#when I hope that you neither tiptoe or trample

[discordapples]

PT. 7 Third Wheel

Word count: 1.7k (7 mins read)

Characters: Sebastian Sallow, Livia Novik, Ominis Gaunt.

Summary

Sebastian introduces Livia to Ominis. Ominis is roped into his friends' schemes to steal a relic from headmaster Black's office, while Sebastian senses this quest is only the beginning of a journey that is utterly and solemnly up to no good.

Read the seventh chapter below.

Sebastian | Hogwarts, Late August, 1893.

It is well past curfew when Sebastian and Livia make it to the Slytherin common room. Aside from the occasional glance around, Livia appears unbothered by the fact they are trampling through a few rules. 

Drifting from her, the same perfume that trailed Sebastian into his dreams last night. It bled out into the morning, too, as if a piece of her had been wedged between gum and teeth for him to pathetically suck on when the need for another hit arose.

What is it with this girl?

Is it the cutting wit? Her wand game? The hint of a Slavic accent leaching out when she speaks his name? The way her scant smiles feel deserved—earned?

Sebastian needs to focus on something else than the itch she leaves in his mind… And avoiding being caught is just as effective as a cold shower.

The living room is empty, save for the hiss of flames, and Sebastian steers left towards the stairwell. Together, they tiptoe up, silent as graves, and come to the dorm Sebastian shares with Ominis.

He opens the door and peers inside to find his friend sitting at the desk, hunched over a pile of books. 

“Late, as always,” Ominis chides him. “You’ll be grateful to know that while you were playing with your wand, I located the book you were after in the restricted section.”

“Playing with my wand?” 

The innuendo snatches a smirk from Sebastian. Next to him, Livia’s lips curl upwards likewise. 

Ominis turns on his chair, and for a moment, Sebastian thinks he can smell his shirt’s burned fibers or the irony tang of blood on it, but it’s neither the fire nor the blood Ominis sinks his teeth into… “Who are you with?”

How does he know? How does he always know?

Livia’s back stitches itself to the door, as if she regrets outstaying her welcome. 

In response, Sebastian slumps on his bed hoping to iron out the pleats tension has made in the Ravenclaw’s composure with his nonchalance. “Livia Novik, this is Ominis Gaunt. Don’t let his blind guy act fool you… He only does it to soften womanly hearts.”

“She shouldn’t be here,” Ominis hisses. “She’s not Slytherin, and it’s way past curfew.”

Sebastian cannot help but roll his eyes. This, too, Ominis has learned to taste on the air. “Haven’t you realized after eight years that the argument about breaking rules isn’t really a deterrent to me?”

“I’m well aware you’re a lost cause, but maybe she isn’t.”

“I feel a little embarrassed to say,” Livia chimes in gingerly, “but I don’t mind either.”

An odd pride shrugs into Sebastian’s chest. Livia’s clay is soft for the crime, and he wonders just how far she will go to get what she wants—how much her aspirations shape her.

“Fuck’s sake…” Ominis sighs in exasperation. “And here I thought this eighth year would be a quiet one. Should’ve insisted I’d bunk with someone else…”

“Oh, stop whining,” Sebastian derides him. “You’re embarrassing me in front of our guest.”

“A guest that shouldn’t be here…”

“It’s nice to meet you, too, Ominis.” Livia’s apologetic tone finds the dents in the wizard’s armor and he sheds it swiftly, rising from his chair and extending a hand in her direction.

“I didn’t mean to be rude,” he says. “Please forgive me.”

To Livia’s untrained eye, the gesture might seem friendly—almost penitent—but Sebastian knows better.

The little Gaunt boy that hunkered down through his family’s relentless spates of magical torture has found an inclination of his own for the meek and the complacent.

An ironic penchant Sebastian has kept himself from bringing before Ominis’ attention or else jeopardize their friendship.

Unaware of the wicked thoughts that, Sebastian is sure, don’t fail to materialize in Ominis’ mind, Livia shakes the hand offered and parts with a coy smile. “No harm done,” she says candidly before turning to Sebastian. “Now I believe you had me risk detention for a reason?”

“There are many reasons I’d have you risk detention,” he says playfully. “The first is so I have company. The second, to make good on my promise to include Ominis in my adventures, and the third being to have a private place where we can discuss the allegedly brilliant plan you enticed me with earlier, Livia Novik.” He stretches on his bed, his hands cradling his skull. “How does the saying goes? To zap three birds with one spell?”

“To kill two birds with one stone,” Livia and Ominis correct him in unison.

“See?” Sebastian sneers, “You two are already getting along like two beets in a pond.”

“Two peas in a pod…” Ominis feels compelled to rectify. 

Sebastian waves him dismissively. “Whatever… So, what’s this plan of yours, new girl?”

Livia leans against his disorderly desk. Will the pages of Sebastian’s notebook drink her scent and torment him with it when he expects it the least? Livia gives this thought no leeway to swell in Sebastian’s mind when she asks him: “Will you call me new girl for much longer?”

Ominis disgorges a sarcastic chuckle. “He will.”

“Another clause to add to our contract, then,” Livia adds.

 The word takes Sebastian by surprise. “Contract?”

“Spilling all my secrets before two Slytherin boys seems like a very asinine thing to do, wouldn’t you agree?” She crosses her arms before her chest, her eyes steeling. The stare she drags on Sebastian electrifies his chine. “I will reveal the plan to you as we go and if you prove trustworthy. We jest, we caper, we banter, and it’s all in good fun, but I’m not in Hogwarts to fawn over the Quidditch team, fuck through a cortege of boys or to learn how to cast myself out of a paper sack… I’m here to resurrect my brother, and if you two are all talk no walk, I’ll find the Promissum Mortis on my own.”

Ominis frowns. “Resurrection?” 

So does Sebastian. “A cortege of boys?”

Livia is all ice and no honey. “Are you with me, or did I risk detention for nothing?”

“I was with you the moment you cast that Confringo on Reyes, new girl.” Sebastian cracks his knuckles with a smirk. “I know now, it would be unwise to anger you.”

They turn to Ominis, both their gazes cutting enough to make the Slytherin’s brow hike. “I’m not as eager as Sebastian to walk on smoldering charcoals, but I’m not a snitch either. Time will tell if you’re likewise trustworthy, Livia Novik.”

“Acceptable terms,” she replies.

“So?” Sebastian uproots himself from his bunk bed, smoothing his trousers. “It seems like the perfect hour to snatch headmaster Black from the arms of his wet dreams, wouldn’t you say?”

* * *

The Grimfire, Livia Novik tells them, is a silver candle bristling with sharp needles. A thing you can only hold while wearing the Grimweave Gauntlet.

However comical the artefacts’ monikers seem to Sebastian, they aren’t half as absurd as the plan the Ravenclaw comes up with.

“Can you remind me why Ominis is so instrumental to your plan when he wasn’t even slightly enthused about the prospect of stealing from the headmaster?” He asks her as she discards her cloak and leaves it on Sebastian’s desk.

“Are you envious, Sebastian?” Ominis asks him, and his tone is enough a taunt to force Sebastian to inhale deeply through his nose. 

“I’m merely questioning your motives, Ominis…”

“You are quite vocal about your detention record and how… visited it has been,” Livia explains. “Black will believe me too fast if I pretend you nearly assaulted me after you got drunk.”

“Besides, I’m a Gaunt,” Ominis remarks, hammering on the nail of Sebastian’s coffin. “The headmaster won’t risk angering my father without trying to defuse the situation first, whereas he’d commit you to Azkaban without an afterthought if you as much as sneezed on her.”

“Don’t be so smug, Ominis,” Sebastian scowls. “Your bravery will deflate the second Black’s blade hovers above your neck.”

“How you underestimate me…”

“Boys,” Livia interjects, scissoring through the thread of their budding rivalry in one quick snip. “I’d love to be surrendered back to my feathery bed before the dawn rolls in, so could you focus a little?”

Sebastian graces her with a cynical smile as he kiss-feeds her plan back to her to show his assiduity. “Ominis tries to force his way on you. You make a scene and wake half the castle with your shouts, so Professor Weasley will have no choice but to bring you two into Black’s office. As Ominis wields his threats about like Ashwood would his dick, you steal the relic, and while you two are having a blast, I sneak into the restricted section to get my hands on Dovetail’s book. Seems to me like I’m the one doing all the heavy lifting…”

“Perhaps you’d choose Azkaban?” Ominis suggests. “The result would be the same for us, except we wouldn’t have to contend with your whining.”

Before Sebastian can think to retaliate, Livia clears her throat. “Or I could run to Black myself and tell him both of you sequestered me here. You already have my cloak in your possession and it would be a trifle for me to tear holes in my own clothes, muss my hair and make my eyes water.” She flaunts a triumphant smile about. The kind Sebastian aches to stare at as she twists it around his cock. “Which one will it be, chaps?”

“You do have the mind of a Slytherin,” Ominis remarks. “At least it’s one thing Sebastian didn’t lie about. Shall we?”

Leaving the dorm, they traipse through the common room, then spill out into the deserted corridor. 

The moisture of the dungeons clings to Sebastian’s nape and raises hairs on his arms. Somewhere deep inside of him, something rouses. A disquieting unrest that settles in his skull, like a viper in tall grass, waiting for a trespasser to sink its fangs in.

The walls have eyes, perhaps, and there, between the cracks in the timeworn mortar, sidle half a thousand secrets. Hogwarts’ secrets. 

His mother’s voice carries from a moment long lost. The shade of a reminiscence that, in its slow trickle, is more potent than any strychnine:

There are wonderful things hidden behind Hogwarts’ skin, if you know only where to find the loose stitch. But there are sinister things, too. For there could be no light without darkness, and no gold without its weight in coal.

[catcatb0y]

Is it so bad?

[kuroos-moon]

When One Cheats 

☾ pairing: oikawa x reader

☾ request: oikawa cheating on s/o and feeling like the worst person ever afterwards cause he always feared doing this with her, but she doesn't forgive him. very angst please, i know you're really good on making your readers cry

☾ genre: angst

☾ warning/s: angst, cheating

☾ wc: 1.1k

He loves you deeply, no one understood and knew him the way you do and he could imagine spending the rest of his days beside you. That kind of love was more than enough, but he misses the thrill, the slow burn, the teasing, the new butterflies. 

It’s nothing serious, he thinks to himself every single time he smirks down at the girl that wasn’t you, holding her hand and telling her words he knew she wanted to hear. Like a trap, like he had anticipated, she falls for him, dancing into the bliss that is Oikawa Tohru’s affection. 

It doesn’t really matter right? He only ever wants her to fall for him, he has no intention whatsoever to actually like her back or actually give her himself; it was all for his ego. The seat in his heart is for you and you alone, it’s all fun and games with other girls. 

“I’ll see you after class,” you smile, head tilted up to look at him and he warmly smiles back, heart beating against his chest at the sight of your pretty eyes and sincere smile. This, this is his personal heaven on earth, his angel in human form. You are the love of his life; he knew that to the very core. 

“I love you, y/n-chan,” he chuckles, cupping your cheek before he leans down to plant a chaste kiss on your lips. “I’ll be off to practice then,” he waves at you as he backs away, and you grin at him, “do your best!” 

Of course he will, much more now that you’ve given him his daily serotonin boost with your loving smile. After his practice, he’s surprised to have his teammate call for him, “Oikawa-kun your girlfriend’s here.” He races outside the locker room only to be disappointed when it’s not you who’s standing there.

“Tohru-chan!” Oh, if it isn’t the girl who fell for him after only a week of texting and a few sweet words from him.  “Yuki-chan,” he says, taken aback before he quickly recovers with a smile, “what are you doing here? Missed me already?” 

“You haven’t been replying to my texts,” she pouts. He internally scoffs in his head. He’s actually disgusted his teammates referred to her as his girlfriend. 

“Oh, I’ve been really busy with practice,” he scratches the back of his head. 

“You don’t like me anymore, do you?” 

Tohru cockily smirks at her, approaching her slowly before tilting her chin up and teasingly leaning in. If there was a school for capturing girl’s hearts, he’s self-aware he’d be the top of the class. “Is that how you feel? Then how could I make it up to you?” He muses, the girl speechless at his closeness.  

He’s great at analyzing character, she was an easily-attached girl who was lowkey shy and could never do the first move. People, however, tend to be unpredictable, no matter how sure Tohru was she’d never do things that’d cause him demise. 

Without warning, she tiptoes and locks her lips against his, wrapping her arms around his neck. Petrified, his eyes remain wide open and he stills, unable to kiss her back as a heavy pang on his chest reminded him that this was utterly wrong. Consumed with the guilt, he comes back to his senses and places a hand on her shoulder to lightly push her off him. 

“That surprised me,” he chuckles, perfectly pretending he wasn’t panicking inside. 

“Why’d you push me off? You really don’t like me! Well I don’t want you either!”

“That’s not what your lips said,” he raises a brow, his ego slightly wounded. He wasn’t in his right mind at all when he grabs her and kisses her the way he knew would leave her knees weak. Gentle kisses turned into something more needy in her part, and the once level-headed setter slowly gave in to impulse as he backs her up against the wall.

Bodies pressed against each other, her hands running across his back, feeling his chest, his shoulders— he knew she was crazy for his body. 

Oikawa Tohru, the man who promised you the world. Not once in your years together did you doubt him or fear disloyalty. Your relationship was built around trust, and you thought it was something that neither of you would break. 

Yet, you couldn’t explain the sight before you. Your person was in the arms of another and kissing someone that wasn’t you. It made you sick, your heart was trampled with and torn to pieces. You desperately wish it was all a dream, but your eyes are wide open and it is reality; it’s cruel, but you know he’s no longer yours. 

An image of you smiling at him when he woke you up this morning flashes across his mind, and on instinct he pulls away almost immediately. It’s as if a cold bucket of water was poured down on him when he sees you standing at the entrance of the gym from the corner of his eye. 

Please, no, that’s all he could ever think; afraid to look at you and confirm that you actually saw the shameful mistake he’s committed— the thoughtless choice he still chose. 

He’s forced to look and come to you the moment your sobs reach his ears; it was the most painful thing he’s ever heard. It seems as if the world was ending the moment his eyes fall on you, your shoulders were shaking and you were falling apart before him. 

“Y/n-chan,” he softly says your name, but his voice only hurt you more as you flinch away from his attempt to touch your shoulder. “I thought you loved me,” you sob, his eyes widening at the heavy weight of your pain-filled words. 

“I- I do, you know I do, please, y/n-chan I can explain,” he moves to hold your hands.

“Thank you for all these years Tohru, I never imagined this day would come but it did. Are you happy now? Were you unhappy with me?” Your voice just keeps on breaking and he holds your hands tighter, a desperate look on his face as tears blurred his vision. 

“You are my happiness y/n, I was foolish, I never meant for this to happen I wasn’t think-

“I’ll be out of the house before you come home.” 

True to your word, he came home to an empty lifeless house, void of your presence. All your clothes were gone and so were you. He’d be a bit more hopeful he could fix it if the picture frame of the both of you on the bedside table was empty too, but your picture was there, you didn’t take it with you. 

He felt bitter as he looks at both your smiles looking back at him, you’re gone and all that’s left are finite recollections of the both of you together as he could no longer make more memories with you in this lifetime.

General Taglist [Open]: @noyasbitchh @dinablossom @haru-the-secret @strayczennies @lalisbitch @tinymidgetsstuff @animebs @astrealia @kittykitkatstrawberry @hajimesbbygrl @kellesvt @24hr7dysdizzy @arnxldss @elianetsantana @vicassa @floraraine @beanst0ck @leinnah @kageyamasgirl @deafeningart @minibobabottle   @franko-pop @moonlightaangel @throughtheinterstices @micasaessakusa @dixonsbugaboo​  ​

[re-written]

Wolf Moon Pt. 1

A/N: I remember growing up hearing a lot about Skinwalkers and I also researched what I could but the Navajo, understandably, do not like sharing their culture with outsiders and so I am primarily going off of what I’ve learned as I am not the biggest fan of how they were portrayed on the show since they felt sort of rushed. 

Also be prepared for A LOT of commas and I promise my writing will improve, hopefully, as I write. Also this first episode is literally just the pilot with (Y/N) just added in, but as the series continues it will deviate. Not sure how I feel about this part.. might rewrite.

Word Count: 1,640

Warnings: almost hit by a car, twice

(Y/N) awoke to the constant blaring of sirens rushing past, grumbling as she got out of bed and tiptoed towards the window. What appeared to be dozens of police cars raced past, all heading towards the preserve. Her curiosity was spiked; nothing ever happened in Beacon Hills, so she wondered what could have happened to have caused such chaos. Seemingly without thinking, (Y/N) opened the window, double-checking no one was awake and snuck out.

Following the sounds of sirens, (Y/N) felt a sense of dread come over her and decided it would be best to turn around. However, as she was heading home, she was illuminated by headlights and froze. Whoever was driving slammed on the breaks; she could hear the driver curse before getting out of the car. “Are you okay? Wait, (Y/N)?” The driver asked. Stiles. It was Stiles, but what was he doing out this late.

“Stiles? What are you doing out this late?” Was (Y/N)’s reply. Before he could answer her, another person got out of the car. It was Scott, which only served to confuse the girl even more. Why was Scott out this late? She overheard him talk about trying out for lacrosse tomorrow, he should be home, preparing or sleeping.

“Me? You’re the one walking in your pajamas in the middle of the road late at night.” Well, Stiles had her there. Before she could respond more sirens could be heard behind them. “The sirens woke me up, I figured something crazy must have happened. Kind of just ended up heading towards them. I take it you know what happened?”

Stiles lit up. “Hell yeah, I do! Come on, we’ll explain in the car.” As (Y/N) heads towards the back seat of Stiles’ car, Scott stops her and hands her his red hoodie. “Here. You’re shivering.” Flushing, she put it on and gave him a shy smile.

The three pull into the preserve in Stiles’ Jeep, headlights illuminating the warning sign. Stiles gets out with a flashlight in hand. Scott and (Y/N) follow, hurrying to keep up with him as they walk towards the unlit woods. “We’re seriously doing this?” Scott asked, sounding a little freaked out.

“You’re the one always bitching that nothing ever happens in this town”. Stiles retorted, speeding up, making (Y/N), and Scott scramble to keep up with him.

“I was trying to get a good night’s sleep before practice tomorrow.” “Right, ‘cause sitting on the bench is such a grueling effort.” was Stiles’ snide remark. “No, because I’m playing this year. In fact, I’m making first line.” Scott looks at (Y/N) as he says this, causing her to smile. “You can do it, Scott, I know it.”

Stiles looks back at Scott and (Y/N) in disbelief, “Hey, that’s the spirit! Everyone should have a dream, even a pathetically unrealistic one.” The three walk in silence for a beat before Scott speaks up in the same sarcastic tone Stiles used. “Just out of curiosity, which half of the body are we looking for?”

Stiles looks somewhat sheepish in response to this question. “Huh. I didn’t even think about that.” “And, uh… what if whoever killed the body is still out here?’ (Y/N) asked, side-eyeing him. “Also something I didn’t think about.” Stiles admitted causing Scott to roll his eyes as they started to hike up a hill. “It’s comforting to know you’ve planned this out with your usual attention to detail.” “I know.” Suddenly, Scott’s breathing starts to become rapid, and wheezy as the three continue up the hill, with Scott struggling to keep up with Stiles’ quick pace. “Maybe the severe asthmatic should be the one holding the flashlight, huh?” Scott leans his back against a nearby tree as he pulls his inhaler out of his pocket, while (Y/N) nervously hovers nearby. “Are you okay Scott?”

However, Stiles keeps pushing on, forcing Scott and (Y/N) to continue their way up the hill after him. When they see a handful of people ahead of them waving flashlights around as part of the search, Stiles, Scott, and (Y/N) dive behind a fallen tree branch, turning off the flashlight so they don’t attract attention. Unfortunately for them, Stiles’ impatience eventually wins out, and he jumps up and runs toward the action. “Wait!” (Y/N) tries to stop him, sticking close to Scott. “Come on!” Stiles’ urges them as he continues towards the search party. Scott, still wheezing, tries to stop Stiles, to no avail. “Stiles! Wait up!” Scott quickly takes a hit from his inhaler before grabbing (Y/N)’s arm and rushing to catch up with him, trying his best to call after his best friend without alerting anyone else. “Stiles! Stiles!”

The sound of a dog barking and an officer yelling caused Scott to drag (Y/N) behind a nearby tree, pressing his back to it and keeping her close to his chest with a finger to his mouth, indicating to keep quiet. Just then, another male voice is heard. Noah Stilinski, Stiles’ father and the town Sheriff. “Hang on, hang on…This little delinquent belongs to me.” As the Sheriff continues to question and reprimand his son, (Y/N) takes the opportunity to look at Scott, quickly averting her eyes when his gaze flickers towards her. Tuning it just in time to hear Stiles’ dad call out for Scott then hauling Stiles away when he receives no reply.

As Stiles and the Sheriff leave, Scott closes his eyes and hits the back of his head on the tree, cursing under his breath when he realizes that by hiding, they lost their ride home. They waited until the coast was clear before heading back the way they came. “Well, that was fun.” (Y/N) uttered, having had enough of the silence. “We should have grabbed the flashlight from him.” “Yeah. Once he’s going, he’s gone.” Scott agreed.

“Are you okay? You were wheezing pretty hard back there.” (Y/N) asked as she grabbed Scott’s hand as it’s evident he’s unnerved by the sounds of the forest animals, but when they make it to a foggy clearing, it falls silent. He pulls his inhaler out once again and shakes it, intending to take another hit, when a herd of deer frantically stampede towards them, trampling the both of them over and causing Scott to lose his inhaler. “(Y/N)! (Y/N)! Are you okay?! Where are you?!” He called out, having lost his hold on her hand when the deer rushed past them, but he received no reply. Once the deer cleared out, Scott looked around for (Y/N), finding her a few feet away. “(Y/N)! Talk to me. Are you hurt?”

Hiding her arm from him, (Y/N) turned to him visibly shaken up. “I’m okay, Scott. What about you? Where did they come from? Never seen that before.” Scott, still in shock, starts looking for his inhaler using his phone’s light. “Me neither, they seemed spooked though.” “What are you doing?” “Huh? Oh, I lost my inhaler. Can you help me look?” Scott asked

“Sure.” (Y/N) said as she looked through a pile of leaves, before letting out a shriek. “Oh my God! Ew!”   The body of a young, white, and bottomless female was staring right back at her. At the sight of her body, Scott loses his balance and tumbles downhill. “Scott?! Scott?!” (Y/N) screeched as she rushed down after him. “You alright?”

Scott, shaken, stands to his feet with a groan, using a fallen tree trunk to help himself up. “Yeah, I’m okay. Let’s get out of here.” Taking hold of her hand, they quickly make their way through the woods, wanting nothing more than to get out of there as soon as possible, when all of sudden, a growl from behind freezes them. The two slowly turn around, Scott keeping himself in front (Y/N), only to find a gargantuan wolf with glaring red eyes posted before them.

(Y/N) barely had time to gasp before the beast leaped towards them, causing her to fall, dragging Scott down with her. Scott attempts to crawl away, the wolf grabbing him by the ankle and pulling him backward and savagely biting him on his hip, causing Scott to roar in pain, then proceeding to pass out from the pain. Leaving (Y/N) to face the monster on her own.

Panicked, (Y/N) did her best to focus; just as the beast launched its attack, she felt her body change shape. When she opened her eyes, (Y/N) not only saw her surroundings clearly, she also saw her attackers’ confusion and tasted its slight fear. However, in an attempt to not give the wolf time to gather itself, she let out a mighty roar, the roar of a bear, and charged. The huge wolf met her halfway but she simply threw it aside into a tree, the sound of bones breaking echoing throughout the clearing. Shaken, the beast rose to its feet and ran off as quickly as it came. Without thinking, (Y/N) ran towards Scott, converting back as a human. “Scott! Wake up!” she begged as she gave him light slaps on the face. When that failed to work, she instead grabbed him and started to drag him through the woods, hoping that whatever had attacked them would not return.

When (Y/N) finally made it to the nearest road, stopping just short of being hit by someone, for the second time that night. Finally out of immediate danger, she took a moment to lift Scott’s shirt, examining the large bite wound on his hip with horror as the rain continued to pour down around them. Suddenly, a loud howl is heard, only fueling (Y/N)’s anxiety. What happens now?

[generallynerdy]

Laughter (Bucky Barnes X Amputee!Reader)

Summary: Sam Wilson and Steve Rogers hope that it’ll only take one person-- you-- who refuses to tiptoe around Bucky Barnes and his metal arm. With your shared experiences and terrible, terrible senses of humour, maybe he’ll start to open up.

Requested by WaywardRose0216: I'm so happy and your the only one who actually has taken up my requests before! Btw I kinda have another lol. It's one where the reader is one of Sam's army friends and lost a leg so she has a prosthetic and she and Bucky meet and fall n love and it just sounds adorable. Thank you so much!!!

Key: (Y/N) - your name

Warnings: cursing probably, mentions of violence, mentions of war, mentions of loss of limbs, kind of touches on PTSD, and terrible terrible humour

Word Count: 1,583

Note: woah this did a thing?? god this is adorable,,, you guys can blame my boyfriend for inspiring me to write cheesy bullshit

The first time you met Bucky Barnes was at one of Tony Stark's galas. It was fancy, a little too fancy for your tastes, so your best friend and war buddy, Sam Wilson, dragged you to a back corner of the room.

It was there you took a seat beside the infamous Winter Soldier, who barely glanced at you. From what you could see, he was terrified. Too many people, you figured. You got that way sometimes, especially at events like these. It didn't help that people would stare and gawk at your prosthetic leg, asking too many questions that definitely weren't appropriate.

Sam awkwardly introduced you both before the three of you slipped into silence. Glancing at Bucky again, you knew you had to break the ice.

So, you did the smartest thing you could come up with.

“Guess this party cost them an arm and a leg, huh?” You grinned cheekily.

Sam instantly reeled and looked terrified, but he had nothing to fear. For maybe the first time since coming to live with the Avengers, Bucky Barnes burst into heavy laughter. This drew more than a few eyes, but it was mostly other members of the team, shocked at such a sound coming from the man's mouth. They'd never heard him laugh like that before.

For Bucky, the joke wasn't even that funny. Just the concept of someone refusing to tiptoe around his arm, or him, for that matter, was so refreshing that it left him giddy. That joke cleansed his muddled soul like a warm hug.

That, you realised, was the start of a beautiful friendship.

When Steve Rogers heard you were the one making Bucky laugh so hard, he begged Sam to let you visit more often. Considering you didn’t have many other friends, Sam was all for the idea. He kept coming up with excuses to have you around the compound and, eventually, you would just start asking if he’d take you.

Conversation came rather easily for you and Bucky, especially when you were complaining about how other people acted about your prosthetics.

He told you all about his team, about how ridiculous they were, though he loved them to death. He told you how he wished they would tiptoe around him like he was a firecracker. It frustrated him to no end. Sometimes your conversations became really serious.

Bucky Barnes was the first person you told about how you lost your leg. Sure, Sam knew how it had happened, but that was because he was there. He never forgave himself for it, even if you had never blamed him in the first place. Bucky understood. Steve was the exact same way.

After that, the four of you hung out way more. They would go on morning runs together sometimes and, though you couldn’t run, you joined them anyway. You would sit under a tree and read a book, laughing as Sam suffered. For once, he was the one being beaten.

One day, you were having it particularly rough. Watching them sprint around Washington D.C. was a little disheartening. It brought back a lot of painful memories.

Bucky was back before you expected and noticed you staring at your prosthetic. “You could run with us.”

“Huh?” You raised your head and furrowed your eyebrows.

That stupid prosthetic didn’t let you run. It was an older model. You couldn’t afford much better, though Sam had tried to convince you to let him pay for one. You refused, mostly because you knew he was offering out of guilt.

“Wakanda is kind of good with these things,” he said, glancing down at his arm. “Shuri would make you one if you asked, (Y/N).”

“I--” You hesitated, looking at your prosthetic. “I don’t know. I’d feel bad.”

He smiled. “I know the feeling, but...that girl has a lot of time on her hands. She’d love to figure something out.”

Biting your lip, you used the tree you were leaning against to stand up. “Are you sure?”

“Definitely,” he grinned suddenly. “She’ll make it badass.”

“In that case...okay.”

So, Bucky nearly dragged you to the compound, leaving Sam and Steve behind to do their morning run. Natasha gave the two of you a confused look as you entered, Bucky chatting almost excitedly. She swore she had never heard him talk that much. He was opening up a lot more since you showed up, the others would say. You were good for him.

Tony was almost knocked over by Bucky’s rambling when he begged the genius to let Shuri set up shop in the compound. Despite the initial shock, he eventually agreed.

Within a few weeks, Shuri herself called you and Bucky up, saying your new prosthetic was ready.

“I modeled it after yours, Sergeant,” she said, glancing at Bucky as she took it out of its case. “The new one, obviously. The other one hurt to look at.”

It was exactly the same as Bucky’s, except for the obvious fact that it was for your leg. Shuri attached it carefully, him hovering over your shoulder. She backed away once it was on, tapping a few things on her tablet and humming thoughtfully. Meanwhile, you attempted to wiggle it experimentally. It moved exactly as you had hoped, leaving you slack-jawed.

Bucky smirked at your expression. “Cool, right?”

You stood up and gained your balance, falling onto his shoulder when you almost tripped. You were back on your feet in moments, already getting used to the new feeling.

“Thank you so much,” you told the young girl.

She smiled. “It was nothing. I had a little fun with it. You could probably beat Barnes in a race if you wanted.” “Oh, yeah?” Bucky asked, raising his eyebrows.

You grinned mischievously. As he opened his mouth to ask something, you sprinted out of the lab, laughing maniacally. “Last one to the garage is a rotten egg!”

“You are so on!”

The both of you ran through the compound, running into almost everyone on the way. Bucky got extremely close to beating you, but was always just a few feet behind. You weren’t sure if he was losing on purpose, but it didn’t really matter in the moment.

Vision had to phase so neither of you would run into him, but he also had to shove Wanda, who had been walking with him, out of the way. Clint had to literally jump into the rafters of the building just to avoid getting knocked over, while you both just ran around Nat. Thor didn’t see either of you and was somewhat trampled, but he was a god, so he was probably fine. You ran into Tony, too, and knocked his coffee out of his hands, making him whimper a little.

“LOOK OUT!” You screamed to Steve and Sam with a break of laughter in your voice.

They were entering the compound, having just returned from a brief meeting with fury. They glanced at each other confusedly as you and Bucky passed, slightly awed at your new prosthetic. Sam was gleeful and laughed a little before elbowing the captain and raising his eyebrows teasingly. They both knew Bucky had stuck to you like glue these past few months, perhaps a little too much.

When you reached the garage, you whooped loudly, but found that you could not stop easily. You skidded to a halt, but not before tripping right out of the garage doors and falling face first into the grass outside.

Bucky jogged up to you as soon as you turned over and lied on your back, laughing so hard you gasped from a lack of oxygen. “That-- was-- amazing!”

“I would’ve won if you didn’t get a head start,” he sassed, though he was smiling.

“Bullshit, Barnes,” you said, sticking your tongue out at him.

Before he could reply, you grabbed his leg and pulled it out from under him, sending him toppling to the ground next to you. He yelped as it happened, but was laughing afterwards. His laughter only got you started again, struggling to breathe.

When your amusement died down, both of you froze, suddenly realising how close you were. Bucky’s face was inches away from yours, so he could not help meeting your gaze. His gorgeous eyes boring down on you was almost enough to make you look away, but you somehow refrained from doing so.

He lifted his metal arm to caress your cheek. It was cold, making the hairs on the back of your neck raise. However, you put your own arm on his hand to reassure him that it didn’t bother you. You understood-- and he knew that.

Just as you were starting to lean in, his closed the distance between you, taking your lips for his own. It was sweet and slow and, admittedly, a little silly, considering you were kissing on the cold ground right outside the garage of the Avengers’ compound.

Silently, you thanked Sam for introducing you to Bucky, but mostly you thanked your top notch humour.

When you pulled away, gasping slightly for air, Buck had a sheepish look on his face. He was nowhere near the flirty, confident man Steve told you he used to be. In fact, that was probably his first kiss since 1945.

“That kiss costed us an arm and a leg, huh?” You whispered, breaking the silence.

And at your awful, awful joke, Bucky Barnes burst into laughter, almost chortling. “God, I love you. Terrible humour and all.”

Masterlist

[dishonoredrpg]

Congratulations, BECKY! You’ve been accepted for the role of THE EMPRESS with the faceclaim of ZHANG ZIYI. I cannot express to you how outright excited I was upon starting the app, and how much my adrenaline rose throughout. I could highlight everything in this app and it would be justified, but the resignation in being wed to Septimus and the distance she put between her daughter and herself and the repeated motif of sing me a song really just... floored me. I’m not even kidding when I say my jaw dropped a few times throughout the app. You have a true skill in weaving words, and I fully believe that Calliope will capture the hearts of her subjects as Queen-Consort on the dashboard with absolutely no reservations or hesitation in her. I’m thrilled!

Please review the CHECKLIST and send your blog in within 24 hours.

OUT OF CHARACTER.

NAME: Becky

PRONOUNS: she/her

AGE: 22

TIMEZONE, ACTIVITY LEVEL: PST, and I would rate my dash activity at about 4-6, meaning I’m more or less on dash around half the time. However, I’m applying to/preparing for graduate school, so my activity might take a hit from that (and also dealing with home renovation so twinsies??), but I’m definitely always on discord!

ANYTHING ELSE?: Thanks for reading and considering my application! I just want to say that you did a great job with Dishonored, so I seriously wish it the best of luck moving forward! Also, I took some liberties with NPC’s (amongst some other things, i.e. guessing at court politics, informed by different media and historical influences) for the background portion of the application, so if anything doesn’t line up with your vision please consider it canon adjacent and that I’d be happy to change anything accordingly if I were accepted!

IN CHARACTER.

SKELETON: THE EMPRESS.

NAME: CALLIOPE. From Greek kallos, meaning beauty, and ops, meaning voice. Chief of all muses, mother of sirens: a historied name heralds greatness, which is exactly what is expected of her, from birth to now — and who is she to deny her name? Strictly speaking, her name means beautiful-voiced, and never one to disappoint, singing is one of many things she spent her youth cultivating, though hardly a line of melody has been heard from her since she’s become queen consort; even so, her voice finds good use today in making hard to hear truths sound that much sweeter. Diplomacy by itself is hard, and even harder if one cannot even bear to listen.

EVELYN. Derived from Eve, meaning to live, to breathe. Left with the decision to live, eyes closed in intentional ignorance, to endure that which she’s lived with thus far, or take a bite of the forbidden fruit, unsure what might be wrought by it. Pose the question to anyone, and everyone’s answer shall differ, from their motivations to their goals.

VALMONT. Even after 26 years, the name feels ill-settled. Perhaps it’s a symptom of not loving the man the name comes with, not even liking him — but either way, it is hers now, as much as Altaire is not. It belongs to her, and she, it; a cruel reminder of how she is but equivalent to her husband in all the simple ways that matter to the majority of people.

(née ALTAIRE.) A call to the star altair, from the constellation of aquila. This is the name that she turns to, though she’s spent more years of her life a Valmont than she has an Altaire. ( Further elaboration kept in the extras section. )

FACECLAIM: I’d love to use (1) Zhang Ziyi or (2) Michelle Yeoh!

AGE: 46 years old.

DETAILS: I’m running out of time a little (was a tad overzealous in the background portion, oops), but I was drawn to the restraint and the duty that the Empress’ skeleton shows. It teems, a bit, with her raw power: she is regal and brilliant, but she is never consumed by it, always holding back, be it with her daughter, with her anger, or with herself.

She builds her own cage, stipulates her own conditions, calls that duty, and sees things through.

BACKGROUND: [ tw: blood mentions, violence ]

You are born with a tightly closed bud for a heart; you remember the feeling distinctly: how curiously stuffy and closed it felt in the cage of your chest as a child, roaming the echoing halls of the Altaire estate alone, with no equal. Nannies, maidservants, and tutors alike would chase you down those halls, all the way into the doorway of your father’s study, where they would skid to a halt, even as you brazenly pitter-pattered your way in.

Sometimes you’d turn your head around and watch them as they stumbled through a stammering apology to your father, and you wouldn’t feel a single thing, observing as blankly and uncannily as a doll on a shelf.

Your father is the eldest son of his father, and head of the family in his own right, and you are his first daughter.

There are certain dues and certain duties that come with such coveted title, and even as he scooped you into his arms and waved off the hesitant apology, he impressed the importance of it upon you.

He would stride to the window behind his desk, look out of it, over the grand view of your family’s ancestral estate.

“The hedges,” he would say. “They look nice, do they not?”

And they do.

“But they would fall into disarray if someone did not take care of them. Perhaps they would wither and die with no water, or grow too wild with no trimming, or maybe, they would get trampled by those who don’t care.”

You blink at him.

“Our groundskeeper must tend to that, and in turn, I, him. Do you understand, Calliope?” He asks, setting you back down.

You walk over to the window and set your hands on the sill, getting up on your tiptoes to peer out over the edge.

He smiles at this, running a fond hand over the crown of your head and smoothing it over your head. “Perhaps not,” he says, resting his heavy hand on your shoulder, and your knees lock with the effort to keep you standing firm for it to rest comfortably there. “But you will. You’ll understand what it is that we owe to each other.”

.

You don’t understand, because, really, how could you?

You eat from polished silver plates and with fine cutlery, wear silks woven from the sheerest threads; this all, you’ve never worked a day in your life for -- it’s simply something that just is, and no one seems to question it. So what could you possibly owe?

But the solemnity still weighs on you, your father’s expectant hand, as if still on your shoulder. The bud of your heart begins to bloom with the prospect of a future where you do understand.

The tutors work hard to impart their knowledge on you: as varied as recounts of historical battles, to fencing, and then painting; they work for you endlessly, and you realize, in turn, you must work tirelessly. Otherwise, what is the point?

You begin to excel, outstripping your cousins, companions, shattering the lofty ceiling of expectations over your head that, once upon a time, you mistook for shelter.

The bloom of your heart is nurtured to blossom through all this careful cultivation.

.

You always attend feasts and banquets and soirée’s, but you, rarely, if ever, host them. You pick at the food in front of you, loathe to take too much on your plate, unsettled by the idea of eating overmuch and owing thus in turn.

“Why don’t we host anything?” You ask your father one day.

“We don’t need to,” he says simply. “We do not buy anything we can make.”

“What are they buying?” You ask, frowning. “It’s a feast, not a market.”

“Loyalty, good will, perhaps love,” he answers. “These, daughter, are never wares that you can buy. You can have the initial illusion of them, but they will one day shimmer and fade. If you should speak, they should listen. If you should cry, they should mourn. And if you should bare all your fanged teeth and smile, they should tremble. These are not things that gold can ever buy.”

You practice a smile in the mirror that night.

You look a doll, and you go to sleep disappointed.

.

You sharpen your focus on your studies; your mind is made into a knife, your tongue honed to match, whet upon the leatherbound volumes tucked in the deepest crevices of the library. You hope these will show in the lines of your smile.

At the end of your 17th winter, you know three different instruments, from the zither to the lute, the quickest way to disarm and kill a man, and the battlefield strategies employed in three of Tyrholm’s greatest victories. But perhaps most importantly, you know how to hide all of this and play pacific diplomat.

.

You step into Septimus’ court for the first time when you’re 18, making your first, most notable debut, though most of Hightown knows you and your family already, but there are suitors to ensnare, traditions that must be followed. You flit and flitter between different people in the reception hall of the grand Castle Tyrholm, taking care to cover your laughs with a demure hand, to smile with your lips closed, neither teeth nor ambitions bared.

You catch the notice of many pleasingly well-matched prospectives, and you continue to nurture those fledglings into flights of fancy.

It takes time, of course, but after a full year, potentials, prospectives, all the likes turn into official declarations; to say you are pleased is to understate it.

You’ve worked hard for it.

.

Perhaps too hard.

You’re invited back to court while your family meets with all of those dedicated suitors, for reasons unspecified except that the King should wish to host you.

You make your way into the reception hall, make your rounds of formal greetings, all too wary of the way his eye follows your path, and the way his sixth wife tracks his venomously. Her family has never been too warmly disposed to yours.

He greets you in as grandiose a manner possible, his voice booming and carrying over the general noise of the gathering some ways away in the hall, jovial enough to almost make you forget the whispers of what he has done in the shadows.

“You’re from the Altaire family, correct, my dear girl?” He asks, clearing his throat. “Good family,” he says, as if to himself. “Always been good to the Valmonts.”

“We have only been the crown’s humble servants in the same way any other noble family has,” you say, dipping your head in acknowledgement and smiling.

“Nonsense,” he says, grinning and waving a grand, ringed hand. “Your father has held the south quite firm. Orderly. I have thought to reward him, but it is hard to find anything fitting. Except for one thing. How about you stay in the court?”

“Your majesty,” you start, mind racing, trying to find the most subtle way to bring up the matches your family is currently discussing.

“Your majesty,” his wife cuts in, looking at you. “As your wife, and out of the love I bear you, I think we should be careful of the dogs that we bring into court, to save ourselves the pain of being bit when we find out later that they are wolves.”

You dip your head again, trying your best to smile. “My queen,” you say, making yourself as soft and sweet as you can. “Family Altaire has always had the phoenix as our sigil. We are naught but the crown’s loyal songbird.”

“Phoenixes burn, do they not?” She insists, cold.

“They simply rise from the flames, my queen,” you respond.

“Songbird, you say,” Septimus cuts in, clearly having tuned out everything you and the queen consort has just said. “Do you sing?”

“If it pleases you,” you say, dismay sinking in your stomach, though you’re careful not to let it show on your face.

“It does,” he responds.

.

You return home soon after, and recount the happenings back to your father over dinner.

Neither of you are surprised when the queen consort dies a couple weeks later, in what is announced to be an unfortunate carriage accident, but your hands still tremble when you open the King’s gold stamped letter.

.

You wear a red veil in your wedding, a morbid carmine that you explain to be the olde colors of Altaire, and you steel yourself when he lifts it from your face.

Plans change, but duty does not.

You will do this well, as you have done everything, as you will do everything.

.

How Septimus can be twice your age but half as mature is beyond you.

“My darling songbird,” he often says when he calls on you. “Won’t you sing me a song?”

You bite the side of your tongue, meeting the eye of an advisor across the room, and refrain from saying, don’t you have court to hold? Things to do? “If it would please you,” you echo, bound to this role you must play.

“It would,” he responds, lounging back, contented.

.

“My little nightingale,” he says one day, sauntering into your quarters, once again before he must hold court, evidently putting it off. “I long to hear one of your melodies.”

You look up from the tome you are reading on Tyrholm’s laws.

“My king,” you say, injecting some amount of falsified surprise into your voice, though you have been preparing for this. “Is it not time for the court to meet?”

He grumbles and huffs and scoffs like a child told to do chores; you’ve upset him with this mention.

“How about I sing you a song after?” You offer gently. “I shall even keep you company through the whole thing.”

He thinks on this for a second, and acquiesces, sighing largely, as he turns to head out of your quarters, and you stand to follow. You grin, teeth flashing at his back.

.

It is an anomaly, at first, your presence. And then it is a pattern, and lastly, a habit.  

He hardly pays attention, usually looking at odd corners of the room while people address him before an advisor prompts him with a suggestion, and he waves at them to carry it out, everything going in one ear and out the other.

You watch this happen several times before you start chiming in with your own quiet suggestions. The first time you do, he is stunned into being the most attentive he’s been all afternoon. But you simply tilt your head and widen your eyes and offer the mild upturn of your lips, as guileless as can be. But he seems to come to much the same conclusion he always does: as long as it is not something he has to do, it’s all fine.

And so it continues.

.

“I would like some peaches,” he says one day at breakfast, pushing his heaping plate away from him. “It is well into season, and we have not seen any. Where are they?”

“The harvest hasn’t been kind in the Norfolk region,” you remind him, cutting a bite sized portion off his abandoned plate, loathe for it to be squandered like such. “The duke told us as much two weeks back. They haven’t sent any as of yet.”

“They will not send us any?” he asks, now enraged.

You look up in alarm, wondering what exactly has set him off.

“Send summons to him,” he says, grimly. “We will see if he still does not have any to send.”

.

The poor duke looks rather more haggard as compared to when you last saw him, bleary-eyed, no doubt, from the hard ride from his region to the castle.

“Your majesty,” he says, bowing deep before waving people forward with a slipshod looking crate. “The few peaches we have from this year’s poor harvest.”

Septimus peers into it.

“They are bruised,” he notes.

“Yes, your majesty,” the duke responds. “From the ride. My most sincere apologies.”

“Just this crate?” He asks dubiously.

“We have no more to spare,” the duke responds, looking desperate and cornered.

You sit forward, your stomach churning, worried that this is taking a turn for the worse. “Those will go well in a pastry,” you say, as evenly as possible. “They need to be soft. My hopes for you to see a better harvest soon, right, my dear?” You rush out, looking over at your husband.

“If you had this now, then where were they two weeks ago?” Septimus presses on, red rising in his face.

“We must eat too, my king,” the duke yells.

Septimus turns to an advisor. “I want every peach seized from Norfolk,” he says. “Send men now!”

You realize fairly quickly that this is not headed in any good direction, but when you stand to try and appease Septimus, the speed at which you do leaves you lightheaded, and you stumble lightly, gripping onto your seat weakly. He looks to you, alerted by your movement in his peripheral, and concerned by the way you sway. The nearby guards are momentarily distracted by this as well.

In that moment, the duke springs forward, brandishing a small knife as he leaps toward Septimus, and your tongue feels glued to the roof of your mouth, a wave nausea forcing your mouth shut as you watch helplessly as everything begins to unfold.

“You can’t,” he snarls, as he comes in closer, fearful and wild. There’s a scuffle, and you stumble back, a hand pressed to your chest as you dodge the brunt of guards rushing in, and Septimus yelling, and the duke fighting.

When the din quiets down, you peer around the crowd of Kingsguards to the duke, where he kneels, knife slipping from his numb fingers, impaled several times by Septimus’ wary guards’ swords.

You struggle to catch your breath.

“I want every man’s head from the Norfolk region who is here today,” Septimus says, cold. “Bring them in.”

“Who’s blood is that?” You ask, looking at the front of his silks, where an accusatory patch of blood sits. “Are you hurt? You should rest before you bring the men in.” You amend.

“It’s just a stain,” he says, curling his lip in disgust as he looks down at the duke.

You clap a hand to your mouth, and stumble away, stomach heaving out its contents.

Everyone looks at you in concern.

“Are you hurt?” he asks.

You turn back, wide-eyed, mouth sour and still trying to catch your breath. “I’m pregnant,” you say quietly, and are quickly escorted out of the room before the Norfolk men are marched in.

.

He comes in your quarters that night, freshly changed. “A song, my dear?” he asks.

“My voice cannot,” you say, looking out your window, purposefully making it hoarser; it’s easy, bile-seared as it is. “Perhaps we should hire a bard.”

.

You’re not allowed to sit in on court anymore, for the sake of your safety and your unborn child’s safety, and you try not to harbor a seed of resentment towards it for this reason.

Your absence is both noted and felt, and you try to keep that from watering the anger that takes root in you.

.

You distract yourself with whatever you can, though your freedoms are more and more restricted the further along you are, and it eats away at your heart, shedding petals with every passing day.

You push your way out of your rooms one day, announcing that you intend to go see what is in the cards for your child to Septimus, so you can at least have a reason to step outside.

You survey the faces of everyone you pass by, wondering what they’re thinking as you brush through the echoing halls.

.

The mage rests a hand on your belly before she draws it back quickly, snatching it away as if burned.

“What is it?” You ask, eyes narrowing.

“The end of all things,” the mage answers as your breath stills in your lungs. “Or,” she amends, closing her eyes and turning her face to the sun. “The beginning of them.” She opens her eyes. “You are an Altaire, are you not?”

“I am a Valmont now,” you say, devoid of everything.

“With the sigil phoenix,” the mage continues. “It’s so beautiful. Cycles on cycles, life and death, ashes and embers.”

“Don’t,” you hiss, thinking about what your predecessor once said.

.

You try to ignore the mage’s words, but as more things begin to happen, you grow increasingly more worried about the kind of child that a man like Septimus can sire paired with your own ability to excel.

If he were more capable, would his reign truly be prosperous? Or would it simply be more effectively terrible?

.

Several things become clear in pain; as all with disasters, there is only striking clarity on how to move forward: one step at a time.

You writhe in your bed, hair plastered to your temples with sweat; you push and scream and tear at your silk sheets and your mind races.

First, your child can never see the throne.

Second, you must be bolstered where Septimus falters.

Third, you were queen to Tyrholm first, and a mother second, and your priorities must reflect that.

It is what you owe.

.

“It is a girl,” the midwife says. “Congratulations, your majesty. Would you like to hold her?”

“Not yet, thank you,” you say, looking at your reflection in mirror at the corner of your room and grinning slow and sure, watching as your teeth show themselves, pearly inch by pearly inch.

You look feral, and you tremble.

PLOT IDEAS: ⇢ I think that it almost goes without needing to be said, but I would be excited to see which way she turns, if she turns. In her skeleton, it felt like there was almost an undercurrent of ruthlessness that ran through it, from keeping her own daughter at arm’s length, to being just angry enough to consider what might become of her husband in that moment, and in deciding if there was a need to see one successor, ah, handled, shall we say, to ensure the other’s success — and that shows me that not only her options are open and flexible, she’s willing to see them through. She, in my opinion, is at a crossroads between the slow condemning certainty of stagnation versus the unknowable risks of advancement. One way or the other, the winds of change are blowing, and they are oftentimes a fatal breeze for those on the wrong side of it. And while I do think she would be content to have died for the betterment of Tyrholm as a whole, pointlessness is hardly on her bucket list. ↳ A small, secondary point to say I especially am curious about who may cultivate her, bend her ear, try to influence her. Whether that’s to convince her of the efficacy of someone else (her included, if perhaps Justice is swayed) taking power, to keep her convinced to consolidate behind her husband, or push another successor’s agenda — no doubt all of the back and forth as people try to figure out her stance will be interesting.

⇢ The flavor behind their 👏 family 👏 drama 👏! With Septimus more and more unfit to rule, and not getting any younger, the race for a proper successor (her own daughter exempted, of course, for the good of their people) is on, coup or no coup. I’d like to see how a family dinner - or any family event, really - goes, with all those complex relationships at play, every single relationship taut as the strings on a zither, and oh, how the tension must strum between them. Everyone must seem like children to her, playing at politics, each too caught up in their own wants and needs, forgetting about the big picture: the people of Tyrholm. Her interests and obligations lie in the betterment of Tyrholm’s general welfare, and who are her options? A fifty-fifty gamble with her own daughter, an heir apparent too desperate for admiration (which a steadfast ruler does not make), and a groomed successor too caught up with the ghosts in their own vision to see the bigger picture a monarch needs to see. I wonder who she’ll cast her lot behind, if at all any, and what ends she will go to if her own daughter decides the other two no more fit to rule than themself. After all, the people do love her - and if the World were to ask, would the people not follow?

⇢ There’s a core of loneliness in her that’s masked by layers of regalia and obligation: stuck with a husband she does not love, a daughter she cannot love, and a lover she has determined she must not love. But on that, she doesn’t dwell, cannot dwell — there’s always something to be done, after all. There’s always something to oversee, a city to govern, people to placate, and in the end, there is little of herself left for her. The thing about monarchs being peerless is, well, they’re peerless. Her husband finds ways around it: going through wives like wine, interesting people all brought to court, cast into the role of entertainment, balls and feasts and revelry galore; in which she always takes part but does not partake, and I wonder if there will be someone who sees the queen in her high tower, and if they’ll bother to knock - and if they do, what it might mean to her.

CHARACTER DEATH: I’m comfortable with it!

WRITING SAMPLE.

She wonders if the courtiers think her vain, with the amount of time she spends looking into the mirror. Certainly, she can understand that if one was simply to only look and not see, her behavior appears vain. But it’s with a profound lack of admiration that she looks at her reflection with, and more an examination of what others may see when they look at her. She has spent so much time studying the quirks of her husband’s quick changing moods: the way that it so obsequiously darkens in anger, upturns in joy, scrunches in pain, slants in mockery. As such, she needs to know: does her face tell of the anger that roots itself so insidiously in the hollows of her chest? Does it speak of the way she wishes to live, but lives to serve?

It does not.

At least, it does not when she goes looking for it, and she cannot say whether or not she is well pleased by this. It is, at the very least, a small victory in the way she tries to differentiate herself from her husband, entwined as they are through simple affiliation.

Calliope has found, recently, that she has a desolate sort of beauty. Time has been a kind master to her in a way that it hasn’t been to her husband; as he grows in width and wrinkles, only the subtle tells of lines are present in her. But with all things that are too passed by the ravages of time, it is, admittedly, a little eerie. Things too well preserved tend to tell of an absence of life; such is the only way it can stand untouched, a beautiful spectre of a testament.

She turns away from her vanity, walking over to the map she has splayed out over her desk, the rolled corners of it weighed down by various books. She traces the area she knows the troops are being led to with a careful finger; the parchment is wearing thin, and one wrong move may split the map in two. Victory is not what is in question, only the aftermath.

She’s torn from her thoughts rather abruptly, as a sharp knock sounds at her door, and it opens without her beckon.

“The Emperor is back,” comes the harried response, before she can even ask what’s wrong.

“And the troops?” She asks, striding to exit her room.

“Mostly unharmed, they say.”

“Good,” she says briskly, though her furrowed brow hardly mirrors the sentiment, and sweeps out of her room without another word. No one stops her on her way to the reception hall, though the halls buzz with movement and whispers. They conveniently quiet when she comes near; the silence is more worrying than anger could ever be, but she doesn’t slow until she reaches the entrance to the reception hall. The Emperor is not there, but Septimus is, and he looks at her before he turns from her, and she does the same.

It happens often these days, but she has spent years making herself indispensable, cultivating a small following in his inner circle, enough that she mostly need not worry for her own head yet.

The makeshift Koldam crown greets her from its display box when she finds her way to the entrance hall, the bark of its twined twigs flaking with week-old blood; the Emperor’s blank stare greets her as well.

He is not warmly disposed towards her, but it’s hardly about her now, both of them focused on that little nest they’ve taken to calling a crown.

“Well fought,” she says, but the slant of her tongue means what have you wrought upon us?

He doesn’t respond, still looking at the crown, and for the first time in years, she doesn’t see a petulant child when she looks at him. She leaves the hall, heart dry and withering, the petals of hope for any amount of normalcy shredding.

EXTRAS.

⇢ I drew the house banner for the Altaire family before I realized that there was a slight overlap (the color gold) with Valmont colors, but here it is! (x)

⇢ HEADCANONS. ↳ ALTAIRE. They were not always the wealthiest family in Hightown, as her father is wont to remind her. Never forget that, he says. But never let anyone else remember, either. It is hard for most families, preoccupied as they are with their own going-ons, to remember a time that the Altaire’s were not at the forefront of the noble houses. But trace the thread back far enough, and it will show that which their family has worked so hard to cover: that before they were everything, they were nothing.

It is a long story that no one dares tell; to tell it is to give life to it, and that is dangerous for a family that would sooner people forget it. Calliope only knows the gist of it: an old name hence forgotten, covered with a new one picked to match the place they chose to live in, a fortune amassed through taking advantage of circumstances not unlike what threatens on the horizon now, made unfathomably bigger still by cultivating the right people, and then proceeding to grow until their roots choked out the husks of their competition, so naturally integrated that one might mistake them for having always been there.

There are subtle changes one can spot if one looks closely. Much like the rings left behind by the years in tree trunks, they cannot hide growth completely. Old banners still have the color red instead of their more recently adopted secondary, even though new ones are emblazoned with their covetous phoenix in grand gold filigree, like it’s always been that way, with only hints of their old colors left as a subtle reminder to themselves. But it never does to forget oneself completely, and the house motto remains, as it has, an idiom in an old tongue: 一叶知秋. A single leaf heralds the coming of Autumn. Know that which will come from a single sign.

↳ BEHOLDEN. On her seventh birthday, her parents give her a finely worked bangle that resembles one she’s seen her mother wear constantly, and she puts it on immediately. It is too big for her at the time, and periodically it falls off, but her parents remind her without fail about it. Much of her youth is spent picking it up and putting it back on, until she needs no more reminders to put it back on, and it becomes a habit, a comfort, even, to wear. Eventually, almost without her notice through the years, she grows around it, its ever-presence; as it forms to the curve of her wrist, her hand grows enough that it stops falling off.

She tries pulling it off once, when she’s 16 and just noticed it never falls off anymore, but it catches on the bones of her hand painfully and leaves her with naught but a welt for her efforts. The bangle has a name, her parents tell her the next day, when they see the red around her knuckles, and it is duty. It will come off in two ways: if she breaks herself to rip herself free of it, or if she breaks it to escape. She does not try it again, and it glints and jangles on her wrist as she walks the halls of Castle Tyrholm now.

↳ LIKE MOTHER... like daughter. It was harder than she expected, sometimes, holding herself away from her daughter. Even now, there is an affability to the World, a multifaceted, unnameable quality that is inherently lovable. But she cannot love her like that, cannot be a mother to her first without forgetting her responsibilities. To love singularly is to favor above all else; to love consumingly is to declare you hate all other things. With a prophecy weighing on her daughter’s shoulders, it would be asking her to choose a single life over the lives of all people of Tyrholm.

She doesn’t know how to love them without having to eventually make that choice, and chooses to abstain from it completely. For all that they are similar, hasn’t it been nurtured to bloom by anyone but her?

↳ SILKS. Dresses are to a queen as armor is to a soldier. When she was younger, she wore the most current fashion, in usually Valmont colors; back then, she had been ushered in hastily to a court that had known six other queens, and she had to make some sort of statement. These days, her dresses are, more often than not, in her own family’s colors and adorned with more metallic accents, reminiscent of armor.

↳ I’m out of time but thank you for reading to this point!! I know it was long and A Lot In General, so take care and good luck with the rest of the applications and acceptances

[rubypop]

Hunger, Chapter 9 - Dragon Age 2

Hunger by rubypop Chapter 9

Anders trailed after Fenris as they tracked their demonic attackers. They followed a path of indiscriminate destruction: the shredded-bare backs of pines, the heads of kingcups and brush trampled flat, the residuum of partially-consumed and regurgitated creatures. At one point they discovered the hollows of a fox's den, silent, and redolent with spilled blood, where nothing remained except for telltale scratches and scrabblings in the dirt.

"They would have cleared the entire forest, had they lived," Fenris observed, and moved on.

It became very obvious to both of them, over time, that Fenris was the only one speaking. Neither of them addressed this. Anders wandered behind Fenris with downcast eyes. He could not prevent the invasion of the beggar-girl's memory. He could not shake that sense of altruistic ecstasy that had briefly eclipsed his despair, nor the sight of her haunted eyes, the sound of coins ringing against a tin cup. Guilt chewed at the edges of his mind, where thoughts of Hawke were too painful to scrutinize. He cursed himself, repeatedly.

For Fenris's part, the satisfaction of proving, to him, Anders's unequivocal hypocrisy had been short-lived. He found he could not delight in Hawke's betrayal. He continued on with a hunter's focus. He would exterminate the beast. He would find her. He would keep her safe.

For days they tracked and traced, and slept fitfully, until one evening they broke free of the forest and caught sight of thatched roofs just beyond the ridge of a limestone promontory.

#

Dragana faltered within the cavernous den. The cragged floor was hot beneath her feet. She toyed with her cane. He stood against the far wall with his back to her, just as she had last seen him, heaving slowly and deliberately. She curtsied and said, "My Lord."

He sucked in his breath and emitted a long, steady gust of air. The temperature rose.

"It is your Dragana," she said.

"I do not smell new blood," he rumbled. A tremor shook the chamber.

"My Lord, I am so sorry. I did not have time to bathe."

"You would risk my displeasure?"

"I'm sorry," she stammered.

His shoulders returned to their rhythmic rise and fall. He leaned forward, propping his forehead against the wall.

Dragana took a hesitant step. Sweat was beading her face, her lip, the bony knuckles of her hands. "My Lord still feels unwell?"

There came a soft growl from the walls, from the ceiling.

"I wish there were something I could do."

"What have you come here to say, that you would present yourself to me unwashed?"

"I just wanted to inform you — to tell you — that —" Her voice failed her. She tried again. "That Florian. He —"

A second growl, and Dragana leaned hard on her cane. She lowered her eyes with shame. His massive form shifted, just slightly, and she saw that he was touching his stomach with great delicacy.

"It is her, isn't it?" she said softly.

He growled again.

She pressed on: "Oh, I hate how she makes you suffer. It fills my heart with distress to see you this way. She is hateful, a hateful thing."

"You are testing my patience."

"Please, forgive me. Nevermind silly old Florian." She flung out her hand, as though disposing of the very idea. "My Lord, your envoy has not returned. It has been several days."

"Have your butcher send out more, then."

"My Lord. Florian says there are not enough —"

"You do not listen to the butcher. You listen to me."

"Such is the truth, my Lord."

He sighed, breathed in, sighed again. His great fingers curled into a fist against his stomach. "I cannot sense them in the Fade," he said. "They have all been dispatched. A grave disappointment."

Dragana chewed her lip.

"No matter. You will meet them, then."

"I, my Lord?"

"Yes. I leave this to you and your butcher. Ensure they come nowhere near this place. Or I shall be very displeased."

She nodded vigorously. "Yes, my Lord. Of course. I will not disappoint you. I will make you so very happy."

He groaned then, faintly, and sagged against the wall. She chanced a step.

"My Lord? A gentle touch, if I may?"

She crossed the chamber without awaiting an answer, and laid a hand against his arm, hoping for a kiss, an acquiescing gesture, some sign of his former tenderness. No sooner had she brushed the torrid flesh than he rounded on her with an echoing bellow, and she leapt back, her heart leaping similarly in her chest.

"LEAVE ME," he snarled, and she fled to the exit, his deafening fury ringing in her ears.

#

Fenris and Anders skirted the promontory with great caution. It was a vast, sheer cliff of bone-colored rock, within which the dusky sunlight revealed gleaming crimson seams. The village itself crowded along the knurled steps of the cliffside. They came to a gate of weathered stone and stood observing it from a distance.

A breeze ruffled through them, and Anders wrinkled his nose. "Maker, what is that stench?"

"It smells of corpses. Old ones."

"Pleasant." Anders pointed to the gate. "Ah. Do you see those?"

Fenris squinted. Swaying against the columns of the gate were large, fleshy blossoms, at least half a dozen of them. Each had five russet-colored lobes — petals — dappled with white spots. Bloated flies dodged and dove around them.

"Flowers?" Fenris said.

"Rafflesias," Anders said. "A jungle plant, known in the Donarks as the Carrion Flower. At least, according to the books they allowed us in the Circle. The odor attracts botflies. Rafflesias are — a parasitic species." He frowned. "Strange to see them here in the Free Marches."

"Quite." Fenris scanned the wall that surrounded the village. "The question is, are they a decoration or a warning?"

"The gate is open. It is possible the village has nothing to do with Hunger."

"I sincerely doubt it." Fenris huffed a short sigh. "Well. Let us see what we find."

They approached the gate and crossed into the village proper. The terrain was a notched series of limestone shelves dense with stone cottages, the roofs woven with lichen and bulrush. Stray vines crept across the gravel paths, sporting more specimens of the curious flowers. All was quiet save for a lone lamplighter, a young man precariously standing on tiptoe to light a high torch. Perhaps a third of the houses were lit from within, and the rest stood dark and silent.

"You there," Anders called, and the lamplighter glanced about, missing the torch completely. He lowered his wick.

"Me, serah?"

"Yes. Tell us, whereabouts is the inn?"

"You'd have us sleep here?" Fenris muttered between gritted teeth.

"The inn?" The lamplighter removed his cap and wiped his forehead. "I'd say it shut down close to two years ago. There's a pub, though. Might have a couple spare rooms."

"I see. Not many visitors, then?"

"Not many travelers in this corner of the Marches, serah."

"Strange flora you have here," Fenris said.

The lamplighter glanced down at a cluster of rafflesias that clung to a cottage wall. "Ah, you mean these? Didn't used to get them. We had a strange season a few years back, awful strange, when the village Lord died."

"Did he?"

"Yes, serah. Lord Croceum. Fine man. Loved his daughter more than anything. The place was lousy with crocuses back then, red as rouge-cakes. Quite sad when he died. Broke everyone's heart. These ugly plants sprouted up not long after. Now the entire cliffside stinks like a charnel house."

"How," Anders said slowly, "many years ago, did you say?"

"Not sure. Three, maybe four."

Anders turned to Fenris. "Well. A drink certainly seems to be in order, don't you agree?" He nodded to the lamplighter. "Thank you, serah. And where is that pub?"

He pointed with his wick, the flame streaking along the end of the long pole. "Just up that way along the cliff. Sign says 'The Adder's Root.'"

They thanked him and hurried off, and he stretched back up toward the torch. It flared to life as they passed, throwing their shadows against the darkened cottages.

"You heard him?" Anders said under his breath.

"Of course I heard him."

"Four years ago. That was when Hawke arrived in Kirkwall, was it not? Strange coincidence, that."

"More than coincidence."

They approached a squat public house that ran to the very edge of the cliff. It indeed bore a sign, "The Adder's Root," in elaborate script over a carving of a strange flower, all pointed spadix and spathe, like the head of a spear. They paused before the door and glanced at one another briefly, and then they went in.

A low fire crackled and spit in a central hearth. This and a small glassed lamp at the bar provided the only illumination, which seemed to lessen as the sun sank lower. Tables and chairs stood empty over a rust-colored throw rug. A single patron slumped at the bar, downing a flagon of ale, and a barmaid banged trays in the washbasin.

Anders lingered, and Fenris went to the bar and sat. The barmaid turned to him, her expression weary and unchanging.

"Dalish?" she said pointedly, as she looked him up and down.

"Thirsty." He tapped a trio of coppers against the counter. The other patron drank deeply from his flagon and ignored them.

She held out her hand. The lines in her palm were etched black with dirt. He dropped the coins onto it.

"Sun Blonde Vintage."

"Don't got it." She closed her fingers around the coins. "Sack mead, ale, or nothing."

"Fine. Sack, then."

"Never seen Dalish tattoos like that," she said, pocketing the coins, and she bustled away with a glass as the lone patron raised his head and finally noticed them.

Anders crossed the room. He did not see how the stranger's eyes alighted on Fenris, how they followed the silver paths along his arms to his throat, to his face. Fenris watched the barmaid vanish into the larder and, feeling eyes upon him like prodding hands, returned the stranger's gaze with a scowl.

"Yes?" he said impatiently.

The man smiled. His face, well-cut and boyish, bore a shade of noblesse that was absent from the few locals they'd seen. His nose was long and avian beneath sharp eyes. A crop of black curls drifted about his face.

"Not Dalish, those markings," he said. Traces of a foreign accent gilded his words.

"No," Fenris said.

"Magnificent work, regardless."

Fenris merely glowered at the larder door, and the barmaid returned, setting an egg-shaped glass of mead in front of him. He seized it and drank. The wine flashed gold in the firelight.

The stranger looked to Anders. "Traveling?" he said lightly.

"Passing through," Anders said, shaking his head at the barmaid when she approached him expectantly.

"I see. You do not look like a Marcher. A refugee, then, like so many others? From the Blight?"

Anders nodded. "Very good," he said. "And your accent?"

The man's smile widened, and he propped his jaw against his fist, where golden rings shimmered. "My father hails from Orlais," he said. "I myself am from Ostwick. Florian." He nodded. "Of the Lefebvre family."

"Pleasure," Anders said, as Fenris threw back his head and drained his glass. "So you are traveling as well?"

"Alas, no. I make a humble living here, as a butcher. 'Tis an enlightening way of life."

"I see. Have you lived here long?"

"Not long."

"Before, perchance, the death of Lord, ah —"

The black eyebrows lifted. "Croceum? Yes."

"Right. We noticed some strange flowers at the village gate, and strewn all about. A villager told us that they have not always been here."

"Ah. Yes. They are a favorite of the Lady Croceum."

"His wife?"

The butcher shook his head. "Daughter. A lovely eccentric. One of the flowers was given to her as a gift by an esteemed visitor. They've since rather taken to the place."

Anders scratched his beard thoughtfully. "I didn't think such plants would flourish in a mountain clime."

"Ah, but the air here has grown quite warm over the years. Some say it is the final breath of the late Lord, gone out of him."

"Poetic," Fenris said, waving to the barmaid, who took his glass back to the larder.

Florian's gaze alighted on him once more. "And you," he said. "From where have you traveled?"

"It does not matter where I am from," Fenris said.

"I see. Your companion here," and he nodded to Anders, "has quite a telltale look about him. Such light hair, as in the arid lands. You are from the Anderfels?"

Anders blinked. "Quite impressive."

Florian laughed. "I am well-traveled, myself. Your name?"

"Anders."

"Anders of the Anderfels." And he laughed again, pleasantly, each note like music. "Very good, very good. You are a delight, serah."

Anders smiled, despite himself. Fenris reached for his second glass of mead.

"We were hoping to find a room for the night," Anders said.

"But the inn, you see, has closed."

"So we were told."

"Allow me to help." Florian drew from his breast pocket a silver coin and pushed it toward the barmaid. "When I arrived at the Root tonight, I was in quite a poor mood. You have lifted my spirits considerably. I personally serve the Lady Croceum. Her house will have plenty of room for you tonight."

Fenris looked at Anders sharply, who said, "Oh, my. That's unnecessary —"

"It is my pleasure." Florian pushed back his stool and offered his hand. "I will not hear otherwise. Come and meet Lady Croceum. I am sure you have many interesting stories she would love to hear. I imagine she would adore telling you more about the flowers, as well."

Anders smiled uncertainly and grasped his hand. "Well," he said, "how could we refuse?"

"You cannot." Florian's lips pulled back, just slightly, from his perfect teeth.

#

Florian escorted them from the Adder's Root to a flower-riddled path ascending the cliffside. The sun had long vanished, and the pair of moons lit the limestone with a subtle glitter. Fenris and Anders exchanged meaningful glances as they followed the lean, boyish butcher: Fenris glared, at which Anders helplessly lifted his eyebrows, prompting Fenris to nod at the way ahead, where a stately, if modestly-sized, manor awaited them. Anders saw then the rafflesias strung in the door frame, numerous and lurid and reeking, like fleshy tumors.

An elven servant opened the door for them, and for a moment he appeared startled when he saw Fenris, though he snapped to attention as Florian spoke.

"Grasin, please alert the Lady Croceum that she will have guests tonight. Ser Anders of the Anderfels," he said with a grin, "and his traveling companion, a reticent elf etched in marvelous silver."

"Of course, messere."

"And add two place settings to the table. I am sure that our guests are quite hungry."

"Yes, messere."

His stare lingered on Fenris and Anders, and he was gone.

"Please, come in." Florian led them through a foyer furnished in glossy dark woods and precisely-cut stone. Fenris glanced around, acutely aware of the silence in this place: no other servants seemed to be about. They next passed through a drawing room that smelled strongly of fresh varnish, its windows draped in heavy velvet, and from there they entered a dining room, in which a long table was set for two.

"Take your seats," Florian said. "Dinner shall be served very soon, and then you will be free to freshen up and rest. I shall go fetch the Lady. Grasin will return with your tableware."

He waited first for them to sit down, and left, leaving the doors to the drawing room open, so that the odor of varnish lingered.

"Quite eager to have us, that one," Fenris remarked.

"We'll see what the Lady of the village has to say," Anders said. "Considering the oddities that have occurred here since Hunger followed Marian from Ferelden . . ."

"Suppose they slit our throats while we sleep?"

"Why would they? Ser Lefebvre seems friendly enough."

"But this woman, this 'lovely eccentric' . . ."

A voice sang out then: "Ah, guests! Wonderful, wonderful!"

They rose from their seats. A young woman, younger than they expected, skipped through the drawing room and curtsied to them extravagantly. She wore a poppy-colored dress with flowing skirts and a generous bustle. The red of her hair nearly matched the dress, blanching a youthful, freckled face. Her feet, beneath a lacy hem, were petite and bare. Anders bowed in return. Fenris briefly nodded his head.

"So good to meet you." She flounced up to Fenris and, much to his surprise, took both of his hands and kissed them. She smiled up at him. "I am Lady Dragana Croceum."

"A pleasure," he stammered.

"What fearsome claws!" she cried, tapping the points of his fingers.

Florian entered the room then, followed by Grasin, who carried two sets of plates and cutlery.

"You shall have to remove them before dinner," Florian remarked.

"Nonsense, poppycock," Dragana said. "They are beautiful. Though, even more beautiful . . ." And she turned his hands over to admire his palms. ". . . are these strange and shimmery tattoos. You are quite a sight, lovely stranger."

"Now, Lady Croceum. You're embarrassing him. And again you have forgotten your cane."

"Hush, Florian." She laughed, light and brassy, and squeezed Fenris's hands. She released him and hopped into a chair, at which Grasin was laying a fine bone plate. "Everyone sit, please sit. Grasin, fetch the wine, will you?"

They sat. Grasin hurried from the room, and returned moments later with a decanter of jewel-red wine, which he emptied skillfully into their glasses. Dragana stood and raised her glass.

"To our guests," she announced, "weary travelers, please make yourselves at home. I do hope you find our hospitality acceptable."

"Here, here," Florian said, and Fenris and Anders nodded their thanks, and they drank.

Anders sipped his wine politely. Fenris waited an imperceptible second, until he'd seen the throbbing of his hosts' throats, and he downed his glass with a single gulp.

"My, my," Dragana said. "So glad to see you enjoy the wine."

He said nothing, and Anders hurriedly supplied, "We thank you for the generosity. It is undeserved."

Grasin returned with a great platter, upon which he balanced glazed and steaming meats, dishes of soup, and a basket heaped with bread. He lowered it to the table with little effort, though it must have been immensely heavy, and began to serve them all. He caught Fenris's eye as he leaned over Dragana's plate, and held it, and hastily returned to his work, as Fenris wrinkled his brow.

"Florian says you are interested in the rafflesias," Dragana chirped between swallows of wine.

"Ah. Yes. Quite unusual in this part of Thedas, I understand?" Anders said.

Grasin circled the table and distributed cuts of meat onto Fenris's plate.

"'Tis absolutely a rarity, in the Free Marches," Dragana said. "I am fortunate to have received one. I planted it in my garden, and it began to grow all over, happy as can be."

Grasin bent to one side, presumably to adjust a porringer of soup next to Fenris's plate, and whispered, "Do not eat the food."

"The, ah, scent does not bother you?" Anders said.

Grasin bowed himself out. Fenris did not turn his head.

Dragana gave an enchanting smile. "My sense of smell is rather lacking," she said. "I am often ill, you see."

"The Lady is delicate," Florian said.

"I see. My apologies for calling attention."

"Not at all, not at all." She plucked a roll of bread and licked up a bead of honey. "I do not mind sharing. Please, feel welcome to ask what you wish."

She bit into the roll, and Florian ladled soup into his mouth. Fenris glanced subtly at his dishes. Bands of coarse, treacly sauce coated the strips of pink meat. Stewed bones and offal steeped in liver-colored broth. Anders lifted his knife and fork. Fenris reached beneath the table and jabbed him, gently but firmly, with a single claw. Anders jumped, but their hosts seemed not to notice.

"Ser Lefebvre has told us that he is from Ostwick," Fenris said, perhaps too loudly. "What brought you here, to this place?"

"Oh, we were betrothed," Dragana said airily. She giggled again.

Fenris raised his eyebrows. "Were you?"

"Yes," Florian said, taking a considerable draught of wine.

"May I ask, then, since I am welcome to," Fenris said, as Anders shot him an irritated look, "why you are not married?"

"My father bankrupted our estate," Dragana said. She sawed a cutlet of meat. "Florian's daddy was not happy."

"A banker," Florian explained.

"But Florian stayed behind. Such a sweetheart."

"And so your father was still alive then?" Fenris said.

"Briefly," Dragana said.

"Erm," said Anders.

"He wandered off into the mountains," Florian remarked. "Not for the first time. He was a frequent depressive. He likely flung himself from the cliffs."

"I see." Anders lifted his wine glass and lowered it again.

Dragana braced both hands against the tabletop and pushed herself up. She stared pointedly at their plates. "Why, you haven't touched a morsel," she said.

Anders glanced, far too obviously, at Fenris.

"Eat, please." Dragana smiled. "Both of you."

"Alas, our journey this day has been long, exceedingly long," Fenris said. "We are utterly fatigued."

"Utterly," Anders said quickly.

"Oh, but it is so early."

"We traveled through the night," Anders said.

"A pity." She teased, "Perhaps you should not have drunk all of that wine so quickly, Ser Silver Elf. It has made you sleepy, and is robbing me of your company."

"My deepest apologies," Fenris said. He rose to his feet. "I do not wish to appear ungrateful."

Anders and Florian rose as well. Dragana remained seated.

"Promise you will dine with me again," she said, pointedly, to Fenris, "before you leave."

"I would not refuse," Fenris said, giving a short bow.

"We thank you," Anders added.

"Well. Florian." Dragana waved her little hand. "Though it pains me, please show our guests to their rooms. It is as they wish."

Florian went to the door. "Come, gentlemen."

They followed. Fenris glanced, momentarily, back. Dragana was smiling at him. She gave a little wave, and he turned away, a chill climbing with icy fingers up his spine.