#wearing my elven cloak wherever i go

[dhelglore]

✨️Rivendell✨️

[mysticstarlightduck]

WRITEBLR BATTLE ROYALE - Alex vs. Elyren Full Fight!

Hi, there! I am taking part in @your-absent-father's amazingly fun event, Writeblr Battle Royale, where I and other cool writeblrs choose our most powerful OCs and make them fight in an interdimensional arena. It's chaotic, it's badass, and more importantly, it is FUN (:<

Important: These events are not canon to our stories! They're just something very cool we as writers have decided to subject our characters to, for the sake of writing practice and Fun tm, though it is completely unrelated to our projects and the characters' actual experiences in the books.

Check out the rules and other amazing fight scenes at @writeblrbattleroyale!

In this fight, my teenage elven dark sorcerer, Elyren Tyrvommira, faces off against Alex, a Dreamer who takes the form of a humanoid void (character from @doublegoblin) in the event's arena.

You don’t remember how you got here. You were only going by the plot you were set to go, and now you were in a place of whiteness with people watching your every move. Your head is pounding, but you wake up standing up. Only thing in front of you being the weapon that is like your second arm, the one you usually use during battle, unless you normally use magic. The speaker on the box above you starts to speak. You look towards it, but it seems empty. You still get a feeling, like a vision that a young man is standing in there, even tough you couldn’t describe anything about how he looked like.

“Welcome to the battle my dear audience. Welcome to the bloodshed. I am M, your humble game master. In front of me are our contenders. Their weapons are in front of them. The enemy on their opposite. Their only way out is either killing their opponent or dying. These two are very interesting duo. I just can’t wait for the show.” You look opposite of you. There is a person right on the opposite side of the arena. You have a sinking feeling in your stomach. You are in a life-or-death situation. You can either fight or die.

Where once there was the idle chatter of coworkers and the hum of electronics a robbed figure found themselves suddenly displaced and disoriented. Awashed in radiance their head throbs and their form shudders for a time. Regaining composure their eyes adjust and allow them a reprieve from deprivation. For once they don’t seem to be the odd one out as far as looks go; with this menagerie a figure cloaked in ornate purple robes, the hood an empty void filled with only the teal illustrations of eyes and mouth, and limbs of equal bordered nothing while peculiar was not going to be compared to folks in suits and more casual wear.

With a voice not masculine nor feminine, “Where the hell-” Inquiry cut short they hear in a way the voice of the supposed coordinator speaking from the box above them. Their eyes drift and fall onto the figure standing opposite them. Surprisingly the hooded figure flashes an excited smile and waves towards their opponent.“Keep it together Alex, don’t look a surprise vacation in the mouth as they say.” -they mutter to themselves before calling out to their new foe. ~~~ He awakes with a start, practically jumping up to his feet as soon as his sight adjusted to his surroundings. This… isn’t Agrannor, not at all, he notices with a slight surge of panic. One moment, he was sitting in a shady tavern down in the outskirts of Etaruze and the next he was … wherever here was. It looked like some kind of arena, but it still didn’t feel right.

Elyren glanced around carefully, with growing confusion at every new figure that came into view. They wore strange clothes he’d never seen before, and he couldn’t even tell what most of the figures were regardless. He reaches for his weapon’s belt, realizing, relieved, that his runic daggers have not been lost or taken from him. Before Elyren can even think about what his next move should be, a strange voice echoed around the arena, supposedly coming from somewhere outside. It gave out instructions, confusing ones, but instructions nonetheless.

Mostly, it became pretty clear that this was a fight or die situation. And he’ll have to see this through if he wants to get out of here alive. He could work with that, Elyren shrugged. He’d done this before. Elyren narrows his eyes at the strange figure that slowly came into view before him. Was this a human? No, he realized, barely resisting the very strong urge to jump back at least three feet when he noticed that it was a hooded, nearly bodiless void walking towards him. Elyren immediately reached for his dagger, confusion growing when the void stopped and… smiled at him? With a little wave? What the hell is going on here? He mutters under his breath, in a sharp language you cannot understand. Elyren frowns as the void, surprisingly asks him a question of their own.

“Um, excuse me for being so forward. What is your name and…um…what are you?” The figure asks and Elyren stammers. What kind of question is that? He thinks, pausing for a moment to reign his voice and find an answer to this figure’s inquiry. “My name is Elyren Tyrvommira, uh … void. I am a woodland elf from the Hidden Cities, and a sorcerer well-versed in the practices of forbidden magic.” He pauses, keeping a poised composure “Who - or more importantly what - are you, and where the hells are we? Alex can’t help but chuckle, “Void huh? Been a bit since I was greeted like that. Well Elyren -I’m sorry do you prefer the full name or just your first? Either way; my name is Alex and if this form is distressing I could maybe” -the spaces of nothing under their robes are encircled in a layer of white bandages with their facial details super imposed above- “try this? Just lemme know. But I don’t think this answers your question. I am what is called a Dreamer.” With an indulgent smirk they speak in a overly theatrical tone,

“As for who I am, I am the manager of the Auditing Department of The Spire, head employee of the Outer Lord of Order and Regulations, The Iron Shackle Who Bind the Words, Chairman of The Board”-they pause for a dramatic effect- “Dave!” With a mirthful laugh they wipe a teal tear from their eye, “Oh he would have my ass if he knew the tone I took. Sorry kid, when you spend all your life cooped up in an office you take the chances you need to live a little. As to where, not a clue. Now do you people shake for a greeting or no?” Elyren's brows knitted at the void's attempt to make themself less terrifying. It didn't really work, but he knew it was better than to antagonize the person he was stuck in this arena with. He listened intently to the figure - Alex, he reminded himself - rambled about their occupation, with growing concern as he did not know what most of those terms really meant.

"Okay…" Elyren said, trying to figure out what he was supposed to say as Alex finished his explanation. "Firstly, don't call me kid" Elyren protests awkwardly, though you realize it just makes him sound even more like a kid than otherwise "And I do not know what you mean by office. Secondly, we don't really shake hands in my culture. That's a … human thing."

They hold their hands up in acknowledgment of the mistake, “Sorry, I’ll keep that in mind.” -they lower their hands and resume a relaxed but guarded posture- “Well if we are to be combatants how do your people greet and show respect? Also don’t worry about’ office’, it uh…well I don’t think it’ll matter much.” Their eyes subtly did move over the elf before them taking stock of their visible weaponry.

Elyren notices the way Alex’s eyes flit over his runic bow and many daggers, a look of worried distrust appearing in the young elf’s face but he refrains from saying anything at the moment. He thinks over the person’s question, about how they should greet each other, and debates whether he should stay silent or use the traditional salutation from his people. He chooses the latter, mainly because his scholarly background made being polite far too second nature to him. He gives you a quick, very stiff curtsy-like movement, never once breaking his wary eye contact with you, and says something in elvish.

Noticing that you clearly wouldn’t know what he said, he quickly adds, though with a slightly deadpan sigh, “It means ‘may the stars guide your path’. That’s my people’s salutation” Nodding Alex, with not as much grace, tries their best to mirror the movement. Slight hesitation before sighing out a dry chuckle, and trying their best to replicate the words spoken. “I, uh, hope I didn’t accidentally insult any relations you deem important.” A wary look crosses their expression and they stand at rigid attention, “Hey um…can you give me a moment I just realized I need to call my boss real quick.”

They grab a hold of the silver medallion under the lip of their hood; the star cut purple gem sparkling in the ethereal light of the arena. Elyren immediately freezes when he sees you pull out the medallion, eyes going wide as marbles. Oh, nonono… That’s not good, what the fuck is that? Elyren thinks, panicked. Before Alex has the opportunity to do something, or even say anything, a bright swirl of dark purple smoke surrounds the young elf, and once it dissipates, he is nowhere to be found. Mouth open, hand raised with one finger up, Alex sighs as the elf vanishes letting the finger drop and curl back up. With a shrug, they begin to pace around the arena as their medallion pulsates and vibrates. Soon enough the gem shines brightly and fades to a bone-white

Taking notice, “Dave? Hey yeah…what…sorry...look I tried to call as soon as I could!” As they speak they are trying to keep an eye on the arena, their words punctuated with animated gestures, “Okay so long story short…it means I’m cutting out the unimportant bits…no Dave not everything is-nevermind. Look I got sucked into another dimension or reality…I can’t debate the difference right now.” -They lean against a far wall and pinch the bridge of their nose- “Look I’m in a tournament now, and I’m going to need some authorization…Dave, please explain how I was supposed to anticipate this…uh-huh…well not everyone experiences the concept of time as free-flowing as The Board, Dave! They hold the medallion away from their face as harsh static flows from it, once the deluge ceases they return it close. “I’m sorry I know I shouldn’t have snapped…yep…yes please Dave I can’t be a” -a heavy sigh- “good example of the company unless I’m at top performance…okay cool…thank you Dave…yes Dave…thank you Dave…yes Dave…goodbye Dave!” Flustered they groan and stomp their feet before collecting themselves and glancing around the arena.

“Hey um, you can…come out now. Like I know how that all sounded but I’m not the one to lie.” They shudder and shakily exhale as energy fills their form and their eyes glisten. “I guess I’m good to start whenever you are!” They shout to the empty playground of violence.

Elyren stays silent, watching the hooded figure from a safe distance, completely shrouded by the veil of his invisibility spell. He narrows his eyes. So he was really going to call someone… that's interesting Elyren considers lowering his spell, but then Alex's last comment reminds him of what they're here to do.

"I'll make this quick then!" Elyren yells out to his opponent, immediately running in the opposite direction of where he'd just been standing, so as not to be a target. Then, silently, careful not to speak loud enough that Alex would be able to hear, he casts a spell.

With a twinge of disappointment, “Could we not? Like not in a bloodlust way more in a 'I get to be away from my job' way.”

The ground around Alex's feet moves as if it were alive, the artificial stone morphing into glowing purple and gray chains. They slither like snakes, moving to wrap around their legs, presumably in order to leave Alex immobilized, an easier target for an arrow.

Taking notice of the coiling purple chains Alex reaches into their robes and pulls out a, at the moment, small hammer no bigger than one for pounding in nails. Training their sight down at the ground they speak in an dry and inflectionless manner, “Under the jurisdiction of Dave of The Board, I Alex; acting manager of his department hereby acknowledge my inclusion in an interdimensional blood sport.” -the robes that cloak them darken and begin to shrink around an emaciated form-

“Prior authorization obtained.” -the robes now fully enwrapping a humanoid shape and glistening in the light shift violently and where there was once cloth a chitinous material coats their entire form as they raise the hammer high into the air- “As a wise Dreamer once said; let the games begin.”

In a blur of motion the hammer doubles in size and is slammed amongst the chains, the ground splintering and being pulverized into a tsunami of dust and pebbles. From across the arena, shrouded by his invisibility spell, Elyren watches Alex’s first counterattack carefully, head tilted, studying the other’s technique. He smiles, satisfied.

Now I know their first move. Elyren thought to himself Interesting weapon of choice, I must say. But I always did like a challenge.

He knows his invisibility spell will only last for ten more minutes, so he knows he needs to be quick to win before that. Not giving his opponent a chance to locate him, Elyren uses the distraction caused by the wave of dust - aftershocks from Alex’s first attack - to cast his next spell. He reaches a hand forward and glowing runes appear in the air around it, taking aim. A dark smoke, sizzling like thousands of bodiless bees, shoots towards Alex to surround and envelope the Dreamer in a torrent of poisonous fog.

Alex, caught in their own dust cloud coughs and tries to swish away the particles. “Son of a- cough.” The large hammer shrinking down back to a more manageable size, they spy the purple haze headed towards their location.

Once this forbidden spell finds a target, it doesn’t let go easily. It’s called the Poisoner’s Hail for a reason, after all. Elyren casts the spell and watches as it surrounds and traps his opponent. Cocking their head to the side Alex lets the mist ensnare their body and hatches a, at least to them, devious little plan.

Before the toxic miasma reaches towards what could be considered their face they let out a blood curdling scream, “It’s burn oh it burns! My throat is on-” they interrupt themselves with a flurry of wretchings and rattling inhales. “Kid! What have you do-” their body crumples to the ground laying supine and they go deathly still. Sure their body was screaming for them to breathe and their lungs were burning, but if this worked it was about to be a very good time.

Elyren narrows his eyes. The spell should have taken effect by now, his opponent should be showing signs of suffocation, but instead, he sees the Dreamer simply lying still on the floor. Realization hits him. He doesn’t need to breathe, does he now? Fine then. The young elf rolled his eyes, searching his mind for another attack as he maintained the Poisoner’s Hail spell. Just because his opponent wouldn’t breathe it in, it doesn’t mean the spell’s other corrosive properties wouldn’t work. Finally, he remembers one that the Dreamer won’t be able to cheat his way out of.

C’mon why isn’t the kid checking on me? They thought, maintaining their feigned expiration.

It was there that Alex started to feel the more external portions of that spell. Sharp spark-like jolts of pain danced across their black and polished exterior, dulling its luster. A wave of an emotion close to panic began to set in. Okay fine, you won’t come to me… They felt a strange twinge in their core, they had lost their connection to the portal network here! Shit. The stinging was getting worse now, no longer something easy to ignore. Their mind raced thinking all the way to the first days of orientation long before the new network was set into place. Son of a Learer! Okay no, think Alex, was it three parallel lines towards the center of the….gaaaaah! Their finger traced in the sediment of the ground only to erase it over and over. The ground begins to rumble. Each iteration of the rune hisses and spittles sludge back at the Dreamer.

A variation of his first spell, but instead of turning the ground into chains, he would turn it into sharp spikes as tall as spears. Let’s see you try to deceive me now, Elyren smirked.

As he reached forward to cast the next spell, Elyren briefly felt his hands shaking, before steeling them once again. The effort to hold his invisibility while casting two simultaneous spells was taking its toll on him, but Elyren refuses to let it hinder his victory. He can’t. In his hurry, however, he makes no effort to conceal the runes he uses to cast the spell. With a final rune, he sees the ground around Alex rumble, rocks rearranging quickly into the shape of spikes. Before the Dreamer has a chance to react, Elyren attacks - and multiple spikes shoot outwards around his opponent.

Suddenly piercing pain! Using some of their reserved energy Alex hastens their perception, essentially slowing the world down. They see the small pebbles and larger stones coming together and stabbing through them.

“C’mon!” They cry out in frustration. Then elation as under them, an ancient symbol of gloomy red snakes its path in a tight perimeter. Then in a flash of white and the smell of charred blood, the Dreamer and the top of a few spikes vanish. For a moment, silence. Then from upon high Elyren could perhaps hear the shrill whistle. Those who could look up would see, falling, the figure of Alex with several new piercings but missing their hammer.

“Hey, kid!” They shouted in their freefall “I maybe can’t see you, but I can see your ruuuunes~” -they grabbed a hold of their right arm with their left hand-

“Here!” -the sickening sound of sinew and bone snapping and tearing as they tear the arm from their shoulder “Hold this for me, would ya!?” Spinning in the air they use the momentum to hurl the arm down towards where the runes were shining.

Elyren’s eyes immediately shot up as Alex appeared in the sky above him. With a newfound surge of panic, Elyren realizes that not only the Dreamer could see his runes - a rookie mistake on his part not to conceal them - but that there was something plummeting towards him at remarkable speeds and it wasn’t just Alex.

As the arm gets closer and closer to the rune the hammer reappears, it had been shrunk down to fit in the palm of the hand. The arm now moving of its own accord grips the handle tightly and the head of the weapon shimmers in the light transforming into a spiked club that was as large as Elyren was, and on a direct trajectory to the glowing targets he had so graciously provided.

Deeply confused he narrows his eyes at the approaching form - and sees. An arm. A falling severed arm holding a giant club. “Oh hells no -” He screams, eyes going impossibly wide, letting all three of the spells he was casting fall - including his invisibility shroud - as he crosses his arms above his head, focusing all of his energy on casting a force shield above and around him.

When the club falls, he manages to hold the spell up but staggers a few feet backward, his boots dragging on the coarse floor as he struggles not to let himself be crushed. He screams through gritted teeth, pushing the shimmering shield upwards against the strength of the falling club hitting it. Elyren knows he has screwed up, he shouldn’t have cast the runes without hiding them, but it is too late to go back now.

Gasping for air, and blood thundering behind his ears, through the struggle of holding up the shield, he sees the Dreamer falling from the sky, also at a remarkable speed.

Cheeky bastard - The elf thinks through the chaos, only for a moment, before returning his attention to the problem at hand. That problem being the disembodied arm still hammering that club down at him with all its might. He looks up. Fuck this.

Knowing he wouldn’t be able to hold the shield for long, Elyren makes an executive decision. It will hurt like hell - yes it will - but at least he’ll stay alive. He searches his mind for the right spell, as the club comes crashing down again. Finding the words, and steeling himself, he looks up at the arm, focusing in on its shape and form. Once he knows his aim is true, he speaks the words of the spell. Well, he screams them, at this point. The ancient words leave his tongue a desperate cry, eyes glowing white as the necromantic incantation forms pitch-black runes around the arm.

Noctera’s Rot, the name of the spell in plain English, is an incantation that accelerates the death of any small amount of organic matter it touches. It takes almost all his strength to cast it without lowering his shield or blinking, but he manages it. Searing pain burns through him, but the spell begins to work, tearing and burning at the arm’s matter. The meteoric might of the arm wanes, withers, and falters as Alex lands.

The Dreamer had intended something graceful or powerful but truthfully they stumbled and fell a few times, ending up several feet from Elyren. Once the spell had chewed through their arm the pain finally set in.

It was something unlike anything they had felt before and it shook their vision with its intensity. Clutching at the stump where it had attached they sealed the opening behind more of the platting and glared at the elf.

Something within them was starting to boil up to the surface. With their remaining hand, they clenched a tight fist. The link between the owner and arm severed the pain subsides. Something was off however, the wounds inflicted by the stone spikes were also persisting. Was this by chance due to the highly chaotic nature of the elf’s magic? They weren’t sure of that, but on the other hand…an expression now found in poor taste, they were sure of one thing

“Do you have any idea how much that is going to cost me to fix!?”

With a stiff and seething demeanor, they advance upon Elyren. “And what in the hell is this magic you have!? I can stand some kind of corrosive and vile smoke, but this is playing dirty! Who the hell do you work for!? Waste management? Unemployment?”

The hammer rattles on the ground as they open their left hand to call it to them. “Nooo no, you strike me more as some hapless dope who found their way into a shady start-up!” Flanking Elyren are now golden glowing orbs.

As the arm dissipates under the wrath of his necromantic spell and the club falls to the ground, regaining its hammer-like form, Elyren shudders violently, all strength leaving him as he falls to his hands and knees. The force shield dissolves with a hiss above him. Panting, he struggled to breathe, until, he coughed, spitting a handful of blood onto the floor before him. Using such a powerful enchantment while maintaining a protective shield was not an easy feat - quite simply, it could’ve killed him. Right now, he almost wished it had, because the pain searing through his veins was unbearable. Vision swimming, however, he looked up and noticed that his opponent was still stalking towards him.

And speaking something. Shaking his head to clear his muffled consciousness, Elyren finally heard what the Dreamer was saying - at least the last bit of it. And it wasn’t good.

“Rule 5A: Subsection K of the Guide to Combat Sports and Other Violence Based Recreational Activities. Seventh Cycle Addition, states: All combatants found to be conducting in the above-approved activities will abided by several good sportsman-like conducts including but not limited to the use of unregulated reality-based effects that can induce a state of severed connectivity between a Dreamer and their corporeal forms! I did you the courtesy of shortening it down to the relevant information! You are welcome! Remove your own arm as recompense at this moment or I will sever it for you and not be held responsible for the monetary cost of reattaching a disjointed object!”

They have halted their approach a respectable but cautious distance away. The golden orbs spark with metallic wisps and a faint clicking can be heard from beyond the glow.

Elyren's heart skipped a beat, and time seemed to slow down.

They wanted him to cut off his own arm.

“… What?! No.” Elyren asks, voice hoarse and shaky as he watches his enemy approach, terror dawning on him.

He doesn’t have the strength to cast another spell, at least not in this short distance. He needs at least ten minutes to fully recover, and at the speed that the Dreamer is approaching him, that won’t be possible. He also notices the glowing golden orbs around him and almost jumps back.

Scrambling, Elyren reaches for one of his runic daggers on the side of his hip, closing his hand around the handle and pointing the blade towards his opponent. He focuses on the runes on the blade, his eyes flitting between each of the strange golden orbs surrounding him. Elyren knows he may not have the strength to use his magic to cast a spell, but he can use the dagger’s magic to fuel it. With his other free hand, he shakily reaches over the blade, speaking the runes aloud. A shimmering purple glow shoots out in the orb’s direction, enveloping them safely away from him in a freezing containment. Still, Alex had not once stopped their approach.

“Stay away from me, void!” Elyren demands, standing up on uncertain legs as he tries - and fails - to make his voice intimidating, though his eyes are as proud as ever.

He clears his throat, wheezing as he coughed up more blood onto the back of his free hand. The rational part of him knew his plea wouldn’t deter his opponent, but the terrified-out-of-his-wits part of him didn’t care nor listen in the slightest. His runic daggers still had some magic in them, but that magic was limited to how much magic they were imbued with. And given the speed of his opponent’s approach, that magic - though useful to contain the orbs - was limited and running out fast. Just ten minutes, that was all he needed.

“Stay back, don’t… don’t come any closer!” Noticing that the Dreamer had not wavered in their approach, Elyren started stepping backwards, glancing around frenetically for anything he could use to get away.

A pillar, on the other side of the arena, catches his attention. He could topple it onto the quickly approaching threat.

This will have to work. He thought, and with one last look towards the now furious Alex, he took off running at a desperate speed in the pillar’s direction.

Rage. Or perhaps a self-righteous fury? It did not matter truly. The fires of something were burning deep within Alex now. With a snap of a finger, the golden chains within the orbs shattered their bonds but Elyren had already fled from the spot. This was merely a display of power. As the elf took off into a desperate sprint the Dreamer sighed heavily, steam billowing out from the spaces between their joints, a dramatic flare to be sure. They had patience and gave chase at a slow but deliberate pace, no faster than a stroll in the park. Their wounds still had not healed and were giving them a noticeable limp and unease to their own steps; fighting back the emotions they raised the remaining hand once more and the hammer rose and flew back to them.

As they pursued their voice boomed through the arena, “So you run? Where is this elf who tried to wrap me in biting poison? Where is he that pierced my body with stone and anger? Hiding in plain sight, taking an opponent from afar, and worst of all defying all rules for a chance at victory. You are nothing less than a child!” Their voice rippled across the ground

Still holding on to his dagger for dear life, Elyren was sure to keep his trajectory erratic enough to not receive a hammer in the back and kept looking over his shoulder constantly as he made his way toward the one thing that he could use to buy him time.

The hammer returning to the wielder they stumbled back at its weight; plunging the head into the ground to steady themselves. A toxic deluge of malice had reached the tipping point and now this geyser was set to erupt. With the sound of keening porcelain and the screams of bladed edges being ground against a whetstone, they lost themselves as the world turned red. Yanking the hammer violently the ground buckled and cracked before exploding outwards. Shouldering the behemoth the Dreamer resumed the pursuit with awful vigor.

“Look at you, running like a hare. What right do you have to wield the magic you have?” -another lightning crack of the fingers and chains emerge suddenly from other orbs crashing just behind the heels of Elyren, their vision was getting blurry from the damage and rage- “Who did you steal it from? There is no way you could have earned this rite! You coward, an infant who sees themselves above all rules!”

They twist and contort; elongate and bend between each stride. The hammer once held is hurled in the air as their torso rotates to be parallel with the floor. The back opening caught the hammer between backward-bent ribs and held it in place. With another hellish screech, the Dreamer now moves in an animalistic way, much like that of a cheetah chasing after a gazelle.

“Accept your punishment!” They howled as they tore off with blistering speed, dust hanging like earthen clouds behind them with each bound.

Looking over his shoulder, Elyren caught sight of the rapidly approaching Dreamer. He wouldn’t be able to outrun them, not in this state, and he wouldn’t reach the pillar in time to topple it over them.

“Nonono…” Elyren muttered in a panic, grasping the runic dagger in a white-knuckled grip as he looked back one more time. He had to act, now. With a grimace, knowing this would only make the searing pain coursing through him worse, Elyren cast the words for the portal spell, cutting through the air in front of him with a slash of his dagger, runes glowing as it cast a shaky, fizzling portal in front of him. He jumped through without thinking twice. The portal closed behind him just as the Dreamer was about to catch him, and Elyren tumbled onto the coarse stone floor gracelessly, hands scraping for purchase to break his sudden fall. He was now all the way across the arena, looking at the back of a furious Alex.

Elyren knew he did not have those ten minutes, and that if he wanted to live, he may just have to suffer through without that mercy. Not wasting a second, Elyren got to work on the next spell. His vision was blurring around the edges, and his hands were shaking like never before - he knew he was running out of borrowed time and working on strength he didn’t have.

Elyren also knew what he had to do, though it didn’t mean it would be pleasant. This spell was one of his darkest discoveries, the Spirit Flame. It was a dangerous, unstable, and likely to end in a lot of pain kind of idea. But it was the only one he had.

Having missed their target Alex was set to impact the far wall. With some last-moment adjustments, they lower their body towards the floor, and using the momentum that had accumulated they snap sharply to the side. A whip-crack echoes as they do. The maneuver placed them parallel with said wall, and with a well-timed jump, they planted their limbs along its face and launched from it like a springboard.

Elyren watched this all unfold.

He had to do this, there was no time. Resolutely, he dragged the blade of the runic dagger over the palm of his free hand with a wince, just enough to draw blood, but deep enough that there would be a lot of it. As the crimson liquid covered the blades’ runes, he spoke the words of the ancient chant, hoping to all gods that he remembered them correctly. His voice became deep and his eyes turned bright white, as the runes in the dagger rearranged and glowed.

Just as the Dreamer was almost reaching him, Elyren slammed his hands onto the ground, and a burst of dark necromantic flames shot out, surrounding the young elf and engulfing his enemy’s aimed weapon, the hammer, as well as the top of Alex’s upper body, in a vice grip.

Trying and failing to bite back the scream that threatened to come out, Elyren turned all of his focus onto the flames now coiled around his opponent, holding them in place.

“I did not steal this magic” He gritted out painfully, struggling to contain the growing dark flames around him as he stood up. “I was born with it, I… just learn the spells… along the way."

The pain Alex felt was immediate and searing, unsurprising for fire. Coiled in something just as hot as their anger, something was now apparent. They were actually in some trouble.

With that, Elyren held his arms outwards, and the flames holding Alex flew across the arena, dragging and hitting his opponent on the coarse floor, slowly breaking their armor. The pain building within was getting hard to ignore as the spell consumed him like he was fuel, but Elyren forced himself to stand steadfast, focusing everything he had onto the sentient flames, even as he felt blood begin to trickle down his nose, yet again.

Soaring through the air and running against the cutting ground Alex couldn’t help but laugh. A laugh of genuine joy and excitement. During their pyroclastic flight they let go of the hammer and it spun thrice before landing on the ground handle first. Yes, the pain was becoming beyond what they had expected but this was once again so much fun. They were beaten, given the match-up the kid- No, the man, had range while they needed to get close.

“Well done Elyren, well done!” They screamed as their halves bisected; the lower rolling along the ground like a damp pair of socks. Now only a torso, an arm, and a head they cackled in child-like joy as even their arm was sent careaning across the arena.

The spell burns through him as Elyren fights every instinct telling him to give up and let them overtake him. Breathing coming up short, he keeps his hold on his opponent for a moment more, terrified that they would escape and throw their weapon right at him. His blood is boiling inside of him, searing through his veins as if it wanted to evaporate.Distantly, he hears the Dreamer’s laugh echo around the arena, shaking him back to reality, though he couldn’t register what they were saying.

… Oh gods, why are they laughing now? Elyren thinks, already bracing himself for the worst, but before anything could happen, a sharp, blinding jolt of white-hot pain shot through him as the flames he’d cast grew in strength around and before him.

“You’ve got me beat! I am unable to fight any longer! I think this would be as close to a…what was the word…death? As I can become. Release your flame and let us chat before…well…before whatever our observer has in store for the loser of the fight!” They shouted, still bound by the flames' scalding embrace.

Pain soared through him as his own spell started to eat away at his insides, making Elyren let out a wounded cry, falling to his knees. His arms didn’t seem to obey him at first, stiff - like following the spell’s command, not his own - but then, with an inhuman effort, he managed to force his way through the exhausted haze of his mind, focusing on the flames shooting out of his palms. Willing them to stop proved more difficult than it should have been, the dark flames fighting back against his command. If he didn’t make it stop, they would consume him completely.

“Stop, stop, stop!” The elf screamed, aloud, closing his open hands into fists and bringing his formerly outstretched arms closer to his chest.

In the distance, he noticed through tear-filled eyes that the flames had released his opponent, and were coiling back towards him. At this moment, Elyren couldn’t care less if the Dreamer was going to make another move. He just wanted this burning pain to end. And also, he knew that he didn’t have anything left to give in this fight - if his opponent wasn’t defeated after this, Elyren didn’t have the energy to fight his fate either way.

The flames inched closer, before disappearing around him with a final, death like hiss. Elyren sobbed, falling to his knees like a limp ragdoll, breathing coming in ragged heaves as he started coughing and throwing up the blood currently drowning his own airways.His head was spinning, and he closed his eyes tightly for a moment as he fought the urge to pass out.

Not now, not now, please… Elyren thought as he willed himself to just… breathe. And not die. He could do that, maybe. Help me, Kiran, don't let me die too...!

Elyren didn’t know why he was still crying, but he didn’t have any resolve, energy or even the ability left in him to force himself to stop. Or care. He just stayed like that, for a while, curled up at his knees, over a puddle of his recently-coughed-up blood, sobbing for the first time in ages. Until, he blinked open his eyes - unbidden tears of pain still falling from them - and saw his opponent move, where they had fallen across the arena. So be it then, Elyren felt numb, and surprisingly, resigned to whatever his fate might be, I hope they at least make it quick.

The flames had not been the thing to sever the connection between Alex and their limbs. A planned calculation had taken place and from their spot, they could observe the pieces they had control over, much easier to manage than groping around blindly. The legs with a hop rose back to their feet and the arm had clawed its way up the trunks and attached itself to the midline, resembling the sprout of a young tree. The arm wasn’t quite as rigid though so there was a comical flopping as the legs wobbled over to the hammer and squatted down letting the hand grab a hold. Taking a wide stance the legs and arm all bent backwards as one. The head of the hammer scraped against the ground before, with the sound of several tendons all snapping taut at once, the makeshift trebuchet snaps forward and the hammer is shunted off at blinding speeds.

Had Elyren the ability to comprehend it, it would have appeared as a blur. What could be perceived was instead at one moment near his head there was no hammer, no crater, and then the next; there was. Tiny pebbles were the only thing to gingerly tap against his flushed cheeks.

Elyren stared at the crater on the wall, utterly frozen, as he took in the fact that he was not, in fact, dead and that the hammer was just lying on the floor beside him. Blinking rapidly after forgetting how to breathe for a moment there, Elyren let out a shuddering laugh. “Neat. I’m not… dead, huh…” His voice was hoarse and the words were so faint he himself could barely hear them before he laughed again one more time - a louder, but still very nervous sound, bordering slight hysterics. "- I'm really not dead."

He took a moment to just take it all in. He wasn’t dead - he was in a fuckton of pain, yes he was - but he wasn’t dead, he was breathing and he was alive. That’s a lot better than how he thought his day was going to end.

The legs jogging past the arm wave at Elyren as Alex pipes up, “Could have killed ya, and I didn’t! I want to chat c’mon over! I’d uh…pick myself up but…Well, I may not look it but I’m a kind of two-handed or team lift job. I can wait as long as ya need, not going anywhere!”

With the aid of their other limbs, they had propped themselves up along the stump of their torso and were supported by their kneeling legs, all reverting back to the robed form that they had entered as a decidedly shit-eating grin stretched across the void.

Elyren looked up at Alex, from where the Dreamer had reverted back to their void-like form.

They were grinning.

They asked him to come over to them.

Elyren’s brows knitted. Should he listen to them?

What if this was just some other trick? He thought, a single surge of fear coming back to him before he shook it away, thinking. Then again, they hadn’t lied those times before. Like when they had said they needed to talk to their boss.

They could’ve killed him. Elyren reminded himself.

They could’ve, but instead, they threw away their weapon and purposefully - or so he hoped - missed his head.

Maybe… I can give them the benefit of the doubt. He thought, biting his lower lip as he mulled over the decision. This was important.

Finally, he decided to take a chance. It wasn’t like there was anything left to do. Slowly, oh so slowly, Elyren began to try and push himself off the bloodied floor, and into a somewhat standing position. His weakened legs faltered at least twice, and he almost tipped face-first to the floor before managing to steady himself and take a, stumbling, step forward.

Elyren tried to ignore the fact that he was still in pain. It felt like he’d been danced on by a mountain dragon, there wasn’t an inch of him that didn’t hold that horrible, dull pain, as if he’d taken a very bad fall. His head was pounding, and everything seemed too loud, even though it was just the two of them in the arena.

After what seemed like an eternity, he managed to walk - or better, drag - himself all the way to his former opponent. Elyren stopped when he reached a reasonable distance, crossing his arms over his chest and plopping down like a lanky puppet to the stone floor. He looked at Alex, then to the floor, as they sat there. In awkward silence. Staring at each other. The Dreamer still had that shit-eating grin on their face. Elyren scoffed, before tapping his fingers rhythmically on the back of his arms, thinking of something to say to fill the deafening silence.

“Uh… What do you want to talk about?” He asked, wincing at both his lack of originality and how screwed up his voice was. His throat ached just from speaking, and he went silent, waiting for the other to answer.

“That was a wonderful sparring match. Before I, well I’m not sure what happens now, but before that I wanted to look my opponent right in the eyes and say thank you. It has been cycles since I’ve felt in any kind of danger!” T

hey shifted on their stump letting their legs move back and do that little curtsy Elyren had shown them before…well the best they could in their state.

Elyren looked up as Alex tried to do the curtsy. The young elf kept his face even, biting back an amused chuckle. Oh gods they look like the little ten-year-old elflings back home practicing their salutations for the Summertide Festival. Did I look like that on my first try? Gods, that’s why my Aiyan was laughing so much that day, all those years ago, wasn’t it? The young elf smiled briefly at the fond childhood memory, shaking it away before it inevitably turned sour - as memories always did.

"If that wasn’t appropriate I’m sorry." The Dreamer finished their curtsy, and Elyren gave him a hesitant nod in approval. At least they’re trying. That should count for something.

Alex continued. “But my goodness! I’m used to interdimensional beings that one could call deities and you sure gave me a run for my…well whatever your people use for currency!”

Tiredly, Elyren listened intently as Alex continued their rant. Now that the rush of adrenaline was wearing off, he was starting to feel exhausted, and sleepy. Well, more than he already was before. He rubbed his eyes with the back of his hand, pushing tiredness away.

They cleared their throat.v“Now that is my feedback to you, do you have any feedback for me? I’m always looking to improve customer relations and work on my interpersonal skills.” - spying the drained looks on Elyren- “Take your time though, I’m getting the sense this has taken so much out of you, and look at me just chattering away, OH I feel like a fresh hire all over!”

As the Dreamer finished rambling, asking him a question; Elyren frowned, trying to come up with an answer. “Uh, thanks for the… compliment?” He said, referring to their comments on his battle abilities.

Elyren decided that sitting up was more effort than he was willing to make right now, and laid down on the floor, splayed out like a starfish, as he continued to speak. “Okay, my feedback about your performance in the fight… alright, the fight, let’s see…” -he looked up to the sky above them, sighing- “You put up quite a struggle, I must say.” Elyren paused, clearing his throat and immediately regretting it as it only made him sound worse.

“Let’s be honest, you almost killed me here, at least twice - that takes some serious talent…. I’m impressed. I’m sorry, for the arm I mean, I really, really am. I didn’t have much of a choice though, you … you were literally trying to crush me with a club. But regardless…” He trails off for a moment with a sarcastic roll of his icy eyes, catching his breath.

In the quiet peace, with no looming threat of violence, Alex was relaxed enough to appreciate their former combatant as another being rather than a challenge. They held themselves in an assured manner, yes, but, well, it was easy to recognize or at least assume some darkness and stormy skies in the past. It hit them suddenly, and a twinge of sadness or perhaps melancholy nostalgia, but they held their tongue until Elyren had finished their part of the conversation, though not entirely, a snicker escaped when he mentioned the arm and hammer…they were proud of that one especially.

Elyren finally continued, a sly smile on his face. “Though I do have slight complaints… about your ‘damage policy’, as you call it. Uh, I’m sorry to break it to you, friend, but if people - like me at least - cut off their arms, they don’t grow back. It doesn’t work like that for us mortals. Plus the person might bleed out and uh… die a slow and painful death. That’s why I was running away from you…” - they exhaled, running a hand through his hair to push the messy strands of silver away from his face- “but otherwise, great fight. You should be proud… of yourself.”

There was a moment of silence, and Elyren realized the Dreamer wouldn’t continue without prompting.

Gods this guy… Elyren rolled to the side, now facing in Alex’s direction without needing to crane his neck every time.

There were dark circles under his eyes, and Elyren had to blink rapidly every once in a while not to fall asleep, “Uh… you can keep talking. Or asking something else. If you want.” He told the Dreamer. Before adding, mumbled, eyes downcast “Please. I don’t like silence.”

With tenderness in their words, “I understand, the quiet can sometimes be worse than the storm.” They were about to offer their lap as a headrest but that thought was quickly discarded.

Looking to the side and exhaling with embarrassment, “That reaction was a touch overdriven,” -they shift on their stump- “I am dreamer enough to admit when I am wrong, I’ve had quite the bit of practice mind you! EhemI had been, until recently, operating under the assumption that reality here works the same as where I hail from. Where I come from I am a part of a depa-team, I am a part of a team that sees to the regulation of the fundamental rules of reality” -as they speak their hand moves and gestures in line with the words- “we are condition early in our service to escalate in our directness rapidly when we are met with noncompliance. It is a needed thing. If these rules are broken and left to linger, well, reality in its entirety could be at stake so it is imperative we act quickly and harshly.”

Elyren listened as the Dreamer started to talk, thankful that the other had chosen to listen to his request not to be left in silence. The memories were always the loudest when he was silent. Alex fell silent for another time, their eyes narrowed and their brow furrowed. The hand on the legs points and waves a finger towards Elyren.

“You people truly are a fragile thing. Now I do not mean this as an insult mind you. I am more concerned that our captor has played a cruel prank on you. It does puzzle me though how you live life with such little control over your forms.” -the hand waves dismissively- “Bah, nevermind the ramblings of this cycles long Dreamer.”

Elyren couldn’t help but laugh. “We really are.” He smiled, noting how especially true this was for him right now, lying half-broken on the hard floor.

Alex had much more they wished to say, so much knowledge they desired to know but they could feel the cold gaze of the one who stole them away. That and they could feel their body starting to regenerate. They worried though, could this infant of a person even start to comprehend the enormity of their life? What good would this information do for them? The silence was starting to set back in. So, they smiled sadly.

“Elyren, I am unsure what memories, if any, we will retain from this encounter. And you may not agree, I do not blame you as I was literally attempting to murder you under the false assumption you woul- I’m sorry I’m rambling.” -they exhale and collect their thoughts- “Despite our circumstances, I am thankful to have met you, even for this moment. I will most likely forget you once I am gone, and you me when you return to your world. But while you remain where I can not…you know what, nevermind.”

The legs of the Dreamer stride over near Elyren and squat down, the hand outstretched. “I understand your people do not shake hands, as it is a human thing, but, will you do me the honor of shaking my hand as a Dreamer?” The hand waits patiently but not demandingly, “That is if you can physically do so!” Alex laughs awkwardly.

As the Dreamer’s words came to an end, Elyren nodded at their offer to shake hands, “Of course I will.” He answered, pushing himself up from the floor with difficulty, and clusily reached for the hand stretched out to him.

Elyren didn’t have much practice with this. He’d avoided humans and their customs like the plague ever since… Well, he shook that memory, and the screams at the back of his mind, away. But it was only fair he did this now, to answer his former rival’s request - after all, they had been courteous enough to oblige by his customs. They shook hands, and Elyren smiled up at the Dreamer, before laying back down, exhausted.

“It was nice meeting you too, Alex. I hope I don’t forget you, when this is all over” He said, before rolling onto his back and looking up at the sky above him. What a day, what a very crazy day.

...Unexpected events always make for the best stories, Ely... A familiar voice, one he hadn't heard in a long time, echoed faintly in his memory, Elyren frowned, surprised, before smiling. He sighed. I guess Kiran always did have a way with words, didn’t he? Strangely, that thought was comforting, where he was expecting otherwise, and he didn’t find himself having to shake away the memories. He just laid there, in peace, looking at the sky, a former-enemy-turned-friend beside him.

“Well,” Alex leaned back on their stump, but without the legs, they fell over onto their back and laughed, “I can feel myself getting to a state to fight so, I think that’s my cue to as they say, tap out.” The legs standing they waved their arm, “I, Alex hereby declare to no longer be in a state worth fighting. I am a being incapable of death, but you may find this state a close substitute. I concede this battle to Elyren!”

An uneasy nothing from the mysterious person above the arena.

“Give ‘em hell Elyren, don’t die at least until a third round alright? Who knows though, maybe a piece of you will make its way into my end of forever? It’ll be well cared for, plenty of new friends to meet and only minor mental trauma to experience.” They sighed and let themselves fade away back to their home.

Elyren nodded, looking up at his newfound friend. “I will try to win, my friend, I promise you that.” He laughed, glancing up at the fading Alex one last time before closing his eyes, and waiting.

M's voice echoes across the vast arena, rattling him with unease.

“What an emotional round for our magical comrades. Let’s see if Elyren can keep his promise.”

[salamanderskin]

In Imladris (Lotr, m)

Set pre-The Fellowship of the Ring. Lord Elrond's birth sons and fosterling return from a long mission in the wilds, and he is drawn to give Aragorn's mortality some thought. 

Whump, hurt/comfort, sickfic, fever, sneezing, injury, stitches, infected wound, blood mention. 

The wind in the treetops of Rivendell made a sound to vie with the rushing of the falls, uneasy, restless and unceasing as it worried at the branches and strewed the last of the leaves from the branches. They fell from the birches which lined the upper flanks of the valley in slow spirals like so many circling buzzards as they wended their way down from the mountainside and through the cool air to land in delicate handfuls on the grass that made up the gardens of the Last Homely House. Some caught in the carved canopies that sheltered the grove or scattered themselves over the seats of a stone bench, some drifted down to meet their own reflection in the still grey pool, to dawdle there until the current whisked them downstream, and still others lighted on the winding paths where they barely whispered beneath the light feet of an elven woman who walked there, her dark head seemingly bent in thought.

Lord Elrond Halfelven observed all this from the window in his study which commanded a view of  his house and the valley which sheltered it, and his brows narrowed with interest. He had been watching the phalanx of horses splashing across the ford before moving single-file along the narrow tracks which lead into the valley itself, their green- and grey-cloaked riders weary with many weeks of travel, their mounts burdened with longbows and spears, and his keen eyes noted that all those twenty of his house who had set out were returned. It had only been a routine party sent out to quell the goblins in the Misty Mountains, but many rumours had reached Elrond's ears that those who were once servants of Sauron were moving again, and growing in number, and he was not so arrogant as to take for granted a successful mission.

Of course, he had a especial interest in the success of this journey. Elrond's eyes sought among those dismounting in the courtyard for two figures of equal height and build, their hair like rich, new-turned earth as they lead their mounts to water- his twin sons Elladan and Elrohir. He saw also the elven woman in the garden glance up at the sound of hoofbeats striking cobbles and come swiftly to the two, embracing each in turn as a sister should. Arwen Evenstar, his only daughter, moved among the party, assisting where she could and offering words of welcome. This was well.

This was the last rider still on horseback, a little shorter and more muscled than the party of willowy elves, and by the stiffness in his stance as he dismounted, definitely human- his adoptive son  Aragorn was also returned. Even from his high window, Lord Elrond could see the way that his daughter's gaze was drawn always to this man in particular, and without understanding why Elrond found himself stricken with a sudden heaviness of heart though the man did not notice Arwen among all the bustle of elves and horses. He was glad to put it out of his mind to focus his intention on his sons, who would doubtless come straight to their father to report.

He allowed himself to pace to one side of the great room, and then to other, so that by the time he received the inevitable knock on the door he was seated in a carved chair, his hands folded expectantly infront of him. His twin sons entered looking travel-stained but no worse for wear, their eyes bright with success and pride.  Lord Elrond fought a smile as he looked at them- they were so like himself in his younger days; strength and swiftness well balanced with a steadiness of spirit in their lithe forms.

“Welcome back, Ionnath. I trust the hunting went well.”

Elladan came forward to speak for the two, as he was wont. “Very well, Adar. We routed great gatherings of orcs in the mountains and destroyed their camps, though they were very many. They are breeding again, and in such numbers as we have never seen before.”

“Then it is as I feared. Do not be troubled, come now and rest yourselves. We shall feast tonight to celebrate your safe return.”

“Adar-”

This time it was Elrohir who spoke, and something of the cadence in his light voice made Elrond ask “All are returned safely, are they not?”

The two stepped a little closer together as if shoring up against a blow.

“Aragorn took an arrow in his shoulder. We do not know if it was serious- he would not show us the wound.”

“He has not come to me or any of my people for healing.”

Eladan's dark eyes lit briefly with wry amusement at the vagaries of men as he said sadly “But that does not mean that he is well.”

Elrond followed the wend of his son's thoughts with a flicker of concern in his heart for his adopted son, so fierce in body and spirit and yet so delicate when compared to his immortal older brothers. “Your compassion does you credit. I shall go to him, at the very least to welcome him home.”

Dismissing the two young warriors to rest and refresh themselves before the evening's festivities, Elrond rose and closed the book he had been reading with a thoughtful hand, leaving his study to seek out his youngest child, wherever in Rivendell the man might have hidden to lick his wounds.

* * *

Aragorn was not to be found in the chambers reserved to him, nor in any of the wide communal halls of Rivendell where it might be pleasant to sit on such a cold  Autumnal evening. Lord Elrond moved intuitively through the winding corridors and balconies of his house, allowing his mind to calm and guide his steps to where a human man might seek solace upon returning home. His path wended gradually down from the treetop towers of the house and down the broad, shallow steps until he found his feet upon the soft loam of the forest floor as he walked among the great trees into which his house was melded.

It was never truly cold in Rivendell, but in the gardens there was a chill edge to the breeze which spoke of snow beginning to settle on the misty mountains to the North. It whispered in branches which were growing barer by the day, strewing leaves and swirling ash keys down to form a golden carpet which did not rustle under the weightless tread of elven feet, though they would tell the tale of any human's passing, no matter how wood wise. Here rushing of the falls and the lighter, higher voice of the Bruinen where it ran in the ford was muffled, and the gently folded hills of the valley created a curious effect so that the tiny trickling of the little stream sounded louder and more potent than those other, greater bodies of water. Elrond allowed the murmur of that stream to draw him towards the grove where the water poured itself into a sculpted pool surrounded by pillows of the smooth green moss which liked to grow at under the deep shade of the trees. With his green Ranger's cloak pulled around his shoulders he was difficult to distinguish from the bark of the great oaks behind him but sure enough, beside the lip of the fountain where the stream poured through in a silver thread, there knelt a figure instantly familiar.

The elf watched as Aragorn unfastened the sword and hunting knives from his belt, took a cloth dampened in the fountain and began systematically to wipe each weapon clean. Distaste rose in his throat as black blood was washed clean from the blades and dripped onto the hallowed ground of Rivendell, staining the moss, but Elrond held his tongue for the moment, content to observe the man in his reverie. Aragorn's movement's were slow and distracted and after mere minutes they ceased altogether as he stared into the middle distance, wrapping his arms about himself. His cape fluttered fractionally with some tiny movement which drew Elrond's eye- could the man be shivering?

Though Elrond's steps were elven-light he expected his son, of all people, to notice his approach, yet he did not. He actually had to speak Aragorn's name to get a reaction.

“Estel.”

Aragorn seemed to come to, and rose immediately to his feet to give a polite bow, shaking his head to clear it.

“Forgive me, I expected you to be indoors, with the rest of the party.” He said, and his soft bass voice crackled huskily over the delicate syllables of elvish words, sounding raspish and painful as though from too much shouting.

“And I expected the same of you. Did the hunting go well?”

“I- Yes. Thank you.” The man said distractedly, kneeling down to make a business of collecting up his weapons, weighing them in his hands and buckling them on once more. A healer's instinct instantly noticed that his movement was restricted along the left side, which he held stiffly, and the dark stain in the cloth of his tunic just below the right collarbone along with many scrapes and grazes on the skin visible around his clothing. Perhaps more worrying was the bruised shadow pooling under his adoptive son's grey eyes. The man looked as though he had barely slept.

Elrond waited for Aragorn to elaborate, but he did not. Though he stood straight as a soldier should before his captain, the man was swaying slightly and Elrond thought privately that Eladan and Elrohir had been right to come to him. He did wonder exactly how long the man would go without seeing a healer, but it did not do to play betting games with the health of one's children, especially those of the mortal persuasion. Luckily Elrond was not so elfin that he was above intervening when it was needed.

“Estel.” He said again, and placed a hand on the man's shoulder. As he expected, he felt Aragorn's body tighten under his fingertips and the slightest flicker of tightness around the eyes betrayed what in another man would have been a grimace. “Your brothers tell me you were injured.”

Aragorn gave a lopsided shrug, too noble to lie when pressed outright.

“Aye. I took an arrow to the shoulder six days ago.” He swallowed, clearly ashamed. “I was careless.”

“You are a Ranger, such things happen. Would you like me to look at the wound?”

Aragorn had to clear his throat twice before he could speak, his words punctuated with a tiny, restrained sniffle. “Thank you, but that is hardly necessary.”

“Indeed?”

“Yes, I -snf- took the arrowhead out and dressed it. You trained me in herbcraft yourself.”

Elrond took a moment to reply, instead looking curiously into Aragorn's face. It was as though he had not looked at his adopted son properly before. He did so now and came to realise that his own immortal lifespan had lead him to think of Aragorn always as a youth, and this was no longer true. His shoulders were broader than Eladan or Elrohir's would ever be, taught and sinewy with muscle, whilst his jaw had waxed strong, his eyes stern and already a little sorrowful. His skin was that of a mortal man, complete with two-days growth of beard, and that meant the paleness of his cheek was not a natural elven complexion but spoke of fatigue, or perhaps something else amiss in the young man standing before him.

Yes, there was pain from the injured shoulder in his face, but Aragorn son of Arathron was too stoic to let a wound set his features flickering with discomfort the way they were now. Elrond's acute hearing picked up both the uneasy rapidity of the man's breathing, and the soft, damp sound of him sniffing around fluid in his nose. Even as he watched, Aragorn's nostrils fluttered suddenly, irresistibly, and he drew a broad hand up to pinch at them. His eyes were downcast, embarrassed, and then suddenly flickered shut as the man drew a hasty, involuntary breath and sneezed sharply, shielding his face reflexively in the crook of his arm. “ihd-Ngkssch!”

It was a tight, helpless motion that seemed to wring all the energy from the man's body, racking through him though he tried to restrain it.

“... forgive me, please...” He pleaded, utterly mortified at the wet sound as he tried to sniffle his way back into composure. Each breath in merely seemed to make the itching worse, and before Elrond could so much as comment, it overcame him again.

“NgkScch! Ngksssch! Ih...Kscch! … ngh...”

He looked up afterwards with a low groan, gripping his shoulder where the convulsion had doubtless torn the healing muscles.

“...Bless you.” Elrond said at last, reverting suddenly to the common tongue. It seemed wrong to insist on the elvish when the man had just been overtaken by something so... human.

He placed his own hand on top of Aragorn's where the man pressed his own palm into the damaged flesh at his shoulder. Elrond's fingers showed slender and pale on top of his adoptive son's broad, weapon-wielding ones which were darkened by tan and by dirt worked into the flesh. His knuckles were skinned and dark with blood where the scabs had cracked with the sudden movement. He could sense that if Aragorn did not pull away it was only out of a sense of respect for his guardian's authority and race and he turned his head away, refusing to look at his sire though he submitted to the inspection.

“There may be some orc poison in this, still, or perhaps merely a fragment of your leather jerkin has been driven into the wound. Still, this is a good place to take an injury, if there is such a thing as good place for an orc arrow. It has missed your organs, your head, your heart. But it is a difficult place to keep still, and you must keep it still so that the tissues may knit together well or you will lose some strength in your shield-arm. Five days on horseback have done you no good at all.”

As Aragorn sniffed again, Elrond's wise fingers moved intuitively across the site of the injury. Where Elrond drew aside the cloak and parted the tunic at the neck to get a better view, the man's body clenched with shudders of cold quite disproportionate to his exposure to the crisp autumn air, yet though Elrond could hear the man's teeth chattering in his head despite his every effort to still the motion, the skin under his fingers radiated an unmistakable, sickening heat. The wound itself has been dressed neatly enough, but under the wrapping of fabric the flesh gaped wide where Aragorn had pulled the arrowhead back through, wide enough to require many stitches he had not had time to provide. The skin around was bruised and swollen, seeping fluid and a fresh, red trickle of blood where it had opened again, perhaps in the last few minutes.

“Why did you not go straight to a healer with this?”

“Please, Adar, it is too small a thing with which to trouble an elven healer. It's merely that I keep... k...keep...” He did not make it through the sentence before his features once again took on a tortured grimace, part exquisite irritation, part knife-keen embarrassment at his loss of composure in front of his elfin sire. “NGKSchh!” He bent again, burying his nose into his elbow and this time. Elrond could see for sure that the motion of sneezing was too fierce for the field-dressing to keep the edges of the wound together. “...forgive me.”

“It will not heal if you keep pulling at it this way.” Elrond heard the healer's sternness in his voice and consciously softened it, truly concerned for the health of his adoptive son. He gestured away from the wound and to the general area of Aragorn's face and throat, sensing that drawing more explicit attention to the mortal ailment the man was suffering would cause him to shut down.  “How long has this been troubling you?”

Aragorn did not respond to the question, but it was possible this reaction was caused not by defiance but by his distraction as he murmured “forgive me, Adar” again before fishing out a used-looking handkerchief that was stiff in places with rust-coloured blood streaks, and touching it shamefacedly to his nose. He blew softly, the sound betraying the thickness of congestion in his head.

“Estel. How long have you been running a fever? Answer me.”

Aragorn still did not speak, and the breath he drew through his nose was an unyielding -sgk- that revealed he was hardly able to get a breath into him, though he coughed again in the attempt.

Instead, his answer was to buckle at the knees, going suddenly limp as his eyes showed white and hazy in his head. Elrond grabbed for him reflexively, but luckily the rangers of the north were not ones for fainting, so that as soon as his knees hit the moss he came back to himself sufficient to balance his weight on one hand rather than fall to the floor. The sharp jarring movement must have been excruciating, and he hissed in a tight, pained breath through his teeth as he levered himself back into a kneeling position, racked again with those tight, juddering coughs.

Instinctively Elrond felt his hands drawn to Aragorn's face and he laid his cool palms against the fire at his son's cheeks, soothing him at the same time with his words. “Estel, you need only walk with me a little way and then you can rest. Come.”

* * *

Tending to Aragorn's wound was an ugly and time-consuming job, and Elrond insisted upon doing it himself. He had to draw a deep breath to steady himself before he could make the cut into his adoptive son's shoulder which was necessary to push the remains of the arrow all the way through. As Aragorn's head lolled limply in his hands under the influence of a hefty dose of pain-numbing herbs, he almost wished that he had entrusted the task to another member of his house. He had been a healer since the world was young, and all the virtue of the elves was in him, but that did not mean that he liked plunging his fingers into the flesh of his nearest and dearest.

Removing an arrow in this way was a routine procedure, but goblin arrows were evil things, designed especially to be uneven and brittle, the better both to be dipped in poison and to catch and fester in the skin. Like many arrow wounds the damage had been caused not by the blade going in but by Aragorn's haste in taking it out. If only the man had had more patience or the humility to go to another for healing, the damage might not have been so bad. As gentle, stready fingers drew the edges of the wound together and closed it with tiny stitches, Aragorn's fevered form stirred uneasily, his breath a congested rasp. Elrond had to wonder whether Aragorn had become so fevered because he had missed a small fragment of the blade inside his flesh when he dressed his injury, or whether he had made a poor job of tending to himself because he was already coming down with some mortal ailment. Either way it was relief to lay down the needle and ease his adoptive son's form back on the bed. The man looked peaceful, the pain held at bay for a few hours, but Elrond regrettably noted that as soon as he came to his arm would be a burden to him, and the order to keep it still and rest it even more so. The mortal ailment coursing through his limp form like a wildfire would certainly help on that score.

In a parting gesture Elrond laid his hand on Aragorn's forehead as he might have when he was a child, offering him the soothing cool of his hand before stroking slowly into the dark hair. He sought the bowl of cool water placed by the bedside and rang out the cloth from it to place on the burning brow, noting how Aragorn's features relaxed as he did so, even in sleep. He left the man to sleep, his elfin lightness of foot allowing him to leave the room as if he had never been there, although his mind was loud.

* * *

The feet of Arwen Evenstar were also light, so light that neither her father, nor any of the last homely house heard her passing. She moved through the corridors of Rivendell like a bird through the wide sky, leaving no trail behind her. She had been long with her Mother's people in the East, returning to her Imladris only for passing visits, and so the passages of her father's house were strange to her. It was instinct which guided her footsteps along the winding stairways past countless statues and priceless metalwork, relics from another age than even she could remember, as she sought the company of her twin brothers, and it was instinct which brought her instead into a room she had not visited before. In contrast to the light airiness of elven architecture in every room she had passed through thus far, the windows in this chamber were closed and heavy drapes drawn about them so that gloom prevailed although it was only a little past midday. A few slanted bars of sunlight made their way into the space, dancing with motes of dust, and when Arwen leaned her head in and made out the scene which they illuminated she very nearly retreated immediately for fear of awakening the sleeper there. However, she was very much her father's daughter, and when that sleeping figure let out a low moan of pain she could not make herself walk away.

She entered and gazed long at the man who lay on the bed, his left side well wrapped in bandages through which a stain of blood had steeped, very red next to the white dressings and his pale face. She recognised the mortal man who had been in the hunting party with Elladan and Elrohir. By the dark hair and beard and the nobility of his face, he was one of the Dunedain. She struggled for a name... Arathorn? No, it couldn't be. She remembered that the young man Arathorn was sheltered in Rivendell for a time but that was too many years ago. This must be his son. Her foster brother.

Arwen had no experience of illness, and little experience of pain, but she knew enough to be sure that the man was not just exhausted from the journey. Her alert senses could feel the fever-heat radiating off him in waves, though he shivered and attempted to burrow himself deeper under the covers which had slipped down to reveal some of his chest. The tautly-muscled flesh which rose over his ribcage was mottled with dark bruising and there were other grazes and scrapes quite apart from the wadded cloth concentrated upon the hollow just below the man's collarbone.

If he had been tended by her father than she had no fears for his well-being in the long term, but despite the heavy dose of analgesics and sedatives required to ease his passage through the surgery her father had performed to his wounded shoulder the man was clearly in deep discomfort. He did not lie at ease but twitched and murmured, his body moving like a ship at anchor as though he had a will to toss and turn but was checked at each attempt by the fierce pain of the newly-closed wound, and she wondered at it.

When the sleeper did not stir at her presence, Arwen allowed herself to approach him more closely indulging herself in the chance to examine him in every aspect, and what she saw troubled her heart in ways she could not precisely understand. Although she had taken him for pale in the face, his pallor was broken by two spots of high colour on his cheeks. His lips were cracked and bloody in the centre where he had bitten through the bottom one in pain or frustration.

“ihd-Ngkssch!”

The explosive sound and corresponding whiplash movement of his head into the mattress startled her so much that she took a step back, withdrawing the hand she had unconsciously extended to draw the blankets over him. She sighed out softly in relief- it was only a sneeze. It had happened without any warning and she fully expected it to have woken him, but to her surprise the man's eyelids remained steadfastly shut. Fascinating...

It overtook him again, but gradually this time, so that she had time to observe the chaotic flickering of his nostrils, the way his eyebrows tented together and his breath formed a questioning “hhuh” as the need to sneeze mounted, consuming him utterly although it failed to rouse him from his sleep.

“Ihd'NGGSCH! .. NNGSHH! ... ngh”

Again without waking, the man turned to smother his face into the mattress to his left, and Arwen saw a wince of pain pass his features as he wrenched at the bloody bandages at his collarbone.

It was clearly not the first time he had been overtaken with such a release, nor even the tenth, for the man's nostrils and the skin beneath them were chapped and sore-looking. And would soon be worse, judging by the dampness of them. The man felt it too, indeed despite the impressive display his nose still seemed to irritate him, for in his sleep he scrubbed it itchily first against the pillow and then against his bandaged knuckles. She had never in her long life carried a handkerchief, having no need for such a thing, but the thick, damp sound of this stranger's breathing made her wish for one to press into his sleep-slackened hand. He sounded awful, his breathing hoarse and his nose by turns stuffed and running so that no amount of sniffing would give him release from the near-constant need to sneeze.

She stood wondering a moment longer, but the wetness in the man's head seemed to be the final straw and enough to draw him almost to the surface of sleep as he unconsciously swiped the back of wrist at his nose. As his eyelids flickered, threatening to open, Arwen drew a hasty step backwards. She did not wish her unlooked-for presence to startle the man from his rest. Even if he was waking, perhaps if she left the room quietly he could return to his dreaming for a few hours more- she could see her father's healer's case set out beside the bed, it's scalpels and needles sleeping next to each other like miniature weapons of war, and knew that sleep was the greatest mercy the elves could give him at that point in time. Reluctantly she left the fascinating scene of his mortal suffering and turned for the door.

* * *

The afternoon sunlight poured out across Rivendell like slow honey, taking its time to make its way into the deep shadows that were gathering around the gardens of the house. The air held the smell of turning leaves and moist earth, the smell of things moving on and maturing, and Elrond was pleased to breathe it in as he returned to Aragorn's chamber a few hours later. There were servants in his house who would boil and bring a cup of this decoction to his son, but again he had chosen to do it himself, taking pleasure in the bitter, herbal scent of it and the weight of the tray in his hands. There was so much in the world that was changing. The shadows of the world were gathering and growing long and all that the elves had known must eventually come to end. Nothing would be as it once was, and so he took the time to focus on the small tasks which had been his everyday experience as a healer since the world was young. Tending his adoptive son would be a temporary shield against the tides of the unexpected.

Yet the unexpected found him even as he went to enter the sickroom, for who should be leaving it but his daughter, Arwen, who was so rarely in his house and never in this part of it at all? She smiled him a greeting, turning her head anxiously back over her shoulder so that the long curtain of dark hair shrouded her fair face.

“I was just meaning to seek you, Adar.” She said in a low murmur of elvish which disturbed the air of the sickroom less that the slightest breeze stirring the drapes. “That man, he-”

“-has taken ill, and it is a poor combination with an orc arrow in his flesh. I am aware of this. How is he?”

Elrond was answered not by his daughter but by a low, shivering murmur from the chamber beyond, followed almost immediately by a horribly wrenching “ngh... NGKtscsh!” It sounded as though Aragorn was no better for the time he had spent unconscious, but rather that now he was horizontal whatever had been brewing in his head and lungs had chance to settle and drive him to outbursts of fretful, frustrated sneezing.

The elves glanced at each other. Elrond's eyes were impassive, Arwen's somewhat disconcerted. That was only to be expected; it was rare to hear a raised voice in Rivendell, let alone one raised in unavoidable, undeniable discomfort. Discomfort was clear enough in the man's laboured coughing. Although that first release sounded as though it had ripped at the surface of Aragorn's throat, it was not enough to ease him and he was racked with them again and again.

“Ihd'Ngkssch!... …. hh... Ngkssch! Ngkssch! IKTSkssch!”

The unpleasant dampness of the sneezes caused even Elrond to wince, though the long, torturous breaths between each one were worse still on the listener, causing him almost to hold his own breath in sympathy. The sound made Elrond realise that Aragorn had been desperately restraining himself when they had met in the garden of Imladris- then his sneezes had been fierce but tight, swiftly muffled as he denied himself relief from them out of some sense of propriety in front of his elven sire. Now he was simply allowing his body to have its way with him, though Elrond could have wished the man had slept longer.

Elrond opened his mouth to call out but he was immediately hushed by Arwen's slender hand.

“He sleeps, despite it all.” She whispered, wry, then added “His fever is very high.”

“Understandably so. The fire will burn the taint of evil from his flesh. I have prepared a decoction which will ease his other symptoms when he wakes.”

He stepped towards the door ahead of his daughter but she hovered, hand still extended, reluctant to leave.

“You should not be here, Arwen.” Elrond said, though not unkindly. “This man needs to rest if he is to recover his strength. I will tend him.”

“Yes, Adar.”

“Do not trouble yourself. Go now to your brothers and give thanks that this kind of suffering will never be your concern.”

She left then, the hem of her gown fluttering behind her with the briskness of her steps, the cloak of her hair rippling.

Although Arwen was gone, that final thought was etched in Elrond's mind as he went to his son and readied his things to change the dressings on Aragorn's shoulder. This kind of suffering will never be your concern. She would never experience sickness, the discomfort and indignity of burning with fever, or having one's head bristle with pressure and pain. Though she could be wounded she would heal quickly, never needing to watch for the insidious creep of infection which was Elrond's main fear as he washed his hands before touching his son.

When he drew back the covers, Aragorn's eyes first opened a crack then snapped immediately wide as he tried desperately to sit up, right arm groping about him as though seeking his sword. Only Lord Elrond's weight on either forearm prevented the man from sitting and he pushed frantically against his father's grip for a moment before realising where he was. He came to himself and laid back down slowly, blinking.

“Adar, it's you.” His voice was a hoarse, painful rasp. “I thought...”

Elrond hushed him and touched his fingers to the man's cheek to gauge the fire there. Cooler, but his fever had not yet broken.

“You were dreaming.” Elrond made it a statement, not a question. “You are in Imladris.”

“I remember. I was not so far gone as that.” Aragorn said, but the tentative slowness of his speech gave that statement the lie, for he spoke as one who must dredge each word up individually from the murk of fever before struggling to remember what he intended to do with it. He lay still for a moment, apart from the slight wrinkle at the bridge of his nose as he tried to get a breath through it, snuffling heavily, and failed.

“Indeed?” Although Aragorn did not seem to recall it, Elrond had a clear memory of the man's weight on his arm as they walked up to Rivendell, and of having to call Elladan to lift his brother's limp form when the fever and the walk overwhelmed him. Still, that the man was protesting his wellness was something of a good sign- the injury had taken none of his spirit.

Elrond seated himself on the edge of the bed, blocking the man from rising.

“Do not get up, Estel. Drink this.” He offered the cup and watched Aragorn drink of it, spluttering around the liquid on his raw throat. “Slowly. Now, can you move your fingers?”

Aragorn's forehead narrowed for a moment in concentration but he clenched his left hand into a fist and relaxed it, his other fingers moving instinctively to the arrow-wound at his shoulder. He sniffed again, liquidly, and touched his hand to his nose. His apology came out as a “Please, excuse be” almost too hoarse to be made out.

“That is well.” Elrond said, of Aragorn's compliance, then “I will need you to lie still for some days until the stitches can be removed.”

“Days? But I must-” Though he tried to rub it into submission, his nose twitched again, reddened nostrils flickering with irritation. He turned away from his father in embarrassment, though it was less the eyes-averted denial of earlier then the expression of a man resigned to being confined to bed with a dreadful chill, more eager for the relief now than ashamed. He cast about and found that someone had replaced his bloodstained handkerchief with a fresh one, and not a moment too soon.

“NGKTssch! NGSSCHuh! … ah...”

It was clear that he was trying not to move his shoulder and yet the sudden sneezes ripped through his irritated sinuses with a force which made the muscles of his abdomen clench and twitch though he tried to swallow them.

“That,” Lord Elrond said quietly. “Is precisely my point. Lie still.”

Elrond sat with his son for some time after he had changed the dressings, rubbing the man's back to ease him through the fits of painful coughing. At times further fits of sneezing overtook him, but these died down as the sedative Elrond had put in the herbal tea took effect. He had the pleasure of watching the hawk-like keenness fade from his adoptive son's eyes with each blink until the man began to snore lightly through his blocked nose. Aragorn lay entirely still, his left arm set awkwardly to one side so as not to put strain through his injured shoulder, but the calloused fingers were relaxed in sleep, cupped loosely like the petals of a flower. On that hand was a ring and the emeralds set there cast a green glow on the white linen coverlet where the sunlight struck them. Elrond looked at it and sighed. He could not, even for a moment, forget that his mortal son carried the fate of a people on his shoulders, not even when the man in question lay passed out on a bed, his cheeks carrying high spots of colour from a fever that would not seem to break. Elrond placed his fingers to Aragorn's cheek, confirming, and pulled the blankets up higher over him before taking his leave.

He walked out of Rivendell as the sun was sinking below the rim of the valley. The last rays spread in a glorious smear of light across the sky, catching the rays from the falls in rainbows and gilding the tops of the ash trees where they shivered in the light breeze. Elrond noticed three figures standing together in the gardens, two completely alike, and he went to them, his heart lifting. Although Estel had been fostered at Rivendell, he needed to spend time with those of his offspring who were of his blood, who did not remind him with their every breath that they were to whither and die. He had sheltered many sons of the Dunadain over his long life whilst they lived and died as briefly as mayflies, but something told him that Aragorn, son of Arathorn, had a greater part to play than his adoptive father could understand.

Days were darkening but there were still fragments of light to be found before the gathering storm. Though Aragorn lay in a fever upon his bed, Elladan, Elrohir and Arwen stood on the grass of Imladris as the autumn leaves danced down upon them, and he was glad in the sight.

END.

[testosterlonely]

of teacups and teleportation circles

When your fiance sends you a 3 am text about his idea for a Clayleb fic, you write that fic for him. Set a few years after the Nein are done adventuring. Caduceus breaks his favorite teacup and Nott and Caleb are on the case. 

---

Things were finally good for Caleb Widogast. He lived happily in the Blooming Grove with his husband Caduceus Clay. Their romance had been slow, almost painfully slow at times, but when the day finally came that the Mighty Nein were ready to go their separate ways, Caduceus simply took Caleb’s hand and told him, “You’re coming home with me. You are my family.” And he did.

The Grove was finally healthy and thriving again, and there was never a shortage of dead people tea to drink and strange mushrooms to eat. Their friends visited the two men occasionally, and every few months Nila would come to watch the Grove so Caduceus and Caleb could go visit their friends, who had spread across the continent - Beau had returned to Zadash, where she reunited with Keg, Fjord and Jester had found themselves back on the Menagerie Coast. Nott and Yeza returned to their home near the river, and Yasha took herself wherever the Stormlord led her. She was their most frequent visitor, stopping by for a few days to a few weeks, quiet and serene.

One sunny morning, Caleb sat peacefully at their kitchen table, absentmindedly rubbing Frumpkin’s head as his husband prepared breakfast - heating the tea kettle, chopping mushrooms and potatoes, lightly toasting the homemade bread that Caleb loved the most, the mundane household sounds that he had learned to love - when he heard a sudden crack.

Caleb looked over with a start to see a look of distress on his husband’s face,  his gaze caught on something on the ground. “Liebling, what is wrong?” Caleb asked, before discovering what had caused his husband’s sadness - shattered on the floor was Caduceus’ favorite teacup.

Caleb remembered the day he gave Caduceus the small, pale pink cup, dotted with the tiniest of flowers. He and Nott had taken a day to themselves in Zadash, a few weeks before the wedding, to figure out what Caleb would wear for the special day. Nott, naturally, was excited to force Caleb to try on as many ridiculous ensembles as she could, and Caleb complied, if only to see the joy on his best friend’s face.

After a few hours and a few shops, Caleb and Nott were exhausted, and stopped at a tiny shop near The Invulnerable Vagrant to grab a pastry and perhaps a hot drink. The first thing that caught Caleb’s eye, however, was a tiny pale pink cup, dotted with grey flowers. It ended up being the only purchase of the day - in the end, Jester made Caleb’s wedding apparel, and Caleb was so excited about the cup that reminded him of his husband-to-be that he wanted to return home immediately. The shopkeeper had wrapped up the cup and the two parted ways, Caleb using the Teleportation Circle he had convinced Pumat to let them set up in the back of The Invulnerable Vagrant to head home.

He kept the cup in his Bag of Holding until the next morning, when Caleb snuck out of bed early to attempt to make breakfast for Caduceus and bestow upon him his new teacup. Naturally, it went poorly, with smoke pouring out of the small cottage’s kitchen. The burning smell woke Caduceus, who laughed for nearly an hour at his fiancé’s mishap. The cup, of course, was perfect, and the day was saved by the two men cleaning up the kitchen and going back to bed to try again later.

“My love, I’m so sorry about your cup,” Caleb whispered in his husband’s ear, throwing his arms around his waist.

“It’s okay, sweetheart. It’s just a cup,” Caduceus answered, in a tone that clearly conveyed “It’s not okay.”

The two finished preparing and eating their breakfast in a somber silence, broken occasionally by Caleb’s unsuccessful attempts at humor. Caleb even debated casting Tasha’s Hideous Laughter, desperate for the firbolg’s smile or laugh.

Caleb wrestled with himself about what to do for a few hours, watching his husband mope around the house. Eventually, he knew the correct solution to his problem.

“Liebling, I’ll be gone for a few hours, but I’ll be back soon,” Caleb promised Caduceus, kissing him on the cheek and grabbing his cloak. He had a few trips to make before the day was done.

First, to Nott’s. The goblin was unsurprised at Caleb’s appearance, as she had grown accustomed to the human showing up randomly at the house where she lived with her husband and son. Once she heard the reason for her best friend’s trip, she was ready to head to Zadash, “for true love, of course.”

Next, to Zadash. Caleb and Nott both resolved to never tell Beau that they had been in town and not come to visit her, because they both knew she would never stop complaining about it. But Beau was known to talk, and talk, and talk, and if they stayed with her too long, they’d never finish their mission, and Caleb knew he could not come back empty handed.

Of course, transporting directly into the back room of The Invulnerable Vagrant without warning the Pumats first caused a bit of a stir, but once the firbolgs learned of Caleb and Nott’s mission, all stresses were calmed, and the two went on their way, promising to come back soon for a longer visit on a day when they were not in a time crunch.

---

“I swear the shop was this way,” Nott grumbled after twenty minutes of wandering the few blocks around The Invulnerable Vagrant, searching for the pastry shop from nearly five years ago. “Have you considered, Caleb, that… maybe… the shop is closed?”

“Nein, Nott, Pumat would have told us. These roads don’t even look familiar any more… but The Invulnerable Vagrant has been here for years, and I’ve been here hundreds of times. I should remember the area better.”

“Let’s just ask someone,” Nott decided, wandering up to the first person she saw. The dark-skinned halfling man she found directed them to a shop a few blocks to the east, Beans and Brew.

Beans and Brew had excellent animal-product-free scones (Caleb purchased a few for Caduceus) and passable tea, but was definitely not the shop they were looking for. As they exchanged silver for pastries, they asked the young elven woman running the till if she knew of any other tea shops in the area, explaining the mission they were on. She suggested a shop a ten minute walk to the south, only a few blocks away from Beau’s house, called The Warm Oven.

The Warm Oven smelled of savory herbs and sweet sugar, and Caleb immediately missed his husband, wondering if he was feeling any better. When he had left, Caduceus had been staring forlornly at the broken porcelain on the counter, since neither of them had been willing to part with it yet. However, there were no teacups for sale, and the elderly gnome proprietor was huffy when asked if there were any other tea shops close by, so the two left without purchasing anything or even any other leads.

“This is hopeless!” Nott complained as she and Caleb stood outside of The Warm Oven, hands in their cloaks to protect them from the cold. “We’re never going to find this stupid tea shop! We should just go ask Pumat.”

For once, Caleb had no response. His only goal for the day had been to replace his lover’s teacup, and he couldn’t even do that correctly. “Ja, Nott, we should go talk to Pumat. Maybe he can make a custom one. A bit out of his wheelhouse, but perhaps.”

---

“Uh, Caleb, you are a transmutation wizard, am I correct?” Pumat Prime asked Caleb a few minutes later, after Caleb and Nott fully explained the scenario that had brought them to Pumat’s doorstep.

“Ja, I am, why?”

“Give me just a moment,” the firbolg told them, laughing to himself as he wandered into the workroom. Nott and Caleb stared at each other, bemused, as they waited for Pumat to return. A few moments later, he came back, and handed a scroll to Caleb.

“I’ve been working on this for a while - have you ever heard of the cantrip Mending?” Pumat asked. At Caleb and Nott’s nods, he continued, “This scroll would allow you to use a spell I created myself. I call it Higher Mending. It’s similar to the cantrip, but you can, uh, use it on slightly larger objects. It uses a third level spell slot, and, uh, you would have to copy it, but, I think it would be able to help solve your problem.”

“Pumat Sol, I could kiss you,” Nott blurted out as soon as the firbolg finished his sentence. “You are an angel, a god among men - uh, firbolgs - a saver of love, a king-” she continued, before being cut off by Caleb.

“Pumat… this is perfect. How much do I owe you?” Caleb asked quietly, heart swelling with excitement.

Pumat just laughed and answered, “This one is on the house. You know I am a sucker for love stories. Now head home to Caduceus and try it out, I’d love to hear how it works. Pumat Two can run the shop for a bit, I’ll take Nott home. I wanted to ask Yeza about some potions we need restocked anyways.”  

Nodding, and wiping off a single small tear - was it excitement? Sadness? Anticipation? Joy? He couldn’t figure out what it was from - Caleb stepped into the teleportation circle and muttered the arcane words that would bring him home to his husband, his cat, and his graveyard.

---

Caleb smiled as he walked into his home, glad he had decided against casting Message to warn Caduceus that he was on his way home, as he saw his husband curled up on the sitting room couch fast asleep with Frumpkin loafed on his chest. He paused to kiss his husband on the forehead - quietly, as not to wake him -  before settling himself in to the desk a few feet away from the couch with his spellbook, the scroll, and his ink. He spent the next hour copying over the spell while his husband slept peacefully, finishing just as Caduceus began to stir from the couch.

“Hello liebling, I have a special surprise for you,” Caleb said excitedly when he was certain Caduceus was awake enough to fully comprehend what a conversation was. He pulled the scones, slightly crushed, out of his bag and handed them to his husband. “Look, I got pastries.”

“That’s great, love,” Caduceus said, smiling as he smelled the spicy cinnamon of the scones. “We shouldn’t eat them now, though, it would ruin our supper.”

“Liebling, I think tonight we should have sweets for supper! Sweets and tea!” Caleb exclaimed, pulling Caduceus off the couch and into the kitchen.

“Caleb, I’m not sure I’m in the mood for tea, after earlier,”  Caduceus said, a slight tone of sadness in his voice.

“I have something to do about that too! Pumat gave me this spell. Here, sit down for a second, let me show you.” Pulling his spellbook out of its holster and placing the shattered porcelain onto the table, he focused his energy into the arcane words Pumat’s scroll taught him, and watched with excitement as the teacup slowly began to reform, pulled together by a shimmering purple light.

“There. All better. Even the most breakable of things can be saved by love, and maybe a little magic, mein liebling,” Caleb whispered into his husband’s ear. Both men knew that the teacup was not the only thing in their home that had been saved by love.

That night they had tea and sweets, and there was laughter and joy. A life neither man had dreamed of, held together by love. Things were good for Caleb Widogast, and he finally believed he deserved it.

[wyrdsistersofthedas]

Cloak and Shadows

Hey buddies!  Hey friends!  Hey pals!  That (↑) is fucking Falon’Din, my dudes!! (So says Artemis.  So say we all.)

The Wyrd Sisters of Thedas and others believe that the figure depicted in the Mark Darrah tweet is Falon’Din, the elven god of the dead, and that he will play a major role in Dragon Age 4.  He may even be the true big bad of the next installment of the franchise.

Want to know more?  Equip your tinfoil hats and follow us below the cut....

In our last post, we Sisters Wyrd were rather confused by the final image Mark Darrah posted.  On first glance, all of the Wyrds thought it was a figure shrouded in black.  When @the-tale-of-the-champions said that @the-queen-of-thedas thought it was Falon’Din (and we highly recommend looking at how she came to this conclusion as well as subsequent posts), the pieces of the puzzle started to fall into place.  Before we even had time to look up her theory, I had pulled up an image that took our breath away.  The figure seems to be wearing a mask that is startlingly similar to the one of Falon’Din’s statues in the Temple of Sacred Ashes.  

So why wear a mask? There seems to be an artistic tradition of the Evanuris dressing up their godliness with masks or elaborate headdresses that might have mimicked their favored magical forms.  

June

Elgar’nan (Doesn’t he look like a dragon? Or it just us?)

Fen’Harel’s true face is never seen in the representations we have of the pantheon, likely due to his rebel status.

Now compare the masked statue from the beginning of the post with these freaky ass statues with the fancy dos:  

In the Dalish Origin, Tamlen identified the side figures as being the “Friend of the Dead”, Falon’Din.  (The central figure has not been identified definitively.  I’ve always thought it was Dirthamen due to the similar appearance to Falon’Din, but there is no 100% proof in the lore as far as I know.)

What is interesting is how similar these figures are to statues of Mythal in her temple.  

A visual throwback or recall to the Dalish Origin.  Notice the mask or helmet depicted covering her face?  It is not the same as the one in the Darrah image, but shows one type of iconography that was associated with the elven gods.  (Interestingly, the other elven goddess are not portrayed masked, at least so far.  Maybe.  There are some images that might depicted them masked or helmeted like Mythal, but that will have to be a post for another day.)  

 So what does this mean?  In our opinion, there is a distinct possibility that the Dread Wolf will not be the only Evanuris in Dragon Age 4.

In previous posts, the Sisters expressed the view that the next big bad of Thedas might not be the Dread Wolf, but rather the “Friend” of the Dead, Falon’Din.  Our DA developers love a little sleight of hand, setting us up to think that we will be combating one problem/antagonist in the game only to find out that there is a totally different foe we have to face: Loghain must be defeated before the Blight.  Anders setting in motion the endgame for DA2 leading to the Mage-Templar War.  Heading into Inquisition the Wyrds were pretty sure this pattern would continue and, sure enough, Corypheus stepped up.  You could even argue the revelation that Solas set the whole thing in motion by giving Cory his orb is yet another instance of pulling back the veil (ha ha) to reveal larger forces at work.  

We think this may be another misdirection.  Certainly Solas will undoubtedly be a main focus of the game, but we doubt how we go about addressing his plans for elvendom and the Veil will be anything but a simple situation. The Dread Wolf has demonstrated he is far too powerful to go toe to toe with, as Viddasala and her Qunari followers found out.  So where will the next protagonist of Dragon Age look for the power to defeat a being with god-like powers?  Another “god”, perhaps?

Whether the hero has to become as powerful as Solas of if they have to discover ways to dismantle his magics, we will need to know everything we can about the ancient elvhen and their Evanuris.  

Solas certainly seems to have strong feelings about Falon’Din and his attitude towards elvhenan.  

A showdown between the elven gods seems inevitable.  Add all this information together and we think there is a strong possibility that Falon’Din is the figure Mark Darrah tweeted. 

There have been hints from the very beginning of Origins, long before Fen’Harel awoke, that dark forces were already at work in Thedas (See our Pre-Tres post: Thedas is on the Brink).  Falon’Din or his agents may already be players in the game.  Consider that the first elven god you “meet” in all of the Dragon Age games is Falon’Din.  And the lore about him even gets a cut-scene.  Suggestive!

Could the Evanuris have active agents working on their behalf in Thedas, just like Felassan did for Solas?  It certainly seems likely.  If his agent’s and Mythal’s could sleep for thousands of years, the guardians of the other Evanuris might have as well.  In fact we may have caught a glimpse.  Or Tamlen did...

Where did Tamlen go?  And what did he see in the eluvian?  I’ve thought about this until I felt like a mabari chasing its tail.  Could it have been the archdemon in some part of the Deep Roads?  Possible, but I keep coming back to something very weird about this ruin.  The only way to enter it is through the eluvian.  All the other “entrances” were broken through the walls and not actual doors.  You were meant to enter the temple from the eluvian.  And what is the first thing a worshipper would see when they entered that temple through the elvuian?  Falon’din.  Greeting his followers with arms wide open.

That temple was almost certainly dedicated to him, and it’s purpose was likely to provide a ceremonial resting place for those entering uthenera.  The fact that this sanctuary of his had been broken into from the outside and the eluvian activated is a sign, perhaps, that forces have been seeking him since the Fifth Blight.  And wherever that eluvian originates from is likely extremely tainted with the blight that it infected the mirror.  (Again, that seems so suggestive.  Some might argue that the darkspawn tainted the temple and the mirror around the time of the Fifth Blight, but I think it is more likely they were drawn to it when Tamlen went through it and the power it pulsed when Mahariel was knocked away was felt by the darkspawn.)  

Powerful forces seem to be at work in Thedas.  So many references to Falon’Din throughout the series we believe point to the Friend of the Dead being a major player in the future.

Mythal said a reckoning that would shake the heavens was coming.  Evanuris, Titans, Tevinter and Qunari.  DA4 is going to be a hell of a game!

-MM 

(I have so many thoughts about Falon’Din and Dirthamen, Ghilan’nan and the Sinner.  Hope to show it too you soon!)

[mechamal]

The Dark

Did I make the right call? At the time, it all seemed simple. Xeta's magic was gone, her 'god' badly wounded. We were in Haven, after realizing just how...bad things were there. How the land's pseudo deity the Author used mass mind control to bend the people to his will. How dangerous the place was, we were out of our depth here. I felt cornered. Surrounded on all sides. And my paranoia getting the better of me.

That's when she appeared. Umbra, Queen of the Dark Fae. Not the first time we'd met. We'd crossed paths during my group's time in Duskiva, and for whatever reason, she'd taken an interest in me. I'd hear her whispers from time to time. Sometimes too distant and quiet to make out. Other times offering advice and information. Usually at a price.

She offered a deal. She was close enough to Xeta's god to work as a stand in, to supply her with magic until her god had either recovered...or perished. All I, in turn, would owe her a favor. A favor that could be anything. And when the time came to do it, I wouldn't have a choice. I'd be compelled by magic to see it through.

I don't know if I did the right thing. I won't know, until I find out what the favor she desired was. I wanted her to be an ally. We have a mutual hatred of Titania. And there, in Haven, realizing how much trouble we were in, and our most powerful member without her magic...it felt like I had little choice. What hope did we have of pulling through without Xeta? Maybe I could have struck out on my own, made my way back to port stealthily, gotten out of Haven. But I wouldn't abandon the group. At first I'd thought of them as little more than meat shields, convenient traveling companions to use for my own ends. But I'd grown to care about them over time. As 'captain' I'd started taking that role seriously. And with Bekah... I couldn't just abandon a child here. I may struggle to be a good mother for her, but for all my flaws, me and the other Sirens are all she has.

It felt like the right thing to do at the time. The only thing to do at the time. Take the deal. Get your people out of Haven safe and sound. And get on good terms with Umbra. A useful ally against Titania. I should have pushed back more, I think now. Demanded terms to the deal. Asked why she was so set on making the deal with ME and not Xeta directly. It wasn't until more recently I realized this favor was no idle flight of fancy. She has plans for this favor, and I don't know what they are. I won't until she calls upon it.

But there's not much use worrying about it. The favor will come when it comes, and stressing out over it wont' change anything. I thought it would be a simple matter. I go about my business with the Sirens. Umbra would show up one day to collect. I do what she wants. And then we're done. However, things have gotten a bit more...complicated.

Seems I'm not the only one getting into debt with powerful entities. Xeta, being the kindhearted soul that she is, came across a genie bound to the service of a dragon, and bartered for the genie's freedom by...offering a favor. Now we're off to the domain of another dragon on his behalf. Infiltrate the lair, kill a dragon. I'd complain but I have a feeling when my favor comes up, it's not going to be any easier for us.

On our way back from negotiations, I feel a strange sensation. I wander away from the others, following along until I come face to face with Umbra again.

"I'm afraid, that while you don't know it yet---or maybe you do, your life is about to visited upon by more danger than ever before." She slowly circled me, continuing on before I could reply. "And while you grow...strangely stronger and stronger at a positively unnatural rate." She looks me  over with an appraising stare, "It needs to be understood that I have to secure my investment. I have plans for you, for your favor, and I need you to survive until you can make good on it."

I open my mouth to speak, but it's too late. I feel the air pulled form my lungs, as dozens of tiny black hands grab my body, pulling me down to the ground. Shadowkeen. Umbra stands over me, my eyes wide with fear. No knowing what's happening, and lacking the breath to speak.

“So much effort, piercing Sirius’s little starry bubble, but,” I can't see her anymore, but I can practically hear her wide, toothy smile. “Negation is the specialty of the Dark.”

I find myself in a dark void. Unable to move. Laying on my side, paralyzed. I've been here once before. The Dark World. Early in my adventures, I'd fallen under a vampire's hypnotic spell, my soul ending up here as my body was helpless. The first time Umbra and I had met, perhaps when she'd first taken an interest in me. But I'd been rescued before we could talk much then, Xeta rousing me from the spell's effects, snapping me back to my body.

No such luck this time. I lay there on the ground. Unable to move, unable to speak. I can't see much from this position, but I know that the Dark World itself is just that. A world, vast and filled with a strange power. Power Umbra has harnessed to hide from Titania and create her own sect of Dark Fae. There's a power here, enormous and enticing, yet out of reach for me at least.

Umbra approaches, alongside a half elven child. Amethyst eyes, dark messy hair and pale skin. Penelope. A ghostly child who had been following me for some time. Connected to my past in ways I'm still trying to piece together.

“Normally such things require a pact, but I don’t have time in my schedule for a long drawn out contract negotiation like some silly dragon,” She brings herself and Penelope closer to me, “So instead I’m going to simply whip up a little something special. I’m going to wrap that tiny little seed of magic inside of you with a Silocara.”

Umbra takes Penelope's hand and places it on my chest. I still can't move. My heart starts beating faster, but whether it's a result of some magic or just me starting to panic, I'm not sure. Penelope's hand phases through my armor and skin. Her touch cold, but warmer than I remember it. She begins fading into shadow, sublimating into vapor like blackened dry ice.

“I wanted, you see,” Umbra’s fingers dance above my shoulder, “to make this one into a Shadowkeen when I noticed her on you, but it seems she’s as invested in your fate as I am. So instead: Transmutarre Silocarum."

I feel something digging into my chest. Making itself at home. And something inside me...that seed of magic? Starts to grow, as if showered in nutrients.

I hear Umbra's voice, fading now. Growing distant. , “Oh, sorry to cut things short, but that Summer Bitch and her flaccid little bird-keeper are trying to burrow into my realm. I loathe being this busy. Children, come to me, we have patches---” She’s gone.

Suddenly, I find myself back at the villa we'd rented on the island. I place a hand over my chest, shaking. I feel different, in conflicting ways. On the one hand, I feel sick. Invaded, violated.  Not unlike when I'd learned my memory as a child had been altered by one of Titania's underlings. I feel a shadow twisting around my heart, feeling strangely warm. It feels tight and clumsy like a child's embrace.

Penelope, whoever she is, somehow joined with me. Her soul has an aged wear on it not unlike my own. Be it from age or suffering or both I'm not entirely sure. But I know that Penelope was dead when I was a child, possibly before I was even born. I think she's been like this for a long time. In the wrong place for a long time. I feel like she's been waiting for this moment, for a long time. I recognize a spark inside of her. A bond with her, like twins conjoined in the womb. Bound by a chain comprised of a single substance: Vendetta. That vengeful fire that burns within me...I can sense it in her too.

I start stepping toward the villa. The glimmering light of Stardust seems different now. The little particles of light throughout the air seem to...avoid me now. Flowing away from me wherever I move. "Negation is the specialty of the Dark." I remember Umbra's words. I feel a strange sensation. Maybe magical, or just intuition from my experiences. I feel like I'm wrapped up in the wide bounds of a game in which for me, the particular rules no longer apply. I think about what I've learned of Draconic Dominion. Of the Cloak of Night's repulsion of Haven's corrupting Light. The shift in the air crossing Theor's border into Duskiva. Instinctively, I know. The Dark World, it's power, Umbra, the Shadowkeen and now me...wrapped in the Dark World's power. None of it bows to the didactic magical borders, none of it kneels in the face of beings so powerful they think they can invoke magical law. Something about this power holds a potent taste of disobedience.

I hold out my hand. Uttering a brief incantation as the words come to me naturally. Shadows rise from my hand, weaving and forming into a blade, resting easy in my fingers.

Titania, the Fae Queen who ruined my life and who knows how many others on selfish whims. Nyssara Nyx, the despotic Queen of Duskiva, oppressing her people with the monstrous Vibrati. Niklaus the Author, bending an entire nation to his whims through his insidious stories.

In a world where people like them hold power. Maybe a little disobedience, a little rebellion, is a good thing to hold onto. However wary I may be of my favor to Umbra, and the casual ease with which she thrust this power upon me.... I'd take her over the likes of them any day.

If I were someone who prized control, obedience and order then perhaps I'd feel nervous.

But I'm not. Despite my uneasiness about how this power was 'gifted' to me, I feel a stunning surge of confidence. Powerlessness flips into an intoxicating rush of power. It's no great magical power. It doesn't rumble like a thunderous storm the way Claire's does in the heat of battle. It's not wild and aggressive like the energies crackling around Dawnda when she digs into her emotions. It's not the captivating and beautifully precise light show of Lucy's discipline. It's not the funneled starry night energy that emanates from Xeta. My power feels like...like the fire me and my father would make on a cold winter night. So small but brimming with potential.

And unlike that fireplace...I feel deeply that nobody can take this magic from me.

[rpg-adventures]

A New Dawn: Second Darkness Epilogue

With the deactivation of the master glyph and the defeat of Allevrah Azrinae, the terrible doom Golarion secretly faced was averted. The falling star that had been captured by the aboleth magic was released, and the influence of the powerful magic that shielded it from the planet’s atmosphere faded.

Before returning to Kyonin to inform the Queen, the adventurers were met by an emissary of Abraxas who introduced herself as Alistraxia. She informs them that her master, Abraxas did not care if Allevrah completed her goals, he simply wanted to ensure than the Aboleth magic she utilized was not forgotten. To this end, she offers them a magical item if they were to take the research and keep them safe, deep within a surface world library for a seeker to find once again. Though Caeldor seemed tempted by the offer, his companions vehemently disagreed and young Lamia set the research ablaze before the mage had any time to argue.

The loss of the research seemed not to faze the demon, who simply smiled and stated that more copies were sure to surface as time went on. A boon of the human race’s habit of documenting their failures, she mocked, before returning to her realm.

With Alistraxia’s last words spoken and the Aboleth magic turned to ash, the party returned to Kyonin to assure the elves that another Starfall was prevented. Their mission was a success.

---

“Ledhpóna Kyonin!”

Caeldor’s voice echoed with magic. One moment, they were staring at the purple-glow of the Blood Basilica’s runic walls and in the next, bright morning light shone upon them.

Like the Drow they had fought, the adventurers shielded their eyes, briefly blinded by the first natural light they had seen in weeks. Tears stung Uyula’s eyes, as she squinted into the sun.

“Praise Gozreh!” she exclaimed, wiping her face and crouching to feel the grass between her fingers. “I can actually see the sky!”

Slowly the group regained their bearings, adjusting to the light gleaming of the pearlescent spires of elven architecture that surrounded them and the sounds of natural, running water and murmured Elvish reached their ears.

“Suilanna, Master Sanakt,” one of the royal guard greeted from the edge of the courtyard. “I am glad to see you all return.”

“Suilanna, meldir,” the Paladin replied with a weary smile. “As are we, I assure you.”

“The Queen will wish to speak with you,” he advised, looking over the worn set of warriors. His gaze finally rested on Uyula, sitting in the grass stroking the singed leaves of Twill’s wings with an untempered grin on her face as she basked in the sunlight. The guard’s shoulders relaxed somewhat, and he smiled at Sana.

“You seem in good spirits. Would you like to refresh yourself before seeking an audience with Queen Edasseril?” his eyes shifted to the grime on their armor, but he held his smile politely. “Perhaps a bath and some more comfortable attire?”

“A bath sounds wonderful,” Caeldor agreed. “So much more satisfying than a little prestidigitation. Yes, and well earned, I might add.”

“A little dirt never hurt anyone,” Uyula rolled her eyes, before noticing the blackened demon blood that still stained Twill’s ligneous maw. Bits of gore remaining from Allevrah still hanging from her horns, “...but I guess baths don’t either. So maybe a bath?”

Imani locked eyes with Sana, silently conveying her thoughts on the matter. ‘A private moment would be prefered. We should speak before reporting to the Elves.’

Sana nodded and addressed the guard. “Please. A few moments to clean up would be appreciated.”

The guard gestured to one of his peers to join them. “Galan here will show you to the guest quarters and I will inform the Queen of your arrival. Rest well.“

---

The guest quarters were undoubtedly elven, with curved walls and lavish decor that covered every inch of the room. Curtains draped over alcoves with private quarters and the enchanted harp sat by the marble bathing pool in one of the larger alcoves, serenading the space with an ethereal song. A step up from the simple quarters the group had shared during their previous stay in the Elven capital.

Uyula was never one to have a very high regard for strict personal hygiene, thinking there to be much more important things to worry about in life on a day to day basis and cleaning only really needed to happen when you couldn’t stand the stink of yourself or had something really yucky on your clothes with no handy spell to be rid of it - but as the steam from the perfectly heated and scented pool rolled along her dark skin she felt her muscles ache pleasantly for the water. It was time to wash off the land of Black Blood.

She didn’t bother with the sectioned quarters, simply walking up to the side of the pool and beginning to shed her layers and equipment. Weapons, gloves, bag, belt, armour, shoes, all in one unified ungraceful pile. Her clothes felt more like rags now, still damp with sweat and blood and dirt and the shower of conjured water she’d used to put out the fire clinging to herself and Twill. Uyula hummed thoughtfully, noting how strange it felt to think back to things that had happened mere hours ago, but already felt like a distant memory when suddenly surrounded with the life and light of Kyonin. She could barely believe they’d really been there, underground and surrounded by evil for such a long time.

“Come, Twill!” she called, reaching an arm back to beckon her companion as she waded down the steps into the pool. “We hafta wash the Allevrah off you.”

“Won’t that transfer ‘the Allevrah’ onto anyone else who wishes to clean themselves?” The giant wolf asked incredulously, coming to poise at the marble edge of the water sphinx-like, with her bark-tail swishing back and forth along the floor behind her. Bunny and Nutty scampered about over her shoulder, jumping back and forth after each other around the room looking for places to hide, bumping into things and making a great ruckus. Twill’s head snapped back and she bared her teeth with a low, warning grown - Nutty froze still as a statue and Bunny darted under Uyula’s cloak, peering out with its blood-red eyes aglow and nose twitching. At least the polymorphed pets of hers were starting to know their place.

“We can be like barbarians, and bathe in the blood of our enemies!” The half-elf cackled gleefully in jest, swishing her hands through the water to toss some up towards her friend, then ceased with a grin. “I’ll just purify the water when we’re done. Come on, I don’t like looking at you like that.”

Twill crouched down low over her front paws to scrutinise the pool, and after another moment’s thought rolled in with a loud and cumbersome splash. Uyula giggled like a child as she watched her eidolon roll about like an excitable puppy in a summer puddle, the leafy feathers along the ridges of her wings fluffing up with pleased relief even as the water around her started to cloud with the dark blood of vrocks and drow washing from her form. After she’d finished and gotten to her feet, looking far closer to her natural pale-oak colour once more, Uyula sat back and opened her arms, welcoming her close to fondly scrub behind her ears and pluck at stubborn flesh and gunk that still clung to the eidolon’s horns.

“I’m proud of you, Twill,” she breathed, pressing her face to Twill’s wide snout. “We did it, and you made the killing blow. I’m sure Gozreh is pleased for that, that would mean the world was saved in his grace, wouldn’t it? And now we can go home.”

Home. Churlwood. How long had they been gone? Would that tiny forest with its simple rules and easy problems be enough for her summoner when she returned, after all that she’d seen and carried and been through? She’d gone from a quirky, wood-dwelling loner to a world-savior, powerful and with powerful allies, and no longer faceless in a crowd. Soon, if not already, everyone in Kyonin would know their names and faces and celebrate them, and she wondered if the girl would know the Uyula they spoke of.

The great wolf hesitated a moment, her large golden eyes gazing up into Uyula’s own of the same shade, trying to find her answer. She lowered her head and nuzzling to her summoner’s shoulder. “We can go wherever you like, little one. Now clean the water before the wizard pitches a fit.”

Uyula sighed, and glided her hands along the soiled surface, mumbling to it in the secret Druidic tongue. Light shifted through the water, and within moments it was clear once more.

“I also appreciate it,” Imani admitted from the edge of the pool, hanging her heavy coat on a golden branch that seemed to grow out of the mural painted across the wall that curved around the bath. Methodically, she unbuckled and removed the few pieces of armor she wore. Their last encounter in Alleverah’s temple had left her gear in worser wear than normal.

As soon as Lamia placed her gear to the side of the bath, Imani pulled the thin, silk curtain around the perimeter for the scant touch of modesty it offered and began to disrobe.

“Caledor?” she asked through the curtain. “Can you make certain this room is safe from prying eyes and ears? The Elves may be our allies, but indulge my paranoia this once.”

She could feel the elf’s protest on the end of his tongue, but the words caught in his throat. Sighing heavily, the mage set to work on a spell.

“Considered yourself indulged, Imani. Our privacy is assured,” he announced, obviously too weary to argue the superior status of elves for once. In truth, the Winter Council and Alleverah herself had done much to deflate his own thoughts on the matter. “Do hurry it up in there. This ‘ladies first’ business is quite bothersome, you know.”

The tiefling ignored the comment and smiled to herself as she slipped into to warm, scented water. Honeysuckle and lavender, she noted, only just able to hold back a grimace. She missed the heady, spicy scents of Katapesh. Amber and sandalwood, balanced with desert rose. With a sigh, she dipped her hair in the floral bath and washed away the thought of home. It was a place she knew she would not be returning to, despite her hope when leaving Riddleport almost a year ago.

“I do not think it wise to share all of what we know with the Elves,” Imani spoke just loud enough to ensure Caeldor and Sana were still included through the drapes. “They have shown themselves to be seduced by ill-practices, and surprisingly short-sighted for a race who are so long-lived. Coupled with their natural talents for the arcane, I do not feel sharing the existence of aboleth magic, to risk them to seeking it, is a wise venture.”

Her strange gaze flicked up to the shadows behind the curtain. She could not deny her concern for the Paladin’s morals in such a situation. “How much do you intend to tell them, Sana?”

Lamia chimed in as she slowly slid herself into the pool. She’d been quiet for the past while not really thinking it was her place to speak; after all, what did a nineteen year old child know about the machinations of elves and demon lords? What she did know was that no one should have access to such evil.

“Perhaps we just tell them that the drow’s plan has been stopped… and not about Abraxas’ plans. If anything it’ll scare ‘em and probably inspire others to search for the stuff…” She pulled a nervous and lamentful face that was only privy to those on her side of the curtain. She met Imani’s eyes for a moment before shrugging and going back to lazily scrubbing the grime and demon blood off of her.

Sana’s walking slowed, until he stood near the edge of the large pool. He’d barely stopped moving since they arrived at the accommodation, leaving the room and returning multiple times and engaging the guards on the door, as well as his own shield, in muted conversation. His eyes unfocused, he looked as though he were seeing through the walls of their residence. Imani might have believed he was, if it weren’t for her particular ring being decidedly absent from Sana’s fingers. “You’ve both got points, I think,” he began. Although he, too, was speaking softly his voice projected around the room. “It’s not quite right though. Maybe I’ve become to used to the fight, but I feel like now is the time to be proactive.” Sana fixed his gaze on the curtain that obscured Imani and Lamia.

“If I know you at all, Imani, you’ve already started planning something. I’d hear it, if you’re willing. What we do and say in the next few hours could well ripple down the years.”

Imani’s gaze shifted from the paladin’s broad shadow, across the water to the women bathing beside her. After a quiet moment, she nodded softly and spoke up.

“Before we embarked for Zyrnakanin, I sent a letter back to Magnimar for my brother. It was… my resignation from the Order,” she began, sinking down to let the water sit just below her scarred shoulders. “I walked through that portal, and into the Darklands as Imani Fiendborn -- a tiefling free to pursue her own path in service to the Seven Veils. No longer am I a ward of the Kassis family, nor a Shadowbreaker. As such, returning to Riddleport is not an option for me.”

It felt like an awkward admission to leave hanging, lest one of her companions find the chance to comment, so the half breed quickly continued.

“Leaving the Order removes what protection I had. Not only does the blood of fiends run through these veins, but I know their ways, their tactics and safe houses. While it places a sizable target on my back, it also leaves me to pursue matters that my Lady deems more important,” she continued. “The gloating of the maralith has me concerned. There was no lie in her words. Abraxas unearths secrets that should be best left to rest, and as any demon would, cares nothing for the chaos his machinations unleash. For me, at least, the journey is only beginning. Reconnaissance would be my goal for the foreseeable future, and I expect it will take me far from the Order’s gaze for the time being.”

“Should the Elves allow it, I would like to start my research here, in their libraries,” she concluded.

Uyula scrunched up her elven nose, pulling a face. She looked a mix of concerned and disgusted.

“Here? Surely the only one of us who’d happily stay here is the wizard.” She paused and rolled her eyes as Caeldor huffed and muttered about her from behind the curtain. If only the ancient, secret Druidic language had swears, then both of them could curse at each other in other languages.

“Another way you could look at it is,” she started thoughtfully, her head bobbing back and forth to the pandering of Twill’s grass-coloured tongue lapping insistently at her hair, like a she-wolf cleaning her young. “Maybe that Alistraxia told us what she did on purpose, so that we’d pursue these other documents and rituals to keep the curses alive. She did say Abraxas just wanted to be known and unforgotten. What better way than to work up the people who defeated him into a frenzy, looking all over for the Aboleth magic and keeping the knowledge of it fresh?”

Twill’s head rose, her amber eyes regarding Imani, silently awaiting a response as though some undecided action relied on it.

“She also assured us that were we not willing to carry the knowledge to the surface, others would fill that role in time,” the tiefling pointed out softly. “We did not defeat Abraxas in the Darklands, we merely prevailed over Allevrah’s plans. I do not believe staying idle would do much to impede his goal in this case.”

Laima’s eyes were trained hard on Imani like a concerned mother. Though the tiefling had several years on her the simple nature of ‘family first’ the youth had been raised with shone through, and like it or not they were all family.

“If Riddleport is no longer safe for you…” she trailed off as internal debate wore on her face, “... even the Gold Gekko cannot offer safe haven, you have men of your- uhm, ex-Order there. Will they remain? What of my brothers? Would they use us to get to you?”

She found herself rattling off too many questions and bit her tongue for a moment. “Whatever your plans are, I'll be there for you, Imani, I promise.”

The tieflings grey lips curved into a brief smile. The young girl had come a long way since that night following the battle of Celwynvian. Imani inclined her head gratefully. “Thank you. In my letter I had mention of Celwynvian, I expect the men at the Gekko have since be recalled and reassigned to follow that lead. The Shadowbreakers have a weak presence in Varisia, their forces will have to conviene in Katapesh from around Cheliax and Orision before they get organized and move out. Should they still be stationed at Riddleport, they will be no threat to you or your brothers. Simply tell them the truth, tell them we split paths in Kyonin. I will ensure I am not here when they arrive to check.”

Lamia nodded slowly, her brow furrowed for the briefest of moments but she seemed sated by the answer. “Alright. Just remember if y'all ever need a place to lay low, the Golden Gekko is open. I'll have the underground passages made up as a safe house if we ever need it.”

With that Lamia dunked her head under the pools surface for a moment to let the matted sweat and blood wash out of her dark locks. Once reemerged she rested against the lip of the lavish cistern with a happy hum. They'd won the battle and while the fight wasn't over it was still a good time to enjoy the pleasantries of life.

“Uyula has a point too. How do we know this isn't a trap set by Abraxas?” the young woman pointed out.

The armoured figure on the other side of the curtain turned, and his voice was softer, as if speaking away from the bathers.

“It’s a Demon Lord. As much as it wants the Aboleth magic remembered, if we’re even slightly a threat it can simply ignore us until we just… go away. And we will, eventually,” he continued sadly.  “Time will take us all. Proactive action, something where we can make a lasting impact is the only way to curb the revelations Abraxas wants to unleash.”

He chuckled, “A trap is ultimately a compliment, like the opposite of damning by faint praise. If it wants us trapped, then I feel there must be more we can do to stymie its plans.” The sound of Sana’s fist meeting his palm emphasised this statement.

“I think reconnaissance is a good idea. Finding out what already exists is a good start. The tunnels under the Gekko are also an exceptional idea. I may see if I can put the Arena to some use for us as well. There’s something else I’m missing; something we, as our Hyena pack can do, even if we have to go our separate ways.”

The shadow made to turn back as if looking at Twill’s bulk behind the curtain when he stopped. “Hyenas...” he muttered softly, the projection gone from his voice. “Which were… and then the priestess… domains…” he trailed off; thinking aloud.

A silence filled the room as Sana paced away from the curtain, before turning back to his starting point. He paused for a moment before his pace accelerated, and he stopped himself just short of swiping the curtain in front of the alcove back. Hand still on the rich cloth, eyes focused as if staring through the walls of the room he began to cautiously speak, as if his words would flee if he tried to speak them too quickly. “Months ago, before we arrived here for the first time, I told Uyula a story from my youth. How a man from the desert hills of Osirion had come to the temple seeking aid against the wild hyenas of the red lands. As he told his story it was my abbott that I watched.” Sana’s head turned, reliving the scene in his mind’s eye. “It seemed the abbott could have told the man his own story and it dawned on me I was living a fable, a parable, a tale where the telling teaches, aside from strict lessons and repetition of lore.

“Later,” Sana’s whole body shifted, as if he were moving to a separate table, to physical evidence only he could see. “When we arrived here in Kyonin, our first accommodation had that book, the one we believed was from Queen Edasseril. We read of the tale of the Priestess and the Quasit. We knew there was a message hidden within; why else would it have been so conspicuously left for us? “I believe now that the Queen was preemptively asking forgiveness on behalf of the Winter Council; they’d schemed for so long they couldn’t help but do otherwise. My tale asked that we stand together in the face of opposition. Each was a story with a separate message, knowledge couched in a format easy to spread, enjoyable to learn. Knowledge where the context was only revealed when it became necessary.” A predatory smile now began to spread over Sana’s face and his pace rushed. “Abraxas’ domains include knowledge, the forbidden. He wants this information remembered, he wants it feared. The maralith implied as much. ‘Fear the Aboleth magic, fear the might of the ancients and fear the being that can gift it to your enemies’. Let’s twist it,” he mimed. “Twist the knowledge he’s given us, remove the forbidden nature of it. Take what we know of the Glyphs, their crafting and their destruction and build a story around it. One where the Aboleths, their falling stars, destruction on Golarion are absent unless you know the real context. We build a fable that only speaks of how to break apart the stabilising and master glyphs, to recognise when they’ve been built. Not to fear them but to render them nuisances to which the answer lies in a childhood fable, the same way one burns incense for the gods or wears silver to deter ‘thropes.

“Destroying the instructions that the maralith and Abraxus would place is but a sliver of our strategy. We’ll poison the well, so to speak, by making the knowledge of the Glyphs and Starfall useless before it’s implemented. One day, the knowledge that the magic came from the Aboleths might be just a historical curiosity. A curious scrap to share when you plan on getting too deep in your cups to know anything else. “What we tell the Queen and her people later today should reflect this goal. They know so much already of what they faced, but we may be able to convince them of our way of seeing things. If they don’t know there is more to find, they think we’re just heroes wanting our story told our way, they may agree.”  Sana’s eyes focused again, as he turned back to the concealing curtain and the bearded elf in front of it.

From behind the thin drapes, the tiefling laugh bubbled. It was a rare sound -- soft, but harsh like the light rattling of iron nails in a clay jar. Imani ascended the marble stairs leading from the bath and claimed one of the folded linen towels on the cabinet nearby, grinning to herself.

“My Lady would find much poetry in such a tactic, I should think,” she spoke toward the curtain as she dressed. Though the elven clothes were freshly laundered, the half-breed was about as fond of elven fashion as she was elven architecture. She muttered a soft curse her native tongue as she attempted to fix the laces that held the fitted bodice together.

“Everything alright?” Caeldor drawled, his shadow shifting closer to the curtain.

“Fine,” Imani growled, dissolving into a grateful smile as Lamia stepped up to assist her. “Just marvelling the construction of elven tailoring.”

As the young brunette went to fetch the matching skirts to Imani’s bodice, the tiefling frowned and shook her head, opting for a pair of the soft leather breeches possibly intended for the men, and boots to match.

“Thank you,” she smiled to the girl, retrieving her bladed scarf and ducking out from behind the curtain. The look she saw on Sana’s face was almost as amusing as the clothing had been frustrating. “I apologise, Imani,” he said, regaining composure. “I’d not even considered how the Seventh Veil would respond to such a tactic. That was remiss of me.”

Sana began removing his armour, as if remembering that he, too, would have to clean up before standing before the Elvish Queen.

“Ooooh,” Uyula sung finally, “I get it. You mean to say, because there’s no one here that could challenge our story on what happened, we could twist the truth to our advantage? Removing the dread of Abraxas and the ritual and all of that from the tale completely? That’s so smart, Sana.” She gathered her thick mounds of raven hair up in hand and began wringing the water from it, batting away Twill’s gnarled snout as she stood.

“If we could pull it off, that would cause to happen exactly what he’s so afraid of. He’d be left out of his own story and maybe even forgotten.” A grin spread across her dark lips at the thought. It was such a simple concept, yet could so easily be executed.

“History is written by the victors,” Twill hummed, following suit and standing, shaking out the water from the long thin branches that made up the sort-of mane along her neck and shoulders, littering the pool with leaves and small twigs, “and bards do like a moral to be at the centre of their epic stories. I see no reason not to spite Abraxas and omit him and his omens from our journey.”

“‘The Incredible Adventures of Caeldor the Magnificent’ sounds like a title the bards would love,” the bearded elf chortled from the other side of the curtain. “‘The Many Arcane Bumblings of Caeldor the Treasure-Obsessed…’” Lamia muttered to the ladies as she finished dressing herself in a simple but beautiful elven dress.

“We have plenty of time to build on this,” Sana said with a smile as Lamia walked out from behind the curtain. “But yes, Uyula, that’s exactly what I was thinking. Although I think instead of twisting the truth, we’re encouraging a story to become legend faster than it normally would. Besides, it is our story to tell and we can depict the villain however we like. And if we choose for that to be off-stage, so be it.”

“I think, Imani,” he said, turning to the tiefling, “in answer to your original question, we tell the Queen and her court that we prevented Alleverah’s magic from bringing the star from the sky, and destroyed her research and theories lest we become tempted, let alone anyone else.” If Caeldor felt Sana was deliberately not looking in his direction as the Osirian spoke, he didn’t show it.

“If they ask for specifics, we can provide a series of ritual sites, heavily defended, and state that we feel they are best left alone. The Drow presence may be gone, but there are creatures there that have no love for up-worlders and they remain at large. The Creature at the Crystal Plaza springs to mind.”

Lamia quickly shook her head. “That monster… I don’t think we have the power to defeat it. What kind of thing can exist in all planes at once at once, but I see your point.”

“Then we shall let the two of you bathe,” Imani nodded in full agreement. “Then we shall spin our tale for the Court.”