#they stood on a few glyphs! that was helpful!

[leomonae]

You know, given that I'm playing a cleric, I was really really hoping that when we faced off against Cazador (especially given Larian's liking for symmetry and mirroring story beats across the breadth of the narrative, a la Astarion's two "this is a gift, I won't forget it" statements), I'd get to quote back to him the time Astarion told me the greatest threat to a vampire wasn't a cleric with a stake, it was another vampire. And then tell him I'd been looking forward to Astarion and I testing that theory, together <3

[elspethdekarios]

Writing Prompt -

Gale and Elspeth are in the Great Library doing their own research and trying to ignore each other - They have had a bit of a falling out, and are giving each other they silent treatment until the other apologises.

aaaaaand what if they fucked afterwards?

Alright alright I see you. Enjoy 💖

✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧

Pairing: Gale x Female Tav (named)

Word count: 2038

Rating: NSFW!!! 🔞

Warnings: PiV sex, angst, angry sex, makeup sex

The air was heavy in the grand library in the Temple of Oghma, perhaps because of the incense permeating from the main floor below, or perhaps because of the tension between Gale and Elspeth. Beams of afternoon sun shone through the windows, illuminating dust and particles floating about. Gale stood by the wall, alternating between propping his book up on a nearby shelf and pacing with it in his hands. Every few minutes, he’d let out a huff to blow the stray strands of hair out of his eyes, increasingly agitated at its unruliness. He found himself fidgeting with the book’s pages or absentmindedly combing through his beard, distracted not by thought, but emotion. He had read the same page three times now and retained none of it.

Elspeth emerged from the towering rows with two antique books, purposefully strutting past Gale, robes swishing behind her, as she sat at a desk facing away from him. She refused to make eye contact until he apologized for how he acted that morning. Their usual end-of-tenday morning walk to the library was marked by silence and rigid hand-holding–no discussion of the day’s plans or playful banter. Occasionally one of them would remark on something happening around them, the other only responding with a firm “hm.” 

A few other patrons were scattered throughout the library’s halls, the only sounds those of pages flipping and the occasional cough. The librarian, an aged devotee of Oghma, sat at her usual high desk, spectacles sitting on the very tip of her nose as she wrote in a ledger. She did not ever engage in small talk with the library’s patrons, but the few times Gale or Elspeth needed help finding a particular book, her stern mouth would curl into a smile and she’d speak in excited whispers about the library’s collection. She often greeted them with a head nod, and sometimes a quiet “Mr. and Mrs. Dekarios.”

Elspeth kept her head down, trying to scan the book’s pages for any mentions of infernal machinery, but words were foreign symbols on parchment to her, jumbled and meaningless. Her thoughts kept snapping back to Gale. She unpacked a quill and began to take notes, hoping the motion might help her stay focused. But her parchment remained mostly blank, and when she heard Gale shutting his book behind her, she slumped back in her chair, frustrated with the lack of progress. Frustrated, still, with him.

After an hour in the library, Gale had successfully read four pages of the newest published studies on time-altering illusion spells–next week’s lesson for his advanced students. He couldn’t force himself through it any longer. He approached El, admiring the way her shiny, platinum hair reflected the sunlight, forgetting for a moment that he was angry with her. He resisted the natural urge to touch her–to massage her tense shoulders or lift her chin up for a kiss. She was incredibly stubborn, that much he knew, but she owed him an apology. And no matter how badly he wanted to feel her near him, he would wait for that apology.

“Are you checking those out?” he asked as he stood next to the desk, gesturing to the books. She only nodded and slid them on top of the large tome Gale held in his arms. Gale brought their books to  the main desk and the librarian stamped a magical glyph on the inside of each book’s cover. He returned to El, handing her the two small books she had selected.

“Surprised you trust me with books at all anymore,” she mumbled as she slid them into her bag. “But these aren’t your books, so I suppose it’s different.”

“Yes, El, it is different.” His voice, though a normal volume, sliced through the quiet library, earning him a few stares and a “shush” from the librarian. “It is different,” he repeated, lowering his voice to a whisper. “Presumably you won’t throw them out with the bathwater.”

“I hardly threw it out, Gale!”

“Shh!” came from the librarian’s desk and somewhere further away in the room.

“What do you call it, then?” Gale whisper-shouted.

“I call it ‘donating-books-to-an-orphanage,’ as a matter of fact,” she whispered back.

“Well now you’re just making me sound like an asshole.”

“You’re being one.” El shoved her belongings into the bag and turned heel, Gale matching her stride.

“El–let’s just go to the orphanage and ask for it back. We can forget this little spat of ours, get the book back–no harm done.”

“I am not–”

“Mr. and Mrs. Dekarios.” The librarian appeared before them, short and slender, pointed ears peaking through her silvered hair. “You would do well to remember that this is a library. If you must argue, then I must ask you to leave the Temple. You’ll be most welcome once you can follow the rules again.

Gale and Elspeth marched down the stairs and through the Temple in silence. Once outside and out of earshot of the priests, El turned to her husband, his windswept hair and the peak of collarbone through his robes almost making her forget their quarrel. She pushed the thoughts aside as Gale began crossing the street to Blackstaff Tower, motioning her to follow.

“I am not walking into an orphanage and demanding part of my donation back, Gale! Do you hear yourself?”

“I have no desire to take anything away from an orphaned child,” he said, pushing open the heavy oak doors. “But it’s one book–a book most likely too advanced to be of use to them. And I didn’t give you permission to donate it!”

“You gave me permission to donate the stack collecting dust in the cellar.”

“Yes, because they’re children’s books–I didn’t realize my first edition copy of Abjuration Accolades Through the Ages was on top!”

“That’s not my fault!” 

El followed Gale up the spiraling stone staircase, the building noticeably quiet as their voices and footsteps echoed. Out of breath, they reached Gale’s office.

“It wasn’t on purpose,” El lamented, trying to catch her breath. Her eyes were remorseful as she looked at him, silently begging for this feud to be over, but refusing to be the one to apologize. “You should have checked the stack first before agreeing.”

With a quick wave of his hand, Gale’s office door shut and locked itself. He stepped forward to where Elspeth leaned against the side of his desk, sliding one hand around her waist and using the other to push her hair away from her neck, baring the flesh for him to trail breathy, warm kisses from collar to ear. 

“Gale, we–we’re–” she began to protest, to remind him that they were still arguing. But she melted at his mouth on her skin, the scent of sandalwood dabbed behind his ears so close and potent that she forgot about their quarrel in an instant. She breathed out his name, clutching the back of his robes briefly before undoing its buttons and sliding it off his shoulders, revealing the toned forearms that always made her come undone.

In a quick movement, he had her on the desk, the books and bottles of ink vanishing with a hand gesture. His fingers trailed beneath the sleeves of her robe, pulling them down just enough to expose her shoulders. The sweet musk of her skin set his pulse racing as he sighed into her shoulder, taking desperate mouthfuls of her and leaving scarlet marks bursting beneath her skin. While his mouth wandered, his hands pushed up her robes, expecting to pull off the leggings she’d normally wear underneath. Beneath the fabric, however, was nothing.

“How scandalous of you, Mrs. Dekarios,” he teased, pushing her legs up for a full view of her cunt, glistening just for him. He ran a finger through her and grazed his lips softly against the pointed tip of her ear, his voice deep and quiet. “Almost like you wanted to be fucked on my desk.”

She could have come with those words alone. Already, the gentle circles he drew around that most sensitive spot threatened to send her over the edge. Whimpering and biting her lip in an attempt to reign herself in, she reached down to feel him, hard and eager beneath his trousers. She slipped the tied leather beneath her fingers and pulled the waistband loose, savoring the silky, hot skin of his cock in her hand. Gale moaned into her neck.

“Maybe I thought I could coax an apology out of you.”

“Hm,” he chuckled. “We’ll see about that.”

Before Elspeth could respond, he thrust himself into her, sending a wave of pleasure through her entire body as she held herself up on the desk and clutched Gale’s arm. She cried out, thankful they hadn’t seen a soul in the Tower on their way up, and not caring that there could be others in adjacent rooms overhearing them. Gale lifted her leg up, heeled boot resting against his shoulder as his hips moved rhythmically against her exposed bottom half.

Oh, she was angry with him. His suave words and bedroom eyes and beautiful cock that she worshiped, second only to her deity. Godsdamn him, smoothing over their argument by splaying her out on his desk and half undressing her, knowing the frustration she felt would melt away with a few magic words and a good fuck. It always did–though this was the only time that he had been the subject of her anger since starting their lives together.

But she’d be lying if she said she wasn’t hoping for this.

Gale’s own frustration was dissipating with every thrust. In truth, he knew he should apologize, but that realization only came about when he saw El’s ecstasy as he plunged into her. She was more special to him than an old book–than any book, really. He couldn’t be angry with her now if he tried. Truly testing El’s flexibility, he leaned forward, squishing her upright leg between them, and kissed her madly. His tongue lapped at the inside of her mouth, his moans harder to suppress, and he felt her hand slip between their bodies, finding the center of her pleasure. It was only seconds until she cried out. Her body tensed and her warmth pulsed around him, his release spilling into her as he groaned and clutched her close to him, the two of them finding their climax in perfect unison. 

Elspeth lowered herself to rest her back to the desk, still holding Gale as he lay atop her, panting into her chest. She smoothed out his now-disheveled hair as she caught her own breath, gently combing through the graying strands behind his ears. He raised his head to gaze at her.

“I’m sorry–” they both said in tandem. Giggling, he urged her to speak first.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “I should have been more discerning.”

“No, love,” he said, reaching up to caress her cheek. “I’m sorry. I acted like a right fool. It was ludacris of me to suggest we ask the orphanage for the book back. The orphanage, of all places.” He shook his head in disapproval of himself.

“I know your books are important to you. I promise it won’t happen again, Gale.”

“And I promise to remember that you are more important to me than any book, first edition or otherwise.” He kissed the wrist of the hand resting in his hair. “Your generosity is one of my favorite things about you. I’d do well to take notes.”

He lifted himself up from the desk and extended his hands, pulling El up to her feet. 

“Well, my love,” he said as he redid the ties of his pants. “What else does the day hold for us?”

Elspeth smoothed out her robes and her hair, hoping she didn’t look too hot and bothered. “Let’s go to the bookstore. We can get you something new to fill the book-shaped void.”

Gale broke into a wide smile and pulled his beautiful wife into a deep hug, thanking the gods that she came into his life. 

“Does that sound okay to you?” she asked as he loosened his hold.

“That sounds absolutely perfect.”

Hand-in-hand, they walked back out into the City of Splendors.

[lets-try-some-writing]

Okay, I was reading the Mr. Pax Teacher Au and this idea popped in my head. So basically Optimus is finishing up a work day and a staff member comes up saying someone is here claiming to be his ‘wife’. Optimus questions the staff for a bit and then they reveal they have “pink hair”. Optimus then goes outside to see someone patiently waiting for him with a smile. (I’m a sucker for OptimusxElita, sue me!) Also Elita going “Yeah, you would.” Cause she just knows him. Hope this idea is fun for you!

Well I can't NOT write a snippet for this thank you. I have exactly two ships that I will devour without hesitation and Optimus/Elita happens to be one of them.

━━━━━━ ⊙ ❖ ⊙ ━━━━━━━━━━━━

Optimus's digits tapped on the desk along to the beat of a simple tune he hummed to himself as he looked over the day's papers. There were quite a few interesting pieces from his young archivists- students. His dear students. They showed such interest in the history he taught them. It was a joy to watch them grow and thrive under his tutelage.

"Abigail, you impress me yet again." He smiled as he looked over the girl's artwork. The assignment for the week had been to compose a model of something Cybertronian. Abigail, one of his more artistic students, had created quite the work of art. Despite having never seen any actual images of Optimus's fallen world, she managed to capture an admittedly quite accurate, if a tad abstract, vision of Uraya. It prompted his spark to flare in joy within his true frame.

"Mr. Pax, apologies for intruding." A feminine voice broke him from his work, prompting Optimus to place down his pile of paperwork and look up. Mrs. Glass, the school nurse, stood in the doorway nervously. She patted down her knitted sweater in what Optimus could only assume was anxiety considering the lack of any noticeable contaminant.

"Can I help you Mrs. Glass?" The nurse shifted uncomfortably before she nodded. Optimus stood up slowly, concern growing in his processors as he ran through the possible issues that might have arisen while he was working. Was the headmaster trying to tamper with affairs again?

"There is a woman outside who is claiming to be your wife." Optimus froze, his expression shifting as he tried to parse out what was happening. Arcee had already taken on the role of "aunt" for Jack. Being Optimus's wife would break her cover. It couldn't be June either for similar reasons.

Was he being stalked?

"Does she have any distinguishing features?" His expression settled into something firm as he readied himself to have to politely tell a confused woman that she had the wrong individual.

"She has pink hair and bright blue eyes. I think she might be wearing colored contacts." Whatever worry was settling into his spark halted the moment he got out the door and heard the nurse's explanation. Instead, faint hope grew steadily as he increased his pace and Mrs. Glass continued.

"She stated that her name was Ariel of Iacon. Although I am not sure where that city is-" Optimus stopped listening and broke into a sprint as he forced his holoform to go faster than it should have been able to according to human biology.

She couldn't be here.

He sent her away after the Allspark was taken from its place.

There was no way his Conjunx was on Earth after so many millennia apart.

"Being a teacher suites you." It was not the voice he knew, not entirely. There was none of the underlying glyphs or tones of their homeworld, but he knew her voice anywhere. He could never mistake her.

"Elita." He stepped out, his holoform momentarily flickering as Elita-One waited for him patiently, her arms crossed over her chest and a font smile on her face. He could almost see the mighty warrior that was his Conjunx through the veil of her disguise. He could hardly wait to wrap her in his arms properly as soon as they were away from prying optics.

"I missed you." She was the first to wrap her arms around him, organic as they were. Their forms melded in places as their holoforms struggled to maintain the illusion alongside their raging emotional states. However, Optimus found he didn't care as he looked into oh so human eyes and saw the spark of a Cybertronian hidden behind them.

She was here. He didn't know how or why, but Elita was here with him once more.

"I stopped by your base before I came here. I wanted it to be a surprise." She laughed as she nuzzled against his neck, searching for sensory lines that where not there. Optimus wrapped his limited EM field around her as he processed her presence and relished in it.

"It has been a most pleasant surprise to see you here after so long." Distantly, he noted Mrs. Glass watching from the school entrance. Optimus didn't bother looking back as he pulled away and took Elita's hands in his. The paperwork could be dealt with later. For now, there were bonds to be reforged, memories to share, and many long cycles apart to make up for.

"To base then?" Elita smiled up at him. Optimus could almost imagine her antennae perking up as he grinned in response.

"If that is what you want love."

[stevesbestgirl]

Phases of the Moon - Part 1

Steven Grant x f!Reader, eventual Marc Spector x f!Reader

2796 words

Warnings: poor imitations of British speaking habits, not much else in part one, maybe a few curses but I’m not sure

A/N: This was my attempt to write a slow-burn. It’s long, self-indulgent, and obscenely fluffy. Reader is specified as American, but mostly so I can avoid pretending I know anything about living in the UK. Steven and Marc are aware of each other and trying to find balance in their relationship in this fic, but keep in mind that I am not a system and am not an expert. All of my information about their relationship comes from the Moon Knight show and I use that as my reference point. 

*Bold type is spoken by Marc when Steven is fronting.*

Masterlist

“Go talk to her.”

“Well I can’t, can I?” Steven sent a furtive glance at you, toying absently with your phone while you examined the glyphs inside a display.

“Why can’t you?”

“She’s got earphones in.”

Marc scoffed in the glass of one of the display cases, “Always an excuse.”

“I can’t just interrupt her, that’d be rude!”

“Not if she’s interested.”

Steven’s reply was cut short as a pair of boys came rushing around the corner, laughing and shoving each other- Steven wouldn’t have placed them at older than twelve. He watched helplessly as one firm push sent the smaller of the two reeling into your backside. Completely oblivious to their noise, you went sprawling, headphones disconnecting as your phone hit the ground and was sent skittering across the polished floor, coming to rest at Steven’s feet.

Inhibitions gone, Steven scooped your phone up and rushed over, offering a hand to help you up, “Are you okay?” You nodded, feeling a little embarrassed. “You lot,” he called out, locating the pair sidling off behind a diorama, “C’mere.” 

They looked like they were considering bolting, but the smaller of them located Steven’s badge and took a reluctant step forward. By the time they stood in front of you, they were looking rather cowed, like puppies who’d been caught gnawing a slipper. 

“Shape up, you hear? You could’ve really hurt someone.”

“Sorry.”

“Yeah, sorry.”

“Now listen, down that corridor there, there’s a bunch of old weapons; spears, cudgels, daggers, the like. How about you go give it a look?” You watched him speak to the two boys; his enthusiasm seemed very genuine, not the fake kind adults often used with children.

The taller boy hesitated before leaving, “What’s a cudgel?”

Steven smiled a little, “Why don’t you go on and find out?” Then the two rushed in the direction he’d indicated and he called after them, “Slowly, hm?”

Once they were out of sight, you finally spoke, “Are you sure that was a good idea? Sending them in there with a bunch of weapons?” You couldn’t help but smile as he unconsciously smoothed his dark, nearly sleep-tousled curls back from his face.

His intent had been to chuckle, but it came out as more of an empty puff of air, “They’re all under glass- should be alright.” He added, “Maybe I’ll pop in to check on them, just in case.” Nervous now, he looked down at his hands, still holding your phone, “Oh, there you are.” Your expression fell and only then did he notice the spiderweb of cracks in the bottom corner where it had hit the floor, “Oh no.”

You shook your head, accepting the phone and dropping it to your side, like putting it out of sight would make him forget, “It’s alright. Just a screen protector. I’ll get a new one eventually.”

“Sorry about that, love,” he insisted, his earnest gaze finally meeting yours just in time for your face to go warm. You’d thought you’d been ready to hear the term of endearment used so casually when you came to England, but apparently not.

“It’s alright,” you rushed to speak. “Definitely not your fault. Thanks for helping me-” you glanced at his name tag, “-Steven.”

“No problem- it is my job after all,” he cracked a halfhearted smile.

“You were great with those kids too.”

Rosy warmth tinged his cheeks and his gaze shifted away, “Thanks.” A small pause, “Your accent- you’re American?”

You nodded, “Needed a change of scenery, so I’m staying with some family for a while. Just got in yesterday, actually.”

His gaze eagerly lifted to yours again, but flicked away over your shoulder and he went slightly pale. Glancing back, you saw a stocky woman with dirty blonde hair gesturing impatiently at him.

Returning his gaze to you, he looked a bit panicked, “I’m sorry, I’ve gotta go. I- ah-” He tripped over his words and almost tripped almost his feet as well, veering around you and backing away toward the woman beckoning him over. 

You raised your hand in an uncertain farewell as he stammered his way backwards, gesturing faintly over his shoulder with his thumb in a faint attempt at an explanation. Once he was within range, the woman seemed to be lighting into him a bit, though his gaze hadn’t yet left you. It wasn’t until she snapped her fingers that he looked at her. 

Not wanting to spy, you turned away, checking your phone for the time. When Steven glanced your way again, he only caught your retreating form disappearing out the entrance. For once, Donna’s criticisms didn’t affect him since he was already kicking himself for not asking you out. Or getting your phone number. Or even your name. He’d blown it. 

*

The following day, you had a bit more time to explore the museum, so you returned. And you noted with dismay, when the cabbie called you “love”, you didn’t so much as blink, let alone blush. Maybe it had been a one-off thing. Now you would be immune. 

Walking in and spotting the woman from before at the front desk, you plucked up a bit of courage and approached. Her name tag read “Donna” and she prompted with visible disinterest, as though she were reading off a script, “Welcome. Is there something I can direct you to?”

Deciding to push forward, you said, “Actually, I was just in here yesterday. I ran into a bit of trouble with a couple of young boys and one of your tour guides helped me. I wanted to let you know that Steven was very polite and just lovely with those kids-”

“Stevie? He isn’t a tour guide,” Donna interrupted, wrinkling her nose. “In his dreams, maybe.”

“But he does work here?”

“Yeah, he’s the gift shoppist.” She was still being very flippant; it was clear that she’d barely had interest in this conversation to begin with and now that it was about Steven, it had dwindled to none. 

“Right. Thank you.” You forced a smile and nodded before heading off in the direction of the gift shop.

The counter was empty when you first walked into the room, sending a tiny shoot of disappointment into your chest. You wanted to thank him, since it didn’t appear that you could score him any points with his boss.

You wondered for a moment if you should come back later, but then a shaggy, brown mop of hair sprung up from behind the counter, triumphantly brandishing what appeared to be a large, amber-colored marble with a bone inside it, “Got ya, you little bugger.”

His gaze fell on you and he tucked the marble behind his back, like it was something to hide, “You- you came back.”

You reached into your bag, pulling out the brochure you’d picked up yesterday, “I was only passing through yesterday.” You unfolded the brochure and showed him the notes you’d taken on the map, detailing where you wanted to go first and which exhibits had caught your eye, “I like to plan a little bit.”

He followed the line you traced with your finger intently, raising his gaze to your face when you pulled away, “That’s a good way to go about it. The tour is pretty good too.” Steven’s heart skipped as your lips pulled into a slight frown; had he said something wrong? 

“Speaking of the tour, I tried to put in a good word for you with your boss- as thanks, for yesterday- she doesn’t seem to like you very much.”

“Oh, yes. Donna and I have got a bit of a rocky history.” He added quickly, “Not a history, mind you. More like a boss/employee history. I’ve got a bit of a bad track record with my punctuality, actually,” he admitted, rubbing the back of his neck.

“Well, I think you’d make a lovely tour guide, for what it’s worth.”  

There was another one of those long pauses; you were about to offer a meek “Thanks again,” and cut your losses when he spoke up, “If you like, I’m on a break in ten minutes. I could show you around.”

You’d insisted to yourself that this wasn’t why you came back here, but you found yourself nodding, a faint smile on your lips, “I’d like that.”

Steven seemed even more surprised than you were, nodding quickly, “Great- that’s- great.” He nodded again, “I can meet you in the ‘King’s Tomb’ exhibit.” He pointed, “Right over there-” He checked his watch, “-in nine minutes.”

Your smile widened, “See you in nine minutes then.” You moved off in the direction he’d indicated, the temptation to look back gnawing at you. 

“Wait!” he called after you. You turned back, “I haven’t got your name.”

“You haven’t needed it, have you?” 

Now you were teasing and you knew it. But you could feel his eyes on you as you disappeared around the corner and you smiled to yourself. So much for doing your own thing. The whole reason for coming to London was to get away from men- although you supposed it was more one man than men in general. But something about Steven just caught your eye.

So you waited out the impossibly long eight minutes remaining until Steven walked in, looking in a bit of a rush. You watched him scan the exhibit, almost like he’d expected you to have left by now.

You raised a hand, “Steven.” He positively lit up at the sight of you, relief visible in the heavy exhale he released- like he'd been holding his breath. 

You met him in the center of the room, clasping your hands behind your back in anticipation. Steven still had the remnants of a grin on his face, though he mirrored your posture, a bit of enthusiasm escaping as he bounced on the balls of his feet, just once, “What do you want to see?”

“You’re my tour guide, you tell me,” you teased. 

Almost instantly, his face flushed, “Well, I wasn’t sure if there were specific displays you wanted to look at or certain subjects you were interested in, you know? Since I've only got fifteen minutes on my break.” 

“Well, I’m interested in everything, but since we only have fifteen minutes; how about you show me the way you’d start your tour if you were a guide?” His cheeks darkened further and you had to bite the inside of your cheek not to smile again. But he surprised you, recovering quickly and placing his hand on your arm. He steered you over to one of the displays and you glanced at him, “The Ennead?”

The Ennead,” he corrected your pronunciation. “The Egyptian Gods.” He wheeled around so his back was to the exhibit, his gaze meeting yours with ease. “Everything about Egypt comes back to the gods one way or another, so to understand Egypt, you have to understand them.”

He walked you through the exhibit, one god or goddess at a time, his hands moving animatedly as he talked. And he was good at it, in a different way than you’d expect. He had such a wealth of knowledge- you felt comfortable asking questions because you expected him to have the answers. And he answered many of your questions before you could even ask them; his explanations were pretty comprehensive. 

It was all strangely charming, actually. His enthusiasm was so genuine, it was as though he invited you inside it with him. It was a nice place to be- like sharing a secret. It was also putting you in dangerous territory; a magnetic field that would be hard to pull yourself from.

Once you were about halfway through the eleven, you tentatively raised your hand. Steven faltered slightly, giving you the chance to speak up, “Two things- I just want to check the time, I’d hate for you to be-”

“Late-” he checked his watch faster than you could pull out your phone.

You grabbed his hand, pulling him back toward the gift shop, “Well, come on then, I don’t want you getting into trouble!”

Steven’s long strides quickly outpaced you; you had to hurry to keep up, a laugh at the ridiculousness of it slipping out. Steven glanced back- nearly shouldering a display case. Right before impact, his back straightened a bit, like he sensed it coming, and he just twisted out of the way. It was so smooth you wouldn’t have noticed the deft movement if you hadn’t been anticipating the collision.

By the time you skidded to a halt in front of the gift shop counter, you were full-on giggling; you couldn’t remember the last time you’d laughed so hard over almost nothing. “Sorry about that,” Steven offered meekly.

You took a breath and collected yourself a bit, though you still felt the warmth of the laughter in your cheeks, “Don’t be- it was fun.”

“What was the other thing?” he asked, shuffling back behind the counter.

“Hm?”

“You said there were two things, the time and what else?”

“Oh! Well that exhibit was called the ‘King’s Tomb,’ right? Why are the gods in that one?”

He leaned on the counter, some of his timid demeanor vanishing, “Well, the pharaohs were considered to be gods by their people. So they put them in a room together. And since the mummies are what brings in the crowds, they get the-” he clicked his tongue, framing a little marquee with his fingers, “-title spot.”

“I suppose you know quite a lot about those too?”

He gave a chagrined smile, “Did I go on a bit much then?”

You shook your head, “Not at all- I wasn’t teasing. I wish we’d had time to do the whole exhibit.”

“I’d wager with me giving it, that tour would take all week,” he joked, feeling like he’d done too much talking during your time together.

You shrugged, “I’m on vacation.” Smiling, you added, “Or holiday, you’d probably call it.”

He smiled weakly at the joke, seeming to be working out what you’d meant. He scanned your face, as though nervous he was misreading you, but you just smiled at him. “I’m scheduled again on Thursday, I could- if you like, I mean- I could show you some more. Of the exhibit. Obviously. If you want.” 

You were here for freedom. You’d come all the way to another country so you could do what you wanted, when you wanted, no strings attached. But, you reasoned, this wasn’t dating. This was an exclusive tour, on Steven’s break. It wasn’t like he was taking you out to dinner.

You were bargaining; whittling away your rules to nothing because they no longer suited your purposes. You knew that. And you also knew that you only did so because Steven was, very clearly, a large string. A large string with lovely, brown, puppy eyes and enough passion for Egypt to make a pharaoh blush. But you nodded anyway, “I’d love to come back. Same time?”

He seemed stunned by your acceptance, but he nodded rapidly to overcompensate for the moment of hesitation, “Yeah. My break is at three.”

You smirked, “How many minutes from now?”

He stared at you for a moment- you almost wondered if he was trying to do the math, but then he flushed and gave a weak chuckle, “Right, I’ll work on that one.”

You pulled out the brochure you’d picked up yesterday and a pen from your bag, “Since I won’t be needing this anymore-” You scribbled down your name and number and slid the brochure across the table, “Text me when you figure it out.” No strings, you reminded yourself.

He gave another hurried nod, “Okay, I will, I-” 

You got a sense of deja vu as Steven glanced over your shoulder and paled in nearly the exact same way he had yesterday. “Is it Donna?” You quickly scanned the counter, grabbing a stuffed hippopotamus, “Because I’d like to purchase this.” You deliberately moved it across the counter where Donna would be able to see and pulled out your wallet.

Now Steven looked back to you, “You don’t have to do that. Most of this stuff if junk-”

“I want to. This one is kind of cute.” You held out the money, “And you’ll tell me all about it next time?”

He nodded, a small smile returning to his face, “Yeah, I will.” He handed back your change and the plush, speaking up so Donna could hear, “Enjoy the rest of your afternoon.”

You smiled, “Same to you.”

You left the other way so Donna wouldn’t see your face, hoping she wasn’t descending on Steven for being late from his break. You held the little hippo plushie to your chest and thought ahead to Thursday.

[rwby-encrusted-blog]

(Based on an ask for @pilot-boi About a Wall-E Whiteknight Au, and given Wall-e was instrumental to my childhood, I cannot help but write something for it. Because it's an AU, and they're both Human and not Robots, I took a few Liberties with the scene in the movie.)

~~~~~

Weiss was beyond frustrated. Nothing, after nothing, after nothing - no signs of life aside from the most extremophile of bacteria, protozoans, insects, and the occasional mold on fecal matter to imply the continuation of species on this gods-forsaken ball of mud.

She slammed the door of the cargo ship she was investigating shut, the rust sticking to her now dirtied gloves. Ugh.

She drifted by the crane of it, not noticing the creaks as it followed her, eventually ripping her back onto the magnet that hadn't fallen in the centuries of just sitting there.

And so Weiss snapped.

She whipped Myrtenaster out, igniting the plasmic blade and slicing the disc that held her back to pieces, before using her energetic glyphs to shred the the hulking metal antique, making it into even more scrap than it already was.

It toppled into the next ship, and then the next one, like dominoes. Deep, resonate bellows of creaks from the sudden movement after centuries of dormant stillness shook Weiss to her core.

She watched them fall, and for the time since her landing, let her feet settle against the ground. It was hard, dry, and barren, like the rest of this abandoned home. Weiss sat against an anchor, the fire and sparks filling a growing void in her chest, not unlike the one meant for plant life in her pack.

She sat there in silence - something the Passengers spoke of when in the few times she was allowed to meet them crossed her mind - A campfire. Whatever that was, it was meant to be shared with Family, something she'd been missing for a long time, her siblings being designated to different vectors of maintenance and service.

"AHem?"

Weiss reeled, drawing her sword once more, and startling a nearby person - A Person?!?

"Wer bist du?" She asked on high alert - this planet was meant to be dead, she was meant to find life here - who or what was this ... Person?

The person didn't respond, shaking violently at the sight of her blade - they appeared masculine, broad shouldered with dirty-blonde hair, though it was difficult to tell if that was due to genetics or living situation.

"Quis es?"

No Response.

"你是谁?"

No Response, but they did seem slightly less frightened given the lack of aggression.

"Chi sei?"

Their shaking slowed as they looked more inquisitive and confused than scared now.

"Qui es-tu?"

"OH! Je- Je M'appelle 'Jaune.' Vous parlez Anglais?"

"Yes I speak English."

"Oh, good!"

'Jaune' continued glancing at the glowing rapier. They seemed frightened of it still. Until he drew his own Weapon.

It wasn't as elegant as Myrtenaster, clearly older and having been used more - an old working tool for scrapping large objects, the thin, yellow sheen of plasma raced across it's edges.

"This is my Cutting tool. Your's is cool to!"

Weiss, once again, was thrown for a loop. He had drawn a dangerous device and waved it like it was a piece of extra piping.

"Jaune? Do you have a title or last name?"

The (boy?) seemed to flush at her pronunciation at his name.

"Jaune, of the A.R.C. Ministry"

"Arc?"

"Allocators of Recycled Components."

"How are you alive? Are there others like you?"

"Oh yeah! A lot, like, two hundred, three hundred others in the Bunker? Primarily we survive on Spirulina Compound. It provide most of our Oxygen and Food stuffs."

Weiss stood for a moment, deactivating her sword and pondering this - They'd been living in space for centuries. Earth was dead, barren, she was only barely able to survive due to advanced CO2 recycling.

"Have .. have you been following me?"

"Yep! You just seemed so pret-"

He was cut off by an alarm in his overalls. He lowered the visor to the helmet he wore, staring past her Weiss's shoulder.

"We need to leave Now." Jaune said, grabbing Weiss' wrist with a surprising amount of force, which she took none too kindly.

She reactived her Blade as she tore her hand away from him. "WHAT make you think You can grab me-"

"SANSTORM!" Jaune shouted, pointing past her "WE NEED TO GO, FOLLOW-"

Before he could even move to grab Weiss again, he slammed a massive tower shield in to the ground, covering himself from the blast of sand that tore at her skin and suit -

Weiss was whipped away, barely able to keep upright against the torrential winds, her Glyphs her only saving grace.

She Called out for the boy, anyone, frightened and alone, her suit's helmet the only thing allowing her to keep her eyes open even as it because scratched and muddled.

A hand found it's way to her wrist again, a dim yellow glow standing out against the violent dust letting her know she'd been found by Jaune.

It gave her some small comfort to not be alone as he dragged her somewhere, hopefully safe.

~~~~~

I fucking LOVE Wall-e. I made my First OC for Wall-e (Not that I knew what that meant at the time.) I had the Three-Disc Special edition, the Movie and it's Featurette Presto, The Second Disc with a gallery of the Bots, the Lots of Bots read-along, Burn-E (Who I imagine to be Qrow with his luck) and all the other special features, and the Digital Copy Disc to download it onto a Laptop or P.C. back when owning a digital copy of a movie was something special, and that's not even halve of it!

[undead-merman]

Day Eleven: Magic Ritual

GN Tav with Astarion

Contains blood, Me being a nerd about DnD and using real locations from the Sword's Coast.

It’s been years. You’d traveled without the sun on your body for over five years now, maybe six if you were paying attention to that kind of stuff. Astarion is sure to have the date if you asked him, he’s sentimental like that, or a bit bitter, depending on the day. You’ve been all over the swords coast by this point, made new allies, seen them come and go. Most of them left when they discovered his true nature but you never let them hurt him. One of them had to put down due to her violent reaction, Should have never let a Cleric come with. It’s been tiring, but you never gave up. You were determined as you searched for a way to allow him to walk into the sun’s glory once more and cure him of his undeath. All these years you’ve kept him safe. From the sun, down to the littlest kobold who so much as dare to make a job.

You had gone as far as The World’s Spine and over to the Sea of Fallen Stars. You then found yourself in a cave settled deep in the Wood of Sharp Teeth after braving Durlag's Tower. Traveled down into the depths of its basement, a hellish labyrinth, but it was finally in hand. A scroll of true resurrection. The weight exceeded that of mere parchment; it held Astarion's future. But hell’s you both were dead tired. You could have passed out for at least a tenday, perhaps even more. Your lover looked the same as well. Too tired to even comb the caked on gore from his hair. Both of you slouch as the campfire takes hold of the kindling.

You reach into your pack and start taking out the scroll. Its aged parchment felt fragile in your hands, and as you opened it to study the ciphers you heard a noise of protest.

“Darling, as excited as I am to finally have the damned thing, don’t you think it might be better to rest? Who knows what might happen. Why it might blow us both up in the process if your droopy eyed gaze reads a symbol wrong. As much as I do love your empty-headed stares.”

You give a tired laugh at his sass. “Of course I want to do it now. I don’t want you to wait a second longer. I want our next sunrise to be this one.” you couldn’t stop the smile from creeping onto your face.

His eyebrows knit together, making the lines on his face more prominent before melting away into a soft smile, one that you see so rarely yet one only reserved for you.

“As charming as that was, it’s still powerful magic. I’ve waited over two hundred years, I can wait a few more days.” The love of your life holds his arms open, inviting you in.

How could you say no?

-

It wasn’t a tenday, it was hardly a full rest before you had snuck out of Astarion’s arms and started reading over the scroll. It was a novel, each word must be spoken perfectly and without a single quiver of your voice. It would be a testament to your reading and acting skills if you managed to pull this off. You kept the fire burn as you went over every glyph and gesture in grueling detail. After nearly up the continent and back, traveling to find the damned thing. Not just that, rumor chasing, reading through old tomes to find such a spell to help, doing favors, slaying more monsters than you could count. So much work came down to this, of course you couldn’t sit still.

Your eyes had drifted over to his mediating form. He looked so peaceful. Everything, everything was for him. He'd know freedom once more, pure freedom.

You must have made a noise, his eye peeked open. Astarion’s face bore a miniature frown. “Darling what are you doing?”

“You thought I’d be able to sleep?”

“Well, I had certainly hoped so. Especially when I so graciously offered my arms as your own pillows.” he stood and approached with soft steps as his ivory palm touches your shoulder.

Your eyes went back to the cyphers, and he looked over your shoulder to see. You both sat in comfortable silence. He was listening to the sound of your breathing. His scent filled your nose, pleasant and not overwhelming, you’d miss it when it was gone. You had gotten used to the fragrance, you were going to miss the sight of that little bottle he carried in his front satchel. You’d grown fond of smelling it bright and early in the night as he would pluck it out and tap it against his neck, his stomach, wrist, wrist and legs.

You were on the eve of change, and it thrilled you, yet there was anxiety. So much would shift, so many things would branch and become new. You were sure Astarion felt it to a much more intense degree. You smiled, remembering asking him about Cazador and how he mouthed off.

“I won’t leave you.”

You hummed in question giving him your full attention. He had that old stress line over his forehead, he was being serious. “When I remove this curse, I won’t just leave you. I made a promise to be with you. I don’t intend to change that. As far as I’m concerned, we are together, for as long as you’ll have me.”

You pressed a gentle kiss to his nose, so soft that even a moth would not mind its caress. “Let us be forever then.” He tilted his head up and his lips met yours, they were as soft as the first time. Peck after peck, you both traded until they became deeper, his tongue delicately finds your lips but never breaches.

You peeled yourself away reluctantly, eyes focused on Astarion’s. Wet. Not enough to fall from his eyes, but enough to haven shown a gleam of his true emotions. You would have kissed them away if they had spilled out.

“Come on. Let’s get you back to your mortal self, shall we?” You proclaimed with a broad grin, extending your hand. With unwavering determination, he accepted. To be loved, it to be changed. And you are sure, without a doubt in your heart, Astraion was the most beloved person in this realm.

You will change together, evolve as one.

[rythasbrenelle]

Prompt #13: Butte

Tired eyes narrowed against the bright light of a Twelveswood morning, Locke plodded his way through the scattered crowds of Gridania with about as much care and tact as an ornery goat. Aches rippled across his feet and up his legs with each step, and every jostled citizen was a fresh twinge of pain across his side and through his left shoulder.

He’d have sworn it even crept down from his shoulder, into his arm and his fingers, but the wolf-like beast had taken the better part of that, leaving him with a limb of splintered wood and stray wires. The mess was covered by long strips of linen cut into crude bandages, such that a passerby might believe he was hiding a real arm with real injuries and not a busted up prosthetic.

Or so he hoped, anyroad.

What he couldn’t hide were the scratches on the side of his face where he’d been flung to the forest floor, nor could he hide the bruise on his jaw from his less than graceful landing. Neither were so severe that he wanted to waste even a sip of the few potions he’d squirreled away, however. Instead, he nursed his injuries and ego silently and applied himself to the job the old hermit had saddled him with. “Potionmaker? Name of Odranne?” he inquired. Each time, he was answered with a shake of the head or a polite apology, and he continued on to the next shopkeeper or citizen or Wood Wailer. Finally, he came to a stop at yet another stall, this one owned by an Elezen man preoccupied with rummaging through some sort of container underneath the counter. Locke set his good hand — his only hand — on the counter and tapped his claws against the wood. Dark eyes and a surly face appeared opposite Locke, the rummaging stopping for a moment. “Just a moment,” the stallman said. And the rummaging resumed. Locke huffed and busied himself examining the array of books on display. Leather covers, colorful spines, glyphs in different hues and shades and shapes. Meaningless to him, but they looked nice. A heavy container shifted underneath the stall, and the stallman stood up, finally fixing his full attention on Locke. “My apologies, you caught me preparing for the morning. Something I can help you with?” “Looking for someone. A potionmaker,” Locke said. “Name of Odranne?” “I think I know who you mean. You’re—” the stallman stopped, his eyes settling on Locke’s right shoulder. Frowning, Locke followed his gaze. His clothes were a bit dirty, he supposed, and turning his head, he could smell the events of the last few days on them, dirt and rain and stale sweat mingling in the fabric and leather. But surely he wasn’t that bad. “Don’t serve imperials here,” the stallman spat, pulling Locke’s eyes back to him. His expression had turned hard, his jaw tight, a flinty gaze fixed on Locke. “Not Garleans, and not their turncoat dogs either.”

“Luckily, I’m neither,” Locke answered. “Just use the weapons. Now, Odranne?”

The stallman scoffed, lip curling with contempt. “Leave, and take your questions elsewhere. I’ll have nothing to do with you.”

Locke shook his head. “You know the potionmaker. Where can I find her?”

“Leave, vagrant,” the stallman repeated, leaning closer. He towered over Locke, a full fulm and then some taller, with broad shoulders and a physique that seemed better suited to swinging a weapon than selling tomes.

Locke shifted his weight to his back foot but otherwise stood still, hand resting on the counter. Were there peacekeepers nearby? Would they take his side? He didn’t dare break eye contact to check, not when the stallman could easily take advantage of the distraction.

“Drop it already, both of you. Nobody’s impressed, you’re just bothering everyone,” a voice cut in. The stallman looked to the newcomer, and though instinct screamed at Locke to take advantage of the opening, he curled his fingers into his palm and forced himself to follow the stallman’s lead.

A willowy Elezen stood just a few paces away, nearly as tall as the stallman but more svelte than Locke. Her blue eyes flicked between the quarreling men before settling on Locke.

“I’ve been hearing my name on the wind all morning. Are you the one asking about me?”

Locke confirmed her question with a nod. When she raised a thin eyebrow and didn’t say anything, he added, “Delivery for you. From an old man. Cranky fellow, lives in the woods?”

“Hm. That doesn’t narrow it down like you might think.” She shifted a woven basket from one hand to the other, its contents hidden beneath a plain piece of cloth. “Oh, well. Come along then, we can talk business elsewhere and leave this gentleman to his work.”

The stallman grumbled his approval, and Odranne set off away from the market, heading further into the city. Locke shrugged a shoulder and fell into step behind her, watching her dark ponytail sway at first, then looking toward the basket to see if he could get a glimpse of its contents.

Could it be food? His stomach growled at the thought. He hoped it was food. Could he sneak some out from under the cloth without her noticing? Surely he’d earned that much, he’d brought her the parcel after all.

“I apologize for the trouble,” she said over her shoulder, distracting Locke from the plan forming in his mind. He dropped it and met her eyes. “He and the empire have some history.”

“You don’t say.”

She chuckled and looked forward again. “You’ll find much of the Twelveswood is like that. Lots of history, lots of grudges. And you do yourself no favors carrying weapons like those.”

“They’re effective.”

“Hence the issue. Oh, well. Here’s the checkpoint.”

A wooden gate filled the space between two tall ridges, and a pair of Wood Wailers stood before it, each armed with a spear. One of them acknowledged Odranne with a nod, the other, a smile.

Then their faces turned toward Locke. Behind their half-masks, he felt scrutinizing eyes on him.

“Only residents of the Twelveswood are permitted beyond this point. No vagrants, no sellswords, no adventurers,” one of the Wood Wailers intoned.

“And you look like you might be all three,” the second added with equally little feeling.

“No sense in giving him the whole speech,” Odranne said. “He’s my guest and temporary employee, I need him for a job. He’s not following me for nothing.”

The first Wood Wailer considered this and nodded. “Very well. Do keep an eye on him, however.”

“He looks like trouble,” the second added.

Odranne glanced back toward Locke as the Wailers opened the gate and rolled her eyes. Locke tilted his head to one side and frowned an unvoiced question. What was so troubling about him?

Still, the peacekeepers gave them no more grief as they passed and wordlessly closed the gates behind them.

Gridania was much the same beyond the gates as it was before them. Smooth paths, greenery and foliage scattered about, and natural stone walls sprouting from the ground. Some buildings stood alone, as they would anywhere else, but others incorporated their natural surroundings into the construction. Trees sprouted from the buildings, branches and ivy spiderwebbed across roofs, mounds of stone made natural walls and fences.

“As I said, there’s a lot of history,” Odranne echoed, leading Locke further into this unfamiliar district. “Old grudges are eventually forgotten, but often, that’s just because they’ve been replaced by new ones.”

“Against Viera?” Locke asked.

“Against outsiders,” she corrected. “And all of your strange and misguided ways that upset the balance of the forest. But that’s more history than I care to teach.”

“Probably more than I care to learn. How much further?”

Odranne pointed to a distant cottage atop a tall hill. It almost looked lonely, perched there away from all of the other buildings, but for anyone who valued their privacy, it was likely an ideal location. And he couldn’t imagine the view was anything to complain about.

Getting up there, however, looked to be another matter.

“Looks steep,” he commented.

“Oh, it is. Terribly steep.”

“Are there stairs?”

Odranne barked a laugh. “Hardly. I hope you’re well-rested and in shape, delivery boy.”

[bridgyrose]

Weiss, Yang and Blake find out Ruby is dying of an incurable disease. What would be their reactions?

Ruby panted as she dropped out of her semblance, falling to her knees and letting go of her scythe. Her hands shook as she struggled to keep her breath, vision starting to blur as she watched her friends fight the grimm they were assigned to destroy. Once her vision started to clear, she picked up her scythe and stood up, legs and arms shaking as she rushed towards the grimm to help. “Weiss! Use your ice dust to freeze them! Blake! Yang! Smash through them!” 

“Got it! Weiss yelled out as she slammed her rapier into the ground. 

Ice started to cover the ground around the grimm, freezing their feet as they struggled to get free. The few that were able to started to slip and slide around the ice, only for Yang to slam into them. A few grimm practically shattered from the cold while others dissolved into ash once their forms were broken. 

Ruby smiled a bit as she coughed, covering her mouth with her hand. She paused for a moment when she saw black and red blood on her hand, quickly wiping it away. One more mission, that’s all she wanted. It didnt matter how much worse her condition got, all she wanted was to do one more mission and then she might tell her team about what was going on. With one more slash of her scythe, she sliced through the last of the grimm, propping herself up against her scythe. “That’s… that’s the last of them…” 

“You okay, Rubes?” Yang asked.

“I’m… fine,” Ruby lied as she put up a smile and straightened herself up. “This was a more intense mission than I thought. But now that we have that out of the way, we can start making our way back home-” 

“Are you sure you’re okay?” Blake interrupted. “Normally you’re running circles around us after a mission like this and ready to go for another.” 

Weiss nodded, then paused. “Now that I think about it, you spent a lot more time behind us today than racing to take out the grimm.” 

Ruby felt her legs start to struggle to keep her standing as she leaned against her scythe again. She hadnt realized how much she needed to cough until she found herself in a coughing fit, turning away from her teammates as she tried to hide the blood that covered her hand. The world started to spin again for her as she wiped her hands against her skirt, the smile she wanted to put up fading as she looked at her concerned teammates. “I-I’m just… just a little sick. Nothing more.” 

Blake sighed and propped Ruby up a bit. “This seems more than just ‘a little sick’.” 

Ruby looked away as she felt her legs give out for a moment, only being propped up by Blake until her legs started to work again. She could feel the stares of disbelief of her teammates as she managed to steady herself. Months of hiding everything going out the window on a single mission. “Can… can we talk about this at home? O-or at the inn?” 

“Why cant you tell us now?” Yang asked. 

“Because I want to be somewhere a bit more… comfortable.” Ruby pulled herself away from Blake and started to walk back to the village, using her scythe as a crutch. “I’ll tell you everything there, but I want to turn in our mission first.” 

“You better tell us.” 

“I-I will.” Ruby nearly lost her footing for a moment, only to be caught by Weiss with a glyph. It almost felt insulting that she had to rely on her team to help her walk just a few miles back to the village, but it wasnt unexpected. Especially after a few rough missions. A grateful sigh left her lips as she entered into the bedroom of the inn, nearly falling onto the bed as her legs gave out under her. 

Blake shut the door and locked it behind her. “Ruby, what’s going on?” 

Ruby sat up and sighed a bit as she looked away from her teammates. “I… I’m dying.” 

Yang frowned, then sighed as she sat down next to Ruby. “What exactly do you mean you’re dying?” 

“The doctors… they think its a type of cancer, but…” Ruby leaned back and took a deep breath to calm the tremors in her hand. “But they cant find a tumor. O-or any other reason that my body seems to be shutting down. And at this point I cant tell if its the strain from using my silver eyes, or… or if its something that the Ever After did to me.” 

“Why didnt you tell us?” Yang asked, slightly annoyed. “This is something we should know about.” 

“And if you’re this sick, then maybe its time to retire,” Weiss added. 

Ruby frowned and tried to get up. “This is why I didnt want to tell you!” She paused as she felt her head spin for a moment until she could keep herself steady. “I-I know you all mean well and that there’s no shame in retiring, but I… I wanted to spend time with you all.”

Blake cocked a brow. “And you thought hiding all of this and pushing yourself was the answer?” 

“N-no, not… exactly that. I… I was fine a couple years ago. It started with a bad cough, some aches here and there, light-headedness after using my semblance… annoying but manageable. Its only been over the last three years that everything has gotten… worse. And it would’ve gotten this bad whether I pushed myself or not. So, instead of making you guys worry about me, I… I kept telling myself that I was okay and could keep up.” 

“I thought we were past this!” 

Ruby flinched as Yang stormed out of the room, slamming the door. She slowly sat down, feeling Blake’s hand on her shoulder to comfort her. “I… I didnt…” 

“I’ll go calm her,” Blake said as she got up. 

Ruby watched as Blake followed Yang, starting to feel guilty for keeping everything a secret from her team. All she wanted was to do things on her own terms and not how others wanted. 

“How… how long do you have left to live?” Weiss asked quietly. 

“The doctor said maybe another two or three years the last time I went to see him and that was-” Ruby pulled out her scroll to check when her last doctor appointment was. “-a little over six months ago. So, maybe another year and a half or so.” 

“Ruby-” 

“I know, I should’ve told you guys sooner, but I didnt want to deal with you all telling me how to handle this. Besides, this was my last mission. Even if I wanted to go for another one, I cant. Once we get back to Vale, I’m retiring.” 

“And then you’re resting, right?” 

“I… I dont know.” Ruby sighed and leaned against Weiss, starting to doze off. “Maybe rest, maybe do everything else on my bucket list.” 

Weiss nodded and rubbed Ruby’s back as she dozed off. “Please rest. I… you’ve helped Penny once before, and I think we can help you the same way.”

[myreia]

Sketches of Times Lost

Day 28: Deleterious

eons ago, a different conversation at the end of a different world. venat & azem. major endwalker spoilers. final days headcanons. written for ffxivwrite2024. 1409 words ao3 link

Dusk falls upon on a ruined world.

Iphigeneia sits in the Hall of the Convocation amidst a sea of shattered glass. The shards scatter across broken and bloodied tile bloodied tile, no rhyme or reason to their pattern, glinting bloodred in the light of the descending sun. She could have taken her seat—it is one of the few still standing—and yet she found herself drawn to the centre. She stood here once, before she claimed her seat, judged before the fourteen persons chosen to guide their people, and thus their star. She recalls how her predecessor sat upon that very throne that day, white hair pulled back, the glyph of Azem upon her face, blue eyes glowing keenly from beneath her mask. The proud smile that graced her lips when she was judged worthy of the seat.

An eon ago, or close enough to it.

The sky beyond the broken windows bleed red. Vibrant, with orange and purple lines streaking through it. It would be stunning, if not for the dark god growing on the horizon, hanging in the heavens like a falling star trapped in the planet’s atmosphere. Held in place, gorging on the souls that sustain it. Once He was little more than a purple spot in the sky, as distant as a star. But now He grows day by day, until some day He will blot out the sun.

Their saviour. Their end.

Zodiark’s power is vast, His aether unparalleled. A primal capable of rewriting the laws of the star, halting the catastrophe the way a dam blocks a river. A terrible solution for a terrible catastrophe, a solution reached after months of debate here at the top of their lofty tower even as the city below shook and wailed and screamed and died. And yet she cannot help but wonder what now stirs within it, what horror they have unleashed. Umbral can still, umbral can stop, but umbral will grow.  

How many more will they lose to feed a devouring god?

Oh, Hades. Little brother. What have you done?  

She has not seen him since before the Summoning, when the terror of fear was made manifest and Amaurot ran red with blood. Even the outskirts were not safe; every city, every town, every village across the entire star was cannibalizing itself. And yet it was her choice to turn her back on them. She could not bring herself to vote between sacrificing her people and watching them murder each other in the street. Not when she was so close to finding the answer—the true answer—entangled at the centre of it.

A secret within a secret within a secret.

The brightest minds of the Convocation—experts in their field, all—swore stagnating aether currents were the root of the cause. She did not agree. The conclusion did not make sense. To lose control of creation to such an extent could not be the work of rotten aether, unless they have been misguided in the fundamentals of aether for thousands of years.

She brought her concerns to Lahabrea, thinking her lover—the cleverest of them all, to his own detriment—would at least hear her out, and found them dismissed.

She brought them to Emet-Selch, and again they were dismissed.

Finally, she brought them to Elidibus, pleading for him to intercede. He did not agree.

And so she left.

The Defector she is now. Traitor. The one who turned her back on them at the darkest hour, refusing the role they wished her to play.

Iphigeneia exhales a breath and raises her head, her pale golden hair falling about her shoulders as she regards the sky. This will be her final day in Amaurot. Soon, she will be free of the Capitol for good. Return to Aulis, where her daughter waits. Where her work continues.

This is the last step.

“Iphigeneia.” A familiar voice washes over her—clear, crisp, strong. Though where once she would have found it reassuring, now she finds it… wrong. “I have come as you asked.”

Iphigeneia pauses, back straight, frozen in her spot. Glass crunches beneath Venat’s steps as her erstwhile mentor approaches and she sits beside her, legs folded beneath, her unbound white hair tumbling about her shoulders, stained red by the light. Though she hates to say it, her mentor has changed in the passing years, even before the catastrophe struck. The event in Elpis, the one shrouded in much mystery, changed her as much as it changed Hades. “You say that as if you intend to parlay,” she says, ignoring the hollow discomfort in her gut. “But we are not opposed, as far as I know.”

“You left the Convocation.”

“I would not take part in any of it.”

“You speak with such venom.” Venat raises her head, regarding the seat of Azem. “But the Convocation simply seeks to secure the future of our star.”

“This is not a future I had any desire to see.”

Silence. The wind howls beyond the broken windows, whistling through shattered stone and glass.

“The offer still stands,” Venat says. “I would gladly have you at my side in the days to come.”

“And my answer is still no,” Iphigeneia replies.

“An answer I will not speak ill of. Your reasons are your own.”

“You say that, and yet in the same breath you pry, oh mentor dearest.” She pauses, her expression growing grim. As the sun descends, the seat of Azem grows tall in the dark, casting a long shadow across them both. “I am not one of your followers, easily swayed by clever speeches and pretty words. I am not that judicial officer from the Bureau of the Architect, hanging onto your every word, idolizing us both without a unique thought in her head. You forget I know you as well as I know myself. This is no simple mission to rebalance the star, countering Darkness with Light. That is the front. What lies behind?”

“None. Zodiark grows unrestrained, but his power is not eternal. Not without more sacrifice. A permanent solution must be found. That is the truth of it.”

“All of the truth?”

Venat regards her, her gaze sorrowful, yet firm. She glances away, looking to the seat of Lahabrea. Charred and blackened and turned to ash, its glyph glowing like embers. “That is all I am at liberty to say.”

The discomfort returns, worse than before. They once shared everything—why can she not share this? “Who decides the liberty, Venat?” she asks coldly. “You? For what reason are you sworn to secrecy, or will you still not tell me what happened that day in Elpis?”

Venat pauses, her gaze passing now to Elidibus’ seat. The chair is split in twain, its glyph stained and smashed and scratched into oblivion. Not that he has much use for it now. Not when he sits at the heart of Zodiark. “I cannot say.”

Cannot say, cannot say… Is there anything she is willing to say? Iphigeneia has been chasing the vestiges of this secret for more years than she can count. A familiar attributed to her, a woman with the colour of her soul. A disruption in Elpis. Memories lost. Kairos run amuck… The pieces are there, but they are jumbled together so nonsensically that she cannot yet see the full picture. But she knows enough now to point at a horrifying truth, one that drove her to invite her mentor here.

She has told no one of what she suspects. Not even the few who remain she trusts, which is very few indeed. For the truth is both wild and unbelievable as it is horrifying and damning. If she is right, it would break their hearts as surely as it has hers. There is no power as unsettling as that of time.

At last, Iphigeneia rises to her feet, her footsteps echoing hollowly on the broken tile beneath. She stands before Venat, her piercing golden orange eyes gazing down upon her, the seat of Azem towering behind. “Then tell me this, mentor mine,” she says at last. “Did you know? Did you know what our future held?”

Venat does not answer. She simply looks ahead, regarding the seat of Emet-Selch, one of the few that has escaped the disaster unscathed.

The sound of her silence speaks more than words.

Iphigeneia’s jaw clenches. She strides from the chamber without further word and does not look back.

[shift-shaping]

lying and motivating

enaste receives an alarming letter from keeper istimaethoriel about the safety of her clan. she and her advisors differ on how to address its concerns.

rating: t

pairing: solavellan

warnings: canon-typical racism

previous fics | 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10

Da'len, I would not trouble you normally. You have enough on your shoulders, fighting ancient Tevinter magisters while representing your people. Unfortunately, the rifts that plague this land have spread chaos and fear along with them, and many seek to take advantage of it. Bandits are attacking Clan Lavellan. The raiders are well armed and heavily armored, and they come in numbers our hunters cannot match. We had settled in a small unclaimed valley not far from Wycome, a safe place with few rifts—but these bandits may force us to seek a new home. If your Inquisition can help, you might save our clan much hardship. Dareth shiral, Keeper Istimaethoriel Lavellan

Enaste sat back in her chair beside the war table, reading the letter for at least the fourth time since Leliana passed it to her. All three of her advisors stood quietly on the other side of the table, awaiting her response.

"But why?" She said finally, still looking at the letter. "We've had bandit attacks before, but nothing so large and coordinated. We have weapons, some gold and artifacts, stores of cloth... still, not enough to motivate organized attacks." Perhaps the Venatori had sent mercenaries to harass her clan, but to what end? To hurt her? Threaten her? They had done that already at Haven, there was no point in doing it again. Was this meant to provoke a response, to goad the Inquisition into a trap?

"It doesn't make sense," Cullen said, summarizing her thoughts. She looked up at him, and put the letter back on the table. Leliana took it carefully and read it again. "No simple bandits would attack a Dalish clan with so much force unless there was some ulterior motive."

Josephine nodded. "Inquisitor, you have said before that your clan has generally had amicable relationships with human settlements. Is there any reason to suspect that may have changed? Could these attacks be due to anti-elven sentiment in the region?"

Enaste pursed her lips and frowned. "Even the most peaceful clan can be targeted by humans without reason. But then the attackers are village mobs, not well-supplied gangs of bandits."

"Didn't your uncle arrive here a few days ago? Would he have any insight?" Cullen asked, and Enaste shook her head.

"He left before the clan settled near Wycome. This will be news to him as well."

"Duke Antoine of Wycome is an Inquisition ally." Josephine said as she looked over her notes. She glanced back at Enaste, brows knit. "We could ask him to investigate --bandits near his city should be cause for concern."

"Unless he already knows about the bandits," Cullen replied grimly. "How much of an ally is he, really?"

"Enaste," Leliana said suddenly, and three pairs of eyes turned to her. "Look at this." She held the letter up higher, the thin parchment slicing through a sunbeam. There was a faint tinge of blue to the paper, and the ghost of a pattern behind the words.

"Hand it to me," Enaste ordered, suddenly urgent. Leliana passed the letter back across the table and Enaste took it carefully in her hands.

"Wait, what is it? I didn't see anything," Cullen interjected, and Leliana shushed him.

Enaste held the letter up to the light again. She narrowed her eyes, forcing her vision to blur until the words ran together. Then she moved her free hand slightly, coaxing a lick of magic from across the Veil. The faint blue lines on the paper sharpened, then glowed, then lifted off the page. A shimmering series of blue glyphs hung in the air, even as she set the letter back down.

"Elvish?" Leliana asked, and Enaste nodded.

"Few of us can read and write the language. My Keeper began teaching me as soon as I became First." She looked at her advisors, the glyphs still suspended above the war table. "As far as she knows, I am the only one at Skyhold capable of reading this."

"But... why so much secrecy?" Cullen asked. "Was she worried it would be intercepted?"

"It was intercepted," Enaste said flatly, looking directly at Leliana.

The spymaster gave no indication of guilt. "All letters are examined by my people to ensure no harm comes to the recipient. We do not read them, of course, but they are opened and checked for dangerous spells and poisons." She shrugged. "It is common practice."

Enaste turned back to the glyphs instead of responding. "My Keeper wanted me to decide whether I should tell you what the message actually says, or pretend I never saw the glyphs at all." She closed her eyes for a moment, putting together the symbols in her head. The silence that followed was heavy, leaden with anticipation. "There is one word here: 'purge.'" She looked back at her advisors, who all understood immediately what that implied. "The situation is dire. For both my clan and possibly any elves living in Wycome."

To their credit, they took the matter seriously and began to discuss how best to deal with the situation. Leliana suggested sending skirmishers to help Clan Lavellan escape, Cullen suggested troops in Inquisition uniform, and Josephine had a few diplomats already in mind to handle negotiations.

Yet Enaste needed none of their suggestions. "I will leave tomorrow," she announced.

"I --you can't, Inquisitor." Cullen balked. "We are nearly ready to march on Adamant. If we wait, Corypheus's army will only grow larger."

"Every day we delay our siege, more lives are lost to these summoning rituals," Leliana's voice was cautious, as if talking to a dangerous animal.

Enaste bristled, but kept her tone even and controlled. "I will not risk sending anyone else in my stead. I need to protect my people."

"Your people are here!" Cullen barked, then immediately reeled himself back. "I --I apologize, Inquisitor. It's just... our forces, they follow you, they believe in you. They are putting their lives on the line to save yours." He sighed and rested his hand on the hilt of his sword, looking down at the floor, then back up at her. "Inquisitor, I understand you are in a difficult position. But we need you here, to lead us at Adamant. Our forces are made up of men and women who have sacrificed a great deal to our cause, to your cause. I would not ask that their sacrifice be in vain."

Enaste let out a shaky breath, and closed her eyes for a long moment before responding. When she spoke, her voice was just as steady, but gentler now. "With all due respect, Commander, our soldiers know the risks, as do the Grey Wardens. They chose to fight. My family did not. Our forces at Skyhold are made up of men and women, trained soldiers. My clan is made up of children, elderly, and teenagers with bows." She stared at him, waiting for a reply, and went on when he said nothing. "I am sorry. I will solve this matter as quickly as possible. But this is my family, and I will do whatever it takes to keep them safe."

"I... I understand, Inquisitor."

"My lady, if you must go yourself, then let us arrange support," Josephine offered, and her acquiescence was a relief. "I will reach out to our contacts along the Waking Sea, and we will find the fastest route to take you to Wycome."

Leliana nodded. "Indeed. And please do not go alone. I will send along several of my finest agents to offer you protection and guidance." Leliana was as hard to read as ever. Enaste could tell Josephine was sympathetic, and Cullen was frustrated, but Leliana was a wall of ice.

Realizing he would not persuade her, Cullen sighed and stepped closer to the war table. He pointed to several locations along the route. "We have some troops stationed here, here, and here. I will order supplies ready for you to receive them should your clan need additional support."

She blinked, surprised at the generosity of his offer, then nodded slowly. "Thank you, all of you. As I said, I will return as soon as I am able."

"In the meantime, there may be some work still to do in preparation for our siege on Adamant," Leliana said. She leaned over the war table, squinting. "Without supply lines of their own, the Wardens will be significantly weaker and more likely to surrender when we arrive. We have disrupted several already, but have yet to locate their sources for a number of important raw materials." She smiled slightly, but it failed to warm her gaze. "The Western Approach is very cold at night this time of year. Without hot food or warm clothing, morale will be difficult to muster even among the Wardens."

It was a menacing prospect. Enaste did not believe in extending misery any more than was necessary, and had hoped this battle would be as short as possible to minimize suffering on all sides. But if less-than-savory siege tactics were the price for doing right by her clan, Enaste was willing to pay. Let the Wardens hate her, let her forces wallow in anticipation: Enaste would not leave the lives of her family in anyone's hands but her own.

She dismissed her advisors soon after, and was left alone in the wide, echoing war room. The glyphs were fading now, disappearing into the cascading sunbeams. She was well-aware of what a purge meant for the elves of Wycome: she had been told of purges throughout Thedas with alarming frequency growing up. They were cautionary tales, true but mythologized into terrified whispers around the campfire, used to remind all that they were the last free elves, left to wander the outlands but never subjugated to such humiliating massacres.

Even the less openly-hateful humans agreed that purges were barbaric, and pitied city elves for what seemed like an inevitable part of their lives. 'The elven Inquisitor needs to stop a purge' would fit the story everyone believed about her, and thus she could justify her absence by invoking the word and using their expectations to her advantage.

Enaste had lied to them. The word in the glyphs was not 'purge,' but something that would have led to far more pushback had she been honest.

Because the actual word in the glyphs was 'plague.'

<- prev fic | next fic ->

[halfbakedspuds]

Thanks so much to @honeybewrites for the tag!

Find the word tag

My words are: Bold, Fire, Survivor, Chase

TW: burning alive, stabbing

Bold: (From The Tempest Prince book 3)

"Statement: That was a bold move, Haliday" the Archmagos turned to me with her signature clockwork stutteriness, two hollow pits staring through me out of her porcelain face, "Standing up to the Inquisitor-General like that,"

I grunted, not bothering to look up from the glyph I was drawing, "Are you really going to stand there and tell me that you wouldn't have done the same thing if not for politics? You of all people?"

A whirr emanated from her voicebox, the closest she could manage to a laugh with her body. I caught her picking up a page from the pile, scanning over my work, "Amused: I said that it was bold, not that I disapprove. Annoyed, indirect: Where I stand on the matter is that that bigoted einhusfilfr has been in power for far too long. It's about time someone stood up to him,"

She was silent for another moment, a few soft clicks whirred inside her body as its life support did its job. For a moment as the greatest Magos in Allyrian history turned my work about to look at it from different angles. Finally, giving up, she slid it over to me.

"Confused, Concerned: Child, what the hell were you doing here?"

I only spared a moment's glance at the page she held before redirecting my attention to the glyph I was seeing into the page beneath my hands, "Redirecting the output from AH-11 through a Gaussian cycler and into the arcana null with a resistance path to the arcana-thermal cross-converter," I shrugged at the somehow blanker than usual look she gave me, "Remember your old buddy Nikola Tesla? This is effectively the arcane version of his coils. I'm using it to build up some backing-power before firing. Might be a hell of a lot slower but contextually I feel like trading speed for force is worth more to this design,"

"Impressed: That is... genius, actually," The Archmagos said in a warm monotone, "A bold solution by a bold individual,"

Fire: (From Echoes of Shadows)

TW: Burning alive, stabbing.

"Johan!" Sasha cried out, her voice fraught with panic.

Hold on! Spirits, just hold on for a few more seconds!

"Nyet! Get the fuck off of me! Idi nahui, ty suka!" She called out again.

Johan was practically dancing around the things now, ignoring them just to get to Sasha and help her.

A sudden sharp pain in his side tore a cry of anguish from him. Through hazy, swimming vision, he looked down to spot a dagger in his side, gauntleted fingers still wrapped around its pommel. He fought to look up into the crow's mask of the cultist before him...

...and watched their lenses crack as the ambient temperature suddenly fell to that of the Rostovan heartlands.

He heard an uncharacteristically feral growl come from Sasha, and quickly whipped his head around, just in time to watch her put her hands to the face of the cultist who had been harassing her.

"You want me so badly? Fine then, I'll drag you down to the hells with me!" She screamed into their face.

A moment passed, then they began to spasm and thrash, clawing at her hands and drawing long, crimson streaks of crimson from her skin as they fought her grip. The only other indicator of their struggle were muffled cries for help and of unknowable pain, and a steady red glow beginning to shine through their leather mask.

She slowly turned towards the rest, who had all gone still with fear. Johan was fairly certain he could smell urine from the one closest to him, but that could've also been the sewer water. Not that he would've blamed them, though, and besides, he had a knife in him.

There was a sudden, horrible crack as the glass of her assailant-turned-victim's lenses burst outwards, and two plumes of white-hot fire spewed forth like geysers from their eyes. After a moment, it subsided, and the cultist's limp form splashed into the sewer, leaving billowing steam where they lay among the filth.

"You hear me, fuckers?!" She cried with a crazed laugh behind her words, her hands out to her sides and engulfed in blue-hot flames, "I'll kill every last one of you!"

Survivor: (From Children of the Stars)

"Perhaps that's why the two of you seem drawn to each other," another one of the machines answered, this one working a console of some kind. Lyanni was starting to lose track of all the places that Apollyon's voice emitted from.

"How so...Admiral?" She rushed to correct herself.

A chorus of barking laughter erupted from the androids around her, and when the new machine spoke, it was the one in the navigator's chair, "My girl, I've wandered the universe for two centuries, you don't have to play the fool with me. You're both survivors, you both carry unknowable pains and have committed unspeakable acts all in the name of one more day," Lyanni started as an Android put its hand on her shoulder, coming around to stand before her, "You who survived a genocide, and Adam alone knows what he's been through,"

The Android gave Lyanni's shoulder a reassuring squeeze, "If you'll permit me to share some insight from one non-human to another?"

Lyanni felt her hearts in her throat. Why was this... inorganic thing so gods-damned terrifying.

She swallowed, "If you'd do me the honour, Admiral,"

The interlocking plates of the android's face, a facsimile of a human's, shifted into a tooth-baring smile, "The Callistoans aren't an easy group of humans to read- believe me, I know what it's like- but they respect skill and grit, and purely from how much he relies on you (don't give me that look, surely you've noticed)- I'd say you've earned his respect. Hell, if I didn't know better I would've said you've gotten the great Adrian Castellan to like you, little miss Sverik,"

Chase: (surprisingly, throughout three active WIP's, I haven't used this word even once)

No pressure tags for @illarian-rambling, @pb-dot and anyone else who wants in

[enchantedchocolatebars]

Like To Love You (The Written Animatic) [Schedule here. "Clara" is my wittewife oc.]

(Au + canon divergent fic. Last year's b-day story.)

The gentle golden sun shone brightly in the technicolor sky of the Boiling Isles as this song began to play in the background.

Hope and joy permeated the atmosphere.

Inside his shared cottage home, Caleb was sleeping as he lay supine beneath the linen sheets of his bed, his blonde hair tangled atop his pillow.

The sunlight filtered through the curtains and onto his face, making him feel very comfortable.

No one was present on the other side of the bed.

Clara, his witch wife, peeked a hazel green eye through the crack of their half-open bedroom door.

Her excitement was quite evident on her face as she stood on the other side, holding a plate of piping-hot pancakes she had whipped up for him, with the golden cake on top having candles sticking out of it.

Today was a very special day.

Both Flapjack, her husband's cardinal palisman, and Syrup, her blue jay palisman, expressed their excitement through tweets as they each sat on the right and left side of her shoulder.

Clara, with a smile on her face, gently brought a finger to her lips, silently signaling them to conclude their chrips, which they did with a nod.

She softly laughed and used her magic to light the candles before entering the bedroom.

Clara quietly walked across the lukewarm floorboards to reach her sleeping husband.

Upon reaching his side, the short haired brunette began to gently sing the birthday song, with Flapjack and Syrup backing her up by chirping the melody.

As Caleb slowly woke up, he let out a yawn and saw the three by his bed.

Instantly, a smile that was a mixture of surprise and sunshine appeared on his face.

After singing the final lyric of the song, Clara gave Caleb the most loving smile and placed the plate on his lap.

With a soft chuckle, he thanked Clara, Flapjack, and Syrup for the surprise before blowing out his candles as the three cheered.

...

In the sitting room, Flapjack and Syrup fly over to Caleb with their gifts for him.

In their beaks, both birds have a small pebble that is beautifully wrapped in ribbon.

He happily accepts them.

Clara, who is standing in the center of the room, takes a small step to the right and reveals a tall gift box that was concealed behind her.

She gestures towards it with a great big grin on her face, wanting Caleb to open it.

Caleb was amazed by the size of the present. As he approached it, he took off the top and was surprised to see his brother standing inside, wrapped in ribbon and with a bow on his head.

Beardo Philip's features indicated his frustration with being there agasint his will (Clara figured that since Philip refused to tell her what his brother might like as a gift, she would make him the gift instead), while Caleb's eyes shone with glee at the sight of his baby brother.

Clara uses her magic to lift Philip out of the box with a playful expression, and Caleb immediately embraces him with affection.

Annoyed, Philip blows a huff.

Clara can't help but giggle at the two.

...

Next, Clara takes Caleb to a new woodshop that was built in town.

Inside, the couple takes a look at all the neat carvings that are there, as Clara buys a few for Caleb.

...

Later on, the two wearing winter attire take a trip to the Knee and exchange in a fun snowball fight while their two birdies wearing knitted winter hats watch from a tree branch.

...

When nightfall hits, the couple sit side by side in the snow with mugs of warm apple blood in their hands as they watch in amazement the sky glitter with glyph fireworks, their palisman nestling in their laps.

...

At home, Caleb was sound asleep in bed, his beloved right next to him.

All was right.

As Clara cuddled into his chest, she let out a blissful sigh.

The witch was able to hear her favorite human's heartbeat and desired to stay there forever as she slept with him.

Getting to spend another year with such a great guy was something she was so glad for.

(... I'd really like to love you.)

[modern-inheritance]

Modern Inheritance: Escape, Part 2.2: Supply Run

(A/N: Yeah I got nothin' to say right now. Cheers!) ~~~

With Eragon as safely hidden as possible, Murtagh followed the elf down the halls, both sticking to whatever shadows they could find. The place was surprisingly empty, most of the sparse night shift likely being directed to search the high risk ward down below. They only had to double back once, waiting for a trio of men half dressed in their uniforms to pass by before darting to the caged door the elf indicated.

“Don’t happen to have keys on that belt?” Murtagh grabbed the padlock securing the room and tugged on it. The heavy mass of metal held. The keyhole was an entirely different shape from the set Seig had given him.

The woman patted down the belt and shook her head. An idea seemed to come to her mind, and she shooed the young man away before kneeling down and taking the padlock in one hand, two fingers threaded between the arch. She gave it a few tugs, applied steady pressure, and then suddenly slammed the heel of her free palm into the side of the padlock.

The self satisfied hum was unnecessary. So was tossing the broken lock to Murtagh before she opened the door. 

“You get yours, I’ll get his.” The elf nodded and slipped inside, moving immediately to one of the corners where a military style pack was tucked away on a shelf, a pile of clothes and a set of boots beside it. 

Zar’roc wasn’t all that hard to find. The wine red sheath stood out among the greys, blacks and whites that dominated the standard supplies for the guards and inmates. 

He had to force his hands to close around it. Murtagh lifted the sheathed blade carefully. His mouth felt dry at the cool leather’s touch, the etched glyph’s edges razor sharp against his fingers as he wrapped the first half of the sheath with the belt still dangling from the sheath’s loop. 

His back twinged, familiar patches of static springing to life along the white scar where it brushed against his clothing. If it were any other situation, Murtagh was certain he would have left the bloodied blade there, shoved it under some shelf or taken it with him only long enough to chuck it down the nearest well. 

But Eragon needed a sword. He needed a Rider’s sword. 

Murtagh swallowed the bile rising in his throat at contact with his father’s weapon and tucked it under his arm. Did everything in his power to push the thoughts out of his head.

Murtagh gathered up Eragon's other things and paused. There was plenty here they could use. He grabbed a laundry bag and started stuffing it with spare clothing, toiletry kits, half a box of MREs, anything that looked useful. On the wall by the door he spotted a metal cabinet, bright red and painted with a stark white medical cross. 

Medicine. They were sorely lacking any sort of medical supplies. Eragon looked okay, he wasn’t moving like he was injured, but the elf’s arms and neck were covered with mottled bruises. She’d need some sort of treatment at some point, he was sure, and they could use all the help they could get now that they were officially on the run. 

Murtagh beelined for the cabinet and tugged on the door before letting out a sharp curse. Of course it was locked. 

“Oi, elf.” Murtagh looked over his shoulder and suddenly found himself stifling a bark of laughter. Far from the image of beauty and grace in all the stories of elves he had heard, the woman was hopping on one leg, tugging on what he assumed was one of her boots. 

Her teeth were bared in a soundless, frustrated growl, and from his angle Murtagh saw, with a twinge of sudden unease, that her canines were larger than most humans. Not only that, but there was a sharp point and cutting edge to the similarly sized premolars behind them. They mirrored the teeth that sat just beside Saphira’s fangs, for gripping and slashing into pinned prey.

The hair on the back of his neck rose. Despite the oh so familiar, so very human dance she was currently doing with her boots, it sank in for him then that she was not of his kind. 

Murtagh cleared his throat. “Hey.” 

The elf yanked the laces tight and bounced on her toes to double check the fit before she went to him. A fine sheath and blade were strapped into the snap-lock holster on her right side, stolen pistol discarded for a much sturdier and heavier looking gun with an unfamiliar bluish tint to the metal. She showed it to him as she approached, displeasure and near disgust flitting across her face at the open breech and locked slide stop indicating a lack of ammunition. 

“Live rounds are probably in the guard shack. We don’t have time to get any.” The woman made a dismissive tsk from the corner of her mouth and thumbed the slide release before she holstered the pistol. “Medical cabinet. Think you can get this one open?” 

She gave him a deadpan look and pointed to the laundry bag. Getting her hint, he handed her one of the shirts and watched her wrap her right fist with it, knuckles covered in thick improvised padding. 

And then she slugged the cabinet door right next to the lock. Metal crumpled like paper, the lock popping free with a ragged rip of stressed steel. She grabbed the top of the door and ripped it off the hinges, tugged it away from the crimped parts and tossed it behind them. 

Murtagh stared. After the lock outside, he should have expected something like this. But damn. He sure as hell couldn’t forget she wasn’t human now. “Well, now you’re just showing off.” 

She ignored him, dragged a finger down the rows of medicine vials, injectors and pills that sat above the shelves of bandages and other more mundane supplies. She tossed several vials into the laundry bag Murtagh still held open and stuffed a handful of yellow auto-injectors into the pouch on her pilfered belt. Lastly she grabbed a packet of tablets, and, before he could stop her, popped three of the white discs out of the foil and tossed them in her mouth. 

When he sputtered, incredulous, the elf held up the packaging and tapped the medication name. Murtagh recognized it as a strong painkiller, one frequently handed out to troops due to its non-drowsy formula. 

“Alright, fair enough.” If the blood was anything to go by, the elf would certainly need that as the adrenaline surge of their escape wore off. She helped him stuff practically all the bandages, syringes, and other first aid supplies into the laundry sack. “That’s enough. Let’s get out of here.”

He was already halfway out the door when, out of the corner of his eye, Murtagh saw the woman rake her eyes over the medical cabinet one last time. She seemed annoyed, or that might have been half concealed panic, but he couldn’t worry about it now. Eragon had been alone for all of ten minutes, and that was plenty of time for him to attract masses of trouble.

He missed the click of an auto injector. Behind him, Arya rubbed the newly blossoming sore spot on her right shoulder and stuffed the empty red syringe into the side of her pack. She paused one more time, grabbed a bundle of red combat stim pens and chucked them into the remaining pouch on her stolen belt. 

As satisfied as she could be without the antidote in hand, Arya grit her teeth, slung her pack onto her shoulder, and jogged after the already retreating Murtagh. 

There was a bit more activity now. They could hear shouting down the hall, the tromp of boots bouncing around the space. The cacophony eased somewhat when they came to the carpeted dining entry, disappeared completely when they slipped inside.

Murtagh didn’t know if he should sigh in relief or hold his breath when he saw the massive room was empty. It took Eragon’s mop of honey streaked hair popping out from one of the tables close to the center for him to relax, even if it were just a tiny bit. 

Murtagh was already holding Zar’roc out to the Rider as the trio met at the midpoint, the smooth sheath burning his fingertips until Eragon gratefully accepted the blade. They let him strap it on over his prison tunic and pull on his hunting boots, the elf and young man exchanging a bemused glance as he did it all with a large chunk of bread clamped in his teeth.

With that done, Murtagh led the two former prisoners to the first row of tables back from the opposite end of the hall, where an open space for performances gave them easy sight to the doors. He waved them down to crouch between the mahogany benches, eyes flickering to check the entrances and exits out of habit.

“We’re going to wait here for now. There’s too much rabble.” He slipped his rifle from under his arm to across his chest, two fingers tapping along the edge of the trigger guard. “Keep a low profile.” 

Eragon stuffed a torn piece of sourdough into his mouth. “When should I tell Saphira to come?” As if he had known her for years, the young Rider ripped the remaining loaf in half and casually offered it to the elf. She accepted it with the same odd hand gesture as in the cell and attacked it like it was the first food she had seen in days. Probably was. 

“Shift change. We’re going to have to wait it out.” He checked the battered timepiece Seig had given him. “Tell her…about thirty minutes.”

Eragon’s face tightened. It could have been the moonbeams from the skylights, but he seemed to go pale. “I know we had to stall to get our gear, but that’s too long.”

“There’s gunners on the roof.” Murtagh explained. “Saphira’s going to be coming in to a hotzone if we don’t wait till–”

“I know. But…” The boy leaned forward, food forgotten. “I don’t want her flying into that, and you know I wouldn’t ask her to unless it was necessary. We need to get out, now.” His gaze flicked to the elf, who nodded in agreement. “There’s a Shade here. He’s the one in charge of this place.”

A cold stone dropped into Murtagh’s stomach. 

A Shade?

He felt his mouth moving on its own. “Are you sure?”

Eragon nodded, lips tight and eyes grim. Beside him, the elf made another gesture, a sharp nod of her fist with her thumb pressed flat against the side of her hand and first two fingers bent at the second knuckle. She bared her teeth and clicked them together, aggression and muffled hatred echoing in the soft sound.

That was that, then. Plan right out the window.

Murtagh leapt to his feet. His movements were automatic, the next steps falling into place as his gaze swept around the dining hall. “Tell Saphira we need her now.” He pointed to the two servant entrances on the side of the room they had entered in. “Elf, secure those. I’ll get those main doors. Eragon, you get the set here.” He felt Tornac’s training rising in his mind, a strange mix of deadly calm and absolutely terrified at the situation he found himself in. That he now had to get them all out of. “Secure this room, now!”

The elf was already gone, Murtagh following her darting figure to the opposite side of the room again. Eragon held his tongue and sent out a mental call to his partner, felt her tilt and dive like an arrow cutting through the wind. 

Murtagh was dragging the massive beam used for barring the main doors out from its resting place when a chill tingled up the back of his neck. The hairs stood on end, a sense of bone deep foreboding latching into his muscles. 

“What have we here?” 

Out of the corner of his eye Murtagh saw the elf freeze. And then she was gone, melted into the shadows cast by the moonlight through the windows above. 

He swallowed his fear. Gripped his rifle tight to his shoulder and turned slowly, controlled, down into the forward crouch Tornac had drilled into him. Faced the Shade, standing not ten feet from Eragon, at the opposite end of the hall, and began creeping in.

[basicallyjaywalker]

Screw-Up

I should be writing an essay, but brain is buzzing with Ivy and Ronin thoughts so have some banter for them ft. Ivy being a terrible mechanic

no proofing OR editing. enjoy unfiltered rook brain

Word Count: 640

"You're gonna strip those screws if you tighten 'em anymore."

Ivy looked up at Ronin from the small robot on their desk. She'd taken from a scrap heap outside Stiix's limits. It was a rusted piece of garbage, but cute. Plus, she saw the Borg Industries logo on it. Flipping this baby would net them a pretty penny.

Ronin stood against the wall of the pawn shop's back room, arms crossed. He'd been out looking for something too, "big score," he told her. By the looks of it, he either put it away already or wasn't able to grab it.

"I'm not tightening 'em, I'm loosening 'em," she muttered. What she didn't tell Ronin was that she'd been "loosening" these screws for almost fifteen minutes. The cursed things didn't wanna come out.

Ronin pushed off from the wall and walked over to her, standing at her side and watching her fiddle with a small Phillips head screwdriver and the back panel of the machine.

"What's the rule, Ives?" he asked.

"Righty tighty, lefty loosey."

"And what side am I on?"

"My left."

He shook his head. "Check your hands, write something in the air."

She rolled her eyes, but did so, frowning when her right hand almost collided with his face as she raised it.

"Shit."

"You've been turning it the wrong way. That's why you're tightening it... and stripping it."

Ivy muttered a few more curses and stood up. "Damn stupid machinery, this is why I stick to the scrolls..."

"Then you're gonna love what I brought home."

She turned to him. "What'd you get?"

A smirk pulled on his lips. "Well, I paid a little visit to the Library of Domu, took one of their special scrolls, written by a guy named 'Yang.' Supposedly, it's the only one of its kind."

"Not for long," Ivy grinned and ran out to the front of the shop, checking the disorganized shelves. There were a few scrolls she faked before, namely novelty pirate maps, scattered around. Ronin watched her sort and scan.

"It's not on any of those," he finally said.

Ivy stopped, turning to him. "Where is it then? You didn't bring it back to the office."

He nodded at an ugly vase in the corner. Ivy went over shooting him a curious look. Glancing inside, a rolled-up piece of aged paper stared back at her. She picked it up, unwrapping its old green ribbon tie and gingerly unfolding it. Her eyes darted around, taking in the details of old glyphs. She liked that they were glyphs. Pictures were easier to replicate than words.

She let out a low whistle. "Damn, Ronin. Who do you think would want this?"

"Anyone worth their salt who's studying old fighting methods would want a copy. The library itself would pay a fortune for the original. How quick do you think you could copy it?"

"Depends on how detailed. Exactly like this? Two days, tops, uninterrupted. One day, if you don't mind me taking creative liberties."

"We'll see how much demand we get after the news breaks."

"You sure no one's gonna wanna take it back?"

Ronin walked over and took the scroll from her, wrapping it back up and tucking it back in the vase. "Of course they do, that's why we hide it." He reached a hand up to ruffle her black hair, missing when she ducked away, laughing a little in triumph.

"Nice try. So, you gonna help me fix that robot up?"

"Sure, do you know what it's for?"

"No clue, but it's Borg-made. Figured even if I screwed it up, the scrap would be worth enough to make it work."

Ronin chuckled. "Well, let's see if the screws are messed up enough to warrant scrapping it." He clapped her shoulder and they walked back to the office.

[whump-me]

Unburied, Chapter 5

Chapter 5 of Unburied, my contribution to the Whump Girl Summer event hosted by @whumpawoman. Masterpost here.

Prompt: Traditions

Contains: spy whumpee, friendly whumper, female whumpee, female whumper, fantasy setting, magic, human sacrifice

---

“It didn’t work,” Kira said, or she tried. She mouthed the words, but all that came out was a bubbling rattle. But the grin she shot Leila, pained but triumphant, needed no translation.

She kept going, even though she was sure Leila couldn’t understand, even though every hiss of air across her parched and torn vocal cords was agony. “I won’t give you what you want. I’ll never die for you willingly.”

Either her rasps were more understandable than she had thought, or Leila was adept at reading lips, because Leila actually answered. “Oh, it’s not your choice anymore,” she said. “Or that’s the theory. It doesn’t matter what whether you want to help me. What you’ve just been through took a lot out of you, you know. Specifically, it took all the resistance you had in you. Burned it right out of your body. It doesn’t matter how much you want to resist—you don’t have the strength anymore.” She frowned. “At least, that’s how it’s supposed to work. I hope I got it right this time.”

Kira didn’t have it in her to offer any further words of defiance. But if she had, it wouldn’t have mattered, because Leila wasn’t listening anymore. She stood and walked away without a backward glance. She showed not the slightest bit of concern that the unrestrained Kira might surge up and wrap her bony hands around her neck.

Kira tried, of course. All she succeeded in doing was sending wrenching spasms down her back and out through her limbs. She fell heavily back down to the stone, her chest heaving with dry sobs.

She lay still and braced herself. She knew what was coming next, and she knew how she had fought it before. She didn’t have to kill Leila. All she had to do was resist. And with Edri… with Edri gone… Kira’s throat convulsed in a painful swallow. She forced herself to finish the thought. With Edri gone, Leila didn’t have any backup plan. Her internal damage would kill her soon enough. She would die here with Kira, and the weapon would go unused.

Was the best Kira could hope for. It was enough.

Until Provisha sent someone else out here. And Kira was fooling herself if she thought they wouldn’t. They had gotten a taste of magic, and the power it could give them. They would give up so easily.

Kira’s death would come to nothing. Edri’s death would come to nothing.

Another sob shook her body, this time one of despair. Exhaustion stole through her limbs, starting at her fingers and toes, creeping up her body until she didn’t think she could stay awake a second longer, let alone resist the invisible claws once they started trying to tear her life from her flesh.

With every ounce of ruthlessness she still had in her, she forced back thoughts of the future. It didn’t matter what happened next—she couldn’t control that. All she could control were the next few moments. All she could do was resist.

But the thoughts lingered at the edges of her consciousness, unwilling to let her banish them completely. The truth stuck in her mouth like a bitter taste, underneath the tang of her own blood. Edri had died for nothing. She would die for nothing.

Leila intoned the unfamiliar words from before. This time, Kira couldn’t raise her head to see what the other woman was doing. She stared up at the ceiling and watched the room fill with an unnatural glow as light spilled from the glyphs and across the lines in the floor. It brushed against her skin, drawing sharp lines of pain wherever it landed. Even that gentle touch was too much for her now.

The light tugged at her more insistently—not her abused body, although she felt it in every inch of abused muscle and every strained joint, but at the life that lay within. Kira squeezed her eyes shut and tried to wall off her soul, to warn away the light the way she had before. No. You can’t have me. But the words were just words, lacking even the substance of sound. There was no power behind them. The tugging grew more insistent, and no amount of mental screaming made it let up. This time, the gentle touches didn’t turn to sharp claws. The invisible fingers remained soft as they combed through her soul like they were carding wool.

As much as she screamed at herself not to let Leila win, not to let Edri’s death be in vain, her mind was as limp and yielding as her body. She felt her soul spilling loose from her skin, and knew she was helpless to stop it.

The worst part wasn’t the feeling of coming unmoored from her body in slow motion. Or the knowledge that her life force would go to power an ancient weapon that many people had died to ensure would never see the light of day again. The worst part was the shameful feeling of relief. At least the claws hadn’t come back this time. She’d had enough of pain. At least soon it would be over—and sooner than it would have been if her attempts at resistance had worked.

I’m sorry, Edri, she thought, too weak to even mouth the words.

The pain didn’t let up, but it felt distant now, like it didn’t really belong to her. The broken body barely felt like her own as her mind slipped free.

She tried to remind herself why Leila was doing this. She imagined the horror of the ancient weapon; she pictured her city gone, with nothing but a smooth expanse of glass in its place. She tried to muster up one last desperate spark of resistance.

She couldn’t. There was nothing left in her. The light grew brighter and brighter, until she could see it through her eyelids, until just looking at it became a pain of its own. But it didn’t matter. None of the pain mattered anymore.

“Oh,” she heard Leila breathe in a reverent whisper. “Oh. I understand.”

Kira had heard stories of the Buried City all her life, and of the ancient civilization that had once ruled from this place, grinding the world under its thumb with their cruel magic. First had come the children’s stories everyone had grown up with. Then, much later, the fragments of ancient history Edri had unearthed in the archives as they prepared for their journey. No two stories were identical, but they all shared many common threads. Among other things, they all said that either magic turned people cruel, or it took cruelty to discover the secrets of magic in the first place. Either way, the end result was that those ancient rulers had been cruel to the bone. Their cruelty was built into every stone of this place, permeating the floor like the remnants of Edri’s blood.

The ancient rulers had been monsters, a child’s fears, superstitions with more emotion than logic behind them. Or that was how it had felt to her, even as a child. No wonder her superiors hadn’t believed. The stories had turned them into caricatures, mere literary devices, with their endless appetite for death and suffering. But now here she was, inside the proof that the stories were true. Their appetites had not been exaggerated.

When Kira opened her eyes, she saw why the glow had intensified so much. The array of glyphs along the curved walls had all come to life. There wasn’t an inch of the wall not lit up by glowing lines, their curves and angles forming complex symbols she didn’t understand—symbols that pulsed with every tug she felt deep beneath her skin.

The light began to hum. That wasn’t quite right—she didn’t think she was hearing it with her ears—but it was closer to a sound than to anything else she might have described it as. It was a low and constant drone reverberating in her bones, and a soprano voice that moved up and down in a wordless discordant wail. It felt like being touched by something that had existed for a million years. Like a fossil in a museum opening its eyes and staring back. Like a god emerging from slumber. As the sound that wasn’t a sound shook Kira’s flesh right down to the bones, it began to feel as if her world had been the aberration, and now everything was going back to the way it had always been, the way it always should have been.

The world pulsed with the rhythm of the light, the rhythm of the wailing voice. This was the true rhythm of life, and it had been silent for too long. Kira couldn’t imagine how she had never been aware of it before. The pulse invaded her skin until her heartbeat slowed to match it. Her thoughts rose and fell in the same rhythm, until she struggled to hold an idea in her head for longer than the space of a heartbeat or a brief flare of light. Until she had to work to remember who she was beyond the rhythm in her bones.

“Can you sense it?” The cadence of Leila’s voice matched the pulse of the room. “No one knows exactly how long Norkhuggak ruled, but if my research can be believed, it was a longer time than our benighted civilizations are capable of envisioning.” Her voice sank into a reverent, ecstatic whisper. “My superiors have had it wrong all along. This isn’t an innovation. This is a return.”

Yes. Kira knew what she meant, understood it down to her bones, where the room’s rhythm pulsed. This was how the world had always been, except for the past thousand years, a brief blink of time compared to the sheer weight of history buried under the sand.

Some lives went to feed others. This was the natural order of things. This was how it had always been.

But she pictured Edri’s blood smeared across the floor, and something deep within her rebelled. She caught a small thread of her own mind, and held on tight to it, through the pulsing of the glyphs and the beating of her heart. She clung to it like it was a thin fraying rope, like that rope was all that stood between her and drowning.

And she kept her grip. She knew who she was now. She knew she wanted no part of this. But that alone didn’t give her enough strength to resist. Only enough that it no longer felt like peace as the invisible hands pulled her soul loose from her body. It only felt like death.

She tried to hold on to her body the way she held onto her mind. Her flesh was broken, but it was nothing but a source of pain, and there was a large part of her that would rather have been rid of it. But the rest of her wasn’t willing to let go that easily. She had earned every bit of that pain, earned it through her will and her defiance, and she wanted every last inch of her torn and abused flesh.

But wanting wasn’t enough.

Slowly, gently, the tugging hands pinched off the connections between her body and the life within. Her flesh lay heavy on the stone, and she… she wasn’t entirely sure where she was. Her body was no longer her own, or not entirely—when she tried to twitch a single finger, nothing happened. The connections between her will and her flesh had all been severed. But the pain was still there, even if there was a wall between her and it that muted some of the intensity. And she didn’t float away from her body to look down at herself from far above, the way ghosts did in the stories. She hung where she was, inside the flesh she no longer controlled—slow, heavy, liquid.

The glyphs went out, one by one. The light dimmed to a faint glow. Leila blinked down at her, frowning in confusion. “It’s done?” she said, a question more than a statement. “But… but you’re still alive. And the weapon… it’s not…” Alarm flashed into her bewildered eyes. “No. I can’t have gotten it wrong again. Not after all this.”

Was she still alive? Yes, she supposed she was. She still saw through her eyes, still heard through her ears. She still felt her heartbeat in her temples and the tips of her fingers. The pain in her hip still made her want to scream. But she couldn’t scream, couldn’t speak, couldn’t flash a grin of victory up at Leila as panic grew in the other woman’s eyes.

She wasn’t dead—she could guess that much. But was this life? She wasn’t sure.

Leila doubled over coughing. It went on longer than ever this time, broken up briefly by a series of gasping breaths. For a moment, Kira held out hope that Leila would collapse to the floor and die right in front of her, spewing blood from her mouth until there was none left in her body. Kira could live with an eternity of hanging in this state that wasn’t quite life and wasn’t quite death, if it meant she got to witness Leila’s failure.

But Leila recovered. She stood with her hands on her knees, breathing slowly, until she was able to slowly straighten back up. “I need… excuse me.” Abruptly, she turned her back on Kira. “I need to check my translations. There must be something else I’m missing.” As she hurried away, Kira heard her mutter, “there must be.”

Kira stared up at the ceiling. She heard the frantic rustling of paper, and the occasional confused or thoughtful mutter from Leila. The longer she lay there, staring at nothing, the less sure she was that she was seeing through her physical eyes after all. Her vision seemed to have subtly expanded, showing her a broader view of the room with less effort, but the change was slight enough that she wasn’t sure whether anything had changed at all. Had she been able to make out the glyphs on the walls so clearly before? She tried to see the wall behind her head, and managed it—or thought she did—for a brief instant, before a wave of dizziness overcame her and her vision returned to normal. She suspected that if she tried, she might be able to look down at her own body—and not only the surface, but the muscle and bone on the inside, all the tiny points of damage under the skin. She didn’t try. The thought made her queasy, even though she wasn’t at all sure the sensation was coming from her actual stomach.

Maybe she was wrong. Maybe she wouldn’t be able to take an eternity of this after all—not even if it meant watching Leila die in front of her. Had Leila failed? Those troubled murmurs from across the room didn’t sound reassuring. And if Leila had failed, what did that mean? Would Kira stay in this in-between state forever, alone in the Buried City, until the next batch of fools came along to unearth the secrets of magic? If she was lucky, maybe she would die when her flesh rotted away. Either way, she felt a powerful nostalgia for her earlier list of horrible ways she might die. Any one of them would have been a kindness now.

“Oh!” came a soft exclamation from across the room. Leila sounded relieved, and an answering wave of relief spread through Kira. Maybe she wouldn’t stay here for eternity after all.

The relief curdled into a cold sweat when she remembered that the other option was for Leila to use her to power up the weapon. Was a chance at a merciful death worth it if it meant the remnants of her life would be used against her home?

It wasn’t as if it mattered—she would have no say in her fate either way.

“If this is meant to be literal…” Kira continued. “Oh. Oh, yes, that would make sense. If this isn’t about what happens after death, but before…” Leila let out a little huff of breath. “Oh. Well. That’s… well, I can certainly see how they got their reputation for cruelty. No wonder it’s impossible to do this on yourself.”

With her strangely enhanced senses, Kira felt the floor vibrate under Leila’s feet as Leila hurried over to her. Leila crouched next to her, her eyes bright with excitement. “I’m very sorry for the confusion,” she said. “There are some parts of the translation I thought were meant as religious imagery, or possibly funeral rites. In fact, when I thought I could use this on myself and power the device while I was still alive, I even wrote out a will, asking someone to bring me here and do it for me after the device finally used up enough of my life force to kill me. Just in case it was important.” A soft chuckle turned into a hacking cough.

When Leila had her breath back, she continued. “But I had it wrong. Again. No surprise, right? This has certainly been a humbling experience.” She shook her head ruefully. “It’s actually supposed to be done before you die.” The excitement in her eyes softened into a liquid pity. “And I’m very sorry about this, but it’s going to be bad.”

Leila actually looked a little queasy. Her face had gone a couple of shades paler, and her mouth was tight around the edges. And this was Leila, who could talk about vaporizing cities without flinching.

Leila shook her head again. “At least you’ll die at the end of it,” she said softly. “Body and soul both—so you won’t carry these memories into a future lifetime, if the people of Norkhuggak were right about the soul being reborn. Which will be a mercy, believe me.”

---

Tagged: @suspicious-whumping-egg

Ask to be added or removed from tag list.

[definitely-not-a-lamb]

Jakovis ran through darkwood, mostly to gather supplies for his mercenary group, but also to make sure the lamb was doing alright on their crusade. While they likely wouldn’t stay dead, he didn’t want to take that chance. He didn’t want to be alone. Finally reaching his destination, he morphed his crown into a pair of daggers, throwing them directly at a pair of hostile cultists. Jumping down from the trees, he’d morph his crown back onto his head before morphing it into a sword, slicing down the first henchman, before elbowing the second and plunging the sword into them. From there, he’d transform into a larger, almost bishop-like form he gained from years of wielding the crown, grabbing and throwing the few remaining cultists.

“…They most likely won’t survive that…if they land in anchordeep by some miracle though, maybe they will.”

He’d then transform back into his usual form, and stood there, waiting for the lamb to show up. Once they did, he raised his arms in greeting before dropping them back down to his sides.

“Hello, lamb! I hope you don’t mind me taking care of these cultists. Just figured I should help!”

“…I don’t have time for this, wolf. Leshy will fall, and you won’t get in my way.”

“Yeah, not likely…but i’ll go along anyway. Might as well make sure you don’t die. The bloodshed left in your wake is entertaining, after all.”

Due to laziness and overall just general montage stuff, the two stood outside Leshy’s temple.

“This is where you depart, understand? I will not hesitate to strike you down if you get in my way.”

“Yes, I know, lamb. You may fail, but you will not fall. I will make sure of it.”

Jakovis leaped up, and began climbing up the walls of the temple until he reached the roof, from there, he’d assist the lamb in their fight by taking down minor enemies, while also hindering them by throwing daggers at them. When the lamb was nearing death, he’d jump down- but get caught on a vine, falling face first into the floor, upon which a loud crack could be heard.

“What the hell-”

unintelligible angry and confused worm noises

“HOLY FUCKING HELL THAT HURT!” He’d yell, grabbing his “face”, which was now revealed to be a wooden mask, with large crack splitting it in two. Leaning back to pull out some splinters, the illusion glyph on his cloak de-activated. Once he was done, he looked at Leshy, a small group of enemies, and the lamb, confused…although not for long. “…Ah shit…the mask broke…welp. I’m out. This bullshit just stopped being my problem.”