#thread: Totentanzer

[kultofathena]

Ádám Bodorics – Beham Messer with Ring Hilt and Brass Frame Boxwood Grip

This Beham style Messer by specialist swordsmith Ádám Bodorics is a wonderfully agile sword in the hand that strikes with velocity and power – its wide and well-tempered blade bites deeply and its thin profile along the main cutting portion of the blade passes through a target with little drag and resistance – a truly fierce performer in a scrap of a melee! The thick ring at the hilt gives impressive protection to the entire hand from even notably larger weapons and the grip is a unique composite with the thick tang riveted and embedded between two halves of smoothly polished boxwood which is framed in strips of finely worked brass. The wood grip halves may look cracked, but they are actually created from a deliberate reconstruction of smaller pieces with strong and colored bonding filler in order to give the grip a unique theme and appearance that is perfectly apt to the troubled times of early 16th century Germany.

The sword is matched with scabbard of well-carved wood which is wrapped in linen for a binding to aid in durability which is then finished with overlaid tight leather with a compartment for a matching byknife which is included. Integrated and knotted to the scabbard is a thick sword belt with an adjustable buckle for wear. Below is Ádám’s own words on his unique creation offered here:

Messers take a huge variety of form and construction. This piece is based on a 1540 woodcut by Hans Sebald Beham with a subtle Memento Mori theme. In the 16th century, knifelike sidearms undergo several changes, one of them being the increasing regularity of hidden tangs. Illustrations from the period sometimes show rather complex grip shapes that would be complicated with a full-tang construction, but a hidden or a frame tang makes them much more trivial. Hans Sebald Beham often shows interesting grip shapes even in a bucolic setting, and it’s one of his woodcuts I based this piece on.

The straight and nimble blade is ground from 51crv4 (6150) high-carbon steel and is heat-treated to 50-52 HrC. It is optimized for cutting and slashing. It has plenty of distal taper and a wide fuller along it’s length. The cross has a gentle S-shape and a sidering instead of a Nagel. It is still affixed to the blade with a rivet o make sure it’s not mistaken for a sword or falchion or storta. The finials of the cross echo the trilobate design of the grip. The real tang of the blade reaches to about two-thirds of the grip. A thin steel plate was cut to the intended shape of the grip with a brass strip formed and soldered along it’s edges. The grip panels sit on the edges of the frame with the cavity between the panels and the tang filled with adhesive following the style of  surviving frame-tang sidearms.

The byknife is hand-forged and ground from 80crv2 with integrated bolsters and a forge-welded mild steel tang. The grip panels are affixed by glue and tubular brass rivets of increasing diameter. The grip panels are boxwood, buxus sempervirens. These pieces were hand-picked to highlight the effects of the blight eradicating old growth, namely the aggressive checking from quick drying following rapid defoliation and the cloudy dark discolorations. There is evidence for boxwood’s continuous use for over two millennia, but as specimens large enough for larger carvings take an immense amount of time to grow, preventive culling or neglect of infected trees both make it near-impossible for this material to stay for long. To me, using these specific slabs was like erecting a gravestone, removing the need for any overt Memento Mori or Totentanz motifs.

The scabbard has a wooden core, linen wrapping and a vegetable tanned leather wrap with an integrated subsheath for the byknife. It is dyed a light brown and is undecorated to keep the attention on the hilt of the Messer. There is a belt threaded into two slits in the back of the sheath, crossing over to either side.

[talesofsorrowandofruin]

Manuscript Search Tag

Thanks for tagging me, @caligraphyzev, @sleepyowlwrites, and @jessica-writes22! :D

Words: elegant, free, power, cheese, storm, alive, worth, corner, monumental, sacrifice, love, betrayal, rune and space. These are from The Power and the Glory, Totentanz and Like Snow on Hungry Graves:

Elegant Elegance:

Ilaran’s voice was still high like a child's, nothing like his deep voice as an adult. In his clumsy movements there was no trace of the poise and elegance he would develop later in life. Once again Abi realised just how young he still was. She tried to reconcile that with his indifference to what had just happened. How could someone so young care so little about their half-sibling's murder?

Free:

Karandren never looked at her while he spoke. "I used to hate you. I swore I'd never forgive you. But what's the point in hating you now? We're stuck with each other and we can't get free. Not yet and maybe not ever. I'm tired of hating you." He laughed humourlessly. "You know, I never realised it was possible to get tired of hate."

Power:

For the first time it dawned on Diarnlan that she was now only fourteen. In all of her past lives she had been twenty-four, owned her own house, made money from selling potions and spells, and had enough power that no one bothered her. In this lifetime, on the other hand, she'd be seen as nothing but a runaway student. Her parents could come along and force her to go back to the academy. They certainly wouldn't be happy to give her money. No one would believe her if she told them the truth. Even Teivain-ríkhorn-hrair had listened with incredulity at first.

Cheese:

Kitri had always known the fictionalised version of the city featured in those books was as different from reality as chalk was from cheese.

Storm:

Diarnlan stormed past him into the larder. She took a cloth bag off the wall and began filling it with biscuits, loaves of bread, and other foods that would stay fresh for months under the influence of the preserving spell woven into the bag.

Alive:

After the fourth soldier's death Ketevan had sat in a daze for a while, barely able to comprehend everything that had just happened. At some point she pushed the four bodies overboard, acting mainly on a vague idea that if she was washed ashore somewhere it would look suspicious if she was the only person alive in the boat. Eventually she fell asleep in spite of herself. The current carried the boat into the darkness and further away from Vakaryan.

Worth:

Her room on the ship had a tapestry made of imitation mer-scales. Ketevan ran her fingers over it, watched how the gold and silver threads glittered, and compared them to her memory of Hariye's scales. It was the difference between a torch and the midday sun. That tapestry would have cost more than the average Vakaryanese farmer's yearly income. Ketevan suspected it was actually part of the cargo that had been hastily removed from its crate in honour of the ship's important passenger. And yet a mere handful of Hariye's scales would be worth more than the highest price this tapestry would ever fetch.

Corner:

Hariye nodded silently. No matter how much he tried to think of it as an adventure, he couldn't help feeling more like a hunted animal. He didn't feel like exploring the house just then. All he really wanted was to curl up in a corner somewhere, go to sleep, and hope this would turn out to be a nightmare when he woke.

Monumental:

The palace set aside for royal guests had many doors that led only to the rooms occupied by a specific group. None of these rooms were connected with each other -- a seemingly myopic architectural decision that made sense when one considered the high possibility of envoys from enemy nations staying there at the same time. Reportedly a princess of Western Liang and a general of Osnečip had been given quarters in the palace at the same time, while Osnečip was busy invading Western Liang. The monumental stupidity on the part of the official who made that decision led to a bloodbath when the envoys encountered each other in the palace. After that the palace was rebuilt into its current form.

Sacrifice:

Something about that altar set Karandren's teeth on edge. He backed away slowly and examined it with his magic. There was nothing inherently sinister about it. No spells or echoes of rituals lingered on it. Yet he felt the same revulsion he'd felt when he learnt about the sorts of dark magic that required human sacrifice.

Love (warning: contains Ketevan):

Years ago Ketevan had realised her view of marriage was very different to her sisters'. She looked for nothing in marriage beyond gaining more power through her husband. Love never entered into it and the thought of physical intimacy was downright distasteful to her. Hariye was no exception -- the idea of ever consummating this hypothetical marriage turned her stomach -- but she would certainly gain power if she married him and convinced him to give up some of his scales. She would also keep him safe so no one could ever harm him. And even though she didn't want to sleep with him, she had to admit he was nice to look at.

Betrayal:

Karandren knew of no words in any of the languages he spoke to describe how he felt about Diarnlan. Hurt, betrayal, anger, hatred; all of those were easy enough to define. But they were mixed up with much more confusing emotions. Emotions like wanting her to be proud of him, something far too close for comfort to a child's longing for someone they admired to praise them. He steadfastly refused to even acknowledge those emotions. They had no business being there.

Rune:

Nothing happened. The runes might as well have been meaningless scribbles. Abihira shrugged and added a new line to her notes.

Space:

Hariye dived through the opening in the curtain at the back of the stall. Behind him was an alleyway leading through to the street beyond. He scurried down it and leapt onto a cart stopped outside a building. It was loaded with bales of hay. He shoved them out of the way to make a space big enough for him to hide in. Then he crawled into the space and hoped for the best.

Tagging @oh-no-another-idea, @drippingmoon, @weaver-of-fantasies-and-fables, @ashen-crest, @aohendo, and anyone else who wants to do this! :D Can’t be bothered to think of new words, so pick any combination you like of the same ones!

[vierandancer]

Oh, I'm so frustrated with myself lmao. I came across a Reddit thread the other night that proposes how the Dancer quests foreshadow Endwalker.

Obviously, I doubt that was the intent of the original writers. But it can work. And the fact that I didn't immediately THINK of this while going through EW myself is so !!! AHHH!

The knowledge of the Totentanz and Meiko having witnessed something akin to the negative-emotionally-fueled chaos would have definitely clicked in her head. It would've influenced her thoughts and opinions on the whole thing.

Even watching Venat's memories at the end of Elpis! Aghhh.

Well. I'll integrate the above into my canon and write a big post on it. But I just wanted to give a little disclaimer and credit the OP of the Reddit thread I found.

[ladysunbite]

Sometimes rage was necessary to clean up poison from the heart. "And it is exactly why you are still alive," Orianna patiently kept her distance, and brushed the pecks of dirt from her dress, where his hand tried but in truth did not quite reach her. Instinct were instincts, and her body was less easily surprised than her mind. A favourable outcome for both. Watching from the corner of her eyes as he raged, showed the fangs and dripped even much more blood upon the marble. The droplets looked like scattered haematite beads under the moonlight. "I am on your side. I do not seek your death. I do not try to use you in a way that would undone you. Nor do I make light of your loss, even as you have rightly put it, there is much I do not understand." opening up in such a way, being sincere in such a hollow manner, was much more painful than any wounds that he could inflict upon her and the words fell cold and heavy, as she looked upon the man, the wolf. "What else do you need me to put into speech to banish your suspicion?" the sun-eyed was annoyed angry, even if her voice was a rival to the coldness of marble, and she herself was not unlike the statues in the garden below - distant, perfect, unmoving. Her temerian appeared at her doorstep without note, looking no better than a vagabond, practically dying in his fragile mortal skin...and he expected her to watch him bleed into oblivion or tie his own noose while she did what...nodded over her goblet like a good hostess?!

While all he needed to do was simply ask for her help. Any time during those years his fate spun another thread of nightmares for him, he could have sought her, asked for her. They were bounded by blood, she would not been able to deny him. Nor truly would she want to. They were loyal to each other, were they not? That was something humans in their petty, weak minds could not comprehend, eaten away by their little fears, trembling in their hides, waiting to be used by the simple grace of her brethren having a longer reel of totentanz with time. Foolish, foolish mortal eter... Fuck...

Her mind halted as the refined vampiress realized it was a profanity Roche had taught her. "Vernon..." Orianna closed her eyes and sighed deeply. After all, it was her plan to let him blow the steam of, not to be caught in it herself. "Vernon, listen to me. It is not your fault. No matter how much you want it to be..." she approached, donning as much a human-like gait as was possible, moving heavily and slowly, but did not reach for him this time. Standing there with her neck naked within the reach of fangs, claws or simple hands should have spoken much more than flowery words and promises both found treacherous.

"None of it is your fault."

It was a suicide mission.

Yet he could not stop, he loved Ves, so much. Found her all those years ago, saved her life, oversaw her training himself, took something raw and broken, made it sharp and deadly, gave her the means to fight back, gave her command, a title, a place and went everywhere with her.

“You don’t understand, not this time, not this.” Ves was dead, the child he never knew, dead. Hanged for crimes, that where his own, both of them killed, and how he had carved through the men who had done it, the people who had watched with delight and done nothing, he found there remains, still hanging from the tree and he buried them, and since then, he has been killing all across the land, to find those who made this happen.

He was not going to stop.

“I forgot what a bitch you are.” As he snapped back, taking a cloth, cleaning his face and then throwing it onto the floor, no matters, nothing, he was a brutal man, a direct man, a cold, killer who had become so much more, something else, this fucking curse, everyting, so much bullshit, as if someone takes delight in making his life as shit as possible, as if it was a good story.

FUCK THEM, AND IF THERE ARE TWO PEOPLE WRITING THIS STORY.

FUCK THEM BOTH!

“You know what I didn’t miss.” As he cleaned himself up. “The fact that always, you are right.” with her words to him, fucking Orianna, the fuck was her deal in reminding him, could she not lie to him once, good job, you did well, not your fault, nah would not be Orianna if she was not the one fucking salt all over him to make everything sting a thousand times more, but she was right, he denied it, snapped his jaws, revealed sharp fangs and loathed them, and he was truly doing so well for once.

“Fucking hell.” As he hit the table with his fist, at her nails digging into his flesh tightly, a sharp pain as he almost went backwards off his chair and onto the ground, all the fighting, the murders, everything and he had brought a bloody trial all the way to Orianna own home as well, right to her front doorstep.

“You got one day.” As he commented, pushing his hand into Orianna, open palm as he shoved her away from himself, he was not the type of person, to care about, rights and women, Orianna was a cunt, she would get a crack in the nose and a slap across the face if she kept pushing him, he knew he fucked up, he knew he was fucking close to death, he knew he could heal, he just didn’t want to, he didn’t want to be what he was, but he had no choice as he looked down.

Fucking vampire.

Fucking werewolf.

Match not made in heaven, fucking hell.

“Fucking hell Orianna, I thought we where over this shit, you owe me, remember!”

Or did she need a long history lesson, who saved her ass, when she needed it the most, who pulled her out of the mess she was within, despite everything, that debt was not paid and he was cashing in on her now, wanting her aid, or was Orianna going to be another cunt, who would not respect there word and seek to kill him rather than work with him when he cashed in.

Didn’t work well, for everyone else who betrayed him.

“Fine, one day, then we leave.”

[lhugbereth]

Submission - GoT Promptio AU

by @totentanz

Not sure if I am submitting this right, but I really liked that Game of Thrones AU snippet you wrote for Promptio week, and wrote you a fanfic of your fanfic, so to speak. Hope you like!

Prompto missed wine. The barrels of dry red and sweet white that had been provided as part of his dowry were drunk months ago, and the khalasra spent the time since then traversing the interior of the Great Grass Sea, far from any trading ports. While Prompto had learned to take pleasure in Dothraki cuisines - lamb roasted over hot coals and basted with honey, tender shoots of sweetgrass, simple unleavened bread shaped into flat discs - he could never quite overcome his dislike for the fermented mare’s milk that was so beloved by Gladio and his bloodriders. If one drank it in sufficient quantities, it could provide a pleasant sense of lightheadedness, but it lacked the subtle flavors and pleasant tartness of good wine.

He refilled his goblet and took a long sip, savoring the taste as it rolled across his tongue. The red wines served here in Qarth were heavier and sweeter than he preferred, but they were pleasant enough, and he intended to indulge while he had the chance.

Gladio watched him with an amused quirk of his lips. “You look as satisfied as a mare who’s found a good patch of dirt to roll in after a long day’s ride.”

Prompto scowled. It was horribly unfair. The khal was dressed in his customary leather riding trousers and boots, the intricate tattoos on his impressive chest left bare for everyone to look at, yet he managed to look as confident and powerful here in the ostentatious trappings of the Qartheen court as he did sitting astride his great red stallion. Prompto, on the other hand…in order to meet with the Spice King, Prompto had set aside his Dothraki garments in favor of silk trousers and a heavily embroidered tunic. They were clothes similar to the ones he’d always worn in the magister’s house in Pentos, but after his months spent with the Dothraki they left him feeling awkward and uncomfortable, like a child playing dress up rather than a khaleesi.

He could also feel the city itself bearing down upon him. Qarth’s famous walls might be a comfort to those born within them, but they left Prompto struggling to breathe. He wanted to leave. Only the Pureborn might be able to sell him an army, and Loqi had held such high hopes of returning to Westeros…

Prompto took another sip of wine and plucked at a loose thread in his tunic. “I’ve missed it, that’s all,” he snapped. “It’s a drink for civilized folk.”

A few months ago, the khal would have taken offense at his words. Now, his honey-gold eyes glimmered with understanding, and he reached out to pull Prompto toward him. Prompto resisted for a moment, then relented and let Gladio tug him close. He pressed his nose into the hollow of his khal’s throat and breathed in the scent of horse, smoke, and open spaces. He wanted to be out on the steppe now, galloping on his steed alongside Gladio, far away from the stifling air of the city.

“This city is no place for wild creatures,” said Gladio, his voice rumbling deep in his chest. “You belong under the open skies, not surrounded by city walls and chained to an iron chair.”

“Throne,” corrected Prompto. “It’s a throne, and Loqi -”

Gladio snorted. “Your brother was a sheep. He would have been content to sit on his iron throne and be nothing more than a slave for all the other fine sheep he thought so much of. But you are no sheep.” 

He tilted his head up to the sky, and Prompto followed his gaze to where three dragons were perched at the top of the buildings that surrounded the palace courtyard. They were four months out of their shells and already the size of fully grown wolfhounds. His miraculous children, born out of the funeral pyre that had consumed the body of his prideful, foolish brother.

“You are a dragon, and a dragon can never be tamed.”

Prompto looked up at him from beneath his eyelashes. “You tried.”

Gladio roared with laughter. “More fool I. But I learned, did I not?” He leaned down and captured Prompto’s lips in a kiss that left him weak in the knees and gasping for air. “I learned,” he said again, pressing more kisses to the curve of Prompto’s ear, “that if you would capture the love of a wild creature, you cannot seek you trap it. You must be bold, and gentle, and provide it with a place where it can rest in safety. And perhaps if you are lucky, it will allow you to win its heart.” His fingers slipped beneath the slippery silk of Prompto’s tunic and caressed his bare skin, leaving Prompto shivering in their wake. 

“Moon of my life,” murmured Gladio, low and sensual, “have I been so blessed?”

Prompto sighed, and some of the tension flowed out of his body. “You are my sun and stars,” he answered, “and I will love no one else.” He traced one of the swirling lines of Gladio’s tattoo. “But the lords of Westeros…they killed my family and forced my brother and me into exile. And I cannot forgive that.”

“No,” agreed Gladio. “But your dragons grow larger with each passing day. There is no need for to trap yourself behind stone walls to gain an army of men.”

High above them, the dragons trilled their agreement. 

“And think of how poor the world would be if you hid yourself away in one of their castles of stone,” continued Gladio. “The sun and moon would hide themselves in grief because their light could no longer shine on your beauty. The wind would tear wildly across the steppe until it could once again caress your cheeks with gentleness.”

Prompto laughed. “Who would have thought the khal of khals would possess such a romantic soul?’

But Gladio didn’t laugh, and when he looked down at Prompto, his eyes were dark and serious.

“I know who you are,” he said. “Your dragons know. I only wish for you to know, as well.”

Prompto could say nothing to that. He looked back up at his dragons. They wanted to be away from this city of stone, wanted to stretch their wings and fly. He did, too.

“We’ll leave tomorrow,” said Gladio. “Go back to the Grass Sea, where we can breathe freely. Forget these city dwellers. They are nothing to you.”

Prompto nodded and closed his eyes, and leaned against his husband’s strong chest. High above him, three dragons spread their wings and filled the night with the sound of dragonsong.

(Lhugy’s notes: Hello? George R. R. Martin, is that you?! 

HOLY COW! This is.... it was....and I.... moved to TEARS is what I am ;3; This is beautiful. I’m so in love with this story and your style of writing. And I’m SO HONORED you would send this to me!!! Thank you thank you thank you, I’ve read this five times now and it only keeps getting better!!! *swoons*)  

[talesofsorrowandofruin]

ROYGBIV Tag

Thanks for tagging me, @google-plexed! :D

Rules: search your WIP for all the colours of the rainbow.

These are from both Totentanz and The Power and the Glory. Couldn’t find indigo or violet anywhere :/

Red:

He lay awake for most of the night. Occasionally he dropped off for minutes at a time. Then some noise, real or imagined, would startle him awake. When dawn stained the horizon red he finally gave up. Staying here would do him no good. He needed to find an inhabited house -- preferably one far away from the nearest priest.

Orange (I had to change all the clothes’ names for this one; they’re fantasy terms in the original WIP, so if I left them as-is I’d have to add a glossary):

There was nothing actually wrong with the outfit. It wasn't a garish colour or blinding pattern. It was made of a white blouse, a white cardigan with birds embroidered in red and orange thread, a red sash -- not the brilliant blood-red of funeral and mourning clothes, which would have been a terrible faux pas to wear at a festival, but a duller, less vivid shade -- with pale grey trousers and a skirt that was white at the top and faded to become a pale greyish-gold colour near the hem. It was a perfectly normal outfit and wouldn't cause any raised eyebrows.

Yellow:

By the time the servants finally showed Abihira into her sister's living room she would have happily raised an army of the dead just to destroy the house. The sight that greeted her was not calculated to improve her mood or raise her opinion of the palace. Líusal's living room was a riot of colour and tastelessness. Never before had Abihira seen wallpaper with stripes of magenta and sickly yellow. She hoped she never saw it again.

Green:

A horde of people came up from Miavain. People who walked for miles without stopping. People who took no notice of anything around them. People who acted more like walking corpses than real live people. They swept across Avallot in less than a day, leaving a trail of destruction in their wake. Buildings and fences were no obstacle to them. If they couldn't climb over them, they would smash them to pieces with inhuman strength. They followed the lead of a man in green armour riding an eight-legged horse.

Blue:

Diarnlan stared blankly at his fur-trimmed dark blue overcoat. It was too large for him. If he was standing he would have looked like he'd borrowed someone else's clothes. Lying down he looked as if some strange alien lifeform was enveloping him in its grasp. Even after so many years Diarnlan recognised that overcoat. He'd worn it on his first day as her pupil. She distinctly remembered snapping at him that it looked utterly ridiculous.

Tagging @weaver-of-fantasies-and-fables, @euphoniouspandemonium, @baguettethebooklover, @violetwrites, and anyone else who wants to do this! :D

[witch-of-annwn]

spellsandpixiedust:

“How very racist of you to think I’d be offended at yank-labelling me. People do kill people. Guns are a variable; so are knives, poison and forcefully breaking enchantments without asking.” And no, he was absolutely not prepared to admit this death was on his head. He didn’t intent to kill, that was like a free pass in his book. For him anyway. Of course he had double standards. No one could exert such cruelty if they hadn’t.

So when Emelia leaned forward to guilt-trip him some more, he mirrored her movement and brought their faces even closer. There wasn’t much amber left in his eyes, only a cold blackness glaring back at the witch, as she promised him he’d be haunted in his sleep. Ridiculous! At the mention his mind instantly tried to remember that man’s face and seeing that he couldn’t recall it, that - just for a moment - was a more unsettling discovery than anything else. What a monster couldn’t even remember its victims? A touch of humanness flickered in his eyes, doubt and self-loathing and uncertainty, but Totentänzer cocked back his head immediately and brushed it over with a huffed laugh, adding: “I’m not looking for absolution, forgiveness for the things I do!”

But he has to admit she’s right about one thing: he doesn’t want to be around when the coppers arrive. He might be untouchable, but he still preferred keeping a low profile. So he gave a nod, walking around the bar to pick up what seems to be the priciest bottle, then he rejoins his new debt holder. Owner. Mistress. Whatever the title, the thought still made him sick.

“Fine, let’s move.” His disgruntlement is still audible in the underlying prosody in his voice, no matter how much he tried to act unfazed. He’s earned himself nothing but misery today, so if the whole lot of guests just decided to emulate his victim’s final deed, he wouldn’t mind either. He has to suffer, let everyone else suffer as well. Or at least let him get to plan B for booze; uber-expensive nicked booze that was. Either way, he needed something for compensation.

As soon as they made it outside, unseen - or so he expected, the black mage lit himself a cigarette and turned to Emelia expectantly. How did things go from now on? Was he allowed to walk away or did that count as a breach of contract. And what were the punishments for that? Too many unpleasant questions to deal with right now, when all he wanted was to numb himself. “Where are you going from here?”

As she had done so many time already this evening, Emelia rolled her eyes at Totentänzer’s pugnaciousness. At worst she was being xenophobic towards Americans, last she heard they were not yet classified as a separate race. But Emelia refrained from explaining the difference to Totentänzer, lacking the patience necessary to do so. 

Fortunately the mage agreed to leaving the party without much further fuss, but not without knicking a bottle of expensive whisky as they passed the bar. Even Emelia couldn’t begrudge him that, she’d probably have done the same in his shoes. 

They were half-way down the block before an ambulance pulled up outside their host’s townhouse, soon followed by several police vehicles, which went so far as to block off the street to pedestrians. But it was an easy enough to elude the perimeter if you knew London as well as Emelia did, and she led   Totentänzer through several back alleys until they snuck their way onto the main drag again. 

Seeing her companion light a cigarette Emelia took the cue to do the same, exhaling the first puff of smoke on a long sigh. This had been a long night, and one that had gone spectacularly pear-shaped. First attracting the attention of a demon because of her own damn pride, then losing her temper and binding a thoroughly aggravating mage into her service, simultaneously losing the prison box and Gahaeris with it, while also inadvertently participating in the murder of one of their host’s staff... Emelia could feel a headache start to pound behind her eyes, and she was already deeply regretting consigning Totentänzer to seven years in her service. He was, by all accounts, far more trouble than he was worth. 

It seemed that similar thoughts were going through the mage’s head, as he asked the question of the hour. What was she going to do from here? 

Home, sounded like the best course of action. And a bath. And then immediately placing enchantments on her flat and shop to make sure that Totentänzer would never find them. The idea of Totentänzer ever setting foot in Muriel’s sent shivers down her spine. Oh, and she added “hire a new shop assistant” to her list as there was no way that Totentänzer would be taking over those duties. 

“I...” Emelia paused, “am going home. Thankfully a place where I will be eternally free from your company. You can go wherever you wish, but don’t go too far and expect to be hearing from me.” Emelia gave a psychic tug on the contract that bound them for good measure, as if to remind him of its existence. 

Seeing the expression on his face gave Emelia some degree of satisfaction. She reached towards him and patted his cheek twice in as condescending a manner as she could fashion. “Buck-up, sailor.” She said. “As far as your luck goes, I’ve been told that I’m not the worst Mistress to have. I know a number of the Fair Folk who would have had your head on a pike by now...” 

Then she stepped back and pinned Totentänzer with a glare. “Do be mindful though Mr. Totentänzer, you got yourself into this mess. You had the opportunity to get yourself out of it the easy way tonight, and you blew it. Don’t make the mistake of underestimating me again.” 

[witch-of-annwn]

spellsandpixiedust:

Oh look how the tides had turned! He may still have lost, at least lost a good portion of his life into servitude, but if he was going down the mage made sure he was dragging all those with him that he could reach. And right now he was more than pleasantly surprised he managed to wrap the bony fingers of revenge around Emelia’s ankle. Yet he was only tugging teasingly, not fully prepared to make her stumble and fall. Not yet.

Totentänzer took a seat on the bar stool beside the witch, acting out the unfazed every man, which made him seem even less ‘every man’ measured by the pervasive panic. Not long since the bartender had abandoned his domain, so Liam took the liberty to reach across the bar to nick a handful of olives. Painfully slow, one by one by one he plops into his mouth, turning his non-answer into quite a show, until he had only one left and decided this was when he should raise his voice again: “I don’t know. Did I do anything?”

The dark mage shrugged. “Oh, I did nothing. I brought the gun. You pulled the trigger.” For someone who had just caused someone’s death, Liam had a remarkably clean conscience. Sure, he had neither aimed to kill, nor had he observed the man falling to his death when he carried out his last command ‘Take one step forward, then you shall be released.’

“This death is on your head. What a shame, well, that the box is gone now. The whole rigmarole for nothing. And why’s that? Because someone can’t stop toying around. Or maybe your friend isn’t really that important. Let them pine away in their prison. Why would you care? You have to put obstacles in the way of the only help you’ve got. Pity.” He narrowed his eyes. “Now what?!”

“Oh really? And I suppose you believe the phrase; ‘guns don’t kill people, people kill people.’ How very American of you...” Emelia sneered. All it was was an attempt to transfer guilt, and once again Emelia was staring into the face of a man who had held back from killing her shop-assistant and the witch thought she was beginning to understand why. Totentänzer for all his boasts and show-boating like a bloody peacock was a common coward, but the very worst kind of coward who tried to cover it up with loud but ultimately hollow words. 

Emelia took the barbs he threw at her with a surprising amount of composure. Yes, Gahaeris would have to wait for Emelia to get another opportunity to free her. But like Emelia had said before, they were immortal, she lost nothing but time and time was something both faerie women had an abundance of... not like her newly acquired dark-mage. 

“Talk your way around your guilt all you like.” Emelia hissed leaning forward. “But I have a feeling that that man’s face will haunt your dreams for years to come.” 

“Now.... we get out of here.” she said. “It won’t be long before the police get here, and I have a feeling you don’t want to be here when they show up, now do you?” 

[witch-of-annwn]

spellsandpixiedust:

When his arm was seized and the black mage struggled and tried to pull away in vain, the mask he used to wear, that of an untouchable, unconquerable swell mobsman, gained chinks and cracks. He was only gasping at first, labouring under the delusion he could yank his arm free, if only he’d pull hard enough. Eventually he had to admit to himself that, whilst he was a magician of great power, a man of great strength he was not. So words remained his only petty defence against the witch, yet he couldn’t help but clad them in a threatening commanding tone: “I wouldn’t if I were y-”

Too late. His own hand belied his willpower and with his fist violently opened, he could feel his grasp over the other man’s mind clear away like a doused candle’s smoke in a gust of wind. Horror glistened in his eyes for seconds, before the true terror befell him. He screamed silently, biting his lower lip, as the witch’s thumb stung in his cut wound. The pain, even the humiliation, he could have lived with, but what was to follow he was not prepared for.

“Don’t you dare!”, his words came out louder, more desperate than he had anticipated. His free hand was wrapped around Emelias wrist. He tried to pull her off, pull his bleeding hand away, anything, a frantic struggle, but in the end he failed and he could feel the oath crawl under his skin, an illness in his bloodstream, spreading fast and clenching his heart. Ironic how through his blood was the only way he could feel magic, and now he felt it infested with this disease, itching in every inch of his very being.

As soon as she was done he yanked his arm free and sank to the ground, clutching his wounded hand with his other. “Fucking cunt”, he hissed in her general direction although his suddenly resurfacing Northern accent made it sound like fookin coont.

He had a thousand more insults for her, all ready at the tip of his tongue, but a woman’s high pitched outcry in the distance made him direct his gaze and attention towards the source of the noise. Almost everyone did so, but almost everyone had no clue why the woman might be screaming. He did. Or at least, he had a very good idea. The dark mage took a deep breath and let the air whistle out through clenched teeth. “Someone’s taken the definite step”, he murmured disjointedly. It wasn’t long till the guests, like gregarious animals, were herded together by their curiosity and driven towards the gruesome discovery. Liam remained remarkably unfazed, despite knowing he had just caused someone’s death. Well, not him. She did. He only held the gun, but the witch pulled the trigger. That man’s life had been his own life’s insurance, well, that had been the plan anyway. He lost a bargaining chip and seven years of his life. And as self absorbed as he was, the latter got by far more to him.

“You’ll regret this”, he told her deadpan, slowly getting up again. The metaphorical mask, even if damaged, was back in place. “I bow to no one. And I stop at nothing.”

A shrill scream shook Emelia out of her feeling of triumph. Only when Liam spoke however, did she realize that the enchantment she’d dispelled had had a life attached to it as an insurance policy. 

“What did you do?” Emelia hissed though she had an idea, seeing the direction the other guests were all congregating towards. She kept a wary eye on the mage, she’d never used a blood-oath as a form of punishment before, and it all still had the potential to go pear-shaped if she wasn’t careful. Emelia knew that this dark mage was clever and crafty, she had to watch her back around him.

If the man he’d left the box with was dead, it was safe to say that the box was lost to her yet again. Not the end of the world, but certainly a wasted evening, all because this braggadocio had been unable to swallow his pride for a few hours. Not to mention, a wasted life. 

“Oh, shut up.” Emelia replied to his continued whinging, then repeated herself. “I’m not playing around here; what did you do?” 

She was beginning to wonder if she shouldn’t take care of the mage herself... He was shaping up to be rather more dangerous than anyone had any right to be. 

[witch-of-annwn]

spellsandpixiedust:

Totentänzer ignored her for the time being, misusing the scotch he was just being served as a welcome excuse to deny her an instantaneous reply. Eyes fixed on his amber drink swirling in the glass as his unscathed hand idly toyed around with it, it was only his complacent smirk that gave away he hadn’t completely forgotten about the witch beside him. Drowning a burgeoning chuckle in a sip of his whiskey, the dark mage couldn’t help but enjoy his go at retribution. When he put down his glass, he smacked his lips further nurturing the expectation of him delivering an overdue reply without succumbing to it yet. No words, but his tongue escaped his lips, dancing along the thin frame of his mouth, before he finally turned to face Emelia again.

“I didn’t expect you to exert such stupidity yourself, calling your only hope stupid. Oh, and I am your only hope. Don’t deny that. I might not have been when we were upstairs, but I made sure I am by now”, he let his words sink in and toasted himself to his triumph, subsequently taking another sip of his scotch. When he placed the glass back next to his still clenched fist, he noticed the blood slowly seeping through between his fingers. A sight that wasn’t nearly as pleasing as was the persistent sting in his palm.

When he could avert his gaze at last Liam looked the witch over as if he hadn’t seen her in decades. “Congratulations. You aimed to make my task harder, didn’t you? Came here to celebrate, drink to your impish game’s grand success, yes? Well, look who cut themselves trying to backstab me. I’m not the one toying around. You are. And I have such a great time lecturing you about it.”

Indeed he did take his time with it, but everything had to come to an end, even his mocking. So he drank up and finally concluded: “Deem me vicious and contemptible all you want, but I am still a man of my word. The box is safe outside this house awaiting to get picked up by us. I might be a thief, a traitor I am not. Funny how it’s treacherous people who suspect this trait in others, don’t you think?”

Emelia considered throwing her drink in his face, but decided against it suspecting that he’d just get off on her annoyance. Besides, she had a much more satisfactory card to play. 

The witch’s hand shot out, gripping the hand that Liam had cut into in order to exert mind control via blood magic, and tugged it towards herself. With a strength that her slender limbs belied she forced his wrist to rotate, and pressed her fingers into a pressure point that forced his fist open revealing his palm to the ceiling. Cruelly, and a little unnecessarily for her purposes Emelia dug her thumb into the cut on Liam’s palm if only to get his attention. 

“By the blood-oath that binds; I, the Witch of Annwn, the creator of the original oath, declare that the terms of the original agreement stand in relation to the One who inherited the oath. Seven years of servitude were promised, and seven years of servitude will be collected. Not a second more or less. No power in this world or any other can change these terms. Nor can any alternative task be set to fulfill it... So it shall be, until the seven years are up or unto the ending of time, whichsoever comes first.” 

With that Emelia shivered as she felt the blood-oath reset itself. She released his hand but made a show of licking the blood off of her thumb, which she then washed down with what was left of her drink. 

“I told you not to toy with me, Totentänzer... Now you’re going to find out why.” 

[witch-of-annwn]

spellsandpixiedust:

That wrath was not what he had expected, but it wasn’t entirely a novelty to him either. For his ever provocative nature, Liam had tempted pacifists into throwing a punch, and the meek and silent to yell in rage. He could always pride himself with the fact that he wasn’t the one who started the fight, for as long as no one revealed his words to be poisonous daggers. Which they were.

Defiant he met her glare, he didn’t yield, he didn’t falter, only made one slight step back when she came storming at him. For every raging syllable the witch aimed at him, he objected in mind, yet remained silent and let his own narrow eyed glare do the trick. He wasn’t but any ordinary petty criminal mage in this town. He was so much better than everything Emelia could have ever hoped for! The mention of his debt though stung like a knife thrust to his chest and being rendered a child almost brought him to his knees.

No longer able to withstand her glare, the dark mage averted his gaze and swallowed hard on her accusations. And whilst Liam was sulking, that wretched witch collected her shoes and indulged in further debasing him. Charming. He was pulling faces behind her back as they walked up to the lift which she ultimately claimed to herself and upon being sure no one could see him, he returned her gesture and flipped the two fingered salute at the closed lift doors. “Sod you, bitch!”, he muttered, then went to take the stairs perforce, carrying the box under his arm.

Fate seemed to work absolutely in favour for the witch, as it seemed, not only allowing her to call in his debt, but rendering his way down the stairs a running the gauntlet. Cameras begged to be avoided, and too many nosy people rendered it hard to make his way out unseen. Eventually he ended up with a rune carved deeply into his left hand and - by temporarily placing the cube on the ground - he had to approach one of the penguin clad servant boys from behind, pressing one hand over his mouth and his bleeding one on his forehead. “You’ll listen to me, to my voice, nothing but by voice”, he growled into the other man’s ear, followed by whispered instructions.

Once Totentänzer rejoined the partying guests, he carried no box, and while the blood had been wiped from his hand, he kept it tightly clenched into a fist. He scanned the room for Emelia, long time without success until his wandering had lead him close enough to the bar to spot her. Knocking on the bartop with his beringed hand to get her attention, he remained standing beside Emelia. No sign of an apology to come from him any moment now. Just a cold stare, before his thin lips twitched into a smirk. “There you are. You seem very eager to prove me how an old woman has no want for haste. It never occurred to you that delay isn’t the worst that could happen to your precious box, is it?” He paused to order himself a scotch, hoping the words would sink in. “Lucky you I am exceedingly generous and enforcedly forgiving.”

Emelia could sense Totentänzer as he approached her from across the room. At this point, he was the only magical person in the vicinity and so for her perceptions he was the ‘loudest’ person in the area. She made no indication of noticing him however, until he rapped his knuckles across the counter of the bar, at which point she slowly let her gaze drag over to him. She wasn’t immediately alarmed by the lack of prison-box in his arms, but when he brought it up as a point to be noticed, Emelia’s eyes narrowed dangerously. She was still angry from her outburst earlier, and Totentänzer was playing a dangerous game, if he was indeed playing. 

She took a sip from her own drink and pitched her voice low so that only Liam could hear. “Forgive me, I really didn’t take you to be that stupid as to think that you could toy with me... Where is the box?” 

For all outward appearances, they were nothing more than a couple having a lover’s row, and that was exactly how Emelia wanted it to stay. If it came to it, there were plenty of alleyways near by where a duel could be arranged, but Emelia decided that she preferred not to pursue that course of action just yet. Better to let Totentänzer explain himself first. 

[witch-of-annwn]

spellsandpixiedust:

The mage caught the box out of reflex, although he wished he’d just dropped it instead, showing Emelia how she had no right to treat him the way he treated her. In hindsight he was glad he didn’t act like a sulky prick, not more prick-ish than he already was. Pissing someone off was one thing. Pissing off the person who had a plan that could save your arse was just plain dumb. As dumb has his look might’ve been upon setting his eyes on a woman undressing before him.

He was on the verge of yelling at Emelia to stop, when it suddenly dawned him what this was all about. She wasn’t going to seduce him. Of course not. That’d be ridiculous. But she would aim to make the security penguins believe that she had. Or he had seduced her…? Who could tell what would be more believable when in reality the only thing that was mildly pleasing about the whole scene had been the prospect of using a blood magic.

Still gaping at the woman in utter disbelief, Liam found he could take his eyes off her as easily as not looking at a road accident; which was a fruitless endeavour. And surprisingly her sham was equally fascinating to him. Not because she wasn’t beautiful, but because he didn’t want to find himself involved in anything she was trying to sell to the unsuspecting guards.

Hiding out in the shadows all he could do was to listen to her feigned naïvety and try not to make a sound just out of foolish spite. There was still a small chance this was going to work and in the end it did. Without him having to throw a painful hex on either of the nosy pricks. Suddenly it dawned him that he might have been shoved out of the field of view not because Emelia mistrusted him to sell the male friend believably, but because she had seen him showing no mercy to anyone who stood in his way. That bloody woman!

Liam huffed and fashioned all his spite into a pejorative glare. “The weapons of a woman.” Well, he was one to talk! Doe-eyed look, bit of lip biting, tight jeans. Manipulating men was easy for as long as you look like prey, not like the predator. Oh, good old times…!

“How quick you sprung to whore yourself out of this predicament, but distance yourself with pride from my profession. Sanctimony doesn’t suit you”, of course a ‘thank you’ was too much to ask of him. At least he could look Emelia in the eye completely unfazed by her rig-out. “Get dressed. We’re taking this box outside. Shouldn’t pose much a problem for you to excuse yourself from this party. Or am I mistaken?”

Emelia paused at Liam’s words, her efforts to make herself presentable once more ceasing, and her whole body going deathly still. A rage the likes of which she had not felt in centuries was welling up in her chest. All her attention turned to Liam and the glare she gave him was the same that she had used on Merlin and the Witchfinder General, amongst others. So really Totentänzer should be honours to be deemed worth enough for such a wrath. 

“Now listen here, you little shit.” Emelia hissed, as she stalked forward. Moving so that they stood mere inches apart. So that she had to crane her neck back to meet his eyes despite his average height. Despite her smudged lipstick and mussed hair, the absolute loathing burning in Emelia’s eyes would be enough to intimidate anyone on the receiving end of it. “You would do well to remember the fact that I still hold your leash, Mr. Totentänzer... Do not fool yourself into thinking that you are indispensible to this task. You just happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time with the right skill set to be useful to me. You think the ability to break into safes, and to open locks is a novel one? There are dozens of other mages in this city alone who boast such a resume. I only prefer to use you because you already owe me, by some trick of fate. I don’t care if I get that box tonight or a century from now, I’m immortal... I have all the time in the world, you however? Tick-tock, tick-tock. Every minute you waste insulting me is another minute lost of your precious freedom.” 

She tilted her head. “So call me whore and slut all you want, and yes, whore and slut I have been as the titles suit me. I have been a thief too. But I’ll tell you what you are that I’ve never been: a petulant child.”  

“Now then,” she took a step back and scooped her shoes up from the floor, “if you’ve a mind to free yourself from your obligation to me, you’ll find a way to get that box out of here.” 

Emelia started walking towards the lift and when she’d reached it pressed the button to call it to their floor. She didn’t wait to see if Liam would follow. 

“Take the next one.” she said once the lift had arrived and the doors dinged open. “There isn’t enough room for me and your ego...” 

With that she swept into the lift and flashed Liam two fingers as the doors closed behind her. 

Once on the ground floor, Emelia stalked over to the bar and ordered a gin and tonic strong enough to knock a man over. She was done helping Liam with this task, he’d have to figure out a way to sneak the box out of here on his own. If he failed, he’d be going to spend the night in lock-up. Emelia might change her mind if Liam pushed his thrice-damned arrogance to the side long enough to apologize or to at least admit that she’d been useful. But first, she was going to finish her drink.