#thread: gilded arena

[simpforfandom231]

How could you PT 2

Y/N stood amidst the opulence of the Capitol, a stranger in a lavish world alien to her humble origins in District 12. The mentors, with their polished smiles and empty promises, tried to mold her into a player of their twisted game, coaching her in survival tactics and showcasing the brutal weaponry that would become her lifeline in the arena.

In the training sessions, Y/N's prowess with a sword shone brightly, a glimmer of hope amidst the fear and uncertainty. Her movements were fluid, almost dance-like, a skill she had honed in the secluded outskirts of District 12, where she'd spent countless hours perfecting her technique.

Despite the grim reality of the Games, Y/N sought connections amidst the chaos, attempting to forge alliances that might offer a sliver of protection. She shared snippets of her life in District 12, hoping to build camaraderie with other tributes who, like her, harbored fears and dreams beyond the bloodstained arena.

Her heart, however, remained tethered to Lucy Gray, an anchor in the tempest of fear and desperation. Each training session, each forced smile in the Capitol's opulent halls, was a stark reminder of her desperate yearning to return to the arms of her beloved.

During a training exercise, an encounter turned sinister when a tribute from a wealthier district, emboldened by arrogance, sneered at her, making a calculated strike that sliced Y/N's skin. Pain flared through her, but she held back the tears, refusing to give her assailant the satisfaction. The taunting words pierced her resolve like barbed arrows.

"You're nothing but a pathetic weakling from District 12. You'll never survive. You're not even worth the effort it takes to kill you," the tribute jeered, a cruel smirk etched onto their face.

The comment stung, igniting a fire within Y/N. It wasn't just her own survival she fought for; it was the chance to defy the prejudice and scorn directed at her district. She clenched her jaw, swallowing her pride, and retreating from the confrontation, knowing that her strength lay not in retaliating but in surviving to defy the odds stacked against her.

Every swing of her sword, every whispered alliance, was a silent prayer for a chance to return to Lucy Gray, to the simplicity of their shared life in District 12. The specter of the looming Games was a constant reminder of the stakes, the fear of losing herself in the chaos of the arena, driving her to fight with a determination fueled by love and desperation.

As the day of reckoning dawned, the Capitol's preparation was meticulous, adorning Y/N in suits meant to showcase prowess and elegance amidst the impending brutality of the Games. The designer, a caring soul amidst the Capitol's superficiality, had a surprise woven into the combat suit—a delicate emblem of a snake and a hummingbird, sewn with threads of gold.

"A reminder of who you fight for," the artist whispered, their eyes conveying a depth of understanding that transcended the gilded facade.

As Y/N was airlifted into the arena, a vast expanse of sand stretched out below, bordered by towering mountains in the distance. The stark reality of the Games lay before her, a harsh landscape promising danger and uncertainty at every turn.

In a game where alliances were fleeting, Y/N found companionship in a young boy from District 6. A silent understanding passed between them, an unspoken agreement to watch each other's backs amidst the treacherous terrain.

The tributes were corralled toward a small hut, where weapons and sustenance beckoned tantalizingly. Among them, a sword glinted like a beacon, its golden sheen reflecting the harsh sunlight. Leather straps wound around the hilt, and a small emblem of a hummingbird and snake graced the blade—a symbol of hope and resilience in the face of adversity.

Without hesitation, determination fueled each stride as Y/N made a beeline for the prized weapon. The clamor of tributes converging upon the hut drowned in the rush of blood pounding in her ears. She ducked, weaved, and lunged, avoiding desperate attempts to block her path.

With a desperate reach, fingers brushed against the cold metal of the hilt, and Y/N's heart skipped a beat. Gripping the sword, she felt its weight, a tangible reassurance in the chaos. The emblem, etched into the blade, glimmered in the sun—a reminder of the love and purpose that fueled her will to survive.

Emotions surged within her—a blend of exhilaration, fear, and a fierce determination to honor the symbol stitched into her suit. The taste of victory mingled with the bitter realization that every step forward in this deadly dance came at a cost. As Y/N clutched the coveted sword and a bag of supplies, the weight of survival hung heavy in the air. Among the chaos, she scanned the tumultuous arena for Lenny, the ally she'd forged an unspoken bond with amidst the treacherous tributes.

Her eyes widened in horror as she spotted Lenny, pinned to the ground, a knife held menacingly against his throat by a merciless tribute. Without a second thought, adrenaline coursing through her veins, Y/N lunged forward, the sword an extension of her will to protect. The clash of metal against metal echoed in the air as she fought with a ferocity born of desperation and determination.

The blade found its mark, and with a swift, decisive strike, she incapacitated the assailant, saving Lenny from the brink of certain death. Gasping for breath, they exchanged a look of gratitude mingled with the harsh reality of the cutthroat game they were thrust into.

"Thank you," Lenny breathed, his voice tinged with awe and relief.

"No time for thanks now," Y/N replied, urgency lacing her words. "We need to move."

Together, they bolted from the hut, their hearts pounding in synchrony, the adrenaline-fueled sprint carrying them away from the chaos of the bloodthirsty tributes. They traversed the unforgiving landscape, each step a testament to their determination to survive.

Hours passed, the terrain shifting beneath their feet as they navigated through the ever-changing landscape. The once familiar environment of the sandy expanse had morphed into a harsh and unfamiliar climate, each step a test of their resilience against the elements.

"The temperature's dropping," Lenny remarked, his breath forming frosty clouds in the chilled air. "This change is a pain in the ass."

Y/N nodded, her teeth chattering against the biting cold. "We need shelter."

Their weary feet carried them toward the looming mountain range on the horizon, their hope kindled by the prospect of refuge. As they approached, a small cabin emerged in the distance, a beacon of hope amidst the desolation.

But their relief was short-lived as they spotted tributes from Districts 8 and 9 taking refuge within the cabin's confines. The realization hit them like a gut punch—they were not alone in their quest for sanctuary.

Y/N and Lenny exchanged a wary glance, silent communication passing between them. Stealth became their ally as they circled the cabin, seeking an alternate entrance, their minds racing with the urgency of survival.

"We can't risk a confrontation," Y/N whispered, her voice tense with apprehension. "Not yet."

Their footsteps softened against the ground as they scouted for an opening, their hearts pounding in rhythm with the intensity of their quest for safety. The cabin loomed ominously, its walls offering both promise and peril in equal measure, as the relentless pursuit of survival propelled Y/N and Lenny into the heart of the deadly game.

The tension in the air crackled like lightning as Y/N and Lenny sought an opening to confront the tributes holed up in the cabin. Their breaths hitched with each step, adrenaline coursing through their veins as they scoured the surroundings for a strategic advantage.

But before they could enact their plan, a sudden movement caught Y/N off guard. One of the tributes, a wiry figure with a steely gaze, spotted her and lunged forward with a ferocity born of desperation. The clash was immediate, the struggle for survival visceral and raw.

The air echoed with the clash of metal against metal as Y/N fought tooth and nail to fend off the relentless assault. Each strike was met with a counter, the dance of combat a deadly symphony of desperation and determination.

With every move, Y/N strived to maintain the upper hand, the weight of the sword in her grasp a steady reminder of the stakes. Her movements were swift and calculated, a testament to the hours spent honing her skills, each swing an attempt to ward off the imminent threat.

Meanwhile, Lenny faced off against the other tribute, their battle a fierce exchange of blows. The cacophony of their struggle intermingled with Y/N's, creating a chaotic crescendo that echoed through the desolate landscape.

The odds seemed insurmountable as the tributes fought tooth and nail, their instincts sharpened by the hunger for survival. Y/N's breaths came in ragged gasps, her muscles burning with exertion, but the determination to protect herself and Lenny fueled her resolve.

In a moment of sheer tenacity, Lenny managed to overpower his opponent, his swift and calculated strikes landing with precision. The tribute faltered, the fight leaving their eyes as Lenny's decisive move rendered them incapacitated.

With a fleeting glance toward Y/N, Lenny rushed to her aid. The intensity of their adversaries’ assault didn’t waver, the clash of blades and desperate grapples for dominance painting a picture of primal struggle.

Y/N's heart raced, adrenaline surging as she pushed herself to the brink, each movement driven by a fierce determination to emerge victorious. Her breaths were labored, the taste of sweat and dirt mingling on her lips, but the fire in her eyes burned bright with unyielding resolve.

In a sudden burst of energy, Y/N seized an opening, her movements fluid and swift. With a decisive strike, she disarmed her opponent, sending their weapon clattering to the ground. Her heart pounded with the rush of triumph as she stood, panting, her gaze unwavering as she faced down the defeated tribute.

Breathless but alive, Y/N and Lenny stood amidst the aftermath of the skirmish, their bodies aching with the physical toll of the confrontation. Yet, their spirits remained unbroken, their resolve unwavering in the face of the perilous game they were ensnared in. The triumph of the moment tinged with the realization that their survival depended on their next move in this relentless battle for life and liberty within the merciless arena. A/N: okay sooo maybe it will be longer than 3 chapters because i'm kinda getting a bit into it now. each chapter will obviously overlap the week of the games but i was thinking to swift between Lucy gray and reader so they have each the storyline and of course ending with the big love scene but please have patient

[kid-az]

Ultrakill fanmade Angel enemies

All of the spritework was commisioned by @eternalonysyn on Twitter. Meanwhile all of the writing is my own.

///COURAGE///

Type: Lesser Angel

Data: The souls of human warrior’s, should they be allowed entry to heaven, are given the shape of red-tinted equines, their downward-pointing wings and halos being where their heads should be.

Surrounded by four chakrams in their torso area, these angels use their weapons as boomerangs, sending them out at targets to slice apart and explode, and then retrieving them to be reheated. They may also charge at enemies, their wings acting as heated blades capable of ripping through steel as if it were paper.

These angels act as the common infantry of heaven, being instrumental in putting down the Sisyphean insurrection. They may also be sent down should a particularly dangerous threat to the council's authority be found.

Strategy: Courage are skilled opponents who utilize speed and brawn to their advantage. Although unparryable with the Feedbacker when charging, they can be momentarily stunned via the Knuckleblaster.

Just as Virtues, they get enraged whenever an opponent exists for too long. Having their chakram’s spin around themselves, this is as much of a danger to them as their opponent, as they now attract nails and sawblades.

///FAITHFUL///

Type: Lesser Angel

Data: These green, bird-like angels with upward-pointing wings are the souls of especially lawful and benevolent rulers, healers, and people of authority, given the sacred duty of supporting and leading other angels and allies in combat.

These angels, surrounded by rings of pearls, use them to heal the wounds of companions, with even scars and severed limbs being healed completely from their blessings.

These angels are given the most respect among the human-borne angels, for they are indiscriminate to whomever needs healing, and will brave even the most deadly of hazards to provide aid.

Strategy: As they heal every enemy closeby, it is imperative that you use methods that instantly rend opponents to prevent your efforts going to waste. A constant source of damage, such as the screwdriver, can also prevent the healing of an enemy.

However, killing too many allies in their presence may cause the Faithful to enrage, making every other enemy also enraged in the process. In most encounters, these angels should be given priority over all other opponents.

///PRINCIPALITY///

Type: Greater Angel

Data: Due to the deeper layers of hell being home to far more dangerous demons and husks, Virtues alone would easily find themselves overwhelmed. This is where the Principalities step in, known for their signature light blue robes embroidered with gilded threads, and wielding a halberd and explosive incense which burst into lasting, turquoise flames.

Although more often than not guards of the deeper levels, Uriel has also assigned them to protect the libraries and observatories of Heaven, their lasting, surface-denying flames burning the flesh and metal of enemies yet leaving the paper and clay scriptures completely unharmed.

They are no slouch in melee either, for these angels have been known to utilize their halberds to impale, slice and bludgeon enemies alike, and if not outright slaughtering them then send them careening into a hard surface.

Strategy: Their incense burners act as powerful, incendiary bombs, creating lasting flames onto any surfaces that can damage you. One may find there to be no safe surfaces to stand in should the Principality remain or if you don’t parry them.

Should they get enraged, they will begin to teleport around the arena, forgoing their burners to instead smack you from behind. Utilize close-ranged weapons against them, especially the knuckleblaster.

///THRONE///

Type: Supreme Angel

Data: Although most greater and supreme angels are human-like in shape, these angels, having been created before all others, are the exception to this rule, with six, eye-covered wheels surrounding one large eye at the center. Two pairs of gilded, glowing wings surround and blanket their abstract bodies.

These angels are some of the strongest in Heaven, and with a combination of heavenly light they can cast down, summoning of homing swords and explosive axes, as well as a powerful, focused laser blast that they can emit from their large central eye, they are exceeded in power only by the Archangels.

For all their power however, the Thrones intelligence is unimpressive, being slightly smarter than the average demon, and only due to them passing the mirror test. They are also completely loyal, following whatever orders they are given to an T even if it proves to be their undoing.

Strategy: Their heavenly beams, while similar to the ones used by their smaller Virtue cousins, are much larger, and can be fired vertically AND horizontally. Mobility is key to fighting these powerful opponents.

Although extremely durable and hard to kill, Thrones have proven much weaker to nails than most other angels, and focused fire can whittle down their otherwise impressive defenses.

[thorsiffe-dragonheart]

Forged upon our fists

For: @leelabheriya Location: The Punch Cage Past thread, set shortly after the Dragonheart's arrival in VC.

Thorsiffe had not need spend long in the city, before the existence of a fighting ring for those living under the Gilded Law found their ears. Such had been exactly the kind of adventures they'd hoped to find when moving to Vievecor.

Still searching for work, one might have thought Thorsiffe eager to compete for the money it offered. In stark contrast, it was what called to them least. They would welcome it, most certainly. But the experience forged in battle and the glory of your name upon the tongues of the crowd had been what truly drew Thorsiffe in.

Tonight too, Thorsiffe found themself testing their mettle in the fighting pit. They had discarded their usual clothes and jewelry in favor of a sporta bra and workout shorts, both a vibrant blue. The shorts displayed a red dragon on their butt, which they'd had a good laugh at upon first donning them. Their hair pulled up into a pun and most of their skin exposed, the werewolf was proudly displaying their tattoos. Saying Thorsiffe's body was a canvas was an apt descriptor, as they bore tattoos on all parts of it, and they came in a great and vivid variety of colors.

The crowd erupted in cheers and victory roars as they charged the staggering vampire. Pushing themself into the air, they leapt. Within the blink of an eye, they'd pulled back and erupted their legs in force again, dropkicking the vampire. Their feet planted against his chest, sending him crashing into the air and through the cage's fence, ripping the arena part ouf of its sockets.

Landing upon their back, Thorsiffe quickly rolled over and sprang to their feet, eyes darting to their opponent. He, on the other hand, simply let out a groan and remaind unconscious on the floor. Thorsiffe grinned, more cheering erupted from the crowd, and they raised their bloodied fists into the air in victory.

A moment's pause before the next fight. Their last foe was carried off, Thorsiffe was given a chair and a bottle of water, and some employees set to repairing the cage. It only took a minute for them to catch their breath - a benefit of their blood. Just as Thorsiffe had downed the bottle of water with worrying speed, a giant of a man, at least seven feet tall and with arms like logs, came up to them carrying to large mugs of beer.

Thorsiffe greeted Egil, their cousin, with a smile, and he gave them a nod and a pat on the back. One of the beers traded hands. In doing so, it went from looking like a normal glass in Egil's hand, to comically large in Thorsiffe's. "Skál," they cheersed, clinking their glasses and taking a drink. A ridiculous amount disappeared Thorsiffe's throat before they let out a satisfied 'aah', wiping the foam of their upper lip.

They and Egil talked and laughed some in their native tongue. Mostly it was Egil giving Thorsiffe pointers about where they could yet improve, and the two of them eyeing the room and theorizing who their next foe might be.

Some minutes passed, and one of the Cage's organizers came up to tell Thorsiffe the time for their next bout was nigh. They downed what remained of their beer and stepped into the cage again.

"In the right corner," the announcer's voice boomed through the speakers, "red-haired and wild, the northern wolf, we have... Dragonheart!"

Cheers and clapping came from the crowd, and Thorsiffe grinned and raised their fists into the air once more, letting out a full-throated howl. They felt alive.

"We have a bit of a themed rematch tonight," the announcer continued, and Thorsiffe quieted again. One did well to respect their foe, even in a friendly bout. Their eyes had lit up with curiosity upon hearing they had faced this one before, and they eagerly eyed the other side of the cage.

"For in the left corner, fiery and calculated, a prodigy of battle-magic, we have..." the speakers boomed. A black woman stepped into the ring, wearing a similar outfit to Thorsiffe, though hers was a fiery red, and a thick braid of dreads fell down her back. "Inferno!"

Inferno grinned, pointing a palm at Thorsiffe, her fingers spread out and bent like claws. "Ready to get burned again, wolf?"

Thorsiffe returned the grin, narrowing their eyes. "Play at fire. I shall break your bones like ice."

Instantaneously, fire crackles in the air. It was the same move, the same setup, that Inferno had used upon them last time. This time, Dragonheart is prepared. They charge forward, shifting on their feet and crouching, weaving underneath the gout of flame, though they still feel tendrils of it licking at their skin. The spell passes right through the cage's fence, and a group of customers jump for cover. Like a wave erupting to the sky, Thorsiffe springs up, pushing Inferno's hand up into the air, her fire spreading out against the ceiling.

Inferno's other hand starts moving, meaning to fling some curse at Dragonheart, but their momentum has not yet ceased. Their fist shot forward, into Inferno's face, and is met with a satisfying crack. The witch flinches, clutching her face with her free hand. Thorsiffe comes in closer, pressing herself against Inferno. Their faces side by side, looking over one another's shoulder, and they grip Inferno by the hips, before performing a Glíma throw. With their leg, they kick up one of Inferno's, wrecking her footing. Lifting her up the rest of the way with their hands, they twist their own torso to the side, using their thigh as an achor to roll their foe upon. Inferno yelps and lands on the cage's floor with a loud thud.

Thorsiffe lets themself follow, falling on top of her, but by the time they reach the ground, Inferno's has opened her mouth. And its filling with red hot light and the crackling of flames. She spews forth fire like a dragon of legend. Thorsiffe rolls over, away from her. Their arm is caught in the flames still, though only for a second, and they let out a cry as their skin is caught in the all-encompassing pain of fire.

On their knees, Thorsiffe grunts, having to pat out flames that found purchase on their skin. Meanwhile, Inferno gets up and laughs, "who's the dragon now, eh?"

She points her palm forward again, but Thorsiffe had rushed forward faster than Inferno could respond. The curse finds purchase only in the ground, disappearing with a loud 'swish'.

"I need only your heart, no?" Thorsiffe giggles, pushing their shoulder against her hips and gripping her behind the knees with both hands, breaking her posture. They fall to the ground once more, and Thorsiffe is quick to climb on top and pin Inferno's hands against the floor.

Inferno laughs again, "you don't learn, do you, dear?" Fire starts crackling down in her throat yet again, yet Thorsiffe simply grins. Inferno frowns, but before she can unleash her spell, Thorsiffe crashes down upon her, flinging their forehead into her face. The spell fizzles out, and any tension Inferno had held melts into the ground.

"You should get more creative," they snorted, getting up again to the deafening roaring of the crowd.

[making-dough]

[February Activity Check] Status: Passed (+1 SP) Dropped Threads: Full Feathery Panic (+Flying, Kent) Assigned: Riding (E+ -> C)

Claimed: Dexterity+, Knightkneeler Total: 56 -> 58

Threads:

Waiting on me:

gilded arena (+axe or brawl, leif) [closing] fetching plumage (denning) how to deal with a panicking mage (+sword, pelleas)

Waiting on partner:

Horsing around (Hector) motherly vibes (eremiya) tea or coffee (xander) in which there is no respect for the sacred art of rope tying (l'arachel) spell check please? (forsyth) let it snow (forsyth)

[lessthanimpressedlesbian]

I think Ashton and Laudna are broken on fundamentally different levels. And while they're both broken, it doesn't mean they can understand how the other's pieces come together to create a mosaic of their trauma.

Ashton feels broken on a physical and emotional level. They were literally shattered during the heist, and Milo was only able to fix them by melting down gold to fill the cracks, and by pouring the Dunamis potion into the slag glass that protects their brain. This left very visible scars and likely cost them their vision in one eye. Ashton also likely feels broken on the emotional level, if their conversation about love and their obvious abandonment issues are any indication. But there's still a sense of belonging. Despite being abandoned by the Nobodies, Ashton knows he has the Krook House and now Bell's Hells. He may feel out of place, but he knows his position within the underworld of Jrusar and the sociopolitical arena of Bassuras.

Laudna is broken on a physical, mental, and emotional level. Even then, I'm not sure she actually thinks of herself as physically broken. Sure, her body could be described as "broken," but really it just doesn't work the same way her human body did (presumably). She visibly does not look human anymore, and instead looks undead and scary-scary. From what she said last night, it seems more like she understands her appearance as a manifestation of what's broken inside. Mentally, she is broken because of her years under Briarwood rule, her murder, and her decades of isolation wherein she only had Pâté and Delilah to keep her company. Not many could survive that without breaking at least a little, and honestly Pâté and Sashimi are evidence of that. She is also broken emotionally because she's been so lonely. Laudna loves people but has been shunned and exiled from any community she tries to enter. She only recently found an entry to society through Imogen and Bell's Hells, but that doesn't erase the literal decades she spent running away in search of someplace she could finally be accepted. She wants to reclaim her life, but her visible Otherness prevents her from doing this. In short, Laudna doesn't belong and even among the Hells she hasn't found true acceptance outside of Imogen and Fearne and Yu

They are both broken. But Ashton is gilded and found a place among many other broken people. Laudna was sewn together and bursting at the seams with her loneliness and desire to find somewhere to belong (and maybe even cut her own strings). This influences how they engage with others, and how they deal with their own bullshit. Ashton tries to lay it all out on the table and be honest about limitations and personal lines. Laudna hides everything because she is terrified of being alone again and was repeatedly brushed off when she first tried to explain how scary it was to lose control of her body.

They are both broken. But they're broken in different ways, and though they've been put back together, it wasn't in the same way. Ashton with their gold and glass, Laudna with her ichor and thread. One is meant to last longer and is seen as beautiful, while the other can't stay together without repair and is regarded as terrifying and unsettling.

[laurelsofhighever]

Almost two years after civil war nearly tore Ferelden apart, Alistair has settled into his role as king despite the cost of the victory. Having come to Orlais to lead trade talks with Empress Celene and representatives from the Free Marches, he hopes to build a stronger future for his people. But grief and guilt still haunt him, the expectations placed on his shoulders cut deep, and to top it all off, there's a stranger in the Winter Palace with the power to shatter his world once again. 

--

CW: sleep paralysis in the beginning

Something hunted her. Avarice, perhaps, or Glory. The light in her hand drew them ever closer, blinding them to the glint of the dragonbone Talon she kept unsheathed by her side, the blade that longed to sate itself on their spirit flesh. For one, the rose was a trophy, for the other, the essence of all she hoped to gain. The forest around her hung close, crooked branches girdled by beards of hoary lichen, roots trying to trip her, the light above blocked by the canopy so that only the bobbing green glow of wisps remained to guide her along the path. They drifted towards her and darted away again like shoals of curious fish, and as ever, the demons gained. She would have to turn soon, to stand and fight though exhaustion snapped at her heels. And something else nagged at her too, a weightlessness, a disconnect between her actions and the world around her as if chains dragged at her limbs.

A dream, then. In realising it, she slipped into sunlight as the forest dissolved around her, opening her eyes to rich furnishings and sheets of gold brocade overlaid with soft pelts to keep out the cold, the warm pull of an arm thrown over her stomach. Alistair lay already alert beside her, the details of his face blurred by the haze of first waking but no less dear because of it. As her body rolled and turned into him, he rose above her to bring her close, untangling his arm from the bedclothes to embrace her.

“Bad dreams?” he asked, in a voice that didn’t quite reach her sleep-fogged ears.

She felt no desire to reply, and instead slid her hand into the short strands of hair at the nape of his neck to pull him down to her mouth. His touch stirred the banked embers in her chest, his weight melding them together, one body, one lick of heat through questing limbs –

But he had no scent. There was no scratch of stubble against her cheek.

Her consciousness erupted into the prone form of her slumbering body, but got no further. She commanded it to move. Her flesh responded like stone, and panic rose like water to freeze her lungs. Avarice might be leaning over her, its claws poised above her to rend life from her bones and claim her skin as its own, but she couldn’t move, couldn’t see, couldn’t even feel her sword in her hand. A finger, an eyelid – anything that might bring her back to herself. She fought. She screamed inside her own head, pushing back at the darkness and at the illusion it fed her of her hands moving, the iron of her will useless against the dead weight of her limbs.

It must have been only moments before the paralysis recoiled and broke without warning, but it felt longer. It left her gasping in the dim, moonlit confines of an unfamiliar room, with an unfamiliar shape lumped among the pillows next to her. Despite her sudden start, the figure breathed in deep, even lungfuls of air, and as her eyes grew used to the dark, Rosslyn made out Alistair’s bearded face poking from the covers. His eyes roved under their lids, his lips parted slightly, while his hair – though longer than it had appeared in her dream – stuck out at all the odd angles she remembered. The certainty that she could not have imagined him so calmed the race of her heart and brought her back to where she was, the knotted string that had led her back into his life.

“No, Ambassador, I didn’t say that…”

His mumbles trailed off as he shifted under the covers, and she bit down on a smile. They had been in Highever when she first found out he talked in his sleep. She had teased him about it, and all the salacious things he might have uttered without the filter of his conscious mind to stop him, but even as her hand reached out to smooth his hair away from his face, the sweetness of the memories turned bitter. They had shared so little time together without the world getting in the way, brief weeks after only a year of knowing each other, and since then, she had lived two years in an endless Void, without anything to bar the sound of her own breath from her ears. He, meanwhile, had grown into the grace of his kingship without her. She had known he would, but it didn’t stop the whisperings of the snide voice at the back of her mind that told her he no longer needed her. What if everything, including his image, were just another dream?

She withdrew her hand without touching him.

Carefully, so Alistair wouldn’t notice, she shimmied out from under the covers and set her feet into the thick silk pile of the rug that guarded the bed like a moat. She counted her fingers, pressing her thumb to the tip of each one in turn, and then along the scar on her wrist that she had received from an accident in the training arena when she was still a beginner. The movements had become habit by now, but experience had taught her habit itself was dangerous, a way for the mind to skip over inconsistencies in favour of familiarity, and so to ground herself she closed her fist around Talon’s blue leather scabbard. Slowly, making sure to feel the difference between cool metal wire and rough drakeskin, she half-drew the blade and winced at the scrape of the dragonbone as it came free.

Here lay the test; she breathed deep relief when her reflection showed her eyes, a slice of the tapestry behind her, and nothing else. It did not warp into any monstrosity, or move while she sat still, and with a roll of her shoulders she eased the sword back into its rest. Not that it stopped her hands from shaking. With a last long glance over her shoulder, she rose and padded across the expanse of gilded carpet, with Talon held tight in her left hand so the buckles wouldn’t jingle.

No expense had been spared in the appointments of the Emperor’s bedchamber. The high ceiling had been painted blue and dusted with silver stars that glinted in the moonlight spilling in from the windows. The largest of them mapped out the constellations visible in the night sky, though as she gazed upwards, Rosslyn noted that they had been arranged according to aesthetics, rather than accuracy to the true heavens her mother had taught her to read as a child. With a rueful twitch of her lips, she turned away and skirted the suite of chaises and spindle-legged sofas that clustered around the fire, their fine silk threads a heady texture under the trail of her fingers.

She found the opulence garish, from the sculpted marble halla framing the hearth to the tapestries on the wall that showed scenes of nobles hunting or riding into battle on horses with faces that seemed almost human, and she imagined the expression Alistair might have let slip when he first opened the door. Only the drift of woodsmoke from the fire brought her any familiarity, the faint, whining hiss of its heart filling the silence as she explored. A bookcase stood in the corner of the room at the edge of the fire’s shaky glow, but close enough to spark against the gold-leafed titles on the spines. Still unsettled, she tilted her head to read them, mouthing their names to herself before she pulled out a likely tome concerning natural science and let the pages fall open on a discussion of dragon anatomy. She forced herself to see the shape of the words as well as their meaning, the first sentence on a page and then the last, and then the first again to make sure it hadn’t changed.

“Rosslyn?”

She dropped the book and turned, Talon already ringing out of the scabbard as she sank into a defensive crouch at the unexpected voice. Blinking groggily, Alistair sat up in the bed, running a hand through his hair to smooth it down. His eyes shifted from her face to the weapon in her hand and the battle-ready stance she was too slow to hide.

“What are you doing over there?” he asked as she turned towards the window and tried to calm the race of her pulse. She heard him kick the covers away, the grumbled command to the glowstone, and the pad of his bare feet across the floor.

“I couldn’t sleep.”

Even though she heard him coming, she flinched when he touched her arm.

He edged closer. “Bad dreams?”

She clenched her jaw against the chill of déjà vu down her spine. “Something like that.”

“Are you alright?” he asked.

A sigh tumbled from her lips as she ducked her head, as she leaned into the hand sliding into the small of her back and fought against the part of her that wanted to make light of what he must have seen. And yet, hadn’t she been trying for months to find him again? His lack at her side had been a physical ache beyond even the scars the Fade had left on her; to shut him out now when he was reaching out seemed too much like madness, like being bested by the fear she had pushed back for so long.

“When I was in the Fade, it was difficult sometimes to tell what was real,” she admitted, drawing her hands around herself. “When I had to sleep I’d wander through the dreams of others, and when I woke up I could never really be sure that I really was awake or if it was just some trap set by a demon. It’s been… hard to adjust back.” She kept her gaze on the carpet, but then she didn’t need to look to feel the cautious sympathy radiating from every line in Alistair’s body.

“Why didn’t you wake me?”

“I…” The heat of his palm was a distraction, a reminder of all the times she had opened her eyes on his image and wondered whether the illusion might be worth succumbing to it. She had been alone too long, and left too many pieces of herself behind with the corpse of the Nightmare. But he was too clever, reading her silence and the fear behind it as if the words were scrawled across her face, and he moved close so that his bulk and his scent might fold her away from the world, cupping her jaw to lay a kiss at her temple.

“What will help?” he asked.

Rosslyn let herself wrap around him; her body acted on its own initiative and buried into his shoulder as her mind drifted back to the bad episodes of the first few days, when Merrill had led her through reality and shown her all the ways to rely on her senses again.

“Details,” she said, content to lose herself in the rhythm his fingers made against the back of her neck. “Things to ground me, that my mind can’t make up.”

“Such as?”

“Words on a page, smells…” She allowed herself a smirk. “That damned beard.”

“More baseless attacks against facial hair?” He tutted, shaking his head and deliberately mussing her hair with the accused beard in the process. “You’re still as cruel as ever, dear lady.”

Her heart fluttered. “I’m still ‘dear lady’?”

“Always.”

When she could stand to lean away, she looked up at him, gazing at her with the same oak-bronze eyes she remembered, the same flecks of gold, the calm and the rapture and the certainty that had steadied her soul from the beginning. Unable to bear the weight of his expression, she turned her focus to the slight bow-curve of his mouth, and the growth of hair that accentuated the strong line of his jaw. It was several shades darker than that on the rest of his head, though as she gently raked her fingers through it, strands of copper and gold caught in the glowstone’s light. His eyes slipped closed at the touch and she smirked wider.

“You like that,” she murmured.

He hummed. “I never thought it would feel so nice.”

If they had been together, they would have discovered such sensitivity long ago.

“Rosslyn?”

She bolstered her crumbling smile. “I just thought of a use for these bristles of yours.”

“Mm?”

Instead of answering, she closed her fingers and drew him down with the lightest pressure until they met in a soft brush of lips. “That’s a much easier way of getting you to kiss me.”

“Easier than just being in the same room as me?” he teased. “Easier than being brave and beautiful and everything I’ve ever wanted?”

She let go. His smile was earnest but she couldn’t look at it, blinding and stealing her breath as if she were stepping out into the sun on a winter’s day. And still, his sigh cleaved her like a butcher’s knife as his hand skimmed the length of her arm to where Talon still rested in a white-knuckled fist.

“I have guards outside,” he told her. “You’re safe. Whatever hunted you before, I won’t let it get you here.”

She remembered another night, after an attempt on her life, when he had sworn himself to her defence. “So Orlais has run out of assassins, then?” asked lightly.

“Come back to bed,” he murmured, raising her knuckles to his lips. “Or – we could read one of the books, if…”

“If I don’t think this is real? You don’t need to worry about that, I’m convinced.”

The tension knitted tight through his shoulders unspooled. “I’m glad.”

“You don’t have to stay up on my account.” A smile ghosted across her mouth, brief and unconvincing. “This is hardly my first night without sleep, and from what I overheard earlier, you have negotiations to attend in the morning.”

“And rob you of the company? Perish the thought. Besides,” he added, bending past her to pick up the book she had been skimming, “Une étude de draconides du sud sounds fascinating.”

“It’s rather dry, actually.” She wrinkled her nose.

“Then maybe it’ll send us back to sleep faster. Come on, those chaises look comfortable, even if they’re gaudier than any furniture has a right to be.”

Defeated, Rosslyn sighed and let herself be tugged along, unable to entirely fend off the infectious grin sent her way, or the squeeze in her chest as she sat and Alistair knelt before her on the floor to wrap a heavy blanket around her shoulders.

“Will you read to me?” she asked.

His smile softened. “Of course. Now budge up.”

Negotiating the chaise took more effort than the bed. Despite being wide enough for the voluminous panniers favoured by Orlesian fashion, the springy, overstuffed cushions had not been designed to accommodate even one person lying down, much less two who had become unused to coordinating their limbs. After a lot of awkward folding and a brief interlude where she made him sit up again to take one half of the blanket, Rosslyn settled on her side with her back against the chaise and her cheek resting on Alistair’s shoulder in order to see the pages as he read them. Talon, still within reach, had been propped against the armrest.

“Now, let’s see, where shall we start…”

Heaving a contented sigh as he flicked through the pages, she snuggled closer and wrapped her free arm more fully around his waist. The movement pushed up the loose hem of his nightshirt, and without thinking she followed the feel of warm skin and slipped her hand beneath the fabric, pleased with the small hum elicited by the movement. After a moment, however, she paused, frowning. Instead of the smooth expanse of muscle she had once known almost as well as her own body, her fingertips tracked along a line of hard, raised tissue that curved across the point of Alistair’s hip.

“What…”

“Rosslyn?”

She levered herself upright and lifted the fabric to get a better look at the scar. “I don’t remember this.” Three long, uneven stripes stood out pale against the richer tone of his skin, faded enough that the initial blow must have been healed by magic, but still livid pink beneath where the new flesh didn’t quite meld with the old.

“Oh, that. It’s nothing, really.” He pulled the shirt down again to cover it, and dragged her hand to his lips. “Don’t worry about it.”

“It looks like it hurt,” she pressed.

He smiled, too wide. “Barely felt it, actually. This looks like a promising page –”

“What happened?”

“Just leave it alone!”

Stunned, she flinched away to better look at him, at the immediate regret in his eyes and the wariness that still lurked behind it.

“Rosslyn –”

“It happened at Ostagar, didn’t it?” she said, and felt her stomach lurch as he sat up and hunched over with his elbows on his knees.

“It… It was while they were still clearing the rubble. There was still hope, but not much, and every rock they lifted where they didn’t find you…” He bit his lip. “It all got too much in the end, so I took a party out to hunt down the demons that escaped the rift’s collapse. One got a lucky swipe.”

All because of her. She shut her eyes and dropped her forehead to his shoulder to banish the image of him, wounded and grieving and hating her. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be,” he murmured “You’re the one who was always telling me not to drop my guard.”

“If I had been there…”

“No. Don’t do that. I’ve spent two years wondering what might have been.” Arms wrapped around her waist, fingers under her jaw coaxing her to look at him. “You’re here, now, and everything’s going to be alright.”

Still unsure, she shook her head. “I thought this would all be so easy. I thought I could just… walk back into my life like none of it happened. But everything’s so different.” Just because she had been stuck in time, she had assumed the same of everything else, that she might return to the moment she first struck the Nightmare and still have her place as the Falcon without politics or resentment to cloud her triumph. The worst of it, the part she could barely admit even to herself, was that everything from her return to Harrowhill to the painted stars above her might not be real at all, and yet she had wearied so much that not even the guilt of surrender could make her care. Perhaps the real Alistair had died along with her at Ostagar, the only thing left of him this illusion, a phantom set of hands around her waist the closest she would ever get to him again.

The pressure of those hands tightened before she could move away, drawn into his lap instead with the blanket forgotten around her knees.

“Not everything is different,” he said. “Not the important things. You’re still my wife.”

Her breath caught in her lungs.

“Unless…” A pause. “Rosslyn, when this is over – when you’ve done what you have to for Flemeth and these trade talks have been hammered out – you will come back with me, won’t you? Ferelden still needs its queen.” He swallowed. “And even if it didn’t, there’s not a moment that’s gone by that I haven’t needed you. It’s been awful, I’ve missed you so much.”

Something sharp constricted in her chest as the firelight caught in his eyes, on the tears he rapidly tried to blink away. “I didn’t know if you’d want me like before,” she confessed.

“Of course I do.” For the second time, the book tumbled to the floor, this time displaced from his lap so he could turn and take her face between both of his hands. “I love you. I never stopped.”

“I’ve caused you so much pain –”

“It’s alright,” he repeated, again, stroking her face with his fingers as he leaned forwards and pressed his brow to hers. “You came back to me. It’s alright.”

Soothed by the patterns he was drawing across the back of her neck, she shifted until her legs pressed on either side of his. “I’ve missed you.”

“I’m here. Rosslyn, I…”

His hands had wandered again, palms ghosting down her back and over her thighs, pulling her closer while his knees came up behind her to take more of her weight, to tip her forward onto his chest. She cupped his face and kissed him before he could gather himself enough to speak, and then followed the line of his jaw with lighter brushes of her lips to the pulse point in his neck, her concentration only broken when he found the hem of her borrowed shirt and slinked into a tighter embrace against her skin.

His teeth rasped against her shoulder, a chuckle low in his throat. “We’re supposed to be reading, dear lady.”

“You’re the one who started this,” she murmured back, as her fingers inched beneath his collar.

“You’re the one encouraging me,” he retorted. “Maker, I can’t get you close enough – tell me you don’t want to stop.”

“It’s not that…” A worry tugged at the small corner of her mind not yet consumed by the sensation of being touched, growing in presence until it could not be ignored. “I don’t know if I’m – if we’re still, uh, protected.”

“Ah.” To her relief, he didn’t push her away, and instead leaned back against the chaise with his arms around her shoulders. “And you don’t have any of that tea with you?”

“I wasn’t exactly expecting to need it.”

For an instant, the shadow of thwarted expectation hung in the air, mingling with her worry about the cost of her hesitation, until with the breath of a low, rumbled laugh, Alistair sent the tension blowing away like errant cobwebs on a breeze.

“I’m sure we’ll dig some up from somewhere eventually,” he allowed, helping her adjust so she lay adjacent rather than astride his lap. “Besides, after two years, I can’t say it would have been my best performance anyway.”

She stretched up, careful not to jab a knee into where it wouldn’t be appreciated, and pecked him on the cheek before tucking herself back against his side. “The performance isn’t what I care about.”

“I love you. Have I said that yet?”

“I could stand to hear it again.”

Their fingers laced, and for a while only the fire made conversation.

“It occurs to me,” he offered eventually, with a sly wiggle of his eyebrows, “there are other things we could do. If you wanted. We could find out why that bed is so ridiculously big.”

“We could,” she replied, careful. “But… I think I want this over first. I’m still bound, and I want to feel like myself when I call you my husband again.”

Another sigh heaved through his body, shuddered with uncertainty. “‘Husband’. I’ve missed hearing that. I’ve missed –” He scrubbed at his eyes. “You know, we never got our honeymoon. We said we’d go to Eastwatch when the war was over, but we never made it.”

“We were going to take picnics to the riverbank.”

They’d had it pictured so clearly before Ostagar, a shining beacon for which to strive, when their responsibilities might fall away just for a little while and allow them the peace that had always at the last eluded them. Her family’s estate, couched in a slow meander of the River Rangett with the sweeping glades and pastures of Marl-land beyond, had seemed the perfect remedy to the demands claimed of them by war.

“I left Teagan in charge in Denerim,” Alistair mused. “There’ll have to be a progress to show you off to the people now that you’re back, but I’m sure we can persuade the guard to lose us on the Imperial Highway – what are you laughing at?”

She drew his knuckles to her lips. “You. Talking like a politician. Plotting. You’ve grown.”

“I hope that’s not a comment on the number of fine cheeses I’ve been sampling of late,” he huffed, shifting beneath her.

She recognised the deflection for what it was but let it go, realising the dark turn of her thoughts must have shown in her voice, the knowledge that so much of the person he had become was a stranger to her. And yet, as he reached down to retrieve the now sadly crumpled Une étude des draconides from where it had fallen, the way their bodies fit together and the logs cracking in the fire brought back all the promise she had felt in those few weeks by his side as they waited out her recovery from the Battle of Highever, the winter nights long and the frozen wind turned aside by the thick walls of her childhood home. He had read to her then, too, taking her away from the pain of her healing wounds to places woven by his voice alone, with his heartbeat under her ear and his fingers idle in her hair.

“Is the book alright?” she asked.

“A bit creased,” he answered. “But intact.”

“Good. Tell me about dragons.”

--

He read from the book until his voice turned hoarse, the winding prattle of academic language somewhat beyond his grasp of conversational Orlesian, but he tried keep the flow of words in cadence to at least get the general meaning. When he finally laid it aside and pinched his hands over his eyes to refocus his vision, the first rime of daylight could just be seen over the distant trees outside, a faint lilac stain against the ink of night swallowing the stars. Rosslyn didn’t stir even when he touched her shoulder to check her realness, when he gently carded the jet strands of her hair back from the wet patch of drool slowly seeping into his shirt. She had always slept heavily, like a true soldier, deep to dream and grumpy to rise, while he often started at phantom noises or spent hours trying to calm the whirl of his thoughts long enough to let him rest; more than once, he had used the slow, even rhythm of her breath to follow her into slumber.

He had so much to tell her. Without her to share it, his life had turned into one long road of nothing but duty stretching to the horizon, but now the details flooded back into his mind, full of colour. The two mares Fergus had given her as a wedding gift were stabled below as his own personal mounts, and Cuno waited back in Denerim, a pampered sire of many litters who would no doubt prove unbearably smug about being right that his mistress had survived.

The news could wait until they had more time, however, when they no longer had to hide her presence from Celene. For now, he had no wish to move her, but the angle of the chaise was beginning to hurt his back and they would both be in far more comfort on the bed.

“Rosslyn? Love, we need to get up, just for a bit.”

A wordless mumble was the only reply, tilting his mouth in a smile as he gave up and hooked one arm beneath her knees, the other around her back. Had she been awake, she would have complained about being carried when she had two perfectly good legs of her own, but as Alistair stood the movement only turned her further into his chest and her hands closed around the folds in his shirt. He tried not to think about how light she had become as he laid her down again a moment later, how much colder.

After pausing only long enough to retrieve Talon, he slipped under the covers beside her and pulled them up until she was tucked in snug up to her chin. Too much did her trusting, easy breathing remind him of their last night together before the battle at Ostagar, the morning when he had unwound his arms from her warm body and left without a word, hoping to keep her safe.

He would not suffer that again.

Careful and quiet, he tore his eyes away and rolled over, reaching for the top drawer of his nightstand where servants had stashed a set of reed pens, paper, and a writing pad. Both of them had duties, he his meetings and she the destruction of Morrigan’s mirror, but as he dipped the nib into the inkpot and sponged off the excess, he breathed deep through his nose, determined not to waste the gift Fate had chosen to grant him. After their trials were over, he would make sure they could both be together again. Forever, this time.

[foulserpent]

only human

long character analysis + fan fiction hybrid involving critically acclaimed worst best game of all time The Elder Scrolls IV: Oblivion! martin is in a mental and emotional hell! ned and martin resolving unresolved sexual tension after like, 100000 false starts! being mentally ill with the bro’s! "fluffy" ending!

cw: brief depiction of violence, ptsd, implications of past relationship based trauma, borderline explicit but not really sexy sexual content (nothing p*rnographic but 18+ pls)

On some nights, Martin was in hell.

The world was on a slow death march towards ruin outside the walls, this much he knew. Not even the strongest fortification could shield him from it. Every night from his gilded cage, he heard the screams, breathed the foul smoke and burning flesh and disemboweled gut, see the daedra drag the near-dead into the shadows to be torn apart, still crying out as they were devoured. His hands wet with blood, shaking in vain as his healing failed him and the survivors were pulled apart by their own wounds. The long walk out of the doomed Kvatch, past swarming flies and hundreds of blank eyes looking into the unforgiving sun. The revelation that all this was for him.

On the worst of these nights, staring into the ceiling of Cloud Ruler Temple as the sun began to creep over the horizon, he would wish he had just died.

This time last year, he was on track to live out the rest of his days in obscurity. Probably in Kvatch, probably remaining a priest, where the only weight on his shoulders was giving people their assurances that the Divines would look out for them and hoping he would finally taste truth in these words. It would be better than this. Those who held the reigns of the Empire were even more deluded than he'd thought, if they believed that his noble blood would divinely grant understanding of what to do, some inborn ability to keep collected and strong and sane trapped here as his friends faced death at his behest.

He would be called "lord", shone and polished as a commodity, loved and utterly devoted to, and never, never known. His feelings did not matter. This message had been thoroughly beaten into him. None of it mattered to whatever hand kept him guarded as preciously as the helpless king on the chessboard, behind a line of pawns to the sacrifice. Xikeel bringing him little gifts from gods-know-where (some teeth, a ring, a few spoons), slithering down from the rafters to visit him in the late night hours. One of the blades- bewildered - walking in on them dancing, without rhythm or music.

Long conversations with Ned, who would never treat him like an emperor, who barely even seemed to want to be there but had become doggedly devoted to Xikeel and himself. Bringing him wine, face softened into a smile in anticipation of an evening sitting outside in comfortable, quiet company. Tired and spiteful, but so warm.

He did not know when his feelings had turned to want. There was never an astonished realization, no moment that had changed everything. The first time he consciously acknowledged it was not as a revelation, but as an observation. Ned had cut his hand, a simple, foolish mistake that left Martin wearily healing him, in spite of the bosmer’s protests. Martin had held onto his hand longer than the spell needed, feeling the pulse in his fingers and wanting to entwine him in his own. Wanting to pull him in closer. Noticing that he wanted this, and noticing that it did not surprise him.

It was one of many things to think about, significantly less distressing than every other aspect of his current existence to say the least. He wondered if it was the day he had returned from his nigh-suicidal mission to cheat a god, haggard and shirt bloodied and yet with the softest eyes Martin had seen in the man, cracking a weak smile (a flash of teeth) that said "I've done it, and I hope you can forgive me". He wondered if it was Ned's unwavering devotion to leaving his shirt half-unbuttoned, the burn tearing through his chest on display like a trophy. The necklace would fall across the older man's breast while he laughed and joked about stupid things with Martin as if they were old friends. He was not above simple things.

Perhaps this was a test of the temperance he had spent years cultivating, hollowing out a part of himself to nurture the seed. After all, he had not been with anyone for a long time.

---

He had loathed the existence of the arena in Kvatch, drawing in men and women from all around in what amounted to mass suicide. There was little honor in it, just desperate people consuming themselves for just to grasp a thread of glory, dying in the mud as the crowd roared.  But Martin was only human. He had found himself looking on the men as they passed through town, all muscle and scars and fiercely alive. He had found himself drawn to one who had come into the temple for a blessing of protection. The man never said why, though Martin knew where he was bound. It was never hard to tell.

The man was tall and rather handsome, with a muscular frame and dark hair and looking to be only a few years younger than himself, (this had to be around when he was forty-one or forty-two. Had it been that long?). They'd spoke first as strangers do, running through the motions of a blessing under a thick smoke of incense and flowers burnt in offering to the Dragon. Martin averted his gaze from the sword at the man's hip as he prepared the oil. Its hilt glittered in iron filigree and unmistakable rust of dried blood struck gold by the afternoon's dying light. His eyes wandered to the man's face instead, moving to begin the anointment. The dark haired man swiped his tongue over his lips and glanced away, and Martin's heartbeat spiked.

For gods sakes.

The man talked compulsively, glancing around as if something stalked him in the shadows between the stained-glass-light. Martin had silently hoped he would grow bored with the old priest and be on his way, if only so that he'd have time to himself to contemplate what the hell was wrong with him. So, naturally, the man kept talking long after the ritual was complete and the candles extinguished. About where he had come from, (all the way from High Rock, it turned out), the unusual rains lately, family. Partners. Lovers. The conversation turned here, and had fallen with such a speed that he barely realized what was happening. The man had found Martin beautiful, and Martin, exhausted with penitence and enthralled by the stranger and aching to just be human again, had found himself quietly slipping out with him.

Martin's home was truly tiny when occupied by two, an unfamiliar claustrophobia that was quickly dragged into the mire and drowned in a little too much wine. It was cheap and burned his throat with its sweetness, but he didn't care. They'd stumbled and fallen into his bed.

"For good luck," the man had said, as they kissed rough and far too clumsy.

"For good luck," Martin had kissed into the man's neck.

The man was a bit fumbling, all muscles and scars and fierceness. No matter how close their bodies pressed, no matter the grip Martin had - his fingers marking new trails over a scarred back -  there was that distance. Two magnets repelling, even as they forced themselves together. These men going to their deaths couldn't be touched. And neither could he, no matter how he tried. There weren't even the barest roots of love here. Just body on body, flesh on flesh. It wasn't bad, though. Martin was only human.

He didn't know what to say in the morning, as the man collected his belongings to go off to the fight. "Good luck," Martin said again, feeling stupid. The man had said "thank you" with his eyes distant. He bent down and out the door, and walked out into the humid morning air, leaving Martin with a strange emptiness in his gut. He never saw him again.

It shouldn't have impacted him so badly. He'd had a one-night stand that was, frankly, pretty good. He'd given another man some comfort, something above and beyond his duty as the Priest-Healer-Penitent. It wasn't really against any vows. His lungs still breathed the smoke of offerings to the Dragon, a shrine to Dibella was dutifully kept at the foot of his bed and given a clumsy offering before the main event. He had not fallen back into the snares of that damned daedra. It wasn't a betrayal of those he'd lost. So why was he guilty?

---

And yet here he was now, on the precipice yet again. Really, he was long into the fall.

Him and one-of-two Heroes of Kvatch had slept together for a week now. Nothing more than the sharing of a bed and body heat, their day to day lives much the same as the world crumbled around him. They had kissed a few days ago, slightly dizzy with wine and the memory returning only in a haze. They'd kissed again the night before, sober and beyond any deniability as the bosmer was making his way out on errand. Ned had blushed and flicked his ears back, leaving him with a soft smile and a quiet "See you," as he slipped into the night.

Now, Martin found himself kneeling as if in prayer at the foot of his bed, his companion sitting up before him. Ned was half naked, body all muscle and scars and an exhaustion that ran far deeper than that. Martin had been healing a wound on his stomach- sliced open by a nasty (and thankfully, poorly aimed) dagger. The Mythic Dawn long since knew what he looked like, though they had hardly been this bold before now. They stalked the base of the mountains like jackals at the edge of a kill, waiting for an opening to lunge in and tear off some scrap of flesh. Ned hadn't wanted to talk about this one. His hands shook as he'd taken off his bloodstained clothes, and he scoured them with a washcloth long after they were clean.

"I'm fine." He had said. "I'm just tired."

Martin was tired too. That first night together, he had this romantic notion that being held by his friend would keep away the nightmares. They had come as they did most nights, crawling out of the depths of his subconscious with the worst of him they could offer. He'd woken up, breathing hard as terror dripped down his body. There was one difference. There was a warmth pressed to his back, and it breathed a half-snore as it moved in closer, nuzzled into his trembling neck. Ned hadn't woken. He had just wrapped Martin up into strong arms, and settled back into a deep sleep. Maybe it was just wishful thinking, but even as the last traces of the nightmare pulled out its spurs, Martin felt safe. All he wanted was to return the favor.

Now, Martin leaned to kissed the gash across Ned's chest, the one that the man would wake up in terror clutching at, eyes somewhere far away and breathing hard. He trailed kisses down the line of skin warped by fire and blade, and Ned laughed. "I can barely feel it."

"Really?" The sword and its burns had probably damaged a nerve. Or done something worse, something that cut deeper. It was a daedric weapon after all. Martin would later ask where exactly he had sensation, to see if anything could be done about it. Later, perhaps. Now, he was tired of being the Priest-Healer-Penitent.

He leaned back in, close but just out of reach. His lips hovered down over the soft hair down his middle, making a glancing contact below the wounds. Even there, the skin seemed to have been broken and healed many times over a long life. How could someone live like that?  He kissed him, just below the lower scar.

"How about here?"

"S'better"

Ned was definitely feeling something. The man's breath caught just slightly at the touch. He overcorrected, shifting in his seat a little and clearing his throat. Uncrossing his legs. Martin moved further down, just a little past his navel, laying another kiss on the recently healed wound. He wanted nothing more than to taste - touch the man before him, and to wake up with no guilt, no loneliness- he kissed him again.

"Or here?"

"Little better," the man's tone was flirtatious. "I mean, it'd be lot more sensation if you went just a bit low...er."

Ned had trailed off in the last word and froze at his own indiscretion. He was tensed like one with a hand raised against him, expecting a blow. As if he could have misinterpreted where this moment could go, alone and naked with his friend kneeling before him. As if Martin would be mad.

"Sorry, I didn't mean-uh." Ned flailed, pulling his knees shut.

"No, no, I'm sorry. I'd like to, if you would."

Ned's breath hitched. He looked utterly bewildered.

"OH- yeah, sure? Uh- Yes. Yeah." He sputtered.

They looked into each other’s eyes for a moment that lasted an eternity. Neither man dared to even take a breath. Ned cracked the tiniest fraction of a smile.

They both laughed, pulling apart. The tension had snapped, and the ache in his gut relented, put itself to the side. Martin hoisted himself back up onto the bed, sitting to his friend's side with a chaste several inches between them.

"It's... Been a while." Martin sighed. "Look at me, acting all nervous."

"Me too man, me too." Ned laughed, covering the blush on his face and utterly failing to hide the red of his ears. "’Promise I'm not usually like this, I have no friggin' idea what my problem is."

"Well, this'll just have to do." Martin made a show of shrugging and frowning in mock-resignation.

Ned let out a 'ha!' and leaned back, all muscles now relaxed as he smiled up at his companion. His words and smile were casual, but he was looking at Martin with such soft eyes, as if this tired old man was the damn moons and stars.

"Can I kiss you?" Martin asked.

Ned nodded.

He leaned over him, and went in for another kiss. And another. This time, it was as if a dam had burst. All lips and tongue and teeth and breath and hands moving on skin with a practiced clumsiness that spoke to years of experience, and spoke to one treading a ground that was brand new and wonderful for it.

As they pulled apart, Ned smiled and squeezed Martin's hands, and he squeezed back. They guided each other downward.

Now, Martin's lips were at a precipice below deniability. His hands held ready at the man's waist, a few fingers interwoven with his, beyond caring if their palms sweat or if their arms shook. He looked up to meet Ned's gaze, who cracked a smile and looked away, threading his other hand into Martin's hair in spite of his sheepishness.  

"Can I keep going?" Martin asked.

"Yeah," Ned answered, still smiling. Eyes closed. "Please."

Ned's thumb brushed his cheek, a gentle encouragement. A 'thank you'.

And he kissed him.

[agentmonet]

Jacqueline “Jack” Devereux (FC: Astrid Berges-Frisbey)

Pronouns: She/Her

Rank: Apollo

Skill Set Strengths: Gymnastics and Acrobatics, Art and General Counterfeiting, Linguistics, Surveillance, Long Cons

Areas of Opportunity: Smuggling, Operational Organization, and History

Weaknesses: Marksmanship, Hand-to-Hand Combat, and Technological Aptitude

Positive Traits: Disciplined, Calculated, Careful, Balanced, and Intelligent

Negative Traits: Cold, Frigid, Impersonal, Disloyal, and Snobbish

Timeline

Born October 22nd, 1988 in Nice, France to well-to-do French/Spanish aristocracy on the verge of financial ruin

Child of mixed trades - a passion for fine arts, but a talent for gymnastics

Begins competing as a gymnast, earnings gold and silver trophies. Nearly qualified for the Olympics, before an injury and growing dependence on pain killers disqualify her from competition (Age 19)

Earns a scholarship at The Royal College of Art in London, England and emerges with a Fine Arts Degree (Age 23)

Employed as a junior, art restorer for the National Gallery when she catches a counterfeit art piece - catching the attention of Pantheon’s ranks

Joins Pantheon and is placed as an Apollo (Age 27)

The Pantheon’s go-to for art counterfeiting and cons requiring steady hands and athletic flexibility

Languages Spoken

French (Native)

Spanish (Native)

English (Fluent)

Portuguese

German 

Mandarin

Italian 

Learning Japanese and Cantonese

Character Parallels

Marcia Roy

Olenna Tyrell

Amy Dunne

Mystique

Black Widow

Blair Waldorf

Full Biography

There was a certain, gilded path for the members of Spanish aristocracy. A life that promised importance, lineage, and relevance - long after one had come and gone from the world. It was an old world ideal, but for Duque Lorenzo Jiménez, it remained the expectation. Never mind that the Jiménez’s finances were built on the dwindling foundation of ancestral wealth. He would argue that nobility is synonymous with grandeur. They simply needed to show it to the world. To dig within, and shine. In the bloom of young love, Marianne Devereux promised just that. A highly accomplished painter from a well-to-do family from the South of France; the artist encapsulated what Lorenzo wanted for himself. A grand existence of popularity and influence, shrouded by the classist structures he enjoyed so well. The promise of a son came soon after their wedding, cleverly picking the name ‘Jackson’ after the Pollock painter. But a misread sonogram brings a surprise, and in his place, is her. It’s Jacqueline, they decide. However, the affectionate nickname ‘Jack’ was solidified throughout Marianne’s pregnancy - and it sticks.

Life is not without its share of disappointments, and Jack is exposed to the tumultuous nature of her parents’ marriage. At a young age, the cracks began to appear over the polished glass of the couple. Her father’s taste for champagne, caviar, and excess slowly but surely diminished their financial status. A man of privilege, who never knew a day’s work in his life, placed the blame on his partner. An art career that once showed promise, proved fruitless in the years to come. Year after year, her popularity dwindled. And with it, the financial prosperity of the young family. In the cold, imposing ancestral home - Jack lived in relative solitude. When the marble halls weren’t shaking with her father’s wrath and her mother’s cool resentment, it rang a hollow silence. Something cold and imposing, in all that surrounded her. A cold state of being, as it turned out, made for survival. Jack managed through the toxicity of her family, by virtue of numbness. The singular source of emotional expression, brought by a paint brush and a canvas.

It was the first of many things that her father would take away from her. In its place, is the rigor of gymnastics. What began as a six-year-old’s hobby, evolved into a vocation. Sure, Jack was a tried and true natural - likely inherited from athletes from her father’s side. Something special in her bones, that made her pliable and agile. And sometimes, it was enjoyable. Nothing to be disliked about being excellent, and earning her hyper-critical father’s approval. Still, she would search for a canvas when the night light turns off. By day, she is her father’s trophy. But at night, she is her mother’s daughter. Hers was a technical talent, lacking in her mother’s artistry - you needed a soul to put humanity on the tip of a paintbrush, and stroke genius. One ought not to be fooled by the liveliness of the Jimenez’s home - there is not a soul to be found. As the years trudged on, the unhappiness and instability of her parents’ marriage clung onto the slimmest of threads - Jack’s athletic success. It’s not long before gold and silver medals line their home. The accolades prove to be a commercial success, drawing benefactors and sponsors alike. A cash cow, a champion, a winner - it’s who Jack Devereux-Jimenez is destined to become.

At only twelve-years-old, she began her career as a professional athlete. By nineteen-years-old, it comes to a screeching end. All before ever making it onto the Olympic arena, no less. The mounting pressure, combined with a slow-recovering injury push Jack to performance enhancing drugs. Orange pill bottles smuggled in her leather satchel, pried open after each intensive session. A minor crutch, she argues, that would dissipate when the true competition began. Jack is a winner, but even winners need a push up the hilt. But when it comes to light, she is disbarred from competition. A name that verged on grandeur, blacklisted and forgotten. The sponsors and accolades follow, and so too does her loveless father. Her parents’ marriage is undone, and Marianne and Jack are thrust onto the world on their own. A great many disappointments come from the unraveling, but in some ways, Jack feels relief. She is free - from her father, the Jimenez name, and the volatility of their home. An estate that is sold to settle the family’s debts.

In the aftermath, the mother-and-daughter find their way to Paris, where Marianne’s expertise earns her a coveted spot as a curator for the Louvre. In the simplicity of their two bedroom apartment, Jack heals in the arms of her lost love - putting paint to canvas. A therapeutic act that allows her crutches to become awash. But Jack is not one for keeping still, for just getting by. She is flexible, malleable - and her thirst for excellence can be foregone, for more subdued passions. She builds a portfolio, leveraging her familiar name and inherent talent to earn her place in London’s coveted Royal College of Art. A welcome reprieve, too. The space between Jack and her mother felt smaller and smaller, as resentment simmers just below the velveteen words. Jack leaves for London, and four years later, accomplishes a Fine Arts Degree. The name, Jacqueline Devereux, embossed on the degree. It is a new moniker, for a new Jack.

At first, The National Gallery is the perfect fit. As an art restorer, she is surrounded by fantastical works that spoke to her cold heart. But Jack was never made for ordinary life, or the straight-and-narrow. She is made to win, to see the world, and to bring her own grandeur to life. When a ‘Woman With a Parasol; by Monet is brought to her for restoration, it takes all of five minutes for her studied eye to catch the misnomers. The subtle changes in stroke, the off hue in red, and the tightness in the lines. It was a counterfeit. An impressive one, but a counterfeit nonetheless. But it passes through chains of authentication, caught only by a junior art restorer in the basement of The National Gallery. When the falsity of the piece is brought to the committee’s attention, an investigation takes shape. Never mind the loss of history, the millions in loss it represented caught headlines. And Jack, centered at the eye of the storm. As she makes her leave from the studio in the late hour, footsteps follow her through London’s sleepy streets. They chased her down, nipping at her heels. She believed them to be the perpetrators, offended by Jack’s ability to catch them in the middle of their con. Instead, the mysterious and hooded figures claim their loyalties to Pantheon. Their arrival is not judgement, but the promise of heaven itself - a place where her staunch eye, careful hands, and athleticism could find value.

The swift but calculated decision comes easily, almost too easily. Her workplace comrades, apartment leases, and social media presence is abandoned within the month. She vanishes from her life, but she is not missed. And it’s that ingenuity, that malleability that prompts the committee to decide instinctively. Apollo, a “Jack” of All Trades. A perfect fit for a woman that simultaneously blends in and stands out. She is young, willing, and bountiful with potential. So, they build her up by breaking her down. They dismantle her skills to their bare bones; from starting off on a beam, to drawing shapes instead of restoring images. She is patient through the process, trusting in this new mold. Keen and willing, as her abilities evolve throughout the years. But it’s always been in her, deep as poison. It only needs to be drawn out.

In Jack, there is a light touch and a cold-cut sensibility. She lacks harsh lines or impassioned stances. Her motives for joining Pantheon are simple - Jack is a winner. At what, and against whom? Those were all just details. Nowhere else could pull together her expertise, and draw out the sleeping champion. Nowhere else would value the cold, vacant stare or the way attachment is rootless. She sees that - and she commits. Her specialized skill set, acting as transferable and valuable to each crew. In the years that follow, Jack evolves each of her skills. Her gymnastics turned invaluable in espionage and stealth - lithe form allowing her to blend seamlessly and without notice. No area too guarded, that her physicality cannot navigate through. Jack’s ability with a paintbrush and canvas make her a skilled counterfeiter, forging dummies for the Pantheon’s missions. And even her background of aristocracy proved beneficial. A number of learned languages, combined with her ability to mislead quickly cement her as the quintessential Apollo. She grows, until she is the grand beast that her father could only dream of. In seven years, her reputation within Pantheon’s ranks is one of cold disposition, married with a competitive venom. It’s perhaps the only time that those around her could scratch the surface - when one proved to gnaw at the insecure young girl behind the skilled woman. Despite her divisive attitude, she is adaptable and flexible to the nth degree. Poetically called Agent Monet, she is old world whimsy in a seemingly forgettable scene. A known pragmatist that leaves things as she finds it, as if she was never there at all.

[forgiven-whimsy]

The Red Violin

FFXIV write 2020 prompt 2: Sway

Shiloh’s song  Shiloh and Emet’s duet (note the spotify version has a longer piano opening.) 

Anyways, touches of Lominsan/Vylbrand headcanons (they’re the ff Newfoundland, imo)  Aumortine music and art headcanons, and Garlean headcanons. Imagery leaning heavily on 5.3 revelations, while I don’t use express spoilers, reader beware. 

Set After Rak’Tika, but before Ahm Areng. 

Rated T - Angst

Wol x Emet-Selch

(Why yes the Red Violin is one of my all time favorite movies, why do you ask?) 

~

“I am a patron of the arts, always have been, the best your kind has to offer is found in the arts, incomplete as it is, there’s a certain charm to be found in it.” Emet-Selch sipped from his wine glass, swiping his gloved finger over the bars surface then wrinkling his nose. 

“What do you mean incomplete? Art is by its very nature subjective, therefore art’s completeness is defined by the artist, not the audience.” Shiloh replied, not particularly keen on hearing about all the ways she was inferior, but curious about how his timeless people made music, or art, the idea of Asciens being artists was a foreign concept, yet getting to know Emet-Selch, not entirely far-fetched. Solus Zos Galvus was historically a patron of the arts, she’d been aboard the Prima Vista and seen the reach of his patronage.

“It would be easier to show you.” And with a snap of his fingers the Crystarium vanished and he transported them to an entirely different environ. They were in a theatre, great gold trimmed red curtains, on stage a spotlight centered on a sleek black grand piano, surrounding it was all manner of string instruments, violin, cello, lute, harp, and even others she couldn’t name, Shiloh itched to touch them, to try them and see what sound they might make. The stage jutted out in a half moon, far more open than anything she’d ever seen, the audience seating surrounded the stage allowing a certain intimacy between artist and audience. Above, there was a massive chandelier whose teardrop crystals twinkled in the soft theatre lighting, the balconies climbed three stories, each gilded and carved with vines and flowers, painted in reds and golds, opulent. Stage left there was one particular balcony that caught her eye, the carvings more elaborate and draped in finery. 

“This is the Great Arena Theatrum in Garlemald,” Shiloh near gasped out, before rounding on Emet-Selch, “you brought me to Garlemald?” She had just let him, an Ascien, teleport her to the heart of enemy territory, and she wasn’t sure whether to be annoyed, furious or ashamed at being taken so easily. The musician in her near fainted with joy. Regardless of Garlean politics, every musician, actor, and dancer worth their salt has dreamt of performing on the Theatrums stage, Shiloh was no exception. While she was the daughter of a Doman refugee, she had been raised in Vylbrand, and the island's lifeblood was music. A house wasn’t a home without a piano, and a fiddle, and she’d been taught both as a child. She could recall playing her fiddle standing on the kitchen table imagining herself on this very stage. 

“Calm down hero, we are in an approximation of my own making, hidden away from prying eyes here in Norvrant, my fool grandson let the Theatrum fall into disrepair.” He sniffed derisively, “when I have proven my point to you I shall return you to the Crystarium without a hair out of place. It wounds me that you still don’t trust me.” He gave her a smile that did not inspire trust. 

He walked her into the spotlight, his gloved hands touching her lightly at the elbow, the twinkling light from the chandelier painted stars onto the raised top of the grand piano exposing the finely curved wood and strings within. Sitting on the piano bench was a violin case, Emet-Selch presented it to her with a flourish. Shiloh sat and opened the case to reveal the most exquisite violin she’d ever beheld. The spruce top had been stained a deep red with a bow to match, she delicately ran her fingers over the curving wood, the strings, the bow. Shiloh made a noise in her throat as she lifted the rare treasure into her arms, that prompted a chuckle from her Ascien companion. “A peace offering, the only condition is to play me something that stirs your soul, something original if it please.” He lifted her chin forcing her gaze from the violin to him, “move me, and I shall show you what your music once was.” 

“No pressure,” Shiloh held his gaze, seeing a spark of something she couldn’t describe in his golden eyes. “It’s been years since I’ve played, anything.” The weight of his expectation was heavy. He only smiled. 

“I have faith in you, dear hero.” Emet-Selch snapped his fingers and he disappeared into a black portal, she heard it re-open stage left, and there he sat, every inch an emperor in his gilded private balcony. “Take whatever time you need to warm up.” he called from his lavish chair, glass of wine in hand. With that, the theatre lights dimmed, the instruments, all save the grand piano, vanished, the spotlight remained on her. 

Shiloh felt like a mouse being toyed with by a cat. Squaring her shoulders she set the violin to her chin and prayed to all the Twelve and Kami, The Light and Dark both, that the bow would glide across the strings without screaming. The last time she’d picked up a violin was at Haurchefant’s funeral, at the behest of Lord Edmont, nearly two years past. A lance of grief sliced through her.  She could refuse, she could tell him to bring her back to the Crystarium, but then, she’d never know what Ascien music sounded like. It was the memory of Haurchefant, the two of them sitting shoulder to shoulder playing a silly duet on his childhood piano in the Fortempt music room that steeled her spine.

She started with a slow scale, each note sung and not screamed, to her considerable relief. Shiloh exhaled, it wasn’t perfect, but it wasn’t terrible, her fingers remembered the strings. She warmed up with scales, old childhood lullabies, folk songs played around the kitchen table. Finally she played an Ishgardian waltz, the sheet music a gift from her departed friend. She felt herself smiling, eyes shut, tail swaying in time with the tempo. Her mind filling in the missing instruments as the red violin sang with a full and mournful voice. So focused on practicing and remembering, Shiloh didn’t hear Emet-Selch’s portal behind her. 

“All very lovely, my dear, I’m sure Master Jevant Dufet would be pleased with such an able rendering of the Midnight Waltz, and without sheet music, most impressive.” 

Shiloh startled, spinning around to face him.

Emet-Selch tutted her while he approached, he placed gentle hands at her waist, spinning her back into the spotlight. He was in her space and she could feel his warmth, smell his scent. “I didn’t ask you to stop.” His long arms reached around lifting the violin back to her collar bone, he tilted her head just so before tracing a gloved finger along her jaw and arched neck. “I want to hear the song that resides in your soul.” His breath ghosted along her cheek, the timber of his voice resonating along her horn, and she felt her skin pebble. “Will you play it for me?” 

“I don’t know, I don’t have any original composi-” 

“Stop thinking, close your eyes, listen, and play.” His voice was patient, while he lifted her bow arm to the right position. 

Shiloh inhaled, and did as she was bid, listening, for what, she didn’t know. She felt the quick beat of a Thanvarian flamenco fluttering in her chest and slowly bow met strings, and the song that flew out was urgent, her bowing quick and precise borrowing heavily of the Thanvarian style, but so too was there a distinctly Ul’dhan quality, in her mind's eye she felt as a bird flying over the dunes, weaving over the rising heat. 

Emet-Selch’s touch was soft, gone was the silk of his glove, replaced by warm skin, his snap fit within her song and suddenly the guitar, the percussion, the accompanying strings, the piano, the light horns, the full voice of her song burst forth, the violin threading through each section. “Open your eyes.” he whispered against her horn, and she did. 

Gone was the theatre, they were bathed in the colours of the sunset, and above them flew a phoenix, dipping and diving along all the lands she’s seen, and saved, and loved. “Don’t stop.” he whispered, setting a hand on her hip and squeezing. She gasped at the sight, at the raw beauty. And she played with a bursting heart, tears slipping from unblinking eyes unwilling to look away from the dancing phoenix. She increased the tempo, bowing more quickly, the notes tumbling along the winds of the star, knowing that it would end if she stopped, and she didn’t want it to stop. She let the fire in her soul burn as brightly as she could, uncaring of the ach in her fingers, knowing only that the creature above was born of her music, and so she played for it’s pleasure, and it soared, the violin it’s voice and heart. Until in a burst of flame it was consumed, and the song ended. 

She swayed on her feet, consumed by emotion, bittersweet tears running down her face. She leaned against Emet-Selch who remained behind her, his hand at her throat, and hip moving gently, caressing. Overwhelmed she exhaled a shuddering breath. 

“Do you understand now, what was lost?” He asked quietly, voice heavy with the same emotion she was feeling.

“How did you?”

“I assure you my dear I did nothing but lend you a sliver of my power, the song, the image, everything, was born of your heart, your soul. And so it was that all art was created in a similar fashion. The full intent of the piece complete.” 

Shiloh spun in his arms, still clutching bow and violin, she was met with a half quirked smile and a softness in his eyes she’d not thought possible. He tenderly brushed the tears from her cheeks, “yours was always a beautiful song, so full of passion.” 

Shiloh’s head was swimming, she wanted to keep playing, she had so many questions, and yet she found herself drowning in the liquid gold of his eyes, the same pale gold as her own. She licked her lips, and leaned against the palm of his hand where he held her cheek. 

“Play with me?” she asked breathless, “before we go, play with me, a duet.” He closed his eyes, his expression pained, “please, Emet.”

“How can I turn down so earnest a plea?” he gave her a rueful smile, “but, first.” He pressed his forehead to her own, and she felt something, cool, and comforting wash over her, where her song, her aether, she belatedly realized, was like the sun, Emet-Selch’s aether, his soul was as the moon. Her own aether responded, curious and warm, until their essence mingled, until there was no ending nor beginning between them. “There, that should serve.” 

Shiloh both did and didn’t understand what he’d done, he stepped back going to the grand piano. His presence remained, slowly curling around her, lazy and familiar. “As before, listen, and play.” 

Shiloh lifted the violin, and tilted her head, giddy with anticipation, moving to be in sight of him and waited. 

Emet began the song, quiet notes on the piano, Shiloh did not close her eyes this time. With each passing note the theatre fell away replaced by blackest night until a city made of stardust rose around them. He met her eyes and nodded and she knew her part had come and she joined her song to his, she knew the notes, a song from a past she couldn’t place, suddenly the starlit city filled with people wraithlike and sparkling. But it was two individuals that caught her eye. Emet-Selch changed the tempo to a style she’d never heard before, yet it was familiar, she adjusted her tempo to match. The two wraiths danced, spinning through the grand city, there was joy in their movements. Unadulterated love between them. One lifted the other, and she could swear the one who was lifted laughed, when placed down they ran from the first, a game. The first chased, sometimes catching them in a kiss, sometimes missing, until the other rounded back to jump into the firsts arms. Shiloh’s heart ached, the song and starlit players a half remembered memory. The song changed again, mournful, the city fell away, one of the wraiths, the one who played, faded, leaving only one, until it also faded, and the song ended. 

She felt the pain thrumming from Emet’s aether still entwined with her own, his head bowed over the piano. Shiloh set the violin back in its case and went to him, wrapping her arms around his back, anything to ease the overwhelming sadness. His hand grasped at her arm, and she felt a shudder from him. 

“I’m here.” She whispered against his ear, soft hair tickling her nose. 

He shook his head. 

“I’m here.” She repeated, not understanding all, but knowing what she witnessed in their shared song had been a glimpse of their story.

He twisted in her arms, anguish on his face, “you left.” his voice a harsh whisper fraught with emotion. 

She had no answer for him, nothing to ease the pain, she didn’t understand, didn’t remember, whatever her soul had been to him, was gone, but it’s echo knew him, called to him, and she kissed his angry mouth, a despairing sound whimpered from Emet’s throat. He grabbed her and kissed her again, and again, hungry, lost, full of longing. Their twined aether created a feedback loop consuming them. His hands were everywhere, and Shiloh arched into him. In a moment he had her against the piano, discordant notes interrupting their growing passion. It was enough to stop them, and for a half beat they stared at each other panting. Emet-Selch was the first to move, tearing his aether from hers, and she winced, the withdrawal a physical pain. He snapped his fingers, returning Shiloh to the Crystarium, as promised, without so much as a word.

She made her way back to her room in the Pendants, still processing everything she’d learned, and seen, and felt. Every so often touching her kiss swollen lips. She slid into her room meeting no one she knew along the way, no one to question the high blush on her cheek and chest, or the dazed look in her eyes. Distracted as she was it took a minute for her to notice the violin case sitting on her kitchen table. She knew before opening it what she’d find within, a promise, a memory, her red violin. 

[diveronarpg]

Congratulations, ALEX! You’ve been accepted for the role of HORATIO. Admin Rogue: Alex, I can’t exaggerate enough how thrilled I was every moment of reading your app. You were so clever and thought so quickly, it was like seeing Hunter being built in front of me, until he became not just a character I wrote, but a person in his own right, quick-witted and dipped in gold. He was mesmerizing from start to finish; I believe I ended up half in love with him by the end of reading it. You brought such exciting depth to him that I can’t wait to see him brought to life! . Thank you for bringing my most beautiful son to the dash. Please read over the checklist and send in your blog within 24 hours.

WELCOME TO THE MOB.

OUT OF CHARACTER

Alias | Alex Age | Twenty-four Preferred Pronouns | She/Her Activity Level | I am a full time grad student but because of the messy events happening throughout the world at the moment, I have been left with more free time than I know how to handle! I anticipate investing that time in plotting with people and beginning threads so once classes pick up again, I am in a rhythm and able to maintain stable activity (catching up on all/most replies 2-3 times a week). Timezone | US EST How did you find the rp?  | Honestly, at this point I don’t even remember. I have been lurking for eons, waiting for the right timing and the right character to become available, and now couldn’t be more perfect!

IN CHARACTER

Character | HORATIO, Hunter Marchesi

What drew you to this character? | There are about a thousand-and-one things that I could list here. I have always been drawn to characters that walk the line between golden and gilded, the ones that are a little bit too inhuman to be fully mortal and yet too weak to truly be a god. When I read Hunter’s biography, it was striking how electric he felt. Reading through the plot summaries, it’s evident that Verona has been wading through dark times for a while now, and glancing through several biographies, her inhabitants are not without their scars. Yet here is Hunter, a boy from out of town that stumbled into the greatest war the underbelly of Verona has ever seen. He’s too clever to be fully naïve, yet he’s rampantly green – and that newness brings with it a certain freshness. Hunter isn’t tarnished yet. His future is bright, and he’s ambitious enough to learn how to make himself known in a new society. All the possibilities that came tumbling in with Hunter was vastly appealing to me, as well as his capability to step confidently into this world. Also, this one line in Castora’s connection had me dead: “He doesn’t hate her of course; his family often deals in philanthropy.”

What is a future plot idea you have in mind for the character?

BECOMING INSTRUMENTAL: Being an initiate sounds significantly more important than Hunter currently feels. He’s too new to be helpful, too green to pretend that he knows what he’s doing. Hunter requires mentors to aid in his transition. After all, his face is one that’s never known a bruise, his fingers remain ignorant to the pulse of a trigger, and his nose blind to the rusting of blood. He has started taking on minor missions, learning what he can and aiming to impress, but he needs guidance if he’s going to thrive outside of his comfort zone, and the people that he receives that guidance from will leave a lasting impression upon the Montague’s newest recruit.

NEW MONEY: All his life, Hunter has lived within the penthouse of society. The Marchesi family had wealth so vast that it was rumored to transcend written record. Often, he heard his father discuss how he hardly considered new money families to be money at all. “After all, if you don’t have at least three generations of wealth, you’re no better than a peasant that happened to have a successful night of gambling.” Essentially, Hunter has no concept of what it means to happen into wealth, but he imagines it feels rather similar to his new position within the Montague ranks. It is not the Marchesi family that matters here. No, everyone around him owes blood it to the Montagues, and Hunter is beginning to expect there is no exchange rate for a life debt. He is dealing in an entirely new currency, which he finds remarkably exhilarating. His journey within the mob is just beginning, and as such he’s blinded by challenge and possibility and bolstered by a history that has never known failure. However, I anticipate Hunter stumbling as he assimilates into a new life, and as such, I expect that he will begin to struggle with his idea of self. Hunter is no longer defined by a name, or wealth, or charm; everyone around him carries such characteristics aplenty. For perhaps the first time, Hunter will need to learn how to identify himself without his very foundations, and that may entail a dash of demolition.

LOYALTY IS FICKLE: As someone that has only joined a mob to avoid certain death, Hunter lacks the strict loyalty that seems to flow through the veins of his new family. Of course, he remains loyal to his own life (who wouldn’t?), and to a certain degree, Henry (largely because the good professor had the courtesy to keep him alive). As such, Hunter is able to recognize that helping a Capulet would potentially ruin his future, but the fear of such ruination hasn’t yet gripped his heart. Why shouldn’t he reach out to Beau? What’s the worst that could happen? // The way I visualize this conflict entails Hunter reaching out to Beau before becoming completely entrenched within the Montague camp. Naturally, Hunter will come to realize just how dark and violent life at war can be, thus adding pressure to the help he’s become determined to offer, perhaps leading to the first glimmer that perhaps danger can be just as terrifying as it is invigorating.

Are you comfortable with killing off your character? | You have my blessing to kill him off as you see fit!

IN DEPTH

INTERVIEW

Hunter was never one to enjoy sitting still, and his leg bounced even as he reclined in his seat. Those that did not know him may mistake the bobbing as movement motivated by nervousness, yet there was too much light glittering across his eyes to be born of anything but excitement. He might as well have been starting his first day at his dream job, not beginning to repay a newly incurred life debt.

His accomplice didn’t appear quite as energetic. Their shoulders were slumped, their gaze downturned. When he’d walked in, Hunter had guessed him to be in his mid-twenties. With the cloud hovering over his head, he looked twice that age. Thirty minutes into a stake-out, Hunter had started picking up on the crow’s feet, the downward angle of his lips, the hair that was in desperate need of a trim. He’d always thought the grandiose mobsters of Verona would have more style.

Five minutes passed, and Hunter focused his attention on the dimly lit street in front of him. He’d been in the city less than a month now, and he barely recognized the intersection in front of them. “Where are we in the city?” he asked.

“Ten minutes north of the Roman Arena,” his partner answered. Hunter had introduced himself at the start of the mission, but his partner had settled for a quick once-over before settling on silence and slipping into the car. He hadn’t bothered to ask his name since.

“Haven’t made it to the Arena yet,” Hunter mused. His partner didn’t respond, so Hunter settled for another question. “What is your favorite place in Verona?” Again, he was met with silence. If they weren’t three hours into a stale stakeout, Hunter would have let it go. He would have read the tension between them as one better suited for silence, but three hours of nothing begged to be replaced by something of substance. “I think that I’ll be quite fond of Lamberti Tower when the time comes. Haven’t exactly had good reason to celebrate yet.” He leaned his head back against the headrest and waited for an answer that he knew wasn’t coming. This time, he let silence settle between them. The moon arched higher overhead, a desperate sliver against the abyss of the night sky.

Hunter glanced at the clock. It’d been ten minutes since his last question, meaning it was high time to strike up conversation again. “What’s your typical day like? So far, all I’ve done are stakeouts and guard shifts at the library.”

“Depends on the day.”

“You’re a real charmer, anyone ever tell you that?” Hunter softened the dig with a wink. “Know any particularly talented fighters? I’m looking for a sparring coach. Punching bags rarely hit back.” Silence. Not even a pity chuckle. “You’re going to need to start answering some of my questions. These are the easy ones.”

His partner glanced at him briefly. “Awfully bossy for an initiate, anyone ever tell you that?” A sigh, and Hunter assumed that was the end of the conversation but the next sentence came with a pleasant surprise. “What are you doing now? Working out? Running errands? Sucking up to your superiors? All worthwhile things, sure. But I’m guessing they aren’t scratching that adrenaline itch that drove you to sign up.”

“And what makes you think I have an – how did you put it? Adrenaline itch?”

“You’re young, confident, rich. The world was given to you on a silver platter so you’re wondering if it’ll taste different on paper. Need something to stoke your fire since you’ve never come in contact with real conflict. You made a mistake joining, kid.”

Hunter swallowed the first response that threatened to spring to his lips. His partner was trying to start a fight, to insult him to the point he’d shut up for the remainder of the night. He wouldn’t be so lucky.

“Alright then, if we’re talking about mistakes, teach me something. What’s the biggest mistake you’ve made thus far?”

“Man doesn’t go around bragging about his mistakes.”

For the first time all night, Hunter agreed with him. He didn’t want to speak of the first mistake he’d ever made in life that carried consequences. There was still something unsettling about remembering that night, Doctor Zhang creating bloodshed and making it disappear with the bat of an eye. He’d made it seem so easy, and Hunter couldn’t yet imagine himself in such a position. He’d wondered nightly if it was a mistake to have pursued Henry for this long, to think about him as frequently as he did. It led to far too many uncertainties. If Henry Zhang was his greatest mistake, then signing up for a philosophy course was the root of all evil. It sounded ridiculous. Naturally, that meant that the true nature of the mistake would require significantly more introspection than Hunter cared to participate in. So he settled: his biggest mistake was being in the wrong place at the wrong time. A shame, but at least it was true.

Nearly an hour passed, filled with a brief moment of excitement when they noted movement ahead only to be met by the visage of a couple stumbling home linked arm-in-arm. There were at least three hours still until sunrise, and Hunter was beginning to lose all motivation. There had to be a better use of time and resources. There was no way this would be his future.

“What’s the most difficult task they’ve asked of you?” he asked suddenly, sure that this night marked his own.

“Staking out in a car all night with an initiate that isn’t comfortable with silence.”

“I’m trying to learn. It shows initiative,” Hunter countered.

“It shows that you’re nosey.”

Hunter wanted to be offended, but he couldn’t help the soft laugh that bubbled from his lips. After a night of intermingled silence, distant traffic, and brusque responses, this was the closest thing to humor he’d encountered, even if it was at his own expense. “They haven’t asked anything difficult of me yet.”

“Be thankful for that, son. You need to learn how to crawl before you can walk.”

“Alas, I came out the womb already sprinting.” It might be the low lighting, but Hunter swore he saw the slightest smirk on his partner’s face. It was enough camaraderie to summon up the question he had been desperately wanting answered all night: “What are your thoughts on the war between the Capulets and the Montagues?”

What warmth he’d gained was quickly replaced with solid ice. “You shouldn’t ask questions like that.”

Hunter hummed. “Maybe not, but I’m still interested. I think it all seems very… personal. Professional on the surface, of course. They’re competing industries in a small space, conflict in inevitable. But it hardly seems as if they’re fighting over territory at this point. Everything feels much more intimate, and not in a particularly loving way.”

“You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Don’t I?” He sounded confident, maybe even cocky. But he wasn’t entirely certain, and that unsettled him. Ever since arriving and locking himself within Verona’s perfect cage, he’d been trying to uncover the nature of this war they were fighting. If he was going to risk his life for someone, it only made sense to know why. Yet the answers were vague, elusive, textbook. There were too many layers of blood staining these streets to ever get at the bottom of it all, and Hunter was beginning to realize that like it or not, he’d been assigned a side in this war. And he would fight it.

EXTRAS

ZERO TO SIXTY: While Hunter was never groomed for war, a prior life of extravagance and wealth was not without its incidental lessons. Around his twentieth birthday, Hunter experienced a bout of boredom stronger than any that had come before. University was routine (save for the exception of a single course that oft labored late nights, red eyes, and grins that dripped sunshine), his parents were content with his performance, and his circle of friends remained vast and glittering of silver and gold. There was no change, no challenge looming ahead, and so he sought to create his own. // The first time he slipped into the driver’s seat of a Ferrari 488, he was sold. Looking back, he recognized his first lap as a slow fumble, but at the time he had felt himself a natural. Sinking into curves made his heart race, and the rumble of an engine with more power than he could control sent all thoughts of discontent scattering. Ever one to turn talent to profit, he began to race on the weekends, soaring with pride as his name began to climb the leaderboards of local tracks. The thought of turning his passion into a full-blown career would flit through his mind whenever he was standing in the winner’s circle, but he would wake the next morning with the knowledge that the lifetime wages of Formula One racers appeared mere pocket change next to the Marchesi fortune. Little did he know that he could one day turn his talent into a lucrative career as a getaway driver for the Montagues.

Driving playlist:   1. Physical // Dua Lipa. 2. Ride It // Regard. 3. Roller // Apache 207. 4. Red Flag // Billy Talent. 5. Run Boy run // Woodkid. 6. Slip // Skrizzly Adams. 7. Legend Has It // Run the Jewels.

FAMILIAL INFLUENCE: The headlines have been screaming it for ages: the British aristocracy is running low on funds. However, a single glance at the Marchesi family would cast doubt upon even the most reputable reporter. With manors in three different countries, the Marchesis have no qualms about demonstrating their wealth. // Jasper Marchesi was the eldest of four brothers, and he inherited his father’s art empire upon his death. Collectionswere the Marchesi trade, particularly the acquisition of difficult-to-come-by pieces. Jasper often cited the families distant Italian roots as being the source of his exquisite taste, and he honored the heritage by building a home in Milan. It was at this home that Hunter remembers spending a majority of the year, with voyages to Britain reserved for the holiday season and vacations to Brazil confined to the summer. // While her husband was rapt with the arts, Ana Marchesi believed that wealth was best unearthed in the modern-day gold of real estate. She began investigating just how lucrative buying, selling, and renting properties could be while her father was still traveling the world on diplomatic assignments. What started with a few rental houses quickly morphed into buying mansions left abandoned by new-money families that never had a chance of living in such elegance and transferring them (at a notable mark-up) back into the hands of those with the resources to invest in such a gilded future. Jasper reminded her on numerous occasions that such a business wasn’t necessary, that marrying into the Marchesi family meant that she had already bought into a future of diamonds and galas, but Ana insisted upon building her own empire. // Between the decadence of his father and the intrepid spirit of his mother, Hunter was destined for success. His family’s background required fluency in English, Italian, and Portuguese, and his father’s aptitude for the arts and his mother’s skill with finance instilled a harmony of practicum and creativity within him. He exclusively attended private schools as a child and enrolled in the most prestigious university in Italy without batting an eye. He pursued a degree in economics, and upon graduation assumed control of a subset of art galleries across Italy.

PLAYLIST

More // Poets of the Fall —What do you give someone who has it all? More, just to be sure. I got what I wanted so naturally I want more, what I paid for. Kansas City // The Mowgli’s — Been in a new town, got the same issues to work through. It turns out when you move, you just take them all with you. Wanna Be Missed // Hayley Kiyoko — I wanna be missed, like every night. I wanna be kissed, like it’s the last time. Say you can’t eat, can’t sleep, can’t breathe without me. An Evening I Will Not Forget // Dermot Kennedy — I remember when her heart broke over stubborn shit. That’s no way to be living kid; the angel of death is ruthless. And I’m always thinking summertime with the bikes out, pushing our luck, getting wiped out, days with nothing but laughing loud. Power Over Me // Dermot Kennedy — I wanna be king in your story. I wanna know who you are. I want your heart to beat for me. Pay the Man // Foster the People — Seasons change, you know it’ll never be the same. We’ll see the sun again before it fades. I just wanna say [REDACTED]. Cringe // Matt Maeson — She said I’m looking like a bad man, smooth criminal. She said my spirit doesn’t move like it did before. She said that I don’t look like me no more. The Best // AWOLNATION —Me, I wanna walk a little bit taller. Me, I wanna feel a little bit stronger. Me, I wanna think a little bit smarter. Said I just want to be the best. Classic Man // Jidenna — My name, calling all night. I could pull the wool while I’m being polite. Like darling, calling all night. I can be a bull while I’m being polite. Bonus Track: 7 rings // Ariana Grande

PINTEREST

[schraubd]

More Fun With Anti-Discrimination Rules!

Some Jewish women were kicked out of an Uber after their Palestinian driver found out they were coming from an Israel Independence Day celebration. Uber has since terminated the driver and insisted they don't tolerate "any form of discrimination." I doubt this will become anyone's cause celebre. That's mostly because taxis (or their replacements) are an arena where norms about serving as a common carrier -- which include broad non-discrimination requirements, far beyond what we think of normally by "non-discrimination". There are excellent reasons why we have pretty sweeping requirements on airlines, taxis, buses, and so on that they can't pick and choose the customers they serve. But one can certainly imagine how the case for the driver would go. The "speech" argument is already pretty familiar -- after all, he didn't object to "Jews", he objected to "people leaving an Israel Independence day celebration", which is not the same thing. Resurrect some gilded-age 19th century principles about free labor -- where the cab driver and the customer are just free contractors, both responsible for their own affairs and capable of entering into or cancelling a relationship at will --  and suddenly it sounds downright illiberal to "force" the Uber driver to transport customers when his conscience demands otherwise. And remember: we have a judiciary that is probably more sympathetic to that outlook than at any point in the last century or so. These arguments are not as outlandish as one might think. The "New Lochnerism" already uses free speech as a wedge against huge swaths of the regulatory structure. And much of contemporary labor law -- discrimination or otherwise -- in particular involves not viewing employment as simply the atomistic interaction of free contractors who are at equal liberty to do or not do as they please. Pull that thread, and more might unravel than one intends. via The Debate Link http://bit.ly/2W2Prgs

[gossamerashes]

[ THROAT ]: sender pins the receiver to the wall by placing a hand or forearm against their throat.

The fabric of Wolfram’s gambeson catches against the uneven texture of the cobbled wall. He’s thrown off guard and yet does not make for immediate retaliation. Wolfram knows well the strength of Fae-kind. That strength is not relegated to the arena of magic, as so many seem to believe.

His pupils are impossibly small against the silver of his irises. That, along with the flare of his nostrils, betrays his fury. The moment he rallies against the hold against his throat, the moment he feels the power behind it, his pupils blow wide.

He falls still.

Wolfram swallows forcefully. A war of emotions plays across his features; rage, curiosity, a shadow of fear, and something else all take their moment in the spotlight. Something molten, something sinister, something made of sharp teeth and reckless hunger radiates through him, caught well and alive in his unrelenting stare.  

He can feel the torchlight emanating from the wall sconce lapping against the side of his face. Before him, stands fire manifested in physical form; the Archmage of Amorium in all his gilded glory. 

The heat around Wolfram is uncomfortably hot, and just shy of painful.

He makes no effort to escape it.

His wild stare searches Valeriu’s for a thread of resonance. Then, without disengaging their locked gazes, Wolfram tilts his head back, stretching out his throat, allowing Valeriu better access. He craves it, the pressure. He wants the burn in his lungs to match the burn against his cheek, against his body. Fire all around him, eating him alive –

He wants it.

And if his behavior is not evidence enough, the way Wolfram subtly spreads his legs seals his intentions.

[entergamingxp]

Moonshining is Red Dead Online’s best update yet, but the cost of content is starting to hurt • Eurogamer.net

Since we last spoke, Red Dead Online has made the move to PC, and with the Moonshiners update has finally caught up to its console counterpart, wrangling it into submission with its 4K 60FPS lasso. This fancy new patch grafts in the second season of the much-loved Outlaw Pass, a new wardrobe worth of cosmetics and a brand new Frontier Pursuit to pursue in Moonshining, which introduces property ownership and a separate five-mission narrative.

A lot to dig into then! The boozehound business model is the main focus, and as you kickstart the new role you’re introduced to the baroness of shine, Maggie Fike, a woman scorned and left to fry in a burning shack by federal tax agents. You’re tasked with reclaiming her extremely illegal operation and seeking revenge against a trio of bad blokes. It might sound familiar if you’ve played through Online’s main story: a long-winded redemption song spearheaded by Jessica McClerk, the woman who broke your green behind out of Sisika penitentiary in the opening so you could avenge her dead husband.

Even so, this side story comfortably overshadows that arc across five meaty missions that ply the player with a refreshing approach to Red Dead mission design. Most importantly, the objectives in Fike’s campaign don’t so quickly dissolve into dissatisfying combat arenas.

The most effective is a gauntlet of a mission where you lay a tainted moonshine trap and fight through the flame-ridden swamp you summoned to a ruined castle, diving into muddy cover as turret fire rains down upon your posse. It’s a gritty moment of comeuppance in a narrative that compels you to care about its characters. Other fond memories include my crew commanding covert canoes through alligator territory, lobbing fire bottles at moonshine stills and fighting bears as we foraged for cursed recipes to poison rival supply chains.

One mission has you commandeer a boat and murder hundreds of federal tax officers. The brown guff is my own special brew.

Outside of resonant gameplay, Fike’s story happens to be steeped in a curious and obscure facet of American History, alluding to a time when federal agents came down hard on rural moonshiners after the American Civil War. You’ll steal boats and sneak into compounds to escape a sect of vicious taxmen led by the dreaded Agent Hixon. This historical context was developed in a fascinating anecdotal post over on the Red Dead Online subreddit, authored by a player whose ancestors were involved in the business of outlaw shine in Pennsylvania in the 19th century.

These missions are longer and much more difficult than before, but the most clever turn of the Moonshine campaign is how it ties its narrative to the progression of the new role. As you purge hordes of Revenue Men (who all look a bit like Friedrich Nietzsche), you unlock tangible upgrades for your business, such as new recipes, buyers and reduced ingredient costs. Before this, the story missions were so disconnected to the Role XP in Frontier Pursuits that they quickly became a one-and-done affair. In this update you want to keep playing them, advancing the difficulty and completing optional stealth objectives to increase your ambient earnings on the other side.

If this same approach isn’t adapted for Bounty Hunter, Trader and Collector, it would be a crying shame. Rockstar has found a set of addictive feedback loops with the introduction of roles and would do best to squeeze the wider narrative of Red Dead Online through these side stories, creating likeable characters that define each Frontier Pursuit. In Madam Nazar’s case, the legwork has already been done, but both Trader and Bounty Hunter are begging for development.

If you can ignore my masked horse companion Geoff Keighley, you’ll be able to take in the gorgeous vista’s Red Dead’s PC port provides.

Outside the story, the core of the role grind is making and selling moonshine from your shack. It’s a bit of an obtuse system at first, one where you have to let the mash cook for half an hour and then flavour it with picked herbs and canned foods to meet the needs of a set of buyers that changes every two hours. This pushes you to engage with the environment more while you’re playing to acquire the most lucrative shine.

Delivering the devil’s drink is perhaps the weakest mission type introduced in this update, especially when compared to the super saloon brawls offered by the bootlegger missions. it’s all too similar to the Trader mainstay of delivering cargo, albeit with a frustrating damage meter affected by poor driving and federal checkpoints.

Truly, the most fun to be had is down below in the basement of your shack, where you can get mortal with your mates and annoy the patrons. Getting high off your own supply is usually a big business faux-pas, but in Red Dead Online I seem to have forgotten this mantra in favour of a good time.

Perhaps it’s the abundance of real-world dread enabling the drowning of my virtual sorrows… Reasons to be merry aside, I’ve spent precious time waiting for my shine to prove by happy-slapping my posse members after sliding copious amounts of potentially blinding alcohol down the bar and into their gullets. Oloman’s shack operates on a “serve until you slur” model, the in-game prompts descending into utter nonsense as the taps run dry. Designated drivers for the next smuggler’s run can fill up on the customary almond bowl and adjudicate brawls.

There’s me when I saw the Exit Poll the other night and logged in for a few cups of sauce.

With the Moonshiners update also comes another peculiar attempt at cross-game archaeology with GTA Online. By following a secret murder mystery in Los Santos you can now dig up a special revolver back in New Hanover. It’s a clever way to make you flip between each ecosystem, but I’ve always thought this would be an exciting thread for Rockstar to follow to its end within their disparate but popular worlds – perhaps to transfer money between games you could bury gold and weapons in dig sites in Red Dead and unearth them in GTA decades later.

The bloodied Navy Revolver variant you receive in the end is this update’s new weapon and a particularly punchy six-shooter when paired with another pistol. The crunchy haymaker to the Volcanic Pistol’s jab, if you will. The ‘Stop ‘n’ Swop’-esque game-jumping is preferable too unless you’re happy to pay the $275 RDO price tag.

Regarding the cost of content, this is something that’s starting to become a worry in Red Dead Online. With another role comes another 25 gold bar entry barrier, and that’s before we dig into the Outlaw Pass, which has jumped from 35 to 40 gold bars this time around, adding another 30 ranks worth of rewards (including John Marston and Arthur Morgan’s outfits) in an attempt to mitigate the difference in price.

That means it’ll cost you at least £27 if you want to go all-in on the white lightning with no bars in the bank. That said, the first three Frontier Pursuits are still gated at 15 Gold Bars a piece with no upgrades for any of the professions unlocked.

Rockstar is gracious enough to let you earn your 40 gold bars back in corporate scrip for progressing through the Outlaw Pass and yes, the Moonshining role is worth the price of entry, but the slow burn approach to earning your content in Red Dead Online is starting to become beneficial to Rockstar and Rockstar alone.

Bar fights come thick and fast when you’re full of flavoured moonshine, but you can’t quite batter someone – sour slaps will have to do.

Not to go all Martin Lewis on you, but with this much content to purchase there certainly needs to be easier methods to unlock gold bars. At the moment, your best option is to enable Two Factor Authentication on your Social Club account and subscribe to Twitch Prime to get free gold (use a free trial to claim your rewards and overthrow your masters,*wink*).

Beyond that, you can grind hard or collect a pittance of nuggets for logging in and completing challenges every day to form a streak, which is a fairly unrealistic option for anyone who has a modicum of respect for their own free time. Earning bars should be an earned reward for following the most fun pursuits in the game, not a crash course in Marx’s theory of alienation.

Perhaps the greatest missed opportunity here is the fact you don’t charge anybody for booze in your speakeasy. Unbelievably, all the patrons and other players drink free. Given the mighty need for passive income akin to GTA Online’s Nightclub, there’s an open goal available for Rockstar to turn a purely cosmetic expansion (that costs a lot of in-game money) into a money-earner on the side.

There are also a few widely reported glitches that need ironing out: infinite loading screens, broken shack doors and disappearing batches of moonshine (with no rebate on the mash costs) being the main annoyance, and that’s not accounting for the sudden inability to make my favourite hunting dinner: Cripps’ special stew.

The gilded cheater I caught in the plains with his pile of pickled panthers. Robin Hood or up to no good?

I’ve also had one too many (two) encounters with cheaters since making the jump to PC, a new phenomenon I pray Rockstar are on top of. So far I’ve seen a cheater use some sort of trainer to repeatedly explode my character in Saint-Denis, yet the most interesting experience was when I stumbled upon a smelly-looking temptress alone in the woods spawning an infinite pile of perfect panthers for me to skin.

So far the character mask of Red Dead Online has meant my virtual diligence has not been cowed by these (hopefully banned) cowboy cyberpunks, even if, in the context of the Old West, cheating is nine tenths of the typical outlaw.

How Rockstar reacts to this update will define the future of Red Dead Online. If it keeps inflating the cost of roles and passes with no easy way to earn gold, the community will only rebel given their memory of the approach in GTA Online. Similarly, if it lets the Robin Hood cheaters run riot and load piles of expensive animal parts into the world, it risks undermining its economic false consciousness and devaluing the paid-for currency. Yet at the moment, it’s starting to look like the script kiddies would be doing us working-class cowpokes a favour…

from EnterGamingXP https://entergamingxp.com/2019/12/moonshining-is-red-dead-onlines-best-update-yet-but-the-cost-of-content-is-starting-to-hurt-%e2%80%a2-eurogamer-net/?utm_source=rss&utm_medium=rss&utm_campaign=moonshining-is-red-dead-onlines-best-update-yet-but-the-cost-of-content-is-starting-to-hurt-%25e2%2580%25a2-eurogamer-net

[making-dough]

Gilded Arena (+Leif)

And if that’s not enough, soon after you hear rumors that Drayden was actually being serious when he kept suggesting a trial by combat to decide who wins the seat. Gladiators from all across the Alliance are gathering for an underground battle royale, all in hopes to receive a fabulous sum of money as well as become Drayden’s champion. Hearsay won’t be enough to confront him–you’ll need to gather evidence. Sneaking into the underground arena should be enough, but fighting directly in the tourney might yield some extra information… [Grants Axe OR Brawl +1]

♠  ~ Alright, so they seemed to be having a bit of a situation on their hands. One of the top nobs down in Deerland bite the dust lately and before you know it, you've had the usual noble jockeying around, fights breaking out and things were starting to look ugly. Clearly, this was a problem. And orders from above had decreed that she help deal with this too. Damn it. Why couldn't these snobs learn to settle things over a game of cards? It'd make things so much more fun.

Well, anyway, apparently one of the nobs in this whole mess had suggested that they settled things with what basically amounted to a duel over it. He seemed serious about it too. He was even hiring! Through a underground arena, no less. Ah, a man after her own heart. If she wasn't already-Actually, scratch that. She had no interest in getting involved in a noble spat.

Besides, the man seemed to have attracted quite a roster already. A whole crowd of battle-hardened tough guys who all seemed eager to be his 'champion'. Farina let out a low whistle of appreciation, casting an appraising eye across the crowd. Whoever he was, he sure was attracting some talent. A lot of talent. Way too much to make sense. Did he already have some reputation on the ground beforehand? As a foreigner to the continent, she wouldn't exactly know for sure.

Well, whatever. They had a assignment to take care of first. "C'mon!", Farina called out to her partner, her deep blue eyes still scanning the crowd. "We're here for info, right? Let's just mosey on up and ask around. Someone's gotta have some dirt on this...Drayden?” Shooting a sideways glance back towards her partner, Farina gave him a conspiratorial wink. "Let’s just keep an eye out, anyway. Any weird banners, any shady weirdos, any, uh..." 

She let out her voice slowly trail off as the crowd before her started to thin out, giving the mercenary a proper look at what they had been crowding around. The prize pool on offer. And suddenly, that size of that crowd seemed to make a lot of sense. That...was a lot of gold. A totally stupid amount of gold. Just imagine what she could do with all that money! She'd never owe anybody anything ever again! And all she needed was to triumph in an arena match to win it all?

There was a giddy thrill in her voice as Farina turned around suddenly to face her brown-haired partner, her eyes still dazzling with sheer greed. "Hold that thought! We need to go sign up right now!" No wonder this Drayden guy was drawing this huge crowd when he was willing to be so so generous. Surely, he’d know talent when he saw it. Could this be her big break?

@diadic