#superior dwarven blood here only!

[limethechef]

Inconciveable dwarben ranntungg aboourt El*es

[wellthebardsdead]

Clockwork heart pt21

Part 20 here

———

Taliesin: *laying in his bedroll listening to the room around him as he tries to sleep, the blizzard outside Wyrms bedroom windows filling the silence with a gentle drone, and Kaidan and inigo’s bear like snoring easily overshadowing it* …

*Tap*

Taliesin: *opens his eyes and stares up at the ceiling before looking over at the bed to see voryn and nerevar sleeping in each others embrace, and Kaidan and inigo both deep in their sleep* …

*click, click*

Taliesin: *looks over at Wyrms desk to see Mr wrench quietly rising up to his feet, facing the direction of the door* you heard it too?…

Mr wrench: *turns to face Taliesin and tappy taps his front legs in acknowledgement*

Taliesin: *gets up and walks to the dwarven spider, gently offering his hand to it and smiling as it scurries up to his shoulder* let’s investigate shall we?… *picks up his dagger and walks to the hole in Wyrms wall, peering through it to the now dark interior of the arcanum* …

*rustle*

Taliesin: *eyes immediately locking onto a sheet of paper by urags desk, moving from an unseen breeze* … *casts invisibility on himself and muffles the sound of the door opening as he steps into the room, dagger drawn and ears poised for any further sound* …

Mr wrench: *suddenly flashes a bright red light from his eye illuminating the unseen figure creeping right up behind Taliesin before leaping right for their face*

Taliesin: *spins around in time to witness ancano be taken to the ground by the tiny spider as he flails in a panic trying to protect his face from it* You. I should have guessed it’d be you.

Ancano: *grunts grabbing the dwarven spider by its leg* Worthless heap of scrap- *moves to throw it only for Taliesin to grab his wrist in a vice like grip*

Taliesin: Don’t. You. Dare. *pries his fingers from the spider and catches him letting the automaton scurry up his arm again*

Ancano: *winces in pain at the other high elfs surprisingly strong grip* Who in oblivion are y-… I know you… you’re-

Taliesin: not with the thalmor anymore.

Ancano: You dare defect from the dominion never mind put your hands on a superior?! *rises to his feet and nearly collapses in agony again as Taliesin grips tighter threatening to break his wrist as icy arcane energy begins to freeze the other elfs skin*

Taliesin: You are not my superior anymore. You are worth less than the dirt beneath my boots. Did you think I was Wyrm? Is that why you crept up behind me? What else have you done to him without his consent?

Ancano: *eyes flashing with intrigue at his questioning* I haven’t got a clue what you’re talking abo-AGH! *chokes out a pained cry as Taliesin suddenly pins him to a book shelf, twisting his wrist behind his back*

Taliesin: *grabs his hair with his free hand holding him in place* Don’t lie to me. I may have been a terrible justiciar but you are a pathetic liar. *leans in close to his ear* Tell me, the truth…

Ancano: *realising he’d severely underestimated Taliesin and trying to figure out a way out of the situation he’d landed himself in* I-

*click, creeeeeak!*

Taliesin: *looks back to see urags door opening, and Wyrm stepping out into the dark library* Wyrm-GAGHH! *let’s go of ancano as the other high elf stomps on his foot before bashing his face with the back of his head as he turns invisible again*

Ancano: This isn’t over you traitorous swine. *huffs and storms out*

Taliesin: *holding his mouth as blood trickles from his lip* You slimy little- to think I’d once admired you. *looks back to see Wyrm still there, slowly walking towards his room seemingly unbothered by his presence* Wyrm shhh im sorry I woke you I can-… Wyrm?…

Wyrm: *sleep walking, posture calm and yet, somehow ready. Quietly walks into his bedroom and stops at nerevars bag before looking into it and picking up keening with a steady, calculated grasp*

Taliesin: *following him in realising he’s not in control of himself anymore* Wyrm?…

Wyrm: *crawling on his bed and onto nerevar, straddling his waist with his legs and holding the knife over his face, ready to cut it off*

Taliesin: *runs to grab him* WYRM STOP!!!

Nerevar: *jolts awake in shock to see Wyrm above him holding the knife, his mind immediately flashing back to the day of the foul murder, and sotha sil slicing his face off with the very same blade* what?! *grabs the dunmer by his wrist and easily disarms him before pinning him back into the bed, startling both him and voryn awake. And then the entirety of the collage as Wyrm screams in fright*

*a few hours later in the early hours of the morning*

Enthir: *emerges from urags room after getting Wyrm and the old orc settled again* Okay so you saw what happened then yeah? *fixes his robe and yawns as he picks up more blankets to take into Wyrms room*

Taliesin: I woke up to ancano creeping into the arcanum. We got into an altercation and Wyrm emerged from his fathers room… I thought we had woken him but I watched him walk into his bedroom, pick up that, *gestures to keening* and climb onto nerevar attempting to cut his face off.

Nerevar: *finally got voryn to calm down enough to rest again* He was sleepwalking again… another nightmare, one I suspect he’s had plenty of times before now… *shakily grips his mug making the tea in it ripple* and one I remember vividly myself…

Enthir: *ears tucking back as he sighs* had I of known the trouble those gauntlets would start… I’d of never of shown them to w-Ancano?… he was in here?

Taliesin: I heard movement in the arcanum, I saw Wyrms little pet spider did too, when I stepped into the library, he jumped from my shoulder and onto Ancanos face. He’d cast invisibility on himself with intent to sneak up on someone. I suspect he thought I was Wyrm. Why else would he be here?

Enthir: How on nirn did he get in? The doors are all locked how did hr get a key.

Taliesin: speaking as a- former member of the thalmor. He was known for gaining entry to, less cooperative talos worshipping suspects homes. He said it was through persuasion but, I wouldn’t put it past him to-

Enthir: pick the locks… he’d of had to have come through the front doors then, the midden one is warded.

Nerevar: *clenching his jaw* If he’s a threat to our Pearl. Why is he still here?…

Enthir: He’s finalising his report for the dominion… If we send him back without due cause-

Taliesin: the dominion will close down or attack the college.

Enthir: what he said… *sighs* But you’re right to be concerned. Wyrms in danger with him here…

Nerevar: I’ll have a word with the arch mage… I think he’d be more inclined to take… Advice. From me.

Enthir: *ears shifting* please don’t kill the arch mage *rubs his face in exasperation* we’ve dealt with too much instability already. And right now it’s the last thing Wyrm needs. *carries blankets to Wyrms room*

Nerevar: *watches him go before looking at Taliesin* Let’s find out what Ancano is up to.

Taliesin: … *fixes his robe* I’d rather cut his throat. But we’ll do your idea first.

[heimdallsbraids]

Blood of Mine | Ch. 6 (Heimdall x fem!reader)

Summary: Life is pretty simple. Survive the harsh conditions of Fimbulwinter in Midgard, trade with your dwarven friends in Svartalfheim and – avoid the shit out of Odin’s most loyal lapdog? If word reaches the All-Father about your blood-bending origins, you’re doomed… (Hints of Avatar: TLA, but not a crossover)

Rating: Mature

Warnings: Profanity

First chapter | Previous chapter | Next chapter

View on AO3

Chapter Six: Björn

It was the morning after Thor’s big feast, and you awoke feeling more well-rested than you have in a long time. Your dreams pleasantly consisted of travelling to some foreign lands, far away from the troubles of Asgard – no Odin, no Heimdall and certainly no threat of Ragnarök looming around the corner. It was a nice change from the recent nightmares you’ve been having.

Feeling good, you opted to wear one of your new dresses, admiring its splendid quality as you stood before the window, peeking outside. It was an emerald green number with delicate stitching along the hems and ivory symbols lining your full-length sleeves, showcasing what you assumed was Asgardian supremacy. It fits you like a glove, and you were tempted to order another to take back to Midgard once you built up some savings.

Exiting the hall of bedrooms, you were surprised to see the double doors to Odin’s office open, if only a crack. The man himself could be seen standing behind the massive desk, muttering away as the hushed cawing of a raven echoed around him. It was an odd sight, and you were nearly out of earshot before he called out to you.

You exhaled slowly, backtracking around the corner to peek your head inside. “Yes, Odin – I mean All-Father?”

He beckoned you in with a humoured shake of his head. “Got some time to chat?”

Not having much of a choice, you nodded and stepped inside. Unfortunately, you hadn’t seen Heimdall standing off to the side when you peeked in before, and you barely held back a groan of displeasure as his lips tilted upward in a sly smirk. Here you were wanting to avoid the Gods, and now you were stuck alone in a room with both of them. Just your luck!

Odin didn’t miss the interaction. With a pointer finger, he gestured between you and his son. “You two know each other?”

Heimdall’s answer was prompt. “Of course, All-Father. I make it my business to know who or what enters the realm I love.”

The insinuation behind his words wasn’t lost on you, and you inwardly cringed as he gave you a pointed look while saying it. You tensed. Could he make it any more obvious?

Odin hummed, sounding pleased. “Always on the ball, this one! If you ever have any questions about Asgard, he knows everything there is to know about it. He’ll be happy to show you the ropes.”

“I’m sure he will be,” you replied monotonously, doubting that very much.

“Indeed. Now, I’ve been meaning to say…” he began, fluffing with some scrolls along the expanse of his desk. Some were new, others were old and tattered, and a few were lying open with foreign characters written over them. “You’re more than welcome to come and go from the city as you please. I won’t always be around to take you, but Heimdall here has the ability to travel by bifröst if you ever find yourself missing home.”

Your brows rose at that. Travelling to Midgard with Heimdall? You didn’t know him all that well, but something told you he’d rather go anywhere else than to the realm of humans and shitty Fimbulwinter weather. Not to mention, you doubt the locals at your camp would appreciate his uppity, better-than-thou attitude – if he didn’t just up and ditch you by the Lake of Nine, that is.

You glanced at him to gauge his reaction, but he gave nothing away as he regarded his father and superior with a stance that meant business, all upright and straight-backed. He looked like a hound, ready to bark and bite on demand if its owner commanded him so. It certainly didn’t scream familial love to you. It piqued your curiosity, but you weren’t about to comment on it.

“When’s the soonest I can leave?” You asked instead, making Odin cease all actions and huff a laugh. Even Heimdall quirked a brow, but he otherwise remained stationary.

“Already so eager to leave? I hope you haven’t run into any issues; any problems…?” He trailed off.

“No,” you answered. “I’ve just never been away from home this long. I want to check on my dad and see how everything’s going.”

“I see.” Odin took a moment to drum his fingers against his chin, thinking. Then, he clicked his fingers, “How’s about I take you there now? Meet the parents, see the town?”

You winced. “There’s only one.”

“Hm?”

“Parent,” you clarified. “I only have one. And it’s not a town, either.”

“My apologies. I had no idea.” Odin rounded the table and lay what you guessed was supposed to be a comforting hand on your shoulder. “If you want to go now, we can. Just let me make some arrangements beforehand to keep this place up and running while we’re gone, and I’ll be right with you. Wouldn’t want to return to it in shambles, would we now?”

With that, the man was off, leaving you and Heimdall to stare at where he’d stood nearly two seconds ago. Seeing no reason to hang around, you circled back and made your way to the great hall, figuring you should probably squeeze in a quick meal before your trip. You had no idea the younger God was hot on your trail until he cut you off, treating you to a face full of his leathered tunic. You sputtered and reeled back with a heated glare.

“Running from your problems isn’t very becoming of you, sunshine. Reality getting too hard to face?” He sneered, glowing purple eyes locked onto yours.

“How am I ‘running from my problems’?” You snapped, wanting nothing more than to knee him in the groin. He seemed to notice this, too, because he wedged his leg against yours, preventing you from doing so. You continued, “I’m going home to visit, not hide!”

“That’s right, wench, you won’t ever be able to hide from me. You may have gotten off yesterday, but you’ll be put to work very soon – that, I promise you.” He finished lowly before stalking off through the front doors of the lodge.

You could only stand there, dumbfounded by his harsh overreaction. You had no idea how he came to the conclusion that you were running away, but the nerve he had to act as if you’d somehow forgotten about your agreement pissed you off more than anything. You kicked the wall out of frustration. What did it matter to him anyway? You’d be out of his hair, out of his realm, and most importantly, far, far away from his precious All-Father.

The two of you had also gained quite the audience since, when you finally calmed down enough to look up, several servants and helmets were staring at you, clearly baffled by the scene they’d just witnessed. Aggravated as you were, you stormed off to your room. Thanks to Heimdall's little hissy fit, you no longer had an appetite to worry about.

You were sitting on the bed with your knees tucked against your chest when you received word from a servant that the All-Father was ready. You were silent as his ravens surrounded you in waves, clearing out once you’d arrived in Midgard. You instantly recognised where you were, but the sudden exposure to sub-zero temperatures had you huddling your arms to your chest for warmth.

“Hah, almost forgot!” Odin chuckled. He waved his hand toward your shivering form, “Efri-lá…”

Suddenly, as if a blanket had tucked itself over you, the cold whispers of Midgardian winds weaned away, leaving you nice and toasty in your new Asgardian dress. You probably should’ve changed into regular clothes beforehand, but you were too busy sulking to think correctly. You were just lucky Odin had that trick up his sleeve, or he would’ve had to take you back.

You mustered a small smile. “Thanks. We’re actually not too far from camp.”

“Lead the way,” he encouraged.

You observed as he tucked his cape so that it enveloped him entirely, granting outsiders nothing but the vision of a tall man. He looked every part the mysterious God you’d heard countless stories about throughout your childhood. It was hard to believe you were now his personal guest in Asgard and that he was bringing you here on a house call, of all things. You would’ve been pretty chuffed if you didn’t know any better.

“So,” you began awkwardly, adjusting the sleeves of your dress as you walked. “I take it you’re not as busy today, then?”

“I figured I could spare you some time. After all, you are my guest.” He stated, his voice accompanied by his crunching footfalls in snow. “I do apologise for the blatant neglect. I’ve been a very busy man as of late. Gotta keep the people happy, you see?”

You wanted to scoff at his honeyed words. Sure, the people inside the walls of Asgard were probably satisfied enough, but everything outside of it? All the other realms that suffered, thanks to his input? You didn’t doubt that they were in an absolute state. Especially Vanaheim.

“I see,” you echoed, struggling to maintain your composure. “It must be hard. Protecting so many people, I mean…”

“Ah, it comes with the territory, I’m afraid, but I don’t let that stop me. Enough about me, though,” he declared. “I take it you’re enjoying your stay in Gladsheim?”

“It’s a beautiful city,” you answered honestly, thankful for the change of subject. “Your granddaughter’s very nice, too. We spend time together quite often, actually.”

“So I’ve heard! She’s a fiery young thing if I’ve ever seen one – big dreams, too. It’s a shame she takes so much to her father.”

You tilted your head in muted shock. Was that a dig at Thor? Did this man have a healthy relationship with any of his sons?

“I’m pleased to know she took responsibility for our guest. I have to admit, I was a little worried at first.” He finished jokingly.

A familiar cave opening appeared in the distance, and soon enough, the sounds of people talking drifted within earshot. Your heart began to race. You were eager now that you were actually here, about to see your father again. You weren’t lying earlier in saying that this was the longest you’d ever been away from home and, thus, away from him. You missed him.

Your camp neighbours stared as you hurried to the back with a peculiar man trailing behind you. They had no idea who he was, and you were more than happy to keep it that way.

“Dad?” You called, running inside.

You were surprised to see that he was awake – sober, even – and he immediately stood from the stool near his bed, pulling you in for a bear hug. “Where the Hel have you been, you little shit?”

“I’ve missed you, too, Dad.”

He tucked a loose strand of hair behind your ear before shuffling to the other end of the tent where a heavy wooden chest sat. He lifted a weighty green sack from inside and gave it a shake, the tell-tale sounds of clinking money reverberating in the tent.

“About that…” You trailed off, scratching the back of your neck.

“You couldn’t have given me some warning before running off like that?”

“Hey, it was for our benefit!” You argued, crossing your arms over your chest. “I had to do something, or we’d have been screwed within a few weeks!”

 “I know. And I am sorry.” Your father sighed, dropping his arms to his side in defeat. “I promise I’m trying. It’s just, ever since your mother-”

Your hand shot up in front of you. “Please, don’t. It’s been years, Dad. We… we need to move on.”

“Am I interrupting something?” It was Odin. He lifted the tent flap and peeked inside. You almost forgot about him amongst the influx of complicated emotions, but you were honestly glad for the interruption.

“No, you can come in if you like.” You told him, shaking your head.

Your dad sent you a questioning glance as he returned the money to the chest, silently asking who the Hel this man was and why he was stepping into your home. Nevertheless, he straightened up and held out a hand, facing him with a presence you hadn’t seen in a long time.

“To what do I owe this pleasure?”

“Ah,” Odin grasped the offered hand. “I’m Odin. You could say I’m your daughter’s new boss.”

You didn’t miss how your father’s grip tightened or the way his eyes flickered to yours upon recognising the name. You shook your head, signalling him to play along.

“Björn.” Your father replied, smoothly taking on the role of the unassuming parent. “Thank you for that, by the way. You’ve helped us out of a tight spot.”

Odin seemed to revel in the praise as he clasped his hands behind his back. The two began chatting, and you quickly excused yourself to grab the two men a drink. Upon your return, you discovered them sitting on the stools, still talking.

“Wouldn’t you rather be by your daughter’s side?” Odin asked, and you froze.

“What?” You interjected. You crouched down, eyes flicking between them in curiosity as you handed them each a cup of freshly brewed tea.

“I extended the offer to live and work in Asgard to your father. I thought it better for the both of you that way.”

You were immediately reminded of Heimdall’s words a few nights ago – how he believed Odin already knew what you were – and immediately began waving your hands in front of you. One family member in the devil’s den was more than enough.

“Don’t be silly, he’s fine here in camp. Right, Dad?” You urged, hoping he’d take the hint.

“They need me here.” He agreed firmly, nodding his head. “Fimbulwinter’s only getting worse, and we’re about to have a few new additions join the camp, so we need all the people we can get.”

Odin took a sip of his drink as he processed this. “I can respect that. However, the offer remains the same should you change your mind. Asgard will welcome you with open arms.”

You sighed in relief, not realising you were even holding your breath in the first place. A few more pleasantries were exchanged before the sound of a raven squawking had the God standing from his chair and returning his cup.

“Business calls, I’m afraid. I’ll meet you out front.” He ominously declared. “Until next time, Björn.”

You were granted a private moment with your father as Odin left, the sounds of his footsteps and hushed words fading not long after. Deeming the coast as clear, your father gripped you by the arms, shaking slightly.

“What have you done, sprout? You’re not safe in Asgard,” he jutted his chin toward the tent’s exit, “-and certainly not with him!”

“All I know is I was lucky enough to meet his bitchiest son, then Durlin kept me out of Niðavellir for a good month, and then suddenly, he was taking me to meet Odin!”

“Durlin?” Your father spat, venom lacing his tone. “Really? Did that little shit blab? Oh-ho, if your mother was still around-”

“That’s what I was thinking – and that’s not even the worst part!” You were anxiously shifting on the spot now, waving your hands in grand gestures to help explain the shitstorm you’d gotten into. “That bitchy son I mentioned before? He knows! He fucking knows!”

Your dad stilled. “You’re not going back. Tell him I’m sick or dying – shit, anything!”

“I can’t! If I even think about leaving, he’ll tell his father…”

“Which son is it?”

“Heimdall.”

Grave recognition overcame his features, and your father threw his hands in the air. “Of all the sons, it had to be him!”

You wanted to ask how he knew Heimdall, but you feared Odin would become suspicious if you continued to delay, so you quickly leaned in for a hug instead. “Look, we’ve got an agreement going, so I should be fine until-”

“Should be?”

“Come on. I have to go!”

He shook his head as you pulled away from his tight embrace. “I’m always here, sprout, you know that. Dad’s always here…”

“I know,” you whispered, having already made your exit.

Your chest hurts.

A/N: Yoo, what is with the lack of Odin gifs? I could hardly find any except for the ones where he's getting beaten the shit out of by Atreus, Kratos and Freya omg

[konohagakureship]

Itachi and Kisame d&d au! for @naruto-magic-week free day prompt! I've finally get the hold of the lore of Eberron and have been able to sort the races of all the akatsuki members and part of their backstories. I'll post them as soon as I have their character sheets done!

au! Akatsuki D&D

Headcanons:

All the info related to places and clans is from the canonic lore of Eberron, or from interpretations that i’ve found here and there, and also a bit of my own homebrew lore. I’m gathering all the info and sources in my WorldAnvil page so you can check it out if you want :) 

And this is the map with notes so you can pin all the locations.

This will be a LONG post so be prepared xD

Founding of the Akatsuki Fellowship

All the members of the party met in Sharn, the biggest city of the continent of Khorvaire. They were there for different reasons but ended up travelling together across the world.

Itachi and the assassins of the shadows

Itachi is a dragonmarked assassin from the Uchiha Family of House Thuranni who has been assigned a mission in the city of Sharn.

Agents of House Thuranni

The elves of House Thuranni bear the dragonmark Mark of Shadow. This Mark allows them to cast illusions and move in the shadows. 

The Shadow Network is a House Thuranni guild for musicians, artists, actors and all forms of performers. In secret, all members of the Shadow Network are also assassins or spies trained in espionage, and are considered the best assassins in all Eberron. (source)

The Shadow Network divides its agents into four ranks:

Shadow ( highest rank )

Phantasms ( elite operatives and field agents )

Apparitions ( coordinate groups of Wisps )

Wisps ( lower ranks )

And each operative is further defined by

Bright ( specializes in missions of an aggressive nature, including assassination )

Pale ( specializes in deep cover missions of finesse )  (source)

House Thuranni was formed when the Thuranni Family, a faction of House Phiarlan (another elf house with the mark of shadow) exterminated the Paelion Family for supposedly plotting the assassination of various heirs and kings. This provoked a schism between Phiarlans’ leader and Thuranni’s leader and ultimately the Thuranni and allies separated themselves from House Phiarlan to form House Thuranni.

Unlike the house from which it split, House Thuranni makes no pretense to neutrality. The house sees its actions as having greater purpose than simply supporting the subtle machinations of lords and kings. This ideological separation combines with the house’s business philosophy to make heirs of Thuranni more ruthless and aggressive than the Phiarlan (who are also spies and assassins). (source)

House Thuranni is also more closed and has no interest in mixing its agents with outsiders and other races. 

Thuranni has adopted the symbol of a crescent moon, its face wreathed in shadow. Members of the house wear this symbol in the form of a small pendant, often hidden beneath the tunic or shirt. (source)

Thuranni's headquarters reside in the island city of Regalport, but the port city of Tantamar is the heart of House Thuranni's activities in the mainland. 

Having established numerous bases and outposts throughtout Khorvaire and cultivated a great influence in various important cities, the house is spread across the continent, and the families are given territories to manage.

The city of Sharn is House Phiarlan’s main enclave, so Thuranni’s agents are not well received in the upper layers of the city. 

House Thuranni runs a tavern (with life performances and accomodation) called The Shadowkeeper, in the lawless Callestan district of Sharn, that is in fact a safe house for their agents visiting the city. 

Itachi

Skills:

Mark of Shadow ( cast illusions and conjure shadows)

Darkvision ( see in the dark (can’t discern color, only shades of gray) )

Keen Senses ( proficiency in Perception (spot, hear, or detect the presence of something)  )

Fey Ancestry ( resistance against magic attacks )

Languages ( Common and Elvish )

Itachi is a Bright Phantasm of House Thuranni.

He participated in the anihilation of the Paelion Family 30 years ago. 

Though he performs asassination missions regularly and is considered one of Thuranni’s best agents, he would like his house to be more diplomatic, open and neutral like the Phiarlan. This would cause him to have constant discussions with his father and superiors, that perceive his views as a lack of loyalty to the house.

Itachi doesn’t interact a lot with other members of the house unless they are close friends or relatives. He’s quite the loner and prefers to be left alone with his thoughts than to take part in huge events and celebrations. 

He’s the heir of the Uchiha Family hence a heir of House Thuranni as well, so aside from his job as an assassin, he has to attend the Council meetings when he’s required.

The Uchiha Family is one of the six lines of House Thuranni, and manages its enclave in Tantamar.

Itachi is sent to Sharn to “deal” with a merchant that stole some Thuranni heirlooms. He stays in The Shadowkeeper, a good place to rest and gather intel. When he finally locates his sneaky target, he finds out that the merchant has been traffiking with the relics and now they are spread throughout Khorvaire. 

He will then have to choose between going back to Tantamar and tell the Council about his findings, or send a message telling them that he will find the relics himself and embark on a looong journey far away from his home and family, and their close-minded short-sighted foolish views...

...alongside with his accidental new friends.

Kisame and the barbarians of The Holds

Kisame is an orc champion from the Mror Holds that wants to move to the Shadow Marches to start a new and paceful life with his son, and he's currently in Sharn to get in a ship to Zharash'ak, in the Shadow Marches.

Orc warriors of the Ironroot Mountains

The Jhorash'tar are an infamous clan of Orcs who reside in the Ironroot Mountains, in the dwarven nation of The Mror Holds. 

The Jhorash'tar were once found all over the Holds, and orcs came in all colors and shapes. Some communities had elemental traits and habilities linked to their natural habitats, such as the Blue Orcs from the northern coast who had a special connection with the sea.

However, the dwarven civilizations prospered tipping the balance in the dwarves' favour. The Jhorash'tar were forcefully removed from their ancestral homes and pushed deeper into the wilderness of the Ironroot Mountains. 

This historical grievance is why the Jhorash'tar despise the dwarves of the Mror Holds and actively hunt and attack their trading caravans and mining operations. (source)

A few of the dwarven clans are seeking to incorporate the Jhorash’tar into Mror society, while others wish to drive them out once and for all. (source)

Though vilified by the dwarves as uncouth and unintelligent barbarians, the Jhorash’tar are a highly social folk with a strong warrior tradition. The orcs make full use of their knowledge of the unforgiving terrain of their homeland as they hunt their foes. (source)

Despite the ever climbing birth rate of the Jhorash'tar, their lifestyles are harsh and hold high levels of fatalities. Every generation the Jhorash'tar see their people falling further behind the dwarven civilizations, so their way of life focusses on combat training effectively turning all their members into warriors capable of defending themselves. 

A special few who excel in combat and leadership are given the title of Blood Spiller and receive much respect from other clansmen. (source)

The orcs are one of the oldest, if not the oldest, race in all the world. Often depicted as savage brutes and ravaging barbarians, the orcs of Eberron are in fact an incredibly diverse and deeply spiritual people. (source) 

The largest orc communities are found in The Demon Wastes, The Eldeen Reaches, The Mror Holds and The Shadow Marches.

The Shadow Marches are little more than fetid backwater swamps where Orcs have lived for thousands of years. 

Unlike their barbarian cousins from The Holds and The Demon Wastes, the orc clans of the Shadow Marches are conformed by farmers, artisans, fishermen, etc and are generally humble and welcoming people.

They are far more accepting of other races and a share their land with the human refugees they have come to count as their own. Clan orcs are hard working and proud, standing beside their human counterparts without contempt or pity. 

While a small number of clans in the Shadow Marches remain either completely human or fully orc the majority are a healthy combination of the two. Shadow March clan orcs and humans alike see no taboo about cross-breeding between the species, so half-orcs are common and celebrated. (source)

House Tharashk is a human and half-orc dragonmarked house of the Marches.  They carry the Mark of Finding. This mark grants various magical benefits related to locating people and objects which in turn has led to their fame for bounty hunting. (source)

Kisame

Skills:

Darkvision ( see in the dark (can’t discern color, only shades of gray) )

Menacing ( proficiency in Intimidation )

Relentless Endurance, Savage Attacks, Conviction, Survival

Languages ( Common and Orc )

Kisame is a Blood Spiller from the Hoshigaki tribe of the Jhorash'tar clan.

His blueish skin is a reminder of his Blue Orc ancestry.

Thurk’fos is a settlement hidden in the middle of steep rocky mountains. Despite it’s harsh habitat, the orcish community managed to create a haven to raise their children and keep their families away from the dwarven mercenaries. 

Kisame had a wife and two kids (9 and 3 yo). He is the only one left of four siblings, who died in their attacks on the dwarven caravans, like their parents before them.

As a Blood Spiller he had a place in the Council and voiced his concern about the new attack they were planning. It was almost suicidal, but the Council approved it and they proceeded with the assault.

His wife, also a Blood Spiller, and his eldest son joined the commando attack despite Kisame’s opposition. He considered that the kid wasn’t ready, but his wife and son insisted that he was capable and old enough to become a warrior.

Like most of their battles against the dwarves this one was also a blood shed, and his wife and kid were killed alongside with many other clansmen.

This crushed Kisame's heart, who felt betrayed by his fellow councilmen for not listening to him and by his own family for being reckless and dying.

Having lost all his direct family but his youngest son, he left The Holds and his clan to cross the country and settle in the Shadow Marches, where he had heard orcs weren’t hunted and lived among other races like equals. 

He wanted his son Shizuma to have a paceful life away from combat and death, and so they started their long journey across the vast land of Khorvaire to Zharash'ak.

But unexpected things happen while they are in Sharn. 

Kisame has to purchase two expensive passages to get into a ship to Zharash'ak, but at this point of the journey he has no money left so he decides to spend his last coins in a warm place to eat and sleep and to start looking for a job the next morning.

The Shadowkeeper seemed a good and cheap option. Little did he know that choosing this tavern would thwart his plan of a paceful life in the Marches, and instead would have him travel to places he had never thought of. 

-------------

Well!!!! We have the first two members of the party!! Now i need the other six to show up too ;)

[saidelia-draconis]

12. A happy memory

  Three days. Three long, agonizing days. The company had ascended the mountain pass, two score and a corps of civil engineers, bolstered by a handful of Dalaran mages. They were to establish a foothold within the breach. The vast wasteland was one of the ingress points into which the assault on Icecrown was to begin. What had started as forty capable soldiers had dwindled to less than a dozen. In the midst of it, Saidelia.

  Fresh from an hour of the shifts in which the last of the half-finished keep was allowed to sleep, she had hastily slung her armor back on, strapped in by one of the engineers. She beat her blade against the heavy pavise she held in front of her. On her way to rejoin the fray, she was passed by a weary young man with a fetid arrow lodged in his shoulder. He nodded weakly at her. There was a grim  understanding about him. He seemed to know that help was back behind the safety of the Argent lines. She nodded at him with the same resigned acceptance.

“See you when this is over, Taroe.”

  Neither one of them believed her. Out from under the archway of the tower, she was already in the thick of it. Even with the high ground, the contingent had been beaten back nearly to their beds. Her heavy boots tamped down red snow. She drew in a breath, stepping over a ghoul, she passed the blonde cleric. Sam hardly acknowledged her. Tending to a dwarven rifleman, he was flanked by the group’s sapper.

  Faruq Sayyid quietly stalked the edges of the battle, blades in hand. As a watchful skeleton took notice of Sam, its nimble fingers began weaving together plumes of frost, pulling from the frigid air around it. Its chest rattled with a cool, eerie laughter. At the apex of its incantation, the creature fell motionless to the ground with the Tanari man standing behind it. He disentangled his daggers from the lifeless pile of bones, his white coat almost melding with the snow behind him. Saidelia lost sight of Sayyid when she blinked.

Beyond the makeshift relief area, she passed an older man. His striking features and wild gestures were all she needed to recognize Alvarez. Another member of her company. With each wave of his hands, streaks of flame lashed their way through the undead hordes, either abating their assault or culling the weaker of the invaders. 

  His hands were blistered from the heat. His fingertips black and burned away, the barest hint of bone peeking through the charred flesh. He was deemed the only one who couldn’t rest. The only one keeping them from being completely overwhelmed. From behind him, Saidelia murmured a blessing. Her words seemed to echo as they passed from her to him. Her hands gripped at his shoulders, breathing what life she had into him. Still about to break, the mage’s strength was bolstered, at least for a time. The weary man nodded his approval.

“Thanks, kid. Glad you’re back. Halveth’s doting was almost worse than the corpses.”

  The massive man in front of Alvarez scoffed. Clearly, he had heard them. The greater of the ghastly horde that resisted the flames shambled towards Alvarez. The hulking man in plate was ready with his hammer. He let out a half-roar, half-grunt as his strike was abruptly stopped by the skull of a lurching beast. It’s leathery, charred form crumpled at Halveth’s feet. Saidelia took up her position next to him, breathing in.

“’ Bout time you join us, captain. Get your beauty sleep in?”

“You’re prettier when you’re quiet, Halveth.”

“I’m always pretty. On your right.”

  With his prompting, Saidelia’s shield  was raised. She drove her foot into the ground, cracks of light springing up from the earth, dispatching several shuffling corpses. Even fresh from her nap, Saidelia was running on fumes. Several swings in, she had begun to grow sluggish. Halveth taking notice. He uncorked a flask across his chest. He didn’t waste time warning the girl. With one hand on the back of her head, he forced the concoction underneath her nose. It stung all the way into her lungs. She could feel the hairs on the back of her neck pricking up.

“Up and at ‘em, Dragon. One shot at glory.”

  She hardly had time to thank him. The skeleton crew of defenders fought on. What little assistance could be spared from the engineers and mages was all that kept them together. Time was a luxury they couldn’t afford to count. As their fight raged on, they could feel the earth shaking. Before they could even see it, they heard the unholy roar. Slowly trudging up the mountain, they caught sight of a mound of shambling flesh, bones, and hatred. It stood as tall as the tower that had been building behind them. The fleshcrafter that rode in the abomination’s palm gazed down at them with a smug sense of superiority.

“Enough of this farce. Your encroachment into these cursed lands ends here. Witness me, for I will be the last thing you see, and the first when you are reborn.”

  A rifleman’s shot landed uselessly in the creature’s thumb, protecting the necromancer. A throaty laugh mocked them. Halveth and Alvarez began whispering desperately to each other, embracing. Saidelia locked eyes with Sam. There was a silent understanding among the group.

  As the legion of the damned marched forward, its progress was halted. Streaks of white, brown and gold dotted the sky. The sight of shrapnel and calamity erupted from within the midst of the undead army. As the glints in the sky drew closer, the beating of wings could be seen. 

“No… To me you fools, let none touch me!”

  The hippogryph riders rained all manner of magic, bombs, and arrows down on the stunned forces of the scourge. As their assault finally abated, even the massive construct was buckled, its body riddled with wounds. Saidelia could feel the ground beneath her as she fell to her knees. The aftereffects of Halveth’s questionable brew leaving her feeling weak and depleted.

  Through what remained of their defenses strode a stern-looking sin’dorei. His eyes were narrow, his lips pursed. He surveyed what remained of the battalion. Finally, he spoke. He sounded every part of a commander.

“Who among you is the ranking officer?”

  With the swift chain of succession ripping through the ranks in the past few days, the burdens of command had all but been abandoned. Without an answer, the elf drove his foot into the helmet of one of the fallen scourge.

“Do you think I am one who has time to waste, or have you all forgotten your ranks? Who among you holds command?”

  Through the silence, Saidelia felt an elbow, creaking against her plate, and drawing the commander’s attention. She could hear Halveth in her ear.

“Shit, Dragon. I think you might be the only knight left. We’ll try to vouch for you.”

  With a looming sense of dread, Saidelia rose to her feet. If her comrades were to be believed, this had to be what a hangover felt like. Without the surging adrenaline, and the noxious fumes of whatever Halveth had given her pumping through her blood, she felt meek and powerless. Her head was pounding. She reluctantly gazed up at the elf who had been staring at her. Three days without more than a wink of sleep had finally caught up with her.

“I… Think I might be, sir.”

  Without stopping to observe her, the man strode forth with purpose, pressing a finger against the center of her breastplate.

“You are, hmm? And just what do you have to say for yourself? Report!”

  Saidelia stared blankly. She had never been tasked with anything more than a reconnaissance team. Now she stood at the base of a tower she had ostensibly overseen, with the better part of what was not her company laying with the mound of Scourge corpses. She stammered as she tried to speak.

“I–”

“You what? Do not waste my time, girl.”

“I was tasked with keeping the keep from falling, sir. For three days without rest, that is what I did.”

  His piercing glare softened, suddenly curling into a smirk. He slowly nodded. He eyed the half-built keep with a nod.

“Indeed you did, girl. Maybe not with intention, but if you’re the last of the leadership, I believe this is your victory. We might speak of it later. You need a bath, a hot meal, and a warm bed. The lot of you. I will make preparations.”

(Thank you so much for the ask, @madame-miersae! Sorry it’s a little late… To say the least)

[timeclonemike]

The Last Machine: The People

For background on the setting, click HERE.

For background on the Chimera Virus, click HERE.

Lost Eagle Country and its de facto capital of Postville are thriving because they are in a prime position to benefit from the skills and talents of all the surrounding communities. This alone has done much to overcome the knee-jerk isolationism that those communities adopted after the Chimera Virus started changing things, in an attempt to keep the virus out. It helps that these communities have all cultivated an immunity, and wild strains of the virus are less common than they once were. Still, old habits die hard, and when travelers left their isolated refuges to meet up and start trading, they brought more than a few customs along with their augmented DNA.

Humans: Superficially unchanged from The World That Was, the humans of Lost Eagle Country are still fundamentally different from their precursors on a genetic level. In many cases this expresses itself as a form of hair, iris, or skin pigmentation that would not occur naturally before the virus. Some communities that managed to get a quarantine established and maintain it have avoided even these changes, but by 2125 the vast majority have collapsed for one reason or another; resource exhaustion is the most common, followed by infighting, and finally by breach of Quarantine. Only one “Holdout” community of humans is known to exist in Lost Eagle Country, and they don’t much care for visitors. The rest of the humans either hail from the farming town of Millstone, or wandered in from some other place and decided to stick around.

Dwarves: Descended from humans that took refuge in underground shelters, Dwarves are proportionately smaller than humans of the same weight, by about a foot on average. Their bones and muscles are, by comparison, stronger and tougher compared to a human, although being slightly smaller does mean they do not have the same leverage, so this increased strength is more apparent in some situations than others. Dispute what rumors say, dwarven beards are not unisex, but they are considered symbols of authority and virility, at least in the more traditional freeholds. Outside of them, it’s not uncommon to see clean-shaven dwarves, or dwarves with fake beards, especially in the somewhat more cosmopolitan Postville where social circles are wider and the threat of censure or exile from the freeholds carries less weight. These freeholds can be found just about anywhere, but the largest Dwarven Freehold is deep under Mt. Glory (not its original name) which provides Lost Eagle Country with the largest single percentage of its raw mineral wealth.

Elves: Elves are taller than humans by about a foot on average, while maintaining the same weight; they have increased leverage but comparable strength, which is more useful in some situations than others. More obviously, their ears tend to be leaf-shaped, and they exhibit a few other traits that make them seem tree-like or plant-like such as photosynthesis; this is a result of elves being descended from humans who took refuge from the Chimera Virus by living close to nature and far away from other people. When the virus did reach them, it was through flora based vectors, rather than fauna. At the time, this was considered a vindication of the survivor’s attitudes about society as much as a viable survival strategy, and as a result the first generation of elves tended to be insufferably arrogant to the point of elitist. This lasted all of one generation before elven society underwent a schism, resulting in the Light Elves and the Dark Elves. Light Elves tend to retain the same attitudes of superior scorn towards literally every other living creature on the planet, and remain close to their original home in what they call the Forest Primeval, and what literally everyone else calls St. John’s Woods. The Dark Elves are much more social compared to the Light Elves, and are fairly easy to identify by the tattoos that they give themselves using a bio-luminescent bacteria. While this makes the “Dark” Elves stand out more, the resulting symbiosis with their photosynthesis means that they can be more active at night or in the dark than the Light Elves can.

Gnomes: Gnomes appear similar to humans, with webbed membranes between their fingers, increased lung capacity, and an ability to tolerate much higher salt levels in drinking water. This is due to the nautical nature of their original community. Before the Chimera Plague, there was a group of people who organized a contingency plan in the event of a completely different type of epidemic; a zombie apocalypse. The plan was, in the event of the living dead rising from the grave, they would all get together, head out to sea, and wait until the undead all returned to the dust of the earth. This plan might have actually worked to outlast the Chimera Plague as well, only the Zombie Survival Fleet lost one of their Farm Barges within a few days of putting to sea. This crippled their ability to survive away from land for an extended period of time, and they were forced to cobble together a hasty Plan B; making their way upriver back into the mainland and establishing themselves there. By the time they managed to find a suitable place to drop anchor, the Chimera Virus had already been making the rounds among the crew of the various ships. The Gnome town of Romero (named for... well, take a wild guess) is one of the major shipping routes in and out of Lost Eagle Country, and does as much for the local food supply through fishing and aquaculture as Millstone does through cereal grains and vegetables. Despite what rumors say, Gnomes do not have gills, but it is true gnome children are often taught to swim before they can walk on their own.

Dragons: Dragons, despite the name, are not massive winged reptiles. In size, shape, and general proportions, they resemble humans. The obvious differences are scale-covered skin and sometimes tails. Despite their reptilian appearance, Dragons are decidedly warm blooded and are not incapacitated by temperature extremes any more than anyone else in Lost Eagle Country. They make their home in the town of Elsie on the side of Mt. Humble, in the same mountain chain as Mt. Glory that the Dwarves live under, and while they do provide Lost Eagle Country with most of its lumber (considering the elves in St. John’s Woods tend to be very possessive) they are most known for the power of flight. That is to say, the Dragons were the first to rebuild the infrastructure for air travel and air freight, and their airships and ultralights are a common sight in the skies. The reason for this is as simple as a head start; the original settlers of Elsie were the crew and passengers of an experimental aircraft that was used to escape the chaos of the Chimera Plague, which made an emergency landing on Mt. Humble. The technical knowledge of aerodynamics and aeronautical engineering was passed down through the generations until the community was stable enough to harness it, which proved fortunate for Lost Eagle Country as a whole as the Invader’s army was first spotted from the air, and the Dragon’s air force continues to provide Postville with up to date intelligence while denying the Invader the element of surprise.

Beastkin: A somewhat pejorative term that was eventually appropriated by the people it was used to describe, mostly because it was the least worst of the available options. (And yes, “furry” was one of the options.) Beastkin are descended from those who were exposed to the full brunt of the Chimera Virus as it ran roughshod over the planet, rather than being quarantined from it in an isolated region. As a result, Beastkin come in a bewildering variety of shapes and sizes, which has had a number of social and biological consequences. First and foremost, Beastkin do not come from a culture of isolation and exclusion; their survival actually hinged on the opposite, establishing and maintaining connections with other survivors while The World That Was fell apart around them. Second, because the Chimera virus never burned itself out in the creation of a shared chimeric genotype, Beastkin have not been able to standardize anything they use around a specific common body type, in size or shape or ability to interact with. As a result, Beastkin settlements are unique among post-apocalyptic towns and cities for being accessible to those who may not have the same type or number of limbs and sense organs. Finally, being out in the world as it fell apart left the Beastkin in the best position to rebuild and also gave them first pick of places and materials to salvage. This allowed them to maintain a fairly advanced technical and scientific infrastructure by post-apocalyptic standards. Beastkin can be found all over Lost Eagle Country, but their “home” city of Arcadia lies beyond the Banshee Desert, and it is from there that Postville gets its most advanced medication, precision instruments, and books.

[nimrodinked]

Vermintide 2 and the Smug Elf

I have found myself playing a large amount of Vermintide 2 recently, and thought I might as well disgorge my experience here. Firstly, I wen’t into the game expecting to play only one character. Out of the five cast members, the zealous Victor Saltzpyre seemed to me the most immediately pleasing. Snide, and with a voice that encapsulates all of humanity’s smug assurance in their faith, he seemed to me a perfect fit. Mind you I did have an roaring time playing him for the first levels, but after looking through the classes for the other four cast members something caught my eye. The elf, Keriliian, had a class that, unlike nearly every other class in the game, was purple. From what I read it was a stealth based class, a confusing idea in a game where the mechanics are staunchly set around swarms and special enemy types. I played the elf, intrigued by the class option, and learned that to my surprise this elf was not an image akin to the ones I’m used to. Elves are of course always portrayed as stunning and tall beings perfectly attuned to nature around them, and their arrogant and dismissive attitude towards other races seemed to be the natural conclusion of living so long and being so utterly perfect. Kerillian appeared to me as a different kind of elf. Playing as her you listen to a near constant stream of jabs and quips at her teammates, anything from her ever-present name of “Mayflies” to her constant icy demeanor to the four people she has nonetheless chosen to fall in with in the dark times of the universe. Kerillian seems ever-ready to leave the group at a moments notice, sometimes even threatening death on those who would cross her path wrong, yet despite the biting remarks she stays in line with the group and helps out like any other. From what I’ve heard of her voicelines she seems rather hostile to the men of the empire, while her dwarven companion gets mostly short jokes and semi-respectful bantor, with “master Dwarf“ being used on occasion. The only person she seems to connect to is Sienna, the fire mage, and again, from what I’ve heard any concern is about her willy nilly use of pyromancy on the daily. Thinking now as I write I don’t really think Kerillian is all that different from other fantasy elves, the only stark contrast I can think of being the mentions of warring elf clans, and that apparently Kerillian has only bad blood for a grouping of Elves that banished her kin. And the irish accent, of course. Despite the similarities to a race I often abhor, I rather like playing Kerillian, her smug demeanor and constant quips of superiority charming me more than I like to admit. It could very well be the irish accent, it’s rather adorable. I think however, that rather than Kerillian opening my eyes as a rare exceptional elf in a medium, she’s shown that the flashy golden haired elves of Tolkien are not the end all be all normal. It still aggravates me how every elf is depicted as a god on the battlefield, so much so that I can only recall one dying in the entire trilogy. There is of course, the obvious excuse, that elves live so long that they can do everything. That is either ridiculous or falsehood, on one side contesting that a single elf, the most prominent example obviously being Legolas, has so much knowledge in his head that he is able to flawlessly balance on a shield on the fly as he hip fires several more orcs to the ground, while also being able to leap aboard and singlehandedly murder a war-elephant, and his skill and knowledge of middle earth extend to reach both of these places yet stop at being unable to kill a berserker orc? Either that, or the option that elves are simply so capable and amazing because tolkien needed them to be. After all the orcs clearly being the evil and corrupted versions of the elves, the good old long ears must function as some sort of inherently good race. Neither option ever sat well with me, and there my hatred for the long-eared long-lived race began. With Kerillian, I see that and elf is simply good at what she has chosen to base her life around, like anyone else. A stealth Kerillian is capable of felling the tankiest of microbosses in a single hit, and the same hit can take a mini-boss down a significant chunk. Yet despite her amazing abilities she can be overwhelmed and killed by a horde of simple slave rats, because she isn’t any kind of amazing at clearly waves. She’s shown me that Elves can be just as interesting a race as any other, and I think she will always be my favorite portrayal of a pointy eared irishwoman in video game media. Dwarves are still better though.

[lavellanlove]

Meta: city elves vs. flat-ears

City Elves

Elves living in the city would never think to identify themselves as “city elves”. 

To them, they’re just elves.

Even among humans, unless their village/town/city is frequented by Dalish, there would be no purpose for the distinction. Even then, it would be ‘elves’ versus ‘Dalish elves’, as the elves in their immediate environment would be the default in their cognitive schema. 

The only group with reason to distinguish elves from the city as “city elves” would be the Dalish themselves. 

This could either be done innocuously -- a note that an elf’s origin is not of the Dalish -- or as a more intentional effort to distance themselves from their city-dwelling counterparts.

It would be a false equivalency to compare the term ‘city elf’ to the term ‘Dalish’. The nomadic elves of Thedas self-identify as ‘Dalish’ as a demarcation of their unique culture & religious beliefs, whereas the term ‘city elf’ would only be othering to an elf who had only ever thought of all their people as one.

Flat-Ears

Flat-ear, on the other hand, is a derogatory meant to imply that the elf is more like a human than a true elf. 

But it not unique to the Dalish as a term for city elves. 

In fact, Sarethia, the hahren of the Highever Alienage, uses the term to describe those elves born in the city who choose not to live in the Alienage.

This leads me to believe that the term is not a pejorative term for city elf, but rather a relative term for betraying elven culture, however it is defined.

The schism that occurred after the fall of the Dales and the truce with the Chantry left both groups of elves struggling to maintain a sense of identity and develop a new sense of culture. Even ~720 years later, the widespread oppression and persecution of elves has left them continuing that ongoing quest. 

When a Dalish calls someone a flat-ear, it is because they view the willingness to subject themselves to second-class citizenship and mandated Andrastianism a betrayal of their shared heritage. When an elf from the city calls someone a flat-ear, it is because they view the desire to leave a tight-knit community of elves to live among humans an abandonment of elven identity and camaraderie.

(Supporting codices below the cut.)

To illustrate the use of “City Elves”, consider how the codex of the same name changes in DA:O based on origin (bolding is mine):

Human author, Non-elf!Warden codex text:

When the holy Exalted March of the Dales resulted in the dissolution of the elven kingdom, leaving a great many elves homeless once again, the Divine Renata I declared that all lands loyal to the Chantry must give the elves refuge within their own walls. Considering the atrocities committed by the elves at Red Crossing, this was a great testament to the Chantry's charity. There was one condition, however--the elves were to lay aside their pagan gods and live under the rule of the Chantry.

Some of the elves refused our goodwill. They banded together to form the wandering Dalish elves, keeping their old elven ways--and their hatred of humans--alive. To this day, Dalish elves still terrorize those of us who stray too close to their camps. Most of the elves, however, saw that it was wisest to live under the protection of humans.

And so we took the elves into our cities and tried to integrate them. We invited them into our own homes and gave them jobs as servants and farmhands. Here, in Denerim, the elves even have their own quarter, governed by an elven keeper. Most have proven to be productive members of society. Still, a small segment of the elven community remains dissatisfied. These troublemakers and malcontents roam the streets causing mayhem, rebelling against authority and making a general nuisance of themselves.

--From Ferelden: Folklore and History, by Sister Petrine, Chantry scholar

Dalish author, Mahariel!Warden codex text:

It is hard to tell our children about those of our people who have decided to live in the shemlen cities. They ask, "Why would anyone want to be treated like that?" And sometimes I do not know what to say. I do not understand it myself. They were freed, but they have returned to live in the service of their former masters. They are housed like animals in walled sections of the shemlen cities. They do the meanest of tasks and are rewarded with nothing. Why? I do not know.

We tell the children that the elvhen are strong, that we are a proud people, but they hear of these city elves who choose to toil under the humans' heavy hand. How do we teach them pride when they know there are others who would allow themselves to be trampled into the dust? So we tell them that these city elves are to be pitied, that they have given up on their people, given up their heritage. We tell them that some people are so used to being controlled that, when freed, they know not what to do with themselves. They are weak and afraid--afraid of the unfamiliar, afraid of our life of wandering. Above all, they are afraid even to hope that one day we may have a home of our own.

--Gisharel, keeper of the Ralaferin clan of the Dalish elves.

Alienage author, Tabris!Warden codex text:

The humans tell tales of Andraste, and to them, she was a prophet. To our people, however, she was an inspiration. Her rebellion against Tevinter gave our people a window through which to see the sun, and we reached toward it with all our strength. The rebellion was brief but successful; even after the death of the prophetess, we fought on for independence as the human Imperium began to crumble. In the end, we won freedom and the southern land known as the Dales, and we began the Long Walk to our new homeland.

There, in the Dales, our people revived the lost lore as best we could. We called the first city Halamshiral, "end of the journey," and founded a new nation, isolated as elves were meant to be, this time patrolled by an order of Emerald Knights charged with watching the borders for trouble from humans.

But you already know that something went wrong. A small elven raiding party attacked the nearby human village of Red Crossing, an act of anger that prompted the Chantry to retaliate and, with their superior numbers, conquer the Dales.

We were not enslaved as we had been before, but our worship of the ancient gods was now forbidden. We were allowed to live among the humans only as second-class citizens who worshiped their Maker, forgetting once more the scraps of lore we had maintained through the centuries.

--"The Rise and Fall of the Dales," as told by Sarethia, hahren of the Highever Alienage

Alienage author, Codex entry: Alienage culture

There have always been alienages. They have been around for as long as elves and shems have lived in the same lands. Ours isn't even the worst: They say that Val Royeaux has ten thousand elves living in a space no bigger than Denerim’s Market. Their walls are supposedly so high that daylight doesn't reach the vhenadhal until midday.

But don't be so anxious to start tearing down the walls and picking fights with the guards. They keep out more than they keep in. We don't have to live here, you know. Sometimes a family gets a good break, and they buy a house in the docks, or the outskirts of town. If they're lucky, they come back to the alienage after the looters have burned their house down. The unlucky ones just go to the paupers' field.

Here, we're among family. We look out for each other. Here, we do what we can to remember the old ways. The flat-ears who have gone out there, they're stuck. They'll never be human, and they've gone and thrown away being elven, too. So where does that leave them? Nowhere.

--Sarethia, hahren of the Highever alienage

Dwarven author, Codex entry: Common curses

So, lad—you're getting your sight straight in your first days topside, so here's some advice: you're not just trading with kin. You're selling to all kinds of folk now, with different customs and tongues. As I've learned here, the most important part of any language is the cussing. It gets you trust. It gets you coin.

Most elves you see in the city are servants, and a human looking for a fight might call one "knife-ear." If the elf returns with "shem" or "quick," blood's about to spill. Those Dalish elves use "flat-ear" to insult the ones who live with humans—like our unenlightened kin below calling us Stone-blind up here.

Even the humans who pray to some woman they burned alive—and her god they call "the Maker"—say something when they knock their shins. It's a curse to say "Andraste’s..."—well, any body part, really. "Maker's breath!" might get you in with a swaggering fool, but the lady priests won't be pleased. Chantryfolk also don't like mages. If you hear a mage called a "spellbind," hide anything flammable.

Then there are all those beautiful words that just mean "Sod it!" When that loose cobblestone flips and the ankle cracks, an elf will cry, "Fenedhis!" while a human might, "Damn it!" A Qunari will mumble, "Vashedan!" I've even heard a couple Tevinters yell, "Kaffas!"

If any of these get aimed at you, hopefully all that gets killed is a sale.

—Note from Hardal, a surface merchant dwarf, to an apprentice adjusting to life outside Orzammar

[decorous-biohazart]

Answer Me

Trona Quicksilver flashback to her youth for my sub-blog @the-science-of-stories. 

Headcanon for this story: 

-Trona severely despises Necromancers because she dabbled in Necromancy when she lost her village in a disillusional plight to bring them back. She discovered that this magic does not return loved ones, but rather is a tool for manipulating the dead; an act she considers the highest disrespect for the deceased.

More Stories

“How many did we lose?” 

“Couple dozen, ma’am. There wasn’t much left for identification.” a male voice responded.

“What about Trona?” 

“In the other room, my lady.”  a female voice answered. 

Echoing off the stone walls of a stronghold were the voices of three figures. Two clad in armor and uniforms synonymous to the group known as the Harpers, a semi-secret organization intent on the balance between humanity and nature as well as the promotion of good and safety in Faerun. There was a burley male Dwarf and a toned female Elf. 

Before the two guards stood a human woman, towering just above 6 feet with long silver hair. Her gaze was firm and demanding, but her voice was gentle yet commanding. A comforting tone that made whoever spoke to her feel cared for and protected. 

She was astonishingly beautiful, her lean figure clad in leather armor with a sword on one hip and a flute on the other. Anyone who knew the Harpers would recognize her as Storm Silverhand, also known as ‘The Bard of Shadowdale’ and one of the Seven immortal Sisters who were chosen by the goddess Mystra.

“I will speak with her, secure the perimeter. No one else comes into the holding cells without my clearance.” 

“Yes, my lady!” the guards said in unison with a firm salute before they trotted down the hallway to complete their orders. 

For a moment Storm stood in silence, only the crackling of the torches lining the walls offering sound over her thoughts. 

She raised her head and breathed deep through her nose before she stepped forward to a wooden door and pushed it open. 

Immediately the sound of footsteps approached the door as she opened it and was met with the long beak of a Plague Doctor mask just inches from her own. 

Inside was a high set window, a bed in the corner, papers strewn across a desk with an oil lamp as well as across the walls, an Alchemy station and the figure before Storm. It was a woman, clad in tattered Plague Doctor robes and bandages across her wrists and ankles. 

“Lady Silverhand!” the woman greeted quickly in surprise, taking a step back and bowing low in apology. “I... Never expected to see you here.”

Storm watched the woman she referred to as Trona for a moment, clearly able to distinguish the fatigue and fear in the young girl’s voice despite how hard she tried to hide it. Judging by her figure, to an outsider she couldn’t have been older than 16. 

“Hello, Trona. It’s good to see you, dear.” the Sister responded with a gentle smile as she shut the door before placing a tender hand on Trona’s shoulder, causing her to raise her mask and hood clad head a couple inches. 

“You... Came because you heard what I had done.” Trona observed sheepishly, her ability to observe clear despite having no details on Silver’s arrival. 

She was a woman renowned for her compassion for her subjects, and it was always likely she’d appear in times like this. 

“Are you here to punish me?” Trona asked, more curiosity in her voice than fear. 

“No I-... No, Trona.” Storm stammered, clearly nervous she was perceived as a threat by the young girl. “I am just here to get all the details and make sure you’re alright. Your outburst, from what the others said, it was unlike you. You are a young Alchemist who has always had a knack for professionalism, but according to the healer that saw to you you had something akin to a panic attack” 

Trona raised her head to look her superior in the eye, but did not answer. 

“Come,” Storm beckoned, slipping passed Trona as she gently took her hand and led her to the bed to sit before she took a seat across from the concealed girl in the desk chair, “Sit with me for a moment, and tell me everything you remember.” 

It took Trona a moment of silence before she answered, her thoughts and memories hanging in the air like a thick smoke. 

                                                                                               -1 Hour Earlier- 

“WHERE IS HE!?” A voice yelled, a small female voice that boomed with desperation. 

In the stone halls of the stronghold a small silhouette akin to a bird sped through the halls with boots thunking against the floor at a rapid pace as she ran. The clattering of armor as guards pursued not far behind her. 

Her lungs burned as they struggled for air in the tight quarters of the castle, feeling as if the very stone was absorbing the oxygen out of the air. But her head buzzed with thoughts like an itch that she could not sate without answers. 

Eventually she reached a barred metal door, instinct taking control of her limbs as she pushed with almost inhuman strength for her size to push the door open. 

“Trona, no! Don’t go in there!” A female guard called. 

But she did not listen, and within moments she had the door open and stood in awed silence as she stared at what she found inside. 

Across from her, in a single chair in the center of the room, was a lone figure of a male Drow slumped over in a chair. 

Then her mind went silent, a signal that she found who she was looking for. 

Dashing forward with reckless abandon, Trona’s gloved hands took hold of the mans collar and began shaking him violently. 

“How did you do it!? Answer me!” she demanded, her voice almost at the level of screaming as it cracked under the stress. 

The Drow lifted his head, his eyes closed and jaw slack as if he were asleep. Then suddenly his eyes creaked open and stared at the Alchemist with two piercing green irises. His lips twitched with very faint gasps that almost sounded like laughter before they stretched unnaturally wide with a grim smile; his teeth cracking as they formed into sharp fangs and a feral growl rose from his throat. 

Trona gasped and stumbled backwards just as the teeth snapped at where her neck had been just a moment before. 

The sound of a bowstring snapped as an arrow whistled as it was loosed through the air and burrowed into the eye socket of the Drow prisoner. His head slacked forward, face frozen in a look of feral anger and shock as black blood dripped from his maw. 

Trona had stumbled to the floor as the arrow flew, her hands shaking in fear as a desperate ‘No!’ escaped her mouth. 

Suddenly a pair of burly and strong hands were holding her shoulders as a Dwarven male, standing at even height with Trona from where she sat.

“Trona, Trona! Look at me, gal, look at me!” he demanded, trying to quell her panic. 

Small and quick gasps left Trona’s mouth beneath her covered face as her entire body shook as the Dwarf demanded her attention. Her gaze slid upwards as she saw a Half-Elf woman with a fresh arrow in her crossbow that she now had aimed at the body of the Drow. 

“Say somethin’, Trona.” The Dwarf requested, his tone softer as Trona scrambled to her feet and bolted out the door. “’Ey, wait!” he called after her. 

“Let her go.” the half-elf said with a sigh as she lowered her crossbow, “she’s headed right for the medical bay. She’s living over there right now, she’s bound to run into Keerla.” 

The Dwarf huffed with a shake of his head as his eyes looked back to the now deceased prisoner. 

“Dammit, gal...” he muttered. 

                                        -Present Time-

“That’s when I was found in the hallway by Keerla, and then... I woke up here in my quarters.” Trona finished, her hands sheepishly placed in her lap as she struggled to meet Silver’s eyes. 

The human Bard nodded understandingly, her hands elegantly layered in her lap as she listened to the girl’s story. 

“Keerla had to sedate you, she said you were frantic.” the immortal explained. Keerla was the Elvish healer in the stronghold that had taken Trona in as an apprentice. “What happened in there, Trona? What made you go in there knowing the danger?” 

Trona was quiet again, her gaze fixed on the floor as if she’d find her answer among the floor tiles. 

“He... He was a Necromancer.” Trona eventually answered, shame in her voice. 

“Yes, yes he was.” Storm affirmed, prompting her to go on. 

“I thought-” Trona’s voice caught in her throat as her head shot up and she forced the reply from her mind. “- I thought he could show me how! How to use it differently!” 

Silverhand’s expression turned to that of sorrow, already understanding what Trona meant by the words. 

Just hours ago, the Drow had launched an attack with Necrotic magic on a nearby settlement. Trona was told to remain behind due to the danger, but when they returned with the Necromancer in custody she demanded to get to speak to him. Instead she was met with the transformed, primal nature of the prisoner as she attempted to shape-shift and break out; nearly costing the Alchemist her life. 

“Trona... You saw what Necromancy can do, what it is created for. It is a dark magic that consumes your very being-” Storm began. 

“But that can’t be all there is!” Trona interjected, “There is a good and evil side to every magic!” she argued. 

“Yes,” Storm replied, her patience as resilient as iron, “But that other side to Necromancy comes at a cost as well.” 

“I-I... I had to try.” Trona whimpered, her voice wavering. 

“I know, dear... I know.” Storm said in a comforting tone as she wrapped her arms around the girl, pressing her head to her chest. “I know what it’s like to lose family. When Syluné perished to that red dragon and then having seen her spirit destroyed I had many similar thoughts. Wanted to barter with Mystra to bring her back, but...” Her eyes closed for a moment, “... But I knew she was gone, and that was the way it had to be.

“Necromancy is a dangerous magic, and even the most adept cannot return a soul back to a body without severe consequence, and even then they will never be what they were. To challenge death after it has claimed a life is to risk it taking you, as well.”

For what felt like hours there was no answer from Trona, her shattered heart taking any words from her. Eventually, she seemed to have finally drifted off in Silver’s embrace and she left the girl to rest and recover from her injuries. 

However, the peace did not last. 

Just a few hours after the exchange, Storm arrived back in the medical wing when she was informed by an alert sent out to the guards that a book that was confiscated from the Necromancer had vanished. 

What could only be intuition told Storm to find Keerla. 

When she entered the potion maker’s lab she found the dark-haired Elvish woman working frantically with two Cleric’s as a bright light shined from a bed hidden by their bodies. 

“What happened-?” Storm asked as she approached, panic in her voice before she stopped with a gasp as a hand shot to her mouth. 

On the bed before them, laid out with eyes wide open in shock was Trona. Her white hair spilled out over her features and shoulders as her right arm rested in Keerla’s palms as the two Clerics performed a ritual that Silver recognized as Dispel Magic. 

Trona’s bare arm radiated with Necrotic energy as black tendrils snaked over her skin, barely held at bay by the full force of the two Clerics. 

“Lady Silverhand.” Keerla said, her voice somber. 

“What happened?” The Sister asked, her voice that of a heartbroken spectator. 

Keerla wore an expression of sorrow on her thin face as she turned her head to look back to her apprentice. 

“She has been in this state for a few minutes now. She sneaked out of her room passed the guards and raided the confiscated materials from the attack. As soon as she grabbed the Necromancer’s spellbook some sort of spell initiated as a defense-mechanism and...” she trailed off, the condition of the young Alchemist clear as the consequences. 

“L-L-Lady S-S-Silverhand...” Trona stammered as Keerla gently shushed her. 

“Save your strength, Trona.” her mentor requested gingerly, but she disobeyed. 

“I-I-I’m... S-S-Sorry...” 

What Storm had been afraid of from the beginning had become truth. Trona had sought Necromancy after having been exposed to its power believing it would answer her prayers to bring her village back. 

She had not only suffered the agony of the consequences, but the crushing reality that she had no options left to see her home returned.

[badlandsloop]

Okay! Welcome to the post where I yammer on about this setting I invented for a D&D campaign that’s dead but I’m using to do a one-shot session. This is a broad view of the world at large but for map space, I had to scooch the landmass closer than they are. There is a GOOD amount of sea between the land continents and islands.

1. During the Dragon occupation of humanity, many humans fled to the northern islands in search of safety. What they found was a bleak barely habitable ice nightmare. But it’s better than dragons. So they founded the country Bjorngard and developed a society similar to that of the Norse/viking. The success and stability and society of Bjorngard are thanks to a mighty celestial who turned the first people into Aasimar, she dubbed her creations the Valkyries. Bjorngard is not he only origin point for aasimar on this plane but it is the most common. The Celestial infused the blood of all Bjorngardians with radiance, tho a new valkyrie may not awaken their blood until later in life.

2. The Anythe Archipelago is the ‘home’ of the tortles. and the seafloor adjacent is the domain of the tritons. Home is in quotes because a tortle’s home is his shell and they are naturally prone to wander the seas. Tritons built alien cities beneath the waves and credit themselves for holding back the tide of the Elemental Plane of Water. As Anythe, the capital of triton society is built as a bulwark against the weakening fabric of the material plane there.

3. Yamanarta is a similar case to Bjorngard. Humans fled from the dragons and founded a society. These Refugees found a land of elves and gnomes enslaved by their cousins from the Underdark. The humans helped drive the drow and deep gnomes beneath the surface. Yamanarta is the home of many monk monasteries and samurai orders. Ruled by a commune of 4 shoguns, this country values the honor of war and the virtue of peace. Though it sounds contradictory to the outside it is treated as a balance among Yamanarta‘s many scholars. The Underdark continue to kidnap and enslave the people of Yamanarta which is why they are always ‘at war.’

4. Deep in the forests and Bluepeak Mountains to the north dwell the Firbolg. A mysterious jury in the trial of the material plane. Their long lives and commitment to noninterference make their society a strange one. Mostly tho they are treated like a myth, like bigfoot or some shit.

5. Long long ago a war between the elemental planes of air and earth held a violent war on the material plane. Only recently 200years did this conflict end and Chirinia was born. A floating island of stone and dirt hovers over the sea, created in the climax of the final battle as earth and air magic mixed. Aaracocra from the plane of air stayed behind as scouts and formed the society on the floating rock. As time passed, kenku from all of the the world flocked to Chirinia to try and recapture their flight. Tabaxi followed suit as their natural wanderer tendencies lead them to the most stunning sight in all of the world.

6. Faylen’Dael, where nature and arcane are nearly one and the same, is the realm of the elves is a strange continent, and Island with a giant landlocked sea. Forests stretch around the ring and elves build cities that are impossible to differentiate from the massive trees in which they live. Gnomes populate the lower levels. Despite occupying the same territory, elves and gnomes have never gotten into major conflict. They share the land with the beasts and a vertical biome, beasts on the forest floor, gnomes in the tree’s trunks and elves in the canopy. Faylen’Dael is the thinnest veiled place in the material realm, meaning the feywild and shadowfell are nearly accessible by foot. Elven society is patient to a point of contemplation over action. Some Elves spend months with their minds utterly occupied by a single thought. Gnomes similarly are lost in thought but instead of one, they brainstorm seemingly infinite ideas swirling together.

7. The northern half of the continent is the country Xath, the land of dragons. Heavily populated by Dragonborn tribes, these mountains are in constant conflict. Southern Xath is home to metallic dragonborn, keepers of ideas of good. Western Xath is home to marble dragonborn, who uphold laws and tradition above all else. Northern Xath is the territory of the Chromatic Dragonborn, selfish and evil being who work together only to better themselves. Among the mountains live another sect of dragonborn, the gemstone dragons. These dragons are chaotic to the core and their scales come in countless variations of gems.

8. Northern Xath is the site where the Elemental Plane of Earth pressed up against the material plane. After the war with the plane of air, the earthfolk rarely cross. The Chromatic dragons use this unfettered earth magic to build their caves and spawn mountains to bar their enemies.

9. Metalic dragons have become dormant as of late. After the chromatic dragons conquered humanity they withdrew to their mountains. The world at large does not differentiate the different types of dragonborn or dragons. All are seen as the villains who took over the world and almost made humankind extinct. They keep to themselves and aide the world by battling the chromatic dragons, making sure their power never reaches what it once was.

10.The port city of Xithslyvania is the closest the chaotic gemstone dragons have to a settlement. Technically a dwarven trade city the gem dragonborn love the varying cultures and endless distractions of Xithslyvania. The Dwarven rulers of the city recognized this boon as so great they renamed the city to Draconic language. If a Gem Dragonborn holds on to a possession is almost always so they can hock it in Xithslyvania.

11. Orcs are not farmers and their god fuels them with violence and destruction so the Western coast of the continent is called the Badlands. A blasted nightmare-scape, the orcs raid and pillage in the worship of Gruumsh. As humanity returned to its feet after the dragons were driven out the orcs saw their chance. They nearly brought finished the dragons’ goal of extinction.

12. When the madness of Gruumsh compelled the orcs to destroy humanity they succeeded on one of the human countries. From this devastation though a half-orc rose up as a hero. He rallied his half-orcs who denied Gruumsh and pushed the orc horde back. For their heroism the half-orc country, Riverwall was founded. Riverwall now holds the orcs at bay and shelters the Halfling society in Bonshire. Bonshire is a relatively new community compared to many others on this list. Halflings sick of the conflict on the eastern continent migrated over. The open plains and rolling hills of the location appealed to them and they bonded with the half-orcs over drinks and stories.

13. Humankind defeated the dragons who ruled them but the war took its toll on the land. Each human country was scarred by powerful magic so that it is locked in one season. NorthSpring is in perpetual advent. Things begin but do not mature, instead locked in a state of youth. NorthSpring is the home of the Bard’s Guild and ruled by a monarchy. There is little danger natural or personal in Northspring as the people are locked in revelry.

14. Summerhold is locked in heat and light. It is home to the Fighter’s Guild and is ruled by democratically elected officials. It is the seat of sport and exploration in human society. Many caravans routes crisscross the plains, providing trade and travel to the rest of the continent.

15. Wintergrace is trapped in snow and ice and death. It is the seat of the Mage’s Guild and ruled by the mightiest wizards. Laws are strict here to regulate magic and keep the safety of the people. Due to its adjacency to the lost ruins in the south many clerics live there to study what human society/religion was before the dragons. This has created a schism with the arcane wizardry of the rulers but infighting leads to dying to the cold so it’s mostly debate.

16. Marshfall Basin is a complex of varying terrains and is a mix of harvest time and dying plants. The leaves on trees grow orange and fall within days only to repeat the process. The Thieves’ Guild hides among the cities. Merchants rule the country and decree countless laws, that no one follows.

17. The Lost Vale sits beneath the human countries. It is the unreclaimable ruins of the old draconic rule and prior human society. Around the lake lives ghostwise halflings who keep to themselves. And in the ice lives the kobolds. After the dragons left, the kobolds had no masters or idols so their society kinda imploded. Vastly directionless the kobolds horde magic items from the ruins or die in the process.

18. Gorisher is Lizardfolk territory. The lizards were slaves to dragons before humanity and aided them in their liberation. For that reason, they are not considered monsterous like they are on many other DND worlds. Humans and Lizardfolk work together frequently as their ideas and goals are so different they can share the spoils of cooperation. Lizardfolk revere nature but are pragmatic enough to realize how civilization can aide them. Their behaviors are utterly alien to humans and vice versa but a common enemy made these two opposites allies. Lizardfolk come in shades of brown and green, depending on how close they live to Marshfall Basin and it’s autumn leaves. A variant of lizadfolk exists in few numbers, the Ashen Lizardfolk tribes were wiped out but several of these black scaled beings still wander the world.

19. Gorundr, home of the goliaths. The titan mountains were once home to the giants until their mysterious disappearance. Goliaths see themselves as stewards of the giants’ home and prepare for their return. As such they train for combat and breed like rabbits. Physical enjoyment is very important to goliaths as their lands are rough and awful. They view themselves as superior to the other races but enjoy their company greatly. Especially Humans and halflings. Interestingly enough the Goliath views on humans are identical to those that humans have to halflings. They see them as directionless, small, harmless, shortlived, and most of all fun.

20. The Dwarves control the mines so they have tradeport cities all over the world. Steelport is one such colony, named in common for its vast human population. Trade and immigration are very very important in human countries as their season locked curse fucks them up.

21.Baezenad is a new country in the desert. Founded by Tieflings sick of the racial prejudice in other countries, this place is on the verge of the plane of elemental fire. The being of that plane have no desire to interact with the material plane but it is adjacent to the 9 Hells. Fiends used to travel through the fire plane to reach the world but Baezenad built a city there to harvest the fiendish power without letting them enter the plane. Baezenad is a country ruled by desire and ambition but is very accepting of all peoples.

22. Four-Lake Hills is the home of all Halflings. Without ambition but filled with desire, halflings are up for anything. Surrounded by the mighty Dwarven lands they are safe and sound from threats. Because of that their culture has flourished.

23. Adamant is the home of the Dwarves. Dwarves are strong of body and will. They run most of the mines in the world and rule the trade with little corruption or greed. Dwarves have a complex caste system. The upper castes rarely migrate and rule the trade colonies from afar but lower castes frequently migrate away, leaving an issue with the working class among dwarf society.

[winterdrake]

A New Man

(Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim Fanfiction) 

The Dragonborn finds her former foe still alive in Solstheim, without any memory of who he once was.

Part 2 of 7

The Dragonborn rose early, having gotten a night of restful sleep despite the thoughts and emotions swirling inside her head from everything the day before. It still so seemed surreal. Miraak was back, without any physical taint of Hermaeus Mora and no memory of who he was. Part of her believed this was some sort of trick. How could something like this even happen? Could this be some sort of trick? But why ?

The warrior knew she had to be careful. However this strange situation happened, Miraak needed to be watched. If he was telling the truth, he was still a risk as he could one day remember his past and become the tyrant he was. The man could also be lying, but the Dragonborn could not see the point of pretending to be a mercenary for months. It also hadn’t seemed like Miraak recognized her from their conversation the night before. But for all she knew, her enemy was a convincing actor.

Last night the Dragonborn asked Miraak about himself. She told him she wanted to know his strengths and weaknesses, if his previous employers thought he could improve on anything, how he handled himself in dire situations, how would he react if she she gave him a command he didn’t like. Then, the woman tried to casually ask him about what he remembered, if anything. Did he remember anything about himself? Had any memory resurfaced since he woke up? The woman watched his face closely when he answered these questions, seeking some sort of tell that would indicate that he was lying.

Miraak answered everything and without any hesitation or flinch. He explained that he was proficient in short swords, daggers, bows, staffs and magic. He disliked heavier weapons and wasn’t as comfortable using warhammers, greatswords, axes or maces. He was more inclined to use destruction spells over any others but was good in all schools of magic. In battle he preferred to defeat or weaken the enemy with his magic first and then use his shortsword second, normally only if the enemy came too close. The man was told he was a quick learner and was able to keep calm during pressure by his previous employers. He followed orders but if he thought something could be done more efficiently another way, that did not put his employer or their quest at risk, then he would disobey. He preferred not to murder or steal but if there was a good reason for it, then he wouldn’t be opposed to undertaking the task. As for his memories, the man said nothing had come back to him, not even a hint of a memory. Miraak sighed as he said this last bit, looking disappointed.

Thinking over his responses, the Dragonborn requested he meet with her early the next morning. She explained that she wanted him to come with her to the newly discovered Dwemer ruin outside town. He nodded and said he would be ready. She left abruptly and went back to her manor, taking a roundabout route and keeping an eye out for anyone following her. She was a tad paranoid right then.

Miraak would be here soon, the female warrior knew as she waited in the chilly air. She growled in frustration as she felt a surge of anger towards the tall man. Miraak was the reason she was standing here, unnerved, so early near the entrance gate of Raven Rock. It was odd, her waiting for her enemy to arrive so he could accompany her. The Dragonborn had come to Solstheim for a Dwemer ruin, not to keep watch over an enemy. She sighed, letting her anger dissipate. It would do no good to become frustrated. The woman just needed to figure out what to do with Miraak, hopefully their adventure today would give her an idea.

One thing did bother the Dragonborn. If Miraak well and truly lost his memory, what did that mean for him and her? The warrior wondered if she should allow him to stay on Solstheim or just kill him to leave the world a safer place. Killing him would be wrong though, the woman felt. She didn't know is she could do it if it came down to that. How could she kill a man that did not remember any of his wrongdoings? The current Miraak was different that the arrogant, power hungry, First Dragonborn she knew. Even from their one conversation the night before, the woman could almost call her enemy a new man.

**********

“Good morning.” Miraak greeted the female warrior as he approached. He was dressed in a set of black armor, with a short sword sheathed at one hip and a staff on the other. He carried a bag slung over one shoulder.

“Morning.” The Dragonborn returned, trying not to let her wariness show. She was dressed in her own set of shining silver armor. Her long sword was sheathed at her own side with her bow, quiver and a bag slung across her back. Normally, the Dragonborn would use her longsword to fight but this time she decided she would use her bow. If Miraak liked to use his magic as his primary means of battling then he would likely stay behind her, out of the range of his enemies. She did not want to turn her back on him, not knowing if he would turn on her. It was because of this that the warrior would now use her bow and magic before her longsword.

The Dragonborn also decided she would also not use her Shouts unless there was dire need. If Miraak had in fact lost his memory, it seemed reasonable to assume as seeing something relating to his Dragonborn identity might trigger his memories coming back. Being the First Dragonborn had been a big deal for Miraak.

“Are you ready to go?” She asked, forcing herself to stay polite. She was on edge with him nearby. Once they were alone, would he attempt to kill her? If he did, the warrior swore to herself that she would be ready. She defeated him once, the Dragonborn knew she could do it again.

“Yes. Lead on.” Miraak replied and together they headed outside, into the wilds of Solstheim.

**********

The two Dragonborn, if Miraak still retained his abilities, were able to walk over the ash laden ground to the ruin within an hour. Thankfully, it wasn’t far outside Raven Rock. The trip had been awkward, the Last Dragonborn hadn’t known what to say and Miraak stayed quiet. She kept glancing over at him to make sure he wasn’t trying anything suspicious. The man did nothing out of the ordinary but caught her looking a few times. He said nothing and she didn’t turn away or flinch from his questioning gaze.

Arriving at the ruin, the two companions found no one outside. The door was still partially covered in rubble but they were still able to get inside. Then, they began to explore.

“If we find anything interesting or valuable, I have first right to it. Otherwise, feel free to take anything else like coins, gems, ingredients, potions and such that you find for yourself.”

“Understood.” Miraak responded. Normally, followers took nothing from their employer’s adventures. It looked like this woman would be more generous than those that had hired him previously.

In the second room of the ruin, the two found the remains of a tent. Everything was strewn about and the bedding and tent had been torn to pieces. Something had attacked whoever the tent had belonged to. There was no sign of a body or any blood so it looked like the owner of the tent had made it to safety. At least that’s what the female Dragonborn hoped.

The two salvaged what they could from the remains. As the Dragonborn took a healing potion that was still unbroken, she watched Miraak pick up a small pouch of coins and a book. He looked up from the book to find his employer watching him again.

“I haven’t read this one yet.” The man said as he placed the book in his bag. He turned away to look through a broken crate before she could respond. The woman found herself thinking that he would have probably liked the small library of books she had at home in Skyrim. She would never willingly let him near it however.

**********

In the third room, they encountered their first enemy. A Dwarven Spider dropped from the ceiling, still functioning after all the years spent buried inside the ruin. It noticed the two intruders as soon as they entered and attacked. The Dragonborn quickly launched two arrows at the Spider, both hitting it directly. The metal beast stopped for a few seconds, stunned and then jumped at her. Before it could reach her, Miraak shot a fireball at it. The magic blew the Spider away where it hit the wall and fell to pieces.

“Thank you.” The Dragonborn acknowledged. She hid the surprise she felt at Miraak helping her.

“You’re welcome.” Miraak returned and then stared at the downed enemy. “I wonder how these machines stayed active this long. Just what could we be capable of if our civilization was able to reach the Dwemer’s level of technological advancement.”

“Maybe it's a good thing we haven’t? It doesn’t seem like it worked out so well for them.”

“We would not make the same mistakes, I hope.”

“We probably would. There are many Men and Mer out there, thirsty for power and knowledge, willing to ruin things for the rest of us.” The Last Dragonborn did not look at Miraak when she said this. “Come on. We’re not finished with this place yet.”

**********

The ruin turned out to not be all that spectacular. It was quite small, with only three floors. There was nothing of great importance or value inside but the Dragonborn learned a few things and got a few nice trinkets out of the journey.

It really did seem like Miraak remembered nothing of his former life. There were no attempts on the woman's life. There was also no recognition that she could sense from him. Miraak had actually helped her in battle, preventing her from getting hurt a few times. The woman did the same for him but that was just her nature. She didn’t feel like it was the same for him.

The Dragonborn learned that Miraak was a good fighter. The barmaid was right. However, the First Dragonborn had been a superior fighter when she battled him in Apocrypha. It looked like he had forgotten, lost a lot of his skill or was maybe left weakened after his defeat in Hermaeus Mora's realm.

The former Dragon Priest was also clever and helpful. He was able to figure out a lever puzzle leading to the final room far quicker than she. It had been a bit disheartening and she breifly felt a bit of jealous irritation at this.

Miraak didn’t speak often as they made their way deeper into the ruin. He commented a few times on the Dwemer’s ingenuity or inquired about how they should proceed but that was all. The Dragonborn was grateful for this. His presence still made her nervous and making small talk seemed out of the question.

The Dragonborn ended up watching the male warrior every moment she could. She noticed that he would watch her too. She wondered what he was thinking at her blatant staring. He was likely suspicious but the man stayed silent about it.

In the end, both Dragonborn survived their trip and departed the ruin with their bags full of treasures. The female warrior ended up with a new enchanted greatsword, various soul gems and regular gems, along with coins and other items. Miraak picked up some of everything that piqued his curiosity. He was very interested in the Dwemer constructs. Some of the thins the man collected were several pieces of scrap metal, an ebony dagger, a cog, soul gems and three Centurion Dynamo Cores.

Thankfully there had been no Centurions in this Dwemer ruin and the cores had been found scattered on the floor in the final room. The Dragonborn didn’t object when Miraak asked if he could take them. The warrior had plenty of them herself. She watched Miraak gaze at the spinning constructs and wondered once more about her house back in Skyrim, with almost thirty of the cores decorating the inside.

**********

The Dragonborn and Miraak parted ways back inside the gates of Raven Rock. She thanked the man for his help and he smiled and returned the thanks.  He looked happy with how their trip had gone.

“Just let me know when you need me again. I’ll be retiring back in my room.” Miraak informed her before he left for the Retching Netch.

“I will.” The female warrior responded. She watched Miraak walk away and then turned towards her home. It was nearing evening and she needed to store her new acquisitions. On the way back, the woman once more took a different, winding path home. She kept an eye out for anything out of the ordinary. She was still paranoid, she knew, but she felt it was justified in this situation. Likely someone would tell Miraak that she was a Dragonborn and where she lived, if he did not know that already, but those pieces of information would not come from her.

That night, as the Last Dragonborn slipped into bed, she thought about the day’s events. Miraak hadn’t done anything this time. He had been a loyal follower. But one day's trip did not mean that Miraak was tellling the truth. Closing her eyes, the warrior decided she would be ‘vacationing’ in Solstheim for a little while longer. She still had another thirteen days paid of Miraak’s time.

Fanfiction: https://www.fanfiction.net/u/5732653/WinterDrake

AO3: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WinterDrake/pseuds/WinterDrake

Wattpad: https://www.wattpad.com/user/WinterDrake

[incorrectpokemongoquotes]

How many oc's do u have and where do they originate? (Fandom or ur own creation/universe for that oc)

How far am I willing to go back is the question.Most of these are from RPs I’ve done in the past.

1. Christian Leblanc (Canadian-French Son of Aphrodite; kind of an asshole; super pretty; insists he’s not gay) -Percy Jackson and the Olympians2. James Ackerman (Biochemist; accidentally found a boyfriend while pursuing the girl he liked; Dad to a chimera named Molly; has two older siblings) - Welcome to Night Vale -Ashley Thompson (astrophysicist; lesbian; childhood friend of James Ackerman; loud; works for NASA)3. Aaron Baker (Depressed fuck; likes to sing; just wants to fit in) - Glee4. Evelyn Hart - (6th year Ravenclaw prefect; adopted daughter of Harry Hart and Eggsy Unwin; tells kids to go back to their rooms after curfew and goes to the party they were sneaking out to go to) - Harry Potter/Kingsman5. Pheena Fawkes (Violet blood; superiority complex; the bad guy; absolutely the leader) - MY HOMESTUCK FANTROLL IM SORRY

I can’t really remember any others off the top of my head, so here’s original content™ OCs and a little bit of world-building.

1. Chastity Maple Sunflash (aka Chass; aka Springwarden Chastity Maple Danger Sunflash-Dragonborn; Nonbinary Elben Druid Hippie; lives in the forest with a small clan who likes to get high; has a wolf companion; self-proclaimed pacifist; will loot you for your shit while his wolf tears your face off; dyes tips of hair with the change of season; accidentally married a dragon) - Dungeons & Dragons2. Rhoswen Goldcrest (Fighter; small, dwarven teen; wears real flowers in her heard and a large, flower hairpiece in her hair; braids her beard; lives like Cory in the House because her father is the captain of the royal guard; travels with two , middle-aged women who are done with her shit; flirty) - Dungeons & Dragons

So I have this thing in working on that takes place in a Steampunk utopia. The only problem is that it’s a man’s world out there.

1. Emilia Bishop (heir to a technological empire; SMART AF; kind of impressionable; kind; really invested in usurping the king)2. Alexander Quinn (lantinx; trans man; really invested in having a good time; seduces Emilia at a ball Romeo & Juliet style; is a GOOD PERSON; shows Emilia how awful people are to LGBT people; frequents literal underground bars)

My friend and I also decided that Eddie Redmayne and Aaron Tveit should star in a gay, college, romantic comedy together, so we created one.

1. Riley Cooper (openly pansexual in a way that he won’t tell anybody, but he won’t deny it if you ask; comes from a family of liberals; likes video games and music; wants to be a police officer; Criminal Justice Major; has twin siblings that are, like 10 years old named Ellie and Theodore)2. William Clark (goes by Will, but his mother called him Billy; bisexual??????; adopted; afraid to explore sexuality; only child; likes music, art, literature, theatre, and Star Trek; English Education major)3. Natasha Annikov (hot girl that lives below them; looks like she can kill a man with a single glance; briefly dates Will at the suggestion of Riley; Riley’s childhood friend; Fashion Merchandizing and International Business double-major)

[artificialwriterfromspace]

The treasure of the Gods

This story takes place hundreds of years before the events of Thor so Loki would be a young teen during the events.

This is the first story I’ve ‘published’ in a while, all feedback is welcome.

People never appreciated Loki’s jokes and mischief. But apparently he had finally crossed the line when he had cut off Sif’s long, golden hair. Even Thor had threatened him. And although Loki would never admit it, a bit of guilt had been itching him because of it. Of course the guilt wasn’t the true reason he had travelled to Svartalfheim, no the true reason was self-preservation pure and simple.

Shortly after he had stepped through the colossal, golden gate that lead to the maze of underground chambers and halls that made up the Dwarven settlement, a unit of guards appeared before him cladded in tungsten armour that created a clear contrast with their coal-black skin.

Without a single utterance they had escorted the young prince to the throne room.

Although Loki was used to the glamorous halls of the Asgardian palace, he had to consciously keep himself from staring. The room was covered in piles of the most precious of metals, with countless gems imbedded in the many columns, the only source of light being the ever-burning flames trapped in gold woven orbs that hung from the high ceiling. And all these riches belonged to the king that was sitting on his equally captivating throne at the end of the hall.

The guards parted as they reached the throne so Loki stood alone in front of the king, who looked down at the prince with clear disdain.

‘’What do you seek in my kingdom, Odinson?’’ came his low voice.

‘’My lord,’’ the liesmith started, knowing that flattery was his best chance. ‘’I have come to request the service of your unequalled craftsmanship. I require hair as beautiful as the stars made by the most adept of hands.’’

The king straightened at his honeyed words, he pondered for a moment knowing that it would be wise to gain the favour of the son of Odin and thereby Odin himself.

‘’We shall fulfil your wish young prince.’’ The king decided after a moment of silence ‘’The hair shall the finest in all the realms with the ability to grown on one’s head.’’

And so the king had ordered two of his best smiths, the sons of Ivaldi, to create what would be the most stunning hair in all of Asgard.

After a mere few days, they were finished. Loki couldn’t help but marvel at the dwarves’ creation.

He gently ran his fingers through the mane an expression of awe on his face.

‘’By the Norns,’’ he muttered as he looked up at the brothers. ‘’you are the most clever of smiths to create such a wonder.’’ The sons puffed out their chests with proudness and just as Loki was about to take his leave, two dwarves emerged from one of the many hallways connected to the throne room and blocked Loki’s way out.

‘’You declare their work above all, without as much as glancing at our superior work.’’ One of the two  accused. Loki raised an eyebrow at them. ‘’Is that a challenge?’’

The dwarf who had remained silent snorted before bellowing. ‘’We wager that we can make hair as beautiful as Yggdrasil’s dew that would put their hair to shame!’’

This was not what Loki had expected, and if he had been wise. He would’ve simply ignored the dwarves, taken the stunning hair and left. But he could not foresee what would happen. ‘’I accept your wager, if you can make hair that truly overshadows the work of the sons of Ivaldi I shall admit that you are indeed the superior smiths.’’ Arrogance dripped from the prince’s voice like nectar, souring the dwarves further.

‘’And,’’ the one who had instigated the wager announced. ‘’the victor shall have the defeated one’s head.’’

A shudder of doubt ran down Loki’s back, but he shook the calloused hand of the dwarf nevertheless

Of course, Loki wouldn’t simply stand by and let fate decide.

After both the sons of Ivaldi and the brothers had left, Loki had hidden himself under a veil of magic and stalked the hallways until he found the room where the brothers were working.

Brokk worked the bellows, pushing and pulling with all his might, sweat already lined his brow.

While Eitri worked the forge, already preparing the best minerals.

‘’Remember brother, the bellows must be worked continuously without interruption to ensure success’’ he reminded his brother every time Brokk seemed to falter.

A devilish grin marked Loki’s face, all he had to do was stop Brokk from pumping air.

After carefully mulling over the possibilities, the young prince decided that a fly was the most inconspicuous way to play the dwarf.

He silently transformed and flew to Brokk, who was still working the bellows tirelessly.

‘That will soon change’ the now fly thought to himself as he started tormenting the smith.

He buzzed around him, crawled over his head, into his ears and over his eyes. But every time the dwarf seemed to give in his brother’s stern words would ring through the room, over the loud noises from the forge, and Brokk would dutifully continue his work. For days this went on, neither the dwarfs nor Loki giving themselves a moment to eat, drink or rest.

Loki watched with horror as he saw the almost-finished hair, it was truly as stunning as Yggdrasil’s dew. In a desperate attempt to ruin the beautiful creation Loki stung Brokk just above his eye but the dwarf didn’t even flinch. Fear gripped Loki’s heart, he couldn’t lose his head even his immortality had its boundaries and he wasn’t willing to test them. He knew Odin wouldn’t save him. All seemed lost until an annoyed huff suddenly shook Loki from his nightmare.

Blood had started oozing from the wound, blinding the dwarf.

With an annoyed roar he reached up and furiously rubbed his forehead.

‘'Brother the bellows!’’ Eitri exclaimed as loud hissing emerged from the hair. Immediately Brokk returned his hands on the bellows and pushed down with all his strength.

The incredible gust blew Loki away, against the wall. Pain racked his small body as he fell to the ground, barely conscious.

He heard the brothers talking loudly, but couldn’t understand a word. His ears rung from the impact.

He knew he had to escape soon though, the work was almost done and he would have to be present in the throne room.

Once the room stopped spinning, the flustered shape shifter flew away, desperately hoping the dwarf’s short interruption was enough to ruin the piece.

Shortly after he had returned to his Aesir form and had entered the throne room, where a crowd of cheering dwarves and the sons of Ivaldi were already waiting with their own creation. The brothers had entered the chamber carefully carrying their own piece. The momentary break seemed to have had a stronger influence than Loki could have hoped for. The hair that once was coloured a beautiful gold was now almost as dark as the dwarves themselves.

Loki barely managed to contain the sigh of relief that would’ve made him instantaneously suspicious.

The brothers showed their creation to the king, who studied both works carefully.

For a moment Loki thought he could breathe easy, it was clear the king preferred the golden hair.

But then their gazes met, Loki’s blood ran cold as a the corners of the King’s mouth twitched up in a barely visible smirk.

Loki stood paralyzed as everything seemed to slow down.

The king raised his finger, pointing it straight at the dark, but still stunning artificial hair.

He crowned Brokk and Eitri the victors.

Thunderous cheering filled the room, the crowd smashed their weapons and tools against their armours creating a nightmarish symphony

Loki could feel his heart beat in his throat as all eyes in the room watched him.

The king’s previously well-contained smirk turned into a vicious grin.

‘’Then we shall have your head young prince.’’ Although the room was still filled with the cacophony of sound the king’s low voice could be clearly heard, as if he stood right behind Loki.

The prince broke out in a cold sweat, he couldn’t die. Not here, not now. All this because the Asgardians couldn’t take a joke. But no, he refused to simply lay down and let the dwarves mutilate him, so he used his best asset, his sharpest weapon.

‘’Wait!’’ he announced, to his surprise, successfully silencing the room and halting Brokk  who had already started approaching Loki to take his head. ‘’You have accepted the wager yourself Loki Odinson, now accept the consequences.’’ The king berated, clearly not wanting to stall the murder of the young prince.

Loki wetted his lips before speaking again.

‘’Yes and I shall remain true to my word. Which is why you can’t take my head.’’ He explained, emphasizing the word ‘take’. ‘’For if you were to take my head, you would also have to take or damage my neck, which was not part of our wager.’’

The dwarves seemed stunned at his response incoherent but clearly annoyed murmurs float through the room, all turned towards their king looking for a solution.

The malicious grin was quickly replaced with a deeply irritated frown.

Loki let out a shuddered breath, allowing himself to feel a bit relieved.

The dwarves knew they had to agree that they had no claim on Loki’s neck.

Brokk essentially shook with anger at having his vengeance denied.

‘’Your silver tongue has saved you from your mistake prince.’’ He hissed, Loki couldn’t suppress the shudder that run down his spine at the dwarf’s tone. ‘’I may not be able to take your head, but I can silence your foul mouth. Brother, bring me a needle and leather strips.’’

Loki’s eyes widened in realisation and horror at the Dwarf’s words.

He took a shaky step back, only to feel the cold tungsten armour of a guard press against his back.

Within what seemed like mere seconds, Eitri returned with a large needle and leathers strips in his hands.

The guard that stood behind Loki forced him on his knees, his pleads for mercy filled the room as he shook with fear.

When his pleas were ignored he couldn’t help himself from calling for his father, his mother and even for Thor. Which earned him more laughter and jeers from the on watching crowd who had started stomping the ground, shaking the very foundation of the settlement.

Brokk, seemingly enjoying the young boy’s terror took his time crossing the room.

With each step he took Loki’s cries became more desperate.

By the time the dwarf was within arm’s reach hot tears were tumbling down the prince’s cheeks, blurring his vision.

The hands on his shoulders gripped him tightly enough to leave bruises and his knees hurt against the hard floor, Brokk roughly grabbed his chin forcing him to look the dwarf straight in the eyes. But all these discomforts seemed to disappear as Brokk traced the needle along his lips, earning him a panicked scream from Loki who jerked violently in the dwarves’ grasp.

There was a moment of complete silence, Loki had ceased his useless struggling and simply remained rigid on his knees, staring at the needle that was now position above the right corner of his mouth with wide, fearful eyes.

You could cut the tension with a butter knife, and after what seemed like an eternity a bloodcurdling scream filled the halls as Brokk forced the needle through Loki’s lips.

Screams tumbled from Loki’s lips until he could no longer open his mouth enough to do so, besides his pained whimpers the only sound in the throne room came from leather being pulled and rubbed.

Pain burned through his being like acid while Brokk continued sewing, as if he was sewing armour instead of a young boy’s mouth.

Loki lost track of time in his suffering , every time he seemed to start to lose consciousness Brokk roughly yanked on the leather, which send another lash of pain through his Loki’s face, to keep him awake. It could’ve been days before the dwarf finally cut the leftover leather. Loki barely noticed when the rough hands that had been gripping his shoulders moved to his armpits and started dragging him away. He watched in horror as he saw  the king and brothers laugh before he finally fell into sweet oblivion.

 All too soon he awoke in a dingy cell that smelled of stale water.

The floor was rough and damp, but Loki had no time to pay attention to the small discomforts of his location as pain exploded in his face. He wanted to scream despite his incredibly sore throat but it came out as a mere weak whimper, his lips couldn’t part enough to let out more.

Loki had felt pain before, but not like this. His face bursted with agony and he knew. He knew that they had coated the needle in some kind of balm to increase the pain.

He laid on the ground, whimpering with tears streaking down his face silently pleading for his parents to come save him.

 It would take almost a fortnight before Odin finally arrived at his cell and when he did, he didn’t even utter a word to him. Despite Loki’s dislike for his father he would’ve  gladly run to him and hid his head against his chest to cry until all the pain had finally subsided, but Odin’s expression when Loki stumbled out of the cell stopped him. Odin looked at his son with a coldness that would put Jotunheim to shame. His father didn’t even attempt to remove to crude mutilation from Loki’s lips.

The way home seemed to pass by in a blur, he had to squint at the bright daylight and was practically rendered blind by the brightness of Asgard itself.

He stumbled all the way there, his legs weak from exhaustion and none came to his assistance.

Suddenly there was a calming warmth embracing him, Loki stood frozen until he realised that it was his own mother embracing him. ‘’My poor, poor boy. Oh what have they done to you?’’ she wept as she gently stroked his short hair. The traumatizing experience, the exhausting crying, the stumbling through the city and his worries all slowly ebbed away as his mother whispered comforting words into his ear. He went limb in her arms and she quickly picked him up.

‘’Don’t worry my child, we will go to your chambers and I shall remove those horrible bands immediately.’’ She promised Loki.

He wanted to cry, but he had run out of tears days ago.

After his mother had removed the leather from his lips and the healers had tended to his wounds he had locked himself in his room for a long time and once he came out he had avoided Sif for years.

And despite the fact that she had gained the gorgeous hair from the dwarves that true to its word, grew on her head like it was her own, she refused to forgive him for her once golden hair was now as dark as coal, as dark as Loki’s own and very much the opposite of the hair that she and the rest of Asgard had once adored.

[solikitty]

Ummm. My hand slipped. WoW fic ft. a couple of woobie paladins. Angst and fluff.

"Go clear out a Harpy infestation," they said. "Just a routine job," they said. "It'll be fine," they said.

Yeah, right. Solitiaire scowled, then winced irritably when the movement made the fresh cut on his hairline twinge with pain. Gingerly, he probed the wound with his fingertips, bleak mood instantly becoming darker when they came away damp with blood. He'd already checked the other injury, the one on the back of his skull where he'd cracked it on a rock after falling beneath the harpy onslaught. Through the blood matted hair, he'd found a rapidly forming bump and a nasty gash roughly the width and length of two fingers. His brain felt like it was being pounded like a drum, and his one good eye wouldn't quite focus properly.

"Damned harpies."

Their bodies lay scattered around him, motionless but for the breeze ruffling skewed wing feathers. It had been his own fault, of course. Going in without backup - as usual - the voice in his mind snarked. Solitiaire chose to ignore it. Being the Highlord, he could have sent any number of his followers to take care of the matter in his place, and none of them would have questioned him. It just wasn't in him to ask someone else to go and fight in his stead. It didn't feel right. No matter what title he carried, Solitiaire was a soldier at heart, and he belonged in the field.

Besides, he told himself as he slid his hand back into the plate gauntlet and bucked it into place. It wasn't like this was the worst he'd ever been injured in battle. A scratch and a bump on the head. Nothing a few drinks and a good night's sleep wouldn't cure. In the morning he'd be fine, and the paladins of the Silver Hand would never know that their Highlord's clumsiness had almost cost him his life.

Solitiaire arrived back in Dalaran with every intention of making his way straight to the 'Sanctum portal and retiring to his quarters for the night. His head ached, the skin on his forehead and cheek felt tight and prickly under its layer of dried blood, and he wanted nothing more than to sleep for a week. On top of all that, Dalaran was not a place he cared to linger. Too much history. Too many ghosts. The floating city had been his base of operations during that desperate, heart breaking campaign in Northrend, and in the years since, Solitiaire had never been able to set foot there without feeling the past breathing down the back of his neck.

He could almost feel it now ... The chill of the frozen north, the palpable sense of urgency and dread in the air, his own secret inner turmoil. Without realising it he stopped walking in the middle of a laneway, brow furrowed as he tried to focus on the blurred faces around him. His head throbbed, and he stumbled back a step when a human death knight in dark armour shoved past him.

For a moment, Solitiaire's world froze, like time itself had become encased in a fine layer of ice. He saw the armour, the pale blue eyes glowing with the light of undeath, the man's neatly cropped beard, and for just a moment, it was him.

Landise ...

Knight of the Silver Hand. Beloved mentor, slain in a battle he should never had taken part in, giving his life so that Solitiaire might live on. Raised as a death knight only to die again years later in a grim parody of past events, protecting the man he loved.

"Wait -"

The knight turned and shook off Solitiaire's reaching hand, revealing the face of a stranger. He scowled, and when he spoke his voice grated in Solitiaire's ears.

"Back off, blood elf."

Solitiaire watched him go, feeling raw and stupid. Of course it wasn't Landise. Just this damned city getting to him. His gaze lifted from a dejected study of his boots, and focused a little when he realised where he was. Just around the corner lay the Filthy Animal, practically a second home during the long months in Northrend. Memories wanted to haunt him? So be it. He'd go and raise a few glasses to the ghosts of the past. Just like old times.

Maenas looked up from the book he'd been studying, startled, as Namka stormed into the small library alcove.

"Get up. The Highlord needs you."

"What?!" Maenas squeaked and sat up a bit straighter, his heart beginning to thump nervously, the way it always did when he anticipated being in the Highlord's presence. "But it's after midnight, why does he need -"

"He's being stubborn again!" A disgusted snort flared the yaungol's nostrils.

Maenas pulled a face. He'd never say it out loud, but considering the man they were talking about, 'being stubborn' could mean any number of things.

"What do you -"

"Shh! He's coming."

From the corridor outside their little alcove, Maenas could hear approaching footsteps, along with the sound of the Highlord's voice telling someone to go away and stop pestering him. Usually a velvety smooth drawl, his voice sounded flustered, the words more than a little bit slurred.

Before Maenas could query Namka any further, the Highlord and his tag-along appeared outside the alcove. Maenas couldn't help gasping at the sight of the bloody mask covering half his superior's face. The blood was looked like it had dried hours ago, and its source was clearly visible - a clotted gash that began above his left brow and disappeared into his hairline.

"Highlord!" Maenas sprang to his feet. "Are you -"

"Praise the Sunwell! My apprentices!" The Highlord exclaimed in a voice that, in Maenas' opinion, was much too loud for a library. "Will you please tell this man that I am fine. It's just a scratch. Not like I lost an eye."

"See." Namka hissed, and elbowed Maenas sharply in the arm. "Do something."

"Ow," Rubbing his arm, Maenas met the hovering paladin's gaze and did his best to sound authorative. "Um. We can take care of him from here. I mean, if that's okay ..."

"Excellent. Problem solved. I'm going to bed." Without waiting for any further response, the Highlord, looking rather unsteady on his feet, strode off again, heading towards the back door of the library where a small corridor would lead to his private quarters.

The man who had been following him gave a long suffering sigh and looked from Maenas to Namka and back again. "Good luck."

When he was gone, Maenas looked to Namka for guidance. "What do we do now?"

"We? We do nothing. You are going to go and see to his wounds."

"Me?!"

"You're the one studying to be a healer!"

"But -"

"No buts!"

Maenas sighed and glanced longingly at the book he'd been reading. He should have smuggled it out and hidden in his room while he had the chance. Now he had to go and deal with what he suspected was an incredibly drunk Highlord, on his own. The thought made him realise he'd never been alone with him before. There had always been Namka, or other members of the Order. Now there would be no buffer between them. Just him and the often uncomfortably intense paladin.

"I don't think this is -"

"Do it, or I'll set your books on fire."

"That's not fair!"

Namka just flashed a smug grin. Maenas huffed out another sigh. He knew when he'd been beaten.

"Highlord?" He tapped nervously on the door, then again, a little louder, when there was no response. "Highlord? It's Maenas. May I come in?"

A muffled voice sounded from the room behind. It sounded more like a grunt than anything else, but Maenas took it for an invitation to enter. With his small box of medical supplies tucked under one arm, he opened the door and slipped inside.

The room was small and cozy, illuminated by candle light that cast a warm golden glow and created flickering shadows on the walls. Furniture was sparse - a bed lay against one wall, and a simple desk was pushed against another. There was a curtained doorway that Maenas assumed lead to a bathroom, and near the bed stood a paired armour and weapon rack. Truthguard and Oathguard, the legendary shield and sword that Solitiaire had claimed prior to becoming Highlord, sat reverently upon the racks, gleaming in the candle light.

The Highlord himself sat on a wooden chair pulled out from the desk, a bottle of dwarven ale in one hand and pieces of his armour scattered about him on the floor like fallen leaves. He was naked from the waist up, and looked very much like he'd given up undressing in the middle of removing his boots. One lay on its side beside his still socked right foot, the other apparently in no hurry to go anywhere.

"Maenas Brightreaver."

"H-Highlord."

His intense, one eyed gaze pinned Maenas to the spot. "What are you doing in my room at this hour of the night?" One elegant brow arched and a faint smirk touch the corners of his lips.

"I -" Maenas blushed and looked away. "You're injured. You need to have your wounds taken care of." He glanced back at the Highlord, just in time to see him sigh and pull a face, like a petulant child.

"Fine," He grumbled. "Help me get this armour off first. Sitting in plate makes my ass go numb."

"Y-Yes Sir."

Maenas set his med-kit down on the desk and, blushing profusely, pulled the boot off the Highlord's raised foot, then helped him stand and to unbuckle the fastenings on his plate greaves. Beneath the armour, he wore a pair of well worn leather pants, which he immediately began to remove as well.

"Wait!" Alarmed, Maenas' cry stopped the Highlord with his thumbs hooked into the waistband of his pants.

"What?" He looked genuinely confused, as though being asked not to get naked was something completely incomprehensible.

"You can leave your pants on. Sir."

"But," He glanced at his bed, then back at Maenas. "Do you know how uncomfortable it is sleeping in leather? It isn't fun. I don't recommend it."

"Okay, that's fine. But you're not going to bed yet. I still have to check your wound."

A heavy sigh. "Very well." He sat back down on the chair and took a long swig from the bottle still clutched in his hand.

"I'm going to get some water. Stay there."

Maenas couldn't believe he was giving the Highlord orders, but the other man nodded submissively and didn't question him, so he quickly slipped into the bathroom and filled a bowl with warm water. Upon returning to the main room, he fished a vial of cleansing powder out of his kit and sprinkled the appropriate dosage into the water. While the powder dissolved, he approached the Highlord and bent to examine the wound, probing the edges gently with deft fingertips.

"It doesn't look too bad -"

"That's what I keep telling everyone!"

"- But I should still clean it to avoid infection."

The paladin grumbled something about bossy healers and Maenas was hard pressed not to smile. He pulled up another chair, collected the bowl of water and a soft rag, and sat down opposite the Highlord. In order to get close enough to clean the wound, he had to position himself with one of Solitiaire's knees between both his own, an arrangement made his cheeks burn and the Highlord's ears perk up with interest.

Fiercely ignoring his own anxious embarrassment, Maenas began to clean the dried blood from the Highlord's face. A task immediately hindered by the patch covering his right eye. Maenas had never seen the paladin without the patch firmly in place, so he hesitated to ask him to remove it.

"Um, Highlord ..."

A disgruntled sigh. "Don't call me that when I'm drunk."

"Sorry, uh ..."

"Sol-lee-tee-aire." He prompted with a roll of his eye.

"Sol -Solitiaire." Maenas cleared his throat. "Your um, your eyepatch. It's um, that is, would it be okay if ..."

Solitiaire's eyebrows furrowed in confusion as Maenas stuttered at him, then his expression softened, as though he'd put two and two together in his mind. Eyes downcast, he reached up with his free hand and pulled the patch off his head, rubbing the soft leather between thumb and index finger a moment before tossing it aside.

Ever since he met the Highlord, Maenas had always been curious about what lay hidden beneath that patch. He knew some of the younger members of the Order had even placed bets on it; was there nothing but an empty socket, the eye completely gone? Was he disfigured? Merely blind? Some even speculated that there was nothing wrong with the eye at all, that the patch was just some weird blood elf affectation.

When Solitiaire raised his eyes once more, Maenas saw that he was indeed blind. The eye was still present, but covered over with a milky white film, and while his good eye was intensely focused, this one stared blankly into nothingness.

"It was a ghoul."

"What?" Realising he was staring, Maenas hurriedly got back to the task at hand.

"No one ever asks, but I know they wonder." Solitiaire shrugged. "It happened when the Scourge came to Quel'Thalas. I was with a small group of Farstriders in Silvermoon, covering the citizens' retreat. I was young and green, got cocky. Ghoul slashed open my face. I should have died, but ..." He trailed off, visibly troubled by the memories. "Well, I'm still here." Another long drink, then the empty bottle was dropped onto the floor by his side.

"Sounds like you were lucky." Maenas offered, not sure what else to say. He was so not prepared for this conversation!

"Lucky." Solitiaire gave a humourless laugh. "That's one way to put it. Ow." He winced when Maenas began to clean the area around the wound.

"Sorry!"

This time when he chuckled, it was genuine. "Don't be. I'm just being pitiful. Trying to make you feel sorry for me." He made his eyes go wide and gazed at Maenas, doing a damn good impression of a sad little puppy. "How am I doing? Is it working?"

With no idea of how to answer that question, Maenas decided the best thing would be to say nothing at all. Feigning intense interest in his work, he studied the wound and did his best to ignore the pleased smile that crinkled the corners of Solitiaire's eyes.

"I can seal this up and accelerate the healing. Shouldn't even leave a scar."

"Thank you Maenas."

Maenas nodded and placed the palm of his hand gently over Solitiaire's brow.  It took merely a thought to call the Light to him, and within seconds he could feel its warmth flooding down his arm and into his hand. Soft golden light radiated out from his palm, and he could feel the wound closing, not in a physical sense, but through his connection to the Light. It was a sensation that never ceased to amaze him, and was forever reminding him why he had chosen the path of the healer. He felt peaceful, more connected to life than the mundane of everyday living. And more than that, he felt useful, like he truly could make a difference in the world.

He wasn't sure when he'd shut his eyes, but they sprang open when he became aware of a light pressure on his knee. Solitiaire was studying his face like he wanted to commit every part of it to memory, while his right hand rested on Maenas' knee, his thumb gently stroking.

Maenas froze, heart pounding so loudly he felt sure the Highlord must be able to hear it. What was he supposed to do in this situation? He was in way over his head, but Solitiaire's hand was warm through the fabric of his pants and rather than being terrifyingly uncomfortable as he might have expected, it felt ... nice.

Long moments of silence stretched out between them before Maenas finally cleared his throat and croaked;

"Highlord?"

"You don't even know what you do to me, do you?" Solitiaire withdrew his hand, hesitated a moment, then lifted it to briefly brush the back of his fingers over the strands of creamy white hair that fell about Maenas' face.

Maenas sat back in his chair, indignation making him puff up like an offended bird. "I know exactly what I'm doing! I may be only an apprentice, but I study every day and my healing skills -"

His voice trailed off in confusion when Solitiaire started to laugh. "You see? No idea." He muttered to himself with a shake of the head. "I'm sorry Maenas. Thank you for your assistance. You can go now."

He should have taken that chance to escape and run with it, but Solitiaire chose that exact moment to wince with pain and gingerly rub the back of his head. And damn it all, the healer in him would not let him walk away.

"High - Solitiaire. Is there something else I should look at before I go?"

"It's nothing. A headache, that's all." Solitiaire wouldn't look at him when he spoke and his ears twitched backwards, making him appear about as convincing as a child trying to lie about who stole the last cookie.

Maenas sighed. "Let me see."

Rising from his chair, he moved around to stand behind the Highlord and had to suppress the urge to throttle him. Given the deep red colour of his hair, the blood had done a good job of going unnoticed, but now that he was looking at the damp, matted mess at the base of his skull, Maenas couldn't believe he'd missed it until now.

"Soli! Don't you think you should have mentioned this earlier?!"

"Head wounds bleed a lot. It's nothing serious." He sounded defensive and a tad guilty.

"You could have a concussion. What if you came back here and fell asleep and never woke up? And how much have you been drinking? That's not good either."

Meek silence was his only reply. Maenas sighed and got to work. First, he undid the thin strip of leather that bound Solitiaire's hair into a ponytail, letting it fall in a heavy red curtain about his face and shoulders. For a brief, indulgent moment he let his fingers slip through that hair, feeling the softness, blushing when he heard the quiet sigh of contentment that slipped past Solitiaire's lips.

What are you doing?! He's your superior! The Highlord! Be professional.

"I haven't heard anyone call me that in years."

"What?" Maenas paused in his examination of the wicked looking gash in the Highlord's head, confused as to what he was talking about.

"Soli."

In that moment, Maenas wanted nothing more than to sink into the ground and disappear. What was he thinking, being so familiar with the Highlord? He hadn't even realised he'd said it - he'd been so affronted that Solitiaire had neglected to reveal the extent of his injuries that it had just slipped out.

"I'm sorry Sir, I didn't mean - It won't happen again!"

"Normally I'd break a man's nose if he called me that." Solitiaire's voice was quiet, distant. Like he was thinking about something other than the conversation. "But I kind of liked it, coming from you."

"Oh ..."

Not knowing what else to say, Maenas lapsed into silence, and Solitiaire seemed content to let words rest for the moment. Conflicting thoughts and emotions raced through his mind, making it hard to concentrate. Cleaning the wound took longer than it should have and Maenas realised he was stalling so that he would have an excuse to remain in the Highlord's presence.

"How were you injured?"

It seemed a reasonable question to ask, but he immediately sensed resistance from the man before him. He gave a non-committal shrug and mumbled something incomprehensible.

"Pardon?" The shrug drew his eyes to Solitiaire's shoulders where he noticed a light scattering of freckles over the tanned skin. Ignoring the sudden and alarming urge to reach down and touch them, Maenas focused on prodding information out of the reluctant elf. "Come on. Tell me, please."

"Ugh." Solitiaire groaned theatrically. "It was harpies, okay? Have you ever fought a harpy? They're all wings and feathers and claws and constant screeching, and a flock of them were all up in my face, and well, I tripped. And fell. And hit my head on a rock. Happy?"

Maenas would be eternally grateful that Solitiaire couldn't see his face right then. He was hard pressed not to laugh out loud at the thought of the stern, elegant, war veteran Solitiaire tripping over his own feet and falling under a cloud of feathers.

"If you tell anyone I'll let Namka loose in the library!"

"I'm sorry Sir." Maenas chuckled. "I promise I won't tell a soul." He thought for a moment, then added; "You know, if you wore a helmet, this wouldn't have ended so badly."

"Can't. Helmets impair my vision too much." He held up a hand beside his left eye like a blinker, to demonstrate. "I know it's risky, but I prefer to be able to see."

"I might be able to help with that. I'm not sure, the impairment might be too old to cure, but I'd be willing to try. If you'll let me."

The Highlord shrugged again, like he didn't care either way. "Maybe. Right now I'd be happy just to be rid of this headache."

"Right. Sorry."

Maenas knew a hint when he heard one. As he had before, he placed his palm over the wound and let the healing Light flow through him like a slow, warm river. When it was done, it was with some reluctance that he pulled his hand away, letting his fingertips brush butterfly light over the long strands of hair.

"That feels good ..."

Unsure if he meant the healing or the caress, Maenas flashed a nervous smile and busied himself with packing up his med-kit. "You should be fine now. I'll leave you to sleep."

"Maenas wait."

Before he could step back out of reach, Solitiaire's hand caught him about the wrist. His hold was gentle, but Maenas could feel the strength there, strength he instinctively knew would never be used against him. A hot blush spread from his cheeks all the way up to the tips of his ears as their eyes met and Solitiaire slowly drew him down towards him.

"Highlord -"

"I said don't call me that." A breathy sigh. "Light, what are you doing to me?" Solitiaire's voice was barely a whisper, a heartfelt plea for an answer Maenas didn't posses.

What was he doing? He was busy trying not to drown. What was Solitiaire doing?

When no reply was forthcoming, the Highlord lowered his eyes, eyelashes brushing his cheeks like butterfly wings. Long, lean fingers gently squeezed Maenas' wrist before slipping away and lifting to cradle his face. His hand was warm, the skin calloused from years of swordplay, and Maenas found himself leaning into that touch, his own eyes closing even as he reached out to lay a hand on Solitiaire's knee for balance. Even without sight, he knew it when Solitiaire leaned in towards him. He heard the creak of leather, felt the shifting of muscles beneath his hand, the gentle brush of his breath and the tingle in his skin before their lips met.

As far as kisses went, it was incredibly chaste, just a light, lingering press of lips. Gentle, undemanding, and easily the most intimate thing Maenas had ever experienced. Time seemed to hang in place. For the space of a heartbeat, for an eternity, he kissed Solitiaire and it felt right. All his insecurities, his shyness, and every logical reason as to why this was a very bad thing flew straight out of his head.

But eventually, as it always must, the moment passed. Solitiaire drew back and Maenas immediately scrambled out of arm's reach, eyes wide, heart pounding.

"I ... I should go."

"Probably. I'm going to bed now, so unless you want to see me with my pants off -"

"No thank you Highlord! Good night Highlord!"

The last thing Maenas saw before he fled the room was Solitiaire's lazy, catlike smile.

Light preserve me. I'm in trouble.

@elodiathetyrant @karekathegeneticist

[thewritingtrack]

Pulsar WIP

Power Concept

Pulsars-pulsars manifest within a person as soon as they are born, being anything as simple as fire to something as complex as interior decorating.  The effect of the Pulsar is felt throughout the user’s body, but manifests in the users hands, similar to that of Skyrim’s spells in an uncasted state. Pulsars mature as the person does, and its strength is directly correlated with this person’s strength of will. The stronger the person’s will, the more techniques they can perform with their pulsar.  Pulsars can also be copied and utilized by a different person if their hand collides with another person’s with both individual’s pulsars active. Furthermore, most pulsars can be fused in order to create a new pulsar to utilize, such as fire+ice=steam. However, certain unique pulsars are exempt from being copied, such as time.  Theoretically, you can fuse pulsars beyond this to create even stronger pulsars, but they are very unstable and tend to cause user blowback and separate.

Bonus Concepts

Placksmith-An artisan whose primary method of work is creating weapons that are compatible with a person’s pulsar.  Adventuring into the world without a pulsar weapon is suicide, so people turn to dwarven placksmiths for aid.  The material used to make such weapons is root steel, or the roots of the everforest’s massive trees that are saturated with nutrients enough to be melted down instead of burned.  Other materials may used for user preference, but root steel is the first option.

Monsters-Creatures infected with the power of pulsars, as pulsars are related to strength of will, the will to survive can mutate an animal into a horrid abomination. However, hunting them is recommended, as the parts of a monster can improve a placksmith’s weaponry tenfold if it’s close enough to the user’s pulsar.  They can also utilize pulsars in other areas than hands.

·        Hell Hawks-Birds of prey mutated by their pulsar to grow to a grand size, typically fly above the trees for unsuspecting prey to pop their heads out.

·        Tunnel Terrors-Swelled worms who typically inhabit the underground dwarf mines, creating mass tunnel systems whenever they travel.  They abuse their pulsar to ambush prey and devour them.  They typically have a queen.

·        Aracks-Swelled spiders that create webs imbued with their pulsar in order to trap and tenderize prey.  Their legs are as sharp as spears and their teeth crunch bone. Their string is good for pulsar bows.

·        Rainbow Wolves-Called rainbow because packs typically have unique pulsars.  They barrage their target with different pulsars before feasting on the kill.  Highly aggressive and there are always more around than you think.  Parts are highly useful for root steel weapons like swords.

·        The Bleeding-Machines and deadly weapons that have recently surged in number across the everforest, harvest resources and even kidnapping stray travelers.  They come in extremely varied shapes and sizes, but all share one macabre detail: they are powered by blood.  Due to this, most of them are equipped of ways of refilling their supply.

·        ?-Stories of the scant few survivors of the abyss often cite reports of the dragging of chains and a piercing roar, followed by a tide of black gas.  Within it, lies a single white light, followed by the reflection of said light across thousands of rows of needle-like teeth the size of a mans body.

Characters

Filler name Time-A elf who likes taking it slow, the lead hero of our journey and on a mission to stop (filler name blood).  His skin is a ghostly white, due to the lack of sun exposure from the trees. He’s a bit on the short side for elves, being 5’4”.  In the beginning, he’s an underachiever who is content to live his lot in life among the trees, until his home is attacked by machines that seemingly bleed.  Originally his quest is one just to return to his lax way of life, until he begins uncovering clues about his past.

Filler name Thunder-A female elf bandit with an electric pulsar.  She is a rather high strung and hot-blooded resident of Trunktown.  She’s made a bit of a name for herself, mugging people that come from the higher cities almost as a rite of passage.  It’s joked that the main reason Trunktown has pulsar weaponry as an export is because she snags them from passerby’s.

Filler name Picasso-A young outcast elf and orc hybrid who wanders the everforest in search of artistic inspiration.  She wears a bandanna over his mouth, claiming it prevents paint from getting into his mouth. The real reason is that it hides her orc teeth from curious onlookers.  She struggles with his heritage and how it defines her, leading to emotional outbursts if continually pushed and prodded about it, which is rather unfortunate for anyone in her general vicinity.

Filler name Space-an enigmatic traveler in the everforest who fights with only a shield.  A blackish smoke trails him, as if he’s been tainted by the abyss itself.  He appears to be a sort of vigilante, attempting to thin the Bleeding as much as he can, questioning all he comes across about there whereabouts.  Oddly enough, he’s extremely interested in (Filler name time) and his journey.

Weapons

Time pulsar-a cosh that has twelve markings, one for each second, after twelve seconds it has produced enough energy to fire a blast of energy, if time is sped up it can be overcharged or rapid fired.

Fire & Ice pulsar-twin swords that are encrusted in the respective element and can emit it with a greater will, putting the swords together creates a burst of steam. Can be fused for the steam pulsar.

Electric pulsar-tesla knuckles that can be charged by the pulsar, impacts release a blast of sparks and even bolts if a persons will is strong enough.

Earth and Wind Pulsar- a large greatsword that has a tempest at one half and obsidian on the other, the wind accelerates the heavy side of blade to make a swirling and brutal fighting style.  Can be fused for the cataclysm pulsar.

Water Pulsar-A rapier with a hollow blade with a hole on the tip, allowing it to gather water and eject it with violent force.

Poison Pulsar-a Golden staff in the form of a golden straight cobra with a green orb in its mouth. It can amplify the quantity of poison created and expel it.

Space pulsar-a shield that can expand and contact to the users will, if the users will is large enough, it can become the size of a fortress.

Steel pulsar-a long whip sword whose individual sword links can be controlled by the user, allowing for an extreme amount of flexibility.

Art pulsar-a brush can paint objects into reality, but is sensitive to the user’s emotions.  If out of control, the user can trap others in their own personal painted world.  It can also just blast streams of paint.

Blood pulsar-a serrated broadsword excelling in drawing blood, allowing the user to utilize as much blood of the opponent as possible.

Enivronments

The Permaforest-A massive sprawling forest, with trees the thickness of some castles, and as large as skyscrapers.  This massive size allows for cities to flourish within them.   Within them are elves, orcs, and dwarves.  Elves typically live within the trees, orcs live on the forest floor, and dwarves live underground.

·        Midtree-a central hub for the elves, where monsters from below are minimal to none, connected by durable wooden bridges made out of the massive trees, being the size of a small city with a ludicrous amount of support to keep the city from crumbling under its weight.  Reaching it requires an elven amount of mobility, so orcs typically can’t reach there without external help.

·        Trunktown-An elven town that’s quite low in comparison to Midtree, hence the name. Here lies the outcasts or lower class of elven society, often having to scrap with orcs or monsters to just survive. Here lies various shady guilds and the occasional bandit trying to make a name for themselves.

·        Crownhome-An elite city of elves, high within the trees, looking down on all towns below. Many elves her are gifted with exceptional pulsars or even greater wealth.  Here is where laws and judgement within the elven towns are carried out. Of course, such big status comes with a superiority complex.  Ironically they still pay handsomely for dwarven weaponry, which keeps them in the back pocket of a certain someone

·        Co-operton-A city that lies on the forest floor, having a mix of elves and orcs deciding to coexist, shunned by both races except the occasional curious traveler. They don’t really care.  It exists as a happy medium, where an understanding of respect has been reached.  Orcs even experiment with their pulsars here.

·        Ortopia-A massive sprawling city on the forest floor, where the extremely shady stuff takes place.  Orcs primarily live here but are dotted throughout the everforest.  With a hatred of the pompous elves, they revel in nothing but hunting and thriving, barely using their pulsars in favor of brutal clubs and traditional weaponry.  However, crime is rampant.  Strength is key in these simple towns.

·        Drillmire-An underground dwarven town focused on churning out placksmiths and root steel, the city is sprawled out over multiple tree roots in the everforest.  It may seem like a hearty mining town, but most of it is run by an underground(hah) crime syndicate, who control root steel production.  While not pulsar reluctant, they have a more natural affinity for technology and mechanics.

Aridia-a sprawling plane filled with arid cracks, devoid of civilization and barely any life struggles within it.  Legends whisper of treasures lying below its desolate dirt.  At the end of Aridia lies the Cliff, a cutoff leading to a massive sprawling Abyss.  The perfect battlefield, the earth even drinks the blood.

The Abyss-A nightmare world that lies off the cliff of Aridia, filled with the strongest monsters and the embrace of darkness.  In the abyss, pulsars are null.  Be it some special power or the place’s unique strength in breaking the wills of the most hardened of heroes.  If one wishes to survive the abyss, your only options are trying to climb back up the cliff. And if you hear the rattling of chains and a piercing roar, your only option is prayer.

·        ?-Some whispers of the abyss say there is a light deep within its crushing atmosphere, a warm glow its despair does not touch.  What is it, I wonder?

Dragonclimb-A large mountain that rises just north of the everforest with a battered, scorched slopes, burnig even when the air is thin.  Ancient castles, long abandoned by their masters, which are falling apart. There are many ancient treasures lying within its dilapidated walls, including the secrets of pulsars.

·        The Godcrawler-A tower that rest at the top of Dragonclimb.  No one knows why it was built, or for what purpose.  What does it entail, I wonder?

[clansteelgrasp-blog]

"We take steel, an' iron and bend them to our will! Fires roar, and magma boils as heat purges impurities from both our steel... an' our foes." -Thane Fürgas Steelgrasp

The constant ring of hammers upon anvils and the roar of the Great Forge could be heard at all hours in the ancient citadel of Dwarven craftsmanship, and none are as dedicated to the glories of the forge and anvil as the Clan Steelgrasp are.

It is here in the mighty fortress' of Ironforge and Anvilmar that one could find the Clan Steelgrasp in their constant efforts to supply themselves and allies; as well as to wage a merciless conflict against the Horde with the vastly superior metal the Clan has.

"Welcome Kinsmen, to Clan Steelgrasp! We stand within the vast Mead Hall community as some of the best damn blacksmiths an' fighters ye'll ever have the honor to share a drink an' a meal with. We stand ready to not only keep crankin' out weapons an' armor at an industrial level, but to also keep the molten fury of the Great Forge safe an' our craft secrets out of enemy hands at all costs!

In Clan Steelgrasp, every Kinsman is skilled enough to work any metal on any forge, and are strong enough to slay even Dire Beasts with only a knife an' knuckles.

Do ye have the grit ta’ stand with us?”

Who are we?

The Clan Steelgrasp is a Paramilitary Blacksmiths guild who has a thirst and hunger for RP and RPPvP. We are heavily focused on the defense of Khaz Modan and most of all the Great Forge. We do this by creating powerful weapons and armor to ride off into battle with or to even arm our allies with.

At the end of the day we are blacksmiths, runesmiths, miners, and even engineers who place all of this skill into the current war efforts against the Horde.

Who do we accept?

Well, we are a race exclusive guild but not 100%. We are trying to stick to Titanborn type races. Dwarves of course as our primary acceptance, and then Gnomes and Humans.

Beyond that... the cultures are less likely to mesh well together and would make less sense to have a desire to defend Khaz Modan.

Though under such a rare circumstance we accept allies and hired help.

What do we do in terms of events?

Every weekend we have two bar / pub events. Fridays at 6PM we attend the Cask n Anvil in the Great Forge which is hosted by Moddy Slatefist.

Then Sundays at 6PM is the Steel Pub in Anvilmar which is hosted by Bathildis Ironstout.

The Clan Steelgrasp hosts a number of blacksmithing / craft events with a full progression system for RP events.

Clan Steelgrasp also wages RPPvP conflict against the Horde for the Mead Hall community. We ride down the mountain to find enemy settlements, camps and mines which we then attack and plunder.

We also condone a number of RP D20 styled events all based on the results of our RPPvP events.

With Battle For Azeroth around the corner, there will be a lot of this.

Other IC notes.

The Clan Steelgrasp as of late have gone through some interesting changes that some of you may find pleasing. We have gone through an IC split from the Steelgrasp Brigade. From the Steelgrasp Brigade we have the return of Clan Steelgrasp and the birth of the Battlestein Company. (Love the folks in Battlestein!)

With this we have a lovely expansion of community story!

As for within the Clan Steelgrasp itself, we are in the process of Officer Reform for a stronger RPPvP environment leading into Battle For Azeroth. So we have a lot of positions available to those willing to step up and help recruit!

We even have a tiny piece of In Character story added onto the Clan Steelgrasp. Long lost cousins of the Clan from the north are returning home to Khaz Modan. So...

The Steelgrasp surname will become available for use for those members who wish to be a member of the Clan by blood not association.

Other OOC notes.

The Clan Steelgrasp is a fantastic guild within the Mead Hall community serving as Blacksmiths and Warriors. So if you seek to join the guild there are a few ways to pull this off. First...

You can visit our site and apply and check out other information at "https://steelgrasp.shivtr.blue" today.

You can also whisper in game Furgas, Pheär, Thelodahr, Crura or Gimring. You can even send us in game mail if need be.

The Clan Steelgrasp AND the Mead Hall have a pair of active Discord servers.

The Clan Steelgrasp and the Mead Hall look forward to meeting you soon!