#this is set sometime after Forged in Blood and Lightning | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

aliatori · 2 years ago

Text

In Consequence

The Forsaken and the Forsworn | 2.8k words | M rated | Gabriel Berthelot/Hugo Melançon

(kinktober: spanking, humiliation, power exchange)

-----

“Why aren’t we takin’ the east channel through the fragments around the Cove? It’s wide enough and then some for the Squall to pass through, and with the trade winds bein’ what they are during this point of the season, it’d save us three or four nights of sailing, easy.”

Quiet swoops over the deck like the plunging dive of a sea bird. Gab could hear a coin drop on the Squall’s timbers, even with the steady rhythm of waves battering at the ship’s hull. The cool, salted sea breeze tickles Gab’s nose as he takes a deep, steadying breath and squares his shoulders.

Camille and Del look at him in unison with vastly differing expressions. The first hint that his words weren’t as good an idea as he thought they were is Del’s face. Her silvered brows draw low in a frown; the sextant in her frozen hands gleams in the orange-red sunset. Camille seems a brackish mix of amused and irritated. Her striking brown eyes dart to the left.

Toward the Squall’s captain.

Gleaning any guidance from Hugo’s face is like trying to do a dead reckoning with no godsdamned stars or land in sight. He smooths out the lapels of his black coat’s high collar, lifts his chin even higher, and then places his hands behind his back and walks in Gab’s direction. Hugo stops a full stride short of Gab, the heels of his stupid, pointlessly polished boots thudding on the deck with crisp intent.

“Tache,” he begins, though his piercing sea-green eyes don’t leave Gab’s for a single instant, “Please enlighten deckhand Berthelot as to the details of our current course.”

It’s clear the son of a bitch is trying to intimidate Gab just because he’s new aboard the ship. It’s the same thing he does at the fold, strutting around with his Furysworn script on display and back ramrod straight, like he’s better than all of it. Like his shit doesn’t stink.

Maybe some people would even be cowed by it.

But Gab’s seen him with blood smeared across his mouth, a knife sticking out of his leg, and a wicked craving for violence in his eyes. Prissy mainland clothes and blacked boots and useless handkerchiefs around the neck don’t change the fact he’s cut from the same cloth as the rest of them.

Del clears her throat softly, places her sextant on the unrolled chart in front of her at the helm, and says, “It’s the shadowkraken. This time of the year, pods fill the eastern channel to the brim for mating season. They come up to the surface to spawn and are unusually aggressive while they’re there. You probably hadn’t even seen your first Rising when it happened, but we lost multiple ships there one season and have avoided it since.”

A flush heats Gab’s cheeks. Before his mind can furl his flapping mouth, he says, “Well, it would be faster if not for that. How was I supposed to know if it happened before I was born?”

There it is. The first glimmer of fury, however cold, lights up in Hugo’s eyes, even if the rest of his face remains impassive. “You’re not expected to know—I am. What you’re expected to do is keep your mouth closed, hands busy, and tend to the duties of your station until you’re no longer a liability aboard this vessel.” Hugo rakes his gaze down Gab’s body from head to toe, haughty and unimpressed.

The storm beneath his skin roils, but this time, it’s because he’s well and truly pissed off. “Liability? Without me, this ship woulda sunk straight to the depths my first time out. Unless you’ve got someone else with as strong a talent for the Fury’s gifts as me. Which, as I reckon it, you don’t.”

Del’s eyes widen so suddenly that Gab catches the movement from the corner of his vision. Camille goes as far as to make a worried hum, quickly lost beneath the twin roars of Gab’s blood and the Umbra Sea.

But he’s got eyes only for his captain.

A vein juts out from Hugo’s temple, chiseled jaw carved all the leaner where it’s clenched, though the gloved hand he places on the hilt of his rapier remains loose and limber. His nostrils flare with one indignant inhale. In the space of a blink, Furysworn Captain Hugo Melançon is the perfect portrait of composure once more.

“If you’re finished, Berthelot.”

It’s not a question.

Incensed, Gab wants nothing more than to let his mouth run away with him. To tell this uptight bastard exactly what he thinks of him. But, for better or for worse, an unpleasant thought crosses his mind:

He may be four times more Fury-favoured than Captain Melançon, title or no, but Hugo does have the authority to kick him off the Screaming Squall. And it’s not fucking likely the Matriarch will capitulate to his threats and theatrics a second time.

“Yeah, I’m done.”

“Then you’re dismissed,” Hugo says, the last word hissing out of him like the whisper of drawn steel.

“Aye, aye, Captain.”

-----

In hindsight, Gab was a godsdamned fool to expect that to be the end.

He’s tending to the stays in the low, soft blue light of the Squall’s lanterns, the swinging cages stuffed full of glowing, self-sustaining fungi from the Cove’s nooks and crannies. Well. ‘Tending’ might be a strong word. Gab half thinks Luc gave him this pointless, shit job as busywork; he may be green, but he’s not that green, and any serious problem with the stays would have been seen to by someone more knowledgeable than him.

As he’s squinting at a point along the line to see if it’s a shadow or an actual sign of wear and tear, Hugo sneaks up on him like a deep-sea revenant. Not even the sound of his fucking pointless boots clued him in to Hugo’s approach. Sneaky son of a bitch.

“Berthelot,” he says, crisp and without preamble, “come with me.”

Gab narrows his eyes and lets go of the stay. A flippant question perches at the tip of his tongue, but then he figures—this is probably some sort of test, the result of his earlier backtalk. Not trusting his mouth, he simply nods.

It’s a light, quiet watch, given how close they are to the Cove. More importantly, how close they are to the Cove’s storm wards, skipkiller strong and passable only by Furysworn. Furysworn like the one Gab’s following belowdecks, Hugo’s black coat a shadow upon a shadow as they descend the Squall’s creaky wooden stairs.

Hugo comes to the stop at the aft end of the gundeck with Gab in tow. A few stray wisps of hair escape the tight tail he’s tied it in, the strands depths-dark in the low light. Now that they’re face to face, Gab practically tastes the menace roiling off the captain, mouth pinched and sea-glass eyes radiating fury.

He flicks his gloved fingers at the nearby cannon. “Pull down your slops and lay yourself along the gun.”

“What,” Gab says, incredulous. He’s heard of flogging, sure—sailors among the Fury’s fleet getting the lash and brine-salt for their misdeeds. But this? “You’re out of your godsdamned mind.”

“Insubordination won’t be tolerated. Every word you say beyond those will add five blows to your count.”

Bewildered, Gab says, “Count? You—”

“That’s ten.”

“—gotta be fucking kidding me.”

“Three-and-ten-and-five,” Hugo says, adjusting his gloves at the wrist and fixing Gab with a calculating stare. “If you don’t want to be able to walk come morning, keep talking.”

Rage boils in the hollow space beneath Gab’s ribs. Heat crawls up his inked, bare back as he glares at Hugo, chest heaving. What right does this arrogant asshole think he has? The world washes dark as the Fury’s depths as he fights to control his temper. Captain Melançon doesn’t want him to talk, does he?

He didn’t say anything about coming to blows.

Gab takes one long stride to cross the gap between them, his fist already curving in a hook toward Hugo. Quick as the lightning he commands, Hugo catches Gab’s hand in his own, leather-clad fingers tightening around Gab’s in a powerful grip. Murky shadows cross through Hugo’s gaze, and if Gab’s too pissed to read the captain’s signal flags, who could blame him.

“Bend over the gun,” Hugo says, low and hot, “before I bend you over it and strip you myself.”

Locked together, they glare at one another, the atmosphere electric and storm-heavy. All it would take it one touch of Gab’s fingers to his focus to end this. One prayer to change the tides. But deep down, some part of him knows he won’t be able to take that level of retaliation back.

That path is one of no return.

Heart pounding, chest flushed, Gab turns his back on Hugo. The bastard wants a sight? He’ll give him one. Gab whips the sash off his waist then pushes down his slops and underclothes in one motion. The chill of the night air prickles along his exposed ass. Then, gritting his teeth and deciding a growl doesn’t exactly count as words, he leans over the cannon until he’s situated along the length of it, hands braced near the firing end. The cold iron chills Gab enough to make him shiver.

“I hate you,” Gab says, incandescent with fury and mortification.

“That makes five-and-ten, Berthelot.” A moment later, Hugo strikes Gab’s ass with his palm. He’s used to pain, to the tests of the Furysworn elders as he learned to control the storm within. It’s the surprise more than the pain itself that draws a gasp from Gab against his will. “One.”

It’s insult on injury that Hugo counts out the strikes as he metes them using the same steady voice he commands the Squall’s crew with. Gab doesn’t know if it’s better or worse that his view is limited to porthole in front of him. Easier not to have to look the bastard in the face as he doles out his discipline, Gab guesses, though it doesn’t stop humiliation from scorching a path through his veins, hot and glass-sharp like sand after a lightning strike.

Hugo’s clearly out for his pound of flesh, because by the time he gets to ten, Gab’s ass aches like he won’t be able to sit for a span. The slap of Hugo’s gloved palm against his bare skin echoes through the aft corridor, adding to the mortification. Gab writhes against the cannon, lungs working like the bellows of a forge, and at the exact moment he decides he’s not going to lay here and take this like the captain wants, a hand grips him by the unmarked skin at the back of his neck and pushes him down.

“Try to get up again and I’ll bring the lash and bleed you for the Fury, politics be damned,” Hugo says, his words carrying the weight of a promise. “If she takes issue with it, she knows where to find me.”

Gab’s storm-tossed thoughts can’t tell if Hugo’s talking about the Matriarch or the Fury or both. He snarls, grips the cannon until he’s white-knuckled, and stays still along the gun.

He’ll kill Hugo. He’ll drag him overboard and hold him underwater until he drowns and parade his corpse around the beach after. He’ll find his precious, privileged quarters in the uppers and murder him in his sleep. Gab clings to his fantasies of revenge as Hugo makes it past the halfway mark, beating Gab’s ass until it’s a bruised, welted mess.

He should be furious. He is furious. But as Hugo begins his count in the three-and-tens, another sensation rises up. Held by the neck with one hand and being beaten senseless with the other… Gab’s body betrays him. A pulse begins to pound between his legs, his cock stirring despite every lick of good sense Gab possesses.

Shame burns him from the tips of his ears to the soles of his bare feet. And yet, when Hugo starts in on the backs and sides of his thighs, delivering full-armed blows that crack across his skin like thunderclaps, he’s fully hard, cock stiff where it’s pressed against the back of the cannon.

If Hugo notices, he says nothing. He’s tenacious and methodical as he rains blows down on Gab’s backside. A sideways swipe at his tender inner thighs draws a wordless howl from Gab, more frustration than anything else. It’s dangerously close to his balls. There’s no way Hugo can’t see his traitorous dick on display.

On four-and-ten, Hugo switches from striking his thighs to bringing the heel of his palm down on the sore, tender curve of Gab’s ass. A choked noise far too close to a sob nearly escapes Gab, but he swallows it down along with his curses and threats. Self-preservation has kicked in, and no matter what the twitching ache between his legs might have to say about it, Gab wants this over and done with.

Like the righteous cocksucker he is, Hugo draws out the last five blows with torturous slowness. A series of resounding, deliberate hits play out on his backside: his left cheek, his right, his inner thigh, his outer.

“Five-and-ten,” Hugo says, ending with a walloping strike to his tailbone that does draw an indignant howl from him. To Gab, the word sounds a little breathless, strained, but he doesn’t have time to contemplate it long.

Hugo steps forward, gloved hand sliding from the back of Gab’s neck to his long, carefully plaited, well-oiled braid and gripping it tight. There’s no avoiding the wrenching twist of his face toward Hugo. The captain looms above him, eyes glittering with avid enmity in the moonlit night.

"The next time you see fit to step beyond your authority and countermand me on my own ship, I will fill this entire deck and have them bear witness to your punishment. At the Cove you may be the Matriarch's favourite, slated to be her successor. But aboard my ship, I am Furysworn and captain, your superior twice over, and I will be obeyed. Am I clear?”

Gab seethes, hating Hugo with every drop of his Fury-blessed blood and hating himself for the way his cock leaks at the malice and confidence in Captain Melançon’s tone. When he takes too long to answer, Hugo grips Gab’s jaw in an iron-strong grip. It’s hard to tell in the near-abandoned gundeck, but Gab swears there’s a pink tint to Hugo’s cheeks.

“As the Crystalline, Captain,” Gab says, spitting out the words like the more spirited of their captives spit out brine.

“Good.” Hugo abruptly releases Gab from his hold and adjusts his coat, staring down with a steely gaze. “Then make yourself presentable and get back to your station, Berthelot. You still have work to do.”

-----

An interminable watch and many turns later, Hugo finally succumbs to the animal restlessness that plagues him.

The inevitable result of his foolish mistake.

Safe behind the thrice-bolted door of his cabin, Hugo makes it as far as the edge of his bed before frantically working at his belts and sashes, desperate to free himself from his trousers. There’s no indulgence here, no explicit folios or careful consideration. Hugo doesn’t even bother to take off both gloves. After a perfunctory splash of oil, he simply takes himself in his bared hand and works himself with slick, studied efficacy.

He already knows what images will surface behind closed eyes.

Berthelot, his broad bulk nearly as wide as the cannon itself, Xeheia-marked muscle flexing and shifting with every strike of his palm. Berthelot, generous ass painted in deep, violent shades of red by Hugo’s own palm. Berthelot, grunting and groaning each time Hugo struck the sensitive skin of his lower thighs. Berthelot, his thick cock hanging heavy and hard between his legs, bouncing along with his sack each time Hugo struck him.

His lust couldn’t have chosen a worse object of fascination, and yet it proceeds apace, heat spiraling in his gut and pushing him to an inevitable edge. He should be ashamed of turning discipline into an indulgence of his private, darker pleasures… and yet the taboo of it only makes his groin ache with redoubled pleasure.

Hugo’s climax rips through him like lightning, his teeth gritted to bite back his groan as he pulses wetly into his own fist, a singular sequence of events capsizing him with raw desire:

The look of unbridled hatred, undeniable lust, and defiant challenge in Berthelot’s gaze when all was said and done. The insolence of his dark moon glare, broad chest heaving. Panting like he’d swam the entire length of the Cove, like an animal, like he was torn between wrapping his hands around Hugo’s throat or his own cock, ardor and rage inseparably entwined.

#the forsaken and the forsworn #hubriel #ch: gabriel berthelot #ch: hugo melançon #my writing #this is set sometime after Forged in Blood and Lightning #but like #listen #we're not here for the plot or continuity #if u saw me fixing my own numbering system #no u didnt #(:

8 notes · View notes

creativerogues · 5 years ago

Text

Part 2: Creating Believable Gods...

From what we’ve learned (See Part 1), the Gods of a Pantheon often embody certain aspects of a Domain.

So after looking through the Books, I made a little List noting what each Domain represents, and what kind of common tropes a God of that Domain usually embodies in the hopes that when you make a Pantheon of Gods for your own Setting that you can use this Post for Inspiration to help make a pretty dang realistic and believable pantheon.

Arcana

Portfolio: Secrets, Magic, Learning

Common Tropes:

Often depicted as an older figure who possesses great knowledge, often male.

Death

Portfolio: Undeath, Disease, Famine, Blood, Murder, Pain, Poison, The Underworld, Fate, Winter

Common Tropes:

Often depicted as an older figure or skeleton.

Often associated with a Myth where the God dies and is resurrected to become the God of Death.

Is oftentimes the one to bring about the end of the World.

Forge

Portfolio: Artisans, Craftsmanship, Invention, Metal, Stone

Common Tropes:

Often depicted as a male of great size and power.

Often wields a hammer or chisel.

Grave

Portfolio: The Afterlife, Funerals, Ceremonies, Spirits, Suffering

Common Tropes:

Often depicted as a neutral figure.

Often depicted as a young male or female figure.

Often has a Myth associated with carrying or aiding souls into their rightful rest.

Knowledge

Portfolio: Craftsmanship, Invention, Lore, Secrets, Learning, Prophecy

Common Tropes:

Often depicted as an older figure who possesses great knowledge, often male.

Life

Portfolio: Vitality, Health, Healing, Fertility, Love, Spring, Mercy

Common Tropes:

Often depicted as very young, mostly likely female.

Light

Portfolio: Rebirth, Renewal, Truth, Vigilance, Beauty, The Sun, The Moon, Summer

Common Tropes:

Often depicted as the Head of the Pantheon.

Often extremely wise or extremely powerful and large in size.

Often has a Myth associated with their Counterpart, the Moon.

The Sun and Moon are often portrayed as related to each other.

Nature

Portfolio: Wilderness, Animals, Love, Youth, Growth, Earthquakes, Volcanoes, The Seasons, Hunting

Common Tropes:

Often depicted as a strong maternal female figure of great beauty and power.

Is often held accountable for the Creation of many Mythical Beasts and Monsters.

Often depicted as the “First God” or Wife of a Deity associated with the Sky.

Order

Portfolio: Discipline, Society, Law, Obedience, Civilisation, Balance, Tyranny

Common Tropes:

Often depicted as a strong male or strong female figure.

Often depicted carrying an object or weapon.

Tempest

Portfolio: Storms, Seas, Sky, Lightning, Thunder, Clouds, Wind, Violence, Strength, Courage, Justice

Common Tropes:

Often Head of the Pantheon.

Often male and depicted as extremely wise or extremely powerful.

Usually known for wielding a piercing weapon such as a spear, javelin or trident.

Often has divine messengers in the form of birds.

Trickery

Portfolio: Thieves, Gambling, Fortune, Luck, Deception and Lies, Secrets, Fate, Madness, Freedom, Change, Illusion, Shadows

Common Tropes:

Often depicted as a young male or an older deceitful male figure.

Often has a Myth where they trick a powerful mortal or god.

Oftentimes has Myths where they accidentally kill a lesser known god, or accidentally bring about the apocalypse.

War

Portfolio: Honour, Chivalry, Destruction, Conquest, Domination, Strength, Courage, Fear, Glory, Greed, Tyranny

Common Tropes:

Often depicted wearing armour and wielding a sword.

Sometimes depicted with more than two arms or more than one head.

Almost always depicted as a strong young male or beautiful young female.

Often has many children that each represent different aspects of war.

#dnd #DnD 5e #dnd 5e campaign #dnd 5e homebrew #dnd 5e homebrew campaign #mythology #creativerogues

395 notes · View notes

lunarthedragon · 5 years ago

Text

Demon!Jaskier Part 2

Part 1: here

+++

He had been so many things in his past. So many iterations and forms. So many bodies and lives.

A boy with bones so fragile he needs braces to walk, but who never dies. Never dies. Never dies. His smile bringing joy to his small village.

A girl, deaf, who is shunned by her family but taken in by the sirens that cannot sway her with their songs. She is vengeance on the tide, her hands louder than her tongue.

A man filled with anger - at the world, people, himself - who sets into motion some of the most gruesome wars known to man.

A woman with thunder in her steps, mighty and heroic, wearing armor forged by poor workers and wielding a damaged sword she found lodged in her father’s ribcage.

An elf who slips along the blood-drenched fields, washed with the screams of his people, delivering mercy upon the suffering and as his tears mix with the blood.

So many lives. So many timelines. So many worlds.

Nothing ever looks the same, feels the same, but it is always him-her-they. Returning and returning, wanting to live and learn and grow in a way his brethren refuse to.

He will be better.

+++

Sometimes, when people want to get at Geralt, they choose the cowardly method of going after his bard. They believe him to be an easier target and hope for an easy prize.

Geralt always worries, even though he never says it. Jaskier can feel it, wafting off of him as he charges into the temporary prison and sees the dead bandits-mercenaries-fools already strewn across the ground.

Over the years the Witcher has learned and accepted that Jaskier has a profound talent for getting into trouble, but also getting out of it.

Still he worries.

Even when he knows of Jaskier’s true nature.

A group of bandits abscond with him to their camp, set to bribe the Witcher.

The night has barely fallen when Jaskier runs into Geralt on his way out of the bandit camp, blood smeared over his hands and face, yet his clothes miraculously untouched.

“Are you okay?” Geralt still demands, reeking of concern.

“They tore one of the buttons out of my doublet. How do you think I am doing?” Jaskier grumbles, ignoring the concern, even though it makes him feel all warm inside. Like the shadows are stretching with a brighter sun. Like some of the darkness boils back.

It is a good warm.

He does not need worrying, though. He does not need rescuing. He has been a damsel before, but he has never been in distress.

Still... it can be a little nice... on occasion.

+++

Jaskier tells Geralt some of his own stories.

His words have been prettied and empty for so many years, the occasional story bracketed from when “Jaskier” began and the present.

Now, he tells Geralt anything and everything. Of worlds far beyond his own. Places hidden away unless you know where to look. History long forgotten.

Geralt pretends not to listen, but his awareness is firmly planted on Jaskier when he talks of these things. It appears these stories can even intrigue a grumpy, old Witcher.

“The monsters in your song,” Geralt suddenly cuts in one night when Jaskier is recounting his life as Damalt, a “Wastelander” from far, far away many years ago, where he hunted monsters not unlike a Witcher. “I said they didn’t exist, but...”

The Witcher looked deep in thought and it takes Jaskier a moment to realize he is talking about when they first met. “You were not incorrect,” he assures, smiling, “They do not exist... in this world. Alas, I occasionally get my histories jumbled up when high on adrenaline. Terrible habit, that.”

“It must happen often, then,” Geralt huffs. His pride is wounded. He is meant to be the monster expert, and yet...

“I often call out the wrong name in bed,” Jaskier replies with a shrug.

“That’s hardly terrible,” Geralt’s lips twist and a brow arches.

Jaskier shrugs. “Sure, unless you say it like, ‘G̸͙̅̀Ŕ̸̠̖ḥ̶̀͋h̸̘́K̸̥̇͒̐͛͋͗̏b̶̥͕̠̪͉͛̆ą̶̘͈̟̼̰̟̓̌̀̐T̶̝̠̙̍̽̈́̄̈́C̶̥̫̝͐̄͋́̏̀ḧ̶͍̟̟̠̫̎́̇̈́h̸̬̅́Á̸̬̱͎̗̓̃͂̇͊͠L̴͕̗͛̀̓̔̾̂̈́ͅ.’”

Geralt has leant back as if smacked, his eyes so wide the whites are visible all around his irises, and his mouth is hanging open.

It makes Jaskier laugh for five minutes straight.

+++

He cannot eat salt. It will not kill him, but it causes the closest thing to an allergic reaction in him that he could ever have.

It burns where it touches tongue or skin or organs or bone. He feels it deeper than the flesh, the body, and he writhes, like a black, foaming slug. It makes him screech but no one hears, air running cold until icicles form but no one shivers, a chittering vibration that sets ears bleeding but no one cares.

He cannot eat salt.

+++

The thing in the mansion is ancient. Almost as ancient as him. He can hear it long before the mansion - dilapidated, abandoned, hopeless, taken back by nature - comes into view.

Geralt doesn’t hear it. He keeps walking, looking out for the monster on the contract.

The monster is gone, if it was ever here to begin with. Dead, dead, dead. Like the air and the earth and the sea. Dead but ancient and crawling without moving.

And Geralt doesn’t hear it.

“We shouldn’t go closer,” Jaskier finally says - voice not-quite-right at the edges, like a burning photo - because Geralt knows. Knows what he is. Accepted what he is. It is fine to speak up and protect that which he holds dear. That which he cares for more than he should.

Geralt is looking at him now, confusion in his eyes, and he wishes he could put into words that they need to stay away from that mansion because the thing inside will be the Witcher’s undoing.

He can move on, find a new body, find a new life, but the flesh bodies with the fleshier souls of mortals do not have that privilege. And he quite likes this particular mortal.

“What’s wrong?” Geralt asks, voice low, stepping towards Jaskier as if to protect.

“E̴v̵e̶r̴y̷t̵h̷i̶n̴g̸,” his voice twitches around something too big and forces it back down. “It will kill you. You need to get away.”

“Is it a spirit of some kind?” Geralt asks, his face set in concern. Jaskier offers a nod. “Is it like you?” Jaskier opens his mouth to reply and it rushes out.

“Me but not - screaming where I whisper - the fly in your soup the fly on a corpse - bear trap on your leg gnaw it off gnaw it off - viscera from an eye split in half - war as bloody as birth - ”

Geralt grabs ahold of his arms and drags him away, sprinting in the opposite direction as the mansion, and Jaskier has never sensed fear on the Witcher like he does in that moment.

They don’t return to the town they came from. They never completed the contract. There was no monster to kill.

Instead, in complete silence, they make camp and Jaskier curls up tight to Geralt’s side under a thick fur. If he shakes a little, drained from a battle that never happened, Geralt doesn’t say a word and only holds him closer.

+++

Djinn are an ancient spirit as much as Jaskier is. Not horrors, but rather entities. Embodiments. Powerful and feared and unable to flee from the imprisonments of man.

They hate the things that Jaskier is. Envious of him and his brethren. They are not as ancient as he, but they possess powers long forgotten.

Jaskier should have stopped things sooner. “I can’t sleep,” Geralt had said as he fished for a djinn. Jaskier had seen the problem, seen the issue, knew the outcome, and he should have just stepped in forced a stop.

Instead, he tried to talk Geralt down. Claim a lovely cup of chamomile tea with honey and whiskey would do the trick! Perhaps a back rub to sweeten the deal? Just please get away from the water. Please.

It doesn’t work and the jug in Geralt’s hands sends Jaskier into a panic, shooting out to grab ahold of it and tugging. Geralt doesn’t let go. Just glares at him.

“Seriously, Geralt, you’re being ridiculous! This isn’t going to help you. They’ll trick you and put you to sleep for good, never to rise again. How can you not see--”

The jug opens with a “pop!” The engraved lid in Geralt’s hand, jug in Jaskier's, and he can FEEL the energies around them shift. Compress. Tug and squeeze until it is hard for him to breathe.

“Nothing happened,” Geralt growls to himself, looking around, growing more and more frustrated, but Jaskier’s attention is glued to the surface of the lake. There is a shadow there that hasn’t taken form. Watching without eyes. Laughing without lips.

A djinn’s aura is not a scream or a cry. It is a vibration. A roll of thunder and the long, belting roar of a giant.

They stare at each other, through eyes beyond this plain. Eyes that see each other for what they truly are. Wind is picking up, actual wind, the sky darkening, and with the first bolt of lightning the djinn attacks.

He screeches, unholy and enraged, as claws-talons-teeth, dig into the parts of him that go unseen. Black veins form on his body, growing and growing and growing, hands and eyes pitch black as he lashes back. A piece of him catches on a piece of them, rendering-cutting-ripping, until lightning flashes above like a scream. Like a scar.

Black oozes from his mouth with the next clash, veins surging along his face, his stomach, his legs, everywhere. His hands are grasping without moving - so many hands, too many hands - and he tears the djinn in two, flinging it away, but a bolt of lightning like a blade severs an arm. A leg. There’s a hole in his chest that bleeds black.

He hears a voice, deep and frantic in a way he isn’t used to. Terrified. He’s not meant to be terrified. Not for Jaskier. He...

“Stop!” Geralt yells out, loud as the storm, and time holds still. The djinn is still there, present, hovering, deliberating, before it pulls back and away with a thin smile despite having no lips.

Ah. Geralt has the wishes.

Isn’t that lovely?

“Jaskier,” Geralt says, sounding desperate and too close and Jaskier looks to his side to find he is laying on his back and Geralt is kneeling beside him. He looks horrified, his emotions apparently so sudden and strong he is unable to hold them in.

“Hi,” he says, black blood gurgling out with the word, smiling in such a way his dark eyes crinkle. He doesn’t think it puts Geralt at ease, though, with the way he seems to flicker. Stutter. Then lurch forward like he wants to hold Jaskier but stops himself short.

“You’re... you...” Geralt isn’t one for words, but when he does talk he doesn’t usually stutter. Jaskier doesn’t like this.

“Djinn and demons like me do not get along,” he offers. He feels tight in his skin, too much wanting to leak out. To crack more of his skin and ooze free. Fill the air. Fill the world. Fill everything.

He holds it in, but he can feel more of his body turning dark with more and more veins. The hole in his chest hurts.

“Could you pass me my arm and leg, please?” he asks kindly and, apparently too shocked to argue or question, the Witcher lurches sideways to scoop up the severed limbs. He hands them over and Jaskier takes them gratefully, before setting his arm to the bleeding stump.

It stinks, like rotten eggs, and Geralt’s nose wrinkles up but he doesn’t move away. Jaskier wonders if he’s in shock.

The limb knits back onto his body, slower than usual, but not unexpected for a wound like this. He does the same to his leg, pleased to have all four limbs back, less of himself wanting to leak out. He is still covered in black veins, though, with dark eyes.

Still, he turns to Geralt, who looks lost. He reaches out to lay a hand against Geralt’s cheek, the Witcher flinching but then pressing back into his palm. “See? I am fine. Death means very little to me,” he assures, his voice still full, like he has too many teeth-tongues-throats, but far more normal than it once was.

“You have a hole in your chest,” Geralt says lowly, seeming unable to speak much higher. Jaskier tries to think about what this must be like from Geralt’s perspective. His only friend, a demon of unknown power, changing horrifically and having a fight with an invisible force. Then, being torn apart before his very eyes...

Yes, perhaps this response was a bit more understanding...

“It will heal,” he says, but looks down at the hole, black blood gushing from it still, coating his front and back. He hadn’t gotten that from a bolt of lightning. This was a cursed wound.

Not enough to kill something like him, but enough to be a nuisance.

“I may abandon this body,” he considers aloud, “Find a new host. This will take years to heal.”

“No,” Geralt says suddenly, moving forward and grabbing Jaskier’s shoulders. “No. Tell me how to help. This is my doing--”

“This is not your doing,” Jaskier says, head tilting.

“I should have listened.”

“You should have,” he agrees, “But this is still not your doing.”

“Just...” Geralt looks down and away, avoiding eye contact. Jaskier still tries to catch his gaze anyway. “Tell me what I can do...”

“It is a magical wound,” he begins and brings a hand up to run his knuckles over Geralt’s jaw. It is so close and vulnerable, he can’t help it. “It needs magical treatment so that I might do the rest. I sense a sorceress in Rinde, the next town over. Powerful.”

Geralt looks up, listening intently. His face is set again, under control as it usually is, and his eyes are determined. He nods. “To Rinde,” he says as he stands and carefully urges Jaskier up, too.

There is a sense of vertigo upon standing and the black veins flair, spreading then receding. He feels disoriented, deep to the core. Perhaps the cursed wound was doing more to him than he thought.

“I think...” he begins slowly as Geralt leads him towards Roach, who is far enough away not to be spooked by the fight, but close enough to still be within sight. Geralt has a firm hand on his closest arm and the other arm wrapped around Jaskier’s shoulders, trying to support him.

“I think I need to pass out, now.” And he goes down to the sound of Geralt’s worried exclamation, the world blurring until it is void. It is nothing. It is all.

+++

Definitely gonna make a part 3! Also likely to put them all together, eventually, and put them on Ao3 later! Tell me what y’all think!!

Tagged users that commented on part one: @meody90 @zoeyszone @patrycjami-chan @emthegiantnerd @onelonelyforgottenbiscuit

#the witcher #the witcher netflix #jaskier #geralt #geralt of rivia #geraskier #demon jaskier #nonhuman jaskier #fanfic #part 2

189 notes · View notes

secret-engima · 5 years ago

Text

alyss-spazz-penedo

hey, @secret-engima, hear me out: what if GILGAMESH became Glaucus' Shield? Like, after the two Murder Brats jumped into the Tempering Grounds and Glaucus has to fish them out, the man takes a moment to chew GIL out for endangering children like that, he SAW that last swing and it was aimed unacceptably close to a vital area, what even is he doing STILL haunting the damn Tempering Grounds anyway when the next worthwhile opponent won't be for literal decades (ie. Gladio)

alyss-spazz-penedo

So Gil is clubbed over the head with the idea that he doesn't actually have to follow 200 years of habit and, like. Ardyn's moved on, is living a life, and Gil KNOWS what's coming and that there's no value to holding his post, killing off idiots, once these people leave bc Cor was the only worthwhile opponent for literal decades. He can... he can take a VACATION.

alyss-spazz-penedo

....He has no idea what to do with a vacation, so he falls back on EVEN OLDER HABITS and is like well let's play Shield for a LC then. And maybe, MAYBE he'd pick Ardyn, but there's just. So much history there. That wouldn't... that wouldn't WORK, it would hurt them both just to try.

alyss-spazz-penedo

Which leaves just one LC available (arguably, bc Titus would absolutely fight him for the position but the brat's too young still. Maybe in a few years). And, Gilgamesh KNOWS what's up with Glaucus-once-Cor-Leonis, might be the only person in the world who DOES know, and that's//

alyss-spazz-penedo

*and that's... that's something I think Glaucus might really need. Just. Someone to help him remember who he WAS,

alyss-spazz-penedo

(Also, the thought of Ardyn and Gil wandering around being terrible at self-care and utter bemused by the world amuses me. Also Besithia would probably be an Utter Scientific Glee)

Me: *deep breath*

YESSSSSSSSSSSSSS

BUCKLE UP RAMBLE FICLET INBOUND.

-It starts after the Murder Children are idiots and Glaucus has to come rescue them. Titus and Cor have never been more humbled, confused, and terrified than watching Glaucus snark at a 2k year old potential eldritch abomination and GET AWAY WITH IT. Glaucus actually makes Gilgamesh shuffle in shame when he lectures about how close he came to actually HURTING two of Glaucus’s kids. How dare.

-Then Glaucus takes a long, hard look at Gil and abruptly tells him to take a vacation. It’s not like the world is gonna end if he leaves the Tempering Grounds for a decade or so (Titus and Cor are a Fear™, don’t tell the monster to LEAVE it’s hideout and roam the world Glaucus!!). Gil stares at Glaucus in a stunned silence, Glaucus grunts and walks away, lecturing the two murder children.

-Gil thinks ... long and hard on Glaucus’s words.

-In the end decides it’s a moot point because when he was first cursed to this place he did try to leave a few times but he couldn’t. His curse wouldn’t let him. Pity though ... a vacation had sounded ... nice.

-That’s right around the time Ifrit shows up.

-Now, Ifrit doesn’t like humans, even after giving Glaucus his Blessing for the time-travel thing. He tolerates a few of them, even finds Glaucus and his group funny, but on the whole doesn’t like them. Know what he does like? Screwing over Bahamut. And when Glaucus mentioned Gilgamesh’s curse situation within Ifrit’s earshot (ie said it aloud at all because Ifrit tends to watch them from afar like his only tolerated cable tv channel), Ifrit got IDEAS.

-So Gilgamesh is in his Tempering Grounds, minding his own business and being broody bored when there’s a rush of fire and Ifrit the Infernian is standing there looking ... cunning.

-“Mortal.” Ifrit intones.

-“Not really,” Gilgamesh snarks because he’s a walking suit of armor cursed to live until the Chosen King comes, what’s Ifrit gonna do? Curse him again?

-Ifrit just grins “How would you like to change that?”

-Excuse him?

-Anyway after much smug talking from the Infernian, much sarcasm from Gilgamesh, and some severe bending of the rules of curses with a little shapeshifting magic thrown in for flavor, Gilgamesh kinda- blinks and finds himself outside the Tempering Grounds. In the sunlight.

-For the first time in 2k years.

-Yeah there might have been a panic attack or three. Especially because he now had lungs with which to HAVE a panic attack again. Ifrit had granted him a human form (one-armed and with a scar on his back just like the missing arm of his armor and the rend Titus had made) which technically Ifrit shouldn’t have been able to, except apparently he can just this once because he’s not bothering to use a human disguise and he was GOOD at this kind of magic while the rest of the Astrals were too busy being holier than thou to bother learning human-friendly enchantments.

-Gilgamesh sets off into the wilds, quickly figures out he has forgotten how to maintain an eating or sleeping schedule and he’s probably gonna go into a coma or something if he travels alone. So with a dry smile (that feels so good he HAS FACIAL EXPRESSIONS AGAIN. WOOT.) he sets off for where he can feel the magic of the time-traveling Sword.

-A week-ish after Ifrit shows up, so maybe 2-3 weeks after the Murder Children do their thing, Glaucus is having some “me time” out in the forest (happily murdering things to bring back to camp later without having a nattering crowd on his heels, he loves his idiots and Regis’s group, but sometimes they’re ... a bit much) when all the hairs on his neck prickle. He looks up and sees two red eyes glowing faintly in the shadows.

-The figure steps out wordlessly, hand away from his sword. One arm is missing and the man stands at a massive 7′6″, his eyes are a dark red that glints in the low lightning, his shaggy brown hair is pulled back into half-tail to keep it out of his face, which has scars on the right side from some old fight.

-Glaucus lowers his sword, but doesn’t ease from his stance, “I didn’t know you could look human, Gil,” he says almost flippantly.

-“Had a little help from your pet Astrals,” Gilgamesh retorts, his smile tugging at his scars. His posture is relaxed and non-threatening and almost ... uncertain. Like he isn’t sure what to say or how Glaucus will react.

-Glaucus just looks at him thoughtfully before snorting, “My gang of idiots is not the best place for a vacation.”

-Gilgamesh is blunt and open, “I’ve forgotten how to sleep when the moon rises, when to eat so I won’t pass out. I cannot die until the Chosen King comes into his own, but it is still unpleasant. I also...” he hesitates, “I do not remember how to function without a purpose. To fight. To guard the Grounds. To await the Last Shield. Without them ... I am lost.”

-“So you came to me.”

-“You are the only Lucis Caelum without a Shield.”

-Glaucus sneers “A Sword doesn’t need a Shield,” he scoffs, “and isn’t Ardyn more your speed?”

-Gilgamesh winces, “I have made my apologies,” and hadn’t that been a dramafest when Glaucus dragged the newly purified Ardyn to the Tempering Grounds for Gilgamesh to apologize to him, “but we will never stand united as a Shield and a King. I have broken his trust once, he does not give it a second time. Not in the way he would need for me to be his Shield. Besides,” and now Gilgamesh smiles ruefully, “For all his bite, the young Drautos is more a Shield than the Little Lion will ever be.”

-Glaucus flinches at the far off memory, of promising to be Regis’s second Shield, of protecting him no matter what only to fail. But Gilgamesh did not mean the words as an insult and the man makes a point. For all his recklessness and snark and fury, Titus is protective. His instinct is to kill on behalf of something rather than just to feel the adrenaline in his veins. He is protective of Ardyn, and Ardyn listens to the boy. Glaucus sheaths his sword and flexes his hands, “I don’t know how to have a Shield,” he admits softly, “you know I’m not ... natural.” Not a natural LC, not a born one, a time-traveler added to the line for the sake of the future and nothing more.

-“Neither am I,” Gilgamesh shrugs, “it is nothing to be ashamed of. You have the instincts to forge a Shield Bond imprinted in your very magic. I will swear fealty, and you will command me.”

-“Doesn’t that take trust?” Glaucus points out, “You’ve tried to kill me once before, and I know what you did to Ardyn.”

-A pause. A weighted reply of, “it takes trust. The trust that I will fight by your side and be strong enough to watch your back, that I will voice my opposition but obey your every command. The trust that there is no secret you can hold that will turn me away from you.” The last part is meaningful, pointed.

-They stand there in the increasing gloom of dusk for a long time. A former Leonine Sword and a Cursed Shield.

-Then Glaucus laughs, rough and wild and bloody. His eyes spark silver-bright as his magic reaches out and angrily, possessively tangles around Gilgamesh. It carves away the old, tattered, withered bond he once held with Somnus, a blade cutting away a rotted limb, then coils into place. A silent demand for loyalty, a silent acceptance of all Gilgamesh is and has done. Gilgamesh kneels and swears fealty to a new king, a old lion with glittering claws, and in the quiet of twilight, Glaucus names him Gildas, Gilgamesh’s old name from before he was the Mystic’s Shield, his current name of blood and trials and terror, both cast aside in favor of the new one. A new start.

-Gildas rises and follows Glaucus back to camp.

-While the rest of the groups stare in surprise at the massive, one-armed giant of a man Glaucus comes back with, Ardyn stills. Gildas and Ardyn stare at each other for some time, long enough for Titus to bristle protectively, not quite recognizing Gildas as the unarmored and once-more human Gilgamesh. Then Ardyn smiles, sad and understanding and ... forgiving, and pats the Haven in welcome, “Come, friend, introduce yourself to us and enjoy a meal.”

-Gildas dips his head, submission and gratitude all in one, “I am Gildas,” he rumbles, “and-”

-Glaucus interrupts, a slight, possessive lion’s growl in his voice, “He is my Shield.”

-The camp erupts into chatter and questions and shouting save Ardyn, who just smiles sadly and shuffles over to make room for an old once-friend. They will never be what they once were, will never trust each other like they once did, but Ardyn has always been too forgiving of a soul when the scourge did not turn him bitter, and he knows that Gilgamesh has been trapped in the Tempering Grounds for two thousand years with only the voices of the dead to keep him company as he awaited the Chosen King, just as Ardyn was trapped for two thousand years with only the screaming of the daemons to break the silence. In Ardyn’s mind, Gilgamesh has been punished enough.

-Better to forgive and move on in this new time, than to hold onto grudges two thousand years gone.

#Secret Engima Rambles #Melodies and Manuscripts #The Future's Blurry (the Past is Trap) verse #yesssss #gilgamesh (ffxv)#cor leonis #ffxv au

101 notes · View notes

wookieewrites · 4 years ago

Text

Lootkeeper

The adventurers were bloodied and beaten when they staggered into my chambers. They generally were, the ones who made it this far. I could never help myself wondering which of them would make it, who was going to go down hard, who would end up sacrificing themselves for the others.

You do this long enough, and the wondering just creeps in.

The very tone of the broken fortress changes when adventurers enter. Nightmares stir from their sleep, traps stretch their necks and the watchers peer out into the gloom. There are things out there with eyes that see clearly through the rain – and there’s always rain.

So I take my traditional place, don the armour I wore on my own journey through these ruins, and wait for them. I rest my hands on the pommel of my sword, embedded in the cracked flagstones where I buried it long ago.

The five of them wearily ready their weapons, stringing themselves into a loose formation. There’s a pair of magic wielders, of wildly different disciplines to judge my their clothing. They hover towards the middle, their fingers aglow with untold powers waiting to come at their beckon. Their rearguard hefts a hammer at me, and I strongly suspect that she’s going to hurl it at the slightest provocation.

The three frontliners bear the brunt of the damage this crew has sustained so far, as per usual. My eyes flick from the tip of a halberd to a gash on the man’s face, watching as it slowly knits itself together.

On the right, a lightly armoured woman with a determined set to her shoulders gives me a more appraising look than most. She’s probably not the planner of the group, but at a guess she might be the face. The bruises suggest that talking hasn’t done her all that much good in here, which I could have told her much earlier.

“If you just let us pass, we don’t have to fight,” she says, barely trying to disguise the bone weariness that suffuses her voice.

“Why do you insist on trying that every time Mariella?” her partner groans, hefting his scimitar.

“Let you pass? That would kind of defeat the point of me, don’t you think?” I ask. You might think they were too exhausted to appreciate my humour, and you would be right. But I get bored sometimes. Everyone does.

“You talk?” one of the magic wielders asks. I pin her as a necromancer. Oh, probably masquerading as a cleric of some nature or life god, but a necromancer nevertheless. The illusions are gone by this point.

“Last I checked. Though chances are I’m not the first being that can talk you’ve encountered on your way here. Not everything that can speak is friendly – or intelligent.”

“It has a point,” the other magic wielder says. “Remember that tree thing?”

“The treeyaeya is not particularly companionable,” I agree.

“You can say that again-“ he cuts off as Mariella smacks the flat of her rapier against his arm.

“Why would it tell us that?” she challenges.

“They, if you wouldn’t mind.”

“Oh,” the hammer-thrower says, lowering her hammer. “I’ve never met something that cared about pronouns that wouldn’t monologue before attacking me.”

“I’ve never felt more insulted and more seen at the same time,” I reply.

“Are you going to attack us,” Mariella asks, looking more curious than weary.

“That really depends on if you’re going to attack me. But I wasn’t planning on it, no.”

The magic fades from the mages’ fingertips, and all but one of them sheath their weapons.

“Come on, Vanagan. If they were going to start a fight, they’d have done it by now. I mean, look at the size of that sword.”

“Much too big to be practical,” I agree, taking my hands from the pommel and resting them by my sides. “Totally stuck in the flagstones, too. It’s mostly just for show.”

Vanagan, the halberdier, finally relaxes. He pulls his dented helm from his head and rests it on a hidden hook on his shoulder. I guess his hair is usually coiffed, but right now it looks as dishevelled as the rest of him. Not bad looking, all things considered.

“What are you doing here, then, if you’re not going to fight us?” the necromancer asks.

“You’re almost at the top now,” I explain, “and quite frankly you’ve been through a lot to get this far. I’m here to give you a little rest and some kind words of encouragement.”

Most of them seem happy with that, and a couple sit down on the flagstones. They look about ready to sleep. A frown creases Mariella’s face, as if she doesn’t quite believe me. I shed my helmet, crusty old thing that it is, and reveal my lined face to them all. I grin.

“Oh, and to arm you all for the fight ahead, that is.”

They leave their exhaustion in my antechamber, as I lead them into the armoury. The forge and the workshop are tertiary to their concerns, and there are secrets in there that aren’t mine to share. Not that they have much time to use them at the moment.

The second greatest joy that I have these days, after messing with adventurers who come to face me, is the looks on their faces as they spin on their heels, staring up at the towering racks of tools, weapons, armour and trinkets that fill my armoury.

“What’s the catch?” the hammer thrower, Hylie, asks. I already like her to-the-point attitude.

“Take a piece, leave a piece,” I say.

“Equal value?” Mariella’s partner, Bykar, interjects. “Alright, I might be able to swap everything I have for this gold spoon then.”

“That spoon can turn any liquid into pure magical energy. Charges mages up like a lightning strike.”

Bykar puts the spoon back hurriedly, as if he worried it would break on him.

“No, not equal value. For any piece of gear you leave behind, you can take a piece of gear from here. A whole suit of armour for a single knife, if you wish. But you must leave behind one more item than you take.”

“Are they all enchanted? Any why one more?” Trudy the necromancer asks, looking more excited by the minute.

“Every one. And you have to leave more than you take, so the armoury can grow.”

“I could have told you that,” Vanagan scoffs, “it’s a typical deal with these kinds of types. Let me guess – you somehow use our attachment to the items to fuel the magic that makes them worth so much more in the end?”

His companions stare at Vanagan in unconcealed disbelief.

“He’s quite right. Though, it’s less about fuel and more that the technique involves evoking an enchantment from the item’s history. Chances are you’re the most significant part of that history though, given that you brought them here. There’s a lot of nuance to this kind of enchantment, but I doubt you have much time to discuss it. Your Quest and all.”

Vanagan looks smug at being right, and the rest of the group seem keen to move on from anything that might cause their friend to start crowing about his intelligence.

“Where do you want the things we’re trading?” Hylie asks. I motion towards a series of broad, flat silver trays.

The group splits up to hunt through the vast stock of treasures available to them.

This part of the process is another one that fascinates me – the way that different people choose to approach it. I watch as Byker slowly strips himself of every piece of equipment that he has with him. The battered armour, his sword, shield and a handful of minor magical trinkets that he’d clearly accumulated of the course of their venture into the fortress. He lays each out, and counts them, trying to make sure that he has a fair number. When he seems satisfied with the count, he looks up at me and I nod, accepting the total that he has calculated.

Then he disappears into the stacks, combing through as much of the armoury as he can make it through. I spot him pick out a glittering suit of armour that can blind his enemies in a fight and a solid wooden round shield whose crest is almost imperceptible beneath the blood that has stained it. The latter is infused with the fury of a dragon, and I’m not even sure what the full effects of the shield would be when bonded.

On the other hand, Mariella doesn’t leave a single thing on the trays. Instead, she prowls the pathways between the stacks, her eyes running over every item she sees but not staying for longer than a moment on any until she spies a rapier, much like her own, with a dark emerald embedded in its pommel. She draws the weapon, and feels some part of its power brush up against her mind, whispering of the things that she could do with it if she leaves here with it.

Mariella walks back over to me, takes off her necklace and unsheathes her well-worn rapier, placing them on the tray in front of her. Without looking at me, she buckles the enchanted sword to her side, and returns to scanning the stacks. Each time she returns, she has another item in hand, and leaves something of hers in exchange.

The lot of them waste little time in assessing the tastiest morsels of the armoury, and in almost no time at all I can tell that they’re mentally preparing themselves for the slog ahead. It’s usually not far, from my chamber to the throne room, but those last few encounters can really test a party’s mettle.

I won’t be bored, when they’re gone. They’ve left the better part of the loot that they entered with, so I have a few solid days of enchanting work ahead of me, as well as some extra, lengthier steps with some of the gnarlier enchantments.

It will be quieter, though.

“Is that everything?” I ask.

“Not quite,” Mariella replies. “Do you have any tips? For what lies ahead?”

This is a smart question, and one that far too many groups don’t think to ask.

“You’ve a big group. I can tell you learned the painful way not to keep too close together, to avoid blasts or anything that might chain. The throne room will force you to unlearn that lesson, if it doesn’t take you out first. Make two self-sufficient subgroups, and be ready to split apart and regroup at a moment’s notice. Dividing attention between the two groups will keep both alive. When your foe starts to gloat, throw your opening volley and hit hard – but make sure you keep a solid reserve. You’ll want to be able to match your opener with another coordinated volley about halfway through. The tricks that will be pitted against you differ each time, but you’ll be able to tell when they’ve all been burned through because the gloating will turn to desperate, brutal fighting. That’s when you throw everything you have out, and whittle whatever’s left away.

If you win, and I hope you do – don’t rest. Other things will come crawling out to try and take your prize from you. They’re not much of a threat, but if you’ve let your guard down they could overwhelm you.

That’s all I remember. Best of luck.”

They absorbed my advice solemnly, and I hoped that enough of it would help them in the long run. I tried never to speak to anything I could not know, and the exact nature of the challenges ahead were unreliable at best. Besides, very little made its way back down the fortress this way, so I rarely learned anything more.

“When we win, we’ll come back through here. Free you from this.”

I shook my head.

“No. I chose to stay here, to work in these chambers for the empowerment of folks like yourself. It will be a difficult enough fight for you, even with the tools I have provided. Without me, it might be years before the fortress is bested.

It is a lonely lot, here, but I could not ask for more fulfilling work.”

At that, they left, bravely facing the chambers ahead. Their spirits had been close to breaking, but now they were renewed.

A figure stirred in the shadows.

IT IS DONE THEN?

“They will fight you at the peak of their strength, lord of this tower. If you best them-“

WHEN

“When you best them, they will nourish your broken soul, and feed the very roots of your power. The fortress may stand for many years on their strength alone.”

GOOD. IT HAS BEEN TOO LONG SINCE I HAD A TRUE CHALLENGE. IT IS A SHAME THAT MORE OF THEM DO NOT OFFER THEIR SOULS TO SAVE THEIR COMPATRIOTS, AS YOU ONCE DID.

I grind my teeth, but say nothing.

WORK WELL, ETERNAL ARMOURER. YOU MAY YET EARN YOUR FREEDOM.

“You may yet a match for your wretched power.”

It fades from my awareness, returning to its physical form to prepare for the challenge. And I am left to wonder, again, whether I am a thorn in that monster’s side, or a chef preparing its every meal to perfection.

#fantasy #roguelike #original fiction #slay the spire

4 notes · View notes

kaistome · 5 years ago

Text

Magic Weapons: More Than Just A ‘+1 Longsword’

So often as DMs we hand our players a +1 or +2 magic weapon and move on. To the player this weapon now only has a purely numerical and mechanical value. It does not feel special or unique. In most fiction when a character receives a magic weapon, its is given a sense of weight or the weapon has some sort of unique quality that has nothing to do with its capabilities as a weapon.

This should be true of the weapons your players receive as well. This item may be their trusted weapon for several levels. It should feel iconic or special in some way. Even if at the end of the day from a pure numbers perspective its just a ‘+1 Longsword.’

Perhaps the weapon has a history. And it was handed down through a family for generations. The weapon could be clasped in the hands of long dead hero, or king, completely untarnished by time. There could be a local legend about it, such as a noble warrior losing it in a cave in a battle with a giant beast.. Or it struck the killing blow against a foul villain in times past, thus earning a reputation.

Another way to make the weapon feel special is to give it a name. This alone can be the difference between just a pretty good sword and the chosen weapon of a hero. These names could be related to the deeds that were mentioned previously. Named by the hero who wielded it, the smith who forged it, or the common folk who knew of the deeds it was involved in.

Example “Using a quick spell, the wizard remarks about the swords magical qualities. The bard rolls for History getting an 18. Through his travels, he's heard of a blade that matches this ones description. Long ago, it was wielded by the hero Felia Redmane. She and her party faced off against an evil warlord named Volgaz, who had terrorized the land. It was near dawn, when Felia and Volgaz crossed swords. They exchanged blow after blow, and Volgaz eventually knocked her to the ground. On the horizon, the sun began to slowly rise and as Volgaz raised his sword for the killing blow, Felia did the same to defend. Her blade had an unnatural gleam, catching the first rays of sunlight. Blinded, Volgaz staggered back, allowing Felia to rush in, and thrust the blade into Volgaz's heart. He was defeated, and the land was saved. Because of the tale, the people of the land gave the blade a name.

Dawn's Hope”

The story of the blade does not have to be as epic as this one. It could have a humble origin. Enchanted by a local hedgewizard, and wielded by a farmer. Who used it to fight off and scare away a group of bandits, and thus became a local town hero. The story could even be silly. Forged by one of the greatest smiths in the land for the crown prince. It was a masterwork, worthy of great praise. However, on his first journey with the sword, the prince accidentally dropped the weapon into a lake, where it sank to the bottom, never to be seen again.

As mentioned above, many magic weapons in fiction have some of unnatural quality about them, that makes them special. Beyond just hitting things good. Listed on the table below are a list of minor magical qualities a weapon can have. You can choose them randomly or cherry-pick a few to fit your purposes. Some of these qualities could also apply to other magic items to give them more flavor, and uniqueness.

Weapon Quality table 1. Blood, grime and dirt slide off of the weapon, and it always stays perfectly clean. 2. The weapon does not cast a shadow 3. It is faintly warm, tingly or cold to the touch. 4. Runes, filigree or other arcane symbols are inscribed on the weapon. 5. The weapon glows a certain color when a type of creature is near. 6. The weapon responds to a particular school of magic, vibrating or resonating when that particular magic is near. 7. The weapon has a faint visible aura around it. 8. The weapons handle or blade is set with a precious gemstone that pulses with magical light 9. The weapon creates a contrail of light when you swing it. The light may even have certain patterns inside of it. Like flowers, stars, or snowflakes. 10. While you hold the weapon, your eyes faintly glow. 11. The story of a hero who wielded the weapon is engraved upon it in some way. 12. The weapon has a certain murderous intent. When you touch it, you can sense it wants to be drawn and used.

On the more mechanical side of things. Here is a selection of tags and enchantments that you can mix, match, and apply to magic weapons. Much like the first table, some of these qualities could be applied to other magic items. (A note on ranged weapons. Most of these qualities listed below can be applied to a bow, crossbow or the like. Its magic enchanting any projectile shot from it with the enchantment)

New Magic Weapon Tags

Frostforged(Any weapon): This weapon was crafted using ancient techniques of frost giant smiths. It is frigidly cold to the touch, ice and frost sometimes collecting on its surface. As a bonus action, you can speak the weapon's command word, and cause it to be completely consumed in an aura of frost. While the aura of frost is active, you have resistance to fire damage and the weapon deals an extra 2d6 Cold damage on hit. The cold aura lasts until you use another bonus action to dismiss it.

Thunderfury(Any weapon):This weapons was forged to have a powerful resonate quality. As a bonus action, you can speak the weapons command word, and make it resonate with powerful sonic vibrations. While it resonates, you cannot be magically deafened or silenced, and the weapon deals an extra 2d6 thunder damage on hit. The sonic resonance, lasts until you use another bonus action to dismiss it.

Stormblessed (Any weapon):This weapon was created using well kept storm giant techniques. It makes anyone who touches it faintly tingle, hair standing on end. As a bonus action, you can speak the weapon's command word, and make it crackle with lightning. While it is surrounded with lightning, it deals an extra 2d6 lighting damage on hit. In addition, as an action, you can make a ranged weapon attack with the weapon, firing a bolt of lightning from it. The bolt has a range of 30/60 ft, and deals 2d6 lighting damage on hit. The lightning aura lasts until you use another bonus action to dismiss it.

Mithral(Any metal weapon or armor):Mithral is a silvery white metal that is lighter than steel, but as hard as dragon scales. It is extremely rare, and highly prized for its qualities. Weapons and armor forged from mithral weigh half as much as their other metal counterparts. Mithral weapons have the finesse quality even if they are heavy, or two handed. Heavy armor made from mithral is considered medium armor for the purpose of proficiency and stealth disadvantages.

Lucky(Any weapon): This weapon has been blessed by fate, and it passes on this blessing to its wielder. This weapon comes in 3 different tiers Rare, Very Rare, and Legendary. A Rare lucky weapon has the following qualities. Once per long rest, whenever you miss with this weapon, you can reroll the attack roll, taking the new result. A Very Rare lucky weapon can use this ability twice per long rest. A Legendary lucky weapon can use this ability 3 times per long rest. And in addition, its wielder has advantage on Death saving throws.

Shadowborne (Any weapon): This weapon was forged in one of the dark places of the world. Perhaps by Shadar Kai, or smiths of the Underdark. While in dim light, or darkness it deals an extra 3d4 Necrotic damage. And while you wield it, you have darkvision out to 60ft. If you already have darkvision, its range increases by 20ft

Heartseeker (Any weapon that deals piercing): This weapon faintly pulses and has a sublte bloodlust that you can sense as you hold it. This weapon crits on a natural roll of 18,19 and 20. If you crit with this weapon, you automatically pierce the heart of the creature, if it has a heart. If the creature cannot survive without its heart it dies instantly, if it can, or does not have a heart to begin with, it takes 6d6 Necrotic damage that cannot be resisted. The GM may also rule that the creature is too big for you to pierce its heart. In which case it takes the previously mentioned damage.

Keen(Any weapon that deals slashing damage): This blade is unnaturally sharp, and never loses its edge. It crits on a natural 19, or 20.

Sundering(Any weapon that deals bludgeoning damage): This weapon breaks through armored foes, shattering their defenses. If you roll a Crit against a target with this weapon, and they are wearing armor, or have natural armor, you reduce their AC by 2. This effect can stack and reduce a target's AC by a maxium of 6.

Armor Piercing (Any weapon that deals piercing):This weapon is made specifically to deal with armored foes. It ignores 1 point of AC on any target with armor or natural armor.

Cleaving(Any weapon that deals slashing or bludgeoning):If you hit with this weapon, you can make a second attack roll with the same action against another target within 5ft of the original. On hit, you deal half the damage you dealt to the original target.

Bane:This weapon deals double damage against a creature of a particular type. (Fiend, Dragon, Undead etc.)

Aetherium(Any weapon that is made of metal): Aetherium is a very rare and expensive alloy. Made from a composite of several metals and quenched in liquid magical energy. Any weapon or armor forged form Aetherium naturally has a +1 to hit and damage. Weapons constructed of Aetherium have the ability to deal extra damage to ethereal beings, or creatures made of made of magical energy. Such as ghosts, elementals and the like. Such creatures take 2d6 extra damage of the weapons damage type from this weapon. Armor made from Aetherium grants wearer protection from magic, granting them advantage on all spell saving throws. And immunity to any spell that is 2nd level or lower.

Gleaming(Any weapon that is made of metal): This weapon sparkles and glitters with an unnatural sheen. Once per encounter, if you are in bright, or dim light, you can use a bonus action to reflect the light around you into a creatures eyes who is within 5 feet of you. They must make a Con save against a DC equal to 8+ attack modifier+proficiency. Becoming blinded until the end of their next turn.

Vampiric(any weapon):Whenever you deal damage with this weapon, you gain temporary hit points equal to your damage modifier.

Brutal(Any weapon with the two handed, or heavy quality):Whenever you deal damage with this weapon, you may add your Strength modifier to the damage roll twice instead of once.

Hellforged(Any weapon):A weapon forged in the fires of the 9 hells of Baator. It has an unholy aura and hungers for conflict. Any creature that is Chaotic, or Good aligned takes 3d6 extra damage of the chosen damage type. Fire, Cold, Lightning or Necrotic(this damage type is chosen upon its forging and cannot be resisted)

Giantslayer(Any weapon):A weapon forged to kill giant beasts and humanoids. Any creature that is Large or bigger takes double damage from this weapon. You have advantage on all attack rolls made against such creatures.

Ominous(Any weapon): This weapons gives off an aura that gives nearby creatures a sense of unease. While you carry this weapon, you have advantage on all Intimidation checks.

Feyblessed(Any weapon):This weapon was forged by fey magic and touched by their blessing. While you wield this weapon, you have advantage on saving throws against being charmed. And on any Perception or Investigation checks to see through illusions.

Venomous(Any weapon): This weapon drips with deadly venom. Weapons of this type are a favorite of Assassins. On hit, this weapon deals 3d4 poison damage. If the venomous weapon is of a higher quality or potency it deals 4d4 instead of 3d4 poison damage. And it has the following benefits. Its poison damage cannot be resisted. Any creature who takes damage from this weapon, who is not immune to poison and is below 50 hit points must make a DC 16 Constitution saving throw. Dying instantly on a failed save.

New Magic Weapons

Blink Dagger, uncommon, Weapon, This finely crafted dagger is perfectly balanced and is set with a shimmering sapphire. As a bonus action, you can speak the Dagger's command word. As long is the dagger is within 1 mile of you and is on the same plane of existence, it appears in your hand with a small burst of blue sparks. It is otherwise a normal dagger.

Tsukikage, Legendary,Weapon,Requires attunement

“This blade was said to have been forged in the Astral Plane by the legendary smith Murasame. It was their life's greatest work, and the sword is known throughout the multiverse. Its blade shimmers with an ever shifting pattern of the Astral Plane, never losing its sharpness.”

This weapon is considered a +3 Masterwork, Keen Vorpal Longsword. In addition to dealing its normal damage die, it also deals 1d8 force damage on hit. The sword also holds powerful illusion magic and can cut through the fabric of planes. Up to a number times per day, it can allow you to cast the following spells

3 times/day:Blur,Mirror Image 2 times/day: Dimension Door 1 time/ day: Plane Shift

Glint And Glimmer, Very Rare, Weapon, Requires attunement

“A pair of finely crafted shortswords. Many generations ago, a meteorite fell toward the earth, streaking across the sky like a shimmering ball of light. As it crashed, the meteorite was split into two halves. An elven smith, by the name of Arandel happened upon the crater. He was struck by the beauty of the glittering ore inside of the rock. Upon smelting, he forged the ore on one of the highest mountain tops. Where his workshop was bathed by the first rays of the sun each morning. Seeming to be blessed by the gods of light and the sun, the blades were soon complete.”

These paired +2 Shortswords are made of an iridescent gold metal. Though they are two weapons, they only require 1 attunement slot to attune to both.

Whenever you hit a creature with one of these shortswords, it explodes with a burst of light, dealing 2d6 radiant damage in addition to its normal damage. As an action on your turn, you can cross the swords together, to create a burst of blinding sunlight in a 30ft sphere around you. All hostile creatures that can see you, and are within the sphere must make a Constitution saving throw against a DC equal to 8+attack modifier+ your proficiency. On a failed save, the creature takes 3d6 radiant damage, and is blinded until the end of its next turn. If the creature succeeds, it takes half damage and is not blinded. This ability can be used up to 3 times per long rest.

Thunderchime, Rare, Weapon, Requires attunement

“In the hills to the north, a clan of hill dwarves was beset by a Wyvern. All the warriors who were sent out to slay it, were injured or worse, slain by the ferocious beast. Seeking to put an end to this, a humble dwarven smith, named Trista Gildsong, put all of her blood sweat and tears into the crafting of this weapon. When the last hammer blow came, the weapon let out a powerful chime, like the tolling of bell. It was a sign, foretelling of Trista's victory against the beast the next morn.”

This +1 Morningstar is made of a silvery shining metal. It has a powerful resonate quality, like that of a bell.

Whenever you hit a creature with this weapon it takes an additional 1d8 Thunder damage. The weapon can also be struck on a solid surface to create a powerful wave of sound in a 10ft radius. All creatures in the radius must make a DC 14 Constitution saving throw, becoming deafened for the next minute on a failure.

Heart Piercer, Very Rare, Weapon, Requires attunement

“Long ago, a lone woman returned to her home, to find it ransacked. Her family devoured by a giant beast. With anger and vengeance in her heart she tracked down the creature that had done this. Her arrows and spear however, could not pierce its thick hide, and so she sought the help of a Ranger conclave. She learned their ways, seeking to become the ultimate hunter. Upon the completion of her training she poured all of her anger, malice and hunger for vengeance into the creation of a bow. A bow that would finally slay the beast who took her family from her.”

This finely crafted Ominous Long Bow is made of dark red oak. The face of a roaring beast, made of inlayed gold, decorates its surface. Its ominous aura is a ferocious killing intent, and a thirst for blood.

All arrows fired from this bow have a +2 to hit and damage have the Heartseeker quality, and are considered magical. A contrail of red energy follows in the arrows wake and transforms into the face of a hungry beast. Seeking to devour its prey.

Trollbane, Very Rare, Requires attunement

“This masterwork greatsword, was forged by an azer smith on the plane of fire. Through happenstance, it eventually found itself in the hands of a dragonborn paladin. He took the blade with him on many adventures not fully knowing the blades true power. One day, the paladin found himself against a monstrous Troll king. The two battled in a titanic struggle. In one final desperate move, the paladin shouted a curse in ancient draconic tongue and struck. The blade responded, igniting in flames, the runes upon its blade shimmering red. The troll king faltered and the paladin cleft him in twain, his body burning to ash. And thus, it earned its name”

This +1 Masterwork,Bane(giant),flametongue greatsword is set with a ruby upon its pommel. The weapon's guard is the mouth of a dragon like beast, the blade extending from its mouth like a giant tongue. When the sword's command phrase is spoken 'Chikok wux wer wlekjr' (Curse you to the Nine) it ignites in flames and crimson runes glow along its surface.

Winterfall, Legendary, Requires attunement

“On the coldest night of winters, in the highest mountains of the north, this weapon was forged. An ancient frost giant named Hildr was reaching the end of her days. She knew she did not have long. And so she sought to create her last great work. With the finest steel, she began to work. Her forge burned with magical flames that were as cold as true fire was hot. Within that forge, she crafted a hammer. Pouring her heart, and soul into its creation. Through the night, she worked and worked. Never stopping. It was morning when the last hammer blow fell, then looking upon her work, she smiled. Her life then left her, granting the weapon its name with her dying breath.”

This +3 Sundering, Frostforged maul, is marked with its name, in ancient giant runes. The runes glow the deepest blue in the dark, and the weapon is always cold to the touch. When its command word is spoken, its strikes are infused with the blessings of the frost giants. Its blows striking like an avalanche and its touch as cold as the deepest winter.

Tongue Of Dendar, Legendary, Requires attunement

“Long before men walked the earth, Yuan ti ruled. In that time before man and the other races we know today, Dendar, the night serpent blessed one of his greatest priests with a powerful gift. A weapon that held a fraction of his essence. It seemed to move as if it were alive, slithering and writhing. Eager to strike at any who would dare speak ill of the night serpent.”

This +2 , Venomous, Ominous, whip deals 1d8 slashing damage instead of 1d4. Its length is coated in thick dark scales, several curved blades jutting along it. And tipped with one final blade. While you are attuned to this weapon, your mind is plagued by horrifying nightmares when you dream. Each time you have a nightmare, you must make a DC 16 Wisdom saving throw. On a failed save, you suffer one level of exhaustion. This exhaustion cannot be removed until you succeed on the saving throw. Even when you are awake, you can occasionally hear it whisper to you faintly.

Also while attuned to this weapon, you can speak with snakes at will as if by the Speak with animals spell. You can also cast the following spells a certain number of times per day.

5 time/day Dissonant Whispers 4 times/day Darkness 3 times/day Fear 2 times/day Blight 1 times/day Cloudkill

Albion, Very Rare,Requires attunement

“Long ago, there was a silver unicorn, who protected one of the many groves of the feywild. She was considered a queen among the unicorns, respected and revered. One day, a portal to the shadowfell encroached upon the grove and a nightwalker strode into the grove. With all her strength, she battled the beast and was victorious. However, her wounds were fatal, and she began to pass on. With her dying breath, she poured the last of her magic into her horn, and separated it from her body. The horn was later found by a group of Fey nobles who used the horn, to forge a powerful weapon that would be used to defend the feywilds. In memory of the Unicorn queen, Albion.”

This +2 Masterwork, Lucky, Armor piercing, Feyblessed rapier's blade is made from the spiraling horn of a unicorn. The horn glitters faintly in the light like silver dust. Its guard and basket hilt are composed of iron wood, weaved into a complex, delicate pattern. This weapon has a subtle will of its own, and will not willingly harm Fey creatures. Any attack made against Fey with this weapon has disadvantage.

#dnd #5e #dnd 5e #Dungeons and Dragons #homew #5e homebrew #tabletop #magic weapons #magic items

129 notes · View notes

shinidamachu · 5 years ago

Text

Japanese Doll

Summary: and she lived happily ever after... or so she thought. What to do when you are ripped off from your fairy tale and thrown into a horror story?

Word Count: 8002 Genre: boo! Fandom: InuYasha Pairing: Kagome + Distress I guess Format: oneshot AO3 Link: 🌹 Fanfic.Net Link: 🌹

Tag List: @gaykagome @mcornilliac @keichanz @amethystablaze @cstorm86 (thank you so much for the interest, you guys).

When Kagome woke up that night, it was her worst nightmare that greeted her to conscious.

Bit by bit, and without fully comprehending, she took in the view of the room that was once hers, unmistakable even in the black. Everything was quiet. Too quiet. Like the pained whispers of a funeral.

The young priestess didn’t expect to be there ever again. She shouldn’t be. That was the deal — a lifetime of happiness with the man she loved in exchange of nevermore setting a feet on her own era — and she had accepted it with every string attached.

Then why was she there? Could it be that her return to the Sengoku had been nothing but a cruel dream? Impossible. She had felt the passage of time in her womb as it bore their first child. It wasn’t something her mind could forge, at least not that realistically so.

Her thoughts were a puzzle of incompatible pieces, buzzing so loud in her ears that only the thunder announcing the storm outside managed to be as strident. Not a slit of light dared to trespass the ajar door. Still groggy, Kagome crawled out the bed, its sheets feeling utterly foreign to her skin.

A few hesitant steps and she was pulling the knob carefully, making it squeak.

“Mom?” She tried, a single tear escaping her eyes while a bad feeling took the form of goosebumps on her arms. “Sota? Grandpa?”

No reply.

Walking outside, a putrid scent stole the air from her lungs like a punch in the guts. Kagome had inhaled that odor too many times to be naive about it. There was no doubt.

She had just smelled death.

Now shaking, she forced herself to go down the stairs, a billion horrific scenarios playing in her brain on repeat. Every little noise the wood made under her weight was enough to set her heart racing.

Finally stepping into the living room, Kagome snapped her gaze through the darkness, searching for something she was terrified to find.

Gasping when a shadow that resembled a silhouette caught her peripheral vision, she turned just in time to see a lightning reveal his hideous features by the window. For the first time that night, the knot on her throat loosened.

And she screamed.

Her stomach seemed to fall in infinite loop, the hair on her nape were crimped up in a way they never did while the creepiest feeling climbed down her spine, freezing her in place.

Kagome shook her head, as if refusing to acknowledge the scene before her could somehow make it disappear.

He hasn’t changed at all. She would know. For years, every detail of his figure was imprinted on her soul, becoming the impersonation of her deepest fears. For the majority of the time, Kagome would successfully push it to the back of her mind — she had to, in order to survive the horde of demonic creatures always on her pursuit —, but that fear never left. It kept waiting on the sidelines for another chance to get her alone, another lowered guard, another almost.

Eventually, Kagome got used to living with that kind of threat constantly sniffing on her neck — all women did, after all. What made it easier was knowing the man that represented that danger for her was long gone.

Yet, there he was.

The white of his clothes were tarnished by blood, including the adornment that covered his mouth, leaving exclusively his lifeless eyes at sight. No matter how wide he smiled, it never reached them. Kagome remembered that well.

Mukotsu slowly raised the axe he held in his hand — blood dripped from it as well — and just as a magician had snapped his fingers, Kagome woke up from the trance, running to the kitchen.

Wake up, she kept asking herself, wake up, wake up, wake up.

The Master of Poisons showed no rush, but still followed her down the hall, making Kagome brace herself for whatever substance he meant to plague her with.

However, it wasn’t a poison that took her down.

Something solid and alarmingly soft had thrown her off balance. Fallen on the floor and utterly aware of his imminent approach, it wasn’t hard for Kagome to decide that whatever tripped her, would have to remain a mystery.

Then, with a sinister click, the lights went on.

The panic Kagome was incapable to voice came out in sharply drawn breaths and violent chills.

If she had thought waking up without InuYasha in her childhood bedroom was her worst nightmare, that was nothing compared to the horror of finding out she had stumbled on the ensanguined corpse of her mother.

Had the fatal wounds on her body not being sufficient indication, the dull eyes would do the trick — they told Kagome everything she already knew but still couldn’t really process. Lying near, were her brother and grandpa, equally covered on their own fluids. Without even touching, Kagome knew they would feel cold.

Mukotsu left his spot by the light switch, entering the room and driving her attention away from the carnage in which her kitchen had turned. Now that the mask was off, his almost toothless smile set her on her feet. She had lost precious time. Her chances to reach the back door before getting caught diminished by the second.

Acting on pure instinct, Kagome grabbed an abandoned knife on the sink and held it protectively between them.

After years of fighting the nastiest opponents and surviving, she unlearned how to be a prey. Since her bow became an extension of her body and she got a hold of her spiritual powers, Kagome had become someone to fear in the face of a battle. Now, devoid of archery, said powers were the only thing she had to lean on.

And a knife.

Her thoughts went back to InuYasha. How desperately she wanted him to just show up and save the day somehow. Something inside her stomach revolted, both from the strong smells and from the realization that this was the exact wish she made when she had first encountered the Shichinintai member. If it hadn’t been for Sesshoumaru…

Kagome was gonna throw up. She was positive of it.

“STAY AWAY!” She imposed herself above the rain noise. Timbre steady, hands trembling.

“That’s no way to greet your groom.” Replied Mukotsu. His voice was as deep as she recalled, but the goofy tone that detuned it in weird places was still there.

None of it made sense. By just being there, Mukotsu defied every universal law Kagome believed in. She would be the first to admit it wasn’t a long list, considering the insane experiences she went through. Of two of them, however, she was absolutely sure.

One, death — for the most part — was an irrevocable rule. And she saw him die.

Two, the well didn’t work for anybody besides her and her husband. Sometimes, not even for them, as Kagome had felt on her own skin for the entirety of three years.

Part of her, the rational one, wanted to ask him how and why. The other part just wanted to stick the quivering blade on him as deeply as possible and run to safety, to InuYasha.

“I SAID STAY AWAY!” Kagome tried to stand her ground, in vain. He was getting closer. She was cornered.

“Still scrappy.” Mukotsu mused, clearly unaffected by her threatening posture.

Once he got in her reach, Kagome uncerismonly buried the knife into his neck and ran.

A pained groan dissolved into laughter behind her, followed by the metalic sound of a blade hitting the floor. Kagome didn’t get far before he managed to knock her down — hands opening in reflex to ease the fall, she immediately resumed her flee by crawling away, eager to put as many space between them as she could, but there was no matching his strength.

Mukotsu turned Kagome over, climbing on the top of her as she scratched and kicked nonstop. He had to put the axe aside to immobilize her properly. Fresh blood started to drip all over her uniform.

“GET OFF ME!” Her throat emitted the words, but it was in her soul she channeled every drop of energy, in order to release that dormant power within.

Nothing happened.

Raw terror threatened to disable any reaction Kagome might pull as her defeat became more and more evident. Nonetheless, she kept fighting. It was exhausting and futile at that point, but she knew what the alternative was. Fighting was all she had.

“You are just as pretty as I remembered.” He ran a finger through her cheek. His touch felt strangely warm and wet and she knew instantly it had left a trail of blood on her face. Kagome wondered, in vain, to which member of her family it belonged to, or if the slaughter had annihilated any chance to tell it apart.

The more the contact lasted, the more she ached for a shower. Anticipating what he was about to do, every inch of her protested the imposed closeness. She found herself hoping he’d just kill her already. A clean, swift, painless death. That would be the best case scenario, given the circumstances.

‘Kill me! Please, just kill me’, she thought, refusing to give him the satisfaction to hear her begging. Mukotsu would never let her go, one way or another.

“You are not getting away this time.” As she bit back her sobs, he took both her wrists with one hand and the axe with the other, lifting it to a good — aligned with her neck — distance. Kagome could hardly believe when she caught his intentions, shutting her eyes to cage the relieved tears. With InuYasha’s smile pictured behind her eyelids, she accepted her fate.

The last thing she heard was the swishing sound of an axe coming down.

As soon as Kagome came to consciousness, her hands flew to her throat, where Mukotsu’s final strike was supposed to be. There was nothing there but cold sweat, but Kagome was no fool.

It was clear now she wasn’t having a nightmare.

She was living in one.

Someone or something was toying her like a Slinky and Kagome needed to get to InuYasha at once.

She kicked the sheets off herself — breath still hasty — and considered her options as her eyes adjusted to the dark.

The unsettling feeling of a presence she couldn’t see told her that Mukotsu was still downstairs. Waiting.

Kagome couldn’t bring herself to come down and check. She couldn’t risk reliving the trauma of finding her family in that dreadful condition ever again. It was just too much.

The priestess left the bed — careful not to drive attention to her awakening — and stepped inside a pair of shoes, looking for anything that might help her fight or flee.

No bow or arrows at sight. Nothing sharpy or heavy she could make use of. Kagome doubt her spiritual powers would work, either, and given the previous failure, she was less than enthusiastic to try again. The insistent din against the curtained window reminded her of the raging storm outside and Kagome made a decision.

The umbrella she abandoned on the top of the wardrobe years ago was probably still there. Daring to hope, she navigated between furniture and triumphantly avoided potential tripping risks.

There it was. She grabbed the ferrule and pulled, realizing too late in her eagerness that something was attached to the handle. Whatever the object was, her movement made it drop into the floor with an audible thud.

Both her feet and heart stopped in place as Kagome got engulfed by a reverie of despair. She has been discovered. He was coming for her. Seconds crawled unrushed, one after the other. It looked like she was in the clear.

With renewed determination and umbrella in hand, Kagome marched to the window, pushing the curtains apart and lifting the glass open.

Then, without a warning, the door slammed, making her startle. She turned around to find Mukotsu, every bit the frightening monster from the past time. Kagome gripped the umbrella tigh to ease the tremors that took over her hands and before he could react, she jumped off the window.

It wasn’t a long fall, but the chilly air surrounding her all the way down made it feel eternal. The muddy ground approached in slow motion and when her feet finally collided against it, they did so in a bad angle. A searing pain inflicted her right ankle right away.

Kagome fell to her knees and whimpered. Under the incessant rain, she tried to surpass the ache and just keep going, but the unexpected sound of breaking glass announced it wouldn’t be that easy to escape.

Mukotsu had jumped after her, axe in hand. All the sirens going off on her brain screamed danger. She started moving, but in matter of instants he caught her by the injured ankle, making her screech and collapse face first in the mud.

“Where do you think you’re going without your groom?”

Without thinking twice, she yelled again — either from pain or adrenaline — and shoved the tip of the umbrella into his left eye with all the strength she managed to gather.

His hand instantly let go of her to nurse the damage as a guttural howl fell off his lips. Kagome seized the opportunity and ran to the Well House. Every step was torture, bringing her close to salvation and unlocking new levels of agony at the same time, but she wouldn’t stop. She couldn’t.

She threw at Mukotsu a final look back. His face was red with blood and rage, umbrella and axe tossed to the side. Kagome didn’t have too long now. Driving her gaze forward, her undivided focus was on the time portal.

Kagome jumped into the well and sighed in relief when the well known passage of years embraced her, transporting her back to another era. Part of her was terrified it wouldn’t work again, since nothing else seemed to do from the moment she woke up.

When she emerged, the urgency to go to InuYasha and the fear of being followed by Mukotsu set her running despite the soreness. She had to assume if he was able to show up at modern Tokyo, he might as well pursue her to the Feudal Era and the well was the only way to do that. She needed to put maximum distance between them.

It wasn’t raining, but the wind was cool and blew through her wet skin with the fury of a hundred daggers, the pain rivaling with the one in her ankle. Even so, Kagome refused to slow down now that she was so close to home.

Not once had occurred to her that the path of hope she so firmly walked on could crack under her strides, leaving her adrift. It was, however, exactly what happened just as she made the turn that should put their simple hut at sight.

Kagome felt electrified like the sky she left in the other side of the well.

There, in front of what their place was supposed to be, her knees gave in. Every inch of ground was taken by untouched flora. Nothing led to believe that, someday, a happy family used to call those desert lands home.

“I-I don’t understand.” Kagome stared at the empty field, feeling empty herself. The miko was willing to bet that whoever was playing this cruel games with them had got to InuYasha first, but there was no signal of fight and her husband would put up one for sure. It was so frustrating to try and come up with explanations only to have more questions popping up.

She didn’t want to do it all on her own, without as much as knowing if her family was safe. Very little about everything that was happening that night seemed real, but it did feel like it to a frightful extent.

“InuYasha.” She wished for him, as if that alone could conjure the hanyou there. Her breath shook along with the tree leaves, the whistling wind their only company.

Or so she thought.

His small shape sprang out of nowhere, surprising Kagome just when she began to believe nothing in this fever dream could caught her off guard anymore. His contained chuckle prevented the tears she was about to shed.

“There is no use on calling for the half-breed.” Hakudoshi resembled an apparition, standing so palid in the clearing with the wind on his hair and shadows on his cheeks. His angelic face could fool anyone who didn’t know better. He was the devil.

“Where is he? What did you do to him?” Kagome wrapped her fingers around a handful of grass, wishing it was Hakudoshi’s neck instead. As much as she wanted to unleash her fury upon him, it would have to wait: the incarnation may hold the key to unsolve this distasteful ploy once and for all.

In fact, Kagome was mad at herself for not realizing sooner that this had Naraku’s fingerprints all over it. Of course, he was supposed to be dead. But so was Mukotsu. And so was Hakudoshi. If someone could trick death to seek vengeance, it would be Naraku. And who else would be his targets, if not her and InuYasha?

“I see your heart is still tainted by the likes of him.” He paused, savoring something she failed to perceive, then reducing the distance between them in two elegant steps. Kagome was used to see him with Kagura — or whichever creature Naraku designed to kill them that time — by his side. Alone and unarmed, the boy didn’t appear to be much of a threat. It was his mind games she should be looking out for. “I remember it well. All of that precious darkness, hidden behind a righteous facade. You try to fight it, but it’s there. It will always be.” Hakudoshi giggled again and it was an arduous task restraining herself from slapping that smile right off his lips.

“Listen,” she menaced, “I’m really not in the mood. Either tell me where he is or get out of my way!”

Clumsily trying to stand on her good ankle, Kagome stared him with every sign of deep dislike. She was soaked and cold. Mud covered most of her face. Everyone she ever loved was either dead or nowhere to be found. She was in pain and frightened and confused and wanted to scream into the void until her voice was gone. An uncalled for reminder that she used to cultivate such terrible feelings was the last thing she needed.

Long ago, back when Hakudoshi was still part of the Infant, he reached for the darkness within her heart, meaning to corrupt and use her to find the remaining shards of the Sacred Jewel. He tried to twist her love for InuYasha, to pin her against her best friend in the entire world. Kagome was not proud to admit he almost got away with it.

“I’m afraid I didn’t see him around.”

Kagome didn’t bother to grant him not even the briefest of eye rolls. It was a lie, but in spite of her talk she was in no conditions of doing something about it. She was about to leave when he spoke again.

“I did, however, met a new friend. A charming, brunette little child. What was her name again? Izayoi, was it?”

She froze at the mention of that name. Their poker faces were useless now. He had the winner hand. And he smiled because they both knew.

Ignoring her body’s plead for stillness, Kagome walked towards him, getting closer than she ever intentionally did.

“If you so much as touched a single strand of my daughter’s hair, then so help me...”

“You have nothing to fear.” Assured Hakudoshi, too affable to be trusted. “I just wanted to see what was in her heart.” Looking their surroundings conspiratorially, he toned his words down to a whisper. “Do you want to know how I did it?”

Keen pain clawed up her abdomen faster than any reply could be build and the air involuntarily expelled from her mouth soon turned into blood. It only took one look at the source of the damage to understand what had happened. He had a weapon hidden in his sleeves all along.

Hakudoshi removed the dagger from her insides and watched the blood flow, a pool of it forming on the ground while a fraction was spread on his face.

As Kagome broke down, agonizing, he struck her again.

And again.

Hand in hand with her senses, came a strange touch of acceptance.

The looping Kagome was stuck into caused the ceiling of her bedroom to be such a predictable vision, she recognized it within a heartbeat even in the complete lack of light.

Not that someone could come to terms with getting violently murdered so effortlessly, but death gets a little less scary when you already know what happens after.

Having learned from past mistakes, the priestess moved with expertise, dodging from anything that might drive attention to herself.

Until the time to make noise came.

She pushed the wardrobe to block the door, yelling ‘come and get me, you prick!’ just in case the friction of wood against pottery wasn’t loud enough.

Kagome didn’t stay to see it work. Climbing down the window, she shielded herself from the rain with the umbrella. Literally and figuratively in the eye of the storm, it was inexplicably good to use the item in its primary function for a change.

Running to the Well House was no trouble. The advantage of a healed ankle was everything she had prayed for. By the time she felt Mukotsu’s gaze burning on her back, she was too close to the well to be stopped. On the verge of freedom, Kagome didn’t met his furious stare, framed by lightning and the window’s edges: she simply jumped.

The night air that welcomed her in the other side was much kinder than the one from her previous attempt, since Kagome was now dry. It would have been the perfect moment to come up with a plan, had she better clues to work with.

Kagome knew her best shot was finding InuYasha. She also knew their home was gone and he could be anywhere. What wouldn’t she give to have her powers returned? She didn’t even ask for much. Just long enough to search for his aura.

But it wouldn’t be that simple to make it out of that mess and she had made her peace with it four or five terrible things ago, so she settled for the next best option.

There was a place, not far away, where her connection with InuYasha was the strongest: it was the place where they first met. The Sacred Tree, just like the Bone-Eater's Well, linked their worlds and bonded their souls, always bringing them back to each other. Maybe she could use its powers to find him, somehow.

Dropping anything that could possibly slow her down, Kagome headed to the Goshinboku.

The already shy moonlight got dimmer the further she entered the depths of the forest, the night sky getting gradually swallowed by the canopy.

Distant caw. Owl hoots. Her own hurried steps. They were the only sounds filling the air. Branches scratched her skin like decrepit corpse fingers and every new shadow was a threat until proven otherwise.

Kagome was midway when something went zooming by from behind her and landed a few inches away from her feet. She could have identified the device blindfolded. It was an arrow. On her mind, she retraced its trajectory, trying to track it back to the archer behind the bow.

As soon as she trailed it to a specific tree veiled spot, another arrow flew to confirm her hunch. Swift and precise, it grazed against her cheek as it passed by, stirring her hair on its path.

A thread of blood came streaming down her face while the person who caused it made herself seen.

It was as if the moon, tired of its ethereal realm, abandoned the heavens to wander the Earth in woman form. Her hair was uncharacteristically loose, the clothes immaculate. Her eyes were alive but she carried death on her hands — under her ministration, the bow almost seemed almost light and the arrow was aimed directly to Kagome’s head.

“Kikyo.”

She should had seen it coming. Although they had parted on relatively good terms when Kikyo finally reached nirvana, her relationship with the undead priestess had been turbulent from day one, and with dead, old complications popping out left and right in this little set up, Kikyo’s presence wasn’t exactly shocking. Seeing her there, ready to strike, revived a collection of entombed feelings.

“What are you doing?” Kikyo didn’t respond. She didn’t have to. Her hostile behavior left no room for reasoning approaches as she walked forward, but Kagome was willing to give it a shot. She could be a powerful ally at breaking off this prison if Kagome snapped her out of the spell, curse, or whatever it was Naraku had inflected her with.

“Look at you, trying so hard to hold onto what was never yours.” Her condescension hit Kagome’s pride where it hurt, but her curiosity spoke louder.

“What are you talking about?”

“Don’t you see? I’m talking about the world of the living.”

She was making no sense and Kagome’s patience was wearing thin. She took a deep breath and mentally counted to ten.

“Okay... Okay! This is great! Now why don’t you put that thing down so we can talk about what are you doing here, why everything is such a mess and how do we fix it?”

Oblivious to her positive speech, Kikyo made no motion except for curving her lips in a smile that could freeze the sun.

“It was foolish of you to think tragedy would never find you again.” A disapproving shake of her head was all it took and suddenly Kagome was a five years old who just got caught wearing her mother’s makeup and pretending to be an adult. “Silly girl, don’t you know happiness comes with a price? Don’t you know I am you and you are me? Disaster is our fate.”

“You’re wrong!” Her words came off more confident than she actually felt. Kagome might had even believed them if each blink didn’t bring her closer and closer to crying. Not now, she begged, anytime but now.

“It’s time for you to learn I am much more than only your past. Listen close now…” As if on cue, soul collectors emerged from every corner to circle around their master, flying by Kagome without any consideration for her personal space whatsoever. Crimson eyes seeing right through her, they had never looked more wicked and surrounded by the creatures, Kikyo herself was a vision to fear. Her gaze was solid on Kagome’s. “I am your future.”

Without warning, sometime between one shinidamachu’s course and the other, Kikyo’s features changed. Round, slightly wider eyes and shorter hair that refused to stay aligned: every aspect that distinguished the priestesses gone.

Kagome was staring at her own face.

“No!”

Kikyo laughed. It was only then Kagome realized the tune was entirely new to her ears. She never would have guessed it could sound so frightening.

“Yes! Fighting is no use. My incarnation shall walk the same path I did.” Her skin rotted before Kagome, bits of it falling to the ground until she was more a carcass than a person. “This is what you will become.”

“NO!”

“And here is where the path ends.”

Then she shot.

Snorting was inevitable.

At this point, being murdered was just playing annoying and if Kagome was being honest, that last time had been particularly irritating. Of the worst ways to die, an archer getting killed with an arrow to the head by her husband’s ex had to be the dumbest.

At least, now she identified a padron. Everyone so far conspired to prevent her from getting to InuYasha. If that was really the case, finding him became even more crucial.

Maybe she was running against the clock without even knowing. Maybe one of these lives would turn out to be her last, just like in one of Sota’s stupid games. Maybe InuYasha and Izayoi were in an even bigger trouble than she was.

Lucky for Kagome, practice made her pretty good at avoiding the mishaps along the road.

Mukotsu and Hakudoshi weren’t even a problem, and once she got to the forest, she took a Kikyo-free route. Way longer, but also effective.

When she arrived to the Sacred Tree clearing, a distorted déjà vu knocked the air out of her lungs.

There, sealed to the Goshinboku, InuYasha laid unconscious.

The scene took Kagome back to the day they met, except this time instead of a impressionist painting withdrawn from someone’s dream, it looked more like a picture one might only find on a police file.

Skin as white as his hair, the half demon seemed dead rather than sleeping, with the night shadows shaped his face in keen angles. The green of the vines that tangled up his body had long worn-out and the arrow piercing through his chest appeared to be ready to disintegrate at the minimum touch.

It was like time had decided to spare the place, an unaffected sanctuary forgotten by its course. Even the Beads of Subjugation were missing from his neck.

“InuYasha!”

Kagome raced to him. Hands shaking and stomach sinking, her mind was only put at ease once she felt InuYasha’s even breath, her fingers tracing his jawline out of habit.

Yearning for his voice, his warmth, she grabbed the arrow and pulled it out with less resistance than she had anticipated.

InuYasha opened his eyes, but they weren’t the gentle honeyed ones she was used to. Glaring right back at her, his irises were blue as the sea and, just like the ocean, beautiful enough to make you forget why it was dangerous to dive in too deep. Still she might have drowned in it, if it wasn’t for the vicious tone of crimson surrounding them.

Trying to keep her worst fears in check, Kagome stood before him and hoped for the best.

Of course the best never happened.

“I smell it. The blood of the woman who killed me.”

His statement fell upon her like a blizzard. Implacable, leaving nothing but wastelands and a desolate cold on its awakening. Lilac strips sprouted on both his cheeks.

“Wha-”

Forceful and skilled, five sharp talons bore deep inside her flesh before the question could be even asked.

Her body reacted sooner than her brain.

The impact was excruciating in every sense of the word. Her blood all over his hand, his deathly grin. It was obvious what had happened, but even if Kagome had in herself to conjure a thought that wasn’t about the sheer agony that started in her heart and spread to the extremities in wildfire flares, she wouldn’t have believed it.

There was a clench on his grip and black dots obscured her sight. Although Kagome could feel her lips struggling to talk, nothing more than pathetic, meaningless sounds came off. Then his touch was gone and she was discarded to the ground.

InuYasha remained unbothered, smiling down at her as she died.

Kagome couldn’t stop shivering.

Silent tears bathed her face as she grasped her hair.

He had killed her. InuYasha had killed her. Her husband, the man who had sworn to protect her with his own life had murdered her without a second thought and the fingers that had once caressed hers with such devotion, betrayed her trust and ripped her heart out.

He wasn’t himself when he did it, Kagome was aware of it. Nevertheless, InuYasha had turned into a full demon before. There hasn’t been a single time when he had hurt her to the point of no return.

Truth be told, it wasn’t quite her case, since Kagome had returned. Details of how this continued to happen were still unclear, but she would find out. She would bring InuYasha back to himself and if Naraku was really the one scheming against them, he would be very, very sorry.

Mukotsu. Hakudoshi. Kikyo. None of them managed to stop her when Kagome got out to what she was sure to be her thousandth try.

More than a girl on a mission, she was a girl who realized the best defense is a strong offensive.

Which was why instead of heading to the Sacred Tree right away, Kagome went to the village.

The apocalyptic scenario that received her did little to wave her resolve. Burnt houses, abandoned objects: Kagome sidestepped all of them, telling herself it wasn’t real. Everything would go back to normal as soon as she discovered how to fix it. That didn’t keep her eyes from wandering briefly to where Miroku and Sango’s place was, neither her disappointment from surfacing when she noticed nobody was home.

It was okay. Maybe that meant they were safe or on the run with their children. Be as it may, they weren’t the ones Kagome was looking for.

The village was unrecognizable. What had been so full of life now resembled a cemetery, gray and quiet. All the way to Kaede’s hut, not a soul presented itself. Kagome worried the ancient priestess had left too and when she arrived to her destination, she wished Kaede had left, after all.

In the center of the hut, Kaede’s remains hanged from the ceiling, a rope around her neck and a feeding raven on her shoulder.

At the sound of Kagome’s exclamation, the bird took fly, frightened by the interruption. She got out as well, fighting against the acid taste on her mouth.

In vain.

She emptied the contents of her stomach on the floor quite loudly.

Kagome had that coming since she first found her family, but with Mukotsu on her heels, there hadn’t been time to process that horrible view properly: her survival instinct wouldn’t allow her to. Now facing the music was inevitable and she didn’t like it one bit.

She composed herself. Kagome had come to Kaede in the hopes that her wisdom could tell her what to do. Just because that wasn’t possible anymore, it didn’t mean that her efforts should go to waste.

Holding her breath, she entered the hut again. The faint smell of smoke had masked the putridity within the area, but from the moment she inhaled it, nothing else could overpower it.

Avoiding to glance at the dead priestess, Kagome immediately got to work. She turned the place upside down, examined every corner, until find in a dustied little chest the items she seeked.

She also grabbed a bow, mercifully lying on the back wall, alongside with a quiver full of arrows, which she threw over her shoulders.

Craving for some fresh air, Kagome stormed out to the first secure spot she laid her eyes on. There, she opened the chest, bringing black and white beads to the moonlight. It was a long shot, but the only one she had. Praying that they were already enchanted, Kagome put the articles together in a rosary and ran to InuYasha.

“I wish I could say this will hurt me more than you.” With an apologetic look, Kagome set the Kotodama around his neck, then took off the arrow that sealed him to the tree and stepped back, her own arrow aimed to him by precaution.

InuYasha woke up, his eyes still demonic. Kagome didn’t think twice.

“Sit, boy!”

The rosary glew and brought him down. A wave of pure relief washed over her, but it was nothing compared to the bliss of meeting amber irises when he managed to lift his face off the ground.

“InuYasha?” Tried Kagome, slightly letting her guard down.

“You bitch!” InuYasha hissed as he stood up. Something about his wrath — probably the insult — took Kagome back to their infernal cat and mouse days, just before they became friends. When he spoke again, she discovered that was exactly the case. “It ain’t like you to rely on these little tricks, Kikyo.” InuYasha shook the dirt off his suikan and displayed his claws in a characteristic fighting posture, which made Kagome note he didn’t have Tessaiga on him. “Why dontcha shoot one of those arrows of yours? Gimme everything ya got. I won’t go easy on you this time.”

“Not Kikyo. Kagome. Ka-go-me!” Having to say that phrase once more, to him of all people, annoyed Kagome out of her mind.

“Keh. How much of a fool do ya take me for, Kikyo?”

“InuYasha, listen to me!”

The half demon attacked, but Kagome miraculously diverted his assault and ran deeper into the forest.

He was on her tail, both of them knowing he could catch up with her whenever he wanted. Still, Kagome couldn’t bear the thought of shooting him. Not him.

“If you just... take a break... for a minute and... hear me out...” She bargained, lungs giving up on her, legs burning. InuYasha paid no attention to her plea. He was a hunter, a killing machine. It would take more than negociation to get him to stop.

He was getting ready to strike. She could feel it.

“That’s it for you!”

“Sit!”

She waited until the the thundering noise of InuYasha hitting the ground echoed to slow down and turn around.

“Please, InuYasha, you have to remember me! Make an effort, okay? What did they do to you? Where did they take Izayoi? Where’s Tessaiga?”

Aside from a quick enraged glare, InuYasha ignored her altogether, too busy furiously trying to take the Kotodama off.

“InuYasha!”

“Damn it, Kikyo, quit stalling already!” Apparently deciding the beads were a lost battle, InuYasha darted to her again.

“Sit!”

Colorful curses left his mouth left and right, after the spell wore off and he could finally move. It was the gap she needed.

“I’ll talk and you will listen. Otherwise, I’ll take you down again. It’s up to you.”

Beyond displeased, InuYasha sustained her gaze. Kagome didn’t back down and was rewarded with a grumpy expression.

“Well? Spit it out!”

“It’s a long story, but… I’m not Kikyo.”

InuYasha considered her for a moment, his thoughts indecipherable. She expected his keen senses to confirm her statement without a hitch. If not, her clothes would get the point across just fine.

“I believe ya.”

“You do?” Kagome said, wondering if the raw hope on her voice was as evident to his ears as it was to hers.

“Yeah. In a closer look, you ain’t as pretty.” Reminding herself that he didn't really mean it, Kagome resisted the urgency of sitting him into oblivion. That would be just playing spiteful. InuYasha crinkled his nose. "Your smell isn't as good, either, and that’s gotta be the weirdest kimono I’ve ever seen.” He paused, then shrugged. “So you ain’t her. Big deal. It doesn’t change a damn thing."

It would be hard to swallow her pride and maintain focus if his tone didn’t have left her at edge.

"What do you mean?”

“That I’mma still gonna kill ya.” InuYasha explained, as if she was the dumbest person alive. “Whoever the fuck you are, I won’t let a human walk around subduing me at her will.” Instead of pulling it out, he now tried to rip the rosary off. Kagome rolled her eyes.

“How? You’ll be eating dirt before you could ever touch me. All I have to do is say the word.” InuYasha let it go of the beads, all of his hatred directed to Kagome.

“You’re just a pathetic, weak girl. Gonna have to sleep some time. I ain’t in a hurry.”

“In that case, I take it you will follow me anywhere I go, then.” She settled, pretending his threats had no effect on her whatsoever. InuYasha didn’t answered. She didn’t need him to. “Good.”

Kagome stumble on through the night, with InuYasha’s reluctant presence not far behind.

“All right!” She exclaimed, to put her thoughts in order. “It could be worse. At least now I have InuYasha by my side. Sure, he has no idea of who I am and wants to kill me, but that’s fixable. I bet Miroku knows someone who can help. They probably headed to Sango’s village. If we walk fast enough we’ll make it there by-”

“Don’t you ever shut the fuck up?”

She sighed. It would be a long trip.

Hours and hours of InuYasha being his most unpleasant self really took a toll on her and fatigue started to show. It would be better to continue, to cover more ground. However, the sun began to rise and Kagome decided to sit down before her body gave up on her and enjoy its light for a bit. For quite a while now, she had only known cold rain and cruel winds. The sunlight was a reminder of how far she had come. Surviving a whole night was something to celebrate, in her current situation.

Unfortunately, she had reached the limits of exhaustion. Kagome needed to sleep, and if she did, InuYasha would kill her on the spot. She could feel him circling her like a vulture whenever she closed her eyes a few seconds longer than a blink. It was a losing game.

“None of the stories I told you rang any bells?” Kagome had thrown countless tales of their journey on him. Facts, secrets, anything that could trigger his memory. She would be luckier talking to a wall. “How about this: I take the Kotodama off you.”

That seemed to break the ice.

“Why would you do that?”

“A sign of good faith. I take them off and in exchange, you neither hurt me or run away. Deal?”

“Get on with it already!”

It was sad to admit she didn’t trust InuYasha to keep his end of the bargain, but at least if she took a risk, there was a small possibility of it paying off, after all. If he kills her… Well, she would just have to start from scratch.

Kagome got up and went to him. Slowly, testing the waters. Impatience emmaned from every gesture he made, urging her to move faster. When they were close enough, she removed the rosary. Then he smiled at her and whatever weariness she still felt became irrelevant.

“InuYasha? Is that you? Did you remember me?”

His smile turned wider and wider.

“Not at all.” Out of the blue, a clawed hand closed around her neck, choking Kagome impetuously. She dropped the Kotodama to the floor, reaching for his arm in a weak attempt to break free. It only caused him to lift her up and squeeze harder, until her breath was finally gone.

Eighty-first time was the charm.

What kept her going, after all the failures, was the confidence that, however long it took, she would get it right eventually.

Kagome was running out of mistakes to make.

She had tried to get help. Sango and Miroku. Koga, Totosai, Myoga. Even Sesshoumaru. So far the scoreboard marked fourteen beheadings, ten stabs, eight chokes, three arrow shots and one drowning — which was specially infuriating, because she was a really good swimmer — and those were only the most memorable ones.

No matter what she did different, the outcome was always the same: her death.

To make things worse, InuYasha had no remembrance of who she was. It was like they had never met. As if Kagome had been erased from his life forever. Still, there was no way she would leave him behind, so she swore to get him back if it killed her. Which, to be fair, happened more often than not.

Hypnosis, describing their life together, letting him inhale her scent — she had even tried kissing him once. None of it induced his memories.

So there they were again, alone in the middle of nowhere, stuck in the same impasse.

“So whatcha telling me is that you’re Kikyo’s reincarnation?”

“That’s right.”

“And we’re married?”

“Yep.”

“What a lot of crap!” They both said, in unison. Kagome sighted at his puzzled look and left the rock she had been sitting on.

“Did I also mention I’m reliving the same day non stop because somehow I keep getting killed? Mostly by you.”

Matter of fact, the Kotodama around his neck and the bow and arrows over her shoulders were the only thing preventing another bloodbath from happening.

“You’re a crazy ass bitch.”

“Is that so?”

“Yeah.”

Kagome nocked an arrow, drawing the string and pointing directly at him. At the last second and without looking away, she changed her aim to the bush on her right, where a red eyed, old witch that had got her killed once or twice was hidden. She released the traction, hitting the creep straight in the head and raised a brow.

“This doesn’t prove anything. I knew she was there too. Not really brainy, are ya?”

“Ugh!” She threw the bow onto the grass, her hands closed in fists so hard her knuckles were probably white. “You believed me when I said I wasn’t Kikyo. What’ll take for you to believe everything else?”

“Why don’t you try a better lie than Kikyo dying so that a wannabe would take her place? Do ya really think, if there was any truth in your story, that I’d settle for a poor excuse of an imitation?”

Different words, same crushing feelings. Kagome should have been used to them by now, but no matter how the sentences were rearranged each new attempt, they still hit where it hurt.

The tears came pouring out as they pleased. She was tired of fighting them.

“I can’t… I can’t do this anymore.” Kagome lifted her chin to the night sky, throat aching with the effort not to sob. “DO YOU HEAR ME?” She screamed to whoever would listen. Never had occurred to her that accepting defeat could be so freeing. “I GIVE UP, YOU WIN!”

InuYasha watched with a sadistic smile while she curled into a ball and weeped.

He didn’t care.

He didn’t care if she was in pain and it didn’t matter to him that he was the one inflecting it to her. She might as well be a stranger. The saddest part was Kagome was starting to feel the same way about him. It was torture.

And then she understood.

“I see.”

The one thing she kept making each and every time, the one constant on this absolute mess.

“I thought I had to find InuYasha to escape.”

She had guessed all the obstacles separating them were thoroughly calculated to prevent their getaway.

How stupid of her.

It was for divert her from the truth.

“But you’re not him.”

Under her intense gaze, his lips formed a firm line and Kagome knew she was right.

“I should have noticed sooner. InuYasha would never, ever hurt me. And even when we weren’t friends yet… he couldn’t stand to see me cry.”

Kagome had the satisfaction to see the astonished expression on his face as he realized his mistake.

“This is real, isn’t it?” Melancholy and comprehension intertwining in a mix she had never experienced before. “InuYasha… he never came for me.”

It had been an illusion. All of it. Her rescue, the three years apart. Even her return to the Feudal Era, their marriage, Izayoi… Everything was nothing but a cruel scheme to torment her mind little by little and she fell for it.

“I’m still in the jewel.”

Just like that, the impostor wearing InuYasha’s face vanished. The forest crumbled and faded away, engulfing her into an awfully familiar darkness.

In the distance, an ominous laugh reverberated through the void, followed by a voice that terrified Kagome to her very core.

“And you always will be.”

A/N: first of all, thank you so much for deciding to give my story a go and for coming this far. This one-shot is my longest one yet and pretty much the one that challenged me the most, since it was totally out of my comfort zone. It took me a lot of work and time and brain cells. That's why I ask (pretty please with sugar on top) that you leave a review.

It doesn't have to be clever or too thoughtful. Just tell me what you felt, what worked (or didn't) for you, the things you theoryzed you while reading. I had so much fun with this, maybe I turn this Halloween themed one-shot extravaganza into an annual thing (should I?).

Second of all, this title is a refference to Russian Doll, you know, because of all the deaths. Anyway...

Happy Halloween!

#Japanese Doll #InuYasha Fanfiction #Kagome Higurashi #My Writing #InuYasha One-shot #InuYasha Horror

58 notes · View notes

paellaplease · 5 years ago

Text

Firebird | Chap.5

Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4 Chapter 6 Chapter 7

Have a safe and happy holidays!

Chapter 5: Ideographic Approach

Many questions are asked, and very few answers are given. The Enchanter sees another side of the Pride of Rito Village.

Fire. The world was on fire. Maiya pushed through the crowd of fleeing people, ribbons of smoke filling her lungs and the smell of burnt flesh lingering in the air. A blood moon was in the sky, casting a scarlet glow that mingled with the flames spreading from the burning cottages behind her.

“...ey…hey!”

The frightening sound of wood cracking and creaking met her ears. Unsure as to why, Maiya turned her head to glance at the burning houses. In the front door of one of them, an unknown figure stood at the entrance. They were completely faceless, with features so burnt she couldn’t recognise if they were hylian or not. Slowly, the figure seemed to click back to life, lifting a loaded bow and aiming the arrow for the space between her eyes.

“Ench...er…...leep!”

She flinched just as the arrow was released. The last thing she heard was the sound of wood crashing into the ground and anguished screams of the people around her.

“Lita! Grandma! The Enchanter fell asleep!”

Maiya groaned, rubbing away the small layer of crust from her eyes. She knew she was awake, yet could still smell the stench of smoke. “What?” Her voice was croaky, strained. Something small was pulling at her shirt sleeve, and yelling.

The clatter of objects were heard in the distance, then a familiar voice. “Kaneli!”

Where am I? She cracked her eyes open, alarmed to see that she was on the ground and surrounded by several open books. Must have fallen asleep reading. Sitting up slowly, she propped herself up with her free hand. Minding her stiff neck, she scrubbed her face with one of her hands, and looked up.

A tiny rito with a snowy face stood next to her.

He was covered in wild brown feathers and a mint green poncho. Little tufts of hair stood out on his head, barely held back by several colourful ribbons which all looked as if they were tied in a storm. He wasn’t looking at her, focused on pulling at her arm again with a franticness that made his talons click and slide against the floorboards. Maiya cleared her throat.

The little bird stopped, turning to look at her with wide, shocked eyes. He dropped her arm, and stood back, face betraying his awe. “You’re an Enchanter!” He blurted.

“Uh, yes?” Maiya said, feeling a bit hesitant under the weight of child’s scrutinizing gaze.

She blinked as Kaneli’s face broke out into a sunny smile. Inwardly, she grimaced. Too bright. He stamped his little talons in childish excitement. “Wow! Just like the stories! I always imagined you would be taller. Where’s your sealing hammer?”

“I left it in the forge, but why—”

“And your anvil?”

“Well. Blacksmith’s steel is a bit heavy to carry all the way from Akkala to—”

“And your enchanted weapon?”

Maiya sighed, sleepily reaching for the scabbard at her side. “It’s right—” She stopped, hands patting nothing but air. Frowning, she looked down. “Here?” The ornate scabbard was empty.

Her breath stopped. It was like being doused with freezing cold water. A lightning bolt of clarity ran up her spine, clearing her sleep clouded mind and awakening her to the realisation of one, crucial detail. The dagger was gone.

Wide-eyed, Maiya jolted up, her whole body tilting to the side from the vertigo. She quickly righted herself, ignoring the spinning of the room and whipped around frantically, desperately scanning the room for something sharp and definitely burning. Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit—

“Over here, ekantada.” Honoka’s voice echoed over her panicked thoughts like a bell in a storm.

She turned. The Elder stood by a long table at the northern end of the room, black safety goggles pulled over her glasses and obscuring her face. The kind older rito looked almost terrifying in the dimmer light, having donned a heavy leather apron and industrial half-sleeves to protect her wings. She was still as a statue, focusing as she appraised a dagger with a critical eye.

It wasn’t just any dagger. It was her dagger. Unsheathed, angry, and exposed to the chilly air.

What was most surprising however, was that instead of burning a hole through the Archivist’s floor, its hilt was held in the parallel jaws of an industrial vice. Maiya couldn't believe it. The clamp’s surface was cracked and sizzling, yet as it fought a losing battle against the red dagger, it remained miraculously intact.

Her first emotion was shock. Then—anger; molten and hot, threatening to bubble up and spill out as she marched towards Honoka, little Kaneli following nervously after her. “What are you doing? That is extremely dangerous!”

Honoka spared her an unconcerned glance and turned back to the dagger, watching as it spat scorching flames from its position at her table. The Archivist continued to write in her notebook. “Studying your handiwork,” she said, unperturbed. “You are very talented.”

“How,” Maiya seethed, fists clenching and unclenching. Her next words came out short and clipped. “How are you not burnt?”

Master Honoka gestured to a pile of ashen materials at her side, most of them emitting smoke and reduced to nothing but bent metal and rubble. “With great caution.”

“That doesn’t answer my question.”

Honoka replied to Maiya’s agitation with diplomatic patience. “Think, hylianlla.”

Inhaling a shaky breath, Maiya bit her lip and did as she was told. Reluctantly, she turned her back on her dagger, walking up to the pile of discarded tools and roughly picking up a set of long, warped tongs. She held it up to the scant light of the room, angling it carefully. Little dust particles were interspersed in the air around her as she zeroed in her attention on the piece of metal. The sounds of Kamori asking his grandmother a question faded away as she focused.

With her gloved forefinger she brushed away the oxidized crust, flipping the blacksmith tongs to its side. She examined it, looking for the engraving of a familiar eye-symbol to confirm her thoughts. Yet, there was none.

There is only one logical reason, she thought, but it doesn’t make any sense. "How…" she mused aloud. "I thought Teacher and I had the only ones left."

Maiya looked to Honoka, perplexed. "The Royal Family had them destroyed thousands of years ago." She continued. From the corner of her eye, the fire from her dagger flared again, only to quickly be stifled as if sucked up into an invisible vacuum in the surrounding air.

“Wow…” she heard little Kaneli whisper.

After some deliberation, she finally voiced the burning question in her mind. “Are you telling me that this pile of warped metal are supposed to be Instruments?”

From the around the beginnings of her earliest memory, Maiya was taught the intricacies and history of her chosen field of study. What was left of it, at least. The first and last known makers of Enchanter's tools were the Sheikah. The books back in her mentor’s sanctum called them Instruments, tools that were essential in the smithing and Enchanting process.

These Instruments, whilst eventually breaking down, could withstand the might of most Enchanted objects, proving to be an essential part of the forge. Because of them, Enchanting became less of a lethal process, allowing the art to transition into an accessible skill thousands of years ago.

That’s all changed now, with the burying of history and the loss of almost all Instruments. Maiya knew that Teacher’s gear was passed down by her own mentor, and the mentor before them, and so on. Precious objects hidden from the Royal Family’s eyes at the price of potential treason for the protection of knowledge.

However, holding the rusted tongs in the air, weighty and industrial as they were, she did not feel the same energy running through her as she did with the tools back in Akkala. These Instruments were not of Sheikah make. Are they even Instruments at all?

Her arms dropped, shaking. She had so many questions. "Where did you get this? Who made this?"

The Archivist answered her. "These tools were given to me on indefinite loan sometime ago by the village's blacksmith."

The words were out of her mouth before she could think them through. "Is he an Enchanter as well?"

Honoka scoffed. "Hardly, and I suggest you don't call him that if you do see him. His distaste for your kind borders that of the imbecilic." She shook her head. "I digress. Did you see the oxidation and damage, young Enchanter?”

“I did.” Maiya nodded, looking at her fingers which had a smudge of rust. “I think I understand now. These tools were not properly imbued with whatever…ability the blacksmith was attempting to give them.”

She was missing something, and she had a feeling that Honoka was too. These pseudo-Instruments, warped and damaged as they are, still managed to withstand the fiery might of her dagger. For a few minutes, they bore the prolonged brunt of a weapon that had every intention to irreversibly destroy whatever touched it that it deemed unworthy. These Instruments, whilst not created by Sheikah hands, did whatever their instructions ordered them to do. Operating in the same way her scabbard and Teacher’s cloth did in stifling the flame, and they worked.

Maiya turned to look at the obsidian coloured vice at Honoka’s desk. It had begun to bubble now, softening. It was at the cusp of crumbling into pieces. Yet it continued to stand, holding her dagger and defying its predetermined destruction for several more minutes.

The Hylian pressed a knuckle to her temple, a headache building. There was someone in this village that knew how to make Instruments. No. There was someone in this village that was trying to make Instruments.

There was still another lingering thought which bothered her. "Why did you take my dagger?"

The Archivist snapped her notebook shut, prompting Maiya to glance up. Honoka reached over and picked up her cane once more, walking to her. "To get a closer look.”

“I admit,” She began as Maiya opened her mouth to retort, “your attachment is unusual, hylianlla. I was under the impression that Enchanters relinquished ownership of their creations with the final hit of the hammer."

Ouch.

The Enchanter swallowed her anger, feeling a pang of hurt in her chest. "That's because it is expected the weapon finds its Master not too long after it is forged." She paused, sensing the impending question in the air. "I'm working on it."

Elder Honoka pulled her black goggles up and onto her forehead, giving Maiya an unconcealed view of her scrutinising stare. Her grey eyes were sharp and clear, filled with wisdom and intelligence cultivated by years of research and experience.

"I'm sorry, Enchanter." Honoka said, genuinely. Wings at her side, she leaned into a low, apologetic bow.

"I…" Maiya stopped. I wasn’t expecting that. "It's alright. Just don't do it again."

Honoka shook her head once more, walking to the pile of books Maiya previously slept in. She picked up a tome from the heap. “I must explain my reasoning, hylianlla. When you showed that dagger to me the first time, something— or well, the lack of that something— caught my eye."

The rito flicked the book open, pages passing rapidly before she landed on a specific section Maiya couldn't quite discern. Kaneli next to her attempted to see the image, standing on the tips of his claws to peak into the book. The words were unintelligible, and her hands ached to take it to get a closer look.

Honoka’s head tilted to her, guessing her thoughts. “This is one of the more unusual additions in the collection. There is a powerful spell protecting it. You will fail to read it, as I have, no matter how straightforward the writing may seem.”

"However, we can still comprehend the images, and I’ve been able to develop some theories thanks to that fact. Enkantada, I implore that you listen closely. I’ve studied languages, both new and old for many years. This is one of the aspects of your people that had interested me the most."

In the dusty light, her glasses reflected what seemed to be boldly drawn lines on a page. "There are symbols made by the Sheikah that go beyond the function of the characters within the Sheikah script. These are characters that could mean entire objects, places, concepts, and in this case even instructions.”

In that moment, Maiya was acutely aware of the lines of scar tissue running along the surface of her left hand. Puckered skin that formed a symbol which had been helping her instruct the magical properties of all her failed enchanted prototypes, and the dagger which now stands burning in the corner.

“To my knowledge,” Honoka continued, “the Sheikah people from 10,000 years ago, those who have forged weapons of great elemental control, utilised these symbols. As Enchanters, you and your Teacher would have done the same. Yet,” she paused, gesturing to the enchanted dagger burning in its clamp. “Your blade bears no such markings.”

Maiya’s breath hitched. A bead of sweat ran down the back of her neck as Honoka flipped the book around. The rune for Fire stood out on the page, an almost exact mirror to the scar on her hand.

Master Honoka’s eagle eyes were trained on her again. In them there was no malice, but a cunning curiosity that made her nervous. “I wonder how that is possible?”

“I…” Unbeknownst to her, somewhere in the conversation she had set down the tongs, opting now to nervously pull at the leather glove which covered the buzzing rune at risk of burning a hole through the fabric. How much does Honoka know?

A gurgling noise echoed throughout the Archives, interrupting them. “Lita! Food please?” A small voice chirped.

The older Rito sighed, shaking her head with an indulgent smile. “We can discuss this later,” she said, pulling Maiya away from her thoughts, “You’ve been asleep for a while and lunch was many hours ago. My grandson has a point. You must be hungry.”

“Sit with me, Enchanter!”

“I’m—” Maiya cleared her throat, suddenly feeling parched. “If you just have a glass of water that would be great. You don’t have to serve me food, I can find some outside.”

“Nonsense.” Honoka said, swapping her heavy duty apron for a lighter, patterned one which hung at the back of one of the chairs. “Take a seat at a clean desk, I’ll go find some dried meats and cheeses for you.”

“Oh, and don’t forget to retrieve your dagger from the clamp.” She called over her shoulder, walking towards the backroom once more. Her voice began to trail away. “The scabbard is next to it at the table. Please do it soon. I already have a gap in my floorboards, so I would very much like to keep the rest of my home hole-free.”

Maiya silently drizzled butter over the honeyed rice pudding Honoka served as dessert, barely paying attention to the buzzing little rito next to her. Still shaken from earlier events, she felt her unease ironically lighten with the familiar weight of the dagger hanging at her hip. Kaneli, dwarfed by the towers of books around him, sat happy and content from his place at the table, swinging his legs with a bright smile on his beak. He asked her question after question, talking around his food which he dug into with cheerful gusto.

“Miss Enchanter, can you make other things? Things that are not fire?”

“Yes, or well, I should.” she replied, spooning a portion of the creamy pudding into her mouth. She hummed, pleased at the subtle sweetness. This isn’t so bad. “Historically we were able to make weapons that could emulate the power of many elements.”

“So that’s why you’re here. To see if lita’s books can help you?”

“Correct!” Maiya smirked. She chewed at her food thoughtfully. “Hey, you’re pretty observant for a five year old.”

Kaneli frowned, kicking up a sharp claw into the air. He curled his small wings into tinier fists, and tossed her the most severe glare he could muster with his big, baby blue eyes. Aww. “I’m six!”

Maiya laughed, then spooned in another mouthful of pudding. “Apologies, you are a very observant six year old.” For a second she allowed her gloomy mood to slip, stifling a giggle as Kaneli nodded to himself, as if to say ‘yes, indeed I am quite clever!’

Kaneli pouted and furrowed his brow. Puffing up his chest, he turned to look at her with mock seriousness, assessing something she wasn’t entirely sure of before saying “I forgive you.” Then, as if nothing happened, jumped straight back into questioning. “Miss Enchanter, did you find anything new in lita’s books?”

Maiya felt her levity drop like the petals of a wilted flower. “No.” And she was back to sad moping again. “Not yet, at least.”

“Oh,” Kaneli said. “Well—”

Both jumped as a loud knock resounded throughout the Archives.

Someone was outside.

“A moment!” Honoka called from the second floor. She flapped her wings, gracefully descending to the ground level. She took the cane strapped to her back, hobbling over to her front door and unlocking the gate. Seeing who was there, the older rito clicked her tongue in disapproval. “My dear, what are you doing at my doorstep instead of resting in your hammock? I keep telling you not to push yourself so far all the time! You look absolutely haggard.”

“Good evening, Master Honoka.” A familiar voice said, blatantly ignoring the previous admonishment. “Allin ch’isi, Amaut'a. I’ve brought something for you from the mountain vendor.”

Honoka moved to the side, giving Maiya a chance to peak at the mysterious stranger standing outside the door.

Oh.

Honoka sighed. “Hah, Master Revali. Qoyllur-cha. What am I going to do with you? Come inside and have some arroz con leche.”

Maiya quickly averted her eyes as the blue rito walked into the room. She could feel her heart beating to the sound of his talons lightly hitting the floorboards. He hasn’t seen me yet, she thought, and for a brief moment she weighed up the pros and cons of hiding underneath the table like a dumbass.

“What are you doing?” The little rito seated next to her asked, tilting his head to the side in confusion when he found the Enchanter sinking deeper into her seat, already halfway down.

She cringed, caught. “Uh…”

Then, the young rito’s head perked up, finally seeing who had entered the room. “Vali!” Kaneli yelled. Shoot.

The little rito bolted from his chair. He flapped his tiny wings, flying a few centimetres off the ground before colliding into the blue rito’s stomach with a muffled ‘ooft’. To her surprise, Revali chuckled, hoisting Kaneli high into the sky, before setting the laughing child on his shoulders.

He then turned, their eyes meeting. Maiya was sure that she’d hallucinated the easy smile he had a minute ago, as now a big irritating smirk dominated the rest of his face.

“Ah, what a coincidence, enchanter. I was wondering where you were.”

“She’s trying to hide from you, Vali!”

“I am not!” Maiya sat up quickly, accidentally slamming her kneecap into the table. Ow!

Honoka clicked her tongue again, watching the scene with a small, exasperated smile on her face. She held a bag of parsnips in one wing. “Alright, enough of that for now. Take a seat Master Revali, and please, put my grandson down.”

“Aww! But lita!”

Maiya returned to reading soon after, an air of awkwardness lingering as both rito warrior and hylian guest attempted not to pay attention to the other. She finished the rice pudding quickly, diving back into taking notes from the multiple books around her as Honoka and Revali discussed the events of the day. On the floor not too far away, Kaneli lay on his stomach, kicking his legs in the air and busying himself with his crayons and paper.

“Thank you for the parsnips, Revali. These will go very well in a soup. Is June still selling his produce up there? I heard the weather and bad-company has gotten worse lately.”

“As it always does on the approach to the winter months, Master Honoka. With regards to the sudden rise in Yiga activity, Chief Kamori had increased patrols along several of the mountain routes. I’m confident we’ll have the rabble cleaned up by the end of the Solstice.”

The Enchanter adjusted her chair, accidentally jarring the careful stack of books in front of her. The tower wobbled and shook, sending the volume at its top tumbling to the side. Maiya reached her gloved hand out, quickly swiping it from the air before it could hit the ground.

Breathing a sigh of relief, she gazed down at the book in her hands, letting out a bewildered “Huh?”

It was the same book that Honoka had held a while ago. This close, and she could tell that it was torn and quite dirty. Gently, she blew out a small breath against its surface, watching as dust particles lifted and departed, floating in the air. What she thought was a light, grey cover, was actually an extremely faded blue. It was barely holding on by its bindings, looking as if it had been thrown out a window, dragged through the dirt—

And perhaps set on fire, Maiya thought, running a finger over its singed corners.

She looked at its title, eyes tracing over the lines and grooves of the foreign symbols, committing them to memory. She blinked once, then twice, then took a few minutes to consult Honoka’s language guides. Confused, Maiya found herself unable to remember what she’d just seen.

The Enchanter frowned, reading the title once more. The Sheikah-like characters sharpened then blurred, as if her brain was refusing to cooperate and make the final connection. There was that feeling again, that turning sensation in her gut that she was missing something.

The book was completely incomprehensible.

Great, I can’t read. Maiya rubbed her eyes, cracking it open. Page after page of text and runes produced the same results. Finally, she landed on a purely illustrated section. Unlike most of the book, it wasn’t a rune that dominated the page. Instead, a complicated pyramid like structure stood out to her at its centre. Carefully drawn, it was divided into two, showing a simplistic exterior and greatly detailed interior of trap doors and hidden chambers.

What stood out to her the most, however, was the short column at its doorway, building up and forming around a flat, disk shaped platform at its top. It was a terminal pedestal, but without an ornamental sculpture.

Odd choice for decoration, she thought.

The pedestal was the darkest and most inked part of the blueprint. The artist had painted a swathe of colour, a bright ribbon of vivid sapphire, to mimic the movement of a river or a snake. It ran from the terminal’s top and into the ground and roots below, flowing and following the bottom border until it disappeared at the end of the page.

“What do you have there?” A voice whispered near her ear.

“Nothing.” Maiya said quickly. Slamming the book shut, she turned around, lips sinking into an automatic frown at how close the blue rito stood.

Revali raised a feathered brow, leaning away. “Very well. I hate to cut your research short, Hylian, but I have orders to escort you around the village before sundown.”

Maiya frowned. “Explain.”

The rito sighed, looking like he wanted to be anywhere but there. "Chief Kamori believes that as a guest who had never stepped foot on our village grounds before, it would be rather injudicious of us not to give you a tour of the town."

Maiya opened her mouth to refuse, citing that she'd already had a good enough look around, before a pair of tiny wings pushed a piece of paper in front of her nose. "Look, Enchanter!" Kaneli smiled.

A poorly drawn sketch of a red dagger was on the page. It was shooting flames like a sparkler, lending its light to a few fireworks in the sky. Several thick arrows were positioned near the edge of the weapon, pointing to a section of the blade. Maiya's eyes followed them, seeing that they were leading her to the dagger's fuller, where a few squiggles were gathered together.

"The stories say a long, long time ago, Enchanted weapons had drawings that helped them make fire or ice and stuff." The young rito bowed his head, shuffling his feet. "Yours doesn't though, so I drew some to help."

Maiya was silent, staring at Kaneli's interpretation of runic inscription. Her mind flashed to the way her dagger spluttered and fought as it was held in the vice grip of the melting clamp. The blacksmith. She needed to find him.

According to Honoka he had a dislike for Enchanters. Fine. It made things difficult, but Maiya knew that she needed to find him. A potential lack of cooperation was just another setback she had to overcome. Visiting Honoka had left her with more questions than answers, and this knowledge of the village’s blacksmith having an interest in Instruments was her best lead so far. It would be a waste to ignore it.

"Thank you, Kaneli." She said sincerely.

The young Rito beamed.

"Very well," Maiya decided, crossing her arms. She angled her head up to look at Revali, trying to appear as authoritative as possible. "I'll go, but I want you to show me where the village forge would be. I'm curious as to what your local weapons look like." For a second, she saw hesitancy flash in both Revali and Honoka's eyes. They turned to each other, a silent battle ensuing as the two ritos communicated via raised eyebrows and pointed looks.

"I can learn a thing or two as well whilst I'm there." She added, trying to sound reasonable.

Finally, Revali sighed, walking to the front door. “Sure, whatever. Now say your goodbyes and catch up will you?"

Maiya rolled her eyes. I don’t appreciate your tone, jerk. Carefully, she placed Kaneli’s drawing into her journal and stored them both into her backpack. Whilst Honoka was preoccupied scolding Revali about his sleep patterns, she slipped the unusual book inside as well.

Honoka held her grandson’s wing as she walked her guests to the door. “Young Enchanter, I expect to see your face again. Don’t keep the collection waiting. I hope to hear more of your findings at a later date."

“I’ll try to be back soon.” Maiya said noncommittally, hoisting the small bag over her shoulders.

Elder Honoka playfully swatted Revali’s back with her cane. The aforementioned rito jumped in surprise. "Take care, Qoyllur-cha. Don’t get the hylian in any sort of trouble.” Honoka smiled, crows feet creasing as she adopted a mischievous tone. “Now that I’ve met her, I do agree with what you said yesterday. She is quite an interesting visitor.”

Revali pinched the space above his beak. “Please stop talking, Master Honoka.”

The silence that ensued as they left was tense, but expected. Revali walked up the main staircase quickly, Maiya keeping up behind him with minimal difficulty. Once they reached the top floor, the rito’s pace slowed. He looked behind him once to ensure she was there, leading her to one of the nearby departure decks.

With his back to her, Revali approached the edge of the platform, stopping before the drop. His eyes were trained on something in the distance, and for a moment he stood very still, seeing or feeling something she couldn’t. Maiya looked around, taking in the panoramic view of mountains and treetops around them. It was a few minutes before sunset, a hint of orange already beginning to appear behind the grey cumulus clouds that had gathered throughout the afternoon. In the trees beyond, wild birds began to chirp. It felt nice. Serene even.

“Get on my back."

The Enchanter paused, looking at the rito wide-eyed as a blush began to colour her face. "P-pardon—”

Revali exhaled a deep, world-weary sigh, before bending down on one knee, bracing both wings on the ground as if preparing for a sprint. "Farore Above, have the winds carried your hearing away? Get on my back, we don't have much daylight left."

Maiya blinked, walking forward. Unsure of what to do, she threw all caution to the wind and grasped his shoulder, hoisting herself up. The hylian shifted uncomfortably, slipping to the left as her hands tried to find purchase on the blue rito's back.

Yanking a bit too forcefully, a feather came loose in her grasp. Mortified, she sucked in a shaky breath. She quickly pocketed it, lest her reluctant chauffeur were to see and drop her as soon as they were in the air. "Is this...is this really necessary?"

"Believe me," Revali replied, looking over his shoulder to throw her an expression akin to that of a poked Honeyvore Bear, "I'm asking myself the same question right now, but whatever Chief Kamori says, goes."

"...Even if the request is utterly pointless and extremely undignified." He muttered to himself, the aside purposefully loud enough for her to catch it.

Asshole.

"What was that?"

Oh, shit!

"Uh," Maiya blanked, "I said, 'that's cool'".

Another awkward silence settled between them as she finally decided that kneeling on his back and bending down to throw both arms around his shoulders to stabilise herself was the best course of action. The only issue being that this placed his head uncomfortably close to her own, his bronze pauldrons nearly brushing her cheek.

The winds on the edge of the departure deck blew heavy in her face, making her eyes feel irritated and watery.

Maiya looked away, focusing on the rito in front of her instead. This close and she could see the minute imperfections on his yellow beak. There was a small white line, about four centimetres in length, running along its side as thin as a thread.

A gust of air blew past them, making goosebumps appear on her arms. Reflexively, she gripped him tighter, holding him close to feel the warmth of his back against her shivering chest. She exhaled, the heat of her breath mingling with the cold air, creating a white cloud in the space between her mouth and his cheek.

Revali froze.

The Enchanter briefly wondered if he had reached the end of his patience. Didn’t an important warrior like himself have other pressing matters to attend to today? She wouldn’t be surprised if he was ready to toss her back onto the wooden deck and walk away, Chief’s orders be damned.

"Hey, you know, if this too weird I can always walk."

"No.” The rito warrior spoke, voice heavy with irritation. "Let's just get this over and done with."

Suddenly, the lean muscle beneath her tensed. Revali’s wings extended with a dramatic fwip, fanning at his sides in preparation. His feathers were a sea of blue around her. Filling her line of vision, everywhere and in her peripheries.

One flap, and they hovered. Maiya bit back a vulgar swear as her grasp around his shoulders tightened.

He laughed mockingly. "Is the mighty enchanter afraid of heights?"

"No. I'll be alright, just give me a warning before we fl— AAAAAAAAH!!!"

Without a word, Revali dove off the edge, and the world tilted.

Maiya shrieked, feeling her stomach drop as Revali sent them both into freefall. She shut her eyes, clutching onto him for dear life as the winds around them twisted and turned, whipping past at unbelievable speeds. It was loud. Deafening. Howling like the call of a storm.

Gravity sat heavy on her back, pressure building around her as the ground steadily raced to meet them. Maiya’s heart began to beat rapidly, hammering a heavy rhythm like a war drum in her chest. A warm blush crept up her neck, filling her cheeks and the tips of her ears with a rosy hue. She had to remind herself to breathe.

Amidst all this, she could still briefly register the fresh scent of pine and feel the icy snap of air rushing around her. Cold. Untouched. Free. It was like all her senses were alive, her brain firing messages faster than her mind could fully process.

Inching and creeping like a troublesome snake, Maiya could register the small warning pinpricks of pain travelling along the surface of her left hand. Her eyes widened, no longer in excitement but in panic. Her mind flicked to her gloved hand braced tightly around Revali’s shoulder, already imagining the blue light leaking from the scar’s edges. This is bad, this is very bad. The rune was going to activate at any second and fry both her and her pilot.

The adrenaline rush was terrifying. Amazing. Though if it didn't stop soon, it was going to kill them both.

I’m safe! She mentally chanted. She willed the bubbling energy to recede, her panicked thoughts escaping her as whispered words lost in the wind. “I’m safe. I’m safe. I’m safe.”

As if in hearing her, she felt the speed of their plummet slow, followed by the sound of wings flapping. The pair dipped further, the blue of the waters below getting closer, then suddenly. Whoosh. They changed trajectory—arcing up.

Revali caught the gale, cutting and carving a path away from the ground. Hastening them forward to meet the sky.

From the small cracks between her eye-lids, Maiya could see the light shifting as the world re-oriented itself once more. Her ears popped from the dramatic change in pressure. Head spinning, she briefly contemplated letting go completely and letting herself fall into the depths below. Which was unusual since it involved saving the life of the rito she disliked so much at the expense of her own safety. Damnnit. She knew the fire was going to reach him anyhow, and when it did it was going to send both of them falling anyway. There was not enough time. This was it. Make a decision! This is—

“Ahem.”

Revali cleared his throat, wrenching the Enchanter from her racing thoughts.

"You can look up now."

Maiya peeked an eye open, noticing with belated embarrassment that she had burrowed her face into the rito’s feathered neck. Scrunching her nose in disgust, she pulled away, eyes blinking to adjust to the bright light around her.

Whilst the breeze still blew heavy in her face, the world had stopped spinning. It sat before her now, drifting in a haze of orange and blue. The cacophony of sound in her ears had also dulled to a light whistle, leaving her ears ringing.

Yes. Evidently, they had ceased falling.

Remembering the near disaster from awhile ago, Maiya quickly lifted her gloved hand, ignoring Revali’s questioning look. Sighing in relief, she found that the fire had not activated, the single glove’s surface free of scorch marks. That was too close.

Reigning in her galloping heart, Maiya took three careful breaths and lifted herself back up into a semi-kneeling position. Chancing a look at the world they were currently soaring above, she gasped.

They were high-up.

Extremely, high-up.

They were flying several metres above the apex of the village, the zenith of Valoo’s Spire slowly materializing beneath as the canopy of clouds surrounding them began to clear. The winds at this height were strong, but Revali expertly navigated around them, tilting his wings and angling in a way that placed them at an easy glide.

From their vantage point in the sky, the entire Tabantha Frontier was spread out before her. All around them were trees upon trees, forests filled with conifer evergreens still lush with emerald leaves even in the approach to the colder months.

In the west, rocky cliff faces weathered by time took up most of the view, whilst in the east she could vaguely see the way in which the earth cracked and dipped. It was Tanagar Canyon, cutting through the land like a jagged scar.

To the north were the Hebra Mountains. Dangerous and dignified. If the stories were correct, it was home to all kinds of monsters and secrets. Their snow-covered peaks rose to the sky as if to stab the blue expanse, disappearing under the misty cloud cover that rose higher than the height even she and Revali were at right now.

And in the middle of all this, directly below them, was Rito Village. Maiya could feel the terror in her heart fizzle as she took in the village in its entirety. She’d never seen anything like it before.

Valoo’s Spire stood tall and proud in the centre of a massive body of water. It served as the main supporting structure for the Rito’s huts. Like lanterns on a hook, albeit heavier and less fragile, the huts hung from rock formations which jutted out from the spire like outstretched arms. Maiya noticed that most of the homes were wooden brown and slightly curved, reminding her of baskets or bells.

Instead of spreading out horizontally like most places in Hyrule, Rito Village was built upwards, a vertical village reaching to the sky. From this vantage point she could see the whole grand staircase which ran along the spire like an unravelling spiral, splitting into various departure decks at random intervals closer to the top. Buildings and smaller huts appeared in each level, with patterned cloth banners decorating almost every home, waving in the wind and painting the village in various swathes of vivid colour.

"Wow…," she whispered.

"Yes, I know," Revali's voice broke through her thoughts, reminding her of exactly who she was with right now. "A fine specimen such as myself in flight is a sight to behold."

Maiya’s easy smile sunk faster than a faulty boat on an icy lake as she regarded the blue rito beneath her. "Hylia, not you. I'm talking about your village!"

Squinting her eyes, Maiya could see the movement of the Rito and other travellers of Hyrule as they went about their business. Some seemed to be waving goodbye or closing shop, and she realised belatedly how late in the day it already was. Amongst the various houses she could pick out the few that she’d been to; Kamori’s Hut, Swallow’s Roost and even Honoka’s Archive.

The question left her mouth before she could reign in back in. “Where’s your place?”

“Over there, the hut with the blue banners, a floor below Kamori's.” Revali replied.

Maiya fidgeted, leaning forward to get a closer look. The rito grunted. “Hey, watch it! Keep throwing your weight too far to one side and you’re gonna tip us over.”

But it was too late. The Enchanter continued to peer to the side, inadvertently bracing herself to the left, off-balancing the pair and sending them into a brief spin. Maiya yelped in surprise as the calm world around her fell away again. “Shoot! Sorry!”

Revali made an irritated sound at the back of his throat, wings straining as he reeled them back into their previous glide in seconds.

Silence reigned as the pair regained their breath. Revali angled his head to scowl at her. “Did you leave your brain back in Honoka’s Archive, or have you always been this senseless?”

Maiya hung her head sheepishly, attempting to avoid his gaze and failing horribly. “Okay in all honesty, my bad. Learned my lesson there.”

Revali sighed, briefly considering if pushing the subject was worth it, and ultimately decided to let it go. Instead, the annoyance on his face slid into an expression of thinly veiled suspicion. “Why did you ask?”

Maiya tilted her head, confused. “Ask what?”

“Why did you want to know where I lived?”

“Not really sure,” she admitted, looking back at the village next to them. In one of the upper levels, a pink feathered villager stood at the front porch of a hut, waiting as the main door was opened by another rito who swept them up into a tight embrace. The Enchanter smiled. “Perhaps I’m just curious. Everyone’s going home, tonight. Isn’t your family waiting for you?”

He snorted. “How old do you think I am?”

Maiya coughed. “Age has nothing to do with it! I meant l...well— I'm not asking if you're married with kids or anything." She paused, realising how that came out. "Which is totally fine if you are. There's nothing wrong with that at your age. Which I don't know. It's really a personal preference kind of thing anyway and— "

“Twenty-six.”

“Pardon?”

Revali sniffed derisively, shaking his head. "I'm twenty-six years old. I have no attachments, romantic or otherwise. I'd discovered long ago that they're mere disturbances in my journey to achieve my goals."

"That's fair." She said quickly. Unbeknownst to him, the Enchanter frowned, remembering the grandfatherly way in which Chief Kamori regarded him and the admiration in young Kaneli's eyes when he entered the room. A life alone, even in dedicating yourself to your dreams, couldn’t be an easy one.

Look who’s talking, the nagging voice in her head said.

Well, that’s because I didn’t have much of a choice. She mentally shot back.

Maiya stared at the back of Revali’s head, looking at him the same way one would assess a difficult puzzle. Surely he hasn't pushed all of them away.

She wondered briefly what kind dream he was working towards to warrant such isolation and focus, making a move to ask him, but decided against it when a strong gust of wind blew past them. Revali gracefully caught it, sharply angling them to the side without a word. Maiya yelped, gripping onto his back to avoid slipping and plummeting to a certain death.

The wind ruffled her hair and dislodged her bandana, the piece of cloth unknotting.

"Wait, no!" Maiya cried. Alerted by the sound of her voice, Revali glanced at her, watching as she reached out helplessly as the yellow cloth slipped through her fingers and was taken away by the breeze. To her dismay, it disappeared into the white sheet of clouds, gone from her line of sight in seconds.

Immediately, her uneven midnight hair opened and fanned around her, tangling and waving in the crisp windy air. Maiya growled, resisting the urge to grab the rito and shake him. "Shit! We really need to work on you saying something before you do something like that."

Revali’s jade eyes rose to look at her, and Maiya steeled herself for the retort. Brushing her hair away from her eyes, she gritted her teeth. Glancing down, she was surprised to see that the rito’s beak was snapped shut. He was staring, but not in irritation, looking at her with an unreadable expression on his face.

Maiya felt her annoyance grow. “What? Admiring your handiwork?" She hastily grabbed the flying locks, attempting to bundle them up and tuck them into the collar of her jacket.

Very creative haircut indeed. You could even call the means of achieving it 'lethal'! What an ass.

Revali blinked, seeming to snap out of whatever trance he was in. Hilariously, the feathers surrounding his neck puffed up. "It's nothing." He said, voice clipped. Immediately, he tore his eyes away from hers, turning his head back around.

She rolled her eyes. “Sure.”

The pair continued to soar above the village. After a few minutes, Maiya felt an unusual buzzing in her legs, pins and needles making her feet go numb. It was a precursor to the anxiety stemming from her prolonged lack of connection to the solid ground, and the fact that the chances of her surviving a fall right now would be rather miraculous.

She swallowed her fear, facing forward and forcing herself not to think about it. “I know Chief Kamori wanted you to take me on a tour, but any reason why it had to be up here instead safe on the ground? ”

“If you stop catastrophizing then perhaps you’ll find out in a minute.”

Maiya freed a hand to scratch the back of her neck, “Fine.” She conceded. I need a distraction. “Then actually give me a ‘tour’ of your village and tell me about the houses below us.”

Revali’s response was nothing but diplomatic. “Very well. There’s a few to get through. It would be helpful if you could be more specific.”

“Okay, how about the one with the lanterns still burning bright. Near the bottom of the Spire. Everyone had dimmed their lights, how come they’re the exception?”

“You’re looking at either Slippery Falcon or Brazen Beak. Those two shops are one of the first to transition into their winter hours. Business lasts long after dark, and they capitalize on the tired tourists who walk in during all hours of the night searching for gear or a warm meal. The owners had been competing with each other for generations.”

Maiya was surprised that she did not detect any hint of derision in his tone throughout the entire explanation. “Are their wares any good?”

“They are some of the hardest workers in this village. There is little else to explain.”

She nodded to herself. Interesting. “Alright. Tell me about the one with the blue flower boxes.”

“If it has three white flags with the green cross, that’s the clinic. It’s also the home of our healer, Ahn. They can stitch anything back together, even whilst asleep— as the rumour goes.”

Maiya thought about it for a second, trying to imagine what that would look like. “Stitch anything, huh? Including you?”

He snorted. “No comment.”

She thought of the scar on his beak. “You would think that a warrior gets hurt pretty often.”

“An obvious hazard of my occupation, but it had seldom given me any issue.” Revali said, unbothered. If he wasn’t so focused flying, he would have tossed a wing up as if to say ‘Bah! Preposterous!’ “My use of the bow and command over the sky takes precision. It’s very rare that an enemy lands a hit on me.”

Maiya chose to ignore his humble brag and changed the subject. “What’s that cave over there? The one just above the water?”

Revali huffed at her obvious diversion but chose to let it go. He looked at the direction she was pointing to, and suddenly fell quiet. Unlike his previous responses, he took a moment to mull over his reply. His next words to her were unusually tentative, short. “The blacksmith.”

“Excellent,” Maiya smiled. “You can drop me off just outside his door. I’ll find my way back up from there.”

Another gust of wind flew past them, and Revali tilted along with it. But she was prepared this time, grabbing his shoulders until he righted them once more. “Why are you so adamant to see him?” He asked after he had steadied them.

She rolled her eyes. “Why are you and Elder Honoka so concerned about him meeting me? I can take a grumpy rito.” In fact, I’m doing that right now.

“He won’t be as accommodating as many of the others you’ve met recently.”

“Doesn’t matter. I’ll find a way.”

Revali turned to look at her again, green eyes sharp, assessing her. “You’re serious?” She glared back defiantly, unwilling to fold. The rito raised a yellow feathered eyebrow in her direction and clicked his tongue in disapproval. “Very well, but don’t say we didn’t tell you so.”

“Tell me what?”

He sighed. “You’ll see.”

She opened her mouth to ask what that meant, but stopped when she felt the temperature of the wind around her change. Braids waving in the air, Revali smirked at her. “You should stop gaping at me and look around you, enchanter.”

Maiya disregarded his teasing but nonetheless acquiesced, tilting her head up.

Eyes meeting the sky, she gasped.

It was as if the goddess Hylia herself had taken her brush and dragged it across the sky. The world around them had exploded in colour, painting the bright expanse in reds, pinks and greys to form one of the most dazzling sunsets she had ever seen. From their place in the sky, Rito Village looked like a sparkling jewel. Encased in light, the beauty of the eventide had cast a comforting glow against many of the bell-shaped wooden structures, filling her with a nostalgia for a place that was entirely new to her.

Emboldened by the warmth surrounding her, Maiya took a chance and gazed at the ground below. Like a mirror, the heavens were reflected off the crystalline lake surrounding Valoo’s Spire, both clouds and the village mingling with the glow of the sinking sun.

Revali glanced at her, expression pleased at her obvious wonder. “Seeing as you’re only here for a limited time, I thought it would be a shame for you to miss this.”

"Rito Village is already quite beautiful from the ground," she heard Revali murmur, his voice reverberating into her chest. The metal beads in his feathers glinted in the orange light, "but nothing can compare to what it looks like from the sky."

Maiya hummed in agreement. The blue rito would have seen this sunset for all his life, yet it was nice knowing he still felt awed at the phenomena. The way he spoke of his village in this light, it was like he was looking at it for the first time. The thought warmed her, making her heart beat deeply at the wistful and reverent tone of his voice.

The sunlight glinted off his pauldrons, making her squint as it momentarily blinded her. Maiya rubbed her eyes, in that moment remembering where she was and who she was thinking about. She mentally flushed her previous thoughts away, feeling silly. The high-altitude is getting to you.

From the corner of her eye she saw some of the feathers in his wings change direction, a telltale sign that they were going to descend very soon. “Hey, hold on.” She had one more thing to bring up. “Before we head back down there to the blacksmith,” her voice darkened, taking on a cutting edge that she rarely used. “What in Din’s name was that a while ago? Diving off the ledge? Was that really necessary?”

He didn’t waste a second. “The additional weight meant it was especially imperative for me to generate enough force to catch the wind and get us in the air.” As scientific as his explanation was, his voice was thick with arrogance, haughtiness back in full force. “Sustaining flight with the additional baggage is not an easy feat, mind you. It’s not my fault that a Hylian such as yourself can’t appreciate the art of my technique.”

Did he just call me heavy?

Maiya seethed. “Still, a little warning would have been great.”

She was shocked by his speedy response. “Alright.”

The Enchanter scoffed. “Well that was easy.”

Quickly, Revali changed the direction of his wings, the muscles below her tensing again as he angled downwards. He chuckled. “You might want to hold on tight.”

“What?!”

“And that was your warning.”

Maiya screamed again, hiding her head in the crook of the rito’s neck once more. Her angry swears were only matched by Revali’s raucous laughter, echoing in her ears as they plummeted for the second time that day.

If a person below gazed up at that moment, they would have believed a shooting star had raced across its canvas. As a streak of blue, volatile and electrifying, left a frantic trail of sapphire light in its wake, piercing through the fading light.

#revali #botw #breath of the wild #revali x oc #loz botw #legend of zelda #botw fanfiction #revali botw #rito #rito botw #botw fic #fanfiction #writing #enemies to friends to lovers #paellaplease #firebird botw #maiya botw

24 notes · View notes

thedistantstorm · 5 years ago

Text

Dawning Delights 08: Secrets and Plans

Summary: Hawthorne invites her newfound family in the Tower to experience a City-Style Dawning with the family that took her in years ago. The holiday is not without it’s charm, or aggravation, and certainly has plenty of surprises in store. A season-inspired, trope-tastic story about a family forged by something greater than blood, finding reasons to enjoy the season - and cherish each other. Main Post

Pairings: Hawthorne/Zavala, Sloane/Amanda, Devrim/Marc

“It sounds like you two had fun,” Ikora says, when Zavala hits command at midday. “Maybe I’ll get snowed in next. Bring a couple good books, some of my nicer teas.” She hands him a datascroll. He’s the one who’s been making the news, the Tower has somehow been strangely uneventful with both its Commander and Clan Stewardess trapped in the elements at their Red War stronghold. She taps a finger to the side of her face before crossing her arms in front of her. “Though, I won’t be exposing any well-contained secrets, leaving my fireteam with the fallout…”

“It was time, Ikora.”

The deadpan expression on her face says she's well aware of that. It's hardly a secret amongst those who knew them best. Still, that didn't mean it would all be smooth sailing. She spares him the lecture on all that, though. No one thinks through their choices quite like the Commander.

Instead, when she speaks, her voice is that weedling, informative alto. “The Arach was quite pleased when the news broke. He went out drinking in your honor. I found him loitering in the Bazaar just before dawn. I believe he meant to wait for the Executor, but," She makes a little sway of her shoulders, "I suggested it might be wise to sleep it off."

“Lovely.”

“Yes. I’m sure our holiday party will be full of Dawning cheer,” She deadpans. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to go buy my gift for this week’s soiree.”

“Is there anything I can do?”

She rolls her eyes, but her irritation doesn’t last. “I think you've done enough,” The Warlock muses wryly.

He exhales. Not many would know it as relief; He does not appear to break his composure. But Ikora is not most, and her teasing does not appear kind . "How long will it take them to settle, do you think?"

Ikora turns her head, takes a look around the room. It's empty. "If it was only this, a week. It's hardly new news."

"But?"

Ikora smiles, almost indulgent. "Though plenty of our brood suggests otherwise, my crystal ball doesn't have all the answers. But," She muses, "I don’t need it to know it will certainly be an entertaining new year."

“To say the least,” He answers, a bit exasperated.

There is nothing further to say, and she can see the anxiety of all the work he’s missed by being off the grid last night, so she takes her leave. After all, she does have to buy a present for the gift exchange. But she’s been tasked with acquiring another gift as well.

While Ikora did not often appreciate being made the messenger, in this case, she's happy to oblige. She, like most Guardians, had somewhat of a soft spot for Amanda. More than that, however, Ikora had a true friend in Sloane.

The last few years have been hard. For everyone. Sometimes, she struggles with it still, the emotions she cannot name or express beyond disgruntled behavior toward her Ghost. This year, she's trying. She can't say she'll be the most jazzed up person, or filled with the holiday spirit, but she's going to make an attempt to find joy.

Mortality frightens her, even as immortal as she is. And with the darkness - the threat of another Great Disaster, a second collapse - seemingly approaching, the best way to combat such a thing is with joy. More aptly, hope.

But she cannot waste time thinking about this now. It is what it is. There is much to be done. Sloane had asked her to find a gift for Amanda, a decoy. Only two people on the Tower's staff knew she'd be returning. That plan was not terribly intricate, it just hinged on keeping Zavala and Amanda in the dark. The latter was difficult right up until she left for the holidays. A present would distract her, somewhat.

Ikora had considered routing Sloane through the Farm, but she didn’t want eyes on her if it could be helped. Considering the prior evening’s events, word travelled too fast. This close to the Dawning’s zenith, any hasty moves would be largely obvious. In fact, she’s thankful for the warm cloak she’s wearing to conceal her identity as she browses the Tower’s market.

Years of listening to Cayde talk about his apology gifts for Amanda when he inevitably broke something or otherwise failed to be on the good side of a bet and didn’t have quite enough glimmer to back it up lent enough fuel for presents for the young Shipwright. She liked very specific, very homebrewed liquor, lightning-in-your-veins coffee, and anything that might be more illegal than street-certified when it came to her sparrows. Sloane would err on the side of legal, she thinks, shoving thoughts of her lost friend into the back of her mind. But Sloane would approve of - and likely partake in - some small-batch moonshine from a distillery that had just recently regained its footing following the War.

That settled, the Warlock had her heading. She only needed to find something appropriate for Hawthorne.

The days leading up to the end of the year - work-wise - are far more busy than Zavala anticipates. Before, he’d bring home his work, catch up with it while sipping tea, then spend the rest of his time crocheting or reading for leisure, maybe having a pint with Shaxx or Cayde, indulge the latter in a few hands of poker while Ikora sipped wine and laughed at his inevitable loss in a quiet celebration of the year to come. The workflow with two Vanguard instead of three has slowly runoff into manageable territory, but it’s Sloane that helps him with what he has left to do. Sloane, who always comes through when he needs her.

This year, he enlists her help early. Despite the fact that she has no real plans, and Titan’s celebration growing smaller each year with Guardians being called back from their rainy outpost, he does not want to monopolize her time, and would stress about things done if he’d left for the holiday and she still had his work to do. After all, this year, the last five days of the formal holiday - the time in which the Consensus is in recess, and its representatives are granted leave - are to be spent with Suraya.

“I don’t miss being dragged into those awful parties,” She tells him, when they’re amiably co-existing in a video conference. She reads through a report, double checks his numbers on a tablet and sends the raw data back to him with her approval.

“They do leave a bit to be desired.”

“Amanda told me Jalaal was up to something with the gift exchange,” She imparts in a quieter, less formal tone.

Zavala sighs. “Well, when is he not?” He sets aside the stack he’s been sifting through - it’s nothing that will be sorted before the end of the year and therefore not worth his valuable time. He reaches for the bottle of beer that sits upon a coaster near his workstation, taking a pull of it.

This, since the war, was the closest to ringing in the holiday they could manage. It was a private arrangement between the two of them. Both Zavala and Sloane made themselves unavailable and dedicated an hour or two to discussion, wrapping up their yearly reports and wishing each other good fortune and a happy Dawning in the way good friends did.

“I do regret that I spent the majority of my resources on getting Devrim home for the holidays. I would have liked to get you here as well, have this-” He sloshes his half-full beer for emphasis, “In person.”

“Yeah well,” She trails off, mumbling something, ending with a hasty swig of her own. “Wait.” She looks into the feed directly, the lines around her eyes crinkling as she looks at him, incredulous. “You got Devrim to come home?”

“Ah,” He shrugs. “I wanted to surprise her.”

“You said-”

“It’s surprise one of two,” Zavala elaborates, a secretive smile gracing his usually expressionless lips for just a moment. “If you know what I mean.”

“Wait, Suraya said she didn’t tell you.” Sloane stares at him. “Did Ikora? There was no way-”

Zavala’s blue gaze snaps up to hers and she resists the urge to gulp under his scrutiny. They are talking about two very different things. Two very different things, she realizes.

“Ah, forget it, Sir. It’s nothing.”

“Sloane...” That wheedling tone makes her sigh, but she does her best to be strong. It’s supposed to be a surprise. She can’t- “It’s unlike you to keep secrets,” He says and she groans.

“I can’t tell you. Please don’t-”

“Ages of battle. Centuries of having each other’s backs both on and off the battlefield.” He tilts his head, fixing her with a stare she’s never been able to resist and he knows.

“Commander, this is cruel.”

He inspects his fingernails, glancing back up at the camera as though he’s looking into his deputy’s soul. “I assure you, this is not cruel. Your guilt is of your own design.”

“I-” She closes her eyes and inhales deeply. It’s a losing battle. She just has to hope he doesn’t ruin everything, thereby making Suraya furious with her. “When do you see Amanda next?”

“She is meeting us at Marc and Devrim’s home tomorrow afternoon. With the party tonight, I doubt I’ll cross paths with her.”

Sloane exhales again. “You’re sure.”

His gaze shifts, expression tipping into concerned territory. “What’s going on? Is something wrong? You’re not-”

The Deputy Commander looks scandalized that he’d even suggest what that helpless, understanding gaze does with nary a word. “No! Heavens, no!” She’s shaking her head, eyes flicking to her hands - folded in front of her on the table. “We make due, everything’s fine. You know I-” She shakes her head, not wanting to venture into that territory. Still a bit of a conflict of interest, and it’s a subject they treat with care. “Look. Suraya and Ikora did something.” She pauses, trying to parse the words without being terribly blunt. “Together. For Amanda.”

He gestures for her to continue.

“You know, for being the greatest tactician of all time, Zavala, you’re a bit slow on the uptake when it comes to this sort of thing.” She tilts the rest of her beer into her mouth, letting it drop back to the metal table with a loud thunk. His eyes narrow. “I mean no offense, Sir,” She says, venturing back into formalities. “I just thought you’d have figured it out.”

“You’ve been acting strangely since you got on the line. Normally you’d have finished half that case by now-” He looks to the case of beer beside her on the table. She’s only finished one.

She shrugs. “The crew can have them. I’m sure they’ll be grateful for the gift.”

“Sloane?”

Sheepishly, she sighs. “I’ll, uh, see you tomorrow?”

Sloane has been on comms with the both of them before. When she’d discovered they were together, purely by coincidence, she’d chalked it up as making sense. She was looking forward to being able to see it in person, to make her own opinions on the matter.

That being said, this is unlike anything she’s ever experienced.

He looks cowed, finally waving her off. His earlier words echo in her head: ‘Ages of battle. Centuries of combat,’ and yet he’s at the mercy of a thirty-something-year-old woman. And that woman has been ranting at him for a solid four minutes now. Zavala is usually done after two, interjecting with a well-thought counter.

“I’ll make every effort to avoid her,” The Commander is saying. “She won’t-”

“She’s been planning to meet us in the morning, just like she’s been meeting at our place every time we go over there. This won’t be any different.” Suraya exhales, shakily. She’s wringing her hands now. Sloane can read the anxiety. More than that, she can read Zavala not knowing how to make him calm.

“I’ll handle this,” Ikora says. “I can make up a shipment she needs to handle. I can ensure sure she doesn’t come near him, Hawthorne.”

She nods to Ikora before swiveling back to Zavala. Sloane cringes at it. “I swear to you, if you blab to her, I’m going to be furious with you. Do you understand?” Suraya’s hands are on her hips, her normally sharp eyes made dangerous, sharpened by kohl liner and dark shadow. She’s dressed in a sweater rather than her poncho, hair mostly slicked back, but a few little wisps frame her face. It’s a striking contrast, though not unpleasant. Between them and facing the video unit, Ikora stands with her arms crossed, stoic. She seems… blank.

Sloane frowns, and Ikora’s eyes sharpen in a way that’s terribly intimidating. Sloane rears back as Ikora regards Suraya, asking, “Does that work for you?”

The Clan Stewardess sighs, finally breaking a very serious staring contest with the Commander. Finally, she says, “If you’re sure, I trust you. This one won’t be leaving my sight until tomorrow afternoon.”

“Poor thing,” Ikora quips back, sarcastic - as if he’d be anywhere else - and when Zavala meets her gaze behind Suraya’s back, the Warlock dips her head in an elegant nod that has seemingly little to do with the conversation at hand. “You two get going. I’ll finish with the techs and meet you at the Core.”

The duo nods. Suraya looks over her shoulder at Sloane on the screen. “I’m not mad,” She says as she parts, and Zavala exhales in relief beside her. “I knew he’d figure it out one way or another. I just… want Amanda to have this, and for him,” She jerks a thumb at Zavala, “Not to beat himself up because he can’t keep anything from her.” A breath later, she revises, “That’s not related to work, anyway.”

When they leave, the automated doors slide shut with a hydraulic whoosh behind them. “How are you going to figure something out for her for the morning this short notice? She said there’s nothing coming in.”

“That was close,” Ikora’s Ghost comments mildly, appearing in motes of Light. “I’m glad you knew that console opened, or she absolutely would have seen it.”

She nods to him, then comments, “You’re correct, Sloane. I’ll need you to trust me.”

“I do, but-”

“It’s been planned for two months now,” Ikora divulges, pulling open a small hatch under the center console. Ophiuchus hovers over her shoulder and transmats whatever is in the drawer into her Vault. It looks like a small box.

“Two months?” Sloane asks, confused. “Zavala said Devrim came home two days ago-”

“Don’t worry about it. It would have been far more last minute, but if it eases Suraya’s anxiety, I’ll tell Amanda tonight.” She turns to her partner. “Let Marc know we’re on our way, please.”

“On it,” Ophiuchus agrees, dipping in a sort-of bow before erupting back into sparks.

“What’s going on?”

“Nothing of consequence to you. Suraya has her plan, and Zavala has his.” She smiles. “I’m prepared to intervene personally should Amanda get ahead of herself.” She apprises Sloane, “You just keep up the rouse and try to get some rest. Tomorrow is going to be… something.”

#destiny fanfiction #suraya hawthorne #ikora rey #commander zavala #steelponcho #Deputy Commander Sloane #my writing #destiny dawning

2 notes · View notes

lemonscreativeworld · 6 years ago

Text

Dynamic Duo

It appears that battle forges brotherhoods.

A/N: This is for @satanasss666 and their Apprentice, Sven! Who is literally the most handsome fan Apprentice I have ever seen, like dayum.

Sven grumbled as he jumped and leapt from buildings and poles, angry about the whole situation.

Another fight with the prissy little new meat Asra had brought in that made the bastard storm out. Asra hadn’t gotten in the middle of it, hoping that his two apprentices would work it out for themselves. But apparently not; Widdle Aneirin got his silks in a twist and bounced to go pout.

Just because Sven didn’t feel intimidated by the posh punk. The bastard had been nothing less than an annoying thorn in his side. Always telling him that he shouldn’t be so this or as much of that. Everything Sven did or said was met with sanctimonious criticism that rubbed him the wrong way. It took all of his will-power not to snap his stupid neck.

He clearly remembered when Asra brought him in. Something about their parents being old friends or whatever. He was wearing some ridiculously high quality clothes, with little silk ribbons attached to golden wrist and arm bands. Everything was green and gold with this guy. Not to mention he wore make-up; not that was inherently a bad thing. It was just the fact that even his make-up was gold. He also chose to talk ‘properly’ and ‘with good diction’. It just sounded so stupid to Sven and forced. No one should have that clean of a mouth.

Either way, they got along like oil and fire, and Asra was the tired firefighter trying to keep the peace. He didn’t even know what set Aneirin off so badly this time, just that they were screaming and suddenly he huffed right out of the door. It took a few shocked moments for the other two to realize what happened. Then, they had their own heated exchange as Asra almost demanded Sven go after him to apologize to him. Which was stupid and dumb and he didn’t want to. But Asra was adamant and after several withering looks, he hopped his happy ass out of the door and towards finding him.

The fight had been early in the afternoon and it was just now starting to become dusk. He wondered if he should just head back to the shop now, as he had searched across most of the usual places. The Market, the Town Square, the Community Theater…even that frilly restaurant Aneirin likes to go to sometimes. But there was neither hide nor hair of this little punk and Sven was absolutely done with it all.

He turned to go back to the shop when a familiar looking white creature ran up towards him. The fat little weasel’s fur was dirty and he looked scared. “Dumpling?” He knelt to allow the terrified creature into his arms. Aneirin was an asshole, but Dumpling was a treasure. He always wanted to cuddle up to Sven and he was just so stupidly sweet that there was no way he could hate him.

He was panting heavily and made panicked little squeaking noises that Sven had never heard before. There was a moment of confusion as he wondered why Aneirin would let his most beloved familiar just roam around the streets. It was absolutely unthinkable.

The weasel squeaked again and looked away, towards the Coliseum. He seemed to frantically gesture there, almost as if he wants Sven to go there. Something must be happening and with that though, he tucks Dumpling into one of his pouches and races across town with a fire under his feet. It didn’t take long for him to get to the Coliseum, as he seemed to know the way by heart. Once there, he rushed inside to look for Aneirin but he didn’t have to look very far.

In the center, he could see a large group of men surrounding a single man, as if they were accosting him. The flash of green and gold caught his eye and as he looked harder, he could see that it truly was Aneirin.

“Hey! Iri!” He called out, getting everyone’s attention. “What the fuck?!” Sven started walking towards them, and everyone noticed his limp.

The biggest man, probably the leader, sneered at him. “What’s this, your boyfriend?” His voice was full of condescension. “You’re fucking a crippled? And you won’t fuck us?” He turns to give Aneirin an angry look, which Aneirin returned. He didn’t look scared or intimidated and Sven had to give him credit; the men surrounding him were at least a foot taller than him and way more muscled.

But the term crippled made his blood boil. “I’m not crippled enough to beat all of your asses, you son of bitch!” He hollers, already unsheathing Gertrude and Delilah.

Aneirin seems unimpressed by all of this. “He is not anything near my lover, you brainless brute. But he is my fellow and I suggest you leave before we have to get physical with you.” He huffs, picking up a bag and beginning to walk away. “Of course, I cannot be held accountable for him slicing off your foot for using such vulgar terms for a disabled man but-” He squawked indignantly when the leader grabbed him by the arm and pulled him back, holding him close to the other man’s body.

The leader starts feeling him up, despite Aneirin’s protests. “You think we’re scared of a little crippled? You got big swords, I got an even bigger one, boy!” He started laughing until he felt up Aneirin’s chest and made a quizzical noise. “What…?” The young magician just froze. “You got tits?! You’re a little woman?!”

The smaller man just ripped himself away, storming over to a surprised Sven, his face on fire. There were catcalls and vulgar terms being thrown at Aneirin now, all having to do with his supposedly being a woman. The men were following them and soon enough, they were surrounded.

“Shite.” Sven cursed, looking at all of them. There was about fifteen or twenty of them. He didn’t think he could take them all but he’d never say that. “Just stay behind me, Iri, I’ll protect-”

He was cut off by a crackling sound and the scent of ozone in the air. There was a faint golden glow behind him and he just managed to see Aneirin holding out a rapier, the blade made of golden lightning. Another one formed in his hand and there was a deep pitch to his voice, filled with dark anger. “I’m going to kill this motherfucker.” He snarled, referring to the leader, and Sven felt his eyes widen.

The men seemed taken aback by this but the leader only smiled. “Let’s get ‘em, men!” He took out his own greatsword and the others, emboldened by their leader’s confidence, took out their own weapons.

Sven stood there, dumbfounded for a moment, before he smirked. “Bring it on, bitches!”

“Prepare for the storm!”

The battle was quick but intense. While Sven was built for power and strength, Aneirin was built for speed and agility. Whenever one of the bastards would attack, Aneirin would go in for a few quick disarming strikes before Sven would wreck their shit. His blades were made to shock and disorient, but not to kill. Sven held no reservations and though that wasn’t the purpose of this fight, he couldn’t help the one or two bodies he left in his wake.

Finally, it was just the leader; all of his men were groaning on the ground, some of them twitching. Sven made a move to attack him, but was held back by Aneirin. “I said I was going to kill him.” He dropped his rapiers and the blades disappeared.

The leader, obviously worn down and out of his league, smirked. “You gonna kill me with no weapons? You must be one dumb bitch.”

Aneirin didn’t say a word, just staring at the larger man. With a fluid motion, he swept back the hair hiding his left eye and Sven gaped. The eye had two deep, violent looking scars going from his forehead to his cheekbone, the eye a much lighter gold than his other eye. Suddenly, small bolts of lightning started forming around his eye, growing in power and intensity until his whole eye was covered. Golden light started forming in his hand and the leader took a step back.

“W-Wait, what the fuck?!” He shouted, fear now starting to overtake him.

It would be his last words as Aneirin lifted his hand to the sky, where storm clouds suddenly started forming. In a flash of golden light, lightning struck the leader no less than three times, each time more intense than the last.

Once all was said and done, the leader was nothing more than a charred corpse, unrecognizable. The power around Aneirin’s eye vanished and he fixed his hair to cover his eye again.

Sven had just stood there, dumbfounded the whole time. He was impressed by the display and he jumped when Aneirin spoke. “Did Dumpling come find you?” He asked, still fixing his hair.

“Uh…” Was Sven’s only response.

Suddenly, said weasel jumped out of Sven’s pouch, where he had been the whole time. He rushed over to Aneirin and the man scooped up his baby. “Oh my darling!” He cooed, gently brushing him off. “You are absolutely filthy! I am so sorry to have made you go through all of that, my sweet baby boy!”

The fat creature was soaking up the attention and it brought Sven out of his daze. “What the fuck!” He yelled. “Was that!?” He gestured to the leader. “I didn’t know you could do that!”

Aneirin just looked at him with a small smirk. “You never asked.” Was his simple answer.

“Well…you got me there.”

He laughed, something sweet and tinkling. But then the other apprentice got a little bit serious. “Thank you, Sven, for coming to my rescue. I would have been quite fine by myself, probably, but having you to help was a great relief to me.” He looked away, blushing slightly. “I apologize for the way I have acted towards you. It was unfair and undignified to treat you with such immediate disrespect.”

That was unexpected. Sven blinked, putting away his swords. “Well…” He grumbled, crossing his arms. “I guess I could try to be a lil’ more friendly, if you’re gonna apologize.”

Aneirin gave him a genuine smile and the soft look in his eyes made Sven blush. “I would like that, darling.” And the pet name, while not unusual for Aneirin, was weird being directed at him.

“Don’t get used to it.” He said and there was that laugh again.

“I believe we should go back, yes? Shall I get a cart for you to ride in?” He asked, and Sven wanted to bite a no but after everything that happened…

“Whatever you wanna do.”

Another smile. “Excellent.” He started out of the Coliseum and before he got too far, he turned around to look at him. “Sven, you know…” Sven looked up at Aneirin, who had a wry look in his eyes. “You made a very dashing figure while we were fighting. You would be a very handsome hero in a romance tale.” With that, he winked at the other apprentice and skipped out of earshot.

Needless to say, Sven just went his own way home.

#the arcana #the arcana mystic romance #the arcana apprentice #the arcana fan apprentice #apprentice aneirin #apprentice sven #satanasss666 #is it too much for me to call sven a snacc?#Coz he is #And im lov him

14 notes · View notes

mechawheatthin · 6 years ago

Text

Campaign Diary #2

So instead of writing an important paper I must complete to graduate I'm going to write this. The second session of my long running d&d game.

So I decided to do a time jump and say that many months had passed and the party all have arrived at a large town called Lansi.

Lansi is built upon an island that splits a wide river. Lansi and Dabbersfoot (the town from last session) all are in the kingdom of Felden, a frozen nation mostly consisting of Human peasants and Wood Elven lords. Dwarves also make up a large minority and make up the skilled workers. Of course this is d&d so you can find any other race you would find in the phb.

With no real goal they decide to explore the town. They headed to the shop district where they found an open blacksmith. Two Dwarves and a Human are furiously pounding iron. The two Dwarves are dismissive but the Human is receptive. He explains that they are crushed for time because they only have a month to finish Baron Aewen's Drake armor. He is willing to sell anything they have lying around but don't have time to craft anything. He also mentions that the smelter hasn't come with new iron and if they got the shipment he would give the party half off on anything here. He says that they are simply too busy to leave their work. Riktaris the Minotaur bard particularly had his sight on a very nice set of half plate (+2). They obviously agree and immediately headed to the smelter.

The smelter was only a couple of blocks away. Upon entering they see that the man who ran the smelter was dead, blood was spattered against wall as he was slumped up against it. Someone casted detect magic and a magical aura was revealed that came from one of the many ore piles in the room. Upon coming closer to it, it animated into a vaguely humanoid shape. A glowing red crystal was buried in the center of it's chest. The creature resisted most of their attacks. Riktaris decided to cast identity on it. It was revealed to be a Galeb Duhr.

At this time the newest member of the team arrived on scene. Previously rolling in a gutter, he decided to join the battle. Sadly I can't recall his name but he was a Kobold bard of satire. Upon bursting into the room he casted heat metal on the creature. The iron ore that made up it's body glowed red hot. The Galeb Duhr was completely unphased by this. It then continued to pommel one of the party members and burn them.

After another round of unsuccessful attacks. The Kobold decided to cast command. The Galeb Duhr failed it's save and was pacified and at the Kobold’s mercy.

(I now remember why I couldn't remember the Kobold's name, it didn't have one. The player forgot to write it down and simply didn't respond to any inquiry of his name. Simply staring blankly at them if they asked.)

The Kobold commanded the Galeb Duhr to walk to the blacksmith. The populous was understandably scared of the creature but the party convinced the people that it was harmless. The blacksmith was amazed that the party not only was able to bring him the metal he needed by animating it, but that they managed to pre-heat the metal. The blacksmith gave the half plate to Riktaris for free and gave the rest of the party 75% off anything they wanted.

Also yes I am aware the spell only lasts eight hours.

The party than mossied about the town some more. Galadran the dwarf cleric stirred up some trouble at a local gnome church before being thrown out. Riktaris, and Saline went to a local book store called the Honest Tomb. And Drake, the human fighter and the Kobold went to acquire a room.

At the Honest Tomb they met the struggling business owner Beegsly. The shop was packed full of untouched scrolls and books. Riktaris came across an ancient scroll tucked away in a box. It was written in an old dialect of elvish that Saline could not recognize. Beegsly sold the scroll to him for a bargain price because he just needed the money and didn't know anything about magic. Riktaris than became interested in Beegsly's business. Why it was struggling? What kind of books did he usually sell? Where did he get these books? ( All things I wasn't prepared for.) I gave convincing answers for all and this made Riktaris, the Minotaur bard, to want to partner with him. Riktaris would promote his business through music and offered the idea of a subscription service. This all made Beegsly excited but also incredibly nervous. In the end he was convinced.

Drake and the Kobold had decided to check out the Simple Potato Inn. It was a converted manor turned tavern. The Kobold went up to the inn keeper and (I honestly don’t remember) said pretty weird and creepy things. The Inn keeper who was a tall High Elf was understandably freaked out by the creature. A hulking mercenary type with acne scaring caring a battleaxe walked up to intervene. The Man quickly got heated and opted to just cleave the Kobold in half. After a few rounds of combat (which drake was not getting involved with) the Kobold once again casted heat metal on the man. The man wearing heavy half plate armor instantly let out a blood curdling scream as his armor glowed red and caught his gabison on fire. He ran out of the tavern along with everyone else. Both the Kobold and Drake fearing that guards would soon come snuck out the back window and into the street undetected.

The party all reunited and decided it would be best to sleep at another tavern. They went to the Expensive Dragon. The Expensive Dragon was a fine establishment full of interesting characters. One being a Dark Elf wielding a spear in the corner. A stranger in these parts, the Kobold went to investigate this man. The E;f exclaimed that the Kobold could see him and that he has been searching for someone that could. The Kobold was understandably confused but played along. The Dark Elf explained that his name was Lord Solodin of space and that he needed someone to help him revenge the death of his son. He than tapped his spear on the ground and the Kobold collapsed on the ground in epileptic shock and slowly phased out of existence unbeknownst to the patrons or anyone else. Seconds later the Kobold phased back into existance and Lord Solodin was gone. Nothing had changed but he felt the unnerving sense that something was wrong.

Drake than went to the barkeep demanding their most potent alcohol. The Dwarf denied his request as no living mortal could withstand it and he didn’t want to see anymore young lives go to waist because of it. Drake being an abusive alcoholic was angry. He pulled his sword and demanded the drink. A Tiefling burst from the kitchen with lightning at her finger tips. The Dwarf broke down eventually and gave Drake the drink. He explained that it was used to sanitize drake blisters and had radioactive and explosive qualities. Drake ignored these warning and immediately drake from the keg. Drake survived.

At this time, a Half-Orc dressed in a finely made suit introduced him self to the party as Jacob. He explained that their future benefactor would like to meet with them. They promptly followed him to a vip room on the top floor. There they met a white and black striped tiger man. Upon a successful arcana check they figured he was a Rakshasah. He explained that he was impressed that they were able to defeat a Rehmoraz. He also proposed a job for them. Retrieve an item called the Red Chalice. It is located somewhere in the desert of Ruhane. Upon it’s recovery they would receive riches beyond their dreams. Being the greed driven murder hobos that they are they immediately accepted. More details were traded and the party signed a binding contract.

Pretty excited about their job the group headed down stairs to celebrate. At this time the the Kobold told them of the experience with the Dark Elf. The party was very confused with the situation. Than they immediately realized the Dark Elf was back. He had been sitting in the corner for quite sometime it seemed. They got up and went over to investigate. The Dark Elf than explained again how he has been searching for people that could see him. He then again tapped his spear on the floor and the party all dropped unconscious in epileptic shock. And than again they slowly phased out of existence for a few seconds unbeknownst to the patrons. However when they came back, having no memory of what just conspired, things had changed. Riktaris had become a woman. The Kobold was a gold fish. Drake realized he could not read anymore (although he wasn’t sure if that was the alcohol or what just transpired). A sword burst from Salin’s mouth that glowed orange as if it had been freshly forged. And Galadran wasn’t there (his player left before hand).

This was probably one of my all time favorite sessions I had DMd. A lot of crazy fun things happened. I do admit that the Kobold character was a little out of hand. And no I did not purposely turn him into a gold fish to get rid of him. I rolled on tables for all that. And he was lucky to get the one result that did nothing the first time he journeyed with Lord Solodin.

#Dnd #D&D #dungeons and dragons #campaign diary #campaign

2 notes · View notes

haleybrownie-blog · 6 years ago

Text

Lights

If each one of us is a light, I am not a bulb in a dark room. I am not a stale and buzzing piece of hot glass hanging loosely by a faded thread. I am not fueled by hidden wires whose mechanics are unknown by the general public, but we all know are easily corralled by the universal on and off switch. I am not held suspended, hidden behind the doors of a seldom used coat closet. The light that I shine not meant to illuminate only your ever-growing dust farm of an attic. If each one of us is a light, I am not a night star. I am not light years away, or born from fairy dust. I am not self-sustained by the emotions raging inside of me, destined to meet my end by violent implosion. I am not buried alone in the cosmos, pretty to look at, but unable to be told apart from my neighboring colonies.

If each one of us is a light, I am not a candle. I do not emit the sweet smell of lavender and vanilla to each person I come in contact with. I am not a moldable wax, taking on the shape and identity of whatever environment I am poured out into. I am not busted out for only special occasions or to be a dull and tameable hue. I was not forged to burn dimly to the end of my wick, burning, burning, until one day there is no more. I was not made to give away my wax day by day until I have evaporated and become one with the world.

If each one of us is a light, I am not lightning. I am not earth shattering and groundbreaking of my own accord. I am not accompanied by the inescapable sound of thunder, powerful enough to rattle your windows by simply my own power. My light was not given to shine on only the darkest of days, or made to go unnoticed and hidden by the shroud of midnight.

If each one of us is a light, I am a lighter.

And for a while, I lived in darkness.

I loved the idea of the light, but grew to find comfort in the darkness. The shadow gives us the falsely sheltered and misinformed notion of safety. The gloom not only allows, but urges us to show the ugliest and blackest of our parts. We are told that because we ourselves are blind in the bleak veil, that our sins are hidden. We are fed the falsification that there is not One whose eyes can pierce the blackest dark.

I was missing a wick. How was I to know what was missing beneath the surface of my own skin?

The black is hardly ever jet, at least this side of death. Even the ones in darkness are almost always faintly illuminated by the glow of others. Those who dwell in the shade have learned that fire only burns when it comes too close. So to the blind the lost look safe and shielded by the earth itself. But those with eyes of light can see the lost engulfed in a sea of mud, desperately needing the washing of water and the rebirth of fire.

Sometimes the children of light will clothe themselves with righteousness and charge into the darkness. As their luminescence draws near, those in the dark are forced to behold themselves. Some witness their own shame, and crawl deeper into the sludge, begging this world to once again provide its weak sheet of deceptive shelter. Others still will stand mesmerized in the face of glory. Forgetting the filth they have called their home, they will reach out into brazen sunlight. As if filled by some form of fuel, they are ignited immediately, they shine incandescently, and it is impossible to deny their change. In some moments of radiant luster, these eruptions will be the spark of a nation.

As their blast radius reaches out, they touch the liquid souls of others. It sets off a series of chain reactions, inconceivably dazzling. Many watch from the pits. Some are bent beyond recognition, twisted enough to dare and perceive this marvel with disdain. Others watch with starstruck eyes, lacking only the ambition to reach for the breathtaking spectacle.

Once the environment reaches stability, one of two things will happen. These newborn creatures of light will leap for joy, chasing their new destiny off into an illuminated city placed upon a hill. If not this, they eagerly and earnestly work to build a new one. Should they build, they try their best to urge their old friends in darkness to receive this light, and choose to rinse off their old nature. Some will accept. Others will slither further out into the vast void, searching for the murkiness that will once again swathe them.

If we are honest, the darkness isn’t great. There are perks. We are free to drink fire, and know the feel of smog in our lungs. In the darkness, life is a roller coaster. We ride the high of life, and seek to satisfy the pleasures of our skin. And we succeed. For a little while. But every high comes to its end, and eventually we crash down into the fetid marsh. Everyone living in the dismal swamp knows the taste of hollow hopelessness. As the party ends, and the wretches crawl home, each one of us is left alone to face ourselves.

So many times, I found it strikingly unmistakable that I had grown weary of the wicked night around me. I looked up, into the lights of houses on hills, and decided to change. I could feel the powerful fuel churning inside of me, begging to be set ablaze. I could feel who it was that I wanted to be, living hidden beneath my septic skin. With all my might, I sought the spark of combustion. And I found it. In a flicker of hope, I felt light burst forth. A pinprick of light in the darkness. A spark. A spark was all that I mustered. I tried again. And again. I continued to glint, sending forth whisper after whisper of light. But these bursts of fire could not reach the diesel brewing inside of me.

I was missing a wick.

Downcast, I mourned my lack of photonic vitality. I couldn’t bring myself to make the connection between the spark and the catalytic liquid dwelling within. As time went on, I grew dismayed.

After immeasurable moments, one finally stuck out from the others. I turned to a friend bathed in the light.

“Will I ever catch?”

“Yes.”

“I spark but never burn.”

“Someday.”

Someday. When would this day finally come?

So, I started using. My drug of choice could not be bought. I shot up attention and drank deeply from the well of fixation.

I sought anything and everything to fill the void inside me. As my hallucinogens began to take their toll on me, I searched for something new. But I found that each hit left me worse off than before.

In a moment of ardent and unadulterated affinity with the light, I heard words ring loud and true.

Why are you fighting so hard for the love of another when mine is here and available?

I don’t know.

A spark.

No catch.

With the void in me growing steadily, I learned to deal with the bitter taste of sorrow on my tongue. I realized I had a new drug of choice.

I found comfort in the black trench i had dug for myself. Eyes glazed over from my lack of any attentiveness or curiosity, I made my way blindly through life. I grew into my sadism, growing to love the now-sweet taste of despondency. My habits changed.

I chose to surround myself with words that would validate my emptiness. On the outside, I was deemed sound and healthy. On the inside I was caught up in a rich love affair with depression.

One moment sticks out.

A light enters my presence, with tears in her beautiful eyes.

“I’m scared. It’s high noon. You’re in bed already. You’re always covered. Always sleeping.”

“I’m fine.”

Moments of heavy sadness turned to vacant thoughts. Strangled cries to numb lips. Rivers of tears to a living desert.

I felt nothing.

I was nothing.

Moments turned into days. Days to months.

As time pressed on, I watched the hour hand dance along the face of the clock. I could feel time passing me by. I began to grow weary and miss the budding growth of life. I began to yearn for just a moment of animation. Could I escape hell on my own?

It appeared I was unable.

I excused myself, and bowed my head. Though I was dark, I felt the eyes of my spirit squinting into the Son.

Please.

Please set me free.

Please help me.

So long later, and this moment is still clearly etched into me.

I saw a light spark in my vision. Breath caught in my throat, feeling, I lunged for it. I found myself on my knees, crying once more for the light to save me from the black that was suffocating me.

And in a moment, I took a steady breath. A gift had been given me. One that I cherish to this day. I found love. A gift I am unable to earn. Coy smiles and wedding bands. Home. A beautiful ball of light I still marvel at so many years later.

And so the world was back on its axis.

In the beginning, there was light. Only after turning it’s back on the light was the world plunged deep into darkness. Today, the void rules this world. The once pristine and unblemished Earth has been rolled through the cosmic sludge. It has once been washed by water, but not yet sterilized by fire. The Good Book says that the day of great cleansing will come. Like a thief in the night, the King of Light will return and pluck the lilies of light out of this field of folly. Nobody knows when the day will come.

Some say now.

Some say later.

And some, yet, say the end.

As the faithful flowers dance in the incandescent hall of the Most High, the earth will be plunged into a painful darkness. The rivers will flow with blood, living bodies will be cloaked in decay. The ground will rumble, and the city of man will fall.

But the horror would be yet to come. See, even in the turmoil of the last days, there is hope. Springs of living water will cleanse the eyes of some, and they shall erupt into blinding daybreak. But those who never accept the light… They will live in darkness.

They will enter a city with vaulted walls. They will enter a city with no doors.

And once they go in.

They will never come out.

They will be banished to a timeless prison, destined to spend each slow and palpable moment of eternity tasting the smoldering death that will never end.

But those who reject evil, and wholly embrace the life-giving light and Spirit of the Son will be showered with undeserved honors, none of which could reach the highest gift of being welcomed to dwell always within the shelter of the wings of our Father. Thriving forever, these blessed saints will eat from the Tree of Life, and drink from the springs of living water.

These followers of nobility must always be ready to go home. They make no permanent residence in this macabre kingdom. They are simply passing through this tainted terrain. They spend their days striving to brighten up the domain of darkness, carrying the canon of candor to the four corners of the earth, urging the bottom feeders to accept cleansing.

Only the light’s own will be able to pass through the timeless gates set aglow and into the utopic abode of Elohim. This contributes to the fervency in which the shining saved seek to rescue the lost into the realm of redemption. On countless occasions, friends would turn to me, shining like the sun, and rejoice “My redemption draweth nigh! Are you ready to go home?”

And on countless occasions, I wasn’t sure. What would life be like with the light ruling? Even though I grew tired of the dismal dark, it was still the world with which I had familiarity. I did not recognize this world to come. I had so much left that I wanted to do. I had been force-fed the lie that the coming of the empire of enlightened righteousness meant I must hand over the reins of my freedom. Little did I know, I never carried them to begin with.

So, for a while, I responded truthfully. “No. I have so much life left to live.” These vessels of volcanic virtue tried to reason with me. “Can’t you live in the Light’s kingdom?” How was I to tell them the truth? That I craved the sour taste of sin, and knew I couldn’t drink from both the receptacle of sulfur and the well of life. For awhile, I tried. When the shame of sipping the hot wine of wickedness soured my stomach, I turned toward the cold cleanliness of crisp water. The two mixed, and left my insides precisely lukewarm.

Then, the lights grew worried. “If you are not eager for the day to come and the night to go, you are not as intertwined with the midday sun as you claim to be. What if the gathering comes tomorrow?”

Cold fear rattled through my abdomen, and a hot sweat broke out in my palms. Horrific images of brimstone and inescapable immorality danced through my mind. So, I decided to change. To trash the darkness that I was, and live only as a light. I sent forth glint after glint, so as to convince the lights around me that I was safe from impending judgement. To convince myself that I would escape hell, after all.

Until tomorrow passed.

When the urgency was gone, so too went my resolution. I resumed my tepid, dim-lit lifestyle.

But more tomorrows came. More dazzling brothers and sisters asked me if I was sure I was ready for the light to come. So as to escape scrutiny and pressure, I turned to deception. With anxiety twisting my organs into a knot impossible to untangle, I agreed that I was ready. With panic pulsing in my veins, I tried harder to convince myself than to convince those around me. If I could just make it through one more tomorrow, I could resume my life.

But tomorrows kept coming.

With each passing day, the rope of my sanity was twisted one rung tighter. Until, one day.

It snapped.

I felt my breath catch in my throat, and a wave of nausea distort my core. I closed my eyes, and took a slow breath, waiting for it to pass as usual. But, it didn’t pass. The day stretched on, and I could not escape the absolute horror gripping my mind. I sought solace in sleep, but it would not come. For hours and hours of the night, I felt the terror of being trapped on a train speeding and bound for damnation.

I felt as though I was out of realm of salvation. I cried out to the heralds of light around me. “Am I out of time? Have I missed the window of being saved?” The pain of my nails tearing my skin was comfort from the hell that raged in the battlefield of my mind.

“No!” They shouted, and came to try and rescue me.

Their words fell on my deaf ears.

I felt hot and sick. I was unable to eat, drink, or sleep. A voice whispered to me, “Your time is up. The light cannot save you now.”

Couldn’t save?

Was that real? I thought the light could always give life. I thought so long as you lived and breath, the light could redeem.

Unforgivable.

Unsavable. Irredeemable. Undeliverable. Irreclaimable. Uncleansable. Unforgivable.

I believed it. I believed the lie of the great deceiver in darkness.

Unforgivable.

A true, genuine, and inescapable panic settled on my tongue. I couldn’t shake the taste. In radical desperation, I ran to every beacon of light I knew. “Can Adonai save me from the darkness?” I asked the question so many times that my lips grew numb. Each time, each brother cried “Yes!” but, somehow, I couldn’t hear.

I went weeks without a full night of sleep. I would wake at dark hours of the morning. I sobbed and tore my clothes in despair. I knew I was unreachable.

Unforgivable.

I saw the endless highway of eternity stretch out before me, and saw the death I believed I could not escape. The lights that I so dearly loved began to mourn for me. They believed my spirit to be intact, but could see the sanity slipping through my fingertips. I couldn’t make it through the hour without sobbing uncontrollable, vomiting words unintelligibly, begging for another chance, facing the future that I believed was mine.

“Would the King of Light bother calling out to you, if you were so unforgivable?”

I suppose not.

A glimmer of hope flashed in my dilated and panicky eyes. If I could just hear Him, it would mean I had a chance.

I had a new hope, but the days were still hard. Over and over and over a voice whispered to me that my efforts were in vain. That my future had been sealed.

I found myself hiding from life. Bathrooms, closets, anywhere I could leave the world and fall to my knees and beg for the peace that comes only from God.

I found that I despised the darkness. I hated it for what it had done to me. I craved desperately the safety and healing of the light of the Son. I scoured the Word, looking for something, anything, that would prove to me that I was okay. The words of the lights around me continued to fall on deaf ears, but my one hope remained. Should He call to me, I would know I wasn’t written off to an eternity of condemnation.

I sought Him anywhere and everywhere. Through His Word, through the life around me, through a Holy place of worship.

And in an earth shattering, overwhelming, undeserving, and grounbreakingly life changing moment, I heard His voice.

A peace so inexplicable washed over my whole body. Relief flooded my soul, and I could taste the sweet and rich water of life. I had been snatched away from the power of the sin and the grave. My freedom was palpable and thudding in my chest.

How deeply I loved Him, and in this extraordinary and exceptional instant, I couldn’t recall a moment in which I ever didn’t love Him.

Something catalytic had happened inside of me. Incomparably and indescribably, I felt light burst forth. The spark had travelled and ignited every drop of fuel inside of me. I was burning with a love I will never be able to describe as palpably as it is felt.

The lies of the evil one returned, and anxiety was not cured overnight. My fears crept back in, but, though I am ridiculously undeserving, God was patient with me and continued to allow my ears to hear His voice, and my eyes to see His shining glory. He continued to tell me over and over just how much He really loved me.

He sent His Son to be mocked and martyred so that I may escape the hell I once thought that I was sentenced to. And His Son, happily hung on that rugged tree, so that I may dwell with Him in His Kingdom. He sent His Spirit to fill me, and give me life.

Each day was a little bit easier, and now I find that I am living a life that is radically different from the one that I was living only nine months ago.

Christ has pulled me from the sludge, and carried me to a city upon a hill. Though the toil I lived with was the worst thing I have ever lived through, I would not erase a moment of it. It brought me to a place of such ardent beauty. A place of such pure life. There is faith, which is more valuable than the most precious gold. And God has given me faith that He will deliver me.

If each one of us is a light, I am lighter. And for a while, I lived in darkness. Through the washing of water and rebirth of fire, I was healed. I was redeemed, made right, and made new. If each one of us is a light, I am a lighter. And Christ is the wick that is holding me together.

#jesus #jesuschrist #jesuslovesyou #anxiety #god #godisgood #godsaves #jesussaves #light #change #newme

1 note · View note

sanjuno · 7 years ago

Note

That's ok! How about the MCU, or just the Avengers if the MCU is too broad. -Lark

(Oh shit, I have opinions about the MCU and the Avengers, my friend. So I apologize if this offends but not really.)

6/7 GoT Crossover Fix-Its: An Assemblage of Fire and Ice.

Anthony Edward Stark’s life was a battle from beginning to end. He fought the world, he fought people who claimed to be his friends, he fought honest enemies, and he fought every challenge life and the universe at large threw at him as he went. He fought the Ten Rings and became Iron Man, he fought public opinion and became a hero, he fought obstinance and fear and became a man who stood for accountability. He fought Thanos, and became the man known for mastering the Infinity Stones. When Tony Stark finally died in a blaze of glory more than 20 years after Iron Man first burned his way free of a cave in the desert, he left behind a legacy that would last for ages.

Eddard Stark is born bright red and squalling in the middle of a snowstorm where the sun shone through the clouds to birth lightning. The contradictions only continued as the boy grew, Ned Stark was a calm, thoughtful child but was occasionally taken by wild frenzies. One moment reading peacefully, or training seriously in arms, the next shouting at the top of his lungs and running off to the forge to make a new type of steel, or designing an aqueduct system that wouldn’t freeze. Rickon Stark took to sighing whenever Ned’s voice started to echo. Lyarra Stark laughed, and told her husband their second son had Ice in his veins and Fire in his heart.

Tony was actually rather pleased with this version of the Stark family. Sure, sometimes Brandon was a bit too much like Morgan for comfort, and sometimes Lyanna reminded Tony of himself during the worst moments during his rebellious teen phase, but the Starks were all loyal to one another and Tony had 200 years of people managing skills. Nudging Brandon to be a bit more responsible, to respect the women he took to bed, that wasn’t hard. Coaching Lyanna on how to protect her own interests, showing his little sister how to compromise for a result everyone could live with, that was simple enough. Tony was used to corralling teenage (and adult) superheroes, asking a few honourable nobles to think about things rationally wasn’t exceptionally difficult. Ben was the easy one. Mostly Tony just had to talk him down from the extreme choice, and the youngest was usually pretty reasonable about listening to a logical argument.

In one version of the song Lyarra Stark dies birthing her third son, in this world young Ned has been asking questions of the Maester, the herbalists, the midwives, and anyone else with an ounce of teaching in the healing arts how things work, why things work, and what do you do when it doesn’t work. So the healers of Winterfell have been pushed and prodded and challenged to raise themselves up and their skills reflect that. Lyarra will never have another child, but she lives. She is weak, and bedridden for moons, but she lives. So Rickon Stark’s ambitions are gentled, and his children’s happiness has a greater sway over his thoughts.

Tony is pleased and so, so grateful that his mother survived. The leading cause of death for women in pre-industrial societies is childbirth, and Tony was never the kind of doctor who could heal. Fix and augment, yes, but surgery and birth complications were out of his league. Thankfully he already knew what questions to ask in order to get the healers in Winterfell thinking and making improvements on their skills. All the women in the North would benefit, and eventually the new studies and knowledge would spread further than just the Northern Kingdom.

The Stark children are fostered out, of course. Still themselves but still slightly different. Ned and Robert make fast friends, but the Quiet Wolf is not the retiring second son he was in the first version of the song. When Mya Stone is born Ned shames Robert into taking proper responsibility. Robert’s daughter and the girl’s mother are dowered and set up to be able to live comfortably, and Robert is given a scathing lecture on consent and respect. “You don’t have to abstain,” Ned says, “but if a child results from it you need to step up and be their father.” So Robert, being Robert and thus allergic to responsibility, starts carrying a pouch of Moon Tea in his purse.

The Tourney at Harennhal happens, and Lyanna once again saves Howland Reed. Once again, the Knight of the Laughing Tree bids the unruly Squires to learn respect. Once again, the Mad King sees assassins everywhere and the Silver Prince comes across a young Lady in the Godswood. Only it’s different as well, because none of the Stark children are betrothed. Rickon Stark made the announcement when his Heir turned 16 that his sons would seek their own spouses for his approval when they came of age, and any who wished to court his daughter could submit their suit for approval when Lyanna’s own 16th age day came. So Lyanna is not desperate to escape an unwanted betrothal, and there is nothing gentling the public dishonour of Rhaegar’s attentions when he wins the joust. There is nothing romantic about a grown man betraying his wife for a girl not yet of age.

Tony wants to rage, wants to kill the Prince very, very badly when he sees how scared his little sister is. When the crown of blue roses lands in her lap, Lyanna Stark does what she’s always done when she doesn’t understand something. She turns to her middle brother and begs him to fix things. Tony knows exactly where this is going, if the Prince thinks he can bully his way through all the moral arguments saying his attention is unwanted. So Tony holds out his hand to Lyanna, and she brightens, putting the flower crown in his hands, and Tony promptly puts it on his own head. He meets the Prince’s eyes, and lets Rhaegar Targaryen see the Merchant of Death usually hidden behind the public persona of the Quiet Wolf. The Prince does not get to coerce Tony’s baby sister into any sort of relationship against her will.

Just as the Prince publicly shamed his wife, the girl he chose shames him in turn. Ellia and Aerys are, for the first time ever, amused by the same thing. Ned Stark wears the Crown of Love and Beauty for the rest of the Tourney. It gets him many, many dances from the Ladies in attendance during the feasts. Rhaegar, for all he was trying to quietly gather support to supplant his father, realizes somewhat belatedly that he just screwed himself out of support from Dorne and the North. The Northern camp closes ranks, especially around the women. From Lyanna Stark down to the common maids, none of the Northern women go anywhere without an escort.

Jaime Lannister still joins the Kingsguard, Cersei’s scheming fuelled by the proof that Rhaegar is loosing interest in his wife now that Elia is known to be barren. The younger son of a Dornish Lordship, Jaime Fowler, has blood from the Summer Islands and finds Ned Stark with the comment that he “must be made of Iron to mock the Prince this way.” And Tony replies with “it’s gold-titanium alloy, actually.” Rhodey just shakes his head, happy to have found his best friend again. Lysa Tully, who had overheard, tells them “I’ve caught you doing worse. Will this be all, Mr. Stark?” Pepper was just so very done with these shenanigans. The things Tony drags them into, honestly.

When the Tourney ends, Ned Stark goes to take over Moat Cailin, which he has been granted permission to restore. Accompanying him is his betrothed, Lysa Tully, and a Dornishman who is rumoured to share their bed. The South (minus Dorne) is scandalized. The North, well used to the Quiet Wolf’s particularities, just shrugs and moves on.

Rhaegar Targaryen is a man obsessed by prophecy, and few realize that he is just as mad as his father. Rhaegar is mad in the quiet, subtle way men go mad when they are left alone for too long with only their own thoughts for company. Lyanna Stark amuses King Aerys, and when the Pact of Ice and Fire is brought up he sees it as a perfect way to torment Rhaegar for overstepping, slight Elia for not being a real Targaryen, and punish Lyanna for thinking that she can refuse a dragon. Aerys announces that Rhaegar will take a second wife that is capable of bearing children, and that he has selected Lyanna Stark for the role.

There is not a single Great House in Westros who are not being insulted by this move. Lyanna is terrified, because she had grown up expecting to be courted by her future husband and even then not until she was 16. Lyanna, in this version of the song, was supposed to have a say in her choice of husband. Her wolf blood is howling, wanting nothing more than to rip and tear and devour. Once again, it’s Ned who steps in to fix things. It’s Ned, drawing on Tony’s many years of experience who talks her down from running away. It’s Ned, aching over the sacrifice his sister is being asked to make, who reminds her that their people will suffer if Lyanna makes a choice that will lead to war. It’s Ned, standing alone with his sister in the Wolfwood, who speaks quietly about allies, and secret wars, and that Elia’s brother is the Red Viper. Aegon was all but guaranteed to be free of Targaryen madness, given that he was only half. 16 years was not so long to wait for vengeance.

A Second Hour of the Wolf was now Lyanna Stark’s goal. (Not Targaryen. Never Targaryen. She would only ever be a Stark in her heart.) The Stark siblings spend the night a seething Rickon sends his formally, frigidly polite acceptance of the betrothal to the Red Keep in the Godswood, praying to the Old Gods for a sign. (Tony still doesn’t like magic, but he’s old enough to know it exists. There’s no other explanation for how Extremis still lights up his skin in Arc Reactor blue when things get tough.) They leave the Godswood with a pack of Direwolves loping at their sides. A pack, because while Brandon, Lyanna, and Ben each have a single wolf, Ned has 7. Also they beg Ned to let his wife name their children because by the Old Gods, Ned is bad at choosing names for things.

Tony ignores them. He has his babies back. Dummy, You, and Butterfingers are as playful as ever. Jarvis is even more long-suffering, Friday is mischievous, Jocasta is sassy, and Ultron, his poor wayward son, is free of the corruption in his programming caused by the Sceptre. The warg thing is a bit of a surprise, because his siblings can all do it without the assistance of Extremis, but Tony rolls with it and teaches them what he knows about communicating mind to mind. Greensight is like a wireless connection, which took a while to figure out. Tony is so relived to be able to share his secrets with his siblings at last. For the first time, Tony lets his siblings watch him work in the forge, and their eyes are very wide as the blue-and-gold glow shines under his skin and sparks in the runes carved into the armour plate and blades he forges for each of them.

“Magic is terrifying,” Ned tells his siblings, “and I never wanted you to fear me. But you all have magic of your own, and you need to learn how to use it. If things are waking up, if the Targaryens want the North in truth instead of just in name, then we need to be ready.” So Ned shows them how to work the runes, how to connect to their wolves and to the other animals around them, how the send their Greensight through the trees. They only have a year, because Rickon was only able to negotiate a delay until Lyanna turned 16, hoping that the Mad King would change his mind in the interim. Unfortunately, the raven demanding Lyanna come to King’s Landing for her wedding to Rhaegar comes within a moon of her 16th nameday.

Rickon and Lyarra Stark remain in the Northin subtle protest, but all their children go South. The smallfolk gathered along the streets in King’s Landing hoping to see the heathen wildling Princess from the savage North do not dare jeer. The Starks ride atop the backs of massive wolves, each one as large as a horse. Their armour gleams like ice in the light, and their fur mantels make them look natural among the wild beasts they command. The eyes of the welcoming party in the Red Keep are very wide, and Rhaegar looks like he’s regretting all his life choices.

Lyanna Stark’s smile is a snarl, teeth bared and sharp as blizzard winds. She all but ignores Rhaegar entirely and instead puts considerable effort into charming Elia. (Tony had long suspected that his sister preferred her own gender over men, and thankfully Elia was Dornish enough to be flattered by the attention. The fact that it irritated Rhaegar to see his wives seek out each other instead of him was just extra entertainment.)

Thanks to greensight and warging, the Starks all remain in close contact that no one else knows about. Benjen moves further North when he comes of age and takes over both Gifts with the intention of supporting the Watch. He doesn’t join them, because he feels the need to pass on the Stark Magic that’s in his blood and that requires a wife, but he still serves the Wall in his own best way. Brandon takes on his duties as the Heir to Winferfell, travelling around the North to meet all their Bannerman. Ned rebuilds Moat Cailin even grander than before, and moves on to restructuring the trade routes and methods in the North. Lyanna drives Rhaegar insane with passive aggressive undermining of his schemes. Luckily, Aerys is entertained by Lyanna enough to be distracted from his usual pastimes.

Following Ned’s advice, Lyanna goes to Rhaegar every night for a fortnight one week after her moonblood comes, and is pleased a moon later when the Maester tells her she’s pregnant. (”Treat him as he thinks to treat you.” Ned had said. “He thinks to make you a broodmare for his seed? Nay, instead let him be the stud you use to get your own children, sweet sister, and go to him only when you wish to make use of that service.”) Lyanna is quite pleased to be able to tell Rhaegar that he’s served his purpose for now and she has no more use for him until after the babe is weaned. So she’ll call for him again in about two years. (Elia loves her sister-wife, you have no godly idea how much Elia loves her sister-wife.)

Brandon Stark marries Ashara Dayne, and even if she’s not of the North the Bannerman are content with her having the Blood of the First Men in her veins. Benjen Stark manages to seduce a Wildling Chieftess into marriage on a trip North of the Wall and her tribe agrees to serve him in return for being allowed to settle South of the Wall. Ned Stark has a brood of children with his red-haired Tully wife, and if it takes a bit of magic to ensure that they all have Stark grey eyes and Summer darkened skin that’s no one’s business but their own. Lyanna has her first son in pace with Lysa’s first son and the realm celebrates the birth of the second dragon prince. Rhaegar gives his very, very Stark son a Targaryen name, and Lyanna promptly starts to call the boy Jon just to spite him. Aerys is not pleased that Jon is so very Northern, and goes back to burning people alive in his throne room.

Lyanna is appalled, notices that no one is going to do anything to stop what’s happening, and proceeds to consult with her brothers. Ned’s husband is sent to visit family in Dorne and stops in King’s Landing to visit Lyanna on his way back. No one notices the wicker basket among the many gifts Jaime Fowler brought for the Northern Princess. No one notices the Princess’ eyes go all-over white as she sits in her bedchambers, alone for but her infant son as a King Cobra slithers through the Keep to leave two more punctures among Aerys’ many scabs. No one notices the tradesman from the Northern Marshes on his way to Dorne collect a sealed wicker basket from a maidservant before setting out to see with the tide before sunrise.

Everyone notices when the King is found stone dead in his own bedchambers, having died during a fit in his sleep. Rhaegar is crowned King, Elia and Lyanna being crowned with him. Lyanna loves her wife, even she’d rather drop her husband down a well. Still, Elia is an Andal, and it’s the Blood of the First Men that gives the Stark their magic. Jon is taught the secrets of his birthright by his mother while they sit together in the Godswood, joined in time by Aemon and Visenya. When Jon is nearing 16, Lyanna’s wolf disappears for a few moons, only to return heavy with pups. The Starks living in the Red Keep all have direwolves now, and Rhaegar is oblivious to the fact that none of his children think of themselves as Targaryens. That’s what happens when you ignore your children in favour of self-fulfilling prophecies.

Benjen has slowly been converting the Wildlings to the aggressively peaceful coexistence the Northern Lords and the Hill Clans favour. Then comes the time he starts to hear of the dead walking again to kill the living, and the Wildlings are suddenly afire to accept Benjen and Vals terms. The Gifts are soon full up, and the Castles along the Wall are being repaired and manned by volunteers from among the Free Men, and several Tribes are being sent further South to various Hill Clans to be settled in, and yet more are taking over long abandoned settlements to build them back up. Benjen scrambles to keep up, to keep his siblings informed, and he’s so, so grateful that Brandon and Ned are there to help disperse in massive influx of people around the Northern Kingdom. Thankfully Ned’s trade structures have grown enough that there was a demand for workers, and there’s wealth and space enough to go around.

Benjen is set upon by a White Walker, and his skin glows blue-and-gold in his desperation to survive. Benjen burns the way his older brother once showed him, in Extremis, and he survives to pass the warning on. The Others are coming, and the dead are marching on the Wall.

The Starks prepare for a war against the Long Night.

/…/

Tyrion Lannister is born a dwarf, but thanks to new knowledge passed down from the North his mother survives the birth. He was a very intelligent child, but had the unfortunate tendency to pick fights he had no chance of winning over the smallest of slights. Joanna despaired of him ever learning his limits, and despite Tywin’s best efforts to temper Tyrion’s foolishness the boy inevitably ends up picking the wrong fight and dying for it. Steve Rogers is always born to a physical disadvantage in hopes that he will eventually learn to compromise. A dwarf body is stunted, but he was healthy and clear headed. He could make something of his life if only he tried. Steve Rogers still needed to learn to reign in his impulses and keep unwanted opinions to himself. Not every argument needed to be settled with fists.

Margary Tyrell was much like her grandmother, and was likely to be the new Queen of Thorns when Oleanna finally passed away. Natasha Romanova enjoyed the simplicity of a new life where she didn’t need to kill anyone for a living. Still, she kept a wary eye on the Starks. They were advancing at a rate that was familiar to her, and the last thing she wanted was to be on Tony’s bad side again.

Denys Arryn was the darling of the Vale, but what few people knew was that his preferred weapon was the bow. Despite being from a poor house, he remained humble and courteous to all. Clint Barton regret nothing as much as he regret leaving Laura and his children to fight Stark over a stupid piece of paper. This time around he was committed to staying with his wife and raising their kids without any stupid running off. Seeing the Stark with Tony’s too-sharp smirk running around the Ayrie for a few years only cemented that decision in his mind.

Stannis Baratheon was a humourless boy, too smart and too serious by half. Although his anger, when roused, was mighty enough to tear down stone walls. Robert learned not to upset his younger brother the day he tormented Proudwing, and Stannis beat his elder brother bloody for harming the bird. Bruce Banner was resigned to the legacy of warning people “you won’t like me when I’m angry.” But really, Ours Is The Fury was just a bit too on the nose for him to be amused by it.

/…/

Rhaegar Targaryen felt very foolish indeed as he stared at his little sister. “You what?”

“… I hatched the dragon eggs you got me for my nameday.” Daenerys looked a little sheepish. “Lyanna and Elia helped me figure out how.”

The Dragon has Three Heads. Rhaegar felt faint as he stared down at the three squalling hatchlings cradled in his baby sister’s arms. His wives were laughing at him, he knew they were. Dragon’s had no gender, a Prince who was Promised could just as easily be a Princess, and sometimes a dragon is just a dragon.

“By the way, husband.” Lyanna mentioned idly from where she stood with a snickering Elia. “My brother Benjen tells me the Night King is awake again. The North is getting ready for a Long Winter, and to fight back the Others. You might want to start preparing the rest of the Kingdoms for that.”

Stiffly, Rhaegar turned his head to stare at his Winter Queen. “… What.”

And so the Prophecy of Fire and Ice is proven true.

#Sanjuno's ficwork #Tony is a Stark #GoT reincarnation crossovers #MCU fanfic

100 notes · View notes