#you are a champion you have done it... you have succeeded against all the odds

[haridraws]

Drawings from Into the Tower

Playable characters 4/4: THE ACOLYTE

With guest illustration by @chechula (if you survive and make it to the ending)

High logic • play for the most lore, and a challenge Challenging ⟡————— Survivable Quick play ———⟡—— More story To play THE ACOLYTE, turn to page 19.

[bongaboi]

Elaina, 2022 ISML Saimoe Prime Minister

Good morning, afternoon, evening, wherever you are in the world. My name is Elaina, the Wandering Witch. I will be your Saimoe Prime Minister for the 2022 session, succeeding Yukino Yukinoshita. Prior to, I began my work as Speaker of the Saimoe Diet and it is apparent that my work has been rewarded with your trust. I would like to first take this time to congratulate Mikoto Misaka on a well-fought race and for a strong campaign. Her work as a longtime Saimoe champion must be honored and respected, as she is a role model for many heroes of our time. Thank you, Mikoto, for lighting the way.

I want to start with a little story about myself. I grew up well off, well versed in magic, naive and not knowing what it felt to fall short. In the past, I tried to cheat to get to where I needed to be, but then I realized that this is not how I want to be remembered as. I believe that fairness is key, and knowing that learning from failure will lead to improving one-self, and become successful. I believe that we can do better as men and women of principles and ideals, and that allowed me to craft my platform and my mission, ideals and principles that I hope all will use in the coming months ahead.

As I had championed when beginning my term, good government and resolute diversity was my platform then, and will be my platform now. Balance and moderate resolution are principles that I will champion as your Saimoe Prime Minister. I plan to hear all sides and all arguments and encourage my cabinet, my team of lawmakers, to provide effective solutions to alleviate the world's problems.

You know full well that I can't solve every problem or dilemma, and it takes a full team to save our movement from elimination. So I plan to bring in the best people from our Diet to steer forward a game plan that we can all agree on. You know that when it comes to my leadership, women's rights matter. Feminism, tolerance, and the celebration of who you are and to never be judged on who you are and who you will be is what gets me motivated for what we are about to encounter. Never stop being you. Whether you are a man, a woman, lesbian, bisexual, transgender, nonbinary, no matter your orientation, no matter who you choose to love, your ideals, your principles, your happiness in inviolate. Invincible. And you know this. You know this.

So, my dear brothers and sisters in the cause, let us rise up to a new tomorrow. A tomorrow where the coronavirus pandemic becomes harnessed, and controlled. Where the world can become able to heal, to renew, to re-energize. Where the wars of petty factions can cease, and the magic of love and hope can spread the wings of the downtrodden, allowing them to take flight into the future.

I want to take this time to thank people who pushed me forward. My teacher, Fran, the rock of my studies and who I still remember fondly. My mother Victorica, for raising me, and my father. I want to thank Saya, who will be working with me in the cabinet this coming session, for arranging my campaign and working hard to get me over the line. And to Sheila and Mina, you have also been wonderful in your work and have done well, and your efforts have been rewarded.

One more person I would like to congratulate before I close off this short speech is Sakuta Azusagawa, husband of Ms. Mai Sakurajima. Sakuta, you were unlucky to fall short last year against Miyuki Shirogane. But your wife believed in you. We all did. We always did. And so you never gave up and used your defeat to come back stronger. And here you are, a Deputy Saimoe Prime Minister who will working with me to celebrate and foster the great things people can do to spread love, hope, happiness and healing. You and Mai will be great additions to my team. Let's all work together to get things done.

In closing, I will close this statement with a maxim. The great Ellen Pompeo, or Dr. Meredith Grey, once said, “And sometimes, against all odds, against all logic, we still hope.” Believe in the power of love so you can keep hope alive, and be the gift that keeps on giving. The Saimoe movement has been good to all of us. And so, as you continue your own battles, your own adventures, know full well that we are here for you, to be an inspiration, to motivate you to be at your best. You give us our support and will pay it back and forward. That is my promise, that is our promise. We will do our best to make this year one you will remember, no matter the cost.

So will that, I hope you have a great week, month, year and life. May God bless you, and may God bless Japan and the world. Good night.

-Elaina

2022 Saimoe Prime Minister

International Saimoe League

[phillipsgraves]

Hi! For the OC asks :)

For Hela - What kind of childhood did your OC have?

For Alex - What demon would your OC be most susceptible to and how would the demon best tempt/manipulate them?

For both - Three songs that make you think of your OCs and why?

thank you!

athela - what kind of childhood did your oc have?

as a normal as she can have after both her parents died. it's not something she gets closure over for years until that fateful day where she contracts the taint from the eluvian. it wasn't all bad, at least. she had merrill, who was like a sister to her, and tamlen, her closest friend-but-might've-been-more. that and she saw parents in keeper marethari and ashalle. it might not have been the easiest of childhoods, but hela appreciated those she had around her and her upbringing never made her bitter.

alex - what demon would your oc be most susceptible to and how would the demon best tempt/manipulate them?

alex would've been too humble for the pride demon, and he's quick to come back to his senses when in the presence of a desire demon. but the despair demon would get him very easily. ever since lothering, alex has always seemed to carry all of thedas on his shoulders, from making sure his family got out safely, and had food to eat once they were settled in kirkwall. then there was the prospect of leaving bethany behind while going on the deep roads expedition, and then almost losing carver to the blight on said expedition. he keeps his head held up high, even after the death of his mother and the beginnings of the mage-templar war. in his heart's heart he knows he's done the right thing, but the demon would only remind him of those he couldn't save, and the lives lost from the decisions he made.

both - three songs that make you think of your ocs and why?

1. mr. loverman by ricky montgomery for alex. even if i always imagine the song through anders's point of view whenever i listen to it, i just feel like it's such a good representation of their relationship. just three whole years of pining with neither of them brave enough to act on it until anders makes the first move in his clinic.

2. whatever it takes by imagine dragons also for alex. just the title alone screams him. he's been crawling his way out since the beginning of the fifth blight, and he hasn't stopped even after becoming the champion of kirkwall. he does what he knows is right no matter the cost, and he's not going to let anything stop him. this also goes for athela, who knew the odds were stacked heavily against her with her and alistair being the only line of defense against the looming darkspawn threat, all while their allies had interpersonal troubles of their own that needed to be resolved as soon as possible if they had any hope of forming an army before the blight destroyed ferelden. it was daunting, and they had a small chance of succeeding, but athela did it, and lived to tell the tale.

3. rise up by imagine dragons for athela. she's always wondered if she was meant for more, though she'd argue that her destiny didn't need to be shoved at her the way that it was. still, once she became a grey warden she knew that this was her life now, and this had been what she was meant to do all along. it did not come without sacrifice, but by the end of the blight, she knew that with responsibility came the tough decisions.

[dailycharacteroption]

Subsystems and You 8: Hero Points

 Alright, we begin this Mon-…

Ah, it appears I missed yesterday’s entry due to how busy I was. No matter, have two entries!

The vast spectrum of fantasy and heroic adventure in other genres often has the protagonists facing off against insurmountable evils and impossible odds to save the day. However, despite those odds, the heroes persevere…. Unless somebody rolls poorly at an inopportune time.

That’s where hero points come in, an optional subsystem for those gaming groups which hope to keep the game on-track, rather than risk a terrible ending.

Which isn’t to say that this system is entirely meta in nature. Plenty of stories exist where heroes find the strength to push themselves further than they are able to normally, to “Go Beyond” as a particular anime oft-repeats. Additionally, many old myths speak of times when the gods or other divine forces favor the heroes, and occasionally send aid in subtle ways.

 Either way, Hero points are not easily rewarded or recovered. As a baseline, characters are expected to have at most three of them at a time, and they are not recovered with rest or things like that. Such points are rewarded by the GM at their discretion.

Common times to award these points might be for showing up to sessions, for completing story or character arcs, for performing reverent acts for their character’s patron deity, and even for daring to do heroic, dangerous things that normally are ill-advised to do, such as a caster entering melee to save a friend, or facing off against a dangerous foe alone to buy others time, and so on. Even great roleplaying moments might warrant such a reward.

Heck, even out of game actions, like buying or preparing meals or snacks for the session, or perhaps providing other players with tighter budgets gaming supplies like new dice and the like. However, one needs to be careful about this, and such hero point rewards should only be for actions that benefit the group, lest hero points become currency of a petty bribery or extortion activity which drags the whole game down.

 So now that you’ve got your hero points, how do you use them?

The most common usage is spending them to reroll a failed roll. (or perhaps force the GM to reroll a succeeded save against a spell or ability of yours, though that is up to the GM) In this way, a player character can turn failure into victory, perhaps gaining superior focus and force of will to succeed when it matters most.

Another use involves allowing you or others to act out of turn, the hero pushing their body and mind to get a bit more speed out of it to interrupt foes or aid allies at a timely moment. While there are bonuses added to these moments, they also shift you around in the turn order.

Alternatively, another way to use this for the same thematic idea is granting an extra action on your turn, getting more of what you need to get done in a single moment.

You can also, in theory, use a hero point to buy a hint from the GM when stumped, though I don’t necessarily agree with that use, as a good GM should be providing alternate solutions or the necessary clues to a puzzle or situation.

Hero points can also represent untapped reserves as well, releasing an extra use of a spell or ability that has already been used up for the day.

Two hero points can be spent to cheat death, the character miraculously surviving a killing blow thanks to perhaps the brunt of it luckily being taken by a favored piece of equipment, for example, to reference the old “Bullet stopped by pocket bible/badge/heirloom gift from a friend” trope, or other such miraculous cinematic survivial. This can also be used to protect companion creatures like mounts, familiars, and the like as well, though rarely if ever completely separate entities.

Finally, hero points could be used to do the impossible. Such uses are the most subject to GM fiat, but are clearly beyond what is possible, but not so much so as to be deity-level. A spellcaster casting magic of a level just beyond what they are currently capable of (or perhaps a non-caster manifesting a minor spell for the first time!), daring feats of acrobatics that defy gravity, blocking a strike from an invisible foe that all attempts to detect have failed, destroying an artifact without the right conditions, and more. As a general rule, I’d hold off on this sort of hero point use until the most high-strung moments where it is needed the most, and they should probably require difficult (but not impossible due to the hero point) rolls to succeed, the success of which might even provide a reason for a character to unlock mythic power or justify branching into a new class or other crazy rewards, depending on the nature of the act.

 This subsystem is also supported by a series of feats. Namely Blood of Heroes, which increases the rate at which hero points are gained via level, Hero’s Fortune, which grants an immediate hero point and increases the maximum that can be retained (even giving NPCs like villains their own hero point to use), and finally, Luck of Heroes, which gives a chance of retaining a hero point after used, as if they had merely been supremely lucky.

 An interesting option included with this subsystem is the idea of the antihero. While thematically an antihero is someone who serves good, but does not do so in an honorable or ever morally sound way, in this case the term is used to describe a character who’s player has actively chosen not to use the hero-point system in a game that is using those rules. In which case, said character “relies more on their great skill”, gaining an additional feat. Whether they are true anti-heroes or not will depend on how you play them, but there is a thematic connection there, particularly if hero points are flavored as minor divine intervention for their favored champions.

 Most of the uses of hero points do not guarantee success. Because of this, they only slightly improve the odds in the favor of the PCs in a system that typically is already slanted a bit in their favor. Hero points are meant to add extra tension in dramatic moments by adding another chance to succeed or fail important rolls, but they’re not for everyone or every game. Choose wisely whether they should be included in your campaign.

That does it for now, but since I’m late on an entry, expect the next one later today!

[amnachil]

The College Society Chapter 2 Part 1

I’m a little late but... here we are !

Chapter 2 begins ! It is shorter than chapter 1 (I counted 8 parts) but I hope you’ll like it anyway !

Liam Saturday November 25

"Dude, whatever is the problem, you should stay away. You already have enough to think about."

The freshman agreed, reassured by his bestfriend on the line. Yeah, he's right, Pete and Theo's relationship is none of my business. To be honest, he feared the team captain... He probably was an ogre who fed the poor blonde freshman as much as possible and would soon eat him. (It could be a little exaggerated but... Liam didn't want to be the next). (After all, he already noticed Theo's sharp teeth).

"I need to go." stated Nate. "Gwendoline's waiting for me."

"Still not your girl ?"

"Hell no. She call us 'friends with benefits' so I'm not complaining. Anyway, I'll call you later, see ya."

Liam hung the phone up with a smile. He loved these discussions with his bestfriend, and couldn't wait to see him again. As much as he can say, when they met during holidays, Nate was doing fine, even if Gwendoline refused to be his girlfriend. I wonder if she's as beautiful as he pretended. They agreed to say she was a fairy, but the young lad never saw a fairy before. (Yeah, they were in the same delirium). (That's probably why they were bestfriend). Lost in his mind about fairies and unicorns, the boy didn't realise the nurse called his name. He missed two times in a row his turn, too distracted. Eventually, once Prince Liam defeated the terrible Ogre named "have your heads in the clouds", he walked in the nurse's office. (Let's be honest, "Prince Liam" is a perfect title, isn't it ?).

"You asked for a check-up." declered the blonde apprentice. "Undress yourself please."

He obeyed distractedly and followed her instructions. Since he had met Raphaël one week ago, he had done two other stuffing session. Nothing too excessive, only enough to feel a bit bloated, but he wondered if his friend had poisoned him. I stayed clean for months, but he succeeded to make me an addict again. (Yeah, it probably wasn't his former captain fault at all but...). (The mutant could have a project for him). Anyway, the nurse, called Chelsea according to her badge, brought him back to reality when she assured :

"You are in a perfect shape. Maybe even one the best I ever saw. You can be proud of yourself. We'll do some measurements, but I'm not worrierd at all."

He thanked her, a bit disappointed (a 8yo boy would have loved to be poisoned by a mutant), and left the nursery after the control. To be honest, he wasn't worried about his condition. He wasn't even sure if stuffing his face was a bad thing anymore. The bad memories were fading with time.

The freshman joined Nick for their macroeconomics lesson at the amphitheater. His friend was staring at Rebecca and Emilio with an angry look. When Liam came closer, he mumbled :

"She totally forgot to come for the project yersterday. She doesn't care anymore."

"Everyone forgets things from time to time." reasoned the taller lad. "You forgot to close the fridge's door at noon for example."

"That was you."

"You got the point."

(Liam didn't even remember going to the fridge at noon). (But he wasn't stupid for all that). Nick headed towards the tier quite pissed, and once slumped, got his gameboy and started to play. His friend sat down next to him thoughtfully. Under his open jacket, the angry boy wore a singlet which show some curve at the belly level. As always, he ate too much. (Liam was well aware of his roommate's love for junkfood and between us, he felt a bit jealous sometimes). (But this is a secret).

"What are you staring at ?" asked Nick. "I'm just stuffed. I ate at the cafeteria."

He closed his jacket prudently, but in fact, Liam was already gone miles away. He had glanced Barbara in the first row, and got lost in his memories. I wonder what she's thinking... I really need to know what she heard about me... Yeah, I'll ask her as soon as the lesson is over.

Rebecca Tuesday November 28

In two weeks was taking place the first qualifiers for the National University's Championship in March. The team was competing against the universities around the state, and needless to say, they had to train. At least for the relay race. The black girl finished a lenght, quite satisfied, and headed towards Bob, who watched her from the side. Her coach seemed a bit odd since she pit herself against him. However, he accepted Emilio, which was the more important.

"You did good." he declared once she was closer. "Your team can't lose the qualifiers as long as you're running."

"Thanks."

She sat next to him, and watched the other who were still running. Her boyfriend was the fattest : with great splendor, he crossed the finishing lane a few minutes after her. Then came Chelsea, who had been appointed captain, but Rebecca caught sight of Nick and couldn't help but staring at him. He was going with Laura towards the pool, probably to prepare the field before this evening training. I need to put an end to our argument. He's too childish to come, but I'm not that proud. With shame, she remembered Liam had told her these exact same words several weeks ago. He might be simple and scatterbrained but sometimes he was right. Nevertheless, when she stood up, Bob stopped her and whispered :

"Think wisely champion. You need to stay far away from bad influences and this lad, despite not being fat, drunk or high, is a bad influence. He's a nerd without any desire to be better nor any will to work on himself. An average guy like him isn't worth your time. Don't waste your energy for nothing."

She nodded slowly. I know it's wrong but... She could not desobey Bob a second time. And after all, Nick wasn't that important, was he ?

Later this day, when the black girl reached the pool for the training, she glimpsed Pete, clumsily hidden in the bush next to the door. Since he left the team, his physical condition went worse and worse. Around a month ago, he could have been considered like a bit on the chubby side, as someone who indulged a little too much. It hadn't been really noticeable, except when he had been wearing his tight pullovers, and pants one size below. Nevertheless, over november, he had packed on the pounds pretty fast, especially this last week. Several time, she had saw him and another boy at the cafeteria, pigging like two ravenous beast. Consequently, the blonde freshman definitely became pretty tubby. His features had rounded and his arms and legs were softer. His belt dug into a flab roll of fat, and his ass grew larger. She noticed with revulsion his too tight shirt, compressing his stomach. With wider clothes, it would be barely conspicuous, but... When Rebecca came closer, he looked at her, and she forced herself to smile. He looked like a crazy psycho, his eyes twinkling with madness.

"Can I help ?" she asked.

According to Laura, Theo didn't like slackening within his troops, and fired Pete without a second thought. To be honest, I kinda approve it... He's stict, and that's good.

"Yeah, you probably can." answered the lad quietly. "I just wanna know if Theo's here. Can you tell me ?"

"Why ?"

The captain probably hadn't time for this craps. And I'm losing time too. As the freshman hesistated, she sighed, and just went in, ignoring his calls. Seriously, get back in shape and everything'll be fine.

Damian Nicholas Smith-Carrey Thursday December 1 – Friday December 2

A bunch of swimmers passed in front of the junior laughing about a stupid joke. Four girls were cheering the black athlete on. This one was doing lenghts at a ridiculous pace, like a big carp. As for her, Laura was classifying the team's speedos with a young freshman who looked especially idiot. On a corner, the sophomore Matthew and his crew were ploting some craps. Last, but not least, a handsome brown lad was watching the roof at the water's edge. He seemed completely stupid. Swimmers... We all hear about them, but eventually, they're the most pathetic.

"Lookin' for a prey ?" whispered an unctuous voice in Damian Nicholas Smith-Carrey's ear.

Slowly, the lad turned towards Theo, and nodded. This university counted almost ten thousands of students, but only a few deserved his respect. Luckily for him, the swimteam captain was one of them.

"I visited the football club, the hockey club, the basket club, and as many tedious clubs as possible, but everytime, I ended disappointed." he confessed. "Steven Callagan offered me the most beautiful chick he had in stock, but she was so backwards she didn't even understand my name."

The swimmer faked indignation.

"That's gross. God knows how much you love your name."

Damian Nicholas Smith-Carrey outlined a smile.

"It's the only one which doesn't sound silly to my ears." he replied. "Anyway, tell me you have something better for me than a braindead whore ?"

"To be honest, my only eligible candidate might be a little simple-minded himself, but he has the kind of body you like. Well shaped, malleable if needed and... he's well-endowed."

"Don't dare tell me you are offering the dreamy freshman over there ? Is it the only one you failed to catch for yourself ?"

Theo smile grew larger. Ah, don't push it too much. There were only a few hunters among the crowd of students. The swimteam captain could be proud to be one of the best. The head of the University's grandson shrugged.

"Fine. I'll take it. I'm starting this week. Be ready to see me often."

"You know it's always a pleasure."

Liar.

New prey meant several changes in Damian Nicholas Smith-Carrey's life. First of all, a little personnal enjoyment. The lad headed towards the cheerleading's permises, and went in. Natacha, his actual girlfriend, looked at him and a glint of joy lit up his eyes. She had beautiful hair, almost orange, which shined with the sun. However, I don't really understand why I chose her. She's blind like a mole. She needed to wore hideous glasses, and he almost vomited the first time he saw her.

"Hi Damian Nicholas Smith-Carrey." she greeted softly. "What can I do for you ?"

Oh yeah, I remember now. She had this submissive tone he had been liking since the first listening. The captain of the cheerleader had promised Natacha was ready to do absolutely everything to please, and well, she was. I would almost jerk off just by listening to her voice, but sadly, she's definitely too ugly.

"I guess you'll be sad, but let's be honest, I don't care." he declared. "Our relationship is over. I'm committed to someones else."

The dumbass stared at him silently for a while. He could have left her right now, like he did with the last one, but he didn't want to miss the "realisation face" this time. Damn, her brain work even slower than I thought. Eventually, she understood what he meant, and frowned. Her eyes filled with tears, and she shivered, in shock.

"Why ?" she stammered. "What did I do wrong ?"

The lad nearly laugh. Damn, she's so devoted. She repeated the question, again and again, now crying. In other circumstances, he would have an erection, but she was way too awful. For real, Amber, the team captain, ripped him off. Once he finished to enjoy her tears, he left the premises, rather satisfied. It's not like if he was exclusively seelping with her anyway.

Damian Nicholas Smith-Carrey headed towards the cafeteria in order to take his lunch. Usually, he would have eat with his grandfather, but he was too excited by the hunt to be polite. And for God's sake, his grandfather didn't need to suffer his uncouthness. Thus, the lad entered in the canteen, and served himself some food. He expected so much from his new prey. He sat next to Summer, the head of the student union, and started to eat. I wonder how long he will last... To be honest, the hunt was always too easy. For three years now, he had tried both men and women, and everytime, they had succumbed to his charms like mosquitos attracted by body heat. So pitiable. Teams captains and club chiefs had tried everything to find the rare gem, but never succeeded. Eventually, he had started to get bored, and went almost directly to the second part : submission and sex. A lot of sex. Of course, with Natacha-the-mole, he was used to put a blindfold. I wouldn't be able to cum while seeing her face. However, this time, it was Theo's gift. The swimmer was a selfish little asshole, and a real cocky stud. He obviously tried his luck with this freshman, and failed. It promise a real challenge for once.

"Looks like you have a new prey ?" asked the head of the student. "Who's the lucky person ?"

The junior realised he didn't even know his name. Not yet at least... He had a good feeling this time. It would be fun.

"Tell me Summer, shall I tell to my grandfather you're sleeping with two professors of his university ?"

She stared at him, terrified.

"No ! Please don't."

"So be nice, and shut the fuck up."

There were only a few hunters among the crowd of students. Damian Nicholas Smith-Carrey could be proud to be the best of their community, above them all.

To be continued

Liam thinks he had been poisoned but we all know the truth... Our cinnamon roll loves to be stuffed that’s all ;) How long will he deny the truth I wonder ?

Rebecca, our dear Rebecca, you’re narrow-minded ! But don’t worry guys, she has room to change.

Aaand he is here, Damian Nicholas Smith Carrey, our new main character ! He’ll be very important count on me for that ! I already like him :) Take care, since we have his pov now, there’ll be a lot of vulgarity, smut and some pining.

The weight gain stuff will be long to come, but don’t worry, I’m not forgetting it at all. Liam just has many things do deal with before he can freely enjoy himself as the glutton he truly is ;)

Also, I’m preparing a side story more kink-related for you all... It should be ready soon :)

[rose-of-pollux]

The Shakespearean Riddles (MFU oneshot)

Title: The Shakespearean Riddles Rating: G Summary: A mysterious message sends Napoleon on a Shakespearean scavenger hunt with his partner by his side. Notes: This is my usual yearly fic in honor of what would have been Robert Vaughn’s birthday!

Cross-posted to ff.net and AO3 if you prefer reading there, can’t link due to the new linking restrictions...

Napoleon smiled in satisfaction as he glanced at his reflection in the mirror.  Another year older, and yet, there was not a single wrinkle or gray hair to betray that fact—much to his satisfaction.

“Ponce de León, eat your heart out,” he murmured.

The smell of pancakes and syrup finally succeeded in drawing him away from his reflection; though Illya was not as accomplished a chef as Napoleon was, pancakes were among the things he could make, and since it was Napoleon’s birthday, naturally, he wanted to prepare breakfast that day.

Illya already had the plates set up—one for each of them, plus one more for Baba Yaga, who had already started on her pancake.

“Happy Birthday, Napoleon,” Illya greeted him.

“Thank you, Tovarisch,” Napoleon grinned.

The two of them feasted on the pancakes.

“So, when are Ma and Dad coming over?”

“Evening,” Illya said. “I figured I would treat us all to a dinner in your honor—your choice of eatery, naturally.”

“I’ll mull my choices over and let you know--” Napoleon began, but he was cut off by an odd sound on their apartment door.  “What is that?”

Baba Yaga perked her ears up and looked in the direction of the door, but, otherwise, didn’t react, prompting Napoleon to get up and open the door.  There was no one at the door, but as he turned, he stared as he saw a piece of paper taped to the door.

“Illya!  Look at this!”

Illya got up from the table and headed over to Napoleon as he removed the paper from the door.

“What is that?”

“A message that was intended for me, by the looks of it,” Napoleon said, glancing from the paper to his partner.  “Hang on, it’s a poem—a riddle of some kind…  Look at this…”

He held up the paper so that Illya could read it; the note was typewritten to avoid having the handwriting traced--

Greetings, Mr. Solo; will you play my game? The average man would find this quest hard. But I wish to match wits with you, Mr. Solo-- How well do you know the one and only Bard?

First, I refer to The Winter’s Tale, And the beast that saw Antigonus depart. Go to where the beast now battles-- Against another beast in the city’s heart.

“A battle of wits…?” Napoleon mused.  “With Shakespeare as the theme?  I don’t know who’s behind this, but I will not lose!”

“I have every ounce of faith in you,” Illya said.  “But be careful—it could be a THRUSH trap.”

“I don’t think so; they don’t really know of my love of Shakespeare.  But of course, we’ll be vigilant.  Now, then, this riddle…. Well, the first half of the clue is easy enough.”

“Is it?” Illya asked.

“Sure—The Winter’s Tale?  Antigonus and a beast?  This is obviously referring to Antigonus’s fate, summed up in a famous stage direction--‘Exit, pursued by a bear.’  But where would a bear be fighting another beast in ‘the city’s heart?’  Pretty sure bear fighting is against the law.”

“To say nothing of the fact that urban-dwelling bears are not that common…  At least here.  I could tell you some stories from Russia…”

“I’d believe them,” Napoleon said, and he went back to pondering.  “Let’s see…  Not the Bronx Zoo—they wouldn’t let their bears fight.”

“I think not,” Illya agreed.

“Maybe it’s metaphorical…” Napoleon mused.  “Bears are used in a lot of symbolic things—bear markets, for instance, or…” He trailed off.  “That’s it!”

“What’s it?”

“The two beasts in battle in the heart of the city—the bear and the bull!  The Stock Exchange, Illya!”

“…Yes, of course. Well, that’s it; you’ve solved it.”

“There’s more to this than just one clue,” Napoleon said, a spark of intrigued determination igniting in his eyes.  “A battle of wits means that there’ll be more clues—most likely, we’ll find the second one at the Stock Exchange!  I’m going to head over there; you coming?”

“Of course; I relish the opportunity to stand back and watch how your mind works…” Illya mused.

Baba Yaga let out a “mrrah” and followed them out the door, dragging a pancake along with her.

                                        ************************

Arriving on Wall Street amidst the usual hustle and bustle of the crowd, Napoleon couldn’t see anything out of the ordinary—at least, not until a paper airplane flew out of nowhere and smacked him in the face, prompting Illya to chuckle and Baba Yaga to leap up and swat at it.

“Well, at least we know it isn’t a THRUSH plot; they wouldn’t be throwing paper airplanes,” the blond mused.

“Hmm,” Napoleon replied, scanning the crowd to see if he could spot who had chucked the paper airplane at him.  Finding no likely suspects, he unfolded the airplane to read the clue, which had been typewritten like the last one--

Well done solving the first clue; Find the next one, should you choose to play, Where the Bard’s tale of star-crossed lovers Was set, in film, in the modern day.

“Well, Romeo and Juliet, of course,” Napoleon said. “…Unless this is referring to the play-within-a-play about Pyramus and Thisbe in A Midsummer Night’s Dream, but I doubt it—Romeo and Juliet is what everyone thinks about when you use the phrase ‘star-crossed.’  And the modernized film adaptation, of course, must be West Side Story!  So, the Upper West Side is where we need to go!”

“…You do realize how big the Upper West Side is?” Illya said.  “We could be there all day looking for another paper airplane.”

“…Right…” Napoleon said, staring back at the paper.  “Well, the specific location in the movie is Lincoln Square…”

“That narrows it down somewhat…”

Napoleon suddenly snapped his fingers.

“San Juan Hill!  I think some of the on-location filming for the movie even took place there!”

They got in a cab and were headed there; Napoleon seemed deep in thought as they rode on the way.

“What are you thinking about?” Illya asked.  “Having second thoughts about the location?”

“No, I’m confident about that,” Napoleon said.  “I’m just trying to figure out who is doing this, and why.  Is it someone trying to dethrone me as the reigning Shakespeare trivia champion at the office?”

Illya shrugged.

“I suppose we’ll find out once we follow all the clues…”

“…Guess so…” Napoleon replied, but it still didn’t stop him from being in deep thought about it.

Nevertheless, they had barely gotten out of the cab at San Juan Hill when Napoleon found himself taking another paper airplane to the side of his head.  Once again looking around and seeing no one who stood out, he held up the next clue for Illya to read.

Clue three harkens to a Danish prince, And two he once considered friends. From Avon to Broadway, an untold tale Now chronicles their unfortunate ends.

Napoleon’s grin had grown even further.

“It’s Hamlet,” he said.  “Well, to be more specific, it’s referring to the unofficial spinoff-and-pastiche that was just brought over to Broadway—Rosencrantz and Guildenstern are Dead.  I’ve been meaning to see that, you know?”

“…Now why did I not think to get you tickets to it for your birthday?” Illya chided himself.

“I’ll take a rain check,” Napoleon said.  “But, at any rate, I know where the next clue is—the play is at the Alvin Theatre on Broadway, so that’s where we need to go!”

He was so excited, he was about ready to take off down the street before realizing that it would be a long trek on foot; he gathered Baba Yaga in one arm and hailed a cab with the other, and Illya just shook his head in amusement.

                                             ****************************

Napoleon spent a few minutes admiring the marquee of the Alvin Theatre, clearly wishing he could see the show; he was pulled from his dreaming by Baba Yaga pawing at a paper that had been stuck to the door of the theatre.

“I think she is eager to continue with this quest, as well,” Illya observed, taking the cat from Napoleon as he removed the paper.  “Is that the next clue?”

“Was there ever any doubt?” Napoleon mused.  He held up the clue for Illya to read again—

In halls where treasures are on display, And time, across centuries, does span, Find the statue of the unfortunate king Who was slain at the hands of an honorable man.

“Well, the play is easy enough,” Napoleon said.  “Julius Caesar.  Brutus, who orchestrated his assassination, was repeatedly—and sarcastically—referred to as an honorable man in Antony’s speech.  Obviously, the hall of treasures is a museum… except that there are an almost endless supply of museums here in New York.”

“While that is true, I am sure that the museums which would have anything of Caesar’s on display would be limited,” Illya said.  “I think we can rule out the Guggenheim, for instance—one would not find statues of Roman rulers in a gallery full of modern art and other inexplicable pieces.”

“You’re still sore about the Pop Art Affair?”

“…Wouldn’t you be?”

“…Yeah, I would,” Napoleon admitted.  “Okay, let’s get back to this, then.  Now that I think about it, you’re right -- we can narrow it down to two museums: the Natural History Museum, or the Met.”

“That sounds about right,” Illya assessed.

“And the Natural History Museum, though it does have stuff on ancient civilizations, probably wouldn’t be the place for a statue of Caesar, either; they tend to focus more on everyday life.  So…  It has to be at the Met!  Hey--!”

Napoleon looked around furiously as a paper airplane flew out of nowhere and smacked him in the face again.  Opening it, he saw that it was blank—but two tickets to the Met fell out.

“Really!?” Napoleon called. “I solved the clue—you’re still going to make us go all the way to the Met to get the next one?”

There was no response, of course, and Napoleon sighed, shaking his head as he glanced at the tickets.

“You’re still going to go, aren’t you?” Illya asked.

“Well, of course; I’ve got my honor as a Shakespeare buff to defend!  Once more, unto the breach, Tovarish!”

It was now Illya’s turn to shake his head, but, nevertheless, he followed his eager partner to the Met.

In order to make sure that the tickets didn’t go to waste, the duo spent some time looking around at some of the exhibits.  Illya had managed to conceal Baba Yaga in his sweater, wearing a coat loosely over his sweater to prevent the cat-shaped lump from standing out.  She behaved herself, though there were a couple of times in the Egyptian exhibits where she peeked out to look at some statues of Bastet.

“She’s getting restless, Napoleon; we should find Caesar and the next clue and go,” he said.

“I still say it’s because she knows that’s her Ma, but sure,” Napoleon insisted.  At any rate, he was eager to get the next clue.

Sure enough, they found the statue head of Caesar, and though Napoleon was on the alert, he was still blindsided by another paper airplane.

“…I must admit, I am impressed at our riddlemaster’s ability to elude my spy instincts,” he said, as a quick scan around the gallery yielded nothing.

Cross a bridge for this final clue, And you will have won the day. Recall where Falstaff met his match, When he thought himself besieged by fae.

“…So, the last one—naturally, the trickiest…” Napoleon mused, as they now left the Met and Baba Yaga emerged from hiding and stretched.  Napoleon absently gave her some ear scritches as he pondered over the clue.  “Let’s see…  Falstaff first showed up in Henry IV, Part I and then Part II. By Henry V, he had died.  Legend has it, though, that the queen requested Shakespeare for another play with Falstaff—and the end result was, supposedly, The Merry Wives of Windsor.  The fae weren’t in the historical plays, so it has to be Windsor.  …Of course, it wasn’t really fairies in Windsor, either; it was a trick, and they were fake, but he thought they were real.”

“And the clue refers to the location where this occurred,” Illya said.

“Yeah, and that’s where it gets confusing,” Napoleon said.  “This took place by an oak tree in Windsor Forest; Falstaff was dressed as Herne the Hunter, and the tree came to be known as Herne’s Oak after the play made it popular.  Except… the real-life tree is long gone—and it would have been in Windsor Great Park, since the forest had been renamed.  And there was no bridge in the play, like the clue is referring to.  It can’t be that we have to go all the way to England!”

“That would seem a bit excessive,” Illya intoned.

“No kidding…” Napoleon said.  “It must be some sort of parallel to Herne’s Oak that we have here in New York…”  He trailed off, looking at Central Park all around them.  “…I guess you could compare Central Park to Windsor Great Park…  But that still doesn’t tie the bridge in to anything.”

“So you are admitting defeat?”

“Never,” Napoleon insisted, grabbing a map from one of the information kiosks nearby, pouring over it. “I don’t know of any notable oak trees near bridges…”

“Nor do I,” Illya mused.

“There was a Shakespeare Garden in the park, but it’s gone to seed over the years, so that can’t be it…”

“Was that pun necessary…?”

“Absolutely.”

Illya shook his head again as Napoleon suddenly froze, still staring at the map.

“…I think I found it…” he said.  “Oak Bridge! This has to be it—and it’s just a ten-minute walk!”

He took off down the pathway, prompting Illya and Baba Yaga to chase after him.

They soon found the bridge, and Napoleon paused as he crossed it, finding a large picnic lunch spread on a blanket by the lake side.

“…The clues led to here?” he asked, baffled.  “A picnic?”

“Yes, a picnic,” Illya said, and he smirked.  “Happy Birthday, Napoleon.”

Napoleon turned to face his partner as it sunk in.

“You mean you…?  The clues…?”

“I got to thinking, what could be something meaningful I could give you for your birthday?” Illya said, smiling.  “Buying things…  Well, anyone can do that—and you know I tend to balk at that as the default option for occasions such as these.  And then I realized—a way for you to have an experience you would truly enjoy, by using your skills and knowledge of Shakespeare!  And I was right—you have been enjoying yourself thoroughly all morning; I chose well.”

Napoleon let out an impressed, surprised chuckle.

“Well, thanks,” he said, once he managed to speak again.  He hugged Illya in gratitude, but then paused and let go.  “Hang on…. You were with me the entire time—how did you get the paper airplanes rigged to get me without them being disturbed by passersby?”

“Ah, well, I had a couple of accomplices to toss the paper for me…” Illya smirked, and he gestured as Cora and Leopold Solo came out of hiding, bringing the last of the food.  Baba Yaga meowed and greeted the two of them, purring.

“Ma?  Dad?” Napoleon asked, stunned.  “Illya, you told me they were coming in the evening!”

“I never specified which evening—it just happened to be yesterday.”

“…Sly Russian…”

Cora hugged Napoleon as Leopold clapped him on the back with one hand while holding Baba Yaga in his other arm.

“Happy Birthday, Son,” Leopold said.

“Thanks,” he grinned. “Well, I have to admit, I didn’t expect this present…”

“Oh, there’s more,” Cora said, taking four tickets out of her purse.  “Tickets to tonight’s showing of Rosencrantz and Guildenstern are Dead.”

“Ah, that’s why I didn’t think to get them for you…!” Illya said, in a tone of mock surprise.

Napoleon shook his head in amusement again.

“Well, shall we continue this discussion over lunch?” Cora offered.

The men were all in agreement.

And as Napoleon sat down to eat, he had to reflect on how the picnic and the tickets were just the icing on an already blessed cake—for here, right now, he had everything he ever could have wanted.

                                                    The End

[a-shakespearean-in-paris]

Stains

An art trade @ladylilac and I partook in! This is my half, a piece featuring her Maéva Hawke and Fenris. I hope you enjoy! 

Things changed, as time went on. Laugh lines around his eyes became more pronounced, while lines engraved from her own hardships became more apparent. Inward things changed as well. Perhaps it was odd that as he learned to let himself be loved, she retreated into a shell, though the people she closed herself away from weren’t him. Never him.

Yet however small, it was nice to know that some things never changed. Even if it was a silly thing, it was nice to know. Comforting, like the tube of lipstick she carried in her pocket.

Red lips, crimson colored and vibrant against her fair skin had always been the constant thing in her life, and the one thing she always indulged in. Even when they lived with Gamlen and they struggled to even put food on the table, Maéva put a bit of money away to have her crimson lips. Even now, on the run with him, she kept a few spare tubes of lipstick. It was her signature, Isabela told her once, and Varric tucked in the idiosyncrasy in The Tale of the Champion along with so many others. She couldn’t not have her signature or her small idiosyncrasy. Besides, there were so many memories with it. The first night  Maéva and Fenris were together, her lips left stains on the skin between his tattoos, making red marks. She gave him her favor after, her red scarf, and he said that it reminded him of her lips and the things that they could do to him. They were so young back then, sharing their first night together. They made sure to make up for all the times he wasn’t there, and she was alone in her room, wishing to stain him.

Yes, some things never changed. :ike her silly red lipstick and the marks it made on her lover, marks different from his lyrium tattoos because they were marks and stains of her love. Yet not everything could stay the same in her life. Some things happened in cycles.

And now, instead of him whispering I’m sorry, all I wanted was to be happy, and leaving her, she was standing on a cliff’s edge, trying to find a way to tell him that she would have to leave him.

He was the one that kept her from the conclave. Varric too. She couldn’t pretend she wasn’t grateful for that. Yet back then they never suspected Corypheus, not after everything that they went through to make sure he wasn’t breathing at the end of their encounter. Something burned inside of her when she read Varric’s letter the previous day, something that didn’t stop. She knew it then. She had to go. She tried to find a way to tell him ever since.

Running, running. That was another thing that stayed the same in her life. She always ran. In the months that followed the battle of Kirkwall she ran away from the city, Fenris running with her.  Standing in the aftermath of battle, he promised he would run anywhere with her.  So run they did, out of the city through the Free Marches. So many places. The forest, the city, now to Lindvale, by the sea. They were there for a while, and that’s where Varric knew the two of them were. Perhaps if they ran again she wouldn’t have received his letter, but Maéva was tired of running. The sea too was welcome, along with the salty air and wind that made her strands of long, raven black hair dance. They made a camp on the beach the day she received the letter, and that night in the tent the waves lulled Fenris to sleep. They lapped onto the shore in tandem with her beating heart. They didn’t make love that night. Part of her wished they did. She would have held onto it, made it last. One last night, where he made love and lost himself in her body without knowing he would have to let her go. If she had that to hold, she could have run swiftly toward the Inquisition. How swiftly could she run now?

They watched the sunset in a comfortable silence, Maéva knowing he sensed her melancholy. It wasn’t unusual for her to be melancholic. It came in waves. Sometimes the tides were low and soft, mimicking the ebb and flow of the waters they stared at together as night beckoned a new day was on the horizon. Other times her melancholy took on a violent storm. There was no mercy in those moments. Yet in all of them, Fenris was always there, holding her hand, stroking her hair, kissing her. And as his fingers wove through her hair, her back against his front, she closed her eyes, took a deep breath, and her secret spilled forth. The Inquisition needed her.

She couldn’t see his face, but she could feel him tense. “Cruel,” he murmured simply, holding her closer and resting his chin on her shoulder. “You cannot go through this. Not again. I will not allow it.”

“Corypheus is my responsibility,” she said.

She felt him shake his head. “Ours.”

She had to tell him now, didn’t she? To him it was already a given he would go with her. He could not see a world where he would not go with her.

She told him.

The gentle motions of his fingers weaving through her hair ceased. Slowly Maéva turned around, hoping she would look into his eyes and see that he understood. Yet when she looked, she wasn’t sure what she saw in his sad green eyes. Was it pain? A deep anguish? Anger? Everything?

“I can’t lose you,” she said, imploring him to see her reasoning. “I won’t lose you.”

“And what of me? What if I lose you?”

She couldn’t answer that.

The waves crashed, no longer a gentle ebb against the shore. If there were spirits of the sea, and perhaps there were, they must have sensed the growing storm within the rain that began between the two of them. Soft pattering, yet incessant. Melancholic.

She grabbed his hand, brought it to her beating heart. “Trust me,” she beseeched him. “Fenris, I—"

“I do trust you,” he insisted. “More than anything. Anyone. That’s why—"

“What?” She cupped his face in her hands. “What?”

“I thought this would be the end. We would be happy.”

“We will be,” she said, “I promise. After this is over. We will be happy together.”

“We can be happy now. Take me with you.”

She clenched her eyes shut. Looking at him—it would be too much. “I can’t,” she said, her voice cracking. “Fenris I can’t.”

“You can.”

“I will not have you die. I cannot watch you die.”

He didn’t respond.

She sighed, taking his hand. The red scarf was tied snugly on his wrist. She kissed him there, kissed his palm. He purred her name, part in adoration for what she was doing, but mostly because he still sat at the edge of the cliff, begging her not to fall into the water and drift away from him.

“Do you not trust me?” she asked him suddenly.

Just as swift came his response. “Of course I trust you,”

“And I am asking you to trust me now. I have to do this by myself. I know you. You would kill yourself to protect me. And if something happened to you because of me…”

“I told you. Nothing is going to keep me from you.”

“But we don’t know what will happen when I leave.”

“Don’t.”

She wanted to agree with him, say she wouldn’t go. So much. She wanted to do what she had always done, run.

She knew she couldn’t.

“No,” she said. “I’ve run all my life. I cannot run from this, not when I know I can help.”

“Look what they’ve done to you. Look at what they’ve taken from you.”

His words cut her deeper than any blade. The Blight took away Bethany. The Grey Wardens took away Carver. Her mother was taken away, and it all finished with a crescendo with the battle of Kirkwall, taking away everything. Yet what remained unsaid and unknown was what would be taken from her if she went to the Inquisition. So help her, it would not be Fenris. It was the one thing she would never, ever allow.

She looked into his eyes, still afraid of what she would see, but not wanting to be a coward any longer. She saw understanding, yet a heart that was still shattering. Like it shattered that night he left her. Fate, circumstance, and his own self did the shattering that night. This time, it was all her. She would take the blame. She would do it, because she couldn’t protect Bethany, or Carver, or her mother. But she could protect Fenris.

He nodded, though he still did not fully accept. Merely, he nodded because he knew and understood. It was one of the many reasons she loved him.

They gravitated towards each other, his lips ghosting over her hers in not quite kisses. She breathed in his scent, the smell of leather mingled with the salty sea air that clung to him, all underlain with the subtle smell of steely lyrium that was so cruelly engraved into his skin. It didn’t hit her that this could be their last time, at least for a little while. It was like any other time she was with him at first, times when their differences didn’t matter and their hearts beat together. He could always do that to her. Yet when she heard him whisper it, his desperate, imploring, come back, she remembered.  

Silent tears she didn’t know she had streamed down her cheeks. “I’ll come back,” she murmured. “No matter what it takes, I will come back. That thing will not have me.”

“Do you promise?”

He wiped the tears away. “Do you trust me?” she asked.

“You know. More than anything.”

“Then you know the answer. I will. I will.”

“I—”

Words of reassurances he wanted her to give him turned into reassuring kisses. Perhaps even more so they were more fitting than words. They learned how to love, trust, and listen to each other with time, but before it wasn’t always like that, so seamless. Their rocky start lent itself to words being fruitless sometimes, and during their first night together, they learned that their actions could say more than words ever could. The way they touched and made love to each other succeeded where words were meaningless. Making love, that was were everything melted away, save for raw want and need. Passion. When everything else was stripped away save skin, lust and desire, that was when the truth became revealed.

He was her truth. Her love for him, more tangible than her magic, stronger than the waves that crashed against the shore. It was another constant she realized. No matter what happened in the Inquisition, he would always be her truth.

Time and togetherness made them attuned to each other’s feelings, and their wants. Simultaneously the want and the need for each other coiled, so they migrated from the harsh wind outside to the comfort of their tent. Would it be how he wished her farewell? To make love to her while the waves lapped onto the shore? She wanted it to be happy and joyous, wanted him to love and worship her the way he usually did. She didn’t want their last time, at least for a little while, she had to remind herself, to be awash in sorrow and regret. She hoped for soft kisses and murmurs of love like during their times of playful ardor together. She wanted passion and forgetfulness. Fenris gave her something else.

Passion was still there, but when Maéva helped him remove her clothes, his own tunic and breeches falling in the same pile, there was a notion of the here and now. Nothing else mattered save what was happening between them now. There was no past, present, nor future. Only this night. It was the only night of his existence. For her, it was the only night she would ever hold onto. All the others, they would blur together into one singular day. She would commit every step of the night to her memory, so she may relive every step. No matter what the Inquisition took away, it would not take away her moments with him. It would not take him away.

They laid on their sides, no clothes separating their naked skins. The only thing he wore was her red scarf. He slowly skimmed his hand down the line of her body, gripping her hips, her thigh, everything. He cupped her cheek in his hand, caressed her. Her world was the green of his eyes staring into hers. It shifted when he inched closer, changing to a whirling of gentle presses of his lips on every part of her skin he could reach. He kissed her, and she opened her eyes. There it was, that familiar residue of red on his lips he often received when their lips met. It made her giggle. He was marked by her kisses.

She rotated the two of them, so she may kiss a line down body, and love him the way he always deserved. It was selfish too, she knew that, but she needed to allow every dip and sinew of his body to burn in her memory. She needed to remember so she may play the memory in her mind, when she was far from him. His tattoos glowed faintly in the darkness. She littered every part of his skin with her lips, leaving marks of red here and there. She stained him, mirroring what he had done to her. His love stained her, changed her, and no matter where she would go, she would cling to that. It would be the only thing that made her  Maéva.

“Is this…your goodbye?”

She looked at him, her ministrations temporarily stopping. “No,” she said. “It’s my I love you.”

His I love you too was laying her back down, sliding inside her. He remained like that for a while, neither moving nor kissing, only gazing into her eyes, before his fingers drew circles at her clit. She came with him still inside, and it was only with the last ebb of her orgasm did he begin to move. She threw a calf over his shoulder, deepening their connection. He felt good and familiar. He felt like home.

Home.

Where would she have home, when she was away from him?

He grasped her hips. “Maéva..”

“Fenris….”

“Stay.”

Tears stung her eyes, tears she wiped away. “I can’t.”

“You can.”

“I will not run.”

He closed his eyes, stopping his movements temporarily to rest his body atop hers. When still he did not move, she held him, kissed his forehead.

“I’ll come back,” she promised. “If I have to tell you a thousand times, I will. I will come back.”

“One more day.”

One more day would turn into two more days. Then another two. “Fenris, I—”

Waves of sorrow were engrained in his eyes. “I know.”

“The same stars,” she muttered. “The same sun. We’ll be under the same sky.”

“I love you.”

“I love you too.”

He made those last few moments last. He made her come again and she saw the world alter, saw the life they would live together after. No more running. She would be free. They would be free.

Stains. They were everywhere on her and him. They stained each other with marks and kisses, and she hoped that when she was far from him, they all could see how she loved, and who she loved.She would not lose that love, not allow the stain to fade.

The morning came. She couldn’t remember sleeping, just laying with him, listening to his heart and watching the steady rise and fall of his chest. But cruelly the morning came, and never did she hate the sun more. It would have been easy and cowardly to leave him before he woke. Goodbyes were always too difficult for her. He didn’t deserve that. So she waited.

There were no words in the morning when he woke, only kisses. His body was still stained, here and there with red. Soon they would fade. But they marked deeper than the skin, she knew the stains marked into his soul, to always remain. No matter what happened.

“Don’t leave,” he begged, after their final kiss. She couldn’t kiss him again after. One kiss and she would do anything he asked. So she squeezed his hand, told him she carried his kisses like stains that burned to her very core. They made her stronger.

He watched her go. She felt his eyes on her still as she left for Ferelden, back home. Yet it wasn’t home, was it? Not without Fenris.

She went about the motions of duty.The vibrant crimson of her lips faded, and she could not renew it. She left the rest of it with him. Maybe he toyed with the various tubes she left behind in his fingers, the silly thing bringing him comfort. It brought her comfort to think about home a lot, and how the stains of him didn’t fade.

All her life she ran. She wouldn’t run from the Inquisition.

When it was over, she wouldn’t run back to Fenris. She would swiftly walk into her future with him. And she would never look back.

Wow that was emotional to write. Thank you for reading, please consider reblogging if you liked it :) And also you should totally follow the lovely @ladylilac, she’s a talented artist and super sweet! :)

[baidar-oroq]

Laugh

(Spoilers for 5.2 and the Ruby Weapon Trial):

The Sea of Blades, the Azim Steppe, eleven years ago:

He is sixteen summers old, his first Nadaam behind him now, when his uncle Bukidai comes to him on the eve of a dairalt, a raid of protection against a swarm of Adarkim looking to defeat weaker tribes to replenish their numbers after a disaster of a battle against the Oronir. 

Baidar is tending to his steed for the raid, one of the dozen that are the personal property of his father, the khan of the Oroq, Bujir. It is only because Bujir doesn’t wish to break the traditions of the tribe that Baidar has even been given one of the stallions; Baidar’s choice to face the test of the Mettle and then fight in the Nadaam before Jadagai, the future khan has forever put a distance between father and son for his presumption. Baidar is not the udirdagch in matters of war, not the one who decides who fights in the Nadaam, after all. That no one in the long oral history of the Oroq has ever succeeded at the Mettle as young as Baidar seems irrelevant to Bujir. Bukidai finds his brother, at times, to be a damn fool. Even at such a young age, there is no better warrior of the Oroq than Baidar, not even Jagadai, who is already named the champion of the Oroq and the war leader. That Jagadai himself acknowledges that Baidar is already his superior at arms is also ignored by Bujir. 

Bukidai sighs and sets that all aside. The outriders have reported that over forty riders of the Adarkim are approaching, thinking that the Oroq are easy prey for them. The drivers of sleds, many think on the Steppe, are easily beaten. They would need to be taught, even if the tribe could only afford to send fifteen riders to do so. It would soon be time to ride out and face them. Around them, the Oroq are taking down their yurts, loading their sleds, preparing to move to new lands in the event the Adarkim come with a greater force; the women bark orders to those working to break down the camp, while armed Oroq circle the dzo herds, preparing to drive them across the Steppe. It is elegant and organized chaos. 

Bukidai walks up to Baidar, an obvious limp slowing him. His last Nadaam, five years previous, had ended with a wound to the leg that never properly healed, and so he has transitioned from war leader to advisor, an advisor rarely listened to by Bujir. He watches the youth secure the saddle on the stallion, making sure that his spare lances are equally secure. The Oroq will not be able to dismount on the attack, after all; their job is to harry the Adarkim, not fight on the ground. The other riders for the dairalt are a short distance away, surrounding Jadagai, some of them already singing the songs of war of the Oroq and whooping wildly. In contrast, Baidar is quiet, his expression thoughtful. I’d best talk to him, then. Give him the old advice my father gave me on my first ride, he thinks. “Not interested in singing then?” Bukidai asks.

Baidar turns from his preparations and gives his uncle a smile. “You’ve never heard me sing, clearly, Uncle. The last time I tried, Samga told me to stop.”

“What were you singing?”

Baidar thinks on it a moment, then blushes. “A sailor’s song from the Ruby Sea I heard in Reunion. Might have been why she told me to stop.”

Bukidai chuckles. “Likely. So. Your first raid. Your first ride at your brother’s side in battle. Not much like the Nadaam at all.”

“Here to give me advice?” Baidar asks.

“Of course. Whether you listen is up to you. You will need it, for the ride is not like the Nadaam at all. If you are unhorsed, you’re in trouble. Speed is everything. Your allies are shock and sheer speed. Ride into them and make them fear you.” He reaches over and puts a hand on Baidar’s shoulder. “Laugh while you are killing. Make killing into joy, so that they fear you more than they fear failure.” Baidar opens his mouth to speak, but Bukidai shakes his head. “You love the fight. More than any other warrior I have even known. Use that. Laugh as they die, and those that live will remember that.”

Baidar considers this for a moment, then nods and climbs into the saddle. “I’ll see you when we’re done,” he calls, and rides to join his brother and the others. Bukidai watches the youth go, and wonders if the boy is ever going to realize how special he can be.

The Ghimlyt Dark, after the defeat of Ruby Weapon:

“As for you, hero of Eorzea, you’ll pay for what you did to Milisandia, I swear it.”

Baidar watches the Raen leave the field of battle where he fought against the Ruby Weapon, acutely aware of the presence of Gaius van Baelsar beside him. The Garlean is quiet, brooding over the fact that the pilot of Ruby Weapon had called him father, before she had died, her mind overwritten into someone else’s by the Weapon’s systems. Baidar barely understands what had happened-it would be later, speaking with Y’shtola on the First, that he comes to learn just who Nael van Darnas was-but he knows what he has done. A few minutes ago, he had been fighting, his new blade Dragonsong filling him with the power of Nidhogg, overcoming impossible odds against a terrifying war machina. 

And now, here he was, an accomplice to the death of Gaius’ daughter.

He does not think that Gaius will blame him for Milisandia’s death; the VIIth Legion and the monsters in Garlemald that had made the Weapon were the ones to blame. Had any of Gaius’ attempts to halt the Weapon had been as successful as Baidar’s, then Gaius would have wielded the blade that killed her. That does not make Baidar feel any better about what he has done. He damns himself for falling into the joy of battle, the thrill of fighting to the death, living balanced on the edge of life and death, as he’d fought against Ruby Weapon.. Zenos was right about that, he thinks. I am like him in that regard. 

He sighs, deeply, his hand on the hilt of Dragonsong. “Laugh while you are killing.” he whispers.

“I beg your pardon?” Gaius asks, unsure of what this Warrior of Light has just said. 

“Something my uncle once said,” Baidar replies after a moment. “Something he said to inspire a damn fool kid. Something I’m not sure I need anymore.” He sighs again. The Azim Steppe and the fighting between the tribes, the dangers of the hunt, his uncle’s advice-well meaning within the society of the Xaela, but betraying how small his perspective truly was-feels like it was a thousand years ago. The sheer scale of the wars that he has fought, from the Source to the First and back again, is beginning to wear on his soul, the responsibility of being a Warrior of Light weighing more on him with every passing day. That he would have to kill again-to protect Eorzea and his family-is obvious to him. But he is not sure he will ever laugh while killing again. 

He is not sure he ever should have.

[mechagalaxy]

Sten Hugo Hiller - 627184: Mecha Combat #971 -  December 3346 Point Mech Panic

(By Sten Hugo Hiller - 627184) Mountain Climbing Mecha Combat #971

Brought to you by ANN

Highlighting the December 3346 Point Mech Panic

After the many events we recently have had where only a single model of Mech was allowed, one should have thought most Commanders would have recoiled at another of them.

But the gaming authorities pulled out another one, and it seemed the Commanders was happy. This time it was a Point Mech event, so each Commander was allowed to select and equip/arm what they considered their pride when it came to fighting machines.

The thing about a Pointmech event is the fact that as each Commander only fields one Mech each, the favor of the RNG gods (or lady Luck) is much more telling than in most other events.

Getting the drop on the opponent, and getting a low-odds mission-kill in the bargain, is of course wanted at all times, but in this format it will end the battle right there, despite the fact that the opposing Commander might hold a piloting licence significantly higher than what you have.

So speed (and decent odds of hitting) and crit seem vital, -at least to the underdogs. Slow/Freeze and high-damage weapons, coupled to serious multiples is also important, -at least if you want to depend a bit less on luck alone.

My invitation was to K3, and the regulars there would have licences 18-65 higher than me. That translates into their Mechs having 10-30% thicker armor and 6-22 weapons more than mine, and depending on the model chosen, more equipment as well.

As the underdog I therefore had to compromise. To match the firing speed of likely opponents, modules that provided less in the way of multiples and mission-kill, but higher speed was chosen. The same held true for weapons as well, and there was serious misgivings about these choices.

But as the scramble neared, I brought my trusty Humbaba to the arena and was allowed inside. For some reason K3 had attracted few Commanders. The prizes was in my mind decent enough, and the fame factor was not too high either. That left overwhelmingly strong contenders already in place as the most probable reason.

But I had no time to dwell on that. Having respect for ones opponents is one thing, being paralyzed into inaction due to fear is another. I had a full complement of large and regular hatorades, and due to generosity from friends I had an eight pack of supers as well (not that I could use all, but it is better to have to many than to few).

There were many roads to the top, problem was which to choose. Joel Scmidt from Alpha Legion had chosen an Pike as his champion, and a few scuffles later he had been displaced and I was just one step from the top.

Like me, Joshua Eifort from The Brotherhood BlackWatch had chosen an Humbaba as his champion. Unlike mine, his was fully upgraded, so this would be a tough challenge.

It took me six tries before I even landed my first blow. His Mech was only a bit faster, but he had serious multiples and his weapons dished out tremendous amount of damage compared to what I could serve. In the ten first clashes (which I lost) it took a total of eleven shots for him to put me back into my place. Then the RNG gods started drifting over to my corner. I managed to get the top a few times, but it took an average of six tries, and required 4-7 hits each time to get enough damage done to put his Mech out of action.

As one can understand, my supers was vanishing at a high speed, and when Mk Matthews from ***Raging Vengeance*** used his Notos to take the top, despair was not far away.

As most of the scrambles recently had lasted almost the full lenght I decided to pace myself a bit. No more than a few attacks a minute for the rest of the scramble. As the end approached I swallowed my last regulars, and once more launched a barrage of assaults on the top. The fifth try succeeded, and it had better end now as there only was enough energy left for two more tries.

But in the last possible moment before the light flashed, Eifort dethroned me one last time.

At least I had gotten enough footage from the other tops to tell you this event winners had been:

Div 1 368+ (20 Commanders): Bernard Johnson, Warlock (Notos)(1s) 2: Stroker Spot 3: Jay Fleharty 4: Shawn Wretham 5: David Buchanan 6: Robert C Goetz Sr 7: Dexter Berry 8: Sal Vezzosi Jr 9: Chad Leon Baker 10: Gary Muenzel Div 2 -367 (21 Commanders): Bob Schlomer, Black Star Knights (Fext)(17s) Div 3 -238 (10 Commanders): Joshua Eifort, T.B. BlackWatch (Humbaba)(<1s) Div 4 -191 (19 Commanders): Darren Jackson, M&L Blood Wolves (Guardian)(14s) Div 5 -154 (40 Commanders): Tony Hoogheem, Star League (Boreas)(2s) Div 6 -112 (25 Commanders): Cody Mckissick, HF 110th C.C. 1st A.R. (Antithesis)(4s) Div 7 -85 (39 Commanders): Siegfried Gust, Black Star Bandits (Fext)(1m,39s) Div 8 -63 (28 Commanders): Cora Soco Hiller, today and tomorrow (Ignis)(24m,37s) Div 9 -42 (17 Commanders): James Anderson *R.V* (Dreadnought)(33m,52s) Div 10 -28 (17 Commanders): Fredy Jieffrancis, MurderMechs (Buchis)(8h,2m) Div 11 -16 (15 Commanders): Ash Dent, (Hoplite)(1d,5h)

Total Contestants: 251 Total medals claimed: 160 (of 165 possible)

Compared to the recent Selfsame, we had an increase in the number of fighting formations of more than 50%, 90 additional Commanders showed up to slug it out this time. However, for some reason the number of Commanders showing up on K3 was too low to claim all the prizes, and therefore five Bronzes were returned for resmelting.

Unlike most previous Point Mech events there was not one model that totally dominated the Gold table. The sole model to get multiple wins was the Fext, but it stopped at two Golds. The sole Crystal Mech to claim a Gold was the Hoplite.

The last half-hour saw eight Golds change hands several times, six of them was not decided until the last half-minute. Two Golds were held for more than two hours, one of them for more than a day. That shows it was quite a struggle for the top prizes, but how hard was the competition for the lesser prizes? To find out we cast a glance at the number of medals held for more than 30 minutes in this event:

.............Silvers......Bronzes Div 1 ....0 of 4.........1 of 10 Div 2 ....0 of 4.........8 of 10 Div 3 ....2 of 4.........4 of 5 Div 4 ....1 of 4.........8 of 10 Div 5 ....0 of 4.........3 of 10 Div 6 ....1 of 4.........6 of 10 Div 7 ....0 of 4.........6 of 10 Div 8 ....3 of 4.........8 of 10 Div 9 ....3 of 4.........7 of 10 Div 10 ..4 of 4.......10 of 10 Div 11 ..4 of 4.......10 of 10

Well, we had two tops (K10 and K11) where nothing at all happened. K3 and K8 saw limited action, while K2, K3 and K4 were moderately busy. Mount Olympus, K5, K6 and K7 all saw at least half the medals finding fresh holders during the scramble.

No single clan managed to secure more than one Gold in this event. However, not all Golds went to a clan. Unaligned Ash Dent in his Hoplite held the top against all comers for more than a day on K11. The sole SelfSame winner to get a follow-up Gold was Warlock`s Bernard Johnson.

Upcoming event: Cannon Strike Chrono

This event is in most particulars unlimited. There is no restrictions on what Mechs can be used, or in what numbers. There are two differences though. Firstly; All Projectile weapons dish out 80% additional damage, so some adjustments to armament and shielding might be prudent. Secondly; It is a Chrono, so sign up ASAP to get enough early points to have a leg up on the latecomers.

Event ends May 8 between 2100 and 2130 New York Time

[winterdrake]

Betrayal

(Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim Fanfiction)

Instead of defeating Miraak, what if the Last Dragonborn made a deal with him?

As the howling wind tore through the night, the Dragonborn lay awake in her tent. The warrior was exhausted but her mind was too full to allow her the relief of slumber. She worried over Skyrim and the things that might happen during her absence. The woman would rather be there but she was currently on the island of Solstheim, hunting down the Dragon Priest that had sent two of his servants to kill her.

When the Last Dragonborn had learned of Miraak, she had been intent on defeating him for sending his cultists to murder her and trying to enslave the people of Solstheim. He didn't earn himself any sympathy when he attacked her on her first visit to Apocrypha and then stole several of her dragon souls back on Nirn.

However, now that the warrior knew Hermaeus Mora would make her his Champion if she succeeded, the woman could no longer bring herself to to continue with as much determination. Miraak's death would mean that she would end up taking his place. She would not allow that to happen.

Instead, the Dragonborn began to think as she delayed her inevitable encounter with Miraak. She knew she would have to face him once more, but maybe they would not have to fight to the death on the whim of an inhuman entity who only had everything to gain?

Skyrim was almost in a state of complete civil war, only delayed thanks to her intervention. Before the Dragonborn defeated Alduin, she had forced a Peace Council and negotiated a temporary truce between the Stormcloaks and the Empire. Both sides agreed to stay their hands until Alduin was defeated. Now that he had, both the Empire and Stormcloaks had resumed fighting and entreated their heroine to join them. Nothing she said could sway them to continue the peace and instead focus on the Thalmor.

The Dragonborn was at a loss on what she could do to unite Skyrim once more. She was conflicted and every day she hesitated in making her choice, the Thalmor gained advantage. Those damned elves were no doubt ecstatic that Skyrim was still weak and divided.

Skyrim's savior had a choice to make. She could join the Stormcloaks. But the woman did not like Ulfric and many of the policies on his side... Or she could join the Empire. But the Imperials had banned the worship of Talos and allowed the Thalmor into Skyrim.

The warrior felt both anxiety and stress as the days passed by. Her travels in Solstheim helped relieve some of those negative feelings as it kept her mind off of everything happening back on the mainland. She could think of nothing plausible that could work without much bloodshed on either side of Skyrim, That was, until now.

What if... What if she made a deal with Miraak. He was apparently thousands of years old and had the knowledge of Apocrypha at his fingertips for nearly as long. He didn't seem to want anything other than the island of Solstheim. The Thalmor would want to take the island as well. The ancient Dragon Priest would never allow that and he might be willing to stand against the elves for that reason.

The heroine was alarmed as to where her thoughts led her. How could she trust such a man? A traitor Dragon Priest? But the thought persisted. Miraak was known to have a silver tongue. He could sway people to his side using his voice, no doubt that was how he got his name, "Allegiance Guide". He had power, power enough to control dragons, as she had already seen. He had thousands of years to her paltry twenty four. He would undoubtedly be able to help Skyrim if she were able to get him onto her side.

Miraak would settle for nothing less than what he believed owed to him. Could she live with herself if she let her rival just take what he wanted, in exchange for his help?

The answer was yes. Though the Dragonborn would feel the guilt of such a decision her entire life, she would be willing to betray the trust of Solstheim's people as long as it was for the greater good. She would not allow herself to become a puppet of Hermaeus Mora and would do anything to stop Skyrim from ripping itself apart.

The Dragonborn closed her eyes then. She had a lot more thinking to do.

**********

After meeting with the Skaal one final time, the Dragonborn returned to Miraak's temple. The Skaal wanted her to cleanse the rest of the All-Maker Stones before they would give up their secrets. If she destroyed the stones now, Miraak would never make any kind of agreement with her. This was the warrior's last chance to do as she wanted.

In front of the Earth Stone, the younger Dragonborn demanded Miraak speak with her. She felt silly, talking into the air but how else was she supposed to contact her foe? When nothing happened, she angrily whacked the Earth Stone with a blade. Still nothing. After waiting a considerable amount of time, and threatening to destroy his temple multiple times, Miraak finally appeared.

Her rival arrived in a flash of ethereal blue light as the Dragonborn watched on. Miraak's golden mask turned to face her. She could not discern what he was thinking but his menacing form and aura of superiority unnerved her as he faced her. The warrior had practiced what she wanted to say though.

"Ah, Dovahkiin. Why have you called upon me so? Do you wish to die so soon, joor?" It was impossible to see what Miraak was was thinking, with that odd mask obscuring his face. He appeared as a spectral apparition. The Dragonborn could see through him, like he was some sort of lich. The warrior was somewhat reminded of how Frea described her body, when she taken unwillingly into Apocrypha for the first time.

"You wish, Miraak." The Dragonborn straightened up, concealing her nervousness and spoke with more determination than she felt. "I'd like to make a deal with you."

"A deal, you say? Are you so afraid, mal Dovahkiin, that you have already resorted to begging for your life?" Miraak's voice conveyed an air of haughty superiority. "Just what was Hermaeus Mora thinking when he chose you?"

"I'm not here to beg!" The Last Dragonborn snapped, her anger igniting thanks to Miraak's words. She did not beg. She had slain Alduin, the World-Eater. She was the Arch-Mage to the College of Winterhold, the Thane of every major hold in Skyrim! She had done so much in her short life and it burned to have her enemy insinuate she was a coward.

"Then what sort of deal are you here to make?" Miraak crossed his arms as he spoke to her, tilting his head. In front of him, the Dragonborn felt weak, almost like a child. She did not like the feeling. The woman took a deep breathe, allowing her anger to leave her as she exhaled. Then she spoke calmly, staring directly into the slitted eyes of Miraak's mask.

"I want you to swear that upon your release from Apocrypha you will not be cruel to the inhabitants of Solstheim. Killing can only be done if there is no other possibility and your enemies are a legitimate threat to you. When the people fight you, I want you to try and solve the conflicts with diplomacy before any other means."

"Is that all?" Miraak mocked. "You know you shall suffer defeat at my hands in our fated battle, so you come to make demands of me?" The masked man was amused, to say the least. He had not been expecting this. He had seen that the Last Dragonborn had begun to falter from the path set by Hermaeus Mora. Was this why?

"I don't wish to fight you if I don't have to and I am not done with my demands." The younger Dragonborn continued. "I want you to release everyone from your enchantment. I want everyone to have free will. Though they will not have the option to choose who rules them, I want them to be free. I want you to stay away from me, my friends and any dragon I say you cannot kill... I also want your help. The Thalmor are a threat to the provinces of Tamriel. I want your help in defeating them and keeping Skyrim united."

Miraak laughed.

"I could kill you where you stand... Or make Solstheim's people, including your friends turn on you. What makes you think I would do as you say? What could you offer me, Nizah Dovahkiin?"

"Solstheim" She said, not missing a beat. The Last Dragonborn did not think Miraak would accept so easily, or at all, but she was willing to try even though this was humiliating. "I will not interrupt your work in Solstheim, I will not destroy your temple, cleanse the rest of the All-Maker stones or slay any more of your cultists. In short, I will not interfere in any of your plans to return to this world... As long as you swear that you will follow the conditions I set."

Miraak laughed once again and the female Dragonborn bristled. He acted like she was nothing to him.

"You think me no threat to you Miraak but you are a fool!" The Dragonborn began hotly. "Do you think I won't be able to knock your temple down with my Thu'um? Do you think I won't be able to destroy those abominations you've erected over the All-Maker Stones? Hermaeus Mora would not have come to me, offering to make me his Champion in return for defeating you if he did not believe I had a chance!"

Miraak was silent a few moments as he appraised her.

"You are quick to anger, joor." Miraak began. "I know you are a threat. You are young, strong and must believe you are oh-so-cunning if you are attempting to make a deal with me. But I have had years of experience while you are just like a hatchling, bumbling around with your eyes closed."

"You-"

"However," The Dragon Priest interrupted her. "You have defeated Alduin. As the Last Dragonborn, you have the Dragon God's favor. You have surprised me. I did not expect one such as you to be willing to come to me. But... Dovahkiin... Are you really willing to trust the 'Traitor?'"

"I don't wish to become Hermaeus Mora's Champion. By killing you, I will be trapped in the same situation you are now in. Truly, I don't know if I can trust you but I am willing to take the chance... But if you betray me, I know I can defeat you, Miraak." She spoke with conviction, but in reality she was not entirely sure she could defeat him. She could almost feel that Miraak knew this. "So do you accept?"

"Not quite. You death would have allowed me to return to Nirn far faster than any other way. Without it, my return will be delayed but I might accept with some alterations to your demands. I do not believe you are offering me enough to equal what I must sacrifice. "

"What? I am offering you your freedom and Solstheim! What more could you want?"

"Silence. I will agree to your terms only if I am able to make several of my own."

"And what might those be?" The warrior grit out. She could feel herself lose any advantage she had. Miraak did not speak. He turned away and the woman waited impatiently as he thought. Before the silence could get too awkward, the the Dragon Priest finally spoke.

"You are asking far too much from me. You ask me to limit the the extent of my power and give up control over the people of Solstheim, to allow my enemies to wander freely without any form of retaliation and to help you in your war." Miraak neared the Dragonborn but she stood her ground and did not back away.

"My counter offer is this: On the agreement of this deal, you must leave Solstheim. You may not return until I call for you. Skyrim shall not touch Solstheim, you will convince your province to leave Solstheim in my hands without interference. I will retain my right retaliate against anyone who threatens my rule. As for the bending the wills of the weak, I am only willing to free those that will accept me as their ruler. For the rest, I will contemplate some way to free them that will not allow them the means to fight me. As for me helping you, we can discuss what you can offer me when that time comes. I will not agree to such a thing in our current proposal."

"That's not..." This was not what she wanted. The warrior had hoped he would just agree or decline in completely, but she knew that would have been too easy.

"Well? Did you need some time to think about it?

The Dragonborn said nothing but she gripped her sword tight in her hand.

"I will give you time then. Return to my Temple two days hence. You can either accept or decline then. I will accept no other alterations from what I have stated. But remember, Dragonborn, I have much to offer this world upon my release. My power and wisdom would be a valuable asset against the Thalmor, as you seem to understand. All I ask for in return is this small icy rock and its people."

He disappeared then, leaving the Last Dragonborn alone.

**********

She accepted, taking Miraak's hand to seal the deal. His grip was strong and his touch sent a shiver of unease through her. Part of her regret the decision then. Miraak was pleased, the warrior could tell.

Within days she was on a ship back to Skyrim, leaving the people of Solstheim to their new master and fate.

It was on that ship that the Dragonborn had her first nightmare about Solstheim. It would not be the last. The guilt of betraying the people of Solstheim would not leave her and she knew she deserved it.

**********

Six months later, the Dragonborn was surprised by a pair of cultists nearing her on her way back to Whiterun. She had just finished the massive headache that was convincing all of the current faction leaders to leave Solstheim alone. They trusted her word, as she was Dragonborn, but she felt them judge her for not being the hero they wanted her to be. The woman knew they wondered how she could let Solstheim fall into a Dragon Priest's hand.

The cultists approached her steadily on their horses, their masks reflecting the sun. The Dragonborn unsheathed her sword while on horseback. She had not heard much news about the Solstheim since she had left. People rarely traveled back and forth so there was little information to gather.

"Peace, Dragonborn. We are only here to take you to Lord Miraak." A man spoke when she was within earshot.

"He is back then?" Dread filled her but she would have to face the consequences of her decision. She hoped everything would turn out for the better.

"Yes and he awaits your arrival. Come, we must make haste. It is unwise to make our Lord wait." The other man spoke now.

"I'm a little busy at the moment. Your lord will have to wait. Give me several days to finish up and prepare." The warrior snapped. She had been on edge lately, all things considered. The cultists did not seem bothered by her .

"We will not make Lord Miraak wait. Come now or do not come at all." The cultists began to walk their horses away.

The Dragonborn cursed and trailed after them, urging her mount to follow.

**********

The trip back to Raven Rock was terrible. The weather had been perfect and the ship had sailed without incident. It was the guilt and nervousness the Dragonborn felt that caused her such trouble. Her nightmares came back full force. The Skaal hurled insults at her, the people of Solstheim cursed her. She could always see their accusing fingers and eyes for staying idle and not defeating Miraak when she should have.

The cultists were quiet. They sometimes talked to each other but rarely said anything to her.

Finally, they arrived back to Solstheim. The Dragonborn felt like a coward as she hid her face with a helmet when she disembarked. She was wearing an entirely new set of armor and doubted anyone would recognize her.

Raven Rock was as she remembered it. The Dragonborn could see Nords, Dunmer and other races working alongside each other. As she followed the cultists into town, she saw that people shopped, kids played, guards patrolled. No one looked or acted like those zombies at the All-Maker Stones.

"Nothing has changed since Miraak took over?" The Dragonborn asked Miraak's servants as she followed them.

"It is Lord Miraak to you." The cultist corrected. "And the people of Raven Rock willingly swore themselves to Miraak after witnessing his power. There are not many who are willing to defy the true Dragonborn with several dragons in his service."

"What of his enemies? What does he do to them?"

"His enemies are imprisoned and offered the chance for freedom if they work. If they refuse, Lord Miraak blesses them with his Voice and they are made to work."

"So they are enslaved for the rest of their lives."

"The Glorious Lord is merciful. After one year of servitude, Lord Miraak will free them as long as they swear their loyalties to him."

"Merciful my ass." They would have no choice. Either be ruled by him or forced to work for him under some kind of enchantment. And that was her fault. But at least it looked like Miraak was following the conditions she had set. It was a bit of a relief.

**********

Miraak's temple was complete. It was a sight to behold. Freshly constructed, the building looked regal and beautiful. The cultists and the Dragonborn arrived inside, with no questions asked. Several men and women the Dragonborn passed by on her way inside were obviously under the control of Miraak's Bend Will Shout. The woman felt pity for them and her hands itched to find a way to free them. But she would not.

Once inside, one cultist left while the other led the Dragonborn to a newly constructed wing of the temple. She passed by several empty bedrooms and what looked like an armory. Stopping before a room, the cultist turned to the warrior.

"You will bathe." The robed man stated.

"What?"

"You're filthy. I will not allow Lord Miraak to suffer your presence as you are. Bathe and dress in what we provide for you. A servant will be arriving with suitable clothes. I will take you to our Lord when he has time for you." The man opened and held the door for her.

"Fine." With an irritated sigh, the Dragonborn entered the bathing chamber and the man left. To be honest, the woman hadn't really wanted to appear in front of Miraak covered in dirt and sweat. A bath might also give her time to settle her nerves. She locked the door and dropped her stuff near it.

The room was small and contained large metal tub and a curtain that could be pulled around it. The woman found that a faucet that allowed cold water to fill the tub. Seeing the scorch marks on the bottom of the tub, she figured out that she was to heat up the water by using her flame spell. That cultist could have explained this to her, but he probably didn't care if the new arrival bathed in freezing cold water.

**********

The Dragonborn really didn't want to wear what had provided for her. The robes she had been given were very similar to what the cultists wore but also bore a resemblance to Miraak's. They wanted her to wear his colors.

The proud warrior wasn't going to wear them and she was furious when she found that her clothes and armor had been taken away while she had been bathing. The servant had unlocked the door to drop off the robes and took away her clothes and armor. Her pack and weapons had been left alone, thankfully. She didn't have a choice but to wear the robes unless she wanted to walk around the temple naked.

Dressed, with weapons equipped once more, the Dragonborn angrily stalked out of the bathing room to find a female cultist waiting outside. It was time to meet Miraak.

**********

The First Dragonborn wore a different set of robes. They were a similar style to his previous ones but these ones were deep black with crimson and gold designs. The Dragonborn had been taken into the hidden dining room, deep inside the temple. This was where Miraak and his conspirators must have dined and planned their betrayal thousands of years ago. Miraak sat at the head of the table, a sickly golden and green hued staff leaning against his seat.

"Welcome, mal Dovahkiin." His voice sounded as it always did, arrogant though the woman could detect a note of pleasure in his voice. It made her wonder how he felt to be free from such a place as Apocrypha, after spending so long trapped there.

Miraak gestured for her to sit across for him. A place had been set for her before him, with a plate of food and a cup. Whatever was on her plate smelled good. It was meat, but the Dragonborn could not identify the type or what kind of herbs it was garnished with. She sat down but did not touch the food.

"I see that you're back in the flesh. Hermaeus just let you leave?" The warrior tried to speak offhandedly but in reality she was curious.

"Of course not but there would have been no other outcome. He could not stop me." There was more to this than what he revealed but female Dragonborn did not want to give Miraak the satisfaction of making her ask what exactly happened.

"Hmph. Still can't admit to yourself that I could have?"

"You would have tried." Miraak responded cooly before changing the subject. "Now that you are here, we can discuss business." He said nothing about her state of dress and the Dragonborn was secretly thankful.

"I'm sure you know that the Thalmor are a threat to you as well. Why can't you just help me fight them? It's in your best interest as well as mine."

"I want those elves destroyed but seeing as I have the advantage here, I will not hesitate to take it. You need me. It will cost you."

"What do you want then?"

"Your help."

"Me? You need my help with something? Has the great and powerful Lord Miraak finally learned that he is not as powerful as he claims to be?"

"You should speak to me with more respect. You are the one that needs me far more than I need you, after all."

"I apologize, Lord Miraak." She couldn't help the tone she took. "Now, what do want my help with?"

"The Skaal." Hearing him mention Frea's people had the Dragonborn freeze. She felt a sense of dread. They would have assuredly not taken Miraak's return laying down.

"What have they done?" The Last Dragonborn asked stiffly.

"Nothing serious. Yet. They are planning to attack my temple and thanks to the conditions you set, I cannot deal with them in my preferred method. This is where I need you."

"To do what? They probably hate me. What can I do that you can't?." She was not able to suppress the bitterness she felt at the thought of their hatred.

"I could deal with them but I prefer that you do so. You will speak with them and convince them serve me. They are honorable and will not break a vow sworn. I would like to meet with their shaman to seal the deal. If they refuse, let them know what fate that awaits them if they continue to defy me."

"If I do this, you will help Skyrim?"

"No. For me to join your war, I will require more. Think of this as your first trial as to whether or not you are deserving of my help."

"I should have just killed you."

"That chapter has long since closed and you have lost your chance. You have allowed me to conquer Solstheim with ease. I must thank you for that."

"What else must I do then, after I speak with the Skaal?" What more did this man want from her?

"If you would like to be able to call on me, then I would like to be able to call on you. When I summon you, you shall come to Solstheim."

"Why?"

"To serve me, of course." Miraak could see the anger blazing in the Last Dragonborn's eyes as he continued. He enjoyed having power over her. "I will not call you but a few times a year. In those times you will stay here for a fortnight and offer your power to me."

The Dragonborn was torn at such a request. What would he make her do?

"I will not ask you to harm or betray anyone, unless you wish to." Miraak said, as if reading her thoughts. "Your presence, on my side, will help me keep the Solstheim's people under my control. I may have a few other tasks for you but nothing that should cause you such moral conflict."

"And then you will help Skyrim?"

"And then I will help Skyrim." He echoed and affirmed. "And I may offer you some of the knowledge I gained in Apocrypha... As long as you behave."

Sighing and bowing her head, almost in shame. The Last Dragonborn accepted.

"Excellent." Miraak stood up from his seat. "Your meal is not poisoned, Dovahkiin. Enjoy it before you must journey once more."

**********

The Skaal were rightfully angry. She could see the hate-filled eyes of her nightmare now in reality. Frea looked like she would attack her at any moment but was resisting it. The Skaal warrior turned and walked away before the Dragonborn could speak.

The inhabitants of the village refused to speak to her but the Dragonborn was persistent. She Shouted, allowing her voice to reverberate in the air. The Skaal came then, armed, at her show of power.

The Dragonborn revealed to them that Miraak knew of what they were planning. She told them of the extent of his power, what they needed to do now and what would happen if they refused. They had no choice but to swear loyalty to Miraak and she would have to convince them of that before they did anything that would have Dragon Priest retaliating.

The Dragonborn admitted to them why she had abandoned their people.

It took a while but the Dragonborn was triumphant. The Skaal understood but did not forgive her. They told her as much. They blamed her for their loss of freedom but Storn Crag-Strider eventually swore to meet with Miraak.

The Last Dragonborn left their village, hating herself.

When woman returned to the temple, she found that Miraak was gone. She was glad.

Another servant approached and revealed that Miraak had gone to deal with some berserkers and rieklings up north. The cultist said Miraak would not be back for some time and she may leave if she wished.

She did.

**********

One Dragonborn had the ability to save Skyrim from Alduin, a second Dragonborn could be just what was needed to save Skyrim from itself and the Thalmor. In the end, what she had done was right... Right?

As the female Dragonborn headed back onto the boat with a heavy heart, someone approached.

It was a cultist. She was tall, feminine and bowed gracefully when she approached the Dragonborn.

"A gift, Dovahkiin. From Lord Miraak." The cultist pressed a wrapped package into her arms.

"I don't want anything from your Lord." The Dragonborn growled.

"Take it. Do not anger our Lord." Miraak's cultist responded. The Dragonborn could swear she could almost hear the smirk in her voice.

Watching the cultist turn on her heel and walk away, the warrior thought about tossing the package into the sea but decided against it. It was heavy and wrapped beautifully and the Dragonborn was slightly curious as to what it could be.

She warrior boarded the boat with the gift. Once at home, instead of opening it, she tossed the package into a chest.

**********

It had taken an enormous amount of time and effort to set up a second Peace Council but the Last Dragonborn was proud of herself for accomplishing it. Many times she had felt like bashing her head against a wall when stupid, hard-headed Men and Mer would not listen to reason but she had done it.

She found herself envious, however.

Miraak had talent for persuasion far better than anyone she had encountered. Though he mocked them and showed little respect, the Peace Council listened. When someone was angered, Miraak would put them in their place. When they attempted to leave, Miraak would convince them to stay in his own way. How could the Dragonborn not be envious of the man when he could do what she could not? The Imperials and the Stormcloaks actually listened to him.

The First Dragonborn seemed to know of every facet of the Thalmor conflict even if he had not been on Nirn to see it. It seemed he had kept up on Tamriel's politics in Apocrypha.

In this one meeting, Miraak had done more than she could in years. She tried her best to persuade both sides to work together or at least to some agreement against the Thalmor but she had not succeeded. But Miraak was succeeding.

Miraak barely looked at her throughout the council. He did not even speak to her once before he left. She herself was not given much time so speak at all, other than the one time to introduce Miraak. After that, the older Dragonborn had made himself the center of attention. It almost felt like everyone had forgotten about her. Never had the Dragonborn felt so useless.

After the council, the female Dragonborn did not stay. She went up to the peak of The Throat of the World. Not to mope, of course. Just to think.

Paarthurnax could easily read her and asked her what was wrong. Alduin's former general did not trust Miraak but he respected the Dovahkiin's decision.

"Do not feel dejected, Dovahkiin. The First has many thousands of years upon you. In those years trapped inside Apocrypha, what else could he do but hone his abilities and learn?" Paarthurnax reasoned.

"I know but I can't help but feel useless when everyone seems to listen to this... Kroniid more than they ever did me. Did I make the right decision helping Miraak?" She began to wonder if she would now fade into obscurity. Miraak seemed better than her on every level.

"There is no room for regrets. The consequences of your actions must now unfold.” His voice was almost scolding. He paused before speaking again. His voice becoming more comforting. “I will say that I do believe in you, Dovahkiin. You would not have made this choice in haste. The consequences need not be terrible.”

The Dragonborn sighed, knowing Paarthurnax was right. His words did lighten her mood a little. The woman truly did think she made the best decision she could at the time. If it did end up being wrong, she vowed to do everything she could to fix it.

**********

She didn't open that package until she was back at home. Once the Dragonborn did, she did wish she had thrown it into the sea. Inside the opened box was a mask. A Dragon Priest mask, to be specific.

It was different than the regular ones, just like how Miraak's was different. Her's was gold like the First Dragonborn's. But instead of having aspects of Hermaeus Mora, the mask was more draconic. Touching it, the Dragonborn could feel several sorts of powerful enchantments on the mask. She couldn't tell what they were and she wasn't planning on testing them out.

Shuddering, she placed the mask back in the package and tossed it back into the chest. There was a note but she ignored it. She'd deal with it later, likely when Lord Miraak called for her once more. No doubt he would expect her to wear it.

Sighing, the Dragonborn hoped to all the Gods that she had made a wise decision. She equipped herself and left the house, on her way to the College of Winterhold. Several of the new apprentices had tried out spells beyond their level. Again. This time, several unbound dremora had been summoned and trapped inside the Midden before they could cause havoc in Winterhold. It was up to her to send them back to Oblivion. It would not take long and it was an almost welcome distraction.

If only this situation with the Skyrim, the Thalmor and Miraak would be as easy to handle.

Fanfiction: https://www.fanfiction.net/u/5732653/WinterDrake

AO3: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WinterDrake/pseuds/WinterDrake

Wattpad: https://www.wattpad.com/user/WinterDrake

[avidbeader]

And more of the Sheith soulmates AU

Voltron fanfic. Probably rated T when it’s done. Definitely Shiro x Keith. Here I get situational with Pidge/Katie’s pronouns. Feedback is always welcome.

Part 1

Part 2

Part 3

Part 4

Part 5

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There was no indication that this would be anything other than a team fight against a beast until they were lined up at the entrance. Shiro was in the middle, with Ch’varr beside him and Xi behind him. Matt was up front.

Then the master of ceremonies spoke over the loudspeakers. “Today, we will find the strongest among these gladiators. Those who survive the encounter with the mighty Myzax will go on to greater glory.”

A large viewscreen materialized in the arena, showing the audience a large biped, holding a club with some kind of energy ball on the end. It swung the club and the energy ball took off, soaring around the arena before returning to its position on the base. The audience roared its appreciation.

The guard held out the sword to Matt. “You will be first.”

Shiro could see Matt’s body language—he was about to panic. Dimly over the thunder of the crowd, he heard the shaky, scared voice: “I’m not gonna make it! I’ll never see my family again!”

“You can do this!” Shiro hissed back, but heard Matt’s gasp of terror.

Shiro only hesitated an instant. He charged forward with a yell, shouldering the sentry and ripping the sword from it. “This is my fight!” He swung with precision, bringing the flat of the blade against Matt’s knee hard, and his friend cried out as he collapsed. Shiro grabbed what would be his last chance and threw himself down over Matt. “I want blood!”

And just as the sentries came to pull him off, he whispered, “Take care of your father!”

The last he saw of Matt was Xi bending over him and Matt’s stunned expression as he realized just what Shiro had done.

<> <> <> <> <>

Keith was plagued by nightmares most nights. Dreams where Iverson had succeeded in breaking his bond with Shiro. Dreams where Shiro and the Holts had actually crashed and died. Dreams where Shiro got away from the aliens that had taken him, only to lose himself in the vastness of space forever, unable to find home again.

Tonight was the most vivid dream since the moment he realized that the Kerberos crew had been kidnapped. He was in some kind of stadium, large crowds seated above him and cheering as he stepped forward to face an opponent. He was keyed up—something important had just happened. He had just taken an action that he might regret later, but he felt he had no choice. He had to help Matt in the only way he saw possible.

The opponent was large, head and shoulders above him. It swung a club, sending a sphere of energy around the arena in a circle wider than the various obstacles littering the floor. Keith’s eyes narrowed as he heard an odd shift in the sound of the weapon as the sphere returned to the club and shrank in size briefly before expanding again. At that point the alien sent it out once more.

Keith’s hand tightened around a sword and he waved it back and forth, getting a feel for its balance, such as it was. This was a poor weapon, mass-produced and clunky, but it was sharp. As he watched, the alien sent the sphere out a second time, openly grinning at him in anticipation. But as there had been no signal for the fight to begin, he waited.

The bond rose within him, Keith’s presence united with his. Keith’s mind zeroing in on the weapon he faced, Keith’s hand on the blade.

The third time the sphere returned to the base, the sound changed again and the alien waited for the size of the sphere and the sound to return to normal before sending it out again. That was the key. This weapon had to recharge.

The blast of sound, like cannon fire, echoed through the arena, and the alien charged toward him, swinging the club to release the sphere. He dodged to one side immediately, noting how the sphere veered to follow him, and timed a leap behind a stone slab lying on one side so the sphere crashed against it. The alien pulled the projectile back to itself and swung again.

He could do this. Keith was with him.

This time he waited as the sphere hurtled toward him, then jumped up on the slab and leaped out of the way. The sphere tore a chunk out of the wall behind him and he heard the shouts of the spectators closest to the impact as he tried to make it to the next obstacle—

The energy ball hit him in the shoulder, sending him to the ground as pain seared across his back. That had been much faster than he expected, but now was his chance. He got to his feet and charged the monster, swinging his sword as a diversion before plunging past it and whirling to slice its legs where a human tendon would be.

The creature howled in pain and stumbled when it tried to move. He had gotten one leg and it was hamstrung. He could hear the roar of the crowd shift in surprise and then eagerness at the possibility of an actual challenge to the reigning champion.

He shifted to defense. He had to evade three times before he could attack again. He felt a growl start deep in his chest and rise through his throat, filling him with a new reservoir of stamina.

Shiro counted and ran and eluded. This time the second attack got him in the thigh, limiting his mobility for the third dodge. But the timing paid off and the next sword strike connected with the shoulder the alien used to throw its weapon. But it caught him around the neck with its other hand and sent him rolling.

One more cycle…one more cycle… He planned his path to bring himself around to the monster’s off side. The crowd seemed to realize he was going the wrong way and shouted concern. The alien’s swings were weaker, the sphere moving with less force. But he stuck to his plan…he had to lure the alien into swinging wide…

The alien sent its third attack, the aim off, and Shiro was already moving in. As he had hoped, the alien moved to swat at him with the club itself. He used the sword to bind up the club and wrench it from the creature’s hand, sending it flying across the stadium. The energy sphere went obediently to its base, then fizzled out without its wielder. He immediately brought the sword to his opponent’s throat. “Yield!”

The crowd shouted, approving the conquest but demanding death. Shiro stared at the creature. “I don’t want to kill you. Will you yield?”

It growled at him. “Foolish little unknown. If you kill me now, you will not risk facing me again. I will not be so merciful.”

“I’ll take that chance.”

Keith shot upright, gasping for breath. His hand flew to his shoulder, aching from the blow it had received, and then he felt his leg where a bruise ought to be.

His throat closed around sobs as he realized what he had seen through the bond. It was worse than he had imagined, so much worse. Shiro wasn’t fighting in some alien army. He was being forced to fight for his life for sport, for the entertainment of those who had abducted him.

But he had a strong impression that Matt Holt, at least, was now safer than before. That was one tiny silver lining to cling to.

Keith lay back down, feeling that odd warming purr in his essence again.

<> <> <> <> <>

Colleen Holt hung up her phone, feeling depressed. It always hurt to speak with the Shiroganes, but she would not stop her weekly calls. They were the only ones who could talk to one another, support one another through their grief of both knowing that their loved ones were alive and realizing that the chances of them ever coming back home were slim at best.

The only new thing was that Shiro’s soulmate had sent a message to them. They now had proof of what Katie had overheard, that he knew Shiro was alive due to the soul bond. He had asked them to contact her because Shiro’s emotional state indicated that Sam and Matt were still alive.

At the dining table, Katie was busy typing on her laptop, composing everything that would be needed to make one Pidge Gunderson look good enough for the Garrison. Transcripts, medical records, awards and extracurriculars were all being created to make a very tempting recruit for a future comms specialist.

Colleen noticed Katie pause and take a deep breath. She reached over and took her daughter’s hand. “Are you sure about this?”

Katie’s expression hardened, her chin jutting just like Matt’s. They had both inherited their mother’s stubborn streak.

“Yes, I’m sure. The Garrison is the only place with all the information about Kerberos on site. Getting access to their system and records is the fastest way to learn what they’re hiding.”

“I understand that. But, darling…even if you find undeniable evidence that they were taken by aliens, how is that going to help? Who knows how far away they are by this time?”

Katie’s eyes turned steely. “Oh, I have ideas…”

<> <> <> <> <>

It was definitely a second presence.

Keith had begun keeping track after the third or fourth time he had felt that comforting presence that purred at him and warmed him. It was separate from his communications with Shiro, though it seemed to respond when the bond was filled with stress and fear. He took the large corkboard that was in the house and stripped it of the previous tenant’s attempts to track Mothman’s influence over Chinese money-laundering schemes. He tracked when he could feel the presence most strongly on its own: a bit at sunrise and the two times there had been rainfall.

There was also the list next to the graph showing the instances when the presence had seemed to join the soul bond, starting with the night shortly after he had arrived here.

The night Keith had fully recognized what Shiro was being put through and realized that he was powerless to stop it. The night that Shiro had been forced to kill his opponent because the alien refused to recognize the concept of surrender. The night that the opponent had run onto Shiro’s sword in what was clearly a suicidal move. The nights the hooded things pulled him from his cell into some kind of lab facility and tested his tolerance for pain through attacks with some kind of black lightning. Those nights, Keith found he could channel the strength the presence offered him, adding it to the bond and giving Shiro the support he needed to endure.

The next time it rained, the storm blew in from the northwest and Keith noticed it took a while before the presence made itself known. The time after that, he felt the presence for an hour before the rain arrived, coming from the southwest.

Interesting that it had a definite direction when water was involved. Keith began taking the hoverbike out, mapping the area and trying to trace a potential source for this strange but welcome energy.

<> <> <> <> <>

It was almost sickening, really, how easy it was. Pidge Gunderson was accepted into Galaxy Garrison on the strength of his records and a single telephone interview, in spite of being a year younger than the average first-year cadet. Pidge Gunderson arrived and took up residence in one of the few single dorm rooms, previously arranged by some careful incursions into the student database.

And then Pidge Gunderson was assigned to a team with an amiable engineer and a loudmouth pilot who only just made the cut because a more talented pilot had gotten himself expelled. Pidge did what he had to do as far as classes and training, but no more. Pidge spent most of his evenings building his array for picking up alien signals and then sneaking up to the roof and listening in. Much to his disappointment, there was never a mention of any Holt or Shirogane. But the tantalizing repetition of a single word kept Pidge’s attention.

What was the Voltron?

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And before anyone fusses at me over the “loudmouth” description of Lance, he’ll come into his own when it’s time. You can’t tell me that Pidge wouldn’t have been totally fed up with him at first…

Thank you for the likes, reblogs, and comments!

Part 7

[yulon]

The Wrath of Sabellian (pt. 36)

Wrathion deals with the fallout of his loss in the Trial of Will.

Sabellian pulled the hood closer over his head.

The dry heat was welcome after so much time at sea, but the dragon couldn’t focus enough to enjoy it. He stared up at the mountain with a grimness that felt stark even on his face.

If the newest reports were correct, Samia and the others were in there.

Crunched footsteps came from his right. He didn’t look over. Only one person would dare intrude.

“So?” he prompted.

“Agents were right,” Rexxar said. “I managed to track the trail to the Spire’s pass.”

Sabellian sniffed.

“And you’re sure it was him?”

Rexxar grunted. He came up to stand at his side. Misha wasn’t with him. “I saw him in Pandaria with the Dragonmaw. He lacked their markings and saddles, but I remember his visage. Yes. It was him.”

Sabellian glanced at the half-orc. Only yesterday the hunter had taken off the bandages from his scuffle with the Dragonmaw two weeks ago. What was left were scars, ripping all across Rexxar’s bare chest.

“Alone?”

“Alone.” Rexxar looked at the mountain. It reached so high the jagged top touched the clouds of ash that misted along the gorge’s sky; the clouds themselves cast a red and black hue on an even redder and blacker landscape. It almost looked like home. “No other tracks.”

He frowned, thoughtful as he was aggravated. No Samia, no Vaxian.

But that didn’t mean they weren’t here.

He knew they were.

“I suppose those Agents are good for something,” Sabellian said. “Send word to that orc and have her ready some of his little underlings for the trap.”

“Now?”

“Yes. Now.” Sabellian looked skyward. It was late afternoon, but the sun lay obscured under the ash-clouds. Unlike Blade’s Edge, the Searing Gorge had a perpetual darkness to it. “The longer we linger, the longer Serinar has to realize we’re here, or for them to relocate. Or both.” He curled his lip. “Especially after the idiot insisted we bring so many of his Agents.”

“Necessary,” Rexxar pointed out.

“And cumbersome. Mortals smell to dragons. The more there are, the more scents Serinar and the others will find.”

Rexxar shrugged one large shoulder.

They stood in silence. Sabellian ran his fingers down the collar affixed to his neck. It was becoming a habit of his since he’d put it on right before arriving to the Gorge two days ago. Though it inhibited his draconic form, the smooth feel of the metal had a calming quality.

Rexxar looked at the collar. His expression didn’t change. “Anything?”

Sabellian dropped his hand. Irritation bubbled in his chest. Every glance that his travelling companions had given him, every slight wince they’d done when he moved too fast or snapped, he’d caught as quickly as only the self-conscious did. It’d gotten somewhat better the longer he hadn’t snapped and killed them all, at least.

“Nothing,” he said dismissively. He’d told no one of his dreams, either.

It’d stay that way.

“I’ll have Misha send for Left, then.”

Sabellian stared at at the mountain known as Blackrock for a moment longer, then shook his head. “No. I’ve changed my mind. I’ll go to speak with her. I know she’s at camp - and no doubt the boy is there as well. Come.”

He moved past the Beastmaster. “We hunt the fool down,” Sabellian continued as he made his way down the rocky slope of the smaller mountain, back down to their camp at ground level. “If he’s alone, it’s our only chance before he skulks back into the mountain - and who knows when we shall have another chance to corner him.”

Corner him, torture him, force him to tell them where his children were. No matter what it took.

---

Two weeks earlier.

“Sabellian wins the Trial of Will.”

Silence – a silence of victory so sweet Sabellian savored it like a fresh heart.

He looked Wrathion. The Black Prince stood frozen, face ashen and his eyes red with shock. Stupid boy. He'd fallen into Sabellian's game far easier than the alchemist had expected.

Such was ego.

Xuen padded over to the orb, where it glowed orange and bright in the center of the Celestial Court. Each footfall scuffed loud against the quiet, so hushed was the entirety of the arena. He raised one massive paw over the ball.

“And to the victor goes the spoils,” he said, voice booming out along the Court. “The Black Prince must renounce his title, cease the suffering of Sabellian's brood, and return with him to Blade's Edge to face the judgment of his remaining family.” As he spoke, the orb began to spin, quick and then quicker, until it began to dissolve into ribbons of light which swirled around one another like a swarm of butterflies.

The White Tiger looked at Sabellian.

“Do you accept?”

“I accept.”

Xuen nodded. He swept his claws through the ribbons.

They shot away, quick as a firework – right toward Wrathion. The prince only had time to widen his eyes and take one step back before the ribbons of energy surrounded him. They locked together, cocoon-like, shielding the dragon from view.

The orc bodyguard cried out in anger and alarm. She smashed the butt of her rifle against the energy – and only succeeded in being thrown back. Snaps of light popped inside the shield.

All at once, the ribbons slowed in their mad dance. As quick as they had come, they dissolved into pieces of starlight.

Kneeling on the ground was Wrathion. He curled into himself and groaned.

No longer did he wear the illustrious garb of desert royalty. Instead, his clothes were plain: a white tunic and baggy deep-purple pants similar to the old, without all of the gold decoration.

The orc rushed over and knelt down to him. She managed to help him to his feet. Wrathion had a gaunt look on his face, and his eyes were distant and searching. He swayed once. Then he looked at Sabellian.

Little fool.

He didn’t hesitate: he walked over. The crowd murmured from beyond; he ignored them. Let them talk. The theatrics, the dramatics, were over. He wanted his prize.

Left looked up and snarled, tusks flashing.

“You'll be coming with me then, boy,” Sabellian said.

“So you can kill him without all of these people seeing, lizard?” Left spat. “I won't let -”

Wrathion put up a hand. Slowly - slowly - he looked up. His eyes were glassy, pained; he never took his eyes off of Sabellian. Exhaustion and something like resolution settled on the young dragon's face.

“It's fine, Left,” he said. “We'll go with him.”

“My Prince -”

“I'm not supposed to be called that anymore, remember?” Wrathion smiled a terse smile, and there, at last, was the bitterness on his expression. “If he wanted to kill me, he already would have.”

Sabellian raised an eyebrow.

“So I would have,” he repeated. He glanced at the orc, frowned, and looked back at Wrathion. Odd. Where was the tantrum that he'd been expecting Wrathion to unleash? “Only this one is allowed to follow. No others. And certainly not the mortal prince. He'll talk us all in circles.” Even from afar he could feel Anduin's need to preach at them both; the boy stood at the very edge of the arena, watching. Titans help them all if he was allowed to get close.

Wrathion grit his teeth.

“Fine.”

Sabellian looked up and nodded at Rexxar. The half-orc grunted. He moved forward to stand behind Wrathion and Left. Misha skulked off to the side. The once-prince glanced at them nervously.

“Good,” Sabellian said. “Now follow. Don't mind the bears. They're just there to keep you on the right path.”

He turned and started out of the Court. Footsteps followed.

A hundred eyes watched them go – but their gazes and hushed conversation, and not even Xuen's watching look, could come close to unnerving the dragon. For Sabellian had finished what he'd come here to do – in a way that let himself feel right. Feel good. Feel vindicated.

The only thing that itched him was the visions Wrathion had summoned. Things he hadn’t wanted to see again. Things and people he hadn’t wanted to bring up.

His Father.

Anger rumbled at his chest, and he redirected it at the ex-Prince.

Yes - he'd brought Wrathion to his knees. Shown him his brood's suffering. Stripped him of his title and reputation in front of champions who would spread the word, as mortals tended to do.

Yes – death would have been an easy strike. Too easy, for someone who had taken even more children away from him.

Too easy indeed.

---

The walk back to the cave was as grim and quiet as a funeral procession.

The more they walked, the more Sabellian grew a bizarre mix of angry and smug. Angry at the visions; smug because he’d won.

By the time the cave came into view, Misha had taken up the rear and Rexxar the side. The Beastmaster kept casting glances at Sabellian – enough that it began to grate on him.

“What?” he snapped.

Rexxar paused, then looked away and shook his head.

Sabellian shot him a glare.

He stopped in front of the cave entrance.

“Wrathion and I will be speaking alone,” he said.

Left went to protest, but Wrathion beat her to speaking.

“Fine.”

Sabellian gave a curt nod. Rexxar was staring at him again. The dragon bared his teeth, turned, and swept into the cave.

The lanterns they'd lit before leaving had gone out. With a wave of his hand, he set them to blazing, and fire burst hot and bright, sending shadows scattering and bobbing.

He waited until he heard footsteps behind him: footsteps wary and silent. Sabellian crossed his arms over his chest and glanced back, but did not turn.

“I confess,” Sabellian said, “I expected your reaction to the loss more... volatile.” He turned to face the boy and frowned.

Wrathion glared.

“Now, boy: listen to me. You’re going to do me a favor with your new oath.”

----

Sabellian and Rexxar made their way down the slope. Their encampment was nestled at the base, hidden underneath an outcrop of rock from aerial view.

Glimpses of shadows skulked at the corner of his eyes. Wrathion, despite his initial reluctance, had smoothed into his role with a vehemence that bordered on vengeful. The boy couldn't do anything about his situation, so apparently he was going about it aggressively, summoning all the power his Agents provided – and that included summoning a lot of Agents. A lot of them; a flashy amount. Wrathion was either trying to show he still had some semblance of control with the flourish of power, or was just trying to get this over with as quickly as possible by pushing all of his resources into it.

It was probably both.

They reached the camp. Two Agents stood at attention, but moved out of the way without so much as a glance or a word in their direction. Sabellian and Rexxar swept by them.

It was a small camp, hastily erected underneath the outcrop. A fire popped in the center and some bedrolls and a portable table surrounded it.

At the table stood Left. She looked up as they approached. Her face gave nothing away.

“Rexxar filled you in,” she said. It was not a question.

“We won't have long to corner him.” Sabellian moved to the other end of the table. A map and a scattering of documents, all scrawled in different hand, littered the surface. At the far end were some vials filled with reagents and herbs he'd laid out earlier; within one lay what looked to be a clump of dead grass, blackened by heat. He eyed it. “Where is the boy?”

“Checking on the scouts on the northern edge of the mountain,” Left said. She hadn't warmed up to him at all; her tone remained a growly sort of snap that he ignored. He wasn't here to make friends. “Nevermind.”

He looked up at her and followed her eyes to the sky, where a blur of black swept down from the clouds. Wrathion slowed as he approached. He'd grown a little, some of his limbs a little longer and his face a little more angular. He alighted at the edge of the camp and in a rush of smoke, transformed into his human guise.

“So?” Sabellian said.

Wrathion stared at him with a bored expression. “So what?”

“Your scouts?”

The ex-prince smoothed back his hair. He'd – somewhere – found a brown leather coat that covered the slightness of his body. Most likely one of the Agents he'd called in had fetched it for him.

“They've flanked the pass,” he said. “Are you certain that that little bit will work?”

“If I wasn't, I wouldn't have suggested it.” Sabellian reached over and flicked his fingernail on the vial of the dead-grass. It gave off a delicate ping. “It's more than enough. As long as your Agents are set correctly in place.”

Wrathion frowned. He eyed the vial. “They'll do just fine.” He slid his eyes over to Rexxar. “But a tool is only as good as the directions it's given.”

Rexxar grunted. “I won't fail.”

“Of course he won't,” Sabellian grumbled, glaring at Wrathion. He'd grown a little more confident since the beach and he wasn't sure if he liked it better or not. At least it made him seem more clear-headed and not a mopey child. “We go now.”

Left and Wrathion stared at him. “Now?” the orc said. “We have to arm the -”

Sabellian put up his hand to silence her. Slowly, he straightened then grabbed the vial. He tipped it up and down; the grass inside plunked back and forth with the motion. He watched it. “As I said: we won't have long. The Searing Gorge has enough prey here for him to hunt and hunt quickly, then feed quickly. He'll skulk back to wherever he's been hiding within the hour.” He put the vial in his robe. His hand brushed against the warmth of his charm.

No one still knew about that.

“We go now.”

---

“You want me to find your children for you?”

Sabellian had explained what he wanted Wrathion to do, and he liked the boy’s bewildered expression very much.

He smiled tersely.

“You were able to find the dragons hiding from your assassins well enough,” he drawled. “This should be easy for you.”

Wrathion ran a hand through his hair. The boy looked ragged around the edges; to Sabellian, he looked like a sheep whose wool had been sheared for the first time. He had that sort of shocked look about him and the lack of his elaborate clothing only solidified the image.

“You… you did all of that… just to force me to be your bloodhound?” Wrathion drew himself up and bared his teeth. “That wasn’t even part of the bet! You took my title away from me, you forced me to stop killing them, but -”

“Wrong.” Sabellian put up a hand to stop the boy from speaking any more. “I said you had to face my children for their own judgement. But how are you supposed to meet them if they’re not all there?”

“But that’s not -”

“You can ask Xuen, if you’d like,” Sabellian cut in smoothly. “You needn’t worry; I asked him all the details before I started the Trial. The Tiger said it was up to the oath-taker to do anything possible to bring about his duties.” He smiled stiffly. “Which means you have to find my children, first. Understand, now?”

Wrathion grew more and more pale. His little burst of anger vanished like a flame blown out on a candle wick; all that was left was that remaining shock and disbelief again.

“You have a network of spies around the globe,” Sabellian continued when the boy didn’t speak. “You have access to your earth powers so you can sense the dragons. Yes. I cornered you in front of mortals and humiliated you. I’m forcing you to help those you’ve wanted to kill. And I am taking much pleasure in it.”

How good it felt to have his plans come to fruition so smoothly.

Wrathion chewed on his bottom lip. He seemed to look through Sabellian, and the dragon saw the dozens of ideas flash desperately behind the boy’s eyes as he thought of ways to get out of this and fail. The whelp stood there long enough, frozen, that Sabellian’s satisfaction felt all the sweeter.

Finally, Wrathion’s shoulders sagged. He closed his eyes and grit his teeth.

Defeat.

“And you’re going to kill me afterward?” he asked, but didn’t look up.

“No.” Sabellian shrugged. “I don’t want to kill you anymore. I realized just how little I cared about you to sink to your level of killing without thought.” He glanced Wrathion up and down. “And leaving you alive with your guilt and psychological damage is much more rewarding to me.”

Wrathion looked at him.

“I hate you.”

“I don’t care. Now go.” He waved a hand, dismissing his new tool. “Get all of the Agents to look for Samia, Vaxian, and Pyria. Find them fast, and you won’t have to deal with me ever again - and that, I promise you.”

---

“You want me to go home?”

Sabellian sighed. He hadn’t thought this was going to be as difficult as it was turning out.

“Nasandria. I know all you’ve wanted to do since we arrived is to leave for Blade’s -”

“I’m not going to leave when we’re about to go look for my siblings,” she said. She flushed at her interruption, then shook herself out and crossed her arms over her chest. “I want to go home, but not when -”

“Listen, girl.” He put a hand on her shoulder and squeezed. Nasandria went still. They were outside of the cave, and alone; Rexxar had gone to guard (or, in his words, “keep an eye on”) Wrathion while the boy went to collect some last-minute details from his Agents. “You’ve been through enough. What you are going to do is listen to me and go home. You’re going to let the brood know that the Prince is taken care of. You’re going to let them know what we’re still doing here. And then you’re going to tell them they shouldn’t be fretting over me.”

Sabellian stared down at her until she looked away. She was his child; she would obey. The leader of a brood had that sort of respect. It wasn’t like some flimsy human family.

“As you say,” she murmured.Though she had averted her eyes, he saw a softening of relief in her gaze. He appreciated her attempt to hide it.

He hesitated, then let go of her.

“We are lucky the Agents tracked Serinar to the Searing Gorge,” he said. “Familiar territory. I know most crevices and caves there, and Blackrock was your Uncle’s lair.” Something he didn’t fancy himself going into, but if he had to - for his children - he would. “It shall be easy to corner them.”

A day ago, Wrathion’s Agent, Left, had come to him explaining they had found traces of black dragon there. Black dragons. And one had seen Serinar.

Samia and Vaxian had last been seen with Serinar. If he was there… then they were too.

Pyria, however, remained a mystery.

“That Bronze has the portal schedule,” he said stiffly, feeling, at once, somewhat awkward. “She’ll accompany you to make sure you take the right one. Don’t shift out of your human guise until you take the path from Shattrah into the Terrokar Forest. The northern route, not the eastern. Arakkoa have too many encampments in the latter. Understood?”

“Yes.”

“Good.”

“Father… you’re sure about this Wrathion business, too?” She looked up at him, bangs hanging over her eyes.

“Very. Trust me, girl.”

She stared at him. Then she frowned, and the snap of her voice took him off guard. “And the Old Gods?”

“I’ll take care of it.”

“How are you going to do that?”

He scowled. “Nasandria -”

“Just - wait. I have something.”

She turned and rushed into the cave - not without tripping and stumbling to catch herself on a clump of roots.

She disappeared inside. Sabellian heaved a sigh.

What could she possibly -

Nasandria reappeared within the next moment. She clutched her satchel in her arm. Sabellian watched her approach, one eyebrow perked.

“Kalecgos, he -... he gave me this before we left the Temple,” she explained. She undid the clasp and reached in. When she pulled out the silver collar, Sabellian narrowed his eyes.

“And why would he give you that?”

She looked at him. They both knew why, but she said it anyway. “For you. Just in case.”

He eyed the collar. He’d loathed the thing at the Temple: the feeling of constriction, of confinement. A confinement needed just in case he went mad again. In case he tried to shift into his true form and slaughter everyone in his path. He sighed quietly.

“Give it to me.”

Nasandria nodded and handed it over. Her eyes never left the collar; she did not raise them to watch him.

Sabellian spun the thing over in his hands. The light didn’t catch the slick metal, as if it absorbed it, not reflected it. Power tingled at his fingers where they touched it.

“I suppose it will be of use,” he muttered. “In case something goes wrong.”

She shrugged. “It’s better than nothing.”

He said a quick word of power, and the collar disappeared in a whisk of arcane. He brushed his hands off and looked at her. “Thank you.”

She smiled warily.

“There is one other thing, Nasandria,” he said. “Before you leave.”

The drake straightened. “Yes?”

“I want you to go find where Talsian’s remains are: the cave in Kun’lai.” He put her hand on her shoulder and squeezed. “Those bones don’t deserve to be in the cold. Bring them home.”

Nasandria’s face fell, and she nodded.

“I’ll make sure of it, Father.” And she bowed her head.

Sabellian nodded. “Good. Now, go find Chromie. With any luck, I shall see you soon, with Samia and the others in tow.”

The drake hesitated. Then she threw herself forward and embraced him.

Sabellian startled and stiffened up. A hug was such a human gesture...

But he returned it all the same.

“No, go on, then, girl. Go.” Sabellian let go and waved her off.

She looked a little flustered, but, on seeing Sabellian wasn’t angry, smiled one last time and nodded.

“Good luck, Father. And be careful.”

---

The day before they were set to leave, Sabellian received a visitor.

He had begun going through supplies for the journey when Misha began rumbling at the cave entrance. Rexxar had only just left to buy water flasks at the Market courts, so he could not be back so early.

Sabellian glanced over. His mood dropped.

“Prince Wrynn,” the dragon greeted. “Why are you here?”

Anduin stood at the opening, eyeing Misha. The bear sat to the side. She made no move to bar him from entering, but she didn’t make him welcome, either.

“Ah…” Anduin looked at him. “I was hoping to speak with you.”

Sabellian raised an eyebrow. He didn’t seek Wrathion, then. Interesting. And suspicious.

“Leave him be, Misha,” Sabellian said. “Let the boy in.”

The bear flicked an ear, grunted, and rose. She thumped away and sat at the other end of the cave.

Anduin entered, and only then did Sabellian see that the boy held a small pouch.

“Thank you,” he said quietly. He looked around. “You’re alone?”

“Would you like me to be?”

Anduin frowned and glanced at him; for a moment he looked startled. Then he smiled. “Not necessarily.”

Sabellian grunted. He turned back to his supplies, cast all over the slab etched into the wall. He picked through dried rations, health potions, and gauze. “What is it, then? If you’ve come to ask me to let go of Wrathion’s debt, I’m afraid you’ll just be wasting your words.”

“It’s not that.” Anduin sat on one of the only chairs in the cave. It was big enough to hold Rexxar, so it engulfed the Prince.

Anduin began looking around again. Sabellian watched him from the corner of his eye. It felt as if the boy was having trouble focusing on him for very long. To be fair, the last time the two had spoken alone was when he had Anduin captive under Sik’vess. He glanced at where he had scoured the fel dagger across the boy’s eye, though any scar that might have been there was hidden by the long sleeves he wore.

“Then what is it?” Sabellian pressed impatiently.

“You’re leaving.”

“Yes. Who told you that?”

Anduin shifted in his seat. “I overheard your daughter. Nasandria?”

The suspicion came back at once. Sabellian rumbled, set down a handful of rations he’d been sifting through for packing, and turned to face Anduin.

“Go on, boy. Say what you’re here for.”

Anduin smiled again. It seemed tired, and reached his eyes in the vaguest sense.

“I was at the Celestial Court last night, speaking with Chi-ji. Nasandria came to speak with the rest of the Celestials.” He tilted his head. “It’s when I learned you were leaving.”

And what could she have wanted from the Celestials? He stared at Anduin in silence, bidding him to continue with the intent of his stare.

“I don’t mean to… ‘tell’ on her,” he said, and watched Sabellian’s face carefully. “But she was asking them to help you. Because you’re leaving the island.”

The unsaid lay like a thin ice between them. Sabellian frowned.

“I saved Chi-ji, once,” Anduin continued when Sabellian remained silent. “The Celestials… they have a strange concept of debt. They don’t expect anyone to repay them, but if they owe you something, they will give you any favor you ask for.”

“How generous,” Sabellian drawled.

“I asked him for something that would help.” The boy undid the strings on the pouch and upended its contents into his palm.

It was a necklace. Its gold chain spilled over Anduin’s hand, and shining in his palm lay a charm. It was in the shape of a crane’s arching head and neck. A glow emanated from it.

“Chi-ji is the Celestial of Hope,” Anduin said. “He blessed it with some of his essence. It’ll act as barrier against the Old Gods.” He looked up at Sabellian, his eyes careful, calculating. “But the stronger your will is, the stronger the charm will be. So Chi-ji said, at least.”

Sabellian stared at it.

Then he laughed.

“Very thoughtful of you, little prince,” he said. “But some little good-luck charm isn’t going to scare Them away.”

The boy frowned. It scrunched up his face. “Chi-ji isn’t a regular being,” he said, intent, this time. “He’s a Wild God. He’s connected to Azeroth like all the others. Maybe it won’t completely stop it - but it will help. I promise you.”

“You seem awfully confident.”

“That’s because I am.”

Sabellian raised an eyebrow. Having confidence didn’t mean he was right.

Anduin sighed and closed his fingers over the charm. He collected the chain up from where it hung down. “I know why you might not believe me. If it helps… he told me he also infused some of this island’s magic in its blessing.”

That got his attention. “Oh?” Again he looked down at the charm, even though it was now hidden beneath Anduin’s fingers. For a moment, an almost weary sort of hope warmed at him. He grunted and brushed it away.

“Yes,” Anduin said. “And, think about it: you bet whatever you planned on Xuen forcing Wrathion to keep his bet. And it looks like it worked. If Xuen has such power, don’t you think Chi-ji does, too?” Anduin scooted forward on his chair a little. Such intensity in such a young thing. “Please trust me. I’ve seen what Chi-ji can do. Azeroth isn’t only the Old Gods. It’s him, too. And Xuen and Niuzao and Yu’lon. Goldrinn… Cenarius… even Elune.”

So intent and so hopeful. It was so hard not to feel hope when this boy spoke. Sabellian frowned at him.

“Why did Chi-ji do this for you? What did you do for him?”

“I saved him during a Sha attack on his Temple.”

“You used a debt… to try to help me?” Sabellian squinted, suspicious. “What do you want from me?”

Anduin blinked, then shook his head. “The only thing I want to do is to help.”

He extended his hand, opening his fingers and offering the pendant. “Please. Take it.”

Should he even be surprised, even suspicious, about this strange human? No one really did anything for free.

This was Anduin Wrynn, though.

He crossed his arms over his chest.

“You just want to help,” he repeated. “Even after all I did to you and the whelp. How well did that gash heal, boy?”

Anduin’s eyes hardened. “I try not to hold grudges,” he said. “But I do have a good memory. I saw how much Nasandria cared when she asked the Celestials for help. And how scared she looked for you.” He withdrew his arm and averted his eyes. He stared at the floor, thoughtful, intent even still. “Someone needed help and I knew I could give it to them. And… I grew up with Onyxia. I don’t want anyone to become like her if I can help it. Without choice or the will to be good instead.”

The more Anduin spoke the more reliable he became. The more truthful.

“Very noble of you,” Sabellian muttered. “Even if the enchantment doesn’t work.” And it would be nice to have something to cling to beside the collar. He heaved a sigh and beckoned with his hand. Anduin smiled and handed the charm over.

It was warm against even his gloves. Sabellian studied it and turn it over. The same profile winked up at him; both sides of the crane had watching eyes which glinted at him in the dull light of the cave.

But holding it… something about it felt… precious. Real. Something otherworldly, and yet, something familiar. He frowned.

Perhaps this was something: something more than a good-luck charm.

“I wonder what she would have been like if she had a choice, too,” he said, almost to himself. He eyed Anduin. “She was truly despicable. And yet… so was I. As you surely saw at the Trial.”

Andun smiled, the gesture forced. “It’s… hard to think about.”

“So it is.” Sabellian looked down at the charm again. He wrapped his fingers around it, sighed, then set it down near his other supplies.

He turned to Anduin.

“Does that leg still bother you?”

Anduin blinked.

“Why do you ask?” the prince said. Now it was his turn to look suspicious.

“I can’t accept this without giving something in return,” Sabellian explained. “I don’t like having debts over my head.”

“You really don’t have to -”

“Yes, actually. I do.” Sabellian turned and rummaged around in his pile of supplies until he’d found a roll of parchment he’d bought yesterday to take notes on during the journey. He tore off a small piece and found a stick of charcoal near the fire. “You’re still in pain. You were limping when you came in.” He began jotting down ingredients.

“I… yes. I’m still injured.”

He wasn’t saying everything, but Sabellian could work with the admission, at least.

“And you’ll be in pain for a long time with that sort of injury,” Sabellian said. Soon, nearly a dozen ingredients listed down the parchment. “This is a pain-eater elixir of my own make. It’s very strong. Very adaptable.” He continued to write, but this time, steps to make it. “Give this to your alchemists - someone who really knows what they’re doing, understood? No amateur. This is an advanced potion.”

After a quick glance, he nodded, rolled up the parchment, and handed it to Anduin.

The prince stared at it. He took gingerly.

“It’s not poison,” Sabellian said gruffly.

Anduin laughed. “No, no. I didn’t think of that.” He tilted his head and looked at the scroll for a moment longer before glancing up at the dragon. “I’ll get this to someone in Stormshield. Thank you.”

Sabellian shrugged. “As I said: I don’t like owing debts.”

“Well… and like I said, it wasn’t a debt.” He smiled quietly. “But you’re just going to keep ignoring that.”

“Clearly.” It was near duty-bound for a dragon to repay a favor, and if he did a favor on someone else’s behalf, well, he expected them to pay up later. Dragons didn’t give anything away for free.

And yet… what an odd boy. To give something so precious and expect nothing in return - truly. Not a ploy, not a scheme to get a debt from a powerful dragon. He realized, staring at the boy, that Anduin truly meant what he said: he’d just done it to be kind.

An odd boy indeed.

Anduin stood and slipped the roll in his satchel. “I should go,” he said.

“Slip past your babysitters again?”

Anduin shot him a look, but he flushed a little. “They’re not happy with me, no,” he explained, then relaxed. He studied Sabellian’s face. “I do hope the charm works. And that you find what you’re looking for.”

“As do I, Prince Anduin,” the dragon replied. He paused, and before he could think better of it, said: “Do take my apologies for Sik’vess. I did what I had to.”

Anduin raised an eyebrow, but it only took him a moment to smile slightly and nod. “Right. I won’t say it didn’t hurt, but… thank you for apologizing.”

Sabellian wrinkled his nose. He shooed the boy again. “Alright. Go on then.”

Anduin sighed and moved toward the cave entrance. Misha watched him. Before he left, he paused and looked back.

“And don’t be too hard on Wrathion. He’s just… misguided.”

“We’ll see.”

Anduin watched him. He nodded.

“Good luck.”

Then he was gone.

---

In the middle of the journey, they spent the night on a small isle in the middle of the Great Sea.

Sabellian had a difficult time sleeping. The others had nodded off hours ago - save for the lookout who hid in the thicket of the trees bunched tight around them.

It was deep night when he finally gave up on sleep. Perhaps a walk around would dull his anxious mind. Or maybe all the sea-salt would - or just do the opposite. He could feel the damned stuff crusting around his hair.

He stood and stretched. No one stirred around the fire, which had begun to die down. Once he’d brushed off most of the sand from his robe, he waved a hand and rekindled the embers. The charcoal popped and hissed. He watched the flames before moving away.

He walked.

It was a small island; if it weren’t for all the copse of trees, he’d be able to see the end of the isle.

The journey had been uneventful. They had left early in the morning to skirt the mortal crowd of the day’s market and adventures. One unforseen plus was they avoided the air traffic of those arriving to the Isle. Stretching his wings to a free sky was, for that moment, better than any feeling, even if his body still ached from his injuries.

They’d pushed hard the first three days until they reached the more expansive stretches of the Great Sea. By then, both Rexxar and one of Wrathion’s senior Agents had recommended they hop from island to island to help replenish supplies and keep the party rested. It was better than making the mistake many others had: pushing over the Great Sea until exhaustion hit, and finding nowhere to land below.

It made things slower, but it would have to do. That, and if he got too weak…

As he walked, he touched the pendant hanging from his neck. When around the others, he tucked it underneath his turtleneck; no one yet knew of it. They didn’t need to - though he wasn’t an unobservant fool, and saw the glances the Agents in particular through him whenever he snapped or lost his temper for a moment. They feared the moment he would lose it.

So did he. And yet, nothing.

Ever since leaving the island: nothing. Not even a hint of a whisper had yet to reach him. Was it dumb luck? Did he still have residual magic from the island hindering them? Or was it the charm? It was warm under his fingertips, even when he was wearing gloves. It seemed too easy. Too good to pass.

And yet…

He frowned and shook his head, then let go of the charm. He couldn’t afford to let his guard down, now more than ever. If he grew too complacent, his guard would go down, and then things would go downhill fast. Perhaps it was the warding of the charm mixed with his own stubborn will that kept them at bay. Hadn’t Anduin mentioned something like that?

He exited the copse of trees and found himself on a wide stretch of beach.

Sitting there at the shore was Wrathion.

Sabellian raised an eyebrow. He hadn’t noticed the boy had been absent from the fire. Then again, he hadn’t paid much attention to the ex-Prince since they’d left the Isle. Wrathion gave him little reason to, anyway. The boy had been deathly quiet most of the time.

For a moment he toyed with the idea of finding somewhere else to go. Then he shrugged that off and approached.

Wrathion tilted his head, but didn’t look back.

“Sleep couldn’t find you?”

“No.”

Wrathion sounded tired. He didn’t look at Sabellian, even when the elder dragon stood right beside him.

He glanced down. The boy stared out at the ocean with a distant expression, his face unreadable. It was the same expression he’d worn throughout most of the trip: an expression of thoughtfulness and glassiness, a mix of intentness and self-preservation that seemed oddly familiar to him in a way he couldn’t place.

Sabellian looked away and stared out at the sea: a dark expanse as black as both their scales. The moon was waxing, a sliver in the sky. Among those thousands of stars was his home. Somewhere. He sighed to himself, a sound so quiet that he hardly heard it on his own. He wondered if the whelps had grown any.

“Can’t you go stand somewhere else?” Wrathion said.

“What happened to your silence?”

Wrathion screwed his face up and let out a slow sigh. He relaxed when the last of his breath left him. He shuffled his shoulders.

“I hardly see why you brought me in the first place,” he said, “if you loathe me so much.”

“I don’t trust you alone, boy.”

“The Celestial bound me to this,” the dragon said. His words came out flat, lacking the punch of his usual attitude. “It’s not like I can do anything else.”

“Even bound by an oath, I don’t trust you.” He looked out to the sea again: the great expanse of black glass. “The last time I was foolish enough to, you stabbed me in the gut and left me to die.”

A flash of paleness spread over Wrathion’s face.

Silence spread between them.

“You never mentioned how you managed to survive that,” Wrathion said at last in a low voice.

“Because I never offered the explanation.”

Wrathion finally looked at him, though only sidelong; a glance, nothing more. He didn’t even move his head.

“I wanted to kill you so badly my hatred let me live through it until I could be healed.” Sabellian looked down at the boy.

“Oh.” Wrathion stared at him, nodded slowly, then looked away, as if it made perfect sense. “All of it for me? How flattering.”

“And all of this is because of you,” Sabellian snapped. “You stupid whelp.”

Wrathion wrinkled his nose but, to Sabellian’s surprise, didn’t rise up to argue. He picked at his sleeves and continued staring out at sea.

When the ex-Prince didn’t speak again, Sabellian again looked up to the night sky. They would make it to the shore of the Eastern Kingdoms in a day and a half. From the Westfall coast, they’d make their way northeast until they reached the Searing Gorge: the place where Wrathion’s Agents had tracked down traces of black dragons.

The Searing Gorge. He’d grown up there, though then, it had been a nameless place. His hatching cave was nestled somewhere in those rocks - and just beyond the range was Blackrock Mountain, the lair of his dead brother. Did Nefarian’s bones still rot underneath the ground?

“I did panic.”

“What?”

The suddenness of it had Sabellian instinctually glaring down at Wrathion. The whelp busied himself by picking at some dirt caught in his shirt.

“That first drake,” Wrathion said. “I saw her and I panicked. So I forced that Blood Elf to kill her.” He raised his eyes to Sabellian. “One of your children had mangled it, but I made him do it anyway. I felt his agony. I didn’t care.”

They stared at one another for a moment before Wrathion looked back at the water.

“So. You were right. With what you said at the Trial. I panicked.” He sighed. “Usually I’m much smarter than that. I’m supposed to be a dragon of tact and cunning! What a bad first impression…”

Was this his way of… apologizing? The boy had a tone which held a sense of drag to it, as if he was close to saying something just beyond his range of voice.

“I should have thought,” he continued with the same tone. “I felt her die.” He didn’t look at him. “I should have thought.”

If it was an apology it was a bad one, but - perhaps, for their kind, it was still an apology. The pride of a Black Dragon was one of their greatest downfalls.

So perhaps it was enough. An apology, however vague, was still one all the same.

Sabellian rumbled in response. Wrathion frowned.

When Sabellian finally left, he left the boy alone, still staring at the sea. Watching.

----

“Did Deathwing treat all his children like that?”

“Excuse me?”

They were camped on the hills of Westfall. Sabellian was sitting against a tree, picking at the remains of cow ribs. A yard away, Wrathion looked through some various reports his Agents had given him before they’d landed to eat. Rexxar and Left were hunting for some more game.

“The vision.” Wrathion tilted his head but didn’t look up. He flipped through another report. “You were afraid of him.”

Sabellian grit his teeth. He had the sudden urge to kick the boy down the hill, but withheld it.

“He liked Nefarian and Onyxia much more than me.”

“Mm.”

Sabellian snorted smoke. He’d reburied that memory again, and the boy just had to bring it up?

“Is there a reason you asked, or are you just trying to annoy me?”

Wrathion shrugged. He wrote something down on one of the reports and set it aside.

“Curiousity.”

The boy had grown a trite more talkative since they’d spoken on the beach, but not much. He only seemed to speak to Sabellian. It bothered him. Why did the whelp want to talk to him more?

Sabellian grunted and peeled off a strip of fatty meat from the ribs. “He was not someone you wanted to be your father, boy,” he rumbled. “Which is why you’re lucky not to truly be his child.”

Wrathion eyed him.

He looked back down and didn’t speak up again. They took flight an hour later.

---

He was in a place of darkness.

No ground, no sky, no horizon. And yet he still had the feeling of standing, of something beneath his feet.

He couldn’t feel the sensation of his body. Like he was made of air. Spectre.

feel you

your fear

accept the gift

take it

take it

Take it

TAKE IT

TAKE IT TAKE IT TAKE IT TAKE IT TAKE IT TAKE IT TAKE IT TAKE IT TAKE IT TAKE IT TAKE IT TAKE IT TAKE IT TAKEITTAKEITTAKETTAKEITTAKEIT

Then silence. Nothing.

A sensation of touch. A familiar feeling. Soft. Unsure. Something reaching toward him. It was the touch of a friend that hadn’t seen another in a long time. It was shy. And something about it scared him on a primal level. He jerked away.

The touch fell back. It was nervous. It? It. It. No. She. It was a she. He knew her. Remembered her from when he was young. A gentle, strong voice. Not his mother. Something deeper. Something below, but not Them. Near them. But not Them. Something that had tried to help him. To soothe when he was small. Something that had failed to ward against the others that had claimed him.

The presence lingered out of his field of vision. She remained, ready to approach again but not yet doing so.

He woke with hard breathing and the crane charm burning against his chest.

---

They found Serinar right where Rexxar had seen him: the Spire’s Pass, leading from the Searing Gorge to Redridge.

Sabellian had positioned himself at the top of the cliffs bordering the Pass. The wind flickered hot against his face.

A little below him, one of Wrathion’s agents crouched in the crags. Others like her dotted the Pass, hidden from view. This included Wrathion himself and Rexxar, though he could not see either from here.

He lacked the surprise he’dt thought he’d have when he first took position and had seen Serinar below. But with how much he’d seen and had been through since leaving Outland, it was beginning to feel as if nothing could surprise him.

But there Serinar was. The dragon had indeed been hunting, and now gorged himself on the carcass. It was silent - so silent that even from so high the sounds of Serinar chewing and snapping bone were audible.

He’d only just begun to feed when they’d arrived; the timing could not have been more perfect. The smell and taste of blood would mask most scents to the dragon. It’d leave him vulnerable in his hunting-frenzy.

He may not have the surprise, but he did find it strange, almost bizarre, to see Serinar below. The dragon had briefly been under his command, and he knew that if anyone could survive the purge after the Cataclysm, it was him. The wyrm was overly cruel but cunning, with a knack for surviving when others did not.

And yet he’d been enslaved by the Dragonmaw. How had they gotten away? That was a question that still gnawed at them all.

But he didn’t have much time to think that over: Serinar jerked his head up from the carcass. A flap of muscle hung from his jaw.

He went still. His nostrils flared.

He’d sensed one of them. A shift in the wind.

Sabellian’s suspicions were realized when Serinar snapped open his wings and beat up into the sky. Dust and rock went flying, so frenzied was his sudden lift.

If he escaped, they might not find him again.

Sabellian didn’t hesitate: he undid the latch on the collar, threw it off to the side, and calmly off the side of the cliff. He transformed mid-fall.

The swath of his shadow fell over Serinar.

The other dragon glanced up. Fear flinched across his eyes before Sabellian smashed right into him, and the two went crashing toward the ground.

[crystalracing]

“Undoubtedly there is an infectious disease which afflicts every world champion and team, and it’s been going on for years. It’s not right to say that the guy who’s champion loses his edge, or that the designer relaxes, the mechanics lose interest of whatever. But somewhere along the line, these things occur – I’m talking about decimal points but they add up.”

You may recognise these as the words of Jackie Stewart. Though it’s forgivable if you don’t. He said them back in 1986, just after Alain Prost had clinched the world drivers’ championship against the odds. And there was a reason Stewart said what he said. Prost’s title was his second in a row, and this, at the time, was exceedingly rare. The Formula 1 world championship had existed for 36 years and Prost was only the fourth ever to win a back-to-back drivers’ title, as well as the first to do so since Jack Brabham in 1959-60. Even back-to-back titles for a team were at that point rare by modern standards.

But they emphatically are not rare now. JYS wasn’t to know it, but when he said those words he stood on the cusp of F1’s historical turning point. Since 1986, by stark contrast, only two world championships have not been as part of a multiple run for either the driver or team (or both) – those being Jenson Button and Brawn’s grand outlier triumph in 2009, and Lewis Hamilton’s 2008 title with McLaren. And given what happened in 2007 the latter likely should have formed part of a double.

Looking at a chronological list of champions asserts the point that we live in the age of the F1 dynasty. From 1988 McLaren started four championship doubles on the bounce. From 1992 Williams immediately picked up the baton, taking nine of the next 12 available championships. There then was a brief spell of McLaren success before Ferrari and Michael Schumacher shifted the Overton window further, taking all five title doubles from 2000 to 2004.

Renault and Fernando Alonso then took back-to-back doubles of their own, prior to a brief spell of unusual flux before the new normal reasserted itself. From 2010 Red Bull took four drivers’ and constructors’ doubles uninterrupted, then from 2014 Mercedes immediately did the same…except going one better with five – and counting – clean sweeps on the spin.

It’s tempting to ask also where it will end. It has to end of course, as that is the way not only of F1 but of the world. Right now though there aren’t obvious clues as to what will end it; the team is looking more imperious than ever in claiming five 1-2 finishes from five rounds so far this year. Some even now are beginning to whisper about Merc in 2019 doing what McLaren famously didn’t in 1988…

And a sobering thought is that Mercedes may not even be stopped via the relative micro level of whether Ferrari can, at last, make good on its car. Rather, based on the lessons of the past, it will likely take something big, on the macro level, to stop the juggernaut.

The first thing history tells us is that, at least as often as opponents defeat a dominant team, the dominant team – on some level – in the end, defeats itself.

Sooner or later, key people have to be replaced. Drivers and engineers move on or get old. Sometimes the success even encourages such nomadism – people seek fresh tasks and motivation; they perceive that they’ve done everything they’re likely to do where they are. “After 10 years of doing the same thing, I need a new challenge,” said Ross Brawn about leaving Ferrari at the end of 2006, after a spell of extraordinary dominance.

In some cases, they just get bored or frustrated with the whole goddamned business more widely. Plenty of design geniuses start to find F1 and its ways just too restraining. Gordon Murray thought so; there were elements of it with Adrian Newey partially stepping aside from the F1 frontline at Red Bull to work on other projects. Plenty reckon Colin Chapman got distracted by extra-curricular activities – such as aeroplanes and John DeLorean – towards the end.

And if you’re unlucky lots of people leave at roughly the same time, such as with McLaren in the early-nineties, Benetton in the mid-nineties and the all-conquering Ferrari in the mid-noughties. Succession is never an easy task.

The phenomena could apply to Mercedes in the imminent future. Rumours abound that its boss Toto Wolff, whose contract expires at the end of 2020, is considering his next step. He has been linked with succeeding Chase Carey as F1 Group CEO. Then there is his star driver, Lewis Hamilton. His contract also is thought to extend only to the end of next season; Wolff has helpfully just linked him with Ferrari. We know too that Hamilton has plenty of interests outside of F1.

But then again, Mercedes even during its current run of success has had a senior figure change, with James Allison replacing Paddy Lowe and its technical head. And it scarcely missed a beat. Plus if it retains its competitive edge then surely it won’t have problems attracting drivers.

Maybe even the organisation itself seeks new challenges and loses some sense of what made it successful in the first place. Plenty trace the end of McLaren’s late eighties/early nineties preponderance to its decision to start building road cars, spreading itself too thinly as a result.

When Ferrari sought to rebuild after its mid-noughties exodus mentioned, Ferrari president Luca Montezemolo had an explicit desire to ‘Italianise’ the team, by putting Italians into key senior positions and shifting away from the previous more international line-up. The wisdom of this can be questioned; it may have cost the team the redoubtable Ross Brawn who, as his own next step demonstrated, fancied a team principal role.

And for one such as Mercedes, there’s a tangible threat, repeated throughout history. That racing is not the company’s raison d’etre as it is, say, with Williams, and even arguably with McLaren and Ferrari. The Mercedes board may perceive of the law of diminishing returns from the F1 investment, especially as time goes on, and scratch the F1 effort at the stroke of a pen. Even success on the track doesn’t entirely guard against this.

In the here and now, Mercedes is poised to enter a Formula E works team, with electric mobility appearing the immediate future for manufacturers. All at Merc insist in public though it won’t impact the F1 programme. But they wouldn’t be the first to say such a thing and it to turn out not to be the case.

Another matter that can scupper a dominant team is what the UK Prime Minister of yesteryear Harold Macmillan coined as “events dear boy, events”. In F1, events have been tragic, such as Francois Cevert’s death at Watkins Glen in 1973 undermining Tyrrell’s succession plan for Stewart’s retirement, or dramatic, such as Niki Lauda’s fiery accident at the Nurburgring in 1976, and its associated political fallout at Maranello, deflating the strength of mid-seventies’ Ferrari. And yes, there’s Mercedes, albeit first time around, ending its dominant F1 spell and its motorsport involvement more widely at the end of 1955 because of that year’s Le Mans Disaster.

A eureka moment by another team can leave you floundering too, such as the ground effect in the late 1970s diluting Ferrari and McLaren’s strength, or Williams ending McLaren’s run of titles with its advances in electronic mod cons in the early 1990s. There was Brawn – and others – with the double diffuser in 2009. It’ll provide comfort to Mercedes that, in the modern F1 landscape with its ultra-restrictive rules, such things are rarer than they’ve ever been.

Yet by far, the most common point of departure is a big technical rule change. It forces everyone back to base camp, and others either by good luck or good engineering can get it right more quickly. Most recently the hybrid formula brought in for 2014 well and truly scuppered the previously-imposing Red Bull – or more to the point scuppered its engine supplier Renault. The introduction of the 1.5-litre formula for 1961 sent Cooper from dominance to the midfield at a stroke. The 3-litre formula in 1966 scuppered Lotus briefly; BRM terminally. The technical changes for 2009 put the previously-imperious McLaren and Ferrari onto the back foot overnight, as the previous pretenders recognised and exploited the regs’ potential more quickly.

For Williams and its decline from 1997 a few things came together at the same time, both its genius designer Newey and its engine supplier Renault left in quick order, and just too when there was a big chassis rule change meaning it couldn’t rely on tweaking its existing successful car. Plus Adam Parr for one reckons the new Concorde Agreement signed at that time was unfavourable to the team (or, more to the point, favourable to Ferrari).

And, for Mercedes, a much-lauded technical shift in F1 awaits, for the 2021 season. But then again, this modern imperious Mercedes squad has already passed this kind of test. It faced the grand change in chassis regulations for 2017; its title bagging continued unabated. A flip-side to the above considerations is that the better-resourced teams, of which Mercedes is one, have the higher probability of being able to work out how to get the new regulations right, as they can throw more resource at the problem.

But on that subject, there’s something else that might change for 2021. The teams’ contracts are up and new deals have to be agreed. And as well as changing the cars Liberty clearly is minded to bring in a more even financial playing field, be it through revenue redistribution, a cost cap, or a combination of the two.

Mercedes, Ferrari and Red Bull currently get massive bonuses just for existing, with Wolff able to sell Mercedes’ F1 involvement to the board on the grounds that it largely pays for itself. Of course, it would be churlish to say Mercedes’ success has been all about money, and it remains to be seen what Liberty can actually bring in. But a more level landscape will give Merc new things to think about.

And currently, it seems the most tangible threat to Mercedes’ dominance. Which is saying something.

[ashafriesen]

Moms It’s Time To Unleash The Power Within I.N.S.P.I.R.E Beyond Motherhood Awards

I think if there is a way to describe how I.N.S.P.I.R.E  Beyond Motherhood Awards came into being I would have to credit power of belief a lot.

I have always believed that if you truly want something and pursue it with passion, you will achieve it. It has been and will always be a mission very close to my heart to empower moms. I have gone through a lot of personal struggle starting from my childhood growing up in a small town, seeing my mom go through depression and come out of it, struggle to make a career and then leave it twice for motherhood and family responsibilities. Time and again, moms are made to realise that their personal achievements mean nothing if their kids don’t do well in school or if they have to step out of home when a family member is unwell. We still take it in our stride, balance everything and go on doing what we have to. When I met my partner Nirupama S, she was onboard with the idea from the word go. She has been such a force in supporting this dream and I couldn’t thanks her enough or ask for someone better.

Nirupama and me

To know more about the work behind the awards and the process read here.

I saw this dream coming true on the 5th of May, 2019 when we(Team Inspire) met 25 wonderful ladies, who took it beyond motherhood and succeeded in achieving their goals, by reinventing themselves when life threw lemons at them.

The event was attended by dignitaries and mothers from various fields, with Manasi Joshi Roy as the special guest taking everyone present on a very motivating journey.  The event was organised by Prerna Sinha aka me of Maa OF All Blogs and Nirupama S of FitlIfestyle in association with Radio Mirchi (Happiness and Associate partner), Shaili Chopra founder of SheThePeopleTv (Digital partner), Neha Kare founder of UNIMO(Community partner), Shweta Saxena of Women Tv India(Web media partner), our NGO partner Srujna, supporting partner Meenakshi Bhalerao of Prutha Foundation, creative media partner Seven Seas Solutions, Inner Being (associate sponsor partner), Yogi Today and VLCC (gifting partners) The official make-up artist was Purrvi Sinha of Alluring brides, and our  official dress designer was Puja Mann Verma. The Emcee for the event was Former Television anchor for Zee Wion and Runner Up of Gladrags Mrs. India 2018 Francesca Mascerenhas Valladares of thechicaway. Our project director Vimmi Sanghvi, who was the face behind the successful flow of events.

Manasi Joshi Roy sharing her experiences

With Actress and our Jury Farida Venkat

With Kiran Manral and Anubha Sharma

With Meenakshi Bhalerao

After the welcome note by the anchor, the event felicitated the Panelists Mansi Zaveri (founder of Kidstoppress), Kiran Manral, Rakhi Vaswani, and Sonia Kulkarni (The Pinkathon Brand Ambassador and Moderator) of the discussion Is Motherhood our glass ceiling. This panel was joined by the Co-Founders of I.N.S.P.I.R.E Beyond Motherhood Awards Prerna Sinha and Nirupam S and what followed was an enlightening discussion about how if you want it to, motherhood can be a step forward towards your own dreams. A lot of insightful points were raised by the panel to inspire mothers who want to make a mark and achieve more and fulfil their own aspirations along with being amazing mothers. The thought provoking discussion was followed by a creative and enthusiastic performance full of motivation, spark and encouragement by Jasmine Khurana of the Creative Dopes.

Jasmine Khurana

Then it was time for the moment all the moms were waiting for, the Awards Ceremony.  But first the jury comprised of Renowned Author Kiran Manral, Celebrity Chef Rakhee Vaswani, Popular Actress Farida Venkat (Of Dear Zindagi fame), and The Celebrity fitness expert Payal Gidwani , who worked for weeks to select the winners of the awards was then given their due credit with a wonderful felicitation by the organisers.

The panellists from the left- Nirupama, Prerna, Manasi Joshi Roy, Mansi Zhaveri, Kiran manral, and Sonia Kulkarni

Mr Jadhav of Inner Being, Our sponsor

Preetha from our gifting partner VLCC

And then moms across various categories, like Fitness Gurus, Education Icons, Social Influencers, Writers, Mompreneurs, Corporate professionals, Artists, Cooks, Ideators, Champions who have survived against all odds, Moms who make a social difference were all celebrated with aplomb. They were the ones who dedicated their lives to being more and doing more, all while raising their kids. Few stories that were shared that day gave goose bumps to everyone around. There were high emotional notes floating in the air.

Francesca our Emcee

The Core team Nirupama, Me and Vimmi Sanghvi

Nothing could be more special than our families there to support you. Flanked by my hubby and my mom.

Team I.N.S.P.I.R.E.

I have never felt more stirred or moved in life before. What I had seeked to achieve, may not be done with just one effort or event but the movement has started and may it go further and spread it’s wing beyond. When you empower moms they empower you back and I thank each and every woman present that day to strengthen this cause and give me the power to take it further.

The winners and the most inspiring crowd I have ever met!!

For more Information on the Awards:

Email : inspire.events2000@gmail.com

Facebook : @inpirebeyondmotherhood

Instagram : @inspirebeyondmotherhood

Twitter: @inspirebeyondm1 

The post Moms It’s Time To Unleash The Power Within I.N.S.P.I.R.E Beyond Motherhood Awards appeared first on Maa of All Blogs.

Moms It’s Time To Unleash The Power Within I.N.S.P.I.R.E Beyond Motherhood Awards published first on https://parentcenternetwork.tumblr.com/

[romiblogs-blog1]

An ode to my heroes

Part I

The early years – the boy wonder becomes the lone saviour

I was born in the year 1985, the year in which India won the World Championship of Cricket, the series also remembered because of Ravi Shastri wining an Audi A6 as player of the series. Apparently, the Indian side was the best one-day unit of the world during that period. By the time I started understanding and following cricket, the stars of that tournament, Ravi Shastri, Kris Srikanth and Kapil Dev were in the last leg of their careers. My earliest cricket watching memory is perhaps the funniest moment in the history of India-Pakistan encounters. Two underperforming teams with some players past their prime were throwing punches like middle aged brawlers in a crucial match of the 1992 world cup. I was too young to know the importance of an India – Pakistan match and too naïve to understand the impact it had on the citizens of both countries. I vaguely remember the disgust at my uncle’s face as Javed Miandad jumped like a frog to mock India’s wicketkeeper Kiran More. At that time, I did not know who was Javed Miandad and why the act of jumping was such a big deal. Not till years later I came to know of Javed Miandad’s last ball six off Chetan Sharma and the adverse effect it had on the psyche of the Indian players. It was Pakistan. It was Javed Miandad. The enemy and its greatest batsmen.

You win against Pakistan, you win the World Cup. We all have heard this often -repeated phrase during the 90’s. Surely, it had its genesis in this match of the 1992 World Cup. A spirited India team went on to win the match but crashed out early from the World Cup after fairing poorly in the other matches. Pakistan on the other hand started poorly but lead by the charismatic Imran Khan, went on to become the world champions. The difference between the two sides was palpable. India, the under-confident side was hoping to win some matches, or at the least the match against Pakistan. On the other hand, the loss against India didn’t seem to matter to Pakistan. On the occasions of the big encounters, Pakistan found players who played like champions.

The 1992 world cup was also the first time when I saw the boy wonder of the Indian cricket. With a head full of curly hair and a boyish smile, he looked like any other boy from the senior section of my school. He was bowling seam up out swingers to Javed Miandad during the eventful over when the frog jump incident happened. I got to know that the boy wonder was called Sachin Tendulkar, and he was apparently the next big thing in Indian cricket. From that day, I started following Sachin more closely, so did the boys of my school and apparently the entire nation.

My next vivid memory is of the Hero Cup in the year 1993. At that time, it was a marquee tournament comprising of teams such as the West Indies, South Africa, Sri Lanka and Zimbabwe. Sachin had not done much in the tournament. It was his best friend Vinod Kambli who was scoring the runs and taking the headlines. India went in as underdogs in the semi-final versus South Africa and true to their image could only manage 195 in their allocated 50 overs. South Africa kept losing wickets at regular intervals and it all came down to them needing 6 runs of the last over with the burly Brian Macmillan still at the crease. For some inexplicable reason, the then Indian captain Azhar threw the bowl to Sachin who had not bowled in that match till then. Bowling his slow seam ups from four steps, Sachin somehow saved the match for India. Sachin -it had to be him. He was the boy wonder. He could do anything on the cricket field.

The Indian cricket team of the 1990s was not an easy team to love. It did not have the fast bowlers or the spin wizards that the other teams seem to have in abundance. Its fielders with couple of exceptions were slow and did not dive to save runs. The batting was fragile and in foreign conditions the team played like lambs waiting to get slaughtered. Quite frankly, the state of the cricket team was also reflective of the state of the country. The Nehruvian socialist economy had failed. The private sector was non-existent. There were limited choices for the Indian youth and in all aspects of life it appeared India were ten steps behind the rest of the world. It appeared that the Indian society was desperately looking for a hero, someone who gave them hope of a better future. In this state of ordinariness, series after series, there was one player who succeeded against all odds, opposition or pitch conditions.

Success like love is a drug. The more Sachin succeeded, the more I was fascinated by him. If I was not watching cricket live on television, I would wait for the news papers to check if Sachin had scored a century. I would devour every article written about the Indian team because the article would invariably have references to Sachin. Sachin’s success also became the bane of Indian cricket as the team became over reliant on him to score. You get Sachin out, you get the entire team out. The great Wasim Akram used to say this to the Pakistan team. Soon enough, people were switching off their television sets when Sachin got out. During the period of 1993-94 to 1999-2000, it was widely acknowledged that Sachin was the best batsman in the world. He stacked up centuries on a regular basis. Many of these centuries are classics in losing causes (136 versus Pakistan in Chennai, 169 versus South Africa in Cape Town, 116 against Australia in Melbourne) and are not remembered liked the ones that caused Indian victory (e.g. Sharjah 1998, more popularly known as Sachin’s desert storm).

The over reliance on Sachin culminated in making him the second youngest ever captain of India. There was hope all round that like his batting, his captaincy will magically solve the problems of Indian cricket. A huge mistake in the hindsight. Not only did India kept losing matches as if it was the new normal, its most precious stone had also lost his shine and was looking more like a fake diamond. Burdened by the responsibility of captaining an under-performing side, Sachin was not meeting his own high standards. Soon enough he was sacked as captain and the mantle passed on to the old guard Azhar. However, either due to quirk of fate or for stupidity of the BCCI, Sachin was again handed back the captaincy after the disastrous 1999 world cup. This stint also ended un-ceremoniously when India lost a home series to South Africa.

[brittysaucefanfic]

Brand New Blue

Part 15

(First)(Previous)(Next) (AO3)

It was only after the two of them sat down that Hunk finally broke. 

“What took you guys so long?” Hunk asked as he set down the food. Apparently he refused to let anyone eat until they were all present, and after a minute or two of pleading from almost everyone, even Allura, he had went to find the two missing people. Lance didn’t dig in like everyone else, even if they did slow down a little in their own curiosity. He was too polite, content to let everyone gather their food first before eating himself. 

It was how he was raised. 

In his house, the first to eat were guests, then his grandparents, then his parents, and lastly the children. Except for his mother, because she was always too busy making sure everyone else was eating before she herself sat down to dig in. Also, no elbows on the table, but Lance wasn’t at home, so he crossed his arms to lean on the table. Out of everything he has been through, that had felt like the most dangerous thing he could ever do. 

If his mother found out…

Lance answered Hunk’s question before he could fall into old memories that will just make him hurt. “Pidge was asking me about how I came to space in the first place.” Everyone kind of froze for a second but Lance continued on anyways. “So to answer that question, I was kidnapped.” Lance took a moment to fill his plate as he realized everyone was done until seconds. 

“I grew up in Cuba with my family, but when I got accepted into the Garrison I moved to America. It happened a couple of days after I had arrived. I was exploring the city, when I was lured into some shop full of odd devices I now realize were alien. The guy who ran it knocked me out, and next thing I know I’m on some spaceship with a handful of other prisoners in a part of space I didn’t recognize.” He said. 

Lance took a couple of bites as if it was no big deal, but the food was like lead in his stomach. He hated recalling the early days of his stint in space. Shiro spoke up quietly, guessing on what happened next since Lance took a moment too long to answer. 

“So they threw you to the arena to die.” Shiro said, pain in his voice. Lance chuckled without a hint of humour, his eyes dropping to his plate. 

“I only wish that was what happened first.” He said bitterly. Keith was next to question Lance. 

“What do you mean by that?” He asked. Lance leaned back, half of his plate eaten. 

“It means there are worse things than being in the arena sometimes. No offense Shiro.” Shiro shrugged as if to say, None taken. He looked uncomfortable. 

“When we finally got off that first ship, we weren’t even sold to the Galra. In fact the Galra didn’t even factor in until months later. We were all sold as personal slaves to any alien willing to buy. Most of the other humans were sold only once and within a week. Not me though. I was one of the first sold, and the last as well. I went through probably three different ‘masters’ in as many weeks, before my slaver got pissed off.” He said, extra hatred in his voice when he said masters. 

Lance was on a roll now, and he desperately wanted to stop due to the looks of horror running across his friends’ faces. But he was too lost in the memories, trying to tell them as little detail as possible, while still telling enough for them to understand what happened to him. 

“After my slaver finished beating me within an inch of my life, a Galra commander decided to take me on. Despite my reputation for being,” Lance paused to find the correct word but settled with, “A handful, to say the least. He was determined to break me, and almost succeeded too, but I guess I pushed him a step too far one day. Next thing I know I’m a new sacrifice to the Arena’s slaughter. Except I didn’t die like I was supposed to, instead I kept winning. I only killed those who had practically bent to the will of the Empire and actively fought and killed for entertainment. Innocent victims, like myself, I spared.” Lance swallowed down his guilt, hoping none of them looked at him any differently after what he’s admitting. 

“That changed too, however, when the Galra got tired of my mercy. After what they did, I killed everyone in the arena, innocent and otherwise, because the other option was far worse than death. I escaped about a month after the Champion did.” Lance finished, snapping out of his trance like state. Shiro seemed to pale considerably at the end of his story. 

“You knew who the Champion was?” Shiro asked, voice shaky. Lance snorted and shook his head. 

“No way, the Galra wouldn’t pitch two titled gladiators like the Champion and I against each other. No matter how epic the fight could be, they don’t want the guarantee they would lose a fan favorite. So no, never met the guy, but his escape both hindered, and aided my own.” Lance finished, shaking his head. Keith tilted his head to the side. 

“Titled? What do you mean? And how did it hinder and aid your escape?” Keith asked. Lance examined his nails in boredom, hoping he can do them sometime soon. Perhaps Allura had some beauty products Lance could borrow. Her skin was very nice and smooth, and her nails were so perfectly manicured. That is probably up there in the Very Impossible, but Apparently Possible Things list Lance has. She’s fighting in a war, how is her nails not battered like his own? It could only be magic he would say. 

“When a gladiator in the arena gets enough fan approval, eventually they develop a name for themselves, ergo, a ‘title’.” Lance tried not to say it like it was obvious, making it sound like they were ignorant for not knowing. Lance only knew the system after months of speaking to other prisoners. 

“His title was the Champion, whoever he was, and mine was the Hunter. When the Champion escaped, it didn’t really help me seeing as security for gladiators was heightened exponentially. But then again, after word of his escape got around, prisoners became more bold, myself included.” Lance leaned forward back to the table, using his right hand to poke at his food.  His left hand was raised slightly level with his face, his fingers marking off what he said next.

“Riots, prison guard murders, attempts everywhere for escape. It was chaos, and it set up the opportunity for the Resistance to get some agents in, posing as prisoners. In my case, they used me as bait, having me cause enough chaos to draw the ship’s attention off the other prisoners. They came for me in the last second, long after the Beast Emperor himself had left the scene. I was badly wounded in the battle, and taken to Big Momma’s to be nursed back to full health. Afterwards, I joined the Resistance, and worked my way up the ranks faster than anyone else.” 

Lance shrugged again and made that face that could only mean, The rest was history. Allura coughed to get his attention and Lance looked up at her. She shifted, before speaking gently. 

“What happened to your eye?” She asked, nearly whispering. 

Lance shook his head, refusing to reveal to them the truth of what happened. His hand drifted up to ghost over the edge of his mask before he lowered it. He still had nightmares about it. It was all still so fresh in his mind. The glint of steel, screams, pain at his wrists, and blue liquid spreading and spreading and spreading. 

“I think,” Lance started, before pausing and restarting, clearing his throat as it tightened, gathering his thoughts back out of what Lance calls the Dark Space. “I think you have had enough horror from me tonight. Don’t be fooled though, I do have an eye underneath this mask, and a very capable one at that.” 

Lance tapped his eye beneath his mask with his fingernail. If the eye had been human, it would have been an uncomfortable pressure, but even through the mask the sound of a clink clink could be heard, revealing that his eye was metal. 

“Like Shiro’s arm, the witch, Haggar, decided to give me a little gift before I managed to escape. Unlike Shiro, mine has a tracking device, and the mask I wear disrupts the signal until I can find someone who can fix it.” Lance turned to Pidge, who was looking at him from his left with wide eyes that belied how young she actually was, and made her seem far younger. He pointed at her with the hand laying on the table, not bothering to lift it up. 

“This is where you come in my dear Pidge. If you can find some way to disable the tracker, without rendering me paralyzed, I could finally go home.” Lance said, before tacking on at the end, “No pressure though.” 

Pidge just stared at him with a dropped jaw and comically wide eyes. Then she seemed to snap out of it, shutting her jaw with an audible click. She seemed to be giving herself a pep talk before she finally blurted out what was on her mind. 

“Do you know anyone by the name of Samuel or Matthew Holt?” Lance blinked, which looked kind of odd with his mask, and tilted his head. He racked his brain for the names, assuming they were human, and shook his head. They were probably friends, or even family of Pidge, who were taken by the Galra. He was asked far too often by people if he knew if their loved ones were dead, or still prisoner, or joined in the Resistance. It made his heart break to say that he could help very few find what they were looking for. 

Full ship vessels, like the Mermaid, were filled with people who were searching for lost loved ones or revenge for those who couldn’t be saved. When they weren’t on missions specifically given by the Council, the agents of the Resistance were free to do their own thing. Be it chilling at a base, coordinating attacks on the Galra, or searching the universe for loved ones.

“Can’t say I have, but I can check it out at the base.” He said gently. Lance laid a hand on her shoulder before she could start crying to gather her attention from her hands folded in her lep. “I would use my ECD, except I destroyed it, thinking I was going to be a prisoner again, and I can’t use yours because the devices only store contacts that are personally put in. Yours have all of my CO’s, as well as a couple of people I believe would be helpful to you guys, but no one by the name Holt. But that doesn’t mean they aren’t in the Resistance.” 

Pidge sniffed and nodded. Lance smiled at her and settled a hand on her head, like he used to do to his younger family members. Most of them hated it, but Marco, his little brother, always got the happiest smile when Lance did it to him. 

Pidge smiled up at Lance too, a lot like Marco would. 

**********

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