"I'll explain when the others arrive. Or are you leading me to them?" she asked, crossing her arms loosely over her chest.

"Others?" Brent asked, brow askew.

"--Oh tsk, you can play, but I can't? The others, Brent. Kai’eka, and Thea. This is for all of you." she elaborated. "Where are they? I know Kai must be lumbering about somewhere. And dearest Thea… I haven’t seen her in so long.”

She smiled a hopeful smile, at the prospect of seeing Nepen’thea again. And she did little to hide it, too. Concerned and anxious as she seemed before, the thought of a reunion with her old friend was overpowering any fear she had, and immediately took the forefront of her demeanor. It was too raw, too sincere an expression to be fake or falsified. And even then, Brent knew Wy’nora would never utter Nepen’thea’s name as a tool of any matter of ruse.

She just didn’t know.

Brent Sunborn gets a summons from an old friend of the Coterie’s-- Wy’nora Emberglade, a contact of no small repute among the Reliquary. But before she gifts him with much more than he expected, he has to bear some devastating news... They are The Few Remaining!

You can read the whole thing, and other stories I’ve written, over on The Observer’s Archives, but be warned-- this one in particular is a saucy NSFW story for Patron eyes only! If it piques your interest, your support would be greatly appreciated! If not, I guess you’ll never know how it unfolds... 

Still! Feel free to read other SFW stories on the site!

[[ @nepenthea​ for mention. Miss you, friendo <3 ]]

[azukh-xiv]

1. what are your oc’s natural abilities, things they’ve been doing since young?

From birth to his tenth summer, Azukhai lived the life of a Chosen One. He was to follow his father and the rest of the Sunborne in their annual preparations for Tsagaan Sar but never to participate in his duties as a son of Azim until he was ready. He was taught to commune with the otherworldly from a young age, trained in the mystic arts under the tutelage of the Oronir udgan at the time. However, he was no prodigy and never found much success with practical magic. Despite that, it’s allowed him to have a strong foundation in aether manipulation. One of his most useful skills is spirit-calling, or summoning as it’s known in the west, but he mostly limits this to communication for the purpose of information or gaining some kind of boon.

@lulubell-vixen

[notarobot1006]

The Bitter Middle Ground

I got so pissed off at Rhaast not getting ANY BACKSTORY in the Darkin lore update that I wrote my own.

I strove to answer questions like:

-Why does he talk about being “forged to destroy” when he was an Ascended?

-Why is he so ridiculously over the top about killing?

-Why is he so bitter toward the other Darkin?

And, of course,

-Who the hell names someone “Obey”?

The ritual of Ascension grants incredible power to those who are worthy, and death to those who are not. But there are also legends of those stuck somewhere in between.

There was a Shuriman, his name forgotten or shunned by living memory, who was slated for Ascension. He would be one of the Sunborn, a god-warrior sworn to protect Shurima from any danger. He should have been one.

What staggered away from the Sun Disc was by no means an Ascended. But he was certainly no longer a human. Parts of his flesh had been twisted into living armor, faded into grey in contrast to his now blood-red skin. His malformed face and sweeping horns looked more like a child’s drawing of a monster than any known beast or man.

“Baccai,” came a voice from the crowd, the name for those who survived a failed Ascension. The once-human was quickly ushered away.

The failure was renamed Rhaast, for only through obedience could he atone for his botched Ascension. The Baccai bristled at the unfair name given by his fellow Ascended. Were they not brethren?

No, he was told. They were not. Not only had he been too incompetent to Ascend properly, he had to shame them all by surviving. Letting him associate with true Ascended was already an unprecedented kindness. He had their Empress to thank for that.

The Baccai took up a scythe out of spite. If he wasn’t a real Ascended, then he wouldn’t use a real weapon. No one objected. They fully expected him to die in his first battle against anything stronger than a mortal and rid them of their embarrassment. Rhaast defied them in the only way he could: He lived.

It was common practice for failed Ascendants to act recklessly in battle, even to the point of death. Their lives had lost value, but their deaths could still be noble. They sacrificed themselves to earn back lost glory.

Rhaast decided that he wouldn’t. Common practice be damned, he was more useful alive. He could serve his Empire and live. His flawed body may not have radiated the power of a true Ascended, but it was still very effective at killing. When the Icathians summoned horrors to their aid, Rhaast survived where many of his golden ‘brethren’ did not. Every part of him was a weapon. His hooves could kick holes in all but the strongest armor, his claws could slip between a Voidborn’s protective plating, and his horns could bludgeon or carve with equal lethality.

Rhaast’s own insecurities made him deadlier. He felt shame and anger at his own failure, and directed that anger outward into a fury that could overwhelm any mortal or Voidborn foe. He doubted he stood any chance against an Ascended, but that didn’t matter. He had defied everyone’s expectations and proven himself again and again.

Rhaast’s relentless fight against the Void finally granted him the approval he had craved since he approached the Sun Disc. For the first time, the Ascended called him brother. But that title faded with the threat of the Void.

As time went on and the Empress gave way to an Emperor, the other Ascended began to take Rhaast for granted. His deeds earned him a begrudging respect, but they could never fully compensate for his form. Rhaast slowly grew to accept his role. Greater than any mortal, but forever falling short of an Ascended, Rhaast had no one who would consider him an equal. The approval of his Emperor and the Ascended was the only metric he had of his value, and he wanted nothing more than to prove his worth. He killed whoever he was told without hesitation. Part of him missed his humanity, but there was no point in pining after something he could never regain. If he was no longer a person and could never be a god, then he would be the best weapon Shurima had ever seen.

When the Emperor died and his kingdom fell with him, Rhaast transitioned from a weapon of Shurima to a weapon of Xuuyan. It was in Xuuyan’s service that Rhaast began to once again question his role.

He heard what Xuuyan’s followers called the Ascended when they thought no one was listening. “Darkin.” Fallen. Xuuyan and all of his fellows had decided they would rather rule Shurima instead of protecting it. Now they were fighting one another in pursuit of yet more power. Or was it revenge? Xuuyan never bothered to tell him why he killed, only who to kill.

But if the Darkin had cast off their given roles, why couldn’t Rhaast? What gave them the right to lord it over everyone else just because they were stronger? If strength was all it took, then Rhaast would pursue it until he could match even an Ascended.

The next time Xuuyan called him into battle, Rhaast left. He vowed to Xuuyan that one day he would return, stronger than before, and overwhelm the arrogant beast with the same ferocity he so valued

He never saw Xuuyan again. The mortals and Targonians had banded together and used a magic he could not fathom to force him into his own weapon. He had never been proud of his twisted body, but at least it could move. It could speak, shout, breathe. Now he could only stare helplessly at the mortals as they debated how best to use him against their former masters.

Rhaast came to understand that mortals were even more wretched tools than he had been. And it was very easy to relate to people who were tired of being used. He clamped down on his burning desire for a form as much as he could and allowed himself to be wielded. He had once been human and had often daydreamed of returning to that state in the centuries since then. Even if he would never be anything more than a tool, Rhaast would not let his former people share his fate.

When the other Darkin had been killed or sealed, the mortals buried him anyway.

Even if he was not Ascended, he had served them too well. Rhaast had no way to make a case for himself, as he had spent too short a time sealed to learn how to communicate from his weapon. The mortals shut Rhaast into a box as he tried to scream for mercy with a mouth he no longer had. Eventually, the sound of shovels and falling earth stopped and all he knew was silence.

Rhaast swore to himself that he would not forgive or forget the arrogant god-warriors who had used him, or the Aspects who gave mortals the knowledge to seal him in this motionless body. But as the years turned into centuries, it became harder and harder to keep his thoughts in order. A seemingly unending torment of isolation and immobility accomplished what the Void and the Ascended could not: It broke Rhaast.

This time, at least, there was no one to see him fail.

It would be centuries more before the paralyzing dark’s hold on him slipped as mortals stumbled across his scythe form. In the meantime, Rhaast lost more and more of the Baccai and person he had once been as his shattered mind struggled to keep its grip on anything from before his captivity.

When the scythe was finally unearthed, two things stood out among his frenzied thoughts: His name was Rhaast and he was made to kill.

(Author’s note: Rhaast’s Baccai form looks exactly like his in-game model.)

[orchmogekhodgor]

they summoned an unborn val’kyr to be friends with my sunborne val’kyr :)

[infinite-xerath]

Fighting Power With Power

It had been an instant, and yet so much occurred. Xerath had been plundering the depths of an ancient temple devoted to the Sunborn, seeking relics that might help to release him. Then, darkness enveloped him... But it was no ordinary darkness. A great avian appeared to wrap its wings around the Magus, and he saw time and space twist and warp around him. The temple was gone, and Xerath inspected his new surroundings.

There was a summoning circle on the ground, and a robed girl sitting before it. “What is this? Who are you, that you dare to conjure ME like some form of familiar?” How was such a thing even possible? Honestly, Xerath might have been impressed if he wasn’t outraged by the stranger’s audacity.

@apocalypsxmaidxn

[lavenderek]

Will you write more Luke/Elliot fic? Pleaseeee? You could write about them having to sing Mary had a little lamb to a baby? XD

“I'm sorry—can you hold him for a minute, please?” and the baby is in Elliot’s arms before he can summon a response. “Thank you.” The baby’s mother immediately hurries away.

“Absolutely,” he says to no one, staring at the thing. “Thank you for this opportunity, I am the man for the job!”

The baby regards Elliot with an expression Elliot chooses to interpret as deep offence, maybe some light loathing. It doesn’t cry yet, however: it contents itself with a whine. Then it looks at Elliot, and Elliot looks back.

According to Elliot’s sources, the baby is named Edwin. Edwin is nine months old. Edwin has a runny nose and is wearing pajamas with feet on them, from Elliot’s world. Edwin is clean—for now.

People keep referring to Edwin as “little Eddie,” or “little angel,” but Elliot only just met the guy, and he doesn’t feel like he and Edwin are on intimate enough terms yet for Elliot to be calling him by diminutive nicknames. And whether or not he is an angel remains to be seen.

He is little, however, compared to other humans. Elliot’s hand can span Edwin’s back. Elliot could probably throw him if he wanted. About the size of a small Christmas goose. Not that Elliot’s ever had a goose for Christmas. Eventually everyone else around him goes in the way of Edwin’s mother and Elliot is alone in the clearing with this baby.

Edwin’s hair is in directionless tufts. He is quiet, pensive, and, Elliot suspects, judgmental. “You don’t trust me,” Elliot tells Edwin, “and I don’t trust you.” Just to get that out of the way. Hopefully Edwin will find Elliot’s frankness refreshing.

Edwin fists his tiny, sticky hands in Elliot’s shirt and whimpers, looking distressed. It becomes clear after some time that Elliot may be in possession of this infant for longer than “a minute,” so he cannot stand there indefinitely. He chooses to sit with him instead.

“Okay,” Elliot tells the baby, settling uncomfortably under a nearby tree. “You probably won’t be kidnapped,” he says. He is trying to explain the status quo and align Edwin’s expectations. Edwin doesn’t seem comforted by this, but Elliot hasn’t finished yet. “You probably won’t go on fire or be robbed,” he continues. “If we are set upon by a warg I cannot help you.”

Edwin squirms, twisting like he is trying to escape from Elliot and crawl into the woods to die.

“Better not go over there,” says Elliot, adjusting Edwin so he’s a little more trapped against Elliot’s person. Edwin finally makes an unhappy sound. “Me too,” Elliot says. “But you can’t. You’ve been placed in my temporary custody, and if you disappear, I’ll be held personally—and probably financially—responsible. And that warg is probably just waiting for my supervision to lapse.”

Edwin says a nonsense sound.

“I know,” Elliot says. “You are a baby.”

The baby locates Elliot’s pen in his shirt pocket and brandishes it with a deliberate movement. “Oh,” he says.

“Yes,” Elliot answers. “Pen. You’ll only find these with me and Luke. Because I gave some to Luke.” Edwin coos, which Elliot decides is probably a reaction to Luke’s name. He wouldn’t be the first to have an irrationally positive response to the concept of Luke Sunborn. “I know,” Elliot commiserates. “Only he doesn’t use them, he just has them because they’re mine. Oh please don’t eat that.”

The baby disregards Elliot’s directive and puts the pen in his mouth.

“I don’t like that,” Elliot decides. “I want this to stop.”

The baby carefully places the pen, slick with spit, on Elliot’s collarbone.

“I am in hell,” Elliot says, wincing. “I’m in baby hell.”

Then Edwin touches Elliot’s face. He gropes Elliot’s chin, prods at his mouth, takes gentle hold of his nose.

“Er,” says Elliot.

Nonplussed and placid, Elliot settles and stares while the baby examines him, squeezes his cheekbone, tries to poke out his eye. This is rude. Elliot nudges with his fingertips at the baby’s face too, just to give him a taste of his own medicine.

Edwin grunts, winces, and then laughs. Baby laughs are messy, like Edwin hasn’t quite worked out how to do it yet. Like it sort of popped out of him for lack of a better exit strategy. “See how you like it,” says Elliot, nudging harder. The baby takes hold of several of Elliot’s fingers and urges the hand away. “All right,” Elliot concedes. “You win. This time.”

Edwin gets bored with Elliot’s face and begins examining his clothing.

“I’m sure she will be coming back,” Elliot tells him. Edwin’s downy baby hair has drooped down his little forehead, so Elliot tries to brush it carefully to one side. “You’re not like me,” he adds. The baby turns his head to avoid the grooming and begins messing around with the strings on Elliot’s hoodie. “I think I am an outlier,” Elliot continues. “She will come back to collect you and things will be right again…”

“Hum,” the baby says, and reaches up. For a second Elliot thinks he’s going to start messing around with Elliot’s face again, but instead he cranes up and pats Elliot’s hair.

“Ah… yes,” Elliot agrees. The baby pushes at it, and then tugs softly. “No,” Elliot decides. Edwin takes a fistful. “No,” says Elliot again, “I don’t think—ow. Ow—”

Edwin starts to complain when Elliot pries his hand out of his hair. He comes away with his face screwed up in dismay and his little sticky hand clutching several curly, ginger hairs.

“I hated that,” Elliot tells him. Edwin sobs. “I get that. You are a baby and you reach for large, brightly coloured objects.” Edwin is still fussing. “But listen to me, baby: it hurt! Where is your sense of empathy? Where is your respect? Where is your mother?” He looks helplessly around. They are still alone, and Edwin is still beginning to cry. “I don’t know what to do. What am I supposed to do if you’re angry with me? I—” The baby pauses to rub ineptly at his face with the backs of his fat little wrists. “Are you… tired?” tries Elliot. “You are frustrated. I don’t know what to do about this. Are you—ummm…” Edwin is beginning to cry again, outright, so Elliot chooses a different tactic. He thinks back to the last time he got upset in front of Luke. It’s generally a good policy when dealing with other people: What Would Luke Do? Elliot hugs the baby. Maybe if he is squeezing him, he won’t be able to get in a deep enough breath to really start wailing. Then he rubs his back awkwardly. “I, um… understand your concerns,” he offers. “I, too, have been tired. And enjoyed hair pulling. And, um… been left behind by a mother. But… yours will come back! Probably.”

Edwin wails anyway, but it’s only a couple times, and then, to Elliot’s complete shock, he throws his head down and mashes his face against Elliot’s chest. Drool and snot seep into his t-shirt. And then Edwin hits him. One flimsy, pointless baby palm connecting with his chest. It is very rude.

“Baby hell,” Elliot says again, looking up at the trees.

Edwin gets over the heartbreak of being disallowed from rendering Elliot bald comparatively quickly. Elliot does not remember what, if anything, authority figures did to entertain him when he was an infant; however, the opposite of crying is laughter, and Elliot does not want a reprisal of the crying. If Edwin’s mother returned and found Elliot having upset Edwin, what would she think? What would she do? And it might reflect poorly on Luke. Not that the idiot needs any help with his reputation.

Elliot tries to tell Edwin a joke. “Knock knock,” he says. Edwin makes a strange noise and hits Elliot again. He’s no longer angry, which means he’s just abusing Elliot because he knows he is allowed to. Or maybe it hasn’t occurred to him that hitting Elliot means Elliot is being hit. “Why did the chicken cross over to hit Elliot?” Elliot asks him. Edwin flops over, once again trying to run away with a warg circus.

Elliot hauls Edwin back upright in his lap. But Edwin tries to leave again. Elliot lifts Edwin and uncrosses his legs, which were falling asleep anyway. He leans back against the tree trunk, crooks his knees, and sits Edwin on his stomach, hanging on to his little forearms.

This seems to reset the interaction. Edwin stays. Elliot has clearly underestimated this baby. In a moment of directionless inspiration, he claps Edwin’s hands together. At least if Edwin is clapping he cannot beat the shit out of Elliot or abandon civilization.

After a little of this, Edwin begins to smile a little. He looks back and forth between their hands and Elliot’s face with growing delight. “Hey hey, we’re the Monkees,” Elliot sings uncomfortably, making Edwin clap along, and feeling very stupid. But, laughing excitedly, Edwin finally gets with the program and yanks his hands free. He begins clapping, stiff-fingered, of his own volition. He has no rhythm whatsoever.

“By George,” Elliot says, and then quietly claps his own hands. Occasionally Edwin slaps his hands against Elliot’s stomach, and Elliot gently slaps Edwin’s shoulders, and Edwin shrieks with excitement and returns to clapping. It is a terrible game, one with no rules, and Elliot thinks Edwin is cheating; but Elliot decides there are worse ways he could be spending his time, and they clap together for long enough that Edwin’s tears dry and he does not try to escape again.

.

Elliot does not remember falling asleep. But he wakes to the baby being pulled from him, and instinctively, he jolts and clutches protectively at him. “Hey,” says the kidnapper, amused, “it’s all right.”

Elliot blinks, perplexed, around. Warm, blond, handsome, stupid. It’s Luke. “Oh,” says Elliot, much more stupidly. After a moment of staring at Luke, a longer moment than is reasonable, Elliot lets him lift the baby from his arms. Elliot realizes Edwin was fast asleep, there on his chest, when he grunts unhappily and lays his head on Luke’s shoulder.

“Sorry,” Luke says to Elliot. “I didn’t mean to, um… startle you.”

Why is he looking at Elliot like that? That stupid smile on his face? After all this time, can he not stop making fun of Elliot for two seconds? Elliot is not unaware that Edwin has left him a snotty, drooly mess that is squinting with sleep. He grimaces and pulls his damp shirt away from his chest. “Is, um… where's… is his mother?”

“She’s fine,” Luke says, still smiling. “She’ll be over soon, I think.”

“Wh’s the time?”

“Not late. It’s only been an hour or so.” The baby is now lifting its head, also grimacing. He is upright in Luke’s arms, looking around. His head is fluffed up weird on one side.

“Oh,” sighs Elliot, touching it pointlessly. “I tried,” he explains to Luke. “I really did. I tried to keep it smoothed. Will she be angry?”

“That her child’s hair got messy sleeping in your arms?” Luke asks, entertained. He absently rubs Edwin's back. “I think she’ll get over it.”

“Okay, ha ha,” grouches Elliot, sitting up and stretching. “Elliot’s a drowsy moron with spit all over him. Get it out of your system.”

“Elliot,” says Luke pityingly. Edwin is starting to fuss, and Luke bounces him gently in his arms. “Hey,” Luke says to him, soft and sweet. “Hey, Eddie. You quite sleepy?” Edwin looks miserably at Luke, and then touches his face. Then he braces his little palms on Luke’s chest and twists around to look at Elliot, confused and gloating, probably.

“I know,” Elliot says to him. “What a complex day for Edwin. But congratulations.” He honestly doesn’t blame him. Luke is warm and he smells good. Elliot likes to be held by him also. This is a relatable situation. Both Edwin and Luke are looking at him now, and he begins to feel inexplicably nervous. “What?” he demands indignantly.

“Nothing,” says Luke, bouncing Edwin again.

Edwin flops dangerously over in Luke’s arms, then, making a terrible noise and reaching out to Elliot. His hands clench and unclench in the air. Elliot stares, and his heart thumps hard. He looks up at Luke, and Luke just looks even more pleased. Then he hands the baby back over to Elliot.

Elliot clumsily accepts him, dismayed. “Are you sure?” he asks Edwin. Stood on Elliot’s stomach—it is not comfortable—Edwin continues fussing for a moment, and then accustoms himself to having, for the millionth time in his short life, gotten what he wanted. “I mean—are you absolutely positive?” But he looks at Elliot, and then claps one tiny hand onto his face. “Ah!”

Luke laughs outright.

“Are you sure?” Elliot asks Luke. Edwin touches his forehead. “What is going on? Is this a test?” Luke just laughs some more, and then drops down beside him, resting one shoulder against the tree. “I don’t know about this,” Elliot continues to protest, and he is affirmed when Edwin tugs at Elliot’s ear and begins to slowly lift one leg, as if trying to climb him. “No, I know about that and it’s bad.” He readjusts the baby, who complains about it, and Luke just laughs and laughs and sighs happily.

If this is all it takes to brighten Luke’s mood, then Elliot will hold all the confusing children in the country. He will look absurd deliberately and be soaked through with spit every day for Luke. How vile. “Elliot,” Luke says incandescently. “You have thoroughly charmed this baby.”

“Yes, he wants to scalp me,” says Elliot, hauling Edwin away from his hair.

“I mean you’re really good with him.”

Elliot is offended by the inaccuracy of this statement. He tries to get Luke to understand exactly how wrong he is. “He tried to get away from me and be raised by wargs,” he tells Luke. “He cried and only stopped when I made him clap to a Monkees song.”

“You sang him a song?” Luke is utterly thrilled. “About monkeys?”

“No. A song by the Monkees. The satirical but accidentally successful band?” They’ve been over this. Elliot’s Monkees t-shirt is Luke’s second least favourite.

“And you played patty cake with him?” Luke only seems to become happier as he processes this information. Elliot is perplexed, but Edwin responds to Luke’s joy and twists around to plop onto his behind on Elliot’s stomach. Sitting there sideways, he can absorb the sight of Luke in all his striking, winged glory. Luke takes Edwin’s hands, and Edwin worms them free. Then he reaches for Luke’s hand again.

“What is—oh! Patty cake!” Elliot just feels like a moron now. “I forgot about patty cake. Why didn’t I start with rhymes? I forgot they existed…”

“Patty cake, patty cake,” Luke says, clapping with the baby, “bake all night.” Elliot narrows his eyes. “Baking us cakes until daylight—”

“I don’t think those are the words,” Elliot interrupts. “No, that’s wrong. It goes baker’s man…”

Luke continues clapping with Edwin, despite no longer performing the poem. “Who is the baker’s man? Is the baker married?”

“Well, I certainly don’t know.” Elliot seems to be asked to interpret poetry for Luke a lot. He should stop reading him poetry. He won’t, though. “I didn’t write it! You’ll have to take it up with Mother Goose.”

“Mother who?” Luke exclaims, eyes wide and eyebrows up. Elliot just buries his face in his hands for a moment. He can’t do that for long, however, because he wants to hold Edwin in place. Edwin is warm and heavy and Elliot has grown to enjoy it; and besides, his draw to the wargs seemed strong. When it becomes clear Elliot won’t elaborate, Luke says, “You now,” indicating by raising his chin toward Elliot that it is Elliot’s turn.

Elliot feels quite put on the spot. “Oh, no,” he says. “You don’t want me reciting children’s rhymes. I don't want me reciting children's rhymes. And Edwin deserves better!"

“I want to hear the rest,” Luke says. They are still clapping, and the baby is starting to laugh in short, excited exhales.

Elliot bites his lips together. Then he says, “Roll it.” Edwin looks up at him. “Pat it. Mark it with an E…” Luke looks like this is his favourite day. Twenty years of blessed Sunborn life has led to this moment. “Put it in the oven for Edwin and me.”

Edwin kicks his feet and rocks like a desk toy and beams at Elliot, all gums and no comprehension. Clearly this is the version with which he is familiarized. He hits Elliot again, twice, this time with his left hand.

“Oh,” Elliot says, grabbing at it. “He’s ambidextrous as well as violent.”

And Luke looks at Elliot with a thrill and intensity that Elliot still isn’t used to.

They sit there for a while longer, Elliot trying to recall nursery rhymes and Luke watching him and the baby like he never wants to stop. The amount of pure bliss Luke derives from the experience is enough to make Elliot a little more relaxed, and he transitions into a few of the songs.

They’re just in the middle of comparing their differing lyrics to Baa Baa Black Sheep (Luke's version is largely centered on complimenting the sheep) when Edwin’s mother returns. “I’m sorry,” she says, plucking Edwin gently from Elliot’s arms. Elliot is astonished by how chilly and empty he feels. “For leaving him with you.”

“It’s all right,” Luke says when Elliot just stares, still confused.

“Was he very bad?” she asks, putting Edwin on her hip. She doesn't seem fazed by his sticking-out hair.

“No,” says Elliot, frowning.

She looks surprised. “Really? You’re sure?” Elliot nods. “Usually when I leave him with somebody he cries the whole time. He takes their things and throws them. He’s broken my sister’s glasses a couple times, he's quite high maintenance...”

Elliot just shakes his head, mystified. “No, he was lovely,” Luke says contentedly. “Elliot sang to him.” Elliot scowls at him. Smirking back, Luke adds, “I think he did pull Elliot’s hair once.”

“Only once?” she says. “Hm… Maybe…” She brightens a little. “Er… I think we will be here for a few more days... And we may visit the Sunborns again. Would it be all right if you minded him again sometime?”

“All right,” says Elliot. There is too much information being thrown at him, both externally and internally. “I could try.”

She smiles at him. Elliot, surprised by an encouraging interaction, smiles back. “Um, thank you!” And she goes away, Edwin peering with some concern over her shoulder at Elliot. Elliot stares back until Edwin and his mother disappear into the house and Elliot cannot see them anymore.

Then he looks back at Luke, to find Luke already looking at him. “Who knew?” Luke asks.

Elliot glares suspiciously. “Who knew what?”

“That you have such a knack for babies,” shrugs Luke.

“I don’t,” insists Elliot. “I have no knack. There is no knack! He was just tired, that’s all.”

“Usually tired babies get grouchy, I think,” Luke says.

“Do they?”

“Yes. I used to watch my little second cousins. They scream about it. It’s a whole big mess.”

“Well,” says Elliot. “I got lucky.”

Luke does not accept this version of events. “He loved you,” he says.

“He loved making a mockery of me.”

“I love you.”

“You love watching me be made a mockery of. Me. Of—by—” Then Elliot stops. “Wait. What?” Luke just looks at him like he feels sorry for Elliot. “You—seriously?”

“I liked seeing you with him,” Luke says, looking down at his lap, where he is fidgeting with a leaf. “It was… sweet.”

Elliot is speechless. He can’t believe how often Luke renders him speechless. Of course, Elliot seems to often bring about the crabby, sarcastic, scholarly side of Luke no one else believes exists, so maybe they match each other. He clears his throat. “Um, I can’t bear your children, Luke.”

“Really?” asks Luke flatly. “I'm beside myself. Whyever not?”

“Only making sure you knew that,” says Elliot, flushing. “No matter how much I love you, it is not physically possible. And I’m too young! And I will have to insist that I only got lucky. I—I simply don’t have the temperament.” Elliot doesn’t know the first thing about parenting. He did not once see an example of it until he met Rachel Sunborn; and even then, he doesn’t see her very often. Michael Sunborn appreciates Elliot, but thinks he makes no sense, both as a person and as a fixture in Luke’s life. Elliot would need extensive training and direct supervision. And maybe, he thinks, for all his stress and good intentions, it won’t be possible. What are the odds of two people so unsuited to parenthood reproducing? Surely genetics aren't avoidable. Perhaps he was doomed by design, damned from the start, and it's inevitable that he will turn out like his parents no matter what. That thought frightens him and he does not want to confront it.

But of course Luke has not considered the idea of Elliot being remotely like his parents or to blame for their choices. He doesn't delve into Elliot's dark history or speculate about a troubling future. Luke only sees Elliot as he is now. Elliot wants to be seen. Luke chuckles softly and hands Elliot his leaf. It’s not a good leaf. It’s not crackly enough to be fun to smash, just enough that it drops bits of rubbish-leaf on Elliot’s shirt. But he accepts it all the same; and he accepts Luke’s hand when Luke reaches for Elliot’s. “I don’t think it’s about temperament,” Luke tells him thoughtfully. “I think it’s about choosing. Isn’t that what you told me? Possibilities.”

Elliot hangs on to Luke’s hand like Luke alone could keep him anchored to the surface of the earth. “Yes,” he says. “But I can do a career. And I can do loving someone… I don’t think I could—”

“A kid is a someone,” says Luke. Elliot had, idiotically, never thought of it that way. Like choosing someone, and loving someone, could overcome being a bad person. It seems overly simplistic, and Elliot does not trust things which are overly simplistic.

Elliot ruminates on this however. They sit there in silence, contemplating the holding of violent babies and the exchange of subpar leaves. “I think I liked him,” Elliot finally admits, very quietly. Quiet enough that it’s illegal to acknowledge out loud.

And Luke is nothing if not obedient of the law.

[infinite-xerath]

shehili​:

Starter for @infinite-xerath.

Mariam has stared death in the face many times before. It never got any more pleasant than the first time, though nowadays she had an easier time suppressing the urge to gag. Thankfully so, as even the smallest sound could spell death for her in this moment.

The guide’s body landed next to her with a thud, her lifeless gaze pointed squarely at Mariam’s crouched form. Embers clung to burned flesh, flitting in the air like drunk insects. As the blue devil loosed another streak of lightning, Mariam’s hairs stood erect. She could taste the magic in the air — it coated her teeth and tongue with a metallic tang, stole the moisture from her lips, and filled her nostrils. She has never encountered anything like this in her forty-six years of living in this gods-forsaken world and was half-certain she would not see another for however long she had left. Part of her (the effervescent, thrill-seeking scholar) demanded she poke her head out from behind the makeshift barricade and observe. A one-time event, it said, two awesome powers hurling magic at each other. In truth, the fight was horribly one-sided: gold-armored apparitions dissipating left and right, the magic holding them together quickly expiring under Xerath’s effortless spellwork.

She must’ve fallen out of favor with the gods, surely. Why else would she find herself trapped in a dilapidated temple with the magus of legend? Especially considering the structure had lain empty until a couple of minutes ago. Her team had broken the seal on the door and, in a regrettable lapse of judgment, neglected to block the entrance; soon after, gold-armored soldiers poured into the courtyard with Xerath’s forces hot on the trail. Her current position (pressed against a fallen statue with her chin between her knees) offered little in the way of information. She had half a mind to kick the corpse away, fearing that one of Xerath’s men, those who were still lucid of mind, would think to search the woman for clues on how to access the holy sanctuary.

With that in mind, the ex-soldier crept towards the exit. Xerath’s minions seemed to have divided their attention between chasing after her men and picking apart their belongings, leaving the exit unguarded. One or two soldiers she could outmaneuver, the betrayer himself was a whole other story, however — one that could easily end with her as a blackened lump on the courtyard floor.

Xerath had learned long ago that information could be just as powerful as raw might. While Azir went around openly recruiting cities to his cause, Xerath took a more subtle approach, establish networks throughout the Great Sai from Nerimazeth. Thanks to this, there was little that occurred in the western deserts his knowledge, even in territories claimed by Azir and foreigners.

It was thanks to this network that Xerath learned of many excavation efforts to plunder the sands for lost treasures, left behind in the wake of his rise to power and the old empire’s fall. While many ruins held little more than trinkets, the Sunborn of old left behind no shortage of powerful relics before passing on from this world. As the sarcophagus binding him was one such relic, it stood to reason that their weapons would be the key to freeing him, just as the Chalicar had been years ago...

When word came to Xerath of a great door sealed with powerful magic, he took interest. When word of Azir’s soldiers marching toward this door reached him, Xerath took action. The Magus didn’t know what lay inside this structure, but all signs pointed to it being something of great worth. Thus, Xerath set out just in time to pursue Azir’s forces, cutting them off at the entrance.

It was laughably easy. Mere sand-sculptors, Azir’s disciples, were all that stood between him and the half-buried structure. Xerath and his own soldiers, their eyes aglow with arcane light, tore through the summoned warriors effortlessly. One by one, Xerath delighted in striking down the opposing mages, teaching them the difference between their pitiful spellcraft and his own.

As the fighting drew to a close, however, Xerath caught movement in the corner of his vision. Someone was running... They didn’t seem to be a sandcrafter. “Stop!” Xerath held up his hand and unleashed a trio of mage chains from his hand to bind the stranger, keeping them in place. “Did you truly think you could escape me?”

Starter for @infinite-xerath.

Mariam has stared death in the face many times before. It never got any more pleasant than the first time, though nowadays she had an easier time suppressing the urge to gag. Thankfully so, as even the smallest sound could spell death for her in this moment.

The guide’s body landed next to her with a thud, her lifeless gaze pointed squarely at Mariam’s crouched form. Embers clung to burned flesh, flitting in the air like drunk insects. As the blue devil loosed another streak of lightning, Mariam’s hairs stood erect. She could taste the magic in the air — it coated her teeth and tongue with a metallic tang, stole the moisture from her lips, and filled her nostrils. She has never encountered anything like this in her forty-six years of living in this gods-forsaken world and was half-certain she would not see another for however long she had left. Part of her (the effervescent, thrill-seeking scholar) demanded she poke her head out from behind the makeshift barricade and observe. A one-time event, it said, two awesome powers hurling magic at each other. In truth, the fight was horribly one-sided: gold-armored apparitions dissipating left and right, the magic holding them together quickly expiring under Xerath’s effortless spellwork.

She must’ve fallen out of favor with the gods, surely. Why else would she find herself trapped in a dilapidated temple with the magus of legend? Especially considering the structure had lain empty until a couple of minutes ago. Her team had broken the seal on the door and, in a regrettable lapse of judgment, neglected to block the entrance; soon after, gold-armored soldiers poured into the courtyard with Xerath’s forces hot on the trail. Her current position (pressed against a fallen statue with her chin between her knees) offered little in the way of information. She had half a mind to kick the corpse away, fearing that one of Xerath’s men, those who were still lucid of mind, would think to search the woman for clues on how to access the holy sanctuary.

With that in mind, the ex-soldier crept towards the exit. Xerath’s minions seemed to have divided their attention between chasing after her men and picking apart their belongings, leaving the exit unguarded. One or two soldiers she could outmaneuver, the betrayer himself was a whole other story, however — one that could easily end with her as a blackened lump on the courtyard floor.

[far-east-orient]

The Great Hunt

"From the fourteen hunters of the various tribes that went out for their hunting trials that day, only me and Ankha returned. My legs were completely broken under the weight of my horse and never recovered. Even at night now, I can still feel the earth trembles before him, and when he breathes...it's like hundreds of Buree sounded at the same time. Alas, we were young and foolish at that time. Glory in our eyes and excitement in our blood..we charged upon Mahishasura... Oh, how young and foolish we were."

- Confession of an old food vendor, excerpt taken from "Lineage of Xaela Tribes and Clans, Chapter Uragshi : The Great Hunt"

There is a raised platform in the middle of Reunion, on every fifth day of the week a speaker can use the platform to relay messages to the Xaela tribes that frequent reunion.

On this day, two women wearing the three-fold clothes of mourning can be seen aboard the platform. 

<"Hunters of Reunion, great Xaela warriors of old and young"> choked by another sob, one of the older woman takes a deep breath <"We are what is left of the Baighur Kha trading caravan. We traveled this land far and wide, bringing goods and medicines to even the most remote spot of the Steppe. Never charging exorbitantly and always known for our fairness. We have free ways across the steppe, because of our assistance in bringing needed items to the tribes">

<"Five days ago, on our way across the steppe to the Reunion...in the middle of the night, as everyone is asleep..the earth shakes and the trees fell down. I awoke, clutching my baby near my breast and ran out of our Gher. It was..there that...I see the mammoth of the old gods, Mahishasura. Rampaging through our encampment."> the younger woman starts to wail as the older woman tries to calm her down.

<"Only me, my son, and my sister survived that night."> She looks around the crowd <"I am a bereft woman, a widow without a husband and without a clan...yet the fire burning in my chest shall not be quenched without seeing this debt be paid"> <"I beseech you o warrior and hunters of Reunion, great Dotharl and Sunborn Oronir. Just Qestir and valiant Adarkim!...I invoke Nhaama's justice this day, that this atrocity known as Mahishashura will meet its end upon your spears and arrows, and finally..my husband can rest in his shallow grave">

A wide murmur spreads across the market. Hesitation can be seen in many faces, until a tall, dark skinned man, with piercing steel gray eyes moves forward.

<"I am Ochigin of the"> he takes a deep breath <"Uragshi!, as tradition dictates...when Nhaama's justice is invoked on the fifth holy day...it is the duty of all Xaela to answers"> 

Ochigin lay down his Katana on the woman's feet. He stands and shout 

<"Who of you great hunters and strong warriors shall go with me this day? none of you that pass through your way to Reunion has not been harmed to a degree by this Mammoth. Too long have this old one terrorize our community">

Hesitation still can be seen on many faces, after all, who would not think twice when facing the possibility of fighting a creature many times over their size Gin shakes his head 

<"I stand here today, in front of Nhaama and Azim. A widow is invoking her justice, and I see scared faces instead of the warrior that we, Xaela are. Have we gone so craven that we prefer to hide within the walls of Reunion ? under the Qestiri protection?"> This seems to invoke a lot of angry faces, yet as anger rise within their heart it banish sense of fear and give way to bravery <"I am Ubegei of Dotharl, i will not be outdone by you Uragshi!, i answer the invocation of Nhaama's justice"> a blue skinned, one-eyed Dotharl steps forward. Throwing down his ax to the foot of the platform <"Yuda of the Uyagir"> <"Esugei, Sunborn of the Oronir"> <"Batu of the Buduga"> <"Tengri of the Mol"> One by one, the gathering of warriors and hunters grows to a sizeable crowd even including some adventurers from far west.

Gin is given the honor as the leader of the hunt, as the first person who volunteered. Explaining his strategy to the few other representatives of each tribe, they agreed on a work plan.

That night, under the guise of the darkness. almost eighty Xaela of many tribes rides to the Mammoth's lair. The scout that was sent found the Mammoth sleeping in the middle of the plain, near The Wound.

As soon as everyone is in their position, the fire signal is lit. The archers rain their arrows from afar while the mages summon forth the destructive power of the elements. Struck by the surprise attack, the Mammoth King Mahishashura roar in pain and anger. This roused his rage and his eyes are trained upon the ranged attacker. He stands up and with his wounded body charge towards his enemy.

This, however, is a part of the trap set by Gin and the others. As Mahishashura charged, he did not realize that the ground he treads is doused in flammable oil. A single fire arrow struck the ground and Mahishashura went ablaze. Frenzy struck him through the agony as his natural instinct bide him to trash around. When the fire finally dies and his movement is weakened. The Warriors throws ropes against his limbs and tied the rope on the sturdy rocks in concentrated manners.

<"For Baighur !, Nhaama ! Azim!"> as the warhorn is sounded, those who are fighting as Melee fighters charge upon the Mammoth. hacking and slashing. The large Mammoth is not going to go down without a last fight, with his greatly weakened body he manages to thrash around and send several of the warriors flying, yet as sturdy Xaela as they are, some stand back and charge again. Others who are more unfortunate lies down with broken bones and some breathe their last that night.

It was told later in the story by the bards in the “Great hunt of Mahishashura” that the fight lasts from midnight until the break of the dawn. When in his last dead throes, Mahishashura finally stops trashing and breathe its last. The warriors collected the body of the wounded and deceased...yet their victory shout will be remembered until years later

Even amongst the shout of <"Baighur, Nhaama ! Azim!"> there are another shout that arises, as the Warriors comes and give their tired and battered leader slaps on the shoulder. A firm handshake, and even attempted kiss from the females...to which he politely avoid. 

<"Uragshi! Daichny Tsus (Uragshi, Blood of the Warrior)"> was that words that echoed that day...

[vulpiine]

drabble prompt: "save me" ( yenna saving su )

☠ DRABBLE LIST. || ACCEPTING↳ SAVE ME: I’ll write a drabble about my character saving yours or vise versa.

         SHE HAS LOST MORE THAN SHE can handle, that one. that explains the trembling bones, the desperate cry for mercy although she’s not one to ever obtain it. heaven has abandoned her like it has its sunborne descendant, blood etching itself onto oriental carpets in one fluid DISASTER. the vixen takes full blame, knowing better than to challenge forces equal to her own; had it not been for su and his knightly rescue, that would have been her staining the ground. and in seconds, she would gladly trade places with him if given the chance.

            ❛  how could you—..??  ❜  act so foolishly? leave her behind?  for every sound attempted, a whimper erupts as to dismiss her ability to speak or even think clearly. only ONE option comes to mind, and she welcomes the idea no matter how crippling; brushing her hair out of harm’s way, yenna leans closer to the motionless body, searching for life where it no longer manifests. not even the gentle stroking of cheek summons a response, TIME her greatest enemy next to wicked hounds. in a moment of quiet resolution, she presses her lips against his cold ones ( oh, how his light fades so quickly ); by offering up a fox bead, a humble life force once selfishly stolen, she provides him but the slightest chance of returning safely to her arms again. however draining a procedure, she falls next to him with peace in her heart — only slightly clouded by deep-felt concern for both their uncertain fates. such a miracle it was, after all, for a demon to correct its  m i s t a k e s.