#there to serve a chorus of bloody hounds.

[moltengoldveins]

personal favorite headcanon: totems don’t just ‘heal’ you. They fill every scar, every open wound, with gold. They knit you back together Wrong, and it doesn’t just extend to the injury that killed you, it knows Everything. Even long-faded scars are back, brighter and bigger than they were when they first healed, shimmering bronze in the green light of resurrection. They’re a soul-deep instance of the craft of kinsugi: you come back better, in one sense of the word, but you do not come back the same, and whatever dictates ‘better’ does not care to hide or soften your history of suffering like your body does. Every loss, every slip, every pain is magnified and glorified, until they are all most people can see of you. You become, in entirety, what you have survived. Your death becomes your identity. (Are you really even revived?)

Elaboration on my personal favorite headcanon: Techno’s execution was the first time he’d ever had to use a totem. He’s an old thing, be he god or man: he’s never died. But he has fought. He has fallen. He has held himself together with cloth and rage, and afterwards Philza has had to stitch stray pieces of flesh together until they once again resemble his dearest friend. Most of his injuries are old enough for the evidence to have faded from the surface: they are not old enough for the totem to pass them by. For a moment, when the anvil fell, he looked like he was made of gold entirely, a figure of divine fire. He barely faded when the light did: every inch of his skin laced through with shimmering lines. One of his eyes was crushed in the execution: it glows yellow now, alongside its red partner. Quackity fought a man made of metal, and died watching him bleed ichor instead of blood (long healed bones, deep tissue tears… his heart, crushed by his rib cage when the anvil ground his body to pulp. the gold took everything, even the blood his chorus chants for.)

Tommy has to take a moment to recognize Techno: he doesn’t have to hear the story to know what the Butchers managed to do.

Philza spends a hundred winter nights replaying that moment on the balcony, one futile arrow shattered against the falling iron, half of his soul consumed in green and gold. He spends a hundred more laughing, pressed to Techno’s side, naming each glittering cut, recalling their origin. Neither of them remember what Techno looked like scarless. That is, of course, the whole point.

When Doomsday comes, the first sign of death is a burning figure, tall and bright and cast in gold under a blood red sky, standing amidst a sea of black hounds.

[cricketnationrise]

For the ficlet fest: 6:42 pm, a private stage, and Arthur Fox please. My ao3 is katsudonforthesoul. Congratulations on the followers!! It's so kind of you to give back to us as a way to celebrate, especially on top of all the other things you do!

thank you so much for your kind words! the not so secret part of the ficlet fests is that all y'all's prompts are so fucking cool that i have an absolute BLAST writing them <3 for once the Arthur feels are non-angsty, which is exciting for all of us, frankly. enjoy!

read the rest of the ficlets here

❤️🤍💙❤️🤍💙

6:42pm, a private stage

“O, for a muse of fire that would ascend the brightest heaven of invention!”

No one becomes an actor hoping for small audiences. 

Famous actors can wax poetic all they want about how “reaching even one person is meaningful,” but at their core, in their secret egos, all actors want to be able to interact with the largest possible audiences. That dream is why Arthur tolerates filming; the reach is so much greater than live theatre. Even so, he’d much rather be on a stage, in front of a live audience. That feedback, that energy of a crowded room, solely focused on him and the story he’s telling is intoxicating.

“A kingdom for a stage, princes to act, and monarchs to behold the swelling scene!” Arthur winks at Catherine as he finishes the line, making her giggle. As much as he loves a packed house, there’s something special about performing for her alone, hidden away in his flat for once. She’d worn down her PPO’s enough that they’d grudgingly allowed her to stay the night, and that they’d monitor from down the hall instead of right outside his door after sweeping his place. Arthur can’t stop looking at her, casual in a way she rarely is, even in her own rooms in Kensington, completely at home here with him. The next line, something about Mars and hounds, pours out of him automatically, years of muscle memory serving him well, but Arthur couldn’t have told anyone what it actually is right now. He’s too distracted trying to memorize the precise configuration of laugh lines around her eyes.

He comes back to the text in time to appreciate the irony. “But pardon, gentles all, the flat unraisèd spirits that hath dared on this unworthy scaffold to bring forth so great an object.” It’s one thing to try to imagine vast battles and courts of ages past when you’re watching from The Globe, the building itself drenched in echoes of people imagining the same things for centuries—it’s another thing altogether to try and imagine fantastical settings and the grand scale of the story with a backdrop of worn out floors and his amazingly shit telly. Can this cockpit hold the vasty fields of France, indeed?

“Or may we cram within this wooden square the very casques that did affright the air at Agincourt?” Arthur recites, swapping “O” for “square” to reflect the shape of the room, grinning when Cat catches the change. She’s a princess, and she’s bloody brilliant, and she’s dating him. And if she wants him to perform Shakespeare for her, he’ll do it with bells on.

He bows a little at the next line. “O pardon, since a crookèd figure may attest in little place a million, and let me, ciphers to this great account, on your imaginary forces work.” Arthur meets her bright gaze steadily, as the lines ask her to imagine mighty monarchies and proud-hoofed horses.

Arthur paces forward and kneels before her where she’s perched on the couch. “For ‘tis your thoughts that now must deck our kings carry them here and there, jumping o’er times, turning th’ accomplishment of many years into an hourglass.”

“Did you mean, my entire life?” Cat snorts. 

Arthur just chuckles in response and takes her hand for the last line. “Admit me chorus to this history, who, prologue-like, your humble patience pray gently to hear, kindly to judge our play.”

Cat twines her fingers with him and leans her face close to his. “I can’t believe you memorized a scene that wasn’t your own from Henry V, you gigantic nerd.”

“It’s a good monologue,” he protests. “And you like that I’m a gigantic nerd.”

“God help me, I really do,” she admits, standing up and pulling him up after her. “Now, let’s put a different gigantic part of you to work, shall we?”

“Well, if you absolutely insist…” Arthur fakes a heavy sigh, but lets her tow him toward the bedroom, more than happy to do her bidding.

[butterflies-dragons]

I read AGOT a long time ago, but iirc aren't both Jon and sansa shown feeding their direwolves in their first chapters? That could be another parallel between them.

Hello Anon:

You’re right. And this is something I thought about before but I never found the time to write about it.

Here are the passages:

Jon had started drinking then, and he had not stopped.

Something rubbed against his leg beneath the table. Jon saw red eyes staring up at him. “Hungry again?” he asked. There was still half a honeyed chicken in the center of the table. Jon reached out to tear off a leg, then had a better idea. He knifed the bird whole and let the carcass slide to the floor between his legs. Ghost ripped into it in savage silence. His brothers and sisters had not been permitted to bring their wolves to the banquet, but there were more curs than Jon could count at this end of the hall, and no one had said a word about his pup. He told himself he was fortunate in that too.His eyes stung. Jon rubbed at them savagely, cursing the smoke. He swallowed another gulp of wine and watched his direwolf devour the chicken.

Dogs moved between the tables, trailing after the serving girls. One of them, a black mongrel bitch with long yellow eyes, caught a scent of the chicken. She stopped and edged under the bench to get a share. Jon watched the confrontation. The bitch growled low in her throat and moved closer. Ghost looked up, silent, and fixed the dog with those hot red eyes. The bitch snapped an angry challenge. She was three times the size of the direwolf pup. Ghost did not move. He stood over his prize and opened his mouth, baring his fangs. The bitch tensed, barked again, then thought better of this fight. She turned and slunk away, with one last defiant snap to save her pride. Ghost went back to his meal.

Jon grinned and reached under the table to ruffle the shaggy white fur. The direwolf looked up at him, nipped gently at his hand, then went back to eating.

—A Game of Thrones - Jon I

Eddard Stark had left before dawn, Septa Mordane informed Sansa as they broke their fast. “The king sent for him. Another hunt, I do believe. There are still wild aurochs in these lands, I am told.”

“I’ve never seen an aurochs,” Sansa said, feeding a piece of bacon to Lady under the table. The direwolf took it from her hand, as delicate as a queen.

Septa Mordane sniffed in disapproval. “A noble lady does not feed dogs at her table,” she said, breaking off another piece of comb and letting the honey drip down onto her bread.

“She’s not a dog, she’s a direwolf,” Sansa pointed out as Lady licked her fingers with a rough tongue. “Anyway, Father said we could keep them with us if we want.”

The septa was not appeased. “You’re a good girl, Sansa, but I do vow, when it comes to that creature you’re as willful as your sister Arya.” She scowled. “And where is Arya this morning?”

“She wasn’t hungry,” Sansa said, knowing full well that her sister had probably stolen down to the kitchen hours ago and wheedled a breakfast out of some cook’s boy.

—A Game of Thrones - Sansa I

Jon and Sansa also get drunk in these chapters lol

Let’s talk a bit about these passages:

The obvious parallel is that both Ghost and Lady are beneath the table and their masters feed them, and then the beautiful contrasts begin:  

Day/Night: 

Sansa is breaking her fast and Jon is having dinner.

Noble Lady/Bastard Boy: 

Sansa is reminded by Septa Mordane that she is a noble lady: “A noble lady does not feed dogs at her table”.  And Sansa’s answer is one of my favorite lines from her POV:  “She’s not a dog, she’s a direwolf.”

Meanwhile Jon was reminding himself “the perks of being a bastard”, seated down there on the benches, drinking wine without supervision and having Ghost in the banquet. 

Queen/Savage:

Lady took the ‘piece’ of bacon “as delicate as a queen” meanwhile Ghost “ripped into the chicken in savage silence” and devoured the ‘half honeyed chicken’.  Lady licked Sansa’s fingers with a ‘rough’ tongue and Ghost nipped ‘gently’ at Jon’s hand.  

Maybe this is a subtle foreshadowing of Sansa becoming Queen in the future and Jon becoming a beast after his resurrection. 

Sweet and Salty

Ghost eats honeyed chicken (sweet), while Lady eats bacon (salty).  

Direwolves are not dogs:

In both passages the direwolves are compared to dogs.   

When Septa Mordane told Sansa that “A noble lady does not feed dogs at her table”, Sansa’s answer is categorical : "She’s not a dog, she’s a direwolf.”    

Meanwhile Ghost had an actual confrontation with a dog, a black mongrel bitch three times the size of the direwolf pup, and he won.

Direwolves are not dogs. Direwolves are not simple pets. Direwolves are superior in comparison. Also these particular direwolves, the Stark kids’s direwolves are part of their masters souls. 

And this statement “Direwolves are not dogs” is repeated a lot in the Books, mostly through Lady and Ghost. Here a few examples:

Rattleshirt’s dogs greeted him with a chorus of snarls and growls and wild barking, as ever, but the direwolf paid them no mind. Six days ago, the largest hound had attacked him from behind as the wildlings camped for the night, but Ghost had turned and lunged, sending the dog fleeing with a bloody haunch. The rest of the pack maintained a healthy distance after that.

—A Storm of Swords - Jon I

"They’re dogs and he’s a wolf,” said Jon. “They know he’s not their kind.” No more than I am yours. 

—A Storm of Swords - Jon I

It happened twice more that night, and again in the morning, when she woke to find him hard. The wildlings were stirring by then, and several could not help but notice what was going on beneath the pile of furs. Jarl told them to be quick about it, before he had to throw a pail of water over them. Like a pair of rutting dogs, Jon thought afterward. Was that what he’d become? 

—A Storm of Swords - Jon III

Sansa woke and found the old blind dog beside her once again. “I wish that you were Lady,” she said.

—A Storm of Swords - Sansa VI

This parallel is one of my favorites and all the details are so beautiful.

Thanks for the ask Anon.

[mythopoeticreality]

The Road Goes Ever On- Chapter 6

Ayyy! Two Chapters within a week! I’m on a roll!^^ Nah, but I really enjoyed writing this one (Fairies are always fun to write) and I hope ya’ll like it just as much as I do! :)

Ao3 Link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22900423/chapters/56544772

Chapter 6

He recognized those horns. The same sound that called him from his dreams. Huan’s ears, too, pricked at the sound, and Tyelcormo pulled himself straighter, eyes snapping in it’s direction.

That bone-stirring rumble of an uncountable herd stampeding towards you. The whoops and taunting laughter carried on the air. The haunting moan of the horn, and the baying of the hounds, oddly seeming to grow more echoing and distant as they grew the nearer. But it wasn’t the strangeness of any of it that got to Tyelco. No, of course not. Rather, it was that he knew these sensations, that they were as familiar to him as the the feeling of his own stride or the sound of Huan’s panting breaths.The air nearly pulsing with a heartbeat of its own, feeling sharp as it came into the lungs, and he could nearly feel the powerful muscle of the horses beneath him as they crashed through the trees, coming nearer. To ride and feel those horses break into a run, it was like an awakening. It was to come alive again. That was what a Hunt was, chaos, noise, life, driving onward. Always onward.

And he could feel that pulse now, even from the ground, even separate from them. It called, yet at the same time it repelled. It prickled at the skin, electric. Made the hair at the back of his neck stand on end -- an echo of the ecstasy he felt riding amongst Oromë’s folk. He could feel his muscles pulling bow-sting taught, ready to leap off in a run. Out of his own control it was instinct, the very air whispering to him, Run, now, Run! You are prey now, even as it also called, Come join us! Ride with us! Let us take you away to be a part of our company…

Tyelcormo licked at his lips. Gave his head a sharp shake. No. No. What was this? He had to focus now. He was out here for a reason. Tyelpë. They had to find Tyelpë.

But the night air was stirring, cool and sweet in his lungs and tasting of something he both knew and didn’t. It was as though every star in the heavens had turned it’s eyes upon him and every tree in the surrounding forest was calling for him in the hissing clatter of their leaves.

It was the flash of his father’s knife in Telperion’s light that brought him back. That had Tyelco reaching for his own . It felt safer somehow, more grounding. Like the only solid thing in the world at that moment.

“That will not serve you here. Put it away.” The stranger’s voice. As calm, as firm, as cool as ever. It was the same bloody trick that Curvo used so often, one that had always escaped him.

Atar only scoffed at this, and Tyelco only found himself grasping all the tighter to his own blade. “What? So that I may fall to the same foe that has stolen my grandson without a fight? That I might --”

“Atar, I do not like this.” Curvo. Atar cut himself off to listen. “Something is coming this way, it feels almost planned. What if we were brought out here to meet whoever comes?

At this Atar’s eyes narrowed, gaze sharpening to a needle point. “Is that what you want? Is that why you brought us here? To hand us over to these beings...Servants of Melkor or--”

The stranger sighed, the tone of his voice making clear that he’d said well enough before, “I do not know who this ‘Melkor’ of yours is.”

And here it was Tyelcormo’s turn to scoff. Unwise, perhaps to antagonize their only lead on his nephew’s whereabouts, but it was either to focus on the obvious lies coming dripping from the man’s lips or to that chorus of carried on the wind, intent of drawing him into the deep shadows of the trees.

He needed...he needed to focus. Atar and the Stranger were still talking. Well, they were not talking at the moment, but the stubborn looks traveling between them communicated well enough Atar starred the man down, but his gaze was met in equal measure.

“You do not wish to cause offense. Put your knife away.” The stranger, this Raven King murmured.

A Moment passed, then a moment more. The thunder of Horse’s hooves grew the nearer and the blazing white flash of the hound’s bodies could be seen through the trees. Beautiful creatures, Tyelco could not help but think.

Finally, grudgingly, Atar shoved his knife back into its scabbard again, barking something back to Tyelco and Curvo.

“Atar, why...” Curvo was arguing. Tyelco wasn’t paying attention.

His mind was spinning, edging towards that familiar wild high that he felt every time his horse plunged into a gallop, every time the chase was on. The world itself felt almost unreal somehow, like a sheet of rain that could be blown aside with a strong enough gust of wind. And his nails clawing into his palm, the solidness of the knife handle he held was all that kept him clutching to reality…

Come join us! Come ride with us!

“No!” It came out a strangled shout, and Suddenly Tyelco was aware of a pair of dark eyes boring into his own.

The Stranger’s head just canted to the side, eyes narrowing in thought. Tyelco’s feet remained rooted to the spot, and even as this Raven King approached, the hunter’s own gaze kept flickering back over the stranger’s shoulder, off towards the trees and the ever nearing company.

The stranger’s gaze darted down to Tyelco’ hands. He murmured something to himself, Tyelcormo couldn’t quite catch it. “Clever instincts…” He would have guessed the words were, if forced to it.

The man’s hands came up, were wrapping around Tyelcormo’s own fingers. Tyelco flinched back. Huan snarled. But the stranger remained, prying open the elf’s hand with a surprising gentleness as he slipped the blade up and into Tyelcormo’ grasp.

He spoke...words Tyelcormo couldn’t quite wrap his mind about, cold and ringing as the hammer in the forge, and a shooting pain --as though the steel of the blade had buried itself into the flesh of his hand -- pierced through Tyelco. The world flashed white for an instant, and it felt as though he could barely move for the agony of it.

When his vision cleared, he was staring into the Raven King’s eyes once more.“Remember your purpose here.” Was all the man said, before stepping away again, and turning back to face the Hunt now gathered all before them.

They were a troop of wild figures, some clad in clinging garments of tattered furs and leathers, and iridescent feathers, others in tunics and robes woven from...from things Tyelcormo couldn’t recognize --or rather he could but to say it aloud would be utter madness! Autumn Evenings and Forest Mists…

At their head rode their leader, his hair a wild mass of curls who’s color brought to mind nothing so much as autumn leaves and leaping sparks. Wide-shouldered and tall, with eyes that danced with reflected torchlight, he seemed to Tyelco’s eyes so sharply cut out from the shadows that surrounded him. His mind couldn’t help but travel to the golden-warm light of the campfires of those nights he spent camping out with Oromë’s hunt, of the laughter and joy of his own companions as they sat ‘round, figures emerging from the obscurity of those surrounding shadows into the flickering light. The echoes of that laughter played at the edge of his hearing now, while in his chest rose that restless joy, and more then that. That fleeting sense he got when sitting beneath the wide field of stars above, or when riding along the roots of the Pelori, and seeing the mountains tower above him. And all of that wrapped in the man who stood before them, who’s eyes were raking over both he and Huan.

Celegorm found himself standing straighter, feeling that gaze on him. And in snaked that thought, whispering at the back of his mind, Yes, I could follow him…

A jolt. A piercing, spasming agony stabbing through his hand, flashing white again before his eyes. His ears rang, as though he were entering Atar’s forge.

“...With friends this time as well I see!” The Huntsman’s voice, reaching him as his vision cleared. Speaking to the Raven King. “And were you not just warning us of the dangers of such things?”

Tyelcormo blinked, both breath and body shaking. His eyes dropped down to his hand, still grasping that knife blade...but still whole….

He shook himself, trying to push off the half-formed thoughts still drifting through his mind. Tyelpë. He was out here to find Tyelpë.

There was a low, questioning whine from Huan. “Are you alright? What did he do to --”

“No, No, I am...fine. Fine.” Tyecomo felt off to even be saying it somehow. But..he was. His mind in fact felt far clearer than it had before…

And now, thinking on it, there was something about the question the Hunstaman asked that Tylcormo did not like, not with the way the Huntsman was looking at them, sizing them up like harts for the kill.

~*~

It was not a question the Raven King himself much liked either. A trap, either to expose hypocrisy on his part, or to feel out whether these men here, these ‘friends’ as the Huntsman -- Sacha was the name he used here -- called them, were free for the taking. There was no good answer of course. There rarely were in such situations. And so John said nothing, simply shrugging the words off as though they were nothing, not even worthy of his consideration.

To this, Sacha simply laughed. He quickly shook his head, swatting aside his own words as though they were so many buzzing flies. “Oh, but no matter, I certainly hold nothing against you. Is that Prince Fëanáro I see?” He leaned forward on his horse, eyeing John’s guide, before slipping down and striding nearer.

The Hound lept, suddenly between the Sidhe and John’s guide, leaning down low, teeth bared as he snarled.

In surprise Sacha stepped back, his eyes wide, yet in a moment he was laughing once more. “Ah! And one of Arōmēz’s mighty hounds as well! Which means…”

He was gone, suddenly there behind John, standing there before the Rider, lips curling into a cat’s grin. “The third one, the hunter. And a handsome one he is, as well…” Sacha reached up, as though to brush his hand along the Rider’s jawline, but the man stumbled backwards.

John’s guide-- Fëanáro, apparently -- nearly growled. “Get away from my son.”

Blunt, perhaps too much so, though here at least John could not fault him. The man protected what was his. Would he, himself have not drawn such a line just as clearly?

The other son -- the father of the boy who was missing, that was -- was bristling by now, reaching again for his knife, and the hound was now wildly barking, readying itself to pounce on the Sidhe.

By the time the Hound bounded forward though, even as the missing boy’s father had freed blade from scabbard, Sacha was gone, once more standing before Fëanáro. A brief drama was quickly unfolding across his features. His brows shot up, and he looked at Fëanáro as though he’d just been shouted at by an ant-hill he’d kicked over (truth to tell, he likely would have been less surprised by shouting ant-hills). That surprise lasted only a moment though, before his expression morphed into a wide grin.

“Ah! You must forgive me!” The Sidhe said, hand to heart and bowing his head, “To speak of you without speaking to you! How rude indeed! I had no idea that you might understand, however! And, of course, young Starling here” He gestured back towards John at this, as John gnawed at the inside of his lip, forcing down rising irritation, “Does not speak Quenya.”

With the sort of whimsicality that could be posessed only by one of the Sidhe, Sacha immediately brightened then,“But that is no matter now, of course. Though I must admit I am rather surprised at running across you out here! Should you not be in Tirion, astounding all with your latest creation?”

There was silence in that first moment, as Fëanáro stood there, blinking. Just trying to trace out just how the conversation had found itself here. Despite himself, The Raven King could not help but find himself just slightly amused by it. Going by the expression the man wore, it seemed Fëanáro was not often one to find himself dumbfounded. All through the Huntsman’s speech he’d looked suitably unimpressed, and now that the Sidhe was here speaking to him as though they were old friends?

“And who are you to ask?” Fëanáro asked, finally finding his voice.

Painfully blunt, and with a Prince’s pride.. The Raven King sighed from where he stood watching. He should expect no different of course.He should have recognized it from the first. The man had the pride of a King’s son, after all -- and there shone a sign one could spot whether it was Faerie, England, France or Scotland who’s earth they stood upon. No, the Raven King knew the air royalty carried about it by now. He was unsurprised.

He was not pleased with it -- neither that pride nor whatever rash actions would be taken to soothe it. But he was unsurprised.

And now, before things grew too out of hand, it seemed he would have to intervene…

“He is a Sidhe Lord,” John interjected, “and perhaps one of the mightiest within the regions of Faerie that border your realm.” Perhaps the flattery would mollify Sacha. He was hoping at least the words would give the Prince hint enough to get him to stop talking.

“Quite. Who am I indeed!” Sacha scoffed, turning back to John, “I would advise you against taking with you such an ill-mannered creature --”

“What did you just--”

The rest came out a strangled sound, leaving Fëanáro wide eyed and clutching at his throat. His sons were shouting, just behind John, rushing towards their father as he gasped and mouth working, yet no sound emerging.

“Really now!” The Sidhe rolled his eyes, and he let his hand fall back to his side and turned to John, saying so casually, “I am half tempted to kill him, you know. The night’s hunt has been frustrating enough as it is.”

The tension in the air suddenly increased a thousandfold, underlined by a low snarl from the hound, as it’s master’s eyes flashed.

The look alone that the Raven King gave the Sidhe was a warning in and of itself.

“Oh, you know I would never. There are laws and customs, after all, and I am no barbarian! They are yours, these Elves, and I would not interfere!”

The Raven King responded with a low hum. “Yet all I have seen would suggest otherwise.”

Sparks lit in Sacha’s eyes. “Oh, is that so, now? Is something amiss, young Starling?”

A shrug was all the Magician gave in reply, as his gaze glanced back over the Huntsman’s shoulder. “You are missing two amongst your number.” He murmured.

“Hrmmm?” The Sidhe’s brows shot up and he glanced backwards. “Ah! So it seems!”

“Who is it?”

“Come again?”

“Who left?”

“Why, Starling, What interest you seem to be taking in the going on of my court!”

A faint smile just touched at the Raven King’ lips. It was not a pleasant smile. “Should I not? I came here in hopes of solidifying an alliance with you, after all.” The rest of that sentance, ‘I should hate to leave instead an enemy.’ was left to hang silently upon the air.

There was a moment, just briefly, where Sacha held the Magician under his gaze, regarding him almost thoughtfully.

“I have had some trouble in keeping track of Tethil recently. He has always been one of my more flighty companions, of course, and since his cousin arrived in my realm for a visit…?”

“Cousin?”

“Oh, I forget his name...some young Lord or King from the other side of Faerie, nearer to your own realm I believe...”

“I see.” Nearer to his own realm...huh, well it seemed now this short detour was now spanning across Faerie...

“If either have crossed you, I should like to know about it.” Sacha went on. The corner of John’s lips quirked upward at the tone in his voice. If they were crossing him, they were endangering this alliance for their Lord. Getting in his way. And that, John doubted, he would appreciate much at all.

“Perhaps I shall leave it to you then. For now however…”

“Yes, you must find them, I suppose?”

“Indeed. Better luck on your hunt, Sacha”

“And I wish you the same on yours, Starling.”

And with those words the Huntsman turned and mounted his horse again. Heels digging into the magnificent creature’s side, he urged it onward, plunging into the night air, cloaks and manes swirling and snapping behind them as the shining company thundered past.

Even before the distant rumble of hooves against the hard packed earth stopped echoing in the Magician’s bones, he was turning to face the other three. They had already gathered together, each with a face like granite as they stared John down

“Enough of this.” It was the Rider who spoke, standing nearest to John. “what was that? You owe us something of an explanation. We go no further with you until we know just what is going on.”

Until you know what happened to you… John could not help but think. The man was still grasping onto his knife blade, only sliding it away, back into it’s scabbard once he realized that the Raven King was indeed looking. It had been a patchwork of a spell, that he knew. He’d not had enough time to do the magic properly of course, to call upon the bees and the moon --if she could even hear him here! But it seemed it had served him well enough, in the circumstance.

Nail his hand with an iron nail so that he shall not raise it to do the deceiver's bidding.

Or, well, a hunting knife could serve just as well in a pinch.

“Then that is your choice to make.” The Raven King replied, quite simply. Fëanáro and the lost boy’s father were now turning, wide eyed, on the Rider, clearly with something to say for themselves about this. Why would they not have? They were the ones who needed his help, after all.

The Rider simply smirked, however, nodding back towards the Trees. Out of the corner of his vision John could just catch the motion of white flapping wings. A hoot as the bird settled on a nearby branch. “Yes, and I am sure Lady Varda will be glad to hear that you have gone.”

Clumsy. But it was a start now…

John canted his head to the side, brows edging up his forehead.“I owe it to you, is that so?” he repeated.

“Yes.” The Rider insisted, staring stone-faced right back at John.

“No. I owe you nothing.” Indeed considering what he had just saved the man from it rather seemed the other way around. But John gave a shrug and there was a short pause. The Raven King raked his eyes over the Rider, and the missing boy’s father beside him. “That said, I will tell you, if only to prevent any further foolishness along the way.”

At this the Magician’s eyes fell squarely upon Fëanáro, who opened his mouth to protest --only for silence to emerge.

“Now,” the Raven King said, crossing his legs beneath him as he sat upon the forest floor, looking as at home in that very spot as he might have upon a throne, “Where shall I begin?”

[canonconspiracy]

Reek (1&2)

Fandom: Game Of Thrones

Pairing: Theon Greyjoy x Reader

Warnings: Clues to Rape and Abuse, but nothing graphically written pertaining to either.

Written By: @rmorningstar21

Cross Published on here and Wattpad (@rmorningstar21). On Wattpad, I have this in two separate parts.

AN: The escape may be a little less than accurate, and I apologize for that. A little fluff at the end, but mostly angst.

____________

It had been weeks since Ramsay had taken Winterfell, and with Winterfell, he had taken you as a lowly servant.  You had been unfortunate enough to be helping take care of Bran when the siege took place, and were grateful that Hodor had gotten out with Bran, though you were not nearly as lucky.  From that point on, you had become a multiple purpose slave for Ramsay, as a maid sometimes, someone to take out his anger upon, as well as someone he would have his way with when he was feeling up to angry sex.  

It had never been mutual, and typically landed you with a great deal of damage to your genitalia, leaving you a crying, bruised and broken mess.  Your only relief during your days was the occasional visit in the barn you would get from Reek, where you would be ordered to fix up the wounds that Ramsay had given him.  Though Ramsay could have just allowed him to bleed out, that would have been a great deal less fun for him. Reek was his entertainment, and his revenge.  

Reek was once the stunning, valiant, and flirtatious Theon Greyjoy, and each time you came to his aid, you stared at the face of the broken man.  Tonight, you were trying to be as gentle as possible, knowing that Ramsay had beaten Reek far worse than usual. The tears that you could see staining his beaten face merely confirmed the awful chorus of screams you had listened to prior.  

Your hands shook slightly as you brought the warm cloth to his face, gently dabbing at the bloodied spot upon his cheek.  Reek shrank away from your touch, causing you to grimace, before attempting once again to dab the wound. "I'm not gonna hurt ya," you whispered gently, "I love you too much.  I just want to ease the pain."  

The broken Greyjoy seemed to respond to your words, allowing you to dab at his wound as gently as you possible could, while his eyes turned towards you.  You were able to catch a glimpse into the broken blue eyes, seeing maybe a small touch of Theon still hidden behind the immense abuse that he had sustained over time from Ramsay.  

You had not lied when you said that you loved Theon, either.  The two of you had grown up together under the care of Lord and Lady Stark, though neither of you were looked fondly upon by Lady Stark.  Catelyn had found it a bit much that Ned had taken both of you as the Stark's wards, especially since you had been brought home at the same time that Jon Snow entered the picture.  

You grew closer and closer to Theon, though you strayed further as he begun seeing the whore that he paid to bed.  You did not comprehend why the young, handsome Theon Greyjoy would always bed a whore, when you thought you had made your advances rather obvious.  Though he was oblivious, he had his own reasons, and you felt that you had to accept it.  

After a while of dabbing at his wounds and stitching what was necessary with a threaded needle, occasionally hearing a whimper escape his lips, you watched in shock as his bloodied lips formed your name.  At first, it was a silent speech, as if the slave was silently screaming for aid, though no matter how silent it was, it had brought your attention to the lips that you planned to clean last. Your gaze studied the broken man's features, showing him that he had your attention.  

"Y/N," he whispered, barely above a whisper.  The damaged man's voice crumbled as he spoke, though it still tugged your heart strings to hear him speak a word to you.  Over the weeks of tending to his wounds, this had been the first time he had any recollection to you at all.  

Feeling a shaky hand reach to cup your cheek, you felt as if you may break down in tears right there.  His hand was warm, despite his condition, and you softly nuzzled into it, though you made with haste to get his wounds taken care of.  Never had Ramsey allowed you enough time to care for "Reek" anyhow, and you knew the tyrant would enter simply to hinder your care for him.  

"Theon," you murmured out, a whisper nearly inaudible, but just enough that he would be able to hear you.  Through his pain, he managed to give you the lightest smile, as if he were fighting to do so despite his condition.  "I need to get you out of here." 

"The Wall," he said, struggling to form each word, as if he were battling the abused form that had become of him to speak each one.  "We will be safe there, with Jon." Each word he spoke was hushed, thank the old and new gods for it, since you would not want to know what could possibly happen if Ramsay were to overhear.  

"In a fortnight I will come to your chambers and we will make our escape," you whispered in return, placing a gentle kiss upon his forehead before turning to leave.  "Be ready." With that, you made your way with haste back to report to the cruel man you served, making sure he was to know that you had completed your task.  

What you had not heard as you walked out of Reek's cell was that small bit of the old Theon, holding a broken, hushed tone as he let the words slip from his mouth for the first time.  He may have assumed that you would not hear him regardless, but he felt the need to say them as he watched your broken figure walk away from him. The two of you were in rough shape, counting the days that either of you would be able to withstand the barbarous treatment from Ramsay Bolton.  He hoped to the old gods and new that you were right - that the two of you could escape the callous treatment you received.  

His mouth uttered the words in a way that they fell with care from his shaken mouth, saying, "I love you, Y/N," paired with Reek's stutter.  Something about his recollection of you had brought some of Theon to the forefront of his mind, attempting to stash away the Reek that Ramsay Bolton had created of him.  

***

The fortnight from your prior meeting with Reek was upon you, and you had courted Lady Sansa into your escape as well.  You were to retrieve Theon from his cell and meet Sansa at the wall close to the entrance of Winterfell, where the three of you would have to scale the wall and make your escape into the nearby trees.  With enough running towards the North, the three of you would be able to reach the Wall, Sansa reunited with her half brother, and the two of you seeking shelter in the wall until you knew what the two of you would do from there.  

You knew as well as he would have that Jon would not be fond of Theon after everything that had happened before the siege.  Theon had gotten too big for his name and created falsities that were unforgivable to most, especially for the Starks. Tonight, your main objective was to get yourself, Theon, and Sansa away from the merciless tormentor that you had almost become accustomed to.  

Theon, as Reek, stared at you with wide eyes initially as you walked in, reaching a hand to him.  Meekly, you managed to coax the fractured man to take your hand, before you noticed that he was limping.  Thinking quickly on your feet, you brought your shoulder underneath his arm, helping him to walk without placing pressure upon the leg that was injured.  

With this action, you were able to walk semi quickly from the cell, to the wall to meet Sansa.  No one dared utter a word as the three of you hopped down from the wall, trying to partially scale it.  You could hear from a distance that your ruse was already caught on, and that Ramsay had begun sending the hounds out for the three of you.  Ominous sounds in the malicious chorus of blood seeking hounds filled the chilled air as the three of you made your way out of Winterfell and into the wooded area.  Sansa had the easiest time making it through in the beginning, and was in front of the two of you. You still had to support Theon as the two of you made your way out, which had made you significantly slower than the redhead, but you moved with all your might, taking Theon along the way.  

The three of you made haste in the snow, though the bitter cold nipped at your skin, especially newly felt cuts that Ramsay had riddled your bodies with.  It stung to the point that tears dared well in your eyes, but none of you could look back. Further and further the three of you sought towards the direction of the Wall, freedom seeming to draw closer, yet still be so far from reach.  

One or two hot tears dared to fall from your e/c eyes as you made haste towards the wall, your body beginning to tire already.  It had seemed like Theon was moving faster than you were, but you pushed your body to your limits to keep pace with him. Occasionally, you had stolen glances to see Theon's sad yet determined face, causing you to let your lips curl lightly into a smile.  

His determination seemed to give you more strength, and it was as if the two of you were beginning to catch up with Sansa, when in actuality she had slowed her pace slightly during the escape.  There was no knowing how long the three of you had been traveling by this point, but the duration was wearing on everyone. The chorus of hounds grew close to your group, as did the sight of Castle Black, your destination.  The Wall was within sight, chill and exhaustion eating at the three of you, while Ramsay's hounds were right on your tail.  

Theon tried pushing you off of him, saying, "You will get there without me," in a broken tone.  It could have truly torn your heart to pieces, and you knew what he was thinking. He would not be accepted at Castle Black by Jon.  Both of you were already more than aware of what he had done, and the pentance that he likely would need to pay just to get into Castle Black's safety, but you did not plan on leaving him behind.  

You tightened your grip around him, shaking your head.  "You are coming with, Theon," you said in an affirmative tone.  Sansa had agreed with other words, and yet you barely even heard her.  Your attention was purely focused on Theon by this point, and you were determined to get him to safety, even if it would be temporary. 

"Y/N…" he attempted to counter, while he watched you shake your head once more.  

"No, Theon," you said firmly.  "I don't care if you don't love me as well. I refuse to let any more harm come to you again.  It may take some time, but Jon will understand. If he doesn't, I will find another place to keep you safe." 

Through your words, you were blind to the solidity that your walls had been broken down, tears onset in waterfalls down your cheeks.  It had only been when his free arm reached to your face, using his thumb to remove the tears that he could from your cheeks that you were made aware of it.  Unwittingly, you had nuzzled into his hand as he did so, causing him to allow his lips to turn upward the slightest bit.  

"We need to go, now," Sansa stated, fear laced in her voice as she brought attention to the hounds drawing even more near the three of you.  

All the same, your moment had been cut short, and Theon had simply nodded, the three of you making your way through the openness to Castle Black.  Even with it in sight, it was a long and precarious journey from the woods to Castle Black itself, and through the way Theon and yourself were especially struggling to make it to your destination.  The two of you were trailing behind Sansa, chills continually shifting down your spine as you made your way with him.  

The three of you had finally made your way to the front, greeted not by anything initially despite the large drawn door opening, followed by it shutting behind the three of you.  Catching your breaths, Sansa was the first to be recognized by Jon himself, and the two of you watched with panted breaths as the two of them shared a long, wonderous embrace. If you were to get yourself caught in the moment, you would have allowed a smile to stretch brightly against your skin, seeing their happy reunion, though you knew it was not time for rejoicing quite yet.  

Jon's eyes glowered as they met the two of you, though the look was mostly towards Theon Greyjoy, the one whom had disgraced the Starks and denounced them with the lies that he had spread for fear.  You let go of Theon to allow him to stand in his own solidarity, though you conceded into a look of sympathy, your heart tied in knots at the scene before you.  

"You brought a traitor into Castle Black," Jon spat out, venom laced in each word.  

Theon bowed before Jon, as if for a moment he was once again Reek, waiting for his punishment.  Jon was in fact not Ramsay, though, and would not lay a hand that was undeserving upon Theon. Sansa was the one to grab her brother's arm initially, and pled her side of Theon's case before anyone else was able to utter a word.  

Much to your relief, Jon's expression had seemed to change from Sansa's words, and you allowed yourself to release a breath that you were unaware you were holding.  "I want to apologize for all my misgivings, Snow," Theon said submissively, his eyes meeting Jon once again.  

"Bran is alive, from what I last saw of him, Jon," you said, barely above a whisper.  You dared not speak at a normal tone. "He was accompanied by Hodor." 

Jon smiled lightly at you, acknowledging you with a simple nod.  "The two of you may stay until other arrangements can be made," Jon had declared, before ordering one of the men to set up a chamber for the two of you.  Since they had not had a copious amount of room, you had assumed, that was why it was simply one chamber being altered for the two of your stay.  

With his last words, Jon had disappeared in his office area with Sansa, expectedly to catch up with his lost half sister.  The two of you were left alone near the entrance of Castle Black, seemingly warmer than you were in the wind, though the cold temperatures still nipped upon your skin.  Your eyes had shifted to Theon, where you saw there was still a hint of shock inside of those blue eyes, and the brokenness still had yet to dissipate from the hell that Reek had provided.  

After a few minutes, what you had presumed was Castle Black's Maester had appeared, hushing the both of you into his study.  The old man had started with you, since you had been far more injured than Theon. It was not because of Ramsay's sheer hatred taken out upon you, though, and instead was the fact that Ramsay had never had someone tend to your wounds.  Even with your knowledge of needle work and first aid, you were unable to perform the majority of it upon yourself.  

"If you would be more comfortable, my lady, this could be in private," Maester Aemon as you had learned, had said to you in his almost sickening tone.  You knew precisely what he was referring to, as he would need to check you out fully, and you in turn shook your head. It felt as if tears were going to once again descend down your face as he lifted your dress to see the damage that Ramsay had done to your nether regions.  

The maester's lips turned to a frown as he examined your pelvic area, and did the little that he possibly could to fix you up.  "I regretfully inform you that you may be barren, my Lady," he mused out as he placed your dress back down, covering you once more.  You simply nodded, unable to formulate words for the news you had received. 

He had moved to work upon Theon next, and was shocked to see the torment that Ramsay had truly done to him.  Thankfully any stitching up and cleaning did not take longer than it took to get your chamber situated, and the two of you were led to the chambers that you would be staying in for the duration of your time at Castle Black.  Once the two of you were alone, Theon managed to catch your attention, grabbing your wrist gently to make you turn towards him.  

You bit your lip gently as your gaze met Theon's, taking in each bruise and scar that was exposed on his upper body.  Ramsay had truly broken the man in front of you, and all you wanted to do was lay with him in your arms, comforting him.  "Theon," you mused out softly, after what was longer than an uncomfortable time of silence, unable to even form the words you wished to say to him.  

"Y/N," he said gently, straightening his posture out as best as he could.  His eyes reflected the seriousness that he was attempting to convey, though his mentally and physically fractured features made it difficult.  "I'm so sorry…" 

You shook your head, trying to plaster a smile upon your own face.  "We're both alive, Sansa's alive, and we're safe," you assured him gently.  "We're free, after all." 

Despite the plastered smile upon your face, tears did threaten to spill from your eyes.  Neither of you would be able to have children, you barren, and him without the tools for the task either.  Both of your bloodlines would end with the two of you, but you did not wish to dwell upon it for his sake. What you had not expected was that he brought you into his arms tightly, resting his forehead in the crook of your neck as he held you.  

The warmth around you was incredible, as if you had stepped beside a fire, though you presumed he was as cold as you were prior.  You wrapped your arms into him in return, holding him closely. "I want you to know, I love you, too, Y/N," he whispered gently, his voice breaking as he did so, but you felt as if your heart may have stopped the moment you heard it.  

The two of you separated just enough to stare into one another's eyes.  Meekly, the two of you slowly closed the gap between your lips, as if the two of you were too scared of one another's reaction to meet quickly.  Your lips moved cautiously at first, treating him as a glass that could easily shatter with the wrong move. As the two of you continued, though, your feelings seemed to ooze through the kiss, passion and love reflecting on either side.  

When the two of you separated for air, both panting at the lack that both of you had allowed yourselves to receive, you motioned to the bed.  "Will you lie with me, then, Theon?" 

For a moment, his mind did not process what you meant, and thought that you meant more, causing you to sadly chuckle.  "You're likely as exhausted as I, and I wish to fall asleep in your arms," you clarified, giving him a genuine smile.  

He nodded, delicately separating from you and joining you upon the cot.  Theon lied on his back, beaconing you to lie your head upon his chest. You were cautious at first, hoping not to harm the man, but did as you were motioned, feeling his arms wrap around you protectively.  "I have always loved you," he murmured softly to you, holding you closely.  

You smiled in return, cuddling closer to him.  "And I have always loved you, Theon," you whispered to him in return.  It did not take long for either of you to fall into slumber, comfortably resting in the comfort of one another.  Though you may never bare children for him, he would never be able to spill his seed, and the two of you would simply need to love one another in any way you would ever love.  That was the most comforting thing that either of you could do.  

[bluewonderer]

There are multiple powers in Fairy but three are of near-equal strength.  

The Winter Court is led by Mab, the Queen of Air and Darkness. Winter is violently beautiful, characterized both by stark clarity and indulgence in the basest of desires. Winter's nature is to fight and to live even when there is no warmth and quarter given.  

Titania, the Lady of Light and Life, rules the Summer Court. Summer is growth and fire, survival and passion. But they are not the good fairies, for to think such a concept as good and evil existed among the Fae would be the last foolish thought of an equally foolish man.  

The two courts are on opposite sides of the chessboard, their very conflict providing balance to the world. The Fairy Queens, though immortal and unspeakably powerful, are bound by magical rules and limitations. They cannot, for example, personally kill anyone outside of their Court. For this they have their Knights, the Winter Knight and the Summer Knight, mortals chosen to be the Queen's sword. The Queen bestows a mantle upon her Knight that heightens their strength, speed, and magic. But to become a Knight is to bargain your soul, for it is a life sentence steeped in convoluted fairy politics and bloody battle.  

(The third power is the Wyldfae, a conglomeration of unaligned fairies that only seem inclined to answer to the Erlking. They rarely step from Fairy, except on the nights of the Wild Hunt. On those nights the mortal realm trembles with the thunderous hooves of their steeds and the baying chorus of their hounds. The Erlking, Hellequin, the King of Goblins, is an intimidating figure of few words, excepting a rare but booming laugh. He wears the skins of his kills and a horned helmet. One hardly ever sees him without his hides and armor, though it is rumored that there is thick scarring on at least one arm. The Erlking has many names, all as terrible as they are powerful, but there is one sly fairy in the Winter Court who sometimes calls the Wyldfae king “Mick”.)  

Barry Allen is a mortal in the mortal realm. He works for the police and, on the side, helps solve cases for the various magical folk in Central City. He's a low-level mage. A one-trick pony, really. Big spells and conjurings he has to go the long way 'round with magical artifacts and intricate spells or potions.  

So, he has no idea why Titania, the Summer Queen, has long solicited him to service her as her Knight. Especially when she already has a Knight. The Knight’s mantle can only serve one Knight at a time, and can only be passed on after a Knight's death. He suspects she wants him because she knows something about him, his heritage and powers, that he does not. She has visited him since his youth, all warm skin and touches, smelling of flowers with a smile like the dawn. In truth, he did not know her as Titania for several years.

She appears to him as a friend, and he may think of her in that way, deep down in a safe place where no one—especially Titania—can take advantage of it. But one time, on a very dark day, he once saw her as she is. A burnished goddess of flame and shadow, with a smile like poison and a touch like thorns. He knows what he gives up if he takes her bargain—his soul, for one, and perhaps his very identity. He wants to help people, not be the instrument of their doom.  

(What he doesn't know, and may never learn, is that there is more than the Knight's mantle at play. Titania—this Titania, because there have been a few—was once mortal before she had the Queen's mantle thrust upon her. It was a long time ago, when the known world was smaller and younger. Back then she had a mortal name, too. That of a flower. Iris.)

But one day Barry gets himself too deep on a dangerous case. He lies dying with blood on his lips as he whispers, "Titania. Titania."

It is Mab who comes instead.  

The Winter Queen, the White Lady. Barry's only seen her twice before. Once in the glamour that she wears in the mortal world, which is that of a blonde woman all in white with piercing blue eyes. He'd thought then that her very presence burst at the seams of her glamour. Even then when he'd looked at her he hadn't seen a mortal disguise but Other and Predator. He'd been put in the mind of a snow leopard, eerily still and quiet as it stalked its prey.  

The other time he'd seen her had been that same dark day he'd seen Titania. Mab as she is shone in cold brightness, like the sun on snow, a being of ice and darkness.

(What he doesn't know, but will learn, is that she, too, was once mortal. She doesn't speak her mortal name but one night, away from the reaches of her of power, Len will whisper to him that she was once Sara.)

"Where's Titania?" He asks on the day he barters his soul away. 

"You bargain with me, Bartholomew Henry Allen," she says and because Names have power, even mortal ones, he feels it when she draws in and leashes the threads of his magic. "Will you be my Knight?"

Bleeding out, alone in a dim and filthy alley, Barry doesn't have a choice but to say, "Yes."

"Speak thrice and done, child."

"Yes," he says with Death rattling hollowly beneath his breastbone. "Yes."

The Winter Court is vast, beautiful, and unfamiliar. Arctis Tor, the Queen's stronghold, is as devastating and remote as Mab herself. Though Barry's seen some combat in the mortal world, he was never much of an actual fighter, and his training is horrific and painful. His nights are endless and lonely. The Lords and Ladies of the Court are treacherous, Mab unfathomable. He misses his family. His little apartment and his job and his cases and his friends.  

Some nights he even thinks he misses Titania. At least she was a danger he thought he knew.  

Perhaps foolishly, he starts to find some solace in the guide Mab assigns to him. Once he thought his guide was a lowly courtier, but quickly learned that Cat Sith is second only to Mab. Assigning such a powerful being to assist Barry makes him even more suspicious as to what Mab (and Titania, previously) might want from him. Also, it explains why Cat Sith can get so annoyed at him—it must chafe to be so powerful and be allotted a butler's task.  

"Were I not obliged by My Lady to be courteous to thee," Cath Sith tells Barry on his first day in Arctis Tor. "There would be no greater pleasure afforded to me than that of slicing your spine into little coasters."  

Cat Sith is The Cait Sidhe. The King of Cats. Soul-Stealer. The First Witch. On most days he hardly resembles a cat, or any other beast in the mortal realm. He is an enormous creature made up of tooth and claw, shadow and sinew. His grin gleams like a wicked moon. His eyes are like the very heart of a glacier. He is mercurial with a biting wit and blood on his whiskers.  

But it is Cat Sith who comes to keep him company during the long nights at Court. Sporadically, at first, and only for a few minutes at a time. Whether the passing attention was out of a sense of obligation or predatorial fascination, Barry couldn't say.  

One night, when the weight of loneliness is beyond endurance, Barry starts talking to Cat Sith. And Cat Sith stays and listens. The visits become more frequent until Cat Sith spends hours at Barry's window, draped on his chair, or pacing the shadows of the room while Barry talks.  

Cat Sith has many forms. One is a smaller form, the one that mostly resembles a cat, if you squinted and ignored every instinct in you that screamed to run away. It is this form that Cat Sith most often adopts at night when he sits at Barry's window. Many Fae can adopt a human-like form, so Barry isn't sure why he's surprised one night to see Cat Sith sitting at his window in man-shape. He greets Barry silently with those familiar blue eyes and wicked grin, the light of the Fairy moon caressing his shoulders.  

"This form's name goes by Leonard, My Knight."

"Why do you keeping calling me that? I'm Mab's Knight, aren't I?"

"You are Winter's Knight," Leonard says, his voice suddenly behind Barry because Cat Sith can move quicker than thought wherever there is darkness and shadow. Barry whirls to find Leonard close, close enough for Barry to see that the pupils in his blue eyes are still cat-like slits. "So, you are mine as well."

[shaso-cinnjin]

Trust.

Written by @grand-master-alrik-ville and @shaso-cinnjin

Chapter 1: Old Friend, Old Enemy M41.072

Shas'la Hel'ves ran as fast as his hooves could carry him. The mont'gue'la had ambushed his convoy out in what they thought was safe territory. Hel'ves looked behind him and stopped. How could he not have thought about them. Raising his pulse rifle, Hel'ves ran back to cover the civilians as they ran past. Just about 60 meters behind were the mont'gue'la that the Imperium call Chaos Marines. He knew he was no match for them, but he had to buy the civilians time to get away. Just as he was about to turn and follow them, Hel'ves noticed a little girl trip, falling face first into the churned up ground. Hel'ves slung his rifle and launched himself towards her, sliding down next to her to pick her up.

“Come on, you have to get up. We cannot stay here.” Hel'ves stated as he tried to get her on her feet.

“I can’t. My legs are too tired”

“Then I shall carry yo-” Hel'ves was cut off by the cackling of a Chaos Marine as his shadow descended up Hel'ves. Seeing the devilish and barbaric looking axe raised high in the air, Hel'ves turned his back to the marine, attempting to protect the child as best he could. He waited for the pain and the cold of death to come, but all Hel'ves heard was the sound of a loud metallic CLANG, and then a wet THUD as something landed next to him. Turning his head, the chaos marine laid next to him, and a different presence stood over him. Looking up, all Hel'ves saw was a white cape emblazoned with a silver cross and crossed lightning bolts, and a terminator standing above.

“Run, get your people to safety and tell your Shas O’ that he must press his forces into the flanks if we are to win this war.” The tall marine ordered, his shield raised to protect both him and Hel'ves.

“Who…who might I ask are you, so I know who to tell my Shas O’ to thank for rescuing us” Hel'ves hesitantly asked.

“I am Grand Master Alrik Ville, of the Storm Templars. He will know what to do beyond that. Now go!!” and suddenly the marine dashed forward into the mont'gue'la, no fear in his voice, and he could only sense duty seeping from him.

The distress call from the evacuation convoy rang loudly in his ears as he shot through the sky, the fire billowing its orange and red glow from its location becoming more and more visible the closer he came to its last known location, he feared the worst yet hoped for the best, a hope that would soon take life as he spotted the untainted popping of frantic bolter fire and the crackle of power swords.

As he crested the cliff of the canyon where the ill-fated convoy rested he saw them, weathered armor glinting with orange and yellow as their frames became silhouetted from the muzzle flash, their tall shadows flickering against the trees surrounding the area, fighting valiantly against the bloodied hounds that surrounded them.

Arvack looked upwards, “Incoming projectile! Take Cover!” he screamed as he and his battle brothers dove into what cover they had left.

A thunderous crash was shook the ground as the projectile made impact over their heads, a ring of dust now hanging over them, the cries to the blood god falling silent.

Arvack leaned around his cover bringing his bolter to bare, in front of him was no crater left by stray ordinance but the rising form of a Tau battlesuit gripping the decapitated head of a bloodletter tron from its body by the suits gauntlet. A single red eye turned to look at Arvack, scanning what Arvacks assumed was his left pauldron,

“Storm Templar… It's been so long.” the suit spoke in flawless gothic, “What happened here?” it asked.

“We were ordered by the Grand Master to hold this position to provide cover for your “people” from this convoy while they retreated.”

“I owe both you and your commander a debt, Arvack.” it spoke turning its attention to the recovering horde as it began to reinitialize its assault.

“How’d you know my name?” Arvack inquired, firing his bolter at a charging berserker, blowing its head into gory chunks across the canyon floor.

“I know many things, we’ve met before on the flaming spires Jukaa, you were but a scout.” it said fondly as the T’au began to mow down cultists with its burst cannon, each popping spectacularly in dazzling blue explosions.

“That cannot be true, you lie! It’s been 200 years! That commander’s long past, he is but ash now.” Arvack spoke briefly, his attention becoming more drawn into the defense of his squad.

“Doing pretty well for a pile of ash don’t you think!” the T’au chuckled. “Shas’O Cinnjin, it’s a pleasure to work with your chapter again, Sergeant.”

Arvack looked back at the tall suit, its snow white limbs the same as those he saw blackened by soot back on Jukaa, the same T’au that fought beside him back on that infernal planet.

“Lets go, I’ve cleared a path!” the T’au shouted pointing towards an opening in the trees, “We’ll meet up with more reinforcements that way.”

Alrik rammed his shield into the first Chosen as he charged into battle with the traitors. Swinging his axe in a downward arc, Alrik cleaved the pathetic traitor in two before spinning around and using his shield as a club to crush the skull of another Chosen. Running further towards the convoy, Alrik could see the Tau battle suit aiding his men.

Alrik gave an amused HMPH, as he barreled through some more traitor marines, carving them into pieces. “Cinnjin, you never cease to show me that I can trust you” Alrik mused as he slammed his shield into another.

“Third squad, form a defensive ring around the Tau, the 4th company will be here to push back these fools,” Alrik ordered as he made his way into the quickly forming ring and took position at the back of Cinnjin, “Hello, old friend. Miss me?”

The caped terminator barreled his way into the perimeter forming around Cinnjin,

“Hello, old friend. Miss me?” he asked warmly, Cinnjin knew only one astartes whom would greet him so kindly.

“Alrik, it's good to know you still draw breath” Cinnjin chuckled as he ignited two traitors with the beams of cyan spraying from his pack mounted plasma rifles.

“You’re most kind for aiding us, I fear the more inquisitive among our kind will brand you traitor, you know my offer from all those years ago still stands, I won't ask you outright to come, but if an unpleasant fate begins to manifest in your chapters future, beyond your control, you are always welcome to pursue your goals here, as an equal.” Cinnjin spoke with slight concern in his voice.

The ring closed around them, Chaos of all forms sprinting from the treeline over the steadily increasing mound of corpses, blue and orange flashes making the shadows flicker and grow in spastic pattern. The crack of thunder hammers slamming ceramite and the pop of pulse munitions hitting home filled the night as the defenders grew ever fewer.

The ground began to shake and the clouds opened above, beams of bright blue shot down from the stratosphere, a beam of incinerating heat traced the outline of the group, annihilating the surrounding area. The flick and hum of incoming thunderhawk and tigershark engines sang chorus for the symphony of munitions they let loose as the entire canyon, save for the convoy, became naught but atoms before the combined might of the allies combined forces.

“Hel’ves told me about your desire to flank them, looks like they finished off the others just in time to save their poor commanders.” Cinnjin laughed, his eye lenses began shrinking to pinholes to better cope with the blinding light. “Tis’ a Victory, Alrik, even the smallest can make all the difference don’t you think?”

Alrik smiled under his helmet as he hacked at a Chosen, cleaving the traitor in two. “Cinnjin, you know I must say no to the offer. My loyalties are to my Emperor and his Imperium, regardless of whether it is a shadow of its former glory or not. Maybe in a different time, our Empires would see that we would work better as an Alliance. However, I fear that the Imperium has grown to a set in its xenophobia to ever realize that.” Alrik stated with a hint of sadness. Slamming his shield into a charging possessed marine before cutting him in half, Alrik looked behind him to see a charging chaos marine with a melta bomb going for Cinnjin.

Alrik pushed his Terminator armor as best he could to get as much speed as he charged for the traitor. Unfortunately for the traitor, he didn’t notice until it was too late the charging behemoth of cermatite and muscle. Using his shield as a club, Alrik decapitated the traitor in one undercut swing, sending its head and the bomb flying.

“All units, engage these traitors with extreme prejudice, leave none standing” Alrik ordered.

“My friend, our chapter is one of very few that ally themselves with…xenos. While we keep that under black tape, we are the only ones who try to help those that have helped us.”

“Aye, I know where your loyalties lie, it was never a matter of that, of sides.” Cinnjin spoke sending a punch into a whirling screamer, the force of his onager gauntlet sending a shockwave into the treeline.

“It was about consequences, how sometimes the black ink gets washed away, it’s not an offer of annexation into the empire but of protection, so that you may serve your people even if they grow hate you, a thought that I dread.” Cinnjin spoke to the terminator as it smashed the skull of one of his traitor brethren beneath his bootheil.

Cinnjin then let out a sigh. Briefly noticing trees falling from deep in the thick foliage, the only warning of what was to come.

With a blood curdling scream the Debaser of Slaanesh slammed into the defensive perimeter, its wip like tendrils cutting through armor like it was the air itself. Cinnjin fell silent and began to crouch forward.

“You may want to move.” He said motioning for Alrik to step away.

All that stood in Cinnjins place after that moment was a cloud of dust a faint blue trail and a very, very shattered sound barrier.

Cinnjin shot fourth over the Debaser, grappling the two large horns cropping out from the head of the beast, kicking his vector thrusters around he began to rear the beast towards its own, it sending chunks of eviscerated heretic flesh through the air in spectacular gory sprays.

With a crack and a thud it was clear the commander had had enough, using his onager gauntlet to strike the beast so that the pressurised air punched clean through it and the ground, its head exploding in a purple-red haze coating him in blood.

Cinnjin them motioned to the path he had previously cleared and for the Astartes to follow.

“The evacuation should be complete, come!” the bloodsoaked commander yelled, pointing towards the salvation of the landing-zone.

“It's time we show these creatures the meaning of what we stand for!”

“If it comes to that Cinnjin, then I will accept your offer.” Alrik stated as he walked past the Debaser. “Templars, move to the LZ and secure the perimeter. Double time it” Alrik broke into a run.

“Cinnjin, I pray that the path we tread will never see us become enemies. As we both know, the path to ruin is paved with good intentions. My Emperor discovered that ten millennia ago. I fear your people are due for it as well. I just hope it will not see a good man like you taken from this galaxy.”

“I fear the same” spoke Cinnjin, “I’ve taken… "steps” to see that it doesn't. Until we meet again, Alrik.“ With those final words Cinnjin reignited his retros and shot into the air. His departure shaking the ground he once stood upon, the blue haze of his jumpack becoming ever dimmer as he rose up into the stratosphere.  

Chapter 2: New Age Diplomacy M41.109

Alrik stared through the glass of his flagship The Iron Storm. Down below were the burning remains of the Storm Templars home world Valencia. The day had come for Ahriman’s revenge. Though it had been many centuries ago, back when Lanius Pathiel had walked among their once proud halls and fought alongside the greatest of his chapter’s heroes. Today was a tragedy in the history of the Storm Templars, but one the Storm Templars will recover. Until the time for revenge is right, however, the Storm Templars must disappear, to give their enemy a false sense of security. “All ships, lock onto our warp jump point. We make for the Eastern Fringe. We have allies there that will show us hospitality. All hands, prepare for Warp.” Grand Vicar Remuldus stepped up behind Alrik, a puzzled expression on his otherwise stone-like face. “Grand Master, surely you don’t mean to barter with Cinnjin. Regardless of whether he is an ally, the wider Imperium would see this as…” Alrik raised a hand sharply, cutting his High Vicar. “Our people need a home, Remuldus, and our chapter needs a place to bury or dead. Cinnjin has offered us a home, and I intend to take him up on it. You know as well as I that he is an honorable man and a friend of our chapter,” Alrik turned to look at his friend, a long red scar running diagonally down his face, “and if we are to have our revenge for those that died down there, and for the stain on our chapter’s history, we must become like ghosts. What better way than to hide where not even Ahriman would think to look. Trust in me, Remuldus.” Remuldus stood emotionless, his face set. Suddenly he gave a sigh before look Alrik in the eye with a smile. “Once more my friend, you have proven yourself. I see your wisdom and logic in this course. May the Emperor guide our actions as he has done before, and let us go to our esteemed friend.” Alrik and Remuldus clasped gauntlets in a sign of mutual respect and kinship. Alrik turned to look our the view port. “All ships, initiate warp jump on my mark…..mark. With that, a series of over 30 warp rifts opened as the fleet made its jump to Tau space, bound for a friend they had not seen in years. A faint mechanical whining sound from within the suspended suit, chem injectors and nutritional drips retracted back into their inactive positions, Cinnjin woke from a dreamless sleep, something he had become accustomed to in his age. At least it took an edge off the fatigue, and the infernal nagging of the water caste. He did not wake to the usual hum of busy drones tending to battle damage or the flicker of his inbox prompting him within his heads up display but a wailing siren. “Ambush!” he thought lurching upright, tearing the still unattached wires and tubes from the walls and various equipment that allowed him brief rest. “Status report, Por’O!” he screamed into his communicator. “We’ve got jump readings off our starboard side, I’ve scrambled the fighters but they’ve caught us at port. They’re transmitting an unknown signal through the rift, can decipher it!” the Por”O replied. Cinnjin caught a faint flashing in his peripheral vision, a tiny screen flicked on and off as it read out its message. “Stormborn” “Recall the Fighters!” He spoke, with a taste of worry on his voice. “Get the EMT on the bridge and clear a landing zone upon the planet's surface, today is about to be a very dark one, and I refuse to let it dim any more.” “But Shas’O, it could be an ambush or a-” “Do as I say Ki’neth, trust in me.” Cinnjin cut the Por’O off, his voice adding a palpable calm to the situation. “Y-yes, Shas’O.” Just then the void tore open to birth a dozen vivid swirling holes, spears of silver and steel pierced the veil into T’au space, each one an intricate maze of spires and stunning stained glass sanctuaries depicting the heroics of heros long past, each one a grey reminder of the power of imperial might and the solemn reminder of engenuity long lost to time and tragedy. A few entered real space in ragged condition, their might hulls porus with shell holes torn to ragged ribbons by the lashing tendris of ordinance powerful enough to end trillions of lives in seconds. Cinnjin saw this, his mechanical fist clenching into a vacuum tight grip, it was the first time he felt rage in a very, very long time, the only calm in his mind came when he saw the flagship, its colossal silver hull ornately detailed and etched into swerling branches of silver and marble, its weathered prow still carried the remains of enemy vessels strewn across its titanic width. It sat protectively at the head of the fleet, like a lioness guarding her cubs. Now all Cinnjin felt was sadness, sadness and a hint of hope. He was sad that they had to come, but glad that they did. What would follow would need to be a time of rebuilding and trust, the Storm Templars have shown their true face, they need help, and now it was the T’au’s turn to be what the universe had been missing for fourty thousand years, kind. Alrik stood straight as he let his personal serfs attach his artificer armor to his neuroports. He had intended to come in his terminator armor, but Ahriman had seen it torn to ribbons. He stared at the remains of his once glorious axe, a relic of his friend, now shattered at the hilt. Alrik supposed now was the time for it to return to its old master, as well as his shield. When the Serfs returned with his new relic blade, he could scarcely believe what he beheld. A long polearm, a gigantic spear wreathed in symbols of lightning and the symbol of justice: The Hammer. His personal artificer never ceased to amaze. “Alrik, my friend, it is time to meet with Cinnjin, before his men get too restless.” Remuldus walked in before giving a low whistle. “Very fitting, I would say. Your weapon matches too. You look more like a sentinel.” “I embody that role. I am a sentinel to our chapter just as we are sentinels to our people. I agree with you friend. What is the Grand Paragon doing?” “Currently tending to his Paragons and the needs of our people. Should I recall him?” “Negative. We shall handle this. I think we need everyone we can get. Come lets meet our friend.” The Command Suit strode down the pristine halls towards the airlock trailed by a neat formation of fire warriors, each of their helms a pitch black, their pauldrons bearing the personal markings of their commander. Two warriors on either flank of the formation held a banner, one bearing the Iconography of the Storm Templars chapter as the contingent remembered it, and the other bearing a simple T’au symbol. Behind them proceeded numerous medical teams, unsure what the condition of their allies was they prepared for the worst. This was the same across the dozens of T’au ships rising to meet the sizably larger imperial vessels, the only one coming close to matching their size was the Flagship Drakken a prototype vessel with a massive centered railgun that bisects the ship right down to the picketed prow, a piece of equipment the T’au learn to fear from the Damocles Crusade adapted to meet their needs. “Wait to hail them before boarding, once we receive that it is indeed them, we will proceed” Cinnjin spoke across his fleet via intercom. “This is not an exercise in force, but compassion, this is where we prove we are different. Be kind my fellow crewman, be kind.” With that Cinnjin received the all clear, the airlock clicked and puffed oxygen visibly through its vents before opening. “Hello, old friend.” Alrik stood at the airlock as it opened, his silver and gold suit shimmering in the passageway lights. His spear was mag-locked to his back, a sign of respect and peace to his old friend. Once the airlock opened, he looked up at the battle suit, the now dull red scar very visible across his face. “Hello, Cinnjin. I wish this were on a better occasion but I must take you up on your offer. Our home system has been razed and our home world destroyed.” Alrik stepped aside to show his wounded men and the many civilians that waited in the hangar. “Many of our apothecary's were killed in the fighting, but we were able to recover as many as we could.” Cinnjin stepped aside, and his retinue followed in perfect sync to allow the medical crews aboard. “Your people are welcome here on Tash’var, and you are permitted to build upon orbiting moons to create a new “Chapter Monastery” as you call it. Shame really, I always hoped to see the Stormhold.” Cinnjin spoke, his tone serious with a hint of grief. “You have my utmost condolences. However I believe the grieving will have to wait unit things get settled.” Cinnjin then gestured down the hallway. “Shall we make room for the wounded, we should move around the ship so we can better talk without remaining ourselves an obstacle.” “I can guarantee that it would have been a sight for you, Cinnjin. I agree. If you would follow Remuldus and me, we can talk in my personal chambers” Alrik turned slowly before stepping off in a slow march, keeping his head forward, never letting his eyes wander. They walked down silver and marble halls, etchings depicting heroes of eons past. Here and there, picts displaying heroes in terminator armor holding off hordes of orks and traitors. Some depict massive combats with the Eldar. There is only one that depicts a dreadnought, its fist raised high, ready to crush a Tau battle suit. Cinnjin followed Alrik down the weathered hall of the flagship, wounded lining the walls on either side. They passed underneath gothic arches and past ancient statues. Cinnjin couldn’t help but feel the worried eyes of imperial crewmen eyeing his every move, he didn’t exactly blend into his surroundings. “Worry not about how they feel Cinnjin. They are hurt and scared. They will understand in time.” Alrik stated without looking. The group came upon two ornate blast doors. Placing his hand upon a pad beside them, Alrik opened the doors to his chambers. The main room was a rather modest hosting room, filled with furniture to sit upon. Lining the walls were shelves containing books and terminals with data streaming across them. Alrik’s personal serfs came forward before kneeling before him. “How may we serve you, Grandmaster” they spoke in unison, no questions asked about Cinnjin and his retinue. “Please, gather some tea for those that can drink, and whatever our friend Cinnjin here is able to have that we may be able to provide” “I thank you for your hospitality.” Cinnjin spoke, moving around the humble chamber briefly admiring the smell of burning incense. “Your chapter is welcome here, Alrik. The moon of Il'cea has land that is yours to govern. Save you defend it and its people. A condition I know you have little issue with.” “If there is anything specific you need we will attempt to accommodate you.” Cinnjin said turning to face Alrik. “I would like to ask of I could borrow some of your stealth teams. Despite their expertise in stealth operations, my fourth company was decimated trying to fight our traitorous cousins. We need to train our scouts going to that company.” Alrik turned towards Cinnjin. “We also need help with construction and possible terraforming. To being anymore than my people would be to invite war upon your cadre unless you were to join in an alliance. Like Commander Farsight did” “We would be honored to instruct your men, my kind are most reasonable when it comes to these things, it will not be difficult to sway things to better suit you. We’d even be willing to share equipment given time.” Cinnjin gestured towards the nearest of his bodyguard, the comparatively small warrior stepped forward, placing a disc shaped object upon the table. “A gift to soothe these difficult times, it is a shield generator, same make and design as mine, however more fitting to your “aesthetic”. The shield bore a simple design, not more than a simple disc with rivets dotting its circumference, and a single word etched in low gothic centred upon its crest. It read “Virtue”. “I saw it a fitting gift come our next meeting, albeit I had hoped to present it to you under better circumstances.” Alrik picked up the device and attached it to his shoulder. He could see the device shimmer as it dispersed the energy field around him, melding itself with his armor’s built in shield. He nodded approvingly. “A fine gift, one I am happy to receive, regardless of circumstances.” Alrik turned looked at Cinnjin. “In exchange, if your people are so inclined, we can teach your men further in the ways of melee combat. I unfortunately don’t know how much our technology would ban of use to you” That would be most appreciated, in time I’m sure your men would be willing to share with us your knowledge, though I do have to keep an air of ignorance about the truth regarding your technical equipment, the Ethereal caste still think me ignorant to the reality of the “warp” as you call it. They must be given time to better realize its complications, lest I suffer the wrath of knowing such a dangerous knowledge. A bit ironic don't you think?“ Cinnjin laughed. “All you must do now is allow us to help you, you are in good hands.” “Your men are welcome aboard our ships. They will be escorted by my men to keep any descendants in line. I must make a further ask that no mention of the Greater Good be made. We have our own version of which works for our people. I do not wish to cause any complications in our relationship as it stands. I do hope you understand.” "Understood, though you were already a whole coming together to work towards something greater, you already fight for a greater good, just one separate to my own. I however will instruct the more zealous of my crew to hold their tongues when it comes to Ideologies.” Cinnjin the paced over towards the stained glass window, a giant figure depicted in shining golden armor. “I think he may be proud, Alrik, I know little of your Emperor but if he is half the man you are he’d be proud, of you, of what you stand for.” "He was the most powerful man in the galaxy. Could persuade entire armies to lay down their weapons without a single shot being fired. Could mend machines with but a single touch and obliterate an enemy without a single motion being made. He was the epitome of what man could become. Now he is nought but a skeleton upon a failing throne. Few realize what he gave up to save his Imperium from the claws of the Chaos gods and their traitorous followers. He burned his own beloved sons soul from existence, so that he may never be brought back into being. In doing so, he sacrificed his immortality. He was a god among men, a true god. He merely wished to see mankind rule the stars, not alone, but the dominant species. I believe he would have attempted to have your Empire join the fold, if not ally with us. I merely wish to see a part of his vision come true.” "He did not know us, he knew a cold galexy that knew no warmth, I’m sure he could see the value of kind not his own given better times.” Cinnjin then turned away from the everwatching gaze of the imparator prime towards Remaldus. “I presume this to be your second? I wish to become acquainted with you, space marine.” Kindly spoke Cinnjin, extending a hand in a formal human gesture of trust. Remuldus looked at the hand before slowly taking it in his own. "I am Premier Vicar Remuldus Teuton. I am what other space marines call the High Chaplain of my chapter. I lead my brothers in prayer before, during, and after battle and in times of peace. However I am not his second. I am merely his spiritual counsel. Unfortunately, his second is seeing to his men. The first company was the rearguard in our retreat from our sacred home and took heavy casualties.” “It's a pleasure all the same, Remuldus, I look forward to hearing what you have to say, a holy mind is strongest in times of darkness.” Cinnjin praised, gently shaking Remuldus’ hand and taking note of the weathered and battered skull the Chaplin wore, the flickering of candle light highlighting the cracks lining the faceplate. “Now If you’ll allow me, I’d like to speak to you, Alrik, and perhaps a High Paragon, if one so much as remains after such a tragedy. I have a matter I’d like to discuss, in private.” Alrik went over to a command console. “Remuldus, go ahead and head to the chapel. I think now would be a good time for one of your sermons.” Alrik stated as he typed into the console. “Aye, Grand Master. As you command” Remuldus turned and walked out of Alrik’s chambers, his black armor melding with the shadows around him. “Randrid to the Grand Master’s chambers please, Randrid to the Grand Master’s chambers” Alrik called over the ship vox before shutting off his link. “So, what did you need to discuss, old friend?” “I need to share some grim news my own, we’ve managed to create a means of traversing the Damocles Gulf, after the tragedy of our fourth sphere expansion a wormhole opened in the silent zone, a path of void left by Hive Fleet Gorgon.” “We received a distress call through it, the same frequency as our missing expansion built a nexus of thousands of star forts around it and dove into it find our lost friends, this succeeded, however we drew a putrid ire.” “The sickly legions of the Death Guard appeared from deep space in numbers never seen before, a million fronts opened in an instant and the slaughter of millions took place, millions of lives that I am failing to save. They push ever closer to the nexus, and if they breach it the heart of our empire will be exposed to the destructive forces of chaos. I will not ask you to fight for us, for me, but the Empire is fighting a losing battle, and we need all the help we can get.” “I only wish to discuss such a thing in the presence of your Paragon due to the horrid eldritch powers at be, his expertise may be of some use, or at the very least he shield my words from the prying eyes of the warp.” The blast doors opened before the terminator armored figure of Randrid as he stepped through. “You have need of me, Grandmaster?” Randrid questioned, giving a momentary glance towards Cinnjin. “Yes High Paragon. Our friend here has told me that the forces of the Death Guard have launched a full-scale attack upon their Empire. He is fighting a losing battle. While I won’t necessarily say that he isn’t asking for our help militarily, he is asking for counsel about how best he can face this threat. Also, Cinnjin, this room is psychically shielded from all but Randrid here.” Alrik started with a hint of pride. “I see. Indeed, Cinnjin, you face an uphill battle if you face the Death Guard. Veterans one and all, and cursed by Nurgle to be nigh unstoppable. Depends on who leads this force, that will answer what your best course of action is. Truthfully though, the Death Guard are near peerless in psychological warfare, now more than ever. Your best chance is to kill any and all psykers, known to them as Plaguecasters. The rest would be to concentrate as much heavy firepower on any vehicles and heavy infantry they bring. Create kill zones to trap any light infantry or their regular troops. Finally, whatever you do, do not engage in melee with any cultists that look more like the undead than people. Those are called Poxwalkers. Any man they kill will rise and join their ranks.” “Thank you for sharing such wisdom.” Cinnjin said bowing slightly. “I’ll be sure to share such knowledge with my colleagues, as well as the good you’ve done for us.” “I would also like your paragon to study one of our drones taken from such a conflict, your Imperium shuns such thinking machines due to their susceptibility to dark influence, however we suffer not even the tiniest disobedience with our designs, the philosophy of our kind engrained within every fiber of their being, even to the point where they exhibit a sentience of not corruption but a desire to continue their intended task, even doing so after suffering such damage that they should fesable be incapable of doing so. Adapting some portions of our design may lead to a decrease in the creation of servators.” “Sometimes I think they may have souls their very own.” Alrik and Randrid looked at each other before chuckling. “My friend, we shun the use of fully autonomous AI, free thinking machines, for a reason. As long as the AI is controlled, we do not mind whatsoever. The reason we use servitors is because they are either criminals where even the best of rehabilitation programs would fail to turn results or trainees who have failed their trials and are too maimed to be returned. We take no pleasure in doing so, but regular humans can only do so much. Though you may notice we have many more serfs then you think” Just as Alrik makes this statement, his personal serfs return with drinks, passing them out to everyone. “Indeed, the war with the Men of Iron brought about the end of the first Empire of Man, with their reliance on technology being the catalyst. It is okay to use technology to benefit, but there is a line between benefit, and a crutch” Randrid spoke before sipping his tea. “However, we can study your drones combat footage and tell you the best course of action about how best to deal with them, if only to give your people more time to consolidate and hold. I will say, your builder drones are of interest” “You must think me a fool.” Cinnjin said with a sigh. “I know the risks, our drones are no crutch, but partner’s. The notion I was attempting to make clear is that in time your stock of servators may dwindle and although your chapter will still be capable it may be hindered without a workforce.” “And what causes the peculiar interest in our construction equipment?” Cinnjin said, motioning for his bodyguard to relax. “How quickly they work, their ability to continuously build. As it stands, we have no enginseers or techpriests to build our ships and knowing them, they would take forever. We meant no offense to you or your technology. Specifically you, but we have seen many other septs rely almost entirely on their technology solely.” Alrik apologized. “Nor did I mean any offense.” Randrid stated, locking eyes with Alrik for a moment. “Me and Alrik seem to agree on one thing. We will give you our full support to hold back the tide. We take care of our allies.” “We hope to do the same.” Cinnjin spoke kindly. In most cases septs attacked are in development, a phase of vulnerability where the infrastructure for a "living” workforce has not yet been implemented. I can see where your misconceptions come from.“ "If you provide the blueprint we will be happy to build you most anything, lest it require too much material at that time. The defense of the Empire comes first and the Ethereals only trust you with so much requisition, a stance I have worked to remove since our last meeting.” We can build you more than just a few cruisers if that's what you are asking.“ A drone then Calmly buzzed into the room, its eye lense staring curiously at Alrik. With a beep it drew back towards Cinnjin. "This drone will be the connection between you and me if we aren’t face to face.” Cinnjin said fondly, physically greeting the drone by placing a hand utop it. "Very well my friend.” Alrik tapped into his coms. “I need a servo skull to my quarters with blueprints for a strike cruiser.” Within moments a servo-skull floats in from a vent and displays the blueprints in front of Cinnjin. Cinnjin waves his hand over the holo-pict, designating the blueprint as vital information to his system, a faint but rapid click can be heard as his focal lens take even the tiniest the details with sharp precision. “I’ll upload this to my ships memory banks for data-transfer once we reach a dry dock, I am most impressed with your chapters personal changes from what is usually the standard for Astartes navy ships.” he praised. With a final click he returned his focus to Alrik. “I believe these talks have been fruitful. Once the entirety of your fleet is void worthy we’ll guide you to our space docks for further replenishment of provisions, then we will direct you to your new residence. Now if you’ll excuse me I must make my way back to my ship before they worry too much, our men aren’t as fond of each other as we seem to be, something that I hope to change yes?  Regardless it was a pleasure meeting you Randrid, you as well Alrik. Oh. Don’t forget to contact me immediately if you need anything, you are our guests after all. ” With those final words Cinnjin motioned his retinue to return to his ship, all silently standing and returning to formation behind their commander. Whether they were more relaxed after their ordeal or even nervous to begin with could only be guessed at. “Until I see you next, old friend.”

The years went by quickly, the Storm Templars rebuilt their fortress monastery with the help of the Tau builder drones. The fleet of the Storm Templars grew rapidly, its ships being completed in the spans of months rather than years. A trade route was established, with markers being placed to establish a route that would take any Imperial forces away from Tau planets. Given time, the Storm Templars returned to their former glory.

“Brothers, serfs, now is the time we return to the fold of the universe. We shall show our true might, not just to our friend Cinjinn, but to the wider Imperium.” Alrik announced from his pulpit in the staging area. Pressing a button, a hologram appeared in the air for all to see. “This planet is currently under protection from Cinjinn, and being attacked by the Death Guard. We shall through our full might into this. We shall remind them why we are the Emperor’s Storm. Board your transports, make ready for war. For the Emperor! For Mankind!” This battle cry was repeated in unison from over a million voices. Armored feet marched in lockstep to thunderhawks and stormbirds. Fighters took off to dock with their respective ships. Tanks filled into clamps underneath specialized thunderhawk transports. Death comes for the those that claim to be deathless.