#he’s gonna have a crèche full of them | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

jasontoddiefor · 3 years

Text

Title: soon you’ll aim up at the sky and I’ll watch you float away Summary: Anakin was by no means falling in any of his classes. No, the issue was that Anakin wasn’t as good as he wanted to be and Obi-Wan did not have the time to read up on Check’chualik’s theory of ‘four-dimensional mathematics within a suspended room of an aircraft’. Or, Obi-Wan doesn't do space math but his Padawan does. AN: New part of my light fix-it AU! Written for @thenegoteator.

There were no words to describe how proud Obi-Wan was of Anakin. His apprentice was growing in leaps and bounds, going from being at the bottom of his classes to rising to the very top within just a few months. His determination and ambition were Anakin’s greatest assets. He trained harder than anyone else Obi-Wan knew – besides himself, maybe, but Obi-Wan was also still in the process of switching fighting styles, so he felt like he deserved to be pushing himself to the edge.

Obi-Wan just also, kind of, hated the fact that Anakin’s final exams aligned so well with his own.

He didn’t mind it too much concerning Anakin’s language classes. Those were easy enough to handle. Anakin resented the various High Standard dialects of any given language and had chosen to study the many trader languages spread across the galaxy. His Ryl was better than Obi-Wan’s own, but he took that good-naturedly and let Anakin run circles around him, reciting Ryl chants. It was Anakin’s third language or so – Obi-Wan didn’t know in what order Anakin had learned which language, but Anakin didn’t seem to be too sure about it either.

He had just said that he used to speak it nearly daily on Tatooine and that had settled it. If Anakin didn’t change his language track, he would probably not end up doing many of the diplomacy missions Obi-Wan usually elected to take, but he didn’t mind that either. Anakin was more well suited for the open skies than pompous dining halls.

Anakin’s literature classes were a bit more of a disaster. He was not particularly fond of interpreting texts. Obi-Wan always enjoyed those lessons most, thinking that engaging in such an exchange with authors of the past was the highest form of evaluating the thoughts of an inaccessible period. Anakin preferred biting conversations with his Master or his friends, the kind of quick wit needed for verbal sparring. While some of Anakin’s replies were not the smoothest yet, the words being more appropriate in Huttese as the boy claimed, he was doing well. He was on his way to becoming a suitable companion for tedious negotiations that made somebody to trade snarky comments in the privacy of their rooms with a necessity.

Galactic history was also about as alright as it could be. Anakin was more interested in the Order’s history than that of the Republic, but those usually went hand in hand, so Anakin could get invested enough in a given topic.

Anakin was by no means falling in any of his classes.

No, the issue was that Anakin wasn’t as good as he wanted to be and Obi-Wan did not have the time to read up on Check’chualik’s theory of ‘four-dimensional mathematics within a suspended room of an aircraft’.

Anakin had said that sentence and a bunch of other very important sounding words while biting his lips in frustration, looking like he was going to start crying in anger any second. Anakin hardly cried, his eyes not even hazing over. Obi-Wan had seen him shed tears maybe once or twice since Anakin had become his apprentice. Anakin called tears a waste and while that was certainly not a mentality Obi-Wan wanted Anakin to keep, he hadn’t quite had the chance yet to address that topic in a meaningful way.

So, instead, he was looking at Anakin’s math paper, sighing.

It really wasn’t like Obi-Wan was going to get any of this. He knew he wouldn’t because he had never taken the elective Theoretical Mathematics of Hyperspace Travel. Obi-Wan took all the courses necessary to get his piloting license and not invested any extra hours into it, especially not within his mathematics track.

Obi-Wan also knew that these kinds of electives were more for senior Padawans and not a pre-teen, but Anakin was also intensely more familiar with ships and droids than most Padawans. Obi-Wan had already given up on attempting to make any sense of Anakin’s level of knowledge when it was all over the place.

Rubbing his eyes, Obi-Wan reached for his tea, enjoying the sweet taste of it. One glance at the chrono told him that Anakin would be back from classes soon. Obi-Wan had meant to read over his paper as a distraction from his own, but, evidently, that hadn’t turned out.

Neither Anakin’s theoretical maths paper nor Obi-Wan’s thesis on the inhumane implications of the Yavin code in light of the end of the New Sith Wars was going to get written or corrected this afternoon.

Obi-Wan felt just a little like dropping his head on the table and taking the day off. Though, perhaps, that really wasn’t such a bad idea. A break from this would maybe clear his head and Anakin…

Anakin would not be happy. He would work himself up because of his frustrations and then Obi-Wan would have to deal with a Padawan too stressed to calm down, which, depending on how his day had gone, would not end so well.

Obi-Wan deliberated whether he should just decide for the both of them that they’d take the day off, but eventually decided against it. Anakin reacted better to all situations if he was given a choice. Knowing that Anakin would be home in ten minutes, Obi-Wan cleared up their living room table and got lunch out of the oven. He had felt like baking today – okay, no, that was a bold-faced lie. He just needed another distraction from his paper and cooking had seemed like a good enough choice – and not like eating in the mess hall.

By the time he had laid the table, the door to their rooms opened and Anakin rushed inside, still full of energy after a morning filled with lessons.

“Obi-Waaaaan, I’m hungry. This smells nice, what’s for lunch?”

Anakin threw his arms around Obi-Wan’s middle, becoming liquid and relying on Obi-Wan to hold him up from beneath his arms.

“I made lasagna,” Obi-Wan said and carried Anakin over to his chair. “Yes, with that cheese you like.”

Anakin’s face lit up and he fist-bumped the air. “Yes!”

Dinner was a loud affair, something Obi-Wan had yet to get used to. Eating with Qui-Gon was always silent while the snack pauses were used for heated debates. Anakin worked exactly the other way round. He wasn’t one for eating quietly or slowly. He told Obi-Wan about his classes, what they had gotten up to, and, of course, the topic of his paper came up.

“Have you finished looking through it?” Anakin asked with big eyes.

Here it was, the moment of truth.

“No,” Obi-Wan replied honestly. “I tried to, but the topic of your paper is nothing I’m really informed on. I checked your grammar but not your calculations.”

“Oh.” Anakin’s face immediately fell. “But I need this paper to be right and I can’t quite figure it out and I don’t want to fail!”

Anakin’s outbursts, when expected, were a lot easier to handle.

“I know,” Obi-Wan said, “which is why I thought of two things. One.” He held up his index finger. “The two of us need a break from these papers. I know yours is due soon, but you are smart and one day of not working on it will do you good, so I’d suggest taking the day off. Two, I’m pretty sure there’s a Jedi Master, who can look over this and help you out, coming home tomorrow.”

“Oh?” Anakin blinked. “Who?”

“Master Plo Koon. He’s an excellent pilot and I think you would have a lot of fun talking to him. He’s a Kel Dor.”

“Oh, I know him!” Anakin interrupted, looking a little star-struck.

Obi-Wan hadn’t expected that reaction. “You do?”

“Yeah! He’s in the crèche lots because he brought a Youngling there around the same time I arrived at the temple. Her name’s Ahsoka. She’s gonna be badass someday.”

Anakin enjoyed spending time in the crèche and going by the way he talked, Obi-Wan assumed that little Ahsoka was one of the more talkative kids there with no hesitation about challenging Anakin to a fight. Obi-Wan smiled. “And you know that how?”

“She bit me once,” Anakin replied and nodded as if that explained everything.

He then swallowed the last piece of his meal, not elaborating any further.

This was… nice. Obi-wan had honestly expected this conversation to be more chaotic. Perhaps that said more about his own mental state than it said anything about Anakin’s.

“And what are we gonna do today then?” Anakin asked. “If we’re not working on papers.”

“Hmm.” Obi-Wan made a show out of pondering when he had already decided to let Anakin pick a while ago. “Well, where do you want to go?”

There was only one possible reply to that answer.

“Can we go to the markets again?” Anakin said immediately. “We’re running out of sunbeetles and we can visit Dak’lana and maybe get you a new hairpin too?”

Obi-Wan had to smile at Anakin’s genuine excitement. Few things were as comforting as seeing your Padawan happy.

Except, maybe, finishing your thesis.

“That is a wonderful idea,” Obi-Wan told him and watched happily as Anakin ran off to get everything ready for their trip.

Time to wash up and spend money on food and jewelry.

#star wars #anakin skywalker #obi wan kenobi #jedi #fanfic

58 notes · View notes

bluescluelessly · 4 years

Note

So, when Sith!Obi-Wan kills Qui-Gon, what will happen to Anakin? Will he be trained as a Jedi, will him and Shmi stay with Obi-Wan? Can they have a good relationship?

PART 1 | PART 2 | KING KENOBI | JEDI PADMÉ

°| PART 3 ●.*•

longish post, hit J to skip on desktop

[Rating: Teen] | funeral, reverse au, pre-obikin, death/murder mention, imposter syndrome

°|●.*•

Qui-Gon Jinn’s funeral is a solemn event.

As a former initiate, Obi-Wan is allowed to attend. And though he would rather not go, it would be suspicious for him to avoid it; so he goes, and Anakin sticks close to him the whole time.

He finds himself gravitating towards Padmé. She has a calming presence in the force, even so soon after the loss of her Master.

Obi-Wan feels like an imposter here. He is no Jedi. He killed the man every person here is mourning. He would rather crawl out of his own skin than stay here a moment longer.

When it's drawing to an end, a tug at his funeral cloak gets his attention, and his gaze falls downward to where Anakin is looking at him, eyes full of worry.

"Obi-Wan... what happens to me now?" The child asks, and Obi-Wan instantly regrets his self-centered worries. He bought Anakin's freedom, and with Jinn gone, Anakin is looking at him for guidance in his new future.

Weighing the politeness of it and deciding that no one will think him rude for comforting a child, Obi-Wan kneels to speak to Anakin. "You can do whatever you want now, Anakin. Your Mother has found enjoyable work as a handmaiden to Queen Sabé, you could go with her if you'd like. You said you want to be a pilot; we have schools on Stewjon if you'd like to come with me and learn there. Whatever you want to do, Anakin, I will help you to do it."

The boy nods, keeping his voice hushed. "... Master Qui-Gon said I could be a Jedi... but, the other Jedi didn't want me to be trained..."

Obi-Wan wishes he could help with that... but of all the things he can do, forcing the jedi to take on an initiate so old, when he himself was rejected...

That's not within his power.

He is about to say as much when another body joins them, Padmé taking a knee by Anakin's side.

"Ani," she starts, tone kind and strong. "My Master promised you could be a Jedi, and if that's what you want, you can be. I've seen what a good heart you have; I will train you myself whether the Council allows it or not."

Obi-Wan smiles, half out of relief and half in admiration. He realizes he was silly to ever hold resentment for Padawan-- no, Knight Naberrié, now. She is kind and good, and has let Anakin and Obi-Wan into her heart without question.

Anakin lights up as she offers, looking truly hopeful for the first time since he woke up and found out Qui-Gon Jinn was dead. "You would?" He asks, as if he can't quite believe it.

"I will," she promises. "If you will accept me as your teacher, I would be happy to train you as my padawan learner."

Anakin looks as if he wants to give a happy shout, but seems to remember his surroundings, and simply nods. "Yes, I want you to teach me."

Obi-Wan lets them be, staying kneeling but turning his eyes back to Qui-Gon's pyre.

He shouldn't be here. He felt sick even thinking of being here, and it's a wonder he hasn't revisited his breakfast yet.

When he can leave, return to Jango and his ship and get off of Coruscant, he'll feel better. Hopefully.

That won't be for some time yet, of course-- Palpatine requested to see him. He will likely need to explain why it's going around that he killed Maul... not a conversation he's looking forward too.

His heart is heavy still when arms wrap around him, surprising him out of his thoughts.

It's Anakin, leaning awkwardly over his knee to hug him.

"Hello there," he says gently, putting a smile back on his face as he returns the hug easily. "What's this for?"

"You're sad," Anakin says, "I can feel it. And... Master Naberrié is gonna train me, so I have to say goodbye to you... I wanted to give you a hug. And this," he says, pulling away to pull a carved wooden charm out and hand it to the king. "You freed me and my mom... I wanted to thank you... I know it isn't much, but I want you to remember me and my mom when you see it, and remember you're a good person, one of the best I've ever known, really." The young boy is so earnest and kind, it makes Obi-Wan's chest tight, knowing that Anakin believes in him without even knowing what he's done. "And I'm gonna be a jedi, so maybe someday, I can help you, too."

The boy feels so light and good in the force, Obi-Wan can't help but smile, even with all his self doubts. "I don't think I'll need this to remember you, Anakin Skywalker," he starts, tone fond. "You or your mother. But thank you, I will keep it close and safe... and maybe we will cross paths again. You have a good heart, you will be a great jedi, I know it."

"I wish you could be a jedi too," Anakin responds, a little petulant. "You killed a Sith, you'd think they would knight you just for that."

The young royal shakes his head, eyes crinkling with fondness. "The Force has other plans for me, Anakin. I am right where I'm supposed to be." In any case, he has other responsibilities, now. Even if they would offer him knighthood, he has an entire planetary system to look after. He can't run off to be a jedi now, no matter how much he would like to.

Anakin pouts, but nods his understanding. The funeral is over now, and most of the attendees have left. Padmé waits patiently off to the side, letting Anakin say his goodbyes.

"I best not keep you from your Teacher any longer," the young king says, taking the wooden charm and carefully pulling the leather cord over his head, minding his jewelry so it doesn't get caught. "And I have my own duties to get to." He takes Anakin's forearm, gripping it in a traditional Stewjoni sign of kinship-- used as both a greeting and a farewell. Anakin catches on, gripping his forearm as well. "Next time I see you, I want to hear all about your Jedi training. Be good for Master Naberrié, and I'm sure you'll do fine."

Anakin looks pleased at the assurance, nodding happily. "Okay, Obi-Wan! I'll see you again soon, I hope!"

Hope is a dangerous thing, Obi-Wan thinks but does not say.

"I hope so too, Anakin," he answers, standing and ruffling the kid's hair. He looks over at Padmé. "He's all yours now, sorry for keeping you."

"It's alright," she tells him warmly. "It's good form to thank people for their kindness, and to say goodbye to friends. I wish you well, Your Majesty. May the Force be with you."

"Please," he states, deciding he rather likes Padmé now, despite his initial introduction to her. "Call me Obi-Wan, Master Naberrié. I apologize for my previous rudeness, you have been nothing but kind, and I would like to consider you a friend as well."

This seems to cheer her up, and she gives him a pleased smile. "Of course, Obi-Wan. I would like to consider you a friend as well, please, call me Padmé."

"Thank you, Padmé, he responds, bowing his head. "And may the Force be with you both. Until we meet again, my friends."

He waves, and both Anakin and Padmé return the gesture as they part ways, Anakin following dutifully by Padmé's side.

Obi-Wan barely gets out of the funeral chamber before he's stopped, another jedi in his path.

And not just any jedi, either...

"Hello, Master Yoda," he greets.

The diminutive Grandmaster of the Order eyes him carefully. "Walk with me, you will."

"I must be getting to the Senate, I have a summons from the Chancellor, perhaps after--"

"Know this, I do." The green creature tells him, giving him a curious sort of look. "Not long will this take."

Obi-Wan feels like a youngling again, following Master Yoda as he did many times in the crèche. They continue to march towards the senate, so he can't really complain. "I don't understand, Master," he says after a moment of silence. "Am I in trouble for something?"

Yoda hums pensively. "Hope not, I do." He doesn't bother to elaborate, as cryptic and frustrating as he remembers.

Obi-Wan has a bad feeling about this.

#star wars #king kenobi au #casecreates #obi wan kenobi #anakin skywalker #anakin #padme amidala #jedi padme #qui gon jinn #part 3 #reverse au #pre-obikin #the phantom menace au #yoda being yoda #just in case i need a queue

45 notes · View notes

ask-runaan-anything · 5 years

Text

Tightly Knit: A Moonshadow Tale

Here’s my present for you, little shadows: a story of me and little Rayla, as promised. Enjoy.

Characters/Tags: Runaan, Rayla, chain-horn assassin elf, OC healer mage, hurt/comfort, Moonshadows gonna Moonshadow, assassin training, training montage, bit o’ magic, Runaan being Runaan, Runaan gets a childhood nickname, cute & sweet, soft, bonding time

Length: ~5k words

The spring morning’s light cast its rays through the intricately carved curls in the wooden dome over the Moonshadow training arena, patterning the pale dirt with curlicue shadows beneath the whitewashed dome’s interior. Runaan had been running training patterns with his fellow assassins since dawn, but when a pair of violet eyes peeked through the lowest carved curl in the dome twenty feet up, their young owner spotted him taking a rare break to discuss with them instead.

Runaan felt the weight of her gaze—and heard the soft sound of her little knees thumping against the wooden dome—but he pretended not to notice. Rayla loved to believe she could sneak up on him, and he found her attempts endearing. Though the children in the campus crèche visited the training arena twice a day to exercise and watch the adults train, Rayla still felt the need to escape and clamber up the dome’s exterior wall. But Runaan had been no less adventurous as a child, and he secretly delighted in Rayla’s determination to stalk him. She had a strong will like few he’d ever seen.

With Rayla’s parents on long-term Dragon Guard duty at the lair of the Dragon King, Runaan had been entrusted with her care, and he took that duty as seriously as everything else in his life. At the end of each day, he would collect her from the crèche, and she’d take his hand to walk home and immediately demand to know what he’d done that day. As they ate supper together in his quarters, she’d dance around waving her carrot-stick dagger, or deliberately drink her moonberry juice messily so she could show him a mouth full of bright red teeth. She’d launch herself at him from every available surface, always trusting him to catch her.

And he always did, with a laugh and a spin, before setting her safely down.

“You always catch me,” she’d say.

“That’s my job,” he’d always reply.

Until the morning came when he couldn’t.

“Let’s run secondary attacks again,” he said to his small cohort of trainees, “and then we’ll—”

“Runaan, watch this!” Rayla��s high little voice carried across the arena from a dozen paces away.

Runaan knew that crowing tone. His side tails fluttered as he jerked his head in time to see Rayla launch herself toward one of the horizontal training bars. She’d managed to squeeze through a curlicue in the carved wood and had flung her body at full stretch into midair.

Time slowed as Runaan’s heart rate skyrocketed. The assassin instinctively gauged Rayla’s trajectory. She would, in fact, reach the twenty-foot-high bar. But it was going to be close, and the bar’s diameter was made for fully grown hands, not Rayla’s.

She was going to lose her grip.

Her name got strangled in his throat. If he called out now, she might flinch, lose focus, miss the bar entirely. But every muscle in Runaan’s body tensed into action, and time caught up with him. “Call the healer.” His words targeted his fellow assassins, but his eyes remained locked on Rayla, and he darted toward the elfling before he’d finished speaking.

Rayla’s little hands clasped the bar. Her body wobbled, her legs flailed. Her weight pendulumed.

Her grip slipped.

Rayla tracked the ground with her eyes and tried to bring her feet around under her as she spun, but she landed badly. Runaan skidded to his knees beside her as she lay crumpled into a heap.

“Rayla.” He touched her shoulders and found them so tense that she could have been made of stone.

She was as Moonshadow as he was. She knew not to show her pain. But her body radiated it like the sun. She whimpered lightly. “Sorry, I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be, little shadow. I’m the one who’s sorry. I failed in my duty. I didn’t catch you.” He tried to help her sit up, but she only tucked herself harder around her left arm.

“D-didn’t want you to,” Rayla quavered. “You can’t catch me forever. I’m getting big.”

Runaan glanced up at the bar, eyed the gap between it and the edge of the filigree dome. Not big enough. “Let me see.”

“I’m okay.”

“You are not. You pinwheeled twenty feet down. You haven’t learned that move yet.”

“That’s a move?”

Runaan’s worries warred with his need for control. He held out his hands, indicating she should reach toward him for the standard injury tap test he’d taught her. “Show me you’re all right, and I’ll teach it to you.”

Slowly, Rayla sat up, her navy tunic dusted thickly with dirt the color of granite. She’d never hesitated to throw herself at him, reach for him, or toss whatever lay close to hand in his direction. But now, she did hesitate. She clutched her left arm against her chest. Runaan’s heart sank.

But bravely—foolishly—she mustered her courage and offered both of her arms toward him. Her right arm moved perfectly, though it was coated in dust. But her left had already begun to swell just above the wrist.

Runaan extended a single finger from each of his hands. He tapped one firmly against the top of Rayla’s right wrist. Her lips pressed firmly, but she kept her determined expression in place.

Then he raised his other finger over her broken wrist. And waited.

Rayla’s soft white brows twitched.

He raised his finger a little higher. Don’t make me do it, little shadow.

Rayla’s determination gave way, and she turned her face away from him with a small grimace of anticipation, though she still held her wrist out. It was as close to surrender as she was going to get.

A fresh wave of guilt washed through Runaan. His finger curled back into his fist. “Oh, Rayla.”

Instead of completing the test, Runaan scooped her into his arms and strode across the workout arena. Anghas, in his white robes, was just entering the arena from the practicum wing and hurried toward them.

Runaan bypassed the healer, heading straight inside, and Anghas fluttered along at his elbow. “What happened?”

“She broke her arm in a fall.” Runaan kept his eyes straight ahead, but Rayla helpfully raised her injured limb so Anghas could see it.

“Tap test?” Anghas inquired, his gaze on Rayla’s swelling arm.

Runaan blew inside the practicum wing and headed for the healer’s rooms at the center at full stride, his long ponytail fluttering in his wake. “Results were conclusive.”

Rayla glanced up at him through damp lashes, but she kept silent. She knew he hadn’t completed the test as was required. Runaan’s first concern was getting her treated, so he let her draw her own conclusions.

Runaan claimed the first of Anghas’s empty workrooms and set Rayla on the study table for Anghas to examine. The healer took Rayla’s arm in his gentle fingers, and Runaan stepped back to catch his breath.

He couldn’t seem to do it, though. His chest had gone tight.

He gave Rayla an encouraging nod and stepped outside for a moment, then slipped inside the next empty room. He leaned his forehead and his fingertips against the wall and closed his eyes, breathing deeply. The silver hair cuffs in his side tails tapped against the wall once and hung still.

He’d been so close to catching her. And he’d missed. His shaky breath hissed against the wall and echoed loudly in his ears, full of accusatory guilt.

Get it together, Quirk. His mother’s voice in his mind, his childhood nickname in that exasperated voice she always used. She had always picked him up, dusted him off, and put him back together. He’d never thought about how his hurts might have caused her pain, too. Perhaps she had been talking to herself as well as to him.

He nodded to himself, feeling his forehead rock against the wall. Remembered his mother dusting off the spiral twist in his horns with a gentle swoop of her fingers. Her encouraging smile.

Get it together, Quirk.

With a deep, steadying breath, Runaan pushed himself back from the wall and into perfect balance. He lifted his chin and headed back into Rayla’s room. This time, he stood behind her, resting a comforting hand on her good shoulder, and felt her relax under his touch.

Anghas gave Rayla a little cup of thick, spicy severcane juice for the pain. Then the Moon mage crafted a solid illusion of sturdy material to hold Rayla’s arm in place while it healed. The white tracery of the brace’s openwork pattern displayed the healer’s gift with art as well as medicine. He sent them home with a packet of herbs and a pouch of moonberries, as well as instructions that Rayla was not to spend her days at the crèche for a couple of weeks, lest she re-injure herself playing. “Rest and relaxation is what you need,” Anghas told her. “Your bone will knit and be stronger than ever. But it needs time.”

Runaan nodded, forming a plan, but Rayla’s little shoulders slumped.

Anghas told Rayla as she left, “You were very brave.”

That put a big smile back on her face. Runaan took her good hand as she cradled her broken arm against her chest in a soft purple sling, and he squatted down to look her in the face. Those big violet eyes locked onto his, still so trusting despite his failure. “The bravest Moonshadow ever. I should carry you home on my shoulders so everyone can see your daring fearlessness.”

Rayla looked down at her broken arm with a proud smile, but she got distracted by the state of her tunic. She reached toward the thick dust that still coated her, but Runaan’s hand shot out and clasped her wrist, not wanting her to jostle her broken arm.

“Leave the dust, little shadow. It proves you fought well today.”

“Okay, Runaan.”

With a smile, Runaan swiped a smudge of dust from the tip of her nose and swept her up onto his shoulders. He ambled toward the barracks, but he took a side trip to visit Mayr’s quarters.

The suspended assassin answered her door with a dark look and a sardonic tip of her horns, but she straightened up when she saw Runaan, smoothing the frown that wrinkled the delicate blue crescent on her forehead and brushing her long white hair back off her shoulders. It hadn’t been his fault that her name had been taken off the mission rolls.

Her gray eyes studied Rayla and her injury before drifting to Runaan’s face. “Aye, Runaan?” Her low brogue lilted with undimmed sass as she leaned against her door frame.

“I have a task for you, Mayr. Come to my quarters for breakfast in the morning. Plan to stay for a while.”

Mayr flicked her gaze up and down Runaan’s tall figure, and a smile finally teased her lips. “Well, that’ll set them talking.”

He couldn’t help the half-smile that tugged at the corner of his mouth. “Then they haven’t been paying attention. Rayla needs supervision.”

Mayr studied the elfling on his shoulders, not unkindly. “And what do I need?” she bargained.

Runaan lifted his chin. “You need me to talk to the Justice Council for you about those horn chains.”

At that, Mayr’s pale brows lifted. Her choice of “noisy” personal adornment had been the cause of her suspension when she’d refused to take them off. They weren’t on the approved dress code list, and Moonshadows loved rules. But if Runaan spoke for her to the Justice Council—if he said the right words—she wouldn’t need to give up her decorative chains. A true smile crossed her lips. “Then I’ll see you for breakfast.” Her eyes danced up to Rayla’s. “Well fought, Rayla.”

Runaan felt Rayla sit up straighter at the female assassin’s regard. Mayr closed her door, and Runaan carried Rayla back to the quarters they shared, where he settled her in on her favorite big poofy purple cushion by the big window that looked out onto the communal gardens. She nibbled at Anghas’s moonberries while Runaan read her an adventure story, but she dozed off soon from the effects of the severcane, and her violet eyes slipped shut.

Runaan closed the book softly and studied her sleeping features. That strong little chin, so like her mother’s. Her father’s brows and cheeks. The blue marks that swooped beneath her eyes made her skin seem even paler as she lay nestled in the fluffy cushion, and her body had finally relaxed into childlike softness.

You’re not hard enough yet, Rayla. An idea occurred to him. He dropped a tiny kiss on her forehead and covered her with a blanket. With pen and paper in hand, Runaan seated himself on the floor next to her and began to sketch out his plan.

Mayr showed up the next morning right on time, bearing mangoes and apples. The three of them broke their fast together, and throughout their quiet conversation, Runaan never once heard her horn chains rattle. He gave Rayla a short list of instructions to follow while he was at the arena—no acrobatics, stay indoors, rest if you’re tired, listen to Mayr and also obey her—and caught Mayr’s eye as he headed out the door. She gave him a crisp nod and turned back to Rayla. Runaan studied her horn chains from the back for a moment, and then he left Rayla in her capable hands for the day.

But he couldn’t stop thinking about his little charge as the day wore on. Every time he caught sight of that twenty-foot bar, he saw Rayla’s tumbling fall again, heard her crash to the ground right at his feet. He couldn’t undo the past. But he had a plan to guard the future.

By lunchtime, he knew it wasn’t enough. He grabbed a couple of oranges and slipped out of the training campus, hoping to check on Rayla without disturbing her—or giving away the depth of his concern. Overt feelings were for Sunfires. He spotted a pretty purple flower, a shooting star, and picked it for her as he passed through the gardens that bordered the back of the assassins’ barracks.

At the window to the main room in his quarters, he looked in and spotted Rayla, asleep again on her the big cushion, her limbs lax in utter relaxation. He twirled the flower in his fingers for a moment, then reached in and rested it on the sill for her.

Mayr entered quietly just then, carrying a tray for Rayla’s lunch. He glanced up at her, and she paused. Then she smiled reassuringly and gave him a short nod. With a deep breath, Runaan pushed way from the window sill, nodded back at her, and returned to the training arena.

When he finished for the day and got home, tired, sweaty, and in need of a brush for his long, tousled hair, Rayla was wearing the shooting star behind one ear and a giant smile across her face. Runaan let his eyes rest on it for a moment so she knew that he’d noticed, and her smile widened further.

“You don’t have to stay tonight,” Runaan told Mayr.

But the suspended assassin was busy chopping ingredients for a massive salad. “Don’t take that tone with me, Runaan. I agreed to stay, and I will. Besides, I stalked the markets today. There’s no going back now.” She waved her knife at a variety of produce that clustered on a nearby kitchen counter.

“Apparently not, no.” Runaan cleaned up and redid his hair, and the three of them enjoyed another meal together. Then Runaan cast his eyes out at the gardens. Let himself be seen studying them.

Of course Mayr noticed. “What is it, then,” she said in an expectant tone.

He flicked his turquoise gaze to her. “How are your carpentry skills?”

Mayr raised her white brows speculatively.

An hour later, the two of them knelt in a small clearing in the gardens, hammering wooden beams together and burying their supports deep into the dirt while Rayla looked on in interest, holding her purple sling against her chest.

“What’s it for, Runaan?” she finally asked, seemingly unable to fathom why the two assassins would suddenly decide to build a series of horizontal beams at various heights radiating around a small patch of grass in the middle of the gardens.

Runaan hammered the last nail in place and stood, wiping his brow with the back of his wrist. He held out a hand for her good one. “Come and see.”

Mayr stood back with smiling anticipation as Rayla took Runaan’s big hand. He led her to the lowest beam, mere inches off the grass and half as wide as her foot. With a leading pull, he urged her to step up at one end. Then he folded her good arm atop her broken one, steadied her shoulders from behind, and gave her a tiny push forward.

Obediently, Rayla balanced her way down the beam. Near the end, though, she wobbled, tried to stay on, and failed, slipping off the beam with a small growl of frustration. Her violet eyes shot to Runaan, and she said what she heard Runaan say a dozen times a day in the arena. “Again.”

She hopped right back on, facing Runaan this time. Her balance flickered halfway along, and she threw out her right arm to balance with. Runaan shook his head and gestured for her to tuck it back atop her chest. With a glower, Rayla did so. And promptly wobbled off the narrow beam again. “Moon and Shadow!” she swore, shooting Runaan an impatient look. “Why can’t I walk on this stupid thing?”

A smile tugged at Runaan’s mouth as he admired Rayla’s determination. He gave Mayr a soft side nod, tipping his horns back toward his quarters, and she flicked an eyebrow back at him before heading inside. Turning his attention back to his small charge, Runaan said, “You rely too much on your arms. Bend your knees, use your legs. Feel your balance here.” He tapped her tunic just over her belly button. “If you can balance with your legs, you can use your arms for other things.”

Rayla put one foot back up on the beam before Runaan’s words sank in. Her eyes widened as she finally realized what he was up to. She turned and took in the variety of balance beams, the circle they formed, and whipped her little head back to face Runaan. “You made me my own training beams? So I can train like you do? So I can hop around with swords in my hands? Runaan!”

Her glee overwhelmed her pain, and she launched herself at him. Alarm flared in his chest for a split-second, but his instincts kicked in, and he caught her softly, spinning to absorb her momentum.

Despite his soft catch, she still jostled her broken arm a little. “Oof. Ouch. Thank you. I love it. Best gift ever. I’ll use it every day. I promise.”

He hefted her up higher in his arms and smiled. “Moonshadows never promise lightly. I expect you to hold to your word. And I’m not letting you train without me.”

A sassy smile overtook her features, and she lifted her chin. “Does that mean I’m the boss?”

He chuckled and set her down. “The day you stop asking if you’re in charge is the day you’re actually in charge, little shadow. Now. Up on that beam again.”

Runaan kept Rayla on the lowest beam, but he let her begin to sidestep, skip, and hop as much as she was able. She held her broken arm close and focused so intently that Runaan had to tell her to get off when the sun set. She fell asleep on his shoulder as he carried her inside.

Mayr handed him a bowl of cubed spiceroot when he returned from tucking her in. “Wore her out, did ya?” She tipped her horns with a smile, and her horn chains swayed silently.

His eyes studied the chains. He’d nearly sussed out her secret, but he replied on topic. “It’ll be harder to wear her out as she heals up, but I’ll do my best. Let her train with you as much as she likes during the day. I’ll work with her every evening. She’ll sleep soundly at night.”

Mayr stole one of his vegetable cubes and popped it in her mouth. “You’re a fine Moonshadow, Runaan.”

His turquoise eyes studied her face, and their corners crinkled just a little. Perhaps she did see everything he was really doing. For her, for Rayla. For himself. But as long as she helped him, it didn’t really matter. We are Moonshadow. “As are you.”

Her gray gaze danced across his features, and she offered him a subtle chin lift of approval. “You’ll make some handsome elf very happy someday.”

Now a real smile crossed his face. “So will you.” The tiniest flare of her pupils filled in the last blank for Runaan, but he kept her secret to himself. “See you at breakfast.”

The bright days of spring grew a little longer. The Moon spun across the velvet sky each night, and the evenings warmed. Runaan left something pretty on the sill for Rayla every day—a shiny chestnut, an agate, a blue river stone, once a sprightly moonfrog in a box—and plenty of bright, pretty flowers. He kept his mind on his work while he trained, even when the children in the crèche came out to watch the assassins at their practice. But the moment he was finished for the day, he turned toward home, declining all offers of drinks and camaraderie.

Mayr kept Rayla occupied during the day, sometimes on the lowest training beams, but often with entertaining studies. History, legends, dynamic physics experiments—aka shoving things off the edge of the table to study how they fell—and guessing games all kept Rayla’s mind as engaged as her little legs. But when Runaan came home each evening, Rayla inhaled her supper and began tugging at his hand to take her out to the gardens and train.

And train they did. As her arm began to mend and her legs grew stronger and steadier, Rayla followed Runaan’s direction to higher and higher beams, leaping and landing, trying to perch perfectly without a single wobble. Runaan called orders and pointed to her targets for her, and he followed her as if he were her own shadow. She slipped dozens of times. But he was always there to steady or catch her. After two weeks, Rayla’s arm was knitting together well, and her balancing skills had markedly improved, so Runaan surprised her with a new pair of slip-proof, knee-high boots. He and Mayr added rounded tops to some of the beams to simulate tree branches. Runaan could barely keep up with his little shadow after that.

The evening before Rayla was scheduled to return to the crèche, Runaan sat up late, carving a leftover piece of the balance beams into a small wooden figure for Rayla to use in future physics experiments. He was so focused on getting his own long ponytail carved right that he didn’t notice Mayr until she tugged on his actual hair, startling him.

He covered his tiny flinch by holding up the figurine. “What do you think?”

She leaned in to examine it, then she looked him in the eye. “’Tis a bit obvious, aye?”

He briefly raised an eyebrow. “Sometimes the illusion is best served by mirroring reality closely.”

“Best served for whom?” she asked softly.

Ah. Runaan studied the little archer in his fingers. “You’ve seen her. She has true talent.”

“Amazing how you saw that all along, isn’t it?” Mayr’s voice held a heavy dollop of sass.

“It shouldn’t be. I’m her guardian.” Before Mayr could prod further at his motives, Runaan played his trump card. “I’ll be speaking to the Justice Council tomorrow.”

“And you’ll tell them what?” Mayr dipped her horns to the side, making her illegal chains sway. Silently.

Runaan didn’t let them distract him as he held her gaze. “The truth.”

Her eyes widened in alarm, and he knew he’d been right about her.

He smiled reassuringly. “The only truth that matters, that is.”

Mayr took a deep breath as if to steady herself. “Which truth matters to you today, Runaan?”

The assassin looked down again at the small wooden figurine of himself.

Rayla was healing from her injury. She was learning strength and skill. He couldn’t be there to catch her every time, so he’d begun training her to catch herself. Training her to rely on him less. To need him less.

Mayr refused to give up those chains on her horns because they had been a gift from someone precious to her—someone an assassin was forbidden to share a life with. And they made no noise because they were only illusions. There was only one elf on the campus who had an artistic bent and enough mage skills to craft illusory horn jewelry: Anghas. Mayr was risking her career for love.

Runaan had offered her a bargain: help take care of Rayla while she recovered, in exchange for his word in her defense. He’d never said what that word would be, but now he could be certain: Anghas had crafted silent chains for Mayr not only as a sign of his affection, but to keep her safe.

The wooden figurine in his hand represented something similar between Runaan and Rayla. He folded his long fingers around it tightly and met Mayr’s gray eyes.

“This truth, Mayr.” He tipped his horns, and his voice dropped. “You snuck up on me.”

His fellow assassin beamed.

Runaan scheduled a meeting with the Justice Council the next morning, where he thoroughly enjoyed pointing out that Mayr’s skill had enabled her to surprise him. With his own testimony, there was no need to complicate the matter by mentioning that the assassins’ dress code never addressed silent illusions, so Anghas’s name never needed to come up. The Council knew Runaan to be one of the most perceptive assassins they had. If he said Mayr could stalk him, chains or not, she deserved to be reinstated.

The Council pronounced their decision. Runaan left their chambers with a smile of triumph and stopped Mayr in the middle of campus as she was bringing Rayla to the crèche for her first day back.

Rayla looked up at his serious expression. “What’s wrong, Runaan?”

He kept his eyes on Mayr. “Someone’s out of uniform. I’ll take Rayla. You report to the arena in ten minutes. If you’re late by even a second—”

But Mayr flashed past him, wearing the biggest smile he’d ever seen on her, before he could finish his teasing threat. She pressed a hand against his arm and breathed a “Thank you” and then she was dashing toward the changing rooms.

Rayla worked her little hand into his gloved one. “That was very nice of you. You’re a good friend.”

Runaan walked with her toward the children’s rooms. “I didn’t do it for her.”

To his surprise, Rayla sassed back, “You kinda did.”

He looked down at her with a soft smile. “I didn’t do it only for her.”

“That’s even better. You’re a good Moonshadow, Runaan. The best Moonshadow I know.”

At the sight of Rayla’s upturned, smiling face, the last jagged corner of Runaan’s hard heart melted.

Rayla rejoined the crèche and eagerly came out to watch the assassins train again. Runaan made sure to walk over and chat with her every time. He asked her opinion on his technique, and she took him very seriously, offering her best critiques. The other children began to look to Rayla as a guide.

When Anghas declared her broken bone knitted entirely, Runaan gave her a bow and training swords—two matching swords, as all Moonshadows practiced with—and let her train as hard as she liked. And she trained hard. The summer passed, and winter spun by, and Rayla kept training. She grew like a weed. Her sass was the only thing that could keep pace with her hunger to learn. And Runaan indulged her every opportunity for both. They trained in the arena after hours. In the garden when it rained. In the forest when it snowed.

The next spring, Rayla stood a few inches taller and sported a leaner look, but the way she carried herself was nearly unrecognizable from the year before. Her confidence entered every room five steps before she did, and few secrets hid from her bright violet gaze.

One day, Runaan entered the training arena after lunch to find Rayla clinging to the lower edge of the wood filigree dome from the exact spot where she’d leaped the year before. He stopped, heart hammering in his chest.

The arena was full. Other assassins milled about, casting curious glances at Rayla, and now at Runaan, too. Even the crèche had gathered, ready to observe an afternoon session.

Get it together, Quirk.

The tall assassin took a deep breath and studied Rayla for a moment. She was still short, and that twenty-foot bar was still big for her hands. But she’d practiced on it for months. He’d taught her several dismounts, and she could land them all. She’d never tried to leap from the edge of the dome again, but he knew what she knew: she could do it.

Their eyes met.

Runaan held her gaze and strode out in front of the bar, silently marking her landing spot for her. He lifted his chin and gave her a sharp nod. She had trusted him for the past year. Now it was his turn to trust her. She had earned it.

Her grin was brilliant, and she launched herself toward the bar between them. Those powerful little legs gave her all the momentum she needed. Strong hands grasped the bar, and she swung herself around it easily. Then, under her own power, she let go, twirling through a series of show-off flips. Light as a leaf landing in the forest, Rayla dropped into a three-point landing right in front of Runaan.

Though he kept a straight face, his heart soared. She stood up, eyes gleaming with confidence. The children started hollering their amazement and appreciation. Several of the assassins nodded and smiled in congratulations, as well.

Runaan had eyes only for his little shadow, though. He had taught her how not to need him, and in the process, his heart had become tightly knit to hers. In true Moonshadow fashion, such a bond could never be undone.

He tucked his hands behind his back and smiled. “Well done, Rayla.”

The End

#moonshadow tale #happy birthday runaan #runaan and rayla #young rayla

16 notes · View notes

rekkingcrew · 6 years

Text

Devaronian Headcanons Actual

So, right, actual devaronian headcanons, ranging from charming to full on dystopic.

Biological:

Devaronians have two livers and a resistance to all sorts of poisons- that’s just WASTEFUL if the planet isn’t throwing poison at you all the fucking time. Devaron is a toxic death trap, where the life forms have been engaged for millions of years in a toxin-based arms race. And devaronians are the winners.

Silver’s got anti-bacterial properties in laboratory situations. I think Devaronians are more disease resistant than a lot of other species.

Devaronians are listed as carnivorous. They seem like they’re resistant to most everything, so I’m sure they could choke down anything they needed to, but probably derive negligible nutrition from most plant matter. You might eat it for taste or digestion or something, but if it’s all you’ve got, you’re gonna starve.

Which I think means devaronian society probably stayed mobile and small in larger percentages than human society for a long time (not trying to minimize, like, human migratory and hunter gatherer populations, but by analogy if you look at meat as a percentage of diet of any given population group before, like, modern America, more meat equals more mobile), and that the devaronian analogue of the Neolithic revolution was a sort of proto-chemistry that opened up new techniques for long-term meat preservation, with permanent settlements springing up around places where you could get things like salt or caustic alkaline chemicals- though you’d still need people to go ranging.

Because devaronians CAN eat most any awful toxic thing, and because there’d be such a necessity to keep meat from rotting if you wanted to support a fixed population, a lot of traditional devaronian foods tend toward jerkying, pickling, and like, curing with lye. Lots of stuff that looks like lutefisk and hakarl, or some sort of meat kimchi. Lots of bitter, umami, sour, salty. Punctuations of insanely hot peppers. I think devaronians generally consider sweet an oddity and acquired taste.

While this preservation isn’t a necessity for modern devaronians, I do think they still season things with stuff that’s poisonous to other species, and if your host isn’t paying attention, they might forget to take their arsenic shaker off the table. Eat at your own risk. Because of this and the crazy flora and fauna, outside of the big cities, there aren’t a lot of aliens who stay on planet.

Devaronian babies are all white and fuzzy until they’re about 5-7, when they blow their coats and start being sexually dimorphic. No textual reason. I just like this.

Space-faring, better farming science, and the importation of some alien plants, have allowed post-hyperdrive devaronians a more stable and balanced diet with a wider range of stuff from which they can extract digestible protein.

Social:

Because of a relative inability to digest plant matter, devaronian society has always been very susceptible to famine. Different societies developed different strategies for dealing with this (because universal planetary culture is every bit as silly as single biomes), but one strain that gained a lot of dominance was an intense matrilinear/matrilocal strategy where men old enough to make their own way were “encouraged” to leave. There’s a rich intellectual history of justifying this behavior, from the cold calculus that it just takes fewer men than anyone else to maintain population levels, to pontification on how men are just naturally inclined toward wandering, to people making the argument that a low ratio of men to women makes for a happier and more harmonious society. There’s also a rich intellectual history of saying this is monstrous. No society always agrees with itself, and different voices have had more or less dominance at different times throughout devaronian history.

Devaron’s population is sometimes as much as 75% female.

This is the planet of nannies. Seriously. With loads of men gone and women in charge of most of domestic business and governance, childcare is a major industry. Job sharing is super common to provide time off with young children. Partnership and group ownership of businesses by several women is common.

In fact, I’m going to say there’s a mobile childcare corps, replacing a number of more traditional structures as increasingly technological devaronian society centralized; one that has some fun analogies to western conceptions of the military, ie. it’s seen by a lot of people as an important rite of passage for young people, a sign of a strong moral character, and full of exactly the sort of people who make good leaders. Compassionate. Patient. Capable of managing others. It’s hard to get elected office in some places without a service record. Men are, of course, discouraged, due to their natural tendencies. When devaron’s history takes its more authoritarian swings, the MCC is often a very visible propaganda arm, with more obvious uniforms and a chokehold on education and indoctrination. During those times, you will, of course, be expected to thank corps members for their service. Society would not run without them.

In the best of times, they run loads of public crèches and help out immensely in private homes as well. Devaronians of all walks of life often have fond memories of their MCC workers, the way you would with a favorite aunt. Or sometimes they commiserate over stories of their strict MCC workers, like you would with a least favorite aunt. Swings and roundabouts.

The most dangerous term generally applied to men is “expendable.” The second is probably “reckless.” There’s a widespread prejudice that men, as wanderers, lack the long-term vision and planning capacity necessary to manage things (the same way human idiots are prone to saying things like they don’t think gay men have a stake in the future because they don’t have children, both the premise and its conclusion are suspect.) Men who stay on devaron are often funneled into dangerous work, whether that’s the military, or construction/demolition, or less than safe factory work. Overseers and “logistics officers” will tend to be female. In more conservative media, stories about industrial accidents will often be spun as men not listening to their more level-headed female supervisor.

Most of the sources I found mentioned men sending money home to devaron. Headcanon: this is a semi-ritualized exchange with it’s own fun alien name (but for now I’ll just call it the Tithe, because I’m bad with alien names), it’s one of the foremost ways men can get social prestige, and the devaronian economy really relies on it. And it makes Devaron RICH. (American history side track: Tulsa’s “black wallstreet” was a really good example of outside money flowing into a relatively closed system).

Devaron, with early space faring, has had a few interstellar “Age of Sail” periods, where a lot of the Tithe coming in for prominent families straight up came from piracy, or “Devaronian Privateers”. Harsh on crime at home, and nominally against piracy abroad, there have been times Devaron has really profited by it. There’s an ugly vein of thought along the lines of “it doesn’t matter if it happens to aliens.” Obviously opinions differ. The dashing star pirate remains a popular romantic archetype in devaronian culture (though he often comes to a tragic end). The devaronian pirate is an archetype in a number of other species’ cultures as well, but notably less romantic.

One of the major ways the Empire controls Devaron is controlling the flow of Tithe, requiring all transfers go through imperial channels and making it much harder to send money back to anyone suspected of dissent.

A lot of men remaining on devaron are locked in a vicious cycle of having limited potential to advance because they’re traditionally seen as less invested in the future; and in turn being less invested in the future because they’re locked out of moving forward into it. Leaving all together is often an enticing proposition. This is often pointed to as evidence of both lack of ambition and a natural tendency toward wandering.

Exploration and travel for men are often deeply romanticized- a real source of meaning in their lives and a chance for something better. There is loads of poetry, literature, music, and other popular culture about it. This is encouraged. A number of female devaronian writers and thinkers have expressed the same. These are often considered scandalous and bad influences.

Obviously there have been, across the vast expanse of history, loads of counter cultures, different fashions, and changing ideas. But these’ll be the big ones, and what people talk about when they say “traditional” devaronian culture.

Anyway, that’s my attempt to reconcile canon! Hope some of it is useful!

#devaronian headcanon

31 notes · View notes

kittymaverick · 7 years

Conversation

If anyone needs them, here's the transcribed version of the entire bloopers

Tunon: The chaos you’ve sown everywhere is unacceptable. You cast yourself so far outside the established order, and I [Record scratch] I can’t—I just CAN’T EVEN DEAL WITH IT.

Sound cut: *Beep beep*

Barik: I’m a weapon bond to you only by duty. No freaky deaky.

*Beep beep*

Lantry: Point taken. I will make no note on the subject for the time being, except for what happened to my accent. [Cough]

*Beep beep*

Eb: The Archon’s more fragile than I susspe— speh, speh speh speh.

*Beep beep*

Graven Ashe: [Maniacal cackle] Oh you putting big words out there!

*Beep beep*

Barik: [Voice cracking from desperation] I would be out of this armor if I could do this!

*Beep beep*

Nerat: Ever the loyalist. Prepare yourself for a second cage, Barik the Di— Barik of the Dithfavored. Phlaffuring Fuckertash!

*Beep beep*

Barik: Get up, girl! [Sobbing] He was… the most human… of all of us— Spock!

*Beep beep*

Eb: Considering all the things that don’t think to bother you the slightest, I’m not gonna lie, I kinda like getting o— I’m kin— I— Mm— [To the side] hmph! Reading.

*Beep beep*

Verse: The last thing I need or want is a hug from the shambling junk keep— Junk huuuuuurrrrgggghhhhhhh. [Disappears off screen] Junk, heap. Junk heap, okay.

*Beep beep*

Nerat: We will have your bones fashioned into a sceptre, you skin knotted into a belt, and your tongue fed to crav—feh—heh— I’m good with the words speaking.

*Beep beep*

Sirin: Fatebinder! It is always such a pleasure to speak with you. [To voice director] Do I sound sarcastic? [Laughs]

*Beep beep*

Nerat: Good ear, young fatebinder! When the Vendrini guar— Vendrinen guard, VenDRIEN gua— Vendrien—fuck my life!

*Beep beep*

Tunon: The court may never recover from this blow, but at least I can seek some final satisfaction out of you, and NOW I understand the line better!

*Beep beep*

Sirin: Goodbye, Fatebinder. [Snaps fingers] I, AM, OUTTIE.

*Beep beep*

Eb: The band is too small to be a serious threat to the Dissfavored or the Chorus— [chuckles]

Valerie Arem: Darn it! The Dithfavored! [Still laughing] Can, can we ju… it’s like a Pinky and the Brain line at this point for me! [Inhales, resets.]Urgh!

*Beep beep*

Verse: Classic example of the Overlord’s devastation, like a battering lamb that e— lamb? A battering lamb.

[Voice Director: I was just kinda thinking about, you know, deep fry— (???)]

Allegra Clark: Can you imagine instead of a battering ram, an actual battering lamb. Like a MEEEHH, bloop!

*Beep beep*

Eb: Now that I stand at the top, the only chant I will start is a chant of disarmament. I will not throw them into the charnel pit.

Valerie Arem: Oh! I— I s— totally faked it on charnel I was so glad I chased that I had no idea if that was how it was pronounced. [Laughs] Oh happiness! ^_^

*Beep beep*

Lantry: I think she has great potential. A dangerous amount of potential, to be blunt. The Scarlet Furries— Ha! Furies! Sorry! I’ve been at a convention.

*Beep beep*

Killsy: Thought would stalk small pack of sages near den place call Burning Library. But Sages b—[Stumbles on next syllable] fuck. Ahem.

*Beep beep*

Ashe: Perhaps another catastrophe that will punish our foes for hiding behind their [sudden change of tone] walls? [Cackles] I get to the—

[breaks character and laughs]

Kirk Thornton: I saw the question mark way to late! [Still laughing]

*Beep beep*

Barik: The Adjudicator certainly taught you everything he knows about being a inedebedeburdeBerDURpassthehand!

*Beep beep*

Lantry: What’s that, you say? Flocks of nubile lasses with an interest in old man who knows history? You need a definitive trectatus?— tracTAtus! Dammit! [inhales angrily] Urgh.

*Beep beep*

Sirin: You can’t be serious, Fatebinder. Don’t ask me to do this. [Prolonged gasp as Voice Director explains what is about to happen.] AURGH…. WHAT THE FUCK, MAN? This shit just got real.

*Beep beep*

Mark: Won’t have much of anything left once the Adj—Adjfucker— Shit! [Awkward tittering] One more time.

*Beep beep*

Lantry: Sustaining it, and if enough people fear it, even growing a beh- ahahoho, poo.

*Beep beep*

Nerat: You have exhausted your usefulness, and we will delight in tattooing our sigil on your fla— [garbled syllables] ong nyour nya nyer.

*Beep beep*

Barik: And the strength of our legion, is in— [Bumping sound] me hitting the mic stand, boomshakalaka.

*Beep beep*

Verse: You piece of shit! Do you know how hard I’ve work to sta—[strangled] uuuuaaaaarrrrrrggghhhhh. [Disappears off screen again.]

*Beep beep*

Lantry: Scholars hypothesize the Scourges are born of magic. The Oldwalls and their— oo, shit. Crech? Creché? [Voice Direction corrects.] Crèche? Crèche. Somebody’s gone to school… it wasn’t the actor.

*Beep beep*

Nerat: Graven Ashe and Tunon have allied against us! You conspire to rob of— duh pfft pfffft pffftttt… to man— amange you! That’s— [sputtering, angry and frustrated] ERGH!

*Beep beep*

Graven Ashe: [Sound of a grizzly bulldog shaking off water?] Rrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrreh…Heh.

*Beep beep*

Nerat: That simpleton Ashe is no doubt sobbing in his porridge over the [sudden realization of self incrimination] soldiers we killed— fuck!

*Beep beep*

Tunon: Either the Archon of shadows has lost his once indomitable pow— prowers, in combact, eh dep…[breaks character]

Ray Chase: Even the typo, ah, make sense. Comapt!

*Beep beep*

Verse: The most we do for each other is try not to get the other one killed, which is more than you can say for morse— urgh, my gawd. [Slurring, then] RA GA GYA GYA GYA- okay.

*Beep beep*

Tunon: Master, if you’ll join me upstairs. [Blushing] I will pledge fealty to you in the lawful manner.

Ray Chase: I do not want to know what THAT is. [Everyone laughs]

*Beep beep*

Graven Ashe: Would Kyros’ mighty spymaster please enlighten this gathering of allies with some scrap of stratIA—GLURERrrrrrr!

*Beep beep*

Nerat: We are legion, and you cannot stand against [voice cracks] us all. That was a stumble, fuck.

*Beep beep*

Eb, or rather Valerie Arem: Geez god fuck I can’t say any of that!

*Beep beep*

Lantry: I don’t imagine Kyros leaves anything to mere confidence coincidence in-conscious and all the other words I thought was. [Checks.] Coincidence.

*Beep beep*

Sirin: Burgh! [Throttling] Ergh! Wow! Hey, I got… bronchitis, hey!

*Beep beep*

Graven Ashe: So I will start protecting the peers— petitia—

*Beep beep*

Lantry: General Grumps is the wiser choice. It’s patently obvious which Archon he is truly loyal to— well derp, poopy head.

*Beep beep*

Verse: Welcome back, ass [Also gets bronchitis] hole. Ergh! Ass HOLE, like HOLler.

*Beep beep*

Eb: Perhaps now is a fine time to test the reach of your Edict—s. Oh, Edict- Eh huh, uh huh…

*Beep beep*

Tunon: I once thought that Kyros was the sole Overlord. The notion of rising to her eshe— eke— ektelon…[resigned inhale]

*Beep beep*

Xander Mobus: “Fatebinder of reeking discharge”? We’re going right to the fart jokes!

*Beep beep*

Nerat: [Mockinglyl] Fatebinder of reeking discharge.

*Beep beep*

*Fart noise and effect*

*Beep beep*

Verse: Phew! I can spell you— spell. [Elatedly] I can spell!

*Beep beep*

Mark?(Nope! IT'S NERAT!): You’re gonna have to kill ALL of us, ‘cause you’re my number one guy… Sorry, full jack.

*Beep beep*

Verse: Of all my days running with the Chorus, I think I enjoyed Ass gang the most.

Allegra Clark: I’d wanna be in Ass gang! That sounds great!

#Tyranny game #Obsidian #Paradox #I spent an entire morning on this #well worth it in my opinion #Tunon #Bleden Mark #Verse #Sirin #Barik #Lantry #Eb #Nerat #graven ashe

119 notes · View notes