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exalok · 5 years

Note

44 with Corvo/Daud please?

(sorry about the wait!!!! and i outdid myself againit might not follow the prompt very accurately though, and there is a whole lot of sad incoming; i will attempt to write happy things nextwarnings: canon-typical violence, nsfw, Daud for worst fuckin relationship management skills)

—

Kaldwin’s Bridge was…

For months, Corvo had struggled to put into words what, exactly, he felt when he looked down.

Once, he had been reminded of hiking to a mountainous ledge above Karnaca. Seeing the city, the parts he knew to be his and he was chased from as a child, spread like a tiered slope below him… but no. Kaldwin Bridge was no mountain—at most, it was like the edge of a cliff, though colder, perhaps. Grayer. Sometimes, the grand structure swayed under him with a hollow, groaning ripple of sound.

The wind, at least, was familiar.

It had been even grander than everyone had told him, the first time he saw it—and exactly as lonely as he needed, after his mother died. The knot of that loss still stung when he breathed.

The metal stung his palms as he climbed, and the breeze tugged at his coat, damp and chill, carrying the smell of the river; he was getting used to the difference between the smell of the Grand Serkonan Canal and that of the Wrenhaven, thick and oily.

His eyes were fixed at the top to map his way. He noted, most of his focus on not falling, that the Bridge’s heights were less unoccupied than usual.

The other man didn’t turn when Corvo stepped up onto the last platform. His hand, however, was conspicuously tucked inside the front of his jacket. The hair prickling at Corvo’s nape told him it wasn’t just for the cold.

“Hey,” he said, friendly as he could make the word when the wind snuffed out most sounds, and sat at a careful distance overlooking the edge. Gangs were mundane to someone who’d grown in Batista, and Gristol gangs couldn’t be all that different; nothing would happen if he kept polite. “I don’t often see anyone else up here.” He glanced over.

Gray eyes—the man’s head had tilted just enough to shoot him a look. The sharp line of his cheekbone cut against the clouded sky. Corvo observed that he’d withdrawn his hand, that he had on an Academic’s robes under the jacket, and that he was, under the wary hunch and the thick break in his nose, confusingly pretty.

Corvo was staring. Polite. He went back to watching the long, winding rush of the river far below.

“Likewise,” the other man said, and Corvo perked immediately at his accent.

“You’re Serkonan?”

He squinted, suspicious, but still he said, “Yeah. Cullero.”

“Karnaca. I’ve never been to Cullero.”

A twist of his mouth, his eyes drifting back to the void and the city stretching out.

“… There’s a lot of vineyards,” he said, deadpan. Corvo snorted.

They lapsed into silence. Corvo didn’t mind—silence was what he came up here for, silence and distance. It wasn’t so much that he had less free time—being a guard had kept him well-occupied—but spending much of his workday bumping elbows with the Court, its side-eyes, its nagging whispers, left him desperate for anything but eyes on him. Six months now, and he was nowhere nearer making himself a place among them, even with the title of Royal Protector under his belt.

His jaw clenched. He had an inkling no amount of time would make a difference.

“You’re at the Academy, right?” Corvo asked to distract himself from the thought. He had leaned back on his hands, his feet dangling out over empty space, entirely unconcerned with appearances. If there was anywhere he needn’t care about upholding the image of a Royal Protector, it was here. When he glanced over again, the other man was looking back—gray eyes steady, measuring. “What is it like?”

“Busy,” he said, biting and concise.

Corvo huffed. “I’ve heard you keep creatures from all over the Isles—Pandyssia, even—and that you study magic. Is that true? Or do the Overseers reach even there?”

“You ask a lot of questions.” The words were precise, cutting, but Corvo wouldn’t have gotten this far if he let a little intimidation work on him. Still, when he reached for his reasons—my mother used to tell me stories—he found himself keeping the words back.

His teeth clicked together. He shrugged. “You don’t have to answer.”

“Mm.” The other man watched him a moment longer; as the suspicion left his face, his eyes grew no softer, but went dark with a strange curiosity. He curled forward, his chin propped on his fist, contemplating the gray expanse of the city. “The animals are all hunting trophies; mounted, donated, and left to gather dust in the Great Hall. No magic that I’ve seen.” His lips pursed in thought. “We dissected a corpse yesterday, though.”

“A corpse.” What did the Academy have need of a corpse for? The man spoke with a vague detachment, beyond the dispassion of someone who had already seen his fair share of dead bodies.

“Murder victim. I think the lecturer has an arrangement with the Watch,” he added, giving no further explanation. The corner of his mouth quirked up for a fraction of a second, the motion reaching the corner of his eye—then he turned to Corvo, all business again. “And you? Taking a winter vacation? It doesn’t even snow here.”

Corvo shook his head, and paused, considering his answer. There had been no drawings of his face printed in the paper when it was announced who had been chosen as the heir’s Royal Protector, and if this man didn’t know, then Corvo wasn’t keen on finding out how much his attitude would change on finding out.

“… I’m here for work. Got a contract as a personal bodyguard.”

The other man regarded him a short moment. “Condolences.” When Corvo turned to him, confused, he smirked. “In my experience, no one who can afford a personal bodyguard is pleasant to be around.”

Corvo’s smile twitched open with a laugh.

When they parted, Corvo asked his name, and by the time Corvo reached the ground climbing down after him Daud was already gone.

There was no sign of him the rest of the week: Kaldwin’s Bridge stood empty, a high whistle of wind Corvo’s only company.

Those few evenings off were odd, and instead of steadying him, they left him feeling off-balance. It was entirely different, somehow, from when he found himself thinking too deep of his district in Karnaca, or his mother’s face through the window, bent over her sewing work. Once, he spent an hour staring down into the growing dark, and realized when the brightest stars sparked overhead that he’d been waiting, and watching for a drab jacket and short-cropped hair.

His hands had been stiff with cold. The climb down was a harrowing one. Back at the Tower, he decided he would forget about it.

The week after, on the same day, there came a voice below his feet as he stood at the bridge’s highest accessible spire. “Hey! Bodyguard.”

He looked down. The man in the Academy robes waved from the lower platform. Corvo smiled.

Daud kept to a tight schedule, and the dorms were often strictly regulated; this was one of the few days he could make his way up here. He liked the heights, he said. It reminded him of home.

“Yeah,” Corvo answered, and tried to remember whether there were mountains around Cullero.

There was a shiny new scar on the back of Daud’s hand, slick and red like a burn.

“Krust acid,” he said when Corvo asked. They’d been studying the chemical properties of the stuff, and he hadn’t been careful enough tipping it into the beaker. “Chemistry isn’t my specialty.”

“You have specialties?”

“Sure. The Masters generally have one, sometimes two. That’s how sponsorships work.”

“What’s yours then?”

“Nothing,” Daud said, and grinned dark and narrow. “I’m a disappointment.”

Corvo laughed, a little uneasy, but Daud didn’t seem to hold it against him. He only stared back out across the river. The sinking sun, reflecting off the river in great colored splashes of light, edged his eyelashes and the line of his nose in ochre.

If he had been a painter, Corvo thought, he might have known how to… keep it, some small piece, more solid than a memory—but memory would have to do.

They happened across each other again, of course. Every time, Corvo pretended it was a pleasant surprise, and that he hadn’t entirely expected Daud to be there. (Sometimes it was, and he hadn't—but it wasn’t often.) The other man would look at him a little askance, and quiet, like he knew. Like he didn’t mind. Hope tangled with perception and Corvo was never really sure how much he believed what he wanted to see.

The days grew colder, and Corvo climbed.

“And your work?” Daud asked once, having detailed the procedure for extracting whale oil. Strange and complex words swum around Corvo’s head, sounds detached from meaning. He had been tentatively imagining moving closer, so there might be less than a foot of space between them.

“My work?”

“Your charge. Any assassination attempts recently?”

Corvo felt the sharp ratcheting of tension in his own chest like an electric shock—had Daud guessed? Corvo still hadn’t told him the truth of his position, and though he no longer believed it might inspire violence it seemed so awkward to mention it now, and he had seen too many turn fawning after his appointment to entirely trust it would change nothing between them—

He let his caught breath go, forcing himself to relax. Something had flashed across the man’s face, maybe at Corvo’s telling pause, but there was no accusation in the words.

Corvo could tell him, maybe. He would undoubtedly find out, anyway; the heir’s Protector would be as familiar a face as the Emperor’s in due time—but his reluctance held. This place, this man—they were far from the life he’d been dropped into. He didn’t want that distance to close.

“Smooth sailing for now,” he said; then, thinking of the Parliamentary hearings and the council meetings and the endless amount of dignitaries he’d been introduced to and told to stoically receive, he added, “A lot of posturing, mostly.”

“Isn’t it always.” Corvo shot him a glance, uncertain what he meant. Daud gestured vaguely at the district below them. “High society.”

Corvo shrugged. “More because of her father than her. She’s only thirteen.” But learning fast. She kept to the sidelines less and less, though the Emperor didn’t tolerate any interruptions. They were mirror images when they stood side by side: backs straight, heads high with a noble tilt, not the military stiffness he knew—but in terms of ideas, even he could see the friction in their difference. He let himself smile a little.

When he glanced over at Daud he caught only the tail end of a fixed and searching stare.

“Corvo,” Daud said, and Corvo almost startled. Since Daud had only given him one name, he’d done the same, but the using of it was rare enough he still found it a surprise. “How long until your contract ends?”

“… A while,” Corvo decided. It took effort to tell himself this wasn’t entirely an untruth.

Daud turned back to him. His eyes were the exact same color as the overcast day. “I’m leaving at the end of winter. Thought I might go on a tour of the Isles.”

For a moment, Corvo only watched him. He had switched the jacket to a short, scuffed blue coat sometime in the last week. It was getting too cold for anything else.

“I might not understand much of what you tell me, about what you do in the Academy,” he said, picking the words out slow, “But I don’t think you’re doing badly enough they’ll kick you out after one season.”

“You can come with if you’re interested,” Daud continued, staunchly ignoring him.

“I’m serious. That last exam, the one you said—you told me it was the only one you failed, why would they—”

“There are wolves if you go deep enough into the Tyvian steppes. We could see a pack if we get there during the thaw—”

“Daud—”

“You like this city as much as that?” he sneered, gaze flat and dismissive, and Corvo looked at him helpless and lost.

“My job isn’t one I can exactly walk away from,” he said finally. Daud snorted.

“You climbed up here. What can anyone do to stop you?”

Corvo didn’t answer. For a while, silence rolled between them like morning fog on the Wrenhaven, thick and weighted. A hiss as Daud breathed through his teeth.

“I’m bored of the Academy,” he said. “At the end of Ice, I’m catching a boat to Dabovka.”

The sky fell slowly into dark.

A couple more evenings passed, their conversations careful, passed between them like something too heavy, too delicate. Some days Corvo didn’t even try climbing up; the end of Ice loomed, and he imagined it liked a butcher’s knife poised over the cutting block, ready to cut them apart. He knew it was foolish, knew that his mother being an ocean and an island away had made no difference to the sickness of her leaving—and still, he wanted distance to cushion the blow.

But then—the Empress—

His charge was distraught. He hadn’t seen her crying, and she didn’t walk the Tower with reddened eyes and blotchy cheeks.; at most, her voice was a little weaker—but he hadn’t gone through months of the same without being able to recognize grief in someone else’s face.

The girl refused to speak of it, and so when evenings came there was nothing he could do but escape.

On the last day of Ice, he climbed the bridge and found Daud there, sitting at the edge of the platform, still in his coat though the weather was warming. Corvo waited, a hanging second, for him to turn and either glare for the weeks-long absence or invite him closer with one of those quiet looks.

Daud did neither. Corvo should have expected it; he sat anyway, a long meter between them.

Below, the Wrenhaven was high with meltwater from inland. Every hour for the past four days the bells of the clocktower had tolled the death of the Empress, and they did so again now, clear and ringing. Perhaps the city didn’t mourn—the Empress had never been a popular one, mostly absent from the front of the scene, dwarfed by her husband—but it wasn’t about to forget that it was meant to.

Corvo didn’t look over at the sound of shifting. If Daud left, he would only be back in his old loneliness, exactly as far from the world as he needed.

“You look like a sick dog,” Daud said, and Corvo almost laughed. The blunt edge of his words might have hurt more if Corvo didn’t welcome them. “What happened?”

“You dissect many sick dogs, in your Academy?” he asked, and curled his own lip at himself. Too acerbic. Too— Too much. His breath formed a ball in his throat, hard to breathe around and unpleasantly familiar, reminding him of times he had bubbled with something unnameable and the pressure had forced tears from his eyes.

He didn’t want to talk about what had happened. He didn’t want to have to explain his stupid not-secrets. He wanted—

He wanted, strangely, to speak of his mother.

Why now? Because someone else’s had died? Four days the bells had rung for this one, and he hardly knew whether his had a grave, or if he’d visit it someday. Below him, gray and opaque, the river. He imagined speaking her name, and it falling from his mouth like a krust-pearl into the river.

(He remembered the Duke saying, How would you like to work in Dunwall, Lieutenant? and didn’t know what he had looked like but it must’ve been a right fool when he said, Your— Your Grace, I’d be honored, and his mother had wrung her hands and pinched his between them and she’d kissed his cheek on the dock before he left. He hadn’t looked back. His eyes had been on the horizon.)

Words crowded his tongue and he clenched his teeth around them. Daud was leaving, he thought with a sour surge of anger that dulled just as quick. He didn’t need any of this to weigh him down. Corvo held himself still, hunched, his hands clenched together, until his stiffness turned to trembling with the cold.

Daud said nothing more, and left first, as the mist curled along the Wrenhaven.

He doesn’t think he’s seeing things.

By which he means he doesn’t think he dreamed the figure he has been seeing in the corner of his eye, perched on chimneys or, when night falls, the dark tops of lampposts, since he first caught sight of it in the high struts of Kaldwin’s Bridge. He just isn’t sure where it disappears to when he turns. If he’s right, it followed him until he passed the gates of Dunwall Tower once. He’s been on guard since.

It’s always the politics. Jessamine may mock his distaste for it, but he understands enough: strange furtive figures around the seat of power mean bad news for the royal family. Whoever it is might be after Euhorn, or after Corvo’s charge—there was all that trouble around rights to the throne the year before, and an opponent might get rid of his heir now that Euhorn had lost the Empress and was making no moves to remarry— Or maybe it even has to do with those two, Roseburrow and Sokolov, and the whale oil—

Corvo shrugs it off. He understands, for the most part, but he can’t stand any of it. Euhorn’s Protector and the Tower Guard are aware of the problem, and he’s staying alert. That’s as much as he can do.

He still isn’t ready for it when, sitting at the corner table in his favorite pub and looking out the window, he hears the chair opposite him dragged out for someone to sit in. The reflection in the glass gives him a long red smear, dark-topped, and two pale lumps that must be hands lying on the tabletop. Unarmed.

He turns with his hand on his sword, just in case, and his breath catches hard.

He knows that face. Those eyes. They’re still that overcast gray. The break in his nose is even worse, though.

“Did you get in a bar brawl in Tyvia?” he asks, eyeing the still-angry scar bisecting Daud’s face from brow to collar. It’s knotted and swollen, no more than a few months old, but the eye underneath still sparks when Daud smirks. Undamaged.

“A couple,” Daud says, thumbing the scar. “But this is from the steppes.”

The movement highlights the bandages wrapped around his left hand, and Corvo follows it back down to the table. “What, did a wolf try to bite your face off?”

The smirk widens, shows teeth.

Corvo, in a fit of uncharitable impatience, wants to call what he feels an unpleasant discomfort. He’s had two years to settle in his own loneliness, to get used to this gray and colorless city, to its rain and its spitting wind, its wary isolation. This is— Daud, shouldering in, imposing himself like he had imposed his quiet and his presence in that short winter two years ago—

Corvo snorts, and leans back in his chair. He wants to be angry; but the truth is, seeing him grin like that, harsh, but more freely than he’s ever seen before—it hurts in places Corvo has grown used to finding numb. Stings. It reminds him he’s here, like the soreness after sparring.

And in any case, Daud had never been a great imposition.

“It took you two years to travel the islands, then.”

Daud settles, and some of the wildness sloughs off. The steady measure of his gaze is familiar in an aching way. “Almost reached Pandyssia.”

“Almost?”

“Ran across a storm. The captain thought the Outsider must have sent it, and decided to turn back.” He’s itching the back of his hand, the one covered in bandages. Corvo jerks his chin at it.

“What happened?”

“Climbing accident,” Daud answers, too light. Corvo narrows his eyes. So he has been following him. Daud meets the suspicion with a level and unreadable look, and for a long minute says nothing more, like he’s waiting for Corvo to pin him with the accusation.Then: “I had an inkling, back then, but I wouldn’t have guessed you were guarding the Emperor.” Still that same tone, weightless, off-hand, like they’re discussing the rain outside, or the watered-down quality of the spirits in Corvo’s half-full glass. “Or his daughter. Wasn’t it a girl? Thirteen? Fifteen now.”

Corvo says nothing. He’s not sure what he could say. That he hadn’t been used to being so watched by the public eye? That he’d wanted something, anything that wouldn’t remind him of the turn his life had taken, for better or worse? Something only his own. It’s hard to come by, in a place like Dunwall Tower, and with that title tied to his ankle, dragging around behind him.

“Is there a point to this?” Corvo asks instead, because this is his day off, and even if his heart flip-flopped unfairly in his chest at the sight of that face, this sounds too much like it’s edging on a threat for him to ignore.

Daud makes a noncommital noise. His eyes have drifted off to the well-lit room beyond them, where people are starting to stream in as the evening stretches into night. The bandages go tight across his knuckles as his injured hand clenches.

“Walk with me,” he says, and in one movement he is out of his chair—then he pauses, eyes flicking back, like he’s waiting.

Corvo looks at what’s left in his glass, and looks at him. There’s no expectation in his stillness; only an abiding calm.Corvo follows.

Outside, the sky hasn’t yet decided to rain, but the fog makes certain the air is unpleasantly damp anyway. The thin puddles Daud strides through will have frozen over by the end of the night. They walk side by side, and Daud can only be considered to lead by the fact that Corvo can just barely recognize the turns they’re taking.

“Where are we going?” Corvo asks after they pass a street name he doesn’t recall and Daud still hasn’t said anything.

The look he gets is less focused than he’s used to seeing, and that more than anything lets him believe it when Daud says, “Nowhere. Just walking.”

The fog is a muffling shroud. They can see each side of the street, but that’s it; both ends are thick with white. Sounds come through soft and muted. Sometimes, heavy steps echo down from branching streets, and Daud deftly leads them off into another passage. He makes hardly a noise when he walks.

“Never seen fog this thick anywhere but here,” Daud eventually says, voice low.

“People say the Outsider calls it up from the river,” Corvo adds. “That you can get lost in it, and end up in the Void.”

“Ghost stories for children,” Daud sneers, but his mouth is quirked up like he’s telling a joke. “The Void looks nothing like this.”

Corvo watches him, careful and curious. “Did you learn that in the Academy?”

“In a fishing village off the West coast, actually.” The smirk hitches higher, then vanishes, and his mouth is again cool marble. “I don’t even remember the name.”

They continue in silence, and though Corvo doesn’t pry he wonders. Late-night wanderers pass them by in layered jackets and coats pulled up against the damp. The street names are familiar again. Far off, the clock rings the tenth hour, and Daud jerks like he’s come out of a dream.

“I should go,” he says. He turns—Corvo grabs the sleeve of his coat.

He wants to say something and doesn’t know what, so when their eyes catch he can only grit his teeth—twist his hand, release, ungraceful with a reluctance he doesn’t fully understand. Daud catches his wrist.

He says nothing, for a moment, then: “I know where to find you.”

When the sound of someone approaching startles Corvo into turning, the hand on his wrist lets go, and as he reaches back Daud is gone. The street is gray and fog-lined and empty.

Two City Watch men come slowly by on the cobblestones; Corvo greets them with a wave of his hand, and goes home.

“You’re getting soft,” Daud says the next time he shows up at Corvo’s pub table. “Complacent.” He’s still wearing the red coat. Corvo, knowing it’s hopeless, can’t help but notice how much more solid Daud looks under it—the broad square of his shoulders, the depth of his chest. He swallows it down with his drink and raises his eyebrows.

“And where is this coming from?”

It’s unsurprising when Daud doesn’t answer, instead baring some of his teeth in a half-snarl and looking away, to the busy center of the pub. Corvo calls for a beer and slides it across to him. That gets a sharp little glance, edging on suspicious.

“It’s good,” he shrugs, and as he reaches for his own glass Daud snatches it from the table. Sniffs it. Drinks. The beer is unceremoniously pushed back into his open hand.

“You never climb anymore,” Daud says, watching him over the rim of the glass.

Corvo doesn’t release the sigh he can feel building in his chest and takes a sip of the beer. It is good. He, at least, will appreciate it.

Daud’s eyes narrow. “I guess you’re comfortable, serving the highest of high society. Soft bed? Food to your liking?”

This is a little too much. Corvo rolls his eyes. “I don’t like the talking and lies and secrets,” he says, pointed, “But yeah, Dunwall Tower has a great cook, and the oxblood steak is to die for.” He meets the glare head-on, refuses to look away. After a minute, Daud seems to settle, leaning back in his chair and letting out a long, heavy breath.

It’s getting loud in the pub. Usually, Corvo lets the noise wash over him, tucked as he is into this corner, a little ways away—but the tension is sliding back into Daud, stiffening his neck as he hunches over the table again.

“Come climb with me,” Daud says, only just avoiding urgent.

“It’s raining.”

“Is that going to stop you?”

Corvo levels him with a look that brooks no argument. “We can walk. But I’m not climbing.”

So they walk. Corvo pulls his waxcloth over his head; his official outfit has no hood, and he’s had to make do on evenings like this. Umbrellas are inconvenient if he wants to keep his hands free. Daud’s coat has no hood either, but he seems to pull one from the jacket underneath, and it covers him just as well.

For a time, they move forward, directionless beyond Daud ducking into long alleyways for no reason Corvo can see, guiding him through passages he’s hardly paid attention to into parts of the city he isn’t sure, even after two years, he has ever seen—then back to the streets he has come to know, never lost or misplaced. Rain falls in sheets over their heads, onto the road, swelling the gutters with grimy water. It stings where it lands on his face and hands.

It’s unseasonably warm for the month of Darkness. Still, he feels himself grow dull and stiff with cold—dull enough that he barely reacts when a sure grip closes on his arm and drags him, forceful, into the dark of an alleyway.

“What's—” he starts, before a bandaged hand comes across his mouth.

Daud’s gaze is fixed on the end of the alley, gold with the light of the lampposts. “Quiet.” His voice can barely be heard over the sound of the rain.

They stand, still, rainwater dripping down Daud’s nose where he doesn’t care to wipe it if it means he must move, until three Watchmen pass coming up the thoroughfare. They remain unnoticed. After a handful of minutes, Daud seems to sweep his eyes around and relax, and they step back out into the street.

Daud pulls his hood down lower and wipes the rain away. Corvo glances up to where the three Watchmen are disappearing into the night—and if he doesn’t ask, he does wonder.

“Your disappearing trick,” Corvo says as they follow the incline of a boulevard down to the river. Daud bumps into him on accident when he turns. They’ve been walking close, so they can hear each other over the rain. “How did you do it?”

“What trick?” Daud asks, but instead of questioning his voice is harsh and dismissive.

“I turned and you were gone.”

“You weren’t paying attention.”

Corvo knows that isn’t it, and finds himself warming as anger starts to stir in his chest. “I looked away for a second. You’re not a card someone can hide up their sleeve.”

Daud’s jaw goes stiff, his mouth a thin, taut wire.

“I had—help,” he bites out.

Corvo makes a derisive sound. “You had help.”

“I can’t tell you,” he snaps, and his shape goes rigid under the coat. “Stop asking.”

“You can’t or you won’t?”

Daud whirls on him, blocking his way, says: “What difference does it make?”

His gray eyes are edged, like glass, or the sheen of a razor.

Corvo stops. He knows there is a sword, hidden inside Daud’s coat; he has seen the shape of it as Daud walked. He also knows there is more, out of sight. Daud has that impression about him: there is always more. He braces himself like he might for a fight, and sees Daud answering it, stance for stance.

“Are we friends, Daud?” he asks.

He can see the confusion flicker, bright and momentary, before it’s snuffed out. Daud’s breaths are strangely heavy. Corvo doubts it could be fear—yet it isn’t quite like anticipation.

“No,” he says, finally. “We’re not friends.”

It’s strange. There is nothing to suggest that Daud isn’t sure of himself: he’s straightened his back, and his eyes meet Corvo’s without flinching. The words sound like they should be the end of something.

Corvo loosens, and reaches out, slow; he sees Daud stop himself from jerking away, and sees, too, how some kind of tension drains out of him when Corvo’s hand closes on the high point of his arm, though Daud reflexively seizes his wrist.

“I work for the Kaldwins,” Corvo says, and neither of them has looked away. “I know how to keep a secret.”

There is a long stillness. Corvo realizes, distantly, that the rain has stopped.

Daud pushes Corvo’s hand off him.

“I’ll consider it,” he says, and Corvo lets him walk away.

It’s on the way from the Tower to the pub, in a deserted road, that a hand presses firm into the small of his back. The elbow he throws is caught in an iron grip.

“Walk with me,” Daud says, and Corvo huffs out his exasperation but lets go of his sword.

“That was a dangerous thing to do,” he mutters as he is lead—this is far from the aimless wandering he’s used to, Daud catching street names with sharp eyes and directing him, steady, in a direction that’s becoming more and more obvious by the minute.

“I’m sure,” Daud answers, and the hand drops from Corvo’s back. His skin rings with the memory of pressure. Almost absently, as Daud brushes past into an alley just slightly wider than his shoulders, Corvo notes the darker spatter across his lapel. It’s new, a darkish brown. It slots into the rest of the picture Corvo has been building with a distressingly simple click.

He remembers, distinctly, his first impression: how certain he had been that Daud was part of a gang. Daud always had an uncomplicated opinion on corpses and their usefulness.

Corvo stops in his tracks, and it takes Daud a moment to notice and turn back, a question in the curve of his frown. He gestures for Corvo to follow. Corvo doesn’t.

“You missed a spot,” he says instead, pulling on his own coat. Daud looks down at the bloodstain, then back up at him. Corvo doesn’t know what that look in his eyes means, or how to interpret the way he tucks his chin into his chest, just a moment, before straightening.

“We don’t have all night,” he says, but doesn’t keep going. Corvo takes a few slow steps forward. Daud turns. Corvo follows.

“Where are we going,” Corvo asks, and Daud glances back as though to make sure he hasn’t stopped again.

“You know where we’re going.”

“Tell me.”

“We’re nearly there,” Daud says instead, and yes, Corvo can see it: Kaldwin’s Bridge, its high metal peaks, sprouting from between the buildings ahead like dark bones. Daud ducks into an alcove, the shadowed pit of a building’s doorway, just out of sight of the one guard standing at the foot of the bridge. He tugs Corvo in after him. The space is close, and their knees bump together when Daud shoots a look out then back up, at him. His face is grim.

“Climb with me.”

Corvo looks at him and feels heavy, slow; a heartless kind of tired.

“Are you going to kill me?” he asks, and the weakness in him shows even through the half-smile he forces. Daud stares. His absolute stillness, strangely, seems to say what kind of idiot are you more than I’ve been found out.

“If I wanted to kill you, I would have done it on the way,” he says, low but clear, unmoving except for his mouth and the flick of his eyes across Corvo’s face.

Corvo lets his expression go neutral. “I could take you in a fight.”

“Then I wouldn’t fight you,” Daud answers, unhesitating. He pulls up the thick sleeve of his coat; strapped to his arm is a compact machine, like a small folded crossbow. “I’d shoot you from a rooftop. You barely react to seeing me anymore.”

Of course he could, Corvo thinks, looking into Daud’s gray eyes, of course this Serkonan man with his unpracticed smile and his rough hands would be the one who held his death most surely—

Corvo takes his wrist, turns it to look at the mechanism in full. It’s well-made. Perhaps not very powerful at long distances, but accurate, he thinks, enough to hit somewhere bad. “You won’t deny it then.”

“No,” Daud says, like he knows exactly what Corvo is talking about. He must. There aren’t many ways to misunderstand this conversation. “But I’m not going to kill you. I meant to ask—” And there he stops, as though the next words are harder to admit to than being a killer. He glances out at the guard again, or the bridge. A short, irritated hiss. “This would be easier up there.”

“No one else is listening,” Corvo says, and it’s true: the sky has been dark for some time, and though windows are lit there is no sign of anything, or anyone, but them in the lee of this street—and still, Daud hacks a laugh, like he’s in on a joke Corvo can’t see.

He pulls his sleeve back down, and Corvo lets go.

“I could be…” Daud starts; he’s evasive, darting looks between the pools of gold where light reflects in the road. “I could be useful,” he decides, and his eyes fix back onto Corvo’s. “To your employers. The royal family.”

It’s a bold move, Corvo supposes; bold enough Euhorn might even appreciate the guts it took to make the offer. He doesn’t know what, exactly, motivates his answer.

“They don’t believe in those kinds of methods.”

Principle, or selfishness? They’ve never given him cause to think they would call on a hired killer—but perhaps some small part of him simply doesn’t want to know whether they might.

(Perhaps— Perhaps another, smaller part of him—

He has so missed having something the Kaldwins didn’t know about.)

“None of my clients had a problem with them,” Daud says, wry, and Corvo tries not to read disappointment in the shift of his shoulders, “However noble their blood.”

Then his eyes narrow, and he adds, as though he’d seen the thought written clear on Corvo’s face, “I’m not giving you names.”

“I didn’t ask you to,” Corvo answers, and relaxes against the inside of the doorway.

The space is growing warm around them despite the chill. Daud is still looking at him.

“Climb with me,” he says, and Corvo breathes in deep.

“Alright.”

It’s been two years since he last went up there. He isn’t worried about being up to the task—sword practice keeps him well in shape, and he doesn’t doubt his own strength—but that old ease he’d had as a child facing the tiered rooftops of Karnaca has dulled, and navigating the struts of the bridge isn’t the thoughtless exercise he remembers it being. In the privacy of his own head, he might even admit it’s daunting.

Still, they make their way up, Daud at the head, and when they reach the highest platform—so familiar, even now—the shrieking wind freezes the sweat under Corvo’s coat. Daud sits at the edge, exactly where he always had, and waits until Corvo takes his own spot before he speaks.

“I thought it was worth a shot,” he says, looking out to the river.

Corvo takes out his cigar box. It’s a small comfort, but he thinks he needs it. “You took that shot. What now?”

He expects there to be a pause, or simply a growing silence, but Daud says, “Now I keep going.” The curl in his lip could be a sneer or a smile. It’s a little bitter, a little tired. He glances over at Corvo’s hands. “We can’t all be Royal Protector to the fucking Kaldwins.”

Corvo holds out the box, open to show the neat row of rolls, but Daud gives a short jerk of his head. Corvo lights his with a match from another pocket.

“You never smoke?” He knows he sounds surprised—the rasp in Daud’s voice sounds exactly like that of the dockworkers Corvo remembers crossing in Karnaca, rubbed raw with smoke, sometimes acheful to hear. Daud eyes him, quiet, chin propped on his fist. His eyes are pricked silver with the city lights.

Before Corvo can react, Daud has pinched the cigar between two fingers and brought it to his own mouth. He’s staring at the glowing tip, the curve of his lips unsure around the end—and then he takes a drag that trickles back out from the corners of his mouth in thin, fast-blown wisps. A noise rumbles up from deep in his chest.

“I did,” Daud says, the rest of the smoke gusting away on the wind. “Used to be in a gang. Everybody smoked.” When he sucks on the end again it’s almost delicate, his brow furrowing as though in focus. “I didn’t like the taste.”

Corvo doesn’t know what he looks like right now—his organs feel like they’re trying to climb up where his lungs are meant to be, and he has to swallow, certain otherwise that his voice might break. His throat clicks.

“So you changed your mind since?”

Daud’s eyes meet his. The pinpricks of the city lights are gone; all Corvo can see is the hot glow of the cigar, flaring as Daud breathes in, then reaches out, the movement calm and telegraphed, until his hand wraps itself in the front of Corvo’s coat and pulls him forward, implacable, merciless. Corvo catches himself on one hand, the platform ringing with it.

There is the brush of lips on his, faltering. The brief taste of cigar smoke as his mouth opens.

He can see entirely too much of Daud’s face—his eyes, somehow dark, and the painful line of his scar, and another over his left eyebrow, and the precise displacement of the break in his nose—when Daud says,

“Maybe I’ll get used to it,”

and pushes him back until he’s sitting, again, in the same spot—now cold—as though nothing happened at all.

Daud takes another drag, frowns and works his jaw, and hands the cigar back.

Corvo takes it. Wants, in an unhinged, desperate way, to grab Daud by the bloodstained lapel of his coat and finish what he just started—but to be here, holding this, the taste of more than smoke on his lips, he must have misread all that has lead up to it, and he thinks—the thought is so clear, like the moon through still water—he thinks that anything and everything he does, right at this moment, will be bloated with a meaning he can’t even begin to understand.

He finishes the cigar, and throws the stub out over the edge to fall somewhere in the river.

They don’t speak for a long time. Corvo has stopped paying attention to the ringing of the clocktower. At some point, Daud gets up.

“Are you leaving?” Corvo asks, unable to keep it down, and Daud looks back to him.

“Even I need to sleep, Corvo,” he says, and Corvo decides it will have to make do for a promise.

He spends the week scanning rooftops, and catches sight of Daud only once: on the first day, perched on a high chimney like a misplaced gargoyle. As soon as Corvo turned to look he darted out along the eaves and disappeared.

When he goes out to the pub, nothing happens on the way. No one comes to sit at his corner table. The woman at the bar smiles, and says he was missed last week, and when Corvo asks about a man in a red coat her face goes blank and she shrugs and shakes her head. He leaves his drink half-finished, and goes back out into the cold.

Footsteps behind him. He doesn’t stop to consider them.

“Running from something?” says Daud, and then Corvo has him flattened against a wall, fists in the shoulders of his coat, hauling him up on tiptoe with the bricks probably digging into his shoulders. Daud has a vise grip on his arms, panting in what must be surprise, while Corvo’s breaths heave around the weight of every action he’s considering. He loosens his hands, and Daud slides back to his feet. His fingers ache.

“Jumpy,” Daud says, but rather than amused his tone is careful, checking him over like he’s expecting to find marks. Corvo drags a hand through his hair with a huff, doesn’t even try to explain himself. Fingers brush, cautious, against his back; and when he doesn’t jump away, the palm presses in. He must be imagining its warmth through the layers of his clothes. “Come on.”

It’s the only difference, that hand, steady on him, and the more it settles there the more unsettled he becomes. He knows last week happened. He repeats it to himself: He knows. He knows. He thinks he mostly controls the tremble when he pulls the cigar case out and takes one, brings it to his mouth, lights it. It tastes the same as it had then. He glances at Daud.

Daud is looking back. Corvo breathes out a cloud.

In one movement the cigar is plucked from his hand, and Daud is taking a drag, something like a challenge in his eyes.

The street is empty. Sometimes Corvo remembers Daud telling him he knew what the Void looked like, and wonders if he went there; if that’s where they go, on these walks, when the entire city seems drained of its people. Corvo pinches the cigar between two fingers as Daud breathes in again, lifts it away, and throws it aside. His fingertips burn from being so near Daud’s mouth.

His lips are cold, though, when Corvo takes him by the arm and drags him somewhere dark. Cold, then not; warm, red with biting, damp with the steam of their close breaths. Corvo cups the raw angles of his face and dips into his mouth again, just pressing lips at first, then his tongue, fingers curling in the hair at his nape. He tastes of cigar smoke, bitter and hot.

Corvo doesn’t take more than one step back before Daud has him flipped and pinned in the dark of the doorway, arms boxing him in.

“We’re not done here,” he rasps.

Corvo chokes on his own breath as a solid thigh pushes up between his legs.

They use their hands—callused, numb with the cold, but tender enough when they grip side or bicep or thigh, or slide over skin, mapping the hollows of muscle and bone—and sometimes, though rarely, their mouths. Corvo has kissed the acrid taste of his own come from Daud’s tongue. Daud has made him writhe, uncontrolled, with only deft fingers and the bite of his teeth, Corvo’s howling muffled by the leather of his glove.

The city’s mass wraps around them in those moments like a shell: closed off, protected. Nothing can touch them but their bodies. Corvo feels himself swallowed by shadows, and even the light glances off of them.

In the month of Ice, as Dunwall prepares for the old Empress’s memorial, Corvo warms his hands in Daud’s pockets while they trade damp breaths in the lee of a building. Daud rolls his hips; Corvo’s fingers clench, digging into the meat of him, and there is a stuttered gasp in the crook of Corvo’s neck, the weight of a well-used body pushed up along his.

“Come with me,” he says, and pulls away, though his hand remains curled around Corvo’s wrist.

Corvo follows after. The night curves over their heads.

“Where are we going?”

“Just come with me.”

Daud had said, himself, that he needed sleep, and Corvo can only suppose that this would be done on a bed, in a room, somewhere tucked away. It still manages to be a surprise that Daud has a pair of keys, and that these keys fit into a pair of locks, and that the door they open gives way to a tiny two-room apartment in the middle of a seedy district.

The kitchen looks largely unused. The bedroom is dark, its only window shuttered. He can still see the bed, a lumpy shape barely lit through the open doorway, over Daud’s shoulder when he is backed up against the bedroom wall.

“Corvo,” Daud says, hands splayed on the wallpaper, and his eyes are a little too wide, his breaths a little too short, and Corvo grabs him by the side of his belt and the back of his head and drags him close, taking all that he wants from Daud’s mouth.

“I want you to fuck me in that bed,” he says, brute words sweet on his own tongue, and Daud snarls and bites his lip.

The mattress is stiff and sagging under his back—his coat, his vest thrown to the floor, his boots kicked off the end of the bed as Daud advances on him in shirtsleeves and breeches—but comfort matters little when Daud’s hands close on his ankles and pin them to the sheets. His shape is huge in the thrown light of the doorway. He crouches there, between Corvo’s bent knees, and undoes Corvo’s belt.

“Get on with it,” Corvo grunts, catching an ankle in the back of Daud’s leg and tugging, and the breath rushes out from him when Daud looms, one arm braced on his chest, and kisses Corvo’s impatient mouth.

“Let me take my time,” he says, and slings the belt out into the dark.

When Corvo is naked, gangly and shivering on top of the blankets and his cock half-hard in anticipation, Daud slides his palms up the concave of his stomach, lines his fingers up with the ripples of Corvo’s ribs and kisses his sternum.

“Skinny bastard,” he mutters there. His breath is a hot, damp wash, and jolts a fresh wave of shaking out of Corvo, who yanks on the back of Daud’s shirt. There is no restraint left in him. He wants Daud’s whole body on him without delay.

“Tell me you have oil,” he growls, and it’s in Daud’s hand, not oil but a metal tin of thick grease he spreads on his fingers, slick and shining in the dregs of hallway light.

“Turn over,” Daud says, and Corvo answers,

“No,” tilting his hips up, bracing with his legs, Daud’s free hand coming up to steady him. “No, like this.” Daud’s eyes in the light: gold-touched, less metal than water. He wants it like this.

He touches himself through it, his own heavy breathing loud in his ears. The first breach is a strange and foreign pressure, but even if it’s been some time he has done this before; soon he’s up to two fingers, breaths wheezing from him at every firm push, propped up on one elbow so he can watch the way Daud’s shoulders shift under the fabric of his shirt. He makes no sound when he works. Corvo wonders, half-delirious, whether he’s this quiet when he kills.

“Now,” he says, dropping back to the mattress and fisting his hands in the sheets by his head, “Daud—” He pushes back on Daud’s pressing fingers, but it’s clear what he wants.

“One more,” Daud says, pulling back, and Corvo almost snarls, slinging a leg around Daud’s hips, jerking him closer.

“Now.”

Daud obliges. Everything but his shirt is discarded, and his cock hangs thick and red between his thighs, wet at the tip. Corvo glances to it and back up, and he can see Daud’s face is red, too, flushed from his chest up to his ears, the tilt of his head nearly demure. Their eyes meet in the dark. Very deliberately, Corvo cants his hips.

Daud fits just right in the spread of his legs, broad shoulders but narrow hips, and the stretch when he presses slowly in makes Corvo want to keen.

He doesn’t. Daud does: the first noise he’s made beyond words, thin and warbling and glorious. The rush, victory or adrenaline or helpless crushing want makes him clench hard and Daud bends his forehead to Corvo’s stomach, hissing muffled curses into his skin.

Winter is like a fever—he’s too hot inside for how cold his skin is—Corvo grabs at Daud’s thighs, fingers digging in, and his body flexes like he can force a rhythm. Rough hands close on his waist. The drag of Daud’s cock out of him, the gradual thrust back in—he huffs a weak breath, pushing into it, and his cock leaves a wet trail on his belly when the next thrust rocks him.

“Faster,” he gasps—fuck, he wants all of it, the heat and the friction and that strength keeping him still as it needs but that killing focus is staring down at the meeting of their bodies, the steady too-shallow slide, rather than applying itself to fucking him out of his mind—

He knocks his heel against Daud’s tailbone, wriggles and strains closer, “Come on—” and Daud pushes him flat with a hand on his chest but it isn’t enough—

His body moves for him—Daud grunts when his back hits the mattress and shouts, reedy and desperate, when Corvo finally sinks down onto him, full, sweaty and buzzing, and takes himself in hand. The arch of Daud’s throat, his head near hanging off the bed, is a gorgeous thing. Corvo fucks himself with hungry jerks of his hips, hissing through his teeth at the burn, and Daud makes high shocked sounds that thrum through Corvo’s fingertips when he lays his hands there, at the dip in his shoulders, just below his neck. Daud’s hands scrabble for purchase on the spread of Corvo’s thighs. It’s all he can do to hold on.

When he comes, the sounds cut off sharp, and his nails rake red lines down Corvo’s sides.

Corvo rolls his hips again and bears down, but all that does is make Daud wince, his panting breaths catching for a second. Fingers press, light, at the red lines; the touch stings, but he doesn’t mind.

“Get up for a second,” Daud says, and when Corvo moves off him he shifts fully onto the bed, sprawled flat and languid.

Corvo’s still hard and not a little envious. When he palms himself, Daud has the gall to smirk.

“Come up here,” he says, and Corvo begrudgingly lies down next to him to bite the smirk away, but Daud shakes his head. He worms an arm under Corvo’s side and gets a hand on the meat of his ass. “Up here,” he says, eyes bright.

Corvo hesitates—then he’s on his knees, Daud’s head between his thighs, one hand curled tight around the base of his cock because, just for a moment, he’s certain he’ll come just from the sight. Daud takes hold of his hips, thumbs stroking. He’s eyeing the lines he left there.

Then he looks up, into Corvo’s face. He says, “Well?” His chin tips up like an invitation.

Corvo fists a hand in his sweat-tousled hair, pulls just enough to draw up his head, and feeds his cock to Daud’s open mouth.

At first he rocks in shallow, breaths short as he watches Daud’s tongue flick out to follow when he withdraws, and he can’t help the low whine when he sinks back in, soft and wet, sucking pressure, a bare hint of teeth when Daud swallows and his tongue pushes up. His heart beating wild, Corvo tucks the thumb of his free hand in alongside his cock and watches, Daud’s lip pulled aside, as he thrusts red and heavy into his pink and glistening mouth. Daud gasps something through his nose, swallows again.

Corvo grabs his hair with both hands, pins him to the mattress and lets himself fuck in deeper, until Daud’s eyes water and his throat clenches and he makes soft choking noises, his nails cutting into Corvo’s skin, pulling him still closer. Corvo braces an arm against the wall and spends with a feeble little cry.

Daud’s throat keeps tightening in small, convulsive motions around him; he shivers through it, grinds his hips into Daud’s face until pleasure turns to discomfort and he withdraws. Daud has gone a deep, precious red, gasping ragged breaths. Corvo crawls down the solid shape of his body so he can kiss his wide-open mouth.

“I taste disgusting,” Daud warns, crushing him closer with an arm across his back, one hand around the back of Corvo’s neck.

“You should know—by now—” Corvo says between searching kisses, “I really couldn’t care less—” and Daud relaxes under him wholly, limp and pliant, eyes closed and stroking down Corvo’s back like he needs to be gentled. Neither of them moves to turn off the light in the hall. There, faintly silhouetted, they share lips and tongues, a strange hesitation in every rough press of Daud’s mouth.

Corvo tangles their legs, pulls the blanket over them both. Daud lets him. He’s a little bony in places, but radiates heat, and the hollow of the blanket warms up fast.

On the cusp of sleeping, Daud shifts under him.

“Won’t they miss you at the Tower?” he asks, his voice still rough. A thrill makes Corvo shiver to know he is the cause.

“I sleep in the barracks still,” he says, burrowing in the crook of Daud’s neck. “I’ll have rooms when Jessamine is Empress.” Daud scratches fingers through his hair, and cradled as he is he quickly falls back into sleep.

Sometime in the night, he wakes to Daud pulling himself away, and grabs for his wrist on reflex.

“I need to piss,” Daud says low, pulling him off not ungently. “Go back to sleep.”

Corvo curls in the warm spot he’s left, huddled in the covers, and does.

In the morning, the bed is empty.

Bells ring. A year ago, Beatrix Kaldwin died in childbirth. They call the city to mourning.

Corvo had left unbothered, and in too much of a hurry to return to wonder that Daud was gone with no warning; impulse was in his nature, as was a certain disregard for other people’s worry. The memory of that night kept him up for days. More than once, he waited for the rest of the guards to fall quiet and brought himself off in his hand, the images sharp-edged in his mind.

On his next evening off, he sauntered off to the usual place and waited, sipping on whiskey, at the corner table. When he finished, he called for a Potterstead ale. Then he lingered outside in the drizzle for half an hour, glaring at the rooftops. Waiting.

Daud didn’t show. The evening left a sour taste in the back of his throat.

When the same happened a week later, Corvo started to wonder whether something had gone wrong, asking himself: Did killers for hire take travel contracts? Had he gotten injured? He spent hours staring at the bunk over his, listening to the guards shift in their untroubled sleep.

The third time, Corvo went out into the city. He thought he remembered where Daud had lead him—could only hope he hadn’t been waiting on a dead man, some wound too serious to heal striking him down— Would Corvo find him there, an old body in a corner, forgotten? Had he made it back at all? —and after getting lost twice he found himself in front of the battered old door.

He knocked. There was no answering sound. When he tried the handle, the door swung open, unlocked.

Inside, the floor was covered in dust, and his boots left great dark streaks in it where the floorboards showed through. The kitchen was much the same, no more used than when he had first stepped foot in the place. The bedroom window was still shuttered. He even thought the blankets were the exact same shape he had left them in upon leaving, three weeks ago.

Grief was a familiar creature—yet it did not touch him here. First he wondered if Daud had really been so petty as to abandon his home just so Corvo wouldn’t find him there. Then it hit him that it was just as likely Daud had taken the keys off one of his fresh corpses, and found the place well-kept enough to invite Corvo in. The thought flayed him with rage.

He didn’t cry. He did, however, tear the mattress apart.

It’s not a time he remembers fondly. Two winters, two heartbreaks. The realization that grief can come in many shapes. Many of his decisions in the years that followed were questionable at best, but he is glad enough for how some of them turned out.

Emily will be three years old in a week. The look on Jessamine’s face when she looks down upon her daughter is softness and joy and the fierce, protective light of decision. He only regrets, when he lets himself, that she had to be born into politics.

It’s as they’re taking the avenues back from a social function at the Boyle sisters’ that he sees it. He hardly knows how he noticed: it’s a speck, small and indistinct, black on gray.

As the tall spires pass in the carriage window, his eyes go straight up and catch on the figure perched at the very top of Kaldwin’s Bridge. He knows who it is. There is nothing in his sight or his past to convince him it waves when he looks, but he is just as certain it does.

When they return to the Tower, he tells Jessamine there’s an errand he needs to run; makes sure there are guards posted on the roof and at every exit in case this is a trick. Then he goes out into the streets, to a pub he hasn’t visited in years.

The woman at the bar is a different one. He asks for Old Dunwall. His table, tucked in the corner, is already occupied, though the man in the seat is positioned to be as far out of sight of the room as he can.

Corvo sits opposite. Notoriety isn’t something he needs to worry about.

The coat is worn now, the color faded to something like old blood—it’s been ten years, after all—and the sword is no longer hidden. No one he let see him would dare call him into question. His eyes, though—

(There is still a pang of loss when Corvo meets them, but it’s weak. Just an echo, really.)

His eyes are unchanged. Flat gray, serrated. The scar running jagged down his face is faded with age, and there are bags under his eyes, not yet dark with lack of sleep. Corvo’s mouth twitches at the uncharitable thought that there probably isn’t enough in the man to feel regret.

“You look—alright,” Daud says, and the knowledge that he’d meant to say ‘good’ is as violent as a blow to the face. Corvo can feel his teeth grating, but lets the tension go with a heavy sigh. He doesn’t answer. The narrow line of Daud’s mouth twists, crooked. “I had a question.”

“Then ask,” Corvo says, not quite snappish.

The look Daud levels him with is a measured, considering thing.

“Do the royal family’s principles still hold?”

Some part of him wants to be furious. Corvo’s hand drifts to his sword, pointed but unthreatening. “I’m the wrong man to ask for a job.”

Yet rather than offer that long-forgotten, sardonic little smirk, Daud nods, his eyes darting to the room and the street outside the window. “Don’t need to ask any more,” he says, off-handed. “Kill enough people, the offers come to you.”

That’s a wanted criminal, sitting across from you, Corvo reminds himself. He should be arrested. If Corvo draws his sword fast enough, he could stab him in the space between ribcage and clavicle, or the soft meat of his stomach—pin him to the chair.

He drinks his whiskey, his weapon heavy on his hip.

After a silence, inordinately cold in the warmth of the pub, Daud rises. His fingers linger a moment at the edge of the table.

“Keep an eye on your new Spymaster,” he says. This close, Corvo can smell it: Daud smells of cigar smoke. He might even know the brand.

When Daud leaves through the front door, no one looks up to see him go.

Corvo finishes his glass and returns to the Tower. It’s late; Jessamine is already asleep. His own bed is cold.

The rest, as they say, is Void.

#dishonored #corvodaud #there's boning in this one #writins

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pooktales · 4 years

Text

Dannox Does Dalaran

~45min read

In an alternate universe where Kael'thas is king...

*doom music* The quaint Legerdermain Lounge in Dalaran has an amateur comedy night. Dannox, a raunchy Night Elf druid, decides to do his standup routine. You may recognize Dannox from such things as my ‘My Life for My Prince’ fanfiction series. This post is LGBTQ+ friendly. It is also 18+ and NSFW because of dirty jokes. Enjoy!

...

Center stage at the Legerdermain Lounge in Dalaran. A dark-pearl skinned Night Elf man with deep green hair down to his waist strides up to take the Gnomish microphone device. He smiles well, as if he’s been laughing really hard back stage with the staff already. Charcoal gray t-shirt that looks soft. Light blue, linen slacks. Unless your eyes are playing tricks, there seems to be a shadow, or an outline through the thin fabric, of his bare hip underneath and the start of a muscular thigh. He moves again, and it’s gone. Dannox has spread hands and feet apart, bracing as if he’ll have to fight the strange mic device at first, but then cuts that out quickly since the mic is not a toy. Maybe no one noticed.

His joy is genuine and infectious. It’s hard not to smile along with him.

“Hey, so before I begin—Shit, you’d think I’d be used to a moon-white spotlight in the dark, being a Night Elf, but I’m just not. Can you offensive fuckers turn that off? Okay?” Dannox cackles and squints. He looks at his dark hands, while adjusting the mic up to his height. Dannox is magnetizing in a way. Fun to watch his sly mannerisms, his voice is rich.

A burst of embarrassed laughter in the back, while the Gnome techs actually accede to Dannox’s demand. It’s not a joke, they really are trying to fix the lights for him.

“So. Dalaran. The big D. Well, the other big D. They say if you can make it here, you can make it anywhere. Which… is exactly what life is like with a big dick anyway...

“Sorry if you thought I couldn’t say that word—DICK. But back to my joke. You do one guy, or lady—I’m bi—and word gets around, right? So I make it everywhere.

“Oh, Dalaran. Come on, baby. I just got here and you’re turning me on. I’m lit for a magical city right now, and that is so wrong. Wow, what a weird fetish that would be…

“Seriously, though. This place cracks me up. A fancy, beautiful city. Perfectly designed. A beacon of hope. Holy, in a way. Floating majestically through the air. And plenty of massive, purple, phallic objects poking the sky.

“Hey, don’t get mad at me, I know it’s not really like that—that’s not why those spires are there. They have a real functionality. What got my mind dirty in the first place were all the snooty, Kirin’ Tor, tight arseholes walking up and down the streets… Yum.

Shocked, sort of uncomfortable laughter, but Dannox presses on, “Hey, don’t judge me. You guys been to the Underbelly, yet?” He shakes his head sorrowfully, “Don’t go down there. I mean, did you hear what it’s called? The Underbelly. That’s another low-key sex thing about Dalaran. This place is secretly very dirty, believe me. Underbelly. Do you know what’s under my belly? Well, on most nights. He’s not here right now.” Dannox uses a hand to shade his eyes, pretends to look around the room for someone. Loose laughter escapes from the back. “Sorry, that one was too easy. But yeah, so please don’t go down there. Just a lot of nasty fuckers like myself, flagging themselves to get jumped from behind by some rogue, and trying to wrestle each other—” Dannox starts laughing and cuts himself off, “All… oiled up. Well I was, anyway. Okay, I lied. I’ve been here before. Plenty of times.”

To a woman looking very serious and refusing to laugh in the front row, “Ma’am. Ma’am? I’m going to need you to loosen up tonight, okay? You’re in the hands of a professional tonight. I’m serious. I’m more serious than you are right now about that statement, do you know why? I’m fully trained at this, I was once a very successful stripper, I promise you.” Excited whistles and shouts, “I know smut and I’m proud of that, so tonight you have my express permission to laugh at my nasty jokes.

“But I’m sorry if I’ve offended you, ma’am, really I am. Please forgive me. Do you want a lap dance to make up for it? I’m being serious. Would that help? You don’t?

“Damn, I’m getting old then. Anyone here heard of Commando Dan, from Fel Candy? West side of Kezan? There must be a few Goblins in the house.”

A couple of gravelly cheers.

“Hoo, yeah! That’s me. Look how far I’ve fallen. I still got all my clothes on and people are even laughing.”

The blazing spotlight finally goes out, leaving Dannox in a darker room, offset by easy peach candlelight. Some polite applause for the lights being fixed. Then glasses click gently as people drink, begin to enjoy their food once more.

“Hey, great! I can see again, though you all really can’t see me, cause it’s dark. And your eyes have to adjust. Sucks to be you. Shout out to the other Night Elves in the house. The revolution begins now, by the way. Hail to the night, motherfuckers…”

Throaty laughter, especially from some kal’dorei men in the back.

Dannox looks down and snakes the microphone wire around the stand, to give himself space to move with it, “Anyway, I am definitely grateful for my chance at amateur night here in Dalaran.” He winks, “I intend to take the prize. I’m already a prize, I figured we’d go together.”

He turns a little to his left, sticks a hand in his pants pocket. Also, semi-sheer fabric confirmed. Nice.

“So. A little about me to start, other than my being an exceptional stripper once upon a time. Today? I’m a bum. A handsome bum, but my husband reminds me that still means I’m lazy and bum. I do nothing. This is my first thing that I’m doing, after a hiatus. Stripper in retirement. Never thought you’d see the day, right?” Dannox shrugs, grinning anew, “Actually, I do work hard, just not in the way you’d expect. I’m a trophy husband that got picked up years ago in a seedy strip club, I kid you not… stripping my clothes off in Kezan, which is a beautiful, nearly lawless Goblin Island, at least on the redlight district side. Anything goes on that side. A Blood Elf and a Night Elf can meet up, get it on, and have all kinds of adventures together in broad daylight. Faltheriel and I once had a dirty weekend that turned into… ten years now? And so I got picked up by the man who eventually became—who eventually would become—the Chief Advisor to King Kael’thas Sunstrider.

“The king? Yeah, we live in an alternate universe back home. It’s totally normal though, don’t worry. It’s like living in the suburbs—hardly anyone goes there, it’s nice cause it’s less expensive. We get crime, but it’s weirder suburbs, alt-universe crime. Like… whenever we read about Kael’thas’ new fun addictions and various shortcomings in the news. It was Murlocos Tacos last week. His daughter caught footage of him on the floor eating them while drunk or high, probably both cause it’s Kael’thas, and slurring every single thing he said. It came on all the scrying orbs. That was a rough week for him.”

Some snickers. “Yeah, you guys out here have dead, looted body Kael’thas at the end of a Quel’danas Isle dungeon. But back home, we pretty much have the Hearthstone Kael’thas which is way nicer. And funnier. I thought I’d get up here and do a Hearthstone Kael’thas impression but… yeah, he’d send some people over to kill me. He’s still an evil genius with bloodthirsty Sunfury agents. Also, ‘I’m coming doooown!’

“Haha… So worth it. Best part, when I get assassinated by Sunfury agents soon and I die, I’m totally going to ask my wife and husband to put that exact quote on my tombstone. That’ll really piss Kael off.

“And then, what is he even gonna do? Dig up my body and beat me some more?” Dannox looks down, casually kicks the wire for the mic out of his way, “Actually, I wouldn’t put it past that fel-addicted, demon-fucking motherfucker. He’s into everything.

“Anyway, we’re actually cool, me and Kael’thas. Don’t worry. And I truly like him. Since my husband works for Kael, and I am a druid after all—I heal. I heal a body good… I get to talk to Kael’thas himself sometimes if you can believe it. But it’s all so horrible. He’s a good-looking man and he knows that I’m bi. And I’m an awful person, generally. I guess that’s why Kael and I get along.”

Dannox walks to the other side of the stage, “And then Filthy—that’s my husband, don’t ask… Well, you will ask about my husband’s nickname, but I’m warning you not to, not yet, I’ll tell you later—Filthy is practically like Kael’s family at this point, so I always take my chance to rip on our lovely king. Also, Kael’s Blood Knights. Blood Knights are such easy targets. And mind you, in this alt universe, Azeroth is united, the factions are at peace, sorta. Kind of like how Dalaran lets everybody in, we’re sort of like that. Anyway, so we’re out in Netherstorm again with King Kael’thas, waiting on the Sunfury army to show up. Kael’thas looks right at me and he says, ‘I think I really like having a Night Elf man salute me, for a change.’

“And then I wink, ‘…It’s only natural, Kael’thas.’

“Hoo, boy. Poor Kael’thas. I think he was trying to be community-spirited. But, you know, he just tangled with the wrong Night Elf. Or, exactly the right one. Remember, I do like to get oiled-up first.”

More laughter.

“And then these soldiers of his, they’re taking a really long time to arrive. So one of the Blood Knights that’s already there, she turns to me. Everyone’s curious about the Night Elves, I suppose. Daphne goes… and I guess she didn’t let on yet that I’m unbelievably nasty, by some miracle. That’s what happens when hubby refuses to talk about home at work, I guess.

“Daphne asks me, ‘I heard you were the bane of Malfurion’s existence at one point.’

“I say, ‘Well, only for fifteen to twenty minutes at a time.’

Gasps, shocked laughter.

“See? I can keep it professional if I want to. And it’s fine, that’s another world leader I’m cool with. Malfurion and I go… way back. Right. In the back.

“Hey, no judgment. We all have our reasons for leaving the Emerald Dream. Am I right, fellow druids? Or, getting banned from it by a jealous wife. Hey, I’m calling her out, that wasn’t cool. She should know by now, everyone secretly loves Malfurion.

“Then I decided to have some fun with my husband Filthy—Faltheriel—who was standing right there next to me, turning beet-red, ‘What’s this, Faltheriel? You don’t look well, and your forehead is so warm. Maybe you’re coming down with something. Let’s go get you into bed, make you perfectly comfortable… then see what happens.’

“He didn’t like that. And in front of his employer, too. You see why he calls me a bum. I’m so good at being a trophy husband and jobless, it’s like I think everyone else needs to lose their job. Anyway, Faltheriel left to go do something else. Divorce me or something, I don’t remember what he said that afternoon. It’s not important.

“There was also a nice girl with them, a tall redhead named Tempest. I think she’s a retribution Paladin—Blood Knight, whatever. They all get to talking about old times, and she recalls how my husband used to be a zealot for Kael’thas, because he was. Or is. I’ll put it this way, ‘Kael’thas’ is the opposite of our safe word at home. It’s more Filthy’s trigger. Filthy gets one. One ‘Kael’thas’ every evening, and after that he has to stop. Don’t ask me how he works for the guy. I’m a sleaze, Faltheriel’s a fanboy, I guess. We struggle through this life together in our exciting marriage, putting up with all you muggles.

“I’m not joking with you. In person, Kael’thas is a very handsome man ontop of everything else and Faltheriel’s only mortal. Like I said, we have amazing, alt-universe Hearthstone Kael’thas. It’s a different outfit every hour with that guy. My favorite is nineties Kael’thas. He shows up with slicked-back blonde hair, neon shapes on his t-shirt and a giant cell phone, obsessing about how Arthas stole Jaina Proudmoore from him, and he needs revenge in time for the Dalaran Academy dance.

“Hey, I just remembered, you guys would have been there for all that Arthas in ripped stonewash jeans, shoving Kael’thas into a locker stuff. Beat, ba-beat, ba-ba-ba-beat, gooooo Dalaran!

“Anyway. Wow, I keep going off what I memorized. I need a minute.” Dannox winces laughter and pinches at the bridge of his nose, before calming down. “So. Faltheriel and his crew were all zealots back then, doing bad things for Kael’thas, but Faltheriel can get right in the danger zone till this day, remembering weird Kael’thas facts and lore, though I do love him. Tempest goes, ‘Look, I’m a Blood Knight and Faltheriel’s intense obsession over Kael’thas even makes me uncomfortable. Dannox, are you sure everything is alright?’

“I go, ‘Eh. It’s all about energy, where you direct it. Faltheriel can revv up his cute little engine all day if he wants to, as long as, at the end of that day, I’m the one who directly benefits.’

Daphne, as Tempest is laughing, ‘Uh… what?’

“I say, ‘It’s called husband physics.’

“And it is, it really is! That’s how you manage a marriage with a fanboy. I’ll only worry if Faltheriel comes home cosplaying and threatens that we need to take an emergency family vacay to Blizzcon. Not that there’s anything wrong with that. But when your husband likes to dress up as a succubus… you keep an eye on it. He’s going as Drag Queen Azshara next year, by the way. And there’s rumor of an ‘It’s Raining Men’ act to go with it, but Rachel and I are mostly letting Filthy have his alone time with the costume and his music for now. We’re all really excited. Albeit—each in his own way.

“Later that day, with the Blood Knights you know--the Sunfury finally arrive and it’s time for us to get moving, mount up to go someplace. I’m on my nightsaber. They’re staring at my beast. You would… I say to Daphne, ‘Let’s have somebody ride up front, and then the other person can climb on the back. Don’t worry, Faltheriel and I do it all the time where we’re from.’

“This guy Sunthraze goes, ‘In Darnassus? Or do you mean Silvermoon where Faltheriel’s from?’

“I say, ‘Wait, my wife wouldn’t want me to finish that joke.’

“Sometimes, Faltheriel does really get annoyed with me when I make those kinds of jokes with his colleagues. I mean, they are his coworkers after all. I guess that’s unkind in a way. But that’s also okay because my husband and I like to fight. Or, that other thing that begins with the letter ‘F’.

“That one too obvious? I can be subtle as well. I’m a centaur if you don’t think about that too much.”

“Now, please ask yourselves... Why was that not put in as one of the male Night Elf pickup lines? It’s excellent.”

Dannox then kindly leans down to the first row again, “While we’re on the topic, ma’am, I see that you’re smiling now. I knew you would. But I wanted to say, I am very sorry that you didn’t want that lap dance before. These are my emergency tear-away pants, as well. They’re not just awesome fitted slacks. But I need you to know, it’s too late now. Like the Goblins say, ‘If you liked it then you shoulda put a ring on it!’ he snaps, pretending to have real attitude.

He straightens up again, as the laughter dies down, “…Well, in my case, a giant cock ring.”

A raucous reaction spreads from the cheap seats. The laughter makes it hard to hear the next part, as the woman begins talking and gesturing up at him, “… Huh? Haha!” Dannox leans halfway to listen to her, then attempts to stop his own laughter, “After the show? Really?! Wow, you’ve come a long way. Alright, I give in. Ladies and gentlemen, please clap for Offended Lady, I’ve got a convert! Welcome to the dark side. But you’ll have to run fast after the lap dance, my wife’s here somewhere. Thanks, Offended Lady, I’m so glad we’re cool now. Come find me on Tumblr later, too. I can’t follow you back, but I promise you won’t regret it.

“Well, back to me and my husband. Sometimes, I have to be reminded that I’ve got one... Oh! So Faltheriel and me arguing and fighting--it’s alright, really…

“I try not to pull on Faltheriel’s hair unless I mean it.

“Actually, when we first met, it was better. When we first met, I told Faltheriel I was a baker. Go on, you can ask me, ‘Why is that?’

“Well, you don’t let strange men glaze your buns, obviously.

“I really love that joke. I tell that one a lot. You know, usually, there’s an upstanding person nearby—not you, ma’am. We already addressed that, like I said, and you kindly booked me tonight from 12-12:07am,” Dannox gives a sly wink and checks his watch, “But usually it’s someone with these excellent manners who warns that I’m a horrible person. Like I didn’t know that already, but it’s their duty to glare up here, gasp all shocked and say that. Do you know what I tell people who act like that? After I tell the joke, ‘You don’t let strange men glaze your buns, obviously.’ Then they say, ‘Dannox, you are a horrible person.’

“I clarify, ‘No… I’m a baker.’

“Very innocent, just like that. Even funnier when, truth is, I do know how to bake. But I only let Faltheriel find that out years later. I waited until after we got engaged before I baked him anything. I was far more serious about the success of that baker joke than our relationship.

“But it’s true, Faltheriel and I like to fight. We always have. Though, mostly, it’s wrestling. Before bedtime. Aaaaand in this corner…” Dannox raises his voice, as if about to call a wrestling match, “they lived happily ever after.

“Also, now that we’ve been married for about a decade, Faltheriel doesn’t always listen to me. Then again, I don’t always face him while we talk… It’s win-win.

“Though, being totally serious now—You know, when I first met Faltheriel, he wasn’t facing me. Do you know how goddam gorgeous you have to be to look like someone’s soul mate from behind?!

“And I’m a good husband to him. I truly am. I make sure that Filthy never falls in the shower, whether he appreciates it or not.

“You know, I once lied to Faltheriel and told him it was still dark outside. He couldn’t get out from under me anyways.

“Another thing, Faltheriel and I don’t always communicate well. Sometimes, we just grunt and slap each other’s thighs a lot.” Dannox, now raising his voice over the laughter, “Is that weird? Maybe other couples don’t do that as much, I don’t know.

“Being married to such a beautiful man is hard. God, it gets so hard. Sorry—was that a low blow? I’ll put it away now. Though it’s been going on for so long, I’ll have to roll it up, first.

“Anyway, sometimes I say this thing to my husband when it’s bedtime and he’s not in the mood. I totally respect him for that, I do… But I say to him, ‘Filthy--’ I guess that’s his pet name when he’s being adorable, or really irritating. Both a fun challenge for me. I realize I keep switching in and out of that, I tell him, ‘Filthy, I don’t mind if you’re too tired. You can sleep, honey. Just lie on your stomach, and loosen up first.’”

Dannox hangs in there, through a mixture of booing and hard laughter, “See? It’s so simple! It is so simple to make a good marriage, you guys. A dirty, dirty marriage with a lovely woman who puts up with us and a man who used to work for the Burning Legion, and who can END you if your jokes ever fail to land.

“I can tell you, if you don’t like these jokes, that’s fine. You’ll be pleased to know that I’ve already suffered enough. It was bombs over Shadowmoon Valley while I honed this joke routine in my house, I promise.

“By the way, don’t try that at home. Don’t try my sense of humor at your beloved home, not unless you enjoy having done to you what my husband used to do to his prisoners-slash-victims. Well, he still does it. But I-I get out sometimes.” Dannox rolls his big shoulder, pretends to twitch, “Like tonight.

“But I do find Faltheriel irresistible, so I admit that I keep trying to get into trouble with him. This one time, Faltheriel was really fussing at me, he really wanted me to leave him alone so he could read. Now I don’t know if I’m extra horny because I’m a big Night Elf compared to him—he’s a Blood Elf, I hope the Kael’thas thing gave that away—or because I’m just, well, totally nasty all the time, so much so, I like to give my husband a nickname that stops him from forgetting that I’m a dirty alpha male in this thing and I own his glorious ass… Told you I’d explain later in the show and that you didn’t want to know… But anyway, one evening while Filthy was downstairs reading and ignoring me like that, I just decided to compromise.

“I say to him, ‘Fine, let’s play a game to pass the time. I’ll be good if you’re good.’ He’s sensible, so he says, ‘Deal. What would you like to play, darling?’ He goes for the checkerboard. Then I said, ‘Faltheriel, this game I have is so fun. This is so easy. I’ll love it. It goes like this. Can you bend over the couch and not move for a half hour?’ He’s a sweetie and too trusting at times, so he actually does it. Then I say, ‘Also, this is one of those games where you can’t say ‘No.’

“I got slapped for that. It’s really bad when another man slaps you to defend his honor. And of course, truth be told… I liked it. Poor Faltheriel.

“Elune above, my Blood Elf husband is cute! He is so yummy. Fun fact, Faltheriel only wanted a sweet little hug last night, but in for a penny, in for a pounding.

“Though, the Cenarion Circle is probably going to come back into our lives, I think, to take Filthy away and try to find him a forever home.

“I mean, a new home with a good mummy and daddy. And walks in the park that don’t involve shagging behind the trees. And no bear-bottom spankings. Horny druid husbands are the worst, I should know.

“On another night, I told Faltheriel my balls were lonely. He brought his over to play.

“Awww, so sweet of him. Also, Faltheriel is really good at sex, but I would never tell him that. I just ask him to keep trying.

“Another thing about us, I almost forgot. When I first met Faltheriel, I got naked fast. He didn’t like it at the beginning, but he loved it in the end.

“And once, I told Faltheriel I was a piñata so that he wouldn’t stop beating me with it.

“And the most sex Faltheriel and I ever had was on the same night our wife had our first child, our twins. She was… SO mad at us.

“You know, when our wife had the twins—they’re fraternal, one Night Elf, one Blood Elf—Faltheriel forgot for a moment and went wild, accused Rachel of cheating. It was then that I reminded my husband that, um… I have sex with our wife too.

“Uh-huh. That’s right. That’s what you get when you jump to conclusions about your good spouse, Faltheriel.

“He’s not here tonight, actually. Faltheriel couldn’t make it. That’s why I’m really ripping on him, I guess. But my wife’s here, I think I said that earlier. Hi Rach, say hi. She’s a knockout, isn’t she? She’s so sweet and so kind, and hopefully, this wonderful Human woman won’t lock me in my cage later…

“And you know another thing, three-way marriages are interesting. They are so interesting. Women change, their appetites grow or something and you adapt in weird ways. Our wife gets so horny at times, it really does take the two of us. Wow, she looks mad at me now. Guess I shouldn’t have said that. But, then again, when she holds out, it’s like the world is coming to an end for us men.

“Just kidding, Faltheriel and I are perfectly fine.

“Sorry hun, it’s true. You shouldn’tve got us that set of matching spoons for the holidays. It’s just too bad. That cheap gift you got was like homo-erotic Kaja-Cola, it gave us ideas.

“I’m an idiot, I apologize. Anyway, this one time… the best stories start that way, have you noticed? So this one time when Rachel wasn’t there, Faltheriel came straight upstairs after work and found me in bed with another woman. God, he’s so adorable… After I put the mirror back and slipped the pink scrunchie from his soft, soft, ponytail, he calmed down and it was an amazing night.

“Seriously, though. My husband Faltheriel is so man-pretty, we only realized our wife had none of her own lingerie like… a week ago? And we’d been together for ten years? Yeah, it’s like that.

“So Faltheriel buys me my own lingerie, for once. I didn’t like it. I didn’t like any of the fuzzy, silky, or bright colored stuff he brought home. Eh, the see-through stuff was okay. The really super-short, see through stuff I was already poking out of, that we could do each other in immediately—that, I liked. Nice guy, but he really wasted his money on me, I tell ya.

“Alright, last joke. It’s June and I know everyone’s hot in here. You’re all ready to finish up and call it a night. So I’ll try and end on a respectable note.

“It isn’t June? Well, I know that, I don’t care. Listen to the joke, goddammit.

“Ahhh, my wonderful husband, Filthy,” to rising, expectant laughter, “Faltheriel ‘Filthy’ Darkweaver has the best ass in the world. It feels like I’m fucking a magical rainbow in there. Was that one too obvious, because it’s Pride Month? Did you know that big, horny, sweaty, well-hung unicorns fuck rainbows? Nice image. Yeah, enjoy your Pride Month.”

Dannox nervously puts the microphone back and waves once, while people scream laughter. “If you liked my set, please tell the very nice Legerdemain Lounge staff. I’d love to come back. Oh, I never said my whole name. I’m Dannox Silvermoon Darkweaver. That’s right. That was my real last name, I was a dream come true when my Blood Elf husband finally found me and saved me. For me, every day is Pride Month because I’m so proud of my family and so happy to be here these days. It wasn’t always like that.

“And Rachel honey, I’m so grateful to you for loving me and letting me be me. I’m coming straight home to you baby… after this one lap dance,” an anxious laugh, as Dannox checks his watch, “Uh. I want to thank you all for a lovely show. Night, everybody.”

More whistles and another round of cheers. Then, the Night Elf man confidently jogs off-stage.

…

Aww, thanks for reading this far if you made it!

Were you in the audience? What do you have to shout out, or ask Dannox after his set? He might respond.

@elendeare

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scots-dragon · 5 years

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The Big Fucking D&D 4E Rant

Or, ‘That Time Wizards of the Coast Fucked Up D&D’s Lore’

At the risk of raising the spectre of edition war again, I feel like it’s worth going back and exploring that time that Wizards of the Coast fucked over basically all of their lore to chase a trend that wasn’t there. Admittedly this comes with the (begrudged) acknowledgement that quite a bit of of this is likely to be out of date now that fifth edition has been out for a good several years now, but that edition has its own problems and while I’m not really going to touch upon it now, my problems with it are many and numerous.

It should be noted from the outset that this is going to talk about fourth edition in a negative and critical context, but I’m not going to be talking about the rules of the actual game as a game. This is entirely centred on story, worldbuilding and lore, and how those were handled in fourth edition as compared to what came before. That being said, if you like fourth edition, and especially if you like its lore, I would not suggest reading further.

I’m going to go far beyond being critical in this; I’m going to get outright mean.

A shout out must go to Susanna McKenzie (@cydonian-mystery) for input and feedback on this.

I suppose the most important place to start is, in many ways, the beginning, by which I mean my own introduction to Dungeons & Dragons. Mostly because it’s directly linked to the main reasons why I consider the lore to have been ruined, but before I even start off with that, I’m going to have to tell you where the lore was before I can really adequately explain its downfall.

In Realms Forgotten...

Like many people of my generation, I got into Dungeons & Dragons first through the computer based role-playing games. Specifically I started off with various titles by Black Isle and BioWare in the late-90s and early-00s, with stand-outs including Baldur’s Gate, Icewind Dale, Neverwinter Nights, and their sequels. What all of these had in common beyond being Dungeons & Dragons adaptations is the fact that they took place in the Forgotten Realms, one of the more famous settings thereof, and the lore of that world intrigued me far more than the rules alone.

This might not sound like much, of course, to a newer fan for whom the Forgotten Realms, and its central setting of Faerûn, likely feels just like that generic world that D&D just happens to take place in nowadays. But back in the day, it was far more than that.

At the time I was getting into it, local libraries and bookstores carried bestselling novels set in the worlds in question, so I could pick up a novel based around various characters who appeared in the games, like the drow ranger Drizzt Do’Urden or the powerful wizard Elminster. There was also this huge encyclopedic book of geography and deities and the history of the world, with a big fold-out map which is still stuck up on my bedroom wall even after moving house three times. It was perfect fodder for my young nerdy fangirl self to develop full-on special interests in this stuff.

And the level of detail and lore and nuance in the world and its peoples was immense, with even the tiny and obscure bits of the setting earning massive amounts of unique lore. The result was a world that felt like it was alive, vibrant, and lived-in. Like real people could live there, with colourful heroes and villains to encounter.

This, I think, was the unwitting downfall of the Forgotten Realms, but I’m getting ahead of myself because this is really only step one, and Realms are really only one part of it. There are in total three of them, and I’ll be going through the baselines of each of them before we move on.

Out to Planescape

If you’ve read through the core books for fifth edition, there’s a chance you already have some degree of knowledge of Planescape and what it is. Or more precisely you know about the core structure of the Dungeons & Dragons multiverse; the Great Wheel. A series of elemental inner planes and transitive planes, with a ring of sixteen aligned outer planes representing various combinations derived from the axes of law versus chaos, and good versus evil, centred around a neutrally-aligned central plane.

At the centre of this central plane is an infinitely tall spire, atop which lies the famous torus-shaped city of Sigil, the city at the centre of the multiverse. There are a few more bits to it than that, and there are actually differences between how it once was and how it now is. For instance back in the day, there was no such thing as the Feywild or Shadowfell, and neither one was present in the original structure as laid out in 1987’s Manual of the Planes for AD&D.

Once again, to say that this is barely scratching the surface of the planar cosmology and its general meaning to Dungeons & Dragons lore would be a gross understatement. It wasn’t long after the publication of the above book that there was a new campaign setting created called Planescape, which would centre entirely upon this cosmology and build it into the lore. This is where the city of Sigil was introduced, a place of weird concordance where demons, angels, and creatures far, far stranger than either rubbed shoulders in the street, and only the watchful eye of the mysterious and powerful Lady of Pain kept things from erupting into all-out war.

It was a world of disputes, where a myriad of factions representing various philosophical concepts went toe-to-toe with one another. All wrapped up in a tone not unlike a strange mix of China Miéville and Charles Dickens, with the local dialect and thieves cant giving a unique flavour that no major campaign world outside of Planescape can really manage.

Perhaps the most famous and lasting contribution that this setting has was the tieflings, aasimar, and genasi, referred to collectively as the planetouched. These were born from a mix of planar interaction with human bloodlines, in particular through the very old fashioned way that any hybrid is created, which is perhaps why tieflings were the more common. They carried the blood of fiends, and most commonly demons by way of ancestors who reproduced with succubi and incubi, though no two tieflings looked especially alike, with variable and strange features.

I’ll be getting back to these later, but suffice it to say that Planescape was an interesting outlier setting, far stranger and more creative than almost anything else in anyone’s catalogue. And it forms the second part of our list of ruined lore.

And back down to Greyhawk

There’s a very good chance that your knowledge of Greyhawk is pretty limited, because while one could make good arguments for the above only just being ruined when fourth edition came around, there’s a lot to be said about how Greyhawk’s been the forgotten cousin for a while now, though to the credit of the current staff at Wizards of the Coast, they did just release a full-on Greyhawk adventure with Ghosts of Saltmarsh.

Introduced in the late seventies and early eighties, the World of Greyhawk, taking place on the fictional planet of Oerth and in particular on the subcontinent of the Flanaess, was the personally created campaign setting of Gary Gygax himself. While not as detailed as the Forgotten Realms, nor as interestingly out-there as Planescape, it is nonetheless a pretty cool world overall with a fun pulpy atmosphere that gives it its own sense of weight and nuance.

However, after Gary Gygax left TSR back in the 1980s, some later creators took it upon themselves to more or less mock his legacy overall. Nonetheless it remains a popular location for fans and creators, and towards the late third edition there was a lot of good work done in reviving it, such as with a series of adventure paths published in Dungeon Magazine in the form of Shackled City, Age of Worms, and Savage Tide, and following that a big adventure module in the form of Expedition to the Ruins of Greyhawk.

Since it’s the most basic element, let’s start with how they treated Greyhawk...

Strip-Mining the Free City

To say that Wizards of the Coast ruined Greyhawk would actually be inaccurate because, to a degree, they didn’t actually use Greyhawk. At least, not fully.

What they did instead was create a ‘new’ campaign setting, sometimes called the Nentir Vale, that used a few scavenged and cherry-picked Greyhawk deities and also a whole selection of adventures and locations previously specific to Greyhawk. Notable examples of such on the larger worldmap seen in the boardgame Conquest of Nerath included the Tomb of Horrors, the Vault of the Drow, and the Temple of Elemental Evil.

The resulting setting wasn’t Greyhawk, but had enough pieces that it felt like an insult to it. Often having those elements be modified in such a way that they felt like mockeries rather than the original concepts. A big part of why that felt like mockery is of course that Nentir Vale, or the Points of Light setting as it was sometimes referred to as, didn’t really exist as its own fully-fledged world. There wasn’t really a campaign setting book, or much detail on anything outside of a few small locations.

This is a relatively small part of what Dungeons & Dragons 4th edition did wrong, but it’s a small taste of what’s to come. However as seen with the Greyhawk conversion guidelines for many adventures, and even the release of the recent Ghosts of Saltmarsh, Greyhawk itself seems to have survived while the Nentir Vale remains almost entirely forgotten except for mentions of the Dawn War pantheon on one page of the Dungeon Master’s Guide.

It seems like Wizards of the Coast realised it was a bad idea.

‘The Great Wheel is Dead!’

As we go back out to Planescape, we notice that — much like Greyhawk — it also isn’t there, as the entire cosmology and its thematic importance has been replaced with something so radically different that it’s practically a complete replacement. Just about the only part of Planescape that was kept was Sigil itself, but as shown repeatedly in the fourth edition version of Manual of the Planes, they obviously didn’t understand either Sigil or the Great Wheel in any real way.

I’m not going to talk about the World Axis much in direct terms, but instead more the mindset that was taken with regards to Planescape’s Great Wheel. Now this requires something of a diversion into an old pre-fourth edition preview document, and how it handled the Great Wheel and old materials.

The Great Wheel is dead.

One of my mantras throughout the design of 4th Edition has been, “Down with needless symmetry!” The cosmology that has defined the planes of the D&D multiverse for thirty years is a good example of symmetry that ultimately creates more problems than it solves. Not only is there a plane for every alignment, there’s a plane between each alignment — seventeen Outer Planes that are supposed to reflect the characteristics of fine shades of alignment. There’s not only a plane for each of the four classic elements, there’s a Positive Energy Plane, a Negative Energy Plane, and a plane where each other plane meets — an unfortunate circumstance that has resulted in creatures such as ooze mephits.

The planes were there, so we had to invent creatures to fill them. Worse than the needless symmetry of it all, though, is the fact that many of those planes are virtually impossible to adventure in. Traversing a plane that’s supposed to be an infinite three-dimensional space completely filled with elemental fire takes a lot of magical protection and fundamentally just doesn’t sound fun. How do you reconcile that with the idea of the City of Brass, legendary home of the efreet? Why is there air in that city?

So our goals in defining a new cosmology were pretty straightforward.

• Don’t bow to needless symmetry!

• Make the planes fun for adventure!

The ‘impossible to adventure in’ mindset towards the Great Wheel is entirely bullshit, which I think is best highlighted in the passage on the City of Brass. How can a plane of pure unchanging fire without variation also have a city-state? Maybe, just maybe, it wasn’t without variation and they’re making shit up to justify their own nonsense.

The arrogance here is nothing short of infuriating. It typifies everything about the approach that Wizards of the Coast was taking towards Dungeons & Dragons at the time, and can only really be described as destructive.

There was nothing but an arrogance and often gleeful disdain for previous editions. Along with declarations of how it was so much better now, with the old version being bad for some reason despite that version having generated a huge fanbase, and a critically beloved computer role-playing game in the form of Planescape: Torment. And as with Greyhawk, they’ve done what they can to reverse that. The only elements of the new cosmology that remain are the Elemental Chaos as an in-between for the Elemental Planes, the Feywild, and the Shadowfell.

Wizards of the Coast once again seemed to realise where they were going wrong, and this is basically a recurring element of fifth edition.

Unfortunately, the World Axis and Nentir Vale aren’t really where the majority of my frustrations lie.

The Shattered Realms

To summarise the degree to which they basically destroyed the Forgotten Realms is going to take a while, simply because they were thorough. And it’s this that ultimately puts me into a position where I’m always going to be negatively predisposed towards Wizards of the Coast and their handling of Dungeons & Dragons.

As a bitof a preamble, fourth edition brought with it several substantial changes to the way a lot of the ruleset worked. And not just on a mechanical level, but on a lore level as it related to certain in-universe elements.. Basic concepts about magic and how it worked were altered at the baseline level, and in order to explain these differences it was decided by the higher-ups at Wizards of the Coast to implement a big huge event to explain the edition differences. This was something they called the Spellplague.

This is not the first time they’ve done that; they previously had the Time of Troubles, which worked to explain the relatively minor differences in magic between the first and second edition versions of Advanced Dungeons & Dragons, killed off or replaced a few gods, and ultimately shook things up a little bit. This was not really met with widespread acclaim at the time, and many complained about it but ultimately it’s a series of events which were later picked up by BioWare for Baldur’s Gate so it’s hard to really complain too harshly.

And indeed, they did it again with the change-over from fourth edition to fifth edition, with the Second Sundering bringing radical changes that all coincidentally left things looking like the pre-fourth edition version of the Forgotten Realms. Like with Planescape and Greyhawk, Wizards of the Coast knew they’d fucked up. But unlike with those, there were more than a few scars that haven’t really been all that fixable.

And to show you what I mean, I suppose we can start with the map, as that’s one of the clearest indications, when put in comparison, as to just how much was changed.

If you scroll back up and compare with the original map, you can kind of see just how much they absolutely fucked the Forgotten Realms.

The basic idea behind the Spellplague was that the goddess Mystra was murdered, and in her death throes the entirety of magic went haywire. Blue fire erupted across the world, and left entire nations and segments of the landscape scarred and destroyed. Often, conveniently, hitting worst those places that would traditionally, in-setting, be inhabited for the most part by various peoples of colour. Going into exhaustive detail would be extremely difficult, but keep in mind that the most heavily-devastated looking locations tend to be those that are inhabited by non-white people.

At least one of the nations destroyed, Halruaa, was actually the homeland of a long-running half-elf wizard character of mine at the time.

Most major magic-user characters suffered extreme maladies to their spellcasting, either killing them off or rendering them powerless.

In a series of unrelated but contemporary events, the entire elven and dwarven pantheons were radically altered. Most elven deities who weren’t Corellon Larethian were revealed to be aspects of non-elven deities, and around half of the elves themselves wound up being renamed to ‘eladrin’ to match the bullshit new elf subrace from the fourth edition books.

The drow pantheon was similarly culled until only Lolth remained, and as part of that they slew the goddess of good drow, Eilistraee. What happened to her followers is probably a good example of how there was a good deal of racism involved. Basically, the drow who followed her were ‘cleansed of the taint’ that had turned them into drow to begin with.

Including lightening their skin.

This is an event that Wizards of the Coast hasn’t really broadcast much after their reintroduction of Eilistraee, and it’s really not hard to see why they’ve minimised it.

The human gods didn’t fare much better. The entire Mulhorandi Pantheon was removed, because apparently having real-world Egyptian mythological gods around was a little too much for them. They also did the same with Tyr, who was originally from Norse mythology, though left Silvanus, Oghma, and Mielikki. Possibly because barely anyone pays attention to Celtic pantheon deities, and the latter Finnish deity was the patron goddess of a specifically popular character from the novels.

And between destroying half of the map, eliminating half of the pantheon full of various fan favourite gods, and killing off a lot of major magic-user characters, you’d think that would be considered a bad enough result.

But then there’s the timeskip.

Wizards of the Coast advanced the timeline by approximately one hundred and five years, therefore killing off literally every major human character who didn’t have some kind of magical way of extending their lifespan. And in addition to the effects of the Spellplague, brought in a variety of huge geopolitical changes that replaced major governments and kingdoms with new and nearly-unrecognisable versions that might have shared a name.

I’m not going to go into much more detail on various other changes, but keep in mind that this is only barely scratching the surface. There wasn’t a single region of the Forgotten Realms left unaltered or unmarred by this event, and it ultimately can’t be seen as anything other than an act of vandalism. It’s not even getting into the fact that, for instance, entire sections of the landscape of Toril were replaced by segments of another world entirely so they could justify the introduction of dragonborn as a core race.

Which is incidentally why I dislike the dragonborn.

The events of the fifth edition changeover worked to mitigate a lot of this, but the sheer extent of damage done is so much that the modern Forgotten Realms is still only a pale echo of its former self. All because they wanted to chase the audience of fucking World of Warcraft of all things.

Seriously, fuck Wizards of the Coast.

#4e negative #D&D 4e #the spellplague #we all get drafted into the edition war #wizards of the coast critical #wotc critical #forgotten realms #an old rant that's been a long time in the making

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caladhel-iarian · 5 years

Text

Talking to Dhel is like going to dinner at Dick’s Last Resort

General Information—— —

FULL NAME: Caladhel Ia’rian.

NICKNAME(S):

Dhel.

Dek.

Hardass.

The Ice Prince.

Smokestack.

Ladle.

Daddy. This is an excellent way to ensure he never talks to you again. Use with caution. And by caution, probably don’t ever call him this if you like his company.

Various other silly, syrupy endearments his brothers come up with on the fly.

TITLE(S):

Crown Prince Caladhel.

Master Caladhel.

Professor Ia’rian.

AGE: 305. Roughly the equivalent of a human in his mid-to-late 30′s.

BIRTHDAY: October 29.

RACE: Highborne. Yes, he has distinctly Sin’dorei colouring. But take a look at his ears, his height, his build, his face--he is not Sin’dorei.

GENDER: Male.

ORIENTATION:

Heteroflexible.

Sapiosexual.

Demisexual.

MARITAL STATUS:

Married to his work.

(He’s single. Good luck changing his mind.)

Physical Appearance—— —

HAIR:

Thick, black as pitch, and silky. Mostly straight, though the jagged ends tend to swoop in all directions. He has two long strands that drape over his shoulders and touch his abs, long bangs (often swept to one side in a ponytail), and the rest is a choppy mess.

EYES:

The irises are a rich chocolate brown with gold flecks. If they didn’t glow lime green, they’d resemble a deeper, darker tiger’s eye stone held up to the sunlight.

His eyes are narrow and almond-shaped, and they slant up at the outer corners. They’re also rimmed in black lashes thick enough and long enough to make many women envious.

HEIGHT: 8′ even. He’s a big boy.

BUILD:

Many students express surprise when first confronted by this professor. They expect withered, hunched old men with beards longer than table runners, or frail, fragile dolls who would shatter in a stiff breeze. Instead, they get an enormous, broad-shouldered elf who looks like he could probably swim the entire Great Ocean without getting winded.

While he’ll never resemble a walking refrigerator, if you catch him naked, you’ll find plenty of lean, defined muscle. Dhel has a swimmer’s build.

DISTINGUISHING MARKS:

A lip piercing that he doesn’t always wear.

Glasses. If he’s not wearing contacts, he’s wearing his glasses. Otherwise, he can’t see his hand in front of his face.

Tattoos. Many, many tattoos.

Knotty scars around his ankles, his heels, and his soles.

He has a birthmark on the tip of his right big toe; it resembles a bird with wings spread.

Both cheeks dimple when he smiles.

His smile is crooked; the left side of his mouth pulls up higher.

You’ll rarely see him without a cigarette and a cloud of purple smoke hanging around.

TATTOOS: Left arm:

Family crest on the inside of his forearm (a massive tree on a hill with the sun rising behind it).

Infinity symbol curling around his wrist. It looks like a musical staff.

Musical staff around his bicep. The staff contains notation and a few lyrics.

A trio of fox kits chase a red butterfly down the outside of his forearm.

Right arm:

Azure cloud serpent Ouroboros on the outside of his forearm.

Marionette with cut strings on the outside of his bicep.

Words from his favourite poem on the inside of his forearm.

Fleur de lis on the inside of his wrist.

A Punch ‘n Judy stage with the titular characters on the inside of his bicep.

From his neck down, he is covered in runic tattoos that are only visible when he uses magic. They glow a vivid violet during his spellcasting.

PIERCINGS: A lower lip piercing. He doesn’t always wear it.

COMMON ACCESSORIES:

Cigarettes.

Pen and paper.

Eyeglasses.

A mithril ring on a simple silver chain around his neck. The ring is shaped like an ivy vine set with emerald leaves and tiny moonstone flowers.

A string of jade prayer beads wrapped around his wrist like a bracelet.

Books.

A briefcase and/or messenger bag filled with folders. The folders contain assignments he needs to grade and outlines for future assignments he can give his students.

Personal Information—— —

PROFESSION(S):

Crown Prince and Heir Apparent.

Vocalist, pianist, and lyricist for the rock band, Dysphoria.

Adjunct professor for the Sunfury Spire (Silvermoon) and the Violet Academy (Dalaran).

He teaches World Mythology, Ancient Runes, and Advanced Evocation for the older students during the fall term, and general education for the kiddies during spring and fall terms.

On occasion, he also teaches ballroom dancing as an afterschool elective.

HOBBIES:

Collecting books.

Reading everything he can get his hands on.

Writing poetry and short stories he never publishes.

Ice sculpting.

Working on the book he does plan to publish.

Traveling and urban exploration.

Baiting people with harsh banter.

Tutoring kids.

Tea ceremony (both teaching and indulging in).

Making paper lanterns.

Solitary walks.

Playing piano.

Pointing out all your faults.

SKILL(S):

Natural inclination for frost magic.

Conjuration.

Evocation.

Singing.

Playing piano.

Undefeated champion of hide and seek.

Making people upset.

Making people cry.

Born to teach.

Martyrdom.

Being an asshole. He’s real good at it.

Likes to think he’s great with words.

Despite how acerbic he is around adults, he’s fantastic with kids.

Observant. Probably too observant.

Analytical to the point of paranoia.

Pointing out your flaws.

Hypocrisy.

Scrying.

Making a damn good cup of tea.

He’s a walking, insulting bag of dicks, but he’s surprisingly good at picking out gifts for people.

Getting pissed off faster than you can blink.

Fashion. The man’s a snappy dresser. Just as snappy as his mouth.

LANGUAGE(S):

Thalassian.

Darnassian (ancient and modern).

Shalassian.

Gutterspeech.

Taurahe.

Common.

Zandali.

Pandaren.

Orcish.

RESIDENCE:

He owns a penthouse apartment in Silvermoon. It’s located near the Court of the Sun and he shares it with both Lin and Bren--and the rest of his family whenever they come to visit.

He also has a penthouse apartment in Dalaran, smack in the middle of Runeweaver Square.

In the Brydydd Theatre outside Tranquillien (Ghostlands), an entire suite of rooms has been set aside for him.

Back in his homeland, he still has his private suite in the royal palace.

BIRTHPLACE: Sunset Palace on Skyfire Isle. It sits at the end of Morning Glory Lane in the capital city of Berl’din Mor.

RELIGION: He’s about as religious as a rock.

Relationships—— —

SPOUSE:

Unmarried--whether by choice or because no one can put up with his acid tongue, who knows?

If you’re interested in getting him down the aisle, best of luck to you.

CHILDREN:

None at the moment. But he’d love to have a large family of his own.

Because his genes are just as dominant as the rest of him, if he ever knocked a woman up, she can expect that her first child will be children, either twin boys or triplet sons. His line has bred true in this fashion for countless generations.

PARENTS:

Taenaran Ia’rian (father).

Sumire Ia’rian nee Ker’anith (mother).

SIBLINGS: In order of age:

Calaglin Ia’rian (triplet and elder brother by two minutes).

Calabren Ia’rian (triplet and younger brother by two minutes).

Ylinderwyn Ia’rian (sister).

Kethian Ia’rian (sister).

Istaunna Ia’rian (sister).

Kouwin Ia’rian (brother and twin to Kouyuu).

Kouyuu Ia’rian (brother and twin to Kouwin).

Yenchul Ia’rian (brother and twin to Tevryn).

Tevryn Ia’rian (adopted brother and twin to Yenchul).

Phirayaela Ia’rian (sister).

OTHER RELATIVES: Too many to name here. Suffice to say, he comes from an enormous clan and holidays are busy. Both his grandmothers are still living, as well as his many-times great-grandmother.

PETS: N/A

Traits—— —

•extroverted / introverted / in between.

•disorganized / organized / in between.

•close minded / open-minded / in between.

•calm / anxious / in between.

•disagreeable / agreeable / in between.

•cautious / reckless / in between.

•patient / impatient / in between.

•outspoken / reserved / in between.

•leader / follower / in between.

•empathetic / indifferent / in between.

•optimistic / pessimistic / in between.

•traditional / modern / in between.

•hard-working / lazy / in between.

•cultured / uncultured / in between.

•loyal / disloyal / unknown / in between.

•assertive / timid / in between

Additional Information—— —

SMOKING: never / sometimes / frequently / to excess.

DRUGS: never / sometimes / frequently / to excess.

ALCOHOL: never/ sometimes / frequently / to excess.

Extra—— —

FACECLAIM(S): Aoi of the GazettE (Shiroyama Yuu). But mostly, I just draw him.

VOICE CLAIM(S): His own, I suppose.

ALIGNMENT: Chaotic.

NAME PRONUNCIATION: Caladhel

CULL-uh-dell

CULL-ay-dull is also a possible pronunciation, but this is considered obscure and doesn’t really see use anymore.

Ia’rian

YAH-ree-ahn

IN GAME NAME:

I don’t really play WoW anymore, but if you’re interested in him and you play Final Fantasy XIV, you can find him on Balmung under the name Kaito Fujiwara.

Otherwise, you can hit me up on Discord. Ask me for it. But be warned that I am slow to respond both because I have projects to work on and I make drafts of all my posts; I want to give you the best I can write.

OTHER:

You May Know Them If:

You’re a fan of music and you follow any bands around Azeroth and/or Eorzea. He and his band have been featured a few times in a popular music magazine called “Azerothian Axes.”

You’re a Magister/Magistrix. He’s part of the Conclave of Mages in Silvermoon and a decorated war veteran.

You ever attended classes at the Sunfury Spire or the Violet Academy; he’s taught there for several years now.

You also teach classes at either of these locations.

You’ve been to music concerts, including the concerts held each month in the Darkmoon Faire. He and his band have performed on this stage.

You’re friends with a girl who’s had her heart broken by this icy bastard and you’re out for some revenge.

You grew up in Silvermoon and played with the other kids. He’s probably kicked your ass at hide and seek.

Rp Hooks:

Find him in a bookstore and he’s more likely to be mellow enough to carry on a conversation with you. He likes books. Get him talking about them.

Find him in his favourite cafe in Silvermoon and he’s probably sitting at a table alone, grading student papers. Be smart in your approach and he’s less likely to try to bite your head off. Tea is a good way to get him interested.

If you’re a fan of his band/music, interact with him after the show. Approach him during the meet and greet. Just be sure he’s around his brothers or he’ll probably say some unpleasant things. And for the love of all that is holy, don’t bring him gifts. Or do, if you’re the sort of person who really enjoys conflict.

If you’ve ever taken one of his classes, talk to him. Ask him about his lectures. It’s a surefire way to get his attention and if you can speak with him intelligently, you’ll get on his good side. Or at least not on his “I wish you’d fall off the face of this planet” side.

Are you the adventurous, treasure-seeking type? Meet him on one of his journeys to collect ancient knowledge from ruined cities and tombs. Just be wary of his brothers lurking in the shadows.

Have kids who are fond of wandering off when you’re a little distracted? They are a bazillion percent safe with Dhel. Let your kid approach him and they’ll find a stern but gentle caretaker who will protect them while he helps them find their lost parent/sibling/nanny/governor. Just be ready for him to give you a tongue lashing for being an inattentive adult. And definitely do not call him “daddy” unless you never want to see him again.

Dhel is pointing out your flaws.

#character knowledge #lfc page #triplets #Caladhel #Dhel #world of warcraft roleplay #world of warcraft rp

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secretsfromwholecloth · 5 years

Text

Deadfire, day 7.

Aw, I didn’t get the quest for the godseed. Now I’m sad. How do you ensure that you get it, anyway?

I want Fassina to stay friends with Bekarna, too. Though hugs might be too much to ask.

Retina hatched, thankfully, and got cooed over by Maia and Edér both. You’re going to be well taken care of, little abomination. Come here and give your new parents some tiny hugs.

The body is now dead. Fuck you, Wael and your Hand Occult.

One thing I really like about Tayn is that he doesn’t get any less friendly if you don’t go along with his Brilliant Ideas.

Megabosses!

Belranga wasn’t too hard, I’ve got a pretty good handle on how to beat her by now.

Hauani O Whe has been defeated. Chanter summons: super useful. Especially the dragon. Oh, and a nicely enchanted Essence Interrupter’s ability to shoot things dead and make them come back as different monsters that fight on your side. WHOOOOO.

Note to self: To beat Sigilmaster Auranic, you need Meteor Shower. Specifically. Fassina can have all the other spells in the game, and they won’t help (assuming she doesn’t just get knocked out in short order). Got her on the first try, once I swapped Aloth back in.

I was able to pretty reliably get Dorudugan to Bloodied, sometimes close to Near Death, but I got bored of trying to beat him before I got anywhere near succeeding.

In conclusion, three out of four really ain’t bad, and a fully-leveled, well-equipped chanter can approach cipheresque levels of cheese. You can summon so many dragons.

Time to go home to Neketaka and start the endgame.

You know what, yeah, Maia and the three members of Team Dyrwood seems like an appropriate party for assassinating the queen.

“Ah, Rauataians. To you, every problem is a head that has just not met the right bullet.” Pallegina isn’t wrong.

Aloth is pissed. Sorry, Aloth. Yeah, this is shitty, but as far as Sikkerneq is concerned, it’s the best option of a bad lot.

And Pallegina is leaving. Whoops.

I’m seriously doing this with a four-person party? Oh gods.

Edér isn’t happy about this, either. Pretty much the only people who are are Maia and the hazanui.

Atsura, spare us the pretense of caring about this “dreadful waste of life”. We all know you don’t actually give a shit about anything but securing your own legacy.

...oh, hey, a hug from Karū. What a ghastly time for hugs.

Tekēhu’s gone. I’m so sorry, fish boy. Between this and what Aegen made you do, I owe you some nice things. Maybe I’ll rerun Clelia, would you like that?

To Ukaizo, then. Maia is obviously coming with, Edér goes without saying, Xoti will want to talk to her god again, and I want to claim my Rekke hug. Sounds like a good party, right?

Looks like it’s the Príncipi coming to fight me in the channel. I’m fine with that. Fuck Furrante.

It feels so weird not having Tekēhu with me on Ondra’s Spire. I just hit the switch and that’s it? No yelling? No drama?

Endings:

Eothas left behind the statue as a haven for lost souls.

The Rauataians’ plans to “excavate and rebuild the shattered machinery of reincarnation” sounds uncomfortably like a return to the status quo. Try and make some improvements while you’re in there, guys.

Rauatai shifted over time to a national identity less centered on hardship and suffering, and the Deadfire was officially annexed to the empire.

The Príncipi were pretty much eliminated by the newly enlarged Rauataian presence.

The VTC was pushed out of the Deadfire entirely. Needless to say, the Republics weren’t happy.

The Huana went into decline, and a lot of their people assimilated to Rauataian culture.

Port Maje descended into chaos after its leaders were assassinated, then was taken over by Rauatai.

Atsura became governor of Neketaka, since Karū was now based out of Ukaizo.

The Gullet was razed, though it takes more than that to eliminate crime and poverty, certainly.

The Watershapers’ Guild remained as powerful as ever, if not more so. I can only imagine what sort of relations they had with Atsura’s government.

The Dawnstars took up sickles and lanterns and became Harvesters, ferrying souls to the adra statue.

Tikawara was abandoned, and the tribe became nomadic. Good luck out there, guys.

The Dead Floe broke apart, and Hafjórn led the remaining Harbingers back to the White that Wends to rejoin their clans. For his part, Vatnir became a pirate, “serving in a series of wildly disreputable privateer crews.”

Kazuwari became wilder and more dangerous, as usual.

Muātu is doing a great job as the new Faces of the Hunt. He sounds happy.

The original Faces became a vampiric spirit that dozens of kith died trying to defeat. Oops?

Tayn’s “little thought-bombs” escaped with a lot of information the Hand Occult would rather not have out there. Awesome.

The vithrack colony from the Collections settled in the Old City. Enjoy!

Bekarna became the best archmage. Is there any earthly reason to ever go for her other endings? (Please let her stay friends with Tayn and Fassina.)

The Black Isles were taken over by evil fungus and then crumbled entirely.

Edér got to working to help fix the damage caused by the gods and raising Bearn to be an irreverent little shit, just like Elafa would’ve wanted. As usual.

He and Xoti are still friends, aww. Give each other lots of hugs for me!

Xoti became a proper Dawnstar. Aren’t you going to need your sickle, Xoti, now that they’re all Harvesters?

Aloth got back to destroying the Leaden Key. Hopefully with a new understanding of the complexity of the situation.

Serafen took to fighting slavers. I imagine he’d have had to look pretty far afield for any slavers to fight.

Pallegina got a plum assignment back home and only had slight regrets about not doing more to swing events in the Republics’ favor. She kept in touch with Giacolo, too.

Maia spearheaded a reform movement, and her part in securing the Deadfire for the empire brought fame and glory to her family as well as herself.

She continued visiting Sikkerneq for the occasional date night, too.

Tekēhu went off to do his own thing and be an artist, though without the secrets he would’ve learned on Ondra’s Spire, his work is less spectacular than it might’ve been.

I imagine Sikkerneq would’ve had a decision ahead of her—go back to Caed Nua, back to her hometown in Rauatai, or settle permanently in the Deadfire.

And that’s that, whew.

#pillars of eternity #deadfire #watcher Sikkerneq

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goldenponcho · 6 years

Text

Battle for Neverland: Chapter 7

First chapter

The Captain admired the crystal clear reflection in the polished iron of his hook. He hadn’t slept a wink last night, and nothing but adrenaline kept him alert and awake. Come tonight, however, he would sleep as if he had been tucked in by Somnus himself.

He almost tore a hole in the cloth he had been polishing his hook with at the knock on the door, and Short Tom, who had been perched calmly on his shoulder, flapped his wings with an agitated squawk.

"Entrez!" Hook heard the door swing open.

“I realize you have this fixation on me dressed in pink frills…”

He turned to see a somewhat perturbed Riley. "Miss Blade?” He set his handkerchief aside and stood to address her.

“But if I run into another bear wearing this on our picnic today,” she fluffed the heavy ruffles of her skirt and gave a pointed look, “I’m screwed.”

His mouth twitched with the phantom of a smile, “The only wildlife we need concern ourselves with today is that blasted crocodile.”

She arched a brow, “Thanks for the reassurance?”

“She favors the sun in the morning,” he continued, settling Short Tom into his cage, “so our best course of action is to head toward the other side of the island.”

She caught his mischievous gaze too late and barely muffled a yelp as he darted out to grab her hand and twirl her to stand before him, “Or is there some other reason you might feel the need to run?”

Her eyes were wide with surprise, and she gave a nervous laugh, feeling an unwelcome flush in her cheeks. She distracted herself by turning her attention to Short Tom, who continued his shrieks of ‘Belay!’ and ‘Abandon ship!’

Hook tugged gently at the hand in his grasp as she reached fingers in with the intent to scratch Short Tom’s feathers, “Wouldn’t want to loose those, would you, my lady?”

She pulled her fingers away as Tom nipped at a knuckle, “Someone’s a bitey boy...” She risked another scratch to his cheek, and though he made for another peck, he eventually calmed enough to let her stroke his feathers for a moment, still clucking quietly.

Hook let her hand slip from his, a look of near admiration crossing his features as he watched. He released an astonished breath, “I must say, you’re braver than most when it comes to that bird.”

She shrugged, “I have a cat at home. She’s a real butthead sometimes, so I’m used to bites and scratches,” Short Tom nibbled again at a finger, and she gave a gentle tap to the beak before turning back to Hook, “Despite my terrible luck lately with wildlife, I love animals.”

With an amused smirk, he offered his arm and led her out to the deck where Cookson and Mason were readying the longboat.

"After you, Miss Blade," he supported her hand as she stepped into the boat, and she took the seat second from the back where he had indicated. He turned to Mason and whispered something that Riley strained to hear but couldn't, then with a glance about, bellowed for Smee.

"Aye, Cap'n, I'm a'comin', sir!" Smee scurried toward them from somewhere near the bow, nearly bumping into Hook as he slid to a halt.

He snarled and reached to grab Smee by the shirt, but with a glance toward Riley, he redirected his hand to Smee's shoulder and gave him a gentler light shove. The man stumbled to collapse in a seated position at the front. With an intense nod toward the remaining men on deck, he stepped in to stand at the back directly behind Riley. As soon as they hit the water, Smee began rowing.

Riley's eyes darted along the shoreline as they rowed for the mouth of the bay. She couldn't contain herself from leaning slightly over the side of the boat to get a close look around the bend. There were no signs of anything supernatural yet, but the view was as incredible as ever. Sunbeams hit the water and scattered into jewels of electric blue, and when she looked straight down, it was so clear she could see a whole world of seaweed and coral between the waves.

He hadn’t bothered taking the time to appreciate the beauty of the island himself, but Hook found joy somehow in watching her take it all in. The spark in her eyes as she spotted something of interest… He remembered long ago when he had had that same passion for discovery, and he wondered if he could have known the same appreciation for the mystic isle had circumstances been different.

“I wouldn’t get so close to the water, if I were you, Miss Blade.”

She had already righted herself to look back at a bemused Hook before she noticed she actually had been leaning over the side of the boat.

Hook tapped a gloved finger on the hilt of his sword and nodded forward, “See those rocks ahead?”

She turned to see the jagged rocks in the distance, many of which formed arches big enough for the longboat to pass through.

“Mermaid Lagoon…” he finally sat to come near eye level with her, “They’re usually about this time of day. Though, they prefer to avoid pirate vessels…particularly ones with me in them.”

Riley glanced beneath the now calm water as they went under the first stone arch. They were much nearer to shore now, but the water still went down at least a good thirty feet, where tall spires and strange reef-like structures wound in and out creating a whole underwater cave system.

“Are we talkin’ about man-eating mermaids?” she asked with a half concerned, half interested look.

“They tend to entertain themselves with much vainer matters,” Hook chuckled with a sideways glance, “But they wouldn’t think twice about drowning a pretty face.”

He noticed the color heighten in her cheeks in the moment before she turned to the bosun with a shrug, “Might wanna hide your face, Mr Smee!”

Smee shrieked, “Bejeepers! I hadn’t t’ought o’ that!” he scrambled to pull the bandana that hung around his neck up over his nose.

Hook choked on what may have been a laugh before quickly composing himself, “Don’t let go of the oars, ya dunderheaded foozler!!”

Riley laughed as Smee reached for the paddle he had dropped, but it was cut short by a sizeable wall of water, the brunt of which hit her square in the face, “Jeez!!” she sputtered and a fit of giggles alerted them to the two mermaids who lurked behind the rock they had just passed.

The Captain snarled, standing and drawing his sword in one motion, “Loathsome sirens!!”

The two mermaids shrieked, still giggling as they dove to their grotto below. Smee tried to splash back at them with a paddle. Hook stopped himself from burying the sword into the side of the longboat, instead puncturing it with his hook as he sat back down hard.

Riley removed her glasses rubbing the saltwater out of her eyes and blinking to try and ease the burn.

“Are you alright?” Hook offered her his handkerchief...for the second time within ten hours, she noted.

“Fine!” she patted her stinging eyes gingerly, fluttering her eyelids with an expression she could feel the unattractiveness of, “Just blind now.”

“Those seductresses rarely provide one with a pleasant encounter…”

She shook the now wet hair out of her face, wringing it out and blinking one last time before putting her glasses back on, “No offence, but I can’t say I expected many pleasant encounters with the locals while touring with pirates.”

“Mm…if the locals are smart, there’ll be no more encounters to speak of.”

Now armed with the knowledge that saltwater to the face was a definite possibility, she was much more cautious about looking directly into the water, especially when she caught a glimpse of fish-like movement between the rocky, coral spires.

“Run her aground on the other side of the headland, Smee,” Hook ordered, “We continue on foot from here.”

Riley craned her neck as they passed through the short tunnel in the narrow protrusion of land and gasped when she spotted several small figures disappear into the trees beyond the beach, “Oo! I saw something!”

Hook scoffed, “And here I thought you had regained your vision some time ago…”

“I mean I saw little people." 'Smartass,' she thought to add.

“Leprechauns, most likely, lass,” Smee nodded, “Run rampant in these parts.”

Hook rolled his eyes at Smee but reasoned that the man was close enough to the truth that he didn’t bother correcting him. The keel cut into the sand, and he stood as Smee jumped out to push the boat onto shore.

Riley’s eyes darted back and forth along the tree line, intent on picking up any other sign of movement, and she nearly jumped when she noticed Hook’s hand in front of her.

He chuckled, “Shall we?”

She accepted his help out of the boat, but he didn’t keep her attention for long.

“Woah! Coconut crab!”

Hook blinked as one second he was helping her out of the boat, and the next she was ten yards away squatted next to a rather large crab, backed slowly away from her. He exhaled in exasperation, again closing the distance between them.

“This guy could probably pinch my fingers off!”

Hook raised an eyebrow at the tone of admiration in her voice and shook his head, “I’m certain it could, but I was under the impression that you were interested in seeing something a tad less common than crustaceans."

"I take in the sights as they come." The crab had backed into a palm tree and begun scaling it, and Riley wobbled as she maneuvered around her skirts to stand. "But if you've got something more interesting, let's see it."

Hook steadied her, "I trust you aren't opposed to a leisurely hike?"

"I'm fine with it, but if we run into a stickerbush, I will show your dress no mercy..."

He simpered, taking her hand delicately in his, "Perhaps I shall have to carry you through the brambles should the time come."

She felt the color rise in her face as she stammered incoherently behind a self conscious titter, then cringed at her own awkwardness as he turned to lead them into the forest.

Luckily, the path they took seemed to have been traversed enough to leave little underbrush, and squeezing her sizeable attire through was no issue. When they came to an obstruction, Hook simply sliced through with either sword or hook with little effort. She kept alert for any unusual sightings, catching glimpses every so often of the twinkling light of a fairy or a rustling in the bushes accompanied by a sound that couldn’t be mistaken for a natural animal. She would stop suddenly as they came to unusual plants or mushrooms to examine them. She took a mental note to pester Hook until she got her phone back so she could get some pictures.

That was when they came to the most gorgeous waterfall Riley had ever seen in her life. The sheer cliff face rose high and water cascaded into sheets of glittering silver that projected vivid rainbows across the pool of clear water.

She came past Hook as they entered the clearing, tilting her head as far back as she could manage to take in the sight. She was barely aware of him coming to stand next to her again.

“Forget-Me-Not Falls,” he said simply with a nod.

Smee, who caught up seconds later, grasped the hilt of the crooked sword at his side, “We best not be dilly-dallyin’ around here fer too long, Cap’n. We don’t want that Forget-Me-Not pixie ta stupefy us.”

Hook gave a dismissive scoff, “Oh, let the girl wander, Smee. No vermicious fairy is a threat to us.”

~*~*~*~

Mullins wiped the sweat from his brow with a miserable groan, “What’d I tell ya about that broad bein’ bad luck, lads… If she hadn’t come along, we wouldn’t be traipsin’ around on dry land.”

“Come off it, Mullins!” Starkey rolled his eyes, “You said she was bad luck on a ship, not on land. Or is your brain so stewed that you can’t keep up with your own superstitions?”

“Just cause we’re off the ship now, don’t mean the damage ain’t already done.”

"Yer grumblin' ain't fixin' it neither, matey," Mason adjusted the heap of rope and netting slung over his shoulder, "'Sides...last I checked, the only dog who's got a problem with dry land is you." He lobbed one of the tangled masses into Mullins's stomach, "Now get ta settin' this trap! If we don't have one in each spot the Cap'n's marked fer us, he'll use 'em as our nooses."

Mullins lurched with a sickening grunt and did all he could to not vomit as he got to work.

"Eez no vorry, Mullins," Cookson took one end of the rope, "My tripe and ginger porridge make you feeling much better."

The pirate almost lost the battle with his stomach at the suggestion, but managed to keep his breakfast down, mostly due to the fact that he didn't want to taste it again.

Jukes, who was now perched in a nearby tree with a spyglass, scouted the area for any sign of outside movement. "Something's in the trees! About fifty fathoms out! Quick, shipmates, quick!!"

They could hear the rowdy yelps and cries from what was unmistakably children and finished rigging the ropes, covered the evidence with leaves and brush, then made to hide. As the yells grew closer, another sound, a guttural roar pierced through the forest, and the men tensed, attempting to flatten themselves as far into their hiding places as possible.

The footsteps of something large echoed louder and just after the Peter Pan and Wendy darted past, Jukes hardly knew a thing when his tree seemed to shatter, and he was thrown to the forest floor, narrowly avoiding the largest of the splinters that speared the earth around him.

As he fought to regain the breath that was knocked out of him, he caught the back side of a massive, rock-like creature disappear again into the trees.

"Jukes!!" Mullins sprung from his hiding place to come to the boy's side, "Talk ta me, lad! Are you alright?!"

Jukes coughed with a painful horseness but nodded, Mullins helping him to his feet.

"Foul troll..." Starkey sneered toward the place they had gone, "...let us hope he chokes on Peter Pan and every one of his wretched brats."

"No time fer bellyachin', lads! We gotta finish the job!" Mason slung the remaining rope back over his shoulder and jerked his head for them to follow.

"I just hope he didn't set off any of the other traps," Jukes rotated his arm in its socket, rubbing his shoulder, "That's all we need for Pan to figure out the Cap'n's plan before it's even hatched."

~*~*~*~

Peter cackled, "Stupid O'look!! There wasn't a chance he was gonna catch up with me!" He spiraled around a large oak and corkscrewed to fly next to Wendy.

"And you! I thought I might have to rescue you a couple of times, Wendy, but you really gave him a run for his money!"

The girl giggled with a rosy-cheeked smile, "Better watch out, Peter...you might have to keep up with ME before long!"

"Oh, will I?" Peter laughed and gave a good natured bump of his shoulder against hers, "Well, let's see who makes it there first!"

Wendy gaped with a half smile as Peter took off ahead of her, "No fair! You've got the map!!" And she disappeared into the trees behind him.

~*~*~*~

“Here will be a suitable place to take our tea,” Hook motioned for Smee to unload their goods, to which he quickly complied.

The meadow they settled in was just as picturesque as the rest of the island was, a rainbow of flora and butterflies, some of which Riley was sure had very human features, speckled the lush, green grass and a sparkling stream trickled calmly next to them.

Smee finished setting out a blanket and their spread, and before Hook could motion to help her, Riley squatted uncomfortably before letting herself fall back on her rear to sit. She thanked her lucky stars that Jukes had not yet repaired her skirt boning, which had been left in a heap in her cabin. She nibbled on her fruit and scones and sipped her tea in contentment, all the while enjoying the scenery.

Hook, however, was paying little mind to his own refreshments, and Riley noticed him scanning the area closely, as if expecting an interruption to their meal. He finally ventured a glance toward her, "I gather that you are enjoying yourself."

She nodded, "It's an upgrade from the vacation I came from, for sure..."

Just beyond the meadow, Wendy and Peter zigzagged through the trees, and as they approached, Wendy gasped, grabbing Peter's cape, "Shh! Peter look!"

Peter floated down with her as he spotted Hook seated in the meadow accompanied by Smee and the woman he had attempted to rescue the previous day.

"It's her!" he whispered beneath his breathe, "Hook still has her."

Wendy cocked her head, "She doesn't seem like a prisoner. She seems...happy..."

Peter muffled a laugh behind a palm, "Don't be silly, Wendy! Who would be happy around ol' Codfish?!"

She shot him a sideways glance, "I seem to remember one instance where a friend of yours preferred Captain Hook's company for a time..."

"And he was up to no good then, so he's certainly up to no good now! Besides, once we find the right magic dust for Tink to get her back home and out of Neverland, we can't have Hook getting in the way."

Wendy nodded, "I suppose you're right... But how are we going to get her away from Hook and Smee? You said she didn't cooperate last time."

Peter puffed out his chest with a proud grin, "Just leave that to-"

There was a loud thud, and a flock of birds erupted from the trees near the opposite end of the meadow. The two children looked at each other wide-eyed, "Oh, no..."

Riley jerked her head toward the cloud of birds that had suddenly taken to the skies with panicked squawks, and Hook twitched, grasping the hilt of his sword.

"Uuuh..." Riley glanced back at him with a look of concern.

"Stay here," he ordered her, getting to his feet, but he had barely taken two steps before a low growl rumbled through the trees.

The Captain drew his sword as the foliage ahead of them swayed and the sound of limbs snapping under massive feet crept nearer. That was when the most gargantuan creature Riley had ever laid eyes on stepped into the meadow clearing. Her mouth hung open as the rock faced thing grunted at the realization of their presence.

"More humans for O'look's dinner!" it grumbled in a gravelly, primal voice.

"Picnic's over!!" Riley got to her feet to run, and Smee retreated to a safer distance as well.

Hook stood his ground. "Come and try it, ya oversized troglodyte..." he growled, brandishing both hook and sword with a fearless glint in his blue eyes.

"Pirates no match for O'look! He be picking teeth with your tiny bones soon!" The beast made to swipe with a massive club he wielded on one gnarly hand jutting out the other clawed appendage as Hook sidestepped it and gashed the monster's wrist with the tip of his hook.

The troll roared in pain, stomping at Hook as if he were no more than an irritating rat. The Captain darted between O'look's feet, nicking an ankle with his sword as he spun around to face him from behind.

The beast grunted at the wound but caught sight of Riley pressed against a tree, and he grumbled with delight, "Maiden make most delicious meal boiled with shallots and squash!"

"Shit-shit-shit!!!" Riley ducked behind her tree and ran into the forest, followed by Smee, who was followed by O'look, who was followed by Hook.

"We've gotta help her, Peter!" Wendy shook his shoulder in a panic.

"I'm way ahead of you, Wendy!" And he took off toward the ensuing chaos.

"Fair afternoon to you, Admiral Anchovy!"

The sprinting Hook did a double take as Peter floated next to him before racing ahead to where O'look was gaining on Smee. The eternal boy laughed, "You would make a magnificent distraction if you tripped right now, bosun."

Smee shrieked, waving Johnny Corkscrew toward the brat, who continued his merriment, "But that would be playing like a pirate, and Peter Pan is NO pirate." He darted ahead to catch up with Riley, who was doing her best to push through the now dense underbrush.

“Hello again, m’lady!” he bowed midair as he swooped in front of her.

“Outta the way, kid!” she shoved a chagrined Peter aside and trudged forward through the snagging branches.

Peter grabbed for her arm, “Hey! What’s wrong with you? Can’t you see I’m trying to rescue you?”

“And I’m trying to rescue myself, but you’re in my WAY!!” She yanked her arm away, and fled for a large, sturdy tree up ahead.

Peter huffed, “Grownups!! Always so stubborn!” Riley had already begun climbing, so Peter instead switched priorities to fending off O’look. He zipped past Smee again, who was making his way to follow Riley up the thick trunk of the chestnut.

"Going somewhere, you stupid troll?!” Peter waved the map he and Wendy had purloined from the monster’s cave only moments ago.

O’look sneered, baring dagger-like teeth, “Give O’look back his property, leetle bug! Or he make stroganoff of you all!”

Peter placed the map in his belt, about to reply, when Hook slashed into O’look’s side from just behind him. The old troll howled, reaching out again with a set of claws.

Hook deflected the blow, “Why hello, Peter...” he greeted with a malevolent leer, “A fine afternoon for troll hunting, wouldn’t you agree, dear boy?”

Peter gave a courteous nod toward his mortal enemy, “So thrilled that I’ve caught you in such a fine mood today, Captain!” He sprung once more from the ground to join Hook in taking jabs at O’look with his dagger, nicking the troll just before a gigantic hand would come to swat him like a mosquito, and like a mosquito, he would evade at the last second only to repeat the action again.

Riley had finally made it to a height she felt safe at, seating herself on a branch to catch her breath and watch the ensuing fight. As she witnessed the two enemies practically tag-team O’look, she heard a strangled cry from below her and looked down to see poor Smee clinging to the trunk beneath her.

“A wee bit ‘o help ‘ere, missy?” he whimpered pitifully, and she reached down to give him a hand up to climb next to her on her branch.

Smee huffed, catching his breath as well as he removed his spectacles to wipe them with his shirt. Riley peered back to the battle before them to see that O’look was being worn down significantly by the eternal boy and the pirate captain.

She let out a light, breathless laugh, adjusting her own glasses on her nose, “Wow...they actually make a pretty good team when they’ve got something to kill besides each other.”

Smee squinted before placing his spectacles once again over his eyes, “Ehehe! Strange as it is, lass, it seems true, t’be sure.”

With a pained growl, O’look finally retreated back into the woods from whence he came, and Peter bowed low to Hook, “Truly an honor to fight alongside you, Captain Codfish.” Peter was, of course, prepared for the thrust of Hook’s sword, and they locked blades, each wrestling for the upper hand.

Riley had made her way back down the chestnut tree much more quickly than she had scaled it, and as Hook wrenched his sword away from Peter, he called to her, “Don’t move from where you stand, Miss Blade...”

She tilted her head, but halted her next step, and Peter glanced toward her, then back to Hook with a boyish grin and a chuckle. Hook gave one last swipe before Peter ran toward Riley, who timidly took a step backward.

“This is the last day you hold this lady hostage, Codfish!”

Smee had finally found his way back out of the tree, and he unsheathed Johnny Corkscrew to defend Riley from the boy, but Hook’s triumphant smirk foretold the outcome before the trap had even been sprung. Peter yelped as the ropes closed in around him, and he was hoisted above the forest floor only feet from where Riley stood. She had sprung backwards as the trap was activated, and now she looked on in bewilderment as Hook chuckled darkly, coming to admire his catch.

“Oh, dear boy!” Hook shook his head, voice mirthful with barely concealed malice, “When will your childish nobility cease to betray you?”

Riley arched an eyebrow, attempting to decode the situation, when a young girl’s cry could be heard from nearby. Wendy sprung from the bushes, reaching toward the dagger Peter had dropped, but just as she neared it, the rest of the Jolly Roger’s crew, whom Riley hadn’t even known were there, spilled in from the surrounding brush, Mason grabbing Wendy and forcing her into a rope netting similar to what Peter had been snatched from the ground in.

“Ah! Mistress Wendy,” Hook approached the struggling girl, wiping his claw on his handkerchief jauntily, “I’m honored that you’ve chosen to be present on my most immortalized of days.”

The pirates around them chuckled, brandishing swords with bloodthirsty gleams in their eyes, and Hook turned to Riley with a graceful and genuine bow, “I owe you my deepest gratitude, little lady. For had you not assisted me, this most glorious moment may not have come to pass!”

Riley looked in his direction as she passively allowed him to take her hand in his, but her eyes were unfocused as he kissed her knuckles. She turned to look at the children struggling to break free of their bonds, and Mullins slashed at the rope holding Peter in the air. The boy grunted as he landed painfully in the dirt.

“You understand, my dear, do you not?” Hook took her chin in his hand to coax her gaze toward him, “The boy is not the innocent child he appears. You see the girl, Wendy? He stole her from her home. Brought her to this dangerous place without a mother or father to care for her.”

“That’s a LIE, Captain Hoo-“ Mason clasped a hand over Wendy’s mouth, and she squealed in anger.

“You need not worry for the girl,” The Captain’s expression was strangely gentle as he explained, “But the boy must be dealt with so as not to hurt anyone again,” he held out his hooked arm in emphasis of both the boy’s crimes and his fate.

Riley glanced to the ground, shaking her head lightly. This had never been a mere outing in the woods. This whole thing had been a scheme. Not just today, but the entire time she had been aboard the Roger. He had been planning it from the beginning.

She raised her head, swallowing the lump in her throat, “I-I...I understand...” she said with a gentle nod, “You...have business with this boy, and it’s none of mine.”

Hook gave a contented look that appeared sincere, “I had greatly hoped that you would, my dear,” He was about to take her hand again when Billy Jukes emerged from the trees.

“Begin’ yer pardon, Cap’n, but them Lost Boys have already gotten wind of Peter and Wendy’s capture. They’re plannin’ retaliation within the hour!”

Hook tapped the curve of his claw, “Then let us make to intercept them. Mullins, Starkey, and Jukes will accompany me; Cookson, Smee, and Mason will remain here to guard our, ahem...charges,” he smiled adoringly down at Riley, “Miss Blade, I think it best you remain here. There is bound to be another skirmish, and it would be most ill fitting for you to be caught up in two fights in a single afternoon.”

Riley quietly cleared her throat, “Yeah...I’ll, uh...supervise,” she nodded with a nervous smile.

Hook bowed once again, then motioned to his men, “Come, dogs! Let us intercept a Lost Boy.”

Once they had disappeared into the forest, Riley took a slow breath and exhaled steadily, sitting on a knotted root of the large chestnut she had been treed in moments ago.

Mason chuckled, tapping Peter with a dusty boot, “Not so smug now, are ya, half-pint?”

“Ergh! You haven’t won yet, Alf Mason!” Peter said through gritted teeth, squirming against his bonds, "My Lost Boys know Hook’s coming, and he’ll never find them before they take care of you and set us free.”

Cookson snorted with a laugh, “Jou eas going nowhere, Peter ze Pan! Hook do away w’jou faster zan Cookson pluck dead neverbird.”

“What the hell? Did you guys hear that?”

All eyes turned to Riley, who was listening intently for something. The rest listened quietly, exchanging puzzled looks.

“Cookson hear nothing,” the sea chef replied with a furrowed brow.

“No, I’m serious listen...”

They were quiet once again, Smee nearly falling over in an attempt to reach an ear out as far as possible. Then, there was the snap of a twig in the distance.

Mason unsheathed his sword, “Must be them scurvy boys!”

“Aye,” Smee nodded, “It be them brats for sure!”

“I’ll take care of ‘em,” Mason reassured with a nod, but Riley stopped him.

“Wouldn’t it be smarter for all of you to go?” They turned to her once more, “I mean, there are a lot of them, and they really seemed like they could put up a fight yesterday...”

Mason scratched his chin, “Well somebody’s gotta keep an eye on the twerps.”

“I can keep an eye on them,” Riley said quickly with a confident look.

“You?” Mason questioned.

“Jou doesn’t have weapon,” Cookson countered.

Riley’s gaze darted around, and landed on Peter’s discarded dagger. She knelt to pic it up and raised it in suggestion.

Mason eyed her skeptically, “You sure you know how to use that thing?”

She nodded, “My dad taught me. He’s a hunter.”

The men looked to each other.

“I can call if I need you,” she assured, “I’ve got this. Don't worry!”

Mason finally conceded, “Alright, then,” he nodded, “You let us know if trouble finds ya.”

“I will. Definitely.”

And the three men were off into the woods... Riley peered after them, and as soon as they seemed to be out of earshot, she took the dagger to Peter’s ropes.

“What are you doing?” Peter startled at the blade so near his side.

“Rescuing you, duh...”

“But you said-“

“I lied!” she cut Wendy off, “Sometimes adults do that.”

Peter chuckled, “I guess not all adults are as stupid as I thought.”

Riley rolled her eyes, “Thanks...”

“You’re welcome!” Peter shook off the last bit of rope, snatching the dagger from her before she could react and cutting Wendy free.

“I’m gonna need to get outta here,” she began unlacing her bodice, “I suggest you two do the same.”

“Why are you taking off your dress,” Wendy questioned innocently.

“Because there’s no way I’ll be able to run in it,” she quickly shed her pink dress and corset leaving the petticoat, the skirt of which she tucked into the waist of her bloomers. She was about to leave before Peter tugged at her sleeve.

“Wait! We have to get you out of here!”

“That’s what I’m-“

“No, I mean out of Neverland!” he explained, “You have to go back home!”

“You can get me there?” She raised an eyebrow.

Peter and Wendy looked at each other. "We’re...sort of working on that...” Wendy said, “We need a special kind of dust...found in only a certain place.”

“And we have the map to find it!” Peter held up the scrap of parchment.

“Then spill the directions! I need to get home before my friends declare me dead!”

“It’s not that simple...” Wendy shook her head, “See...the location moves.”

“Moves?”

Peter grabbed the hands of both girls and tugged, “Come on! We need to get outta here before the pirates get back! We can explain on the way!”

They retreated into the woods in the opposite direction from where the pirates had gone.

~*~*~*~

Hook had searched the forest but found no trace of a Lost Boy. Perhaps it was best to head back. They would be prepared to face the boys when the time came, and they would certainly be no match for him and his men without Peter to lead them. Without there leader, they were nothing more than lost little children.

Just as he was about to give the order for his men to head back for the others, he halted. He motioned for his men to keep quiet as he drew back his sword.

As the bushes in front of them began to shake, he almost lashed out before Smee’s fuzzy face appeared in front of them with a delighted “Cap’n!”

Hook narrowed his eyes, mouth agape, “Smee?! What the devil are you doing here?!”

Mason And Cookson appeared behind him as the bosun stuttered to explain their plight. As Smee wove his nearly incoherent tale excitedly, Hook’s eyes focused in angered realization, “You left Peter and Wendy alone?!”

Smee shook his head heatedly, “Oh, no no, Cap’n, sir! We certainly wasn’t foolish enough to do some’n like that! No no! We left ‘em wit the lassy!”

“Aye, Cap’n,” Mason affirmed, “She said she would call if she had any trouble.”

Hook boiled for a moment, before lifting Mason from his feet, “You dunderheaded zounderkite!! Do you expect to hear a call of distress this far out?!!”

He tossed the man to the ground, dragging his cape over him as he passed, “Move, ya worthless mongrels! If those brats have escaped, I’ll have Cookson stew every one of your livers and then his own!” Cookson gulped before following their irate Captain.

Hook’s breath came in heavy heaves as he neared the chestnut tree where his prize catch had been left. His men stumbled to keep up with the all but rampaging man, and all of them held their own breaths as they came within sight of the tree.

Hook snarled when he saw the two tattered and very empty rope nets, his eyes darting over the scene for any sign of his enemy. And that was when he saw it. Riley’s discarded dress in a heap on the dirt ground. Hook’s face contorted into a scowl as his mind pieced together what had happened. His whole body shuddered like a tremor before a volcanic eruption, and he unloosed a roar of absolute fury.

~*~*~*~

Riley trudged through the woods alone, having agreed to meet Peter that night in a secluded area after he had found the dust they needed to send her back. She had suggested she go with them now, but despite her rescue, Peter still didn’t trust her enough to reveal where their Underground House was to her, and they had decided to part ways until they were prepared to send her home.

She fumed as she finally had the time to dwell on what had happened. He had used her. Pretended to be her friend only to make her bait. She flushed with embarrassment at how stupid she had been to trust him. She had even started to like him. What an idiot she had been!

That was when she heard the cry of rage, and she froze, distinctly recognized it as Hook’s.

“Fffffudge!!” She sped up her pace, anger turning to fear as she heard him coming all too close behind her. She searched feverishly for a place to hide, at last finding a large tree trunk to duck behind.

“Find her, scugs!! Or I’ll set anchor in ya!!”

Riley heard the men scatter, pressing close to the tree as they each disappeared into their own wing of the forest. Hook’s heavy footsteps, however, grew closer, and Riley held a hand over her mouth to silence her breathing.

“Riiileyyy...” he purred, the noticeable edge to his calm voice giving away his anger, “I know what you’ve done, young lady... Come out! And I swear upon my dearly departed mother’s grave, I shan’t hurt you.”

He came to stand just on the other side of the log, and she willed her heart to stop it’s rapid beating.

“You don’t know what a glaring error you’ve made, dear girl,” he rumbled, “I don’t want to punish you. But if you don’t show yourself, I shall have to.”

His footsteps receded, and Riley shifted her position only slightly. She came to regret it sorely as a tiny squeal emitted from behind her, “Watch where you’re sitting, you clumsy oaf!!”

Her heart stopped as Hook’s footsteps did as well, and a small, curly-headed fairy fluttered to wag a finger in her face, “I didn’t come here to get stuck under your GIANT, HUMAN A-“

Riley grabbed the fairy, covering her mouth with a hand, shaking her head wildly and motioning for her to be quiet, but all she got was a surprisingly painful bite.

“Miss Blade...”

A shiver ran up her spine at the purr of her name, and she looked up to see a leering Hook crouching from the other side of the tree. She had little time to think, so she made her move without doing so. She chucked the fairy into the Captain’s face, a poof of sparkling dust blinding him and sending him into a sneezing fit as she got to her feet and ran.

She heard his displeased snarl and his footsteps as he perused her, and she pushed her legs to go as fast as physically possible. She knew she was probably faster, but she prayed that adrenaline would aid her in out-enduring him. She tore through a thicket, gritting her teeth at the scratches and forcing her significantly thinned out skirts through them only to come to a nearly shear drop into a creek. Thick brambles crowded at either side, and she was certain to be caught now if she went that way.

The shing of metal alerted her to Hook’s arrival as he made quick work of the brush she had just exited, and his bright eyes bore into her, “Ungrateful little wench!”

Riley turned an equally angered gaze toward him, “Ungrateful?! Are you KIDDING me?! You used me! And I can’t believe I fell for it!!” She backed nearer to the bank as he edged closer, “I knew you were a liar from the beginning! And somehow you still cheated my dumb ass,” she clapped her hands sarcastically in mock applause, “Greaaaat job! Hope you’re proud of yourself, but you still lost!!”

The Captain growled, “Lost because of YOU! Spiteful MINX!” He sprung forward, intent on grabbing her, and without a thought, she slid herself down the muddy bank and into the creek.

She paddled to keep her head above water. The current was strong, but not so strong she couldn’t make her way across. She could see that the other side was steep and muddy but also a shallower drop than the one she had come from. If she could make it up, her escape would be certain. She paddled until her arms burned but eventually made it across and clawed into the mud, gaining leverage to lift herself up. The mud was just the right consistency to dig divots for her hands and feet to climb up.

She was more than halfway up the slope when her ankle was grabbed in a painful grip. She looked down into the enraged face of Captain Hook, hair wild in loose, wet ringlets.

“You shouldn’t have run from me, Riley! You’ll be lucky if you get no more than three nights in the brig with naught but bread and water!!”

She thrashed her leg as forcefully as she could with out losing her grip, “Let GO of me!” she kicked wildly, then turned her scowl down to him, "You bastard! I can't believe I ever even LIKED you!!" her voice cracked as tears were now streaming down her face, and Hook's enraged expression wavered, "I cried to you about my MOTHER!! I actually thought you had CARED! But all you were doing this whole time was making me feel secure so you could USE me! Well you’ve gotten your use out of me! So STEP! OFF!!”

And she landed a powerful kick square to his chest with her free leg, knocking the wind out of him and sending him sliding back down the muddy bank. She scrambled to reach the top, and pulled herself onto the grass, hearing his cries of anger behind her.

But she stopped only a few yards from the bank when his cries turned to panicked yelps, and she could hear a hissing roar. The Croc...

She danced on her feet. She should keep going. She knew she should just keep going. But her legs wouldn't move. She couldn't. She was angry. LIVID. But she couldn't leave him to die like this. She growled in frustration, “FINE!”

Hook tried to right himself on the slippery bank, attempting to evade the monstrous creature of his most chilling of nightmares. "BACK! You ghastly leviathan! Go back to the sewage from whence ye CAME!!"

The prehistoric lizard was only all the more frenzied in her ambition to devour as she nearly snagged a kicking boot in her vice like jaws, managing to rake a gash across his calf with the largest of her piercing fangs, and he cried out in anguish and fear.

That was when he felt something relatively weighty strike his shoulder, and looked to see a sturdy vine hanging next to him. He followed the vine up the bank too see a muddy, disheveled Riley.

"Miss Blade?!!"

"JUST GRAB IT!!" she cried, shaking the vine to bump against him again, and he did so without further hesitation.

Riley tugged on the pulley she had rigged around a nearby tree, and Hook dug his heels into the muddy bank, slipping several times but finally making it to pull himself up onto the grassy knoll and away from the snapping croc.

Both collapsed only feet apart from each other, panting to inhale as much oxygen as their lungs could hold. Riley jumped when Hook jabbed his sword into the ground, using the blade as leverage to stand, and she shuffled away before assuming a defensive position on her feet.

Hook scrutinizes her with stern eyes, and they stared each other down. When his expression finally softened oh so slightly, her muscles relaxed a touch, and she opened her mouth to say something before the rest of Hook's crew emerged from the bushes, swords drawn in her direction.

She froze again, and with a glance around, raised her arms in defeat.

"Crap..."

#peter pan and the pirates #Fox's Peter Pan and the Pirates #captain hook #Captain James Hook #peter pan fanfiction #battle for neverland

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shardclan · 7 years

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The Starlight Museum had opened when the first star of evening rose.

The return to the old territory took place deep in the night, when the light of the Starwoods blanketed the southern part of the territory and the lowlands teemed with mana thieves flickering their soft pink light.

The coordinates of the Starwood portal had been carefully adjusted away from the site of the channeling stones. While it was no longer near-fatal and the Seat wasn’t present, it was still a secret and sacred place not to be approached by those who didn’t belong there. The portal now released them on the edge of a lonely lagoon closer the main land, where Point Crystal Port was visible glittering gently on the other side of the Ochre Sea.

Their procession to the old territory was quiet, solemn, and small. They shed their shifted forms, but they didn’t fly. This wasn’t their home, and though they had unchallengeable reason to be there, the atmosphere wasn’t welcoming. The Observatory seemed to loom accusingly from its perilous height, reminding them to do only what they came to do and then to leave.

For the small entourage Telos had allowed to accompany her, that meant visiting the dead. The youngest witches of the coven were waiting with wreaths of maiden’s blush and bouquets of spathiphyllum. Camellia had taken care to clean the site up after her unintended absence so the flowers could be offered to pristine graves.

Saber and Galbana knelt before Galette’s headstone. Neither cried, but they held tight to one another as they told stories of Verbena and Foster to their firstborn daughter. Copernicus sat before Rainforest’s grave with an expression as complicated as their relationship had been. He was still coming to terms with the ways his upbringing had proved poisonous for him. Yet she was still his mother and what tears he did shed were for the reconciliation they might have had if she had survived the Exodus.

Ashes had already had his time at Willow’s grave, but Stellaria came in his place. She wasn’t there to mourn the grandmother she had never known, but she did offer soft words assuring Willow that Ashes treasured her memory every day. Cloudwhyte and Equinox stood over Elaidos’ grave arm in arm. The cheerful and childish pearlcatcher had brought them together, but now it was hard for either of them to remember much but her carefree smile.

Carnelian stood alone over Ismene’s grave wreathed in smoke. He didn’t cry when she died, and he’d be damned if he cried now, but it was impossible to miss his voice gruffly but affectionately cursing her. He hadn’t managed to replace the First Age Firebird cigar he let her smoke as she was dying. It was possible he never would.

Safiri made it her business to offer flowers for the graves who had no one to visit them. With Gobi gone to somewhere she could start over, there was no one to mourn Chlorophyll. Fortune was his son, but they had never been close. Peacetide was probably closest to Safiri of all the dragons from the old clan, while Cinnabar and Alluvium had probably been closest with each other. Kea had not come to Rose’s grave; that was a scar she likely didn’t want to pick at. But Kiele offered the flowers there so that Safiri didn’t need to.

“Ma,” a low voice whispered.

Zo came to Telos’ side with Junior. “He wants to go up. Do you want to go with us?”

She smiled feebly. “I think I have to go alone. But he deserves to be there as much as I do. Go on. I’m not…” She squeezed at her arms. “I’m not ready yet.”

Zo frowned, and gave her a brief but comforting hug. With a gentle pat on her back, he disappeared up the mountain with Junior. Telos stayed at the edge of the clearing. When she finally got up the courage, she too would have to head to the Observatory. She had no business at the graves, she was just... waiting.

She wanted the others to get their closure and go back to Aphaster. She wanted to be alone when she finally went to face the place she has lost her family. Truly alone. With herself; with the mountain. With the Arcanist whose gift and burden she had inherited by choosing to watch over his exiles. She might even send Arcanus away. It was true that grieving was normal to her; she wore it in the golden tears on her cheeks and the single bit of widow’s black lace she wore about one horn. But that was grief chosen and so it was controlled. She couldn’t choose grief on the mountaintop. That was the one place left in this world where it would grip her whether she let it or not.

So just this once, she wanted true solitude. Junior probably wanted the same; she couldn’t think of another reason why he had chosen to come without Abaddon. Zo was probably just enough to bolster his resolve while also allowing him to be alone with his regrets.

Slowly, the grave site emptied. The others returned back to the Starwood portal with Saber at the lead and Safiri at their rear. Even Camellia made herself scarce. It was only Dust who still remained, ritualistically blowing out the lamps until the only one remained.

“You look well,” Telos whispered.

“I’m better,” said Dust. She turned down the last lamp until its light was dim and equal to the starlight filtering down. A single candle in the deep dark. “Soon is the witching hour, when the heart can’t be silenced by the mind. Your business before the gates of the Observatory will go best if you walk the path now.”

She vanished before Telos could find the right words to respond with.

“She’s certainly become more witch-like,” Arcanus remarked.

His attempt to lessen Telos’ tension did little. Words seemed pointless now. So they walked. It amazed her how well she still remembered the way from the exaltations of her children. Through the curling spires of Starfall Isles’ inner crystalspines until they came together into the dizzying plateaus of the Focal Point. To Exalt’s Path, leading to the highest peaks where the Observatory sat in dominion.

The winds were calmer than normal at the cloud line–meaning they weren’t threatening to lift her full guardian bulk from the ground and fling her into the air. The cold was permeating after so many eons spent on the Summerlands, but not enough to distract Telos from her own thoughts.

The place she found Horizon was gone. This high on the mountain, raw magic tended to build up in solid form over time, like limestone formations left by years of dripping water. She could see the path, but the entryway was grown over, a tomb sealed until someone dared to clear it. She had come from there, gone back down the mountain, told Lutia about Horizon. Told Fragment about the Radiant.

That was the last time she saw him. The scion she hadn’t seen for weeks before that.

And for seven eons she’d held regrets and unspoken parting words to them, until she no longer really knew what those words were. Tears came to her eyes, stinging as the froze on her cheeks. It never ended. Every time she thought all her tears were cried, there was more. Always at the end of the lingering thread that was losing them to exaltation. To the single, stinging truth.

She wasn’t there.

Junior and Abaddon were there. And gods had they come away with scars and burdens of their own that Telos wouldn’t have wished on anyone. But she should have been with them too, and with the Observatory in sight the guilt of her absence was knife-sharp.

They were in the Liminal Band when she paused to clear her face. Here the air was aggressively silent and impersonally cold. Dry ice, shards of meteorite, rhodocrosite, celestine and pink chalcedony formed a lazily spinning asteroid belt between the volatile airspace of the lower Focal Point and the emptiness at its very heights. Sometimes a thick cylinder, and sometimes a vast and shimmering halo, each in response to the prevailing flow of element. Beyond was the sphere of the Arcanist’s influence, inhabited only by the dragons who made their homes on the drifting satellite islands that orbited the Eye of Many Lenses.

A whisper could have traveled forever in that stillness, so the roar of Junior’s voice was blaring.

“WHY DO YOU HAVE THEIR RING?!”

Telos took off without even glancing back at Arcanus. If anything happened to Junior–if anything happened to Zo–

A vibrant pink aura flashed before the doors of the Observatory. She arrived to find a tundra sizzling and crackling with the discharge and Zo standing paralyzed with horror and confusion. His eyes darting between the tundra, Telos, and Junior as if he didn’t quite know where to begin. Junior was on his knees, clutching something in his hands and shaking from the force of his outburst. He looked, in a way, as confused as Zo, but his confusion was from outrage rather than fear.

“What happened?”

“He had the ring,” Junior muttered. “He had their ring!”

“What ring?”

“Dad’s ring,” said Zo.

Everything that had crossed Telos’ mind on her journey up vanished.

She had never given much thought to what Fragment wore in terms of adornments, but the ring was ever present. When it wasn’t on his finger, it was around his neck. To think of Fragment at all was to know the ring was with him. And now it had reappeared. In the hands of a complete stranger who, upon inspection, was not even an Arcanite.

Junior was in no condition to let it go, and with her temper rising, Telos was in no condition to take it.

“Take the tundra to Promenade Medical,” she commanded. “Get Junior back to the Summerlands and get him calmed down. Bestealcian, go back ahead of us and fetch Abaddon.”

“What about...” Zo tilted his head meekly toward the door of the Observatory.

“Unless the Arcanist wants to see yet more violence and hardheadedness before these doors, he’ll forgive me a day to cool my head. Let’s go.”

@boyonetta

#Flight Rising #New Days Dawn #C: Telos #C: Zo #In which Junior flies off the handle because goddamit can he have ONE TIME up there where something's not wrong

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irelia-ad · 6 years

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Story - The Indeterminate Continuance

I’m going to regret writing this one so late. I get dramatic when sleep deprived.

Oh well... *Shrug*

Enjoy.

The view onto the vibrant woods of Eversong or the distant sea has never quite been the same with the imposing presence of Argus in the sky. The green glow from the radiated world beaming down onto their lands from above, giving anything that catches its rays a bleak and corrupted look. The soft breeze from the sea that normally calms feels different. Irelia sighs before walking back inside, still thinking on what is to come from events thus far.

House Firestar continues on in its heightened state. With the recent loss of their Lord and Lady, few to none were prepared to rest easy with their new Lord of the house missing and presumably being set up and being used as a tool in the hands of a human Shadowmancer. Their house functions off the highest ideas for how people should act. People will ambitions to train do so with the highest standards of skill and practice. Those of the house who walk the kingdom do so with pride of the name they represent. Nobody wanted to see that name, that image tarnished by the actions of a human.

Irelia roames her home slowly, watching around for something before arriving to where she intended to go. What she was watching and searching for being exactly where she wanted to find them. Her son smiles up at her with a babyish toothy smile. He walks around semi-awkwardly fighting against gravity to not stumble over. She smiles back, recently having the pleasure of returning home one day to discover her husband with her son walking their first steps. Though, to her dismay, her son then quickly then inherited another trait from his father on learning to walk.

Going missing for her to then have to find them in the most ridiculous of places.

There is also the habit of grabbing on to the nearest hanging object and yanking it off. Irelia wishes for the days where her son would appreciate fine necklaces instead of looking at it and grabbing the shiny thing. She picks them up slowly and holds them, sitting down with them until they drift off to sleep. She slowly places them down once more into their new crib, one they can’t walk out off and go missing again, before smiling and walking to her own room. She joins her husband, sharing the events of the day and enjoying listening to the tales of his more domesticated life with their son as they get ready to go to bed.

The morning consists of her dressing into some more casual attire suited for her to roam the house and eat something. Before doing that she checks in on Kael’rys. Still sleeping. Irelia, every morning before leaving has to fight off the urge to wake the sleeping child and spend some time with them and feed them in the morning. She leaves it however knowing her husband has such in hand. She can always fuss her son when she gets home. With their search for their Lord coming to an end, she smiles at her plan to enjoy a calm walk around the scenic locations of the estate with her son and husband.

Such can’t be done with her still here. She prepares herself before changing into her robed battle armour and setting off to Sunstrider Isle. Their current base was deemed unsafe for a reason she still has to seek out. She walks into the familiar location giving a sharp salute to those gathered around her. Those gathered being the elite of their kingdom, the Thori’belore. They all slowly start to be illusioned into different sets of equipment. The illusionist must not have liked the way she looked at them or something because the result of her illusion was less than satisfactory, complete with a helmet to hide her face. She hoped her husband couldn’t see her due to the fact she would never hear the end of him talking of her old helmets and how he disapproved of her wearing them.

She also receives a stone to which she uses before they depart. Once scrubbing herself of identifying items she uses the stone changing her eyes blue in another form of illusion concealment. She catches her reflection, finding her appearance as a Quel’dorei to be unsettling after all these years. Once everyone has prepared, the portal was open and the mission began.

She arrives through into a dry and crisp environment. Once through, their presence was quickly noted by the humans they were seeking to capture or destroy. Among them was Lord Firestar. Irelia, followed by the others of the Sun’s Fury moved in to take them down. The wind rushed through her armour differently to how it appeared on her, but such was a minor distraction. Her main focus was currently on the Lord to observe where his attention lay. With him being busy, she slammed into one of the first humans who all appeared as different members of the order. The fight did not last long. Some scrapes and bumps to herself which would show once the illusion was down. However, some including Nivendi’en had escaped through the portal he was creating at the time. Magistrix Narindiel Windblaze set to work tracing the portal whilst the captured humans were sent to the spire and the rest of the collected was checked for wounds.

The portal was soon re-established. A small dialog between the Magistrix and Agent Diamexia over the comms devices happened to gather more information. Such devices were out of use to allow for such to happen. They make their way through the portal.

Irelia walked into the yellow open lands of Westfall. It seemed to be a windy day, such blowing through her as she glanced around. The sun shone through clear skies as it started to settle into night and the chill from the sea slowly starts to climb inland. Her observations were soon disrupted by the sounds of chaos and panic. Nivendi’en and the humans had started their dark plot against the human village. Panicked humans fled from its direction, setting the Thori’belore off on their mission once more.

They reach their target to an unwelcoming sight. A small little barn sits damaged and surrounded by the Thori’belore. At least it appears that way with the humans made to look like them. In front of the barn is an unfortunate human mother and their child meeting their end. The controlled Lord of their house ending their existence effortlessly by imploding their heads. Irelia had spared and viewed spars with her husband in the past. She has viewed magics destructive nature when in the hands of the mages of her house. She knew that if left unchallenged, Lord Firestar would reek destruction quickly on their numbers. They attack quick enough to have the drop on them, so she dashes forward, slashing and slamming through the human lines to confront the Lord and hold him off long enough for the others to remove the residual threat of the humans so they can all capture him in unison.

Irelia knew the risk she was taking to hold the Magister up to prevent him using his destructive magic on their gathered forces. She was confident that with her current skill she would at least succeed in slowing him down. Time never even slowed as she neared the danger. The first blow struck from behind her. It all happened so fast. First a large impact of shadow struck her from behind, its effects almost staggering her but also annihilating her barrier protecting her. All her senses flared, even the rune on the side of her neck as Lord Firestar saw her attack and called the arcane to him. She was so close to being able to disrupt him at close range. But all she heard was a quick sound of bending metal followed by an intense pain and blurred vision. She feels the air rush through her armour and over what little exposed skin she has. She almost passes out from hitting the ground, feeling a sharp pain elsewhere in her body, unable to identify it as her senses are washed over with head pain as the useless helmet on her head sits crushed inwards onto her.

She lies there, feeling like a fool for taking her risky plan and being brushed aside like nothing. Being caught off guard and losing her defense against the mage and being incapacitated. She never intended in winning against such odds, but to at least be able to land a single blow. The thoughts of humiliation were pushed aside as she felt a new presence near her. She managed to make out the face of Lord Starshield trying to move her. She is forced to do nothing as she can do only that. But this becomes an issue at the large building fel presence in the sky above the priest. She was all too familiar with what causes such an effect as was helpless to warn her aid. She sees through blurred vision the ball of fel as it flies down to them both at high speed. In her last moments all she could think of was how that walk would have been like when she returned home. Her vision fills with green, and then nothing.

The chaos of the battlefield elevates as a loud explosion of fel shakes the ground in the back ranks of fight. Those who could see the result would see councillor Starshield and Sunglance grounded and unmoving. Sunglance with her armour completely ripped apart and ruined and Starshield in a similar state. They are all forced to continue their fight, Narindiel only just managing to send the two injured away. Lord Firestar now turning his wrath on the rest of the Sun’s Fury.

The chaos followed the two on their arrival to the spire. Both quickly taken away into medical care by the priests. Both taken to separate areas, Irelia is soon in the care of very concerned priests who all look at her with doubt. She lives, but they wonder for how long. Hours are spent as the fel taint covering her stopping her healing needs to be cleansed, the helmet removed and her broken form repared. All of these issues needing to be done fast. More hours pass once the critical issues are resolved. But her state remains just as dire. She lies, unmoving as progress keeps on being made. Sometimes some would enter the room to see her and leave. Time and time again such, would happen. Irelia, still unaware to what has happened.

Once more stable she is taken home. Not how she wished to return. The house taking up a different atmosphere as she is laid down to continue her rest and healing.

As a week passes, she remains asleep. Spire priests officially declaring it as a comatose state. Her son wonders why the evening visits have stopped, and why mother has been so inactive. By now official word would have been sent out to the organisations she serves such as the Thori’belore and the Halls of Blood. Sin’dorei know loss. They will move on without her as her place is filled and her roles reassigned. But for now, at home she lies with her life in question as she sleeps with those close to her waiting for her to awaken. But for how long? If Ever?

#Story 10 #Nivendi'en #Sylvarys #Kael'rys #Narindiel #Diamexia #Inetzen #Westfall #Firestar Estate #Sunstrider Isle #The Sunfury Spire #Sun's Fury #Thori'belore #Healing #Coma #Irelia

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fangirlmomentsandmytwocents · 7 years

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Reapers of Souls and Magic by R.E. Fisher Blog Tour

Title: Reapers of Souls and Magic Series: The Rohrlands Saga Book 1 Author: R.E. Fisher Genre: Adult, Sci-Fi/Fantasy Published: September 29, 2017 Page Count: 472 Pages

The Gods created the Rohrlands. Then they created the Elfaheen to give breath, and life to their once barren world. Endowed with the power to create life, the Elfaheen created mystical and wonderful creatures of legend to fill this world. Until pride, envy and rebellion crept into their idyllic realm. Led by Lavalor, thirteen Elfaheen used the power the Gods gave them to create Asmordia, in their arrogance they inadvertently created the multitudes of multiverses, including Earth…and for every one of those worlds, they created their own eventual dooms as well as their own. Tetra, another of the original children of the Gods, having followed all the tenants of the Gods must now save them all. Filled with innocence and naivety she is forced to ally with Lavalor to save both, the Rohrlands and his corrupted realm, Asmordia. To do this she must find the three outworlders from the realm of Earth and send them home, or kill them, to prevent the Im’Shallene, the end of all things. Tetra must also face the realization that she not only battles Lavalor’s dark desires of rule and independence from the Gods, but also her own inner demons.

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Reapers of Souls and Magic: A Rohrlands Saga © R.E. Fisher 2017 Arrival to the Guarded Isle They drew closer to the Guarded Isle, where the Dragon Magi had their order and practiced their arts, in the early evening of the thirteenth day. As they neared the island, they could see the nine mages’ spires and the simple dwellings in which the other mages lived and trained. She could also sense the power that place held. Telerex flew close enough to the towers to enable Tetra to see the layout, hoping she would remember it without his having to ask her to. They both looked at the main tower, which was sitting in the center of a large hexagon; it was joined with what appeared to be a confusing series of paths connecting them with one another. If you were patient, you could see that each point of the hexagon where each of the outer towers had been built connected with the others, forming a large square with tens of triangles within. Each of the eight outer towers rose more than a hundred feet into the air and were topped with parapets. Within the walls of the parapets, the stone had been painted with the sigil of each of the disciplines of magic. The tower in the center stood half again taller than the outer towers, and it, too, was topped with a parapet rather than a roof. Tetra realized that if you flew above the center tower, the lines on the ground continued onto the stone of the parapet, each line connecting to a couple of squares drawn in gold and surrounding a painted sun with a multi-pointed compass over it. “Impressive, is it not?” Telerex asked his rider. “It is! I had no idea they could build such structures!” Tetra said. “That center tower belongs to the Master of Towers. He is the mage in charge. The outer towers house the masters of the various magic disciplines that they have vast control over. The one painted as a lantern’s flame is the Tower of Divination. The yellow-and-black one that resembles the face of a bird is the Tower of the Dead, and that symbol represents the Blackwing; he’s the master of necromancy. I can’t remember the rest of them.” “What’s a Blackwing?” Tetra asked, not remembering any of her brethren or sisters creating a beast with that name. “It’s how they see death. A demon bird for the dwarves, a beautiful avian woman for the humans, and a giant raven for the elves. Each is different, but really, they are the same thing,” Telerex answered. “What do you mean? They have a death magic?” Tetra asked. “Not like you’re thinking. Their magic can kill, but they can raise the dead, speak with the dead, and sometimes give the dead an immortal existence in this realm—preventing them from going to their heaven or Asmordia. Whichever would be appropriate. They try to cheat death, too.” Unsure of what to say to such a foreign concept, Tetra said, “Let’s land away from them; I don’t think I wish for you to frighten or anger them.” Telerex turned away from the compound and looked for a secluded place to come to rest, not wishing to gain the attention of the mages. He knew that would be dangerous for both. Upon landing on the outskirts of the island in a small clearing, Tetra threw her leg up over the dragon’s neck and slid down, not waiting for his customary courtesy of dropping a shoulder for her climb down. She landed gracefully on her feet and turned to Telerex. “Rest, my friend! You did wonderful! I’ll come back when I’m done,” Tetra stated. “Be careful, my lady; mages are a suspicious lot and can be dangerous,” Telerex offered. Tetra winked at him and turned toward the direction she had last seen the mages’ keep. She spied the tall spires with their lit windows climbing high into the night sky and began her trek toward them. As she walked, she examined the plants by the moonlight and saw that they were somehow different from those around her isolated village. These plants didn’t move to make way for her as they did at home, which was a little disconcerting to her. On numerous occasions, she had to actually force her way through them as if they were trying to block her way forward. She placed her hand on her sword and began pulling it from the scabbard to cut away the brush, wondering why they were behaving like that. Using the black blade that had been the weapon for her attempted murder, she hacked her way through the thick brush that was impeding her. It sliced through the massive underbrush with great ease. She managed to keep the view of the towers in front of her as she worked, until she made her way into a clearing on the edge of the small village that lay outside the towers. After a brief rest, she passed through the village and started to enter the Circle of Towers when she was met by a young elf dressed in a brown robe and carrying a simple staff. He looked up at her as she towered above him. “Beggin’ your pardon, ma’am; what business do you have here?” “I would speak with your Master of Towers,” she replied, also in the common tongue. She looked past him, sensing something amiss. “I gather that your need is important for you to have journeyed here, but none may enter who isn’t of the orders. If you wish to leave a correspondence for his eminence, I will be happy to pass it on to him, my lady,” the acolyte informed her. She studied the acolyte—as well as several spots behind him—for a moment before uttering something in her native language and then saying in common, “Enough of this charade!” She waved her hand as if brushing away an annoying insect. The vision of the acolyte was replaced by a regal wood elf that was dressed in ornate robes of royal blue trimmed in gold. Several human and elvish mages dressed in various colors and whose robes were less regal also appeared behind him. She saw one who wore robes trimmed in black with the sigil of the Blackwing on the cuff of his robe, while another mage wore red with what looked to be a stick figure stretched over a rack on his cuff. Others wore robes of grey, green, and indigo, but she was unable to see their sigils. With looks of shock and anger, they began to raise their staffs as Tetra spoke again. “I mean you no harm,” she said. The wood elf raised his hand; the mages paused but held their staffs ready for action should the need arise. The ornately dressed mage rested the butt of his staff on the ground. Leaning forward, he asked, “How did you do that?” “As I said, sir, I mean you no harm.” “T’isn’t every day a myth flies into our little realm while sitting atop a legendary beast. You will forgive us for being cautious. Again, what is it you seek? We shall not ask again, madam,” he threatened. “There is little need for threats. I have come among you to learn of the young races.” “Who are you?” the mage asked. “I’m Tetra, sir,” she answered. “I need information. There is much about your realm I don’t know and have need to learn.” “You are one of the ancients? An Elfaheen?” “I am. Will you help?” Sensing her sincerity and knowing it was an unprecedented learning opportunity for those earliest beings of magic, the mage answered, “We would know more before we can agree to anything. I am Lleward Coreon, master of this school. Please, come with me.” Lleward led her between the outer buildings and through a small gate, then into a courtyard where the towers sat. The other mages followed at a respectful distance in case their master needed them. Tetra looked upward at the spires, in awe of their height. The buildings themselves held no magic, but the contents within held all the power she had sensed. It was amazing to her that a structure could be built to such a height and could stay standing without the use of magic. In that moment, she realized how little she knew of these beings that she and her sisters had long referred to as the “lesser races.” She was amazed at what they had accomplished in what seemed to her to be a short amount of time. They weren’t as ignorant or as incapable as she and her sisters had come to believe. They had grown, and were growing still. They entered the center tower, and she was escorted to an ornate room that was filled with thousands of books. Along each stone wall, she observed numerous burnished cabinets that housed all the books in an orderly and tidy manner. Throughout the room were also various chairs, tables, and couches. It was well lit by a large central fire pit and hundreds of candles and sconces. Lleward led them to a set of plush chairs, sitting next to the fire. He indicated for her to have a seat as he sat in the chair across from the one he had offered her. She took a seat, adjusting the malevolent sword on her hip as she did so. He leaned forward and stated, “There are so many questions I would ask.” “What would you know first?” Tetra offered. “Where have you been all these centuries?” he asked.

This debut novel sets up a good person and a bad person together as they work to achieve their goals. I think this is a relatively fresh concept in fantasy. Similarly, while the central plot involves a prophesy, this novel shows most of the key actors in this prophesy taking actions out of self-interest as opposed to fulfilling some kind of preordained destiny according to the prophesy. Somewhat to my surprise, it also sprinkles in elements of alternate history (although it's speculation on future Earth history rather than looking to our past) and soft science fiction. I'm not a fan of either but I rather like the speculative history parts of this book for throwing perspective on society systems in a non-intrusive way. The fresh concept of a good 'guy' and bad guy working 'together' to achieve separate goals is the main attraction of this novel to me. In addition, I appreciate good dialogue, humour and reflections of morals and values that are elements that I've always loved in fantasy and have enjoyed in this novel. This is a complex novel. While I think aspects to do with character interactions between Tetra and Lavalor, our main good 'guy' and bad guy respectively, can be improved upon (currently it feels a tad rushed), I recognise that the author has handled most of the complexity in switching between different perspective and plotlines and other aspects well. I would recommend the book and I look forward to the next book.

R.E. Fisher left home early, and began discovering the wide range of experiences that this wonderful world has to offer. He loves to wander, settling down in places for brief visits or stays. Thanks to Uncle Sam he has been to the Louvre, the Eiffel Tower, and the Tower of London. He’s drank wine on three continents, and has never found one he doesn’t like! These are just a few of the many things that he has experienced in this wonderful life. Europe, check. Asia, partial check. He has tippy toed into Mexico, and found that the culture is awesome! He enjoys wandering and learning, as well as the feel of two wheels under him while he is rolling down the highway with classic rock and metal, blasting in the earbuds!