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xehanortsreport · 3 years ago

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For @khoc-week 2021, Day 1: Reference Sheet - reintroducing Spica!

They’ve changed quite a bit since the last round! So here’s the basics.

Spica Species: Dream Eater Home World: Twilit Bayou (Original World) Age: ~Late 20s Occupation: Deposed Princex, Summoner Relationships: - Vindemiatrix (Demia): Younger sibling, rival - Ansem, Seeker of Darkness: Partner, rescuer - Xigbar (Luxu): Partner, mentor in Dream Eater research - ???: A mysterious figure often crossed in Sleeping Hearts. Kind, and gentle. A friend, or perhaps an enemy? Weapon: Slumber’s Call (staff) Gender: Unassigned by tradition, goes by any pronouns

More on their backstory and personality below!

Twilit Bayou

Spica's world is set in a permanently foggy, misty, twilit bayou (hah). Constantly lit by gas lamps and settled by a society of disciplined, spiritual people, and ruled by Spica’s equally disciplined family, the mood is somber. The people are constantly in conflict with beasts warped and turned violent by the world’s natural “wild magic” that bubbles up from faults outside of the settled landscape. As such, a militia headed by the noble family is permanently employed to manage the beasts and are held in high esteem.

Similarly, another esteemed class are the summoners that run exclusively in Spica’s bloodline. Every ruler is expected to also be a master summoner--and for good reason. Dream Eaters, pulled forth from the Sleeping Realms by the summoners, are sent to help calm the wild magic afflicted beasts and make them easier to tame, or else be dealt with by the militia.The people of Twilit Bayou see the Dream Eaters as important godlike spirits, and in particular worship a special, very powerful Dream Eater that they summon during their Winter Solstice to purge their people of nightmares and put the beasts to sleep for an entire season.

Spica, at the time 15, the next in line for the throne and accomplished summoner with many lesser Dream Eaters, is one day called to prove their worth and summon the Dream Eater deity and prove themself worthy to ascend to the throne when it is their time.

Except...they don’t succeed.

Backstory

For a reason still unknown to them or those present, they mess up the summon, unable to bring it forth at all. Instead, Nightmares are brought forth, afflicting the people with sleep issues and the beasts unsettled and allowed to charge forth. The price paid by Spica was a worldwide shunning; shooed away in shame by their strict parents and seen as a portent of disaster by the townsfolk, they were kept in shameful solitude and privacy out of the public eye. Only a few servants, one a particularly funny entertainer for tired troops who taught them how to cope with humor, and Demia, Spica’s sibling, dared treat them with dignity and kindness.

Demia, though only 11 at the time, decided to cram their summoner studies into one feverish month, and then at the apex of the Bayou’s suffering, burst forth and summoned the legendary Dream Eater at an unheard of age, settling the beasts and bringing sweet dreams back to their denizens. Demia was miraculous. A genius.

Honorable, unlike Spica.

Spica was eventually sent to a boarding school, locked away as punishment and forced to restudy every lesson on summoning they had touched. Spiteful and envious, Spica used this time to work diligently to find a way to become a better summoner than Demia. They're able to summon many Dream Eater Spirits and Nightmares, and eventually traverse the realm of sleep itself.

Eventually, years pass, and during one of the winter solstice summonings, Spica manages to muscle their way to the front and snatch the summoning from Demia by summoning the Dream Eater deirt and merging with it in a never before seen ritual. It’s glorious, miraculous. Genius.

Blasphemous.

Unlike Demia, they are not praised for their innovation. Instead, they are once again persecuted, the kingdom prepared to get rid of Spica entirely. Demia, thinking in terms of sheer practicality and a mixture of wanting to save their sibling and not wanting to be shunned like Spica, made the split decision at the time of summoning to dismiss the Dream Eater with Spica still merged with it.

Floating scared and with seemingly no exit, they spent an unknown amount of time in the repeating dreams of lost worlds. This being pre-KH1, the lost worlds are not the same as those seen in DDD, but are a different set of worlds, some belonging to the Age of Fairy Tales that had been lost when that age had come to an end. To ease their loneliness and pain, they spent a long time among these worlds, learning snippets of what they have to offer.

They were able to briefly exit the realm by diving into the dreams of others, but this only lead them to live instead inside of the sealed world of another person’s dreams until that person’s sleep ends. It was disorienting, and uncomfortably personal at times, but a welcome distraction from the otherwise neverending repetition of the Sleeping Worlds.

Their grudge against Demia deepens while trapped, their bitterness expanding with no outlet. The weight of their anger and displeasure strengthened their power as a Nightmare, and thus disturbed the dreams of the humans they visit in their sleep. (One person, however, seemed resistant to these nightmares. Blond, blue eyed...a kind soul. Spica couldn’t help but be intimidated by their purity.)

Eventually, however, a rift they do not expect to see opens. It is as though another World has slipped, however briefly, into the Sleeping Realm, and a surge pulses through the cracks. A man within a brown cloak emerged from a whirl of Darkness, seemingly confused but enthusiastic with the discovery...and then they lock eyes...or rather Spica’s eyes locked with the endless shadows underneath the hood.

Curiosity with curiosity.

After a few words of exchange, accusatory and then slowly, surely, excited, Spica introduces themself to Ansem, the Seeker of Darkness, and their savior from the Sleeping Realm. Spica at first merely accompanies Ansem out of a feeling of obligation, exiting with him into the Hollow Bastion of KH1, and merely works as a hand to help him in his plot. During their conversations, however, unusual information reached Spica’s ears: someone searching for the very keybearer Ansem was working against. Someone seeking the legendary power of Kingdom Hearts, or perhaps the good will of a keybearer, to aid their kingdom.

A certain Vindemiatrix.

Having fallen in love with the mysterious cloaked being and swearing their life to both revenge and the pursuit of the greatest power a mage could posses, Spica formally aligned with Ansem, and then later the Organization, to keep Demia from helping the Keybearers, denying her and Twilit Bayou aid.

Instead, Spica, promised a portion of the power of Kingdom Hearts by Xigbar, another beau and co-conspirator down the line, their goal becomes the need to lock Twilit Bayou in an eternal cycle of sleep as "an apology" ...and as a sort of twisted protective measure and to prove that they have mastered their sleep magic once and for all.

Personality Notes

- They are highly intuitive, and quick to get defensive.

- They speak in a Valley Girl-esque dialect.

- Flippant and easy-going, the way a lot of “lazy geniuses” are. When they don’t know something, they immediately get defensive and swear up and down that they know. (They don’t.)

- They get a lot of joy out of being the most knowledgeable person in a group and will often feel lost or aimless if they are unable to contribute in some way to a discussion.

- They have a hard time accepting genuine displays of affection because of family issues. Still, they're intensely loyal to Ansem and Xigbar, particularly Ansem as he's the one who pulled them out of the sleeping realm. Ironically the “inability” of Nobodies to have “emotions” makes them trust the words that come out of Xigbar’s mouth that much more. Time will tell if that is a mistake.

- Sometimes thinks they’re still sleeping; grounding techniques are needed.

- Despite everything, their weakness is an honest heart. They can't help but lower their defenses when no one is interested in metaphorical dick measuring and instead just genuinely wants the best for others. They’ve wandered around the sleeping Princesses of Hearts' dreams before, as well as Sora and the Soras.

- The self-reflection said encounters hit him with are often uncomfortable and they emotionally shut down before they can think about it too long.

#if you read all of this you are amazing and i love you (platonically) thank you #KH OC Week 2021 #doodles mark ii #Kingdom Hearts #KH OC #Spica #day 1 #reference sheet #text heavy

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nirikeehan · 3 years ago

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Happy Friday! For DADWC, I'm gonna mix it up and say something nice for Dorian for once. "Companion" from the Valentine's list?

YAAAAS thank you, I love him so much!

So poor Dorian never got a love interest in Thalia’s timeline, but they had such a deep abiding friendship I think they probably would fake date each other just to spite Thedas's elite. I played around with that idea here.

For @dadrunkwriting (and @14daysdalovers tho I'm def over the deadline, oops!)

Characters: Dorian Pavus & Thalia Trevelyan

Word Count: 954

---

A cool breeze blew through the twilit garden party, a welcome reprieve from the day’s heat. Dorian held a flute of sweet red, watching the servants light the lamps. As fetes went, this one was less eventual than most. He had only overheard talk of four salacious affairs, two plotted assassinations, and a single heated argument over the acknowledgement of a love child. Orlais loved to boast its Game, but all too often he found it pedestrian to the goings-on in the Imperium.

Some dowager Comtesse with a distant Pavus relation had caught his ear, much to his chagrin. She was prattling on effervescently about finding him a good match; word of his disgrace had evidently not yet reached that particular branch on the family tree. He scanned the crowd and spotted Thalia by an ornate topiary, surrounded by similar vultures. A crease of annoyance grew ever more present in her brow.

“If you’ll excuse me, Auntie,” Dorian said, “I spy a fair young lady in need of rescue.”

The Comtesse looked to the Inquisitor and nodded in approval. “Well, dear, you’d best move quickly. They all have marriage proposals well-practiced on their tongues, mark my words.”

Smooth as silk, Dorian slipped through the idle hordes and through the opening between the suitors. He slid his arm through Thalia’s. “There you are, darling! I thought I’d lost you in these vast and beautiful gardens. And who are these fine gentlemen— ah, and lady?” he amended, noting one of the masked faces was in fact a woman. Orlesian customs were strange, but he had to admire their openness in certain social mores.

With natural grace, Thalia hooked her arm around his and leaned into Dorian’s shoulder. The Trevelyans may have locked her away in a mage prison for a decade, but under Josephine’s careful tutelage Thalia had honed her diplomatic skills. She shot him a flirtatious glance, though only he spotted the relief in her eyes. “Oh, sweet pea, you’ve arrived just in time. My friends, have you had the pleasure of meeting Dorian of House Pavus? He’s here all the way from the Tevinter Imperium.”

A round of milquetoast introductions ensued, and the rabble soon dispersed. “That ought to keep them at bay while the gossip holds out. A week or two at least.” Dorian took a sip of his wine.

“Thank you,” Thalia whispered. “I thought I’d never get rid of them.”

“It was a mutually beneficial maneuver. Auntie Dowager Comtesse over there is surely about to send a raven home to Father. He’ll think I might be cured after all.”

Thalia laughed lightly. “Perhaps we ought to give the marriage of convenience idea serious thought. It sounds like it would solve both our problems.”

“Please.” Dorian chuckled. He might have found himself hopelessly without prospects here in the south, but his friend was selling herself short. “As if there hasn’t been a certain lovelorn Commander making eyes at you from the buffet table all afternoon.”

“What?” Thalia craned her neck to see over his shoulder, where Cullen stood in all his uniformed finery. His handsome face contained barely concealed disdain for what Dorian assumed was the very concept of a fancy party. When he caught Thalia looking, his dour expression softened and a smile blossomed on his lips.

“See?” Dorian said, as Cullen managed a surreptitious wave. “You ought to go over and say hello.”

Blushing, Thalia turned away and gripped Dorian’s arm tighter. “Oh, I couldn’t.”

“And why not? A few well-placed words and you’ll have the man eating out of your hand. You know that as well as I.”

“I never said I wanted him eating out of my hand, Dorian.” Thalia’s voice sharpened. “I’m done with men throwing themselves at my mercy, thank you.”

“Come now. Cullen is nothing like Blackwa— ah, forgive me, what was his name again?” Dorian remembered, but feigned ignorance often yielded more insight than direct questions.

“Thom Rainier,” Thalia said, with the weight of a woman desperately in love.

Dorian stifled a sigh. He didn’t know that much about their interactions beforehand, but at Rainier’s judgment he had not acted like a man intending to throw himself at her mercy. In fact, he’d seemed quite furious at the prospect of being rescued and atoning for his sins. Thalia knew it too — Dorian could hear it in her tone. He was not sure what she had expected from the whole affair, but if it was gratitude, she certainly hadn’t received it.

She deserved better than a man so intent upon self-destruction.

“Cullen is nothing like Rainier,” Dorian said, keeping his voice low. Among the Orlesian nobility, the name still inspired vehemence. He had only recently withdrawn from a conversation lamenting the injustice caused by Rainier’s escape from the noose. “He’ll eat out of your hand politely, and then thank you for the opportunity.”

Thalia’s face broke into a grin, and she had to press a hand against her mouth to stifle a laugh. “All right, you may have a point.”

“Of course I do. All of my points are excellent.” Dorian smirked into his wine glass. “So are you going over there, or must I endure yet another mopey chess game as the Commander pines after your affections?”

“Stop it,” Thalia cautioned, swatting a playful hand at his arm. She glanced behind them and her eyes widened. “That might have to wait. Don’t look now, but your dowager aunt is headed this way.”

“Oh, dear.” Dorian struck his most dashing pose. Romance could be fickle, but friends one could act out elaborate ruses with didn’t happen along every day. “Shall we take our places?”

They shared a conspiratorial giggle, and composed themselves for the encore.

#dragon age drunk writing circle #thalia trevelyan #dorian pavus #14daysdalovers #fics #thalia & dorian #thalia & dorian fake dating shenanigans

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haphazardlyparked · 4 years ago

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the war AU

@gingerly-writing originally i started this as a response to your captured solider/person-enemy general thing but then it just turned into a whole bunch of self-indulgence sooooo

(i'm a softie at heart??)

---------------------

"Masara," a voice hissed in her ear, and Masara came back to her senses, only to swallow back a groan. Her whole body was an ache that burned at the edges, part magical exhaustion and part old-fashioned beating.

"Arlis," Masara murmured back, trying not to move. Trying to catalogue her hurts before she tested them, trying to remember what had happened. She did not say, You young fool.

Masara's heart––already burning her chest with grief and war––had leapt into her throat and turned to fear when she'd seen Arlis emerge from the tunnel pass, adept enough with the spells that she could open the hidden routes on her own. Masara's young, foolish squire, who had followed her because she thought her knight-mistress had gone off to do something brave, when all Masara was was reckless, desperate––and desperately hopeful.

Panam as heir was safe, the king was on his way to the Yina stronghold, and Fathmir, who had been at the holy mountain's summit since the new moon, could be made High Priest soon. The heart of Amir would be preserved, even though Amirasa had fallen. Even though things might had been different, before the assassination and the war.

Masara knew her part now. She was the most experienced knight traveling with her uncle––fleeing, navigating the twisting paths and hidden tunnels that wound through the foothills of the Endless Ridge. The king had to make it to the safety of Mount Yina, and that was worth Masara's life.

In some small measure, Amir would survive, watchful and isolated while her southern lands became a battlefield between two imperial powers. Ancient Lapur to the southwest, hemmed in by the Blasted Plains, and Kas to the northeast, a young and eager threat.

Masara had dreamed of her kingdom’s waning. She had felt the shadow of death hanging over her head since Panam had brought news of the High Priest's assassination.

When she had volunteered to lead the pursuers away from the king's trail as he and a fragment of his court ran for holy Yina, the king had faced her as her father wold have––grieved, yet proud. But he had faced her as her king, too, grimly resigned to her sacrifice.

"You might have been one of our greatest queens, if my sister and I chose differently," he had whispered.

Masara could scarcely meet her uncle's eyes.

"I dreamed a fire would burn away my future, during my rites,” she confessed. One did not usually speak of the visions, if there were any, but Masara thought she could ease her uncle’s conscience. “When Panam came with word of my father's death... I already knew how this could end. This is my decision, Uncle."

"May the Lady Sascrin guard your path, Masara," the king said.

The knight knelt, and kissed her uncle's hand, and when she rose––when the king drew her to her feet to hug her one last time, the farewell embrace she never had from her father––she smiled.

"It will be your job to look after Arlis now,” she said when they pulled away from each other. She stepped back.

Arlis was a jealous squire, and would likely be furious when she realized Masara had ridden to battle without her. Later, she would come to understand that she was too young for this.

And then the little fool had burst from one of the rocky passages, into the pitched skirmish while Masara charged a company with a twilit illusion, riding alongside moonbeams, and dropped the bridge to cut off pursuit of the king’s path.

She thought the destroyed bridge would been a good place to die, right up until she saw Arlis and realized with a ringing clarity, Not now. Her squire needed her.

Masara's vision filled with molten silver, magic in her hands and spitting down the length of her blade, and Arlis flickered across the field in her mind's eye, a star to be guarded. When they reached each other—the knight a blur of spell and steel, her squire a smaller whirlwind no less fierce for her youth, and Kassan footmen with their blue-rimmed shields and clumsy swords—Arlis screamed, and Masara's world exploded.

In the tent, when she opened her eyes, the physical ache seemed to coalesce in her chest as she put everything back together again.

There was her beloved, fool squire whom Masara would protect with her last breath; and beyond that, all the things that threatened her.

Masara and Arlis were tied side by side to foldable campaign chairs, which was quite civilized, all things considered. She could see spells crawling on the walls of the tent, and smelled the distinctive sting of burning a sharp, distinctive incense. Natural inhibitors of magic.

"Do you know where we are?" Masara spoke. Her voice was cracked and barely audible; her throat dry as dust. Unlike Arlis, she was tied to her chair by only one arm, because the other was broken. She woke with it cradled against her chest in a sling.

"I'm sorry, sir, I––” Arlis began urgently, quick and breathless, all the words she'd been thinking while Masara was unconscious now tumbling out. Masara let her relieve herself. "I shouldn't have followed, and then I ruined your plan and you went down––and I panicked. I surrendered. I thought they were going to kill you!”

“You did as you should have done, Arlis," Masara assured her squire when she fell silent. “I am grateful to be alive."

It was true. Masara had made her peace with her sacrifice, but she hadn't wanted to die. If she could live––and she had somehow, for Arlis or thanks to her––she would. (She wondered if this meant her vision was wrong; or if there was another fire threatening her horizons.)

"But Masara," Arlis mumbled. “You weren’t about to surrender.”

“That only means you have proven yourself wiser than me.”

“But... I told them who you are.”

Masara considered her broken arm––splinted and bandaged, carefully tended to like the rest of her battered body, and found Arlis's confession did not surprise her.

"And yourself, too?" Masara asked.

"Yes."

"Good," Masara said firmly. "We are alive now, and I will not see you die, Arlis."

Her squire knew enough to hear the grim promise.

"Sir," she acknowledged. "I don't think they'll hurt me. They think I'm a child––a poor, misguided girl-child who accidentally maimed some soldiers..." Arlis indulged in a little complaining, and when Masara recalled her visit to the Kassan court years ago, she decided Arlis was probably justified. And yet, they still burned the incense; they still spelled the tent. They were cautious.

"They were horrified when they realized you were a woman, and that was before I explained you are a high lady," Arlis continued. "After that, they bundled us up and had a surgeon come; you were stabbed through the shoulder, by the way. I tried to do what I could, on the road yesterday. They put us in a wagon and set a guard. They don't think very highly of me, and didn’t notice I what I was doing."

Masara considered that, and realized that was why that whole upper side of her hurt, not just the broken arm.

"Thank you, Arlis," she sighed. "It's called battlefield healing for a reason, and you've always been one of the best. I am fortunate." It really wasn't much more than cleansing wounds and dulling pain, but it was more than nothing.

Arlis grinned. "Am I better than Guira?"

Masara ignored the question, as she always did. She smiled, and then her lip split. Grimacing––carefully––she asked, “How long was I out?”

“The rest of the evening and all of yesterday. We stopped last night, and I slept, so it may be morning again,” Arlis reported. “You destroyed the footbridge we used, and that was the only easy path for a large party, so they've had to retreat back out of the foothills. They didn't stop until they were out, which was late last night."

Masara was shocked to hear she had been unconscious for so long--but something in the back of her head disagreed, remembered a dream, perhaps. Later. She said instead, "These are Sascrin's foothills; outlanders think they are cursed. Even I only turned back to make very, very certain they would too."

Some things were too important to leave to should and probably; the king had understood that when Masara proposed remaining behind to guard their rear.

Arlis didn't ask her what the plan was now. She didn't ask what it had been, either.

Trust, or insight? Masara thought it was the former, and she tried to turn her worry into resolve. Her uncle had depended on her before; now Arlis did.

"Has anyone spoken to you?"

"Only a captain," Arlis reported. “He said their general could decide what to do with nobility."

"And have you seen a mage?"

"No. But I do think there's one around. The tent could've been prepared, but the incense smells... intent."

Masara tilted her head––carefully, to avoid tugging at any other injuries she wasn't fully aware of––and smiled lopsided at Arlis, trying to avoid the split. "Very good," she said, winced, and licked at the cut. "I thought you might notice that; that's the scent of the mage's spell. Now, what other kinds of magic inhibitors are they using?”

"Sir," Arlis protested, half-indignant, but she was looking at the canvas around them. She knew better than to try and fuss more over Masara's wounds; she'd already done what she could. It was nothing she would not recover from, she decided––given a chance to recover, of course.

"We're currently bound to chairs in a spelled tent, Arlis," Masara said. "We might as well have a brief lesson."

Masara heard rather than saw Arlis's roll of the eyes. She could never keep from that airy, "As you say, sir."

But Masara saw how she relaxed a little, easing back into her seat and straining less at her bonds.

"Let's begin with the standard suppression spells," Masara went on. "One of the nice thing about them is that they're always visible, as it's active magic, and look––these weavers didn't even try for subtlety. Tell me which ones you know already."

Arlis and Masara discussing the fire protection spell woven into the seams of the tent, where the different cuts of fabric had been sewn together, and how they served to isolate each separate piece of fabric, when they were interrupted.

"It looks newly done," Masara murmured. "And it looks northern too, not like a spell that's been fully assimilated." That was the thing about magic. There were always spells and brews you could learn, but they worked best when you had truly made it yours, or if it was yours.

Masara often wished the fireless explosions Arlis was so fond of hadn't been her obvious calling.

"How can you––" Arlis began, but then the tent flap opened and a man stuck his head in.

He came all the way in when he saw Masara was awake, daylight flashing through the opening, and stood before them.

"Good," he observed after an assessing gaze. "Surgeon said if you were out the whole two days, we might have problems."

He wasn't a very tall man, but he was broad-shouldered and confident, a soldier in a blue cloak. He had the olive skin and dark hair of some of the Kassan, though with clearer, lighter eyes that spoke of some northern heritage. Or magic and vanity.

The soldier crossed his arms and frowned when Masara said nothing. It took Masara a moment to realize he had been expecting her to speak––he had asked no question. She instead had been looking to Arlis, to see if her squire recognized the soldier, but a twitch of Arlis's fingers said, he's new, and Masara wondered again where they were. The tent also kept them from hearing just what kind of camp lay outside. Masara would bet it was far larger than the one company that braved the foothills and her attack, if the general was said to be coming.

"Are you injured?" the soldier demanded, eyes narrowing.

Masara smiled––carefully, lopsided.

"I believe so," she answered.

The soldier's frown didn't change. "Well enough to speak the general now, I see."

"Lead on!" Arlis challenged boldly, unwilling to be overlooked and left behind. Masara didn't bother to check her.

"Oh no," the soldier corrected with a grim smile. "Do you think we're letting you out of this nice tent? The general's on his way here. You should be honored. Him coming to you." The soldier sounded disgruntled enough by the necessary breach of etiquette that not even Arlis commented.

They didn't have to wait long. The soldier left the tent after another moment of silence––did he think either Masara or Aris would say something, unprompted?––and then the flap opened again, and he returned. This time, he was followed by a younger man, another soldier, alert and brisk. He'd become very tan under the Amirran sun, his hair burnished to a golden blond currently bare of a crown, but Masara was surprised to recognize the general.

Arlis shifted by her side, suspicious. The general regarded the both of them in silence, his pale brown eyes almost dark in the tent's dim light.

"Leave it open, Kinlo," the general––if that was how he chose to style himself––said, and Kinlo, the first soldier, went to pull back the opening. Clear morning light spilled inside, silhouetting the general, and from his slight smirk, he knew its effect. "They won't run."

Masara quite honestly didn't feel up to a break for freedom, so he was right, which was mildly irritating. The smoke of the incense kept her weak, as though she hadn't slept or rested in days.

"We're in the middle of my camp. Surrounded by thousands of men," the general explained reasonably. One couldn't hope to escape or be rescued against such odds. Amir's people really would be penned into the foothills, with Yina as her only stronghold. "Of course," the general said, "we will treat a high lady of the land and..." he trailed off, and frowned at Arlis. What stories had his men had told of Masara and Arlis's capture?

Arlis's fingers twitched. Treat us with honor, I bet, she signed. Masara affected not to notice, and did not smile.

"Well?" the general prompted.

Masara lifted her gaze and fixed on the shadows by the door. "I didn't realize you wanted an answer," she excused herself. "The young Lady Arlis is my squire, if that is what you were looking for."

The general nodded, as if all was now confirmed for him, and he stepped to the side, away from the tent opening. It was strange to think of such a man––young, open-faced, eager for action and the field itself––ordering the High Priest's death. This general had plenty of battlefields to choose from, without provoking a new series of them. But he had advisers, and they were apparently in the capital, directing the empire while the general was here.

"And it was the two of you who blocked the advance company?"

Masara inclined her head as far as she could.

"You wouldn't have gotten far anyway." Arlis raised her voice in a taunt. "The foothills can be quite haunted, you know."'

The general snorted. "I don't doubt it. I don't think 'foothills' is fair name for them, either. It's like calling the Henori river a little creek. I'm ready to forget the whole campaign." He sounded matter-of-fact.

"By all means, do," Masara suggested.

"But there's Lapur to worry about. And your mages."

"Our mages," Masara repeated, turning it into a question with an arched brow. The movement pulled at a scrape on her cheek by her hairline.

The general looked at her, slow and considering.

"Yes. Mine are worried. My advisers tell me it's unnatural that you don't use spells. Materials, incantations - the common instruments." He paused, then added: "Is it?"

Masara spoke before Arlis could. "Your imperial majesty," she said blandly, deciding now was as good a moment as any to dispense with all pretense, "why should any Amirran spill our secrets to you?"

Arlis frowned, backing down. She hadn't known who the general was, and Masara could tell she was swiftly reconsidering their situation.

"I have found some who were very talkative, actually," the emperor-general retorted. Arlis hissed at the implication of torture––but Masara frowned at the general’s honest, untroubled irritation, and heard her quiet oft-ignored fear confirmed.

There was a traitor.

How else could Amirasa have fallen? And their escape to the foothills had been too close, too harried. Masara signed another hold to Arlis, one that called for caution, and said nothing.

"Unfortunately, they do not know much about your magics."

"You have captured Amirasa," Masara replied mildly, though the admission was ash on her tongue. She didn't dare ask for the general's chatty Amirran, not yet. "If your mages cannot see the spells of our city, that does not mean anything."

"They see those spells," the emperor-general clarified. "The battle magic, on the other hand..."

He trailed off expectantly, but neither Arlis nor Masara rose to fill the silence. When it stretched on, the emperor straightened, chin lifting as though he suddenly felt the weight of his crown, and said, "Even if you don't talk, you will be useful bargaining tools. Perhaps now your king will be tempted to meet me at a crossroads. What do you think, High Lady Masara?"

Masara offered the lopsided smile she could, but without warmth. "If negotiation is what you wish, I will write to my king myself."

"You doubt me?" the general demanded.

"Your army holds our ancient capital. You have done nothing but kill our people and claim our land."

"I sent an ambassador, and your king gave him back and declared war."

"Ambassador?" Arlis snapped. "Is that a new word for assassin?"

"What are you talking about?"

"The High Priest," Masara answered succinctly. It came out flat, an accusation torn free of the sudden hollow chasm that threatened her. It appeared suddenly, as usual, and nearly all-encompassing. She breathed through it slowly, counting in her head to ten.

"He was the head of a militant religious order," the general replied carefully, sensing the delicacy of the topic. "The greatest obstacle to diplomacy. He would never accept surrender."

Arlis scowled, but Masara called for her silence again––she was never very obedient for long, but she held her tongue for the moment.

"And did your sources also believe Amir would be amenable to surrender after an assassination?" Masara asked, with pointed equanimity.

The emperor-general frowned, and crossed his arms, and then changed the subject.

"I think the most important thing to remember is Lapur. They cannot be allowed to grow past the Blighted lands."

"How gratifying, that our kingdom can be a foothold in your imperial wars."

It wasn't exactly a fair assessment; Lapur worried Amir, too, with its constant, probing incursions north of the desert, into the no man's land usually left to Amir.

But it was Kas, young and full of its own power who had invaded, not Lapur.

The emperor-general's eyes narrowed, glinting nearly like gold as he coolly declared, "Say what you will, High Lady. But we cannot afford an Amirran succession crisis, not with Lapur so close and so restless."

Masara gestured minutely, freeing Arlis while she considered the general's words.

"That was your reasoning for your conquest of Seriona," Arlis burst out, after holding her tongue for what surely felt like ages to her. "We are not Seriona. In Amir, we know our king and our prince!"

The general frowned at Arlis, but replied to her as seriously as he had to Masara. "And if your king should prefer his niece over his son?" he challenged.

Arlis strained briefly, forgetting she was tied up as she tried to point at Masara. "We are here," she settled for instead, spitting the words out furiously. "A lone knight sacrificed to hold off your whole company, the high lady, the king's supposed favorite––doesn't that tell you anything?"

A new uneasiness settled in Masara's chest as she realized how badly she had underestimated her young squire. Arlis understood Masara's decision... and she was still a fool for endangering herself. In the past half year of border skirmishes, the outbreak of war, and their flight from Amirasa, Arlis had grown up a great deal.

Masara felt she herself had aged decades.

The general's expression didn't change, yet Masara still felt a shift in his attitude.

"It tells me more than you know," he said, and then waved his hand, dismissing the matter. "My ladies, I've been distracted from my purpose. I simply wished to inform you that you will be hostages until a suitable agreement can be come to with your king, which I hope will come swiftly. Until then, you will be kept with the camp quite safely, and we will do our best to see you treated with honor. If you need anything within reason, you need only shout to the guards." He glanced at Arlis, and added, "I don't think you'll have an issue with that."

Arlis regarded the general balefully. He ignored the young squire's glares, and asked Masara directly, "Should I send the surgeon to you again, my lady?"

Arlis fumed under her breath about it being his fault anyway; Masara's mind spun.

"That would be appreciated, your imperial majesty," she said quietly, focused more on the realizations that were slowly coming together for her, overcoming her unwillingness to see them.

"In the field, I prefer the title Imperial General. Hokiraj," said the emperor, magnanimous in his role as captor, familiarity offered as a flattering courtesy.

"Well then, Imperial General. It appears we are in your hands," Masara returned in kind, though distracted.

The imperial general coughed, made a vague noise of agreement, and then made his departure with, "I will send that surgeon along. Later, we will discuss that letter and what terms your king may agree to.”

As soon as he was gone, Kinlo followed him out and shut the tent. The haste of his exit went on unremarked, and it was Arlis who finally broke the silence.

“I think there’s a traitor, sir,” she whispered, reluctant to speak her fear too loudly.

Her squire was so old at fourteen, yet Masara wanted to protect her still. "I think I know who it is,” she prevaricated.

The king had broached the idea of changing the succession only once that Masara knew of, and only idly. Masara knew he would never act without his son’s complete agreement; it was how rule had been decided between himself and his older sister, Masara’s mother. He had thought he might have Panam’s approval.

Only Panam and Masara were not siblings, and it had been a while since they had been close as such.

Oh, cousin, she thought, unease dripping through her memories of Panam like oil. Could you really?

But Masara could not let despair overcome her. She had Arlis to protect... and Amir, too. However she could.

#i love aus #maybe too much #masara #hikaj #gingerly writing #prompt response #self indulgent 2021 #the war au

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ao3feed-tododeku · 4 years ago

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Under the Twilit Skies

Under the Twilit Skies by CrzA

Shouto is a pureblood vampire unable to withstand daylight to the point that his body shuts down entirely for as long as it is day. Izuku is the spirit of a mage who found a gem that gives him a corporeal form only when it is able to absorb the sunlight's energy. They can only interact in the little time when night and day are yet to give way to the other, but they both want more than they are given.

Words: 7513, Chapters: 1/1, Language: English

Series: Part 90 of IcyHot Broccoli Shots

Fandoms: 僕のヒーローアカデミア | Boku no Hero Academia | My Hero Academia

Rating: Teen And Up Audiences

Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply

Categories: M/M

Characters: Todoroki Shouto, Midoriya Izuku

Relationships: Midoriya Izuku/Todoroki Shouto, Midoriya Izuku & Todoroki Shouto

Additional Tags: Gift Fic, Alternate Universe - Modern with Magic, Ghost Midoriya Izuku, Vampire Todoroki Shouto, Past Abuse, Running Away, First Meetings, Getting to Know Each Other, Magic, Fluff, Comfort, Day/Night AU

Read Here: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25411246

#AO3 Feed #FanFiction #AO3 Tododeku #💚#💙#Tododeku #♥#R:T #A:CrzA #Vampire AU #Ghost AU #Fantasy AU #Abuse #Fluff

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degenerate-perturbation · 5 years ago

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Void and Light

In Yvanne Amell, Loriel sees light and laughter, the only growing, living thing in this ivory prison. Within herself, she sees nothing--emptiness, nonbeing, as a good mage should.

In Loriel Surana, Yvanne sees everything worthy and good in a world that has declared her a monster. Within herself, she sees only anger and misery, a worthlessness that her magic has cursed her with.

There is no hope for such as them, for fire made flesh, save for at the twilit meeting place between void and light.

Main Pairing: Female Amell/Female Surana Side Pairing: Anders/Karl Theckla Additional Tags: Slow Burn

Playlist, by chapter: 1. boats and birds - gregory and the hawk 2. run - jasmine thompson 3. quiet - lights 4. tell me true - sarah jarosz 5. sunsoaked - adib sin 6. paradise is you - la roux 7. like the dawn - the oh hello’s 8. electric feel - MGMT 9. cosmic love - florence & the machine

Full playlist here

Podfic/review&commentary available here, by @writersine and @michellemagly

Ch.1 & 2 - Ch.3 - Ch.4 - Ch.5, 6 & 7 - Ch.8 & 9

Please note that I’ve made some edits since the podcast was recorded, so the text no longer matches the recording exactly. I recommend both as good experiences.

Illustrations may be found here. These characters also have a tag on my oc blog.

The second part of the story, Blood and Spirit, may be found here.

#dragon age #dragon age: origins #amell #surana #femslash #slow burn #please pay attention to this post about my lesbian wizard fanfiction #today in: posts that were in my drafts for long enough for it to be embarassing

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brassikarts · 6 years ago

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The Night Terrors III - Full

Three months in:

Prescience. Contingency. Major Sequence. My lifesavers.

Val took a shaky breath, then repeated those three words in her head once more to ground herself: Prescience. Contingency. Major Sequence.

Exhale.

Drip.

She was repeating the carefully curated chain of spells to cam herself, the weave of arcane magic that the Diviner had committed to memory each sundown for any ‘break glass in case of emergency’ situations. Prescience - you sensed the danger before it happens. Contingency, you executed a pre-planned protocol -

She cut the rigid, orderly thought short and inhaled, then repeated the name of the spells one more time.

Prescience. Contingency. Major sequence. She couldn’t think then, only breathe, feel the lungs filling and leaving her lungs, and exist at that moment, for just then, Valerie Theona Farmer stood in the midst of utter chaos.

Ash and motes of arcana, grey and bright blue respectively, clung to her and floated in the twilit air. Congealed black ichor pooled at her feet, interrupted only by the staccato drip of clear liquid from an aspergillum that dangled from the mage’s hands - where it hit the steadily growing pool of gore, each droplet fizzed violently and smoked. All around were unidentifiable bits of what might have once been flesh or bone. And finally, standing out luridly upon her forearms and on the tops of Val’s hands were angry welts, which traced a branching, venous pattern along her pale skin.

Drip, went the aspergillum.

Inhale. And then, Val turned away from the scene of destruction, letting her nerves overtake her. She emptied out the contents of her stomach into the mess onto the ground and breathed. She was alive. She was whole. She had won.

***

One of the most telling weaknesses is the Forsaken’s susceptibility to energies pertaining to The Light. It has been well-established that the dead react poorly not just to bright illumination, but also to applications involving the magic inherent to the Naaru. These are potentially deadly to their kind due to the incomplete connection of a Forsaken individual’s soul and body, and it is this severance that is key to exploit for the most efficient ways in dispatching Azeroth’s undead. Holy water in particular is a time-honored strategy to combat the undead, quickly dispatching Forsaken and non-sentient undead in a humane manner that does not draw out suffering...

Val had elected to go on patrol that evening - well, that morning, to be exact. The lightening day was easiest on her human eyes, and hers was a valuable contribution of her time that gave the others a rest while utilizing her visual weakness as a strength. Or so she’d argued, apparently successfully. The mage may have been more or less fully nocturnal by three months in on the Darkshore front, but her eyes would never fully adjust to the gloom and deep darkness, not with Mage Sight or any other spell she laid atop them… and she’d done a lot of spellwork in the last few weeks.

Whole not the quickest member of the Night Terrors, what the Diviner lacked in agility she possessed in the arcane, which had bloomed into something marvelous and uniquely… well, deadly over the past few months. Marvelous, in that she’d broken through a barrier: no longer exhausted by channeling, Val found herself discovering new, unplumbed depths of her brain and internal well of arcana that were more creative than she’d given herself credit for. They were deadly, for the obvious reasons. She’d never been one for flashy spellwork, but utility spells applied correctly were just as lethal, and fewer people saw them coming.

Her confidence had grown with these revelations, too. Each new alarm, modified rune and missile found her standing ever straighter and speaking up ever so slightly more, though most of her companions still towered over her. You carry yourself differently, the elves that had been leery of her at the outset said, giving her appraising, wary, but marginally more positive looks now.

If they felt the same electric hum in their veins as she did in hers, they’d know why. But that was a thought she’d never spoken aloud, not here, not with Kaldorei. The Elf’s father was especially wary with her. Three months in and he had yet to say a word to her, or look her in the eye, but that was a problem for a different day.

Valerie continued her watch, looking up and around the tree trunks and into the visible patches of clear sky above through the leaves the way she’d see the other Night Terrors do in their own surveillance. The night was quiet as it had been for a few weeks now, since the latest in the series of skirmishes in the woods had ended. Owls hooted softly in violet boughs; the footfalls of crepuscular hunters padded softly against the fallen leaves underfoot. It was as she passed underneath the mossy branches of one of the large trees that something appeared in Val’s peripheral vision, however, a shadow of a shadow in the forest.

The Grove of the Ancients had held up well, despite the wars and pitched battles being held all over Darkshore. The trees there, stately oaks and enormous firs that towered into the glittering sky were still relatively whole and healthy, but under their eaves it was difficult to see little more than shapes and silhouettes. There was something… off… there tonight. Valerie paused, one foot poised in mid-air as she came to a full stop and turned, then slowly moved to look more intently at what had caught her attention.

It was a foot. A severed one, to be specific, and Valerie suppressed a shudder at what might have happened to the rest of the poor soul to whom it belonged. Stooping down, she examined the appendage though she dared not touch it. It wasn’t cleanly severed, nor was is long-removed, but it had been off long enough for the blood flow to stall. And there, around the edge of the bone were… teeth marks?

She frowned. Whomever it had come from, it had been forcibly removed. Val was long out of practice with mending, but she could identify that the foot was not decomposed, and that it had originated from a Kaldorei, probably female. Bears were in these woods, bears and sabers and other creatures of the night... but bears didn’t have teeth quite like that. Those were human.

A grim expression upon her face, Val stood and looked around the woods with a critical eye. Still quiet. Since the foot was still relatively fresh, that meant that whomever had removed it couldn’t be too far off. Most of the orcs and trolls and goblins avoided these parts of the woods nowadays due to the Night Terrors, which left few other options. With a deep, resigned breath, she strode off to retrieve something personal. If Forsaken were indeed around, she’d need it.

It was in a hollow of her favorite tree, a particularly gnarly oak covered in a blanket of moss and crisscrossed with glossy-leaved lianas. The Everfilling Aspergillum, the Relic Hunter called it, on a plane ride that seemed like ages ago now. It was exactly what it sounded like: a small, unassuming silver ball of holy water that refilled continuously upon use, attached to an unadorned stick of ashwood. The Aspergillum was both boon and curse to the Diviner - it’s healing powers were beyond compare, but every stray drop of the stuff that landed on her skin felt like red-hot needles. Echoes played in the back of her mind of the handful of other times she’d brought it out: the grateful murmurs of the elves and Worgen she’d used it on, found injured in hollow and on hill; the outraged, pained shrieks of the Forsaken she’d splashed it on. Her hands and forearms now bore narrow lines of long, branching scars, splashback from previous encounters, but vanity was immaterial when one’s other option was imminent death by plague.

Weapon in hands, she set off on the hunt, chanting her emergency incantation in her head. Prescience - to warn of enemies before she could see them. Contingency, with its short, simple call word that would execute a delicate, but lethal command sequence: a set of 4th sphere spells that would render her warp the air around her to aid her in combat and escape, and create an illusory double. It was a beautiful piece of spellcraft, developed by Edmund, and improved upon by Val during her time in Darkshore. It would be more beautiful still if she never had to use it, but that wasn’t how the world worked.

The trees were tall and dark in twilight moments before dawn fully broke. The deep violet needles and feathery, fernlike leaves overhead hid most of the growing light from view but Val heard the group before she saw them. Standing still among the trees, she could make out distant sounds of metal janging and the low, hoarse and reedy voices of Forsaken, conversing with one another in Gutterspeak.

Gutterspeak… it had been a long, long time since that accursed pidgin had crossed her lips. For a few moments, she let herself remember how the syllables and words felt on her tongue and deadened lips. It had once sounded so natural, while she eschewed Common in solidarity with her undead peers, but hearing it again after years away, the languages - Common and Dwarven - felt jumbled and slurred together. The normally-mellifluous Thalassian tidbits sounded harsh, alien in their strained voices.

Val moved closer, taking care to keep her footfalls soft and the aspergillum from jangling. There were three Forsaken there, bent low over a prone form, and the air was thick with the metallic tang of blood, strong enough for even the Diviner’s deadened senses to pick up on. Most unsettling, there was a curious slurping sound. That gave her pause - why would there be…?

The answer dawned on her suddenly, and with the revelation came memories of her own, buried for what seemed like an eternity under layers of denial and loathing and other emotions Valerie lacked the words for. Chief among those conflicting memories, however was Hunger. It hit Val like a blow to the chest and she staggered backwards, setting her form against a large, slick-barked tree. Her breath came in shallow gasps and her heart raced as a slew of recollections rose back to the surface, from before she was Valerie Farmer.

---

The world was too bright now. The hazy sun stung her eyes - and so Variya, because in 20 K.C., Valerie hadn’t been ‘born’ yet - had waited and whiled away the hours until the Northern sun set behind the low hills of Lordaeron. The young woman, barely out of her teens, had come out at night in search of food, wandering the countryside in her odd, slow shambling way.

She recognized hunger, even through the haziness of her mind, and even though the pangs in her stomach weren’t like they’d ever been before. A voice in her head - thin and tinny - warned her away from bread, but that wasn’t what she wanted. Meat. The idea of grain was anathema to her, and she craved rawness and blood. Beforehand, before… whatever had happened to her... she hardly touched the stuff. Variya shambled aimlessly along for awhile while the moon rose, wandering through empty farmhouses and unkempt gardens, past a barn where several animals lay dead and bloated. She was following a scent, one she couldn’t put her finger on but knew how to follow nevertheless.

That strange sense of smell led her to a field. A farmer’s body lay in the trampled soil, illuminated by the moonlight. From an outsider’s perspective, he couldn’t have been dead more than a few days - long enough for the softer tissue to begin to erode away, carried off by scavengers, which ran wild in the plagued lands these days, but not enough to strip him down to bone.

With a slow tilt of her head, Variya looked upon it, curious and strangely detached. She didn’t know this man. She didn’t know where she was. This wasn’t Stratholme- the trees here were wrong and -

With a lurch, Variya realized she was hungry. The feeling of rage, of desperate hunger was enough to put spots in her vision and make her sway in place from the force of it. It spread like wildfire, unabated from her mouth to her fingertips, gut to feet until it was the single most pervasive feeling in her body and thought in her head. Feed. Destroy. Tear.

But none of this makes sense! the reasonable voice inside her head shouted at her distantly. This isn’t you! You can’t -

She’d reached the corpse. The curly headed woman stopped and looked back, across the blowing dust to see her tracks in the ploughed dirt; then back to gaze upon the dead man’s face more closely. Whoever he was, he’d died terrified - his eyes were still open, though they were covered by ants, and his face was face locked in a rictus of terror. Poor man -

He smelled like food.

There was a rush of energy to her heavy, deadened muscles; she bent and inhaled the pungent smell of rot, the heady scent of fear, and gave in.

---------------

Val gasped audibly, brought a pale, shaking hand to mouth, and bit back bile that rose in her throat at the memory. The sound of her ragged breath carried in the still, dawn air, however; the three Forsaken looked up from their meal to follow the sound. There was a jangle of metal, of armor shifting and weapons being drawn, and then a voice distinctly hissed in Gutterspeak, “More elves, lads. Dark Lady be our witness.”

Dark Lady be our witness. That was a new one to her. The other two Forsaken murmured the phrase back, as if it was a prayer.

For a moment, the mage considered blinking backwards to put more distance between them. Rationality, however, took hold: there was no use in hiding now. She’d been heard, and they’d been spotted, and it was a matter of time before the two groups met. Three against one. Breathe Vally, she told herself, and then she echoed her sequence in her head: Prescience, Contingency, Major Sequence.

Three against one - in armor, with spiked weapons that gleamed ominously in the light of the pale dawn - and no backup in sight.

Light above. She licked dry lips and stepped out from the shadows.

There was a momentary glimpse of the body the three undead creatures had been feeding upon moments before. Sure enough, the wretched, crumpled thing - a Kaldorei ex-Sentinel by the look of her torn armor and what she could make out of her - was minus one foot, roughly torn off. Val fought back a second wave of nausea and stood tall, despite feeling very small and helpless at that moment. Her eyes blazed with magefire; she almost certainly cut a more imposing figure than she felt.

“Get away from her.” Val’s soft soprano voice was barely more than a hiss. The huddled group of Forsaken’s heads snapped to turn at the sound; their sickly, golden eyes locked with the bright blue aura around her own. One of them wiped his mouth, leaving a smear of purple blood on the suede of his leather bracers, but the rest let it drip.

“Or bloody what?” The flesh from the speaker had been pulled back so tightly that his teeth seemed sharp, unnaturally elongated. He spoke in Gutterspeak, thickly and around a lolling, swollen tongue; his accent smacked of the region near Tirisfal. “Are your tree-fucking friends going to stop us? See what good it did her.” He kicked at the partially-eaten corpse on the ground with a dull thud.

Clearly, he expected her not to understand. There were a few croaky chuckles at this from his compatriots, but the Diviner didn’t wait, nor did she grace him with a verbal response - war was no place for grandstanding, and that language would never again cross her lips. Val brandished her staff, and the runes along its side glowed brightly, illuminating the clearing as the arcana in her blood found its release and streamed into the dull metal quarterstaff. One of the Forsaken, an eyeless woman, brandished a pair of daggers in return- she seemed impervious to the glow all around them. The other two shrank back reflexively from the illumination with a hiss, as the undead rogue moved to strike.

Val felt a ripple in the air as the first of the spells was loosed - Prescience.

For a split second, there was an electric silence before a whooshing sound, soft at first but growing steadily louder, overtook the foursome. Overhead, the sequenced runes formed from the arcana flowing through her staff. It rose into the air above them, high, and spun slowly. Spell circles - arcing trails of bright, purple arcana - flew from it and recreated the complex sequence she’d shrung together. It would have been beautiful had the peril not been so great.

Almost immediately, the light extinguished and was chased by a subsonic boom as Contingency took effect, leaving bright green spots in Val’s vision and a dull ringing in her ears. The spell had done its work, however: all three Forsaken had been knocked back and Val - the original Val, that is - had gone translucent. She could see herself - or the outline of where she should be, anyway. Not even a stone’s throw away was a double, an illusion recreated in near-perfect detail from the frizz in her curly hair to the embroidery on her faded and torn robes.

The man with the swollen tongue let out a short, barking laugh as he picked himself up off of the ground. Nearby, the third Forsaken - a waxy-skinned, bald man whose mandible hung precariously from its joints - brought himself up to his feet with far more agility than was warranted. Both turned towards her double and drew their weapons, advancing.

Val took that moment to issue forth a stream of missiles from her fingertips. The magical projectiles did not glow brightly in any of her typical colors, however - the motes of arcana that made them up offered up only the faintest of shimmers and sounds, empowered by her Invisibility, and they struck both Forsaken men squarely in their chests, pushing them back once more from her double, who began the workings of an arcane shield.

The woman with the daggers, though… she was a canny one. Unfooled by the illusory mage, she didn’t take Val’s bait and stood still, head held high, listening for something. The Diviner made a command decision, then - this one needed to go first. As a pink and blue shield popped up around her doppelganger and the two men went to strike, Val palmed one of her precious clay tokens and a handful of metallic dust, and took a steadying breath.

On the fly teleportation was tricky - and highly regulated, as far as the Kirin Tor was concerned - but she’d learned from a specialist. Edmund had told her stories - many of them - about creative usage of portals and how he himself had taken advantage of them back in the Second War. With one toe, she traced the runes she needed in the deep soil at her feet. The Forsaken woman turned, alerted by the sound and began to creep in the mage’s direction, daggers held fast in her bony grip. Val willed herself to move faster, complete the circle and seal it in silver. Hurriedly, she traced Talar and then Nodril - the rune Edelan completed the ritual, and the portal flared to life, briefly illuminating the edges Diviner’s invisible form.

“Who’s portalling?!” the long-toothed Forsaken man called to his comrades, distracted from his fight with the mage’s double. The eyeless woman picked up her pace, accelerating towards her as if she was a beacon. With a soft cry of unease, Val threw the token and argent powder into the circle and the portal's bright lights swirled to show the shapes of Dalaran in broad daylight, with its tall, purple spires set against puffy clouds. The undead woman stepped into the portal in pursuit, a cry of triumph upon her lips as she sniffed the air and made her way to Val-

…who closed it with a sickening squelch.

A burst of ichor sprayed outwards from the spot where the woman had stood only moments before, splashing the mage with gore. One by one, the parts of her that had been higher up - her leather eyewraps, one solitary dagger - fell to the floor with a soft thump. The rest of her likely did the same, either in the Dalaran square or in the interdimensional space portals occupied. The panicky side of Val’s brain shouted the alarm: this is a war crime, this is punishable under Kirin Tor law, you’re covered in ichor -

Her cover was blown, though, and two dead men now turned to face her, incredulity upon their faces. Two to one now. The Kirin Tor could deal with the mess.

The large-tongued man gave a loud bellow of rage and turned from the double. Without thinking, she released a blast of unformed arcana from her fingertips, which narrowly missed him and slammed into the trees behind, blowing off bark and delicate leaves. Val cursed, and had begun to summon up a second when the wax-skinned Forsaken joined the fray, but - to her surprise and wonderment - stumbled as he caught a second, weaker Arcane blast from Val’s double. The Diviner had nearly forgotten! His jaw, finally having had enough, was knocked clean and skittered a few feet across the forest floor.

The other thing the mage had forgotten in the excitement of the moment was the Aspergillum. With a feeling of dread, she released the thing from her belt with one hand and gave it a shake while her spells took form - a few drops of holy water landed upon the quickly-spreading remains of the eyeless woman and sizzled. She brought the artifact around in a sweeping arc and caught the staggered, jawless man in the face with a blast of liquid.

The prone man let out an unearthly howl of pain, made stranger by his lack of a lower jaw. The holy water seared his flesh, leaving large, bubbling red trails across his face, neck, and eyes. The splashback sluiced up Val’s arm and burned its way into her flesh, but she swung it again, releasing a second torrent of the stuff onto him, exposing atrophied muscle and bone. It was enough to send the longtooth deader scrambling back to avoid the water and buy her a few precious seconds of time. The jawless man’s flesh smoked; his screams died away, and he collapsed headfirst onto the ground.

With a hiss of pain, the wizard faced her third and final opponent. Brown eyes met sickly gold and they both hesitated, trying to predict the other’s move. It was an odd, slow sort of dance. The circled one another once in silence… and the long-toothed dead man broke into a sudden run, dodging between thick tree trunks.

Rage and adrenaline got the better of Val. “You - bloody - filth!” she called after him before blinking and reappearing a few feet behind the dead man. She slipped on the muddy ground below and caught her balance on a nearby tree, then bounded in his wake around the bend of the nearby river and down its steep banks. The arcana in her veins was begging to be released - she loosed a jet of it, bright purple and unformed in his direction. It grazed his shoulder, and then she swung with the aspergillum, but the Forsaken kept going, remaining frustratingly out of reach from her grasping hands. He hopped across scattered wet stones to the other side of the raging Wildbend at a reckless pace, then let out a shrill whistle that could be heard even over the rushing river at Val’s feet.

It was answered by the piercing cry of a bat. One of the monsters bred in the ruins that were formerly the Undercity, the creature descended onto the forest floor with large, leathery wings with an odd sort of majesty. The taut-skinned man scrambled atop it and called out, “Go - fly!” in Gutterspeak, with desperation to his reedy voice. Val took a step, and then two into the river - the current was too strong, and there was no way she would catch him.

“Run away!” taunted Val, also in Gutterspeak. She’d broken a promise, but it was enough to make the man look up in stark surprise at hearing the language of the dead spoken in a voice full of life. The words left a bad taste in her mouth, but - emboldened by his retreat and shock - she called back, “How did your prayers to the Bitch Queen work for you, Deader filth?”

He and the bat rose into the air without retort.

Val got an idea, then, which jammed into her head with shocking clarity despite how exhausted she felt. She could catch the man, but his bat… she began tracing runes, which glowed brightly and pulsed in the air in front of her, then brought her hands around the sigils, smashing them together and then reforming them into two larger, but distinctly different runes. Polymorph. With a cry of frustration and fury, she lobbed the spell in his direction, and the ray spread and lifted, then sped towards the bat and its rider.

The bat and its rider had risen a few dozen meters in the air by then, and they collided with the Diviner’s spell in a shower of teal sparks. The beast gave a great shudder, nearly throwing its rider, and roiled and shrieked with pain in the twilit air for a few heartbeats before it disappeared. Time seemed to slow while the bat - now a bee - became an indistinct speck in the dawn’s pale sky and the mage’s quarry realized with shock and horror what had just transpired.

The deader fell, fast, and crashed down onto the opposite bank with a sickening crack of sinew and bone against rock. He didn’t move again, but words of caution played in Val’s mind. Double check they’re dead. If they’re not, finish them off. The Elf’s words.

She considered the river in front of her, whose mid-stream rapids sent up bright white sprays of water, took a few steps back, then blinked across the Wildbend with a running start. She landed on wet rock with barely two feet to spare and caught her breath - that could have gone very poorly. The Deader was still moving, twitching slightly when she stepped up to his broken body. He bared his elongated teeth at her shadow and hissed something indistinct and wheezy that the mage didn’t catch.

“You won’t win here.” She spoke in Common; he’d understand, even if he didn’t return the favor. Val reared upwards with the aspergillum, bringing it above her head, but she looked him square in the eyes as she spoke. It seemed somehow more polite that way.

“You’re one person,” he wheezed in Gutterspeak, rolling his fading eyes up to look up at her. “One person can’t stop death.”

“I will.”

There was a stillness in the air, despite the rushing river and waking forest around them - and an understanding between the dead man on the ground, and the formerly dead woman looming above him. She brought the instrument down hard; the silver ball smashed into the bridge of his nose and released a torrent of holy water that mixed with puce ichor making up his blood and sluiced down onto the ground below. She did it again, and then a third time, but the first hit had done its bloody work.

Three against one, and three less Deaders in the world. She’d gather the remains of the Sentinel and bring them back to the Grove of the Ancients for a proper burial. But first -

With a heavy breath, the Diviner - bloodied, out of breath, and giddy from exhaustion and the whispers of Arcana, sank to her knees, facing away from the man who’d she’d just dispatched. She coughed, then felt her stomach drop - the berries and nuts she’d eaten a few hours before came back up and stained the grey river stones in front of her. She was alive. She was whole.

She was a Night Terror, after all.

#fin.#The Night Terrors #RP #My writing #Valerie Farmer #WoW #Wizard #wyrmrest accord #this was really hard you guys #seriously

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soulephant · 2 years ago

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Gaspar’s Diary Entry 4 - The House of Mavros

Something caused a bit of a delay after I returned from Canada, which I may or may not post about later. But I wrote most of this entry on the flight there, and am now finally ready to post it.

Earlier parts of this convenient exposition diary concerned The House of Darkwin and The Contra Creature Corps, both rife with general details. There’s also Fiend Engineering, which the C3 owes most of its success to.

This entry? An earlier one mentioned the House of Mavros. Turns out this house is a major factor.

The House of Mavros

Doctor Darius is out today, but I nonetheless find myself back at my diary. My continued work for who was once supposed to rule Croica by birthright makes me think about the ways noble families had to deal with changing times. House Darkwin agreed to relinquish their power when our new constitution proved adequate. Likewise, House Renou in the neighboring Labrua decided to just disband while House Leovelt managed to keep a ceremonial function. Meanwhile, our lesser house of Von Reiter just sat there. All of these houses fell from power, like more revolutionary-minded Croicans would expect. However, there is one house that resides within our borders yet can practically pretend nothing happened. That would be House Mavros.

House Mavros has had holdings in Croica for centuries, but only fully relocated here a few decades ago. Some fellow Croicans do not like this in the slightest, but the house has been a source of security for our country before the creation of C3, even before the dwindling of our magical population. House Mavros owes its staying power and current wealth to two things. Firstly, they appear to be among the most naturally adept mages in all of Choros. Second, this talent has allowed them to bond with an eldritch being known as Crepuskul, and that bond has its origin in distant history, as does the birth of the house.

If there’s one thing people know related to House Mavros, it’s the story of their founder, Solon Mavros, who is also known as Solon the sage, or as Solon the reformer among the Sibyllite faith. His time was a tumultuous one. While he would bond with Crepuskul later, Solon wasn’t actually the first human to commune with him. That would be the patriarchs of the Esnarian League’s then dominant religion, the Dusk Orthodoxy. According to that faith Crepuskul was God, and all historical accounts suggest he was a merciless one, spurred on by the deceitful words the patriarchs spoke from their seat of Kosiliki.

With searing beams of light, shrouds of darkness, sheer speed and intangibility, the Twilit Figure was not easily defied. So when Solon came to Esnaria from Sastrales, he had a herculean task ahead of him, and he indeed took it upon himself to do whatever it took to stop the Dusk Orthodoxy. That meant eluding Kosiliki’s inquisitors as he did his research on Crepuskul’s kind, hoping to find a way to defeat him. Unfortunately, if there is a secret to killing them permanently, it has not been found to this day. If Crepuskul were to turn on us one day, the best we can do is force him to retreat to another dimension. I believe I’ve heard it referred to as the extrareality?

Anyway, killing the Twilit Figure was not an option, so Solon dedicated his efforts to communing with him instead. Eventually he managed to do so, apparently through the emblem that is now a family heirloom. Someone else being able to summon a supposed “god” was already a downer for a lying faith, but Solon took it several steps further: He conversed with Crepuskul, exposing the patriarchs, who were then swiftly destroyed alongside most houses of worship. With that, the curtain fell on the Dusk Orthodoxy, and nowadays, only the Sybillite Orthopraxy still sees Crepuskul as a god. The event was in fact so monumental that religion never got a foothold like that in Esnaria again. It marked the start of Esnaria’s worship of their best, which is still ingrained in their culture to this day.

Following the end of the orthodoxy, Solon and his bloodline were made part of Esnarian aristocracy, and the new House Mavros settled into Kosiliki, claiming the former religious center as their seat. Solon himself dedicated his life to fighting monsters alongside Crepuskul, but also to keeping the remnants of the Dusk Orthodoxy down. His descendants would also become mediums of Crepuskul, fighting alongside him, typically for the good of Esnaria… depending on who you ask. When one has as much power as House Mavros did, that power can corrupt. And unfortunately, that’s what a lot of people remember the house for, with Solon being the only member that’s universally respected.

History took a turn for the sour under Athos Mavros. At this point, House Mavros had become Esnaria’s leading house. Apparently, Athos figured he could use Crepuskul’s power to expand into the wilds. Now unlike Harold Lead, Athos was successful. Crepuskul’s powers proved too much for the monster populations to handle and so they migrated, driven into other countries. When those countries understandably began to object, Esnaria declared war on them.

The Athos War was probably the biggest war humanity has seen. Esnaria managed to last for years because of its sizable power, complemented by a eldritch monstrosity that could not be permanently killed. It would probably have lasted another decade if other Esnarian houses didn’t rebel. Eventually, House Mavros was defeated, and would have been extinguished there and then if not for Lior Mavros. Athos’ sister negotiated with the victorious alliance, and had managed to have only Athos executed in exchange for relinquishing some of House Mavros’ power and reforming the house’s workings. Up until this point, the leader of House Mavros could also be Crepuskul’s medium, but Lior decreed that this should no longer be the case. Eventually, she would pass down the emblem to her son Alerio, who became the first separate medium.

If you ask a Croican what they think about House Mavros, they either love or hate the house. In case of the latter, chances are they’ll bring up the Athos War. I can get behind that one. Today’s house members are not responsible for a centuries-past war, but I can only agree that it was an awful event. However, people will bring up any number of reasons to hate the house, be it supposed shady practices, idealistic sensibilities, or even straightup conspiracies about House Mavros plotting to take over Croica. To that last one I say they could already have done that, since a lot of our mages left. We already have trouble with lumbering beasts. How are we supposed to take on an intangible monstrosity? This might be why House Mavros moved to New Kosiliki in Maubruck following some trouble in Esnaria, but I don’t know the aristocratic intrigue that goes on there. I only know that the house has a lot of prejudice to deal with nowadays.

During Lead’s term, that prejudice reached a logical conclusion. That term was one of magiophobia and “progressing to a brand new age”, so Lead really did not care for House Mavros. Early into the term, anti-Mavros extremists saw an opportunity to kidnap one of the house members, Hadrian Mavros. It did not take long for house leader Alexander to respond. I still get shivers recalling how he hijacked both CBC1 and CBC2 to broadcast his displeasure. Alexander’s threats almost made me feel for the kidnappers.

Needless to say, that event soured relations between Ariocester and New Kosiliki, although I think Alexander speaking from his heart has actually increased support for the house. Recently, prime minister Knightly has issued an apology for the kidnapping of Hadrian to repair these relations. Some connect this apology to rumors that secretary Hughes is trying to recruit the current medium into C3. That seems plausible to me, as well as desirable. The house’s current generation was benign to begin with, but getting them to serve outright will be a tremendous boon in our fight against monsters.

Huh. It appears the sun is setting. How fitting I wrote from dawn until dusk on the sage’s house of all things. I finished this just in time too. Darius told us to expect him back tomorrow, so I should turn in for the night in preparation for another early day.

End of Entry

——————————

Notes:

This entry may seem like a lot of information of which not a lot is relevant. However, trust me when I say there’s a couple of exceedingly relevant bits dropped.

In the big melting pot of all my creativity, House Mavros essentially hails from the “source material” which I build around a lot.

I have the next (and for now final) entry ready already, but that one too may be slightly delayed. However, I do intend to post it quicker than I did this one.

#original story #long post #Wildchalice #gaspar's diary

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talldarkandroguesome · 6 years ago

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4th of Last Seed, Loredas

After having hunted and preparing food to refill our food stores before the journey to Coldharbor, we agreed to follow Irrai through the gate powered by the Twilit Heart. I do not know if one could truly prepare for a journey back to there. Having escaped once, the thought of return stirs a certain amount of chest clutching terror. A part of me wished to take as long as possible, to delay the inevitable. Yet I know I should rush to the aid of one of the Three and Her trapped priestess, Culanwe.

When we finally entered the ruins proper, we found ourselves in dusty and crumbling corridors, lined with bookshelves of rotting books and skeletons picked clean by time and or animals. There was a faint smell of something dead, though clearly it did not come from the skeletons.

As we went further in, there were other corpses, not mortal, but of daedra. Mostly that of dremora, though the occasional clanfear or banekin was amongst them. They looked far more recent, a sign that we may not find ourselves alone.

And sure enough, just a few turns of a corner later, we came face to face with the blue glow of a lich’s illuminated face. I had my weapons at the ready, not just towards this new opponent, but towards our guide as well.

I knew I was right to garner suspicions of Irrai, Winged Twilight at a shrine of Azura or no. As soon as the screaming of the two creatures began, so too did their battle. I summoned my shades, one to attack each foe.

As the fight continued, it became clear that Irrai had betrayed the mage Vastarie, who now stood before us in lich form. Perhaps she was always a lich. Perhaps being in the ruin drove her to desperation. Or mayhaps it was the result of being in this place for so long.

Irrai finally let go of her facade and revealing her Prince was none other than Molag Bal. Everything made sense. I turned my full attention towards defeating her. But with three enemies to fight, she fled.

I turned my attention towards Vastarie, who protested that she was on our side and an enemy to the Lord of Domination. I was not ready to put my trust in a lich. There was far too much strange phenomena around and I know better than to trust an Altmeri lich. She yelled at me that if we let Irrai escape we would all be trapped in the ruin once again for who knew how long. Not wishing to suffer Vastarie‘s fate, I went after Irrai. I ran her down, using the shadows to propel me forward, unseen. Finally, driving her from on high and ripping apart her wings to keep her from flying away.

She spat curses at me, promising tortures of body and soul. I was so enraged, perhaps at the closeness of being trapped once more in Coldharbor, that I did not keep my voice low enough. Tel may have heard me as I told Irrai to beg Azura’s forgiveness for using her name to lure mortals to Molag Bal’s whims as I severed her head from her body.

Tel soul trapped Irrai and we were able to continue towards where Culanwe was said to be held. The air was full of the pain she was feeling, worse and worse the closer you got. I kept my eyes always on Vastarie, not trusting her not to sacrifice Tel and I to escape. And my fear was not abated as we continued at lest into the chamber where Culanwe was imprisoned.

When Tel and I started to fight the dremora in the chamber, skeletons began to rise. Tel and I began to fight them as well, until Culanwe shouted at us that we were interfering with her efforts by killing her minions.

Necromancy too? Did Vastarie have no shame? I focused on trying to kill the daedra guarding the shackles of Culanwe. Some strange sort of binding crystals.

And yet, when the last one was done and Culanwe freed, it was bittersweet. We did not release a living person, but rather, a soul and a corpse. We were too late. Perhaps by decades or even centuries. Poor Culanwe. While her pain dissipated in the air with a relived sigh, her soul immediately flying upwards and away, back through the hole her suffering had ripped in the planes. I said soft prayers and wrapped Culanwe‘s bones in the way that the Velothi wise women and Farseers are given to show respect to their remains. I did not dare to let Vastarie anywhere near Culanwe. Who knows what foul things she might try.

I was relieved when we finally did return to Nirn. I could have kissed the ground. Yet, I had other things to worry about. The lich, for one. She started chatting about cleaning up her fetching tower and began to head off. I asked Tel if he thought we should kill her to keep her from doing anything else disgusting like raising the dead. Tel was of the opinion that her assistance warranted her life. I let the subject drop and concentrated on returning to Azura.

I placed Culanwe‘s body gently upon Azura’s altar, softly speaking the rites and prayers for interring the honorable dead, to the best of my ability. Azura thanked Tel and I for our service and I basked in the glow of Her voice, that warmth, the happiness that it instilled within me.

I could have held onto such a feeling for days, weeks, even months. Alas, Tel never let’s me have such things. As soon as we had set up camp for the night and began cooking, Tel wanted to start talking about all the things I did not wish to.

He asked if I was a follower of Azura. I did not lie, but I may have softened the truth. I told him that I knew how dangerous it was to mention Azura worship in Morrowind, and how much more dangerous it likely was in Valenwood. I also said that I did not follow Azura closely, that I showed her the amount of worship that I was taught by the Ashland tribes and that I followed the Tribunal devoutly as any other true Dunmer. Sure, he may incorrectly infer which Tribunal I am speaking of, or who counts as a true Dunmer, but as he is the type to go off of assumptions and not asking for further explanations, I see that he really only has himself to blame.

Of course, then he started telling me how to “properly” worship daedra. I could not believe he was trying to teach me how to follow Azura. Of course, I let him speak. I was intrigued to see how much he seemed to worship daedra, and how open to it he was. It was also infuriating to hear the way he went on and on about Vivec and the true meaning of this and that, without ever asking me anything. He simply assumed, without asking, that I must be in need of some instruction. As if the Velothi do not practice safe worship of the daedra.

I decided to distract him with a shoulder rub. Which moved into a back massage. From there things ended up with both of us nude, covered in oil, and intimately intertwined. It was a great relief after everything.

It is nearly time to go and hunt again. Time moves so differently between here and Coldharbor. I don’t think I will ever get used to it.

#ESO #TES #Dunmer #Altmer #RP #Daedric Prince #Elder Scolls Online #The Elder Scrolls

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