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giorno-plays-piano · 4 years ago

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Tainted Apollo

Pairing: Kars x Reader

Warnings: mentions of gore, death of minor characters, slight allusion to dubcon.

Words: 3056.

Summary: Finding a peculiar sculpture in the ruins of an ancient temple, you realize you have stumbled upon a god set in stone.

P.S. I forgot to post this one here haha

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"Good morning, Sire." You welcomed him as you stretched in your improvised bed, an old metal container of some kind with a pile of blankets on top of it.

Rubbing your sleepy eyes, you slowly put your feet on the floor and adjusted the hem of your nightgown so he wouldn't see too much of your flesh. Kars always found this habit of yours ridiculous. He had been a piece of stone for God knew how long, and even after you found him he'd been confined to bed for no less than a year, barely moving and unable to speak. Kars was sure you didn't even understand what he was, but you still cared about covering your body in front of him. What a pathetic habit, he thought.

When you found him in the sands, somewhere in what appeared to be a long abandoned temple that had been in ruins even before he reached the Earth, you first thought he was some kind of sculpture, adoring his unusual but captivating form. He hated you watching him with your eyes wide, even touching a lock of his petrified hair - you were just a mortal human woman, one of those he had been determined to wipe out, but you had the audacity to act like his sole purpose was to lay in the sand for your entertainment. If he could move, he would definitely end your pathetic like there and then. But Kars couldn't.

It must have been ages, if not a millennium, since he had been banished from Earth. Drifting through darkness, his body had turned to stone, his limbs losing their ability to move - regardless of him finally becoming an ultimate form of life, it brought him nothing but eternal suffering and oblivion. Kars had stopped functioning like a living being almost completely. Almost. If he hadn't been returned back to Earth by some accident, he would continue his meaningless journey to the stars till the end of times because the darkness enveloping him had no limits. It felt like being thrown into a cold throat of some gigantic monstrous creature, but instead of reaching its stomach and finally dying he had been forced to circulate somewhere in between, neither dead nor alive. If silly humans thought the Hell was real, it had to be it.

He couldn't remember what force sent him back to Earth as he could think of no one doing it intentionally, but it didn't matter as long as he could reach Earth. Regardless of what would happen after, Kars knew he would survive and regain his power, finally giving humanity what it deserved for what they had done to him.

Funny, but when his mind had awoken from hibernation, Kars realized there was no one to take revenge on. Humanity had successfully wiped itself out.

Even after year and a half that passed, he still saw just you, a girl who had brought his petrified form to her home to take care of him knowing he was alive - by the time you met him Kars was able to open his eyes. Oh, he remembered well how horrified you were, stumbling upon an immensely beautiful statue that turned out to be a stone god, he heard you saying that for a few times. That day you ran away with such an expression Kars didn't expect you to ever come back, although you showed up a couple of days after, trying to talk to him in that odd new human language he had never heard before. As he kept silent, unable to even move his lips and make a sound, you realized the god you stared upon had been trapped in stone, and you could do nothing to free him. You went away, but came back with an odd machine that reminded him of Stroheim, and Kars thought of melting your bones when you dared to use to transport him. However, he had to admit how further did human technology evolved when even a small and timidly-looking machine like yours could lift and transport him to your home, a place inside another machine that had been definitely used for military purposes before being abandoned. It looked incredibly pathetic, as if you were a little rat that had to live in a pile of garbage out of pure need.

The world he once knew and wished to conquer had disappeared. All he saw while being driven away by your small machine had been a never-ending desert and ruins of other machines: he learnt lately those were enormous satellites, star ships, and other rusting remnants of an epoch that had been long gone. Watching gigantic sand stingrays crossing the desert as if it were a sea made him realize how far humans had gone - they had created monsters that were never meant to exist in the first place.

Of course, they paid for it. Judging from the stories you told him and what he observed himself, humanity had faced almost complete annihilation even without intervention of their outer space enemies, if there were any. The atomic war destroyed nearly everything humans had been creating since the beginning of their era. It affected even the natural course of life of every living being on Earth, forcing them to change and finally become a horrifying, mutilated, monstrous life form of something they had been once. Even the Moon had been gone, it's ugly half-destroyed form shining in the night sky and making it even more revolting. You had said something about unsuccessful colonization and the war over moon territories while Kars had to force himself to look down on the sand that was at least familiar to him.

Disgusting. He still had hard time believing how far humans had gone, destroying everything that existed long before they started ruling the planet. What would Jojo say now if he saw what a nightmare the world had become? Wasn't it better to let Kars wipe out the humanity before this had happened?

He had been fighting the urge to break your spine or melt your insides at least for a couple of months, blaming you for the crimes of your ancestors despite you obviously being too young to commit any of the atrocities that had happened. How come a human being had the audacity to survive in this post-Apocalyptic world while other life forms had mutated into monsters? When you were wiping any impurities off his cold stony skin, he was dreaming of the time when his body would come out of this odd hibernation period he couldn't control and then murder you in some rather painful way, prolonging your death till you felt all kinds of despair a human like you could. As he struggled to move even his fingers, he had finally decided not to harm an only being capable of taking care of him.

Each day you brought him to sunlight so he could observe what was outside of your pathetic shelter while you worked to grow anything in this lifeless place, several times a week departing to some place to fill the ugly rusted water tank, then watering your plants in a some kind of a nicely equipped greenhouse - funny, now you used it to protect the plants from the intense heat rather than trap it inside. Fruits and vegetables were what your diet was based on, including some synthetic supplements Kars refused to consume, disgusted by something made purely by humankind. Sometimes you would bring him fried meat, and while the thought of eating a mutilated animal had been revolting to him, Kars knew you could offer him nothing else. Even the meat you brought you offered only to him, rarely taking a piece for yourself: now it must have been a great privilege to consume meat. Besides, it truly sustained him better than fruits or vegetables, and he was dependent on what you were feeding him, slowly getting his strength back. After a year and a half he was now able to move his lips and fingertips, making you nearly ecstatic: it seemed you were doing everything right.

What did you think he was? A deity? A monster? A machine? Probably an immortal being who had existed long before the annihilation, that's what you said: you were talking to him from time to time either to pay your respects, tell him more about your world you thought he knew nothing about or voice what you were going to do right the next moment. One day as you brought several rectangular plates made with what looked like a blue metal to him, you read Kars about ancient Greek gods, wondering if he had been one of them - you saw him melting food with his skin, and for you it was the inherent symbol of his divinity. Kars had to give you some credit: you weren't as stupid he first thought you were. You weren't worshipping him as much as he deserved, but you probably did the best you could do, just a little desert rat having nothing but her plants and a decaying metal house.

"I won't come back till the sunset." You said once you finished washing your face and brushing your hair, tucking them under a faded scarf out of some light fabric and then reaching out to grab your mask. "I'll try being quick, Sire, but it's important I visit that place. If I'm lucky, I might bring something very useful to you."

Useful to him, huh? He would appreciate if you stopped humoring yourself: there was nothing useful you could bring him aside from a dozen people to devour. While he knew there were some people left on Earth still, he also knew you wouldn't master the strength to capture, less sacrifice them to him. Besides, Kars was still deciding whether it was worth devouring those creatures. While it certainly would make him return his powers faster, he could wait a couple of centuries - Kars doubted remaining humans could do something worse to Earth than what had already been done.

You didn't return after the sunset that day. It was the first time you hadn't keep your promise to him, and it made ill-tempered Kars bitter: oh, he would remember it and make sure you remembered it, too. He spent the night thinking what he was going to do to you, albeit not getting too violent in his thoughts. Something probably happened on your way, and you had to stop and spend the night in the desert before coming back.

The next day you didn't return either. He waited for you till the sunset but heard nothing but the sound of sand stingrays travelling to the other part of the desert. The complete silence troubled Kars more than he was able to admit: you had been somewhere around most of the time, taking to him or making some other irritating noise. While he found you just one more annoying creature inferior to him, your absence had a strange effect on Kars - it felt like something was crawling beneath his stony skin, making it harder to keep calm despite the fact the man had always been patient, unaffected by something so unworthy of his attention. However, your absence was a clear sign that something had happened, and it somehow bothered him.

Were you attacked by the monstrous creatures roaming the earth? Humans? Some other force he knew nothing about? Surely, it had something to do with the thing you attempted to bring, but you were vague about its nature, and Kars doubted it was really something decent. How come you had the audacity to risk your life when you were his one and only follower, sustaining and taking care of him while he was still in hibernation? Were you so unbearably stupid you decided you could leave him alone for long? Who had given you the right to bother Kars with your absence? It was inexcusable. The only reason why he didn't punish you was his petrified body, but he wouldn't stay in such state forever.

The lack of your presence was becoming more and more disturbing, and Kars questioned himself why did it matter. He had never needed someone's company - even though he had respect for both Esidisi and Wamuu, their closeness to him wasn't something essential. Not that your presence was either... and yet he found himself constantly thinking about the reasons why you were late. Although it irritated him, Kars decided that time he spent into space had its effects on his mind.

When you returned at last, the sun had already disappeared over the horizon. You were bleeding - he saw crimson stains on your face and your left arm, your faded scarf absent when you stormed inside your house, a small metal container in your hand as you flew to your stone god. Something had gone terribly wrong.

"I'm sorry, Apollo." You were running out of breath, but Kars heard you calling him by a Greek god's name. Was it the god of light? Your choice was rather peculiar. You were probably calling him like this in your mind since you brought those books home, but was afraid to voice your thoughts to him. "I wasn't as prepared I thought I was. The guards are still there even after all these years."

Leaving the container on the floor close to him, you took your bag and started your things there, searching for food and flasks. Somebody had been following you to your hideout.

"This is all I could find." You whispered, opening the container and taking out a small glass vial with a bright red liquid inside. "I can't tell how it will affect you, but I believe it would be of use to you, Apollo. Please, consume it."

You had carefully lifted the vial as if it were going to explode and then put it on his chest, awaiting for Kars to melt it onto his body. He had been suspicious about this, for some reason unable to detect what the liquid was as the vial seemed to block it, he consumed it, nonetheless - there was a chance it could speed up the end of his hibernation.

And it did. He felt the familiar heat, albeit Kars had never thought the stone could be turned into liquid, and yet it was it, something he had been chasing for so long once before becoming who Kars was now. How come it had been somewhere here all along? Was it fate to land here where it had all ended for him once? Kars had no answers. Not that it mattered now as his petrified body was rapidly recovering, his limbs finally able to move, his dark locks softening, the paralysis shattering while he stood up, showing you his perfect form in all its glory as you stared at him, either afraid or unable to move. He was the God you were waiting for, his large wings turning into flesh hands, a halo of light surrounding his perfectly proportioned, sculptured body and making you lose your eyesight for a couple of seconds. It happened so suddenly you were trembling on your knees in front of him, forgetting about those who had trailed you and the danger they could bring to your God and you, both fear and admiration engraved into your stare. Kars was much more than you had pictured him to be, undoubtedly.

As much as he enjoyed that look on your face, devouring your fragile figure with his eyes, he could feel his enemies breathing down his neck. Of course, all of them were unworthy of seeing his true power, but even someone as miserable as them would do for a quick warm up after centuries of hibernation: once several disgustingly looking men with scars and mutilated limbs showed up in your hideout, all of them Ripple users just like Jojo had been, Kars let out a laugh, watching them demanding both him and you to surrender. Worthless little creatures, they thought they could give orders to him, the most perfect form of life on Earth. He had slashed all of them the next moment, pools of their blood dirtying the floor and spreading further to metal walls: apparently, despite them still being able to use Ripple, their power had deteriorated greatly to the point they only posed a threat to a fellow human being, someone as frail and delicate as you.

Turning to face you still on your knees, he saw your wide eyes, tears streaming down your cheeks while you covered your mouth with your hands: was your God more terrifying than you had imagined him to be? Did you think he would forgive those who made a mistake of challenging him, the most powerful being the Earth had ever hold? Silly little girl, there were so many things you had to learn about him, the God you were destined to worship and love with your whole being.

"Stand up, woman." He said, watching you tremble and trying to wipe away your tears, not knowing what you had to say to the God you finally saw in all his glory. "I demand you to leave with me before the sun rises. Gather whatever belongings you need for a long journey, we will depart soon."

You bowed to him deeply, afraid to open your mouth and say something your God would consider inappropriate, and hurried to take your bag, quickly putting everything you considered important in it while Kars stepped closer to the pathetic beings, consuming what was left of them and feeling the power coursing through his body, filling him with warmth he had craved for so long. That little vial you brought was truly worthy of him, and Kars felt satisfied it was you who found him in the sands in the middle of nowhere. He would take you with him while he would try to resurrect the Earth as he remembered it, bringing the balance to it and watching it flourish once again.

"Apollo, I have taken everything." You whispered to him timidly, forgetting you were using that fictional name you gave him.

Kars chuckled, marching through your hideout flooded with blood of his enemies. If you needed to compare him to some stupid Greek god so desperately, you should have chosen Hades.

#kars x reader #kars jjba #kars jojo #jjba #yandere #jojo #jojo's bizarre adventure #battle tendency

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kkaeyva · 4 years ago

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safety, number one priority

𐐪𐑂 alternate title: why it didn’t work out

𐐪𐑂 a/n: ,,sorry :’) maybe

𐐪𐑂 includes: xiao

𐐪𐑂 genre(s): angst!! and a tiny tiny TINY bit of fluff at the beginning and then it all goes downhill from there

𐐪𐑂 warning(s): angst, breakup, xiao’s (descriptive) insecurities, mention of blood/gore, mention of death, abandonment, xiao’s delusional(ish?) thoughts, XIAO STORY SPOILERS, barely proofread

𐐪𐑂 word count: 0.7k

you taught him of his fears.

he saw bits and pieces of his allies in you; how much you resembled morax was uncanny, and the countless similarities between you and the yaksha he fought alongside during those years of vanquishing demons was one of the only— if not the only— reasons why he responded to you with more than a curt nod or rude remark.

he found how much he liked to listen to you talk. it was an odd sort of comfort to him— allowing him to reminisce about times he could never go back to, as if chasing after the threads of a fleeting thought or a fond memory that never was; a pleasant dream.

even during the quiet nights with you, when the remnants of evil gods slaughtered by his spear eons ago would cry out demanding vengeance, xiao didn’t feel the need to tune their voices out of his head. a mistake, he realizes now.

it was only an illusion of resistance.

their whispers planted seeds of doubt and insecurity inside his head, chanting, “what if they die? what if they disappear?”

he hated how he agreed sometimes.

everyone he respected did one of the two— so what makes you, just a mere mortal, any different? you, a measly human, compared to his adepti comrades of the past?

xiao was never one to care about emotions, nor did he indulge in them— after all, he was taught only to kill and bear the weight of his sins, wasn’t he? however, you were.. an outlier. you’re human, a mortal— your life has a limit. he began to view you as fragile, something he needed to watch over and constantly keep out of danger.

your safety became a constant concern. his stomach churned with an unfamiliar fear just from the thought of you in harm’s way. if you died or even got severely injured, what would he do? what could he do, if not lose his mind right then and there?

was this the bad karma from vanquished demons that was snaking up his limbs, threatening to trap him in a hellhole of karmic binds? if so, he’ll gladly sever the chains again, as many times as he could, no matter the consequences.

the breaking point was when he saw vivid flashes of imagery in his head where you would be drowning in your own blood— the terrifying emptiness that enveloped him was not something he wished to experience again. even if he knew it was just a figment of his imagination, something about it felt too real.

which is why he disappeared one night.

without leaving a message or a note, he left. he hesitated when his eyes flitted over to your sleeping form— no doubt you would wake up confused, wondering where he was. most of all, he could not imagine the heartbreak you would go through once you realize his absence was permanent.

he knows this, and yet, he doesn’t regret it. he knows that you being around him would only harm you. he can live with his negative karma, but he does not wish to burden others with his own problems.

besides, he reasons, you’ll heal with time, won’t you?

you are human, after all. you thrive on emotions; something he’ll never understand, but what he does know is that you will heal with time. you have plenty of it left— even if it is limited— and soon enough you will move on, whether it be by finding another or by death.

not him, though.

he will remember you only as a fragment of his immortal life, and soon enough you will be a memory of what has passed. cruel, isn’t it? how there isn’t an easy way out— xiao only knows pain and suffering ever since he could remember, but why was it different this time around? he was perplexed but did not pursue the matter. fulfilling his contract with rex lapis would occupy his mind again, and he will have no time to think about foolish, emotional things.

perhaps this was a blessing in disguise, xiao thinks.

as long as he’s the one who disappears, no harm will come in your way.

it’s all for your own safety.

#tw blood mention #tw gore mention #tw death mention #tw abandonment #angst #genshin impact #genshin impact x gender neutral reader #genshin impact imagines #genshin impact drabble #genshin x reader #xiao x reader #kkaeyva.writes #xiao.txt

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a-gnosis · 3 years ago

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Have you ever read why it is that the Underworld was cut off and isolated? I always thought it was strange that the Underworld was so different. Obviously I get why *mortals* couldn’t just wander to the Underworld but why did that apply to gods too? Was it something to do with miasma, and Hades was just tougher/better able to shrug it off? Or maybe just the limits of mortal imagination when it came to writing myths? Curious to hear your thoughts :) - odiko ptino

Sometimes it seems like gods as well as humans could become infected by the miasma of the dead. Artemis abandons her dying favorite Hippolytos because "it is not lawful for me to look upon the dead or to defile my sight with the last breath of the dying" (trans. David Kovacs). But mostly they seem to stay away from the Underworld because they really don't like the place. The Iliad describes it as "the dark and dreadful habitations of the dead, which even gods detest" (trans. Ian Johnston).

Though a few of the gods have obviously been down there anyway. Besides Hermes who is the special messenger to Hades, Dionysos brought back his dead mother Semele, Iris is said to sometimes fetch water from the river Styx, and Athena helped Herakles to bring Kerberos up from the Underworld (though it is possible that she maybe just followed him to the gates of the Underworld).

Charles Penglase argues in Greek Myths and Mesopotamia that the inaccessibility of the Underworld is limited to The Homeric Hymn to Demeter, since there are other Greek stories of gods and heroes who are able to both descend to Hades and return. Apparently there even was a version of the myth where Demeter herself descended to the Underworld to retrieve Persephone. He means that the idea that the gods can't cross the boundary of the Underworld probably is an idea taken from earlier Mesopotamian myths.

Whether it is miasma, a barrier, or just fear and detest that keep the gods away from there (it apparently varies from story to story), I think the Underworld was written like that simply because it was seen as very scary and devoid of all fun.

#greek mythology #the underworld

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exquisitley-obsessed · 3 years ago

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Fiancés, Firebirds, Foxes and Fawns: 1

Author: @exquisitley-obsessed

Summary: A few weeks after Briallyn's attempt at uniting with Koschei, Lucien opens the door of Lockhart Manor to find Elain, cold from the rain and holding a note from the High Lady of the Night Court demanding her to assist Lucien in building alliances with the human councils. Forced to work together by their exhausted High Lord and Lady, Elain is able to convince anyone to do anything, while Lucien has the acquaintances to go anywhere he likes. Together, they attempt to unite the fae and mortal lands and unravel the deal made between Koschei and Vassa, while Lucien remains haunted by his own promise to Elain's father. ELUCIEN, POST-ACOSF

Pairings: Elain x Lucien, Elucien

Warnings: None.

A/N: This is going to be a long, slow burn fic (hopefully)

MY MASTERLIST

THIS FIC’S MASTERLIST

AO3

Chapter One: Moonlight Messages

Soon, the flowers wouldn’t be enough. No, Elain corrected herself as she glared at the vase, they weren’t enough already. They had never been enough.

The house slept while Elain perched on her window ledge at the River Manor. Despite her cotton nightgown, she had not yet been able to find sleep herself, as so often she did these days. And so, Elain had risen to sit in the silver light of her window ledge and watch the impossibly beautiful night sky of the Night Court wink down at her tauntingly.

The revelation had occurred to Elain a few nights ago, but it hadn’t seemed important then and, along with most of Elain’s life experience thus far, had been brushed under the proverbial carpet. Her education in the etiquette of balls, the correct way one must curtsey in the presence of lady’s and dames, even the novels she’d read on the history of cutlery; it was all useless. She should be upset; she should care that the values that had been instilled in her by her terrifying mother had all but evaporated. But Elain felt nothing.

She was afraid of the flowers, though, because once they’d gone she’d really have nothing left. No mother, no father, no mortal etiquette, in fact, no mortality at all. After being reborn in a world that didn’t make sense to her, after being abandoned by everything she held dear, her father, her fiancé, gardening truly was the only common factor between her life then, and her life now.

And that was useful, to begin with. Gardening was a lifeline to pull her out of the fog that was those first months out of the Cauldron. It should’ve been a steppingstone in her road to recovery, the first step into her new life. Instead, it had consumed her.

As Feyre continued to prove that she’d always meant to be the High Lady of the Night Court, and especially when Nesta – Nesta – found her footing with the Valkyries and began to make a life for herself in Prythian, Elain was left to her flowers. There was nothing else for her, no purpose. No one knew how to talk to her; too afraid she might break if they ask anything more of her than a new pot of petunias.

But if flowers were all the universe could give her, whilst her sisters got married and began to spew out their beautiful children, then she would be grateful. But the flowers weren’t enough, and she was a fool to ever think otherwise.

She’d read every book, familiarised herself with the climates of the different courts and the different shrubbery that grow there. The information was running out, and so, her purpose was running out. Maybe this wouldn’t have threatened her when she was a human, when she only had a good 80 years, if she were lucky, before she’d be taken in the arms of oblivion. But it was eternity that now stretched before her. Eternity of being her sister’s gardener.

Death gives life meaning, petal – so live. It’s what Elain’s father had told her when Graysen had asked for her hand in marriage. Elain had kneeled at her father’s feet, giggling as she gripped his knees and begged him to say yes. In all her life, she’d never been so happy. She was to be married, she was to have her own estate, her own gardens! Imagine that. It would be a little life, nothing of the prince her mother had sworn she was pretty enough to marry. But Elain would’ve gone with Graysen even if he had only a cottage and a ring made of straw.

Her mother, rest her soul, had told Elain that she was a fool, because she believed in romance the way children of the night believed in the fae. Elain devoted her life to romance, her holy books were the novels her father had brought her from the continent, full of dangerous escapades and rising tension, love confessions and secret weddings. Where Nesta had wished to marry rich, Elain had wished to fall in love.

Silly girl, infatuated with infatuation. Her mother’s voice echoed around her head. Just wait, Elain. Wait until a man breaks your heart, it’s all they know to do, then you’ll realise that you and I, well, we aren’t so different after all.

Elain hated her mother for a multitude of reasons, but most of all because she was right. Now her engagement ring was sitting at the bottom of her beside drawers, her heart was broken, her body something else entirely, and her mind…Her mind was torture. It was a labyrinth, and it was complicated. Where Elain used to have silence, she now had noise, endless undisturbed chatter of visions that had not yet taken form. And above it all, beating like a drum of justice – his heartbeat.

At that moment, it was steady and satiated, and Elain knew that meant he was asleep. Lucien, her mate, safe and asleep on the other side of Prythian, and though she could never admit it to herself, the thought did bring her some comfort. At least Lucien was stagnant and reliable, even if he was only reliable in his ability to avoid her at all costs.

It felt like rejection.

All this time Feyre and Nesta, even Rhysand, had talked to her about Lucien in terms of everything being her choice. It would be her choice if she wanted to accept the bond with Lucien, and no matter her decision, Lucien was a good enough male to accept that choice and move on. But it didn’t much feel like her choice mattered, not when her supposed soulmate spent his days at the other end of the lands, as far away from her as possible. Maybe he was hoping she’d reject the bond, but that didn’t explain his behaviour when he visited, all racing heartbeats and flushed cheeks.

Lucien was a hypocrite, Elain couldn’t help but think as she sighed into the crook of her elbow, feeling a surge of emotion batter through her. Damn her human heart. Lucien was a hypocrite because in leaving her, he’d left her with no choice at all.

He may as well have rejected her. As Graysen had rejected her. As Azriel had rejected her.

All Elain wanted was to love, and to be loved, and yet she was loveless, alone – drowning, all over again. Most of the time Elain could keep the ocean of agony at bay, the one that had almost killed her when she’d first come out of the Cauldron. But then there were moments like these, in the dead of night, when she could not sleep. In these moments, the pain had nowhere to go, and it rose up in her life a black wave, before taking her under.

Sinking her teeth into the crook of her elbow until she tasted her fae blood, Elain battled through the wave of emotion. Her tears coming hot and quick as she curled into herself and lay, paralyzed in the depth of her aloneness, till the clouds smothered the moon and turned the world dark.

***

On the other side of Prythian, Lucien found himself tumbling into consciousness. He was sprawled on his back in his bedroom of the Lockhart manor, the residence of Vassa and Lucien, and he supposed, his own home too. Supposedly. The pale sheets were crumpled around his waist and his bare chest was rising steadily in the moonlight.

Unable to stay still, and forever thinking the worst after a childhood of running and hiding, Lucien sprung from his bed and unsheathed his sword from where it hung on a nearby armchair. Breathing through his nose, Lucien turned back to the dark room, his eyes, one fae, one machine, roved over the room, checking for any threat.

But the moment he was up and moving, his body showed him his cause for waking. A sharp, agonising tug from in between his ribs on his left side caused Lucien to surge forwards with a gasp, his sword cluttering to the floor. Just when he recovered from that first tug of the mating bond, a second followed, throwing Lucien onto his hands and knees as a wave of pure, agonising, hopelessness washed over him.

“What…” Lucien gasped into the silence, his hand running over his ribs, trying to ease the bond that was so fervently demanding his attention. The bond had pulled on him, not Elain – at least he could tell that by now. But the way in which the bond had demanded his attention, it was haunting. It felt as though it had reached the end of a limit, like an elastic band stretched to far only for it to snap right back.

With his mating bond being tugged on so viscerally the base mate desires that Lucien had spent two years putting a damper on, raged into fiery life. Go to her. Find her. Comfort. Keep her safe. Protect her. Comfort…She’s hurting. Kill the threat. Growling into the silence, Lucien scrunched his eyes shut and threw himself against those urges, shoving them deep down. As he did so he repeated his mantra to himself – ‘She doesn’t need me. She doesn’t want me. I will not demand anything of her. She’s fine.’

The last one didn’t really help, not if the overwhelming sadness was any indication of how his mate was faring. She’s upset. The bond seemed to whisper in his ear and Lucien felt his guts turn. Elain was supposed to be happy, that’s why he was doing all of this. He was keeping himself on the other side of the world so she could find herself, so she could be happy. But she wasn’t. If that spout of emotion was enough of an indication, Elain was miserable.

Sighing, Lucien rocked back onto his knees and ran a hand down his face, only for his hand to come away wet. Touching his cheek again, Lucien smelt the brine of tears in his room. But they weren’t his tears. No, a lady, his lady, was weeping on the other side of the world, hard enough for her tears to roll down his cheeks.

Again, Lucien felt his guts turn and thought for a moment he might be sick. Throwing himself to his feet Lucien sat back on his bed, glaring out his window to the moon, the same moon she might be looking at, at that very instant.

Lucien didn’t have anything going for him. He was a traitor, a coward, a seventh son, an outsider; when the world reforged itself around the Archeron sisters, Lucien had got left behind. No, not left behind, stuck. He was neither here nor there. Neither friend nor foe. Nothing was solid in his life, nothing constant, except that golden thread wrapped around his ribcage, tugging him north to…her.

She was enigmatic and good, supposedly. The same way he was supposedly cunning. He wanted to…well, he wanted to do everything. But in this moment, and over the past few months, he just wished to know her. A minute of her time, each day, would that be so much. But she was beyond him, in every sense of the word.

She was still broken and still healing, and he couldn’t impose himself into her new world. Right?

Lucien groaned and turned away from the moonlight, burying his head into his pillow. All Lucien seemed to be able to think was that somewhere, on the other side of Prythian was Elain. Elain, alive and well. His mate. His mate. Mother, he’d never get over saying those two little, impossible words.

She was his soulmate, did that mean she was awake now, thinking of him the way he thought of her? Obsessively, incandescently, without remorse or restraint. Rolling on his back, Lucien looked again at the moon.

“Are you thinking of me?” He whispered into the silence, only the moonlight and the mother to hear the tremble in his voice, “…because I’m thinking of you…I’m always thinking of you.”

#acotar #elucien #elucien fic #Elain #elain acotar #elain x lucien #elain archeron #elain and lucien #lucien #lucien vanserra #lucien x elain #acomaf #acowar #acofas #acosf #fffaf

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sundayswiththeilluminati · 4 years ago

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I need to vent some CR thoughts to free up some headspace so in no particular order ENJOY THESE THOUGHTS.

- Essek talked to Caleb about not getting distracted for the same reason he asked about the eyes and what they might cause: checks and balances. He was checking Caleb a bit, but also reminding Caleb to check him. Which Caleb did in the Rejuvenation Room, successfully.

- The Luxon beacons aren’t a misunderstood or lost creation of Aeor. The Luxon was a real entity that really came to Exandria and kindled its first life in the form of the Primordials, whose existence is otherwise unexplained. It probably did create the beacons for the reincarnation reasons the Kryn ascribe to it, too; it’s too close to Buddhist/Hinduist/more mystical theology about rejoining the universal divine and about mortal life being an attempt by the divine to know itself to be a false front. The purple crystals in the Rejuvenation room aren’t prototype beacons, they’re Aeorian tech built in an attempt to replicate the beacons’ power much like how Yeza was working to capture the beacons’ time-twisting abilities in potion form. They aren’t nearly as powerful as the beacons themselves, hence the guard’s statement that they “mostly” got there, but they have the beginnings of beacon-like qualities.

- What could the Somnovem have been doing that got them ostracized by the rest of Aeor, a society whose leaders clearly didn’t mind hideous experimentation? I genuinely think my theory about Tharizdun, the Somnovem, and psionics might be right. Aeorian mages were preparing to fight the gods using arcane powers originally taught to mortals by those same gods. They’re too smart not to at least try to find a source of power that doesn’t derive from the beings they’re planning to fight. If they found a Luxon beacon they’d be able to tap into dunamancy, i.e. an arcane school that doesn’t descend from the current pantheon, and they’d absolutely keep that on lockdown as a secret weapon. Maybe the Somnovem went the other direction in seeking out a different power: Tharizdun. The rest of Aeor, knowing that was a) a terrible idea even for them and b) the only threat that would unite Prime and Betrayer gods in smiting their shit, were not cool with that.

- Side note: the gate to the Astral Sea is named the Mensus Gate. Mensus means “mind.” Also I’d be reeeeal careful about the “planar tethers” if I were the crew. Sounds like all those gates were built pre-Divine Gate, which altered the relationships between planes.

- Returning to the main thought: the Somnovem, like the rest of Aeor, venerated the mortal mind; but instead of focusing on intellect, they sought power in imagination and dreams. The very qualities that, as the Aeorian mages were figuring out, shaped the gods they were fighting. What if the Somnovem’s attempts started to look like they were actually working - but the wild, uncontrolled psionic powers they demonstrated scared the rest of Aeor even more? Psionics that couldn’t be counterspelled, damped with antimagic fields, or access-controlled like arcane spellcraft? Merging minds trapped half-waking that seemed to deliberately abandon conscious thought and perhaps birth new, far worse gods?

- I’m 50-50 on whether Ruidus “The Saddest” Moon is the dormant heart of the Luxon or the original anchor that chained Tharizdun. I could believe either. Possibly both, if the Luxon’s sacrifice caused Tharizdun’s original banishment.

- The destruction of Aeor was not as simple as a single divine smite. There were multiple attacks that may have occurred over a longer period of time.

- What appeared in the amphitheater, and who summoned it? Davexian implied that the crowd that gathered there had done so to confront one of Aeor’s leaders. It sounds like many of the citizens of Aeor didn’t know about the extreme lengths their leaders were going to. But then something hit. It probably wasn’t summoned or caused by the crowd, since they were all apparently slain by it - but the archmage appears to have been frozen in a time-bubble before she could cast anything either. Was it a manifestation of Tharizdun or the Somnovem?

- Who hit the Genesis District with a bunker-buster, and what were they aiming for? Beau’s analysis of the damage indicated a pattern like a bunker-buster bomb: instead of bursting just above the ground to do the most damage up there, it burrowed underneath for a ways before exploding. That’s the kind of munition you use when you’re gunning for something underground. This Creator-Hammer, maybe? And why is the whole district frozen in that moment of explosion, with even the debris still hanging in the air? Again this element of stasis, of freezing time. Speaking of which...

- What are those time bubbles, and where did they come from?? We still don’t know what could possibly be powering them! All the other arcane technology in Aeor, even the lights, are guttering low at the limits of their power, but the time-stop bubbles are fresh as a daisy. They don’t match any known divine or fiendish magic, but Davexian gave no sign of recognizing them, meaning they weren’t Aeorian tech. AugGHHH EVERY TIME THE CREW SEE ONE AND JUST GO ON THEIR WAY LIKE THAT ISN’T A COMPLETELY BAFFLING PHENOMENON IT’S DRIVING ME INSANE YOU GUYS.

#Critical Role #Critical Role spoilers #CR 2x135 #CR thought dump #gotta get these outta my head #clear out the bullshit #make room for other more different bullshit #enjoy!#overthinking is my superpower #it's been a long pandemic

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st-just · 3 years ago

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A Setting: The City of Sethennai

Because I’ve spent long enough tinkering on this that I might as well share it with a population of more than a half-dozen potential players. Also it could almost certainly use an editing pass, and I don’t want to lose it all next time my computer dies.

So, a collection of densely packed plot hooks in the shape of a city

City History

The City of Sethennai is quite possibly the oldest city in the world, or at least the oldest still inhabited. When the first Dwarfs and Goliaths fled the Titans for the coast, they found ziggurats already rising from the water and tunnels dug beneath their feet, ruined by some already ancient cataclysm. Supported by fertile soil and full waters, they built their own city over it, and welcomed their own gods to it, a center of resistance to the Titanomarchy that became an empire in its own right.

Centuries passed and power drifted inland, to the mountain palaces of the Titans’ Giant heirs and the divinely appointed heroes who sometimes overthrew them. The City was rich, but peaceful, its soldiers only raised when one princess or another took it as a capital during a civil war. Such was the case when the first ships appeared from the East.

The adventurers from the League of Free Cities had been spurred across the sea by visions of fortune and glory, overwhelming the defenders with armies of goblin slaves and the ability to evoke demons far beyond what they could deal with. Their leader Sethennai proclaimed himself Emperor and renamed the city in his honour, taking it as his capital. After his assassination some years later the ‘empire’ fell into an anarchy it has never quite recovered from, but the name has stuck, and for the two hundred years since wonders and riches have flowed across the eastern ocean while mercenaries and adventurers have poured west in ever greater numbers.

The city’s ruler for the last fifteen years has been Prince Cael, an adventurer universally believed to be supported by the League’s political rivals back East. If so, they got what they paid for – experts and financiers have been imported and sponsored, and trade opened to anyone capable of paying the reasonable import duties.

Until two years ago, he had been the picture of brutal decadence, rousing himself from luxurious hedonism only to brutally deal with any threats to his power. Recently though, he changed – sponsoring vast expeditions into the ancient palaces of the interior and the ruins buried on the city’s outskirts, and installing a self-proclaimed Hierophant whose heresies had earned her a death warrant back East in the city’s grandest temples (violently banishing the cults which had held them since the Conquest in the process).

One week ago, at exactly noon, the sun vanished from the sky for one minute, and the entire city was filled with a deafening scream. Since then, the Prince’s grand palace has been sealed tight, with ingeniously horrifying magical defences ensuring that anyone who tries to force a door or window isn’t around to try again. Everything’s very rapidly falling apart, and the city’s traditional power brokers are reacting like so many rabid weasels in too small a cage.

It is, then, a perfect opportunity for people with the will to seize it.

Districts

The Palantine

If Sethennai is the oldest continually inhabited city in the world, the vast palace complex which crowns its central hill is probably likewise the oldest building still in use. Its foundation is burrowed deep into the hill on which it stands, to the point that some delvers and historians have theorized that it was once a truly massive pyramid now mostly buried by the ages. Rising out of it are two great peaks - impressive ziggurats in their own right - of obvious dwarven make, fashioned to house their ancient Ancestors-Kings and gods in suitable splendor, and since renovated and built over to house the city’s rulers and most favored priesthoods. Surrounding them are a dozen smaller peaks, each the estate of one of the city’s foremost patrician families, teeming with retainers and servants. The land around them is pristine and perfectly manicured, full of wondrous botanical gardens and menageries for the amusement of Sethennai’s greatest citizens.

Location of Interest: The Throne

A palace built on the ruins of a palace built on the ruins of a palace. The grand ziggurat which the city’s rulers have called home since time immemorial is built into and sits at the peak of its highest hill, the highest point in the sky for dozens of miles in every direction. Its labyrinthine apartments, kitchens, vaults, galleries and corridors house the Prince and his family, dozens of favorites and notables, and hundreds of guards, servants, retainers and entertainers.

Or, well, housed.

One week ago, the sun vanished from the sky, and a scream echoed through the city. Since then, the palace complex has proven impenetrable. Every door and window is closed, and attempts to open them by force have fared...poorly. In a ‘never going to walk again’ sort of way. Scrying and other means of magical surveillance so far attempted have simply failed. No one has tried to escape, and no noises have been heard - the whole complex is simply silent.

Of course, that means that all its secrets and riches are there for the taking. Or that’s the growing consensus - at least three separate groups have camped out near various gates and major entrances, each preparing their own scheme to break in and seize everything within. There’s no fighting between them. Yet.

Faction of Note: The Hierophant

Yri Cenred is many things. A self-proclaimed ‘experimental theologian’. One of shockingly few mortal humans to piss off the Illyrin clergy enough to be specifically declared Anathema. A member of the Commonwealth’s very exclusive list of ‘Enemies of Reason’. Empirically immune to thunderbolts from cloudless skies and most other signs of divine disfavor. Easily one of the most powerful mages in the city. And, for most of the last two years, its High Priestess and Hierophant.

No one knows quite how her first meeting with Prince Cael went, and whether she was responsible for her change in personality or if he sought her out because of it. All anyone knows is that shortly after she arrived in the city a few days ahead of Imperial Witch-Hunters looking for her head on a pike, Cael forcibly expelled the Khasali cults which had occupied the Palantine’s grand temples since the Conquest, and installed her in their place with the newly minted title of Hierophant for the city. Since then she and her growing coterie of acolytes (bright-eyed, motivated and young, though you can flip a coin as to whether their hands are stained with ink or blood) have been extremely busy, though no one can say exactly what with. Certainly they haven’t held any public rituals or services. Despite the costs - both political and monetary - in protecting and sponsoring her, Cael never seemed to question whether it was worthwhile.

The general opinion on the streets is that she’s probably to blame for anything and everything worth complaining about. The only real divide is between those who think she bewitched the Prince and turned him into her puppet, those who think she’s the one who killed him, and the moderates who think the correct answer is probably ‘both’.

Foundrytown

The New World is absolutely full of exotic reagents, fuel sources, and materials to craft and invent with. It is also absolutely full of people who will pay in your currency of choice for finished goods, armor, weaponry, and whatever nasty alchemical tricks you can keep from blowing up in their face until they want them to. Foundrytown is the sprawling mass of smokestacks, workshops, factories and markets that has spilled to the north of Sethennai’s walls, exploiting both opportunities to the fullest while limiting the chance that some idiot will burn half the city down (again). Robber barons, militant workers, loose fraternities of tinkerers and half-trainer artificers, and the occasional rogue clockwork or alchemical monstrosity all jostle for space and control of the beating heart of Sethennai’s economy.

Faction of Note: The Grand Bazaar

Official Imperial theology accords true dragons a place of honour - the Princes of the Earth, entrusted by Heaven with containing the fury of the elements within themselves so as to render the world peaceful enough for cultivation by the younger races - and forbids very few things to wyrms willing to play the part. (Principally, do not become undead, a god in your own right, or an archdemon of the elements. Though some justification can usually be found for how any sufficiently problematic dragon is actually doing one of those).

And Tyramara the Magnificent, the Fire of the Deeps has not technically done any of those things. Still, the ancient wyrm has little interest in allowing the wasting disease which has crippled her continue to spread, and her solution is unorthodox enough that she thought it prudent to abandon her palace-lair in Imir and relocate to the New World, six treasure galleons worth of her hoard in tow.

One of the city’s wealthiest residents from the moment she landed, she has bought a plaza in Foundrytown and offered her sponsorship to nearly every tinker and engineer who cares to set up shop there, provided they help sustain and improve the mechanical and hydraulic prosthetics that supplement and replace her dying organs. She has promised a full half of her hoard to any who can permanently deal with her condition, a fortune men have killed for in the past, and certainly will again.

Faction of Note: The Hellworks

They’re not officially called the Hellworks - there are, in fact, absolutely no devils involved. Still, between the billowing clouds of soot and steam pouring from their chimneys at all hours of the day, the severe architecture, and the bound spirits who keep the looms running at all hours of the day and eagerly take any opportunity to leave anyone who gets too close crippled or maimed to vent their anger - well, the name stuck.

One of the most obvious consequences of Prince Cael’s turn towards the esoteric these last years, the ' ‘Royal Sethennai Weaver’s Trust” is the brainchild and absolute domain of the Lady Binder Katerine sol Dalme sol Telrin ir’Paimon. An Illyrin magister with heterodox opinions on the proper uses of magic, popular opinion is divided on whether it’s more accurate to say Cael invited her to reside in the city, or just offered her asylum before her elders had a chance to properly condemn her.

Regardless, after six months of operation she - and her half-dozen strictly bound and extremely unhappy ifrit, and several hundred eminently replaceable more mundane workers - are already well on their way to supplying all the clothing and textiles Sethennai’s teeming masses require single-handedly, produced at a scale and speed far beyond what any traditional artisans guild could hope to compete with.

Crossroads

Dominating the Old City - synonymous with it, really - that the district is called the ‘Crossroads’ is often considered something of a cruel joke by new arrivals. The ‘Labyrinth’ is usually offered instead. Ancient stone tenements and storehouses are basic facts of geography, surviving through conquest and fire, and over and around and through them are generations of newer building - mansions of imported oak and marble, shantytowns of cannibalized carts and derelict ships built on rooftops, and nondescript inns and stores conveniently built on top of trap doors and tunnels leading to much more exciting locales. Natives of a neighborhood who know all the secret passages and blind alleys can quickly get to anywhere they like. New arrivals are strongly advised to pay well for a reliable guide.

Faction of Note: The Dreamers

There’s something under the harbor. There always has been. There probably always will be. Most people can go their whole lives without noticing it, but a certain few find living in the Old City a haunting experience, their nights spent dreaming of drowned palaces and impossible angles, their days spent lost in alleys and markets that have never existed. Inevitably, they come out of a daze and find themselves perched on the waters edge, staring into the filthy, polluted depths with an intense sense of longing.

Called the Dreamers, they’re an eclectic and informal fraternity, living in makeshift houseboats or the cheapest tenements that press against the water. Quite a few simply sleep on the streets. They’re something like a religion, and something like a guild - the most personable and talkative are merchants, selling the fish that others catch, the strange relics and minor treasures that their divers retrieve from the harbor, and the often beautiful - if always uncanny - art they produce. They take care of each other and, though no one has ever seen a dreamer raise a hand in anger, every attempt by syndicates or rival cults to extort or expel them has ended with their opponents going mad, screaming and clawing at their flesh in the middle of the night, or found poised in some elaborate and improbable suicide. After the third time, everyone more or less got the idea.

No one knows who leads them - if anyone does. Insofar as they have a public face, Zoe Alvane is it - a street urchin who ‘found the sea’ before she had hit puberty, for the last few years she has been the one who spends seemingly every hour of the day ensuring her ‘aunts’ and ‘uncles’ have food and shelter, and looking after the other beggars and poor in the neighborhood while she can as well. She’s also the one outsiders deal with when they come looking to buy information - it’s a disquieting fact of life in Sethennai that the Dreamers’ know almost everything there is to know about almost everyone. They are generally content to be left alone, and Zoe is very sympathetic and willing to offer personal advice and play the part of fortune teller to anyone desperate and willing to trade or do a favor - but it’s generally agreed that trying to force information from them is a bad idea.

Faction of Note: Ironfang Mercenary Company

When Prince Cael seized the throne, he didn’t do so single handedly. He needed trained, disciplined soldiers to seize the Palantine and coastal forts, ensure no one escaped the palace, and keep order on the streets while the messy business of extinguishing the previous dynasty was carried out. For all this and more, he relied on the professional expertise of the Ironfang Company.

Formed around a core of hardened hobgoblin veterans of various border wars and colonial filibusters in the Free Cities, the Company has for the last fifteen years been the Prince’s favorite tool for securing his interests, keeping order, and bloodily making examples of any threats to his rule. For their trouble, they’ve grown fat and happy - a steady paycheck and yearly bonuses have left every officer with a townhouse, and most common soldiers with coin for families and apartments for them to live in.

Despite the lack of real combat - and the need to take on locals as new recruits, as more and more soldiers retire or die over the years - Captain Azaersi is a leathery old warehouse who has never let her troops grow soft. Even week the grand parade ground in Crossroads echoes with screaming drill sergeants and the crack of muskets, and it’s an open secret that the Prince paid to import stocks of grenades and munitions from Quepta for her arsenal. No one knows quite how she plans to deal with the sudden disappearance of her patron and employer, but for the moment the Ironfang seem content to keep order in the corner of Crossroads around the arsenal and parade ground that they call home.

The Ruins

The ruins are not, legally, part of Sethanni, and absolutely no one with anything resembling sense would ever actually choose to live there. No one actually knows where the eponymous ruins come from - or at least, no one can agree which section is from where. Shantytowns of the most despised and desperate and built on top of their predecessors, which are built on top of battered and broken pre-Conquest ziggurats and homes, which are built on top of - well, some of it is just a natural cave system, and no one is sure about the rest. Or ever found just how deep it goes. Aside from the casualties of the Prince’s attempts to map it, the Ruins are inhabited exclusively by those that would be strung up or burned alive if they tried to live anywhere else, or those sufficiently dedicated to their greed or ambition that they’re absolutely certain they alone can unlock the secrets and find whatever wonders are buried beneath all the traps and monsters. Not great company, either way.

Faction of Note: The Weavers’ Masquerade

Sethennai never really followed its ‘sister cities’ in the League in religion, with a sort of tolerant anarchy of different gods and sects almost always predominating over the gleefully blasphemously sublime demon-cults that the conquerors originally brought with them. But the small cultists that did exist at least enjoyed a luxurious, privileged irrelevance, with sanctums in the city’s grand temple. That finally changed when Cael seized the temples for his new Hierophant - and every relic and sacred text in them, as bloodily as necessary. Which with demon worshippers meant a massacre - letting one escape and beseech their patron for aid in crafting some horrible vengeance being generally agreed to be a terrible idea.

Not that that actually worked, of course. One acolyte managed to escape - no one’s quite sure how, but then, probably best not to ask unless you’ve got a particularly strong stomach. Well, that’s one of her stories, anyway - she goes by Maia Dayal, Beloved of the Architect, Wearer of Ten Thousand Faces, and sometimes she prefers to say she’s a recently arrived priestess from Celmy, or a street urchin who found enlightenment entirely on her own. As might be expected by the self-proclaimed title, she also changes her face (and build, age, species…) about as often as everyone else bathes.

While she has shown no interest in actually taking bloody revenge on the Prince, Dayal has done plenty to earn the price on her head. The Masquerade that has grown around her is a carnival of wonders and horrors, where all manner of temptations are offered to the truly desperate, debauched and vile. Skinweavers and facetakers always need raw material, and secrets and deaths can both be easily bought for the right price - though in keeping with their patron, the Masquerade is hardly a safe or stable place to do business, and offending the wrong cultist can easily lead to a shift from ‘visitor’ to ‘canvas for artistic expression’.

Faction of Note: The Keendream Expedition

Over the last two centuries, the actual facts about the pre-Conquest city has (with few exceptions) been buried under the weight of legends, rumors and (when necessary) several tons of rock. Despite this (or because of it) whenever things get bad (...worse) for the original population of goliaths and dwarves who can trace their lineage back to that time, stories about some hidden savior or buried relic that will free them spread like wildfire. This is just such a time.

Ilidak Keendream Kathu-Viano is an explorer from a family with some grounds for its claim of being pre-conquest nobility. For the last year he has worked on commission for the Prince, leading a large and incredibly well-armed expedition into the ruins across the water from the Old City, digging into them in search of..something. No one who knows the goal has been willing to talk, but certainly it has involved hiring every historian and scholar with anything like knowledge of the city before it was Sethennai (not to mention half the charlatans and rumor mongers who might know something).

Once news of the Prince’s disappearance reached Kathu-Viano, work shifted from its previous sedate pace to something much more determined. Certain paranoid minds have said it’s almost like he was waiting for this. Other, moderately less paranoid ones have pointed out it’s a bit odd that the government-sponsored expedition is so short on patricians and city notables and so high on mercenaries form the interior and goliath clans with far more reason to listen to Kathu-Viano than the Prince, should some conflict break out.

The Stacks

Museums, exhibitions, satellite campuses, mystical archives, storehouses of eldritch knowledge, and one actual wizard tower - if the faint taste of ozone in the air doesn’t warn you what you’re getting in for leaving the city’s eastern gates, then the architecture certainly will. Wedged between variously reputable bookstores and inquisitives, different formalized and longstanding campuses are dedicated to the arts of conjuration, enchantment, sparkcraft, and practical cosmology. Competition for new discoveries and to fully unlock ancient secrets are good natured and nonviolent - at least, that’s all you can get out of anyone left standing once the smoke clears.

Faction of Note: The Bookhounds

The Bookhounds aren’t any sort of formal organization - and at least half of them would roll their eyes at the name - but rather a loose network of gutter mages, disreputable academics, private inquisitives and researchers for hire, and people with a little talent or cash to burn and far too much curiosity for their own good. They act as a sort of volunteer police force in the Stacks, passing each other clues and leads and doing each other favors to track down stolen (or escaped) relics and curses, stop idiots from unleashing anything really dramatic, and generally help people and save the day. Not to mention accumulate really impressive bags of tricks and rare books themselves in the process.

While they don’t have anything like a real leader, the group’s beating heart is Nikos Roth, an Esheri academic who arrived in the city as a fresh-faced student on a three month expedition a decade back and who never intends to leave. Running a small, incredibly ramshackle-looking secondhand book store wedged between two tenements, he nonetheless has one of the more impressive collections of occult lore in the city, and is more than happy to trade for more of it, or connect anyone in need with a specialist who can help them. As more than one would-be thief has discovered, he’s also a fairly talented mage, and for all that being entirely self-taught has left him with some obvious holes in his training, it’s also left him with some tricks that basically no one comes prepared to counter.

Redgate

Once, Redgate Prison stood alone, a fearsome warning of the Prince’s power to anyone looking south from the city center. Eighty-some years of steady urban sprawl later, most of its inmates would probably just need a running start from the prison walls to land back home. Filled mostly with those whose dreams of a new world fell flat, but with too little cash or too many enemies to get home, the slums of Redgate are a natural habitat for street gangs, drug peddlers, flesh traders, and everyone else looking to take advantage of the desperate and vulnerable. The prison itself - and its infamous and heavily armed wardens - has stumbled into being the center of law writ large, dealing out summary justice for criminals that are (correctly) assumed to be beneath the Prince’s notice.

Faction of Note: Regate Prison

Sitting on a steep hill across the water from the Old City, Redgate prison was at one point a fortress, but for generations has been put to use housing the city’s worst, most dangerous, and most profitable criminals. Given the sprawling, crime-ridden slums that now surround it, its wardens also work as a sort of brutal police force, keeping the pretence of order on the street and preserving the Prince’s Peace. Usually.

The problems with discipline start at the top, really. The Prison’s infamously brutal First Warden is also its oldest and most dangerous prisoner. Before the Conquest, Vrocdruk was one of the city’s lesser gods, enthroned in one of the Palantine’s grand temples. When Sethennai - the man - defeated him, he chose to pull his demons away before they could tear the god into so much bloody aether. Instead he was crippled, lessened, and bound to a new home in the fortress and a new purpose; defending the city and its rulers. Later, less skillful, princes altered the binding, making him responsible for most crime and punishment and hoping that his sacred nature would make the native dwarves and goliaths more obedient.

Vrocdruk is still crippled, still bound to the prison, still forced to obey the orders of the city’s acclaimed ruler, and still extremely unhappy about it. He takes any excuse to work out his unhappiness on criminals or troublemakers with the incredible bad luck to catch his direct attention. His wardens largely follow his example, often acting less like agents of justice and more like a particularly well armed gang - to the point of semi-officially collecting fees for ‘security’ from nearby businesses, supplementing the cash extorted from prisoners and their families for both necessities and luxuries while incarcerated.

Sootcliff

Trailing south of Foundrytown, on and under the steep slope beneath the city’s western walls, the densely packed tenements of Sootcliff are certainly stained grey enough to earn the name. Existing primarily as a source of blood and sweat to feed into the ever-hungry foundries and assembly lines to the north, The buildings are cheap, massive, and constructed at the lowest possible cost, with all the consequences you would expect from that. With easy access to weapons and alchemical supplies from Foundrytown and (literally) beneath the notice of the Old City, Sootcliff is famous as the home of militant bands, revolutionary conspiracies, disgraced artificers, and generally anyone who has a dream for a new world and a plan that will require a lot of explosions to get there.

Faction of Note: The Painted Doctors

Less a single organization and more an extraordinarily loose confederation of - often feuding - crimelords, the Painted Doctors are a fraternity of (largely half- or self-) taught alchemists who have over the last year grown to be the dominant criminal guild in Sootcliff. The name sometimes refers to the incredibly distinctive tattoos each ‘Doctor’ has covering much of their body, universally agreed to be somehow enchanted or cursed. Otherwise it refers to the incredibly alien and vibrant skin tones that their test subjects and muscle develop after repeatedly ingesting their ‘miraculous’ potions and tonics.

While possessing remarkably little actual magical talent among them, the Doctors have perfected the recipes for several extremely useful potions - several incredibly addictive drugs, a half dozen forms of acids and grenades, and a dizzying variety of enhancing tonics to improve themselves and distribute to their thugs - and have managed to keep both the recipes and their sources for the necessary reagents entirely secret. This has left them in the enviable position of being able to promise anyone signing on with them that they’ll be able to more or less become a regenerating ogre for an hour whenever they need to fight, while their opposition has had to settle with advising their men to stock up on fire and acid.

The leading light of the Doctors is one ‘Dr’ Fadre - almost certainly not his real name - an alchemical savant whose ‘miracle cures’ are bought and resold across the city. A flashy and well dressed sort whose patronage has turned several of Sootcliff’s most prominent dens of vice into something close to palaces for those who can afford it, he’s said to be far less interested in the nuts and bolts of running a criminal empire than enjoying its fruits and indulging his passion for the Sciences. It doesn’t hurt his reputation that he doesn’t look a day over thirty, and has for as long as anyone has known him.

Chance

Facing Oldport from across the river’s mouth, the docks of Chance are significantly new, cheaper, and altogether more ramshackle. Not really a part of any conscious design, Chance grew organically as the city sprawled beyond its original walls, essentially smuggling docks so successful it was easier to legitimize and start taxing them than it was to hang everyone involved. They now provide the city with a constant infusion of nerdowells and fortune seekers, and the district around them takes great pride in fleecing new arrivals of every penny to their name by the end of their first night on land. Hostels and boarding houses are usually safe, traditional vice dealers less so, and anyone selling treasure maps or magical amulets not at all. Still, they’re probably more harmless than the various mercenary recruiters and ‘exiled princes’ promising to give new arrivals exactly the thrill and fortune they came searching for.

Faction of Note: The Red Ocean Trading Company

What is now the Red Ocean Trading Company has gone through several dramatic changes over it’s eighty years of existence. First a privateer fleet hired by the Free City of Celmy during the First Armada War. Then eventually growing strong enough to seize several islands as an independent pirate state, before being crushed by the Esheri Navy during the Second Armada War. It’s remnants learned a bit of humility from that, and it is now seemingly content with its existence as either (depending on who you ask) a obscenely profitable shipping firm, or one of the most widespread criminal syndicates in the world.

The Company’s significant interests in Sethennai - nearly half the docks in Chance, guides and guards for anyone heading into the Interior, and fingers in quite a few less legitimate pies as well - are ably represented by Captain Arun Prem, a(n in)famous adventurer and scoundrel in his own right, apparently enjoying his semi-retirement behind a desk by getting outrageously drunk with his favorite mercenaries and criminals every night and swapping incredible (and implausible) old war stories.

There’s plenty of rumors, of course - that he’s here in de facto exile after angering the Company’s mysterious senior leadership. That he’s a thousand-year-old vampire and is the Company’s mysterious senior leadership. That he ate a kraken’s heart, and is immortal as long as he doesn’t lose sight of the water. That he’s biding his time to prepare an army before heading inland to carve a new kingdom for himself. That he’s only in the city for as long as it takes to carry out some truly spectacular heist. That he killed Prince Cael in a secret duel and trapped his soul in the pocketwatch he wears at all times. And so on. Of course, other rumours say that he started all of those himself to preserve his mystique as he grows fat in his old age.

Oldport

Facing out to the harbour but safely ensconced within the city walls, Oldpot is, as the name implies, one of the oldest ports in the new world - and certainly one of the busiest. Fully loaded merchant ships arrive daily, their cargoes emptied and replaced with the plunder of the New World almost overnight so they can return home on the next turn of the wind. Beyond the grand ports themselves, this district is home to all the most respectable shipping companies, merchant banks, hotels, and townhouses and apartments, as well as all the official consulates and embassies that Sethennai plays host to.

Faction of Note: First Bank of Sethennai

Despite only being as old as Prince Cael’s reign, the Bank already feels like an eternal and irreplaceable part of Sethennai. This isn’t something people are necessarily happy about, but its leadership had done a truly amazing job at keeping dissent to grumbling and resentment of the inevitable, and not actual resistance. They’re good at that sort of thing, even when they used Prince Cael’s (and, thus, the City’s) massive debts to his foreign benefactors as justification for taking control of the city’s tariffs and tolls, and began rigorously enforcing them, possibly for the first time ever.

Combined with a legal monopoly on the ability to mint coins, this has of course made the Bank incredibly wealthy. But not to the degree that might be assumed - the riches collected are to a large degree shipped back east to foreign creditors. Of the remaining, quite a bit is invested with as much an eye for politics as strict profit.

Executive Director Salman Ticaret, like most of his staff, is a Sethennai native who sought education in the Commonwealth (like most, he took a new name on gaining citizenship). Along with modern accounting and investing techniques, he came home with a firm grasp of political economy - and so for the last decade and a half has been more than happy to offer favorable rates to well positioned patrician and merchant houses, in exchange for their own favors and consideration in turn. The result is that the bank’s marble halls and adamant vaults house information as much as money. And Ticaret is perfectly willing to invest both, if the opportunity is promising enough.

Foreign Interests

The League of Free Cities

The League of Free Cities is not so much a single power as a collection of fiercely independent deomcratic city-states held together by the intertwined private empires of their leading citizens, deep and interdependent trading relationships, and a common religion that the rest of the world calls demon-worship - they view this as deeply offensive. Also they’ve been doing it for hundreds of years and they’re not all dead yet, so clearly everyone else is just doing demonology wrong. Politics are a mess of knives in the dark and openly bribing the voting populace with feasts and spectacles, with glory and riches to anyone who can hold the mob’s favor for long.

Demonic evocation - and the arts learned as a result of it, like fleshweaving, orienomarchy , breaking reality down into elemental chaos and shaping it to your whims, and so on - are in the rest of the world generally met with very thorough execution, making the freethinkers of the League the world’s bleeding edge in magical innovation. The entire culture of the League is also nearly custom-made to produce bold idiots willing to do what it takes to get rich or die trying, and the various Free City’s Adventurers Guilds are (in)famous the world over.

Until recently, the Free Cities considered Sethennai, if not one of them, then at least a younger sibling or benevolent dependency. Prince Cael’s coup has been taken as something of a wound, and the merchant interests who have lost out as he opened trade have made sure that in the decades since his name has become synonymous with bloody-handed tyranny. The first broadsheets celebrating his death will sell out in moments, and the acclaimed merchant adventurer Vyas Asraya, said to be en route to the city, is said to be very optimistic about future trading opportunities.

Holy Illyric Empire

Technically speaking a vast and sprawling feudal state unified only in the person of the Sovereign (Empress of Illyrin, Queen of Belthaya, Defender of the Hierophant of Imir, Grand Duchess of Abhari, etc, and so on, and so forth), the Empire dominates the better part of two continents, and in terms of size and prestige is unquestionably the foremost state on the globe. It is also a bureaucrat’s nightmare, its aristocracy distracted from their internal feuds only when they need to defend their ancestral rights from central overreach.

Ancient controls and long established relationships make Imperial binders the most fearsome conjurers and thaumaturges in the known world, a process not at all hurt by the wholesale incorporation of any powerful spirits or terrestrial god who will sign on the dotted line into the official pantheon. Illyrin Paladins are also easily the most storied heavy cavalry the world has ever seen, and Abharic necromancers are generally held to be the heirs (or direct pupils) of the inventors of the craft.

Illyric interests have prospered under Prince Cael’s reign, but the last years have seen Sethennai become a haven for heretical priests and radical binders, something Ambassador Konrad Reingard has been rumored to be increasingly frustrated with, though no one heard a word from his Oldport estate since the chaos began.

The Sublime Esheri Commonwealth

A thoroughly modern and enlightened state, the Commonwealth is history’s gift to the cartographer, an empire with firmly delineated borders and clear, rationally determined administrative divisions. Governed by a Janissary Corps educated and conditioned from childhood to put principle above self interest and the good of the Commonwealth above friends or (nonexistent) family, the Esheri control far less land than the Illyrin Empire, but has been able to fight it to a standstill and even force it to abandon certain far flung dependencies over a series of wars across the last century.

Beyond a ruthlessly efficient system for taxation and conscription, the Commonwealth’s military might is credited to two sources - on the one hand, its marines are the finest and most disciplined line infantry anyone is likely to ever see, experts in the use of gas and artillery and famously cool under fire. One the other, their heavy automata are an answer to any conjured devil or bound beast, enlightened clockwork providing enough force to cleave through scales and enchanted plate without missing a beat. But the Janissaries are as happy as their enemies to admit that they prefer unfair fights - though they credit their infamous spy network to the fruits of their scientific studies of society and history, while their enemies instead blame the corrupting effects of gold, blackmail, and a complete indifference to the morals of those they work with.

While the Commonwealth does have an embassy in the city, it mostly exists as an appendage of the First Sethennai Bank, the private institution responsible for printing and guarding the solvency of the city’s currency, its entire upper rung staffed by experts trained in the Commonwealth and generally considered Prince Cael’s way of paying back their support for his coup. More recently, it has been rumored that the Secretariat has taken an interest in the struggles in the interior. Coincidentally, an ‘Academic’ has been seen floating around various less than reputable bars in Chance, ostensibly as part of a project to record the city’s myths and folklore.

The Warlord States

For the last two hundred years, the interior has been an evershifting patchwork of successor kingdoms, native revolts, monstrous empires, released horrors, and stranger things besides, the unending tide of weapons and adventurers ensuring that no single player was ever able to secure dominance (and the various rulers of Sethennai have certainly played their part in keeping things that way). At the moment the foremost powers are a giantblooded kingdom led by a messaniac priest-king claiming to be the reincarnation of a Titan, a personal union enforced at sword point between a Khasli pirate queen and a goliath ‘emperor’, a red dragon who has claimed an old giant palace and forced the dwarves living in the mountains around it to provide tribute and worship, and several dozen more minor principalities. It should go without saying that war is the natural state of being, and soldiers are sucked up like ships in a whirlpool.

Adventurers are the lifeblood of Sethennai, and they don’t only flow one way. A constant stream of veterans - either enriched or embittered - skulk, limp or run back once they’ve had their fill of the wonders of the new world, usually missing something important or carrying something priceless - sometimes both. The courts and inner circles of every powerful warlord are composed exclusively of this sort of hard, tricky and generally insufferable type of rogue, and they’re often the only agents trusted enough to be dispatched on delicate missions. The line between warlord and criminal kingpin or pirate magnate is also extremely thin - sometimes nonexistent - as smuggling, sabotage and assassinations are simply basic tools of statecraft in the ruthless arena of the interior. More than once, an ambitious Prince of Sethennai has attempted to recreate their ancestor’s short lived empire, only to be found butchered in their bed but the agents of one warlord or another.

The Warlord States view Sethennai as a vital artery for supplies and funding, and for manpower to refill their armies with disposable bodies for their constant border wars. On a grander scale, those with ambition view it as either a crown jewel and future capital, or a bleeding ulcer on the land which needs to be razed to its foundations. In either case, few are interested in a strong, stable government for it. Regardless of their opinions, sending emissaries and embassies to the city is the first (and often only) diplomatic initiative of every new warlord state - though in truth their role is often closer to mercenary recruiter and fundraiser.

#this is theoretically a writing blog #D&D #abhari #well D&Dified but mostly #worlbuilding

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mc-lukanette · 4 years ago

Text

All Marinette wanted was to have a nice time at the festival with her friends. Play games, eat some snacks, and maybe win a prize or two. It was simple and exactly what was reasonable to expect from a festival.

She didn’t know what part of that included being stuck in a haunted house attraction with Luka. She’d tried her hardest to avoid that area specifically, yet she’d somehow been shoved into it alongside Luka the moment she’d let her guard down. It wasn’t that she’d hated the idea of getting one-on-one time with him, but the location wasn’t exactly ideal.

As they walked into the next room, trying to find their way out, something leapt out at them from one of the fake walls. When Marinette had originally imagined she and Luka harmonizing, she thought it might be them singing along to one of Jagged Stone’s albums, but instead, it was them screaming in unison for the nineteenth time as they bolted ahead.

They stopped in the following room to catch their breath, with Marinette whining at nothing in particular, "How big is this place?"

"I have no idea," Luka lamented. Taking in a large breath, he added, "I’m so sorry, Marinette. It’s just like Jule to do something like this."

"What?" She spun around to face him. "No, it wasn’t just Juleka!" She paused, noting, "I-I mean, I know that’s not really better, but don’t apologize for it! You didn’t do anything!"

He let out a noncommittal hum, looking away with an embarrassed blush dusting his cheeks. "Not directly, but I’m sure Jule wanted to see me freaked out."

Perplexed, she tilted her head. "Why would she want that?"

He sighed. "Because I can usually play perfectly, so people like to see me miss a note or two."

Marinette frowned, having never thought about that. Hoping it sounded somewhat comforting, she chimed in, "People do the same to me, but—ah—not because I ‘play perfectly,’ obviously." She toyed with her fingers. "I think they just think it’s funny to see me react to things."

He gave her a sympathetic look and she vaguely wondered if this was really better than trying to get through the haunted house as quickly as possible. They were technically delaying the inevitable next - and hopefully last - scare, but at the same time, it was still nice getting her alone time with him.

A thought occurring to her, she pointed out, "I didn’t know you hated anything horror-related. O-oh! Unless you told me and I didn’t remember, in which case—"

"I never told you," he confirmed. "Jule was always watching horror movies late at night when it was dark. I guess I was too—" He glanced off at the side, his modest self probably finding his words weird to say. "—nice, to ask her to turn it down."

"Having siblings sounds terrible," Marinette half-joked.

Luka snorted, though his frown didn’t fade. "She’s great, but once she figured me out, she liked scaring me every now and then."

"Really?" She’d never taken Juleka for the type.

He shrugged. "I never said anything because—" He paused, and she could see that he felt like he was being ridiculous. "—I didn’t want it to change how you saw me."

"Change—" Marinette blinked, a mix between confused at what he meant and charmed that he cared so much about what she thought of him. "—how? If anything, I’m relieved!"

He straightened, giving her a weird look. "Relieved?"

"Yeah!" She threw her arms out in dramatic fashion. "You’re human!"

Luka’s eyes went wide, then he jerked forward, stifling a chuckle.

"I’m serious!" she insisted, even while smiling herself. "I thought you might’ve been a perfect angel descending on us mortals!"

He chuckled again, nearly breaking into a giggling fit. Looking up at her with a fond expression, he waited until he was calmer to reply, "I could say the same thing about you."

She blushed. He seemed to realize what he said, given the way his brows rose, but he didn’t take it back either. She was only now feeling all the romantic atmosphere in the room, knowing very well that this was not the place to be having it.

"A-ah—so!" She leaned forward to take his hand in hers - okay, maybe that wasn’t going to help anything - then turned away. "We should get out of here! The longer we stay in here, the worse it’s going to be!"

She could sense his smile. "Yeah, let’s go."

She was glad he didn’t misinterpret what she’d said. He’d always had a way of reading her that she really admired.

They continued on, the room cluttered and with multiple diverging paths. It seemed like a perfect place for someone to pop out or make some spooky noises, but Marinette was thankful to be not as "on edge" as before, a lot of tension drained away from her conversation with Luka.

Then, the already-limited lights went off.

Marinette jumped, feeling Luka clutch her hand tighter as he flinched. She blindly reached out, but abandoned the idea immediately, not having the courage to try and feel her way around.

"It...it’s okay!" she tried to reassure, turning to him even if she couldn’t see anything. "We’ll just use what we remember seeing before to figure out which way to go! Um—" She looked around, trying to envision what the room had looked like. "I-I think there was a break in the curtains this way?"

She hesitated, waiting to see if maybe Luka had any other ideas. He was oddly silent, however, and she was starting to worry that the hand she was holding would end up not being his.

"...You’re incredibly brave, Marinette," he suddenly said.

"Huh?" She was briefly thankful to the darkness for hiding her dumb surprised face. "No, I’m really not! This is terrifying!"

"That just makes it all the more impressive," he argued. "You're scared, but you don’t stop. You keep going no matter how many times you think you slip up. Even with Adrien, you never quit. That takes a lot of courage."

She blushed red, now thankful to the darkness for a different reason. She wasn’t sure whether to thank him or brush off the compliment, but—

"Wait," she began, squinting. "With Adrien?"

"Hm?"

Realization hit a moment later, embarrassing her. "Oh. That’s right. I never told you. I guess—it just never came up?" She shrugged, knowing that he might at least feel it through their joined hands even if he couldn’t see it. "I...I moved on from Adrien a long time ago."

"Really?" he asked.

Without the light, she only had his voice to work off of. It almost made it easier, as his face often didn’t give things away unless he wanted it to. She could hear a hint of hope in his voice that he clearly tried not to make known.

Staring down at their hands, she confirmed, "Yeah. Um, I love someone else now."

He didn’t respond verbally at first, but just by the way his grip on her hand lessened, she imagined that the hope died out.

"They're very lucky, Marinette," he said, voice quieter than usual. "Have you tried telling them?"

She paused, swallowing her nerves and hoping that she wasn’t imagining things. After all, he did flirt with her earlier, unless she was just reading too much into it. Outside of how long it took her to realize her feelings, she didn’t have any reason to believe he didn’t still feel the same.

Squeezing his hand, she whispered, "I want to - I don't even have an excuse for holding back, since they already confessed to me - but..." She breathed up, adding quickly, "I can't see their lips when it's this dark."

His fingers twitched against her hand; another nonverbal reaction. She squinted at him, hoping to see any hint of his reaction, but she couldn’t even make out his silhouette.

It hadn’t even occurred to her that they haven't been jumped by anyone for a while.

Finally, Luka spoke up, a clear lightness in his voice. "Do you think you could remember what you saw before to figure it out, Marinette?"

"Remember—" She stopped, realizing what he meant, and her heart did a flip in her chest at how happy he sounded. Absorbing the moment, she looked down and ran her thumb along his hand, needing a few seconds to confirm to herself what was happening.

She felt his other hand fall upon her shoulder, the feeling alone letting her use her memory to visualize him in front of her: his casual attire, the earrings he never took off, his gorgeous highlights that she'd daydreamed about feeling between her fingers, and his vibrant blue eyes that sent waves of calm over her.

She reached up. On her first try, her hand found his cheek and her thumb slid gingerly over his lips. Luka giggled in response and she shuddered at the way his lips twitched, like he was tempted to kiss her thumb just for effect.

They both leaned towards each other, exchanging a long overdue kiss. It never occurred to them that maybe it wasn’t that no one had tried to scare them, but that they’d just been too into their own little world to notice it.

#lukaneventte: No Context November #Flower Arrangement Shipping #Pro LukaMari #Lukanette

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a-small-batch-of-dragons · 3 years ago

Note

*Cackling* Now rank your ot3's!

*long sigh*

SECTION 1:

Yes, there are sections, this is a list of 20 things. I like to be organized. These ones I seek out. I like them. I actively enjoy them on purpose.

1. Roloceit: My BOYS. Are these my 3 favorites? perhaps. You can't prove anything (you sure can, just look at my goddamn Ao3). Something about the dynamics here is just...so good for me? The combination of fluff/angst/multi-talented braincells is wonderful. I need these three to watch a documentary and tear it to absolute pieces. Also they would be so good at...actually having methods of supporting each other??? I love them.

2. Analogince: in the same vein, the SNARK. THE SASS. THE GROUPCHAT THAT WE ALL KNOW EXISTS THAT IS SOO OVERLOADED WITH SALT THAT IT'S A DEHYDRATION RISK. Also healthy communication??? supportive signifs??? good shit

3. Anxcietmus: The Dark Sides™. Again, I think these three just get each other. That means great fluff and great angst possibilities ABOUND and especially when it comes to being a menace in the rest of the mindscape. Yes. Good. Have fun.

4. Intruloceit: Someone please make this nerd take a fucking break for once. The chaos of leading what you THINK is a stuck-up buttoned-up nerd only to feel such an odd mixture of pride and mortal terror at discovering a TRUE mad scientist. Yes. Logan deserves to go ape-shit. Let him.

5. Analoceit: Did someone ask for some amused gay judgement? You got the whole scale here, Distinguished, Functional, and Disaster. They don't need the group chat because they can do it with just a look. Perfect. Wonderful.

6. Intruloxiety: slightly less snark, which is why it's ranked lower, but I don't think it would be any less supportive. Between the three of them I think they'd have a conversation about boundaries right up front and constantly be checking in with each other. Which is good!! Please do this!!

7. Loroyality (am i making up some of these names as I go? yes): The Light Sides™! The reason this is ranked lower is because I think they've got some in-canon struggles that would take some time and effort (from errybody) to sort out before I would consider this relationship healthy, but after that? Forget it. We vomiting sushine and rainbows and our teeth hurt from how sweet they are. I have faith in them.

8. Royaliceit: *sniff sniff* did someone say ANGST??? This is the only one I put up here that I mainly look for to get angst because BOY HOWDY. Especially post-POF? Roman you poor thing why do I project so strongly onto you, my god. This is a MESS and they need to do WORK to FIX IT but it's all about the misunderstanding and the healing and oh my god please someone tell Roman his worth is not based on how well his work is received please. Also if you're like me and you subscribe to the headcanon that the last time Patton and Janus agreed on something it was to stay in the closet as long as possible...*choo choo bitches angst town here we come*

SECTION 2:

These ones I don't actively seek out but you know?? For a headcanon post? They seem pretty chill. Haven't devoted a lot of brainpower to 'em, just think they're neat.

9. Moloceit (my keyboard is so confused you guys): Now THIS. THIS is the obnoxious trio of philosophy majors that ALWAYS hog the good library table. Someone will say ONE GODDAMN thing and they'll be talking about ontology and subjectivity for hours. It's impossible to tell whether or not they're being serious when they do it. As a most-definitely-not-a-philosophy-student, no. I mean, yes but no.

10. Anaroceit: you know those fucking divas that strut into the mall like they own the goddamn place? These bastards. They are the Heathers (except actually decent people) and you will not get between them and their purchases. If you come after one of them the other will overprotective the fuck out of them and rip you to shreds. You might be worried sometimes that they're hurting each other but they do actually talk about their boundaries. solid 7/10.

11. Analogicality: (whoa, we're halfway there...): These three just seem like they'd be super domestic. Not that it wouldn't also be adorable, but just kinda...routine? Virgil doesn't like new shit, Logan likes a schedule, and Patton enjoys doing things together in 'traditions.' Some spice but they're all fairly level-headed so...the most they get is screaming out songs with the windows down (WHOA LIVIN' ON A PRAYER)

12: Intrulogicality: You know those scenarios where you got Person A who runs headlong into crazy bullshit, Person B who likes to pretend they're not as into the crazy bullshit as Person A but is, and Person C who gets dragged into shit? There you go.

13: Anxmoceit: I think once they all sat down and had a conversation they might actually be decent??? But I can't stop seeing Patton and Janus coparenting Virgil so it stays platonic in my head. (listen i don't kinkshame but i am aroace, that does limit me a bit when it comes to this bag of nonsense)

14. Intrumoceit: Again, LONG conversation, but it's better to have one crazy dumbass whom you both love but please stop giving up heart attacks every two seconds bb we can't deal with these palpitations. I think this would require SO much work on Patton's end to make this healthy that I can't see it very clearly.

15. Intrumoxiety: This one I put down here because while Janus isn't the best at being straightforward (or straight) he DOES understand himself enough to actually have a productive conversation when he has to. I think Virgil would be too caught up between the dynamic of Patton and Remus for it to be healthy for him, especially at the beginning. It would end up dumping too much of the conflict resolution into his court and uh...no. No thanks. Do I think they COULD make it work? Yes, of course, but I wouldn't seek it out.

16. Anaroyality: Uhhh yeah they exist. Y'all gotta do some work to establish good boundaries but yeah, I think you could do it. Have a makeup day where everybody just fucks shit UP at a Sephora or an Ulta and try crazy looks on each other. You could do it. I believe in you.

SECTION 3:

These are the ones I will actively avoid, more often than not. If they're not handled carefully--which is not the responsibility of other creators, I take full blame, this is just how I personally interpret them--they can squick me out. The ones with Roman and Remus are down here, and as a disclaimer, this isn't because I view poly relationships where not all parties are dating each other as inherently inferior, not at all. I just think that within a relationship where both Roman and Remus are dating the same person, that has the potential to go REAL bad REAL quick.

17. Intrulogince: Do I want to see Roman and Remus playfully competing to win the favor of our favorite nerd? yes. Do I think it would end up aggravating the rivalry they already had to really bad places? Also yes. Either with Roman backing off and internalizing the idea that he's not good enough or by exploding on both of them. It's a bad time. No. That being said, I have seen things where Logan is just spoiled by incredible things made in the Imagination and those are very sweet. a good time.

18. Intruprinxiety (that looks so weird when it's spelled out, oh my god it sounded so much better in my head): Again, exacerbating a pre-existing rivalry, oh dear me, and this time poor Virgil's caught in the middle? a mess. There is also the potential for them to be childhood friends to lovers which would be very sweet but the overlap with all of their combined histories are...a lot of baggage. Like so much.

19. Intruroceit: The only way I can see this happening is Roman's inadequacy issues and abandonment issues going THROUGH THE FUCKING ROOF and it would force Remus into being a pseudo-therapist for them and Janus your habit of messing with Roman needs to gtfo right the fuck now.

20. Intruroyality: is anyone surprised that this one is my least favorite? Between the squicks I get from Patton as a character, the relationship between Patton and both of the twins in canon, and how much baggage Roman and Remus have...no. Absolutely not. I have horrible memories of some very toxic relationships that I can absolutely see here and no.

*phew* that was a long one. you're welcome.

EDIT: thank you @shinekittenace for names seriously this post is a mess

#dragonbabbles #sanders sides #i do have opinions on the matter

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admdmrtn · 4 years ago

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25 (Holi)Days of Wayhaven

DAY 11 - MYTH

pairing | adam x f!detective (edith oshiro) word count | 1090 words warnings | none summary | The brown in them stares back at him, patient, as if waiting for him to remember - to remember her. And try hard as he might, even when he’s done all that he could to ignore, dismiss and erase it, he could never forget her, for so it seems that Edith has always been there, entwined in his heart strings, weaving like she does the silk.

a/n | a very very big thank you to @midmodmar for this lovely commission! it was incredibly great to work with her - she’s so accommodating, sweet and ridiculously talented i mean look at it!!!!!! i’ve been so excited to share this since i got it back but i knew i wanted to write something along with it too. i initially got the idea from this video but because i also wanted to participate in @wayhavenmonthly‘s 25hwh, i thought i’d tweak it accordingly as well! n e ways i hope you like it!!

((and also!!! let me know if you want to be tagged in my posts - i’ll include a tag list from now on for anything that involves a story whether a prompt or a one shot))

•••

Her body moves gracefully on the silks, fluid in her motion, precise in her execution - a perfected performance.

Void of any distinct emotion, Edith has her eyes closed and her expression calm as she maneuvers herself easily on the light green hammock in accordance to a memorised choreography, the music playing softly in the background. Twisting and turning, and despite being binded, there is liberation in her movements in which the material complies harmoniously as an extension to her being, her limbs working with the restraints rather than giving in to its limitation, thus leaving in its wake an enchanting aerial display.

Adam leans against the doorframe, arms folded and absolutely charmed with the way the detective is able to contort her body so gracefully. His eyebrows shoot up slightly when he watches her do a five feet knee drop before she extends her legs in opposite directions, achieving a split almost effortlessly in mid-air. Edith has more often than not showcased exemplary prowess in combat, and Adam no longer has as much doubt in her capabilities as before, especially not after she’s proven herself through several of their missions. But watching her indulge in a different form of conditioning brings forth an entirely new array of emotions; a mixed bag of wonderment, and awe, and oddly enough, nostalgia.

The song restarts itself - it having been put on loop so that there is no need for Edith to play it again manually each time it finishes - and it’s in that moment that Adam notices the lyrics, the meanings, and the haunting melody that’s encoated along with them.

I know you, I walked with you once upon a dream.

Observing her as she begins the routine all over from the beginning, Adam’s focus trains in on the song. He’s not one to listen to the words in a song usually; in fact, he’d rather music without words entirely. But there’s something about this particular track that just trickles fuel to a slow flame of realization - a pot of emotions that’s been brewing for a short while now.

I know you, that look in your eyes is so familiar a gleam.

Upon reopening her eyes, Edith catches sight of Adam almost instantly. She maintains eye contact despite spinning flawlessly in the air, slowly, before she offers him a knowing smile. He ponders briefly what knowledge lies behind those lips, and spares a second if he’d ever brave himself one day to venture beyond them and find out.

And I know it’s true that visions are seldom what they seem. But if I know you—

Edith nods at him, though he is uncertain if she’s merely acknowledging him or beckoning him towards her. Regardless, his feet move instinctively, reacting without question to her siren call. Like a puppet on a string, there is no denying the pull that Adam feels in the space between himself and her, so much so that he can almost hear the begging amidst their silent conversation for that very space to disappear.

I know what you’ll do.

It’s all vaguely similar to him, the act of taking these steps towards her. As though embedded into muscle memory, Adam’s reminded of a far away recollection - whether it be of stories about seeking answers from a fairy queen, the reminiscence of striding into the manor parlour before greeting esteemed guests, or perhaps the distant wishful thinking of walking down the aisle. Whatever it is, it feels right. And his heart, even as it thumps away like a band of marching soldiers, is at the ready in anticipation. In recognition.

You’ll love me at once—

Standing before Edith who hangs upside down, Adam reaches out to steady the hammock, his eyes never leaving hers. The brown in them stares back at him, patient, as if waiting for him to remember - to remember her. And try hard as he might, even when he’s done all that he could to ignore, dismiss and erase it, he could never forget her, for so it seems that Edith has always been there, entwined in his heart strings, weaving like she does the silk.

The way you did once upon a dream..

During the times of Classical Greece, Aristophanes, in echo of his friend Plato, once said, “When a person meets the half that is his very own, something wonderful happens: the two are struck from their sense by love, by a sense of belonging to one another, and by desire, and they don’t want to be separated from one another, not even for a moment.”

All throughout his life - both mortal and immortal - Adam has struggled to decide whether he was agreeable to such a claim. When he was younger, once upon a bedtime story, his mother had always made sure to remind him that one day, in the near future, he’ll meet someone who would undoubtedly make him understand - make him see that the myth isn’t a mere myth. And in those younger days, he was more susceptible to believing her words, occasionally meeting with a stranger whenever they visited in his dreams.

As a young knight however, he began spending too much time in the company of pleasure to consider the idea of monogamy; of dedicating himself to only one person. At the time, marriage and courtly love were two complete dichotomies anyway - where neither one could indefinitely put a stop on the other. “So why bother?”, his greedy self had asked arrogantly. And it was only after he was turned that things were put into perspective, one in which he remains unsure if he regrets or is relieved by. If there was anything, he was at least certain that the idea of having someone accepting him wholeheartedly as his other half vanished entirely. Or almost entirely.

He wasn’t sure exactly what it was that he felt when he, along with the rest of Unit Bravo, encountered Edith for the first time outside the abandoned warehouse. He didn’t notice it then, but when she pulled the trigger and shot him in the shoulder, it wasn’t anger or hatred that settled deep in his guts, no. Rather, it was as if his entire body heaved a long sigh of relief, exhaling a breath that’s been held in for far too long. Even as he bandaged himself later that night, it was attraction that fluttered in his chest instead of repulsion; and it was the first time in a millennia that he'd heard his mother’s voice again.

“You’ll know when.”

•••

tags | @katbee @losingface

#25hwh #25 (holi)days of wayhaven #twc fic #the wayhaven chronicles #commission #a du mortain #detective edith oshiro #edam #long post

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draven-imani · 3 years ago

Text

Journal 5 (Part 2)

So. Yeah. Commander Irabeth Tirabade gave me a temporary field promotion. Although she said there wasn’t much of the Raven Corps left to speak of at the moment. Apparently, a certain Golden Boy had commandeered as many people as he could convince to come with him on a mad quest into the Worldwound after the attack and our group fell underground. He has an entire legion following him, which he dubbed the Silver Legion. She said it was likely he’d be back soon for a supply run.

Damn. I always knew Leto would go far. But to rally the troops on his own without any preestablished backing and just…go for it? I don’t know how he does it. We walked the same path and yet somehow he’s always been in a completely different league than me. I don’t envy him, not in the slightest. I’m in awe, more like. It’s like looking at the sun. It’s incomprehensible.

Ah. I wish he were here instead of there, though. He’d know how to handle this whole ‘Acting Captain’ thing. I feel in over my head already. I don’t want a position of power. I don’t want people’s lives in my hands. I only thought I wanted to go up the ranks when I was an idealistic kid with no idea what that meant. Now…the idea of giving the order that gets someone killed sickens me…

But if Commander Tirabade is the one who gives me that responsibility, I don’t think I’ll be able to say no.

I was starting to doubt…a lot, the last couple of days, honestly. Everything about Luna threw things into question. And then we found out Baphomet cultists infiltrated the church. And then Auriel died. And then I first talked to Radiance…and heard their threats. The threats from a holy weapon that sounded like they should have come from a demon. That stung. That shook me.

But then we met Irabeth Tirabade. And even in person she represents everything I have ever strived to be. Both in the sense of a former Raven Corps member who pulled herself out and into a position to actually be of use to the world, but also in the sense of how an Iomedae worshipper should carry themselves. She’s noble and strong and honorable, but she’s not quite so stuck in her ways as Auriel was, she seems to see things the way they are, and have been in the past, and she seems to be willing to admit when things are rotten and need to be fixed. I respect her. A lot. I…don’t want to disappoint her.

Aaaaand that means, if she gives me a responsibility, I have to rise to the task…even if I really really reeeeeeeeally don’t want to.

Commander Tirabade told me to give her a full report of everything that had happened. Which is exactly what I’d been keeping this journal for. So I gave her my report, and had the others chime in where my memory or note taking didn’t serve adequately. Then I showed her Radiance. I didn’t really think about it, because I thought since she was a paladin that Radiance wouldn’t be quite so ‘I’m going to flay you alive’. Or maybe I just wasn’t thinking, because she was Irabeth Tirabade and I’m dumb. That’s more likely. Anyways Radiance started burning her hands, so I quickly took them back.

And I may have admonished them out loud for doing that. To which Radiance basically asked ‘what part of chosen wielder don’t you understand?’ which…fair, but I guess I kind of thought Radiance was the one deciding whether or not to start hurting someone for touching it with how they’d worded it last time. I didn’t think it just happened.

The others were looking at me like I was crazy and asked if I was talking to my sword. So then I had to explain that Radiance is a magic intelligent weapon and also really picky about who wields them.

(And I got a little off track figuring out Radiance’s pronouns here. The answer boiled down to ‘I don’t conform to your mortal view of gender, call me whatever you want’, so I’m sticking with they since it’s neutral. Must be nice being a formless weapon spirit who can just give a copout answer like ‘I don’t conform to your mortal view of gender’. I’d not conform to my mortal view of gender if I could, but I have a flesh prison with all that gender-y stuff that comes with it.)

So then one of them, I forget who, commented about me being the chosen wielder of Radiance. And I think I laughed. I corrected them. No, I wasn’t the chosen wielder. The others pointed out I was wielding them, it sure looked like I was. So I explained what Radiance had already explained to me. That Auriel had been meant to wield them. That I was only holding them now because Auriel didn’t make it this far, and because Auriel’s soul vouched for me.

Commander Tirabade gave her condolences to us about Auriel, and asked that I tell her as much as I could about him later, as someone was going to give a eulogy for all who had been lost in the battle against the demons soon and she would make sure given his heroic sacrifice that he was given the send off he deserved.

Then Anevia rejoined the conversation, having been listening in on the sword talk. She called Irabeth over and asked her about the sword she had lied about selling. Anevia proved even with a sweet voice and a smile to be scarier than the much larger and more fearsome looking commander. Commander Tirabade admitted that she had sold her sword in exchange for an anniversary gift for Anevia. A potion that permanently changes one’s gender.

Aaaaand looking back I really hope the talk about pronouns was not uncomfortable, I was legitimately trying to be polite to the sword, despite Radiance never once extending the same courtesy to me.

Anyways.

By the end the Commander determined that it would be a good idea for us to continue taking out the safehouses, but she had another mission for us as well once that was done. Something big. She told us that another of Deskari’s generals was on her way here—the witch Arelu Vorlesh. We had heard rumors of this from drifters on the streets as well. The crusaders had managed to get information that Deskari’s cult had holed up in Old Kenabres, making a stronghold of a temple to the Inheritor known as the Grey Garrison. There was a piece of the wardstone left still intact, and Arelu was coming to corrupt it. If she was successful, the Commander believed Arelu was going to turn the wardstone into a weapon that would decimate the crusaders on the battlefield.

With that in mind, she had a librarian from the Blackwing come forward with a magical rod. I’m not one for the arcane, but Hiskaria sounded extremely in awe and almost equally disturbed by the implications of the rod, a ‘rod of cancellation’. The important part I gathered was that if Hiskaria used the rod on the wardstone, then it would destroy it.

Melody was hesitant, wondering if there was any way to eventually fix the wardstone and restore the barrier to save the city. Commander Tirabade said no. It had been created hundreds of years ago, when times were less turbulent, and with divine intervention. We had neither the means nor the time, and every moment we left the wardstone intact was a moment Arelu could return to attempt to corrupt it to her own purposes. Better that it was destroyed than in enemy hands.

We agreed. The Commander said that she would not order this strike until we had cleared out all of the safehouses, so that they had nowhere to fall back to, and no reinforcements to call upon, or else the strike would be a suicide mission. But once we had finished ridding the city of their other bases of operations, she would have an army march on the main forces of Deskari, drawing their attention, while our small strike force took the Grey Garrison.

With a plan in place, we decided that today we would at least take down one more safehouse before we rested. I was the only one really in need of any rest, and Commander Tirabade offered that the clerics of the crusades were at our disposal before we left so that we would not have to use our own limited supplies. Once my remaining injuries from those blasted vultures were healed, we set out.

We came upon some looters, who had overturned the caravan of a handful of survivors and were picking through it. We discussed, and decided we didn’t particularly want to kill these guys, just spook them. So Luna pulled up her hood and donned her Butcher persona, then went after the looters, threatening that she would add them to her pile of the dead if they didn’t abandon this cart to her. It worked, and they fled for their lives.

Luna removed her hood and we approached the survivors. They were frightened after that display, but glad to have their supplies back. We pointed them in the direction of Defender’s Heart and gave them the passcode, and told them to let them know we’d sent them, as we’d seen a number of refugees being housed safely there.

After that we continued on our way, until we came upon the Tower of Estrod. From the note we’d gotten off Hosilla, there was a passcode, “I’ve new material for the archives”. Since we knew this, and we knew Hosilla’s face, we formed a plan. Melody was able to use the magic of her scale of Trendalor to disguise herself as Hosilla. I was to pretend to be one of the Baphomet worshippers who was a false Iomedaen. And Luna was merely being a more exaggerated version of herself, using her infamy as the Butcher of Balestreet to her advantage. Hiskaria didn’t want to go inside and be stuck in close quarters, so she remained outdoors on lookout, listening for any sign of things going badly. After some discussion, Melody had handed off Auriel’s scale to Hiskaria, and explained how it worked to her. The scales couldn’t be used together, so Melody needed to hand it off regardless, and it seemed right that since Hiskaria was going to be helping us for the foreseeable future, she should be the one to hold it. And as an archer the levitation ability it granted would be of more use to her than to any of us.

With a plan in mind, the three of us walked into the proverbial lion’s den. Two cultists of Baphomet were lounging about on the bottom floor. Believing they recognized Melody as Hosilla, they let us in, and told us to meet with a man on the upper floor by the name of Faxon. We followed Melody’s lead, and went up the stairs. At the top of the tower, we found a tiefling with a scorpion upon his shoulder. He spoke smugly to ‘Hosilla’, and had a very…slimy feel about him. I got the impression that he and Hosilla were not on good terms, perhaps even that Stauton Vhagn pit them against each other and that’s why he was having Hosilla check up on him, just to rub salt in the wound. Unfortunately, Melody didn’t quite know how far to press, and backed down too soon, after making her ‘report’, agreeing to return downstairs with little bite back. When questioned about what I knew, I did the safe thing and pled ignorance, claiming to merely be Hosilla’s guard and not someone in a position to have information. When asked, Luna said she was just there for the kills, nothing more nothing less.

As Melody went to have us return downstairs, Faxon called Luna back to him. I had a bad feeling, but Luna shrugged it off and said to go on without her. Melody decided that maybe we could take out the cultists downstairs quietly while he had whatever discussion he wanted with her. I agreed, although we never got the chance. When we reached the bottom of the stairs, the sound of violence broke out upstairs, and the two downstairs were alerted that something was amiss. Melody and I decided it would be best for us to guard the stairs and make sure these two couldn’t sneak up on Luna from behind first before going upstairs to try to help her finish with Fenox.

I took care of one of the cultists swiftly, with Radiance spurring me on, the both of us eager to put an end to the evils of these worshippers of the Minotaur. The sounds upstairs began to die down, as Melody took a stab at the other from the stairs with Hosilla’s glaive. He tried to flee. Melody wasn’t going to allow that. She leapt from the stairs, and with far less regard for a glaive that isn’t her family’s sentimental one, she used it to pole-vault at the cultist, landing behind him and swinging around to stab at him once again. Still he was up. He almost made it to the door.

Just in time for Hiskaria to open the door and shoot an arrow in his face.

Somehow by some twisted luck he was still going, but Melody caught up with him once again, and maaaay have decided to show off a little to our new companion as she leapt in the air and skewered the man, finally dead.

All was quiet. I was about to be concerned about what might have happened to Luna, but then Hiskaria told me about the absolutely ridiculously amazing one sided one on one ‘fight’ she’d had with Fenox. As if I should have been worried about Luna. Hiskaria had heard the commotion and used the scale to levitate up so she’d she the last half of the fight. The upper floor didn’t have a roof, so she had been intending to shoot an arrow right into the other tiefling’s skull, but it ended up not being necessary.

See, there was a wall bisecting that room, with a door. He’d shut and locked the door to put it between him and Luna when things started looking bad. Luna had shown yet again just how little walls meant to the Butcher of Balestreet when she used the glaive she’d been holding holding for show as a means to pull herself up and over, then came down on Fenox with her axe. The Butcher one, Baphomet zero.

We met with her upstairs, where we found a shrine to Baphomet and a minotaur shaped object on the wall that was causing the room to be desecrated by its mere presence. There was also a treasure chest, so we decided that while the others went through the loot, I was going to take Radiance and have a bit of fun.

It took some time, that minotaur head was damned sturdy. But when it did break, Radiance’s voice echoed through the room. It wasn’t just me that heard it that time, but everyone. Their voice faded after only a moment. The others seemed a little shaken by that. I don’t really blame them. Radiance is…a lot. They’ve gone back to just being in my head now, which is probably for the best. Them quieting down entirely would probably be better, but I’m not lucky enough to have a normal holy sword that doesn’t demand the blood of demons and cultists as we fight. Ah, well. At least we agree on who our enemies are.

The chest had holy symbols and the favored weapons of multiple faiths, pointing towards the cult’s penchant for infiltration. We decided we would return them to the clerics at Defender’s Heart. Looking back I kind of wish I’d asked if they’d be okay with me keeping one. My wooden holy symbol’s seen a lot of use, and isn’t exactly the sturdiest material. Silver to match Leto’s wouldn’t have hurt. Ah, well. Hindsight and all that.

We were feeling really good after how well that went. We’d been planning on calling it a day after the tower, but since we’d used virtually none of our resources we agreed that unless we ran into particularly nasty trouble on the road we should try to clear out Topaz Solutions, report back to the Commander, and prepare to storm the Grey Garrison tomorrow.

Topaz Solutions was quite a bit farther than the tower had been from Defender’s Heart. Which meant more time for attacks from demons or other things lurking about.

First we were attack by two barbed creatures which made a terrible howling noise. Their barbs were painful when we got too close, but we cleared them out quickly enough with little trouble to speak of. No one ended up with any of the barbs stuck in them, which was a blessing. That could have proven difficult.

Then…we came to Balestreet. The demons had left the street as much a gory horror scene as one might have expected of Luna’s namesake. Here, two cultists of Baphomet tried to ambush us. Big mistake. Luna decided she was eager to make true to her nickname, and took her axe to them. They didn’t go down.

Then two arrows went straight through them, ice burst from one’s injuries, and both fell dead on the road. Hiskaria looked a bit sheepish, asking Luna if she shouldn’t have done that, since Balestreet was supposed to be Luna’s thing. Luna shrugged it off, saying it worked either way.

Remind me not to get on the bad side of the ladies in our group, they can cut quite the fearsome characters.

With that we were on our way, the rest of the walk to Topaz Solutions uneventful. The apothecary was being looted by a couple of thugs when we arrived. Luna decided to do her thing and scared them off with a few threats from the Butcher. Then we started looking around. The looters had taken anything of value, but Luna after some poking around found some ‘really nice door technology’, and opened a secret passage that led into a hidden basement. Luna and Melody snuck down first.

After a minute of waiting, Hiskaria and I heard Luna and Melody call us down, saying there was a strange mechanical doll and an image on the wall they couldn’t identify. I went down first. As Melody stepped forward to let me in, the minotaur head on the wall began to speak. It taunted us, saying it hoped we were Iomedaens so that this surprise from Baphomet wouldn’t go to waste. Then the doll began moving, and smashed a bottle, releasing a small plant creature.

There was also some kind of…gas I think? Something was in the chamber after that which was causing us various issues. Melody and I both started finding it hard to breath for instance—not so much that we were suffocating, but enough that we were wheezing and likely would have been unable to easily move stealthily.

Worse was that plant. It was in a thick patch of vines that it could move through with ease but which we struggles in. It screamed in such a way that it caused both Melody and Hiskaria to become nauseous, forcing them to flee upstairs to safety and leaving me and Luna to deal with it by ourselves. And it was small and tricky, dodging around many of our attacks in the most frustrating manner. Luna did finally squash the blasted thing, and I went over to the minotaur head and broke whatever the device was that was releasing gas into the room.

Then we searched the room and found a chest with a mocking note claiming we deserved a reward for besting the trap. Within were a number of stolen holy symbols. Luna stopped us from taking them, noting that they were covered in a contact poison.

I have decided I rather dislike this Igon Topaz, and do hope he survived the attack on the city. If only so that I may someday bring judgement upon him myself.

With all three safehouses cleared out, we’ve returned to Defender’s Heart for the night. We reported back to the Commander, and we spent some time unwinding and preparing for tomorrow. There are some merchants set up so we were able to get some supplies. And, more importantly, we got some drinks.

And even more importantly, Leto’s back.

He showed up while we were making preparations, all smiles and charm as always. He thought I’d died in a pit, I thought he’d been killed by demons, same old same old.

He looked amazing. He’s been doing well for himself. He really was the picture of a paladin in that silver armor riding up on a holy steed. Although I guess to him I must have looked maybe a little impressive with the holy sword Radiance at my side. Ah, if only he could have a conversation with them, he’d quit being impressed real quick.

Leto played up his knight in shining armor role well, flirted with Hiskaria even though she’s twice his age and a convicted murderer, and got on well with Melody. He…did not get on well with Luna. He tried, certainly, at first, but then she threw some misplaced insults about him being Raven Corps which I corrected, and then she brought up how all the reports of her being a murderer are vastly exaggerated by the Raven Corps and…it was just all around awkward, I think.

So then he introduced us to his horse, Charles, instead. He got a kick out of the fact he’d given his holy mount such a mundane name instead of something more heroic like—

Hold up. Charles.

Charlie.

Chalie Horse.

…that blasted tiefling, I’m going to wring his neck next time I see him.

I can’t decide if I’m mad about the pun, mad I didn’t catch it when we were talking about it, or mad that I didn’t think of it first.

Named his holy steed a pun, the nerve of that man...I wonder if anyone else has caught on. Commander of the Silver Legion, Leto Jules, the tiefling so charismatic he managed to sway 50,000 people to his banner…named his holy steed Charlie Horse. Inheritor help me I don’t know what to do with him.

Or how to outdo that.

Which is frustrating.

Oh well. What’re you going to do? Some days you find out your brother is not just still alive but now leading a legion on the back of a horse named Charlie and you just roll with it.

I’m glad he’s okay.

His Silver Legion is going to be joining the fight against the main forces tomorrow while our strike force goes into the Grey Garrison. So that’s more for me to worry about. But Leto’s always been a lucky bastard unlike me. He’ll be fine.

After the fact Melody, Hiskaria, and Luna decided it was really important to whisper amongst themselves and to send me away. So apparently it’s rumor time again. Yay. I’m fairly certain with them it would be nothing bad…but I can’t fathom what they could have possibly been whispering about. I suppose if they think Leto and I are related by blood it could have been about that, if they think I share his demonic bloodline…but Hiskaria is a tiefling as well, I see little reason why they would need to be secretive about it if that were the case. And quite frankly Leto and I don’t look alike. At all. Even if he weren’t golden, we don’t share even close to the same features. So I don’t think we could be mistaken for blood relatives.

I don’t know, and there’s really no use in speculating. It’s growing late, and we have a temple to siege in the morning.

#journal entry #pathfinder #pathfinder wotr #pathfinder wotr spoilers #Draven Imani

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amethystpath-writes · 4 years ago

Text

Can Only Move the Eyes

Original Work

Can Only Move the Eyes

@badthingshappenbingo

Small Description: an immortal sorceress is trying to rid herself of immortality by taking the life of the one she loves.

******

You're strong, the lady's voice said, but not strong enough to counter my powers.

If Tysin could growl, he would have, but he couldn't move. Even his breaths were controlled by the sorceress at his side.

Have you had training? Defense against magic? the sorceress, named Giladiasana- Sana, for short- asked Tysin in his head. He could answer if he wanted, think a response loudly enough that she would hear, but he didn't care to talk to a woman who was about to bleed him dry.

Sana pushed a hard barrier on his mind, causing a sharp sting, one that would have made Tysin take a sharp intake of breath and even hold his head, but all he could do was squeeze his eyes shut. That was meant to happen differently, she whispered in his head.

When Tysin opened his eyes again, he glanced around, head unmoving, but eyes darting about. There was glass everywhere. Mostly bottles full of discoloured liquids. Other pieces of glass- colourful ones- dangled about on strings. Tysin assumed it was sea glass. The sorceress's hut was an alcove by the beach so it made sense.

You're ignoring me. Very nice. Sana purred in his mind and it felt to Tysin like it wrapped around his brain. He felt dizzy despite being entirely still.

Why shouldn't I? he finally replied. You pretended to be a friend and now I'm paralyzed. He laughed mentally and added, But let me guess. I should be grateful that I can move my eyes, right?

The sorceress crossed the room. She left Tysin's field of vision as he was laid down. Still, she reached out to his mind. How powerful was she? Depends, Sana sighed. Would you feel better if I kept your eyes closed while I did this?

In truth, he wasn't sure if not seeing was better or worse. Sure the sorceress' home was somewhat fascinating to look at- even if his vision was limited- but wouldn't it be a taunt when she finally dragged a blade across his arm and he began bleeding out? He'd rather see the sky while he died than a bunch of dried roots, twigs, and strange shapes made of clay.

Why are you doing this? Why me?

Which should I answer first?

Sana entered Tysin's sight again. If he could have, he would have lunged at her from his table. Just answer.

You're angry, she observed first. You don't have to be. I don't intend on killing you. I like you.

Tysin would have scoffed at this, except he couldn't imagine scoffing without his chest huffing, and his chest couldn't move. It was like his mind forgot what scoffing was without actually having the action. Whereas laughing was mostly a sound, scoffing required an attached feeling. He didn't have that feeling. It was odd. He blamed Sana.

As for why you...well it's what I just said. I like you, and I don't want to get rid of you. If you had been someone else, I might have killed you to complete my goal. But... Tysin rolled his eyes. The sorceress needed to stop pretending she had any amount of feeling for him. She was cleaning a damn blade so that she could cut him open. She didn't like him. She was keeping him, like a pet. You knew I was different from the moment you met me. You're observant like that. You knew there was something dangerous about me, but you still befriended me.

And this is how you repay me. Again, he wanted to scoff, but the concept was absent. Will it hurt? he asked instead. When I bleed out, will it hurt?

The cut would hurt, but I'll make sure you don't feel it, she said. Tysin was pissed hearing the genuineness in her voice. He refused to believe she felt any remorse for this. And anyway, I'm not bleeding you out, not fully. I'll have to do this a few times. The worst to happen is you'll feel faint and get a few headaches, but I have herbs to help with the latter.

Tysin didn't reply. He was confused- and angry, but mostly confused. Because she did sound sincere. She did sound like she cared, and like she didn't want to hurt him. But if she didn't want to...then why was she? What do you need me for? Why my blood? What are you using it for? He wanted to ask again, why him? Why not some other man or woman she'd met? Why did it have to be someone she apparently cared about? There were too many questions, and it seemed like there weren't enough answers. What she was doing was heathenish and no explanation could be enough.

I'm selfish, Sana told him. There was a long pause and Tysin's chest rose suddenly as the sorceress' did, too. She must have accidentally projected her own actions onto him. His eyes went wide at the swell of feeling. At the same time his chest had rose, he felt something ripping in his arm.

I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. I didn't mean-

The pain in his arm increased and he screamed, his arm jerking to his chest. The skin on his chest felt warm, and he discovered he had mobility in his neck again as he looked down. Sana's control over him had slipped and he felt the pain she caused. She'd stuck the knife in his arm and it was bleeding now, bleeding through his shirt and settling on his skin.

"Tysin, I didn't- I'm sorry. I meant to numb you, but I- What am I doing?" sana sounded angry with the last question.

She rushingly put a hand on Tysin's shoulder, and he fell still again. His arm stung as it slammed against the table. He would have grunted but Sana had control again. His eyes were stuck in a pained squint. They burned as he couldn't blink.

"I've never-" Sana paced beside the table. Tysin didn't see the knife anymore. Had she dropped it. "I don't want to do this," she stressed. "But it's all I want, too." Was she sniffling? "You can still feel. Shit."

In the next moment, the pain in Tysin's arm was gone, and so was the warmth of his own blood on his chest when he cradled his arm. His eyes could move again, too, and he found himself actually be grateful that she'd decided to let them move unlike the rest of his body.

"You know what, I'm just going to say it." Sana took a deep breath. "There's a lot to it, but I'll simplify it as much as I can." Another breath. "I'm not just a sorceress, or a witch, or whatever you want to call me. Before that, I was- you'll never believe me..." Sana sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose. "I'm a god. Or was. I was a god before I was made a sorceress on this Earth. And I'm immortal. I know it sounds crazy; I'm not even sure that you believe in the gods, but they do exist. The gods are real and they're the reason that I'm here as I am.

"I wanted to be mortal. I didn't want to be a god anymore, and they called me cowardice for wanting to abandon my powers and control. But I...life isn't worth living if you can't die. Why should I like to create if what I create has an expiration date and I don't? I want to die, Tysin. I don't want to live forever."

What does this-

You can talk. Sana nodded at him.

Tysin let his lips part before licking them. He tested his jaws, opening and closing his mouth and letting his teeth clack together. He ran his tongue along the backs of his teeth and along the skin of his cheek.

Finally, he spoke, "What does any of that have to do with me?" he asked. He didn't say whether or not he believed her outlandish story.

She swallowed. "They punished me," she explained. "They put me on a land of mortals and made me into another immortal, a one-of-a-kind. They made me into a target on this land. Witches were a scary tale created by mortals and the gods made it real, made me into that fictional form. I still want to die, so they surrounded me with death, and made it so that I can still never die."

Tysin gave a blank look. This still had nothing to do with him. She was avoiding the answer.

Sana caught onto his impatience and nodded, getting on with it all. "They have given me a choice. I still value the mortals as my creation. They are precious to me. So..." She sighed like she had done so often today. "I can obtain a mortal life for myself, but only if I kill a mortal I love." Sana walked closer to the table so that she could look Tysin in the eyes. "And I love you, but...I can't kill you. I won't." Her brows pinched together. "But I have to." Sana shook her head.

"You asked if it would hurt and before you asked that, I was still considering following through. I'm selfish, I'll say it again. But when you asked me that...I couldn't let you die. So what I want to do now is..." She grunted in aggravation. "There's so much playing into this. Okay, there are about 5.7 liters of blood in a human's body. And since blood is what allows for life, I must take yours for myself- drink it. What I want to do now, because I won't kill you, is I'll take 5.7 liters of your blood, but over a course of time. I'll take some today, let you recover. Take more another day, recover. And I'll keep doing that until I have enough to equate to one life."

Sana smiled, for the first time today. "Then we can both be mortal and I can love you until we both die. I won't have to be afraid of the person I love dying and therefore having to live on my own without them."

Tysin was almost in shock at the overload. "That...wasn't very simplified."

She gave a huff of a laugh, eyes bright.

"Let me get this straight. You want to take my life so that you can experience death?"

"In a way. I'm not actually taking your life because I won't be killing you, but yes. I am taking your blood so that we can be together."

What makes you think I want to be with you? Who was she to believe he would just be okay with her taking his blood? Sana was out of her mind! Sure she was a sorceress; he believed that in full. But an immortal god? One that needed his blood to overcome a neverending life? No. No, she was crazy.

But, he supposed, this is more up to my own selflessness now.

Sana could find another person to love. Love was limitless and could be presented in many forms. There's motherly love and platonic love. Romantic and admiration. Sana could make a new friend and do this to them instead of Tysin, but it didn't seem okay to do that. This was now a test of Tysin's morals, not the sorceress'. Could he be as selfish as her? Put someone else's life at risk or have them bled out day by day like Sana was proposing she do to him? No. Absolutely not.

"It's okay," Tysin said to the sorceress leaning over him. It wasn't okay. Not at all, but he wouldn't risk someone else's life for his own. Wouldn't make someone else go through being cut open ever day or week or however often it might happen to him. Tysin considered asking Sana to go ahead and kill him, but he knew she wouldn't do that. She loved him so much that she lost control even when she'd first hurt him with the knife. "Do what you must."

******

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herrwagner · 4 years ago

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[Hi there! So, I've really been enjoying your long-term corruption arc on Krakoa with Dis/goreverine. Any spoilers or thoughts you're willing to share about that? No pressure! I'm really on board with Krakoa taking a dive into the horror genre because it's seriously just begging to be written.]

Hi! I would answer this privately but I know for a fact there are more people that wanna know, so I hope you don’t mind x: But that said let’s do a lil deep dive!

And a small disclaimer like this all very much a work in progress, it is all very dynamic and can be changed when things more fitting are figured out and so on. It’s a thing.

Also this can you know... contain triggers so it will be under a cut for safety’s sake! Also it’s gonna be looong.

So first things first: I am so happy you like it and sent this! Truly over the moon so like thank you so so much for letting me go off an ramble. I will probably be enjoy this more than anyone else so let’s go!

It’s not so much corruption as it is just letting base instincts be a more prominent part of things. The whole embrace your nature aspect is very big on Krakoa, and I don’t see that lessening over the years. For Kurt, being of Neyaphem decent. that very much comes down to embracing a more demonic side that he has been pushing hard to keep away from himself up until now.

Before Krakoa Kurt has made a very big point of not associating with Azazel more than he has to, and that includes denying a lot of himself, a lot of his heritage. simply to easier handle who he himself is as a person. Getting to Krakoa is like getting force feed with having to dive deep and embrace it whether he likes it or not.

It looks a lot like Kurt may well be spiraling because of getting there, but it started slowly already when he gave up his immortal soul. Krakoa is just a fair ground where he can explore it and adapt without judgment, which honestly is what’s been holding him back the most the whole time. Wanting to fit in is so important to Kurt, and being as different as he is makes fitting in pretty damn hard. So while getting to Krakoa is a culture shock in a sense it is also very reliving and helpful.

Then we have the whole rebirth aspect. Since you basically get reborn as soon as you’ve been confirmed as dead on Krakoa, it is a pretty big part of how they live. Death doesn’t have the consequence it did before and all that. The interesting part to remember is how canon stated that each rebirth furthers a mutation slightly ( about 4 % on Krakoa, and a lot more on Arakko ).

Because Kurt’s mutation is a very visual kind it shows very clearly on him how that affects him. Most obviously it shows in his appearance. How it over time change his features, fur getting a slightly different texture, the nails becoming more like claws, the teeth getting a lot bigger, his eyes going from reflecting like ( like that on a feline ) to actually glowing with hellfire, starting to grow horns, etc. The list is very long and it’s just small subtle shift for each rebirth, but over the years there are a lot of rebirths which means a lot of change.

I specifically hc that Kurt has two deaths and ultimately two rebirths happening from Arakko which means he has two instances of very very big changes. Those are the times you basically trade a kitten for a panther in changes. 20 years into it, some Krakoa rebirth and the two from Arakko. and Kurt looks very different. He’s gotten taller with about two inches. He has a lot sharper angles to his face and whole body structure. The claws are full out claws, like you can’t mistake those for nails anymore. There is an ever present scent of sulfur about him, like it seems to come from inside him. Looking him in the eye and his eyes look like they are burning on the inside. He grows large ram like horns, they’re not perfectly symmetrical but it really lends itself well to the whole aesthetic Kurt is going for by then.

So that is all that looks go. Now the mutation as far as abilities goes this is interesting and something I haven’t thought too much about. But either way Kurt will never get his immortal soul back, meaning he is very HARD to kill. He’s pretty much close to immortal, meaning the times he has died and been reborn it’s been pretty extreme circumstances. The teleportation isn’t as limited anymore, and cross dimension teleportation isn’t even hard to manage by then. just to give you an idea of what I’ve been thinking for it.

Now Kurt himself as a person hasn’t change all that much, funnily enough. He is still very kind, he will listen to anyone and be there for them. None of this is different. The difference is that the social structure of how Krakoa works is something Kurt has evolved with. He has a lot of patience, yes. but in the right company he has no patience because that is how certain groups have structured their social standards. In some groups violence speaks louder, and Kurt will take part in it. He is embracing all parts of Krakoa, because it is very much part of his job as spiritual leader and High Priest.

What he didn’t plan on is this part that enjoy the most; Kurt certainly sat out on the mission of figuring out how religion could still fit in to society of Krakoa. He isn’t the only one to leave his religion behind in the human world, and needed something else to help find a steadier footing in this new world. He was however not planning on accidentally becoming a central figure of this new “religion” and some kind of semi mortal manifestation of divinity to mutant kind.

Yes I’m talking about Kurt basically becoming mutant kinds Jesus, and it only happened because people listened to him. I imagine that at first Kurt is just one of many people talking about religion and the spiritual differences the Krakoan way of living is compared to that outside of it. But it slowly evolves from him being one of them, to them putting him on a pedestal he has no idea of how to get down from, and it is spiraling quickly. So instead fighting it Kurt is embracing it and doing as best he can by those that look to him for answers and guidance.

Looking to religions they left behind he has a lot of similarities to both Jesus and Lucifer, which is easily transferred to the new belief to have him as a “missing link” between the divine and the mortal. Kurt is well aware he is by no means a deity or any kind of Devine figure. But if people need him to be a saint, a messiah, a leader... he damn well will be the best one he can for their sake. He won’t abandon them, and it also gives him something to care for, something to belong in and feel like he is meant to do. He is in short happy to do it.

Because of how elevated he becomes because of this, aka with how people view him and ultimately treat him he is basically becoming a cult leader in a sense, for lack of better term. He will touch those that feel like it will help them in whatever way. He will hear them, see them, speak to them. He is devoted to be what they need him to be.

Now as far as that looks is interesting, and I am glad you asked. Once Kurt starts growing horns they don’t stop growing, however they have to start from zero each time he is reborn. Which means for weeks he is walking around with a bleeding head as the horns have to come out. The blood from this is generally viewed as a blessing to somehow get, much like all of Kurt’s blood but this is more like a ceremony to be worthy of getting in on if you will. He can bleed pretty heavily and has at times been blinded by his own blood getting in his eyes.

Once the bleeding stop it’s another whole ceremony of carving the horns with their new holy symbols. Generally Daken ( @goreverine ) helps with this as the knife used for it is made from one of Daken’s claws. The horns does bleed during this but it doesn’t hurt Kurt. Most commonly he also has two or three trinkets hanging from one of the horns when they’re done.

On accident Daken also managed to impale Kurt’s hands on his claws ( yes they had sex, yes Kurt asked for it, and no neither one considered the consequences ). And yes this escalated even more the view people had of Kurt as a holy figure as now it was like seeing him being Christ with the wounds in his palms. There are a lot of similar things going, that can very logically be explained. But you try to be logical to a group of people that want a Devine explanation and want to run with it. Kurt as simply stopped trying to explain and just let them do their own assumptions of what he is and looks like. Wounds included.

So uhm... this got long but hi ask away c: I love to talk about this

#tesstingyou #goreverine #• save #• headcanon #blood tw #tw blood #Krakoa: Garden of Violent Delights

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allycryz · 4 years ago

Text

Incandesce

Explicit Fic

Thancred x Nerys (WoL) x Emet-Selch / Thancred x Nerys / Emet-Selch x Nerys / Some Thancred x Emet-Selch

When Nerys made the mistake of telling Emet-Selch to surprise her, this is not what she had in mind.

Even more astonishing: that Thancred is interested.

(A lot of other ships mentioned/discussed, primarily Nerys x Haurchefant and Nerys x Estinien x Aymeric)

Shadowbringers Spoilers

[From This Prompt List]

Prompts Used: Hot Springs in Winter / Restraints / Double Penetration Other Tags: Minor Breathplay in the water, Shaping Aether into Extra Hands, Brief Food Mention

Meta Notes:

This is currently not-canon in the general, overarching sense, but everything that happens prior to Nerys entering the hot springs is canon.

Prelude

Beneath the thickest canopy of trees, Nerys can ignore the great and terrible light above. Pretend she is in the Shroud again. There are Duskwight waiting among the Night’s Blessed for her to return with supplies and reports. Never mind that it’s a name they don’t recognize. The elves of the First separate themselves by region and family, not clan.

Many of Night’s Blessed look like the faces she grew up with. It has...been a long time since she was with such a group. Visiting her parents and Uncle Vaquelin had been lovely, but brief. And that was so long ago now. Before Doma, before Gyr Abania, before Minfilia came here with Ardbert and his companions.

The memory of that long-ago visit conjures Haurchefant, who she had brought with her. Her family loved him–how could they not? It makes her miss him all the more. Their too-brief, too-scarce meetings since her arrival are not enough.

She leaves the nostalgia and safety of the trees behind along with her brooding. People are expecting her. A truth no matter what world she lives on, whether they call her Warrior of Darkness or Light. Nerys is thankful this place doesn’t also remind her of Ishgard. Then the homesickness might turn her brooding into outright tears.

Now. Collecting reeds for the girl’s basket. They should be due south from here.

“Far be it from me to meddle…” Emet-Selch materializes beside her, as if picking up a prior conversation. “But my curiosity outweighs my desire to see where ‘the chips do fall’.”

Nerys turns her gaze toward him without breaking her stride. Last time he did this, she was picking berries and near fell over into the dirt. “Saying ‘far be it from me to meddle’ does not cancel out any subsequent meddling, you know.”

One corner of his mouth tilts up. “I expected my company to be polite enough not to mention it. More fool me.”

“What do I know about manners?” She cannot help herself. Maybe it is the pleased, attractive smirk whenever she says something diverting. Maybe she is tired of all the misfortune around them and needs levity. “I am but a simple warrior, a weapon of brute strength raised in the woods.”

“Self-deprecation does you no favors, my dear. Even when it is clear you know it’s all rubbish.” He waves a hand. “You are among the politest of my enemies.”

“Thank you?”

“Mm. I can be generous.” He lifts his shoulders in a shrug. “Now, about my query. Tell me...which suitor do you think will win out?”

That almost makes her stumble. And she can tell from his expression, he is reliving when she almost fell upon her basket of berries. A rare mishap from her that he will never, ever let her forget. “I...beg your pardon?”

“No need to beg for it, this one is free,” says Emet. His tone is insinuating as ever on that point. “You clearly carry torches for both Masters Waters and Matoya. I get the impression he was your lover at one time? The outline I have of your activities before the Exarch summoned you does not include the gritty details. As for her, only the Hrothgar moons after her more than you do.”

Nerys opens her mouth. Closes it. Opens it again. “You truly have been watching, haven’t you?”

“Oh not everything. Mortals are not so difficult to read, once you have practice. And your eyes…” He catches her chin, directing his gaze into hers. “They are terribly expressive, once you know what to look for.”

Emet-Selch wants a reaction. She puts her hands on her hips, lifting an eyebrow. Waiting for him to continue. As if his thumb isn’t stroking over her jaw, gentle as a lover. The touch as stirring as when he graces her with a particularly enticing smile.

“Now...” He does not need her permission to continue so she doesn’t give it. Clearly, this is a soliloquy he wants to perform. “I am not sure you know how many carry a torch for you, and I shan’t spoil it by telling you. But it does make things interesting. Not to mention, this Lord Haurchefant your group often mentions. Shall you abandon your noble suitor for a rogue posing as a knight? Or for a scholar of great and terrible power? Will one of the yet undeclared reveal themselves and win the hero’s heart?”

That heart thuds painfully against her chest. The way he shapes his syllables charges each provoking word. And the directness of those wine-gold eyes, a shade paler than her own but no less piercing for it.

He has gotten so much of it wrong. That does not negate how easily he has gotten so much of it right.

Nerys curls her fingers around his wrist and tugs his hand down. Emet-Selch does not resist, though when their hands are navel-level he twists just so, clasping her wrist in return, They remain locked thus, neither one letting go.

“Surely one as ancient as you, as easily bored as you,” she says. “Must know there are other options.”

“I don’t think a vow of chastity would suit you. Your eyes run too hot upon your comrades-”

“Lord Haurchefant,” she continues. “He is my lover and my beloved. Were I the marrying kind, his ring would be on my finger. That would not stop either of us from sharing physical and emotional intimacy with others.”

Emet-Selch says not a word, betrays no emotion. He does not veer into patronizing congratulations or arrogant dismissal. That same thumb begins to stroke again, over her gauntlet.

“There are others in the Source with such arrangements. I’m delighted to know it’s fairly common in the First.” Nerys cannot resist her smirk. Is this how he feels when he lectures her? “For some, it is about a variety of sexual partners. Sometimes it’s like that for us. More often...we are the kind to fall madly for someone or someones, in addition to wanting the physical parts. So whatever may happen...it is not a matter of winning.”

“Well,” he says, looking at her as if for the first time. Considering.

“Well,” he says again, with a slow smile. “You are full of surprises, my dear. I thank you for not being as boring as I expected.”

“Accuse me of many things, but never that.” Nerys takes a step back, breaking the link of their hands. “But I don’t think my expansive heart is my most unique quality.”

“On that, at least, we agree.” His enigmatic smile inflames just the right amount of curiosity in her. She resists best as she can. “Well, that puts to rest one of my little games. No reason to stay and help you...what is it again? Collecting reeds so a girl may make a basket?”

“Yes, that,” she says. “Would you like to join?”

“Oh, I am not so starved for stimulation to partake.” Purple and black aether swirls around his ankles. “Whistle for me, when you’re doing something actually worthy of a hero.”

“No need,” she says. “Somehow, I think you’ll know.”

He smirks as he disappears.

Weeks Later

"Alone at last."

In one motion: she slams the book shut, jumps up, has the knife pointed and ready. The sharp edge gleams in the lamplight, as bright as his gaze as he sighs at her.

"Really," says Emet-Selch. "I thought we were past this stage."

They were. They are. It doesn’t change that Eulmore is an ever looming spectre at their heels. That this pressure on her chest and shoulders is building. For their last few talks, Ardbert has made sure to catch her attention well before speaking.

She keeps thinking Ran’jit is about to appear and cut her down.

Nerys exhales a breath, blade staying poised for the moment. “Do you always startle trained warriors?"

“Only you, hero.” He touches the pad of his gloved finger against the dagger point. “This is not so beautiful a weapon as your lance."

"A lance is a little more difficult to keep close at all times." It is, in fact, leaning against the wall of her room. Just behind him. By the way his eyes flicker to the side and then to her, he knows it.

They are well past when she might run for it, and brandish it at him. The gaze feels so much like a challenge though, she contemplates it. He wouldn’t expect her to start a physical fight after weeks of banter.

Nerys withdraws the blade.

“It is a well-made little knife. A gift? I don't recall seeing it on you before."

"I always keep a dagger on me, one never knows when an ambush is coming." She slides it back in the sheath, touch lingering on the deep-plum leather of the hilt. "...But yes, this is new."

"I thought so. From Thancred no doubt, as he has been lavishing attention on you as of late." He steps away, spreading his arms. "He was the paramour I expected to win. At least until you explained that you don't limit yourself to just one."

His words conjure visceral memories without much effort. Her tender, still-aching reconciliation with Thancred at the start of this week. What they could have had in Ala Mhigo had the Exarch not spirited him away the day they meant to talk.

But also, the day in the Rak’tika Greatwood with Emet-Selch. His teasing about the choice she would “have” to make. Her defiant lecture. His fingers on her chin and on her wrist.

"Over Y'shtola, you mean?" She leans her back against the desk, arms crossed. "Or the other admirers you claim I have? Which are who, exactly?"

"Ah, ah, ah," he says with a wag of a finger. His pale gold eyes and wicked mouth brim with laughter. "You will have to try much harder than that to get my secrets."

“Does that mean you won’t explain what ‘alone at last’ means?”

"That one should be obvious, my dear." He remains apart from her but his gaze feel like a touch. Like a stroke of hand over her arm or cheek.

Attraction is like that. And she is adult enough to admit he is attractive–painfully so–without it needing to be a problem. It doesn’t change who they are or that one day, she may need to face him on the battlefield.

(Nerys had been able to face Estinien and Thancred both after all. Though unlike them, this man’s mind is his own. She is certain Zodiark’s pull is not the same as Lahabrea’s or Nidhogg’s.)

"I have been busy of late,” she says. “But surely there are others you might visit."

"None of your Scions will play with me the way you will," he pouts. "Even your scholarly Elezen friend will only suffer me so long."

Nerys laughs. "Who says I am willing to play with you? Or that is what we do?"

Emet-Selch’s expression reminds her of Aymeric’s cat, affronted over Nerys taking his spot upon the chaise lounge that one time. Unlike Sainte, he does not stomp away with a disgruntled noise. “I have never lied to you. Do me the favor of not lying to me.”

"Never?" She asks without real conviction. Nerys is certain he has not lied to her or anyone in their group. Omitted, yes. Likely a great deal.

“Never.” Emet-Selch crosses the space, moving close to her. The fur of his jacket brushes against the front of her gray linen gown. He leans in, leans in, his breath tickles her face and she tries not to give him the reaction he seeks.

He gets so close his lips graze her cheek and she breaks, breath hitching. And then he leans past her, reaching behind to take up the book she closed. "Collected Folk Tales of Lakeland. I admit, I expected something related to your quest."

His face is hidden but she feels his smirk as keenly as she feels the heat of his body against her. "I needed a little break and stories always cheer me. I wish the ones I heard as a child were collected somewhere."

"Ah, but they lose magic that way, don't they?" He breathes into her ear. "Some in the telling, but far more when we commit them to the page."

Don't shiver. Don't react. "Why not have the stories both ways?"

His chuckle is low. "Why not indeed. You do not like to make choices, do you?"

"It isn't that." Her arms remain folded against her chest. Still, if someone were to come in they would think something else was happening. And that would not be a full lie.

On impulse, her eyes flicker about to make sure Ardbert isn't there.

"Too many people reduce life to hard, either-or decisions," she says. "And I have found there is almost always a third or fourth or fifth way."

"An optimist. How very…" Emet-Selch pulls back to look at her. Sighs. "Very boring. I expected better, given all the pathos I have seen in your eyes."

"I'm sorry to disappoint." She turns towards the book, straightening her disrupted papers.

His hands come down on either side of her, balancing against the gentle curve of the desk edge. She is caged, with his breath upon her nape and his body a wall of flame grazing her back. Nerys has managed this session to not rise to his bait, but her resolve is weakening and this does not help.

Attraction does not have to mean anything. You have the will, to have it be a simple fact; not a catalyst or excuse.

"Come now,” he murmurs. His nose tickles the back of her neck. The skin there is extra sensitive; hair freshly trimmed to the new, shorter length. “You have a better retort than that."

"You think so? Maybe you're the optimist."

His laugh is a puff of air upon her. "Better, but still sloppy. I expect more from my playmate."

She wants to argue that point but he has already exposed her defense for the lie it is. Call it play or teasing, Nerys does enjoy these times. When she might pretend he is just a handsome man come only for banter; not...whatever they are to each other or will be.

She enjoys him.

Her eyes flicker to the window. Fading sunlight catches the light fall of snow, the first in a long time for Lakeland. It pulls at her heart for another reason: terrible homesickness for Ishgard. And the position of the sun now means-

"I have to cut this ‘play session’ short. I'm expected elsewhere." Nerys turns in the cage of his arms and gives him a gentle push. "And you're not allowed to be in my room when I am gone."

"Spoilsport. Whatever do you expect me to do? Languish in waiting?"

Her way cleared, Nerys moves past him to the bag she packed earlier. Just a small thing with the necessities for this jaunt...and if she doesn’t sleep in her room tonight. "I know you'll think of something. Surprise me."

As soon as she says it, she regrets it. Too late, his smirk is wide, his face lit with enthusiasm. “I can do that.”

He disappears in a swirl of aether. Nerys wonders if she made a fatal error.

---------

Amaros fly them to the Ostall Imperative. From there, she and Thancred walk the forest path. The creatures of the lilac-and-bone-colored forest keep their distance tonight, many hiding from the strange weather. They still need to be alert though, lest they or brigands cross the path.

Even still, she keeps having to look at him. Assure herself he is there, with her. Truly with her. Their hands brush together once, twice, three times before he at last laces their fingers together. Smiles up at her with a look that stills her breath no matter how many times it happens.

She has loved him...a long time. Grieved him in different ways for different reasons for a long time. And now here he is, having asked for another chance and she hopes this week is not a long, wishful dream.

“It’s never snowed while you’ve been here?” Nerys asks, using her free hand to dust the flakes off her shoulders. Five long years here, under the horrible light. She cannot imagine. No wonder he felt like a stranger when first they found each other in Laxan Loft.

"Not that I've seen. You've brought balance back to the place."

"We have, not just I." She squeezes his hand.

Thancred chuckles. "You should take the credit."

"So should you. And-"

He cups her cheek, tugging her down into a kiss. Deep and soft and intoxicating. All week he has caressed her like this, each time overwhelming her with the gentle sensuality of it. She can almost forgive him doing it just to win an argument. Almost, until she pulls back and sees the old familiar gleam, the old familiar smirk.

"You can't...do that every time." Nerys says, a little breathless. Hands still gripping the supple material of his coat like a lifeline.

"I would never. Only some of the time." His smirk grows. Twelve, but she missed that expression on his face. Not that she loves this new, more serious Thancred any less. Every part of him, every facet, she adores. "Though, I think I need to do it once more."

Never mind whoever waits for them. Now that she can touch him like this again, feel him like this again, she never wants to stop. And from the way his hands grip her, run over her sides and hips, he doesn't either. She presses herself close to him, lips tracing the line of his jaw to the shell of his ear.

Thancred pulls himself back, eyes hot. "If we don't start walking again, I'm going to drag you into the bushes."

She doesn't move. "That isn't incentive to walk."

"I should have known better." He holds out a hand and she takes it, surprised when he starts down the path again. “Come along.”

He must want this date to happen as planned. Thinking about it...they have not had many formal engagements like this. They were either comrades or they were lovers. Maybe there would be a trip to the market or a shared drink in Revenant’s Toll between battles and bed.

Nerys wonders if he might be inspired to poetry, like he had once with his other paramours. Not all of his couplets were groanworthy.

Bosta-Bea awaits them at Clearmelt, her smile wide and welcoming. The sign near her declares that the springs closed at sundown. That alone means Thancred put down a lot of coin for this. Bosta-Bea’s excellent humor doubly verifies it.

“I’ll be just inside if anyone tries to bother you,” she says after greetings and pleasantries are exchanged. “I doubt anyone will but just in case…”

“My thanks,” says Thancred. He hasn’t let go of her hand yet and he squeezes it while he speaks. “The changing rooms are just through there?”

“Yes, with towels to use in the bath.” Bosta-Bea ushers them through to the first room. It’s filled with large stalls that each contain shower, changing room, and locker. Everything hums with magic, likely a number of convenience charms throughout to dry hair and keep belongings safe.

In her own stall, Nerys strips away her leathers. The cool air of the new winter prickles over her skin until she can get under the hot water, rinsing the day off. She is still not used to washing shorter hair. Her hands reach for phantom length to lather with shampoo.

Nerys misses her curls. The haircut was necessary. For catharsis: chopping away locks that held memories of the past moons. For symbolism: starting again, refusing to let grief weigh her down.

And she did it in the city she calls home. Jandelaine paid a house call to the Fortemps Manor. Lord Edmont tried not to hover. Artoirel did hover, repeating questions and bringing her cups of tea and plates of orange-cardamom shortbread.

The hole in her heart began to scab over, the patch knit in tandem with her brother and second father; her friend wielding his scissors; and all Aymeric and Estinien did for her and with her the days and nights following her rescue from the Ascian in Zenos’ body.

Nerys is glad she did it.

Even still, she misses the length and the curl. Hasn’t acclimated to the change yet. Everyone has been complimentary. Thancred spent last night and the night before murmuring about her beauty as he took her apart. And Emet-Selch-

She yanks on the knob, turning off the shower and the intrusive thoughts with them.

The charms she expected are present, drawing the moisture from her skin and hair. Most don’t submerge themselves fully in these springs, never mind the new addition of cold wind and snow. Nerys wraps the soft towel around her body, slips her feet into the provided sandals. She takes her pack and lance with her. No offense to the lockers, but trouble never picks a convenient time to find her.

The first thing she sees is his gunblade propped up against one of the walls, just out of range of water but close enough to run for. She laughs and walks over, doing the same with her lance before taking the knife from her bag.

"Knifeplay?" Thancred asks. "I'm not sure I want to introduce that in this setting."

She turns to him with a snappy remark but it dissolves away.

He sprawls against the side of the bath, arms draped over the edge and head tipped back. What she can see of his muscled chest gleams with moisture in the moonlight. The light snow falls on his cheek.

“Nerys? It’s cold out.”

“It’s uncharacteristically cold tonight,” he said, standing outside her room at the Pendants. A pile of blankets in his hand. Two nights ago. Three days after they agreed to begin again, starting a slow and sometimes aching courtship.

Her chest tightened. “You had better come in then.”

“Just to deliver the blankets?” His eyes gleamed.

“Hm…” She pulled him inside. “That’s a start.”

His towel is folded, just within reach outside of the pool. Well then. Nerys lets hers fall, watching his eyes rake over her lush curves to the apex between her thighs. She takes her time walking over. A swell of pleasure rises in her gut. At the water’s edge, she bends at the waist to set towel and knife down within easy reach.

"You should come here," he says, a soft growl beneath his words. She fights the shudder wanting to rip through her.

"Just a minute." She slips out of the sandals. Dips a toe into the water, testing it. He starts to move towards her, but stops all at once when she holds up a hand. "Sit. Stay."

Thancred smirks. "You remember right? That I always repay you when you tease me."

A soft warmth incongruous to the moment floods her chest and she is helpless not to smile at him with soft eyes and a softer voice. "I have never forgotten a single moment, Thancred."

He swallows, his eyes telling the jumble of emotions roiling in him. She can see all the Thancreds she has known–the serious, protective Thancred, the closed-off and grieving Thancred. The teasing, playful Thancred who seduced her all over Mor Dhona. The attentive, caring Thancred who always knew when she needed him to take over and give her release, or when to let her hold the reins.

The loving Thancred, though neither of them have said the word yet.

"Nerys," he says, voice raw. "Come here."

She goes to him, sliding into the water and into his arms, into his lap as he embraces her. His tongue slides over her bottom lip and she opens to him, lets him plunder her mouth as his hands slide over her hips and waist. Traces her new scars, every mark she has earned since the Bloody Banquet. She finds the ones he has gained since, and where the First has failed to duplicate them. His soul is a near-perfect copy of the body in the Source, but there are small differences.

He parts from her after an eternity, gasping as he rests his forehead on her shoulder. "My plan was for a long, slow night of seduction. And yet, here we are."

“We always end up here,” she says with a laugh. Just as they had meant to take things slow, at least a few weeks before they became lovers again. Why had they ever thought that was a good idea? "Didn't you have any company, these five years?"

"Very little," he admits. "Almost none, once I took in Min-...Ryne. I couldn't exactly leave her to wait at a campsite while I lurked in a tavern looking for a companion."

"Very little," she repeats, cupping the side of his neck and the tattoo. Rubbing it gently. "You don't have to tell me details but...anyone I know?"

He smiles; a little sad, a little soft. "Despite having all the time to do so...no, I didn't make a move on either of them. By the time they got here, I was once again wrapped in my anger and grief."

Nerys sighs and kisses his forehead. "At our pace, neither of us will confess to Y'shtola before our sixtieth Nameday." As to when he might speak to Urianger, maybe before his fiftieth.

His laugh is gentle. "I forgot you were an optimist."

The word startles her in a way she can’t disguise and Thancred is alert all at once, ready to ease whatever troubles her. She shakes her head to assuage him. “Nothing. Nothing, just reminded me of a conversation I had with...someone, earlier.”

“Sweetheart.” The old endearment enfolds her in its warmth despite the slight reproof. “I can guess who from the evasion. It won’t bother me.”

"The last thing I want is to cause you more pain."

“He is not Lahabrea.” Thancred squeezes her hip. "Not that I am fond of our 'friend.' But it won't injure me to know you talk to him."

"Alright." She wraps her arms about his neck to better balance herself. The cold air and fall of snow prickle at her shoulders and chest, a sharp contrast to the heat of the water and where their skin presses together.

"And what about you?" He asks, shifting his leg just so between her thighs. No pressure against her center, not yet. "Was there anyone since I saw you? I know it wasn’t five years for you but..."

"Ah...yes." More heat rises in her. "...Estinien and Aymeric."

Thancred’s eyebrows shoot up. "Both? At the same time?"

“Mm.” Nerys finds herself ducking her head, vulnerable. Those stolen nights in Ishgard seem a dream now, all the more because she had thought it would never happen. And had made peace with that. "Estinien walked in on us and...well, they are a couple. It wasn't so odd to invite him…"

"And you’ve wanted him as long as you wanted Aymeric," says Thancred. He has that smug expression he gets sometimes. “Perhaps for longer. I wondered when it would happen.”

She huffs, scowling. "Is this what you do? Figure out who I am in love with and wait for me to say something?"

"I can't help it." He dips his head, kissing her shoulder. "I seem to have an extra sense for this sort of thing with you."

“I’m glad we found each other.” She means it teasing but again, her words come out warm with emotion. How long till she can stop feeling so much relief to have him in her arms? Sometimes she thinks she feels more than she is supposed to, with no way to stem the tide.

“So am I.” That leg moves with purpose now, nudging against her folds. He leans forward, catching her cold-stiffened nipple between his lips. She gasps, a low moan following right after. Thancred smirks and looks up at her. “Your exploits make for stirring tales.”

“Well, that answers that.”

In an instant, Nerys is up with the knife while Thancred rises, his fists raised. Their usual weapons are just far enough that blades and hands make sense for the interim.

Emet-Selch lounges on the opposite side of the bath, chest and below submerged in the water. He chuckles. "This is the second time you've aimed a blade at me today. I'm starting to think you don't like me."

Thancred growls. "You're trespassing, Ascian."

"Oh?" He shrugs. Nerys refuses to note how well-sculpted his shoulders are. "I wasn't aware you owned these natural springs, the night air…"

"You know exactly what I mean."

"Mayhaps. But I was practically invited. Isn't that right, my dear?" Emet-Selch turns his gaze to Nerys, making no secret of how his eyes sweep over her nude body, her erect nipples, the drops of water coursing down her blue-gray skin.

She is already bare and it still feels like he is undressing her with his gaze.

“What? No.” She shakes her head at Thancred’s shocked expression. “No. When I said ‘surprise me’, this is not what I meant.”

“Well, this is why being specific is important." Emet sighs, sinking deeper into the water. “Will you put that knife down? Having two things pointing at my way is rather disconcerting...though stimulating."

At that, Thancred seems to remember he is naked and erect, though the cold air is working to amend the second problem. He sinks back into the water.

Nerys stoops to set the knife down, one arm shielded over her breasts and trying keep her thighs together. It wreaks havoc on her balance and makes Emet look even more amused. She gives up–he has already seen her–and sinks back into the water without further attempts at modesty.

The Emperor was a soldier, in his way. If his immortality hadn’t made him immune to being scandalized, being in the barracks surely had. As soon as she sits, Thancred slides an anchoring arm about her waist.

"Better," says Emet. "No wonder you have been neglecting me to spend all your time with him, hero. He is rather spectacular, beneath all the scowls he sends my way."

Thancred rolls his eyes. “You got your surprise and answered your question. Whatever that was.”

“Oh, that?” Emet-Selch’s smirk unfurls, slow as honey without the sweetness. “Our Warrior told me about Lord Haurchefant, how open they are with each other. I wondered if she was so with her other paramours, talking freely about her conquests."

Thancred glances her way again. There was no reason to volunteer that information, it just...came up. When provoked, to be fair. Every other time she’s spoken about it...no she cannot say it was always to score points against Emet.

The look he gives her isn’t accusatory, she realises. It is...considering.

“And then here I find you two, comparing notes. Well, comparing notes against near celibacy. Either way, it’s very interesting.”

Nerys squeezes Thancred’s knee below the water. Rubs her thumb over the joint. “How long were you there?”

“Oh, long enough to be enjoyable but not so much to have been rude.” He slides a hand through his hair, pushing back locks damp from steam and snow. It...does things for his face, which he likely knows. “I did tell you that I like to watch.”

“Had your fill then?” Thancred asks, squeezing her hip.

"It takes much more to sate me. But it seems you two will be boring and stare at me till I leave." He sighs. "And as you are both submerged, I cannot even have something nice to look at. So, I suppose I'll go…"

No wait- She almost says.

She almost says! Twelve, Fury, whoever was listening, preserve; Nerys had actually thought of asking him to stay. This attraction is more dangerous than she thought. Clearly she is not so cool and objective about his beauty, if she is so on the verge.

Thancred goes very still beside her.

Nerys curses inwardly. Of course he catches on. This is what he does–understand what she wants before she admits it to herself. And that is all fine...until it is this man behind everything they have fought, everything that has hurt them and taken away their loved ones.

Attraction is not harmless and objective if Thancred is beside her, hurting because of it and her.

“Depends,” says Thancred, squeezing her hip again. “Are you going to sit there and make remarks, or are you going to do something useful?"

What?

She turns to Thancred, at a loss. Even at his most reckless, he wouldn’t invite an enemy to...maybe she misunderstands.

Emet-Selch is very still, the self-satisfied expression gone from his face. Thancred has surprised them both.

“Are you…” She swallows and starts again. “Are you saying…”

“You’re attracted to him, and he to you.” Thancred says, pressing lips to her temple. The soft pressure is unlike the rigid way he holds himself, tension all through his body. “And while neither of us trust him, sex doesn't have to require that.”

It doesn’t, but it always has for her. Even one night with a stranger requires someone she feels relatively safe with. More than that–he isn’t telling the whole truth. He isn’t testing her. That isn’t his way. But he has a reason she can’t guess at yet.

She does not trust Emet-Selch. He is not safe.

But. But.

If...when he strikes, it will not be while making love to them. It seems too gauche, too crude for him. There have been other times, more seemly times he might have waited for her to lower her guard. Like hours ago, when she presented her back to him and he had all but molded to it.

And she trusts Thancred.

“Okay,” she says. Not even sure that Emet will agree or if he is about to laugh at their temerity. Two sundered beings, thinking they might bring pleasure to an Ascian. “But if anyone says stop, we stop. No questions asked.”

“Agreed.” Thancred says, keeping her close to him.

Emet begins to rise until Thancred lifts a hand, gesturing for him to stay put. Clearly amused, the other man complies.

Nerys startles when Thancred lifts her into his arms and out of the water, carried like a bride through the chill air. He has always been strong but...he lifts her as if she is nothing. His muscles speak to the strength he has honed these five years but still, she hadn’t grasped the change. Not until now, cradled against his chest with her long legs dangling over his arms.

Thancred crouches, setting her into Emet’s lap with her back against the Ascian’s chest, smoothing his hands over her arms before he lets go. At once, Emet slides his hands around to palm her breasts. She gasps at the electric touch–both too much and not enough.

He is not shy. And he is not going to dismiss them.

His hands feel better than he imagined. And she can admit now: she imagined.

"I've no idea what you're trying to prove, Thancred." Emet says, breath against her ear. "But as it gives me something I want, I will examine it later."

Something in her clenches at that. “When you spoke of play...have you been flirting this whole time? Or was that just to rile me?”

“Yes.” Emet presses his lips to the side of her neck, feather light. Almost imperceptible. His hands are the opposite, purposeful as they knead her breasts, roll her dark purple nipples between his fingers until she squirms on his lap. It’s like he knew how sensitive she would be there.

Thancred’s hand reaches behind her, gripping somewhere on Emet. His shoulder? Digging into his hair? He has to lean in close to do it and Nerys takes advantage. She presses her mouth to his brown nipple, chasing a rivulet of water down his chest. Sweet, just like he can be.

"You don't put anything inside her until I say so," says Thancred. His voice is harsh but he shivers beneath her lips.

"Oh," Emet breathes. "Do you always let him boss you like that, my dear?"

He squeezes her left breast and she gasps against Thancred instead of answering. All at once he stills, waiting for her response. “S-sometimes. It depends.”

That earns her more pressure against her needful flesh, the fingers pinching just so. “Tell me.”

Nerys tries to look back at him. He frees one hand to catch her chin, directing her eyes back to Thancred who kneels before her. It almost doesn’t feel real, without seeing Emet and his smile and his pale-gold eyes. It could be anyone behind her, certainly not him of all people.

Except that voice. She would know it in the haunting light of Kholusia or in the darkest cave of the Night’s Blessed. At some point, he slipped under skin as if he was meant to be there.

Thancred watches them, running one hand up and down the outside of her thigh in slow strokes. The other is underwater, mirroring the touches on himself. He nods, giving her permission to tell their secrets.

“We...switch,” she says. “I often prefer someone to hold my reins. But...sometimes I like telling him what to do. Withholding from him until he is good. Making him beg.”

“Thank you, sweetheart.” Emet purrs, proving just how long he watched them. She frowns and puts her hand on his wrist, giving it a light squeeze.

“That’s his name for me. You need to choose your own.”

He sighs and she can feel his eyes rolling. Dramatically. “Oh, very well. I suppose I could continue calling you my dear.”

At those words, his teeth sink into her earlobe and his hands resume their kneading. His erection presses at her under the water, the thickness apparent just from the feel of him. She resists the urge to grind against it, lest it end things too soon.

"Any other orders, Thancred? Or are you content to watch me tease her until she begs for release?"

Thancred cups her face between his hands and kisses her, unhurried and deep. She grows pliant under the luxurious touch of both men. No reins desired in her hands tonight. And from the glint in his eyes when he parts from her, Thancred can tell.

“Hold her arms behind her,” he says. “And you’ll be nice for us, won’t you sweetheart? He shouldn’t have to worry about holding you back."

"I'll play nice. This time."

“Ha." He nips her jaw. "Say stop, and we stop. And if you can’t speak, go very still and I will too.”

Nerys nods. Strong hands grip her arms, arranging them to cross behind her back before locking tight upon her. Except-

Except, there are still fingers on her breast. Palms anchoring her hips tight against Emet. She looks down and sees black and purple aether in the vague shape of hands, cupping her aching chest.

Emet chuckles, low and dark. His cock twitches against her. "I have my talents."

Twelve. Growing wet is...different in hot water. But there is still a heated, slick pulse between her legs and her hips try to jerk in response to the idea of what he could do with all those hands. The heat filling her has nothing to do with the springs.

Thancred pushes the aether-hands off her chest so he can cup her breasts, drawing them up as he lowers his mouth to suckle at one. Her head tips back and Emet-Selch takes advantage, lips pressing to the side of her neck. The barest hint of teeth whispers with them.

“So sweet, so good,” murmurs Thancred. His large, callused hands slide over her as his tongue traces her nipple. "What do you want tonight?"

Nerys can barely shiver, the hold on her is so tight and strong. Emet’s fingers pulse against her, firm but not harsh on her skin. “I want you. I want you both. However you want me.”

He smiles and she readies to receive another litany of compliments. The words always flow from him when he is amorous, praising every twitch of her muscles, every way she takes him into her. Instead, he rewards her with another dizzying kiss; so intense she forgets herself and tries to throw her arms about him.

Emet tightens his grip, tutting against her neck. "And she was so well behaved until now."

“Sorry,” she murmurs against Thancred’s mouth. “I just-I need to feel you-”

“Shh, it’s alright.” Thancred hushes her, his fingers against her mouth as he moves into her space. She parts her lips and takes the tip of one, swirling her tongue about it. “Ah, I’ll give you what you need.”

He slides a hand onto the back of her neck, nudging her down while she continues lathing his finger. The many hands clutching her accommodate, till she is suspended and bent over, balanced by the arms held taut behind her, barely on Emet’s lap. Her chin dips into the hot water and she stares up through lowered lashes.

Thancred stands, sliding a hand to grip just beneath the swollen head of his cock. Not as thick as what she feels against her rump, but it has grown to its full aroused length. Emet hums appreciatively, likely at the outstanding number of ilms on display. She thinks–it is hard to think, held like this, a slip away from all of her sinking into the water, his cock before her-

She thinks there are more hands on her now, thumbs rubbing subtle, light circles into her arms and legs and ankles. Emet follows the orders; nothing is inside her yet. But oh how she wants there to be, an end to the sweet torture of the many teasing touches.

“Well?” Emet asks. “Are you going to give her what she needs? You certainly have enough of it.”

Thancred smirks over her head, slowing the pace of his stroke as he goes from root to tip. Caressing each bit of the shaft before swirling his thumb over the head, worrying at his lip when he does so. Both she and Emet make pleased sounds at the same time, hers much more needy and inelegant.

At last, Thancred slides one hand into her short locks; keeping her in place as he guides himself into her mouth. Slow at first, then pressing deep as she relaxes her mouth and throat. She cannot take him all the way but she tries, savoring the heady taste of him and spring water until her toes curl.

He fucks into her mouth, his hips jerking in quick thrusts. The water splashes up her face and she closes her eyes, the sensations heightening the moment she does. Over the splashing she hears Thancred say something. In response, two fingers plunge into her folds. In and out, pulling back as soon as she tries to grind against them.

She thinks they are Emet’s flesh hands. She cannot be sure.

Nerys squirms to free herself, needing to touch Thancred. Run her hands over his shaft where her mouth cannot possibly go. The grip on her limbs tightens, a third finger slides into her. She can feel Emet’s body move with a chuckle even though she can only hear the water splashing over her nose and closed eyelids. The threat to her breathing goads her pleasure.

Thancred’s grip in her hair tightens, the other hand joining to burrow in the violet and white strands. His fingers in her scalp send a new wave of feeling through her. She moans around him, the pressure in her building but with no outlet in sight.

His thrusts speed up and she knows what is about to happen, groans in encouragement as his release pours into her. He doesn’t let go, not until he is fully spent and the momentum gives way. She can hear him now, the running litany of praise he must have kept up the whole time. “-so good, so good you did so well…”

He drags her off him and kneels, pressing her to sit again with her back against Emet, lips brushing against hers as she swallows and catches her breath. Nerys opens her mouth to him and he follows her, tasting her more fully. Tasting himself more fully.

“Fuck,” she whispers. “I feel like I’m close but also not at all.”

“I can take care of that.” Thancred says, kissing her forehead. He takes a deep breath and submerges beneath the water. She isn’t sure what he’s about until his mouth latches onto her clit, sucking as much as he can below. The fingers inside her curl

“Fuck,” she hisses again. They’re going to eviscerate her like this.

“Look at you.” Emet says, mouthing along her shoulder. "How easily you come apart. How eager you are to obey, and he is not half so dominating as I would be."

She moans–from his fingers, Thancred’s mouth, the implicit promise in Emet’s words. Nerys answers the challenge in them instead. “I-I know he’ll make it good for me. I d-don’t need that much encouragement.”

“Implying what? You aren’t so assured of me?” He catches her chin between thumb and forefinger, turning her head back towards him until it almost hurts. The edge of pain thrills down her spine, joining the rest of the heightened feelings in her. “I think you can accurately guess the heights I could drive you to.”

His breath tickles the corner of her mouth. At last she sees his eyes and the roaring fire they contain, the undisguised need and want. She gasps, not just from the increased thrusting of his fingers, the pressure and seal of Thancred’s mouth. If he had ever shown her that look before, she would have dragged him to bed and the consequences be damned.

Thancred emerges, taking a breath at the same time he slides his hand over the one Emet has on her face. Presses his mouth over the other man’s fingers before kissing Nerys like she is the oxygen he couldn’t have underwater.

His other hand slips between her thighs, direct and purposeful on her sensitive bud. His words pour into her ears–”yes, let go, let go, I want you to come like this, just like this”–and Emet’s fingers move faster inside her. With his wonderful, knowledgeable hand at her clit and his ragged words against her cheek, it doesn’t take long for her to come with a cry.

Thancred swallows her yell, her shaking prevented by Emet’s grip. For a moment, all she sees are the brilliant stars above them in the inky sky. The snow falling on her hair. The crescent moon, reminiscent of one of Emet’s toothier smiles.

Emet lets her go all at once and she collapses against Thancred, melting into his soothing touch. Her breath is loud in her ears, near as much as her heart slamming against her ribs and his against her ear.

“Good girl.” Thancred kisses the tip of her pointed ear. “Do you know what I would do for you, if we were in a different setting?”

She shivers, feeling the cold air for the first time since he put her in Emet’s lap. “Tell me. Please.”

“I would let you take us both, together, at the same time. Get you so stretched and wet for us, so slick...” The soft growl is back in his voice and she might climax again, just from that. As maple-sugar-sweet and poetic he can be, as worshipful as he may choose to be, this is a part of him too. Hungry and demanding.

“True, we cannot prepare her easily in this setting.” Emet says. “Very well, you’ve convinced me.”

There is a soft snap.

Nerys lies in a bed–her bed, in her room at the Pendants. She is warm and dry, not a drop of water on her. Warmer still from Emet, stretched out and pressed along her side, tracing patterns into her abdomen. (Also, the bed is made. The coverlet is far too expensive to come from the inn. She touches the red material in wonder.)

“Hilarious,” Thancred says from the center of the room. Naked and sopping wet, with all their belongings beside him in a careful pile. Emet would not harm their weapons, even if he might be unkind to Thancred’s person. “You might have dried me off too.”

“Hm…” Emet pushes himself on one elbow, the other hand tapping a finger to his lips. “If you fetch the oil from her bathroom cabinet, I shall dry you off.”

For a long moment, Thancred stares him down. Eyes narrowed. But there is no real ire and with a sigh, he makes for the bathroom. The aether lights flicker on as soon as he steps inside.

“How did you know...Emet-Selch! I said you’re not allowed to be here when I’m gone.”

She starts to sit up. Quick as any hunting animal, he braces his arm on the other side of her and swings a leg across. He leans over her, caging her in on all sides without touching her. Yet. “Yes, but I never agreed to those terms. Underhanded but...my hero did request surprises.”

Nerys puts a hand flat against his shoulder with the intent to push. His skin is warm beneath her palm, the silken feel of him unexpected. It would be so easy to shove him off, storm away from the bed. Except this is the first time truly looking at him since they began and...he has her trapped. Immolating in the pale gold fire of his eyes, mesmerized in the quirk of his brow and tilt of his full lips. The longer she stares, the more neutral his expression becomes and he returns the scrutiny.

There is no buffer. No Thancred to protect her or distract her. And she is afraid-

But not of him, she realises with a start. It’s the intensity I feel when he touches me. I’m scared of how much I want him to touch me again. I’m scared at how right this seems.

She pushes herself up with one hand, the other cups the back of his neck. Pulls him down to her. Emet stills only a moment before his eyes flutter shut and he submits to her, mouth moving soft and slow over hers. His hands curl about her waist, thumbs stroking over her skin. He savors her with the slow drag of his tongue coaxing her more open, more vulnerable to his ministrations.

When they part his eyes are half-lidded, expression utterly relaxed. He’s beautiful. He’s always beautiful. But this pierces her in a new way, so lovely he could rend her heart in two with one look. And he just might.

The hands on her hips pull her forward as he leans back. She ends up in his lap, straddling his waist in one fluid motion. Nerys reaches between them to stroke him. He has been patient this whole time, the least she can do is-

Emet catches her hand and lays the attached arm upon his shoulder, then the other. She opens her mouth to protest and he interrupts her with another kiss. Just as slow and aching, one arm hooked behind her back while the other traces fingertips along her jaw. His hand is gentle as it runs over her throat, down between her breasts, stroking circles into her waist and hip.

Nerys realises it is the longest he has gone in her presence without talking. And she feels the laugh bubbling up her throat, mouth trembling with the strength of holding it back.

“Laughing at me, hero?” He murmurs against her mouth. Nips her lower lip in reprimand.

“N-no I just...felt giddy all of a sudden.” Damn her, ruining the mood like that. Just as his hand was traveling down.

“Liar.” His scolding teeth sink into the side of her neck. She gasps against him, laughter dissolving into a breathy sound. “Better. Let’s see what other preferable sounds we can draw from you.”

“You’re getting close,” she says. Now her smile is irrepressible. “A little lower and to my left…”

“Dear, dear, dear,” he sighs. “And you were so obedient before. Do I bring out the minx in you so much?”

“I thought that was part of why you always came back to talk.”

Instead of a verbal riposte, his hand moves down and to her left. Circling her center, finding the clit and pressing down upon it. As if he has brought her to pleasure a thousand times and knows just where to touch.

Nerys buries her face in his shoulder, shuddering until his strokes are too much and she has to moan against him.

“What delicious noises you make, my dear.” He says, continuing to circle. Continuing to scrape his teeth over her skin. “Thancred was a fool to ever let you go.”

“I was.”

Nerys opens her eyes. (When did she close them?) Thancred stands a few paces from the bed, glass bottle in hand. Both of Emet’s hands splay against her back, pressing her close against him. She feels his fingers snap against her, drying Thancred in an instant.

“At least you admit it,” says Emet.

Nerys has to push a moment before he lets her lean back, getting a better view of Thancred. Shakes her head. “It wasn’t as simple as all that, or one person’s fault.”

As mad as she still is at the Exarch...she might have spoken to Thancred a dozen times before this week. Taken the aetheryte to Mor Dhona to see him, pull him aside when he joined their party in Gyr Abania. Or called him over linkpearl, as she did the night they almost lost Y’shtola.

He pushed her away after they found him in Dravania, even more after Minfilia. But she squandered opportunities, each a bright and alarming memory in hindsight.

Before Thancred can respond, Emet puts a hand to her cheek and makes her look at him. His free hand raises, wagging a finger in her face before tapping her nose. “Ah ah ah, don’t let him off so easy. Not when he is doing his best to make it up to you now…”

Nerys sees the moment a thought takes hold, curling the ends of his mouth upward, drawing his brows down. He flicks a glance over his shoulder. “Oh, is that it? Why you asked me to join?”

Thancred cloaks the soft, warm expression at Nerys with a scowl at Emet. “Don’t pretend to understand my motives.”

Emet clicks his tongue in mock scandalization. “Presumptuous of you, thinking you’re allowed to gift wrap and present me as an apology present.”

Oh.

Nerys extricates herself from his lap, climbing off the bed in a hurry. Walking to Thancred. Searching his closed-off expression for a hint. “Is...is that true?”

Thancred reaches out and takes her hand. Lifts it to his mouth. For all the things these two men have done tonight, for all the things they might still do; these soft touches disarm her the most. And then he removes the facade for her, showing the hope and wariness and the mocking little smile. One she knows is always meant for himself, not anyone else.

He sighs “He’s not wrong, but he’s also not right.” Thancred peers behind her at the bed. “But if Emet-Selch feels used, he is free to leave at any time.”

That last part doesn’t sound angry or annoyed as much as...challenging. She watches him smirk and quirk a brow. Daring the other man.

“Naughty boy,” Emet murmurs. “No, I won’t leave. This has proven to be an interesting night indeed and I am not satisfied yet.”

Nerys touches Thancred’s cheek, drawing his gaze back up to her. Looks him dead in the eye. “You don’t have to do this. Your feelings matter to me and-”

“I could have let him leave, and given you a memorable night without him. I decided I wanted to give you this instead.” The old roguish smirk grows on his lips. “And besides, he has a nice prick.”

She exhales slow, deep, making herself relax. Banishing the anxious tension in her neck and shoulders. “Okay. I believe you.”

“You always can.” Thancred draws her face down and she follows, sinking into his embrace. He still holds the bottle and it’s cool against her back as she presses against the delicious heat of his body and the hard planes of his chest. As he moves, so does she until the backs of her legs hit the mattress. Down, down, she goes until she is sprawled with her head and shoulders in Emet’s lap, Thancred holding himself above her.

“That last part,” Emet says, taking the glass bottle. “You couldn’t see my ‘nice prick’ in the water.”

“But I can see it now.” Thancred shifts his balance to one hand, the other sinking between Emet’s thighs. Sliding a hand over the long-neglected length and this time, Emet doesn’t forestall his own pleasure but lifts his hips. His full lips part and he sighs with relief.

Nerys tilts her head to look up at Thancred, who gives her an expectant look. This old game then. They haven’t played this one since the Spring Festival in Mor Dhona. She meets the challenge with a grin of her own and adjusts her position to better participate.

His fingers return to the root of Emet’s cock and slide upward. She chases them with her tongue along the velvet underside. The scents she associates with him–petrichor and ice and stone–are less here. He could be anyone she might bed.

Emet gasps and slides his hand into her hair. Guiding her as much as Thancred. The steady, near-painful pleasure is unlike many men she has taken to bed for a single night. Who often keep distance and treat her like glass. He is unlike anyone else.

The fingers twist over the swollen head and slip away for her to do the same, mimicking the motion with her swirling tongue. Emet increases pressure on her until he slides between her lips. Nerys bobs up and down without further incentive. That his grip remains insistent only makes this sweeter.

He is nearly as thick as Haurchefant, sure to make her jaw ache.

Another hand–Thancred’s–grips the back of her neck and nudges her down, down, her eyes watering as Emet fucks into her throat. Her nose meets the prickling thatch of auburn curls. Emet lets loose a more desperate sound, the groan raw as he pulls her off of him, fingers still digging into her scalp.

“Good girl,” murmurs Thancred.

“And good boy.” The hands in her hair twists, angling her to watch Emet take hold of Thancred and kiss him with teeth and tongue and heat. Arousal pulses through her at the sight. They’re beautiful. They’re beautiful and tonight they are both hers.

Nerys rises up, sliding into their tangle and they open for her, mouths and hands worshipping at her skin. She wants to be at the center of this. She wants to be selfish and feel them attend to every inch of her before they fuck her. She wants them to burn her until she is naught but ash and pleasure.

“I need you,” she says to them both. “Please don’t stop touching me.”

“Oh, my dear.” Emet catches her chin, sliding his thumb between her lips. “As if I-we could. You are a feast laid out for us and we are but beggars.”

She sucks on it, watching desire flare in his eyes. Emet sighs as if resigned, sliding his hand down so that he can kiss her again. The gentleness of it has her arms and neck prickling with awareness, her breath catching. Everything about him screams danger and yet–yet he coaxes her with lips and tongue, courting her instead of simply taking.

As if sensing her thoughts and needing to disprove her assumption, he turns her about in his arms. Bites down on the juncture between her neck and shoulder. Nerys gasps and Thancred is there to catch her, soothing her even as his own teeth drag over her pulse. Behind her is rustling and the soft pop of a bottle uncorked. She can hear Emet moving his hands together, warming his palms.

Thancred has not forgotten her request. As his mouth travels over her, his hands move in long strokes over arms and waist, hips and legs, neck and cheek. A dizzying perusal of caresses, maintaining the contact she needs.

She startles when Emet squeezes her rear, shivers when one oil slicked hand slides towards the tight ring of muscle. When the first finger begins to circle, Thancred kisses her shoulder. As it slides in to the knuckle, he strokes her sides.

“That’s it,” Thancred murmurs. “You’re doing so good. Look how wet you already are, ready for me to slide deep into you. And I will, as soon as he’s done preparing you.”

“My,” Emet says, kissing behind her ear. “He is a chatty one.”

“He is one to talk.”

“He must feel lost without some narration. Or is the talk for your benefit? Do you need me to tell you how good you’re swallowing me, how tight, how perfectly made for my fingers and my prick you are…”

Nerys means to laugh but a moan comes out instead. Digs her fingers into Thancred’s ivory locks and urges his lips downward. “I-I don’t need it but I like it.” She could have them talk to her like this for hours.

“Impatient,” Thancred mutters at her insistent pushing. He puts up a resistance, sliding his tongue over her stomach all the same.

“I don’t see you stopping me.” Nerys smiles down at him. “Unless you plan on making me pay?”

Teeth sink into her other shoulder as Emet adds a second finger. She wriggles against the sensation, tugging at Thancred’s hair in response. Quick, as if this is a battle–and maybe it is–Thancred grabs her wrists and pins them down on either side of her. Nerys grips at the unfamiliar coverlet, meeting his smirk with a scowl.

She tries to lift herself up, presenting herself for his mouth. He ignores the offering, attending to her breasts instead. Dipping down and then back up as soon as she thinks he might taste her. His grip is iron when she pushes against it, squeezing in warning when she does it again.

“Two strikes…” He says.

Now she has to know. Nerys tries a third time and finds herself dragged to lie on her back, his shoulders shoving under her thighs until they press against her stomach. Emet's slick hands leave her and she moans at the loss.

"You'll have him back in a moment." Thancred says. He glances up, has a wordless conversation with Emet behind her. Takes hold of her arms and lifts them, passing them over. Her wrists are shoved down, captured in the harsh grip of one hand pinning above her head.

It should be worrying that they are cooperating this well to make her writhe. Instead, she feels giddy and like she might dissolve from the force of anticipation..

She tests the restraint and finds no give, not even with her two hands to his one. Emet looks down at her, pitiless and expression bright with desire. And then her eyes shut because Thancred devours her. No mercy, no restraint, his hands gripping her thighs so tight they might bruise. He pushes her higher and higher until he thighs shake and she can see the edge-

And then he pulls back completely.

"Please," she gasps. "That's not fair. I need you-"

Emet’s face is upside-down above her, but he finds a way to slot his mouth against hers. She pours her frustration into the kiss, demanding release with a bite to his lip. He only chuckles against her mouth, his slow reprimand becoming something fierce. Engulfing.

When he parts from her, his lips but an ilm from hers, his eyes are unfocused and his breath ragged. She tastes his blood on her tongue. Licks her lips.

"Not yet," says Emet. "Not after we went through all the trouble of preparing you."

His hand is unyielding against her. Nerys tries to move her hips and legs instead and Thancred presses further, going the small distance needed to bend her in half. "I could come again after-"

“Listen.” Emet nips her shoulder. "We’ve staked a claim upon your pleasure. You’re going to have it...when we’re ready. Yes?”

Fuck. His words, his lowered voice...She would rub her thighs together if she could, if Thancred wasn't between them. Instead, she feels herself growing wetter, hotter. Thancred’s fingers slide over her but for all the lewd noises he draws out, he does not touch anywhere that might bring her release.

"Answer him, sweetheart,” says Thancred. "For once he is making sense."

“Yes,” she murmurs.

“What was that?”

“Yes. Yes, I’ll do what you want me to.”

"Good girl," Emet says, the two of them moving her to sit up between them again. "That deserves a reward."

"Please tell me the reward is your cocks," she says, leaning back against him. "Otherwise, I don't think I'll make it."

"Impatient." Emet mutters but he drips more oil into her cleft, the three fingers returning to open her, stretch her. She braces herself against Thancred, half slumped over and cheek pressed against his heart. If she tries to touch herself, he will stop her but she considers it. Dares one hand down against her stomach. He grabs at it, kissing her as he does.

Nerys groans, rocking back against the fingers stretching her. Grasping for the peak Thancred almost brought her to.

"She's ready," says Emet at last, his voice rough. His hands dig into her cheeks, squeezing as he parts them. "Needy creature. Who knew you had it in you to desire so much?"

"I knew." Thancred kisses her shoulder. "He'll learn, sweetheart."

"That you think you can teach me anything…" Emet mutters. "Mortals. And their arrogance."

"Please," Nerys begs, her voice taut with need. She clutches at Thancred as an anchor against the sweet torture they’re putting her through. "You can lecture us all you want but first give me your-"

At that, his head presses against her. Rocks a moment before sliding into her oil-slicked passage, his hands stroking circles to soothe her as he enters slow and steady. When her breath hitches and the ache is almost too much, he stops and kisses her nape and spine until she relaxes again.

She’s trembling in his arms, overwhelmed at the fullness, the sensation of him deep in her, wrapped around her. His aether seems to sink into her, embracing her as if he has re-manifested all those phantom hands again. But it is just him, just a barrier taken down between them.

When she beds someone with strong aether...those times were just a shade of this. This is beyond anything she has ever experienced.

Emet skims his hands over her muscular thighs, hosting her close until his chin rests on her shoulder. She opens her eyes as he eases them back, watching the view trade Thancred for the ceiling and instinctively reaches out for balance. And then Emet kisses her neck and soothes her skin and she relaxes again.

"Well?" He says, holding her legs open. "She wants you too, Thancred.”

Thancred crouches between her thighs, running a hand over his cock. It has returned to its full aroused length, a tantalizing bead of moisture at the head. His refractory period is always impressive, and they have taken their time since the hot springs. Teasing her until she feels ready to burst.

"I wonder if you'll even physically be able to take it all." Emet says in her ear. "Stuffed as you already are."

He rocks his hips just so and she whimpers at the feel of him. It is true–she is already full to bursting. It is also true–she wants to take as much of them as she can. All of them if she is able.

“If it’s too much…” Thancred leans over her. Presses his cock against her folds as he lines himself up. “Look at me.”

She looks at him, into the warm depths of his eyes. Into the need and heat. Nerys lifts her hips in invitation and Emet is there to slide them back down, groaning softly.

“You know how to stop things, sweetheart. If it gets too much.”

“If it gets too much,” she repeats, licking her lips. “Thancred please fu-”

He slides into her without resistance, slick and ready as she is. It is almost too much and he isn't even half-way seated inside of her. She bites her lip so she doesn't say the word because she wants more, she wants to be utterly lost-

Emet bites the back of her neck and she cries out, but her body relaxes. Thancred slides deeper inside her, bracing his forearms on either side of them. Tension furrows between his brows.

“Alright?” He asks, more breath than sound.

“Yes,” she whimpers. “Please-please-”

"How sweetly you beg." Emet curls one hand around her breast, the other sliding down her stomach. Dragging to where Thancred is buried inside her and her swollen nub waits succor. He traces outside it, slow and taunting. "It almost makes me want to see how long we can keep you just shy of climaxing."

Thancred smirks. Some of the tension eases in his face. "Keep talking like that, it's making her clench around me."

"Bastards," she moans, reaching for Thancred. Resting arms on his shoulders as he begins to move, his slow, vexing strokes in rhythm with the lift of Emet's hips.

"Oh, do be nice," Emet continues as his fingers brush against her core. "I have only ever admired you. And here you are, exceeding all my expectations. You, who shine brighter than most mortals, you're almost radiant now-"

Nerys cannot think enough to string a response together. Sex is often a release for her, a way to center herself. This feels like...being remade. Like the tandem motion of their bodies strips everything away until there is only the pleasure and the ache. Even the growing cramp in her calves cannot compare with the ecstasy coursing through her.

They are both talking, dropping praise upon her but now she cannot hold onto their meaning. Only the feeling of them sliding in and out of her, the ache and stretch of her body, the slap of their skin on hers. Especially as the pace picks up, both men pushing each other to a greater tempo, snapping hips to drive her back and forth between raging fire and raging fire.

The fingers at her clit press down. The edge is in sight and she sobs aloud for them to keep going. To keep moving. Not to stop again, not when she is so close.

Thancred kisses her. Lips press against her nape and she can feel Emet's smile, his breath as he mouths words into her skin that she cannot hear and cannot parse. They move faster inside her, the finger circling, teeth on her flesh-

Nerys screams as her pleasure rips through her, clutching at whatever she can as her mind enters the strange place of release–a mind so focused on one thing as to feel almost blank, a mind so overcome with feeling that there is nothing but relief and pleasure and not a single thought. She gasps and arches and sobs as they work her through it, the frenzied rhythm milking every onze of pleasure from her

Emet gasps and she feels the final, desperate thrusts of his release. And Thancred, Thancred keeps going, keeps moving in her and moving her against Emet until they are both sensitive and depleted and keening and then, and then Thancred lets himself go.

Nerys is nothing but ash and pleasure, smoldering between them.

Emet moves first, lips pressing to her back as his hand traces patterns into her skin. Idle, swirling loops and flourishes that guide her back to the land of the living. She follows their trail without hesitation, her hand sliding over his as she follows.

She opens her eyes just as fingers slides over her cheek. Thancred leans over her, forehead pressed to hers. Studying her as if he has never seen her before. Maybe he hasn't. Maybe she is someone else on the other side of what they shared.

Maybe they all are.

He slides out of her and she whimpers at the loss, both of him and the heady sense of being filled completely. But he returns to her, resting his cheek against her the swell of her chest while the rest of him lies flush against her.

Nerys strokes his hair and finds the energy to speak. “Okay?”

"Okay," says Thancred. Smiles a little. "I don't ever want to move again."

A soft snort behind her. "Your time is short as is."

"Hush," she says. "You're not going anywhere either."

"Oh?" Emet kisses her shoulder. "Bold of you to-"

Despite what he just said, Thancred moves. Slides up and nudges Nerys just so until he is able to press his lips against Emet's. The Ascian hums in response, submitting to the delightful reprimand.

At last Thancred pulls away with a sigh. "Much better."

Emet chuckles. "So, you two plan on keeping me here tonight. Well, I put myself at your mercy...provided you let me lead the figure at some point."

"If you're good," Nerys teases, and then gasps as Emet rolls his hips against her.

“My dear,” says Emet. His hands slide up her stomach, cupping her breasts. She can tell from Thancred’s expression, they’re sharing a conspiratorial look. Anticipation and wonder sing through her. “Let me prove just how good a playmate I can be."

#nerys eluned #emet-selch #thancred waters #thancred x wol x emet-selch #thancred x wol #emet-selch x wol #thancred x emet-selch #ffxiv #duskwight warrior of light #dragoon warrior of light #elezen #water cw #ally writes

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nyxienoya · 3 years ago

Text

Humble Surprises

lil Rohan x Dio fic for the bestie

summary: Rohan draws Dio because he's a simp

word count: 1.9k

It was silent in the Kishibe residence, both Rohan and Dio were sitting parallel to each other in the living room. A faint sound of the record player playing Mozart softly. Rohan was sat on his single seater red leather couch seemingly slaving away working on his manga as usual, at least that’s what it seemed like to Dio.

Dio however, was sat on the black three seater leather couch reading one of his old books from the 1880s, holding it with one had as he swirled a glass of red wine with his other hand, stopping his reading to take a small sip every so often.

The two had met only years prior when Rohan was nineteen and decided to take a trip to Cairo to expand the limits of the manga he had been planning for years. He frequently used the architecture of the buildings in the manga, even in frequent volumes just to reference back to one of the best moments in Rohan’s life.

Rohan ended up stumbling away from the city, getting too versed in drawing anything that piqued his interest, to the point of him having to buy an extra four sketchbooks the minute he landed in Cairo, knowing he’d lose all control. It only took two days for Rohan to fill up the first sketchbook. To ensure that he wouldn’t fill the rest of the sketchbooks in mere days, Rohan decided to venture off away from the city, trying to take in more than what met the eye.

Off in the distance he saw a large building, illuminated by candles of all shapes and sizes, curious, Rohan decided to head towards it.

Meanwhile, inside the mansion stood Dio and his thirteen year old son, Giorno in deep discussion in front of the grand staircase. “Giorno, son. Don’t be ridiculous, you can’t venture off to Italy this young on your own!” Dio exclaimed, to which he continued on in a hushed tone of voice, “please son, if you leave it’ll just be me and Vanilla Ice, and as much as I appreciate him as a follower, it’s too much. By this point he should just be my slave, he’s that subservient to me.” In response Giorno rolled his eyes, playing with the ends of his braid. “Father, I’m not doing this to abandon you, I adore you, you care for me whereas mother doesn’t, she left you for a Japanese man, and I cannot forgive her for doing so. But I digress, you’re extremely dramatic. The most compelling reason you wouldn’t want me to leave is as a result of you being a vampire, and Italy is a catholic country, therefore having crosses and garlic and whatever vampires are allergic to.” This caused Dio to look towards his son with a deadpan look on his face whereas Giorno was stood with a smirk on his.

Unbeknownst to the two, the grand door had been open for a minute where Rohan had been standing, jaw agape from what he had just witnessed, “You-“ he tried to muster something to say, but was quickly silenced by the tall vampire suddenly appeared by his side. Giorno looked to the scene in amusement, “You can’t kill him.” He spoke nonchalantly to which Dio opened his mouth to reply only to close it once more, unable to think of a response. By now, Rohan had gained control over his thoughts once again and started to look around frantically. “Ah! The architecture of this place is simple magnificent.” Rohan exclaimed, turning to face the vampire. “And, you’re a vampire? Your features would be great in my manga. Oh the possibilities are endless, having a vampire in my story would add a little spice.” Rohan ranted, without Dio realizing, his son had slipped away from the situation, laughing softly noticing how fascinated his father was with the mortal.

Dio was stunned, normally if a human had stumbled into the mansion, Dio would kill them or turn them into a vampire to act as his follower, but this human, he was something else.

Over time, Dio found himself infatuated with the human who he came to know as Rohan, and within a years’ time of knowing him, his partner. Dio thought it would be appropriate to turn Rohan into a stand user just lie himself, using the arrow. To no surprise to anyone, his stand; Heaven’s Door took inspiration from Rohan’s zeal for manga and the arts. Later, the two found that The World had a softness for Heaven’s Door, acting in a nurturing way towards it. The first time the two saw their stands together The World seemed to be fretting over Heaven’s Door and seemingly inquiring about its powers. Seeing this made the users chuckle, who knew their stands felt so softly for each other?

Fast forwarding to the present, Rohan was scribbling away at a piece of paper, having his coloured inks sprawled on the coffee table, dipping his pen in every so often. Dio thought is was cute how Rohan acted when he drew, tongue in between his lips, eyebrows furrowed, his hair sticking to his cheeks; his headband working to no avail. Whilst reading, Dio would look up over his book to take in the sight of his partner. He thought it was strange how the two of them clicked, a 138-year-old vampire, and a passionate manga artist. Two unlikely lovers, and quite frankly, Dio wouldn’t have it any other way.

“Aha!” Rohan suddenly called out, causing Dio to place down his now empty glass of wine as well as his book. “Are you okay there, darling?” Dio asked, an undertone of concern laced in his words. Rohan looked up to his boyfriend, a large grin plastered on his face, “Everything is fine, my love. If you don’t mind” he stood up, drawing in hand, “I’ll be right back.” Rohan then rushed upstairs in order to finalize some details.

Dio rubbed his chin in curiosity, “What ever could that man have been drawing to be that excited for it?” He questioned. Shrugging, he stood, picking up the glass and walked into their kitchen which had the key to the basement. Dio snatched the key off the hook and headed towards the basement door. He opened it and flicked the lights on, stepping down the wooden stairs. He took a deep inhale, the smell of various types of wine accumulating into one scent. He walked around the racks of wine, uncertain on what flavour he was craving. Dio didn’t realise that ten minutes had already passed before he finally picked the perfect red wine. A Malbec; which Dio thought perfectly expressed the fruitiness of summer, having a blueberry flavour with a hint of spice. Perfect for these Summer evenings.

The moment he picked up the bottle of wine from the rack to take back upstairs, he was suddenly was enveloped by two arms around his waist, “I knew you’d be down here, you alcoholic.” Rohan joked, nuzzling his cheek into Dio’s defined back. “Oh hush, young one, I simply ran out of the wine from earlier. That’s beside the point though,” he started, turning to wrap one of his arms around his boyfriend. “what did you need from me, dear?” He asked, pressing a soft kiss to Rohan’s forehead.

“I came to ask you to come upstairs. I wanted to show you the finished piece.” Rohan smiled, taking Dio’s free hand and almost dragging him upstairs. Taking almost stagnant steps, Dio smirked; “You know dear, you’re stronger than you look.” To which Rohan replied with briefly glaring at him and groaning, “Come on, I don’t have all evening to wait for you-“ He was promptly cut off by seeing that his boyfriend was no longer behind him, rather; leaning on the door frame in front of him, eyebrow quirked. “Exactly what I’m saying love, come on, we haven’t got all day.” Dio spoke, sarcasm dripping from his voice. Once more, Rohan groaned, muttering “Sometimes I hate that stand of yours.”

Taking his boyfriend’s hand once again, the two walked up to Rohan’s office in silence. When the two were in front of the door, Rohan released Dio’s hand and turned to face him. “Okay, no using The World, I want you to cover your eyes, it’s a surprise. Whether you’ll like it or not is beyond my control, but I hope at least you’ll appreciate it.” Dio nodded and covered his eyes with his arm, still holding the bottle of wine whilst reaching out for Rohan’s hand and succeeding.

Rohan opened the door and took slow steps, trying to ensure his partner wouldn’t trip, walking into the center of the room then stopping. Rohan let out a sigh and released Dio’s hand again. “Okay, you may uncover your eyes.” To which Dio complied, accompanied by Rohan saying “Surprise!”

He took in the drawing. It was him, which was the first thing to shock Dio, Rohan really cared that much about him to take hours of time to draw him? What surprised him more was the fact that is was him when he was a teen, back in the 1880s before everything in his life fell apart. Dio was taken aback, stumbling backwards slightly. It was a beautiful drawing, the fluidity of the ink encapsulating his features perfectly. Dio, needless to say was taken away with the drawing, and Rohan could see it in his expression.

Tears cropping up in the corner of Dio’s eyes shocked Rohan the most though. “Darling, are you alright, is the drawing that bad? I can destroy it if you want.” Rohan frantically explained. Dio shook his head, rejecting the idea. “Don’t do anything of the sort darling. I apologise, but I was just incredibly taken aback from it. It’s beautiful. You perfectly matched up my personality from when I was a boy, all from the stories I’ve told you about my youth.” Dio stated, Rohan nodding as he spoke.

“Are you sure that’s all-“ Rohan started, but getting cut off mid-sentence by his boyfriend. “I know you must think there’s some deeper meaning to by my response being as sorrowful as you expected, and there is. It’s just that, looking at this drawing evoked something inside of me; regret? Anguish? I’m not sure, but whatever it is makes me miss JoJo, I never wanted to actually hurt him-“ Dio’s rant being cut off by Rohan hugging him, tears of his own cropping.

Dio smiled softly, returning the hug, staring at the drawing. “I want you to frame it. It’s too precious to put elsewhere.” Rohan nodded.

“Thank you Rohan, this means a lot to me. You’re so talented and I cannot thank you enough for being my partner despite my past.” Dio spoke softly. Rohan muttered a response against his partner’s chest; “I love you too, Dio. If you ever need me to draw something which can bring to life the memories you once had with Jonathan, I’ll do it, no questions asked.”

Later that night, Dio found the drawing framed and hung in the walkway to the living room and smiled softly. “Thank you, JoJo.” He whispered to himself. As he said those words, he could’ve sworn he felt a large hand on his shoulder, one so familiar to him, but so distant at the same time. Jonathan Joestar after all these years was still looking over his brother.

#dio brando #jojo's bizarre adventure #jjba #rohan kishibe #dio x rohan #jjba fanfic #DIO #kishidio

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itsclydebitches · 5 years ago

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Why do you like Lore Olympus? I'm genuinely curious because I've seen a lot of harsh criticisms toward the comic, from its inaccuracies regarding its use of Greek Mythology to the plethora of harmful queer stereotypes. I tried reading it myself but honestly, if you took out all the Greek Mythology references and naming, it just seems like another "far older man courts a barely adult woman" love story with bad queer rep thrown it.

Happy to explain! Let’s tackle what’s perhaps the most complicated aspect first.

As a former Classics major I can tell you that there is no “Greek Mythology.” Meaning, there is no singular Greek Mythology that can be referenced and consulted in any uniform way. Which is a really difficult thing to conceptualize in an age of print publications and careful record keeping. Unsure about whether Harry ever cursed Draco with such-and-such hex? Re-read the Harry Potter books to find out. Want to claim that Sherlock was horrible to Watson and frequently insulted him? We can comb through Doyle’s shorts stories and novels, tally every insult, and find out. These are canons and, as messy as the term “canonical” has become with more adaptations and transmedia storytelling, most characters have a set, fixed existence that we can return to and use as evidence. Not so with Greek Mythology. Born of oral storytelling, there are a hundred different versions of every myth, some changes more stark than others. Some of those versions were written down. Then written down again (differently). Then written down again (differently still). Then we realized they were almost all being written down by men and huh, I wonder if that has any impact on how they framed the story (spoiler: it absolutely does). And all of this doesn’t even take into account the issue of translation. Regardless of what Ovid may have put down on the page, you’re going to get a different experience depending on whether you read Melville or Gregory. There’s a reason why everyone was so excited over Emily Wilson being the first woman to translate The Odyssey into English. Her perspective and her experience as a woman by default changes the way she approaches the text. Even something as simple as a single description can have a HUGE impact depending on how it is translated. Take this excerpt from a NYT article:

“The prefix poly,” Wilson said, laughing, “means ‘many’ or ‘multiple.’ Tropos means ‘turn.’ ‘Many’ or ‘multiple’ could suggest that he [Odysseus] is much turned, as if he is the one who has been put in the situation of having been to Troy, and back, and all around, gods and goddesses and monsters turning him off the straight course that, ideally, he’d like to be on. Or, it could be that he’s this untrustworthy kind of guy who is always going to get out of any situation by turning it to his advantage. It could be that he’s the turner.”

Is Odysseus a poor victim turned around by monsters and fate, or is he a schemer capable of turning it all to his advantage? It all depends on how it’s translated and whoever wants to make a case for Odysseus being a “good” or “bad” guy can point to this translation as evidence… or another. Or another. There are just too many versions for anyone to definitely say what these gods and others are “really” like.

I put so much emphasis on this because the biggest criticism I’ve seen leveled against the comic is the characterization of Apollo. He would never rape Persephone! How dare you twist his character like that! Except Apollo isn’t a character that exists in a fixed canon. He belongs to an overwhelming corpus of complicated, contrary, contrasting myths… and yes, in some of those he raped. Arguably. It, again, comes down to translation and interpretation. Take this excerpt from Nancy Rabinowitz’s paper “Greek Tragedy: A Rape Culture?”

Creusa, raped by Apollo years ago, conceived a child and abandoned him… For the purposes of this paper, I have to address the question of whether Creusa was in fact raped by the god. Hermes mixes the terminology in the prologue; he asserts that the god Apollo “yoked the daughter of Erechtheus in marriage (γάμοις)”, but he also says “by force (βίᾳ)” (10-11). Ion later (1524-25; cf. 341, 325) wonders whether Creusa was really raped, or whether she was just alleging that the god took her by violence to cover up an indiscretion of her own – a similar situation could be imagined in our own day, where false allegations may arise from young girls’ fear of confessing consensual relations to their parents. Lefkowitz argues that women tend to cooperate in their seduction by a god. While it might seem obvious that Ion is simply wrong, there is the further implication that though Apollo raped Creusa, she also desired him” (11-12).

So if we’re looking for evidence that Smythe’s interpretation of Apollo is the “correct” one, it exists… depending on what you read and how you choose to interpret it: whether a mortal woman can ever truly give consent due to the power difference between her and a god, whether it was safe to say no, whether she might have lied to protect herself, whether it was something a part of her desired but perhaps didn’t entirely want, etc. It’s that last bit in particular—those difficult questions—that Smythe explores in her comic. Persephone wants to explore her sexuality. She wants a way out of her virgin obligations. But she’s also pressured into sex by Apollo. He doesn’t stop when she expresses discomfort. She doesn’t feel safe asserting herself and telling him to stop. It’s rape, but it’s a far more complicated situation than the rape scenario of “Evil man forces himself on woman in the back of an alleyway” and Smythe treats the tragedy with nuance and respect, even in a comic filled with so much humor.

The people I see most upset about Lore Olympus are those who talk about the gods and their associated mortals as if they’re characters out of a book. They read one version once—or maybe two—and, as is natural in the 21st century, decided that This Is How The Story Goes. Even though every academic would be losing their mind over such definitive statements as, “Such-and-Such would never do this.” That’s simply not how records this ancient, sporadic, political, and downright messy work. So as someone with some knowledge of how Greek Mythology functions, I’m not at all put off by the comics’ “inaccuracies.” Because they’re simply not inaccuracies, just interpretations. Not liking those interpretations is fine, but that doesn’t mean Smythe was wrong for providing them.

As for the rest, I’ll try to limit myself to bullet points:

The age difference between Persephone and Hades is definitely A Thing and I admittedly didn’t realize that was the case when I started reading. I assumed that Persephone, like most of the cast, was hundreds/thousands of years old and just had a child-like personality. I basically realized around the time Hades did that she’s so young. That being said, the issue of age differences changes for me once you reach such insane ages. That’s why I still ship Ozqrow: Ozpin is hundreds of years older than him but at that point he’s going to be older than everyone. Always. Limiting his ships to only those who are close to Ozpin’s age means you can’t ship him at all (unless you ship him with Salem post-grimm pool and… no). It’s a similar situation with Hades. Yes, there are plenty of gods his age that he could date (and indeed he does) but he is always going to be thousands of years older than Persephone. She can literally never catch up to him, so if someone has an issue with the age gap then they have to accept that it will simply never go away. They can never be a couple in which case yeah, then the comic just isn’t your thing.

Really, I think the bigger issue is not the gap itself but Persephone’s age, period. Again though, I appreciate that Smythe treats the situation with a great deal of respect. This isn’t a story of a much older man hunting a younger woman. It’s the story of a much older god who, like me the reader, assumed he had fallen for a slightly younger goddess… and then freaked out when he found out he was wrong. He’s called out for his ignorance. Others are incredibly protective of Persephone. They both try to stay away from one another and find themselves struggling. Which, to be frank, is an interesting dilemma to me. And it’s one I’m more interested in with gods as characters as opposed to humans. Because it feels less predatory to me. A man going after a much younger woman is threatening in part because we’re mortals who have so much to lose, including our youth. If you enter an abusive relationship that alone is horrible enough, but it also means you’ve lost all those years and all that experience to toxicity. When a god goes after a much younger goddess… they’re kind of static. They have eternity stretching out before them. Persephone potentially “losing” ten years to a relationship with Hades just isn’t the same thing as a mortal losing ten years to a relationship of their own. Gods, though they seem quite human, simply aren’t and thus for me questions of morality and what’s ethical in any given situation changes. We have a cast who, when Eros gets upset and murders a whole bunch of humans, Zeus shrugs and says they’ll just make more. Their concept of right and wrong differs from ours and it invites the reader to apply that to every situation: is it as wrong for an older god to go after a 19yo goddess as it would be for an older man to go after a 19yo woman? Many readers may decide it is—to some extent the text decides it is—but the story still possesses ambiguity and invites the reader to grapple with it. That’s compelling.

Connected to this, I like how much agency Persephone has throughout the series. She’s very much a character who defies expectations, particularly when it comes to her sexuality. Far from being a meek, vulnerable woman who is preyed on by Hades, she is making constant, active decisions about her own romantic and sexual encounters. Even if that decision is just acknowledging how unsure she still is: does she want to remain a virgin? Does she want Apollo? Does she want Hades? Is it okay to make out with Ares? Wear this very short dress? Get drunk? Explore a city? Invite this person over? Have feelings for your boss? Persephone is grappling with a lot of questions that don’t have easy answers and the fact that the story gives her the room to do that grappling is fantastic. I’ve spoken before about my dislike of the Strong Female Character—someone who is not just physically intimidating but who also never, EVER hesitates. She knows precisely what she wants and she’s going to take it! Which is a great portrayal of one kind of woman… but I’m not that kind. I hem and haw and am anxious like Persephone. So for me it’s refreshing to see a story that paints uncertainty as strength. She’s allowed the space to be unsure and confused and is never belittled for that.

Honestly I’m not sure what the issue with the queer rep is? Beyond the fact that Lore Olympus doesn’t seem to have any (unless I’m forgetting some. Very possible). Which, admittedly, is far from great, but if I dismissed every story due solely to a lack of queer characters I would limit a lot of my potential media. So for me, personally, that’s not a deal breaker. Taking a stab in the dark, I’ll make an assumption that people are upset about certain characterizations like Eros? Which, fair. But we also have the flip side that effeminate, flamboyant men do exist. It’s another complicated, touchy subject, but there’s a fine line between enforcing stereotypes and acknowledging that those stereotypes often do arise out of something. Some people hate the media image of the queer kid decked out in rainbows. Other people look at their own wardrobe and backpack and go, “Actually… yeah. That can be accurate.” For me stereotypes are primarily an issue given their prevalence. It’s an issue when that’s the only way queer characters are portrayed, but Lore Olympus doesn’t have that problem because, again, it’s focused on het relationships. Eros might potentially be a (non-confirmed?) queer stereotype… or he’s a battle-hardened warrior who also likes to gush about gossip while baking, the sort of complex gender portrayal that people claim to want. It depend on how you approach it. So no, Lore Olympus isn’t breaking any ground with queer rep but, as said, I do appreciate how it treats sexual assault—among other sensitive, relevant issues. It’s a trade-off. No piece of media is going to be perfect. I could say the same thing about so many great stories. The Mandalorian doesn’t have any queer rep! No, it doesn’t, but it is giving us a fantastic story about a bounty-hunter turned dad that challenges a number of Western gender assumptions so… trade-off.

I likewise enjoy that characters call one another out on shitty, toxic behavior without completely losing who those characters are. (Again, supposedly who they are based on the lecture I gave at the start lol). Meaning, it would be kind of weird if Zeus wasn’t a womanizer. That’s what we expect of him, so changing that would likewise change one of the most fundamental aspects of what makes Zeus-Zeus in the general public’s perception of him. But we still have scenes of Hera and others calling him out on that shit, so it’s a balance between modern sensibilities and character expectations.

The characters overall are just wonderfully complex. Persephone doesn’t seem so at first glance, but that’s partly the point: she’s nothing like what everyone assumes she is and it’s those assumptions that she’s learning to push back against. But overall Smythe has a real knack for emphasizing the human (or god) complexity. We hate Eros for helping Aphrodite punish Persephone. Then we feel bad for him because of his sob story. Then we pull back because he’s called out for being a dick and making himself look like the victim. Then we come to the realization that his side of the story was still accurate in many ways and finally end on… he’s flawed. He’s just a flawed person. He’s not a saint. He’s not the devil. He’s a guy who screwed up one moment and did something good the next. Perhaps it’s just me coming out of the nonsense that was Volume 7 of RWBY, but it’s refreshing to read a story where that complexity is emphasized and (most) flaws are forgiven while still being acknowledged.

Overall I just find it to be a fun, entertaining story! lol. The artwork is beautiful. The humor is great. There’s a nice balance between plot and introspection. There are issues with the series, sure, but none thus far have kept me from enjoying the experience of reading it. I fully support anyone’s right to go, “Nope. Not for me.” For any reason. But I also feel like Lore Olympus is a good example of Tumblr’s recent emphasis on pure media: it must be PERFECT. Otherwise chuck it in the bin. Lore Olympus does a lot of the things that people on this site call for. Respectful depictions of assault. Emphasis on mental health. Storytelling from a woman’s perspective. Numerous types of woman characters. Being careful about who engages with sensitive material and how (each chapter that contains such issues has a trigger warning at the start, impossible to miss). Lore Olympus does a lot right… and some things wrong. Which is what we would expect of any good story. So it feels disingenuous of me—if not outright dangerous—to paint it as worse than I actually think it is. I want media to continue to improve, but I also don’t want to scare off authors from even trying because they were raked across the coals for not creating perfection. Smythe, to my mind, is definitely trying and that should be acknowledged.

#Anonymous #rape tw #lore olympus #greek mythology #mymetas

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