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gobboguy · 5 months

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Chapter 27: A Voice from MOG

As Ionia stepped into the nearby alcove, her breath caught in her throat as she beheld a scene of chaos and destruction. Before her, a raging wildfire consumed the chamber, casting dancing shadows across the stone walls. But it was not the flames that drew her gaze, but the massive fist protruding from the ground like a titan's monument. Its surface, a vibrant crimson hue, was adorned with intricate runes that seemed to pulse with otherworldly energy. The nails were as black as coal, sharpened into wicked claws. Ionia's heart pounded in her chest as she recognized it for what it was—a Hero's Fist, the sacred fist of MOG, the god of the Orcish people, imbued with immense power and significance.

As panic threatened to overwhelm her, Ionia turned to flee, only to find her path blocked by a sheer wall of rock that had sealed the doorway behind her. Trapped within the confines of the chamber, she felt a sense of suffocating dread wash over her, rendering her powerless against the forces arrayed against her.

Cowering on her knees, Ionia struggled to comprehend the surreal nightmare unfolding before her. In the depths of her mind, a booming and commanding voice spoke in Orcish: "Bow before the sacred flame, mortal, and strip away your clothing, for this is holy ground," the booming voice commanded in Orcish, echoing through the chamber with an undeniable authority. She recoiled in horror at the sound, her thoughts a jumble of confusion and disbelief.

"Is this a dream?" she whispered, her voice trembling with fear and uncertainty. But deep down, she knew the truth—she was trapped in a waking nightmare, a prisoner of forces beyond her comprehension. And as the voice continued its relentless command, Ionia could do nothing but cower and wail, her mind reeling with the enormity of her predicament.

Ionia's desperation reached a fever pitch as she clawed frantically at the unyielding stone wall, her nails scraping against rough-hewn rock in a futile attempt to find purchase. "This isn't happening, this isn't happening!" she chanted to herself in a panicked whisper, the words a desperate mantra against the rising tide of terror threatening to consume her.

But her efforts were in vain, for the wall remained steadfast, sealing her within the chamber's confines. As her breaths came in ragged gasps, a voice, deep and commanding, resounded in her mind once more. "Strip away your garments, mortal," it intoned, its words reverberating with a divine authority that sent shivers down her spine.

Ionia recoiled at the command, her resolve hardening as she squared her shoulders defiantly. "I won't," she declared, her voice trembling with anger and defiance.

The voice grew angrier, its tone laced with venomous fury. "My priestesses worship me skyclad, baring themselves in all their Orkiness," it thundered, "and so shall you, mortal! This pleases me, their God."

A gasp escaped Ionia's lips as realization dawned upon her. This was no ordinary voice or feverish hallucination—it was the divine message of a God, commanding her to submit to its will. Trembling with fear and uncertainty, she knew that she stood at a crossroads, her fate hanging in the balance as she grappled with the weight of the divine command.

Ionia's disbelief warred with the undeniable reality unfolding before her eyes. She had always scoffed at the notion of gods, dismissing them as fanciful tales born of superstition and ignorance. Yet now, as she stood trembling before the towering presence of the Hero's Fist, she found herself torn between skepticism and awe.

Her voice shook as she addressed the colossal artifact, her words tinged with fear and uncertainty. "W-which God do I speak to?" she stammered, her eyes wide with trepidation.

In response, the voice that emanated from the fist spoke with a divine authority that sent shivers down her spine. "I am MOG, the God of the Orcs," it declared, its words resonating with power and conviction. "It is I who have led my people from the confines of Orc Island to Sidhedark, where they may grow and flourish, conquering as is their right!"

Ionia quailed in the presence of a true deity, her mind reeling with the enormity of the revelation. For the first time in her life, she knew the truth of a divine being, and that being was an Orc. The realization washed over her like a tidal wave, filling her with a sense of awe and dread. As she trembled in the shadow of the Hero's Fist, she couldn't help but quake with fear at the knowledge that the Orcs had the favor of a god—a god who wielded power beyond mortal comprehension. Standing before the Hero's Fist she could feel her heart hammering in her chest. Her training as a Swordmaster told her to quell her emotions and extinguish her fear. But standing before the presence of a living God! It was all she could take to not pass out from fear!

All of her life, she had been at best a doubtful believer and at worst a strict atheist. But now, seeing proof-actual proof-of the existence of a god was enough to send her worldview crashing into the ground.

The commanding voice of MOG echoed in Ionia's mind once more, its tone insistent and commanding. "Remove your gruk'zad," it ordered, its words ringing with divine authority.

Caught in a whirlwind of religious fervor bordering on panic, Ionia wasted no time in obeying. With trembling hands, she hastily stripped away the filthy robe, heedless of her nudity and the untamed hair that covered her legs, armpits, and pubic area, or the overwhelming stench that clung to her skin. With a sense of urgency bordering on desperation, she cast the gruk'zad to the ground, where it immediately disappeared in a burst of flame.

As the flames consumed the robe, the voice commanded her once more, its tone unwavering. "Kneel!" it thundered, its divine will brooking no resistance.

Ionia moved without hesitation, dropping to her knees, pressing her forehead into the ground and bowing low to prostrate herself before the mighty presence of MOG. The heat from the fiery chamber floor seared against her skin, and she feared that the flames would consume her entirely. But in the presence of the Hero's Fist, her fear of the flames paled in comparison to the awe-inspiring might of the Orcish deity before her.

As the mighty fist clenched, the voice of MOG resonated through the chamber once more, its booming timbre reverberating with power. "Good," it declared, its words echoing off the stone walls with undeniable authority. It seemed well pleased in her prostration and she could feel her heart skip a beat at the terse praise directed at her.

Muffled by the ground against which she pressed her face, Ionia's voice trembled as she dared to speak. "W-what do you want from me, MOG?" she whispered, her words barely audible even to her own ears.

In response, the voice spoke with a thunderous intensity, commanding attention and respect. "The Orcs have been idle too long," it boomed, its words ringing with a sense of urgency. "A great change must happen—a change that will reshape the very fabric of Sidhedark."

With a sense of awe and trepidation, Ionia listened as MOG continued to speak, outlining his grand design for the future of the Orcish people. "I am a jealous god of war," the voice proclaimed, its tone resolute. "I seek to claim my own kingdom in the Empyrean, and my Orcs must conquer and multiply if this is to come to pass."

"I created the Orcs to dominate, to rule." MOG'S voice carried with a hint of pride. "They are my chosen people, meant to inherit Sidhedark. Soon, their time will come. But before that, you must convey to the Orcs these tasks I give you. "

"What is your command?" Ionia asked and then very quickly added, "My lord!"

"Gelbeg must return to Farfield," the voice commanded, its authority unassailable. "And you must convey to them my words.

"Yes but..." Ionia bit her lip, "I ask...why me?"

"Because...you, Ionia, will have a part in the Orcs' inheritance of Sidhedark—a role that will shape the destiny of nations. Now, heed my words and remember what I say."

The fist swayed and a finger pointed down at the nude and prostrate form of Ionia. MOG'S voice cracked:

Orcs of Sidhedark, hear my voice and heed my words. For too long, we have languished in the shadows, overlooked and underestimated by those who would seek to oppress us. But no more. Today marks the dawn of a new era—a era of greatness and glory that will be ushered in by Gelbeg, our chosen king.

In Gelbeg, I have seen the fire of true leadership—the strength, the cunning, the unyielding determination to see our people rise above adversity and claim our rightful place among the rulers of Sidhedark. Under his guidance, we will undergo a transformation unlike any other, forging ourselves into a race worthy of dominion over this land.

Gelbeg's ascent to the throne heralds a new chapter in our history—a chapter defined by conquest, by triumph, by the relentless pursuit of power. Together, we will march forth into the heart of our enemies' territory, leaving a trail of destruction in our wake. And when the dust settles, we will stand victorious, our banners flying high above the conquered lands of Sidhedark.

But know this, Orcs of Sidhedark—our path to glory will be fraught with peril, and the road ahead will be paved with the blood of our enemies. Yet fear not, for I, MOG, shall watch over you, guiding your every step and leading you to victory.

So rally behind your king, my chosen champion, and together, we shall carve our names into the annals of history as the rightful rulers of Sidhedark!"

Despite the oppressive heat that enveloped the chamber, Ionia's nude form shivered uncontrollably, her skin prickling with goosebumps. Trembling, she gathered her courage to speak, her voice quivering with fear and defiance.

"But I was their enemy!" she declared, her words ringing out in the cavernous space. "Why should the Orcs listen to me? They'll never see me as one of them!"

But her protest was met with anger and frustration from the voice of MOG. The mighty fist shook angrily, causing the ground to tremble beneath her.

"Who led the Orcs from their island?" the voice thundered, its tone laced with fury. "Who kept them safe during their exodus across Sidhedark and led them to Cairn Doom? Was it not I? I speak and you listen, you of little faith! The Orcs will know their God's word whether it comes from you or not!"

"But I am not an Orc!" Ionia dared to raise her head and look at the fist. "Why was I chosen for this message!?"

"WHO ARE YOU TO QUESTION ME?" MOG's voice boomed with righteous indignation, his words carrying the weight of divine authority. Io ia quickly buried her face into the earth, too afraid of having incurred MOG'S wrath. "I have had a claim on your soul since birth," he proclaimed, his anger palpable. "Your destiny is inexorably tied with the Orcs, and I will not tolerate any insolence from my daughter—Ionia, a woman born with the heart of an Orc! Hear my words and know that you too are my chosen!"

As the weight of MOG's words settled upon her, Ionia's heart fluttered with a strange mix of disbelief and awe. It was an overwhelming realization, to know that she had been chosen by a deity as mighty as MOG. Trembling with uncertainty, she felt a sense of both fear and exhilaration coursing through her veins. For so long, she had wandered aimlessly, searching for her place in a world that had always felt alien to her. But now, as the chosen vessel of a god, she felt a profound sense of purpose stirring within her soul. With each passing moment, the weight of her destiny grew heavier, yet so, too, did the sick sense of unease start to grow.

As her vision swam and darkness closed in around her, Ionia's voice trembled as she questioned aloud, "Why can't the Orcs find a peaceful solution?" The darkness enveloped her, swallowing her senses and plunging her into a realm of shadow and despair.

In the abyss of her mind, scenes unfolded before her eyes with harrowing clarity. In the murky depths of her vision, Ionia found herself standing at the edge of the dense forest of Bhia, where shadows danced amidst the towering trees. The air was heavy with tension, the ominous silence broken only by the rustle of leaves and the distant echo of predatory growls.

Through the veil of darkness, she beheld a haunting sight—a group of Orcs, their bodies battered and bruised, their faces etched with exhaustion and fear. They moved with furtive desperation, their every step a silent plea for mercy in a world that offered none.

Suddenly, the tranquility of the forest was shattered by the sound of thundering hoofbeats, and a band of dwarvish hunters burst forth from the underbrush, their faces twisted with malice as they closed in on their prey. The Orcs scattered like frightened animals, their roars of defiance drowned out by the cacophony of violence that ensued.

Ionia watched in horror as the hunters descended upon the Orcs with ruthless efficiency, their weapons flashing in the dappled sunlight as they struck blow after merciless blow. Blood stained the forest floor, mingling with the earth in a grim tableau of suffering and death.

Tears welled in Ionia's eyes as she bore witness to the senseless cruelty unfolding before her. In that moment, she felt a surge of empathy for the hunted Orcs, their plight a stark reminder of the brutality that Sidhedark greated them with.

Next, she saw Orcs, weary and haggard, traversed the unforgiving terrain, their journey marked by hardship and suffering.

Hunted relentlessly by humans and dwarves, the Orcs moved with a sense of urgency, their every step a desperate bid for survival. They were starved and beaten, their bodies bearing the scars of countless battles fought in the wild.

As night fell, the forest came alive with the sounds of unseen predators lurking in the shadows, their hungry eyes fixed on the vulnerable Orcs as they huddled together for warmth and protection.

In the dim light of dawn, Ionia witnessed a tragic scene unfold—a mother Orc, her body emaciated and weak, struggled to give birth amidst the harsh wilderness. With each agonizing push, her cries of pain mingled with the desperate whimpers of her newborn whelps, their hungry cries echoing through the silent forest.

But there was no sustenance to be found, no nourishment to offer solace to the starving Orcs. And as the cycle of suffering continued unabated, Ionia could only watch in sorrow as the Orcs of Sidhedark endured the relentless onslaught of hardship and despair.

From the depths of the darkness, the voice of MOG resounded with a chilling certainty. "The Orcs are conquerors, not slaves," it declared, its words dripping with disdain. "The images I have shown you are from the Orcish people's past. But, I am a God of blood and lust and war, and my chosen people are the same. They will exact vengeance on those who persecute them." The voice grew even more ominous as it continued, "The same desire runs in you, Ionia."

Shaken to her core, Ionia quivered uncontrollably, the realization dawning upon her with terrifying clarity. Her own desires had begun to mirror those of the Orcs, a chilling revelation that left her trembling with fear and uncertainty.

Trembling and tear-stained, Ionia emerged from the depths of her vision, her body curled into a ball as she openly wept. In the aftermath of the harrowing experience, the once booming and angry voice of MOG transformed into a soothing whisper in her ear. She turned over quickly and again resumed kneeling before the impressive Hero's Fist.

"Do not fear, child," the voice reassured her, its tone gentle and comforting. "MOG will guide you."

As Ionia listened, her heart swelled with a strange mixture of fear and hope. And then, the voice spoke words that sent shivers down her spine.

"You will join with Gelbeg," it proclaimed, its words carrying the weight of destiny. "From your womb, a nation will be born—a lineage of kings and queens who will rule over Sidhedark for generations to come."

Despite the enormity of the revelation, Ionia felt a sense of peace wash over her. For the first time in her life, she had found a people to call her own. Among the Orcs, she was not an outcast or a stranger, but an equal—a celebrated member of their community.

And as she contemplated her future alongside Gelbeg, a sense of purpose filled her heart. Among the Orcs, she had found her king, and she knew that she would be called queen.

Trembling and overwhelmed by the weight of her destiny, Ionia's voice quivered as she dared to question, "H-how can this come to pass?" Her gaze fixed upon the mighty fist before her, its clenched fingers slowly releasing to reveal a tiny snake figurine nestled within its grasp.

In response to her inquiry, the voice spoke with a solemn gravity. "This snake figurine and the crown it belongs to will be a covenant between MOG and the Orcs," it declared, its words resonating with a sense of divine purpose. "It will transform the Orcs into a race worthy of nobility."

Unable to resist the pull of fate, Ionia reached out with trembling hands, grasping the snake figurine tightly as she pressed her forehead into the ground, too afraid to look up again. The weight of the task laid before her felt like a burden too heavy to bear.

"Now..." The voice continued sternly. In addition of the tasks I have given you I also give two tasks for you to do as well."

Ionia grasped the figurine and bent as low as she could. "Yes my lord?" She spoke, trying her best to sound sincere.

"You will travel to the tallest mountain of the frozen spine with Gelbeg and there I will give you a sign. You will know it when you see it." MOG growled angrily. "Second, you will seek the remains of the Serpent Crown and make it whole again for this is an artifact that is key to my people's evolution. To remind you of these tasks I will inscribe it on your skin so you may always know."

Ionia's eyes flew wide as a burning sensation seared her arm. She bit back her cry of pain and did her best not to react otherwise. To do so would shame her in front of MOG. Her right armed burned, the stench of melting flesh filling her nostril. On her arm the symbol of MOG was inscribed in burning letter, forever scarring her skin with the mark of the Orcish god.

Suddenly the voice screamed, the voice brooking no hesitation, its anger flaring as it commanded her with renewed urgency. "You have been given a task by MOG!" it thundered, its words ringing with uncompromising authority. "Now go!"

As Ionia looked up, her gaze met the raging flames that intensified with a ferocity that threatened to consume her. The mighty fist trembled and shook, causing the ground to crack and quake beneath her feet. Terror surged through her veins as the sheer might of MOG bore down upon her, threatening to overwhelm her senses. With a primal scream, she felt her knees weaken, her vision swimming as she teetered on the brink of fainting.

In a desperate bid to appease the wrath of the Orcish deity, Ionia's mind raced, grasping for any semblance of a solution. And then, with a sudden surge of clarity, she remembered an Orcish custom—a gesture of abject humiliation and subservience to one's betters.

Her legs trembling, Ionia succumbed to the overwhelming fear coursing through her veins and engaged in this ancient Orcish custom, feeling the warmth of urine pooling beneath her as she wet herself—a traditional sign of submission among the Orcs. As the humiliating act concluded, she quickly rose to her feet and darted forward, her tears mingling with the sweat that drenched her brow.

Kneeling before the colossal fist, Ionia's hands shook as she reached out to touch its massive nails, each one larger than her head. With a sense of urgency born of desperation, she beganto polish the nails with feverish intensity, her sobs mingling with the sound of scraping stone as she worked tirelessly to appease the wrath of MOG. She grabbed a loose stone nearby and tried her best to sharpen the nails, another Orcish act of showing submission.

As the colossal fist clenched with increasing force, Ionia's fear reached a crescendo, her heart pounding in her chest as she braced herself for the worst. With a primal scream that echoed through the chamber, she cried out three times in Orcish, her voice raw with desperation, "Mog, granav uuk vicavorausan; MOG grant us victory!!" Each utterance seemed to only tighten the grip of the fist, threatening to break itself with its immense power.

Suddenly, darkness enveloped her like a suffocating cloak, and Ionia felt herself swoon, her consciousness slipping away into the void. When she regained awareness, she found herself sitting in the hallway, her body draped in the familiar folds of her worn and dirty gruk'zad. Confusion clouded her mind as she looked around, wondering if the harrowing ordeal had all been a horrible dream.

As she rose to her feet and dusted herself off, a glint of light caught her eye. There, sitting neatly on the ground, was the snake figurine, still warm to the touch. With a shiver of recognition, Ionia realized that her encounter with MOG had been all too real, and the weight of her destiny pressed heavily upon her once more.

#fantasy #goblins #orcs #literature #gobboguy #songsofpower7

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chrysalispen · 3 years

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a dream in flight (cid/wol)

for @smitten-miqitten. thank you so much <3 i hope you enjoy!

AO3 HERE

fic under the cut, as always.

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The morning was a rare one, having dawned clear and cloudless - albeit every ilm as cold and bracing as the one that preceded it. The overbright sparkle of a sun with no warmth bit as strongly as any blizzard, but the crystal and stained glass windows of the great cathedral seemed to filter the merciless glare of eternal winter into something gentle and cheerful.

Although a bone-deep chill lingered without the doors as ever, it was stiflingly warm in the nave. Folk large and small had gathered beneath the roof of Saint Reymanaud’s, brought together by the common threads that bound them to the Warrior of Light -- she who had ended the Dragonsong War alongside Ishgard’s greatest knights and heroes. The union was an occasion to celebrate as much as any feast-day, and to that end all present had turned out in their finest: city-state leaders in ceremonial dress, various personages of the High Houses using the occasion as an opportunity to display themselves and their sons and daughters to advantage, Brume folk in their best attire.

Cid Garlond had long since grown weary of observing the still-gathering crowd and now contented himself with staring through a small pane of glass into the body of the sanctuary. Light streamed through the massive arches like golden prayer-ribbons, weaving their way along marble walls and ancient buttresses. The floral wreaths that bookended the hefty spruce pews were a donation from the Gridanian Botanists’ Guild, sprays of color and scent and life (some alterations had been made; he doubted the artichoke flowers lining the steps to the altar dais had been Era’s notion, or Fufucha’s for that matter).

“Hells, you even let them deck the pews,” the sardonic drawl echoed slightly from old stones. “I suppose you really are serious about this.”

That was a voice he knew, and normally one that was wont to cause his hackles to rise- but in this instance the unsettled flutter in his gut left him more inclined to look favorably upon its owner, if for naught else other than long familiarity.

He let his shoulders roll back as he glanced up at the taller Garlean out of the corner of his eyes, then shook his head. “I’m not sure what gave you the impression I would do anything like this on a lark. Goodness knows there were other venues. More discreet, at the very least.”

“Well, I daresay there’s still some time before the festivities commence.” Nero Scaeva’s shameless grin was all teeth and no small amount of mirth; Cid thought to himself with a sort of sour amusement that his colleague and erstwhile rival was quite enjoying his predicament. “You could always abscond with your lady as soon as she arrives. Make for the Dravanian hills. Biggs and Wedge would cover your escape, no doubt.”

“While you simply sit back and watch, I suppose? Or would you help them?”

Nero offered only a lazy shrug of his shoulders, a lift and a drop and spread hands.

“Perhaps, Garlond. Perhaps. I find myself feeling oddly magnanimous this morning, as it happens.”

“Well, I’m afraid you’ll have to curtail these passing generous impulses of yours, Nero.” Cid’s lips tilted in a wry half-smile of his own. “I suspect Era would be cross if I let you assault the guests.”

“Spoilsport,” he said. Cid scoffed, though it was without rancor. “In that case, I suppose you are determined to endure, come what may. Stand still, your collar’s gone askew.”

As the other man cast a critical eye on his neckwear Cid fought not to fidget in place. His eyes strayed frequently to the doors of the cathedral, and in the back of his mind he could feel Marques fluttering about like a trapped bird buffeting its wings against an invisible cage. Strange, how the most significant sennight of his life had begun much like any other, and even stranger that he felt so anxious, knowing how long he had felt ready for this very day. He supposed it was public speaking jitters- there were quite a lot of people here, after all: many of them faces he knew as well as Era did.

But then, he told himself, that was the point, wasn’t it? The other ceremony - the real ceremony, as far as Cid was concerned - was somewhere else. This was a sort of… test run, one might say.

Just a test run, he repeated to himself, and he couldn’t say why it was that which served to ground him, but it did. Some of the tension in his muscles seemed to flow out of his limbs, like icemelt into a mountain stream. It hadn’t entirely fled him, and he was sure the second the doors opened and all eyes were upon him it would return. But the fluttering in his head had subsided, and that was what mattered.

He exhaled softly as Nero stepped back to give him space. A frown knitted the other Garlean’s brow: an emotion that looked almost like concern.

“Jests aside, you’re looking a bit pale, old friend. Are you quite sure you’ve not changed your mind?”

“Wouldn’t dream of it. I’ll be fine,” Cid assured him. He glanced towards the entrance to the vestibule. “Once she’s arrived, I’ll be better than fine.”

He didn’t have to wait very long. Three turns about the space later there was a flurry of activity at the doors and a vision in white stepped across the threshold, the long and lacy train of her dress draping the floor at her back like spun frost.

Era looked as stunning as she always did to his eyes, of course, regardless of what she wore. But as lovely and intricate as it was, Cid took little more than cursory notice of her dress. His attention caught itself upon other, smaller details: the shine of her eyes - just slightly too bright - and the tight curve of her smile, and the white-knuckled way she clutched the bouquet of white lilies in her hands. She was as outwardly composed as ever but he knew her tells well enough by now to see that in truth, she was no less unsettled about the prospect of a very public display than Cid himself.

So, he thought, it appears I won’t be alone in this either.

He nudged his companion in the ribs with one elbow. “You see?” he said. “Better than fine.”

“Well then, Garlond, let me be the first to offer my congratulations-”

“Jumping the gun rather, aren’t you? The ceremony hasn’t started yet.”

“-upon your miraculous recovery from stage fright,” the engineer finished. His lips tilted in something that was either a sneer or a smirk, and knowing Nero as he did, it could well have been both. “As amusing as it is to entertain the notion of watching you faint away upon your approach to the altar like some dewy-eyed Coerthan virgin afflicted with the vapors, I suspect the timely arrival of your fellow aspirant to matrimony has just saved me a good deal of trouble.”

“You would actually give up the opportunity to watch me embarrass myself in front of what must be half the realm sitting in those pews? Seven hells, Nero, you are getting soft.”

A derisive snort. “Spoken as if your lovely and more than somewhat terrifying bride wouldn’t simply pluck you from the floor and princess-carry you to the altar herself should it come to that. He'll not escape you that easily, eh, Era?”

The neutral set of her soft lips barely twitched, but the flash of good humor in her eyes was all the answer Cid needed. Her smile took a genuine turn at last - a soft and slight thing that would have been imperceptible to anyone else - and the cloud-like softness of her tail twitched, nearly hidden in the layers of snowy lace and satin. At the same moment, he watched the tilt of her shoulders relax. Just the barest hint, really, but he suspected it to be a reflection of his own selfsame thought process.

“He'll be fine, and so will I,” she said at last. She was responding to Nero but her eyes, luminous and wide, were fixed upon Cid's. "We go together."

“Right. Well. Upon that note, I believe I’ll be finding my seat. Away from the aisles, if it please you,” the tall blond shrugged, making a show of turning his back as he strode towards the exit to the sanctuary. “Do make an attempt to remain vertical for the duration, Garlond.”

Cid managed to suppress a mirthful grin of his own until Nero had quit their presence before turning it upon a lily and lace-bedecked Era.

“He suggested we take the opportunity to elope, but I think that would be a touch impolite- tempting as it might be.”

“Besides which, everyone is already here and waiting,” she said. “It would be a bit rude to elope now. We might as well get on with it.”

He laughed and it would have gone unnoticed were she not looking at him; the sound was swallowed in the ringing swell of a tolling cathedral bell. The sound crashed against stone like an invisible wave, once, twice: the final call for their gathering to take seats.

Era’s ears swiveled forward at the sudden sound before relaxing back into the wreath of flowers woven into her hair, and lifted one hand midair while juggling her bouquet into her right. He tucked her elbow about his much girthier forearm so that her hand rested just above the back of his wrist. The small ring she wore caught the light with a tiny, delicate sparkle -- a mote of light with a deep blue center.

“I suppose that’s our cue. You will catch me if I fall, won’t you, love?”

“Always. Even if I tear my dress doing it.” Smile steady, her soft eyes flickered towards the nave entrance. The slight weight of her hand resting upon his was warm and secure, a silent comfort. “Shall we?”

Cid took the hint for what it was.

“Let’s,” he said, and reached for the heavy wooden doors.

~*~

“Era? Sweetheart?”

By ilms the ache began to subside and with it, the Echo vision faded and passed. Her fingertips fell away from the spot where they had lain pressed to her temple.

The sight that awaited her when she opened her eyes was of quite a different venue indeed: no massive flying buttresses or walls of cold and heavy granite to be found here. The tiny chapel of Saint Adama Landama sat on a high point as did the Holy See’s grand cathedral, but that was where the similarities between the two locations ended. The view afforded here was not that of majestic snow-capped mountains, but a small and dusty lichyard. Beyond the box canyon that housed the old Sunroad waystation of Camp Drybone lay malms of flat scrublands and shallow watering holes, populated only by tuco-tucos and herds of wild aldgoats that had taken advantage of cooler hours to graze and water.

At last the day had dawned upon what she considered the real ceremony.

Today she would in truth marry the man she had loved for so long, in this place which meant so much to the both of them. Of course she had wanted their friends to share in their happiness, and Cid had in turn agreed for her sake. But here, the difference was as stark as night and day. Looking upon the well-worn pews strewn with laurel and desert saffron, the anxiety that had so plagued her in the great cathedral was… well, not what she could call ‘nonexistent,’ not exactly, but there was far more of excitement in it than aught else.

How long had it been, in truth, since they had met? The first time it had been wholly incidental. They had been little more than ships passing in the night -- albeit those ships were ghost-ships, left unanchored and unmoored and empty to drift slow and wide upon deep currents. Newly recruited to the Scions and looking for information, she had instead found him, half-concealed in a solitary corner of the lichyard draped in his borrowed robes and weeding an aged plot. He had been too shy to even look her full in the face while he stammered out a frightened response to her question.

Then, he had only known himself as Marques. Sometimes she wondered about the part of him that they both knew was still Marques, looking upon the world as it was now: the world that Cid Garlond had helped to shape. Be it for weal or woe.

She had forgotten for a moment that he was still watching her. When she glanced at him after the sound of his clearing throat caught her attention she saw his brow knotted with concern, eyes cast in brief shadow.

“Era, is aught amiss?”

“Hmm? No, I’m fine.” Era punctuated her words with a faint smile, hoping it would reassure him. The small bouquet of baby’s breath she clutched in one hand was warm, the simple ribbon that bound it ever so slightly damp where moisture from her palm had started to sink into the fibers. “I was just thinking about the day we met.”

“Mmm.” The furrowed crease that had extended nearly down to the bridge of his nose relaxed. “Good old Marques. I’ll wager he never would have dreamed of a day like this.”

(Sometimes she wondered if he wished he could still be Marques. She would hardly blame him.)

“On a day like this, where would he have been?” she wanted to know.

“Well away from the churchyard.” Cid reached for her, his broad, rough mechanic’s fingers lacing through hers. It was already hot and his hand was as warm as hers, but it was a gentle warmth- one that enfolded her hand much like his steadfast presence had enfolded her heart. His grin seemed to stretch from ear to ear. “Tending some of those newer plots on the high road, methinks.”

Before she could think about it she had voiced the question.

“You don’t miss it overmuch, do you?”

“What? Being ‘Marques’?” At her nod, that grin turned somewhat wry. “Aye, well... were I to be completely honest, I think I do miss that daft old bugger on occasion. He was a tabula rasa, after all, and that sort of existence does have a certain appeal. Fewer responsibilities, for one.”

“But?” Era squeezed his hand, and his focus caught upon their laced fingers.

“But all other matters aside, I know full well what I would have missed. There are times… well, I have my bad days, and sometimes being Cid Garlond feels a terrible beast of a burden. I’ll not deny it. But days like this? I can’t say I would wish to be anyone else." He paused. "Or anywhere else, for that matter.”

Cid's eyes were the precise grey-blue of cornflower blossoms, as guileless and open to the sun as the Thanalan sky. She had always loved his eyes: windows which afforded her a glimpse into a soul that was both noble and incessantly kind, even in those early days when he had not known himself. The worry she had glimpsed was gone, passed across their surface and moved on like a cloud drifting away from the sun. It left them as lovely as ever, and brighter to her own loving gaze than any crystal would ever be.

Like a crystal, he reflected the light she bore in truth.

Her throat felt suddenly tight, as though there were a lump she couldn’t swallow past, and she blinked furiously to clear the uncomfortable burning sensation that pricked her eyes.

“Come now, darling,” Cid chided her with a soft laugh. “Save your tears for the ceremony, eh? The good Father’s waiting on us, and so are the crew.”

She almost held out through the entire ceremony. Almost.

Motes of dust billowed in the shafts of sunlight that slanted through the windows of the chapel - in truth, little more than a meeting-house - as if in benediction upon the small gathering. Small as it was, Era clutched her bouquet until her knuckles turned white as she tried to ignore the small handful of people in the pews. Her free hand, held in his- it all felt so seen, and fame or no, she had never liked to put herself on display.

Out of the corner of her eye she caught the movement of Cid’s lips, though there was no sound. She blinked at him, wondering if he had said something and she had merely missed it, until they moved again:

Relax. Look at me.

That message was unmistakable, followed as it was by a very slow and deliberate wink and the mischievous tilt of a half-smile. She felt her own lips stretch in response and her grip on his hand relaxed ever so slightly - and she caught his faint grimace and felt the flex of tendon and muscle, and realized she must have been squeezing his fingers more tightly than she had intended.

If old Father Iliud had noticed any of that silent exchange, he gave no outward sign, bless him. He merely looked from the bride to her groom, both in their modest attire, Era in her lace, then out upon the few witnesses sitting upon the weathered and somewhat rickety benches that passed for pews. The smile he bestowed upon them all was very much like the sunlight slanting through the dusty windows, gentle and ever-present.

“My dear friends,” he said, his voice quiet and warm and intimate, as if he addressed only the two of them in the comfort of a private parlor, “words cannot well express what a wonder it is, to see all of you who have gathered here today. To share in a day like this, to celebrate love, is to celebrate joy itself.

“We have all weathered many a storm these past five summers. Yet those who endure hardship and emerge wiser and kinder for the experience are the strongest of us- and the secret to their strength so very often lies in the company they keep on their journey.”

As she listened, she remembered.

There had been another time he had clasped her hand like this. The rift, beautiful chaos, an endless sea of stars and a cold to numb the very soul as they were cast adrift in the vast and unfolding eternity of interdimensional space: her only anchor the softness of chocobo down and the warmth of Cid’s hand, fingers intertwined and grasping like tapestry threads. Era had forgotten many things, some more important than others. It was a circumstance she had accepted long ago; for better or worse, a not-insignificant part of her time had been spent trying to assemble the disparate pieces of her life before and after the shipwreck.

But that she would hold in her heart until she cast away her mortal coil, for the memory of that warmth was also the moment Era had realized she was in love with him. It had been exhilarating and wonderful, that quiet awareness of something that had waited with such patience for her to see it, like the petals of a morning glory unfolding to bask in the full brilliance of the sun.

The company we keep--

Such a long and strange journey it had been, all of it. And Cid had been there with her from the first step.

“Era,” a voice murmured. “The rings.”

She’d been lost in so much reflection she had nearly missed her own ceremony, she thought with a sort of rueful embarrassment. Cheeks coloring slightly, she set the bouquet aside just in time for Iliud to take her emptied hand and fold her fingers into those of her groom.

Iliud stretched his other hand first towards Cid, his palm open and facing upward as the engineer reached for the bauble that lay in his hand and lifted Era’s hand with a reverent touch. They faced each other now; the pews were visible from the corner of her eye if she chose to perceive them, but she barely noticed. Her focus lay upon the delicate white gold ring and the tiny jewel settings, blue as his eyes, as he slid it onto her finger with painstaking care.

“Let this be my promise to you,” Cid murmured. He held her hand high, close to his mouth, and she could feel the damp warmth of each soft exhale as he bent over his work. “Be they clear skies or the darkest storms, I would navigate them all with you at my side.”

He lifted her fingers to his lips and kissed them, grave and earnest, a pilgrim paying homage.

“And Era.”

Thus prompted, she reached for the remaining band. It was a simple piece: the metal brushed and polished to a precise sheen, pleasing to the eye but sturdy enough to withstand much of its owner’s heavy manual labor. Her hands felt clammy with sweat. There was a sort of… no, lightheadedness wasn’t the right word. Giddy, she amended. Reality was asserting itself bit by bit, wondrous and overwhelming-- it wasn’t a fever dream or an Echo vision.

She could blink once, twice, a hundred times, and this day - the fact of her marriage - it would all still be real.

He held his own hand aloft, awaiting her next move in patient silence and an unwavering smile. Era’s fingers trembled slightly, albeit not from any particular apprehension, as she positioned the ring to slide into place. It caught on the wide point of his finger for the space of a heartbeat before moving downward once more.

The chapel seemed terribly hot, or perhaps that heat in her cheeks was self-consciousness-- Era had never been one for grandiose speeches or noble vows. Nevertheless, she bowed her head studiously over the much larger hand she cradled, his fingers curled with delicate care about hers, to seal her words with a kiss of her own.

“Let this be my promise to you,” her words echoed his, a statement bold and simple in equal measure. “No matter the adventure or the quest that leads my steps, you will always be at my side, in word and in deed. We go together.”

The ring shone with the reflected light of the afternoon sun, and she shut her eyes against it just long enough to brush her lips against roughened knuckles. She lowered his hand, still held securely in her own, to see her emotions mirrored in his face. He was still smiling, but his eyes were suspiciously bright and by the knowing tilt to his lips, Era rather suspected she was in the same state.

Iliud’s hands cast small shadows over theirs as he raised each palm to place upon the crowns of their hands, then their backs, in light and careful benediction. Just as Cid had received foreknowledge of this part of the ceremony so had she; her ears flickered back and then forward again in a small, tight swivel. Still, her fingers tightened their grip ever so briefly, and with silent determination she kept her gaze firmly set even as her vision went dim and she blinked furiously.

“What the fates have seen fit to join,” he intoned, “neither man nor nature may cast asunder. By those powers granted to me and the immeasurable privilege to preside over this union, I bid you take your first steps in life across the threshold of this holy house.”

Heedless in truth of the emotion between them - or mayhap perfectly aware of it - the old priest’s hands raised aloft as the pair turned at last to face the pews.

“Era and Cid Garlond, I pronounce you husband and wife, and alongside my fellow celebrants in your shared joy wish long life and happiness upon you both. May you go forth in peace-- and may the Twelve smile upon you now and forevermore.”

Her joyful laugh, thin and shaking and half-tearful, was muffled beneath her husband’s kiss. She tasted salt, but almost as soon as the impression was there it was gone and he was grinning at her, the Cid she knew and loved. Sunlight glittered in bright blue, the tears in them fading like a receding rainfall to be replaced once more with eternally fair skies.

“Let’s get out of here,” Cid whispered, taking her elbow in his. They took their first step down the aisle in tandem. “The airship’s waiting.”

“Airship? I thought we weren't-"

“Aye, you heard right. It's all been arranged. We’ve the whole of the next sennight to ourselves and an open sky ahead.” His wink was all boyish mischief, ceremonial solemnity fled in the wake of what Era saw now was suppressed excitement. “So you just tell me where to go, and I’ll take us there. Just like always, Missus Garlond.”

“But the Ironworks-”

“There’s no less than a dozen folk who have offered to take up projects in our stead,” he kissed her cheek, and she squirmed at the tickling scratch of his beard, “on both ends. This will be just the two of us.” “Not even Biggs and Wedge?”

“Not even Biggs and Wedge.”

“Oh, thank goodness,” she said, then: “...Oh dear. That... wasn’t quite how I meant that to sound.”

Unfazed, Cid tossed his head and laughed. His hair, that beautiful silver-streaked white-blond, shimmered like his wedding ring band in the filtered sunlight and with that single peal of sound she fancied she could nearly see his soul. He was happier than she had ever seen him, and it had made of itself something tangible and incandescent. Radiant.

And reflected light or not, she couldn’t help but find him the most beautiful man she had ever seen. My husband. She thought her way around those two words, testing them.

“I’m sure they’d understand,” he said, smiling. “Right! Well then, my fellow navigator, I believe we’ve a course to chart. Let’s be about it. To the Excelsior?”

Era beamed at him. This, too, was the happiest day she could remember, and it would end with a shared dream, borne aloft and bound for adventure.

“To the Excelsior.”

The chapel doors flew open on their weathered hinges, and with hearts and hands joined, Era and Cid Garlond set forth into the light of a new day.

#cid x wol #era hess #cid garlond #chrysalispen writes

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sleepylixie · 4 years

Text

The Dreamwalker- Incubus! Hwang Hyunjin

Word Count: 1.3k

Genre: Fantasy

Beware of: Elements of mental imbalance(crazy behaviour), Elements of smut(only mentions, nothing specific at all.)

A/N: THIS FIC DOES NOT REFLECT THE CHARACTER OR LIKENESS OF THE REAL HWANG HYUNJIN IN ANY FORM OR MANNER. ONTO THE FIC!! I had a power struggle with this one, making the words sound the way I wanted them to ( @aliceu and @rebecca-noona welcome to the cult yet again. Today we’re serving Sex on the beach with a side of Fantasy Fries)

Requests are open for SKZ and BTS! || Masterlist

Ever wondered how wrong a dream could possibly go for it to become a nightmare? One that leaves you unmoving, still as a statue, even in the deepest of sleep? But what if the stillness wasn’t from terror but from.. from desire? Ask the Dreamwalker, he could show you.

Demons couldn’t create, they were ruled by their penchant for destruction- until the first succubus came along, with an entirely different kind of lust.

Lilith. She was a headstrong woman, the kind that was unshaken from her beliefs and gladly stood trial and punishment for them.

After being banished from Eden’s Garden, she lived amongst the mortals, reduced to a fraction of her full powers but still, more powerful than humans.

Lilith fell in love with a mortal man, a mortal king who commanded respect and power, the exact kind of person she’d dreamed of for herself.

She was shot down the second the king came to know of her true nature- a creature rejected by the heavens, the mother of everything unholy.

Her screams of pain ripped the sky apart as she flew to safety, bringing down thunder and lightning behind her.

Her blood rained down to the ground as she created the Demon plane, outside the bounds of everything holy where she could reign supreme without fear

Where drops of her blood fell, there sprang a new race of demons: the succubi and their male counterparts, the incubi.

They were the youngest and newest race of demons but the strongest in their destructive power- They wreaked havoc over the mortal plane with great glee,

their strength came from the darkest fantasies that humans kept locked securely within themselves, particularly of the sexual kind. When a mortal spent enough locked in an incubus’ spell, they lost their wits to the point of madness

At which point the incubi gladly fed off their life forces, reveling in the sweet tang that the newly-damned souls left on their tongues

All of them were devastatingly beautiful, almost angelic in appearance, with their soft skin, silky hair and shapely bodies

but none more beautiful than the youngest of them all

His name was Hwang Hyunjin.

The Nightmare, some called him, others knew him as the Dreamwalker

There was something about him even his kin couldn’t shake, much less the mortals he fed on

Maybe it was the shape of his face: angular yet soft at the cheeks, narrow hooded eyes with the darkness trapped in the pupils, lips that looked like they were sculpted by mother Lilith herself

Or maybe it was the way he was built: lean, tall and sharp where mortal bodies were sharp and soft as they were soft but still, carried the aura of something so distinctly otherworldly even without the black wings balanced on his back.

But it was definitely the way he could make even the most depraved, sex-crazed fantasies into an illusion of love and passion

There was not a single mortal Hyunjin hadn’t succeeded in feeding on because of this depraved skill of his

Like his looks weren’t enough, he also had to be one of the best incubi there ever walked the Earth.

Of course, with creatures that shined so bright in their depravity, disaster was sure to come knocking

and surely enough, it did.

Demons couldn’t love, they were ruled by their penchant for hate-under the first incubi came along, with an entirely different kind of chaos.

Incubi and Succubi felt love as Mother Lilith once felt love- not as a wholesome, fuzzy feeling of warmth as the mortals do

but as an ell-encompassing hellfire gone wrong, endless and destructive in it’s affection.

It was rare as it was devastating, for succubi often couldn’t control what they felt in their unholy souls for their significant others and often gave their existence away in pursuit of their lover

Hyunjin had seen enough of his older siblings go mad in the sham called love and decided that he would never want to walk down that road for himself.

He loved his life and his demonic status, he needed nothing more

Or so he thought, until he saw Amaretta.

Like her name, she was from a foreign land Hyunjin had never deigned to visit

but one look at her made him wish that he had,

for what an infallible beauty was sweet Amaretta, with the brightest skin and the clearest eyes, the sweetest smile and the softest hair.

She carried a scent of jasmine and hibiscus with her, under a deeper tang of an addicting mortal liqueur that always lingered around her.

Hyunjin had to have her, he decided. She was too beautiful, too pure, too...untouched for him to pass up the opportunity

She didn’t pose any difficulty to get to, it was almost like she was waiting for him to find her, the way her shadowed eyes gazed into him as he prowled closer

and oh, what a dreamland her mind was for a deviant like him

The most indecent desires and the most sinful fantasies that were symphony to his ears

And oh, how beautifully her body responded to his touch, the most lovely whimpers and the most musical moans that only he could coax out of her rosebud lips

Her aura just begging for him to come back to her every night like she was the flickering flame and he was the smitten firefly, he couldn’t have enough of the beauty that was Amaretta

Hyunjin was bewitched by her existence to the point where he even forgot about feeding on her at all- it became about her pleasure, the kind of toe-curling pleasure that he could give her, so easily

that it satisfied him even despite the lack of feeding

He didn’t realize it for what it was, that the charm that he had fallen under was the very same curse he had vowed to run from.

Mortals couldn’t withstand the seduction of an incubus for too long, but Amaretta held to her sanity for an entire month before the strings in her mind came undone.

Something broke inside Hyunjin to see his sweet Amaretta, who once shone like the sunlight at dawn, reduced to a mere shadow of her old self

Was it guilt?

He couldn’t bring himself to appear before her when the time came

Even when Amaretta began to see him everywhere that he wasn’t, even when she was shunned by her village and left in the wood to the wilderness

It was when a panther nearly attacked her that he tore the wild cat apart, then watched

as Amaretta threw herself at him, smiling a smile that was so vastly different from the one he was used to seeing from her

Her hair sticking out in the most ghastly way, her eyes sunken into her skull

She looked dead on her feet, a walking ghost

Hyunjin knew there was a soul left in her, one that was all his for the taking

But why didn’t he feel the victory he normally felt after a successful hunt?

What should’ve tasted like sweet lemonade on Hyunjin’s tongue now tasted like powdery ash

His honey-eyed, sweet-smiled Amaretta. Her soul was damned, now another lost soul trapped in the Demon plane

All because of him

So this was the insanity his siblings told him about

To be able to see the one you care about with all of your sinner’s soul and not be able to do anything when you’re the one that’s causing them all of the pain.

It did drive him crazy, so incredibly crazy that he lost the need to feed,

it was like all of the life forces he had ever consumed had set a fire inside him, chanting about the wicked harbringer of death that he would forever be.

He wandered the world as a ghost of his former glory, never again taking pleasure in the fantasies that had once riveted him

Feeding was a chore now, not an unholy cat-and-mouse game

Everybody knows about the youngest true incubus of Lilith who was once all blonde hair and dangerous beauty, a tale of caution for a broken heart, a reminder of how flying too close to the sun will always have end in a savage fall to the ground.

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prose-for-hire · 4 years

Text

The Magic of Tupperware

Pairing: Spike x fem!demon!reader

Request: I'd love to see the Scooby gang's reaction to Spike's gf. He hypes her up to be this strong badass who could kill anyone but when she finally meets the gang everyone's confused cuz she's polite & sweet & cute. On patrol with everyone, Spike is super protective of her which leads to him being kidnapped & then GF shows the gang how badass she is as she hunts down and destroys the ghouls who took Spike (maybe some fluffy care for wounded Spike that clashes with her badassery?)

Requested by: Anon

Warnings: Reader is kinda violent. Violence/fighting. Blood mention.

A/N: It’s the longest I’ve written on here, I always get carried away on a back story.

I took liberties with the demon the reader is (Fae is a catch-all I think I just needed something that wasn’t human and wasn’t vampire lol). Use your imagination if you want to be something else !!

You and spike had met in a demon bar. You appeared human, pointed ears was a myth at least in your lineage, and so he wasn’t really sure what you were doing there. You were descendent from fae. You didn’t have wings or anything to that effect, but a spell had been cast on your eighteenth birthday that meant you had strength, reliant on earthly forces for your power. You hadn’t aged much since then, your skin aged much slower than human. You would live a long life, appearing youthful for centuries at least.

He asked you why you were there – you even smelled human. You explained, hit it off, and you have been together for a while now. You had surprised him and confessed your love for him first, leaving him in awe that you were as invested in the relationship as him. Spike hadn’t introduced you to the Scoobies despite being together for a year, although he told you a lot about them. It didn’t stop him bragging about you at any given opportunity to them either.

Spike now lived with you in your little one-bedroom flat, the crypt had been nice and all but you were becoming inseparable and you wanted to share a cosy place together. You had shipped some necro-tempered glass from the manufacturer in LA and had it installed on the sly so that he could be comfortable. This glass meaning he could be in direct sunlight through the windows.

You were kind. Sweet-tempered for the most part. Your strength was often used for good, but perhaps in a more abstract sense than the Scoobies may agree with. You would do anything for him because you loved him so much and you knew without doubt he felt the same for you. However, especially when it came to him, you had a protective streak and it could get ugly.

One of the many times Spike had gushed about you, had left the Scoobies unsure. One, about the actual legitimacy of this ‘significant other’ they have never even seen after a whole year and two that he actually appeared to gush about you. Like, non-stop. Nobody could shut him up.

Spike had been, once again, punched in the face for his suggestion to a problem that launched him into a rant that turned into talking about you, “She’s gonna sort the lot of you right out. One look and you’ll be trapped in her eyes. She’ll kill you. She’ll bloody torture you and laugh while you writhe on the floor like-” Spike cut himself off, you had told him not to brag about you this way. You liked a little mystery and also, you didn’t enjoy bragging the way he did. You knew the slayer wouldn’t like you if he told them of the ways you had killed various demons that threatened either you or Spike.

There was a new threat in town. A vampire cult. Their goal was to turn people and then ‘elevate’ them as a higher being by torturing them until they sign away their un-life to the cause. They were very powerful and bonded by the violence that would break even the strongest will. It was a massive problem, Buffy and the others had been overwhelmed the last time they had faced the group and had barely got away unscathed. This was why they were going back with reinforcements. Buffy had explained that they really should meet you and also, they needed the numbers. It was hard to tell how big the threat from the group truly was from a vague prophetic dream and a half-translated text.

That evening, you and Spike entered Giles’ home and Spike made a show of introducing you to the others.

“This is y/n” spike said, pride in his voice evident, his eyes never leaving yours as he introduced you to the scoobies. He was besotted with you. Nobody else mattered in the room when you were in it. You were perfect, the sweetest person he had ever met rolled up into the tough exterior of someone who could handle themselves at a rate that could match him.

“What a lovely home you have!” You say sweetly, the sincerity acutely evident to the room, “It’s so nice to finally put faces to the names” you went around and greeted everyone individually as if they were Spike’s friends, a pleasant little smile that read as almost shy to the others.

Buffy squinted at you, on guard, but she was still pleasant. Willow and Tara offered you a smile, telling you they liked your outfit. Xander and Anya were both speechless, which should be a day memorialised for years to come. Neither of them were speechless often. You weren’t what they had expected. They had thought you would at least have scales or something. But you were innocent-looking and incredibly polite as you greeted them. Dawn squealed, instantly thinking you were the coolest. Spike had told her so many stories and she had tried twice to follow him to where you lived without luck.

“Oh, uh, well yes. Welcome” Giles sputtered; you were exactly nothing like he had pictured. Xander, Buffy and Willow just stared in shock. You spoke for a while, friendly small-talk with the group that was genuine. You really did want to hear about them, meeting new people was always interesting to you. You were a perfect sweetheart, by all accounts, and nobody could understand how you and Spike had even happened. You opened your mouth to tell them something before someone spoke over you.

“You are not like how Spike described. I don’t believe you could have fought five vampires and a fyarl demon by yourself” the woman, Anya, said bluntly finally finding her voice.

“I’ll take that as a compliment. I think” You offer with a pleasant smile, trying to figure out how to phrase what you wanted to say, “He’s said a lot about you all, he, uh- he uh- barely stops talking about you” You finish awkwardly, still smiling at the group. Spike hadn’t told you anything particularly good about any of them, so you couldn’t say you had heard good things. You didn’t tend to lie.

“Love!” He warned, trying to get you to be quiet but you giggled softly and he melted. He pulled you into his side, wrapping his arm around you and making sure he was in contact with you.

“Sorry, I didn’t want to tell them you’re usually threatening to kill them” you whispered in his ear, punctuating your words with a soft kiss next to his ear, making him smile. He loved that you cared so much that you’d protect him from them threatening him if they found out about that.

“Um, so, patrol then?” Xander asked, not able to stop staring at you much to Anya’s annoyance, leaving Buffy to take control. You would all descend on the graveyard in question together before splitting off into smaller groups to find the threat.

As you all walked towards one of Sunnydale’s many graveyards, you felt a few questioning glances on you and then on the tub you were holding. It was as if they were expecting you to turn on them at any moment. You slowly started to open the lid, their eyes widening in case they needed to fight.

“Oh! I brought snacks! Can’t patrol without cookies” You smiled, offering the younger group some homemade cookies, you had wanted to make a good impression. Spike rolled his eyes at your nature but took one for himself. They were his favourite kind and you had baked them with this in mind. Everyone delved into the tub you brought along with you, grinning wide, except Giles and Buffy. They were a little more wary of you.

Everyone was told to split up. Spike looked at you, silently threatening Buffy to try and split you both up. You and he took the west and the others squabbled among themselves for who would be with who. You left them to it. You walked for a little while, giggling and talking softly as you both were simultaneously hyper-aware of movement around you. Spike heard something and went behind an old mausoleum to check as you walked a little ahead slowly, so that he could catch up.

You were tough. A fighter. One with the elements. One thing that you never quite mastered, however, was the element of surprise. Instead, they had surprised you. Meaning you were caught without so much as a defensive stance at the ready.

“Get off!” You shouted as you were ambushed by several more. It had surprised you, usually you could handle it.

“Mm, this one’s for turning” one spoke as they kept your hands behind your back. One stroked your cheek, liking the fight you displayed. Spike ran up to them, having heard the struggle.

“You don’t lay a bloody finger on her, mate!” Spike shouted, anger lacing his voice, his temper would never cool with the vamps threatening you. Leering. Talking of siring you. Offering something so intimate. It was worse than propositioning sex.

He didn’t wait for the others, who were making their way towards the fight, he just took them on. They dropped you, but everything went slow motion. As you turned around, ready to fight alongside your love, they disappeared as if out of thin air with Spike.

You screamed bloody murder. Looking around, realising they had used some kind of transportation magic. You could feel it. Stupid cults and their powers. They were stronger because there was so many of them. You kicked the dirt where they had been only moments before in anger before turning to the rest of the group who had managed to get themselves over to where you were about two minutes too late. You couldn’t help snapping. Insulting Buffy, the supposed Slayer, for her horrible plan.

“Splitting up never works! You left him to be taken!” You stated, exasperated you had gone along with it just to be polite, “I’ll have to do it myself – here, hold my Tupperware” You start to get mad towards the real target, throwing the object towards Xander who catches it, eyes wide at your change in demeanour. How dare they take your Spike?!

You close your eyes, contacting the elements. Your fae ancestors working with you. You needed to find him and fast. You didn’t like the sound of being signed over to them yourself, much less your soulmate. You started to stalk off, trusting you were being pulled in the right direction. Knowing your ancestors approved of Spike, knew that you needed to be with him. You could tell the group was following you as you turned your pace into a run. You needed to get to him. Fast.

When you arrived at an abandoned warehouse, after a while of almost non-stop running to the outskirts of the town, you sensed there were seven. Seven horrible, evil beings holding your Spike hostage. This wouldn’t do. Couldn’t do. You needed him. You knew he would be fighting well himself, against whatever hold they had on him, but you needed to get in there. Giles tried to get you all to hang back, regroup. But you ignored him. There was a time and a place for pleasantries. You were probably older than him anyway in reality.

Instead, you charged in. A head start on everyone and you were faster than most. They had been torturing him for not breaking and joining them. They had started to threaten him with you, saying they would do worse to you. You saw Spike tied up, horrible angry wounds marked his body. His chest was bare, face bloody and not from a meal. It was his blood. This enraged you. Blood boiling thick and gelatinous in your veins. They had to pay. At a speed faster than the evil group could get their bearings, you were running at them fists raised.

You took the first three out with ease, working on pure rage. The next was more of a struggle as they rounded on you. Spike struggled against his restraints so he could join you in the fight, but he was weakened from the pain they had inflicted. You were tackled by one, restrained your arms above your head. You spat in the vamps face, kneeing him in the groin which loosened his hold on you enough to move from under him and dust him.

By the time you had recovered and were spinning into a brutal kick towards the fifth, the Scoobies had all made it into the warehouse behind you. Ready to fight. But you didn’t give them chance. You were working on pure rage. You took two long knives from your waistband, concealed in a way that not even Buffy had spotted as you cut the rest down mercilessly. Decapitating the final two and leaving them to turn to dust.

The scoobies stared in shock. Each mouth open wide in a mix of awe and horror. Half expecting you to turn on them. But you had no need to hurt them, for the most part they tolerated Spike. The day they didn’t and they started hurting him, was the day they should be scared (Spike had never told you the way Buffy had a tendency to beat him up for this very reason. You were strong, but taking on a Slayer would worry him too much – she tended to bounce back even after death).

You dusted your hands off, a satisfied little smile that Spike found adorable before your face drained, you needed to check on Spike. Tend to him. You rushed towards him, he had managed to escape the restraints while you distracted the group by, well, killing them. He had slid down the wall, sitting against it for support – the wounds still seeping blood and he appeared to be a little dazed. You were worried, his face had started to swell.

“Oh, sweetheart… look at you” tears started to well in your eyes at the state he was in. You wanted him well again. You leaned in, a small kiss pressed to his cut lips. The brief kiss telling him how proud you were to him for protecting you, how grateful you were to him and how much you loved him. Would always love him. You were a team and he was so glad you were there with him. Had come straight to get him. He wasn’t sure how long he would have lasted otherwise. He was just glad they had taken him instead of you. He would give himself time and again just so it had been him half-tortured rather than you.

Everyone appeared to have whiplash from your emotions running through so quickly. You had switched from sweet and caring to tough and scary before being back at caring again.

“Tupperware!” You shouted over to the boy who awkwardly fumbled with the tub and threw it back to you. You close your eyes, imagining what you needed to be in there before opening it and magically, it appeared just as you dreamt it. A first aid kit and a little herbal remedy for him to drink. It was items you had transported from your house into the tub. Your strengths were many.

You doted on him. Your touch so light, soothing. You never wanted to cause him pain. You cleaned him up, held him as much as you could without hurting him. The scoobies were at a loss. You were like two opposites, soft and gooey but with hard edges.

You took him back to your shared home, doting on him until he was well enough again. You snuggled up to him, caring for him and occasionally keeping the Scoobies happy (and away from Spike) by helping them instead of him out patrolling, putting his un-life at risk.

You didn’t want him in any danger, knowing that he would always protect you in the way you protected him.

207 notes · View notes

silcrow-story · 3 years

Text

Salvage III

The Past Peripheral

Dana walks upstairs just as soon as she’s sure June’s left, tries not to catch her eye as she walks by. Her hood’s back up, her tears have dried; she appears as composed as she can.

As she opens the door to her apartment, she becomes acutely aware of how tired she is. She’s been awake for just shy of twenty-four hours; she flips her phone open to check the time, make a mental note of it. 09:03. She’ll need to make it through to sunset, yet.

She can hear Nadia pacing back and forth in her room; the walls aren’t all that thick, and it’s not such an unfamiliar sound. She marks a pang of sympathetic worry in her chest, sets her cup of coffee by the sink, and walks to the far end of the kitchen, turns left at the window, steps into her room.

Once she’s at rest, face-down on her air-mattress, sleeping back spread half-open, she tries to clear her head of all thoughts of the present and future as yet haunt her. She likes to slip into the past when no-one’s looking; if she’s careful and she keeps her hands steady, there’s nothing can hurt her there. She’s had no such luck with the present. Fuck it, she thinks, the cutting-room floor can have the rest, and lets a neatly edited memory wash over her, envelop her like an autumn wind.

Another equinox, and 1500 leagues away; a shallow field awash in mid-afternoon sunshine. It’s not really all that far from civilisation – indeed, it’s within an arm’s reach, if she cared to, but she doesn’t, and for the moment it’s a world apart. Not quite warm, not quite cool; not still nor silent but subtly alive.

It’s a shallow scene, but for now it’s enough to get lost in, as the amphetamines in her blood dissolve into inactive metabolites. Only one or two ghosts here, she thinks, and only shadows to fight. It was a simpler time; she doesn’t even mind that particular cliché. She can’t hear Nadia’s pacing anymore; maybe it’s the two sets of walls, maybe Nadia’s taken a moment to lie down herself, maybe Dana’s simply sufficiently sequestered in reverie. It’s alright like this, she thinks. And it is, for the moment.

She’s casting a sidelong glance at a ghost as a cloud passes over the sun. She’s rarely lonely in these memories, the ones she’s set aside as outposts of retreat. The grass is green but drying as the season starts to turn; it’s dying, and it goes without a fight. And yet, and yet, despite it all, the witch-hazel in seed alights on some soft breeze, borne on by thin white strands that seem all to few to bear the weight of new life. New life was all around, then, even in the face of winter’s coming on; perhaps, then, there is new life now, despite cruel summer that she knows comes hence – it’s a notion that’s easy enough to entertain, from the safety of this scene.

But the present moment intrudes, like a knife between two ribs, and the set falls away and Dana tosses and turns ‘til she’s left alone on the sound-stage, staring up at the popcorn ceiling, and there’s a crack in it as ever. Behind her eyes, and above, and out, there extends some black corridor, the lights therein having burnt out at once in maybe a dozen frames between them. A dozen frames duly lost, disposed of, swept away.

Two hours pass in relative quiet, and relative peace; while she can’t quite fall asleep, Dana can at least rest her eyes, and let the redness fade, and breathe.

In the room across the kitchen, Nadia’s stopped pacing, although her racing thoughts have yet to slow. She’s given June her number, and she’s said she means to get back to her when she’s sorted all this out, and she does. It took her a full minute after June left to realize that she hadn’t even thought to look at what, besides her name and address, might be written in the notebook to which she’s still holding on so tight.

And so she lay out across her bed, and hesitating only slightly, opened it to the first page, and found it entirely blank.

She hadn’t been sure what she expected; it wasn’t that much of a letdown. And now, as she reclines again, she almost wants to keep looking, press on. The longer she lets the thought linger, the more she supposes there must be something in there, after all, that the book mightn’t’ve come to her under such circumstances for nothing, and –

– and so she gives into the temptation, and takes a look at the second page.

Which second page is blank as well, but that’s to be expected. She doesn’t stop before turning to the next one, and the next one, and the next, the pages tumbling one by one, a mid-tempo cascade. A crescendo, tense and off-kilter. A page, and then another.

Christopher doesn’t want to think about death, as he passes the gas station, heading west-southwest, walking as fast as he can manage without really exerting himself. He doesn’t want to think about death, but it’s an inevitability when he’s out walking around this time of day. The song that’s playing isn’t that much help; the singer’s pleading desperately that someone might remember him, hanging on tight to his only hope, and Christopher wishes he couldn’t relate quite so much as he does.

He’s lived in this college town for several years now; it’s been several years since he’s been a student. He doesn’t think all that much about his two brief semesters of study at the university these days; he’s had other things on his mind. Though he’s held his ground, this town, his almost-home, for so significant a fraction of his life, his mind remains cluttered with images – places, voices, memories, some his own and others not. He knows this gas station, and a few others; the convenience stores, most all of them; St. Peter’s Hospital and its blessed, damned emergency room; much of the college campus, the fountain, the sculpture; the stairway up the hill, from 19th Avenue to 20th; the list goes on.

So, too, does Christopher go on, past a grocery store and an apartment complex and the high school and its baseball field, and another apartment block, and finally the traffic light at the intersection where he crosses the parkway to stand kitty-corner from the State Archives. He’s been walking toward the sunset, but now he turns away, and sets off uphill, toward his final destination. He’s got an appointment to make, and he knows it; he exhales sharply, raises his hood, and tries to let his music drown out the passing traffic.

The trees rise tall around him and the soft, slow song surrounds him in a tenebrous indigo haze, the swelling sub-bass a premonition of the twilight impending. The clouds are perforated, now, punctured as to let stray beams of early evening light pierce through and dapple with marbled shadows the ground beneath the boughs through which they pass. Nonetheless, the atmosphere, the signs of imminent rain, all have yet to pass. The singer’s deep in love and fear, and feeling trapped, her voice arcing from a dark half-whisper to an empassioned cry as she pleads for her beloved to see, to bear witness, to notice her if only as an afterthought. Christopher pretends once more that he’s not in her shoes – it’s just a song, it’s just a nice song – and sets his own shoes to the pavement, and presses on; the branches of impassive evergreens above sway on, and shatter all kaleidoscopic his thin shadow.

Hours earlier and just a block or so west-southwest, June’s leaving Nadia’s apartment, trying to gather her thoughts. It’s fairly early yet, all things considered, and there aren’t many people about; in her going back she passes just one figure, furtive in a hoodie, face freckled with the falling rain from whence she’s stepped, which figure stands still briefly before walking by, wordless. June’s too preoccupied to pay her much mind.

She’s only slept an hour or so out of the past twenty-four; she had to rise well before dawn to make on time the spot that Christopher’d prescribed. She knows she needs to get some rest, but she’s still thinking, about Nadia and the notebook and how she’d not once opened it, not once. That’s a bit odd, isn’t it?

It’s still on her mind as she unlocks her own apartment door, blue-grey, cold steel handle, brass key. It’s all but underground, apartment 20, room D; her room’s only window looks out on the rocky embankment and shallow depression in the hillside into which the complex as a whole is wedged. She imagines it’d make most any other tenant a bit uncomfortable; the lack of natural light in the morning, the proximity to the sidewalk and the parkway’s traffic overhead. June doesn’t mind, really. She takes some strange comfort in her room’s position – it’s surrounded, and so in some implict sense protected. Once she’s inside, door locked behind her, overhead light switched on, she surveys her room and all her scattered thoughts at once.

Her room’s only slightly cluttered, but all that’s scattered around gives the impression that there’s more clutter than is actually present. Clothes are strewn across the floor; the desk beneath the window’s covered in stray papers, and the several spiral-ring notebooks from whence they’ve been torn. Her laptop’s still open on her bed; the battery’s running low. It’s become a bit overwhelming, June realises for the third time this week, having so much up in the air. So many diversions, and Nadia, and Christopher, and whatever’s in that notebook only amount to one more. One more cul-de-sac, one more dead end…

Her train of thought careens into oblivion as she notices she’d been wondering about the contents of the notebook for the first time. It wouldn’t have been right to look, she thinks, so why am I regretting it now? It’s really Nadia, if anyone, who needs to know.

June takes off her glasses and closes her laptop and tumbles into her twin bed. She can’t remember the last time she’s had a good night’s sleep, and so she closes her eyes, and wonders briefly if there’s anywhere she ought to be right now. It doesn’t take long for sleep to overtake her; sleep, first, and then dreams.

She doesn’t realise she’s dreaming at first; the feeling is real, even if the setting isn’t. She’s lying down on something, hard metal, brushed steel, bleachers. It’s a soccer pitch, and it’s late at night, but there’s something different about the sky here. It’s vast, and as close to black as blue can get, and there are more stars than usual – so many more that it’s striking first, then more captivating with each passing moment.

As she watches this foreign starfield, June gradually becomes aware of the fact that she’s not alone. There are a few ghosts there with her – perhaps two or three, their faces half-turned away from the camera in shadow. She doesn’t recognise them quite yet, and she doesn’t feel especially obliged to. The stars wheel above her, and she begins to notice the planets among them; first Venus, then Mars. It’s spring, she decides. The air smells like spring. It’s Aries season, and she can tell by the nip in the air that she’s up north. Up north, and west of somewhere; she’s too fascinated by the fractals forming from the depths of the firmament’s parabola above.

She gets to her feet, eventually, and feels dizzy, feels like she’s falling, and that’s when she realises it’s a dream. She doesn’t want to wake just yet, though, so she holds on tight, and stands straight and tall as she can, and stays a while longer.

Nadia’s still in her room, flipping through page after page. She’s not really sure what she’s looking for, at this point. Some indication, perhaps, that the book was hers, or that it wasn’t – surely, it was left where it was for a reason.

Around the twenty-first page she begins to notice marks – not words or letters, just faint pencil-strokes. As she sees the first her breath catches in her throat; the mark itself bears no significance to her, but its presence there does. Someone was here before, she thinks, and shivers at the thought. This wasn’t just something I’d lost and forgotten; somebody gave this to me.

Of course she wonders why, but at this point that question seems far out of reach. What could be the use of wondering why, when it’s not even clear yet just what it is that’s happening. She’s begun to feel altogether out of her depth, and the water-line only rises higher and higher still as the stray pencil strokes begin to articulate themselves into shapes, lines, symbols, and then, at last, numbers. Coordinates, Nadia realises, then, numbly. They’re coordinates. 4*.***, -12*.*** . The datum doesn’t carry any significance to her, on the face of it; she’ll have to look them up later. It’s the implication of their presence that gets to her; the idea that she’s being directed, being by some unseen force guided unto a destination. Just like June was, she thinks, and shivers again, and closes the notebook. Would it be more senseless to go, or not to, she thinks. Is this ‘Christopher’ the one behind it all, or is he being strung along, just like we are? What is there for me to lose? What, if anything, might I stand to gain?

There are far, far to many ambiguities for her comfort. She’s got to work tomorrow, got other things to attend to; she hasn’t, after all, much time to invest in this sort of game. But regardless of what it could mean, regardless of its potential to be a scam, a fiction, a trick, it’s not so easy a thought to let go. Open questions have a way of doing that, of worming their way into a consciousness before their intrusion is even noticed, of quietly yet constantly. A mystery is a vulnerability in the mind’s defenses, a slowly spreading crack in the walls and ceilings, a stray pencil-mark on a white blank page that renders itself with time entirely indelible.

Nadia knows what she has to do, and so, reluctantly setting her notebook aside, she opens her phone – it’s early evening, now, perhaps a quarter to seven – and dials ten digits, holds it to her ear, lets it ring. The rain’s stopped, outside, and there’s a gap in the clouds just broad enough to let through the window, obliquely, the pale glow of some thin sunbeam.

When Dana arrives at the lookout, Topher’s waiting, and she breathes a sigh of relief. It’s a beautiful sunset, over the bay, and it’s in plain view; naturally, he’s staring at his shoes. He hasn’t noticed her yet, or if he has, he’s given no indication, so she ascends the wooden tower to join him, and they stand there in silence for a moment as the red-gold radiation of the sun – not quite below the tree-line – cascades about them.

Eventually, she turns away from the sunset, looks straight at him. “I hope you’ve not been waiting too long,” she says, and she mostly means it.

Christopher takes out his earphones, shakes his head softly. “Nah.”

After another moment, he says, “Do you suppose they’ll make it?”

“Nadia has the coordinates. Nothing for it but to wait,” Dana replies. They’ll come, she thinks. He can’t think we’ve left that much up to chance.

The sun has descended all but entirely into the Pacific by the time June and Nadia pass beneath the arch of rock, walk among the trees, and glance up at the lookout, freeze when they see the figures there, silhouetted in civil twilight.

Hours earlier, June is still lingering in the dreamscape, walking a campus in too many layers of clothing, passing a facade of sheet-glass and aluminum. What’s beyond is all a blur of green and gold, and so she looks closer, turns to face it properly, and allows the blur to articulate itself into something vast and strange.

There rises within that strange greenhouse some titanic plant, a primordial mass of pure life, a vital, verdant relic of another age. The trunk that forms its core is one with the vines that twine about it, and the ruddy blooms that sprout thence, and the roots that seem in their writhing to set the loam in which they’re stuck to shake like something breathing – all these, and more, and stranger parts, are one being. For all the shock of its immense and bizarre form, it evokes in June more respect than revulsion; it is a thing of this Earth, no alien, no stranger. She doesn’t approach, but merely stands, looks on, her upward gaze almost supplicant.

The dream, as dreams so often do, lets the scene seem not as strange as in the waking world it surely might. And so, anaesthetized to the intrinsic anomaly of that great tree’s existence, June lets the time slip by just looking, admiring, inquiring – identifying all its tendrils’ avenues and leaves’ expanses – and at peace.

Then from the metal eaves perhaps five meters overhead there blows a wind, a warm gust from the exhaust-fans, and it rushes to subsume her psychosoma, like a flood. There is a trepidation, a murmur of spring, a stench of mould and compost, and then a fresh, sweet taste, like strawberries and sugar; the world ripples, the ghosts and their faint voices leaving first, and then the greenhouse and its denizen, and then, alas, June, and she is awake.

The call comes but a minute or two later; June’s surprised it didn’t wake her. She picks up, and it’s Nadia; she’d known, somehow, it would be.

Nadia says hello, and says she was looking through the notebook, and asks if she’s free to come over, because there’s something she wants to talk about. June’s only a few doors down, and curious as ever; so, despite the fact she’s only just awoken, she says she’s on her way, and hangs up, and steps outside.

The air is crisp and clear, the clouds shot through with early evening warmth, as June enters the parking lot, and tries to clear her head. The endeavor doesn’t go far, and it only takes her a moment to decide against it; she’d rather have less on her mind going in, she reasons, as she starts up the two flights of stairs to Nadia’s apartment. She’s trying not to wonder what she’s walking into; in this effort, at least, she is successful.

Having reached the blue-grey door, and facing the number 12 in cracked black plastic stuck thereto at eye level, she knocks for the second time that day.

Dana wakes up slowly, despite never really having slept. Her bags are packed, and she’s ready to go, more or less. She flips her phone to check the time – 6 minutes to 7 in the evening. She was making good time before; now, alas, she’s running late. Topher must be there already, at this point, she thinks, and is only just stepping out the door to her room when she’s stopped in mid-stride by a knock at the door.

Before she can decide to dart back inside her room, or to answer the door, Nadia’s stepped out, crossed the kitchen, noticed her standing there. Dana glimpses the notebook she’s got clenched in her right hand – is June here already? I s’pose we won’t be waiting long, then…

And then Nadia’s opened the door, and June is stepping inside. She seems surprised to see Dana standing there, across the kitchen, by the bright blue folding chair and tense, and unsure what to do. Dana’s not quite sure why, but she hopes June doesn’t recognise her from earlier; June cocks her head, adjusts her glasses, tries to decide whether or not she does.

“Oh, hi! You...you must be Nadia’s roommate,” she says, with as much xeniality as she can manage through what’s left of the haze of dreams about her head.

Dana cracks a smile and says she is, and she’s sorry, she was just on her way out and didn’t mean to interrupt; it’s an evident affectation and she knows it, but June and Nadia step aside, and Dana leaves, and sets off to where her associate waits.

Moments later, in her room, Nadia’s sitting cross-legged on her bed, reading off coordinates; June just stands and listens, wide-eyed – no less confused, and no less curious.

“...and so I looked them up, the coordinates,” Nadia says, almost breathless, livelier than June’s yet seen her, “And they’re like, right here. At the lookout in the arboretum. Did – did Christopher or whoever it was mention anything like this?”

“He didn’t say anything about- no. He didn’t say much at all, really, and I hadn’t had the time to ask, and I didn’t look. Didn’t look in the notebook, I mean.”

Nadia hunches over a bit, looks down at the dusty beige carpet, furrows her brow. A moment, still and taut, goes slowly by; June feels awkward, but she simply stands, and waits, and another moment goes by. Then, at last, Nadia raises her head, and looks June dead in the eye, and says exactly what she was hoping to hear.

“What say we go check it out?”

#silcrow #silcrow-story #03

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talltales · 4 years

Photo

—EVIL, I'VE COME TO TELL YOU THAT SHE'S EVIL, MOST DEFINITELY EVIL, ORNERY, SCANDALOUS AND EVIL, MOST DEFINITELY THE TENSION, IT'S GETTING HOTTER. I'D LIKE TO HOLD HER HEAD UNDERWATER anonymous request!!

the slip of paper is worth its weight in gold.

“make sure to come out of there alive, alright?”

she turns it over in her hand, reading the scrawled address on one side for what feels like the thousandth time. on the other, a bolded warning is underlined twice—for extra emphasis, she supposes.

come alone.

“i will,” she affirms and jackson, torn between tired and a little drunk, cuffs her on the shoulder before tilting dangerously toward the edge of the couch. absently, she pats the thick cast covering the majority of his left leg before she rises to her feet, “worry about yourself. i don’t want to find you laying in a pool of your own vomit.”

unruffled, jackson shifts onto his back and throws his leg over the arm of the couch. any other time, she might’ve welcomed this sight: the perilously cocky man getting his just desserts for baiting the wrong idiot, left hobbling on a broken leg for his troubles. but any humor to be found in the situation comes more sour than sweet.

your timing is horrible, she almost says. but if she gives him a taste of guilt, jackson will drown himself in it.

“o ye,” his voice is low, exhausted in a way that she tries not to let herself feel. he rests his temple against a half-fluffed pillow and closes his eyes, “of little faith.”

her tongue flicks over her teeth before she huffs; a sound that might’ve passed for a laugh any other day. instead, it is a wispy and hollow thing that sinks into the walls.

though her back is turned when he breaks the soft, uncertain silence, she can hear his fear—caught in his throat, “we’ll find him, alright? just be careful.”

she nods, makes her way to the door and slips her boots on—pretends she doesn’t hear him say anything more.

i can’t lose you, too.

the paper disappears into her pocket as she closes the door behind her.

—

“so what brings a pretty lady like you to a place like this, hmm?” her latest tail—burly, heavily tattooed and smelling of gunpowder—whispers somewhere over her shoulder, bending at the waist until she feels his breath fan across her nape. too warm, too close, too loud even over the cacophony of curses and laughter. “surely you’re not here for a drink.”

he isn’t wrong. most people didn’t make a habit of walking into a bar notorious for housing the most dangerous gang in the country for a cocktail. the man laughs, as if enjoying his own private joke and the sound is punctuated with a distant wolf-whistle.

fresh meat in the lion’s den.

“i’m not, really.” she calls back to him, her voice soft but steady. the slip of paper is cradled between her fingertips, folded in half twice over in her unease. the crowd, to their credit, shifts to grant her movement through to the half-cracked door in the back of the building, “i’m here to meet someone.”

“and who would that be?”

“your boss, i’m guessing.” casting a significant look at the marking stamped to the inside of his wrist, she remains all-too-aware of the odd assortment of criminals and outcasts circling the perimeter. they’ve made a home of the bar. most laze about on leather armchairs, shouting at the tv. the more suspicious ones follow her with their eyes.

out of place doesn’t begin to describe the feeling. it is more and less than a physical sensation; than the belief that she is, in many ways, descending to the underworld to make a deal with hades himself.

“can’t say that’s a wise move, lass.” the pressure of his hand settles on her shoulder—sweaty palms and fat fingertips—and she bites back a soft curse. for the love of god.

and like a talisman, she presents the scrawled note to him, poised for him to inspect until his grip lightens and his hand falls away.

“well, you could’ve just said so.”

only an unnerving awareness of her surroundings keeps her from rolling her eyes, “now i have.”

“let’s go.”

before her, the crowd parts like the red sea.

—

youngjae goes missing on a wednesday.

her first thought it is that of course, he would choose the night right before her latest deadline to skip town. the anger gets caught beneath her collarbones any time she tries to talk, so jackson alternates between balancing on his crutches and giving the bored officer all of the necessary information.

it isn’t until the gambling holes in the neighboring towns come up empty that she starts to worry.

his rap sheet, they find, reads like a checklist for every petty crime a person can be arrested for. and that’s that. the police stop looking after a day—the sun is barely over the horizon when they turn in; squad cars making wide turns back onto the highway and disappearing out of sight.

from the passenger seat, jackson swears.

they comb the streets until dawn, though she isn’t sure what they’re looking for—

doesn’t want to think about what they might find.

by friday, she’s spending her evenings thumbing through old cases with retired journalists; old fogies she’d dreamed of working with, once upon a time. when they stop laughing at her—what advice columnist goes sniffing around for underground contacts—they provide mountains of paperwork and few promises.

saturday morning, she has a name and a number.

an address, when she bargains with the woman that picks up the phone.

a slip of paper worth its weight in gold.

—

the first thing she notices is him—a quiet figure clad in nothing but jeans and a t-shirt; young, with shoulder-length hair tied back into a loose ponytail. he’s as unassuming as the average college student, but the glint in his eyes holds nothing but vicious intelligence.

i can’t lose you, too.

“a guest?” he intonates, more statement than question. the way that the room settles around him speaks volumes; the tension held in the stillness says even more as the remaining men in the room either line the walls or make for the exit. it feels like a movie scene, but the dread settling low in her stomach serves as a brutal reminder of how real it is.

“sir. she was poking around out front, had an invitation.” says the gruff fellow, with none of the casual mockery she’d endured from the front door onward. it would’ve been funny if it wasn’t terrifying, “i can take her out.“

before she can argue, the stranger clears his throat—exhales—and focuses his attention on her as he addresses the man behind her, “i’ve told you not to call me sir. you’re not speaking to my uncle, you’re speaking to me. leave her here and go.”

“right, jaebeom.”

he stumbles over the name, hesitates from the first syllable to the last before he backs out of the room and closes the door behind him. her fingers curl ever-tighter around the paper, dig deeper into her pocket to ease her own nerves. because jaebeom, the man she’s looking to ask a favor of, takes perverse pleasure in making his men trip over their own feet.

the humored tilt of his lips is a cruel thing, emphasized only by the idle tapping of his fingers against the table top, “so to what do i owe this pleasure?”

when she opens her mouth, she finds all of her carefully-chosen words gone, “i—“

fuck.

“money? men?” jaebeom turns to wave away the stragglers; men who look all too eager to remove themselves from the room, “women? i don’t judge.” his head tilts then, hair falling in pieces to cover his eyes. he sweeps the stray strands aside and folds his hands together in front of his chin, steepled—“or do you have a problem you want to get rid of?”

the amused gleam in his eyes never quite fades, but he is patient.

she crumples the paper in her fist and bites back the urge to retreat under the intensity of his attention. no matter how harmless he appears to be—im jaebeom has a reputation for brutality that he simultaneously confirms and contradicts.

her tongue feels heavy; weighted by dread, “i heard that you were good at finding people.”

we’ll find him, alright?

“my friend is missing.”

there’s a long moment of silence; she watches as jaebeom leans back in his seat, regarding her with a raised brow and reignited interest. he clicks his tongue, tone wry when he finally speaks, “so call the police.”

“they won’t look. he has history.”

desperation creeps into her words before she can check herself—this, she thinks, is why jackson was supposed to be here. to handle the messy parts and keep her from spilling her fury like lava down a mountain side.

jaebeom is unaffected; unmoving as she swallows her fear and closes the distance between herself and the opposite edge of the table. her palms press into the wood, hard enough to obscure the way her hands shake, “if you can put a hit out on a man, surely you can find one.”

“i’m not search and rescue.”

it’s a true enough sentence, though the way that he says it leaves room for question. an opening. by now, it’s clear that a trap is being laid at her feet—that she can either leave empty-handed, or be ensnared by a vicious man with a penchant for psychological warfare. he isn’t smiling, but he is positively thrumming. pleased.

knowing she won’t get another chance, she takes it, “what do you want?”

somewhere in the back of her mind, she imagines the sound of a shackle snapping shut.

jaebeom merely hums, rising from his seat in a smooth motion. any retreat she can make is halted by the pressure of his thumb and forefinger cradling her jaw. she remains still as he leans in, inspecting her changing expressions with bemusement and something unnamed.

something darker.

“we’ll worry about that later. what’s your friend’s name?”

—

when they find youngjae the next wednesday, outrunning loan sharks on the west coast, she barely refrains from drowning him in the tub he’s washing his clothes in.

#member + prompt #request #got7 au #jaebeom au

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ofgoodmenarchive · 4 years

Text

Blighted Empire: Ch. 8

Lightbringer

A landscape of ice stretched before him, broken up by pockets of void or an awkward section of library, protruding from the blanket of white or simply levitating.

Dorian struggled to remember what he'd been doing- or where he was. There were some similarities to his own dream- the snowfall from his Harrowing had never dissipated. However any discernible structure had been- for the most part- scraps of Tevinter.

Here, the scraps were quite different- yet still familiar.

Pressing onwards, an epiphany struck him the more he absorbed.

Spires and tablets, riddled in script that often faded into torturous red.

Evallan's writing!

Of course- he walked the Keeper's dream! Those familiar pieces- clearly the Ferelden Tower, now that he examined closer. Not just any place in the tower but the library- which caused Dorian to halt, feeling oddly bashful.

Where we studied- really?

It was that significant to him..?

A tremendous sound ripped him from those thoughts- like a broken bell, repeatedly smashed. It reverberated through the dream and his own skull. Keeling over, he embraced his head until the discordant chimes ceased and only managed a few steps before they restarted. This time he was more prepared, merely wincing while stalking for the noise.

There was no question in Dorian's mind- this cacophony would lead to his goal.

Traversing snow and misplaced bits of tower, he reached the edge of Evallan's dream. Ice and library ended abruptly, revealing a jagged tear in the world itself, open to the void. Beyond that tear- exactly the thing- or being- Dorian aimed to help.

To someone unschooled in the Fade it would have looked like madness- an iced over library with an abyss in the middle, a dimension of sprawling glass and light on the other side. However he understood- their dreams were bound. Now they drifted apart.

Therefore Lightbringer's containment had shattered. From his place at the brink of the void he could see her- or what he assumed had to be her- a humanoid form built from light, radiance leaking into the Fade. As he observed she morphed, shrank or grew with the surreality of an abstract painting.

When inevitably, she could no longer stifle her own will, it exploded in a mad display of chimes and colour, before wrangling her projection into order once more. Flinching, senses dazzled, he called out;

“Lightbringer! Over here!”

Fighting to convey a rigid and humanoid form, she whirled for the edge. If Lightbringer had eyes, Dorian was sceptical he'd be able to view them through the glow- either way, it was obvious he had her attention.

“Do you remember me!? Dorian Pavus!?”

She tilted her chin knowingly, the gesture seeming to pain her- as if her neck wished to extend passed her intent.

“I'm here to help! But, I, ah...” Trailing off, he examined his surroundings- even above their heads, blackness encroached. Dorian imagined Evallan's consciousness trapped there somewhere- scooped right from his own sacred place and pocketed in the dark Fade.

“We...we need to seal this, yes?!”

He hazarded, staring desperately towards the amorphous Spirit. She nodded.

“Well how are we to do that?!” Glancing around, he saw nothing that could aid them in stitching shut a wound in the bloody Fade!

Between his glances he noticed Lightbringer- pointing squarely at him. Blinking, he furrowed his brow.

“Well yes- me, but how will I-”

A bright streak launched from her fingertip to his chest, piercing like frostbite. Yelping, he patted the offending sting and glared downwards- only to note something he hadn't before.

Dim but very much present- a dot of light, shining from the centre of his chest.

“Oh, Maker!” He lamented with a startled laugh. “When did that get there?!”

All the while she stared at him meaningfully, still pointing.

“Yes- you're right- that doesn't matter right now!”

Dropping his hand, he calculated.

“If I have this...that means you can connect to Evallan's dream through me! Then when he gets back- you should be safe and sound waiting for him! Have I got that right?”

Her own hand lowered, nodding.

Sighing in relief, Dorian puzzled further.

“Your host told me not to act without his say, but...” He snorted, flashing a grin. “I think we both know there's no time for that- for once, he really is going to have to trust me.”

They seemed to be in agreement- she continued watching expectantly, her colour still oozing.

“Alright, well...” Straightening, he hardened his features. “Whatever you have to do...I'm ready for it!”

There was quite an anti-climatic moment of mutual staring.

Then the Spirit's hand ascended, targeting Dorian's chest.

He readied himself, expecting another stab of discomfort.

Something flickered across the void and embedded into his ribcage, cold enough he shuddered.

“Well...” He relaxed, chuckling. “That wasn't so bad.”

Lightbringer watched him, passively waiting.

“...I don't like that.” Dorian mumbled, frowning at her. “What does that mean? Why are you looking at me like- AH!- OW- OW!”

It was as if he'd just bitten snow- his brain ached intolerably, a frost that swiftly encapsulated each limb, forcing them to crumble. On his knees, the world became a haze of white, nerves muffled, all senses drowned.

A numbing sensation possessed his body yet he was still cold. Shivering violently, it slowly dawned there were shapes in this haze- a gust of breath in the chill air, small dents and hills within snow. For some reason he was awfully exerted- gasping and shaking and so, so tired- but knowing he couldn't stop.

Stop what?

Lightbringer- hello?

What are we doing..?

Upon closer inspection he spied two hands half-buried in white. Clearly a child's hands- small and pale but inflamed from low temperatures.

He already had a guess as to who they belong to- still, a voice clarified-

“Evallan...”

Dorian was unable to place it initially. Not too concerned, he observed as tiny hands dragged upwards, feeling the scrape against his knuckles.

I see now.

I'm in his memory.

We're piecing it back together.

Unwinding from his curled position, the youthful Evallan snarled as he beheld a ruined wall ahead. Painted lines dictated targets and icicles riddled the uneven surface- all noticeably swayed to one side, missing points that seemed to be marked higher.

Target practise? How charming!

That wall looks like they've been at it for generations.

“Evallaaaaaan!”

Ignoring this, Evallan pounced to his feet, tossing a fistful of ice which only landed further to the side. Promptly falling over, he took his rage out on the snow, fists slamming into ground impotently.

Melodious laughter rang over them- this time Dorian was certain he knew that voice.

“Villyen sleeps, he is exhausted! We should return to camp.”

Evallan turned his head and Dorian saw clearly now- Amrallan, though years before their brief acquaintanceship. He sat in a pile of furs, the tiniest Lavellan snoozing in his arms.

Unquestionably it was time to retire- but Evallan couldn't allow himself. He about-faced, stubbornly muttering.

“No...No, it is still so off-centre.”

While he prepared his stance- slowly and deliberately, Amrallan considered in his sing-song manner;

“You know, Evallan...when I was your age, I could not hit the centre target either.”

Swiftly glaring, Evallan spat, indignant-

“How off-centre, compared to mine?” Then, scowling for emphasis. “And do not lie! You know we cannot lie to each other!”

Amrallan sighed with the wistful air of a long-suffering sibling.

“Perhaps a few degrees inwards of your mark, brother.” He admitted, shrugging and smiling.

“That is what I thought!” Spinning from him, Evallan focused on his spell- he would concentrate this time- really concentrate. The only thing obstructing success was himself!

“And why is it so important? We return tomorrow- you continue practising, you will hit that mark eventually!”

With a burdensome exhale he met his brother's gaze. His brother for whom everything came so easily, whose runes always functioned on the first try, whose spells always landed perfectly, whose first attempts were always astounding successes.

'Naturally gifted', as the Elders called him- in part because despite these achievements, he would rather play than work. Amrallan never strived for brilliance- he was of the lucky few for whom brilliance is second nature.

“It is because...” Evallan struggled to express himself, eyes pinning targets.

“I simply cannot!- I know I can do better- so I must!”

“What am I to say?” Amrallan signed with feigned exhaustion. “Do better then, brother!”

Taking that to heart, Evallan threw out his hands and this time an icicle- just one- stabbed the middle point and remained there.

Over his shoulder there was hooting and clapping, Amrallan cheering him- while Villyen whined.

“Mythal smiles on you, Evallan! Are you satisfied now?”

Gathering cool air into his lungs, Evallan savoured with a smile.

“Yes, brother.”

Mist clouded Dorian's vision, the memory blown aside.

READ MORE ON AO3

#dragon age #dai #dragon age inquisition #inquisition #dragon age fanfic #dorian pavus #m!avellan #lavellan #pavellan #apocalypse au #fanfiction #dragon age fanfiction #fanfic #writers on tumblr #my writing #my aus #dorian pavus x lavellan

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milkygcf · 4 years

Note

Hiii I c ur doing reqs. U don't have to do this one though. I'm sure you'll be getting many so only if it inspires you 💖 buuttt here goesss. Vkook x reader. Jealousy. Angst. plshappyending. kluvvyouuu.

//credits to @jjks for the gif!//

Pairing | jjk x reader (ft. kth)

Genre | angst, s2l

Warnings | none

Summary | ❝ Hiii I c ur doing reqs. U don't have to do this one though. I'm sure you'll be getting many so only if it inspires you 💖 buuttt here goesss. Vkook x reader. Jealousy. Angst. plshappyending. kluvvyouuu. ❞

Word Count | 1.6k

Author’s Note | hi anon!! your request is finished! i tried to make it as angsty as i could, although it does stray a bit from the jealousy you asked for 😅😅 yet if you squint, it’s hinted! alongside this, i hope the somewhat happy ending satisfies your wishes! i also hope this is to your liking ❤ thank you for requesting ✨ ________________________________________________________________

Taehyung has to moderately be the most romantic fellow you’ve ever met. You’ve known the dork for a good four years, befriending him at a summer camp your parents practically forced you to attend.

During the span of time, you earned the pleasure to watch him evolve into one fine man. From wearing those ugly pink shorts he was quite fond of, to having half of his wardrobe being nothing but pairs amongst pairs of slacks. You have to admit - despite your imposing disdain towards that garment, you kind of miss it.

You also miss the countless nights awake tallying the stars that scattered across the sky with him. Or perhaps all the times he’d invite himself over and insist you watch Avatar: The Last Airbender with him.

Anyway, back to Taehyung being the hopeless romantic he is - lately, he’s been hell-bent on trying to find someone he can share his life with.

And by time, he did.

However, you are not that someone.

In fact, you are the side character that doesn’t obtain as much luck as the main character does. You sit and stare in the sidelines, watching as Taehyung relished in the confines of euphoria with someone he now calls his soulmate.

That soulmate is not you.

“If love was a thing, what would you associate it with?” He queried silently one night, fumbling with his phone. Your fingers coursed through his soft locks that splattered across your chest and you frowned.

If love was a thing, to you, it would’ve been Kim Taehyung. It would’ve been his deep, rich voice, the way it soothes your very soul and leaves you wanting to hear more. Or the constellations in his eyes - those who suppress every memory he has ever endured. Eyes who spill tears and crinkle when his lips curve into a jovial beam.

There are a mass of qualities you consider to be a concept of love.

He took your lack of response as cluelessness, locking his phone shut and letting a sigh flutter out of his lips. “Don’t you think it’s something akin to a warm summer? Or like a walk by the sea, with the fresh, chilly breeze making your hair flow.”

“That’s a way to put it,” you shifted under him, “Although everyone has different perspectives of the very subject.” “And I hope one day I’ll be able to meet someone with that same perspective.”

Taehyung’s wishes eventually come true. After a span of perhaps a month, he comes running to you with tears of joy sprouting down his cheeks, the most merry smile spread across his lips. He engulfed you in a jostling hug and pecked your cheek, his sentences nothing but a jumble of words that you couldn’t seem to comprehend.

If you had known back then, you would’ve told him that to you, love was like a rose trapped in an eternal winter. To you, it was lifeless - non-existent. How could you know of such a thing when you skipped the basics and immediately jumped onto heartbreak?

You are in love with Kim Taehyung - that much was clear.

Nothing could possibly define the state of your heart as you listened intently to the way his voice spoke ecstatically about someone he was going to share the world with.

“She’s like a rainbow after a murky storm, Y/N, I don’t think I’ve ever met someone so exquisite. Her eyes shine brighter than the crown jewels of England!” The way he interprets her makes you giggle - Taehyung always had a peculiar way of saying things.

Although, the way your name rolls carelessly down his tongue makes you choke - no longer do you find it soothing, no longer do you find that same old caring tone laced into it. Like you were the only person he ever needed. You and him against the world.

Heartbreak is a menace - god forbid someone ever experiences the turmoil it brings along with it. It is a plight that once you bump paths with, it encases itself around you and never fades.

Unlike heartbreak, Taehyung becomes a distant memory. He does fade away - lets himself disintegrate in the nooks of your mind. You can do nothing but watch as he scatters any remaining thought of you and leaves it to his youthful moments in life.

“Ah - sorry Y/N, we’re going out today! Our anniversary is soon, and we were hoping we could plan a small party.”

“Right, yeah, that’s okay.” You lie right through your teeth, “Can we meet anytime soon? I miss you, you dork.”

Taehyung’s light laughter reverberates through your phone. Another fragment of your heart cracks and crumbles. “I miss you too silly! I’ve been a bit busy lately… What a bummer! I promise I’ll text you as soon as I’m free! Love ya!”

You’re left with the eerie sound of your phone beeping.

There’s a reason why you were never really fond of promises. They were meant to be broken - made to be hopes and dreams only to be twisted in the end. Unfortunately for you, the reason for your heartbreak never texted you back after that.

It’s your fault, really, you were the one who couldn’t come clean to your best friend. If you had told him just a sliver of your feelings, maybe things would have been different. Maybe you wouldn’t be watching raindrops trickle down your bedroom window alone. Maybe, just maybe, your sleepless nights would’ve been replaced with warmth spreading through your skin at Taehyung’s tender touch.

You can do nothing but sulk now.

Except, you sulk until you stumble upon a stranger whom, just like you, battles the scarecrow lurking around them. It tore them down, made sure they praised regret for as long as they reminisce about each memory conceived with their last love.

His name is Jeon Jungkook, and just like you, he lives with remnants of heartbreak staining his very soul.

“She was the light of my life,” he announces grudgingly, eyes gleaming under the dimly lit night sky. “It’s like you finally start seeing colour. Like, actual colour, you get me?”

Of course you do - you’ve been seeing that colour since you laid eyes on Taehyung at summer camp.

“What about you?” Jungkook queries then, turning towards your slumped figure. Your fingers anxiously pick at the grass beneath you, a frown curving onto your lips. “Me?” Your voice comes out rather silent, a bit distressed.

“What’s your story?”

“Well, Jeon, I thought I had everything until I carelessly let it slip away. A dumb move, really, it’s all my fault.” But in reality, how could you tell him? Was the result of rejection better than the state you’re left in now? You would’ve easily earned yourself an answer if you’d confessed.

Jungkook looks at you with pity circling in the pits of his eyes. He makes it his mission to understand your anguish, what causes such disappointment in your features.

And then? He interlocks his fingers with yours and offers you a mellow smile. You turn to him with wide eyes, mouth agape as to what he was insisting.

“In that case, I hope we can mend each other.”

---

Taehyung has been out of it since the moment he cut the last call you’ve had together. Your very last interaction. Since then, he’s been throwing himself into his significant other’s arms, hoping that eventually, he’ll rid the guilt etching into him.

Perhaps if he weren’t so foolish, things would have been different. How else was he supposed to spend his free-time now? He was used to your constant presence - your pearly whites out on show whenever he makes the dumbest of jokes.

He craves the enjoyment he used to earn himself with you - the euphoric feeling bursting through him as he continues to relish on the beauties life offered with you.

It’s different now.

The person he wakes up beside isn’t you - the same warmth he’d find himself aching for every time isn’t there. He finally found someone he could course life with, but it wasn’t you.

There’s a feeling nagging at him, yet despite how much he tries, he just can’t seem to fathom it.

Taehyung is suddenly aware of his current standing. He’s aware of how you’ve become a distant memory - a fragment of his older life, a life he’s abandoned because he seeked out what he’d wished.

But was it really what he’s always wanted?

His queries are answered when he spots you by someone else’s side. You’re smiling so brightly it’s almost humanly impossible. Something bubbles within the confines of his mind. It’s clear you’re with someone who’s clearly making you happy, although that someone’s not him.

The very fact makes him feel somewhat conflicted, however he has no clue as to why he feels so distraught.

You don’t notice his presence whatsoever, focus put directly on Jungkook and the little ministrations he was making with his hands. He was telling you about this one time he watched an animated movie and how he’d further on adapt to the idea of hearing bells when meeting his soulmate. It’s endearing - it makes you want to tune in to more.

Both you and Jungkook found solace in each other, trying to mend your broken hearts despite how challenging it is. You found comfort and happiness, and by time, you both let go of the burdensome heartbreak sitting on your shoulders.

That, however, didn’t count on Taehyung’s side.

And as he watches you be whisked away by a stranger he has no knowledge of, it finally dawns on him how he’d lost you due to his foolishness.

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longsightmyth · 5 years

Text

Myth reads The Riddle, Chapter 1

Alrighty, folks. I can’t to a direct book-to-book comparison (there are seven ToG novels not including The Assassin’s Blade, which is a collection of five prequel novellas, and only five Pellinor books including the prequel novel) so I made a spreadsheet to figure out what should be read with what. The Riddle gets to be compared to Crown of Midnight, Heir of Fire, and a not insignificant amount of Queen of Shadows. The Crow gets the rest of Queen of Shadows, the entirety of Empire of Storms (Hem doesn’t deserve that but them’s the breaks), and a good chunk of Tower of Dawn. The Singing has the rest of Tower of Dawn and all of Kingdom of Ash, for which it has my sincere apologies.

The Bone Queen is going to be compared to The Assassin’s Blade on the premise that they are both prequels and that at some point I could use a break from doing anywhere from 40-90 pages at a time of ToG. I may do those two directly after The Riddle so I can have the aforementioned break.

I COULD, of course, read two books for every Pellinor book except the Bone Queen, which would still be read only with The Assassin’s Blade, but a, I didn’t think of that until I was already done with my spreadsheet, and b, that would involve reading exactly 1.628 pages (Tower of Dawn and Kingdom of Ash) with The Singing, which is 444 pages. As various friends correctly pointed out, that sounds torturous (and comes out to about 4 pages of ToG for 1 page of The Singing). After that discussion, I decided my spreadsheet should not be in vain.

Here we go.

The Riddle, being the second of the Books of Pellinor

Chapter 1

The Riddle

Do not twine garlands of myrtle for my forehead Nor pluck sweet roses to adorn me Make me a crown of somber violets For I am dying

The sweet lips of the maidens of Busk And the flashing feet of dancing goatherds Will never again quicken my desire For I am dying

Come to me merciful Meripon In your ebony chariot drawn by swallows From the dim halls beyond the Gates For I am dying

I kiss the peaks of Lamedon with my eyes And the white arms of the passionate sea Which loves this beautiful island that I love For I am dying

Thus begins the first chapter of the first section of The Riddle, called Thorold.

Yikes.

Maerad has a dream vision of a lot of armies marching through a desert, and not even a cool natural desert. Something about it feels bad and poisoned. She freaks out and falls…

Maerad woke, gasping for breath, and sat bolt upright. This was an unwise thing to do, as she was sleeping in a hammock slung below the deck of a small fishing smack called the White Owl. The hammock swung dangerously and then, as she flailed for balance in the pitch dark, tipped her out onto the floor. Still trapped in her dream, Maerad screamed, putting out her hands to break her fall, and hit the wooden floorboards.

Cadvan of course rushes to check on her. Maerad says she had a bad dream and apologizes if she cried out. Cadvan jokes that it sounded like there was a hull on the boat and asks if it was a regular nightmare or a foredream. Maerad says definitely foredream, definitely horrible, also she is not a fan of boats because she gets seasick.

Foredreams, in Maerad’s experience, we always horrible.

Cadvan, when Maerad tells him about it, says it definitely sounds like the place the Nameless One started out from when he marshalled his armies to bring about the Great Silence. Maerad asks hopefully if maybe she’s just seeing the past, and Cadvan says there’s always the possibility but he doesn’t think so in this case, because Cadvan is a negative nancy.

Maerad gives us some ‘last time on’ info while she and Cadvan consider the implications, including that Turbansk, Saliman’s Bard school and where he and Hem went, are going to have it rough.

“...even that vast force is only one piece in the great strategem the Nameless One is now unleashing. And you, Maerad, are as significant to him as that huge army. Maybe more so. Everything turns on you.”

Maerad bowed her head, oppressed beyond measure by Cadvan’s words. On me? she thought bitterly. And yet she knew it was true.

Cadvan, I don’t mean to criticize, but you seem to forget a lot that Maerad is a teenager who was pretty recently yoinked from slavery. Maybe, like. Chill for a second on the whole ‘the fate of the world is on Your Shoulders Alone’ thing? (It’s a different matter from how I feel that in ToG the books have forgotten that Celaena is a teenager pretty recently yoinked from slavery. If I fail to mention this in the comparison yell at me in the notes and I’ll talk about it)

More ‘last time on’ but I don’t mean it as a criticism: it manages to be couched into Maerad’s thoughts about Cadvan and her Foretold-ness, and honestly I feel like more books should have some ‘last time on’ thoughts when they’re sequels. If nothing else it would remind the authors themselves what happened in the last book.

Naming no names, re: sequel consistency (oh we’ll get to that)

They’re two days out from Busk, and Maerad, at a loss for anything else to do, offers to keep watch so Owan or Cadvan can nap, since they’re the only two who really know how to sail. They would have taught Maerad, but Cadvan has a magic wind still going, which makes teaching difficult, and when it’s not going he’s asleep and Owan is busy actually, you know. Sailing.

Maerad had already witnessed Cadvan’s powers of endurance, but his stubborn will impressed her anew: his face was haggard and his mouth grim, but he moved the with alertness of a well-rested man.

So many jokes I could make. I will refrain.

Maerad sees something in the water and alerts the other two. Cadvan tries to make them go faster but whatever it is keeps up.

It’s an ondril, which are usually pretty benign sea serpents. This one is big, they’ve already gotten out of whatever territory onril would normally defend, and they can’t see to outrun it.

Welp, says Cadvan (lightly paraphrased), guess we’re gonna have to fight. Let’s charge it.

Owan cocked his head and thought briefly. “Aye, easily enough, if you put more breeze in the sails,” he said. “Think you that’s a good idea?”

“I don’t,” Maerad said. “I think it’s mad.”

“We may be able to wrest the initiative,” said Cadvan. He looked at Maerad and smiled with a sudden sweetness that illuminated and transformed his somber face. “Come, Maerad. It is far better to put away fear than to be driven by it. You know that.”

Yes, I know that, Maerad thought sardonically. But I’m tired of having to be brave when really I’m so terrified I scarce know what to do.

He lets his wind die, has Owan turn them around, and whips of an opposite direction wind to charge the ondril. Maerad isn’t pleased but readies her sword and magic. Cadvan magically fastens Owan to the boat so he won’t get thrown out and gives age-old fighting advice: go for the eyes.

They do.

Anyway they have a battle, Maerad hits it with fire (some of which glances off), they run, the ondril pursues, both Maerad and Cadvan go for the remaining eye when it catches up, and they finally manage to escape. The men congratulate each other and Maerad.

Maerad looked away over the sea, feeling nothing but a vast emptiness. She had no sense of triumph, nor even relief. All she felt was a returning wisp of nausea. The only good thing about being frightened half to death, she thought, is that it makes me forget all about being seasick.

End chapter.

Throne of Glass

Are y’all ready for Crown of Midnight? I bet you aren’t!

Confession: this is the one I remember least, so we’re going on a journey together basically. I hope that comforts you as it has failed to comfort me. Anyway. Chapters 1-6 (and the first 51 pages) of CoM, here we come. (I also have to remind people that if I didn’t enjoy this on some level I wouldn’t be doing it: no one is forcing me. I’m just being dramatic)

Also can we discuss how I actually LIKE Crown of Midnight as a title, even if it’s pretty irrelevant to this book? Just saying.

We start with part 1, titled ‘The King’s Champion’ which is a departure from the first book, which was separated only by chapters. All subsequent books follow this format for reasons I don’t entirely understand, but we can talk about that in the comparison section, probably in more than one of these chapter/section comparisons.

Chapter 1!

Celaena sneaks into a house in a storm with many s words describing movement. She’s concealed in a black mask and hood, which is not a good way not to attract notice. Human-shaped splotches of solid black aren’t exactly blending in with the shadows (you’d want lots of different shades of brown and grey and black and yes even red, especially if there’s a lot of brick around. Fun fact: red is one of the first colors to register as grey to human eyes in the dark) and not exactly great for blending in with the crowd (unless that’s a new fashion in Rifthold?). She might have done better to disguise herself as a servant once she was in the house, or even to get in the house.

To give Celaena her due, she is trying to make An Impression on the dude she’s supposed to assassinate so he’ll take her seriously. To harp on my own pet peeve, making everyone around him less competent to make Celaena seem more badass is not the way to make a badass character (“the [servant] girl hadn’t noticed [Celaena’s] wet footprints on the floorboards,” really? She has to clean those floors. That girl is going to notice when they’re dirty).

We are two paragraphs into this book.

Anyway. I might also have to start counting uses of the word ‘wraith’.

Celaena notes that Lord Nirall’s wife is pretty and wonders what these nobles have done for the king to want them dead. Remind me to talk about Celaena’s weird compassion for high ranking Adarlan citizens vs everyone else in the world in the comparison.

She crept to the edge of the bed. It wasn’t her place to ask questions. Her job was to obey. Her freedom depended on it. With each step toward Lord Nirall, she ran through the plan again.

Her sword slid out of its sheath with barely a whine. She took a shuddering breath, bracing herself for what would come next.

Lord Nirall’s eyes flew open just as the King’s Champion raised her sword over her head.

Chapter 2!

Celaena’s walking down the hall to the king’s council chamber. I personally would have my assassin report to me in my study barring some really specific circumstances but I am but a young girl unschooled in the ways of politics and murder.

Also Rifthold is spelled Rift-hold for some reason. I assume it’s just a formatting error or typo.

Celaena bows to the king, notes Chaol and Dorian, and removes her hood when the king tells her to rise, which just makes these guards even more incompetent. You’re letting a hooded chick with a bloody sack just walk into the council chamber?

Wait why does the council chamber have the glass throne. Does the king just have multiple glass thrones? The glass throne has been mentioned all of once and it already has more impact in the book NOT named after it. Anyway.

Celaena produces a head (mauled unrecognizably) and seal ring, and then when the king asks about the guy’s wife she hauls a “slender, pale hand” wearing a wedding ring from the sack, saying that the wife is chained to the remains of her husband at the bottom of the sea. Dorian looks sick and Celaena decides she should give him credit for not throwing up.

The king says fine, and tells her that her next assignment is to root out and get rid of a growing rebel movement.

“There are several people on my list of suspected traitors, but I will only give you one name at a time. This castle is crawling with spies.”

Well that’s stupid on a scale rarely seen. You aren’t going to hand her a physical list, after all, that would be -

Chaol stiffened at [the comment about spies], but the king waved his hand and the captain approached her, his face still blank as he extended a piece of paper to Celaena.

- exactly what you’re doing. Okay.

Keeping her features neutral, she looked at the paper. On it was a single name: Archer Finn.

Celaena actually knows him - he trained for a bit with her, because he’s a courtesan and needed to be able to defend himself from his clients’ jealous husbands, apparently. No gay people in Rifthold, no siree. Celaena had a crush on him back in the day and she hasn’t seen him in several years.

“...she’d never thought him capable of something like this. He’d been handsome and kind and jovial, not a traitor to the crown so dangerous that the king would want him dead.”

Sounds like a perfect spy tbh.

Somehow despite Archer being a famous and highly sought-after courtesan, the king thinks it’s salacious that Celaena might know who he is. Then the king gives her a month to kill Archer or he’ll reconsider her position. When she’s killed Archer she’ll get the next name on the list.

Surely there isn’t an actual physical list somewhere of everyone the king considers a traitor. Surely he at least has it in code. Surely his spymaster has different bits of info kept different places or with different people. Surely he has a spymaster?

Leave me my hopes and dreams.

She had avoided the politics of the kingdoms - especially their rebel forces - for so many years, and now she was in the thick of it. Wonderful.

Ah. Sorry to mention this, but…

“We kill corrupt officials and adulterous spouses; we make it quick and clean…”

Maas, Sarah J.. The Assassin's Blade: The Throne of Glass Novellas (Throne Of Glass Series) (p. 41). Bloomsbury Publishing. Kindle Edition.

Killing corrupt politicians is not avoiding politics. I’m just saying.

The king tells her that her payment for killing Nirall is in her chambers. She pulls a salary and gets bonuses? Sweet gig. Aside from, you know, the murder.

She leaves the throne room, keeping the piece of paper with Archer’s name on it because this is Celaena we’re talking about, and we swap to Dorian’s PoV.

He’s worried because Celaena is killing people and not dressing up anymore and starts to think that maybe she just manipulated him into getting her the position of King’s Champion, which would make sense except for the fact that he pulled her out of the salt mines having never knowingly met her (and she doesn’t know they’ve met either: it’s a prequel thing) for the express purpose of making her King’s Champion, no seduction required.

Also, she’s an assassin who kills people for money. I am always surprised at how characters, knowing that fact, are surprised when she talks about killing people for money.

Dorian couldn’t bring himself to finish the thought. He’d visit her - tomorrow, perhaps. Just to see if there was a chance he was wrong.

But he couldn’t help wondering if he’d ever meant anything to Celaena at all.

Back to Celaena’s PoV!

She goes to the sewers to dump the body parts and Chaol follows her. She wonders why everyone seems shocked that she’s willing to murder people, which is the first and possibly only time Celaena considers that as far as I can recall.

Chaol gets mad at her for being unwilling to share her murder details because for some reason that links in to missing her? I guess bonding over working for the apparently murderous conquering dictator is one way to strengthen a relationship.

They hug because she realizes he was worried about her and we are reminded that Celaena is warm for Chaol’s form. He says she smells really bad. She complains that she wasn’t allowed to shower before going to see the king, which I will acknowledge is a fair thing to be peeved about.

Chaol walks her to her room and agrees to come back for dinner, after which Celaena gets fussed over by Philippa in summary and then ruminates on how she hadn’t actually killed Niral and his unnamed wife or the named first target (Sir Carlin). Apparently there are sick-houses that dump lots of bodies, so Celaena stole a couple that looked like the victims and slashed them up a little. Celaena thinks about how the pale and slender hand had come from a girl “barely past her first bleed” which marks the beginning of the interesting relationship these books have with menstrual cycles and somehow knowing if someone has them or not.

She tries to think of how she can fake Archer’s death and draws a blank because he’s so well-known (but somehow it was surprising that she knew who he was back in the throne room?), then that she still can’t believe he’s a rebel, then that she can’t think of what else the king could conquer unless he’s looking at the other continents.

There were other continents, of course. Other continents with wealthy kingdoms - like Wendlyn, that faraway land across the sea.

Celaena’s mother was literally from Wendlyn. It irks me that the book pretends she has no idea about the country.

Celaena thinks that if the king finds out what she’s up to he’ll destroy her.

Chapter 3!

Celaena has a nightmare where Cain and the ridderak chase her through the secret tunnels. Cain almost catches her and…

He whispered her name, her true name, and she screamed as he -

When the book acknowledges Celaena’s Super Secret Long Lost Heritage and when it doesn’t has never quite made sense to me, but here we are.

She wakes up, cuddles her dog, and goes back to sleep.

The next morning Celaena and Nehemia play fetch with Fleetfoot the dog who hates everyone and everything but Celaena per the text. Celaena considers that Nehemia is a spy but the king definitely can’t know about her or he wouldn’t trust Celaena to be his Champion.

Fleetfoot is apparently abnormally large, as a sidenote.

Nehemia wants Celaena to tell her anything Celaena figures out about the king’s plans, because Nehemia is a reasonably competent spy in enemy territory using every advantage. Celaena promises to do so but thinks that she won’t, actually, because the king promised if she worked against him he would murder Chaol, Nehemia, and Nehemia’s family one by one in that order, which is really the wrong order to go in if you’re an evil king bent on bending a mostly morally incompetent assassin to your will. You kill somebody just close enough to prove you’re serious first. You don’t give up your hostage grown princess or loyal captain of the guard until other options have exhausted themselves. The hostage crown princess keeps an entire country at bay. The loyal captain of the guard is a, loyal, and b, captain of the guard. Those are the people you get rid of when you’re just Over It. You won’t have anybody left to bargain with after you kill the people Celaena actually cares about.

Look if you’re going to write evil, calculating characters, make them evil and calculating. Moving on.

If Nehemia talked more about the rebels, [Celaena] didn’t know how much more of it she could take. Yes, she wanted to be free of the king - both as his Champion and as a child of a conquered nation - but she wanted nothing to do with whatever plots were brewing in Rifthold, and whatever desperate hope the rebels still savored. To stand against the king would be nothing but folly. They’d all be destroyed.

Nehemia talks about Calaculla, which is supposed to be a work camp even harsher than Endovier and reserved almost entirely for citizens of Eyllwe, and says that the king won’t meet with her to discuss the conditions there.

“Apparently, he’s too busy finding people for you to kill.”

Get her.

Nehemia calls Celaena Elentiya, which if you have forgotten means ‘spirit that could not be broken’ in the language of Eyllwe and which you might have REPRESSED that Nehemia gave to Celaena, possibly in a fairytale hope that if you name something you influence the nature of it.

Sorry, Nehemia. You tried.

Anyway she does that while demanding when they can actually act.

But when Celaena said nothing, when she promised nothing, just as she always did when Nehemia spoke about these things, the princess dropped the stick on the ground quietly and walked back to the castle.

Celaena thinks about how she has to go meet Chaol for a run in a few minutes and she’s going to go hang out in Rifthold afterwards.

After all, the king had given her a month, and despite her own questions for Archer, she wanted to get off the castle grounds for a bit. She had blood money to burn.

Chapter 4!

We start with Chaol’s PoV. He and Celaena are doing their morning run and it’s cold. He looks over at her.

Noticing his stare, she flashed him a grin, those stunning turquoise eyes filled with light.

I just wanted it noted for the record exactly how noticeable her family eyes (from her Wendlyn side) storied in song and legend are.

They tease each other and run faster. Chaol thinks about Cain and how he killed him and asks Celaena how often she thinks about the people she’s killed. She drags him to a stop and says he shouldn’t pass judgment on her before breakfast. In the book it’s not bantery, it just sounds that way in summary.

Chaol assures her he wasn’t judging, and when she asks if this is about Cain he says yes. Celaena launches into a speech about never forgetting the people she’s killed, which would be a lot more moving if we knew anything about the people she killed or if she actually, like, remembered them in her PoV. we don’t even know who the guy she killed when she was in the single digits (mentioned in ToG) was. This is what I mean by these books telling instead of showing. We’re in Celaena’s head for most of these books. We should know more things.

Celaena assures Chaol that what he did wasn’t dishonorable and that she’ll never forget he saved her. Chaol reflects silently that he doesn’t know who he’d chose if it came down to Celaena vs the king, which, uh. Really dude?

They run some more.

Celaena’s PoV!

They’re walking back to the palace through the gardens. It’s still really cold.There are lots of women out to ogle Chaol as he removes all his layers but his shirt. Celaena is irritated. Chaol offers to help her with surveillance on Archer, she says she doesn’t need help, and they run into Dorian and a blond young man.

Blond dude is Roland. He makes Celaena nervous, which I’m not actually going to make fun of. Sometimes dudes just give off unspecified Bad Vibes. Dorian introduces them.

They still used her alias whenever she couldn’t avoid running into members of the court, though most everyone knew to some degree that she was not in the palace for administrative nonsense or politics.

Administrative.

Nonsense.

Fine whatever.

Roland didn’t expect the King’s Champion to be so lovely, apparently. He’s here to take a position on the king’s council. Chaol gets grouchy. Roland ogles Celaena. Dorian breaks up the party.

Dorian’s PoV!

Roland comments that Celaena/Lillian is an unexpected choice even with the competition. Dorian hates him and remembers that time Chaol punched Roland in the face and knocked Roland unconscious. He says Roland deserved it but does not explain why, though apparently he deserved it enough that the entire court took Chaol’s side.

Roland asks some more questions. Dorian gives no answers and thinks about how Meah (where Roland is from) is a prosperous coastal city with no army and no political power, which makes me question everything. Also I wish the throwaway comment early about Celaena ‘killing’ a dude in Meah linked into Roland somehow, but that would mean this was a different book.

Celaena’s PoV!

Her salary as King’s Champion was considerable, and Celaena spent every last copper of it.

Where does all your money come from later if you spend it all? I guess we’ll talk more about that in Queen of Shadows.

She returns to her room to find Dorian waiting for her. They banter, mentioning Dorian’s flocks of ladies.

Actually, the thought of Dorian with other women made her want to shatter a window, but it wouldn’t be fair to let him know that.

Yikes.

Celaena says she has to head back out into Rifthold.

Dorian took a step closer, exposing his palms to her. “Do you want me to fight for you? Is that it?”

“No,” she said quietly. “I just want you to leave me alone.”

His eyes flickered with the words left unsaid. Celaena stared at him, unmoving, until he silently left.

Alone in the foyer, Celaena clenched and unclenched her fists, suddenly disgusted with all of the pretty packages on the table.

In a weird way, I think this might be one of the most telling passages about Celaena. When Nehemia tries to talk about helping people, Celaena goes shopping. When she reiterates to Dorian that she doesn’t want to date him, that is when she can’t stomach shopping.

It’s just interesting to me, is all.

Chapter 5!

Up on a rooftop reindeer paw, down jumps good old Celaena Sardothien.

Ahem.

On a rooftop in a very fashionable and respectable part of Rifthold, Celaena crouched in the shadow of a chimney and frowned into the chill wind gusting off the Avery.

She’s waiting for Archer to leave his current appointment. She remembers Sam Cortland and vague events from the prequel novellas, but not in any helpful manner. When Archer exits (apparently after two hours instead of the one his previous appointments took).

While she was in no hurry to seek out the truth behind her own capture and Sam’s death, and while she was fairly certain the king had to be wrong about Archer, part of her wondered whether whatever truth she uncovered about this rebel movement and the king’s plans would destroy her, too.

And not just destroy her - but also everything she’d grown to care about.

Later, Celaena and Chaol are chilling in his room (she notes that it’s one room with a bathroom, not the suite that she has). Celaena is studying Archer info. Chaol is presumably doing captain of the guard business, which should involve a lot of writing and accounting so at least that’s happening. Good for you, book.

Celaena learns that Wesley (Arobynn’s bodyguard) killed the crime lord who killed Sam. Arobynn apparently killed Wesley right afterwards.

Celaena ruminates on how Arobynn betrayed her and…

How much she’d make him suffer - and bleed for it.

Chaol asks why she cares, and she explains about Sam and being captured.

“I failed him,” she said. “In every way that counted, I failed him.”

Another long silence, then a sigh. “Not in one way,” Chaol said. “I bet he would have wanted you to survive - to live. So you didn’t fail him, not in that regard.”

I feel like it’s moments like these where my extreme disgust and disappointment in the way Celaena is handled as a character gets in the way. This would normally be a sentiment I’d be down with. It’s not terribly written. I just can’t make myself believe that Celaena really gave a damn about Sam.

It’s a problem.

Chaol opens up about his own romantic past, in which Roland stole his ladylove away and whisked her off to Meah, never to be seen again. I want to be clear that it wasn’t a kidnapping, it was Roland sleeping with Chaol’s girlfriend.

Look. Not to be all ‘ladies can’t make their own choices’ but I gotta say if the cousin of the current murderous dictatorial king was like ‘sleep with me’ I probably would out of fear for my own safety. The situation might not have been like that, but it kinda seems like that.

They banter. Chaol goes to walk Celaena back to her rooms and she asks if he’d do the same for Dorian or if he only does it for women. He doesn’t reeeaaally answer and walks her back.

Celaena tells him that if Lithaen (a wink and a nod towards Celaena’s secret identity in Queen of Glass) chose Roland over Chaol then Lithaen is ‘the greatest fool who ever lived.’

Please see above, re: consent being debateable.

Celaena is also grateful that Lithaen is gone.

Midnight! Celaena heads for the library, being unable to sleep. She plans to grab a book and hightail it back to her room unless there are still some fires lit in the library and I’d ask why she wasn’t reading one of the eighty zillion books she apparently bought earlier but I have been in the frame of mind where nothing you have works for your brain. It’s like with some people and clothes? But with books.

With the chill tonight, it was no surprise to see someone completely concealed by a black cloak, hood drawn over the face. But something about the figure standing between the open library doors made some ancient, primal part of her send a warning pulse so strong that she didn’t take another step.

It’s a librarian come to keep her away from the books. They know what’s going to happen when she brings her dog into the library and they know about those times when she was a kid and they figure out that she’s easily spooked by people in black cloaks.

I’m kidding. It’s creepy and evil and the Eye of Elena starts glowing to ward it off. Celaena closes her eyes.

When she opened her eyes, the amulet was dark, and the hooded creature was gone.

Not a trace, not even the sound of footsteps.

Celaena didn’t go into the library. Oh, no. She just walked quickly back to her rooms with as much dignity as she could muster. Though she kept telling herself that she had imagined it all, that it was some hallucination from too many hours awake, Celaena couldn’t stop hearing that cursed word again and again.

Plans.

Honestly I feel like that chapter should have just ended on ‘Celaena didn’t go into the library.’ It’s kind of funny but still conveys that the creature freaked her out.

Chapter 6!

Celaena is still walking back to her rooms in this chapter. I feel like that could have been better worded last chapter. She’s trying to rationalize still: reading is out of fashion, so maybe somebody was indulging in the middle of the night so nobody made fun of them.

Also it’s a lunar eclipse tonight.

Celaena decides to go see Elena in her tomb and sets off down the secret passageway. Celaena has scars from the Ridderak bite (“a ring of white scars punctured her palm and encircled her thumb”) that I don’t believe were mentioned before or are ever mentioned again. I could be wrong.

She reaches to open the door to the tomb and a bronze doorknocker shaped like a skull asks her if she’s going to knock. She freaks out and says the door knocker can’t really be talking because that would mean magic.

It was impossible - it should be impossible. Magic was gone, vanished from the land ten years ago, before it had even been outlawed by the king.

“Everything in the world is magic. Thank you ever so kindly for stating the obvious.”

She calmed her reeling mind long enough to say, “But magic doesn’t work anymore.”

“New magic doesn’t. But the king cannot erase old spells made with older powers - like the Wyrdmarks. Those ancient spells still hold; especially ones that imbue life.”

What the fuck ever, y’all. I give up on figuring out the magic vanished from the world stuff. Really it only vanished from this particular continent, too, you learn later. Does that mean it’s really only a forcefield? Does that mean water stops magic? Does the amount matter? Would a river stop magic? If you’re on a boat in Erilea, can you do spells?

No answer. Well, I live in hope, as the priest said to the princess (thank you Tamora Pierce for that saying, which I have used since I was seven)

The door knocker is annoying. Celaena is annoying. Their banter is annoying. I think reading 50 pages of this at a time is messing with whatever objectivity I was clinging to. Moving on.

Apparently King Brannon (first king of Terrasen, Elena’s father, hot fae dude with fire powers) put the door knocker there to watch Elena’s tomb. I have to ask what the door knocker’s powers are aside from speech, but I know I will receive no answer.

The door knocker (whose name we have now learned is Mort) says that her name is the funniest thing he’s heard in centuries.

Apparently Elena is recharging after helping Celaena and won’t be back for a while. Mort says he has a message from her to Celaena though. Celaena decides to put that off and examines the tomb more thoroughly.

There’s a sword of truth, wyrdmarks on the walls, and Gavin Havilliard’s armor but no sign of Elena’s. The lunar eclipse puts the tomb almost entirely in darkness and Celaena agrees to hear what Elena has to say.

Mort cleared his throat, and then said in a voice that sounded eerily like the queen’s, “ ‘If I could leave you in peace, I would. But you have lived your life aware that you will never escape certain burdens. Whether you like it or not, you are bound to the fate of this world. As the King’s Champion, you are now in a position of power, and you can make a difference in the lives of many.’ ” Celaena’s stomach turned over.

“Cain and the ridderak were just the beginning of the threat to Erilea,” Mort said, the words echoing around the tomb. “There is a far deadlier power poised to devour the world.”

“And I have to find it, I suppose?”

“Yes. There will be clues to lead you to it. Signs you must follow. Refusing to kill the king’s targets is only the first and smallest step.”

Celaena has the usual ‘why should I bother helping other people because my life sucked’ discussion with Mort, who does the wise old mentor parts right down to “you don’t mean that.”

Mort just glowered at her. “You’re that selfish? That cowardly? Why did you come down here tonight, Celaena? To help us all? Or just to help yourself? Elena told me about you—about your past.”

“Shut your rutting face,” she snapped, and stormed up the stairs.

End chapter 6.

Comparison

Accidental parallels ahoy! Neither Maerad nor Celaena want their destinies. Both are told the fate of the world hinges on them.

Of course, The Riddle has Maerad keep it on the down low and ponder things herself even as she keeps moving forward because she has had a crappy life, and she doesn’t want other people to have a crappy life. We also know who Maerad is and why she’s important to the grand scheme of things, while ToG is taking its sweet time confirming what seemed to me on first read incredibly obvious. I remember being confused when it was a reveal and flipping back through. That’s just the kind of book ToG is. Of course she’s a long lost princess. Of course she is.

I just wish the book didn’t pretend it was going to be a surprise.

We also have Maerad remembering the last book and some key points and having an action scene almost right off the bat. Celaena, the action murder heroine, has yet to have a fight six chapters in.If you took away Maerad’s experiences, she wouldn’t be the same character. If you took away Celaena’s, she would still be doing exactly what the plot says she should be doing, because nothing has formed or been formed by Celaena.

If that makes sense.

Stats

The Riddle

Pages: 18

Fragments: 14

Em-Dashes: 14

Ellipses: 6

ToG

Pages: 51

Fragments: 110

Em-Dashes: 116

Ellipses: 48

#myth reads #myth reads the books of pellinor #myth reads the riddle #myth rags on throne of glass

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vampiricbyrne · 5 years

Text

(NATALIA DYER, ONE HUNDRED AND EIGHTY EIGHT, SHE/HER) We have been waiting for a while, but OONAGH BYRNE was finally spotted in the village today. People heard whispers that they are a VAMPIRE that is hellbent on [ staying away ] from the veils. Will they succeed? Only time can tell. Until then we will keep a close eye on them as they listen to HUNGER BY FLORENCE + THE MACHINE and search for AISLING QUINN, their EX-FAMILIAR. (Ali, she/they, 22, aest)

TW: death, abuse

Oonagh O’Broin was born in 1832 to a long line of witches. For generations, they’d practiced in the fair Emerald Isle of Ireland. But where in times past, they would openly practice, in more recent times they had become secretive and private.

Oonagh was the youngest of the six children, and she knew almost nothing of the world beyond their home and the woods. Anything they required from in town was fetched by her father, and then her eldest siblings. On rare occasions that she was allowed to accompany them, she wasn’t permitted to speak to any of the townsfolk.

From childhood, she’d always been different to her family. They practiced dark magic, and urged her to as well, but Oonagh was drawn elsewhere. Alone, in secret, she would practice light magic.

When she was caught, her father would punish her awfully, but Oonagh couldn’t help herself.

The famine that began in 1845 didn’t touch her family much–they had means to provide for themselves–but it did change their diet and Oonagh heard of whispers from the town of the devastation far and wide.

When she was thirteen, she began to feel something. A pull at her soul, like something was missing. She didn’t know what it was at first, until she met her.

Aisling Quinn, the girl who appeared in the middle of the night while Oonagh was practicing spells her father would never approve of. Whose hair shone white under the moon. Oonagh felt that bond between them that night, even if she didn’t know its significance.

She told Aisling to go home to her family as the dawn began to break, meeting her only in secret as they discovered what this bond was. Until Oonagh’s older brother Fionn uncovered the truth.

He told Oonagh’s father, who was both furious with his daughter and delighted to have a familiar in the family. As far as he was concerned, Oonagh’s familiar would act on behalf of the whole family. The poor girl tried to resist, tried to fight back, but she was under her family’s thumb.

The family moved, taking Aisling with them, forcing Oonagh to command the other to come. Oonagh was distraught, and didn’t blame Aisling for distrusting or hating her.

But slowly, the two bonded over their plight. Trapped together with the abusive family.

By the time Oonagh turned 18, she was already plotting an escape. Stealing away with Aisling, she magicked their way onto a boat to the New World, knowing that nowhere in her homeland would be safe for them. But America? That could be their fresh start.

Oonagh struggled at first to adjust to her new life. She became Oonagh Byrne, anglicising her name. She’d never known life outside of her family, and they’d kept her so isolated from society that she needed to lean on Aisling for guidance.

Oonagh tried to let Aisling live her own life, but sometimes the witch needed her familiar by her side.

She didn’t begrudge Aisling her love of Marcus. She was thrilled to see her familiar, her only true friend and sister, so happy for the first time since she’d known her. But Marcus seemed to despise her, jealous that Aisling would pick her when Oonagh asked.

Never did she dream what would happen from that jealousy.

Oonagh didn’t know about the argument between Aisling and Marcus. She’d felt through the telepathic link that Aisling was upset, but it calmed down again. So that night, when she was awoken in her bed by Marcus, she was unprepared and vulnerable.

If he’d only spoken to her, he’d know she would’ve done anything to make Aisling happier.

She fought back as much as she could, screaming for Aisling to help her, but ultimately, the vampire sunk his teeth into her neck. There was pain and then darkness. She went limp, with the taste of Marcus’s blood forced into her mouth.

When Oonagh awoke, she was alone and hungry. She felt alone, no longer able to feel Aisling in her mind for the first time since she was thirteen. Her magic was gone, no longer able to touch it at her fingertips. She was dead, but not. She felt dead.

The next few days blurred together, but she knows that she killed in her hunger. She didn’t mean to, and before being turned would never have dreamed of killing. She’d spent her whole life fighting any pull to dark magic from her family, and now she was a monster of the night all the same.

She found Marcus, confronting him about what he did to her. She searched for Aisling, but decided before she could find her that she didn’t want to risk hurting her familiar.

Decades passed, Oonagh wandered the continent and then the world, never feeling quite welcome anywhere she went. She returned to Ireland once, to see the place she was born and how it had changed, and found little trace of her family left there, nor of her own life.

She has spent the last century mostly staying out of the affairs of others, leaving behind the kind witch who would’ve given her life to help others. The witch who used to try to heal any injured animal no longer flinches at death. As far as she’s concerned, Oonagh O’Broin died that night in Brooklyn.

She was drawn to Wildemont and didn’t plan to stay long, but the barrier prevented her from leaving.

Beneath the coldness she presents, the kind girl she was still exists, hidden behind 150 years of pain and loneliness. She’s spent a century and a half trying to fill the hunger in her soul that her magic and familiar left behind.

If you’d like to discuss connections, Oonagh has 150 years of life to fill! I’d love to fill it with some prior connections!

#veil:intro

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padme4amidala · 6 years

Text

Feels like home

Description: After the events of the Reichenbach, Moriarty is still alive and is still playing with Sherlock’s mind yet he has someone else to entertain him.

Pairing: James Moriarty x Reader

Word count: 1,989

Warnings: Fluff, Angst

A/N: To be completely honest, I don’t really know what this is, except that it’s an one shot (if people like it I might do a part 2???). I wrote it because one of my friends keeps encouraging me to get out of my comfort zone with my creativity. It’s my first piece of creative writing I’ve done in a few years so feedback is more than appreciated. Hope you like it 💙

This side of London has always been more humid, at least in her opinion. It smelled like fish and water weeds. The air was suffocating due to the heatwave that had hit earlier that month. It felt like being trapped in a fishnet.

Luckily enough, the business building she spent most of her time in was at the exact opposite pole.

Stale rooms.

Chemical smell of detergents clinging to the air. A bit of "fresh computer" notes too.

Always cold and crisp.

In this particular office though, the aroma of a scented candle masks the artificial feeling of the whole scene. The March sun shines weakly but it's a welcomed change from the white neon.

As she stepped closer to his desk, her high heels echoed, making him a little more aware of her presence. He turned away from the window as she sit on one of the chairs and took in the view in front of him.

"You should really quit smoking, you know. It taints you"

She looked him in the eyes, daring him to continue, mostly to satisfy her own curiosity.

"It's like taking a bite of an apple. Then you discover the worm inside"

"But isn't the apples with worms the healthiest ones? Away from all the chemicals and genetic modifications? Raw and pure through their own tainted nature?" Her words were calm and steady. She was just pointing out the obvious, after all.

He chuckled and stepped closer, bent down to kiss her cheek and lingered for a moment.

Sweet Chanel perfume- his gift for Christmas.

Faint smell of menthols.He wouldn't admit, but he felt like home being so close to her.

"I missed you"

"I missed you too"

Ah, there it was. The strong espresso she adored.

He sit next to her, instead of choosing his chair on the other side of the desk. He wouldn't admit, but her presence was simply intoxicating.

"How was it?"

"Same old. Though, if you'd agree, at once, to come with me, I'd probably see it differently"

There was a short pause before she added:

"It rained a lot. Everyday, actually"

"Good. Then next time I'll come."

Ten years ago, when they'd first met, it was in Dublin.

It was downpouring.

She was wearing a navy tailored suit with a white shirt and high heels. Her butler was holding a black umbrella for her while she was taking a drag out of a cigarette. Her crimson lips stained the filter while she was observing the city life through the lenses of her Holly Golightly sunglasses.

"I like here"

Her butler nodded as she threw the butt of her cigarette.

Inside, she was welcomed by the aroma of a scented candle and a man behind a mahogany desk who raised from his chair the moment she entered the room. Alone, of course. Her butler was to wait until the business was done.

The man shook her hand and they quickly started talking about the reason she was there.

"I shall send my people to take care of this and if you are ever in need of my help again, Mr Moriarty, do not hesitate to pay me a visit at my headquarters in Paris."

The man nodded and smiled-a genuine smile that resonated in his eyes, to her surprise.

"It's James"

Her smile though, didn't reach her eyes. This was just another client and business was simply business.

She could sense his cologne as he walked her to the door, strong yet subtle, sweet and woodsy blending perfectly with the lavender aroma of the air.

"Goodbye Mr Moriarty"

"How’s the Royal contract?"

“ Full of sissies. There’s a lot of unsolved drama between the brothers” She said, taking a sip of her tea. “It’s going to take a while but I’m a patient person. How’s Sherlock? Still thinking you had left Easter eggs for him everywhere?

“And you mean I didn’t? C’mon Y/N don’t insult me.”

“I’m not actually, You just got too...attached to this project. If it wasn’t for Eurus…”

“Is that jealousy I sense Y/L/N ?”

“Hardly”

She finished her tea in silence before quietly mentioning that she would leave for Denmark in two days.

“Anything I should know about? ”

“No”, she answered softly, not meeting his gaze.

The candle in this room had a flowery scent, not unusual, though. It was March.

"Let's go home, then "

The drive to their apartment was short. The two-levels flat was a few minutes away from their main building, in case something was to happen and they were needed there. It was simple yet delicately decorated, they both had chosen the furniture on their way to London after a weekend in Paris, four year ago. She had decided to move most of her work to England and had to get some last things from her French office.

They had dinner, and then cuddled in their bedroom while watching some old movie. She fell asleep after a short time, the smell of soap and cologne from James' warm form lulling her to the land of dreams.

He looked at her adoringly while playing with her hair. He saw himself King and now he has found his castle, and his castle was anywhere she was. She warmed the thick stone walls and turned them into a home whenever he was around.

This was home.

Three loud knocks on the door disturbed their peace, though.

"Kill whoever disturbs us before I do, James" she said, voice full with sleep.

He grabbed his robe, climbed down the stairs and opened the door.

One man he hadn't seen in a really long time was before him and it was no one else but Mycroft Holmes.

"And to what do I owe the pleasure, Mr Holmes? Please come in. Shall I put the kettle on?"

"My visit is short and precise, Moriarty."

"Yes of course. Ice man has a lot of important things to do. Why here and now?"

" There is someone with a soft spot for your .....partner, to say so"

"Who wouldn't? Have you seen her?"

"This someone is the CIA, Moriarty"

"With the right people, they'll forget her. A few willing participants and I was found not guilty after stealing the crown jewels in plain daylight"

"I wouldn't have come if I didn't consider it a serious matter"

There was a long pause and conflict was written over Moriarty's face. Why should he believe Mycroft? Then again, why would Mycroft lie?

"They already have the arrest warrant"

"On what grounds?"

"All of them. From tax evasion to first degree murder"

"We have countless ways of solving this"

"There is rumour that, whoever is after our dear Y/N, wants her out of the game. She is eligible for death sentence. "

"When?"

"Two days from now"

In the morning, their chef made breakfast- black coffee, croissants and oatmeal porridge for the lady and a full Irish breakfast for the man.

“Are you playing with Sherlock today?”

“No. Why? You act like he’s my mistress”

A heartfelt giggle came from her at his words.

“It’s not that, I was just wondering if we could enjoy some…. What do they call it...domesticity? Yes. Domesticity. Too much has happened lately, I need a breath of fresh air before I start again.

”“ Don’t tell me you’ve gotten soft, Y/N”

“ Years of criminality, and suddenly you’re “soft” for wanting to spend some time with your significant other. Unbelievable

”He chuckled then kissed her hand.It was 6 am and yet here she was, in front of him, like a porcelain doll.

“Look who’s soft now”

She played the piano that day.

Started with Bach, to lighten the mood.

“This is for you, my darling. I promise, it’s better than Sherlock’s boring violin. Piano’s more personal”

“You really have to get over your obsession with him, sweetheart.”

“Only after you do.” she said with a grin.

Partita no 1, then Beethoven’s Moonlight Sonata and her favourite- Vivaldi’s Seasons.

He abruptly interrupted her when he put ABBA on their speakers.

“Really?” she asked cocking her eyebrow.“I can’t have you playing when I want to dance with you”

They started waltzing around the room and he was keeping her close, so very close, as if he was scared someone would barge in and steal her from him.

“JAMES MORIARTY, CRIMINAL MASTERMIND, AN ACTUAL ROMANTIC. Wait till the newspapers hear it”

“Nah, they wouldn’t believe it”

He didn’t dare kissing her. No. He just held her in his arms, in the middle of the living room, admiring her, his most precious prize. She could actually keep him entertained, and proof was their decade of mischief.

He took in her scent- he was sure he would have to cling only to that for a while. He knew. This contract of hers would keep her away for some time. He was in a similar position at that moment, the difference was that he had to stay away from the youngest Holmes and his friends not from her.

Sweet Chanel perfume.

Faint smell of menthols.

This was his.

The next morning he woke her up at the crack of the dawn.

“Pack a bag. NOW. You're going to Tibet. or Brazil. You choose. Where's Edwin? I already have a boat ready. He's coming with you.”

“James. Calm down, you're giving me a headache. Why do I suddenly need my butler when I’m in my own apartment? What time is it?”

“Mycroft told me. You have to leave NOW”

She sat up in the bed.

“I was wondering how long it’d take you to find out. Calm down, now. Sit with me. Let’s have tea”

By now Moriarty was furiously packing. When he heard her words, he had the eyes of a mad man, not that he wasn’t, but this time, all the elegance was gone. He was like the sea on a stormy day, unsettled and terrifying but she kept going.

“All they have is receipts with fake names. Personas with strong backgrounds.”

“THEY HAVE A WARRANT, DUMMY”

“And since when are we afraid of that? Since when are YOU?”

“We are in no control over this. We CAN manage it but-”

“But, what? What name is on that piece of paper, exactly? Samantha Albridge, the one who owns the building uptown? or Marcie Page, the french redhead with the shop in Paris? Natasha Kristoff, who killed the Ukranian diplomat in Krakow? Which one?”

“Mycroft said they're after you.”

“Mycroft IS JUST A PAWN.”

“Not to the CIA”

She scoffed at his words.

“We are a few steps behind. We need time to catch up.”

“ I am in full control over this, just like you were over Saint Bartholomew.”

She winked at him and went into the bathroom.

They spent the rest of the day in silence. They had lunch, then she packed and ran some last errands.

He met Mycroft. Royal security and his own snipers should be a good backup plan.

At midnight they left together towards the private plane in separate cars.

“We can’t risk people to see us together, you’re still dead. It’d blow up years of this plan” she said to him before kissing his cheek and getting into her car.

The total drive was 17 minutes.

He was 5 late due to his chauffeur avoiding a drunk driver.

When he got off, he saw her getting on the plane.

2 minutes later it blew up.

He felt like he falling yet his destination wasn’t permanent as he no longer had one.

He got so entranced with this woman during their time together, he felt angry and highly annoyed at her stunt, gasoline and the smell of fire filling his senses.

There was a fire in front of him yet the one inside was stronger.

“My dear, you better thought this through.”

He got into the car and called off the backup men.

It rained heavily that night.

#james moriarty #jim moriarty #moriarty x reader #bbc sherlock #sherlock #mycroft holmes

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idolizerp · 6 years

Photo

LOADING INFORMATION ON NIGHTMARE’S VOCAL, DANCE ZHAO DAXIA...

IDOL DETAILS

STAGENAME: Xia CURRENT AGE: 19 DEBUT AGE:17 TRAINEE SINCE AGE: 16 COMPANY: Koala.T SECONDARY SKILL: N/A

IDOL PROFILE

NICKNAME(S): nightmare’s babydoll, xixi INSPIRATION: daxia was largely inspired to be an idol by her favorite groups, who she’d began to love after seeing online videos. after winning a small talent contest at her school, she said that it showed her what fame and being loved by fans felt like and that she’d give anything to feel that for the rest of her life. from there on, she began grinding to work towards becoming the sweet and talented idol she is today. SPECIAL TALENTS:

martial arts - she started learning at the six and continued classes off-and-on until receiving her black belt at the age of thirteen.

choreography - after being a dedicated for so long, she’s practiced many years so master several of her favorite group’s choreographies from the last three generations, going as far as to try to mimic their mannerisms.

impressions - often teasing, but she has a special skill for impersonating both her members and other idols she’s fond of.

NOTABLE FACTS:

she was first found after starring on the show “superstar k”, where she placed 4th.

she once went on a trip to new york city and took a picture with rihanna.

daxia’s a huge fan of western music from the 90’s, and once a week she posts song recommendations for fans to follow and add to their playlist, along with an extended explanation and preferred method of listening.

she is known for her significant weight loss during her time as a trainee to debut, losing around 22 kg in a month. she refuses to say how, for fear others will try it as well.

IDOL GOALS

SHORT-TERM GOALS:

daxia does not hope that nightmare will change their concept, but instead that it will be better received by the public as they keep promoting, she also hopes that as they get more experienced, she will be more natural at fitting in with the dark concept. she wants to also better connect with international fans more, and hopes to be able to travel to china on tour and connect with fans in her native tongue.

LONG-TERM GOALS:

despite the cultural difference, daxia hopes to become a beloved figure of the korean entertainment. while highly ambitious, she hopes that she’ll have a lengthy and successful career and eventually be able to venture into other types such as acting and more variety. she wants to be a long term public figure known for her personality, and eventually be able to earn enough to move her parents to korea.

IDOL IMAGE

[did you see that new girl they added, daxia? she doesn’t look like the nightmare type at all.]

cute face, devilish grin. daxia’s introduction to nightmare was certainly a shocking one, such childlike features accompanying such an eerie concept. and yet, in a way, it works. the deceitfulness in her smiles is just the soft energy they need. sure, nightmare doesn’t ever catch a break because of their concept, but in a way it’s xia who helps bring the cuteness back that they’re missing.

[i heard she’s the least talented out of the bunch, though. is she just a pretty face?]

upon her debut, she receives almost instant criticism. she’s lacking skills. she shouldn’t have debuted so soon. she barely can speak korean. all in all, everyone seems to view her as a trainee who still needs lots of work. what could she do? it’s not like she doesn’t agree, but daxia had been dying to make it big and nightmare seemed like her only chance. she tries her hardest to work hard, but they don’t seem to get past her swift debut and lackluster skills. the only thing that’s saving her is her charisma, even the anti-fans can’t deny she has an incredible stage presence and personality onscreen.

[yeah, i think so. but she’s a little cute….right?]

so koala.t uses a new method, using her downfalls as their strength. within a month of debut, they stray her away from the dark character it seemed everyone else was playing. instead, they have her play dumb. since they can’t seem to do much with her, they work with her flaws and make them “cute” to the audience. her korean, which is lacking but nevertheless improving, is told to be intentionally worse to play the clueless foreigner card. her voice cracks are made to be a cute mishap, and her lack of coordination can be attributed to her adorable clumsiness. koala.t feels that all her critiques have been swiftly cleaned up, but xia can’t say she feels the same. unable to be completely herself, to be made to be some quirky, relatable little kid for the public’s sake.

[i guess so. she’s sweet, at least. i think she likes what she does.]

but it’s not all bad, in xia’s book. being among the youngest of the bunch means she’s frequently doted on, and gets the privilege of teasing her members without seeming to mean. she’s known as “nightmare’s babydoll”, the sort of sunlight in such a dark concept. her fanservice and frequent streams make her a favorite among those who prefer personality to skill, something she can’t decide on whether she likes or not. whatever her beliefs, her marketing as the cute side, the “dawn”, of a hellish nightmare, has been one that’s put xia out of the darkness.

IDOL HISTORY

begin. from the very first few seconds she left the womb, daxia knew she was special. born a daughter, the only child to parents who for so long had tried to conceive a child. while she wasn’t hardly wealthy enough to be deemed spoiled, daxia always felt confident that there was a place for her in the world. her first steps, first words, first meal, all of it was caught on camera alongside the cheers of proud parents. they cherished her. cherished her so much that they never let her out of their sight. how could they, anyways, when all the bad in the world was so willing to swallow up girls like her? daxia was known to be terribly susceptible to colds, had an extensive list of allergies, and all the likes. even her asthma, which she felt was a minor setback, would result in panic anytime it decided to cause her some trouble. she was a small, cute thing, their bao, or treasure.

both in their mid 30s, they raised her in a disciplined yet loving household. to satisfy their fears, the girl was homeschooled all throughout her schooling years, drilled with lessons in math, english, and more. her friends all lay within her stuffed animals, and when she got older shifted to living souls behind her computer screen. with the bulk of social interaction coming from her parents and penpals, xia soon got bored and resorted to a different form of entertainment. something fresh. something….exciting. kpop. her parents, being extremely traditional, accepted nothing but the chinese ballads they filled the house with. so, in secret, she plugged her headphones in and began to fall a little deeper for the celebrities who seemed so far away. her hobby soon became addiction, and within a few months she could tell anyone who listened an alphabetical list of over a hundred boy and girl groups. you see, it took her away. away from her parents, from wuxi, from china. for once, she felt like she wasn’t trapped within her house but instead apart of something much more. korea, in general, soon gained her interest, and she slowly shifted from interest solely in idols to learning the language and culture. by the time she turned 17, she’d begun learning simple phrases and had her eyes set on the country.

if she was being completely and utterly honest with herself, daxia knew she had no place at home. she had no work skills, no real talents, only a passion and a kind soul. it was only when she stumbled upon an advertisement for a talent competition based in korea that she began taking the idea of a future seriously. a future with her passion, in which she may even be able to share the stage with her idols. daxia, being the ambitious teenager she was, worked her hardest to land a spot. staying up late at dance studios, visiting vocal coaches. her savings account, which had largely been holding funds from her job, was emptied to get her plane ticket there.

those dreams soon came crashing down, when her reign of superstar k quickly ended as she left the show with 4th place. the people had loved her bright spirit and small-town girl feel, but it hadn’t been enough to win a talent-based competition. with low spirits and even lower funds, she’d just begun her travels back home when the company she knew well, koala.t, contacted her in hopes of bringing her into the agency. it was clear she had a lot to improve, but her bright spirit and work ethic gave them a sort of momentum.. sooner than she ever thought possible with the talents she had, she was put into nightmare’s lineup. how was it possible? even daxia knew, with the optimistic lenses she saw the world with, that there was less celebrating than she’d hoped. other trainees had worked far longer, far harder, and had the talent to back it up. what was daxia doing, standing next to such talented girls? the thought haunted her, and the constant criticisms of her surprise debut didn’t make it any easier.

just like that, all daxia’s ideas of what reality was were all ripped from her eyes. she was thrown into the trainee scene faster than she could imagine, as her family watched on with shock. in a country she could barely understand, working to be just like the people she’d always felt were in another universe. the transition was anything but easy, filled with tear-filled nights of frustration and the same, sad homesick feeling whenever she thought of her family back home. she was 16, her parent’s bao, who had always been raised a baby. now, here she was, with the culture shock of her life and struck with the reality of independence and the entertainment industry.

nightmare’s concept hit her like a pound of bricks, as she had to learn concepts such as alluring and sexy. never had she been associated with these words before, but she tried her best to catch up with the rest of her members. the cute, soft daxia was certainly still there. but with such high stakes, she was willing to do whatever it took. she was already let go once, and she’d be damned if she let her only opportunity to be a somebody go through her hands like that again. her hard work seemed to be working against her, though, for every time

everyone swears her charm is in her uniqueness, but daxia wishes everything in her it isn’t true. because it’s all her differences that make her faults, and no matter how out there nightmare might be in concept she hopes they don’t say the same about her, the individual. so she smiles like everyone, tries to speak like everyone, and doesn’t dare complain.

because she’s different, she knows, but will do anything to hide from the spotlight and blend into the background.

#id.bio #id.koalat #id.nightmare #id.song yuqi #id.honeypot

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ilovehighhats · 6 years

Text

Missteps, ch. 02

Next instalment is here! Again, many thanks to @ihaveauseforyou

AO3 version here.

And you can find the first chapter here.

oOo

PART TWO:

COMMON PITFALL OF CONCEIT

oOo

For all the complaining I did, for all my snide remarks on the dangers of trekking through the desert under cover of the night, it is I who got his ass in a hole.

Right in the middle of a bright bloody day.

In my defence - the crevice was well concealed. One moment I stepped through loose rocks trying to find a path wide enough for the Reaver, and the next I was falling down an almost vertical wall of sandstone.

So, I’m in a ditch. Literally fucking trapped like a stupid animal.

For all the thoughts I wasted on the woman I never once suspected that I'd be the idiot who steps straight into a chasm. Like a sleepwalking baby.

I don't know, what was I thinking?!

My left arm is incapacitated - at best dislocated, at worst... No, I’m not even thinking about it. It’s only disjointed. Nothing I can’t fix. Pity that the bike is hanging right over my head. When I fell I didn’t want to let it go, so that got my shoulder sprained and the machine locked just above me. One water tank broke too.

The most idiotic thing is, I can’t even wiggle sideways. I’m like those deer, which got into a hole in the mountains - nowhere to move, only sing lower and lower into the chasm, until all that is left is a beautifully arranged cage of bleached bones.

Just my fucking luck. I could have died a thousand times over. I could have made it count. For someone. For something more significant than my sick, absent, filthy mind.

But no, I just had to make myself die the stupidest fucking way possible.

A misstep.

oOo

How long am I here?

I keep drifting in and out of consciousness. Funny thing, that. For once I can’t seem to find Sprog. Did I leave the kid with Jesse in the shop? Or are we at Aunt May’s?

No, I'm dizzy. I was just at the Citadel. Both Sprog and my wife are dead. All of my family is gone. Everything is destroyed.

I’m so alone…

Is it night already?

“Hey!”

I look up. There's the sky, midnight blue with a twinkling scar of Milky Way. The moon got so thin it barely gives any light, but I can see a dark blob hanging just ahead. Right, the bike.

“Hey, you fucker, are you dead?”

I don’t know that voice. Better stay quiet.

It’s so cold though. I can feel my teeth chatter, a distinct staccato of enamel hitting enamel fast like maracas in a tropical bar.

The voice gets muffled, and it sounds like I’ll be left in peace. Good. I just want to sleep. Maybe then I’ll get warm again. Maybe after I wake my head won’t be hurting as if it split in two…

That’ll be the day. A bright light hits my eyes, and I groan, too hurt to care; I just betrayed my position and condition to whoever is torturing me.

“Oh good, so you are alive after all. Wait there.”

There’s amusement in the voice. Stupid cunt.

Then I realise. It’s the woman I rescued. She trailed behind me, then I thought she changed course, but she must have just beelined to my trail. And she found me without falling into a ditch like a moron herself. Even though she was the one riding the bike by night.

How fucking unfair is that?

But of course, nothing at all is fair in the wasteland. Not one goddamn thing.

oOo

I must have drifted away, because when I come to again - right fucking now - the only thing I feel is piercing, searing pain.

“Don’t yell, you moron!” She hisses above me. Closer, than she should be. “Help me get that rope around you.”

There is a thick coil of strings under my right armpit. I look up to see the sky and a slender silhouette of the woman.

Where’s the Reaver?

“What?”

Did I say that out loud?

“Barely. You sound like a mumbling, raving lunatic.”

That’s because I am.

She chuckles, but it dies down soon in a grunt of exertion. I can’t feel anything.

When was the last time I heard a woman chuckle because of me?

“Don’t be a drongo mate, help me here.”

I try, but the darkness spills under my eyelids before I can do anything more than let out a grunt.

oOo

Another stab of pain, and then a relief so intense I can feel my mouth water, the salivary glands working so fast it’s unpleasant. Before I have a chance to finish a groan at the sharp ache, I can feel tepid liquid at my lips.

Water!

I gulp it down and try to gather my bearings. I’m sitting up, propped on something semi-comfortable. The crevice I fell into is close, on my right. There’s a bike standing neatly beside the Reaver. My ride has landed in a heap but is seemingly intact.

Where’s the woman?

I have my answer when a slender hand grabs the canteen from my palm. She’s the thing I’m resting on.

What in the actual fuck?!

Reflexively, I try to hit her with my elbow, but she deflects easily and bounces my limbs off as if I was a weak kitten. Flailing, I scramble away in a panic, patting my legs for a weapon. None. My left arm is less than useless. Good to know.

“I wouldn't get you out just to drown you, so don’t get your panties in a knot, handsome.”

She has them. My knives, my guns, everything.

She notices my eyes darting to the weapons, and her head sways slightly in a disappointed way.

“Nor would I like to be rewarded with a blade through my gut.”

The canteen drops at my feet.

“Drink. You need to rehydrate. I reset your shoulder, but you should spare it for a while.”

I nod and frown at her even as I take another blessed swig of the water. A sparse movement of my head towards the hole is all the thanks she’ll get, and I don’t care if she gets the meaning behind it.

She does.

“We’re even.”

I grunt in agreement. It seems that we are.

“It also seems we’re heading the same way.”

I try to shake the confusion away. My brain is fogged with exhaustion, and for once I can't mobilise enough to feel threatened. I need time to think.

“Dawn is near. I’ll set camp. Rest.”

There's no way I’ll sleep with someone this close.

No way in hell.

oOo

Under the scorching sun, I wake up.

It seems like I’m dreaming still. It’s so unfamiliar; two bikes are standing on each side of me, a canopy of softly rustling fabric over my head, stretched on the handles of the bikes. A canteen of water by my hand.

The only familiar detail is the barrel of a gun aimed at my face. This I know, intimately. The hand holding it is darkened with an extensive tattoo, for a while I thought it was a glove, and it doesn't tremble.

I smile and grunt, and get up, slowly and carefully, mindful of the hole beyond the safety of the makeshift camp. My back hurts, and the awareness of a stranger with a weapon trained on my head is tensing the muscles further. But I need a leak.

She follows my movement with her outstretched arm but otherwise does nothing.

I piss straight into the ravine. Take that, death. Not today.

“I didn't get your supplies from down there.”

Shit.

“Please, don’t.”

How in the hell can she be amused?

How in the hell can I smirk at her lame joke?

I turn back and crawl under the canopy. It’s the first time I see her up close in actual sunlight.

There’s not much to look at - a haphazard collection of rags, just like my shabby clothing, long and dusty hair in two thick, braided ropes trailing from under a dark hood. Her face is barely visible behind dark goggles, and a scarf draped all around her head. Evidently, she knows her way around the desert, even though her complexion is proof of how seldom she must have ever been here for extended periods of time.

I remember seeing her naked that first night. Her skin was abnormally white then, but now whatever was exposed to sun turned into an ugly shade of red. Nothing in her clothes hints at what is hidden underneath, and I imagine it's intentional.

Despite what she came through she boldly returns my appraising stare.

My eyes drop to her hands. Only one palm is adorned with a tattoo, but it's an actual work of art. Nothing like the abomination carved into my back. Hers is flat and subtle, rusty brown lines flowing delicately around themselves to form the shape of a drop. Like an intricately woven drop of blood.

Her taxing gaze is getting on my nerves. If my hand wasn’t lame, I could easily overpower her. Especially in this close quarters.

I close my eyes and calculate my odds.

My legs are still working. She’s not too strong. Fast, perhaps, at this moment surely much more agile than me. But I have the advantage in weight. And obviously - experience. How old is she? A decade younger?

An unfamiliar sound has me snapping my eyes open in an instant. I cautiously trail her hand as she reaches behind her back.

Food.

She rests the armed hand on one knee, and casually stretches the other foot towards me.

“I have a proposition for you.”

Of course. Nothing is free in this land, nothing is without a price. I listen, with a knowing smile, acknowledging her with a grunt.

“I need a bodyguard to get back home. You could use some help as well. Let’s move together for a week or two.”

I snort a short laugh. What an idiot!

“No.”

She smirks and chews on my fucking grilled grub.

“Suit yourself, fool.”

That nickname.

Curiosity gets the best of me. I always was reckless, the passing years didn't change this trait.

“Where to?” I speak automatically.

“That’s a funny question,” she says like it was the least amusing sentence in the world, drawing the words out. “Do you know Rainbow Valley?”

I do. It’s more than a fortnight away. Especially on foot.

“Not enough fuel.”

“We could scavenge.”

Already - we. Who's the fool now? There are no guarantees out here, nothing to rely on but the things at hand. And right now we have one tank of gas between the two of us. At best.

I shake my head.

“I make my own way.” It’s all I have to say on the matter.

“Fine,” she says.

Oh, this one I remember. I roll my eyes because it's the only way of expressing the exasperation every man feels at this word.

It's never fine. It never was fine. Nothing in this wasteland can ever be fine again.

“I'll leave you when the sun comes down, then. You'll find your weapons half a day that way.” She points her hand casually to the east.

oOo

Overpowering her was too easy.

As soon as she nodded off, I slid closer. She didn't move, didn't notice. Where was she living, that on the one hand she could hold her own out in the desert, but in the other - didn't have the necessary survival instincts? How could she not wake, when I was taking the gun from her loosened fingers?

But she did open her eyes alright when she felt the barrel by her temple.

Although, I could only glimpse a shadow of a movement behind the tinted glass of the goggles.

One movement of my head was enough to signal her to take them off. I frowned and settled firmly over her hips, sneaking right knee to the inside of her left elbow, pressing her steadily to the ground.

She slid the cover down, and when her eyes bore into mine, I lost my drift.

Green.

How?

The deep and lush green of moss growing in perpetual shade and moisture. The most unusual colour on the planet. I never knew how much I missed it, until now.

She’s crafty. That moment of hesitation was enough to butt me in the head and press that hand with the goggles straight into the junction of my bad shoulder. Fuck, does it hurt! I’m bloody pissed and act on instinct, tightening my legs around her rising body. It puts us both off balance, and we thud on the rocky ground, dangerously close to the ravine.

She whines but never stops her blows right to my injury. Something is missing in her attack. There's no edge to it.

I manage to press her back down flat on the ground and restrain her movements with my right forearm on her throat. Where's that fucking gun?

During our scuffle, her scarf slid down and finally, I can look at her. Her pupils are blown wide even despite the sun, the treacherous emerald of her iris mostly hidden. There's a tint of pink on her cheeks - so unbelievably pale! - and her mouth is wide open, gulping last panicking breaths.

"You really do need protection." I'm surprised at my own words, and it probably shows. With luck, she'd take that as a reaction to our little exercise. "That was pathetic."

Her eyebrows knit together and I can see she saw through my bluff. At least in part. She licks her lips, and my eyes involuntarily travel down with the movement. I catch a glimpse of teeth, as she bits down on her bottom lip, considering.

“How are you going to get your stuff from down there?”

Fuck. She could at least try not to be this smug. I do know that with a useless arm I’m nowhere near able to climb down for the supplies and then back up with the additional weight.

Shit.

I need her as much as she needs me.

She grins, once she can see capitulation written clearly all over my face.

“Let’s grab a shuteye and sort it out in an hour or two.”

Right. The sun is still scorching – no way we can reasonably do anything in this heat. Too wasteful, especially since nothing is rushing either me or her.

"You can tag along for a while," I say before she has a chance to speak.

Neither of us really sleeps, but we rest under swooshing wind. Tarp over my head dances on the breeze. Everything else is perfectly still, bracing under the sun for the respite of the evening.

For the first time in a long while, I have a set destination to drive to.

oOo

I thought I'm resilient and patient. Apparently, I'm not.

She takes all firearms with her when she climbs down the ravine for my things, and I can feel apprehension in tensing muscles on my back. As I feed the line down the hole, helping her descend gradually and safely, I have this overwhelming urge just to let her fall. I could just take her supplies and maybe go down to get three or four essential things.

These are just thoughts. I'm never going to actually do that.

At least that's what I let myself believe.

She makes a fast job of getting everything back to the surface, without complaints and comments. Before sunset, we have everything strapped down securely to the bikes. Ready to go.

Without any external threat its difficult to let her move with me.

I let her guide my way. It's to the best of my advantage - she’s lighter than me, so smaller risk of falling down a hole. And there's something uncanny in the way she moves in the dark, just like a bat, sure of everything in her path. The deciding factor though, is that I can't have her behind my back. She’s just fine letting me watch her, pretending she doesn't feel my gaze at the back of her neck.

Maybe she really doesn't. I could be projecting.

I catch myself thinking that I haven't seen Sprog in a while.

oOo

There is a rhythm in any journey.

Once the goal is set, you can measure leaps you do every day, weigh them against each other.

Every morning, way before sunrise, we break camp. She deals with fire, while I carefully distribute water and food. I don't sleep well with her by the other side of the bonfire, so every effort she makes to lure me into a conversation is snuffed out with my irritated grunting.

As a matter of fact, I don't talk neither with her nor with my ghosts.

Byt the end of the first week, we've entered a sandy patch of desert again. The dunes wind up and down, and we're using the fuel we've been conserving, to get through them. Midday sees us sitting under the tarp, resting. Then, it's trekking through the wasteland again, up until we find a suitable place for the camp, or are too tired to go on.

She is a good walker. Both bikes have small tanks, and a little bit against myself I'm impressed with her stamina and tenacity. Her bike is light, and she takes every shred of advantage she can, using that to conserve as many resources as she can. She rides only if the terrain is too difficult to get through on foot, even if it means scaling the desert by the moonlight.

oOo

There's a truck, right bang in the middle of an erg.

"It's a trap," I notice mildly.

The woman scoffs and dusts her goggles off with an errant end of her scarf.

"Maybe it is," she says, "but if it's not there could be supplies."

There also could be traps, I think. Greed kills just as quickly and as often as stupidity. The two are inseparably linked.

"Check it out then. I'll look after your bike."

She sends me a pointed look and shakes her head.

We slide down one dune, then drive up another, and find a similar picture. This time it's a bus.

"Now that's definitely a trap." I shake my finger at the raddled vehicle and look around saying that, looking for any signs of hostiles. But the sand is untouched, moving only with the wind. Not a soul in sight.

"Maybe it is," she repeats. "Your offer still stands?"

I frown and feel the wrinkles on my forehead crack a thin layer of caked on the sand.

Why not let her kill herself? Less trouble for myself.

I grunt an acknowledgement.

"Anything we find, I take seventy per cent."

"Okay."

That's not important. I'll take only as much, as I need anyway. Which will probably be all her supplies, as she heads straight down to the bus.

Lucky for me, she took only one gun.

Then, there's a flash. Yelling Sprog, creamy fabric flowing on air, dust, dust, so much dust. A crash and the sickening echo of bones crushed under thick tires.

Angharad is smiling just before she slips.

And then there's Sprog again, asking so sweetly, so innocently...

'Max, is that you? Where were you?'

It's gone.

I blink rapidly and lower the hand I raised to shield my eyes from the vision. It never worked before, so now is no different. I shake my head to clear it a fraction. That never works either.

The woman is still descending the dune. Carefully, but steadily. She doesn't know what lies there, doesn't know if there are monsters beneath the sand. And still, she goes.

“Hey!” I yell after her. “I'll come with.”

She turns back. Her face is hidden behind cloth and glass, but I imagine she's frowning in confusion.

All this time and she never asked my name. I never offered it, and in return never inquired after hers.

She's still measuring my sudden change of heart.

This is the moment where one can just say a name and convey everything that's important in that one word. What am I supposed to say now?

Then she starts back, resolutely saying nothing as she reaches her bike.

I grunt and nod, she nods back. That's all it takes.

Were scaling the erg side by side.

oOo

She cleans her bike when I get back from a recon walk around the camp. The opportunity is rare, so I postpone entering into the scattered light of the bonfire to have another look at her.

Something is not right. She is both wise and foolish. The knowledge of how to remove sand from the machine may not be obscure, but she religiously tends to every single part of it each and every night. Knowing it's vital is one thing, but caring for her it like she does reveal a lot about her experience.

But then, she goes into what very well could be a trap, with her head high, one guna a hooray to keep her spirits up.

Something moves just beyond my peripheral and I act on instinct, sending my knife straight into the intruders' flesh. A goanna. I pick it up by the tail and return to the camp.

The noise reached the woman of course, and she slid into the shadows beyond the fires reach. Smart again. She moves back in, still aiming the gun she grabbed right at me - the source of the noise. I dangle the lizard before me, like a mock peace offering, or a white flag.

There's our dinner.

I clean the carcass and throw it onto coals. It will take a while to cook, so I use the time to tend to the Reaver.

The woman goes back to the maintenance of her own bike, wordlessly. When she's done, she fusses by her sacks, working with her back turned.

I listen to the mysterious rustles and scraping, then tearing, all accompanied by soft humming. She exhales sharply before turning towards me and scaling the few steps across the camp.

"Here," she says handing me something wrapped in a piece of dark cloth. "For sticking out your neck for me."

The jab is playful, and I smile a little. It was fortunate that the bus wasn't really a bait.

"Let's check out the truck in the morning, okay?"

I grunt in agreement, peeking curiously at the object she gave me. It's a white, waxy block of... Paraffin? I smell it.

It's fragrant. Sweet, flowery, decadent. Soap.

For many, it's worth more than my life.

My head snaps up in surprise, and I manage to catch a polite yet indifferent smirk from her before she tends again to her kit. Her white hands are a stark contrast to the worn, dark leather of the sacks.

"What's it for?" I ask. "The tattoo."

The reply is automatic, I'm sure because it comes in an instant. "It signifies my rank in the clan."

She seems to regret saying it the moment the words leave her tongue.

"Is it high?" I push.

"Nah, not really."

I can tell she's lying. Not because of her words, or their delivery. But no one regular treats a luxury like soap as a souvenir of an eventful trip. The bar is apparently cut in half, so she probably left herself the remaining piece. Not enough to bargain for anything significant. But just the right amount to use.

Sadly, that won't be possible. The water is just too valuable to use on frivolous things like cleaning up.

#fandom: mad max #mad max #Fanwork: Fanfiction #fanfiction #ilovehighhats #ihaveauseforyou #max rockatansky #tom hardy

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artisticvicu · 4 years

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Altruistic Endeavors | Inktober 2020 - Day 23: Rip

He looked to Cass. “So why send me along?”

Cass glanced at the other two men, visibly confused. “Are you sure he doesn’t have memory loss?” She looked at him again before they could answer. “Do you not remember what you did?”

Was this a trick question? “What do you mean?”

“You took out the majority of the Ilnu in a show of crafting that I have never seen and that hasn’t been seen in generations.”

His gaze snapped to Elias and gained a sharp pulse of pain for his endeavor. The man’s expression tightened. “She’s not lying. I only know two other people that can levitate their creations but neither of them can handle more than three let alone throw them without actually touching them with such pinpoint accuracy.”

It was like trying to recall a half remembered dream. He remembered the spear he had summoned and he could recall what he knew now were the cores of all the Ilnu being pierced by the things he had crafted but anything around that wouldn’t stick. There was the faint echo of worry - of not having made the right amount - but he couldn’t remember how to replicate whatever it was that he had done. He looked back to Cass, stating as much. “I don’t know how I did that, Ma’am, much less replicating the action.”

She shook her head. “Even if it was a one off thing, you’ll be of more use with them than with me.”

He looked down at Dlmor finding that he had been running his fingers through the long fur at the back of its neck without realizing it. “Is that why Dlmor’s out for the count?”

Elias let out a sigh that was almost a growl. “After the number of cores they consumed? Not a chance. Why and how they are unconscious is still to be determined.”

He frowned, turning his gaze back to Elias. “So there could be something seriously wrong with it?”

Cass placed a hand on his shoulder, gaining his attention. “There’s probably nothing wrong. They’re probably just tired.”

“Come on, Cass,” Tolnoran cut in, expression pained. “Don’t lie to him like that.”

“How am I lying?” Cass challenged, flabbergasted. He let his gaze drift from the older adults down to Dlmor, running his hand over the creature’s head, rubbing at an ear. “The Dlmor really could just be exhausted. I don’t know any creature that can sustain that kind of creation without passing out, core consumption aside.”

“But the core consumption would have kept them awake regardless,” Elias replied, words sharp.

That was the last of the conversation he registered. Exhaustion pulled at his every being in a way he was not familiar with. There was a weight there that pressed on his shoulders and on his chest that seemed unrelenting. He curled forward, wrapping his arms around Dlmor.

It dawned on him a minute or so later that it was from Transference. The exhaustion, the unrelenting weight, all of it was from Dlmor. Or, well, the worst of it was. A strange determination that was all his own filled him as he sat up enough to run his hands down Dlmor’s body from snout to tail tip. He didn’t gain a physical response but the Transference stopped. The weight of it all didn’t really leave and he still felt rather exhausted, but it didn’t feel like he needed to sleep for three days straight anymore.

“So why are we in the middle of a battlefield waiting for a healer instead of moving to some room?” Whatever argument they had settled into stopped abruptly at his words. He brought his gaze up, looking at each of them in turn. “Weren’t there more Ilnu anyways?”

Elias came out of his stupore first. “What remained of the Ilnu have fled further into the compound making what had been a clear cut fight into some twisted game of hide-and-seek.” The man’s gaze fell away. “Moving you, on the other hand...”

For a moment, he expected it to just be left at that but Tolnoran took over. “It wasn’t an option. You hit the ground screaming. None of the creatures would let anyone close.”

Confusion shot through him. “What? Why?”

“We’re not sure.” Elias met his gaze again gesturing to what he now realized was Trevak’s body. “I couldn’t even get Trevak to unwind from around you. We had to climb over it to even get in here.”

He looked up, noticing that there was a wing stretched over their heads.

“Ylse bolted from me as soon as the scream made it to us,” Tolnoran offered, voice low and heavy with confusion. “I’ve never had them ignore an order to return like that before.”

“Chief can’t even get in here,” Cass added. She shrugged when he looked at her. “Elias’s Tor is a stubborn one but whatever’s got the creatures all guarding you’s got Chief ignoring my directions to even try and get over the Tor.”

He frowned, looking down at Dlmor; conversation started back up over his head almost immediately with Elias making some comment. Dlmor was watching him, eyes half lidded and still limp in his lap. He ran his hand over Dlmor’s head, curious if Dlmor knew what had happened.

The wariness and the push back of telling him washed over him but the exhaustion and pain that came with it was suffocating. He gained a much gentler brush of an apology and a reiterated wariness.

But he wanted to know. If it was something serious, they needed to know. Or, at minimum, it was something he had to be aware of.

He watched Dlmor’s side rise with the heavy sigh as the creature - surprisingly - gave in.

For a second he didn’t understand. He blinked a few times before his brain seemed to decipher what he was seeing. He watched as Ilnu forms turned to smoke.

The cores bouncing off of the floor and any other surface they hit sounded like little bells perfectly pitched to resonate deep in his chest. Something primal rolled through him and all he could focus on was getting to as many of the freed cores as he could manage. Biting through each one sent a thrill of power down his back that was addictive and he started hunting harder so as not to miss any.

There was a whisper in his mind that this wasn’t right, that the draw for the cores was wrong. The power ripple was too strong. There was something wrong.

A scream filled the air, filled his head, and the primal drive was immediately replaced with one far more powerful. He turned, the desire to protect and defend coaxing his body into a shape that was stronger, that was faster.

His gaze landed on something that sent a chill down his spine that turned his veins to ice. A creature he had only seen once before but knew instinctively was standing over a human body - the same human body that was screaming. The creature turned its head slowly before locking its gaze on him. Excruciating pain bit into his mind and he lost hold on the stronger form. With a snarl, he kicked off the ground despite the pain and launched himself towards the creature. He had to protect the screaming human. He had to protect them from the Olnvorox.

The creature swiped at him, throwing him into something solid. Pain flared in his side but it was nothing compared to his head. He pushed himself back onto his feet. Other creatures were coming to the human’s aid against the Olnvorox, attacking it - or at least trying to - but the thing only had eyes for him. Even as it batted the other creatures away, the creature kept staring at him, attacking him mind. So he held on and kept its focus. One of those that were on his side would manage enough damage to take the blasted thing out.

The assault on his mind suddenly ceased and he blinked his vision clear to see Trevak rip into the damn thing with half of it in its mouth. Trevak pulled back from an Olnvorox missing everything from the waist up. What remained turned to a strange sludge and splattered to the ground. Trevak opened its mouth, expelling the same strange sludge.

There wasn’t a core to be found.

Fear shot through him; he was sure it did for every creature there. A glance around - and a painful group Transference later - it was decided that the human had to be protected until one of the human helpers came and tended to the human’s injuries. Echoed in remnants of the Transference were concerns about him and a guttural fear of what a single Olnvorox meant for them all. He couldn’t respond, couldn’t send back that he didn’t matter as much as the human did. They all knew how important the human was. They had to protect the human even if it cost them their life.

The world slipped sideways and it jarred him back to his own body. There was a low roll of nausea but it was overshadowed by the throbbing headache and the sudden dread that filled him. Now outside of the memory he could distinguish the human as himself, could pull himself out of Dlmor’s experience enough to not be caught up in it, but he still felt the weight of the emotions, the different driven behaviors.

Elias’s words started to register in his ear. “… something from the Crell. The Kret? Sure, they’re stupid enough to force a cluster of Kret out of their home south. Wouldn’t surprise me. Even that scout that had the Olnvorox had called the cluster a trap.”

“But we still don’t know to what extent,” Tolnoran countered. “Corax won’t let any of his scouts delve deeper into the situation enough to know if there even is anything other than just the Crell and Kret to worry about.”

“Corax won’t have a choice,” Cass cut in, voice sharp and angry. “He may lay claim to the best scouts in the compound but he still answers to me. I’ll get the scouts we’ll need to delve deeper as well as the man power to keep them safe.” There was a pause, a rather significant one if he read the tension right around his pounding head. “Only one I trust to lead them, though, is you, Elias.”

Another pause before Elias muttered softly. “I can’t be in two places at once.”

“I’m not asking you to be. Escort Corax and his people back and you’ll leave from here. But I need Tolnoran to stay behind to help forces here.”

Tolnoran piped in. “Then what of Artemis?”

“He still goes with you.”

“To collect Corax, sure,” Elias spoke on the tail of her words. “But he stays here with Tolnoran when we return.”

“You can’t decide-”

“You’re already putting him out onto the field injured!” Elias barked. The rage coaxed Artemis’s head to come up and he looked over at the older man. No one even noticed his movement. “I am not taking him into hostile territory where his protection will be a scattering of people in the middle of a desert!”

Something dark and thin moved out of the corner of his and the terror that pulsed through him set every nerve on end. It drew Dlmor’s attention but all he got was a - painful - soft Transference of concerned inquiry. He didn’t want to look, didn’t want to actually confirm what he had seen, but he knew if he didn’t look it would only make things worse. He could feel whatever it was standing so close behind him, he could almost feel it on his back. Whatever it was loomed over him.

Slowly - slower than he intended but couldn’t manage to do faster - he tipped his head back until he could make out the form standing over him. White eyes on a not so solid, shadow like form met his gaze. The mouth pulled apart into a too white toothy grin as it raised a claw filled hand.

#All the Creation #Creative and Prompt Writing #Inktober 2020 #Day 23 #Altruistic Endeavors

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retroreaderr · 7 years

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UPDATED PROMPT LIST!!

Hello! Just thought we’d repost this for any new followers! I recently found the old link wasn’t working and I’m too lazy to fix it/bug widow to fix it so here we are!

HERE is our fandom link!

Person A is attractive, they know it, you know it, I know it, ask anybody and they’ll agree. They’re used to getting flirty comments and the general “oh geez what I would do to a body like that” and compliments on their conventionally attractive body parts. Person B gives Person A a compliment, but it catches them off guard because it isn’t “hey handsome/sexy” or something of the sort, it’s a genuine compliment on their personality/quirk they have that Person B enjoys. Person A is intrigued.

Person A constantly makes self-deprecating jokes, whilst Person B always responds with a soft “noo that’s not trueee”

Person A and Person B make a pact that if neither of them are married by 30, they will marry each other. Person B turns 30 tomorrow.

Person A and B are bored. They decide to throw things (eggs, pies, messy foods that smash on impact) at people from the top of a building. Person C is the next target, and Person B has a whole dozen of (thing) at the ready.

Person A takes Person B on a camping trip into the woods with a few friends. As they gather round the campfire and tell scary stories, Person A gets scared but doesn’t want to look weak in front of their friends. Person B notices and pretends to be scared so Person A can “make them feel safe” when in reality Person B is lowkey comforting Person A. Bonus points if they aren’t together yet.

Person A is super chill and friendly to everyone, until Person B is insulted/been rude to, then they turn into the Devil. Bonus points if Person A is like, a third of the size of Person B.

Person A and B are riding horses.

Person A and B are wholesomely cuddling

Person A and B are not so wholesomely cuddling

Person A and B are wholesomely cuddling after a not so wholesome night

Person A: “You have a nice butt” Person B: “Thanks, I got it for my birthday.”

Person A constantly quotes Person B, but super out of context and it makes Person B sound like the horniest bastard. (Ex. A: “Like Person B said earlier, you’ve got to stroke it gently and don’t mind the hair.” B: “I WAS TALKING ABOUT PETTING MY HORSE.”)

Person A and B had a rather heart wrenching breakup months ago. Whilst out one day, Person A sees Person B talking to their friends wearing an article of Person A’s clothing that went missing right before their break up. Person A smiles sadly and let’s Person B keep it.

Person A never gives Person B flowers, instead Person A gives Person B really pretty rocks. When Person B asks why, Person A responds “they’re beautiful, and they last longer.”

Person A, B and C are in a situation where they have to leave all their weapons. Person A drops a pocket knife and a butter knife. But, Person B starts off with taking a few from their sleeves, then from their pockets, and etc. It goes on for sometime and Person A is almost breaking down in laughter while Person C is watching in terror.

Person A and B are in a fight. Person A: “You know what, suck my dick.” Person B: “I have, 10/10 would recommend.” Bonus points if they’re in public.

Person A takes Person B on a romantic date. Instead of eating opposite ends of a pasta noodle and meeting in the middle for a kiss, they use a baguette and have to get through it without laughing because Person B is super hungry and noshing down hardcore on the baguette and Person A is suggestively raising an eyebrow. (Or, Person A didn’t think through how easily you can get filled eating bread and they stop halfway through because they’re stomachs are fuLL)

Person A and Person B are lost and are getting into an argument, thing is Person B really can’t hear Person A well. Person A: “That direction!” Person B: “What erection?”. Bonus points if Person A points towards Person C and Person C quickly looks down to check if they actually do have an erection. Bonus Bonus points if Person C is a girl, but still checks just in case.

Person A is injured, and is only upset about it because it makes cuddling with Person B comfortably difficult.

Person A is a magician and they’re alone with person B and person A is like “I have some spicy stuff for u ; )” and person B gets all excited, but then person A pulls out a jalapeno out of B’s sleeve. Bonus points if Person B is excited by jalapenos.

Person A and Person B are spending the night together for the first time. Person B can’t help from giggling at Person A’s pajamas. Decide why.

Person A being so use to Person B being there that when they’re away they put their arm around the place Person B is normally sat at.

Person A, B, C and D all go out camping.

Person A is having bad stomach pains/cramps and Person B is laying beside them rubbing their tummy to make them feel better.

Person A saving Person B from getting trapped under frozen lake.

Person A and C are traveling. They pick up Person B as a hitchhiker.

She looked fiercely into his eyes, the wind blowing her hair dramatically, and with an air of confidence she said “Fuck that shit”

“So what if I broke my arm, I will fight them.”

Kissed them whilst stealing their wallet

“I’m pretending to be your significant other because you looked really uncomfortable with that stranger at the bar hitting on you”

“The sun hasn’t even come up yet and you’re asking me to do what now?”

“Oh, I promise I’m not staring. I’m just..no don’t leave-!”

“Feel free to admire my beauty"

"If I was fishing for compliments, I certainly wouldn’t be using your pond.”

33%

“Mm. Moist cake."

"WhAT DO YOU MEAN I CAN’T EAT YOUR MUFFIN?”

She danced like there was no one watching. But everyone was watching her. And she looked like a dumbass.

“Put. The child. Down."

"Tale as old as time, song as old as rhyme, bitchy and the beast."

"I’m sorry, miss…um, there’s a um..there’s something in your..oh no."

"Quit harshin’ my mellow, bro.”

I got stuck in a Port-A-Potty and was rescued by a hot stranger

Two frequent dog park goer’s find their dogs have fallen in love. Also one dog knocked the other up and they’ve now got five puppies to deal with.

You’ve come into my bar every-night for the past three years and ordered a water everytime

NoHomoBro

YesHomoBro

“War’s End” Kiss

Awkward kiss

Drunk/sloppy kiss

“Good Morning” kiss

“I almost lost you” kiss

Kiss on the nose/ear/neck/back

Needing to kiss to hide from someone

Surprised kiss

Jealous kiss. Bonus points if its on the neck/not the mouth

Kiss on a dare

Exhausted parents kiss

First kiss

Kiss at dusk/dawn/in a dream

Awkward teenage crush kiss

Returned from “the dead” kiss

“Sneaky” kisses in public places where they lowkey hope to be caught

Against a wall kiss

Snowday kiss

“I PASSED MY EXAM!” kiss

Moving around while kissing and making a mess but not caring because damn they’re good at kissing

Having a bet to see who can go the longest without wanting a kiss. Person A is appearing to hold strong, meanwhile Person B can’t help but notice the way that Person A bites at their lip when focusing and how plump it gets and holy cow they’re going to lose the bet.

“You really… That’s not exactly meant to be eaten.”

“Do you think you could just please go one day without pissing me off?”

“Just this once, okay?”

“You’re really soft.”

“May I have this dance?”

“Do you believe in love at first sight?”

“I waxed the floors, grab your fluffy socks.”

“My parents are coming over in 10 minutes, please put your trousers on.”

“This is probably a bad time, but… marry me?”

“Why wasn’t I invited to your wedding?”

“I think you might be pregnant.”

“You better have a good reason for waking me up at the ass-crack of dawn.”

“I wasn’t going to wait around for you forever.”

“They always make shower sex sound so appealing, but honestly it seems quite dangerous.”

“It must be hard with your sense of direction, never being able to find your way to a decent pick up line.”

Idiot jar au.

“I’m sorry, what were you saying? I keep getting lost in your eyes.”

“You got her pregnant! What were you thinking?”

“I was going to kiss him, but then my friend texted me about going to Taco Bell, and, well, there’s this cashier that works there who is way cuter, so I bailed on the rest of the date.”

Coffeeshop AU

Generic Soulmate’s AU

Tattoo of your Soulmate’s name on your wrist AU

You write on your skin it shows up on your soulmate’s skin AU

You keep aging until you meet your soulmate so you can grow old together AU

First words your soulmate ever says to you shows up on your skin on your 18th birthday AU

Everything is black and white until you meet your Soulmate AU

Trans reader

Gay reader

Male reader

Lesbian reader

Bisexual reader

Pansexual reader

#update!#prompt list!#prompts!#send us some !!#new fandoms new year!!#also happy new years eve/new years to those in different time zones!#prompt list #prompts

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