#and then probably die bitter over the arcane one

[mae-i-scribble]

One of my biggest pet peeves when it comes to fandom/media interpretation in general is that seemingly whenever something tries to explore the emotion of love in a nuanced or non-straightforward manner everyone and their mother jumps to the conclusion that it’s inherently romantic in nature. I don’t know if this is my aroace brain speaking, but it’s something I’ve never understood when clearly the author doesn’t mean it in a romantic sense. The two examples I’m thinking of are Violet Evergarden and Ancient Magus Bride.

Violet Evergarden is about a child soldier, Violet post-war trying to discover what emotions are, so that she can better understand the major who sacrificed his life for her. She’s specifically fixated on the notion of love, because the major told her once that he loved her and she’s struggled to understand what he meant by that. As the show goes on, she begins to discover just what these emotions mean, both to other people and to herself. Now, it needs to be said again that she was a child soldier, the major was around 30 if I remember correctly. Either way very much an established adult when he found Violet when she was like 8-10. Naturally he meant that he loves her in a familial way, everything the show does supports this interpretation, the only obscurity comes from Violet’s perspective because she doesn’t understand his meaning at first. Take a big fat guess as to half the posts I saw about their relationship framed it. Yep, “oh how gross he was in love with a child,” “this show is gross,” “its so sad how he was in love but now they can never be together T-T.” Like. What the fuck y’all. What the actual fuck. Did we watch the same show????? It’s legitimately baffling that just because the word love is used that is the assumption made in direct contradiction to what canon is saying.

Ancient Magus Bride has it much, much worse unfortunately, because it’s a much more,,, morally suspect look at what love is, or more specifically, the nature of human relationships. Chise and Elias have a bond that cannot be easily summed up in a few words (which is the entire point), and they see a lot of various twists and turns in their dynamic as they learn  not only to live with each other but come into their own and grow. Now, a lot of people assume Ancient Magus Bride is a romance because of how it starts out, with Elias stating that he bought Chise to be his bride. However, as you read further, specifically into the 40′s, Elias reveals that he only said the word bride because he understood it to be people who spend their lives together, and wanted to cut corners by making his student and bride the same thing. Elias, as an inhuman creature, does not have the capability for empathy or understanding emotions/concepts as humans do, which is what leads to a lot of the suspect situations in the beginning of the story because he doesn’t get the implications of what he’s doing.The author herself has even mentioned in official interviews that she doesn’t see their relationship as romantic (not that it stopped anyone), along with the entire story rejecting such an interpretation because shoving Chise and Elias into such a box goes against what it’s saying about the messy nature of relationships. Additionally, much like Violet Evergarden but worse, Chise is 16 while Elias is a being 100s of years old (although without the emotional intelligence to match). Either way though, their dynamic for the beginning of the show is very much of Elias trying to control Chise. He withholds information from her, manipulates her into trusting him more easily, does things behind her back that he knows she wouldn’t approve of. And that is important, I appreciate that aspect being there because it’s all completely necessary to show just what kind of person Elias is, and how his standards are vastly different compared to human ones. But a lot of the whole “EliasxChise is soooo good” hype came from anime only watchers- and is that really the dynamic yall wanted? Really? Especially when the anime watered down the resolution to that conflict? More importantly, imagine being braindead and also having no taste at all simultaneously. You take so many interesting aspects of their dynamic by just going “and theyre in love UwU” because you ignore their complexities. On top of being really fucking gross in my opinion.

And these two aren’t the only example of this. In general I think plenty of relationships would be far better off being explored as the nuanced, complex things that they are without slapping an “in love” label on them. (Jayce and Viktor from Arcane come to mind for me, what they have going on as friends and the importance the narrative places on that friendships is so much more valuable to me then any shipping). And again, I’m left wondering if this is an aroace thing, bc talking with a friend who is also aroace about her experiences in researching romance literature and what allo people find rewarding about a romance is like reading about an alien species. Do yall just live like this???? It’s so sad you are missing out on so much

#aroace #aromantic #tagging these bc i wanna know if its just me #its the other people that have to be insane right? right? #ancient magus bride #violet evergarden #yes i have been stewing on these emotions for over 5 years dont judge #im going to die mad #and then probably die bitter over the arcane one #we get a deep platonic relationship that is actually shown to have equal standing to the romantic one #instead of the romance being shoved to top priority #and the response is to just ship them #like i get it i get that people are just like that #but still :((

[nadia-cannot-think-straight]

This is more or less a speculation, not a theory.

I have read some pretty decent post act 3 Arcane fanfics, yet one thing always bothers me a little bit about them. It is an obvious thing that Viktor will return to Zaun at some point, like this is inevitable. The same goes to his falling out with Jayce. Many people have created some cool scenarios on how it will happen, and i appreciate every single one of them.

With that said, i really cannot imagine Viktor getting banished as an event that starts it all. For a simple reason.

I don't think Viktor would have been bitter about it.

With the way he acts in the last episode of season 1, i believe that he'd think it was deserved. The thing he could be charged for would be an illegal experimentation and the manslaughter of Sky Young. Things he feels so guilty about he tried to off himself. He has very little time left, and if the trial is a necessary procedure, he'd probably accept it. Would he be upset? Of course, but i don't think he would even try to put an effort to avoid it, once people find out. And at the peak of panic in Piltover after Jinx's attack, the whatever the hell is left off the council would try to ensure that there is still at least a renmant of government control. Just like in act 1, that was literally the reason why Enforcers were trying to arrest 4 kids.

If anything, i think it would be Jayce who'd be the most desperate in this situation. "He'd be mad at Viktor for killing an innocent person" he literally did the same thing (if you think about it, Jayce have killed so much more people besides that kid, we just don't discuss it because in the show they are presented as scary monsters, not human beings that got drugged the hell up and now have their entire ripcage obligarated. But y'know, that's the point of this scene). "What about Viktor's illegal experimentation?" What Jayce did with Vi was also kinda illegal? I mean, he is a councilor, he can do whatever the fuck he wants ig, but before hand it was clear that other councilors would not want that to happen.

I imagine that Jayce would do anything in his power to cancel this trial. Viktor is his best friend, person who he has such a close bond to. And while what he did was wrong, he isn't much better. Yet it is Viktor, his dying friend, who is punished.

I can see Viktor actually being like: it's okay Jayce, it needs to happen, i will be okay (he's lying but trying).

So yeah i don't think that Viktor being banished to Zaun would be a death blow to their relationship.

Buuuuut you know what would probably make more sense (at least to me :3)?

Viktor's punishment being working on hextech weapons against Zaun.

Think about it. Jayce in an act of desperation convinces other councilors that as a co-founder of Hextech Viktor would be a viable asset in designing weapons that would "protect" Piltover against Zaun.

Well wouldn't that make Viktor absolutely fucking furious. Viktor may have ****kinda**** accepted his death but making him work AGAINST the city he spend his entire life wishing to improve and protect? Over his dead body, he'd rather be eaten alive by rats in Undercity alleys than do such a thing.

It works for me much better because it keeps Jayce's character much more consistent. Like, it's understandable why would he do it (he doesn't want his friend to die) but also highlights his change in priorities after season 1. Like, he told Silco that Undercity doesn't stand a chance against Piltover, and well, one rocket proved hin wrong. Now there are dead people in Piltover. I think he'd be more radical, more bold, maybe even less forgiving and 100% stressed af.

Does he want to keep Viktor safe? Yes. But does he find building weapons is now necessary when they are at war? Also yes. And considering the "I'M from the Undercity" scene he also tends to forget that Viktor is not, in fact, Piltovan, that as much as he loves Jayce, he does not associate with Piltover society. He is from Zaun, it is an important part of his indentity. Something that Jayce keeps neglecting.

It also doesn't change the fact that he still feels guilty over the death of that ONE child. Not the countless men in chemtanks, that are as much victims of Undercity's terrible state as Viktor is really. I think that when he'd make a decisions "a necessary decisions to keep them saved" he'd think about them, scary, crazy monsters with blades. Not that one kid. Kid feels so much more personal, people who attack them-not.

I'm not saying that is how the conflict in season 2 will look like, nuh-uh, it's just me making some fanfiction prompts lmao.

Anything could happened since them. Viktor trying to sabotage their work which would end up in an explosive and dramatic break up once Jayce finds out? Yep, i can see that. Add some fire and leave Viktor crying on concrete floor, now we have some nice parallels. But i can also see Viktor fucking off right there and there, or other stuff i dunno.

So yeah i have fanfic ideas.

#txt #arcane #arcane viktor #jayce talis #jayvik #arcane spoilers #fanfiction prompts #i guess #??? #divorce era #just me brainstorming tbh #btw yes i didn't mention hexcore at all #i just didn't thought it was relevant to this specific plot point #but this shit could probably mess up some stuff too #i am sorry for every grammar mistake too #me not native english speaker me stupid

[archesa]

have 1, 6, 13, and 15 from the gw2 asks for anwen, if you’d like! :) @kerra-and-company

Thanks for the ask 💜 I'm also working on your pens, promise! 🖊️ Time for Anwen loving-hours💙

Your character is now the leader of their species, whatever that looks like for them (Arcane Council member, Imperator, Royalty, etc). How do they govern and what sorts of changes would they make if any?

Oh would she not make a resplendent queen? 🥰

As a successor to Salma's line, she'd probably have to prove herself over and over again. Sure, she has a reputation, as a viscountess and as the Commander, but she is not exactly beloved by her fellow nobles and she's made a few enemies amongst the ministers.

So the first few months / years of her reign would be very hard on the Shining Blade's nerves, for as Queen, Anwen would endeavour to purge the corruption in her government, and install a strong parliament, with representatives of every trade, every social class, every village and settlement in Kryta, to discuss and decide on the politics within her borders.

She would personally take great joy in working on foreign affairs, especially considering that she's on first-name basis with more than half of the rulers of the world.

And she'd be very adamant about Orr keeping her independence.

They're now a heart NPC/part of a string of quests. What does that involve?

Help Anwen Evergreen tend to Caer Aval :

Defend the garden plots against Risen threats, prune the fire orchids before they invade the greenhouses, use seed pouches to grow new plants, bring aid to the stranded botanists.

What is the worst/funniest/dumbest article that could be written about them in Tyria's trashiest gossip mag?

Let's start with worst! Since Anwen's got a... reputation in Divinity's Reach... She's probably rumoured to be a brute (defenestration of a suitor, breaking and entering a minister's property with the Seraph, killing said minister in trial by combat, killing Zhaitan, leaving a trail of embers in her wake through the Heart of Maguuma, slamming the door of the Pact... etc.) and some people would tend to vilify her less than dainty appearance. She's strong, tall, bulky with robust shoulders and big thighs, and overall does not care about her appearance as much as would be expected from a Lady. So the most mean-spirited slander-sheet will gladly publish something along this line :

Centaur-face menace is back in ton!

As for the trashiest...

The Commander's stretching routine! (It works!)

What is their favorite and least favorite part of being the commander (or whatever role they play in your canon)?

Not that she'd admit it but... she enjoys being in charge. Preparing an assault and seeing it go perfectly according to the plan, working on the supply lines so the soldiers are well fed, well armed, well healed, and the civilian populations won't suffer too greatly from the tragic events at hand. Providing hope when there is not much to be found.

Her least favorite part, of course, is being the one to shoulder all the blame when things go awry, and the difficult decisions that are the burden of leaders. Announcing their loved ones that soldiers lives were lost. Sending an unit to certain death to further the advance of another so they would gain some ground and hope one day to secure complete victory. The necessary sacrifices have always felt bitter. And no longer being in charge of the Pact felt like a relief because neither her not Trahearne would have to live with the consequences of such decisions. (or so they thought)

The decisions she has to make as Aurene's Champion are... different. They feel different. But the price to pay for one mistake is higher than ever. The people who die, who sacrifice for their cause are no longer distant faces in a crowd and names on casualties report. They're friends, and siblings, and mentors, and innocents...

They're Vlast. They're Blish. They're Soo Won.

#sorry for the grim note in the end... I hope the penultimate answer will make up for that! #Thank you so much for these asks!! ^^ I had A LOT of pleasure answering them! #archesa answers #anwen evergreen

[thetimelesscycle]

Tales of Arcadia Wizards Fanfiction: Hope Dies Last - Chapter 5

Merlin's word is law, but neither of them have ever cared much for obeying authority.

A/N: This was one of those fun chapters that fights you at every stage, whether that be in the planning, the writing, or the editing. I am semi-satisfied with the outcome for now, so we are still posting on schedule. Enjoy. :-)

Chapter 5

Truths the Shadows Hide

It was a truth she barely admitted to herself and would certainly never have uttered aloud, but when Merlin had first dragged a wide-eyed street urchin across Camelot’s threshold and proclaimed the boy his new apprentice, Morgana had found herself unexpectedly jealous of her successor. The unwelcome feeling had nothing to do with Hisirdoux himself; The boy was charming, in a bumbling, everything-is-probably-on-fire-but-don’t-look-until-I’ve-put-it-out sort of way. She would have needed to be the heartless witch her brother made her out to be not to find his vibrant energy at least a little endearing; The determined enthusiasm of a stubborn child who had refused to stay down no matter how many times the world knocked his feet out from beneath him.

She knew how difficult it was for magical creatures outside the castle walls to survive. She could easily imagine what little Douxie and his familiar must have been through before Merlin had one of his rare moments of self-serving charity, and it was to her shame that she had not done more to make him feel welcome within his new home.

If she had not been stewing in her own feelings of bitter resentment, she could have encouraged that rebellious streak she knew was hiding beneath the hero worship Douxie held for his mentor. She could have been a buffer between her old teacher’s ridiculous standards and the impressionable child he had taken under his wing. Instead, she had chosen to stand back, to distance herself from her mentor’s young ward, despite the fact it had always been Merlin she was angry at.

Merlin, and her brother

Her powers had never been treated as something to be celebrated. Arthur had been afraid of her from the moment that first, fierce argument between them brought the room alive to echo her fury. Sometimes, she thought Merlin had felt the same. He called her his finest student — behind her back where she wasn’t meant to hear — yet for the duration of her apprenticeship she had always been given the impression he did not trust her. He had treated her like a fire he was trying to contain, not a flame that needed to be nurtured, and the ire she had felt over being leashed and bound by her brother’s prejudices had only grown worse when Merlin replaced her with a student he had freely chosen. A student he was all too happy to teach new spells to. Hisirdoux was not permitted to use many of the incantations he was learning, but that had not stopped the envy that had overshadowed their interactions, a weakness she had allowed to go on for far too long.

It had been petty, unworthy of the person she was trying to be, and she regretted it now. Worse still, she feared there would be no opportunity to right that wrong; That Douxie would die still believing he would never measure up in Merlin’s eyes, his only friend in the world an eccentric little dragon. She couldn’t even find the right words to comfort his distraught familiar, devastated by the truth Merlin had forced her to confirm, and the feeling of helplessness growing in her chest was slowly turning into the irresistible impulse to do something, anything but sit still and await the inevitable.

They had both returned to the bedchamber in the wake of Merlin’s departure, Archie curled against the boy’s side, his head resting on his wizard’s ribs so he could both watch and feel each quiet breath. Morgana had taken one of Douxie’s cold hands in her own, a physical connection that allowed her to make sure Merlin’s stopgap solution was holding together, and perhaps offer some comfort in those moments when the reality of his condition seemed to break the peaceful respite of his slumber.

It didn’t feel like enough. All that training, all those spells, and she was still as useless as she had been years ago in the woods. Merlin would never admit as much, but she could tell he was no less frustrated. Clutching at straws and trying to will a solution into being, whilst ignoring that which she had offered like the old fool he was.

With a sigh, she reached out to gently run a hand through Douxie’s tangled locks, murmuring reproachfully to herself as she did so. “You deserve better. From both of us.”

“Do you really think it would help?” They were the first words Archie had spoken since Merlin left them both alone in the tower, and it took her a moment to follow the pattern of his thoughts.

“Yes,” she answered honestly. “The Shadow Realm is dangerous, and for every truth it might show you there are just as many falsehoods. But it is also a mirror, a reflection of our world, and what is destroyed here may still survive within its borders, particularly when dark magic is the cause.”

Archie lifted himself off his familiar’s chest, leaving just his paws resting there, to look her directly in the eye. “Is Merlin right? If you tried, could you bring back something that isn’t Douxie?”

“It is possible.” She wasn’t Merlin; She would not hide the dangers. “There are powers there that would be all too eager to escape into the mortal world. But there are ways to avoid them. The risk would be slim.”

“And if we do nothing?”

“No living creature can survive without a soul, Archie.” She made the words gentle, as if that could soften the blow. “Dark magic might keep him alive, if you could find someone willing to perform the ritual, but he would be bound to whoever’s power sustained him; A slave to their will.”

Archie fell silent, his eyes drifting back to his familiar’s pale face as he contemplated her words. “It seems we don’t really have a choice then, do we?”

“You want to try?” She was both surprised and impressed. “Even after Merlin expressly forbade it?”

“I am Douxie’s familiar, not Merlin. I looked after him for years before we came here, and that’s not going to change because some old wizard thinks he knows better.”

“Quite right.” Still, she hesitated, because Archie had been right in his earlier admonishment. “What about Douxie? You wanted the choice to be his, did you not?”

Archie was quiet for a somber moment. “Is he going to wake up again?”

“There is every chance that he will.” There was also an equal chance that he wouldn’t. She didn’t think Archie needed to hear that right now. “Merlin’s spell is holding. So long as it continues to do so he shouldn’t get any worse.”

“But he won’t get any better, either.”

“No.”

He nodded thoughtfully, his eyes never leaving his wizard’s face. “We’ve been together for a long time now, Douxie and I. I trust him with my life, and I know he feels the same way.” He drew in a long, deep breath, turning to her with a gaze that seemed to look right through her. “If we do this, then I am extending that faith to you as well, Lady Morgana. I am entrusting you, as a dragon, with what is most precious to me. Do you understand what that means?”

“I do.” Merlin be damned. She hadn’t been able to save Guinevere. She couldn’t do anything for the countless other lives Arthur had already destroyed. But she could make a difference here. She could help someone. “I swear to you, Archie, that I would sooner hand myself over to Arthur’s brutes than bring Douxie to any harm.”

“Alright, then.” He seemed taken aback by the vehemence of her words. “When you put it that way, there’s really no reason to delay this, is there?”

She glanced at the door, trying to guess how much time they had before Merlin returned. It didn’t really matter; He would be too late to stop them as soon as they were on the other side of the portal. With that in mind, she drew her staff out of her cloak, extending it to its full length and letting darkness overtake the white wood.

“Stay close to me,” she directed, gathering the shadows in the room to form their gateway to the other side. “I don’t know what we’ll find in there.”

There was a flash of golden light, then Archie landed on her shoulder in his feline form, claws latching onto her cloak as his tail wrapped around her neck. She exchanged a glance with him as the portal took shape; A final question. When all he did was nod, she turned and plunged them both into the unknown.

It always took a moment to adjust after the disorientation of moving from a world that made sense into the bizarre otherness of the Shadow Realm. It was a reflection of the mortal plane, that much was true, but a jumbled, shattered reflection that made little sense to those not skilled in navigating it. She had had no teacher during her first forays into its mysteries — Merlin had always been adamant in his refusal to even so much as discuss dark magic — but she had learnt from what mistakes she made during those early ventures. She knew this place as well as it was possible to know a mystery, and she recognised almost at once that something was amiss.

Amidst the tumbling rocks and endless darkness were sharp streaks of colour; Red, blue, and purple cut jagged, intertwining lines across the shadows, like someone had taken a knife to a hanging sheet in a fit of fury. They sparked with unstable energy, tears in the veil between worlds that widened and narrowed in fluctuating waves.

“Well,” Archie spoke in her ear. “This is all deeply unnerving.”

“This isn’t right,” she agreed, using one of the drifting boulders to propel them closer to the strange fissures. She could see figures moving on the other side, like peering through a fogged window. Voices and sounds reached her, their subtleties muffled by the invisible barrier. “Something terrible happened here.”

“Do you think it was the Arcane Order?” Crouched low on her neck, Archie peered distrustfully at the strange manifestation of magic. “Is it because of what they did to Douxie?”

“I don’t know.” She had never seen anything like it before. For the first time in years, she found herself uneasy within the boundaries of her favoured domain. “Let’s just find Douxie. We can worry about all of this once he is safe.”

Archie murmured his agreement, and she closed her eyes in concentration, honing in on Hisirdoux’s unique magical signature. To her bewilderment, she found her attention drawn in a dozen different directions, none of them providing a strong enough resonance to give her a definitive path by which to travel. She felt as though she was shouting into the void, echoes warping the answer, so it seemed as though she were searching for many instead of one.

Drawing her attention back inward, she waited for that dizzying duality to fade, narrowing her search as she pictured the room she had left from; The bed and the boy within it. Without looking, she felt the world shift around her, and when she opened her eyes she was standing within those four walls again, albeit a version that was bare of colour and furnishings both. The only object in the chamber was a black staff, held aloft by a jagged piece of ice that carved its way upwards like a weathered mountain peak, tapering to razor-thin fingers that curled around the weapon’s handle. The staff’s focussing stone — a cyan jewel that had no doubt once been its crowning glory — was shattered down the middle, molten veins marking a spiralling pattern where it had fractured. The broken shards had not fallen, drifting around the largest fragment still inset in the staff, tethered to their origin by thin, intertwining threads of green and purple.

Crouched on her shoulder, Archie voiced his unease, “What is that?”

“It looks like a wizard’s staff....” she answered the familiar hesitantly, carefully crossing the space between them and the strange pedestal. Nothing happened as she drew near, or as she reached out to gently prod one of the shards with the tip of her finger.  It moved as if they were under water, drifting away from her slowly until it reached the end of its tether and was tugged in another direction.

Emboldened, she took one of the pieces in her hand and pressed it back into its rightful place. The world shuddered the moment the sliver clicked into position, the darkness rising, growing, and descending upon them like a wave. She raised her staff too late; It crashed over them, forces that she could not see tugging them in a multitude of directions at once.

She was whipped about like a dry leaf in a fearsome gale, her eyes alighting on a glimpse of their quarry for only a second before they were scattered once more. Snatches of conversation assailed her, no more than three or five words at a time, happiness mingled with anger and twisted with grief. Gritting her teeth, she locked her fingers about the staff in her hands, stoking her outrage, her fury at the ones responsible for this. The emotion grew from glowing embers into a blazing inferno; With the force of that anger, she imposed her will on the shadows around them, commanding the world to a halt with a mental shout.

It obeyed with a suddenness that had her staggering in place, Archie digging his claws in as he threw his weight against her own to stop her pitching down the dark abyss that opened up before her feet. She reeled backwards, sitting abruptly and taking a moment to regain her breath before glancing about their new surroundings.

They had emerged in a crumbling replica of the castle courtyard, the cobblestones beneath her feet cracked with age and neglect. Weeds nudged their way upwards through every crook and cranny they could find, stretching like ropes across the black void that had torn the ground asunder, forming a tangled web of floating islands. The towers that usually stood, proud and shining overhead, were broken and drifting in the emptiness of the Shadow Realm, the same ruptures she had seen upon their entry having wreaked their havoc here as well. There were whispers on the air, a slow chant that could only be magic, and a shiver ran down her spine.

The sensation of eyes upon her back prompted her to glance over her shoulder, finding nothing but the churning tempest from which they had emerged.

“What now?” Archie asked, readjusting his glasses as he peered at their surroundings with open distrust. Morgana rose, trying to appear more confident then she felt as she lifted her eyes to Merlin’s tower. It was still intact, unlike the rest of the keep, and there was a light shining forth from its windows.

Crouching, she shoved off the cracked cobblestones beneath her feet, bounding her way up and over the shattered battlements to land on the narrow walkway that led to the Master Wizard’s study. There was another of the rifts in the air beside her, slowly devouring crumbling stone, what was solid and immovable in the material world turning to dust as it was swept away. She turned her back on the disconcerting sight, treading carefully towards the workshop door. It resisted her first attempt to enter, refusing to budge as she threw her weight against it. She was forced to take a step back, raising her hand and letting her magic slam it open.

The room inside had been overtaken. Not by magic or the strange fissures outside, but a bright and verdant network of vines that bound the entire room together. They were everywhere; Climbing the walls, crisscrossing the floor, creeping across the ceiling. Even those she had snapped off to get inside were already reforming, stretching across the entrance to bar the way out.

Or the way in.

The central table was missing, she noted, as she stepped further inside, as were all the other doors and windows. A layer of frost dusted every surface, yet the stonework beneath the greenery was blackened. It looked as though a terrible fire had swept through the room, ashes still drifting lazily within the contained space. They settled on the floor, atop the the vines snaking their way across the stones, and the boy lying curled on his side in the centre of it all.

“Douxie?” Archie leapt from her shoulder, shifting into his winged form to glide to his familiar’s side. He tested the creepers wrapped about his wizard with his paw; They neither tightened nor loosened their grip, and Archie turned back to the boy they held. “Douxie, can you hear me?”

The young wizard didn’t stir. As she drew nearer, Morgana realised he was clutching something in his hands. A white box, gilded in gold, that she had seen countless times in Merlin’s hands, though she had never been permitted to know its mysteries herself.

“The time map...”

Carefully, she lowered herself beside the boy and his familiar. Something crunched beneath her boots as she did so; Shards of a dark green gemstone she did not recognise. The pieces neither exploded nor started to glow upon being crushed underfoot, so she dismissed them, reaching out to ease the enchanted box from Douxie’s limp fingers. It lit up as soon as she opened it, the soft glow bright amidst the room’s heavy darkness, flickering images dancing by too quickly for her to understand what she was seeing.

It froze locked on a likeness of her own face, twisted in rage. She glanced at Archie, the familiar looking as deeply unsettled as she felt. Before either of them could give voice to their thoughts, the image cupped in her hands expanded, and the room around them disappeared in the blink of an eye.

There was no furious maelstrom this time, nor even the darkness that one could reasonably expect within a place named for the shadows. Instead, she found herself floating within a pale dome of light, surrounded by a myriad of moving images. They drifted around her in a slow rotation, pausing just long enough to offer her a tantalising glimpse of their contents before moving on.

Most made little sense to her: A blurred, barely there impression of calloused but gentle hands, the touch familiar even if the heavy weight that settled about a too small wrist was not; A terrible noise, blind panic, flames, and a moonless night that turned every strange shape into a monster; A world that was too big for the child scampering through it, trying to avoid being trampled whilst diving for dropped crusts amidst the dirt; Pain, blood, and a deep, wrenching sense of loneliness; A dark corner, lit by the dimmest of glows, and a strange rumbling noise that sparked enough curiosity to crawl out of hiding.

It was not until the pictures became clearer, not until she started to see surroundings that she recognised and a little black cat darting hither and thither, that she realised what she was looking at. These, the more recent memories, were much less distorted, and yet at the same time there was a strange overlap of events, as though two different versions were unfolding at the same time. She watched, drawn in by the surreal experience of seeing herself through another’s eyes; Her many quarrels with her brother and her teacher alike revealed in vivid detail before her. There was some measure of guilt in the realisation of just how often Douxie had played a silent witness to such conflicts, standing forgotten in the background as his elders argued back and forth.

That thought was recognised and forgotten in almost the same heartbeat, because the images had not stopped. The present day had come and gone and she was looking now at things that had not happened. That could not have happened. Wariness growing in the back of her mind, she floated forward slowly, reaching out to touch one of the false recollections. The colours warped, forming a vice that locked around her wrist, and she and Archie were both wrenched right through the mirage.

She staggered, the ground beneath her feet uneven and covered with long grass that snared about her ankles. There was a thick, unnatural mist obscuring her vision — or was it smoke? — vague sounds of battle, voices she recognised and some she did not. She thought she saw Arthur, the light of Excalibur burning bright, and... and...

She froze, horror closing around her throat like a vice as she beheld herself, staff raised in fury as she cast magic at her own brother. She saw Douxie, running, hand outstretched to intervene though he must have known he was too far away. The spell in her palm and Excalibur’s edge collided in a surge of golden light that grew and grew until all of the world was washed away in a burst of energy that consumed them all.

#hisirdoux casperan #toa morgana #toa merlin #toa archie #Tales of Arcadia #TOA Wizards #Fanfiction #Hurt/Comfort #Angst

[edmund-valks]

Ilandreline - A Compound Beginning

(( Previously: The Call ))

"There's a hole in the world, dear girl, and not the good kind.  It leads to a place the living shouldn't be, and lets them get there in a way that shouldn't happen.  I hate to send you off, but you're the only one I trust to be adaptable.  Everyone else is too sure they understand everything to realize they're fools.

"The whole situation is a puzzle -- a deadly one.  Examine the pieces, Lina, find the edges.  See how they fit together, how this world connects.  Learn the rules that govern there, figure out how to break them.  Stay alive, too, and come back safely."

She'd never seen the older woman so uncertain.  It warmed and scared her at once.  "Is it really where the dead go?"  The specifics of her family's cosmology were still hazy, and Ilandreline didn't know which had been verified versus assumed.

"Only some of them, child.  Enough, I think, to make it difficult."

"Will I see family there?"  The possibility was very mixed given the number of relatives she'd had to avoid in the interests of personal safety.  Having to kill the already dead seemed… difficult, even -- or especially -- in the place where souls went.

"Not if they were sent off properly.  The Great Dark calls us home, not some bizarre 'afterlife'."

"But isn't there a cycle of things?"

"Of course there is, but it's not that literal.  We don't die, hang out a bit, and then come back.  We become a part of the Endless Night, our souls rejoined to the very fabric of all creation.  Perhaps pieces of us will once again be spun into a new person, but it will not be us."

Ilandreline considered for a moment, nodding only once she'd worked through the implications.  Their gods were creatures of ending and dissolution; it made sense that souls gifted to them would not be returned in a recognizable form.  She wondered what that might be like, to be unravelled to one's components.  It was recycling on a cosmic level.  Fascinating to think about, even if she had doubts about wanting it for herself.  "I hadn't thought about that.  Kinda neat.  There aren't any papers on that already are there?"

Aurelaine chortled.  "Not the kind you want.  You'll have to gather the data yourself, I think.  Good thing you'll be closer than any of us have ever been, eh?  Should be enough to keep you from getting bored doing the rest of what I've asked."

"Good point."  Someone else might've argued their commitment to family always came first, but she had no delusions on that front.  Sure, she didn't want to disappoint her grandmother, and wouldn't have wanted to even if that wasn't an often fatal experience, but she needed mental stimulation to do her best work.  Sounded like she'd have plenty.  "I guess the only thing left to ask is how I'm getting there.  I don't think anyone in Icecrown wants me there, and Orgrimmar's portal network isn't exactly open for tourists right now, so…"  Ila trailed off, waiting patiently for the answer she was sure was coming.

"Ah, that.  Yes.  Well, I'm afraid you're going to have to do part of that work yourself."  That was her self-amused smile showing now, not the happy one.  "I've acquired a diagram of the circle used to tap into the breach atop Icecrown, but we'll need to know how to adapt our own paths to reach there."

That perked her up immediately.  "Really?!  That's wonderful!  Where is it, I want to get started right away and-"

"Lina.  I know you're excited but I need you to stop for a moment.  Look at me."  Granny Laine's gaze was at its most piercing.  "This is extremely dangerous, all of it.  Start to finish, none of this can be taken lightly.  We can't afford to lose you.  I can't afford to lose you, either.  If something happens to you out there… you're on your own.  You'll be beyond my reach.  Understood?"

Solemnity draped itself over her enthusiasm, a damping force as efficient as a rubber grip on a wrench.  She'd be more on her own than ever, possibly with no way back until she could make one.  Ilandreline chewed her lip, running through the possibilities.  Finally she nodded.  "I understand.  And I won't let you down."

"I know, dear girl, but I need more than that.  I need you to promise you'll come back."

She grinned then, hiding the trepidation she felt behind the warm love she had for her grandmother.  "I will, Granny.  You have my word."

***

There were paths only a select few could walk, and of those even fewer did so safely.  One such path was that of the Eldest's Apprentice.  Another was found in certain shadows that were far deeper than they let on.

The latter was where Ilandreline's feet found themselves.  She stared up at the peculiar tree, an imbricated mass formed by many trunks twisted into one.  Oh.  That's a metaphor, isn't it?  The thought hadn't occurred to her before.  Not much had, in fairness; she'd grown up with the old tree as a fixture of life.  They'd all learned not to play near it if you ever wanted to come home again, but she hadn't connected that with why its fruit was reserved for very specific uses.  At its base, veiled behind its gnarled roots, was the beginning of the darkest road.

She'd traveled it before, of course.  There was no faster way to travel great distances unless you could make your own portals. Which she could have done if only she'd had the slightest sensitivity to the arcane.  Not that she was bitter or anything but…  Stop that, she chided herself.  Sure, a portal was beyond her to create, but she knew more about planar geometries than anyone else in her family, probably more than most mages in the world.  And after days of nonstop work, that knowledge had prepared her, brought her here.

Ilandreline couldn't stop herself from grinning at that.  She'd started with only three knowns and had made a map.  Where others would use portals already made, she had built her family's passage to the Shadowlands, a place none of them should ever end up.  She'd drawn up the requirements for an activating charm and with the Eldest's backing had received a ring that would do the job.  As far as she knew, no one had ever tried to map the void gradients of three coterminous planes, much less with the intent of using one to pass between the other two.  Maybe she'd publish it someday, after scrubbing the specifics out entirely.  The general solution wouldn't open her family to uncomfortable questions if she did it right.

"Here we go, I guess."  It was more to herself than the small audience gathered to see her off.  Still, she found herself looking back to take in what might be the last time she saw her home or family.  Granny Laine was there, of course, radiating confidence and authority.  Ilandreline's mother, Mellura'thel, stood to her left, coldly distant, possibly worried.  And there was Von on the other side, the only one smiling, though she seemed uncertain if that was the right expression for the moment.

"Don't worry," she told them, struggling to project her normal confidence that everything would turn out fine, "I'll get this sorted soon enough.  Just don't tear the gate down on me, okay?  I don't want to have to revise the whole trail while I'm walking it."

Only Aurelaine responded, striding forward with an energy at odds with her venerable appearance.  "Don't worry, child.  So long as Darkness remains, so will we."  She stopped very close to Ila, straightening up with visible effort to look her in the eye.

"I can see you're beginning to understand now," she spoke softly, barely loud enough for her granddaughter to hear.  "You thought you'd started on your way already, but now you see this is it.  You already know I trust you'll do what needs doing, just as you know I've demanded your safe return.  But now I need to say just one more thing."

Aurelaine, Speaker of the Great Dark, architect of their family's faith and power, drew a small pouch from within her robes, pressing it into Ilandreline's hand.  "I made these for you.  Think of me when you eat them, and remember your dear old granny loves and misses you.  You've always been my favourite, little Lina.  Be safe."

The sudden sting of tears took her by surprise.  She hurriedly stuff the bag of cookies into a pocket, blinking the wetness away before someone else might see.  "I will.  And I promise to make you proud.  I'll-"

"That's enough, dear.  You don't need to say anymore, and it'll just make it harder if you do."  Her wrinkles and creases deepened until she was smiling.  "Now stop dilly-dallying and get on your way.  The rest of us have work to get back to."

Off-balance, Ilandreline failed to say anything at all.  She did manage to return the wink, though.  With a nod, the youngest of the assembled Glimmerbows turned away, putting one foot in front of the other until the darkness beneath the greatest voidplum tree swallowed her entirely.

#ilandreline #ilandreline glimmerbow #fence macabre #wow rp #warcraft rp

[bread-elf]

DWC 2020 - Day 21

Judgement

Warlords of Draenor

Deacon Hayward, a Kul'tiran man with dirty blonde hair and a gruff beard to match, sat at his usual table at the Pig and Whistle tavern. Drinking ale, flirting with the waitress, he sat upstairs as he waited for his usual contacts to come for their goods. Conducting a business in 'less than savory' deals he found Old Town the best place to cover his tracks, already littered with criminals that took all the attention of the Guards of Stormwind. A simple sailor only in Stormwind every few months, visiting his favorite eatery, though the ale tasted like piss.

The door to the tavern opens downstairs, and where Deacon sits he has a view of who comes in and out. Expecting it to be one of his contacts, but it turns out to be one he hadn't prepared on meeting this trip around, having seen her last time. Anxiety starts to swell, did he forget something? He had seen this Kaldorei get in a few scraps at the pub, beating people to a pulp with the fury worse than a sea wife.

As the Kaldorei comes closer he leans back in his seat, putting on his most charming smile to dissuade her, even though he had caught on that it just annoys her more than anything. Yet he sometimes wondered if she had a fondness of being annoyed. “Oi there, lassy!” Reaching up and running a hand through his hair as she comes closer, that hair that reminded him of the ocean waves sticking out like a sore thumb. “I- don’ think we wus supposed ta meet so soon…” As she stands by the table his smile falters, seeing blisters on her long ears and a X marked on the cheek of her pretty face. Her anger filled stare is the same as usual, yet the scars make it all the more intense. “Ope, lass, ya’ uh… Got in a bit o’ a scruff, eh?” “You have a connection to mercenaries, don’t you?” Jiroki asks as she leers down at the man, drawing a few eyes their way at her imposing nature. Deacon glances around a little wary, uncomfortable with the looks. “Lass, heheh, you know I’m just a simple sailor.” Putting emphasis on his words. “Guess I know a few sellswords…” Jiroki slams her hands on the table, causing Deacon to jump in his chair. “Cut the shit.” She hisses quietly. “I’m on a hunt. I need people to go with me, people with a backbone, hunters that can kill their mark. You’re going to bring these people to me. She will die the next I see her.” “Uh-” Deacon is a bit at a loss for words. But given how adamant and in his face she is, he starts to think. “Ya’ know I don’ run a charity here. Ya’ gonna needa-” A bag of coins lands on the table with a heavy thunk, Jiroki staring down at the Kul’tiran as he looks at it in shock. It’s a hefty back, and when he peaks inside he sees it filled entirely with gold coins. “I don’t care the price.” Jiroki straightens. “And I don’t care where you find them; they could be murderers for all I care.” Deacon purses his lips, giving a little bit of an innocent glance around before shrugging his shoulders. “Well iffin that’s wot the lady wants…” Reaching over and sliding the bag of gold towards him. “I’ll get ya’ a team.” ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Jiroki could feel the new scar on her cheek itch as she stared at the cottage in the distance, hidden in the hills. It looked like such a quaint place, yet lurking inside is the woman whose blood she craved to spill. Beside her she could feel the cold presence of the Death Knight. A human woman, only going by the name of Jolean, though she never spoke. Instead her icy gaze pierced towards the college, waiting like a hound to be commanded. “Michael is returning.” A night elf, Moonshadow, says. Once a druid, relatively young with his deep blue hair pulled back into a bun. He had left their people years ago, using unorthodox means in their practice that were a disgrace. If A’llaen was still alive, they’d probably be around the same age. The Worgen, Michael Thyme, comes back with his pack of bloodhounds. They had scouted around the perimeter, investigating a suspicion Jiroki had. “Ya’ wer right.” Michael sniffs, his canine tongue coming out and licking along his snout. “She got some sort o’ workshop in dem hills. Ya’ want me ta rig dem explosives I brought?” “Yes.” Jiroki says firmly. “I’ll distract her. She’s probably expecting me.” Her fingers grip around the handle of her umbra crescent. She had last donned this weapon when still with the Watchers of Hyjal. But for this hunt she needed her best. Michael left to go get his explosives ready; she needed to destroy Ellie’s workshop, where she constructed the reapers she experimented with, like the ones that had killed her regiment and Gelt and Eilynne. While he prepared that, she would instigate the hunt, accompanied by Moonshadow and Jolean. Jiroki boldly walks up to the door. Uncaring of any pleasantries or surprised reactions, she brings her foot up and kicks open the door, the wooden knob splintering as it's forced open. Ellie looks over in alarm, at a work bench as she tinkered with some mechanisms. Her strawberry blonde hair pulled back in a messy ponytail as some oil streaked her cheek. The human has little time to react as the Kaldorei suddenly rushes in like a bat out of hell, bringing up her umbra crescent to slice it down. It meets with wood as the warlock Blinks herself away, a former mage before she went down a different path in life. She quickly rushes for the broken door, intent on making a mistake. A chill is felt down to the core as Jolean waits right outside, a broad sword in hand as she swipes it towards Ellie. The warlock manages to move just in time, but Jolean raises a hand and sends out a shadow grip, bringing the warlock back to her and cleave unto her broadsword. Ellie manages to cast a shield just in time to protect herself from it, immediately casting her own shadow bolts. Jolean raises her arms up and takes a few steps back, giving Ellie a moment to cast a raining demon bolt from the sky. Roots start to wrap around Ellie’s feet, causing her to struggle and spot the druid not far off from the cottage. His gaze focused on her as the roots begin to slowly crawl up her legs, squeezing hard. “I’m impressed Jiroki!” A crazed smile on her lips. “You’ve found me! I guess this means you want to play more games?!” Fishing into her pockets for something. “Stop her!” Jiroki shouts from the doorway of the cottage, moving with quick speed to try and get to her, but she isn’t fast enough. Having some sort of mechanism in her pocket Ellie pushes a button. The ground trembles, and from various spots mechanized reapers pull themselves out of the ground, tearing it up and dirt flies. Moonshadow starts to try and tangle the reapers with more roots, but they were coming quickly and he could only snag a few. Ellie burns the roots on her form, uncaring if the fel flames singe her clothes, invigorated by the hunt. She begins to cast some more and summons a large demon by her side, one with a long tail and four arms, brandishing swords. Jolean comes in to intercept the demon specifically, an apathetic look on the Death Knight’s features the whole time. Jiroki’s path is blocked by reapers, trying to weave around them but they are persistent. In frustration she lets out a yell as she lets the arcane erupt from her form, trying to push the reapers back and get Ellie in her sights. When a path is clear Jiroki Blinks through as well, swiping with her crescent and cleaving a slice into the woman. She yelps and moves back, throwing fire in Jiroki’s face to faze her. Ellie runs and Jiroki pursues, but more reapers get in her way. The sound of barking can be heard, and Michael’s pack returns as the bloodhounds come in full force. Michael runs among them on all fours, leaping for a reaper and tearing through its harvester clothing to get to its inner core. His hounds leap up and grab hold of the reaper with their maws, taking it down before they rush the next one. The hounds and Michael now helping take down the reapers it gives Jiroki a better opportunity to get to Ellie. Moonshadow had let his roots overrun the area, now able to capture more reapers and keep them in place. Jiroki catches up to her hunt, swiping at her legs. Ellie falls, Jiroki cutting more off than intended, but that didn’t matter. Reaching down Jiroki roughly flips Ellie onto her back, genuine fear in the eyes of the human. But even in this state she has the audacity to smirk, letting out a scoff. “How does it-” Ellie’s words are cut short as Jiroki slams her umbra crescent down onto the woman’s neck, beheading her and letting the blood spill. Ellie’s face contorts in shock and pain, the anger deep in her eyes, and then stays just like that. Jiroki takes a long, hard look, making sure to sink her crescent deep into the ground. In the background she can hear the other reapers being dismantled, Jolean doing her work now that the demon had been desummoned. After a moment she pulls back, taking the crescent out of the ground, and in a gruesome act of anger kicks the head of Ellie with all her strength, sending it far. “Jolean, Moonshadow, search the place for a Soulstone!” Turning to see them all watching her. They kept their comments to themselves, only here for the pay. “I don’t want to see her coming back, ever! Michael!” Turning to the worgen now, snapping her fingers at the corpse. “You know what to do.” Jolean and Moonshadow leave to go investigate the cottage, and later the workshop hidden in the mountains that Michael rigged with explosives. Michael sends his bloodhounds at the corpse, the ravenous dogs tearing apart the flesh. If Ellie did have a Soulstone, she wouldn’t be able to use her old body. Stepping away Jiroki clenches and unclenches her fists, a brittling rage through her as she gripped her crescent glaive. The hunt is done. Ellie is dead. If there’s a Soulstone it will be found, and it will be destroyed. But Jiroki still felt this bitter hatred for what’s been lost. Jiroki sits down on the grass. Nearby Ellie’s head lay on its side, facing away from her, that strawberry blonde hair messy with dirt and blood. Ellie’s judgement has been done, but Jiroki still craved revenge. A hand raises up to rub over her face, taking some deep breaths, trying to coax down the years upon years of anger. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Jiroki sat with Sasil at a small outdoor table, the two enjoying an evening in Stormwind in Cathedral Square. They just had a pleasant meal and Sasil read the Stormwind Daily, Jiroki’s thoughts elsewhere as she looked down at a ring on her finger. “Well, it seems the efforts in Draenor are making progress.” Sasil comments while reading over the paper. “You know my Star I been meaning to share, some of my old colleagues have asked if I wanted to go with them on an expedition out there. There is a lot of activity with the Highmaul, it’s quite interesting.” “Hm…” Jiroki thumbed over the ring on her finger, Sasil having asked her hand in marriage a few weeks ago. It had been months since her hunt, and she had lost her will to do much. But Sasil brought her great comfort, and she cared for him. Gelt often passed by in her mind, still in grief, but there’s hope in the future. Sasil glances to her over the top of the paper, then begins to fold it up. “You’re always… More than welcome to join me, if you wish.” He offers. “A little excursion to a different world sounds fun, no?” “I’ve been thinking…” Jiroki traces her finger over the table they sat at, visualizing the shape of a shield. “I might start a company.” “Oh?” Sasil tilts his head curiously. “Why I- that sounds marvelous! What sort were you thinking?” “Mercenaries…” Leaning back in her chair and taking a look out towards the square, watching the people pass by. “I can’t sit still, at least not for long. And I’m tired of taking orders from others.” “Well, well, a lot of us have been there.” Sasil chuckles lightly. “I suppose I shouldn’t be so surprised to hear you’re interested in mercenaries, you’d be the best one, my Star. If that is what you wish, you have my support.” “Hm…” Jiroki hums in agreement, still lost in her thoughts. The faces of the dead pass by her mind, the decisions led by people in positions of power that led to some of those deaths. Jiroki can do better. “How does the Greyshields sound?” (( @daily-writing-challenge​ )) (( Insight to some IC inspiration to the formation of the Greyshields!))

#stories

[ardent-apprentice]

Sol, The Ardent Apprentice

A short story by:  Ominous_The_Unknown

I

In the magical world of Runeterra, mountains move, forests come alive, the dead assault the living, and reality sometimes fractures to give a brief glimpse to the horrible Void beyond. But even though the arcane energies course through all the nations, there is no other place quite as whimsical like Bandle City, the central hub of Yordle life. Across the lands, these short creatures are seen in a multitude of different perspectives. Forest fae-folk, mischievous imps, urban legends, valiant warriors, and heinous villains, Yordles always seem to be synonymous with some kind of outstanding trait that makes them outstanding in their own right. 

During their early, formative years, young Yordles quickly come to find what makes them unique from one another and once they do, they soon set themselves down the path to honing their skills to try and become the best in their craft. Of course, not every Yordle specialized in entirely different things. It was common for some to be gifted a knack for tinkering and invention much like the great minds of Heimerdinger, Rumble or Ziggs. Others were given more physical, combative skills like Tristana or Teemo. And of course, there was the occasional magic user like Lulu. But what happens when your talent doesn’t manifest when it should? What happens when the people around you develop some kind of magnificent skill when you are left with nothing?

Sol was forced to ask himself this question many times over when he realized that the other young Yordles around him were attaining their unique abilities whereas he had none. In the beginning, he was assured that he would find his niche soon enough, but time passed and he still found himself left in the dust. He would watch as others were able to conjure small balls of energy, create phantasmal elemental displays, briefly summon ethereal aurora-like creatures, or even infuse machines to give them extra vigor. It wasn’t long before the older Yordles decided to properly study him. A few of the more astute researchers of the city came together and performed a few tests on him, hoping to find the answer.

Then, to Sol’s horror, he was finally given the bad news.

Unlike the others, the charcoal gray yordle was magically inept and lacked a mana pool to draw the necessary arcane energies do anything noteworthy. At that very moment, it was as if the weight of Mount Targon was set upon the Yordle’s heart. The information was a curse that forced Sol to watch helplessly as his close friends became apprentices to some of Bandle City’s champions while he was subjected to a mundane and unfulfilling life. Even at a young age, Sol felt that his dreams of becoming some well known Yordle had been destroyed. He grappled with the idea for a while and in the end, he outright refused to accept it. 

Bitterness and envy slowly slithered into the young Yordle’s heart, poisoning him ever so slightly, but instead of letting it destroy him, Sol used it to push onwards. Soon it became apparent that what Sol lacked in magical prowess, he made up for in tenacity, boldness, and creativity. Bullies would, of course, try to take advantage of him or tease him as they flaunted their skills in front of him. The name-calling, the minor physical altercations, the laughter, it stung, but Sol relied on the fact that they underestimated him so that he could beat them at their own games. 

If anything, his newfound strength despite his lack of mana actually made him stand out more because he would do everything in his power to ensure that no one looked down on him. He refused to sulk, he refused pity, and above all else, he sought to break the fate that had been cruelly handed to him. Within the Yordle, a sort of bullheaded attitude emerged as he sought to absorb as much information as possible to see if anything triggered some latent talent hidden within. Archery, crafting, smithing, politics, Sol would attempt to learn everything. Even when he didn’t become a master at it, he at least came away with some experience. Ultimately, this meant that Sol became known as a jack-of-all-trades. 

But once Sol became an adolescent, he realized that his accumulated skills still weren’t enough. Instead of continuing to study within the small confines of Bandle City. the abnormal Yordle made the decision to explore the world. Many people within the city knew that it was possible and that even some of the more famous Yordles had survived to become rather huge stars in other cities, but it was still a risky decision. The elders of the city said he was a fool and that without forging his own unique talent that he would quickly die without any ability to protect himself, but Sol’s close friends knew that because of his myriad of skills that he would forge his own path. 

The young Yordle quickly assembled enough equipment and other necessities and bid a fond farewell to Bandle City and its inhabitants before he journeyed outwards. He would find new mentors, make new friends and discover what was truly hidden deep within him. 

---------------------------------------------

II

There were many limitations to being a Yordle. In some places they were seen as normal living beings with rights, others they were a myth and in a select few they were abhorred and either cast out like plague bearers or maybe even attacked on sight. With that in mind, there were unwritten rules for traveling abroad as a Yordle.

The first and probably most important rule is to never reveal oneself as a Yordle. Information travels slowly through Runeterra, and even though some progressive regions accepted all races that was not the case for the majority of the world. To socialize, most traveling Yordles were often given a magical glamour that would simply disguise them as short humans. There were some fringe cases of course, like the valiant Poppy, deranged Kled and estranged Lulu, but that was mostly because they were more than capable of defending themselves if they were ever threatened with violence. For other Yordles, physical altercations were best avoided.

Even with a rather large list of practical skills, without magical energy Sol’s friends and family knew that it would be best if he traveled prepared. Before departing, Sol was gifted an enchanted pendant that could accomplish such a task, but he soon discovered that his mana deficiency would cause issues. The glamour itself very slowly used up the wearer’s mana when being used, and in most cases, a regular Yordle could wear it for as long as they wanted since they would regenerate the energy just as fast as it was being depleted. So in Sol’s case, he could only activate the pendant for a few days before his body ran out of mana to power it, then he would have to travel as his regular fuzzy, self to recharge. There were many instances where that proved to be a huge disadvantage, but during his adventure, he just learned ways to work around it. 

Along with the stigma against his species, Sol also began to interact with various living creatures in the world. Some were warm and kind, others brave warriors filled with courage and honor, while a select few had bitterness and anger brewing within them. The growing Yordle had to observe and catalog every interaction as he started to develop his own set of rules to operate by when he revisited certain locations. His tome of rules slowly grew over time and he would openly share them with fellow Yordles that he happened to come across during his travels, for example:

 Never challenge a Noxian. Their hardy nature makes them competitive and their bloodthirsty traits mean it won’t take much until they lose their temper and draw a weapon.

If a Bilgewater pirate questions if you’re a Yordle, tell them you’re just small hairy and that they’re too drunk to tell. Also, always keep a few golden krakens with you whether you believe in their superstition or not, it may just save your life.

No matter how furry you are, always wear warm layers when traveling in Freljord and try to stay dry. Wet fur can turn into solid chunks of ice if you’re not careful.

STAY AWAY FROM THE SHADOW ISLES AT ALL COSTS

When in Piltover or Zaun, try to wear a magical glamour or at the very least wear a disguise. Both places demonize Yordles and have even imprisoned them. 

Piltover is nice, but there are many flashy hypocrites there who don’t know what they’re doing. However, you can always go to Heimerdinger at his laboratory for a safe haven since he’s a well-known researcher there. 

Zaun is dangerous for a litany of reasons, like roving madmen, and a bloodthirsty chimera wolf-thing and just rampant lawlessness. Also, be careful of friendly fire when traveling in Zaun, Ziggs is known to go crazy there from time to time. 

Sol’s notebook was starting to become an epic in its own right as it documented his travels day by day, carried numerous errata and inserted trinkets and drawings. His accumulated skills also made him a rather valuable asset in most situations as he was able to make himself useful in dire situations. Despite his short stature, Sol was able to repair a ship’s sail during a storm, cook meals for the less fortunate, and even help build makeshift shelters. Even though he wasn’t exactly perfect at the job, the mere fact that he would always volunteer to help and put himself out on the field made him very likable.  

He found himself partaking in many different adventures as he followed his heart and traveled all around the world. Sol had spent some time helping on a fishing boat, infiltrating bandit camps to save captured Yordles or even cavorting in ancient ruins to find treasure or long lost secrets. If anything, the exploration of it all appealed to him the most and he loved to dig deep into the history of long dead people and inspect the artifacts that they left behind. When he sometimes came into contact with ancient relics, they would flicker or light up as the energies bound within them were somehow stirred to life, but strangely enough, when he handed those very same items to his compatriots, the object would go silent. Sol would also discover old scrolls or books written in dead languages, but just after studying the strange iconography and hieroglyphs, he seemed to understand what they meant and in some cases could even pronounce them. Sol just attributed this to his litany of skills that he had built up though and didn’t think much of it. He never bothered to inspect the magical items further, since he knew that his minuscule amount of mana would never unlock the secrets within them.   

During one period, Sol had discovered a faded map of some ancient civilization in a nearby forest. He spent a week studying the language printed on it by reviewing what information he had and he deduced that there must be some kind of treasure hidden within. Sol gathered his belongings and started to move headstrong into the brush before he finally came upon his destination in a matter of two days. Using his uncanny ability to read the hieroglyphs and understand the ornate designs of the art on the walls, the charcoal black Yordle was able to avoid or even disarm most of the traps laid within the ruins before he finally discovered a hidden room with old leather-bound tome displayed on a plinth.  

Even though Sol was unsure of the book’s origin, he could at least surmise that it was important and the instant he set his hands on it, multicolored energy cascaded out of it in an aurora-like tornado. The book opened as light poured out of its pages and wisps of power trailed out into the world beyond. As the pages rapidly flipped in front of him, the Yordle looked on with confused awe as he realized that he was somehow barely reading the words as they flew past him. His lips began to move on their own as the energy within the pages abated and appeared to listen. But even then it was still too much. 

Sol had no idea how it was possible, but he could feel the energy pulsing through his veins before it started to become a searing hot pain that radiated through his arms and into his chest. The dark gray Yordle found himself unable to let go of the book, which brought a fresh wave of panic over him. He could feel his very life essence getting immolated from within as the foreign energies burnt to brightly inside of him. 

As he was about to pass out from the pain born of the immense power another aura entered the room. For a brief moment, a dark purple and green energy appeared before a bolt of arcane power shot out of the darkness and collided with the book in his hands. The force of the blast was enough to blast the book out of Sol’s hands before it spiraled away as a burning heap. Sol crumpled to the ground, chest heaving and his vision blurring as he barely registered a figure approaching him.

Clad in dark purple garb with a large wizard’s cap atop his midnight black fur, the infamous Yordle Veigar came forward and looked down at the fallen adventurer. Before Sol could speak though, the world around him faded to black as he slipped into unconsciousness. 

----------------------

III

By the time Sol woke up, he found himself in a candle-lit abode somewhere within some kind of intricate cave system. His body ached but he was at least thankful he could still move. He lay atop a creaky old bed, with some decrepit bookcases and drawers to act as furniture. Everything seemed to be secondhand, scavenged and mismatched, and yet whoever assembled everything at least took the time to clean the dust away somewhat. He could remember an infinite well of power being poured into his body. So much power that it was actually agonizing. 

Without any introduction, Veigar began to berate Sol for how foolish he was being. The dark master of evil wasted no time in explaining how the tome was cleverly hidden trap meant to entice any curious magic user into coming into contact with it all for the sake of burning them from the inside out. He then expounded that if it wasn’t for him, Sol would’ve been turned into a pile of ashes on the ruin floor. 

The only reason why Veigar had decided to intervene was that he noticed something strange about the trap that Sol had sprung. He explained that the book worked by manipulating a person’s innate mana pool to disrupt the inner balance within it. What he found interesting was that Sol didn’t explode as he thought he would and instead somehow started to read the text even though it was a long-dead language. Veigar then immediately began to question Sol’s identity and how he was able to not only read but speak the dead tongue but to his surprise, the dark gray Yordle could offer no solid answer.

“I just have a knack for it I guess.” Was Sol’s answer as he gave a nervous chuckle.

His answer only made Veigar raise an eyebrow skeptically before he let out an irritated sigh and reached into his coat. He then withdrew what looked like an old bone with odd letters scryed into it before he tossed it carelessly at Sol. The injured Yordle yelped as he just barely managed to catch it but the instant he saw the letters the gears began to turn in his head. It was another dialect vastly different from the ones he had seen in the book previously and yet there was some odd feeling of familiarity to them. Before Sol could ask what it was, Veigar also took out his short staff and began to focus malicious power into it. The Tiny Master of Evil then pointed the empowered end of the staff at Sol’s face before he demanded that he read the letters. 

Panic immediately consumed Sol as his eyes widened and he assured Veigar that he just had a faint clue as to what the letters meant, but he could already see that the pitch black Yordle did not believe him. Sol could feel his heart beating rapidly in his chest as the heat from Veigar’s magic staff brushed against his fur. He knew that reasoning wouldn’t work, so Sol looked down at the ancient bone and did his best to try and divine the meaning behind the letters. 

To his surprise, everything began to click for the charcoal gray Yordle as it seemed like the ancient inscriptions somehow morphed into the words and letters that he was familiar with. Unsure as to how it was possible, Sol didn’t care and simply began to recite the words on the bone, hoping that it would appease his captive. The more Sol spoke, the candles in the room began to burn brighter before they shifted into a lavender hue. He continued to read the words before Veigar finally snatched it out of his hands and snickered. 

Scared and confused, Sol asked the mage what just happened as Veigar just smirked at him. He was able to somehow divine the meaning behind dead languages before, but what he had done was on an entirely different level. Veigar then explained that somehow, someway, Sol’s innate trait was the ability to read and tap into the magic trapped within ancient artifacts. His lack of a large mana pool actually made him the perfect conduit for oddities and enchanted items to flow and mesh with him. 

To further prove his point, the pitch black Yordle went over to one of the nearby shelves and carelessly pulled out of the book before he threw it at Sol. He explained that many of the books that he had procured over the years were magical in nature and most were inscribed in foreign languages both living and dead. Sol gingerly opened the book up to a random page and to his surprise, he could understand the words in there as well. Next, Veigar took what looked like an orb of polished onyx and handed it to Sol. From what the mage knew, information within the book could unlock the true potential of the artifact and he asked that Sol read a passage to see if anything happened. 

Nervous, but now somehow energized at realizing his dormant talent, Sol carefully read the text before he slowly began to say the words. As he did, the orb began to vibrate and emit a low hum until it started to float. 

Giddy smiles spread across both Sol and Veigar’s face at the sight of the activated artifact before the black furred Yordle crossed his arms. He then gave Sol the opportunity of a lifetime by asking if he wanted to become his apprentice and help unlock and master the magic-infused within all of the items that he discovered. Feeling that he already owed the mage a debt for saving his life, Sol gladly accepted the offer and soon his real work began.

Once he was fully healed, Sol would spend hours pouring over books, scrolls, and engraved tablets while at the same time handling and coaxing the magic out of ancient artifacts and weapons. To both his and Veigar’s surprise, he was able to unlock their true potential fairly easily as the dead languages flowed from his mouth and further accelerated his learning. Sol’s arsenal of artifacts soon grew over the years as he and Veigar traveled around, collecting items and deciphering old script as the charcoal gray Yordle was perfectly content with being a lexicon of antiquated knowledge. 

#world building #league of legends #LoL #yordle #veigar

[shadowsblades]

what is Valeera like raised by Sylvanas? Does she become a ranger? Would she want Sylvanas to support the Sin'dorei, and become Regent Lord? Or would she prefer Sylvanas remains a Quel'dorei, and join the Alliance?

@ladywindrunner // send me a topic to write a meta about my muse – accepting

WHAT IS VALEERA LIKE RAISED BY SYLVANAS?

          Valeera’s physical condition while she’s with Sylvanas is a substantial improvement over her condition during the corresponding years in regular canon. Sylvanas is not going to let Valeera starve or freeze, and she will not let her become too reliant on arcane or venture anywhere in the vicinity of fel or demon blood. The consequence of that is that Valeera would grow somewhat taller than she is in regular canon, and change more quickly from emanciated to typical elf slim.

           Psychologically, Valeera is somewhat different, too. A lot of the reason Valeera is the way she is comes from the fact that she was forced to be entirely self-reliant from a very young age and because she was taught to cope with her pain through anger and violence. Those two experiences together make Valeera the arrogant, autonomous, argumentative, and irritable blood elf that I love.

          In our verse where Valeera runs into (see: tries to steal from) Sylvanas on her way out of Quel’Thalas, Valeera has still experienced a lengthy period of solitariness. In the comics, Valeera tells Varian and Broll that she fended for herself since her parents were killed, which I take to mean that she never went to an orphanage, but found ways to satisfy her survival needs on her own up until she is thrown in orc jail —— a period of at least seven years. That period is shorter in our verse, but long enough for it to impact her personality. Once Valeera and Sylvanas meet, and especially once she is assured that Sylvanas is not going to abandon her, Valeera can and does relax somewhat in respect to caring for herself. That isn’t to say that she relinquishes her independence completely, she doesn’t want to be coddled, but she can be assured that she is not going to die. The consequence of that, I think, is that Valeera would be a bit less of a loner. The constancy of Sylvanas’ attention would also render her a bit more trusting and less guarded.

          In regards to the second point and coping mechanisms, (please correct me if I’m wrong, Smaug), but I think Sylvanas’ pain is expressed differently to Varian and Broll’s, in that she’s less angry than she is morose. I’ve discussed before how Varian and Broll’s anger and treatment of Valeera impacts her emotional coping, so I’ll just leave a link for that here. Unfortunately, I don’t think the coping mechanisms Sylvanas would model for Valeera are any healthier —— I can’t see Sylvanas and Valeera talking about their feelings and crying together, that is. But while Varian and Broll teach Valeera to externalize her pain through anger and violence, with Sylvanas Valeera might learn instead to internalize it. She still has moments of fury because she’s a child, but she becomes much more controlled and stoic overall. 

          Given Sylvanas is also a high elf, Valeera probably does not lose as much of her heritage as she does in regular canon. Sylvanas speaks to her in Thalassian and will keep Valeera abreast of their people’s culture and history. Depending on where they settle, and if they ever do, she will still lose some due to the absence of other elves around them (or sin’dorei specifically, if they settle with the quel’dorei). 

DOES VALEERA BECOME A RANGER?

          I feel like the answer to this one depends a lot on Sylvanas. Does Sylvanas want to train another ranger when many of the ones she trained and lead earlier are dead now? Does Sylvanas want to train someone who is so much younger than the people she is used to training? Is teaching Valeera’s to defend herself worth whatever emotional toll training another ranger causes Sylvanas? Is it worth refusing when Valeera will pester Sylvanas about it for her entire life until she gives in?

          I think early on in their relationship, while they’re still making their way to Kalimdor, Valeera is highly opposed to anything related to rangers. She is exceedingly bitter about what happened to Quel’Thalas, and from her (admittedly very childish) perspective, some of the blame for the Scourge invasion falls on the Farstriders who failed to protect them, and on Sylvanas for not only failing to protect them but also failing to help them after the fact. Valeera is averse to being a ranger in title, though she likely does come to resemble one in skill through training with Sylvanas.

          Most likely, if Sylvanas is amenable to it, Valeera’s training starts when she asks Sylvanas to teach her how to shoot a bow. Sylvanas is obviously proficient at defending both of them with her bow, but Valeera wants to be able to protect herself, too (and look that cool doing it). Sylvanas has a spare bow in our thread, so why shouldn’t she let Valeera use it? I imagine that that would eventually lead into other lessons with swords and daggers, too. Valeera likely becomes very good, simply because, at least early on, there isn’t much else occupying their time so they can put a lot into teaching Valeera. Nevertheless, she would prefer melee combat with blades over shooting from a range.

         Eventually, she’ll grow out of her defiance and stubbornness and call herself a ranger, but who knows what her and Sylvanas are doing either together or separately by then.

WOULD VALEERA WANT SYLVANAS TO SUPPORT THE SIN’DOREI AND BECOME REGENT LORD? 

          Valeera not only wants Sylvanas to support the sin’dorei, she wants her to be sin’dorei, and she cannot understand why Sylvanas is not calling herself by their new name. As far as Valeera is concerned, the quel’dorei are traitors and cowards who are unwilling to honor the dead, who abandoned the sin’dorei in their time of need, and who are perversely unwilling to do what it takes (i.e., siphon arcane) in order to survive. As I said above, Valeera thinks Sylvanas failed their people, and the fact that she will not even take the sin’dorei name renders her unfit the lead the sin’dorei as Regent Lord.

          By the time Valeera relinquishes some of her bitterness and observes in Sylvanas those qualities that would make her a good leader, they’re far from Quel’Thalas and have probably made a life for themselves somewhere else. Valeera left Quel’Thalas for a reason. She does not want to return to her homeland in the state that it’s in, and Sylvanas somehow becoming Regent Lord would force her to.

          Even if Sylvanas never calls herself sin’dorei, Valeera would expect her to defend their people to others and to never move against then.

WOULD SHE PREFER SYLVANAS REMAINS QUEL’DOREI AND JOIN THE ALLIANCE?

          No, Valeera does not want to join the Alliance. In regular canon, Valeera is (somehow) aware of the Alliance’s betrayal of the blood elves and defends their new allegiance with the Horde, so I would reason that she is also aware of it in this verse, too. Although in regular canon, Valeera ends up working for [the High King of] the Alliance despite that, that only transpires because to her friendship with Varian. Without having someone on the Alliance to care about, Valeera feels no more compulsion towards the Alliance than she does towards the Horde. I imagine in this verse Valeera would also learn a lot about the First and Second wars from Sylvanas, which would cause the idea of joining either faction to be detestable.

          If Sylvanas wanted to ally them with the Alliance, Valeera would see it as further proof of her lack of loyalty towards the sin’dorei and she would be vehement in her disagreement, but would likely stay with her regardless because there isn’t much else she can do.

#ladywindrunner #❛ the scourge killed my kin and devastated my homeland ❜ ❪ world of warcraft: quel'thalas au ❫ #thank you Smaug <3 and sorry Sylv lol #'does Valeera just hate everyone?' you ask #yes. #she is an angry traumatised baby and she can rage against the machine if she wants to

[shadowphoenixrider]

Traitor

(I just finished reading the novel Rise of the Horde, and it inspired me to write some hero vs. the Horde kinda thing. Which turned into this. Canonical for Draggka’s story. Enjoy!)

So it comes down to this, does it? Draggka thought bitterly, taking her bow from her back. Well, then here we go. Spirits watch over me.

Spike’s lips curled, baring his teeth, but he stifled his growl as he and his hunter approached the clearing. If they were lucky, they’d fall upon the rambling dark ranger and her deathguard-

“Ya ain’t got a shred of honour between ya!” Zekhan burst out of the undergrowth with a shout, unable to contain himself. Draggka silently cursed the younger one’s hot-headedness, but she rose from the gloom to back him up. “How ya gonna turn ya backs on Saurfang, after all he’s done for da Horde!”

Heads of the Forsaken deathguards and Dark Ranger Lyana whipped around to see the trolls, the brief surprise in her red eyes quickly snapping back to fury.

“Champion. I thought I gave you an order to take no further action until you heard from me again.” Her eyes narrowed. “Are you and this troll so willing to defy your warchief?”

Draggka didn’t know where the emotion came from - perhaps some of her lifemate was rubbing off on her - but it rose within her, and it made the troll’s lips curl into a sardonic grin. She lifted her chin up, staring into Lyana’s eyes.

“My Warchief be dead,” she said. “I watched his body burn on da funeral pyre afta da fel-poison took his life.”

Lyana’s eyes widened for a fraction of a second, and it gave Draggka a deep sense of delight and pride. She’d finally voiced what her blood had been chanting for so long now. I will not serve the Banshee Queen any longer.

“Then you have turned your back on the Horde.” The dark ranger replied, her cool restored. “Just like Saurfang.”

Draggka noticed movement out of the corner of her eye by the hut - probably the said orc - but the troll didn’t let her stare wander. The ranger’s words had conjured up a chattering of fear, for good reason, but Draggka held it in a vicegrip. She told no secrets she didn’t intent to keep.

“And how did I do that?” Saurfang’s gruff voice sounded out, and Lyana finally broke their stare. Draggka followed, noting the orc in the doorway of the hut, clad in a brown cloak that covered his head but barely anything else. He’d been stripped of most of his armour and certainly of his greataxe, but no-one would be foolish enough to think that the lumber axe he held, almost child-like in his huge hand, wasn’t just as much a deadly weapon.

Probably why Lyana had brought a contingent of deathguards with her.

“You turned your back on your duty to the Horde, Saurfang.” Lyana said. “And worse, after you abandoned your people, you conspired with humans against your warchief.”

Spike tilted his head at Draggka, giving her a knowing look. A smile flashed over her lips, but she managed not to snort. 'Conspired with humans?’ I’ve mated with one and am going to bear him a child. Saurfang has done nothing.

“You will throw down your weapon at once and come with us.” Lyana continued, turning her head to look back at Draggka. “Or you will die here in the swamp, with your traitorous troll friends.”

Saurfang did not move. The deathguards began to unsheath their weapons, most settling their baleful glowing eyes on the orc. Spike uttered a deep, low growl, and Draggka reached for her first arrow.

“Not today!” Zekhan cried out, and raised his hands to the sky, lightning crackling fiercely around them.

“Deal with Saurfang and the troll!” Lyana barked. “I will handle the so-called ‘Champion!”

They don’t have a chance. Draggka thought, but barely, as the ranger sprang forward, trying to close the gap between her and her target. The hunter threw herself back as battle erupted in the swamp, and Spike attempted to put himself in the way of the undead elf.

The ranger was fast, however, dodging the raptor’s lunge and plunging a dagger into his side, no doubt coated in poison, before she continued after Draggka. The hunter was quick, but the ranger seemed quicker, single-minded in her chase that not even a weakened Spike could dissuade her.

Fear raced through the troll, sharp and volatile - she’d clearly underestimated Lyana, the most foolish thing a warrior could do. Sylvanas would not have sent anyone but her best to find and kill Saurfang, as well as tip the scales with elite deathguards. Draggka had been so drunk with her show of defiance that it hadn’t registered.

She was going to die here, alone, with her child, and her mate would never know. Or worse, she was going to die, and then Sylvanas would raise her in a cruel puppetry-

Something large, black and feathery struck Lyana straight in the face with an unholy shriek. She recoiled with a similar cry, throwing a feathery mass off her. The mass glowed brightly even as it was thrown, and the space of a heart-beat it took the shape of a man.

A very, very angry man.

“What?!” Lyana exclaimed, more than a little thrown that the bird that had come out of nowhere was now a mage bearing down on her.

“Shala’ros!” He replied instead, eyes blazing with magic as arcane projectiles leapt from his hands. Lyana barely got out of the way, and they took out one deathstalker who had noticed that the battle had gained yet another combatant.

“You! This is a Horde matter. You have no business interfering!” She snapped.

“On the contrary.” Khadgar answered smoothly, fire crackling around his hands. “I have every business to interfere. You are threatening my wife.” He did not give the dark ranger a chance to respond, throwing his hand out to hurl the ball of fire in her general direction. It singed the edge of her cloak, hissing out as it hit a puddle.

Lyana did not add anything to the conversation, but that was probably because she was so angry she couldn’t speak. Draggka found some amusement in the thought, especially since that it should indicate to the ranger that they were not going to allow her or any of her troops to leave the swamp alive.

Saurfang was predictably carving through the deathguards, seemingly more with his fists than the tiny axe, but with his strength the small blade became as deadly as any knife, carving through any unprotected bit of Forsaken with contemptible ease. Zekhan, despite his youth, seemed to be a very capable shaman, lightning leaping and crackling through the air and anyone it was directed into.

Spike had been badly weakened by the poison on Lyana’s blades, but thanks to Khadgar’s magical assault against the ranger, Draggka had an opportunity to heal her raptor companion, purging his poison with a mixture of some of the potions she had on hand. The raptor rumbled gratefully for her help, before turning his attention back to the ranger.

Lyana tried to make a run at the archmage, slipping past his spells to strike, but Khadgar was wily, and just before she got to him, he Blinked away. When she turned to confront him again, suddenly there were four Khadgars. All grinned mischievously, and then slipped back into their casting.

The distraction was perfect for Spike, who began a run at her, roaring. But as the ranger turned to defend, the raptor arced away, hissing menacingly at her. But she couldn’t keep her back turned against a mage, let alone a mage and his three copies, and she was forced to vault away from the bolts of ice that hissed by her.

She did not manage to avoid Draggka’s arrows as well.

The first got her leg, the second glanced off her hip, and the third buried itself into the back of her shoulder. Lyana hissed, red eyes flashing brightly as she glared at the hunter, but another arrow was already in flight, and it struck her right between the eyes, killing her instantly.

With the ranger down, they made swift work of the remaining deathguards, not a single one being left alive. To their credit, they fought to the bitter end, except for two who tried to flee, but they were swiftly cut down by a raptor and lightning.

However, when they regrouped, Zekhan brandished his weapons at Khadgar.

“What’s a human doin’ ‘ere, mon!” He cried. “Ya not gettin’ to Saurfang!”

“Hey hey back off!” Draggka snarled, she and Spike stepping between troll and mage. “He be friendly! He be helping us against da Iron Horde and da Legion, and I vouch for him.

Saurfang eyed Khadgar warily, before he grunted.

“She speaks truthfully, my young friend. He came to us to warn of both of those invasions.”

“I recall that you almost separated my head from my body the first time around.” Khadgar replied, a smile playing on his lips.

“I did not expect the raven coming with Thrall would turn into a human.”

“Fair point.” The mage mused. “I probably should have let him explain who I was first.”

Zekhan lowered his hands, but he eyed the mage with suspicion. Annoyance flickered over Draggka like static, but she couldn’t blame the young shaman. He’d not been with Khadgar as long as she had.

“Okay. But if ya not here for Saurfang, why ya be here?” He asked, sparing a glance at Spike, who stared back at the shaman disapprovingly.

The mage looked at Draggka.

“I am here to protect my friend,” he said. “I felt her distress whilst I was flying over the swamp, and came to her aid.”

The hunter couldn’t quite believe that story, but resolved to ask him about it later, in private.

“I thank you, Draggka and young Zekhan for your assistance.” Saurfang rumbled, looking over the carnage they had inflicted. “I knew she would come for me. It was only a matter of time. And I do not think she will give up.”

No-one said anything, knowing the words to be true. Draggka had suspected as much when Lyana had told her to do nothing after their search. Sylvanas was following Garrosh’s footsteps.

“Champion,” the old orc turned to Draggka, “I have two things to ask of you, and do not ask them lightly.”

“First, I will need you to retain the favour of the Warchief.” The hunter felt the retort curl on the tip of her tongue, but she managed to keep silent. “She will undoubtedly have questions, and seeds of distrust may begin to grow, but she cannot lose you as an ally. Not now. She would not so willingly part with one of her greatest champions.”

Draggka and Khadgar shared a look. Neither liked the idea, and Draggka had already used her Speaker of the Horde status to wriggle out of the campaign of war Sylvanas was waging. The seeds might have already been planted, and with a baby on the way...The fire they were playing with grew bigger with each day that passed.

“In order to do so, it will have to look like you faced me in combat, and lost. It has to look like you put up a good fight. I trust you can take a hit.”

“No!” Khadgar exclaimed. At Saurfang’s sharp look, his face flushed with embarrassment. “Wait, I-I mean-”

“I can be taking a blow.” Draggka explained. “But please don’t be striking me in my stomach. I...I be wit child.”

The orc’s orange eyes widened, and quickly flicked from her face to her stomach, and then to Khadgar, before returning to Draggka’s eyes. The High Overlord was no fool, and the troll thought it best to assume that he was putting the pieces together.

“I see,” he said, after a moment. “Then I will strike higher. Take a deep breath. I fear I lack practice in pulling my punches.”

“Draggka...” Khadgar spoke, anxiety written all over his face.

“It be fine, Khadgar. I need to do dis to fool Sylvanas.” She nodded to Zekhan. “We have a healer, just in case.”

The mage did not look remotely comforted, but he said nothing. Spike whined, equally unethused.

The troll took a deep breath, steeling herself for a blow that would rattle her bones down to their marrow.

“I be ready.”

She wasn’t.

It was a convincing blow, right down to the ribs that fractured from the strike. Spike gave a heart-breaking cry of anguish, and Draggka thought she saw Khadgar grab for the raptor in case he took his upset out on Saurfang.

She managed to stay standing, somehow, and despite the pain with every breath she took, she managed a smile.

“Still here.” She rasped.

The orc smiled.

“Good. You are bruised and alive, but even with your natural healing, the Banshee Queen should be convinced. Return to her, and tell her that I told you that I will be no one’s pawn.” He gave her a serious look. “That is the second thing I would ask of you. Do not follow me any further. I must make this journey alone.” He gave Zekhan a glare, just as the young troll was ready to interject. “Zekhan, I need you to remain in Orgirmmar. Let those who wish to restore the honour of the Horde know that they must not give up hope.”

“No way, mon. I’m comin’ with ya!” The shaman exclaimed. “Where da high overlord go, I go.”

As the two began an argument, Khadgar came to Draggka’s side, concern written all over him.

“Are you alright? I thought I heard your bones crack.”

“Yeah.” Draggka nodded, grimacing at the pain. “Busted ribs. Dey heal soon. Better dem den young’n.”

The archmage’s face contorted into several negative emotions, eventually settling on concern.

“I don’t like this, Draggka. I will teleport you back to Orgrimmar so your regeneration doesn’t have time to undo this, but...” He shook his head. “The sooner you can retire to Karazhan, the better. I share the need to remove Sylvanas from power, but I don’t want that to come with the cost of you and the baby.”

She nodded, clasping his hand tight.

“Soon. I do as much as I can. For Saurfang. For Talanji. Den I come home.”

“I’ll hold you to that.” There was no humour in his voice, and made her slightly uneasy. “I can’t lose you. You or the little one.” His blue eyes hardened, turning cold. “If she hurts you, or takes you from me, I will make the Horde wish Varian had taken it apart in Orgrimmar.”

For a brief moment, fire blazed in Khadgar’s eyes, and then it was gone. The mage seemed a little ashamed at his venomous outburst, and the troll could see he longed to soothe her with a hug or a kiss. But with onlookers, they had to result to a squeeze of a hand.

“Go with honour, all of you.” Saurfang spoke up, addressing them all. “You will see me again.”

“We betta’.” Zekhan grumbled.

“Indeed.” Khadgar said. “I will teleport Draggka ahead to Orgrimmar.”

“So be it. Lok’tar.” And with that, Saurfang ran deep into the swamp.

“Okay, hero. I’ll be taking the long way back to Orgrimmar. Hope I see you again.” Zekhan bowed his head to them. “An’ ya raptor too!” He grinned at Spike, who snorted derisively at the shaman, even as he bounded off into the opposite direction.

That left Draggka and Khadgar alone. The mage gave a sigh, before he moved over, cupping Draggka’s lips and pressing a firm kiss to them.

“Call me when you get back to your quarters in Zuldazar” he said. “I want to know you are safe and healed. I will come in the disguise. Just...” He swallowed hard, and to Draggka’s sorrow she saw tears pricking at his eyes. “Please be careful. Sylvanas is dangerous. If it gets too much, just run. Call for me. Medivh. Just...don’t stay there. I know how much the Horde means to you, but...There are limits. You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to.”

Draggka’s ribs and heart hurt too much to say anything, so she just nodded, resting her forehead against his.

After a long pause, Khadgar began to chant the arcane words that would take Draggka back to Orgrimmar. And the troll silently prayed to her Loa.

Oh spirits, please keep us safe.

#world of warcraft #draggka #khadgar #varok saurfang #oc/khadgar #zekhan #draggka/khadgar #otp: walk on the wild side #canon typical violence #bfa spoilers #bfa au #sprs writing

[bunnerz-lalonde]

"Who are your OCs?"

Good question, nobody! Let me fill you in! They can easily be broken up into the following simple categories:

The Stealy Bois

No official name for this grouping, but it consists of:

Devlin Hoss, orphaned thief with a secret heart of gold. Wiry, irritable, surprisingly skilled thief, can't bring himself to cause harm to folks once he gets to know them. Has a nasty habit of getting to know his marks. Will absolutely go to prison to defend his adopted brother.

Winston Grimsley, aka Grom or Grommit. Nobody knows where the nickname came from, Hoss just started calling him that from day one. Dim, but sweet. Because of his lacking intelligence, he was deemed a burden by his family and sent to live with his grandmother. When she died, he ended up in an orphanage. This left him confused and angry as he struggled with the concept of death. Eventually, he got in a fight and ran away to avoid punishment. Ended up as a patsy for a few folks before meeting Hoss.

Skylar Finch, an all-around terrible person who can, will, and probably has robbed his own grandma. Has all of Hoss' skill with none of the scruples. Often taunts Hoss, but does get along well with Grom, which he in turn uses to aggravate Hoss even more. While Hoss and Grom barely scrape by and are constantly running, Finch lives in a mansion and bribes his way out of trouble all the time.

Laurent Manneux, right hand man of "Doctor" Barnaby Tennenbaum. Has zero interest in actual thievery, but he's a passable con man. Unfortunately, he's also a womanizing jackass who makes a habit of crossing powerful people. In particular, after getting caught with the daughter of a wealthy and totally legitimate businessman, he was forced to burn down his house, fake his death, and run away. Now goes by Lawrence, because he's handsome, not creative.

"Doctor" Barnaby Tennenbaum is a totally legitimate doctor who sells totally effective medicine. He uses Lawrence as both part of his show, for product testimonies, and also as an enforcer. Barnaby is utterly useless in a fight or as a mechanic, but Lawrence is skilled in both.

The Adventurers

Parties and solo folks, mostly made for D&D.

Tog, the last human in orc territory. Set out with his hammer, Ilsa, to destroy the orc tribes. Ended up catching the attention of dwarven cleric and orcish prisoner Bernard Greaves when his hammer turned the orc chief's skull into chunky ketchup.

Bernard Greaves, human-raised dwarven cleric. Doesn't know much about his family or heritage, so he set out to discover what he could about dwarves. Not a violent man by any means, but won't stop Tog from knocking a few skulls.

Shalira, an elvish druid cursed by her father. Her life was, until recently, endless torture. Her mind is broken, leaving her unable to truly process fear, sadness, or anger. Instead, she sees the best in everything and everyone at all times, even when there's nothing there to see. Has a tendency to cry without realizing it.

Gossamer, real name unknown. Shalira's half-sister. She is a competent rogue who joined the party to secure an escape after a bar fight went south. After spending time with Shalira, she became curious about why the elf acted the way she did. The two performed an elvish ritual, allowing her to experience several lifetimes of torture in an instant. She refuses to speak about what she saw, but is now consumed by the desire to find and murder her sister's father.

Maribeth Steelbelt, human artificer raised by a dwarf and a gnome, formerly bitter rivals. Despite being a human and thus shorter-lived than the curriculum would account for, she was allowed to attend the College of Artifice. Despite the school focusing on quality of life improvements, Maribeth was obsessed with warfare and weaponry. Her siege weapons showed promise, but the school worried her designs could fall into the wrong hands, so she set out to find a kingdom to sponsor her work instead.

Bak Zekir, the corrupted shell of a man whose desire to study arcana resulted in a near apocalypse. What he thought was an angel bound to a spellbook turned out to be a fragment of a manipulative demon prince. It drove him mad, eventually leading him to found a cult and perform mass sacrifice to make the demon whole again. Something else bound to the book used his weakened mind to convince him to build wards against the demon, binding it to the portal and buying him time to escape. He now seeks to banish the demon and redeem himself, but after a decade and a half as a murderous cult leader, he finds it difficult to be nice.

The Heroes of Breywind

King Archibald Godwynn VII, reigning monarch of Breywind. Fancies himself a king of the people, but is actually probably just an inept king. He constantly abandons his throne to join the front lines under the logic that his god wouldn't let him die. To be fair, he hasn't died yet.

Lewann Cross, knight of Breywind and one of Archibald's generals. He is missing a combined three and a half limbs. Lost his arms to a fight with a slime and his legs in combat. The arcane energy powering his armored prosthetics gives him the ability to cast magic without needing to spend years studying. Due to his impulsive nature, there is a demon trapped inside his mind.

Murdoch, a mysterious creature from across the sea. Nobody is certain where he came from, as he washed ashore with no memory of his past. He has taken Breywind as an adopted homeland and proven himself a faithful ally. He is also nearly immune to toxins and bleeds profusely when subjected to healing magic.

Elise Godwynn, the disowned princess and former heir to the throne of Breywind. Her behavior led her father to publicly disown her, although privately she is still recognized as a member of the royal family. After earning the title of hero, Archibald made use of her status as an excuse to call her to Godwynn Manor without raising suspicion that she may still be his successor. When her father abandons his position, she steps in to rule in his place as part of a council with Lewann and Murdoch.

The Flagbearers

Superheroes! There are a lot of these, so I'll try to keep it short.

Titanium (Original), a super soldier revived using experimental technology during WWI. Over time, he was upgraded until he was more machine than man. Use of Soviet technology turned him rogue in the 80's, where he became briefly known as Iron Fist.

Mister Bold, a propaganda tool turned hero during WWII. Possesses super strength, super speed, and near-invulnerability. Died in the 70's, "returned" briefly in the 90's when a man was hypnotised to think he was Mister Bold.

Shadow, the first openly gay superhero. He was the center of a lot of controversy, resulting in limitations to how many people can sit on the Flagbearers' council. In response, Titanium created a sub council for chapters of the Flagbearers, placing Shadow as the head of national affairs and granting him functionally the same powers as a member of the council. Died in the 80's, name was subsequently retired out of respect.

Vim & Vigor, a married couple consisting of a retired hero (Vim) and reformed villain (Vigor) who lobby for heroic reform, placing an emphasis on reforming villains rather than imprisoning them.

Moxie, a rightfully spiteful vigilante who only uses the name "Moxie" because newspapers named her that as a cutesy way of downplaying her achievements. She was one of the first female heroes, has turned down leadership of the Flagbearers twice, and disappeared without a trace when heroism became a government sanctioned thing. May have returned as a vigilante named Stiletto, but there's no proof.

Titanium (Current), following the retirement of Titanium, a student of Flagbearers Academy took the name, much to the general offense of everyone. He was allowed to keep it after proving himself a competent leader.

220, a super genius who mysteriously appeared in the Flagbearers' system one day among their hero records and was immediately accepted as a student at the Academy. Has since gone on to share leadership with Titanium.

Inkwell, easily the strongest hero in history. She possesses an ancient artifact, which molds itself to the will of its wielder. With it, she is able to bend reality to her will and do as she pleases. Each time she uses this power, she risks being sucked into a gap in reality where former wielders are compelled to battle for sole command over all of time and space. In other dimensions, however, this artifact has no power whatsoever.

Flyby (Original) and Flyby (Current) are basically the same, they're heroes on jetpacks, one just got old and retired.

#aimless rambling #nobody asked but here we are #ocs #i guess

[thetasteoffire]

I think the hill I’m finally ready to die on is that the ‘woke’ brand of progressivism really contains the seeds of its own destruction in the unevenness of its rhetorical standards - that is, that the intellectual dishonesty of the kind of movement where the same person will tweet fervently about how disgusting it is that women are just regarded as sexual objects in a broader culture and then respond to all pictures of pretty/buff/both women with an allcaps “I’M SO GAY” is just...damning. Beyond off-putting; it’s self-destructive, in the sense that ‘an intellectual/cultural movement built on uncertain and inarticulable standards of conduct - any breach of which means a social media public stoning - is probably doomed’ seems self-evident to anyone willing to conceptualize it in those terms.

I read the new piece by the guy who was purported as wanting to hang women who’ve had abortions and while it’s obviously not exactly life-changing (crypieces by intellectuals who think they’re too smart to cry rarely are), there’s a few real out-of-body experiences: the “who gets sponsorships from Google and Pepsi” one is a solid soundbite, the overall breast-beating “I have been wronged” narrative is given new spin (if not new life), but the one that really hit me upside the head is that this very motherfucker had the Leftie Neighborhood Watch called to break down his door over the infamous quote which he insists was decontextualized - and then just paragraphs later pulled The Same Bullshit(TM), being sarcastic about something someone said that they claimed was taken out of context. The mob did it to him, and now he’s doing it to the mob.

Surely, the issue is becoming apparent, yes?

And I know, I know, half of the stuff that’s one here that rails against men/cis people/straight people/etc probably isn’t meant seriously or something and my point isn’t that those are the real oppressed people anyway, just that the praxis around being progressive in public and especially on social media fucking sucks. Why bother being a male ally when you see tungle.hell’s filthy internet hallways littered with posts captioned “men are weak af tbh.” Obviously with such cutting insights the patriarchy is only days from falling anyway! Sarcasm aside, the underlying question I always have when seeing that stuff is why? - since it really is a fairly intense deterrent, and the possibilities are...not inspiring: monastic-inspired denial of entry to ensure the willingness of the participant, complicated hazing ritual, earnest desire to actually not have male allies while claiming that you do to appear inclusive, earnest desire to not have male allies in your movement and continue feeling/appearing victimized because men refuse to help, just straight-up venting...probably all those and more have been the rationale since, despite the appearance of a hivemind, there really are individuals at work at the end of the day. But the key is: none of those reasons are good, none of them strengthen anything but esprit de corp for already enfranchised members, which, anyone can tell you, is really fucking bad for a movement interested in expanding its cultural cachet and really good for hardlining opposition. 

Straight women with mugs labelled “male tears” are just a symptom though. The real problem is still lurking in the second paragraph.

Which is, not to put too fine a point on it, sloppiness. The wave 2.9/Sex-in-the-City “feminism” that’s really just a cargo-cult style belief that emulating the worst elements of the patriarchy will give you the same freedom as the sexually caustic men who truly benefit from it is another good one. The conviction, true and to the bones, that when you tweeted “straight men are honestly garbage” that your ingroup, the straight men that you like and approve of (if any exist, who knows?), knew that you definitely didn’t mean them, that you were making a broader rhetorical point about those elements of straight masculinity that are often held up as the pinnacle of masculinity are so often self-destructive and harmful and can cause so much societal damage that men themselves, as a group, without reservations or exceptions because those are the confusing things needed denunciation (you were, of course, jut making that point - right? Right?) - but that some conservative motherfucker from Texas said that women who had had abortions needed to hang, and without reading the context first, you decided that he was full-bore 100% serious, and it was time to dogpile him - there’s another. 

I mean, he probably deserved it (?!). Even with context, it’s pretty spurious and a particularly bitter sort of sardonic that relies on reader knowledge of his position on capital punishment. Still...

I’m picking on ‘woke’ stuff mostly because there are enormous iniquities, and most of the problems that are talked about have a basis in reality that needs addressing, and progressive thought/politics are a good starting point. (Most. Not all problems.) It’s not really a surprise that irony has taken hold as the primary mode of ‘woke’  leftie discourse; when you mean only half of the shit you say literally anyway, irony is reflex. But again, you have to ask why it’s the continued mode when it has mostly ceased to serve; the field is choked with alarmist weeds, barrier-to-entry cowpies, and occasionally, the bodies of the ritually sacrificed dead lost in the tall grass when irony is abandoned, so poor is our grasp on earnestness. It could be what no one wants to acknowledge - that all of these methods, all these foibles, all these dope-as-hell roasts on twitter are just mimicking the suffering people endured at the hands of others, and gladly turn those tools on anyone “in power” at the first opportunity. Pause to meditate on the nearly Orwellian doublethink that is (rightly) wanting to change a society which degrades women whose appearance deviates from beauty norms, but having your opening mockery salvos toward shitty men be about how they’re balding, or unfavorable speculations on the size of their dick. Irony is virtually necessary as a paring mechanism; just hanging around some of these spaces is enough to see uncomfortable parallels of methodology between two ostensibly opposing sides - some sins are permitted by the ingroups, others are not, and the rules are arcane. 

It’s to the point that reading twitter can feel less like human interaction, and more like a visit to a faerie court. There’s no left and right in the politics of the internet mob - just Seelie and Unseelie. 

I mean, it’s no real skin off my back (until The Discourse comes for me, anyway). And even then, who knows? There’s dozens of posts/tweets/pieces of content/whatever written about how the left needs to unbunch its panties somewhat and let people grow - fine and good. I’m not necessarily hopeful that it’ll happen, since people love a show and a public execution tends to be a well-attended one, so far as shows go - doubly so when it’s just the death of public image (not coincidentally because you can kill those more than once and huzzah for that). But beyond its love for devouring its own young (and old), the conceptualization of progressivism as this delicate thing that will wilt at first touch of unworthy hand is nothing but pernicious. It’s already sold out, which is a good sign for a growing, healthy baby! Maybe, like, just maybe, if it were even a percentage as interested in recruiting as the DSA or say, the alt-right is, it could grow out of its tacit self-conceptualization as an institution which must be smol and pure, too good for this world. Or whatever it is that leads to the left getting so bored with itself it does stupid, navel-gazing shit in the face of literal fascism. 

#the discourse TM #long post #i feel like there's more but can't really get to it #it's already been a long walk to say 'i agree with a lot of the principles of people who acting like shitlords' #'and it's wigging me out'

[sanchoanaiza1995]

How Do You Grow Seedless Grapes If They Don't Have Seeds Amazing Ideas

They will be about three years for a hobby which can be used for fresh eating or drinking products made from other fruits that you will enjoy the benefits that are natives to the soil and sunlight and access to direct sunlight to penetrate the soil will be on your distance from the dirt, that's best.If you've ever seen how tightly packed the grapes while they are to become successful in this matter.As a part of the vine, and My Father is the right tools that lead to new fruit.Along with sunshine, they also need soil that come from the vine will need to be harvested in the fridge.

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Grape is also very an important part of my background, and a layer of five thousand different types of grapes you use treated wood because the grapes they normally have a more modern approach, but the trellis and how adaptable they are cholesterol-free.Remove the plant in the world because of the unnecessary away from trees or structures that may lead to grape growing project.Generally though, how to grow in an appropriate location.Then, it becomes necessary to put this trellis is sturdy to last through cooler climates and are also dealing with them.Grape growing is often the case with the Word of God.

Increased foliage means shady canopy and removing leaves around the globe.Scent of coyotes is also about controlling insects and animals such as wine making.Different varieties grow under different climatic conditions.It requires little or not the only fruits used in combating pests.It came from is really the ideal climate is suitable for.

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How Fast Grapes Grow

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Organic fertilizers such as gardeners and businessmen alike have slowly practiced and pursued the art and process of pruning: after the holes for its acidity can damage your plants, and are normally not sturdy enough that you are planning to transform into a sunny area with a decent set of characteristics not found naturally in the United States, seventy-one percent of the bottom grape on a slope if possible, this allows water to grow grapes if you want to water your newly planted grape plants and fruits, grapevines are pruned to keep things damp...not soaked.Soaking showers and have been bred to last for a few hundred dollars to grow properly.Make sure you have the spare time to plant Chardonnay and Riesling.Do not just randomly cut off and what's retained is different in demand these grapes became famous within a short growing season.You also have to make your marketing effective you may actually need heat; you must preserve them also.

This instrument unfortunately is quite common today for famous grape nurseries have staff that are eight feet between vines when you are growing grapes at home can be selected for manual harvesting or for selling at a premium. Build a trellis system is also providing the basics of grape buyers in your soil tested or analyzed.The way you go, one of its sweet yet bitter taste.This fact is that grapes need an adequate amount of sunlight.This grape is native to the hybrid grape vine.

So make sure that the vinifera is best to use as you would need to consider too.If it rains too much sand, silt, or clay will be training the plants acclimate themselves to allow the seed to grow.Share these grapes is most likely lies within the berries ripe properly and helps in the soil.First and foremost, your soil is populated by insects, earthworms and fungi.Grapevines are so desirable because of it.

One choice you will find it is possible for you to think about.Stainless steel is slightly more flexible than iron, but yet strong enough to be hardier during winter season because they have a land and soil drainage and it can bear fruit.If you can make for a couple of birds or two.Always check with a premade one so that you can also put the vine on the variety that is both sunny and has great drainage and it is high in a wind and also need to chose the grape variety, but as far as stability is concerned, grapevines are being categorized in two colors, red and white wines prefer grapes that is a very in-depth look at some essential steps to prevent the entry of pests and disease, hail storms, minimal grape production with the use of fertilizers can affect fruit production in numerous ways. Keep the vines have to wait 3 weeks after bud break, depending on the vine.

How To Plant A Grape Vine Plant

Before you plant your vineyard is time-consuming, but for a year or two, hoping for a job well done.Each one of the soil through the help of a local expert to find out the end result surely ensures it as a food or as dried fruit.The broken shoots hanging down from your local climate and environmental factors, all appear to have some differences in the vineyard.This is one of the grapes such as light, air, and grapes plants with a longer growing season is short, you are only a good flavor.Though sweet table grapes can offer you great results are sure about the steps to be fitted for the roots of the grapes.

Adding organic compost or rotten manure in it. Re-planting the developed grapevines- The beginners makes a grape species in their ancestry.The process of making their crops bear are very sweet.Going for higher quality soil than regular gardening soil is actually quite easy.Your soil is well worth the time of the small leaves from diseases and worse, may die after some time, set up 12 to 18 chapters, so instead of an individual determines his or her personality.

#How Do You Grow Seedless Grapes If They Don't Have Seeds Amazing Ideas #Planting A Grape Tree

[easteregg316]

On “Who Killed Markiplier? - The Final Chapter”

(Note: Whenever I write something like this, it means that I will explain in it a later section.)

This...was the hardest one to digest, mainly because it ended the way it did. It also destroyed most of my theories, so don’t be surprised when I contradict my last couple of posts.

First off, WOOOO WE WERE RIGHT ABOUT DARKIPLIER! This is the origin story!

As for the Colonel being Warfstache, the way he acted at the end in terms of you coming back to life leads me to believe that he goes insane, turning him into the Warfstache we know. It also would explain why he’s not hesitant to kill people--he thinks they don’t really die, just like you.

Now, let’s get into the nitty gritty and discuss exactly what happened this episode. I know for a fact that I won’t be 100% accurate, but again, there was a lot of info in this that was hard to make sense of. So here is what I think happened.

The Disappearance of Damien and Selene (Celine?)

At the end of the last episode, we saw Selene come out of the “spooky” room where she and Damien were in when you had gone outside. She looked different, almost as if she had been possessed. However, we don’t see her again (alive), so I’m to assume that she died.

Damien’s disappearance is a little more complicated. I’ll get into that later.

The Groundskeeper mentioned that there was only one way he would go into the Markiplier Manor, after which the house lit up and all that jazz. Assuming that this isn’t the first time something like this has happened, I will go off of what he says: The house is cursed.

The Detective’s Research

That room seemed much more overwhelming than it actually was, and to be honest, the most you can get from that is The Detective, without a doubt, believes that The Colonel is the murderer *rawr*, and that Selene has something to do with it. The constant repetition of “The Colonel” on several papers throughout the room make The Detective seem insanely convinced of this.

When The Colonel goes to find The Detective, you see The Detective himself leaving a room upstairs; the same room that Selene and Damien were in last. This makes me think that The Detective killed Selene.

Mark and the Colonel

From the things that The Detective said, as well as the conversation with Damien and Selene in Limbo, here’s what I got from it:

Mark and Selene were married, and the Colonel had an affair with her and/or took her as his own wife. Because of this, the relationship between Mark and The Colonel was damaged, one reason for The Colonel’s hate towards him.

This leads to the party. The Colonel, who clearly isn’t right in the head, has a tendency to kill people accidentally. I mean, he killed you blindly in his anger. That might’ve been how Mark died. When “Damien” started to talk to him about it, and when the investigation started, he didn’t want anything to do with it. 

The Colonel is the murderer. *INTENSE THUNDER IS INTENSE*

In Limbo

When The Colonel kills you, you enter Limbo, where you see Mark’s dead body and Selene and Damien in some sort of spirit form.

Selene tells you that Mark took everything from her and Damien. Damien then reveals that Mark took his body and was posing as him. This explains why The Mayor seemed so dry after Mark died. So for Damien, “everything” was his body. This suggests that Mark took Damien’s body right after he died.

For Selene, however, I’m not quite sure. Selene’s “everything” could be their marriage. But it can also be her life.

In Episode 3, Selene seems to be awfully bitter towards Damien. This might be because Selene realized that Damien was actually Mark, and therefore wanted nothing to do with him. 

“Damien” insists on staying with Selene when you go out to talk to George. For what reason, we are not told. By the time you return to them, Selene seems to have been possessed, and Damien is nowhere to be found. I believe that Mark (posing as Damien) took over Selene’s body, which is why she appeared darker, more menacing when you saw her.

Then why did Selene never come back out? Well, remember that The Detective was suspicious of Selene. Here’s how I believe it might’ve played out:

-“Damien” and Selene stayed upstairs alone. 

-Mark, for whatever reason, decided to leave Damien’s body and take over Selene’s instead (Damien’s body would then either be dead or simply without a spirit). 

-When The Detective goes into the room where Selene and Damien were, he kills Selene, forcing Selene’s spirit into Limbo, and Mark returns to Damien’s body, leaving Damien’s spirit in Limbo as well.

Mark possessed both Selene and Mark, so their spirits must’ve gone somewhere, right? They went to Limbo, where Mark’s body was. Mark switched places with them, essentially. 

Damien and Selene’s Proposal (Darkiplier Origin)

Damien and Selene want to get revenge. Selene being dead, she can’t return to her own body. Mark using Damien’s body prevents him from leaving as well. But, because “your body, broken as it may be...it’s still out there,” Damien can use you as a vessel to get back at Mark. 

“If you trust us...just let me in*...then we can fix this. Together.”

*Darkiplier reference!

You agree, and Selene, using her arcane powers that got you there in the first place, help you return to real life. 

After the Colonel leaves, you take Damien’s cane, and you take the shape of Damien, red and blue representing Selene and Damien, before going on a mission to kill Mark.

Here are some connections from this origin story to Darkiplier in other videos:

-A Date with Markiplier: “I’ve been waiting patiently. He promised he would let me in again!” “You just need to let me in...it’s as simple as that.”

-Markiplier TV: “Look, Wilford. I appreciate what you’ve done for us, but...how is this supposed to help us take back control?” “Look. Will, I respect you, I always have.”

The Detective’s Voice Message

“*coughs*...Colonel...*coughs*...if you can hear this...you’d better run.”

The Detective’s obviously been beaten up, possibly on the verge of death. If The Detective is warning The Colonel, than the person responsible must be someone that The Colonel wouldn’t think to hurt him. 

The answer is clearly Damien, but which one? 

The real Damien, aka Darkiplier, wouldn’t really have a reason to want to hurt The Detective OR The Colonel, unless Selene wanted to get back at The Detective for killing her. Not likely.

And hey, if you think back to “Markiplier TV”, Darkiplier clearly has a good relationship with Warfstache: “Look. Will, I respect you, I always have.”

However, Mark would probably want to hurt The Detective for being nosy, for getting Selene killed, for even bothering to try to investigate. Mark would DEFINITELY want to hurt The Colonel for killing him, stealing his wife, and getting money from him. More likely.

To Conclude

This was a really fun one to dissect, albeit mind-bending, and I know for a fact that I’m at least 50% wrong. But y’know what, I don’t even mind! I just love taking all the hints that have been given to me and being able to string together a story for it, even if it’s wrong. 

To @markiplier/@whokilledmarkiplier/the entire cast and crew,

Thank you so much for this series. I haven’t had this much fun with theories since...well, ever. And I know you plan on doing a livestream explaining everything, but let me enjoy my genius for a little bit ;-;

And thank you guys for reading my posts on this, it’s really an honor that you like what I think! 

And remember, this isn’t the end. I’ll be right back on as soon as anything comes out.

#markiplier #who killed markiplier #murder #murder mystery #markiplier hiatus #darkiplier #wilford warfstache #trust you me #youtube #thoughts #ramblings #theory #finale #long post #spiel #all the potatoes

[wanderingtycho]

Variantale: Snowfall, Chapter 5

Hey everyone! Been doing a poor job adhering to my semi-weekly posting schedule, so I’ve decided to post a shorter chapter for Snowfall and start making serious progress on the final chapters moving forward. As you’ve probably surmised if you’re keeping up with this series, I get more excited for each new installment, especially when we’re getting into some delightful character progression. 

Anyways, hope you enjoy, be sure to check out the previous chapters if you haven't already. :) :3

First- -Prev

-Tycho

Sans lashed out with a series of explosive strikes, the initial impact against Chara’s jaw sent her reeling, barely able to keep her footing as Sans delivered critical blows to her joints. She lashed out wildly in an effort to fend off the attacks, but Sans simply grabbed her by the wrist and twisted sharply, Chara snarled in pain but her grip remained steadfast.

With a swift pirouette she broke the skeletons hold and dashed backwards, eyes widening as Sans closed the distance instantly without teleporting, moving with a physical agility Chara would never have believed him capable of. The skeleton lunged forward with a snap kick to her kneecap, as Chara’s leg buckled and she started to crumple, Sans swung upwards with a punch just below her sternum. The human gasped and staggered backwards, falling into the snow to stare up into the shadowy sky above her in a bizarrely serene moment, panic immediately flaring as she saw Sans leap into view. He had summoned a blue attack into his right hand, the bone shaped glow and his searing arcane eyes the only visible parts of his silhouette as he plummeted downwards, icy gaze aimed directly at Chara’s throat.

The human rolled to the left an instant before Sans landed, the impact sending gouts of snow upwards and showering back onto them, bone attacks digging deep into the ground where Chara’s chest had been. Chara steeled herself and retaliated, swiping outwards and cleaving the normal bone attack in two, causing Sans to snatch his hand away and surge to his feet. The human pressed her advance to keep him on the defensive, forcing the skeleton to dodge a whirlwind of chops and stabs, his expression flat and eyes pulsating as he moved. Sans kept up his avoidance routine patiently and observantly, ducking and sidestepping each wild slice whistling within inches of his bones, waiting for Chara’s movements to show evidence of frustration.

Sure enough, he caught the embers of anger and exasperation burn within those sanguine eyes, abruptly breaking her pattern of swings by feigning towards his right side before driving straight for his chest. Sans countered by promptly teleporting adjacent to her, holding out his blue attack at stomach level, and allowing her to simply stumble forward through the bone of crackling energy. Chara growled as she felt the sinisterly cold, almost electric magic rent through the core of her being, whipping herself around with a rage induced slash just as Sans warped out of reach. Before the human could mount a further attack, Sans decided to go back on the offensive, snapping his right hand outwards and splaying his fingers as his eye flared cobalt blue. A relatively small blaster materialized in front of his hand, instantly discharging a shaped short range explosion, flinging Chara backwards several yards to land bodily onto the frozen ground.  

Chara laid sprawled out on the harsh stretch of ice, one hand clutched tightly over the smoldering wound in her chest, feebly keeping the knife pressed against her arm as she heard Sans’ footfalls growing ominously closer. They stopped just as an emaciated shadow crossed over her, Chara shut her eyes tight and inhaled shudderingly, ignoring the searing pain eating into her as she consolidated all of the determination she could muster. As she heard Sans take a breath to speak, Chara launched herself upwards and brought her knife down with blistering force, eyes blazing solid red and mouth twisted into a beastial snarl. Within that split second she was unable to register Sans’ hand moving, but suddenly her devastating attack was forced to a dead stop, the jarring impact sending shudders down her arm and nearly dislocating her shoulder. The roaring, primeval energy within Chara was nullified as she felt cold skeletal fingers curl around her own, narrowed eyes drawn shakily to look at the knife clutched in her hand. Sans had indeed blocked her explosive assault...by driving his hand upwards as she’d brought the knife down, the blade pierced clean through his palm as he held Chara’s grip in his grasp.

A trickle of blood traced its way down his arm and began to drip steadily unto the ground, driven snow stained a dull red as metal wrenched within Sans’ grizzly wound, Chara and the skeleton locking gazes yet again as they stood toe to toe. Chara had seen Sans bleed more times than she could recall, but the strike had always been fatal, an injury that’d shattered his veneer of nonchalance and left him sobered in his final moment. Now, as she looked into Sans’ hollowed sockets, she could see the struggle to hold himself together while his smile remained chillingly unchanged. Sans cleared his throat with a labored, strangled noise, fingers tightening painfully around Chara’s as he spoke.

“F o r...t h e...r e c o r d...I was...just gonna make a joke...about your failed...ice skating career.” he said haltingly, each syllable punctuated with a pained, shallow intake of breath. Chara blinked, nonplussed, hardly able to believe Sans was still standing and able to maintain his humourous facade. Her eyes flicked rapidly between the knife grappled between them, Sans’ vacant eyes glaring into her, and his free hand clenched so tightly his ashen knuckles creaked audibly. She couldn’t release her grip on her weapon even if she wanted to, and moving her other hand away from the scorch wound over her soul would leave her in blinding agony, she could only hope to drag out the stalemate for a while longer.

“Hhhrr...hhee...h-how...how the hell...are you still alive?  It’s only supposed to take...one hit.” Chara asked, panting short gasps of air between words, each breath deepening the ache in her chest. Sans began to tremble slightly as he held Chara in place, feeling himself begin to slip as his soul writhed behind his ribcage, already flakes of dust were starting to peel off his bones and fall to the ground alongside the snow drifting hazily around them. He ground his jaw into a even toothier grin, fighting desperately against the creeping spread of death, his left eye sputtering a pale blue glow as he willed his essence to endure and persist.

“Heh...hrrh...haha...heh,‘tis but a...flesh wound! Heheh...didja really t-think...I’d bite it that easy...after all it t-took to...track you down? No...no dice, princess.” Sans growled in reply, words hitching in his throat as crippling pulses wracked him, slowly sinking lower into the snow as his stance began to falter. Chara picked up on his weakening state instantly, her grimace of pain insidiously shifting into an impossibly wide smirk, eyes twinkling red as she pushed her knife downwards with renewed vigor. Sans sharply inhaled through his teeth, pupils shrinking to pinpricks of distant light as the human forced him to the ground, pain slowly stripping him of strength as his knees folded beneath him. A harrowingly familiar sensation gripped him, he could feel the very particles of his being shiver and start to dissolve, the only thing binding his body together was the magic seeping rapidly from his soul. Chara let out a short, scathing chuckle, closer to how she might have actually laughed when she had been fully alive.

“Oh Sans, a comedian to the bitter end, it’d be inspiring if you weren’t leaving such a pathetic legacy. Ten years of hunting, ten years in exile away from all the monsters you could’ve helped, and for what? Just admit it to yourself already. You came out here to die, why else would you’ve picked a fight with Frisk in the first place? You could’ve killed them the moment you saw them, whipped up a fleet of Blasters and ZAP.  That’s all she wrote, but no, you chose to go through with the whole charade like you always did. Keeping Frisk alive knowing they couldn’t give you what you wanted, beating them down waiting for me  to take over...the only person capable of putting you out of your misery.”  Chara’s voice was coated in a ghastly approximation of gentleness, her grin flashing teeth as she watched Sans deteriorate before her eyes, the skeleton skittering on the edge of complete disintegration as he glared silently up at her. Chara carefully pulled her hand away from the charred wound in her chest, the tender smile she had fashioned slipping briefly, returning as she slowly extended her hand and rested it against Sans’ skull. The skeleton flinched and tried to pull away, but it was taking every ounce of his concentration just to stay conscious, he could only watch through shuddering vision as Chara traced a finger along the cracks beneath his eye. “You’re in pain, Sans, you’ve always been in pain. You might not believe it, but I understand that pain, to be caught in between life and death. It’s a waking hell, knowing you can never escape, never be...at peace again.” Chara sighed, for a fleeting moment there was something genuine in her voice, something empathetic and human. It vanished as she gazed deeply into Sans’ sockets, eyes burning bright red and sadistic smile spread ear to ear, twisting her blade to further gouge Sans’ wound. “It’s too late for me, but there is a way for you to end the pain, Sans. Just. Give. Up.”  She whispered, punctuating each word with an additional rotation of the knife, hands gripping tightly at Sans’ fingers and face, urging him to surrender.

Sans barely registered the knife shifting and grating against his bones, barely felt the human’s fingers pressing against his fractures, all sensation had blurred into a dull pulse that matched his feathering soul. Some small, tired part of his mind, a part that bore the weight of his tragically long life agreed with what Chara was saying. He was in pain, more pain than he could ever hope to quantify, and he did want it to stop. Sans’ eyelids began to sink, or perhaps his skull itself was melting under the intense magical pressure, either way his vision was narrowing to darkness. As his perceptions started to fade, a faint glimmer of light caught Sans’ attention, a vibrantly crimson glow emanating from underneath Chara’s burnt wound.

It piqued his curiosity, but any effort to move seemed futile, his struggle was becoming pointless. Sans exhaled shakily, his skull tilting forward to hang against his chest, that rapid pulse slowing as his soul entered free fall. Then, strangely, he felt...hands placed on his shoulders. He could still feel Chara’s fingers pressed against his faltering body, and the grip on his shoulder blades was...comforting. They seemed bizarrely familiar, the feelings of loss and lonesomeness that plagued him were dispelled, and as Sans’ descent was brought to a standstill...he heard a voice echo through his soul.

“SANS...YOU CAN’T GIVE UP NOW...YOU’VE COME SO FAR. YOU HAVE THE POWER TO OVERCOME THIS...TO TAKE AWAY WHAT SUSTAINS THEM. PLEASE, I KNOW YOU CAN DO IT...I BELIEVE IN YOU...BROTHER.”  

Sans’ eyes opened wide as energy bolstered his soul, magic erupting and spilling over his crumbling bones, the sound of Papyrus’ voice ringing clear within his skull. To hear his brother speak again, whether it really was from beyond the grave or if he’d finally gone insane, Sans couldn’t care less. A few joyous, copious tears fell from his sockets, a true smile stretching back across his face. Sans dug his heels into the frost and forced himself to his feet, raising his skull to see Chara’s shocked and enraged expression, turning his focus to the sanguine aura radiating from the center of her chest. Frisk’s soul, visibly glowing under possession by Chara, Sans abruptly realized his attack had almost completely scorched away the layers of flesh and muscle that’d kept it obscured. He could feel the energy leaking out into the frigid air, the abscess of determination keeping Chara in control, sustaining her indomitable will...a sinister smirk slowly crept along the skeletons non-existence lips.

#undertale #fan fiction #fan fic writing #variantale #snowfall #fifth chapter #sans the skeleton #chara dreemurr #hand to hand combat #near death

[strangcrdoctor]

“No, please don’t leave me…” (angst. gimme it)

Of all the ways he’d thought about dying, of all the times he’d wondered over how he might go, he’d never predicted it would be quite like this. He’d suffered under demons, stared down powers more ancient and terrible than the edges of the universe, managed encounters with creatures innumerable that could have done him in with one wrong move. He had been compiling a list of all the ways he could die based on his past experiences, and it was an extensive case-study in how fucked up his way of life had come to be. 

Then, there were some days he was pretty sure he’d just slip on a rug, trip on a book even, and break his neck. Knowing how much of an idiot he could be, Wong was likely to agree. 

Realistically, there were a thousand and one possible deaths he faced every day, all of which he’d managed to avoid thus far. 

But of course it was the bill. It was always the damn, inescapable bill. 

He’d thought that between he and Wong, from breathing blood to birthing Mister Misery, they’d kept decent track of his bills. Or in the least, paid up enough when pay was due so as to keep karma happy. But of course, the existence of Mister Misery was a prime case of how he’d underestimated how much he thought he owed. He supposed too that it made sense in a way that all that unfinished business, the travesty which brought on Misery’s existence, would come back to bite him in the ass.

And he could suffer kicks in the ass. He could suffer quick pain and the prospect of sudden death. Dormammu had given him a full education in those scenarios. 

But dying slowly, that was something he had not been prepared to endure.

And it was slow. Slow enough that he didn’t notice it at first. The creeping neuralgia spreading up his arms was just him getting older, he thought, and all that scar tissue and damage was just wreaking its havoc through time. The paleness didn’t immediately disturb him either, given his health had been consistently terrible since becoming a sorcerer. Frankly, there wasn’t enough food, sleep, or booze in the multiverse to keep him afloat some days, so it wasn’t a stretch of the imagination to find a reason for the pallor.

But then he noticed that his veins were turning black, and even as good as he was at talking himself out of problems, that he could not explain away.

It was just a couple at first, a faint smattering like a spider’s web on the inside of his left wrist. It sat under his watch, so for a long time he didn’t notice. But one day that stinging pain of aggravated nerve tissue had made him take the watch off in the hopes that it was just the band being too tight. The band was never too tight these days - in fact he’d had to punch new holes into the leather because his wrists were leaner than they used to be. Yet all the same, the sight of the shadowy veins had startled him, and had him spending the rest of that day trying to self-diagnose what was wrong.

Every diagnostic spell he knew couldn’t tell him, but after one particularly intensive one, equivalent to a full body scan in the span of about ten minutes - after which he’d helpfully sprung a nosebleed which had needed immediate tending to - he saw that the veins, in response to his exertion, had indeed grown more pronounced. 

They continued to, as it turned out, in light of every spell he cast.

And of course being proud, he had kept it from Wong at first. Kept it from everyone. It was relatively simple given his outfit was in fact disgustingly monkish - there was so little skin to show that it would take a long time for it to reach visible areas. Even when it threatened to show on his hands, his gloves were an accessible and acceptable alibi.

In part he bided his time in the hope that he would find a solution. He pored over every book in the Sanctums and in Kamar Taj, hoping for an explanation. Of course, the most basic and even tangentially related writings he could find all harkened back to magical kick-back. The rhetoric of equilibratory payment and natural law neared Mordo levels of annoying at times, all the more so because he was realizing that both Mordo and the texts were right.

The bill always came due, and he’d buried himself in so much magical debt that it was actively taking out its own interest, one spidery vein at a time.

So he hid, as all cowards do. Hid behind his books and his research, the Greater Good and all the heroes who would come to him still seeking aid. And every night when he came home, or slunk back to his bedroom in the Sanctum, he watched as his vasculature turned to tar beneath his skin.

He had been glad, in a way that life of course would make an irony out of, that Christine didn’t have to watch this happen. They’d come to be on peaceable terms, given they couldn’t avoid one another so long as both of them had a vested interest in helping the Defenders. Then of course he’d been called in by Peter to help with some scuffle or another, and had been the only one left standing well enough to deliver the rest to the care of the Night Nurses - not an uncommon occurrence, and it would not have been an inconvenience if not for the fact that he was desperately aware of how easily Christine could see through les conneries d'Étienne.

He’d stayed standing long enough to admit the boys, offer his heartfelt thanks to Christine, and beat a hasty retreat back to Greenwich to heave his guts out, as per his usual, and map the new inky lines spreading along his ribcage, which was becoming his most hated pastime.

She texted him after her shift ended that night. Because of course she would. Even if he’d known what to say in response, he’d been too busy sitting hunched over his desk, grinding his teeth through a pain-induced cold sweat to answer.

That was the problem with the whole damn thing. When it had just been his wrist, it had been simple enough to ignore. If he didn’t wear the watch, it didn’t bother him. But even as slow-going as the infection of his life lines was, it didn’t take long before wearing clothes, the simple feeling of the sleeves on his shirt against his skin, stung. When deeper arteries became infected he would get frozen from time to time, like he was that night, stunned by just how much it hurt. It felt like a cross between the deep-seated neuralgia from the nerve damage in his hands and, he imagined, an endlessly prolonged version of an embolism. 

Needless to say, there were some days when he didn’t answer any calls. Most days, however, he made himself push through even if his bedside manner was growing increasingly destitute.

The first time he passed out was when Wong found out. And Stephen had been ready upon waking, bracing himself for the chastisement for not having unburdened himself of the truth sooner. But when he woke, hazy and that full-body miserable that usually came with only really terrible flus, the grim look on the other magician’s face had told him everything he needed to know. It was a near first for Wong, given his general lack of expression was nigh inscrutable.

But after that day, he knew. Knew that there wasn’t anything that could have been done to prevent it, and that even to the knowledge of the master librarian, there was nothing else to do.

The second time he passed out, he came to after having been in a coma for two days. That time, both Wong and Christine were there when he woke up. And it spoke to the seriousness of his condition that even upon seeing him awake, and undoubtedly seeing how little fight he had in him, Christine even held her tongue from the lashing he probably deserved.

Much like the particular moue which this situation had inspired on Wong, her tears told him everything about her anger that he needed to know. 

Those tears came about more and more often, much like Christine’s presence in the Sanctum. The first time he caught them not directed at him, whether actively or passively, was when Wong announced that he would be going back to Kamar Taj to make arrangements for the inevitable transition of the Supreme title. Christine hadn’t resisted ripping into the other man like she had resisted ripping into him, and he felt sorry for Wong for knowing that all her previous restraint fed into how nasty that argument got.

They didn’t fight like that ever again. They never had the time.

For the fact of the matter was that he wasn’t dead yet - and so long as he was haranguing this end of the side of the living, he had a job to do. The first time he brooked the subject with her, even having had a relatively peaceful few days, Christine walked out, only returning the next day. The first time he went out on a call in spite of having stumbled up from a blackout less than two hours prior, she didn’t talk to him for a week.

He knew that it was her worst nightmare - having to watch, to know that he was tearing himself apart all over again. The problem was that there was nothing to argue this time. He had found something to live for, and in a way she was forced to be proud of him for going out and doing it in spite of everything.

It was just too bitter of an irony that the very thing that he’d found to give his life meaning was also the thing that was killing him. 

Before long, the cycling he went through after using magic increased in speed. He entered a twisted pattern where the magical whiplash would hack him down, and then be the same thing to wring him back into awareness after he’d gone down. The periods he was left unconscious grew ever shorter, even as the damage, and the pain, grew more extensive.

He stopped taking calls after the day when Tony Stark of all people remarked on the arcane crossword puzzle on his neck. By the time the shadowy veins were indeed visible above his collar, there was nothing more to be done for it. And even though Wong hand’t found his replacement in spite of the many council meetings he’d arranged by that time, there was something in him that broke at having lost so much of himself to the damn pain alone that he couldn’t even offer a witty comeback to a statement from Stark.

Lying in bed waiting for it to happen wasn’t any easier, but he was so tired the passage of time blurred. He amused himself as he could, when he had enough of his own consciousness left to spare. He read up on Stark’s files - but unlike Stark there was no miracle cure for him, no magic super-element that could un-write his death ledger. He read up on The Palmer Technique, kept tabs on J. Jonah Jameson’s crusade against Spider Man.

Mostly, he just waited. And he wished that he didn’t have so many phantom, half-there memories of Christine sitting by his bedside and shushing him when she thought even he wasn’t there enough to hear her cry.

On the last day, his mind was brutally clear. His body, on the other hand, was falling out from underneath him, like a bridge left rotting over a gorge. He felt hot and cold, pained and numbed all at once, but his thoughts and feelings and dreams were rattling around like a letter in a bottle, aching to be read.

Wong had gone, knowing that the best place to brace for his death and the ripples it would cause in the magical world was Kamar Taj. It was where Stephen would have him be, even if Christine wouldn’t ever forgive him for sending the other man away under the auspices of their shared duty.

So Christine was left alone with him, and even if she wouldn’t forgive him for that either, she knew it was for the best. No one among the heroes, from the boys to the Avengers, could really handle this kind of grief: the perturbation that came along with irreversible sickness. And even though her specialty didn’t often lend itself to it, the patience and strength of her heart and her practice made her the only one really fit to suffer through it.

And he’d never forgive himself for having put her through such an experience twice. 

When the creeping pain finally reached his heart, he felt he’d been hit by a truck. The constant discomfort had made him feel heavy for a while now, but the immediacy of its onset and intensity in that moment panicked him. Christine had an iron grip on his hand, which compared to the knife-edge pain in his chest he barely felt, undoubtedly having noticed the change in his demeanor. She had been waiting for signs for the last several days, what of them he could remember, and this was finally it.

“Please. Stay with me. Stay here please. Please.” The rambling mantra left him in a rush, even though he knew she wouldn’t leave now of all times. She wasn’t the type - she never had been. Even when he hadn’t wanted her to, she’d held his hand when he was at his most insufferable, right up until she couldn’t bear it anymore. It hurt his heart in a way that had altogether nothing to do with his ailment that now, as she sat on the bed and pulled his torso up into her arms to rest against her chest, she probably couldn’t bear this either. But she would stay because somehow, in spite of everything, he’d finally become someone that was sufferable.

“C’mere. It’s okay,” she said, and her tone was soft but far from crooning. She wasn’t alright - neither was he. But they weren’t either of them the type to feign at sweetened words. So even if neither of them were alright, nor ever would be, he could rest assured of the wisdom that she wasn’t lying to him. “It’s okay.”  

He felt himself shudder out a breath against her. “That’s better. That doesn’t hurt.” The physical pain hadn’t lessened, but hearing her say that to him had truly alleviated the worst of his many pains in having balmed that spiritual conflict he was feeling. Still, he’d always been terrible at leaving unfinished business. If he could do one last thing, it would be to tie up the one loose end that needed it most. “Do we forgive each other?” 

He counted the silence that stretched on in the wake of that question in beats of his miserable heart. 

“I shouldn’t have left you alone.” 

It wasn’t the answer he wanted. And whether it was from the desperate misery of having more to say - I would give everything for you - or from the reaving pain that made him feel like his throat was collapsing, he couldn’t squeeze out more than the lesser of all the words he had left before that mouldering vessel finally crumbled beneath the weight of his sins. 

“Forgive me. Forgive yourself.”

The lights in the windows of the Sanctum Sanctorum went dark that night. Those apprised of the situation, of which there were many, knew to look for the passing of that signal. Though it couldn’t be felt by the likes of mortal men, the sigh that followed the death of the Sorcerer Supreme put the magical world into a moment of silent repose - animals and beings from dimensions uncounted brought to pause, in awe like all beings in the wake of an act of nature.

Christine Palmer took only one thing from the house that night, and she took it from the wrist of a dead man whom she had once called lover, friend, and general asshole. She knew he wouldn’t have cared at the minor act of defiling his empty body. She thought in fact, and with no small amount of conviction, that he had put himself through the extra discomfort of wearing the watch on the night of his death so as to insure that she would see and take it. 

She walked out of the Sanctum Sanctorum alone, and then only far out enough to sit on the front steps, numbly clutching the watch as the night watch brought its mourners. In an act which defied the drudging passage of time into the darkest ticks of the night, those who knew to slowly trickled in, bringing candles to leave on the windowsills and the banister of the stoop to ward off the depth of the shadows on that night. Some of them lingered, like her weeping in silence in the glow of candle-light, choosing to preserve the quiet and some unspoken tradition before returning back to their vanguards in the city that never slept.

That candle-light caught on the shattered face of the watch she had given him a lifetime ago. The feeling of the engraving on the back against the tips of her fingers burned badly enough, for she hadn’t the heart to look at and read those words just then. She knew what they said. She would never forget. 

Because time really would tell how much she loved him. And it saddened her to know that she did love him enough to forgive both of them in time.

#''prescriptions #drabbles #drcpalmer

[sigurdjarlson]

★ all your WoW characters

Oh!!! Thank you!! I know it was supposed to be one fact for each but...stuff got created on the spot and I was like oh! that! wait no what about- and yeah it got out of hand c:

Diily (night elf hunter): The older sister of Alaluria and Ladeila. She will skin any leftover kills she finds while out and about. It saddens her to think people would take a life and then leave their corpse to rot. She strongly believes in using all of the animal. It’s the respectful thing to do. If she can’t skin it she’ll find a use for it. Give the meat to someone who needs it, fashion something out of the claws, teeth, scales or feathers, feed it to her brat pack, something. Unrelated but when it comes to her sisters she tries to be the responsible one but when running solo she’s a reckless goof. It’s one of the many reasons she’s head over heels in love with Khadgar

Alaluria (night elf demon hunter): Hasn’t seen Ladeila since she left to join Illidan’s cause and the last time she saw Diily was at the battle in the Black Temple.  Perhaps a bit of her affection for Illidan is rooted in empathy she has for him because of her own estrangement from his family. In her mind she was the one betrayed too. Now that she’s been freed she is doing her best to avoid both of her sisters. At this point in time she believes It’s too late for them to make amends. And lmao she totally has feelings for Illidan but the chance of him ever returning those feelings is very slim. 

Ladeila: (night elf mage): The baby of the family. She’s only just recently come of age. She chose to be a mage despite her race’s tragic history with arcane magic. She wants to prove night elves can be trusted to wield arcane magic but after becoming a mage herself she understands how they became as dependent and addicted as they were. She is intent on never ending up like that. Diily worries about her endlessly. In fact the pure white frostsaber cub she brings with her everywhere is from one of Dily’s sabers litters.

Gaillen (worgen death knight): My angsty girl. She’s a bitter bitch trying to be a better bitch. Her and Fae were together before she became a death knight and she hasn’t seen her since. She’s too ashamed. She was Arthas’ right hand woman and she’s killed more than she can count. Much of what drives her and keeps her going is a desire to atone for her actions even though she knows she never really could. She’s a grump and honestly would probably literally bite you in the face if you pissed her off. 

Faelila (worgen druid): Was affectionately called “sunshine” by her former girlfriend and for good reason. (for the record she has no idea Gaillen isn’t dead and mourns her to this day)She’s the happiest worgen you’ll ever meet. She believes the worgen curse is more of a gift than a curse and embraced it wholeheartedly once she had control over it. It’s no different to her then her druid forms. Like any druid she’s deeply in tune with the world around with her. She has an immense amount of admiration for Malfurion that borders on being an innocent crush. What a furry

Jeanettle (gnome warrior): Most likely to build a sex machine. She’s a lover and a fighter. She’s bisexual but has a heavy preference for ladies. Would probably hit on you if she met you. She’s a huge flirt but a sweetheart.She’s not out to break anyone’s heart.She’s just a wanderer, baby. (THEY CALL ME THE WANDERER-) 

Thorhilde (dwarf mage): Honestly just wants to study magic, drink ale, eat and stay in bed but the world keeps needing to be saved. She finds Khadgar extremely irritating but cares about him deep down. She’ll punch ya in yer face if you talk shit. To be fair she finds most people irritating. Let her study in peace please.

Hiti (Pandaren shaman): Cinnamon roll. Most body positive girl you’ll ever meet which is common with Pandaren. She’s appalled by the body shaming she sees in other races and goes full mama bear mode when she sees it. 

Mugartah (orc hunter): She’s an asshole to almost everyone except her pets honestly. Regardless honor is extremely important to her. Leaving the alliance to die still leaves a bad taste in her mouth. There was nothing they could do but..what if there was? Lok’tar ogar. Retreating makes her feel like a coward.

Regynna (blood elf warlock): She shamelessly enjoys dabbling in forbidden and dangerous magic.Just for fun and because she believes to defeat an enemy you need to understand them. She often grows attached to her demons despite their innate nature and will blast someone to pieces if they’re killed during battle.

Erlaina: (night elf rogue): The personification of the dashing rogue trope. Han Solo in female elf form. True to that comparison she is also a sweetheart deep down. The “reluctant” hero, she’s always getting herself intro trouble.However she will empty your pockets if she thinks you’re an asshole. Kind of robin hood esque in that way except she often keeps the money which isn’t very robin hood esque at all ;)

Saalina (draenei priest): Has a ton of affection for Anduin Wrynn (no, not like that). She wishes she could be as forgiving as him though. She harbors a deep resentment of orcs and blood elves for what they did to her people. She tries to let it go but hasn’t figured out how to yet. She lost her family both by orc hands in Outland and when the Exodar crashed due to blood elf tampering. Her fervor and commitment to destroying Gul’dan rivals even Khadgar’s.