#ch. silver mist

[invisiiblestrings]

"i'm fine ! i’m perfectly fine !"silver called out from the ground. she had fallen. sometimes she wondered if being human sized was worth it because her legs seemed to be more complicated.. maybe it's because her wings made things easier. either way she was popping up from the group with a giggle, "sometimes i feel like a real fish out of water."

#threads. #ch. silver mist #i wasn't creative with her name or this starter buuuuuuuuuuuut here we go

[pursuitseternal]

“The Second Day” of “Antics of the Newly Ascended:” staring Batstarion🦇

Ascended Astarion x F!Reader |E| 1.3K Pure antics and comedy

🦇 art by @marimosalad Link to full art

Summary: You can’t pick a lock without your Rogue, even if he is Ascnedant now. So you wait… and wait… until a new unexpected visitor flies in.

CW: Banter, Poop jokes, Tav filtering Astarion’s threats and antics, sneezes, and cute fluffy vampiric bats with an attitude 🦇 (no smut)

Previous Ch | Ao3 link | Masterist

🦇🦇🦇🦇🦇🦇🦇🦇🦇🦇🦇🦇🦇🦇🦇🦇🦇

“Hells, what is taking him so…flipping long?”

For a split second, you think Gale might actually swear, but no. The goody-two-shoes scout wins out in the end. You giggle anyway.

“Said he’d be back quick with a new set of lockpicks ready to go, Mister Ascendant Lord and expert of the underbelly of Baldur’s Gate…” Gale huffs and folds his arms crossly.

Karlach snorts next to you, both your backs leaning against the alley walls. You keep to the shadows, eyeing up the house you need to enter… surreptitiously. Those Flaming Fist have been everywhere lately, and you still needed your Rogue to break you in nearly everywhere in the City.

“He’s probably too busy doing Ascendant things to hurry, Gale,” Karlach chuckles, peering her horned head into the street.

“Like what?” you ask, folding your arms and pouting your lips, “what could he possibly be doing but rushing back to be with me?”

Gale rolls his eyes, seeing the wry expression on your face, he realizes you joke. “Oh, good one,” he chortles. “Oh lots of things, I would imagine if I applied my wildest musings…”

“Get to the point wizard!” Karlach slaps him on the back. “More taunting, fewer words.”

Gale sputters for air after having it knocked from his body. And you laugh at that.

Suddenly, you feel a breeze pass your face. A blur of white settles on the wall beside your head. Hanging upside down.

A fluffy white bat. It chitters at you.

“Oh shit,” Karlach jolts at the sight. “That thing is massive.”

It seems to chitter more.. proudly at that. You narrow your eyes at it… your other companions draw away a step, leaving the beast with space.

“If Astarion were here, he’d probably call it a snack and snatch it from the air…” Gale jabs, a self-confident smile on his face, proud of his own humor. His own best entertainment.

“Naw… he’s too busy picking out new fancy clothes…” Karlach peers into the street.

“Too busy trying to burst into a sea of mist…” Gale laughs.

You giggle, thinking of something he did just that morning, for an hour, “Preening his hair into a perfect coif before kissing his reflection…”

Gale’s mouth snaps shut. The bat on the wall chitters noisily again, flapping its wings as it comes to dart around your head. “That bat is all over you,” his eyes narrow, “but I’m fresh out of Speak with Animals potions for now.”

You shrug, “I don’t mind, maybe he’s lonely…” You hold out your hand, an offering to let the little mammal rest somewhere soft. “Gives me something to look after until Astarion comes back.”

“Don’t let him see you’ve got a new pet…” Gale taunts, leaning closer to peer at the creature that now rests in your palm, “He might get jealous and snap it up in his fangs.”

Does… is the bat… glaring at Gale?

You look closely, but Karlach guffaws. “Oh oh, I’ve got it. I think I know what’s keeping the Vampire Ascendant! He’s probably stuck taking his first shit in two-hundred years...”

Okay, now that bat in your palm is definitely glaring, and chittering, and… pissed. You look closely at last, it’s white fur catches the sun in shades of silver, its eyes are a deep red… almost a crimson…

You stop. “Astarion?” you murmur at the little creature, patting its head with a single finger.

It… He… bounces on your hand, chittering away, pointed little face nodding.

“For fucks sake…” Karlach groans. “How the fuck did you turn into that?”

Gale leans closer… but not too close just in case. “I’ve read that some Vampires can take forms themselves, if powerful enough.” He grins widely, “Could be ferocious werewolf, or noxious cloud…” that grin twists, “Yours is adorable, if I do say so myself, Astarion.”

You can almost hear the ire in the noises that he makes in reply. Still nonsense chatter, but the emotion is clear.

He is not amused.

“Gale, you do realize he will turn back, and he will be pissed,” you warn with a shake of your head. You freeze, a whisper tickling inside your mind as the creature in your palm twitches and rests. “Astarion says it’s not his fault you're a pack of incompetent… oh,” you pause, patting him on his head with a finger, “I’m not going to say that part, my love.”

“He’s… talking to you?” Gale twists his head and raises a brow. “Like, mind to mind?”

“Yes,” you nod, “we are just as baffled at the moment, I will be honest with you, even if he said not to tell you…” the bat starts scrabbling up your arm, chittering even more noisily than before. “Stop whining, darling. You’ll figure it out.” He comes to rest on your shoulder, hanging upside down from the seam of your shirt. “And he says he would rather you never again speculate about his bowel movements either, on pain of… I’m going to say, a severe talking to.”

“That’s not what he said is it?” Karlach guffaws.

You can’t help but let your finger scritch under his little chin as he dangles from your shoulder. “No, no,” you giggle as you watch his beady little eyes flutter shut at the petting. “He used his regular ascendantly foul mouth.”

“Well, Vampire Ascendant or not, he’s not going to be much help breaking and entering in that form, is he?” Gale snips, rolling his eyes.

“He says he would be more than happy to talk us through it, if we… oh, again? I’m not suggesting that, my pet,” you shake your head, removing your scratching finger to wag it at him. “Naughty,” you chide.

“How did you get like that anyway, Astarion?” Karlach chuffs, folding her arms and swaying on her feet.

“He sneezed,” you reply. “Oh, I wasn’t supposed to share that. I’m sorry, my love. You really should be more obvious about what is for my ears… er… mind alone.”

“Maybe…” Gale gives a mischievous grin, “if we get you to sneeze again… maybe you’ll change back to a form with fingers that can actually do some good.” He reaches into his pocket, takes out a little bit of powder, and blows.

The little bat writhes, fur standing on end, flat folded nose twitching before….

“Achoo!” The sneeze echoes off the alley walls, a burst of black mist that tingles your skin as his tall, lean and wiry body forms against your arm. You can sense his irritation, out right, cuttingly sharp annoyance lacing his angry breaths. Once the mist clears, Astarion is, in fact, glaring at you all. Crimson eyes dart from one to the next. “I am… going to fucking kill you,” he hisses.

“Shh…” you cajole, raising your finger to scritch under his smooth chin, clenched tight in his rage. Instantly, the moment you begin your gentle petting, he eases, eyes fluttering shut.

“I think he likes that, soldier,” Karlach whispers a giggle. “Do you feed him little treats when he’s a good boy?”

“Only if he gets us into that house with those dexterous hands of his,” you chuckle and slide your hand to stroke his cheek.

“Fine,” he sighs, exasperated, tired, and annoyed. “But not one of you breathes a word of this to Halsin… or Wyll… or… anyone.”

“Agreed,” Karlach slaps him on the back.

He begins rummaging his lithe fingers through his pack, turning those crimson eyes on you as you watch. “And you, my consort, don’t think I’m not going to make you pay for that mirror-kissing comment earlier…”

“Don’t think you won’t have to earn those chin scritches, my love,” you giggle in return as he flashes that fanged smirk at you.

“One more, my darling?” he purrs, watching the others start into the street already. “One for the road, one in case we die today?”

Your fingers reach quickly to oblige, his eyes closing to savor your attentive care. And you giggle, “Who can argue with that?”

#ascended astarion #ascension puberty #baldurs gate astarion #astarion x f!reader #astarion x female reader #astarion x reader #batstarion #baldur’s gate astarion #astarion fic #baldur's gate 3 astarion #astarion fanfic #astarion #astarion ancunin #astarion bg3 #bg3 fanfiction #bg3 astarion #bg3 spoilers #bg3 #bg3 funny #baldurs gate smut #baldursgate3 #baldur gate 3 #baldur’s gate 3 #baldur's gate #baldurs gate 3 #baldurs gate #baldur's gate 3 #baldur's gate iii #baldur’s gate spoilers #baldur’s gate iii

[rosanna-writer]

we said hello and your eyes look like coming home (22/?)

Summary: A canon-divergent AU where the bond snaps for Rhys on Calanmai, Feyre unwittingly accepts it, and Fire Night magic proves to be more transformative than anyone bargained for. Feyre drags a mate she hardly knows out from Under the Mountain, then puts him back together as war with Hybern approaches. Warnings: dubious consent, canon-typical sexual violence, canon-typical violence Rating: Explicit Chapter Word Count: ~3.6k

ch. 1 - 10 | ch. 11-20 | ch. 21 - i wouldn't marry me either | ch. 22 - burn all the files, desert all your past lives

This fic turns one year old today!!! Thank you to everyone who's been reading, commenting, and kudos-ing; it's been wonderful to have you along for the ride <3

Some text in this chapter is lifted directly from both A Court of Thorns and Roses and A Court of Mist and Fury.

Read on AO3 or you can find the twenty-second chapter below the readmore.

Rhys wasn't back by the time I woke up the next morning. I'd expected it; we'd spoken through the bond throughout the long night handling the aftermath of the attack on Sangravah, and by the time I'd been unable to keep my eyes open, he'd still been working. I knew Rhys—if he'd slept at all, it had been in his office in the House of Wind, when he'd been too drained of energy to fly home.

The townhouse felt too empty.

It wasn't cold, but like a sentimental fool, I slipped on the dressing gown he'd left on the chair in my room the other day. The fabric was midnight-blue and the size far too big for me—the silver-embroidered cuffs extended several inches past my fingertips.

I padded downstairs, only to be hit by the smell of something baking. Bread, perhaps. And…cheese? Definitely not Rhys.

I crept towards the kitchen. Perhaps I should have been more worried about an intruder, but I trusted that Rhys's wards still kept out anyone who wasn't allowed inside. It was probably Cassian here with food.

Around the corner, I spotted a dark-haired female with her back to me—the first time I'd ever seen her fully corporeal. Nuala.

Cauldron boil me, the last time we'd seen each other, she'd been painting Illyrian markings for luck and glory all over my naked body. I had no idea what to say to her.

But before I could run back upstairs, she turned at the sound of my footsteps. I froze.

She smiled and said warmly, "You look well."

I caught the flicker of recognition in her eyes at the sight of me in a dressing gown that obviously belonged to the High Lord. If it had been someone else, the words might have sounded sarcastic or suggestive. But she really did sound pleased to see me.

My cheeks heated anyway, which was utterly ridiculous. The bond might have been a secret, but it wasn't as if Rhys and I made much of an effort to keep our hands off each other in public—his tongue had been down my throat on the banks of the Sidra more than once already. And yet I still felt…caught out.

"It's good to see you," I said after several moments of painful silence.

Nuala nodded towards a plate of chive-and-cheese scones that I hadn't noticed were sitting out on the table. "Those are still warm, if you're hungry."

Awkwardness aside, I still didn't have it in me to pass up food, so I sat and nibbled on a scone. It was warm, soft, and buttery—I was tempted to scarf it down like an animal but managed not to.

And it was a relief to have something to with my hands and a reason not to say anything. The oven was still on, and Nuala went back to stirring something in a bowl on the counter.

"My sister is gathering intelligence on the soldiers that attacked last night," she said, answering a question I hadn't known how to ask.

Azriel had said the twins were spending time with family after their return from Under the Mountain, and I'd assumed that meant they weren't working. I couldn't imagine what they'd endured during the last fifty years—I barely felt functional after only a few weeks in Amarantha's court. My appetite vanished.

"You don't have to be here. I can manage on my own." I'd run the household of our family of four with far fewer resources than I had now—it would be no trouble to take care of that for just Rhys and me, especially if it meant Nuala and Cerridwen could recover for the rest of their days if they wished.

Besides, Rhys would do his fair share of the work with far less complaining than Nesta ever had.

Nuala smiled. "Rhysand said the same thing. But after last night, Cerridwen and I both chose not to take his offer to retire from service."

"Why?"

"A court needs well-trained spies and trusted servants to remain secure. We're difficult to find on short notice."

The twins saw the storm clouds gathering on the horizon, too. And even after all they'd survived…they were here. Had chosen to be here.

I'd never forget the blanket they'd left for me in that cold cell, not if I lived a thousand years.

"Thank you. For everything."

She shrugged. "We were caught unawares and trapped there. You're the one who walked in eyes open."

We didn't speak of it again after that. I ate another scone while she baked some sort of egg dish with vegetables and a crust. When she put away the flour, I was relieved she didn't mention the raven I'd painted on the inside of the cabinet door. She must have known it was new and that Rhys certainly hadn't painted it.

When I insisted on washing the dishes before heading upstairs to get dressed, Nuala let me.

I dug the plainest gown out from the back of my closet. Not because I particularly wanted to wear it—I was most comfortable in Illyrian leathers or the silky, billowing pants and sheer sleeves of Night Court attire—but because I didn't want to cause a stir if I could avoid it or appear too faerie.

It was stifling to feel this covered up. I'd grown used to the caress of a breeze against my skin when I wasn't in leathers, and if I needed to run, I hated the thought of having to lift up my skirts to do it. Faeries—at least the ones in the Night Court—never made a fuss about bare legs or an exposed strip of skin around a navel.

I could endure this for a few hours, though. I'd been braiding my hair when Rhys winnowed in, directly onto my bed. He lay on his stomach, his head propped up on a fist and his feet in the air to keep his shoes off the duvet.

As usual, he looked aggravatingly put-together, no sign at all of the long night he'd had. Not a hair out of place, and he'd changed into a fresh tunic and pants.

Something like distaste flickered in his eyes even as he said, "You look beautiful." It was the first time he'd seen me wear a dress, I realized—or at least, the first time he'd seen me wear one of my own volition, if the scraps of fabric I'd worn Under the Mountain even counted.

"I don't," I said, voice flat, "and no one likes a liar, Rhys."

He stood and came closer, flicking my nose instead of kissing me hello. "You'd look beautiful in a potato sack."

"No one likes a cad, either."

He huffed a laugh as I tied off the end of the braid and rose from the chair. In a single absurdly graceful movement, he leaned down to kiss me properly while lifting me into his arms to fly. I let myself melt into the warmth of his solid body against mine, and for a moment, I considered getting the damn dress off and Rhys into bed for the rest of the day.

But I couldn't keep putting this off.

I held on tight as we vanished into dark wind and appeared again hundreds of feet over a vast, blue sea. Even though I'd expected it—we'd planned to slip through one of the holes that had formed in the Wall—I let out a shriek and clung tighter to Rhys. The wind roared; water rushed towards us—

Was that a scream from the fearless Cursebreaker? We're not even in free fall. The words seemed to glitter with wicked amusement as they crossed the bond.

Rhys was right, though. His wings strained against the wind but kept our descent controlled, snapping open at just the right angles so we stayed on course. I tipped my head back to take in the particular contented smile he only wore while flying.

It disappeared as we approached the Wall. I couldn't see it, but I felt the crackle of its power setting my teeth on edge all the same. Rhys gripped me tighter.

The feeling got worse as we approached. And as we swept through, there was a horrible moment where I felt ripped in half, as if it wanted to scatter incomplete pieces of me among the mortals and the fae.

But it passed in an instant.

I was back in the human lands. The home I thought I'd never see again.

There was barely time to process that before we were slipping into the space between worlds as Rhys winnowed us to the woods just outside my family's estate.

He'd offered to glamour himself to appear human and accompany me, but I'd said no. Perhaps another time, but…this felt like something I had to do on my own. So I kissed him goodbye and walked towards the manor alone.

The white marble walls and emerald roof were grand, but totally unfamiliar. I passed neat hedges as I walked up the flagstone path, and my heart squeezed at the sight of flowers and shrubs that had been planted there—Elain's doing, no doubt.

At the double doors, I rang the bell and waited, my stomach churning. Azriel's reports had assured me that all was well, but…perhaps it wasn't. Perhaps something had gotten overlooked.

A ruddy-faced housekeeper I didn't recognize opened the door. "May I help you?" she said, blandly polite.

"I'm Feyre Archeron. I'm here to see my family," I said.

Her eyes lit up with recognition at the sound of my name. That was a relief, at least; I wasn't forgotten. "Your father is away on business, but your sisters—"

"Feyre? Is that you?" Elain—Elain. Cheerful and lovely as always, untouched by the monsters and horrors I'd encountered in Prythian. Safe. Just as I'd remembered her.

I nearly sobbed with relief. But as far as she knew, I was merely back from taking care of an elderly relative, so I kept my voice light as I said, "It's me. I'm here while our cousin stays with Aunt Ripleigh to give me a short break."

The housekeeper stepped aside as Elain launched herself at me. I embraced my sister, relieved at how she'd filled out since I'd last seen her. Taken care of and eating right, then. "What a wonderful surprise!" she said.

There were footsteps on the stairs, and I looked over Elain's shoulder to see Nesta standing with a hand braced on the rail.

Staring as if I were a ghost.

I'd forgotten how cunning her eyes were, how cold. There was no reason to believe Nesta knew anything about what I'd been up to for the past few months, yet….she'd always been made of something different. Something harder and stronger.

"What are you doing here?" she said, face carefully blank.

"Visiting. It's…good to see how your fortunes have improved," I said.

Elain's brow furrowed. "I know Nesta's visit didn't work out, but didn't you get our letters?"

She didn’t remember—or maybe she’d never actually known, then, that I wouldn’t have been able to read them, anyway. But it still made my heart sink to imagine my sisters sending letters that were doomed to never reach me. If Nesta had tried to visit, though I doubted she'd actually wanted to see me, some magic must have turned her away.

I shook my head, and Elain ushered me inside, complaining about the uselessness of the post. Nesta continued to stare wordlessly, and I half-listened as Elain recounted the story of the mysterious stranger who'd appeared at their doorstep with a wildly lucrative investment opportunity and given them a trunk of gold just for agreeing.

Tamlin's doing, and it matched the reports that Azriel had given me. I'd expected this. And yet, it still didn't quite prepare me for how strange it would feel for Elain to hook her elbow through mine, apologize for not having a room ready for me, and offer to show me the rest of the house.

The manor was beautiful, if a bit…sterile. Beautiful and richly appointed, but everything was new and untouched, with none of the sense of the age that permeated the townhouse in Velaris. I couldn't help but marvel at it—Nesta and Elain were cared for, with enough money to ensure they'd never be hungry again.

Nesta fell into step beside us, a quiet, stalking presence. Her face was still impassive, and she seemed content to let Elain do all of the talking. But it was better than her flinging insults, so perhaps it was a blessing.

We had tea and sandwiches in the lush garden, which was in full bloom for the summer. After months in Prythian, human food tasted like ash in my mouth, but I didn't care. It had been so long since I'd eaten a meal with my family and had enough for all of us.

Never again would I brace myself for a fight if I dared take more than my carefully allotted quarter after hauling a carcass for miles.

It was simple enough to spin stories about reading to Aunt Ripleigh as she instructed me on deportment from her bedside. None of it was particularly interesting, and instead, I asked about the garden and the social season that I'd missed.

The purple-and-white tulips at our feet had once been bulbs brought all the way from the continent, Elain told me, beaming. She'd tended to them herself, planting and weeding in between the balls and parties and gossip of the social season.

"It sounds like you've been busy without me, then," I said, setting down my teacup carefully.

"It was a welcome respite," Elain said, a shadow darkening her lovely face for a moment. "I'm grateful our situation has changed for the better, but I'll admit this season was a bit…strange."

My blood went cold. Of course this had all been too good to be true. Something was wrong. "In what way?"

"People acted as if we’d all just been ill for eight years, or had gone away to some distant country—not that we’d been a few villages over in that cottage. You’d think we dreamed it all up, what happened to us over those years. No one said a word about it."

I relaxed again. In truth, it was a warmer reception than I thought my family would have gotten after so many years of poverty. It was better than being treated as if we were diseased.

Perhaps something had happened, though. It might explain why Nesta was so quiet. She'd barely touched her food and just stared with those piercing blue-grey eyes that were an unsettling mirror of my own.

"That does sound strange," I said. We went quiet again, and I set my tea down and turned back to my plate. Out of the corner of my eye, I caught Elain staring, too. "What?"

Elain shook her head. "You just look so…different. Not in a bad way of course. It's just as if there's a…a glow about you."

I froze. The only sort of people who were ever described as glowing were ones who were happily pregnant. Gods, I hadn't inadvertently given them the impression I was with child, had I?

"Did something happen at Aunt Ripleigh's house?" Elain asked. "Did you…meet someone?"

The tilt of Nesta's head was pure predator as she added, "Did you, Feyre?"

I wanted to say yes. Perhaps I was too much of a coward to admit to my human family that I'd fallen in love with a faerie, but I could have told a few half-truths. I didn't want to subject myself to an interrogation, though.

"Just good food and rest," I said.

Nesta got to her feet, straight-backed and regal as she stared down her nose at me. "We're out of tea. Why don't you come with me to get another pot from the kitchen?" It wasn't a question.

I followed her before Elain had a chance to object or insist on coming with. As soon as we were inside, Nesta's hand clamped down on my arm, and she steered me towards an empty sitting room and shut the door behind us.

"There is no Aunt Ripleigh," Nesta said.

Cauldron boil and fry me. I could kill whoever told her. "Of course there—" I started to say.

"Don't. I saw that look on your face when Elain asked if you'd met someone. She and Father don't remember that beast taking you away, but I do. Tell me what the hell is going on, Feyre."

All these months…Nesta had known. And kept it to herself.

She'd seen through Tamlin's glamour somehow, probably just because her mind was so thoroughly her own that he couldn't have violated it. And if a High Lord hadn't been able to fool her, I shuddered to think what she made of the sentries Rhys had sent, who were supposed to have been unseen by human eyes.

There was no point in hiding the bond from her, too. I pulled the chain with my mating band out from where I'd tucked it under the bodice of my dress. "I did meet someone in Prythian."

"You're married," she breathed. The disbelief in her voice shouldn't have stung as much as it did. Nesta had never made a secret of how thoroughly she doubted any man would ever find me an acceptable bride.

"In a manner of speaking. The fae either marry or mate if the Cauldron blessed them with a soul-bound partner. I have a mate. Rhysand, the High Lord of the Night Court."

Nesta barked a harsh, bitter laugh. I didn't know what to make of it until she said, shaking her head in disbelief, "Mother expected me to marry a prince, but you're the one who's ensnared a faerie king and become his consort."

"I didn't ensnare—"

"Then what? He forced you?"

"No!" I had no idea how to look my sister in the eye and tell her a magical stag had done it. Nesta just crossed her arms and stared me down, waiting for an explanation. She said nothing because she didn't have to—there was pure command in just the way she held herself. I took a breath and continued, "Rhys loves me, and I love him. He isn't the one who took me. That was Tamlin, the High Lord of Spring. Rhys got me out and took me somewhere safe. It's a long story, but yes, I am Lady of the Night Court now."

"And this Lord Rhysand is the reason we're now…taken care of?"

I didn't want to give Tamlin the credit. His kindness rang hollow—uncomfortably transactional, in a way—when it was clearly recompense for kidnapping me. And in truth, Rhys was the reason I hadn't worried about Tamlin impoverishing my family a second time in retaliation for swearing fealty to Night. "Yes."

"Then give him my thanks and don't come back here again."

The words might as well have been a slap to the face. I hadn't expected a warm welcome from Nesta, but…I'd hoped, at least, that she'd be something closer to civil.

"What about Father?" I said. "I haven't seen him since I was taken away."

"What about the rest of us? If anyone learns our sister is a fae sympathizer, any standing, any influence we have—gone."

Nesta's hand was resting on the back of an armchair, and she gripped it so tightly that her knuckles had gone white. The set of her shoulders was stiff.

It was the closest to afraid she ever seemed to get.

She had reason to be, as much as it hurt. Our family had tumbled into ruin once, and we'd all nearly starved to death because of it. I could not blame my sister for wanting to cling to the good fortune as fiercely as possible. I knew, deep down, she only did it because she wanted to see Elain safe and happy.

"There's more I need to tell you before I go."

"Stay the night, then. We can speak privately for longer after the servants have left for the day, but you'll need to leave before breakfast."

We wouldn't be overheard in the garden either, but Nesta clearly didn't want Elain to know any of this. I had half a mind to blurt it out before Nesta could stop me as soon as we sat back down with Elain. But this was for the best.

I trusted the walls surrounding Nesta's mind; she'd keep my secrets. But anyone with daemati abilities could pluck information right out of Elain's, and the chances were too high that someone intent on hunting me down might do just that. Elain couldn't know.

"Thank you."

A single nod—downright affectionate from Nesta. "Elain bought paints for you. She'd appreciate it if you left something for her; I know she misses the decorations you left in the cabin."

"I'd like that," I said, meaning it.

There was nothing else to discuss; we returned to the garden after that and made our excuses to Elain for taking so long with the rest of the tea. The three of us spent the rest of the afternoon sitting in the sun, chatting and catching up. Nesta was still quiet, but…we didn't fight. No one insulted each other.

Even as a knot formed in my stomach at the thought of unburdening myself to Nesta later, I savored the peace as I painted foxgloves around the doorframe to Elain's bedroom.

This day had been a gift, and I was intent on appreciating it.

#feysand #feyre archeron #we said hello and your eyes look like coming home

[scribblecake]

Gentle Lights Ch)2

Back at it again at the Krispy Kreme

TW: Graphic depictions of injury, Anxiety, Light spooky shit ngl

Angsty but gets better!

Side note: Not sure how many chapters this will be. So buckle up I guess 🤷‍♀️

~***~

Shuddering breath filled Izogie’s lungs. 

Her eyes shot open only to slam back shut at the searing light invading her vision. A weak groan bubbled from the warrior’s throat as sensation began to slowly return to her.

Izogie’s body felt completely crushed by fatigue. The pain from deep in the static was now sharp. Tangible. Close, so close and everywhere beneath her flesh. 

The warrior could feel blood, sweat and grime festering on every inch of her. The beginnings of fever coiling over her limbs with thirst ripping at her throat and mouth with merciless claws. The two work in tandem to slice dry cracks into her lips, to turn her tongue to sand, and to drum a steady ache in her skull.

But she was alive.

Despite it all she lived. The thought was enough to make her laugh in triumph. Chapped lips slowly stretched and twisted into a gentle smile. But the only sound Izogie could manage was a reedy wheeze too feeble to be heard over the breeze… 

~***~

Consciousness soon became an illusive commodity. Lucidity even more so. Fever burned the strength from the warrior’s waning muscles, clouding her mind with boiling delirium. Much like before, Izogie was left adrift. But the void wasn’t there to shield her anymore. Instead she lay stagnant. Solid. Sickly.

On the odd occasion, when she had the strength, Izogie would gather her focus and attempt to move. Starting small she would flex her fingers then her toes. All the while stubbornness trailed behind her every twitch. With each small venture it demanded the warrior gather her courage and open her eyes.

But the soldier refused. She wasn’t ready to face the world. Opening her eyes would mean perceiving reality. A reality where she was a failure, a deserter, a weak and broken soul barely clinging to a pitiful shred of life. 

Opening her eyes could mean the possibility of having no way forward. And what if she did survive? Would she be able to face her sisters? Her mentor? Would she be able to face Nawi? 

Would her old life even be within reach?

Suddenly something cut through Izogie’s delirious spiral of worries. A sound faint and gentle with a bubbling lilt that held nothing but warmth and kindness. Izogie held her breath, her senses tuning into her surroundings to the best of their ability. 

Tensely the warrior strained her ears. Soft wind rustled nearby foliage, crickets played their nightly symphony, and distant waves lapped at a shore. Yet nothing matched that wonderful sound. 

She must be hearing things. 

Izogie listened intently for a while. Only it didn’t repeat. The only sounds were that of the natural cacophony of the night. Filled with disappointment, the warrior chalked it up to her delirium spilling into reality. 

But it came again! Clearer this time! Was it… laughter? Yes! Warm laughter echoed just on the edge of the wind. It pulled at Izogie’s heart, filling her with… hope? The more she listened the more she yearned to stand up and follow it. 

This strange laughter filled the warrior with another more foreign feeling. Little by little all the fatigue that bogged down her limbs began to lift.

Surprise forced Izogie’s eyes to fly open. She was instantly met with burning and blurring vision fighting to focus. After a few minutes the world came into view…

Stars dotted an inky sky. The moon hung low and bright, bathing the land in shimmering silver. To Izogie’s right, a sprawling coastline framed the horizon.

To her left, mist curled and threaded itself between the dense foliage of a jungle. Izogie herself seemed to be wedged at the base of a cobblestone wall.

She lay at an awkward angle, as if she had been carelessly dumped over the side of the wall. Luckily her body was hidden from view by a dense canopy. Though the warrior couldn’t dwell on her surroundings long.

In the corner of her vision a small light flickered briefly. Izogie froze. She must be seeing things. Though fear spiked through her when a twig snapped to her left.

At the mouth of the jungle.

The warrior’s heart was pounding in her ears now. Was it an animal? A person? She was too sickly and injured to defend herself! Anxiety stabbed at Izogie’s gut as she strained to detect any potential threats. 

She found none.

Another snap. Closer this time. Yet frantic eyes detected nothing. Dread forced a tremor down the soldier’s spine and Izogie’s soul damn near left her body when she felt a soft hand on her shoulder. A scream tried to tear itself from her throat.

But she was so parched, hardly any sound came out. A soft gasp and confusion quickly replaced fear. The warrior’s eyes were met with a breathtaking sight.

A woman? 

Her skin glimmered and shone as if she were made of solid starlight. Brilliant locks curled and pooled around her like a flowing river. Deep pools of vibrant brown peered down at Izogie with curiosity while plush lips sported a serene smile. She looked like a moonbeam personified.

Her beauty knocked the wind out of Izogie. She lay there dazed. This seemed to amuse the shimmering woman. She chuckled, sliding closer and leaning downwards. The world came to a screeching halt when Izogie felt a kiss being pressed to her forehead. Their eyes met again when the beauty pulled away. 

Izogie could still feel the imprint of her lips on her skin. It tingled and crackled as if lightning was seeping from it and into her body. Energy pooled in her gut, liquid and cool.

A strong sense of calm washed over the soldier like a wave. The glittering woman gave one final smile before the sensation filled Izogie completely and her vision was overcome with white light.

~***~

“Is… really her?”

“Found… border…”

“Strange… in the… storm.”

“Alright?... she be healed?”

Now this was getting ridiculous! Unconscious voids again? Really? Annoyance blossomed in Izogie’s chest. But for some odd reason, this time, when voices cut through the dark they filled her with joy.

Despite her exhaustion, excitement forced her eyelids to open. And for the third time, she went through the painstaking process of adjusting her vision to the waking world.

Only this time she was greeted with the sight of homeland familiar faces. Gasps split the quiet as three figures rushed to the warrior’s side with the closest leaning over Izogie excitedly.

“N-Nawi?”

~***~

@mybonafidefeelings @zeezeecave @shanas-baby

#I'm still sleep deprived #fight me #izogie #izogie fanfiction #izogie angst #lashana lynch #izogie x reader #the woman king #fan fiction #fanfiction #fanfic #magic #spoopy #the void #no one asked for this #fantasy #I wrote this at 3am #can you tell?

[thrandilf]

Callum vs Claudia!

Callum only had a moment to spring his plan into action. He drew in the air, silver lines flowing like mist as her eyes went black. “Partum mysterium!” His magical twin appeared next to him, same as the other night. Callum got ready to split off in opposite directions- But the illusion flickered and vanished. Stunned, Callum redrew the sigil but it was even fainter, the writing burning off in the daylight like late morning fog. “I’m an idiot,” he said aloud. Claudia’s fireball didn’t wait for him to process his mistake. Leaping to the side, tumbling as he tripped over his own feet, Callum was only lightly singed on his sleeve by the flames. Claudia readied another one. “Oh, I'm sorry, does primal magic have drawbacks? Imagine that!” she shouted, throwing the fireball at him. “You think that’s all I got?!” Callum drew another rune- sky that time. “Stratum caligo!” Sky was everywhere, easygoing, in his every breath. He’d have to get used to something fickle, waxing and waning.

The Devil You Thought You Knew Ch 29

#callum tdp #claudia tdp #tdp fic #the dragon prince #fanfic #fanfiction #tdytyk #im BACK and ive been wanting to get into these two's Stuff for so long. also for those at home unfamiliar Yes we have Moon Callum here

[spicedrobot]

what was lost, what was gained ch. 6 (finale)

yay, we made it! Thanks to everyone who's stuck with this story, and thanks to @bluedaddysgirl for the beta.

-

T-minus one hour and thirteen minutes to arrival. Their voyage to Coruscant was almost over. 

Cody wanted to be happy about it. Standard operations would resume when they landed. The 212st would go back to the front lines. General Kenobi would regain his vigor and return to the stalwart, steadfast man that he’d been before. No more sleepless nights. No more empty smiles, even if those had been dwindling long before they had captured the Sith. The war weighed on everyone, Cody reminded himself, no matter how great they were. 

Cody’s lookout chair sat empty. He paced the block instead. It didn’t matter if Maul saw how restless he was. Soon the Sith wouldn’t be seeing much of anything.

It was a cruel thought, but Maul was a cruel man. Cody couldn’t drum up any mercy for him. 

Inside his cell, the Sith was quieter than usual. Cody had assumed it was nerves at first, but that wasn’t it. Maul was calm, like he was prepared to answer for his crimes without a fight. It was consistent with his attitude during his imprisonment, but still…

Maybe Cody had been wrong all along. Maybe Maul really couldn’t remember. Maybe he never would. Maybe Maul was actually prepared to face judgment, not because he remembered his crimes, but at the behest of General Kenobi. Cody had seen the general’s silver tongue at work before, how he averted large-scale conflicts with well-placed words and what Cody guessed were gentle nudges in the Force. 

His thoughts were disturbed by a shout echoing down the corridor.

“Commander—!” 

It was Maul. His voice was piercing, tight with fear. The cadence of it was so startling that Cody had already crossed the block before any suspicion had time to register. He chided himself. Being so close to the end of this whole mess was making him jumpy. He slowed his step, composing himself before he stepped in front of Maul’s cell.

“What? Getting cold fe—”

The sight of Maul stopped Cody mid-sentence.

The Sith was folded in half on his cot, spasming. A long, panicked whine escaped him; it sounded less like a man and more like an animal caught in a spike trap. Maul was tearing at his neck—no, his collar. The device was sparking. Had Maul tampered with it? Or had it malfunctioned somehow? The sight and sound was horrible; it chilled the skin on the back of Cody’s neck. He wanted to close his eyes and clutch his hands over his ears. Mishap or no, he had to stop this, needed to alert medical immediately. If not for Maul, then for the general. 

“Kix, send a few troopers for retrieval in cell block two,” Cody blurted into his wristcomm. “The Sith managed to electrocute himself.”

He didn’t wait for an affirmative. He was already disabling the rayshields and stepping into the cell. Cody’s bracers were resistant to certain levels of voltage. He could probably pry the collar off before his backup arrived, minimizing the damage.

Beneath Cody’s hand, there was a crack, metallic and sudden, a stark whiff of ozone. Electricity arced in a dazzling line, bright enough to hurt his eyes. The collar fell away into pieces, nothing more than smoking, useless scrap. 

Maul’s dark eyes glimmered. Brightened. He wasn’t writhing. Not anymore. 

“Thank you, commander,” Maul said, voice sibilant. 

Cody grabbed for his blaster. It was too late, he knew. But that was the thing about instinct. It was impossible to fight. Ingrained. 

Then he couldn’t breathe. His hands shot up, clawed at the invisible pressure at his throat. Stupid. Stupid! He knew better. He’d known all along! 

“You’ve done so much already,” Maul crooned, “but I do hope you’ll aid me in one final matter.”

Cody’s vision wavered. His self-loathing and fury were as painful as the Force crushing his windpipe. Whatever words he wanted to say, scream, spit—were reduced to a pathetic mist of spittle.

He would kill Maul. If it was the last thing he did, he would do it—

Confusion perforated Cody’s thoughts. He wasn’t getting enough oxygen. He had to be hallucinating. 

Before him, Maul’s face twisted, red and black gone taut and jagged. His eyes began to change. Like blood in water, yellow poisoned his dark gaze. Sith’s eyes. They were so bright they seemed to shimmer. A trick of the light? No, not that, Cody realized. A long, pealing howl sliced through the silence. 

Maul was crying. Openly. He didn’t try to hide it. Maybe he didn’t even realize he was doing it. 

The hold on Cody’s neck eased. He drew in a ragged breath. Maul startled at the sound, quieted mid-sob. One moment crying, the next, emotionless, alien. Hard as stone. 

Just like the general, Cody thought.

Maul tightened his fist again. That tear-stained face was the last thing Cody saw before his world faded into darkness.

-

There was screaming. The smell and heat of blaster fire and smoking machinery. Even so, it was hard for Cody to open his eyes. He was in so much pain. He felt like he had swallowed glass, like he was being held together by external pressure alone.

He blinked back spots and took in the scene around him. The toes of his boots scraped along the durasteel floor. He was floating, carried by the Force. He could feel the Sith close behind him, his invisible vice locked around Cody’s throat. They passed other members of the 212th in a cruel mimicry of a Republic Day parade—only there were no cheering onlookers, only bodies. Some moving, others not.

Cody wanted to scream at his brothers yet to fall. Kill me! Don’t let him escape! But the Force stole his voice. His eyesight blurred dangerously. He couldn’t let this happen. He couldn’t. He reached for his blasters, but his holsters were empty.

Useless. Useless!

Cody had to watch as his men were flung back and away, into walls, into each other. They stood their ground bravely, but it didn’t matter. Their attacks were deflected. And each one of them went down. Nothing stopped Maul’s relentless advance.

Cody struggled, but the Force tightened whenever he did. Only when he collapsed into his hold did Maul allow him to breathe.

“Such anger,” Maul purred into his ear, “isn’t becoming of a man of your status.” 

Cody thought he did pass out then, mind black with fury. Gone was any trace of the broken, weeping man Maul had been in the cell. 

When he could think again, they were already halfway across the ship. They had reached the docking bay escape pods. The hatch behind them sealed. The locking mechanism squealed as it was destroyed with a single, sickening crunch. End of the line. Cody inhaled what air he could, afraid his heart might stop.

There was a single man blocking their path. Eyes so blue, face so controlled he looked like he was carved from marble.

If Cody could’ve killed himself right then and there, he would’ve. He had fallen for Maul’s ploy. He had been used against his own men. Now he would be used against his general.

“You don’t have to do this, Maul,” came General Kenobi’s soft words. 

There was a rumbling. Then the sound ratcheted, ricocheting down the hall. Ghastly, hair-raising peals—Maul was laughing.

“Your arrogance never ceases to astound. Did you think fucking me would absolve you?” 

Cody’s eyes shot wide. What the hell was that supposed to mean?! He stared, dumbfounded, at the general, but the man wouldn’t meet his eye. He was looking past him. Looking right at Maul.

“It’s true, commander,” Maul said. He was close to Cody now; his words were hot on the back of his neck. “We’ve had quite the sordid affair, Obi-Wan and I. Didn’t he tell you?”

A hairline fracture splintered the general’s perfect facade. Cody felt himself fracturing too. Where was the general’s anger? His outrage?

As Cody’s shock began to fade, dread filled its absence. Deny it. Deny it, please. 

But the denial never came.

“Enough, Maul,” General Kenobi said. “Take the escape pod. Just let the commander go.”

Maul released another humorless laugh. “How stupid do you think I am? I need him. What else would stop you from destroying my pod as soon as it launched?” 

“I don’t want to kill you, Maul.”

“You already did, once,” Maul hissed. “Surely you are not above doing it a second time.” 

A line appeared between General Kenobi’s brows. Another crack. This was hurting him. Why didn’t he defend his actions? He’d had every right to kill the Sith.

Why care about a murderer like Maul?

“That was then,” the general said. “I give you my word that your ship will not be shot down.”

Maul could posture until the charhounds came home about how he didn’t trust the general, rub his past in his face. Yet the Sith seemed to be considering his offer. He was quiet for a long time. Then his reply snapped the silence.

“Your word is meaningless.”

He took a step forward. The motion sent another flood of pain through Cody, but at least he could take cold comfort in Maul’s refusal. Finally, someone was being reasonable. 

Then Cody noticed the change in the general’s expression, his falling shoulders, his defeated words. 

“If you can’t trust me, then take me instead.”

No. Dissent lodged in Cody’s throat, crushed silent by the Force. The general couldn’t honestly be considering this. Panic seized Cody. Seconds scraped by as he fought with himself. His world narrowed, black spots, red haze. He lost consciousness again. Not for long, but long enough to miss most of Maul’s reply. The single word rang like a blaster fired next to his head.

“... come.” 

General Kenobi approached. 

No. Nonononono—

The general turned to face Cody, and his mask softened. He smiled, a small, apologetic thing. Cody knew that expression. It was the look the general wore when he was about to do something heroic… something life threatening.

It’s going to be all right. Don’t worry, it said.

The general drew nearer. Cody tried to shake his head, to move, to speak. All he could do was tremble, balanced on the edge of consciousness. His eyes were burning.

General Kenobi stopped in front of him. He raised his hand from his side. He seemed like he meant to touch Cody’s face. If he did, it would be over, then and there. Cody winced and shut his eyes. That was a mistake. He couldn’t stop the tears now. But what else could he do? If he looked at General Kenobi and let himself be comforted after failing so miserably, he would break… as if he hadn't already. 

A heartbeat. Two. Three. The touch didn’t come. 

Cody heard the general step past him, then Maul flung Cody aside. It was a kindness, in its own way. The impact hurt. The gulps of air forced into his lungs razed like a chemical burn. Cody fought through waves of nausea and pain, rolling over onto his stomach. He had landed several meters away, too far to be of any use, too far to stop either of them.

Cody tried to call out to General Kenobi, but a coughing fit stole over him. He could only watch helplessly as Maul reached for the general—not with the Force, but with his bare hand. The high collared tunic that General Kenobi wore was displaced by his grip. The revealed skin was mottled and discolored. Bruises. Several of them. They were deep, fresh, perhaps only a few hours old. Maul seemed to study them, traced each one with his claws. Then he spread his fingers, pressing all of the bruises at once. Together, they formed a perfect match. A constellation of Maul’s own design. 

Last night, Maul had touched him. Maul had hurt him.

Fight. Fight! Cody wanted to scream. Don’t go. He’ll kill you!

But Cody could barely wheeze. And General Kenobi didn’t move. He stood with hands at his sides, eyes locked with Maul’s. Did he think the Sith wouldn’t harm him? Even after he regained his memories? Did he know? Could he not tell, looking into those eyes? Even after he had used Cody as a human shield? Nearly choked the life out of him?

The general’s doing this for me, Cody thought. He wanted to believe it more than anything.

Maul yanked General Kenobi closer. For a harrowing moment, Cody thought he was going to kiss him. But Maul stopped right before their mouths made contact. He tilted his head to the side, pressed his nose beneath the general’s ear. Cody knew what the general smelled like. Cypress, ansionian tea, pressed cotton. But Maul wasn’t human. What he detected was surely more complex—intimate—and utterly unknown to Cody. Eyes narrowed, Maul was savoring it.

Cody’s yell was no louder than a garbled whisper. He tried to stand, and when he couldn’t, he began to drag himself across the cold durasteel floor. 

Neither Jedi or Sith noticed. They might as well have been light years from him, locked in their own orbit. Unreachable.

When Maul spoke, his words froze Cody to the bone, stopped his approach dead in its tracks. 

“I may have forgotten you once. But I will never forget you again, Obi-Wan.”

Then he moved, the motion too quick for human eyes to track, too quick for Cody to dread what was to come. 

The kiss lasted for all of a second, but it may as well have been an eternity. A soft, muffled grunt, a hard press of lips, the general’s wide eyes, his hand raised to the Sith’s chest... To push away–or to pull closer?

Suddenly, the hatch to the docking bay exploded. Heat and smoke barreled over Cody. What remained of the hatch was knocked aside, and several troopers flooded into the bay. 

“Hold fire! He has the general!” 

It was all the time Maul needed. He sent General Kenobi flying with the Force, then lunged into the nearest escape pod. A wave of blaster bolts roared over Cody’s head, but the pod sealed without taking damage. 

There was a small porthole on the escape pod. Through it, Maul stared at General Kenobi. It was an unreadable expression. Fixed, unblinking. It made Cody ill. 

Then the pod launched, and the Sith disappeared.

There was a cacophony of activity around Cody. Troopers barked orders into their wristcomms. Two rushed forward and knelt over him. Others attended to the general, who was picking himself up from the floor.

“Commander, are you hurt?” 

Worse than you know, Cody thought. He shook off the steely numbness that threatened to overtake him. He couldn’t freeze now. “Bacta.” He tapped his throat. “Then take me… to bridge.”

Giving orders felt good. There was comfort in setting a plan in motion. 

Kix administered a bacta shot to the side of Cody’s neck. Then they were off.

“Casualties?” Cody asked Kix.

“None that I know of, sir,” Kix said. “A few are concussed. We were lucky today.”

Yes, lucky, Cody thought. Surely Maul wouldn’t have shown them mercy.

When they reached the bridge, the troopers working navigation were already in pursuit. The ship was out of hyperspace, and Coruscant loomed, its atmosphere clear. In the center of the viewport, a reticle blinked, and the navicomputer sounded. The escape pod. 

“We are locked on target,” Chits said from his station. “Ready to fire.” 

They had to take the shot. The whole planet was a city, layered, labyrinthine. It provided an endless number of places to hide. A Sith loose within the galaxy’s capital was a threat too large to leave to chance. If they didn’t shoot now, they would lose him.

“Fire on—”

“Don’t fire. That’s an order!” came the general’s voice from behind.

Cody whirled around. Kix had to scramble to keep him upright. “General Kenobi, we must kill him. He’s a threat to every citizen on the planet!”

He is a threat to you! Cody nearly screamed. Why can’t you see that?!

“I gave him my word,” the general replied. 

Cody hated how he said it. As if his command was somehow reasonable. 

“Whatever he does down there. It’ll be on you. Blood on your hands.”

The words were hot like poison. Cody was out of line, but he needed to be. He needed to make the general see.

“You’re right,” General Kenobi said. “He is my responsibility. Alert the Jedi Council. They will assemble a supplemental team to help us capture him.” 

It was too easy. Too convenient. No one—not even the Jedi—would take the general’s side on this. 

“We’re losing him. He’s almost out of range!”

General Kenobi turned to Chits. “Continue pursuit, but do not fire. We’ll catch him.” He returned his attention to Cody. His expression softened, but his voice was firm. “Commander, prepare a ground force. Then report to the medbay.” 

It was hard to look General Kenobi in the eye. Cody couldn’t see the man he was, the man he respected and trusted. He could only see the way he had looked when Maul had kissed him. His bright eyes, his mussed hair. 

Cody looked down, but that was even worse. The general’s collar was still rumpled, his bruises on full display. They’d heal in time, but Cody would never forget them. Maybe that had been the point, all along. Maul wanted his claim to be obvious. Maul wanted Cody to know how useless he was. He wanted him to know that he would never taste what Maul had tasted. Would never leave such a mark.

Cody closed his fists so they wouldn’t shake. He couldn’t deal with this now. The general was waiting for his response. So Cody gave the only reply he could. 

“Yes, sir.” 

Regardless of what Maul had done, regardless of what General Kenobi had let him do… it would have to be dealt with later. 

For now, the general still needed him. And that would have to be enough.

#fics #obimaul #maulobi #wwlwwg #obi-wan kenobi #darth maul #commander cody #star wars

[imagineitdearies]

Hi Imogen,

Long time lurker, first time poster. I wanted to let you know how much I've been enjoying Perfect Slaughter. I think you do such an inspiring justice to with the sheer horror of abuse, comfort of connection, characterization and extension of the source material in your writing. I've never read a fanfic quite like what you have done and you deserve so much kudos for it!!

Since you have mentioned you're a D&D nerd (same!), I'm curious about your answers to 2 questions about mechanics:

1) Have you thought about the tool or material that could be used to create the inevitable back scars 😞 ? I've noticed in your writing how much you have highlighted how flawless the spawn are once they've fully healed. All I can think of is something relating to a silvered weapon or something made out of infernal iron. I also know you probably can't fully answer this without it being spoiler-y.

2) This is more a game question, but I've had a few back and forths with my "forever DM" partner on this. Does Cazador actually die in BG3? For all my experience playing, I have admittedly never fought a vamp lord on table top. But from what I understand, there are few ways to actually kill them (I know of breaking their resting place or trapping their mist form). If Astarion comes in with a knife during a vamp's healing phase, would that kill them for good? I feel like I'm missing something here.

Anyway thank you! Apologies if you already got this ask (I'm new to using Tumblr). I'm looking forward to Ch. 23!

-MafWaff

Hi MafWaff 🥰 Always glad to meet a fellow d&d nerd!

Haha I did get your previous ask and was actually sitting down to tackle my ask inbox after a crazy week (just moved to a different state), so you have impeccable timing! Thank you so so much for your kind words, I'm endlessly ecstatic to hear that the story is being enjoyed. To answer your questions:

Yes I have thought about this! In canon, Astarion says Cazador used 'his needle' to carve the runes. I indeed have my own fancanon as to how exactly Cazador got them to be permanent and it will come up in Perfect Slaughter!

From what I understand, what Astarion does in canon without any other explanation wouldn't, in fact, kill Cazador for good by dnd law 😂 but bg3 definitely plays hard and fast with the rules when it wants to, so we're left to justify why the vampire lord doesn't just mist form back into his coffin again! Breaking/destroying their resting place, trapping their mist form for two hours, or reducing them to 0 HP while they're in sunlight or running water--ie rivers/lakes/ocean, not a bucket, of course--so they can't go into mist form at all are all viable methods for dnd. If you stake them in their resting place, they're instead incapacitated/paralyzed for a millennia until the stake rots entirely away (or some idiot un-stakes them). Others are welcome to chime in if I've missed something!

Sometimes the gaps and discrepancies between dnd lore and bg3 can be a bit frustrating (and spark some tiresome debates online, lol) but these ones have honestly been fun for me to figure out! Sort of like a puzzle I get to shape the missing pieces into 😊

Anyways, I'm excited for you guys to see what I came up with in future chapters!

#fic: perfect slaughter #ask me anything #cazador szarr #bg3 headcanons

[yzafre]

we're flying above the valley below | Ch 16

AO3

First | Previous

Perhaps they could have returned immediately to Radiant Garden, when everything was said and done in the Carribean, but by silent agreement Kairi and her Flightmates lingered a while longer, letting their ship follow the breeze and the currents.

None of them could bear to leave the sea if they didn’t have to, even if it wasn’t their sea.

“We should come back here, when it’s all over,” Sora said.

He was perched on the railing by the wheel, which Riku was manning.  Kairi herself was sitting on the floor, leaning back to rest the back of her head on Sora’s shins, eyes closed to enjoy the sun and the breeze.

“You think?” Riku asked.

“Yeah!  We could go explore all those islands – I bet we’d find treasure!”

“Will our ship still be here?” Kairi wondered.

“Good question,” Riku huffed, “What are we going to do with it when we leave?”

Sora hummed, his feet wiggling against Kairi’s back, “I guess we leave it with Jack or Elizabeth?”

There was the clicking of the wheel turning, the sails suddenly snapping in the air as they turned and the wind caught them.

“I guess we need to head for the port, then.”

They’d just managed to get the ship to the port and handed off when Sora’s phone began to ring.  Ienzo’s face filled the screen as soon as he answered.

“Sora!  And Riku and Kairi, wonderful.  We have work for you – and news!  A lot has been happening here.”

He looked significantly more flustered than Kairi had ever seen him, eyes flickering to the side, as if trying to look behind him.

“What happened?” Sora asked.

“Even returned – and, he brought someone with him.”

Ienzo moved to the side, and an older man appeared, with a lined face and blonde hair that was going silver at the edges.  Riku’s heart erupted, though when she glanced over, his face gave nothing away.  Indeed, it was likely the only reason the other end of the call would know something was amiss was because of her and Sora’s reactions.

“Riku,” the man greeted, “It is good to see you again.”

“DiZ,” Riku said, reluctance dripping off his heart, “You, too.”

“Ansem, if you please.  I’d like to leave that phase behind me, as I’m sure you can understand.”

“Right,” Riku trailed off.  His heart was a constant shifting mass, so much so that Kairi could only get glances of emotions – guilt and gratitude and bitterness – so much that she wondered if he even knew how he felt.

He breathed in once, deep, the emotions rising like a tide, before he breathed out, and they receded, melting back into the steady foundation of his being.

“So,” he said, turning his eyes back to Ienzo, “You had a job for us?”

“Ah, yes!” Ienzo cut back in, “We need you to go and recover one of the princesses.”

“Us?” Sora asked, “Not Donald and Goofy?”

Ienzo shook his head, “There are two princesses left.  We’ve found one, but the last is proving particularly difficult to find.  Given we’ve cut down the Organization's numbers, we fear they will be moving even more intently towards gathering the Princesses of Light.  You’re closer to this one, and we want Donald and Goofy available to travel out the moment we have found the last Princess.”

“Alright.  Then, where are we going?”

The new land was... cold.

“Couldn’t those charms Donald gave us have provided a coat?” Sora groused.  Riku was silent, but the aura coming off his heart was just as disgruntled, and he was notably huddling up to Sora as well.  Kairi chuckled, breath turning to mist in front of her, but otherwise standing tall.

“How come you’re not shivering,” Sora asked, eyeing her suspiciously.

“A little trick Axel showed me,” she said, grinning as she snapped her fingers, tiny sparks flying off them, “Here, let me show you.”

It took a few attempts, but eventually the other two clicked onto it, letting a thin layer of magic circulate just below the skin, warding off the worst of the chill.

“Oh, that’s better,” Sora sighed, “I don’t think I’ve ever been that cold.”

“And it’s about to get colder – look.”

Riku pointed out across the lake, where a wave of magic was traveling out, freezing the water into a single sheet.  Something moved, out across the water; Kairi squinted.

“Is that… a girl?”

The clouds shifted, the moonlight getting a little brighter, and sure enough, they could see her – a young woman racing across the ice in a long dress, her cloak swirling behind her.

Sora gasped quietly, a pulse of aching heartbreak coming off him, and he began to move.

“I’m gonna go check on her.”

“Sora, wait!”

Riku reached for him, but he’d already taken to the skies.  Exchanging an exasperated glance with her Flightmate, Kairi spread her wings, taking off to fly after him.  It wasn’t far, thankfully; he seemed to have caught up to her just around a bend.  Sora was just as earnest as ever, obviously reaching out, but the girl was leaning away from him, reluctance and fear in every inch of her frame.

“Sora!” Riku called, and both heads turned towards them, watching as he and Kairi set down right behind Sora, “Don’t run off like that.”

“Sorry, but – I just wanted to see if she was okay.”

“You three are….”

They all turned in sync as she spoke, looking at her with curious gazes.  She cleared her throat, straightening her spine as she folded her hands in front of her.  Now that they were closer, there was something… almost familiar about her.  A strange feeling, or resonance, that pulled Kairi closer.

“Are you visiting Arendelle for the coronation?”

“The coronation?  We, uh – “

“Yes,” Riku answered over Sora.

Closing her eyes, Kairi let the feeling wash over her, trying to identify where she’d felt it before.  It was this warmth, like an echo, like a connection – oh.

“Are you a princess?” Kairi asked.  Her Flightmate’s turned to her in a mix of surprise and confusion, but she only had eyes for the woman across from them, who’s eyes sharpened at the question.

“Queen, actually,” she answered after a pause, “Queen Elsa, of Arendelle.”

“Queen... then, you were just coronated?” Riku asked, “What are you doing out here, then?”

“I - I have official business to attend to.  Please, return to the city.”

She turned to leave, but Sora made a soft sound in his throat, reaching out.

“Wait!  Your Majesty, you look like you could use a friend.  Don’t you want to talk?”

“No; please leave.  I need to be alone.  I don’t want to hurt anyone.”

“Hurt anyone?” Sora echoed, “Why would you think you’d hurt someone?”

Elsa pursed her lips, looking away.  There was an intake of breath from Riku, a spike of pain from his heart.  Kairi pressed against his heart, following his attention down to where the queen was clenching her hands into fists, shards of ice forming across them faster than the storm around them would cause.

“I can understand that,” Riku said, voice so soft it ached, “I’m don’t know your story, but I had a power I couldn’t control, once.  I was scared of hurting anyone and had to take some time to... understand it.”

Elsa paused, those frosted hands shaking as she slow raised them to press against her chest.

“I don’t think I can,” Elsa murmured, “It’s been years spent alone, trying to control it, and still all I have is... this.”

“That must have been hard,” Sora said, “But still, that’s why it’s important to have friends!”

Sora jostled Riku, who gave a flash of surprised-unease-wait, causing him to look up at Riku in confusion, pasting a wider smile across his face with a wave of confusion-affection-yearning.

“This guy thought he had to hide away from us, even though everything got better the moment he started listening to us!”

“That’s not - “  Acknowledgement-exasperation-frustration-affection.

They went on like that, Riku’s words tripping over Sora’s constant, teasing interjections, to where nothing really managed to be said.  And Kairi, she...

She didn’t want to talk about this.

Elsa didn’t either, it seemed, as her face got darker with every exchange, until something broke.

“Enough!”

Elsa flung an arm out warningly, and magic burst from her in response, glistening spikes of ice rising from the ground in a tall, glittering wall, with them on one side and Elsa on the other.  They couldn’t see her, but Kairi could just hear her, panting heavily before, with the shifting of fabric, footsteps hurried away.

“Elsa, wait!” Sora called.

“Wow.  You really are bad at this whole hero thing, aren’t you?”

All three of them spun, startled.  Behind them, a woman lounged on an iced-over log, wearing an Organization coat and a smug smirk.

“You have got to learn to read the room, kiddo.”

“Who’re you?” Sora sneered, “Part of the Organization?”

“Who am – oh, right, you forgot,” she sighed, “Fine, I suppose I can introduce myself again.  I’m Larxene, and you better remember this time.”

Kairi frowned, “You’re here for Elsa - for the Princess of Heart.”

“Well, we do like to keep track of all our assets.”

“We won’t let you hurt her!” Sora yelled, “She’s going through enough already!”

“Like you know anything about her?” Elsa scoffed, “Besides, I have no plans to harm her.  But then, I’m not about to encourage your little hero complex, either.”

“I’m trying to help her!”

Larxene laughed.  “You want to help her?  Then don’t try to be her hero!  Let her figure things out her own way!”

She held out her hand, and lightning sparked at her fingertips, crackling once, twice, before shooting forward.  They all dove out of the way – but that, it seemed, was what she wanted.  The towering pillars of ice cracked, then exploded, sending a rush of snow around the clearing, rising up to slam into the cliffs, more snow crashing down around them, and they were swept away in the avalanche.

Kairi woke slowly: a gasping, stuttered return to consciousness, that finished with a snap as the sudden, painful cold spiked into her bones.

Shivering, she pulled at her magic, flickering it like a lighter until she managed to spark the thin layer protection under her skin once more, every nerve beginning to prickle.  As she peeled herself from the ground, brushing clumps of snow from her hair, a groan came from a nearby bush and a snow drift began to shake.

Slowly, Riku emerged from the bush, carefully extracting himself from where the branches caught on his clothes.  The snow drift continued to shake until Sora crawled out, headfirst, spikey hair poking out like a patch of grass.  He eventually got free, just to flop face-first back into the snow.

“Ugh, why?” he whined.

“Well, Sora’s okay,” Riku said, “Kairi?”

“Yeah, I’m fine.  But... what now?”

“We need to help Elsa, right?” Sora asked, voice slurred through a mouthful of snow.

“Easier said than done, though.”

Kairi stood, brushing off her clothes, but when she went to move forward her foot hit something in the snow.  As Riku pulled Sora to his feet, she bent down, dusting the object off untill she could pull it out.

“A... carrot?”

“Oh, that’s mine!”

Kairi startled, nearly falling back into the snow before she caught herself, turning to look at the being suddenly beside her.

A... snowman?  But living, staring at her with its hand out and a benign smile.  As she failed to respond, it tilted its head, grabbing at the air with its little wooden fingers.

“Can I have that back, please?”

“Uh... sure.”

She handed the carrot over, making the snowman squeal gleefully before snatching it up, sticking it into place as a nose.

“Ah, much better!  Thank you, random girl!”

“You’re... welcome?”

The snowman nodded once, then turned unceremoniously and walked off.

Baffled, Kairi turned to her Flightmates, finding them just as confused as she was.

As much as they knew they needed to get to Elsa before the Organization captured the Princess of Heart, they couldn’t help but follow the snowman’s tracks.  This led them to two souls who had braved the supernatural cold – and for good reason.  One of them was Elsa’s sister.

It took a bit, but Anna explained the history between her and her sister - her sister's self-isolation, the wall between them she could never quite breach, being left alone for so long.  Then, the events of the last twenty-four hours, and how the current situation came about.

“It’s my fault,” Anna sighed, “I shouldn’t have pushed her the way I did.  I just... I missed her.  I wanted her to be in my life again, the way we used to be.”

Kairi swallowed around the rock of grief sitting heavy in her chest.  It took a moment to still the shaking in her hands, but she prepared to reach out -

Riku spoke up first.

“I’m sure she misses you, too,” he said, “But the kind of power she’s wielding – it's terrifying, especially with so little control.  Staying away from you, it was probably her way of keeping you safe.”

“She’s my sister – she wouldn’t hurt me!”

“I'm not saying that, but... when Darkness like that takes root inside you, sometimes it seems safer, to make sure there’s no one around to hurt.”

“But that doesn’t work,” Kairi said, stomach squirming, Naminé’s voice echoing in her ear: he was just like normal for most of that year, if a bit more troubled.  She shook her head, “Anna should go after her, especially when she’s being stupid.”

“I wouldn’t call it stupid.”

“No?” Kairi asked, “I don't think hiding from everyone who loves her was going to help.”

“Maybe not, but she may not have felt like she had a choice.” Riku turned back to Anna, “I’m sure it was hard for her, too - but she did it to protect you.”

A laugh, almost a scoff, forced its way out of Kairi’s chest, brought about by the sudden boiling heat bubbling in her stomach, sending its smoke into her lungs.  Riku turned to her, brow furrowed.

“What?”

“I’m sure it was very difficult for her.”

“You think it wasn’t?”

Kairi shrugged, gaze skittering away to the ice-covered trees, “She wasn’t the one left behind.  Elsa could have ended it at any time.”

“She was struggling with her power, trying to make sure she wasn’t putting the person she loves most at risk.”

“You’re saying it’s a sign of love?”

“I - yes.  Perhaps, a bit misguided, but – how could she have risked her?“

“Shouldn’t that have been Anna’s choice to make?”

“Anna - she cares, but it also sounds like she doesn’t understand the whole situation.”

“Uhm,” Anna started, but there was a strange feeling wriggling up through Kairi’s belly, squeezing at her lungs till it punched out a harsh laugh.

“Sure,” she said, “But then, why come back at all?”

“What?”

“Well, if it’s too dangerous, why not go away forever?  Wouldn’t that solve everything?  She can forget everyone she’s ever cared about – I’m sure they’d be extra safe that way.”

“Kairi,” Sora chided, “What are you saying?  There’s no way Elsa would do that to her sister.”

Immediately, she wished she could take it back, shame curling tight in her throat.  “No, obviously not.  But, you get what I’m saying, right?”

“What are you saying, Kairi?” Riku asked, voice low, heart tense and wounded.

I’m saying she wasn’t protecting anyone but herself.

She looked away.  “Just – it’s not like we can really know what she’s thinking.”

“I mean, we could just go ask her?” Sora cut in, “And, Anna, we can let her know you’re looking for her!”

“But, how are you going to catch up to her?” Anna asked.

“We’ll fly ahead!  It might be a bit hard, with the storm, but I bet we can make it.  We’re tough.”

Anna perked up, obviously enthused despite the anxious glances she sent Riku and Kairi’s way, “Would you?  I would really appreciate the help.  We’re going as fast as we can, but I’m worried it’s not enough.”

“Of course!  After all, we’re worried about Elsa, too.”

They did catch up to her.

Sora was the first to spot Elsa, diving down into the blizzard without a word of warning to the other two – again.

Kairi kept an eye on the growing storm – both in the sky, and in the conversation.

It was like watching a natural disaster – inevitable, and unstoppable.  She couldn’t look away.

“Elsa, wait!” Sora called.

“Please,” came the reply, broken and plaintive, “Just leave me alone.  I don’t want to hurt anyone.  Arendelle is safer with me staying up here.”

“Not safer for you!”

“That doesn’t matter.”

“Of course it does! I’m sure this is all just a misunderstanding – you just need to talk to someone.  You’re sister’s really worried about you, you know?”

“My sister?  You – you met Anna?  Where?”

“She’s just a bit farther down the mountain.  She came looking for you.”

“No,” Elsa breathed, “No, she can’t be here – it’s too dangerous.”

“She just wants to see you,” Sora said, “Come on, I can take you to her.”

“No – you can’t.”

“Hey, it’ll be alright.  Shutting people out like that – it isn’t the answer.”

“You don’t understand – “

“Then help me understand.  If you tell me what’s going on, I’m sure we could – “

“I said no!  Please, go away!”

“Sora,” Riku said, “Maybe we should listen to her.”

“But, we can’t just leave things like this!” Sora said, turning his big, pleading eyes on Elsa, “Please, just trust me – you don’t have to be alone.”

But Elsa wasn’t listening.

“I said go away!”

Once more, magic cracks around the Queen; it seems none of them can learn from their mistakes.

This time, instead of spikes, large sheets of ice began rising like walls, sending the earth shaking. 

“Elsa, wait!” Sora called, already jogging after her.

The ground began to break apart, making room for the new changes to the landscape, and Kairi stumbled, a startled yelp coming out, having to leap back again as a new wall shot up just in front of her.  Ahead, Sora looked back, eyes wide, just before her view of him was cut off as ice began to entomb them – not just piercing towards the sky, but curving inwards, forming caverns that blocked out the sky.  Having run forward, he was clear of the chaos; Riku and Kairi were not.

“Kairi!”  Riku called.

She turned, finding him standing with his hand held out to her on the precipice of a growing crack in the earth, sharp ice gleaming where the cliff had begun to split apart.

“Riku!” she called, reaching back.

His eyes met hers, wide, desperate, and suddenly she was thrown into a memory – a different face, a different chasm, a darker sky, a hand that slipped through her fingers leaving her alone alone alone.

The earth groaned as the ice began to force its way through the earth; she hesitated, choking on the memory of that year.

“Kairi?”

Her hand flinched back; the earth gave way to the ice with a great crack; the wall came up between them.

And she was alone.

Next

#kh #kingdom hearts #fanfiction #wingfic #wrap your wings au #Yza writes a thing

[thetalesofno-one]

Curse of Strahd, Act I: Pt. 1, Ch. II -Visions In The Mist-

D&D Campaign Retelling Part 1/? Chapter 2/5 ~5k words Content Warnings: Curse of Strahd typical content, Read at own risk

Summary Caught in the mists, the strange group of travelers continue their journey to discover where the strange events in Daggerford have left them. But this land is nothing like the one from where they came and dangers lurk in every shadow. Read CHAPTER 1, also available on AO3

How long have they been walking? Minutes? Hours? The unfamiliar skies keep the secrets of their stars. Dusk or dawn, none can tell. No constellations stamped in night’s velvet or moon to track the night’s passing. If it even is night. The land hangs in the place caught in-between. Lost before the light, settled before the night. A timeless place where all await the eternal promise of a new day in the shadows of the half light before the sun sweeps over the world in golden flame or settles deeper into the dark.

Emet walks carefully at the back of this unfortunate group, hair damp and clinging to his armored shoulders in silver threads as teardrops of rain dot the dark metal. His eyes wander the forests around them, sharp ears strung taught as bowstrings to hear the sounds of danger even as he turns his senses toward the strangers before him. Everything within him pricks with the anticipation of trouble. Nerves like needles beneath his skin, feeling every raindrop muffled by his clothing, the faintest breath of air drift past the scars along his jaw, the weight of mist clinging to his lashes. All around them the forest moans with sharp creaks and cracks as old branches, brittle as bone, give to fracture in the winds. Unable to bend, they break. Unable to bow, they sway. And beyond the undulating movement of the land, raven song. 

The axe will fall.

Whether it will come from the quiet strangers weaving down the wagon trail ahead of Emet or through the choked light of the misty forest around them is where the answer hides. 

Their feet squelch in the thick mud leaving easy tracks along the path marked only by wagon wheels. But there is no helping that. 

The charmer tiefling leads with face fixed stubbornly forward, the rain scattering down the leather of his long coat in strange patterns. His hand always finds a way to linger near his blade, but he never graces those behind with so much as a glance. A point being made to his company about their welcome. The holy man totters about with a faint smile, occasionally pointing off to some interesting thing like a hiker on a light stroll through a lovely park. It is only the rebel who Emet catches checking on him over her shoulder with a sizing glare every few minutes. Though he suspects it is less to see if he is still with them and more to make sure he won’t bury anything sharp and pointed in her spine.

The endless mists swell around them, curling like cats about their legs and slithering across the paths and trees. The movement more akin to a living thing as it devours all in its unnatural chill. Shapes become shadows in its belly, the blurry silhouettes softening into new patterns that only hint at what may exist beyond. It is remarkable how many monsters can be made from shadows. 

The pale burial shroud settles heavily over the land and Emet wonders if it has ever known a day without it. Or if the land was stillborn at its first empty breath.

Behind them, the mists swallow up the path entirely. Ahead, the ghostly road continues, its muddy surface as pockmarked as the plague and settled with dark pools of still water. Their glass surfaces ripple in the light rains.

Lost in the poetry of the land, Emet is about to swirl his hand through a curious wave of mist when the charmer suddenly halts his obstinate power walk. The holy man keeping pace behind him nearly collides with the tiefling’s back and Emet would expect a sharp hiss from the charmer, were his eyes not locked on something ahead. Instead, the pitcher of dread that has hung over Emet since the barn in Daggerford pours out like sour wine in his stomach. He and the rebel crouch and catch up to the others with quiet speed.

The holy man lifts a silent finger, pointing to where the charmer’s eyes have locked unwaveringly upon some brush beside the path. Something crouches there at the edge of their vision where the fog begins to steal away the path and all beyond it. Hunched and still, the shadow watches them. Humanoid in shape. The charmer stares at it with narrowed eyes. The hairs along the back of Emet’s neck slowly rise as he feels the unseen eyes meet his.

“Hey! What are you doing!”

The charmer’s loud voice cuts through the silence sharp as breaking glass causing everyone to instinctually reach for their weapons with a jolt. 

His voice echoes dully through the woods and carries well beyond them as the charmer dashes forward, almost knocking down the holy man. But a wave of thick mist rolls over the area like an omen and the hunched shadow vanishes with it. The rest of them quickly catch up, armed and ready as the charmer searches around the brush with manic haste. 

No tracks, no sign of presence at all. Not so much as a single print left behind in the softened earth even as theirs scar the path deeply with every step. 

Nostrils flaring, the charmer glares up at the skies as though he might demand answers or perhaps find some in the absolutes of nature and time. But the land remains silent, the skies churning in ambiguous light.

His red fist flashes out, striking a tree quick as viper. Faint drops of blood stain the dark bark.

“DAMMIT!”

The rebel crosses her arms and raises a sharply pierced brow as the charmer whips away from everyone, eyes burning, fists clenched tight as his whipcord tail swishes furiously behind him. Without so much as a word, the tiefling begins swiping up fallen branches from the muddy road.

“What are you doing?” The rebel sighs.

The charmer speaks through clenched teeth, forcing an unconvincing reasonable tone through his tense throat, “I don’t what time it is or how long I’m going to be here.” He tosses a particularly feeble branch over his shoulder, “So I’m going to gather some supplies and make a shelter until there’s some sign of when this is! For all I know, this is the back country and that road will lead to nowhere for weeks.”

“Or it could lead to somewhere just ahead,” Emet crosses his arms, the dull chainmail clinking softly beneath the faded cloth and leather of his clothes. “We were just in a town, another could be close by.”

“We’re not near Daggerford anymore. If we were, it would’ve been right behind us when all this shit started.” The charmer’s jaw flexes, his eyes drifting over to the holy man. The old human stares up at the skies as if admiring a sun only he can see, always that faint smile and wonder in his eyes. And that’s all it takes to set the tiefling off even further, “You’re the one who dragged us all here, so what were you chasing after? Why did it bring us here?”

The old man plucks that perfectly white feather from his belt, its fibers untarnished and unweathered despite having been in the mud not but a few hours ago. He lifts it to the rain poured skies and whispers some little prayer, then lets it go. Though the feather flew before, ablaze in divine light, it unceremoniously drops into the mud now.

“Great, this one’s crazy.”

Ignoring or not hearing the charmer’s comment, the holy man sees the feather’s tip points down the muddy road. He smiles, “I think we should keep walking.”

“Because you dropped a feather on the ground?”

“It is a blessing from my god.”

“Ah, holy man.” Condescension drips from the charmer’s tongue, thick as poison, “And what is your god telling you now?”

The old man points a calloused finger down the path, smile bright, “He says go that way.”

The charmer’s eye twitches a moment before he bows with exaggeration, eyes practically rolling back far enough to glimpse his spine, “Well, then lead the way.” 

“Okay.” 

The holy man walk off.

Not so much as a drip of the charmer’s spite sticks to the holy man’s shoes. Something between shock and annoyance crosses the tiefling’s face as the old human fails to rise to his goading, treating their conversation as casually as a discussion of the weather. Emet almost wants to laugh, but as the old man turns from them, the smile fades and the sun in his eyes dims to something broken. 

Emet had caught a glimpse before, sorrow at the edges of the old man’s eyes when they first arrived here. But it flickered away so quickly, he thought he’d seen wrong. But there it is again, a mirage across the waters, flickering with the light and hiding that which is real. 

But the smile returns quick as a spark when the charmer drops his collection of dead twigs and hurriedly catches up to the holy man to try his best to walk ahead of him. You’d think the world would collapse if he actually let anyone else lead by the way he desperately sought control. But the old human only grins and walks faster. Neither break into a jog, but they might as well be.

Emet shakes his head and shares another silent expression with the rebel. Neither need words to wonder what in the nine hells they have been dragged into.

It isn’t long before the holy man tries to fill the silence with light conversation. He comments on everything from the weather and poor quality of the road to the refreshing chill of the rain despite the ice in the air numbing them to the bone. Emet is too tired to humor him and the others march ever onward in wet misery. Silence and glares reign in their grim company.

“You all seem like a quiet bunch,” the holy man grins.

“Sorry, my idea of small talk isn’t ‘the raven is pretty bird’,” the rebel murmurs with a slight click of her teeth. She pulls her damp jacket tighter.

“No, no. ‘The weather is pretty bad.’ Sorry, my common tongue is not so good.”

“Ah, well you do you.” The rebel’s large platform boots sink into a rather deep patch of mud and she shakes it off with a scowl, “It’s a stupid language anyway. This blasted—”

The thin grey light filtering through the gnarled canopies suddenly eclipses, enshrouding them in shadow. Hands reach for weapons before their heads snap to the heavens. A large shadow blackens the lands from above, wings blotting out the skies as something swiftly sweeps over them, the shadow gone before they can spy what has passed. No sound or rushing wind. Not even the mist stirs in the beast’s wake, as though nothing had passed at all. 

More shadows follow at rapid pace. Dark reptilian bodies cut through the fog with bats wings, plunging into the mists before being swallowed whole. Dozens of smaller avian creatures rocket past, following the same before they too vanish. No sound rustles the bones of the trees, no winds buffet them from the power of those wings. Silence. 

Visions in the mist. 

Emet barely has a moment to process the shape of the dragon before it’s gone and they are alone once more in the endless fog. Though he has been blessed enough to have never seen a dragon in person, there is no mistaking the shadow that swept over them.

The vision is gone for half a breath before something appears on the road before them, its figure forming like ink blotting and spreading across damp paper. Fleeting and ephemeral, a tall slender figure appears at the edge of their vision where the fog denies all detail. Large elegant feathered wings stretch out from their back, the wings fluttering and spreading wide as though about to take flight. Fog rolls over the road and the shadow melts into the mist.

In the distance another appears. Broad shouldered with an oversized arm tipped in large vicious claws, the figure lurks through moss covered trunks. He slings a large executioner’s axe across his thick shoulders and raises that swollen clawed hand toward them. The claws close slowly as if in promise of slow and agonizing pain. The silhouette seems to hold the holy man’s gaze before fading away.

Another shadow materializes at the edges of Emet’s vision and he whips around, backing up to the others. They take a circular formation, weapons drawn and eyes carved open, seeking every shadow in the mist. A cloak flickers between three ancient yew trees on phantom winds as a horse steps forward in dangerous silence. Its mane flickers as though aflame, a cloaked figure seated atop its back with an air of sharpened knives and slit throats. Though their eyes hide in the shadow of their figure, Emet can feel an empty appraising gaze wash over him.

Thunder cracks through the skies and the vision is gone.

“Everyone else is seeing this, yes?” The holy man asks carefully.

“Unfortunately,” Emet breathes, not daring to tear his eyes from the now empty mists.

“Oh thank the gods,” the rebel says, “I thought it was just me going mad with hunger and sleep deprivation. I’m so hungry…” she adds quietly.

They remain encircled about each other, backs close but not touching, searching the forests around them for another few moments longer. But every figure is gone without so much as a sound or a trace, as though all they ever were was shadow. 

Emet knew women with visions and men who could glimpse the possibility of futures in their sleep. But he’s never been one himself. His vision never stretches beyond the now. And though he knew others who sought the sight of these seers with their cryptic answers drawn from old cards and spilled atop velvet with rolled bones, he never placed faith in their fortunes. Yet something about these visions in the mist feels like omen.

The charmer slings his bow back across his chest, “So there’s dragons. Great.”

“That was a dragon?”

Emet raises a brow at the old human, half expecting this question to be some attempt at light humor. But his weathered face is genuine.

“The reptilian one with batwings, that one was. The others were too fast to tell,” Emet answers.

The rebel rubs her eyes, “Then how is it all gone now. We were surrounded and now there’s nothing, not even a hoof print in the mud.” Her hand pauses and her eyes narrow suspiciously over her knuckles, “This is some sort of mass hallucination, isn’t it.”

Emet waves his hand through the mist, watching it curl around his fingers in familiar smokey patterns. He frowns, “Something to do with the mist perhaps?”

“Oh shit, is this drug mist?” A half smile curls the rebel’s tinted lips and her usually aloof eyes brighten, showing the first sign of interest in anything since Emet has met her, “Maybe there’s drug mushrooms or something in the forrest. Thael.”

“Wouldn’t be surprised at this point…”

Up ahead, the path curves. Barely visible in the shifting tides of mist, the road vanishes and reappears beneath the tidal swells. The fog edges close then withdraws for a spell before returning once more to swallow it whole. Come-again currents move across the lands, obscuring and revealing trees and formations at the whim of the ethereal sea. With every landmark and trail stolen and given, the entire experience feels as hazy and surreal as a dream.

The charmer and the holy man both lead the new press forward, neither allowing the other to walk ahead of them—the tiefling with scowl, the holy man with a smirk. But their competitive pace slows as something large and dark looms through the mist, the silhouette towering as high as the withered canopies. 

The fog withdraws like a curtain before them revealing towering stone fortress walls, the mists retreating with eerie intention from the ancient ruins. An unseen hand setting the scene before them. Large buttresses brace the heavy fortifications like those dug deep into the earth outside the largest of city walls—those built against conquest, withstanding every siege unbroken. The stone palisades stretch as far as they can see into the distance to either side of the road, its shadow stretching further still.

Twin iron gates settle across the road and tower reaching several carts high above them, the curled and twisted metal shaped into a beautiful and dangerous sharp design. Matching braziers of bronze forged into large basins protrude on either side like offerings, their pools of oil alight in warm flame hissing lightly in the rain. The gate’s blackened and rusting metal glints softly in the firelight with beads of perpetual dew shimmering bright as stars against the flames. 

Silent stone sentinels stand before the gates, their decapitated shoulders bearing the weight of time and decay within the grey stone. Armored heads freed of their slit necks lay shattered at the sentinels’ feet with withered weeds tangling across the petrified features and curling across the cracks in a feeble attempt to seek the heavens. 

Above the gate and framed perfectly between the silent guardians, a large eagle with wings spread wide in flight is carved into the stonework by a heavy hand. The seal pressed like a coin into the palisades and dominating the apex of the gates with severe presence and sharp eyes.

Beyond the divide of stone and metal, the dark and misty forest stretches endless onward as though unaware of the stone leash wrapped about its throat. The muddy path unfurls ahead, a ribbon of promise through the deadwood.

Emet’s pale eyes search the symbolism carved into the stonework, but everything feels wholly unfamiliar; from the statues’ garb and weapons, to the eagle’s unusually sharpened features, every feather a blade. In his old life, Emet surrounded himself with books of every kind and read histories far and wide as he cared for the pieces that found their way into his hands and. He spent years of his life reading, and though he would never rival the knowledge of a wizard, he knew a little about a great many things. Most old places in Faerûn bear guardians of some familiar god or legend and their sigils carry the carved fields of well known ruling houses and cities. But all before him evades the familiar. Not the faint strangeness of lands and cultures away, but the unsettling unfamiliarity of worlds away. 

The dread that settled heavy and coiled as a viper in the pit of Emet’s stomach burrows a little deeper.

“Do any of you recognize any of this?” Hoping against hope that one of the others will bring relief to his building unease with a single ‘yes’.

“I don’t get out much,” the rebel’s words drift with carefully crafted carelessness, the fragile kind balanced atop the tip of a needle and easily toppled.

Where in the nine hells are they? And what in the hells happened to them?

The half-elf stares warily at the path beyond ahead, searching, “There’s no tapers or oil. No discarded match ends. No footprints. If someone lit these fires there should be something.”

“Magical?” The holy man ventures.

She shakes her head as she wanders closer, her heavy boots sinking deep into the mud as soft as potter’s clay, “No. There’s no enchantments carved into the basin. This doesn’t seem right…” the rebel’s eyes wander up the doors.

A savage wail cuts through the silence, the twisted iron gates swinging open at the rebel’s approach. She jumps back, hand shooting to the coiled whip dangling from her belt as all instinctively reach for their weapons. The arms of the gates swing languidly open to welcome its new guests, slowing to a gentle stop before hitting the stone walls. The path is empty beyond, the muddy road devoid of prints, and not a breath of wind strong enough to have shifted the heavy iron. The only ghosts around being themselves.

The gates silently welcome with ominous silence.

Emet eyes the dark iron doors, the sharp intricacies of the design feeling wholly dangerous now.

“You ever hear of a honey trap?” The rebel half-elf asks.

The old human scratches his chin a moment, “What is a honey trap?”

“It’s when someone lures you in with something that’s way too good.”

“This does not look good, though.”

“I mean, compared to that,” she gestures behind them where the mist has devoured the path and forest so thoroughly it is like the world has fallen away entirely. 

How did—?

Emet stumbles back from the wall of fog nearly pressing against his back. Something about the ground doesn’t feel right with that step, the soil too shallow as though what’s beneath his boots is as hollow and thin as an open grave. The world gained a new edge when his back was turned and he wonders if all it would take is a single step forward to fall off forever. Emet swallows hard. He didn’t sense the mist’s approach at all.

The half-elf cocks her thumb toward the open gate where the path is still hazy, but visible, “Weird creepy trail sounds better than lost forever in fog, wouldn’t you say?”

The holy man sweeps his arm to the defaced sentinels, “Headless statues, dark forest. Bad bad. Both choices are bad. There is no honey.”

“You make a good point, but this path is slightly less bad.”

A scoff breaks the conversation and the charmer shoulders past them, “If you’re all so scared then I’ll go first.”

He strides through the open gates without pause, though his hand never leaves the hilt of his blade. On the other side, Emet swears he sees the man take a settling breath as though he’d been holding it. The tiefling turns around on the other side, sweeping one arm out as if to say, ‘See, still alive.’

“This devil boy has confidence.” The holy man nods, but whether in admiration or acknowledgement of foolishness, Emet isn’t sure.

“I don’t know if it’s confidence or stupidity,” the rebel comments with the baffled wonder of watching someone step into a worg den.

“Time will tell.” The holy man smiles faintly, that ghost of sorrow flickering across his eyes before fading again, “Though he did punch a tree for no reason earlier.”

“Like, it’s clearly a trap. I mean I know it’s our only path now, but still.”

Emet listens to the exchange in silence as he keeps an eye on the devouring fog behind him. He’s more inclined to agree with the ’stupidity’ assessment. It’s the same brazen confidence of someone who decides careless action is better than careful delayed action. A blazing blade too eager to swing and choosing to deal with the consequences as they come. Clearly ‘devil boy’ has never been ambushed in his life, but Emet’s 229 years have taught him a very different lesson. And if the charmer wants to be the rat that tests the trap, let him. Emet will be the one to step over his snapped neck to the other side.

The tiefling gives another dramatic look to either side for his audience, ‘Oh look, there’s nothing here and nothing over there.’ Seems Emet has been around this man long enough to hear the snideness even in his gestures. Charmer indeed.

The holy man gathers his faith like his robes and walks through next. Willing enough to walk through fire when another has survived the flames, but smart enough to wait until the heat is tested by another. Emet waits for the rebel to go next, intending to be their rearguard, but she holds her ground and gives Emet a challenge in her sharp look, piercings glinting wildly across her face in the brazier’s firelight.

Tired of checking over her shoulder at him, he supposes. No matter. Emet skirts past her—careful to keep a comfortable distance between them—and she trails along behind him after a hesitant glance at the wall of fog behind them. So long as she doesn’t burry a dagger in his back, she can walk where she pleases. Emet’s grip tightens on the broken glaive’s haft, dark memories whispering like ghosts in the hollows of his heart at the thought. Beneath his armor, a deep scar aches across his back through to his chest and he finds his hand lightly touching the place where steel parted bone and left his ribs broken with a river of blood pouring down the valleys of his muscled stomach.

He’s had more than enough blades buried in his spine for this lifetime. 

A defeated sigh behind Emet curls his lips into a faint smile. Seems the half-elf has discovered the first problem with having a seven foot tall moon-elf-shaped obstruction walking in front of her.

The smile quickly dies however as the metallic screech of iron tears through the forest behind them. Emet whips around just in time to see the heavy twisted gates slam shut with a boom of finality, the sharp metal cutting off the path a mere hand’s width behind the rebel’s back. One step less and she would’ve been crushed in two. 

The impact shakes the ground beneath them, the sound echoing loudly through the forest. Emet’s heart hammers in his chest at the sudden shift, withdrawing the blades at his hips in an instant’s held breath. The rebel stumbles back toward him and he instinctively steps out of her way before she catches herself, whip drawn, shield up.

“Probably a gust,” the charmer shrugs nonchalantly in the still air, though Emet notes his swords are drawn as well.

“Then that is a powerful gust,” the holy man adds before muttering a long string of prayers beneath his breath.

Emet didn’t use to be this on edge and a part of him curses how often he finds his gauntleted hands wrapping around his blades in this company. But he has no control when the unexpected happens, his mind becoming blank and muscles quick. His body falling back on training when his head loses itself. He only comes back when steel is drawn and the air isn’t filled with the screams of the dying. Cold calculation and precision only returning to his mind after instinct has had its way. His company use to call him cold for the way he could act without emotion, cutting down the dead without a second thought. They were only ever half right. But now he knows fear and it blinds him.

The paladin he once was died in that cemetery. 

He’s not sure what’s been left behind.

Grounding himself in the silence of the forest, Emet pulls himself out of haunted memory and watches as the rebel cautiously gives the gates a test shove. But the iron doors hold steady. Locked tight. A fine trap if he ever did see one, and they strolled right in. Wrapping her hands around the metal of the doors this time, the rebel gives several rough shakes followed by a swift kick. The doors give little more than a faint shudder beneath her force.

“We might be able to get this open again with a few of us,” she pants.

The holy man pauses his prayers, “And then what?”

“Well, then we’re not stuck in this weird fucking place!”

A shadow stains the mahogany of the holy man’s eyes to ebony as he glances to either side of the seemingly endless wall stretching through the accursed mist. The eclipse passes and that warm smile fills his voice with the confidence only those devoted to gods can conjure, “There will be another door.”

The rebel still pants, trying to catch her breath, but it’s not from exertion. 

“And if there’s not, then we’ll break through this one,” Emet adds darkly. He does not hold the same faith in the heavens. The gods already showed him they do not care.

Emet glares at the backs of the headless sentinels through the iron gates and wonders if they are meant to keep others out, or something in. As the holy man said, only time will tell.

“People made this wall and where there’s people, there’s food, drink, and a bed,” the charmer strolls backward down the road as he speaks, “I want all three, so I’m going this way.”

He twists on his heel and marches ahead without a glance to see if any follow. Emet makes note to never turn his back on this one and to never find himself at the charmer’s mercy. He will slit the rope of a man dangling off a cliff if it’s in his way and leave the man to bleed out on the stones so long as it doesn’t bloody his own shoes. 

With no path behind, and only one ahead, they follow. 

The holy man races ahead, smirking as he begins the game of trying to take one step ahead of the tiefling again. It only irritates the man into quickening his own pace to stay ahead, but still too proud to break into a run lest it reveal how much he desires control. At least someone is capable of lightheartedness on this strange, weary day.

The rebel waits for Emet to go ahead of her and he relents without fuss. He traveled for an entire day on foot before reaching the barn in Daggerford, and for weeks before that, following the amber shard away from home in search of answers and power. It’s been nearly two days since he’s rested. Legs filled with steel and mind drowning beneath a fog all its own, Emet keeps the exhaustion at bay with movement. He knows it will catch up to him, but hopefully not before reaching shelter and safety.

He might be a hollow shell, his soul carved empty by blade and bone to carry another, but this body still knows the burdens of the living. And death will not welcome nor comfort him. It will only curse what he gave everything to save. So he must live.

He must live.

And he must find a way before it is too late.

#curse of strahd #dnd #d&d #dungeons and dragons #strahd von zarovich #d&d campaign #dnd campaign #dnd vampire #barovia #dnd fic #ravenloft #dnd fiction #my fiction #fiction writing #fan fiction #my fic #ao3 writer #ao3 link #creative writing #dnd strahd #dnd story #my writing #writeblr #writers on tumblr #gothic fantasy #dark fantasy

[copiabrainrot]

the Knight and her Princess, Ch 4

start here: ch 1 ch 2 ch 3 ch 4

royalty AU, knight!mist x princess!aurora, fluffy fluffy 5+1 things about two idiots in love🪼🎀 five times the famously stoic captain of the royal guard, Mist, was flustered by Princess Aurora, and one time she got her revenge. read on AO3 here or continue below!

5. Better

It was late when Mist returned to the Kingdom at last, her soldiers weary and drained but giddy in their success. The night sky with the moon’s gentle rays draped across their shoulders like a gentle shawl embellished with silver thread, welcoming them home into a familiar embrace. Mist smiled gently as she dismissed them, bidding them a good night’s rest. She knew they needed it. She did, too—but she felt restless. She’d hoped to return sooner, selfishly, so that she could at least first see her princess before she retired for the night. But alas, it was late. With one last glance up at the sky, marvelling at its quiet beauty, she returned to her chambers and shut the door with a soft but resolute sigh. 

Don’t be so greedy, she reminded herself. The sun will soon rise, and you will see the Princess. Besides, you wouldn’t want to disturb her beauty sleep, would you?

Her fingers, deft and nimble, worked through the straps and buckles until she finally shed her armour. The metal clinked and clattered as Mist stepped out of it, rolling back her shoulders and stretching her neck to the side, exhaling through her nose. She hung up the suit of armour, then came to stand before her dressing mirror, examining her own reflection. To an outsider, it might appear as though she was scrutinising over her appearance, just another victim to the common vice of vanity. But if one looked close enough, they would find that the knight’s eyes did not once linger on the reflected image of her face, but scanned over the expanses of her arms, torso, and as she turned, her back. 

Those who knew her well would know that she was taking inventory of the new scars and wounds she’d acquired over the latest mission. 

Just a few scratches here and there, Mist concluded. There was a small gash on her shoulder that was still untreated, but apart from that, nothing demanded her attention. With a satisfied hum, she departed from her mirror and threw on a thin nightgown to shield herself from the cool breeze that entered through the window. Then, kneeling, she reached to take out her box of gauze and alcohol, securely tucked away beneath her bed.

…

Mist was seated cross-legged on her bed, one end of the bandage between her teeth and the other in her hand, wrapping it tightly around her shoulder, when she heard the knock.

Her head whipped around to look at the clock. It was nearly 2 am. Who would come at this hour? If it were an emergency, surely whoever’s at the door would have burst into the room already. 

Yet though soft, the knock was persistent.

Sighing, Mist tied a makeshift knot with the gauze. “Come in,” she answered quietly, still looking down at her shoulder to examine the bandage. It wasn’t the best handiwork she could do, but it would suffice—

“You’re hurt,” a familiar voice, sweet but tinged with worry, made her snap her head up. 

Mist sobered instantly at the sight of her princess, in just a flimsy night dress underneath her cape, still holding a candle in hand. She jumped up from her bed, eyes wide with surprise. 

“Princess,” she breathed. At her princess’ piercing gaze, she corrected herself a little sheepishly. “I mean—Aurora.” Better. The princess gave her a nod, silently permitting her to continue. “What are you doing here?” she questioned, then quickly added, “Not that I don’t want you here, of course! I just—It’s late, and you should be resting—” 

Mist felt as though her cheeks were on fire. It had only been around a week since she’d last seen Aurora, for the princess had come to send her off despite her reassurance that it was nothing new, just a regular expedition—but now Mist suddenly did not know how to act, did not know where to look, where to put her wandering hands. She bit at her lower lip, slightly embarrassed by how the words fell out of her mouth without thought, her hands worrying the edge of the bandage.

The princess was much more graceful and collected in her response.

“I heard that you were back,” she said with a shrug as though it was the most normal thing for a princess to say to a knight at two in the morning. 

“And wanted to see you.” She moved closer, and Mist held her breath. “Besides, if I hadn’t come, who was going to tell me that you’re injured?” 

A frown spread across her pretty features, and Mist opened her mouth to argue. “It’s just a cut, nothing I’ve never endured before—” 

But the princess would not take her argument. 

A slender, manicured finger pressed firmly against Mist’s lips, effectively shutting her up because all of a sudden she was consumed with the overwhelming urge to press a kiss into the pad of her princess’ index finger.

“None of that,” Aurora chastised. “Take a seat, and let me have a look.”

And who was Mist to disobey such a command?

Meekly, she sat down once more, her back facing the princess. Her bedsheets rustled softly, and she could feel a weight settle behind her. A click—the box was opened, more rustling, then shut again. The cool air on her shoulders was then replaced with the gentle touch of the very finger that had just grazed her lips. 

Aurora’s touch was soft yet firm as she slowly unravelled Mist’s poorly done handiwork. Inch by inch, she lifted the bandage, revealing the fresh cut beneath it. Mist could not see, but her ears caught the sound of bottles clinking—then hissed as a sharp pain emanated from the cut. Apologetically, Aurora stroked her other arm, placating her. 

“It would sting a little, I know. I’m sorry, but I have to disinfect the wound first.” 

Mist gritted her teeth. She wanted to protest, that the cut was nothing and should heal soon even if left alone—but how could she reject her princess’ care, when it was so sweet and tender? So she merely nodded. 

As she continued with her task, the princess began to hum softly. Mist allowed her eyelids to flutter shut at the smooth string of notes that seemed to flow like honey, briefly forgetting the sting of alcohol on her wound. It was a small cut, thankfully, and so the princess was already dressing the wound with gauze, though this time with infinite care and tenderness unlike the knight’s own carelessness. 

“All done now,” Aurora’s breath tickled Mist’s ear as she whispered, tying the ends of the bandage playfully into a small bow. But before Mist could turn around, the princess held out a hand, palm flattened against her back, and leaned down to press a firm kiss on her shoulder where the fresh bandage separated her lips from her skin. 

Beneath her palm, the muscles on Mist’s back rippled, and she stifled a gasp. 

The princess continued undeterredly, her index finger tracing down the trail of scars on Mist’s back, her lips following in its wake. One by one, she kissed them—the discoloured, raised ridges of flesh, crisscrossed like stars against Mist’s broad back. She kissed them all, reverently, until at last she was satisfied and permitted the knight to turn around at last by removing her hand.

Mist whipped her head around immediately. 

“Wh-What are you doing?” She whispered, though her voice was tinged with obvious shock and surprise, and perhaps, if one listened closely enough, a hint of giddy shyness that the knight desperately attempted to disguise.

“Kissing them better,” the princess only smiled. “Now, go to bed. You must be tired.” With the grace of a gazelle she stood up and stretched, leaving Mist staring at her, mouth agape and a blush furiously spreading across her cheeks. 

“But I expect to see you first thing tomorrow morning when you wake.” 

With that, Princess Aurora left her room with a wink, shutting the door softly behind her like Mist had done many times.

If this is what it earns me, Mist thought to herself, lying in bed sleeplessly despite her fatigue, then I would gladly fight a thousand battles just to earn a fair kiss from you. She smiled, hand lightly touching her shoulder, fingers toying with the bow that Aurora had made. Princess, princess. My dear princess, she sighed. If only you knew—the things I would do for you.

#the band ghost #aurora ghoulette #nameless ghouls #mist ghoulette #mistrora #mist x aurora #nameless ghoulettes #angelinawrites

[catlordewrites]

Black Herons - Ch. 7

@slytherisstuff @sanfransolomitatm @karolajnx0yep @joossieisdabomb

Masterlist - Ao3 - First Chapter - Previous Chapter - Next Chapter

A/N: Sorry this took so long. Been busy etc. Also this chapter is much shorter than I originally intended it to be… but it was getting too long and unmanageable and I was starting to not like the vibe, so I’ve split it in two. Maybe three. Idk we’ll see what happens when I finish Ch 8.

A/N: Also I just want to say that I’ve been floored by the number of positive responses to this story. Honestly at the beginning I didn’t think there was any call for Black Herons. But I’ve gotten so many comments and follows (even from people who aren’t necessarily in the Dune fandom). It blows my mind. So thank you to everyone who reads and interacts with Black Herons. It really makes me so happy to know there are people out there who love Rhiannon as much as I do ❤️

Pairing: Duke Leto Atreides I x Fem!OC (slow burn)

Rating: M

TW: Mentions of sexual assault.

Word count: 3.6k

Chapter Seven: Lovers’ Paradigm

Part One

Under an overcast sky, heavy mist rolled off the cliffs and towards the sea. Rhiannon walked the rocky path leading away from the Castle Caladan and the village below it, comfortably unobtrusive in her trousers and long woolen overcoat. Not that she was in disguise, but where she was headed, ‘Duchess’ was the last thing she intended to be.

Two months had given her ample time to become acquainted with her role as Duchess; by now she knew how and when to cast the role aside. She had walked this path enough to know when it was and wasn’t occupied, and knew how long she could get away with being off of Castle grounds without her security before Hawat sent people after her.

Rhiannon also knew that the comm device behind her ear doubled as a tracker, and that the Master of Assassins was monitoring her movements closely. It was a little annoying, but a reasonable concession for this amount of freedom.

Turning her collar up against the sea winds, Rhiannon rounded the bluff and picked her way down the slope towards the lonely house squatting low on the hillside. The house had a well-kept, but battered look about it, with its mismatched storm shutters and chipping paint bleached by salt and wind.

In a small paddock beside the house, an old brown horse snuffled around in the coarse grass. Rhiannon reached into her coat pocket and produced a few apple slices filched from the Castle kitchen, which the horse munched happily while she rubbed his velvety nose.

The door to the laundry shed opened on creaking hinges and a woman bearing a wicker basket of folded linen on her hip bustled out into the yard. She was young—only in her early thirties—but hard work and constant stress had worn frown lines into her lovely face and threaded silver through her raven black hair.

The woman stopped and blinked with surprise to see Rhiannon standing there. Then her face lit up with a dazzling smile that dissolved the additional years.

Miriam ‘Mim’ Trussell, the daughter of a Guild banker, had been born into a wealthy Caladanian family. When she grew up, however, she had the misfortune of falling in love with a lower class businessman and known swindler. Naturally, her family had disapproved and, when their rebellious daughter eloped, promptly disowned her.

For a few years, Mim had been happy with her life; she moved into her husband’s family home outside of Cala City, where she raised their two children while he worked. Over time, her husband lost interest in his wife and children. He moved to Cala City permanently, only sending meager amounts of money when he happened to remember that he had a family.

With nowhere else to turn, Mim was forced to scratch out a living as a seamstress, and often struggled to keep her children clothed and fed. Not anymore, though. Now, her kitchen was well stocked with fresh food and her children wore clothes that fit.

Mim put the basket on the ground and, smiling shyly, came over to lean up and give Rhiannon a kiss. Rhiannon was fairly tall, and Mim was fairly short; Mim had to stand on her toes to do it, which entertained Rhiannon to no end.

“Have I fallen so far in your favor that you visit the horse before you visit me?” Mim pouted, her gray eyes bright and playful.

“I do like horses,” Rhiannon conceded, amused. She rubbed the hand not preoccupied with holding Mim to her side along the white blaze on the horse’s face. “How long has Arno been favoring that leg?”

“I don’t know. I hadn’t noticed.”

Rhiannon hummed thoughtfully. The mild and grizzled Arno was a far cry from the massive warhorses her father had kept during her youth, but he was enough to make her sentimental.

She pressed a kiss to Mim’s temple.

“His shoe may be coming loose. Remind me before I leave, and I’ll take a look at it before I go.”

Mim looked up at her through her eyelashes. “And when will that be?”

“A few hours. You have me until lunch.”

Rhiannon hadn’t spoken to her husband about pursuing outside relationships, but was certain that he knew. At their station, discretion was paramount—the last thing House Atreides needed was someone spreading rumors that the Duchess was a whore. No one, not even the servants, could suspect impropriety.

At the same time, Rhiannon wasn’t exactly keeping it a secret. If Hawat wasn’t keeping close tabs on the people within striking range of those he served, he wouldn’t be deserving of his job title.

Hawat, of course, reported everything to Leto.

Mim wasn’t the first lover she had taken since her marriage to Leto; Rhiannon had waited a month—a perfectly fair amount of time, in her opinion—for Leto and Jessica to work out their situation enough for him to revisit his relationship with his wife.

When he hadn't, Rhiannon considered the company of others fair game. There had been a few brief encounters with a visiting ambassador—an attractive man with an overbearing wife who gave him even more reasons to keep quiet about bedding a foreign duchess than Rhiannon had—and another with an actor from Jongleur, who also understood discretion.

Leto had said nothing, but had been a bit terse with her for a while afterwards.

She was a little sad to have upset him, but it couldn’t be helped. Being celibate for months or years until her husband felt comfortable fulfilling her sexual needs wasn’t an option. If he wanted to discuss his feelings with her, she’d happily listen, but otherwise his emotions were his own problem.

“I’ll be leaving for Ahmes in a few days,” Rhiannon explained as she carried Mim’s discarded basket inside. “I’ll try to stop by again before then, but if I can’t, I’ll arrange for someone to come along and check on you in a week or so. If something happens, go to the castle and ask for Mariona. She’ll take care of anything you need.”

Mim took Rhiannon’s hands and guided her into her bedroom. The room was small and practical; within it was a bed covered with handmade quilts, a dresser with a mirror, and a rocking chair occupied by yet another basket of half-finished sewing. Rhiannon sat on the edge of the bed, and Mim sidled into her lap, straddling her.

During the walk, the strong winds had tugged strands of hair free from Rhiannon’s updo. Mim gently brushed them away from her face.

“You sound as if you expect to be away for a long time.”

Rhiannon smoothed her hands along Mim’s spine. “I’m not sure how long, exactly. Conferences are unpredictable. Probably a couple of weeks, though.”

Disappointment flickered briefly across Mim’s face.

“Such a fabulous life you live,” she murmured sadly.

The time they spent together was precious to the hardworking mother. A flare of romance suitable for a filmbook to brighten an otherwise lackluster life.

Sympathetic, Rhiannon leaned in and kissed her soundly, determined to chase away whatever negative thoughts were swimming through her lover’s mind.

Their relationship had started the same way that many of Rhiannon’s had. During one of Rhiannon’s scheduled public outings in Cala City, she’d visited several local businesses. The haberdashery where Mim worked was one of them. It had been sheer luck that Mim had been there that day, at the exact time Rhiannon was; Mim was rarely actually in the store—she, like many of the seamstresses the shop employed, did the bulk of their work at home.

Mim had been shy, beaten down by the years of abandonment and dead ends. But Rhiannon was a keen observer, and she had caught the way the silent seamstress’s eyes had followed her—full of the kind of longing that couldn’t be explained by envy or simple admiration for the Duchess of Caladan. Rhiannon had found Mim attractive too, and decided to do something about it.

“Tell me what I can bring you back from Ahmes,” Rhiannon asked once she had teased the smile and flush back into Mim’s lovely face.

“I don’t know,” Mim mumbled against Rhiannon’s lips. Their arrangement was still fairly new, and Mim hadn’t yet had the time to get comfortable asking for things. For now, Rhiannon was happy to infer her desires, but she still looked forward to the time when Mim felt secure. “I’ve never been. What‘s Ahmes like?”

“I haven’t been there either. Fairly warm and sunny, I’m told.”

Mim had only ever known the misty seas of Caladan. “That sounds nice.”

“Caladan is already too warm for my tastes. I still have too much Ironian ice in my blood. On Ahmes, I may melt.”

Mim’s quiet laugh warmed Rhiannon through.

This relationship would also end the same way many of Rhiannon’s had; the circumstances would change and one or both of them would move on, or they would want more than Rhiannon was able to give. It was always bittersweet, but Rhiannon didn’t mind the impermanence.

For a while, at least, she had someone to care for. Because even though she wasn’t entirely certain that she was capable of love, it comforted her to know that she could at least make someone feel loved. Free of politics or schemes or violence.

No ulterior motives, only tenderness.

Viscount Emilian Dering sat across from his daughter as the ground car bumped along the cobblestone roads. Farther into Varvara lands. Farther from home and safety.

Rhia sat primly in her seat. Her long hair cascaded down her shoulders, pulled back at the temples by a diamond encrusted clip. Dressed in the finest silks money could buy, she looked exactly as a young noblewoman should.

She was quiet, which was rare. Even though her poise was immaculate, she practically vibrated with energy. Nervous. Excited. Anxious for a new beginning.

She didn’t know that it would more likely be the end.

Since she was eight, she had performed many of the functions as Lady of House Dering. A great burden for someone so young, but she had risen to the occasion. But as she grew older, the limitations of performing duties without the authority began to frustrate her. In the last five years or so, her relationship to her father had become strained. They argued often. Over anything and everything. About her brother, mostly. And politics.

Now twenty, she was ready for a new adventure. Her own Household. Freedom. A title. Perhaps even love.

Guilt twisted in the old patriarch’s stomach.

Keeping the truth from her hadn’t been easy.

For the first time in many years, he allowed himself to study her features. Memorize them. There was so much of Rhosyn about her—Vidar genes were stubborn. Rhia had the height and lean build. The dark eyes and strong jaw. But it went deeper than that. Hotheaded. Cunning. Fearless. From her mother and her mother’s mother, she had inherited a fiery temper, rugged determination, and lethal intellect.

During the negotiations that had ended with Emilian taking Rhosyn as his wife, Rhosyn’s father had said, “Her mother’s a full blooded Dweller, lad. That’s one way to inject a little fire and piss into your bloodline!”

Fire and piss. Rhiannon had absorbed her lessons on politics and military strategy. Now, she regularly outwitted her father’s most seasoned advisors. After years of training, she had mastered the sword—preferring the combat style of Clan Vidar; even now, she wore her grandmother’s vambraces, swirling gold wlysteel emblazoned with the Vidar crest.

What a waste.

Rhiannon looked away from the window and caught her father watching her. She gave him a rare smile, which he forced himself to return.

Their enemies were becoming more aggressive by the day. House Dering needed the military might of House Varvara to survive.

No matter how much they fought, Emilian loved his daughter. But he also had a young son. His heir was the future, and Emilian had to ensure that the House Dering that young Larion inherited was stable enough to survive another generation.

Survival was expensive, and Rhia was the price.

Hopefully, he would survive the guilt.

The message came during lunch.

Leto was picking at a plate of smoked fish and vegetables when a courier wearing the official yellow and green uniform of House Adelio found him in the courtyard, led there by Thufir Hawat.

Leto accepted the sealed message cylinder and processed a thumbprint receipt. When the courier had gone, Leto cracked open the cylinder and read the message inside while Hawat took his seat at the small table to wait. When he finished reading, he passed the message to the Mentat.

“Most unfortunate timing, M’Lord,” Hawat said. “Baron Adelio writes as though the plans for the Trade Summit will be unaffected. But such an attack will have changed the dynamics considerably. Perhaps, M’Lord, it would be best to forgo the Summit entirely.”

Meal forgotten, Leto absently tapped his fork against the table.

“No… I think that would be premature. We’ll need to tighten our security for the trip, of course.” He paused, considering. “Where is the Duchess? She’ll need to coordinate with any changes we make.”

Hawat’s expression didn’t change. “The Lady Atreides visited the village this morning. She seems to be running behind schedule, but she is en route to the castle as we speak.”

Though he was no longer hungry, Leto turned his attention back to his plate and stabbed at the fish moodily. Rhiannon had told him from the beginning that she would take lovers if he wasn’t up to the task, but he would be lying if he said that there wasn’t a small part of him that had hoped that she would wait for him.

Leto could say or do nothing to prevent her from seeking company—he’d given her permission to take lovers even before they met. But it did nothing to soften the shock and hurt he’d felt when Hawat told him of his new wife’s conquests. And just when he thought he had made peace with the idea of Rhiannon taking casual lovers, she had started regularly visiting a woman—Leto still hadn’t decided how he felt about that—who lived outside of the village below the Castle. 

Rhiannon’s behavior towards Leto hadn’t changed, but he couldn’t help but worry. Would she still want to be with him when the time came? What if she fell in love with someone else and no longer wanted to explore her relationship with her husband?

Eventually, Leto realized that he was only upsetting himself over the things that might be, instead of focusing on matters of the present. Deciding that it was in everyone’s best interest if he knew as little about his wife’s exploits as possible, Leto passed the responsibility of monitoring the Duchess’s affairs into Hawat’s capable hands, and did his best to think no more of it.

“Yes, well…” Leto started, shaking his head to clear it. “When the Duchess gets back, inform her of the situation and tell her to—”

“Tell the Duchess what?”

Rhiannon, who had seemingly materialized into the center of the courtyard, was striding towards them, tugging off her fine leather gloves and tucking them into her coat pocket. She was composed and graceful as ever, but a few streaks of drying mud marred one of her thighs and the insides of her coat sleeves at the wrist.

“M’Lady.” Hawat stood and bowed respectfully. “Shall I send the Commerce Minister a message to inform him that the Duchess will be somewhat late to their scheduled meeting?”

“I’ve already rescheduled it, but thank you,” Rhiannon said brightly. Then, by way of an explanation, added, “I was shoeing a horse.”

There were many aspects of having a Duchess that had caught Leto by surprise. Being able to pass off some of his Royal duties, for one; the strange relationship that had developed between the Duchess and the Chief of Security, for another.

Rhiannon and Hawat seemed to be locked in a (hopefully friendly) battle of wits and information that Leto didn’t understand at all. He had no idea how it worked or who was winning, but was extremely grateful that he hadn’t been asked to take sides.

“That explains the mud,” Leto commented, hoping to distract from Hawat’s sour expression. Leto offered Rhiannon the message from Baron Adelio, then explained as she read. “House Belgrave has invaded one of the Adelio holdings. House Adelio has declared kanly, but the Summit seems to be going forward as planned.”

“It all sounds very dramatic,” Rhiannon said absently, still reading. “I take it we’re going anyway?”

“A large sum of House Adelio’s income is generated by the Summit. If House Atreides backs out, others will too. Octavius is an old friend of my father’s. It… wouldn’t be right to pull out just when he needs the support.”

“Of course, M’Lord.” Hawat looked serious. “But the Belgrave invasion was clearly timed to interfere with the Trade Summit. We need to consider the possibility that there may be another attack while the Summit is in session.”

Rhiannon, who had settled in one of the empty seats, stole Leto’s fork and poached a few of the roasted vegetables off his plate. He pushed the plate closer to her so she could help herself.

“I know Belgrave and Adelio are ancestral enemies,” Rhiannon mused, “but what’s our relationship to Belgrave? As in, if there is an attack, how likely are we to be targets?”

Hawat’s gaze turned inwards, sifting through his vast reservoirs of information.

“Summary: House Atreides has no direct links to House Belgrave. However, in the past the Atreides have lent both fiscal and military aid to House Adelio during conflicts with Belgrave. Projection: House Atreides is likely to be indirectly targeted during an attack, but unlikely to be subjected to direct targeting.”

“We’ll need to have several solid extraction plans ready.” Rhiannon looked at Leto. “You also need to figure out what kind of resources you’re willing to pour into Adelio before we get there.”

Leto frowned. “I’ve made no promises to Adelio, and the Baron hasn’t asked that I make any.”

“All the same. House Belgrave is much larger and more powerful than House Adelio. Your father was Baron Adelio’s friend. He will ask. And we’ll be much better off if you have your answer prepared.”

Surprisingly, Hawat agreed with her. “The eyes of the Landsraad will be on this conflict, M’Lord. I advise caution.”

“Agreed,” Leto said. “I’ll consider our options carefully before I agree to anything. For now, updating our security measures is more pressing.” His eyes fixed on Hawat. “Give me an analysis: where are our weakest points?”

Rhiannon settled back to listen, eyes sharp and unblinking.

Rhiannon Varvara hadn’t been a virgin, but she was bleeding anyway. Between her legs, but also her lip, her head, and from a rather deep cut on her thigh.

Physical pains, she could handle. She’d always been tough. Worse than the blood was the confusion. Anger. Humiliation.

She wasn’t someone who allowed herself to be bullied; when the encounters with her new husband turned into something she didn’t enjoy, she fought back. Even as the days turned into weeks, and weeks into months, she kept fighting.

And every time, Bence Varvara tried to put her in her place. When he couldn’t manage her on his own, he brought guards in to help. Had them beat her within an inch of consciousness, or hold her down, or even use her while her husband looked on, amused.

Wife number six was an interesting challenge.

To Count Bence Varvara, it was a game. One that he had played with all five of the wives that had been before Rhiannon. He used them until they broke. And then he got bored, and disposed of them.

But Rhiannon was a survivor.

Even at night, Arrakis sweltered.

The air was dry in the way that old bones are. Rough and thirsty. It dragged at the skin like sandpaper, clinging to any exposed tissues and begging for a drink.

Not many people dared to go outside without a Stillsuit. Only the ignorant and the rich.

Chantria was neither.

Her skin was soft and supple, water-fat and protected from the harsh wind blowing in from the desert by expensive creams and lotions. But she moved through the darkened streets of Arrakeen with expert precision, clinging to the shadows along the walls and alleys like a cat.

She wasn’t rich, but the brothel that employed her was. The revealing chiffon clothes draped about her marked her as an expensive whore, but the symbol tattooed to her wrist in dark ink was a constant reminder of with whom her true loyalties lay.

Chantria didn’t always understand her orders. Her Mistress’ interest in Arrakis—in the Fremen, specifically—seemed a bit preposterous. But it wasn’t her place to direct the master schemes.

The Mistress needed a liaison. A spy. A soldier. Someone clever enough to see what needed to be done, and then had the courage to do it. Tough enough to survive Arrakis. Scrappy enough to survive the Harkonnens. Loyal enough to trust.

Chantria was every one of those things. And more.

When she arrived at the rugged house near the outskirts of the city, the smile Chantria painted on her lovely face was as good as genuine. She was intensely proud of the work she did, and establishing the connections needed to be one of the girls sent to entertain the brothel’s Fremen customers had taken time.

Making connections through the Fremen she serviced would be even more difficult, but Chantria was up to the challenge.

#duke leto atreides x reader #leto atreides x reader #duke leto x reader #oc #fanfic #duke leto atreides x oc #duke leto x oc #leto atreides i x reader #dune

[onceuponanaromantic]

the art of losing (is easy to master)

(Written for @flashfictionfridayofficial​‘s prompt: FFF193: Celestial Bodies. Title is a riff on Elizabeth Bishop’s One Art. Enjoy!)

How does a girl become a god?

             Quite simply, if I’m being honest about it.

             The ones I help do not know my name. Neither do I for that matter, but a name is a heavy thing to carry through the highest cliffs. I have walked through the narrowest straits, through mists denser than darkness itself. I have walked the abyss and the mountain tops beyond human knowledge, but this, I could only do by giving up my humanity.

             (“Sir, I believe the exit is that way,” I say, “if you turn right after the staircase and walk past the blue building.”

             The old man nods at me. “Thank you, my dear. I must have missed my stop.”

             He touches a finger to his forehead. “It’s hard, you know, remembering. But I could have sworn it was getting late. Get home too, dear girl. It’s not good to be out so late after dark. Somebody must miss you.”)

             I have walked the fires that burn deep in the darkest, deepest parts of the ocean, where cold sinks into your bones and does not leave. I have swum the currents of air that slice the very tips of clouds off.

             I do not know how I got here. It must be like the others, because not all who wander are lost, but the people who end up here? The lost and the lonely. Not all the souls who end up here are alive either.

             (“Ma’am?” I get the old woman’s attention. It’s a bus stop this time, and she clutches her purse to her. Her eyes are milky white, and she looks at me like she’s seeing somebody else.

             “Are you my John?” She asks. “I’m… I don’t know where I am.”

           “It’s okay,” I say, pressing my hand to her bony fingers. “You’re just lost.”

             I guide her up, walking beside her as she hobbles towards a doorway that leads to a dark place I have never been to. She is dead, but as ghosts go, she has a strong grip. As we walk, she tells me about her John. Her John is a young man, who never visits his old grandmother. She worries for him, and for her daughter, Marie-Anne.

             “Tell that girl she needs to eat more, and does she ever listen?” The old woman grumbles, “You, you tell her that she needs to eat her vegetables.”

             I help her past the threshold. I cannot go beyond this point.)

             I am the one who emerges beyond the mists, the guide who appears as a sister, a daughter, a brother. On occasion, I am an aunt or a grandmother.

             (“Auntie?” A young boy looks up at me from inside some modern looking station. “I think I’m lost? I missed my stop and my mum’s going to kill me.”

             I point him to the next train, and tell him to get on it and take it a loop until he gets back out.)

             I am nameless, and the lost often find things to call me. But none of them are my name. But it’s okay. Gods do not have human names. I don’t always know who people see when they look at me, but I try to be friendly. No one ends up here on purpose after all.

             And then the day came when somebody did.

             “Ma’am,” I begin, turning to the woman sitting on the bench. This is a proper labyrinth, sweet smelling like herbs and sunlight, and oddly familiar. It is a garden, flowers and warmth pressing themselves to my cheeks like a caress.

             And then she’s looking at me and my breath catches. “Ma’am, I think you’re lost.”

             “Oh, please don’t worry about that.” The woman stands, brushing off her skirts in a terrible, familiar motion. “I have been practicing this for a long time.”

             Her eyes glint in the sunlight, “It’s harder than you would think, to find this place.”

             “To find you.”

             Her face is older than I remember, crinkles at the edge of her eyes and wrinkles at her forehead. Silver darts through her hair like shooting stars through the dark. When she grasps my hands, her hands are calloused, veiny and tender where they grip mine.

             “Hello, Asteria.”

             I should know her. I could swear I know her. The name rings in me like an old church bell, rocking me where I stand.

             But I don’t know her.

             “I don’t know your name.” My voice breaks from my chest, a quiet sort of devastation.

             “It’s okay,” she says. “Do you remember how you got here?”

             I shake my head.

             “We were fighting. You were trying to find something, after our brother died. You were trying to bring him back, but instead, you got lost.” Her voice is quiet. “We looked for you forever, but we couldn’t find you. Until the rumours came out about an immortal guide, who finds the lost and helps them home.”

             “Athena thought you didn’t want to come home. I disagreed. Athena thought you blamed yourself for our brother’s death. But then I realised this place was real.”

             “Do you know, this place is a different plane of reality, a celestial body of sorts. It’s hard to know it exists, but even when you do, it’s harder still to remember who you are and what you’re looking for. You can only find this place by being lost yourself.”

             And I know this. Or I knew it once. I have heard this story before, but now I know it again, hearing this woman speak.

             “What’s your name?”

           The woman shakes her head. “Nobody can know.”

             She presses her lips to my forehead and pulls off her coat. She wraps it around me, and the scents take me back to her lab. Copper like the torches she’s so fond of, teak and walnut for tables which our brother gave her as a present when she finally set it up. Ink like her records of all the stories she’s ever told me about the world.

           My big sister stands before me, but even now I feel my memory of her name escape me.

             “I’m here to take your place.” She touches my face gently. “The guide must exist, to save the lost.”

           “But it doesn’t have to be you.”

             She presses her hand to mine and guides it to the exit of her- my garden.

             “Athena’s waiting for you. Don’t worry about me. I’ve lived a good life, and you’ll see me again someday.”

             How does a girl become a god?

           Quite simply actually; she makes a decision.

#syl's writing #one art is an incredible poem and its themes verily work with this piece #flash fiction friday #celestial bodies

[booksteaandtoomuchtv]

A Year Without (5/?)

Summary: After the curse returns Killian to the Enchanted Forest, he struggles to acclimate to his old life and his old ways. When a bird with a letter and memory potion arrives on his ship, he accepts the challenge to find Emma and help her save her family. Getting to Emma won't be easy and will cost him dearly, but what choice does he have when he cannot go a day without memories of her haunting him?

A03 | CH  1  |   2  |   3  |  4  |  5  |  6  |  7  |  8  |  9  |  10  | CUTS

Day 156

Sea-green eyes danced with a mixture of joy and relief as they connected with his own across the deck, he felt an answering smile pull at his lips. Everyone was in high spirits as they began to dock in Storybrooke, reunited with Henry and Pan no longer a threat to their lives. 

Killian watched mesmerised as the crisp breeze lifted her golden locks into her face almost playfully. She watched him watching her with a satisfied smile before she slowly faded away like pixie dust on the wind. 

His chest tightened, blood pounding in his ears, “Swan! Swan!” 

He called out, reached out, and stormed across the main deck, “Swan! Swan!” 

What started as a demand to recall her from the breeze turned into a hopeless petition to an uncaring world, “Swan? Swan, please?”She never reappeared. There was no response from her, from the winds, or from the universe which had ripped them apart. 

Desperate, he called out once more, “Swan, return to me, love.” 

He awoke, alone, with a plea on his lips and a mist trapped in his eyes. 

Day 179

The sea was calm and dolphins had started playing around the Jolly Roger as she sailed leisurely in the open sea. Days like this were why Hook had fallen in love with a life at sea. The lapping of the water against the ship and the ripple of the canvas sails in the wind brought the feeling of home to his restless soul. 

Hook wondered if it was a morning like this in which Ariel found her prince. Perhaps, she'd reunited with him and learned that his heart wasn't as true as hers. Likely, she'd find him wrapped up in another woman with no recollection of either of their names. 

But, what if they'd been reunited and it was exactly as she'd said? True Love. 

Hook frowned, the rarity of such a morning clearly caused his thoughts to wander into places he'd never intended. He needed a new purpose, a mission of sorts. They'd already taken down the nastiest pirate crews that had risen to power in his absence, putting an end to those dealing in the darkest trades and securing The Jolly Roger's position as the powers of these waters. 

The crew was satisfied with the riches relieved from those bleak ships, but no content pirate crew has ever existed. They hadn't noticed that he'd avoided piracy against innocent ships since his return; but, they soon would if he didn't give them all a new objective - a distraction. When they did register the change in his conquests, they were sure to mutiny.

He'd heard rumours of a treasure in these lands, unmatched by the coffers of any kingdom. It was time for Captain Hook to be known in all the realms for more than his antics to survive the demon boy and an unquenchable thirst for revenge. 

Day 185

The long-lost treasure of the fabled Captain Jack Sparrow wasn’t marked on any nautical charts for one to seek and was often considered fantastical sea lore meant to entertain men during the long nights at sea. The stories traded between crews over pints in crumbling taverns and shared on ship decks between rum barrels beneath the stars varied wildly as each storyteller put their spin on the tale. The story was identifiable in every telling because each telling had enough commonalities between them to indicate to a careful listener that all of these tales were based on truth. 

After centuries of sailing, Hook had heard every rendition imaginable and had discerned a few of the truths: Captain Sparrow had treasures beyond gold and silver, the remains of the Black Pearl were likely cursed and protected the treasure, and there was an artefact in this lost horde that had the ability to reunite you with your heart's deepest desire. Considering the size of the seas and the lack of any indication of where to begin the search, Hook understood the initial objections his crew voiced. However, when he told them the next port would be Singapore, a gruff cheer soared over the water; any qualms with the captain’s newest venture were forgotten by the promises of a friendly port filled with everything their black hearts desired. His heart was not so easily satisfied.

After seven months of failing to reacclimate to his life before Swan, he decided any hope of finding his deepest desire was worth the attempt. Even if he suspected he already knew what that desire was and knew it to be unreachable.

All magic has a loophole. It was time to stop trying to fit into his old habits; it was time to find a loophole to this bloody curse.

Tag: @kmomof4 , @cosette141 , @kazoosandfannypacks

#ouat fanfiction #ouat fanfic #A Year Without #CS Fanfic Eventually #captain hook #killian jones #writes by Jas #fic by Jas

[lunarsands]

ALSMP Fanfic: Until The Blood Moon Descends Ch 2

Characters: merling!Scott, gravital!Sausage, goolien!Sausage, giant!Sausage, thornling!Scott, and a few more iterations…

Relationships: MythicalSausage/Scott Smajor

Tags: Canon Divergent, scosage

Warnings: Injury, Illness, Body Horror, Character Death (by fourfold), Angst

(Sequel to Echoing Through To You and When The Skies Cry)

Summary: Sausage and Scott start to find balance again as gravital and merling, and life falls into a relaxing routine. Then one night a Blood Moon rises and their bond is tested like never before. Destiny, it seems, continues to hound their every step…

(Also available on Ao3!)

[ Chapter One ]

Chapter Two

It might have been the sound of his own labored breathing that disturbed Sausage during the night, but after a few moments he also noticed that there seemed to be something scrabbling around in his room. He could swear he heard a faint beeping noise but then it stopped. “S-Scott? Is – Is that you?” he called blearily. He couldn’t see much in the dark but didn’t have the energy to turn on the light.

Someone who definitely wasn’t Scott muttered, “Signal is weak but this is the source. Bad and good timing it seems.”

They sounded like they were almost right next to his pillows. Sausage turned and attempted to push himself up, black mist curling around his hand. “W-Who’s there? H-How did you get in here?”

“Oh, you really are in rough shape. That will make this easier. Hey, over here.” A dull greenish light lit up beside the crate of health potions. Sausage was very confused by what he was seeing. There seemed to be a very small, semi-transparent bipedal creature dressed in some type of red bodysuit with a closed helmet standing on the wooden chest, holding a tiny silver box which was the source of the light.

“Who – and what – are you?”

“That’s going to take some explaining. Let me start with this: I’m from somewhere far away, and I arrived here on the night of crimson, and you caused me to crash land because of some gravity malfunction. It has taken me far too much time to track you down because everything on this planet is absurdly large, and as I now see you don’t even have that much gravity power left. Since you obviously won’t be able to help with that part of the matter, you can help me in another way – because right now, as I see it, you owe me one.”

Sausage gave a quiet little laugh then coughed. “What? I was – I was fighting monsters half the night. What do you mean ‘this planet’? …I must be delirious or something.” He eyed the tiny creature then reached over it to try to pick up one of the potions. His fingertips caught at the top of a bottle but he only managed to knock it over in the attempt.

The creature watched and shook its head judgingly. “You really don’t have a lot of time. Listen: I can give you more time, but we need to make a deal. I have a mission to carry out and I need a host to get me across this stupidly big landmass. You’re about to die, and you’re responsible for my delay. Work with me and we both benefit.”

“A mission? A host? What does that even mean?” Sausage huffed in frustration and tried again, although his hand was shaking, and he was unable to grip the neck of the next nearest bottle. He was beginning to fear what this creature meant when saying he was about to die.

“The princess of my people came to this world and was murdered. I’m here to find her killer and enact justice. But not being of royal blood, I can’t fully function in this atmosphere and have to conserve my body’s energy. If I have a host – that is, if I possess a body like yours – I’ll be able to do what I need to and then be on my way. You can have an extra day here, then let me take over and complete my mission, and afterward I leave and you can do whatever it is your species does when it expires.”

“How do you even know how much time I have left?”

“If I can possess a body, don’t you think I would know what condition it’s in?”

Sausage couldn’t believe he was still entertaining this delusion, but had to ask, “So how much time, exactly?” He remembered that at the end the mist had overwhelmed Scott without much warning.

“About four and a half hours.”

“Uh… So that’s… What time is it now..?”

“You’re not making it to sunrise, if that’s what you’re asking.”

Sausage tried to think if he could successfully manage to find Scott, get through another possible argument with him, and still say what he needed to in order to make peace with him within that time frame. As he grabbed the side of the blanket to pull it back so he could get up, he saw the mist surrounding his hand. He realized he had two options: he could try to yell for Scott so he would come to him, but he didn’t feel like he had the lung strength for that right now; or he could agree to this alien creature’s proposal and buy the time to talk to Scott in the morning. He wasn’t sure how he would explain the latter, but maybe Scott would be more reasonable by then.

“If I agree to this, promise me you’ll leave Scott out of it. Actually, no, I want you to help him. All he can think about is blaming himself, and I don’t want him to keep on like that. There has to be a way to get past all this.”

“I’ll see what I can do, after I get back.”

“Fine. So…what happens now?”

“Lay down for one thing. You’re going to fall off of this rest platform if you don’t, anyway. Then just close your eyes. I promise you won’t feel a thing.”

~*~

It was more than four hours later when Sausage opened his eyes to see daylight streaming through the curtains. He held a hand up, staring as he tried to determine if there was mist around it or if he just wasn’t fully awake yet. He felt… nominally better. Breathing seemed a little easier and his arm wasn’t as weak when he reached over to pick up one of the potions. He took a cautious sip. Much like the last time it didn’t seem to do anything to help, but he drank the whole bottle just so Scott would see that he had listened.

If only the former merling would listen to him. However, he didn’t know what else to say to ease the guilt. He could go over each incident that had led to his deaths and try to rationalize them, but he knew Scott had never gotten over the first one. When he had tried to remove that specific guilt Scott had stopped him, not wanting to be forgiven. The guilt was a part of him, integral, important to him, to always have inside. Maybe it was due to not having much of a conscience as a vampire then gaining one as an angel, particularly in regard toward Sausage as he fell in love with him.

It hurt Sausage to think about it, but maybe he himself needed to accept that Scott would continue carrying those feelings through all of his future lives. He would prefer still trying to help him heal, but this life, right now, wasn’t the one to do it. Maybe he could try again in whatever followed when the alien was done with him.

A knock on the door made his thoughts scatter. “C-Come in— Oh.”

Scott walked through the door without opening it, seeming to make a point to face away into the room as he spoke in a clipped tone, “Good morning. I’d ask how you were feeling but I know the answer won’t be ‘better’.”

“N-No, actually, I do—” Sausage stopped himself. Should he tell him about the alien? Would it make much difference? It was only an extra day – well, less than that by this point – and he would still die with no way of knowing what would happen next. “—because… I slept all right,” he continued. He felt he should say something else, but no words were coming to him.

Scott tilted his head, ear turned toward the bed. “No cough right now?”

“No, it – it cleared up a little. Maybe the potions are working better this time?”

“They’re not a long-term solution. You know that.”

“Scott, can we please just talk without all the impending doom hanging over our heads?”

The former merling didn’t reply so much as exhale loudly through his nose.

“Fine,” Sausage said sadly, “Be that way.” He fidgeted with the edge of the blanket then sighed, unable to commit to the silent treatment. “But, just— Remember, no matter what I come back as, I love you.”

“I – I know.” Scott struggled with the traditional response. He uttered a sigh of his own and finally moved, sitting at the very end of the bed out of reach but feeling like he owed it to Sausage to sit with him for at least a little while. “I still hate every second of this. I can’t think of any way it could have gone worse.”

Sausage had a few ideas but kept them to himself. He racked his brain for something funny to say instead, something to try to lighten the mood, but then Scott said, “I… won’t see when you go, or when you come back because then I might curse you all over again. I won’t know what you are. I hope it isn’t also bad, because… well, remember what I said when angel-me died? I can’t be much of a conscience for you if I’m like this.”

Sausage was about to ask him to stay beside him until that moment, but realized the situation could change very fast when the alien took over. “Hey, um, how about this for an idea: if you get some paper and a quill, I can write a note for myself, to remind me to keep that promise, too! And I’ll—” He stopped himself again. “…I’ll, um, I’ll let you know what I am when I can.”

He had to include that last part in case he wasn’t near home when the alien left, although he would hope it would have the courtesy to not abandon him thousands of blocks away. Maybe he should add a reminder in the note to keep obsidian plus a flint and steel on him so he could take a shortcut home if that did happen.

“I’m not sure that would work,” Scott replied, although he stood up. “But I’ll do it if you really want. Let me go look.”  He walked directly through the door again.

Sausage let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. He really should have asked the alien creature more questions about what would happen when it took over, and when it left.

If he hadn’t simply dreamt the whole thing.

But then, he was better right now, and it was true the potions didn’t ultimately work. His thoughts then doubled back on themselves. Scott didn’t seem any more agreeable this morning, and the rest of the day would likely go the same.

“You don’t have to give me a whole day anymore,” Sausage whispered out loud. “It doesn’t matter.” He got out of bed and picked up one of the empty potion bottles, clutching it tightly as he went over to the open window beside the desk. It would be a simple matter to climb out. “Let’s go now, before he comes back. It won’t be fair, but none of this is.” He placed the bottle so it sat precariously close to the edge of the desk. “Don’t let him catch us leaving.”

“If that’s what you want,” said the creature’s voice inside his head. “Hold on to your bronchial tubes.”

Sausage then began to cough violently. His legs started to give out, causing him to stumble until he caught himself on the wall, where he saw the mist surrounding his hand once more. Scott would undoubtably hear. He shakily reached out for the windowsill.

He blacked out before he even hit the floor.

.

The sound of glass shattering caught Scott’s attention more than the coughing. The latter he couldn’t do anything about, but if Sausage got hurt by any broken pieces that would just be literal insult to injury. He left the book and quill in favor of a dustpan to clean up the glass with. This time he opened the bedroom door instead of walking through it. “Sausage, are you all…”

The room was now utterly silent. He could see some of the broken potion bottle from under the edge of his blindfold. It was across the room, not near the bed. He set down the dustpan and felt around along the blanket to be sure. No body was there. He carefully searched around to make sure Sausage wasn’t just slumped somewhere out of view, but there was also no other sounds besides his own breathing. For a second he entertained the thought that Sausage was now also something that could walk through walls, but the more acceptable thought – and what he preferred to be true – was he had come to his senses and left altogether to avoid being cursed again.

Allowing listlessness to take hold, Scott lifted his blindfold just enough to be able to more safely clean up the glass, then pulled it back into place once it was taken care of. He put away the remaining potions then returned to the bedroom, curling up on the bed and imagining that it still felt warm, that Sausage had not been gone for long.

He should have told him that he loved him one more time, or had the guts to say goodbye when he knew this was what could happen.

~*~

The next few days blended one into the other for Scott. He tried to do some upkeep around the villa, tried to make sure all the flowers in the garden patches were watered, tried to tend the animals. It was just things that had to be done. He considered letting the animals free to return to the fields, considered letting the gardens grow wild.

But what if Sausage returned and decided he wanted his home back?

Scott thought about returning to his vampire mansion, long since left to the elements after Sausage basically took him in while he regained his strength when he became an angel, and then it just seemed right to stay in Heaven’s Reach after that. As a compromise to himself, he went down to Wither’s Grasp and made the manor a little more livable since it had also been left to gather cobwebs. Boarded up windows were certainly suitable for whatever his new life alone was going to turn out to be.

He didn’t know yet what else he was going to do. Just wait, perhaps, and let nature take its course. One thought at the very back of his mind – something he didn’t dare call hope – was that Sausage, reborn hale and hearty, had left to find a better answer to the problem.

It occurred to Scott that he should write down everything he knew so far, since he had left that one book back at the stronghold, just in case Sausage did return, and there was the chance that one of them might become an Enigma again in the future. The project took up part of an afternoon, and he was leaving the manor to bring the book up to the villa when he heard footsteps crunching on the rocky dirt of the path. He quickly tugged at his blindfold to make sure he didn’t accidentally catch sight of them.

“Hello?” he called out, keeping his voice steady to avoid giving away his weakness. “Who’s there?”

“An old friend,” came a semblance of Sausage’s voice; something seemed off about it, not to mention that was a strange way to refer to himself. “Ssscott,” he then sounded out the other’s name as if it was an unfamiliar word. “Come with me. We have business to tend to.”

Before Scott could react, a hand closed on his arm and he was practically dragged across Wither’s Grasp, over the bridge, and partway up the stone staircase. “Saus—where are we going?”

“Back to the scene of the crime.”

That phrasing didn’t sit well with him, but he didn’t protest as he was encouraged to climb up into the cave that sat inside the wall, left just as it was on the night of the Blood Moon. Still holding onto the book, Scott was about to ask why they were there now, but hands turned him to make sure he was facing toward Sausage and then the blindfold was yanked off his head. “No-!” He started to cover his face with his arms but the glimpse he caught of who he thought was Sausage made him stop and stare in shock.

Green, translucent skin and pink hair greeted him, strange clear eyes staring back from what was definitely Sausage’s face. He was wearing the same clothes as the last time Scott had seen him, although they hung oddly on his frame and there was residue from gunpowder dirtying his shirt. Scott recovered from his shock and tried to block his line of sight again, but the alien version of Sausage stopped him. “No, don’t look away. This is important. Now, listen to me: Do you want to forget this ever happened? I can make him forget, and I can make you forget.”

“Make… him? So you’re… not Sausage? What are you?”

“Very long story. If you forget it won’t matter anyway. Let’s just say I needed to borrow him. No, keep looking at me. I still need you to end this.”

“Then…make sure we get this book. In case one of us comes back like me again.” Scott pointed with the book’s spine toward the bit of cobblestone wall where the black cloth was still laid out. Pseudo-Sausage nodded, and Scott backed up to place the book on it, glancing away only long enough to make sure it was properly on the wall and wouldn’t fall off. Then he said, “Forgetting won’t take away the guilt, you know.”

“That’s a matter for you. My business is vengeance. You can think of this situation as that. You’re knocking me loose, but I’ll avenge this mate of yours before I go.”

Understanding dawned on Scott. He suppressed a grateful smile and continued to hold his stare. The black mist appeared around pseudo-Sausage’s hands and feet, progressing even faster than before.

The alien looked down at his hands, holding one up to study the effect. “Hm, that will do. Next we just…” He took a small silver box from his pocket and fiddled with it. “Wait, that’s not… Right, got it.”

Scott watched curiously and leaned forward a little. A beam of bright red energy shot out of the front of the box, striking him in the chest. He dropped to the floor without a sound. The alien then sighed and placed the box on the ground by the cave’s entrance, then sat down next to Scott and waited.

~*~

When Sausage woke he first registered the sunlight streaming in from the front of the cave, and that was a relief. At least the night full of hordes of monsters was over. Next, however, came the feeling of the cave wall pressing in on him. His body felt oddly spread out, like his shoulders were too wide and his arms farther apart. He tried to move a little and nearly hit his head on close-hanging rock. Had there been some creeper around that collapsed a wall on him?

His gaze fell on a book sitting upon the black cloth where arrows and a potion had been, seeming far below his line of sight. That hadn’t been there before. He reached for it and—

Well, if he had been able to pick it up he probably wouldn’t have been able to turn the pages. His hand was gigantic in comparison. It wasn’t the cave that had changed. He had gotten bigger. But where was… “Ohgod. Scott? Scott??” The only thing stopping him from looking around in a panic was the threat of hitting his head again. “Please don’t tell me I crushed you…”

“Over here.” The voice had a strange quality to it, reminding him of endermen speech.

It took a moment because he was looking for a regular-sized person, but what he finally did see was a small (was it extra small because he was so big?) creature with purple crystalline horns coming out of its forehead, strangely shaped motes floating around pale yellow hair, and violet eyes that stared up at him. “Or down here, I guess I should say.”

“Oh, you’re tiny. That’s kind of cute.” Sausage giggled.

“And you’re stuck. I don’t know if you’ll fit through the way out even if you can crawl over there. Of all the places to turn into a giant,” Scott mused. “I’ll go get a pickaxe and try to get you out.”

“Wait, there’s a book here, it wasn’t in that bundle. I can’t, uh, pick it up.”

“All right, let me see.” The wall was just low enough for Scott to reach it. He started to flip through the book, wondering what relevance it had in the wake of them being shot by the terrifying skeletal archer. “This is…my handwriting. I don’t remember doing this.”

“What does it say?”

“Something about a creature called an Enigma. Huh… Oh! I put a little note at the end. …Oh.”

“That didn’t sound good.”

“That’s the thing that killed me when I was an angel.”

“Oh.”

“I don’t know why this was here, but I guess I found information or something? But I still don’t remember writing this.”

“Maybe… it’s the cave. Like you found the crossbow and stuff, and the first time I came in here I found stuff I could use as a wither. I didn’t question it before.”

“The cave has prescient abilities?”

“I don’t know. Weirder things have happened.”

Scott batted at one of the motes floating around his head, not that it really did anything to affect it. “Obviously. Well, give me a few minutes.” He scurried out of the cave and Sausage couldn’t contain another giggle while watching him. He then worked on maneuvering around to do the aforementioned crawling toward the cave’s entrance, earning a few scrapes in the process when trying to figure out where his limbs could fit. This was going to take some getting used to.

Scott returned and started work on expanding the sides of the entrance. Sausage noticed the extra pickaxe strapped to his back. “Why did you bring a gold one?”

“I don’t know. I just kind of wanted it.”

“Huh, so… where am I going to sleep now? I’m not going to fit in the house…”

~*~

As time went on the cycle just kept continuing for the two of them. An excessively packed TNT trap took out Sausage despite his extra resilience as a giant, although it was that resilience that shielded Scott from the blast. Yet before long, in a similar fashion, Scott was caught unaware by a creeper, which dealt immediate death due to his smaller, less hardy state.

They soon found themselves in a new unusual situation when Sausage became an owl and Scott a red panda. They made a nest inside a small forest cave as they adjusted to animalistic senses, although it didn’t last long anyway when a dire wolf found them.

Throughout it all they stayed together as best they could, while Sausage soon outpaced Scott in the count as he continued to be driven to protect him. A lengthy amount of peace came again when Scott found himself settling in as a floran, content to just tend gardens again while the very plants themselves grew upon him, giving him his own personal flower crown at all times. Meanwhile, the various pools and house pond came in handy again when Sausage had a turn at being a merling. Scott took out his old trident to give him tips on using it, and showed him the best spots for fishing in the river. There weren’t as many adventures anymore, and as Scott put it one time, “Now I don’t have to go far to get the flowers I want.”

Reminded of a particular flower-gathering disaster, Sausage was glad to agree.

~*~

Scott idly kicked his bare feet in the water of the deeper of the western ponds, smiling at a late afternoon butterfly that was investigating the flowers growing in his hair. Sausage had been napping at the bottom of the pond and was on his way up while Scott simply waited for him, a picnic dinner set out nearby and plans to watch the sunset ahead of them.

Surfacing near the middle, Sausage swam over and rested his webbed hands on the tops of Scott’s feet, which the floran lightly alternated again to create small ripples between them. Sausage smiled up at him then patted one of his knees before going to the side and hauling himself out. With water running down his face from his hair, he gave Scott a little kiss, then they moved to the picnic blanket to eat.

It was a perfect evening… up until the red of the sunset failed to fade from the sky. Sausage peered at the horizon, doublechecking the sun’s position. “Um… Not liking that. We should maybe get inside…”

“Too late.” Scott was already looking toward the villa. Creepers and spiders had begun to appear en masse, and a group of zombies was starting to head their way. Scott put his hands to the ground and after a scowl of concentration, twisting vines emerged from the grass in front of the undead, tangling around them as they shambled forward. He caught up a few creepers as well.

Sausage reached back into the pond where he had left the trusty trident leaning on the wall, having a habit of keeping it nearby at all times. “We’re getting to the river this time,” he insisted. Scott nodded and left the sentient vines to do their work without him, and together they ran for the waterfall. Unimpeded this time, they reached the fountain and slid down into the river below. After the brief plunge they both surfaced and assessed the threat collecting on the banks to either side. They began to swim underwater with the current, hoping it would speed them along a little faster, with Scott leaving a trail of petals as the flowers were pulled from his hair by each dive.

Sausage dealt with any Drowned they encountered, which for the moment were thankfully few. But skeletal archers on the banks were becoming wise to their presence, and the two had to start diving deeper to avoid the arrows, with the merling providing breaths of air when it became too dangerous to surface. They found respite when the river opened up toward the ocean, but colder depths weren’t very agreeable to a floran so they started to head back up and hoped to find a spot of land with the least number of mobs possible.

As much as Scott didn’t mind Sausage kissing him to give him air, he was glad for the next breath he took on his own as he reached the surface first, and one of the green tendrils in his hair poked at his ear as if to tell him they didn’t appreciate being submerged for that long. Scott brushed at it and looked around for a safe place to get out, starting to feel a little uneasy without soil beneath his feet. The nearby beach, however, was already crawling with zombies, and they were now beginning to funnel toward him, sinking as they hit the water only to start being converted into Drowned.

Sausage had been scouting from below and grimaced at the sight as he swam back upward, but he had located what he had been looking for. He surfaced and reached for Scott with his free hand. “I know you would really rather get back on land right about now, but there’s no safety at all there. I found a spot we can hide out in until daybreak, it’s just another little swim down. Come on, I’ve got you.” He offered a reassuring smile.

Scott brushed at the tendril by his ear again, then smiled back, trusting the merling. Together they dived back under and Sausage guided the way. A trench lined with exposed magma provided a natural barrier but crossing it was risky for the floran. Sausage wrapped his arms around him and used the trident to propel through the water across it as fast as he could, then continued swimming for a little ways through a crevice before letting him go and pointing upward.

Above was a small pocket of humid air within a section of the tiniest lush cave either of them had ever seen. The glowberry vines barely had any fruit but it was enough light to see by. Scott gratefully climbed up from the deepslate to sink his feet into the clay. It wasn’t dirt, but it was enough to sustain the dripleaf, the nearest of which he petted as it leaned toward him on its stalk. New flower buds began to form in his hair. Sausage watched with a smile. It was always fascinating to see that happen.

Something gurgled behind him. The smile fell from his face, stomach turning with dread. So much for being safe. He only had time to notice that the Drowned that had found them had a head like a wither skeleton before a smoky black trident was thrust into his chest, and then he was the one gurgling as he was pushed backward against the clay wall, his own trident falling from his hand.

“SAUSAGE!” Scott yelled. Acting fast, he caused scores of dripleaf to erupt from the ground and shoot up to the ceiling, cutting off the wither-Drowned. As he rushed over, glowberry vines descended upon Sausage, wrapping around his chest to stem the flow of blood from his wounds, although Scott worried how effective it would be if the accursed trident had pierced too deep. “Hold on, hold on, Sausage, I’ll – I’ll think of something, okay?” He clasped the merling’s face between his hands, hoping to get him to focus on him. Sausage smiled weakly but there was already blood seeping out between the vines.

And then the withering took effect. With nothing to counteract it, at that point Scott could do little more than hold Sausage’s hand until the merling’s grip grew slack. As unfortunate as it seemed, it was now something they had grown accustomed to. Scott cradled him in his arms, leaving the vines in place to keep the wounds covered until Sausage regenerated with the change to a new form.

With no other indication of the hour, he relied on the progression of the original meager vines on the cave ceiling to mark time. Slowly but steadily they grew downward, and occasionally a new cluster of berries blinked into existence, adding a little more light. But after a while Scott decided it was a terrible way to keep track of time, because it seemed to be taking too long.

“Sausage, come back to me, please. Y-You can’t just leave me in here, okay?” He tried to laugh. “This was your idea. You know, it’s kind of silly, putting ourselves in a dead end like this with no plan for a way back if you can’t swim us out.” He leaned his head over his face, teardrops falling onto Sausage’s cheeks. “I’m sorry I said that. It wasn’t silly. It was a good idea. I should have blocked the way behind us sooner, just as a precaution. I’m sorry I keep relying on you to protect us. Y-You’re going to come back, right? You have to. …Sausage?”

He stroked his hair then slipped a hand under the vines to check for a heartbeat. “L-Listen, Sausage, I can get us out, don’t worry about that part. I can get roots to dig through even the stone and we won’t have to worry about the swimming part no matter what you are. But you’ve got to come back first. Okay?”

Scott gently laid him against the clay wall so he could climb a little higher and touch the ceiling to start summoning the roots as promised. If the unthinkable happened, he still needed a way out…  He then sank to his knees and looked at his hands, feeling helpless. “W-What am I supposed to do if you don’t come back? Sausage…tell me?”

New light suddenly blazed into view, but it wasn’t the soft orange of a glowberry. It was silvery and bright, and it came from between the vines around Sausage’s chest. Scott uttered a gasp of relief and hurried back down toward where he lay. The light spread, engulfing Sausage’s body as he was finally revived. The vines fell away, and before the glow even faded his silhouette alone stopped Scott in his tracks. The former merling didn’t move right away and so he couldn’t help crying out, “Sausage! Sausage! Please, wake up!”

On Sausage’s part, he was a little disoriented by the light but as it dimmed he could see the new, full blooms in Scott’s hair and thought to himself that this was good, because it meant the floran was unharmed. But he himself felt like he was on fire. “Urg…my head…is buzzing. Am I a thunderborn again?”

Scott answered with a voice full of awe, “No…No, you absolutely are not.”

Sausage shifted to sit up and felt a weight on his back. A familiar one, and… in three different places. The fire actually seemed to be focused behind his head. He stood up and like he had as a giant felt like he was towering over Scott, but it was only an illusion because of the power thrumming through his body.

“A-Angel,” Scott stammered. “…My…angel.”

Holy power was what he felt, stronger than ever before. Sausage looked around at himself, folding one set of wings forward so he could look at them. This time his feathers were white with silver edges, a barely perceptible pattern along the tips. There were three pairs of wings altogether; he wasn’t just any old angel this time. The memory of hierarchies and titles came to his mind. The fire at the back of his head was his halo, and its light was shining on Scott’s face like the sun. When he held out a hand toward the floran, Scott reached for him in turn and a vine coiled out along his arm, splitting into multiple leaves and a small sunflower that all turned upward toward the seraph’s face.

Sausage offered a quiet laugh and made an effort to consciously dim his aura. The vine withdrew and the sunflower popped up in Scott’s hair amongst the others. “Well, I think I can safely say that with this much power, nothing is going to hurt you ever again.”

Scott gave a laugh of his own. “So, you’re now the guardian angel you’ve always wanted to be. I would say you’ve earned it, and… everything might have been worth it.”

Sausage grinned at that, and pulled him closer to wrap him in his larger pair of wings for a hug. “We’ll wait here a little longer. I’m not that eager to test out my smiting abilities yet.”

As he leaned in for a kiss, the other flowers in Scott’s hair fell off and were replaced by a new crown made up of more small sunflowers.

 ~To be continued in Then We’ll Rewrite the Stars~

 [Post A/N: This fic was planned out before I saw Scott’s Empires S2 skin so the two different color eyes is still a reference to his Angel and Merling skins, and borrowing the idea from Lizzie that an Enigma can be a mix of someone’s previous origins. Also borrowed Jimmy’s Thornling design because there wasn’t much I could do with a potted cactus, lbr.]

#alsmp #alsmp fanfic #alsmpshipping #scosage #scott smajor #mythicalsausage #dangthatsalongname #merling!scott #gravital!sausage #goolien!sausage #admittedly brief appearances by #giant!sausage #thornling!scott #and introducing... #floran!scott #and #merling!sausage #soul liminality 2 #lunar yarns

[inlemoons]

the last great american dynasty

a/n: ch. 3 of lore, aka inuyasha oneshots inspired by the track titles and vibes of folklore. i’m not going to americanize anyone, but the vibe of ‘women ruining things’ is fun so let’s go ch. 1 the 1 ch.2 cardigan ch.3 the last great american dynasty pairing: inuparents/inukimi-touga-izayoi universe: inuyasha read on Ao3

The clouds tonight are soft and pearly, and Inukimi flies within them, the chilly mist distracting her from thoughts of him, and the girl. She knew Touga would inevitably take concubines—it was his right—but no one expected a human. Or maybe they just hate the changing times, how wars rage on and dynasties fall and lovely princesses fling themselves at great daiyoukai’s feet. And Inukimi knows that mortality has its limits, that in fifty years she will remain a great beauty and that girl’s face would cave like fruit rotting beneath the plum tree.

This truth brings little comfort.

Inukimi drops beneath the cloudline and the midnight ocean stretches beneath her gaze, glassy and clear as crystal, the scent of salt drifting up into her nose. Four hundred years back, after a battle so fierce she could smell the blood from her throne, Touga met her at the entrance to her sky-palace, his fine silks stained green from grass and grime. He’d raked his claws through her hair and pressed his mouth to hers like it was the last thing he’d ever taste. She’d giggled and commanded him to strip before granting entry, palace guards and servants turning in embarrassment as the sounds of armor dropping rang throughout the clouds.

He has a habit of loving things he shouldn’t, and trusting too much in the things he should. Inukimi doesn’t like the earth that much, too much bitter stench, but even she can admit that the shoreline is beautiful when washed in moonlight. And it’s here beneath the stars she picks up the scent of someone trailing her like a veil. She’d love nothing more than to ignore it. So she only flies, skimming the fragrant treeline, never looking back at the presence on her tails.

The princess’ estate is grand by human standards. Inukimi curses the feel of soil beneath her feet as her pursuer lands a yard away.

“It’s unlike you to be jealous.” The Inu no Taisho, bright beneath the moon, finally speaks. He steps in front of Inukimi, not angry, he’d never hurt her, but she’d have to swallow the sourness building in her throat if she wanted to continue.

“I’d only like to see.”

“Mere curiosity, then?”

Touga is amused. Inukimi is annoyed. She brushes past her husband. He follows in silence until they reach the estate’s interior. There beneath a sand-pear tree sits the prettiest pink teardrop of a human, black eyes screwed up in confusion at the two approaching silver daiyoukai, lover and lavender stranger, realization lighting her features only when Inukimi speaks.

“So it’s you, is it?”

#inuparents #togiza #inuyasha #inukimi #inu no taisho #inuyasha fanfiction #folklore: doggy edition #inu parents #izayoi/touga #inukimi/touga #togakimi #i don't even know what these ship names are called lmao #inlemoon writes #togizakimi

[primroseprime2019]

2132: Homecoming- Ch 1: Life in Angel City

The tall and short buildings glowed with almost bioluminescent lights. Mist rolled along the grounds. The sky was a light bluish-purple.

A motorcycle drove down the road. The motorcyclist wore a black jacket and wore a dark blue helmet. They rode down the street, past silver, black and white cars.

There were people walking along the sidewalks. The motorcyclist slowed down at a red light and they turned their head towards a man who stood near the stop sign. The man had a grey coat and a brown fedora. But what truly made the man stand out was the robotic dog next to him.

It had red and orange plating and bright golden optics. It looked a little rusty at the paws.

The motorcyclist looked back at the stoplight just as it turned green and they continued their ride to their destination.

"Remember, no one is truly free without the rule of law in Angel City," a man said on the screen.

The motorcyclist slowed to a stop by a large building and they took off their helmet. The woman had porcelain skin, light brown hair with raven black strands and light brown eyes.

She got off her motorcycle and walked into the building.

There were a few people. Most of them having robots. Or androids.

Robots, androids, whatever they would be called, it never really mattered to the government and their leaders.

The only phrase people started using for them was CyberDogs.

"Hey, Sky!" A man said and the woman looked at him. He had light ivory skin and grey eyes. He had brown hair that had silver strands. He wore a shirt.

"Hey Cloud," Sky said as she picked up a bag and set it down on the counter. "Aw, another load today?" Cloud asked with a pout.

Sky nodded as she smiled, "yes." Cloud huffed as he lifted his robotic arm. It was silver and black.

Sky hummed softly and she looked over at one of the customers. They had a cyberdog standing next to them.

Cloud followed her gaze and he chuckled. "When are you gonna get one of your own?" He asked.

Sky huffed, "never. And you know I don't like having someone who just wants to obey every command you give them. It's uncomfortable and it's irritating."

Cloud sighed, "you and your kindhearted morals. But I guess that's just you. So-" "Why am I not allowed to schedule an appointment?! I'm 20!" A voice said and Cloud and Sky looked to see a twenty year old boy glaring at an employee.

Next to his feet was a cyberdog. It was grey with white stripes and had green eyes.

"That's correct. But to schedule an appointment for your android, you have to be older," the employee said calmly.

"This is ridiculous! I can't schedule an appointment because I'm some kid still! And my parents can because they're working for Echo! What am I supposed to do?"

"You can call your parents or you can get a new cyberdog," the employee said. "No!" The man snapped, slamming his hands on the counter, "if you were reasonable enough, you would let me schedule an appointment; not spend thousands on another-!"

"Come on, man," Sky sighed, grabbing the man's arm, "leave the guy alone. Let's go."

The man yanked his arm out of her grip. "Get your hands off me!" He snarled, "I don't know you so I'm not going anywhere with you!"

Sky narrowed her eyes before she closed them, took a deep breath and let it out. "There are three security cameras in this lobby; one for the security here, one for the City's police station... one leading directly to Echo. They could all easily arrive here in less than five seconds. Arrest you, take you in for questioning, confiscate your belongings- including your CyberDog- and kill you. Why won't you come with me again?"

People stared at the two. Cloud raised his eyebrows in amusement.

The boy looked around before he sighed deeply, "okay. Fine." He looked at the bot, "come on, Axel."

Axel looked up at Sky before he followed his companion out the door. Cloud looked at Sky, "well that was interesting."

"I'm not letting another person die due to their own actions," she said before she walked towards the door. Cloud watched her, "oh Sky?"

She stopped and turned to him. "Be careful," he said.

She stared at him before she nodded and walked out of the store. She walked over to her motorcycle and climbed onto it.

She started the engine and she started driving. She drove down the road as she tuned out everything else. Suddenly there was a distant explosion.

Sky skidded to a halt and widened her eyes in shock as she saw smoke rising from one of the buildings.

"And then it just ends there," a nineteen year old girl said as she laid on a couch. The girl had chestnut skin, raven black hair and light brown eyes.

"The explosion?" A woman asked. The girl nodded, "I just stared at it. Or... is it really me? Is it Sky?"

"Paige," the woman said as she set down the pen, "Sky is merely a part of your dream. The real Sky...,"she trailed off and looked out the window. Paige sat up and followed her gaze.

There was a statue of the same woman from Paige's dream. "It's been nineteen years and Echo still hasn't taken down that statue," the woman muttered.

Paige looked at her. "Doctor Ayla, can you... tell me what she was like?" She asked carefully. Doctor Ayla looked at her and shifted her gaze towards the camera.

"I think it's time we put this session to a close for now," she said, smiling at Paige. The girl frowned a little but nodded.

"Let me know if you have another dream again," Doctor Ayla said as Paige walked out of the room. She nodded again and watched as the door closed before she walked out of the office.

She sighed as she pressed her hands against her face in exhaustion.

'Another session... another useless session,' she thought bitterly. She walked over to the stop sign just as an orange and black motorcycle rolled over.

A nineteen year old boy looked at her. He had auburn and dirty brown hair and dark blue eyes. "Hey. You ready?" He asked.

"Always am, Gregory," she said and she climbed onto the motorcycle behind him. She wrapped her arms around his waist.

"I'm gonna run a few errands then we'll head back home," he said. "Mmkay," she nodded.

He revved the engine before he started to drive down the road. In Angel City, people were bustling in the streets. Some people with their cyber dogs.

Gregory drove down the road on his motorcycle, Paige driving behind him. The two drove to Cloud's Shop and slowed to a stop by the curb.

"I'm heading inside," Gregory said, taking off his helmet and he looked at Paige, "you coming?" "Nah," she replied, waving her hand, "I think I'm gonna look around the neighborhood for a bit."

Gregory chuckled but nodded before he got up, slinging a sack over his shoulder and he walked to the door. Paige looked around before she saw a crowd a few yards away.

She got up from her motorcycle and walked over to the crowd. She pushed through the crowd and saw two Cyberdogs fighting.

She frowned as she knew what this was as she had seen it every time she or one of her siblings were at Cloud's workshop or just passing by.

Although it wasn't unusual for people to use their Cyberdogs in fighting, it was really annoying to some as the Cyberdogs often cost a lot of money for repairs.

'Thank goodness I don't have a Cyberdog', Paige thought and she walked away.

She walked to a cafe.

The door opened and she walked in. It looked busy and Paige sighed softly as she walked over to the counter.

"Hey, Paige," a woman said as she cleaned a cup. She had porcelain skin, dark brown hair and deep brown eyes. Her hair was tied into a bun and she was wearing a waitress outfit. "Hey, Evelyn," she replied with a small smile.

Evelyn set down a cup of coffee in front of her and she smiled. "It's on the house, kiddo," she chuckled. Paige smiled, "you're too good to me!"

Evelyn laughed as she went to the back. Paige smiled as she sipped her coffee and she looked around for a moment before she saw the tv.

She watched curiously.

"In other news, Cyber Robotics is keen on making new CyberDogs for protection!" The newscaster said with a smile, "I'm here with Doctor Spark."

Sitting on the other side of the table was a thirty year old woman. She had ivory skin, blonde hair and blue eyes. She wore a white work dress and purple heels.

"So I understand this project is authorized by Echo?" The newscaster asked curiously. Doctor Spark nodded, "yes. She's very adamant about it; CyberDogs are best suited for not only protection and security, but for good company. Much like the CyberBots."

"Is that what we're calling them now?" A man muttered to another. Paige stared at the tv. Suddenly she didn't feel hungry.

Taking out whatever money she had, she set it on the counter and walked out of the coffee shop. She rubbed her temples and looked around for Gregory.

She sighed before she stuffed her hands into her pockets and walked to the store. She paused in mid-step when a can rolled out past her feet and she looked into the alleyway.

She widened her eyes when she saw a nineteen year old boy sitting in the corner. He looked at her with piercing blue eyes.

"Go away," he snarled.

#fanfiction #my ocs #cyberpunk #might as well just post this one