#wind archer visage

[milk-and-trickery]

"Mmmm! Green Bean Salad!"

WHOSE READY FOR AN ARCHIE - SALAD ?!

[vacantgodling]

oc kiss week day 3: sunrise

WIP: the chronicles of lathsbury (tcol)

SHIP: clear brightendale (he/him, medic) x forte symphonia (he/him, ranger aka an archer)

SUMMARY: on a quiet morning, forte finally replies to the feelings clear shared with him 4 months ago.

worldbuilding notes: technically this is a spoiler scene, as it happens after the main plot events of tcol's book 1. aside from the kissing, no spoilers are really prevalent though.

It happened on a quiet sort of morning.

It rained the night before, there was fresh dew on the ground in patches of wet earth and grass, and the land smelled of a certain kind of freshness that could only be found in nature. Forte breathed the smell in deep, sitting silently on the small patch of dry roofing that his childhood home had to offer.

It was good to be back, better even than he imagined. Forte was never suited for city life. People were constantly bustling, hustling; there was always an unyielding sense of urgency that was lost on him— an urgency that he couldn’t understand. With so little time with the grass beneath their feet and the wind in their hair; it was as though people were eager to do as much as possible to leave some kind of legacy behind. Piper was like that: brash, fierce, bold, unwavering. Last he heard from her she was almost at the top of her class at the knight academy. The mark she wanted to leave on this world was bright, and it radiated the same intensity. But quite her opposite, Forte preferred these quiet moments, and he was craving them by the time he finally was able to cash in some vacation time with Cameron to come see how everyone was doing back home.

Bass Landing was a quiet sort of place. People knew each other well, and there was never any need for formalities. The community had been supporting itself on the backbone of the arts for centuries, and the familial ties that everyone felt there were too rich, and rooted in history to be broken. Forte grew up amongst his neighbor’s gardens; tall leafy plants teaching him his first lessons in utilizing visage. The river that ran behind the furthest outskirts of the settlement was a tumultuous teacher of the treachery life could bring: almost every year, the River Cadenza brought forth her waves and flooded the landscape. Every year as Forte watched, he began to learn how to predict her near unpredictable nature. It was when he told his findings to his mother that he received his first bow; for he had proven the intuition of a Ranger. It was a test he was never informed he would be taking, but one he was glad he did all the same. It felt too easy to reminisce when he was on the roof like this.

“Up so early already?”

Clear’s voice wasn’t an unwelcome one. He’d shown the medic the way up here when they arrived together two evenings ago, and each morning he would sleepily crawl up the rickety ladder to join him in watching the sunrise. It hadn’t been a whim that Forte asked him home either. After they finally talked 4 months ago, and Clear divulged the true meaning behind his avoidance, they’d been becoming closer than ever.

It was also not unwelcome.

As per usual, Clear drowsily rubbed his eyes and yawned, hoisting himself up the rest of the way of the ladder with relative ease. It was easy to forget the strength hidden underneath his covered arms— a strength that was misleading. Almost embarrassed to admit to it, his mind recalled the moment he realized just how strong the medic was when Clear hoisted him clean over his shoulder like a deadweight that meant nothing to him. He’d called Clear in for a demonstration in one of his classes for the best methods to carry injured teammates away from the Labyrinth or battle, and the class was positively delighted to see it happen. It was also the first time they’d touched each other casually since that night Clear told him and Forte pretended not to notice Clear’s hand flexing in the aftermath, as he was too busy trying to calm his heart’s own shivers.

“It feels like you keep waking up earlier and earlier to test my devotion.”

Forte quirked a small smirk. “Maybe I am.”

The medic laughed, quietly but brightly, and the sound was personified sunlight. The first few rays of the sun were beginning to peak out over the horizon, and Forte looked over to Clear as he got settled in, scooting over slightly so they could somewhat share the small patch of dry roof. They were close enough their shoulders touched.

“You won’t get rid of me that easily, Fort.” Clear sighed, a happy sound, then he dropped his head unceremoniously onto his shoulder, leaning into him instinctively. And just as instinctually, Forte found his arm sliding out and snaking around Clear’s trim waist to support him.

They said nothing for a long while; the silence was comfortable, both more than willing to bask in the sunrise and the other’s presence than fill the silence with unnecessary chatter. It was one of the many things Forte came to appreciate about Clear. Though when he got worked up his mouth ran a mile a minute, he was truly a man who appreciated silence. Often, he’d seen him in various places around the Guild, meditating, humming softly to himself as he did. It was a few weeks ago that Forte had been invited to join him, and what he thought was humming before seemed to be some sort of invocation or a prayer:

♪ Blessed be those who follow Her Blessed be those whom She guides My soul worn and weary from life Has followed Her to great divide ♪

“And when my time has come, O She,” He heard Clear whispering to himself, as if on cue with his memory. “Comforter of those benign Will take me home to Cerullis And my heart Hers to hide.”

“Where did you learn that song?” Clear hummed again, this time noncommittal. He didn’t answer right away and Forte didn’t push him— with Clear, facing his demons and uncovering his past was something that took time, energy, and patience. Forte had time.

“We used to—” Clear cut himself off, thought, then started again. “It’s a song sung before hunts to remind those participating to be unafraid. Death is not here to hurt, but to guide away to the promised land.” Clear finally looked at Forte, his eyes surprisingly calm. “I still sing it because it reminds me to be unafraid.”

“Is there something you’re afraid of right now?” Forte asked, and Clear chuckled, softly. “No. Not at all. It just brings me comfort.” Clear nestled back into his chest without another word, and Forte let his hold tighten around the medic.

When the sun’s rays were fully visible, the sky turned a brilliant shade of blue, and Forte looked over at Clear again. He was nodding off again, and the sun’s light was perfectly positioned just right so that he could admire him. His lashes were long and dark, fluttering like butterfly wings over his half visible purple eyes. His hair dropped in front of his face like, casting delicate shadows over his cheeks and nose. His lips were plush, slightly parted, enough to see the beginnings of his teeth. Forte was overcome with the overwhelming desire to kiss him. It was becoming harder not to these days.

But in this quiet moment, in this sleepy town, with a gentle breeze blowing across the expanse of the trees, up his roof and through the hair of his companion, Forte felt his heart swell— in a way he hadn’t felt in ages.

“Clear.” The medic sleepily opened his eyes, rubbing them on the back of his knuckle. “Oh! Sorry, did I fall asleep on you?” He began to sit up but Forte’s grip on his waist tightened, giving the other man pause. He looked at him questioningly. Somewhere in those bright, searching violet eyes, Forte saw poorly disguised hope.

“I love you.”

The wind blew Forte’s dark hair back from his face, and he watched the myriad of emotions morph on his companion’s face. He stayed perfectly still, letting him process it. His heart was a painful drumbeat against his ribs.

“You…. Mean that?” Clear finally settled on. He looked nervous—hopeful, but nervous. Afraid it was too soon. Never that it was a joke. He knew Forte would never joke with him like this. Not after what he said before.

Forte’s smile was soft, his eyes crinkling at their corners and genuine and something like a tidal wave crashed into Clear’s body that made it very hard to breathe. He didn’t say anything else, afraid of breaking whatever spell the two of them were under, with Forte looking at him like some immeasurably precious thing, and Clear too stunned to believe it was him he was looking at. But Forte broke the moment; he leaned in, and pressed soft, if chapped, lips against Clear’s own.

Kissing Forte was overwhelming, in the best way. Clear slowly let himself reply, pressing back gently, letting his eyes slowly fall closed and his arms slid up his firm chest to pull Forte closer. He went. His other arm came around to rest on Clear’s waist, and he tilted his head, letting the kiss fall deeper.

Clear smelled of lavender and fresh linen, and Forte felt intoxicated by the way lithe hands slowly climbed into his hair, tugging gently, but purposefully. Forte licked gently at the lip pressed against his, and Clear easily opened his mouth, and their tongues slid languidly against one another— enough to hint at an underlying desire that they would perhaps explore later. Much later. For now, it was enough to prod, to acknowledge, to taste, to slowly savor.

Forte slowly pulled back but didn’t stray far, and watched reverently as Clear’s eyes fluttered open. Their foreheads touched together gently, and the sun climbed higher in the sky, illuminating them.

“I love you too.” Clear said softly back and Forte smiled again, rubbing a thumb against his cheek and letting the warmth of the new morning envelope them in its embrace.

It felt like a new beginning

[chromiumagellanic06]

The Silver Knight: Warrior, Princess, Wife

Daemon Targaryen/Original Fem [Targaryen] Character

Chapter 24: Confession

MASTERLIST

Summary: Naera accepts her truth, and swears her allegiance

Word count: 3.2k

Warnings: nothing, really

“Where is the princess?”

Naera opened her eyes with a start, cold, harsh fog surrounding her. A distinct chill ran down her spine, flowing in short, quick bursts, as though the winter flood had come to the Riverlands. The sky was tanned, the colour of burnt sugar, dusted in mist.

Scales whipped past—pink, stained gold, scarred and leathery, humongous wings with a screeching presence. She could smell smoke, ash, and the salty seas. With a gasp, Naera blinked away the haziness. The rushing of waves greeted her ear, the sight of cavernous rocks around a stone corridor. Dragonstone. She stood on the passageway to the fortress from the sandy beach, half a dozen armoured knights behind her.

Daemon stood beside her, dressed in the finest, darkest black she had seen—black as though the terrorful night had embraced his visage—and his hand crawled along Dark Sister’s hilt as though the very air held threats. His face resembled a scowl, his shoulders tensed, but he glanced at her, and his eyes took some relief from her calm. He nodded, absent, catching his lack of control.

Her sword was in her hand, safely within its scabbard, and her Valyrian Steel dagger dangled at her waist. She thought of the day he had gifted it to her, that day in the hedges when he’d proclaimed wanting to know her, admitted his desire for a successful marriage, his desire for her, against her every belief,

Daemon stared upwards, hardly shocked by her presence—as though they hadn’t warred over their last meeting as terribly as she recalled. Silver clasps held together his cloak, and Naera felt the familiar, long-faded urge to rip it apart, to hear the clinking of its metal against another’s, to feel him as a part of herself, however fleetingly so. She followed his eyes to focus on the dragon that flew overhead, pink and red, with a long snout—Syrax, she recognised, as well as the flapping black cloak of her rider. Rhaenyra, white hair twirling in the wind, clothes as dark as Daemon, with a flicker of gold on her brow.

Syrax circled the air, humming her song which was but a battle cry, and Naera felt a sense of urgency despite her languor. She felt the danger Daemon did, the tightening of the air, the crispness of their conduct. 

When Naera’s eyes dropped, so did her heart. Otto Hightower stood a few paces before her, eyes trained upwards, with a dull hunch that suggested fear. A man with a white cloak stood before him, another dozen with green following.

Syrax thundered down on the corridor behind Otto Hightower and his swords, Rhaenyra slipping off her mount and crossing the sentry to stand a pace in front of Naera and Daemon. Syrax growled as Otto stepped forth again. Naera’s eyes trained in on Jaehaerys’ crown on Rhaenyra’s head.

It was a ring of gold and silver, engraved with the seals of every major House of Westeros—the Stark Wolf of the North, the Tyrell Rose of the Reach, the Lannister Lion, the Baratheon Stag. Naera could only recall having seen it on her father, and her heart shuddered at the implication.

Viserys was dead.

“Princess Rhaenyra,” Otto began, solemn, as though the fact that Rhaenyra stood at Dragonstone while soldiers in green accompanied the Hightower snake didn’t mean what was apparent. A coup had taken place. Otto looked distressed, as though the day didn’t spell out his long-sought glory, the fruit of his every ambition.

“I’m Queen Rhaenyra now,” her sister corrected, “and you all are traitors to the Realm.”

“King Aegon Targaryen, Second of His Name, in his wisdom and desire for peace is offering terms,” Otto tried, testing the waters, as though the knights with polished swords and archers with deadly aim that watched him were not enough indication of their folly in trying to make amends. Still, he spoke, “Acknowledge Aegon as King and swear obeisance before the Iron Throne. In exchange, His Grace will confirm your possession of Dragonstone. It will pass to your trueborn son Jacaerys, upon your death.”

Naera stepped forth, her sword growing light in her hand, as though a single stroke wouldn’t hurt. “Lucerys will be confirmed as the legitimate heir to Driftmark and all the lands and holdings of House Velaryon, after the death of your lord husband, Lord Laenor.” Daemon tutted, nearly silent, but Naera heard him. Rhaenyra listened to Otto’s words, devoid of the fury the fire had promised. She listened to Otto’s words, not truly considering them, but respecting their attempts—regal, in the very literal sense.

Emboldened by the lack of response, Otto spoke louder, “Your nieces and nephews, the children of your sister Princess Naera, will be allowed return to their home or residence at Dragonstone or King’s Landing as respected members of the family, and will also be given places of high honours—your son Joffrey, and nephew Aegon the younger as Kingsguards upon their coming of age, your nephew Viserys, the obvious younger, as the King’s squire, and your niece Rhaenys as his cupbearer. Finally, the King, in his good grace, will pardon any knight or lord who conspired against his ascent.” Aegon, Viserys, Rhaenys. Her children.

Daemon said, “I would rather feed my sons and daughters to the dragons than have them carry shields and cups for your drunken usurper cunt of a king.” Their children.

Naera spoke, without thought, without intention, “Do you consider us cowards if we tread in the strength of Dragonstone, Lord Hightower?” Her voice was bold, strong, hardly aged and mocking, “This is where the Conqueror planned his war, and it is where we shall win ours, should the day arrive.”

“Aegon Targaryen sits the Iron Throne,” Otto said with finality, a touch of the pride, of the malice leaking through his perfumed visage, “He wears the Conqueror’s crown, wields the Conqueror’s sword, has the Conqueror’s name. He was anointed by a Septon of the faith before the eyes of thousands. Every symbol of legitimacy belongs to him.” He smiled, ugly, and the world saw him for what he was. A man whose ambition had been fulfilled. His blood on the Iron Throne. “Then there is Stark, Tully, Baratheon—Houses that have also received and are at present considering generous terms from their King.”

Rhaenyra spoke, for the first time, her white hair flickering with the air. Her voice was cold, “Stark, Tully and Baratheon all swore to me when King Viserys named me his heir.”

“Stale oaths will not place you on the Iron Throne, princess,” Otto took silent, leering steps closer. Naera tightened her grip on her sword. “The succession changed the day your father sired a son. I only regret that you and he were the last to see the truth of it.”

Rhaenyra ran forth, faster than the wind, and grasped the old man’s cloak. She plucked off his golden pin, the hand with its pointed finger, and said, “You are no more hand than Aegon is King,” she tossed it off the side, down to the crashing waves below the stone passage. “Fucking traitor.” The green soldiers inched closer, swords at the ready. Rhaenyra looked at Otto through her lashes, daring his hand.

The red-caped knights of her own company stepped forth, but Naera stopped them with a raised hand. They were not so foolish.

Otto called for the Grandmaester, that tattered old man who called himself Mellos. The grey-robed man husk of a man offered him a page, old and folded, fraying at its edges.

“What the fuck is this?” Daemon muttered, glancing at Naera for a clue. She kept her eyes trained at Rhaenyra, at her locks of silver, at the golden crown that rested on her head as though she was borne for it. She was, Naera reminded herself. Rhaenyra was born to rule.

Rhaenyra studied the page out of sight, but Otto spoke, “Queen Alicent has not forgotten the love you once had for each other.” Rhaenyra’s shoulders hunched, hesitant. “No blood need to spilt so the realm can be carried on in peace,” he glanced above Rhaenyra, at Naera, at Daemon, at their primed swords and unbreakable resolve. Rhaenyra was queen, and there was to be no question of it. “Queen Alicent eagerly awaits your answer.”

Daemon answered, “She can have her answer right now stuffed in her father’s mouth along with his withered cock. Let’s end this mummer’s farce,” and the shrill sound of steel against steel rang resonant in the air, as all drew their swords except Naera. The maester stepped away frantically as Daemon continued, Dark Sister gleaming red in the twilight, and Naera couldn’t help but imagine running a hand through his wind-ruffled hair, pressing a fleeting peck on his cheek, holding his hand despite the war that raged on. “Ser Erryk, bring me Lord Hightower so I may take the pleasure myself.” Syrax groaned in warning, wings flapping behind the green escort. They were surrounded—swords facing them, a dragon behind, with a hundred feet fall into jarred rock and crashing waves to the sides.

Rhaenyra clutched the page still, and Naera watched her hands tremble. No.

“Udligon issa sepār mēre másino, jorrāelagon mandia,” Tell me just one thing, dear sister, she said this without knowing, as though she was a mere spectator to the event, not an involved actor at all. Naera pulled her sword out, brandished steel from the Shadowland, polished to the colour of silver, like her name, like her legacy.

“Gaomagon ao jaelagon ērinnon isse bisa vīlībāzma?”

Do you want this war won?

Do you want the Iron Throne, the Seven Kingdoms, the rule that is your birthright?

Rhaenyra caught her failing self, pushed away the sentiment she had long been cursed with, and stood straight, head held high, the golden crown gleaming.

“Rūsīr perzys se ānogar.”

With Fire and Blood.

She crushed the old parchment in her grasp, felt the page wrinkle and tear against her skin, and tossed it into the waves.

Rhaenyra turned back, walking towards her knights, and Naera saw a hint of something different in Daemon’s eyes, an admiration uncontainable, a love aged and solidified until it had become a part of him. His hair, nearly reaching his shoulders, flapped with every turn of the wind, a smile etched on his unaging face. Naera felt the all-familiar ache in her chest she had grown to associate with only a certain woman, but with this came a wave of fire, a flame of courage. Naera trailed after Rhaenyra, the knights parted to make her way, and Daemon took her side again, his arm going around her shoulders, lips brushing past her ear.

As they began their ascent into the fortress, Rhaenyra spoke, clear and loud over the hanging air, “Dracarys.”

With a roar untethered, Syrax breathed fire—raw, hot, magical flame unto the green escort, embellishing their towered shields and silken cloaks with the might and wrath of Valyria.

But within Naera’s mind resounded not the screams of Otto Hightower. Instead, it was those names—those three names, again, and again, and again. Aegon, Viserys, Rhaenys. Her children. Daemon’s children.

A sound pulled her from her musings, eyes snapping open to white calicoes and stony roofs. A storm raged outside that same fortress, thunder, lightning and wind clamouring against the windows. The sound returned, a deep knocking on wood.

“Come,” she uttered, barely heard by herself, but the door opened. She swept in a breath of cold air, dragging herself up. Her head felt clear, though she couldn’t discern how. A dream such as that, prophetic in all but name, could hardly come without a cost.

With careful footsteps emerged Rhaenyra. She wore the darkest black, much like her dreams, but not quite. On her face was the same solemn, regal expression she had donned for as long as Naera could afford to recall. All their childhood scuffles lay forgotten over the succession.

“Princess Rhaenyra,” Naera cleared her throat, “how fares—” Rhaenyra sat beside her, taking her hand. The touch burned both, as though the mere distrust had made the other’s touch anathema.

“They shall return in a fortnight.” Merchants could hardly afford a week’s absence jittering over an ailing arbiter. Naera nodded absently, mind yearning to return to her ponderings. Aegon, Viserys, Rhaenys. Her children, by Daemon. That very Daemon who Rhaenyra had yearned for, to the point of betrayal, to the epitome of disgrace, to the brink of exile; that very Daemon whom she yearns for still, Naera thought, and the dread that followed that realisation confused her, bothered her, stripped away the defences she had long built and tore her wounds open to the salty sea air. She yearns for him still, but so do I. “You aren’t well, sister, I did not mean to—”

“Don’t,” Naera stopped, her free hand trailing to her neck, to the bruises long faded, so the anger long drowned by none other than a sickening, flooding, endlessly sweet ache. “Do not apologise for seeking your best.” It was the noblest thing for Rhaenyra to have done, and they both knew it. She couldn’t sit and wait while the Hightowers gathered support, and allies, while they plotted schemes to usurp the throne, not after she had, in finality, lost the only thing she had wanted as much as the Iron Throne. Daemon.

“I only apologise for distressing you.” Rhaenyra sighed, unable to find the proper word, unable to breach the subject she had poised herself to address. Naera stared at her sister, at the way her once innocent face had hardened with toil, at the crease of her fair brow, the shadowing of her eyes that counted far more than a dozen sleepless nights. She stared at her jewels, gilded Valyrian Steel with the bloodiest rubies, at her neck. Gold and tarred silver at her ears. Black and Red velvet at her waist, cinching scales like those of the Black Dread on her sleeves.

She imagined that somewhere west, a woman her age lay adorned in green.

“How long shall you fight silent, Rhae?” Naera trailed a hand to the embroidered wrists of her sister’s gown, tracing the spiked, metallic lines, “The Hightowers denounce you with every other word.” Why play so civil, when, “That whore of a queen cut you with a blade, challenged your sons’ legitimacy, married—” she breathed, “married the man you love to your sister.”

And it shattered, then, and there.

Rhaenyra flicked her hands away, a strangled sob being the only flash of lightning before her thundering tears broke the gates. She took Naera into her arms, against her steel gown, against her scarred self, and held her sister silent, as tear, after tear trailed down her cheek, dripping onto Naera’s face to mingle with her miserable proclamations.

“Forgive me,” Rhaenyra choked, “for I have caused you nothing but pain—for I have given you nothing but hatred, hatred over deeds you never committed.” She shook her head, gasping for breath.

Naera took her face in her hands, grasping senselessly for support, “It is I who has been selfish. If I had stayed—”

“Then you’d be broken,” Rhaenyra resolved, “You’d be like the rest of us, Naera, do not seek forgiveness for doing the best for yourself.” She recited Naera’s own words. “No, do not wish me that misery, of seeing another fallen to Hightower ambition.”

Naera’s chest tightened, a desperate cry echoing through the stone chambers, “but that isn’t all I’ve failed you in, Rhaenyra.” Daemon. His flapping hair, his kindred smiles, the passion with which he burned every second, of every day. Fire and blood. Naera had fallen, defeated, immersed in his beauty, sunk in that ugly sentiment.

“I love him,” as the dragon does the sky, as the waves do the wind, as a Targaryen does one of her kin. Hopelessly, without sense, without reason, without paying heed to the screaming logic that reminded her of his flaws, but he was perfect. He was sublime, strong, ever-present, until she had pushed him away.

Rhaenyra leaned her forehead against Naera’s and whispered, “Pār jorrāelagon zirȳla sȳrī, syt nyke daor.” Then love him well, for I cannot. “Laenor treats me well, Naera,” she chuckled, nose blushed red, “Ser Harwin loves me dearly. It is well. I am well.” Naera closed her eyes. I am well. She doesn’t need him—no, she doesn’t want him, for she knows now that Naera does.

She does not want him, because she cannot have him. Her ambition has ended with the demise of her true love, but Rhaenyra cuts those thoughts short, “I have not wanted him in years, Naera, neither has he me.” She nodded, as though seeking a declaration of trust.

Naera found herself believing her sister against every fact, against her own instinct. She nodded, and Rhaenyra smiled, wiping the tears from Naera’s face. “We’ll be strong, we can win this, Naera,” a glimmer of hope, a ray of light that broke through the storm, “if you’d only—” Panic rushed through her, an image of night, of snow, of blood pouring by the gallons, and seas turning dark. Fear surged through her veins, frigid as the morning air, dead as the Long Night.

“I forgive you,” Naera brushed away Rhaenyra’s tears, and struggled to her feet, cotton chemise barely strung together. Rhaenyra protested her deeds, imploring her to take the needed rest, but Naera ignored those pleas.

She knew what was to come.

A coup, orchestrated by the Green Queen. The Conqueror’s Crown on Aegon’s Head, and the proclamation of his rule, and she knew what was to follow.

A War, unlike one that had been seen since the foundations of the Freehold.

A War amongst Dragons, and years after that

The Long Night.

And she understood her role, finally, in this grand scheme, amidst this treachery, and debauchery. This confinement had a reason, as all curses and trials do, for the Lord of Light is just, and often kind. He was kind when he granted her Melisandre, as kind as he is now, granting her Daemon, his love, his fire, his passion to ignite her world that had been dimmed by the night, to set it alight once again.

She was to stand by Rhaenyra’s side, for it was she, who would lay the foundation for the Liberator’s acceptance as Queen of Westeros. The first Queen to sit on the Iron Throne—Naera would be her Visenya, her right hand, her soldier, her Queensguard—the broken half of her soul held close but never fused to heal the rift of regality.

“I am yours and have been for long, but I implore that you hear it for once, and for all.” She drew her sword, silver steel cursed with flames, in a leather scabbard, survived from Stygai. Naera knelt, her white gown pooling at her ankles, sword held before her.

“I swear by fire and blood, that I, Naera of the House Targaryen, Princess of the Seven Kingdoms and Knight to Westeros, shall follow the cause of you, who are the heir to the Iron Throne, Rhaenyra Targaryen, and die if I must, to place you as Queen of this Land.”

MASTERLIST

[erabundus]

the  sun  dips  gradually  beneath  the  horizon,  blanketing  the  world  beneath  in  a  gradient  of  warm,  golden  hues.  it's  a  quiet  evening,  interrupted  only  by  birdsong  and  the  gentle  rustling  of  wind  through  the  trees.  two  figures  sit  at  their  campfire  —  empty  plates  discarded  by  their  sides,  hands  occupied  with  cups  that  appear  responsible  for  the  rosiness  of  their  cheeks.  they  laugh  and  chat  amongst  themselves;  the  excitement  imbued  in  every  word  stemming  from  more  than  just  the  alcohol.  this  is  a  celebration,  it  seems  —  and  the  pair  are  content  to  do  just  that,  all  the  while  weaving  fantastical  tales  about  how  they  plan  to  spend  the  mora  they're  sure  to  come  into  very  soon.

without  warning,  without  fanfare,  a  new  voice  interrupts  the  duo.  ❝  good  evening.  ❞   glass  shatters.  ❝  you're  the  thieves  responsible  for  stealing  that  crate  of  smaragdus  jadeite,  ri  —  ?  ❞   (  thwack.  )  ren  doesn't  have  the  chance  to  finish;  he  looks  down  at  the  arrow  now  protruding  from  his  midsection  with  a  quizzical  blink.   ❝  ...  huh.  ❞   seconds  pass  in  thoughtful  silence,  then  he  lifts  his  head  —  expression  contorted  not  in  pain,  but  rather  a  look  of  mild  annoyance.  ❝  ...  why  do  i  even  bother.  ❞

❝  who  are  you  supposed  to  be?  ❞   one  of  the  thieves  snarls,  drawing  his  blade.  his  companion  fumbles  —  frantically  trying  to  notch  another  arrow.  ( no doubt regretting the drinks that leave his hands clumsy and slow. ) the  wanderer  ignores  both,  leaning  slightly  to  one  side  to  peer  around  them  instead.

❝  is  that  it  over  there?  ❞   small  crate.  cuihua  planks.  matches  the  description.  he  isn't  naive  enough  to  expect  an  answer,  of  course;  he  simply  starts  to  pick  his  way  across  the  camp  (  around  the  fire,  over  the  broken  glass  )  with  uncanny elegance.  the  humans  sputter  and  snarl  and  wave  their  weapons  around  all  the  while,  but  ren  no  longer  cares  enough  to  pay  them  any  mind  —  he  only  stops  once,  plucking  the  arrow  from  his  nonexistent  stomach  and  dropping  it unceremoniously  into  the  archer's  hands.  ❝  you  can  have  that  back.  ❞   the  SHOCK is  evidently  enough  to  freeze  even  his  companion  in  place,  blood  draining  from  terrified visage,  blade  trembling  in an  unsteady  grip.  the  wanderer  then  turns  his  attention  back  to  the  crate.  one  step,  two  step,  three.  he  crouches  down,  curling  fingers  underneath  the  lid  —  though  an  experimental  tug  leads  him  to  believe  it  must  be  NAILED  SHUT.  no  matter;  a  second  pull  tears  it  clean  off  with  an  audible  crunch. inside, he's greeted by the sight of glimmering gemstones the color of fresh leaves. finally, something goes right for once.

the  sound  has  the  unintended  side  effect  of  snapping  the  thieves  out  of  their  stupor.  ❝  ... you  do  know  prolonged  contact  with  this  stuff  will  kill  you,  right?  ❞   ren  quips,  continuing  to  ignore  their cries.  (  like  buzzing  insects.  )   ❝ you must have a death wish.  ❞ another  arrow  stabs  into  his  shoulder  —  or  perhaps  it's  the  first  one.  he  doesn't  particularly  care,  and  it  certainly  doesn't  stop  him  from  reaching  into  the  crate  to  withdraw  a  single  piece  of  jade.  turning  it  over  in  his  hand,  the  wanderer's  brow  furrows.  this  should  be  ENOUGH,  shouldn't  it?  yes ... he  only  needs  a  small  amount.  nodding  to  himself,  ren  presses  it  to  his  chest  —  wherein  it  disappears  in  a  flash  of  violet-hued  light.

❝  a  word  of  advice ...  you  should  leave  now  if  you  know  what's  good  for  you.  ❞   rising  to  his  feet,  he  pulls  the  arrow  from  his  shoulder  and  tosses  it  aside.  ❝  someone  submitted  an  anonymous  tip  to  the  millelith.  by  my  estimation,  you  have  ten ...  maybe  fifteen  minutes  before  they're  swarming  all  over  the  place.  ❞

that  much  is  at  least  enough  to  catch  their  attention.  personally,  ren  would  have  no  qualms  about  KILLING  THEM  —  but  their  crimes  are  comparatively  minor,  and  so  he  assumes  kazuha  would  prefer  an  approach  that  ends  with  minimal  loss  of  life.  (  not  that  they  deserve  it.  shooting  him  —  twice?  how  STUPID  are  they?  )  while  he  would  prefer  to  stay  and  watch  them  scramble,  the  wanderer  has  a  sneaking  suspicion  that  his  terrible  luck  would  probably  see  him  being  branded  a  suspect  in  his  own  right.  instead,  he  takes  advantage  of  what  chaos  and  confusion  the  admittance  sparks  to  slip  away  into  the  evening  —  another  piece  of  the  puzzle  having  fallen  into  his  lap.

... so many  new  tears  he  has  to  mend  in  his  clothing ...

[my--wonderland]

Mama, just killed a man.

Is this the real life, is this just fantasy

Caught in a landslide, no escape from reality

Open your eyes, look up to the skies and see

La nuit était tombée. Le ciel d'encre était parsemé d'étoiles, qu'une jeune femme admirait par la fenêtre de la cuisine. Ses yeux bleus, qu'encadraient une cascade de cheveux blonds en désordre, étaient fixés sur la pleine Lune. Elle était assise sur une chaise, les genoux repliés contre elle, ses bras les enlaçant. La lumière de l’astre nocturne rendait son visage plus pâle qu’il ne l’était déjà, et accentuait ses cernes. La jeune femme avait la vingtaine, mais sa jeunesse semblait brisée. Dans son regard se reflétaient les rayons lunaires, et une noirceur d’un passé encore trop présent.

I'm just a poor girl, I need no sympathy

Because I'm easy come, easy go, little high, little low

Anyway the wind blows, doesn't really matter to me

To me

Abigail Archer n’avait jamais dormi sur ses deux oreilles. Jusqu’à l’âge de quatorze ans, elle vivait avec un père violent. Elle souffrit de stress post-traumatique de nombreuses fois.

A l’âge de sept ans, elle vit sa mère se faire assassiner de la main de son géniteur. Argus Filch était un homme à l’esprit profondément détruit, que la folie possédait. En frappant son épouse, cette nuit-là, il brisa sa nuque, sans même se rendre compte de son geste sur le moment. Après cela, il fit disparaître son corps, sous les yeux de son enfant.

A l’âge de quatorze ans, Abigail s’échappa de son enfer, et trouva refuge chez les Archer, la famille de son meilleur ami, qui devinrent sa famille. Ils l’aimèrent, la choyèrent, la protégèrent, comme si elle était leur fille et sœur de sang. A leurs côtés, elle avait découvert qu’elle était bien plus que son passé, bien plus que ses origines, bien plus que son traumatisme. Les Archer avaient traîné Argus Filch devant la justice. Malheureusement, son géniteur avait été déclaré non coupable du meurtre de Mary Filch, déguisé en suicide dans un de ses souvenirs falsifiés grâce à l'aide de son avocat corrompu. Il fut condamné à cinq ans de prison pour maltraitance, mais étant un Cracmol, il échappa à Azkaban et se retrouva dans une prison moldue.  Quelques mois avant la majorité de la jeune fille, son père s'échappa de prison. Elle était terrifiée à l'idée qu'Argus se soit échappé pour la tuer, et qu'il fasse aussi du mal aux Archer.  Alors, dès la fin de sa septième année à Poudlard, la Serpentard prit la fuite. Elle voyagea à travers le monde, aidée par son don de Polyglotte. Elle revint quatre ans plus tard, lorsque les Archer lui manquaient trop, avec l'intention de retrouver elle-même Argus Filch et le tuer. Ce qu'elle fit. Elle métamorphosa son cadavre en un seul os, qu’elle brisa en petits morceaux et jeta dans un lac. Argus fut déclaré mort quelques mois plus tard, et l'affaire fut classée. Personne n’était au courant de sa culpabilité, sauf son frère Headley, qui l’avait aidée à traquer et tuer Filch.

Mama, just killed a man, put my hands around his neck

Held tight and harder, now he's dead

Mama, life had just begun

But now I've gone and thrown it all away

Mama oooh... Didn't mean to make you cry

If I'm not back again this time tomorrow

Carry on, carry on

As if nothing really matters

Abigail n’osait pas imaginer ce qui se passerait si les autres Archer l’apprenaient. S’ils apprenaient qu’ils avaient adopté une meurtrière, qu’ils protégeaient et aimaient une tueuse depuis toutes ces années. Dans les faits, elle n’était une meurtrière que depuis un mois et deux jours, date de la mort d’Argus Filch. Mais au fond d’elle, la jeune femme avait l’impression qu’elle l’avait toujours été. Comme son père, une noirceur sans fond l’habitait, et jour après jour, la noyait. Personne ne s’en rendait compte, personne ne voyait les ténèbres derrière le masque lumineux qu’elle affichait au quotidien. Sauf peut-être Headley. Headley avait vu ses ténèbres la posséder, il l’avait vue pétrifier son géniteur, puis serrer ses mains autour de son cou jusqu’à ce qu’il meure. Abigail aurait pu l’achever d’un Avada Kedavra, mais ce sortilège est indolore. Ce n’était pas ce qu’elle voulait. Elle voulait le faire souffrir. Elle voulait lui arracher son souffle, sentir ses poumons collapser dans une dernière recherche d’air, elle voulait voir la vie quitter ses yeux et que son cadavre s’effondre à ses pieds. Elle en avait rêvé, nuit et jour, elle l’avait imaginé mille fois, mais elle n’était jamais parvenue à deviner ce qu’elle ressentirait lorsque le corps de son père s’écroulerait à terre, sans vie. Lorsque son âme se briserait en deux.

Ce qui lui faisait le plus peur, c’est qu’elle n’était pas dégoûtée d’elle-même. Elle ne se haïssait pas de l’avoir tué. Argus Filch était un monstre, qui avait fait de sa vie un enfer. Parfois, elle souriait en se souvenant de la dernière expression qui avait traversé son regard noir avant que celui-ci ne se fige à jamais. En fait, c’était cela qui lui faisait peur : son insensibilité. Lorsque le corps de Filch était tombé à ses pieds, tout ce qu’avait ressenti Abigail, c’était de la puissance, l’impression d’avoir accompli une mission à l’échelle du destin. Aucune honte, aucune culpabilité.

Elle était comme lui. Une tueuse. Un monstre. Une malédiction. Et tôt ou tard, les personnes qu’elle aimait le plus au monde s’en rendront compte. Headley ne l’avait pas abandonnée, même en ayant vu ce côté de sa personnalité, mais peut-être n’était ce qu’une question de temps.

Too late, my time has come, sends shivers down my spine

Body's aching all the time

Goodbye everybody, I've got to go

Gotta leave you all behind and face the truth

Mama oooh, any way the wind blows

I don't want to die, I sometimes wish I'd never been born at all

Elle ne dormait plus, prisonnière de son secret, prisonnière de ses ténèbres, horrifiée par la conscience d’être quelqu’un d’abject. Son esprit était sûrement malade, comme le sien. Elle était comme lui.

Des bruits de pas l’arrachèrent à ses pensées destructrices. Un rayon de Lune éclaira le visage de sa mère. Abby se souvenait que lorsqu’elle l’avait appelée maman pour la première fois, sans vraiment s’en rendre compte, elle avait été horrifiée. Tout se bousculait en elle : la peur de trahir Mary, sa mère biologique, morte depuis si longtemps, la crainte que les Archer ne veuille pas d’elle comme fille ou sœur… Mais ils lui avaient prouvé, avec les années, qu’ils étaient sa famille. Malgré tout, Abigail était terrifiée qu’ils apprennent un jour ce qu’elle avait fait, et qu’ils prennent peur, qu’ils comprennent qu’elle était comme son géniteur.

- Ma chérie, tu ne peux pas dormir ?

Abby secoua la tête. Elle ne comptait plus le nombre de fois où Zoe s’était réveillée la nuit, pour boire ou pour aller aux toilettes, l’avait vue encore debout, et avait discuté avec elle, l’avait câlinée jusqu’à ce qu’elle s’endorme. Mais en la voyant, elle n’éprouva pas le désir que sa mère s’occupe d’elle. Elle ne le méritait pas. Elle se répugnait à ce que Zoe touche une tueuse.

But I'm just a poor girl and nobody loves me

He's just a poor girl from a poor family

Spare him her life from this monstrosity

Easy come easy go, will you let me go

Beelzebub has a devil put aside for me, for me, for me

La vérité se précipitait au bord de ses lèvres, elle ne pouvait la retenir. En croisant le regard noisette de Zoe, un ouragan se déclencha en elle, et le verrou posé sur son secret explosa. Elle gardait espoir, peut-être que sa mère continuerait à l’aimer malgré ses démons, malgré ce meurtre. Alors, la vérité cascada de ses lèvres, la vérité les noya toutes les deux. Et lorsque le regard de Zoe s’éteignit, lorsque sa main quitta son épaule, lorsque peur et dégoût se confondirent dans son expression, Abigail se crut mourir.

- Abigail, tu te rends compte de ce que tu as fait ? Par Merlin…

Sa voix se brisa.

- Dire que je t’ai accueillie sous mon toit… Avec ma famille… Je t’ai aidée, aimée, je t’ai donné tout ce que j’avais… Toute la famille t’a traitée comme si tu étais des nôtres. Mais tu ne l’es pas.

Des larmes commencèrent à couler des yeux d’Abigail, silencieusement. Elle eut l’impression de mourir étouffée, comme Argus. A la différence près qu’elle ne voulait plus respirer.

Zoe commença à reculer, refusant de la regarder dans les yeux.

- Tu es une Filch. J’aurais dû m’en douter dès le moment où tu as posé le pied dans cette maison. J’aurais dû te fermer la porte, te renvoyer chez lui. Là où tu appartiens. Chez les fous, chez les assassins.

- Maman… pleura Abigail, les épaules secouées de violents sanglots, les jambes tremblantes.

- Ne m’appelle pas ainsi !

Le hurlement de Zoe déchira ses tympans, et ne fit que redoubler ses sanglots.

- Abigail ?

Le visage de sa mère lui apparut. Il n’était plus brisé par la crainte et le dégoût, mais empreint de la douceur infinie qu’Abby lui connaissait. Désorientée, la jeune femme comprit qu’elle avait halluciné, comme ça lui arrivait parfois. Des cauchemars éveillés, preuve de son instabilité mentale.

- Qu’est-ce-qui se passe, sweetie ?

Zoe essuya tendrement ses larmes, et s’assit près d’elle. Elle ouvrit les bras, et sa fille s’y effondra, tremblante, en larmes.

- Parle-moi, je t’en prie…

- Maman…

Abigail s’interrompit, mais Zoe ne la corrigea pas comme dans son hallucination. Elle attendit simplement, lui caressant les cheveux.

- Est-ce-que tu m’aimes ?

La question était si simple, si enfantine. Mais elle cachait un réel besoin de connaître la réponse. Les grands yeux noisette de sa mère s’écarquillèrent, et elle les plongea dans ceux d’Abigail.

- Abby, mon trésor, qu’est-ce-que tu racontes ? Bien sûr que je t’aime. Je t’aime infiniment. Tu es ma fille, ma famille, n’en doute jamais. Pourquoi cette question.. ?

- Tu m’aimerais… quoi que je fasse ? bredouilla la jeune femme entre deux hoquets.

- Mais bien sûr… Mon coeur… Il y a quelque chose que tu voudrais me dire ?

Zoe berça Abigail, qui pleura longuement contre son coeur. La question resta longuement en suspens, et ne trouva une réponse que lorsque les sanglots de la jeune femme se furent calmés. Elle leva la tête, croisa le regard de sa mère, et y vit tout ce qu’elle mourrait de perdre.

- Non. Il n’y a rien. J’ai juste fait un cauchemar…

- Tu voudrais reprendre les somnifères à base de drachane qui t’aidaient avant ton voyage ? Demanda gentiment Zoe.

Abigail hocha la tête.

- Oui, s’il-te-plaît…

- D’accord, j’irais t’en chercher demain matin. Tu veux un thé ?

- Non, ça va, merci…

Zoe se leva, et prit la main de sa fille. Ensemble, elles montèrent dans la chambre d’Abby. La jeune femme se coucha et ferma les yeux. Sa mère la veilla jusqu’à ce qu’elle s’endorme, les lèvres scellées sur son secret destructeur.

So you think you can stone me and spit in my eye

So you think you can love me and leave me to die

Oh baby, can't do this to me baby

Just gotta get out, just gotta get right out of here

Nothing really matters, anyone can see

Nothing really matters, nothing really matters to me

Any way the wind blows...

[astrxlfinale]

Being physically savored had an appeal he couldn't quite put into words. With hands like her's, his March's? The care found itself being redefined with an extra cute persona that she proudly hosts to her name. Catching such a dreamy visage upon her was the brand of dream he wanted to experience, the tinge of sweet March upon his lips leaving with a sensation similar to floating upon her mattress. "Cool for the moment, but afterwards-- A tinge too much metaphor, y'know?"

Star crossed lovers except taken too literally in his mind. Being guided by her hands, it was impossible to let the peal of laughter remain contained. There was a sense of levity that basks with the comfort, allowing Caelus to contently be pulled with her winds as she sets him back, letting his shoulders snug against the mattress before her impulse in reaching that finish line comes to mind. For an instant, any smart comeback that could've been drawn failed to be.

Oh no. For where the stars come with their dazzling shine, some form of the moon was bound to follow. This one being decked out in her pajamas that was offering no favors for this moment, since the form certainly fits. It leads to a miniature spin of his mind, lips faintly agape, all while those eyes were revitalized anew with another prominent mission. This cheeky side of March as she caught that faux innuendo would introduce her to another, entirely and all too predictable sight.

"Oh yeah?" Comes his counterpoint, one of those hands advancing across the sanctity of her toned thigh. A gentle grip would be applied before it glides along the fullness of such a lovely part of her, momentarily dancing across a familiar divide as he'd allow that fighting worn palm to clasp his daring grip upon her rear cheek, briefly seizing an excitable stir of emotions alongside an equally divine view.

"Maybe if you weren't the master of distractions.." Impishness aside, he'd briefly relent the moment she squirrels away into a more appropriate position. The both of them upright, those six-phased eyes glimmering with enriched emotion and a more minute, focused attention upon him.

It always reminds Caelus just how goddamn good life is.

Propping himself up, it'd be in the good name in diminishing that distance himself, always needing to be active as his hand draws a brush along her hip. That thumb of his mindlessly playing with the band of those night pants as that fire was drawn into his eyes.

"So if I'm reading this right--" Meeting her halfway, it'd be a touch of their noses settled in an affectionate brush. "Make like every other day, a spoil Ms.March 7th day, right?" He muses with a tinge of that Trailblazing charm (a touch of inevitable dorkiness alongside of it). Only a few seconds afterward would Caelus tilt his face further in, allowing the pace of his breaths to nestle against the archer's jawline while the plume of an appreciative kiss worked upon her skin.

"Any more rules I should be aware of? Like, should it only be at the lips? You gave me a couple-a inspiring ideas on where to improvise.." That trail of fiery affection would be dolled upon that curve, slow, methodically and firm as he drew closer towards her lips, another teasing note pressed upon the corner of them. That excitable rhythm wasn't absent within his chest in the least.

"Always being a master of 'angles.'"

“The ice cream isn't what's important! Well, it is, but--”

Dooon't think about ice cream in a situation like this, March, there are more dire things on the line that a delectable sweet treat after a savory meal! With each passing second of Caelus seeming none-the-wiser, March prepared for her soon-to-be explanation of one of the best pseudo holidays ever. Even prior to their courtship, March 7th was a sucker for romance... in measurable quantities, anyway. The ordeals of Penacony were very much present, each affair yet settled and meeting schedules not tied down, but darn it if March hadn't desired his attention.

It was a necessary evil, but nobody ever said March couldn't complain about necessities, and frankly, Aeons helped whoever tried to tell her otherwise.

These still moments were what they had for now, disappearing into either's bedroom, snug against the cool vastness of airspace. Typically awoken before the others sprung forth to keep a secret that was known by everyone aboard, and their days continued on their busied path with no end in-bound. The ice cream dates were nice, and Caelus assured due time when the opportunity arose for one -- for as much as March 7th complained, teased, there was aplenty to be in awe of.

It was just as good an opportunity, March thought. A way to buy them some time, however transient.

“It's not about midnight, silly,” spoke against his lips still, lashes fluttering against his cheek. “It's about the day: you're supposed to give someone a kiss! Aand ~ you're lucky enough to be loved by me, which gives you an automatic ticket.”

As was she, the luckiest girl in the universe. With the (in)famous Trailblazer, one might expect the least thought of, the unexpected — and Caelus' kisses were dizzying on the best of days, enough to reduce her thoughts to moosh and her tummy to jello. Upon being drawn into that second kiss, one that urged to steal her breath away and make her heart thump-thump-thump against her ribs, March gave easily into that request, breathing a lengthy sigh as her index, thumb braced the side of his face.

“This angle is - weird, huh,” blink blink, her eyes didn't steady. “If you're not gonna' come up,” a loving pinch to his cheek as she maneuvered, carefully, his head onto the plush of her mattress, only to spider-crawl her way into his haphazard lap. “I'm gonna' come down! Not... ugh, not in that way, don't look at me like that—”

@astrxlfinale, continued!

[arrowedhunter]

TAG DROP PART 1. GENERAL & VERSES.

[arienheart]

tag dump

▌✤ ❝ merida ;; visage ▌✤ ❝ merida ;; musings ▌✤ ❝ merida ;; headcanon ▌✤ ❝ merida ;; behavior ▌✤ ❝ merida ;; char. study ▌✤ ❝ merida ;; skills ▌✤ ❝ merida ;; aesthetic ▌✤ ❝ merida ;; in character ▌✤ ❝ merida ;; drabbles ▌✤ ❝ chase the wind‚ and touch the sky ⟨ merida — mainverse ⟩ ▌✤ ❝ fire in her hair and heart‚ the archer queen of dunbroch ⟨ merida — descendants ⟩ ▌✤ ❝ daddy’s little girl‚ all grown up with trouble in her smile  ➽ merida — & fergus ▌✤ ❝ seeing eye to eye is difficult‚ but that never stops the love  ➽ merida — & elinor ▌✤ ❝ don’t worry boys‚ your big sister is here  ➽ merida — & the triplets

[fuwafuwamedb]

Sights on You (Goetia, Gudako)

The red hair was the same as before.

There was a pounding in his chest as he watched the woman talking to the others. He could feel the sweat dripping down his back as the woman laughed beside the group she was with.

He knew the one in the silver and red armor.

A knight from the world of Camelot.

That meant that there would be others around. The two faced scientist in particular would make things more complicated with his plans. The assassin roaming about this world would not be helpful either. No, it was more than the two that would be a problem to his plans.

If she was truly who he assumed it was, then there were many more problems on his hands.

He had to get closer to be able to tell.

Before he began to try to plan further and before he began to panic, he needed to be positive.

The woman before was lively, with a laugh that would echo across the halls and the open air markets. Her white and black fabrics would all but dance around her body as she moved, flowing a little in the winds and beckoning those around to come a little closer. She had a smile that would light up the universe.

Only this woman, alone, would make him understand his father’s insolence and sins. He could understand sending a man to his death just so that one could have a woman.

The woman in the London rain laughed softly, flashing a grin to her companion and motioning them towards one of the buildings nearby. He could see the fabrics of her skirts swaying around her legs. He could feel that hammering in his chest as those honeyed eyes looked out at the world around them as she let others into the building.

It was the same expression as his woman.

She had bore those furrowed brows and weathered that poor set of lips of hers right before a battle. He could see the way she looked at the horizon, her gaze surveying the terrain and those whom they had out amongst their lands.

“More archers, Solomon,” she had murmured to him before. “Send a few mercenaries to the trees. Let them think they can flee and let the mercenaries take care of the bodies.”

There was no helping it.

Goetia stepped out into the rainy scene, thankful only after a moment. His eyes were focused on the woman surveying the world for weaknesses.

Humanity was doomed to death.

There was nothing that was worth saving. There was nothing remaining that was worthy of protection or salvation.

And yet-

She turned away, stepping into the building and closing the door. He could see the quaint little black door hanging closed. He could see the rain pounding on the golden lettering and the carefully well-kept visage that was the front of the building. He could see the cars passing before his eyes and splashing rain further into the area.

His feet stepped back, safely behind the security of the alleyways’ high embrace.

Naamah was alive.

The Chaldean master was no mere master.

She could defeat him, if she played her cards right.

He would need to adjust his plans accordingly.

[cantillat-moved]

Some individuals are born with innate talent, whilst others attain excellency by working harder than others – and even the former can have a ranging variety of attitudes, some keep on honing their skills and there are those who think they can keep ahead of the curve and flaunt their skills forever. The worst, in Mitsuzuri’s opinion, are the hacks who act all high and might, the best thing to grace the face of the Earth but are full of hot air. She would like to think she was the hard-working time, aware of her limitations and she has a lot to learn. The truth was that the Homurahara archery club’s veterans now live at the shadow of someone who isn’t among them anymore and could come back if he wanted to, and none of them could escape that visage – and Ayako wanted to break the circle, to surpass her rival and also grow as a archer by herself.

❝ It does makes sense. I only know one person who would do a favor without asking for any sort of recompletion or reward. ❞ again, it was the shadow cast over the club. ❝ I would imagine that people who would want to keep practicing after school or are interested in the sports would rather go to a style they are familiar with and mouth-to-mouth advertisement is the best. ❞ Ayako didn’t mind one bit. She wasn’t sure if there was any sort of financial transaction involved but if one or two students from Homurahara enrolls to their school or talk about it to their friends it would generate a positive buzz. And, in a sense, they would also serve as an advertisement during the competitions so it is a win-win for Yaguchi-sensei.

In any case, Ayako didn’t take long to get charged. Now that she was properly dressed a lot of her nervousness had dissipated and was replaced with a lot of gusto to learn and give her best – she would always give 400% no matter the activity, specially sports (regular studies not so much, admittedly, she wasn’t so bad at them through). There was something familiar at the ambience of an archery range even if it wasn’t the one she was used to. It was a little strange, like she had went back to her freshman year in the club learning from her senpai – and yet she was so much more acknowledgeable and hopefully a smidge more mature. A quiet nod followed as Shinobu stated her intentions, making way to watch the specialist’s form. One of the things that many struggle to understand is that archery is less about physical prowess and it is more about a state of mind: if one’s mind is clouded or dull, it will reflect in the shooting. Self-control and emotional stability are what matters and less applying force – of course, it is easier said than done and it is hard to find the right amount of control and mindlessness. Perfection shouldn’t be something forced onto someone, doing everything systematically perfect to a T but a thing that comes naturally. Basically a level of skills that bridges the gap between calculating and spontaneously.

Ayako watched the  hassetsu with great interest. She noticed that a lot of the kids of the dojo struggled with the footing. This is something that varies accordingly to one’s height so it was important for her to pay attention how Shinobu handles that point – but she was enticed by how fluid the movements were. It was like watching a legendary onna-bugeisha coming to life, every stage of the draw fluid like the river and light as the wind. Effortless, without taking shortcuts. There was a moment of silence as she still relived the moment within her mind, the way the arrow found its way to the target was almost like destiny.

❝ In terms of beauty of the draw I don’t hold a candle. There is something I would like to ask to make absolute sure if I’m getting it right; what is the spirit of your school: to follow the tenants as closely as possible or to find a point in which your personality shines through while still within the tenants ?  I do get the feeling it is the later, I could feel your spirit in your shot but there was another thing that I couldn’t put my finger on. ❞ maybe what Ayako can't see is the key to what she have been lacking.

"Talent..." Shinobu repeated, wrinkling her nose with a small frown upon her lips. "Perhaps so. Some more than others." Were she to be objective about the situation, she could admit that compared to an average person, she was quite talented when it came to all manner of archery styles. Her height allowed her to handle somewhat unwieldy bows without issue, and her natural strength in her back and shoulders gave her precision and endurance that seldom faltered. In pursuit of excellence, she could be adaptable - with a recurve bow, she favored her dominant left hand, but as that was not permissible for kyudo's aesthetics, she'd learned the reverse grip as well.

Yet, it was hard to consider themselves talented in comparison to the only person who mattered. Masaru was nothing short of a genius, effortlessly excellent, practically their fabled ancestor incarnate. Only when Masaru laid dead at her hands, and her talent eclipsed his own, could she really take pride in her position as the Yaguchi Dojo's heir. It was a curious paradox of Shinobu Yaguchi, one she was all to aware of - that she despised so many things about the Dojo, its aesthetics, its traditions, while also accepting without question her place as the vessel for its ambitions.

Though, her dark thoughts were interrupted by Ayako's words. What a strange thing to say, she thought, for her presence brought little joy to anyone. That anyone could be glad to have her around was either an error in judgment, or a gap in knowledge. "I imagine that's more important to sensei than gratitude anyway," they murmured thoughtfully. "He's a realist in that sense. Were I to guess, I suspect his reasons for inviting you here are grounded in a hope that you'll find the Dojo impressive, and speak positively of it others." Yes, the Dojo's profile, and his legacy in it, were more important to her father than anything else in the world.

Once Ayako had disappeared into the backroom, Shinobu smoothed their kimono and sat seiza in the center of the floor, emptying their mind of thoughts of their father, of Masaru, of profiles and prestige. It was an essential aspect of kyudo, a calmness of spirit and a mind devoid of conscious thought. For someone with as much simmering rage bubbling beneath their cold facade as Shinobu Yaguchi, learning to embrace that zen attitude was as important as simply hitting a target. The spiritualism mattered little to her, but if demonstrating it proficiently was what it took to succeed, then there was little else to do.

"Without hearing your questions, I can't say for certain, Miss Mitsuzuri, but rarely are questions asked in earnest the makings of a fool." Having already made up her mind about how they would begin, Shinobu had taken a seat at the dojo's front, overlooking the field, when Ayako returned. "And your goals seem sensible to me. Some would find it admirable to strive for improvement in such unenviable circumstances." Whether Shinobu herself was one of them? That was for Ayako to decide.

It rankled her to be referred to casually, without honorifics, but even that needed to be purged from her mind. "I'll demonstrate my technique first. If your own style differs, and you're confident in your abilities, you need not emulate me, but if you're looking for direction, the Yaguchi style prioritizes mastery even in details." There was something to be taken from watching her. So Shinobu imagined, anyway, even if she had no assessment of the other girl's skill without seeing her first.

As Shinobu began, each rehearsed movement demonstrated the sense of strength and fluidity that defined the style. From the drawing of the arrow to the standing, raising the bow above her head, lowering it in a match with the arrow drawing back, and a final flourish as she released, Shinobu emphasized elegance and power in equal measures. Without aesthetic sensibilities, it was simply brutish warfare. Without physical prowess, it was simply hapless navel-gazing. Only by accentuating the traditional forms with overwhelming physical skill could something approach the Yaguchi style.

And indeed, after the movements that could even be called gentle in their fluid serenity, the arrow burst forth practically as a bullet, finally lodging itself firmly in the bullseye of the target some few dozen meters away. Turning back to look towards Ayako, there was a firm, piercing quality to Shinobu's red eyes. "Effectively, that's the essence of my kyudo, Miss Mitsuzuri. I'll answer questions if you have any, but if you would prefer to simply demonstrate your own, I won't argue with that either."

[tulaladd]

世界最遅tulaladd2020best DL list

年間ベストを始めて以来、初の事態。

なんと9か月遅れのポスト。あと3か月で次の年ベスの発表時期じゃないですか…唯一にして最大の理由が、もちろんあるにはある。

暗夜行路のような唄声が車内から眺める某庁舎前の雪景色と甘酸っぱい感情を喚起させるRY Xや、このリストには登場しない自分用に作ったプレイリスト（日本語ラップ編、シティーポップ編）をひとりで何度も諳んじては胸を焦がした。それらの音楽が本来持つ資質にプラスして思い出補正でランクインした作品がいくつかある（最たるものがサントラ部門かな）。そんな変化があった2020年でした。

それを除けば、音楽ライフは基本的に前年を踏襲。つまり引き続きapple music依存型で、DIG活動もほほ休止（荷物の山に埋もれたタンテをセッティングし直せるまともな精神状態じゃなかった…）。落第生の体たらくをここ何年も続けてるわけです。とはいえ昨年と比べれば、リスト入り作品の数が格段に増えた＝それなりに楽しい音楽生活が営めていたのも事実。その充実を支えたものがアルゴリズムって点がものすごく納得はいかないけれど。（毎年書いてるけど、手当たり次第サブスクを横断する中で「もう一度聴きたい」と思えたものが以下のDLリスト。感覚的には昨年より緩い5枚に1枚。それでも昨年比3倍の約250枚！）

いつまで延命できるか分からないローカルラジオを継続できたのもラッキーだった。相変わらずみんなとあーだこーだ言いながらいろんな曲を聴く時間が音楽ライフを豊かにしてくれました。感謝。過去最高に音楽への熱が薄いテキストになっちゃうけど、9か月遅れだと致し方なしか。

三ツ星評価のうち、エル・ミシェルズ・アフェアのシングルはラジオの一戸くんレコメン、今年も熱量が持続しているサウスロンドン・ジャズ・シーンのマンスール・ブラウンEPはおなじみWOZNIAK星くんのオススメ、ほかにも人から教わってお気に入りになった作品が少なくないのは、サブスクじゃ届かないリアルの強みが感じられて、そこだけは希望があるのかな。

特筆するとすれば、Bartosz KruczynskiのEARTH TRAX以来追い続けてきたリズムセクション・インターナショナルが、旬のサウスロンドン・シーンと地下ハウス/テクノ・シーンのメルティング・ポットだったことが分かって興味が再燃させられた個人的な事件。そのセンセーションのグラウンド・ゼロにあたるTHE COLOURS THAT RISEの発見が今年No.1の成果かな。

唯一職場で音楽談義ができるために相互レコメンに特化したLINEを展開中のT氏に教えられたエディ・チャコンのアルバム、そのエディの復活劇を手掛け、若���恵さん経由でずっぽりハマったソランジュ『A Seat At The Table』の禅的ミニマリズのデザイナーでもあることが事後に発覚したジョン・キャロル・カービーの2人は、今年ならではの幸福な時間の中で何度も繰り返し聴いた一生の思い出確定盤。ジョンなんか3カテゴリーに分かれてのランクインだもんな。　

さて2021年。あと3か月しかない。今年はやる？やらない？いろいろ越えるべきものが多くすぎてそれ以前の問題かもしれないなけど。

【TECHNO / HOUSE / (NU)DISCO / ELECTRONICS】 ★★★THE COLOURS THAT RISE / Grey Doubt ★★THE COLOURS THAT RISE / 2020 EP（2017） ★★THEO PARRISH / Wuddaji ★★Machinedrum / A View of U ★Kuniyuki Takahashi / Flying Music EP ★Oneohtrix Point Never / Magic Oneohtrix Point Never ★VLADISLAV DELAY / Rakka ★LUKE SLATER / berghain fünfzehn ★Jayda G / Both of Us / Are U Down EP ★TSHA / Flowers EP ★DISCLOSURE / Energy ★DARKSTAR / Civic Jams ★Chari Chari / We Hear the Last Decades Dreaming ★HUNEE / Boiler Room : an hour with HUNEE（DJ Mix） ★Autechre / SIGN Arca / @@@@@ BURIAL / Chemz FOUR TET / Sixteen Oceans JAMES BLAKE / Before EP GLOBAL COMMUNICATION / Transmissions Sampler JOHN FRUSCIANTE / Maya TRICKFINGER / She Smiles Because She Presses the Button EP TRICKFINGER / Look Down, See Us EP 60 Miles / Swamp 2 Sea EP EARTH TRAX / LP1 EARTH TRAX / LP2 BIG YAWN / No! HIATT dB / Palimpsest EP GL / You Read My Mind DJ SOFA / Elsewhere Junior I - a Collection of Cosmic Children’s Song Mr President / One Night feat.Celia Kameni & Cindy Pooch J.A.K.A.M. / ASTRAL DUB WORX Inner Science / Made パソコン音楽クラブ / Ambience EP LOCUSSOLUS / Locussolus（Expanded） Various Artists / South DAN KYE / Small Moments OFF THE MEDS / Off The Meds BASSO / Proper Sunburn - Forgotten Sunscreen Applied By Basso（2019） Copenema / Dexia a Musica Tocar（2019） Seahawks / Eyes of the Moon（2019） Jayda G / Significant Changes（2019） MMM / Que Barbaro（2013）

【HIPHOP / R&B / BEATS / FUNK】 ★★★EDDIE CHACON / Outside（Laraaji Remix） ★★EDDIE CHACON / Pleasure, Joy and Happiness ★★Lil Narnia / Pain Extract ★★VHOOR / Baile & Sauce ★AG CLUB / Halfway Off the Porch ★MAC MILLER / Circles ★THUNDRCAT / It Is What It Is ★WILMA ARCHER / A Western Circular ★OXP, ONRA & POMRAD / Swing Convention ★DJ KRUSH / TRICKSTER ★BENEDEK / Bene’s World（2017） JOHN CARROLL KIRBY / High feat.Eddie Chacon & Nailah Hunter THE WEEKND / After Hours DRAKE / Dark Lane Demo Tapes POP SMOKE / Shoot for the Stars Aim for the Moon IVAN AVE / DOUBLE GOODBYES MOSES SUMNEY / græ PETER COTTON TALE / CATCH NNAMDI / BRAT Yves Tumor / Heaven Ta a Toutured Mind Teebs / Ardour（10th Anniversary Edition） Wajatta / Don’t Let Get You Down Lapalux / Esrevoinma EP Kutmah / New Appliance THE HELIOCENTRICS / Telemetric Sounds VULFPECK / The Joy of Music, The Job of   Real Estate JOHN CARROLL KIRBY / Lazzara（2019） Various Artists / Kutmah presents : Sketchbook Radio Archives, Vol.1（2018） Invisibl Skratch Piklz / The 13th Foor（2016） D-STYLES / Phantazagorea（2002）

【JAZZ（the New Chapter） / WORLD】 ★★★MANSUR BROWN / Tesuto ★★★JOHN CARROLL KIRBY / My Garden ★★KAMASI WASHINGTON / Harmony of Difference EP（2017） ★JOHN CARROLL KIRBY / Love Theme ★MANSUR BROWN / Shiroi ★JEFF PARKER / Suite for Max Brown ★CHICAGO UNDERGROUND QUARTET / Good Days ★TOM MISCH & YUSSEF DAYES / What Kinda Music ★KAMAAL WILLIAMS / Wu Hen ★ROB MAZUREK & EXPLODING STAR ORCHESTRA / Dimentional Stardust: ★ORLANDO LE FLEMING / Romantic Funk : The Unfamiliar ★SAM WILKES / WILKES（2019） ★YUSSEF KAMAAL / Black Focus（2016） ★ZSOFIA BOROS / Local Objects（2016） JYOTI & GEORGIA ANNE MULDROW / Mama, You Can Bet! BUTCHER BROWN / #KingButch BRAXTON COOK / Fire Sign PAT METHENY / From This Place Fabiano do Nascimento / Preludio SAM GENDEL / Satin Doll SAM GENDEL / Pass If Music（2018） SAM WILKES / Live on the Green（2019） BRANDON COLEMAN / Resistance（2018） KIEFER / Superbloom（2019） 鈴木良雄 / モーニング・ピクチャー（1984） 鈴木良雄 / ウイングス（1987） JOHN EBERSON, BJ0RNAR ANDRESEN, PAAL NILSSEN-LOVE / Mind the Gap（2001）

【（INDIE）ROCK / （INDIE） POP / SSW】 ★★★EL MICHELS AFFAIR / Reasons feat.Bobby Oroza ★★EL MICHELS AFFAIR / Adult Themes ★★THE FLAMING LIPS / American Head ★★SUFJAN STEVENS / The Ascension ★★FLEET FOXES / Shore ★★COLDPLAY / Everyday Life（2019） ★★RY X / Unfurl（2019） ★★THE WAR ON DRUGS / Lost in the Dream（2014） ★PHOEBE BRIDGERS / Copycat Killer feat. ROB MOOSE - EP ★Mk.gee / A Museum of Contradiction ★PEEL DREAM MAGAZINE / Agitprop Alterna ★BLAKE MILLS / Mutable Set ★THE STROKES / The New Abnormal ★CHS / Jungle Sauna（2019） ★KINDNESS / Something Like A War（2019） ★〝Blue〟Gene Tyranny & Peter Gordon / Trust In Rock（2019） ★STATE RIVER WIDENING / Early Music（2003） BIBIO / Sleep On The Wing Jonsi / Shiver JEFF TWEEDY / Love Is The King REAL ESTATE / The Main Thing ANIMAL COLLECTIVE / Bridge to Quite LITTLE DRAGON / New Me . Same us JAGA JAZZIST / Pyramid TAME IMPAlA  / The Slow Rush TRAVIS / 10 Songs SORRY / 925 JOSEPH OF MERCURY / WAVE Ⅱ Khruangbin / Mordechai Various Artists / Hiding From the Landlord HOWLING / Colure DEVENDRA BANHART / Ma（2019） LANA DEL REY / Norman Fucking Rockwell（2019） DAVE GROHL / Play（2018） CRITERIA / En Garde（2003）

【PUNK / HEAVEY / EXTREAM】 ★★envy / The Fallen Crimson ★★lang / There is no reply, but sweet wind blew（2018） ★envy / LAST WISH（Live at Liquidroom Tokyo） ★SLIFT / UMMON ★HORSE LORDS / The Common Task ★coriky / coriky ★Sans Visage, Look at moment / Split Single ★Sans Visage / moments（2017） ★LIGHTNING BOIL / Sonic Citadel（2019） ★Harvey Milk / Courtesy and Good Will Toward Men（2006） DEFTONES / Ohms Converge / Endless Arrow JESU / Terminus JESU / Never JESU / Ascension（Delux） KRUELTY / A Dying Truth XIBALBA / Anos En Infierno Various Artists / Speedy Wunderground Year 4（2019） RUSSIAN CIRCLE / Russian Circle Audiotree Far Out（2019） EARTH / Live at Third Man Records（2017） THE ARMED / Only Love（2018） THE ARMED / Untitled（2015）

【AMBIENT / NEW AGE / DRONE / MINIMAL MUSIC / EXPERIMENTAL】 ★★JOHN CARROLL KIRBY / Conflict ★★Dukes of Chutney / Hazel  ★HEATHERED PEARLS / Cast ★SAM PREKOP / Comma BING & RUTH / Species FRANKIE REYES / Originalitos IAN WILLIAM CRAIG / Red Sun Through Smoke WINDY & CARL / Allegiance and Conviction JONNY NASH & SUZANNE KRAFT / A Heart So White JOHN CARROLL KIRBY / Tuscany（2019） JOHN CARROLL KIRBY / Meditation In Music（2018） JOHN CARROLL KIRBY / Travel（2017） ALEXANDER RISHAUG / Shadow of Events（2011） 【CLASSIC / OST】 ★LUDWIG GORANSSON / Tenet OST ★JOHN WILLIAMS / Double Trouble ※from OST of Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban（2004） DUSTIN O'HALLORAN / Ammonite OST KAMASI WASHINGTON / Becoming（Music from the Netflix Original Documentary） DUSTIN O'HALLORAN / Lumiere（2011） BETH GIBBONS, The Polish National Radio Symphony Orchestra & Krzysztof Penderecki / Henryk Gorecki: Symphony No.3（2019） ANTONI WIT, Polish National Radio Symphony Orchestra(Katowice) & Polish Choir of Krakow / Henryk Gorecki: Symphony No.2（2001） ZSOFIA BOROS / Local Objects（2016） 【DOMESTIC（without HIPHOP）】 ★★★METAFIVE / 環境と心理 ★★GEZAN / 狂（KLUE） ★★downy / 第七作品集「無題」 ★★岡村靖幸 / 操 ★★崎山蒼志 / ソフト　※FEVER LIVE ver. on YouTube ★★SILENT POETS / dawn（2018） ★WOZNIAK / Vegetable Home Run ★Ai Aso / The Faintest Hint ★jan and naomi / YES ★mei ehara / Ampersands ★ディーン・フジオカ / Neo Dimension ★LUNA SEA / Make a vow ★坂本慎太郎 / 好きっていう気持ち / おぼろげナイトクラブ ★Cuushe / Waken ★sassya- / 脊髄（2019） ★小袋成彬 / Piercing（2019） ★She Her Her Hers / stereochrome（2014） WOZNIAK / Lost WOZNIAK / Double Face mouse on the keys / Arche 5kai / Untitled #2 KAN SANO / Susanna Ovall / Ovall（2019） mabanua / Blurred（2018） D.A.N. / Aechma ふさえ / そのまま 相馬智行 & 鳴海徹朗 / 春の闇 jan and naomi / Neutrino 王舟 / Pulchra Ondo 春ねむり / LOVETHEISM 井出健介と母船 / Contact From Exne Kedy And The Poltergeists（エクスネ・ケディと騒がしい幽霊からのコンタクト） 吉田一郎不可触世界 / えぴせし 岡田拓郎 / Morning Sun blgtz / Feature EP Coff / Tiny Music（2019） 【DOMESTIC（HIPHOP）】 ★★DJ CHARI & DJ TATSUKI / GOLDEN ROUTE ★★Weny Dacillo / Hapitable Hotel ★Hideyoshi / Dead End Adventure ★GG UJIHARA / WEAKNESS EP（2018） ★DJ CHARI & DJ TATSUKI / Time feat.Yo-Sea & KEIJU（2019） ★GG UJIHARA / WEAKNESS EP（2018） KOHH / worst KEIJU / T.A.T.O. Sauce81 / S8100 MARTER / Weltraumasthetik 2020 Normcore Boyz / MEDIAGE なみちえ / 毎日来日 徳利 / REVOLUTION starscream & Page Hiiragi / Ghost(s) DJ CHARI / GAME（2019） YOUNG HASTLE & GG UJIHARA / YOUNG UJIHARA EP（2019） Weny Dacillo / AMPM EP（2017）

[iscribble]

by aim, not arrows

pairing: kwon sooyoung x fem!reader synopsis: you start to think that maybe the King and Queen traded their wisdom with majesty when you pick up a life lesson from your archery instructor instead of them, your own parents. genre(s): royalty!au, archery instructor!soonyoung word count: 1,682 part: 1 | 2

The dearth of sound started off as remotely irksome as it advanced throughout the substantial palace, in the light of the place bustling with incoherent chatter more often than not. However, after beguiling some of the time you had your wonted tea, the silence became more endurable than maddening, that is, after  one of the maids in the palace approached you and hauled you back into reality. The many shades of jade outside the windowpane splintered into fragments of dull colours as your eyes made their way to the woman standing behind you. 

“Is something wrong, Your Highness?”

“Nothing in particular, why'd you ask?” You lowered the teacup cloaked in your rosy fingers. 

“Well,” she started, “I was supposed to get you ready for your archery lesson, but seeing that you still have not finished your tea, I figured you have been thinking about something?”

Ah, archery lessons. The velvety surface of your vanilla tea securely sitting in the curves of the teacup you held remained cold and unattended to as your mind drifted to your dread of being outside of the palace. The mere thought of doing sports had you quivering in anxiety. The king decided it would only be right for a princess to also be passionate about something zestful, he couldn’t seem to welcome the idea of volumes of books stacked in your bedroom. You knew you would resent your first day of archery, but there was absolutely nothing you could do to escape the pursuit.

“Do you see that man over there?" You pointed to a figure standing by the lake just outside the palace. 

“That would be your archery instructor, Your Highness.”

The fulgurating dazzle in your eyes were manifest as you quietly observed his posture. You were gulping down your tea when he came into sight. His hair was unkempt from the wind in the best way possible, coal black locks almost entirely hiding his eyes. His pine-colored button down pressed ever so slightly against his torso, accentuating his built frame. He stood there with both hands inside his pocket, a bearing so ordinarily seen, yet something about him appeared oddly inviting to you. 

“He is handsome, is he not?” You joked, although not quite sure if you really did say that in jest.

“It is not my place to say,” your maid responded, “however, you’ll get a better look of him when you come downstairs, Your Highness.”

After you were appropriately arrayed for your archery lesson, the maid escorted you outside as the waft of reluctance treaded on your heels, into the field where your instructor had been waiting. As you neared him, that gentle air of scruple you were confined to began to evanesce, seeing him in close proximity made your eyes twinkle so covertly, until he looked up at you and caught that fleet glimmer merely seconds before it completely melted away. 

“Your Highness.”

“Hello,” you reached out your hand after his lips adjusted into a bonny crescent that erupted fireworks out of the chambers of your poor heart. 

“Soonyoung.”

“Hello Soonyoung, I’m y/n.”

“Pleasure to meet you, Your Highness.”

Subduing the pale red tinge that was ascending your small cheeks, you leaned into his ears, “Quit with the formalities, you can call me y/n.” 

Soonyoung had somehow managed to turn you into impossible shades of crimson as soon as you laid your eyes on his. Who knew what more this striking man had reserved for you. The archery lesson had yet to begin but the waver of your fingers cloaked in beads of sweat told you otherwise. 

“We’ve only just met, Your Highness.” He replied with a ravishing grin. 

“Well,” you shrugged, not wanting to embarrass yourself even further, “suit yourself, Soonyoung.” 

“Thank you, princess.” Your ears perked up at the mention of the sobriquet. A devilish tincture of scarlet stretched out across your ears almost at once. There was too much certainty to even deny his manners had a striking effect on you.

You started off with the basics, picking your own bow. Soonyoung assisted you in finding one appropriate for your size and skill. You ultimately went with the smallest possible bow you could find in the palace. You visibly quaffed at how new you were to all of this, even having the bow in your hands felt rum. Soonyoung must have sensed you were ill at ease as he immediately kneaded your shoulder in an attempt to calm your agitation.

“Relax, princess. You’ll get used to it as we practice.”

You shot him a timid smile, still feeling your heart acutely throbbing from the name he called you by. “I hope so.”

Upon returning outside, Soonyoung guided you to a proper stance, making sure you were comfortable. His articulate fingers learned of your thigh while the other hand was affixed to your waist. The sensation that came alacritously had you stiffen up a little as he applied force to your inner thigh to move your leg to the right. Soonyoung stood behind you and steadied your stance, holding your waist with both of his hands to keep you from moving. Your senses were now twisted more than ever, you could feel a little bit of everything. Blood had started surging in meteoric speed through the veins that led to your cheeks as soon as Soonyoung’s hot breath kissed your sensitive scruff.

Next step was positioning the bow. He took hold of your fingers, placing his lips dangerously close to your ears. “Pull your elbow back a little, and,” in one swift motion, Soonyoung released the arrow that went flying straight into the center of the target board, “release, just like that. Also, keep this hand close to your face, just behind your ear after you release.” 

“Wow, you’re actually good at this.” You found yourself saying.

“Well, that’s kind of the point of me being your instructor, princess.”

You mentally slapped yourself for making such a useless remark. “Sorry, when I first saw you I thought you were too good to be true.”

“What do you mean by that?”

“I mean, I’m just saying, people here in the palace might mistake you for a prince, you know, for having good looks.”

Soonyoung slipped out a blithe titter. “So you’re saying I look handsome? Why, thank you princess.”

You spared no effort hiding your flushed visage by returning to your stance and posture. You took a deep breath and focused on the board, closing one eye. Upon releasing, the arrow winged its way to the edge of the board, almost missing.

“That’s alright, princess.” Soonyoung remarked. “Shall we try again?”

You huffed. “Not so fast Soonyoung. I realise I don’t even know you.” 

Deep furrows in his brow were patent as he tried to perceive what you had just said. “What about me could pique your interest, princess?”

“How long have you been an archery instructor?”

“I’ve been interested in archery my whole life. I taught myself how to do it, and after I graduated high school, I started teaching others how to do it.”

“If you’re so good at it, why not become a professional archer and try out competitions instead of being an instructor? For all you know, you could be in the Olympics.” 

Soonyoung's features softened. “That would be lovely, princess. But you know,” he picked your bow up and positioned himself in a perfect stance, smoothly releasing the arrow, “as the saying goes, a good archer is known by his aim, not his arrows. You could have as much arrows as you’d like but with bad aim, it would be pointless. I could be a professional archer and make so much money, but if it doesn’t benefit the world, I’d feel useless. I actually want to help someone else make it, you know?”

You melted at his authenticity. Not only did Soonyoung have a stunning guise, he had brilliant expertise and is a paragon of virtue. 

“If you put it that way, I am certainly one with too many arrows and not even a good aim.”

“Are you really, princess?”

“At least my parents are,” you sighed, “all they ever cared about was the riches. They do charity every now and then but trust me, they just wanna look good in front of everyone. It was never really in their hearts to be genuinely selfless.”

You could tell Soonyoung sympathized with you by the way his eyes leisurely narrowed to the doleful sight of your dark sienna orbs, the grooves on his brow once again taking place. You sought solace in the motion of his slender fingers tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. “I know you’re different princess. I know you want to be. Shall we try again?”

You nodded and readied yourself. Soonyoung helped you get into the correct stance once again, and after he was sure you’d hit the center, he stepped back and let you do it on your own. You released the arrow, and just as he predicted, hit the board right on the center. 

“You did amazing, princess.” 

You squealed in mirth. “I did it! Well, you did it, but technically I did it!”

The day had commenced with you counting the odds of surviving this foreign bustle but after it had actually ended, you were there thinking you might actually fall in love with your instructor. 

“So, are we done?” 

“For today, yes.” Soonyoung cleared your things and headed back into the room where the equipments were kept. “We’ll meet again in a week.”

“Thank you, Soonyoung,” you gave his arm a benign wring, “I think I learned more of a life lesson today, although I have to admit I’m pretty good at this thing!” 

Soonyoung dissolved into a short but hearty laughter and planted a chaste kiss on your cheek, “It’s been a pleasure, princess.”

As he walked father into the distance, you stood in front of the palace, taking note of every little particular he bears. You couldn’t help but muse on what the heavens would think if you really did fall in love with him. 

[efrmellifer]

Propriety

“What are you doing out here?” Estinien asked, hair falling over his shoulder from how abruptly he stopped at the sight of Etien.

“What are you doing letting yourself into the house if you thought I’d still be in bed?”

He sighed. “Clever Warrior.”

“Not even clever lady?”

“Aye, that as well. Clever kit made clever warrior, made clever little hussy.”

Etien nearly preened at that, stretching her legs in front of her and her tail out behind her, through the back of the chair. “I almost wish I had been; you could have slid into bed with me to keep me warm. ‘s godsdamned cold lately.”

“Just here in Ishgard?”

“Well, I haven’t been further than the Congregation in the last moon or so—other than my trip to Camp Cloudtop, but a good dragoon can keep his mouth shut on that, aye?”

Estinien chuckled. “Are you always so poor at following directions? Such a rebel?”

Etien laughed, too, trying to drag her shawl closer around her while keeping it covering more of her body. “Force me to lead the rebellion one time too many, and I become a rebel myself. It isn’t that, though. I want to listen to Aymeric. I feel bad for not doing so.”

“Then why don’t you?”

“He—and I don’t mean to imply that any part of this is actually his fault—but he’s been busy buying cradles and clothing, and getting everything ready here for them, but I look out the window and I realize that there’s still so much out there that needs to be done.”

“The Scions sending their emissary by all the time does little to help.”

Etien nodded, the tone of her sigh indicating her agreement. “And it’s hard to hold it against him, any of them. I wrote to Jordyn about the thing they all found, and asked if she could help them. She was receptive, which I’m grateful for, but it all feels like giving up.”

Estinien knelt, so he could look up at Etien, instead of down on her. It just didn’t feel right at a time like this.

“Giving up?”

She played with the hem of her shawl, not meeting Estinien’s eyes. For a long time, she rolled a pill of the wool back and forth, straining its connection to the rest of the garment before easing the pressure.

“Perhaps… that’s not the right phrasing. Neglecting my duties, maybe? I am supposed to be doing the important work and all that. Though… I think I did mean giving up, too. Why did I leave the Twelveswood if I was just going to fall into place with what they always said would become of me, anyway?”

Estinien’s brow knit.

“Oh, you’ve never heard this one. In the—” she sighed—“later stages of my relationship with T’ahn, there was an undercurrent of gossip about, hmm, how to put this delicately? What might become of me, consigned to breeding queen and wet nurse, instead of the capable archer and infamous bookworm I had been thus far.”

“And?”

“Well, here I am, ser, having hung up the mantle that made me relevant to anyone outside Ishgard, swelling by the day with my aspirations.” She scoffed. “Relevant to anyone within Ishgard, too. Just a solo Miqo’te now,” she grumbled into the aether. “Can’t even use my bow right.”

Estinien took Etien’s hand, squeezing it. “I find you more than relevant. I find you enjoyable, in company and visage. Aymeric has always found you interesting to the point of distraction. I don’t think I need to tell you that he enjoys you any way he can.” He dipped his gaze to her stomach, and she laughed.

“How wise. And accurate.”

“And we, and your friends, wherever they may be, will continue to like and support you however long the mantle is hung up, and your bow goes undrawn. You won’t be breeding queen and wet nurse, you’ll be what you have been. A song on the wind.” He kissed her hand, then further up, on her wrist. “Though I suppose I ought to leave this sort of thing to Aymeric.”

She nearly laughed again. “You’re allowed to kiss me, Estinien.” She suppressed another little incredulous sound before speaking again, her expression and tone both growing more serious. “You’re allowed to do whatever you like with me, really.”

He looked away, the warmth of her gaze reminding him how dangerous sunshine was for frozen-over lakes where the ice was just a few ilms too thin to support being walked across. So too was the control he was maintaining on his composure, and looking at her was going to melt it, leaving them both doused in icy spray.

“In the past, aye. But now you’re beginning to show. We can’t keep sowing our wild oats any more.”

With a gently maternal hand, her fingertips softer now from the lack of archery she’d been doing lately, Etien turned him to face her again. “Not just in the past. Now, as ever.” She took a deep breath, and then shifted in her seat with a soft groan. “I know you have your own matters to tend to, like when you tracked down the Black Rose facilities with Gaius. And I would never ask you to abandon those things. But the Scions won’t let me stay here forever. When I get called to some distant land, the kits are going to need more family. Aymeric can’t do it alone. So, please, Estinien—” she caught his hand again and pressed it to her stomach. He was surprised by how firm the flesh was. He hadn’t known what to expect, but it hadn’t been this, or the feeling like a thrum of aether under his hand.

“—please. Raise these kits with us. They’ll need you. Aymeric needs you. I need you.”

With his hand pressed to the warmth of her body under her tautly-stretched wool garments, and blanketed by her cool hand, he couldn’t say no. He looked up to find Etien’s eyes glassy with tears.

“I will.”

Her expression relaxed into a wide smile. “Thank you, thank you. I love you, Estinien.”

He paused for a moment. He’d heard that before, plenty of times. But this was a different context. In so emotionally weight-bearing a moment, Etien saying it so easily and meaning it possibly even more deeply than usual…

He flexed his fingers off her belly, then turned his hand to twine his fingers with hers. “And I love you, Etien.”

He sealed the statement with a kiss, one that had started placating, like an apology that he’d brought her to tears. But it grew deeper, Etien’s fingers gripping Estinien’s wrist again. But this time, it was with need.

He wrapped his free arm around her, and she let go of his wrist to wrap her arms around his neck. He swept her out of the chair, skirts and all, legs over his arm as he lifted her up.

Etien pulled away to cry out in surprise, then clung a little closer, her ear flattening against the side of Estinien’s neck.

“Would you mind too terribly if we did take this to bed?” he asked, voice low and heavy, laden with implications as it was.

She shook her head. “I would mind more terribly if we didn’t.”

Again, he chuckled, heading toward the bedroom.

Setting her down was a new challenge, when he didn’t want to bend her in half or drop her, but had no idea how else he was going to trundle her onto the mattress.

“Sit down,” she instructed quietly, kissing under his chin. Estinien obeyed, taking a seat on the bed. Etien wiggled until she was sitting sideways on his lap, arms still around his neck.

“Now, do you want me to lie down?” she asked him with a little grin, twirling a lock of his hair around her finger.

“Don’t pull,” he chided, unwinding his hair from her hand, “the babies will do that enough.”

“Won’t you wear it tied back? Oh, it looks so good like that, Estinien,” She gathered it all, fist curled around the strands like moonbeams. She let go and crawled off his lap, settling atop the covers and beckoning him to join her.

Again, he hesitated, weight on his hands either side of her, but both knees at her side. “I don’t want to crush you.”

Etien was still shockingly limber, shown in how she got her leg hooked around his knee and pushed, dropping his body next to her, rather than on top of her. “You won’t.”

Estinien could barely hear himself as he stroked her cheek, murmuring, “No, I suppose not.” His hand wandered from her cheek, down her chest and over the woolen ocean of her clothing.

She began to lift her skirts with the usual slow drag up her left thigh, until her whole leg was exposed. Then, she took his hand, guiding it past her skirts.

“Anything you like,” she reminded him. “At any pace you like. No need to hurry.”

He laughed into the side of her neck and the curls of her hair as he noted, “And you still don’t wear stockings, I see.”

“I’ve got you to keep me warm; who needs stockings?”

[shadowsblades]

write me what happened when she found out varian died 👀

UNSOLICITED ASKS↳ @goldwrynn 

          What happened was that Valeera swam all the way to the Broken Shore to kick the ashes of his ass. How did she know which ashes used to be his ass? Doesn’t matter —— Varian is just one giant ass. But what should have happened…

          Her daggers slice through the demon’s unprotected stomach, the second slash not milliseconds behind the first, blades already coated in ichor never permitted reprieve to dry splattering hot blood across the rocky terrain and upon the already matted fur of the hefty bear fighting nearby. If Broll notices the added gore, he gives no sign, locked in combat with a felguard of his own, glimpsed in Valeera’s periphery barely long enough to verify that he moves —— and breathes —— still. Derision against the slowed speed of his attacks, lording of the number of her own kills over his —— any quip she might have goaded him with ( and had goaded him with earlier, to growled rejoinder that much more entertaining for its incomprehensibility, for his inability to chide her in turn ) goes unexpressed. If her exultation over fighting alongside him and Varian once more lingers unspoiled by the severity of the battle they wage, she no longer possesses the energy to communicate it.

          They have been fighting before the Tomb for what feels like days, demon after demon dispatched without an end to their ranks in sight. Lengthy assault on the Broken Shore behind them already, the rogue’s body aches with the abuse of it, painted generously with the grisly evidence of her… contributions to the skirmish thus far, her endurance owed more to the priests desperately sustaining their ranks with blessings and healing than the skill she brings to the battle ( though Valeera would contest she brings plenty of that ).

          For every demon they cut down more materialise, reinforcements for the Burning Legion marching onto the battlefield in a seemingly inexhaustible supply. There is nothing to do but fight on. They will be victorious. They have to be.

          The air itself is scorching and sulphuric, dry heat fuelled by the felfireballs cast into their midst and the fissures of molten fel splitting the stony ground, the torridity enclosed by the thick, churning clouds above, undiminished here as it had been by the ocean air on the craggy shore. Grotesque bats shriek as they swoop overhead and blades clang all around, the almost-rhythmic clamour of metal-on-metal and the recurring flashes of green in the sundered sky above so familiar to have faded into the background of Valeera’s consciousness. Her awareness is necessarily narrowed to encompass only those enemies and allies nearest —— and dearest —— to her: the demon before her, staggering back against her latest blow, blundering forward now with a monstrous double-bladed axe larger than her body and therefore sluggish enough to dodge; Broll just there, raking his claws over his foe; Varian behind her, shouting to Greymane as he cleaves through the Burning Legion’s elite guard with Shalamayne… 

            Liadrin, somewhere up on the embankment with her Blood Knights and the rest of the Horde’s forces.

          The blare of a horn brays across the tableau, a pealing echo resounding from above —— the Horde signalling something the demon looming over Valeera forestalls immediate appraisal of, but which she prays portends something that might turn the tide in their favour. Under the sweep of the felguard’s weapon, she stabs her blades into its exposed side to the hilts, carving deep, vertical gouges through flesh and muscle that ooze blood until the thing finally topples to its knees for her to kick to the ground, as dead as a demon can be on Azeroth.

          No new adversaries step forward to take its place, but before she can spare a glance to find what has changed in their surroundings——

          “I knew we couldn’t trust her!” Genn roars, enraged snarl seizing Valeera’s attention. He stands by Varian, the area around them miraculously —— but likely only fleetingly —— bereft of living demons, both of their faces turned up to the ridge overlooking the Tomb, where the Horde…

          Cold fear compresses her chest.

          The dark figures of the archers that had been covering them are gone, and no sounds of warfare beckon from that direction.

          The Horde is gone. The horn had been a call for a retreat…

          As if they had been waiting for harrowing comprehension of their abandonment and the doom it augurs to sweep across the Alliance forces, a fresh swarm of felbats wail, soaring across the plateau like a hail of arrows —— arrows which no longer harry them as they dive towards the Alliance, raking claws over their formation. Valeera whirls to face them, lunging aside as one sweeps down towards her, its long, twisted arms grasping for a victim. She twists onto her back as she falls, throwing out a long knife slid down from within her gauntlet to pierce the thick hide covering the thing’s belly —— to no avail other than to avoid her the fate of a nearby soldier too slow to do the same, ripped to pieces that become ghastly projectiles.

          Valeera is on her feet again before her body registers impact with the ground, ducking as fireballs explode overhead, scattering the felbats.

          Skyfire has arrived, but too late. The field is chaos now, more demons than ever marching implacably from the direction of the Tomb, pushing back where Varian had resolved to push forward.

          Any hope that they might triumph here despite the odds, that they might defeat the Burning Legion before it can penetrate further into Azeroth, evaporates.

          They will be slaughtered in moments unless they emulate the Horde —— a possibility now with the gunship descending towards them.

          Valeera glances towards Varian just as he comes to the bitter realisation, “Get everyone to the gunship.”

          “I was just getting started,” Valeera complains to him as Genn bellows the order, weak attempt at lightening the severity of his glare inexorably undermined by her laboured breath and the grime congealing even in her hair, transforming the soft, golden tail into stiff stalks of muck she shudders to imagine washing.

          The king glances at her briefly, visage revealing a disgruntlement too intense to ameliorate, “Get Broll.”

          She nods, glowing eyes flashing to her right where she had last seen the druid. There, an imposing line of felguard advances, presaged by a sonorous rumble of marching leaden feet, repelling soldiers who stumble over themselves to disengage. Where is——

          A sleek, leonine shape leaps upon a demon at the forefront bearing down on a human stumbled into a fissure, tackling the hulking form to the earth and snapping at its throat.

          To think he had once chastised her for using her teeth!

          Valeera dashes towards him, hauling the soldier to their feet and shoving them blindly in the direction of the gunship.

          “Broll!” she yells after the cat, “We’re going!”

          He bounds towards her with a bloodied snout, lopes just slow enough for Valeera to vault onto his spotted back. Together, they race towards Skyfire with the last of the remaining troops, veering hazardously to evade weapons swung at them, hair and fur alike stirred by the wind of their wake. The rogue shimmies up the ladder as Broll transforms, beckoning to Varian ( because of course he hasn’t fled yet himself ).

          Things are hardly less tumultuous on deck. The whole gunship shudders with the fire shot from the cannons, the ladder swinging perilously against the hull just as Valeera turns to hoist Broll over the edge, her body anchored with one arm wrapped around the rail as the other reaches down for him, Varian’s broad frame recognisable a few soldiers below.

          Power as loathsome as it is familiar prickles the fine hairs on her arms, suddenly saturating the atmosphere, crackling and flashing menacingly amid the clouds. The Legion, once so intent on keeping them away from the isle, now determined to block their escape.

          The ship lurches to port as a colossal meteor, larger than any conjured so far and wreathed in a conflagration of green flame, plummets past her vision, billowing sultry air and pitching Skyfire even further to port before crashing into the ground below. As the gunship rocks back, soldiers without grip are flung from the vessel into the inferno of smoke, flame and blistering heat mushrooming below. Valeera’s body slams against the rail, only barrier between her and certain demise. Broll, too, barely onto the deck, teeters. Varian——

           Varian…          

          Heart in her throat, Valeera leans over the bannister, squinting down into the nebulous smog. The soldiers that were on the ladder above the king are gone, likely having plunged to their deaths, but the man himself dangles perilously from one arm, careening with the undulating rope, “Varian!”

          If he had boarded earlier…

          Broll’s antlered head appears beside her, his longer arms snagging their friend’s hand as he surges upwards for their aid——

          A dark, gargantuan shape coalesces within the blaze beneath him, and a hand considerably larger than the night elf’s reaches up through the blast to crunch into the starboard deck, shattering wooden boards and squashing metal like a crafter would clay, dragging Skyfire back to starboard just as it begins to pitch away.

          Valeera’s legs fly out from under her, cartwheeling over her head and slapping the hull of the ship on the other side of the rail, only her arm somehow still wrapped around the guard keeping her from tumbling to her death upon the jagged rocks below. Others too topple howling from the gunship, bodies sliding between the rails until the gaps are blocked by sliding debris, clanging off the metal shell of the fel reaver leering at them from below.

          Valeera’s gaze follows them, purposefully ignoring vision of the land far below, down to Varian, still there, still swinging wildly on the ladder, his face turned upon the last obstacle between the Alliance and survival. She catches his eye as he glances up again, aspect disconcertingly resolved?

          Before she can even fathom what he may be planning, before thought of him planning anything solidifies in her mind, he drops, hand deliberately slipped through Broll’s grasp, Shalamayne unsheathed from his back and aimed at the head of the thing that has them as the night elf shouts after him.

          Whatever Varian has planned, Valeera cannot let him go alone.

          She glances up at Broll, who manages only a syllable of her name in protest before she releases the rail.

          Valeera too pulls her daggers as she falls, thrusting them into the clutching arm of the demon. Her weight drags them down, tearing parallel gashes through the metal with an ear-piercing grating that squeals in her teeth. The arm falls and suddenly she is horizontal to the ground, legs hanging down in the open for a heart-stopping moment before her blades lose purchase and she falls from the fel reaver, limbs waving hectically for something —— anything, but there is nothing —— to grab.

          It somehow takes longer than she expected to hit the ground, long enough to feel calmly chagrined over the utter stupidity of Varian Wrynn and the indignity of a death by falling.

          Her back hits the stone ( somehow not as hard as she expected, either ), limbs crashing down upon it and her head whipping back so her skull smacks against it, too. 

          Alive. Somehow.

          Groaning, Valeera rolls onto her side as the fel reaver crashes to the ground, molten fel bursting from its riven head, apparently less durable than her own.

          “Fools!” Broll’s voice thunders as Valeera drags her knees beneath her and levers herself unsteadily upright, pain spasming through every inch of muscle and flesh. 

          The fel reaver is down for good, she discovers, and so are they. Her, Varian, also staggering to his feet, and Broll, who must have leaped after them both and used his powers to slow at least her own descent. Down on the very ill-fated battlefield they had just left.

          Perhaps this wasn’t such a good idea…

          Skyfire chugs away from them. An army of demons too numerous to count trudge across the rock towards them, so assured of their imminent demise and the impossibility of escape to approach unhurriedly. The three of them inch towards each other and raise their weapons, tense with anticipation.

          “Just like old times,” Valeera’s ventures, determinedly buoying the tenor of her voice over the fear threatening to tremble it, “The three of us together against overwhelming odds. Forget gold —— I want a statue when we get back.”

          Not that any of them would be getting back anywhere.

          Perhaps they would get an effigy anyway, a stone tribute to the three of them in some sun-kissed garden of Stormwind, standing side-by-side as they are now —— hopefully looking more brave and less dishevelled than Valeera feels now, but Anduin would surely see to that. 

          Champions of the Crimson Ring. Slayers of Onyxia. Heroes of the Broken Shore, the plaque might read ( are they heroes even if they die in vain? probably, she thinks, there’s a whole valley of missing supposed-heroes at the gates of the city, though Valeera would prefer a statue not so large that a family of pigeons could roost within her nostril ).

          Maybe Liadrin will even visit it.

          “It used to be Valeera we were chasing after,” Broll rumbles.

          The resignation in his voice closes a hand around her throat, but Valeera compels herself to scoff at the affront, however feebly, “I recall chasing the two of you all the way across Kalimdor!”

          “Some things never change,” Varian interjects gruffly, “You two are still fighting each other when you should be concentrating on our foes!”

          A felguard finally lumbers close enough to swing. 

          “The leader!” Varian shouts as he wrenches Shalamayne in two, twin blades ringing against the broadsword of the first opponent as he shoves forward, plowing again towards the Tomb as if they have any hope of reaching it.

          Futile or not, they push through as one, weaving, slashing, grunting, somehow making more progress than the entire Alliance army had achieved.

          A spear is jabbed towards her. Valeera darts aside then in, hacking with her daggers first one enemy then another and another after that, opponent sometimes spontaneously swapped with Varian or Broll beside her.

          Once, Varian is there to fend off her attacker, his sword shoved into the demon’s chest then ripped free to press another.

          Valeera shreds the hamstrings of one encroaching on Broll, its kneeling body a momentary shield against its brethren until it’s flung aside.

          No elements to call on, Broll is forced to foster his own, flinging seeds that become roots ensnaring feet.

          Too soon, it becomes agony to lift her arms, to impel her body to move,  to dodge, to block, to attack. The leader is so close, but more and more demons encircle them, grinding their momentum to a halt bespeaking death.

          “There’s no winning this,” Varian finally heaves, somehow mustering breath Valeera does not have to spare, “Broll, take Valeera. Look after my son.”

          Daggers crossed to block the overhead swing of a broadsword meant to reave her in two, elbows quivering with the effort to hold it, Valeera scarcely processes the order before sharp talons clasp around her shoulders and she’s dragged unceremoniously from the ground, wind beat downwards by strong, feathered wings bearing her upwards.

         “Broll!” she cries, squirming desperately in his grasp, legs kicking fruitlessly, “What are you doing?! Let me go! Put me down!”

          The stormcrow the druid has become is unresponsive, stoically flapping higher until Valeera has to twist to look behind them where Varian fights on, his rapidly-shrinking figure beset by demons. He’s made it to the leader he’d identified, but there’s so many, two of them right behind him, if they could help——

          “BROLL!” she howls again, voice cracked with hysteria as her hands frantically wrench at the fleshy legs above her as if she might be able to steer him around with enough force, “Go back! We have to go back! Varian needs us! Broll! Please!”

           “Put me down so you can get him! There’s no time!” She strains for another glance back, the scene barely visible out of the corner of her eye——

          And then Varian is screaming, a long cry of escalating agony silenced by a flare of felfire, momentarily illuminating the hideous landscape in a flash of even more hideous green, “No!” 

          For a few moments more, Valeera grapples with the druid, twisting harshly this way and that, legs thrashing as if they might find purchase against the air with which to wrestle against his hold, voice hoarse from yelling, “Go back!”

          Eventually, with Skyfire swelling in size before them, her rebellion tapers, furious defiance draining with whatever surge of energy had sustained it. Her face crumples, chest so tight she chokes upon the wretched sobs that convulse within her abdomen and tremor up her ribcage to tear themselves from her throat. She slumps in Broll’s grasp, fingers lip around his claws, ears drooped and head sagging towards the sea rippling far beneath them ------ so oblivious to the tremendous loss inflicted upon her, upon Azeroth, that her outrage momentarily spikes again.

          Light damn the Horde, Light damn the Legion, Light damn Varian Wrynn!

          Hot, angry tears drip unimpeded from her chin.Tangy ocean breeze ripples her hair, dragging sodden, odious strands across her face she does not care to brush aside. 

[mymarifae]

hey!

i wanted to share my concepts for original novels and my writing projects because! i work really hard on them and pour a lot of myself into them and i never...talk about them. because i'm super shy. also i want to avoid blabbing too much and spoiling everything. but i'm trying to be less shy so i'm gonna start talking about my books and ocs and actually share my biggest passion with y'all :3

By the Sins of Our Youth: After the suicide of their best friend, Drew Ryan ruins their whole fucking life. Lost in a spiral of heavy drugs and alcohol, it doesn't seem like there's much hope left for them. Before Drew can follow in Michael's footsteps, a great white beast appears before them. A visage of Death, a demon—something Drew can't even conceptualize. The beast calls himself Amos, and he offers Drew an ultimatum: if they can revive the city's ancient, sleeping gods, he'll leave them to die, if they so choose. Cursed with a strange bout of immortality, Drew crashes headfirst into an underground world of fantastical creatures learning to coexist among humans and technology. Wake up some sleeping gods. Sure; whatever that means. Under Amos's annoyingly watchful eye, Drew sets out on their insurmountable mission. But bit by bit, as this new world unfolds before them, Drew begins to realize they are more than Michael's death.

Floating World: Bracken has always been described as a real airhead. A ditz. Forgetful and dreamy. But no one else gets it. Because sometimes, when Bracken blinks, a friend's red flannel is now a purple tanktop. He blinks, and his Monday has turned into Thursday of next week. He blinks, and he has a little sister he's never met before. He blinks, and passes through realities as smoothly as a cat.

Rose: Olivia only joined the rebellion against the crown because she had nothing left. If she dies, she dies. If she lives, that's a fine paycheck. But then she meets Billie, and she finds something to live for again. And then she meets Aiden, the rebellion's glorious and charismatic leader, and realizes the royal family isn't the only one who seeks to destroy the kingdom. Navigating a sticky labyrinth of politics and morality, Olivia must destroy Aiden's rebellion from the inside out; because if Aiden wins, the gutters will clog over with blood. But everyone loves Aiden so, and her pretty green eyes.

The Witch's Apprentice: Sophia Tiller grew up lonely. Ever shy and meek, huddled away in the shadow of her abusive mother, she had only the flowers and plants in the garden to comfort her. Her life had withered and died before it could even begin.

On the eve of her seventeenth birthday, a kindly witch named Arthur appears on her doorstep, and he offers to whisk her away to his world. A world of magic and faeries and strange talking cats. Under Arthur's care, Sophia begins to grow and heal from her past abuses. But something doesn't like that, and the woods surrounding Arthur's home watch too closely.

What We Dreamed: 4 kids, learning 4 hard lessons. Balance, forgiveness, acceptance, and how to love (live).

but all those are (mostly) on hold, because my primary focus is a giant cookie run project...a big au i'm just calling "The Beginning of a Legend" for now. it's my reinterpretation of all the canon lore! it's going to be a five/six part fanfic series, each with a focus on one of the legendary cookies. (not entirely sure on the set up of some stuff because of course pitaya got released right after i finished planning out the timeline)

the timeline goes: Her Eyes Were God (dark enchantress) -> i know, i'm sorry (sea fairy) -> Homecoming (moonlight) -> And Still You Bleed (fire spirit and kind of pitaya i'm having issues aaaargh) -> Cataclysm (millennial tree and wind archer they got merged into One)

i have a lot of writing on my plate but i fucking LOVE WORDS.

[cookiexbreak]

Tag dump 2.