wicked-aria

[wicked-aria]

There were stories about the poison swamp in the south. Stories about will-o-wisps in the trees that made ringing noises like bells, calling you further into the swamp. Stories about the dead rising up from beneath the thick murky depths. Stories of a woman who lived in the center of the swamp in a humble little home of brick.

Most adventurers steered clear of the swamp. The thick miasma of poison made it a risk not worth taking – the monsters that prowled in the marshes were strange and transformed, unlike anything found in common beastariums. And most of the treasures that were rumored to be in the swamp were very likely sunk down into the swamp lands – near certain death for anyone to try and retrieve. 

Still, there were those that would not be disuaded. They thought themselves to be better than the average traveler, or that it was all superstition and ill-planning. They climbed the trees that the will-o-wisps gathered and found them to be a system of bells and wires that seemed to send a location straight out to the center of the swamp. They would decide that someone was obviously hiding something with the sort of effort and upkeep such a primitive warning system entailed, and would follow the wires down the rickety wooden paths through the swamp.

This was the matter of fact existence for Elora. Her mother had been ostracized from proper high elf existence – the idea that she wanted to study Necromancy was forbade, her ideals and explanations falling on death ears. So, her mother moved to the swamp, prepared a potion that would keep the poison in the air from killing her – and set about perfecting her craft in a place full of bodies and with plenty of people that might need help.

  Neristina, her mother, met her father as one of the foolhardy that tried to brave the swamp only to need the assistance of a necromancer’s undead to survive. He’d been badly hurt by one of the monsters – the bridge had been badly damaged in the attack and needed repairs. So he stayed and recovered. Met a bright woman with a love of tea and a love for adventurers’ tenacity so great that she moved to a middle of a swamp in order to ensure their stories did not end there.

They fell in love and some time later, she was born. 

But life away from civilization other than periodic supply trips was not for everyone, and eventually, before she could even remember his face properly, he left.

Mother left too, after Elora was old enough to fend for herself. It wasn’t on purpose – Neristina never planned to leave her 16 year old daughter to her own devices. But Elora was properly trained in the art of necromancy, and Neristina needed to travel further than normal. This would be Elora’s time to prove herself as a competent mage of her own right. Her mother would never have left if she didn’t think Elora would be perfectly capable of handling herself.

She never came back.

Waiting for days, became weeks, became Elora’s first trip out of the swamp into the small nameless town in the valley to the east. She needed supplies and couldn’t wait for her mother any longer.

The villagers knew her by name, the pretty young redheaded daughter of Neristina. They wondered at Elora traveling on her own, uncommonly young for a high elf – Elora constructed a story of Neristina being sick in bed. Eventually, this story evolved to her mother quietly passing away of illness. Closure for the townspeople that only knew Neristina as a beautiful high elf with a reclusive nature. Closure that Elora never received herself. Alone, with nothing but to continue the legacy her mother left uncompleted, Elora chose her own adult name, and continued living in her swamp.

The bells rang almost once a month. She would grab her satchet of supplies and follow the bells down the necessary path. Interrupt the monster trying to eat a wounded adventurer with the bodies of the dead, and wait for the inevitable. The adventurer running away, now more scared of the fact that a necromancer resided in the poison bog than of the mutated monsters that roved around. Sometimes she would take an injured adventurer back, and they’d heal up. Most of them warmed up to her after talking to her. Others healed in silence until they could leave, and never once looked back.

And some died, and never returned to the edges of the swamp, either sunk down into the flotsam of the water, or resting in the belly of one of the beasts. Those were the worst days – Elora’s entire perceived purpose was to prevent this, and here was evidence of another lost soul to the swamp. She had nightmares when it came to those days – no matter how many lilies she laid on the wooden path where the adventurer breathed their last, it wasn’t enough of an apology for being just a little too late for something they couldn’t have been prepared for.

The bells were ringing once again on the eve of her twenty-eighth birthday. She narrowed her eyes at the hot cup of jasmine tea she had just fixed for herself – a bit of a treat for her birthday, an expensive one she could ill afford. She had waited until nighttime – even among the fools who challenged the swamp, none were so foolhardy to come at night – and yet-

She had half a mind of letting them learn their lesson the hard way. Or maybe the idea that the bells were spirits would scare them off.

But the bells were still ringing, harder than they ever had before and she growled in frustration, whirling away from her quaint kitchen counter and darting out the door. She couldn’t abandon her work on a selfish little whim. No matter how expensive that tea had been, or how wonderful it had smelled.

The pathways through the swamp felt different at night, even after growing up running after her mother along this very path. Nighttime changed the swamp, and it felt like its own living, breathing monster. Something that noone would ever conquer, that she had an uneasy understanding with.

The bells rang more frantically, the noise getting louder as she got closer to the origin point where her bell lines were being triggered. One of the many-vined wyrms roared, loud enough to make the wooden path tremble under her feet, and she clutched her staff a little bit tighter. There was a coil of nerves forming in her gut. Nothing about this felt normal. 

There! The wyrm reared on its hind legs, roaring again in pain, hackles raised to reveal a mouth full of teeth, too many teeth-

There was an entire group of people on the pathways, shouting and all fighting the wyrm. Her frantic running slowed to a stop, only watching how such a large group was managing this. Mages. All of them were magic users.

Groups were rare in the swamp. As much as it made sense to travel in numbers, that there was safety there, too many people were too logical and groups broke apart at the idea of entering the swamp. She’d never seen so many people at once past her first bell trigger-

The wyrm lunged forward and clamped down tight on the torso of one of the mages, ripping them off the platform as it ducked down into the swamp water – waves of the murky water rushed over the pathway, flooding it briefly. Silence for a moment. It would only be a moment, though she could see the group relaxing their guard.

She closed her eyes, reaching out and feeling for the body that she knew lined the bottom of the swamp. In her mind’s eye, she scooped them up, feeding a fleeting life into their deteriorated bodies and encouraging them up above the algae of the swamp. Ten skeletons clambered onto the path around the adventurers – and the cries of shock or alarm never came. Her stomach flipped again.

Wrong. There was something wrong.

She had no more time to turn that over in her head as the wyrm resurfaced and returned for the group a second time – the mage absent from its mouth. Swallowed or drowned – either was as possible and neither was an easier death than the other.

Elora directed her dead warriors to the wyrm – fearless for lack of pain, they swarmed it, hitting and clawing and biting where the mages had knocked free scales and vines. It was a long battle but the wyrm was frenzied from its taste of blood and would not be dissuaded like they normally could. Finally it fell with a roar, sinking into the bloodied water, taking Elora’s remaining skeletons with it. The mages lowered their weapons.

Her head swam. She’d never needed to maintain concentration like that for so long at once and it had taken its toll on her.

“So the rumors were true.” One of the mages stepped further down the path towards her. A tall high elf – handsome her mind tiredly supplied – carrying a scythe. He seemed thrilled and she couldn’t understand why. One of his friends had just died.

“You came out into the swamp to confirm a rumor? You’re a bigger fool than most then.” Her voice sounded hoarse. Dry.

“We came here to find another necromancer that’s rumored to have quite the talent behind the magic. That’s you. I’d say that’s worth some tribulations considering the stunt you just pulled.”

“Your friend died,” she says, a numbness running through her. She had never had much opportunity to socialize beyond sparingly. Was this normal in a large group of adventurers? It must be – none of their number looked remotely stunned at this turn of events.

“He understood the risk. We all did. Are you alone out here?” He looked around, and then back at her with a smile. “Really, that was brilliant what you did with the skeletons. And reforming the one-”

“This isn’t the place to have this discussion.” She interrupted, holding up a hand. The swamp had returned to its breathing state, the soft splash of creatures moving through the water.

He nodded. “Of course. May we come back with you to your home?”

She hesitated, looking at the group slowly clustering behind him. They really were all necromancers… robes and scythes and daggers. They were like her – outsiders, unwelcome in major cities and so misunderstood about the gifts they had learned. She’d heard the stories about necromancers defiling graves, sacrificing souls for their own benefit – but these people didn’t look like monsters. They were high elves, humans, dwarves. Civil people.

Elora nodded. “Follow me. It’ll be tight, but it’s shelter at least. Try not to make too much noise – we should pass through quietly now that the wyrm’s dead.” The other monsters would take that as a warning for now. Come morning, it would be a challenge. She lead them away and back to her quaint little home on stilts in the middle of the swamp, smoke still rising out of the chimney from dinner. 

The leader’s name was Rahleigh. He explained that he had taken a human name in deference to his mentor, a human who was now long dead. He had a low laugh like the approaching rumble of thunder, and long lashes that stood out so clearly against his cheeks when he looked down to consider what she said.

Her home was full to the brim with strangers with infectious laughter and a calming demeanor. The unease in her gut calmed, sitting on her bed, quietly talking to Rahleigh, cupping her cold tea in her hands. He seemed intently interested in her. In her life in the swamp. They had been looking for a quiet home, off the beaten path.

She hesitated. “I’m here because someone needs to be. Not just to stay away from other people.”

“You’ve been alone for so long, Elora. That takes an immense amount of strength, and I cannot begin to imagine what it’s like.” Rahleigh touched the back of her hand, leaning in slightly. His blue eyes intent on her. “We can help keep the swamp safe. You don’t have to be alone ever again.”

She agreed. She asked for time to think but even as she asked that, she knew what she would eventually say. It was a foregone conclusion. The idea of going back to being alone – of losing the laughter of the other necromancers in her living space – was unbearable.

Rahleigh was right. She’d been alone for too long.

It didn’t take long after she agreed to let them stay in the swamp with her that they began building a complete compound – something she would never have been able to accomplish on her own. They worked together, watching for the monsters lurking some distance away as they built out more platforms. It took nearly a year but there was a small cluster of buildings where for years, only the home she had shared with her mom had stood.

In that time, she got to knew them all so well.

She got to know Rahleigh best. He was sweet. He was sincere and quick to smile, and he was capable of charming her with a simple act. He actively sought out her company with a quiet surety. 

When they kissed the first time, it was like nothing she had ever experienced. Nothing like she had ever dreamed since the coven had joined her in her little world. They never worried about finishing a room for him in the small village – he just moved in with her, and escorted her to the village for the supply runs. Where the women who had watched her grow up with giggle and elbow each other and talk about how love could change their little wildling so remarkably.

The swamp did not change, for all that her life did. Adventurers came and were rescued by any number of excited necromancers. They loved her idea of a way to showcase their talents for good. Only use corpses without graves, with no mourners. She felt understood. Vindicated for all that she heard derisive mutterings in the village about travelling outsiders. Defilers of corpses. Godless people.

The easy pace of life changed when Rahleigh made a reference to their lives in a supply run. Immediately, the warm welcome they had been given from the townsfolk shuttered. The woman who had been selling them loaves of bread jerked away, her face growing cold.

“That’s the type of person you’ve become, lass? There’s no place for you here.” She hissed, and Elora felt the world fall out from under her. 

“I’ve always been one,” is what comes out of her mouth in her defense. Surely, there’s a mistake. There isn’t a monster in her skin. She only has done with necromancy what can be done to help people still alive. She would never disturb a properly buried body. She wouldn’t take a life. This can’t be-

“More the shame on our part. Leave.” The woman did not waver for a moment. It was as though Rahleigh’s words had unintentionally wiped clean all good memories of her coexistence with this village. What did they think a young high elf had been doing on her own? Where did they think the rumors of necromancers in the swamp came from?

She didn’t remember leaving the village, but Rahleigh had helped make sure she got home safely. She felt numb. She didn’t remember how long she cried for.

Her world changed again when she happened across two of her group – her group, they were her family, the only family that was a constant now – escorting an adventurer back to the village. This wouldn’t be a problem – but the man was tied up and not looking very willing. Her blood turned to ice in her veins. “What are you doing with him?”

They exchanged looks. “He’s confused. He’s a danger to himself.” One says.

She frowned. “He doesn’t look like he’ll be dangerous to himself.”

“Well, we just want to be sure.”

She caught them one more time. They tried to say it was just another confused traveller. She never saw the first one leave, and she refused to stand by a second time. She told them to stay right there – and she found Rahleigh and brought him back to the square.

He was impassive. He wouldn’t listen to reason and told her to let them continue with what they were doing.

It turned into an argument all night.

“We’re necromancers, love. This is what we do. I’ve been nice and understanding about how you feel but for the gods’ sakes, would you please be reasonable? Sacrifices have to happen to keep our powers sharp. It’s necessary.”

She slapped him. He caught her wrist and suddenly the easy-going smile was gone from his lips. He moved out of her precious little home and in with some of his fellows, leaving her alone with her tea leaves and the various stuffed animals she had made over the years.

It happened again. And another argument happened. And another. She heard one necromancer laugh and comment how nice it was not to have to sneak around Elora’s gentle sensabilities any longer. And when she confronted him, Rahleigh quietly led her away to chat with her. There was no discussion to be had. He bound her wrists in iron and gagged her to prevent any vocations from being chanted.

“I had hoped that I could make you understand why we do what we need to for more power. I suppose not.”

She was led by his hand – a gentle, soft hand – into the circle of the village. It dawned on her that everything else had been built away from her home. An outsider, even before she’d known that everything was a pretty facade of unity. She bit back tears. She wouldn’t let him win that from her, even if betrayal tasted like bile at the back of her throat.

“Elora cannot reconcile with the betrayal of the village that has turned their backs on us.” Rahleigh announced to the others. “She has agreed to take the yoke of sacrifice upon her strong shoulders and give her strength to us so that we can make them understand.”

The village. Her heart stuttered, panic filling her. No. No no – she jerked away from him, spinning to look at this monster who wore a lover’s face. He stared at her with patience, a veil of compassion on his features. She shook her head hard, wished to bite the gag through and deny it.

The coven – apparently far too used to seeing sacrifices chained up and gagged – applauded at the fearlessness and selflessness of their redheaded swamp mage. She could feel the smirks of the few that had been talking about her just earlier today. She shook her head hard and it was confused for modesty. She couldn’t tell how many believed it and how many just felt it was easier to believe.

She was pulled into one of the buildings, Rahleigh’s hand over hers, trying to pull away the entire time. She would rather a wyrm eat her than this. Anything but this.

It turned out the room that had once been planned to be Rahleigh’s had been turned into a sacrificial altar. It was dark – no natural light that fought into the swamp was able to get inside, and so instead, it was filled with the inconstant, flickering light of candles stacked around the edges of the open room, the wax puddled in cream pools where previous candles had burned to the base. In the center, a small stone bench that was stained with something dark.

It smelled like blood and the tears came then, choking her senses. She dropped to her knees, unable to support her own weight any longer, the rough wood of the floor digging into her knees, scratching them.”It’s scary, I know, Elora. Compared to all of the rest of us, you’ve hardly been given a chance to live. But you’re being so brave,” Rahleigh said, tugging hard on her arm. She didn’t budge, fear turning her into a dead weight.

Betrayal coiled itself in her heart, an adder’s nest. He loved her. He had loved her. How could he do this, after hearing her feelings about the dark parts of their art? How could he do this to her? She sobbed against the gag in her mouth.

“Are the bindings necessary, Rahleigh?” One of the acolytes spoke up, watching worriedly from the side of the room. “She needs to be willing, or-”

“She’s beyond willing. Or what, are you that scared of wives’ tales?” Rahleigh looked at the acolyte with a sardonic little smile. “Or do you think I’m lying? She’s told me over and over again – I’ve only just now heard her words for what they were. She wants to help and this is how she can do that.”

“….Of course. Forgive me, I know how close you are.” The acolyte sank back against the wall, looking at the small stone form. 

Rahleigh picked her up, arms under her knees and back like this was a wedding night. “We could have been happy, Elora. This pains me to do, but you’ve spat in the face of the dark ones’ gifts for too long.” He murmured in her ear, and set her down on the bench. He knelt before her, untying her wrists only to bind them each to one side of the bench, to rusted loops of metal.

Her arms outstretched, she was forced toface the coven as they took their places in a half circle around them. She squeezed her eyes shut and choked on a sob. He brushed her red hair from her face as he stood and swept around her to stand at her back. “Funny that. You look beautiful like this.”

Beyond her weeping, she couldn’t hear the ceremony, the rites that Rahleigh pronounced or the answering calls from the rest of the coven. Her hands trembled the entire time and she sobbed at the touch of cold metal against her throat. Her ears rung.

She hated these people. She hated the village that withdrew their kindness from her without listening to a word she would try to say. She hated the coven that so willingly believed Rahleigh over her clear attempts to escape.

She hated Rahleigh, who treated her with indulgence, like a child, whenever she spoke about how they practiced a cleaner, more pure form of necromancy. Hate burned in her gut and she looked up at the ceiling of the room, eyes fresh out of tears and searing from the smoke of the tallow candles and how long she had cried – and she hoped that every single one of the people in this room would suffer. 

When the blood slit her throat, she cried out. She died, surrounded by enemies she had thought were as good as family.

Everything smelled like blood when she woke up. A metallic, dirty smell that made her wrinkle her nose.

She was alive, though. Gods, and here it had all felt so real. Wait until Rahleigh heard about-

Her head was pounding when she sat up. It was pitch dark out. She was soaking wet – she was outside. She frowned. “Hello?”

Nothing answered her. It was a new moon overhead, and so the swamp was dark aside for what her darkvision helped with. Slowly, she staggered to her feet, grimacing when she felt the familiar slip of the swamp’s algae on her skin. She’d need to bathe – had she fallen in? Where was everyone-

She started toward the commune – she could see the sloped thatched roofs from where she woke up – and then she tripped on something. She looked down-  and bit back bile rushing up her throat. One of the necromancers laid in a mangled heap at her feet. She’d tripped on his arm – a good two feet from his body.

Panic overtook her and she broke into a run – nearly tripping over more bodies the closer she got to the homes she had helped build. What had happened? Was she the only survivor?

The carnage led her straight to the home that had been meant for Rahleigh. A chill broke over her skin, but she forced herself inside. 

It looked like a bloodbath. A thing out of a scary story – something told to children to make them behave.

The candles had burned themselves out, and the room smelled of putrefying flesh, a few of her fellow necromancers scattered in pieces in the empty room.

And just like in her dream – her waking dream – the stone bench sat in the center, a dark puddle of blood pooled in the center. She felt chilled to the core. Whatever made her think of it, she touched her neck – and gagged when her fingers encountered raised flesh, a gaping, tender slit of flesh where Rahleigh’s kerambit had split her throat open.

Rahleigh.

It had happened.

It had all happened.

She should be dead – and she wasn’t? How?

Rahleigh. She remembered him binding her, gagging her – slitting her throat. Fury burned in her. Where was he? Where was he?

She didn’t see him near the altar. He hadn’t been in the carnage outside – she would have seen him? Had he escaped? The one she hated the most, felt betrayed the worst by-

She couldn’t breathe, the anger was stifling.

Black, wing-tipped shoes stepped into sight at the edge of her vision, directly into one of the pools of blood. “My, what a mess you made of this place, Elora.”

The man who stood before her was a deity. Possibly the one the necromancers had been making their sacrifices to. She wasn’t sure, and the man was short on answers. She was short on patience and kept looking around, wildly at every shadow that leapt into view.

She was a drekolac, the man with no name explained, his gold eyes intent on her. She remembered, vaguely, reading about them in one of her mother’s books. They were revenants, but with their soul intact. Only a necromancer understood death intimately enough to become one, and even then, it took anger and a strong will to come back. Rahleigh’s kerambit that had taken her life from her had become intertwined with her soul – it floated in her peripheral, intangible and haunting. 

“While I enjoyed supping on the blood your friends surrendered to me over the course of this year, I think we can come to a much more mutually beneficial agreement.” The man smiled, and it reminded her of a predator, his eyes the only source of light in the dark.

“Do you know what happened to Rahleigh,” she said, her voice scratching against itself. 

The man raised one solitary brow. “Names are beneath me. He may have been slaughtered in your awakening. He might have escaped.”

She hoped the swamp had taken him. Fury kindled low in her gut, glowing like embers in a dying fire. She wished he’d escaped, that she might give him a small taste of what he had given her. “What’s your agreement?”

He chuckled, and it sounded like the grating of rust on rust. “Become my scion. Be my scythe and you will have power beyond your imagination. It will give you strength and give you purpose. You can cut down all the necromancers you’d like without ever touching that magic again. “

She recoiled slightly. Somehow, he had reached into her mind and knew how she loathed to try and reach back into herself for her powers that she had spent so long mastering. The thought of coming into contact with the vile magic that had brought all of this upon herself – it turned her stomach.

“Power?”

He nodded. “There’s more covens like the one that found you. Covens that gather up the needy and destroy them for their own gain.” Her pulse quickened at the thought. “Covens that prey on a young girl’s hopes and desires to help people.”

“What do you want in return?”

“Only what you will freely give.” He smiled, considering her. “Blood of your enemies. Every enemy you cut down will be mine to feast upon.”

“And that’s it?” She’d had enough of honeyed words for a lifetime.

He nodded. “That’s it. It’s a straight-forward enough relationship, don’t you think?”

“I’ll do it.” Whatever it was he wanted, she’d do it for the promise of being able to to destroy the monsters that wore human skin.

She stepped into her home for likely the last time, and felt like a stranger when she did it. There was a hum in the back of her head – the kerambit kept catching her eyes and attention and she would watch it for a moment, scared to reach out and grab it. She washed herself of her coven’s blood in her wash tub – pinned her long red hair away from her face while she packed her things. She left the stuffed animals – they had no place in her future, no matter how painstakingly done each stitch had been.

The tea was packed away, as was some spare vials from her antidotes. 

She only stopped when she passed herself in the mirror. Her skin had gone from a soft pale pink – the consequence of living away from the sun her whole life – to a dusty grey, the ashen color of a corpse. Her hair was still vibrant, wavy red – and her eyes had gone from silver to a pale, glowing green. It was almost reminiscent of the miasma outside in the swamp. 

And across her throat remained the ugly, gaping gash that Rahleigh had given her. It was angry and red, but otherwise, caused her no pain, no level of discomfort. It made her skin crawl to see though, and she went digging into her clothing trunk, until she found a giant green knitted scarf that she wound around her neck a few times, until it practically covered her mouth. She glanced back at the mirror, and felt herself ease.

Better. Less conspicuous, though there was nothing to do for her eyes.

Still, this wasn’t Elora. This was not the young, lighthearted Necromancer who had danced with her mother to no music, who had tried to outlive the swamp’s poison. Elora had died, strangled on her own kindness.

She would need a name.

Her reflection stared her down, her mouth an unhappy line on her face.

“Mal.” Malcontent. Malice. Something bad approaches.

She finished packing her things and slung her bag over her shoulder. She glanced around once. She remembered the early mornings of preparing cookies with her mother. She remembered the late evenings of tucking up together with Rahleigh, a cup of tea in her hands and laughter on her lips.

She turned and stepped out the door, taking Rahleigh’s scythe with her. She had a lot of work to do.

---

A high elf in black armor sits in the corner of a tavern, her helm on the table in front of her, a cup of tea cooling down within reach. Her head is bowed, red waves of hair covering her face as she read over a collection of missives and a weathered map of the land. Patrons gave the knight with a scythe on her back a wide breadth – she seemed like a bad omen.

But without fail, in every town she stopped in, someone with a dire, desperate story would approach her, and ask her help. Beg for it, offer coin, food, shelter. 

[wicked-aria]

Halone’s Vengeance

Author: Eli (Elisa#5222)

Warnings: None(?)

Non-canon for obvious reasons but the prompt ran away with me

Prompt: Synthie™1-28 at 7:33 AM

@Gpose Addict @Role Player An NPC of your choice has killed someone very close to you. You have an option to take the proverbial high route and let karma take it's toll, or you ARE karma. - EXCLUDING THE HAURCHEFANT SITUATION - Who is the NPC [in game NPC] that you can either let go or take down yourself? Who is it that they killed [oc family, other player you're connected to, original character] (not Haurchefant)? Why did your character choose the 'good' route or the 'bad' route? Please use #rpprompt when posting!

When she heard, she was at a break in talks with the Ala Mhigan council. 

Elisa hadn’t needed to say much – which was just as well. She had been seated in a place of honor, and that was the only place she would be comfortable taking at the table for decision making and politics. She was many things – hero, warrior, healer, slayer – but politician she was not. Lyse had gracefully cut an argument at the head with a suggestion that everyone take a moment to refresh themselves, perhaps stroll through the Menagerie and take in the sights.

The garden was where the next chapter of her life finds her. An Ishgardian envoy, cheeks flushed and hair windswept, uniform a striking blue in the desert hues of golds, pinks and tans, entered through the main stair well, across the courtyard. He looked straight at her and- the thought occurs to her, ever briefly – run. No good news arrives on rapid wings, and less so with the unrest still running as an undercurrent through the streets of her adoptive home. She took a step back, another –

She could summon Laurel, take flight through the city, the lavender coloured chocobo well known enough to not cause any stir on the streets –

The heel of her foot snagged against an uneven brick and it brought her to a still. What had the past years of war done to her? Mistrusting any missive, fear coiled in her gut like a stalking coeurl like some child. Bloody hell, maybe it was Aymeric surrendering to a similar feeling of melancholy, reaching out while he knew she would be in one place for a while. She straightened up, raised a hand in a half salute. “Welcome to Ala Mhigo, friend,” she said aloud.

Her tentative optimism plummeted when the envoy wouldn’t meet her eyes. “Missive for your eyes only, Warrior-“ He stopped. Seemed to reconsider the circumstances, the mystery of which was burning through Elisa with a biting chill. “Lady Warsong.” He held out a thin envelope – one page of parchment, little more. The seal was red, a unicorn – Fortemps, then, not Borel.

She almost didn’t take it. Almost, the winds of fate were sated for some small hours, a lie of the meeting reconvening on her lips. Even if it was ready to start again, presence was appreciated, not necessary. Instead, she relieved the messenger of his burden, carefully - like it was a scared gaelicat, liable to bite. She pried up the seal with a fingernail, and-

The world swam around her, Edmont’s practiced scrawl that normally – normally she’d tease him, like a girl to her father that it was nigh illegible for how over the top the letters were made. Now,  they were short, printed, careful pains to make sure that the meaning would not be missed.

In the early morning of the 24th day of the second Astral moon, a man borne of the Brume, having vocally opposed the formation of the House of Lords since the day it was first voted on, approached Aymeric de Borel with a hunting knife in his possession. Ser Aymeric was unarmed, having left his home for the Crozier to check on mail. By the time help arrived, the man had fled and

There was space where Edmont had tried several times to continue on with the same diction his memoirs held, and failed, each start scrawled through with increasing emotion. Elisa could feel a knife between her ribs, static in its potency, aching with each strike-through on the parchment. Finally-

I’m so sorry, Elisa

She didn’t read further. Couldn’t have, really – her vision swam, noise rang in her ears.

The envoy must have noticed, because he stammered and reached out, catching her elbow. She didn’t notice the letter fluttering from her hand until it landed in the shallow pond beside them. Good, the thought drifted through her, vicious, let the water leech out the wretched ink – as though it might do any good for-

She found her feet and squeezed her eyes shut, trying to think. He wasn’t the first friend to die – nor the first lover. Ishgard would have its pound of flesh in one form or another. Over, and over again. “Leave me,” she murmured, jerking her arm from the Elezen’s grasp. Her eyes were fixed to the note as smoky black ribbons floated from paper to dance on the surface of the water.

The envoy hesitated, before he moved away. “The Fury’s grace with you, Miss.”

Halone. Halone’s grace had nothing- She lifted her head, watching his back. “Was the swiving bastard caught?” 

The envoy jumped near half a yalm in the air. “Aye, he was. Found with the knife, having a drink at the Forgotten Knight.”

Her blood simmered in her veins. The weight of the blood red jobstone seemed to sing in her pocket, never too far, always whispering in her ear. Now, it all but screamed. She didn’t need its pressing, not this time. Nor did she think twice to answer her patron Goddess’s call. “And will there be tribunal?”

“O-of course, miss! He denies any wrong doing, only seeking justice for the Brume, but- but he doesn’t speak for any of us,” vehemently, the youth shook his head hard. Near insulted.  “Ser Aymeric was always-“

“I know.” She rolled her shoulders. “Return to Ishgard, request on my behalf that the tribunal be stayed until I can make it to the Steps. I should like to see the Fury’s judgement for myself.”

The envoy saluted, steady and firm, before he hesitated again. “……Miss Warsong?” Still, the hesitance lingered. He was chewing his words, searching if they would suffive. “I’m sorry for your loss. Anyone that saw the two of you visiting knew-“

Her last visit had been a moon ago, already. She felt robbed of so much. “Thank you. Please, I’d like to be alone.”

The sun finished its trail across the sky, and set to the east. Lyse came and found her, and returned to the throne room alone. It was well into evening, the talks ended and all participants retired for the evening, before the first tears finally choked their way out. 

Was she not allowed one good thing-

Arriving in Ishgard three days later, for once, brought no joy to Elisa’s heart. Even stepping into Edmont’s arms for an embrace, somber and quiet as it was, greeted by the Fortemp household in dull grey clothing – it felt hollow. Empty. People had hung brilliant blue and gold banners from their windows in  respect for the knight whom the city had lost. The banners fluttered limply in the snow. 

People in the streets lingered, watching her walk at the side of Edmont, burrowed into her cloak to keep off the chill. 

They wanted to approach her. To offer condolences she wanted no part of. She wasn’t due them.  Artoirel suggested they head towards the Cathedral – away from the pending Tribunal, and towards, instead, the long line of mourners, flowers and offerings to the Fury piled high en memorium. She shook her head.

“I’ll attend the tribunal alone, if you would prefer the Cathedral. I don’t mind.” She fixed Artoirel with a look she knew he didn’t deserve. She would apologize, later. This was the family she chose, who stood at her back, and she would regret every slight to them, but for now- “I am going to see the man who did this,” she said.

She had spoke rarely since receiving the news a week ago. Now, her voice ached for it.

The Tribunal was downright frigid but Elisa did not shiver at the cold. Edmont started to lead the way to the space in the seating, pausing to glance back at her. She shook her head slightly and crossed her arms, remaining standing in the back, half-hid in the shadows. She could hardly stand the candlelight towards the stands. Edmont considered her and nodded, Artoirel squeezed her shoulder, the Fortemps household filtering in through the crowd to be seated.

She skimmed the crowd distantly, before her eyes were drawn to the head of the Tribunal as the head Inquisitor began the process. Her eyes drifted right, to where the accused was brought forth. 

The monster of a man – one who had single handedly wrought disaster into Elisa’s heart when three bloody wars had failed – was just a man. He stood straight backed and unapologetic on the stand, the chains around his wrists not seeming to bother him. 

For a moment – Elisa wanted to laugh. She had faced Eikons. She had faced ancient technology bent on subjugating the world. She had stared down death a million and one ways.  She had stood against every challenge that Hydaelyn had called her for, and come out victorious.

And yet – just like when she held Haurchefaunt’s hand amongst the Vault’s spires and begged him not to leave her alone – the villain who had won, who had drawn blood against her and stolen more than any victory would give – was just a man.

She didn’t listen to the proceedings. The words hummed in her head, weaving an intricate dance that she didn’t care to follow. Halone guided her step and she knew what was coming.

The man, unapologetic and defiant, raised his chin and declared himself proud of his actions. He claimed the Fury would stand beside his actions. He demanded a trial by combat – just as she had felt, in her bones, that he would. She closed her eyes for a moment, feeling the weight of her jobstone digging into her wrist where it was pressed into a bracelet.

She would light as many votives in Halone’s name as the Fury wanted, go to war as many times as Hydaelyn wanted, so long as she was given this. 

In the silence of the Tribunal, her voice rang out like thunder,as she stepped down through the aisle, each step heavy and pronounced in her armor. “I would like to meet this man’s bid for trial by combat, if the court will allow me to represent their charges as their champion.”

Spectators turned to look up at her - few would have the gall to name themselves champion so brazenly.

A shock of whispers ran through the crowd. She was recognized instantly.

“The Tribunal accepts the petition of champion. Will the champion please state her name for the record.” 

“Elisa Warsong, sir.”

And she watched, in some distant, faint satisfaction, as the murderer’s skin went ashen.

[wicked-aria]

Petra - Coffee Shops are Liminal Spaces

He was there again, and it was seriously messing with her day. Again. Petra scowled at her laptop screen, and shifted in the hard wooden seat of the coffee shop. Who gave him permission to exist during her lunch break? Seriously? She had to talk to someone about that, because he was a distraction while she tried to get even more work done.

Not that she had a problem with workaholic-ism. Not at all. That would be patently ridiculous, but Stefan had insisted she get out of the lab - and that was a perfect time to do some independant research on compounds.

And here was this asshole with his stupid trendy undercut (and platinum hair! Really. Some people would just do anything to be trendy wouldn't they) and his stupid laugh. Petra knew she'd already griped at Astrid enough about his existence in the last week. But this was just too much.

Her coffee was getting cold and who gave him permission to be so handsome? She was supposed to be the highlight of this coffee shop's day, dammit.

"Stupid glare," she muttered, just in case anyone was listening, and moved her laptop to face the other way on the table, switching seats so her back was to the bastard. Better. Much better and she hadn't looked insane in the process. A quick adjustment of her screen, and she resumed reading a study that had been completed over in Germany last year regarding the conversion of plastic bottles into renewable energy. Two fingers - perfectly manicured nails included, thank you - scrolled down on the trackpad as she got invested in her research. She shifted, grabbing her now-cold coffee to sip and-

"Are you fucking serious." She scowls at her screen.

Maybe she said that a touch loud. Oh fucking well, because that stupid asshole was now reflected in her screen thanks to her inversion extension making the screen dark. His stupid face, in all its glory, reflected right on top of work.

The cafe grew quiet for a minute, like everyone was watching her for an outburst. Well she wouldn't give it to them, dammit!

Stefan would just have to deal with her getting back to work a little early. She couldn't focus with this type of environment.

The laptop didn't appreciate the way she slammed the lid closed, shoved it into her bag, and went up to the counter for another coffee, this one to go. Ignoring the way she was so aware of the grey-haired prick over her shoulder the entire time. This was her coffee shop and she would make sure he knew that before he started getting cozy with Neya, the sweet barista.

---

Stefan was smiling at his phone when she arrived back at the lab. Something about that didn't seem fair - her lunch break had been ruined, what gave him the right-

But it was that gentle, adoring smile that she'd caught him with before, and there wasn't a touch of consternation to it, which meant that he was reading a text from Joel and not from Carina. She decided not to crash on his good mood, because she was just so nice and such a romantic. "Hey Professor. Sorry, I'm coming back early. Lunch sucked."

Stefan startled easily. She'd almost imagine him as a mouse or something, with the wide eyes blinking at her, the way he nearly fumbled his phone. It was a wonder, really, that his phone was still in one piece. Maybe it wasn't - whatever Joel did for a living, it paid well, and maybe Stefan was just going through a steady stream of repairs. She could imagine that. "Petra! Hi, how was- wait, what happened? What's wrong?"

And this was why she liked working with him. Just like that, instant Dad mode that was endearing and not really annoying. "Oh, nothing big. Just some self-centered jerk at the coffee shop I like." A roll of her shoulders. Briefly, she wondered if maybe it was unfair of her to characterize a stranger she'd never spoken to like that but - well, really. Noone asked him to be stupidly distracting.

Stefan blinked and frowned worriedly, coming over. "Is everything okay? He didn't say-"

"Nope. Nothing to get worked up over, really," she smiled quickly. Not about to own up to exactly what hadn't happened. Stupid handsome guy anyway.

"Maybe you could talk to the owner, though. If it becomes a problem, anyway..."

"Yeah. Maybe..." Or maybe she could just change her lunch hour. Surely he wouldn't be there at all hours and-

---

He had inconsistent lunch hours. Just her luck.

For the past two weeks, it's been a fifty-fifty shot that he'd be at the cafe for at least a portion of her lunch break. She was over it, and Stefan seemed to be getting a kick out of it once he'd gotten to the root of the issue.

(Which had, basically, been when he'd asked for specifics of what this gentleman at the cafe had actually done or said.

Silence had reigned for a moment while she tried to think.

Stefan had, bless his heart, waited patiently.

"Well he has this really stupid laugh when he's chumming it up with Neya. Neya of all people!" A traitor to the cause! That had been a grevious insult indeed.

"....So he hasn't actually done anything?"

"His existence is enough. He's stupidly handsome. The type of handsome that gets away with shit. I don't trust him."

"Okay, Petra." Stefan had said, and left it alone, but she wasn't so blind that she couldn't see the amusement in the corners of his lips.)

She wasn't about to surrender the only coffee shop that had managed to understand her when she asked for just the right amount of sugar though. She wouldn't let that bastard win, dammit.

The apartment downstairs from her had obviously messed up dinner, whatever dinner was supposed to be for them. She got home at about six, to an apartment full of smoke and the smell of burnt fish. Fan-freaking-tastic.

She knew which apartment, too! They were always burning shit, and she almost wanted to tell building management about it, but that was too much energy by the time she got home, so she huffed and strode into the living room. The blinds rattled as they opened, and the window took her throwing her whole weight into it in order to open, but open it did, and the smoke started lazily drifting out of her space.

If anyone asked, life was fantastic.

Her phone rang in her bag, and she went over to it. The particular rock song playing was Astrid - probably something to do with the latest juicy gossip she had text her at lunch. Good, some gossip that she could wrap herself up in and get her mind off annoying petty things like a guy with silver eyes.

Silver eyes - what a ridiculous thing to even exist.

"Did she really tell you that?" Astrid's voice comes in crystal clear when she answers, and Petra tries really hard to not laugh at her friend's eagerness.

"Yeah, she said she's still getting her life together after getting out of a bad relationship. So you know - she's not on the market, but it's not exactly like Neya's off-market either. You should get back in there sometime. She's asked about you."

"....She has?" Love - okay, okay, crushes - made people weird. She would have laughed if anyone ever had suggested that Astrid was capable of sounding so timid.

“She has, promise. I mean, not everyday, so you're good, our sweet little pink-haired barista isn't some stalker, but she gets this little smile and asks about you if it's a slow day and – son of a fat fucking bitch.” Her tone fell flat as a rock.

“What??” Clearly, Astrid had been startled by the change in tone.

“Son of a bitch! I won't even believe-” Petra's eyes had wandered to the window and of all the fucking indignities-

The city of Atlantis was a metropolis. Petra had grown up cradled in its smog-ensconced arms and creepy, adult-focused billboards and storefronts, and it hadn't been a surprise when the apartment she leased out was a short alley-way width's away from the next apartment building over. It hadn't even bothered her that the other apartment's window was equal height and width from hers, to the point of being able to reach across the alleyway and shake hands with a neighbor, 12 floors up from the ground. Whatever, these things happen and the apartment across the way had been empty the whole 9 months she'd lived here.

Not anymore, and maybe he'd moved in a few weeks ago – she didn't make a habit of opening her windows very often, liking the freedom to dress – or undress – however she liked in the safety of her home.

“Pet? Hello?” Her childhood friend tried to catch her attention through the phone.

The walls in the other apartment had been painted a quiet green color and there was artwork up, and – clearly someone had been living there for a few weeks in fact. And clearly someone else liked wearing – or not – whatever they liked in their apartment.

“This prick is trying to ruin my life, I swear, Astrid, I don't know what I've done to deserve this.” Petra informs her friend. She patted herself on the back for sounding so calm, and reasonable too. So few people would, faced with this level of shit from the universe.

“....Coffee shop guy? He's still bugging you? That was at noon-” Astrid started, a frown clear in her voice. There was the no-nonsense girl she'd gone to school with.

“And he's living in the apartment building next to mine!” Petra doesn't bother hiding her scandalized tone. This was too. Damn. Far, Universe.

“....No way.” Astrid scoffed. “It just looks like him, definitely.”

“How many assholes have that haircut?” Oh fuck, was he built, too. He'd obviously just finished a shower, hair hanging limp and damp over one side of his skull. Clearly, someone had trouble remembering that they'd opened their blinds for the rest of the world to stare into their home. What a self-absorbed-

“...I guess. You're not going to do anything, are you, because-”

“I'll finish talking about Neya in a bit, okay? Or text her, lemme know it how goes, bye!” She tossed the phone on the couch, not bothering to actually hang up – Astrid would take care of that, and she went over to the window.

The jerk was definitely some type of bodybuilder or something because his abs had abs and there was a sharp V-cut disappearing below the belt of too-tight pants. His existence was flying in the face of some ancient rule. Definitely. She set her jaw and went searching through her apartment, finally finding some river-pebbles she had bought for an aquarium she'd never set up. She leaned out her window and tossed one at his window.

Nothing.

Another one, then, and it pinged satisfyingly against the window, before clattering down to the street below.

The coffee-shop-jerk looked up from toweling off his hair. Looked around – as if the sound could come from anywhere but the window, obviously – and then spotted her mid-throw of a third pebble.

There was a moment where he stared like he wasn't sure what he was seeing. Great, handsome and slow on the uptake. Truly, his existence flew in the face of everything just in the world.

Then the guy opened his window. “Hi?” He said uncertainly. Like he wasn't sure where this was going.

Well. If she was honest.

Well, maybe she hadn't thought this through.

She took too long to think of anything witty to say – demanding he put a shirt on didn't have a whole lot of pep to it and besides-

“....Can I help you?” The guy tried again.

“....I just didn't know if you realized your curtains were wide open. There might be creepers watching.” She finally said. Wrong thing to say. Oh, was Stefan rubbing off on her now?

He blinked. Offered a lop-sided grin. “I think I can handle it. But.... thanks?”

“...Sure.” She frowned and didn't move from the window.

“You're from the coffee shop, right? Curtain Call Coffee?” The guy asked after a moment.

Well, with her bright purple hair, clearly she hadn't been missed either. “Nope. Must be thinking of someone else.” She said deadpanned. Maybe if she aimed just right she could nail him in his stupid perfect face. Would that be assault?

“Clearly. Well, damn. I was actually trying to work up the courage to talk to that girl. It would have felt-” he was self-censoring. She could practically see him grab some words back mid-air. Curiousity stirred in the back of her brain, wondering what those words would be if they escaped. He had a nice voice. Another unfair strike against him. “Would have felt pretty lucky, finding out I'm neighbors with her too.”

“World's not that small,” she quipped. Patted herself on the back for that one. No, the world wasn't that small, but clearly, a fan of pretty unlikely odds.

“....My name's Dyllan. Pretty old-school of you, throwing rocks at a window.” He grinned.

“Don't get used to it.” She commented mildly. “Petra. Definitely not the girl that takes lunch breaks at Curtain Call.”

“Clearly not.” Dyllan said agreeably, folding his arms on his window sill. Watching her curiously. “Which is a shame, I'd ask that girl if I could buy her coffee sometime, and maybe share a lunch break sometime.”

“....Well, that's definitely a shame.” She set the rest of her pebbles on the outside window sill. She wouldn't do this again. This wasn't the sort of mess she got into. She hated rom-coms and this was reeking like one. “Because I mean, I definitely won't be at Curtain Call at noon tomorrow.”

What was she doing?

Dyllan brightened. She, for a moment, thought of a particularly energetic puppy. What a weird image. “Well, I.... won't look for you. I guess.”

He was still stupid and definitely too handsome to exist. Maybe Astrid needed to check on her sanity. Or would Stefan be a better judge...

“Sounds like a plan.” She pushed away from the window.

“Hey!” The new neighbor waved at her, stopping her. Petra paused, watching him. After a moment... “Are you burning something in there? That's a lot of smoke,” he said. Sounding concerned.

“Downstairs neighbor flunked out of culinary school. Put on a shirt.” She said and left the window before she could say anything else stupid.

---

Lunch was two coffees with just enough sugar in them, a pastry cut in half, and a lot of snark.

---

Petra put a little terracota planter full of river-pebbles on her windowsill two weeks later, and had a new contact at the top of her contact list. Dyllan was weird – mysterious about work and his past, but charming and eager like he hadn't had someone to talk to for a while now – and what was Petra but a kind-hearted soul, available for talking when she wasn't working.

She definitely wouldn't take him out on a date or anything.

At least not for another month. Gotta make the masses want it, first.

[wicked-aria]

Sooo, this is what I have so far for Nano. I’m far from done, I’m still building up my cast (and changing some things around) and the mantra is going around my head that this is FAR from a final draft

but if anyone’s curious what I’m up to, currently, here it is in all its unedited glory.

(If you want to leave good/bad critique, highlight a sentence and a little sidebar will pop up and allow you to leave notes.)

[wicked-aria]

Beyond the Cape is my NaNo '14 attempt! 

Sixty years after the first recorded superpower was noticed in a small town called Starling, superheroes are now a semi-regular occurrence, protecting those who cannot help themselves from harm. Rock stars in their own right, it seems like just a matter of life that everyone has a favourite cape. Children dress up as heroes for halloween, viewership skyrockets when Late Night gets a scheduled interview - it's a culture.

It's a phenomenon. What's easy to forget is that there are people behind the masks, just trying to make it through the daily grind like everyone else. The weight of saving the world weighs heavy - the expectations that come with displaying powers (commonly called Potential), heavier. Not everyone's made for it, and hardly anyone is meant for living under a cultural microscope.

Stella Reynolds doesn't think of any of that when she sets off for Starling City from her sleepy hometown of Montrose, Colorado. She wants to be a hero. Help people, do good. It's not so much to ask - but she'll find there's a lot more give than take in this sort of life.

(Stock photo from here and then ran through this handy browser-based editor!)